by A. J. Armitt
“The Colonel’s on one, Boss, his phone’s been red hot. He’s blasted the Met Chief about the state of the streets, and even given the Home Secretary an ear bashing. Silly bitch took it too,” said Boz with a slight grin. “He’s got Box digging about for a lead. We’ll know about anything as soon as he does. He’s calling in a lot of old debts, Mark. ‘Says to tell you to, well... do what needs to be done.”
“To be honest, Boss, we ain’t seen him like this before. There’s talk he’s mobilised R Squadron, ears to the ground in the area, and all that. There’s gonna be a few surprised smack-heads on the streets tonight!”
Smith forced a half smile at Wilko. It felt good to have his team with him and released some of the strain.
“And do you know why, Wilko? Apart from being Nat’s God-father; Vic Maltravers lost his only son twelve years ago. The lad was only fourteen, hit and run in a drugs bust. I’d only just changed cap badge. The Colonel, well, he took it bad. Sir Peter was the boss man back then and he sorted it. We look after our own.”
“I know we do, Mark, sorry. I didn’t know about his kid though.”
“It was kept quiet,” said Smith. “Okay, let’s drop in at Box and see what’s stirring.”
“Box?” asked Smith’s father-in-law, walking in with a tray of tea.
“MI5, Ron, it’s what we call them in the trade.”
A shrill ring-tone rang interrupted the conversation. Wilko reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile phone and pressed it to his ear.
“No need for the visit; we got a lead. They’ve got a man, deep undercover in a Yardie gang; he’s just made contact.”
*****
Smith, Wilko and Boz were joined by five more men, arriving in two blacked out Range Rovers, in an abandoned warehouse at dusk. All wore black jump suits with black Kevlar vests, webbing and balaclavas. All had silenced semi-automatic machine guns, pistols in under-arm holsters, knives, stun grenades, smoke grenades and night vision head sets.
“We do this hard and fast. No passengers, no innocents. One of them is Box, give him a beating if you have to, a flesh wound at the most to keep his cover, but nothing else, he’s one of ours. He’ll be wearing a green hoodie, with a yellow cannabis print on the front of it. Look out for him. You’ve got the pictures of the four bastards I want. And any others? Well, just use your discretion.”
The eight men split up and jumped into the Range Rovers. The roar of the V-eight engines startled the dozing pigeons, who took to the air, leaping from their perches in the A-framed roof trusses high above. Wildly flapping their wings, they flocked over the two screeching vehicles as they too surged out of the building.
*****
Leaning against a garden wall on a street corner in a suburban road in Brixton Hill, T-bone bobbed his head in time to the loud rap music pumping through his Dre beats headphones. The teenage boy felt the vibration in the back pocket of his jeans, tickling the rear of his lower thigh. He reached down and hooked out the sleek blackberry phone, looked at the message, then thumbed in ‘nothing’ and pressed reply.
He glanced back down the dark, tree lined street; the street lamps casting an orange haze over the established front gardens of the four-storey town houses, to the far end where another young boy stood. He raised his hand and turned back. At fifteen years old he felt cool and in control of his life; the reassuringly cold and heavy Glock semi-automatic pistol in his jacket pocket, an award for his loyalty; proof of his acceptance. T-bone grinned. He had something that all those ‘no balls’ mother-fuckers didn’t; he was now part of the gang. Not a runner, not a courier, but an actual fucking member and that brought with it credibility. And the greatest thing about credibility meant that money and girls would soon follow, and in that order.
He smiled to himself. “Ain’t no mother-fucker alive, bad enough to fuck with me now!”
*****
Detective Sergeant Blakely sat in his car, staring down the street and across the road junction at the young boy on the corner. “Shit. What the fuck am I doing?”
It was a long shot, but this was his best and only lead so far. Earlier that afternoon he had been trawling through CCTV footage near to and around the area. A black BMW had flashed passed a camera at around the right time. It could have been anyone but it had been full of black youths, leaning out of the windows. He had tracked footage to another point where he had been able to get the number plate. His Boss, DCI Armitt, had dismissed the lead, “clutching at straws” was his opinion, and he couldn’t justify the man power and costs involved in rounding them up. Get something more, something solid on them.
“So, I’ll just pop by on the way home, poke around, rattle them a little and see what happens...Shit! What was I thinking?”
He took a deep breath and thought of Natalie Smith, or what remained of her. He thought of her father, now that man wouldn’t hesitate. Shit, shit, shit! Come on man, you’re a police officer, pull yourself together, it’s not bloody Mogadishu.
He carefully reached for the door handle, slowly opening the car door, so as not to alert the boy across the road. As the door inched open, the interior car light flooded the cockpit. Fuck! Bollocks! So much for stealth.
He got out the car, shut and locked it, wincing as the alarm bleeped loudly, and turned and walked slowly down the street, doing his best to look insignificant. He crossed the junction and as he passed the teenager on the opposite corner, he turned his head and nodded. The boy used his fingers as guns and stabbed them across the road at him, one after the other, bang, bang. A bead of sweat broke out on his forehead, as he noticed two more half way down the street, sitting on a wall. Another lad stepped out at the far end of the road.
Jesus, this is a bad idea, a very bad fucking idea. Fuck it, just keep going.
He put his head down, hands in pockets and carried on, crossing the street before he came to the two teenagers. They watched him and sauntered across the road to block his path.
“What ya’ doin’ round here, Filth?”
The blunt question riled Blakely. He stared at the two boys, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. “Piss off, before I nick you both.”
“Me don’t think so,” the youth clicked his tongue. “You’s tresspassin’ and you gotta pay the piper, Man.”
“Fuck off,” Blakely pushed forward, barging passed the two youths. Then he froze as he heard the unmistakable metallic click of a pistol hammer cocking, and then cold metal touched the back of his head.
“You’s in deep shit, Man. You shouldn’t be poking your snout around here at night!”
Double fuck and bollocks! Blakely stared ahead, his brain whirring and telling himself to keep calm. He looked for the youth at the furthest corner but he was nowhere to be seen. He turned slowly, to face the two youths. Their eyes sent his heart racing, fucking high as kites.
Something caught his eye passed the two grinning faces staring at him.
*****
T-Bone took his headphones off as he watched the copper cross the road. He sniggered as two of his gang crossed the street to block the policeman. He had noticed him in the car earlier and one of the gang had run round the back alleys and got close to the car from behind. The give-away fake brake light, which was blue, told them everything they needed to know. He had been waiting for the man to move and texted as soon as he had. Now he had a gun to the back of his head.
Fuck! We is the baddest mother-fuckers there is! He put his hand inside his jacket pocket and felt the cold hard metal. Baddest mother-fuckers on the planet, Man!
He turned away to check down the other roads; nothing. He turned back. A hand flashed out and gripped his throat like a vice, and then he was in the air, rushing backwards over the garden wall and into the bushes behind him.
He landed on his back, all breath knocked from his lungs. Two eyes, soulless and menacing, glared down at him through slits in a balaclava. The cold metal had gone from his pocket, the vice grip on his throat tightened, and he felt his bladder give way, warm ur
ine steaming around his thighs. Then everything went black.
*****
Captain Mark Smith’s ear piece crackled into life. “Foxtrot four, clear.” He was crouched opposite Blakely across the street by the front door of the target house. Boz was on the other side of the door with Wilko and another trooper in the back garden. Seconds later another message; “Foxtrot two, clear. Shit! The little fucker pissed on me!”
Smith smiled behind his head gear. He touched a hand to his throat mike, “Foxtrot one and three, engage, Whiskey one to four go on my command.” He looked back across the street.
*****
Detective Sergeant Blakely stood rooted to the spot. He was sure he had seen the legs of the youth on the corner, flying into the bushes.
Seconds later two large shapes loomed up from no-where behind his tormentors. In unison, two hands slammed into the necks of the two boys and they crumpled before him, the dark shapes catching them as they fell and tipping them over the garden wall beside him. Then they were gone, charging across the street. Not a word, not a sound had been made. Blakely breathed out, and then glanced over at the house across the street. More figures rose from nowhere and then they were in the house, the door quietly shutting behind them.
Jesus... I need a drink.
Within seconds, the brightly lit house was in darkness. Then silent white flashes appeared in different windows, upstairs and down. A shadow descended from the roof then smashed through a third floor window. A scream, cut off in seconds. More white flashes, this time on the top floor. Blakely stood as if in a dream, staring at the house, the only two sounds were the breaking of the window and the short scream. He heard big engines racing down the street, and two large Range Rovers pulled up right in front of him. Then six shadows came pouring out of the house, four carrying slumped bodies over their shoulders. They were into the Rovers in seconds, but one walked over to him.
Blakely swallowed, and watched as the shadow, no, a man, a big man all in black and wearing a balaclava, stood in front of him.
“Want a promotion, Sergeant?” He knew that voice. He knew those eyes. He nodded.
“You’ve got a mobile?”
He nodded again.
“Call it in. You’ve got a rather large haul of crack cocaine in there.”
Blakely fumbled for his mobile phone as Smith walked away. The Captain turned before getting into the Rover.
“One more thing, Sergeant Blakely...”
“Yes?” he offered meekly.
“We weren’t here. You arrived as we drove off, you didn’t even get a number plate, did you?”
“Nope... didn’t see a thing, Sir.”
Smith smiled at him. “That’s the right answer.”
*****
Captain Mark Smith of Her Majesty’s Special Air Service stood leaning against the wall. He checked his watch. It was just after midnight. He wrinkled his nose. The room stank of sweat and urine and he had to resist the urge to open a window. He looked back across the dimly lit room, observing the four naked and manacled figures. Each man was hung limply by their wrists and ankles, in a spread eagled position. One of the men began to stir. The effects of the chloroform had begun to wear off.
Smith gave him a few minutes to fully recover, and then walked over to him. He produced a picture of Natalie and held it in front of the man.
“Recognise her?” asked Smith.
The Jamaican blinked. “Who de fuck is you?” A fist slammed into his face, shattering his front teeth and splitting his lips.
“Wrong answer... last chance.”
The man spat teeth onto the floor. “Fuck yo’, Bitch,” a fist slammed into his nose, the crunch of cartilage unmistakeable. Smith produced a gold necklace and dangled it in front of the man.
“And this, you recognise it? Your friend over there was wearing it.”
Fear surfaced in the liquid pools of the man’s dark eyes. His right cheek twitched involuntarily; sweat glistened in the lamp light as he stared at the necklace swinging gently before him. The other three men started to come round.
Smith eyed each man in turn. He picked another, and pushed the picture in front of his face.
“Recognise her?”
“Me seen de bitch,” a fist slammed into his face. More teeth fell to the floor.
Another Jamaican looked at Smith “Who de’ fuck is you? Don’t you know who I is, Mo’Fucker?”
The Captain looked coldly at the man. It was he whom Smith had taken the necklace from earlier.
“Dat girl in yo’ gang? She yo’ bitch? For Fucks sakes, Man, we’s connected to Baxter. Yo’ makin’ de big’es’ mistake, Man; massive, Blood.” With a burst of energy the man wrenched at the bindings holding him to the wall.
Smith looked at the man, his steel grey eyes pierced deep into the Jamaican’s soul.
“She’s my daughter,” said Smith, “and it’s you who’s made the biggest mistake, fucking massive.”
Smith picked up four gags from the floor, “You’re going to scream tonight, but nobody’s going to come. In the next few minutes you’re going to know real fear… and pain, serious pain.”
“Stop, Man, you is scaring de’ shit out’a me,” said one of the Jamaicans. The other three laughed manically.
Smith walked up to the first, produced a large survival knife and grasped the Jamaican’s penis. He looked him in the eyes and drew the blade across and up, at the base of the flaccid flesh. A scream ripped through the silence as Smith held the severed organ to the man’s face, and then thrust it into the open mouth. He took one of the gags and tied it firmly in place.
“Now you know you’re going to die tonight,” said Smith. “All of you.”
The three men looked on, horrified as blood pumped from the open wound, a puddle forming between his legs.
“Still laughing?” asked Smith as he looked each man in the eye.
He walked over to his next captive and with a flick of the blade, carried out the same operation. The last two men screamed for mercy, their cries echoing around the room.
As he cut the final man’s flesh and gagged him he whispered in his ear. “It takes a long time to bleed to death from a severed dick…about eight hours actually.”
Smith walked to the middle of the room and lit a match. “But you’ll fade slowly through blood loss, and the pain will ease, and that’s not good enough for you bastards.”
“Now, by contrast, burning alive is far worse, far more pain involved, or so they tell me. You’ll die quicker, but it’ll be far more intense, more pain than a person should have to bear... But then you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
He flicked the match and smiled with satisfaction as it landed on the petrol soaked carpet. Flames danced around his boots. He strolled almost casually towards, and then out though the open door. Without ever looking back at the terrified, struggling men; he closed it firmly behind him.
***
Paul Murphy lives near Brighton, with his wife and four children. He is currently finishing an historical fiction novel "Wolf of Rome", the first in a series of action adventures set around the time of the Emperor Augustus.
The Widow Tompkin
By Shirley Blane
The locals were gathered in the bar for their usual early evening pint and gossip. The topic at the moment was the widow.
“I feel sorry for the poor maid,” Harry Judd said, wiping the foam from his luxuriant grey whiskers.
The barmaid looked at him and raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.
“Aye, she’s not had much luck, has she?” This was from Bill Potts, one of the fishermen.
“Fancy having to wait seven years before she could have her husband declared dead,” said Mike, the lifeboat engineer. “It was obvious he drowned, what with the boat being found down near Falmouth, upside down on the beach.”
“It’s because they didn’t find the body, see,” said Bill. “The boat came ashore, so the body should ‘ave, too.”
“Probabl
y got caught up on rocks somewhere, or washed into a cave,” said Harry. “Fish do nibble at bodies, but not at boats. Fact remains, she’m be livin’ hand to mouth when she could have done with that insurance money. Her cottage needs re-thatching now, where’s she goin’ find money for that?”
The barmaid sniffed, but made no comment apart from, “Another round, gents?” Heads nodded and the talk changed to fishing quotas.
The stranger at the bar finished his pint and caught the barmaid’s eye.
“Same again, sir?”
“I won’t, thanks. I need a place to stay around here. Can you recommend somewhere?”
