The Fire

by Robert White

  Hooding your prisoner is by far the more effective disorienting tool than a blindfold. And it sends a message to the captive. It says, 'you are going to die inside that foul-smelling canvas sack. We are going to cut off your fucking head or hang you, you are in the shit. Listen to your breath. It will be your last'.

  I was unceremoniously lifted back into the stress, and relative silence fell in the room.

  In circumstances like mine, it's essential that you take in as much detail as you can. The game is never over until the fat lady sings, as they say. I controlled my breathing, did my best to ignore the heavy nasal grunting of the guard to my left and listened.

  There were small movements across from me and the occasional whimper. Then I remembered Evelyn again. Of course, there would be young girls in the cage opposite, looking at me kneeling on a shit-stained floor, hands tied and a sack on my head. For a brief moment I felt sorry for them. That was until I heard the unmistakable sound of more bodies being dragged along the corridor. Even though no English was spoken, I knew they had Lauren and J.J.

  I could hear the punches and kicks going in and desperately wanted to be free to stop them.

  Then the cage was open again and I heard Lauren cry out in pain as they dropped her in the stress alongside me. I wanted to reach out to her, just a simple touch, to let her know I was by her side, maybe a comforting word, but I could not. It would be against all my training just to acknowledge that I knew her.

  J.J. was cursing his captures in Arabic and received some rough treatment for his trouble. I heard some boots slam into his body before the Somali were finally happy they had him under control and how they wanted the three of us.

  All we could hope for now was that Des had got away. Not for the first time in my life, he felt like our only chance.

  Except for the whimpers from across the way, silence fell again.

  We waited.

  It was again short-lived. I heard a door open off to my right followed by the heavy footsteps of three, maybe four men, together with panting and the clatter of a dog's claws on a hard floor.

  It had to be Maxi and his crew.

  Seconds later, the guard inside our cage confirmed my suspicions by removing my hood, swiftly followed by Lauren's and J.J.'s.

  I blinked in the harsh lighting and risked a glance to my left. Lauren's face was bruised and she had a cut on her chin that needed stitching. J.J. had taken a kicking but kept stock still, eyes to the floor, the way he had been trained. My guard grabbed my hair and raised my head so Maxi could take a better look at me.

  Before I could look back at him, my eyes were drawn to the cage opposite and my heart sank. Somewhere between nine and eleven young girls were crammed in the small space. Some were clothed, some were in underwear; others shivered in their nakedness. They held onto each other for comfort; terrified.

  My attention finally turned to Maxi. The big Somali was flanked by the same two bodies we had photographed on Boxing Day. In his left hand he held the lead of the massive long-coated German Shepherd dog that had taken such a liking to Des's leg.

  He still sported the big IWI Jericho pistol with the Mega gun converter around his neck and wore a pure white Nike hooded tracksuit that I desperately wanted to tell him was not his colour.

  Even more of a concern, in his right hand he was clutching an electric cattle prod.

  "Mr. Richard Fuller," he said in heavily accented English. "I thought you would never come to visit me. It's so nice to see you and I believe this lovely young woman to be Miss North, am I right?"

  He stepped forward, the dog pulled slightly on its lead, a low deep growl emanating from somewhere deep inside it. Maxi rolled the prod around in his hand and nodded to the guard to open the cage. This was not looking good.

  The Somali ignored me and stood directly in front of J.J. He let the dog's lead slip a notch and the animal snarled and snapped inches from the Turk's face.

  J.J. didn't flinch and simply raised his face to the African to give him his trademark 'fuck you' stare.

  This irritated Maxi no end and he instantly jabbed J.J. with the prod. The shock knocked him backwards with such force he slammed against the back wall, cracking the back of his skull as he did so.

  He didn't cry out, but was forced to breathe in short sharp puffs to regulate his pain.

  I could smell burning flesh.

  Ten seconds later, the Turk was back on his knees, eyeballing his captor with those fish eyes of his.

  I know you," said Maxi. "And I know you have been sniffing around my club, asking questions and being a nosey boy, eh?"

  Maxi waved the prod and smiled briefly, but as he spoke it faded to be replaced with an expression of pure revulsion.

  "What have you done with my Evelyn?" he said.

  J.J. dropped his head and looked at the floor.

  The African, who was at best fucking bi-polar, then laughed out loud. Several of his minions deemed it necessary to follow his lead. He was like a caricature of a bad Bond villain.

  "You are in love with one of my little slut girls, is that it?"

  Maxi didn't wait for an answer. He simply lumbered a step to his left and faced Lauren.

  My heart raced.

  The dog was straining at the leash and the Somali had to hold the animal back with his powerful fist. Its mouth was so close to Lauren's face, spittle splattered her. Another inch and it could sink its massively powerful fangs into her cheek, tearing at her flesh, her nose, her throat.

  Lauren didn't move, but she shook uncontrollably and tears poured from her.

  "Miss North," said the Somali. "What about you? Do you know what this dirty old man has done with my little Evelyn?"

  Lauren shook her head.

  Maxi raised the prod... I wanted to rip the fucker limb from limb.

  A shout came from behind the Somali.

  "Don't be damaging our goods before we pay for them now, Maxi."

  The Somali looked irritated and turned slowly to see the owner of the voice. It had emanated from no other than Dougie McGinnis.

  The NIRA man stood in the centre of the room with his hands in the pockets of a heavy navy overcoat. He looked a real handful, all natural bull strength and 'don't give a fuck' aggression. He was flanked by Ewan Findley, whose hair lip hadn't improved, together with Kristy McDonald, who seemed like she was about to enter the 'cleavage of the year encased in a cheap top' contest. Findley couldn't keep his eyes off the poor kids in the far cage and he wandered over to them to get a closer look. The evil fat bastard had no shame and reached through the bars, touching the nearest girl intimately.

  She burst into tears.

  Findley thought it was hilarious.

  Maxi approached Dougie, the dog at his heels; he high-fived him and waved an arm in our direction.

  "I was just having a little fun, whilst I waited on your arrival, Dougie."

  The Irishman was unimpressed and tapped Maxi on the chest.

  His voice was quiet and restrained at first, but by the time he made it to the end of his sentence it had become a roar,

  "A word to the wise, my dear Max. If indeed... you actually have what we are looking for, then I suggest, you keep it... IN ONE FUCKING PIECE!"

  I could see that Maxi and his guys were not used to being spoken to in such a manner, and for a moment, I thought it was all going to go off and the bastards were going to top each other.

  No such luck.

  Maxi backed down, managed a stage smile and beckoned Dougie to sit. "Don't stress, my friend...I take it you have the fee and the goods we agreed on?"

  It was Kristy who butted in. "We ID the bitch first, Maxi...money and bang-bang later." She stepped closer to the three of us, but paid particular attention to Lauren, staring at her intently as she addressed Maxi in no more than a whisper.

  "Let's get on with this, shall we? Oh and lose the fuckin' mutt, will ya, it makes me nervous."

  Maxi was definitely losing patience with the sheer front of the Irish cr
ew. He curled his lip and waved at a lanky guy guarding the far door. The face loped over, took the dog's lead and disappeared with it toward the club entrance.

  Maxi gave Kristy a sarcastic smile. "Are we all happy now?"

  There were nods all round.

  The African almost snarled more than the dog. "Good...we can complete our transaction then."

  Kristy clip-clopped out of the room on John Rocha suede heels. She returned seconds later leading a young girl by the hand. She was late teens; bleach blonde, skinny, bad skin, unsteady on her feet. It took me a moment to realise....Siobhan.

  Siobhan, the girl Lauren had rescued from the pimp on Linen Hall Street, the young Belfast prostitute she had taken for coffee. The shit and the fan were about to meet.

  Kristy dragged the kid over to where we were kneeling and stood her directly in front of Lauren.

  "Well?" snapped McDonald.

  The girl took a step closer. Her voice was nervy, quiet. She shook, maybe it was fear, or maybe she was coming down. She shot terrified glances at Kristy and Maxi.

  "I can't...see her...face properly..."

  Kristy stepped forward, grabbed Lauren roughly by the hair and lifted her face to the light. "Well?" she repeated sharply.

  Lauren stared directly at Siobhan. There was a mixture of fear and pleading in her eyes. The silence in the room was palpable.

  The Irishwoman was quickly losing patience. "Siobhan!"

  The girl jumped at the sound of her own name.

  Finally, after what seemed an age, she nodded and tears fell. "Yes...that's...her...she's...she's the one... the one who topped Paddy O'Donnell."

  My blood ran cold.

  There were broad smiles all round the Irish contingent.

  Dougie McGinnis stepped forward and grabbed Lauren, lifting her from her feet. She cried out as he dragged her across the floor.

  "No...no...no!"

  He let go and she fell heavily.

  "Get to yer fuckin' feet," he shouted.

  With her hands bound, Lauren found it difficult to stand, but on her second attempt she managed it. Finally she stood straight and eyed McGinnis defiantly.

  He smiled broadly and looked her up and down.

  "Very nice," he leered. "Very fuckin' nice indeed...no wonder old Paddy fell for you eh?"

  Lauren shot me a look that had 'get me out of this' written all over it.

  McGinnis didn't notice; he was too embroiled in his admiration of Lauren's curves. He cupped her left breast and licked his lips.

  "Great tits...tell you what, girl. When Paddy's two boys Seamus and Declan have finished with you, it will be my turn...and I'm really going to enjoy myself."

  So that was it. Patrick O'Donnell's boys had sent the three stooges. Jesus, I wanted to kill the fuckers there and then, all of them, but particularly Dougie.

  I couldn't take my eyes off McGinnis. I wanted him to suffer.

  Instead, I did what I had always been trained to do, I looked as beaten as possible, I hung my head in the shame of being captured and hoped for an opportunity to escape.

  I sensed movement and saw that Ewan Findley had walked back into the room with two suitcases. He dropped them at the feet of Maxi, who bowed theatrically before instructing one of the guards to open them.

  One was full of cash; the second was stuffed with kilos of PE4, enough to bring down half of Manchester,

  "A pleasure as always," said the African. "Your product is waiting for you in the usual place."

  He pointed toward J.J. and me. "I'll dispose of the rubbish as agreed."

  McGinnis grabbed Lauren by the arm and made for the door.

  "Yeah, top the fuckin' Hun bastards and throw 'em in the canal," he said flatly. "Make sure that whore Siobhan goes with 'em, eh?"

  Seconds later, the Irish and Lauren were gone, and we were definitely in the shit.

  Maxi stepped toward the open entrance of the cage, tapping his cattle prod against his leg as he walked. He looked at me and gave a whitened smile. "You were planning to kill me, were you not? You, Miss North and this excuse for a Muslim were coming to my club to kill me; to kill me and my good Irish customers. Is that not the case?"

  He pointed the prod and his smile once again vanished. "But we were expecting you, we were ready for you. Do you not wonder how that happened? How you were betrayed? How you were drawn into this trap?"

  Oh, I wondered alright. This job was all about Lauren, all about the O'Donnell twins, all about revenge.

  Maxi gripped his Jericho Mega gun and held it against J.J.'s forehead, keeping his eyes firmly on me.

  I couldn't take mine from the amount of explosive on the deck.

  Maxi followed my gaze. "Ah the PE4...Richard, you need to understand before you go... my brothers, my Muslim brothers from Afghanistan...will have so much fun blowing themselves up with this shit...and the transaction ensures the safe passage of kilos of the purest heroin known to man finds its way to my door."

  He made a movement pulling an imaginary a detonation cord on a suicide vest.

  "Boom!"

  His eyes were as wide as saucers. Oh, how he and his pals laughed at his joke.

  "I think it is a good lesson for a man to see his friends die, Richard, It's good for you, to see what your greed and your foolishness have done."

  This time his attempted smile didn't reach his eyes. The two bodyguards standing at the exit doors giggled like children.

  Wrapping his thick finger around the trigger of his weapon, he readied himself to fire.

  J.J.'s hands twitched, as if attempting to free themselves from the plasti-cuffs one last time.

  To everyone's surprise, mine in particular, both his hands sprang from their bonds. In his right was his Col Moschin fighting knife. The Turk moved with incredible speed and accuracy. He plunged the knife into Maxi's gut just above his pelvic bone. Using tremendous strength and balance, he straightened his legs from his kneeling position whilst forcing his knife upward, slicing through the African's gut, and stomach.

  Maxi's face was etched in a mixture of shock and pain. His gun fell from his grip and he clutched at his abdomen in an attempt to prevent his intestines from spilling out onto the floor.

  J.J. hadn't finished. In one movement, he cut the sling holding the African's pistol around his neck and threw the gun in front of me. I twisted to my right and pushed my arms out as far behind me as I could. J.J. cut my ties in a flash and I had the Jericho in the aim a second later.

  Maxi's bodyguards were slow to react. I rolled right and double tapped each of them in the chest as their boss dropped face down in his own blood and guts.

  The young girls opposite were screaming and cowering in panic.

  J.J. stormed forward, grabbed one guard's MP5, cocked it and nodded he was ready to move.

  I could hardly feel my legs due the lack of circulation but there was no time to worry about falling over. The gunfire would bring more of Maxi's men running toward our position. We had the problem of two closed doors leading out of the room. One going to the exit and relative safety, the other sinking deeper into the club and God knows what. We knew the guards would just pile in, spray the room with bullets, kill us, or at best overpower us and they'd probably slot half the poor buggers in the other cage for good measure. Staying put to fight was not an option.

  J.J. was brave as a lion and charged the exit leading to the outside. He booted it open and opened fire. I had to cover the second entrance in case we were attacked from behind. I decided to give whoever was thinking of opening it something to think about and put four rounds through the door. I heard screaming, and figured I'd made my point.

  J.J. was firing in short bursts as he disappeared through his doorway. I had no choice but to follow, back him up and pray that I'd done enough to dissuade the guys behind from following for a minute or two.

  The corridor wasn't wide enough to move two abreast, but the technique used to take ground in a narrow place is to leapfrog the man on point, covering each
other as you go.

  The narrow passage turned forty-five degrees left. From the corner we had another twenty yards or so to take before we could assault the front door.

  In seconds I'd reached the turn, J.J. behind me, his MP5 over my right shoulder. The moment I took a look around the corner, the plaster on the wall opposite exploded in a cacophony of automatic gunfire. Slivers of white hot plaster and paint flew into my face, slicing my skin, but mercifully missing my eyes.

  I poked the Jericho around the corner and blindly fired another four rounds. J.J. dropped prone and used his change of position to fool our enemy. He crawled to the corner and fired in bursts of three outward and upward. There was more screaming and I heard a man fall.

  I was about to step out and fire myself when a massive African bundled around the corner, knocking me off balance. He was so close, I couldn't bring my gun to the aim and he grabbed my weapon in one hand and my throat in the other.

  He was shouting and cursing me, his grip tremendously strong. I fought for breath and punched him in the gut. It was like hitting oak, and my blows had little effect. Just when I thought I was struggling, J.J. came to my aid yet again, thrusting his knife upward from his prone position into the guy's groin.

  He dropped like a stone, and I was able to steal his pistol and another mag as he bled to death on the floor.

  J.J. looked at me and nodded. He was ready to charge the last of the ground we needed to take. Deep down I knew it would be our only hope. Jobs like this always came down to a few seconds of life or death decisions. I locked eyes with him. Whatever happened, he had saved my life...twice.

  We charged the corner, firing as we went. I felt the heat of white hot bullets flying past my face as two more of Maxi's men fell in the hail of gunfire.

  We were at the door, the final hurdle; how many would be waiting?

  I was on point.

  The first thing that hit me was the blinding lights. I couldn't see anything. Next was the shouting, the commands.