"Bugger." Logan tossed the rifle away and bolted for the door as the street below erupted with men running towards his position. Someone had fouled up, that much was certain. There was no way that many random bystanders were feeling civic minded in the wake of an assassination, which meant those closing in on him had been ready and waiting for him.
And that meant someone had sold him out.
There was no time to worry about that now, however. If he didn't get out of here quick, then the only thing he would be worrying about for the next fifty years was where his next ciggy was coming from.
He threw open the door and charged down the hallway for the window at the end. Sirens could be heard outside now, closing in from all directions.
"Bugger, bugger, bugger…", he muttered to himself as he pulled open the wood frame of the window and climbed out onto the fire escape.
"Oi! You there! Stop!"
The voice came from behind him, but Logan ignored it. "Yeah, stop. Right." He grabbed the outside rail of the ladder and quickly slid down to the next floor. He gave the lower ladder a kick that sent it rattling to the ground and swung himself over the edge.
"He's headed for the street!" the voice yelled as the voice's accompanying head popped out of the window.
"Too late", he smiled to himself as his feet hit the pavement and took off running. He made it across the street and was almost to the alley when three loud cracks filled his ears. Suddenly, he was still moving towards the alley, but his legs weren't responsible for the movement anymore. He toppled over as what felt like a sledgehammer slammed into his back and another blossom of pain erupted from his arm.
"What…?" he managed to choke out. Something was pressing down on his chest and it was hard to speak. He was looking at feet running towards him as the concrete sidewalk scraped against his cheek, still trying to figure out why he wasn't running away when one of the feet stopped next to his head and the matching shoe continued into his ribs.
Fiery pain lanced through his body and stars exploded behind his eyes. He couldn't remember ever being in so much pain that he was trying not to vomit, and the taste of blood and bile mingled in his mouth.
"IRA scum", he heard the accusatory voice snarl as another kick found his ribs. This time, the shock of pain ended suddenly, as though someone had flipped a switch. His vision cleared as well, though the colors of the world suddenly seemed muted, as did the sounds of running feet and raised voices closing in on him.
He breathed out a sigh of relief as the agony ceased and slowly got to his feet. "Damn bastards", he snarled at the police surrounding him. "All right, you got me, just stop kicking…" He trailed off as the cops ignored his protests.
One of the men was holding the man who had been kicking him, pulling him away. "Jesus!", the restrainer yelled. "Don, relax, he's down."
"What are you on about?", Logan asked. "I'm not that bad off."
"He's more than down", another man, this one kneeling on the ground, said dazedly. "You bloody well killed him, didn't you?"
"No, he didn't, you caffler. I'm right here."
"It's no more than he deserved, and that's a fact!" the kicker yelled back.
"That's as maybe, but we need him for trial!"
"Look, gobshite, are you completely daft?" Logan reached out to grab the cop's arm, but dropped his jaw when his hand passed right through the man. "Merciful God…"
The officer shivered, but gave no other sign of acknowledgement as Logan took a step forward into and through the man. "Oh…bugger."
"Let me through, dammit!" Another voice, sounding tired, was running up behind him, but Logan ignored it as he looked down at the ground. A body was lying facedown on the pavement with a ragged bloody hole in its back. Another stream of blood oozed out of a bullet wound in the arm. The man had raggedly cut, curly red hair and wore blue jeans and a black tshirt.
Just as he'd been wearing.
A man in a paramedic's uniform shoved the cops out of the way and knelt beside the corpse.
"My corpse", Logan whispered. "Jesus…"
"Oh, Jesus…" The sniper looked down at his hands and realized he could see through them.
The world around him was growing darker, he realized suddenly. The shadows were lengthening, and if he wasn't very much mistaken, they were growing claws.
"No…" Logan looked around as spectral hands began forming out of the darkening landscape, reaching for him. He tried to run, but he was rooted in place as the things came for him.
"Clear!", a voice echoed from far away, and Logan felt a surge of energy race through him.
He screamed, then, and collapsed to his knees as the flash blinded him. When his vision cleared, though, the shadows were retreating. "Again", he whispered as he realized what was happening. \
He looked at the paramedic, who was rubbing two large paddles together as a whine filled the air.
"Come on!" Logan shouted in the man's ear.
The shadows were moving forward again, and this time, one of the spectral claws wrapped around his arm.
"No! Let go!" His voice was panicked and desperate as he tried to pull away.
"For God's sake, do it…"
Three more shadows took hold of him, their talons ripping into his ethereal form, and he bellowed as long slashing wounds were opened and began to leak a silver fog.
"Clear!" the voice came again.
Another rippling surge of torment sent his form into convulsions, but the shadows withdrew with a defeated shriek. Weight suddenly returned to his limbs, and with it, a world of agony that elicited a miserable groan.
"Well if you had to bring him back, at least he's paying for it." It was the voice of the kicker.
"Allright, get him on the stretcher, and prep an IV", the paramedic said.
"Tha….", Logan tried to speak, to thank the man for his life and soul, but with the return to the physical, the demands of his overstressed body also came crashing back, accompanied by encroaching blackness that dragged him into unconsciousness.
Logan snapped open his eyes, but slammed them shut almost immediately as bright white lights stabbed into the back of his brain. Pain returned with waking, but it was bearable, not the brutal agony that was his last memory – however, he recognized in his muscles' sluggish responses the narcotic effects of a serious painkiller, probably morphine.
Of course, the fact that his arms and legs were all strapped to the bed he was in probably had something to do with his limited movements as well. The sounds of hissing and beeping were all that touched his ears. He could feel the rough texture of a cotton sheet covering his apparently naked form, and a pressure around his nose and mouth bespoke of a ventilator mask. Accordingly, all he could smell was the stale nothingness of filtered air being carefully administered.
He tried opening his eyes once again, this time more slowly. The light slowly slipped in, bringing with it the images of a white room filled with equipment. He had multiple IVs running into his arms and hands, but aside from the medical devices, the room was empty.
It was a small box of white walls – no chair for visitors, no art, no television. A single grey, metal door, currently closed, was the only break in the desolate perimeter surrounding him.
He closed his eyes again, tried to recall what had happened, and the disjointed images came flooding back. The ambulance, surgery. The metallic tink as the doctors removed a bullet from his back and dropped it into a bowl. His gurney rolling down a hallway lined with…
He groaned. There had been guards in the hallway, dressed in the green berets and khaki uniforms of the Royal Marines. This was a military hospital, then, which meant that more than likely, he'd been remanded
into the custody of the British army, to be treated as a prisoner of war.
Logan supposed that was a good thing, in the larger picture. That meant that
his actions were recognized for what they had been – a loyalist acting against
an occupying force rather than a common criminal or terrorist.
On the other hand, the fact that his last target had been a Vice-Admiral of the Royal Navy was not likely to endear him to his current jailers.
Although the imagined sight of the cop who had been beating on him having to deal with the blow of losing custody was a somewhat comforting one, the reality that he would be facing hard time in a military prison rather than serving time as a civilian was not particularly pleasant.
Of course, there was always the flipside. Military tribunals could hand down a sentence of execution, whereas the civilian courts could not. That was probably the reason for the transfer of his custody. He was to be made an example.
Still, a martyr's death was preferable to living out the rest of his life quarrying
granite…or was it?
Another memory tugged at Logan's mind then, and he recalled the shadowy figures
that had emerged while his body had lain dead at the feet of his ghostly form,
and suddenly he wanted very much not to die.
The man who had sent thirty-one others to their own final fate with a single shot from his rifle wondered, for the first time, whether his course had truly been the on the side of right.
It had to be. He had served his country, done what he had been told was necessary by others far wiser, and he had to continue believing that. And if his life was now forfeit, then he would go willingly, as others had done so before him, and face whatever horrors lay beyond.
The five members of the military tribunal filed back into the courtroom with grim expressions. Lieutenant Sanders, Logan;s appointed advocate, stood from his seat next to the defendant and offered a hand to help him stand.
The Irishman shook his head angrily and levered his battered form up by bracing his right hand on the wooden table in front of him. His left arm was still in a sling, and a twinge of pain shot up the nerves as he instinctively tried to use it as well.
The courtroom was silent aside from the measured strides of the officers approaching the long bench. The five men took their places and turned their icy gazes on the accused sniper.
"Logan MacGregor", Rear Admiral Chris Palin addressed him flatly. "This tribunal has reached a verdict. You have been found guilty on all charges."
Logan received the news without a change in expression. It was hardly a surprise after all.
"The seriousness of these charges would normally demand only one sentence: death", the senior officer continued, and Logan narrowed his eyes. "However, given your nominal status as a military prisoner and the fact that your multiple victims all fall within the scope of…" The man trailed off with an expression of disgust. "Legitimate military targets…", he spit out. "We are forced to hand down a lesser sentence."
Logan allowed a touch of a smirk to touch his lips, which seemed to fuel the man's building anger.
The officer to Palin's right put a hand on his arm. "Calmly, sir", he murmured.
The Rear-Admiral took a deep breath. "You are sentenced to thirty-two consecutive life sentences, imprisonment to be served at North Sound Military Penitentiary." He slammed the gavel down on the bench.
Logan leanded against the cinder block wall in the courtyard and pulled his parka tighter about his lean frame. The wind was blowing in off the sound, carrying the brisk chill of autumn. He rubbed his left arm as the old wound twinged in the cold, and he lit a cigarette allowing the warmth and relief to seep into his body.
"Morning, Dom", he said to an older man who walked up.
Dom nodded in greeting and ran a hand across his weathered features. "When are you going to learn to keep your bloody mouth shut, boy?"
Logan blinked at his friend's acerbic tone. "What did I do now?"
"You forget that little shouting match you had with Paulie last week? That new boy from Belfast?"
The sniper rolled his eyes. "What about him? He was an arse, I just told him so."
Dom slugged him.
The punch came out of nowhere, and Logan caught it flatfooted, pain lancing through his face. "Christ, Dom!", he yelled as he grabbed his jaw.
"Yeah, he is an arse, you wanker! He's also high in with the Damage gang." Dom scowled. "You remember him, right? That Scottish bastard down in Block A?"
"Oh, bugger", Logan groaned.
"Now ye get it, boyo. I'm just giving you a friendly warning, understand? Damage wants to settle it."
"Don't suppose he'll take an apology." It wasn't a question.
Dom shook his head. "Doubt it. Now, I'm getting back to my cards."
"Thanks, Dom", Logan said quietly as he passed the older man a pack of cigarettes.
"You got it, lad. You know I owe you for taking out General Michaels after the February Massacre."
Logan smiled wryly. "Just doing my duty. Though I have to confess there was no small amount of personal satisfaction in that particular assignment."
Dom nodded with a grin. "Aye, well, I can't fault you for that. I like to think my daughter's spirit rests easier because of you." He reached out and put a gnarled hand on Logan's shoulder. "So try to stay with us, will you?"
"Hey, I've survived this long", Logan replied with a cheerfulness he didn't feel. "Go enjoy your cards while you can, since I'm going to clean you out on Friday."
"In your dreams, lad", Dom said amusedly. "Take care."
Logan's eyes snapped open at the sound of booted footsteps hurrying down the corridor outside his cell. Definitely sounded like guards, which meant someone was getting an inspection tonight. He sat up on his cot and ran a hand through his tousled hair. He didn't figure they'd be looking in on him - aside from a few extra packs of cigarettes stashed away, he'd kept his nose clean.
There was no window in his cell, but the skylights above the main corridor were just beginning to lighten, casting the hallway in sinister shadows. For an instant, an icy panic gripped his heart as several of the dark shapes seemed to move and reach out for him, but he fought it down as three guards moved into his vision.
The men - Sgt. Keffer and Cpls. Ritchie and Hall, he recognized - stopped outside his barred door, however, and he raised an eyebrow at them. "Something wrong, officers?"
"Inspection, MacGregor", Keffer said. "Up and against the wall, you know the drill."
He shrugged, stood up from his cot, and faced the back wall with his legs spread and hands flat on the rough granite surface. He heard the electronic bolt slide back and the door click open. The hinges creaked and a single set of footsteps walked up behind him.
Logan glanced down at the boxer shorts that were the only item of clothing he currently wore. "Do you really need to pat me down?", the sniper asked amusedly. Then he heard the snap of rubber and groaned.
"Full inspection", Corporal Hall said from just behind him. "Drop them."
Grimacing, Logan dropped his shorts and bent over, then grimaced at the sudden intrusion.
"No movie first?", he asked with a decidedly uncomfortable tone.
"Shove it, will you?", Hall retorted. He sounded rather displeased at the task as well.
"I thought...", Logan grunted as Hall's finger prodded something sensitive. "Thought that's what you were doing..."
Hall snorted, then withdrew and stripped off the glove with a snort. "He's clean."
Logan straightened and pulled his shorts back up with a distasteful expression. "Glad to...ergh...hear it."
"Get dressed", Keffer told him. "Corporal, take him down to holding while we conduct the search."
Something twigged a warning in Logan's mind, then. While it wasn't unusual for a prisoner to be taken out of the cell during an inspection, he'd never heard Keffer sound so formal when the Commandant wasn't around. He reached for his sweatpants slowly, trying to sort out what it might mean, then he recalled what Dom had told him.
He nodded to himself with a small smile and quickly pulled on the pants and a white tank-top undershirt before stepping out into the corridor to follow Hall. The guard was still holding the inside out rubber glove with two fingers as he motioned for Logan to precede him down to the stairs.
As the two men walked, Logan looked back over his shoulder with a lazy grin. "How many?"
"Damage and four of his boys", Hall answered.
Logan winced. "This could be bags. Tell me you guys at least took their shivs away?"
Hall shrugged. "Couldn't tell you."
"That means you didn't. Great. Don't suppose you could 'accidentally' leave the billy club handy?"
"Sorry, lad. It's unfair as the devil, but I can't be tied in. You know how it is." The guard actually looked unhappy about the whole prospect.
"Aye, I understand", Logan said slowly as they approached the door between secure areas and another guard stood up from behind the control station. Hall gave the man a thumbs up, and the lock buzzed.
The sniper pushed the door open and stood next to the security station as Hall picked up the signout sheet. He cast his eyes around the room, trying to formulate a plan, when he spotted a square black device on the desk. Nonchalantly, he turned his back to the guard and clasped his hands behind his back.
Hall glanced over at him as he turned and narrowed his eyes suspiciously, although the other guard was nattering on about something to do with his sister's boyfriend and didn't notice. The Corporal's eyes flicked down to the table, saw Logan's hands less than a foot from the station guard's taser and started momentarily.
Logan gave Hall a pleading glance, and the guard grimaced before giving the slightest of nods and turning back to the door warden. "Yeah, Lars? Is that right?", the corporal asked. "What did you say to him then?"
With the smallest of grins, the sniper's hand closed over the small taser and slipped it foward into the pocket of his sweatpants.
"Come on, MacGregor." Hall grabbed his arm grumpily and led him down the brightly lit hallway, around the corner, and to a large metal door. He quickly slid the bolt back and whispered, "For what it's worth, good luck. I don't like the IRA, Logan...but my little brother was in that nightclub, and Michaels got what he deserved. That's why I made sure I drew this assignment."
Logan's eyes widened in surprise. The nightclub in question had been a popular drinking spot for Sinn Fein, and it was an open secret that those seeking to join the IRA would do well to be seen there. That was before General Wesley Michaels of the Royal Marines had sent an anti-terrorism squad in to 'break up a nest of bombers and murderers'. Never mind that nearly a hundred people, mostly kids, and very few of whom had any idea what was going on were carried out in body bags later that evening.
Most marines he interacted with - which was to say, 99% of the guards in this particular prison, and a significant chunk of the inmates - made no secret of their hatred for someone who had assassinated such a senior officer. He gave Corporal Hall a grin. "I understand. You're welcome...and thank you."
Hall nodded and resumed a normal tone of voice. "Wait here, MacGregor, I'll come get you in half an hour or so."
"As you say, Corporal." Logan's voice carried his normal polite disdain and he stepped into the dark room without looking at the guard.
Logan lay face up on the cold tile floor, staring up at a single incandescent bulb. He could feel the warm wetness of the pool of blood forming beneath him, but couldn't seem to force his muscles to roll over. Pain lanced up from the steak knife still embedded in his thigh as he tried to move once more, and he groaned.
Around him lay five others, and only Stevens was still capable of groaning - which he continued to do, alternating with whimpers and whines. He was fairly sure that Olson would survive as well, at least, but the blow Logan had landed on the man's throat should keep him from ever speaking again.
He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to focus on tuning out the pain, but couldn't re-open them, however hard he tried. His chest was under a familiar pressure, and the taste of blood was welling up in his throat.
Distantly, he heard the bolt slide back and the door open. Even through his closed eyelids he could tell the room had brightened.
"Jesus...", someone said, but he didn't know the voice, and for some reason it didn't seem to matter anymore. He felt a hand on his neck, but couldn't summon the strength to push them away and again, it didn't matter. He let out a last breath, and it just seemed easier not to take another one. There was less pain that way, if he didn't force his chest to rise.
Slowly, he looked around the room, staring at the six bodies on the floor. Two of his assailants still twitched, and he moved towards Stevens with the intention of giving the bastard a kick, but his foot passed right through the man's form.
"Damn", he muttered.
A guard - Corporal Hall - was kneeling by his own body, and Logan nodded as he realized what had happened.
The ghost glanced around again, wondering how long they would take. "Well? What are you waiting for?"
"Who are you talking to?", he heard a voice ask behind him.
The sniper spun around, and to his surprise saw Julain Damage standing behind him looking frightened and disoriented.
Suddenly the room dimmed, and Logan nodded knowingly. "Them." He smiled at the gang boss and gestured around them at the lengthening shadows. "No tunnel of light and reunion with dead relatives for us, it seems."
Somehow, the prospect of being dragged into Hell seemed less disturbing when there was someone else to face it with who happened to be more frightened than he was.
"Wh-what do you mean?", Damage spluttered.
"I mean, we're dead." Logan waved his arm through the table in the room, somewhat surprised that it took a bit of mental effort to actually accomplish. He smirked as Julian's expression deepened from fright to absolute terror.
"No...you...I killed you!"
The sniper glanced over at his body, upon which Hall was now performing CPR. "Yes, it looks like you did. Though I rather think it was that damn knife Bryant threw at me that finished the job." Suddenly he grunted as something tugged on the back of his neck. "Eh?"
The clawing shadows were almost fully formed now, and one reached out to grab Julian's arm. "No!", he yelled. "Let go!"
"Yeah, that'll work", Logan managed to get out as something seemed to punch him in the stomach. "Oof."
"Hey, where are you...?", Julian's voice was hysterical as the spectral shapes bore down on him, and the rest of his words were nothing but muffled screams.
Logan squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would be over quickly when there was a rushing sensation accompanied by screeches of desperation. He gasped, and his mind once again nearly shut down from the pain of trying to breathe.
He forced open his eyes and found himself staring at the side of Corporal Hall's head. The man's lips were pressed tightly against his own, exhaling life giving breath into his tortured lungs. He coughed, and the guard pulled away with a startled jump.
"Damn, it worked...", Hall said quietly. "The Doc is on his way."
Logan managed a weak grin. "Sure know how...to show a guy...a good time..."
Hall burst out laughing. "Right. You just stay put and try not to talk." He quickly stood and moved to check on the others lying on the floor. "Damn, you did a number on these guys."
Logan let out a painful breath that might have been a laugh and closed his eyes. This time he had no fear. The darkness had passed him by again, and though it may be a long time before he was on his feet again, he would recover in time.
A voice hissed in his mind then - a voice dripping with malevolence and rage. 'You will be ours...next time...'
Logan gripped the wooden walking cane the doctor offered him with a distasteful expression, but after his first few steps he nodded acceptance.
"Try not to beat anyone to death with it, will you?", the doctor smirked.
"Somehow, I think my reputation is secure", Logan replied with a wry smile. "I don't imagine anyone's going to miss Damage, and I doubt Olson will be up for a rematch."
"That may be truer than you think." Dr. Kennedy leaned in and spoke quietly. "Look, I'll never condone that sort of thing, but even some of the guards are glad for what you did to Julian."
The retired army medic sat back with a knowing glance and Logan nodded. "So, things should be quiet until the next wannabe tough guy shows up. Well, hopefully I'll have time to fully recoup before I wind up in your caring arms again."
Kennedy laughed. "I wouldn't worry about that", the older man said knowingly. "You've been out of the news loop."
"What are you on about?", Logan asked suspiciously, but the doctor just shook his head.
"Not my place, son. I'm sure you'll hear all about it soon enough."
Logan eyed the man, but Kennedy wasn't giving anything else away so the sniper stood and slowly limped over to the door. "Thanks...for everything."
Corporal Hall was waiting outside the infirmary to escort Logan to the mess hall and the guard gave him a grin.
"Nay a word about the cane, please", Logan said wryly.
"Not a word, I promise", Hall replied with a chuckle. "How do you feel about being famous?"
Logan looked back over his shoulder to give the marine a quizzical look as he hobbled down the hallway. "What are you talking about?"
"Five to one odds, and you come out the only one intact. You killed more men that night than most of the murderers we have in the cells, and the only survivor of your wrath had to learn to tell the story with sign language." Hall smirked. "Now you walk out, more or less, as part of front page news."
"Ok, the Doc mentioned the news as well. What the bloody hell did I miss?" Logan stopped and leaned on the cane. His stitched thigh was throbbing beneath the bandages and he took a deep breath to help drive away the pain.
Hall's expression grew concerned. "Are you all..."
"I'm fine", Logan spat. "Now tell me what's going on."
"I'm really not supposed to..." Hall blanched as the sniper turned the full force of his angry gaze his way. "Don't look at me like that - I can't."
"You already did", Logan snarled. "And I'm really not in the mood for games."
"Unless I'm very much mistaken, prisoners do not normally address officers in that manner." A new voice came from around the corner, followed rapidly by Major George Franklin, the commandant of the prison.
Corporal Hall snapped to attention and fired off a salute as Logan straightened from leaning against the wall and assumed as much of an 'at-ease' posture as he could manage while still using the cane for balance.
"New reputation as the top thug in my penitentiary or not, MacGregor, you will still behave in accordance with the regs or I will have you in solitary for the remainder of your brief stay with us", Franklin said thinly.
Logan cocked an eyebrow. "Brief? Sir?"
Franklin allowed a nasty smile to creep across his face. "One way or another. I have good news and bad news for you, boy. The good is that because of renewed peace talks, your scum friends are attempting to negotiate your release as part of the package."
The sniper blinked in surprise and swayed. He had to grab the cane with both hands to steady himself. "Well, now, that is considerate of them", he managed to get out through his shock.
"Don't get too excited, boy", Franklin continued. "The good news for me is that a tribunal took up the matter of you adding four more names to your body count. The verdict just reached my desk, which is why I came to find you. They felt that the fact you deliberately sought a weapon out makes it four counts of premeditated murder."
"I wasn't called to testify", Logan insisted as he narrowed his eyes, but an icy stab of fear plunged into his chest.
"Unnecessary", Franklin replied evenly. "This was a military court, not civilian, and as such your rights are...well, nonexistant." The Major smiled cruelly. "They've sentenced you to death, Mr. MacGregor. I understand Admiral Palin was quite pleased with the outcome."
Logan sagged back against the wall, his knuckles white around the handle of the cane.
"It should be an interesng week for you. The BBC says the negotiators are close to an agreement, but you hang in three days." Major Franklin turned and walked back the way he had come. "Either way, boy, you're out of my hair by the weekend. Thank you."
He took several depp breaths, but no amount of effort seemed able to still the pounding in his chest.
Corporal Hall placed a steadying hand on his shoulder and Logan looked over at the young man. Hall couldn't be more than 19, with the traditional Irish complexion of freckles, red hair, and green eyes. Not much younger than his own 26 years, though the gulf of a different life lay between them and Logan could see the young marine's youthful optimism remained intact whereas his own had been a casualty long ago.
"Well", he said, managing a grin. "I always said that anything was better than boring. Just shows you need tae be careful what you're after wishing for."
Hall nodded, and forced a smile of his own. "Well, if you don't object, I'll add a little extra prayer for peace tonight."
Logan chuckled as he began walking down the hallway again. "Nay, lad, I won't mind a bit."
Logan sat in the small solitary cell reserved for inmates on suicide watch and stared at his hands as the clock on the wall moved inexorably towards midnight and the beginning of his last morning. At least he'd been granted the rare privilege of a radio, though he suspected that Major Franklin only allowed it so that the news of the stalled peace talks wouldn't need to be passed along by whisper and rumor.
The Commandant was probably in his office now, listening to the same news updates and having a celebratory drink. Logan flipped the camera in the corner an obligatory bird as he pictured the scene and turned his attention back to the radio.
A BBC announcer came on at the end of some pop song with the hourly news update. "As Sinn Fein's imposed deadline approaches, the two sides of the peace talks both refuse to budge, and it seems like yet another opportunity will be lost. It appears that the IRA's demand for the release of what they call 'illegally detained prisoners of war' may prove the undoing of the entire..."
The broadcast trailed off into a burst of static as the clock ticked over to midnight, and Logan winced at the sudden decibel change. He reached over to shut the radio off but drew back his hand as a new voice began to emerge from the static.
<static>Free Death, the voice of the afterlife, with a word for those <static> pond. Looks like a whole lot <static> gathering around North Sound Penitentiary <static> good friend Bishop. Something, or someone, <static> their attention. Watch the shadows <static> move when you're not looking. <static>
Logan jumped to his feet and grabbed the radio, desperately trying to tune the voice back in, but all he could get was more static. "Who are you?" he yelled at it. "What are you trying to tell..."
"MacGregor, what's gotten into you?", a guard shouted as he threw the door open.
"I heard...", Logan said in confusion, "I thought I heard..." He stared at the radio that now only broadcast some pathetic attempt at a rock song and shook his head. "Nothing. It's nothing."
"Voice of God, telling you to keep your chin up?" the man sneered. "Don't worry, it'll have a permanent crick in it soon enough."
Logan narrowed his eyes at the man, whose laugh abrubtly cut off. "You'd better hope so." He blew the guard a kiss and snickered as the man quickly slammed the door.
"Dead man walking!" The call echoed up and down the block, and the room came to life as prisoners hurried to the front of their cells.
Logan slowly made his way down the open corridor between the three stories of cells on either side. The other inmates were almost all watching, standing at the barred doors and looking out or down at him. It was almost unheard of for the block to be so quiet during daylight hours - though he supposed that the pre-dawn hour hardly counted as daylight.
His hands were cuffed behind him, and he walked with a painful limp now that he was bereft of the cane. As much as he'd despised having to use it, he'd have given most anything to have it back now. Of course, in less than an hour, it wouldn't much matter, and he drew on the anger the thought spurred to force his aching muscles to cooperate.
He walked the length of the room in silence, his expression written in stone. Two marines walked behind him, their rifles ready to deal with any resistance, but Logan moved as though he were leading, not being forced. He stepped through the small grey door set in the wall. Like the cell he was moving from, this door was only used on rare occasions, and he stiffened as he saw the scaffold, but he moved towards the waiting noose with firm steps.
Corporal Hall was nowhere to be seen, and Logan supposed he was grateful. There was noone else in the room whose opinion he might have valued, though he was disgusted to see that Zig Olson had been granted permission to witness the execution.
Zig had a sneering grin on his face as he saw Logan limp into the room, and stuck his tongue out in a mocking parody of a hanged face.
Logan simply nodded a greeting in the man's direction and held up a hand with four fingers raised. He noted Zig's confused expression with amusement, raised his thumb to make five, tapped the thumb with his left index finger, then pointed at Olson.
Zig's eyes widened in a shock of fear before he could get his face under control, to be replaced by anger.
The sniper turned away, then. The only other people in the room were a black-hooded marine with all rank and insignia removed and Commandant Franklin.
With a glance over at the red phone on the wall next to the Major, Logan cocked an eyebrow. "Any calls for me?"
Franklin smirked. "I am pleased to say there have been none."
Logan sighed. "Ah well. I've got, what, eight minutes?"
"Seven", Franklin answered promptly. "If you'd like to take your place?" He made a grand gesture up the steps of the scaffold and Logan slowly climbed the thirteen stairs.
He stepped out onto the trapdoor, and Black Hood pulled the noose tightly around his neck. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and slowly let the air out.
"Six minutes", the Major offered helpfully.
"Anyone got a stabber?", Logan asked. "Not like I need to worry about cancer."
The marine guards looked at each other briefly before shaking their heads.
Logan shrugged. "Ah well." He tapped his foot a few times before turning his attention to Zig. "Nothing to say, Olson? This is your chance, nothing I can do to you. Not now, anyway."
Olson flipped him off and folded his arms across his chest with a sulking expression.
"Three minutes."
Logan sighed. "Who knew one could be bored waiting for their own execution? Why I..." he trailed off as a shadow flitted across his vision. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Franklin asked suspiciously, looking around the room. "There's nothing here."
Logan scanned the area carefully, but he saw no further sign. For just a moment, he could have sworn he caught a glimpse of a large man with a shaved head. Muscles and tattoos - a definite convict, if one were the sort to apply stereotypes.
"Seeing ghosts, I guess", the sniper said slowly. "Like that one behind Olson."
Zig jumped out of his seat and tripped over one of the other folding chairs, tumbling into a clattering heap on the floor with a silent curse.
Logan snickered. "Boo", he said with a smirk.
"Enough of that", Franklin snarled. "One minute, MacGregor. If you have any last words, this would be the time."
Logan shook his head, figuring 'boo' was as good as any.
"In that case", Major Franklin began in a formal tone of voice. "Logan MacGregor, for the premeditated murders of Julian Damage, Matthew Stevens, Rob Murphy, and Larry Roosterman, you have been sentenced to death. That sentence will now be carried out by order of Her Majesty's Government, God save the Queen, and you will now be hung by the neck until you are dead.
"Corporal..."
The phone rang, and Logan had the briefest impression of the ethereal convict yelling obscenities before turning and storming off through the wall.
Last Updated: January 28, 2004 by Blake Sorensen
The characters of Colin and Logan MacGregor are © 2003-2004 Blake Sorensen, and may not be used without permission.
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