by Tom Benson
“Everything off.” Fitzpatrick watched with satisfaction as Henderson produced a knife and sliced through the material of the prisoner’s designer boxers. Barrington-Cross’s body jerked to one side as the blade cut without care. Whether accidental or intentional, it made no difference. Blood started oozing from a wound on the Colonel’s hip. A lazy, bright red line began creeping down his leg.
Barrington-Cross opened his eyes and struggled for a moment, trying to take in air, and his predicament. “What the fuck is going on?”
“You know something, Sebastian,” Fitzpatrick said. “I said the very same thing when I saw certain fucking photographs.” He leant forward and used the bat to flick the discarded boxers to Henderson. “Stuff them in his mouth.”
Pine needles and dirt had stuck to the fresh blood on the recently discarded underwear. Henderson lifted and rammed the material into the owner’s mouth.
The Colonel gagged and snorted as he tried to breathe through his nostrils.
“Now,” Fitzpatrick said. “Before I continue your education regarding your sainted namesake, Sebastian—I must extinguish my cigar.” He pulled on it until the end glowed bright red, and then blew the smoke in the prisoner’s face. “No tears with all that smoke?” Fitzpatrick glanced down and shook his head. “Tut ... fucking ... tut.”
The Colonel’s head and body wobbled and muffled sounds came from his gagged mouth as he focused on Fitzpatrick’s hands. The victim’s eyes bulged, and he shook his head rapidly side to side.
“Let’s see if this produces tears.” Fitzpatrick watched the prisoner’s distorted features while lowering the hand that held the cigar.
The Colonel’s body thrashed violently within the bindings, but his restraints were strong. He knew he’d be compelled to accept the inevitable, but it made it no easier. His eyes left Fitzpatrick, and he tried to breathe in so that he could see beyond his fat belly. Perspiration poured from the Colonel’s forehead and face, as his entire body shook violently. The glowing end of the cigar disappeared out of view below the long-lost waistline.
Fitzpatrick held the end of the large Havana against the tip of Barrington-Cross’s manhood, and the captive’s body writhed as if electrocuted. His eyes bulged, and his head thrashed around. He cut himself on the bark of the tree. Perspiration poured from every pore of his reddening face and body. A few seconds later he blacked out.
Simpson stepped forward with a bucket of cold water and splashed the Colonel’s face.
The man came around and sobbed uncontrollably as the smell of freshly cooked meat reached his nostrils. Tears poured from the corners of his eyes. He had difficulty focusing.
“I’ve heard it said that men’s nipples are not sensitive,” Fitzpatrick said. He brought the cigar up and took a pull on it until the end glowed. He looked into the Colonel’s eyes and held the cigar against the man’s left nipple.
A muffled scream escaped the gag, and blood from the severed tip of the Colonel’s tongue oozed from the corner of his quivering lips. Tears poured from his eyes, and he whimpered as his body shook out of control. The victim was already thrashing when the cigar touched his other nipple. His eyes flickered open when he felt more cold water splashed on him.
“Now, you fat, ugly bastard.” Fitzpatrick lifted the bat onto his right shoulder with one hand. “I’m sure you’re dying to hear more about St Sebastian.” He stood back and stared at the naked, trembling man sagging against his bonds. The rope around the Colonel’s neck was all that prevented his body falling.
“The good news for your namesake was that they didn’t burn out his eyes, but then I wasn’t there to suggest it.” The tormentor shook his head. “You may or may not have yours damaged because I have things I want you to see.”
Fitzpatrick stepped close again and spoke as if sharing a secret. “St Sebastian was saved after being shot with arrows. A woman found him and rescued him from a slow death, which I’m sure was very nice for him. Unfortunately, he was arrested again.”
Fitzpatrick raised his left hand, placed the cigar in his mouth and then held the baseball bat in a two-handed grip. He took a step back; his words mumbled as he continued to speak with the cigar clenched between his teeth.
“St Sebastian was then clubbed to death.”
A few metres away lay a young woman who’d seen photographs and film of torture, but no level of training could have prepared Eva for seeing it so close, but being powerless.
34. Location, Location, Location
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Boat of Garten, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Annabel had left the bed and breakfast hotel and set off with her list of four provisional sites. To do the job correctly was going to take a lot of walking each time she parked her car. A mile from the hotel she pulled into a forest track and changed from smart trouser suit into a T-shirt, shorts, and hiking boots.
Armed with map, compass, binoculars and backpack, Annabel was ready to trek. Using a cross-country route would allow for checking two locations before mid-afternoon, and then two more before dark. If everything worked according to plan, Annabel would have at least twenty-four hours to locate her ideal spot.
She was confident of finding one good location but intended to locate a second option. The first location wasn’t unusually high. It was going to be best to climb into a tree because there was a small wood near the tiny hamlet of Boat of Garten.
While Annabel was settling into an observation position, her mobile buzzed and vibrated. It was the governor of The Sycamore clinic where William Hartley resided.
“Hi Patrick,” she said. “Is there a problem?” She knew the man wouldn’t call her unless there were a serious issue.
“Okay,” Annabel said. “Thanks for letting me know so quickly. Have you initiated an all-points search for your man?”
The answer was affirmative, and the governor said he’d call as soon as he heard anything regarding the orderly.
“Ciao,” Annabel said and hung up. She immediately buzzed Phil, and he answered on the second ring. The team all kept their phones on vibrate when in the field.
“Phil, I’ve just heard from Patrick. Somebody has murdered our long-standing ear on the underworld. He was found dead in his wheelchair.” Annabel paused before continuing. “Whoever killed him took the hearing aid.”
She took Phil’s questions.
“No,” she said. “It won’t tell them anything. I think the hearing aid has been taken to let us know that somebody worked out its purpose.”
Phil suggested the possible implications if Fitzpatrick ordered Hartley’s murder.
“Right,” Annabel said. “Are you thinking he might amend the schedule for his consignments?”
Phil agreed and suggested it more likely the Braemar location might now be better protected.
“Okay,” Annabel said. “You brief Jake and Ian. I’ll get in touch with Rachel. There’s no need to tell Eva or Geordie, and don’t tell Max because he might go straight there. Ciao.”
She called Rachel immediately with an update and told her the plan would now have to be more flexible.
Annabel settled onto the thick branch of her chosen tree, resting her back against the trunk. A few seconds later her lips curled as she focused on the distant road with her binos. From her position, it was three-hundred metres to the A95. It would be the route for Fitzpatrick’s transport.
Traffic flow over thirty minutes from one direction indicated road construction or some other obstruction. There were definite gaps of three minutes and then a group of vehicles of varying type would pass. This traffic issue would aid the interceptors carrying out the second phase. There were two provisional intercept points. Annabel climbed down.
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Phil and Ian booked into The Invercauld Arms Hotel separately. In less than half an hour, they were both dressed in walking gear, complete with backpacks. They set off with a ten-minute gap between them and me
t up at an entry track to the wooded hillside north of Braemar.
Two hours after arriving in the area the two men were in the dense forest. As a covert operative, Ian was trained in specific skills but was finding every day spent with the BTL team an advanced education.
Phil stopped. “From this pathway, it will be three-hundred metres before we break left.” He set off again at a steady pace.
Ian couldn’t see the pathway they were already following. He knelt down and looked through the dense foliage and trees, and saw what he would have called a rabbit run. He grinned as he stood up and fought through the overhanging foliage to catch up with Phil.
“Approximately one-hundred and fifty paces,” Phil said as he stopped and turned left to face the trees.
Ian checked his map and then gazed into the trees ahead and behind. Phil ducked down and disappeared through the lower branches and drooping foliage. Ian followed without hesitation, realising not for the first time that whenever he paused, he couldn’t hear Phil’s progress.
It had taken ten minutes of stealth before daylight increased through the pinewood ahead and the gradient dropped away. Phil stopped, listened, and went to the right. Ian followed, enjoying the natural aromas of the forest, but not enamoured by the branches and needles tearing at his face and hands.
Jake’s typical squaddie humour carried from two metres away. “Could you two have made any more fucking noise?”
Phil laughed. “How’s it going, mate?
“Not bad, and I think this is an ideal location for Ian’s OP.”
“Good view,” Ian said, wiping pine needles and streaks of blood from his face as he settled on the large fallen tree. It made an ideal bench.
Jake said, “From here, you can see the front, down into the side and part of the rear of Fitzpatrick’s place.”
“Right,” Ian said. “Where is Fitzpatrick’s building on the map?”
Jake plucked a blade of grass from the ground beside him and pointed to a tiny black symbol on the map. “Just there, mate. It’s still shown as a ruin on here because the building we see now is less than two years old. The most recent mapping is four years old.”
Phil said, “The view is good regarding entrance track?”
Jake said, “The woodland over there has more gradient, so gives us a better angle for observation. From the right-hand side of the group of trees, it’s possible to see the main road that runs through the valley from Braemar and north for about three miles.” He paused and held the blade of grass across the map.
“It’s easy to see half of the track from the main road to Fitzpatrick’s place. Thanks to his overzealous and unofficial felling of some trees, you can see the front door and the garage doors located on the side.”
Ian said, “I’ll spend a few minutes with the map so I can orientate myself.”
Phil said, “I think you’re catching on, mate.” He pulled out his thermos and winked at Jake. “We’ll have a coffee break while you think of questions, Ian.”
The three men sat looking down at the peace and quiet of the valley and river below.
Ian said, “Phil, how did you locate Jake with an eight-figure grid reference because that only places you within a few metres?”
“I was using a ten-figure reference.” Phil sipped his coffee.
Ian shook his head. “Where is Eva’s location, Jake?”
“She’s in the undergrowth fifty metres north of the castle. Look for the break in the canopy,” Jake said pointing. “It’s usually an indication of a small clearing.”
“When do we get her out of there?”
“I’ll go in at last light tonight,” Jake said. “I want her to get out and get refreshed before her next stint.”
“She’s doing well if she’s managed so far.”
“She’s doing okay,” Jake said. “It’s best not to maintain too much pressure on her. A long time in wood is difficult alone. Eva’s been out of there for one full night.”
Phil said, “What we must remember is Eva is still in training. She’s not one of our assets, so we need to ease her into each situation and ensure she holds up.”
“Heads up.” Jake lifted his binoculars.
A white Ford Transit van pulled out from the woodland near Fitzpatrick’s castle. The vehicle appeared briefly on the far side of the valley and turned north, away from Braemar.
.
Tyndrum, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
The village of Tyndrum sits close to the junction of the A82 and A85. Glencoe and the foothills of the Grampian Mountains are a few miles away. Tyndrum is a fundamental journey break for tourists and is the site of The Green Welly Stop. The large family business that started as a small fuel station was the designated final RV for Max and his group of bikers.
Adults and children alike watched in awe as the bikes rumbled into and through the large carpark. Max spotted an area that would accommodate the whole group.
The ten machines pulled up in line abreast; the engines died, and the riders kicked out their stands and dismounted in unison as if all were under remote control.
So many riders in chapter colours was a sight many of the tourists had only seen in movies. To observe such uniformity and apparent discipline, even when it was an outlaw biker gang, raised the hairs on the back of necks.
Where other bikers might remove helmets and leathers, the Mental Riders merely removed their helmets and placed them on the bike saddles. The men looked around at the staring faces and grinned, before taking a stroll for coffee and snacks to go. Slash stayed with the bikes to have a smoke.
.
Dunkeld, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
While Max’s group had gone northwest, the other group, led by Jacko had headed northeast. They rode as far as Dunkeld. The group pulled up at the kerbside outside a cafe, and the customers already there sat in silence as some of the men in leather and denim entered.
More than one father wished he had the balls to be a member of such a gang.
Two of the mothers pulled their children’s chairs closer.
Three middle-aged women sitting together had similar fantasies involving being dragged off to a remote area. One of the three got damp as she sipped her tea and then gazed at the men over the rim of her cup.
Jacko and the other riders stood at the kerbside enjoying their coffee, allowing their circulation to work before they set off again. Butcher looked into the cafe and noticed the three women sitting together. One woman was staring straight at him.
He caught her eye and winked. Her eyes opened wide, and as she lowered her cup, her lips parted slightly. Butcher licked his lips slowly and blew her a kiss. Much to his joy the woman turned bright red, started giggling and covered her mouth with her hand.
Pedro was smoothing down his gunslinger moustache and turned to see what was attracting his associate’s attention. “Anythin’ with a pulse, eh, Butcher?”
“Aye, Pedro,” Butcher said, “but preferably a woman.” The two men burst into laughter.
It was five hours after the chapter had departed Byres Road in Glasgow, the airwaves across the Scottish Highlands began buzzing with messages.
Phil and Annabel had discussed radio voice procedure. They decided that the gang would be better off to use their nicknames as call-signs. It had been crucial to explain the use of the words ‘over’, and ‘out’. The BTL team didn’t always use them, but they knew from experience, and by the other call signs tone when it was time to respond during a radio conversation.
As Phil explained to Max, ‘over’ and ‘out’ were not used together, as seen in the movies. The word ‘over’ would signify that the conversation was unfinished, whereas ‘out’ was the end. They’d performed rehearsals so only time would tell if the guys understood.
The riders had been given radios with throat mikes. They decided the people organising the operation couldn’t be all bad because they’d also been issued pistols and given weapons training.
&nbs
p; A few of the riders found it amusing to learn Rachel was call-sign Romeo, and Jake was call-sign Juliet. Max explained how, when using the phonetic alphabet, the call-sign would refer to the first letter of the operative’s name, but it still didn’t sound right.
“Fuckin’ Romeo, and Juliet?” Butcher had said.
At the clubhouse briefing, Max had told the riders they would be expected to maintain radio discipline. “Lives are gonna depend on it,” he’d said. “Just remember, it could be your fuckin’ life.”
Although they wouldn’t admit it out loud, a couple of the bikers were enjoying this departure from normality. During the early afternoon, as the pairs arrived in pre-set locations, they confirmed arrival to their leader.
At precisely 3 pm, or 15:00 hrs as the BTL team called it, Max reported. “Hullo Zero this is Max. All Mike-Romeo call-signs are now in position, over.”
Phil responded immediately. “Zero roger. All stations observe a listening watch, out.” Unless it was for operational purposes, there was to be no radio conversation.
The only people on the team without radio were Eva and Geordie. Eva was given numbers for the BTL team. Jake forwarded Geordie’s mobile to Phil, Annabel, Rachel, and Ian. He sent all of their numbers to Geordie to ensure solid lines of communication in case of a missing link. Out in the waters off the west coast of Scotland, Mike would have a spare radio tuned to the team’s frequency to monitor progress, and report if imperative.
The mission would be a test of Eva’s ability, Geordie’s loyalty and the versatility of the Mental Riders.
Annabel checked three more locations but preferred the first. She had to be happy with her site. In the remaining daylight, she drove to high ground. Tourist viewpoints were ideal places to assess the lay of the land, especially with a good map.
While in one such location observing traffic, a thought struck. She used a mobile rather than radio.
