by Robert White
"Drop your weapon!"
"Put your hands on your head!"
"Get on your knees!"
"Do it now!"
"Look at me!"
"Do as we say and you will not be harmed!"
I lay face down on the floor, the cold concrete chilling my cheek. A uniformed police officer roughly cuffed us both whilst two others pointed G36's at us. Now this was a real turn up for the books, wasn't it? Cops were everywhere, lots of guns dogs and armour. My head was directly in line with one of the ARV boy's feet and he wore a very smart pair of Gortex Timberlands with yellow tabs.
"Nice boots," I said
"Thanks," he replied. "They're not issue."
"I guessed," I said.
Lauren North's Story:
Like you, reading this, I have been frightened more than a few times in my life; real fear, not the kind of stomach-flipping fright that you experience when you sit on a fairground ride, but genuine, gut wrenching terror.
No matter how much time goes by, when you recall those things that have truly scared you, your skin still crawls. They are those events in your life that you don't wish to recall, but in your darkest moments, they creep up on you and scare you all over again.
Kneeling in that stinking cage with my hands tied behind my back, I felt as helpless as I could remember. Yet I could not forget that the two boys either side of me were equally powerless. As Maxi baited me with his dog and my body shook, my tears were as much for Rick and J.J, as they were for me.
At that moment, I could see no way out, other than dying in that horrible cell; the place where countless others had suffered at the hands of an evil gangster and his men, there seemed no option.
When the three Irish turned up and stopped Maxi from hurting me, I was instantly relieved. The feeling, of course was short-lived. I had simply swapped one psychotic for another.
The moment I saw Kristy McDonald lead Siobhan into the room, I knew what was going on. My brain slotted all the pieces together in a split second. Patrick O'Donnell; the man I had assassinated in his car in that back street in Belfast, the leader of the NIRA, had left twin sons. It was naive to believe that they would not take his place, use his money, power and influence to avenge his death, send their soldiers to find his killer and take their retribution. McGinnis, Findley and McDonald were just that, his soldiers.
Siobhan was just a pawn, a poor lost child that had been the victim of Maxi's awful trade in flesh. She had probably lived a similar life to Evelyn, picked up in some burger bar or taxi office and groomed by Maxi's boys; fed and watered, then put to work like a slave, given drugs and sent over the water to ply her trade on Linen Hall Street to raise cash for the cause.
As Kristy McDonald tore my hair from my scalp and Siobhan looked into my eyes, I said a little prayer. Maybe, just maybe, the girl would find some courage, some sense of duty, to simply shake her head and say, "no, it isn't her." To remember that I had showed her some compassion, had helped her, saved her from that bully of a pimp on that freezing wet street.
But as I looked into those dying eyes, and that is exactly what I saw, a young girl close to death, a teen that had lost all control of her life, a slave to drugs and gang-masters, I knew I was doomed. I knew she would identify me and that I would be taken.
So when I talk about fear, I have the qualifications to do so, the experience. When Dougie McGinnis touched me, I wanted to die. Believe me, it was preferable to what he was planning.
I was walked briskly from the club. I didn't see the point in wasting my energy by struggling; it would only cause me pain. The three Irish remained tight-lipped and only spoke to direct me where to sit in the waiting car.
Kristy drove. Everywhere I looked there were cops. Cars, vans and motorcycles seemed to be on every corner. Something big was going down and the sheer numbers led me to consider trying my luck and exiting the moving car. Of course, the child locks were on. Ewan Findlay's considerable frame was blocking any exit to my left and McGinnis to my right. I'd need to be Houdini and it was not going to happen.
Dougie eyed me up at every opportunity. He made my skin crawl. Reading the police report of the rape he had committed and the horrific injuries he had inflicted on the poor young girl back in Ireland had knocked me sick. A violent rapist with a bad coke habit was not an ideal car share. That said, I figured that even Dougie wasn't daft enough to damage his bosses' goods prior to delivery. Once I got to my destination, however, I knew that I was in a far more dangerous predicament. My fear, that real fear we talked about, was never far from the surface.
One thing that did surprise me was the fact that I was riding inside the passenger compartment at all. I'd expected to be thrown into the boot, or at best be in the back of some old van, but no, there I was in full view, on the back seat.
This somehow gave me confidence. The three were going to have to untie me at some point, especially as I considered we would be travelling by ferry to Belfast, and they couldn't leave me in the car during the crossing without attracting attention.
I watched the world go by as we sped along the Mancunian Way toward the M60. People, ordinary people, were going about their lives and I felt suddenly very alone. My thoughts once again turned to Rick, and I felt sick to my stomach. With no way of knowing if he was alive or dead. I wanted to cry, wanted to scream out loud for my captors to release me.
I'd never really found religion in my life. I'd seen it every day on the wards, especially on HDU where my patients were critically ill. Some lived, some died, some prayed, some didn't. Prayer or no prayer, some just gave up and stopped breathing.
As much as I craved it, I couldn't shout, I couldn't scream, but I'll be honest, I said a prayer to God and asked that my escape would come.
Rick Fuller's Story:
We were left prostrate on the ground for what seemed like an age. The two cops with the G36's had chilled out some and held their weapons in the safe position, trigger finger out of the guard. They even chatted to each other, such was the relaxed nature of the pair.
Forty minutes passed and there seemed little urgency in the camp to remove us from our chilly spot.
Shortly after we were arrested, we heard flash-bombs and gunfire from inside the club. It was in the form of sharp double taps, so I presumed it was the police doing the shooting and yet more of Maxi's men were dead.
There was a stony silence for a few minutes, before the doors of the club opened and the sorrowful parade of terrified young girls were led out of the door by the Greater Manchester Police Rapid Intervention Team.
They had succeeded in the task we had failed so miserably to complete.
The reason our two guards were relaxed was obvious. The operation had turned slowly from the offensive to the investigatory. As of now, all the bad guys were accounted for, and that included yours truly. Crime scene tape was set up around the club and a forensic team were kitting up in the adjacent car park, pulling on white paper suits and masks.
Finally two heavyset guys in plain clothes wandered over to our position. One knelt down next to me and took a good look at my face. It was the detective I'd stripped the SLP from at the back of Lauren's flat in Wilmslow. The broken nosed guy, the one I'd whispered to, asked him if he had kids. The one I'd smacked with the pistol. He was really going to love interviewing me, wasn't he? Could things get any worse?
He gave me a wry smile.
"Mr. Fuller," he said, taking a stick of gum from his pocket and folding it into his mouth. "We meet again. What a pleasant coincidence."
He stood, using his hands to push his knees straight and lift his considerable bodyweight up, before turning to the two cops guarding us. "Get them searched and back to the nick. Keep them away from Maxi's crew...no phone calls."
And off he trotted, without a backward glance. Nonetheless, I had the feeling I would be seeing quite a bit more of my flat-nosed friend.
We were indeed searched...properly this time, and J.J. had his knife taken from him. It was dropped
into an evidence bag, as was my mobile. To my surprise, we were placed in the back of a van together. Under normal circumstances, the cops would have been keen to keep any suspects separate so they didn't get the opportunity to get their story straight. Maybe the fact that Maxi was lying on the floor of the punishment cage in a mixture of his own blood and intestines, and J.J. had a bloodstained knife in his pocket, had something to do with it. I reckon it went a long way to proving his guilt. That was before they matched the ballistics of the two guns they had taken from us to the bullets lodged in the seven or eight dead Somalians inside the remainder of the club.
We were pretty fucked.
There was no time to feel sorry for ourselves, though. Somehow, and it was going to be a big ask, we had to get ourselves free, back on track, and get Lauren away from the Irish.
I found it hard to get her out of my thoughts. I couldn't stop my imagination running wild. Vivid pictures flashed and flickered across my retinas. I knew what Dougie and his crew were. Rapists, murderers, deviants...and I knew what they would do to Lauren if they got the chance.
The thoughts and images took me to a very dismal place.
There was one ray of hope. Des had been conspicuous by his absence. This made me feel a little better. Hopefully, he was free. If anyone could get us out of this shit, it was the Jock.
I was plonked on a bench in back of a Transit van and cuffed to it. The cops were silent except for the issue of basic instructions. They were polite and professional. That said, I had the feeling that once we got to the station, our welcoming committee would not be so accommodating.
J.J. sat opposite me. He gave the cops a hard time, moaning that his cuffs were too tight, he was cold, he wanted a drink, and he wanted his brief, blah, blah, blah. I got the impression he had no liking for the law and that he was enjoying baiting the young officers. I figured that this kind of behaviour was counterproductive, but who was I to talk? Maybe J.J. had spent more time in the back of police vehicles than I had.
Eventually the van doors were slammed shut and we were on the move.
J.J. leaned back against the side of the van as we bumped along the road toward our unknown destination.
"I told you not to bring that knife," I said.
J.J. grinned. "I know, I'm a bad boy, uh?"
I managed a smile back. He'd shown what a good guy he was. He knew his stuff. He was the reason we were alive. "You did well back there, pal, thanks."
He didn't reply, just shrugged his shoulders and looked out of the rear window. I figured that the conversation was over.
Suddenly J.J. turned and eyed me. I could see he was bursting to ask me something.
"What?" I said. "You got a problem?"
He shook his head. "Me? No... I got no problem at all. It's you with the big problem, I think, Rick."
"What do you mean?"
"Lauren," he said.
"We'll get her back." I said. "One way or another, we'll get out of this shit. Des is out there somewhere and..."
He cut me off. "I don't mean this. I know what you say about Des. This not the problem...your problem is you are in love with Lauren...no?"
He may as well have gutted me with his knife. I kept my counsel, but the voice in my head wouldn't stay silent.
God help the Irish if they hurt her.
Des Cogan's Story:
The moment I heard Rick's command to abort, I knew we were in the shit. I could tell by his tone that he was under severe pressure. There was at least one other voice in the background and that was not good.
His warning, that split second, gave me my window of opportunity.
I'd parked the BMW in the agreed location. It was rough ground with a high brick wall on three sides. Ideal for what we'd had in mind, getting kitted up, loading and checking weapons, making sure everything was squared away as it should be, far from prying eyes.
It was also ideal for seeing what was coming up the road to spoil my party.
As there'd been no radio traffic from Lauren and J.J, I had to presume they had fallen victim to a welcoming committee, just as Rick had. Looking down the narrow opening that led to the street I saw I was not to be left out. Mine took the form of three tall and gangly Somalians in tracksuits. They strutted toward the Beamer, each holding a pistol loosely by their side. Their show of confidence was short-lived. I hit the headlight switch on the car and lit all three up like a Christmas tree.
Before they could react, I poked my MP7 out of the driver's window and let off three short bursts.
The weapon was so quiet it was like firing some kind of kid's toy. I hit two of them, the first in the chest, whilst the second fell clutching his throat. The third raised his gun and ran at the car firing wildly. Either he was off his face on drugs, or he didn't know what fear was.
I let another burst go and he dropped face down into the dirt. Happy he wasn't getting up, I pushed the BMW's accelerator to the floor. The gap leading out to safety was just about wide enough for the Beamer, and I had to run over the three Somalian bodies lying on the rubble in front of me. If the gunfire hadn't killed them, the 5 Series had finished the job.
I never was one for sentiment and the only thing I'd ever been squeamish about was the odd snake. Nonetheless, the cracking sounds that came from under the car as I powered out into the road were a tad unpleasant.
I kept the power down and headed to Rick's last known position, but as I suspected, he was nowhere to be seen.
What was obvious, however, was the increasing police activity in the area around the club. By the time I'd checked out Lauren's empty RS6, I knew it was time to do one before I got a tug with a car full of guns.
I spun the Beamer around and made for home. I hadn't a clue what had happened, or what the cops were up to, but I didn't like any of it.
What to do next?
Well that was the million dollar question, eh?
After I'd done some serious doubling back, I parked the car in the lock-up and unloaded all our unused kit.
As I placed Lauren's coveralls in her locker, I felt the first twinge of regret that we had ever involved her in such a business. I had to presume that she had been taken along with Rick and J.J, and that they were in the hands of Maxi and his crew.
We had been bubbled, some fucker had opened his mouth, and we had walked straight into a trap. Who had fed us to the lions? Evelyn? The Firm? It was a question I couldn't answer.
I was, sure of one thing though. I'd never seen so many police since my last Old Firm game at Ibrox. As a Catholic and Celtic fan growing up in Glasgow, you grew to hate the police. They tended to be Protestant and massive fans of the 'Gers. They didn't take kindly to a five-foot-seven gobby Tim like me, and I never took to them either.
Anyway, as I said, there'd been a massive police presence building up around the club. Something was going on big time; a fuckin' huge operation and lots of tax dollars being spent. Someone would know something, I was sure of it.
I rummaged inside a kitchen drawer and found one of Rick's little toys, a DAB radio. It looked just like a transistor to me. An item that was so precious to me and my brothers growing up in Glasgow. This model had a few more functions, of course. Instead of a dial that took all your faculties to inch toward Radio Luxembourg, so you could listen to your favourite tunes, this had a search function and told you which station it had found by a digital display.
Progress, eh?
I kept pressing until I found Piccadilly Radio, checked my watch and realised I had six minutes to wait for the news; time enough to boil the kettle, and make myself a brew.
Just as I'd suspected, the operation at Maxi's club was major news. Within an hour the big boys would be running it, but right now, it was a Piccadilly scoop.
When I was in the regular army, in the days before the Regiment, sometimes there would be a press guy alongside us, taking pictures and talking into a Dictaphone. He was what they called 'embedded' in our team. Wherever we went, he or she went...and we had to fuckin' lo
ok after them.
The gushing studio presenter was handing over to a guy called Colin Mason. Colin had been 'embedded' with Greater Manchester's Serious and Organised Crime Unit for several months, and tonight's operation was the jewel in his crown.
He was obviously talking from the street, as his voice was almost drowned out by sirens, "Tonight," he shouted, "has seen some of the most dramatic events ever to be witnessed first-hand by a Piccadilly Radio presenter on a Manchester street.
This major operation, undertaken by Greater Manchester SOCU, was intended to take down a vile criminal organisation... a gangland killer...a drug dealer and people trafficker known as Maxi Toure.
This evil trader in misery, and allegedly the leader of the largest Somalian criminal gang outside of the capital, has tonight been brought to justice...but not without bloodshed."
I felt my heart do a little flip in my chest and turned up the volume.
Mason's voice was full of excitement and drama.
"This raid on Maxi Toure's den of iniquity is the culmination of months of covert policing, but even with all the intelligence officers have collected, they had no way of knowing that a gang war was to take place inside the premises on the very night SOCU were to storm it .... I'm joined by Detective Chief Inspector Larry Simpson..."
My ears really pricked up at that name. Could it possibly be Larry the cop that had been sniffing around Lauren since before Christmas? Fuckin' right it could.
Colin was on a roll.
"Chief Inspector...you are the senior officer and head of this operation...so, for the benefit of our listeners, could you outline, what has occurred tonight?"
Larry or Lawrence had a southern accent, Essex or Kent maybe? He sounded like a bit of a Rupert.
"Certainly, Colin... This operation, codenamed 'Big Fish,' has been planned for several months. Thousands of man hours have been pumped into it and the costs have been considerable. Therefore it was essential that we got a positive result tonight, and a very positive result is what we have.