Is this thing a bloody tracking device? He was seized by sheer fright as the suspicion popped in his mind. He stood motionless glaring at his reflection in the mirror. And then the memory of the old man handing him over the very jacket he was wearing resurfaced. Were those two damn fake investors trying to set me up?
He forced himself to regain his composure and think rationally. The man whose back was facing his table was out of sight, but Zakariya was almost certain that the other man had brown-skin and dark hair. If they somehow were connected to the Aydins, this evening might have a foul ending. And assuming their intentions were malevolent, the fact that they managed to get a table at Clos Maggiore on such short notice suggested they had influential friends.
Zakariya suddenly became conscious of time. He wondered how long he had been in the bathroom. The last thing he needed right now was to arise suspicion. He hauled his cellphone from his pocket and dialed his brother’s number, waiting anxiously for the call to connect. First bip. Second bip. Third bip. Fourth bip. Voicemail. Dammit Mouss!
He berated himself for coming here unarmed and bringing his girlfriend into that ambush. These two men must have known when that night out was going to happen. He had told his lieutenants. They might have told Mustafa. Who else might know? He had alluded to it briefly during a conversation with Lloyd Davies. He had to consider the possibility that he had been set-up, and if he alerted the wrong person, Zakariya had the ominous feeling that the two men waiting in the other room would somehow be made aware that their cover was blown, which would force them to act. Not good, at all.
The air in the room felt increasingly warm and damp as he considered his options. Running away was out of the question, they would be vulnerable in the street, as they might have posted men outside, and Chloe was in no position to run anyway, with her five-inch heels. He reckoned they had another hour before the restaurant closed. They were effectively trapped. He drew a deep breath.
Fuck it, he thought, deciding to trust his instinct and text his brother, the bastard better not be involved in this.
“Fell into a trap at Clos Maggiore. Locked inside. Two men, Aydins probably. Need help ASAP.”
When he returned to the Conservatory room, only four tables were still occupied. He got back to his seat, smiling and projecting the image of a man desperately in love, letting nothing transpire of his current mental mayhem. Chloe was facing the exit, utterly unaware of what was going on in the background.
“That raspberry sorbet was mind-blowing! The perfect combination of sweet and acidic,” she said, throwing her arms in the air in surrender. “So, what’s coming next?” her voice was beguiling. She gazed at Zakariya playfully, as if indicating that she was ready to take the night to the next level.
“You know what, let’s have another dessert!” he announced enthusiastically. “We won’t be coming back here anytime soon, and there were at least five other items on that menu that I wanted to try out.”
Chloe was popeyed but liked the spontaneity. As Zakariya handed over the menu to her, she said, “Let’s do this baby! The caramelized chocolate sensation sounds wonderful, but let me have a look first. I think I saw some ile flottante in there as well.”
Zakariya threw furtive glances at the two men sitting only ten feet away. They were of medium-build and if anything, they looked languid. He figured he could take them on in a fist fight. He would have to be quick, and not give them time to pull out their guns. He gazed down. The knives on the tables had rounded ends, but they were better than no weapon at all. He cursed at the waiter for removing the fish knife with a pointy end.
Again, he looked up briefly at the two men, but this time he felt a chill down the back of his head. The man facing him from across the room was now glowering at him intently. And he wouldn’t stare down.
Zakariya immediately understood that it was game over. The bastards knew he had figured them out. His palms were sweaty, and he wiped them uneasily on the edge of the tablecloth.
The odds are not in my favor now but a bluff might buy us some time, he reasoned. Holding the man’s stare, he conspicuously motioned his right hand under the table so that his entire arm and shoulder dropped off. Despite his uncooperative sweat glands, the expression on Zakariya’s face was that of a man in control. His true mental state, however, was a different story entirely. In fact, he couldn’t imagine a scenario that ended well for him and Chloe.
Zakariya and his opponent leered at each other for another endless five seconds. Then, at last, the looked down, and his pursed lips slowly turned into a contemptuous smile as he reached for his cellphone and started typing.
Precisely at that moment, the waiter appeared with the bill, and indicated to Zakariya that they would be closing in ten minutes. That was it, if they were to get out of this alive, he would have to take action. It was all about minimizing the losses now. He had to confront them, there was no other way. Being the first mover will work in my favor, he reckoned.
The man in the corner appeared to sense this resolve. He unbuttoned his jacket, leaving the grip of the handgun stuck under his belt in plain sight. They were armed and looking for troubles, if there was still any doubt about it. To make matters worse, the two other remaining parties were getting ready to leave. I need to act now! Before the other patrons leave.
Zakariya stood up with authority, his heart pounding in his mouth, and as he was about to walk to the two men’s table, he caught a glimpse of the entry and was suddenly overwhelmed with boundless gratitude. Mustafa Mansouri appeared through the doorway, escorted by two henchmen that Zakariya immediately identified as his brothers’ best soldiers.
Without a word, Mustafa and his men grabbed three chairs nearby and joined the couple at their table. “I rushed here as soon as I got your text message,” he whispered. The look of relief on Zakariya’s face was enough to tell him the other half of the story. Chloe’s confused face revealed that she was oblivious to the silent showdown unfolding before her eyes.
Without warning, the two men in the corner stood erect and paced along the last patrons toward the exit. The bastards were slipping through their fingers, and as they were escaping, it became obvious that this failed ambush was the mark of the Aydin family. Their upright, mechanical gait and solemn facial features left no room for doubt, and they had come here to kill the leader of the Mantes-la-jolie organization. Zakariya and Mustafa glanced at each other, and no word was necessary. There was no backing off from this.
“Hey! Sir, you forgot the bill. Wait!” The waiter was running behind the two men to claim his due, but they had already cleared the premises.
Without warning, Zakariya threw two hundred-pound bills on the table, and signaled to the group to get moving. He walked briskly past the waiter in distress, and picked up the pace as he crossed the doorstep. Mustafa followed closely, and just as he exited the building, he whispered to the waiter, “They won’t get away with this. Leave it to us.” The chase was on.
CHAPTER 26
Bursting out of the restaurant ahead of the others, Zakariya scanned the street on both sides. He spotted the men on the run, as they were about to get into a grey Mercedes parked a hundred yards away, on the adjacent Bedford Street. The lights of another Mercedes CLA right behind it got switched on. Those damn Turkish…so they had reinforcements waiting outside. With those cars, there’s no mistaking it, the Aydins.
Just behind, Mustafa gave out instructions on the go. Waving at one of his soldiers, he ordered, "You stay with Chloe, get her to Lucky 77 and wait there with her.” The emergency extraction team had brought two cars as well. The chase would happen with only one. Getting Chloe to safety took precedence over anything else.
It was crucial that they get on their tail without delay. The Turks already had a head start and could navigate London's streets better than anyone. The bastards were skilled drivers. Mustafa motioned to Zakariya and his second henchman, and with urgency, they all got into the Mansouri's powerful M6 Gran Coupe.
I
n a heartbeat, they were racing out on the intersection of the A4. Mustafa knew the Aydins’ headquarters were all located down South, but the Turks would go in the opposite direction in an attempt to lose them.
The first car was almost out of sight already, and it turned left on the Strand Underpass, direction North London. The second vehicle was less than a hundred yards ahead, and the Mansouris were closing in on it fast. Getting them both would be impossible, so Mustafa made the decision – they would pursue the second car whose occupants had been in the restaurant.
Mustafa’s eyes displayed an intensity that could easily have been mistaken for stress or panic. Zakariya knew it was nothing of the sort. His brother was in a state of acute concentration, of perfect flow. There was no escaping him when he entered that hyper-focused trance.
The V8 engine was screaming, and after a few risky but controlled maneuvers, Mustafa managed to get to the second car’s level just before the Underpass, forcing it to stay its course. The two cars were now wrestling along Arundel Street, and the Mantes-la-jolie boys were on the verge of locking the assailant’s car on the pavement. The Mansouris’ henchman sat at the back was bracing himself for the assault, arm in hand.
At that moment, the co-pilot in the Mercedes pulled out his gun and fired at them. The bullet flew right through the front windows of the BMW, narrowly missing the Zakariya and his brother’s heads. That split-second diversion was enough for the Turks to avoid getting caught. They accelerated and cut across the gardens opposite the intersection, finally reaching the broad avenue of Victoria Embankment. Bad move, sneaky rats!
Mustafa's car was following closely, and on this long and wide motorway, his beast of a car was bound to catch up to the men ahead of him – the roaring engine of his BMW M6 was no match for the Mercedes.
Noticing that the Mansouris were closing in on them, the co-pilot passed his arm through the shattered window, aiming backward at the vehicle chasing them. The man fired in despair, unsteady and unable to hit his target.
Zakariya squinted. The terror on the man’s face was visible even from afar.
“Gun!” Zakariya shouted.
“Glove box,” Mustafa fired back. For an instant, a familiar feeling ran through his mind, himself behind the wheel, and his brother shooting bullets by his side. For some reason, this enhanced his composure even further. The road was dark at that time of the day, despite the dim streetlights. But Mustafa’s visual acuity was as good as in broad daylight. Yet, the Turks were no fools, and if they were indeed trying to take out the head of the Mansouri’s organization, it was likely they had entrusted their most capable soldiers with that mission.
Zakariya snapped the handgun stored in the compartment box and leaned outside the open window. He fired back at the car only thirty yards ahead. The henchman followed suit from his back seat. What ensued was a hail of bullets piercing the Aydins’ car’s rear window, lighting up the deserted avenue. The Mercedes was still going, and fast.
The Turkish driver was pushing his car to the limits, desperate to reach Blackfriars as quickly as possible. From there, they would be able to re-enter the city and have a better chance of escaping. Their compact car would be nimbler than the massive BMW sportscar, an irrefutable edge to navigate London’s intricate streets and misshapen curves.
Looking for a better angle, Zakariya clutched the interior handle on top of the window and pushed himself further outside, sitting on the door frame. He steadied himself and open fired. The projectile crashed into the Mercedes’ rear light, but the car was still hurtling. His second attempt was successful.
Knowing this would be his last shot before the Blackfriar intersection, Zakariya took a moment’s pause to aim and steady himself, and then he pulled the trigger.
The bullet bashed into the car’s tire, causing the driver to lose control. The vehicle reeled and eventually smashed into the protective wall on its right, twisting upside-down and flying into the Thames river in a screeching commotion that reverberated across the river.
Mustafa braked, pulling over a few yards behind the impact. The three men hastened out of the car.
"That's it,” the henchman said. “We hit both men badly, and they're still in there. They'll drown." Zakariya nodded, certain that he saw them both twitch from bullet wounds during the chase.
They watched with satisfaction the unturned car slowly descend into the water. On the front seats, the driver and the passenger’s bodies were immobile, probably stunned by the crash, if not already dead. There was no coming out of it alive for them.
“Fucking bastard!” Mustafa yelled. He was ecstatic yet stunned by the vile outcome of the night.
Next to him, Zakariya was taking stock of what just happened. “You know what that means,” he said.
The two brothers locked eyes. “Yeah,” Mustafa replied, suddenly hit by the dark realization, “This means war.”
An icy breeze was blowing, but the three men stood there silent for a while, watching the Thames engulf the damaged vehicle, until it vanished into a dark frothy squirt.
Zakariya got back into the car first. The adrenaline was retreating from his veins. His thoughts turned to Chloe. The evening was a disaster, and he hoped she would not hold it against him. Things were only going to get worse.
CHAPTER 27
Back at club Lucky 77, Zakariya was comforting a shaken Chloe. The rollercoaster of emotions he had put her through tonight was reminiscent of the worst hours of their early years in London, when Mantes-la-jolie boys were engineering their ascent from the depths of the city’s opioid market. They had pushed hard to impose themselves on the underworld scene, and the painful memories of the countless nights worrying about her partner’s life were still haunting Chloe. Back then, men she barely knew frequently irrupted in her house to check up on her, sometimes to move her to safer places.
From the onset, Zakariya had been transparent on his business and the risks involved. She knew exactly what she was getting herself into. A childhood spent surrounded by old-school mobsters from the Corsican mafia gave her an unobstructed insight into the mind and the life of gangsters. She had had a taste of the action without ever taking an active part in it. And her encounter with the Mantes-la-jolie boy changed her world forever. He and his friends lived life on the edge. She loved life and had never felt as much alive as in their presence.
But still, there had been a few instances over the years when she had been close to leaving him. She felt her biological clock ticking and was longing for a family of her own. It was obvious that her man was making efforts to spend more time with her, increasingly delegating the operational side of his businesses. Yet, she feared that he was struck by an addiction to that gangster lifestyle that would eventually cause his demise.
He escorted her to the exit of the club and waved her goodbye after a tender embrace. Once again, she would have to go home with bodyguards she was not even acquainted with, and most importantly, without her man. She looked out the car window as the car hurtled along Hyde Park corner, and pondered for the thousandth times what her belated mother would do in her shoes.
. . .
“Mouss...thanks...Five minutes later and we were dead meat,” Zakariya admitted as he walked into the club’s board room.
Mustafa was slouched on one of the leather rocking chairs. He was the only other man there. "I'm still mad at you for showing such disrespect last week," he said, severely as ever. "But I'll deal with you later."
The grins on both their faces showed there was no animosity whatsoever between them. They settled to get to work and agree on the initial few steps of the inevitable counter-attack. They had given the Aydins a chance to drop their belligerent ways weeks ago, and their enemies had failed to take it spectacularly.
“First thing, who the hell set us up? Someone put this fucking tracker in my inside pocket.” He threw the device on the table. Mustafa picked it up, inspecting it closely. He had the face of someone who couldn’t wrap his head around what he was looking
at. Zakariya explained his suspicion, describing the investor meeting with two old British men.
“It doesn’t make sense though. The two bodies in the Thames are Turkish men.” Mustafa took his head in his palms.
“Unless they’re working with another gang. A British gang. And they’re looking to combine their resource to hit us harder. This wouldn’t be the first time,” Zakariya said.
Mustafa glanced up at him, seemed to reflect for a moment, and then asked, “Why aren’t the lieutenants here? Do you suspect them?”
“Someone had to give out the time and date. Only five people knew. Maybe six.”
“I knew, and you didn’t tell me.” Mustafa gave him a cunning look.
“Right, I get your point. You can’t have total control over how information spread. But the lieutenants would know better than mention it to anyone. If one of them set us up...”
“Alright, let’s say it’s one of the lieutenants. Who do you reckon could have done it?”
“I’ve been mulling over this for the past hour. I can’t see any of them betraying us. We all have our disagreements, but I trust them with my life,” Zakariya said. “Right now, you’re the only one I can fully trust. Even if you’re a massive pain in the ass.”
Bad Blood Empire Page 10