by RR Haywood
‘Oh, right…what was he like?’
He looks at me with a puzzled expression, the question being too broad for his mind. ‘I mean…not what he looked like…but, what was he like? Nice bloke?’
‘I don’t know, we didn’t talk.’
‘He didn’t speak English then?’
‘He did.’
‘We didn’t have anything to say.’
‘I see, so…like, how long were you with him?’
‘Two days.’
‘Two days? And you didn’t speak to him?’
‘No. I asked him his name and he showed me identification.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Must have been a long two days.’
‘No, Mr Howie, the days in Argentina are the same length as here.’
‘No Dave, I meant the days would have dragged longer, or seemed longer as you were not talking to pass the time.’
He stays quiet for a few seconds, ‘are we talking to pass the time now?’
‘Er, well yeah I guess so but…’
‘But what?’
‘It’s different as we know each other, so like…we’re chatting and…’
‘And what?’
Well, just that,’ I shrug, ‘that’s what people do, they chat and shoot the shit.’
‘Shoot the shit?’
‘It’s a saying, chew the fat…gossip or making idle chit chat.’
‘I shot a shit once,’ he announces as though in effort to make random conversation.
‘What?’
‘I shot a shit,’ he repeats.
‘Why?’ I ask in a pitch too high, ‘what, like a human shit? Like a turd?’
‘Yes.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘There was someone hiding in it.’
‘Fucking hang on, how big was this shit?’
‘It was lots of shits…all from a latrine.’
‘Latrine, isn’t that what the Americans use on their army bases?’
‘Yes, I was on an American army base.’
‘Of course you were, so er…fuck,’ I scratch my beard and try to process the flooding images in my head, ‘um…so how did that come about?’
He stares at me like I’m an idiot, ‘the man I was chasing, he hid in the shit so I shot the shit.’
‘On an American army base?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was he? Like a terrorist or something?’
‘He was the chaplain.’
‘The what? Like the vicar? You shot an American army vicar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is a perfectly normal thing to do,’ I nod amiably, ‘blowing cows up and power stations…sellotaping grenades to doctors faces…all perfectly normal.’
His hand shoots across my front stopping me dead in my tracks as he draws his pistol with lightning speed. I drop down to a crouch and hold my axe ready.
‘Spread out into a line,’ Clarence mutters from behind as the rest get ready while Dave stares intently ahead. A low growling noise comes from ahead.
‘Is that the dog?’ Roy asks.
‘Sounds like it…’ I start to reply but get cut off by a second growling noise, ‘come on,’ I start jogging forward staring wide eyed into the gloom. Dave paces easily by my side as Roy goes to the far side giving himself space to use the bow which he holds ready with arrow nocked.
More growls come floating back which are swiftly followed by the noise of Meredith going for an attack. Her vicious snarl unseen, then an impact as she takes a body down. Savage biting, squelching noises as flesh is torn apart. Not being able to see it and I realise just how horrific the sounds are.
‘There!’ Dave points ahead as the form of Meredith ragging the throat of an undead comes into view, the beast flails against her body, legs kicking but the blood loss is too great and within a second the life, or whatever life it possessed, is gone.
Meredith backs away with bloody drool dripping from her mouth still with eyes locked on the dead body in case it shows any signs of reanimating again.
Paula steps closer and kicks at the corpses left arm, bringing the hand into view, ‘see this,’ she looks up at me, ‘her fingers are all torn off….fresh too, the blood is fresh anyway.’
‘Did the dog eat her fingers?’ Mo Mo asks with a disgusted look, ‘that’s fuckin’ sick bruv.’
‘No, she always goes straight for the throat,’ Nick peers down at the fingers then bends over to look at the dead zombie woman’s face, ‘look, she’s covered in blood.’
‘Well her fucking throat just got ripped out,’ Cookey replies.
‘No injuries here though,’ Nick points at the woman’s mouth, ‘she bit her own fingers off,’ he looks up nodding.
‘What?’ Cookey steps closer to look, ‘no fucking way.’
‘Let me see,’ Roy moves in, still holding his bow with arrow nocked, ‘maybe,’ he nods, ‘lot of blood but no facial injuries.’
‘Or she just chomped on someone,’ Blowers remarks, ‘why would she bite her own fingers off?’
‘So she could write a message,’ Lani stands a couple of feet ahead of us staring down at the ground at what I thought were blood smears. I edge closer, going wide to avoid walking on the spatters of gore.
‘Where?’ I ask trying to see anything other than bloody gunk slicked across the ground.
‘There,’ Lani points up at the edge of the wooden sign board. A huge, white, DIY erected board that once advertised a local pub open all year with a function room available for hire and freshly caught crab. Moving closer I stare in wonder at the bloody smears over the front, thick lines rubbed over and again and all done from the bleeding stumps of the dead zombie woman’s hand.
‘Her fingers,’ Lani kicks a digit with the toe of her boot. The worst thing is the nail varnish still on the end, chipped and purple but clearly once painted with care by a woman alive and well. Another reminder that these creatures were once as we are now.
‘What does it say? Jagger asks squinting at the board. He’s… coming?’ he reads out slowly, trying to pick the letters out that have dripped into each other.
‘Yep, he’s coming,’ I read the two words out written in the crimson blood and then look round as though expecting someone to come lurching out of the dense cloud, ‘who is he? Who is coming?’
‘You think that’s meant for us?’ Cookey asks innocently.
‘Yes, Cookey,’ Blowers says slowly, ‘I think it is mate.’
‘Oh,’ Cookey nods then looks away, ‘hello?’ He calls out, ‘are you coming now? Do you need a tissue?’
Snorts of laughter burst out at the deadpan delivery. ‘Bit weird,’ Cookey sniffs, ‘someone wanking off in the fog.’
‘Fuck it, come on, this fog is fucking horrible and I need a coffee and some dry clothes.’
Five
He is an ugly man. His nose is large and bulbous, his eyes bulge too far from the sockets. His face is pock marked, pale and drawn. Greasy hair retains that sheen of lacklustre strands despite constant washing. Broad shoulders and strong arms, the muscle is thick but not overly so.
He sits at a wooden table with two chairs. A bare sodium bulb hangs low from the ceiling bathing the room in a soft orange glow that only serves to heighten the essence of minimalism. He sits on one of the chairs. Arms resting on the table top and he waits. His eyes are dark and hooded with bags underneath that speak of ill health, yet he is in perfect physical shape. Not an ounce of fat adorns his body and his heart beats strong within his chest that rises and falls with each relaxed breath.
The door opens behind him. He doesn't move but waits. To sit with his back to the door is a sign of trust. That anyone can walk in unseen. This he knows. He also knows the tread of the man he meets each time he visits. He knows the length of the stride and the slight scrape from one heel caused by an old gunshot injury. If he heard a different tread he would not remain with his back to the door. If he heard a different tread the chances are
the man with the strange tread would not get two paces into the room before being killed instantly.
The ugly man flicks his gaze to the left as the older man comes into view moving round the table where he sits down heavily in the chair opposite. The men stare at each other. No words are exchanged. They are not friends. The ugly man does not have friends.
The older man reaches a hand into the inside pocket of his casual suit jacket and from that pocket he draws a thin brown paper envelope. He pauses with the envelope in hand before cocking his head as though a decision has been reached. The older man puts the envelope down and slides it halfway across the table. The ugly man reaches out and slides it the rest of the way. Exhaling slowly he lifts the envelope and opens the unsealed flap, pulling two sheets of paper from within.
The ugly man unfolds the first and lays it flat on the table, unfolds the second, a photograph, and that too is laid on the table. A colour image printed from a cheap inkjet printer. Low resolution with some streaks of black ink marked across the page. The other unfolded paper is typed in plain black font, Times New Roman, size twelve, double spaced.
The ugly man looks at the picture then across at the printed sheet. He reads the words several times while constantly turning his head to stare back at the picture. His lips move as he reads but no sound is made.
Finally he looks up at the older man and nods. ‘Okay,’ the ugly man speaks for the first time.
‘Okay?’ The older man asks as though to clarify.
The ugly man nods, ‘okay.’ The older man leans over and taps the end of a thick finger on the picture.
‘The client has requested a special service.’
The ugly man nods once and waits, no flicker of reaction adorns his face.
‘This is the mark,’ the older man taps the picture again, ‘but you are to inflict whatever damage you can. Kill everyone. But this one,’ the finger taps again, ‘is to be special…’ The ugly man listens to the special instructions. He nods. He stands up and takes one final look at the sheets of paper.
Without further comment, he walks from the room leaving the older man to stare at the vacated seat with a shiver running down his spine.
Albania was becoming famous, or rather, the Albanians were becoming famous. A hard people that had quietly moved into every capital city on the planet. They were industrious, hardworking and simply without fear of the other organised crime syndicates. They took what they wanted and controlled it with a ruthless barbarity that even the Russians found abhorrent. Their country was perfectly situated to move with relative freedom across the virtually open European borders. They grew cannabis in such vast quantities and on such a scale that whole villages depended on the crop to survive. Albania is to cannabis as Afghanistan is to Heroin, and the Albanians had a strong footing with that drug too. Cocaine. Ecstasy. Guns. Slavery. Prostitution. Blackmail. Extortion. Robbery. Kidnap. A diverse and eclectic portfolio of income strands and each had to be controlled.
The Kingpins knew that to hold a complete monopoly was against good business. If they were the sole traders of each sector, then the authorities would find it easier to stop them. The other syndicates truly believed they had a stake from their own efforts, but they were simply allowed to maintain a presence so to defocus the attention of each nations law enforcement.
At intervals however, there were times when extraordinary measures were needed. There were times when simple robberies, kidnapping and the killing of henchmen would not suffice. A leader had to be taken, and they had to be taken in a dazzling display of utter power, a breath-taking action of such audaciousness that it would be spoken about for years to come.
At these times, the Albanians didn’t use an overwhelming assault from armed men clad in black boiler suits. They didn’t use smart bombs or laser guided technology. They didn’t use gangs or honey traps.
They used Gregori.
They used the ugly man
Six
Day One
Friday
July
Northern England.
The Cessna bounces down onto the grass airstrip, the propellers blurring as the light aircraft decreases speed and navigates towards the hangars. Its early morning and already the sun is strong. The pilot gently pulls his Aviator sunglasses from his face and rubs his nose. Several men dressed in casual street clothes lean against the sides of ordinary vehicles. Just a group of men waiting casually for their friend to arrive. They smoke and talk quietly but all of them fall silent as the side door to the aircraft opens. Even for such ruthless men as this, the arrival of the ugly man is something special.
None of them have seen him before but all of them have heard time and time again of his exploits across the globe. They try to remain casual in their casual clothes next to their casual cars but the sense of trepidation builds as the side door of the executive aircraft opens and a small set of steps lowers down with a faint whine from the electric motor. The co-pilot exits first, a typical hard faced Eastern European, smartly dressed in a crisp white shirt and pressed trousers. He strides down to the tarmac and nods at the men before turning to look back at the door.
Gregori appears swiftly, a fluid movement that has his bulk sliding through the doorway and down the stairs. The men can’t help but stare, the whispered rumours were true, he really is an ugly bastard. Gregori glances looks round as though taking in the view, a deep breath and within those few seconds he’s worked out the closest other people, the exit from the airfield, the temperature of this place and even has a rough idea of the altitude and humidity. His eyes sweep the men waiting for him. The standard mix of local mid-ranking bosses, early thirties and still with the drive and enthusiasm to control their income strands. The vehicles, despite being so carefully chosen to not stand out, are perfectly clean with brand new tyres, the tread not worn down at all.
There’s no weapons on view and no bulges under shirts to indicate concealed weapons. This is England, one of the toughest countries in the world to possess a firearm. They’re easy to get, as easy as anything else, but walking around with them is a whole other matter.
‘Gregori?’ The chosen spokesman walks forward, a hint of nerves in the man’s eyes. They shake hands and again within those few seconds, Gregori gains the measure of the man, his height, weight, age. His fighting experience, his tendency for too much alcohol and too many cigarettes.
Gregori remains silent. There is no need for speaking. These men will take him to the subjects location, Gregori will assess and form his plan after which he will be deposited and then collected at a pre-arranged destination.
He waits until the man leads him to a silver coloured Volvo. A rear door is opened which Gregori ignores and walks past as he aims for the front passenger seat. Inside he adjusts the seat to his preferred distance from the front. He opens and closes the door once, twice then a final third time. He adjusts the wing mirror then finally puts his seat belt on before remaining silent and staring ahead.
The driver starts the engine and pulls away, having already been instructed to maintain a strategic position of middle vehicle within the small convoy of three. The speed limit is adhered to. Indicators are used and the three vehicles give way at the appropriate time and proceed in a smooth and sedate fashion.
‘Here?’ One of the men in the back seat asks. Gregori nods with out turning round and listens to the rustling sound as a sports bag is opened. The butt of a black squat 9mm pistol comes into view which he takes along with three full magazines. The men can’t help but watch in awe, they’ve heard about this and Gregori knows what they are waiting to see.
Moving slowly he ejects the magazine from the pistol grip and checks the rounds within, then his hands become a blur as the pistol is stripped, checked and reassembled with incredible speed. One of the men in the rear sighs in awe, sitting back while shaking his head. Having heard about how fast Gregori the ugly man can strip a gun, they practised and practised, holding competitions to see who is the fastest but what they just witne
ssed was something amazing.
Gregori checks the spare magazines before leaning forward to gain access to the side pockets of his casual, plain, blue, thin, sports jacket. Dressed in plain blue jeans and a dark coloured shirt, he looks nondescript. A normal man of early to late middle age. An accountant or engineer perhaps. Certainly not the most wanted man in Europe and the most flagged operative known to Interpol and the many shared intelligence agencies. The prime suspect in seventy nine murders. The chief suspect in another twenty three and a strong lead in countless others. His name is known and feared throughout the continent but not one agency possessed a picture of him. The CIA hold a file along with the DEA and the American Secret Service. He was untouchable, a ghost, an urban legend that was spoken about in the darkest corners of the darkest bars of inner cities. Get it done or get a visit from the ugly man.
‘How far?’ Gregori speaks for the first time.
‘An hour,’ the driver replies.
An hour before he goes to work. Sixty minutes. The people he is visiting have no idea they have just one hour left to live. They woke up this morning with the promise of another long day ahead of them. How many times now? How many visits has he made? So much can be done in one hour. A baby can be made. A marriage can take place. A funeral can happen. Races can be run and won or lost, people can fall in love and go from one emotion to the extreme end of that spectrum. One hour is all they have left.
Gregori tries to imagine what they are doing now, not the physical act of what they are doing, but the mind-set they have. He knows the people at the location are not evil, they are just people. Some will be there purely by chance and will pay the greatest cost for it. Others will be paid employees just doing a job to pay their rent and feed their children. All of them will die, all of them have to die. A message must be sent. An example will be made.
The car is comfortably warm with the air conditioning on low. The sunlight flickers through the trees on the road with an almost hypnotic rhythm. His mind relaxes for now. The constant motion, the silence, the temperature and the flicker of the light all serve to allow the frontal lobe a chance to relax and the neural pathways open up for a quiet period of reflection.