The Phoenix Series Books 10-12 (The Phoenix Series Box Set)

by Ted Tayler

  Before she had time to reflect on that attack, the next reporter appeared. The interior of the building looked to be Canning Place. It must be an Assistant Chief Constable from Merseyside. There must have been more trouble here to warrant the higher-ranked officer.

  “How can you reassure the public the streets of the city are safe? There were five shootings between eight and one last night. Two men died as they answered their front door. One was riddled with bullets in his car when he stopped at traffic lights. A fourth man died in a drive-by shooting outside a pub. He stood with several others in the smoking bay. Three bystanders got hit but didn’t sustain serious injury. The final man sat in a private booth in a strip club enjoying a lap dance. The door burst open, two masked men entered. One grabbed the girl and threw her to the floor, as the other opened fire with a machine pistol.”

  Athena closed her eyes as she listened to the ACC’s response.

  “A long-running investigation has monitored disputes between organised crime gangs on Merseyside. We have increased foot patrols. These shootings were on specific targets. I don’t accept that the threat to the wider community has increased.”

  Athena wondered if these senior officers ever ran out of platitudes? The men that died were hardened criminals and senior people in organised crime gangs. The method used by the Grid was pre-meditated. Luck had governed that more deaths did not occur.

  Liverpool and Newcastle now had several streets in gangland areas on lockdown. Armed patrols stood ready to strike if the violence escalated. Athena knew it was over. The focus would soon switch to another city, another region. The Grid had eliminated its opposition in the full glare of the media spotlight. They didn’t fear the police, and they didn’t consider the public. They wanted every gang leader to join their network.

  It was now nine o’clock, and the meeting room was filling. Athena continued to watch.

  “Have you heard from Phoenix?” asked Minos.

  “We talked last night; everything went as planned.”

  Cardiff, Bristol, Nottingham followed as the morning bulletins continued. The BBC studios at MediaCityUK saw a procession of experts who attempted to explain, to calm, and to excuse what had happened in front of the country’s eyes.

  The death toll stood at eighteen, so far.

  “What can we do?” asked Henry Case.

  “We wait,” said Athena, “this will be over soon. We can’t strike until the media focus has moved on to the next outrage, natural disaster, or sporting fiasco. Our time will come.”

  “How will the authorities react?” asked Alastor.

  “The bulletins have ended for now, after the weather report, they will wheel the experts into the studio. Listen to what they say and make up your mind.”

  An interviewer asked in the TV studio about the availability of guns across the country. Experts explained that weapons came into the UK from Eastern Europe. Free borders meant just that. You lost the right to object to what entered. Opposition politicians pointed to years of severe budget cuts that hampered operations aimed at managing inter-gang disputes.

  Athena and the others had agreed to set aside the planned agenda and watched and listened.

  As the Grid cleared the three remaining areas of resistance, interviewers asked why these criminals thought it acceptable to attack people in daylight. In Tottenham, a husband and wife had left Tesco with a loaded trolley at one o’clock in the afternoon. The couple had reached their car, opened the boot and unloaded shopping bags.

  A car pulled up behind them with its registration plates covered. A gunman forced the husband to his knees and shot him in the back of the head in front of his wife. The supermarket’s CCTV caught every second of the action. They didn’t air the actual execution — images of scenes of the police clearing the car park aired instead. They covered the body on the ground with a sheet. A reporter at the scene said the trolley attendant had told him he could still hear the wife’s screams of terror.

  “We’ll be here for ages,” said Athena, “we need to send out for lunch. Alastor, can you make the arrangements, please?”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for food,” said Artemis. She wasn’t alone.

  Alastor left the room. Stewards carried the refreshments into the room twenty minutes later; there was no rush towards the table where they left it.

  “Do you believe we’ve heard the last of it now?” asked Giles.

  “Hard to tell,” said Athena, “unless you can tell me the exact number of gangs still operating outside the Grid?”

  “Less than ten,” said Artemis, “we mapped the locations of organised crime centres while I worked with the force. We knew the scale of their operations, the numbers directly involved, and the additional low-level criminals that had loose links with the main gang structure. Monitoring it was one thing, having the capability to impact on it altogether another matter.”

  “Gangs in the major cities are amorphous,” Giles added. “They can split without bloodshed, due to many reasons. The different factions then merge with a neighbouring outfit that’s a better fit, whether it’s because of its culture, or its ambition.”

  The senior agents waited to see whether this marked a lull in proceedings, or whether the carnage had ended.

  “I’ll call Phoenix,” said Athena. “He and Rusty are due on the streets later this afternoon. They should be resting now. No doubt, they’re watching this unfold. I want to add their thoughts to what we’ve discussed. They return home later tonight. We need to prepare for another long day drawing up our battle plans.”

  Athena made the call.

  “Tell me your view, Phoenix,” she asked, without her usual friendly preamble. “You’re on speakerphone in the meeting room.”

  “Our list of opponents has reduced,” he replied, “we understand the top-level command of the Grid far better now. Total control will mean a unification not only of personnel. Every member of the network will do as instructed in the future. They saw the alternative in graphic detail. That message was for the total Grid membership as much as the authorities and the British public. In a way, it makes our job easier. We are less likely to face the loose cannons that existed when it was a free-for-all. Life’s about balance. This unification also means the Grid has improved its chances of identifying and countering our activities.”

  “I agree,” said Athena, “so, I advise caution. We must increase our level of security and delay any action against the Grid until we can ensure our anonymity.”

  “Are you suggesting we return to Larcombe at once?” asked Phoenix.

  “The youths we are targeting aren’t associated directly with the Grid’s network,” said Rusty, “they’re street-level punks who could gravitate to more serious crimes in time. If we pull out now, there’s a risk this moped gang menace will spread. I know we can make a difference by what we’re doing. The risk of Olympus seen as being involved is low, and Phoenix and I can take extra precautions in the light of what’s been happening elsewhere. The spotlight is firmly on those killings. A few punishments in North West London will struggle to get two lines in a footnote in the media.”

  “We must be positive,” said Athena, “go ahead with the mission, take care, come home safe.”

  “If the authorities stamped out this threat from the outset, they wouldn’t have the list of problems they face today,” said Henry. “I agree with Rusty. The risk is low. The potential benefits are high.”

  After the conversation with the two men in St John’s Wood ended the team turned their attention back to the TV screen.

  In the middle of the afternoon, Big Phil Sykes, a notorious criminal who never took a backward step in his life stood on the cliff tops near Dawlish, in Devon. He controlled large tracts of the South West with operations in four counties. The man facing him carried a sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun. Eye-witnesses a hundred yards away reported seeing the man continue to advance towards Sykes.

  There were no shots fired. Sykes stepped back at last and lo
st his footing.

  A seventh gang had lost its figurehead. The death toll rose to twenty.

  As news of this latest killing was received, a Chief Constable sat in the hot seat. He called for communities blighted by gun crime to support the police. The interviewer interrupted his well-crafted prepared statement and switched the focus of her questions.

  “How many more deaths are we going to witness today, Chief Constable?” she asked. “When are the police going to restore law and order in the country?”

  “I can assure the public that my colleagues and I are doing our utmost to keep the public safe…”

  “You realise many people are drawing comparisons between today’s atrocities, and those that plagued Chicago, in the 1920s?”

  A promising career in public relations crashed and burned as the hapless representative of what had once been a force with teeth struggled to find the right answer: -

  “These inter-gang feuds have been with us in the UK since the 1920s. They’re nothing new. It is just a readjustment of our organised crime power base. The public is not in danger.”

  The silence in the studio echoed the silence in the meeting room at Larcombe.

  “Wait for it,” said Minos, “he’s left the door wide open. Here come the coach and horses.”

  The female interviewer couldn’t believe her luck — an opportunity to be part of something momentous on live TV.

  “So, for one hundred years, the police have failed to tackle organised crime. It’s now established a power base that covers the entire country. Their activities threaten the economic fabric of this country. They reach into the deepest and most remote corners of our everyday life. Organised crime costs the economy between fifty and sixty billion pounds every year. How can you possibly maintain the public are not in danger? These killings may, or may not be confined to criminals, but surely the British public deserve action against organised crime, not acceptance?”

  “We have succeeded in combating organised crime on many occasions, young lady…”

  “Oh, quit now,” said Henry, “you’re deep enough in it. Stop digging, you fool.”

  “Our viewers would be excused for thinking you’ve lost the battle given today’s events. Let’s join Sam for a summary of the news.”

  The focus switched to another newscaster on the other side of the studio. Sadly, for the Chief Constable, his microphone still broadcast his comments. As the nation awaited the next catastrophe to hit the headlines, the senior policemen provided his own.

  “You stitched me up there, didn’t you? The sisterhood will be over the moon.”

  At Larcombe Manor, despite the seriousness of the situation, that remark brought a smile to several faces around the table.

  “The BBC may have stumbled onto a winner,” said Minos. “This could bring daytime TV viewers back in their millions.”

  “They’re moving another expert in to take his place,” said Giles.

  “What a shame. I enjoyed watching that policeman squirm,” said Artemis.

  “I’ve seen this new chap before,” said Henry. “That’s Rod Nugent, a former Senior Investigating Officer with the National Crime Agency. He disagreed with how the force was going. Three years ago, he quit his job, and now he works in the private security sector.

  Everyone’s attention had switched to the big screen.

  “Mr Nugent, you listened to our last guest give his views on today’s events. How do you see the situation?”

  “It’s ludicrous to say the public shouldn’t be concerned. A third of crime groups use violence or intimidation against non-gang members. Violence is many groups stock-in-trade. They will likely carry through with threats against the public. They use violence to control their organisations daily. This level of violence ensures obedience, and as we’ve witnessed today, it eliminates competition.”

  “As shocking as today’s events have been,” said the interviewer, “most of the public won’t experience it, so how deep does the problem go? How does organised crime affect the average person on the street?”

  “We’ve seen examples in the media of high-impact crimes such as benefit fraud, business fraud, drug trafficking, intellectual property theft, and revenue fraud. Organised crime gangs are responsible too for the theft of arts and antiques, illegal immigration, paedophilia and vehicle theft which impact on a lower percentage of the public. Finally, you’ve got armed robbery, counterfeiting, kidnapping and extortion, pornography and prostitution. They have many options. Some specialise in a small number; others operate a pick and mix strategy. You were spot on with your comment earlier; it threatens our way of life. It’s all-pervasive. Even if you don’t come face-to-face with it, it will taint some part of your daily life’s activities.”

  The mood warmed as another guest joined the discussion from a London studio. There was a pause, and then the female interviewer said they had to interrupt the programme for a news flash.

  The lull had ended dramatically. An eighth region of the country had suffered a gangland execution. A reporter stood outside a detached house in a smart residential borough of Southampton.

  The garden swarmed with members of the emergency services. Parts of the building still smouldered. Their actions had limited the damage, but it was evident a serious incident had occurred.

  “What can you tell us about what happened, Nick?” asked the newsreader at MediaCityUK.

  “This is the home of Idris Johns, a sixty-one-year-old man known to have links to organised crime. He lived here with his wife Megan, fifty-nine, their three sons, and two dogs. At around five o’clock, it’s believed a group of armed men stormed the house. Megan Johns was in the kitchen. A gunman kicked in the back door and shot her dead. Idris Johns was asleep upstairs. The attack dogs always lay at the foot of his bed. The three sons sat in the lounge watching TV. After the first shots, the sons appear to have rushed towards the kitchen. Idris died on the stairs, and long bursts from submachine guns felled two of his boys as they exited the lounge door. People in the next street could hear the noise of gunfire. The third son dived through a front window onto the lawn and hid in the trees and bushes you can see on the right-hand side of the property. Reuben Johns, twenty-eight tried to return to the house after the men had left, but the fires made it impossible. Reuben reported the murders to the police. The fire service chief told me his crew, wearing breathing apparatus, gained entry through the front door. They found three male bodies in the hallway. The dogs still lay on the stairs next to their owner. They died from smoke inhalation. The two sons who died were Lewis, thirty-three, and Dylan, thirty-one. All three sons were involved in criminal enterprises along with their father.”

  “That’s where it ends,” said Athena. “The Grid saved the most shocking attack to the last. Almost an entire gangland family wiped out.”

  “Those poor animals too,” said Artemis.

  “Do we have a final death toll?” asked Alastor.

  “Twenty-four,” said Athena. “If that doesn’t end resistance from groups who continued to go it alone, I don’t know what will.”

  “What do you want us to do next?” asked Giles.

  “Henry, I want you to review our security protocols. Not only here at Larcombe, but across the board. Every safehouse must be invisible. Every agent needs to be reminded of their duty to keep Olympus safe. Our skills allow us to stay off the radar of the authorities. We must extend that to include anyone who might be associated with the Grid.”

  “Understood, Athena,” said Henry.

  “Giles and Artemis, return to the ice-house. Gather every scrap of intelligence on these killings today. Use whatever CCTV and communications data you can access to discover who carried out these attacks, Trace the killers to their origin if you can. We will act when the time is right. Switch personnel from other duties. I’ll leave you to assess priorities for the short term. Phoenix and Rusty need someone on their shoulder this evening. The targets they seek have been active in the region for weeks. These aren’t n
ew to the game. Liaise with Phoenix and guide him towards the specific riders we want. There’s little to gain from a random stop. When we talked last night, Phoenix told me the brothers who tried to mug him last night were small fry.”

  Giles and Artemis left the room along with Henry Case.

  “I’m sure you two know what to do, don’t you?” asked Athena.

  “I’ll continue to monitor the news reports,” said Alastor, “if a major news story breaks I’ll be in touch.”

  “The only people we haven’t heard from are the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary,” said Minos. “I thought someone might have appeared on TV by now. I’ll keep watch for that. Tomorrow, while we meet to discuss the aftermath of these attacks, we can expect statements in the House of Commons. That should be a vibrant morning to end the week.”

  A message alert sounded on Athena’s phone.

  “I’ve received word from Hugh Fraser,” she said, “he wants to know if he should come back tonight.”

  “He’s taken time off to attend the two funerals, hasn’t he?” asked Alastor.

  “Yes, he went to Manchester for Jacks’s funeral on Tuesday. Finn’s funeral is tomorrow, in Staffordshire.”

  “Does Fraser have family in the north?” asked Alastor, “I know he’s divorced, but I can’t recall them having had children.”

  “He hasn’t been with us at Larcombe for long, but we always try to accommodate agents when they ask for leave. Hugh has been with Olympus long enough to earn a rest. Why he stayed up there between the two funerals, I can only guess.”