Home Front: A James Marshal Thriller Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  Her aunt may be wrong, for once. Grace dared to believe that Marshal could give something of himself. He might harbour feelings for her, similar to the ones she harboured for him. If Marshal didn’t get in touch with her by the end of the evening, then she would reach out to him tomorrow. All wasn’t lost. Grace would ask him out for dinner, as a thank you for him driving her around over the past couple of days. It would be a start.

  Grace glanced at her phone, checking to see if Marshal had already messaged her. He hadn’t. But she hadn’t lost hope.

  Viktor Baruti took another sip of his black, treacly coffee. He enjoyed the restorative quiet of the garden, which Marshal had previously taken advantage of. For a time, the Englishman’s flippancy had irritated the Albanian. His blood had been close to boiling over. Eventually, he had found his opponent’s weak spot – and broke him. The debt would be paid, one way or another. But first, the intelligence officer would run a full background check on the Englishman. It was unlikely he was a plant, by the security services, but he needed to be certain. He was curious to study the soldier’s service record – and to know whether he had a criminal record. And if so, what for? The operations officer would assess his skills set. Had he killed before? Baruti was confident that James could prove an asset. He may even one day become a friend. The kryetar smiled into his coffee cup as he considered how the vigilante would soon be working as a criminal. Today could be the first day of the rest of his life.

  Baruti did not dwell on his success for too long. There were other fronts to fight on. He made a call to his counterpart, Tristen, in the Hellbanianz. They discussed producing a video, which could be shown via YouTube, in order to attract “falcons” – new recruits. The video would glamorise a life of crime, showing drugs, bikini-clad women, bling, Bentleys and rolls of cash, over a soundtrack of hip-hop music. A previous video, The Hood Life, had generated over 7.5 million hits. The gang’s Instagram account had over a hundred thousand followers. Baruti was conscious of balancing the need to recruit new blood, particularly teenagers from existing street gangs, without overexposing their organisation.

  “I’m like the fucking Pied Piper of London. I put out these videos and lead the dumb bastards into a life of crime. The gangs are even now choosing to work for us over the West Indians, to sell product,” the racist Tristen exclaimed. “Even if they stabbed each other at twice the rate we’d still have enough personnel.”

  Baruti finished his coffee and sent a text to Bisha, instructing him to collect the car and park outside the pub. He worked his way through some WhatsApp messages, issuing orders to dealers and enforcers alike for the evening ahead.

  Thirty minutes later he was in the front passenger seat of the vehicle, driving to his flat. The Toyota worked its way along the Old Kent Road, Tower Bridge Road, Jamaica Road, towards Canada Water. He noted a new cocktail bar on Tooley Street. He would have one of his men check the establishment out, for a possible site to sell their product. Rugova mentioned the other day how their organisation needed to increase their investment in – and acquisition of – suitable local businesses.

  “We are the gods of the street,” some gang members had boasted during one of the recruitment videos. But really, they were minions, and all too mortal. The true gods were Rugova, Tristen and himself. London was the cocaine capital of Europe. They would soon have a stranglehold on South London, in the same manner that the Hellbanianz held sway in East London. People often talked about the war on drugs. But the war was over. The criminals had won.

  He caught the smell of weed in the air, wafting through the window. It smelled like money. Baruti glanced around him as they got stuck in traffic near Bermondsey Street. He smiled – his mouth as thin and tight as a tourniquet – as he surveyed the people around him. There were few, true Londoners any more. The working-classes had chosen to move to the suburbs or been driven out by the cost of living in the capital. The area was now awash with hipsters from the home counties, sporting beards, spouting dumb opinions. Uneducated graduates. Keyboard warriors. Young professionals, sponging off their parents. The women wore revealing tops and short skirts. Baruti found their rolls of fat and flesh disgusting. Half of the women complained that they received too much attention from men, the other half complained that they didn’t receive enough. Whores! Cigarettes and alcohol had become sins, yet people were godless. Entitlement was rife. They thought that their political parties could solve their problems. They were obsessed with taking pictures of themselves, recording their contemptible lives. They endlessly whined. The sound had become as constant as the wind. The West bred weak, effeminate characters. The Albanian sometimes felt like slashing their self-satisfied faces with a razor. Their one virtue was that they became easily addicted to drugs. Cocaine was killing London. Let it. Cocaine wasn’t a sin, or a toxin. Cocaine was manna, to its users. Even if they legalised drugs his organisation would still be able to sell a purer product at a more competitive, untaxed price. Let them legalise brothels too. They would still corner the market. Baruti and his organisation would still be the gods of the street. People were zombies, in all sorts of ways. Baruti didn’t like the English middle-classes, but he liked the money they spent on his product. It was an irony, which the kryetar was all too conscious of, that the same people he despised, provided him with a living. The joke was on them, however.

  Bisha and Bashkim remained silent during the drive. They knew better than to disturb their kryetar while he tapped away on his phone. They didn’t dare play any music either. But both men were eager to know how his meeting with the Englishman went. Bashkim had spent more than a fleeting moment imagining their enemy tied to a chair, naked and bloody. He would flick open his cigarette lighter. By the time he finished torturing him, no one would be able to tell where the cuts and bruises ended, and the burn marks began.

  “So how did your talk go with the Englishman?” Bisha asked, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer. They were close to Baruti’s home, passing by Canada Water tube station and the steel, rhombus-shaped library opposite it.

  “It went well. Things are in hand.”

  “Are we going to pay him a visit?” Bisha replied, licking his lips. Almost panting, like a dog straining on a leash.

  “Yes, but not yet. The blood debt will be paid. The Englishman will no longer be a problem.”

  The light was fading. Iron-grey clouds rolled across the sky overhead, like a German tank division, intent on destruction.

  Bisha turned into a cul-de-sac and parked opposite the entrance to Baruti’s plush apartment building.

  Bashkim sat in the middle of the backseat, checking his “Likes” for the pictures he had taken at the gym last week. Refreshing the page was almost as addictive as the drugs he sold.

  As soon as Bisha pulled to a stop he checked his mobile as well. He had a message from Sophia, one of the prostitutes he had met at The High Life. The Albanian had texted if she was free to meet. Sophia replied she could meet, but her time wouldn’t be free. The escort did offer Bisha a slight discount on her hourly rate, however. He smiled, optimistically and amorously, believing that she might genuinely like him.

  Baruti’s phone vibrated and chimed. The kryetar didn’t recognise the number, but that wasn’t unusual. He swiped the screen and answered, his voice devoid of any emotion.

  “Viktor speaking.”

  “If you want peace, prepare for war.”

  The name of the horse, Ambushed, had indeed been an omen. But not in the way he expected. Baruti recognised the quote and voice. He recognised the figure standing in front of the car, even though the Englishman was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. The Albanian even recognised the type of pistol pointing at him, a Glock 21, with a suppressor attached. He recognised all these things in an instant, just before the Glock spat out a couple of rounds and everything went black.

  Marshal had pulled the trigger twice, seemingly devoid of emotion. The windscreen splintered, without shattering. Blood splattered the glass from the ins
ide as the bullets darted into Baruti’s chest. His heart burst, like a watermelon. Marshal didn’t dwell on the killing, however. As he needed to kill again. Bisha was targeted next. His hand was steady, his aim was true. The first bullet hissed out the suppressor and shattered the drug dealer’s sternum; the second blew away half his throat.

  Bashkim’s eyes were stapled wide with shock and terror. He tried to move, but the plaster cast on his leg got stuck underneath the front seat. The hulking Albanian swore in his native language, either directing the curse towards the Englishman or the ill-designed car, as the jacketed 44mm round turned his stomach inside out. Blood immediately soaked his white, tight-fitting t-shirt, which he wore beneath a banana-coloured puffer jacket that even a Scouser would have thought too garish. The second bullet painted a Jackson Pollock-type picture against the back windscreen, using what little brains were contained in the enforcer’s head.

  Marshal had continued to walk, with his head bowed down, until he was out of sight of Bisha and Bashkim, who he spotted across the road as he exited the pub earlier. After he turned off the main road, however, he sped to his flat. Once there he changed his clothes, armed himself with the Glock and picked-up his pre-packed backpack, containing recent online purchases.

  The ultimate bluff, lie, to Baruti had been that Marshal was defeated, instead of defiant. A mask hadn’t fallen. It had been put on. Marshal convinced his opponent that he was no longer a threat. He particularly liked the touch of making his hand tremble, as he reached for his pint. A blood debt was about to be paid, but not in the way the Albanian envisioned. Baruti made a mistake – a fatal one – in telling Marshal that he was heading home. Marshal had already selected the secluded cul-de-sac, free from CCTV coverage, as a prospective location to ambush his target.

  Using a few short-cuts, he reached Canada Water in good time and parked the Jaguar at Surrey Quays shopping centre. Marshal waited in a quiet alley, situated at the end of the cul-de-sac. Baseball cap and sunglasses were donned. He retrieved the hands-free mic and headphones from his bag, as well as put on the latex gloves he had bought. Marshal unsnapped the small leather guard on his shoulder holster, for ease of access to the Glock. His target would come into his sights soon. The ex-Para licked his dry lips and wiped his sweaty palms. It’s good to be scared. It means you’re human. Yet fear can be overcome, like an enemy. Marshal controlled his breathing. His half-smile returned. It was like he was back in the army again. Carrying a gun. Focussed and purposeful. Killing.

  The car pulled into the apartment complex, containing the three Albanians. All his eggs were in one basket. It was unlikely that he would be blessed with such an opportunity again. God was on his side, he half-joked.

  Marshal drew the Glock, attached the suppressor and pressed the button on a burner phone to make the call to the Albanian. Not only did he want Baruti to know who had bested him – but with his phone to his ear, the assassin would be unable to retrieve his gun quickly. The devil is in the detail.

  The bastards deserved to die.

  The smell of cordite was as pungent and familiar as incense. The scene wasn’t that of a gunfight, between two cowboys – but rather a slaughter. Execution. Baruti’s head lolled to one side. His features were creased in anguish, like someone suffering a nightmare in their sleep. Blood frothed out of Vasil Bisha’s mouth, as if he were experiencing a macabre fit. Tarin Bashkim didn’t complain too much as his killer unburdened him of the envelope, bulging with cash, in his jacket pocket.

  Marshal detached the suppressor and holstered the Glock. He briefly sighed in relief and respite. He half-smiled, partly because the plan he devised was only half complete. Marshal unzipped his backpack and placed the Jamaican flag he purchased over the head of Baruti, like a veil. Both the Albanians and the police would hold Delroy Onslow and the West Indians responsible for the hit. Before taking his leave, Marshal unlocked the boot of the Toyota. Thankfully, he found what he was looking for – several kilos of cocaine, a selection of bladed weapons and half a dozen handguns.

  22.

  Marshal disposed of the burner phone he used to call Baruti on, before returning to the car. He also collected and destroyed all mobile phones belonging to the Albanians. Should someone from one of the apartments have witnessed or filmed the hit, his hat and sunglasses would ensure that he still wouldn’t be recognised. There were no sirens to be heard. The police were probably out investigating a slew of preposterous hate crimes. Maybe a feminist had turned up at a trans-positive seminar at a university, and they needed to create a safe space for the students.

  As much as he tried to remain calm and focussed, a torrent of adrenaline coursed through Marshal as he sat in the car and drew breath. He could still feel the recoil of the Glock through his arm. Anxiety and exhilaration competed, like rival warlords, for sovereignty over his mood. The feeling was similar to when he had chalked up his first kill in Helmand. His commanding officer put money behind the bar, to celebrate him losing his virginity. He didn’t want his young officer dwelling too much on the incident. “Job done,” the Major said, reassuringly. “Better he bought it than you or your men.” The drink helped wash away any guilt he might have felt over the mortal sin. It had been a fun night. Songs were sung. The jokes were as filthy as the rubbish bags after the event. Come the morning the officer’s head throbbed, as if he had been shot.

  Marshal smoked a couple of cigarettes, but still, he felt wired and fidgety. He glanced at his watch. The timepiece had been a gift from the regiment, when he left the army. The Omega Seamaster was famed for being the watch of choice of James Bond. Marshal had earned the nickname “Licence to Kill” due to his record in Helmand. His Lance-Corporal had arranged for the watch to be engraved.

  “To James. Live and Let Die.”

  It was approaching 19:00. He was still on schedule. Baruti had been taken off the board.

  One down. One to go.

  Marshal drove home and changed once more. He drank a finger of whisky and smoked a cigarette, before heading out again. No rest for the wicked. He went through the next phase of his plan whilst driving to the target, The High Life nightclub. The intelligence files suggested it was highly likely Luka Rugova would be at the venue. He parked the car a couple of streets away.

  It was 20:15. A queue was snaking outside the club as Marshal walked past and surveyed the scene. He saw lots of blouses and ripped, skinny jeans – and that was just what the men were wearing. He heard a few snippets of conversation and rolled his eyes, not knowing whether to groan or laugh.

  “Mummy said she’d pay for me, so I could concentrate on developing my blog… People don’t realise how stressful exams can be. Colleges should be devoting more funding to counsellors… Brexit is evil. I don’t know how I’ll cope… I cried so much when Bowie died. It was like the world lost a really cool best friend. I still think his best album is probably his Greatest Hits… I read some articles online, as well as some tweets. Churchill was a war criminal…”

  A well-dressed Albanian, with good English and a convivial manner, worked his way along the line of nightclubbers and sold product to his regular customers. Plenty of people would be putting shit up their nose during the night. There was plenty of space between their ears to store it all, Marshal considered.

  “Got any gear, mate?” one nightclubber said, accosting Marshal, mistaking him for a dealer. The twentysomething wanted to buy rather than sell. Although he was wearing a hoodie and affected a mockney accent he couldn’t quite disguise his home counties roots. Marshal suspected he attended Exeter University, being too dim to get into Oxford or Cambridge. He probably worked in digital marketing and had recently switched to drinking soya milk.

  Marshal was tempted to break the snowflake’s jaw, or at the very least his nose, but he understandably didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He merely shook his head and walked on.

  Rain began to spot the air and a drizzle followed. But Marshal saw everything clearly through the misty air. He slipped down an
alleyway, running behind the club. The scene thankfully resembled the photographs he had scrutinised beforehand. There was a lack of CCTV. The alley was poorly lit, and few people chose to walk down it. The vent was there, with the large, covered bins beneath, which Marshal could stand on. No plan survives first contact with the enemy, the military precept, from Helmuth von Moltke, dictated. Marshal was resolved to immobilise anyone who disturbed him. If necessary, he would kill them. It’d be one less body to occupy a prison cell one day.

  Marshal wore a pair of latex gloves again as he climbed onto the bin and, using an electric screwdriver, removed the vent cover. He placed the holdall, containing the drugs, guns and knives, into the hole in the wall and resealed the vent. Finally, cocaine was about to do some good in the world. The amount contained in the plastic bags wouldn’t be able to be passed off as being for personal use, even if Keith Richards was in the building. Marshal felt like kissing the bags and wishing them Godspeed in being found and used to prosecute Rugova, but he was mindful of not leaving any trace evidence. He also hoped that the police would be able to use ballistics to match the handguns to various murders, in Glasgow and London.

  Marshal adopted a slight Irish accent, when he made the call from another burner phone. His voice was rife with anxiety and fear when he reported how he had just witnessed a couple of men enter The High Life nightclub, carrying handguns. He also said he observed another man go around the back of the club with a large, black holdall. When asked by the emergency call handler to give his name Marshal replied that he was too scared to offer it. He wanted to remain anonymous.