by Ted Tayler
“What’s that for?” asked the younger boy, who’s bravado at the outset had disappeared. His bottom lip quivered.
“I told you when we arrived this was your last chance. You’re right, we’re not the police, but we know how to find you, and you’ll never identify us. One more slip and I promise you the punishment will be severe. Worse than what the courts could give you. Think yourselves lucky this time. We’re taking you back when it gets dark.”
At seven-thirty, Rusty drove the van back to Chalk Farm and the road where the youths had tried to snatch the phone. Phoenix left them standing on the pavement.
“What about the scooter?” shouted the older youth, “how are we supposed to get home?”
“We’ll drop it off somewhere safe, ring the police and say we found an abandoned scooter. They’ll get it back to its rightful owner, don’t worry.”
Later, Rusty pulled away from a supermarket car park where they dumped the bike and headed back to spend the night in the safe house.
“Phoenix,” he said, “can we take off the stupid Pinky and Perky masks now? It’s getting hot under here.”
CHAPTER 3
Thursday, 2nd October 2014
There was no warning today news headlines would be dominated by a series of sudden deaths. Athena sat alone in the apartment at Larcombe Manor. Her husband was at the safe house in St John’s Wood. Half of the mission had been completed yesterday. He and Rusty were returning later today. After delivering more shocks to the moped gangs that threatened the city.
Should she cancel it? These killings were a clear sign the Grid had toughened its stance against its opposition. News reports came in from around the country. Athena prepared for the morning meeting as normal. Her senior agents would help decide the best course of action. Minos and Alastor were wise and experienced. Henry Case, Giles Burke and Artemis were younger but equally adept at guiding her on the right path.
She called Maria Elena and asked her to look after Hope earlier than usual. She wanted to watch the news updates on the large screen in the meeting room.
As the eight o’clock news summary began, Athena sat with a mug of coffee listening to the latest from local reporters in each area. On the outskirts of Newcastle, three men had been shot dead in a bar last night. The men were known criminals involved in drug dealing, extortion, and loan sharking. A Detective Chief Inspector from Northumbria Police stood on the pavement outside the pub and told the reporter it bore the hallmarks of a feud between rival gangs over disrespect. When pressed by the reporter the DCI claimed gun crime was not out of control in the city. The public at large wasn’t in any danger. Athena didn’t think the reporter look convinced. When someone enters a crowded bar and both sides start shooting, anyone can get caught in the crossfire.
Before she had time to reflect on that attack, the next reporter was introduced. The interior of the building looked to be Canning Place. This 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 were killed 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 targeted. 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, they didn’t consider the public. They wanted every gang leader to join their network.
It was now nine o’clock. The meeting room filled. 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, and politicians who attempted to explain, to pacify, 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 own mind.”
Questions in the TV studio were asked 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 three remaining areas of resistance were cleared by the Grid, 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 got out, forced the husband to his knees and shot him in the back of the head; right in front of his wife. Every second of the action was caught by the supermarket’s CCTV. The actual execution wasn’t aired. Images of scenes of the car park being cleared by the police were shown instead. The body on the ground had been covered. 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 indeed 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 they’re instructed in the future. The alternative has been portrayed 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 being seen to be 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.
No shots were fired. Sykes stepped back at last and lost 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. This is just a readjustment of our organised crime power base. The public is not in danger.”
The silence in the studio was echoed by 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. It’s likely they will carry through with threats against the public. They use violence to control their own 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, some part of your daily life will be tainted by its activities.”
The discussion warmed as another guest was introduced 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 in dramatic fashion. An eighth region of the country had suffered a gangland execution. The reporter stood outside a detached house in a smart residential borough of Southampton. The garden swarmed with members of th
e emergency services. Parts of the building still smouldered. The damage had been limited by their actions, 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. The back door was kicked in, and a gunman 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. When the first shots were fired, the sons appear to have rushed towards the kitchen. Idris died on the stairs and two of his boys were felled by long bursts from submachine guns as they exited the lounge door. The noise of gunfire could be heard in the next street. 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 are thought to have 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.