Crash Course

by Derek Fee

  CRASH COURSE

  DEREK FEE

  MIST MEDIA

  Copyright © 2021 by DEREK FEE

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  For my family

  Prologue

  Gulf of Morbihan.

  Less than a nautical mile separated the two boats as they raced across the clear blue waters of the Gulf of Morbihan off the coast of north-west France. Both drivers were pushing their engines to the limit and the second boat, which bore the unmistakable markings of the French Navy, had been gaining steadily on the smaller craft during the hour-long chase across the Atlantic towards the coast.

  The driver of the smaller craft kept the throttle fully open as he pushed his speedboat closer to the rocky coast which represented his only chance of evading his pursuer.

  It would be touch and go, the speedboat driver thought. The bastards were beginning to upgrade their pursuit craft. A year ago, his boat would have left anything in the French Navy for dead but the vessel which trailed him was state-of-the-art and fresh out of the boatyard. Somebody was beginning to care. The driver had already made four runs off the French coast and nobody had even come close. This time it was different. If he managed to get away, he’d have to pass on the message that it was time to move the site of their operations. He swung his craft towards the coast and looked over his shoulder in time to see the helmsman of the navy vessel replicate his manoeuvre. This was what it was all about. He could feel the adrenaline rush and the familiar tingle of excitement pass along his backbone. The French had the better boat and the helmsman was a cut above those who had pitted their wits against him on previous occasions. It was time he showed them why he was one of Europe‘s top powerboat racers and why his employers had hired him.

  “They’re gaining.” The second man in the speedboat looked anxiously over his shoulder at the pursuing craft. The bow of the navy vessel was high in the water and he could pick out individual uniformed sailors on the deck. “Maybe it’s time to heave the stuff overboard.” He glanced at the ten packages wrapped in waterproof covers which lay in the bottom of their boat.

  “That won’t happen,” the driver growled and turned the boat towards the coast again. The packages at the bottom of the boat represented over ten million pounds sterling to their employers and fifty thousand pounds to him personally. There was no way they would be heaved overboard. Seawater and cocaine didn’t mix. The coast was only a mile away and he could see the billowing sails of yachts as they exited the marinas which dotted the gulf. He needed an edge and getting in among the small craft might give it to him. The pursuit boat’s captain was competent when it came to a chase in open water but he wondered how the navy helmsman would perform when he was dragged in among the yachts and pleasure vessels. That would be the real test of the French boat and its helmsman. He brought the bow around and headed for the nearest group of yachts at full throttle.

  Lieutenant Jean-Paul Brondel stood on the bridge of the patrol boat Allouette and let his binoculars drop around his neck. He had been observing the two black-clad figures in the speedboat. The Allouette was close enough that he could see their faces. In the three years he had been patrolling the coast of Brittany, this was the closest they had come to catching their prey. Brondel looked around the gleaming bridge of his new boat. This time they would get the scum who used the many inlets of the coast of Brittany to smuggle their cargoes of drugs. They had picked up the speedboat’s trace as soon as it entered French territorial waters. Then the chase had been on. But unlike the other chases, the Allouette’s twin eight-hundred-horsepower engines were more than a match for the speedboat. The helmsman of the Allouette turned the wheel and followed the speedboat towards the coast.

  Brondel raised his glasses and looked in the direction of his quarry. Twenty or thirty yachts were already making their way out to sea, their colourful sails filling in the wind. Further inshore, he could see the brightly coloured windsurfers skidding parallel to the shore. He was startled when he realised that the speedboat was heading directly for a group of yachts. “Attention, Luc,” he said to his helmsman without taking the glasses from his eyes. “Il commence d’aller très proche à la cote.” Surely not, he said to himself. They couldn’t.

  The black-clad figure at the wheel of the speedboat turned sharply across the bow of the first yacht in the flotilla, throwing a sheet of water in its direction. He smiled as he saw the consternation on the faces of the crew as they tried to tack away from him. Turning the wheel again, he cut between two of the other yachts. The crew members of the boats screamed and shook their fists at him. “Now we’ll see what our naval friends are made of,” he shouted at his companion.

  The second man in the speedboat looked astern and saw that their manoeuvre had caused panic among the small flotilla of yachts. The French patrol boat was still behind them but while the speedboat’s throttle was being kept wide open, the French boat appeared to be dropping its speed.

  The speedboat was now only several hundred yards from the beach and heading straight for a group of windsurfers.

  “For God’s sake watch out,” the second man shouted above the noise of the engines.

  The driver ignored his companion’s advice and pulled hard right on the wheel sending a wave tumbling towards the windsurfers and causing some of them to lose their balance and fall into the water.

  “Ease off,” the second man shouted. “You’ll kill somebody.”

  The driver took a glance over his shoulder and saw that the French vessel was cutting speed in deference to the number of people in the water. Got you, he thought and pulled his boat closer to the shore. It didn’t matter that he’d gained a few seconds on the patrol boat. What he needed was something that would stop his pursuers dead in their tracks. Desperate situations required desperate measures. Swimmers were already streaming out of the water as the two boats powered along parallel to the beach. The speedboat driver saw a figure struggling through the water directly in front of him. He turned the boat in the direction of the swimmer. There was no other choice.

  The speedboat skimmed over the water closing the gap between itself and the swimmer with incredible speed. The driver saw the swimmer‘s head turn upwards towards them. It was a young woman whose face had a look of sheer terror on it. The boat seemed to leap forward at her and the occupants heard the dull sound as the bow struck her body. The driver pulled the wheel to the right and the boat began to sweep around the bay and away from the beach.

  “Salaud!” Brondel let the glasses fall around his chest. “Crapule,” he screamed at the top of his voice.

  The body of the swimmer bobbed to the surface and the helmsman looked enquiringly at the young lieutenant.

  “Arretez les moteurs, Luc, et mettez nous à coté du corp.” Brondel could see the speedboat disappearing at speed around the edge of the beach as his helmsman cut the engines and brought the Allouette alongside the floating body.

  “Vite, les gars. Peut-etre on peut faire quelque chose pour la nageuse.” Brondel removed his binoculars and slammed them into the chart table. For two years he had waited for such a chance and now it was gone. He watched silently as two of his sailors jumped into the water and pulled
the inert body alongside the patrol boat. The young woman was hauled on board and laid on the deck. A medical examination would not be required. Half the girl’s head had been removed by the bow of the speedboat.

  “Crapule,” Brondel shouted looking at the edge of the beach where the speedboat had disappeared.

  Chapter One

  London

  Detective Sergeant Mark Kane raised his eyes and looked along the length of the police van. They were parked on a narrow walkway outside a 1950’s house on a grim South London council estate. Eight officers sat together at the other end of the van; their bomber jackets bloated by the bulletproof vests they wore underneath. The only sound in the van came from Kane’s mobile phone. He had bet five hundred quid on Arsenal to win and the wankers were already one down to Manchester United. If he wasn’t on this ‘spin’, he would have been sitting in the stand at the Emirates watching the Gunners pour his money down the drain. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes before the off. The banter and schoolboy giggles which had accompanied their drive to the estate after the briefing had dissipated and silence hung heavy in the van. Two of the younger officers were dragging furiously on their cigarettes. The back door of the van opened and Kane was the only man not to jump. “We’re ready.” The skipper, Superintendent George Davenport, eased his bulk through the open pane at the back of the van.

  Beyond him Kane could see the civilian door openers, or ‘ghostbusters’ as they liked to be known, setting up their hydraulic ram.

  “I want a result on this one,” Davenport said, crouching down. “No fuck-ups.” He looked directly at Kane. “You up for this?”

  Kane nodded.

  “You really are something. The officers wearing the bulletproof vests appear to be pissing themselves while you’re watching a football game.”

  Kane smiled. “One all, the Gunners have pulled one back.” He was dressed in wall-to-wall Armani with his light brown hair gelled back and tied in a bun and enough gold chains around his neck to make Mr T envious, Kane looked the epitome of the drug dealer.

  “I don’t want any grandstanding,” Davenport continued staring at Kane. “You all heard the briefing. The information we have from Kingston is that every one of them has already killed. So be bloody careful. I want the drugs. I want the guns, and I want Hackett and his boys wrapped up in a nice package. Are we all clear on that?”

  The eight officers nodded their agreement. Kane simply returned his boss’s stare and switched his mobile off. He’d worked for five years under Davenport in SO10, the undercover unit of the Metropolitan Police; they had both been here before and any form of acknowledgement was superfluous.

  Davenport opened the door of the van and alighted. Kane climbed out after him.

  “I wouldn’t be too fucking cool about this gig if I were you,” Davenport said as he drew himself up to his full height. “These people don’t take prisoners and you’ll be in the front line. I don’t want any casualties.”

  “It’s my life and I’ll play it as I see it.” Kane took his Glock 19 from a shoulder holster and checked it.

  “And no bloody shooting unless absolutely necessary,” Davenport said as he watched Kane. “I don’t want Hackett and his boys slipping out of this one because we used cruel and usual force.”

  “I’ve been on Hackett for six months,” Kane said, replacing his gun in its holster. “The cruel and unusual force that the bastard deserves hasn’t been invented yet. Hackett and his posse are a disease worse than cancer. If they want to play rough with me, I’ll be happy to oblige them.”

  “Don’t be a bloody idiot.” Davenport laid his hand on Kane’s shoulder.

  Kane turned and shot his boss a hard look.

  Davenport immediately removed his hand. “Hackett is about the most vicious bastard that we’ve tried to nail. He owns this estate and everybody on it. What I’m saying is, be extra bloody careful. I want him but I don’t want him at the expense of one of my best officers.”

  “I’ve got the message,” Kane said. “Time to hit the road.”

  The two men walked towards the champagne-coloured Mercedes 380 which was parked behind the police van.

  “You keep your mind on being around when the shit hits the fan,” Kane said as they approached the car. “Make damn sure that none of those clowns in the van does anything stupid enough to get me killed. Some of them are shaking so much there’s no telling what they’ll do when the bust goes down.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on them,” Davenport said. ‘Final check on the wire.’ He took what looked like a hearing aid from his pocket and slipped it around his ear.

  “One, two, three.”

  “I’m hearing you loud and clear.”

  Kane ran his hand along the smooth contours of the Mercedes. “I’ll miss this baby.” This was his ‘drug-mobile’; It gave instant credence to his claim to be a major player on the Glasgow drug scene. Someone who was willing to invest a quarter of a million pounds on a drug buy didn’t drive around in a Lada. His own battered ten-year-old Saab 92 had been sitting outside his flat for the duration of this assignment. Tonight he would return the Merc, the Hublot, the gold chains, and the threads, and tomorrow he would be back at the wheel of the Saab with a Tissot on his wrist. He felt a stab of regret that the operation to nail Hackett was nearing an end. And it wasn’t only the Merc that he would be missing. A part of him enjoyed playing the villain. He understood the buzz they got from breaking the law. Most of them were as thick as a plank but they lived on the edge and they knew how to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. That was their buzz. He opened the door and slipped behind the wheel for what might be the last time.

  Davenport held the door open. “Remember. The drugs, the guns and Hackett. And no heroics.”

  Kane pulled the door shut and reversed the car out of the alleyway and onto the main road.

  “If only you weren’t so bloody good at what you do,” Davenport muttered to himself as he watched Kane pull away. It was a high-risk strategy having a copper on your team who didn’t give a damn whether he lived or died. There were of course huge advantages. Kane would never buckle under pressure. He would never be the one with the shaking hands or the sweat running down his face. When you needed someone to go deep undercover and to hold onto his water while he did it, then Mark Kane was your man. The operation to clip the wings of Veeral Hackett and his posse of Jamaican drug pushers had gone according to the book. Kane had wheedled his way into Hackett’s confidence with a series of minor drug buys and he had already located two crack houses on the estate. Both would be raided before the night was out. The ‘snip’ they had planned for tonight would lead them to the centre of Hackett’s operation – the crack factory itself. They knew it was somewhere on the estate but finding it was a totally different matter. If they started a house-to-house, the factory would have vanished before they found it. The only solution had been to allow Kane to smoke the whole drug operation out piece by piece. And that was what the bastard had done. Tonight was the big buy and as soon as Hackett showed off his prized possession, they would spring the trap.

  Chapter Two

  Kane entered the estate where every pair of watching eyes belonged to Veeral Hackett and his crew. United had scored before he switched off his phone and he was feeling the pain of his loss on the Arsenal bet. Five hundred quid was a lot of money to a copper who took home two thousand pounds a month. Gambling was one vice that would have to go. Maybe he was beginning to believe he really was a big-time drug dealer from Glasgow. He never felt so alive as when a bust was about to go down. That was the joy of being a copper. He was in this business for the buzz and the buzz was running at its strongest this evening. Davenport didn’t have to tell him that Hackett was a vicious killer. He’d seen the rap sheet from the Kingston police and he had seen the bodies of some of the hoods who thought that they could stand up to the drug lord. The thought of bringing him down only heightened his excitement. The expectation that there could be heavy action before
the night was over had Kane’s heart beating like a drum and sent his adrenaline rush into overdrive.

  He pulled up outside a crack house where he had met Hackett on a previous visit. A large Jamaican with flowing Rasta locks stood guard at the entrance. An Uzi machine pistol lay cradled in the crook of his left arm. The Uzi was no longer considered as simply a weapon. It was the essential fashion accessory for the up-and-coming gangsta. The man guarding the door stared through hooded eyes as Kane pulled up outside the front gate. The estate had been built for the cloth cap workers of a previous generation and successive waves of immigrants had been housed in the steadily deteriorating accommodation. The estate had gradually been ceded to the latest waves of Caribbean immigrants and Hackett and his posse had taken refuge there on their arrival from Kingston. The crack house had been turned into a slum by its proprietors. Crack addicts didn’t have a strong feeling for the surroundings in which they inhaled the drug.

  He cut the car’s engine and stepped onto the pavement. The guard at the door stiffened. The door of the house opened and the body of a young black woman tumbled out onto the doorstep. She was wearing a purple miniskirt which had ridden up to her haunches as she fell. Her white blouse was torn. As she hit the pavement, her eyes turned upwards and met Kane’s. He reckoned that she could have been anything from sixteen to thirty-six. Age was difficult to gauge in the case of a crackhead. Her eyes were glazed and there were bags beneath them. There was a weal the size of a golf ball on the left side of her cheek. Her body still had a firm edge to it but that would disappear after she had sold it a couple of hundred times. Kane’s natural reaction would have been to pick her up but he ignored her. Kane the drug dealer wouldn’t give a shit for a useless crackhead like the one lying at his feet.