by J B Holman
‘Yes. I do. I’ll get it done when I’m back from Barrow. I’ve got to see this through up here first. It’s all prepared. Today should go,’ he paused for a second, ‘. . . very smoothly. Then I’ll deal with Charlie.’
It was almost like driving with Duncan. It had a good feel to it.
‘What music do you want on?’ It was a question she’d always asked Duncan before a long journey. But Foxx was distracted, his eyes were on the rear-view mirror.
‘Leave the radio on for a moment.’
A statement from the Office of the Deputy Prime Minister said that the proposed reforms on military spending, based on the Bevan Report, would have no impact on defence capability. It is merely a streamlining of executive functions - using administrative efficiencies to save taxpayers’ money.
Meanwhile, the Prime Minister is talking to a group of industrialists today in Barrow-in-Furness about his plans for economic prosperity after Brexit. This is his last speech before his final talks on Trade Deals and the European Defence Strategy in Marseille. He expects some tough questions from his northern audience as there are extensive Defence contracts held by companies in Barrow. The speech had been moved to Basingstoke amidst security concerns, but the Opposition said he was speaking to a softer southern audience and ducking the bullet. In response, the Prime Minister has announced this morning that the speech would go ahead, as originally planned, in Barrow-in-Furness, where unemployment is amongst the highest in the country and fears of lost defence contracts would make it even worse.
At the Old Bailey today . . .’
‘Oh my god, Foxx! How are we going to make it to Barrow in time?’
‘We’ve a bigger problem right now.’ She looked behind her. A police car was tailing them. ‘He was parked up, saw us pass and has been following us ever since.’ Foxx turned left. The police car followed him, then a moment later, a second one. He took a right. The police convoy stayed in pursuit. ‘Buckle up. This could get messy.’ He took another right. At the end of the street, there was a blue light and a police car parked right across the road. The two police cars in the rear-view mirror closed in behind them.
Storrington picked up the phone. It was Hoy.
‘We’ve found them, Foxx and Connor, in London, heading west. SWAT are on their way.’
‘Good work. At least he’s not in Barrow. That means the PM is out of immediate danger. Keep me informed.’
He phoned Maria.
‘Foxx is in London. Stay there, but stand down. The PM’s safe today. Just do a sweep of the area and wait for my further orders.’
Dirk ‘Blackheart’ Swengen smiled.
He lay with his rifle - his eyes firmly on the cross hairs - high up in a disused office block in Barrow. He had a perfect view of the Prime Minister’s platform and a clear and easy getaway. He quietly thanked Foxx for such a foolproof plan, relaxed and made himself comfortable. Today would be a good day.
Foxx drove sedately towards the police road block then, with no warning, he took a sharp left down a narrow cobbled mews, slammed the throttle, squeezed at speed between a builder’s van and a wall, slid round a ninety-degree bend and emerged on a one-way road. He shot down it the wrong way, dodging cars and increasing speed. He took the next turning and floored the throttle. The hot hatch sped to 80 miles an hour; two more turns and speeds of almost 100 miles an hour for the length of a long straight street. He slammed on the brakes and approached a junction. He ignored traffic lights, barged cars out of the way and sped down the trunk road like a bat released from Hades. He entered the Euston Tunnel. Once in, he slowed sharply, applied the hand brake, spun round 180 degrees and joined the traffic in the other direction, adopting their speed of 38 miles an hour. He drove inconspicuously, if a little closely, to the big truck in front of him. Police cars hurtled down the other side of the road.
‘Are we safe now?’ she asked.
‘No. They know the car. Every copper in London will be looking for it and as soon as the helicopters spot us, we’re finished.’
‘Would it be so bad, getting caught by the police? I mean, they are supposed to be the good guys. We could tell them what we know. We need some help. There’s a chance they would see it our way.’
‘Yes. A one per cent chance! There’s a ninety-nine per cent chance we’ll get banged up for life, the Prime Minister will be executed and Blackheart will walk free. But worse than that: if we’re in a cell, Blackheart would find us. We’d be dead. It would be like shooting a fish in a barrel. Not a good plan.’ He turned off, heading north. ‘We need to ditch the car and grab a cab. Can’t take the Tube - CCTV.’ He was heading out of the centre of town. So far so good.
A police car passed in the opposite direction. Four seconds later, it swung round, hit the siren and gave chase, but Foxx was round a corner, out of sight, and had taken a left before the police had caught up. They’d lost him for now. The road led to an industrial estate. A dead end. When there was no more road, they stared in front of them. Fifteen wide steps headed down to a canal. They had no choice. The car bumped unhappily down to the tow path. Two minutes later, driving down the canal, they found a foot bridge. It claimed the wing mirrors, but got them safely to the other side. London is a criss-cross of canals and railway lines, passable by a few road bridges, each of which would have police checkpoints. But for now, the police would be looking for them on the wrong side of the canal.
‘We’ll never get a cab here,’ said Julie. ‘Dump the car and we’ll get a bus.’
‘Or a motorbike. I have an idea.’
‘A motorbike? Really?’
He said nothing and drove briskly north. The road ahead was blocked. He took a back route. Sirens filled the air. It was only a matter of time. He approached a low bridge under a railway line, took a sharp left before it and flew past a litter of businesses that occupied the arches under the rail tracks.
‘Come on, come one,’ he said to himself. ‘There’s got to be one somewhere.’ He drove another fifty yards. ‘Yes, that’ll do.’ He swung into a mechanic’s workshop under one of the railway arches and parked as deep into their garage as he could go.
‘Yes, mate, can I help you?’
‘I need you to look at my car. It needs a service, oh, and some new wing mirrors. Keep it indoors. I don’t want it left outdoors.’ Foxx pulled out a wad of bank notes from his pocket. ‘This is for looking after it and I’ll pay for the service and repairs on top.’ They left hurriedly on foot and found themselves in a local market. Foxx bought a leather jacket and Connor bought a headscarf.
At the far end of the market, they crossed the road and made their way up a narrow alley that led to a street of rundown shops. They crossed the next road and hurried along a walkway that ran behind the shops and then walked another half-mile along a scruffy residential street, doing their best to look natural and nonchalant. The street ended in a T-junction. They looked left - flashing blue lights in the distance. They looked to the right - a dozen police motorbikes 200 yards away, awaiting instruction. Julie took a quick look behind her. A police van was heading slowly up the road towards them. Trapped.
Ahead of them loomed a housing estate, built badly forty-eight years ago and now renowned throughout London as a no-go area. It was gangland and no unknowns were allowed in, not without fear of their life. Police avoided it - the last three times they’d crossed the red line, it had led to riots. Julie held Foxx’s hand as they trotted across the road up the broken tarmac and across the red line that ran the width of the path with the spray painted words: No Fucking Entry.
The upside was they were safe from the police. The downside was that they were white, English and probably going to die.
It was dismal, derelict, detritus: wood, old newspapers, rusted car parts, cans, bottles, mattresses, takeaway wrappers strewn across the walkway. The design of the building was dark, it overhung their path - a mugger’s paradise. It was not a happy place. Illegals, drug addicts and criminals squatted in the half light of the condemned b
uildings that the council were too scared to destroy. Paint peeled, plaster cracked, graffiti sprawled the walls. They felt eyes on them, they felt the threat in the air.
‘You have friends here, right? People you know? People who’ll look after us?’
‘No, ’fraid not.’ The path opened up into a wider space which, in any other setting, would have been a courtyard. They heard people aggressing behind them and saw hostiles in front of them. They were trespassing and knew it. More unfriendly inhabitants appeared. The jeers started. The moral darkness was closing in. Foxx ignored them and, with Julie in hand, kept walking. They were in the middle of the estate now. There was a row of houses ahead of them, small and incongruous between the tall, tatty tower blocks. The houses had been painted, but badly. A motorbike, parked by the middle house, gleamed like a tropical fish caught in a mud puddle. It was expensive, fast and new.
Their path was blocked. There was no going forwards, no going back. They had encroached upon the cockroach’s kingdom and now they would pay the price. It was London, but it was lawless, an estate where Police, regulation, legislation and civilisation meant nothing. It was as rough as it was feral and run by the gangs. A melee of agitated inhabitants showed disapproval at the dismissive, disrespecting attitude of their invaders. Knives appeared. They began to close in; closer and closer, more and more numerous. The threat was more real than even Foxx could have anticipated.
‘Foxx, I’m frightened,’ whispered Julie.
‘Why?’ he asked obtusely.
‘There are twenty of them and only two of us. And one of us is you,’ she said pointedly. He looked at her indignantly. ‘The only fight I’ve ever seen you in was this morning, and you went down like a rag-doll, first punch.’
‘It’s OK. I’ll talk us out of this.’
But it was the other side that spoke first.
‘Wass you doin’ here? Ain’t your place, man. Back out. Leave your wallet and leave the girl.’
‘Fine. No problem. Take the girl. She likes being kidnapped. Look, I’ll trade her for that motorbike over there.’ Julie just looked at him.
‘You funny guy. You get this knife in youse face, motherfucker. The girl stays, your wallet stays, you go. Or you die.’
‘Ok, that’s fair. Have the girl and have my wallet.’ He walked towards them hands in the air. ‘But I do need the motorbike.’ He approached a group of five heavily tattooed, muscular, aggressive gang members, lowered his hands, took a breath, took the stance and took them out - all five of them. His fists took out the first two, his Thai boxing feet flattened the third, he parried the knife of the fourth and threw him to the ground to the sound of breaking bones; and a straight set of karate chops saw the fifth buckle, kneel and fall. It took no more than seven seconds. He was fast and unrelenting.
He advanced on the next group like a rampant tree-shredder, felling all who came close and tossing them to the sides. Arms were broken, knives flew free and were kicked over to Julie. He ploughed a furrow of carnage through the unsuspecting crowd, leaving blood, battering and bruises behind him.
‘Gun. Ten o’clock,’ shouted Julie. Krav Maga was a fighting system developed by the Israeli Secret Service and perfected by Eduard Foxx. A random body was judo-hurled towards the shooter, as cover for Fox’s lightning advance. The shooter raised the weapon, but too late. His neck broke and Foxx slid the weapon across the concrete to Julie’s feet. It was a cartridge-fed shotgun. The scene had cleared. Broken assailants groaned, or crawled away or started to regroup at a distance. A door to the house opened. Out walked Rafiq. It was his estate, his gang and his motorbike. He and his brother ruled this world.
‘You back off man and you get out alive. You fuck with us anymore and you die badly.’
Foxx walked over to him, and said, ‘I need to explain something.’
Rafiq drew a knife and flicked it open. Someone died every time he did that. Today it wasn’t Foxx. Two kicks and Rafiq was crippled: a punch and he was disarmed. Foxx spun him around, stood behind him, looked straight at Julie’s eyes, held Rafiq’s chin and twisted sharply. His neck broke. Rafiq fell dead to the floor. No explanation necessary.
The door banged open. Out walked three men. One was the boss’s boss, Rafiq’s big brother. The two men behind him had guns at the ready. Rafiq’s brother was a mountain, the muscle that won them respect. He saw Rafiq on the floor, growled and hurled himself at Foxx. Foxx punched; no effect. Foxx kicked; no effect. Foxx stumbled, the mountain grabbed him.
‘You die!’ he growled, as he held Foxx’s head at arm’s length, ready to remove it from his body.
The bang was deafening and the pain felt by Foxx was intense. Julie had released one of the barrels of the sawn-off shotgun - 200 tiny balls of red-hot lead leapt at 1,000 miles an hour from the muzzle and disintegrated the head of Rafiq’s brother, peppering Fox with stray lead.
Another decisive bang and the two armed men standing together lost their faces. Foxx hobbled up, mounted the bike and clicked the engine into life.
‘Get on!’ he yelled.
She mounted and held as tightly as she knew how. They sped through scattering bodies to the far exit of the estate, her head scarf lost to the wind. When the exit was less than fifty yards away, when they were less than four seconds from freedom, Foxx swerved hard, left the pathway, crossed the remnants of grass that was once a lawn, descended a dozen steps and sped down into the sculptured world of the skate-boarder’s concrete. He aimed at the steepest slope, hit it at sixty miles an hour and flew skyward, out of the park, over a fence and onto the public highway. Head down and they were away.
He passed her one of the helmets that was hanging from the handle bars. She put it on his head. The other she placed on her own. They were free from the gang and in disguise from the police. He rode carefully and legally back to their hotel.
‘We have to warn Storrington.’
There was no way they could get to Barrow in time. This was out of their hands. Foxx emailed Storrington the two Barrow pages of the Risk Assessment. It gave details of the office block that was being renovated with direct sight line to the PM, and the large, fully foliaged oak tree that obscured the view. He sent details of the plan to have a tree surgeon fell the tree that morning. He sent everything that was going to happen in Barrow on that day, with warnings and cautions for Storrington’s team to follow. He will make Armageddon look like an afternoon in Disneyland. Be very, very careful, wrote Foxx. He warned of booby traps, bluffs and explosives. He did all he could. It was up to Storrington now.
Then he phoned an unlisted mobile number, a number he’d been tapping in his office before all this kicked off. It was the Caribbean gang boss, who ran the estate next to Rafiq’s. Foxx answered none of his questions, but just told him:
‘Rafiq and his brother are dead. His top six soldiers are dead or in hospital and another twenty are in bad shape. If you invade now with all the muscle you’ve got, you can claim that estate as your own. Be merciless. Babylon won’t bother you. They’re too busy looking for an escaped terrorist. It’s yours. Kick the Rafiquies out, sell as many drugs as you want.
I just want one thing: he has under-aged hookers and human slaves locked up in there. Feed them, clothe them, keep them safe. I want them. I will arrange for their collection. Everything else is yours.’ Foxx clicked off. It was a tick on his to-do list. The Rafiqs were no longer a problem and their illegal slaves would be freed. He lay back on the bed, felt the pain in his shoulder and waited for Julie.
She returned from the local chemist and administered the best First Aid she could. Foxx had come out a victor, but not unscathed. One minor knife wound, a worthy collection of bruises from his adversaries and a back full of lead shot from his partner. But he would live.
She had said, I won’t miss next time and she hadn’t. She looked at his peppered back and looked at the book by the bedside, Join the Dots, and smiled. She patched him up, a little more firmly than she strictly had to, enjoying it every time he winced li
ke a girl. She teased him, but tended him with love, patiently, carefully, until it was done. She sat on the edge of the bed and stared at him. This was the first opportunity they had had to talk.
She started.
‘You killed someone. I saw you.’
‘Right back at you, Pekkala.’
‘Explain what just happened, please.’
‘They’re the Rafiq brothers . . . or were. They’re the most heartless of low lifes: kidnapping, child prostitution, sexual slavery, fearsome extortion, drugs, murder, rape, torture - human abominations. The police can’t get them, even though they know they’re behind it all, but without willing witnesses, they can’t make it stick. The Rafiqs ruled through absolute fear and no one will ever give evidence against them. I’ve been working on how to deal with them, but I guess I’ve solved that now. I knew he had a motorbike. I know everything about him. And I knew the keys would be in it, because no one would ever dare steal Rafiq’s bike. Except us.’
She looked at him, bruised, bleeding, patched-up. She relived him twist a man to death and take a dozen others down with his bare hands. She tried her hardest to ignore the feelings it gave her. It was animal, it was base, it was inexcusably exciting. There is nothing as charming as a dangerous man. She wanted to be above that - but knew she wasn’t. She needed to chastise him, put him in his place.
‘And the fighting? Was that just to impress me? And all that riding down the steps and jumping over the fence when there was a perfectly good road ahead of us. That was just showing off, wasn’t it?’
He said nothing and felt no need to talk about the guns he’d seen in the mirror, pointing straight at her back.
‘Are you so keen to impress me,’ she continued, ‘so keen to get back into my bed that you’ll do motorbike stunts? Do you really think I’m that shallow? It’s not going to work, y’know,’ she said, quite untruthfully, as she lowered him back on the bed and helped him take his mind off the pain.
