Beyond Doubt: the ULTIMATE vigilante (legal thrillers)

by Stuart Mills (ex military)

  “I would rather wait until he finishes his shift, and if the coast is clear, snatch him out in the car park, and bundle him into ours. Drop us off at the Hotel where we can pay our bill, collect our belongings, and then the three of us can head for our next rendezvous in London”, said Stuart.

  This idea was quickly studied and agreed upon, and they waited for Richards to appear.

  FOURTEEN

  The team arrived back at their hotel, informed the night receptionist that they would be vacating in the next few hours, went to their rooms, and discussed over and over, the method that they would adopt for the physical extraction of Richards in the early hours.

  At 1130 pm, they paid their bill, and got into their respective vehicles, driving slowly toward their objective in Risca. There were ample places to park the two vehicles, just a ½ mile away from the ‘Girls R Us’ club. A quiet cul-de-sac was found to be the ideal place, poorly lit and no one around at that time of night.

  ‘The Girls R Us’ club bar staff was now telling their drunken punters to leave as it was 2.10 am, and their licence was only for 2 am. Finally, after a lot of persuading from the ‘bouncers’, the last punter left. The main door was shut, and the throng staggered to either go home, or to try to find another bar or club that may be still open.

  The team had positioned themselves behind Richards car, hidden, and using the thicket as camouflage. They all knew the procedure on their forthcoming action, which must be executed quietly, smoothly and fast. Richards had helped clean up some of the tables and collected the glasses, looking forward to getting back to his girlfriends flat as she would be asleep when he got there as she always was. Her bed would be so warm and inviting, and normally, she would always have a bath in lovely oils and bath salts, and be ready for him underneath the sheets, smelling wonderful. The owner of the club, once he had checked that everything was in order and secure, then called Richards into the backroom office where he paid him his nightly wage.

  “I suppose you are going home now to that luscious woman and give her one or two? God, no wonder you are always knackered when you come to work here”. Richards laughed and collected his money, counting it and placing it into his wallet before saying goodnight to the other ‘bouncer’ who let him out.

  He made his way across the water filled pot-holes toward his car, his mind on what was awaiting him when he got to her flat. As he neared his car, fumbling with his car keys, he never heard the three men who stole up alongside him, one of them delivering a crippling karate chop across his windpipe, closely followed by another more devastating one across the back of his neck as he fell forward gasping for oxygen.

  Blackness filled his head, and as his legs gave way. He was quickly lifted into a car, nylon ties over his wrists from behind, black masking tape over his mouth and a black hood pulled down over his head.

  Steve drove the white Ford Escort quietly out of the park accompanied by Stuart, which was followed by Geoff in his car. They made their way to the cul-de-sac, and the Ford was parked up, fingerprints wiped clean. Richards was quickly transferred over into the boot of Steve’s vehicle while the others entered their own vehicles, Stuart leading with Steve behind and Geoff tailing ensuring that their presence had not been noticed.

  The three vehicles, keeping a safe distance from each other as not to bring unwanted attention, soon entered onto the M4 East, passing over the Severn Bridge, heading toward London. After an uneventful drive, they arrived at their location, 127, Vauxhall Bridge Road. It was still quite dark, and they adopted the same routine as before to get their target inside the house.

  FIFTEEN

  The usual security procedures were quickly implemented, and the team settled down to some sleep, ensuring that one of them was awake while the others caught up on some ‘gonk’.

  After a semi-peaceful night, they awoke and got about their daily business, showers and a good shave. Food was the next order of priority, and Richards was checked on frequently. Richards had woken up quite early, his mind in a turmoil what with the black hood, masking tape around his mouth, and hands tied behind his back. He had no idea what was going on, and despite suffering from an extreme stiff neck and aching muscles, soon realised that he was on a bed.

  He called out quietly, but received no reply, and decided that he must be alone. He got off the bed, and as his feet were not tied, slowly started to walk forward.

  “Where the fuck do you think you are going you arsehole”? said Steve. “Going for a little walk-about are we. Wrong. You just turn around and get back onto the bed or I’ll blow your fucking balls off with this pistol which, at the moment, is three inches away from your testicles”.

  Richards shook with utter fright. He thought that he was alone, yet this shit was only inches away from him with a pistol!

  He turned and slowly shuffled back onto the bed and sat on the edge.

  “I don’t know what I have done to you or who you are, but there must be some big mistake. Can you tell me who you are and what I have supposed to have done. Please”?

  “Keep quiet or else this might go off prematurely, and you’ll never be a father, understand”.

  Richards, now quaking with fright, nervously nodded continuously, and his stomach began to churn.

  “Stop nodding your head. You are like a toy dog on the back window of a car”, said Steve.

  The door opened, and in came Stuart with a meal for Richards. The hood was lifted up just clear of the mouth, and the black tape was removed. He was fed and given a hot drink, but could not understand the reason for his kidnap, and despite his questions, the only reply he received was utter silence. After his meal, the tape was replaced over his mouth, and the black hood pulled down, once more, completely obstructing his vision, and above all, disorientating him.

  It was now 4.30 pm, and they had been in location for over eleven hours, waiting for the telephone to ring. During this waiting time, they had quietly discussed the events that had occurred, and were now enduring the ‘waiting’ game.

  At precisely 7 pm, the long awaited telephone call came.

  “306. Operation successful”?

  “Yes”, replied Geoff.

  “A courier will shortly be arriving”. The telephone conversation ended.

  “We should have a courier arrive shortly” said Geoff. “Until then, I suppose we had better prepare for our departure”.

  The team went about their business of cleaning the rooms in which they had used, and shortly after, the doorbell rang. The courier had arrived with details of their next move!

  The envelope was opened, and Steve read out their next destination and time of E.T.A.

  “9 pm, an old quarry just off the M25, junction 6 Godstone”.

  They left the house with Richards tightly escorted, into the boot of the car which was in the garage, and drove off, heading for the A23 Croydon road, joining the M23 at junction 7, and onto the M25 eastward, exiting off at junction 6. The old, disused quarry, once belonging to Amey-Roadstones Ltd. had been abandoned several years earlier, having been bled of its natural resources in the building of the M23 and M25. Over the forthcoming years, the underground springs had risen consequently, and deep flooding of the quarry had occurred which was entirely unpreventable. An old chain was strung across the track leading up into the quarry area, the track now well overgrown. The chain was quickly removed, and the car proceeded forwarded, heading toward a few, tattered portacabins which had been left behind during the demise as unserviceable.

  The vehicle stopped in between two of the portacabins, keeping out of view just in case this area was used by some lovers. Richards was taken up into one of the cabins, but this time, there were no lights. Steve went back to his car where he kept a single, high-tech torch. He placed the beam on low effect, and shone it around the inside. Stood in the centre of the cabin was a figure, very similarly dressed during their previous operation, but this one was much shorter, and he placed his forefinger to his lips to denote silence.

 
He pointed to the centre of the floor, and motioned that Richards should be made to sit cross-legged upon the floor. This was done, despite muffled sounds emitting from Richards mouth. The black hood was rolled up but still covering his eyes, and the black tape removed from his mouth.

  “Mr. Stephen Richards You have been brought here this evening to answer charges that have been previously brought before you several times in a court of law. Each time, due to various mitigating circumstances, you have escaped the justice of the law. Many times you have failed even to appear in which to preside at these hearings, thus showing your total contempt for the law in general. I have read your criminal history and subsequent files from Police records. You are aware of all the crimes that you have committed over these past years. How do you plead. Guilty or not guilty”?

  “I don’t know what is going on here”, stammered Richards. “But I know that I have done wrong in the past, so why don’t you let me go if I promise you that I will sort myself out”?

  “You are to reply guilty or not guilty”? answered the Judge.

  “Yes, I have committed and done these things, so I suppose that I must be guilty”, came the reply. “With all the evidence in front of me, and upon the admittance by yourself, I find you, Mr. Stephen Richards, guilty”!

  The Judge quietly signalled the team to replace the black tape over Richards mouth, and to replace the hood. This done, the Judge then placed three cards, face down upon the floor alongside two pairs of latex rubber gloves.

  “Gentlemen. The Ace of Spades is True Justice”.

  As before, the team slowly collected up a card, and placed it face up on the dirt floor. This time, it was Geoff who turned up the deadly card.

  The Judge beckoned the team to bring Richards outside, and they followed the Judge up to where one of the deep quarries, had, over the years, filled up with water, having struck an fast flowing, underground river. Inside his briefcase, he withdrew a syringe and phial and a long length of nylon rope, instructing Geoff to administer the fatal injection which was completed, and the team to tie the rope to Richards feet, and to tie the other end onto a large rock which lay nearby.

  The judge pinned a plastic waterproof note to Richard’s coat which simply read,

  ‘Those who live by drugs shall therefore also die by drugs. True Justice’.

  This done, despite Richards muffled screams as the drug took effect, the team threw both him and the attached rock into the deep, deep water. After a few moments, the only air that was contained within Richards clothes, escaped, and the cold, cold water, replaced the vacant areas, and Richards soon disappeared below the murky depths below.

  Steve shone his torch over the water, and after all the air bubbles had gone, the water surface became still once again.

  The Judge spoke first. “Thank you gentlemen for your assistance in bringing another criminal to True Justice. Now we had better disperse, and ensure that there is no evidence behind. As you are all experts in this field, I shall leave you to it. I shall simply collect my file and cards before I depart. Good luck”.

  With that, they made their way back to the cabin, gave it a final check, and walked back to their vehicles once again, heading for their London location.

  SIXTEEN

  Serbio Volokovitch sat on the high quality leather in the back of the bullet-proof dark blue Mercedes 600 SL, his chauffeur weaving his way expertly through the semi-light traffic in Kensington, heading toward central London, namely The Lansdowne Hotel where he was to keep a previously arranged appointment.

  Serbio drew in the smoke of the hand made Havana cigar, the aroma seeping into the rear compartment of the Mercedes which was isolated from the front by an electric window. As Sergio savoured the cigar, his mind went back to the very beginning, when he, as a young Russian boy of barely eighteen years of age, born into depravity in a back-wood town called Ukhta, just south of the artic circle, was totally disillusioned with what life was offering him, each day that arrived was a continual struggle to survive.

  He soon became ‘street aware’, having acted as a courier, transporting various cigarettes and famous brands of perfume across the country, knowing full well, that if he was caught, he would face a long term of imprisonment, but his desire to succeed and to become very rich, overtook his fear of the security guards and police. He became cunning and ruthless.

  After many years of acting as courier for the main dealer, Leon Solokov, Serbio decided that the time was right for him to take over to run the establishment, and during this time, he had secretly got the support of the other workers offering and promising them a share of the profits when, not if, he took over!

  He approached Leon Solokov late one evening while Leon was counting the weekly revenue, and offered him a large amount of money to transfer the whole business over to him and for him to gracefully ‘retire’.

  Sokolov became extremely angry and pulled a large hunting knife from out of one of the drawers, pointing the razor sharp blade at Serbio, threatening to cut his throat, and to let his blood wash down into the drains around the building as a warning to others.

  Serbio knew that this would be his only opportunity to show superiority, and in the presence of the others who had heard the commotion, had come into the office, Serbio calmly pulled out a 9mm pistol, once again, offered the money to Sokolov which was thrown back at him, and Serbio quickly shot Volokov twice through his head at close range, Sokolov’s blood spurting onto the office table and floor in front of him.

  He instructed three of the workers to dispose of the body and for two others to clean up the mess, announcing that, with immediate effect, he, Serbio, was the new owner. The body was quickly disposed of, and the workers pledged their support, thinking of the large rewards that soon would come their way, just as long as they kept their mouth shut. Crossing Serbio would be the very last thing on their minds after what they had all just witnessed!

  Sokolov’s old contacts were quickly informed that they had a new business partner, and that Sokolov had simply gone away, somewhere in Europe to retire.

  From that moment on, Serbio went from strength to strength, his empire rapidly increasing and spreading, and with most of the Politician and Police receiving undetected large amounts of money from him for their `favours bestowed` in which subsided their meagre pay for information on raids and informers, Serbio relished in a supreme and expensive lifestyle.

  His so-called businesses had now expanded from smuggling perfume and cigarettes, into gambling casinos, prostitution, drugs, designer clothes, four three star hotels, renting of luxurious properties to the very rich and famous, five racehorses, importation of luxury cars into Russia of which, he alone, had the outright franchise, and the ultimate possession, the purchase of a large freight aircraft, which enabled him to fly in vast amount of contraband goods and equipment, ensuring that one of his ‘paymasters’ had ‘greased’ the palms of the customs and airport police beforehand. The very few officials who refused to ‘play’ ball with Serbio were quickly dealt with, usually with a bullet in the back of the head, their body to be discovered sometime later in some dirty, dark alleyway, frequently used by the thieves, beggars, homeless and unemployed riff-raff that littered Russia’s streets.

  His estimated income from all of his ‘businesses’ legal or otherwise, per annum, was around £22 million. Only a token revenue of this amount was paid into taxes. This figure did not include his other incomes resulting from black marketing in other countries which was reputed to boost his annual earnings by further £6 million.

  Sergio smiled to himself, recalling the people that he had to deal with on the way up to achieve his success. Most of them accepted his ‘generous’ offer rather than a few bullets in their head, where after, their bodies would be washed away with the strong currents of the Volga.

  The Mercedes whispered toward the Lansdowne Hotel where he was to meet three business men who wished to offer him a new business venture in return for a cash deal.

  Stuart, Geoff a
nd Steve had all read his profile and agreed that Sergio’s tentacles needed to be pruned as his illegal empire was spinning out of control. Over seventeen deaths had been personally attributed toward his businesses one way or another, mostly from young prostitutes who had held back from their weekly earnings, and who’s mutilated bodies, always recognisable by both their ears being cut off, a trademark and warning to other prostitutes, had been always discovered in a skip, as a harsh reminder to the other prostitutes who worked for him, indirectly or otherwise.

  The bodies of several young ‘gay’ men, mostly rent boys, had been murdered over the past five years also, who had tried to renate on their ‘agreement’ by secretly retaining a large percentage of their earnings from the ‘collector’, people who were employed to collect all the money from the rent boys and prostitutes alike. In all cases where their bodies were discovered, as a reminder to all the others, their testicles had been removed and stuffed into their mouths.

  Sergio had been contacted through his various emissaries to enable this meeting to occur many months ago by an adviser acting on behalf of his client, a Mr. Peter M. Burton.(alias Mr. Martin Philip Bradley).

  Stuart, Geoff and Steve were sitting in the luxury penthouse suite, patiently awaiting the arrival of Target Profile, Sergio Volokovitch!

  SEVENTEEN

  The Mercedes pulled up outside the Lansdowne Hotel, Sergio’s personal bodyguard, Michalov, quickly ‘eyeballing’ the whole area, ensuring that everything was clear before he opened the door of the Mercedes to his boss.

  Despite being rather a large man, nearly six feet four inches tall, Michalov moved swiftly and lightly upon his feet. He had always maintained perfect physical fitness, having spent twelve years in the Russian Secret Police, and at one stage, being a personal protection officer to the former Soviet President Putin himself for nearly five years.