by Ted Tayler
“What and try to prise the remote out of his hand? No, thanks.” Phoenix shivered.
The journey to Solihull, one of the nicer suburbs in the West Midlands, took forty-five minutes. The house on the tree-lined avenue where the gang master lived was light years away from the dilapidated streets of Handsworth which paid for it.
“Do we have a name for our target?” asked Rusty.
“Piotr Kowalczyk,” replied Phoenix, “mid-fifties, from Krakow. Plays the hard man with the victims, but always gets one of his soldiers to do the dirty work. He likes having a party of young men at his house. Whether that’s for his protection, or something else, we don’t know. No matter, we have the right equipment in the van, regardless of numbers.”
Rusty looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to nine, and it was dark. He turned around at the end of the avenue and parked two doors along from the gang master’s house. They were ready for a speedy getaway.
He and Phoenix got out of the van, and making as little noise as possible, opened the rear doors and collected their weapons and dressed in their gear. A little way off they could hear laughter and music.
“We don’t plan on taking prisoners tonight then, Phoenix,” said Rusty.
“This one is to send a big message to The Grid. Nobody is safe. We’re putting a spoke in your money-making operations at every opportunity. Maybe this will bring Hanigan out into the open.”
“If not?” asked Rusty.
“I’ve got plenty more targets we can hit,” replied Phoenix.
Phoenix led the way. The closer they got to Kowalczyk’s house, the louder the sounds became. The next moment, there were several large explosions. The night sky was illuminated by thousands of coloured stars.
“I wondered what the hell that was,” whispered Rusty.
“Piotr spares no expense for his parties,” whispered Phoenix. “He likes a mixture of mines and cakes for his fireworks displays. Our surveillance teams picked up on this Sunday ritual. Why do you think we’re here?”
Phoenix caught Rusty’s arm and pointed to the next-door neighbour’s house. He led the way around the side pathway. There was no gate or proximity-triggered security lighting. Once inside the rear garden, they made their way across to the five-foot fence. The agents wore black SWAT-type night camouflage clothing. With their black balaclavas covering their faces it enabled them to take cover unseen under the two ornamental trees at the bottom of the garden.
Next door, the party was in full swing. The patio was bathed in light from the dining room. The patio doors were open wide, and they counted six men, standing or seated watching the fireworks, drinking, and having a good time. These were the so-called soldiers. The men who travelled from Europe on the same route as the Polish victims, but who were now absorbed into the Roma gang.
Their role was to keep the new victims in line, to use the knowledge they had gained of language, and culture, to convince the authorities everything was ‘cool’. They were the men escorting the victims to work each day and if anyone asked, things were ‘fine, no problem, we’re being treated well.’
In the doorway stood Piotr Kowalczyk. A large man, well over six foot tall, and heavily built. His eyes were fixed on the skies, admiring the five minutes of sparkle he had added to his soldiers’ lives. Piotr had his arm around the shoulder of a teenage boy who looked frightened and stared at the ground.
“Time to go,” whispered Phoenix, “seven targets. You take the lead. I’ll give covering fire if you need it and then join you.”
As the next fusillade of explosions flashed twenty metres above the house, a dark figure leapt over the fence. It took several seconds before anyone on the patio realised it wasn’t next-door neighbours black cat scurrying over the fence, frightened by the bangs and screeches. Those several seconds were fatal.
Phoenix and Rusty were armed with FN F2000 assault rifles, capable of delivering eight hundred and fifty rounds per minute. Rusty landed with both feet on the grass, steadied himself, and fired six rapid bursts of five shells. Phoenix was on top of the fence now, and his thirty-round volley followed.
The patio was covered in dead bodies.
Piotr Kowalczyk slumped, dying in the doorway, while the scared young boy cowered by a water-butt.
The last few fireworks fizzled out above the garden, and the smoke thinned out and disappeared. The bottom of the garden lay empty.
The teenager saw his chance to escape. Whoever they were, those killers had saved him from Piotr and his friends. He had realised too late how the party was going to end. He would have been an integral part of the entertainment. As he collected his things from inside the house, he heard a vehicle revving up as it drove out of the avenue. It appeared he would have to walk home, but that was a blessing.
In the van, Rusty and Phoenix watched for signs the police had been alerted to the gunfire. Everything was quiet.
“The fireworks did their job,” said Phoenix, satisfied another of his plans had proved successful.
“Bazza was right to suggest we used those F2000’s on this job,” said Rusty, “they are very effective at that range.”
“Not so much killed, as shredded.” agreed Phoenix. “Looking at my watch, we’ll be back at Larcombe before midnight. That should earn us brownie points with the girls.”
Rusty drove in silence via the M42 to join the M5. They had been travelling for fifteen minutes. He told Phoenix of the conversation he had with Artemis about starting a family. After he finished, he expected a comment, even words of advice, but nothing was said.
Rusty looked across to his colleague in the passenger seat. Phoenix was fast asleep. Rusty was reminded of what Artemis said earlier in the day. Less than forty minutes ago, they had eliminated seven men from a ruthless gang. A gang that played an important role within The Grid.
Phoenix had tuned-out the bloodshed and the mayhem and was relaxed enough to drop off to sleep in minutes.
Rusty was still ‘wired’. He was imagining how different things could have gone if the Roma on the patio had seen them coming; or if others inside the house had returned fire.
Rusty drove home. Alone with his thoughts. Every mile that brought them closer to Larcombe he felt his tensions ease. When they drew up by the stable block, to park for the night, he was as laid back as his friend.
“Mission completed,” said Phoenix, stirring as soon as the van came to a halt.
“A good week for Olympus,” said Rusty. “A few questions asked of The Grid, and its leader.”
Phoenix nodded.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he said, and with a wave of his hand, he left Rusty and walked off across the lawn.
Rusty set off for the door leading to his own apartment. It was not yet midnight. He wondered if Artemis was still awake. The steady, gentle snore which greeted him told him otherwise. The weekend was over. Another potential week of danger beckoned in the morning. Rusty hoped he could fall asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
*****
On the other side of the country, Hugo Hanigan was still wide awake in his London penthouse apartment. His private jet had landed at Heathrow Airport at ten-forty, as planned. A taxi had then delivered him to his building in the City in an hour. It was now midnight. The weekend in Dublin ended.
The trip had become an annual pilgrimage. Hugo hired a car at the airport when he landed in Dublin. He dropped his bags at the Merrion Hotel, and then drove towards Dundrum and from there, on to Glencairn Park. He stopped off at the shopping centre in Dundrum to buy flowers.
The Park had changed out of all recognition since they had visited on day trips with the church. It was far more commercialised these days. He recalled the open spaces, where he and the other street kids could run free. Those carefree days had gone. He parked the car and walked to the far side, to the spot, in the shade of a row of trees, where his murdered mother’s body had been discovered.
Hugo reverently placed the flowers where he imagined her heart
had been. Sorcha Hannon, nee Hanigan of Bangor, who died on May 3rd, 2010.
The loan shark who sent his thugs to punish her for late payment of her debts was no longer trading. One of the first things Hugo had done when he adopted his new persona had been to arrange for the man’s funeral. The total amount he offered for the contract included making him suffer before he died.
The loan shark’s thugs died later that same year too, Hugo paid for them to be bludgeoned to death. He thought it appropriate.
Hugo stood for a while and gazed at the flowers. He had a few words to say to his mother, but this was not the time, nor the place. He returned to the hire car and drove back to Dublin.
After spending the afternoon in his hotel room, Hugo made another sentimental journey. He could see the seven streets in his mind’s eye. He could name the families who lived in almost every home. Just as with the Park, there had been changes in the three decades since he lived on Thomas Street, Inchincore. The seven streets of the neighbourhood had a reputation back then, Hugo learned in his visits since his mother’s death that nothing had been done to improve things.
The area was covered by several council estates. Unemployment rates were high, and at night teenagers loitered on street corners. They awaited the incautious tourist they could mug or give a bloody nose. Hugo was well aware this was no place for him to walk the streets, day or night. He kept the car windows closed as he drove around his old patch. The locals could smell money. There was no point in antagonising them.
The houses looked different, the families had changed, yet when he drove past each door, he could recite his former neighbours’ names. His visit was brief, but as it ended, emotions ran high. This was where he had been dragged up. A foot away from the gutter. Look at him now. Hugo gave one last look at Thomas Street and drove back to the Merrion.
On Sunday morning, he went to St Patrick’s Cathedral for the Choral Eucharist and Matins. His mother would have wanted him to attend. She had badgered him to confess his sins every week too, but although Ardal James Hannon was raised in the faith, he lapsed well before he reached his twenties.
Hugo Hanigan had no time for religion, and there wasn’t a confessional big enough to cater for his many sins. For the fourth year in succession, he stuck it out to the end of the service. In the afternoon, he had driven to Golden Bridge cemetery to visit his mother’s final resting place.
This was an occasion for more flowers. At Glencairn, they might have appeared incongruous, but here in the garden cemetery, there was greenery and colour in profusion. The sun always seemed to shine here when Hugo visited.
It was the perfect setting for Sorcha Hanigan, no matter how weak of character she might have been, she didn’t deserve for her life to end that way. The grave was neat and tidy as always. Hugo didn’t have to tidy away the remnants of the flowers he laid here last year. He paid a gardener from the city more than enough to make sure the grave was treated with tender care. Hugo had stood back and studied the headstone and his flowers. Everything looked perfect. His mother would have approved. Now in this serene spot, it was time to share those few words between a son and his mother.
“You always encouraged me, Mother. I longed to be like the other children on the estates. I was desperate to fit in. They always treated me differently because I was clever. You persuaded me it was my talent for learning that would allow me to turn out better than them. You were right. Since I came to see you last May, I’ve expanded my network of organisations across the country. Anyone who opposed me has been cast aside. The children from the seven streets that looked down on me when I was a child look up to me now. I hold their fortune, and their future in my hands. Nothing can stop us. I shall count the days until I return. When everything goes to plan, my network will be in total control. Not a single financial transaction in the murky world in which I operate will exist unless I sanction it. The Grid will have a stranglehold on every city, and town across the nation and your son will have made it happen. I’ll make you proud, Mother, you wait and see. Evil always finds a way.”
Hugo kissed the tips of his fingers and laid them on top of his mother’s headstone. His eyes were dry. No tears would be shed today. Other families would suffer in the year to come as he continued the battle for the control he craved. Hugo turned away from the grave and walked back to the car. It was time to return to the hotel, enjoy a superb evening meal, then make his way to the airport for the flight home.
Now, as he sat at home, alone with his thoughts, he was unaware that parts of his precious network had suffered harmful strikes. He would learn of those in the morning. For now, Hugo Hanigan looked out over the capital’s skyline as it twinkled like a million stars and imagined he hadn’t a care in the world. As he told his mother, there was nothing that could stop them from achieving their goal.
Before he returned to visit Sorcha Hanigan’s grave in the Golden Bridge cemetery, Hugo would come to know one opponent alone stood between him and success. The agents from the Olympus Project, led by the Phoenix, were not to be cast aside without a fight.
Book Eight
Evil Always Finds A Way
Table Of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
CHAPTER 1
Monday, 26th May 2014
The cellar walls were dark and damp. Her metal chair sat in the centre of the room, bolted to the concrete floor. Her feet were strapped to the legs of the chair with gaffer tape, and no matter how much she struggled against them, they didn’t budge an inch.
Her hands were secured behind her, and the stress on her shoulders only eased when she passed out. Either from the nagging pain or the cocktail of drugs, they gave her. In the fleeting minutes when lucid enough to assess her surroundings, she was unable to see a thing. Her underground prison was in total darkness.
If only she could get her hands free and cover her ears. As she sat there, hour after hour, alone in the pitch-black room, it was the sounds that drove her mad. A constant drip from a pipe, somewhere high up on the wall behind her. The staccato movements of mice, or worse, when they skittered across the floor, heading for holes in the walls.
As much as those sounds preyed on her sanity, there was the ever-present fear of her captors’ return.
The woman knew the exact moment her nightmare began.
She left her colleagues at five o’clock on Friday evening to drive the short distance home. After a busy week, all she wanted was a long soak in the bath, a pizza, and a cold beer. The others were going to a local bar for cocktails before making a Tube journey to the outskirts of the capital, or a train trip back to the country.
Why didn’t she listen to their cries as she headed to the underground car park?
“Aw, come on, don’t be such a wuss,” Brandi shouted.
“It’ll be a laugh, babe. I’ll get us Sex on the Beach,” Selina offered; which brought squeals of laughter from the rest.
She had waved a hand in their direction, smiled a weak smile in reply, and carried on taking the stairs to the lower level.
Why did she prefer solitude, to the heady social whirl of a raucous wine-bar on a warm summer’s evening? Memories of her past life shaped her present attitude; those places had been the building bricks of the lifestyle she led in her twenties. They had been the slippery slope into addiction, and prostitution. These days she shunned every invitation that might tempt her back into her old ways.
Her drive home posed a few problems. Instead of making for Holland Park Avenue as she did nine times out of ten, she cut up Kensington High Street. Big mistake. Traffic was at a standstill. The roadworks she had forgotten reading about ca
used her to spend the next fifteen minutes in her hot little car, with no air-con, as hundreds of drivers negotiated the temporary traffic lights. Patience was at a premium. At last, she turned onto Abbotsbury Road. She endured a brief skirmish with pedestrians on Holland Park Avenue and then reached a calmer spot where a red light stopped her progress near the Gate cinema.
Almost there now she had thought; her flat lay just around the corner. The streets nearby home to a variety of stores, restaurants, and cafés plus more specialist shops which dealt in rare records and antiques. This was the neighbourhood where she settled a year after leaving University.
The Gate, a Grade II listed building had stood here since Edwardian times. A place she visited often, and which was far more beautiful on the inside than the façade through her windscreen might suggest. Several bars and clubs were dotted about too in the vicinity, but those weren’t on her radar any longer. Despite the temptations they offered, she was happy with her choice of where she lived and wouldn’t change it regardless of her financial situation.
That thought drifted away in seconds as she experienced spasms of pain in her shoulders and lower back. On earlier occasions, she had screamed, or cried for help. This time she laughed; and the more she thought how ridiculous this reaction was, given her current predicament; the more she laughed.
Why didn’t the bastards come and dose her up again? She craved the release the needle would give. To be knocked out for hours. Not feeling a thing, or to spend what felt a day on a multi-coloured drug-fuelled trip was preferable to sitting here wide-awake, losing her grip on reality.
Nobody came.
Friday, at five pm, yes, that had been the start of this nightmare. Thirty-five minutes later she reached her street. Then she parked the car and climbed the four steps to the front door of the Victorian terraced house she shared with five other flat owners. Her ground-floor flat was sheltered from the sun in the afternoons, so she had opened a window and flopped onto the sofa. The stuffy atmosphere from the flat being shut up all day soon went. She relaxed in the cool air for a while, flicking through TV channel menus to find something to watch that evening.