Colin frowned and made his way to the bar, looking at the fancy bottles but really wanting a cold beer. Before he knew it, Charlotte hooked her arm through his and led him straight out through a hidden back door concealed behind a thick burgundy curtain.
He found himself standing in a gloomy, strangely silent alleyway. A heavy smell of rotting meat hung in the air and water dripped from an overflow pipe above, splashing onto his head. What the hell is going on now? he thought, as he followed behind Charlotte. Rubbish bins were overflowing; waste lay everywhere. Colin flinched, cursing under his breath as a rat the size of a kitten scampered along the edge of the wall faintly brushing against his ankles. He turned a corner and in front of him two steps lead up to a warped, vandalised wooden door. Neon signage above, long since redundant, read, ‘Club Extreme’. The electric cable to power up the sign had been cut and hung freely like a snake from a tree, swaying as the breeze outside intensified. There was no handle visible on the door and Colin watched on as Charlotte approached the obstacle and firmly pressed the palm of her hand against a section of the door, six inches above where he would have expected the handle to be. To his utter amazement, the door opened silently and she disappeared inside. He raced in after her, fearful that the door could close behind her at any minute.
Charlotte smiled as he finally caught her up.
‘Don’t worry, we are nearly there. You can relax soon.’
‘It’s a bit of an effort for a drink, though, isn’t it?’
Charlotte took his hand in hers and whispered in his ear.
‘Trust me. It will be worth it.’
Before he could respond, Charlotte sniggered and dragged him around a darkened corner. Colin let out a sigh; finally, they were here. Thickset steel doors were opened by two burly bouncers; both had the look of being ex-army and remained silent.
Colin followed Charlotte through the entrance and found himself in a bustling, niche, members-only nightclub, whose atmosphere and occupants resembled the opening scene of the horror movie Blade. Instead of the room being packed to the rafters with would-be vampires, like in the movie, Colin found himself standing open-mouthed in a club filled with scantily clad beauties.
Every material known to man was on view, from silk and satin to leather and PVC. The girls all looked European, with their rounded breasts, firm rears, unblemished skin and perfect hair and make-up. They could have easily just trooped straight in after finishing a West End Victoria Secrets’ fashion show.
Waitresses, dressed in matching uniforms that offered more than a glimpse of their delightful charms, teetered around on ridiculously tall high heels, carrying trays of expensive champagne and vodka to the small, discreetly tucked away tables that were filled to capacity with rich, good-looking young men.
Spotlights and strobes fired around the room, shattering Colin’s view into a thousand pieces. From where he was, rooted to the spot, he could see at least one lucky punter receiving some form of oral sex at his table.
Charlotte took him by the hand and led him to the corner of the room where she had reserved a booth, tucked well away from prying eyes. From the shadows, a lean, well-dressed man appeared and pulled back the red rope to allow them access to the VIP area. He acknowledged Charlotte with a respectful bow of the head and retreated. An ice bucket holding a vintage bottle of Dom Perignon champagne was already waiting for them, chilled to perfection.
The music was deafening as acid rock was pumped out by the DJ.
Charlotte filled their glasses expertly and leant in close.
‘To your future,’ she toasted above the din.
They both clinked their champagne flutes together. Charlotte proceeded to kiss Colin passionately on the lips and he felt her tongue probe into his mouth. When she finally pulled back from the embrace, he could detect a small pill in the recess of his mouth that she had secretly passed between them during the embrace.
Colin looked up, confused.
Charlotte winked.
‘Your future starts tonight.’
Colin smiled, took a sip of champagne and swallowed.
Chapter 10
One second Colin was in the club, the next second he found himself standing in an alleyway overlooking the back entrance. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear his blurred vision and swallowed hard, gripped by a raging thirst. Every nerve inside his body tingled and danced. He felt like he had the mother of all hangovers but could only recall having one drink of champagne in the club, not even a drink, a sip.
The streets were empty and silent. A quick glance at his watch told him it was nearly three a.m. What the hell is going on? he thought to himself.
He shook his arms and legs in an attempt to generate some feeling in them. He felt strange, that was for sure. Invincible even.
Colin detected something cold pressing into the side of his chest and opened his suit jacket to investigate, revealing a shoulder holster fitted over his shirt. This held a shiny new Glock 17 handgun, Colin’s weapon of choice from his old army days. He had no idea how it had got there, but something in his mind was telling him it had been given to him for a reason.
His head was encased in a warm glow from the drug he had been given; it felt as if the thoughts transmitted from his mind were generated from elsewhere. He did not question the gun; he could sense it held a purpose.
He stepped out into the street and turned left. He had no idea where he was, but for some unexplained reason, he felt inclined to head in that direction.
Fifty metres behind him, a man emerged from the shadows. He was dressed in black and a peaked cap was pulled low over his eyes to conceal his face. He watched Colin head off down the street then pressed a button on his jacket collar and spoke quietly into a hidden transmitter.
‘Specimen One now in the game. Headed in the direction of the target. Will follow. Over.’
Checking that nobody had overheard his short, whispered conversation, he began to trail Colin discreetly.
As Colin started to weave his way through the darkened and deserted streets, it began to rain lightly. He pulled the collar of his suit jacket up around his neck and carried on in autopilot.
#
After five minutes of walking aimlessly, Colin turned right onto Lorenco Road, often referred to as Little Russia or Londongrad after a huge influx of Russian immigrants had settled there after fleeing the 1917 Russian Revolution.
Colin knew none of the histories and was unaware of the fact that Lorenco Road was a notoriously tough area, only policed in pairs, a dangerous place for an Englishman to be alone after dark. He was simply following his internal compass.
The streets were devoid of life. A lone black cab hoping to pick up one last customer of the night cruised by. It slowed down when it was opposite Colin, but when the driver received no acknowledgement, he shrugged his shoulders, turned off his ‘for hire’ sign and headed home, leaving the roads deserted once more.
After a further fifteen minutes of walking, without encountering a single soul, Colin came upon White Hart Lane station and turned into Pretoria Road.
Behind, just tucked out of sight, his tracker followed.
#
Soliksiks Restaurant was tucked away in a side street just off Pretoria Road. It was almost hidden by the frontage of the twenty-four-hour Tesco that it adjoined. If people didn’t know it was there, they would be sure to walk past it in a few strides and be none the wiser of its existence.
Sat at the biggest table, located at the rear of Soliksiks, were two men. The obvious muscle, bald head, bulging biceps and an ill-fitting suit, sat with his back to the wall from where he commanded a bird’s eye view of everyone who entered. The man sat opposite him was perhaps ten years older, maybe touching forty. At a glance, he looked like a typical Russian businessman. Flash, well presented and freshly-groomed. The deep scar running down the side of his right cheek was the only indication of his true standing in the underworld community.
As muc
h as Dimitri Chilov wanted to crack on with his business meeting, he forced himself to wait patiently as his minder and number two, Aleg, waded through a bowl of borsch, a Russian soup made with beetroot and root vegetables. As Aleg slurped away, attacking the soup as if he had not been fed for weeks, Dimitri imagined driving the fork that he was using to absentmindedly pick at his pelmeni dumplings, into his friend’s eye. He would watch on as the blood-red mixed together with the purple stains already evident in abundance on the white tablecloth. He wouldn’t though; they had been friends since their teens and Dimitri was well aware of the fact that his old friend would give up his own life in an instant, without question, to save the life of Dimitri, if asked.
Finally, the bowl was emptied and Aleg wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Dimitri pushed his half-empty plate to one side.
‘Tell me everything. How many did we lose?’
Aleg looked around and lowered his tone even though they were safe in the small restaurant.
‘Twenty-eight, a mixture of men, women an …’
‘Enough!’ barked Dimitri, holding up his hand to silence his friend mid-sentence.
‘How many times must I tell you. I don’t care if they are men, women, children, young or old. Hell, I don’t even care if they are our beloved Donald Trump’s family. Numbers only. Numbers I can work with.’
Truly reprimanded, red-faced, Aleg replied.
‘Twenty-eight, boss.’
Dimitri sat silent, staring into the far wall with murderous eyes. The lives lost had no meaning to him and he would shed no tears or feel any guilt, not now, not ever. They were a commodity in a cruel world in which Dimitri would sell on to the highest bidder. He was more annoyed with the inconvenience caused and the loss of good money already shelled out for the operation. Every country had a border and every border needed a guard that could be either bought or blackmailed. A network stretching over all Europe and reaching as far afield as Asia and Africa had been built up over many years. Good money had been paid and trust had been earned. After a moment he looked back at Aleg.
‘What happened?’
‘They were waiting for the ship as it approached the harbour. They sent out a fast craft to intercept. The captain had no choice but to dispose of the container overboard.’
‘Will the container be discovered? Could it resurface?’
‘It was littered with machine-gun fire once the door was sealed. Before it went overboard it resembled a colander.’
Dimitri nodded his head in approval. The quick thinking of the captain would not go unrewarded. Loyalty and gratitude were two core principles in life that had ensured that Dimitri Chilov had never spent a single minute inside a prison cell, either in the UK or back home in Russia.
‘Is there anything that can link the load to us?
‘None. All passports are removed by the captain along with wallets, purses and any ID they are carrying before they are allowed to board. They are at the bottom of the North Sea also.’
Dimitri drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. His mind could whiz through the pros and cons of any situation in seconds.
Thinking aloud, he asked, ‘What about our Albanian friends in the North?’
Aleg remained silent, well aware he was not expected to answer the rhetorical question.
‘OK, things aren’t so bad. Ship some of the Chinese we have in that fruit market in Birmingham to the Albanians. That will keep them happy. Then I want you to take a small team over the water and locate the weak link in our operation. Retrace the whole route. Someone must have ratted us out.’
Aleg nodded and summoned the owner to their table, knowing the meeting was concluded and that his boss would want to get blinding drunk to wash away the anger of being betrayed.
Before the owner arrived at the table, Dimitri grasped the top of Aleg’s hand and looked him firmly in the eye as he absentmindedly ran a fingernail down his cheek, enflaming his scar.
‘I want the traitor put into a container also. Along with all his family and friends. Do not put it into the sea until it is crammed full.’
#
The hairs rose on the back of Colin’s neck. He became unexpectedly alert upon entering the side street, slowing his pace to that of a casual stroll. His senses automatically fine tuned into his surroundings; his eyes darted from side to side. He caught sight of a dark red onion dome with the name Soliksiks Restaurant displayed. He paused for a split second and in that time took in everything he needed to know.
Looking through the small-windowed frontage, he could see the two men were now sat drinking shots of neat Beluga Gold Line Vodka. The best of the best as far as the two Russians were concerned; filtered five times and encased in a decorative bottle with a wax seal that alone cost more than most standard vodkas. They crashed the empty glasses down hard onto the table after each swig. The bottle was two thirds empty but the owner had a fresh bottle chilling in the fridge, knowing that one bottle alone would not touch the sides, it would merely whet their appetites.
Colin walked out of view from the restaurant and took a mouthful of fresh air before he reached into his suit jacket and withdrew his handgun.
He grasped the Glock 17 in his hand, the familiarity of the handgun returning instantly. Colin ejected the magazine and checked that it was loaded with its full complement of seventeen nine-millimetre rounds. Satisfied, he replaced it, snapping it shut into the base of the grip. He pulled back on the forward slider, effortlessly chambering a round into the weapon. He quickly checked the street was empty of potential witnesses, slipped the handgun in his jacket and strode towards Soliksiks.
As he stepped through the door, a jangling bell alerted everyone to his entrance. His trained eyes took in the two men seated at the rear of the restaurant. The guy sat facing him looked up and gave him a cursory glance. Satisfied that Colin did not possess a threat, he returned his attention back to his colleague. Colin loosened the buttons of his jacket allowing it to hang free and walked to the bar where an old Russian, presumably the owner greeted him with a smile as a Russian Blue cat lay curled up on a bar stool fast asleep.
‘Пиво, пожалуйста старик.’
‘A beer please, old man.’
Straight off the tongue, without hesitation or accent.
‘Where the fuck did that come from?’ thought Colin, bemused.
The owner leant down to his fridge and returned with a bottle of Baltika 3 in his hand. He whipped off the steel cap and poured the crystal-clear fluid perfectly into a half glass, leaving a one finger head of white billowy foam at the top. He handed the beer to Colin and returned to his newspaper at the end of the bar.
Colin lifted the glass and bowed his head to the barman. ‘cпасибо.’ ‘Thank you,’ again spoken in faultless Russian.
He took a drink of the beer and drained half in a single gulp. It was surprisingly nice. On any other day he would have savoured the drink and had another, perhaps a few, but not today, he had work to do.
Glass in hand, Colin casually walked forwards, edging closer to the two customers. He passed two antique tables with elegantly cushioned high back chairs and paused with an empty table behind him. He finished off the remainder of the beer. Making a show of it, he turned around and placed the empty glass down.
Suddenly Colin whipped around, pulling out his handgun on the turn. By the time Aleg detected the threat he knew it was too late. He rose from his chair awkwardly, his bulk and recent vodka consumption hindering him. He clumsily felt around for his own gun in panic, all too aware that his effort would be fruitless. He had no option. He had to try and save his boss otherwise he would die in shame, and that would bring great difficulties to his family still trapped in Russia. Aleg stepped to the side of the table with his gun now gripped in his hand and raised his arm up towards his would-be assassin.
Colin was in the zone and fired without aiming; the shot caught Aleg slap bang in the heart. His legs buckled, and he slump
ed to the floor silently.
Dimitri placed both hands on the table and made to rise. Colin was on him in two strides, facing him man to man. Dimitri shot Colin a vengeful look. With his arm outstretched Colin jabbed the gun into Dimitri’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
At point-blank range, the bullet tore through Dimitri’s skull at maximum velocity. Blood and gore exited the back of his head, splattering onto the table behind. Particles of brain lay scattered on the surface as dots of blood sank into the thick white tablecloth, absorbing and expanding on contact. Dimitri’s head flipped back, his eyes still open, staring into nothingness, an expression of utter disbelief etched onto his face.
With Dimitri lying dead in his chair and his friend sprawled on the floor next to the table, Colin casually looked around the restaurant. The gunshots had left an eerie silence and cordite smoke danced in the air.
The owner of Soliksiks stood frozen to the spot behind the bar counter, a damp towel and clean glass clenched in his trembling hands.
‘извините.’ 'Sorry,' mouthed Colin quietly in Russian, causing the owner to close his eyes, fearing the worst.
In slow motion Colin lifted the handgun and placed the barrel into his own mouth, clamping his lips firmly around the hard steel as his finger hovered around the trigger. The two men locked eyes. Colin’s finger began to slowly curl around the trigger, intent on applying the minimal pressure required to blow his brains out.
Out of nowhere, deep from his bowels, a loud gurgling erupted from Colin and he winced in pain. His lower body trembled in spasm for a brief moment.
His face twisted and his lips curled at the edges. A glow appeared in his eyes. There was a moment’s hesitation followed by a frown, before Colin surprisingly removed the handgun from his mouth, safely replacing it back into his holster. He looked around the room in utter astonishment as if it was the first time that he had witnessed the carnage he had just created.
Fragmented Evil Page 17