The Killer (14 page)

There were several good places to eat and drink close by, but he’d recently found his new favourite spot about an hour away in the exclusive seaside town of Sitges.
He’d been five or six times now, and he loved the expensive air of Bar Pascal and the elite clientele it encouraged.
He smiled to think how much his life had changed over the last few months.
He was now one of the elite and he had women whenever he wanted them.
The best thing that ever happened was when that bitch of a wife left him.

The Stakeout

The Irishmen had been sitting in the car for about an hour now and Darren was bored.
Lazily he lit yet another cigarette then, mid yawn, as he was about to flick the match out of the window, a new golden Mercedes Benz sports car arrived and parked in a spot close to the terrace of Bar Pascal.
As the driver emerged, Thomas held up the photo again.
‘Finally,’ he sighed.
‘I think that could be our guy.’

They watched the man walk to the terrace, waving at a well-dressed couple as he went.
The couple responded with a half-hearted greeting and then concentrated intently on their meal.
The man found a table and sat alone under a parasol directly in their line of sight.
Darren looked closely at the photograph in Thomas’ hand, then at the man and then back at the photograph.
‘Yes, I think it’s him,’ he agreed, ‘but we’ve got to know for sure.
Wait here and don’t take your eyes off him.’

He left Thomas in the car and walked casually towards the terrace, stopping just before he reached it to stand behind one of the palms and look back at Thomas in the car.
His friend gave him the thumbs up.
Good, that meant he couldn’t readily be seen by any of the diners.
Of course, he couldn’t see them either, but Thomas could.
‘Oye, Ernesto,’ he shouted loudly.
Several heads turned in his direction, faces clearly showing confusion or disdain that someone should be so vulgar while they were eating.

Ernesto jumped when he heard his name, glancing round in unison with his fellow diners, then he inhaled sharply and stared quickly back down at the menu.
Had he heard correctly?
Was that his name?
Unlikely, surely.
He was known here as Senor Ruiz.
His was a common enough name, of course, but still it was a little unsettling.
There was no further shout and everyone was eating, drinking and chatting once more as Ernesto pulled the menu closer to his face and looked around again.
He could see nothing out of place and finally persuaded himself that he must have been mistaken.
The waiter came to take his order and he put the incident to the back of his mind.

Another thumbs up from Thomas gave Darren the all clear to leave the shelter of the tree and make his way back to the car.
‘Well?’ he asked.

‘His name’s Ernesto, that’s for sure, and he looked nervous as Hell,’ Thomas reported.

‘That’s good enough for me.’

‘Me too,’ Thomas agreed as the two men settled down to continue their wait.

‘Did you hear about our Duggy?’ asked Thomas after a long period of silence.

It was rare for his friend to initiate a conversation and Darren asked in surprise, ‘No, what’s up?

‘He’s dead - found on Crumlin Road - shot dead.’

‘What the f…?
When?
Why didn’t you tell me before, man?
‘Duggy dead?
What the fuck was a man like him doing on Crumlin Road?’
Darren’s jaw dropped as he fumbled to ask all the questions that sprang to his mind.
He’d known Duggy Mallone almost as long as he’d known Thomas.
Good bloke, strong for the cause and certainly not someone who’d stray into that part of Belfast.
Running parallel to Shankill Road, Crumlin was fiercely Protestant and highly dangerous for any Catholic.

‘Aye, he’s dead all right, day after you left, I think.
Shot in the head, and nobody has a clue what the fuck he was doing there,’ Thomas said, his voice low and monotone
.

Darren stared at his friend, waiting to see if there was more to come, but the conversation was over.
He left Thomas to his thoughts.

The sun had set and Bar Pascal was closing before their target rose, the last to leave.
The Irishmen were stiff and hungry after so many hours sitting in the car and they were relieved that their vigil was coming to an end.
More than once they’d felt conspicuous, just sitting there like that, and had discussed going into the bar themselves.
The idea was discarded, though.
Lupo’s car blended in nicely with their surroundings, but neither man had been prepared for the unofficial dress code they observed and they would have been totally out of place on the inviting terrace.
Also, Thomas’ lack of Spanish and thick Irish accent would have been hard to disguise.
‘Besides, I don’t think we could afford it mate,’ Darren had reasoned.

Finally they watched Ernesto approach his car.
He seemed a little unsteady on his feet, which was hardly surprising considering the number of drinks they’d witnessed.
He dropped his keys twice as he fumbled to open his door and didn’t even seem to notice as Darren pulled the Rover up behind him.
Thomas moved quickly, exiting the car and clubbing the man from behind.

Ernesto came round to darkness and a throbbing head.
He couldn’t remember getting home.
That was hardly a first, but he must have really laid one on this time as he hadn’t even made it to his comfortable bed and had obviously passed out on the floor, which felt like it was moving.
God, he hoped he hadn’t pranged his beautiful car.
He started to stretch, but was confused that he didn’t seem able to move.
Vomit rose from his stomach to his throat, but he was forced to swallow it again.
He couldn’t open his mouth.
What the Hell was happening to him?

Seconds turned into minutes as he struggled to comprehend the situation.
He felt a roughness round his wrists and, forcing his tongue through his lips, detected a stickiness as though his mouth was sealed.
But it was the way the floor suddenly lurched, throwing him upwards just an inch or so before his head connected with a ridiculously low ceiling, which finally clarified his position.
He was bound and gagged and he was in the boot of a car.
What the fuck?

Slowly, through the fog of his mind, a memory formed.
Someone had called his name.
Someone knew where to find him and knew who he was.
His confusion cleared and was quickly replaced by panic and then terror.
The scream formed in his throat but all that emerged was a muffled wail.
He fought his bonds fruitlessly.
Nothing would give as he wriggled and thrashed in his confinement until he felt the car coming to a stop.
A few seconds later the boot opened and a weak moonlight illuminated two faces staring down at him.
He recognised neither.
Strong arms took hold of him and dragged him out into the night and he shook uncontrollably as he was forced into a kneeling position.

As one of the men spoke to him, he found he couldn’t understand a word.
It was English, he was pretty sure, but he had never heard such a heavy accent.
Then the second man spoke, and his words were clear.
‘Where’s our fucking money?’
This time the accent was obvious.
He’d had many conversations with similar voices.
Whatever the next stage above terror was, Ernesto wasn’t sure, but he entered it now.
He’d known it while still in the boot, but now there was no doubt.
The Irish had found him and it was all over.

As
the
tape was pulled from his mouth, he heard himself screaming incoherently in a mixture of Spanish and English, pleading, praying; saying he was sorry over and over again.
He glanced wildly from side to side, seeing nothing but dark fields and a deserted road.
There was clearly no escape and his mumbled pleas continued.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ yelled the man who was easy to understand.
‘Where’s our fucking money?
Dónde está
nuestro dinero?’

He was surprised to hear his native tongue and he stared into the cold eyes of the man speaking to him.
‘I spent it,’ he finally managed.

‘All of it?’

‘I’ll get it back for you.
I promise.
I’ll find it somewhere.
I’ll repay it.
I’ll get it all back.
I’ll….’

Thomas’ fist silenced him.
‘Fuck you and fuck the money.
You were trusted and you stole, but you stole from the wrong people didn’t you, you idiot?’

Darren began to translate, but it was clear from the man’s terrified eyes that the point had been made.
‘Please let me go,’ begged Ernesto.

Thomas ignored the plea.
He continued in a low growl, Darren now translating every word as sentence was passed.
‘Orders from the boys in Ireland.
Even if you had the money, you’re gone.
Even if you could repay every penny, no one steals from the boys and lives.
What sort of message would that send, eh?’

Ernesto looked from one man to the next.
He couldn’t speak now, but the terror in his eyes mingled with resignation and an acceptance of his fate.
Tears rolled down his cheeks and a wet patch appeared on his trousers.

‘Butch,’ said Thomas, the one word conveying the final order.

As he stood in front of the kneeling man, Darren pulled
The Killer
from the pocket of his jeans.
He pressed the release switch and its razor-like blade flew out.
Though Ernesto’s tears continued, he made no further sound as his lips moved in silent prayer.
Thomas knelt before him and removed his possessions: rings, wallet, car keys.
This needed to look like a robbery for the local police.
Anyone who mattered back home would be aware of the execution and that a point had been made.
Ernesto closed his eyes and waited as Darren walked behind him, pulling his head backwards and exposing his throat.
‘Are you ready?’ he whispered.

With a ragged breath, Ernesto uttered his last word on earth.
‘Si.’

When the death stroke wasn’t delivered the very next second, Ernesto experienced a small moment of hope.
‘Butch, what the fuck’s wrong with you man?’ he heard, and then it was over.

Thomas watched the flashing arc of
The Killer
and jumped to the side to avoid the trajectory of the dark blood spraying like a fountain from the gaping wound.
‘Fuck me,’ he whispered as he felt the colour drain from his face.
Back home he’d witnessed several shootings and God only knew how many beatings, but this was his first throat slashing and he was surprised by how ghastly it was.
He stared in fascination as the body twitched in front of him, the neck open almost to the spine.
‘Still, the man is a fucking idiot, expecting to get away with robbing the I.R.A.
The boys have long memories.’

‘Was,’ corrected Darren.

‘What?’ asked Thomas, only then realising that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

‘
Was
a fucking idiot,’ Darren clarified.

‘Oh,
 
aye - er, right,’ Thomas slowly nodded in agreement.
Revenge now served, and the latest load of cigarettes paid for earlier, meant one thing.
He could go back home and out of this fucking awful heat.
He couldn’t wait.

The men hid the body in bushes at the side of the road.
It would eventually be discovered, but they knew it wouldn’t be soon.
They were in the middle of nowhere.
Their task completed, they drove away in their accustomed silence.
Then, for the second time that day, Thomas was the first to speak.
‘What the fuck was wrong with you back there, Butch?
You hesitated.’

‘Nah,’ Darren assured him.
‘Just wanted to get him into the light for you.
Didn’t want you to miss the event.’

‘Thanks mate.’
And the silence resumed.

About half an hour later they sat facing Lupo over the dining table of the Hotel Solana, eating hungrily.

‘That was a fucking long day.
I’m fucking starving,’ Thomas said through a mouthful.

‘We should be fucking well better fucking provisioned next fucking time,’ Darren suggested.

‘Shouldn’t be a fucking next time.
That bastard’s done and it’ll send a message to any wanker who thinks he can rip off the fucking boys in future, eh?’