The Bootneck

by Quentin Black

  “How is our friend at the Farmhouse?” asked Ravil.

  “He’s still holding out, but he can’t forever.”

  “I am sure you appreciate we do not want this to take forever. The resources we have are not limitless, not to mention that you are needed elsewhere. That need will only increase as our hand in this war is revealed.”

  “It’s not a process that can be rushed. Besides, when he breaks, it’ll increase our leverage threefold.”

  Ravil sighed. “Every day that man is alive is a concern. He should have been one of us—born in Moscow and not Glasgow.”

  Makar allowed himself a brief smile. “I was thinking the same thing, and that’s why I have to be there. His sense of purpose and bravery make him every bit as dangerous as his knowledge is useful.”

  Connor and Helene walked through the city centre, her arm threaded through his. Connor briefly smiled as he thought back to how Carl’s outgoing character had come out as Zoë lavished him with attention. Connor and Helene had left the pair back at the bar. It was Helene that decided she was tired and wanted to go home. He offered to walk her back, and she accepted. Connor briefly thought of how brazen the two women were being, allowing themselves to be separated by two strangers. He recalled how they went to the bathroom together and had likely worked out a safety procedure between them. It was probably a text sent within a certain time.

  “Look Helene, Carl will be expecting me to text him at an appointed time so if you lead me anywhere and try and force sex on me at knife point you’ll be in trouble.”

  Helene burst into laughter. “You really are the strangest man I have ever met.”

  Connor smiled—she’d an infectious laugh.

  “The English phrase is ‘darkly mysterious’.”

  “Maybe that’s the phrase for Monsieur Bond. A Strange man is the right phrase pour toi,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  They walked for a little while. Connor found himself intoxicated by her perfume and tried not to let his good fortune show on his face. Her arm tightened around his, and a gentle wind blew her hair across his face, tickling it.

  “This is moi,” said Helene with a smile.

  They stood outside a terraced row of gothic looking townhouses that were four floors high. Connor guessed the floors split into flats. He turned back to face the stunning vision before him, desire overriding any fear of spoiling the moment.

  “Goodnight, Helene,” he said grasping her waist, bringing her closer as they kissed. He felt a thrill course through him as she slipped an arm around his waist, her tongue flickering gently into his mouth.

  They broke, and Helene said, “Would you like to come in for a coffee or, as you English seem to like, tea?”

  Connor gave her a tight smile. “You see Helene, I have to be somewhere soon, and sharing a...coffee...with you isn’t something I would like to rush. Is there a chance we could rearrange?”

  Helene’s large brown eyes looked into his.

  “Of course we can. However, Connor, something that’s rushed is sometimes better than nothing at all. So tell me, just how quick can you be?” she asked, with a devilish smirk.

  Connor felt a surge through his cock. “In and out,” he winked, “like a Commando.”

  “Eh, maybe not zat quick, Englishman,” and she turned, lightly gripping his hand.

  She unlocked the door and he admired her tight arse, following her inside. She turned around and they melted into a kiss. He removed her jacket, pulled out the bottom of her blouse and ran his hands up her waist, unclipping her bra and kissing her harder. She responded, unbuckling his belt and sliding her hand onto his ass, pulling him in tighter.

  She pressed her pussy firmly against the bulge of his cock.

  He took his top off and she lightly bit his chest, sliding her tongue over his nipple.

  Connor, realising the time, manoeuvred her to the wall and began to strip her naked as she looked at him open-mouthed. He removed his shirt, leaving only his jeans on. She was just as stunning without clothes: hints of definition, olive skin and a flower chain tattoo curving around her upper thigh. Her supple tits rested high on her chest above a flat stomach. Her pussy was neatly trimmed atop a pair of toned, shapely legs. Connor took her hand and backed her into the living room.

  She squealed in delight as he picked her up into a standing sixty-nine position. Connor gripped her tightly then put his face into her wet snatch. She let out a moan and her mouth engulfed his cock.

  They stayed like this for a minute until Connor began to think of a way to elegantly put her down. Not finding one, he dumped her untidily on the sofa as she giggled. He quickly scrambled above her, kissing her hard and thrusting into her as she cried out. He began to fuck her hard as she moaned excitedly in French. He gripped her hair, hooking her leg on his shoulder, running his other hand all over her body. He put his two fingers in her mouth as he fucked her harder. Her nails scratched the back of his shoulders as she came, only a moment or two before he did.

  Carl had arrived back at the hotel almost an hour ago, impatient and fighting the urge to be angry. Connor had texted him telling him he was on his way.

  He had shared a respectful kiss with Zoë outside the bar before getting her number. He saw her off in a taxi, regretful to watch her leave. He was surprised with how much she responded to him and was secretly grateful that Connor had introduced him.

  He had to admit, he liked the Englishman from the little he’d been around him. However, professionally he made him anxious. His unpredictability set Carl on edge.

  He had packed his things into his small suitcase. There was a premeditated knock at his hotel door that he and Connor had worked out between themselves. Still, Carl stood back and to one side of the door.

  “Yeah?” he called.

  “It’s me,” said Connor.

  After a quick check of the spy glass, Carl let him in.

  “Where have you been?”

  He was trying hard not to sound like a scolding mother.

  “I walked her back. Why? We still have plenty of time.”

  “Your things packed?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did it before I went out.”

  “OK, cover your fingertips in this,” said Carl handing him a small tub of silicone caulk. “It’ll dry quickly. Meet me outside the hotel entrance when you’re done. We best leave now.”

  With that Carl left the room.

  Pierre looked at the huge Eastern European standing in his office. Two of Pierre’s men flanked the man with one at his rear covering the door.

  He had met many large, intimidating men in his time, indeed his three bodyguards in the room were big men and plenty experienced. Still, this member of the Bratva exuded an aura of danger that was palpable.

  The man took a seat in front of him without waiting to be asked. Pierre stiffened at the underlying insult.

  The man said in English, “Mr Pierre, an intelligent man such as yourself should know that if we wanted you dead, you would die. If we wanted you hurt, you would be hurt. You would not see our faces. So please, remove your three apes from the room or I will remove them for you.”

  There was a deathly silence.

  Pierre donned a blank mask but was furious, confused and little a unnerved. He was not a man that got edgy easily. Pierre gestured to the three guards, and they left while looking daggers at the man.

  “What can I do for you Mr...?”

  “Mr Adamik. You can give me a detailed report on the progress of your search for Nicholas Flint.”

  “The handling of that was mine, and mine alone.”

  “That is true. But it affects our interests, and now you are to be accountable to us.”

  “I do not react well to threats, Mr Adamik.”

  “You will not react well to one of your legs being sawn off while you are to watch, Mr Gaultier.” The threat was delivered with such booming fearlessness that Pierre couldn’t respond. Adamik continued. “Now I will give you this one chance to tell
me,” he said, holding up his finger for effect.

  Pierre had dealt with violent men all his life and could read them easily now. The man was in Pierre’s domain surrounded by his armed men and, still, he exuded an air of utter confidence that bordered on nonchalance. It was unsettling to the Frenchman.

  After a turn, he answered. “We have despatched the man who tranquilized the previous target to clean up his own mess. He is in contact with a cyber tech who is searching for leads.”

  “Good, when and what was the content of his last check in?”

  “Check in? He checks in when the job is done.”

  There were a few moments of silence as Damian frowned.

  “You contracted a man who had already failed to eliminate a loose end to an extremely delicate operation, and you do not know where he is?”

  Pierre bristled indignantly and cursed himself for letting this henchman gain the psychological upper hand.

  “Mr Adamik, you are admittedly a member of a very powerful organisation, but you are a subordinate. I doubt you have ever had to head an organisation like mine. You are in no position to question my expertise.”

  “Mr Gaultier, you are in no position to question my expertise either, as you do not know of it. I am not here to justify myself to you. I am here to collect information and report on your progress. So far, you are to tell me you have no idea of the progress being made. He could be dead, and you do not know. It is, as they say, ridiculous,” rebuked Damian, with the same icy tone.

  Pierre was now visibly trying to control his anger. It had been years since anyone had spoken to him in such a manner. After a brief moment he answered. “He is due to check in tomorrow, by email at two o’clock.”

  “Good, I will be with you until then, and you will explain the situation more to me.”

  “Both are not necessary.”

  “I am afraid it is for both of our respective health.” Pierre forced a smile.

  Connor joined Carl outside. They walked briskly through the quiet night of Brussels down an assortment of side streets. They would stop every so often so that the American could check the GPS on his phone, while also acting as a counter measure for any possible follow up.

  After twenty minutes of walking, they came to a dimly lit, make-shift car parking space, outlined by unshaped granite stones behind an industrial building. There was a single vehicle inside: a metallic blue Ford transit, with a company logo of ‘Store de la Senne’ written on the side.

  Carl walked over to one of the stones and, whilst under the pretence of tying his laces, lifted it to retrieve a pair of keys that were hidden beneath. Connor initially thought it risky leaving the van unattended, considering what was meant to be inside. Then it occurred to him ‘they’, whoever ‘they’ were, would have eyes on the vehicle at least until Carl and Connor were in possession of it. He made a note of the buildings with windows facing the car park. He was increasingly impressed with this Jamie character.

  After a cursory check of the undercarriage after ‘dropping’ the keys, Carl unlocked the doors.

  “Shall we drive it somewhere new and check the contents at a different location?” Carl asked.

  “Yes.”

  Connor was mildly surprised the hitman had asked his opinion. He considered the American to be his superior. Not only older but Connor knew Carl had many years of experience under his belt. That was as much as Jamie had divulged to him. It occurred to Connor that Jamie probably didn’t divulge anything to Carl regarding Connor’s professional career. Carl’s confidence in him may shake if he knew of his relative inexperience. Although, Connor realised Jamie didn’t know just how prolific a criminal he was—or had been.

  Carl got into the driver’s seat with Connor sliding in beside him, opening the envelope that had been left for them in the glove compartment. Connor took in the new-car smell as he began to rifle through the documents and photographs. He began to prioritise the information before relaying it. Carl pulled out onto the R20 road and by the time they joined the N8 road twenty minutes later, they’d begun to discuss the mission.

  Connor smiled as he read what weapon systems were in the back.

  After a time Connor asked, “Did you get that bird’s number?”

  “Bird?”

  “The girl who I left you with. Zoe.”

  “Oh...yeh I did. Why do they call girls birds in England?”

  “Because they’re always chirping.”

  “Oh, OK. Did you get your ‘bird’s’ number?”

  “Yeh. She was a nice girl.”

  Carl raised his eyebrows. “I bet she was,”

  “Don’t be crude. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “I am not saying anything.”

  It took thirty minutes to reach the town of Ninove in a rural part of Belgium. After a further twenty minutes they found a place to stop. They cut down into a dense piece of woodland for a hundred yards, wound the windows down and cut the engine. They remained quiet for two minutes, listening out for anything untoward and exited the vehicle.

  They opened the back and climbed in, shutting the doors behind them as they did so.

  Immediately, the most noticeable thing was the gun mount bolted onto the reinforced floor of the van. It was a twin mount and so could fit two weapon systems, complete with a cast iron protective plate which shielded the firer’s centre of mass. They began to open the assortments of cases one at a time and check the weapon systems in each one.

  Connor smiled as he opened the first one and saw that it was a General-Purpose Machine Gun, before opening another box and discovering an identical one. The GPMG was the heaviest weapon of a British infantry section, and it was often referred to as a ‘Battle Winner’. Connor had remembered the reassuring sound the gun made when it was fired during contacts with the Taliban. He had been made to take responsibility of it part way through his first tour, when the original gunner had snapped his ankle. He used it during several fire fights and loved it. It fired the 7.62mm round which was designed to kill men rather than 5.56mm, which was designed to put men out of action.

  In the eighties, the British Military had begun the switch from the Self-Loading Rifle (SLR), which fired the 7.62mm, to the SA80 firing the 5.56mm. Connor had heard that this was because a man hit by a 5.56mm wouldn’t necessarily die, at least not immediately, thus diverting his comrades’ attention and resources to him during a fire fight. The smaller round also created less recoil thus was more accurate, more ammunition could be carried and generally, the smaller the round, the lighter the weapon system. The GPMG, however, did fire the 7.62mm round and at a rate of 1200 rounds per minute at an effective range of 800m in this light role.

  Connor smiled as he remembered an incident when he was a recruit. At the beginning of the first lesson they’d had for the GPMG, the instructing Corporal threw it into the air to demonstrate its robustness. Yet, one of the bi-pod legs had snapped, much to the amusement of the class and the instructor, who swore them to secrecy.

  Connor looked at the six boxes of 200 rounds and felt excited.

  Makar looked at Bruce with admiration, although he didn’t show it. They had to push him dangerously close to the point of no return because of the Scotsman’s unflinchingly mental robustness. Makar knew the signs he was displaying were approaching the realms of losing him completely. He was slurring the words that he was speaking to himself, the eyes switching from darting to staring, almost like he was in a waking nightmare.

  Makar felt the frustration inside him but dismissed it. Feelings were just feelings—it was only the actions you took that mattered. First, though, he’d to let the subject rest and recuperate.

  24

  The sedan snaked through the steady and polite traffic of Brussels, in a convoy of three—a van protecting the rear and an official looking Mercedes to the front.

  The sedan and the Mercedes each had darkened windows. The van at the rear was to protect the sedan from fire from behind and held three hardened men of Pierre’s security tea
m including the driver. Their eyes darted around assessing any potential threats. These actions mirrored the behaviour of the rest of the security detail in the Mercedes and sedan.

  Damian was sat in the front passenger seat of the sedan next to the driver, while Pierre was sat alone in the back studying his phone. Damian felt a flutter within him and didn’t know why. They were on a two-lane road, not including the hard shoulder, separated from the mirroring road for opposing traffic by a man-made grass island.

  Damian had taken the opportunity to wear the new type 3 bullet proof vest. The London arm of the Bratva had purchased it at great expense. They were a Chinese development and capable of stopping 7.62 mm rounds. It was heavy but not nearly as heavy as it should have been due to a material weld technology and lack of side protection. He would not have got away with it in the summer months, but this part of Belgium was having a particularly cold November. He felt it was inconspicuous underneath his sweater and jacket. Some of the security detail might guess, as might Pierre himself—he hadn’t always been a suit. Yet, no one gave Damian any indication that they knew. For that, he was pleased; it would afford him an edge should Pierre’s indignation at his manner overcome his sense. Damian had been deliberately belligerent to unbalance him, and he could sense the Frenchman was seething.

  Damian scanned the road as a van sped along side and past them.

  Time slowed.

  The van had what looked like a large, reinforced bumper which piqued his attention. It cut in front of the Mercedes before slowing.

  “Cut into the left lane!” barked Damian.

  The van’s lights glowed red as it stuttered towards stopping. The Mercedes smashed into the reinforced bumper. The sedan and the rear van piled in after it. Damian had braced himself just before the smash by tensing his entire physique and gripping the seatbelt away from his clavicle. That took out a lot of the whiplash and shock out of the collision for him.

  He clicked the internal locking mechanism off. The rear shutter of the van snapped upwards.