He was now heading toward an outdoor parking lot a short stroll from the football ground, where one of his best men waited to drive him back to his house fifteen minutes away, in Balham. Walking through the Clapham Common had always been the favorite part of his post-match routine. He would later gulp a lamb kebab at his favorite Turkish joint on the High Street. The area was packed with quirky food stalls, farmer markets, and gastropubs, but he would inevitably make a quick stop to greet the owner of the Turkish establishment and covertly keep an eye on rival territory. He felt safe enough to roam freely in the middle of enemy turf, as the bloodsheds of the clan's early years had long given way to a more civilized drug war fought on price and scale of distribution networks.
For now, however, he simply wanted to enjoy his perambulate through the twenty-two-acre park, and he permitted himself to drop his constant alertness for the span of a few minutes. The stressful nature of his job was taking a toll on his organism in the form of chronically elevated cortisol levels. Any moment of respite was welcome, and striding naively between oaks and ash trees was certainly one of them.
As he approached his black Mercedes sedan, the wind rose abruptly, and Jamal narrowly avoided road debris flying his way. He snapped back into focus, and from afar, he saw through the car's window that his makeshift driver was again asleep on the wheel.
Still thirty yards away, he shifted his bulky sports bag to his other shoulder and yelled, "Boy, wake up and do your job! Open the trunk; this is heavy."
The lack of reaction from his driver made his blood boil. This wasn’t the first time the man had taken some liberties on the job. Jamal was pacing furiously, and he wondered how he would roast his subordinate this time. Just then, he saw it.
The position his dormant driver was assuming looked unnatural, his face buried in the center of the driving wheel and his arms suspended over the dashboard awkwardly.
It took him only an instant to understand that he had been ambushed, and to his surprise, his next thoughts went to his mentor. I fucked up, Zak.
The flow of adrenaline that rushed through his veins right then did little to prevent the two men now standing behind him from immobilizing him. They were not leaving anything to chance, and Jamal’s arms were firmly secured. He felt his muscle bruise as their grip tighten like heavy-duty metal clamps.
His light polyester football shirt offered no resistance to the vicious stabbing assault that followed. The excruciating pain he felt as the assailant pierced his kidneys was unlike anything he had ever felt.
Three of them, Jamal realized. They even brought someone entrusted with the task of plowing the blade into his lower back with full force, crushing his rib cage and vital organs. His fate had been sealed in under ten agonizing seconds, although he would have argued that the savage assault had lasted much longer.
A feeling of numbness soon replaced the anguish, and when his face smashed the dirt floor, his final thoughts went to his clan. A flash of sheer clarity stormed through his mind, where the consequences of that fatal evening suddenly became fathomable. A surge of panic invaded his body at the thought that his death might be the trigger of an ominous chain of events yet to unfold.
For an instant, he was certain that a last-gasp effort could help him make amends for his carelessness. He tried to reach for his phone inside his pocket, as his aggressors fled the scene. This is bad. I need to warn them...I have to. His arms did not move an inch. Blood was gushing from both sides of this backbone, and his heart stopped beating shortly after.
CHAPTER 4
When he got back to his split-level penthouse apartment in Notting Hill, Zakariya took a moment to pause and admire the stunning London skyline from his patio’s window. The views were arguably even better in broad daylight. The place overlooked Holland Park and its Japanese garden, and the Thames River shimmered in the distance. Chelsea or Marylebone were more highly sought-after neighborhoods, and he could have afforded any duplex there, but he reveled in the quirkiness of Notting Hill, the colorful house doors and the proximity to the vibrant Portobello market.
An estate agent that owed him a favor had tipped him that the place was to be put on the market soon, and he had only needed a few minutes to make up his mind. He took a small loan for good measure, but wealthy foreign buyers had long flooded the capital's housing markets, so much so that he was able to pay most of it in cash without raising suspicion. Besides, he had a nagging distrust of lending institutions. That's what growing up amongst drug dealers does to you, he thought as he wired the funds to the conveyor. Back then, failing to honor your debt meant severe physical punishment. This had provoked in him a profound hatred for personal indebtedness, even though he used plenty of leverage in his business.
He had moved in the luxury top-floor flat a couple of years ago with Chloe Orsini, his long-term girlfriend. They fancied a life right in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the city, and Zakariya reasoned that his fledgling empire would be better served if he stayed close the action at all time.
Standing at the edge of his balcony to conclude a tough day, peering deep into the city, had become a habit of his. He gazed at the bright glowing spots scattered in the infinite darkness and filled his lungs with a few breaths of crisp air. This evening ritual had a calming effect that he badly needed to balance out the intensity of his unforgiving daily grind.
As he stepped back inside, he noticed the spread-out clothes on the sofa. Chloe had several behavioral flaws, but she had never been disorderly. There were more clothes on the floor, and it hit him that they were forming a trail that led straight to the master bedroom.
He walked over to the finish line, opened the door with a cunning smile, and when he saw her lying on the bed in black lingerie, his heart skipped a beat. She looked up; her fiery hazel eyes leaving no doubt as to the lust she felt at this very moment. He became instantly aroused.
As he unbuttoned his white Oxford shirt carefully, she uttered a complaint he had heard many times. Her sensual voice resonated through his body. "I thought you'd never come; I've been waiting all night for my man.” She licked her lower lip, gazing down at her prominent breast and feigning a shyness that he knew was false. It didn’t matter.
He slid next to her and started caressing her flawless peach-skinned face with the back of his fingers, and they both felt a chill. "Patience is a virtue, baby."
“I have no patience. That’s why I’m with you in the first place.” She stared at him, her eyes screaming that he should take her now.
“Maybe I should teach you-”
“Please don’t make a horny woman wait on you,” she replied curtly.
He seized her wrist, pulled her toward him abruptly and landed a soft kiss on the side of her mouth. Her body shivered, but a second later she regained control of her emotion as she was intent to hammer her point home.
“I was starting to think you were living a double life. Hanging out with men all day long... The only explanation was that you'd turn…" she gave him a cheeky look. Zakariya hauled her waist toward him suddenly, and lost himself in the gorgeous carnal embrace.
They made love three times, in an ordeal of rough and wet ardor, before he emerged from the bedroom. Both his mobile phones were blinking on the dining table. This was not unusual, as his work Blackberry was constantly flashing with a hail of incoming emails. He ignored it. He had hired five experienced executive vice presidents in the past year only to sustain his investment firm’s growth and he was now willing to delegate even the most urgent matters to attend to his wife’s desires...and his other business interests.
Instead, he seized the iPhone next to it, which he used only for communications with his lieutenants. The software had been modified so extensively with encryption programs that the OS merely looked like a former shelf of the original sleek menu intended by Apple. The notification screen was showing twelve missed calls from his brother and seven others from his lieutenants.
Simultaneous missed calls from several of the high
est ranks individuals in his shadow organization were a perturbing foreboding sign. He dialed Mustafa's number right away and forced himself to shake off the fatigue induced by his earlier sexual effort. He was fully lucid when his brother picked up.
“Mouss, what’s up with all the missed calls?”
“Finally, you’re picking up! Man, Jamal is dead. They got him.” Mustafa was speaking fast.
Zakariya felt sick to his stomach, and the blood rushing to his brain gave him an instant, pounding headache. He suppressed the urge to smash his phone on the floor and the rising anger that started to engulf his consciousness. "Give me all the details. I want to know everything."
His mind was in complete overdrive as Mustafa described the events of the night, with streams of conflicting thoughts firing in all directions. He would only take the measure of the loss of his friend hours later, but he already knew in the darkest corners of his soul that he would retaliate with all he got.
CHAPTER 5
As he drove toward his brother’s penthouse in Notting Hill, Mustafa went further into the intel already gathered, Zakariya attentively listening at the other end of the line. Jamal had fallen into an ambush, his driver was shot first, and at least two men had savagely murdered the young lieutenant. They spoke about the implications, and the potential culprit of this barbarous act.
This was a ruthless warning, and clearly bore the signature of the Aydins. Or was it the Wilkinsons? Or maybe the Scottish MacDonald gang? They were infamous for their bestial outbursts of violence, a reputation they had gained after one of their members had cut the balls off of a nineteen-year-old boy who was a bit too keen on selling drugs on their self-proclaimed territory. The gang allegedly found inspiration in the actions of former Glasgow gangster Arthur MacDonald, who had a habit of crucifying borrowers who fail to pay their debts and nailing their naked bodies to doors and furniture.
Zakariya and his associates from Mantes-la-Jolie had as many enemies as there were narcotic-selling gangs in London. Not since their unexpected arrival to the United Kingdom at the turn of the twenty-first century had the historical criminal rings been challenged so blatantly. Zakariya’s over-ambitious vision coupled with his lieutenants’ unequivocal devotion and disposition to get their hands dirty had propelled their clan to the apex of the regional black-market economy.
This had been an unforgiving but bygone era, a sudden onrush that had lasted several bloody years. Over a decade had passed and the Mantes-la-jolie boys had asserted themselves as the most powerful underground enterprise of the Big Smoke.
In truth, they had come at a time when London's alternative economy was ripe for change. From the end of the World War II up to the early nineties, organized crime in the largest metropolitan areas of England was typically constrained to hardy brethren looking for an intrepid way of life, and sometimes for a quick buck.
The Kray twins were certainly the original gangsters of that epoch – the last major criminals to be imprisoned in the Tower of London. Legend had it that they could ice a man with one punch, write ravishingly beautiful poetry and regularly engaged in gay sex with multiple partners, all in the span of an evening. Paradox at its finest. Their demise in the late sixties left a void that several gangs attempted to fill. With almost perfect timing, the Aydins and the Wilkinsons came to prominence, while the Jamaicans, the Irish and some other British and Asian families were left to battle for the leftovers.
The Aydins – a family of Turkish-Cypriot descent – had settled in South London, in a zone stretching from Croydon to Southwark. They had rapidly become one of the most feared gangs in the capital city. Tight-knit family ties bestowed upon them unparalleled strength, and not unlike the Mantes-la-jolie boys, the flickering flame of hope for a better life they had felt after migrating to the UK had grown into a blazing inferno of dominance in just a few years' time. Zakariya knew that feeling inside-out – the permanent agony of having to prove oneself day after day all over again in a foreign land and go to further distances than England-born men in order to succeed.
The Aydins were a force to be reckoned with. They were ill-famed for their propensity for racketeering, extortion and the occasional robbery, but most importantly, they had a strong footing in the drug trade across London, only bested by the extensive network of Zakariya’s organization.
In terms of brute force, the Wilkinsons were no match for the Aydins. But the heads of the Wilkinson criminal gang had a homecourt advantage. They were an old English family active in other cities in England, most notably Birmingham. They had ruled over Islington and Angel’s underground economy for decades and their leader, Adam Wilkinson, had powerful political connections. He was frequently seen with ceremonial mayors and member of parliaments. The old man had fostered those relationships over many years, and for that reason, the clan had shied away from the most violent black-market activities.
Instead, the Wilkinsons were striving in race courses, and illegal drinking and gambling clubs. They had entered the drug business when it was clear that opiate profits could be matched by none of their other activities.
They were a different threat from the Aydins, a subtler menace given the depth of their political network and an unequaled understanding of the British laws and their loopholes. That was not to say there never resorted to violence, quite the opposite. From what Zakariya’s lieutenants had gathered, each assassination the Wilkinsons had ever carried out had always been carefully prepared. And evidence to incriminate the perpetrators were always oddly missing.
London's underworld capitalism was a constantly evolving beast, but several other clans had built solid reputations over the past couple of decades. They were migrants for the most parts, who saw illegal activities as a more straightforward path toward wealth in a society they had a hard time fitting in. They were the Jamaicans, implanted in the Northern boroughs and partial to some easy money in prostitution and shebeens. They were the Scottish MacDonalds and the Irish Gang, present all over the capital. Despite a questionable business sense, they owned a multitude of bookmaking shops in East London. If prompted for a description of the bunch, Zakariya’s lieutenants would unanimously qualify them of reckless drunkards. They had an annoying tendency to be confrontational and were keen users of shotguns and small calibers handguns. Just a year earlier, they had launched a combined effort to gain ground in the city’s drug trade along with its lots of savageries, prompting Zakariya’s lieutenants to ramp up their armed presence around their main profit centers.
On the periphery, less influential gangs of British origin and less pervasive families of Asian descent – chief amongst them the Tamils, Pakistanis, and Bengalis – had to be kept in check at all times. Like the sudden growth of malignant cells, any of them had the potential to invade and take over entire swaths of the city' opioid market. The five main mafia clans from the London's underworld all devoted significant resource to keeping track of any potential rising stars.
The act of defiance that occurred earlier in the evening could mean a number of things, Zakariya realized. The most likely explanation that kept coming to his mind was that the aging leaders of the main clan were pressured by their heirs to overturn the status quo. The alternative explication – that a new force had emerged from nowhere – was highly unlikely. The Mantes-la-jolie boys maintained an intelligence network that rivaled that of Scotland Yard, and they would have picked it up.
Besides, the main clans seem to realize that it was in everyone's best interest to suppress any nascent menace. They had spectacularly failed to do so when Zakariya and his associates from the Parisian suburbs had entered the fray and were unlikely to allow similar redistribution of wealth, land, and power. In any case, his lieutenants would provide the information necessary to strike back with full knowledge of the facts.
CHAPTER 6
The furious knocks on the front door woke Chloe abruptly. When she got out of the bedroom in her pale pink silk pajamas, she was still somnolent. “For God’s sake Zak,” she muttere
d plaintively, “which one of your sbires is it today?” She combed her hair with her fingers in an attempt to look more presentable. “It’s the second time this week. And it’s way past midnight. What could possibly be so important?” Zakariya ignored her as he scurried to the door.
Being snubbed had always enraged her, hot-blooded as she was, and she had rebuked tougher men than this bunch, not least her own father several times. In the Corsican traditions, women were looked up to with awe and reverence. On the Beauty Island, as Corsica was rightly known, it was not unusual to see a man withdraw in the face of a woman’s blind fury. Chloe was about to unleash a more tamed and British version of this hysteria as Zakariya heaved the door open. She understood that any irritation she was feeling would pale in comparison to the distress the man standing in front of them was going through right now.
Mustafa Mansouri was still catching his breath, his characteristically austere face even more solemn than usual. The severity of the situation warranted that he stepped in and went to the point without the most basic of courtesy. He simply nodded to Chloe in acknowledgment and immediately turned to address his brother. "I'm gathering the lieutenants, we're all meeting at Lucky 77 in twenty minutes,” he said hastily.
"Got it, let's go." Zakariya had slipped back into work clothes. He snaffled his beige overcoat, and they left without closing the door. Chloe stood in the doorway, feeling like she had been unlawfully stopped in her stead and deprived of her right to protest.
. . .
The Mansouri brothers had purchased club Lucky 77 in the early 2000s, which was one of the clan’s first real estate acquisition in London. Since then the Mantes-la-jolie boys had used it as a covert base for their black-market operations – a camouflage. Zakariya had renamed the establishment Lucky 77 in reference to the year he was born and in homage to the history of the building that was once a flourishing casino, hosting lavish parties where London’s most famous socialites would flock in droves.
Bad Blood Empire (Cold Blooded Series Book 2) Page 2
