SAVAGE PAYBACK (Jack Calder Crime Series #3)

by Seumas Gallacher

  “Get your hands up,” the big man roared. The men inside had opened the back doors to the vehicles holding the drug load. The panic reaction of reaching for their weapons proved fatal for some. In seconds, half a dozen fell lifeless to the ground. Others with enough split-second reasoning dropped their guns. The assault team moved in with caution, covering those left standing. From the corner of his eye, Jack caught sight of an armed figure at the second-storey window pointing toward them. “Incoming! Upstairs!” he yelled. Both he and Jules blasted the silhouette at the same time. The glass shattered and the bullet-riddled corpse of the guard tumbled down to the yard. One of the gang on the ground took the diversion as a signal to reach down for his weapon. He died before touching it.

  Four of the DEA team entered the house and in a five-minute sweep ensured no remaining resistance lurked inside. In minutes, the attackers secured the ten prisoners in the yard with plastic-wire handcuffs and bundled them into the captured trucks.

  “You’re as slick as ever, Cy,” said Jules, patting his pal on the shoulder.

  “Hey, I shoulda had the upstairs window covered. Good job ol’ Jack’s eyes work. There’s a good haul here, I reckon ‘bout three million bucks worth. Now watch this,” he said.

  Cy called one of the captives over to him, a young man who looked in his teens.

  “How old are you, boy?”

  There was no reply. The big man slapped him across the face, drawing blood from his lip.

  “Don’t fuck with me, boy. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen. And fuck you too,” came the snarling reply.

  “If you wanna live to sixteen, get the fuck outa this game, y’here?”

  He beckoned to one of his men to unlock the cuffs.

  “You’re too young to fuck your life up with this shit. Get outa here. And tell your friends not to screw around in Manuel Estrada’s patch. You got that?”

  The DEA agent led the boy to the gate and threw him out. The lad turned and spat on the ground before sprinting into the darkness.

  “Very clever, Mister Foster. Very neat. Now the message gets back as sure as hell,” said Jules.

  “Yeah, normally these kids are full-blown criminals by his age, but lettin’ him carry the word is okay. We’ll prob’ly pick him up again in a coupla weeks.”

  “How about the bodies?”

  “We leave ‘em here. Uncle Sam ain’t gonna pick up the burial tabs, and it’s a nice callin’ card for the rest of ‘em to see,” said Cy. “Let’s get back and grab some sleep, we’ve another gig in twenty-four hours.”

  The convoy, including the seized trucks and their cargo, eased its way out of the compound and back toward the DEA base.

  ***

  The teenager relayed the message.

  “Si, Senor, the big black guy says to stay off Manuel Estrada’s patch.”

  “Did these hombres have DEA vests?”

  “No, Senor, but the guy sounded Yankee. My boss is dead now. Can I work for you?”

  Estrada nodded. “Si, you did well. You can come work with us. Here, this is for you. Go find a bunk.”

  He picked a few hundred-dollar bills from a roll in his hand. The boy took the money and left the gang leader wondering why the hell, and who the hell would think Manuel Estrada’s business needed protection? Everybody knew the biggest and most powerful cartel operator had plenty of guns of his own. Why use Yankees? Anyway, he had a shipment to take delivery of tonight. Better ensure a bit more protection, just in case this stunt triggers a backlash.

  ***

  “Yes, Jack, I’m a hundred per cent okay. Relax.”

  May-Ling replied to her husband’s question for at least the fifth time during the phone call. Jules and Malky listened to Jack’s end of the conversation with some consternation. The personal threat was escalating faster than predicted. Jules signalled Jack to give him the line when he’d finished talking with his wife.

  “I’m glad you’re not hurt,” said the boss. “Go over this again for me, as slowly as you like.”

  “Sure.” She, like the men under Jules, knew how thorough he needed to be. A couple of re-tellings of her version of events didn’t take long.

  “By the way, William Lang’s probably doing his job, but he knows how to get a lady’s back up. The guy’s a pain in the ass, big time, Jules.”

  “We’ll deal with him through Alan Rennie. Did you ask for the hotel CCTV tape copies?”

  “Bob Granger’s promised we’ll have copies by the time you guys get back.”

  “Okay. I don’t think our offices are prime targets now, but all the same, reinforce the red alerts. We’ll be back in London the day after tomorrow. See you then.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Word of last night got back for sure,” said Cy. “Our insider called. They’ve moved the meet and I expect they’ll be gunned up more than usual tonight.”

  “We still hit them?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah. But I wanna work our timin’ a bit different. We’re told they’re gonna switch to the night-market on the south side of town. Out in the open air.”

  “Ordinary Joe Public with his wife and kids’ll all be there?”

  “This mob’s not dumb. They reckon nobody’ll smack ‘em in a place like that.”

  “We don’t go in blasting with innocent people in the line of fire, right?” said Jules.

  “Correct. But as you’ve said before, there’s more than one way to trap a rat. Here’s how we do it,” said Cy, spreading the city street map across the campaign table. Similar to the previous day, the team absorbed the detail and repeated back in sequence. Everyone had a designated function. Everyone had a specific back-up buddy. Everyone knew the fall-back plan and then a third option in case of need.

  The night-market arena covered no more than three acres of scrub-ground. Every square inch crammed with stalls peddling anything and everything from children’s clothing to fruit and vegetables. Toys, games and books. Trinketry, home-made and imported. Live animals for slaughter on the spot, and various contraband items flushed into the market, stolen or diverted from goods delivery shipments in the city. An endless supply of fast foods cooked on gas-fired cylinders fed the nightly hordes of customers. Traders’ whole families from grandparents to babies scattered among the makeshift barrows and stands. Their livelihood depended on working contributions from everyone.

  The handover could be at any point inside the complex, ruling out the possibility of hitting the gang without endangering innocent bystanders. The main entrances, one from the north-west corner, the other from midway along the east of the area, made observation simpler. Wait and watch.

  Cy added two more agents to the squad and split them into six pairs. Impounded vehicles from previous raids served as transport. Unmarked, unidentifiable, easy to blend in with the traffic flows. Three units each scattered along the two approach roads. Battle dress of casual clothing gave no hint of the impact power in each small convoy. From the parked positions, all movement in and out of the market had to pass them. Jack partnered with Pammy, one of the female agents, and Malky with Cy in the convoy covering the north-west. Jules buddied with one of the men in the other pack guarding the east approach road.

  The earpiece crackled in Jack’s ear.

  “We have movement. Two cars, two vans, nose to tail. They’re our game. Stand by,” said Cy. “Just keep watching, team.”

  “Copy that,” came the response from the lead car on the east perimeter. “We also have one closed van and three other vehicles coming in convoy. Looks like a lot of headcount. Over.”

  “Copy. Expect them to hand over fast and head out fast. Tail and intercept as planned. Over.”

  Five minutes ticked by. Then eight. The earpieces crackled again.

  From the east. “Movement. All four vehicles exiting in close order. Picking up speed.”

  “Follow and intercept at your own timin’,” Cy’s instruction resonated. “No way yet of tellin’ which lot has the shit aboard. We also
have a convoy comin’ at us this end. Go, team, go!”

  The rapid intercept from the east squad, with Jules included, worked like clockwork. A blocking pincer from the two lead DEA cars brought the fleeing gang skidding to a disorganised halt. A ring of high-powered weaponry took out the front car’s tyres and met no resistance. No guns appeared from this group, signalling the drugs were in the other mob’s possession. Smooth, easy arrests.

  A deadlier sequence played out at the north-west corner.

  The speed of the getaway indicated the value of the cargo aboard. Cy barked into his mouthpiece.

  “Hit ‘em.”

  The trio of intercepting pairs slammed the accelerators in the same pincer cutoff movement. Cy in the right hand scissor, Jack in the left. The third team cut into the rear blocking position. Jack and Cy both unleashed volleys at the tyres, ripping them to shreds. Unlike the other interception, an instant response of firepower from all four of the gang’s vehicles ripped into the DEA squad’s convoy. The windscreen of Jack’s car exploded as a line of fire thudded through into the inside of the roof. The bullets whined on the way past his head. He spun out of the car and lobbed a stun grenade over the first car at his side. The detonation rocked both the front cars of the mobsters. Aware that Cy was doing the same on the opposite side, Jack aimed his AK47 upward into the nearest target. He heard simultaneous gunfire from across the debris. Then silence. The shootout lasted only thirty-three seconds. Screams from two of the gang’s ravaged cars meant some were still alive. Jack turned back to his own vehicle to check on his female buddy. He froze. The staring eyes and blood-smeared forehead told its own story. The line of bullets missing Jack had found a victim.

  A voice called from the rear team.

  “Zak’s dead.”

  Another DEA member killed. Cy appeared beside Jack and saw the dead woman.

  “Oh, no,” the big man whispered. He moved forward and gently felt for a pulse at her neck, only to confirm the obvious. Cy’s arms tensed, the fists clenched in controlled rage. The icy grip that had seized Jack’s gut and left him momentarily paralysed, returned in force. The mind-numbing fear the dead woman could one day be May-Ling. He had known the same thing in Northern Ireland at the death of children hardly old enough to go to school; in Central Africa, at headless mutilated corpses from horrific ethnic cleansing; and the same with the civilian slaughter in the Balkans many years ago. The same fear, he understood, often kept him alive, conscious of his own mortality. SAS-trained or not, they were all only humans. Humans are vulnerable to bullets and grenades. The command from the DEA chief brought him back to the present.

  “Find me one of these bastards still breathin’, and somebody make sure Pammy here’s looked after properly.”

  Four of the drug gang were alive, one in urgent need of an ambulance. Cy was in no hurry to provide one. He used the same technique as in the hit from the previous day. He chose the youngest survivor, a teenager scared out of his wits, unlike the hard-nosed kid from the other gang and sent him packing with the message, “Mister Estrada don’t welcome no interference from no upstart outfits.”

  The haul was low-grade heroin, but a lot of it, with street value close to USD700,000. Another good night’s work.

  The two killed agents were irreplaceable.

  CHAPTER 18

  The unmistakable image of the face on the CCTV film from the hotel car park confirmed the link to the atrocities in New Bond Street.

  “Some noise startled him, possibly a car horn, causing him to look up,” said Alan Rennie. The Assistant Commissioner had commandeered the copy tapes himself, and together with DCI Bob Granger brought them to ISP’s offices. William Lang was conspicuously absent, uninvited.

  “Recognise the guy?”

  “We certainly do. That’s Rikko Duval,” said Jules. Around the table sat Jack, May-Ling and Malky.

  The flight back from El Paso-Juarez had dragged for the Scotsman. The tightness in his stomach over concerns about his wife subsided only when he reached home. Before the front door had closed he grabbed her to him in an embrace tighter than she had ever known from him. May-Ling had felt the release of tension in his chest and arms. She understood his anxiety, and spent the best part of the morning repeating she was okay and telling him to stop worrying. Even now, Malky noted his buddy sat closer than usual to her, his elbow balanced on the back of the chair, but with his hand touching her shoulder.

  “Any idea where a guy like this might be?” asked Alan.

  “Not a clue. We weren’t even sure he was still alive, but while he is, he could appear anywhere. No use looking for him as Duval,” said Jules. “He’ll have a string of aliases. Unlikely to have any close friends. Nothing to pick him out. Just as likely to be sipping coffee on a beach hut in Brazil or raising chickens in the bush in Australia.”

  Malky cut in. “Yer man’s about as invisible as ye’ll get. The money he picks up for these contracts means he can go quietly where he wants, when he wants. Wi’ that limpy leg o’ his, yer not gonna see him goin’ too public anywhere.”

  “Malky’s right,” said Jack. “His clients contact people like him through the underworld grapevine. Even then, there’s never a direct link. Like having cut-off drop boxes. Sometimes there’s as many as four or five links to get to one of them. Deniable at each level. Instead of trying to find him, we should be looking for things leading to him, such as the money he gets paid. Find out where it’s getting paid, and who’s doing the paying.”

  “Hey. I’m the cop here,” said Rennie, joking. “You guys are going all detective on me.” He pushed his coffee cup away and leaned on the table. “But you’re right. The question is, where to start?”

  “Can I make a suggestion or two?” said May-Ling. Jules nodded.

  “We’ve only got bits and pieces to run with, none of which points to the big boys,” she said, stepping up to the chalkboard.

  She wrote the headings, ‘Duval’, ‘Fadi’, and ‘Estrada’ across the top, then below these, the next line, ‘Cash’, ‘Jewellery’, and ‘Drugs’.

  Jules smiled and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “In Chinese we say, ‘the fly leads to the fish, the fish leads to the man’. Any one of these in the second line might get us to at least one of the names on the top. We know already Fadi and Estrada are linked. Estrada is the ‘Drugs’, Fadi is the ‘Drugs’ plus the ‘Jewels’, Duval and Fadi are both the ‘Money’. Alan, your friends at Interpol have resources to trace large payments from Fadi’s companies’ accounts. That might get us a handle on Duval’s whereabouts. From what I gather from the activity in El Paso-Juarez, the drugs shipments will help us to Fadi, and perhaps to Estrada at the same time. What do you think, Jules?” she said, glancing across the room to her boss.

  Jules turned to Jack and joked, “I’ve told you before, it’s amazing how all the brains in one family stay with just one person. May-Ling’s with the program already. She’s right. Alan, can you get your tracers onto the bank payments, and maybe some lead-back from the stones offered in Istanbul? One more thing. It might be advisable at this stage if William Lang’s not aware of where this is going.”

  “Agreed,” said Rennie. “You’re scanning abroad with this. Nothing under local jurisdiction to warrant troubling Lang. I’ll tap my pal at Interpol and advise you if we find anything useful. I’ll also send this photo of Duval through to Interpol. We might get lucky. Anything else?”

  “I think that’s all for the moment. Thanks Alan.”

  The Assistant Commissioner left. Jules stared at the chalkboard.

  It might just as well have been a chessboard, thought Malky.

  ***

  The strong personal bond between Alan Rennie and Marcel Benoit, Head of Interpol in Lyons, sprung from a twenty-five year, crime-fighting liaison across Europe. Each man understood when to manipulate the legal rules and when not. The telephone conversation moved swiftly from their routine
greetings to the reason for Rennie’s call.

  “Our drugs boss in Istanbul may possess a face at last,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “Jules Townsend and his team have a professional and personal interest in the bombings in London, and it seems they’ve surfaced a connection to Istanbul, a guy called Ahmed Fadi.”

  “Tell me,” said Marcel.

  “Some interesting pictures were snapped in Boston with another of your international targets, Manuel Estrada.”

  “Now you’re talking, my friend. Big fish swimming together? What interests these gentlemen to be engaged with each other? They operate in completely different markets. I’m not aware of any previous hint of collaboration.”

  “Jules has a notion Fadi’s loss last year prompted the hits in New Bond Street. Your pals in the DEA have been making Estrada’s life uncomfortable for several months. Circumstance can throw together some unexpected bedfellows.”

  “I wouldn’t question for a moment any theory Jules arrives at, Alan. The man oozes great instinct. How can I help?”

  “Another name’s trickling out. Rikko Duval. Former SAS commando, turned bad. An explosives genius and possibly a killer for hire. I’ll fill you in later on all the reasons, but Jules thinks this Fadi might have contracted Duval for the Semtex work in London. He also tried to kill May-Ling Calder.”

  “Ouch,” said Marcel. “That is personal. I wouldn’t like to be Monsieur Duval running up against the ISP boys.”

  “I agree. Thought is one thing, however, proof is quite another. Duval is invisible. There’s no clue where he is, or where he sleeps, nothing. We’re not certain if he is alive, but if it’s not him, we’re left with no leads whatsoever. I’m prepared to run with Jules’ theory for the meantime. One train of thought says Fadi paid him a stack of money. Your access to bank account tracking will be helpful.”