Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  He took out his phone. The recipient of his call answered after two rings.

  Louis said, “Hi, I am going to walk to the place now. It’s an abandoned warehouse where there’s no one around. I haven’t got any burners or nuttin’ on me. Just a straight transaction. I should be there in ten minutes.”

  “I won’t be bringing anything either. One of the guys the other day got nicked for carrying. The earliest I make it is half an hour mate, around half past. It’ll just be me,” said Connor.

  “Cool. I’ll play on my phone for a bit.”

  The call ended, and Louis began to walk.

  For Philip Norton, this was turning out already to be the best night of his life. In addition to being outrageously sexy, Cytheria was smart and funny. It had been almost three hours since she had sat down, but time had flown. She had seemed impressed by his medical consultancy, and so he played on it—as he had his Irish accent when she made a mention of liking it.

  He felt a warmth in his stomach and face, at her laughs. His heartbeat rose every time she touched him playfully on the arm or leg. Not only that but the gentleman, from whose attention she had been trying to escape from, had long gone. Norton hadn’t mentioned it initially, for fear of losing her company. Eventually, she noticed, but to his delight hadn’t made any move to leave.

  He had asked her earlier in the evening what she did for a living, but she coyly replied, “We’ll see how the evening unfolds. Maybe I’ll tell you after a few drinks and if I like you.”

  She’s flirting! Surely this had to be a trick? Why would it be? Was she a hooker? Of course not, she’d have an agency. To rob me? Surely not.

  “It’s a good thing this pub takes card. Some don’t. I never carry money with me,” he said nonchalantly.

  “Oh, that’s a shame. I was going to wrestle you to the floor and steal all your cash,” she squealed with laughter, and he felt a flush of gladness.

  They had a few more drinks, and judging by her behaviour he guessed she did like him—I must be on form tonight. In any case, he felt confident enough to ask her, “So what do you do for a living?”

  She flashed him a beautiful smile, “Before I tell you, I want you to promise not to judge.”

  “Believe me, I don’t judge anyone anymore,” he answered, meaning it.

  “And, I want you to know that I did not sit here because I see you as a potential client.”

  “OK,” he said.

  She took a deep breath, “I get paid to dominate and humiliate men—paid by the men themselves of course,” she said laughing.

  Norton felt a rush of blood to his face, and his cock harden. No way—he thought. His mind began to buzz of how this could be a trick or con. How and why would it be? Then he remembered his dad’s words—‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth’.

  He filled his chest with air and controlled his voice. “Do you like your work?”

  She smiled again. “I love it. I’d do it for free, to be honest. There’s something incredibly sexy about a man who’s so confident in himself, that he’s willing to surrender complete control to the woman.”

  “What’s your favourite thing to do?” his voice a little hoarse.

  She brought her face close to his. Her perfume was intoxicating. Her voice was just short of a whisper. “What I like to do, is to tie a man down. Blindfold him. Gag him. Ease a strap-on deep into his tight arsehole, and fuck him until he cums while calling him names. Then I make him suck it.”

  Norton became almost painfully hard. He felt his hand tremble before saying, “It’s a pity you don’t have your, errr, work gear with you. I have my hotel room to myself.”

  She smiled wide. “Honey, I always have my work gear with me.” She tapped her bag. “And I wouldn’t take a penny.”

  41

  Gavin Rose stalked his target from fifty yards away among the throng of the London bustle. He knew that he’d have to increase the distance to remain covert when the crowd petered out nearer whatever industrial park this ‘darkie’ was heading. The only affinity he had with his prey was that he had been an ex-military man himself.

  Rose had left the Army six years previous. He had been very proud to be part of ‘The Rifles’. Nevertheless, when he was offered big money in Iraq, he figured he’d rather be treated as more of an adult for three times the money. One day had encapsulated everything he had disliked about Army life, and he had snapped and resigned. ‘Seven clicks to heaven’ was the term used in the British military. It referred to how many onscreen buttons you had to click on the military’s computer system to begin your release from service.

  Before then it had been great, he had done a tour of Afghanistan, and upon his return the six feet three inch, fifteen-stone Oldham man spent much of his time in a Rugby kit playing both for the Regiment and Army. After a while, he began to notice his contemporaries being promoted ahead of him, and with a young son to provide for, he decided to return to the ‘green’ role.

  He recalled the day; first, the troop were due to be on the ranges and told to turn to at 06.00, but no one had told the unit’s armourer who didn’t arrive until 06.45. That’s when their crow of a boss, who looked about twelve-years-old, decided to fill the time with an inspection clearly with thoughts of his SJAR as the OC happened to be lurking around. Rose had been picked up for his trouser twists despite the fact they’d be on the range. Then they had received their bag rats, and he found that his baguette had no filling in. When they eventually did get on the range, he had been assigned to the box—the compartment with the computer systems that controlled the targets movements and registered the scores. When the Boss—the troop officer— kept continually failing, the Sergeant passed him anyway with the words, ‘officers don’t fire their weapons on Ops anyway’. Rose would have accepted it if it hadn’t been for the Boss then jacking up the background activity of judging distance and fire control orders. Upon returning to camp, they were given half an hour to clean their weapons. When the subsequent inspection found their cleanliness not up to standard, it was decided that the re-inspection would happen the next morning cutting into the lads weekend. Rose had seethed as he knew both the Sergeant and Boss lived on the camp, so it made no odds to them. He went straight on the computer down at the lines and put his resignation in there and then.

  He had got work as a contractor in Iraq almost immediately, and the money had been great. From there he eventually found himself looking after one of the seemingly numerous Saudi princes, and his pay reached obscene levels. But finally, he pined for home, and the opportunity came through Tris Dixon—a sports agent. Rose found himself in charge of security teams looking after Premiership footballers for around the same money as working in the Middle East.

  It had begun to change a little. This person needed leaning on, that person needed a warning. Before long it was this person needed a slap, or that person needed a beating. And Rose enjoyed it.

  He teamed up with two other lads, Brian Bevis—ex-Grenadier Guards—and Mick Platt—ex-Mercian Regiment—, both big, strong lads who weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. And Dixon would invest in their team professionally, sending them on courses and looking after them. They got to use those skills too, like they were doing now. Using a live listening device the boss had kitted them out with— high-level technology—they now knew the black gang leader was heading to an industrial park all on his lonesome. He’d be unarmed and alone for about twenty minutes, more than enough time to give the swaggering nigger a beating he’d never forget, as well as Glasgow grin—I’ve never seen a black with one yet.

  He began to follow him, with Mick and Brian not far behind.

  Philip Norton daren’t move. To do so might cause him to ejaculate into the bed which his hard cock was pressed. His hands were tightly bound behind his back, with the rest of the rope’s length wrapped around his throat.

  Cytheria had stripped for him. Her gorgeous tits had offset the rippling muscularity of her physique. It was as if she was born for this prof
ession.

  He watched awestruck as she donned the black, six-inch strap-on. She swaggered over to him,

  “I suggest you get it wet, cunt,” she commanded.

  This was better than he had hoped. No sooner had he opened his mouth than the silicone filled it. She roughly gripped his hair and began to fuck his face.

  “Good boy,” she said, removing the dildo. She then knelt down before removing a ball and gag from her handbag. The ball stuffed his mouth, and the straps cut into the back and sides of his head. Then darkness fell as the blindfold squeezed around his eyes.

  Her hands spread his cheeks, and he felt the wetness of her spit nestle into the crevice of his arsehole—this was it. He felt the round tip prod against him. He bit down as it forced its entry bit by bit. His whole body tensed until the strap on was fully inserted. She stilled, and he relaxed. She made tiny circular motions which loosened him up a little.

  Then it began.

  She gripped his hair and began to fuck him in earnest. He cried and moaned into the ball. After a minute or two, the straps of his gag were loosened, and the ball fell from his mouth.

  “Do you like that bitch?” she shouted.

  “Yes, Jesuusss yes.”

  The dildo pulled from his bereft arse, and she said, “Then fucking suck it.”

  He opened his mouth desperately, and he could taste himself.

  “You love that don’t you,” she said.

  He could only moan his approval. The light pierced his eyes with the whipping away of the blindfold. The dildo tore away from his mouth.

  “Wonder if your wife and kids will love it if this video makes it onto the internet,” Cytheria said. Her words and the white light of the phone froze him with incomprehension for a few moments. Then he began to struggle. “You fucking bitch. Untie me now,” he cried.

  She smiled and reached into her handbag. “Hush now Philip, because if you don’t the next thing that will be fired up your hairy arse will be this,” she said, pressing the silenced pistol against his temple.

  Rose’s heartbeat quickened as his adrenal glands opened a little. This industrial park would be where the target was meeting his contact. He waited for a moment to allow Brian and Mick to catch up. Rose’s already high confidence elevated as his two, bruising comrades joined him.

  “What’s the plan, Boss?” asked the sandy-haired Mick.

  “We’ll go around the corner, initially pretending to be security. Then we do ‘im,” said Rose.

  “Sounds good,” said the dark-haired Brian.

  They rounded the corner in unison, before walking into the yard and seeing the target sat on the steps of one of the buildings. He didn’t make a move to stand up—he thinks we’re security and he’s going to give me some of his ghetto lip.

  Rose did not immediately understand why his knee inverted inwards. The ground came rushing up to smack him in the face. The icy fingers of shock began to grip him as the pain came. Chortling sounded, and he turned his head in the direction of the laughter. Rose’s focus zeroed in on the silenced pistol.

  “I can’t believe you fell for that. I thought you’d been to Afghan?,” said the man holding the pistol at him. “The Taliban knew we had ‘terps monitoring the I-com chatter, an’ used to say all sorts over the net.”

  The target laughed too using his thumb and little finger on his right hand to mimic a phone. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, am gonna be going to an industrial park by myself. I won’t have a weapon. Oh, you’re going to be twenty minutes late, it’s OK I’ll wait—you fuckin’ mong.”

  The pair’s laughter stabbed at his pride. He craned his head to see Mick and Brian stood stock still. The man holding the pistol was stocky, and an inch or two off six-feet. He wore a navy blue bomber jacket with jeans and brown boots. He sounded northern.

  “You pair, spread out, interlock your fingers, and lie face down on the floor,” said the Northerner. He pointed the pistol at them which acted as an incentive.

  They complied. The target came over and began to frisk Brian.

  “Your fucking wallet? You kidding me Mr,” the target paused as he rooted through the wallet, “Brian Holloway. Fucking poor form that Man’dem.”

  He frisked Mick in the same way. “Looks like this one isn’t the shit bloke that Brian is. Still, you’re not meant to have anything in your pockets, not even McDonalds receipts.”

  Rose seethed when the Northerner chuckled, “I bet that fucking endomorph with the hole in his leg has something.”

  Rose felt the target’s hands roughly frisk him, before pulling out his wallet and phone. He saw him hold them up to the Northerner.

  “What’s the daft cunt’s name?” asked the Northerner.

  “Errr, Gavin Lee Rose,” answered the target.

  “Hey Rose,” said the Northerner, when Rose looked at him, in an American accent, “bet when you woke this morning, you didn’t think that by twenty-three-forty-seven, you’d have a hole in your leg.”

  The target laughed. “Good film.”

  The Northerner walked to Brian and shot him in the back of the knee, who wailed.

  “Let’s break the other one’s fingers and call it a day. I don’t want to be caught out here with this,” said the Northerner, holding up the pistol, “and Gavin and Brian, you better convince this one not to grass, because judging from what we’ve seen, I am guessing that paying a tenner to one-nine-two dot com, will tell us your families addresses.”

  The fear Rose felt almost masked the pain.

  42

  Dixon sat in the Cheshire hotel bar alone and seethed. He contained his rage, keeping it off his face in front of the respectful patrons of the place.

  Dixon could not, at that moment, appreciate the beautiful view of the lake and the hills, bathed in the violet light of the setting sun.

  He had just completed negotiations for a boot deal for one of the Premiership footballers under his agency’s banner. He should have been celebrating, but instead, he sat chafing with anger. Anger at his brother, but mostly at himself. He had to send a two-man team to collect the three-man team that he had sent to slap Louis Allen. Two had their kneecaps shot, and the other had his fingers snapped. Dixon understood the aim. One was to take the three out of the game, the length of time it would take for them to recover would probably dissolve their desire for revenge. The other was to serve notice of Louis Allen’s and his accomplice’s ruthlessness.

  Now several thoughts were screaming for attention in Dixon’s mind. He already knew who Allen’s accomplice was—how many northerners like that would a gangster from Peckham know? How did they know that Allen was to be targeted? What happened to their business relationship now? Did they know he was behind it? Do I pretend it hasn’t happened?

  The fact the team had been humiliated didn’t just affect his criminal empire but his official businesses. As much as he wanted to keep his legitimate dealings separate from his illicit enterprises, the two inevitably blended. The world of a football agency could be a murky place. The general rate for a football agent was between four and ten percent of the playing contract, and between ten to twenty percent of the athlete’s endorsement contract. With the average weekly wage for a premiership footballer now in excess of £50,000 and endorsement contracts worth millions, having the intimidation factor to ward off rival agents, paid dividends. Losing face could be very expensive.

  But business was business—how far did he take this? Connor Reed was—by a strange twist of fate—the man he relied on to keep the Yank off his back. Reed arranged the transportation, for the best quality drugs, for Dixon to distribute, and was taking care of his ‘human resource’ issue. He knew he should tell his brother to go fuck himself. However, his brother knew things about both his legitimate and criminal business empire that could see Dixon in Frankland prison himself. The laundering, the intimidation, the beatings and the murders. Dixon knew that however much his brother liked to extol the virtues of family and honour amongst thieves, that if he felt slighted then in
his mind he’d twist the leaking information to the authorities as being a noble endeavour. He should have said ‘no’ in the first place. One of the reasons he didn’t, he mused, was that Adam would outsource the job, and the someone who took it may have looked to make a name for himself. They may have crippled or even killed the SUG leader. As he finished his whisky, he had decided what to do.

  Bruce and Connor sat across from one another in a conference room of a multi-business office block in Slough. McQuillan had booked this under a false name with a ‘burner’ card the previous day. ‘Avoid setting patterns,’ was a mantra within the British military that carried over to intelligence work. That’s why an impromptu booking of a business room under an alias for short meetings, could be preferable to Bruce than using a safehouse.

  “What happened?” asked Bruce, referring to the attempted ambush of Louis Allan.

  “Prevented it. How did Jamie know they had managed to tap into his phone?”

  “He’s a genius isn’t he—well, in that area he is,” answered Bruce, “What did you do to them?”

  “Kneecapped two of them and broke the fingers of the other,” replied Connor.

  Bruce decided against remonstrating with him, as he knew that it was tame in comparison to what the Yorkshireman had done in the past. Instead, he said, “If Dixon was behind it on behalf of his brother it won’t be difficult for him to work out that it was you. But he won’t know, or at least be sure, that you know that he was behind it. Play it carefully with him.”

  Connor nodded and said nothing.