The Bootneck

by Quentin Black

  He told her not to lose her faith in people.

  He’d written letters to her several times over the months, and these had helped lift her mood. A few weeks back she realised she hadn’t been reading them as often—she hadn’t needed to.

  Bruce sat in the driver’s seat of his BMW outside a motorway services. He nursed a flask of black coffee. He waited for Connor to finish a phone call and join him in the car.

  He had picked Connor up a few hours ago from the Military Correctional Training Centre—MCTC—in Colchester, where he’d spent ninety days for going AWOL from his unit. Bruce saw to it that he be discharged from the Royal Marines too.

  Connor had vigorously protested when Bruce told him of his future detention in Colchester—‘What the fuck?! I saved your life, and now you’re sending me to get marched around army style like a spaz for three months?!’. Bruce explained it was the least suspicious way he could leave the military and work for him.

  The Yorkshireman had seemed in better humour upon his release, likening his time there to that of ‘The A-Team’, and referring to Bruce as ‘Hannibal’.

  Bruce flexed his reconstructed knee.

  The months of pain, swelling and rehabilitation had passed. The doctors ensured that he could partake in any activity that he had before. He didn’t delude himself—nearly fifty years old with a resurfaced knee—his field days were over. He was almost relieved.

  He saw his young apprentice put his phone in his pocket and wander back to the car. He got in and produced two empty Styrofoam cups, and said “Here, pop the coffee in them. Don’t worry, I chucked a quid into the charity box.”

  “You’ve only been out a few hours, and you’re already dipping into crime.”

  Connor sighed. “Meanwhile, back in the real world. What’s going on with everything?”

  “Define everything,” said Bruce, starting the car and pulling away.

  “What’s happened with the Russians, what’s going on with Nick, what’s happening with your ‘Ninja’ group?”

  Bruce joined the speeding traffic.

  “With Ravil and Makar out of the equation, the London Bratva are on the back foot —they’d to agree to terms with the Turks and Albanians as it came to light they were behind the murder of Hassan Saki.”

  “I wonder how they found that out,” said Connor rhetorically.

  “Quite. Nicholas has left my team though I said he could stay. He’s working close protection for a Saudi Prince now.”

  “That was magnanimous of you after what he did.”

  “He had his reasons,” Bruce sipped his coffee, “and I, with Mr Costner’s and Mr Parker’s influence, have the now official position of ‘Chief Liaison Officer’ between MI5 and MI6. Meaning, someone else must take the lead on being the man on the ground.”

  “Congratulations. Who’s my new boss?”

  Bruce looked at him. “You’re going to be that man on the ground.”

  Lines appeared from Connor’s eyebrows. “I can’t do that—I am twenty-six.”

  “Aye well, you didn’t think you could do a lot of things until you did them. Don’t panic, I’ll be here to hold your hand for a bit.”

  “What about the rest of your lads?”

  “They know what you did and respect that. Yer’ll still need to prove your worth, though.”

  Connor was quiet for a few moments. “What if I wanted to bring Louis in?”

  “It’s your team. We might be able to work something out.”

  They drove listening to the radio for a while. They were on the M25 making their way to Oxford. Bruce had procured Connor a flat there.

  “Was you on the phone to a lassie before?” asked Bruce.

  “Yeh but not like that. It was Rayella.”

  “How is she?”

  “Her Mum says she seems better now. She sounded chirpier over the phone. How she passed her eleven plus exams back then while coping with what she has been through I will never know.”

  “She’s made of stern stuff,” said Bruce. “It’s good you looking after her. Brings balance to your life.”

  “What do you mean balance?”

  Bruce looked at him, “Lessens your karmic debt a wee bit.”

  “You still believe in that?” said Connor shaking his head, “As far as I have been led to believe, you have spent your life trying to protect people from criminals and terrorists. Yet you were tortured for days and shot through the knee cap. What did you do to deserve that?”

  “It may be years before you are ready to hear this but violence, doesn’t matter how well intentioned it is, is still violence —it always comes back on you.”

  Connor narrowed his eyes. “Then what the fuck are we doing?”

  Bruce thought for a moment. “We are buying humanity time to get its act together.”

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Quentin Black is a former Royal Marine corporal with a decade of service in the Corps. This includes an operational tour of Afghanistan and an advisory mission in Iraq.

  GLOSSARY

  Actions on—Predetermined procedures that are to be carried out if certain events were to occur during the missions.

  ACRO—ACPO (Association of Chief of Police Officers) Criminal Records Office.

  AWOL— Absent without Leave.

  Bergen— Large rucksack used in the military.

  Brass up— UK military slang for shoot a target or person(s).

  Career laugh— A fake laugh designed to further your standings on the career ladder. Used primarily to laugh at superiors jokes and vaguely funny comments so you keep in their favour.

  Centre line— Imaginary line projecting directly forward of the opponent; to be off the centre is to place one’s self at an advantageous angle of attack.

  Checking kicks— The most common defence against a low kick is known as ‘checking’, where the leg is bent and brought up to protect the thigh. This causes the kicker to slam their shin into the defending fighters’ shin or knee.

  Chuck Up— Royal Marine slang for compliment or honour for work.

  Dickers— Originally a slang term given to IRA lookouts by the British military. Some use it to describe hostile lookouts of any operational area.

  Dit— British military slang for ‘a story’ i.e. ‘Spin us the dit’—tell me the story.

  DPM— Disruptive Pattern Material

  Eejit— Scottish slang for idiot.

  Enforcer— A man-portable cylindrical battering ram used for forced entry into buildings and rooms.

  Figure eleven— Standard man-sized target used by the British Infantry and Royal Marines on the shooting ranges. Made of wood thus the phrase, ‘You’re not a Figure eleven’ equates to ‘You’re not made of wood’.

  Fish-hooking— Inserting the fingers inside the opponent’s mouth and pulling. Done with the intention of tearing the surrounding tissue.

  Flap— To panic i.e. flap like a headless chicken.

  Flashbang— A non-lethal grenade which is used to disturb the senses of enemies by its loud noise and its bright light.

  (The) Grey Man— To play ‘the Grey man’, is to act and dress in an inconspicuous manner to blend into the background.

  GROM— Poland’s elite counter-terrorism unit.

  Jack— Royal Marine slang for putting yourself before others. Singularly the worst name to be tarnished with within the Corps.

  Kes— 1969 film drama about a fifteen-year-old boy from Barnsley.

  Kubotan— is a genericized trademark for a self-defence weapon developed by Sōke Takayuki Kubota in the late 1960s. It is typically no more than 5.5 inches (14 centimetres) long and about half an inch (1.25 centimetres) in diameter, slightly thicker or the same size as a marker pen. The material is usually of a hard high-impact plastic.

  Mong— One lacking in intelligence, with Turbo-Mong meaning one really lacking in intelligence.

  Omerta— A code of silence about criminal activity and a refusal to give evidence to the police. />
  Oppo— An affectionate term for a friend within the Corps—an opposite number.

  Pinged— Derived from the sound the World War Two submarine detector made when a submarine was identified. In Royal Marine and Navy parlance, it means to be found out, or ‘volunteered’.

  Point— Pointman, as in the first man.

  Pre-recorded— A mortars term. A mortar is a barrel used for firing bombs at high trajectory and usually at long distances. Long enough that grids had to be used rather than just aiming them at the target. When the mortar fire was ‘brought on’ to the target sometimes the grid was marked and recorded. If the enemy engaged from that position again, the mortar fire can be fired immediately without the necessary adjustments having to be remade. This was called a ‘Pre-recorded target’. Royal Marines also used the term for women they’d already had sex with and knew they would be willing to do so again.

  Pussers stamps— In the Royal Marines, the word ‘Pusser’ was often put in front of words to indicate a belonging to the Ministry of Defence. Pussers stamps were a pseudonym for tattoos denoting military service

  Rolling— Originally from the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu slang ‘rolar’, to engage in BJJ practice.

  Shit-bloke— A man who is professionally inept.

  Side-winded— To attack an unsuspecting victim from the side.

  Stop-short— A military tactic used for stopping and remaining still for a period of time to detect any follow up from the enemy.

  Spacers— A non-alcoholic drink consumed between alcoholic drinks, intended to limit intoxication. A ‘spacer’ will often be disguised as an alcoholic drink.

  Stacked— Well-built and muscular.

  SVR— tr. Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation.

  Teep— A front push-kick used in Muay Thai predominately as a defensive technique.

  Vale Tudo— A Portuguese term that translates to ‘anything goes’; derived from the full contact unarmed combat events that were first made popular in Brazilian circuses in the 1920’s.

  Vittle up (or brass up)— UK military slang for shoot a target or person (s).

  Vor (Vor v Zakone)— Thief (Thief in Law)—an elite position with the Russian Bratva, like being ‘made’ within the Sicilian and Italian-American Mafia.

  The following is the first chapter of Quentin Black’s follow up novel—Lessons in Blood

  1

  She spent a few minutes in that state between unconsciousness and being awake. Finally, her eye lids fought against the light before relaxing open. She recognised first the smell of the hyper cleanliness of a hospital. The sterile white interior and the thin, plastic cannula tube emerging from the back of her hand confirmed it.

  She searched her memory for how she came to being here but found nothing. Her memory had often not co-operated in the past haze of alcohol and drugs. In those instances the recollection used to taunt her from the recesses of her mind. This was different—there was nothing at all, and uneasiness coursed through her.

  Pain throbbed in her lower abdomen. Her shaking hands gingerly lift away the white sheeting. The twelve inch blood concealed scar circled her navel like black insulated wire. The searching of her memory became a frantic racking—Jesus, what did I do to myself this time?

  Her breath began to come in exasperated spurts. After a few moments, the curtains to her left were drawn back to reveal a white surgeon’s uniform wrapped around a smiling middle aged gentleman. His hair, seemingly confused as to be either grey or white, highlighted his artificially orange tinted skin. The tan emphasized perma white teeth.

  “Easy Miss. How are you feeling?”

  “Where am I?”

  “You are in Braeson Private Hospital. You were found by social workers unconscious in derelict house in Hackney three days ago. They brought you here, fortunately,” the smile seemed painted on.

  This information calmed her a little; it sounded depressingly likely, and that she was fortuitous for where she now lay.

  “Have I been stabbed?” she asked. That too seemed a dark possibility.

  “No,” replied the white coat as he picked out a file from an acrylic holder at the end of her bed, “after initial tests were performed, an emergency nephrectomy was performed due to your kidney being irreparably damaged.”

  “A nephrectomy?” her eyebrows squashed vertical lines between themselves, “that’s impossible. I had a full physical by the London Bridge Hospital less than two weeks ago. All the tests came back clear?”

  The coat’s expression now matched her own,

  “London Bridge Hospital?” he said, repeating the name of London’s largest and award winning private hospital.

  “Yes, my father insisted after I came out of rehab”

  The man eyed her warily, “Who is your father?”

  “Ahem, Darren O’Reilly.”

  “Darren O’Reilly? Where have I heard that name before?”

  “He owns Verbatum Cyber securities.”

  “I see,” the man replied, “excuse me”

  During his absence, the question began to turn over in her head constantly—Could I have really irreparably damaged a kidney in twelve days?

  Could she have been struck in one of her heroin-induced comas? Her boyfriend was many things but he’d never been violent towards her; probably because he was high more often than not. She, with money siphoned off her credit cards and cash allowances from her father, had kept the pair of them in their preferred drug induced state throughout their dalliance.

  The gentleman in the white coat returned. She felt threatened without understanding why. His smile had gone. He reached up behind her and she saw him turn on a valve.

  “Excuse me, what is this? What you doing.”

  In response, she felt his palm press down on her chest. No sooner had she begun to thrash, it seemed like she was laying in an invisible vat of honey. Her eyes felt like they were sinking into their sockets before her vision blurred into black.

  2

  The tall, broad shouldered Bruce McQuillan sat relaxed but straight backed in the mahogany tufted chair. His striped shirt ran flat down his still trim physique with the dark trousers finishing with subtly pattern brown lace up shoes.

  The soft yellow of the various lighting dotted around the room illuminating the dark reds and browns of the interior.

  This was one of London’s most exclusive private men’s clubs and thus the Bruce was unsurprised at the other patron’s surreptitious glances; he was an outsider, and glad to be so. However, his companion’s presence assuaged any hostility towards him; MP Henry Costner was fully enmeshed within the establishment.

  The Glasgow-born Bruce and the Eton-educated Henry had forged an unlikely alliance in harsh times over a year ago.

  Henry dressed in contrast to his role in the upper echelons of Parliament, and more out of the pages of GQ. His shirt, intricately chequered white and blue, contrasted with his light blue suit. The forty year old’s blond hair verged on foppish atop of his youthful face.

  “How are you Bruce? How are you dealing with the bureaucracy of your new official role?” asked Henry.

  “A necessary evil. An evil nonetheless.”

  “You miss being under the radar?”

  Bruce’s past involvement in UK security would never officially acknowledged. The activities of the clandestine unit known to a select few as ‘The Chameleon Project’ was far too sensitive. However, in order to provide his unit more top cover, Bruce and Henry had agreed that a more official role within the British Security services was appropriate. Through various petitioning and leveraging, Bruce received the role and title of ‘Chief Liaison Officer between MI5 and MI6’.

  “It had its advantages,” said Bruce taking a sip of his black coffee, “what do you need Henry?”

  Henry inclined his head as he regarded Bruce, “I do not know why I am a little offended at your correct assumption that this isn’t merely a social meeting.”

  “If th
at was the case you’d invite me to an establishment that permits the presence of women.”

  Henry nodded slightly, “Ah, I see”

  “And so?”

  “Do you know of a Darren O’Reilly?”

  “Owner of Verbatum Cyber securities Darren O’Reilly?”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Created cyber security systems seemingly years ahead of their time. They have been taken up by Government contractors and commercial businesses alike. Personal wealth well past the half a billion pound mark. Gives generously to charity.”

  Bruce saw Henry resist the urge to look around furtively; the Scot had told him off for doing so in past meetings.

  The politician began, “Darren O’Reilly, also a generous donor to various power players in Government. It was his financial contributions to the last election campaign that kept the Prime Minister in power. The man has many important friends.”

  “Go on.”

  “His Daughter Jessie was found dead in a drugs den in South-East London. Overdosed on drug named Fentanyl.”

  Bruce had been aware of the girl’s death and of how O’Reilly had used his influence to keep the circumstances out of the press.

  He also knew of the increase of Fenanyl on the streets in recent months. The synthetic opioid analgesic gave off an effect similar to morphine, except it had fifty to a hundred times the potency.

  “Then Mr O’Reilly has my condolences”

  “Mr O’Reilly had a private autopsy done Bruce,” replied Henry sipping his Scotch, “she was a day removed from kidney removal that she apparently didn’t need.”

  “So we’re not talking about some kind of macabre tearing out of the kidney. You’re talking about a nephrectomy?”