by Robert White
Mickey’s scouse heritage was suddenly evident in his accent.
“I can drive a shitty stick up a dog’s arse, Desmond.”
Whilst Rick, Sellers and I kept the boys outside busy with the occasional pot shot, Des and Mickey began moving pallets of fertiliser and compost around the unit. First, they blocked the fire doors at the rear then made two u-shaped stations either side of the Mercs, which gave anyone inside the makeshift bunker, great cover.
When they’d done, the boys dropped in either side of us.
“No one’s getting in those back doors now,” offered Des, “And I reckon those wee bunkers we’ve made will take a grenade. Each of those pallets is a ton at least.
“Good work, pal,” said Rick.
We tucked ourselves in and waited. Outside seemed strangely quiet. There had been no return of fire, no movement. The minutes ticked by and I began to feel a deep sense of unease.
“What are they waiting for?” I asked.
“It’ll be dark in an hour, hen,” said Des, searching for his pipe. “They’ll come then. You’ll see.”
Des Cogan’s Story:
I rummaged in my pocket for my makings, only to realise that I’d had them taken from me when Kenny’s boys had so expertly searched me.
Keeping my head down, I ran over to the portacabin that held our prisoner. If my memory served me well, Jimmy had always smoked.
I opened the door to find him trussed up like a turkey in the corner of the room, wedged between a small desk and the wall.
He glared at me as I walked in.
“Ye picked the wrong team, Des,” he said, as if trying to make his point all over again.
I rummaged in his pockets, found a pack of Embassy and his lighter, sat on the floor next to him and lit up.
“I haven’t got a choice, Jimmy,” I said, blowing out smoke. “I cannea choose a different team. I’ve always been on the same side. That’s been the difference between me and you ever since we were wains. You decided which road you wanted to walk. But I could never have taken that path, see. It wasnea in me.”
I held out my cigarette so he could take a drag. He took a pull and nodded his thanks.
I flicked ash, took another lungful and eyed him.
“That night you were shot, I came to the hospital to see ye.”
“Aye?”
I nodded.
“Aye, I did. They took me in an ambulance. I needed some work myself; I had some glass in my neck and I couldn’t risk an infection as I was about to go to jungle training.”
“Aye, I remember ye sayin’ somethin’ about that.”
“But I came to see how ye were, anyway, just so I knew ye was alive. The cops had you under guard, wouldn’t let me in the room like, but at least I knew.”
I took another pull.
“See Jimmy, that visit to yer gaff in Glasgow opened my eyes. The nice flat, the pretty girl, the wad of cash. I was young but I wasnea stupid. I mean, I’d already figured what ye was up to. I knew ye were dealing. But if I’m honest, back then, I didnea really care. All I wanted was a few beers and a curry with my old pal, eh? I just hadn’t realised quite how big your operation was, until ye got shot, that is.”
Jimmy smiled at that.
“I got shot over two hundred quid, Des. Ye dinnea need to be big time to get yersel topped in my game. Every dog and his dick thinks they’re Al Capone. But yer right, I was on the way up, even back then.”
We shared some more of the Embassy as I thought back to that night.
“When I eventually got home, my old man was waiting up fer me,” I said.
“Fuck, I’ll bet he was pissed off with yees. How is he by the way?”
“He’s gone, Jim, quite a while back.”
He nodded, “I’m sorry, Des.”
I wasn’t sure if he was. Even so, “Thanks, “I said. “… Well, he was sitting at our kitchen table and, as was his way, he was a wee bit worried about me.”
“And ye told him what happened?”
“Aye… I did, and he gave me some advice. He said that because of the path I’d chosen, the team if ye like, that I’d face danger more often than most, that I’d stare down the barrel of a gun more times than I would remember.”
I stubbed out the cigarette on the floor.
“Of course, he was right. But he said something else that has always stuck with me.”
“Aye?”
“He said, not in so many words, but he said, you choose who you die alongside.”
“I don’t get yer drift there, Des.”
I stood up.
“He said, it’s better to go in style, die next to a fighting man, rather than next to someone like you Jim. Which is why, I’m going back out there, to stand alongside Rick Fuller, and help him kill every last soul that’s against us.”
He stared straight into my eyes.
“And me, Des? Will you kill me, too?”
I nodded.
“If I have to pal. If I have to.”
I scuttled back to the line of cars and sat alongside Mickey Forrest. I handed him Jimmy’s pack of fags and lighter.
“Cheers, mate,” he said. He lit up immediately then gave them back. The plume of smoke he blew upwards drew a couple of random shots from the crew outside. They flew harmlessly over our heads and I heard a voice bark at the shooter to hold his fire.
They, like us, would have limited ammunition, twenty, maybe thirty rounds apiece, so ye needed to be a wee bit careful.
As well as the flying lead, our smoking antics also drew dirty looks from the big man.
“It will be dark in half an hour,” he snarled. “Make that your last until this is over.”
“Take it he’s never indulged,” said Mickey quietly.
“Never,” I said. “Clean living boy is our Richard.”
“I’ll bet,” said Mickey knowingly. “Can’t be that clean though. Not if he worked for Joel Davies. I mean, I never had the pleasure myself, but the story goes that he was as ruthless as they come, then he just disappeared off the map, vanished into thin air.”
I recalled the fearsome gun battle at Davies’ mansion, and, although we’d always presumed that Goldsmith and crew had murdered him, why we’d never found his body.
“He’s probably sunning himself on the Costa Del Crime, pal. People like him, and Jimmy in there, have a habit of riding their luck.”
“Were you two close like? You and this McCreery bloke?”
“As kids, aye. We went to the same school, grew up two houses apart, but after I joined up, we lost touch.”
“But he said you saved his life.”
“That’s not exactly true. I gave him first aid after he’d been shot. Chances are he’d have made it anyway. I’d been home on leave, and we met up for a beer and a curry, must have been late 1982. As he was getting the bill, some face shot him through the front window of the restaurant.”
“So he was a player even then?”
“Aye, would seem so.”
Mickey lapsed into silence for a minute or two. Then he tapped me on the shoulder.
“Des, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” I said.
“If, well… if I don’t make it like. Can you make sure my share of the cash gets to me Mam? I’ve no pen or paper, but if you can see your way to visiting her, tell her what happened, I’d be grateful.”
“I’ve a good memory for names and addresses, Mickey, and I’d gladly do that fer ye pal.”
He gave me the name and the place. I nodded, and there was no more to be said.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
What had been a decent enough day had turned into a cloudy, chilly evening. With the light fading fast, I detected movement again out front. Peering into the gloom, I saw a group of men huddled behind what had bee
n Jimmy McCreery’s Range Rover. They sprinted out of cover, one at a time, keeping low one going left, the next to the right. They were attempting to skirt our building, trying to get in behind us.
It was all so predictable. After three men had gone, I waited for number four and slotted him the moment he broke cover.
This caused rumblings of discontent from some quarters of our enemy. Raised voices of protest were quickly followed by stern orders of calm. It wasn’t that surprising really. After all, these guys had been making reluctant preparations for over two hours and all they had achieved so far was to lose another three men. This must have been extremely disheartening for those Big C crew, who had never experienced battle.
As for me, I was just getting started.
My only real concern was that I was yet to see Al-Mufti. I would never forget his face and never forgive him for what he did to Frankie Green. If this was to be my last stand, I needed to see Al-Mufti’s corpse at my feet.
With dusk beckoning, the inside of our unit was close to pitch black. Another advantage.
I twisted my body and tapped the top of my head with my palm, a sign that all the team should join me. Once everyone was close, I lowered my voice to a whisper and gave my final orders.
Victoria and Lauren sprinted off left and right to the bunkers that Des and Mickey had forged from the pallets of fertiliser. The girls had the best cover, the best protection. They also had the widest arc of fire and could target our enemies as they approached from either flank.
Des, Mickey and I would be more central using each of the three C Class Mercs to best advantage. Unlike myself, they both still sported body armour. Kenny’s crew had deemed it unnecessary to remove it. That said, if our enemies made good use of the two MP7’s they had confiscated from us, lightweight Kevlar would be no more help than a tea bag.
As the girls had the best protection and position, they had taken two AK’s and spare mags. We had been left with the rest.
This consisted of one further AK47 with a full extended mag, a Remington six shot pump with a shortened barrel, three Sig P226 SLP’s and a very tired looking Smith and Wesson snub nose .38, with just four rounds in it.
We had a bag of cartridges for the shotgun and a quick inspection revealed that they were loaded with 00 buck. These very nasty cartridges, often used by the British cops, are real man stoppers. Nine lumps of lead, all the size of a 9mm slug fired simultaneously at your target. A direct hit would blow a man off his feet, or his head clean off.
I threw the pump and the bag to Mickey. He instantly checked the gun over and made it ready to fire.
The Sigs were all ten rounder’s. Each weapon had already been fired, but we had another five full mags to reload with. All in all, I counted just over 25 rounds apiece, plus the AK, the pump and the .38. Hardly World War III starting material, but I reckoned we had enough.
As we settled into cover with our meagre arsenal. I saw headlights approaching and heard the sound of a big diesel engine. Moments later, the vehicle came into view. Things were about to get naughty.
From somewhere on the estate, our enemy had stolen a JCB. That in itself was bad enough but sitting inside the front bucket of the beast was a large metal drum, and strapped to that, was what looked ominously like explosives.
The earth mover was heading directly for us, dead centre, and whoever was behind the controls, had it flat out.
As the digger got to within twenty yards, the driver tipped the bucket and hit the brakes. The homemade bomb dropped to the concrete and was rolling straight for us.
“Incoming,” I bawled. “Take cover.”
It was a natural thing for me to shout, but really unnecessary. Des and Mickey were already on their toes heading for the girls’ positions.
I sprinted to the back wall and tucked myself in behind the pallets at the fire doors, put my hands over my ears and waited.
The explosion wasn’t as big as I’d anticipated, obviously Kenny was keen to keep his boss in one piece, and Al-Mufti didn’t want to blow his money to bits, but it was enough to rupture the drum. Whatever was inside it, reacted to the shock of the explosion and it caused a huge plume of thick black smoke to fill the unit.
It was already close to full darkness, but now, we were totally blind.
The engine of the JCB revved hard once again and shouts came from outside. The boys were moving in behind the digger and using it as cover.
The smoke was dense and acrid. It burned my eyes and throat, but I waited until I saw the first muzzle flashes appear from the back of the earth mover before I opened up.
Now, the trick with fighting at close quarters, in reduced visibility, is to fire and move. The flash from your weapon is sometimes the only thing that identifies you as a target. It gives your enemy something to shoot back at.
I knew all my team would use this tactic if needed. It had been drilled into Des, Sellers and Mickey all their service, and I had personally tutored Lauren in CQ work. However, as they were all in great cover, I figured they would stay put and it would be down to me, to give the boys behind the digger a taste of their own medicine.
Kenny and Al-Mufti had obviously sent their least able men in first, and what was left of the Big C lads clearly figured they were safer behind the JCB. Each time they took a pot shot though, it was a simple task for me to double tap, move, and double tap.
As the smoke began to clear, the driver got an order and hit the lights on the JCB. Now the positions of all the players was no longer a guessing game. More to the point, as I alone had been using the shoot and move technique, I had just described to you, I found myself out in the open and immediately began to take fire. Sprinting back to my pallets for cover, I lifted the AK, instantly found my sight picture and dropped the digger driver as he sat in his cab.
I saw that I’d also taken out two men from behind the machine. Both lay bleeding and motionless on the floor. Another two, were on their hunkers behind the massive rear tyres of the yellow beast, seemingly very reluctant to come out and play.
That said, in all the uproar, our enemy had taken their chance and begun to move the big boys inside. They swarmed between the racks of products either side of our positions. To my right, I saw the remnants of Kenny’s men. He was directing four masked, hooded figures. They’d got themselves tucked in behind whatever cover they could find and began to open up on us.
However, Kenny’s crew were not alone. They were joined by other guys, ones I hadn’t seen before. They appeared North African, skinny and dark skinned, Moroccan, Tunisian maybe. These were obviously Yunfakh, Al-Mufti’s chosen crew. I once again scanned the unit for my man, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Des’ idea to make two small bunkers with the loaded pallets had been a stroke of genius. From either position our shooters could target almost all the unit. Des and Mickey were giving the African boys a pasting. The Scot using his near miraculous talent with a handgun to great effect, whilst Mickey racked and fired the thunderous Remington, taking out his chosen targets and most of what they’d been hiding behind in the process.
Sellers and Lauren had the AK’s of course. They had both selected single shot mode and were keeping Kenny’s guys so busy, they couldn’t get their heads up. When they did try, the sheer accuracy of the girls work was devastating, and Kenny was down to two within the first thirty seconds.
All our enemy had achieved, was to move twenty yards into even deeper shit.
As we were on the front foot and there was a brief lull in the rate of incoming fire. I risked a look out from behind my cover and what I saw raised my spirits. I thought all my birthdays and Christmases had come at once.
The man I’d sought for so long had arrived. He was only partially visible as he was masked by the JCB, but it was him, no doubt; maybe a few pounds heavier, but there was no mistaking my nemesis, Abdallah Al-Mufti.
He wore a pale suit, just
as he had done all those years ago in Libya. And that hair, that ponytail, it was a little greyer at the temples, but his trademark was still there for all to see.
He grabbed at one of the Big C boys, hiding behind the digger and screamed in his face to move. The big lad was having none of it, he was terrified, and I watched him shake his head in defiance. Al- Mufti put a round in his skull in temper, then grabbed the second face, who instantly got the message and stood up, hands raised.
Using the last of the Big C crew as cover, Al-Mufti set off to join his beleaguered troops who were still taking fire from Des and Mickey. He got four paces, before I dropped his human shield with a single shot. However, those four paces took him halfway to his desired location and he managed to sprint the last yards to the relative safety of the racking.
Once again, he disappeared from my sight.
Kenny was a brave and clever soldier. He’d done a bit, no doubt, and using all his guile, had managed to get him and his remaining two men close to the portacabin where our prisoner was held.
Al-Mufti was also a smooth operator. He’d seen Kenny’s progress and, determined to aid his comrades move to release McCreery, took a leaf from our book, and had his crew throwing the kitchen sink at us, keeping us in cover, unable to return fire.
I’d always had the feeling that this battle would be won and lost on how frugal either side could be with their ammunition and Al-Mufti obviously figured the same. After a minute or so, the constant pounding from his crew slowed and his boys adjusted their weapons from fully auto to single shot. Even so, his men were deadly accurate, willing to put themselves in harm’s way, and made it tough for us to even see what was going on.
Just as I attempted to take a peek, one of Al-Mufti’s boys let go with one of our suppressed MP7’s. He got a roasting from his boss to conserve his ammunition, but it certainly gave me something to think about. As the specialist ammunition crashed into my position, wood splinters flew into my face, lacerating my cheeks and chin. I blinked furiously in an attempt to clear my vision. Mercifully, I had no splinters in my eyes, and moments later, I was able to see my arch enemy again.
Kenny had reached the door of the portacabin and within seconds, was inside. In any battle, you can go from a position of strength to being in total shit within minutes. And I felt that things were going suddenly against us. We weren’t getting our rounds away, and the enemy had us pinned down.