The marriage proposal and ring came within a month and they had a slot at the Registry Office in a week. A Wednesday, granted not the best day, but still the best day for her and Tim. There was even a small advantage to having changed her name back to Routledge, to wipe clean her connection to Jimmy. She would now, at least be Mrs Burr, which although not a great deal of improvement as names go, it was nevertheless an improvement. “Come on, hurry up.” said her Mum, “We have to be at the wedding dress shop in ten minutes.”
Chapter 3
Enrique Rojas had just become one of the most powerful and wealthiest men in Mexico. In his thirties, short and with pock marked skin he did not look the epitome of success. He looked more suited, in appearance, to running a seedy cantina, or dealing drugs on the street corner. His clothes and jewellery betrayed his wealthy background. Rolex, Gucci and Armani were his staple. Not a statement of taste, but merely a reflection of his bank balance. In truth, he had dealt drugs on street corners and his Mother had worked cleaning and any other job that put food on the family table. His Father set the standard of criminality for him to emulate from an early age.
They had lived in the slums of Mexico City, he, his brother and his parents. One room, no toilet and a stand pipe to wash. As a small child, he could remember his Father coming home in the early hours, often covered in blood. Usually his Father bore the marks of having been in a fight, sometimes a knife wound, other times bruising to his face and knuckles. Then his Father had been shot. He remembered his Mother being frantic, screaming, crying and fighting to stop the flow of blood. She had retreated to the corner of the room, sitting on the floor. She had wrapped her arms around him and his brother and rocked back and forth tears rolling down her cheeks. She and his Father were in their mid twenties and he was ten and his brother eight. He was so frightened, he hardly dared breathe for fear of even that small movement in the air, might cause his Father to leave them.
The traffic was appalling as usual and he looked at the chaotic scenes through the window of the heavily armoured Mercedes. Two men sat in the front, his bodyguards. Things had certainly changed from that night when he thought his Father would die. Now he lived in a luxury villa, had a fleet of cars, a yacht and a private jet was available to him. He thought back to that fateful night as the car made its way into the countryside. He would have plenty of time to reminisce. The journey would be over in three hours.
Alone with his thoughts his mind took him back to that night which he now realised had been the turning point in their lives. His Father had been no more than a petty criminal on the fringes of the drug trade. He ran messages, did a bit of debt collecting and acted as a sometime muscle for hire. Enrique knew his Father to have a violent temper and when enraged had no fear. He and his brother had often experienced his Father’s wrath and they feared him more than they loved him. That night, holding his Mother and brother, watching him slowly bleeding out, he had feared the impending loss and experienced some feelings of love.
He could see tears in his brother’s eyes and understood the confusion he was experiencing. They were used to their Mother patching their Father up after his various violent escapades, but this was different. He and his brother could sense it. Their Father, Jesus was dying. He lay, on the now blood stained, bed where he and his wife slept. The two boys slept in the far corner. The mattress, which during the day was lent against the wall, would be laid flat at night for them to sleep on. A curtain would be pulled around them to divide them from their parents and offered them a small amount of privacy. Enrique remembered staring at the single light hanging in the middle of the room. He stared at it until his eyes were dazzled and spots began to appear. By fixing on the light, the sound of his Father’s moans seemed more distant and less penetrating.
There was a noise as a group of men entered the room. It startled his Mother and the two boys. Enrique could not make out what was happening at first. He needed to adjust his eyes to see clearly. He heard his Mother begin to scream. Three men had entered. They were immaculately dressed and one carried a doctor’s bag. “Shut up you stupid bitch,” one said. “We are here to help him not hurt him.”
The doctor lent over Jesus and pulled his hands from the blood soaked rag his wife had tried to stem the flow of blood with. Jesus let out a yell of anguish as the doctor examined the wound. “It is bad. We need to get him to hospital. Help me.” Just like that, the room was silent his Father gone. It had taken three days for his Mother to locate him. She found him in a private clinic. They had walked for miles and caught several buses to get there. He and his bother were exhausted by the time they entered the hospital bedroom. Jesus was unconscious and tubes and wires were connected to all types of medical monitoring equipment.
“We could live here,” said Enrique’s brother, “it has such a nice bed and is so clean and bright.” They laughed and felt happy for the first time in days. Jesus would live.
The car was speeding along the highway further into the county and the light was beginning to fade. The sky was deep lavender with a golden band of yellow and red on the horizon. The land seemed to float in the distant haze as the Sun disappeared. Now Jesus was dead and his son was on his way to see his Father for the last time.
After his Father came back from hospital things changed rapidly. They moved to a bright spacious apartment. They had cars, holidays and he and his brother attended a good school. Jesus, in that single night, had changed the course of all their lives. He liked to refer to it as that magic bullet that made him rich.
He had not gone out that night expecting anything to be different. He had been hanging around in the cantina hoping to pick up some work for the drug cartel. He was drinking cheap whiskey and probably had too much. Whisky always made him feel braver and more aggressive.
The head of the drug cartel rarely consorted with the rank and file, but that night he had appeared. He had scheduled a meeting with a rival drug lord to sort out a turf war and attempt to cut back on the murder rate. The boss and his guards had taken up seats at a table facing the door. Then it had all happened in a split second. One of the guards rose to his feet and began shooting into the room. They were all taken by surprise and several died before they moved. They doors flew open and men firing automatic weapons entered. By now, the occupants had their guns out and were firing back. Jesus was only yards from the boss and saw one of his body guards draw his gun and turn, aiming to shoot his boss in the head.
Jesus did not know why he had not dived for the ground for cover, but he hadn’t. Not thinking, he threw his glass at the body guard as it, miraculously, hit him in the face. The gun went off. The assassin’s bullet flew harmlessly into the ceiling. Jesus had his knife in hand and with one swift movement sliced deep into the assassin’s throat, preventing him from firing a second time. He pulled the drug lord clear of the table and half dragged him to the rear of the cantina. He, by now recovering his wits, pulled his gun and began firing back at the attackers. That was when the bullet hit Jesus and he fell to the floor. He staggered from the building and made his way home to die.
Jesus’ boss survived the attack unscathed and in gratitude paid for the doctor and hospital treatment. While Jesus lay recovering in hospital, his boss embarked on the most bloody drug war in years. People died daily and bodies were piling up in the street. He emerged the winner and the most powerful drug lord in Mexico. On leaving hospital Jesus became his most trusted lieutenant.
Jesus killed his boss six years later in a brutal coup, where twenty six others died. He now became the most powerful and richest drug baron in Mexico. At the time of the coup, Enrique and his brother worked for the Cartel. His Father became all powerful, but he lost a son and Enrique lost a brother in the takeover. Enrique was alone now that his Father was dead. His Mother had died at the age of forty from breast cancer.
Finally, he reached the mud hut, miles from anywhere. Enrique stepped from the limo. Three cars pulled up behind him and fifteen of his men stepped out, all carrying Uzi mac
hine guns. He had not been sure what to expect, but he was not going to be caught unprepared. He saw the remains of three smouldering tyres containing the charred and blackened bodies encased in them. His Father was just supposed to be carrying out a routine execution of three nobodies who had tried to steal from the Cartel. Enrique knew that his Father had, as he got older, enjoyed getting hands on in these matters, but he could not understand how things had gone so badly wrong.
Enrique walked forward and the men surrounding his Father’s body stepped aside. His Father was on his back with a neat bullet hole in the centre of his body. A naked girl was slumped forward, still sitting on his penis. She too had a bullet hole in her head. Two white feathers were on the bodies.
“Get that whore off him and cover him up.” Riga mortis had set in and they struggled to separate them. There were cracking noises as they were eventually parted. “What happened?”
One of Jesus’ bodyguards came forward. “We drove him here and as you can see he ordered us to torch the three scumbags. While she watched them burn she got horny and wanted to fuck. He told us to piss off, leave him the car and wait for him in the local town.”
.
“So you left him unprotected?” He turned his back and addressed the men he had brought with him, “Kill them.” There was a burst of gunfire and they died before they could react. “Pile their bodies up along with that whore and burn them,” he ordered.
He bent down over his Father’s body and picked up the two feathers. “What are these?” he asked. There was no reply. “These must have been put here by the fucker who killed my Father. Find him and bring the piece of shit to me,” he shouted. Rage etched across his face.
He turned and got back in the car and drove off into the night. The glow of the burning bodies could be seen from the rear window as he made his way back to the city. Enrique, the most powerful drug lord in Mexico, vowed he would find the man who killed his Father and make him pay, the man with the white feathers.
Chapter 4
Tim Burr had settled into his new role at MI5 and had even received a promotion. He was head of the Middle East section. The money was still rubbish but at least the work was interesting and hectic. The biggest threat to the West at the present was from ISIS and its various splinter groups. Tim’s job was getting harder by the day. There had been a trend towards lone individuals, often with mental illness issues, or others with a grudge against a particular group, such as Jews or gays to carry out random attacks on these soft targets. The terror attacks were typically low tech. They would use knives, a truck or an axe as their weapon of choice and go on a killing spree.
Countering and identifying these sorts of threats, was nigh on impossible. There had been numerous attacks in England, France and Belgium and in the majority of cases the attackers had received psychiatric intervention at some time or another in their lives. These individuals were often drawn to Jihadi web sites where they would fantasise about carrying out some form of murder. Following the attacks, ISIS would then claim responsibility, even though there may have been absolutely no direct link whatsoever between the attacker and ISIS.
“How are you doing?” said Jeff Stiles, as he entered Tim’s office, a big smile on his face. Jeff was Deputy Director of MI5 and worked directly with Elaine Wilkins who, when not heading up MI5, would spend a great deal of her time buying shoes.
“Not so good, there are so many potential threats. They are rapidly outstripping the resources we have available to do deal with them.”
“No, not work, how are you doing on the wedding front?”
“Oh, that is even more of a mess. I did not realise how much crap the groom has to get involved in. I don’t remember doing any of this the first time round when I married Lisa.”. His first wife had remarried and was now a successful business woman in her own right.
“As your best man you will be pleased to hear then, that I have solved all your problems.”
“I doubt that very much but do go on.”
“I have booked the meal, the VIP area at a club and the lap dancers. So there is no need to worry about anything.”
“Great, you are such a help. Have you sorted anything to do with the actual wedding?”
“I have written a funny speech.”
“I don’t wish to appear ungrateful but I feel somehow that you have done fuck all. Have you sorted out any of the minor details you would associate with a wedding? Let’s take the suit hire just as an example. Have you contacted the ushers and arranged for them and us to get measured up?”
“Shit,” said Jeff
“Thought so, have you ordered the button holes or the gifts for the bridesmaids?”
Jeff looked less than confident on these matters,” Of course, of course, I’ll get back to you on those.” He backed out the office and retreated rapidly down the corridor.
The rest of the day became a blur for Tim. A lone man in his twenties had attacked a number of people in Birmingham. No one was initially clear what had happened and so everywhere went on high alert. Reports were unclear and confusion reigned. After wasting hours of precious resources it became clear it was a drunk in an argument with a drug dealer. The mere fact that he was Arab in appearance had been enough for intelligence reports to link it to terrorist activity and trigger all the activity. Of course they had to react even though common sense would have dictated otherwise. The consequences of making the wrong judgement call could have had a catastrophic outcome. ISIS were achieving they desired goal of causing panic and fear even when nothing was happening and all the while eating up counter terrorist resources. Stretching so thin would inevitably result in the early warning signs of a genuine major attack being missed. There was, however, no choice but to treat all incidents with a full response for fear of what may happen if ignored.
Tim sat back in his chair at the end of the day and put his hands behind his head and stretched back straightening his spine, trying to get the kinks out from hunching over his screen all day. He thought of his imminent wedding and in particular Jackie and her son Daniel. At first he had been fearful of meeting the small boy and the responsibility of being in his life. After all he had no experience of children and in the main preferred to avoid them.
At first Daniel had been wary of him. That was of course to be expected, given his past experience of men, in the form of his Father, but gradually he gained confidence in Tim. Tim, in turn, gained confidence in dealing with small boys. Like Saturday when Jackie had gone shopping with her mum. He had taken Daniel to Highgate Park. They had walked through the woods and Daniel had climbed trees, then back to the Park to have a kick about. Then the forbidden fruit, as Tim took him to a burger chain restaurant which his Mother had expressly told him not to do. She knew of course that he would but it helped that Tim and Daniel shared a naughty secret and that brought them closer.
He realised that he should have left ten minutes ago. He made a quick call and handed over to the night watch. He was off for the next two and a bit weeks. He made sure he handed over every thing he was working on, before heading downstairs to the entrance. He needed to get a move on if he was not to be late for his own stag night.
In the lobby he went to his locker. On arrival all entrants to Thames House had to deposit any bags, files, keys, personal phones and laptops in their locker before being scanned and checked in. On leaving they were again checked to make sure nothing left the building without first being approved. In the past Ministers had left laptops in cabs, restaurants and bars containing sensitive and secret information on them. MI5 did not want the same happening to them.
He opened the door and retrieved the bag. It was Yosuf’s bag. Tim thought back to that night Yosuf had been shot dead by the Turkish Secret service and when he had first seen Jeff Stiles. He felt sad that Yosuf had not made it. He had been a truly descent man and Tim would have loved to have had him at his wedding. They had been through a great deal together but that was in the past. With a tinge of sadness he picked up the bag
which contained Yosuf’s escape fund, about a quarter of million pounds in various currencies and a stack of credit cards with credit balances running in the tens of thousands.
He decided against the tube when he left the building, even though at this time of the day the traffic would be moving at a snail’s pace and opted for a black cab. As the taxi crawled though the traffic he realised he would probably be late for his stag night. The taxi eventually pulled up at the depositary in Knightsbridge and he paid his fare and entered using the code he had been given on renting the box.
He knew by rights that he should have given the contents of the bag into the police, or MI5, but he felt that Yosuf would want him to do something useful with it rather than it becoming a small gift to the Treasury. He thought that he could somehow donate the money to an orphanage in Turkey. He was still haunted by the sight of the small orphaned boy with the oval eyes waiting for his abuser. He shook the image from his mind and presented his eye to scanner, to have his retina confirmed, before entering the vault.
He located his storage box and loaded the contents from the bag into it. He threw the bag in a wheelie bin before taking the tube to Leicester Square.
Jeff was already in the bar along with Elaine, their boss and a number of his other female work mates from MI5. The girls were not going on to the club, but had come for a drink and to give him a big wedding card signed by all. As they left Tim was glad he had tomorrow to recover before the Wedding, as the remaining lads started getting wasted in earnest.
Chapter 5
In Arlington Virginia, Drug Enforcement Agency Headquarters, a meeting was underway.
“Gentlemen, some information has come to light which I believe we may be able to turn to our advantage.” The speaker was John D Hackensack, acting head of the Agency. He was completely bald, despite being in his early fifties. It was apparent from his clipped manner of speaking and his bearing that he had had a military background and though his hair loss was natural, he would have shaved his head in any event. Being over six foot four tall and built like a line backer, he was a formidable figure.
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