by Conrad Jones
Chapter Seventy-Nine
The Gecko
Nate Bradley held a Glock 17 in his left hand. He caressed the barrel lovingly with his right. The gun felt cold to touch, yet it was familiar and comforting to hold. He knew the police were outside watching, but he didn’t care. There didn’t seem to be any answers to his questions or any finishing line ahead. He had tracked and killed the dealers directly responsible for supplying the drugs, which had killed his son and destroyed his wife. His partnership with Patrick Lloyd had been madness, but then the world was mad. The newspapers told him that Patrick Lloyd was Jack Howarth. A notorious paedophile wanted for murder and kidnap. How had he not seen through his lies until it had been too late?
Nate had seen the evil that man could inflict upon man at close quarters. He had designed and carried out some of the most horrific torture techniques known to man, but it had been a means to an end. What Patrick Lloyd had done had been evil for the sake of being evil. Nate had caused suffering in order to extract information. It was his profession, his job, his legacy. Intelligence officers across the planet used his techniques. Human suffering had meant nothing to him back then, but suddenly that had changed. He had thought that killing the dealers responsible for his loss would somehow stop the pain, but it hadn’t. It was still there. Pain and guilt oozed from every pore. Nate wasn’t sure which was worse, the pain of losing his family or the guilt for the years he had neglected them. Had he caused them to take the path they had chosen, or would it have happened anyway? He couldn’t answer the questions.
He pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple and squeezed his eyes closed. His finger wrapped around the trigger, and he felt the sensitive mechanism budge slightly. A few millimetres more and his pain would stop, he could be with his family and the agony would end. There would be no more hatred, no more questions and no more guilt, just peace. He longed for peace, an end to the gut-twisting grief he felt night and day. His hand was steady, but his finger refused to move the final distance. He just couldn’t end it now. He wasn’t scared of death, when it came he would embrace it, but now wasn’t the time. He would know when the time was right. He didn’t know how he would know, but he would. He was convinced that he would.
Nate put the gun into a polystyrene box moulded to house it and then placed the box back under the floorboards where it couldn’t be found. He slid the carpet back into place and walked to the window. His living room was neat and tidy. It was over a week ago that he had returned home and an army of police had descended on him. They had searched his house, confiscated his computer and telephone and questioned him at the station for twenty-four hours. Nate could hardly remember any of the questions they had asked. Despite all their theories, they had nothing to hold him on. His home was clean, and they had returned his computer and telephone to him. The superintendent in charge of the case knew he was lying, but there simply wasn’t any proof. They had put him under surveillance, but Nate went about his business as if they weren’t there. He hadn’t moved the drugs from the lockup after killing Leon Tanner because no one would stumble across them. Nate had taken the money from the lockup and along with the holdall full of cash, which he had snatched at the docks, he had parcelled it up and posted it to the headquarters of the charity Help for Heroes. He wasn’t sure how much there was, but he reckoned it was close to four hundred thousand pounds.
He moved the curtain slightly and peeked through the blinds. Two detectives were watching his house from a black Nissan. They were less than a hundred yards up the road. He wasn’t sure who had taught them their surveillance skills, but he was sure that they needed more training. He closed the curtain and headed into the kitchen. A radio stood next to a silver microwave, and a boy band that he couldn’t recognise crooned an irritating ballad. He switched it off and opened a cupboard above the microwave. He took a glass tumbler out and then reached for a half-empty bottle of Bells whisky. It had been full an hour ago. He twisted the top off and poured the amber liquid into the glass. It helped to silence the questions in his head. As he took a sip, he heard a tapping on the kitchen window. His heart beat faster as he turned toward it. The light reflected off it and at first, all he could see was his own reflection. He thought about running for the Glock, but it was too far away. A fraction of a man’s face appeared at the window and he tapped again. Nate thought he recognised the man, but the shock stopped him from moving. The man pointed to the back door, indicating that he should open it. Nate sipped the whisky again and thought about his next move. The man knocked again, but this time it was louder.
Chapter Eighty
Smithdown Road
“There it is,” Sami pointed to a row of shops. “The North Pole?” He sneered. “I don’t get it. Why call a shop that?” A joke shop stood between a charity shop and a newsagent. A taxi office and a kebab shop flanked them. The shop fronts were decayed and scruffy looking, a mishmash of coloured signs and peeling paint caged behind metal security grills. “The garages are behind the shops.” He pointed to his telephone screen and an aerial photograph of the area zoomed in on the alleyway at the rear of the joke shop. “Google earth says so,” he laughed. “You want the one with the brown door.”
“What if there’s anyone around?” A young Turk leaned between the front seats of the black Audi to get a better look at the screen. “Can you see anyone on there?” He said, looking at the picture.
“Are you fucking stupid, Murat?” Sami laughed. “Take that bag and go get the boss’s drugs.” Murat looked offended as he grabbed a dark blue rucksack off the back seat. “Go with him,” Sami instructed a third man. “Make sure he doesn’t get scared on his own.”
“Fuck you, Sami,” Murat laughed as he climbed out of the car. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and get us a kebab. This won’t take long.”
“Why not, I’m starving,” Sami grunted and shuffled his huge frame out of the vehicle. “Don’t fuck it up, any problems, call me.”
“Blah blah,” Murat moaned as he crossed the road. It was late, and there were a few cars on the road. “Have you got the bar, Raba?” He asked his colleague. Raba opened his long coat to reveal a steel wrecking bar. The men walked by the taxi office, which was manned by a single radio operator. She glanced up as the Turks walked by but didn’t pay any notice to them. The smell of stale urine hit them as they turned into the alleyway. The yellow glow from the streetlights on the main road couldn’t penetrate the darkness at the back of the shops, and it took a while for their eyes to adjust. “I didn’t hear him calling me stupid when we torched that pig’s house, did you?”
“No, we did a good job there,” Raba chuckled. “No one was getting out of there, went up like a firework, boom!”
“I can’t see fuck all,” Raba muttered.
“Look for the one with the brown door.” Murat took a narrow torch from the bag and shined it along the garages. One of the garage doors was missing. Another was hanging off at an odd angle, a single bolt suspending it. There were wheelie bins dotted about and rubbish overflowed from the lids. The smell of garlic drifted from the extractor fans at the back of the kebab shop. “Smells good, eh?” Murat sniffed the air.
“All I can smell is piss,” Raba moaned. “There’s a brown one.” He pointed along the alleyway, two shops down. Graffiti covered the panels. The artist had wanted to tell the world that Carol G sucked cocks so much that he had sprayed it four times. The Turks approached the lockup and checked the alleyway for people. Apart from the bins and the rats, it was empty. Murat pulled the handle and the metal door rattled loudly. It sounded louder in the quiet of the alley. “It’s locked,” Murat said.
“What, they locked it?” Raba shook his head, “Sami is right about you, you are fucking stupid.”
“Get the bar under there and less of your shit,” Murat snapped angrily. He hated it when Sami called him stupid, but to be fair to Sami, he knew he was less intelligent than those around him. What he lacked in sense, he made up for in brawn. Murat was a big man packe
d with muscle. Related to the Oguzhan family, he was fiercely loyal. Raba forced the bar under the door and pushed down as hard as he could. The metal shook noisily but didn’t budge.
“Let me try.” Murat nudged him out of the way. He slid the bar further under and pulled the opposite way to Raba. The metal vibrated, the hinges creaking. There was a screeching noise and the lock snapped. He pushed the door up and over the opening. Plastic drums cluttered the garage. There was a grey filing cabinet against the left hand wall. Murat pointed the torch at the cabinet. He stepped inside the garage and picked his way between the drums. “Check that side,” he ordered Raba. Raba walked toward the darkness at the back of the lockup.
“There’s a clock or something here,” he mumbled as he noticed a red glow from the corner. Murat looked over at it. They looked at each other with concerned expressions as the first drum of chlordane exploded. By the time the fourth drum ignited, Murat and Raba were cinders.
Chapter Eighty-One
The Gecko
Nate Bradley swallowed a mouthful of whisky and felt the alcohol burning his throat on the way down. He watched the man walk by the window for a second more, and then he walked to the back door. He unlocked the mortise and twisted the handle. When he opened the door, he caught sight of the figure of a man stepping through the back gate. It creaked closed and the figure was gone. Nate looked around the garden, but there was no one there. He looked down and saw a brown envelope wedged into the doorframe. Taking one last look around, he picked up the envelope and closed the door, locking it immediately. Nate switched the kitchen light off and picked up the whisky glass and the bottle. He walked into the living room and put the glass and the bottle down on the coffee table.
Nate peered out of the curtains again. The two detectives were still sitting in their vehicle. They could not have made it back to the car so quickly if they had left the envelope. Nate was convinced that he had recognised the man, but it seemed so bizarre that he doubted his memory. He had only caught a glimpse, so he could be mistaken. It didn’t add up. He put the curtain back and opened a door on the sideboard. Removing a pair of rubber gloves, he slipped them over his fingers and opened the envelope. Inside was the police file and photograph of Zamir Oguzhan. Nate took the file and sat down on the settee to study it. It made for interesting reading. The police suspected the Turk and his organisation were responsible for importing the bulk of the heroin and cocaine that came into the country. Nate twisted the top off the whisky bottle and filled up his glass. He took a mouthful and swallowed hard before filling it up again. Nate read on and learned that Zamir ran his business from London but had interests across the country. He knew that Salim was dealing from Connections nightclub, and he knew that Leon Tanner had been associated with him, but he had not known who was at the top of the tree until now. There were newspaper clippings in the envelope. He tipped them onto the table. The police accused Jack Howarth of murdering Salim and his family, which troubled Nate, but it seemed that one of the children had survived and was recovering at the Alderhey Children’s’ Hospital. Zamir Oguzhan was responsible for importing the drugs which had poisoned his wife, and he was still in the city, waiting for the doctors to transfer his great-grandchild to a hospital in London.
Nate emptied the whisky glass and refilled it. He gulped it down. Someone wanted Nate to kill Zamir Oguzhan. Why else would they give him the information? Whoever had left the envelope believed he had killed the other dealers, despite the lack of evidence. Either they wanted Oguzhan dead or they were setting Nate up, or the third possibility was they wanted both. The man at the window was using Nate as an assassin, and Nate was almost certain that the deliveryman had been the officer who had arrested him the week before. He was a ginger man called Detective Smith. He swigged the remainder of the whisky and felt the alcohol numbing his senses. His thoughts were swirling around in his mind as he took another bottle from the sideboard. He decided to have a few more drinks before making his mind up. It was late, and nothing would happen tonight.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Zamir
“It’s freezing cold,” Zamir shivered. “I’m too old to live in this climate, maybe it’s time to go home.” The wind from the Irish Sea penetrated his Crombie and tickled his skin with its icy fingers. A ferryboat sounded its foghorn as it docked a mile away on the Pier head. It was just before dawn, but the darkness hadn’t faded yet and the only light came from ornate wrought iron lampposts, which lined the river from the Pier head to Otterspool promenade. “It doesn’t matter how long I live here, I still miss the sun.”
“You can afford to go home now, can’t you?” Gus Rickman shuffled his Rockport boots from side to side to keep the blood flowing to his feet. He rubbed his black leather gloves together as he spoke. “We can look after things here for you, no problem,” he laughed.
“Can you, though?” Zamir frowned and shook his head. “This is one mess after another.” He leaned against the thick metal railings, which ran for miles along the promenade. There was a twenty-foot drop to the muddy flats below them. Rusty mooring rings protruded from the sea walls at regular intervals. “I have had nothing but trouble since we set foot in this godforsaken city.”
“What did you expect?” Gus snorted. “If you had come to me in the beginning, none of this could have happened. I wouldn’t have allowed it to.” He took out a slim cigar and his minder lit it without saying a word. Gus puffed the blue smoke out and the wind took it away. “Leon Tanner was a cokehead, and with all due respect, Salim was a lightweight. I control this city, always have and always will.”
Gus pulled the lapels of his thick black leather jacket together and stared the old man in the eyes. Zamir smiled thinly and held out a gloved hand. “If you can guarantee the safety of my shipments, then we have a deal in principle.”
Gus ignored the outstretched hand and spat over the railings into the murky water. The fast flowing river whisked the phlegm away in seconds. Sami looked annoyed at the action, and the big Turk stepped forward, but Zamir held up his hand to placate him. Gus laughed. In comparison, Gus’s build dwarfed Sami, and his minder was bigger still. “If you fancy an early swim, kiddo, let me know,” Gus smirked and pointed to the dark water below them. He laughed dryly, “You wouldn’t be the first one we’ve dumped in there, so have a word with yourself before you get hurt.”
He stopped laughing as he spoke and his face turned into a snarl. “If you want to sell your gear in this city, fine, but let me explain how it works.” Gus maintained eye contact with Sami although he was speaking to his boss. “Your shipments come through me, if I hear it’s coming in elsewhere, the deal is off.” He pointed to Zamir’s chest with his index finger. “I’ll pay you the wholesale price of the drugs plus ten percent; if I think you are taking the piss, the deal is off. My network distributes the gear to my dealers and dealers sanctioned by me; if I hear you are selling outside of my network, the deal is off.” Gus looked from one Turk to the other. “If you move any further north, the same deal applies, or the deal is off; take it or leave it.”
“Tell him to get fucked, Boss,” Sami growled. “We don’t do business like that!”
“It’s the best offer you’re going to get,” Gus smiled at the minder. “You’ve lost five kilos plus so far this week, I promise you that you will lose a lot more if you try to move into my city. Nothing moves here unless I know about it.” He turned his attention to the old man. “Ten percent and you don’t have to worry about a thing. You ship the stuff into the docks. I’ll pay you for it, job done. It’s a good business proposition.”
“Maybe it is.” Zamir looked away across the river. A tanker drifted in the distance, headed out to who knew where. The wind blew stronger and he shivered. A black cab appeared from the direction of the Albert docks, its diesel engine rumbling as it ambled past. The driver glanced at the four men and looked away when they returned his glance. Whatever the men were doing at this time in the morning, it wasn’t something he wanted to witness. H
e accelerated toward the city to pick up nightclub stragglers who needed a ride home. Across the road was a coach park, which serviced tourists, visiting the Beatles museum at the docks. The coaches were long gone and none would return until much later in the day. It was deathly quiet as they watched the taxi trundle away. Zamir looked thoughtful. “Fifteen percent on top of the wholesale price and five percent of the final retail figure. If just one of my shipments goes astray, the deal is off as you say.” Zamir held out his hand again. “If I think you are taking the piss, the deal is off.” Zamir tilted his head questioningly. “Take it or leave it!” He smiled.
“You have a deal.” Gus gripped his frail hand and shook it firmly. “I think we can work well together.”
A nine-millimetre bullet punched through the back of Gus’s leather jacket, and he looked down at the gaping hole the flattened slug had made as it exited his chest. Blood spurted across Zamir’s face, and broken rib bones protruded. Gus’s eyes widened in shock, and his hands reached up for Zamir’s throat. He thought the old Turk had set him up, until a split second later the old man’s left eye exploded in a shower of vitreous jelly. The back of his skull burst and the contents of his head sprayed over the railing and into the dirty water. As his knees buckled, Gus saw Sami blown backwards by a maelstrom of hot metal. He hit the railings and tumbled head first over them, falling face down in the water with a huge splash. Four more bullets slammed into Gus, smashing bones and ripping his internal organs to shreds. His spine shattered and his body seemed to fold backwards on itself. Two bullets to the face dropped Gus’s minder, the first shattering his cheekbone and ripping the top of his skull off, and the second tearing his lower jaw apart, leaving his tongue dangling from what was left of his face. In a matter of a few seconds, a full clip from a Mach-10 had ended four lives.