by Robert White
He grunted as his leg gave way beneath him. The concentrated dynamic energy of the blow from the baton devastates the nerves around the joint, rendering it temporarily useless. As he hit the deck, rolling in agony, I took my chance and scanned the floor for the Colt.
Sometimes, you win one.
The chromed body and pearl inlayed grip stood out in the gloom, like a lost diamond.
Within seconds, I was armed.
Paddy rolled onto his back and pushed his hand toward the inside of his jacket.
I checked the Colt was still ready to fire and pointed it downward at the prostrate Irishman.
“Don’t be a hero,” I said.
Paddy glared at me, the pain in his arm and knee clouding his judgement. “Fuck you,” he spat, pulling his own Berretta from a shoulder holster.
There was no time for a second warning, no time to try another way.
I fired.
Two to his chest, both grouped within an inch of each other. Paddy’s body bucked at the impact as the 9mm rounds entered the cavity to the left of his heart.
His eyes met mine again, burning with hatred. He tried to speak, small blood-bubbles escaping from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to inflate his ruined lung.
I shook my head, “You don’t have to do this, Paddy. That piece of shit Jimmy isn’t worth dying for,” I warned.
The Irishman snorted and managed a smile, displaying bloodstained teeth. Then slowly, agonisingly, moved his gun toward me.
Some people never learn.
I put a third in his head and it was over.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
As the time approached 2000hrs I began to worry.
The unusually hot weather had made for an uncomfortable fifty minutes or so, in the confines of the Escort van.
Both JJ and I were wearing jackets to hide our weaponry.
JJ noticed my concern. “Why don’t we have a drive-by and see what happen?”
“They’ll call,” I said unconvincingly. “Anyway, we don’t want to spook Jimmy’s crew.”
JJ sat back. He was not a man well suited to sitting around.
“I don’t like,” he said flatly.
Neither did I, and I was about to fire the engine, when my phone buzzed on the dash.
I looked at the screen, it was a text sent from Lauren’s phone, just one word, ‘Go.’
More of a worry, it was time-stamped 1952hrs.
“Fuck,” I said, and fired the engine into life.
Lauren North’s Story:
In my peripheral vision, I could see that Des had Jimmy down on the ground, he was sitting astride him and appeared to have control. I was about to turn and join him, as two meat-heads came barrelling out of the Anson door. Obviously the sound of gunfire had drawn them out, like moths to a flame.
They both saw Paddy Devlin dead on the tarmac and swore under their breath before turning their attention toward me. I pointed the Colt.
“Nothing to see here, boys…go finish your beers,” I instructed. “Unless you want to join him down there, that is?”
One put his hands in the air, faster than an Italian infantryman, the second growled the usual threats toward me, but stepped backward when he heard the safety click off.
Happy I had bought a minute or two, I spun again toward Des and our quarry.
We had another problem. In all the excitement, I’d forgotten about Kevin. I scanned the carpark for him, and there he was, struggling with a lump of concrete the size of a football he’d obviously got from the contractor’s excavations.
Before I could call out a warning, the skinny little shit, lifted it above his head and dropped it squarely on Des as he held Jimmy on the floor.
It hit the Scot with a sickening crack and he slumped forward, unconscious on top of Jimmy’s prone figure.
The gangster immediately pushed Des off him, clambered to his feet and started to drag his skinny cousin toward the Range Rover.
For a split second, I was unsure of what to do.
By the time I’d reached Des’s still body, Jimmy and Kevin were opening the doors of their Range Rover. I felt a sudden urge to kill them both.
I pointed the Colt at the Rover and was about to pull the trigger when I heard Des moan beneath me.
“Will you stop fucking about and help me up,” he said.
Buoyed by the sound of his voice, I pushed the Colt into my jeans and helped him to a sitting position. Blood poured down the side of his scalp, pooling in his ear and dribbling down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. I pulled a handful of tissue from my bag and applied direct pressure to the scalp wound. Des held the makeshift dressing in place with one hand and found his SIG with the other.
There were louder and more disgruntled voices from behind, as the seasoned Anson drinkers began to grow in confidence and step into the carpark.
Des read my thoughts. “Forget them,” he gestured toward the Range Rover. “It’s those fuckers we need.”
Pulling the Scot to his feet, I found the Golf’s remote and popped the doors. Within seconds I had Des bleeding over the back seat, and fired up the engine.
Kevin had bounced the big British 4 x 4 out of the car park, and pulled a left toward the centre of the estate. No doubt heading for home and a whole lot of trouble for us, in the shape of the remainder of the London gang.
The Golf set off like a scalded cat, as its Audi 20 valve engine re-mapped to over 200bhp laid the power down to the front wheels. I turned in behind the Rover and shouted over my shoulder to the Scot.
“You okay?”
Des responded by winding down the rear window and throwing his lunch out into the night.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then?” I quipped.
Des wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pulled his SIG from his jeans.
“Just get up close to those wee bastards, hen,” he spat. “I’m about ready to dish some out.”
“We need Jimmy in one piece,” I reminded him.
“Aye…maybe,” he said through gritted teeth.
Although the Golf was quicker, Jimmy’s Range Rover had a definite advantage as we ploughed on into the sprawling estate. Every fifty yards or so was a speed-hump the size of a small mountain range. The massive ground clearance of the Rover coped admirably, even at speed, whilst our little boy-racer, with its lowered suspension, sent sparks flying into the night with every failed attempt. If the lad who’d modified this hot hatch had fitted an expensive exhaust, we’d left most of it outside the pub.
Des was hanging out of his window, his SIG in his left-hand whilst doing his best to stem the flow of blood from his head with his right. Each time the Golf hit a hump, he swore blue murder.
“Come on, hen,” he bellowed. “Get right up his arse.”
Flooring the Golf, I closed in on Jimmy and Kevin until I was almost touching his bumper. The engine screamed as it revved to the red line.
Des opened fire.
Double taps. One set, two, three. Finally, the Rover’s nearside rear tyre blew and the big car slid to the right, clipping two or three parked vehicles. Sparks flew in all directions and pieces of the eighty-grand motor sailed over our car.
With my own window down, the sound of metal on metal was almost as deafening as the report of the SIG behind me. The Rover had lost a mirror and most of a bumper, but Kevin managed to straighten her up and keep the vehicle heading homeward.
Des had most of his upper torso fully out of the car. As we hit yet another hump, he cried out, close to being thrown into the road.
“Shit...just ram the fucker,” he shouted.
Within the next fifty yards, the rear tyre on the Rover had cut itself to shreds on the massive alloy rim. Shards of rubber flew toward our car and slapped on the windscreen and roof, causing me to duck instinctively.
“I said…ram the fucker!” repeated Des.
“You sure?” I bawled over the engine noise.
The Scot responded by opening fire again, t
his time shattering the rear window of the Rover.
I stamped on the accelerator and the Golf responded, eating up the gap between us. Within seconds we made contact, the impact sending glass and plastic flying in all directions.
I hung onto the wheel for grim death as the collision forced the Rover left and Kevin lost control, mounting the kerb and smashing into a low garden wall.
Des dropped from his elevated position onto the back seat, blood pouring down his face, all thought of stemming the flow forgotten.
He opened the mechanism of his weapon, allowing the empty mag to fall from the butt, found his first spare inside his jacket and slid it home.
“Let’s finish this,” he said.
I grabbed my Colt, knowing I had only three rounds to play with, pushed open my door and rolled into the street.
Jimmy was already out of the Rover, kneeling behind the car’s massive engine-block. Before I could even think about taking aim, he opened up on us with a large calibre automatic.
The hi-velocity rounds slammed into our car, cutting through the metal with ease.
Des had exited and had fortunately rolled underneath the Golf finding relative safety. He attempted to return fire, but Jimmy had prime position, good cover and superior weaponry, it was a matter of seconds before he would make his advantage count.
In the words of the poet, we were fucked.
Des Cogan’s Story:
I lay under the Golf. Big calibre rounds were slicing open the tarmac in front of me, sending sparks into the air and getting closer with every burst. I couldn’t see where Lauren was, but I presumed she’d have the sense to be behind the engine compartment, as the solid cast block was about the only thing that could stop what Jimmy was firing at us.
I could just about see the bastard’s feet as he knelt, firing short three-round salvos in our direction. Taking a pot shot at his wee toes wasn’t the best of ideas. The chances of hitting him were slim, and only likely to reveal exactly where I was.
It was a shit state of affairs, and I could imagine that cowardly little backstabber Kevin cowering in the foot-well, on his mobile, whining to his security team to get here and finish us off.
Jimmy let go three more, just as headlights appeared behind our car.
I heard a vehicle stop and two doors open. I risked a peek and said a Hail Mary as I saw Rick and JJ de-bunk the Escort van.
About fucking time eh?
Rick opened up on Jimmy in an instant. He moved along the kerb edge, keeping low and firing in short bursts to keep Jimmy down, unable to return.
I shuffled around to see JJ in a crouch behind the Escort’s engine block.
As Rick kept Jimmy busy, to my horror JJ rolled over the Escort’s bonnet into the centre of the road.
At first, I thought the Turk was either tactically naïve, or just plain crazy. He was completely in the open. He strolled toward the Rover as he screwed the suppressor onto his MP7, stopping just feet away from his target.
Then I saw what JJ had done, because of the angle he had created, Jimmy had no choice but to move, fire or be fully exposed by either shooter.
He chose to try and fight his way out and popped up from behind the car, teeth gritted, his Kalashnikov at waist height.
JJ let go a full 22 round mag. The near-silent MP7’s specially made ammunition cut Jimmy to pieces.
For a moment there was silence, before Jimmy’s ripped and shredded body slid down the bonnet of the Range Rover, hitting the pavement with a nasty slap.
I rolled from under the Golf, still bleeding like a stuck pig.
Rick stood over Jimmy’s body, shaking his head.
“We needed him alive, JJ.”
The Turk shrugged. “I no like him,” he said.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
With Jimmy now dead, his right-hand, Kevin would just have to do. All we could hope for was that he too had the information we needed to find Red George.
JJ took control of him, before Des beat him to death there and then in the street. The Turk quickly gagged, hooded and plasti-cuffed the skinny Manchester City fan, before throwing him in the back of the Escort.
Des turned his attention to the Golf. He had no intention of leaving his DNA all over the back seat for the cops to find.
We’d failed to bring any incendiary grenades along, so, after removing a dropped mag from the back seat, the Scot resorted to the old-fashioned petrol and match method.
As our old Escort rattled over the speed humps, away from the Anson estate and toward the A6 with the four of us and our prisoner packed inside, the Golf burned bright.
Curtains would twitch on the street tonight. Dozens of residents would have seen the violent events play out. The news that Jimmy London and Paddy Devlin were shot dead would have hit the jungle drums of Longsight even before the first police patrols made the scene. Yet there would be no witnesses. The word would be, a rival gang had hit the London empire in its own backyard, and that this new and more ruthless crew were going to take over the business. No one would want to upset this fresh and yet unseen criminal element.
CID and forensic teams would visit the pub and the street where Jimmy lay, make house-to-house, run ballistic checks, look for CCTV or ANPR evidence, yet none of it would lead to a suspect.
On the Anson, there was only one thing worse than lying dead on the pub carpark, and that was being a grass.
The unit that Kostas Makris had loaned us for the interrogation of Jimmy London, now hastily changed to his cousin Kevin, was located at the end of a row of seven other small industrial premises. I jumped from the Escort, unlocked the tall chain-link gates and waited for Lauren to pull the van inside.
Access to the unit itself was via a side door, protected by a metal roller shutter. This was motorised and opened by a key. Once we were all inside, I closed the shutter behind us. With the Escort parked around the back, any passing police patrols would find nothing out of place. The unit would appear empty.
Ignoring the warehouse area on the ground floor, we climbed a set of stairs which led to an office, a small kitchen, and a staff changing area complete with washing facilities.
Des headed straight for the shower, whilst Lauren looked for a first aid kit.
JJ and yours truly dragged the increasingly uncooperative Kevin into the kitchen. It was a typical working staff canteen; a large metal-legged table took centre stage with eight plastic covered chairs surrounding it. The small kitchen area boasted a sink, fridge, and a couple of units containing various mugs, cups, plates and cutlery.
JJ dumped Kevin on one chair and fastened his wrists to the bottom of the backrest using a second set of plasti-cuffs.
He removed our prisoner’s hood and pulled the gag from his mouth. Kevin coughed and spat out bits of fabric for a few seconds before launching into the standard Mancunian gangster tirade. Spending time around his Oasis-obsessed cousin had obviously rubbed off on the lad. If you closed your eyes you would have sworn it was Liam kicking off in the chair.
“You guys are fuckin’ dead. You hear what I’m sayin’ here, dickhead? You think you can come to the Anson and just take over? This is fuckin’ Longsight, pal…it’s why they fuckin’ call Manchester, ‘Gun-Chester’ eh? Forget the Moss dudes, them blacks ain’t got nothin’ on our crew. Jimmy will find you and shoot you in the fuckin’ mouth, man, you hear me? In the fuckin’ mouth.”
I hadn’t occurred to me that Kevin wouldn’t have seen Jimmy’s bullet-ridden body lying at the front of the Range Rover. Of course, as he’d cowered in the thickly carpeted foot-well of the luxury car, he wouldn’t have even heard the suppressed MP7 slicing his cousin in half. Then, he’d been instantly hooded as he was pulled from the car, and was therefore blissfully unaware of his cousin’s violent demise.
This would be interesting.
JJ removed his Col Moschin Delta fighting knife from its scabbard and laid it on the table in full view of our increasingly irritating charge. It shut Kevin up briefly.
I
got a much-needed brew on.
Des Cogan’s Story:
I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, watched my blood swirl around the plug hole as it made its way to the drain, and told myself this was becoming a far too regular occurrence. Lauren was straight into the room, fussing around me.
“Sit here, let me have a look at this wound.”
I did as I was told, and she gently parted my hair to inspect the damage done by our Kevin.
She drew in a sharp breath.
“This is deep, Des. I have a nice view of your thick skull. You were lucky, you know, that lump of concrete could have killed you.”
I was going to state the obvious, that it was probably Kevin’s intention to do just that, but I let it go. She began to clean the cut with wipes from a first aid kit she’d found in the unit.
“Any dizziness?”
“Nope.”
“You sure, you’re not just being all macho?”
“Sure.”
“Pain?”
“I’ve a head like Birkenhead, if that’s what you mean.”
She laughed at my quip.
“Funny guy…this needs an X-ray, Desmond, there could be a fracture, Kevin could have…”
“Yeah, could’ve killed me, you said, but there won’t be time for that, hen, and you know it.”
She ignored me.
“How about blurred vision?”
“Nope, now the blood is out of my eyes, I can see just fine.”
She tutted.
“Well, I can steri-strip it now, and stitch it once we get back to the lock-up, but you’ll need to take it easy until it’s stitched or it will bleed like hell again.”
“Okay, Sister.”
She smiled and lit up the room, before humming a little tune as she worked on me.
“You did good back there, Lauren,” I said. “Back to your old self eh?”
“I think I took a massive risk…could’ve gone either way. What if I’d caved?”