The Bootneck

by Quentin Black

  Connor resisted the temptation to fire on the vehicle; he knew it was pointless. The Mercedes repeatedly crushed the sedan. He thought Ravil was probably dead at this point. It was confirmed when he heard the loud bang of the grenade that had been launched through the sedan’s shattered window. He had known all along that Makar’s priority was that Ravil couldn’t remain captured, not that he lived.

  The police sirens wailed in the near distance and Connor knew they would be forced to make an aggressive push for their second priority; Bruce. It occurred to him that if he were Makar, he would simply turn the car in his direction and run the pair of them over.

  He gripped the Glaswegian under his armpits, heaving his inert body. He pushed it into the gap made by the upper edge of the huge steel rubbish skip pushed to the wall. The Mercedes turned in his direction. Connor felt a pump of adrenaline even in his already epinephrine-soaked body. He over-rode every fibre of his being to stay rooted to the spot. He pretended not to notice the vehicle now accelerating in his direction. If he moved now, the vehicle would just hunt him down. The armoured luxury car careered towards him. He waited.

  At the last possible moment, he dove to his left. The Russian’s vehicle crashed through heavy oak doors with wrought irons bar criss-crossing the frame. Connor scrambled for the driver’s seat door, pistol in hand as the car halted. The door shunted open knocking him backwards onto one knee. He brought his pistol down on aim. The Russian was already out of the car and kicked it clean out of his hand. The metal clattered away as it slid underneath another steel skip. Connor kicked the leg that the Russian was standing on. He made a scramble on top of the felled Russian. He was blocked by a raised knee.

  Connor stood up a fraction of a second quicker than the larger, heavier man who was on his knees. Connor’s kick to the head was deflected by steel forearms. The palms rushed up and slammed the youngerman back a few paces with astonishing speed and strength. Makar made a running escape through the damaged doors of the large warehouse.

  Connor quickly looked around—there was no-one. Everyone had left as the wail of the sirens drew closer to the carnage. Only Bruce McQuillan’s body remained and he wasn’t sure if the Scot was alive or not.

  He didn’t have time to reach his pistol. If Makar was armed, then surely he would have shot him when he pushed him back before making a run for it?

  He made his choice.

  He pulled Bruce’s body from under the skip into the open—the police would call an ambulance for him. He felt a touch of relief that Bruce seemed to stir but Connor had run out of time. He couldn’t escape from the police carrying the Scotsman anyway.

  He ran after Makar a split-second before the first police vehicle arrived on the scene. Connor chased Makar through several industrial buildings, all with a similar layout of containers, work benches and small offices.

  The Russian exited through a side door across a quasi-road into a single building with the Englishman in pursuit. Connor slowed at the door suspecting a trap. He kicked the door open with his head snapping right then left as he stepped inside. Makar stood seemingly implacable facing him in a clearing in the middle of a warehouse. The building was two hundred metres away from the scene of the shootout. The warehouse was around half the size of a football pitch. Large, metallic isolation containers, around three metres tall and eight metres long, with gaps of different sizes separating them, filled the floor space. The place smelled faintly of tobacco.

  “The distance we have put between us and the scene will give me enough time to kill you,” said the Russian, emotionlessly.

  Connor’s adrenaline hit his blood stream like a high-powered motorcycle ripping through a tunnel.

  “I can’t think of anything ‘Clint Eastwood’ enough to say,” he replied.

  This part was always the worst part he knew. The part where it’s just about to begin, and you don’t know what exactly you’re up against. Makar extended his arms with his hands open at chest level. His chin was down but he was upright in posture.

  Connor tucked his chin so he could see the outline of his eyebrows, raised his guard and hunched his shoulders closer to his jaw.

  He knew an average street fight was usually over in the first blow or two—that or else it disintegrated into an ugly brawl. It was usually too fast and shocking for a skilled martial artist to have the time and space to employ feints, footwork, head kicks and two-phase attacks.

  Big, simple attacks that didn’t test the adrenaline disturbed fine motor skills tended to work best—a well delivered right hand or left hook, a smashing head butt or crushing knees. However, this was going to be a match fight—an ‘anything goes’ battle. He believed the Russian when he calmly stated his intention to kill him.

  He swilled the saliva around his gums and breathed deeply through his nose—be patient and don’t overreach.

  He took a step forward.

  His opponent was larger, heavier and maybe that would be a good thing. Perhaps he’d over-commit himself to impose those advantages. No emotion showed on the Russian’s features at all. Connor began to close the distance between them.

  He began by feinting with a jab while stepping around the right of the Russian. He fired a jab and a short right. Makar evaded and blocked the blows. Connor decided not to risk anything but punches at this moment. He jerked his shoulder, springing forward with a three-punch combination. The last screw shot impacting on the Russain’s philtrum.

  Makar smiled. He nodded, seemingly to himself. Connor threw an inside leg kick at the front left leg. It missed as Makar switched into a southpaw stance. Connor felt the dull thud of a right fist on his cheek, knocking him back a step.

  The Russian’s next punch smashed into his right elbow which was protecting his ribs. Connor retaliated with a swift, hard right uppercut to the jaw then cannoned a vicious head butt cleanly into the face. Makar took half a step back under-hooking Connor’s left armpit with his right arm and hurled him airborne. He landed with a thud and continued with the roll to create distance.

  A chorus of nerves sang in him; this was the first time he’d felt fear during a fight. He’d experienced it, to varying degrees, before most fights but not during. Sensing the Russian’s strength, quickness and technical savvy, fear bolted through him.

  He overrode the negative thoughts and countered them—He’s older than you. He won’t be as fit as you. Target his body. You can outlast him.

  He sprang to his feet just before Makar descended on him, punching a right fist into the solar plexus and a left hook to the ribs. He spun away, catching a slicing elbow on the top of his head. Connor felt the hot blood trickle down his head, tickling his face.

  He blocked a vicious low kick with his left shin. Glanced a thumping right fist off his shoulder while swaying away. He hooked another hard left to the larger man’s flank. It was evident now that the Russian wanted to overwhelm him.

  They exchanged punches, kicks and knees several times. The exertions, the exhales, and the wet sounds of fists against faces echoed off the walls. Connor came off worse every time. He’d land more shots but not enough to negate the weight disparity.

  Makar’s face showed the signs of Connor’s swift and crunching punches. There was a slice under the eye, puffy cheeks and a bleeding lip. Connor knew his own injuries looked worse. There was still no sign of tension on his opponent’s face.

  Makar stepped forward.

  They exchanged vicious kicks, punches, elbows and knees that left Connor’s legs unsteady. He’d never seen a man this big move this fluidly while hitting so hard.

  ‘A good big man, will always beat a good small man’, was the old boxing quote, yet he loved smashing up men much larger than himself. This man was something different. He wasn’t just a ‘run of the mill heavy’. He knew how to fight.

  Connor tried a hook off the jab, both of which were blocked. He sliced a leg kick in the thigh but found himself on the receiving end of several hard blows. He held his arms tense, ducking and diving while t
he blows smashed his own fists and elbows into his head and body. He caught the hurtful oncoming knee, holding onto it for dear life. He drove forward with all his might like a rugby prop forward and hooked his foot around Makar’s standing leg. He toppled his bear of an adversary. The piston-like legs pushed Connor away like levers, stopping him from gaining a top position. Connor levelled kicks to his thighs knowing now that if he let this machine up, he’d lose.

  He didn’t fancy grappling with him on the floor either. The way the Russian defended his attempt to mount his hips, had proven that he’d at least a semblance of technical ability on the ground.

  The thought flashed through his mind to run and to live to fight another day. He dismissed it—this ends now, one way or the other.

  He went for another soccer kick, but Makar rapidly shifted his body on a tilt. The Russian’s right leg hooked around Connor’s left thigh with his left foot pushing on the inside of his right thigh—Connor toppled down on top of him.

  Connor punched his right arm under the Russian’s left leg to grip the trousers of the right. Trapping the thrashing lower limbs in place, he began to climb the body. Elbows and fists stabbed into the top of his head. Passing the hips, he jammed his knee into his opponent’s solid stomach. He rose to pound away with his fists. The Sambo master simply formed a human bridge, flicking his hips and Connor was scrambling to stand again.

  He heaved desperately for oxygen. The fight had lasted a while, and his adrenaline ebbed, allowing him to feel the damage. His face was hot and swollen. His thighs, especially his left, were weak and in pain. Every part of him seemed to ache. As he saw the Russian already standing, he knew he was going to lose—therefore, I am going to die.

  He stood as straight as he could and smiled to himself. He felt serenity now—he hoped Valhalla was everything he thought it would be.

  Still, he would continue to fight. He wouldn’t just accept his death willingly. He’d rather die fighting for his life. ‘Rage against the dying of the light’ he heard from a poem somewhere.

  Besides, he couldn’t physically run now even if he wanted to.

  The Russian looked into his eyes. “If your leaders had as much resolve as you, your country wouldn’t be so weak. I will make this as quick as I can,” he said.

  “I bet you say that to every woman you fuck,” replied Connor, as he took a fighting stance.

  The Russian’s face afforded him a small smile. “Not quite Clint Eastwood was it?”

  He moved towards his prey.

  His throat exploded in a geyser of blood. The echoing boom of a gunshot pierced the air. The falling Makar revealed Bruce McQuillan, leant against the back wall. Connor’s pistol was in his clasped hands.

  “Let’s go lad” he ordered, in his familiar Scottish drawl.

  .

  28

  Four Months Later

  The moon glittered off the tops of the crashing waves. Roger Stanton lounged aboard his luxury yacht, nursing his brandy tumbler. The boat floated off the Northern Coast of Venezuela and was thirty-two metres in length. Powered by two CAT diesel engines, it could reach speeds of sixteen knots. It had five cabins, with the other four occupied by four members of his security team. No sense in taking an unnecessary risk. He would have preferred something larger but didn’t want to attract attention to himself.

  Relocating to Venezuela was always the contingency plan of escape if his scheme failed. He’d contacts here, a secure bank account and he spoke the language fluently. It was near the sea and the women were divine. Venezuela had a disproportionate amount of Miss World winners in comparison to its relatively small size.

  He had left his wife in the UK, saying he was on secondment to Australia. It had been a marriage of convenience for a long time but he’d left her enough money to get by. She did not know anything worthwhile and the house had been sanitized.

  He also had insurance policies in place should he be assassinated by the UK Government; the dark, dirty secrets of very powerful men and women. These secrets were regarding people from the Cabinet, international security services and the ultra-wealthy. They were hidden in places and with people to be released in the event of an ‘accident’ befalling him. Bruce McQuillan had taught him that.

  It wasn’t the same as his dream of domination and power, but with millions secure in various banks he could afford to lounge around and consider his options. He would let the dust settle and eventually lever his way back in.

  Right now, he could enjoy himself after decades of service. He finished off the rest of his brandy and eased himself off his lounger. He made his way to the stairs leading below deck to the bar cabinet. As he turned the corner he froze.

  There lay the head of his security team, his throat cut with the pain and surprise still etched into his face. There was a rapidly expanding dark red pool emanating from beneath him. An open-mouthed Stanton turned around just in time to catch a flash of the oncoming fist.

  The shivers pulsing through his body awoke Stanton.

  Pain throbbed through his jaw. His head hung as he stared at his naked thighs and cock. The tourniquets excruciatingly bit into his upper right arm and above the knee of his left leg. He lifted his head and terror leapt from his stomach, internally gripping his throat as he saw the torsos of his entire security team minus their arms and legs. He felt tears water the edges of his bottom eyelids.

  He heard the voice. It was a voice he recognised; well-clipped with a subtle Glaswegian drawl running through it.

  “Good evening, Roger.”

  The terror started whirring throughout Roger’s exposed body as Bruce McQuillan stepped into view. He limped a little. Stanton had never discovered what happened to Bruce after that fateful night.

  “You can’t... you can’t kill me. There will be an avalanche of information that goes to various media outlets throughout the world and—AARRRRRGH!” Roger screamed as he felt his ear being roughly torn from behind by what felt like rusted garden shears. He watched in horror as his detached, bloody ear fell to the floor. The pain pounded the side of his head, and his jaw slackened.

  “Be quiet Roger. Mr Ellis in New York, Mr Williams in Cheshire, Mr Suberov in Minsk and Mrs Taylor in Melbourne have all submitted the ‘evidence’ to us. There won’t be an outpouring of evidence to any media outlet unless we direct it. But thank you for collecting this information for me, I do appreciate it. It will come in useful to get things moving in the right direction.”

  “There are others,” Stanton lied desperately.

  “No there aren’t.”

  Stanton began to open his mouth again but was silenced by a bone-crunching punch. The metallic taste of iron filled the back of his throat.

  Just as Roger’s rapidly blinking eyelids cleared away the tears, another hand reached around and grasped his broken nose hard. He began to choke for the air that this hand was denying him. Pain pounded his face before the hand released his nose. He inhaled giant gulps of air like a landed fish.

  After a few long minutes, Stanton managed to compose himself. If they wanted him dead, he would be dead by now.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “We want to know your answer to this question: Do you want to die, or do you want to live, minus one of your legs from the knee down, and one of your arms from the elbow?”

  Stanton looked at Bruce in horror and bemusement.

  The subtle Yorkshire brogue came from behind him. “Just to remind you, there are plenty of British Servicemen who have lost limbs in Afghanistan in service to their country, not from betraying it.”

  “Please… ” Stanton begged.

  “We’ll give you a minute to decide,” said Bruce. He stepped behind Stanton as he began to shake and convulse. In what seemed like an instant, Bruce stepped back in front of him.

  “Time’s up. Which is it?”

  “Just kill me. Please, just kill me.”

  “Well, that’s up to you. You can remove the tourniquets with the hand we’ll allow you to h
ave if that’s your wish.”

  As Stanton looked at him with confusion. The sound of a chainsaw pierced the night and echoed over the simmering water.

  Epilogue

  “Before I go I’ll tell you a joke...listen...I was on the beach the other day when I saw a man frantically splashing in the water shouting ‘Help, help, shark, help!’...but I just laughed...I knew the shark wasn’t going to help him!” said the voice on the phone.

  Rayella laughed, “Good one! Dingbat!”

  “You sure you don’t need it explaining to you?” the voice teased.

  “I am sure.”

  “Good. Got to go kiddo. Congratulations again on smashing those first year exams. I am only a call away.”

  The call ended from Connor’s end, and she put down the receiver to the house phone. Bounding the stairs to her room, she realised she was smiling—her first real smile in a long time.

  The first few weeks after that day at school had been the hardest. She didn’t know how to tell anyone. The feeling of utter isolation even when surrounded by her school friends and family had been suffocating.

  She had escaped through daydreaming about the past; to a time before it had happened and a time when her brother was alive. He would take her to the swimming pool before she could swim properly. She’d kick out and laugh uproariously as his watery image slid along the pool’s bottom before grabbing at her legs, pretending to be a shark.

  Even escaping to that memory couldn’t get rid of the heavy weight on her chest or the feeling of cold bleakness that now splashed her entire world.

  Then Connor had visited, and she remembered the feeling of relief when telling him of what had happened—the feeling that she was a little less alone. He came down with her to tell her parents and stayed with her through their disbelief, questions, and sobs. Stayed with her when the police came to interview her. Before he left, he’d told her to remember it wasn’t her fault and some men were just sick.