Read Fanatics: Zero Tolerance for Free Online

at least, not in his own opinion - and certainly to suggest he had any part in beginning the war would have been a vile calumny. How could he? This honourable, principled, dedicated man, who believed in peace, justice, and freedom, hadn’t finished the last one yet.
    True, he was rather resisting something of a tidal wave in trying to stand firm against all this blether about leaving the past behind, especially since it was not just a done deal, but a done deal with cobwebs on. He knew he and his few like-minded colleagues were isolated; historical detritus that hadn’t been washed away yet. Still, it seemed utterly unbelievable to him that the leadership had even been able to entertain the notion of setting aside the armed struggle after all this time. How could they have done it when victory was just around the corner? How was talk and co-operation going to bring a United Ireland? If only they had waited a little longer - just given the Brits a few more firm boots up the rear...
    So much, he thought bitterly, for all that tough rhetoric about seeing the North destroyed utterly before giving in to the enemy. It was apparent to him now that only the crazies in the hard-line splinter groups had ever really meant it. He remembered the rumours of a few years back that somebody had somehow managed to get hold of three or four pounds of plutonium. It was too bad that they were only that: rumours. A shiver went up and down his spine as he thought of what might be done with stuff like that. Just imagine turning the North of Ireland into the biggest Ulster Fry of all time!
    Dermot did not have the ear of the right people, which was the reason why he was where he was now: taking matters into his own hands just like Pearse, Connolly and the other heroes of the 1916 Easter Rising. He and a few others, with the help of a handful of weapons “borrowed” from a certain source, were about to take up where a weak-willed leadership was leaving off. It wouldn’t be long before another state-paid hood was away for his tea.
    Well - Dermot was fairly certain a policeman would be biting the dust, providing all went according to plan - the plan they’d finally settled on, that is. The one they decided to go for if the semtex turned out to be unavailable. The one where Aidan was supposed to watch the back door of the house, and Ciaran and himself closed in on the peeler, one Tommy Magee, from the left and right - if he arrived home from the North end of the street. It would be slightly different if he came down from the Southern end; a bit like the original plan - the one they’d pretty much rejected, but were still using bits of, though not of course the bit where...
    Dermot shifted uncomfortably in the car seat and leaned forward, trying to see where Ciaran had disappeared to. Just then, Magee’s car turned onto the street from the Southern end, coasted along, and turned into the driveway of his house, which was about thirty yards ahead of where Dermot had parked.
    This is it! thought Dermot, and trying to control a rush of adrenalin that might make him move too quickly and give himself away, he got out of the car, shut the door, and walked steadily along to the peeler’s driveway at just the right pace to get him there before the target had gone into the house.
    Magee had only just opened his garage door when Dermot reached the garden gate; the target turned, and seeing Dermot approach, froze as he realised what was happening. His personal weapon was holstered, but Dermot’s handgun was already pointing at him.
    Their gazes locked, and Dermot paused deliberately. He wanted to be able to remember this moment later and pore over it; he had wondered endlessly what he would feel as he pulled the trigger and ended someone’s life. Would there be a sense of triumph, or a surge of hatred? Would there be self-loathing? Would the thing feel oddly impersonal, with only a muted sense of regret for the consequences of a distasteful job which simply