by Mark Newman
In For The Kill
By
Mark Newman
Published by markjnewmanbooks 2016
Copyright ©
Mark J Newman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share it with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. This is a work of TOTAL FICTION.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover artwork created by Jimmy Gibbs
Edited by OBS (www.onlinebookservices.com)
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Chapter 1: 1987
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 1: 1987
Baxter thumbed through his winnings, a wedge of used crumpled tens and twenties bound together with an elastic band. Dog-eared and tatty or crisp and clean, it made no difference cash was cash. He stuffed the wad into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and zipped it up. It had been a long time coming but winning felt good.
He looked up; a small crowd had gathered ten feet from where he was standing. Local faces, associates of Callaghan. They were huddled together talking in low tones, muttering into their warm beer. If looks could kill…
He caught their eye, not that it had been his intention to do so, but it happened all the same. His inner voice was yelling at him to get out of there, but he couldn’t help but linger a moment longer. He wasn’t one to gloat but then again he was entitled to enjoy the moment. He returned their disgruntled stare, a broad smile breaking out on to his face. He felt their pain; of late, he’d been there more times than he cared to remember. Some of them had lost big tonight, and over the last three months, Baxter had lost more than he could account for. Tonight that had changed. Something was different. He’d turned a corner, putting an end to his bad run. That’s how it is; bad luck comes and goes, the law of averages. He’d finally broken the cycle.
Six grand in total, not bad for an evening’s work. He’d rode his luck but he’d kept his nerve, believing it would all come good in the end. Half way through the night, things hadn’t looked so good; at worst he was down by two and half grand. He went to Callaghan, the bout’s organiser and kingpin of the northeast’s criminal fraternity. He needed a short-term loan, just to get him through to the last bout. How could Callaghan say no? Baxter was a regular, and he was only too glad to authorise his credit. Besides, Baxter was a safe bet, he’d never missed a deadline. He understood the terms well enough, you don’t pay on time, we cut you. You miss a second payment, we take your fingers. Miss a third, we discuss repayment options with your family.
Each party understood the expectations. There could be no misunderstanding.
Chapter 2
Although it wasn’t a fortune, Baxter’s win ensured that he could pay what he owed and keep Callaghan off his back, leaving a little left over. He still needed to get his head straight. He’d considered counselling, but his line of work wasn’t the easiest subject matter to discuss with civilians, this was down to him and him alone. He felt bereft; nothing he did could shake the memory. The girl’s face haunted him, ingrained on his brain, when he closed his eyes – she was there. Things had become so bad he’d begun to hallucinate. When driving the car, he’d see her at the side of the road or she’d be sitting on the back seat when he checked his rear view mirror. It was the same in his apartment, when he tried to watch the TV; he’d see her out of the corner of his eye, just sitting in the armchair watching him intently. She never spoke, always silent, her eyes imploring him to act.
Sleep didn’t come easy; he’d begun self-medicating just so he could catch a fragmented couple of hours here and there. He ignored the pharmacist’s warnings about the dangers of mixing his medication. What did they know? He knew his own body better than anyone. Besides, he took them as guidelines more than instructions. He knew what he could and couldn’t handle.
He’d gotten into the habit of concocting his own sleep recipe. Each night, he’d take a triple shot of brandy, crush a Nytol sleeping pill into it, and then add paracetamol, his own method to combat the hangover effects of the morning after. The difficulty was coming round, trying to rouse himself from sleep. He’d devised a regime to shock his body into action. First, he took a two-minute cold shower, followed by three cups of strong, black coffee. Then he’d go for a run, nothing too strenuous, a mile jog. If the coffee rush kicked in, then he could push it to a mile and a half. On his return, he’d perform twenty reps of crunches followed by press-ups then squats before taking a hot shower. It wasn’t fool proof, but it worked for the most part. Anything was better than waking up each day feeling as if he’d been given a double dose of Rohypnol.
Ever since the McAlister job he’d been functioning on autopilot, before the win he’d gambled his savings down to nothing. He’d borrowed even from those he’d vowed never to ask, it was all part of his coping mechanism, gambling helped him to forget. Sure, he had to get it in order, he knew that. He kept telling himself it was just a short-term solution. Anything to dull the memory. Take each day as it comes.
Chapter 3
It was time to call it a night; he made his way outside, content to be going home with cash in his pocket. He walked the short distance from the cowshed where the bouts had taken place, across a muddy track towards the larger corrugated barn that housed the vehicles. Callaghan had given his staff instructions to ensure that all vehicles were parked undercover and out of sight, safe from prying eyes or any inquisitive police patrol that may just happen to pass by. Not that the local police were a real concern, they knew all about Callaghan’s nocturnal unlicensed bouts, and seemed content to turn a blind eye. It was one way, if a little unorthodox, to ensure most of the criminal fraternity were contained and out of the way.
Gypsy Boy Malone had come good tonight. Baxter had followed his career with a keen interest, keeping a close eye on his form. He hadn’t lost a bout in the last eighteen months, spending most of the year honing his skills, training and fighting in illegal bouts across Europe. But Malone had higher ambitions.
The lure of sponsorship meant he was in the process of making the transition to become a licensed boxer, but old habits were proving hard to break. He only knew one way to fight – dirty. Malone fought to win, whatever the cost. He treated each bout as a fight for survival; the way he saw it, bare-knuckle fighting and boxing were one and the same, it all came down to hand to hand combat. Playin
g by the rules was easier said than done, with many of his licensed fights ending in disqualification before the second bell.
That’s how he came to be on Callaghan’s line up. A late entry, his name added to the bill only twenty-four hours before the scheduled bout. He’d travelled over from Ireland at the prospect of a big pay out. Callaghan’s events had a growing reputation, drawing fighters from all over the U.K. and beyond, all eager to cash in.
As expected, Malone made it through to the final bout, dispatching all takers with relative ease. He still looked fresh after winning all four of his fights. He’d come through relatively unscathed, the only clue to his fight history, a cut above his right eye. Some careful needlework from his trainer had done enough to keep it from becoming a problem.
His opponent in the final bout was a wiry Scouser by the name of Dwyer. A game fighter, lean and fast. He danced around the ring as if he was Ali. A typical showman, eager to please the crowd. He knew how to work them and build up a frenzy. Baxter guessed he had some serious money invested in the fight, knowing if he could cause an upset, he’d reap the cash bonanza.
Malone was a big deal in the bare-knuckle fight scene. The news that he was looking to go legit, turn pro and fight exclusively as a licensed boxer didn’t go down too well with the punters. Some made their living following him around Europe, betting on the outcome of each fight, a few getting rich in the process. The name of Gypsy Boy Malone was like a brand, its currency reaching as far south as the Costa del Sol. He was a guaranteed crowd puller, and where the punters went, the money followed.
He’d earned his stripes by taking on all comers, particularly those across the English Channel in France, Belgium, Holland, and farther afield in Spain, where the organisers and the crowd favoured longer, more brutal bouts. Malone’s status had become legendary after going the distance and lasting up to two hours in some of the epic battles of last man standing. For Callaghan and his ilk, Malone’s imminent retirement meant sacrificing their cash cow. It was in neither the organisers’ nor the punters’ interests for Malone to make the transition.
For any fighter on the bill, the chance of taking on Malone was like being handed a prized scalp. If Dwyer could pull it off, he’d become a legend, forever feted as the fighter who’d ended Malone’s reign. Failure wasn’t an option; he was determined not to become just another mangled and beaten mess of a statistic.
For Malone, bare-knuckle fighting was a way of life; he’d grown up with it. From the age of five, he’d had it drummed into him never to back down, no matter the odds. Fighting was about honour, and Malone fought every bout as if it was his last. He was relentless, a predator stalking and cornering his prey before ripping in to them.
Going up against Malone took brawn and brains, the secret was to hit and run. To use the jab, then move. Malone was big and cumbersome, built like a cruiserweight boxer. Any opponent wanting to try their luck would have to try to frustrate him, to wear him down bit by bit. The secret was not to be drawn into an open slugfest and try to match him punch for punch. That’s what he wanted, and what the crowd hoped for. For a fighter to stand a chance, they’d need a combination of speed, agility, and stamina to win out the day.
Chapter 4
The Scouser started well enough, managing to stay out of Malone’s reach, dodging the right uppercut that had brought down so many others. He was able to land a succession of rapid punches and move. At the end of the first round, he walked back to his corner, leaving Malone looking like a tired old bull in the arena. The crowd responded to his precision attacks, the excitement building every time he went forward and landed his jabs. Vast sums of cash were changing hands as the odds tipped in Dwyer’s favour, some having the feeling that an upset could be on the cards.
The fight turned, just before the bell rang out to signal the end round two. Malone was coming forward, chasing Dwyer around the ring, his jaw open, and slack, breathing hard, fatigue beginning to take effect. Dwyer backed away, wanting to tire him out some more before launching his next counterattack. He was doing well, using his brain and athleticism to outwit his opponent.
Dwyer wanted to please the crowd, to give them a show, something they would remember. He tried showboating, attempting an Ali-style shuffle, the crowd surged forward, roaring their approval, the security detail struggling to contain them. Dwyer raised his fist to acknowledge their acceptance, losing his balance in the process. He slipped on a pool of blood that hadn’t been covered with fresh hay since the previous bout, and went over backwards, scrabbling in the dirt. The Scouser didn’t have time to look up; Malone was on him. The punches rained down on Dwyer’s head, face, and neck. All he could do was try to protect his head with his arms. Malone swatted them away as though they were dead flies. He knew he had him. Dwyer flayed around on the shed floor, helpless and pathetic. Sensing the end was near, Malone stepped it up a gear, a flurry of punches coming in from all directions.
The bell rang to signal the end of the round. The fight continued. Malone ignored the shouts from his corner, he was on a kill mission. His trainer ran in trying to pull him off his opponent. Dwyer had stopped responding, offering no resistance. His own corner team peeled him off the floor and dragged him back to his corner.
They went to work on him, smelling salts to bring him round. Swabs to clean him up. When the third bell rang out, Dwyer didn’t know which day of the week it was, but he still went forward to meet the champion head on. Malone came out of his corner determined to finish it. He floored Dwyer with a left hook; he went down hard. If he’d had any sense that’s where he would have stayed.
Dwyer was dazed, rolling around; he managed to pull himself up on to all fours, shaking his head before attempting to stand. As he straightened up, Malone piled in to him, Dwyer crumpled, he was hurt, but he couldn’t concede. He managed to remain on his feet, but his guard was down, his arms rendered useless, hanging heavy and slack.
Malone threw a sledgehammer right with enough force to take Dwyer’s head off his shoulders. At the last second, Dwyer rolled his head to the side, taking a glancing blow to the left of his jaw. Malone’s own velocity spinning him round, forcing him off balance. Dwyer took his chance. Snarling like a wild dog, he unleashed a succession of rapid punches to the kidneys. Malone went down on his knee, winded, but not out of the game. The crowd were on their feet, plastic beer containers flying through the air, the remnants showering both fighters.
Dwyer gave it everything, as though his life depended on it, knocking Malone to the floor. The champion was stunned rather than hurt; the first time he’d been on the floor in more than a year. He lay there dazed, numb to the onslaught. Dwyer was on top of him, kneeling on his chest, his punches pounding away, each one a precision missile landing with speed and pinpoint accuracy.
Fresh claret spilled from Malone’s battle-scarred face, blood from his mouth ran freely from his chin, his nose flattened to his cheek, and his eye opened up under Dwyer’s attack. The crowd sensed the end was near, chants of Dwyer, Dwyer, Dwyer filling the cavernous shed, willing the challenger to end the champion’s unbeaten reign. Dwyer’s arms were like lead, but he kept going, managing a nod to acknowledge their support and enthusiasm. The exertion of his ninety-second barrage was burning from his wrists up in to his forearms, reaching his biceps, and then on to his shoulders.
Dwyer’s breathing was ragged; he couldn’t keep up the pace, and slowed before slumping forward to catch his breath. Malone seized the moment, both hands grabbing at Dwyer’s throat. He threw the Scouser off to the side, and pulled himself to his feet. Dwyer lay on his back in the dirt, his eyes wide, unable to comprehend his opponent’s recovery. Malone raised his fists above his head, a victory salute to the crowd before giving Dwyer a toothy, wry smile, spitting fresh blood to the floor.
Dwyer used the moment to get to his feet; he still had a chance. He slammed in to Malone as he had his back to him, midway through his victory salute. Dwyer unleashed a combination of jabs to the body and head. Malone swaye
d and wobbled, but remained standing. Dwyer continued, each flurry of punches more ferocious than the last. Malone backed away. Dwyer followed, pursuing his quarry, backing the champion in to his own corner.
Dwyer got in close, throwing his best punch, landing it square on Malone’s already ruined nose. He roared as the pain receptors connected with the smashed, jagged shards of cartilage. His temper surged, he countered with a brutal right uppercut, dazing the Scouser as he staggered back. Malone pursued, using his body weight to spin him around in to the corner. Now he had him exactly where he wanted him. He unleashed a volley of punches to Dwyer’s midsection, each one lifting him off his feet. Malone ripped into him without mercy. He respected Dwyer’s ability as a fighter, but there could be only one champion.
The Scouser was trapped and helpless, caught on the far side of the ring, his corner team impotent to offer any kind of help. Malone was on a mission, landing sickening uppercuts to his head, then punishing the body the same way he’d practised a thousand times before with the pig’s carcass hanging from the hook in the garage. In the end, Malone’s own trainer stopped the fight, dragging him off, the undisputed champion foaming at the mouth to finish the job, leaving Dwyer reduced to a bloodied pulp curled in a foetal position in the dirt.
Chapter 5
Baxter entered the corrugated barn, noticing the gentle buzz from the strip lighting running central from the rafters as it bathed the two rows of vehicles below in a green tinged light. His Volvo 240 Estate was parked to the extreme right edge of the barn, the light filtering out to minimum strength six feet from his car, leaving it draped in shadow. A few of the other punters were already in their cars, their engines turning over, radios blaring, ready to make off back to their homes, eager to return to their wives and children and resume civility, having satiated their blood lust for the next couple of months.
