Cog in the Machine

by Nigel Shinner

  “Either. Both. You tell me. You’re the one holding the gun.” Dom was expecting to be shot where he was sitting. If McQuillan had been such an easy kill, why delay in ending Dom’s life?

  “I’ve not decided how best to deal with you yet.” Richards rested his weapon on the desk. “But I know that I’ll be continuing my work here.”

  “What, killing and drug smuggling?”

  “Oh we do so much more than that. At least we will now that McQuillan is out of the way.”

  Richards laid out the plan as if he were applying for a business loan with the bank. He had all the answers. He still had all the animosity toward his former employer too.

  Initially, there had been the one drug deal that had launched McQuillan’s business. Richards was the man with the contacts who could shift the merchandise without too many questions being asked. But that wasn’t where the deal ended, as it should have been. Richards had pressured McQuillan into investing most of the money made from the first cocaine deal into another, bigger drug deal.

  While McQuillan wasn’t a snow white upstanding member of the community, he wasn’t a career criminal either. His focus was on the machinery business. The agreement was that whatever money was made on the deal, twenty-five percent would go straight back into buying machinery, buying parts or upgrading the premises.

  Richards exploited this weakness for the business by agreeing to any terms as long as they continued to make highly lucrative drug deals, using the business to launder the illicit earnings. While McQuillan was opposed to this, he was also not blind to the amount of cash flowing in their direction; more cash than he had ever made from machinery sales.

  It would have been easy to sell only drugs but the limited means to import and process the merchandise would have stalled the growth and drawn too much police attention. There is always a trail that leads back to the suppliers, and at that time they were the fastest growing cocaine suppliers in South-West England and South Wales. Not the biggest, but the fastest growing.

  That success was drawing attention from the competition. Richards’ plan was to grow the supply rate to such a scale that they would be supplying the other suppliers with a superior product at a lower price. As simple as the plan seemed, it was not without problems. One such problem was jealousy from those who wished to have a piece of the action. Deals were made, rules decided, boundaries set. But to achieve the kind of supply to meet the demand, there needed to be a significant increase in the importation of product. The only way to cover the import was to grow the machinery business and import goods by the container load. The business had grown on the back of gardening machinery, mostly lawnmowers and petrol-powered tools, but also diesel back-up generators. A container could hold up to one hundred and forty-four generators, each weighing one hundred and fifty kilos. If one of the generators had been filled with vacuum sealed cocaine in place of its engine, it was possible to smuggle fifty kilos of pure product. This had seemed like the dream ticket.

  But border authorities were getting wise to these methods and random containers were being searched. Two shipments had been discovered and lost, costing millions. So another plan was needed. It would take a few years for the big deal to hit the table but through constant trial and error, a method for importing goods in vast qualities had been found.

  Both McQuillan and Richards had travelled to China to meet with the factories. McQuillan met with the machinery factory, Richards with the drug factory.

  McQuillan had a component company design a longer running fuel tank for the now newly named Mach Tech back-up generators. Once the generators had been built and were ready to transport, they were shipped to another factory where the fuel tanks would be changed out for ones with half the tank taken up by product. The smuggling tanks could take ten litres of fuel and would mean the generator could be operated normally under basic scrutiny. Also, the tanks could hold just short of twenty kilos of impact-packed, vacuum-sealed cocaine. A container full of these generators would hold just over two and a half tonnes of coke with a street value of over one hundred million pounds. More, if cut with inferior product.

  “That is one shitload of money.” Dom couldn’t help but be impressed by the scale of the operation.

  “Indeed,” Richards said, “but McQuillan wanted it to be the last deal. He didn’t want to use the business for importing product any more.”

  “And you did?”

  “You bet. I built his business for him. I wasn’t going to let him kill my ambition just because he was starting to get nervous.”

  “He was going to kill your ambition, so you killed him.” Dom sat in judgement.

  “Something like that.” Richards shrugged his shoulders as though taking a life was a necessary business decision.

  “So where do I fit in to all of this?”

  Richards laughed. There was nothing amusing about any of this situation. “You were an integral part of the get-out clause.”

  “A cog in the machine?” Dom said, remembering what McQuillan had said on his first visit to the office.

  “Tommy and his fucking sayings!” Richards shook his head and smiled a vicious smile, “Yes, if you like, but a cog in my machine, not his.”

  “How so?”

  Richards stood up, picked up both the weapons from the desk, tucking them into his waistband, and walked over to a coffee machine perched on top of a small fridge. “Do you want a drink?”

  Dom shook his head. This lifestyle was beyond him. Here was Richards making himself a coffee before, hopefully, relaying the whole scheme behind Dom’s involvement, and somewhere the body of his former employer was losing temperature, shot dead by his most trusted employee.

  The armed man sat back down, a steaming mug in front of him.

  “So, are you going to tell me?” Dom asked.

  “It’s unfortunate for you that you’re a victim of your own success.”

  “What success? Do you call the events of the last twenty-four hours successful, because I don’t?”

  “Oh no, that’s been a disaster, especially for you. I meant back in the day, before you went to prison.”

  Dom leaned forward, anticipating a familiar tale.

  Richards told how McQuillan had always fancied his chances at motor racing. McQuillan had been an excellent mechanic and had worked for a rally team some years ago, long before he had aspirations of owning his own business. The thrill of being part of a winning team was tangible, and a reality worth chasing. But reality often bites back and before McQuillan knew it, he was out of the racing team.

  As soon as money started to flood in, some legitimate, but mostly from the sale of cocaine, he had plans to start his own team. Not a rally team though; a twenty-four hour race team. The idea was there and so was the money, but reality kept baring its teeth, proving a difficult beast to tame. The team was no good.

  Two seasons in, they had failed to finish a race.

  There was talk of quitting, but McQuillan wouldn’t hear of it. He threw money at as many experienced drivers as he could. He soon found out the hard way that sometimes money won’t buy you what you want.

  After one particularly bad race, McQuillan was talking to Richards about a young driver who used to do a lot of track driving and street racing. The driver would run circles round the police interceptors, and any other driver who dared to compete. But the call of the criminal fraternity, and the money that came with the territory, were too tempting a draw. That driver was Dominic Carver.

  Richards recalled asking what had happened to this so-called legend behind the wheel and was disappointed to find out that legends can be beaten and sometimes end up in prison. Incarceration aside, McQuillan believed that such a driver could change the fortunes of the Mach Tech team in the racing game. Richards had other ideas.

  After some research, Richards learned that the driver had a year left to do of a twelve stretch and in that time he might be able to cook up the cocaine deal to break all other deals, using the driver to make it hap
pen.

  McQuillan was over the drug smuggling. His empire had been built and there was enough money to keep him happy until retirement beckoned. Richards pushed for one more big deal, using the acquisition of a ‘new’ driver as the bait to tempt McQuillan. The bait was taken.

  “I must have proved a disappointment then?” Dom cut in, uncomfortable hearing quite how big a cog he’d been.

  “On the contrary, you were an excellent find. You led me in all sorts of directions.” Richards smiled.

  “Who knew about this big deal?”

  “At first, just me and McQuillan.”

  “At first?” Dom mused.

  “Well, if I was removing McQuillan, I would need a replacement.”

  The rage was impossible to rein in. “A replacement? Who the fuck were you going to get?”

  “Kevin Dunstan – ‘The Boss.’” Richards’s lips curled back to reveal the evil in his smile.

  “He’s a vicious thug with absolutely no loyalty to anyone,” Dom spat the words as though they burned on his tongue.

  “He’s a vicious thug with a well-organised cocaine-cutting factory. I can almost double the money for the coke that we’ve just received. He also has the contacts to shift it, using what the police call County Lines gangs.”

  “So it was you who leaked the information?”

  Richards nodded.

  “Is the money worth more than the people?” Dom asked.

  “I have been in Tommy McQuillan’s shadow for too long. It’s my time to shine now.”

  “What about Georgia?”

  “What about her? I’ll get rid of her the same as her father.”

  Dom launched himself from the seat, flying over the desk at his target. Unprepared, Richards pushed the chair back but was unable to dodge the attack. Rage fuelled the exhausted Dom, but rage burns fast and fuel is used up swiftly. A volley of punches was thrown. Some landed, some missed; none were effective. Richards was able to counter the blows, landing a few of his own. The punching ended and the wrestling began. It was a one-sided fight with Richards merely avoiding any serious damage while dishing out sporadic, effective jabs.

  Dom was losing energy rapidly. He could no longer maintain the fight. Dropping down low, he thrust his shoulder into the midsection of the stronger man, lifting him into the wall. A hand reached out, clutching for anything. It was time for some luck. Good fortune was smiling for once.

  Worming his way out of the struggle, Dom had come out with a pistol in his hand.

  “Don’t move,” Dom shouted breathlessly, the weapon pointed centre-mass.

  “You’ve got nowhere to go,” Richards said calmly, as though there was no effort involved in the fight.

  “I’ve got places to go. All I want is Georgia and Bob.”

  “All I want is the money you didn’t give for Georgia.”

  Dom had almost forgotten about the quarter of a million pounds he had in his possession.

  “Bring me Bob now, and we’ll discuss it.”

  Richards reached for his mobile phone. He tapped the screen and made the call.

  Chapter 76

  What was only a few minutes felt like an eternity, but eventually Bob was carried into the office by Gary and another henchman, who placed him in a chair. The old man had aged twenty years in the hours since Dom had last seen him. His face was deathly pale. He trembled as though cold, a sweat covering his balding head.

  “How you doing there, old timer?” Dom’s smile was too weak to be sincere. He was desperate to get Bob out of there.

  “I’m… fine…”

  Richards walked from behind the desk and perched on the corner. He attempted faux pity and failed miserably.

  “You’ll be out of here soon, old man. As soon as I’ve had my money returned.”

  “I’m taking him first.” Dom brandished the gun as though it was enough to posture with it.

  “No you are not,” Gary piped up with a gun in his hand.

  Dom’s aim darted between Richards and Gary. He thought he’d played a winning move - his only move - but instead he was playing two games at the same time and losing at both.

  “He’s just an old guy - no harm to anyone. Please let him go.”

  “Not until I have my money back.” Richards had stealthily drawn his own weapon. “And anyway, he’s not so harmless. He was selling coke to raise a few quid for your release. How do you think he paid for your digs?”

  No words came to Dom’s mind. It made sense but was totally unacceptable. The conversation to follow the revelation would have to keep for another time.

  “He may not last long – he needs medical attention,” Dom pleaded.

  The fake patience that Richards had demonstrated suddenly evaporated. “If it wasn’t for the money you’d both be in the ground by now. Go get my fucking money – NOW!”

  “Ok, ok.” Dom raised his palms in submission. “Meet me halfway, help me get him to the car at least and I’ll give you your money.”

  Richards nodded at his henchmen.

  Leading the way, Dom backed out of the office, his firearm still raised but pointing in a neutral position. The criminals and the wounded Bob followed.

  Georgia was still huddled on the mezzanine seating area. She acknowledged the group’s approach but didn’t move from her seat.

  Dom gripped her arm, easing her to her feet, guiding her down the stairs toward the car just outside the main doors.

  Placing her in the passenger seat, he opened the rear passenger door of the BMW in anticipation of accommodating Bob.

  Standing in the bright sunshine of a beautiful Sunday morning, Richards gestured to his men to hold onto the injured man a moment longer.

  “Let’s see the money,” Richards demanded.

  “You’ll shoot us as soon as you get it.” Dom stood poised at the rear of the vehicle.

  “We’ll shoot you if you don’t do as you’re told,” Richards replied.

  “Put your guns away and I’ll get the money.”

  Glances were exchanged and pistols were tucked back into waistbands.

  Dom popped the boot and lifted the heavy holdall out, dropping it on the floor.

  “Open it!” Richards insisted.

  Dom tugged on the zip and tilted the opening toward the gang leader. The Queen’s face in the red-orange ink of a fifty pound note graced the few bundles that could be seen.

  Instantly the guns were drawn again.

  Dom dropped behind the car, the gun shaking in his hand, aiming at nothing but the space between the armed men.

  “You’ve got your money. You don’t need Bob anymore,” Dom pleaded again.

  “You’re right. We don’t need him,” said Richards.

  Something had stopped the world. Everything slowed to a halt. Richards’ gun was raised as he turned unnaturally slowly toward their captive.

  Dom could see it happening right before him but somehow his actions were frozen; he was unable to react in any way to the inevitable act.

  Boom – boom – boom.

  Dom could almost watch the bullets casually move through the air and strike the target. One round hit Bob’s shoulder, the other two entered his chest cavity.

  Life was extinguished.

  Bob started to drop the tarmac in a sluggish, almost deliberate way, held up on invisible strings, slowing his fall to an impossible speed.

  His lifeless body stopped against the car park surface and the world started to turn again, in high speed.

  Dom let loose a round. The recoil nearly threw the gun from his hand. He hit nothing. His aggressors dived for cover.

  Time to go.

  His skill wasn’t with a weapon, it was with a vehicle. He was in the car, ignition on and wheels screamed against the ground, throwing loose grit behind them in seconds.

  Instinct took over. Fight or flight? Flight won every time.

  The roar of the high-performance engine drowned out all sounds as Dom aimed the car toward the open gate. There were sounds - there
were noises - there was gunfire.

  Rounds pinged off the bodywork.

  Dom held true. Just a few more seconds.

  The back window exploded.

  The accelerator was pushed through the floor. The car twitched against the road.

  A round whistled past Dom’s ear, penetrating the windscreen.

  The gate posts were passed. A harsh turn left onto the road.

  They were away. They had a lead. It was all Dom needed.

  Chapter 77

  The air of a typical glorious Sunday morning should have been filled with the sound of church bells, birdsong, and the playful laughter of children. The smell of roast dinners should be emanating from countless kitchens, waking the senses of those enjoying a leisurely lazy morning.

  This wasn’t a typical Sunday morning. The only sounds lingering in their ears were the harsh screech of rubber against tarmac and the muted sound of gunfire; burning rubber and cordite the only smells.

  Richards lowered his weapon. There wasn’t a target to aim at anymore. He could hear it, but the BMW had disappeared from view.

  “What next, Dick?” Gary asked, his weapon also lowered.

  “Dispose of the bodies and clean up the place.” Richards turned around to survey the building, looking for something he was expecting to see. “You can start by prising that bullet out of the wall.”

  “Ok.” Gary nodded in acknowledgement. “What about them?”

  There was a moment of consideration before answering, weighing up the options and priorities.

  “They don’t have too many places to run to. Get some of the boys – two teams - to go to their addresses and stake them out. They’re bound to turn up sooner or later.”

  Gary immediately pulled out a mobile phone and made the arrangements, starting with the body lying outside the main entrance. He then hurried off dragging the lifeless body of Bob Deakin into the reception area.

  Lifting his own phone from his pocket, Richards had to make his own arrangements. The call was picked up almost instantly.

  “I have your money,” Richards said, not waiting for a greeting.

  “About fucking time! I’ve had enough of these games,” the Boss replied.