Celt_The Journey of Kyle Gibbs

by Wayne Marinovich

  Darkness made things more difficult than they already were, and he saw one of the targets pushing a box around the side of the big vehicle. They must be planning to make an escape.

  Looking over the top of the scope, he thought that they would either run to the right and back towards the station or left to the safety of the underpass. Most of those distances would be a fairly long enough run for him to track with the rifle and kill at least two of them.

  Suddenly gunshots from both groups whizzed over his head and thumped into the brickwork just below his position. He inched his trigger finger down again and chose to focus on the right-hand Volkswagen. Out of the corner of the crosshairs, he saw movement and swung the rifle to the left to see a body running towards the shop. He tracked as fast as he could and was about to squeeze when the man dived through the hole in the glass.

  ‘Scheisse!’ he screamed, knowing full well that he would have to cover three target areas now. It was not going well; three targets meant three groups firing at him. He decided to focus on the broken window instead. Let the next one try to dive through.

  More bullets fizzed over his head, and a single one hit the lip of the roof, showering him with concrete and broken roof tile. Bullets hit the concrete section of the roof. They were getting closer. He looked up again just as another pair of legs disappeared through the window.

  It was a futile exercise now, so Woolf stayed below the rim. Another opportunity would present itself. He broke down the rifle and carefully packed it into a brown duffle bag, which he slung over his shoulder as he snuck away to the centre of the roof. A loud screech reverberated across the roof as he swung open the steel trapdoor, the metal ladder leading into the dark belly of the building reminding him of a descent into hell.

  A dank draught blew into his face as he reached the top floor and walked across the landing to the main stairs. Hundreds of watching eyes from the hidden hovels and homemade corners followed him as he walked. Laundry hung on stolen telephone wire that spanned across the derelict stairwells, limiting his view. Someone could jump him at any moment. Turning to walk down the top flight of cracked wooden stairs, he saw four men with axes and metal poles waiting at the bottom of the first landing.

  ‘Step aside and let me through,’ Woolf said. ‘I don’t want to hurt any of you, not in front of all your families.’

  The man who had commandeered his watch the day before pushed his way through the group of rag-wearing men, carrying a home fashioned machete. ‘Leave that large bag behind and we may let you out alive.’

  ‘Don’t be idiots,’ he said. ‘You already have my expensive watch so that should be enough to cover my exit.’

  ‘We will decide what your exit value is, mate,’ the man said, waving the large blade at him.

  Woolf sighed and reached inside his jacket for the safe feel of his Heckler and Koch P8. He pulled the weapon with its noise suppressor out and floored all four men where they stood.

  Keeping the weapon at his side, he walked down the stairs and stepped over the scattered bodies. Reaching towards a body, he ripped his watch from the dead man’s wrist.

  Chapter 24

  Vauxhall, London, England, UK - 2019

  The smell of fresh jasmine and warm water woke Gibbs from a deep sleep. Sleep he had craved and needed after a long week. He sat up on the mattress that had been placed on the floor in the centre of the room. It had been a long time since he had slept between freshly cleaned sheets. Behind him stood a cupboard with military uniforms folded and hung with the precision of a well-ordered person. He looked across the neat room at the oak chest of drawers that stood next to a small dressing table with a large mirror placed on top. Next to the mattress, an antique wooden wine box with a few old candles had been used as a bedside table with an empty bottle of whisky and two glasses on top of it.

  He frowned and massaged his brow at the dull hangover headache begun to pound incessantly.

  ‘What would you give to have two aspirin right now?’ Captain Sharon Matthews asked.

  Gibbs started to speak, and then stopped as he stared at the toned naked body of the woman in front of him while she dried her short blonde hair with a bright pink towel. Beads of water were surfing their way down her defined feminine form, trying to escape the impending drought.

  ‘Well bring that body over here and you’ll find out,’ he replied, trying not to leer at her.

  ‘Sadly, you won’t find any tablets in this flat so may I suggest you have a quick shower so we can go and find breakfast.’

  ‘It’s so bloody early, come back to bed.’

  ‘No, Gibbs, get up and make the bed. You do remember how, don't you?’ she said, throwing the wet towel at him. It did smell of jasmine.

  Later that morning they held hands as they walked together in silence through a busy park behind Sharon’s flat. Stopping at a few market stalls that sold bits of other people’s junk, they hurried on as the smell of bacon from a reasonably hygienic food stall drew them away.

  ‘Did you have a chance to speak to your contact at MI6?’ Gibbs asked. ‘I am keen to find out who was behind Angola.’

  ‘Gibbs, you can say “my ex” you know, you don’t have to keep calling him my contact,’ she teased.

  ‘Okay then, what did your ex have to say?’

  ‘I spoke to him yesterday, and he said it was proving difficult to get all the pieces of the puzzle for the Angolan trip because a lot of information had gone missing.’

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘Removed, deleted, whatever you want to call it but he did keep seeing the name John Mountford popping up quite a bit and he apparently works with a group of wealthy individuals in some club or another,’ she said.

  ‘Damn it, that sounds like the same individuals who hired us. Did he mention a David Kirkwood at all?’

  ‘He did. And your friend Captain Warren also showed up although I don't understand what he has to do with it as he should still be based up in Grangemouth. Why would they send out so many teams to help with a coup, yet have none of the teams meet up?’

  ‘If you want to appear to be helping a government, you need to create a crisis first, and then you step in to help diffuse the crisis by bringing the men who perpetrated that crime to justice,’ he explained. ‘I think we were named as the team working with the rebels during the coup.’

  ‘So it was a set-up then?’

  ‘I hadn't thought so in the beginning while we did all the planning, but once we were in Angola, my suspicions grew. After they had attempted to take us out the other day, I am sure it was a set-up. Can you do me another favour?’

  ‘If you buy me breakfast first,’ she said.

  ‘Deal,’ he said squeezing her hand. ‘I’ve been struggling to get hold of a man by the name of Mason Waterfield. I think he might be able to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was one of the first people I met with and was responsible for hiring me, yet his name doesn’t appear to be on any of the intelligence about the coup, so either he is the mastermind behind the whole thing and covering his tracks really well, or he is also in mortal danger.’

  ***

  John Mountford climbed the stairs of a nondescript house on the quiet Mount Road, off the expanse of Hyde Park in London. He glanced around to make sure that no one had followed him. The CCTV camera positioned on the adjacent building would already have alerted the occupants in the house of his arrival, so he stopped in front of the white door and lifted his hand to use the large brass knocker. The knot in his stomach tightened even more.

  A tall blond man, who John recognised as Lord Butler’s right-hand man, opened the door, his huge frame blocking the entrance. He stared at John, looking him up and down.

  ‘Hello, Markus,’ John nodded.

  The German giant grunted a greeting and stepped aside, his right hand never leaving the Heckler and Koch pistol tucked into the back of his trousers as he glanced past the visitor to scan the street.
/>   ‘A usual beacon of happiness, I see,’ John said, brushing past the man.

  Taking a deep breath, John entered the stuffy old study on the first floor. The walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with all manner of books and old magazines. Lord Butler was seated behind a large stained oak desk, reading from a red leather-bound book. ‘Come on in, John, and have a seat. It is so nice to see you,’ Lord Butler said.

  ‘Morning, sir. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,’ John said, sinking into one of the big red leather antique chairs.

  ‘That's quite alright, John. Have you ever read Sun Tzu’s The Art of War?’

  ‘No, sir. I cannot say that I have.’

  ‘You really should, John. It will help you with some of the Billionaire Club politics. I particularly love this quote - Appear where they cannot go, head for where they expect you least.’

  ‘I'll have to read it, sir,’ John replied.

  ’Yes, you could learn a thing or two. Now, John, it’s highly irregular to meet outside the scheduled Club meetings, so, I can only assume this urgent meeting is to discuss the disappearance of your hired guns in Africa.’

  John Mountford swallowed hard.

  ‘These same men who were supposed to take the blame for the failed coup attempt,’ Lord Butler said. ‘Am I correct?’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘Well, one of my African sources has recently been in touch with me. He informed me that the coup was successfully quelled and that the Angolan government is now extremely grateful for our help and thus is more inclined to agree with us regarding our global resource strategies,’ Lord Butler said.

  ‘That is a fortuitous result, sir,’ John said. ‘We still have the other problem, though.’

  ‘No, John. You still have that problem. Your team let the scapegoats get away. I warned you not to use that team under Captain Warren. The German ex-Special Forces soldier you just walked past in the corridor a few minutes ago, looked at all the team resumes for me and said that the wrong teams were doing the wrong tasks. That has now clearly been proven right, hasn’t it?’

  ‘I take your point, Lord Butler, but regardless of who is to blame, it still needs to be sorted,’ John said.

  ‘And I take it you want my help in tidying up your little mess?’

  ‘Well, sir, you do claim to have contacts all over the world,’ John said.

  ‘Easy on the sarcasm, my dear boy. Show me the respect I believe I have earned as the founder of the Billionaires Club,’ Lord Butler said. ‘You have made quite a few enemies within the Club with that petulant attitude of yours. I must warn you not to add me to that list.’

  John turned pale. ‘Yes, Lord Butler. My sincere apologies. I am just so keen to sort this problem out as soon as I can. We were unable to pick up their trail in Africa after they gave our men the slip at the refinery. ’

  ‘Well, the one thing we know for sure is that they will be travelling under false identities. I take it that you’ve already contacted David Kirkwood to verify what those names are?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we have.’

  ‘That’s a positive start at least.’

  ‘We believe there was a sighting of one of them in Dover and that they are back in the UK already. We are just not sure where,’ John said.

  Lord Butler was silent for a few seconds, looking at the young man sitting before him. A man who was lying to his face. ‘I will use my own, more reliable, resources to track them as they travel. Let them travel around freely and get comfortable on home soil. When they drop their guard, we can then deal with the situation ourselves at the time of our choosing. I am concerned that if they get caught up in the legal system first, silencing them will be more difficult at a later stage.’

  ‘I have men in the prison services here who can do that job,’ John added.

  ‘What, and give them the chance to strike a deal with the prosecution service?’

  ‘At least they could be silenced before any trial,’ John Mountford said.

  ‘No, John, that’s what your man was supposed to do in Angola, thus eliminating any chances of it coming back to haunt you. It will have to happen in the UK now. Let the targets move around freely and watch them carefully. Oh, and call Captain Warren back to London immediately before he causes any unpleasant diplomatic incidents.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ John replied.

  ’Before you leave here, I have to let you know that I have long backed your position in the Club, John, despite everyone telling me I shouldn’t.’ Lord Butler said.

  ’And I thank you for that, sir,’ John Mountford said, shifting in his seat.

  ‘So it breaks my heart and angers me to learn that not only have you been lying to my face as you sit here but you have been hiding things from me. Is that how you repay my continual support?’

  ‘I don’t follow, sir.’

  ‘Hiring one of my key personnel in a failed attempt to assassinate the team led by Kyle Gibbs and being stupid enough to believe that I wouldn’t find out about it,’ Lord Butler said.

  John sat with his mouth open, his heart pounding in his chest.

  ‘It was a reckless and amateurish endeavour, John. The job was rushed and not thought through properly at all. Luckily some good has come out of it,’ Lord Butler said.

  John frowned, swallowing hard as his throat felt like a desert.

  ‘Come on, John, think about it. We now know that Gibbs and his men are looking for revenge on the men who set them up to die, and that would be you, John. Our enemy has revealed his intent,’ Lord Butler said, tapping the red book on his desk.

  ‘I will take care of it, sir.’

  ‘Yes, and you will only get one more chance to rectify this issue, my friend. I am growing tired of your incompetence.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You also had better look into one Captain Sharon Matthews, she is asking very pertinent and difficult questions in the intelligence community and getting closer to finding you,’ Lord Butler said, picking up the book. ‘Make sure it all goes away this time, John.’

  Chapter 25

  Clapham, London, England, UK - 2019

  Captain John Warren stood in the teeming rain outside what looked like an abandoned old bar. He had been instructed to attend a meeting with someone who he did not like. The man inside was going to have a go at him about his recent failure in Africa. He couldn’t wait to get back to Scotland. The green tiled walls and blackened out windows added to the mystery of the building before him. A distant thumping baseline from a nearby building shook the pavement where he was standing. The faded brass lettering above the door of The Goat pub glistened in the evening drizzle. A large doorman filled the doorway, glaring down at him as he approached.

  ‘Have you been in here before, mate?’ the man said, dressed in a long black trench coat and Doc Martin boots.

  ‘I have,’ John Warren replied, looking up at the giant of a man who slowly moved out of the way.

  ‘Well, just a friendly reminder. Keep your hands to yourself unless you are paying for the goods.’

  He entered through the blackened entrance and walked down a dozen wooden steps into the darkness. The dim atmosphere was intensified by the blackened-out window panes, and he stopped to allow his eyes to acclimatise to the dark. His memory failed to identify the classic rock song booming out of oversized speakers around the dimly lit old pub, and he forced himself to focus on the reason for his visit.

  Scantily-clad young ladies huddled together in a small enclave, smoking and chatting. They all looked up at him simultaneously as he walked past. Two more topless girls were perched on barstools at the velvet and leather-lined bar counter. They stopped speaking what sounded like Russian and smiled seductively at him. He nodded then scanned the bar and saw John Mountford seated in a side booth with a lady companion.

  John sat up. ‘Give us a few minutes, love,’ he said to the topless woman straddling his lap. She slipped out of the leather booth, smiling at John Warre
n as he stared down at her large swinging breasts.

  ‘Take a seat, Captain.’

  He obliged and slipped into the grimy plastic seat opposite the billionaire.

  John Mountford took a large swig of his whiskey. ‘I have spoken to Lord Butler, and we are both in agreement that this Gibbs affair needs to be cleaned up bloody quickly. Failure to do so will result in you and your team not receiving the balance of money owed to you.’

  ‘But that’s…’

  John slammed his hand down on the table. ‘Don’t interrupt me again, Captain. Is that clear? You fucked up a very simple mission which resulted in me having to grovel in front of the founding member of the Billionaires Club for his help. A leading member who takes great joy in paying brutal men to dispose of anyone who screws up or crosses him in any way. That means both you and me right now. Do you understand?’

  ‘Shit, I had no idea the Club was directly involved in this. I thought it was David Kirkwood’s operation. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Kirkwood reports directly to the man who started it all, someone, who despises incompetence and loose ends.’

  John Warren swallowed hard; a bead of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  ‘Here is what you are going to do, Captain. You are going to make this whole bloody issue disappear. If you don’t complete the job, you will never do business with our organisation again. Are those threats clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will need time to try and track down Gibbs and his men.’ he said, his voice trailing off as John leaned forward.

  ‘After the fiasco in Angola, did you believe that I would give this job to you without taking direct control of it? No chance, Captain, from now on you take direct orders from me and report back to me on a daily basis. Are we clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We know they used false passports when they left for Angola. What we didn’t know was that they had a second set of false passports made, which they have now used to re-enter the UK and move around freely. That’s the reason you couldn’t track their movements out of Africa. We got very lucky in Dover when a resource of ours recognised one of Gibbs’s men coming in via Calais.’