In for the Kill

by Mark Newman

  That was all fine in principle, easy enough for Baxter to whisper it to himself, taking comfort in the security and isolation of his own vehicle. Be little chance anyone would go to the trouble of bugging his car. The problem lay with the name of Callaghan rather than the man. The myth stronger than reality, creating the illusion of power and influence. It was effective nonetheless, stretching far beyond the northeast. Sean Callaghan was just one piece of the jigsaw, more of a figurehead, a representative for an international organisation. These days, the Callaghans looked more and more like a global conglomerate, their interests spreading far and wide.

  The more he considered it, taking out Sean Callaghan had the potential to create more problems than it solved. For one thing, there’d be a power vacuum. He couldn’t see the Callaghans just rolling over. There’d be repercussions.

  Gerry Callaghan ran the organisation from his farm in County Meath, Ireland. He was the real boss; his cousin Sean was no more than a caretaker manager. No one ever dared say it to his face, but those on the inside knew that’s how it really was. Sean was in place for as long as it suited the interests of his older cousin. There was no love lost between them; it was a business arrangement and nothing more. Sean a mere figurehead.

  That still didn’t give Baxter carte blanche to make Sean disappear, even if it did his debt would still stand, passed on to the next in line. Baxter figured it was safer to owe Sean rather than Gerry. He’d seen the Irishman’s handiwork first hand, up close, when he’d been called in to clean up after an interrogation that had gone too far. It was grotesque, sheer butchery, the man had no finesse. No understanding of the art and ritual of extracting information. He was nothing but a wild boar, content to gouge and maim.

  Then there was the East Coast faction, located in Boston, Massachusetts. Tom Callaghan, Gerry’s youngest son ran the operation. He’d gone over initially to oversee the funeral arrangements when his uncle had passed. Seamus had died intestate, save for a raven-headed twenty-five-year-old claiming to be his illegitimate daughter. Tom Callaghan was bewitched from the moment he first saw her and ended up marrying the girl. He stayed, got his green card, and became a naturalised citizen.

  That was nine years ago. Gerry Callaghan made a fuss at the time. He even forbade his son to go through with it, but he soon came round to the idea when he realised Tom had achieved what Seamus never could. He’d secured the lucrative East Coast heroin supply routes, opening up markets across the U.S. and beyond. Gerry wasn’t about to pass on that opportunity; he stood to earn thirty-five percent of the profit. Besides, he needed someone he could trust; he needed boots on the ground. His brother Seamus, a committed Irish Republican, had dedicated his life to cultivating relationships, setting up an intricate arms network to ship weapons from the U.S. to Eire for the Cause, one the FBI couldn’t infiltrate. Boston had always proved to be fertile ground to recruit third, fourth, and fifth generation Irish-Americans looking to get back at the Brits. Gerry saw no reason why that should change.

  Baxter needed an exit strategy, someplace to run to. A foreign shore beyond the reach of the Callaghan co-operative. He sniggered at the irony; there was no place on Earth they couldn’t get to him. He was screwed; if they wanted him, they’d find him.

  He’d lived the life for so long, he couldn’t see another way; it was part of his genetic makeup. Besides, what else was there for him? Sure, he could go abroad, take some sun, drink to forget. Wake up with a hangover and start-over, but what happens when the money runs dry? What would he do then, play bartender in Phuket and pimp lady boys to tourists?

  Chapter 8

  The concoction of coffee, Nytol, and lack of sleep had jangled his thought processes. There was no way he could think straight, nothing he could do but continue the drive. He was out of choices, he had to deal with the immediate, and that meant McAlister. He pressed the pedal hard, accelerating into the blanket of fog that had begun its descent, rolling down from the hill and on to the road.

  Sean Callaghan’s weakness centred on him believing his own hype. He’d traded on the fear factor for so long that he took compliance as a given. The arrogant, fat bastard thought he was untouchable, maybe he was to most, but not to Baxter, he reckoned on there being a lot of people in Newcastle glad to see the back of Callaghan, some even willing to pay for the service.

  Three miles out, he recognised the landscape. The knot tightened in his stomach. Getting close now. He was committed to the job, he willed himself on, get in, get it done, and get out. That’s all there was to it. As much as he tried to, he couldn’t force the image from his head. Just another job, that’s what he kept telling himself. One step closer to making a fresh start. Somewhere new. No history. Erase it all and start over. That was the plan. He knew then he was kidding himself, but it was the only thing keeping him heading north. He had to compartmentalise the emotion, shut it down, and sever the connection.

  Less than two miles to McAlister’s place, he slowed down to fifty, conscious he’d been ripping into the dense blanket of fog at seventy-five miles per hour. He’d covered the last ten or so miles on autopilot, his thoughts shrouded in darkness. He’d found driving into the white cotton veil soothing, cathartic even. As if he was dreaming or dead. Maybe that’s what it was; he’d already passed to the other side.

  Chapter 9

  Nearing McAlister’s place, he couldn’t help but run over the events of that night. What should have been a simple collection job had become complicated. He’d been summoned, not knowing what he was walking into, blinded by the prospect of a decent pay-out.

  Sure, he understood the requirements from the off; a delicate operation, tact and diplomacy were at a premium, that was a given. Even then, he knew enough about McAlister and his friends to urge caution, but nothing could prepare him for the reality of what he witnessed.

  Arriving at the scene, Baxter was escorted by a member of McAlister’s security team. He was guided through a warren of connecting corridors and rooms, passing an assortment of men ranging in ages, from mid-twenties to upper sixties. Girls in skimpy, tight outfits were serving drinks and doing their best to outmanoeuvre wandering hands and blatant attempts to grope them.

  On entering the master guest bedroom, Baxter saw a guy, middle-aged, about fifty-one or two, with a pockmarked face and a receding hairline, wearing a black, silk dressing gown, sat in a wicker chair, smoking a cigarette. Baxter remembered the detached nonchalant expression on his face as though he couldn’t fathom what all the fuss was about. For a brief moment, he thought he’d recognised him, but couldn’t place him; he looked vaguely familiar like someone he should’ve known off the TV from a few years back.

  He moved farther into the room, the minder guiding him around to the far side of the king-sized bed. That was the moment things changed. Baxter turned to him, his face blank, the minder pointing at the heap on the floor, beckoning Baxter to get started.

  He was confronted with a girl, a minor, no more than thirteen years old. She could’ve been his own daughter, similar in age and she had the same wavy, light brown hair laying across her cheek. He cast his eyes over her small, delicate features – a child. She was half-naked, a white hand towel casually thrown across her torso, far too small to save her modesty. Baxter knelt down, rearranged the towel, and brushed the hair from her cheek.

  That’s when he noticed the bruising and swelling to her face. She’d been beaten, subjected to a sustained assault. Baxter felt a wave of anger and revulsion crash in to him. He rose to his feet, balling his fists. The guy was no more than five or six paces away. He ran at him, the minder anticipated his reaction, grabbed him, and swung him down on to the bed. ‘Stay put and calm down.’

  Baxter lay still, the force of the impact knocking the wind from him. There was no way he was getting past the muscle without some form of weapon. He looked around the room for something, anything. A heavy object of some description would do. The minder read his thoughts. ‘Don’t even think about it, pal, I’d love to bust you up
but you’ve got a job to do.’

  Baxter dropped down the side of the bed and placed two fingers to the girl’s neck, the pulse was weak, but she was breathing. ‘Get an ambulance.’

  The minder kept his expression blank. ‘No way that’s happening.’

  He looked back down at the girl, tears welling in his eyes. ‘This isn’t what I do.’

  The minder loomed over the top of him. ‘It is now. What you waiting for? Get on with it.’

  Baxter brushed the girls fringe from her eyes and looked over to the figure sitting in the chair. ‘You sick bastard. Why?’

  The figure ignored him, taking a long drag on his cigarette, unconcerned, blowing smoke rings from his mouth.

  Baxter looked back to the minder. ‘Call a fucking ambulance now, she’s still breathing.’

  McAlister appeared at the door. ‘There’ll be no ambulance.’

  The girl started shaking, her body convulsing, froth spilling from the side of her mouth, her jaw clamped shut. Baxter rolled her on to her side, placing her in the recovery position, his mind awash; all he could do was react. He tried forcing his fingers into her mouth to separate her top and bottom jaw. ‘She’s going to die unless she gets some proper help. What’s she taken?’

  The figure in the chair snorted in between sucking hard on his cigarette. ‘Oh, for God sake, the stupid bitch did a line of coke, then another, such a greedy girl, she just didn’t know when to stop, and now we have this. Not at all what I’d anticipated, Mr. McAlister, such a let down.’

  His accent gave him away, English or upper-class Scot, his clipped tone and air of superiority denoting a public school education. His contempt was clear, the girl was nothing more than a commodity, and now she’d lost her value, she was worthless. Her life reduced to being a liability that could not be tolerated. A potential embarrassment that needed to be buried.

  Baxter pulled himself to his feet, reaching across the bed to the phone on the cabinet; snatching it from its cradle he began punching in treble nine.

  The minder ripped the handset from his grip, terminating the call.

  Baxter looked on, his jaw slack. The enormity of the situation dawning on him.

  McAlister nodded to the minder, gesturing for him to go to the girl. Without words, he turned and made his way around the king-sized bed, and crouched. Baxter could just see the back of the minder’s short-cropped, grade one hair stubble above the bed. He was leaning forward as though he was consuming the child, the rest of the view obscured by the width of his shoulders.

  Baxter’s initial thought was that the minder was leaning in low to scoop the girl up in his arms from the floor, but he remained stationary.

  He swung back to face McAllister, ‘this isn’t what…’

  The barrel of a 9mm was inches from his face. McAlister’s arm straight and unflinching. ‘Get it done,’ he ordered, looking in the direction of the minder.

  Baxter’s throat was dry, his head swimming. None of it made sense. He pivoted back round. He could see the minder hunched over the girl. He wanted it to stop; he wanted to intervene, to do something. He froze, unable to comprehend the reality of the situation unfolding before his eyes.

  Chapter 10

  He brought the car to a halt, and sat there looking out towards the house. It was different to his last visit, silent and eerie, no music or laughter. The absence of men milling around outside smoking cigarettes.

  At least it wasn’t a party, not like before. For that, he was thankful. He’d spent the entire journey running through the various scenarios in his head. He wanted to avoid a confrontation with McAlister, knowing this time he wouldn’t be able to walk away. He reminded himself of why he was there, he needed the money, and he had to keep Callaghan off his back.

  The place looked deserted. The interior lights were on in McAlister’s office, and the main hallway was fully illuminated, the rest of the house was in darkness. He checked his watch, 2:40 am, not unusual for the hour. Still, he had a feeling in his gut that something wasn’t right.

  He exited the car and made his way towards the front door.

  The CCTV would have picked up his arrival, so he’d expected to be met by one of McAlister’s security detail in the courtyard, but no one came. He stopped walking, and stood motionless, listening to the sounds of the night. There was nothing, no traffic in the distance, no early morning birdcall. He’d have expected something, even the noise from a transistor radio or TV that had been left on through the night by one of the staff.

  He advanced, looking around for a sign of anything that might be out of place. Anything that might give him reason to get in his car and get out of there. He moved closer to the front door, the muted night playing heavy on his mind. He took out his gloves, slipped them on, and pushed the door open. He made a visual appraisal of the scene from the doorway, everything looked normal and he could see nothing out of place. He waited, sniffing the air, nothing amiss.

  He shouted McAlister’s name down the hallway, half-expecting a gruff reply telling him to come on in. There was no reply.

  He tried again. ‘McAlister, you in there?’

  Silence. He took out his plastic shoe coverings, pulling them on over his boots. He placed one foot over the threshold and held his breath, half-expecting a gunshot to ring out or an alarm to sound. Nothing happened. He began to take tentative steps down the hallway, wishing he’d brought a weapon. He checked the rooms either side of the corridor as he walked farther on in to the house, still finding nothing untoward. [DA2]

  Ten feet into the hallway, Baxter observed footprints ingrained into the parquet flooring. He crouched to take a closer look at the marks. He estimated the owner of the shoe wore either a size nine or ten. Next to them were another set of prints, much heavier, the indentations set deeper into the flooring - McAlister’s.

  Baxter cast his eye farther down the hallway, seeing no obvious signs of a struggle. The gaudy yellow and orange vase was still in situ on the corner table and the reproduction Rembrandt still hanging prominent opposite the doorway to the kitchen. The complete absence of any blood spatter was also adding to his sense of intrigue. So the visitor had walked in to McAlister’s residence without incident, which meant he was invited or at least expected. Baxter continued to follow the trail of smudges and scratches, leading him to the office.

  On entering the room, Baxter’s eyes settled on the shaven-headed corpse lying to the side of the desk. He moved closer, careful not to touch anything, and conscious of where he was stepping. Taking a closer look, he recognised the victim; it was the girl’s killer, McAlister’s minder. What goes around comes around. Baxter wasn’t a religious man, but he believed in Karma. Although part of him felt cheated that it wasn’t he who took his life, he was glad he was dead all the same. Left to him, he’d have prolonged the act. A bullet too kind an option for someone who had taken the life of an innocent child.

  Now he had to find McAlister and try to piece together what the hell was going on. He doubted that it was the minder’s corpse that he’d come all this way to collect. If it was down to an internal problem, McAlister was more than capable of making an employee disappear.

  The minder had two bullet holes, one to the abdomen, and another to the head. Baxter took a deep intake of breath; he’d walked in to something way bigger than he’d anticipated. But where the hell was McAlister? He found his answer lying behind the desk. His eyes drawn to the mangled, bloodied mess. It had all the hallmarks of a professional hit; someone wanted to send a very clear message, McAlister’s reign was ended.

  Fuck. His disposal job had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. Baxter inspected the corpse. Judging by the wounds, McAlister had been brought down by two gunshots to the chest. Nothing unusual in that, just another crime boss falling victim to a power struggle. Taking a closer look, Baxter could see evidence of tooth extraction. It was difficult to say whether it had occurred while he was still breathing or was post mortem. Still, it provided context. Now it was personal, so
mething more than a simple tit for tat gangland shooting. The killer wanted payback. Why else take the time to remove teeth? This was punishment, a form of torture, inflicted to cause maximum pain. It was also a statement, a calling card. Almost as if the killer had been trophy hunting.

  Baxter stepped away from the body, he needed to think. The potent mix of sleep deprivation and driver fatigue had scrambled his brain. He needed coffee, the strong black type, but that would have to wait. He returned to McAlister’s corpse, it was still warm, no signs of rigor mortis setting in.

  He began a fingertip search of the office, looking for a lead, something, or anything to go on. Knowing the police could already be en route, he had to act fast. The last thing he needed right now was to be caught at the scene of a double homicide.

  He checked his watch, already three hours invested in the job. Whatever happened from here on in, he had to find those responsible. That was the only way he was ever getting his hands on the money. Callaghan wasn’t interested in excuses. Walking away empty handed wasn’t an option. Baxter’s own family would bear the consequences if he failed to honour the payment deadline.

  He knew there’d be those in McAlister’s firm who wouldn’t shed a tear at his passing. Might even be some loyal to him who had a vested interest in his demise. That’s where he’d start.

  Chapter 11

  He drove out of McAlister’s place taking it slow and deliberate, careful not to draw unnecessary attention to himself. He kept the needle just below thirty mph, navigating his way through unfamiliar streets. His Glasgow A-Z street map opened, the yellow highlighter pen marking his next destination, Neil Kennedy’s, McAlister’s second in command.

  The sky was beginning to crack, the blue and black tinged with a purplish hue, daybreak no more than an hour away. He drove on for twenty-five minutes before locating a call box on the edge of a housing estate, a mixture of granite and red tower blocks looming ominous like giant watchtowers over the maze of terraced housing below.