by Larry Igbon
“You insult me, Grant. Are you relying on these simpletons to stop me from getting to you?”
Todd and Burroughs moved towards Ramsay, each brandishing a cosh.
Side by side they advanced. Ramsay moved anticlockwise to line them up one behind the other. Burroughs was leading and engaged first. He charged forward holding the cosh above his head. With rapier speed, Ramsay launched a powerful kick to his chest. He gasped, and his arm dropped as Ramsay steamed in and struck his throat with the edge of his right hand. Bending double, he made choking sounds. Ramsay booted him backwards into Todd. They both tumbled down but Todd got to his feet just in time to receive a straight kick. The kick sent him hurtling towards the inspection pit. He slid over the brim and fell inside. As he did so, he let out a hellish scream that sent the pigeons flapping skyward.
Burroughs was half-standing whilst groping on the floor for his cosh. Ramsay bounded over to him and grabbed him in a headlock.
“That’s enough from you, soldier boy.” Ramsay felt something against his neck. Before he could act, a charge of electricity surged through his nervous system. His muscles went into spasm and his grip on Burroughs’ neck tightened. Alan Holmes eased his thumb off the trigger and removed the stun gun.
Ramsay released his grip and Burroughs fell to the ground unconscious. Grant whacked him across the head, and he fell on top of Burroughs.
“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em,” said Holmes, pointing the stun gun towards him. An unnecessary warning as Ramsay was incapable of sudden movement. He could though, discern hundreds of bright lights as he slipped from consciousness.
“See how Todd is, Alan,” said Grant. “He’s over there in the pit.”
Holmes looked in the hole. “Todd’s had it, Gerry. He’s a goner.”
“Dammit. Reverse the van and put him inside it. And this pair,” nodding at Burroughs and Ramsay. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll bring Ramsay’s car.”
Chapter 5
Ramsay felt hands heaving him from a van and manhandling him into a room. His mouth tasted like it was full of copper coins, falling beneath his tongue. Also, his throat was dry and sore, and his head throbbed. The hands threw him onto the floor, where he tried to forget about his pains and fall asleep.
Burroughs checked his pockets for weapons. “Bloody hell. Not even a phone.”
Grant shook his head, “Remember, Bunny, this guy’s a bootneck. He needn’t carry a weapon, he is a weapon.”
Entwistle had joined the other three. “Should we tie him up?”
“Look at him, Enty, he’s out cold. How the hell can he escape?” Burroughs said. “I want him on the loose. He’s got a beating due from me when we come back.”
Grant nodded. “Let’s go. Bunny, you take a sledgehammer to that timer. Stay away from here until you and Enty have sorted out that business with Sykes.”
“Got it covered, Gerry, no problem.”
“Make sure of it. Check the route you took and deal with any cameras.”
“Will do. We’ll have one of our taxi drivers say he drove us, it’ll be fine.”
Entwistle grabbed Ramsay’s hair and raised his head. “You’re right, Bunny, there’s no fight left in this guy.”
They left, locking the door behind them.
Twenty minutes later, Ramsay rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. His head throbbed, and he decided to rest awhile. After looking at the ceiling, he guessed it was more than twenty feet above him. Electric lights shone. He gasped and closed his eyes as pain seared through his head. OK let’s see what’s what. Then, raising himself onto his right elbow, he looked down and turned his head to one side. Slimy muck from Elite’s floor covered his clothing, and the stench was overpowering. “Aw, phew!” Taking care, he rose to a standing position, breathing out as he did so. He rubbed his neck and decided it was fine, then examined his head. “Arghh!” A sticky lump, but no broken skin. He looked at his fingers, blackened with sludge. “Oh balls.” At that moment he stopped talking to himself. A complete self-check assured him he had no after-effects from the stun gun. His muscles and extremities were functioning. The non-lethal charge had left his central nervous system undamaged. His head still hurt, but he dismissed the injury as insignificant. In fact, he suspected he might well incur further injuries before he left this place. As soon as Grant and his goons returned, there would be a reckoning. Retribution would fall on someone, and Ramsay had decided that would have to be someone else.
He estimated the room to be around two hundred and twenty square feet. Two studded, metal doors. One through which he had entered, and the other on a wall at right angles. After hurrying to the door, he found it locked and bolted. On the wall opposite this door, he saw a wash stand and a rectangular, ceramic basin. He strode over to it. There was a single tap. He twisted it to the right and grinned as cold water flowed into the basin.
After bathing his aching head, he performed some necessary ablutions. Afterwards, he cupped his hand and scooped water into his mouth. He noticed the collar was hanging off his polo shirt, and the buttons from the front had vanished. Also, the stitching under his left sleeve had come adrift. The waste bin by the sink held more than a dozen paper towels, covered in muck from his person. With his hands and face clean, and the sludge rinsed from his hair, he felt more human. Once he had drunk his fill of water, he wiped his hands on a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall. OK. Time for me to get to work.
The second door connected to the area next door. He knew it was a much larger space, given that this was a major haulage business. There were twelve suspended lights which hung three feet below the ceiling, as well as an overhead chain sling fitted with a large lifting hook. On the wall where the wash basin stood was an air conditioning unit, as this was the external wall. The pipework on this wall supplied water to the basin. On the facing wall were two parallel black pipes, which ran from the ceiling into the next room. The pipes were about fifteen feet from the floor. The most interesting feature was the dusty window four inches above the top pipe. This was the only window in the room.
He recalled the details Wallace had given to him about the door. Height nine feet, five feet wide, handle four feet from the floor. Lower and upper bolts were one foot from the bottom and top of the door. Total distance from the top of the door to the lower pipe was six feet. The one-inch studs went across the door in four rows which were two feet apart.
He grinned. Phil was right, reaching that window will be easy. At that moment he sensed a flush of adrenaline and forgot about the pain in his head. In preparation, he mapped out the route to the pipes in his mind. He put his left foot on the first stud and sprang upwards, hands reaching. Then, with his right foot on the next stud and his left hand on the top of the door frame, he straightened his right leg. After that it was quick and easy: left foot to handle, right foot to stud. Then followed a leap, with his hands grabbing the lower pipe. His feet now rested on the door frame. A latch on the bottom of the window was within his grasp. From this position he pushed the window open. Next, he heaved himself upwards, grabbing the top pipe. Then, swinging his foot up onto the lower pipe, he eased himself through the window, feet first. His head and upper body remained in the smaller room.
On the other side, were industrial racking frames twenty-five feet high. These contained inventory, so it was impossible for anyone below to see the window. The noise of voices, machinery and motors was resonant and continuous. Many of the workers wore ear defenders. It would be easy to climb down and escape. But he had work to do.
Flat on his stomach, Ramsay looked along the black pipes. There he saw the package left for him between both pipes. A cloth bag protected the loaded Beretta nine-millimetre pistol. He put it into his trouser pocket and, turning his body over, reversed out of the window. His hands gripping the lower pipe, he pushed away and dropped to the floor.
He pulled his shirt out of his trousers and put the gun down the back of the waistband. Next, he knelt at the side of the wash basin and r
eached round the back to the pipes. Starting from floor level, he slid his hand up the pipes until he touched something held there by tape. It was a plastic bag containing a three-inch-bladed knife. The short push-blade was one of his favourite close-quarter fighting weapons. OK. Now I wait.
He looked at his watch: 2:37 pm. Grant could return anytime. He expected him sooner rather than later.
* * *
Sykes had taken Julia’s statement about the third man who drove Grant’s men to Elite Automobiles.
The description was vague, and she admitted she may not recognise him if she saw him again. The inspector assured her he would try to follow up the enquiry. Every strand of her logic told her that he was wasting his time.
At 12:45 pm he was at the police station, where he met Entwistle and Burroughs. Attending with them was a solicitor whose presence, as everybody guessed, was for show. The two subjects sympathised with Miss Parry’s plight. They could not help as they did not know of any third man. The pair provided him with the name of the cab driver who had driven them that day. Sykes said he would talk to him. The lawyer gave a perfunctory discourse to the officer before leaving with his clients. He commented about the way detectives could waste the time of honest working folk.
The inspector, for his part, ranted about shyster lawyers. How they helped criminals evade the law—when they should chase ambulances. Alas, Sykes’s rant was in his head, so none but he heard it.
With a detached expression and deferential tone, Sykes thanked them for their cooperation. Ten minutes after their arrival, they left. There would be no further action.
As he watched them walk to their car, he rang Julia’s number.
* * *
Gerald Anthony Grant drove his car down the wide entry path to his car-breaker’s yard. Alan Holmes sat beside him. Their friendship spanned thirty years. From their beginnings as teenage gang members, they had climbed the ladder together. Now they controlled one of the largest crime gangs in London.
Grant was intelligent and ruthless. He ranked high in the criminal underworld. A shrewd negotiator, often a violent persuader, he enjoyed respect and autonomy from the other mob bosses. He had never been charged with a criminal offence. A charismatic leader, he pursued a policy of avoiding conflict with civilians. To his discredit, he had broken that rule in his dealings with Elite Automobiles. He was under scrutiny from the underworld and the law. Worse, he had become the prey of Tom Ramsay.
Alan Paul Holmes was the one man for whom Grant would take a bullet. Once, in the late nineties, a rival gang had captured Holmes during a turf war. He was imprisoned by four men in a derelict factory and hung by his wrists for thirty hours. His captors had questions, which Holmes would not answer. They did not extract information about Grant’s plans. In a sustained attack, his tormentors had broken two of his ribs and three fingers. When Grant arrived on the scene with his enforcers, Entwistle and Duffy, Holmes begged him for a gun. Then, without blinking, he shot each of his torturers in the head and spat on their corpses.
A law unto themselves, both men were evil and arrogant with a lust for power. Despite their loathsome lifestyle, they had amassed a staggering fortune. They kept and increased their ill-gotten gains, using their legitimate business ventures. This way they laundered every illegal penny they made. Not one clue remained to show the true origins of their wealth. Corrupt as they were, some viewed them as industrious tycoons.
Today, for the second time in many years, Grant and Holmes were about to get their hands dirty. This was not a lesson in manners. It was punishment, an example to others. An outsider had invaded Grant’s world. Entered his home, stolen from him, interfered in his business and threatened his life. Now he must pay.
Four men followed in two vans: Enty, Bunny, Len Duffy and Popeye Powell. The latter two, were muscular grunts who ran the chop shop for the gang.
Grant grinned at Holmes. “Well, Al, let’s get some of our playthings together, and show that Ramsay a terrible time.”
“You bet.”
Chapter 6
Ramsay, deciding to stay active, walked around the room. His breathing was easy and relaxed, a technique learned during his service training. Preparing for battle was as necessary as it was useful. It was even invigorating. His pace was moderate. He kept it going until his head cleared, and he felt reanimated. A welcome gush of adrenaline stoked his resolve and made him smile. Then, changing to double time, he cranked up the effort. Lap after lap, he sped up his heartbeat. After twelve minutes of activity, he stopped and looked at his watch. Then, counting off sixty seconds, he checked his pulse rate. Fifty-one bpm, not too sloppy. He stretched tall, reaching high with his fingertips. He repeated this move several times. Agile and loose-limbed, he strode over to the wash-basin. Then, cupping his hands, he ladled icy water down his throat and over his face.
The short hairs quivered on his neck. He sensed danger, and it was close. Sinking down, he lay on the floor and waited.
* * *
One minute passed and the main door clanged open. He raised himself to a sitting position and observed. At first, brilliant sunshine poured in. Then golden rays shimmied and barged their way through several obstructions. The entrance closed again, revealing what had been obstructing the sun’s light. Six men, a portable generator, a chair, an oil drum on wheels. And a chest containing various tools, the purpose of which was unmistakable. They stopped and parked everything about twenty-five feet from Ramsay.
“Wakey, wakey, soldier boy,” Holmes shouted, “it’s playtime.”
“Oh, come on, Holmes. Can’t you get it through that dirty, thick noddle of yours? I’m an ex-marine, not a soldier. You cretin.”
Grant weighed in. “By the time we’re through with you, it won’t matter what the bloody hell you were.” The others laughed as they rummaged about in their torture chest.
“We have two new faces. Were you feeling outnumbered Grant?”
“Not at all, it’s just that Duffy and Popeye here,” he showed each with a wave of his hand, “were at a loose end, so I let `em tag along today. That OK with you?”
“Terrific, let’s have a brawl. Big pair of goons, aren’t they? I bet they live in the gym.”
The muscular newcomers turned and glared at Ramsay, who scowled back. “What the hell’re you staring at?”
Popeye fielded the question, “We’ll have fun working you over, man. You killed my pal Todd, and you’re gonna pay.”
“Listen, you big muscle-bound ape, your friend over-estimated how tough he was. Don’t make the same mistake. Did you have any part in my brother’s killing?”
Duffy joined in with, “Me and Popeye weren’t at that party, but we’ll have double the fun with you.”
“Do yourself a favour, Duffy, there’s no need for you or Popeye to die here. Why don’t you get out now?”
Duffy and Popeye looked at each other. Then they looked at the others. Without another word, they all erupted into laughter.
Ramsay shook his head in despair. “Fair enough. Remember, you had your chance. As long as you’re both happy to bleed for Grant—you wrote your own tickets.”
The new guys grinned at each other, then Popeye spoke. “This guy’s pissing me off now.” He started towards Ramsay.
“Good for you. Come on we’ll start the action shall we?” Ramsay said, beckoning him forward.
Holmes weighed in with, “Don’t let him wind you up chaps. We’re calling the shots, not that bastard. Stay where you are.”
“Well I don’t have all day for this,” said Ramsay. “If Sinbad here wants to try it...”
“Quiet, you. I said we’re in charge.”
“OK. Here’s the agenda,” said Grant. “Duffy and Popeye missed a workout today, so you’ll stand in as their punch bag. I expect you to put up a good defence, so when they tire, Bunny and Enty take over. Finally, we’ll put you in this seat, and Alan and I will show you how these items work.” He seized a power drill and pressed the trigger. The tool whirred with a fea
rsome hum, augmented by Grant’s malevolent sneer. “We needn’t do this to you, but you’re such a pain, it’ll be fun. Like when we did your snitch brother.”
Ramsay could think of several smart rejoinders but held his tongue. He sensed a huge adrenaline drop and knew he was ready to engage.
Holmes held up an electric cattle prod. “I bet you can guess what this object is for, eh, soldier boy?”
“Yeah. That’s something I’ll take off you and shove up your arse.”
“For a helpless marine, he makes a lot of noise, doesn’t he?” Entwistle said, looking at Grant. “Can we cripple him now?”
Grant nodded and shouted, “Duffy, Popeye.”
They stood fourteen feet away from Ramsay and appeared to be in no hurry. But he was, and he goaded them into action. “Look, you knuckle-dragging mutants. I don’t have to kill you; so when you go down, stay down. OK?”
Duffy felt he needed no more goading. He roared as he ran at Ramsay. Popeye followed a yard behind on his left flank.
“Go on, guys, flatten the bastard,” Grant said.
Holmes, no less encouraging, yelled, “Hammer him lads—but don’t kill him.”
He waited, arms folded across his chest, observing Duffy’s stride cadence. The distance had closed to two feet when Ramsay kicked his right shin. His mouth opened, and his eyes narrowed as he slowed in pain. A second kick from a shorter range struck the same target. A shriek that would have eclipsed a police siren filled the room. Ramsay side-stepped and swept Duffy’s right foot forward. His left knee hit the ground as his right leg shot out in front. Ramsay booted him in the face, and he slumped to the ground—out for the count.
Popeye leapt over his friend, arms reaching for Ramsay, who had other plans. He tilted backwards from the waist and belted the left side of Popeye’s head with a right hook. Unflinching, Popeye shot a left back-fist to Ramsay’s head. Although he was backing away, the blow caught him on his left cheek. It made a sound, like knuckles rapping on a door, and it stung. He moved back a stride with his right foot. An over-confident Popeye drew back his right fist as he stepped forward. A lightning-fast kick into his chest sent him down onto his back. Ramsay leapt forward and punched him in the face, causing his head to strike the floor. Three times, and Popeye was out.
