The Bootneck

by Quentin Black

  Bruce didn’t say anything.

  He already guessed Connor’s father’s hand in him circumventing the system to allow him in the Marines so soon after a custodial sentence. Adopting his mother’s maiden name would have aided him too. Now Bruce knew why Connor had been capable of the Hardcastle kidnap. Raised into a life of crime, it was likely Connor hadn’t been caught doing anything major since he was fifteen years old.

  What he might have been involved in, only the Lord knew.

  Connor and George moved around one another on the blue matting. The younger man kept his guard tight, concentrating on not over-reaching with his punches and kicks.

  Whenever he fought in sparring or competition, he focused on no more than three things. He hated watching well-meaning coaches bombard young fighters with a myriad of advice just prior to their walk to the ring or cage. The chance of retaining the information was nearly nil once the bell rang. It surprised him to be doing this sort of fight training. He thought a discipline like Krav Maga, the brutally efficient self-defence system originally developed for the Israeli military, would be more appropriate to the situations he might find himself in.

  That said, Connor had seen many of his Royal Marine colleagues victorious in drunken brawls with the standard ‘wind-milling’ technique—intent and aggression could go a long way even when the skills were lacking.

  However, he’d been looking forward to learning how to disarm a gun-pointing or knife-wielding adversary. Or how to dispatch multiple attackers within seconds, in cinematic style. Instead, he’d have to face this complete fighting machine in front of him, regularly now.

  Connor never liked playing the patience game when it came to fighting—not in the gym or the street. He felt it close to cheating; the unwillingness to take risks to the detriment of the fight’s excitement. That was why he loved fighters like Roberto Duran, Mike Tyson, Dutch Muay Thai legend Raymond Dekker and Russian MMA icon Fedor Emelianenko.

  Connor would employ feints to take the opponent out of position before using short attacks. Or to aggressively draw a lead and counter.

  George was one step ahead of him though. While not dominated as he had been grappling, Connor had caught a couple of kicks to the thighs, and instantly knew he couldn’t take a lot more of them. They were delivered with tremendous power and frightening speed. Connor scored with a teep to the mid-section, spun on his foot as it landed to execute a roundhouse kick. George pistol squatted and scythed his shin into Connor’s grounded leg. Astonished at George’s anticipation, he fell as if suddenly pushed into a pool. Winded, the rigid matting felt little better than concrete. His legs shot up to prevent the mounting of his hips. Two kicks thundered into his legs and pain pulsed through them.

  Frantic scraping sounds emanated as he began to shrimp his body away to stop George passing his legs. Cartwheeling to land at the side of Connor, George jammed his knee into his abdomen with immense pressure—fucksake, could he break my stomach lining doing this?

  Blows from mercifully padded elbows and fists rained down. Connor kept moving his hips and arms to thwart the strikes bouncing his head off the floor. He reached down with one hand to push the anvil like knee off.

  George snatched his arm up, clamped it between his legs like a vice and Connor felt a steel like arm trap his.

  He grasped his own wrists to foil the arm bar, as the back of George’s thighs pinned his face and torso down.

  He anticipated the moment when George would try to wrench his grip apart. When the pull came, he’d slip his elbow past the groin to escape.

  The calloused palm struck his nose with a loud thwack.

  Instantly releasing his clasped hands, he felt his nostrils burst with a metallic smelling gush. His arm hyperextended in a way that a break was millimetres away.

  He tapped.

  Connor realised as he lay on his back that many of these sessions were going to involve pain.

  And he didn’t care.

  “Good in there, isn’t it?” grinned Bruce, as he noticed Connor’s swollen nose.

  They were in the car park of the dojo. Bruce leant against the bonnet of his M3 eating a bought sandwich. He was dressed in a white polo shirt, dark jeans and brown loafers. Connor wore blue jeans, brown ankle boots and a thin green cotton sweater with the white t-shirt visible at the neckline.

  “Can I ask you why you have me learning mixed martial arts anyway? I thought Krav Maga or something like that would be more appropriate?” asked Connor.

  Bruce scratched his chin. “Because to anyone observing you fight, Krav Maga screams out that you have had formal training by some sort of military or law enforcement organisation. Whereas there’s some form of MMA club in every major town and city in the UK.”

  Connor nodded before asking, “What’s up anyway? I was under the impression we weren’t seeing one another again ‘til I’d finished the entire training package?”

  “Aye, I like the ‘learn on the job’ approach where possible, and I have something I think we could handle,” replied Bruce, as he threw the scrunched sandwich wrapper into a bin six feet away.

  “You think that we could handle?”

  “Yes, we. Think you’re ready to be Bond now?”

  “I’ve worked alone before as well, you know.”

  “Aye, and you got caught.”

  “On a technicality but point taken,” Connor shrugged.

  “Let’s go for a drive,” said Bruce.

  Connor had arrived at the dojo by foot. Bruce gunned the powerful purring engine and pulled into the urban traffic.

  “We’re going to process out a broker we’ve been keeping tabs on for the past few years.”

  “Why is it that we are only getting around to ‘processing him out’ now? Nice term by the way,” Connor inquired.

  “Our unit doesn’t officially exist thus any evidence amassed cannot be produced for any judicial process, you see,”—he said—“therefore it’s always preferable to build an intelligence picture on these types of people first. We are in the business of undermining, hurting or destroying entire networks, not individuals who can be quickly and easily replaced. Sometimes it’s a case of ‘the better the devil you know’. Our methods aren’t legal, and we can’t bring individuals to trial, even if we wanted to. There comes the point where their deeds cannot be tolerated, and something more finite has to come to pass, you understand?”

  “Yes,” Connor answered, “what did he do?”

  “Does it matter?” asked Bruce, looking at the younger man.

  “Of course it does. If I wanted to kill just anyone I’d go work for a dictator. That or a gang boss.”

  Bruce allowed himself a smile to what he took to be a veiled reference to Connor’s father—or his uncle.

  “Good, I’m glad you question these things. You must always, for the rest of your career, ask why. Ask for evidence. None of your superiors will be perfect, not even me. Even if you don’t believe in karma—and you should—these things can come back to haunt you if you get them wrong,” stated the black ops commander. “Abeeb Zahid has laundered money for crime bosses and arms dealers of international repute. This irked me but what stuck in my craw was when he branched out into laundering for Abdul Uddra, a Saudi Arabian multi-millionaire who helps fund Al-Qaeda. Now that has to come to an end.”

  “What stops Uddra simply having his money laundered with someone else?” asked Connor.

  “Nothing, but Uddra is a busy man and he trusts Zahid and he put a lot of eggs in his basket. When Zahid dies the majority of Uddra’s liquid funds will disappear. The tech guys have located the accounts and will drain them when I say. Here’s a folder with the various documentation and evidence,” said Bruce, passing Connor a folder from behind his seat.

  “It’s OK, I’ll trust you.”

  “Like people trusted Stephen Hardcastle? I suggest you get out of that mind-set.”

  Connor began to read the file.

  “You want me to kidnap one of the most feared men in
this business?” asked Carl, staring at the Frenchman’s impassive face.

  They sat across from one another in the back of the luxury vehicle as it slid through the traffic of the city. He’d picked him up in the morning from his hotel, and he’d dressed in a blue pin-striped suit.

  “So, you have heard of him, yes?” smiled Pierre.

  “Most people in my profession have heard of him.”

  “The contract does not involve you personally kidnapping him. You will simply help to ahh facilitate, mon ami.”

  “I am sure he will be fine with that detail should he escape.” he replied, “And how do you plan on doing this?”

  “This will be explained to you by another party.”

  “So, there are other parties riding shotgun now?” Carl asked, with an accusatory edge to his voice.

  “I understand your reluctance Mr Wright, however as you are aware, this is a very dangerous man, and we need experts in this endeavour. If widening the net regarding this troubles you, I would suggest you take comfort in the fact that you do not have a choice.”

  The American looked at the near-aristocratic sounding Frenchman—motherfucker isn’t even trying to pretend that I am nothing more than a mere pawn.

  Carl said “Lookit, killing him is one thing, no man is invulnerable to an assassin’s bullet. I can tell you though even that wouldn’t be a walk in the park. What you’re talking about is kidnapping him, which will be doubly difficult.”

  “Yes,” replied Pierre.

  “So, what’s my role? And who will I be working with?”

  “I will answer the last question. You will be taking your direction from an important man inside the Russian Bratva,”—Pierre paused and smoothed his lapels—, “as I am sure you can understand, I cannot give you his name. Rest assured that he is a very professional man. As to what your role will be, he will be the one to tell you.”

  Carl sat there feeling off balance and vulnerable. The last organisation that he wanted knowing his identity was one with the international reach and professional ruthlessness of the Russian Bratva.

  Up until a couple of years ago Carl, like many, doubted they even existed in an internationally organised form. In his line of work, he became privy to how powerful the shadowy organisation was. He’d been outmanoeuvred and was now at this Frenchman’s mercy. He fought to resist any immature American-French World War Two references.

  Pierre was successful judging by the car alone, and apparently smart, or else Carl wouldn’t be in this predicament. He hadn’t even known of the man before today, but Pierre knew a lot about him.

  He tried to reflect on the positive, and that was the money he would receive for the job. It worried him that this had got so complicated. He just hoped that it wasn’t in Pierre’s interest to fuck him over, or worse, have him killed after the job was complete. He knew that it wouldn’t be in the Russian Bratva’s interest to keep him alive.

  Pierre dropped him off at the hotel.

  Pierre watched the assassin walk in the entrance and mused on his disgruntlement. In truth, it had been difficult to identify who Carl was; the arms dealer had to hire him for no fewer than five different contracts, not the three he had said. Impressed by the American, he hoped that he would simply accept the predicament he was in and execute the task at hand. Pierre was in a predicament himself, though. He’d to keep Carl unbalanced but at the same time, not push him to the point that the American would turn on him—soon he will not be exclusively my trouble.

  The Solntsevskaya Bratva had sought Pierre out three years ago to supply them, although they never identified themselves as such. Pierre had learned through his contacts their identity. Over the years, the Bratva had grown infinitely more organised and powerful due to the struggles for supremacy within their organisation reaching their bloody conclusions. With this, a structure had been formed and rules were laid down to prevent the gratuitous bloodshed that had ultimately cost them all money.

  Pierre knew the Bratva would take over organised crime in the West in the coming years. There were several reasons for this. One was that the organisation had begun to recruit ex-military and in some cases ex-KGB—or the modern equivalent—personnel. These backgrounds now provided the Bratva with a high level of professionalism. Traditionally, the Bratva had heavily recruited from the Russian penal system.

  The group was also ruthless and cunning. As the USSR had collapsed, the value of life on the streets of Russia and the rest of the former Eastern Bloc countries remained low. Only the ruthless and resourceful survived.

  Unlike the Triads, Turks, and a plethora of other gangs and organisations, the Bratva members were almost exclusively Caucasian men. This, with the now established procedure of elocution lessons among its higher echelons, had given them a greater freedom of movement in Western capitals.

  Pierre had tentatively reached out to them for help not thinking his plea would be accepted. However, they’d sent an emissary over to Paris to discuss the plan.

  The man had been immaculately groomed and impeccably dressed, with no hint of a regional accent in his well-clipped voice. Pierre had seen enough dangerous people to see the darkness that shone from the man’s eyes.

  When the dark haired, subtly imposing Russian introduced himself as ‘Makar Gorokhov,’ Pierre had felt the hair on his forearms stand on end.

  This was the Russian that all other Russian criminals feared.

  9

  “OK, this is us,” Bruce murmured, as they pulled into the pub car park in Cheshire. They sat in a nondescript black Astra they’d switched into at a supermarket carpark along the way. It had been left there for them. It was the night after Connor’s session with George.

  The moon lit up the cloud it was trying to escape from to join the bright stars. The pub named ‘The Cabbage Hall’ was dark and empty at this hour of 2.15 A.M. The side road was quiet, miles from the M6 motorway. Bruce killed the engine.

  Both he and Connor were now wearing lightweight, deep brown leather jackets. The tough hide cut down on leaving any fibres behind. Bruce turned to Connor. “The house he lives in is around a half a mile up the road. It’s set back from the road by a long drive, and high hedges obscure it.”

  “What about this car?”

  “Someone will collect it soon after we leave and collect us when it’s done,” said Bruce as he pulled on his thin, black leather gloves. “Right talk me through what security measures the house has?”

  “Standard alarm and two cameras overlooking the doors. We’ll spray off the cameras, boot the door in, rip the alarm box off and cut the wires before the forty-five second timer finishes its countdown.”

  “Why does it have to be so… shall we say, agricultural?”

  “That’s the point—ransacked by burglars and killed in the struggle will be the initial assumption,” answered Connor pulling his matching gloves, “then you’ll leave a subtle trail of evidence to some drugs tsar.”

  “Yes, Victor Lonsdale in Manchester has some accounts that he handles, so we kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Bit like Fred West,” said Connor.

  They got out of the Astra and cut through a gap in the hedgerow running along the car park. They began walking across the fields, skirting the woodland towards the grand house in the near distance. The damp night was quiet, except for the wave-like sounds of isolated cars travelling along the obscured road nearby. The clouds mercifully kept the moon hidden—bright moonlight was as bad as daylight when stealth was required. They crept along the broad hedgerow to the side of the target house, being careful not to unduly disturb the vegetation.

  “Here,” whispered Bruce, handing a heavy Maglite torch to Connor, who weighed it in his hand. A heavy Maglite torch was a favourite of any UK motorist who felt the need to keep a weapon in their car. It was small enough to bring to bear easily but heavy enough to fracture a skull. Importantly, it could be easily explained to a policeman.

  They conducted a stop-short at the hedgerow. After two
minutes, Bruce turned to Connor, “Put this on.”

  He handed Connor a ski mask and, after donning his own, he took out a pair of secateurs from his jacket. He began to cut through the thin branches and foliage that obscured the side of the house while Connor kept watch.

  “Avoid being on camera as much as possible, even with the mask. Going in from the side will allow us to obscure the security cameras front and back without being in sight of them,” he explained, as his breath condensed in the air. Connor nodded—this wasn’t his first time breaking into an occupied building.

  Besides, it had been covered in the brief beforehand, but he understood the need to be thorough. Bruce cut through after a few minutes, and he and Connor formed up on the side of the house.

  Abeeb Zahid was sat in his private study, finishing the last of his business emails.

  The study was bare of any personal effects and the shelves filled with books he had never read. They were more for show for the guests of the lavish dinner parties he and his wife threw regularly.

  He knew that the elite of the Cheshire area had never truly embraced him—he was a Muslim after all. They smiled and laughed at his jokes, and it was preferable to pretend their attendance at these parties was because of his wealth, rather than the fact that they were enraptured with his beautiful wife’s charms.

  Zahid’s wife was out of town. He didn’t know if she was naïve and genuinely wasn’t aware of his criminality, or if she simply didn’t care. It was probably like the attitude he adopted regarding her infidelity. She could pretend all she liked, but they both knew she was with her boss, not a spa retreat with ‘the girls’—and he couldn’t care less. Their marriage was what it was—a show. Still, her absence meant he could work without risk of intrusion.

  It had taken him a while to trust the process of sending encrypted emails. Five years ago he would never have dared. He’d to accept that times were changing or else lose business. Customers both nationally and internationally wanted to be kept constantly up to speed and that meant electronically. He was entirely comfortable with it now though.