Underdogs

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Underdogs Page 2

by Jack Fiske


  He didn’t need telling twice. Billie’s gun was pointed directly at his stomach and he was sure that the man would have no qualms about putting a bullet in him.

  Once he was in, Billie slid into the passenger seat and turned round to cover him with the pistol. The man with the knife hurried round to the driver’s side, climbed behind the wheel and fumbled with the ignition.

  “Come on. Come on,” Billie muttered.

  As soon as the engine turned over and caught, the man floored the accelerator and the car leapt forward, screeching away from the kerb in a cloud of exhaust fumes and smoke from the tyres.

  Nick turned to look behind them, just in time to see a second car pull out from a parking space some way back, stop to pick up two figures and then roar down the street after them.

  In the restaurant kitchen there was pandemonium. First four armed men taking three others out through the back door and now, three more, each with a handgun, forcing their way through.

  The head chef slammed a pan down on the cooker and turned into their path.

  “What on earth is going on?” he demanded.

  The team leader pushed him effortlessly out of the way and rushed past him towards the back door. It also was locked.

  “Damn and blast it!”

  The man stepped back and aimed his boot at the door, just below the lock, but it was obvious that it wasn’t going to budge.

  “Back! Go back! We’ll have to go round.”

  The restaurant was in uproar as they retraced their steps. It took less than a minute to sprint the fifty yards to the end of the street, turn the corner and sprint fifty yards back on the road that ran behind, but by the time they got there, they were gone.

  All three men were panting heavily. The team leader turned to look at the back of the restaurant and then at his two companions.

  “Shit!” was all that he could say.

  When they’d put some distance between themselves and the restaurant, the driver slowed down.

  Nick twisted round to look back, but was rewarded by a crashing blow to his left knee as Billie smashed the butt of his gun down on it.

  “Face the front you English bastard.”

  Nick turned back, his face twisted in pain. He’d seen enough anyway. The second car was right behind, although there was no sign of a white van or of their support team.

  The two cars drove on until they reached the run-down industrial district. There was graffiti on the red brick walls, dark forbidding windows looking out from old factory units and little or no traffic. Both cars pulled up outside a building where a large peeling sign read ‘S Patrick Engineering’ and the driver killed the engine. The car behind sounded its horn twice and a moment later a door swung open in the front of the building and a man stepped out. Silhouetted against the light that streamed out behind him, Nick couldn’t see him clearly, but the man was heavily built and tall enough that he had to stoop to move into the near darkness outside.

  Billie had already given his gun to the driver and was out of the car. He shouted to the man in the doorway as he hurried back to the car behind.

  “Get the doors open.”

  Nick felt a thump on the back of the seat behind him as he watched the driver. Bruce was still o.k. Nick’s heart was racing and his left hand ached where he’d been clenching his fist for most of the short journey. The driver glanced past him to where Billie was speaking to Smith and he thought for a moment of making a move. If he could take the driver, he could be out and running before anyone could react. His knee still throbbed as he moved his leg slightly. Immediately the muzzle of the gun swung towards his chest.

  The driver glared at him. “Move again and I’ll shoot you.”

  Nick swallowed and nodded that he understood.

  “Out! Get out!”

  Billie had reappeared at the back door and pulled it open.

  Nick slid across the seat and put a foot down onto the pavement. As he did so, Billie pushed the door closed again and leant his weight against it, trapping him temporarily.

  “Careful now,” he warned as he took his gun back. “We wouldn’t want any nasty accidents now would we?”

  With the gun in one hand, Billie opened the door wide and waved the weapon at Nick, motioning him to get out. As he did so, a metal shutter on the front of the building rattled loudly and started to rise.

  “Inside!” Billie ordered, waving the gun once more.

  Nick took a step forward and felt the pain in his knee as he put weight on it. Ahead of him the steel shutter rattled slowly upwards, revealing a dark, uninviting interior.

  There was no one on the street. What light there was came from old concrete streetlamps and at this time of night it was unlikely that anyone would be passing or if they were, that they would take any interest in what was going on.

  “Come on! Come on!” Billie urged, prodding him in the back as he and the driver followed behind.

  Once through the entrance, Nick could make out more of the unlit interior. The building was about forty yards long and maybe thirty wide, with a high roof. Most of the floor space was taken up with packing cases and cardboard boxes and it appeared the building was used mainly for storage. On the left hand wall were a number of doors, one of which stood open and gave him a view of a small office beyond. The tall, heavily built man who had let them in stood beside it.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Spot of bother,” Billie replied. “We’re not stopping. Get me the keys for the van and a roll of tape.”

  Billie put a hand on Nick’s shoulder and pushed him forward, away from the door and into the gloom. At the far side of the building, partly hidden by piles of boxes, was the van.

  “That’s far enough,” Billie said, standing a few feet away and covering him with the gun until the other man returned.

  “Right. Wrap him up,” he instructed.

  In his right hand, the big man had a set of keys, whilst in the other he carried a roll of heavy brown tape mounted on a tool that consisted of a steel roller and a short wooden handle. Nick had seen them used before. The tape was attached to the edge of a cardboard box and you ran the roller along the top of it, sealing it up in one quick operation.

  It didn’t take long. Spread-eagled with his feet wide and his forehead against the side of the van, Nick had his arms held behind him, whilst the tape was wrapped round and round his wrists and then several times around his body, pinning his arms behind him.

  “O.k. Now the legs,” Billie said.

  The two men had obviously done this before. The driver had a piece of rope, which he looped around Nick’s legs and pulled tight, whilst the big man wrapped the tape around his ankles and then around his knees.

  Billie put the gun away. “O.k. Get him in and we’ll go and get the other one.”

  Between them they lifted Nick into the back of the van and slammed the door shut.

  The van was tall – easily high enough to stand up in if Nick could have struggled to his feet. The sides were lined with plywood and there was nothing between the load area and the cab other than four steel bars, which ran from floor to ceiling, two on either side, to protect the driver and any passenger from a shifting load.

  Nick lay on the floor and looked around. A faint yellow light from the streetlamps filtered through the windscreen and enabled him to make out some of the detail inside. The steel floor was ridged and he found that he could get some purchase on it with his heels and push himself to the side. There he started searching for something sharp. Anything would do. The edge of a door hinge. A protruding screw. Anything that he could catch the edge of the plastic tape on. For two minutes he wriggled around on his stomach and his back without success, until there were voices outside once more. There was a metallic thump as Bruce was spread-eagled against the side of the van and then a tearing sound as Bruce in turn was wrapped in the heavy duty parcel tape. Moments later the back door opened and he was heaved inside, landing next to him with a thump.

&nb
sp; Bruce’s usual self assured look had gone. There was dried blood around his nose where he had suffered a nose-bleed somewhere along the way and his eyes were wide.

  “You o.k?” Nick asked, his voice cracking slightly despite his efforts to keep it under control.

  Bruce nodded and seemed to recover some of his usual composure.

  “This is it then.”

  Nick’s reply was cut short by a kick in the ribs as Billie climbed into the back of the van with them.

  “Shut your mouth. If I want you to speak I’ll tell you.”

  He stepped over them and went to the front, turning round to lean against the bars behind the driver’s seat, the gun still held casually in his left hand.

  The big man slammed the back doors and then he and the Jaguar driver got into the front.

  “O.k?” the driver asked, twisting round in his seat.

  “Yeah. Let’s go,” Billie replied.

  Nick felt the vibrations of the starter motor through the steel floor, then the engine caught and the van eased out of the building and into the small yard in front. There they stopped and Nick could hear the rattle of the steel shutter as it closed behind them. The driver wound down his window and Billie leant forward over his shoulder to speak to someone outside. There was a brief conversation and then Billie nodded, pulled his head back in and turned to watch them, holding on for support to the bars behind the front seats.

  The van rolled forward, turned onto the main road and picked up speed.

  “Not long now,” Billie said with a cold grin.

  Nick’s mouth was dry and he licked his lips.

  “Not long until what?”

  “Oh don’t you be worrying now. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Bruce caught Nick’s eye and grimaced. It didn’t look good. Nick was about to say something, when he realised that Bruce was trying to direct his attention.

  Billie wasn’t watching. He had turned to look through the windscreen and missed Bruce nodding furiously at the back door.

  Nick didn’t understand and Bruce nodded more frantically. Then it suddenly registered. There was a handle on the inside – a black metal one about three feet from the floor. Nick looked back at Bruce, who nodded furiously and then rolled over onto his back as Billie turned round once more. Bruce had his knees bent, feet flat on the floor and Nick knew what he meant. He was right. If either of them was in that position by the door, it would be a simple matter to raise both legs and kick the handle into the open position. The only problem was that with Billie watching them, gun in hand, they were unlikely to get the chance.

  As the van turned the corner, Nick slid across the floor and winced as the cut on his back rubbed against the corrugated metal.

  Billie watched in amusement and it suddenly gave him an idea.

  “Hey you dumb bastard. Watch what you’re doing.”

  The driver glanced in his mirror.

  Billie grinned at him. “It seems our passengers don’t like your driving Michael.”

  “Oh they don’t do they?”

  The driver picked up speed and threw the van around the next bend.

  Nick and Bruce slid across the floor, thumping into the left hand side. With his arms tied behind him, Nick couldn’t do anything to protect himself and his head crashed into the plywood clad wall.

  This was greeted with some amusement from the front and Nick tried winding the driver up further.

  “You arsehole! I could do better than that myself.”

  He braced himself, wedging his shoulders against the back doors and his feet against the wheel arch, where it rose above floor level. Bruce tried to get into the same position on the other side but wasn’t quick enough.

  The driver took the next corner at speed, flinging the back of the van around and Bruce was thrown across the floor, crashing into Nick’s knee, which was already painful from the blow it had received earlier.

  The cry of pain that Nick let out was genuine enough and it encouraged the driver to even greater efforts. And so it became a game – the driver flinging the van around each corner and braking heavily, whilst Nick and Bruce slid about in the back, getting black and blue, to the sound of Billie and the big man laughing at their expense and applauding the driver’s wild manoeuvres.

  Nick was getting the hang of it when the opportunity came. He was wedged once more between the back door and the wheel arch watching the driver to anticipate his movements when the big man in the passenger seat suddenly cried out.

  “Watch out! The lights! The bloody traffic lights!”

  The driver flinched at the sight of amber turning to red in front of them and he stood on the brakes.

  Instead of bracing himself, Nick lifted his feet from the wheel arch and as the van’s tyres screeched in protest, he was propelled feet first down the van, raising his legs at the last minute to plant his heels squarely into Billie’s groin and lift him bodily off the floor and crash him into the safety bars behind.

  The wind came out of Billie with a rush and he doubled up, gasping for breath, before dropping to his knees retching. The gun was still clutched loosely in his hand, but Bruce, who had managed to avoid Nick as they were both hurled forwards, lashed out with both feet, catching Billie a cracking blow full in the face. Blood splashed across the side of the van as Billie’s nose pulped under Bruce’s boot and the gun fell from his hand, rattling across the metal floor as he lost consciousness.

  The driver was shouting now, but Nick couldn’t make out what he was saying. In the passenger seat, the big man was fumbling with his seat belt and it was a race to see who would get out first.

  Nick bent his knees and ‘jumped’ from the front seats, sliding himself along the floor towards the back doors. He only made it halfway and had to cover the remaining distance by pulling his legs up to his body, digging his heels in and driving himself forward like some demented caterpillar.

  If the van had driven on, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. The man at the wheel could have bounced them about in the back as he had for the last ten minutes, but he didn’t do so. The driver was cursing and trying to reach over the seats to get the gun that Billie had dropped, whilst his partner, having freed himself from the seatbelt, was out and coming round the back.

  Nick reached the doors, flipped over onto his back and kicked up at the handle. It moved halfway round and he kicked it again. It moved another quarter turn and one side of the double door started to swing open.

  A large hand grasped the edge and started to push it closed again. Nick stamped as hard as he could on the fingers and rolled forwards against the door. For a moment he thought it would be pushed shut, but then it gave and he fell out onto wet tarmac, the back of his head thumping down onto the road in the full glare of the headlights of the car behind.

  The big man was standing over Nick and bent down to catch hold of him. As he did, Nick rolled towards him, wrapping himself around the man’s legs. At the same time, Bruce dropped out of the van with a thud and started yelling at the top of his voice.

  The lights had turned to green and someone was sounding their horn in the queue behind them.

  Nick heard the driver cursing above the noise outside.

  “Leave them! For Christ’s sake Harry leave them!”

  The big man hesitated for a moment and Nick took the opportunity to roll away and under the bumper of the Vauxhall Cavalier behind them.

  “Leave them. Leave them. We need to get out of here!”

  The message suddenly seemed to get through and the big man turned, slammed the back door shut and hurried round to the side. Nick heard the passenger door slam and then the van roared off at speed, as the lights changed to red once more.

  Behind them someone leant on their horn and the driver of the Cavalier got out, more concerned at the reaction of the driver behind than the two men lying on the road in front.

  It was two weeks later that they found the body. Donnie Ellis was discovered washed up on the banks of the Lagan. His thro
at had been cut and there were burn marks on the back of his hands and up his arms.

  The phone call came the next day, when it all appeared in the press. Nick and Bruce were still not on active duty and Nick was sitting in the mess reading the morning paper.

  He picked up the phone in the office outside.

  “Hello.”

  “Harrison?”

  “Yes. Who’s that?”

  “It’s Ellis – Brendon Ellis. I understand you knew my brother?”

  Nick turned round, wanting the staff sergeant who had called him to pick up the other phone, but the man had stepped outside to give him some privacy. Nick had been surprised when Donnie Ellis had said that he would work for them. His brother was one of their targets and was a senior figure in the IRA’s army council.

  “Yes I knew him,” Nick said.

  There was a pause at the other end and then Ellis snarled.

  “You’re dead Harrison. Both of you. Tell your friend. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon. Very soon. You have my word.”

  There was a click at the other end as the man put the receiver down. Nick stared at the telephone for a minute and then hung up as well. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. He knew it wasn’t an idle threat. It wasn’t going to be safe for him to stay in Belfast.

  ONE

  Jim Turner, lean and well muscled, with a short, no-nonsense haircut and the look of someone used to regular exercise, sat in the middle of the rhododendron bushes at the edge of his garden, breathing heavily. His usual morning walk with Wolf, their five year old collie-cross had turned into a brisk run for the last mile and Wolf had now deserted him to go inside and look for breakfast. A tree stump hidden amongst the bushes provided a comfortable but slightly damp resting place whilst he caught his breath and gave him a good view of the surrounding gardens and the woods beyond.

  Jim still had the habit of checking what was going on around him – a trait that meant some of the neighbours had labelled him as a nosey parker, but one which had been drummed into him in the past and one that had saved his life on more than one occasion. It was strange how old habits remained, even when your life had changed completely. The old life seemed very distant now. Memories of the concrete jungle of North Belfast and of weekends spent confined to cramped army barracks with nothing to do but sleep, drink and watch television, were not particularly happy ones and he was content to leave them in the past where they belonged.

 

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