Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  Now, Blake lay in the undergrowth a few yards ahead of the break in the wood where Bruce would appear. He could see him meander towards him, looking like he was looking forward to a day’s fishing in warm weather. Except Blake would be the only one catching anything today.

  His heart began to beat harder as his prey walked past him. He levelled his pistol at the man’s back and stood slowly.

  He took a few steps to join the man’s path to his rear.

  “Mr McQuillan,” he said, which stopped the Scot in his tracks. “I have a gun pointed at you, so please follow my commands and make sure any movements are slow. Do you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Place your hands behind your head and interlock your fingers.”

  McQuillan set down his gear and did so.

  “Turn around slowly.”

  The Scotsman did so. There was no trace of fear in his face as he spoke. “You know, I thought you were going to wait for me to set up my fishing rod and get settled before making your appearance.”

  Blake frowned. “You what?”

  An invisible steel mallet struck his knee at impossible speed. The ground came up and hit his face and shoulder.

  That his leg had been separated from his knee only registered intellectually through the shock. The blood in his ears pounded a crescendo as his heart beat echoed in the cavity of his chest. He found himself focusing on the bloody entrails from where his leg used to be.

  The Scot had already seized his weapon and rooted in the daysack he had worn. He pulled out a tourniquet from it and knelt beside him. It was applied a few inches above where the leg had been severed. Blake grimaced, clutching at the ground as the final turns of the contraption bit into the flesh, turning off the blood flow.

  The eyes of the man regarded him. “I always get bored fishing anyway,” and Blake felt a pat on his cheek. That’s when another emotion seared through the shock—it was fear.

  The sun felt pleasant on his face. Connor made his way through the wood seeing Bruce ahead. The former marine sniper had shot Blake from the other side of the lake, and it had taken ten minutes from shooting to converging on Bruce’s position.

  As he had walked, he thought about the adage of—you can’t buy experience. He admired how Bruce had planned this ambush, how he lured Blake into a false sense of security of believing he hadn’t spotted him and how he had taken a calculated risk in estimating that Blake would want to interrogate him; not outright kill him. It was an instinct borne of many years in this game.

  He smiled as he saw Bruce stood over the stricken captive with a gun in hand—he’s still a mean bastard when he has to be.

  The Scotsman had pulled Blake into an enclosure of trees set fifteen metres away from the lake.

  “Your kneecap sniping seems to have improved. You took this one’s leg off,” Bruce said to him as he approached, referring to another one of Connor’s sniping efforts before they had met.

  Blake, his voice hoarse said, “You fucking bastards. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You’ll both die a slow death.”

  Bruce’s avuncular laughter combined with Connor’s uproarious cackles to cut across the water. Connor then picked up Blake’s detached lower leg and studied it like he was admiring it.

  “Of course we don’t know. That’s why we brought you here,” said Bruce.

  “And, not for nothing,” said Connor, “but you were going to torture him for information and then kill him anyway, so your threat is redundant you stupid cunt,” before smearing Blake’s face with the severed end of his leg.

  Connor couldn’t help laughing again as Blake moved his face and batted the limb away like it was an overzealous Beagle licking his face.

  Bruce took out a black, metallic box from his day-sack and opened it to reveal eight phials.

  “What are they?” asked Connor with genuine curiosity.

  “Psillyl-dibaflox. A Chinese invention.”

  “Always sound more evil when it’s a ‘Chinese’ or ‘Russian’ invention,” said Connor to Blake with a wink.

  “I’ll never talk,” said Blake defiantly.

  Bruce answered him, “Let me tell you, friend, if you can withstand eight phials of this, I’ll let you walk away.”

  “Well, he won’t exactly be walking anywhere now,” Connor said with a smile. He looked at Bruce. “Is that gen about letting him go if he can withstand it?”

  “Apparently it makes every nerve ending burn,” said Bruce, “and I have told you to eradicate any military vernacular from your speech.”

  “It’s not going to matter with this ‘I’ll never talk’ chad bastard is it?”

  Bruce gave Connor ‘the stare’ and the younger man remained quiet knowing he’d pushed him a little too far.

  “Cover his mouth and pin him,” Bruce ordered.

  Connor knelt on Blake’s chest, pinning the arms under his shins and clamping his hand over his mouth. Bruce knelt beside them and flicked the needle. Connor increased the pressure by squeezing his knees immobilising Blake’s head.

  The needle entered his neck and the fluid pumped through. His eyes went wide and his body rigid.

  “You can get off him now. That’ll be his state for the next five or ten minutes.”

  Connor stared at Blake with the same curiosity he had as a child watching the burning of empty crisp packets in his Nan’s coal fire. Blake’s body seemed to vibrate. His mouth opened and shut like a goldfish on a carpet while emanating choking gurgles. It was the eyes that intrigued Connor the most; they conveyed immense pain as the blood branches appeared.

  After seven minutes, Jim Blake was willing to talk.

  27

  Fassih Himmich sat in an office within a vast warehouse. Over fifty of his minions were prowling around locked and loaded ready to do battle for the cause.

  He was ready now. Ready to strike back at Van Der Saar, to make him pay and claim his place as the Emperor of Dutch crime.

  He had received intelligence on the whereabouts of three of the Dutchman’s drug factories. Himmich knew the security around these plants would be highly professional. However, his source had also provided him with the schematics of the factories, the number of guards, the weapons they use, the rotation they were on, everything he needed.

  Fassih knew that even with all that, his foot soldiers—man for man—would not be a match for the battle-hardened European mercenaries that protected one of the largest drug operations on the continent. He’d chosen one factory and decided to overwhelm them with numbers instead.

  He was pleased with his foresight that had led him to stockpile an arsenal of AK’s years ago. His arms dealer, in the beginning, had been a Frenchman named Pierre Gaultier, who had always delivered. When Gaultier had been gunned down in a hail of machine gun fire in Brussels, Himmich had to rely on various sources with mixed success.

  He knew he had vision. Ever since he came to Holland, he had become an avid watcher of films. He especially enjoyed watching the warrior heroes of the films rousing their men to do battle. He was about to do the same, imbue his troops to potential martyrdom for the cause—for the Moroccan Mafia.

  He stood up and made his way through the door into the cavernous hallway. All his soldiers turned in unison to face him. He climbed upon a container acting as a platform, and addressed them in Arabic, “Brothers, you stand here now on the precipice of a new—”

  The doors burst open and metallic cans sailed into the room. The flashes were as blinding as the explosions deafening. Gunfire ripped through the air, but members of the Moroccan Mafia were too disorientated to respond effectively.

  The sinister figures dressed all in black systematically shot anyone not of their ranks holding a weapon.

  Fassih felt a pair of rough hands grab him by the scruff of the neck and chin forcing him to look up.

  “It’s him,” the man said in Dutch.

  “Drag him to his knees,” said a replying voice.

  Fassih felt straightened
up. He focused his eyes. The man standing before him was not dressed in black operational garb but a grey suit. He pointed to Fassih’s right-hand man Abbad, who was then positioned next to Fassih, again on his knees.

  “You’re going to tell me everything I need to know about your human trafficking operation here,” said the suit.

  Fassih grinned. “You’ll never find out. We will never talk.”

  “Well, you’ll never talk Fassih. No one touches my wife.”

  The suit shot him twice in the chest, and once in the face.

  Van Der Saar stood with his hands on the railing overlooking the canal. To his back was his lorry depot, deserted except for a handful of his men, due to the late hour.

  “Boss, they are here,” called the voice behind him.

  Van Der Saar followed his burly employee across the vehicle park into his first storey office room.

  The three Moroccans were stood expectantly. The leader spoke in English. “Thank you for the warning. The rest were shot up by the cops.“

  “No need to thank me. You’re a valuable asset now, and as with all assets, you need protecting.”

  All three grinned.

  “Tell me,” Van Der Saar continued, “did Fassih or anyone ever suspect you were working for me?”

  “No. We were careful too like you said, we never flashed the money you gave us.”

  Van Der Saar smiled to himself. The leader was referring to the twenty-thousand euros in addition to the cash and jewellery in Erik’s safe. They were here for the second half.

  “Erik Bos is a ruthless and powerful man. This money is your money. But I reiterate that you need to flee from Holland.”

  “Yes. We will return to Morroco to be with our families.”

  There were a few moments of silence.

  “As long as I can trust you,” smiled Van Der Saar, removing a box from under the desk.

  “Of course you can,” the leader smiled back, eyeing the box greedily.

  “Like Fassih trusted you?”

  Van Der Saar whipped out the silenced pistol and shot the three of them dead.

  Tris Dixon sat trying not to fidget. He was in an office meeting negotiating a contract for a seventeen-year-old Colombian football prodigy to join La Liga. Dixon smiled at the thought that it wasn’t that long ago, a seventeen-year-olds contract—certainly in the UK—could be negotiated between the manager and the parents over a cup of tea. Usually, Dixon had a laser-like focus when it came to meetings like this, but he had been distracted throughout it.

  Jim Blake had not checked in. He fought the urge to call him. If he had been taken then calling him wouldn’t do anything except give him away. Dixon only hoped that the Scotsman had simply killed Blake, and not interrogated him.

  “You knew it’d be him,” said Connor as he patted down the soil with the spade, “knew it was Tris Dixon behind this.”

  The hole had already been dug and lay three yards from where Connor had killed Jim Blake. He had buried his Commando dagger into Blake’s throat after they had bled him dry of information.

  “I suspected. There were some indicators, but it was mainly a process of elimination.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me.”

  “You suspecting Tris Dixon of your own accord would be more of a confirmation for me.”

  “How long have you suspected? Because it seems a hell of a coincidence.”

  “I’ve known for a while that Waseem Khan has been involved in human trafficking. But his ‘products’ have always gone missing upon arrival, which is unusual as slaves, both sexual or otherwise, are easier for us to track. That’s one of the reasons I inserted you in with him. Then this organ harvesting saga came up. I knew that Waseem must have been reporting to someone higher, he wouldn’t have the contacts within the medical world. That’s when he presented himself to you because of your savaging of Waseem’s henchman.”

  “Well, the waters have been muddied as my family are involved now.”

  “They aren’t involved in human trafficking. They are involved in Van Der Saar’s operation. There’s no real convergence there, so we won’t worry until we have to.”

  Connor rubbed his jaw. “Tris Dixon eh. Who’d have thought that a football agent would need to involve himself in that? When I first met him, he hinted that my skills in transportation could be used domestically and not having to go abroad. At first, I thought he meant moving around drugs and guns within the country. But then I thought ‘why would he use me?’ He’d have at least a handful of trustworthy lackeys to do that sort of thing. Not when I have a track record and a strong business relationship with our friend in Holland.”

  “Maybe he’ll bring up the subject again. And if he does, you’ll have to agree to it, of course after feigning some reluctance.”

  “I know,” said Connor tipping the soil. “How come I am the only one who has had to fill in this hole? You forget a second spade?”

  Bruce smiled. “Because I am the boss.”

  Connor smirked. “What are we going to do? Visit Mr Dixon and give him the same treatment as this one?”

  “No, we can’t do that yet. Unless Tris Dixon has obtained a Bachelor of Medicine and has a surgical qualification, then he’s working for someone. I think this goes deeper than imagined.”

  “Another one of your hunches?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So, what are we going to do?”

  “Well, the day after tomorrow, I am going to meet with Jamie to discuss a strategy.”

  “Can’t you Skype him?”

  “Not for something like this. Besides, I want to check in on him.”

  “Do you have a plot in mind?”

  “We have an advantage in that Dixon doesn’t know that you’re working for me. He’ll be vigilant, but your family’s name upholds your cover story of being a criminal.”

  “I see,” said Connor. “He’s going to be para as fuck as to what you know and who to trust—he’s going to come to me.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “This was the plan all along wasn’t it?”

  “You understand. You can play chess.”

  A number of men had been struck off Connor’s ‘real-life’ heroes list throughout his life; only two had remained with one being Bruce and the other one being dead.

  “We have an issue. There’s a chance our Scotsman knows more than he should,” said Tris Dixon over the phone.

  “That’s strange. I thought dead men didn’t know anything?” said the South African on the other end of the phone.

  Dixon fought to steady his breathing. He felt the pores on his forehead open up. He took a risk.

  “Things can be imperfect.”

  “Well, what do you think he knows?”

  “I’ll keep that to myself.”

  “The mistrust in this relationship—”

  “—if you want to call it that, then that’s your prerogative. I prefer calling it ‘need to know’.”

  There was silence for a short while before the voice broke it. “There may be a play I can make. But regardless, maybe you should think about taking a holiday.”

  “I can’t do that. All my business interests are here.”

  “Then you’ll have to hold on tight.”

  The line went dead, and Tris hoped he was more use dead than alive.

  28

  Bruce stood on the port side of the superyacht admiring how the lights bathed the Flivos Marina against the dark blue night.

  He rarely visited his chief information systems technician in person; purely as a security measure. Still, he endeavoured to check in on him once in a while to be sure of his wellbeing. He had been glad he did. He found the Peruvian frayed around the edges as the indulgences of his new lifestyle had begun to take hold.

  Jamie, he knew, had attempted to sanitise the yacht of any prior female presence. However, Bruce could smell the trace of perfume and found two different sets of hair clips in one of the bathrooms.

  J
amie joined him wearing a towelling robe despite the mildness of the night. They did not speak for a few moments until the South American started shifting a little bit.

  “I know. I know I have let myself slide un poco. I went deep into a hedon-is-tic lifestyle,” Jamie said.

  “You’re laptop. Has anyone manag—”

  “No. It’s locked away and on a level four setting anytime I am not using it.”

  Bruce looked up at the stars before saying, “It’s understandable you’ve indulged yourself after all those years. And I don’t want you to go back to those days of being hunkered down and isolated. But you’ve got to get a grip of yourself. Like a radiator, you only bleed off the excess air once the pressure has built, not beforehand. Remind yourself of your first love—undermining bad people and organisations with your superpower.”

  Jamie frowned at the word ‘superpower’. Then he nodded before breaking into a huge smile.

  “You are right. It is a superpower.”

  “Of course I’m right. You have a real life superpower, and with it comes great responsibility. Remember that.”

  “No more fucking around, I make a promise to you.”

  Bruce smiled. He knew that computers weren’t Jamie’s first love—it was comic books.

  “Good. With regards to the task at hand. Are we in agreement that this organ harvesting ring is international?”

  “The algorithms I have compiled seem to suggest that.”

  “I think it’s one person at the top. If it were more, then they would live with a constant paranoia of the other or others mouthing off about it. Given that it’s happening in developed countries now, I reckon on the person being a billionaire. Given that there are around 1,500 billionaires in the world, we can start sifting through them. I want you to start looking into their families, who close to them has died of an ailment that could have been prevented with a timely organ donation. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Remember, our organisation’s sole purpose is to protect people who cannot protect themselves. We are free from a political hierarchy or pressure by multi-national corporations. Other people and other professions can afford to take their eye off the ball. Not us, do you understand?”