Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  Connor had been shocked with how politically correct it had been in there. He’d had a run-in with one of the other detainees whom he reckoned on being a wannabe gangster. An argument spilt out over at the education wing, and Connor had verbally savaged the sex offender. Expecting a physical altercation, upon returning to the accommodation block, he had been stunned to learn that the bloke had made an official complaint of bullying which resulted in Connor being bust down the stages. Not that it bothered him too much, he only had a week or two left.

  The loss of liberty both times hadn’t been pleasant, but what he was doing now could result in decades in prison.

  Ciara would be protected in that they could claim she was going undercover as her role as an investigative journalist which her editor would sign off on.

  He thought about her reaction to the Moroccan ambush. She had switched to an almost demonic rage. Connor now believed that they may have overcome the six men by themselves, such was the lethal fury with which she had employed the knife.

  With the adrenaline hangover, and the relief that they had survived running in his veins, he couldn’t have even made an effort to resist her. In truth, he may have subconsciously known it would be a matter of time. It had been hard and furious. Unlike Grace, who loved him taking the lead, Ciara positively gave it back—at one point, gripping him hard around the throat as she rode him. His chest was covered in bite marks to the point he almost felt sorry for her future boyfriends.

  He’d been thankful she hadn’t been overly tactile or alternatively distant the next morning. They cracked a few jokes and got on with the task at hand.

  They had met Van Der Saar’s men at one of his lorry depots in the south of Amsterdam. There had been by design a high number of pickups and drop-offs, making any potential police surveillance difficult.

  He had felt a frustration. He knew that what he was doing now—further integrating himself within the criminal underworld—would perversely make him more of an asset to The Chameleon Project, more of an asset for good. Still, he had been a criminal way before he had become an agent. He knew he had to remind himself of his true purpose regularly or else the lines would become blurred, and he’d lose himself—remember the film ‘ID’.

  What separates me from being someone doing good and being a ‘grass’?—had been a question that had troubled him in the past but he clarified the difference to himself. For one, he wasn’t ‘grassing’ to a higher authority—he was collating information so he could deal with the malicious himself. The Project didn’t build legal cases; they identified evil people and killed them and/or subverted their malevolent networks. Connor knew that no one was innocent in this game of crime, not Van Der Saar or his own family. However they weren’t ‘evil’, so their karma was for God to deal with, not him. A ‘grass’ in his mind, was someone who either sold out his friends or business associates to get oneself out of trouble or someone who went to a higher authority to sort out his problems because he was too much of a pussy to deal with it himself.

  Earlier, he and Ciara had watched their van loaded. He could see a few of the men looking at Ciara, as he had done often. Except this time curiosity was mixed in with the appreciation of her looks—he reckoned word of her actions in the ambush had spread.

  They had driven the van to a warehouse east of Amsterdam. There they had transferred the load to an ambulance that Jamie had somehow arranged for them. This was the second time Connor had used an ambulance for cover, and that time had been to capture one of Russia’s most powerful criminals.

  Connor hadn’t told Van Der Saar that he’d be switching vehicles. In the business of crime and black operations, he would only trust people if he had to.

  They had now reached the coastal town of Petten. Although a popular tourist resort, the town had stayed true to itself and hadn’t descended in gaudiness. The beaches were clean and white, and the town itself had a warmth to it. He drove through the village then picked up a dirt track surrounded by trees a few miles to the north-east.

  They came to an opening filled with three wooden huts, and a helipad with a Ka-62 helicopter parked on it.

  Louis appeared at the door of one of the huts. He was dressed in all black with the dress jacket heavily lined with fur. He had a light grey beanie cap on.

  “Is that him?” asked Ciara

  “Well it would be some fucking coincidence if it wasn’t,” replied Connor with mock derision.

  Ciara tutted, “Shut up.”

  They both got out of the ambulance.

  “Fucksake, couldn’t you at least dressed the part of helicopter instructor?”

  Louis kissed his teeth. “Well, she—I mean Ciara—doesn’t look like no ambulance lady I’ve ever seen, or I’d be faking seizures and like all the time.”

  Louis held out his hand, and she laughed as she shook it. “Smooth.”

  “Isn’t that a Russian military helicopter?” asked Connor.

  “Yeah, but it’s been properly converted and registered.”

  “What’s the crack then?” asked Connor.

  “We’ll load this up, and you’ll park this Ambulance in the hanger. We’ll have to wait until just after ten tomorrow morning to make the flight. The shift change over at Portreath happens at half ten, so the staff usually can’t be fucked flagging anything up because they want to get home. Besides, I have scheduled the flight on with the CAA.”

  “What’s Portreath and the CAA?” asked Ciara.

  Connor answered, “Portreath is a remote radar head manned by the RAF that covers the south coast—well, most of it. The CAA is the Civil Aviation Authority, they tell when, where and if you can fly or not.”

  “And how and when did you learn to fly?” she asked Louis.

  “Qualified last year. It takes a minimum of 155 hours to qualify. Took me just under three years with everything going on,” Louis nodded over to Connor. “Take it he’s done that ‘what do you call a black man who flies a helicopter’ joke again?”

  “He certainly has.”

  “I’ve heard that about twenty times since I’ve got my license.”

  Connor interrupted, “Just because you have heard it, doesn’t mean I should deny others.”

  Louis chuckled. “Let’s go an’ get the keckle on as you northerners say, and have a wet.”

  They walked into the sparse hut. Sofa seats were placed in a semi-circle around a coffee table with a large screen TV, DVD player and DVDs in the opposite corner. Along the side was a kettle, cooking hob, sink, cupboards and kitchen side.

  “Tea or Coffee?” Louis asked them.

  “Coffee for me thanks. Black,” she looked at Connor and said, “don’t” as he was opening his mouth.

  Louis chortled, “Sugar?”

  “No, thank you. Sweet enough and all that.”

  “What you having oppo.”

  “Julie Andrews please Royal.”

  As Louis busied himself making the drinks, Ciara leant over to Connor. “Wets, Julie Andrews, and Royal. You’ll have to explain.”

  “Wets are drinks—either hot or alcoholic. Julie Andrews is a white nun, as in white no sugar. Royal is what Royal Marines call one another. As in—”

  “I think I can work that out.”

  Louis laid down the drinks on the table and rested back on the sofa.

  “So, Ciara, Connor tells me you’re a journalist as well as this.”

  “Yep.”

  “So, do you know anything about football?”

  “I love football.”

  Connor and Louis both said in unison, “Really.”

  “Yes, I used to play attacking midfield for my University.”

  “So, who do you rate the better player between Ronaldo and Messi?”

  “Well Ronaldo is proven in the world’s two best leagues. Three if you include the Portuguese League. He has achieved more internationally too.”

  Louis gave a triumphant laugh. “I like her already.”

  Connor shook his head, “Messi is the be
tter team player, he’s got the better strike rate, he’s won more Ballon d’Odrs, and he’s not a cheating cunt—excuse me,” looking at Ciara, “, a cheating blighter.”

  “I think we’re past you having to be a gentleman around me,” she said.

  “I don’t. But a man should be able to express himself without swearing.”

  Connor turned to Louis who said, “After we’ve had these, I think we should load the helicopter. There’s your change of clothes in the other room. Then rehearsals and I’ll whack the PS4 on after that.”

  Connor and Ciara nodded.

  22

  Tris Dixon sat back enjoying the performance of his new Rolls-Royce Ghost. He had been tempted to go for the red and silver, but he didn’t want the vehicle drawing more attention than necessary.

  One of the footballers he looked after had one, and had criticised it for being ‘just like my BMW 7 Series’. Tris couldn’t see how that was a bad thing given the quality of the German car. The Ghost was a surprisingly high-performance drive given its comfort. Cars like this made the businesses he was in worthwhile.

  There were different types of men in the criminal underworld. A few were all about the money; any intimidation, violence and murder was a means to that end. That’s the sort of criminal he preferred to deal with—they could be reasoned with and their behaviour anticipated.

  Dixon did enjoy aspects of villainy. He was at the point where he could still earn millions from his legitimate businesses alone. But taking more, especially more from under the government’s nose, gave him a thrill—and sometimes he wished it didn’t.

  However, some gangsters had their priorities mixed up. For some, it was the notoriety—the fear they held amongst other hard men in the underworld or civilians.

  For some, it was the pussy. There’d always be girls who found that sort of man—or the perception of that sort of man—and lifestyle appealing.

  Dixon didn’t necessarily care what the associates in crime were in it for, as long as it didn’t conflict with his priorities.

  He left the M40 for the M5 a while back and was now a little west of the Birmingham City Centre. He pulled up outside the abandoned Sandwell College.

  Two men were there to greet him.

  “Dom’s got ‘em held in there. Want me to take your car away?”

  Dixon smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Driving with no insurance? Can’t have that now Gary.”

  The ex-Wigan prop forward had been one of his enforcer’s for over a decade—long enough to be able to chance his arm at driving the luxury vehicle.

  The other man stood next to Gary was younger. He had been vouched for by Gary, but Dixon had already known who the twenty-nine-year-old was. Tom Ryder, one of the most feared men in the north of England crime circles.

  “Mr Ryder, a pleasure to.”

  “Thanks, Mr Dixon, the feeling is mutual. I’d like to tell ya again, how I appreciate your…reasonableness in this matter,” he replied with his Yorkshire accent clipped but evident.

  “You and I both know it was the sensible business choice in this scenario.”

  “I think some forget that all this does come down to money. My family and I don’t, despite the personal nature of this situation.”

  Dixon smiled broadly. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Shall we?”

  With that, the men began to walk towards the building.

  “Have you seen him yet?”

  “No. I wouldn’t have trusted myself.”

  “I see.”

  Their footsteps echoed as they made their way through the empty, debris littered corridors. Voices, both clear and muffled, could be heard.

  A barrel of a man with a tapered beard, stood to one side as they entered the large lecture Hall.

  Six of Dixon’s men surrounded the three Asian men. Waseem Hussain and Varun Singh were bound by ankles and wrists to their chairs. The paralysed Rashid Kumar lay in an untidy heap on the floor.

  Dixon’s voice cut through the air, “One thing I need from a business associate is to be able to trust him. To trust when he says he won’t or will do a thing, that he’s true to his word Waseem.”

  Dixon nodded to one of the men who removed the masking tape from Waseem.

  “What are ya doing?” he cried.

  Dixon gestured to the man behind him again. The can of petrol splashed over Waseem.

  “Wha’ da fuck man,” he shrieked.

  “I told you to leave Connor Reed alone. That he made money. I’d have had more respect for you Waseem if you told me ‘no’ at the time. Instead, you made a promise and then went behind my back. I can’t be having that.”

  “I ‘ad to! Rashid has well powerful relatives in Pakistan. An’ everyone back ‘ere was asking me what was I goin’ to does about it? I couldn’t lose face.”

  “Then that’s a problem, isn’t it. You feared others instead of me. Look at Rashid now,” said Dixon, and he gestured to one of his enforcers.

  The paralysed man was dragged into the far corner and wriggled as the petrol splashed over him. Dixon walked over, and one of the men handed him a blowtorch. Rashid’s screams were piercing and bounced everywhere as he was set alight.

  Waseem and Varum watched with horror splashed on their faces. Rashid stopped thrashing after a while. Dixon covered his nose with his hand against the stench. He had known beforehand that he was going to have to bin his suit.

  “Please don’t burn me. Please,” Waseem begged.

  “Well, that’s not up to me. It’s up to your man here. He’s Connor Reed’s cousin.”

  Waseem looked at Tom Ryder pleadingly. “Please, I thought I had—”

  “I get it mate. Respect is everything in this game. If your men lose that for you, then you might as well be a manager of Tesco’s.”

  “Exactly man, I—”

  “That’s why I am not going to burn you. Wouldn’t be right torture a man over something like that.”

  The relief washed over Waseem’s face, and Dixon hid the surprise he felt at Ryder’s words. Ryder continued as he walked over to Waseem. “But like Mr Dixon here says, you can’t be trusted now. And what sort of a man would I be if I took your word that you’d leave my cousin alone after—”

  “I swear—”

  In a flash, Ryder had stuck the curved blade of an Emerson Karambit deep into Waseem’s throat while gripping the back of his neck. The sound of Waseem’s choking and blood coughing filled the room. Dixon watched as Ryder drew the blade slowly across the throat, all the while looking into Waseem’s eyes.

  The Yorkshireman allowed the head to drop onto the blood-matted chest and wipe the excess blood from his blade and hand using Waseem’s sleeve.

  He turned to Dixon and said, “Thank you.”

  Dixon looked at Varun and said, “Just what are we going to do with you?”

  Varun was shaking but said, “I don’t do begging.”

  As Dixon was regarding him, Tom Ryder’s Americanized voice sounded, “You wanna job Eddie?”

  Dixon smiled at the ‘Scarface’ inference.

  “Could you take over Waseem’s firm Varun?”

  Varun looked at him with what looked like a mixture of caution and bemusement. “Maybe. But how am’ma going to explain this?”

  “Waseem set Rashid on fire. You thought it was out of order, so you stabbed him?”

  “I am sure that will go down well. Waseem was those guys meal ticket.”

  Tom spoke, “This is what you say. Waseem brought Rashid here—you didn’t know why. He met Mr Dixon and tried to say that Rashid had organised the hit on my cousin. Waseem set Rashid on fire to curry favour. You, out of a sense of honour, stabbed Waseem in the throat. Mr Dixon, being impressed with your ruthlessness and sense of honour, said that he could deal with you directly.”

  Dixon nodded after a few moments digesting the narrative.

  Varun cocked his head, “Maybe I could sell it.”

  Darren O’Reilly admired the rare Mountain avens on his la
nd. He thought the flower’s seed heads resembled hay straw stuffed inside their beautiful, delicate white leaves.

  He had dedicated much of this five acres to floriculture, after going into business with famous floriculturist Diane Bostick, although this was purely a side venture to O’Reilly.

  Nevertheless, he was just as proud of it as he was of his main business.

  He enjoyed walking through greenhouses and open woodland. He would leave his phone back in the house when he did.

  He came to the area he had planned on making a mural to his deceased daughter. He wouldn’t commence with it until her death had been avenged. The Scotsman had yet to update him although it had only been a matter of weeks since they spoke.

  Despite the Scotsman’s assertion that he was to project the image that he had accepted that his daughter’s murderer was Almasi, O’Reilly had made it known to a few colleagues, in fits of drunken frustration, that he was having the matter of the real killers ‘handled’. Now, in the cold sobriety of the day, he realised how stupid he had been. The investigation into his daughter’s murder should have superseded his need to vent even in drink, and now he felt even more guilty.

  O’Reilly sighed and fought a tear before heading back to the house.

  He walked a little faster as he heard the shrill of the private phone line. The public line sounded more delicate.

  He answered with a, “Hello, Darren here.”

  The digitally distorted voice hit him with, “Mr O’Reilly, I suggest you call off this investigation.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You still have loved ones. Just remember that.”

  The call clicked off, and O’Reilly stood looking at the handset.

  First, he felt fear, then anger, and finally relief—so I was right after all.

  23

  Ciara enjoyed the thrum of the helicopter, as it travelled low over a sun glinted sea.