by Conrad Jones
“It`s Lewis`s phone man, init, where did you find the phone at?”
“I found it on the floor,” Jay pretended to be thick.
“Where did you find the phone on the floor man?” the voice spoke slowly.
“In Manchester, I`ve found it on the floor in Manchester,” Jay bit the back of his hand trying not to laugh.
“Are you winding me up man? Put Lewis on the phone man,” the voice became angry again.
“I can`t I`m sorry,” Jay carried on enjoying the charade.
“Why not?”
“He`s a bit tied up at the moment I`m afraid,” Jay choked back a snigger.
“What about Michael man, is he with Lewis, init?” the man was becoming frustrated again. He still wasn’t sure if his colleagues were just drunk somewhere, messing him about on the phone.
“Michael has got a really bad headache man, init,” Jay tried to put on a strained Jamaican accent goading the caller even further.
“Who is this man, and all your bullshit? Put Michael on the phone right now man,” the caller shouted down the phone.
“I really can`t do that because he has a terrible headache, you see I put a nine millimetre bullet through his brain, and you can tell Omar that his days are well and truly numbered,” Jay cut the call off, and then punched three numbers into the phone, nine, nine, nine.
“Hello emergency, which service do you require?”
“Police please,” Jay stepped into the darkness of the alleyway.
“Hello Police emergency, how can we help?”
“I want to report a shooting on Canal Street, there was a fight outside Marley`s bar and the bouncers dragged a man down the alleyway next to the Phallic Palace, and then there was a gunshot, send the police quickly please,” Jay cut the call off, and then hit the `power off` button, making the cell untraceable.
Chapter Eighteen
The Terrorist Task Force
John Tankersley was the lead officer of the Terrorist Task Force. He was an ex-special forces` operative, selected to head up a taskforce which had been formed to combat the growth of international terrorism. They were neither police nor military, and they answered directly to the Minister of Defence. Their brief was to identify terrorist cells and remove them from existence, by whatever means necessary. John Tankersley was an eighteen stone fighting machine, trained in mixed martial arts, and a natural marksman and weapons expert. Everyone that worked with him called him `Tank`.
Tank had been stationed in Liverpool with the Terrorist Task Force since 1991. As a younger man he had completed a six-year stint in the British Army and was almost immediately sent to serve in Northern Ireland. He was quickly selected for a position with Special Forces before joining a mixed task force that combined military personnel with civilian law enforcement officers. Tank had joined the armed services as a seventeen-year-old boy just out of high school. He was always a well-built young man, naturally bigger and stronger than most boys his age, and he was picked for the army boxing team. Tank was a fit young soldier and he quickly became a talented pugilist. In his first competitive bout he had come up against a much older opponent from the Paratroops regiment. British Paratroops regiments have a fearsome reputation and the men that serve in those divisions are fiercely proud of their regiments. The boxing matches that were organised between different regiments held a lot of kudos, and regimental pride is always at stake. Despite his strength, Tank was not expected to win. His opponent was bigger, stronger and more talented. The fight was held over six three minute rounds and Tank had stood toe to toe with his bigger opponent every round, not appearing to feel the blows from the heavier man. No matter what combinations the talented paratrooper hit Tank with he couldn’t make any head way against the younger soldier.
“It`s like firing a pea shooter at a fucking tank! I`ve hit him with my best shots and he`s still standing.” his opponent had said after the third round. That was it. The nickname stuck, Tank.
The nickname suited him more now that he was older than ever before. Tank had become a keen martial arts exponent trained in Thai-boxing and Brazilian wrestling. The effects of combining the powerful kicks and punches of Muay-Thai kickboxing, with the lethal chokeholds and lock techniques of Brazilian Jujitsu were devastating. John Tankersley was a one-man demolition squad. He had lifted weights three times a week religiously since leaving school and had increased his muscle mass since joining the Army. His shaved head and muscular physique had an intimidating effect on most of the criminals he encountered. His Glock 9mm scared the rest.
The uniformed police division had called the Terrorist Task Force in to investigate the incident at Westbrook, as soon as they realised that it was a roadside bomb that had caused the explosion. Forensic teams had already cordoned off the area by the time Tank and his team arrived at the scene.
“What are all those people doing there?” Tank asked as he climbed out of his black Shogun.
He was pointing toward a crowd of about a hundred people who were milling about near the back of the cinema, watching the police process the scene. Tank checked his watch. It was half past one in the morning, and a little late for a group of passersby to be gathering.
“They`re the cinema goers from the late show, which finished just after midnight,” a uniformed officer greeted him and answered his question.
“Why haven’t you cleared the area?” Tank asked grumpily. He couldn’t tolerate incompetence.
“All the cars on the car park belong to them, customers and staff. We didn’t know if you would need to keep them here for forensics or not, so we asked them to wait,” the officer shrugged, a bit put out by the big man`s attitude.
“I can see from here that the blast came from those bushes that are charred at the end of the car park,” Tank pointed again.
The bushes adjacent to the destroyed Porsche were illuminated by spotlights, which had been brought in by forensic teams, and they were clearly burnt. The officer looked at the bushes and then looked back at Tank, blankly.
“Whoever set the detonator walked past all those cars toward the cinema, therefore they`re evidence. Get rid of all those people. Give them a receipt for their vehicles, and tell them to go home, and do it right now please,” Tank brushed past the uniformed officer and headed to the back of his Shogun.
He was met at the rear by his colleague Grace Farrington, who was of West Indian decent. Grace was currently one of only two female members of the Terrorist Task Force, and she was Tank`s best agent. She looked concerned as he approached her. The black skin on her forehead was creased into a frown. Her beauty still struck Tank whenever he saw her, even now after all the years that they had been fellow agents and lovers.
“What are you frowning at? You`ll get wrinkles doing that,” He pushed her gently as she stood on one leg whilst pulling on a white paper forensic suit. She nearly toppled over and punched him on his massive bicep.
“I`m looking at the state of the Porsche,” she replied, nodding toward the mangled wreck.
“It`s bent completely in half by the blast, an absolutely classic sign of an `explosive formed device`, I would hazard at a guess,” Tank picked up another paper suit and sat on the tailgate while he pulled it on over his clothes.
“I haven’t seen damage like that anywhere outside of Afghanistan, have you?” Grace asked.
“No, not even in Northern Ireland, it`s definitely Iranian technology similar to the devices they`re using in Iraq, only more powerful,” Tank answered.
There was nothing new about roadside bombs, but there certainly was something new about devices that could take out an armoured battle tank. Iranian militias had developed the formed devices, and then passed on the technology to Iraqi insurgents and the Afghanistan Taliban fighters.
“What are your first thoughts?” she asked, zipping up the front of her suit and pulling up the hood.
“If we can identify who the target was, then we have a good chance of identifying the bombers,” Tank said. He reached into the trun
k and grabbed two mag-lights, handing one to Grace.
“Let`s go and see what we`re dealing with then.”
They approached the wreckage, which was now screened off from the public`s view by canvas screens. The spotlights cast a stark light illuminating the crumpled vehicle and forming eerie shadows beyond it. Graham Libby, the head forensic advisor for the taskforce saw them coming and walked to meet them on the periphery of the crime scene.
“What do you know so far?” Grace asked, looking at the Porsche with an expert eye, searching for clues all the time they spoke.
“There`s a stainless steel base plate in those bushes there,” Graham Libby pointed beyond the wreck.
“I noticed the bushes are burnt,” Tank added.
“Yes they are, and the plate is buckled. There is what appears to be the remnant of a welded exhaust pipe attached to it, and a remote detonator manufactured from a garage door activator,” he explained.
“How do you know it`s from a garage door?” Grace asked.
“It`s still intact, with the manufacturer`s name on it. They are made predominantly to activate up and over garage doors for the domestic market,” the scientist enjoyed putting the puzzle together.
“What`s the range of the remote then?” Tank mused, looking around for a convenient place to detonate the bomb from.
“Probably a few hundred yards or more,” he answered.
“That gives us a wide search area,” Grace said.
“I think they could have been in a vehicle, parked on the car park, detonated the device and then left quickly, no witnesses and no residual evidence. All we have is the device itself and the target vehicle,” Graham Libby explained.
“What information do we have on the target?” Tank asked.
“It`s a leased vehicle registered to a notorious financial institution, which has dominated the news headlines of late,” the scientist explained smiling at his cryptic description.
“Rashid Ahmed?” Tank didn’t seem too surprised by the news.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Libby noted.
“We interviewed him a few weeks back about allegations of arms dealing, but there wasn’t enough to make anything stick at the time. We investigated him and I remember one of his properties was in this area, so I guessed that he could have something to do with it,” Tank approached the mangled wreck and shone his mag-light inside, trying to find something that would confirm the victim`s identity. There was nothing distinguishable left intact.
“There are two more crime scenes in the town centre, I`ll have to move on to them when we have finished here,” Graham Libby played his trump information card.
“What?” it had the desired effect, as Tank looked puzzled, and so did Grace.
“An estate car was used to transport gas canisters and other firebomb making paraphernalia into the town centre, and then it was rigged to explode simultaneously with the head office of a certain bank,” the scientist explained.
“Rashid Ahmed`s Blackstallion finance?” Grace was intrigued.
“Exactly, I`m thinking that it was a decoy to get Rashid into his car at night when the service road was deserted,” Graham Libby held out his hands like a magician ending a card trick.
“Now that would take some planning,” Tank looked at Grace, almost impressed by the complexity of the plot.
“It also indicates a bomber with a conscience,” Grace added.
“I don’t follow that,” the scientist said.
“What Grace means is that to go to those lengths to ensure that the target vehicle was the only one on the road, indicates that our bomber didn’t want to risk any collateral damage,” Tank filled in the gaps.
“Our bomber must have wanted Rashid dead, desperately to risk an operation this complex,” Grace speculated.
“This could have been carried out simply by one man, providing the preparation was immaculate,” Tank said. He knew that a plan like this would take the training and knowhow that only a handful of Special Forces trained operatives possessed.
“I think we are looking at a Special Ops unit,” Graham Libby speculated.
“What, operating in the United Kingdom? Absolutely no chance,” Tank snorted in a derisory fashion. The thought had occurred to him, but he had dismissed it just as quickly.
“Why not? It wouldn’t be the first time a foreign national has been assassinated on our soil,” Graham Libby came back strong, remembering that it was only twelve months since a Russian exile had been poisoned with a radioactive substance in his cup of tea.
“No it isn’t, but look at the planning here. Whoever set this operation up was making sure that no one else got injured in the blast,” Tank countered.
“Tank is right, a foreign Special Ops team wouldn’t give a monkey`s who got injured. They would have taken him out and been out of the country before we found him, but this was set up to draw him out of his home, after dark, when no one else was around,” Grace joined in, agreeing with Tank.
“So that only leaves us with a few million people with the motive to kill him,” Graham Libby said, referring to the adverse news coverage that Rashid`s bank had received.
“Well if you play with fire,” Grace said.
“Then you get burned,” Tank finished it off.
“It`ll take us a couple of days to confirm who your victim is, but it seems to be clear that this isn’t a random attack. It is a well planned, well executed, targeted attack carried out with military precision and there-in lies the conundrum ladies and gentlemen,” Graham Libby said.
Chapter Nineteen
Warrington Police Station/ Terry Nick
Terry Nick sat in a stinking cell in Warrington`s Victorian built police station. The cell was twelve feet long by six feet wide, fitted with a stone cot bed and a stainless steel toilet pan. The cot had a thin rubber coated mattress on it, which stank of urine. The smell in the cell was almost overwhelming when he had first walked into it, but its noxious effect was wearing off now. He had been sat in the cell for nearly six hours now, without so much as a drink of water being brought to him. The explosion at Westbrook had taken all the on duty police officers out of the station, leaving only a skeleton staff to guard the prisoners that were already occupying cells in the custody unit. Of course none of the current prisoners knew what was going on across town.
Terry had spent more nights in these cells than he cared to remember, usually as a result of assault charges following trouble in one club or another. Few of the charges had stuck over the years, but the inconvenience of being held in custody for twenty four hours was still irritating. He looked at his watch, and then realised that the police had taken it from him when they booked him in. A flash of frustrated anger shot through his troubled mind and he stood up and kicked the heavy metal door. The pain in his toes screamed up his leg and he grabbed for the injured digits. The police had also taken his boots from him, kicking a metal door with just bare socks as protection was not clever. He hopped back to the cot and cursed under his breath, while he rubbed his injured toes. There were footsteps coming toward his cell door, and he stopped and listened for a moment. The metal hatch clunked open and a face that he didn’t recognise appeared.
“Any chance of a brew?” Terry shouted.
The hatch clunked shut again, and the footsteps walked away from his cell door, disappointment set in.
The only positive thing that he could take from the experience was the fact that he hadn’t been at liberty to organise a premature retaliatory hit on the Somali Yardies, or whoever they were. He had plenty of time to think things over while he sweated in his cell. Two of the Brigade men had been put under surveillance and then targeted in a hideous attack, designed to send a message to their organisation that the Manchester gang meant business. They wanted to take over the Brigade`s door contracts in Manchester city centre, which equated to less than five percent of their financial income. Although the Brigade fronted an extreme right wing politically active organisation, it was the busines
s side of the organisation which allowed it to function. The contracts in Iraq and Afghanistan wouldn’t last forever. The Americans and the British couldn’t wait to get their troops out of there, which meant that the domestic security business had to be protected at all costs. The Brigade relied on its hardcore membership for its existence, and their hardcore members relied on being employed by Brigade Security Ltd. If the organisation ever had to rely solely on the subs paid by affiliates and fringe members, then they would cease to exist.
Terry Nick had time to stop being angry, and to think like a businessman in charge of a multi-million pound company, which essentially he was. All their door contracts were legally binding rolling twelve month agreements. The only get out clause for the customer was if the Brigade acted in a manner which brought the premises into disrepute, or if they lost their licence to operate as a security guard agency. The clubs that the Brigade monitored were trouble free, and their customers overlooked their political agenda because they were guaranteed to remain so. Brigade security didn’t allow anyone to peddle drugs of any description, except the dealers who paid them a hefty tax to ply their trade. This system was highly illegal however if drug supplies were not controlled and restricted then it became a free for all, so it was tolerated by the club owners, and ignored by the police drug squads, in exchange for information from time to time.