Now lurking in the opposite corner of the room, the insiders were not done yet. They were patiently waiting for the next wave of Turkish foot soldiers to arrive, and intended to blast the first responders before reaching for an escape. This protocol had become the hallmark of the Mansouri brothers after they carried out the tactic multiple times with outrageous success during their breakthrough years in the UK.
The insiders were hidden behind the bar and in the tiny storage room respectively. When the panicked son of the now-dead Turkish burst into the main room to discover his father’s motionless body, they remained still. They let him alert the family, who they knew would have to deal with a crisis much larger than the targeted bloodshed staining the gambling room.
Now they could hear more men pacing toward the main concourse. They had waited almost an hour already and the time had come to finish the job.
Since the outset of their spying assignment years ago, the insiders had refined even further their eavesdropping skills and uncanny ability to get a blind feeling for a scene. Someone was running across the hall toward the main hall, stealthily but nevertheless perceptibly. The door creaked open. Two, maybe three men entered the room, speaking with deep, anxious voices. A couple more men arrived in haste twenty seconds later, and the distress in their tones was unmistakable – they were panicking at the sight of the carnage.
For the insiders, it was time to act. Mustafa had transmitted clear instructions. Be ruthless, maximum damages, no prisoners, no survivors.
The two spies broke out of their hiding places, and in no more than three seconds, they had fired a slew of salvos and emptied their magazines. The first responders dropped like houseflies on the already body-ridden floor. The sight was gut-wrenching, even for seasoned professionals trained in the art of duplicity, but there was no time for empathy. It was time to flee.
Precisely at this moment, three more gunshots resonated through the room, and then some. The insiders had barely the chance to make eye contact with each other before losing their grip on reality and falling to the ground. It was all a blur, but the youngest of the two had just enough time to witness a pair of brown crocodile-leather boots stepping inches away from his face. He saw a silver handgun fire one more bullet, but he did not feel any worse. He knew that model, a sleek and reliable Tokyo Marui M92F. He had set his sight on one just like, identifying the prized firearm as the perfect tool to kick-start his fledgling career in the Mansouri organization. The silver gun swung again. Then everything went black.
“Fucking cunts! Trying to pull a double hit on us.” Teddy Harper spat on the two men’s inert bodies.
Samuel Wilkinson followed just a few yards behind, cautiously stepping over the cadavers and checking the corners of the room for more intruders.
“What a bloody carnage, how did they let that happen!”
“Fat titties was a softy after all. He deserved a more noble death,” Teddy said.
“May he rest in peace. He died like a man of power.”
"He died like a stupid faggot, yeah!" Teddy replied. "Unsuspecting of the Judas seated at his own poker table. They probably even let him win to lower his defense." He kneeled and inspected the scattered corpses, in the hope of finding one that might still be alive.
Watching the accumulation of decimated bodies before him, Samuel felt a foreboding twitch in his chest. He wasn't like Teddy; he wasn't ready to die, not yet. After all, he was the designated heir of the Wilkinson clan, and he had a destiny to fulfill – that of restoring his family's former glory.
His final mission as a mentee promised to be much more treacherous than anticipated. His father had warned him about the cunning Mansouris, and he had heard plenty of stories from his uncles about the Great War of the Underworld that took London by storm at the turn of the millennium. The Mantes-la-jolie boys and their soldiers were not to be underestimated, but in his short career as the second in command of a major drug cartel, Samuel had learned how to turn a dire situation into a cunning advantage.
“What do we do now?” Teddy asked, waiting for his employer to show commitment in what seemed to be the beginning of a new gang war.
“Now we wait, Teddy, we wait... “ He searched one of the insiders’ body, then moving on to the next, but to no avail. He added, “My old man and the Turkish patriarch will decide if we engage into an all-out feud. And we’ll execute. It might be suicide though, judging by what’s in front of us here. No rash decision, my friend, never.”
Teddy Harper grunted at the prospect of having to back down. He was just getting started. Two men down already, he felt he was on a roll.
"But whatever they decide," Samuel said, "I have my own ambitions. And you'll be instrumental to those ambitions Teddy; you can be sure of that."
CHAPTER 44
The unfortunate turn of events at the gambling parlor was the only inauspicious setback the Mansouris had experienced in the immediate aftermaths of their blitz operation. The two fallen insiders were reliable spies that had successfully infiltrated one the main competitors of the Mantes-la-jolie boys for over half a decade. As was customary in the organization, the next of kin of the defuncts would wake up the following morning significantly wealthier. A pile of cash would await in their mailbox, with the promise of further monthly installments.
The silver lining in all this was that the Aydin family had lost nine of its most high-profile members, including several of their most trusted advisors. Mustafa wasn't ready to stop just yet. He wanted to take an active part in the vendetta. Such was the depth of the grudge he held against any man who attempted to take his brother's life.
Following the death of his sister Yasmina, and as they drove toward the South of France, Mustafa had taken the vow to become an impenetrable wall that would protect those he loved from the hostile outside world. In hindsight, it had been a shallow and vague wish, but for the first time in his life, he had felt an implacable sense of duty toward his only remaining sibling. He devoted the following years to becoming a killing machine for that very purpose. A magnificent instrument of death, well-versed in the art of bare-hand fighting, pistol firing and close protection.
The most astounding dimension of that transformation, however, had been learned at the contact of the Corsicans he met shortly thereafter. In just a year, the foolhardy street fighter had morphed into an expert in guerrilla warfare. With a team of as little as five competent men, he was now capable of taking over a villa defended by fifty guards. Over a decade years later, the lessons from the Corsican episode were still deeply ingrained in him.
Of course, London wasn’t exactly Corsica. The dense forest of bricks and steel was just as treacherous to navigate as the Mediterranean scrubland, but the half-a-million CCTV surveillance cameras scrutinizing every corner of Greater London meant that he had to be more deliberately heedful and pivot his style. The reconnaissance groundwork was all the more instrumental.
In the sprawling urban jungle however, financial and human resources were in his favor. What Mustafa did not have in Corsica was a whole structure designed to support his vengeful effort. And after almost two decades treading the shadowy alleys of the London underworld, he knew how to conduct a stealth military operation in the British capital better than any man on the planet.
The killings went on for the following two days. Six more members of the Aydin family were executed, with Mustafa leading the charge without pity. On the first day, he had guided the black squad to a fabric warehouse right next to the London City Airport, where the Aydins stored hefty quantities of narcotics. The whole operation had lasted under five minutes. Three low-level Turkish dealers had been shot in the head. The fourth man – one of the sons of Dervis Aydin, another prominent figure amongst the Aydins brethren – had been harder to liquidate. Quietly tucked in his office as the death squad launched the assault, he had pulled out his gun and fired frenetically in the direction of the intruders. The soldiers had slowly made their way across the warehouse, as the man exhausted his ammuni
tion in sheer terror. A click had echoed through the hall, and before he had a chance to reload, three dark figures had suddenly erupted on the exterior side of his office window and had opened fire all at once, shattering the tinted glass and the man’s frail skeleton.
On the second day, the squad had attempted a bold breakthrough into the secondary house of Dervis Kemal himself. Their target, on high alert and well-prepared, had fled at the first hint of danger. Two men had been killed amidst the chaos, but Mustafa and his brigade had succeeded at what they came there to do. They had instilled an unshakable fear into one of the top Aydin patriarchs.
Mustafa didn’t have to wait for long. At the end of the two days, he received a phone call that would change the course of the gang war that had just begun.
. . .
Lloyds Davies had never been much of a tough lad. By his own account, he was most comfortable on in isolation in front of a computer screen. In truth, he had never been in a fight in his entire life, not even a brawl. When most men could remember a couple of nasty altercations, Lloyds had managed to avoid all form of bodily harm since he was born. He had talked himself out of a few fishy situations in the early days in Angel, but most of the time, his combat virginity had been preserved by shunning shady areas and suspect crowds such as the all-to-prevalent groups of hooded roadmen teeming the capital’s least well-off boroughs.
Therefore, he was utterly unprepared when he was taken. The black van that hurtled on Adams Row as he strolled carefree in the direction of the tube station took him by surprise. The rapt was swift and virtually painless.
The kidnapper had ungodly strength, or so it felt. He burst out of the van and carried him as if he was a mere child. The black linen bag now sliding over his head insulated the morning light perfectly.
By the time Lloyd realized he had been victim of a kidnapping, the van was speeding up across the city. He had felt a sharp turn, and his best guess was that they were going south. He had never considered the possibility of being abducted, not in the most developed city in the old world, not an ordinary white man like him.
Amidst the panic creeping in, he was trying to figure out who on earth could possibly wish him harm. He found no answer, which made his heart pound even faster.
The vehicle wasn't showing any sign of slowing down. He was trying to figure out his captor's itinerary by the movements of the van, but his initial fright had made him lose his bearings in the first five minutes. So it was pointless, he figured, they could be going in any direction now. His only hope was to pick up a familiar sound, in spite of the deafening white noise of the roaring engine. The flow of the river Thames, bells ringing, a ship honking. Anything!
Lying on the steel floor of the van, his hands tied and his vision blocked, had been as wretched a position as he had ever been in. He had just started to get used to the barbarous discomfort when the van braked abruptly. His restrained body rolled over the metallic floor and crashed into the hollow steel divider. He let out a loud squawk as the vehicle came to a complete stop.
“Ta gueule, le traitre!” The harsh-voiced lament came from the driver seat, just inches away from him across the thin metal wall. What the hell was that? A foreigner? Lloyd’s mind immediately wandered to the numerous scary stories he had read about East European criminals abducting passersby in plain sight and torturing them for days.
His heart jumped to his mouth, pumping blood frantically, as he listened to the man get off the vehicle, slid open the door, and spring in the back of the van.
“On y va mon coco, l’heure de vérité.” The man heaved him from the cold, rugged surface and pulled him to the side, where his buttocks found a welcome elevated bench. Lloyd was in shambles, utterly confused and frightened, but suddenly, he could see again. His abductor hurled the black cloth across the enclosed space.
Lloyd realized that a thunderous silence had replaced the hum of the engine. His ears were adapting back to this changed auditory environment, and the hint of economic activity outdoors became increasingly perceptible in the distance.
He opened his eyes tentatively and instinctively raised his eyebrows in bewilderment. The man crouching in front of him was wearing a navy blue wool mask. The piece of clothing was bulging slightly right below his nose, which Lloyd reckoned was indicative of a thick mustache. Or a deformed face. The man’s eyes were dark, not just in color, but in intensity as well. Lloyd thought of screaming for help, but he knew that his grumpy host wouldn’t let that happen without consequences.
Chevalier broke the ice. “Lloyd Davis, pay careful attention to what I am gonna say.”
Lloyd felt a brief relief as he finally placed the man’s accent – he was French, there was no doubt about it.
"I am not here to be your friend," the man said. "I am going to ask you a series of questions. Whether you live or die will depend on your answers to those questions." As he finished his sentence, Chevalier seized a gun and a sheet of paper.
Lloyd immediately understood how dire his present situation was, and his abductor’s origin couldn’t matter less now. He tried to spur the composure he so badly needed, but he saw no branches to chew on.
The man produced a print copy of a picture, and asked, “Do you recognize this person?”
The face of the man was a familiar sight. He had met him a few times, but they never developed any kind of friendship. The age difference was too broad, and they had little in common anyway. It was Mehmet Kemal.
"We've exchanged a few words when I was living in Angel, but that's it. I swear I haven't-"
“Next question,” Chevalier interrupted. “Do you know what this is?”
The man was holding a tiny silver pill-sized device between his fingers. Lloyd knew his every reaction was being scrutinized. “I have no idea. Some sort of pill?” he said. “Please, Sir, I’m the wrong-”
“Shut your mouth! Just answer my questions.” He was now withdrawing a tiny bag of cocaine from his pocket and tossed it on Davies’ lap. “Can you tell me what that is?”
The expression of Lloyd’s face betrayed a blend of sheer bafflement and terrorized awe. It was obviously cocaine, and he was unable to figure out what that man was after. He considered his options as a droplet flowed across his cheek, tracing his jawbone before breaking from this chin. He said hesitantly, "This...this looks like drugs. I don't know!"
“Have you used before?” The man’s voice was crisp and clear.
"No, I've never touched drugs," Lloyds said immediately, hoping that his honesty would get him out of this nightmare.
“Cut the crap, Davies. We know you’re working for a drug cartel.” Chevalier was not playing any longer.
“Wha...a drug cartel? It’s the first time I’m even in the presence of drugs!”
“Fucking wanker, we’ll see if you keep lying when you’re dead.” Jérôme Chevalier clutched Lloyd by the collar and bashed the barrel of his handgun onto his temple. Lloyd clenched his mouth, unwilling to voice the sharp pain that had just hit him.
"You fucking traitor, we know you work for Kemal Aydin!" Chevalier shouted in his ear. "Confess, and you'll live. Lie again, and I'll blow your fucking head off."
“I swear, I’m no one, I’m a simple trader, you’ve got the wrong man!” Lloyd pleaded in desperation, fighting the urge to cry.
His heart sank when he saw the mercurial man search his pocket and pull out a knife. He stiffened his body to try and attenuate the impact of the impeding stab, but instead, the blade came cutting through the zip tie that was holding his hands together. The man smashed the door open and said, “You’re free. Get the fuck out of here!”
In total disbelief, Lloyd cramped out of the van, and ran for his life, throwing nervous glances behind him to ensure this wasn’t yet another trick. Seconds later, the van was out of sight.
Lloyds peered around him in anguish, his heart still racing. He was in Brixton, just one street away from his new apartment.
CHAPTER 45
It was just before seven
P.M. when Zakariya received a laconic yet momentous text message from his brother. “We got the traitor. Aydins have confessed. Meeting you at lucky 77 asap.”
Mustafa wasn't answering his phone, so Zakariya decided that the only thing to do now was indeed to make his way to his club in Mayfair. During the short twenty-minute trip, he mulled over one more time why each lieutenant might want him buried six feet under.
Earlier that day, Jérôme Chevalier had reported that the chances of Lloyd Davies having anything to do with the Aydins were as good as nil. Yet, as he turned on Brook Street in his glistening anthracite Mercedes sedan, doubt crept back in his mind. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that one of his lieutenants would betray him of the sort, and he felt he had to ponder the case of Lloyd all over again.
Upon hearing Chevalier's report, he had breathed a sigh of relief at Lloyd's loyalty, but at the same time, he realized that suspecting him in the first place was just a sign that the ambient paranoia reigning in the underworld had finally gotten to him. He recognized that he was biased and that the most logical explanation was that one of his lieutenants had indeed gone rogue, for whatever reason. The duplicity of men cannot be underestimated, even those closest to you, Mustafa had once warned him.
His lieutenants all had been exemplary, almost faultless soldiers, over the years. Their devotion couldn't be called into question. Besides, they all had built significant wealth and had power and resources most ambitious corporate men could only dream of. The structure of his organization gave his commanders the freedom to conquer territories and led their own troops as they saw fit. He had decided to model his organization on successful local entrepreneur Richard Branson, who frequently lauded the merits of well-thought-out delegation. By freeing up his time from the day-to-day operations, Zakariya had managed to declutter his mind and mobilize all his gray matter to reflect on the bigger strategic picture.
Bad Blood Empire (Cold Blooded Series Book 2) Page 17