Little Havana Exile (Cold Blooded Series Book 1)

by Hale Chamberlain

  To James’ complete bewilderment, Teddy was darting toward Kieran, throwing an unrestrained blow that landed right on the man’s nose. Kieran dropped like a stone, shouting in pain. If you’re about to smash our heads off, I might as well do as much damage as I can beforehand!

  Teddy’s hunch was that in any band of rowdy roughnecks, at least half of the lot consisted of passive followers that would never engage in combat. He had observed the group intently during the aborted conversation, and he was now going at those who would most likely fight back with full force, in an attempt to take out the tough ones first.

  He threw his body to his left, distributing punches after punches, with only a few hitting home. He was relentless, making up his lack of accuracy with a focused, sustained fury. Moving swiftly, he raced toward a stout man blocking one of the path’s exit. His first blow missed, and for a fleeting moment, he lost his balance. Suddenly, he felt pain in his upper abdomen, and then in his lower back. When he saw that four men were closing in on him, he knew it was game over.

  In a surge of adrenaline, he managed to knock one of them unconscious, headbutting and elbowing his way through the reduced cluster of valiant fighters. Exhaustion finally set in, and Teddy was immobilized, two hoods blocking his arms, while a third one gripped his neck awkwardly. As Kieran walked slowly in his direction, he looked around with the hope that James responded somehow. But his friend was on the floor, weathering the beating he had anxiously anticipated.

  The rain of blows that ensued was dazzling and disorienting, and if it wasn’t for a stupendous bang that stunned the assembly of bullies, it could very well have been the end of them. Both Teddy and James experienced the sudden, loud gunfire as an epiphany. The ripple effect of the sound wave felt like a wakeup call. A single shot that resonated through the sky, stopping time.

  What followed happened in a flash. The crowd broke off, as the hoods ran for their lives in all directions – except toward the shooter – and the path opened up again. Teddy scrambled to his feet, aching all over, and stared at what he reckoned was the origin of the gunshot.

  His uncle Rob was standing alone ten yards away, the revolver in his hand still smoking.

  CHAPTER 3

  Years later, the Birmingham underworld and police forces alike unanimously agreed that the National Indoor Arena incident was the unofficial start of the bloodiest post-industrial-revolution feud in the West Midlands.

  After his show of force, or recklessness, Teddy realized that deprived youngsters in search of a better future and disgruntled members of reigning crime rings were naturally gravitating toward his own fledgling gang. By the winter, the Brummagem Crew – as they came to be known – was already counting over a hundred members within its ranks.

  Across the city to the north, their main foe – the Soho Road Boys – had been in existence for years and were involved in popular and lucrative drugs like crack, cocaine, and heroin. Kieran O'Connor was the natural heir of the group, which he had led since the incarceration of the former leader – his own brother Larry O’Connor.

  From the outside, the two rival gangs were attacking each other for status and territories. But what looked like a turf war based on postcodes was, in fact, a pervasive conflict between two rogue organizations with very different purposes.

  In the late eighties, right-wing extremism and racist crimes were rife in some inner-city areas across the UK and sections of the country from Handsworth to Brixton were on fire after barbarous race-induced riots. The Soho Road Boys were the local chapter of this national resurgence of racial hate. A bunch of brainless skinheads, as James Wilkinson would often remark.

  The Brummagem Crew, on the other hand, consisted for the most part in young Black and Asian men that banded together behind Teddy Harper and James Wilkinson in an attempt to protect their communities from increasingly frequent vicious racial assaults. Teddy’s frontal and shameless attacks on the heir of the Soho Road Boys had resonated throughout the city’s underworld and most of the second-generation immigrant hoodlums – who were already part of neighborhood vigilante-style gangs – found in the young man the leader they were desperately looking for. Theodore Harper had managed to disfigure Kieran O’Connor, not just once, but twice, and had achieved that feat while being vastly outnumbered.

  Despite this reputation gained overnight, Teddy hardly possessed the soul of a war commander, much less that of a guru, and most of the strategic decisions affecting the group were taken by James Wilkinson behind the scenes. He reveled in his newfound role and assumed responsibilities for the day-to-day operational leadership that the growing organization needed.

  Teddy’s ascent to the top of the local crime gang – however serendipitous and accidental – wasn’t called into question because he would always gladly be in the front line whenever things turned sour.

  Drug trafficking across the city was flourishing and the Brummagem Crew collectively wanted a part of the pie. Under normal circumstances, for any newly-formed gang, it would have been a reckless endeavor to try and overthrow established drug kingpins such as Kieran and Larry O’Connor, who had a de facto monopoly over the city’s narcotics business.

  What set Teddy and the Brummagem Crew apart was their close connections with two of the mightiest nationwide racketeering organizations – the Wilkinson family and uncle’s crime ring. Their leaders Adam Wilkinson and Rob Harper, in addition to being intimate longtime friends, were two of the finest businessmen from the British underworld. Their personal investment in the Brummagem Crew, through James and Teddy, and a careful examination of operating forces in the local drug markets led them to an inevitable conclusion.

  “The kids are making serious headways here,” Rob said, the speaker of the phone almost touching his lips. “They’ve grown their ranks tenfold in a just a few months, and the O’Connors are panicking.”

  A deep laughter could be heard from the other end of the line. “So it seems. This nasty weasel of Larry must be crapping his pants in his cell. Everything he’s built is in jeopardy,” Adam Wilkinson said.

  “Only on the surface, Adam. They’re still undisputed kings of the opiate market here, that’s a massive cash cow, and our boys have neither the experience nor the connections to transform their little gang into a major force of the black market.”

  “Well,” Adam said, and there was a short silence on the line. “Maybe it’s time the big boys step in. What do you say, Rob? We’ve been eyeing that regional market for a while now, and this is the perfect opportunity.”

  That fateful call changed everything for Teddy and his goon squad. In a matter of months, the drug feud, fierce and wild but relatively low in the death count department, gave way to a tit-for-tat spiral of senseless violence and ruthless shootings that profoundly tarnished the city of Birmingham, giving it the unenviable title of “UK’s firearms and murder capital.” Low-level dealers were gunned down in plain sight in the streets, and several postcodes within the city became lawless zones where only members from specific gangs were allowed.

  Everyone recognized that it was only a matter of time before the roughshod spat came knocking at the highest levels of two gangs. And on Christmas Eve, James fell into an ambush.

  The youngest of the Wilkinson family was driving back to his parent’s countryside estate in a silver Mercedes 620 when a reinforced vehicle, typically used in ram-raids, smashed through the left side of his car at a deserted crossroad. Right there, on the outskirts of Birmingham, James had lost consciousness instantaneously in the tumble crash, and the aggressors had taken the time to ensure he was dead.

  James’ accident was signaled by a passerby shortly thereafter, and he was pulled out of his upside-down car thirty-five minutes later by a rescue squad. The police concluded that his death had not been caused by the brutal impact of ram-raid car, but by the two bullets that had been subsequently fired into his skull.

  The Brummagem Crew had made lightning-quick strides in their quest to scrap shares of the narcotic market
off from the Soho Road Boys, and unsurprisingly Teddy soon found out that the ambuscade had been directly commissioned by Kieran O’Connor. The man had become aware – although much too late – of the strategic role James had played in his gang’s warring effort.

  Upon hearing the news, Teddy plunged into a solitary ocean of darkness. It took not only his uncle’s Rob’s shrewd negotiating skills but also the rare presence of Adam Wilkinson – the defunct kid’s own father – to talk some sense into Teddy’s mad thirst for revenge.

  Vengeance is a dish best served cold, the old dogs told him. And rushing into a vendetta that was bound to happen one way or another was the last thing the Brummagem Crew needed right now. Teddy had lost his best friend, but Adam Wilkinson had had his son taken away from him. Kieran O'Connor's days were numbered, that much Teddy Harper was certain of. The only question was when the Wilkinson patriarch would give the order. It wouldn’t be until months later.

  CHAPTER 4

  A fortnight after James’ lurid demise, Teddy still struggled to come to terms with the old dogs’ advice – or rather command – that he was to stay put. He had cut himself off the outside world completely, entrenched in his uncle’s house, and the Brummagem Crew was starting to feel the absence of leadership. They had lost their two founding fathers in the span of a few days, and second-in-commands lacked the boldness and ingenuity that Teddy and James demonstrated. Adam Wilkinson, furiously devastated as he was, and Rob Harper sensed that the situation had to be turned around urgently. The very foundations of the fledgling gang had been shaken and were threatening to yield under the pressure of rival Soho Road Boys.

  Teddy Harper had just hung up from a call in his uncle’s study when Rob Harper interrupted.

  “How are you holding up, son? The boys haven’t seen you in a while now.”

  The eyes of the young man in front of Robert Harper betrayed a worrying lack of emotion. Teddy looked like a former shell of himself. The raging fire that was burning in his belly since he started leading an impromptu lot of unfortunate immigrants had died off.

  “Don’t worry about me, Rob. I just needed a few days to fully absorb what you and Adam said about not being careless here. I’ll get back to work tomorrow,” Teddy said.

  “Good boy, you know it’s the right thing to do. We’ll let you know when it’s payback time, and you can be sure you’ll get a front seat.”

  “I’m not too bothered, to be honest.”

  The detachment of his nephew’s response surprised Rob Harper. “What do you mean Teddy? You better not plot something on your own, now. We’ll do this properly. Safely.” He put a hand on Teddy’s shoulder. “If the police meddle further...You know what I mean, there’s a lot at stakes here. Not just the crew, but also other businesses we’re running.”

  “It’s alright, I’m telling you,” Teddy said, brushing off his uncle’s friendly arm. “I’m not plotting anything. I’ll wait, but be sure that every day this skinny thin-faced coward is walking free in the open, I’m digging his grave a little longer, a little deeper.”

  “Stay put kid!” Rob Harper frowned at him, yet somewhat relieved the man hadn’t lost his drive. “I’m told that for once the police have done their job. The investigation has been made a priority and Kieran O’Connor has already been arrested.”

  The members of the Soho Road Boys who had conducted the assassination had been characteristically reckless. Investigators had managed to identify three eyewitnesses who were close enough to the scene on that night to identify the two gunmen.

  “That is if the judges and jury finish the job,” Teddy said. “And in any case, I’m not sure what’s best – death, or a life in prison,” he added, genuinely considering the question.

  “British prisons have caused many a man to commit suicide, Teddy. This would be as good a justice as death. And we will be there for him should he ever be released,” Rob said. The resolve in his eyes was unmistakable, Rob Harper had been there before, and Teddy could sense it.

  He glanced at his uncle and said, “The old Wilkinson will never settle for that.”

  “Adam understands better than anyone that sacrifices have to be made for the greater good, in that case, the very existence of his organization would be threatened should we be as heady as they’ve been. Trust me, if it was even a remotely sensible option, he would have dismembered O’Connor himself.”

  . . .

  By all accounts, the Chief Superintendent and Chief Inspector in charge of the investigation had done their utmost to see justice served. Even though the ram-raid car hadn’t been found and hard evidence was scant, the case against the two Soho Road Boys henchmen – and Kieran O’Connor – would be rock solid if the witnesses testified as expected.

  The police were cognizant of unfortunate precedents where charges were dropped and suspects walked out free after witnesses had been threatened in court. During the trials, a number of witnesses had retracted statements incriminating the gang’s members at the last second for fear of reprisal, several of them even willing to spend several days in jail after feigning loss of memory.

  The very pervasiveness of the Soho Road Boys across all layers of the local society often sufficed. Most witnesses would withdraw their testimony at the mere hint of a warning from the gang, or even voluntarily after realizing that seeing justice done wasn’t worth the immense risk of retaliation.

  This time around, however, the Chief Inspector left nothing to chance. He had witnesses confirm evidence from behind bullet-proof tinted windows and arrangements were made so they could wear disguises during the trial. The High Court gave its verdict, and both gunmen wound up with whole life sentences. They would likely die in prison.

  Neither Adam Wilkinson nor Teddy Harper welcomed the sentence with any feeling of relief. The two henchmen were mere pawns, and the real test for the justice system would be whether the prosecution proved that the murder of James Wilkinson was ordered by Kieran O’Connor. Only then, justice would be done.

  . . .

  The following weeks almost felt like a truce, as gang members in both camps of the Birmingham underworld waited anxiously for the conclusion of the trial of Kieran O’Connor. The plaintiffs had presented the strongest case they could muster, and the Brummagem Crew had anonymously distilled to them further evidence.

  Life in the city seemed to stop completely on the day of the verdict. Local broadcasting networks were recording and transmitting the outcome of the trial from outside the Birmingham Crown Court. TVs in all household across the city were tuned in to one of these channels. Teddy Harper had gathered several of the highest-ranking members of the Brummagem Crew at his uncle’s house for the occasion, and they were all alert to any breaking insights from the dispatched journalists flocking the front entrance of the justice house.

  During the month of the trial, newspaper headlines had been shamelessly sensational and oddly kind to O’Connor. “Youngster trialed for brutal murder”, “The kid that runs the city”, “Gang leader faces life imprisonment.”

  It was shortly after seven in the evening when Kieran O’Connor was filmed exiting the court, escorted by three henchmen that soon ushered him into a black SUV. A hail of camera flashes illuminated the night.

  Teddy’s eyes were set on the TV, unflinching, as the anchorman explained that the evidence had been inconclusive and the prosecutors had failed to obtain inculpating statements from the two gunmen, even with the prospect of reduced sentences. The witnesses had all drawn a sudden blank. The TV presenter went on suggesting that the underworld would be durably affected by the trial, as a special police taskforce was being set up to deal with the rampant criminality in the city.

  “The fools!” Teddy shouted in despair, his plea resonating as far as the neighbor’s house. Months of investigation had resulted in absolutely nothing. All that wait had been in vain. Justice wouldn’t be done via lawful avenues. Teddy’s head was turning crimson with anguish. There was no mistaking it, the blackness of his soul had just gotten
a shade darker. “What a debacle. They think they’re untouchable,” he grunted.

  Grabbing his leather jacket, he glanced at the men sat around him and ordered, “We’re off!”

  They all got up and hurried outside to the cars.

  CHAPTER 5

  The convoy was racing across the city, pushing their engines to the limit as they hurled along Lawley Middleway. In the driver's seat of his black Vauxhall Cavalier, Teddy was gripping the wheel so hard that it was leaving a mark into the leather-covered frame. His face was ghostly pale despite the blunt rage visibly oozing through every pore of his being.

  Two Ford Cortina and Mondeo – each at full occupancy – were struggling to keep pace a hundred yards behind, almost losing sight of the bursting Cavalier as it passed by the Birmingham Crown Court. The building was still surrounded by reporters, as lawmen exited the main entrance in droves. Teddy couldn’t help but shout the filthiest insults as he drove past the very officials that had failed to honor his friend’s memory. Bunch of no-good suits!

  He knew that darting right in front of a cluster of huddled lawyers and policemen on high alert would raise suspicion immediately, but at that point, Teddy was fueled by one thing, and one thing only – justice. Pure, simple, implacable justice.

  And he would be able to dispense it only if he caught up with Kieran O’Connor before the dirty weasel reached his fort in Lozells – his gang’s inner-city stronghold.

  Darkness was engulfing the metropolis early at that time of the year, but Teddy could feel he was nearing his prey. Some powerful emotions were cooking inside of him, a consuming hatred that he hadn’t experienced since he received the cruelty of the world right in the face, on the day of his first but most memorable beating many years ago.

  “Where the hell is he driving to anyway? And why the bloody rush? Can’t he just wait a couple days and properly plan whatever madness he’s up to?” a man in the Cortina complained, with a hint of a Cockney accent.