Celt: The Journey of Kyle Gibbs (A Kyle Gibbs Action Adventure - Book 1)

by Wayne Marinovich

  ***

  Gibbs adjusted the position of the Glock17 which he had stuffed into the back of his jeans. He looked down the Clapham high street to where JP and Shredder were standing between two empty market stall frames. JP shook his head.

  ‘No movement yet?’ Gibbs asked Killey as they stood looking at the door directly across from them. All seemed quiet at Kirkwood Enterprises.

  ‘We’ve been here for most of the day, and no one has moved in or out of that door.’

  ‘Damn it. Where the hell could this arsehole be?’ Gibbs asked, and looked across to a homeless man who was working a nearby rubbish pile just down from the green Kirkwood Enterprises door. His rolling eyes and slow hand movements hinted that he was high on something as he staggered around, mumbling incessantly. He dropped his dirty white duvet that was draped around him and stood staring at it for a few seconds.

  ‘Why don’t we just break in and wait for him?’ Killey said.

  ‘I was just thinking that. Let’s go,’ Gibbs said, signalling to the other two.

  The sun had just dipped behind the row of shops, casting a long shadow across the empty Northcote Road. The four men converged upon the concrete steps and followed Shredder up to the green door with the small brass plaque on it. After a quick scan in either direction, Shredder knelt down and jimmied the lock.

  All four men drew their weapons and pushed their way through the front door, going straight up the pale coloured carpeted stairs to the first-floor landing. The stagnant smell of old air flooded their nostrils and Gibbs signalled them to spread out, each taking a room that was behind one of the four closed doors.

  Gibbs grabbed the brass door handle of the door furthest away from the stairs and slowly turned. He raised the Glock and pushed the door open to what was David Kirkwood’s office. A few weeks prior there had been two bookcases and a couple of filing cabinets against the right wall overlooking a large oak desk in the middle of the floor, facing the door. Now the room was empty.

  ‘Clear!’’ he shouted. Only to hear three other similar calls.

  Kirkwood Enterprises were no longer trading at the premises.

  ‘Any ideas, boss?’ Shredder asked.

  Gibbs shook his head and walked over to a pile of paper. He picked up a few sheets and flicked through them. ‘I’ll have to call Sheila and see if Martin knows anything.’

  ‘Do you expect her to look in a phone directory or something?’

  Gibbs flipped him the middle finger. ‘We need to find out who the gang lord is for this area. Andy said that these gangs charge protection rates to all business like this, so I am sure they must know.’

  ‘Gibbs!’ JP shouted from the landing. ‘You had better get out here.’

  They spun around and ran out the office, straight into a wall of pungent smell.

  JP stood on the landing with his Sig pointed at the back of the homeless man from the street who had just wandered in through the open door. ‘Jeez, buddy, how about standing a little closer to the water in the shower,’ Shredder said, clasping his nose.

  ‘Are you friends of Mr David?’ the toothless man asked, scratching his matted long grey hair.

  ‘Yes we are, mate,’ Gibbs said. ‘Do you know where he went?’

  The man nodded and carried on looking into one of the vacant rooms. Gibbs and Shredder stood aside and let the haze of smell walk past them. He mumbled his way over to the discarded paper lying on the floor and started stuffing them into his large tweed overcoat.

  ‘Hey, buddy! What is your name?’ Shredder asked, taking a cigarette out and offering it to the man.

  His eyes lit up, and he snatched the whole box from Shredder. ‘Gareth Simpson!’

  ‘Okay, Gareth, you said that you know where David is,’ Gibbs said, watching the man trying to decide which pocket to hide the pack of smokes in.

  ‘I am Mr David’s friend,’ he said.

  Gibbs walked closer. ‘Where can we find him, Gareth, we will give you another two packs of cigarettes if you tell us.’

  ‘I helped him move from here. I can show you. Where are my cigarettes?’

  ‘Mr David has them,’ Gibbs said, and stood aside, pointing to the door.

  Chapter 22

  Clapham Junction, London, England, UK - 2019

  The hour dragged on as Gareth Simpson stumbled and meandered the few hundred yards along the littered Northcote Road, and then across to the St Johns Road pedestrian walkway. Checking every pile of rubbish as he was accustomed to doing took an age as he searched for anything that he deemed useful in his world.

  ‘Jesus, boss. This could take all bloody day,’ Killey said. ‘Should I hurry him along?’

  ‘His mind seems a little broken, so let’s just be patient and see what happens. It is the best lead we’ve had in days,’ Gibbs replied.

  The four men followed him past Clapham Station and two abandoned red London buses that now served as dining eateries parked up near the entrance. The group ambled past the Public and Commercial Services Union Building, where he stopped and pointed to a car park of an old Lidl supermarket.

  ‘Where is Mr David, Gareth?’ Gibbs asked, getting as close to him as his nostrils would allow.

  The homeless man fidgeted and rubbed his nose with his palm. His eyes squeezed shut. Scratching his mass of entangled hair, he pointed directly at the abandoned supermarket. Gibbs looked up at the grey fascia boarding of the shop with its blue, red and yellow logo signboard hanging precariously over the chained front entrance.

  ‘In there,’ he said. ‘Where are my two packs of cigarettes?’

  ‘You’ll get them once we find Mr David.’

  Shredder walked over to Gibbs. ’Hiding in an abandoned Lidl. I find that hard to believe. Something is not right here.’

  Gibbs nodded.

  They crossed over to the car park that was littered with rusty car shells and countless mangled shopping trollies. All four men drew their weapons as they fanned out amongst the debris.

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled, boys,’ Gibbs said, glancing over at four men who were sitting around a small drumfire to the side of the car park They glared at Gibbs and his men while warming their hands over the flames and took swigs of rotgut gin out of a clear wine bottle. A very mild evening to be sitting around an open fire. His fighting instincts ratcheted up a level.

  Another group of men suddenly appeared from a railway underpass ahead of them and walked directly towards them. The approaching men were also living rough, had dishevelled hair and wore mismatched articles of dirty, brown clothing. All carried a primitive weapon of some sort.

  ‘On me, men!’ Gibbs shouted as two more menacing forms stepped through a large hole in one of the smashed supermarket windows.

  ‘What have you done, Gareth?’ Gibbs said, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket.

  He just started laughing hysterically. ‘You‘re trapped. I tricked you, and now it’s time to die.’

  Gibbs smashed his already drawn Glock17 against the side of Gareth’s head, and he whimpered midway through his laugh then sank to his knees in a heap.

  ‘I have four on me,’ Shredder called out.

  ‘Me too,’ JP said.

  ‘Another two coming out of the supermarket,' Gibbs said. 'Do you see any guns on them?’

  ‘One has a metal pipe. The other might be concealing a firearm,’ JP said.

  ‘Okay then. Let’s not waste any ammunition unless we have to.’

  The three small groups started to circle them like nervous hyenas circling a pride of lions on a kill. Chains, metal poles and wooden posts appeared out of grimy sleeves and jacket pockets. They looked very nervous, and one or two snorted and spat globules of tobacco-coloured phlegm at the feet of the four men they had cornered.

  ‘Why don’t we all just calm down and talk this through. No need do anything stupid,’ Gibbs said.

  One of the attackers dressed in a long faded leather jacket, with a greasy comb-over, took a step forward, and Shredder raised his Glock. �
��You’re outgunned here, so step back and leave us be.’

  ‘Fuck you, mate. Nobody has that many loaded weapons anymore. They are all empty and just for show,’ he said, glancing around at Gibbs’s men.

  ‘Okay then. Would you like to take another step forward and test your theory?’

  The man stood motionless, glaring at Shredder, a thick metal towing chain swinging slowly from his right hand.

  A tall man, resembling a character from a Mad Max movie complete with yellow builder’s helmet on his head and a red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, lifted an old sawn-off shotgun out from under his dirty beige trench coat and held it at waist level, pointing it at the four men. Their attackers all screamed encouragement and started to move forwards.

  Gibbs calmly raised the Glock and fired at the tall man, knocking his helmet off in the first shot as a small trickle of blood wound its way over his bushy eyebrow, the second made a neat hole in his forehead, sending him falling forward to the ground. The surprised attacker standing next to him reached down for the fallen shotgun, but never got the chance to raise it as Gibbs fired again.

  Shredder and JP took down two more of their motley attackers before the rest of their collective nerve broke. Dropping their primitive weapons, they all turned and ran.

  A few more shots near the feet of the retreating group and Gibbs called a ceasefire. He picked up the tall man’s sawn-off shotgun, cracking the ancient weapon open to reveal a single shotgun shell next to an empty chamber.

  ‘Damn idiot,’ he said, turning his attention to a groggy and mumbling Gareth Simpson.

  Gareth scampered backwards, as the four intimidating men turned and walked towards him.

  Killey holstered his Sig 226 and slipped out his large hunting blade. ‘Let me get him to talk, boss.’

  ‘Well, Gareth, should I let this man skin you alive?’ Gibbs said.

  ‘I am sorry, Mr Gibbs, he made me do it.’

  ‘Who, David Kirkwood?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘No, the tall blond-haired man.’

  ‘Tell me his name, Gareth, or my friend here will begin by cutting off all your fingers, one by one,’ Gibbs said, grabbing the man’s lapel and dragging him to his feet.

  ‘He made me promise not to tell you and said he would give us a large cow carcass to cook for our families when you were all dead.’

  ***

  A few hundred meters away a gust of wind flicked the man’s neatly combed fringe up into the air. His blond hair came to rest across his fingers as he rolled the focusing ring on the high-powered binoculars. He had been sitting patiently on the roof of the Public and Commercial Services Union building for twenty-four hours. It had cost him his treasured titanium Breitling wristwatch to blag his way up to the roof through the hundreds of squatters’ temporary homes erected inside the building.

  With his temper boiling and thoughts dwelling on how to get his timepiece back, the players to his little story all came into view.

  He saw the four men set up a small fire and take a seat to the side of the car park. Movement and shadows inside the supermarket told him that some had taken a flanking position, with the rest waiting and smoking behind one of the underpass’s concrete pillars.

  The bumbling fool appeared first, picking up and throwing a bit of litter away. The German smiled as he watched the show the man was putting on through the binoculars. Gareth was a consummate actor from one of the street theatres and was doing his best to suck the targets in. Clearly it had worked as he saw the four men walk into view.

  ‘Perfect,’ he whispered.

  Like a slow motion car crash, he watched with a smile as the plan to flush out the men played out its final scene. The street dwellers never stood a chance and the plan that his paymaster had devised would fall apart spectacularly. He had warned him that it would fail, but the man refused to listen.

  When the last few shots echoed around the streets, and the remaining attackers ran away, he hit the redial on his phone.

  ‘Yes?’ the voice said.

  ‘As I predicted, sir. Your plan has not worked,’ he replied.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘The four targets have neutralised the ten attackers and are now questioning one of the men they have captured. What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  ‘The bloody job I am paying you for. Alex Brun gave me your name and said that this is a job that you could handle. Can you handle it?’ the voice said.

  ‘Yes I can, but I will do it my way. Is that clear?’ the man snapped.

  ‘Fine then, I just don’t want any loose ends coming back to haunt us. Neutralise them all,’ the man said, and hung up.

  ‘Idiot,’ the tall German said, and pocketed his phone.

  He looked down at the car lot and saw that the four men had surrounded the fool and were pushing him around. They ushered and pushed the street actor towards the supermarket.

  Smart men, he thought and reached down to feel the cold metal of the Heckler-Koch MSG90 laid down on the roof near his feet. He picked up the sniper’s rifle, checked the long silencer on the end of the barrel then pulled out the twenty round box-magazine of 7.62mm calibre bullets and clicked it back into place.

  Resting his left elbow on the concrete edge of the roof, he nestled the hollow stock of the semi-automatic rifle into his right shoulder. After taking a few deep breaths, he flipped up the scope covers on either end of the Nikon hunting scope. He slowly lowered himself into position for the job ahead.

  Chapter 23

  Clapham Junction, London, England, UK - 2019

  ‘So did this big German fella give you my name too?’ Gibbs asked, pushing Gareth towards the shop entrance.

  The man kept quiet.

  ‘Start talking, mate, or else I’m going to start cutting dangly bits off,’ Killey said, holding up a knife to the man’s throat.

  Suddenly with an eloquent and sophisticated accent, the man transformed right before their eyes and said, ‘Look, fellas, he will kill me if I give you any information.’

  Gibbs’s mouth fell open as he saw Gareth’s posture straighten up and his eyes focus.

  ‘What the hell? Have you being playing us all along?’ Shredder said.

  ‘One of my better pieces of street theatre, if I do say so myself,’ he replied.

  Gibbs raised his Glock and placed it against Gareth’s forehead. ‘Start talking, Mr fancy pants, or I’ll kill you like your friends back there.’

  The man looked past Gibbs at the two bodies lying in pools of blood. ‘I was to lead you here, they were supposed to kill you and we would meet him on Waterloo Bridge to get our payoff.’

  ‘I can promise you that the men you are dealing with have no bloody intention of paying you anything. They would kill you all just as they planned to kill us here. Give us the information we want and I promise you that I will let you go,’ Gibbs said, lowering the Glock.

  ‘All I know is that his name is Woolf, and he found us at the street art theatre near Embankment, where we all perform. He said he worked for wealthy individuals…’

  Gareth Simpson didn’t get another word out as his head jerked to the right in a crimson mist before he collapsed into Gibbs’s arms.

  ‘Sniper!’ Gibbs shouted and pulled back, dropping the body.

  Gibbs and Shredder ran to the left of the car park towards an old green Range Rover and dived behind it for cover. Killey and JP made for the rusty shell of an old VW Golf. Bullets ricocheted off the old tarmac and slapped up into the side of the supermarket.

  ‘Did you spot where they are shooting from?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘Must be from the tall building across the road. I’ll try and get another visual,’ Shredder said, looking up at the roof of the building through the vacant car door spaces. Two more rounds thudded into the hard chassis of the car, causing Shredder to duck down again.

  ‘Yip, on the roof,’ he said.

  ‘JP, Killey, do you boys have a visual on the shooters?’ Gibbs shouted.


  ‘Seems to be a lone gunman, boss. Sounds like a semi-automatic,’ JP said.

  ‘Crap,’ Gibbs said. ‘Pinned down like pigeons.’

  Shredder checked the clip in his pistol. ‘I have eight rounds left so cannot lay down too much cover fire.’

  ‘It’s getting dark pretty quickly so we could just try and wait him out. Then, one at a time we could make it to the smashed window of the shop,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘What if he has a night scope?’ Shredder said. ‘We have to assume he has.’

  ‘Possibly, but I am not sure he is an experienced sniper. I mean, why would you silence the man being questioned and not your target that you came to kill? You know a sniper’s priority is the target.’

  ‘True, but maybe it’s more important to cover up the identity of the sniper and his paymaster than hit the target,’ Shredder said.

  Gibbs thought for a moment. ‘True. We must be getting close to finding out who set us up. So I vote that we stay alive long enough to kill the bastards.’

  ‘Amen, boss. So we wait for dark then run like chickens and dive through a smashed hole in a large glass shop front window,’ Shredder said.

  ‘Sounds about right,’ Gibbs said. ‘Tell the others.’

  ‘Life is always so much fun with you, Gibbs.’

  Thirty minutes later Gibbs felt Shredder nudging him awake. He opened his eyes to a clear starry night sky above him. He had dozed off, dreaming of Sharon, settling down with her and having some kids. Not just yet though.

  ‘Is he still up there?’

  ‘It’s been very quiet, boss, all too quiet in fact,’ Shredder said.

  Gibbs inched his head up and could just see the corner of the building where the shots seem to have been coming from. Shedder moved a nearby discarded box above their heads, trying to create some visible movement. Nothing.

  ‘Well, looks like he has gone. So what now, do we make a run for it?’ Shredder said.

  ‘Let’s not all rush out together. I’ll go first from this side, JP and Killey next, and you run last,’ Gibbs said. ‘We all lay cover fire as the others run. Single shots only.’