She looked at him with watery eyes. “Could you tell her with me Connor?”
He smiled pretending to rub sleep from his eyes. “Of course I can. You ready to do it now?”
She took a deep breath and smiled. He thought he could see a bit of her old self smile through.
“Come on. Remember, what is important here is that we all love you.”
He held his hand out to her and she took it. He mused whether breaking news like this to such loving parents was going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done. They’d been through more than their fair share.
“Can I get anything else for you?” asked the young waitress as she set down the coffee. She took her time setting down the cup and saucer as Carl kept eye contact. The top two buttons were undone revealing a hint of her youthful breasts encased in a black bra.
“No thanks,” he replied, accentuating his American accent and giving her a tight smile. She matched it with a wider one revealing a set of straight, white teeth. He took the opportunity to peruse her tight posterior as she sashayed away.
He sat outside a café in central London with the day’s temperature being sixteen degrees. The light breeze sieved through his white cotton shirt and light blue suit trousers. He sipped at the dark liquid and watched the hum of the impersonal bustle of London pedestrians and traffic.
London was one of his favourite cities. He appreciated the mix of historical and modern architecture throughout the city, loved the busyness, the undercurrents and the mix of people here. Carl often enjoyed a leisurely lunch or coffee when first arriving in a city to take in the ambience, especially in Europe. All the while he was conducting his counter-surveillance duties. These countermeasures involved memorising people, ensuring they didn’t pass twice, and scrutinising all the static individuals in the vicinity. He remembered how mentally draining it had been during the surveillance package of his training at ‘The Farm’. Now it was just second nature. He took his time sipping his coffee and didn’t return the young waitress’s glances towards him. He was here on business.
He sensed the hand before he felt it on his shoulder. He looked up to see a pretty brunette, early thirties, wearing jeans and a brown summer jacket over a white top.
“Excuse me, can you point me in the direction of Chicksand Lane please?” she asked.
“I’m sorry lady, but I’m not from your great capital,” he replied.
“Not to worry,” she smiled brightly and walked off.
This was the pre-arranged signal that Carl should finish his coffee before following a man with a white baseball cap and green jacket. He put on his suit jacket and left the cash plus a large tip under the saucer.
The man appeared along the pavement within a minute of the lady disappearing. Carl followed him at a distance of fifteen feet for a few hundred metres to an underground car park. He found the man studying his phone by a Silver Mercedes E class, then he walked away. Carl opened the door and sat beside a stocky, suited gentleman he guessed to be around his early forties.
“Mr Wright, a pleasure to meet you,” he said, with a trace of a Russian accent. The man extended his hand giving Carl’s a gentlemanly squeeze.
“My apologies, but you are required to wear this for the journey,” and he produced a blindfold.
As the darkness covered Carl’s eyes, he tried to figure out if this was a good thing or not.
Bruce sat in his car outside the large terrace house and beeped the horn. The curtains of the house next door and opposite house twitched. Brand new BMW’s were not common in this area. Or perhaps they were, given Richard’s associates.
Richard’s face popped out from behind the curtain, a scowl painted on before it disappeared as Bruce made eye contact. Richard gave a small wave and gestured he was coming out. After a couple of minutes, dressed in a sports jacket and jeans, he walked hurriedly to the BMW.
Bruce saw dark shadows underneath the eyes.
“You alright? You look a wee bit upset?” asked Bruce.
“Aye, ma Staffie bull terrier bolted aff lest nicht…He’ll caw up am sure.”
They began the hour and a half drive to the Campsie Fells.
After a time, they made small talk about football until Bruce invited Richard to rest his eyes. The Campsie Fells were a range of hills in central Scotland with the highest point being the Earl’s Seat, measuring 578m. They gave way to some beautiful, scenic views of parts of Glasgow.
Bruce glanced over at Richard; he was a couple of inches shorter than Bruce, albeit muscular in a bloated sort of way. Bruce guessed Richard was using Dianabol in an amateurish ‘bulking phase’.
Bruce had taken courses in physiology and sports science to gain a better understanding of the human body. He understood that most body building training increased the muscle size primarily by increasing the ‘polyfilla’-like sarcoplasm between the muscle fibres. This differed from the training employed by Olympic and Powerlifters whose regimes mainly strengthened the tension-inducing myofibrils of the muscle. That and the central nervous system and tendons. It was the reason why gymnasts possessed massive physical strength in relation to their bodyweight whereas the opposite was true of most bodybuilders he knew. There were always exceptions, but Bruce doubted this Maori-tattooed drug dealer was one of them. And he reckoned on odds of fifty-to-one that he took any regular cardiovascular exercise either.
He thought of how his life would have been if not for the intervention of his first Judo Sensei Martin Dunn. He’d hoped that he would have had the strength of character not to turn out like the low-life in his passenger seat.
The BMW snaked through the Glasgow traffic and pulled off at the junction for the small town of Kirkintilloch.
He’d always liked Glasgow. It was a visceral city that produced down to earth, hard, dry humoured but warm-hearted people. Still, there were always bad apples in any community. Bruce smiled to himself. Of all the girls Richard could have had, he chose one with a member of the family such as Bruce. There must only be a handful of men of his ilk in the entire Isles; that possessed the combination of being so high up in a law enforcement—or law-breaking organisation—to know what Richard was involved in with the capacity for premeditated, cold-blooded violence.
Finally, the car threaded through the village of Lennoxtown and ascended a road to the Fells. Bruce pulled into the small car park overlooking the local village.
“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” called Bruce and Richard woke up, scrunching his eyes in a manner that reminded Bruce of a toddler.
“There’s a wee bit of a trek up that hill, a bit of a walk and we’re there.”
“Might as well be Mount Everest tae me,” Richard chuckled.
“Ye’ll be fine, come and help me with this,” Bruce replied as he opened the boot of the car. There inside was a long-back DPM bergen.
“Ah will tak’ that, am over ten years younger,” said Richard shouldering the bergen. Bruce took the comment as a compliment—the age difference was nearer twenty.
“Whit have ye got in this?” Richard asked, jumping up and down.
“It’s a surprise,” Bruce said, shutting the boot and setting off briskly. The sun peered around the clouds, and the wind whistled around the Fells.
Bruce hid his contempt as barely ten minutes into the estimated twenty-minute hike to the top, Richard started to wheeze. The image appeared in Bruce’s mind of rust flaking off the lungs. He regularly stopped to allow Richard to catch up before immediately setting off when he did. After half an hour, he reached the top with the rasping Richard a few minutes behind.
He took a few moments to catch his breath before asking, “Where’s this gun range fae here then?”
“Oh, there isn’ae one,” said Bruce, letting it sink in. “I lied to you. Like you having been lying to Millie about what you do for a living.”
There was a few moments silence.
“Whit th’ fuck ur ye talking aboot?” asked Richard aggressively.
Bruce smiled. “Well, we�
�ll get on to that in a moment. First things first, there’s something yer’ll be needing to get on with. I suggest you tip oot tha’ backpack and get cracking wee laddie.”
Richard stood with his eyebrows reaching down for one another, staring at Bruce. His face cycled through the masks of anger, bewilderment and concern.
The wind filled the silence between them. Richard slipped off the bergen, set it down and undid the two buckles at the top.
“Go on, tip it out.”
Richard tipped the bergen upside-down. Out slid a Staffordshire bull terrier’s severed head. Its body, and a child’s plastic spade covered in blood followed. Richard stood back, his mouth hanging like a swing.
“You see, I know yer ill treatment of tha’ dug has led to it becoming dangerous. You have set it on a few people, including one of the fifteen-year-old lassies who used to mule drugs for you. Now, she may never walk properly again. Couldn’t be having that now. The poor dug was beyond rehabilitation, so I severed its head with a Samurai sword. Nice, neat and nae pain.” Bruce stared into Richard’s perplexed eyes and continued. “So dry yer fuckin’ eyes, ye scumbag.”
He purposely didn’t tell him he’d anaesthetized the canine before the beheading. Richard’s breathing became shallow and erratic, his eyes darting from Bruce to the divided animal remains. Bruce fathomed that he was psyching himself to attack, but that fear was rooting him from moving forward.
Back in the familiarity of Kilmarnock, the thug was a ‘face’. Now, the drug dealer was fighting to draw breath on top of a blustery hill, alone with a man who had severed his dog’s head from the body, both of which now lay at his feet. Bruce had expected a reluctance to act might occur and had a contingency plan to push the gangster to attack. Bruce’s moral compass dictated he couldn’t attack him first, but he could defend himself as ruthlessly as he chose.
“We’re no leaving ‘til you have buried the poor wee lad. It’s only right you do. Get on your knees and get to it, I didn’t want to be here all day ye boggin scrote,” Bruce said with his smile stretching into his cheeks.
Richard ran at Bruce with flailing arms. The whites of his eyes showed above and below his pupils. Bruce ducked under a wild right hand and fired a short right uppercut into his stomach. Pivoting as Richard bent double slightly, he delivered a scudding left hook to Richard’s kidney. A boot shove on his arse sent him sprawling.
“They don’t make scumbags like they used to, ye couldnae lead a young team, ye bawjawed fanny,” Bruce guffawed.
Richard got up raising his amateurish guard. The anxiety shone from his face like a beacon. Bruce pumped two piston-like jabs catching him in the eye. Richard dabbed his eye as he reached out with his right hand to ‘catch’ another pair of jabs. Good boxing coaches taught fighters to ‘parry’ jabs close to the face as not to open themselves to powerful hooks. Richard’s attempts resembled a cat pawing at a suspended ball.
Bruce picked his moment, feinted a jab before slinging a long left hook that staggered the floundering Richard. Bruce’s right fist ricocheted off the point of the jaw with the speed and force of a baseball bat. It felt like punching through warm butter with the shadowed chin offering no resistance.
Richard fell.
He lay barely conscious like a fallen elderly lady in a supermarket. The confusion ironed onto his face. His size and thick neck saved him from blacking out. He spent a few moments pawing at the ground like he was searching for dropped glasses. He feebly kicked out like a wounded animal at Bruce’s legs. The older man watched him with no expression.
As he turned onto his front to get to his feet, Bruce seized the leg, trapping it between his knees just above the ankle. Richard began to struggle. Bruce wrenched his leg to one side and the ankle snapped. The scream turned into wails. The wails turned to sobs. His hands hovered over his ankle as if terrified to touch it.
“Fucking shut up you,” said Bruce. The drug dealer had turned ashen but still whimpered.
“I said shut your fucking geggie before I stamp on your ankle, you little fuck.”
Richard’s sniffling receded.
“Your maw, Mavis, lives at 104 Burnbank Street in Darvel. Your wee sister Ashley lives at 88 Forres Court in Durham,” said Bruce.
The younger man looked at Bruce like a schoolboy at a Headmaster about to cane him. Bruce knelt and took out a black Heckler and Koch USP Compact from an ankle holster. He levelled it at Richard.
“I want you to take a good look at your dog and ask yourself if you want your maw and your sister to end up like it. You’re going to finish it with my niece. Say you’re married, and if you have any contact with her whatsoever after that, I’ll murder your entire fuckin’ family. Do you understand?”
Richard nodded numbly.
“Dinnae worry. I’ll take the dog away and bury it for you because I am a nice man aren’t I?”
Richard just stared.
“Hopefully, a dog walker will find you, unless you want to hop it down to the road. You’ll tell them that you twisted your ankle up here, and this will be the last time we meet. Unless, of course, you decide to ignore me and contact Millie again. Then we will meet again, and I’ll get to keep your skull on the mantelpiece as an ornament.”
He stooped to pick up the dog’s body and put it back in the bergen. He grabbed the head and fit his hand inside it like a glove puppet. Moving the dog’s head in time to the words, he growled, “Next time, it’ll be your head.”
Fear plastered Richard’s face
.
14
Carl blinked with the removal of the blindfold.
He took stock of his surroundings. The car had stopped in a driveway enclosed by a back lawn opposite a Victorian mansion. It had two floors, with two short towers rising another ten metres from the roof. The high polished wood balcony skirted the upper floors. Surprised by the number of windows—he presumed these people used it often and wanted as much discretion as possible.
Then he noticed that you couldn’t see into them. “Apologies for the discomfort Mr Wright,” said the man beside him.
“No apology necessary, security isn’t a dirty word,” he replied.
“‘Security is not a dirty word’. I will remember that one for myself,” the man smiled. “Mr Wright, the gentleman we are about to encounter is our ‘Security Officer’. He will have the details of your role in the action upon we are about to embark. I would suggested you ask any questions you have now as he will be happy to answer them all. He will only meet you face to face once. Then, any questions you have must be relayed through Mr Pierre, and there may be a time lag to your answers. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
The door to Carl’s side was pulled open for him to his surprise. How did the guy who opened the door know the interaction was finished? The door-opener briskly frisked him.
The small mansion overlooked fields as far as he could see, with woodland to his left, deep and stretching a few hundred yards along the side of the meadow. The fields had a few cows in them and a hill a quarter of a mile away. There was a small lake around a hundred yards to the right and a pen of geese thirty yards from the mansion. Carl knew geese made a better early-warning system for intruders than dogs.
“Come Mr Wright.”
Carl followed the man up a small flight of stairs and entered the house as the man held the door open for him. The Bratva member led the way into a large, decadent room with smooth yellow-tinged lighting illuminating the cream decor and brown sofas. There stood a well-built man of a height of six-feet one-inch, in a perfectly fitted, three-piece light blue suit with the tie removed. He stood with an authoritative ease as his open palm pointed at Carl.
“I apologise for the clichéd look, but I have just returned from a function,” he said as Carl felt his firm handshake. It felt like the handshake of a man not gripping too hard so as not to hurt the recipient.
“I would enquire about the comfort of your trip, but that would be trite, considering you had a blindfold tig
htly squeezed around your face. A necessary precaution, I am sure you’ll understand.”
There was no accent to his voice, which Carl could only describe as neutral.
“Of course, I’d be more alarmed if you hadn’t,” replied Carl.
“Quite. Please, take a seat Mr Wright.”
The two men sat on the opposing sofas, with the Russian from the car sitting to the left of them. Carl noticed a painting of a grand old ship from British colonial times on the wall behind the man and wondered who had it put up.
“Mr Pierre informs me that you have heard of this man we wish to acquire?”
“Only the inexperienced in my profession have not heard of him. Or the myth, so to speak,” said Carl, refraining from asking the Blue Suit what his name was.
“Yes, a very dangerous man. Your reluctance of being in any way involved in any unfortunate incident that was to happen to him is understandable.” Carl leant back by way of response and the man continued. “I understand this is small comfort, but you have been told you are not killing him, or indeed killing anyone.”
“So, why am I here?”
“We have an asset close to the target who will provide us a target location. Your mission is shoot him with a tranquilizer dart, subduing him for his rendition.”
Carl was perturbed.
Law enforcement agencies around the world used Tasers for subduing humans. Tranquilisers were too risky to the victim’s health. An anaesthesiologist studied for years to a doctorate level, in order to be able to determine the amount needed to render a person unconscious without killing them.
As if reading his mind, the gentleman in front of him spoke again.
“A Taser will not be used as he will be taken in a daylight setting. This would arouse too much suspicion. A gentleman falling over from a heart attack and taken to the hospital wouldn’t cause a civilian to alert the police. As regards to the tranquiliser, it has been specifically synthesised and tested. You have my guarantee of its effectiveness. If he were to die from it, you would be absolved of blame. This is as much as I am willing to divulge on this particular subject.”
The Bootneck Page 12