Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  When he was satisfied he wasn’t being tailed, he continued along the upper mall, before going downstairs to ground level. He stepped into a shop doorway and waited, observing the upper floor. Some might say he was paranoid; others might say he was professional.

  Phil left the shopping centre via a minor exit on the east side and made his way along Osborne Street. In less than ten minutes, he was at Stockwell Street.

  The Scotia was reputed to be the oldest pub in Glasgow, and dated back to the 18th century. In those days, the city was a wayside stop, and a ferry crossing point over the River Clyde, but it was important, and The Scotia would have played its part.

  When Phil pushed the door, he paused to focus on the interior, and for a moment, the daylight kept him in silhouette to those inside. He let the door close and nodded to the young woman behind the bar, and the three drinkers on stools. They all nodded back.

  Phil turned and found his two ex-colleagues in a small booth to the right of the door. Their position gave them the opportunity to see any newcomer before they were seen. Old habits, Phil thought.

  A freshly poured beer was on the table. Dave and Viking stood, and both shook hands with their old comrade before they all sat; relaxed.

  Phil looked along the length of the bar to their front, noting the dark wood and glass partitions which gave the place its distinctive feel. The locals were an amiable bunch. They didn’t turn to stare at a small group of visitors enjoying a quiet drink.

  Viking said, “It’s a smart looking place for its age, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Phil said, “and the wood panelling around the walls looks like the original decor.” He focused on some of the small, framed monochrome photographs mounted throughout the pub. “I’ll have to get back sometime. I’d like to take a closer look, and they seem a friendly enough crowd.”

  Dave said, “Who’d have thought it—Phil McKenzie getting sentimental over a local.”

  All three of them laughed. Phil’s detached character was part of his legend.

  Phil said, “I didn’t want you guys seen further around the east end, because it’s where I’m holed up, besides; you’d bring down the tone of the place.” He grinned.

  All three lifted their pint glasses in a toast. In unison, they said, “To fallen comrades.” It wasn’t much of a send-off, but these warriors would expect no more if it were them. It was the way of The Regiment.

  As they settled down, Viking told Phil about the operation a few weeks previously, when Pete was killed. The big man explained how Dave, Pete, new man Karl, and he had been sent into a Taliban infested area of northern Afghanistan. Two airmen were being held prisoner in a typical mountain stronghold.

  The insurgents had sent out a message saying they would execute the British helicopter pilots and send video footage to major TV companies worldwide. Phil listened to the story, and it brought back memories of similar rescue missions he’d led.

  “We parachuted into the area at night and walked for two hours to get close before dawn,” Viking said. “Our arrival at the location coincided with the insurgents racing around on their motorbikes ululating and firing guns in the air. They had a fucking pre-execution party underway. The two airmen were kneeling there in the open, hooded, waiting to die.”

  “How many X-rays were there?” Phil asked.

  “Intelligence said there would be forty,” Dave said, “but there were more than one hundred.”

  “We had a few minutes to come up with a new plan,” Viking continued. “Pete and Karl agreed to do sniping duty to draw fire, while Dave and I made a detour around the rocks to get the hostages out.”

  Phil said, “Were both Pete and Karl firing in support?”

  “Yeah,” Viking said. “Instead of one spotting and one firing, they both picked off X-rays, and the firing held the attention of the bad guys.” He glanced at Dave. “We got to the aircrew and untied them.”

  “How did you ex-filtrate?” Phil asked.

  “I told Dave here to lead the pilots to safety, and I’d keep up a rearguard action.” He stopped to take a drink. “My firing was also to cover Pete and Karl as they descended from the rocks.” Viking placed his glass on the table and stared at his beer for a moment before looking up to continue.

  “Dave got the pilots away, and disaster struck. Another bunch of insurgents came out of a large cave. One of the bastards had a lucky shot with a rocket-propelled grenade. It took out the sniper location. Our two guys never stood a fucking chance.”

  For a moment, the three men sat in silence. They didn’t notice other customers around them or the sound of the music playing in the background.

  Viking said, “Dave had led the flyboys safely away, and I called in an immediate airstrike. I continued to distract the insurgents with effective, deliberate fire.”

  “You called the strike when you were in the target area?”

  “Yeah. Normally I’d say it was stupid, but Pete and Karl were gone, and this man had done the job and got the hostages away.” He turned and half-smiled at Dave. “I couldn’t see him, but I fired round after round. It’s what you would have done.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Phil said. “How did you get out?”

  “It was more luck than judgement I suppose,” Viking continued. “I had the sun behind me, and I could hear shots being fired. It wasn’t rapid fire as if to cover me - it was single, deliberate shots.”

  He stopped briefly to take another gulp from his pint. “Every bullet was taking out a target. I fired a long burst and ran like fuck to get out of there. I had Taliban bullets kicking up the rocks and sand all around me.”

  Viking put a muscular arm around Dave’s shoulders. “I felt myself being tripped and pulled into a ditch by this guy here—and the fucking world exploded. For about two minutes after the airstrike, it was raining rocks, sand, blood, and bits of Taliban.”

  Dave said, “Two of our Tornadoes came in low, vaporised the entire location and flew out in a wide circle. They flew back overhead, and gave a quick tilt of wings before they disappeared into the distance.”

  Viking said, “When all the noise died down, and we got ready to move out I thanked Dave for the steady firing, and for pulling me into the rocks.”

  “It wasn’t me doing the deliberate firing,” Dave said.

  Viking continued. “When we got de-briefed we were told some character called, Chameleon had been sent in alone a few hours earlier to watch over us.”

  Phil said, “Chameleon was the name brought up after the Kentobi mission?”

  “Yeah,” Viking said. “The nearest anyone could have been to the location was half a mile away, which is some fucking shooting.”

  “Did you find out who the sharpshooter was?” Phil was eager for a name.

  “No,” Viking said, “but without support from the mysterious Chameleon, we’d all be fucking dead.”

  Phil nodded. “Are you up here for a briefing?”

  “Yeah,” Dave said, “but we wanted you to know how our mission was rescued from failure, so whoever this Chameleon character is, we owe him our lives. We also thought you should know he’s presently operating in the UK.”

  “And you’ve no idea who he works for?”

  Both serving SAS men shook their heads. The three men took a drink.

  Phil explained how he had been kept locked up at the British Embassy for a week after the Kentobi mission. The assassination carried out by Chameleon on that occasion had cost Phil his career. It remained a sensitive topic.

  He told them about the deal he’d been offered before he was flown back to the UK. The charges would be dropped if he accepted a temporary position as an advisor with the Metropolitan Police in London. He would also receive all cash benefits and pension due to him if he accepted their one condition; no further contact with the SAS Regiment.

  The other two were disgusted by the way Phil had been treated, but both assured him they’d be on call if he ever required help—in any situation. Phil gave them b
oth a card after writing his number on them.

  Viking looked at the simple logo, grinned and nodded his approval. Dave stared at the card, looked at Phil and shook his head.

  “I’ll explain later,” Viking said, and winked.

  They had one more beer together, and Phil left alone.

  A woman sitting in a car, parked along the street, made a brief phone call, got out and followed Phil to his apartment. The woman made another call before going home.

  6. Protection

  .

  Thursday 4th July

  Phil completed a thirty-minute workout but didn’t go for a run. He had a full day ahead of him, and the activities were starting early.

  He watched the news during breakfast. It was early days in his strange new life, and he was feeling alert and refreshed. Phil was pouring himself a second coffee when the bulletin changed to the local news-desk.

  ‘A police spokesman has said the death of underworld hit-man Benny Bullets Barnes, may have been a tit-for-tat killing sanctioned by a gang leader. The incident is being treated as murder and enquiries are ongoing.’

  An outside broadcast showed the Barnes house encircled in blue and white police incident tape. The woman reporter on the scene explained about the sighting of a man in brown courier overalls in the area on the day of the murder. She went on to tell of a genuine courier who had returned to his truck and found two tyres deflated. He had been waiting for assistance beside his vehicle a few streets away at the time of the murder.

  The report was made with the excitement and drama always injected into such a piece—although, in Glasgow, murder wasn’t remarkable. The police spokesman came on camera at the end of the report.

  ‘We understand there will be speculation regarding the deaths of two prominent gangsters who were both recently in custody. As yet, we have no evidence connecting the two shootings.’

  No mention was made of both men being killed by bullets from the same gun.

  Phil walked into the city centre. It was 06:20 and another bright and pleasant day. He was coming to terms with his freedom. A serviceman’s life is hard to walk away from, but Phil’s involved being a human killing machine for much of the time, which ironically made it difficult for him.

  At 06:55 Phil entered Central Station via the main entrance on Gordon Street. He bought a coffee ‘to go’, and took up a position halfway between a newspaper stand and the ticket offices. Three good vantage points were available for his purpose, and he’d use each of them throughout an hour. He checked the photograph of his target.

  Jake Carter strolled into the bustling Central Station at 7:00 and made his way among the crowds. He didn’t wear a hooded top or a cap, and he looked older than his twenty-one years.

  Being smartly dressed in suit and tie, he blended in. His collar-length light brown hair was neatly brushed, and he wore black framed glasses—which had clear lenses. To any casual observer, Jake was a commuter. He operated with confidence among a group of suited travellers at a newspaper stand.

  Phil leant against a wall, sipped his coffee and felt a grudging admiration for the younger man.

  During operations in many countries, Phil had spent hours watching targets. In Iraq, he had put a bullet in a man’s head minutes after the man had left his male lover’s bed. Deep in the jungles of Colombia, he’d timed a knife attack to coincide with the rhythm of the victim’s cigarette smoke being exhaled.

  Closer to home in Europe, he was compelled to allow a Serbian officer to kill a man before he could squeeze the trigger himself and dispatch the Serb. The timing had cost one innocent life but saved a community.

  A dimple appeared in Phil’s cheek as he watched Jake ‘dip’ a man’s pocket, buy mints, a newspaper and walk away. Jake went a short distance, placed the paper under his arm and checked the contents of the wallet he’d acquired. Jake followed his most recent victim among the morning crowd. He dealt with three more targets before leaving the station; his working day was over.

  Hands in pockets, Jake walked south along Union Street to Argyle Street and turned under the massive, dark railway bridge. Reminiscent of bats being disturbed in a cave, the area under the bridge was home to countless pigeons. The pavements were covered in their excrement. The smell didn’t matter, because it blended with the aromas of fish and chips, pizza, and Chinese takeaways in the vicinity.

  Streetlights were fitted under the bridge, but they were yellow and ineffective. The light from the abundance of retail signs on either side gave better illumination. Among these was the red and yellow sign hanging outside a ‘greasy spoon’ cafe halfway along. Phil walked past and glanced in to see his quarry at the counter giving his order. Two minutes later, Jake sat with his cooked breakfast and mug of tea at a vacant table.

  Nobody took any notice of a man in a denim jacket and jeans when he entered the cafe. He bought a mug of black coffee and sat at the table opposite Jake. Jake locked his gaze on the stranger before turning to see four unoccupied tables. He looked back to the man, and his brow furrowed.

  “Good morning,” Phil said.

  Jake got up and lifted his breakfast onto the tray.

  Phil reached out and held the tray down with one hand before he spoke in a quiet, conversational tone. “Please, sit down and eat your breakfast.”

  Jake sat down and picked up his knife and fork. He checked out the other customers in the place. “Who the fuck, are you?”

  “Who I am, isn’t important to you right now.”

  “Fuck this,” Jake said and gripped his plate and mug. He stood.

  Phil reached across and with the fingertips of his left hand touched the edge of the plate. “Sit down, calm down, and eat, unless you’d like me to call the police—”

  “I don’t.” Jake sat down.

  “At the moment.” Phil looked around. “Four other people are observing us.” He grinned, as Jake scanned the room, eyes shifting side to side.

  Four men in blue boiler-suits were sitting at a table near the door. A man and woman occupied a nearby table, and two men in suits were on stools near the window. One of the two glanced over his shoulder regularly. One of the men in a boiler-suit looked straight at Jake; expressionless.

  Phil said, “Eat your bloody breakfast before it gets cold. I’ll do the talking for a minute.”

  The pickpocket turned to his uninvited table guest. He organised a mouthful of bacon and baked beans onto his fork and started eating.

  Phil sipped his hot coffee. “I was trying to figure out a couple of things while I watched you at work earlier.”

  Jake continued to eat.

  Phil said, “There’s something strange about a pickpocket who replaces the victim’s wallet after the hit.”

  Jake swallowed a mouthful of food and washed it down with tea. He grinned.

  “Why?” Phil said.

  “I don’t want their bank cards.” Jake continued eating, but with more enthusiasm. Whatever else was going down, his breakfast would be.

  “Why would you care about their bank cards?”

  “There’s no point in making their lives a misery, plus, if they realise they’ve lost cash, most of them are grateful to have the rest.”

  “I noticed you didn’t target women. You’re a thief with a conscience.”

  “Stealing from a woman wouldn’t feel right.” Jake looked around and lifted his tea. “Men are less likely to report it to anybody if they’ve lost cash.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  “I have a secret weapon.”

  “How do you work out the useful locations inside a place like a station?”

  “In the early attempts, I had a couple of close calls.” Jake shook his head. “Experience taught me a newsstand or snack-bar were two places commuters make a purchase where they might have to queue and pay with cash.”

  Jake relaxed when he wasn’t under threat. “My system comes from thinking outside the box I suppose.” He was proud of his work.

  “Thinking outside the b
ox; effectively.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “The closest you’ll get from me.”

  Jake finished his meal and washed it down with the remainder of his tea. “Now what happens?” he said. “Are you gonna have me arrested or something?”

  “No mate, but if you’d like to go and buy us both a fresh brew, I’ll tell you what this is all about.”

  Jake stood, looked at the other customers, and back to Phil before walking away. A few steps away he glanced over his shoulder.

  Phil had his back to Jake and the entrance, which he usually wouldn’t have done, but these were peculiar circumstances. When Jake had walked away from the table, Phil glanced up at the mirror on the back wall which apart from being clean, depicted an ad for hot chocolate. He saw the young man walk straight to the entrance, hesitate, and return to the counter.

  Jake placed the mugs on the table and sat down. “Okay, you’ve got my undivided attention, and a fresh coffee.”

  “Good,” Phil said and tasted his brew. He studied Jake’s expression as he asked him questions. “How would you like to be paid to do what you’re good at?”

  “I don’t need to be paid. I make enough to get by.”

  “You’re happy to get by, but with the risk of being caught and having a criminal record. You’ve already been observed, and filmed in action.” Phil watched Jake’s expression. “Have you got a criminal record?”

  “No, and I’ve never been questioned.”

  “Now I’m impressed. The station has a lot of cameras.”

  Jake cast another glance at the other customers. Since he’d come in, all the original customers had gone. “Right, tell me what the deal is, or I’m out of here.”

  “I need to see you in action, but I’ll choose the target, and you’ll have no time for rehearsals or preparation. You follow my brief, and if the test is a success, we’ll talk about the next stage.”

  “What if I say, fuck you, and carry on as I am?”