by Ted Denton
Pleased with the way the morning was shaping up after its disastrous start, Daniel watched the golfers stride off down the tree lined fairway following a pair of precise booming drives. If I’m going to survive today without fainting I’d better try and get some breakfast down he thought, and began the long loop back towards the hotel.
Chapter 10
SPAIN. 07.06 HRS / EUROPEAN TOUR: DAY FIVE. 07.06 HRS.
At the appointed time and place, or near enough, I found Mickey leaning on the bonnet of his Jeep, tinkering with a tiny screwdriver in the back of a two-way transistor radio. He was a wiry man of about five foot seven, always clean shaven, with a thick brush of spiky black hair. His angular inquisitive face, protruding nose and furtive dark eyes generated the perpetual impression of a badger in the wild poking his snout out from the inside of a hedgerow. I don’t think anyone really knew Mickey’s surname. Perhaps it was long forgotten, perhaps never been shared. He’d been working with Charles Hand for many years prior to the set up of the Unit. A talented engineer and communications expert, he was also just the guy you wanted to have your back in a firefight. Calibrated to be unquestionably dependable and I liked it that way. You can’t afford to be left wondering if you’ve got a bullseye on your back during a job.
He glanced up at me and grinned
‘What fuckin’ time d’ya call this then Hunter?’ he called out in mock exasperation, making a dramatic show of checking his watch.
‘Tommy Time, baby,’ came my response. ‘Been here long then, have you Mickey?’ I laughed.
‘You’ll be late for your own funeral Hunter,’ he flashed back. ‘I’ve got something to show you Tommy-boy. And I think you’re gonna like it too.’ The words sang out over his shoulder in that rasping cockney lilt. I scooted round to the back of the Jeep and he slid back a green tarpaulin under which sat an array of equipment that we would require for the job. I scanned the neatly compiled arsenal, noting everything in its place. The gear was strapped onto a square cut piece of thick green material. This would fold up tightly, wrapping the weaponry to be stowed into one or other of the two grey and sandy brown camouflaged rucksacks sitting to the side. The equipment was set up with the precision that a heart surgeon might lay out their life saving equipment with prior to a major operation. Tools of the trade. There were two Berettas, both with attachable silencers. Mickey knew it was my favourite handgun because the model came without a safety-catch to hamper a quick draw, the double squeeze trigger preventing accidental fire. Next, there were two stub-nosed Mack 10 machine guns, a sickening bull of a weapon which could extinguish the occupants of a room in mere moments at close range, its roaring clatter of thirty bullets a second pronouncing death on arrival whenever it was called into play. There were boxes of ammunition clips and both stun and flash grenades. Handier and less volatile than their destructive TNT-based cousins, these grenades can be used to cause a distraction or temporarily blind assailants without the risk of collateral damage. In addition, Mickey had stocked a water bottle, energy bars, a field medical kit, a magnetised GPS tracker button and three razor-sharp knives.
Long ago, Mickey had told me a tall tale of how back in the mob, a Sergeant Major in the Marines had requisitioned one of these same trackers from Mickey’s munitions store. He’d affixed it on the underside of his buxom wife’s car, as he suspected she was having an affair. Given his fearsome reputation and violent temper, the attractive blonde had always been extremely careful that she wasn’t being followed when she left the base, doubling back on herself and constantly checking in the rear view mirror. The tracker had located her. The Sergeant Major waited until she entered the cheap motel and was deep in the throes of passion with a strapping chef from the military base when he stormed inside. The story went that he’d made the chef watch as he forced his wife to swallow both her engagement and wedding rings. As she sat sobbing on the floor he pulled out an array of knives that he’d taken from the young chef’s kitchen. He sharpened them right there in front of the petrified couple and then proceeded to slowly remove the skin from the lovers’ arms and legs before slitting their throats. Rough justice indeed.
Completing the kit were two-way radios, binoculars, and a slim box of industrial cable ties. I had always found these plastic ties the most efficient method of securing necessary captives on a job with the least hassle. I wasn’t surprised that he’d been so thorough but it was good to know we were well prepared.
‘You don’t do things by halves do you Mick?’ I laughed, punching him on the shoulder. ‘Do you know something about this job that I don’t get, mate? You’ve pushed the boat out. How come we’re so tooled up on this one?’
‘The Hand of God says that fella Bob Wallace is on the level and he’s a man to be trusted. They served together and Hand doesn’t forget a man he’s shed blood with. Now he needs help. We talked this job over whilst you were in the air catching up on your beauty sleep. It’s not straight forward. Wallace can’t go to the police and he blames himself for the boy’s disappearance.’
‘The weapons are untraceable I take it?’
‘I tapped up a contact who deals hardware to some of the more unpleasant elements of Spanish criminality. He’s very good. This lot has never even existed my friend,’ Mickey waved his hand regally over the weapon haul before him, beaming like a proud father.
‘Nice. Thanks for sorting things, Mick. I appreciate it.’
‘The pleasure was all yours,’ he retorted smugly, accompanied with an overplayed sardonic look.
‘I’m heading to the golf course where Daniel Ratchet was last seen so I can find out what I can about this situation. With a bit of luck Daniel will turn up nursing a hangover and a sore cock before we’re even required. In the meantime, if there are leads on the ground, we’ll turn them up. If he doesn’t make an appearance sharpish, we’ll have to figure out what went down and if he’s still alive, who’s got him, where the hell he’s been taken, and make the intervention.’
‘Good luck, Hunter. The clock’s ticking hard on this one’.
I loaded the new gear onto the back seat of the Range Rover, stamped down on the gas, wheels squealing, dust cloud swirling in the air behind me. The motor pulled sharply out onto the smooth tarmac and I watched as the arrow on the speedometer forced its way doggedly round the stylish metallic dial, eating numbers as it went. Heavy downward pressure to the accelerator urged the metallic beast onwards, seeking out the angular horizon. Red rugged mountains filling the bottom inch of the windscreen. Sharp, clean lines jutting harshly against the soft aqua sky. Sun rising lazily to preside over a beautiful morning.
Keeping one eye on the empty road ahead, I rapidly scanned through the mobile phone for any new alerts from base. I’d barely averted my attention for more than a brief moment when, from out of nowhere, a battered articulated lorry swerving wildly on the wrong side of the road came careering right at me. Bloody typical that practically the first other traffic I’d encountered on the quiet Spanish roads early that morning and the driver must be asleep at the wheel. I slammed my fist into the horn blasting it loudly and swerved defensively to avoid a smash. Pulled the wheel sharply down, skidding over to the other side of the road where the lorry should be driving. Closing in on a tight corner just ahead. A heavily laden family hatchback turned into view on the road, heading straight towards me, oblivious of the carnage that had just ensued. Instinctively I heaved at the wheel and pulled the Range Rover back across the face of the road and slammed nose first into a sandy verge beyond. The truck, avoided by mere inches, skidded on two wheels as it struggled and fought to grip the tarmac. I’d swerved a clean side-on figure of eight and just missed smashing into the oncoming traffic to avoid a certain collision. The startled face of the driver in the truck cab was gripped in a mask of fear as he grappled with the unwieldy heavy machine. He finally managed to pull it back across the dotted white lines, the lorry rocking capriciously from side to side until it settled squarely back upon its rows of huge spinning wheels,
slowing to a crawl.
Cursing under my breath, I watched stationary as the meat wagon, its side panelling emblazoned with a vibrant livery detailing a cargo of happy and succulent looking pigs, continued on its journey past me. The image of the truck driver’s horrified face close up through the windshield held firm in my mind.
A green, open-top army Jeep flies out from nowhere, bouncing off a dirt mound and taking a clean two meters of air. The machine gun affixed to the back rattles a menacing timbre. Our car swerves sharply on the dirt road leading into the village, hits a pothole, flips onto its side. Screams fill my ear from behind me. Stu, injured in the crash, is speared through the torso by a twisted metal shard from the damaged vehicle. Blood spewing everywhere, thick and sticky. I struggle with the impacted passenger door and crawl forward furiously wriggling on my front. Dirt and grit in my eyes and filling my mouth. Now Jeeps, armoured vehicles, surround us from every angle. Guns fired into the sky indiscriminately, shouts and howls of excitement reverberating in the thin air. An ambush. An angry brown face thrust down at me, huge yellow blood shot eyes, inches above me, shouting loud, flecks of snow white spittle spraying from his mouth. ‘Where is Mahood? Where is Mahood? You come to the village for a munitions cache but instead you will die a hostage. This is our trap. We trade soldiers for Islamic prisoners. And for you now this is very dangerous.’
The butt of a rifle descending hard toward my face. Shooting pain. Then nothing.
The incessant tapping on the window grew louder, more insistent. Woken from the haunting flashback I turned my head to face the pristine starched uniform of a local Spanish traffic cop standing beside the Range Rover. He peered quizzically inside, speaking loudly at the glass. The response to the descending electric window was a futher torrent of rapid agitated Spanish. I held out my British driving licence and after careful examination he nodded dismissively.
‘No sleep here. Very dangerous. Trucks. All come very fast here,’ he pointed at the road shaking his head as another truck ploughed past us, smashing a wall of hot compressed air up against the passenger window. I couldn’t be bothered to try and explain, instead placating him with a lopsided grin and a goofy thumbs up. He stepped backwards quickly as I fired the engine and after making an exaggerated show of checking the mirrors swung back out onto the dusty road and continued on my way at speed, still shaken by my visions of the past.
Chapter 11
SPAIN. EUROPEAN TOUR. DAY TWO. MID-MORNING.
Daniel sauntered back towards the hotel, weaving his way past the crowded practice putting green, speckled with players and a scattering of gleaming white balls. The old Scottish golf coach he had met the day before hovered hawkishly at the scene. He greeted the affable manager with a nodded salute. Still in his navy blue flat cap, cigarette stub gripped firmly in mouth, the old boy leaned on a seven iron watchfully directing his lanky charge who stood trapped passively captive inside a neat semicircle of balls. Bob Wallace, whose name had been discussed in disparaging terms last night, was by all accounts quite a character. Sean, the ginger haired Glaswegian caddy and self-anointed Master of Ceremonies for the previous night’s debacle, had recounted various nefarious tales about his fellow Scot regarding clashes with the establishment, flared tempers and one legend back from the 1980s on falling into disagreement with an over-celebrated Hollywood actor concerning his tuition style. He had chased the Hollywood star brandishing a nine iron straight off the golf range and into a nearby pond. These stories always got distorted and built up over time but Daniel chuckled to himself, picturing the scene as he tracked the pathway back towards the side entrance of the hotel.
‘Hey hotshot,’ called out a voice from behind him. He turned to see Matilda, sitting in the sun on the steps of the physio truck, clutching a well-thumbed paperback. Daniel waved in response. ‘Got time for a coffee?’ she cooed.
‘Absolutely,’ he replied, instantly regretting sounding so keen. By the time he reached the truck, Matilda was inside filling a cheap plastic kettle with bottled water. He bounded up the succession of tightly spaced metal steps like an energetic puppy, reaching the top only to trip on the frame of the truck as he entered, stumbling over his feet. Feet followed torso as he lurched forward clumsily, chest first into the sharp corner of the glassed-off office space that dominated one side of the truck.
‘Hey, steady there, hotshot,’ Matilda laughed as Daniel, looking sheepish, rubbed the painful point of impact. ‘You okay?’ she asked concerned, a cute furrow appearing on her brow just at the top of her button nose. ‘Yeah, no, actually I’m fine, really,’ he said. ‘Just caught myself there. It’s cool,’ he said before offering, ‘Sorry,’ as an afterthought and wondering why.
‘Really, are you sure, Daniel?’ Matilda replied. ‘Because that looks pretty sore,’ motioning to the dots of blood soaking through his powder blue polo shirt.
‘Ah, shit. I got scratched somehow last night and I must have knocked it again when I fell back there.’
‘Here, show me,’ she said, patting the massage table next to her, encouraging Daniel to sit.
‘Matilda, it’s really fine, honestly. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Listen to me,’ she retorted, her accent more pronounced, vowels drawn longer, ‘I may not have studied medicine but I know that if you got scratched it needs to be sterilised properly.’
Daniel carefully peeled off his shirt, wincing a little as he did so.
Matilda soaked a ball of cotton wool in iodine dabbing in confident darts at his chest. ‘So, how did this happen to you then, hotshot? You have to tell me. It was a woman wasn’t it?’ she teased and tutted, shaking her head. ‘I knew all you sports agents were the same!’ she followed, exclaiming in mock horror.
‘I don’t think so, unfortunately. Not one I’d want to meet again at any rate,’ Daniel replied, scrunching up his face as the iodine stung into him.
‘Oh well! I guess she can’t have been that memorable then,’ Matilda answered playfully as if she were philosophising.
‘Rough night I’m afraid,’ offered Daniel by way of explanation. ‘I went out with some of the caddies on the lash. Lost my wallet. My watch. Everything. Pretty sure they were stolen. It’s a major bloody disaster.’
‘You poor thing. You don’t deserve such bad luck just when you start a new job.’
‘Well not all bad, fortunately,’ he responded brightly. ‘An important Russian guy out here on the Tour who works for one of the big sponsors came and found me this morning and has offered to sponsor one of my players. Could be great news and set me up well in the eyes of the new boss.’
‘Sergei Krostanov by any chance?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘Because he’s involved in everything round here. I’m not surprised that he spotted the chance of a deal to be done. He always ingratiates himself with the new player managers the second they arrive. Especially if their guys have game.’
Daniel pulled a face.
That infectious giggle again. ‘Okay. Sorry. I guess you deserve some credit and for something good to happen after all those issues. But let’s say I’m not surprised. Somehow Sergei even gets to set the budget of the physio-truck each season and decides that it’s a prerequisite that he needs to discuss it personally with me over dinner. People talk and say we must close but business is business.’
‘What does Michael say about that?’
‘Michael? Nothing, Michael does what he’s told.’
‘But I thought you guys were together?’ Daniel tried to make it appear like a natural casual enquiry as he fished for information. He needn’t have fretted.
‘No, no. I’m a very independent woman, Daniel. Michael takes it on himself to protect me from some of the slime-balls out here on Tour perhaps, but we aren’t together. I prefer a man with a bit more of an edge to him. Besides, he’s got a family: a wife and a baby daughter back in Hanover. He works every hour he possibly can to send money back home to them, but they always want for more. And I’m
more than capable of looking after myself, I can assure you. I have done so for a very long time indeed and that isn’t about to change.’
‘I have no doubt about that. I’m sure you are very capable,’ Daniel said, grinning in admiration at her, then suddenly aware that this may not have been an appropriate response to verbalise. After a little while he asked thoughtfully, ‘If you aren’t with Michael, what about the engagement ring?’
‘Oh, the ring,’ Matilda replied coolly, avoiding eye contact. ‘It’s my mother’s. I feel that it keeps me safe.’ A pained and distant look held in those enchanting pale blue eyes and Daniel awkwardly decided that this avenue of conversation was better now closed.
‘Just leave that to breathe,’ Matilda instructed, regaining control. She turned to pack away the iodine and threw the damp ball of used cotton wool into a small metallic wastepaper basket under the sink. Daniel pulled on his shirt and fished out his phone. He switched on the company-owned phone and INSERT SIM flashed up on the screen. Bollocks he thought, flipping it over and removing the hard outer casing. Where’s the SIM card gone? he wondered, worrying now because of all the details that were on it, all of Crown Sports’ business contacts. It was useless without a SIM.
He discarded it with contempt, letting it spin over to one side of the massage table as his mind turned to his missing wallet and cash card. He considered ruefully how any more than only very modest spending on his cash card at this point would obliterate his overdraft and that he might be left liable for any theft on the company account.
‘Matilda, listen, thanks for the patch up,’ Daniel called as he bounced off the soft, padded therapy table, starting to feel an urgent need to get control of things. ‘I’ve got to get back to my room and sort a few things out.’