by Tom Benson
The gangster had stared wide-eyed as his colleague fell but realised he now had two handguns pointing at his head. Renton swallowed hard.
“No,” Renton said, in a hoarse whisper. “No, I don’t.” His eyes were still wide. His lips trembled, and he started to perspire. His head was still, but his gaze flicked from Max to Rachel and back again. Renton had always been reckless, but it was mainly down to being a member of a gang. He wasn’t a gladiator, and he wasn’t brave.
“Well,” Max said. “Drop the fuckin’ gun, or I’ll fuckin’ drop you ... dickhead.”
The large shotgun clattered when it landed on the old paving stones. As soon as Renton’s hands were empty, Max stepped forward, drew back the pistol and crashed the butt hard and rapid against the young gangster’s jaw, and forehead. Renton dropped like a stone from the blow to the head. Both his head and mouth were bleeding.
Rachel nodded in appreciation at the speed of Max’s movements.
Max slipped his pistol inside the back of his jeans and squatted down to lift the Remington. In his hands, the shotgun looked fit for purpose, and it looked good. He held it close to his body, gripped the sliding wooden stock and then pulled back in a sharp motion. There was a satisfying ‘clunk’ and Max turned to a grinning Rachel.
He said, “Now we’re fuckin’ ready.”
Rachel had remained silent while Max took centre stage. She had listened to his tone throughout, and he sounded as if he was in control. They were indeed both ready. She nodded.
Geordie Lavery at forty years old was the oldest and wisest of the crew hired for the job. Without having to go outside, he knew things were not looking good.
He’d heard at least three light cracks, possibly from a high-velocity weapon fired at a distance. More recently there was a loud bang, from an unsuppressed handgun. He had yet to recognise the sound of an Uzi or a shotgun, which wasn’t good news. Lavery stood in what had been the main hallway of the manor. The whole operation had become a cluster-fuck.
Lavery considered the circumstances. He was one of a team of six gunmen who had been called together at short notice, and he recalled a severe lack of preparation or adequate briefing. Anybody can pick up a weapon and volunteer to take part in a fire-fight, but only those prepared will survive.
There was continual moaning and swearing from upstairs, so although injured, it meant somebody else was still alive. Four others had gone outside, and the only feedback had been gunshots. Lavery had been a soldier in his younger days and knew how quickly things could turn sour.
“Fuck it,” he said and pulled the butt of his Uzi tight into the hollow of his right shoulder. He gripped the stock with his left hand and curled his right forefinger around the trigger. In a rapid search, he checked the ground floor. He scoured every room. There was one man upstairs he knew, but the paymaster of the operation was conspicuous by his absence.
As Lavery made his way toward the stone staircase, he noticed the two holdalls that had been used to transport the weapons. Part of the canvas handle of a holdall had become trapped in the old flooring, which should have been impossible.
On closer inspection when Lavery tugged the handle hard, there was a slight draught from the flagstone floor. “Cowardly bastard,” Lavery muttered. He considered going after the man but remembered he had somebody upstairs depending on him.
He headed to the staircase once again, the muzzle of the weapon aiming wherever his gaze fell. This technique was not an instinctive action; it was sound military training that had stayed with him. It was one of the reasons he was still alive.
Freddie Ryan sat in the corner of a large, cold upstairs room. His breathing was deep and rapid, and silent tears poured down his cheeks. Clasped tightly in his left hand was a wad of his torn shirt which he’d formed into a dressing. His right biceps were damaged, so the best he could do was try to prevent excessive loss of blood.
Like his mate Lavery, Ryan had served in the Middle East and further afield, so had witnessed death close up. He understood the difference between bravery and stupidity, and he wasn’t an idiot.
There was the slightest squeaking sound of rubber on stone. It happened again, and it was coming from the staircase. Ryan had survived battles in Iraq and Afghanistan and reached his fortieth birthday. He wanted to achieve the next one.
He lifted another piece of torn shirt material he’d prepared, and using his teeth and free hand, he knotted the cloth around his blood-soaked dressing. He gritted his teeth and winced but pulled tight to ensure the bound material stayed firm.
Ryan lifted his weapon and held it as best he could with his left hand. He tried to wedge himself into the corner. There was no cover. He lifted the weapon onto his thighs, checked the safety catch was off and then aimed roughly at the doorway. He might die, but he’d empty the magazine into the fucking doorway first.
“It’s me, Freddie,” Lavery called from the wide corridor. “Don’t shoot, mate.”
“Okay,” Ryan gasped. He waited until his old comrade appeared alone before he rested his weapon across his thighs. “Geordie, what the fuck is happening, man?”
“I don’t know, mate,” Lavery said as he crossed the room. “It’s all gone to ratshit downstairs.” He looked at Ryan’s upper arm and smiled as he shook his head. “I couldn’t leave you alone for five fucking minutes.” Humour had been the saviour in many modern battlefield incidents. Lavery leant forward to inspect the area of the injury.
Above the improvised bandage on his upper arm, Ryan had tied a narrow band of his shirt and trapped a ballpoint pen into the knot. It was basic, but it was a simple tourniquet. There were a variety of shades of red on the shirt sleeve from when the pressure had been released to allow blood flow. It had saved the rest of his arm, so far.
“What are we going to do, Geordie?” Ryan was blinking rapidly and shaking his head as he dealt with the pain. “Do we go out fighting?” Perspiration poured down his face, and the remnants of his shirt were already soaking.
“I think we might still get out of this, mate,” Lavery said.
“Don’t leave me, Geordie, please.”
“Hey, stop talking like a fucking pussy,” Lavery said, laughing. “I’m staying with you, mate.” The sense of dread from his old friend was palpable.
“Thanks,” Ryan said and wiped his eyes. It was embarrassing having his old mate see him in such a condition, but he was in extreme pain, and he was getting weak.
“I’ll tell you something for nothing,” Lavery said and nodded toward the outside. “Whoever is out there, it is not a bunch of fucking long-haired tossers on bikes.”
Ryan almost laughed, but he hurt too much. He shook his head. “It might be bikers, but they’re not fucking tossers.” He screwed his eyes up in thought. “Where is the lying shit?”
“He’s disappeared,” Lavery said. “I’ve checked every room in this fucking place, and he’s vanished, but I think I know how he got away.”
“We should have had the bike closer, or taken the keys to his car—”
“He didn’t leave by car. His car is outside. One of those fuckers out there has blown out a rear tyre.”
“How the fuck did he get away then?”
“There’s a fucking trapdoor in one of the corners of the hallway—” Lavery stopped talking and held a forefinger to his lips. He got to his feet and crept towards the corridor. He returned and crouched down beside Ryan.
Ryan whispered, “What did you hear?”
“There are a couple of people coming up the stairs. They’ve cleared the ground floor room by room, and they’re coming up here next. These fuckers are pro’s.” Lavery tapped his friend’s weapon with his finger and winked. “Get ready for the last stand, mate.”
Ryan lifted the Uzi with his left hand and tried to aim at the doorway.
From the corridor, there was the occasional light creak. Leather was stretching.
Lavery moved to the opposite corner and sat down, lifting the butt of his weapon into his shoulder.
He crossed his legs to rest his elbows on his knees, and then aimed at the doorway. He shook his head and thought, what a fucking shit way to go.
“Just like Helmand Province, Freddie,” Lavery whispered. “All for one, mate.”
“All for one.” Ryan wiped his eyes again and gripped his machine gun. “Thanks for staying, Geordie.”
Geordie winked at his friend. They’d fought in real battles alongside each other.
.
1:00 pm
A mere thirty minutes had passed since the first shot had been fired.
Rachel and Max cleared the entire ground floor, and Rachel radioed Phil to let him know they were heading upstairs. Phil accepted the sitrep, and much to Rachel’s delight, he didn’t remind her to be careful. His confidence in her was reassuring.
By the time, they’d dealt with the ground floor Max had become quite the professional, in hand signals and stealth. There were six rooms upstairs, and five were empty, so it was reasonably sure there would be opposition in the final room.
The approach would be critical because there would be at least one, possibly two adversaries still able to fight. Knowing they would be going into a room at the back of the building, Rachel contacted Phil.
“Hullo Zero, this is Romeo,” she whispered. “Inform Alpha we are about to show in upstairs, far right room from your viewpoint.”
“Zero roger,” Phil whispered on the radio. “We are observing. Go ahead.”
When she was confident about not being taken down by her side, Rachel reminded Max she would handle any negotiations. There was a strong possibility of Max wishing to enter into discussion with a few rounds from the Remington and then maybe his fists.
“Listen up, guys,” Rachel called from the corridor. “You have one opportunity to come out of this alive.” She paused, knowing the sound of a young female voice would surprise them.
“We’re listening,” Lavery said.
“Have you heard of a character called Hawk?”
Lavery and Ryan exchanged a glance, both with a furrowed brow. They nodded to each other and then Lavery continued the conversation.
“Yeah,” he said, maintaining his aim at the doorway. “We’ve heard of him.”
“He’s running the show. If you know anything about his methods, you’ll know you have a chance to live, or you can die needlessly.”
“Why has he fucked off then?”
Rachel and Max exchanged a glance. Rachel shook her head. “If you want to live, you tell me right now.”
“Oh, we simply trust each other,” Lavery said. “How is that supposed to work?”
“You stand with your backs to the window and your hands clasped behind your heads. You then move to the middle of the room and tell me when you’re there.”
“What if we decide we don’t want to stand with our backs to the window?”
“Well, I’ll just lob a couple of grenades in there and rip your fucking bodies to pieces.” She almost laughed when Max bit his lip.
Lavery said, “What do we do if one of us has an injured arm?”
“Improvise,” Rachel said. “The person covering the window is competent, so there will be a need to see empty hands.”
Scuffling sounds and groaning echoed from within the room.
Lavery said, “Okay, we’re on our feet, and we’re unarmed.”
“Hullo Romeo, this is Zero, you’re covered and good to go.”
“Romeo roger,” Rachel said and nodded to Max.
The two gangsters stared wide-eyed at the pretty young woman accompanied by the big hairy biker—both in full leathers.
Rachel stood forward of the two men and held up her left hand displaying a thumbs up signal. A flashlight operated twice from the distant undergrowth.
“Where’s the bearded guy with the scar?” Rachel said.
“We don’t know,” Lavery replied.
Max took a pace forward, but a gentle touch by Rachel halted his advance. He moved away from the two men and used his right boot to kick the machine guns into a corner. He walked back around to stand beside Rachel.
She said, “You guys will have noticed my friend here is looking for answers and he doesn’t much care how he gets them.” She looked from one man to the other. “What’s your boss’s name?”
“Henson, or Henderson. It was something like one of those,” Lavery said. “I only heard it once when somebody else was talking to him. He got touchy about people using his name.” He paused. “He told us he was the Hawk, which is why we took another job with him.”
“Well,” Rachel said, ignoring the mention of ‘another job’. “We found a trapdoor on the ground floor, so he left you guys for dead.”
“Are your people going after him?”
“The tunnel is collapsed. He could have gone anywhere. Now that he’s deserted you, I don’t suppose you’ll have any reason to save his arse.”
“His name is Henderson,” Ryan murmured. “I only heard the bastard’s name once, but I heard it clearly. We don’t know anything else about him, except he’s a liar and a cowardly shit. If we walk away from this, one of us will tear him a new arse.”
“No, you fuckin’ won’t.” Max stepped forward. “The bastard is mine.”
Rachel could sense a rise in testosterone levels. “What was your briefing today?”
Lavery shook his head and looked at Ryan. “Briefing?” he said, before turning to face Rachel. “We were pulled together at short notice, yesterday afternoon. The organiser told six of us we would be well-paid to deal with the target.”
“What was the target?” Rachel asked, feeling she knew the answer.
“A bunch of tossers on bikes,” Lavery said and then caught Max’s blazing eyes. “No offence mate. It was Henderson’s description, not fucking mine.”
“So,” Rachel said. “Six of you were going to lean out of the windows and gun down a bunch of guys in cold blood.”
“Fuck no!” Ryan said. “I don’t know about the other bastards, but we’re not like them.” He coughed and winced at the pain in his arm. “We came along for the money, and because the bikers would be mob-handed and coming for a shoot-out.”
Rachel turned to look at Lavery. He nodded his agreement.
“I’m sorry man,” Lavery said to Max. “Henderson has set us all up.”
Max was still unimpressed. He wanted his man, but at least now he had a name.
Rachel said, “Max, would you go downstairs and check the ginger asshole hasn’t died. You might have fractured his skull when you smacked him.”
Max grinned. “Will you be okay, there are—”
“I’ll be fine mate,” she said. “I want to have a chat with these guys. I have cover from out there, but I’ll stand to one side for good measure.”
Max stepped forward and gave the two men a malevolent stare. “If she gets hurt, I’ll peel the skin from you two bastards and then pour fuckin’ vinegar on you.” He turned, winked at Rachel and left.
Lavery and Ryan exchanged a glance, grimaced and shook their heads. They both recognised a nutcase when they met one.
“Right,” Rachel said. “Before I go on I want some answers.”
“Go on,” Lavery said.
“What are your names?”
“I’m Geordie Lavery.”
“Freddie Ryan,” the injured man said.
“Are you ex-soldiers?”
“How the fuck did you know?” Ryan asked.
“If you acted like the dead men outside, you would have sprayed rounds at the doorway when you had no target. My guess is, you waited to take your chances.”
Lavery said, “Are you ex-military?”
“No,” Rachel said and grinned. “However, I’ve been trained by the best.” She nodded to Ryan. “You can lower your injured arm, and I’d ease off the tourniquet for a while.”
“Thanks.” Ryan did as suggested. He cried out as the blood flowed and there was a massive blast of pins and needles in his arm.
“Now what happ
ens?” Lavery asked.
“What I’m going to suggest is unofficial,” Rachel said. “I can tell you, if you play straight with us, you’ll walk away from this. Understood?”
Both men nodded without referring to each other.
“Before I go on,” Rachel said, “I can tell you that I work for Hawk—the real one.”
For five minutes, she asked questions, and the two men gave answers without hesitation. They both recognised a lifeline.
14. Scene of Crime
.
Friday 2nd July
Balloch, Dunbartonshire
Scotland
7:30 am
Police HQ at Pitt Street in Glasgow had an anonymous tip-off. The duty officer received a codeword in the Communications Room but passed on the details as requested to Dunbartonshire, and promptly dismissed the call as a hoax.
Why would anybody call the Glasgow Police HQ with something happening in a distant, picturesque spot like Balloch? The same duty officer was to find out before 8 am that the call had been genuine, so a monotonous shift ended on something interesting.
The discovery of dead bodies tended to ruin breakfast for police officers wherever they worked, but dead bodies with bullet holes in their heads had a tendency to cause more interest than revulsion. The personnel involved came from differing departments of the Serious Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency (SCDEA).
First on the scene was Detective Chief Inspector (DCI) Eddie Monroe of Drug Enforcement. He’d been on his way to work and responded to say he’d meet the local patrol. He parked on a narrow track and lifted an overall and shoe covers from the boot of his car.
Before he set off along the adjacent dirt track, he heard another vehicle approach. It was the local patrol car, driven by a young female police officer.
“It’s Constable Fleming, isn’t it?” Eddie said.
“Yes, Sir,” the woman said, pleased to have been recognised by a senior officer.
