Granite Grit (Fighting's in the Blood #1) (27 page)

  Taking a step back, I momentarily dropped my hands, seeing fragments of my nose hover under my eye, letting the blood leak into my mouth, I ran my tongue across my bottom lip. His facial features squinted, dumbfounded that what stood before him couldn’t be broken like a nose. Wanting only victory, willing to die before this beast got my name on his CV.

 
The quiet tension in the air changed, spectators grudgingly admiring the show.

Again he came, with more bombs. I absorbed it all, tucking into my shell. It hurt making me step back, grunting when struck, winching with pain. Kicking me in the legs, pulling my head down, planting his knee into my gut. Trying to head-butt and use his elbows
.
 
He tried it all, nothing I could do. Keeping out of the way and protected, letting him tire out. My body ached from head to toe, bleeding out and legs heavy, taking it all.

  The Reaper breathed too much, sweating heavily from his activity, and warmth from the lights over-heated him. It was near. My mouth dry, I only needed time. After the constant onslaught of attack for several minutes without my response, he tired.

  Mentally stunned, never having been in a duel this long, or confronted by a man willing to die before him, he arrived at his breaking-point. His building anger mixed with frustration, causing him to cease his attack, he prowled around my shell, analysing his prey like an animal in battle. Angered, dishonoured, confused, his emotions were now on show.

  I had waited long enough, suffered too much pain in my life. His workman-like style now wilted. Dropping my hands, I smiled cheekily into his surprised face. Part of his lip hung to the side from my earlier blow, covered in crusty blood. His right eye burst, like his mental state.

  Feinting a punch with my left hand, he flinched, leaving himself open to a storm of unreturned punishment. Still standing but weakened, his ribs and solar plexus were next. Burying my head into his chest, rattling his ribs from side-to-side, planting my feet, twisting my whole body into every punch. Kneeing into his ribs and guts, the impact breaking a couple of them in the process. I growled, I roared. He still stood. Legs begging to give way, I wasn’t finished.

  His busted body slumped, signaling the end was close. The sneaky fucker coiled from his right side, bringing with it a right hand, clattering it across my jaw. The power of the punch, sickening, hanging me on the edge again, and a high-pitched whine silenced my ear-drums.

  Facing Gallagher and his men, dots of yellow and purple floated. My mind playing tricks, catching a glimpse of my Father of how he would look now, perched up against the wall. 

  The force of the punch left Reaper bent over in exhaustion. Some ten seconds passed, Reaper wrecked, on both knees. He looked up, lip hanging off the side of his mouth, eyes battered, half-closed, showing no self-pity and no beg for mercy.

  Cupping his chin, gore from my nose dripping onto his cheeks, blood from his split-lip glistened under the light and flowed down my left hand. I lifted my right hand in the air, bent at the elbow and unleashed every last drop of hatred from my entire soul, delivering with only death in my mind. The beaten Barbarian’s body plunged to the ground, still breathing. Lifting my right boot, I stamped on his face, until the demon was dead.

Chapter 66

Remorseful:

  Reaper’s body still lay on the ground, covered over with a bloody coat. Sitting upright against the manky wall, Tim by my side, directly opposite the corpse. A collection of bodies still lingered in the basement.  Holding the cash filled me with no joy. There was no feeling of achievement. Bringing a man to his death with my bare hands, beating him until his pulse ceased. I was remorseful, full of self-pity, the guilt of my actions. Taking a life I could never take back. Crouched up against the wall for the past hour, left me shaking uncontrollably from the impact of the event. Sitting there the realisation of what I’d turned into, sunk in. My Father, the one man I loathed to the depths of my soul, and I’d turned into him. The endless hunt for his throat and bitterness over the past spiraled out of control, turning me into the callous, horrible man. The vision of him at the end of the fight was an ironic reality.

  “Tim, get me a smoke and a drink.” Tim sprung up, dealing with my request. He was in shock, too. He saw this as his doing, his vision of me back in the ring. Did he regret it? I think we both did.

  Reaper’s body lay untouched for more than an hour. Gallagher's squad argued what to do with the corpse. No one took time to speak to me, except Tim and Bull.

  Mr Dean left after a heavy argument with Gallagher. Gallagher had a piece in his coat, willing to use it. Mr Dean probably saved my life that night, reassuring Gallagher if he shot me, an all-out war between the two camps would begin. The Reaper knew the risks in this game all too well, taking the lives of two men before.

  “Here’s your smoke mate, lit it for you, a hip flask as well.” Tim had a habit of continuing with life no matter what happened in front of him. In distress as I was, but it didn’t show in his act.

  “Cheers.” No taste for conversation. The oval, stainless-steel hip flask full to the brim. Opening it, downing the lot, sensing every drop burn down my throat, an instant calm, it steadied my nerves.

  I needed to get out of here, couldn’t stay in the same room as the corpse of a man I killed. Not possible to leave, until I spoke to Mr Dean. The smoke was sucked dry, looking for that extra something to take the edge off. Agony in my body was forgotten for that hour, the fact that I just killed someone took precedence.

  “We need to get out of here, can’t sit here forever.” Tim said.

  “Can’t...I’ve got one more thing to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Get Steve over here.” Never informed Tim of the last matter at hand. The room now emptying, leaving only the criminals conducting the arms-deal.

  Mr Dean came walking over. Feeling the need to stand to talk to him. From my bruised calves to my bruised forehead, everywhere ached as I had sat down for over an hour. “Well done Joe, well done. Pity about The Reaper.” A cold response to his death, but a normal thing in his everyday life. Mr Dean got his wish, one of his men ended the reign of The Reaper

  I thought about responding to his comment about the Reaper, but coldly as it sounds, I had other things on my mind. “Midnight? Where?” I had no time to mess around.

  “Inside the fabrication shed.” Mr Dean replied.

  “And you’ll be there? You need to give me that piece.”

  “Aye, I’ll be there. I left it under Tim’s passenger seat.” Once again Tim looking confused about what we were talking about. Mr Dean walked away, I’d see him later.

  “OK, what’s going on now?” Getting annoyed I was holding something from him.

  “Nothing you need to know. When this deal’s going down, wait in the car, alright?”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions Tim, just wait in the fuckin’ car.” Telling by the firmness of my voice I was deadly serious, he complied.

  “Aye, alright ‘en. I’ll wait in the car when the time comes.” He looked miffed, but I couldn’t tell him anything for his own safety.

  “Right, I’m heading out for some air.”

  Walking out the alcove archway, Tim spoke. “There’s drink in the boot, mate.” The long aching walk up the tunnel made me contemplate what I was prepared to do next. The pain in my body felt like I’d been in a head on collision with a tank.

Chapter 67

The Eidolon:

  Steve Dean, Lukas, Bobby Munroe, The Govan Gang and six members of the London Ghetto Gang and myself all waited patiently in the open space of the dimly-lit fabrication-shed for The Eidolon and his weapons.

  They were known for their punctuality and precision when conducting deals, there was little doubt The Eidolon and his stable would be a no-show. I glanced at my phone, seven missed calls and three unreturned text messages from Magill. The Eidolon’s appearances at exchanges were scarce, but his presence was expected this evening. The meeting set up by Jack Gallagher who was still attending to the corpse. I stood behind Bobby Munroe, a short, fat, ruthless bastard from Glasgow. Been causing trouble since he was able to walk. In the game for the simple fact he loved to break rules, cause hardship and kill people for fun. A complete psycho who couldn’t be argued with. Years of psychological damage, there was no hope for him. Looking at him, and hearing the stories, was enough to send me further to changing my ways. I didn’t want to end up like him, and there was every possibility I could.

  The only man here that would interrupt my plan.

 
A vehicle approaching. Bobby Munroe, opened the wide roller-door, lifting it just high enough for the Sprinter van to reverse in, closing the door behind him.

  The driver reversed ten metres into the shed, switched off the ignition, and then killed the lights. The front of the van sat in the dark, too hard to see the men inside. The gathering of crooks stepped round to the rear of the rusty van, awaiting the back doors to be opened. Situated behind the pack, just to the right, looking onto the driver’s door, waiting for a body to a step out.

  Sliding the front of my t-shirt up, grabbing my Glock 35 pistol. The anticipation of pulling the trigger, sent my legs into a trauma-like shake. Mr Dean kept an eye on me, one of two men aware of my plan. Flicking the safety off as I slid it out, hiding it behind my back, one step closer.

  My face pure white and nose looking like someone walking off a battle-ground, hardly able to stand on my own feet. My body ached from the impact of The Reaper’s wrath, but I had to, this was my chance.

  Only seconds away from witnessing the sight of my Father, sat inside the van, The Eidolon, my finger ready to send a bullet into his brain. The van-doors opened simultaneously, two men stepped out into the poorly-lit area. The light shone brighter behind the van. The driver stepped out, dressed all in black with a shoulder patched jumper and combat trousers, a full-face balaclava on, too short to be Dad, must be the passenger.

  Rounding the pack of men for a better view of the passenger arriving at the rear. My hand took a tighter the grip of the Glock, prepared to pull the trigger. Wearing a balaclava as well, it wasn't him. Again, too short. Disappointment swirled through my head. I was told by Mr Dean he would be here. Still, the back doors hadn’t been opened, he could be inside with the shipment. I prepared myself for the bullet again.

  Mr Dean keeping a close eye on me, as loyal to me as I was to him, he was prepared to back me up if need be. The passenger and driver blocked the view inside the van after opening the doors. They moved to the side, the hand behind my back came round to my hip. Only the custom-built crates of arms lay in the back stacked two high, three back. The gun retracted, then slide down my back, out of view. I was devastated, I was informed that he’d be here. The longing, the desperation I had to kill the bastard wouldn’t be fulfilled.

  The intensity of the situation made even Mr Dean take a deep breath of relief. The plan we discussed was for me to fire the gun, with him and Lukas on standby, to counteract any responses made by The Stable, or Bobby Munroe. Once killing him, I had no idea what the next move would be. The aching longing to end his life, outplayed anything else.

  The deal went through without problems, and I stood, watching closely. Guns unloaded and cash exchanged. The men spoke with a deep Irish tongue. Making any kind of approach for information regarding The Eidolon stupid and suicidal.

  Desperate but not foolish, if able to escape the shed with my life, they’d find me and then kill, without hesitation. By this time, The Reaper’s body was carried out the tunnel by Jack Gallagher, his son and two other men. Exhausted with carrying the colossal carcass, they dropped him as they entered the shed from the electrical mains room. This caught the attention of The Stable, who were preparing to enter the van and leave.

  The driver opened the van door, heard the commotion and a loud thud from the north-west corner, paused, ambled ten metres away from the van, the passenger joined him. Once they saw the body, standing side-by-side, they turned to each other through their balaclava eyeholes for a few seconds, as if they knew who it was. Uttering no words, turning around entering the van again, they were off. Bobby opened the door and away they went.

Chapter 68

Lukas
:

  Mike Jenkins, Roy the Rover and the truck driver’s fate were sealed in the following two weeks. Lukas, Mr Dean’s loyal employee, spent his previous life in a special unit of the Hungarian Police, where you need the same unforgiving ruthlessness as the men he hunted. His last years specialising in taking down the worst possible criminals, those involved with the trafficking of young women, forced into the sex-trade, and his biggest hate, paedophiles. The repulsive images he witnessed, left a permanent scar. He personally carried out the killing of each man, complying with Mr Dean’s requests.

 
The first to meet his unforeseen death, was the truck driver. A wife and family of four, he was prepared to abandon them all for the sun of the Costa del Sol. After getting placed on the paedophile register, outcast by his family and sacked from his job. Left homeless, skint and marked out as kiddie-fiddler, you’d think that was punishment enough.

  Flying to Northern Ireland, Lukas shadowed him one day, the man totally oblivious to his presence, until he joined him at a bar for a few drinks later on at night. Mr Dean asked for his death to be quick, by bullet. Being outcast by his friends and neighbours in Belfast, he turned to drink.

  Pulling up a stool at the bar, Lukas took it upon himself to accompany the man for the evening, giving him hope he found a new friend. They drank all night, sharing stories of whatever. Closing time, leaving together, Lukas offering to give the man a bed for a night in his fictional flat. Relieving his bladder full of Guinness behind one of those big recycle bins. Lukas pulled out his Makarov 9mm pistol, a gun given to him by his Father before he entered the force, and his preferred weapon for killing. Screwing the silencer on, waiting for his victim to turn round.

  Fixing up his buttons, lifting his drunk head, Lukas placed a bullet through the centre of the truck-driver’s forehead.

 
The second to meet his end, stoner Roy the Rover. He knew he couldn’t stay in east Belfast. Stoned but not stupid, he fled to Cork, Southern Ireland. Taking up residence in a seedy B&B. Taking three days to track him down, Mr Dean requested his death to be one of slight struggle. The Rover left the solitude of his room every morning 9am precisely, buying the daily paper. Returning to his room that day, a Hungarian hitman waited, lying on his bed, the Makarov 9mm pointed at the door. The Rover strolled in, laid-back as ever, reading the back page at the same time, he walked into his room unaware of the Hungarian’s presence. The momentary feeling of ‘This can’t be happening to me, I got away’ went sailing through his stoned skull.

  The silencer wasn’t attached, so he had no intention of shooting The Rover at that moment, unless he felt it necessary.

  “Hello Mr Rover, I think you will never come.” His English lacked the odd word.

  “What the fuck?” The Rover looked round the room for an exit, he had nowhere to hide.

  “Stay quiet, do what I say, and you live, OK?”

  “OK…OK.” Instructing the man to sit on the bed and attach a handcuff to each limb. He obliged, the gun still pointed in his direction. Handcuffing his limbs round the corners of the bed, then filling his gob with scrunched up duct-tape and then a slice over his mouth. He was now helpless and in the hands of death.

  Because he got greedy, and tried to dip his hands into Mr Dean’s pockets, Lukas had a special torture device for him. A ratchet cable-cutter usually used in the electrical trade. Two round, thick blades of this device closed together creating a gate, then ratcheted together till they met.

  Placing the round gate of the cable-cutter around two of his fingers until a tight grip squashed his fingers together. Lukas began to ratchet gently, so Rover felt the most pain. Slicing through his skin before the initial crunch of the bone was meet with a silenced howl. The slow grinding of the bone as it cracked like a slow bite of a brazil-nut brought a rare, pleasant smile to Lukas. He counted the motions to The Rover like a primary pupil. Fifteen more ratchets before he had to stretch the device away from the skin like a melted piece of cheese, two unattached fingers lay on the reddened white sheets.

  His call for mercy could not be heard, his screams muffled inside his mouth. The rest of the digits were removed in the same brutal manner, awake through it all, gave Lukas a tingle of respect for the man. The ten fingers lay on the bed. Blood went from gushing out, spraying around the room, to trickling out onto the sheets. Rover choked on his vomit. His arms were able to slip out the handcuffs as he sat upright, in complete panic. Terrified tears and groans like a wounded animal that needed put down came out his mouth. He flapped his fingerless hands in the air and tried to remove the restraints from his legs, his brain in shock, not registering that his fingers were no longer there. On top of his pain, came a splatter over the head from the butt of Lukas’s pistol.

  Lukas set the timer on his phone for an hour, read The Rover’s paper, then shot him through the forehead with his silencer attached.

Mike Jenkins never returned to Aberdeen, instead taking his flight to Costa del Sol. His death was the choice of Mr Dean. Taking Lukas more than a week to track the grumpy bastard down, only added to his fulfilment.

  Mike hired a lovely holiday-home under the plain name of John Smith. How Lukas managed to track him down was a mystery, but that was his specialty. Booking under such an ordinary name probably gave the game away, too obvious. Stalking him for a couple days, following his daily routine. Never off the phone, fearful of his predicament. Attempting to sell his belongings, car and house to gather funds for his new life.

  His choice of cocktail, a tall glass of Planter’s Punch. Consisting of dark rum, lime and lemon, grenadine syrup with a couple of local herbs resembling small leaves. Late Thursday afternoon, waited-on by a young local man from his beach sun-lounger, his delivery of the cocktail was a tap on the shoulder, then his hand grabbing the glass without so much as a thank you.

  Lukas was unrecognisable to Mike wearing surfer-shorts, a weight-lifter’s vest, shades and a Summery straw hat. Staying inside the beach-bar out of the sight of the heavy-set, arrogant man.

  Inside his pocket, a selection of leaves from Gelsemium Elegans. Known to Russian and Chinese contract killers as ‘heartbreak grass’, inflicting a painfully slow death, if combined in the appropriate amount. Mike called the waiter, asking for another beverage. Lukas took it upon himself to have a Planter’s Punch standing by, replacing the local herb with his own special ingredient. With the coolest of confidence, strolled to the beach, tapped Mike on the shoulder, his right arm stretched over his left shoulder, grabbing the glass, gulping greedily.

  Not so much of a word was muttered as Lukas returned to his seat to admire his work. There are five stages that flood your body.

The first stage landed after ten minutes, Lukas watched and laughed at his misfortune. Mike was disorientated, his head shifted around looking lost as he rolled off his seat. Dizziness was the first stage.

Rolling around on the sand, clutching his guts for a few minutes, before leaning over his lounger and started vomiting uncontrollably over his seat. Lukas was enjoying the act and his own Planter’s Punch cocktail from the comfort of the bar. Nausea was the second stage.

Some tourists tried to aid Mike and called for an ambulance. The constant vomit eased and then his body started contracting in timed formations of every twenty seconds like electric shocks, leaving him mimicking a zombie. Convulsions are the third stage.

There was no pill, no medication or miracles that could stop the process. After an hour, at this stage, inside the hospital, the poison shows its intended effects. Paralysis of the spinal cord and a loss of muscular function keeping you alive for some time, before asphyxia robs you of breath, resulting in choking to death.

  Mike suffered immense pain for three hours.

I had one more favour to ask of Mr Dean, which meant I still owed him and I hoped it never had to be re-paid. In the small town of Turriff, thirty seven miles from Aberdeen. Harry ‘Ball Point’ Duncan took residence in The Royal Oak, a friendly bar where everyone knew everybody. The police had no leads to who left Micky with a knife in his back, which suited me. That meant he could be dealt with by my own wishes. Harry had taken a short-term labouring job with a loft-insulating firm, local to Turriff. Every night he chugged pints in the bar before returning to his room. Lukas, also an IT wizard, had gained access through a side-door leading to the upstairs rooms. A computer-virus was downloaded onto the computer, erasing the recording of his approach. In Harry’s room, Lukas waited behind a door from a built-in wardrobe, a hammer gripped at the bottom of the shaft. Chubby Harry stuttered into the room, stripped down to his birthday-suit and climbed into bed. Lukas waited to hear the snores before jumping on the bed and used the ball-point of the hammer to leave an indented hole in his temple.

The murder of Harry ‘Ball Point’ was carried out to my request.