Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (19 page)

Chapter 43

The Chase:

 
“Where the fuck’s he going?” Taking the exit at the roundabout onto the A77. Prestwick airport approaching up on the sign posts, so automatically we presumed that’s where he was heading, but we couldn’t be sure.

We followed the blue 2012 v6 Golf out of Aberdeen and kept on his tail. Following him in Micky’s Aunt’s silver Volvo v60, we felt like we were in a movie chase.

  The Golf regularly hitting speeds over a hundred miles per hour traveling down the dual carriageway. Trying to keep as far back as possible, but close enough so we didn’t lose sight, was tricky. The 140 horse powered Volvo was fairly new, the only thing keeping us close. We were struggling and eventually he would notice us or we would run out of gas. The Golf was vastly more powerful.

  “Fuck knows, Joe. But, I’m needing a piss, am busting.” Having only stopped once since we left Aberdeen, with a few pints worth in our bladders from the afternoon, we both needed to go.

  The Golf stopped earlier at the McDonald’s in Dundee, so we took the opportunity to have a piss ourselves, behind a couple of trees, avoiding coming into sight of the target.

  “Better give Steve a call, update him on where he’s heading.” Calling him for the third time since we left. My battery low, so was the fuel. We had to hope he was stopping soon, or else we would lose him. “Steve, we think he’s on his way to Prestwick airport.”

  “Prestwick, are you sure?” Sounding confused, he didn’t think getting on a flight was an option.

  “Well no, I’m not. And where’s the backup car? We're nearly out of fuel.” Mr Dean sent a backup car once we passed Dundee, but there was no sight of it.

  “He can’t be getting on a flight. He wouldn’t leave his car unattended for that long. He’s got a boner for that thing. The backup car is north of Glasgow, it can’t be far away, a blacked-out Range Rover, with black alloys. You can’t miss it. I’ll inform them of your position. Keep following him, he’s heading for Troon to catch a ferry, if my instincts are correct.”

  “I think we’re about twenty or thirty miles from Troon. Check the ferry times?”

  “Stay on the phone. I’ll put on the speaker. Lukas, get on that computer, find out what times the ferries are leaving Troon tonight.”

  “OK, Boss.” Said in a deep, Eastern European accent. “Troon to Larne ferry… last sail, six o'clock, Boss.”

  “OK, it’s almost eight so he’s not getting on a ferry tonight, but I expect he’s on it tomorrow morning. I’ll need you to keep close to him overnight, then follow him if he gets on there tomorrow. I’m short of staff this weekend, that’s why I need you to carry out this task for me. Trust this is OK with you?”

  “Well, I came this far. Be as well to keep going.” Micky could hear the conversation, shaking his head, concentrating on the road. He had gone as far as he liked to. Tired from the long chase and hungry from the pints wearing off. We both were.

  “Aye, that’s fine, but what about getting on the ferry? I have no ID.” I didn’t carry any, no driver’s licence and nobody carries their passport with them. Was only supposed to be going for a couple of pints. May was probably at home wondering where I was, but I wasn’t concerned about her.

  “Don’t worry about that. Micky will have his driver’s licence.”

  “Have you, Micky?” I asked.

  “Aye, I’ve got it.” Answered reluctantly, glancing round at me from the wheel. Unwilling to get involved further, but he already was, we both were.

  “My men will bring something for you to hide under in the back of the Range Rover. You can swap cars. I have men working for me on this ferry. I take deliveries through this port on a regular basis. They will be paid and will let you through. I’ll inform them of the Range Rover and it won’t be touched by anyone. I’ll pay Micky’s ticket and send him the confirmation e-mail. He can show the email to get onto the ferry. Job done.”

  He had it all planned, the Don Corleone of the Scottish criminal world. Everything calculated to perfection, his men as loyal as a Mafia stable. He was a man that had no need to get his hands dirty, his fingers in every criminal pie around the country, from prostitution to guns. The police gave him a wide berth, and were in his pocket.

  “Anything you need before you get on that ferry, my boys will fetch for you.”

  “Shit! Battery’s died. Give me your phone, Micky.”

Chapter 44

Northern Ireland:

  This was the fifth day we were stuck in Northern Ireland. The wife kept trying to contact me, phoning and texting every hour of the day, I told her I had to go away for a few days, never told her why, or what I was doing. She must have been doing cartwheels, cursing me with all the names under the sun.  

  I called work to inform them I had a bug at the start of the week, couldn’t come in. They didn’t ask questions, but I didn’t care.

  This was more amusing. Staking out this house in a Protestant area of East Belfast that belonged to ‘Roy the Rover’ as he was called. A passionate Northern Irish Protestant. Complete stoner with a bony build. Wore baggy jeans hanging down his hips, long t-shirts with a baseball cap, puffing joints like fags.

  Mr Dean’s boys sorted us out with everything, from phone-chargers to spare clothes, before we boarded the ferry, without a glitch. His boys brought suitcases. Micky stacked the luggage on top of me, as I hid in the boot.

  Micky drove in without a hitch, clueless to which members of staff were on Mr Dean’s take. Once docking in Northern Ireland, we followed the Rover home.

  Micky received an email from Lukas explaining one of us had to keep an eye on the target at all times. The following email was a check into the Hilton hotel in the centre of Belfast.

  Nothing but the best for us. A four-star hotel with all the luxuries we needed, room service, free food, laundry and a ton left at the desk for us each day to keep us afloat.

  We had instructions to keep an eye on the Rover, monitor any unusual activity. Splitting up, myself taking the day-shift and Micky, the man that needs no sleep, taking the night-shifts. Steve was constantly on the phone during the day which was good, it passed the time. It was Hellishly boring. God knows how the pigs do stakeouts.

  Across from the Rover’s house was an abandoned terraced housing scheme. We broke into the top floor and made ourselves at home, ripping off a small hole in the side of a boarded-up window. It left a view looking directly into Roy’s bottom floor flat living-room. We picked up some stakeout essentials, candles, binoculars, a padded folding chair and a notepad to document any cars that came and went. It wasn’t perfect, no electricity or comforts in the place, but we did the best we could. Before clocking in for shift, we would gather the day’s food, drink, reading material or fags. Micky would chain smoke twenty a night and me ten a day, due to boredom.

  One thing we both noticed, was patrols of the Northern Irish police force. Most of the time panda cars, but from time to time you’d see an armed truck appear. We figured it wasn’t to watch the Rover, just routine. Roy and his car was constantly on the go. We had to follow him sprinting to the street behind us, to jump into our own motor. 

  Not having much driving experience, Micky sorted me out with an automatic Vauxhall Vectra giving me a crash course on how to drive. I had to, it was that simple. Following the Rover was nothing exciting. Stopping off at his customer’s houses and locals keeping them stocked with cannabis. Times we weren’t fast enough getting round the corner to the car and lost him, then we would just have to drive around a little, trying to spot him, if not we just returned to the terrace.

  Mr Dean’s instinct told him there was some double-crossing in his outfit regarding his next shipment from Ireland. He had a firm operation running, but knew something was going down behind his back.

  ‘Pitbull’ Marijuana was created in 2003. A blend of two seed strains, it was extremely aggressive and in high demand. Roy, a dedicated professional, was a stickler for fine details and researched how it was to be grown down to a T. Never a drop of resin or buds wasted in Mr Dean’s weed farm. The street value of the next shipment was a colossal two million pounds.

  The location of the weed farm was unknown, but thought to be a vacated farmyard. Hundreds of thousands went into the operation. Roy was left to his own devices, and very rarely did he receive a visit from Mr Dean. Every couple of months, Lukas was sent to oversee things. It was him that became suspicious about Roy's intentions and Mr Dean had someone monitor his whereabouts. That’s why his scent was picked in Aberdeen.

  The load was scheduled to travel across sea on the Larne to Troon ferry in five or six months, the date not yet set in stone. A couple of staff members on the ferry were getting paid very handsomely to get the stuff on and off without a hitch.

  This operation had been running for a couple years now and any problems ironed out. Mr Dean knew growing that much marijuana in Scotland was a dangerous move and set up this operation miles away from his own soil. If he paid someone to grow and ship it over, his hands weren’t in the dirt.

  The transportation was frighteningly easy. A truck was bought and styled to copy an Argos one. Mountains of bags packed with potent grass, vacuum-packed and hidden inside various boxes stacked into the van. On top of that, this time Mr Dean was transporting a large quantity of nine bars, a 9oz block of hashish made from cannabis resin. The driver of the truck was also on the take. That part of the operation was flawless and operated smoothly for the past two years. Not once had the truck been searched.

  Approaching six o'clock on Thursday night, it was almost time for shift change as Micky walked in.

“Micky, you seen what Roy uses to fill his joints?”

“Aye, a fuckin’ half-smoked nine bar.”

“How the fuck does he manage to run Steve’s weed farm? The cunt’s wasted 24/7.” Roy was a major manufacturer of cannabis and had an abundance of supplies at his disposal. The smoke piled out his window like a chimney-stack

A car parked up the road near a junction. Some big burly guy in a black leather coat lumped out and walked toward Roy’s. We both imminently took notice, he looked shifty.

  “Who’s this geezer?” Micky uttered as he got closer to the hole in the boarded-up window.

  “I’m no’ sure mate.” As he got closer, I spotted who it was. “Fuckin’ hell. That’s Mike Jenkins.”

  “Aye, fuck me, so it is. What the fuck is he doing here?”

  I pondered for minute and stood up from my seat.

“He’s doin’ over Steve.”

“Sneaky bastard.” Micky said.

Mike was an appallingly bitter man, didn’t want to see anyone do well in life. This kind of thing, you wouldn’t put past him. A double-cross, that would suit his personality. He tried to set me up against Skinner, and now he thinks he’s going to do over Mr Dean. This was only going to end up in trouble for Mike.

  “Better get on the blower to the Boss, Joe.”

I called right away. “Mr Dean, I have news.”

  “Go ahead, Joe.”

  “Mike Jenkins has just strolled into ‘Roy the Rover’s’ house.”

  “OK. Good news, good job.” He was as cool as a block of ice. No hostility in his voice, just calmness. A tactically violent man, capable of disposing of Mike in a variety of wrathful ways. Mr Dean was experienced in encountering similar situations, and probably had a plan already in mind to deal with this predicament. “Joe, you and Micky make your way home and head straight to mine.”

Chapter 45

The Meeting With Mr Dean:

  “Care for another whisky, Joe?” Mr Dean opened one of his glossed, walnut whisky cabinets in his impeccably expensive drinking lounge. Pulled out his twenty five year-old bottle of Talisker whisky, pouring a couple overly large tipples. All round the room, collectible whisky sat in his cabinets. He liked the best, the very best of malt, with a small montage oak round pedestal table in the middle of the room, surrounded by four shiny, brown leather arm chairs. This was where he planned hundreds of criminal activities.

  “Aye, another one would be fine, Steve.”

  Standing with his thin, finger-length cigar hanging from his mouth, his scar prominent under the bright spotlight, you could see the evil glimmer in his eye. The whisky was superb. Tim would appreciate this more than me.

  “Are we clear on what’s happening in the upcoming months?” Steve said. We had been planning the consequences of Mike and Rover’s actions for forty minutes. Micky waiting outside in the lobby, probably getting a bit stiff and losing patience. Mr Dean didn’t require him to sit in on the meeting. Micky was just as eager to get up the road, as I was.

  “Perfectly, Steve.” I answered with certainty. “Just perfect.”

  “Good. Your first fight will be against Tommy Masson in five weeks, in the same venue as you fought Warsaw.”

  “No problem, I’ll get back to Kilgours, start training and keep a closer eye on that grumpy cunt, Mike.” I had no intention of returning back to work, I was getting paid a handsome fee by Mr Dean, a salary you might say. Agreed to keep me afloat with a couple of grand a month and five for each fight.

  “OK. I’ll arrange the necessities. You will be using Tim as your man, will you?”

  “Aye, Tim will be my man. I’ll pay him from my purse?” It was only courtesy that he should be paid.

  “Yes, that’s your department. He’s not on my take. If the plan falls into place as we've discussed, you win your next two fights, then I’ll arrange the fight with The Reaper later on in the year.”

  That was Mr Dean’s condition. I had to fight under his name, then eventually take on The Reaper from Liverpool.

The Reaper: A complete Barbarian who had a fearsome reputation in the underworld of the bare knuckle. He’d already viciously taken two of his opponent’s lives. One, already defeated, sank to the ground as The Reaper thundered a knee into his face, obliterating his nose and ramming it into his brain.  He was a young guy, only twenty four, but a beast none the less, who must have had a brutal upbringing to turn him into the man he was.

  Mr Dean longed to see the end to his reign and get one up on his rival Jack Gallagher, who looked after The Reaper. He also had a burning passion to have the best of men working under him.

  My thought need not be on The Reaper, but on Tommy Masson. A local thug from Dundee easily dispatched, Mr Dean implied. Battle hardened, bald with a massive head, five foot eight as wide as a door, jacked up on more juice than the entire Gold's gym. Mr Dean told me he was brainless.

  “Steve, if our business is concluded, I’d like to head up the road.”

  “Yes, no problem. I appreciate the work you’ve done for me this week.” Opening a drawer on one of the whisky cabinets, he handed me a plump envelope. “Just a little token of my gratitude.”

  Me and Micky picked up the Volvo with a full tank of gas, heading away from Steve’s 17th century mansion in the Dundee countryside, around the water-feature that was in the middle of the long, pebble-laid drive.

  Opening the chunky A5 envelope inside the car, revealed a pile of £50 notes. “Holy fuck, Micky! Ten grand in here!”

  “Woooo hoooo! Get the fuck in, ching's on me tonight, baby!” He yelled out.

  Fuck that. I needed to get home to see May and the kids.