The Fighter

by Robert White

  Almost.

  Davie and Stevie Melons did not reside in such an upwardly mobile spot and were well known faces. A couple of ‘bad lads,’ who had been systematically moulded into cynical hired killers, and all for the price of a couple of ounces of cocaine. That, and the street credibility they desperately craved.

  We were all squeezed into our builders van. Mickey had driven us to our FOP (Forward Operating Point) and identified the target premises. Our plan called for just two of the team to make the entry and slot the shooters. Des had intimated he wanted to be at the sharp end on this one and he asked that I go along with him. The remaining members of the team would watch the street, Lauren on foot, Sellers and Forrest in the van. As Forrest was unlikely to need a weapon, I considered our new recruit could sit this one out, unarmed. It also meant that Sellers didn’t have to watch her back if things went tits up and it turned out we’d made the wrong judgement about the boy.

  In reality, that was definitely not the case.

  I sat in the front passenger seat and checked over my Fastback as Des and Lauren pushed some comms in their ears. On my suggestion, Lauren also wore covert body armour.

  A quick call to Egghead had ensured we knew the exact layout of the flat. The electronic transfer of ‘a monkey,’ had seen him email us the council’s original drawings for the gaff. However, Mickey was pretty certain that our targets had a metal cage behind their front door, a common addition to many gangsters’ abodes, so our planned MOE (Method of Entry,) had to be the lounge window. It was a big single pane that would take just seconds to rake out. A risky strategy, but with the element of surprise, and with just two targets, I figured it was a banker.

  With just seconds to go before we made our approach. We were joined by two very unwelcome visitors.

  “That’s fucked it,” said Forrest, pointing out two kids on BMX’s doing wheelies under the streetlight outside the block. “You won’t even make the landing, Fuller. Especially with you being dressed the way you are.”

  I checked myself out and gave him a look.

  “Like you said earlier, you’re a stranger,” he explained. “That… and everything you’re wearing came from some designer outlet on Deansgate. The locals would spot you in an instant, and considering the Melons cousins have just topped a kid in broad daylight, everyone, including those two Sean Burns wannabes, might be a tad on edge, eh?”

  He gestured towards the two new arrivals.

  “And have you noticed they’re both wearing colours? They’re carrying for sure… At least it means the Melons are home.”

  “And your suggestion is?” I said, slightly irritated that he’d commented on my apparel.

  “Well,” he said. “If Sean Ryan was still breathing, I reckon you would have used him on this one, y’know, a Trojan horse. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? The friendly face? I used to drink in the Lion just up the road, the Melons know me. And unless you intend to slot those pair of fifteen year olds outside the plot, we need another option. I reckon that’s me.”

  I watched the two kids on bikes for a moment. Forrest was right, they were maybe fifteen at best. They wore the uniform of the street, hoods up, scarves covering the lower half of their face. I knew what those colours meant, too; I’d seen them dozens of times when I’d visited the Richards family on the Moss.

  The Melons cousins were relatively small time but, in slotting young Sean, would be hoping to move up a rung or two. That said, even at their current lowly position, they obviously still felt the need to know if trouble beckoned. The two BMX bandits probably moved product around for them and kept an eye on their flat when they were home.

  “Have you got anything with a suppressor?” asked Forrest.

  I unzipped a bag at my feet and removed one of our MP7’s.

  “Nice,” he said. “That will do the trick.”

  “And your plan?” I asked, unable to hide my rising irritation.

  “I’ll go knock on the door,” he said.

  “And the BMX boys?”

  “I reckon I can blag two kids.”

  I gave Des a questioning look.

  “I’m with Mickey on this one,” said the Scot. “I dinnea fancy slotting a pair of wains, even if they are carrying.”

  “Victoria?” I said. “Do you have an opinion?”

  She gave me a brief smile.

  “Of course I do, darling. I think Forrest’s idea is a possible, so long as I go with him.”

  She looked Mickey in the eye.

  “That way, if he suddenly finds he has a conflict of interest, the job still gets done.”

  Forrest looked at Sellers, there was fire in his eyes.

  “The job will get done, Ma’am,” he said coldly. “It’s me who’s sticking my neck out here. Those two kids might not know me by name, but after tonight, it won’t be long before I’m a wanted man in these parts.”

  “All in a day’s work, Forrest,” said Sellers, reaching for the MP7. “And just for the record, if this goes pear shaped, we revert to plan A… and I won’t have the slightest problem slotting those two little shits outside to achieve that… understood?”

  Forrest’s face darkened.

  “Understood, but you can’t expect me to go out there unarmed.”

  I nodded to Des.

  “Give him your BAP, mate… and your comms set.”

  Forrest took the weapon and pushed it in the back of his jeans.

  “Tape your pressel down so the mic stays open,” I said to him. “That way we get to hear what’s going on, even if we lose sight of you. Sellers, will keep hers SOP, so we can talk to you.”

  “Roger that,” said Forrest, and began to prep the set.

  Minutes later, our two newest team members stepped from the van and began the walk towards the small block of maisonettes. Lauren turned her comms set to speaker so we could all hear their conversations.

  “Hold my hand, darling,” Victoria said to Mickey.

  He did as she asked, and I saw her look at him.

  “You’re a bit short for me, Forrest,” she said. “Shame that.”

  As the happy couple got within twenty yards of the target, I saw one of the two BMX boys pull out a mobile.

  The cousins would soon know they might be about to have company. The kids then rode around the approaching pair in a large circle, having a closer look, doing their best to intimidate them.

  Through the open comms set, we heard Forrest shout to them.

  “Tell Stevie to open up. Tell him, it’s an old mate of his from The Lion.”

  That seemed to do the trick and they stopped their spinning and returned to their previous position.

  I’d always hated the watching brief. It wasn’t my idea of fun, and as Victoria and Mickey reached the Melons’ front door, I felt far more nervous than if I’d been standing there alongside them.

  Mickey knocked and waited.

  “We’ll get them both in the same room before we make our move, darling,” said Sellers quietly.

  “Your wish is my command, Ma’am,” answered Forrest.

  The door opened and one of the boys stood there. As expected, he was protected by a metal grille. He held an SLP in his hand, but it dangled by his side, more a gesture than a threat.

  “Alright there, man,” said the boy.

  “Alright, Stevie,” offered Forrest. “We were just walking up to The Lion and I thought I’d nip in and see if you were both cool, see if you had any beak going spare for my bird here.”

  We watched as the boy unlocked the gate. He sounded very stoned.

  “Hey man, you was on top tonight. We did that fucker good, eh. Arti will be buzzin’ man.”

  “Looks like they’re in,” said Des.

  “Let’s just hope they don’t recognise Victoria,” said Lauren.

  As if to answer her concern
, the boy seemed to take a long and approving look at Sellers.

  “You got good taste in chicks, man, come on in,” he slurred. “Davie is just racking up some lines now. Bit of a celebration, eh?”

  Seconds later the door was closed, and our team were out of sight.

  We all three turned our attention to the open comms set.

  Mickey spoke first. “You boys look like you’ve had a good night already.”

  “What happened to your eye, man,” said Stevie.

  “Aww, its nothin’,” said Mickey. “A couple of City fans cut up after you boys did one.”

  A third deeper voice, who we presumed to be the other cousin, Davie, spoke next.

  “Bet you sorted them, eh, Mickey?”

  “You know me,” said Forrest.

  “Is one of those lines for me?” asked Sellers. “I do like a party.”

  “Knock yourself out, darlin’,” slurred Stevie.

  “What’s she doing?” said Des. “Just get the job done, girl”

  There was a rustling sound and a click as Sellers pulled her MP7 from her jacket and moved the safety to the fire position.

  “Night night, boys,” she said.

  Through the comms set, we heard her MP7 spit out four rounds, two double taps. Then seconds later, two single shots as she made sure the job was done. From outside, the weapon was as quiet as a mouse.

  “Shall we go now, darling,” she said to Mickey. “Hold my hand on the way out, please.”

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  We all got back to Longden Road without incident. I put on the local news and flopped in front of the TV. Lauren and Rick got a late night brew on whilst Victoria and Mickey made sandwiches.

  The news was full of the Flat Iron shooting, a very excitable young female presenter making the most of the gangland execution story.

  Thankfully, our visit to the Melons cousins had yet to make the small screen.

  Moments later, things took a turn for the worse, and none other than Larry Simpson came into shot. He was dressed to the nines, all shiny suit and perfect hair. I mean, I could see why the girls went for him, but he was a weird fucker, no doubt.

  “Right now, I’m joined by Detective Chief Inspector Larry Simpson of Manchester’s Serious and Organised Crime Unit,” gushed the presenter.

  “Boys and girls,” I called to the kitchen. “You all need to see this.”

  Everyone filed into the small lounge. Sellers sat next to me and handed me a sandwich.

  “Tell me that’s not Lauren’s man,” she said, eyes wide.

  I gave her a look, which she ignored.

  “My, my, girl,” she said turning to Lauren as she walked into the room. “He’s a fine example of the modern male. I can see why…”

  “I don’t think anyone needs to know your thoughts on that matter… Vicky,” snapped Lauren, obviously unimpressed by Sellers’ lack of decorum. “Maybe we should all just listen and see what he has to say, eh?”

  Sellers wrinkled her nose at the shortening of her name, and we all settled in to hear the cop’s comments.

  “Thank you, Natasha,” he began. “I can give you a brief statement… An emergency call was received by police shortly after seven o’clock this evening, reporting shots fired inside the Flat Iron pub here in Market Way, Salford. Officers were immediately dispatched to the scene, including Armed Response Vehicles. On arrival, they found that a shooting had taken place inside the public house, and that tragically, the incident had resulted in the death of a twenty two year old male. We are aware of his identity, and he was known to us. However, as yet, we are unable to contact his next of kin, and until that time, we cannot identify him to you. The two suspects in this shocking and senseless incident are described as being white males, aged between twenty and thirty years old. They entered the pub shortly after the deceased arrived and shot him several times at point blank range, inflicting fatal injuries. Now, as a veteran of many of these kinds of incidents, I am fully aware of the reluctance of witnesses to come forward to the police, however, I can assure anyone who has information that may lead to the identification of the two suspects, that they will be guaranteed complete anonymity.”

  “Can you tell us, Chief Inspector,” asked the commentator. “Is this murder drug related?”

  Larry smiled at the camera, then turned to the woman.

  “At this early stage, it would be foolish of me to speculate, Natasha, but suffice to say, it has all the hallmarks of a gangland murder… Thank you.”

  And with that, he was gone, leaving the presenter to waffle for a few moments more. Rick grabbed the remote and killed the set.

  “Just what we needed,” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “It disnea change anything, Rick. We always knew the polis would be all over this like a rash.”

  “I know,” he said. “But with Simpson heading the investigation into Sean’s murder, it will fall to him to take on the Melons inquiry, and with the history we have between us, that’s not a good thing.”

  Mickey frowned and took a deep breath.

  “What the fuck is happening here? Who’s this cop? No one mentioned that we’d have the serious and organised on our backs from the beginning. We’re taking massive risks, and for what?”

  “For massive money,” said Rick.

  Forrest nodded slowly but went very quiet. Finally he turned to me. “Fancy a burn, pal?” he said.

  I nodded, pulled myself from the sofa and we stepped into the small backyard.

  “You did good tonight,” I said. “Listen Mickey, don’t overthink this, eh? Let Rick and me worry about the men in suits and the whys and wherefores of the job.”

  He lit his cigarette and took a long drag.

  “I know what you’re saying there, Des and I realise I’m just a hired hand, but I’m no fool. Arti Jonas, Tony Jacket, they aren’t the targets here, you’ve told me that much. They’re collateral damage. But I reckon this is something big that I’ve just fallen into and you can’t tell me anything about it. Now, I showed my colours tonight, and from tonight my neck is on the line for a bunch of strangers who would have topped me soon as looked at me not eight hours ago.”

  He took another drag and then looked me in the face. He had sharp green eyes, but as he spoke, I noticed a change in his expression. One that I hadn’t seen before.

  “The Kosovo War ended on 11 June 1999,” he said. “The Yugoslavs withdrew their forces from the province after a massive NATO bombing campaign. 40,000 Yugoslav soldiers were to be replaced by NATO troops, while 170,000 Kosovo Serbs fled for fear of reprisals. Pathfinder Platoon were ordered smack bang into the middle of the retreat. Our task was to find drop zones for the NATO air support and, even though the KLA were supposed allies of the NATO force, our instructions were to disarm any Albanian insurgents until things calmed down. The KLA were rife in the region, and I don’t care who’s side they were on, they were real nasty evil bastards.”

  “I know all about the KLA, son,” I said, lighting my pipe. “And Albania fer that matter. I lost a good pal there. One of the best.”

  Mickey shrugged and continued his tale.

  “We’d been on the ground for two weeks, camped just outside a small place called Staro Gracko. Just after dusk, British KFOR troops heard gunfire from the village and scrambled us. Turned out, the KLA had paid the locals a visit. You see, despite the evacuation, some Serbs had refused to leave their land. Staro Gracko was predominantly Serbian, but the surrounding villages were inhabited by Albanians who were pro KLA. Once we got on the plot, we found dozens of dead, simple farmers, who had been herded together and shot, some had been horribly mutilated and disfigured.”

  He took a long pull on his smoke.

  “Me and my mate, Kev Willis, went to clear some outbuildings, and we found the women and kids inside. What they’d do
ne to them… well, it wasn’t pretty.”

  He dropped his fag under his boot. “I still see their faces, poor fuckers.”

  Mickey felt for his packet of Regal and lit a second.

  “It was then that I had my first experience of ‘the men in suits,’ you talk about. These guys turned up, Americans, all shiny hair and pearly teeth, alongside people like yourselves… mercenaries. They worked for a group called L-3 MPRI, (Military Professional Resources Inc.)” He snorted derision down his nose. “You couldn’t have made it up. The firm procured millions of dollars in private defence contracts and arms transfers. They had guys in Columbia, Africa. Jesus, people in high places didn’t come into it. The word was, they’d been training and supporting the KLA prior to the arrival of NATO forces and as MPRI were already fending off a lawsuit from some Serbs who accused the firm of participation in genocide, they wanted to… ‘clear things up,’ in those fields and barns. Make your own assumptions there, Des. We were shipped out that night.”

  I listened to Mickey’s tale, watched his face change, saw his pain. I knew he could see those images in his head as he recounted his experiences. I knew, because we all could, you never forgot, and some things, some faces, never left you, never gave you peace.