“So, a powerful and wealthy owner? For what purpose?”
“Imagine that money was no object to you. How much would you pay for a heart that if you didn’t receive it now, you’d die? With that sort of desperation, how discerning would you be with regards to where it came from?”
“And finding out that you had such a short time and were in such ill health that you could not travel to receive a donation in another country?”
“Exactly, three people die in this country every day due to a lack of organ donations which is heart-breaking.”
Bruce could hear the sincerity in her voice.
“Thank you, Janet, for your help.”
“You’re more than welcome,” she said flashing him a beautiful smile. “Are we indulging in another?”
After a brief mental conflict, Bruce replied, “I’ll be switching to coffee Janet.”
She pouted. “I am not drinking alone Bruce.”
“I am sure you can coerce any of the fine gentlemen here to drink with you—if you play your cards right.”
She gave a surprised laugh before saying, “My word, are we at least eating?”
“Of course.”
8
Connor felt the crispness of the cold night acutely now, regretting parking where there were no people around—although he doubted that this lot would care about witnesses. He stood staring at Rashid. The Asian gang revealed their ‘tools’; a couple of hammers, a cosh, and a baton.
“What’s this Rashid? You need your cronies with weapons for back up? Too much of a pussy for another straightener?”
Rashid had opened his mouth to speak when the sound of a handgun hammer clicked loudly in the air.
A voice resounded—authoritative, confident and female, “If anyone moves I will shoot you all. If you remain stood still, you will live. If you don’t believe me, by all means, take a chance and be the first to run.”
No one moved and clicking steps sounded. The owner of the voice moved out of the shadows around to Connor’s side a few paces away.
He noticed her hair first; only a few inches longer than a ‘butch lesbian cut’, it had reminded him of the model Linda Evangelista in style but seemed a silvery-blonde. The second thing that struck him was the predatory way she moved—he had never seen that in a girl before.
He thought her even prettier than in the pictures Bruce had sent to him.
She spoke again. “This is what’s going to happen. You,” pointing what looked to Connor to be a Bersa Thunder .380 at Rashid, “are going to fight my boyfriend here, one on one.”
An inner smile lit in Connor when Rashid’s face dropped—he knew the gangster didn’t want to fight him one on one again. Connor did not want to either; he’d just finished training and Rashid wouldn’t be so full of hubris this time.
“Nah, you wouldn’t let me beat your man.”
She gave a small laugh. “If he lost to you then he wouldn’t deserve to be my man.”
There were a few moments of silence before Rashid said, “I don’t believe ya.”
He knew Rashid was searching for an escape now. Connor tried telepathy with Ciara—for fucksake just let him go, I am shattered.
She spoke with flashing a smile at Rashid, “Put it this way, if you don’t fight him then I will shoot you, you little bitch.”
Connor began to draw in oxygen—he knew he’d be fighting now.
He stepped forward a couple of paces, and then Rashid mirrored him, adopting a high boxing guard—too high.
Connor threw an aggressive head feint, and Rashid tightened his hulking arms around his head.
Connor’s right fist smashed into the solar plexus, then blasted a left hook into the ribs.
Rashid made a sound like a girl watching a horror film and backed away in a standing foetal position.
Connor held off going for the kill—be patient, and crucify him in front of his friends.
Rapier-like left jabs seared through the gaps in Rashid’s guard. The hulking Asian flailed away, reaching out for purchase on his opponent.
Connor skated around him, hammering him with punches head and body.
The brute surged forward in wild desperation, and a cuffing palm caught Connor on the top of his head. The bodybuilder’s other hand caught his t-shirt allowing him to stuff anymore punches. Now gripping the fabric with both hands, he ran the smaller man towards the car.
Before the ten-metre gap fully closed, Connor, with his centre of gravity low, torqued his body around while knifing his hand around Rashid. The gangster was whipped into an O-goshi—hip throw—and landed heavily on the concrete.
A knee crashed into the Rashid’s right eye socket and the ‘crack’ skimmed through the air.
Connor got up and took a few paces back, gathering his breath with his hands on his hips.
“Stand up Rashid!” Connor barked. His would-be attacker didn’t seem to even try hiding his fear now.
Connor sneered, “I wonder what all those people you’ve disfigured and killed with your machete would think watching you now? I wonder how much their faces mirrored yours at this moment?”
Rashid was on his hands and knees, but not rising.
In Punjabi, Connor shouted, “Stand up, coward!”
At that, Rashid did so shakily, his eye resembling a plum. A bombardment of hard, swift punches scythed through Rashid’s raised and crossed arms collapsing him back on to the tarmac. A jackhammer stamp took his consciousness.
Connor took a minute to collect his breathing. The men around the scene remained silent and still. He gripped Rashid by his leather jacket, heaving him onto his front.
“You,” Connor said throwing the word like a rock at one of the group, “kick his machete and your hammer to me.”
The man hesitated for a moment before doing so.
Connor knelt on Rashid’s back, before placing the tip of the machete onto the lower spine. The hammer slammed down onto the handle. The blade drove down, severing the final pair of lumbar vertebrae.
Bruce sat with representatives from MI5, MI6 and Scotland Yard. This was in his official capacity as liaison officer between the three. For meetings such as this, one of the cabinet office briefing rooms were used, although the audio and display links were switched off.
These rooms were the rooms used to coordinate a multi-agency response to a crisis. They were named COBRA meetings by the media—Cabinet Office Briefing Room A. In other times, they were used for upper echelon intelligence and police meetings such as this one.
It had taken a lot of himself to become comfortable in this type of setting. Until recently, for around a decade and a half, Bruce rarely met with anyone from another agency, and seldom met with more than one person at a time. Until a year ago, he was a near myth to those in the upper echelons of the intelligence and security services. He had moved like a ghost, neutralising threats to the British people that the judicial system could not reach—or in some cases protected. A bullet to the kneecap had put paid to his participating in fieldwork and at now fifty-years of age he was glad—he’d been forced out, he didn’t quit. A niche had been carved out for him, and now he was here—present, visible, respected, scrutinised and relied upon.
Kathryn Bainbridge, the Deputy Head of Scotland Yard, sat to his left. A year his senior, her black bob streaked with grey, she was dressed in a burgundy turtleneck and a black blazer and skirt, looking every inch the school teacher.
Ironically, given that Bruce led a unit that operated out of judicial review, they had a strong respect for one another.
Her command of Operation Trident, a Met service unit targeting gang crime in various London boroughs, had been considered a success. Bruce anticipated her ascension to be the Head of Scotland in the next few years.
To his right, Georgine Hamilton, an Elite Security Officer within MI5. Remarkably fresh-faced at thirty-seven years, with shoulder length brown hair. She had worked for T-branch, investigating Irish terrorism, and G-branch, which investigated internatio
nal terrorism.
Kevin O’Hara, one of MI6’s operation chiefs, sat across from him. A few years younger than Bruce, he ran some of the more secretive operations in the Middle East before moving onto pastures not yet known to the liaison officer. He suspected that Miles Parker, the Head of MI6, had briefed O’Hara on Bruce. There was something about the younger man’s demeanour towards him—a quiet deference.
The topic of the morning had been the possibility of the power-sharing situation in Northern Ireland fragmenting. The shaky joint leadership of the political parties Sinn Fein and the Democratic Unionist Party was threatening to collapse in Northern Ireland.
Bruce had remained quiet during the exchanges as had Kathryn Bainbridge.
“Can I summarise, so I am sure of my grasp of the situation?” asked Bruce. Hamilton and O’Hara consented, and he continued, “The DUP leader and first Minister are accused of skulduggery with regards to the overseeing of the renewable heat source scheme for local businesses. Sinn Fein asks for her to stand down while an investigation begins and she refuses. So Sinn Fein’s Deputy Minister is going to stand down resulting in her losing her position under the power-sharing agreement. And the volatility in Northern Ireland has increased as a result?”
Both nodded, before O’Hara added, “The Northern Irish Assembly will have seven days to replace them.”
“That’s a generic overview. We have specific concerns regarding a splinter group seeing this as a time to strike,” said Georgine.
“That a feeling, or do you have something more concrete?”
“Nathan Callaghan and Carl Brogan have been heard on the parabolics planning a strike in six days’ time.”
“Why can’t you have the PSNI pick them up?” asked Bruce, referring to the Police Service of Northern Ireland.
“Because the ambiguity of the language used coupled with poor audio quality would result in a solicitor tearing it up, the PSNI wouldn’t be able to hold them, and it would be a propaganda coup for them,” said Georgine.
Kathryn Bainbridge spoke, “As I understand it, they would only risk something of this nature within this seven-day window in which the Assembly is essentially rudderless?”
“That’s correct Ma’am,” said O’Hara, “It’s my view that Nathan Callaghan should be our target. I do not believe Brogan would act on his own.”
“I do not know how you have come to that conclusion? Carl Brogan is every bit as dangerous,” frowned Hamilton.
“I’d have to disagree.”
“On what grounds. Northern Ireland isn’t the domain of MI6?” raising her voice.
Bruce understood immediately—Brogan was an MI6 plant.
“Cool down,” he said, “I will look into this.”
Hamilton opened her mouth to speak but closed it again.
“Is there anything else?” asked Bruce.
When the trio shook their heads, he said, “Kevin, can I speak to you alone?”
“Of course.”
Bruce shook Hamilton’s hand, and she departed. Bainbridge gave him a peck on the cheek and asked, “I take it the meeting with our friend went ahead?”
“It did, thank you Kathryn,” he said. She smiled and left.
O’Hara had taken a seat, and Bruce sat in front of him.
“Why can’t you have Brogan kill Callaghan?”
The MI6 officer’s eyes widened for a second and after a few moments said, “Carl Brogan is one of the few fully trusted agents we have among the separatist groups, and I can’t afford to lose him. You know the score, for the murdering of one of their own there has to be the OK given from their ‘Godfathers’. If he were to die now, however it happens, it would look incredibly suspicious.”
Bruce thought for a few moments, “OK, Callaghan at this moment in time lives alone, does he not? And Brogan has a key to the house?”
“How do you know all this?”
“You know I am not going to tell you.”
“Yes, he has a key.”
“He’s going to create a fault in the showerhead. Callaghan will call out a trusted plumber to repair the fault.”
Bruce knew that to men loyal to the cause, the word ‘trusted’ meant any tradesmen entering their homes were also loyal to the cause. And he knew that Callaghan would use a plumbing and heating firm owned by Barry Holligan— a former IRA bomber.
“OK. Then what?”
“Brogan will kill Callaghan with a Taser, while he’s in the shower. You see, electric showers need to be fitted with a fully functioning residual current device, which when the police arrive will be malfunctioning, won’t it.”
O’Hara rubbed his jaw. “You think that will work?”
“It’s been done before,” said Bruce as he checked his watch. “I can send you how-to details to pass onto your man, as well as supplying him with the Taser.”
“The plumber will deny it.”
“Of course. He’d do that whether he was guilty or not.”
O’Hara exhaled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
9
Connor’s blue Audi cut through the streets of Birmingham with Ciara in the passenger seat. They had left Rashid to his crew.
She had understood the reasons why Connor had paralysed his already defeated victim—to stop him from coming back and as a warning to the rest. It had been witnessing his face after he had hammered the blade into the gangster’s back that surprised her—the satisfaction plastered on it.
“Who was he?” she asked.
“A bad person is what he was,” he replied. “Thank you for…for preventing me from being beaten to death.”
“Who taught you Punjabi?” she asked.
“I picked it up from my father at first and then I practised it with some of my Asian mates at the boxing club.”
“What did you say to him to make him stand up?”
Connor shrugged. “Stand up. I think I added ‘you coward’ at the end.”
“Did it feel good crippling him?”
“Yeah,” he replied laconically, “Rashid Afzal has spent years terrorising his community and extorting local businesses. Left a scar like a Mars bar on the face of a sixty-three-year-old Indian shop owner named Kumar Premiji three years ago—he committed suicide not long back. So yeah, if he dies, it won’t bother me. If he lives, then I will take a great deal of satisfaction knowing he’s committed to a wheelchair for life. And if I see him in it, I’ll take pleasure in tipping him over.”
She hid a smile at the image, and attempted to play devil’s advocate. “Have you thought about the people who will have to look after him, the other lives it will affect?”
He briefly looked at her. “Yes. I thought about all the people who he has hurt, scarred and stolen from. How much pleasure they will take from seeing that Karma has caught hold of him. The people who won’t have to fear him anymore. The reprieve that all his future victims and their families will have had. The disability benefits and allowances his family will now receive. And extra work that will keep two care nurses in employment.”
She wanted to ask more, but they had just met. She felt confused, she’d expected him to be still pumped up—it had been less than fifteen minutes since the incident, and he was calm. Also, it was a complete lack of being conflicted about what he had just done. Moreover, Ciara found his thought process surprising. She presumed the paralysing of his victim to be an act of anger, of retribution, for the gangster attempting to ambush him with friends and weapons. But he hadn’t mentioned that once.
Connor slid the Audi into a carpark outside a block of flats. They got out, and he opened the car boot.
“Will you be offended if I offer to carry your bag, as the flat is around three-hundred metres from here?”
Ciara smiled. “No, I wouldn’t be offended, but I‘d decline.”
She followed him through back streets to the entrance of another block of flats and began to climb the stairs behind him. The thin, green and clean carpet on the steps and floor gav
e it a more warm, communal feel than had it all been left bare.
An elderly lady appeared before them once they reached the second floor. A flowery biscuit tin at her feet.
“Oh Connor dear, how are you?”
“I am OK Mrs Smyth, how are you?”
The lady looked at Ciara. “Oohh, she’s a pretty one. You didn’t tell me she was so beautiful. And you know better than to call me Mrs Smyth”
“I apologise Jan. Listen, I know what you’re going to ask, but I wanted Ciara to see you first, before asking her if she wants that threesome you keep banging on about. Just be patient eh.”
Ciara pulled a face that could not decide if it wanted to be a frown or a smile. Jan Smyth playfully hit Connor on the arm. “Oohh he’s a nightmare! How do you put up with him Love?!”
“Sometimes I wonder,” replied Ciara falling into character, allowing the old lady to grasp her hand and lay her other hand on top of hers.
“Connor Love, I’ve baked you this,” she said as she bent down before he could aid her picking up the tin. “It’s just a little thank you.”
He opened the container, and the gorgeous smell of chocolate hazelnut torte escaped.
“No, no, no. I can’t accept this Jan.”
“Nonsense!” the elderly lady exclaimed before turning to Ciara. “He fixed my shower and refused to take any money for it. Ran out of the door he did. Well, I wasn’t having that, was I. So take the cake you rascal.”
“No. You don’t understand. I can’t accept it because I ate some of your homemade cookies and had to fight the urge to throw up.”
Ciara saw him smiling as he said it and Jan laughed. Ciara could see already that he had a unique charisma, and also how this charm went against what he should have been taught regarding being forgettable in an operational environment. She made a mental note to ask him about this later. Then again, she had a distinctive look herself.
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