And, if the stories about Venom were true, then he was a monster, too.
Johnson tended not to believe in such childish things. He’d hunted and killed many things, but never had someone or something been so tricky to apprehend.
But Johnson would take him.
Deadlier predators had been bagged before. Countless times, in fact.
“You’re nearby, my boy. I can feel you,” Johnson whispered.
“Sir?” Max asked who sat by the side of his boss.
“Nothing, Max. Nothing.”
The lousy petrol-head may have a knack for good disappearing tricks, but his majestic prowess of doing such will run out, Johnson thought, smiling. Pulling a black-and-white photo from the top pocket of his combat jacket – a jacket in which he’d worn in his service days – the photo depicted the long-haired biker who went by the name of Venom. He was estimated to be in his fifties. He’d once worked with, and ran, a biker gang in and around the Cardiff area called The Boas.
They could have gone directly to Venom’s old M/C but they wouldn’t have known his whereabouts either. Johnson was also pretty sure they weren’t harbouring the man. Besides, had they turned up at The Boas HQ asking all kind of silly questions, the brown sticky stuff would have hit the fan. Johnson didn’t want that. He had neither the bullets nor men to waste or spare, if the stories about Venom were true, of course.
Johnson’s backer had been very convincing and afraid, stating that Venom was out there. Even prison walls have ears, Johnson thought. But if Venom was still out here, then why hadn’t he gone after Johnson’s payer and ended it all years ago?
No, something screwy was going on, and Johnson was going to get to the bottom of it. He was in too deep to not learn the truth now. One way or the other, he’d find out. And, if it did turn out to be a wild goose chase, then Johnson would be paying his man a visit. No amount of security and bought thugs on the inside would keep the man safe.
Should Johnson fail, however, then he was pretty sure Hun would send a legion of his bikers after him. Hun. What a laugh. Why would anyone name themselves that? Hun. Attila, none the less. The biker leader, who was probably as old as the Hunnic Empire, had adopted the name because of his love for the ancient leader. He’d even named his gang The Huns.
And, just like the old ruler, Hun and his gang of misfits would often go on plundering sprees to the other side of Cardiff. Boa territory. They would cause as much carnage, death and damage as possible in one hit. Their rivalry went on for years and years making headlines daily. Until a showdown in a local pub one night turned ugly, resulting in the death of many bikers.
Johnson rubbed the photo with his thumb. He knew they were close. He had that tingly feeling at the back of his neck. Being a man of power himself, he’d pulled together all his resources and had his scouts all over the country keeping their ear to the ground. Listening. Watching.
From the last sighting in the Valleys, South Wales, the search had continued on to the next town a few miles down the road. Then another, and another, and another – lead after lead had been followed, taking then from Wales to England. The convoy had grown with the passing of hunting days.
The muscle would come in handy, if the stories were to be believed, when they eventually found their subject cornered someplace. More trackers would have been nice. They could have helped sniff out the pesky cockroach. Johnson knew his tracking skills weren’t as good as they used to be. Hell, he could have found the man by just sniffing a pair of his dirty socks at one time. But now, age was creeping in. Slowing him down. His shot with a rifle was just as spot on, though.
That would never falter.
Unfastening his seat belt, Johnson opened his door and got out. His frame was bulky. Much too bulky for his six-four stature. He’d put on a few extra pounds after leaving the army ten years ago. He often visited the gym, went running, cycling and swimming, but his fondness for fine wine and food countered the good.
However, the tracking business kept him fit. Fit and young, he would say. And, as clichéd as it sounded, business was good. Booming, in fact.
Taking in a lung full of air, he breathed out. The stench of shit was rife. But he loved it. Loved the smell of nature at work. They stuck mainly to back and disused roads as they travelled at night. A convoy of this size would definitely cause too many questions.
With light breaking, it was time to stop. The convoy had been rolling all night, without so much as a fag break. Most of the drivers would need their rest, he thought, looking up the long line of vehicles, seeing many a dopey face. They were currently on a shoulder of country road, somewhere in the north of England. Close to Manchester, maybe.
Johnson couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a road sign, let alone what had been written on it. Rooting around inside his cargo trousers, he removed a pack of hamlet. Taking one out, he lit it with an expensive-looking Zippo. Releasing a build-up of smoke through his nostrils, he inhaled deeply.
“We’re near our target,” he told Max, who was coming around the front of the Mitsubishi four-by-four. “I can tell.”
“If you say so sir,” Max said.
Johnson looked at the man. Regarded him for a while. For a nigger, Johnson thought, he was very reliable and trustworthy. Had been for many, many years. Nigger? Such an ugly word, but fitting. Max took no offence to it, but still, Johnson would not say it to the man’s face.
He was built like a brick-shithouse. He had muscles on his muscles, with a neck as thick as a bull’s. Max was twenty years his junior and was his most valued man. They’d seen combat together in the Gulf, where Max once again worked under Johnson. They’d become friends. Solid.
After leaving the army and going into the contract killing business, Max had been the first man he’d recruited. Max had been dismissed from the forces due to injury, but the injury did little to affect his new job.
“Oh, I do, Max! Tell the others to stand down – we’ll build a camp in those woods over there. Nothing has passed us by all night or morning on this road, meaning nothing will. The vehicles should be safe out here.”
“We can post guards?”
Johnson nodded. “Do shift swaps.”
“Rolling by six P.M?”
Johnson nodded again as he exhaled smoke through his nostrils and mouth. “Around that, yes. Make sure everyone is ready to go by then. If I decide to move forward earlier, you’ll be the first to know, Max,” he said, smiling at his right-hand man.
“Got it, sir.”
“Make sure they fuel their tanks before they make camp,” Johnson told Max, as the black man headed off on his task. “It’s not good to let the tanks get too dry,” he continued.
“Sure thing, sir.”
Johnson nodded, stuck the cigar back in his mouth, and then took a few more drags. His attention was drawn to the back window of his four-by-four. Inside, and stirring from sleep, was his second most valued soldier, Dawn.
Again, just like Max, she had worked under Johnson during the Gulf war. She too, had been injured during combat and dismissed by the forces. Having worked very closely with Dawn, Johnson felt he could trust her. He’d been more than happy to draft her.
Age roughly the same as Max; Dawn was a family woman, having two young daughters and a husband at home. After her injury, she was determined to go back to action, but was refused many times. Without someone to fight, Dawn would have crawled into many bottles of Gin and stayed there. She would have found her way into an early grave.
Johnson had given her a way out and she’d taken it.
Like Johnson, and many more of his men, she didn’t care who she was killing, or for how much, just as long as she was the ‘good guy’.
He watched as she stretched her arms and arched her back. This in turn thrust her tits out, giving Johnson a good eyeful. She wasn’t much to look at, he thought, but she had a gorgeous figure. He continued to watch her writhing form from behind the reeds of smoke he exhaled.
His jaw line tightene
d with his fascination. He’d been married three times, with all three marriages ending in them hating and divorcing Johnson. That made him smile.
“You’re nothing but a male whore, Carl,” his third and final wife had barked at him as she’d departed. She’d been right. He had womanizing ways and wouldn’t apologize for it. Wife three had emptied his office safe, and taken some of his expensive and most prized possessions.
Four days later, her naked and battered body was found in a roadside culvert. Her neck snapped. Her back broken. It had been labelled a hit-and-run. In truth, Johnson had sent five of his goons after her. He wanted them to violate her. Break her. Kill her.
They’d brought her pissed-soaked panties back for him.
A trophy.
Pleasant thoughts.
Dawn knew he was watching, yet she didn’t care. Didn’t smooth down her hard nipples, which were jutting through the thin fabric of her combat t-shirt. She indulged him. Winked at him. Laughing, she made for the door. He smiled, while opening it for her.
“Care to join us, dear?” he asked.
“Thought you’d never ask,” she said. Her military boots stomped the gravel as she asserted her standing position. “What’s our whereabouts, sir?”
“Somewhere close to Manchester, I think.”
She nodded, thoughtfully. “How long have we been travelling, sir?”
“Two or three hours. I’ve decided to set-up camp for the day.”
“Shouldn’t we push on, sir?”
He loved her enthusiasm – her appetite for action. The death.
“All in good time, Dawn, all in good time.”
“I guess these pussies need a rest,” she said, smiling.
“Says the one waking from a nap?!”
“Only a power-hour, sir,” she gaffed.
“If you say, soldier. Right, catch up with Max and help him inform the others. We’re camping here for the day and its wagons roll at eighteen-hundred-hours.”
“Okay, sir,” she said.
Lazily getting out of the other side of the four-by-four was Johnson’s third and final elite soldier. Another who would die for him. Would follow him to the end of the earth and back again. Geraint.
Geraint had very little military experience, having been thrown out of the army at a young age. He’d been an insubordinate little fuck, resulting in the army being unable to control him. He was a loose cannon and a danger. The perfect man for Johnson’s group of killers.
After leaving the army, the fiery Welshman had fled the U.K. His whereabouts for the past twenty years was anybody’s guess. But, Johnson had got the truth out of the man. It was his job to know his most trusted inside and out. Geraint had made a great deal of money by being a hitman in various countries around the world. He’d been reported as being ‘Very efficient at killing’.
Johnson had taken the man on a few years back. It hadn’t taken Geraint long to gain his new employer’s respect and trust. Max, Geraint and Dawn would be the only privileged ones. He didn’t need anyone else. They were proficient, ruthless and blood-thirsty. They were also extremely devoted to Johnson and the job, which paid extremely well.
“Rest time?” Geraint asked. Johnson nodded, looking directly at the red-headed, big bearded man. He was slight. Ninja-slight. He was also trained in Jiujutsu and various lethal weapons assigned to the deadly martial arts, some of which he carried in a holdall, along with an AK-47 and Uzi. “Good, I want to check my stuff,” he said. “Are we bunking down in those woods?” he asked.
“Yes,” Johnson said, smirking.
“What’s so funny?”
“You check your stuff every stop we make, Geraint. It’s still there – it hasn’t gone anywhere!”
“I know, I’m just touchy about my things.”
Johnson shook his head and moved away from the four-by four. He drank in the surrounding area. It was perfect. Plenty of trees and foliage. Good cover. If I post a few guards down here to look after the vehicles while the rest of us get some shut eye, we can all move on refreshed, Johnson thought.
He watched all the men and woman laugh and joke with each other, as they unloaded bundles, blankets, tents and various other camping paraphernalia. Nobody sported a gun. That was the rule. Knives and other cutting/hacking instruments, but never a gun in broad daylight. Especially on the side of a road, abandoned or not.
Most of his thirty men and women were made up of hardened ex-military, who’d seen plenty of combat. The others were made up of thugs, Huns, thieves, mules, drug pushers and anyone looking to make a quick buck. Not all of them could be trusted, but they knew what would happen if they should even think of crossing Johnson.
Clipping his cigar against the bottom of his boot, Johnson replaced the half-finished smoke back inside the Hamlet box. It was time to address his team.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please. If I could have a moment of your time?” he bellowed. Most looked around to see what was happening – to see who was speaking. A hush fell over the gathering. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware, thanks to my associates Max and Dawn, we are to set-up camp here for the day, leaving at approximately eighteen-hundred-hours, give or take. I’ll assign guards to stay with our vehicles while the rest of sleep, eat or just get some rest. Every hour, there will be a rotation, relieving the lookouts. Max and Dawn will see to the rota. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” one of the Huns called. “When do we get paid for dragging our arses all over the country looking for someone that probably doesn’t exist?!” the biker questioned, which was praised by his fellow Huns.
Johnson laughed. “Always about the money, hey? Well, you’ll all get paid once we’ve found and terminated our target. And believe you me, he’s out there. You Huns should know that better than anyone!”
A hush fell over the group once again.
“What if we don’t find the target?” another wanted to know. “It’s been weeks.”
“Then you shall all be compensated for your trouble,” Johnson said.
They seemed happy with this. They chatted among themselves, nodded and smiled.
“We push on from here at six,” he told them. “I know of a few places where he could be hiding out around here. I also believe the man has family ties in the area. If all else fails, we shall go to the man’s family, and get answers that way, but I don’t think it will come to that. I happen to think we are right on Venom’s heels. We found evidence of his being back at the last town we came through. We just need to keep going.”
Most were happy with how the hunt had gone so far. They knew it was a long, drawn out process. Nearly all gathered with Johnson this time out, had been with him on other ‘adventures’.
“Now, if you’d all like to grab your stuff and follow me into the woods, we’ll get settled. Potentially, we have a very, very long night ahead of us.”
Chapter 24
Johnson had posted four men down by the vehicles after finding a big clearing in the woods to pitch camp. Having erected his one-man tent, Johnson now lay inside and did some thinking. He thought about how tedious his new target had been and how normally he had jobs wrapped up within three or four weeks.
Had he been wrong in taking this job? How would it end?
He thought back to how eager he had been to accept the job, when Hun had put out the call for an exceptional hitman/contract killer.
⃰ ⃰ ⃰
The noise inside the corridor he walked down with two guards was deafening. His arrival had excited them. Some probably knew him. He didn’t always kill his target – it depended on who he was working for. Johnson often did jobs for the old Bill. It kept him in their good books. Allowed him to do what he wanted. To make as much racket as he wanted to on the streets when chasing bad guys.
The caged animals threw stuff at him.
Bottles, paper, cups of piss, even their own turds. It’s fucking sickening, Johnson thought, as he was lead to Hun’s cell. He allowed the missiles to bounce off him
– he didn’t show any signs of annoyance, even though he wanted to kill every last mother-fucking one of them. Preferably as they slept.
The closer he got to Hun’s cell, the missiles and filthy language stopped. Outside the caged biker’s concrete and steel box was one of the biggest men Johnson had ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes on. Johnson considered himself a big man at six-foot-four and eighteen stone, but this guy was almost head-and-shoulders above the ex-soldier.
The Asian man wore nothing but a biker’s cut inscribed with the Hun’s logo. He had muscles on his muscles, with no neck to speak of. His hair looked wet, which flanked both sides of his face. The jeans he wore looked as thought they had been painted on. You couldn’t slip a credit card into the pockets, Johnson thought, they were that tight. His thighs were like over-exaggerated tree trunks.
His chest was covered in oriental art – dragons, pagodas, ghostly faces and gods. At his hip, which was highly unorthodox, was a sheathed hunting knife. I guess money talks, Johnson thought, and smiled at the monster of a man.
When the monster smiled back, a chill ripped down Johnson’s back – the man didn’t have normal teeth. His mouth was filled with sharp-looking metal, which looked as though they could chew through cables. It was horrendous. As the ex-soldier tried to slip past the bulk, the bulk grabbed him by his lapels and reeled him into his chest.
“Shark!” barked the man’s master from the depths of the cell.
By this point, the guards who had been escorting Johnson had dropped back. One had drawn his baton, whilst the other had a stun gun at hand. “Fat lot of good they’ll do on this buffalo,” Johnson struggled.
He was then flung into the cell by the aptly named ‘Shark’.
Annoyed, Johnson turned on the thug, ready to square off against the man, who now filled the entire entrance/exit.
“Enough!” barked the master once again.
As Johnson turned to face Hun, he noticed two more Huns stand up from their sitting position on the bunk bed. They were big, but not like man-mountain on the door; they could probably just about make up his mass if they were melded together.
The Rack & Cue Page 20