The Fighter

by Robert White

  “He will still be a danger,” I said. “No doubt in my mind.”

  “So, as Fuller suggested, there is more than one way to skin a cat,” said Sellers. “I think it’s time we went to buy some drugs.”

  * * *

  Murphy’s Sports bar wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. It looked to have undergone a recent refurbishment and there were big screens on just about every available wall. However, as with any licenced premises, what wasn’t so easy to change was its location and the clientele.

  The bar opened early, 10am, so had been trading for a couple of hours. Even so the crowd was thin and less than a dozen customers were scattered around the place. Three burly men sat at one table waiting for the start of a horse race. They all had betting slips laid out in front of them and gave Sellers and me a cursory glance before the more important business of gambling took their interest away.

  However, these guys were not of interest to us. Our attention was drawn to two younger men sitting on a raised area towards the back of the bar. They were watching Sky Sports and drinking pints of lager. The pair were just the type of guys we’d expected to find in a place renowned for its dodgy patrons. Tracksuits, baseball caps, shiny white trainers, lots of ink. One gave his pal a nudge in the ribs and pointed us out. There was a snippet of leery conversation that I couldn’t quite hear, but I got the impression that it wouldn’t be too long before we had the pleasure of the boys company.

  Indeed, I hadn’t even emptied the neck of my bottle of Becks when they decided to make their move.

  The taller of the two, a late twenties bull of a man, strode out in front of his mate, one hand clutching his Fosters and the other mysteriously stuck down the front of his tracksuit bottoms. He wore a wide smile that revealed a single gold tooth.

  Seconds later, he swept a stool from under our table and plonked himself in front of us. His shorter, slimmer friend was seemingly less confident of his pulling prowess, and remained standing, mercifully his free hand, was at his side and not feeling his own privates.

  “Alright girls,” said bollock feeler in a thick Manchester accent. “What brings you in here then?”

  Sellers was first in. I figured that she wouldn’t be able to contain her derision, but I was wrong. She actually played her part with some gusto.

  “We heard this place was full of handsome men,” she said, giving her hair a flick for good measure.

  I shot her a look, I mean, you could have a white stick, guide dog and sing like Stevie Wonder and the guy would still be as rough as a badger’s arse.

  The nut rubber puffed out his chest, turned to his pal, who in fairness was quite a good looking boy, and gave him a knowing wink. This appeared to be the signal for number two to join the fray and the guy sat, a little too close to me for comfort.

  “Hiya,” he managed, and gave me a crooked smile.

  “Hello,” I offered.

  “Not from round here, are yer,” said Gold Tooth, giving Sellers’ trim figure the once over.

  “London, darling,” she purred, lifting her own bottle of lager. “Kensington, to be precise. We’re here to invest in some property. The prices are far more sensible in these parts.”

  “Right,” offered Goldie. “Well, I’m Freddy and this is my pal, Dave”.

  We both managed smiles, tapped our bottles against their pint pots but kept our counsel.

  Freddy wasn’t done. ” So, you girls just taking a break, then? We’re born and bred here, know this area like the back of our hands, we do. Maybe we could help you look around, yer know, show you where to avoid. Can be a bit rough in parts, if yer know what I mean?”

  “Oh, we’re done for the day, darling,” smiled Sellers. “Actually, we were hoping to run into someone who could point us in the direction of some fun.”

  Freddy looked like he’d just won the lottery. He gave his pal Dave another obvious wink.

  “Well, you’ve found just the two blokes you need sweetheart. Fun is our middle name.”

  I figured it was my turn, so leaned across the table to reveal a little too much cleavage.

  “The kind of fun we are looking for comes in little plastic bags, sweetheart. You know what I mean?”

  I thought Dave’s eyes were about to pop out of his head.

  “We know a guy,” he stammered, finally tearing his eyes away from my chest and looking to his mate. “D… Don’t we, Freddy?”

  I thought I saw a flash of anger in Freddy’s eyes as he looked to his pal. The bigger, more confident guy, erring on the side of caution when dealing with a pair of strangers, no matter how attractive they appeared.

  “We might do,” he offered, giving Dave a hard stare. “He’ll be in later. Normally gets in around four-ish.”

  I made a show of opening my bag to reveal a wad of cash and a slip of paper yet keeping my Colt and ASP out of sight.

  Making a show of scanning the note, I said. “This guy wouldn’t be called Arti, would he?”

  Sellers gave Freddy an alluring look.

  “You see, Freddy, last night some chaps told us this Arti fellow drank in here. They were certain that he could help a girl out with what she wanted.” She ran her hand across the table and gave Freddy’s arm a stroke. “They said he was a big, good looking, muscular guy. At first, I thought that you might be him, darling.”

  Freddy sucked in his gut and swallowed the tale.

  “Arti’s a big lad alright, but he don’t seem to bother much with the ladies. He’s all business he is. I’ll say this though, things are a bit tight right now, not a lot of beak about. Reckon there’s been a big bust somewhere, eh? So you might struggle if you want any real weight.”

  “That’s what the boys said last night,” I offered. “All we could get was a couple of grams, and that wasn’t up to much. But they gave us this guy’s name and this bar.”

  I tapped my bag bursting with cash.

  “We don’t need ounces of it, but it would be nice to get hold of say five hundred pounds worth. See, we’re having a party at our hotel tonight. Lots of rich folks, lots of girls. So, we need someone a little more… connected.”

  I gave him my best beam.

  “If you helped us out, I’m sure we could slip you on the VIP list.”

  “It will be wild,” added Sellers suggestively.

  Freddy seemed to weigh up his options. I got the feeling that he didn’t know Jonas too well. Indeed there was a suggestion in his eyes that he may even be a little frightened of our target. We just had to hope that the promise of a drug fuelled night back at our hotel would be enough for him to swallow that fear and give us what we needed.

  He waved his mobile.

  “I’ll give him a call,” he said.

  Freddy stepped outside into the street and we sat making inane small talk with his pal until he returned.

  He swaggered back into the bar minutes later. By the look on his face, the deal had been done.

  “He says he can do you ten gram for five hundred, but you have to go to his gaff now, cos he’s got business later.”

  Bingo.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  The girls had played a blinder and the game was on. Jonas lived in a three bed semi just on the edge of Burnage, a short hop from Longsight. It was a tidy gaff with a wee front garden and off street parking for one car. A white Subaru Imprezza held that space.

  Rick and Mickey Forrest were tucked in the back of our builders van and I kept a watchful eye as we waited for the girls to arrive and do the dirty deed.

  Our role was intended to be purely supportive. Lauren and Victoria had a plan for Jonas, and I had to say it was as ingenious as it was deserved. My only worry was that the Subaru wasn’t Arti’s and Jacket was on plot, too. Despite my confidence in the girls, from what I’d heard about him from Mickey, he would be a real handful.

  With less than fi
ve minutes to run before the girls’ arrival, the front door of the gaff opened and just the man we did not want to see stepped outside.

  Tony Jacket, or to give him his real name, Gage Molnár, was indeed a big unit. His huge square shaved head sat on massive shoulders. He was a steroid boy, which suggested he would be extremely strong and aggressive, but it also meant that he would run out of steam very quickly as the lactic acid built up in his muscles, slowing him down and putting a strain on his heart and lungs.

  He wore three-quarter length shorts, and flip flops on his feet. In his right hand, he gripped a large heavy looking holdall, in his left were a set of keys.

  He blipped the alarm on the Subaru, and I saw the indicators flash. Moments later, he was in the car and the engine roared into life.

  Rick clambered from the back of the van and sat alongside me. As Jacket reversed from the drive, he gave me the nod.

  “No time like the present,” he said. “The girls can handle Jonas. Let’s follow square head and see where it leads us.”

  Now, in order to follow a target by road, any surveillance team would want at least three or four different vehicles at their disposal. Anyone with any sort of sense, particularly someone who was involved in crime, would be surveillance conscious, so with just our solitary and rather sedentary Transit to hand, we were on a loser from the start.

  If our Hungarian friend hit the accelerator on the Subaru, we would simply be eating his dust in seconds. We would also stand out like the proverbial sore thumb.

  That said, sometimes you need that wee bit of luck and it seemed that our little team were having just that bit of good fortune. Jacket not only drove like Miss Daisy but appeared not to have the slightest inkling what his rear view mirror was for.

  We followed as much of the protocol as we could, dropping back and using traffic to mask our van, then as and when we dared, got in close so as not to lose our prey. By the time we hit the M60 and saw the Imprezza indicate to exit at the Stockport pyramid, Rick began to get our kit ready.

  “Either this guy is blind, or stupid, or both,” he said. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m itching to know what’s in that bag he threw in the back.”

  “Aye, pal,” I said. “The only reason you drive a car like that at a steady fifty-five, is you don’t want a pull. I reckon something’s on.”

  As it turned out, I was about as right as I could be.

  Lauren North’s Story:

  Sellers closed the call from Rick.

  “The boys are tailing Jacket out of town, so we have a clear run at our boy. If Jacket turns for home, Fuller will call again.”

  I nodded, pulled Rick’s Porsche 944 up outside Arti Jonas’ residence, gave the throttle a blip to announce our presence and stepped out into the street.

  Of course, we were expected and even before we could knock, the door swung open. Unusually for Manchester’s finest drug dealers, there was no secondary security, no cage, and no bars on the inside. Maybe our target had seen enough of those back in his homeland, or maybe, as he lived in a relatively affluent area, such things would only increase his neighbours’ suspicions. He towered over both of us, standing in his hallway, barefooted. Sellers had that look in her eye that told me she was actually going to enjoy executing our little plan, but I felt unusually nervous.

  “You must be Arti,” she announced. “Big strong boy, aren’t you?”

  The huge Hungarian seemed unimpressed by us, which was hardly surprising as we were both way outside his preferred age range. He suspiciously leaned forwards just enough to see along his street, checked no one else was about to spoil the party and grunted at us in heavily accented English.

  “Inside,” he said.

  As we stood in his hallway, Jonas closed the door behind us. Yet didn’t move. He simply stared at us each in turn as if assessing us for threats. The Hungarian had the strangest eyes I’d ever seen. His light blue irises were so pale, his pupils stood out like jet pin pricks. And they were set so deep in his large skull, his brows shadowed them giving him a strange and eerie appearance.

  I did my best to smile and play my part as a posh girl looking to party, but if I was honest, he unnerved me in an instant.

  I instinctively grabbed at my bag and felt the reassuring bulk of my revolver and ASP tucked neatly at the bottom. If Jonas decided to search us, we would have to change tactics instantly, but he didn’t make a move. His underestimation of the fairer sex was about to be his undoing.

  “Come,” he growled. “Back room.”

  We followed him to a sparsely furnished dining area. No pictures on the walls, no chest of drawers, no homely additions, just a cheap round table and two chairs. However, sitting in one corner was a large old fashioned green safe and a weird contraption that looked like an industrial press of some kind.

  Jonas stood by the table. “Money,” he said. “Five hundred. Show me.”

  “Not one for small talk, are you darling?” said Sellers, holding Jonas’ stare. “We have the cash here, my lovely, but despite the fact we are girls, we are not inexperienced in these matters. I’m keen to try the product before we part with the readies. So much poor quality stuff about, you see.”

  The Hungarian screwed up his face.

  “I not sell bad stuff. Only best. Show money or fuck off.”

  Sellers shrugged and gave me a look.

  “That machine in the corner is to re-press the pure stuff after these chaps have cut it, so, no guarantee of the quality. Let’s be off, darling,” she said. “We’re dealing with fucking amateurs here.”

  Well, that answered my question about the press.

  Jonas’ eyes flashed and he bared his teeth. They looked strangely small in his wide mouth.

  “Wait,” he snapped and held up a huge hand. “Stand over there, in corner.”

  He obviously wanted to put space between us as he was forced to turn his back whilst he opened the safe.

  Not so confident after all, eh?

  He rummaged in the neck of his shirt, pulled a key from inside that had been dangling on a long gold chain, then opened the heavy door. I saw two blocks of compressed powder and a further clear plastic bag containing several smaller packets. In the bottom of the safe was also an item that we were particularly interested in.

  A silver coloured laptop.

  Now was our opportunity, with Jonas kneeling and his back to us, even across the room, we had him at a disadvantage. Sellers pulled her SLP from her waistband stepped over and pointed it at our target’s substantial skull.

  “Up… slow and steady there, big boy,” she said.

  Jonas was anything but slow.

  He twisted his massive frame swinging a ham of a fist blindly behind him until he made contact with Sellers outstretched arm. The sheer speed and ferocity of Jonas’ movement took Victoria off guard and her weapon was knocked from her grasp, clattering against the wall and falling to the floor down the side of the still open safe.

  “Bitch,” he screamed as he launched himself towards her. Jonas was more than double Sellers’ weight and as his shoulder smashed into her midriff, I heard her groan in pain. She was thrown backwards, and she hit her head on the small round table as she fell. Within three seconds, we had gone from a position of control, to being in deep shit.

  I struggled with the zip on my bag, cursing the fact that I’d been forced to close it to hide the contents, my haste slowing what should have been a simple process. As Jonas drew back his powerful arm and punched Sellers in the head, I could wait no longer. I took three steps forwards and kicked him square in the jaw. It was a peach of a shot. Any footballer would have been proud of it. It was a top corner screamer if ever there was one, but the bastard just shook his head, slammed his fist into Victoria’s face a second time and then came for me.

  He roared like a lion as he stood and towered over me, grabbing at my ja
cket and spinning me around like a rag doll. As he released me, I crashed into the wall, knocking the wind from me as I did so. However, I wasn’t done. Not quite yet.

  I pushed my hand into my now open bag and tried to find my pistol, but the first thing that came to hand was my ASP.

  It would just have to do.

  Weapon in hand, I thrust my arm out to my side and felt the tungsten steel baton lock.

  I was in business.

  Jonas snorted his derision at the small steel bar and made to grab at it, but I had my fighting head on. I’d dealt with big bulls of men before. On the streets of Dublin, in the fields of Albania and bested them all.

  My first blow struck his outstretched wrist, and as I took a sharp step to my right, I swung again and caught him cleanly on the elbow of the same arm. If the bones weren’t broken, the nerve endings would be screaming at his brain to tell him they thought they were.

  He grimaced yet didn’t cry out. But despite his silence, I could see he was hurt, and he held his left arm to his chest as he came for me a second time.

  “I fuck you up,” he snorted. Red faced and sweating.

  I was on the balls of my feet, baton ready. “Come on then, fat boy, let’s see what you’ve got,” I said.

  Once again, he launched himself, but now I was more than ready. Too quick, too nimble. He grabbed at thin air and I simply side stepped him, and swung the ASP in a wide arc, arm extended for maximum power and connected with the back of his head.

  I felt a warmth on my face, and instantly realised that I was splattered with his blood. The baton was running with it, my hand covered. Somehow, he managed to spin his body before he slid down the wall, barely conscious.

  Turning my attention to a very dazed Sellers, I lay my baton on the table, and dropped on a chair breathing heavily.

  Jonas’ legs were twitching, but he was going nowhere for a while. Even so, I pulled my Colt and covered him. As I did so Victoria gingerly sat up, rubbing the back of her head and touching her ever swelling left eye.