Soft Target 04 - The 18th Brigade

by Conrad Jones

  In the cold light of day, sat in his cell there was no crisis. Brigade Security Ltd had been transformed from an established and somewhat respected doormen agency, which outperformed any of their opposition, into a private mercenary army supplying well trained soldiers to allied governments, including their own. Responding to the horror of the previous evening`s events with violence would ultimately result in the Brigade losing men and their core business interests, which he couldn’t allow. The gang that had attacked them were ruthless, and there was no doubt in his mind that they wouldn’t just walk away and leave them alone. No small drug ring had tried to move into the city centre with such audacity in the three decades that Terry Nick had worked on the doors, which meant that something had changed to affect the equilibrium.

  Six hours sweating in a urine stinking cell had cleared his mind and allowed him to think clearly and rationally. The difference had to be that a new ambitious leader had established himself as the new boss in Moss Side, a ruthless killer that was now looking to expand his drug business. Terry Nick was going to offer the police as much information as he could dig up from his wide circle of informants, as a public display of cooperation. Behind the scenes he was going to behead the snake that had bitten them, and redress the balance of things. At least that was his plan.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jay/ Canal St. Manchester

  Jay looked at his watch when he heard the first siren in the distance. Six minutes had passed by since he`d called the emergency services. He smiled and walked into the Phallic Palace. Danny Holley and Brendon were lurking by the front doors, still on edge about the kidnapped Yardie in their van. Brendon was making exaggerated chewing actions, as if he had a golf ball in his mouth instead of gum. He was glaring around the busy dance floor almost daring someone to step out of line. Jay chuckled to himself at Brendon`s attitude. It reminded him of his younger self.

  “Brendon have you still got your lockup in Warrington?” Jay asked, thinking that he had better get the Somali moved before the police swamped the area, but not wanting to panic the younger Brigade men into making a mistake.

  “Yes, I keep my motorbike in there,” Brendon perked up, as he loved to talk about his motorbike.

  “I`ll cover you here, get that van tucked away in your lockup, and make sure the Yardie can`t escape, we`ll sort him out later,” Jay grabbed his arm firmly and guided him toward the back of the club.

  “What`s all the panic about Jay? He`s not going anywhere,” Brendon hated being ordered about, and he didn’t want to miss out on the action.

  “The police are on their way Brendon, now get that fucking van out away from the city centre, and do it now,” Jay glared down at Brendon and saw the flicker of anger in the younger man`s eyes, but he also saw fear.

  Brendon thought better of antagonising a Brigade General and snatched his arm away from Jay`s grip. He stormed off toward the fire doors at the back of the club. Jay breathed out a sigh of relief and looked around the club. Danny Holley sidled up to him, not wanting to be left out of the action.

  “Where`s Brendon going?” he asked annoyingly over the sound of the blaring music.

  “He`s moving the van,” Jay turned toward him.

  “Why, what`s the rush?” Danny looked put out that he hadn’t been consulted before one of his men was sent home.

  “Shut up Danny,” Jay said.

  “Don`t tell me to shut up,” Danny puffed out his chest and sucked in his beer belly, but Jay wasn’t paying any attention to him, he was looking around the busy bar area.

  “Shut up Danny, who is dealing in here?” Jay glared at him.

  “Tom Welsh, he`s over there,” Danny flushed red with anger and pointed to a fat man standing next to the gents toilets.

  Jay walked through the crowd quickly toward the dealer. The dealer wasn’t familiar with him as Jay usually handled the dealers in Liverpool. The dealer saw the massive skinhead making his way in a bee line for him, and expected the worst.

  “Hello mate I`m Tom, Danny knows that I`m working here,” he said as soon as Jay was within hearing distance.

  “Good for you, now I need you to do something for me, and we`ll forget tonight`s rent,” Jay grabbed his arm in a vice like grip and pushed him toward the front door.

  “Okay mate, there`s no need to drag me, what do you need me to do?” the fat drug dealer complained as he was practically carried through the crowd.

  “Stand near the footbridge, and when the police arrive tell them that you saw the bouncers from Marley`s bar dragging a black bloke down the alleyway,” Jay said and pushed him out of the door.

  “You`re fucking joking aren’t you, I`m a dealer,” the fat man shook his arm free and faced Jay.

  “I`ll make sure that you never deal again anywhere my fat friend, now do as you`re told and stand by the bridge,” Jay pushed the unwilling man away from the club as the first police cars screamed down the canal banks on both sides.

  The policemen were members of an armed response team, and the only unit that could enter a potential gun crime scene, until it had been declared safe for their fellow officers to attend. Two vehicles screeched to a halt and one of the officers barked a series of orders to the others. Three officers approached the baffled doormen outside Marley`s reggae bar with their guns drawn.

  Jay couldn’t hear what was being said across the canal, but within seconds the two burly black bouncers were pinned up against the wall being frisked. Two more police cars arrived and uniformed officers entered the reggae bar, within minutes the music had been turned off and their customers were being processed outside. There were three uniformed policemen taking names and addresses, checking ID`s and asking questions.

  Jay watched with interest as two of the armed response team made a quick search of the bouncer`s alcove. Voices were raised and several more officers ran to the alcove when the Berretta was discovered underneath the stack of magazines. The black doormen began to protest that they knew nothing about any guns, but they were already handcuffed against the wall. Jay couldn’t hear the words but he could see them becoming agitated. One of them panicked and tried to run. He only succeeded in making it three yards before a swarm of uniformed officers were on him, batons drawn. Jay grimaced as the baton blows rained down on the bouncer`s arms and legs, beating him into submission. He could hear the black man shouting for them to stop but the beating went on about sixty seconds longer than was necessary, especially since the man was already cuffed. A blue custody van arrived on the scene and the two doormen were manhandled into the back by half a dozen over eager policemen.

  “What`s going on Jay?” Danny Holley was on his shoulder again.

  “I`m not sure mate to be honest, looks like something has gone off at Marley`s bar,” Jay lied, the less said the better.

  “I`m not fucking stupid Jay, what`s happening?”

  “Well if you`re not stupid mate, then you can tell me what is going on, because I haven’t got a Scooby doo,” Jay walked away toward the front door and nudged it open with his knee.

  Police cars were manoeuvring around the side of the Phallic Palace, forming a metal barrier between the nosey public and the entrance to the alleyway. There were three officers huddled together discussing their next move when another one of their colleagues approached them, leading Tom Welsh, the fat drug dealer with him.

  The drug dealer pointed to the alleyway as he explained what he had allegedly witnessed. The policemen took his details and made a fuss of thanking him.

  “What is Tom Welsh doing talking to the dibbles?” Danny asked Jay. Jay ignored him.

  One of the officers organised a search team consisting of six uniformed policemen, and they set off down the alleyway using long metal torches to illuminate their progress. Jay lit a cigarette and waited for the inevitable gruesome discovery, and sure enough before he had smoked it halfway down the body of a black man had been discovered in a skip with a bullet through his brain.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Terry
Nick/ Alan Williams

  Tank was sat behind a mirrored glass window watching Terry Nick talking to his legal representative. He recognised the Brigade leader. The Terrorist Task Force had the Brigade under permanent watch, as did the security services, MI5 and MI6. Right wing groups like the Brigade were becoming more and more prevalent across the British Isles as the country`s education and health services buckled under the weight of immigrant numbers. Integration was becoming a myth as religious and ethnic ghettos appeared and began to fester in every major town and city. Racism was becoming an everyday fact of life as resentment grew, and organisations like the Brigade fed on the hatred. Racist attacks were on the increase, and were becoming better orchestrated every day. There had been discoveries of weapons grade explosives made, uncovered by covert agents who had infiltrated right wing groups. Tank feared that it was only a matter of time before material of this type fell into the wrong hands undetected.

  The door to the interview room opened and two plain clothed detectives entered. They both looked dishevelled, collars unbuttoned and ties hanging loosely down at odd angles. The officers were unshaven and red eyed, obviously well past the end of one shift, and a considerable way through the next. They didn’t speak as one of them ripped the cellophane wrapper from an interview cassette, and slotted it into a recording machine. The detective pressed play and record.

  “This is the recording of an interview with Terrence Nickolas, present in the room are detectives Bill Smith, and John Jones, and legal brief,” the detective nodded to the lawyer, indicating that he had to confirm his presence.

  “Alan Williams,” the lawyer said, running his hand through his thinning hair.

  “Terry, I can call you Terry can`t I?” the detective began, trying to build a rapport.

  Terry didn’t respond to the detective`s feeble attempt to break the ice. He stared at the policemen.

  “We have spoken to the doctors at the hospital, and your friends are both in intensive care. One of them is undergoing reconstructive surgery to reattach his hand,” Jones tried to make a connection.

  “What can you tell us about the men that attacked them?” Smith asked.

  Terry looked to his brief, and he nodded for him to answer the question.

  “There were two cars, both two door hatchbacks, both customised with big bore exhausts and boom box stereos,” Terry began to explain the evening`s events.

  “What about the men?”

  “They were all tall, all skinny and all black, probably Somali,” Terry said.

  “What makes you think that they were Somali?” Jones interrupted.

  “I travelled to Kenya on holiday a few years back, all the security guards were from Somali because they`re tall I think. They have distinctive facial features,” he explained.

  “Anything else?”

  “The gunman had gold teeth,” Terry added.

  “It`s all a bit vague Terry,” Smith said.

  “What do you mean vague?” Terry snarled. “It was dark and the headlights hid them from view, all we could see was silhouettes, and the next thing there was a fucking Mach-10 blasting bricks off the building. What should I have been doing, taking notes?”

  “Calm down Terry. We`re trying to catch the men that killed Mandy Bates, and hurt your friends,” Jones interrupted trying to calm things down.

  Terry looked at detective Jones and sat back in his chair. His lawyer placed a hand on his arm trying to settle him.

  “You were close to Mandy weren`t you?” Smith enquired.

  Terry sat bolt upright again and glared at the detective. His lawyer put his hand on his arm again, but he was coiled like spring.

  “What`s that supposed to mean?” Terry asked, taken aback by the inference.

  “Just exactly what I said, people have told us you two were close,” the detective shrugged indifferently. He was probing for a reaction, looking for Terry`s weak spots.

  “No comment,” Terry fastened down the hatches.

  “Do you think she was shot to get at you personally?” Jones pushed.

  “No comment,” Terry was finished with cooperating, before they had even got started.

  Detective Smith realised that the interview was going nowhere. Everyone was tired and tetchy, so he began to change tack.

  “Look Terry, we`re trying to get to the bottom of why anyone would attack you and your men, killing Mandy Bates in the process,” the detective coaxed.

  “In my business you make a lot of enemies, as you well know, and you know who most of them are without me telling you,” Terry said wearily.

  “Fair enough that`s true, but why this tonight? Why so brutal Terry, there must have been some reason?” the detective asked, opening another button on his shirt. He rolled up his sleeves.

  “It`s a brutal world detective, someone wants to move in on our business interests,” Terry explained.

  “Okay, I want to turn your attention to another issue,” the detective placed two photographs in front of Terry Nick. His lawyer slid them closer and studied them intently.

  Terry sat back and folded his arms, raising the barriers again.

  “Do you recognise these places?”

  “No comment,” Terry didn’t recognise them, but they seemed familiar somehow.

  “This is the Blackstallion bank in the town centre,” Smith pointed to a picture of the remains of an entrance doorway, reduced to a gaping black maw. The mangled remnants of a double metal doorframe lay on the pavement twenty yards away from its previous home.

  Terry chewed a nail on his little finger ignoring the detective. The policeman pushed the picture closer to Terry angrily. Alan Williams spoke for the first time during the interview.

  “My client has no knowledge of this and we will not answer any questions relating to it, on the grounds that he may incriminate himself,” the lawyer quoted the law book verbatim.

  “What about this?” Jones pointed to a picture of a twisted car wreck.

  “No comment,” Terry said without looking at the photograph.

  “This vehicle belonged to the owner of this bank,” Jones pointed to both photographs in turn.

  “No comment.”

  “We think that someone firebombed the bank in the knowledge that the owner would be contacted, and then blew his car to bits,” Detective Smith made wide circles in the air with his hands, depicting an explosion.

  “No comment.”

  “Are you actually going to ask my client a question?” the lawyer interjected.

  “We are investigating an act of terrorism against a Muslim businessman Mr Williams and we are giving your client the opportunity to divulge any information that he may be in possession of,” the detective pressed the point, never taking his eyes from the Brigade leader, looking for the tell tale signs of guilt.

  “No comment.”

  “We think that the perpetrator has a military background, and probably belongs to a racist organisation like the I8th Brigade,” Smith continued.

  “That is not a question detective,” the lawyer made a note on his file.

  “We will need a list of all your active members Terry,” Jones jumped into the fray.

  “That information is protected by the data protection act,” Alan Williams didn’t even look up from his note making as he spoke.

  “Not if the information protected is, or becomes, part of an investigation which could lead to the apprehension of terrorists Mr Williams,” the detective countered.

  “My client is not a terrorist detective, and the fact that he is here helping with your enquiries reinforces the irrefutable fact that he was elsewhere when these incidents occurred,” the lawyer looked straight into the detective`s tired eyes. They were getting nowhere. The police were on a fishing trip, but nothing was biting.

  “We have not accused your client of anything other than being in possession of information which could benefit a murder inquiry,” the detective spat back, slamming his pen down on the table.

  “I think the d
etective is getting pissed off now,” Terry turned to his lawyer sarcastically.

  “I think so too, you don’t have answer any more questions unless they charge you with something,” the lawyer picked up his papers and started to pack them away. The police detectives looked to each other for inspiration but none was forthcoming. Their silence said everything that Alan Williams needed to hear.