by Robert White
Wearing skin-tight armoured motorcycle leathers, hardly the ideal choice of clothing when attempting to move quickly and quietly, meant that the Sig was the ideal weapon to have tucked under your left armpit; especially when riding the most expensive motorcycle in the world.
Either way, Larry wasn't going to notice it, until it was pointing at his head.
Lauren's building had once been a 1930s family home, latterly split into four flats; two up, two down. A mature privet hedge surrounded a large garden laid half lawn, half tarmac. This gave the residents parking and privacy. It looked a very desirable little property.
I was impressed.
A quick recce through the foliage gave me a clear view of the Cherokee and Nissan parked to the right of the building. Two men dressed in cheap suits were standing by the very solid looking front entrance door. They looked like impoverished insurance salesmen.
A bulky balding type was kneeling, fiddling with what I presumed to be skeleton keys. It was a vain attempt to defeat the lock.
I'd noticed that Lauren had a card key on her key-ring. I presumed this was for the flat. If that was the case, an electronic door lock works on magnetism. Skeleton keys would be as much use as a chocolate fireguard.
More fuckin' amateurs.
A thinner, floppy-haired bloke with an unfortunate nose stood to one side, pressing the four entrance buttons one at a time and getting no joy.
Feeling quietly confident, that the two men from C&A would be struggling for some time, I made for the rear, keeping in the crouch close to the hedge-line.
There were enough bushes and small trees for me to sprint between until I reached the gable end of the house. Then it was small quiet steps to the corner.
Once there I stopped, regulated my breathing and listened. The wind meant I couldn't hear much more than the suggestion of a conversation coming from the back of the house. That said, it would also cover any noise I was about to make. The boys at the front porch wouldn't hear a thing.
A quick peek around the gable revealed an open metal fire escape that had been added to the property when it had been converted to flats. Two men were standing on the upper platform. The owner of the hushed voice was a tall dark handsome guy, who just had to be Larry. His pal was shorter, stocky and sported an often broken nose.
If what I had in mind was going to work, it would have to take both of them several seconds to recognise me wearing my motorcycle gear. If they made me immediately, plan 'B' would come into play.
I took a deep breath and strode into view. As plan 'B' involved killing four public servants, I hoped for the best.
"Hey!" I shouted to the pair. "What do you think you are doing on my fire escape?"
Tall dark and handsome turned and held up a hand like a traffic cop stopping a wagon in the street.
"Stay back, sir...Police business."
He hadn't recognised me. I was in. He could live.
"You don't look like coppers to me, sunshine," I said, striding closer to the bottom of the escape.
Broken nose started downward, pushing his hand into his jacket as he walked. I was hoping it was his warrant card he was going to pull rather than his Glock.
"Step away, sir! As my colleague said, this is police business. We need to gain access to these premises."
He found his badge, held it out at arm’s length and looked in my eyes. "Please take off your balaclava, sir, so we can converse... can you help us gain entry?"
Fuck that.
There is an art to disarming someone without causing him too much physical damage. A bull of a man, walking toward you down a metal staircase, off guard and wearing a right handed shoulder holster was about as easy as it got.
As broken nose reached the last two steps I grabbed at his tie with my left hand and pulled him on to me. He was instantly off balance and instinctively clutched at my leathers with his right.
I'd anticipated his move and simply took a single backward step. He was close to falling on his already flat face as I thrust my right hand inside his jacket.
A police issue holster secures the weapon using a leather strap held in place by a press-stud fastener. As you go to draw your weapon, your right thumb naturally forces itself between the two halves of the press-stud, prising it open and releasing the gun.
In a split second I had stripped him of his Glock and pushed it firmly under his chin.
"If you've got kids," I whispered to him. "Best think of them now."
I could see that tall and handsome at the top of the stairs was in the process of drawing his weapon.
Before he could get into the aim, I whipped broken nose around to use him as a human shield, and had old lover boy firmly in my sights. I managed a smile I wished he could see, and kept my voice low.
"Merry Christmas, officer. I'd drop that if I were you."
Larry turned down the sides of his mouth and glared at me. If he was scared, he didn't show it. He threw his Glock to the floor, as a petulant child would a toy.
He opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head, put Flat Nose's gun to his temple and reminded them both to be quiet with a finger on my lips.
Right on time I heard sirens.
The cavalry were about to arrive in the form of Greater Manchester's ARV cars and I did not intend to be around to meet them. Their first job would be to drag the men to the front of the house to the floor and point MP5's at them. That would be distraction enough for Lauren and me to do one.
I ushered Larry down the fire escape so he could get cosy with Flat Nose. The boyfriend/cop never took his eyes from me. If I were a betting man I'd say it was genuine hatred.
"Cuff yourselves to the handrail," I said. "Do it now."
Larry was moving far too slowly for my liking, stalling for time. I delivered an impatient reminder to him by smashing the butt of the Glock into Flat Nose's temple. The heavy man grunted and dropped to his knees, holding his head. Larry lost it and made to retaliate, but he was forced to stop himself as I rested the barrel of the Glock in the centre of his forehead.
"Do it now!" I repeated. "Dead... is not a good look this season."
Larry reluctantly found two sets of plasti-cuffs in his pockets and went about my request. As soon as I was happy, I gave each of them a quick search and ripped their comms away.
Then I called Lauren.
Ten seconds later she was out of the fire exit and trotting down the escape after me.
"You took your time," she snapped.
In that very instant, if Larry had harboured any doubt about my identity, he now knew who I was. He bawled my name in my direction. Okay, he knew, but proof? In a court of law? Trot on, pal.
I ignored his obvious irritation and started back toward the MV, keeping my head down. The first ARV officers were screaming instructions to the cops at the front of the building. I'd taken about seven paces when I heard a resounding smack.
I turned to see Lauren jogging toward me and Larry slumped against the rail of the fire escape. His nose was pouring blood.
"A woman scorned?" I said, from a safe distance.
"Fuck you, Rick."
It was the reply I expected.
Des Cogan's Story:
After visiting the dentist that Rick had recommended and leaving with a numb mouth and empty wallet, I needed a drink. Fuck me! I didn't realise what an expensive business dentistry had become. I'd pretty much come straight from school and into the army, so I'd never had to pay for any work in my younger days. Then, when I moved back to Scotland, treatment was on the NHS, so again, there was no charge...free...gratis...see what I'm sayin'?
In just under two hours, Mr. Fuckin' robbin' bastard, had made himself just under two grand, and that was only for starters!
The wee boy had done a good job right enough, didn't ask questions and I did feel better with my temporary teeth in place. It's just I'm not like the big man Rick. He doesn't bother about spending money like water.
But me...I'm from Glasgow...get my drift?
As soon as I'd recovered from paying out the price of an all-inclusive two week holiday in the Bahamas to repair my ugly mush, I took a cab to a car sales pitch, a stone's throw from Salford Crescent railway station.
Once there I stood and admired an ageing, but very tidy BMW 530d; a big booted quick saloon, full leather, air con, the works, just the job for what we needed.
I was approached by a guy purporting to be the 'senior' salesman. I wouldn't like to have seen the junior model. He was a grubby little Mancunian fucker in a tracksuit, and sported a thick chain around his throat with the name 'Eddie' picked out in fat letters.
As you can imagine, I took to him like a duck to water.
He had that stupid walk. The one that would be 'bad boys' all seem to have these days. His knees were incapable of moving in a forward direction as he rolled from side to side like a fuckin' weeble with learning difficulties.
He eyed me with more than a little suspicion; my Glaswegian accent and numb lips making me difficult to understand.
But when I pulled four and a half grand from my pocket in crisp twenties, he cheered up no end.
Money talks, pal... in any accent.
The Beamer was taxed and tested so I was fully legal if I got a pull, but I reckoned we needed a second car, so I sat in a small café off the Oxford Road, pondering the Auto Trader magazine, circling other possible motors.
I still couldn't feel my coffee cup against my lips and found myself dribbling down my chin.
As I wiped the table for the third time, I suddenly realised that I had been in exactly this same position months earlier, except back then, I had truly believed that Rick had been killed by Stephan Goldsmith.
I gave an involuntary shiver, as if Rick had walked on my grave.
I felt like the big dope was actually watching me relive that particularly unhappy moment and laughing his head off.
I was jogged back to reality by the sound of my mobile buzzing in my pocket. The name 'Bollocks' flashed on the screen...it was Rick.
"Have you got a motor yet?" he asked.
"Aye," I replied. "I'm just havin' a look for a second one, pal."
"Forget that, I need you to get to Wilmslow a.s.a.p."
I wrote down the address Rick gave me on the top of my paper, and went about road testing our latest vehicle.
The Beamer went like a dream, and it took me just seventeen minutes to get to the RV.
When I arrived, the atmosphere was definitely frosty.
Lauren was leaning against a low garden wall, her arms crossed against her chest and her face like thunder. Rick, on the other hand, was ignoring her. He held a small yellow cloth, and was polishing his new posh motorbike that cost more than my fuckin' house.
It was obvious neither was speaking to each other.
"What's been goin' on, eh, pal?" I asked Rick tentatively.
Rick didn't look up from his task in hand. "Ask lover girl here."
I looked at Lauren. Despite her fury, there was the merest hint of regret and embarrassment in there somewhere.
"Just take me back to the lock-up, Des," she said flatly. "I'll brief you on the way."
I shrugged and opened the door for her to sit in the car. Once I'd closed it, I turned to Rick.
"Are you being an arsehole over whatever this is, pal?"
Rick looked at his watch.
"RV back at the lock-up in an hour," he said. "Bring the Turk."
I'd known him long enough. There was no more to be said. I just shrugged at his usual monstrous level of stubbornness, and jumped in the BMW.
By the time we had negotiated the Christmas sales traffic, Lauren had told me pretty much all there was to tell about Lawrence or Larry. To be fair it wasn't much at all. She'd met him in Tesco's one night and they had been on a couple of dates. She'd liked him, but not enough for it to go anywhere. She had been lonely as Christmas had approached, he'd turned up unexpectedly...end of.
She'd never discussed our covert business with him. As far as Larry had been concerned, Lauren was a recruitment consultant for a security company and never left the office.
She had never divulged her address to him or invited him to her flat. She, in turn, had never been to Larry's house either.
I turned to her as she lay on the back seat of the BMW, still seething.
"It could have been worse though, hun, eh?... At least you didn't shag him."
It didn't go well.
By five-thirty p.m. Lauren had calmed down enough for us all to sit in the same room. Rick was quiet and brooding.
J.J.'s presence in the lock-up forced some, if not all, of the frostiness onto the back burner.
Our three had become four and we all sat drinking tea and sorting through our kit.
I took to the Turk immediately. He had a wry sense of humour and that 'fuck you' attitude that needled Rick but made me smile.
As we laid out our kit on a large table, I noticed he had a Col Moschin Delta fighting knife with him. He looked like the kind of bloke who knew exactly how to use it; time, of course, would tell.
He expertly cleaned his MP7 and Sig 290 and kept his mouth shut.
J.J. had brought his own sniper rifle with him. How he'd acquired such a thing was beyond us, but we didn't ask.
It was an M24, the American military version of the Remington 700; known as a SWS or Sniper Weapon System, as you could attach various bits of other kit to it. J.J.'s had a Leupold Ultra M3A 10×42mm fixed-power scope and a Harris 9-13" 1A2-L bipod unit strapped to the devastatingly accurate man-killer.
As we stripped and cleaned, Rick shared out our ammunition between us. We would all be responsible for our own kit and it was essential that it was in top shape as a stoppage or misfire could prove fatal.
The MP7 was new to me. It was a compact little gun that could be fired one-handed or like a rifle when you extended the telescopic stock. Like the MP5 it had a single shot, burst of three or fully auto modes. Rick had ordered ultra dot aim point sights and noise suppressors with each gun. The gun was quiet before you fitted the suppressor. With it on, it could be fired close to other buildings without a soul knowing about it. The only thing that bothered me was that the MP7 had its own specific ammunition. The MP5 takes standard 9mm like pistols, but this baby took a 4.6 x 30mm round. The bespoke ammo had a pointed all-steel bullet with a brass jacket. BAE Systems make the rounds in the UK and claim a hundred per cent penetration of 20-layer Kevlar body-armour. Nasty stuff, eh?
We had only two hundred rounds each. It sounds a lot, but when the weapon is on fully auto it uses nine hundred and fifty rounds per minute. They call the Scottish tight, but I'd be setting mine to single shot, pal.
We got everything squared away by eight p.m.
At nine p.m. we sat together and ate a meal of pasta and fish in relative silence. When we had cleared the table I stepped out into the Manchester night for a smoke and J.J. joined me. He pulled a small tin from his pocket and started to roll a cigarette.
I lit my wee pipe and he eyed it curiously.
"Why you smoke this?" he said.
"Habit, mate; when I was in the army, it was important that we never left any trace of us being on a plot, no fag ends or stuff; I couldn't give up the weed so this was the answer."
"And you were SAS like Richard?"
I nodded and inhaled my pipe.
J.J. flicked ash onto the pavement. "I don't think he likes me very much; maybe he thinks that Turkish Army is no good."
I turned to J.J. His eyes were as black as coal and as cold as the bunker. "You wouldn't be here if he didn't think you were up to it, pal. There are no passengers on Rick's team, eh?"
J.J. seemed distant for a moment.
"So he needs a man to get in close, or he wouldn't have picked me."
"Maybe."
The Turk seemed to settle as he spoke about what was obviously his favourite topic.
"I am good close. I train many years with knife. In Turkey, there are many street gangs. They use knif
e like the British use fist...you know?...crude; grabbing the man and dragging him close toward you, then thrust up to his balls or stomach, under his arm to his lungs, even to his thigh or arse."
He drew heavily on his roll-up and exhaled.
"I am different. I trained with a Sicilian man. He lived in my village many years. I use his method; is called 'La scherma di pugnale siciliano,' 'Sicilian dagger fighting'. I learn this as a boy; it is known in all nine provinces of Sicily; it is for duelling and street combat and is at least two hundred years old. It is the best."
I looked at the scars on his arms.
"Defence wounds?"
"Of course, Des; everyone loses in a knife fight, my friend." He lifted his shirt and displayed a horrific scar on his abdomen. It must have been eleven or twelve inches long.
"This is from nightclub when I am owner; a drunk making trouble, in the crowd and dark, I never saw the blade; my guts were all over the fucking dancefloor."
"Jesus! What happened to him?"
J.J. looked at me with those fish eyes of his.
"He die."
I nodded and tapped my pipe on the wall to empty it.
"Fair one," I said.
We stepped inside to the warmth of the lock-up; a wood burner roared away in the corner. J.J. dropped onto a chair, assumed his usual pose and played with his knife. Lauren was smoothing out a map and a large scale floor-plan on the table.
Rick stepped up and beckoned everyone around it.
J.J. was slow to rise and caught the infamous Rick Fuller glare full in the face.
"This is the location," he began. "And the last known interior plans of St Maria's Social Club, Levenshulme; the building Maxi uses as his headquarters."
He tapped the diagram on the table.
"Even the briefest look at this place tells me that a rapid intervention would be close to suicidal. There are too many entrances, exits and windows to cover with just us four. Even if we booby-trapped some exits, we'd still have no idea what Maxi has done to the internal layout of the club. We would be blind and I believe out-gunned.