Exit Wounds

Book 7: Connor Fraser

by Neil Broadfoot

Genres: Hard-Boiled; Mystery

Synopsis

'A blistering, whip-smart thriller . . . this book has pace, heart, and conviction, and some of the finest action writing this side of the Reacher novels. With Exit Wounds, Neil Broadfoot has produced a masterclass in thriller writing' - Liam McIlvanney

----------

Dead men sometimes do tell tales...

When the death of an old friend means a trip back to Northern Ireland, Connor Fraser welcomes the distraction from his troubles at home in Stirling. His estrangement from his partner, Jen, is growing ever-more painful, and he can only watch helplessly as his beloved grandmother's health deteriorates.

When he spots three familiar faces at the funeral, faces with ties to Northern Ireland's bloody past, Connor suspects his friend's death was more than a tragic accident. But before he can investigate, he's lured into a trap and attacked.

Pursued by ruthless professionals who don't care if they bring Connor to their bosses alive or dead, he must go off-grid. As he tries to untangle the web of deceit that has ensnared him, he's faced with choices, and losses, that threaten to break him.

A mystery of the past could destroy the peace of the future. With his back to the wall, can Connor unravel it all, before it's too late?

----------

Praise for Neil Broadfoot:

'A true rising star of crime fiction' - Ian Rankin

'Beautifully crafted . . . There's no filler, no exposition, just action, dialogue and layering of tension that'll hold you breathless until the very end' - Helen Fields

'Wonderfully grisly and grim, and a cracking pace' - James Oswald

'A frantic, pacy read with a compelling hero' - Steve Cavanagh

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 90000

Sample

It was no different from any other city alley – litter strewn across the dirty grey concrete, graffiti on the pitted walls, some artistic, some profane. Stench of piss, vomit and stale beer. Above, the sky was a sullen, numb grey, a watercolour of indecision threatening either rain or sleet.

Connor Fraser glanced around again, trying to see something that would explain why he was there. He turned slowly, looked back to the opening of the alley and the street beyond, caught the eye of a woman walking past. She paused for a moment, appraised him with the kind of dipped-beam gaze he knew all too well. Intellect dulled by hash, booze or something stronger, something that left her arms puckered and bruised, her brain rotted. She shrugged, as though dismissing him from her thoughts, then started walking again.

Connor peered into the void she’d left, watching life go on. A typical afternoon on the Falls Road, the low rumbling moan of traffic, the occasional shout, people getting on with their lives. It looked so normal. But this was Belfast, and the awareness of violence was imprinted on the collective consciousness, a traumatic memory. No one really spoke about it, but everyone knew that violence was only ever one wrong turn away.

He sighed, took one last look around the alleyway. Was damned if he’d check behind the overflowing rubbish bin wedged against the back wall. It seemed welded there, barricaded behind forgotten bags of rubbish. Whatever he was meant to find eluded him. He reached into his pocket, made the call.

‘Connor?’ The tone was a mixture of question and surprise. ‘What’s up, big lad?’

‘I’m here,’ Connor said. ‘Now, you want to tell me what the hell I’m meant to be looking for?’

‘Here?’ Simon McCartney asked, the alert wariness in his tone giving Connor’s stomach an oily clench. ‘Where’s here?’

‘The alley behind the Old Dog on the Falls Road, like your message said.’

‘What message?’ Simon asked, concern hardening his voice.

‘The message you sent …’ Connor trailed off, the realisation hitting him like a hard left hook. ‘Shit,’ he whispered, more to himself than Simon. ‘Your phone’s been cloned. I’m burned.’

Simon’s response was immediate, so loud that it stabbed into Connor’s ear and seared into his mind. ‘I’ll get to a secure line. RUN!’



Connor dropped the phone and stamped on it, cursing his stupidity. Simon was a known associate of his: it was only logical to exploit that knowledge to get to Connor. After all, it was what he would have done.

He started back down the alley, towards the road, planning to get lost in the afternoon hubbub. Stopped dead when he saw a car draw up, sleek and black. Retreated into the alleyway, ducked behind a refuse bin, cursing himself for not bringing a gun. Seemed like a no-brainer at the time – the PSNI didn’t take kindly to people walking the streets with a firearm, former officer or no.

Now it seemed like another stupid mistake. Potentially a fatal one.

The passenger door of the car opened, and a man unfolded himself from it. About six foot two, squeezed into a suit just expensive enough to be forgettable. His shaved head caught the weak afternoon light, seemed to absorb it somehow. When he straightened, Connor could see dark, empty eyes set in a face that was as forgettable as the suit he wore.

He turned, leaned back into the car, said something Connor couldn’t make out to the driver, then started to walk into the alley. As he moved, he drew a gun from his suit jacket.

Connor gave a silent curse. Swallowed the sudden surge of adrenaline that turned the saliva to thick acid in his throat. He looked around for anything he could use as a weapon. Grabbed for a beer bottle beside the bin with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.

The man inched closer, his steps like glass-filled drumbeats on the grimy alley floor.

Connor held his breath. Waited.

One more step. Then another.

Connor exploded from his hiding place, swinging the bottle at the man’s temple as hard as he could. It shattered on impact, the blow juddering up Connor’s arm. The man staggered back, cursing, blood exploding from his temple. Connor closed on him, grabbed for the gun in his hand. The man twisted, dropping to his knees and pulling Connor forward, directly into the rabbit punch he had aimed at his temple.

A blinding explosion of pain and Connor felt the world lurch. He bit his tongue, forced himself not to release his grip on the man’s gun hand. Instead, pulled him in, then drove his free elbow up into the bottom of the man’s jaw. Felt teeth grind together and snap as the man’s head was thrown back. Connor jabbed his fist into the man’s exposed throat. He crumpled, hand releasing the gun as he clawed at his neck, gasping for breath. He crashed to the ground, lips already turning blue, and Connor knew he had crushed the man’s windpipe. He took a half-step back, felt the world lurch sickeningly as blood, warm and sticky, oozed down his face.

He reached for the gun his attacker had dropped, closed his grip on it as he heard a car door slam at the end of the alley. Looked up to see another man walk around the car from the driver’s side. He was as broad as his partner was tall, wearing the same anonymously expensive suit, holding the same gun. The gun he was raising to Connor as he walked.

Connor darted to the side, felt another wave of nausea at the sudden movement. No choice. He raised the gun, pulled the trigger. The recoil of the shot made the pain in his head roar, almost drowning the screaming from the street as the approaching driver’s head exploded in a mist of blood, bone and brain.

Connor cursed, forced himself to breathe. Took a moment to turn back to his first attacker, check his pockets. Nothing. Not even a handkerchief. He stood, hurried back up the alley. People were running on the street, either to get away from the gunshot or to find out what was going on. Across the road, a group of men emerged from another pub, their faces telling Connor this was just what they had been waiting and hoping for.

He paused for a moment at his second attacker, checked his pockets as well. No ID or handkerchief, but something more useful. Car keys.

Connor grabbed for them with numb fingers, hurried to the car. Saw the men across the road start towards him, raised the gun and they froze. Message received.

He ran to the driver’s side, hoped the ringing in his head and the dimming of vision in his left eye would let him drive. He started the engine, wondering where to go. Somewhere he could disappear, just another face in the crowd, somewhere he could think. Only one answer, really.

Connor put the car in gear, drove away.

Welcome to Belfast, he thought abruptly, stifling the sudden urge to laugh.

Welcome home.



He turned the car, making for central Belfast. His first instinct had been to head out of town, towards the Divis Mountains or the Colin Glen, get away from the network of cameras the police would undoubtedly try to use to track him. But being in an isolated location worked both ways: it gave him solitude, but deprived him of resources.

So town it was. Time for a little shopping.

He drove as slowly and anonymously as he dared, the urge to dump the car and walk an almost physical presence. But the sickening bayonet of pain in his left temple and the way any sudden reflection or flash of light from another car stabbed into his brain told him he was in no condition to walk. Knew the signs well: he had concussion. Hoped it wasn’t a bad one. He didn’t have time for it.

Saw the shop he was looking for ahead, same faded green and gold awning over the door, unchanged since he had walked this beat with Simon years ago. He pulled in, killed the engine. Closed his eyes, grabbed onto the steering wheel and leaned forward, ignoring the wave of nausea that brought tears to his eyes. Tried to think through the pain and the spent adrenaline. They’d cloned Simon’s phone, used it to lure him to a trap in the Republican heart of Belfast. Two men, guns standard police and military issue, Glock 17. So something really was going on after all. What Danny had made sure he was given was important in a way he didn’t yet understand. But what did …?

The sudden blare of a horn made Connor gasp, sit up straight. He peered out of the windscreen, saw a car parked nose to nose with him, engine giving a whining growl in the way only a tuned turbo could.

Shit, Connor thought, looking up at the frontage of the shop. O’Connell’s Convenience. What the sign didn’t tell you was that, for the right price, that convenience could fall on either side of the law. Which made the owners a little nervous about who visited, so they had guards stationed around the shop, looking for faces that didn’t fit. And one was now nose to nose with Connor.

The driver of the car in front of him, a blue Subaru Impreza, killed the engine and got out. He was big, all gym-sculpted muscles and buzz-cut hair, but Connor could still see the echo of Miles O’Connell in the man. It was in the eyes, so brown they were almost black, and the way his mouth twisted into a sneer that he probably thought was a genuine human smile.

Like father, like son, Connor thought.

He sighed, patted his jacket. Gun still there. Hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. Got out of the car. Last thing he needed was to be in a confined space.

‘’Bout ye?’ he asked, as he stood up, wishing he had a pair of sunglasses.

‘Cannae park there, pal,’ the driver said as he approached. ‘Customer parking for my da’s shop. And you sure as fuck aren’t a regular.’

Connor took a deep breath, felt a wave of exhaustion roll over him. He needed to get off the street now. ‘So you’d be who? Rory? His eldest, I’m guessing?’ Connor said. ‘And how is old Miles anyway? He out now, or is he still inside for using this place as a front to launder drugs cash for Malky Tomlinson’s crew on the Falls?’

The man in front of him stepped forward, hands bunching into fists as the colour drained from his face. Connor could see a tattoo ripple over the muscles in his left forearm, could tell by his stance he was a southpaw. ‘Just who the fuck are …’

‘Easy,’ Connor said, lifting his hand. ‘Didn’t mean anything by it. I used to know your dad back in the day. He was a good sort, despite his, ah, off-the-book activities. Made sure nothing got too out of hand. Kept civilians as far away from trouble as he could. Never let Malky deal to kids.’

‘That why you’re here?’ Rory spat. ‘To pass on your respects? Well, yer a bit fucking late. Now piss off. Don’t give a fuck if you knew my da. Peelers aren’t welcome around here. And you reek of peeler.’

‘Really? And the woman at the store told me it was Armani,’ Connor said, regretting the words as soon as he’d said them. The last thing he needed to do was wind up Rory. But even as he thought it, he heard his father’s words: That Fraser temper. Watch it, son. It’ll get you into trouble one day.

Rory took a step forward, one hand reaching behind his back. Connor sighed, dropped his head. Looked over Rory’s shoulder to the car he had just got out of. Nice car. Four-wheel drive. Fast. And not connected to a shooting on the Falls Road less than an hour ago.

‘Your da still make sure all the security cameras are out around here?’ Connor asked.

‘Wh-what?’ Rory asked, hand freezing behind his back as he instinctively glanced up to the eaves of the shop, confusion crumpling his features.

‘Aye, thought so,’ Connor said. ‘Tell me, son, you got a phone on you?’

Rory jerked, as though Connor had slapped him. ‘What the …? Ack, naw, fuck it, you just need to …’

He lunged forward, the knife he produced from behind his back glinting in the sun. Connor stepped into the arc of Rory’s swing and pivoted, tucking his fist into the side of his head and driving his elbow into Rory’s forearm. The knife sailed through the air, a slash of quicksilver in the late-afternoon sun, then clattered to the ground. Connor kept moving, ignoring the agony screaming through his head and the churning of his stomach. He dropped his knee, shouldered Rory in the chest, then followed through with a hard left hook to his jaw. Rory staggered, eyes rolling back in his head as he lurched to the left and slammed into the side of his car. Connor stepped forward, grabbed him, then slammed his head off the bonnet of the car, the shock of the blow tearing new pain loose in his head.

He stumbled back, took a deep breath. Then he bent down, found the car keys on Rory and threw him into the back seat. Found a phone in a cradle stuck to the dashboard, said a silent prayer of thanks when he realised it was unlocked, a playlist of music scrolling across the screen. Dialled a number only he and Simon knew, a number they had prepared for a day just like this. Waited.

‘Big lad,’ Simon said, after the second ring. ‘Jesus Christ. You okay? What the hell is going on?’

Connor took a breath, bit back another wave of agony. He needed to rest. ‘Later,’ he said, starting the engine of the car and pulling away. ‘I’ve an errand to run. I’ll get some burners and call you back. Can you arrange a place for me to lie low?’

Simon whistled. ‘You don’t ask for much, do you?’ he said, his tone just the right side of mocking. ‘Okay, give me twenty minutes then call me back.’

‘I’ll make it twenty-five,’ Connor said. ‘It’ll take me that long to get to the Shankill and dump some rubbish.’

‘Shankill?’ Simon said. ‘Christ, Connor, what the hell are you planning?’

Despite himself, Connor smiled. It cut through the pain and the confusion, made him feel like himself again.

‘Just a little old-fashioned mischief-making,’ he said, glancing in the rear-view mirror. Talk soon.’



Simon looked down at the phone in his hand, muttered a curse. Knew he should have been on the first plane to Belfast the moment Connor had called him two nights ago with that list of names. Instead, he had stayed in Stirling, cementing his new life with Donna. The thought of her sent a shudder of panic arcing through him. Donna Blake. Lover, soon-to-be fiancée if he asked the question right, and reporter. Hard-nosed, ruthless reporter who would just love to know all about whatever shit storm Connor had stirred up in Belfast, then tell the nation about it on one of her regular Sky News slots.

Question was, what had Connor stepped into?

It had started a week ago. Connor and Simon had been wrapping up a training session at the gym, which basically entailed Connor lifting unfeasibly heavy weights, then chasing Simon around a boxing ring and grappling him into submission. Since his problems with his girlfriend, Jen, Connor’s focus on training had taken on an almost obsessive quality, as if he was punishing himself physically for the problems in his relationship – and his inability to fix them.

They were just taking off their gloves when Connor’s phone had buzzed. He took the call, and Simon watched as a maelstrom of emotions flitted across his friend’s face in less than two minutes. The creased brow of confusion at an unfamiliar number, the smile as he recognised the voice at the other end, the dropping of the shoulders and the darkening of the brow as bad news was delivered, the whispered promise to get in touch soon. When the call ended, Connor stood there, head down, phone forgotten in his hand. Despite his physical presence and massive shoulders, he was more like a little lost boy than the man who had rained blows down on him in their sparring session.

‘You all right, big lad?’ he asked, trying to keep his tone light, casual.

‘What?’ Connor blinked, almost as if he was surprised to see Simon there. ‘Oh, yeah, yeah. Sorry. Just a bit of bad news is all.’

‘Want to tell me about it?’

Connor shrugged, as though he was processing the information and struggling to frame it. ‘That was the mum of an old friend from Belfast, Danny Gillespie.’

‘Don’t think I’ve heard that name before,’ Simon said.

‘You wouldn’t have. Before we met. Danny was in my psychology classes back at Queen’s. Good lad. We hung about a lot. Drinking at Lavery’s, weekends down in Cork and Galway, you know, usual stuff. I joined the police, and he went on to take a lecturing job in London. Just kind of drifted apart, you know how it is. The odd text, an email now and then.’

How many of his friends were just acquaintances now, the bond between them on life support via the odd text or a crappy forwarded joke? Simon wondered. Didn’t much like the answer.

‘Anyway,’ Connor had said, straightening as he tossed his phone back into his bag, ‘that was his mum. Seems he was visiting her in Dunmurry, went out for a drink one night, staggered onto the road after one too many and …’ He had lifted his hands, dropped them, helpless frustration on his face.

‘Jesus, I’m sorry, man,’ Simon said.

‘Thanks,’ Connor said, almost reflexively. ‘Funeral’s next week. Mary wants me to be there, one of the pall-bearers.’

Simon frowned. ‘Bit odd,’ he said. ‘I mean, from what you said, you weren’t close any more, and pall-bearing is a family job normally.’

Another shrug. ‘Danny was an only child,’ he said. ‘And the rest of the family is scattered across America and Canada. Besides, I don’t really mind. Be good to get away for a bit.’

Simon nodded, not wanting to poke at the elephant in the room. The death of Jen’s father, Duncan MacKenzie, almost a year ago had driven a wedge between Jen and Connor. A wedge that had widened with Connor’s investigation into MacKenzie’s death, which had brought some uncomfortable truths about the man to light. Truths that had tarnished Jen’s view of her father – and Connor. They were trying to move forward, aiming for the home Connor had bought for them before Duncan’s death, but still the distance remained, a yawning chasm that neither seemed able to cross.

‘You want some company?’ Simon had asked. ‘We could hit a few of the old haunts, get into a wee bit of trouble in Belfast for old times’ sake?’

Connor laughed. ‘Christ, no,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine the crap Donna would give me if I dragged you off for a lads’ jaunt to Belfast? She’d kill me.’

‘Aye,’ Simon said. ‘Fair play.’

So Connor had left for Belfast, and life had gone on. Simon had lost himself in transferring to Police Scotland from the PSNI, moving into Connor’s now-vacated garden flat in Park Circus and stalking jewellers in the area until he found the perfect ring for Donna. But then, on the night after the funeral, Connor had called.

‘Connor, ’bout ye?’ Simon asked, relieved to hear from him. The thought of him alone, brooding, as he stalked the streets of Belfast, wasn’t a comfortable one. ‘How did it go?’

‘Not bad,’ Connor had said, in a cold, distracted tone that made Simon uneasy. ‘Interesting crowd. Listen, can you do me a favour? Track a few names down for me, current location, movements et cetera?’

Simon agreed, his unease hardening into dread as Connor gave him three names that could only mean trouble. Trouble that now seemed to have landed squarely at Connor’s door.

He shook himself. Time enough for introspection later. Right now he had to find somewhere safe for Connor to lie low until they figured out what was going on. He thought for a moment, then smiled. Only one option he could come up with. He began dialling the number, paused. Looked at the phone. What was it Connor had said? Shit, your phone’s been cloned.

Simon didn’t like what that told him. Whoever they were up against, they were professionals. Technically proficient. Highly resourced. And gunning for his friend.

He put the phone down, walked through into the bedroom, reached into the cupboard, and pulled out a battered leather sports bag. A throwback to his previous life, when being targeted by terrorists was a real possibility and the ability to get out of town fast was literally a matter of life and death. The bag held money, a couple of fake IDs, a gun and, most importantly, a burner phone.

He unwrapped it, inserted a fresh SIM card, switched the phone on, got dialling. Waited.

‘Gemma,’ he said, when it was answered. ‘Simon McCartney. Look, I need a wee favour. And I need it to happen now, okay?’

At the other end, Gemma sighed, a familiar sound. Comforting. Gemma Arthurton made everything sound like a chore. But the truth was, she was the most professional fixer Simon had ever met.

‘Tell me what you need,’ she said, accent pure west Belfast. ‘And then tell me how you’re going to pay me back for this.’



Connor stayed off the motorway, instead threading the car through the back roads and suburbs that led him north from the Falls Road to the Shankill Road. He drove slowly, the rumble of the car’s engine seeming to resonate with the snarling agony in his head. Spotted what he needed soon enough, and smiled.

It sat at the turning into a small, residential street lined with red-brick terrace houses, which faced onto what looked like allotments. Connor indicated, pulled into the street, bumped the car up onto the pavement and looked over his shoulder into the back seat. Saw Rory O’Connell lying there, his face already turning a dark, angry purple, his breathing noisy and liquid. Connor felt a brief pang of guilt at the knowledge he had broken the kid’s nose.

That Fraser temper, son. Watch for it.

Shook it off. Didn’t have time for it. He got out of the car, looked up at the sign bolted to the bricks in front of him. It dominated the wall, dwarfing the awning for the taxi company on the corner of the building. White star on a blue background, Red Hand of Ulster held up in a Stop sign in the middle, crown above it. VANGUARD BEARS, DEFENDING OUR TRADITIONS, read the text that looped around the star. Connor looked to his right at another sign bolted onto the harled wall above a small, battered door. Ulster Volunteer Force, 1913, the sign read, emblazoned over the sepia-orange-stained image of men in military-style outfits and bunnets. You didn’t really need the Union flag bunting criss-crossing the street to work out this was a Unionist area, but it was a nice touch.

Connor blipped the central locking on O’Connell’s car, making sure the alarm was armed. Then he wiped the key, as he had the steering wheel and everything else he had touched in the vehicle, and dropped it into a drain as he walked away. He didn’t know how long Rory would be out, but when he woke up, his movement would set off the car alarm. And Connor guessed the alarm, parked where it was, would draw some Vanguard Bears or other Loyalists, all of whom would be very interested to know why the son of a noted dealer and money launderer in the heart of Republican Belfast had dared to step into the Union-loving Shankill Road. Questions would be asked but, more importantly for Connor, it would cause trouble between certain less law-abiding citizens of the Republican and Loyalist communities. And that type of trouble would demand police attention, which would otherwise be trained on him and his activities on the Falls Road earlier in the day.

He walked back onto the main street, checked his watch. Still five minutes until he was due to call Simon back. Five minutes when he didn’t want to be a sitting target. He got moving and, on instinct, started walking back towards the Shankill Leisure Centre. A few years ago, a sm. . .