by Robert White
“Come on,” I bawled. “Make ‘em fuckin’ have it!”
Des didn’t need any further encouragement and popped up with his Sig, arms extended, one hand cupping the other, the classic shooter’s pose. The guy was nothing short of deadly. Anyone who has ever fired a handgun will testify that it is the most frustrating weapon to use. Most can hit a stationary target from twenty yards when under zero pressure. But a moving target that is equally determined and firing back? Well, that is an all new ball game. Desmond Cogan, however, as the old song goes, was simply the best.
The Scot ignored the incoming fire and slotted two of the Yunfakh boys within seconds. That seemed to give the whole of our team a lift and the girls opened up with the big stuff.
Mickey had turned his attention to Kenny’s crew, who now had McCreery untied and out of the cabin. He got off two rounds with his Remington and caught one boy in the gut. He went down screaming in agony, holding his entrails in with his arms, but Kenny stayed on point, kept his charge moving and his head down. The team leader was a cool, hard customer and was obviously more concerned with getting his boss home and dry than saving ammunition. He bawled to his last remaining fighter and the boy raked our positions with the second of our MP7’s, forcing us all back into cover.
As the deadly armour piercing rounds clattered all around us, I once again risked a look.
Kenny, McCreery and the shooter were on their toes sprinting into the darkness and away from our position. It would appear that our big tough drug dealer was far more interested in staying alive than spending his five million quid.
As I cursed the loss of our prisoner, I felt a round fly past my head. It was close, very close and I saw that it had been fired by none other than Al-Mufti himself.
Now, it is always better to have a clear head in battle. The guys that suffer the red mist, often end up covered in the red stuff. But as I looked into the eyes of the man that had once again tried to kill me, I felt my rage overcome my common sense.
The Egyptian had watched Kenny and McCreery run for their lives. I could almost read his thoughts. He had just three men left. He was outnumbered and we had the superior cover. He gave the order to his remaining soldiers to open up on us, twisted his body, and as I ducked down behind my pallets, I saw him make his move and turn and flee.
“Let’s finish this,” I shouted.
My team had seen what was unfolding and were all over it. The girls popped up and lay down a blanket of fire on Al-Mufti’s remaining crew, spewing white hot 7.62 into their positions. Des, and Mickey edged around our enemy’s flanks, and ten seconds later, all was quiet.
Mickey was checking each body for signs of life as Sellers collected what weapons were still functional.
I looked around.
“Where’s Des?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Des Cogan’s Story:
I’d seen Jimmy make a run fer it, but there was nothing I could do. Al-Mufti’s lot were spraying so many rounds down on us, we couldn’t even return fire.
That said, the moment, the very second, I knew we had the battle won. I was off. I knew Rick would want to go for Al-Mufti. It was personal to him, and he would have expected me to be alongside him, to take revenge for Frankie Green. But I had other ideas. I had unfinished business of my own, and that lay outside the unit, with Jimmy McCreery. Somewhere in the dark, in the grounds of the estate, Jimmy was running for his life, and as our orders were to eliminate the main players in this game, I intended to stop him in his tracks.
I sprinted across the tarmac, back the way we had been marched in, back towards our van. After all, if I were Kenny and I knew where a functioning vehicle was, that’s the first place I’d be headed.
Once I was within fifty yards, I slowed to a walk and checked over my Sig. If I’d counted correctly, I had four rounds in the mag, so not much room for error.
I stopped and listened.
I could hear Lauren’s voice from behind me. She was calling to Rick. There was fear in it, worry. I couldn’t quite capture what she’d said, but I figured he’d gone after the Egyptian alone and she wasn’t happy.
Then, there was silence, no traffic noise, just a light breeze and some rain in the air.
I wiped sweat from my face with my palm and got my head together. Edging ever closer to where I knew our van had been left, I heard the first murmurings. Scottish voices. Angry hushed tones.
I tucked myself against a low wall and held my breath.
The first voice I heard was Jimmy’s.
“I dinnea fuckin’ care one shite, Kenny. That’s five mil of my hard earned back there, and I pay yees to look after these things.”
“And ye willnea be spending it if ye go back there to try and collect it, Jimmy. I’ve six rounds left, and Billy here has two. Now work it the fuck out.”
The camp was obviously not a happy one, and as far as ammunition went, it appeared we were all in the same boat. However, they were three and I was on my lonesome. I would only get one chance at this and I knew it.
I moved slowly, head down, until I reached the end of my wall and the last of my cover.
Jimmy was still whining about his cash. Kenny was doing his best to keep him calm.
With my knees bent and my back to the low wall, I took a deep breath. Four rounds, three targets, in the dark. A very tall order indeed.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I’d pulled an SLP from the dead hands of one of Al-Mufti’s players and checked it over. Seven in the mag. Well, it would just have to be enough.
I caught Lauren’s eye as I made to walk from the unit. She wore a concerned expression; she bit her bottom lip and shook her head.
“Ditch everything,” I said. “All your weapons. Travel separately, and get to the lock up, keep your heads down and I’ll be in touch… good job.”
As I turned, Lauren called after me. “Rick,” she said. “You don’t have to do this.”
I walked to her and took her in my arms, “I do. And you know I do,” I said.
Al-Mufti had run towards the entrance of the site. I figured that the vehicle containing his drugs would still be out there, and that would be exactly where he was headed. Even in the jaws of defeat, he wouldn’t want to lose another shipment. He would want to fight another day.
I jogged steadily, not knowing exactly where to look, or indeed how I would go about finding a man whom was undoubtedly an expert in urban combat. I figured that the vehicle would be a van or a large car. Worst case scenario was that Al-Mufti had left a couple of his Yunfakh goons watching over his precious consignment. If it was still guarded, I would be outnumbered, and that would put me right in the brown stuff.
As I reached the entrance to the estate, I noticed that the fake cop car was still there, lights flashing. However its occupants had long gone. Either they lay dead somewhere around the unit, or they had fled.
Seconds later, I heard an engine turn over and fire. It was off to my left and it was close.
I turned towards the noise and slipped off the safety on my weapon.
It was then I heard gunfire from the other side of the estate.
Gunfire and screams of agony.
Des Cogan’s Story:
My first round caught Kenny square in the chest. The last of his guys was slow to react and I put two of my precious shots in somewhere around his diaphragm. He began to scream like a stuck pig. Under normal circumstances, I would have put one in his head and helped the boy out, but with just a single bullet left, the poor bastard would just have to scream.
Jimmy turned and sprinted away. In a split second he was out of sight, lost behind the van and I could hear him crashing through the undergrowth.
I had no choice but to follow.
With little ambient light to guide either of us, it was a guessing game. I couldn’t see Jimmy, but I could hear him, tripp
ing and cursing as he forced his way through the scrub. I caught a root with my right boot and went crashing to the floor, knocking the wind out of me. Evil brambles tore at my skin and my hands were lacerated in seconds.
However, I knew that Jimmy would be in the same boat. He would be struggling, and I had the advantage of experience. I knew all those horrible tabs through the jungle, would come in handy one day.
I heard a thump up ahead, and a cry of pain. Jimmy was down. I had to get to him, to finish this, once and for all. And I knew I was close.
It was so frustrating. I struggled to make any progress. Twine, creepers and whatever other local foliage wrapped itself around my ankles whilst the thorns continued to cut me to ribbons, I heard Jimmy begin to thrash about again. He was up and running and he still had a good few yards on me.
We were getting closer to the main road, and I began to see the odd shaft of yellow sodium light that illuminated my path. I forced my body forwards, head down, teeth gritted.
Seconds later, I looked up and could see the end of the scrub, the footpath and the silhouette of a very tired looking Jimmy McCreery.
He had his hands on his knees and was coughing his guts up. Even so, even in his state of exhaustion, dog tired, he had his wits, and he heard me approaching.
“Fuck you, Des,” he shouted, then turned and began to run along the footpath, towards the main road and civilisation.
I powered forwards, no longer feeling the brambles, no longer worried about my footing. I had the bastard, and I knew it.
Moments later, my feet were on solid gravel and I was off. Now, I’ve never been the quickest, and, as you know, I do like a wee tab, but I’ve trained all my life, where Jimmy had not.
He was twenty yards ahead, blowing out of his arse.
He turned briefly, staggered, then stopped.
The temperature had fallen, and I could see his breath in the air.
He spat on the floor and held up a hand.
“Okay, fuck’s sake, Des, okay.”
Rick Fuller’s Story:
The first thing I saw were headlights, then the plumes of smoke from the rear tyres of the 7 Series BMW. I couldn’t see the driver, but as the car was flat out and heading straight for me, I had to presume that whoever was in control, was not on my Christmas card list.
The car would cut me off at the knees. I had nowhere to go, so I gambled everything, shit or bust and put all my seven rounds into the windscreen. Mercifully, I hit the driver, and the car lurched to the left, the accelerator flat to the floor, engine screaming. Whoever had the wheel had lost control and the car spun a full 180 before crashing, rear end first, into one of the small empty units that littered the estate.
The collision sent bits of plastic and glass flying into the air, raining back down on the shiny black paint of the Beamer.
The car burbled menacingly, ticking over, the interior in darkness, headlights blazing. No movement.
I kept my body bent and shuffled to my left. I needed to see if the driver was alive. Two more paces would do it, but I didn’t get the chance.
Someone from inside the car started shooting, and I was suddenly taking fire in the open. Four, five, maybe six rounds flew around me and bounced off the tarmac. As I threw myself to the floor and rolled, I felt the unmistakable pain of being shot.
I was hit somewhere between chest and gut on my left side. It was as if someone had thrust a red hot poker into my flesh and was twisting it around for good measure.
I felt my blood seep into my shirt and my body begin to fall into shock.
That couldn’t happen. Wouldn’t happen. Not yet.
Lifting my knees, I dragged myself to my feet and staggered towards the car. The level of pain you suffer from a gunshot addles the brain. Confusion reigns. I still had my arm outstretched, empty gun in hand. Any fool can see when an SLP is empty, the action stays back, waiting to be fed. And my enemy could see that, too. The rear door of the BMW began to open, and I saw a pale suited leg drop to the tarmac.
Seconds later, Abdallah Al- Mufti stood in front of me.
He straightened his jacket, then produced his own gun from the back seat of the car. It too was obviously as empty as my own.
He threw the weapon to the floor and cocked his head. “Well, well, Mr Fuller. At last we come face to face, as men,” he said.
I could feel the blood dripping into the waistband of my jeans, trickling down the inside of my thigh, I didn’t have long to function, I knew it, and so did he.
I took a deep breath, balled my fists, and stepped in.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said.
Des Cogan’s Story:
Somewhere back in the industrial estate, I heard the sound of small arms fire. So the fight wasn’t quite over yet. However, I had other things on my mind.
Jimmy stood on the footpath, breathing hard. We were both bathed in the yellow streetlights. His face was lacerated from his attempts to negotiate the brambles, and I saw that his hands were in a similar condition.
I, too, had suffered from a similar fate, yet as I gripped my gun in my right hand, I felt no pain.
Jimmy looked up at the towering sodium light above him.
“Just reminds me of standing under my old lamp in Possilpark, eh, Des? Waiting for the next customer to pull up… good times those.”
“I wouldnea know,” I said, edging closer.
“No, of course you wouldnea. Ye was off fighting for Queen and country, eh? International man of mystery. That’s you fer sure, Des.”
“Ye make it sound glamorous, Jimmy. Stylish, sophisticated even. But ye always did have the talent fer that. Ye had the knack of making everything sound easy.”
He lowered his voice. “It is, Des. It still can be.”
I nodded and gave him a wry smile. “Ye going to pitch me now, are ye, Jimmy. Offer me money? Houses? Women? What?”
He shook his head.
“Naw, Des, I’m no.”
He rummaged in his jacket for fags and came up empty. “Ye pinched mine, ye wee jobbie, eh?”
I pulled his pack and lighter from my pocket and threw them over. Jimmy leaned down and collected them. He didn’t take his eyes from me, or the gun.
As he lit up, I felt my own craving, but pushed it to one side.
“Any other last requests?” I asked.
Jimmy blew out smoke and savoured the nicotine hit.
“So, this is it, then, pal, eh? Us two Bhoys, standing on an English pavement, and you, a proud Scot, about to do the Englishman’s bidding.”
“This has nothing to do with England, and you know it, Jimmy.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So yees no in bed with Her Majesty’s Government then? They aren’t paying your wages, telling you who to murder? Because, ye can dress this up anyways ye like pal. This is murder.” He held up his arms. “I’m unarmed.”
I snorted at that.
“I’m here to stop people like you lining the pockets of terrorists, Jimmy. The likes of Al-Mufti kill hundreds, maybe thousands, every year. Come to think of it, Jimmy, who’s yer boy in Belfast? Ye do have three cities, I hear eh? Who’s yer Belfast man. He wouldn’t be connected now, would he? What do they call themselves these days? The New IRA, is it? Ye have blood on your hands, Jimmy. Ye might not be there when it’s spilled, but it’s there nonetheless.”
“Blood ye say? And what about you? Y’see this is yer problem here, Desmond. You are playing judge, jury and executioner. Ye just like to give yersel good reason fer yer actions so ye can sleep at night, eh?”
He took another long deep drag.
“Remember that night at my flat? The night we went to the Barras? Ye walked out on me, cos of what I was sayin’ about the army. Ye didn’t like to hear the truth, did ye? Bloody Sunday, the Bogside Massacre, the 30th Janu
ary 1972. Ye’d be what? Four? Five years old, same as me? But I’ll bet my life, that it was the talk of your house and every house in the street, eh? Twenty eight shot, Des. Twenty eight unarmed civilians. Thirteen killed outright. They were fucking running away, Des. Square that circle why don’t ye. Shot running away, some even while trying to tend the wounded. Every single victim a Catholic, Des. A Catholic just like me.”
He pointed.
“And just like me now, Des, all of those poor fuckers were unarmed, posing no threat.”
He finished his fag and curled his lip.
“So, there ye are. I’ve said my piece. I’m done. No cash offer, no holiday homes, no buxom blondes, just this…”
At that he turned his back and with his hands held out to his sides, began to walk away.
“Ye shoot me if ye must, Des. You decide what kind of man you are.”
I stood, arms outstretched, the front sight of my gun dead centre in Jimmy McCreery’s back. I had one bullet. One bullet left.
Clicking on the safety, I turned and jogged back towards the unit.
Was I right to spare Jimmy McCreery? Who knows? Like I’ve said to you before, sometimes you just have to be there to understand it.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I threw a mighty right hand into Al-Mufti’s face. He parried it and turned his cheek just enough to allow the blow to glance off him. My momentum drew me onto him, and he grabbed at my wrist as it passed him. He was an expert fighter and twisted his body enough to apply pressure to my elbow joint with his other arm dragging me downwards. As he did so he lifted a knee and slammed it into my nose.
I knew immediately it was broken and felt more of my claret escape and run down my chin. I held onto his leg for dear life, hoping to clear my head, then dug in, knees bent and got my shoulder into his gut.
Swallowing bile, I staggered backwards, doing my best to keep my balance, the agony overshadowing my thought process.
