Soft Target 04 - The 18th Brigade

by Conrad Jones

  Terry stayed a safe distance from the police. He was in earshot of their questions, and his men were being professionally vague. The only time information was given to the police was when it suited the Brigade, usually removing someone from a rival outfit off the streets, and sending them to spend some time at `Her Majesty`s pleasure`. The last thing he wanted to do now was talk to them. He was fond of Dithering and Headbutt, and he`d had a thing for young Mandy. Nothing had ever happened between them, because she was much younger, and he was unhappily married, but there had been chemistry between them.

  There were often violent attempts made on their business interests, it was just par for the course in the security industry. Rival criminal organisations had jostled for territory for as long as history can remember. The more territory a gang covered, the more business opportunities there were. Gangs often caused trouble inside rival territory, trying to oust the current gangsters, but this was different. Terry mulled over the evening`s events and tried to make sense of it all. The man with the bad teeth and the machinegun was Somali, he was sure about that, and he had stipulated that they were moving in on their Manchester business. Terry knew that there were Somali gangs around the Moss Side area of the city, but he had little to do with them. They were mostly small time drug dealers who supplied the local black youth with crack cocaine and heroin. The Somalis were Muslim, and drugs were not generally accepted by Islam, but like any religion, parts of it can be conveniently disregarded when it suits.

  There had been rumours that a Somali gang leader and his bodyguard had been murdered somewhere in Moss Side. Terry remembered some of his police contacts talking about it, a year or so ago. The victims had been carved up badly, and their bodies dumped in the road where they lived as a warning to others. There was always someone being shot in the city. It had gained the name, `Gunchester` in the press as gun crime became more prevalent, but he remembered that particular case because of the level of violence that had been used. Even hardened police detectives with years of service had never experienced anything so severe. The men had been tortured for an extended period of time, it wasn’t like a normal hit, and the injuries were similar to those he was looking at now.

  It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a starting point. He decided that he would get rid of the police, alert his men that were working in Manchester that there could be attacks, and then head into Moss Side, which was the area that the Yardies controlled.

  It sounded like the Somali gangs were trying to expand their business into the city centre itself. Terry was always open to negotiation after all the drug dealers paid a hefty tax to the Brigade, in order to be allowed to operate. He had been shot twice in the foot years before during a dispute with Russian Mafioso, and he still carried the limp. Brute force was not always the best option, but in this case he was left with absolutely no other option. The Somalis must have watched the Turf and Feather for a period of time, to be able to identify who would be `Soft Targets`. It was obvious from their surveillance that Dithering and Headbutt were older and smaller than their colleagues, and that they staggered out of the Turf about the same time most evenings, drunk. The Somalis had tracked them and then set a trap for them. Then they had cut so badly that Terry wasn’t sure if they would live or die. Looking at the injuries, and how bad the scarring was going to be, they would be deeply affected by them for the rest of their lives. Sending a harsh message was one thing, but cutting someone`s face in half, and removing their hand was a few steps beyond acceptable, even in his violent world.

  “We need a word with you and your men Terry,” a police officer approached, interrupting his thoughts. Terry knew him vaguely as he was on the alcohol licensing team, which investigated both the landlords and the door security guards whenever there was trouble. They had the power to grant and revoke licences at a stroke. Terry would have to be cordial, and try not to rock the boat. The security business paid his men`s wages, and it was the number of men employed that made the 18th Brigade a force to be reckoned with. The truth of the situation was that he didn’t really have that much information to give to the police.

  “Do you need us to come into the station to give statements?” Terry asked cordially. He took out a menthol cigarette, tapped it on the packet, and lit it with a Zippo lighter. There was a Nazi swastika engraved on the lighter, and the policeman stared at it. Terry clipped it shut, and put it back into his pocket, eyeing the policeman as he did so.

  “I think it would be for the best, under the circumstances,” the policeman replied, trying hard to hide his disapproval.

  The local police knew that the Brigade were responsible for stirring up racial violence all across the country, but they rarely gave them the opportunity to prove that they were to blame. On the other hand they also provided excellent information from time to time, and maintained order in the premises that they controlled. There was never any trouble in Brigade monitored pubs and clubs, no one dared. There were also rumours that the Brigade men were being protected by the establishment, and numerous Brigade employees had walked out of custody avoiding any criminal charges against them.

  “We`ll be there at nine o`clock sharp tomorrow morning, along with our legal team,” Terry answered crisply, leaving no room for negotiation. He walked toward his men, who were watching from the cordon.

  “I think we need to interview you and your men tonight,” the policeman flushed red, anger rising.

  “I think that you need to be looking for a black man with a Mach10 machinegun, not talking to us, there`s nothing to tell,” Terry carried on walking away.

  “I don’t want to arrest you Terry but if you refuse to co-operate then I`ll have no choice,” the policeman raised his voice and followed on his heels.

  Now everyone was watching the standoff, the police and the Brigade men. It would be a battle of wills to determine which leader was going to back down, of course the police held the upper hand, but technically Terry Nick and his men were only witnesses.

  “What are you thinking of charging me with? Being in possession of bleeding employees, maybe?” Terry turned to face the policeman, and stared into his eyes. They were similar height, but Terry was twice as wide as the lawman. He puffed out his chest muscles to increase his girth.

  “Look here, two of your employees are seriously injured, and a poor young barmaid is dead because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Technically you are not suspects, but don’t think for one minute that it`s not your fault. Why else would someone come here and shoot up the pub?” the policeman spoke very calmly, but there was venom in his words when he cast aspersions of blame.

  “So charge me then, how about `being shot at with undue care and attention`, or `ducking a machinegun bullet under the influence of alcohol`, I`d love to see you make anything stick officer.”

  Terry Nick leaned forward and touched noses with the police officer; both men were crimson with anger, both not wanting to back down, he continued.

  “I have said that we will cooperate, and we will be at the station tomorrow morning at nine o`clock to answer any questions that you have.”

  “What about the explosions in the town centre earlier?” the policeman dropped in the question like a psychological bomb. He thought by springing the question that he could catch the Brigade leader off guard.

  “What fucking explosion?”

  “The explosion at the Blackstallion`s bank, behind Times Square.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The bank that was in the newspapers last week, the same bank that has been accused of funding Islamic militants in Afghanistan, or do you not know what I`m talking about?” the policeman was starting to lose his temper and several of his officers moved closer to the two men as they argued.

  “Now you listen to me plod. Two of my men are bleeding on the car park, and one of my friends has been shot through her head by a gang of black men, probably Somalis. None of which was provoked in anyway. I haven’t got a Scooby doo what you are talking ab
out any banks being blown up anywhere, do you understand me?” Terry hissed the last sentence, and placed his big hand on the policeman`s chest.

  “Terry Nick I`m arresting you for withholding information, and you don’t have to say anything, however, anything that you do say will be written down and later given in evidence. Anything you fail to mention at this stage may be used later against you in a court of law, take them in,” the officer had had enough.

  Half a dozen policemen surrounded the Brigade men and tried to handcuff them. The lieutenants held their huge arms straight and tensed up their steroid built muscles. There was no way the policemen could put the cuffs on without breaking bones first. Dano laughed as two officers struggled to force his arms behind his back. None of the Brigade men fought back at all, they just tensed their arms.

  “Do you think they need to go to the gym Terry?” Dano laughed, as they were far too strong to be forced into compliancy.

  “I think that you have made your point fellahs, I`ll tell my men to go in quietly, if I can make one phone call,” Terry smiled at the police officer in charge, and held his hands out for them to cuff him.

  The policemen became increasingly frustrated and the Brigade men were read the same rights that Terry Nick had been, and they were bundled away to a waiting police van. The investigating officer needed to maintain his position of authority. He was an experienced police officer, and had dealt with offenders for decades. When he mentioned the explosion in the town centre, he noted that there wasn’t even a spark of recognition in the Brigade leader`s eyes.

  Chapter Ten

  Westbrook/ Vigilante

  The bus turned off a dual carriageway onto Cromwell Avenue. He looked out of the window into the darkness, and the reflection of the interior of the empty bus made it difficult to distinguish the world outside. He cupped his hands against his face and the glass, so that he could get a clear view into the night. On the corner stood the Peace Centre silhouetted by the moonlight. He could see the red glow of a fire in the town centre behind it, which gave the building an eerie glow. It was an unusual building clad with wood. Its roof was set at angular slants. He remembered why it had been built, way back in his mind`s eye. The day before mother`s day, 1993, the Irish Republican Army had attacked his home town with two bombs, and murdered two young boys, out shopping for presents. The Peace Centre had been built to commemorate the tragedy. That had been part of the reason why he`d joined the army. A feeling of affront, being attacked for no real valid reason, made him want to serve his country.

  That was a long time ago. It seemed to be a lifetime ago. He had served two tours in Iraq and two tours in Afghanistan since then. Now he was back in civilian clothes again, and trying to adjust to life outside the army. It wasn’t working out very well at all. The country was still at war in two countries, but all anyone wanted to know was who had won Big Brother, or Strictly Come Dancing. His army friends were still being shot up and blown up, but no one seemed to care. Every day on the news there would be a report of another improvised explosive device killing his colleagues. He couldn’t understand why the newsreels were still calling them improvised. There was nothing amateurish about a hand built weapon that could penetrate British armoured plate. Perhaps that was why the news played things down so much, because they didn’t want to tell the public that our most advanced battle tanks and armoured personnel carriers could be destroyed by using old discarded ordinance and a copper disk. It sounded crazy, but he had seen the damage that the formed copper disk created. The explosive is shaped and drives the copper disk fast enough to punch a hole in the armour. Once inside the targeted vehicle the copper disk bounces around inside at six thousand feet per second, like a lethal pinball, cutting through flesh, and smashing bones like a hot knife through butter. The folks at home couldn’t understand how our armoured troop carriers were being knocked out week after week by improvised devices. The reason was that the word improvised made it sound like the explosive devices were built by Afghan chicken farmers, unfortunately the technology involved was deadly simple, and incredibly effective. The Taliban mujahideen were far from chicken farmers. They had been at war since the Soviet Union invaded them in the eighties, and two generations of young men had never known anything but how to fight a guerrilla war against invading white Christians. Whether they spoke Russian or English was irrelevant.

  The fact was he was still at war in his mind. His men were still fighting in the deserts far away, and no one seemed to care. As his time out of the army progressed, he became incredibly bitter. He felt that feeling of helplessness that he had felt as a young boy when the IRA attacked his home town. After everything he had been through he had gone full circle, and ended up back where he started. It all became too much when a local foreign bank was exposed for sending weapons and supplies to Afghan Taliban fighters, under the guise of food parcels for orphaned children. That was the final straw that broke the camel`s back. He would not stand by while the enemy raised money for supplies in his own back yard. They were buying the bombs and bullets that would be used to kill his men next week in the deserts of Afghanistan.

  He had dusted himself down and stopped feeling sorry for himself. It had been a revelation to him, a new mission. Now he would fight alongside his men again, but he would fight the enemy in his own backyard, and there were plenty of them to target. Suddenly, there was another flash in the sky, which lit up the darkness for a second. Another gas canister must have exploded inside the bank. He smiled to himself, and then checked how far the bus had travelled toward his destination.

  The bus turned a corner and he could see the multiplex cinema lit up in the distance, his target lived behind it. He pressed the stop button, and the bell rang above the driver. He gripped the handrail with his powerful hands, and his strong arm muscles pulled him upright. The bus slowed to a halt and the concertina doors swished open to allow him to alight from the vehicle. He checked his balance before he stepped down from the bus awkwardly. The moonlight was illuminating the areas that the yellow glow from the streetlights didn’t reach. He pulled his collar tight as the cold night air bit into him, and he could see his own breath as he exhaled. He checked himself again and then set off into the night; he didn’t have long before his target would appear.

  Chapter Eleven

  Liverpool

  It was getting close to midnight and the streets of Liverpool were busy. Drunken revellers walked arm in arm, and wobbled from one bar to the next. Music of every genre played, and tunes from a thousand bass speakers vibrated across the city. Jay was stood on the door of Flanagan’s Apple, a three storey Irish bar on the world famous Mathew Street, home of the Beatles. The area maintained its sixties image, by keeping cobbled streets that were lined with live music bars. An Irish band was playing to a packed crowd inside, fiddles and flutes were driving the beat. Four lithe young women walked toward him. They were half dressed, wearing short skirts and cropped tops which exposed firm tanned flesh. All four sported diamante belly button jewellery, which emphasised their tan. They walked past the long queue of people that were waiting patiently to get into the pub, and came straight to the front of the line, high heels clicking on the cobbles. Jay smiled at their cheek and shook his head, as they approached him.

  “Hiya Jay, can we come in please because we`re all bursting for the toilet,” a tall brunette pouted as she spoke, her lip gloss glittered in the dark. He`d got her phone number from her a week earlier, but when he`d tried to ring it there was no such number available.

  “Oh, I see it`s hiya Jay can we come in please? When it suits you, you can be as nice as pie, can`t you,” he laughed and clapped gloved hands together excitedly, enjoying the power to allow access or not.

  “Please Jay! We`re bursting for the loo! Pretty please with a cherry on top,” she flirted again, pulling a hard done to face.

  “You gave me the wrong phone number last week,” he raised his eyebrows, and faked a stern expression. The girls all started to giggle as they realised that
their fake phone number plot had worked again. They did it every week, unsuspecting men buying them drinks all night, and then passing off the wrong phone number at the end of the evening.

  “I`ll give it to you tonight big boy ........and my number too,” she teased. Her friends all giggled again as Jay stood aside and let them into the Irish bar. He slapped the brunette on the buttocks as she passed by, and she squealed with delight and laughed again.

  “Hey mate, we`ve been waiting here for twenty minutes now, and they`ve just walked in, it`s not fair,” the young man at the front of the line moaned indignantly. He had a tight skinny rib tee shirt on and slim white sunglasses, despite the fact the sun had gone down hours ago.

  “Well now you`ve been wasting your time then haven’t you?” Jay looked down at the young man from a great height, and took an instant dislike to him. Jay was the Brigade General in Liverpool city centre; He had just returned from a six month contract in Iraq, and he oversaw the Brigade`s business interests in the city, reporting only to Terry Nick. He was huge, incredibly muscular, shaven headed, and his neck was twenty inches round.