by Ted Tayler
The view from the floor to ceiling windows was stunning. The beating heart of the City of London lay before them. Sean could appreciate why the boss wanted this place. His aim was to lord it over the capital, to have it in a vice-like grip, controlling everything with the power The Grid gave him. When the nation’s capital fell, then the rest of the country followed. Sean’s best friend, and brother-in-law Tommy told him this, in confidence, before things went pear-shaped.
Hugo fixed their drinks. He strolled over and handed Sean a lead crystal tumbler full of the amber liquid.
“Jameson’s for you, Sean?” said Hugo, taking a seat opposite him. “Do you want water with that?”
Sean looked at the gap between the liquid and the brim of the glass and decided whatever he squeezed in there wouldn’t make much difference.
“I’m fine thanks, Hugo. You’ve got a great place here.”
“We work hard for our money in our own way, Sean. Now Tommy is out of the picture, we need to move on. Do you have someone in mind to be your lieutenant?”
Sean had expected this to be why Hugo invited him up here, but he was clever enough not to let Hugo know.
“Heck, you want me to take Tommy’s place? I’m honoured, Hugo. I won’t disappoint you. A second-in-command, you say? Can I mull over that for twenty-four hours? We have a few people who might be suitable.”
“A diplomatic answer, Sean,” said Hugo. “We’ll work together well. You have your twenty-four hours, but don’t let me down, Sean, ever.”
Sean Walsh took a drink. The whiskey stung his throat and warmed his stomach, but Hugo’s last comment reminded him how cold, and ruthless he could be. A shiver ran along Sean’s spine.
“When you’ve finished nursing that drink, you can go,” said Hugo, no longer the genial host who welcomed him in earlier. “Call me tomorrow with that name. I’m flying to Ireland at the weekend on family business. The real work starts on Monday. With Tommy in jail, that grass Kelly in the wind, and the Judge slipping through our fingers, we’re on the back foot. That’s unacceptable. From next week, we come out fighting.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” said Sean, draining his glass.
He needed to get out. Underneath the sophisticated surface of this crow’s nest in the sky, lay something rotten. Even the paintings on the wall had now grown more grotesque since their owner exposed his true black heart.
Tommy had been his leader and best friend since their schooldays. He had been airbrushed out of the gangs’ history in a heartbeat. Hugo didn’t mention Colleen once either, while he was there. He showed no concern for his sister or her family.
When the guilty verdict had first been delivered, Hugo wanted nothing less than protection for one of their own. Only days later Tommy was being left to rot in Belmarsh. Family and loyalty meant nothing to the banker. It was money alone that mattered. Sean was well aware every gang leader within The Grid across the country enjoyed operating within Glencairn Bank.
That was the major attraction for many. As he reflected on the situation now, further along, the line, Sean realised that because the banker controlled the gangs’ money, there was no escape. They had to do Hanigan’s bidding or starve. Worse still, if they stepped out of line he would have them killed.
As the gangster travelled in the lift, eager to get to the ground floor and into the fresh air, he was positive of one thing. He would even go to confession again if it meant he never had to return to that penthouse.
*****
Friday, 2nd May 2014
Athena nudged her husband in the ribs.
“What time did you get into bed last night?”
“Eleven o’clock, or just after,” replied Phoenix. “Why, what time is it now?”
“Just before seven,” said Athena, “and I can hear Hope snuffling along the corridor. She’s snotty-nosed with a cold. I might as well get her up and fetch a flannel from the bathroom. It’s quicker to clean her up with that. I expect she’s got it smeared over her face and in her hair.”
“Do that, and bring her in here with us,” said Phoenix. “I’m shooting off in an hour. We can have family time before I get ready.”
“Oh, you’re ready to go,” she said, surprised, “when did you speak to Zeus?”
“I texted him before eleven, with the basic details, and he answered at once. He just sent back ‘Go for it’, with a smiley face.”
“Is it you and Rusty on this mission?” asked Athena.
“We have two teams assisting us, one at each location,” replied Phoenix .“Rusty and I plan to be back this evening. I’ll tell you the details then.”
“Be careful, darling,” said Athena.
She got out of bed and brought Hope back from the nursery. Their little poppet was red-faced and suffering.
“Hello,” said Phoenix, sitting Hope on his knee after Athena handed her to him, “have you got a code in da doze?”
Hope gave a sigh, and then sneezed, covering her father in flying snot and spittle.
Athena laughed. “Give her here,” she said, “you shower and change.
At eight o’clock Phoenix kissed Hope on her hot little forehead and gave his wife a hug.
“See you both tonight,” he said and headed downstairs to meet up with Rusty.
The next hour followed their familiar routine. A visit to the armoury to sign out the equipment. Phoenix had texted a request to Bazza last night, so it was ready for them to collect.
“Are you going anywhere nice, Phoenix?” asked Thommo, handing over the weaponry.
“If he told you, he’d have to kill you,” said Rusty, “these missions have to be hush-hush. Our enemy has intelligence available as good as we have here at Olympus, if not better.”
“Which makes him a formidable opponent,” said Phoenix.
“It’s not that we don’t trust everyone here at Larcombe,” Rusty added. “Not since we removed that one bad apple. On these missions, we need to keep details locked up tight. Only three people know where we’re going today.”
“And I’m looking at two of them,” said Bazza, “well, happy hunting lads.”
The weapons, ammunition and equipment that Phoenix ordered took two trips to move to the surface. Once the van was loaded, they set off for their first destination. Rusty drove towards the M4, while Phoenix called the two team leaders he had assigned to the missions. He relayed their individual meeting points and time of arrival. Nothing more would be divulged until they met.
The two men travelled up the motorway in silence. There was no musical accompaniment today. At Junction 13, Rusty turned off towards Newbury. He took the A339 through Basingstoke and Camberley, before arriving on the outskirts of Guildford at a few minutes before eleven.
“We’re meeting our guys in the car park near the centre, Rusty,” said Phoenix, “and then it’s a ten-minute drive out to Westborough.”
“Do we expect to find Lay-Z here?” asked Rusty.
“Not a chance,” said Phoenix, “but the semi-detached house he often visits is where his boys are staying.”
Rusty drove through the busy streets of Guildford and soon found the car park. It was almost full, but in the end, he found a spare spot. He parked facing the entrance, to watch the incoming vehicles.
“How many are we up against?” he asked Phoenix.
“Between zero and six,” replied Phoenix. “Giles had the house watched over the past forty-eight hours. People come and go. The odds are they’ll be there for the next few hours. Their busiest times are after dark.”
“What’s their background?” asked Rusty. “Home-grown, or from Jamaica, drug dealers, or the heavy mob?”
“Do you recall Scotland Yard issuing a warning over the increase in armed criminals entering the UK from Jamaica? Up to nine men, using false names, arrived in the country last year. They came to the UK to carry out violent robberies against suspected drug dealers and rich black people. At first, they went their separate ways. Two men lived in London and launched a crime spr
ee that included murder and rape. They were caught in no time, but the remaining seven are still at large. They have been linked to up to fifteen drug-related murders this year.”
“So, they’re illegals, and killers, then?” said Rusty. “Terrific.”
“Yes, they used counterfeit documents and stolen passports to enter the country,” said Phoenix.
“The term open borders doesn’t cut it any longer, does it,” said Rusty, “it’s wide-open borders these days. Did these murders occur in inner-city areas?”
“Not all of them,” said Phoenix, checking his notes, “one guy, thirty-five years old was bound and gagged, then shot through the head at his home in Maidstone. Another shot dead in front of his wife and two young kids in Southwark. A thirty-year-old woman shot in the street in Wandsworth. This gang moved around, and they’re not fussy. Murders were committed in both Thatcham and Basingstoke.”
“You said they were a team of seven,” queried Rusty, “but that can’t include Lay-Z though, can it?”
“No, Leroy Gordon came here legally with his family years ago,” said Phoenix. “The Essex police stumbled across one of the gang a month back. They stopped him for a minor driving offence. The traffic officers only intended ‘having a word’. He was given a roadside swab test because of the strong smell of cannabis in the vehicle, and, of course, he failed. He couldn’t produce a driving licence or insurance. They arrested him and got him to the station in Chelmsford. There they discovered he was here illegally. Plus, someone looking very much like him was wanted for questioning over a murder outside a fast-food restaurant in Peckham. Those traffic guys got a gold star for that one, even though it was a huge stroke of luck.”
“This must be our guys driving in now,” said Rusty, as a black Range Rover crept into the car park. He flashed his headlights once. The Range Rover returned the signal.
“Right on time,” said Phoenix, checking his watch.
He got out of the van, walked across to the driver’s window of the SUV, spoke briefly, and then returned.
“Right, let’s go. They’ll follow us to Westborough.”
Within ten minutes they parked on the corner of the street where the gang stayed. Rusty got out of the van and walked to the back doors. He removed a ‘Men At Work’ sign, and tools, and placed them on the grass verge. He handed a hi-viz jacket to Phoenix as he got back into the cab.
The SUV drove past them and parked at the far end of the street. Phoenix called the team leader on his mobile.
“How’s it looking?” he asked.
“A man mowing the lawn at number 46. A lady hanging out her washing at number 55. Two dog walkers are almost out of sight. A young mother, with a toddler and an infant in a buggy heading for the row of shops on the next road. Little or no road traffic, as you can see from your end.”
“Sounds as if we’re good to go,” said Phoenix. “Any movement catch your eye at number 33?
The team leader laughed.
“Not my eye,” he said, “but my ears. I think I know where we’re headed. Number 33 has two flash cars on the driveway, the windows are open, and they’ve got reggae music blasting out.”
“It suggests someone is at home, doesn’t it?” said Phoenix.
“What are my orders?”
“Park the Range Rover. Rusty will meet you both, half-way along the street. He’s got hi-viz jackets for you, and a ‘Men At Work’ sign to stick on the pavement by your van. It’s only to keep the nosy neighbours satisfied for a few minutes. This won’t take long. I’ll join you in two minutes, and we’ll pay a visit to number 33.”
Rusty didn’t need to be asked. He got out of the van and fetched the kit from the back. Phoenix watched the house, and the rest of the street, for any movement, while his friend walked towards the approaching agents. He carried the jackets, the sign, and the Enforcer.
Satisfied there was nothing to concern them, Phoenix got out of the van, and headed for the target house. The four men gathered by the gateway to the next-door property.
“Nice houses along here, Phoenix,” said Rusty. “How much do you reckon they cost?”
“You won’t get much change out of three hundred and fifty thousand,” Phoenix replied, “it might help us if we discover who owns it. I wonder whether they care what their tenants have been doing?”
The music continued playing inside the house. Even on the pavement, the agents could make out a strong smell of cannabis.
“No wonder they have the windows open,” said Rusty.
“It can’t do the neighbours much good either,” said one of the agents.
“I expect they give the place a wide berth,” said Rusty. “The time to worry is if they start laughing for no reason and develop a craving for Jelly Babies.”
“We’ve been standing around out here for two minutes, and nobody has moved,” said Phoenix, “it’s time to get indoors and take them out. I’ll ring the front doorbell; you guys use the Enforcer to gain access through the back door. No shouted warnings. Everyone understand your orders?”
Phoenix saw three nods in response. He walked to the door and pressed the bell. The others ran to the back door. The music might have muted the tone of the doorbell, but it was heard by someone. The door opened an inch. A stoned-looking Jamaican in his thirties peered out.
“Wassup?” he asked.
Two heavy thumps on the back door made him turn away for a split second. Phoenix hit the door hard with his boot, sending the gangster sprawling across the hallway. He stepped inside, with his pistol raised. One shot incapacitated the man on the floor.
Rusty and the two agents ran through the kitchen, just as three men emerged from the front room. One carried a machete, the other two stumbled towards the intruders. They found that running while stoned was tricky. The Olympus agents’ pistols found their target. The three men hit the floor without landing a blow.
“Check upstairs,” said Phoenix to the team leader.
He led his colleague upstairs, and thirty seconds later, they returned to the hallway.
“Clear, upstairs,” he reported, “it was just the four of them.”
“We’ve bound and gagged the first two,” said Rusty. “Truss up others while Phoenix and I check out the front room.”
“Carry out a search upstairs for the usual stuff,” said Phoenix, “weapons, cash and drugs. We’ve been inside for just over two minutes. I want us out of here within the next three. Got it?”
“Understood,” replied the team leader, running up the stairs, two at a time.
Under three minutes later, the four men left number 33. Phoenix closed the door behind him. The road signs and the tools returned to the back of the van, along with the hi-viz jackets. The dart-firing pistols stored away. The men inside the house would wake up in an hour. They were secured so well, they weren’t going anywhere before the police arrived.
The two Olympus vehicles drove away towards the A3, and then joined the M25. Phoenix and Rusty set off to Croydon. The team in the Range Rover had no further part to play in this mission. They left the motorway twenty minutes later and headed home.
“Why did you tranquillize them, instead of killing them?” asked Rusty, “they’re murderers aren’t they?”
“The police need successes, Rusty,” said Phoenix. “If we left four bodies for them to discover, they could ask awkward questions. The need to keep the authorities, and anyone else, away from our door at Larcombe Manor, is paramount.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” said Rusty, “there was plenty of gear in the house wasn’t there? What else did I see you pick up from that desk in the front room?”
“I found the paperwork, but I left it for the police to follow up,” Phoenix replied. “Guess who owns number 33?”
“Leroy Gordon?” asked Rusty.
“Abigail Gordon,” replied Phoenix. “She’s more involved in this than we thought.”
Thirty minutes later they drove into Croydon, en route to Selhurst. Rusty glanced in his rear-view mirro
r.
“A blue Renault van slipped in behind us at those traffic lights we passed.”
“That’s our men,” said Phoenix, “when you get a chance, let him pass you. They’ve got the local knowledge. They’re leading us into position. Parking’s a nightmare around here, and we’ll be better arriving at the Gordon gaff on foot.”
Phoenix took a burner phone from the glove compartment and made a call.
“Hello? Is that Surrey police? I think you should take a trip out to Westborough. Number 33, Ash Drive. You can’t miss it, it’s the one with the windows open, reggae music playing all day, and the sweet smell of cannabis. No, I’m not complaining about the music or the smell. It’s the drug factory upstairs and the dealing that goes on every day. It spoils the neighbourhood. I’d rather not give my name. No, you sort it out, that’s good enough for me.”
Phoenix ended the call, removed the sim card, and smashed the phone with the heel of his boot on the floor of the van.
Rusty followed the Renault van for another two miles through Selhurst. He could see the football stadium up in front. The Renault turned off, and then pulled up and parked in Auckland Road. Rusty parked behind him. He and Phoenix got out and greeted their new team.
“Which way is Abigail Gordon’s house from here?” asked Phoenix.
“Back towards the stadium,” replied the team leader, “but this road is far safer for parking. You’re less likely to get your wing mirror’s smashed or find your van on bricks when you get back.”
“It’s a trek,” the other agent said, as they set off walking, “we’re fifteen minutes away.”
“That’s not a trek,” scoffed Rusty, “it’s only a mile.”
“An agent checked the property out over the past couple of days,” said Phoenix. “Abigail volunteers at a local lunch club for Afro-Caribbean families. Lay-Z Gordon is a night-bird, he’ll not be long out of bed.”
“Will Gordon be armed?” asked the team leader.
“No question,” said Phoenix, “this will need the four of us to be quick, and accurate. Any hesitation and we could suffer casualties.”
