She checked her gun one more time; it was a Glock twenty two. It gave her fifteen shots at any target and Khan rarely missed. She may have never fired her gun out in the field, but she knew this would make no difference if the situation called for it. Khan had been the best in class in firearm training and more importantly had a cold disciplined mind.
Khan placed the weapon back in the holster, took a deep breath, got out of her car and walked towards the bar. The bar looked so run down that, even with her limited knowledge of drinking establishments, she found it hard to believe anyone would choose this as a place to drink. She had not frequented many bars in her life and was sure most people would make the assumption that this was due to her being a follower of the Islamic faith; but her conviction was nothing to do with her religion. To her, drinking simply demonstrated a weak lifestyle.
Khan stopped for a moment as she placed her hand on the door handle. She briefly wondered whether it might be best to remove her gun, storm into the bar and force them all to fall to the floor. But the thought quickly passed and she shook her head—that wouldn’t result in the brothers going down. Everything had to be done correctly.
The inside of the bar was decrepit; there were not more than five small tables and maybe twice as many chairs towards the front of the establishment, and all looked like they were full of woodworm. An old TV sat on a shelf by the bar, with a blackboard next to it declaring, All Sky Sports Channels Available. Quite why any self-respecting sports fan would end up in here Khan struggled to comprehend.
“Hello dearie, what can I get you?” an old woman said from behind the bar.
Khan could not even guess the old woman’s age. She looked every bit older than the bar itself if that was possible, though she seemed to have the kind of welcoming face, Khan thought, that might at least bring some locals back from time to time. The woman had a classic grandmother-type look about her and Khan couldn’t help but feel instant warmth towards her. She was now pleased she hadn’t walked in to the bar with a gun in hand.
“Afternoon, I’m looking for the Blake brothers,” Khan said, careful to keep her voice as unthreatening as possible.
“Well that’s handy,” the old lady smiled. “They were just waiting for you to arrive.”
Before Khan could try and find meaning in the old woman’s words, she felt a sharp pain at the back of her head and sunk to her knees, everything around her turning into a blur.
Khan looked across at the old lady, realising now that she was in mortal danger. She wanted to call for help but the old woman’s smile was now gone; all that was left was an evil look of disdain. And then everything went black.
After an unknowable amount of time, Khan started to come round with a pounding headache. Her vision was initially blurred but within moments started to clear. She could now see she was sitting on a cold floor with her legs outstretched in front of her and her feet tied with what looked like cables. Her hands were also bound behind her and must in some way have been secured to the floor, as when she tried to move herself forward, there was instant resistance.
Khan understood she must remain calm; she was trained for this kind of situation. Six months previously she’d completed a course on what to do if taken hostage and this helped her mind adjust quickly to the process for survival. The Blake’s must have seen her walk in, panicked and simply attacked her. But she was a police officer and they would come to their senses. They were not any kind of super-villains, they'd know when they were out of their depths.
They would soon talk to her, Khan thought. And she would be able to reassure them, convince them she was there to help them and could protect them from O’Neil and his gang. She would show the Blake boys that this was not a no-win situation for them; they still had options and ways out.
Khan forced her mind to stay cool and started to form a plan about how she could approach the upcoming conversation. She began to feel more at ease with her environment, more confident in the situation she was in and started to look around her make-shift prison.
The room was obviously a cellar or storeroom, as she was surrounded by barrels and boxes of bottled beer. The area seemed clean and tidy and Khan thought the old woman must have been the reason for this.
As the old woman was someone who liked a tidy storeroom, she must also, Khan reasoned, like conformity, clean and unclean, right and wrong. She was someone who a trained police officer should be able to be negotiate with. The old woman could be some relation, perhaps someone who could have influence on the brothers. Khan allowed a small smile to grow on her face; there was nothing like advice from an older woman to influence impressionable young male minds.
At that very moment, as if on cue, she could hear raised voices coming from the floor above her. Kahn could just make out two males and one female, who she recognised as the old woman. That’s it, she thought; talk some sense into these little hooligans.
“This is crazy!” she heard a man’s voice say.
“No, no this isn’t, we all need to stay calm,” the old woman replied.
Hope started to grow in the pit of Khan’s stomach. This is exactly what she believed the woman would be doing, restoring order into the chaos.
“Let’s just put on some masks and teach the Pakie bitch what happens when you step onto our territory!” another male voice shouted.
Khan shuddered. She could now hear some high-pitched laughter that she thought must be emanating from another male despite the octave.
“No you don’t, you do what I say!” the old woman said, taking command again.
Khan now listened intently, willing the woman on to sort this mess out and get the brothers to come down to the cellar and find a resolution for everybody’s benefit.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” A male voiced said.
“Look at my face John! This is what comes to pass when you don’t make the first move; that ain’t ever fucking happening again!”
“What we need to do,” the old woman continued calmly, “is go down there and kill the bitch.”
Khan went cold and her head started to spin. She was in serious trouble.
Her heart started to thump with panic, her eyes welled with tears. Why hadn’t she stormed into the bar with her gun held high, demanding all the occupants to hit the floor. She wished the old lady behind the bar hadn’t looked quite as welcoming as she had done; this had thrown her off guard further. Above all though, she wished she’d never had the idea to come to this place, that she had never made the decision to take some kind of vengeance for what had happened to Crystal, and that she’d never made the mistake of going after Charlie O’Neil.
Someone must know she was here? Did her car have a tracker; she actually wasn’t aware of one, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t such a device fitted.
Why didn’t she call the raid in, before striding into the bar?
Khan was left with one slim hope, DS Early. Was there a chance that out of some chauvinistic notion or even out of loyalty to his senior officer he’d followed her to the bar. Yes, Khan’s mind started to fill with hope once more. Could Early at this very moment be calling in for backup, so that the place could be stormed?
Khan hated herself for the self-pity and weakness that this last hope gave her. She wished, above all else, that her very existence didn’t rely quite so entirely on the poor excuse for a police officer that was DS Early.
Chapter Forty Six - Mickey the Bag
Mickey gave up waiting for the gate to open, after the third chime of Payne’s intercom, and decided to go straight to Charlie O’Neil’s to report that the Wild n’ Weird job was complete. He tried to put to the back of his mind any concern about Payne; it must be coincidence that O’Neil also hadn’t seen him since a few nights back.
It was just after seven o’clock when Mickey pulled up outside O’Neil’s mansion. Dawn would have the dinner on the table by now, but Mickey wanted to register with at least one of the bosses that his task was complete.
It wasn’
t a kudos thing. Mickey felt his position was secure enough to have no need for any credibility points; but at the same time he knew the value of timely reporting, so always endeavoured to pass on the courtesy to O’Neil and Payne.
He looked across at Charlie and Jackie’s house; it was a Georgian styled mansion benefiting from vast grounds both to the front and rear. Unlike Payne's place, there was no gated intercom guarding entrance to the house. A drive was the only thing separating the front doorway from the main road.
Mickey admired the statement that such a lack of security made to the outside world. It was a proper two fingers up to everyone. It said—to anyone who looked in—come on if you think you’re hard enough. Serious people’s house.
Payne had of course tried on many occasions to get O’Neil to think about getting more protection, maybe high walls or CCTV. But Charlie had always laughed, saying that he was the security. This drove Payne out of his mind, with his OCD sense of risk control.
Charlie’s place had every mod-con and luxury that any premiership footballer could have hoped for: an indoor pool with Jacuzzi, a games room equipped with both pool table and snooker table, and a bar area that lead out to an outdoor pool, mainly used for Jackie’s once regular Karaoke parties.
Charlie and Jackie had everything but Mickey wasn’t jealous. Sure, on the face of it, he and Dawn just had your everyday standard four bedroom house. But Mickey wasn’t a boss and he was quite happy with his position in the criminal hierarchy. He was the man who ran things for the bosses and this was a position of respect.
“Hey Mick.”
Mickey turned to see a man stood in the shadows next to the house smoking; the man was Simon Petersson, otherwise known as Pete, and in Mickey’s opinion, a complete wanker.
Pete was the type of prick Mickey had grown up hating. He was well over six foot and had a perfect tan, blonde hair and the body of an Adonis.
Like most of the people who had similar bodies to Pete, he hadn’t earned it. Sure, he spent most his mornings in the gym, but the main contributing factor to Pete’s physique were the anabolic steroids that pumped through his veins. Mickey didn’t like bodybuilders. When he was younger, he’d been pitted against many of them for work on the doors, and there were a lot of thick club bosses who thought a big physique meant a hard man. Mickey knew this wasn’t the case.
The difference between a hard man and one that was not was all in the mind; Mickey had never spent a day in any gym. It was only now in his middle age that he had what some might say was a large physique. There was no weights involved in this, but completely due to the amount of Guinness he’d consumed over the years. Being hard was only about installing fear, and Mickey knew all about that, far more than a prick like Pete.
Pete approached him, holding out his hand to shake. “How’s it going man?”
Mickey grabbed the body builder’s hand firmly, far more firmly than Pete was expecting; he almost winced from the strength of the more experienced man’s grip.
“Pete,” Mickey replied.
“You here to see the boss?” Pete asked.
Mickey wanted to meet the question with the sort of scornful sarcastic response it deserved. He knew though that Charlie trusted the man and in recent months had been using him as a type of bodyguard. For this reason only, he knew he must at least treat Pete with some level of respect.
Mickey considered this one of the downsides to life on the inside of a criminal firm, when compared to life in a firm within the legal world, where people probably held firm positions in a clear hierarchy. Mickey guessed everyone understood where they were in such a legitimate organisation. If O’Neil and Payne’s operation was more akin to an HSBC or Microsoft, then Mickey would hold some kind of Senior Operations Manager role. Someone like Pete, would be just what he is, a kind of chauffeur or security guard. In the underworld though, being Charlie’s driver and body guard empowered him to such an extent that even Mickey wondered if he was currently perceived as being more senior in Charlie’s eyes.
There were simple explanations for Pete’s current position, none that would lead to any longevity. But in the last few months, Pete had certainly been exposed to conversations that were well above his pay grade. Mickey wondered if there had even been occasions when Charlie might even have asked Pete about his opinion on important matters. Mickey hoped this wasn’t the case—taking advice from such a prick would be dangerous. Charlie, however, was only human; he and Pete had been spending hours together every day, driving around or just generally in each other’s company. Mickey couldn’t help but be jealous of this type of exposure.
“Yeah, just need a few words with Mr. O’Neil,” Mickey replied.
“I think Charlie’s out the back by the pool,” Pete replied, sucking in his cigarette.
Charlie, Mickey thought. That's Mr. O’Neil to you, you jumped up little prick. This was exactly the type of familiarity that he worried could be formed between bosses and drivers. And it didn’t fit inside the firm’s hierarchy.
“OK, thanks,” Mickey said, motioning to walk towards the front door.
“Charlie’s been acting pretty weird recently, don’t you think?” Pete said, not noticing Mickey’s urge to get inside.
Mickey would normally just ignore Pete when he was in a rush, and walk inside the house without replying. But what Pete had just said bordered on treason and Mickey felt duty-bound to stay and listen.
“Yeah like what?” Mickey asked.
“Well you know Mick, when Charlie first offered me a room here, I was thinking—cool. I’ll still be able to get to the gym, as I was just be doing some driving now and again. It suited me pretty good. But now days, the guy will barely leave the house without me.” Pete said, not seeming to register the disgust in Mickey’s eyes at his comments.
“Yeah?” Mickey said, barely hiding his temper.
“Yeah, I mean I’m not knocking it,” Pete said, throwing down his finished cigarette and lighting another. “The guy’s a legend, you know that, but sometimes it can be a bit of a drag.”
Mickey’s temper was now beyond his control. It was not just that Pete didn’t appreciate that a leader as great as Charlie O’Neil was using him as some sort of right-hand man. It was more the pure disrespect he was showing towards his paymaster and that he actually seemed to presume that Mickey would join in on this kind of bitching session.
Mickey thrust his hand around the large man’s throat, pushing him straight through the hedge Pete had been standing in front of, pinning him against the fence behind it. To any onlookers, the sight would have appeared absurd—the smaller rather average looking middle-aged man pinning the large young body builder into a hedge. But then they wouldn’t know that the average looking middle-aged man was Mickey Dunne.
The fear now in Pete’s eyes illustrated that he knew who the harder man was here. In situations like these, muscles counted for nothing. They were no more than extravagant facia when facing a serial killer like Mickey the Bag.
“Mick, Mick…” Pete said, struggling to breathe. “I was only joking man!”
Mickey thrust his face close to Pete’s, so close there was barely a hair’s breadth between them. “If I ever hear you talking like that about Mr O’Neil again, I will bury you in my garden.” Mickey shook the large man, so much that it cut the man’s windpipe momentarily. “You understand?”
“Yeah, Yeah,” Pete wheezed.
Mickey swivelled, dropping the bodybuilder into the hedge and walked towards the front door to O’Neil’s mansion.
“And it’s Mr O’Neil to you,” Mickey said, pointing a finger back at Pete. “And don’t fucking forget it.”
To Mickey’s annoyance, he then found O’Neil exactly where Pete said he would be. He was sitting by the outdoor pool, sipping a large whiskey, looking into the pool with empty eyes.
“Boss, how’s it going?” Mickey said, taking a seat on the edge of a nearby sun lounger.
Charlie looked up, nodded a greeting to Mickey and necked
his whiskey.
Mickey wanted to tell Charlie about Pete’s disrespectful outburst and get the shithead kicked out on his arse. If it had been Robert he’d been talking to, he would have thought nothing about speaking his mind and dragging the useless bastard in for a beating. But this was Charlie, and Mickey didn’t have the same confidence in their relationship to second guess his reaction.
Mickey looked across to Charlie. “I was around Robert’s earlier.”
Charlie looked up at him with expectant eyes and Mickey instantly wished he hadn’t mentioned his failed trip to Robert Payne’s. It was clear, by O’Neil’s face, he still hadn’t heard from Payne since they had spoken a few nights ago.
“I didn’t see him,” Mickey added quickly, not wanting to raise any false hope. “I tried the buzzer a few times, no reply.”
Charlie nodded grimly back at Mickey.
Mickey looked back at Charlie, not used to seeing the man with such despair on his face. “I could get a crew together and start knocking down doors?”
O’Neil got up and walked toward the bar at the corner of the pool. “Whiskey?”
“Please,” Mickey got up and walked to the bar.
O’Neil poured Mickey a large glass and passed it to him. “Robert’s dead.”
Mickey stepped back. His heart started to pound heavily in his chest.
“Take the drink Mick,” O’Neil said.
Mickey snatched it and drank it straight down; he thrust his free hand through his hair, thoughts streaming through his head.
“I wanted you to know; I know you guys were tight,” O’Neil said, pouring himself another drink.
Mickey nodded; he put his empty glass down. He was unable to speak. O’Neil downed his latest glass and started to pour two more shots.
Serious People Page 30
