“Get a van organized.” McGuinness slammed the door behind him as he returned to the communications room. Sean Conlon massaged his shoulder with one hand and wished that McGuinness was not such an abrasive bugger. Despite his dislike of McGuinness, Sean had to admire the man’s tirelessness; he could even understand Brendan’s bitterness. He hadn’t been bitter until he lost his eye. Late in 1971, Brendan had been set on by members of a “tartan gang”—Protestant youths who wore tartan scarves in memo...ry of three Scottish soldiers who had been killed by the Provos. The Prod bastards dressed up in their scarves and balaclavas and beat the shit out of any Catholic they encountered on a deserted street. Brendan, in the wrong place at the wrong time, had been lucky that an eye was all he lost. Sean knew it was Brendan’s hatred of the Prods that made him so committed to the Cause, to the goals they both pursued, but since his promotion to CO, Brendan had become arrogant. Sean had swallowed his irritation and worked with McGuinness to organize the details of the assassination of the British prime minister.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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