by Jack Elgos
THE KILLER
Jack Elgos
YELLOWBAY BOOKS
Published by YellowBay Books Ltd 2012
www.yellowbay.co.uk
Copyright © Jack Elgos 2012
The right of Jack Elgos to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers:
YellowBay Books Ltd
ISBN 9 7 8 1 9 0 8 5 3 0 3 9 4
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Emily Heaton
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“When starting down the road of revenge,
you must first dig two graves.”
This man disagrees with Confucius. He
knows that two graves won’t be nearly enough.
Contents
1 - England, 1985
2 - The Beginning: Northern Ireland, 1978
3 - Active Service
4 - The Execution, 1981
5 - The Englishman
6 - The Trip from Hell
7 - Euskal Herria AKA the Basque Country
8 - A Break in the Routine
9 - The Message
10 - Catalunya: The Road Trip
11 - The Thief
12 - The Stakeout
13 - Back on The Road
14 - The Prison Warden
15 - The Intrusion
16 - The Shooting
17 - England, 1981
Other YellowBay Books
1
England, 1985
Just before dawn in the half-light of day, he rubbed a small circle of condensation from the ice-cold windowpane. ‘Only the needy and the greedy are out today Liam me lad,’ he whispered quietly as he shivered. Gazing out over the bleak landscape he took a deep, satisfying drag from one of his favourite fags, Capstan full strength. ‘Ah Jesus, what a miserable cold, grey day,’ he sighed as he continued to stare out at the light rain drizzling slowly down onto the mist-covered fields surrounding the old Derbyshire manor house. Everything was quiet.
Draining the remains of a strong black coffee, he struggled to counter the pounding effects of last night’s bottle of Jameson as he took his place at the old desk and started his daily ritual of stripping and thoroughly cleaning today’s weapon of choice. Closing his eyes he picked up the piece and engaged the safety. He removed the mag and cocking handle, continued with the butt and grip, then finally the retracting bolt head assembly and recoil spring.
Only when the HK MP5 was broken down into all its parts did he open his eyes to inspect every single component. He then cleaned and oiled each piece individually. ‘Clinical cleanliness always, Liam,’ he repeated to himself as he sat in the eerie grey glow coming from the bank of security monitors. He was about to close his eyes once more to rebuild the MP5 when something caught his attention and a glance at the monitors confirmed the movement. A car was approaching. Springing from his seat he watched a silver Mercedes saloon car making its way down the long drive. Finally it arrived and parked next to his Jaguar, directly opposite his front door.
The bell rang twice. Checking the monitors for any further movement Liam, a 9mm pistol in his right hand, cautiously eased open the door with his left. The visitor stood and nodded. Neither man uttered a word of greeting as Turner entered and strolled across to the drawing room. Liam secured the front door again before following and eventually taking his seat behind the antique mahogany desk. In total silence Turner took the seat opposite then, opening his briefcase, he slid a large envelope in the direction of Liam who grabbed it, tore it open and pulled out the sheaf of printed documents.
Page after page he studied the contents of times, dates and locations. Finally he arrived at the collection of images; cars, houses and offices along with their associated blueprints. Then he saw a photograph with the face of his new target. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Liam thought. ‘I’d happily hit this bastard for free.’
Showing no emotion at the picture of a man he recognised only too well, he looked directly at Turner asking, ‘Same money?’
‘Yes, of course old chap, the same money as always,’ nodded Turner. ‘However, this one will carry a bit of a bonus. It cannot appear to be an accident, I’m afraid. It has to be a very public affair.’
‘Why in public?’ Liam asked, his fingers tracing the line of the old crescent shaped scar on his cheek.
‘Orders,’ Turner replied. ‘You have all the information you need. The transfer of funds will be made when the work has been completed and the termination is confirmed.’ Turner stood and waited for the briefest of moments, should there be any further questions. There were none. He turned and left without uttering another word.
Locking the door once more Liam watched as the Mercedes exited the driveway and then he returned to the drawing room where he studied the security monitors. Nothing. Once again all was quiet, just as it should be.
2
The Beginning: Northern Ireland, 1978
Butch knew all there was to know about survival; he was an expert. Having grown up in Belfast, one of the most dangerous cities in the world, violence had been his constant companion. A little short of stature and a bit underweight he had been the target of bullies, but his early years brawling on the streets had taught him how to survive in this brutal, segregated city. In his late teens he’d perfected his own unique form of street fighting, turning it into a virtual art form. By the time he’d reached his mid twenties he’d earned the reputation as a violent man, one best avoided. Though he didn’t know it at the time Butch was soon to become one of the most feared of Belfast’s many hard-men.
Despite their constant attempts to recruit him, Butch had always refused the Provos with a firm, ‘Look, fuck off boys; you know I’m not political. Go fight your own war.’ As if to make sure they fully understood his position he’d fight just as hard with the Catholic boys as he would with the Protestants.
‘Darren, my son, as long as I draw breath, promise me you’ll not get involved in the troubles.’ His mother’s constant words echoed through his mind at every attempted recruitment. Strange to think back then that everyone still called him Darren. He wished they still would. He hated the name Butch.
Then, one dark, cold and rainy night, a Proddy outfit abducted and murdered his mother. Mrs. McCann was making her way home from visiting friends when she had been viciously attacked. She was brutally beaten and her throat was cut. Everyone in the province assumed the attack was a punishment. Her crime? She was Catholic.
This, signature killing, was clearly the work of a specific Protestant Paramilitary squad: the infamous Shankill Butchers. The squad took their orders directly from The Ulster Volunteer Force, a loyalist paramilitary group. Though never actually claiming responsibility for the killing, the method used put the blame firmly at the doorstep of the U.V.F.
From the moment her body had been found, Darren McCann was transformed from a lone street fighter. Heartbroken at the loss of his beloved mother, his feelings of hatred towards her killers made him the perfect weapon for the Republicans. H
e was recruited into the Provisional I.R.A. the day following his mother’s funeral.
***
The Training Camp - For One
Several weeks later, Darren peeped out of the front door and smiled. He wasn’t altogether shocked, but he was pleasantly surprised. After spending several minutes checking both directions of Nansen Street he found there was not one soldier to be seen. In his vivid nightmare last night he’d opened this door to face hundreds of police and soldiers all waiting to take him, the latest recruit for the I.R.A., and lock him away forever - in the dreaded H-Blocks. He breathed a huge sigh of relief as he realised it really had been nothing but a bad dream.
He spent the day fidgeting and pacing, waiting for the allotted hour yet dreading it at the same time. His nightmare kept coming back to haunt him and his disturbed sleep had left him weary and anxious. Eventually, some time in the afternoon, he felt himself nodding off and sat back in a chair for the quick nap he knew he needed.
The sun was low in the sky when he opened his eyes again and a quick glance at his watch confirmed that he was late. ‘Fuck, wake up you stupid idiot, you’re not gonna make it.’ He set off walking quickly down Nansen Street, but as he reached the junction he knew he could never make up the time at this pace. Once onto the Falls Road he started to run, which in Belfast was not a healthy thing to do. Most runners seen on these streets were running away from something - like a shooting, or a bombing. They were definitely not taking their evening jog.
Running was something Darren rarely did. He never liked to run to, or away from, anything or anyone - but this was different. This evening he was running to meet some scary people. Not the type of scary people he’d fight with in Belfast’s pubs and bars, these were really scary people and he didn’t want to be late for the meeting. When he reached the pick up point he checked his watch and he’d made it with five minutes to spare. ‘Thank God for that,’ he whispered.
As he sat on the pavement and waited he noticed four other young men. Briefly they made eye contact, but quickly broke it, each one finding a new spot on which to lock his gaze. These young men had all volunteered and they had individually been told the number one rule, ‘Do not talk to anyone, ever.’ Though still sweating, Darren began to relax a little. He lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs.
A Transit van pulled up. A short, fat man climbed out of the passenger side, moved to the rear of the van and opened its back doors. Eyeing the five waiting men he stared at them in turn. When he finally spoke, the briefness of his instruction only served to underline his command. ‘Get in!’
They all climbed in and took a seat. ‘No talking,’ the man hissed. ‘I hear anyone utter a fucking word - and they don’t make it.’ Opening his jacket a little for effect, they each caught a glimpse of the pistol he showed them. Inwardly Darren shivered.
The journey was interrupted four times and the other men were dropped off at stages along the route until Darren was the only one left in the vehicle. A short drive on rough roads followed and, as the van came to a final, abrupt stop, he could hear shouting. A moment later and the rear doors swung quickly open. Darren had arrived in darkness. Though he had been told he was to be sent to Derry, the pitch black of the night left him with absolutely no idea where he was. He could’ve been anywhere really. But he knew he was still in Ireland: he could feel it.
‘Out now!’ Someone unseen barked the order to him. Climbing out of the van Darren stood trying to survey his new home. ‘Not much to look at,’ he thought, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. Then he was blinded again, as a bright light shone directly into his face.
‘Welcome to Derry, McCann,’ the man said in a deep County Armagh accent. ‘You’re in the Provos now,’ he announced as he inspected the new recruit. Darren sprang to attention until the voice eventually ordered, ‘OK, follow me son.’
Darren did as he was told, following the man into a dark old barn. As they entered the man reached out and flicked a switch, illuminating the area, and Darren’s eyes widened in surprise. Though from the outside it looked like any old farm building, the interior looked anything but. It was spotlessly clean and on the concrete floor stood four long tables, each covered in a green tarpaulin. The man pointed to the corner of the room at three doors. ‘Your room is the last one on the left,’ he informed him. Then he turned to leave with a friendly ‘goodnight’, and Darren was alone.
When he entered his room, Darren was pleasantly surprised to see a small stove, a kettle, a fridge - and a bed. He opened the fridge door and stood smiling, whispering, ‘Thank God for that.’ He’d not eaten for many hours and the sight of bread, bacon, eggs and milk made his mouth water.
As he swallowed the last of his sandwich and drained the remainder of his tea, he burped loudly and crawled slowly into bed. This had been one very long day.
The following morning his dreams were interrupted by a loud crash and bright, blinding light as the door flew open and banged into the wall. ‘Up and dressed McCann,’ he heard Mr. County Armagh shout. Darren jumped from his bed and immediately drew in his breath as the cold assaulted him. It was freezing. Following a rushed wash in icy water he quickly dressed and hurried to the main area of the barn. There he found the man waiting for him, clothed in camouflage gear. Darren jumped to attention and offered his best salute.
‘Relax lad,’ the man told him, a friendly smile on his face. ‘I don’t know what you were expecting, but marching up and down all day like toy soldiers is not what’s done here.’
Darren lowered his arm. ‘So, where is here and what, exactly, is done then?’ he asked.
‘We’re close to the Derry area, or thereabouts son. That’s all you need to know about where we are. And here we, or rather I, will train you to fight and to kill. Here you’ll learn how to kill in the most effective manner possible.’ The man smiled. ‘My name is Collins,’ he added.
‘Am I the only one here Mr. Collins?’ Darren asked as he scanned the room, looking for other recruits.
‘Yes son, there is only ever one person here at a time. The training is done on a one on one basis. And, by the way, the name’s Collins. Not Mr., not Captain - just make it Collins.’
‘OK then - Collins, what’s first?’
‘First son, I need to know a little about you. Why are you here, and what are you good at?’ he asked his latest recruit as he poured two cups of tea. ‘Milk and sugar?’ he offered with another smile.
Darren wasn’t sure what he had expected, but sitting and chatting over a nice warm brew definitely wasn’t it, not that he was complaining. The chat grew dark, though, as he filled Collins in on his mam’s murder. Then, clenching his fists, he told him what he did well. Basically, this boiled down to fighting, and winning.
‘So, you’re here for revenge then eh lad?’
‘Aye, that I am. I joined to kill those Shankill bastards, every one of them,’ he spat.
‘I’ve read your report,’ Collins confirmed. ‘It says you’re a good street fighter lad. A hard case, good with your fists - but fists against bullets is not the way I’d want to go.’
‘It’s not just my fists,’ Darren assured him, ‘I’ll use anything I can find to put a man down; bottles, bricks, knives – anything.’
‘Guns?’ asked Collins.
‘No, sir, I’ve never even held a gun. Promised my mammy that I wouldn’t get involved in any shootings you see.’
‘But now she’s gone, and you want to learn, eh lad?’
‘Aye, that I do. I want to learn everything you can teach me,’ he replied seriously.
‘Right, have you finished your tea? Then let’s start laddie,’ Collins commanded as he stood, pulling the tarpaulin from one of the smaller tables. ‘This,’ he picked up a gun, ‘is a Browning .45 automatic pistol.’
The remainder of the day was spent with lessons repeated over and over, stripp
ing, rebuilding and firing an assortment of small handguns. Darren studied hard, copying the man with every breakdown and rebuild of each weapon. At every procedure Collins would stare him directly in the face, firmly reminding him of his favourite saying: ‘Clinical cleanliness always, son.’
That mantra, Collins informed him, had been drilled into the head of many a raw recruit who had passed through his hands. ‘To the best of my knowledge, lad, it has served them all well.’ Then he continued, driving the fact into Darren’s head, constantly reminding him that, ‘It’s the only way to go - any dirt in any firearm, especially an automatic, can result in a jam - and a gun jamming on you will probably cost you your life.’
The following morning began in exactly the same manner as the previous one. First the tea - then the chat. As he sipped his tea Collins glanced over the cup. ‘So, you want to have a go at the Shankill boys do you lad?’ Darren nodded enthusiastically.
‘But, you are aware that The Butchers take their orders from the U.V.F. aren’t you?’
Again, Darren nodded. ‘Of course I am.’
‘Then you need to broaden your outlook a little son,’ advised Collins. ‘It’s not just The Butchers who are responsible,’ he explained patiently.
‘It is for me,’ replied Darren.
Collins, reclining a little in his seat, took a deep breath, then in a softer tone explained, ‘Look son, we’re not just fighting The Butchers or U.V.F. you know. We’re fighting the fucking lot of them. The U.D.A., The U.V.F. and the Brits - everyone. It wasn’t just one group that killed your mam, it was all of them - they’re all the same.’
Glancing up at Collins, Darren frowned at him in an effort to clarify his reasons. ‘I know that, but it was The Butchers who murdered mammy, and that’s who I want.’
