by Anna Smith
As was normal, he told her, his deputy had visited the site after ten last night to check that the two nightshift guards were all right and the place was secure. Even before Rodriguez had been shot in Glasgow, the hotel site had been like a fortress with security and a high perimeter fence around the five acres of ground. The foundations were only a third the way up, and although there was a mammoth building task ahead, it was clear that the building was going to be a massive complex, covering a lot of ground. There were a couple of site cabins at the main entrance and in the middle of the site, and they were always manned, with armed guards in radio and phone contact at all times. There was even a panic button so they could contact Enrico if there were any problems and he would have men on the site in minutes. But whatever happened last night, nobody even made it to the panic button. His deputy had spoken to them and left after twenty minutes and then the workers turned up this morning to see the devastation. Demolition vehicles had been brought into the site – it must have been at first light or some time in the middle of the night – and torn down every piece of brickwork that had already been done, and cement poured into the foundations. All the plant they had been paying a fortune for was wrecked and set on fire.
Enrico had been called when the workers came in the morning to see the fire in the distance. They had called fire-fighters who were on the site now, and also the Guardia Civil. The workers had found the bodies, eyes burned out, hands chopped off. One of the dead guards was a father of a seven-year-old girl who was taking her first holy communion in a few days. When he was telling her this part, Enrico’s voice choked with emotion. Sharon listened to as much as she could, while walking to the shower, and then she told him she would be there in twenty minutes. As she was about to go into the shower, she hit the button to call Vic, but there was no answer. How could he not have known about this? She chided herself for being suspicious. Maybe they hadn’t told him. And if they hadn’t did that mean they didn’t trust him and had rumbled that he was a spy for the Caseys? Suddenly she felt under threat. Christ! She had a quick shower and wrapped in a towel came out and phoned Kerry. She sounded groggy woken from a sleep an hour early.
‘Kerry. It’s me. The payback has already started.’
‘Christ, Sharon! What happened? You all right?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just been woken by big Rico. Someone has wrecked the hotel. And I mean wrecked. I’ll be on my way there shortly. But we have two security men butchered by these fuckers.’
‘Jesus! What else can you tell me?’
‘Only what Rico has said.’
She relayed the information he had given her.
‘Who’s the deputy?’ Kerry asked. ‘Could he have been got at or something? Maybe he disconnected the alarms or something?’
‘That’s my first thought. He’s disappeared. Rico can’t get him, so something’s fucking well dodgy about that.’
‘Did you meet the deputy? Who is he?’
‘I didn’t see much of him. I deal with Rico all the time. He seemed to be surrounded by a lot of reliable guys. I’m pretty sure he is. Until this. But the place was like Fort Knox. I don’t know how they got all this stuff up and in there as quick as this.’
‘Someone must be in on it,’ Kerry said. ‘But that’s not our problem right now. We can look at that. Are cops there?’
‘Yeah. Rico says the place is swarming. And fire brigade.’
‘They’re going to be asking some questions.’
‘Don’t worry. I can handle that. But the problem with these cops is that sometimes you don’t know whose side they are on. Might be a couple of them on the take. Who knows. That’s what we’re up against.’
‘What about anything else? Any other stuff going on? I’m sure this won’t be an isolated attack.’
‘Well it’s just after six in the morning, so whatever has happened anywhere else in the night hasn’t got to me yet. But no doubt, it will.’
‘This is bad, Sharon. But we knew they would hit us, and hit us hard. The hotel is vulnerable, being out in the open like that. And at least it’s not built yet.’
‘Yeah. But it shouldn’t have been vulnerable. It was well secured. It really was.’
‘Okay. Best you go out there and see what’s going on. But make sure you take a couple of guys with you, because they might be trying to lure you into something.’
Sharon was suddenly wondering if she could trust anyone around her. She seldom left anywhere without a couple of guards within sight of her, but if something was rotten among them then nobody was safe. She thought of Tony, sound asleep in his room. He’d be getting up for school in the next hour, and she didn’t want to leave him. But she had to. She pushed the key for the main guard and heard him yawning. She told him to get two more people to stay at the house and three to take her to the site. Then she unwrapped her towel, patted her face with moisturiser and threw on some clothes. It was going to be a long day.
As she was heading in her phone went again.
‘Sharon? It’s me.’
She recognised the voice of Nick Oswald, who was in charge of the three bars the Caseys owned along the coast towards Marbella. Her stomach lurched.
‘Talk to me, Nick.’
‘Sharon. All sorts of shit happened last night. One of our bars was firebombed, and two guys were hit in a drive-by shooting. One of them is dead.’
‘Fuck! When? Why am I only hearing about this now? Why wasn’t I called last night?’
The two beats of silence from him were enough to make her suspicious. He should be more upset than this. The Costa could be rough, given the number of hoodlums who were down there, but someone firebombing your bars and shooting your people all in one night was definitely not par for the course.
‘Oh, I tried calling you.’
‘My phone was on all night, Nick. It always is. What the fuck is going on?’
Another pause. It filled her with fear. If she couldn’t trust people like Nick, who could she trust? Nick was a Liverpudlian wise-guy who had been given the job of managing the three bars through someone who knew Mickey Casey. It was a mistake to still have him in the job, she suddenly thought, and this should have been dealt with earlier, but had been overlooked. But in the brief meetings she’d had with him he’d seemed sound enough. She was now thinking different.
‘Sharon. Look. I’m sorry.’ She could almost hear him swallow. ‘I . . . I wasn’t there last night. I’ve been AWOL for a couple of days.’
‘What? What the fuck, Nick! What do you mean you’ve been AWOL? You’re not fucking paid to go AWOL. Where the Christ were you?’
‘I met this bird. I took a couple of days. It was stupid, I know. But I thought it’s only a couple of days, and everything will be fine.’
Sharon decided to say no more to this bastard over the phone. Either he was so monumentally inept that he hadn’t understood her briefing that they were all under threat, or he had been got at by Rodriguez. Either way, he had to go. And maybe permanently.
‘Look, Nick, I don’t want to talk about this right now. I’ve already got a huge problem down at the hotel site. So you get back to the bars and see what damage is done and give me a phone. We’ll meet later.’
‘Sure. Sorry, Sharon.’
She ignored the sorry part.
‘And keep your phone fucking on.’
She hung up.
*
Frankie Martin climbed into his silver Mercedes convertible, pulled on his Ray-Ban sunglasses, then checked his image in the rear-view mirror. He took a second to admire his suntanned face and ran his fingers down his freshly shaved chin. Sitting back into the leather driving seat, he stuck the key in the ignition and pushed the start button, savouring the moment when the car purred to life. He took one last second to check his navy and white striped shirt was crisp and perfect and his light blue trousers and tan leather loafers, to finish off his effortlessly stylish look. Everything about him reeked of success and money, right down to his gold Rolex
watch on his wrist. He was beginning to enjoy this life on the Costa del Sol, he decided, as he eased the car out of the parking space and onto the road, heading out towards Marbella and Puerto Banus, the warm breeze on his face.
The eight a.m. call from Rodriguez’s right-hand man Pablo had been short and to the point.
‘Pepe wants to see you. Alone. Midday, Puerto Banus. Café De Santos. Don’t be late.’
Frankie had been a little irritated by this Pablo fucker talking to him as though he were the help, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it – not right now anyway. He’d been just as curt back to the Colombian, retorting, ‘I’m never late. Ever.’
So now he was headed to the bar in the port after a morning run on the beach and a hot then freezing shower to get his blood up, and ready for what lay ahead. Given what happened to Pat Durkin yesterday, it had crossed Frankie’s mind that he might be next on Rodriguez’s hit list. But he’d consoled himself by the fact that the Colombian knew that Durkin had been totally in charge of the mission to meet with Kerry in Glasgow that went tits up. Frankie had been told he was not required, so he’d taken a back seat, and that’s why he was delighted that it ended in an almighty fuck-up. After the cold way Rodriguez had had Durkin assassinated, Frankie and Vic had left later and gone for a drink in a café off the motorway. They hadn’t become buddies in the short time they’d been acquainted, but Frankie had got the measure of the big man and he guessed it was better to have him inside the tent pissing out than the other way around. So he’d had a few drinks with him and they’d swapped stories of stuff and faces from old days, and how things had changed. The big man didn’t give much away, though, and that told Frankie that he had to keep an eye on him, and play his cards close to his chest. When you were playing in the kind of shitty field they were all in right now, you had to watch your back at all times. There was no such thing as a team player, no matter how much some cunt swore their allegiance to your crew. Deep down it was every bastard for themselves, and nobody knew that more than Frankie. As he took the slip road for the port, he allowed himself a little thought on what Rodriguez would want to see him about, because he did say that he wanted to see him alone. The café was in the middle of the port and a well-known public place for posh fuckers, from the owners of the million-pound yachts to the rich ladies out lunching with younger men. So it was unlikely that Rodriguez was intending to have him shot. Too public for that caper. No, Frankie decided. With Durkin out of the way, Rodriguez was maybe going to give him a bigger role. That’s what he craved. That’s what he’d always craved. When he parked his car and strolled towards the café, he could see the Colombian was already seated, in jeans and brown loafers and a polo shirt, looking a million dollars. No scars on him to mark him out a gangster, Frankie thought. This fucker looks like a rich lawyer or businessman out to play. But that was far from the truth. Frankie squared his shoulders and strutted purposefully towards the table. He clocked big Pablo at a nearby table by himself, and two other henchmen at the back, just sitting sipping water, watching.
‘Frankie.’ Rodriguez put down the glass of water he was holding. He motioned him to a seat opposite. ‘Sit.’
Frankie stood just for a second longer, long enough to look him square enough in an expression that said, I’m not a fucking pet collie, you cunt. But he smiled through it, and sat down, crossing his legs. He kept his Ray-Bans on and turned his head to the water’s edge where the floating mansions nudged each other, the tinkling sounds of the masts in the breeze sounding like a fanfare announcing your arrival in a rich privileged world.
‘Beautiful here, Pepe, isn’t it amazing?’ Frankie said in the way of small talk, as much to show he wasn’t afraid of him as to break the ice.
‘Is magnificent. It has everything here. Everything a man could want. Food, wine . . .’ he gestured towards a table of women who Frankie knew were watching them, ‘and of course women when we need them.’ He took a breath and then lit a cigarette from his packet, then said, ‘Not like where I come from. Not like Medellín with the smoke and the buildings. Beautiful country, but when you live in the city, it’s shit.’
‘Sure. Every city is the same.’ Frankie couldn’t believe he was coming out with this shite. He hadn’t come down here to talk about the meaning of life, so get to the fucking point, Rodriguez.
The waiter came and Frankie ordered a coffee.
‘I have no time for lunch, Frankie. We do that another day. I just wanted to talk to you. In private.’
‘Sure. I’m good with that, Pepe.’
Rodriguez took a long drag of his cigarette and held it in for a second, his full lips opening a fraction to let out a stream of smoke.
‘This business,’ he said, waving his hand in a dismissive way, ‘with Durkin.’ He looked directly at Frankie. ‘He had to go. You know that, don’t you.’
It was more of a statement than a question, and Frankie knew he wasn’t expected to disagree. He nodded but didn’t reply.
Rodriguez looked away from him.
‘Durkin failed me. I cannot have failures in my business. Not ever. I believed him when he said he had the bodies and the people to make things happen. But is not true.’ He sighed as though bored. ‘So. Now he is gone. But we are not advancing, you know what I mean?’
‘Yes,’ Frankie said. ‘I understand. Some things take a little time.’
The Colombian looked at him and his eyes darkened a little. He waved a finger. ‘No, my friend. Time, we do not have.’
Christ, Frankie thought, what the fuck am I supposed to say to this psycho? For a moment they didn’t speak. Then Rodriguez leaned forward.
‘Last night,’ he said, ‘or, I mean in the middle of the night, we hit the hotel. We demolished it. Or as much as we could. We took out two of their fucking guards too.’
Frankie raised his eyebrows, surprised. He hadn’t expected this. When he and Vic had left yesterday, nothing was said about the next big hit. He wondered what this meant for him, if he wasn’t getting briefed. His stomach did a little flip.
‘Really?’ he enthused. ‘Well that’s good news. I can only imagine how that is going down back in Glasgow. Good.’
Rodriguez nodded, and raised his finger to make another point.
‘And,’ he said, ‘we also hit one of their bars on the coast. Burned out. And we shot two of their boys there.’ He shrugged. ‘Just a message to go back to Kerry Casey, to say this is only the beginning.’
Frankie nodded slowly, wondering what he was going to say next.
‘So,’ Rodriguez said. ‘We can do some damage here, we can fuck things up in their property and bars, but we have not hit the target. Not completely. We have to finish the Caseys. Take them apart. Piece by piece. We have to take them and their business for us. We have to be in charge – not Kerry Casey.’
‘No,’ Frankie said. ‘And to be honest, they will have taken a bit of strength from what happened in Glasgow. They will feel they gave you a good kicking. But they will also be watching their backs, Pepe.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Sure. They did well in Glasgow.’ He rubbed the thigh that Kerry had put a bullet in. ‘But they weren’t watching their backs enough last night.’
‘No. True. It was a good hit.’
‘But is not over. Much more to do.’
‘Of course.’
‘And that, amigo, is where you come in.’
Frankie took off his Ray-Bans and held the Colombian’s gaze as he looked into his eyes as though searching for any signs of betrayal. He waited.
‘You will go to Glasgow, Frankie. And you will finish this off. Kerry Casey is your target. You kill her, you kill the empire, and then, they come over to us.’
Frankie hoped his face didn’t show the shock that was registering right now from his head to his bowels. Go back to Glasgow? Bump off Kerry Casey? Fuck me! If I show my face back in Glasgow someone will blow my head off and they’ll place it on Kerry Casey’s dinner table for cunts like Danny and Jack to smi
rk at. But he couldn’t show any of that right now. So he swallowed and took a breath.
‘Go to Glasgow?’ he said. ‘Pepe, you know I’m a dead man in Glasgow. There is a price on my head. I got the call from a mate a few days after I disappeared, and I was told the Caseys are offering a million for me. There are people who will queue up to bump me off.’ He paused, noticing how Rodriguez looked unimpressed. ‘Look, I’m not saying it’s a bad idea. But we need to think about it.’
‘Then that is up to you, Frankie. You think about it, you plan it. I give you everything you need – money, guns, whatever you need. You can find some people in Glasgow or Manchester or Dublin who will come over to you. Then you go to war with the Caseys. On their ground. I can make sure you win. If you offer enough money to people they will come with you. Is human nature.’
Frankie said nothing, listened, as Rodriguez went on. ‘And when it is over, you will have the big prize. You and me. We will be partners. You will be my partner in the business here, and in Amsterdam, and in everywhere I have the control. You will be with me. You will have more money and power than you ever dreamed of, because now you will be playing with the big boys. Because as you know, my friend, the Colombian cartels run the whole show. The Russians and Albanians, they think they can take us on, but they cannot. We let them have their turf, but we can cut their heads off any time we want. This is the big game. This is what you are now.’
For a moment, Frankie wondered if this fucker was on something, if he had been snorting his own purest Colombian marching powder. He did look a bit wild-eyed, like some revolutionary raving about taking over the world. But fucking hell. This was a lot of shit to put on someone’s shoulders. He tried to get his head around it. In theory, given a shedload of money, he could get some people on board. He’d have to take a long look at it, get some people back in Glasgow and Dublin and Manchester, people who liked him before all this became so fucked up. People who were loyal to him, not trying to shaft him. They were all bastards at the end of the day, but Rodriguez was right: if you gave enough money to people, they would do anything. He could make this work. He had the balls for it, that much he knew. And in the end the biggest prize of all, the Casey empire. He could wipe out Kerry Casey and the top tier, and the rest would fall. He’d always wanted to be powerful, but he just hadn’t thought it would come to this. But then again, he had betrayed his best friend and partner in crime, Mickey Casey, and if he could do that, then getting rid of that smart bitch sister and the clan of sycophants around her would be a breeze. At least, right now, he had to convince himself of that. Because opposite him was one dangerous, ruthless fucker, and if he dared to show any flicker of fear or disagreement, then he knew he’d be lucky to make it back to his car without a bullet in his back.
