The Bootneck

by Quentin Black

  “Very good. What’s the concurrent activity?”

  “A trip to Brussels.”

  The ringing awakened Nick and his eyes focused in on Louis.

  “Yep… Yeah... Eh... OK,” he heard Louis say into the mobile phone. With that, he stood and walked to Nick.

  “Seems like the main man wants you to have some fresh air,” and Nick felt the cold metal of the revolver against the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have to tell you, blood, if you go for it, your Adam’s apple will bounce in front of you.”

  “Thank you for making me aware mate,” replied Nick, as he felt the plasticuffs loosen off and the barrel leave his neck.

  “Stand and move to the door.”

  Nick did so but winced as the blood rushed into his crushed toe.

  “Now, kneel. Open the door and shuffle out on your knees.”

  “Why?” asked Nick, bemused.

  “Because it’ll be harder for you to slam the door in my face and scram. Be a good boy and do as yer told because the next question you ask, Mr Revolver will answer it in’it.”

  Nick knelt, opened the door and began to shuffle out while his toe throbbed. He got two yards then let out a painful cry, slapping his hand to his neck.

  “Fuck, I’ve been stung by som’mat.”

  Makar stood with Damian in a room of the abandoned farmhouse. They were watching Bruce in another room through a monitor. They spoke in English, as the Pole was learning to get rid of his accent.

  “He is the toughest westerner I have seen but I still think we can push this motherfucker harder,” Damian growled.

  Makar knew Damian deep down resented him. No matter how well Makar saw to his financial needs or how much he treated Damian more as an associate and less of an underling, the Pole would resent him. He would resent him because Makar was a Russian.

  Apathy between Russia and Poland dated back to the sixteenth century when Poland sided with Lithuania in conflict with Russia. Relations between the two countries had been a roller coaster ever since the fall of communism and Poland’s entrance into NATO. Indeed, as a KGB agent, Makar had spent a significant amount of time in the country. Enough to know most Poles held a dim view of the Motherland. Still, Makar knew better than to let national relations prejudice his view of another, yet was aware Damian didn’t share his open mind. He was also aware that Damian not yet being made a Vor created resentment. Making him the first pole to become the first Vor v Zakone could only have one of two effects; either make him more belligerent or calm him. Makar wasn’t sure which. Damian hadn’t yet done anything substantial to test his patience. It had been only subtle undermining comments or questions—but that’s how it starts. He had already defeated Damian physically and tried to make the Pole feel a valued member despite his short service within the Bratva.

  Abraham Lincoln had made political allies of defeated opponents. How he turned his once enemies into a cohesive team influenced Makar to take the same approach with vanquished foes. This method had proven spectacularly effective in the past but as the British liked to say—‘There’s always one’.

  Makar replied, “Pushing him too hard too early would have a counterproductive effect. He’ll resist harder or become incoherent. The trick isn’t to break them but to more make them run out of steam. It’s a process that cannot be rushed.” he turned to look at Damian. “It will be worth it in the end.

  “Can I ask how?”

  “He has information that can tilt the balance of an uncertain allegiance in our favour.”

  “Is this before or after we tear the heads off these soft Britishers?”

  “Whenever we need it. We have already taken out three significant leaders in our game. In a few days, our offensive begins but the ‘soft Britishers’, as you call them, can wait until we deal with some of the more ruthless gangs residing here. Then our Pakhan’s golf trips will have to be curtailed.”

  “He will not like that.”

  “I would have loved to fuck the local women when I visit Africa, but I don’t—some risks outweigh the reward.”

  Damian just smiled at the comment. Makar knew that the Pole would probably take the risk anyway.

  Three sets of feet surrounded Nick Flint.

  “Mr L, this is … Mr X. Mr X this is Mr L,” said Connor.

  “Mr X? Is that the best you can do?” asked Carl.

  “I am not having a code name of Mr L!” said Louis.

  “What would you two suggest?”

  “Just called me Ken,” said Carl.

  “Alright Ken, just call me Louis. I may tell you my real name once I get to know yer.” Connor inwardly smiled at his friend’s risky but oddly clever decision. “And who are you?” Louis continued.

  “I am a friend.”

  Connor gave a nod to Nick and said, “What did this one say just then?”

  Louis shrugged. “He said he’d been stung,”

  “Must have been some fucking wasp, though,” said Nick.

  Connor and Carl looked at one another.

  “Yep, it was,” said Connor, picking up the dart.

  “Happy?” he asked the American.

  “Suppose so.”

  “What the fuck is that?” asked Nick, as he concentrated on the wasp rotating between Connor’s fingers.

  “It’s a wasp dart from the CIA.”

  The Londoner began to laugh. “And you decided to test it on your man here?”

  Connor shrugged, “Listen, brother, can you hold him for a couple of days, I need to make a trip?”

  “What trip?”

  “We need to take care of something.”

  “Alright, Royal.”

  Ravil sat in a clinical, white high-rise office around a long oak table surrounded by a consortium of investors. This meeting was to discuss making a bid for a major electrical goods chain throughout the UK. Ravil had learnt to cope with the tedium of these deals long ago as they were a necessity. They made money, they provided alternative streams of income, and they gave him a corporate persona which helped protect him. The financial gurus called this ‘diversifying your asset allocation’.

  Ravil also knew he was a criminal and enjoyed it. He himself had come from an affluent beginning but his mentor Sergei had risen from utter poverty to become the original Pakhan of it all. Ravil had little empathy for some of the drug addicts whose lives were destroyed by the drugs he brought in. No one in this western society was without choices. If they wanted to damage their health, or kill themselves with drugs, then he was happy to make a profit. He scoffed at the notion that he should feel guilt towards a British population. The majority were near zombies—hypnotised by football, X Factor, social media and tabloid newspapers. With a significant percentage feeding off the state, the rest spent their time complaining about them, seemingly oblivious to the corporate white collars—such as the ones he was currently sat with—that raped the economy regularly. Part of him knew on some level that not all the population was of that mentality, but he vanquished the thought. Now wasn’t the time for procrastinations. He was going to take this once great island and use it. It would start tomorrow with the murder of certain Turkish kingpins as well as the kidnap and torture of some of their families. The Turks would be removed first as they were the most feared, powerful and ruthless of all the gangs currently operating in the UK. He liked to checkmate the King in as few moves as possible.

  Ravil couldn’t create a dynasty without committing necessary evils, and he’d little empathy for other criminal gangs. Neither did he have sympathy for the career politicians that were going to form a ‘partnership’ with him. Once he’d Britain in his grasp, he would bleed it and filter the fruits down to The Brotherhood. The Bratva was the one thing he believed in—the true loyalty from its members.

  Connor stood in a Waterstones bookstore perusing the sports section. He’d liked doing this since he was in his early teens. He’d catch the bus into Leeds town centre or The White Rose Centre, get a coffee and just browse books. That’s when h
e hadn’t been stealing from there. Connor was enjoying himself, but he was getting the urge for sex. He knew why: his sex drive always got stronger when he was about to embark on something dangerous. He would have loved to have seen Grace but she was all the way up in Leeds.

  Luckily, he’d a pre-recorded not far away in Basildon. He had met Lauren while attending the annual Army v Navy rugby match in Twickenham. Or the ‘Fiji v Navy’ game as the lads in the Marines and Navy liked to say. Lauren was a cute, very curvaceous brunette and an army engineer. After some Northerner v Southerner banter, he ended up back at her hotel. Connor had been inebriated but could hazily recall that she had enormous tits. They’d exchanged texts back and forth for a while. It had dwindled to a couple of messages a month recently—but he never burnt his bridges.

  He found her number and heard it ringing, hoping that she hadn’t got shacked up or was away with work.

  She answered, “What the fuck do you want Reed? More nudes?!”

  “Erm… I was wondering if I could get your Mum’s number because the toilet door it was written on has been replaced.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure about that, she told me that she sees you when she’s desperate but she always ends up hating herself afterwards.”

  “Hates herself that she’s not woman enough to pin me down to a monogamous relationship? You, however, are grateful for what you can get, which brings me to the reason why I am calling. I am about twenty minutes away from your neck of the woods, and was wondering about a brew as you Army folk call it?”

  Lauren laughed. “I don’t know if twenty minutes will be enough time to prepare for the God-like Connor Reed?”

  “Just how long does it take you to make a cup of tea?”

  “Cup of tea? Yeah, right!” she exclaimed. “I’ll text you the address, Royal.”

  “Roger.”

  22

  Hassan Saki lay back in the barber’s chair. He enjoyed the skilled strokes of the razor as it glided against his skin removing the rough black beard behind it. Hassan was a Kurd who arrived in London as a seventeen-year-old in the mid-nineties. London Turkish gangs were predominantly made up of Turkish Cypriots and Turkish mainlanders that had arrived in London ten to twenty years earlier than the Kurds. Hassan had seen London as a haven; a cultural melting pot full of promise and riches. He knew from the start he was going to carve out his corner of it.

  He started off as a drugs mule, transporting cannabis for a drug dealer out of North London. He’d learnt the ropes. After a year, he stabbed the Cypriot supplier in a frenzied attack and took over his customer base. He could have made the kill a lot cleaner but the more wounds, the more powerful the message he’d surmised.

  After warding off a couple of unhappy associates of the supplier, Hassan again kept his head down, growing his business and associates. Then he moved into cocaine and heroin, on a much larger scale.

  Although now one of the top three UK drug importers and a multi-millionaire, Hassan always kept close to the street. People thought it risky for him to expose himself, but he knew better. On these streets, to be out of sight was to be out of mind.

  Hassan had formed links with the Bulgarian Mafia and the Kurdistan Worker’s Party, or its Kurdish acronym the ‘PKK’, along with corrupt local politicians and law enforcement officers which kept him busy. He had had to become increasingly savvy, articulate and professional to deal with such a myriad of different groups and personalities. Yet he retained the characteristic that got him to this point: a terrifying ruthlessness.

  He still made visits to groceries, local businesses and in this case his local barber shop. He’d been coming here for years, and it was one of the few places he felt safe.

  Hassan was a heavily built man with a trimmed beard covering his square jaw and his thick, hairy, muscled forearms protruded from the barbering gown. His midriff was a little bigger than he would have liked, a concession for a love of good food.

  He normally had his shave done by the owner but the proprietor insisted on breaking in a new guy and the crime boss had allowed it. He hadn’t spoken to the trainee but was impressed with the deftness of the man’s hands. With a few strokes to go the man broke the silence, speaking in Kurdish.

  “You know, I hear that a man’s beard still grows weeks after death.”

  Hassan smiled and replied, “It appears to, but it is that the skin becomes sunken, and the growth already underneath becomes more visible.”

  The Kurd felt a sharp pain slice across his throat followed by a warm, wetness. His hand went to his throat, and he stared at it in bemused horror as he saw it covered in blood. His vision began to blur as he vaguely made out the voice.

  “I will be at your funeral Mr Saki, on behalf of the Albanian Mafia, to see just how thick your beard grows back.”

  He saw the barber stood over him firing a pistol into the ceiling.

  He died before he slid to the floor.

  Lauren opened the door in her Wasps Rugby top and jeans. Her brunette hair bounced over her shoulders. She reached up, wrapped her arm around Connor’s neck and gave him a peck on his cheek.

  “Get inside before the neighbours see ya, I wouldn’t be able to live it down,” smiled Lauren, ushering him into the warm living room. He took a seat on one of the chocolate sofas. The walls were a mix of cream and beige with a 32” flat screen mounted on the wall.

  “What? A white man being in your house for once?”

  Lauren laughed. “It’s London baby, and we’re no longer stuck in the fifties with our views OK, Kes?”

  “I think that’s more out of necessity from what I’ve seen,” teased Connor.

  Lauren sighed. “As much as I like discussing politics with the apparent new leader of the English Defence League, what are you doing here?”

  She was funnier than he remembered.

  “Well put the kettle on, and I’ll tell you, won’t I.”

  Lauren smirked and went into the open plan kitchen.

  “So, what have you been doing with yourself? How’s the Marines?” she asked, putting the cup of tea down in front of him.

  “It’s fine thanks. How’s the Army?”

  “Good at the moment. We’re getting deployed on exercise to America soon.”

  “Thanks for confirming that it is, in fact, just an exercise,” he replied in playful sarcasm. “There was me thinking we were about to invade.”

  “You’re such a dick,” she exclaimed in her London accent. “Anyway, you got a Missus yet?”

  He briefly thought of Grace.

  “I have too much respect for women to make one of them my girlfriend. Besides, I wouldn’t be here if I did.”

  Lauren laughed. “Pretty sure of yourself Mr Reed. What on earth do you think is going to happen here?”

  “Well, I haven’t come around for your southern take on a cup of tea, it’s as gash as your banter,” he said with a wink.

  “If it’s that bad, why don’t you chuck it down the sink and join me on the sofa?” she said, as she got up and sauntered over to the plush couch in the corner of the room.

  Connor didn’t throw the tea away, just set it down to cool and followed her—it’ll be ready to drink by the time I’ve smashed her.

  He sat, slipping his hand under her arm, for which she subtly made space, and put it on the back of her neck. He could smell her perfume. They kissed slowly. He felt her tongue slide into his mouth, and her nails ran along the back of his T-shirt. He felt her tits press into his chest, and he slipped his hand under the back of her top, unclasping her bra.

  “One hand, I’m impressed,” she murmured, before straddling him.

  “This isn’t my first rodeo,” he replied.

  He took a grip on her hips as she grasped the bottom of her shirt, arched her back and slowly pulled her top up, exposing her tits barely held back by her black bra. She slid her bra off, and her magnificent breasts bounced free.

  Connor smiled as she ground herself on his hard cock, slipping her hand around his head a
nd bringing his mouth to her nipples. He felt a flash of guilt as Grace entered his mind, but he quickly shunned it. He could be dead in a matter of hours, and he wasn’t dying wishing he’d had one more fuck. And he was going to fuck Lauren—hard.

  “It’s begun,” said the voice over the phone. “Hassan Saki had his throat cut in his regular barbershop this morning.”

  “Yeah, I heard. The Turks seem to be blaming it on the Albanians though,” answered the government official.

  “That’s another thing. Albanian mob boss Florim Againi was shot dead today in what they believe to be a revenge attack.”

  “These Russians have the cunning of a hundred foxes. You ought to be careful.”

  “I’ll be retiring soon enough.”

  “You are a loose end, and you’re vulnerable if you retire. They won’t need you.”

  “£75 million can protect you from almost anything if you know how.”

  Carl and Connor sat together on the Eurostar heading to Brussels. The American felt more uncomfortable than he could ever remember in his time as a freelance assassin. He was about to light the fuse on a piece of dynamite that was going to explode. How much he was to catch was dependent on a lot of factors beyond his control.

  He hated that.

  He looked around the carriage playing the game of guess the Brits from the Frogs before he’d heard them speak. He was normally good at this game. Brits had a different demeanour and their dress sense wasn’t as European as a rule. He was not as good guessing Jerries from Frogs on the trains between Berlin and Paris. Still not bad, though.

  Two men sat at his eleven o’clock. One had a shaved head, with olive skin and a blue Italia tracksuit top. The other had an oriental look about him. His dark hair brushed into a Mohawk with the tips highlighted. Carl knew they were French, not just in the way they dressed but in the physical contact they had with one another. They were open in their sexualities in a way that gay men in England would find awkward, even in cosmopolitan London.