The Phoenix Series Box Set 3

by Ted Tayler

  With the keys in her hand and workmen busying themselves behind her she stood by the window of her penthouse and looked across the city skyline. There was Hanigan’s nest. There sat her prey. This afternoon’s ceremony allowed her to consign the past to the past. When she returned here alone, it marked the beginning of her bright future.

  The limousine collected her at half-past twelve and took her to the funeral home. She sat beside Tommy’s coffin and waited for Tyrone and Rosie to arrive. As she waited, her thoughts drifted back to the first day she and Tommy had met. As soon as she had got home, her mother met her at the gate.

  “Did I see you talking with that O’Riordan boy, Colleen? He’s trouble, that one. You’d do well to steer clear of him. No good will come of it.”

  Her mother’s words had only made her more attracted to him, and although in time she had been proved right, some good did come out of their relationship. Colleen O’Riordan now had more money than she ever imagined.

  Tyrone and Rosie walked in to join her, and although they had many questions, the sight of their father’s coffin caused them both to break down in tears. Staff from the funeral home escorted the three of them into the courtyard. The horse-drawn carriage was ready and waiting. Tommy’s coffin was loaded into the hearse. The cortege set off to walk the two hundred yards to the social club.

  The male mourners in the borough’s Irish social club, tough-looking men in black suits, and black ties, drained pint glasses of Guinness then walked outside for a puff on their last cigarette. Wives and partners in their black dresses were waiting and chatting.

  The funeral director, in his grey pinstriped trousers and black topper, ushered his flock towards the eight black limousines. It was quite a turnout. Colleen knew they were there because they needed to be seen, not out of respect, just as at the funerals of Tommy’s father, and mother before him, but gangland traditions still run deep.

  The tall, elegant funeral director set off on foot, planting his black cane in the middle of the street. The hearse followed behind, drawn by its six, jet black horses. Tommy’s hearse was decorated with wreaths inside and out. Colleen, Tyrone and Rosie walked behind, arm in arm, each grieving for the fifty-six-year-old gangster in their own way.

  They reached the gates of St Mary’s church at one minute to two. Everything that followed was a blur to Colleen. The church service, the burial in the family plot, was surreal. Family members came and offered their condolences, said the things they were expected to say. All she wanted to do was to get away.

  She told Tyrone to take Rosie to the social club. Everything was paid for, no matter how much the free bar cost her.

  “The hotel is fantastic, Mum,” said Tyrone, “but why aren’t we staying at home, with you? Where’s Uncle Sean? Why aren’t you coming to the wake, even for an hour? Everyone wants to see you.”

  “Not now, Tyrone,” said Colleen. “I need to be alone.”

  Tyrone watched as his mother disappeared in the limousine. Where she was going, he didn’t have a clue. She was a stranger to him.

  In the limousine, Colleen was eager to get back to enjoy her new surroundings. She wanted to get out of these black clothes, and into one of her new outfits. The champagne was ready to celebrate her fresh start. Tomorrow morning, she would plan how to take her revenge on the man responsible for Tommy’s death.

  *****

  Book Nine

  Revenge Comes In Many Colours

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Sunday, 29th June 2014

  “Good to see you again, Phoenix,”

  “You too, Biggles,” replied Phoenix.

  “So, we’re off to Bonnie Scotland this evening then, I gather?” asked Les Biggar, the pilot Olympus had on speed-dial for urgent flights around the United Kingdom.

  “Yes, and Rusty is coming along for the ride. He’s parking the van. I’ve left him to carry the equipment over to the chopper on his own. Rusty will let you know how he feels in a few minutes.”

  “There’s never a dull moment with you two,” said Les.

  The rear door of the helicopter flew open, and a bag was shoved into the luggage compartment. The helicopter rocked as the door slammed. Rusty Scott, the rugged, red-headed agent who was Phoenix’s best friend, clambered on board.

  “Travelling light?” asked Biggles.

  “His lordship needed a few essentials for this job. He forgets, sometimes, just how heavy they are. It’s his age,” muttered Rusty.

  “Neither of us is getting any younger,” said Biggles, “okay, gents, if you’re set, we’ll be on our way.”

  “How long do you think it will take, Biggles?” asked Phoenix.

  “Two hours in these conditions. It’s a pleasant enough evening.”

  Rusty checked his watch. It read six forty-five.

  “Relax,” said Phoenix, “our pick-up is scheduled for nine o’clock. If we’re early, we can get coffee. If the weather closes in, the Glasgow team will sit and wait until we land.”

  “What’s the mission lads, can you tell me?” asked Biggles.

  “A lot less dangerous than the last one we used you on in Ireland,” said Rusty.

  “Good, I still get the odd twinge and a few flashbacks; but it goes with the territory.”

  “I guess you won’t be in a rush to return?” asked Phoenix.

  “Been there already. I’ve ferried a few racegoers over to meetings at Cheltenham, and Newbury, and then home again. Apart from a few drunks, there’s been no problem. It was either get back in the game straight away or get out. I chose to keep flying. I’ll go wherever the money is, Phoenix.”

  “Well, this Glasgow trip will be easy enough. It’s a direct result of our Manchester mission a few weeks ago,” said Phoenix. “We cleared out a fair number of the Grid’s gang members based in the Bent Triangle.”

  “Where’s that when it’s at home?” asked Biggles.

  “The area containing Beswick, Hulme, and Cheetham Hill,” replied Phoenix. “The whole place is rife with people for whom law and order is only the name of a TV programme.”

  “Drugs were being smuggled to Scotland by car or train, using couriers from the region,” continued Rusty. “We passed the information gathered by the Lancashire and Merseyside Olympus agents to our colleagues over the border. They were tasked with following up on our leads.”

  “The fact you’re travelling north suggests progress has stalled somewhat then, am I right?”

  “Yes, and no. They acted on the leads we provided, and the noose has tightened,” said Phoenix. “The whole network in Glasgow and Edinburgh has now been identified. Direct action to eliminate the leading faces in the organisation was sanctioned, but resources are stretched to the limit by other demands around the country.”

  “Sometimes it’s better for Olympus to avoid being caught in the media headlights,” added Rusty, “and let the authorities take the credit.”

  “This mission is designed to expose enough of the network that even the police can uncover it, and clean it up,” said Phoenix.

  Biggles laughed.

  “Am I right in thinking an anonymous phone call will be your last act before I fly you home?”

  “We’re so predictable,” groaned Rusty.

  The rest of the trip proved uneventful. Les Biggar landed at Glasgow Airport at eight forty.

  “Leave your gear in the storage compartment, Rusty,” said Biggles. “Follow me, we can get checked in, and then I’ll start scheduling our flight plans for the return flight. D
o you have any suggestions on timing, Phoenix?”

  “First light in the morning, Les,” he replied, “I don’t intend hanging around up here any longer than necessary.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Will we have time for that coffee?” asked Rusty.

  “We’ll make time,” said Biggles.

  They were checked in and drinking a mug of coffee by nine o’clock. Phoenix kept a weather eye open for movement on the tarmac outside the window. The single-storey building stood on the perimeter of the airfield and was used by pilots of helicopters, and small private planes. They were the only people in the place tonight.

  “Here they come, right on time,” said Phoenix.

  A black van motored towards Les Biggar’s helicopter. It stopped, facing the building, and the driver turned his headlights off, and then on again. Ten seconds later he switched off the engine, killing the lights. The area around the parking bays was bathed in a dim amber glow from lamps high overhead. It felt eerily quiet.

  “Not a bad night for it, Sunday,” said Rusty, “it’s peaceful.”

  “We still need to be off this airfield as quick as we can,” cautioned Phoenix.

  The three men emptied their coffee mugs, carried them to the sink, and swilled them under the hot tap.

  “Can you tell we’ve been house-trained in recent years?” laughed Rusty.

  “Leave them to drain,” said Biggles. “I’ll pop back and tidy up once you’ve left. Then get to sleep for a few hours so that I’m ready to fly you south at around a quarter to five.”

  “I’ll call you if we’re delayed,” said Phoenix. “Although, there’s not much room for anything to go wrong on this trip.”

  “Famous last words,” muttered Rusty.

  Outside the building, the night was warm, and the breeze no more than a whisper. As they approached the van, the driver’s door opened, and a short, stocky man stepped out.

  “Jimmy McLean, as I live and breathe,” exclaimed Rusty, “how are you, my friend? It’s been a long time.”

  “I volunteered for this gig when I heard who was coming,” the man replied, “our team leader Greg, is in the passenger seat. Apologies, but he’s on the phone to our lads on the other side of the city.”

  Phoenix walked around to introduce himself.

  “You two have met before then?” asked Biggles.

  “We trained at Hereford together,” replied Jimmy, “both times. When we applied to join the SAS, then again in 2005 when we formed part of the first intake for the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. I left in 2008, the year before Rusty had a difference of opinion with a superior officer.”

  “He thought he was proficient,” said Rusty, “I told him he was a bleeding liability,”

  “OK,” said Phoenix, returning with Greg, the Glasgow team leader in tow. “If you two have caught up on the old days, we’ll get moving.”

  “We’re off to Barrhead first,” barked Laidlaw, “get your kit stowed, and climb in.”

  Greg Laidlaw was a tall, angular man in his mid-thirties, his accent pure Glaswegian. Rusty reckoned he had been born and raised no further than five miles from Govanhill. He knew how rough that district was and had a degree of respect for a man who dragged himself up from there to a senior post in Olympus.

  Biggles smiled as he watched Phoenix offer to help Rusty carry the heavy bag. Rusty patted his arm away and slung the equipment over his shoulder. The pilot knew the score. No way would he let his old SAS comrade McLean think the years had caught up with him.

  “I’ll see you guys in the morning,” said Les Biggar, “good hunting.”

  Phoenix and Rusty raised a hand in acknowledgement as the pilot trudged towards the building. They got into the van, and Jimmy McLean drove away from the airfield. They were soon leaving the motorway and heading along the A76.

  “Another fifteen minutes, and we’ll be there,” said Jimmy.

  “What’s at Barrhead?” asked Rusty.

  “A town that has seen better days, with a population of twenty thousand,” said Phoenix. “The gang leaders selected this place for the variety of industrial estates it possesses. Plus, it’s accessible by road and rail from Manchester, with none of the risks associated with being spotted in the heart of Glasgow. They rented several units across the town, and most of the face-to-face meetings needed were in a bar in Cross Arthurlie Street, just up from the railway station.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson, Phoenix,” said Rusty.

  “My pleasure,” Phoenix replied.

  “We’re coming up to our first warehouse just now,” said Laidlaw, “so, let’s park, and I can go through the layout with you.”

  “Who’s running this outfit?” asked Rusty.

  “Gregor McGrath,” replied Greg Laidlaw. “He’s quietened a touch as he’s grown older, but he was a wild one in his teens. His reputation with a blade has left him untouched for forty years. Nobody has threatened his position at the head of the organisation covering Glasgow and Renfrewshire and lived. Yet there’s nothing to suggest McGrath’s laid a finger on anyone in the past three decades himself. He has a loyal crew of enforcers who carry out his orders without question.”

  The four men sat in the van, one hundred yards from the warehouse that was their target. The building was in darkness, just what you might expect, late on a Sunday night. There was no sign anyone was on the premises, let alone that it was a potential hive of illegal activity.

  “Do we have a backup team in place?” asked Phoenix.

  Laidlaw nodded and unfolded a drawing which showed the ground surrounding the building, plus the layout of all three floors.

  “We have a van here, and here, on the far side. Each vehicle holds six agents. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the reason we can’t see signs of activity is we’re looking through the windscreen at a two-floor warehouse building. The drawing shows the layout of the basement. That’s where the workers are grafting away, converting the product transported from Manchester into the street-ready product. This is a slick operation, and quality control is variable by design. They put every kind of rubbish into the gear to sell to junkies and cut the crap content the further they move up the social scale. Got the process off to a fine art. Stocks of every grade match demand to the ounce. They never hold excess stock. Just in time, and continuous improvement were management tools in the Nineties; now these buggers have taken it to a new level.”

  “Kanban, and Kaizen,” said Phoenix.

  “Those names sound more like sumo wrestlers,” said Jimmy McLean to Rusty Scott.

  “Watched that every week, didn’t we?” replied Rusty, “did they ever fight that Hawaiian giant, The Dump Truck? Davy Glass was a big fan, I remember. What happened to him?”

  “He came out of the mob and returned to Edinburgh. That was three years ago. His wife and kids had moved south within six months. He found it difficult to adjust. She couldn’t handle his moods. The last I heard he was living on the streets. I keep meaning to look him up, to see if I can help,”

  “Damn shame, he was a good lad,” said Rusty.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, reflecting on the times the three of them had lived, fought, and socialised together. Along with the rest of the regiment they had served in, how things had changed. The spell broke when Laidlaw issued an order.

  “Time to move in,” he said into his mouthpiece.

  On the far side of the warehouse, the action against the Grid’s gang members was underway. Eight heavily armed Olympus agents burst into the ground-floor and descended into the basement. Laidlaw ordered Jimmy McLean to drive to the right-hand end of the building.

  Phoenix and Rusty could hear the muffled sounds of flash-bangs, smoke bombs, and brief bursts of gunfire.

  “The best point of entry for the teams was at the opposite end,” said Laidlaw. “We should see activity here in a tick.”

  Phoenix and Rusty were now out of the van and grabbing their gear from the bag. McLean and Laidlaw had alre
ady moved forward to within ten yards of the building.

  “Cover the far door, and subdue anyone who tries to escape,” shouted Laidlaw. “Once we finish that part of the exercise, we’ll head inside. You’re aware of the layout now. The stairs on the left take you to the basement and bring you into the rows of storage racks. Not every gang member carries a weapon, but you need to be careful as you make your way forward. The other team will keep me informed on how much resistance these guys are offering. We can adapt our tactics from ‘subdue’ to ‘eliminate’ as required.”

  The metal door was suddenly flung open, and two men ran out onto the open ground. They were overpowered by McLean and Laidlaw in seconds. The bright light from the doorway allowed Phoenix to see the men were only teenagers and from South-East Asia.

  “McGrath seems to be an equal opportunities employer,” said Rusty.

  “I doubt they were born and bred in Barrhead,” said Phoenix. “My guess is they were trafficked in and set to work long hours for little or no pay.”

  “Well, it keeps the profit margins high, which will please the Grid’s hierarchy,” muttered Rusty.

  “We need to get inside,” shouted Laidlaw. “Our lads have dealt with another half dozen kids, like these, but as many again remain with handguns keeping them occupied. We’ve suffered no casualties so far, thank goodness. Let’s give these gunmen something to think about.”

  The four agents edged towards the open door. McLean led the way inside. The hallway was clear. He signalled to the others to follow as he descended the stairs one at a time. Rusty moved forwards, ahead of Phoenix and Laidlaw, to join his former colleague.

  “Just like old times, Jimmy,” he whispered.