Celt: The Journey of Kyle Gibbs (A Kyle Gibbs Action Adventure - Book 1)

by Wayne Marinovich

  ‘Fair enough,’ John said, scepticism in his voice. ‘I will take it up with David if I can get hold of him. He seems to have disappeared. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

  Markus turned and walked across the small dark office, opening the door. ‘No idea, sir. We have to leave now, Mr Mountford. The security convoy will not be able to wait much longer.’

  ‘Ah yes. The inaugural meeting of Lord Butler’s brand new Phoenix Council,’ John said. ‘You know it’s just the same re-branded organisation of old codgers incapable of organising a piss-up in a brewery.’

  Markus remained silent in the doorway.

  They exited the building and pushed their way past the assembled mob of beggars to the parked armoured vehicle. The cacophony of shrieks, shouts, and death threats from the street dwellers frightened John as he cowered behind Markus on the way to the vehicle’s door.

  ‘Markus! Help me,’ John screamed, as someone grabbed him by his jacket sleeve.

  The German leaned across and punched the man before grabbing John by the neck and marching him towards the door of the vehicle, which opened as they approached. Markus threw his passenger into the back of the Land Rover, followed by his luggage.

  John sat on an uncomfortable seat in the back of a modified Land Rover troop carrier, unable to see anything outside due to all the armour plating welded into the window frames. The two armoured vehicles set off on their five-mile journey to the meeting at the Phoenix Council headquarters in Canary Wharf, passing the empty carcasses of vandalised buildings and countless burnt out cars along the route.

  He jumped as something slammed into the side panelling of the Land Rover. ‘What the fuck was that?’ he shouted.

  ‘It’s probably just a brick or something, sir, we get pelted all the time. Don’t worry, we’re protected by metal that is an inch thick,’ the driver said, as he dodged a small group of street urchins.

  The Land Rover unexpectedly lurched, then swerved and slowed to a halt. ‘Sorry, sir, it seems we are having engine troubles,’ the driver shouted.

  ***

  Markus Schmidt rubbed his oversized hands on his knees to dry off the perspiration and reached into his green army jacket to pull out his favourite weapon. He loved the feel of the Sig 226 as it sat in his open palm. He quickly checked the silencer tension, popped out the magazine to check the rounds then slammed it back in.

  The driver who had sat silently next to him through the first part of the journey turned to him. ’Mate, that is the third time you have done that. I think we can safely assume that it is still loaded.’

  Markus glared across at him, his blue eyes piercing the man who focused back on the road again. ‘Mind your own business and get ready. It’s all going to happen around the next corner.’

  They followed the lead Land Rover around the corner, swerving for a broken, deserted refuse truck. A teenager wearing an oversized bomber jacket and dirty, ripped jeans ran out from behind an old bus stop and threw a brick.

  Markus watched it bounce off the side of the vehicle and break up on the tarmac below the back wheel. The Land Rover lurched to the left then slowed to a halt as planned. Markus stepped out of his vehicle before it had fully stopped.

  ‘Keep the engine running,’ he barked at the driver.

  He walked up to the back door of the lead vehicle and banged on it twice with his left hand, letting the occupants know that he was about to open it. The heavy latch usually took some effort to open, but not for the big man, who swung open the metal door and raised his pistol.

  ‘Markus! What the…’

  With barely any recoil, Markus fire three rounds into John Mountford’s chest. He dragged the body from the vehicle and impassively dumped it onto the pavement then calmly reached into the vehicle to grab the dead billionaire’s two Louis Vuitton suitcases. With a big heave, he threw them to the small group of street dwellers who were rapidly congregating. For a short while, he stood and stared dismissively at the prowling group of urchins who rifled through the luggage for valuable items.

  A dishevelled teenager shuffled over to him. ‘Hey, mister, give us some spare cash?’

  ‘Keep moving, child,’ Markus said, waving him off with a flick of the Sig.

  ‘It might be in your best interest to reconsider,’ the teenager replied, and puffed out his chest. ‘When the police come, I might be forced to tell them everything I saw.’

  Markus’s eyes narrowed as he stared him. ‘You are right, of course.’

  Raising the Sig, he shot the teenager in the head.

  Shocked street kids stared at their friend who lay sprawled on the pavement, then turned and buried their heads in the luggage again.

  Markus hit the speed dial on his phone. ‘It is done, sir.’

  Chapter 30

  Central Criminal Court, London, England, UK - 2019

  ‘May I remind you that you are still under oath, Mr Hagan,’ the prosecutor stated.

  Matt Hagen looked down at his hands for a few seconds, and then Gibbs saw him slowly raise his head. Their eyes met. They stared at each other for a fleeting second, and it was long enough for Gibbs to see the turmoil and conflict raging within the young soldier. Gibbs felt sorry for the prosecutor’s chief witness, as it was clear that he had been coached.

  ‘I’ll repeat the question. Can you identify the man who murdered Mason Waterfield?’

  The witness sat in silence then looked to the back of the court where the public were sitting. Gibbs could see his eyes scanning for someone. Then Matt answered. ’Yes, it was that man.’

  ‘Let the record show that the witness has identified Mr Kyle Gibbs, the accused.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ shouted Gibbs.

  ‘Silence!’ shouted the judge, and smashed his gavel on the wooden bench top in front of him. That’s the second outburst, Mr Gibbs. One more and you'll watch proceedings from an isolated room.’

  Shredder leaned across and whispered, ‘He was the one who got away the night we sorted John Warren out. Sorry, boss.’

  ‘It’s okay, mate. I have a feeling he was the one skulking along the treeline the day they killed Mason,’ Gibbs replied.

  ***

  The wooden bench in the dock was far from comfortable, and Gibbs shifted around again, sighing as he looked around the court. All three of the accused were sitting to the left of the judge, behind their three legal representatives. The jury had just been led back into the court from the adjacent room, and the volume of murmur in the courtroom increased. Gibbs smiled when he glanced across at Shredder and Killey, who were both trying desperately to stay awake. The whole trial had lasted only ten days.

  ‘I thought the jury could have taken a little bit more time to deliberate,’ Gibbs said, leaning forward to talk to his barrister.

  The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘With all the evidence they had against you, it wasn’t going to be tough, Mr Gibbs.’

  ‘Well, thanks for all your bloody effort. Apologies for keeping you from your round of golf, you jumped up old windbag.’

  Shredder grabbed Gibbs by his shoulder. ‘Don’t take it out on him, boss. They paid off all the right people to sink us, even our bloody lawyers.’

  Gibbs leant back and kicked out at the wooden partition in front of him.

  A smartly dressed clerk of the court walked over and gave Gibbs’s brief a folded piece of white paper. The old man turned and scowled at Gibbs before passing it over.

  You should have a good think about all the recent events to find the man who orchestrated it all - D.K.

  Gibbs frowned at the note and turned it over to see if there was anything else written on it. D.K could only mean David Kirkwood. He looked up and scanned the faces of the people in the packed viewing gallery at the back of the court. Sitting smugly in an aisle seat was the grinning culprit.

  Gibbs pointed at the man and mouthed the word, ‘You!’

  David smiled and tapped his chest.

  ‘Bastard!’ shouted Gibbs and launched ove
r the short partition in front of him. He landed next to a shocked barristers’ bench with three long strides and ran towards the main partition that separated the court procedures from the viewing gallery. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two burly court security officers spring into action and start running towards him. As he reached the partition and jumped over, he felt a hand grip his arm. The force of the grip pulled him off balance, and he was spun around in mid-air. He landed on the other side of the partition facing a bald, snarling security officer. Gibbs lashed out with a vicious punch, and the officer groaned as a fist thudded into his jaw, causing him to release his grip just enough to allow Gibbs to yank his arm away. He turned back towards David again just as the second officer reached across his falling comrade to try and catch the escaping man.

  David had seen him coming and had jumped up out of his seat and made for the large double wooden doors at the back of the court. Even though he was no athlete, being of slender build and smartly dressed, the fear drove him on, and he reached the doors ahead of Gibbs. The large, solid court doors had to be opened inwards, and David had just slipped through when Gibbs rugby-tackled him. They both slid a few meters across the black and white checked tile floor outside the courtroom before Gibbs managed to get a handful of David’s hair. Twice he managed to smash the man’s face onto the hard floor before being ripped away by three court security officers.

  ‘Did that make you feel better, boss?’ Shredder said when the court was restored to order.

  Gibbs nodded. ‘It was bloody Kirkwood all along. I should have trusted my instincts about him. The bastard will pay someday, no matter how long I spend in prison. He will pay for all of this with his life.’

  All three of the men got life sentences without any chance of parole. They were told they had the right to appeal, but that would simply cost too much money. What made it a brutal ruling was that their sentences were to be carried out on the new high-security prison ships that had been brought into service. With the lack of space in all land-based prisons and the scarcity of manpower, giant old oil tankers and container vessels had been converted into floating jails. They were notorious for being home to the most violent and dangerous prisoners in the UK. A place where men were sent to be forgotten.

  Chapter 31

  HM Prison, Wandsworth, London, UK - 2019

  Sharon Matthews wiped her tear-filled eyes with a tissue as she looked at Gibbs sitting across from her at the low tables in the mixed visiting room. Other wives and girlfriends were also present in the room and leant across the tables talking to their partners in the male-only prison in Wandsworth. The noise in the room slowly increased as the excited couples got re-acquainted and caught up on the news outside.

  ’I cannot believe that you got life on one of those ghastly prison ships,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears.

  Gibbs reached across and held her shaking hand. ‘No prison ship is going to be able to hold the three of us for very long. I’ll be back here irritating you before you know it.’

  She smiled. ‘I still think we should rather try the appeal route seeing that my ex has managed to unearth a few emails that would help with the process.’

  ‘That may be so, but none of us have the cash for an appeal and the same men who fabricated the whole bloody thing will just do the same thing again, I guess,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Not if there is clear evidence that they set you up.’

  ‘Is there such evidence?’ he asked.

  ‘My ex believes there is enough to get your case thrown out. Something about emails that were deleted on their local Club servers but not before critical keywords were flagged and those emails copied to monitoring servers for evaluation,’ she said.

  ‘Okay then, can we get copies of these?’

  ‘I am meeting him later on this afternoon.’

  Gibbs sat forward and whispered, ‘Please be careful, Sharon. These men seem to have fingers in lots of government pies, and you could both be at risk. They have shown that they will do anything to make this issue go away, and I’ve grown fond of having you in my life.’

  The last comment made tears well up in her eyes again. ‘You too, Gibbs, and don’t worry, I will be careful to get the information back safely.’

  ‘Okay, but as a precaution I want you to contact Sheila and get her to organise her ganglord boyfriend to go with you to see your contact,’ he said.

  ‘My ex won’t meet me if I arrive with a full entourage, but I’ll speak to Sheila and sort something out.’

  ‘Okay fine, I also need you to pass on one more message to her from me,’ he said.

  ‘Sure, what is it?’

  ‘It’s about a favour I am owed.’

  ***

  The oak and beech trees that lined the Battersea Park pathway swirled in the strong breeze and blew Sharon Matthews’s beige overcoat open. She tied her coat belt tighter around her waist carried on walked along the gravel path which ended in front of the old Victorian tower, long used as the Pumphouse Street Art Gallery.

  Looking behind her, she scouted the treeline one final time then walked into the ground floor space still used by street artists and painters.

  Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side of the doorway.

  ‘Hello, you.’

  ‘Jeez, Colin, you scared the shit out of me,’ she said, hugging the man dressed in a dark red jumper and blue jeans.

  ‘All this spy stuff got you a bit jumpy, then?’

  ‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘You’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have.’

  ‘True,’ he replied.

  ‘Thank you so much for doing this for me.’

  ‘You know that I would do anything for you.’ Colin said.

  Sharon looked at her ex-boyfriend. ‘Even if it is for my new boyfriend?’

  ‘You always said I was too nice and decent for you, so I can only wish you all the happiness. If you are not a happy girl, how can I possibly be happy, you know that I will always care about you,’ he replied, taking her hands. ‘Besides, injustice is an injustice. So of course, I am happy to help.’

  ‘Stop it, you flirt, or you might make me regret breaking up with you.’

  ‘Well, there is that hope too you know.’

  She pulled her hands away. ‘What have you got for us?’

  ‘Random printouts of about twenty emails between the two gentlemen we’ve been discussing,’ he said, reaching into a leather shoulder bag to take out a large brown manila envelope.

  Sharon looked around at the artists working on the floor of the gallery. None of them stirred as she took the envelope from him. Opening it up, she took the pile of papers out and started reading them. Her hand flew up to her mouth. ‘Colin, this is wonderful. Thank you. I have to rush off to get these to a contact who is waiting nearby.’

  ‘Of course, Sharon. I thought these might get you excited. As a backup plan, I have made two copies of the email correspondence onto small flash drives. One I have put into that envelope with the printouts. I will drop the other one through your letterbox in the next few days as a precaution,’ he said, taking her hand again. ‘Good luck, gorgeous.’

  She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek. ‘Thanks, Colin. I will never forget this.’

  As she walked out of The Tower Gallery, the envelope felt like it was burning a hole under her arm. Her pace quickened when she thought of the magnitude of the contents. It changed everything.

  Outside the wind had picked up even more. Fallen leaves were being whipped across the path and blown into her as she leant forward to shield her eyes from the gusts. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move and turned to see two men appearing from around the corner of the Art Gallery. They saw her looking and stopped to have a conversation.

  ‘Damn it!’ she said, and picked up her pace to get to the Albert Gate of Battersea Park. Another glance back a few minutes later confirmed her fears. Both men, who were dressed in black suits under large
pale brown overcoats, had also picked up their pace after her.

  She made it to the Albert Gate and crossed the quiet intersection to a corner bar called The Prince Albert. Five old men drinking at the bar lifted their grey heads in unison and stared at her as she walked in. Scanning the large bar for her contact, she felt the tension lift from her shoulders as she spotted the long scar on the cheek of the man she was to meet.

  ‘Martin?’ she asked, approaching the corner table.

  ‘That’s me, love,’ he said and showed her to a seat at the small table next to his. He stared at her with intense brown eyes, his arms folded. Two hefty men approached them through the bar, and she felt her stomach tighten.

  Martin raised his hand, and they stopped nearby. ‘Don’t worry, Sharon, they are with me, love. You can never be too careful nowadays, you know. Place the contents of the envelope on your table, please.’

  She removed the printouts and the blue flash drive from the envelope and laid them down on the table. Martin stood up and placed his newspaper down, covering everything as he picked it all up.

  ‘We’ve only made two men following you right now, whom I assume are after these documents. After I leave, I suggest that you fill the empty envelope with something else and then lead them towards the river. Let them see you dispose of the envelope. That might throw them off for a while. I wish you good luck,’ he said and walked away.

  Sharon felt her heart sink as Martin disappeared through the door with his two bodyguards. The plan to distract the men who were following her simply had to work. The emails that would help the man she loved would be safe. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Nerves that highlighted the obvious; she would have to do this all by herself.

  Chapter 32