Soft Target 04 - The 18th Brigade

by Conrad Jones

  “One of our informer friends in the police station called me and said that you were being released. He also said they`re questioning Terry about the firebomb in town earlier on, and that a surveillance team had been sanctioned to watch us.” The Brigade men had informers within the ranks of the uniformed police.

  The Brigade welcomed ex-service men into their ranks, as did the police force. Many ex-army personnel shared the anti immigration ideals of the Brigade, and organisations like them. The sympathetic police officers were a constant stream of information which kept the Brigade one step ahead of the law. There were many officers disillusioned by the rising crime rates following the deluge of foreign immigrants. Political correctness gone mad had left the police handicapped when they were dealing with foreigners and the race card was played at every opportunity. Nine times out of ten suspects walked without being charged, leaving the police snowed under with useless paperwork to complete upon their release.

  “They`ll follow Terry, not us,” Dano said with a mouthful of burger and fries.

  “That`s what I thought,” the junior said.

  “Have you heard anything from the hospital?” Dano asked.

  “Yes, they`re still trying to reattach Norman`s hand, and Dithering is out of surgery but still in intensive care.”

  “I think we need to break out the weapons, before the police start tailing us,” Dano crammed the last piece of Big Mac into his mouth and reached for the apple pie box.

  “I agree, we`ll head over there now if you want to,” the younger man selected first gear and the Cherokee pulled away from the kerb, heading down the deserted street.

  Dano bit into the hot apple pie and the thick sticky interior burnt his lip. It didn’t deter him from taking a second bite as he removed his mobile phone from his breast pocket. He punched in two numbers, using a speed dial and then waited for the quartermaster to answer. The quartermaster was an old soldier, once a proud member of the Red Berets, 2nd Parachute Regiment. They were an elite fighting force if ever there was one. His father had seen action in the killing fields of Normandy toward the end of the Second World War, when they had been part of the biggest parachute drop of all time, dramatised in the movie `A Bridge too Far`. The military tradition continued when he followed his father into the service, and joined his father`s regiment, and then his son also followed him, and gained the prestigious Red Beret too.

  The quartermaster held a large stock of the Brigade`s automatic weapons in his cellar, where he lovingly stripped, cleaned, and serviced the machineguns, keeping them in excellent condition. Although he was well into his seventy third year he was still as spritely as many men twenty years his junior. His son had been part of the Brigade in its formative years, before leaving home to join the parachute regiment.

  Old Jim, as he was called, kept in touch with his son`s friends when he left to join the paras, and he attended some of their meetings and became involved in the organisation eventually offering a safe haven for their weapons, and a free maintenance service to boot. The Brigade kept a reasonably small arsenal in his cellar, which was used only in emergencies or for training exercises. Their training was done covertly because of Britain`s strict gun laws. Old Jim shared the Brigade`s racist ideals and was only too happy to help, especially because it meant he could still be around guns. Jim would be a soldier till the day he died.

  He was woken from a troubled slumber by the telephone, and he recognised the caller from the illuminated display.

  “Hello Dano, is there trouble, it`s the middle of the night?” the quartermaster said sleepily, rubbing his tired eyes and searching for his glasses. He put them on and reached for his alarm clock to verify the time.

  “Hello Jim, sorry it`s so late, or early, but we need some gear”

  “I gathered that, what do you need?”

  “Half a dozen Uzis, five hundred rounds, and a dozen fragmentation grenades should do it Jim.”

  “Fucking hell Dano! Are you starting world war three or something?”

  “Yes, something like that, but we didn’t start it.”

  “Does Terry Nick know your taking the gear?” the old soldier was a stickler for protocol, and he made sure authorisation from a senior Brigade man was given before he`d hand over any of the arsenal.

  “He`s banged up, but he`ll know as soon as he gets out Jim, we`ll be thirty minutes,” Dano clicked off the phone, avoiding any further argument from the old soldier. He liked Jim, and had once been good friends with his son, but he could be a real pain in the arse when anyone needed a weapon.

  Jim struggled to swing his weary body out of bed, while his joints remained stiff from slumber. He pulled on a pair of loose tracksuit pants and padded into the bathroom. He sighed as he relieved himself, dark urine filling the pan, an indication that his kidneys were not working as well as they used to. Jim lifted the lid off the cistern and removed a sealed plastic bag which contained the keys to his cellar. He headed downstairs treading slowly, allowing his knees to loosen up as he descended. There was a doorway beneath the stairs which he opened to reveal a small cupboard containing his gas meter and a few carrier bags full of old books. Jim moved the carrier bags and placed them behind him in the kitchen. He rolled the frayed carpet back and exposed a brass ring pull, which he tugged, lifting up a concealed trapdoor.

  The trapdoor hid a steep set of wooden stairs which descended into the gloom of a large cellar area. Jim walked down the first three steps and then felt for a light pull that was hanging from the ceiling. He pulled it, illuminating an awesome display of automatic weapons attached to the wall and laid out on the work benches. The cellar had the aroma of old wood and gun oil, mixed with polish and white spirit. The atmosphere was dry and warm, ideal for storing mechanical weaponry and avoiding dust and rust, which had cost many a soldier his life. A jammed weapon is no more use than a club in a battle zone.

  Jim approached a workbench and placed a large suitcase on it. He removed an Uzi machinegun from its holding bracket on the wall, and handled it fondly as if it were a much loved pet, or a fragile antique vase rather than a lethal killing machine. He took an oil cloth and wiped the cold dull metal lovingly, wondering at its deadly beauty. The weapon slotted into a moulded inner, inside the suitcase, alongside two similar weapons. Jim repeated the process with three more machineguns, and then added a box of nine millimetre slugs, before locking the cases shut.

  Jim carried the heavy cases up the cellar stairs one at a time and put them near the back kitchen door. He returned to the arsenal and used a thick moulded plastic toolbox to store a dozen fragmentation grenades. The grenades were stored beneath the workbench, kept inside a cool storage box which was designed for picnics and camping. He noted that the lid on the box next to it was on the wrong way around.

  Jim looked at the box for long moments trying to remember if he had checked the contents recently, he hadn’t. He was fastidious about his arsenal, and where everything was kept. None of the Brigade men came down into the cellar. When weapons were needed Jim packed them and then left them in a left luggage locker at the bus station. That way if the Brigade were ever caught in possession of illegal firearms the weapons dump would still be a secret. Years ago the Brigade lost all their firepower in one foul swoop, which taught them a harsh lesson not to put all their eggs in one basket.

  Jim lifted the lid from the cool box and panic set in. He caught his breath in his chest and looked in disbelief. The Brigade had acquired six kilos of military weapons grade explosive, just a month ago. Jim had been very uncomfortable storing the material, but after some research on the internet, and some monetary persuasion he`d conceded. As he trawled through his mind for an explanation he picked up the empty box and stared into it, as if six kilos of explosive were hidden in the corner somewhere.

  He shook his head searching for an explanation, but there wasn`t one. Only a handful of the Brigade knew that there was cache of weapons. There were rumours about an underground arsenal, but none of them knew where it wa
s, or about the trapdoor, or where he kept the keys. Jim sat down on a stool and continued to look open mouthed into the empty cool box, shaking his head in disbelief.

  He hadn’t moved it.

  He hadn’t mislaid it.

  Someone had gained access to his house, located the keys and the hidden trapdoor, removed the explosive and returned everything to its rightful place without leaving any evidence of the incursion.

  As his mind raced realisation hit home. He couldn’t tell Terry Nick that the explosive was missing, presumed stolen. No one would believe his story. They would assume that he had panicked about storing it, lost his bottle and dumped it or worse still, sold it for a profit. Either way he wouldn’t see another birthday, and that was a fact. The telephone rang again.

  “Jim it`s Dano,” he had lost track of the time while he had been traumatised.

  “Hello mate.”

  “Never mind hello mate, where the fuck are you?”

  “I`ll be ten minutes, I`m leaving now.”

  “There isn’t a problem is there?”

  “No.......no problem, I was stuck on the loo that`s all, bad guts, you know how it is at my age,” Jim tried to control his nerves.

  “Yes you silly old fart, hurry up,” Dano hung up impatiently.

  “I am a silly old fart, you have no idea exactly what a silly old fart I really am,” Jim said down the phone to no one but himself. He had that twisted sick feeling in his stomach, the one you get when you are really scared.

  The only person that knew where the arsenal was, had come back from Afghanistan a year ago, and he was so badly injured that he hadn’t left hospital yet.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Salford Towers

  Lewis felt the van come to a halt and he hoped that they would kill him quickly. The white spirit soaked rag that gagged him had caused painful blisters in his mouth, and he couldn’t swallow properly. The plastic bag ties that bound his arms and legs were digging deep into his flesh, and the more he struggled the deeper they cut. He`d heard voices surrounding the van shortly before, and then the engine had been started. He felt the vibration of two passengers climbing in beside the driver before the doors were slammed shut. The journey was a mystery to him as the occupants in the front of the vehicle remained silent for the duration of the trip.

  The backdoors opened and he sensed daylight entering the back of the van through his blindfold. Strong hands grabbed at his legs, dragging him out roughly. He felt fingers fumbling with his blindfold and then there was a blinding pain as his eyes tried to become adjusted to the sudden rush of light. Lewis squeezed his eyes tight, and then opened them squinting and blinking to become adjusted. He saw six men stood over him, hooded and dressed in dark clothing. They were all carrying machine pistols, which he recognised as Israeli Uzi nine millimetre weapons. As his eyes began to focus one of the men removed the stinking gag from his mouth, and he heaved, bending double and vomiting stale alcohol onto the floor, splattering six pairs of shiny combat boots.

  “Dirty twat,” Brendon jumped back out of vomit range.

  “Shut up Brendon,” Jay said through his balaclava

  “I`m getting sick of you lot telling me to shut up,” Brendon responded being churlish.

  Jay slapped him hard across the face with the palm of his big hand. Brendon`s head was knocked sideways by the force. Jay was tired and his nerves were on edge. Terry had stayed at the Brigade headquarters. He`d been released from the cells only to be informed by his men that he was under surveillance. Only a flash of brilliance from his general, Jay, had thrown the police off his trail. He had then contacted Dano and arranged to meet up with a crack team of men, armed and ready for a retaliatory attack. Terry spent all day planning the attack, waiting for the sun to go down so that they could use the darkness as an ally. Two Brigade men had been sent to the tower block earlier to make sure that Omar hadn’t already left the building. They couldn’t risk their business interests with open gang warfare, so this would be a one off decisive attack, aimed at beheading the Somali gang, and sending them back to selling crack on the street corners of Moss Side. He could not jeopardise their international business by being implicated in criminal activity of any kind. He intended to come up with a plan of action, and then disappear from the scene.

  “Now is not the time Brendon, so shut the fuck up,” Jay leaned toward the smaller man as he spoke. Brendon remained silent, but he was tempted to use the machinegun that he held tightly in his hand.

  Jay saw the glint of defiance in his junior`s eyes, and he knew that this was the end of the line for his young colleague. He couldn’t tolerate insubordination, but he couldn’t allow anyone with as much inside knowledge as Brendon had to walk away either. It was a shame, but he had seen it coming for a while now. He turned back to the trussed up Somali, who appeared to be confused by the dispute between his hooded captors.

  “What`s your name,” Jay grabbed the Somali by the jaw and lifted his head up at an obtuse angle.

  “Lewis.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “No,” said Lewis trying to look around, but his head was locked into place by the Brigade leader`s grip.

  Jay rolled his captive`s head right and left, allowing him to see the tower block behind him. There were only a handful of lights still burning, as the rest of the inhabitants slept unaware of the danger lurking below.

  “Do you know where we are now?” Jay snarled into the Somali`s face.

  “Salford Towers.”

  “We know where Omar`s woman lives, fourth floor number forty two right?” Jay lied.

  “That`s right man,” Lewis lied too.

  “Good,” Jay said nodding, “Is the door reinforced?”

  “No way man,” Lewis lied again.

  Jay pointed to the back of the van, and Dano reached in and grabbed a sledgehammer.

  “Ask him again Dano,” Jay said stepping away from the lying Somali, allowing his much bigger colleague room to swing the hammer.

  “What number does she live at, is it forty two?”

  “Yes man, I told you it was forty two,” Lewis stared into Dano`s eyes trying not to show any fear or anxiousness.

  “But your friend Michael told us it was forty three, just before my colleague shot him through the head.”

  “I`m confused then, I`m sure it is number forty two, init,” fear crept into his voice as realisation that his friend was already dead set in.

  Dano swung the sledgehammer in a high sweeping arc, bringing the seven pound metal head down on the Yardie`s foot. Brendon smothered the man`s scream with his hands and struggled to control him as his body jack knifed in pain. Lewis shook his head quickly pleading with Dano not to hit him again. His eyes widened and tears ran down his face as he watched in terror as the hammer swung again. The hammer struck the same foot again, crushing the few remaining bones to a pulp. It was only his shoe that kept the mangled flesh attached to him.

  Lewis lost consciousness for a few brief moments, but was rudely awakened by a hard slap across the face.

  “I truly hope that you`re no longer confused Lewis,” Dano said leaning on the handle of the sledgehammer like it were a walking stick.

  Lewis shook his head and gasped for breath. The pain in his foot was unbearable. All feelings of loyalty to Omar had gone before the second blow had landed, sadly too late to save him from the terrible torment that he now suffered.

  “What number does she live at?”

  “Forty three, she lives at forty three,” his words came out in short rasps.

  “Is the door reinforced?”

  “Yes, it has a metal door inside the front door, and there is a view hole cut into it.”

  Jay looked at Dano and nodded thoughtfully. Metal inner doors were par for the course wherever drug dealers were concerned. They were virtually impossible to smash down using tools. It would have to be opened from within or blown off its frame with explosives.

  “He keeps a weapon behind the door, a s
awn off shotgun,” Lewis offered the information freely, pain was dulling his mind and his body was going into shock.

  “What do you think Jay?” Dano turned to his boss.

  “I`m wondering if our friend Omar will open the door for his man Lewis, especially if he thinks he`s hurt,” Jay mused.

  “We`ve brought grenades,” Brendon interrupted.

  “We just want Omar, not to demolish the fucking building,” Jay snapped.

  “I`m thinking more of a two pronged attack. My brother told me about them from his army days, like the Iranian Embassy siege,” Brendon continued, excited by the prospect of using hand grenades properly, as opposed to tossing them into a lake in the middle of nowhere, just to see what happens.