The Third Chapter

Seven men walked swiftly through the streets of Belfast. They were led by a young man who appeared to have engaged a wild lion in single combat. Through the streaks of blood and darkening bruises a pair of glowing green eyes stared at the buildings lining the street. These eyes were the most singular feature in a face that commanded attention, none of the features themselves were overpowering, each strong enough to hold its own, but not to take over. The crooked, one-sided grin gave a gentle touch to the face, while the fire behind those eyes belied the smile and left no mistake that this young man had a purpose. Below the face lay two broad muscular shoulders, rounded with heavy power. These shoulders had proved themselves capable of driving a fist into a man hard enough to break bone. The arms they supported were deceptively powerful, the hands broken from the recent fight and scarred from many before that. He was not a tall individual, he stood no more than five feet nine inches in sock feet, but he was clearly the type that was used to leading men in a fight.

Behind him walked the six best fighters from the evening's encounter at Finneran's. These men were also inspecting the buildings as they walked, yet they did it from curiousity, wondering what it was their leader was searching for. Their walking had taken them from the high streets near the pub, down into the slums, where the Black and Tans seldom traveled unless backed up by official police.

The buildings had faded from the quaint brick facade into a series of squat tenements, encased in concrete. Boarded windows had replaced geraniums, and street lamps were no longer friendly fireflies, casting their light on the buildings and lovers walking on the sidewalk. The magic of the shop window Ireland had disappeared, replaced by the harsh reality of Ireland under English rule.

At last the young man leading them turned into a courtyard on the left side of the street. Quickly through the door and up the steps to the second floor where he stopped at a door without a name on it. He pulled something from his pocket, the object was unidentifiable, but it was most certainly not a key. Five seconds later the door before him opened easily under his hand.

The seven slipped quickly inside where the young man pulled a string. The interior of the room was illuminated by a single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the corner stood an old television supported on an orange crate. Couches and chairs in expected condition were scattered about the room with packing crates for end tables.

One of the younger followers dropped onto a couch and broke the silence, "I believe that you owe us an explanation."

The young man stood in the center of the room and motioned to the seats surrounding him. As the five left standing arranged themselves around the room he began to explain, "You have all been brought here because you will play an important role in the events of the near future. Tonight marked the beginning of what I believe will be a great period of turmoil and change in this country. I believe this because I have come here to effect this change. Many of you have already formed your own opinions of my identity and my origins. Anything I can say at this point will either be ignored, or discredited, therefore I shall refrain from a long winded story. Let it suffice to say that there is a group of people, both here in North Ireland and elsewhere, that would like to see an end to the English rule here. After many years of planning and studying they decided that this was the time to move forward. I am one of their agents, sent to fight for the freedom of Ireland."

Michael Dunhill raised an eyebrow, "So you have been sent here by a secret group of freedom fighters? And instead of bringing compatriots with you, instead you choose the first six people you meet during a drunken brawl. This hardly seems like a well laid out plan."

The green eyes softened for a second, "To you, Michael, this may seem like a random collection of men. However I feel that it is fate that brought this unique group together. While you may not realize it yet, each one of you has a specific purpose in this movement, else you would not have been chosen."

"For example," again the thumb went in the mouth, "Mr. Collins there."

A slender, but wiry, man with thinning hair and glasses widened his eyes, "Yes?"

The green eyes sparkled with hidden knowledge, "You, Mr. Collins are a photographer for a magazine."

The man with glasses gasped, "Why, yes! Yes, I am, but how did you know?"

The young man in the center of the room laughed, "You are because you must be. You must be because we need someone of your talents. Therefore you are, because we need you to be. This is the way of it. We were all chosen by fate, not because of anything we have done, but because of what we are going to do."

Right now there are reports being filed, and a squad has been sent to the pub to search for us. They will not find us, and that will make them nervous. Those two black and tans we left in the street will have woken up, and they will tell the searchers that there is are twenty devils about. Later tonight after the initial search has been abandoned, tensions will run high within the enforcers and the police. This is when we will make our first move."

For the next few hours the young man laid out the plan for those in the room. With a piece of charcoal a rough map of the city was drawn on the bare floor. Directions were given for movement and timing. Questions were asked and answers given, the men who began that first session were skeptical, yet as the time wore on they were soon on the edge of their seats, eyes glowing in the low light.

It became apparent soon enough that Michael Dunhill was the second in command of the small troop. The older man's gray eyes burned with a fire that hadn't been kindled for many years. His hands worked slowly around in his lap as his eyes darted back and forth over the map. The hair on top of his head was not white, instead it was the color of old iron. His face had been whipped by the harbor winds for many years, and the sting of the salt showed in the leather that had replaced the boyish face of years gone by. The wrinkles on his face were not made by smiling, in fact the one time he did smile all evening the lines bent like the grain of a board suddenly straightened after years of lying warped. His nose lay across his face like the path of a man who has forgotten something on the way home. One cauliflowered left ear gave away the years in the boxing ring. As if to enforce the point the thick neck that supported this visage ran away quickly down the sloped shoulders to arms that showed many years of hard labor. This was the current appearance of Michael Dunhill, many years out of Carrickfergus, and many thoughts away from that sunny harbor town.

Once the plan had been thoroughly laid out and all questions answered, it was decided to retire for an hours rest before the nights adventure began. While the other six lay down upon mats or couches the young man with green eyes went to the washroom and began to carefully wipe away the blood that caked his face and neck. Michael followed him as far as the door, "When it comes time to wake you, lad, by what name shall we call you?"

As the red water ran through his fingers the young one glanced in the mirror at Michael. "You can call me what you've been calling me in your head the whole time. Call me Finn."