Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  “I’ve got him, Boss,” Pete called amidst the noise of the Puma’s engines. He squeezed the trigger, and the Kentobi soldier flew backwards with a hole in his head.

  As Viking ran towards the aircraft, he and Phil nodded to each other. A nod was their thanks either way, as Viking threw his rifle to Phil and climbed aboard using one hand. Blood streamed down his injured left arm.

  When airborne, Dave unpacked painkillers and dealt with the bandaging of Viking’s wound. Dave nodded towards the pilot, narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

  Viking nodded and gave Dave a thumbs-up for the first aid.

  Phil sat with his back against the bulkhead and looked at his colleagues with pride. He had been around a while, but nothing beat the knowledge your team had your back covered and believed in your judgement. Whatever the pilot and co-pilot said at any subsequent hearing, they’d be outvoted.

  It was a forty-minute flight to the military airbase in Mowhandi. Conversation was minimal.

  Lieutenant Colonel Sebastian Barrington-Cross of the Royal Lancers was the United Nations Liaison Officer for the troubled region. Several UN member nations had officers in African countries. He had taken the job because of the international flavour of the challenge, and to gain another medal. Barrington-Cross had been a young lieutenant during the first Gulf War, in 1991. He had survived the conflict because of a strong bunch of soldiers. On one occasion his NCO’s had saved him from making a catastrophic decision, and the Company survived the situation unscathed.

  In an attempt to be associated with glory, the young officer later attended an SAS Selection Course at Hereford. He had trained hard physically for six months before the attempt but failed. He had misjudged the full criteria of the process, and his attitude was noted by more than one instructor.

  The men who wore the winged-dagger badge had more going for them than fitness. Barrington-Cross was ‘Returned to Unit’ on the third day. He had let down a long line of distinguished ancestors—again.

  As these things do, the word spread and the disappointed officer’s postings had been structured toward less arduous roles. He was fiercely jealous of the men who were capable of making rapid, accurate decisions under fire.

  He stood across the desk from Phil, scowling. The officer’s knuckles were pressing on the desk as he leant forward. Unlike the heat the team had experienced, this officer’s temporary workplace was cooled by the low buzz of an overhead fan. He had commandeered the small building solely to conduct this conversation.

  A hint of alcohol contaminated the air when Barrington-Cross spoke. “Who the Hell do you think you are, McKenzie? The winged dagger badge doesn’t give you the right to assassinate whoever you please.”

  Phil fixed his gaze on the senior officer, ignoring the two suited men in the room. They had the appearance of diplomats or politicians as Phil thought of them, and he didn’t like politicians.

  The liaison officer walked around the desk and stood within arm’s length of Phil.

  Phil stared into the man’s eyes. “I was fulfilling my brief—Sir.”

  “Don’t try to be a bloody smartarse with me, my friend,” the officer said. “Your helicopter pilot told you the mission would have to be aborted because of a mechanical fault, so he landed while on the Mowhandi side of the border.” The officer narrowed his eyes. “You, however, insisted on continuing into Kentobi on foot.”

  “We had a mission to accomplish.”

  “You put the lives of your team in danger. You had the audacity to tell the pilot to radio in his position, but wait for your return.”

  “I don’t know who these two gentlemen are, but if you’d like me to speak in front of them, I will.”

  Barrington-Cross wasn’t going to browbeat this soldier. Special Forces personnel are intelligent, modern warriors and most have a firm grasp of the political situation of the day. The burly officer turned.

  “Gentlemen, I would appreciate a few minutes alone with this soldier. I feel we should discuss this matter—at a military level before I make my report.”

  One of the two diplomats opened his mouth to argue, but his associate nodded towards the door and looked back. “Five minutes Colonel.”

  “Thank you,” Barrington-Cross waited until the door was closed before he turned to face Phil. “Now, bloody explain yourself.” He smirked. “I have a feeling you’re about to be arrested for the assassination of an international statesman.”

  In the absence of witnesses, Phil showed his true contempt. A dimple appeared in his right cheek, and he shook his head. “You might as well get rid of the uniform and dress like those two arseholes out there.” Despite his self-control, Phil could feel his face warming.

  “You had better watch your step McKenzie, and remember who you’re talking to—”

  “Why?” Phil interrupted. “Is this being fucking recorded?” He turned his head to look into the corners of the small office to emphasise the point. Phil’s nostrils flared as he breathed, but he kept his mouth closed when he wasn’t speaking. The scent of the officer’s aftershave drifted to Phil’s nostrils. It was out of place amongst the other aromas, the whirring overhead fan and the intense heat and dust.

  “Okay,” Barrington-Cross said. “You tell me. What do you think is going on?”

  Phil levelled his gaze on the liaison man and spoke for five minutes, explaining the political and military situation in each of the four neighbouring countries. When he named the head of state who had been assassinated, he emphasised the rank, and laughed after saying, “General Amadi Meterenge.” He concluded his speech in a matter of fact tone.

  “I don’t know who did shoot down his aircraft, but they did the world a favour.” As Phil spoke, he watched the liaison officer. The big man’s eyes had lost the intense glare, his cheeks were relaxed, and his jaw sagged. Phil nodded slowly and summarised.

  “Don’t try to bluff me about fucking reports Colonel. You wouldn’t be aware of the original brief. I reckon you’ve been told to pull me in and rubber stamp my arrest and you are to point the official accusing finger.”

  The Colonel couldn’t stop the twitch in his left eye. “How much I’m aware of, is no concern of yours soldier. You are now relieved of duty, and you’ll be escorted from here under armed guard.”

  “Before my armed guard arrives, I have two questions for you to ponder.”

  “Go on.”

  “First. How long was the helicopter crew ordered to wait before abandoning us?” Phil smirked when the Colonel’s eyes widened. “Secondly, how is it such a faulty helicopter made it back here without a hitch?”

  While Phil’s unofficial debriefing was taking place, a white Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up at the entrance to the small building. It had UN painted on various body panels in large black letters. Two burly soldiers, one white and one black, got out. They were wearing UN insignia and light blue berets. Both glanced at the armed men outside before entering the remote building. A few minutes later, they came out with Phil in handcuffs. One of them was carrying Phil’s weapons.

  Phil’s team had been sitting on wooden pallets in the shade of a roof extension. They were drinking water and discussing how the smell of wildlife permeated the air. When they saw Phil being led toward the Toyota, their first response was to stand and raise their weapons into a firing position.

  The UN soldiers hesitated. Phil made eye contact with his team and shook his head. The armed escort continued to glance back as they ushered Phil into their vehicle.

  The liaison officer appeared in the doorway to address the team. Right behind him were the two men in suits.

  “You three gentlemen,” Barrington-Cross said, “will be debriefed on this sorry affair and flown back to the UK.” He glanced at the Toyota. “You will face military proceedings should your Commanding Officer wish.” He cast a long look at the departing Toyota, and his left eye twitched. “I will, of course, furnish your CO with a report of the facts. Your plane will leave in approximately one hour.”


  “What about our fuckin’ boss?’ Dave stepped forward, his rifle across his body.

  “Your boss has an appointment elsewhere—don’t push your luck, soldier.”

  “Well,” Dave said as the officer turned and went inside, “I reckon we should go after the Toyota and spring Phil from those fuckin’ UN gorillas.”

  “No point mate,” Viking said. “We’d end up joining him, and you saw his blank expression. He’d want us to do the right thing.”

  “Which fuckin’ is?” Dave said, his brow furrowed and eyes squinted.

  “We shut the fuck up.” Viking shook his head. “We let the head-shed deal with it when we get back to Hereford.” He turned to stare at the departing UN vehicle. “Phil will be fine.”

  Pete cleared his throat and spat onto the dust before voicing a rare opinion. “If the boss man at Hereford thinks there’s anythin’ to worry about, we’ll be comin’ back here mob-handed to get Phil out. I’ll personally tackle both of those fucking gorillas.”

  Dave and Viking laughed.

  2. Changing Direction

  .

  Friday 29th June

  The Borders

  Phil cruised north up the M74, having crossed the border from England into Scotland. It was bright and dry, late afternoon, and motorway traffic was light for mid-summer. Phil listened to Swan Lake, as he considered recent meetings with Stuart Fowler, in London.

  Stuart had been one of many who’d been clutched from the jaws of death by Phil. At the time of his rescue, Stuart had been an operative with MI6. When he returned to the UK, he transferred to MI5, and following rapid promotion, was given leeway to head up a new department. Stuart had become a decision maker.

  Classical music could be intense, soothing, or dramatic, but it was uncluttered by lyrics. Phil enjoyed it when he wanted to consider something of importance. Since his unceremonious arrest in Africa a few months earlier, Phil’s military career had been cut short, but he had calmed. He wanted to know who was responsible, but he was dealing with it. His meeting with Stuart had helped.

  It was 17:30 when in the middle of On the Beautiful Blue Danube a newsflash interrupted. Two known criminals in Glasgow had been released from custody due to lack of evidence. The alleged crime was the killing of a police officer and his daughter. During the live news report, laughter from the accused, mixed with jeering as they walked free.

  Phil turned off the M74 at Abington Services and headed across country towards Edinburgh on the A702. The newsflash didn’t create a change of plan, but the laughter in the report was enough. Phil’s mind was racing.

  At 19:00, Phil pulled into a multi-storey car park before booking into a nearby hotel. He had a meal in a restaurant in the Grassmarket, and one hour after arriving in Edinburgh, he was on the M8 driving west—to Glasgow.

  .

  Glasgow

  Phil sat in his car one hundred metres from The Gallows bar on Duke Street. He observed people going into the place. Few were coming out, and those who did were past caring about their destination, staggering along the pavement, bouncing off the walls.

  After parking in a nearby street, Phil lifted the can of beer from the passenger seat and got out. He took a swig, swirled it around his mouth and swallowed before pouring the remainder into the kerbside. He opened the boot of the car, threw his leather jacket inside, and placed the empty beer can beside it. He lifted out a badly worn tweed coat, and glasses.

  At 21:00, Phil approached The Gallows and effected a stagger as he reached the door. Observant locals could be dangerous. Phil timed his entrance to be with a group of three men he’d seen heading towards the place. Once inside, he assessed the layout on his way to the bar. Cigarette smoke drifted in layers of greys and blues. Various smells hung in the air, but smoke, stale sweat and spilt beer were prominent.

  Phil squeezed up to the bar and slurred his words as he ordered a pint. He paid for it with coins, knowing it would stand out to any vigilant onlooker if he used a note. When paying, he separated the coins, counting them to the barman as if it was a fortune. In preparation for such scenes, he had kept loose change.

  “You’re new around here pal,” an old-timer murmured close to Phil’s left ear. The bar was overcrowded and rowdy by anybody’s standards, and at least three different sing-a-longs were going on. The old guy had been quiet, and Phil reckoned it was a tactic to get a free beer from strangers.

  Phil was leaning on the bar but stood to sip his beer. He squinted as he turned. The last thing he wanted was to attract any attention. He engaged the wizened drinker in conversation to help establish his cover.

  “I’m looking for my wife’s fancy man,” Phil confided and winked. He stared into his beer before sipping more. “I’ve been locked up for a while down south and when I got back ....” he shook his head.

  “Davie,” the old man said, holding out a gnarled hand.

  “Hi Davie,” Phil said. “I’m Gerry.”

  “Does your missus live around here Gerry?”

  “Nah,” Phil said. “I left her in the house in Clydebank with a fat lip, and now I’m looking for Barry Kerrigan.” Phil hoped he wouldn’t hear about a drunken prize-fighter in the place called Barry Kerrigan.

  “I don’t recollect anybody around here called Kerrigan.”

  “Well, she said he lived on Duke Street, near the railway station,” Phil slurred. “I’ve been to three bars already, but I’ll keep looking. When I find him, I’m gonna’ fuckin’ kill him.” He continued to stare at his pint and squinted.

  It took thirty minutes and one pint from Phil, before old Davie was boasting that he was on good terms with one of the cop-killers who’d been on the news. Phil pretended to be impressed. He told Davie a man who had killed a copper was special.

  “He’s over there,” Davie said with a nod, “Frankie McSherry. He’s the man wearing a tie.” The old guy smiled. “He’ll be celebrating because he’ll get paid well for bumping off the copper.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard him earlier.” Davie leant close enough for Phil to smell his filthy coat. “The copper was working undercover, and it was a proper organised hit, y’know?”

  “You mean like an execution?” Phil removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “Aye,” Davie said. “It was an execution.”

  “I heard about it on the radio,” Phil said. “Two men were questioned.”

  “McSherry was one of them,” Davie said, “an’ he’s a fucking nutcase.”

  Phil stuck around for a second beer.

  After staggering from the bar, Phil paid a visit to his Toyota. A few minutes later he wandered to a bus shelter which provided a natural cover to keep an eye on the bar. The light in the shelter was broken which made it ideal. It was more comfortable than many of the observation posts he’d used.

  At 23:35 a group of five men exited the front door of The Gallows and headed along Duke Street. None of them took any notice of the slouching man with the beer can in the bus shelter. After two minutes, the men parted company, leaving McSherry with one much older man—Davie.

  Phil followed them, staying on the opposite side of the street and using the shadows of doorways, bus shelters or parked cars. He thought Davie had probably ingratiated himself with the killer to get a free beer. Hero worship was a strange thing.

  It wasn’t long before the old man left McSherry, and staggered off down a side street. McSherry walked as if he’d been drinking, but he wasn’t staggering out of control. Phil checked the suppressor was secure on the muzzle of his Browning 9mm and pulled back on the breech slide. An opportunity was the next requirement, and it came soon.

  McSherry crossed the road towards Todd Street. It was a short strip of tarmac with a patch of grass and gravel, used as an impromptu overnight park for lorry trailers. McSherry stopped to take a leak.

  Phil walked rapidly until he closed the distance, ensured he was unseen and sprinted across the fifty-metre square patch of grass. He stopped in the shadow
s between the trees. McSherry was standing next to an empty flatbed trailer spraying over the rear tyres.

  “McSherry?” Phil asked from the shadows.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the killer said. “I’ve pissed down my fucking leg—”

  “Who’s paying you?”

  “Paying me for what?” McSherry said, peering into the darkness, but pissing.

  “Who’s paying you for killing the copper and his child?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Phil stepped forward from the shadows and raised the automatic into the aim, two-handed. “I’ll give you one more chance to live.” He was five metres from McSherry and advancing. The weapon was held steady.

  McSherry said, “I never give out a client’s name. Fuck off.”

  “You did kill the undercover copper?”

  “Has fucking Barnes sent you?”

  “What makes you think Barnes sent me?” Phil said, remembering Barnes was the other suspect who’d been released.

  “Barnes is a double-crossing bastard. If he sent you, he'd fucking cross you as well.”

  “Does he still live in Maryhill?” Phil picked a district at random to get a reaction.

  “Maryhill,” McSherry laughed. “Somebody’s pulling your fucking chain pal. He lives at Anniesland Cross.” He turned and dashed toward Phil.

  The noise of the shot was similar but more muted than a can of fizzy drink being opened.

  It took Phil twenty minutes to find a public phone kiosk which hadn’t been vandalised beyond repair. He called an unlisted number in London.

  “This is Hawk,” Phil said. “The account is open.”