Kandinsky’s gaze fixed on the house and the light that blazed through the gaps in the living room curtain. “What’s in there’s a bigger load to handle though.”
My brother checked the chamber of his gun. “Well, if you’re not up to the task, you can always sit it out, like.”
Kandinsky grinned. “And leave you two clowns to do this on your own? Not a fuckin’ chance.”
93. – Owden
BOB WALKED along the pavement of a dark deserted road a few streets away from Feldman’s Scrapyard. Vandals had smashed most of the streetlights, leaving much of the area enveloped in pockets of deep black. He noticed a few silhouettes moving around in the shadows, doing illegal things. Leaning against a broken streetlight, Bob looked around to make sure that nobody was going to bother him as he waited for transport to arrive. A few of them turned in his direction, but they understood the dichotomy: a man on his own in this part of town wasn’t lost or vulnerable, but exactly the kind of creature that preys on the lost and vulnerable. They knew well enough to leave him alone.
Bob also noticed that many of the houses on the street were derelict and beyond repair, so he studied them carefully. There were no traces of MMPW signage or colours on the properties with boarded windows and doors, and when he turned his head to further explore his surroundings he saw the reason why Eddie and the others hadn’t purchased these places. Directly across the road, a big sign on a large patch of grassy wasteland stated that the area had been earmarked for development. A property conglomerate with a foreign-sounding name wanted to bring civilisation to this little patch of urban wilderness. Bob remembered that Owden Construction had pitched on the project a few months before, only to find that he’d been priced out by another competitor.
There was progress coming that even he couldn’t stop.
A car pulled around the corner, approached slowly, and pulled up alongside Bob. The passenger door opened and Jimmy craned forward, looking in his direction. “Let’s go and see about these hidden millions.”
Bob got in the front seat and put on his seat belt.
“The Kemps were okay with you leaving?” he asked.
A wide grin parted Jimmy’s lips. “Said they didn’t need me.”
Bob turned and stared at the Karagounis brothers in the back seat. Their hands had been tethered behind their backs and zip ties bound their ankles together. They didn’t return his stare, preferring instead to keep their grey faces lowered. Bob wondered if their shyness had something to do with the fresh bruises above and below their eyes. Somebody had bandaged their wounds tightly, though it didn’t prevent them from haemorrhaging profusely on the leatherwork. The footwell was also slick with gore. The twins were bleeding to death.
Jimmy leaned over and patted Bob’s shoulder to get his attention. “You should see the Kemps in action, man. Fuckin’ beautiful. They must have x-ray eyes, because they see everything. Every detail is considered, nothing ignored. I thought I was good, but they make me look a rank amateur at this clean up business. They’re trawling the area with a UV light and spray cans of Luminol. They’ve got our lads washing stains with water—”
“So that’s why they wanted us to bring all those bottles in the van,” Bob said with a nod of admiration.
“—they’ve got ‘em digging bullets out of trees, scooping up patches of ground, scattering fresh leaves. Hell, they’re even mucking in themselves.”
“Do they need more men?”
Jimmy’s head dipped a couple of times. “Wouldn’t hurt. It’ll definitely make things faster.”
Bob looked at the sky. Dawn was a couple of hours away, which wouldn’t give them long before people started making their way to work. They needed to be finished by then. “In that case I’ll make the call.”
“Great.”
Jimmy seemed too chipper, like he was willing himself to forget about Rose. Bob knew that he’d need to watch him carefully over the next few weeks, to ensure he didn’t succumb to old habits. He needed him clean and clear-headed, not muddled by gambling problems and debts he couldn’t hope to clear.
“How’s Regan?” Bob said.
The engine revved. Jimmy breathed out through his nose. “Didn’t make it.”
“Christ.”
“Lost too much blood,” Jimmy said.
“Poor bastard.”
“That’s the job.”
“But, still?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Thoughts of the recently departed made Bob look over his shoulder again. He waited until the Karagounis twins looked up from their laps.
“You two kids better buckle up,” he said.
Anthony and George lowered their heads again and huffed softly.
“Cheer up, boys. We’re going on a treasure hunt.”
94. – Stanton
OLLIE DRAGGED his feet the way a naughty child does when they’re told to do something they don’t want to do. His soles rasped across the tarmac, making enough noise to set off my paranoia; any strange sound might be enough to draw his boss to the window. I watched the drawn lounge curtains for signs of movement, but they didn’t even twitch. Wanting to make certain it stayed that way, I wedged the silencer against Ollie’s spine. He came to a stop and his body tensed up.
“Don’t be a cunt, Ollie,” I whispered. “Walk properly or you won’t be able to walk at all.”
He took the last few steps to the front door like a normal person. Then my brother grabbed Ollie by the throat and jammed the silencer into his gut.
Taking Kandinsky to one side, I whispered commands in his ear, removed the back door key from the chain and handed it to him. He nodded once to let me know that he understood his role, crouched low and disappeared around the corner.
I approached the door and turned the handle gently, pressing my shoulder against the wood, but it didn’t budge. Backing away, I told Ollie to take my place and not try anything stupid. He grabbed the knocker, gave it a couple of taps and waited. My brother and I hunkered down on each side of the door. A key scraped and rattled in the lock and a soft voice said: “Hang on a sec, just gotta get this thing opened.”
The door pulled open and Ollie stepped back. A fat man with rockabilly hair and baggy clothes came out to greet him. My brother peeled away from the wall and jammed his gun under the man’s chins. He leaned in, hissing: “Don’t say a fuckin’ word, fatty.”
The fat man’s mouth gaped in shock until my brother closed it with the silencer barrel and used it to push him back into the darkened entrance hall. Prodding Ollie with my gun, we followed them into the house.
Forcing them to get on their stomachs, we manhandled their hands behind their backs and bound them with zip ties. I knelt on the cold tiled floor, leaned in close and murmured at them to keep their fucking mouths and eyes closed. They nodded silently and did as they were told.
A thin band of light spilled out of a partially open door at the far end of the hall. Piper moaned in low tones about his wife wasting her monthly allowance. He wondered what she needed with two hundred pound face creams, because they sure as hell didn’t make any difference. His two underlings agreed with loud enthusiasm and one of them added that there was no difference between the cheap stuff and the expensive stuff anyway. We approached the door on tiptoes and waited for the right moment.
Piper’s cigar smoke drifted through the gap and filled the hallway with a stench that resembled wet dog shit in a burning plastic bag. He started talking again, the timbre of his voice different because of the stogie that was no doubt wedged between his lips.
This was the right moment.
We pushed open the door and entered the room. Piper sat on one of the armchairs, facing the door, with a big grin on his face and an even bigger gun in his hand.
“Surprise, dickheads,” he said. “Looks like I’ve caught youse out this time.”
I thought about testing Piper’s speed and accuracy with a gun, but as soon as I looked right, towards the window, I thought better of it. A cou
ple of bruisers with faces pretty enough to be in a book of police photofits crouched behind a sofa that had been pulled away from the wall and pointed silenced automatics at our stomachs.
Piper must have noticed a question forming in my head, because he removed the cigar from his mouth with his left hand, puffed smoke at the ceiling, and pointed the stogie at the window. “Heard somebody dragging their feet outside,” he said.
“Take it that was a signal?”
He nodded and smirked. “Not so clever, are we?”
“Summat like that,” my brother said, glancing in my direction.
Piper pointed the cigar at our hands. “Drop the weaponry, boys.”
I let go of my gun, which clattered against one of the terracotta tiles, breaking it. Piper’s gaze drifted to the crack in the flooring and his mouth went small and pinched. Then he opened his gob and put the cigar back between his teeth, chewing it like a comforter.
My brother dropped his gun intentionally, then laughed as another tile broke into four pieces. He toe-poked the shards across the floor. “Ooops, butterfingers,” he said.
Piper craned forward and frowned at the mess, his face reddening gradually. He chomped on the cigar until it was almost severed in half.
“Youse’ll fuckin’ pay for that,” he hissed.
“Don’t worry, Alan,” I said. “Two hundred grand’ll pay for a lotta replacement tiles.”
He spat the flaccid cigar and flashed a movie star smile, spoiled by shreds of tobacco that speckled his teeth. “It’s two fifty, if youse count McMaster,” he said. “Three hundred if I deliver youse to Bob unharmed.”
At his feet were the two holdalls containing our money. He kicked one of them. “Add this into the mix and I’d say I’m having a good fuckin’ night, like. Speaking of which, where is The Master?”
I tapped an imaginary watch and rubbed my chin. “Right about now, he’s inside your wife,” I said. “But when he pulls out he’ll be spraying some special cream over her face. At no extra charge to you.”
My brother guffawed and even Piper’s bruisers suppressed smiles of amusement.
Piper didn’t share their mirth, because the smile melted away and his mouth puckered. He got out of the chair and moved towards me, until our noses were only a few inches apart. Piper held me with his green gaze, saying nothing, breathing hard.
Without warning, he slammed his forehead into my nose. Slivers of pain sliced across my face and fresh tears blinded me. My hands went up to my face on reflex, to wipe away the blood and tears.
Piper drove his fist into my balls. Shrieking in agony, I dropped to my knees and curled into a ball. Then I fell on my side in the foetal position, shivering and groaning until the pain became bearable. Satisfied with his work, Piper went back to the chair and sat down. “Still feeling witty?”
“No,” I groaned.
“Fuckin’ traitor,” my brother said.
Piper rolled his eyes and snorted. “Please. For eight hundred grand I’d kill me own mam, and I happen to quite like her.”
“Yeah, I like your mam,” my brother said. “Good shag. Does anal.”
Piper’s heavies lowered their heads and chuckled softly. He scowled in their direction until they fell silent and made as if to get off the armchair.
My brother hooted. “Fuckin’ come on, then. Let’s have it, Al,” he said, voice bright with excitement. “I’m ready, if you want some fuckin’ chew.” He wanted a fight, regardless of whether Kandinsky came to our rescue or not.
Piper didn’t react. Instead, he turned his head towards his companions. “Tie these idiots up. Shoot ‘em in the legs if they give youse any shite. Jezza, you take the big lad.”
The two men got to their feet, eyeing us with suspicion. Both were tall and well-built, with broad shoulders and arms that strained the fabric of their black cotton sleeves. They rounded the sofa with a fluidity and confidence that suggested they knew violence on intimate terms. Jezza approached my brother and made circles in the air with his weapon.
“Turn round,” he said.
My brother did what he was told without complaint. He crossed his wrists and waited to be tied. I attempted to get into a seated position, but the other bruiser pointed his weapon at me, hissing, “Get on your stomach, fella, an’ fuckin’ stay there. Hands behind your back.”
Following his orders, I rolled on my stomach and noticed Kandinsky at the other end of the long room, using a dining table to shield him from view. Realising that Alan’s bruisers were otherwise occupied, he edged away from the table and hunkered low within the shadow of some freestanding shelves for a better view of proceedings and a clearer shot.
Jezza put his gun in his waistband and pulled a zip-tie from his pocket. He took a few steps forward and glanced at his colleague, saying: “Cover me, Carlo.”
Carlo peeked at me briefly, then angled his weapon at my brother. Jezza had some bravado in his voice as he said, “Try owt funny and you’re gonna be very sorry,” but I saw that his hands were shaking.
My brother moved forward slightly, turning his body. Jezza mirrored his movements, trying to get close. Carlo squinted down the barrel, rotating his body to get a better view. “Jezza, mate, I can’t get a clear shot,” he said.
Jezza ignored his friend’s warning and edged forward until he was shielding my brother completely. He placed his left hand on one of my brother’s wrists and tried to use the right to wrap the loop over his hands. But his grasp was too weak, allowing my brother to shake free and spin around on his heels. He draped his left arm around Jezza’s neck, pulling it tight, and crouched low behind the man, so there was less target to aim at. Jezza waved his arms frantically at colleagues, squealing, “Don’t shoot.”
Carlo and Piper started firing anyway.
Jezza screamed as bullets pounded his chest and legs. My brother dropped to the floor, pulling the shrieking man down on top of him, and made himself as small as possible. Wild shots cracked the tiles and thumped holes in the walls.
Kandinsky edged out from behind the shelves, looked down the barrel of his gun and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot was covered by all the uproar, but the muzzle flare lit up the dining area like lightning.
Carlo’s head snapped back and he took a couple of stuttering steps to his left, his eyes rolling over white, and collapsed on his side.
Piper caught the flash from the corner of his eye and lurched to his left, firing wildly in that direction. Kandinsky kept calm, waited for a clear shot and squeezed the trigger again. The bullet slammed into Piper’s right forearm. Cursing, he dropped the automatic and instinctively grabbed the wound with his left hand to stem the blood loss. He scanned the floor for his dropped weapon, and caught sight of it a few feet away. He made a move for it.
My brother pushed Jezza away and scrambled across the floor for the dead man’s automatic. He grabbed the handle and fired a couple of fast shots at Piper. The first knocked a hole in the base of the chair, but the second sliced through Piper’s left hand. Roaring, more through shock than pain, he drew back and tried to curl into a ball.
My brother scurried forward and swung Jezza’s gun like an extension of his fist. The butt caught Piper in the jaw, causing him to slump forward. My brother caught him by the throat and thought about hitting him again, but when he realised that Piper was out cold he let him go.
I got on my feet and wobbled over to the fireplace, still cradling my balls. I turned and surveyed the carnage.
Carlo lay on his side with a small, ragged hole in his forehead, just above the left eyebrow. Jezza was on his back, staring dead-eyed at the ceiling. His T-shirt and jeans were peppered with holes and soaked with blood. Pools were already beginning to form on either side of his corpse.
My brother ran hands over his body looking for wounds. When he realised that he’d somehow managed to avoid being shot, he grinned and shook his head in disbelief. “Swear down, I must’ve used up all me nine lives tonight.”
Kandinsky shook his
head in disbelief. “And a few more besides.”
My brother turned his gaze on me. “Now what?”
“Now we wake up this cunt,” I said, pointing at Alan. “And explain to him just how much trouble he’s in.”
95. – Owden
JIMMY PARKED opposite a small, scruffy end of terrace house on an equally untidy street that faced onto a large triangular patch of unkempt grass. Most of the buildings had been abandoned and boarded up, but this was the only property bearing the MMPW logo and its distinctive green branding. Even under the streetlights, the place stood out from its neighbours.
A green metal mesh gate covered the front door and green metal also shielded the windows. A large alarm unit flashed menacingly just below the roof guttering, but Bob knew that this was just for show – to scare off the junkies and squatters. The main unit, that alerted the security team about intruders, was in the hallway behind an enclosure that had been decorated to look like part of the main wall.
Bob looked over his shoulder at the Karagounis twins. “You’re sure about the alarm code?”
“It’s the same for all of Eddie’s properties,” Anthony said. “Each of the partners has their own alarm code. And before you ask us, no I don’t know the other codes.”
“And where’s the money hidden, lad?”
“Attic – in a bag. Dunno where Eddie put it exactly, but it’s up there.”
Bob patted Jimmy’s shoulder. “Watch these two.”
He exited the car. Rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a hoop of keys that he’d taken from Eddie’s corpse. He used a heavy brass key to unlock the gate, then he found the front door key and entered the building. The thirty-second warning beeped.
Bob found a section of false wall beside a light switch and slid it across to reveal a numerical keypad. He entered a six-digit code and the warning stopped. Then he turned on the light and took the stairs two at a time.
Bob explored upstairs until he found a folded stepladder wedged behind the toilet door. He unfolded the ladder, placed it beneath a scuttle hole door in the ceiling and climbed into the attic. He used a small LED torch to illuminate the room.
The Glasgow Grin (A Stanton Brothers thriller) Page 32
