by Tom Benson
“Go ahead.”
“Kiss me, Phil.”
.
Tuesday 6th August
Phil knelt by the graves of his parents. He reached into a pocket and removed the silver Parachute Regiment wings his father had worn proudly on his maroon beret. Phil dug a small hole with his fingers and buried the cap badge in the mound of the grave.
“I’ll give you this back now, Dad. The fight will go on. I love you both.” He stood, and wiped away his tears. It was a strange sensation. Phil stood for a few minutes, reliving glimpses from his happy childhood.
As he approached the red Golf GTi, Annabel turned without a word and got into the driver’s seat. Another emotional barrier had broken in her man.
.
Monday 12th August
At 07:55 Rachel parked her Norton behind a sizeable Georgian building in Blythswood Square. She walked around to the front.
The door opened, and a smartly dressed man in his fifties stared down at her.
“What’s your name?”
“Rachel.”
“Who sent you?”
“Alpha,”
“Come on up,” the suited man said and smiled as he stepped back inside the building. More than one high-class hotel was situated around the square, and this building was similar in appearance. The iron railings which bordered the sides of the steps were painted gloss black, and the Fleur de Lys tips were painted gold. The large windows were double-glazed and gave no indication of the interior.
“My name is Arkwright,” the man said, as he stepped back and ushered his latest trainee inside. He was looking forward to her training. He’d heard great things about her, and she reminded him of somebody else. A woman he would always love.
.
Sunday 18th August
At 14:00, DI Sam Griffiths opened his front door to find Phil standing there.
“Hello mate,” Sam said. “I’m glad you could make it. Jane is looking forward to seeing you both.”
“Thank you for the invitation,” Phil said. “By the way, this is Annabel.”
**The end**
Epilogue
.
Stevie Smith was released from hospital when his ankle was strong enough. He gave evidence in the prosecution of William Hartley and Martin Cameron, emptied his savings account and fled to Australia. He used his money to establish a sports and social club for underprivileged teenagers.
.
Martin Cameron was jailed for a total of eighteen years for extortion, kidnap, people trafficking, prostitution, possession with intent to supply drugs, and attempted murder.
Following a tip-off, the Strathclyde Police raided the home and offices of Kevin MacDonald the solicitor. He was convicted for possession with intent to supply high-grade hashish. He was also convicted of procuring false identity documents and jailed for ten years.
An anonymous caller contacted the Metropolitan Police. They raided the home of Lawrence Metcalfe MP. They found substantial quantities of high-grade hashish and a list of known drug pushers. Metcalfe was murdered in his first week in prison.
.
Chief Constable Robert Davenport was found hanging in his cell while awaiting trial on charges of corruption and perverting the course of justice.
.
William Hartley, aka Billy Harrison, never fully recovered from the sustained beating he received from Phil. He was placed in a secure clinical unit for the remainder of his life. He could observe, and understand what went on around him. He couldn’t move independently, or communicate effectively with the doctors or nurses of the institution. One day after his admittance, he was visited by a beautiful private nurse with brown eyes. She fitted a special hearing aid and winked at him, promising every word said to him would be recorded.
.
Constable Amy Hughes passed her Detective’s exam and became a member of DI Griffith’s team. She occasionally delivers information on behalf of her secret friend, Annabel.
.
Jake Carter got fit under Phil’s guidance, and joined the Royal Engineers. He is still serving.
.
Rachel Donoghue took shooting lessons with Phil and Annabel. She enrolled on parachuting lessons.
.
Phil McKenzie and Annabel Strong continued to go out together - one of them always carrying a weapon. They allowed things to calm down for a month before the team continued with missions. The pair moved into a house in a remote location found for them by Stella.
Part II
Beyond The Law
Retribution
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the following for their assistance,
and for use of their established names:
The City of Glasgow
Kelvinside Art Gallery and Museum
Cairngorms National Park
Stirling Castle
Blair Castle
The Green Welly Stop
Blairgowrie:
The Wee Coffee Shop
Braemar:
Braemar Mews (Tourist Information)
The Invercauld Arms Hotel
Taste ... cafe
1. Out and About
.
Thursday 26th February, 2004
Riddrie, Glasgow
Scotland
A flurry of snow lifted from the ground and blew between the solid gates of Her Majesty’s Prison Barlinnie. The gates had been opened to allow the exit of a vehicle on a routine journey to the city. Temperatures were low across the country, so the courier driver tested his brakes gently before reaching the main road. There was no traction.
The white courier van with blacked-out windows appeared to be armoured but was a sheep in wolf’s clothing. In the cab, protected by no more than toughened glass and the engine compartment sat the two-man crew, Barry Mane and Ned Atherton. The route was used by the men regularly and had been travelled many times over two years.
To Barry and Ned, the passengers were merely human cargo. One day it might be two or three prisoners on the way to begin their sentences, and on another day it could be a single prisoner being taken to court from a police station holding cell. It was routine.
Today there were two passengers. One was Martin Cameron, a high-security inmate. He sat silent, handcuffed in one of the five double seats in the box-body of the van. Prison Officer (PO) Brian Delaney was the other passenger. Being duty escort for the trip, Delaney sat in the designated seat at the rear, just inside the back doors.
The private courier had departed the gates of Barlinnie Prison with no fuss. There had been no gaggle of photographers running alongside, pressing lenses against the blacked-out windows. Likewise, there was no police escort—it was a straightforward, unpublicised trip for one man to make a brief court appearance.
After exiting the world-famous prison, the van turned left onto Cumbernauld Road and headed through the district of Riddrie towards the city centre. The journey would typically take around twenty minutes.
A regular competition was going on in the confines of the cab. Barry whistled as he drove while Ned tried to name the song and the singer. They had some good laughs, no matter who was in the rear section.
In the passenger section, Cameron gazed through the dark-tinted window. Skies were grey with cloud, but there were plenty of people around. Most pedestrians wore heavy coats, scarves and gloves. Delighted children were being pulled along on small sledges by their parents or friends. Millions of tiny white flakes floated on the breeze.
PO Delaney pulled out his notebook, and his lips curled as he looked at the timings he’d listed. He nodded to himself as he considered being back at the prison in time for lunch. He would enjoy the meal, knowing he was one step closer to early retirement with a healthy bank balance. He had his future mapped out. It was early days in HMP Barlinnie for the forty-year-old prison officer, but he had no intention of completing his four-year tour of duty.
PO Delaney had eyeballed Cameron in front of witnesses on more than one occasion. Col
leagues and inmates alike had been impressed. Delaney had told Cameron he was merely another loud-mouthed gangster who had been caught. Cameron responded each time with a threat, which entertained the other inmates. The voicing of contempt openly between the two had been integral to a bigger picture.
Five minutes after setting off, the courier van approached a set of traffic lights near Alexandra Park. A large truck pulled out from the kerbside without any indication.
“For fuck’s sake!” Barry slammed the brake pedal and pressed the horn. Both he and Ned forgot the tune they’d been discussing as they felt the van slide out of control towards the back of the heavy truck. Pedestrians and other road users turned at the sound of the prolonged noise from the courier van’s horn.
Ned said, “I think he’s got the point mate.” The van skidded slowly onwards and halted a hair’s breadth from the back of the truck. “Well done.”
Both security men leant forward to look down at the tiny gap between their van and the truck.
Martin Cameron fell forward, but he didn’t have to see what had happened. He took a long deep breath, lifted his feet up onto the bench, turned sideways and braced himself. Cameron was grateful for the absence of ankle chains as used in the American system. It would have meant his ankles tethered to the floor between his seat and the one in front. He glanced back at his escort, grinning.
“Stop! Stop!” Barry screamed and pressed the horn again. Due to the design of the van, the windows were sealed closed. The two men in the cab exchanged a glance, both with a furrowed brow. There was a loud metallic crunch as the eighteen-ton truck continued reversing against the front of the prison van.
Barry said, “He’ll push us back into the other vehicles.”
Pedestrians and drivers in the immediate area were looking around, trying to work out who was sounding the intermittent horn.
“Barry, we’re not fucking moving mate.” Ned looked out at a nearby streetlamp.
“What?”
“We should be moving backwards, but our van is standing still.”
They both glanced into the wing mirrors. Another quarry truck immediately behind held the van in position.
The short bonnet of the courier van burst from its hinges and flew into the air, and at the same time, the heavy front doors buckled. A crunching sound could be heard at the rear as the second truck advanced.
“Lift your legs, Barry!” Ned did so himself and sat on his ankles on the large seat. He watched in frustration as his colleague tried in vain to lift his legs out from under the dashboard, but was unable.
“No ... no ... no!” Barry screamed before the interior of the vehicle bodywork began crushing the lower part of both legs. He slumped unconscious over the wheel.
The trucks crushed the courier from both front and rear for only a few seconds, but it was long enough. When the truck at the rear reversed away, the back doors of the van fell open, mangled, but continued to hang from their reinforced hinges.
Pedestrians and drivers were rushing forward to help.
Both truck drivers left their cabs and approached the crippled van. The truckers were wearing black heavy-duty overalls and ski-masks, but more worrying to any witnesses—both carrying sawn-off shotguns. The weapons would be low on accuracy, but high on threat, and damage.
Horrified passers-by stopped to watch, unable to help. One brave man ran to the aid of the courier crew but stopped when a shotgun turned towards him. Cold blue eyes stared at the Samaritan through the slits of the ski mask and the gunman’s weapon raised into the horizontal. The pedestrian backed off with his hands held up. He ran to a doorway and pulled out his phone to call for help.
Ned managed to reach the handset for the radio. He glanced at his unconscious colleague as he brought the microphone to his lips. A noise caught his attention, and he turned to find himself facing the business end of a shotgun. The gunman was shaking his head, and Ned dropped the handset. The disguised gunman nodded slowly.
The second truck driver had gone to the back and found the prison officer kneeling on the floor of the van, dazed with blood oozing from a head injury. The gunman pointed the shotgun at PO Delaney’s face.
“Release him.” The words were spoken with a Glasgow accent, muffled within the mask. Two words were sufficient.
PO Delaney knew what to expect. He lifted his large keychain and complied before jumping down from the back of the damaged van. He stood injured but unfazed beside his unchained prisoner. Delaney raised his hands and remained silent, confident he would survive.
From the line of stationary traffic behind the rear truck, three black motorbikes raced along and stopped at the rear offside of the immobilised van. None of the bikes had passengers, but all three riders had a spare helmet over their left forearm. Each bike had a leather jacket folded on top of the fuel tank.
“What the fu—” PO Delaney reeled as Cameron head-butted him, and then repeatedly punched him. The prison officer lowered his hands as he stumbled back against the van.
Cameron took the shotgun from the gunman beside him. “It’s time to settle accounts, PO Delaney?” Cameron paused and watched the man’s squinting eyes as his head rose up slowly, blood flowing from his nose. The prisoner sneered. “I’ve never been a big fan of loose ends.”
“Hold on.” Delaney extended his hands, palms upward. “You said as long as I—” but his words trailed away when Cameron’s finger curled around the trigger. “We had a dea—” Delaney urinated when the other man slowly shook his head.
Cameron aimed the weapon at arm’s length from the injured man’s wide-eyed stare and squeezed the trigger. The murderer handed the gun back to the trucker and turned to the first motorbike. He accepted a leather jacket and helmet, which he donned before mounting the bike.
The gunman who’d been standing at the front of the van ran to the back, glanced down at the bloody mess that was the prison officer, donned a helmet and jacket, and jumped onto the back of the second motorbike.
The masked gunman who’d accepted the shotgun back from Cameron was still staring at the uniformed man with no face, crumpled on the ground. Cameron was known to be volatile, but to kill an unarmed man in such a callous way was extreme.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Peter Henderson muttered. He blinked several times and shook his head. It took all of his self-control not to puke inside his ski-mask. He realised the first two bikes had departed, and his ride was right alongside with engine revving.
The third rider raised his visor. “Come on!” Henderson rammed the shotgun inside his overalls before he grabbed and pulled on a jacket and helmet. He leapt aboard the bike.
The three motorbikes crossed the road and raced through Alexandra Park, frightening children who were playing on the light layer of snow.
Families, who’d been out for a stroll and stopped to watch the incident, had to leap aside in fear as the bikes roared and skidded across the park and a section of the golf course. All three machines pulled onto Provan Road before heading north towards the multiple junctions of the motorway.
The lead bike turned north-east on the M80, fifteen minutes after the escape. The second headed west on the M8, and the third went east on the M8. Once they’d separated from each other, the bikes blended into the regular traffic. Individually, they were normal.
Less than an hour after leaving the prison gates on his way to court, Martin Cameron was in the back of a red Range Rover changing into regular clothes. The man who had been riding the lead motorbike was now driving the car, bald head and scarred face uncovered.
Norrie Simpson was a big man with a gravelly voice. “I’ve got a couple of cigars in the glove-box if you’d like one Mr Cameron.”
“Now, that would be nice Norrie,” Cameron said. “I hope they’re Cuban.”
“They are.” Simpson reached a container from the glove box and handed it back between the large front seats.
“Thank you.” Cameron opened the wallet to find cigars and lighter.
“Do you w
ant me to stop somewhere and let you get into the front?”
“No Norrie,” Cameron said, as he relaxed and lit the Cuban. “All in good time my friend.” The thick end of the cigar glowed as Cameron drew the air through the hand-picked leaves.
“You carried out a fuckin’ brutal execution back there, Mr Cameron.”
“Aye, it was, wasn’t it?” Cameron said and grinned. “It was the first of many, Norrie—the first of fucking many.” He took a long pull on the cigar and filled the car with acrid bluish-grey smoke.
Simpson used the rear-view to check his passenger’s expression. He knew a nutcase when he saw one. There was one in the mirror every time he looked. Now there was one in his rear-view. He switched on the fan and drove on in silence, dimples appearing on his ruddy, scarred cheeks.
.
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
Scotland
Phil McKenzie stood at the large office window, gazing across the River Clyde at the south side of his hometown. The office suite on the top floor of a modern glass and steel block was at the junction of Bothwell Street and Douglas Street.
On the television in the large office, the morning news team handed over to a local outside broadcast unit.
‘Good morning. I’m Sandra McVicar reporting for Glasgow Today, your local TV news programme.’ The dark-haired twenty-eight-year-old glanced over her right shoulder as her camera operator panned across the scene of destruction. Police officers were controlling traffic, and copious ribbons of blue and white police incident tape fluttered in the breeze. What had been a flurry of snow had increased to a steady, heavy fall.
