by Tom Benson
“Bastard!” Mike stumbled against the cabin.
“Are you okay, Mike?”
“I’m fine mate. Take that fucker out.”
Mike knelt and tore a piece of his shirt sleeve as a temporary dressing. First Aid kits in his opinion were for occasions when you had no clothing to destroy.
Sinbad stayed down and slid the M16 back along the deck to Mike. “Now we’ll find out if I’ve learned anything.” Sinbad lifted the two inner poles and inserted them in the vertical shafts on the starboard side of the boat. He checked the tension on the elasticated strap and lifted the machine gun into place, pulling it back, so the bipod held firm.
“Give them shit Sinbad,” Mike shouted.
“Sights to three hundred,” Sinbad said as he lifted the butt into his shoulder. An incoming bullet thudded the side of the boat. Ignoring the enemy fire, the biker continued to talk himself through his drills. “Test and adjust the position.” He paused, tilted the machine gun up at an angle and looked through the rear sights at the distant building. “And … one two ... one two ... one two .…”
The deep beat of the short bursts reassured, but not as much as the sight of brickwork being chipped away along the battlements of the ruin.
“One X-ray down.” Sinbad recommenced firing. While firing his next bursts, the reason for wearing ear defenders became obvious to Sinbad. The bloody machine gun was deafening. Oh well, he fired another few short bursts. “Two X-rays down, ” he said casually. He felt a tap on the lower leg and looked down.
“You’ve got three rounds left.” Mike handed up a fresh magazine.
“Cheers Mike.” Sinbad accepted the big curved magazine and jammed it into his waistband. He fired a short burst, and the gun stopped. Sinbad quickly flicked the empty magazine off and handed it down to Mike. The biker fitted the new magazine, and bullets were zipping across the loch within seconds.
“No further targets,” Sinbad said, showing discipline, but he watched the top of the ruin, just in case. He kept the butt of the machine gun pulled tight into his shoulder.
Despite his injury, Mike sat on the deck, grinning and looking up at his young trainee.
.
Fort Etive
Max pressed the switch on his radio. “Mike Romeo, advance in teams using fire and manoeuvre. Watch your left and right arcs and don’t fucking shoot each other. Out.”
A stream of gunfire erupted from weapons. The men who had moved forward commenced sustained fire and the team-mate advanced. Two of the X-rays got up and ran for the tunnel. One man was cut down within a few paces, and the second man hit the deck and crawled.
Mobile phones belonging to the X-rays were making a variety of ringtones as their masters tried desperately to make contact. Nobody took the time to answer.
The Mental Riders reached a stage where they were out of the tree line and had less cover. Two of the riders were hit, although not fatally.
“Max this is Daz,” came over the radio. “Sentry put to sleep.”
“Max, Roger that Daz. Out.”
A lump of dirt spewed up beside Max’s face, and he rolled to one side. “Where the fuck is the effective firing coming from?”
“There are two guys on the roof,” Hank said. “I think Mike and Sinbad have taken care of a couple of them, but the other two fuckers have come up through a hatch. The guys on the boat wouldn’t be able to see them.”
“We haven’t got enough height here,” Max said. “We’ll have to try and get a couple of the boys up to that little copse on the right, above the central forest.”
For a few minutes, silence ensued as both sides licked their wounds, regrouped, and judged the situation.
A single, high-velocity crack sounded, and one of the two men on the roof dropped like a pile of shit.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” Hank lifted his binoculars. He focused on the second rifleman on the roof in time to see his head taking a hit, when a second high-velocity round cracked overhead. “Jesus Christ—that is fucking shooting.”
Max nodded. He half-turned to peer at the copse on the hilltop. “Not Jesus Christ mate, but maybe an avenging angel.”
“Hullo all stations Mike Romeo, this is Romeo.” Rachel’s voice echoed in earphones around the area, and on the speaker of Mike’s cruiser. “I have the roof. Use extreme prejudice. I say again, use extreme prejudice. Out.”
The X-ray who’d been crawling towards the old building and the tunnel got up to crawl the final five yards but landed flat when a bullet struck the back of his head.
The Mental Riders advanced to contact in teams, firing, getting down, firing and moving forward. Four men were left at the edge of the trees. Three were injured, and one stayed to help and protect them. All of the injured still bore arms, unwilling to submit to injury.
The remaining X-rays took their chances with a zig-zag run and firing randomly at their attackers. Eight men made it to the building and the tunnel inside, but one was cut down, mainly because he was the last man to go through the wire mesh gates.
Two men made it to the narrow strip of land which the loch splashed on either side. Both men made it to the wooden door, but when pushed, it didn’t budge. They turned to take out a few of the enemy, but they were cut down as if by a firing squad. A hail of bullets tore into their bodies, and they fell back. They slid down the wooden door, leaving large red stains.
The Mental Riders raced in their pairs, double-tapping rounds into the areas where they had seen X-rays previously. They reached the building inside the compound, and they all understood the dangers of going into the tunnel ill-prepared.
“Fresh magazines,” Max shouted.
The bikers worked in pairs, one man keeping a wary eye while his partner changed to a full magazine, and then they traded places. When ready, Max detailed two men to stay at the door of the building to act as a rearguard. He led the bikers into the building and beyond.
When the surviving X-rays reached the car park floor, there were four other men already there.
“What the fuck is happening out there?”
“There are some seriously evil bastards out there who can shoot.”
“I thought we had four guys on the roof with rifles—”
“We have,” another man said, cutting him off.
“Why aren’t they fucking helping us?”
“Because they’re all fucking dead.”
“How about ramming our way out in a couple of these vehicles?” a new arrival said.
“You can try,” one of the others said. “By the time we got down here, the two vehicles that were closest to the staircase were gone. Some bastard has knifed all the fucking tyres on the other cars.
“Was it one of the people who drove off?”
“Nah, I think it was that crazy bitch nobody could find.”
A loud pop was heard from the area of the tunnel, and another, and another.
“What the fuck is going on down there?”
“It’s getting darker in the tunnel,” a nervous gunman said. “Those bastards are bursting all the lights so they can come up here in the darkness.”
A small round object bounced off the back door of the minibus and rolled onto the floor.
“Grenade!” a man shouted and dived behind a car. Two of the others were stunned by the cry and stared at the small, but deadly device—not the best defence against a grenade.
On a hard surface a grenade performs well, but on an old stone floor, it has a devastating effect because the explosive power and the contents are only permitted to go outward and upward.
The men who found cover behind vehicles or inside vehicles screamed in agony as shrapnel tore into any exposed body parts.
The Mental Riders burst out of the darkness of the tunnel and fired at anything still moving. After two minutes, the only things moving were the Mental Riders. Max once again took the option to leave two men behind as he advanced with the others.
“If anybody comes in here and they don’t call out�
��fucking kill them,” Max said.
The team set off in two groups to clear the remainder of the building. The bikers systematic use of a recognised house-clearance technique would have made an infantry commander proud.
On two occasions they came across X-rays who were huddled in corners waiting to take their chances—which proved not to be so good.
As they cleared the last corridor, Max hesitated beside a doorway and looked inside. There were large, distinct patches of blood. He looked away, grimaced, and shook his head.
“Conference Room.” Hank pointed ahead. “How do you want to play this?”
“Grenades.” Max nodded to Hank and the other two men closest to him. He rammed his pistol into the back of his waistband and lifted a grenade from inside his jacket.
The other bikers who’d be using grenades stashed their handguns safely and produced their handfuls of explosives. Max turned to the final two who were with this small assault team.
“When we’ve pulled the pins, you two slide back those metal bars and push the door open. Don’t try to close the door. Once we lob these things, everybody moves to the sides.”
The other three with grenades at the ready were watching their leader.
“Pins,” Max whispered. They all held the grenades tightly in their right hands, gripped and pulled the rings with their left hands and stood to wait. They’d practised under Jake’s guidance, and understood as long as they clasped the lever against the device it would remain safe.
“Door.” Max moved back a step. The two riders with handguns at the ready reached forward and slid back the bolts which held the door securely. They opened the door.
From within the room, a gaggle of voices started asking questions, swearing, and shouting.
None were as loud as Max’s command. “Grenades!”
There were loud gasps, a startled cry and a lot of cursing. Two men finally found God, which was handy, because they were about to meet him.
As the grenades flew through the air into the large conference room, the riders dived into cover outside the door. A series of metal pings echoed around the large chamber as the metal levers sprung free from their hosts. Four dull thuds followed when the deadly weapons landed on the floor. They rolled for three more seconds before a ripple of explosions.
Pieces of the massive table, chairs, laptops, and flesh exited through the doorway as the blast ricocheted off the thick stone walls. When silence reigned, Max stood up with his back against the wall. He pulled his automatic from his waistband and turned to glance inside. He gave the nod to his associates and entered the room.
Sheridan had somehow escaped with his life and stood up, his eyes wide open, and his palms pressed flat against his ears. Holding his ears would prove to make little difference. Max put a hole in Sheridan’s head from the other end of the room.
The riders cleared the room, and all six Riders made their way to the roof.
“We have to let our people out there know all is clear,” Max said.
“I’m on it.” Hank gripped the old piece of halyard hanging from the flagpole and attached the Saltire; the flag of Scotland. He hoisted the flag slowly, and it opened in the gentle breeze.
The distinctive white cross on a blue background was an integral part of the Mental Riders Motor Cycle Club colours, and they wore it proudly.
A hoot sounded from a small cruiser out in the loch, and the two men on-board waved.
Max waved back—job done.
“Okay lads, no trace of us to be left. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
22. Closure
.
Saturday 23rd October
Milton
Fifteen miles east of Glasgow
“Excuse me,” the attractive woman said to the young assistant. “Would you be a darling and bring me out a latte?”
“Of course, madam,” the teenager gushed as he feasted his eyes on her. “Would you like anything else?”
“I think I’ve got enough to be going on with, thank you.” She opened her laptop and powered up. Following a casual glance over her shoulder, she commenced checking her messages.
Martina Crawford, aka Nadia Henderson, felt satisfied with her efforts. Several gangsters who had caused Peter’s underworld aspirations were now dead. A couple of the interfering bikers were dead, and the damn vigilante and his team were disposed of.
There were rumours one of the vigilantes had survived, but if this proved to be the case, it would only take a brief visit back to the UK to settle matters. The woman’s twin brother had been avenged with considerable interest, and a tidy financial sum had been collected. This had been a productive and interesting trip.
The impressionable barista coughed lightly as he approached. “Your latte, madam.”
Crawford lowered the top of her laptop to an angle. “Thank you.” She half turned to lift her purse. As she held the bag with her left hand and lifted out the cash with her right, she winced.
“Are you okay?” the lad said and leant forward.
“I'm all right,” she said and chuckled. “I’m recovering from being shot in the shoulder, and you know how those injuries linger.”
“You shouldn’t joke about being shot you know.” The teenager pointed out the nearby roundabout and slip road. “We had a shooting incident here a couple of days ago, and a man died, and other people were injured.”
“Really?” She bit her lip briefly. “I’ve missed the headlines for a couple of days.”
“A whole gang of bikers were here, and a rival gang shot at them.” He looked left and right trying to imagine something he hadn’t seen. “Actually, I think the people who were shot were standing around this table.”
“I’ll have to be extra careful then, eh?” She handed over a note worth far more than the price of the coffee. “Keep the change for being so informative.”
“Thank you.” The teenager blushed when the attractive customer caught him ogling her shapely legs.
“What’s your name?”
“Ray.”
“What age are you, Ray?”
“Seventeen—well, nearly eighteen.”
“When will you finish today?”
Ray took a deep breath and gazed down at those legs again. “Four o’clock.”
“I might call back this way. Now you go and see to other customers.” She winked.
The teenager turned and walked away, his face beaming, and his right hand reaching down to adjust his clothing.
“Fucking pussy.” Crawford opened her laptop and checked the news page. A small headline caught her eye. ‘Doctor dies in house fire in Cardross’
“Serves him right for asking so many fucking questions,” Crawford murmured. She moved on to her Inbox and with a broad smile checked the updated balances on her numerous bank accounts. “I think it’s time to move on.”
.
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
Rachel drove into the underground car park and selected one of the spaces reserved for Alliance Security, which didn’t exist, except for three car spaces and an empty office on the fourth floor of the building. Before leaving the stolen Ford, Rachel placed an Alliance Security parking permit on the dashboard.
Long, auburn hair draped beyond her shoulders, an unbuttoned blouse and short skirt would be enough to make sure the attention of the security man in the booth would be occupied. The large tinted glasses would ensure Rachel’s eyes remained a mystery.
The operative nodded, and her lips curved into a smile as she walked past the young man, embarrassed to be caught staring. In her small shoulder bag Rachel carried a Walther 9mm, and in her black leather attaché case everything else she would require for this visit.
Rachel made her way to the top floor. She glanced over her shoulder along the empty top corridor, punched her entry code into the keypad, and stepped into the airlock. When the outer door clicked shut behind her, she keyed the inner door and entered. Rachel placed the briefcase on the conference table, before
slipping off her jacket and stilettos.
She considered her next actions and surveyed the large, square room. Once again, Rachel saw the pride on Phil and Annabel’s faces when they commenced the first briefing here. She recalled the day Jake returned to join them. It had been the day her emotions betrayed her; when she set eyes on the tanned and toned warrior. Was it such a short time ago she sat here with Jake, Ian, and Eva, ready to move on as the new blood of the organisation?
Much of that same blood had now been spilt.
Two minutes after entering BTL Enterprises the young woman worked with a cold, calculating efficiency. She had to be mentally detached from this suite of rooms, and what they had meant to her and her colleagues. Somewhere in her subconscious she had moved on already, and become her new persona. Rachel moved rapidly from one area to another as she performed a sequence of actions she’d only rehearsed once.
At one point close to the end of her task she paused as Jake’s words returned clearly in her ear. ‘If one of us is compelled to do this, there is no way back. Time will be of the essence.’
Rachel checked the time—eight minutes since she’d set the first timer. She stepped into her shoes, pulled on her jacket and lifted the empty briefcase. She paused for five seconds and looked around the room. One deep breath later, she stepped out through both doors into the corridor on the top floor. No other office on this floor had ever been occupied.
When Rachel reached the car park, she eased the car out of the space and waved at the security man as the barrier lifted to allow her egress.
Ten minutes after leaving Bothwell Street, Rachel pulled into Bath Lane and parked the car as it had been before she’d stolen it. She lifted the black leather holdall from the boot and walked out to Renfield Street. On the way, she ditched the empty briefcase in a substantial retail dump bin.
She turned left towards the BHS department store on the corner of Renfield Street and Bath Street. On the third floor, she used the customer toilets to change and emerged in her leathers with the holdall now containing her smart business outfit and shoes. When she donned her helmet and mounted her Kawasaki, her expression remained as deadpan as it had been since the start of the operation.
