by Robert White
Not bad money, eh?
Today was Boxing Day. The job was supposed to have been simple enough. The file gave us the address of a safe house the crew were holed up in, a terraced job close to Old Trafford.
The plan was to get a few good face shots of the targets, maybe a vehicle registration, and go fer a Christmas pint. No problem at all, eh, pal?
I was two gardens down from the target premises' front door, freezing my bollocks off whilst Rick had a spot of lunch in a nice warm café round the corner. No change there then?
Nonetheless, I was nicely tucked in. The house I was hiding outside was empty and I'd used two wheelie bins and some old tarpaulin to cover myself from prying eyes.
Within an hour of me setting up, the targets had arrived in an old Renault people carrier. I got some sharp shots of Kristy, who was showing an amazing amount of cleavage for the air temperature, Fat Boy Findley and Dougie McGinnis, as they carried a mountain of McDonalds into the house. Minutes later, a black BMW X5 pulled up and three surly looking African guys jumped out, complete with a massive long-coated German Shepherd.
I took a few quick snaps. They were definitely Somalian. I recognised their features from back when Rick and I had served in Africa. I also knew how fuckin' ruthless the Somalian boys were.
They stood on the doorstep for a couple of minutes talking to someone who I couldn't see, but presumed to be one of the three Irish. I considered that I was invisible to anyone on the street, but I was wrong.
The dog.
How many times jobs have been compromised by the bloody things is just not worth talking about.
Fido was straining on his lead, ears erect and pointing his little wet nose in my direction.
The biggest of the African boys suddenly turned and pointed toward my position.
The crew were dressed in street clothes; hoodies, lots of bling, big guns, and even bigger baseball caps; no point in labouring the issue, I was fucked.
The big lad let the dog go.
My only hope was to play the vagrant. I pushed my camera and my mobile under one of the bins, tucked my knees under my chin and feigned sleep.
The dog was having none of it. He bounded straight to me and sank his teeth into my right leg, mid-calf. The pain was fuckin' shocking and I couldn't stop myself from crying out.
The big African stood over me. He let me scream for a bit, before he called off the mutt.
His two pals then dragged me along the street, leaving my camera and phone in situ.
I reckoned that was a result.
The instant they got me inside, I was dragged down a stairwell to an empty basement. The boys did lots of swearing and slapped me about a bit, but nothing serious.
Then I met Dougie.
Two of the Somali boys held me down and my Irish friend instantly went about removing my two upper incisors with what looked like wire strippers. It seemed he hadn't moved on from his days in Belfast, chopping off fingers and dishing out pain.
I screamed like a girl and babbled on about being homeless.
He hadn't even asked a question, he was just making his point.
In my days in the Regiment I would do the same. Don't fuck about making threats, take off a finger or an ear, show you are serious and then ask the question.
"You are MI5, aren't yer, boy?" barked the Irish. It didn't sound like a query, more like a statement.
"Who? What?" I burbled through the blood and snot.
One of the Somali street gang, who was obviously in charge of his little team, hovered around with a big smile on his face. He was big fucker, with the most bling and a very impressive IWI Jericho Mega Gun on a sling around his neck. The fact that he was almost definitely a Muslim yet opted for an Israeli-made gun around his neck was ironic. Well, it would have been if I'd still been in possession of my teeth and not surrounded by nutters.
He didn't speak, just watched the proceedings with mild amusement. The boy didn't look like a terrorist. He looked like a gangster.
His dog sat obediently by his side and whimpered.
The basement door opened and Ewan Findley waddled in. He handed Dougie my camera and phone. Now I was really fucked.
I was instantly treated to more wire stripper treatment. My bottom lip was sliced open as McGinnis wrenched at more teeth. The pain was horrendous.
Dougie grunted as he worked.
"Yer a fuckin' spy bastard, ain't yer? Fuckin' secret service eh? You'll tell me all about it, no danger."
He looked up at the big African and waved a bloody tooth at him, recently removed from yours truly. Then...he gave the fucker a wink...a fuckin' wink, I tell yer.
"He won't be alone either, eh? Where there is one wee Hun, there is usually another."
The Somali Snoop Dogg impersonator didn't appear to understand what a 'Hun' was.
My mouth was so ruined, that I couldn't have helped him, even if I'd had the inclination.
After what seemed like an age, I was dropped to the floor and tied to a rusting radiator by the Irishman himself. I ran my injured tongue along the top of my gums to assess the damage. If I got out of this shit I had a big dentist bill coming.
Dougie stood over me.
McGinnis was a good-looking guy despite his broken nose and bull size. He had a full head of jet black hair, a close cropped beard and clear blue eyes. He wouldn't have looked out of place on a perfume advert. He smiled to reveal perfect Hollywood teeth, and I considered returning the compliment with his pliers, if I got the chance.
He nodded to the Somali.
"I'll handle this wee shite on ma own now, eh?"
The lad didn't say a word, he just clicked his fingers and his two lackeys followed him out the door as eagerly as the vicious mutt that had half my leg inside it.
To my surprise Dougie followed them.
There was a muffled conversation that I couldn't make out, and I thought I heard the gangsters leave.
About twenty minutes went by before McGinnis appeared again.
He smiled to reveal those teeth again. I was gonna get the works here.
I was a fucking dead man.
In the films, when the baddie tells Mr Bond all about his plan of world domination and how he will implement it, blah blah... it's the gangsters' downfall.
In reality, when the goons tell you what their wee plan is, yer about to snuff it, pal.
Dougie had bizarrely changed into a Manchester United football shirt. In his hand was a crude explosive device wrapped in gaffer tape.
"You'll know what this is, son?" he said, throwing it up in the air and catching it smartly.
He leaned in, the blue eyes flashed, cold as ice.
I shook my head.
"Oh yes ye do, yer bollocks. Yer a fuckin' British soldier, ain't ya? Course you are, son, a fuckin' wee scumbag fuckin' Hun, eh?"
I considered a witty retort, and to explain that I was a definite 'Tim', but kept my sore mouth shut.
Dougie was on a roll; he was fuckin' barkin' at the moon, this boy. His eyes were wild. He'd been on the cocaine and was sweating; small specks of white powder were visible around his nose.
Add that to the fact he was hardly Stephen Hawking in the brains department, he made a very dangerous package.
He stuck the bomb under my nose. "This fucker is gettin' dropped outside Old Trafford. It's a sample, for our African brothers eh? I thought it would be fun to see how many Hun Manc twats I could blow up for Christmas. The Somali boys dinnae bother with it, see, Christmas I mean, them being Muslim 'n' all. But they'll know what it can do then, eh?"
Dougie's phone went off in his pocket. It took his coke-addled brain a moment to find it.
It played Leona Lewis, A Moment Like This.
No' bad for a Christmas number one, and quite apt, I thought.
He turned his head and spoke quietly and quickly.
I didn't get to hear.
Whatever the call was about, it caused Dougie to leave me to spit bits of teeth on the floor.
At least I was still alive. But if the big Irish got his way, the Boxing Day footie was about to be remembered for all the wrong reasons.
I worked on my ties.
Lauren North's Story:
Third date syndrome.
I'd been so upset when I found out the Firm had suckered us into another job that I went home. My God, where and what was home exactly? I had some crazy idea in my head that I would look Jane up, my old mate from Leeds General. Who was I kidding? She'd have taken one look at me and run a mile.
I'd still spent Christmas Day back in Leeds, finding months of mail behind the door of my old flat and that the electricity had been cut off. It was so cold and damp, that I was forced to book myself into a hotel at a ridiculous price and eat Christmas dinner alone.
What a joke. Since Rick and I had been followed that night in Manchester, I had developed near obsessive anti-surveillance routines. These took up half my day, and I spent the other half fighting off the advances of a very sleazy waiter, as I did my best to eat dry turkey.
Finally my pride had given way to curiosity and I drove to Manchester. I didn't want to miss out on anything, so you can imagine how I felt when Rick said I wasn't needed.
It was, of course, early days as far as the job was concerned. Des was taking care of the plot, hoping to get some pictures and Rick was watching his back; so, to be fair, there wasn't much in it for me. Nonetheless, I was still peeved.
After an hour or so, my temper subsided and I rang Lawrence.
Even after buying a flat and a nice Audi, I still had over a hundred thousand in the bank and could easily afford Jimmy Choo shoes; yet despite the money and clothes, I was feeling as lonely and frustrated as I could remember. Maybe it was the season; maybe it was the realisation that we were still in the clutches of the Firm. Or just maybe it was because I would never get over my feelings for Rick.
I was, however, doing my best in that department by starting to date again. My God, even the word sent me into apoplexy. Today, it was my third 'date' with Lawrence, I mean Larry, (he prefers the shortened version), and despite my seemingly celibate life looking like it may change for the better, I was pissed off that I was missing out on the job. I wanted to be with the boys.
Being part of a team like ours was not conducive to a regular love life. It seemed the lads were totally unaware of the opposite sex. That, or they were sly with it, and I was naïve enough to fall for their blag.
There had been a time when I'd thought Rick and I would have had a chance. I'd never been sure if I'd blown it that night in Abu Dhabi, or it was just circumstances that had taken over. He was such a complex soul, that I never really knew what he was thinking. Every time I thought about him, I could hear Jane bellowing in my ear 'Never shit on your own doorstep, love'.' Trouble was, deep down I knew how I felt inside and how those feelings were unlikely to fade when I worked with him every day.
Anyway, in my vain attempt to push those feelings to the back of my mind, here I was with a tall, dark and handsome single man. I'd met Lawrence, or Larry, shopping in Tesco, near to my flat in Wilmslow.
I needed food late one Friday night. I was feeling particularly friendless and he had a nice smile and an easy way with him.
He was a sales representative for Canon copiers. I reckoned he would have run a mile if he found out what I did for a living.
My date had booked us in at my favourite Italian; but as I stirred my pasta with carbonara sauce around the plate, thinking about what the lads were up to,
I instantly decided that Larry and I would never happen.
I'd trained before my date. Finding my gym closed for Christmas was not going to stop me. I knew my physical regime was something that verged on the obsessive, but I just couldn't ease up.
I glanced at my arms and thought that maybe I was overdoing the weights. Was I starting to look like those Hollywood actresses with toy-boy lovers?
Larry smiled and asked me about my food.
"It's good," I said.
"But you haven't touched it, babe."
I wanted to say I wasn't anyone's babe, but I was saved by my mobile.
Rick's voice was level but I knew there was trouble. "Meet me at the Brownstone Café. It's two streets down from number four; swing by and pick up the furniture on your way."
By furniture, he meant our weapon stash, so the shit had hit the fan again. Number four was the plot Des had been watching.
I tried my best to be casual but had to ask. "The photographer, is he okay?"
Rick was cold. "Get here, twenty minutes max."
The line went dead.
I looked at my date, a solid, reliable, nice guy, who would probably make someone an even nicer husband.
"Sorry, Lawrence, I have to go."
Rick Fuller's Story:
I'd eaten a good club sandwich and finished an even better coffee. For a Manchester back street café, especially one open on Boxing Day, the standard was excellent.
The lunch had indeed been decent enough, but it was spoiled slightly by the obese waitress who seemed to have bathed in some cheap perfume, probably with Britney on the label. It was an attempt to hide the fact she'd been out the back on her break and smoked a cigarette.
Filthy habit.
Des had streamed the pictures he was taking direct to my laptop. They started with some test shots, followed by several of a blue Renault Espace and our targets entering number four, carrying junk food.
The last picture Des streamed was of three African guys who were dressed like a rap band, together with an impressive GSD.
Then all contact stopped.
I rang his mobile, an untraceable pay–as-you-go job and got nothing.
Not good.
The café was ten minutes stroll from the plot.
I'd walked past for a recce, but other than the fact that Des was missing from his OP all seemed quiet.
Way too quiet.
If he'd been taken, and I had to presume the worst, as the Scot was unlikely to have gone to the fucking pub for lunch, they would have his camera. Hopefully they would just smash it to bits, a regular trick, and not notice it had what amounted to a mobile internet device fitted inside.
I had a Glock tucked into my jacket pocket, a new Berghaus that I was particularly taken with, but to go in alone was out of the question. Des would not have gone quietly unless he was faced with overwhelming odds; to our knowledge, six people had entered the house and that was overwhelming enough.
I heard a squeal of tyres and a white Audi RS6 pulled up directly outside the café. A nice car, quick too, but why pay close to supercar money for something that looks like a rep's car? Lauren hurried across the pavement to the door wearing good shoes, but spoiling the whole look with some chain store, so-called designer dress. She had applied make-up, a rarity for her, so I guessed she'd been on a date when I'd called.
Who would that be?
She sat opposite me and instantly waved away Miss Burger King 2006 before she even made the table.
"Go on," she said.
I told what I knew, which wasn't much.
The one thing we both did know, however, was we had to go in and get Des out, pronto.
Lauren's face told the whole story.
"How sure are you he is in the plot?"
I stood. "I'm not, but what else have we got?"
She didn't move. "This McGinnis's a tough one, isn't he, Rick, even by your standards?"
I nodded.
"He's a bad combination, an extremely violent coke head and stupid with it."
She pushed back her chair and looked up at me. Her hair was tied back with an elastic band; a hurried addition, I guessed.
She had the most wonderful eyes and despite the cheap dress, she looked good enough to eat.
"Let's do this then," she said.
Lauren North's Story:
The house was a typical Manchester 1930s terrace; a rear alley ran the length of the run and each dwelling was protected by a five-foot brick
wall. A single wooden gate opened into every yard. Think Coronation Street but with four beds rather than two.
A quick peep through the gap in our gate revealed a basement window, a back door with three worn stone steps below it, and at eye level, two Georgian style windows with the odd bull's-eye glass pane for that 1970s effect. Both sported heavy drapes preventing any view inside. The basement window was bare.
Rick rooted in the boot of the Audi and pushed a couple of stun grenades into his pockets. Then he lifted out an MP5k with a folding stock, made it ready and checked the safety. He concealed the lot under his Berghaus, together with a spare mag for comfort. He also carried a small bag which contained our 'breaking' gear.
Dressed as I was, I had no choice but to keep my own SLP in my hand. I had just one single, spare mag, tucked precariously in my knickers. They were the type Bridget Jones would not have approved of.
Sometimes in our line of work, you get some luck, other times everything goes tits up from the beginning.
When Rick tried the gate and heard the latch click open I thought I saw the trace of a smile.
I brought my weapon up into the aim and covered the door as he stepped into the yard. Rick made straight to the basement window as I would have done myself. He tapped the top of his head with his palm, a signal that I should join him.
My heart gave me a reminder what it was really like to be alive again and I dropped in against him.
Rick Fuller's Story:
Lauren flopped down beside me. The window looked down into a basement that was clean and tidy, but seemed unused. I could see a green petrol can in one corner and a set of jump leads, but no furniture. As my eyes became accustomed to the interior I noticed something I had seen far too much of.
There were blood splatters on the concrete floor. Not enough for a gunshot wound, more likely a scalp injury, or some poor bastard had been subjected to a kicking; the poor bastard in question being Des Cogan of course.