Three a.m. in the Belfast Hills.
We crept silently along the path, two shadowy figures fading in and out of the surrounding darkness as clouds scudded across the harsh sliver of moon above. Occasionally the soft wind would deliver a brief snatch of muttered conversation, too low to be intelligible, from our quarry ahead.
We had been tracking them for half an hour, hoping they would lead us to any allies they had in the area. Intel pegged them as dead-enders, wannabes looking to make a splash by disrupting the delicate peace negotiations. We were here to make sure that didn’t happen.
Another murmur of conversation from ahead, sharper this time. I snapped a closed fist up, heard a faint rustle of grass behind me as my companion froze. I reached down, began to slide my trusty ka-bar from -
Strong hands gripped my arms from behind, pinning them in place. I knew instantly that it wasn't Bono; he had slim, girlish singer's hands, and I had felt their touch often enough to recognize the difference.
Ambush.
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