The Bootneck

by Quentin Black

  The American broke through the exit door with the Pole not far behind him. Connor began a course to intersect the giant from an angle so the big man would only see him at the last moment—hopefully he wouldn’t see him at all. The Pole looked every bit as immovable as his bio had suggested. As Connor closed the distance, he felt the fear lurch in his stomach mixed with a shot of excitement.

  “Damian?” he called out like a long-lost friend.

  In the split-second window of engaging the Pole’s brain, his steel kubotan filled fist, whipped through an arc smashing into the point of Damian’s jaw. It was a perfect ‘side-winder’. As the towering hulk collapsed, his head hit the pavement with a sickly crack. Connor dumped his kubotan back into his pocket.

  “Help! Help! This man has collapsed!” shouted Connor.

  An elderly couple looked at him perplexed.

  Soon they were joined by a small gathering crowding in on the scene. Nobody challenged Connor—thank God for London haste. A portly woman broke through the rapidly expanding crowd and began to attend to the Pole. There was blood seeping from the head.

  “I have a first aid kit in my car around the corner. I’ll go get it.” said Connor.

  He jogged off without waiting for a reply. Around the corner, he spotted Carl standing at the driver’s side of a Black Vauxhall Astra. Connor raced to the passenger side, and they both got in.

  “Short and sweet,” said Carl.

  “Yeah, a bit like how I fuck.”

  25

  Makar stood looking out of the farmhouse window in thought. He had learned a long time ago that panic never solved things. Nevertheless, this deserved his undivided attention. He’d received a call from Damian. The Pole’s tone had continually shifted from contrite to angry as he explained what had happened. Pierre Gaultier had been audaciously mown down in Brussels, along with his entire security detail. Then, Makar’s go-to man had been unceremoniously prevented from his apprehension of the culprit by another unknown entity. Damian couldn’t explain what had happened, other than he’d awoken on the street surrounded by people and his throbbing jaw had been cut open. Damian had been treated by one of the surgeons on the payroll—six stitches but miraculously the bone was intact.

  Makar didn’t know who he was dealing with. Maybe Ravil’s supposed partners had thought better of their deal and were trying to usurp it using the American as a cover? Perhaps the American really did turn by himself but had friends? There could be no way to know unless Makar took a chance. He could instruct Ravil to use the supposed friendly elements of the UK Security Services to help locate the American. But if they’d orchestrated this then all they would do is undermine his efforts.

  Makar needed manpower and technical support to find Carl Wright. He’d thought of leaking it to the Turks that this man had been involved in the Hassan Saki assassination, but he decided against it. It was unlikely a hundred amped Turks could find an alert professional assassin who didn’t want to be found.

  Makar was still unclear of the intention of this team. Perhaps their target was solely Pierre Gaultier. Makar’s instincts told him it wasn’t—Why would an American return to London? Surely he would try and slip away quietly, at least until the fallout died down? Suddenly, realisation surged. They, whoever ‘they’ were, had come to London to derail the agreement the Bratva entered in with a section of the UK elite.

  Although Makar’s priority was Ravil, if these British co-conspirators were taken and they weren’t already part of a plot against the Russian Bratva, they soon would be. This was unless they were assassinated, which would mean the agreement collapsing. The London Bratva would have to fight an underworld war without the protection or support of these establishment figures.

  Makar needed all the men at his disposal now. This left him with the challenge of what to do with Bruce McQuillan. He could kill him. However, if their British ‘friends’ had betrayed them, the information the Scotsman held could be even more vital. He was too dangerous to be left with one of Makar’s soldiers. In that moment solution came to Makar.

  He left his seat, entered the hallway and made his way down to the basement. He gestured for the Byki stood beside the door to unlock the bolts. Makar drew his pistol as a precaution and stepped back from the door as it opened towards him. McQuillan was still fixed to the chair in the centre of the small room where and Makar stepped in towards him.

  “Mr McQuillan, where do you keep your information on individual members of ‘The Establishment’?”

  Opekun didn’t speak but just looked through him. Makar put the barrel of his pistol on Bruce’s right knee and pulled the trigger.

  Ravil was being driven to The Royal Blackheath Golf Club in a silver Maybach Cruisero Coupe. He was impressed with the V12 Engine, which powered the nearly six-metre luxury business Coupe with 605 horse power. The only customisation was the bullet proof windows. The Royal Blackheath was Britain’s oldest golf club, and generally Ravil would look forward to visiting.

  He was playing with Henry Costner and this was a dangerous time. He could usually decipher a person’s motives without even having to meet them; their lifestyles and past gave evidence to what drove them. However, sometimes reading a person’s body language when they were under pressure allowed greater accuracy. He’d to ascertain whether Costner and the others had reneged on their agreement. A business arrangement built on this amount of mistrust wasn’t ideal. Added into the equation there was a team seeking to derail the entire thing along with an underworld war, and it amounted to a situation.

  Ravil, didn’t reach the level he was at by panicking in the face of such events. He knew he’d what psychologists call an ‘internal locus of control’—a sense of responsibility regarding his reaction to things that happened to him. The weak who put the onus on anything or anybody other than themselves had an ‘external locus of control’.

  The Maybach pulled up outside the club’s grounds and his driver got out. After a cursory scan of the area, he opened Ravil’s door. Makar had at first insisted they take a full security detail with him wherever he went, but Ravil had overruled him. Whether Costner had betrayed him or not, a full complement of ex-Spetsnaz bodyguards would send out the wrong message, particularly in this club. He did make a concession and increased the number from his usual single man to two. In addition to the capable Roderick who doubled as his bodyguard and driver, he’d included one of Makar’s main boyeviks, a Pole named Damian Adamik. He’d debated with Makar whether to use him or not as Ravil questioned of his mind-set. He was too emotionally involved since he’d been embarrassingly blindsided outside Pancras Street. Makar himself had argued it was for this reason he should be assigned to Ravil’s protection detail—he would be on hyper alert to catch the culprits. This did indeed seem to be the case.

  They turned in from the main road into the long country lane leading to the golf club. The Pole asked to be let out of the car to Ravil’s mild puzzlement, his tone indicating a demand rather than a request. Roderick pulled over and Damian disappeared into the surrounding woodland.

  The large club house overlooked the golf course. It was made of red brick, with four great pillars guarding the main door, along with four parallel chimneys on the roof.

  The club was busy today, which had both its advantages and disadvantages from a security point of view. People acted as obstructions to not only potential attackers but also the security detail.

  Ravil found the debonair Henry sat alone at one of the tables in the bar. He was dressed in a navy blue knitted body warmer over a white shirt, with chequered blue and white golf pants. His hair was immaculately coiffured. Ravil took his seat opposite him on the same table. The politician shifted in his seat and Ravil remained still.

  “How are we Mr Yelchin?” asked the Prime Minister’s advisor.

  “I am fine Mr Costner. Are the halls of Westminster proving stimulating enough for you this week?”

  “More than stimulating, thank you. Would you like a drink?”

&nb
sp; “If it’s agreeable to you, I would like to proceed to the course.”

  “Of course.”

  The temperature was warm but the air remained crisp, with only a hint of a breeze.

  Ravil teed off.

  Roderick doubled as his caddie, and the Politician’s minder—an equally unassuming looking man—did the same for Henry Costner.

  “So, how’s progress in our mutual area of business?” Henry asked.

  “Ah, there’s been progress, but there’s also been a complication.”

  Henry, hit a sub-par tee off which the Bratva boss took to be a good sign. If he’d struck a perfect stroke, it may have indicated he already knew of the issue.

  “OK, can you give me a rundown please?” asked the politician, as they took a stroll down the fairway.

  “The assassination of the Turk was leaked to be the work of the Albanian Mafia. They are locked into eliminating one another for the time being. However, a cleaner, contracted by Pierre Gaultier has since turned on him. He was involved in the assassination of Bruce McQuillan. He was responsible for the shootings in Brussels. They arrived back in London last night, where they managed to escape our apprehension. Now, we have to think their aims are wider than merely the elimination of Pierre Gaultier.”

  “Jesus Christ man, the carnage in Brussels was because of this?”

  Costner’s shock seemed authentic to Ravil. However, the Englishman was a career politician—well versed in lying.

  “I am afraid so.”

  Ravil strolled up, measured his swing, and struck the ball well. It floated and rolled to a stop within three yards of the hole.

  “Well, if this American has now assassinated Pierre then he has tied a loose thread for us?” pondered Henry aloud.

  “My reasoning was initially the same. However, the American has returned to London. It would be in our interests to discover his motives.”

  As Costner walked to his ball, Ravil felt an invisible finger give him a hard-flicking sting just under his collar bone. He felt a jolt—the small impact indicated to him that he’d been hit by something. He looked down to see a wasp was falling away from him. The grass underneath him came rushing up to smack his face hard. His hearing became muffled, and he was spinning in that dream-like state just before slumber. Sleep washed over him.

  Connor sat in the ambulance a mile away, awash with anticipation. He wouldn’t let nerves show. He couldn’t change or improve the situation he was in now. Carl had to fire ‘The Wasp’, and because a paramedic team of one looked suspicious, Connor enlisted the help of Nick Flint, who could still drive despite his injuries. The blackened eyes from the broken nose Connor had given him wasn’t ideal. Louis had explained what had happened—that Nick could have easily escaped but didn’t.

  Connor consulted with Jamie regarding using Nick on this, and the South-American reluctantly agreed. Connor could have brought in Louis to help, but he couldn’t allow his friend to become anymore embroiled in this than he had to be. He made up a story to Louis that Nick needed to be there to identify Ravil, although Jamie had already provided him with pictures. Nick didn’t know what Ravil looked like either.

  While Connor believed Nick to be sincere in his desire to help, he had Jamie discover where the Salford man’s close family members lived as insurance. Back came the addresses of Nick’s elder sister and his niece who lived in Brighton. Connor contacted Louis with the information, who then sent a particularly menacing looking member of his crew on the long drive to the house. The guy took a photo on his Android phone of himself outside it. When showing him the image, Nick exhibited surprise and what looked to Connor to be a mild disappointment. But not the alarm or fear that would have sounded warning bells.

  Now they waited for Jamie to ring. He was due to do so after he intercepted the call from The Blackheath to the emergency services. The tech wizard would mimic an operator and despatch Connor and Nick to pick up Ravil.

  Connor felt wave of clarity come over him. Like a window had opened to allow him to feel what he should. He knew himself well enough to know how he reacted in a crisis. He always made the right choice in a way that he couldn’t explain because other areas of his life needed consistent discipline and effort. In most areas, he was still way off the mark. Though he was making headway in some ways, controlling his temper, even with minor things, was a constant struggle. He thought of the area that he made little progress in—womanising. It was the real reason why he didn’t have a girlfriend. He’d developed ‘standards’ in the last few years, but that was about it— how could a man be satisfied with the same pussy for decades on end? That was something he was still wrestling with. He mused that maybe he simply hadn’t fallen in love, the love Celine Dion sang about—although she was twelve when she met her future husband.

  However, in the thick of action signifying great danger, Connor could never remember flapping. He also noticed that things like his marksmanship significantly improved. He remembered a contact in the Helmand Province. He somehow managed to land a bomb from his Underslung Grenade Launcher, onto the head of a Taliban insurgent from 300 metres away. It was also an ‘off-the-cuff’ decision to throw the grenades at Pierre Gaultier’s motorcade. There was also his reaction to witnessing Bruce McQuillan’s kidnap. All driven by an instinct that hadn’t let him down.

  The internal phone rang.

  “The call has gone through. Wait four minutes and retrieve the package.”

  Damian stalked through the woods on his clearance patrol. His feet made outward sweeps to clear debris that could snap. He decided if he were to take out Ravil, he would do it with a sniper rifle from this area.

  His ears locked onto a muffled ‘phut’ and instantly knew what it was. He fought the instinct to rush to the sound. The shot had already been fired, so what was done was done. Damian could yet apprehend the assassin, but he wasn’t going to accomplish that if he was dead from rushing into the path of a bullet.

  He moved cautiously. He estimated the firer to be around forty metres away through the overgrown trees. The former GROM operative stalked forward with his pistol pointed at the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. If the pistol was held out to a ninety-degree angle, he could give his position away.

  He came to the edge of the thick bramble and launched out from behind it.

  Everything seemed to slow as he saw the American assassin, levelling a pistol at him. He leapt to his right while simultaneously firing his own pistol in the general direction of the target. Damian was obscured by a thick oak tree listening to the American’s voice giving instructions.

  “Been compromised. If I am not back at the appointed time, leave without me.”

  There was a radio beep and a “Roger” in reply.

  Damian knew he’d to act now. He exposed his shoulder for a split second before spinning around to his right, dropping to his knee and using the tree as partial cover.

  He spotted the American behind a tree, just before the American spotted him. Damian fired a hammer pair—two shots in rapid succession—striking the American’s upper left pectoral and shoulder. The returning bullet clipped his ear just as Damian ducked back behind the tree. Ignoring it, he edged himself back around the other side of the tree in case the American was lucid enough to use his pistol. He saw legs awkwardly stumble away into dense bushes. He knew it was a matter of not getting careless now. The American would be his, one way or another.

  He wanted to take him alive to question him, but that was extremely dangerous. His target was now a wounded animal—an armed-professional assassin.

  Damian followed the blood trail and flattened foliage. He spotted the horizontal legs and a part of his torso. His prey had stopped trying to drag himself away. The Pole could see by the rise and fall of the chest he was still breathing. He kept his pistol levelled at the American’s stomach, his head and torso still partially obscured with this view by the tree.

  As he got to within a few steps, the warm blood flowed down his cheek and neck from his
torn ear. The torso came into view, and Damian could see his shot had incapacitated his left side. The American was trying to roll to pick up the pistol that had fallen from his grip. As the turn completed, Damian put his boot on his right shoulder blade to prevent him from rolling back.

  “So, Mr Wright, second time lucky. This time your friend is not here to save you.”

  Damian Adamik’s lower jaw disintegrated, and his corpse toppled over like a felled tree.

  Connor watched the hulking figure collapse like an accordion and felt relief. The Bratva’s henchman had been pointing his pistol at Carl as Connor took the shot. The former Royal Marine, who’s breath was erratic due to his dash to reach the scene, took aim at the point where the spine met the skull—at the medulla oblongata located in the lower half of the brainstem. The medulla contained, amongst a host of things, the messaging centre of the body’s nervous system. Shooting it prevented the death twitch of the big man’s trigger finger. He didn’t truly expect to hit it, hence the relief pushing through his veins.

  He and Nick had been inside the ambulance in a small parking area which served as the rendezvous point. Then Carl’s transmission had come over the net informing them that he’d been compromised. Connor knew the smart course of action was to leave as he already had Ravil in his possession. That and he didn’t necessarily trust Nick despite the threat he held over him to his family. Leaving Ravil with Nick would be a tactical mistake born out of emotion.

  During his agent training, he was told of a study where they’d simulated a war game to test two groups performances at commanding their respective virtual armies. Top tier US Generals made up one group with high performing stockbrokers making up the other. The results were shocking; the stockbrokers outperformed the generals in every scenario. This was due to their ability to see numbers, not people. Ironically, they sustained fewer casualties en masse. Connor knew all of this and still couldn’t bring himself to order Nick to drive off and leave his now oppo.