A King’s Gambit

Quentin Black

Copyright © 2023 Author Name

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1-9996006-4-8

For a FREE download of the novella An Outlaw’s Reprieve click below on the following link.

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CONTENTS

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

AUTHORS NOTE

RYDER FAMILY TREE

PROLOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

GLOSSARY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AUTHOR’S NOTE

IN THE CONNOR REED SERIES

DEDICATION

To Heather;

Daisy is lucky to have a mum like you.

AUTHORS NOTE

Definitions of specific terms and phrases are italicized and emboldened, and can be found in the glossary.

RYDER FAMILY TREE

PROLOGUE

‘The Archangel Michael confronted the defiant fallen dark angel with the promise that if he killed other demons, the wrath of God would pass him by.’

A myth left out of the Bible.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Holly Mew, for your constant support;

Golden-Rivet, for the cover design and promotional video;

Chris Searle, for your proofreading and polishing;

Daniel ‘Farno’ Holmes, for your editorial input.

1

Standing on the dais, David Franklin felt the warmth of pride as well as the Costa Del Sol sunshine. The ocean breeze blended with the sharp scent of freshly cut grass and combed through his strawberry-blond hair.

Behind him lay the enormous, majestic golf course, its fairways tapering towards a series of lakes and, finally, the simmering Mediterranean Sea. Before him stood a bevy of regional and Irish journalists, a multitude of tourists and local golf enthusiasts, as well as several lieutenants and underlings of what the media were dubbing the Franklin Organised Crime Group.

His identical twin, Dion, had gotten a kick out of referring to the organisation as the FOC, a moniker which had spread.

That morning, a cocaine hangover had cemented his brother and his hired lover to his massive black velvet bed.

With the golf course being just one of a slew of grand openings of casinos, apartment complexes, strip clubs and shopping centres in the coming months, David had reluctantly agreed to stand in for him.

“Yer a lazy bastard, so you are,” he had told Dion.

“Yer need to learn how to blather in front of a crowd,” came the reply from beneath the pillow, and that was that.

To protect himself from his nerves, David had decided to impersonate his brash brother and not tell anyone—though some of the FOC boys probably guessed. Dion had a huskier build, and though both brothers stood an inch or two under average height, David took to wearing internal heels to elevate himself. His skin also lacked the pockmarks smattering his brother’s face, though he guessed the gathering to be far enough back not to notice.

Clutching a giant pair of gold-plated scissors, he filled his lungs. Accentuating his now watered-down Dublin accent to match Dion’s, he announced, “Welcome to the opening of Moonray Golf—the first golf resort where a person can play day and night beneath the stadium lights. Complete with fully interactive virtual reality indoor systems for those who believe fresh air is overrated.”

The crowd rewarded him with a chuckle. He turned theatrically and ceremoniously cut the white satin ribbon strung between two shiny poles. A collective cheer rose from the crowd.

“Now,” David continued, snapping his fingers at the head waiter. The waiter was poised in the complex’s doorway beneath its slanted terracotta roof. It struck David as odd that the head waiter seemed incapable of balancing his silver salver as elegantly or deftly as other waiters he had seen in the resort or anywhere else.

He frowned as the waiter headed a procession of equally inept waiters—none looked like Spaniards or even particularly tanned.

Closer still, and not only did he look too old to be a waiter—he seemed vaguely familiar. And he was staring directly at David with such defiance it made the Dubliner’s stomach lurch.

David recoiled on seeing the silver salvers’ domed lids lifted en masse. Time slowed as the shock sank in; beneath the lids lay guns, not the anticipated hors d’oeuvre.

He turned to run but barely got into his stride before the air split with the fury of several Ingram Mac 10 submachine guns.

Four invisible hammers punched into his back to a crescendo of background screams.

The thudding pain began to scorch into something more acute. He slumped to his knees. He sensed someone running towards him. Craning his neck, he gazed into the barrel of an SMG.

The owner’s Northern Irish-edged voice said, “What is a man without honour, Dion?”

Those were the last words David heard.

2

Fifteen Months later

Bruce McQuillan had yet to speak since sitting down over thirty minutes ago.

His eyes scanned the paintings of old British imperialism spliced between the video screens—all switched off today.

The tall, broad Scotsman possessed the auspicious title of Chief Liaison Officer for Britain’s security services. However, his formidable and respected reputation shielded him from the vehemence often slung around at meetings such as today’s.

Individuals representing Scotland Yard, Garda Síochána—the national police service of the Republic of Ireland, and the Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) sat at the top end of the shiny hardwood table.

In addition, he had brought Ciara Robson to the meeting as his assistant; this was part of his grooming her to be his eventual successor as Liaison Officer and as chief of a black operations unit known to only a handful of people, ‘The Chameleon Project’.

Meetings like this gave certain players a chance to become familiar with the emerald-eyed twenty-nine-year-old and for her to take mental notes.

Her appearance had softened in tandem with his over the last few years. Both had grown their hair out a little; hers blonde, highlighted with artificial silver, once shaved on the sides but now feathering the curve of her neck, whereas his grey-peppered black had lost its severe ‘short back and sides’ trim.

Ciara’s physique, once almost masculine in a similar vein to a high-end female CrossFit athlete, now resembled that of a top-flight gymnast. While still hard, he had acquired a touch more marbling than was present even a handful of years ago; he attributed this to the recent introduction of more Italian food to his fifty-three-year-old metabolism.

The overhead electric candelabrum bathed the walls and spiked flags of the United Kingdom and Ireland at the head of the table in a faint amber. The light aroma of wood polish, and the lemongrass and rosemary from the air diffuser, floated through the air.

When these Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms were not being used in response to national or regional crises, often referred to as COBRA meetings, they were given discretionary use for other matters.

In his Irish brogue, the fifty-eight-year-old Noel O’Duffy began, “We do what we can with the limits imposed upon us.”

The jowly, iron-grey-haired O’Duffy pushed his glasses back up his sloped nose. He was one of the two Garda Síochána Deputy Commissioners, with his remit being ‘Governance & Strategy’. He continued, “But in the beginning, it was purely gangsters kellin’ gangsters—some a little tenuous, I’ll give you that, but criminals just the same. I am not condo—”

“And it’s that ambivalence, which has led innocent young girls to have acid thrown in their faces and shopkeepers shot and killed,” sneered John Turner, O’Duffy’s counterpart in the PSNI with the rank of Deputy Chief Constable.

Bruce knew the dissension between the two men went further than the issue at hand. Turner, a protestant from the east of Belfast, had been a young soldier in the Ulster Defence Regiment in the early eighties prior to his career with the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

Over ten years ago, O’Duffy had been part of a task force named HET (Historical Enquires Team) researching past crimes from ‘The Troubles’. Bruce had heard rumours Turner’s name had come up concerning UDR collusion with the Ulster Defence Association to exact sectarian killings. The Scotsman had also been made aware political manoeuvrings might have seen Turner’s name redacted, which would have been to O’Duffy’s chagrin.

The Irish catholic forcibly retorted, “And maybe if you had done your job in arresting O’Neill when he was a wheppersnapper this wouldn’t have happened!”

“Whippersnapper? He’s ten years older than you, let alone me.”

With the authority of being the head of Scotland Yard blending with its femininity, Kathryn Bainbridge’s voice interjected, “Gentlemen, we need to be a little more constructive.”

The men’s postures and expressions softened.

She looked at Bruce and asked, “What do you think?”

“I will summarise what I have heard today to ensure I have a grasp of the facts unless anyone objects,” began the former SAS soldier, whose dual role as chief of a black operations unit was not officially recognised. No one did, and he continued, allowing his Glaswegian dialect to edge his words a little more than usual, “Edward Jack O’Neil, or Eddie O’Neil as he’s known, sixty-eight-years old, heads the O’Neil crime family, which has roots in Dublin—on account of his father being a Dubliner, and west Belfast—where he was born. As a result, Eddie O’Neil has dual citizenship. A former IRA dissident and almost universally recognised—though never convicted—as the brains behind some of the biggest armed robberies here and on the continent. Surprising to many, he has remained in Belfast, even though he has the CAB and the Proceeds of Crime Centre breathing down his neck.”

Ireland’s Criminal Assets Bureau and the UK’s branch of the National Crime Agency dealt with criminals through the confiscation of their assets if they failed to satisfactorily explain how they were obtained.

O’Duffy announced, “Until this whole thing ignited, Eddie O’Neil was retired—a figurehead only.”

Turner said, “That’s way overstating the case. He’ll still have a major influence. He has three brothers and two sisters—and, therefore, several criminal nephews who look to him for advice. Maybe you should do your research.”

Before O’Duffy could retort, the Scotsman asked, “Has he been brought in for questioning?”

Turner took his eyes off O’Duffy and onto Bruce. “His alibis are solid. We couldn’t hold him. I have copies of the interview transcripts for everyone present. He was issued with an Osman warning in the same interview.”

He referenced a letter that the police issue to someone who they believe they have intelligence about of a real and immediate threat to the recipient’s life, but not enough evidence to justify arresting the possible offender.

Bainbridge asked, “And what was his response? Or reaction, at least?”

Turner replied, “Non-existent on both counts.”

Bruce leaned forward, his white sleeves poking from his light grey suit. “Thomas Franklin, the patriarch of what’s known as the Franklin Organised Crime Group, or FOC as an amusing take—primarily in the drugs business—dies without children. So he leaves the company to his identical twin nephews, Dion and David, who are in their early forties. Dion runs the day-to-day operations, and David used to oversee the finances from the UAE due to its lack of an extradition treaty with the UK and Ireland.”

O’Duffy said, “They regularly visit Holland, Spain, South America and particularly Australia. David, more so, I guess, to work out the details of the business side.”

Bruce asked, “Who handles ‘the details’ now?”

“He has a range of people around him.”

Bainbridge interjected, “That is true. However, we have reason to believe an Andrew Branch, a former Etonian with degrees in business studies and cyber securities, looks after the lion’s share. Truthfully, Dion has Thomas Franklin’s ruthlessness and charm, but we believe he has to rely more heavily on his advisors than his uncle did, especially since his brother’s murder.”

“Particularly this Andrew Branch?” asked Bruce rhetorically.”

“Yes, we believe, but cannot yet identify or substantiate, that he has set up more than one crypto-currency service to launder the cash. Branch, though a regular traveller, seems to operate primarily out of Marbella. The FOC’s interests in Australia, it seems to us at least, appear to be purely in buying shares in a few of the more profitable mineral mining companies over there.”

“Seems like an ‘all eggs in one basket’ approach,” replied Bruce.

“Quite,” she replied. “Which is why he has around-the-clock security.”

The native Glaswegian nodded his acknowledgement and continued, “So, there’s a falling out between the families—the origins are unknown. What follows is the audacious attempt on Dion Franklin’s life at the opening of the organisation’s Spanish golf course complex. Only, Dion Franklin sent his brother in his stead, unbeknownst to anyone outside their circle. They got the wrong man.”

“Since David’s murder, gangland warfare has escalated to regular bomb attacks and shootouts in Ireland, the UK, and across Europe. Dion has now moved permanently to Dubai to avoid extradition. Now innocent civilians are being targeted by the FOC.”

“The twenty-two-year-old Lorna O’Neil, a married-in member of one of the O’Neils, is the latest victim of an acid attack. And now here we are.”

The two lawmen glanced at one another before nodding their acknowledgement of his assessment of the situation.

Bruce continued, “Seems like an own goal that the Franklins have begun targeting civilians. By my estimates, they have killed and maimed many more O’Neils than the opposite.”

Kathryn said, “The reports I’ve received over the past few months suggest the O’Neils would have been happy to call a truce. Not sure that would still stand in light of the Lorna O’Neil attack.”

Turner said, “The report I heard is the O’Neils suspected the Franklins of informing. It did seem like more O’Neils were sent down. I can’t remember the last time a Franklin saw the inside of a prison.”

“I sense you want to expand your point,” said Bruce, observing the surprise appearing on Turner’s face at his adroit deduction.

The PSNI officer replied, “Well, if it’s true, then the O’Neils, by the laws of the street, had good cause to go after Dion, and he’d know. A reaction to the accidental murder of your brother is to be expected, but he seems to have gone way overboard.”

O’Duffy sniffed. “Dion Franklin is in charge of a billion-euro drugs operation. He wasn’t right before his brother’s kellin’, but now his only calming influence has gone. He’s a fucking lunatic with the best assassins money can buy.”

“Still, the heat he’s bringing down must be making his partners nervous. They’ll have a tarring by association.”

“Franklin is very adept at using his money to look after people. Sharks don’t care about trawlers as long as there’s fish in the water,” said O’Duffy.

“We need a strategy going forward,” said Kathryn. “If I may suggest you two gentlemen liaise with me through video calls every week. In the meantime, I will consult with Chen Zhao at Interpol.”

Turner said, “I was under the impression his departure as president was anytime now?”

“It seems he’s had a change of heart at the last moment,” Kathryn answered, flicking a glance at Bruce.

The black operations chief said, “I will see what I can do from my end.”

Kathryn stood to indicate the meeting’s closure but said to Bruce, “I want to speak to you and Miss Robson on another matter.”

Turner and O’Duffy said their goodbyes to the trio while studiously ignoring one another and left.

Kathryn looked at Bruce. “I don’t know what magic you performed to get Zhao to rescind his resignation, but I thank you. He’s very good at his profession.”

Bruce, though he would never confirm anything with an acknowledgement, did not bother with denials where Kathryn was concerned. Instead, he said, “What does he have to say on this issue?”

She sat again, indicating that they do the same. “As you’re aware, Dion Franklin is already under indictment with the Spanish authorities for racketeering. However, his talented legal team has decelerated the already slow Spanish judicial process to a glacial crawl. Zhao tells me, since this war between the Franklins and the O’Neils began, it’s been almost impossible to monitor him continuously; such is the professionalism of his security team.”

Bruce nodded, “What about O’Neil?”

“Off the record, the Costa Del Sol murders had his customary intellect stamped all over it. Nothing concrete was left behind. No harming of ‘civilians’ —physically, at least. And despite there being a crowd of journalists, no pictures were taken. The perpetrators escaped, leaving the Spanish scratching their heads—apparently.”

“But the O’Neils are losing—and losing badly from what I gather?”

Bainbridge nodded. “Eddie O’Neil and the late Thomas Franklin had a cordial—if strained—relationship. When Thomas died, O’Neil attended his funeral and was welcomed. In fact, despite Eddie O’Neil’s public stance against drugs, several O’Neil boys worked for the Franklins.”

“Differing backgrounds,” said Bruce quietly.

“Yes. Despite the way Dion speaks, Thomas, not Tommy, was from an upper-middle-class background and started in white-collar fraud, whereas Eddie O’Neil’s first offences involved stealing cars for parts.

“In the local underworld, the fluidity and number of overlaps between the two families made everything difficult to keep track of. But with the battle lines now drawn, the players are more defined. The FOC group’s finances dwarf the O’Neils’. Not something that ever bothered Eddie O’Neil until the war began, and it meant his side had fewer resources than his enemy.

“Fatalities on both sides stand at nine to twenty-three in the FOC’s favour. The O’Neils’ tally includes the gunning down of one of the FOC soldiers at the golf course massacre, in addition to David.”

Bruce said, “From what I can gather, there were several Franklin soldiers on that day, all neutralised by non-fatal shots. The one killed was the quickest off the mark and able to raise a weapon.”

Bainbridge nodded. “I believe O’Neil’s sole target was Dion Franklin and Dion Franklin only; this was before Dion had the plastic surgery to his face. Back then, it was very difficult to tell the twins apart.”

The Scotsman said, “I don’t think he made the proper provisions should he have failed. If not for a quirk of fate, he wouldn’t have—David Franklin has never engaged in public speaking like that before.”

The police chief said, “But many more of the O’Neils and their associates were injured on the street and in various correctional facilities.”

“And all this would have been avoided if it had indeed been Dion Franklin killed that day and not David?” asked Bruce, almost rhetorically.

“Probably. David Franklin’s interest in the family business centred on the numbers. He was a quiet, quirky man who thought violence unsavoury. But Dion, already a wild character, does not have his uncle or brother’s calming influence. Worse, I reckon the guilt he feels and the rage of his huge ego augments his grief over his brother’s murder.”

Bruce said, “Reading between the lines, I think O’Duffy, Turner and the Spanish were hoping it would have burnt out by now.”

Ciara asked, “When you said O’Neil had a public stance against drugs, are you inferring it differs in private?”

Bainbridge looked at the younger woman. “Eddie O’Neil genuinely believes dealing drugs to the community to be immoral and less daring than his preference for armed robbery. But he’s a pragmatic man, and when they became part of the societal fabric, he taxed dealers in Belfast and Dublin regularly until they grew too powerful.”

“He’s no angel Miss Robson; he’s been behind his share of murders. And despite his ‘Man of the People’ image, his robberies have cost the taxpayer millions. He has an Open University degree in psychology and trained in the theatre throughout his teenage years—destined for big things before he became embroiled in ‘The Troubles’. But it left him a master of accents and the ability to disguise himself with his mannerisms—believe me, I’ve seen him do it, albeit on video surveillance.”

“And yet,” said Ciara, voicing Bruce’s opinion. “He’s the lesser of the two evils.”

The older woman shrugged noncommittally. “Well, he hasn’t resorted to targeting civilians; I don’t expect him to either. But I fear that is exactly what Dion Franklin will continue to do. Even if evidence falls into Interpol’s or the Spanish authorities’ lap today, there is no telling what damage an unhinged maniac with an unquenchable desire for revenge and billions of euros at his disposal is capable of.”

Bruce nodded his understanding of the situation.

Bainbridge looked at Bruce with a Mona Lisa smile and asked, “So…are the rumours true? Or can’t you say?”

The Glaswegian responded, “It’s under discussion, Kathryn. Not until the end of the year if it goes ahead.”

“Congratulations, Bruce! Although I never thought I’d see you fully immersed in the circus,” she beamed. “I take it this is the reason behind Miss Robson’s presence today?”

When he answered her with a faint smile, Kathryn Bainbridge said, “Well, I bid you both farewell,” and left them.

Despite Ciara’s face betraying nothing, he answered her inevitable confused curiosity with, “Miles Parker has offered me the position of Vice-Chief of SIS.”

“Congratulations,” she said enthusiastically.

“I turned it down, but Kathryn and the rumour mill don’t know that.”

It had not been the first time the Chief of SIS had offered him the position with the view of eventually succeeding him. Bruce had always refused due to the potential scrutiny of his background it would bring. Having almost complete autonomy of his black operations unit for two decades had meant much of his service record had been painstakingly fabricated and padded out.

“Then why have you brought me here? I mean, I thought it was going to be a gradual process?” she asked, referring to her fully succeeding him as chief of The Chameleon Project and as a liaison officer between the security services.

“We agreed on an alternative—chief of the renewed and updated Section D. Its remit is conducting covert political actions and paramilitary operations. Keeps me official but out of sight of prying eyes,” he said, looking at her. “I have delayed the post to have the time to expose you to as many of these meetings as possible.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as I deem necessary. You need to form the correct relationships with certain people. I can guide you as much as possible in the interim, but my involvement with ‘the project’ will be nil when I step into my new appointment. You will have complete control. In my observations and experience, for the successor to fully develop, the predecessor has to leave completely.”

“Is this another Alex Ferguson analogy?” she smiled.

“No. But some global companies have suffered from the former CEO sticking around on the board. I can always advise you when necessary, but the end goal is you become better than I ever was.” Watching her absorb this, he continued, “For now, we have more immediate concerns. Our best hope is the lassie was attacked with acid for more than having a tenuous link to Eddie O’Neil because if Dion Franklin, the head of a billion-euro criminal enterprise, has declared open season on civilians, and has judicial protection, then it falls to us to stop him.”

“And as quickly as possible,” she replied.

Geoffery Connolly, with the smell of moisturising hand cream masking the faint odour of Swarfega, drove towards Dublin city centre, the street lamps illuminating his face at intervals.

Back when he was an apprentice plumber, it had never occurred to him to use restorative hand cream after the Swarfega, failing to make the connection in its use with the gnarled, clawed hands of his then boss and the other ‘old and bold’. It wasn’t until his apprentices told him the colleges espoused it that he took heed.

He turned down the volume on the song ‘Only When I Sleep’ by the Corrs to tell his daughter in the passenger seat, “Dis was a band made up of three sisters and a brother from down in Dundalk. Now the sisters wrote this song about me, so they did. They used to beg me to go out with them, but I knew they’d get jealous, so I told them no, which was lucky for you because I met your mum and you were born. So say ‘Thank You Dad’ for not courting the Corr sisters.”

His six-month-old daughter, Deborah, merely gurgled her answer. Her smattering of ginger hair matched his.

Earlier in the evening, Geoffery had been called out suddenly to a job for customers he’d had for nearly twenty years. That they always paid over the odds was by the by; they were good people—although if he had told his wife, Cassandra, who they were, she would have raised hell about him going in the current climate.

Knowing the problem would be a swift fix, he’d cooled Cassie’s temper by offering to take Debbie and collect a ‘Catholic Steak’—a fish supper—on the way back.

The ‘green and white’ of the chippy shone ahead. He could have gone to one closer to home, but he’d been going to ‘O’Clerys’ since he was a lad, as had many a Dubliner in the hundred or so years it had been open.

He swung the year-old Toyota Corolla into the pub-like car park and slotted into a space directly in front of the shop.

Because he had called in his order ahead, he dispensed with the rigmarole of detaching Debbie’s carrying basket and jogged in.

“Hi, Maureen. Got my order?”

“Certainly do, Geoff,” smiled the portly, dark-haired woman. “None of your usual craic tonight?”

“No, not tonight. I have the wean in the car,” he said as she passed him the warm bag. “Besides, ’eard a terrible news report on the radio on the way over. That lovely actress was stabbed tonight.”

Maureen frowned, “Mother, Mary and Joseph. Which actress?”

“She’s…God, I was only just listening to it. She was in the films ‘Cruel Intentions’ and ‘Legally Blonde’…Reese…Reese Wither…,”

“Reese Witherspoon?!”

“Nah, Maureen, it was with a knife.”

She batted him on the upper arm with the back of her hand. “Away with ye, ye daft eejit.”

Geoff skipped out of the chippy, smiling. He opened the car door and leant over to place the bag in the passenger footwell.

Before sitting down, he held out his finger and felt a glow of parental warmth as Debbie gripped it.

The interior exploded with the sound of shattering glass and the puncturing of the bodywork as the invisible hammers impacted and tore through his body.

He used his knees to shunt himself over his daughter before a bullet punched death into his skull.

3

Connor Reed stood with warm contentment behind his cousins, Tom and Luke Ryder, on the live firing range of a local army cadet base. The sounds of 9x19mm Parabellum rounds bounced off the bricked enclosure, only to be muffled by the olive Peltor ear defences they wore. The faint but acrid smell of spent cartridges floated in the air.

Luke, the youngest and tallest of the trio, had once asked—only half-joking, Connor knew—for him to train him in close-quarter combat. Connor, the middle in height and age of the three, nonchalantly agreed, and it led them to running dry drills throughout his house. Though the dark-blond Connor had felt vaguely silly doing this, he recognised the potential future benefit and quickly lost the feeling.

This segued into several trips to various top-end paintballing facilities in places like North Yorkshire, Nottingham, and the Southeast. Connor initially thought the ardent practitioners to be a little Walter-Mitty—primarily on seeing their high-tech protective clothing—but the stinging thack of a paintball to his hamstring had made him respect their skill sets. However, he had been the star of the show on most occasions, to the point where he had been forced to check his ego and dial his performances back a little so as not to get too much of a name for himself—it didn’t bode well to be internet famous in either line of his professions.

Today, as with most range days together, Tom’s accuracy and groupings were a little better than Luke’s. But Tom had more experience firing pistols—in live situations, at least.

Two years older than Connor’s twenty-nine and heavier set, Tom stood a touch shorter than Connor’s medium height, with a rough but not unkempt beard matching his brown hair.

He wore an old Leeds Rhinos Rugby League sweater and jeans from an Irish fast-fashion retailer, highlighting his frugal attitude and a love of their city; this belied his multi-millionaire status as the shrewd head of the Ryder family’s criminal and legitimate enterprises.

Tom had managed to gain ‘after-hours’ access by extorting the Regimental Sergeant Major. Tom possessed screenshots of the married man’s text conversations—complete with compromising pictures—with a seventeen-year-old cadet and brought them to the father-of-two’s attention via a home visit. The eldest Ryder cousin told Connor the RSM’s blustering denials fell away like a sugar hill in the rain once given the ‘out’ of allowing the Ryders’ use of the range.

Despite the assurances that it would remain a secret, the agreement reached would be reneged on once Connor had gotten his cousins to an acceptable proficiency with pistol firing. At that point, the evidence would find its way into the hands of the military police. As one of the Ryder uncles had once said, “Nonces are exempt from our no-grassing code.”

Noticing Luke’s grouping becoming a little more spaced, Connor called out, “Don’t break your entire posture between shots. Just your arms.”

His younger cousin nodded, and the improvement in his next grouping became immediately apparent.

“Better,” said Connor. “But remember, perfection might be the enemy of good, but good enough is the enemy of greatness.”

Luke stood a little taller than Connor and a touch slenderer. His blond hair and blue eyes—both a brighter shade than Connor’s—had earned him the nickname ‘The Aryan’ from one of their uncles. The only flaw to his looks—though Connor reckoned it to be an enhancement—was a faint scar beneath the right eye, a souvenir from one of his numerous bare-knuckle boxing matches.

The dark denim jacket contrasted with the lighter jeans, with a silver bracelet glinting from beneath the sleeve like a playful woman from a duvet.

“Sorry, I had a row with Candice,” said Luke.

“She’s not even your bird, is she?” frowned Tom.

Connor smiled at the word ‘bird’ used to describe a young woman or a man’s girlfriend. It was now deemed more old-fashioned, even in the North-west of England, and even sexist by some. However, the Ryder cousins had spent more time with their dads and uncles than usual in other families, and Connor liked to think they used the word affectionately.

Luke answered, “No.”

“Does she know?”

The youngest Ryder shrugged, “I tell her we aren’t a couple but—and I already know what you’re gonna say—I left some of my clothes over there cos she offered to wash ’em. Fuckin’ wish I hadn’t now.”

Connor smiled. “Make your weapon safe and tell us how you got caught and what she did?”

Luke removed the magazine and drew back the slide, releasing the chambered round before firing off the action down range, reloading, holstering and picking up the ejected round.

“I was at this other girl’s house the other night watching ‘Trainspotting’ after Tom told me it was good. That Begbie is fucking great in it, especially when—”

Connor interrupted. “Concentrate on this story before going off to others.”

“Oh, yeh. So, I didn’t know this lass had taken a photo of me watching it on her phone. The next morning, she sent it to Candice on Facebook after I left. So, Candice was ranting down the phone, so I said, ‘Candice, please don’t rip up my clothes.’ I had about a grand’s worth of gear sent from Father Sons clothing. She eventually said—dead sweet—‘I promise you on my nanna’s grave, I won’t rip ’em up, but you aren’t coming into the house. They’ll be in a suitcase outside.’ Got around there, and they were in a suitcase, covered to the brim in jam, coffee, and sugar.”

Tom and Connor burst into laughter, slowly turning Luke’s grimace into a grin before he said, “Fucking bitch must have gone to Morrisons and emptied the shelves. So, I just left it there.”

When Connor and Tom’s mirth died down, Connor said, “Serves you right. I’ve told you this before. It doesn’t matter what you say. If you’re treating them like a girlfriend, then they are going to think they are. There are these things called laundrettes that don’t give a fuck who you watch telly with.”

“And,” announced Tom, “it serves you right for buying one thousand pounds worth of clothes. You’ll never wear half of it more than once—well, you’ll never wear any of it now.”

Connor smiled. “Take it you haven’t seen T2 yet, then?”

Luke said, “I have. Probably Arnold Schwarzenegger’s best film. James Cameron is one of my favourite directors.”

“No,” said Connor with exasperation. “I meant the sequel to Trains—”

“Wahheyyy,” laughed Luke, and Tom joined him.

‘Bastard switched fire on me,’ Connor thought as he grinned. “Don’t let your mood penetrate your brain when you’re shooting. They are just feelings, so let’s get cracking.”

The pair restarted a series of practices under his tutelage.

Connor, once a Royal Marine General Duties Corporal and, therefore, Skill at Arms trained, had drilled his cousins over recent weeks in much the same manner he had soldiers in the Corps. In addition, in his unofficial role as an agent with a black operations unit called The Chameleon Project, he had put down thousands of rounds with various weapon systems in training and live scenarios. His skill level had ascended to a level one world-renowned fire-arms instructor described as “…some of the best I’ve seen.”

When his cousins had not fired for several moments, Connor called out. “Has anyone not finished?” And when no answer came, he bellowed, “Detail on the point—unload! Show hands when clear.”

After the lads had holstered the Glocks, they walked down to the targets. After inspecting them, Connor murmured, “I guess the beast’s time as RSM of cadets is now nigh.”

Luke said, “Will the law class him as a beast, though, with her being seventeen?”

Connor’s younger cousin referred to the girl being a year over the UK age of consent.

“Course, it will. He’s broken his duty of care,” said Connor.

Tom asked, “Is that us done for the day?”

“Why?” asked Luke. “Is Cara using the whip on ya?”

That only elicited a wry smile from Tom, who walked over to the range shed and returned with a large, black, insulated, cool case. He opened it to reveal an array of bottled beers and wrapped sandwiches with labelling denoting the flavours and snacks.

“Cara made this up for us—we know I am the master of the castle. And I don’t have to worry about my clothes.”

Connor and Luke laughed; though true that Tom was the man of the house, Connor also knew he wouldn’t repeat the ‘master of the castle’ bit in front of his gorgeous mixed-race girlfriend.

“Shame on you. She’s got enough on her plate with a newborn, let alone making all this for us,” said Luke, picking out a bottle of Heineken and taking a swig before even looking for a sandwich. “And you don’t have to worry about your clothes because you kit yourself out for the year at Primarni for a hundred quid.”

Connor nodded to the Heineken already past Luke’s lips. “Aren’t you meant to be in training?”

“The lad bottled it. The promoter said he can only get me a journeyman, so this won’t make a difference,” answered Luke between mouthfuls. “I half expected it to be fair. He’s had more pull-outs than a Catholic gangbang.”

Connor just shook his head, curbing his tongue. Luke’s penchant for drinking and late nights had decreased tremendously since he and Tom had heaped more responsibility on him. Still, he had ‘it’ in him.

“There’s some bottled gin and tonic in there,” said Tom, in reference to Connor’s adherence to a healthy lifestyle.

Connor tutted as he rooted around the bottles. “I am not that bad. Now—am I going to be a hipster IPA-drinking wanker or a cat-piss drinking lager lout—hang about some Birra Moretti. She has good taste—in beer, at least.”

He fished out a bottle, and they clinked a “Cheers”.

“What’s with the picnic anyway, Tom? Isn’t that gadgie going to get nervous with us drinking on his range?” asked Luke.

Tom held up a set of keys. “It’s my range for today. I told him to fuck off. Besides, I just wanted a beer with my favourite blokes without being mithered by anything.”

“Favourite blokes? Misting up here, mate,” smiled Connor. “Fatherhood getting you down?”

“Nah, not really. He sleeps as good as gold. Surprised you haven’t thought about it yet.”

Connor felt vaguely guilty not telling his cousins of his fatherhood. Instead, he said, “I went around to see Michelle the other day when little Callum bounds up to me saying, “Uncle Connor, what do you call a deer with no eyes?”   Instead of pissing on his parade, I asked, “What, Callum?” He tapped his fingers together dastardly and got breathless, telling me, “Shut up, Deer”. Just a waste of oxygen, that kid.”

He kept his face straight as his cousins grinned.

Tom continued. “I can’t complain; I’m not short of a few bobs now, gorgeous missus, and have my family around me. It’s just as these businesses keep growing, it’s more headaches. I’d delegate more, but the more people you bring in, the more risk of grasses getting in—if there isn’t already.”

Luke said, “Tom, tell Connor about the driver.”

“We’ve had this unicorn for years and years,” said Tom with a sigh, referring to the moniker describing a careful and punctual driver of unsuspicious appearance—probably an old man—with a clean record. “Cos he’s dependable, we tend to use him every day—pay him around eight hundred quid a day. He’s got a wife and grown-up kids and takes ’em on holidays, but he’s never flashy with his money—same Volvo for years. Same house. Like I said, he’s a unicorn.”

“And so,” nudged Connor.

“And so, unbeknownst to me, he got himself a bird on the side. For years, he’s been snaffling the cash we pay him in. Anyway, the stupid fucker agrees to take a corny as fuck picture of her on the bed in her knickers covered in the cash, except he’s got his wrist in the shot—his wrist that has his wife’s name on it. And this girl—”

Connor finished the sentence while looking at Luke, “Sends the wife the picture.”

“Correct,” nodded Tom. “Fuckin’ hell-on about it. Wife going spare. Chucks him out—he’s got nowhere to go, so he goes to this bit on the side’s house; probably her plan all along. This really sends the wife through the roof, so she goes to the police about this cash—a woman scorned and all that. They can’t do fuck all about it yet without more evidence, but it’ll get filed, and you never know if some type of law enforcement is going to be tasked with watching him.”

Luke said, “Bill told him he can’t do any naughty drops for a bit, and so can’t pay him the rate. Said the bloke started getting arsey, so Bill walled him up by his throat.”

His cousin was referring to one of the old ‘n’ bold who helped Luke manage and co-ordinate the transportation—legal and illegal—domestically and in Europe.

“He must have been out of order for Bill to do that to him,” said Connor.

“Oh, he was, mate,” said Luke. “Lynn said she wanted to slap ’im her’sen.”

“I know I haven’t been down there often, but do I know him?” asked Connor.

“Am not sure, but I tell ya what he looks like. Remember that scene in ‘Men In Black’ when Tommy Lee Jones shoots that shopkeeper’s head off, but it starts growing back?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you pause it when the head is halfway grown back, that’s what he looks like.”

In an instant, the image triggered the memory of the small-headed, bug-eyed, big-eared middle-aged man he had once seen there. His cousins joined in his uproarious, beer-spraying laughter, and it took a while for them to settle.

Finally, Connor asked, “What you thinking then, Tom? Downsizing?”

He watched the family patriarch—though Tom always disputed the title, naming Connor as the clan leader—blow out his cheeks. “You know something…I’ve been thinking of going straight.”

A few moments of loud silence passed before Connor quietly said, “I’ll tell you one person who’ll try to talk you out of it—Gran.”

Luke exclaimed, “I remember you saying that earlier. That true?”

Connor nodded. “She says my dad trying to get the family out led him to take his eye off the ball. Insinuating he’d have seen his murder coming. And she reckons our family does much more for the community than we could otherwise.”

“So she’s like Michael Corleone’s sister in ‘Godfather Three’?” asked Luke.

“You finally get around to watching them then?” asked Tom.

“Yeh. Great films. Prefer ‘Scarface’ though. Anyway, I am sure Gran’s mate, Rene, would agree,” said Luke, referring to how the Ryder family had helped her friend after she had been ripped off by gangsters from another city posing as builders.

Tom took a slug of his beer. “I am not saying the whole family should go straight; I am saying I might. I won’t be bored now that these Japanese car imports are coming in. I can hand over the hotel and one of the lap dancing bars for the family to clean money through. I’ll be happy in the garage and forecourt. Look at Harry Ellis; he’s legit now—almost fully— and living the high life.”

Tom referred to the former Liverpool Godfather who, at one time, sat at the top of the loose collection of mostly white Merseyside criminals. The Ryders had formed an uneasy alliance with him.

“Fucking hell, Tom, you’ve given this some thought,” said Connor. “I can’t run things, mate. I have…outside commitments.”

“I know,” said Tom before looking intently at Luke, who responded to the stare with;

“What? I can’t run all this. I’m not even twenty-seven. It’s you who has the contacts, the know-how, the—”

“Nothing is for definite yet,” interrupted Tom. “But I wouldn’t leave you with it all at once. There would be a…I dunno, a year or so where you’re shadowing me even more than you have been doing before I hand you the keys. Besides, you’ve been handling things with the trucking depots well. The escort agency is doing well. People respect you—fuck knows why. But, like I said, I am just mulling it over.”

Connor felt uneasy. The Ryder family controlled most of the Caucasian crime factions in West Yorkshire and much beyond. Moreover, they had an array of international contacts and two foreign suppliers—specifically, Leonid Honchar of the Odessa Mafia, and Connor’s ‘father in crime’, Dutchman Raymond Van Der Saar, probably the most influential manufacturer of MDMA and ecstasy in ‘the flat place’ and Europe as a whole, as well as being an importer of quality cocaine and weed.

If Tom’s heart was beginning to leave it, then their gran’s fears of history repeating itself could be valid.

Connor said, “You know, Herodotus was this writer back in ancient Greece, and he wrote how this Council of Elders in the near-east would act on decisions made sober without confirming them when they were shit-faced—I mean, inebriated.”

Luke said, “Eh? Surely it’s the other way around.”

“Listen,” said Connor. “Van Der Saar has a birthday party next weekend that he’s invited us to. He’ll have all his security there so we can relax. And they’ll be the best drugs in Europe. The women will be out of this world. And if you want to be a monk about it all, then you know he’s one of the best storytellers we know. You can tell Cara it’s a business trip.”

Connor thought Tom might baulk at the idea, but he answered, “Yeah, fuck it,” before turning to Luke. “So let’s behave at the party tonight.”

“I’ll behave,” said Luke. “But I’m just glad everything’s peaceful again. Back when we were having that aggro with Liverpool, getting together meant a bigger target for some to aim for.”

The astuteness of the statement struck Connor.

There were not many men Harry Ellis still held in reverence as he did the man in front of him.

Though Ellis’s once-feared fighting prowess had diminished somewhat through lack of use, he remained powerfully built. His black hair, dense on the sides, had shimmied down to a bird’s nest on top. The beard, trimmed on the cheeks, added contours to his face; four stones lighter than in his powerlifting heydays when his deceased father called him ‘Bluto’, half in jest, half in pride.

Now, at first and second glance, he resembled the successful white-collar businessman he was. This was by design; the intimidating aura had suited him when navigating and bludgeoning through the Liverpool and Ibiza underworlds but could prove a hindrance on the golf courses and country clubs in the stratosphere of the elite white-collar.

They sat in the kitchen of his Cheshire farmhouse. The timber joists remained bare but immaculately polished, encasing the whites and peach of the walls, cupboards and fixtures. The dark turquoise-swirled stone table formed the centrepiece, separating the pair of tea-sipping, high-chair-sitting men.

The dark eyes of Eddie O’Neil hinted at sincerity when he said to Ellis, “I am in your debt for this, Harry. I really am.”

“Don’t be silly! It’s the—”

“Houl yer whisht,” interrupted O’Neil, telling him to quiet. “We both know the risk you’re taking now that the animal has started to attack civilians. There’s nothing I’ve done in the past that compares.”

“You saved my life and put a lot of business my way over the years, Eddie. I’m not turning my back on you now.”

The first time they met was a little over thirty years ago. Back then, O’Neil’s black hair matched his eyebrows and Mexican bandit moustache. By the early noughties, the hair turned slowly grey and receded an inch. Now it had turned white, as had the ‘tache, but the eyebrows remained black.

Their first meeting had been in Belfast. Despite O’Neil’s heritage on both sides of the border, he identified as Northern Irish. Ellis had been kidnapped under the legendary former Provisional IRA cell commander’s orders and brought to him. The Liverpudlian had been visiting family members and had taken the opportunity to scout for distributors for his line of high-grade ecstasy tablets.

Ordered into the back of a van at gunpoint, Ellis had been certain he would be asked to ‘Draw yer draws’—the phrase uttered before IRA punishment shootings through the back of the kneecaps.

Instead, surrounded by armed men in a woodland alcove, O’Neil explained to him why dealing drugs was prohibited and the repercussions.

The only violence that had happened had been when, on being asked where else in Northern Ireland he had been planning on going, he had said ‘Londonderry’.

Ellis could still feel the much lighter man’s eye-wateringly sharp backhanded slap and remembered the equally cutting rebuke of, ‘Catch yourself on you fuckin’ buck eejit. The Catholic in yer should know it’s ‘Derry’.’

Now, here in the kitchen, O’Neil said, “The cause benefitted out of that too—at least, I thought it did. How is your uncle?”

It had only been because of his Uncle Aidan that Ellis had not received a knee-capping that day. It had also been Aidan who had reintroduced the two men post Good Friday Agreement. O’Neil, disgruntled with the direction the Sinn Féin leadership had gone, would forever refer to the GFA as ‘Got Fuck All’.

He eventually decided to cease funding them and looked elsewhere for laundering options, which Ellis had duly assisted him with—for discounted fees.

That had been the birth of O’Neil as a pure gangster, and his armed robberies had made him somewhat of a folk hero amongst certain communities of Northern and the Republic of Ireland.

And a notorious one amongst its law enforcement.

“He’s the same as he’s always been. He still helps out the local football team on a Saturday. Still plays cards on a Sunday. Still insists George Best is the best footballer who ever lived,” smiled Ellis before a shadow of seriousness appeared on his face. “What are you going to do, Eddie? How has it got this far?”

O’Neil sipped his tea and rubbed his chin. “You know, Tommy Franklin and I were never the best of friends—too sugary—but you could count on his greed. A pure businessman. But Dion Franklin has always been a sly, insecure little bastard of a lad. No warmth about him. Always walking around with a hard-nosed puss on to intimidate everyone. Remember when he was still a boyo, and he glassed one of the old ’uns driving a jo maxi for asking for the fare? His brother David was a grand lad, so he was. And believe me, not a day goes by when I don’t regret it was him that day. All this could have been avoided, but I didn’t think Dion would go for civilians the way he has.”

Ellis decided to take a risk. “What kicked it all off? I mean, I thought the two families used to work together?”

“Aye, they have. But if I told you the reason, I’d sound like a crackpot conspiracy theorist. When I have proof, then I’ll tell ya. But put it this way; I wasn’t the one who started it, and Mother Mary knows where those colluding with the authorities go.”

Ellis nodded in acknowledgement. “What are you going to do now, Eddie? What cards do you have left to play?”

“You ever notice he’s not asked for my head? Not said, if I gave myself up, he’ll stop this war? It just seems he wants to kill, maim, and destroy. And now it’s women and kiddies. I don’t have the cards to play just now. I’ve had to fold a few times and am waiting to see what the next hand is.”

Ellis scrubbed his stubble. “And in this life, you don’t know who’s going to deal you them.”

4

Ciara looked across at her boss as he engaged in playful, but not quite flirtatious, banter with the golden-haired waitress.

They sat in a humming and clinking London pub on plump, shiny red leather chairs. The tawny lights bounced off the dark polished timber of the bar and the lighter shades of the tables.

The girl, seemingly a handful of years younger than her twenty-nine, and thus, around three decades shy of his age, was either a superb actress or genuinely appreciated his attention.

And for Ciara, this was another mark of his discipline, as she had never seen him be anything other than business-like with her or other women in his professional sphere.

As the girl floated away, Ciara asked, “Any ideas with regard to what was discussed?”

“What would yours be?”

She glanced at the white vases on the mantlepiece holding sweet-scented violets. “A workup of potential victims either side might go for.”

“Maybe. Difficult to know who could be next. The FOC targets bounce from immediate family members to those with tenuous links. But I think Lorna O’Neil knows who did this to her.”

“What makes you say that? She was attacked on her driveway.”

“It was halfway up it. And in the morning, which would indicate she was heading out and facing down the driveway and towards the attacker. She managed to turn her face at the last moment. The attacker would have needed to leap over the gate and for her to be so stunned that she didn’t make a run for it. I am more inclined to believe she knew her attacker.”

“But she’s not talking.”

“Well, she’s not talking to the police.”

She set her coffee down. “You want me to bug her hospital bed.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How did you guess that? And why would I have asked you to carry out the task?”

“Well, she might tell family members. And I might be able to mimic an agency nurse better than anyone else we have on the books.”

When he nodded in a rare show of approval, she asked, “Should we not reach out to our friend in Yorkshire to see if he could provide an insight?”

He shook his head. “Connor has completed more high-end operations for us in these last few years than anyone else. You shouldn’t burn out your best players by always using them.”

“Yeh, you’re right,” she said. “Let him relax with his family.”

Luke stood with his elder brother, Dan, at the bar. They surveyed the tide of party guests through the main door.

The Buxton Arms had been bought outright by the Ryder family’s money and run by Dan and Luke’s dad, Lee. Retired from any form of crime, he was now serving customers at the far end, despite the staff on hand to do so.

Since the Ryder family had purchased the establishment, it had become the venue of all the ‘family-friendly’ celebrations. This occasion was Katie’s—the family’s youngest girl—twenty-fourth birthday.

Recently extended, the once small bar now curved around several metres, with jade leather-backed stools guarding it.

The neon blue and white signage, ‘The Buxton’, lit the shelf containing spirit bottles from above. A wood-polished dance floor—just shy of nightclub size— surrounded by black circular tables and seats lay to its left.

“Looks fuckin’ banging in ’ere now,” said Luke quietly.

He peered over to the right of the bar—a labyrinth of pillars, alcoves, and games tables watched over by old paintings, pictures of iconic sports moments with a focus on Leeds United, Leeds Rhinos, boxers and mixed martial artists of all backgrounds, along with satirical pictures of dogs playing pool and nineteen-fifties sex symbols.

“Yes, it does,” agreed Dan. “Who would have thought our dad would have an eye for running a bar.”

Though of similar height, with Dan only a touch taller, they did not look like brothers. With his piercing blue eyes and bright blond hair, the only family member Luke resembled was his shorter, stockier, less blue-eyed and blond cousin, Connor.

And the brothers’ personalities stood in antithesis to one another—Dan was highly academic, cautious, pragmatic, and, until recently, resistant to becoming involved in the family’s criminal activities. Though Luke’s recklessness had been tempered through the guidance of his cousins, Connor and Tom, he knew he could still be guilty of thoughtlessness—a self-poison in this business.

Outside the possible exception of Connor, Luke possessed the most natural athletic ability in the family.

He had channelled this into the pursuit of gloved and, in recent years, bare-knuckled boxing; the latter saw him hailed as one of the United Kingdom’s rising stars before his responsibilities in the family’s business had slowed his progress.

He and Dan loved one another fiercely, despite Luke knowing if they were not brothers, they probably would not be friends. His sibling used the words ‘our dad’ despite doubts Lee was not his biological father. As a boy, Luke once overhead a rare but vicious argument between his parents, where his dad brought up the question of his parentage to his mum, Stephanie. The lack of outrage in her feeble denial convinced him he had been the product of an affair.

Connor became his hero, and he followed him to the Reaper Boxing Club, where he eventually succeeded his older cousin in becoming the club’s star.

Later, as a young man, after psyching himself up more than before any boxing match—and after a strong drink in the same pub in which he now stood—he confessed to Connor and Tom his suspicions of Lee not being his father.

This elicited a strangely heart-warming laugh from both.

Connor told him, “Listen here, Prince Harry. No one in this family gives a fuck who your biological father is.”

Tom had backed him with, “You’re a Ryder! End of story! So don’t ever mention that again! To anyone!”

Connor had chimed back in with, “And not for nothing. Be grateful if it is true that it was some blue-eyed, blond-haired Adonis who Stephanie let cum inside her, and not the corner shop owner, letting her off with the last couple of quid on a packet of fags.”

“Eh? My mum doesn’t even smoke.”

Connor had answered wide-eyed, “Exactly.” They laughed, and the topic was never spoken of again.

Now, the sounds of individual conversations blurred into a hum as the party grew.

Most of the room’s eyes turned as Connor and Tom walked in. Both wore collared shirts, as did Luke and Dan, which their late grandad, Frank, would have insisted on. Connor’s was light denim with the sleeves rolled to reveal a leather-strapped wristwatch and furrowed forearms.

Tom also looked smart in his dark navy button-up. Luke smiled, knowing that, though his eldest cousin had access to more money than any other man in the room, had it not been for Cara buying his clothes, he would still be buying his garments from discount stores and even charity shops. As much as Luke and some of the rest of the family would tease him regarding his frugality, Luke secretly admired it—the freedom from the need for status symbols.

He looked out the window at the beer garden where overhead fire lamps would warm in the winter or night-time. On the far side stood the apparatus for a projector screen to be rolled down for sporting occasions, and the small play park lay off to the right, enabling parents to watch it while keeping an eye on their children. He caught sight of the six-year-old Callum—the son of Tom’s sister, Michelle—pressing his face against the window before disappearing.

His two elder cousins fought through the greetings of various patrons to reach Dan and Luke.

Dan said without malice, “You’d have thought there was a red carpet from the door to here.”

They smiled before Connor called over the brothers’ shoulders. “A gin and tonic and a pint of that Bavarian beer Tom has, please, love.”

“Coming right up,” came the barmaid’s lilting reply.

Before any conversation commenced, Callum came bounding up.

“Connor! Connor! Watch this!” he demanded theatrically of his second cousin.

The foursome stood back to observe the clumsy jump with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation. He stared at Connor like a dog waiting for a stick to be thrown.

“Callum, that’s ten seconds of my life that I am never getting back now,” said Connor sharply before reaching into his pocket and producing a pound coin. “Go put that on the pool table, and I’ll teach you how to play.”

The kid’s face transformed from a mask of disappointment at the rebuke to one of glee before running off to save their spot.

Dan exclaimed, “That was harsh, wasn’t it?!”

Connor shook his head. “You need to think strategically. If I encourage that, he’ll waste my time whenever he sees me with that ‘jump and spin’ shit. I am teaching him to work harder. Inspire him to greatness.”

“It’s true,” said Tom. “Went to watch him play football last weekend. Kid can strike, but he’s got the first touch of a neutron bomb.”

Luke frowned and smiled—concurrently—as Connor called out, “Thanks, love,” before reaching through Dan and Luke for the drinks.

“You seen ‘Dune’ yet?” asked Luke. “Dan ’n’ I saw it the other night.”

“I haven’t the time lately,” said Tom before addressing Connor. “You?”

“Yeah. Thought it was fuckin’ ace. For once, I hadn’t read the book beforehand, but apparently, it’s stuck to it as well as it could.”

“Maybe if you do retire, you’ll get to watch all the films you want,” said Dan to Tom.

Luke tensed, unsure of whether he should have mentioned it to his brother. However, Tom simply said, “Might be a plan. Like I said, I haven’t decided.”

Dan said, “I know I have just come on board with the family business, and I don’t mean to be sensational, but reading about this Franklin-O’Neil war has turned my stomach. Girls getting acid chucked in their faces; civilians and their babies getting shot.”

In the pause it took for someone else to speak, the sounds of the party seemed to empathise with his words.

“What do you mean ‘babies getting shot’?” asked Luke.

Connor answered him. “A plumber from Dublin named Geoffery Connolly did work for Patrick O’Neil’s in-laws for years. The Franklins put a blanket warning on tradesmen in Northern and the Republic of Ireland doing work for anyone connected to the O’Neils. Three days ago, Connolly was shot dead in his car after picking up a fish supper. His eight-month only daughter was in the carrycot in the passenger seat and was hit in the legs. Survived, but she’ll be walking with a limp, if she ever manages it.”

“Fucksake, man!” exclaimed Luke. “I know his brother was murdered, but hasn’t Dion Franklin made his point already?”

Tom shrugged. “Everything will collapse on him eventually—he’s always loved the limelight. But it’s how much damage he’s going to do. How many innocent people he’s going to kill.”

“Have you seen that Dion’s face after havin’ all that Botox done?” asked Luke, removing his phone and bringing up an image from an online tabloid. “Looks like a fuckin’ character from a PS1 game.”

The Ryders laughed in unison.

A cheer went up. The group’s eyes turned to the entrance to see Katie entering with her mum, Joanne, with Gran Paulette, her friend of a similar age, Rene, and her brother Charlie.

A shoal of people gathered around the willowy Katie, whose dark hair swept down her left shoulder in a swirl. Their gran, Paulette—nicknamed ‘Thatcher’ by the male cousins due to her seemingly icy demeanour, though never to her face—looked on archly. Katie’s mum, Joanne, an older version of Katie with her similarly coloured hair tinted a lighter chestnut curving to her shoulders, beamed at the attention her daughter received.

Charlie looked up at his cousins, seemingly in relief.

Dan asked. “Where’s Curtis?”

“Don’t know,” answered Tom. “I called him and told him there wouldn’t be an atmosphere if he came over.”

Charlie said something to Paulette, who nodded and made his way over.

Curtis, the twin brother of Charlie, had betrayed the family and had been exiled to the port city of Hull, less than an hour and a half drive from Leeds.

“Fuckin’ shithouse couldn’t even front it out for the sake of his sister’s birthday party,” sneered Luke before Charlie reached them.

When he did, his first words were, “Fuck me, why did I get stuck being an oestrogen Uber?”

They gave him a collective snicker, and Connor said, “That bad, eh?”

“Nah, I’m just fishing for attention. And to answer your question, Curtis is doing an errand for gran,” said Charlie, raising his hand to the barmaid who knew his usual. “Tell you what though, Connor, Katie asked more than once if you were going to be here. You sure there isn’t anything going on between you and my sister?”

Luke felt a warmth of anticipation as Charlie opened this channel of banter with Connor. They were amongst the driest—and darkest—wits he knew.

“It’s none of your business, Charlie. It’s not illegal,” replied Connor with such nonchalance that, for a microsecond, Luke wondered if it could be true.

“Not illegal, but don’t be leaving my sister in the lurch after she’s given birth to a ‘Hey you Guyyysss’ kid,” replied Charlie.

“Risks of birth defects in the children of first cousins rise from three to a mere six percent, Charlie. I’ve done my research,” answered Connor.

Charlie reached over him for his beer. “I know, but it’ll still be your kid.”

The group chortled at this, only to laugh harder—and groan when Connor answered, “Don’t worry, Charlie. I almost always pull out.”

As if on comedic cue, Katie reached them and exclaimed, “Hi guys. Connor, I thought you were away.”

She flung her arms around him. Ordinarily, he would remain cool in the face of her attention. Instead, he picked her up, spun her so he faced the group and smiled with exaggerated devilishness at Charlie.

He put her down. “You enjoy your party, Katie. You deserve it.”

She floated away to join her friends.

Tom shook his head with a smirk playing on his mouth. “You’re fucking wrong, you are.”

“He started it.”

In that moment, Luke thought about how much he loved his family. And the thought gave him a flicker of anxiety.

Dion Franklin paced around the white marble of his Puertos Banus villa. The palatial room remained sparse of ornaments and furniture due to Franklin suddenly bringing the moving-in date forward a week. The estate was, and continued to be, under renovation, including an elaborate tunnel system in case the Spanish police ever came mob-handed.

He’d told himself he’d snuck back to Marbella as he had some business meetings to attend. Though this reason was genuine, he could have had a proxy attend. In truth, he liked the freedom of being able to go anywhere, despite being top of Interpol’s and the O’Neils’ hit list. That was the power of money; it could buy safe passage on a private jet under an assumed name, security, and the local police.

His raven-haired, Colombian fitness model of a girlfriend, Lina Van, sat regally in the eight-thousand euro massage chair that had been hastily assembled under Franklin’s orders.

In one of the much more expensive oak and bull hide chairs sat one of the FOC group’s coordinators, Andrew Branch. In addition, the thirty-five-year-old upper-class Englishman handled the counter-propaganda on the internet against the Franklins.

Dion had a suspicion the pressure was getting to the former public schoolboy; he hadn’t seemed his upbeat self and looked to be losing weight.

Still, the crime lord seethed. “Dat cunt was warned. Everyone was warned. Why dat cunt would think he was the exception is beyond me.”

“I understand, Dion,” replied the suited Andrew Branch in grimly clipped tones, looking through his designer glasses. His wide smile, full of whitened polished teeth, had not yet appeared. “But an infant has been struck in the legs. We can’t put our name to this now. We have associates in legitimate organisations. Some of our Australian partners are already concerned about the potential fallout should our financial stakes over there be leaked to the press.”

Dion turned on him in a part screech, part rant, “You tell them dat if they try to pull out now, then our deal will become fookin’ public knowledge, cos I’ll make you blast it all over the internet and tabloids.”

“I have already made them aware of that fact,” said the blond-highlighted Branch softly. “I just wanted to settle their nerves.”

“It’s spilt milk now. Every fooker and his dog knows it’s us.”

“I’ll concoct a story—maybe he’s had a falling out with the O’Neils. Maybe the old chap refused to carry out works, and they retaliated.”

Dion felt the Botox tightness prevent his frown. “No one is going to swallow dat.”

“All you must do is create a seed of doubt to take the pressure off. Because no answer is taken as confirmation, and if that happens, you will be hunted harder by the authorities and—”

“Let them,” interrupted the square-jawed Lina in her South American accented English. “You are looking in the wrong direction, Señor Branch.”

“What do you suggest?” asked Branch in a way Dion could tell was hiding his irritation, not only out of respect for him, but fear of her. Not only was she ruthless, but she also stood broader and a touch taller than Branch, who though did not openly flaunt his homosexuality, still carried himself with ‘a touch of lavender’ as his brother used to say.

Lina’s dark eyes fixed on him. “Much is needed to run an empire like Dion’s. But one of the things I have learnt is that in this business of sharks, having the biggest teeth is your best protection. Tell them shooting the baby’s legs was a mistake.”

An expression of pleasant surprise appeared on Andrew Branch’s face. Her next words ripped this away.

“Tell them it was meant to be killed.”

A cool descended in the room. “Forgive me, Miss Van, but you cannot seriously consider that a course of action. Do we want the moniker ‘The Baby Killer Mob’ or whatever ridiculous headline the tabloids will print? Allies of ours will leave us if—”

“Then we will know they are not allies,” she snapped. “Your short-sightedness is a window to your short-sighted brain. Yes, we will have to sail in a storm. But when we arrive on shore, we will know who our friends are, and our enemies will know the consequences of crossing us.”

Dion watched Branch’s mouth open and close. Finally, he turned to look at Dion. “I still do not understand, Dion. Mister Edward O’Neil has already said he is willing to give himself up. Why can we not kill him and have done with it?”

Dion had been tempted. The Dubliner couldn’t understand why he had been unable to get out of bed the morning David died—he had taken a few more lines when he had woken up, but by the time his brother came in to rouse him, the crime boss still felt like he was in some kind of mental and physical quicksand. Not turning up to the resort’s opening was not an option, and he remembered how grateful he had been when David stepped in. Lina had told him David’s spirit would not find peace until the blade of vengeance had fully sunk in.

“Because,” answered Dion, “he says he’ll only give himself up with neutral parties there to see fair play. Fair play for what? Why would he do that? Because he’ll be planning a hit, dat’s why.”

“But you do not have to be there, Dion. You can—”

“Of course, I have to be. He killed my brother.”

“I…I understand. But—”

Lina cut straight across him. “We will not make Edward O’Neil a martyr. He needs to atone in this life for his deeds.”

Dion suspected his late uncle would probably have dismissed Lina as an Aztec witch, and that made him smile. After the death of his uncle and then his brother, Dion had seen a church open for service when driving through the outskirts of Puerto Banus. There he met Lina, who had attended despite being a devout Catholic, as her regular church had been closed for sudden repairs. She had said, “I will talk with God any way I can.”

Initially, it had been solely her appearance that attracted him. Tall, almost goth-like black hair, her olive skin remained a flawlessly uniform tone over the entirety of her body—she would later confirm his suspicions when sunbathing in the nude.

The more he got to know her, the more enraptured he became. He learnt she had escaped Colombia after the massacre of her family in a drugs war. Her father had been an attorney caught in the crossfire of two rival narco-paramilitary groups, and Lina had been forced to flee to Spain.

And when everyone else in his organisation counselled caution, Lina encouraged him to be the lion he wanted to be. And it had been this decisiveness that was winning him the war.

Lina had been the one to broker a partnership with a group of Colombian heavy hitters that would make the FOC one of the most powerful criminal organisations the world had seen.

Andrew Branch asked, “Dion, would you consider returning to Dubai? You are less exposed there?”

“I ain’t going to be forced by anyone to hide. I like travelling, and I like coming back here.”

Andrew nodded resignedly and asked quietly, “So when does this end? What will be considered victory?”

Dion glared at Branch. “Firstly, you tell everyone dat if people want to use their kids as human shields, then dat’s on them. We won’t stop for any reason. And to answer your question, we won’t stop until we’ve wiped out the entire O’Neil bloodline. Family is what matters—and hurts—the most.”

5

Connor leaned against the bar as the barmaid glided over to him, her curly blonde hair bouncing off her shoulders. She wore a charcoal shirt that had a black bow tie at the collar.

He asked, “What’s your name?”

“Eva,” she answered, her blue eyes highlighted by black-framed glasses.

“Can I have another tonic water and lime, please, Eva?”

She smiled, “Of course. And if anyone asks, there’s a double gin in it.”

“You know the crack. My cousins give me enough stick about drinking gin and tonic as it is.”

Though a little too slim and young-looking to the women who usually appealed to him, he admired her quirky look.

“Awww. You can tell they think the world of you.”

“How do you know?”

“I am a barmaid stroke forensic science student—I have eyes and ears,” she said, handing him his drink while leaning further forward than Connor thought necessary.

“I’ll bear that in mind. I know this is the question students always get asked, but which year are you in?”

“Midway through my second,” she answered, and then as if reading his mind. “And yes, the irony of working behind a bar is I frequently get asked for my ID. Excuse me.”

He watched her serve a couple of older gentlemen at the far end of the bar and internally debated the merits of taking her to bed if she was indeed interested in him— Pros: Bet she’s a top shag. Cons: She works here. Either she doesn’t get attached, and that’ll be a blow to your ego, or she does, and that’ll make things awkward every time you come in here. No, leave it at flirting—good for your ego. Plus, she looks around eighteen. James Bond never fucked Moneypenny, and you don’t have to fuck your uncle’s employee.

She migrated to him again, and he felt a pull in his groin when she asked, “So, where’s your date?”

“I haven’t a girl with the requisite two qualities needed.”

“Brains and beauty, or something equally cliché?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

He shook his head. “Kinkiness and low self-esteem.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’d show you enema release videos, but I am afraid my inferiority complex isn’t as good as yours.”

Connor let a smile break out on his face—Fuck me, she’s a keeper.

His comeback was interrupted by his peripheral vision catching a flash of a redhead at the main entrance.

“I won’t risk embarrassing myself trying to think of a better comeback.”

“Best not,” she said before serving another customer.

He turned to see the mother of his child, who remained a secret to everyone except his Gran Paulette.

Grace arrived wearing a green corduroy all-in-one pantsuit. The belt emphasised what Connor thought of as a ‘stretched hourglass’ figure. Her red hair flicked past her shoulders in a way he could only describe as stylishly dishevelled, framing a face of emerald eyes, bow lips and hints of make-up.

She seemed to capture the whole room’s attention—despite him seeing her effort not to—apart from her gran, Rene, whom Connor presumed Grace was here to pick up.

She waved and eventually caught Rene’s attention, only to see his Gran Paulette vigorously beckon her over. He watched Grace walk over, say something and for his gran and Rene to gesticulate.

Grace walked back out, and Connor correctly guessed why before she reappeared with his son, Jackson, the one-year-old toddler, entering with only a hint of unsteadiness.

He considered his options—either bounce over and enact the fiction of not knowing her by introducing himself and fawning over Jackson, like it seemed almost every female in the place was now doing. Or act oblivious all night and inevitably have to engage in a future argument with his gran, which would probably result in an exhausting stalemate and Grace’s veiled disappointment the next time he encountered her.

He already knew what he would do. Despite his sincere belief that public acknowledgement of his son would put Jackson and Grace in potential danger, his heart had ached on leaving her last time, as he believed it might be the last time he’d see her.

Maybe there was a compromise.

Eva returned and whistled. “She’s rather fetching.”

“Yes, she is. More my age and doesn’t work for my uncle,” he replied with a wry smile.

“Well, I don’t think my being twenty-one and you not yet being nearly thirty makes you Prince Andrew,” she replied, eliciting another involuntary smile from him. “And what if that baby’s dad is still on the scene and a psychopath?”

“He might be a psychopath. Or he might be a nice man with a different set of values to everyone else,” said Connor, adding before she could reply, “How do you know how old I am?”

She cocked her head to one side. “You think your big three-O hasn’t been discussed in my presence? I can’t say more.”

She sauntered away to serve.

Connor made up his mind and walked over to the table seating his gran, Rene, and Grace.

Rene beamed, “Hi Connor, this is my granddaughter, Grace, and her son, Jackson.”

He raised his eyebrows with a nod. “I know, Rene. You explained when I saw the pictures in your house. Dementia isn’t setting in, is it?”

Rene gave him a mock scowl as Connor reached his hand out to Grace. “Are you staying long?”

Grace clasped his hand and smiled. “I wouldn’t be much of a mum if I were to drink and drive. And my gran seems intent on staying.”

Without releasing her hand, he handed her his drink. “Taste that.”

She did so. “Secret soft drink drinker.”

“You stay and enjoy yourself. I’ll give you all a lift back.”

He caught his gran’s hint of a smile, mostly due to the rarity of it. Grace let go of his hand. “That’s very kind of you. Why don’t you fetch a hard-working mum a Jameson, ginger and lime.”

He met Jackson’s inquisitive eyes and reached his hand out. His son grasped it, only for Connor to feign the convulsions of being electrocuted. The mock outrage on Connor’s face turned the child’s shocked expression into laughter. He reached out to ‘electrocute’ him again.

“What do you want to drink, Jackson?” asked Connor, mimicking a sipping motion. He hadn’t expected the one-year-old to answer and had been planning on teasing Grace regarding the child’s lack of verbosity. So, it took him back when came forth the confident answer, “O-orange.”

Grace’s eyes dared Connor before saying, “That’ll be diluted orange if you please.”

The door opened, blowing cold inside.

Curtis, the cousin who had betrayed them, walked in.

Eddie O’Neil walked the quiet eleven p.m. corridors of the Manchester specialist burns unit straight-backed to give off the air of confidence he did not feel.

He wore the uniform of a police officer—he had briefly considered disguising himself as one of the hospital staff but thought it too risky, even in light of agency personnel and ward rotations.

The O’Neil family patriarch had met Lorna, the wife of his nephew, Patrick—on his wife’s side—only a handful of times but immediately liked her. Shy at first, she had a lovely, raucous laugh when escaping her shell.

And Eddie felt a snake of guilt bite the inside of his stomach—his presence here put her in further danger. But Ellis, through his contacts in the police, had told him that in the comments of the initial report, the investigator believed she knew the identity of her attacker but would not disclose it.

Eddie would have asked his nephew but did not trust the NCA or MI5 not to have bugged his phone. Unlikely, maybe, but he hadn’t stayed out of the peeler’s bracelet this long by not doing everything he could to reduce the risks.

He also knew the police had removed their protective detail at the hospital the day before, as their risk assessment indicated it wasn’t warranted.

And he understood hospital guidelines did not permit interviewing patients undergoing medical treatment.

Other than the uniform, O’Neil had not bothered to disguise himself. If word got out that a man posing as a policeman had visited Lorna, then no disguise would stop an investigator knowing it was him. His sixty-eight years worried him too; the retirement age of a policeman stood at sixty, and though younger than he looked, Eddie knew the combination of his face and the uniform might raise an eyebrow.

The former armed robber kept his head angled away from the security cameras.

He had done as much research as he could. He was happy to discover that due to recent cuts, the highest level of seniority on a burns unit’s night shift—19.45 – 07.45— was a band five, typically with as little as a year’s experience. The patient flow matron did not have much to do with this specialist unit.

He walked, controlling his nerves using the method acting technique of fully embodying his ‘character’.

Rounding the corner, he watched the counter nurse’s reaction.

She frowned, and for a moment, he thought she suspected his ruse, but she asked, “I thought youse lot’s last night was last night?”

In a highly convincing Manchester accent, Eddie replied, “Maybe theirs, but not mine. No more after tonight, though.”

“Oh, OK. I’ll go and fetch the comfy seat. I put it away down the corridor. Be two minutes.”

Eddie held up a small parcel. “Family stuff she wanted. Can I go and give it to her?”

The nurse, already walking away, said with a wave of her hand. “Yes, on you go, luv.”

Eddie momentarily froze on entering.

He had seen many dead bodies—with more than a handful having had the limbs separated from the charred torsos.

The pink, rippled, crispy skin stretched from the right underside of the jaw to the back of the head. Two pock marks—one with a hole—formed the remains of her ear.

The sight of her burnt face did not jar him.

The look of pure fright did.

He raised his hands in a calming gesture but did not go closer. After a few moments, her expression softened as her eyes and mouth squeezed together.

The tears painted her lower eyelids, and he approached when she nodded.

He took solace in that her attacker had caught more of the back and side of her head, leaving her eyes and mouth unblemished.

He sat and whispered, “Lorna, I don’t have much time. The nurse will come back and shift me out of here—it’s against their policy. I need to know who did this to you.”

She croaked, “He was wearing a balaclava.”

He reached out but did not grasp her hand, instead placing it an inch from hers.

“I know you know a stór,” he replied, using the Irish term of endearment, meaning ‘my treasure’.

“I don’t know,” she pleaded.

He swallowed the guilt of what he was about to say. “Lorna, whoever did this to you is still out there and needs…sorting. If you tell me now, no one will know we’ve had any contact. It’s our secret. But if the nurse on reception comes back and catches me in here, she will flag it, and then everyone will know.”

Lorna would know he had deceived her if and when the nurse let it be known she knew he had gone in, but he had to apply pressure.

Her mouth fell open, and her eyes darted around. Finally, she rasped, “All I know is…just that he was Irish; he swore… ‘Fucking stuck-up bitch’, he said. And he had on those same trainers Seán used to wear—you remember, the Ted Baker ones—the expensive ones you said he was stupid to buy cos of how much they cost.”

O’Neil remembered hating them as they were too memorable, with their brown suede, turquoise laces, and green heels.

He frowned. “You’re saying it was Seán?”

O’Neil felt the blood draining from his head.

“No,” she croaked. “He must have gotten rid of them by now. I was just saying.”

“OK…OK, I’ll sort this out. There’ll be money in young Patrick’s account by the end of—”

“We don’t want your money, Eddie. I don’t want anything from you except that you leave now.”

The tone of her voice and her fingers creeping away from his hand punched ice into his diaphragm.

He stood and walked out.

The receptionist called out, “There’s your chair, luv.”

“You know what?” he replied, wide-eyed. “I’ve checked in with them after you said. Turns out I’m not on tonight! Heads up their arses, eh.”

“Awww. Are they putting you on something else?”

“Nah. Off home. At least she got what she needs. Glass half full, eh.”

He walked away, his head spinning and his gut-wrenching— It can’t be my own family.

Curtis looked furtively at Connor and then towards the bar at his male cousins and brother.

Though the Ryder cousins had excommunicated him out of the city, the women, and Uncle Lee, were not told and presumed he had left for Hull due to an employment opportunity.

When their gran, Paulette, had made veiled comments regarding Curtis, indicating her disbelief, Connor answered cryptically, and she never mentioned him again.

After Curtis had greeted several of the party, he approached Connor, who knew his cousins would be watching the interaction with great interest.

“Connor, can I speak to you?” There was a tremor in Curtis’s voice.

“Yeh, let’s walk over to the bar.”

Their Uncle Lee was playing darts in the corner, temporarily leaving Eva alone behind the bar. In his peripheral vision, he caught Tom warning her of going over.

Curtis looked at him. “Connor, I am—”

“Shut up and listen. We are not getting into this here and now. So, what we are going to do is to act for this evening only as if nothing has happened. Understand?”

When Curtis nodded, Connor continued, “And not for nothing; your word means fuck all now—one of the downsides of being known as a liar. We’re going to join our cousins.”

Connor beckoned Eva over. “I’ll have a mint julep. Curtis will take care of my tab.”

6

Connor and Grace waved off Rene and Jackson. They waited until the great-grandma and grandson had passed the threshold of her home before he powered the green Alfa Romeo Giulia away from the kerb.

Rene had offered to have Jackson overnight. After an exchange—mainly to establish Rene’s post-party sobriety—Grace relented.

Connor knew Rene to be playing matchmaker and felt a twinge of guilt regarding her ignorance of Connor being Jackson’s father.

It took a few moments before the paediatric surgeon broke the ice. “You smell nice.”

“Thank you,” Connor replied. “I buy from a company called ‘Dirty Soap’— handmade, parabens-SLS and cruelty-free. You should check it out.”

“You should be a salesman.”

Unsure whether the comment was barbed, he replied, “Afraid not.”

“Are you radgie?”

“What? With you calling him Jackson? Hee-hee,” answered Connor, mimicking the deceased pop star.

“I watched ‘Sons of Anarchy’. Thought it sounded a good name.”

“It is. I’m teasing,” he said before playing ignorant. “Angry about what?”

“With Jackson and I being around your family. I know it’s against the rules.”

“I wouldn’t be flippant about those ‘rules’,” he said, failing to inject sternness into his voice before glancing at her. “But I am not pissed off. Not with you, anyway.”

“Who then?”

“My gran. I’ll be seeing her later.”

“Let me know how that goes.”

He could feel her smirk. “You seemed a hit. Or maybe it was Jackson, being a handsome guy.”

“There are meant to be some good-looking men on my side of the family. Not that I would know; I’ve just gotten back in touch with my biological family. And when I say family, I mean my granny, Rene.”

“Oh, yeah. How did that come about?”

“We’ll save that for another time.”

When Connor remained silent, she said, “Speaking of hits, you seemed to be one with that barmaid.”

“I’m not going to disfigure my face just because I was born handsome. It’ll deprive people of the pleasure of looking at it.”

She gave a low snort. “You’re easy on the eye; I’ll give you that, but your cousin, Luke—offftttt.”

“He’ll be delighted to hear that, as he expressed his admiration for your appearance too—he was a little less tame in his declaration.”

“Glad I’ve still got it,” she declared, flicking a flash of ginger behind her ear.

“Gran tells me you’ve started back at work?”

“Oh, so you do ask about us.”

“Don’t be a fucking arsehole,” he spat, his temper surprising even himself.

“I was—”

The rant he didn’t know was hiding burst out. “If you think me keeping you pair a secret is so I can smash barmaids and avoid puke on my clothes, then you’re wrong. I’ve explained this already, and you of all people should know where I am coming from. Not to be melodramatic, but I deal with evil—the type that sees a person’s loved ones as fair game, alright? So I am all set without your sugar-coated barbs.”

A few moments passed before Grace said, “Am impressed that there was no stammering and your pronunciation was correct throughout. Well done.”

He pressed his lips together. “Thank you.”

“Are you out of your fettle now?” she asked, using the Geordie phrase for foul mood.

“Yeh. I am alright. But don’t make out there hasn’t been an edge to your comments.”

“Alright, I won’t. It’s just hard seeing you all together. Seeing his cousins running around and they, and he, might never know. But I know why it has to be that way.”

He didn’t need clarification that whatever had happened with her adoptive family would have exacerbated these feelings.

“Alright. I shouldn’t have thrown a tantrum.”

“Ahhh, is that you apologising?”

He shook his head. “If I get into that habit, I’ll never stop.”

He turned the Giulia onto the ‘home straight’, heading towards Grace’s home in the upmarket Chapel Allerton area of Leeds. Connor had checked the previous sale price and discovered the three-bedroomed house exceeded half a million. In London, that sort of money would barely have bought a decent one-bedroom flat.

Connor had always marvelled at how Grace was simultaneously a greatly respected paediatric surgeon and a highly sought-after—at least locally—tattooist. Grace did not have a shop or social media presence but always seemed to have appointments booked.

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

“If you’re referring to the man who left that day you came, then we are no longer seeing one another.”

“Ahhh, poor old Mark Cambridge probably never had a woman like you in his thirty-three years. Then again, there probably aren’t many women working at Polygas Energy.”

“My, my. I am not sure if that’s creepy or romantic.”

“I’ll settle for sweet.”

Connor followed the edge of Scott Hall Playing Fields. Though he knew her house lay on the left, he drove past it.

“What are you doing? My house is there?”

“I know. It’s just a precaution.”

“Oh,” she said, presumably understanding he did not wish for his vehicle to be seen outside her house. “So, these precautions mean you’re not coming in for a coffee?”

The Giulia rounded the corner, and Connor pulled in next to the kerb.

He looked at her. “You go in. A Scotsman once told me ‘security’ isn’t a dirty word. I’ll wait a bit and come in through the back door.”

A smile danced on her face. “Well…if you’re lucky.”

Bruce sat on the grey, faux-leather high chair in his Knightsbridge apartment. He gazed at his laptop screen, occasionally resting his eyes by staring out at the glittering view of London.

His head and body turned to the door at the sound of it opening, and he flipped down the laptop’s screen, despite expecting his girlfriend’s arrival.

Adrianna breezed through the door with a “Ciao”.

Just over a decade his junior, the noirette—black-haired—Italian with Albanian roots had more than once been asked if she had been a former fashion model. The loose-fitting eggshell shirt, rolled at the sleeves, hid a light brown leather belt sitting on top of tight dark jeans.

“Hi.”

She set her case down, removed her Gucci ankle boots and floated over to him.

Her arm slid under his as she kissed him, and her hand stroked the nape of his neck. “How’s your day been?”

“Good. How’s yours?”

“Also good,” she said with a smile. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.” The Scotsman knew, despite the busy day she’d have had and the late hour, to say anything else would result in her preparing a restaurant-fit meal.

Partly to deflect her quizzing him about what he had eaten, he asked, “Tell me what you know about the Franklin Organised Crime group?”

The criminal investigative journalist said, “Apart from what is already common knowledge?”

“Yes.”

“I have nothing but rumours.”

“Then let’s hear them.”

“I have heard the Franklins might be breaking ground with a Colombian organisation from the broken pieces of AUC. You know of them?”

“Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia. Yes, I knew of them,” said Bruce, without elaborating.

“I do not know names, but the myths include submarines. Now, being the all-knowing man that you are, you know of the short-range, one-journey submarines made in the jungles. But this group might be able to build ones capable of long-range travel for many voyages. That would be huge.”

“Being able to land your product anywhere in the world gives you a significant advantage.”

“Or to pick up product.”

He looked at her. “Tell me.”

“What if a drug gave you all the high but none of the low?”

“I would say that goes against human physiology.” Bruce had formally studied the subject.

“But what if?”

“Then I think there would be many an organisation, criminal and outwardly non-criminal, who would go to all sorts of lengths to get a piece of it.”

“OK. There is speculation that such a drug might exist in Europe. Maybe something to watch out for.”

“Thank you for the…—”

“Intelligence?”

“Education.”

“The O’Neils, they are from the same place as your mother’s side of the family?” she half-asked, half-stated.

“Yeh,” he answered laconically.

“I wonder if she knew them?”

“Stands to reason she may have. Small area. Tight community.”

She looked at him for a moment. “I am going to shower.”

When she left, he opened the laptop again.

Jaime Rangel, the Chameleon Project’s longstanding tech guru, had sent him surveillance footage at the Manchester hospital from two evenings back.

The Scotsman knew the figure dressed as a policeman to be O’Neil because of, not despite, never catching a clean shot of his face.

The Northern Irishman somehow knew the position of the cameras before coming into view and used subtle shifts of his head, which included the pretence of hearing something from behind to necessitate looking back while walking.

Bruce had no official capacity to interview Lorna O’Neil.

But he didn’t need to—Bruce made use of Ciara’s audio device planted beneath her hospital bed two days before Eddie O’Neil’s visit.

Now, all he had to do was discover Seán O’Neil’s whereabouts. That he would wear such distinctive trainers reeked of unprofessionalism, but the Irish youth lacked training and his uncle Eddie’s guidance on this particular task.

Bruce briefly wondered if betrayal was more or less prevalent in crime families.

Tom walked into ‘The Helena’ to see Oshain ‘Bambi’ Reilly and five of the other doormen in the beige leather seating, playing cards.

He saw them subtly straighten.

“Hey, lads.”

“Hey, Tom,” they chorused as he stepped up to the table.

Bambi said, “Cara’s upstairs interviewing a potential.”

“Do you know him?”

“Henryk works his day job with him,” answered The Helena’s head doorman, referring to The Dancing Bear’s chief of security. ‘The Bear’ as it was known, was another lap-dancing club Cara owned and managed. “He’s come up from Manchester having worked some of the doors there. I’ve reached out to contacts down there, and he checks out.”

Tom’s wariness on new people stemmed from his concern an undercover copper might be planted. However, he usually held off the more stringent background checks until they had at least completed their trial night.

“You didn’t let her boss you out of having the first word with him, did you?” asked Tom, who had previously told Bambi—a fighter of great repute in the cage and on the street—not to allow Cara to dictate to him where security was concerned.

“Yeh, I had a quick chat. Seems switched on—not a chest thumper or a pussy. But the proof’s in the pudding, as my nana would say.”

Tom smiled, and Bambi gestured to one of the other players. “Tell Tom about the girl.”

The rest of the table turned to look at Tim, a thickset, dark-haired Cockney who worked as a brickie during the week.

“Well, been after this girl who works in ’airdressers for ages. Must ’ave ’ad about fifty fuckin’ haircuts trying.”

The collective smiled, and Tim continued with, “I eventually got in there, took her to The Cow and Calf and a bit of a walk on Ilkley Moor. Cracking banter, and I am already thinking of when we are going to be cut an’ carried and how many dustbin lids we are going to have.”

Tom guessed the phrases to be cockney rhyming slang for married and kids.

“So, what’s the problem?” asked Tom.

“It’s not a problem, well…maybe. I got ’er undressed—at her ’ouse not at the bloomin’ Cow and Calf—and she has loads, and I mean fuckin’ Old Kent Roads of these faint, thin pink and white lines all over the forearms, tummy and thighs. Am thinking maybe she’s self-’armed, so’s I don’t mention it, you know—everyone ’as their problems. But she don’t give a monkeys. She tells me she has a papercut fetish. Not just that, she can’t cum without it. No shame, no like…maybe I shouldn’t say this on a first date—just takes a pad out and tells me to cut her when she says.”

Tom’s eyes widened, and he asked with a hint of a smile, “So, what did you do?”

“Did it, didn’t I, Boss? Taking out on Sunday. We like what we like.”

The table broke out into laughter, as did Tom, but he admired Tim’s stance on the matter.

Just then, he heard footsteps come down the stairs. He turned to see a tall, bald man with a contoured beard skirting the jawline before roofing over the mouth.

He walked to the table and threw his hand out to Bambi. “Thanks for seeing me, Oshain. Hope to see you later.”

Oshain squeezed the hand before opening the palm towards Tom and saying, “This is Tom Ryder.”

The man’s nod resembled a bow. “Nice to meet you, Mr Ryder.”

They shook hands briefly, and Tom said, “If you’re the right man, I hope to see you again.”

“I feel the same, Mr Ryder.”

Tom nodded, and the man left.

“Bambi, Curtis should be arriving shortly. Will you send him up when he does?”

“Sure thing.”

Tom made his way up to see his heavily pregnant fiancé sitting in one of the booths and engaged in a business call. This mildly bothered him, as despite being far along, there was barely any let-up in her schedule.

As she smiled down the phone, it reminded him—as most of the men in his family did—that he was punching.

Mixed-race with caramel skin, dark eyes, near-perfect teeth and shimmering hair, he felt a masculine pride seeing her hand lightly stroke her stomach.

He sat opposite her just as she wrapped up the call. Ordinarily, he liked to sit where she was so he could see who was coming from behind him, but he didn’t want to shift her in her current state.

He leaned over and kissed her.

“Hey, you!”

Tom tilted his head. “How was the guy you just interviewed?”

“Seemed OK. Patter like reading a menu, but I don’t need him to be full of banter. If Oshain is happy, then I’ll give him a trial night. Hey, how was the party the other night? Didn’t get a chance to ask you.”

“Yeh, it was great.”

She frowned, “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’?”

“Your face just then.”

Her perception often surprised him. He thought briefly about brushing her off but decided against it.

“This is way out, so don’t repeat this to anyone.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Well, you know Gran’s friend, Rene. She has a granddaughter. Some surgeon, red-haired and—”

“Yes, Grace. I met her once, dropping your gran off at Rene’s.”

“Oh, right. Well, she came to the party—no—she dropped off Gran and Rene, but they convinced her to stay. She brought in her little lad, a toddler. Anyway, Connor goes over and—what you smiling at?”

“Nope, you go first.”

He hesitated a moment. “Connor and this girl—”

“Her name is Grace,” said Cara, shifting around to him. She placed her hand on his lap. “Go on with your story.”

“OK, Connor and Grace seemed to be…like there was something between them. I thought maybe they just fancied one another. But that little lad—ahem, Jackson—I don’t know.”

Cara chuckled, “Just say it, you pussy.”

“Say what?”

“OK, I’ll help you out. Jackson is Connor’s kid.”

Tom felt the tension release from him, “Fuckin’ hell, I thought—”

The voice behind him cut his next words short.

“Hi, Tom,” said Curtis.

Tom turned. “Go sit at the bar, and I’ll see you in a minute.”

Curtis left, and Cara asked, “What’s happening with him? I thought you said he couldn’t be trusted.”

Tom shrugged. “I am seeing if it’s worth giving him a second chance. My grandad used to say that accepting the bad in people is like accepting that roses have thorns.”

“But is he a rose or a poisonous flower?”

Tom didn’t answer Cara’s questioning face. Instead, he asked, “Do you know it’s his kid for sure?”

“It’s blatantly obvious it’s his son.”

“Has anyone confirmed?”

“No. But you can see with the way your gran is with him. But I would have thought he’d have told you?”

Tom, though stung, tried not to take it personally. He surmised Connor was keeping it a secret for the same reason he had initially stayed away from the family on leaving the Corps—whatever he was into outside the remit of the family business. As unbelievable as it would sound to others, Tom and Luke had agreed Connor must be some sort of mercenary/agent/ assassin type for the government, but the agreement between Tom and Connor had been that no one ever asked him where he went and why.

“He’ll have his reasons,” said Tom.

“Maybe you should ask him when you’re partying in Amsterdam.”

Despite hearing the teasing tone, he said, “Cara, yes, there will be a party. But I am going to make sure our Luke forms a good impression on our business partner over there. Then, one day, I can step back from all this.”

“And that’s really what you want to do?”

“Why? Don’t you?”

“I’ll support you in whatever you want to do.”

“To be honest, I still don’t know. But I at least want the option. I am lucky to have a woman like you.”

Lina Van’s athletic figure cut through the simmering blue of the mansion’s warm pool. Gone were the twice-a-day workouts—fasted cardio in the morning, weights in the evening— in conjunction with injections of clenbuterol, ANAVAR and in the final week or so in the run-up to a fitness competition, winstrol—even though it gave her aching joints, it etched her ‘six-pack’ abdominals.

The only pharmaceuticals she took now were HGH (Human Growth Hormone) doses in vastly smaller amounts than her competition days, which had seen her jaw become more prominent, clavicles broaden, and height increase by over a centimetre.

She still cut an imposing figure to most women and more than a few men, including the one approaching the pool now.

Andrew Branch was a man who came from a socio-economic class diametrically different from her own. And she knew he resented her greater influence over Dion.

He stood at the foot of the Olympic-sized pool, but instead of greeting him immediately, she performed another two lengths.

She got out, stood, and stepped into his personal space, standing an inch taller. He moved back half a step with an expression indicating that getting drips on his person would be repugnant.

“Mr O’Malley requests your presence. Our…guest has arrived.”

He referred to Seamus ‘The Clock’ O’Malley, Dion’s chief enforcer in Spain.

She brushed past him, knowing the contact would make him fume. She lifted the luxury charcoal Egyptian cotton towel and began patting herself dry.

She heard him take a breath and say, “Miss Van, can you explain to me again the efficacy of acid attacks on civilians, the maiming of babies, and all the other hideous acts you suggest? We are in the business of producing profits, not enemies, are we not?”

“That is the case if we were McDonald's, but we supply narcotics and guns. Our competitors are other dangerous criminals. This is the only way. I know of this, but you do not. You cannot. You are a rich white man born in England and a life of privilege.”

“You may be correct, Miss Van, but as I have said before, these brutal acts are what the media feed off. And this has the effect of antagonising law enforcement agencies. And that isn’t goo—”

She donned a black short silken robe that kept her muscular legs on display, and matching Versace flip-flops.

“This is your job, Mister computer man. You help insulate us. Disinformation. Tell the world these civilians are criminals. And they are criminals using their families as shields. Do your job,” she snapped.

Exasperation laced Branch’s reply. “It...it would help if there was not so much information to dis…to disinform…I mean, misinform about. It is a trifle of trouble every week.”

“If your illness is affecting your concentration, I can replace you.”

She allowed herself to break out in a smile at his stuttering and strode away, knowing it would be more jarring than a slap to the face.

Lina did not know what enfermedad had afflicted him but knew it to be serious—she could smell a hint of death from him.

Once he had caught up with her, she continued, “This…guest, as you call him, is a known informant. Your Winston Churchill said, ‘When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you’. So, there will be no mercy.”

She hoped Branch would catch the ambiguous inference the quote extended to himself.

They began to ascend the marble-cut stairs to the open glass door.

“I do understand. I—”

“Terrifying acts are…Cómo se dice?...deterrents for anyone else, so please do not let your weak stomach interrupt what has to happen.”

She passed through the glass door before he had a chance to retort.

The room was a similar size to a primary school’s assembly hall. Reinforced glass made up the walls, which could be tinted from both sides, allowing for the view from inside to out and outside to in to be adjusted without affecting one another.

The current setting allowed for clear views out but not in.

Polythene sheeting covered almost the entirety of the polished wood flooring. A black Steinway grand piano—the price of which could have gone halfway towards a family home in Bogotá—stood in the corner.

From beneath the piano, a red and black socket extension reel slithered out to the middle of the room with a silver kettle attached.

Also in the room’s centre sat Seán O’Neil, naked apart from a hood covering his head, restrained to the chair by ‘Fiercely Strong’ silver duct tape. The pair of Estonian enforcers exceeded six feet in height and sixteen stone in weight and thus would have dwarfed O’Neil even if he had been standing.

At the feet of one lay a yellow and black tool bag.

The copper wire-haired Seamus, ‘The Clock’ O’Malley, stood off to the left flank with his small left hand clasped in his bigger right hand.

Branch stood behind her and quietly asked, “Where is Mister Franklin?”

“He is away resting. He has asked me to handle this insect.”

She looked at him, silently daring him to object, but he averted his eyes from hers.

With a flick of her fingers, one of the guards loosened the hood to reveal a wild-eyed, sandy-haired man in his late twenties.

Drops of anger began to dilute his scared expression until, finally, he spat, “What dat fook is this? I’ve done what you’ve asked!”

She stepped closer. “You have done what you thought was enough. Not what we asked you to.”

“You wanted acid in her face, and she got acid in her face.”

“I told you to throw the acid in her face,” growled Lina, hovering her finger-splayed palm in front of her face. “Not at the side of her head.”

“What do you want from me? She turned her head. What difference does it make?”

“The difference is that now she can cover one side of her face. That is no good for us. We need people to see.”

“I fookin’ think people know. It’s all over the internet, you mad bitch.”

This elicited Lina’s genuine smile, who gestured again to the guard, who leaned over and clicked the kettle on.

Seán O’Neil tried craning his head in the direction of the click only to be met with a head-turning punch to the cheek.

As the kettle began to whistle, or as Lina thought—Hiss like a snake, O’Neil began to struggle so ferociously he tipped himself over to one side.

As the guards scrambled to lift him upright again, Lina barked, “Leave him on the floor, but turn him to face the ceiling—like a turtle on its back.”

She strode around them, and the whistling clicked off.

As she lifted the kettle, he began to wail, “No, please, please. PLEASE! AARGGHHHHHHH.”

Only the guards’ boots standing on the upper part of the chair frames prevented his tipping over to one side.

His face shook side-to-side like a fish’s fin tail, which made life easier for her by allowing the scalding downpour to catch the entirety of his face.

The duct tape pulsed with the strain, and his screamed pleas curdled into incoherent shrieking.

Finally, the kettle emptied and landed on the bubbled, molten, blood-raw face.

It took nearly three minutes for the cries to simmer into quiet sobs.

The Colombian stepped over him so that he lay between her feet. “Now you will be the walking commercial that if we tell you to do a thing, you do exactly that. You will still be paid every month, Seán, but you will not be permitted to have plastic surgery for at least a year.”

He snorted seal-like, “You fuckin’, fuckin’ cunt. I will kill you.”

“Coming from a man who turned on his family for money, your words mean less than nothing,” she laughed. “You are an addict, and so once you have calmed, you will realise, what is the English expression?...not to bite the hand that gives food to you.”

7

Connor felt the blended warmth of being sat with two of his favourite men in a city he loved, drinking the silky smooth, peaty whisky with a hint of vanilla.

The lights of Club Harlow bathed everyone in purple and pink. Suits wrapped around the physiques of all three men. Tonight, Connor wore a sky-blue fleck jacket over a darker blue shirt.

The cousins sat in a loose triangle watching the lithe dancer with pleated hair flexing her body in an aerial hoop to Daisy Gray’s ‘Saviour’.

“Fuckin’ ’ell,” exclaimed Luke, as she trapped the hoop between the back of her neck and trapezius, keeping it there despite being raised high towards the ceiling.

Connor also marvelled at the routine, which included one-armed hanging splits, holding herself upside down from the hoop by either her splayed, muscle-corded legs or a single hooked foot, and spinning around with the hoop supported by her outstretched arms.

Once she had finished, the trio stood and applauded.

“Imagine ’er in bed. You’d just lay back and let it happen, wouldn’t ya,” said Luke.

“If you were in the state you were in yesterday, you wouldn’t have a choice.”

The three had purchased a cannabis chocolate bar each and returned to their respective hotel rooms. However, whereas the older cousins had eaten a single piece of theirs, Luke had consumed his entirely. This had provided Connor and Tom an afternoon’s worth of humour on finding him a couple of hours later.

“It looked like a bar for one person, not eight! Fucking Dutch labelling.”

“Thank Christ it was yesterday you ’ad it and not today,” said Tom. “Last thing we needed was to introduce you as the heir apparent with you looking gormless.”

Connor caught Luke’s look of contriteness as he replied, “I’ll be more careful next time.”

When his cousins smiled, Luke then asked, “Who would you pick for one night in bed between Megan Fox when she’s leant over that motorbike in ‘Transformers’ or Angelina Jolie twisting the head off that arms dealer in ‘Mr & Mrs Smith’?”

Connor and Tom answered in unison, “Angelina Jolie.”

“No way. For one night, it’s Megan Fox,” countered Luke. “What about a relationship?”

“Still Angelina Jolie,” said Connor.

“Fuck that,” answered Tom. “It gets on my wick when Cara brings home another house plant every time she goes out, let alone a Kenyan baby.”

Connor cracked a smile as Luke sprayed whisky through his teeth. He didn’t want to invite his cousins’ mocking by pointing out the children were adopted from orphanages in Cambodia, Ethiopia, and Vietnam.

Luke announced, “I’m going to the toilet.”

Once Luke stepped out of conversation range, Tom sighed. “Do you think people can permanently change for the better or just have this demon inside them that makes them always fall off the wagon eventually?”

Connor knew Tom was having difficulty keeping a leash on his anxiety over Luke’s succession. The younger Ryder had been guilty of excessive drinking, womanising and recreational drug-taking. Though Connor himself dabbled in drugs and drink, as did Tom but who had never been the womaniser Connor was, the older cousins had worried the excess would wreck Luke’s potential.

However, recently, the handsome, athletic blond had turned over a new leaf, taking control of several operations of the Ryder family criminal enterprise and proving himself more than capable. The accident with the cannabis chocolate bar had just come at an unfortunate time—he hoped.

Connor reached over and clasped Tom’s wrist. “He just fucked up, that’s all. We all do it—there isn’t anything underlying.”

“I know, but it’s like…alcoholics who go forever without a drink eventually fall off the wagon. Or…you know what I am saying. What if it’s in him, and I give the operations over, and in a few years, he’s dead or in prison, and I could have stopped that from happening? Or worse, he gets other people killed, or they do bird they didn’t have to do?”

“Look,” said Connor, buying himself a moment. “Remember that film we watched a while back—‘The King’ with Timothée Chalamet?”

“Good film, despite him looking like a boy.”

“Anyway, I was reading about Henry V, and when he was a prince, he was a womanising, hard-drinking, reckless bastard. When he became king, he smashed dissenters in England and united most of the country, and then pulled off the unlikely victory at Agincourt. Then he used diplomacy to ally with the Holy Roman Empire. Who knows what he might have pulled off if he hadn’t died so young.”

“Yeh, that’s my point—who knows? He could have gone on to be a lunatic.”

Connor shrugged, conceding the point before quickly saying as Luke came into view, “If you’re serious about stepping out of this life, you’ve got to educate him as much as you can and then trust him.”

The seed of the Ryder family’s criminality had been unwittingly planted by their grandfather throwing a protective wing over a few pubs he liked to drink in back in the sixties. However, the real lawbreaking began in the nineties when Frank Ryder’s sons took revenge against members of the underworld over an attack which had seen him hospitalised. They subsequently staked their claim to the enterprises of illegal imports, the taxation of drug dealers, racketeering, underworld arbitration, security, bribery and obstruction of justice.

And now, the third generation had expanded their direct criminal enterprises internationally and their money laundering operations to include boxing and MMA shows, online betting companies, an escort agency, the Buxton Arms pub, Japanese car imports and a pair of highly profitable strip clubs.

As Luke sat, Tom said, “I wonder if this sort of act would go down well in one of our establishments.”

“Can’t see it,” said Connor.

“That reminds me,” said Luke. “I have a great idea for a venture.”

Connor kept his expression neutral, knowing Luke was about to go into a predetermined spiel to wind up the older cousin.

“OK. Check this out. It is illegal to view minors naked on videotape, isn’t it?”

Horizontal lines appeared on Tom’s forehead. “I would have thought so.”

“Then we can use naked kids to commit robberies cos even if they are caught on CCTV, the coppers can’t view them,” said Luke while clacking his index and middle fingers, a la Ali G.

Fuck—thought Connor—Just as I have been batting for him.

Despite Luke’s exemplary straight face, Tom smiled and said, “Fuck off.”

Connor laughed, more out of relief. “I thought we might be overreaching with that one.”

“Good attempt, though,” said Tom before turning to Connor. “I know you’ve been on nights out with Van Der Saar, but ever to a party like this?”

Connor shook his head. “I’ve never been to one of his houses before, though he asks me every time he knows I am coming—he’s put me up in five-star hotels when I refuse.”

“How come you don’t accept his invitation to his house?” asked Luke.

“I can’t tell what investigations he or I might be under at the time. And if an arrest comes, it’s usually mounted at the residence. It’s to avoid putting either of us in that position, that’s all.”

“He loves you, doesn’t he!” said Tom. It was a statement, not a question.

This wasn’t the first time someone had said this to him.

“Seems to be fond of me. Not sure why.”

“What’s he like?” asked Luke, who had never met the Dutch drugs kingpin.

“He’s not what you envision,” said Connor. “In either appearance or personality. He reminds me of a more charismatic version of Arsene Wenger. He’s in his early sixties now but has that sort of Mick Jagger-like youthfulness, where his face looks a bit haggard, but he moves like a twenty-odd-year-old. He loves stories—listening to them and telling ’em. By tomorrow morning, you’ll be wishing he was your grandad.”

“Yeh,” agreed Tom. “He wasn’t what I was expecting at all.”

Connor added, “He’s a cross between a hippie and a pharmaceutical scientist. He’s got a Bachelor of Science in Pharmacy and a post-grad degree in Molecular Pharmacology from Columbia University.”

“So he was down there when Escobar was?” exclaimed Luke.

“No,” frowned Connor. “Not Colombia, the country, Columbia as in—”

“Waheeyy,” said Luke, indicating his success in getting Connor on ‘a bite’, who smiled in acceptance as Luke and Tom laughed.

“Anyway, he became enraptured by the New York night clubbing scene—and the drugs that went with it. So much so, he thought, ‘I could do this drugs thing better’. So it started from there.”

“Sounds like a pilot for the European version of ‘Breaking Bad’,” said Luke.

Connor leant forward. “Speaking of TV programs, remember in ‘A Game of Thrones’ Ned Stark saying, ‘He who passes the sentence, must swing the sword’?”

“Yeh.”

“You’d be surprised how many people this bloke has killed. Never lets one of his lads perform an execution if he can do it himself. He gives people about as much benefit of the doubt as I reckon is reasonable, but once it’s past the point of no return, miscreants are brought before him, and it’s him who blats them.”

Tom interjected, “So don’t forget that beneath the stories and his ‘everyone’s favourite uncle’ act, he’s a fuckin’ serious man.”

“Gotcha,” said Luke, and then after a few minutes, “What about the rest of his team?”

“Rayen is his second-in-command now. He used to be the head of security. A bald, good-looking bastard. He was in the Korps Commandotroepen—Commando Corps—for a short stint and was a national champion in kickboxing—a bad motherfucker,” said Connor, doing his best Samuel L Jackson impression at the end.

“Sounds like CroCop bought from an independent e-commerce site,” said Luke.

“Mirko CroCop isn’t in line to take over one of the most profitable and well-protected drug manufacturing operations in Europe should anything happen to Van Der Saar.”

Tom asked, “Could he look to take out Van Der Saar if that’s the case?”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I think Van Der Saar had to twist his arm, plus it’s going to take ages for Rayen to learn enough about pharmacy to make sure that the chemists aren’t sliding on quality. And Van Der Saar will be looking to take a step back now he’s getting on a bit. Even if Rayen was a cunt, which I’ve never got the impression of him being, it’ll probably serve him well to keep the old man around.”

“And it’ll probably serve you to get on the right side of him when he comes,” said Tom, addressing Luke.

“Got it,” nodded Luke before looking around. “Some of the birds in ’ere are mega, aren’t they?”

The statement jolted Connor in that his lack of matching enthusiasm surprised him. He suspected it had to do with Grace. The night they’d spent together had been exhilarating. The sex, as ever, had been wild, but Connor also thoroughly enjoyed her company.

She made him laugh in a way only a handful of people could.

Although she might have what some viewed as an old-fashioned attitude towards looking after him where food, drink and comfort were concerned, if his ‘banter’ strayed close or into any territory resembling disrespect, she’d immediately exile him out of it.

Not that Connor would ever knowingly do so, though he accepted he wasn’t the most receptive regarding women’s feelings.

Now thoroughly well versed on human brain function, Connor understood although people tended to be either left-sided (more logical and analytical) or right-sided (more creative or intuitive), a person could develop both sides of their brain to an equally high degree.

The best real-life example was Grace.

And in addition to all this, she remained one of the warmest and most altruistic people he knew.

He said to Luke, “There will be women at Van Der Saar’s place. Calm yourself.”

“Brasses?”

“Some of ’em probably. Not sure. Even if they are, they won’t be like off ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’ or a hip-hop video.”

“What does that mean? Ballroom gowns and conversations about the opera?”

Before Connor could answer, he caught sight of Rayen. The Dutchman, in an olive green suit with a mustard shirt, looked more colourful than the Englishman had ever seen him. Connor opined this might be in defiance to the years and years of him having to fade into the background as Van Der Saar’s head of security.

The two men behind him—more darkly and blandly suited—parted to stand at the bar. Connor guessed Rayen put his self-consciousness regarding having his security shadow him over his immediate protection.

“He’s here,” Connor said, noticing the surreptitious glances from a couple of the male patrons as the shaven-headed, compact Rayen made his way over.

Maybe they are admiring him, thought Connor.

The cousins stood as Rayen came into conversation range.

The Dutch gangster greeted them with, “Connor, Tom, good to see you again. And you must be Luke.”

As the two men shook hands firmly, Luke said, “I am, Mr—”

“Please call me Rayen,” said the Dutchman, gesturing them to sit.

As they did so, Connor noticed the two men who had looked at him were leaving.

Rayen addressed Luke. “I took the opportunity to type your name into the internet. I found myself watching your last three bare-knuckle boxing matches. Excellent, excellent fighter. Big punch. Fast. Good defence.”

As Rayen said it, he made parrying motions while moving his head.

“Thanks very much. I wanted to ask you, how did you cope with retiring from fighting?”

A bob-haired brunette waitress dressed in a black shirt with a pink collar appeared with a tray of four Orange Curaçaos. She set them down with a smile, and Rayen said, “Try these with me.”

They did so. Connor realised he liked the bitter orange edged with rum and spice.

Once they had given expressions of appreciation, Rayen answered Luke’s question. “I did not have the talent you have, so it was easier. I have made more money than I ever would have continuing. The…adrenaline…the buzz, can also be found in my work. I miss the preparation, the discipline and the pressure of the night…and sometimes I don’t!”

“But you don’t regret it?”

“No. Always best to get out earlier than later in striking sports. Unless it’s point-karate.”

Connor felt pride in Luke. He had given his younger cousin—outwardly dismissive of books—a copy of ‘The 48 Laws of Power’ by Robert Greene. Luke had surprised him a few weeks later by quoting from it. And now here, Luke had not only deliberately steered the conversation onto common ground, but he seemed to have adhered to one of the laws stating, ‘Never outshine the Master. Always make those above you feel comfortably superior. In your desire to please or impress them, do not go too far in displaying your talents or you might accomplish the opposite – inspire fear or insecurity.’

“Don’t knock it,” said Luke. “The Cobra Kai series on Netflix is the only reason I watch telly.”

Connor inwardly cringed, thinking Rayen might find the admission flippant. Instead, to his surprise, Van Der Saar’s right-hand man nodded enthusiastically. “Brilliant television.”

Tom asked, “How are things over here?”

Rayen raised his eyebrows. “In business?”

The eldest Ryder nodded and Rayen answered, “We are facing a real threat. Security has been increased. But Mr Reed knows Raymond Van Der Saar would say that to stop social occasions because of threats means the enemy has won already.”

Connor said, “He is stubborn. I can’t imagine that was easy when you were his head of security.”

“It wasn’t, but I understood.”

“Who’s made the threat?”

Rayen straightened his posture. “An international cartel led by Dion Franklin.”

The three cousins’ bearings morphed to match Rayen’s.

Tom asked, “How did this come about?”

“His request for our product was denied—with good respect. Only threats have come so far. There has been nothing more, which we think is because he is fighting another war with another Irish group.”

“From what we have heard, he won’t forget. We are surprised at how clever a war strategist he’s become. I always thought his uncle and brother were the brains.”

Rayan shook his head. “We know his organisation is good at spreading misinformation on the internet. Maybe cyber-attacks too. And we think there is someone in the shadows behind his recent successes.”

“Why do you say that?”

“We have our assets too, Thomas.”

“Do you have suspects?”

“Her name is Lina Van. She was a Colombian strong-woman model. Cannot find more on her background.”

Connor quickly typed the name into Google. He clicked on the first thumbnail image, and it expanded to show two pictures next to one another of a physique that would have given his own a run for its money.

In the first picture, the noirette with a pronounced jawline stood tall with her fists pressing into her hips. Veins ridged the lower part of a ‘six-pack’ stomach, and the separation between deltoids, biceps and triceps was clearly defined. The muscularity of her legs stood out even on such an unfeminine-looking body. The image next to it showed her half-turned to display an impossibly high ass the size of bowling balls pressed together.

He turned the phone to the group and asked Rayen, “Is that her?”

“Yes, but she doesn’t look like that now. She looks more of a…more of a woman now,” he answered, making an hourglass motion with his hands.

“Fuckin’ ’ell,” exclaimed Luke. “She looks like she’d fuck you, not the other way around.”

Connor scanned the scant bio. “Says here she’s Colombian. Maybe an advisor from one of the cartels over there?”

“Maybe,” agreed Rayen. “But she cannot have been highly placed. We have contacts, and they would know. But we know Franklin had been losing this war until she arrived. And he did not directly harm civilians—but not anymore.”

Connor said, “We’ll see if we can get more of a bead on her background for you. Though you might want to reach out to a certain Irishman, or Northern Irishman, whatever he is.”

“I would appreciate any information. And I will think on your suggestion,” replied Rayen, polishing off his Curaçao. “Shall we go?”

The cousins nodded, finished their drinks, and followed him out.

Eddie O’Neil felt a surreal daze at the uncertainty of his reality.

He had been entrenched in two worlds where betrayal had dire consequences. Still, to think that his sister’s son—the gregarious Seán, might have been the one to throw acid in a family member’s face didn’t seem to fit.

However, his nephew had always loved money—loved the trappings of it. And Eddie had continually warned Seán that flashing cash just attracted the wrong kind of attention.

And when the Dublin underworld began buzzing with the money the Franklins were making, Seán would always comment on it, and Eddie would have to remind him that the more money they made, the more of a target they would become to the corrupt—wanting money—and the law—wanting their imprisonment.

However, he knew it to be difficult to convince him only for his nephew to have his face in his phone, looking at the Franklins in their supercars, designer labels, yacht and schmoozing with celebrities.

But for Seán to be so seduced that he would accept an assignment to throw acid into an in-law’s face didn’t seem plausible to Eddie.

And he didn’t want to throw those accusations around.

He would call his nephew, Liam. Cousins, not brothers, Liam might be close enough to Seán to feel him out as to his whereabouts the day the attack happened.

Sliding out his phone, he called his favourite nephew. Whatever the answer, he would need to focus on the task at hand.

8

Ciara stepped from the shower after returning from Muay Thai training, wrapped the towel she had dried herself with around her chest and walked into the bedroom of her North Finchley apartment. Freeing herself from the fluffy pink towel with white polka dots her mother bought her, she appraised herself in the full-length mirror inside the wardrobe door.

A couple of years ago, as a woman with a physique so developed, and a haircut so short, she could have been mistaken for a man when viewed from behind. However, her heart-shaped face—made of high cheekbones, emerald eyes and bow lips—was often complimented for its attractiveness, as were her tits.

Now, though she still possessed a viable physique, the lines of definition had softened, and her hair touched her shoulders.

She looked at the green faux fur dressing gown with lapels with a hint of longing, but Connor’s words of “I always make sure I can at least fight in whatever I wear, even in the house,” had become ingrained in her and, though she knew it bordered on paranoia, she could imagine stepping on the skirt of it amidst an attack.

She opted for her leopard print jogging suit instead and wandered into the living room.

It had been a long day, but she still opened her laptop.

She typed in various passwords and key codes before arriving in an e-mail compartment. Jaime, the tech guru for The Chameleon Project, had told her ‘clean’ e-mail inboxes looked suspicious to a cyber hacker. He had a policy of using the e-mail accounts that the agents used before recruitment. He used to write messages there but leave them in the ‘drafts folder’ for the recipient to read and delete. However, he now more often sent spam e-mails with a digital Trojan for the recipient to access via codes.

She opened one said e-mail to find Seán O’Neil had procured transportation to Spain.

The recklessness surprised her—what reason would Seán O’Neil give his family for why he was going there? Maybe he would say vengeance? What if he didn’t want to tell them, fearing they’d talk him out of it? Then again, what would he say when he ‘failed’ in his retribution?

She thought about her options and the assets they had in place.

Ciara doused the temptation to bring Connor Reed back into play.

Luke felt surreal climbing into the white Hummer H2 Peterbilt limousine. The light from the floor and ceiling bathed the white leather seats with a calming blue.

A smiling woman, whom Luke reckoned to be touching fifty, sat nearer the driver’s compartment. Touches of grey frosted her black hair, styled in a loose beehive, with some flowing out to her shoulder, similar to how Amy Winehouse used to have hers. Sparkling precious stones—presumably diamonds—shaped like flowers made up the hair clips. As with all the Ryders involved in the family’s criminal businesses, Luke had been required to get a ‘normal’ job and to attend it as frequently as possible for tax purposes. His had been a salesman—travelling and in store—for Harris’s jewellers in the Alwoodley area of Leeds. The owner had taught him a few things about diamonds and other precious stones. Despite some jewellers claiming they could tell a CZ—Cubic Zirconia—with the naked eye, Luke did not believe them. Indeed, Luke remembered Tom’s incredulity—‘People pay ten times the amount for a shiny stone that people would need an electronic beeper and a set of scales to be able to tell the difference?’ And when Luke tried to explain that a CZ could dull much quicker than a diamond, he replied, ‘For the price difference, you could just buy another!’

His eldest cousin had been further mystified when Luke explained laboratory-grown diamonds, aside from being arguably more ethical due to not being mined, had a higher chance of achieving the coveted Type IIa purity rating than natural ones, despite being cheaper.

However, due to the sizes of those he was looking at and the fact that he could detect a yellow tint in some of them suggested they were indeed diamonds mined or manufactured as CZs were generally colourless.

She wore a navy-blue sleeveless shirt held closed with gold buttons.

Beside her stood a glass cabinet and a fridge.

Rayen introduced her. “Gentlemen, this is Anne De Jager. She is Raymond Van Der Saar’s chief chemist. Anne, this is Connor Reed and Tom and Luke Ryder.”

Her hand felt soft to the touch, and Luke liked her brown eyes. She shook Connor’s hand last, and Luke noticed her expression becoming even more radiant, and she didn’t let go.

“It is really good to meet you finally.”

“The feeling is mutual. I am a great admirer of your work. Though Mister Van Der Saar has always kept you close to his chest. As would I.”

Fuck me, he’s flirting with her, thought Luke.

“I am flattered, Mr Reed.” Luke caught the barely perceptible thumb rub on his cousin’s hand. “I have something new for your assessment.”

“Absolutely.”

Finally, she let go of his hand, and when turning for the cabinet, Luke gave his cousin a quizzical look. Connor narrowed his eyes and then mimed an ‘oooohhft’.

She turned back and set a silver tray on the cabinet top. On it lay a sealed, transparent bag of white powder.

De Jager announced, “We know Raymond’s focus has always been to give people good experiences, not the money. You know of this, yes?”

Tom nodded. “He’d have made a lot more money—in the short-term at least—and fewer enemies if he allowed the distributors to cut the product.”

“Exactly, Mister Ryder, exactly,” she beamed. “Now, one factor we have been working very hard to prevent is the ‘come down’ after the high. We know depressed people can reach for drugs, perpetuating a high-crash-high-crash cycle that has led to many deaths. Human physiology makes ridding this element from recreational drugs very difficult. However, we believe we have come closer than anyone else with this synthetic cocaine named by its very unsexy name, SYN C17H21NO4. But we have termed it NoLo. The ‘come-down’ is a feathery descent to your physiological start-state, but no lower, hence, the name.”

Nice—thought Luke; not only was the name a play on ‘No Low’, but the street slang for the purest Colombian cocaine was ‘Colo’.

Five smaller silver trays appeared, mirroring the larger one.

To Luke’s amazement, Anne De Jager produced a black and gold credit card, deftly cut a line and snorted the powder with seeming relish.

She bared her teeth in a Cheshire Cat smile. “Gentlemen? Would you like to join me?”

Luke felt a twin jolt of wanting and hesitancy, as Connor had made it known recently he would be laying off recreational drugs. Indeed, Luke had seen him turn them down on several occasions despite them being Van Der Saar’s product.

And this had influenced Luke, who felt pleased to be able to function, with a buoyancy of mood, the next day after a night out of turning it down.

He still missed it, though.

However, Connor asked, “Could you cut my line for me, please, Anne?”

“Certainly, Mister Reed. Mister Ryder and Mister Ryder?”

Tom and Luke nodded their consent for her to cut their lines too.

Unlike regular cocaine, where it normally took a few minutes to feel the effects, a weird blend of relaxation and energy imbued his being within seconds. It felt like a mellower sharpening of his senses without the face-numbing.

“Fuckin’ ’ell, that’s good,” stated Tom.

De Jager answered, “You will notice the sensation is smoother than what you might be used to. This helps counteract the comedown. Also, because we have slowed unblocking the dopamine transporter after the high has been apexed, the reuptake of dopamine from the synaptic cleft into the pre-synaptic axon terminal has more of a chance to come back without plunging into a lower mood. Of course, feeling is believing.”

By the expression on De Jager’s face, she mirrored his surprise when Connor answered with, “So, you’ve found a way to slow or prevent the increase in dopamine receptor activation in the post-synaptic neuron?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding with a wide smile. “Have you studied neurochemistry?”

His cousin shrugged his shoulders. “Who hasn’t?”

“Then you will know what this means for the market?”

“I know when it hits the market, every man and his sniffing dog will want it, which is great on the surface of it, but your rivals will want it too. Wars will be inevitable, along with heat from law enforcement. But of course, you already know this, which is why Van Der Saar brought us out here regarding seeing where we stand.”

Rayen said, “This is true. We want to offer you the product to distribute first. But you are right—the wolves will come down from the hills.”

Luke saw Connor look at Tom. Although his two cousins insisted the other was the family’s chief, they knew, realistically, Tom was the clan’s leader.

While Connor had joined the Marines and stayed away from the family when he’d left, Tom had always kept involved with the business. He made and kept the contacts and knew all aspects of it. When their Uncle Derek—now deceased—had been in charge, the family would have lost all its influence if it hadn’t been for Tom working behind the scenes.

Tom said, “Well, we don’t have to decide tonight. And we’ll have to see how we feel about this when we’ve come down. The proof in the pudding is the tasting—or snorting.”

“Of course,” announced Rayen. “Tonight is about good times.”

The Limousine slowed to a crawl, and Luke looked out the window.

The vast, sprawling mansion had five floors, each with ten windows across the facade. Each floor alternated between grey or red brickwork, with balconies that looked like they ran around the entire structure. The roof glinted; its entirety covered in solar panelling.

The Peterbilt stopped, and they alighted. As he and Tom walked ahead, Luke turned around to see Anne with her arm hooked into Connor’s. His cousin handed her a card and whispered something to her before she nodded.

Feeling like he was intruding, Luke faced back in the direction they walked.

The mansion looked even more impressive in the fresh evening air.

A water feature stretched far out to its front with the lights riven within the perimeter reeds. The illuminations skimmed their rays out to the centrepiece, a statue of a woman holding jugs, pouring the lit-up water back into the pool.

Luke couldn’t be sure if it was the pharmaceutical or the grandeur of the building, but he stood still, taking in the sight.

Tom broke his reverie with, “Just imagine the lecky bill on that bastard.”

“Who’s this geezer?” Luke gestured to a tall, broad, suited man with hair as blond as his own. “He looks like the baddie from ‘Die Hard’—Karl something.”

“Ahh, that’s Botic Middelkoop. He’s the new head of security,” replied Rayen from the other side of the vehicle. Luke surmised he must have the hearing of a bat.

Botic came into range and asked Rayen, “I thought there was only going to be two?”

Luke stiffened at the lack of courtesy and felt gladdened when Rayen dryly replied, “Now there are three.”

The brief stare-down between the two surprised Luke, given how Rayen stood as his superior.

“Of course,” said Botic. “Mister Van Der Saar is looking forward to seeing you.”

Tom looked around and realised happiness had landed on his shoulder. Here he sat with Connor and Luke, being doted on by elegant waitresses with fantastic food, while the charismatic Raymond Van Der Saar regaled them with stories.

Glass formed three sides of the exterior of the inside dining area, looking out onto a car park encircled by forest.

The hum of chatter floated around the attentive waiting staff, the cream lighting glinting off spotless glasses.

In the corner stood a mesmerising bronze life-sized sculpture of a leopard climbing a tree by a Hamish Mackie.

Van Der Saar sat at the table’s head, with Tom on his left and Connor to his right. Luke sat beside Connor and was currently amid a story regarding his consumption of a cannabis edible the day previous.

The other guests consisted of Van Der Saar’s inner circle. They were all men, apart from two women, one a portly, middle-aged brunette with an infectious laugh and smile, and beside her, a younger girl with a shy demeanour and straight blonde hair.

Connor had earlier informed Tom and Luke that Van Der Saar usually kept the first part of these social occasions to his inner circle before opening the guest list, which would include more than enough women.

Luke’s eyes had lit up at this; the best looking of Ryder men, a renowned bare-knuckle boxer, single and only in his mid-twenties—the magnetism between him and women worked both ways.

Tom had had his fair share of women over the years, though he had been less inclined to one-night stands in comparison to his two cousins present. It had surprised him a little that he had felt no interest in what Connor would term ‘bagging off out of watch’. He loved Cara and their family unit.

He wondered when Connor would come clean regarding the woman called Grace and the little lad she had brought to Katie’s birthday party. Tom wondered if anyone else had noticed how much Jackson resembled Connor since Cara had. More like brothers than cousins, Tom tried not to take it personally that Connor had not entrusted him but remembered his cousin always put a premium on security, which included secrecy. And Tom had considered the possibility he and Cara were wrong, but the chemistry Connor seemed to have with Grace, in addition to being electric, appeared a tad too easy-flowing for a first meeting.

Despite his wish to have the option of removing himself from the running of their operations, Tom did not want the Ryder criminal group to cease. He was a proud Loiner, and with Leeds having an economy of over fifty-five billion pounds sterling, he knew how attractive it would be for other criminal enterprises to completely take over and how less concerned with putting back into the city they would be.

Certain figures within law enforcement realised it too, which is why the Ryders had revolving secret communications to CID (Criminal Investigation Department) and the HMET Unit. By extension, this meant the Ryders were granted unspoken leniency from the Yorkshire and Humber regional organised crime unit named ODYSSEY that supported the NCA, all for the price of maintaining a degree of calm and keeping guns out of the city as much as possible.

Tom had already introduced Luke to this back channel and now sat and watched him telling Van Der Saar his experiences of yesterday.

“So I ’ad a bit of this chocolate bar when these two were out. Ten minutes and nowt happens, so I have another bit, another ten minutes, and nothing happens. Then same again, so I think, ‘fuck it’, and scoff the entire bar. Because the labelling is in Dutch, I didn’t know how many it was for.”

Van Der Saar’s eyes smiled and flicked to Tom, who answered, “Eight. Doesn’t kick in for an hour.”

The Dutch crime lord bellow-laughed, then loudly translated for the group, struggling to hear the conversation down the table.

Then he asked, “So happens?”

“Like Tom said, it hit me like a ton of bricks after about an hour. Lying on the bed, I was terrified the hotel staff had planted cameras in the light fixtures and were going to call the police. So I thought I would scrub my teeth so they couldn’t smell it on my breath. But I forgot I had bought—and not yet used—this activated charcoal toothpaste cos it doesn’t have fluoride and whitens your gnashers. These two walked in as I was doing it.”

Connor and Tom laughed at the recollection, with Connor loudly mimicking Luke with, “OH MY GOD, they’ve poisoned me with oil. It’s black oil; I need my stomach pumped.”

The table fell into chortles.

Once it had quietened, Van Der Saar addressed him with, “So, Thomas, I hear you wish to retire?”

Tom resisted the urge to glance at Connor. “It’s a thought that has been getting stronger lately.”

“As it has mine several times,” he said before his smile turned apologetic. “I meant about my retirement, not yours!”

Tom smiled. “I know what you meant, Mister Van Der Saar. I—”

“Thomas, will there ever be a day when you call me Raymond?”

“Yeah, alright, Raymond. The surname rolls off my tongue.”

“Has your wife’s pregnancy influenced your decision?”

“Cara isn’t yet my wife, Raymond, but she will be, and yes, it’s made me think a bit more about the…eventual end that this type of life brings. Not everyone is as successful as you for as long as you have been.”

Van Der Saar looked at him and subtly nodded. “You might be right, Thomas. If you go long and deep enough, there comes a time when you cannot leave because to do so would invite your enemies to attack. Look at the Russian president—do you think he could give his power away and remain safe? His most dangerous enemies are within Russia. But you might not be at that point, so I support your decision—whatever it may be.”

“Thank you,” said Tom magnanimously, knowing everyone, including Van Der Saar, knew he did not need the old man’s permission but was grateful for the backing.

“And so, can you say who will be your successor?”

“Well, with a bit of concern after yesterday’s antics, I have been grooming my cousin, Luke. Not sure how he feels about that, given his boxing career?”

The table looked to Luke, who leaned forward with mock seriousness. “When you say ‘groomed’, do you mean like an apprentice for a job, or in a ‘Hee-hee’ type of way?”

Despite noticing the faint smirk on Connor’s mouth, Tom never liked joking when business was being discussed. However, given this was his first confirmation outside of the family of his desire to retire from criminality and Luke would succeed him, he committed to the joke. “I haven’t got the pet monkeys or theme park for the second type of way, so yes, like an apprentice.”

Despite their smiles, Tom could see the inference had been lost on the Dutch guests until Van Der Saar shouted, “Oh. Sexual grooming!”

His laughter spread out onto the table. Once it had subsided, the waiting staff floated amongst them, refilling glasses.

Connor’s bark cut through the room as he stood, pointing a pair of fingers at the waitress over Tom’s shoulder. “You. Stand still.”

The room went quiet as she did so. Tom turned to look at her as Connor said, “Open your blazer and show me what you have on your right hip.”

Tom’s head jerked to look at her eyes. It wasn’t fear or surprise he saw—it was assessment.

Within two seconds, three things happened; she dropped her tray, whipped out a pistol, and a bottle thrown by Connor hit her in the face with a ‘thunk’, knocking her off balance.

Then the room erupted with a crescendo of gunfire, splintered wood, shouts, screams, crashing and smashing glass.

9

Connor had leapt onto the table and launched himself at the waitress. His downward punch crashed into her temple, scything her head around, and she fell unconscious.

He prised the CZ 75 B 9mm pistol from her adrenaline-locked fingers.

Connor had spent thousands of training hours in makeshift and ultra-high-tech ranges with a vast array of weapon systems, including the CZ 75B. In addition, he had now been involved in many firefights, outnumbered in the vast majority.

Guns had appeared in the hands of the waiting staff—mostly made up of women.

His brain processed a multitude of assessments and calculations within milliseconds. Who’s the immediate danger to himself? Because if you’re dead, you can’t protect your cousins. What are the essential angles and points of cover?

The more reptilian part of his brain had instantly recognised the professionalism of his enemies’ weapons’ handling and movement.

And that Van Der Saar now sat dead in his chair with his chest punched through by an inordinate amount of rounds.

A waitress and waiter aimed at him from the side of the table he had previously been sitting. Already moving to his right, he shot the man in the throat. Plummeting to one knee, in time to feel the singing vacuum of a bullet over his head, he fired.

The pretty face morphed inwards and out the back of her head in a geyser of blood, bone fragments, and pulp.

Van Der Saar’s security team, those who had survived the initial onslaught, now fired back—dispersing their attackers, and themselves, behind the restaurant’s various pillars, bars and alcoves.

The smell of sulphur-edged charcoal hung in the room as Connor kept his cousins in his peripheral vision.

The pillar two down from his own shielded Luke, who seemed in control of his senses despite being wide-eyed.

And Luke held an MP5, presumably from the now prostrate waiter.

Connor hissed, “Look for spare magazines on him,” and Luke did so.

However, Tom lay in the open—motionless. Connor knew it would be suicide to attempt to retrieve him.

His elder cousin’s body did not appear to be attracting fire, but Connor knew the longer he was out there, the more danger he was in.

A shout of “gewapende politie!” went up, and Connor’s Dutch was good enough to understand that meant armed police.

Amidst the screaming bullet-hissing chaos, Connor anticipated the enemy making efforts to draw back, as their position on the side of the building allowed it.

But he noticed they didn’t. The dreaded realisation dawned they were not the police.

“Connor,” came the urgent call to his right. He turned to find Rayen with a Heckler & Koch HK416 slung at his side and him throwing Connor a second HK416.

The gas-operated, short-stroke piston design fired a NATO standard 5.56 mm round and had a cyclical rate of 900 rounds per minute—though he rarely fired on automatic. The Chameleon Project agent liked it for several reasons; fine recoil, decent muzzle velocity, good grips, flawless weight, user friendly, but most of all, it rarely jammed.

He called back to Rayen with a shake of his head. “I don’t think they are police. I think they are our enemy’s reinforcements.”

A flash of fear appeared over Rayen’s face. “Let’s pull back.”

“I can’t without my cousin,” Connor shouted back, feeling his fear more acutely.

“We don’t have the firepower to retrieve him.”

Connor nodded as the logic hit. “Wait for the breach. If they chase us, they aren’t shooting bodies on the floor.”

Rayen nodded, and Connor felt gratitude.

One of the paintings—‘Vanitas with Violin and Glass Ball’ by Pieter Claesz—had fallen off, with its reflective glass giving Connor a partial view of his enemy’s positions.

Though they were still in cover from fire, he caught the surreal sight of Botic Middelkoop—Van Der Saar’s head of security, making a hand signal to them.

His attention snapped to the door, seeing the ‘armed police’ about to enter without ‘stacking’ on it or displaying tactical nuance.

And he counted only three of them—he knew if armed police crashed out, it would necessitate many more than three.

All this soothed his concerns regarding what he was about to do because attacking—let alone killing—police had always been sacrilege within the Ryder family.

He switched to full auto. They crashed and surged in to be met by a pair of long bursts from Connor and Rayen’s HK416s.

Connor and Rayen ducked away as the return fire tore the walls and furniture around them.

“Connor. Luke,” shouted Rayen. “I will cover you back to me.”

The former Royal Marine looked at his younger cousin to ensure he understood. Luke nodded.

As Rayen stepped out, delivering rapid bursts, the cousins kept low and dashed behind the Dutchman.

Regal green carpets lined the hallways with the English Victorian-style walls lit by candle lamps.

“Luke, keep your weapon trained ahead as you move up the stairs. Rayen and I will move back in a pair.”

Connor and the Netherlander began to pepper-pot backwards. Rayen said, “If we can make it outside, I can give you the keys to a vehicle for your escape. I ca—”

“It’s not an option without taking back custody of Tom.”

“I understand. It’s just—”

Connor interrupted him as he knew the ‘armed police’ and ‘waiters’ were about to come through the double glass door entrance.

“Listen, Rayen. Botic is the traitor. That’s how they got in. I saw him gesture to the enemy.”

The former Dutch commando simply said, “Thank you.”

If the enemy had indeed been firearms police, he’d have expected the use of TTPs— Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures—that, in addition to proper entries, might include the use of ballistic shields and flash-bang grenades.

Instead, what they lacked in subtlety, they made up for in their indiscriminate use of fire as a nose of a Benelli M3 curved out like an evil snake.

Both former commandos—already halfway up the stairs—leapt as three rounds pummelled their former position. Due to the spread not being able to widen at this short distance, the pair escaped harm.

Connor let out a cry of pain and stamped on the stairs to mimic a fall. His reward was two of the ‘armed police’ bombing out to be unzipped from throat to forehead by a pair of accurate HK416 bursts.

“Let’s go,” he commanded Rayen. He sensed the danger of holding the door any longer.

The sound of gunfire behind him briefly squeezed Connor’s trapezium muscles as he spun around. Specks of relief flicked his insides, watching an armed waiter fall beside his younger cousin’s feet.

Connor shot the fallen man in the head. “Rayen, take point with Luke. I’ll cover the rear.”

Due to his cousin’s inexperience, they could not initiate an adapted version of the ‘tunnel method’ to collapse back through the corridor. Connor dismissed the technique of latching his hand behind him onto the back of Rayen’s shirt, as he knew they would have to move fast.

He ran backwards as elegantly as he could as the forward pair moved fast.

“Exit coming up. Your right. Our left,” called out Rayen.

At that moment, the barrel of an MP5 poked around the corner down the corridor and spat indiscriminate fury.

Connor threw himself onto his back to minimize the target he offered. He snapped his head to check on his cousin, kicking himself towards the exit as bullets zipped around him.

Luke’s strong hands grasped him beneath his arms and dragged him in through the doorway onto a small smoking balcony with a spiral of metal stairs leading down to the outside ground level.

Connor scrambled to his feet. He felt frustrated knowing he might be able to overcome this assault team himself. However, his protective instincts for both cousins prevented him from attacking. Apart from this evening, Luke fired a gun only during the range work he had put him through and the paintballing events.

Connor said, “Let’s curve back around to the dining room. I need to retrieve my cousin, no matter his state.”

Rayen nodded. “Yes.”

Connor mirrored his enemy’s tactics by pointing his HK416 around the corner and firing a burst.

Shouts in Dutch and a scream of pain echoed back.

The trio set off down the metallic steps in unison, with Rayen taking point down the curving stairs. Once at the bottom, Rayen pointed his weapon down at the southern corner, with Luke’s facing the north. Connor said to Luke, “Move to that corner and call out ‘set’ once you’re there. Don’t expose your barrel past the corner. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Go.”

Once Luke carried this out, Connor and Rayen moved backwards; the former British Marine’s weapon trained up on the smoking balcony’s exit and Rayen’s on the southern corner.

Once stacked on the northern corner, Rayen said, “Follow me.”

After a clearance around the corner, they did so, and the Dutchman led them around the mansion the long route, but Connor did not question it.

Rayen stopped them at the last corner before having a view of the dining room.

The former Chief of Security peered out and slid back. He turned to make eye contact with Connor and made the peace sign before the thumbs-down sign— Two Enemy.

Connor crept up and took a look; Botic had adopted a crouched firing position facing the other way. Now he understood why Rayen took them this way around.

The other man—in a waiters’ uniform—stood inside the dining room—strewn with the bodies of the guests, the security team and the assassination squad— with an MP5 in the ‘low-port’ position.

Tom lay with the rest, not moving.

Connor whispered, “Do you want to take him to interrogate him?”

“We have not the time to risk.”

“I reckon whatever remains of their assassination team are scouring the woods, thinking we have escaped,” said Connor. “I think we have a bit of time. Let me try.”

He checked the surrounding lighting and the windows to ascertain if his shadow or reflection would give him away.

Connor selected ‘single shot’, then stepped out and ghost walked towards Botic with his HK416 trained on the man within the dining room.

When he stepped within two metres of Botic, Connor shot the waiter in the back of his head before rushing Botic and striking him in the temple with the butt of the HK416.

The faux security chief pitched forward but still had the wherewithal to place a hand out to the floor. Connor had purposely not hit him with full force as a full-blooded strike to the temple could prove fatal.

He rammed his boot between the shoulder blades, collapsing the security chief’s arm and trapping it beneath his body. Connor fired into Botic’s elbow of the arm gripping the MP5.

As Rayen and Luke slid around him—again, his cousin taking up arcs like an experienced soldier—Connor fired into the other elbow.

Botic hissed in pain and fury, and Connor said, “If you shout, then make it biblical, cos it’ll be the last words you ever say.”

Luke said, “Tom’s right there.”

“Wait,” Connor snapped, leashing Luke to the spot. More than once, the black operations agent had rushed into trouble and had been fortunate to escape unharmed.

Rayen said, “I will cover Botic and your rear. Go get your cousin. There is a Land Rover not far.”

The former Marines switched positions.

The elder cousin said to the younger, “We’re going to go slow. Keep your weapon system trained on the exit at the opposite end as we go in. We’ll stop where Tom is lying. Whatever his state, he’s coming with us. You’ll hoi’ him onto your shoulder, and we’ll take off. Repeat what I’ve just said.”

“We’re going to go slow. This is going to be pointed at the door at all times. I am carrying him back as you cover.”

“Good. Remember ‘cover and manoeuvre’ like I’ve shown you.”

They pepper-potted forward.

Connor didn’t let the scene of the deceased Raymond Van Der Saar leant back in his seat, with his chest ripped open, distract him—it would be the recall of the image that would flash in his mind’s eye later.

They stopped beside Tom, who lay unresponsive.

Connor knelt, tilted his elder cousin’s chin and opened his mouth to check for obstructions to the airway. Once satisfied, he resisted the urge to check his state any further; alertness, breathing, pulse, breaks, or bleeds. All that mattered in this moment was getting him away from the scene with the enemy still roaming about.

Connor took up his cousin’s arcs on the access point before commanding him. “Pick him up! Go slow so I can cover you properly.”

Luke slung the thirteen-stone dead weight onto his shoulder with seeming ease.

Catching sight of the blood-stained tears in Tom’s shirt at the lower back, Connor winced. As his cousins moved off, Connor thrust the negative thoughts from his mind and walked backwards, taking care not to trip over debris.

As they reached Rayen, a sound to their left snapped him and the Dutch security chief in its direction.

Connor took a life-saving step to his left into a crouch and began firing as the earth around him tore with enemy fire.

The commando’s rounds hit their mark and cut down the reckless trio.

“Hold on to that corner,” said Connor to Rayen as he spun around.

The scene of Luke on top of Tom punched a hole of pride in his diaphragm. However, he instantly recognised that Luke was using his body to protect his older cousin while correctly taking up arcs in the opposite direction to prevent them from being caught in any pincer manoeuvre. Connor could not remember ever teaching him to do that.

“Where is the vehicle?” asked Connor.

“Down this hill. Part way into the forest,” replied Rayen, using a Brecon Chop to denote where.

“Alright, we haven’t time,” said Connor, gesturing at Botic, who remained under Rayen’s foot with his hands spread out in a gesture of surrender.

Rayen nodded and executed the traitor with a shot to the back of the head.

“Good,” said Connor. “Show Luke where and cover him down. I’ll hold here until you’ve pulled the vehicle out.”

Rayen nodded as Luke again hoisted Tom onto his shoulder. “I will flash the lights twice.”

Connor said, “Luke, make sure you’re on the passenger side. I’ll have to check on Tom when I get in.”

As Luke and Rayen took off at speed down the hill, Connor crouched behind a white Mercedes SUV, hoping more would appear.

Time seemed to stretch until, finally, he heard a vehicle approaching up the hill.

The twin flashes appeared, and Connor slid out with his HK416 up.

He got in the back of a black Land Rover Discovery Sport, crawling into the gap between the front and rear seats.

Despite his terror about Tom’s status, he put a hand on his chest and an ear to his mouth.

Come on…for fucksake, please, come on. God, please.

Shallow. Very shallow but present.

Next, he checked the pulse. Very weak.

He nipped Tom’s ear hard—no response. He ripped open the shirt to expose the torso before checking the back. Next, he pressed on the stomach, relieved to find the absence of abnormal hardness. Finally, he performed a head-to-toe check for broken bones and bleeds.

“Shallow breathing. Weak pulse. Unresponsive. No sign of breaks. Wounding to the lower back, probably shot or at least shrapnel. Bruising to the temple.”

Rayen said, “I know a hospital we use.”

“How do you know it is not blown?”

“I never told Botic about it.”

Connor decided now was not the time to ask why.

“Was anyone else on the team?”

“Yes, but they are now dead.”

10

Eddie O’Neil felt a vibration in his hand as Liam said, “I didn’t see him for a few days. I wasn’t after him for any reason but started to get nervous about everything happening. He turned up, and when I said I’d been calling him, he showed me his phone log and said he hadn’t got them. Didn’t think anything of it at the time. Tommy and some of the lads hadn’t seen him either. But Seán sometimes does that after a bender.”

“I’ve told him to always keep his phone on during this time. I can’t get hold of him. Can you?”

“Spoke to him the day before yesterday.”

“Not since?”

“No,” there was a pause. “I’ll try him after our conversation.”

“Do me a favour, Liam. Just tell him I was asking after him, that’s all.”

“Sure to be sure, Uncle Eddie.”

“Remember, Liam, we are a family, and hard times can either make or break a family.”

Luke clasped his hands together to stop them from shaking. This had not happened since Connor had saved him from a Hellbanianz gangster chopping him up in the woods with a machete.

That was the first time he’d had an adrenal dump since his first few amateur matches as a pre-teen—after he won them, his nerves receded, and a cloud of self-confidence floated around him before fights.

This was worse. He took deep, controlled breaths. And he felt he was about to cry.

Rayen hooked his phone to the Discovery’s Bluetooth. A female’s voice filled the vehicle with Dutch. Rayen answered her tersely in the same tongue, and after a few moments, a gravelly-voiced man came on the line. The two exchanged a few short sentences before the call ended.

“They will be waiting for him when we get there,” announced Rayen.

Luke, afraid to look at Tom in case he lost control, just kept breathing and scanning the road.

Finally, he asked, “How far is this hospital?”

“Two minutes.”

“That close?” asked Luke, surprised, before kicking himself—Of course, an emergency surgery is going to be close.

“Yes,” said Rayen. “He can be admitted to a private wing.”

Luke steeled his voice. “What do you think is wrong with him, Connor? Why won’t he wake up?”

“It looks like he’s gone into a coma. He either fell onto something or had—”

“I saw one of the waiters hit ’im in the temple with his gun.”

“That’ll be it then.”

“Will he be okay?”

Connor answered, “I can’t tell yet. It’s been a long time since I’ve done my medical degree.”

Luke took the light-hearted rebuke on board and stopped letting his nerves ask questions.

Connor asked, “So, this was Dion Franklin’s response to you turning him down?”

“It seems so,” answered Rayen, with a tremor in his voice. “He will not know of your presence. I will deal with this—”

Connor interrupted him with, “One, Botic had plenty of time to tell whoever he needed to that we were there. And two, Raymond was my friend too.”

“I know. I know,” said Rayen.

Silence passed before Luke felt Connor’s hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you did well back there.”

Luke felt his spirit lift at the words as the Discovery turned onto a white road. They followed it to a building that, even in low light, Luke could see, was built using uncommon bright red bricks, several floors high. The way some windows were lit—while others weren’t—reminded him of the game, Connect 4.

The Discovery flew around the back of it and dove into an underground section.

A team of medical staff stood by outside the back entrance. As he got out of the vehicle, he watched Connor rapidly dictate their cousin’s state to them.

Luke clamped the elbows of his tightly folded arms to his sides as he watched Tom disappear on a gurney.

He straightened as Connor marched to him.

“Listen, we are now at war with an organisation that dwarfs us in manpower and finances. Not only that. We have to assume they’ll go after our family.”

“I understand,” said Luke, holding his voice steady. “How would we win against them? They have so many people and many others backing them, too.”

“The thicker the grass, the easier it is to mow.”

Luke felt weak in the face of his older cousin’s authoritative confidence, who continued, “First things first. Call Bill and tell him to take one of the minibuses around to Gran’s in two hours. I’ll call Gran. Then we’ll work down the family list. They are going to the safe house. Phones destroyed—tell him not to take no for an answer.”

“What about Tom? We can’t just leave—”

“We have to. We can’t move him. And we can’t stay with him. Can’t assign protection either without risking drawing attention to him. We have to get our family safe, then hit them as hard as we can. Unless you have other options. I am open to your suggestions.”

Luke thought for a moment. “No. I’ll get on it.”

“Alright. I am going to go back inside. I shouldn’t be long.”

“How come?”

“All I need to do is find a nurse and hope she is as trustworthy as Bill.”

Bill Hopkin’s eyes flew open at the ringing of the ‘other’ phone.

“Yeh,” he answered. The sixty-four-year-old listened to Luke’s rapidly delivered instructions and swung his feet out of bed. “I understand. I am on my way.”

He turned to meet Lucinda, brushing her grey-flecked brown hair out of her enquiring eyes with an exclamation of, “At this time in the bastard morning?”

“Yeh,” he said, already bracing himself for an argument with his girlfriend over ten years his junior. In recent years, his enthusiasm for arguing had seemed to wane, whereas hers remained on a hair trigger.

“Where you going?”

“Out,” he said tersely, ripping clothes out of the wardrobe. “Make sure the dog’s walked. And don’t try to phone me; it’ll be off.”

“Well, I hope it’s worth it,” she huffed.

“Reight, Loo, I’ve told ya, haven’t I? They aren’t just my employers, alright? And besides, why do you think you’re sleeping in silk sheets, in a four-bedroom house, in Otley? They look after us.”

“Blue and yellow sheets? Does everything have to be Leeds United?”

Bill rubbed his cropped hair. “You can always leave and start seeing a Bradford City fan.”

“I think I will if you carry on.”

He relaxed, sensing her tone had changed to a mock sulk.

“Don’t tease me,” he replied, fishing his Benson & Hedges gold out of the drawer.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with yer’sen if I wasn’t ’ere to clear after you all the time.”

“You are better than her in that way,” he replied, making for the door.

“Than who?”

He opened the door, stepped out and used it as a shield against the flying pillow, having replied, “My other girlfriend.”

11

Connor turned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Luke as Rayen approached.

The Dutchman said, “He’ll be safe here.”

“You can’t guarantee that,” said Connor.

“No,” said Rayen. “But he is under a false name. We have used this surgery many times, and discretion has always been made.”

“My cousin and I are going to have to go dark.”

“How will I contact you with intelligence?”

“Take out your phone and pull up whatever secret app you might have for note-taking.”

Rayen did so. Connor took it and tapped on the screen several times. “There is an email address and password. Swap the last two characters around to get access. Anything you want to tell me, compose it, but don’t send it. It’ll lay in the drafts folder until I have read it. I’ll delete it once I do, and vice versa.”

“What’s your plan?”

“If this is the FOC, then a war of attrition could bleed our organisations dry.”

“What do you propose?”

“Take whatever trusted men you can spare and start hitting whatever targets you can identify. We’ll share intel via the e-mail account,” said Connor. “And I need a clean vehicle.”

“Take the Discovery. They are false registration plates under the fabric in the luggage compartment—I will change them now. Burn the vehicle if you wish afterwards.”

In less than five minutes, Rayen had changed the plates over.

“Whose name is on the original and the false plates?” asked Connor.

“Originals are in the name of one of the men who is now dead,” said Rayen, handing him the key fob. “The false are registered to Devoys Yogurts in Frankfurt.”

“Alright. Be lucky,” said Connor, and gestured with his head to Luke towards the black Discovery. “You drive.”

Once on the move, Luke asked, “Where we going?”

After mirroring his phone to a ten-inch touch screen, Connor set the journey for him to follow.

“Let’s get away from here and into France first,” he replied, tapping out a coded message and sending it.

“Is Cara going to the safe house?”

“No. She’s the conduit for a lot of the legitimate businesses. They’ll collapse if she goes to the safe house without her phone.”

“Fuckin’ hell, mate. Tom’ll go spare when he wakes up.”

“He won’t. We discussed it when we came to build it.”

Connor remembered it was Tom who told him Cara remained in play in case of a war. They had discussed it in ‘The Dancing Bear’—one of the two lap dancing clubs under Cara’s name and the one she solely owned—and when Connor had insisted harder, Tom had brought Cara in, and he had been unceremoniously out-voted. In that moment, his respect for them as a couple had skyrocketed.

He continued. “Ironically, this conversation only happened a few weeks back. We were going to brief you after this trip. The Samurai had this saying, ‘When the battle is over, tighten your helmet straps.’ With everything going on, we’ve been slacking in communication.”

“What do you think the plan of attack should be?”

Connor, from a pre-teen, had practised and perfected ‘the swan effect’ after reading about it in a book by the then self-defence guru, Geoff Thompson. It employed techniques to disguise fear—swilling saliva around the gums to trick the body’s physiology into calming, camouflaging hand and foot tremors through gestures, and controlling the pitch of your voice to prevent the dread from strangling it for all to hear.

Nonetheless, a cold, heavy sphere of fear now nestled amid his heart and lungs. He knew if he showed it, it could spread to Luke too.

“We’ll have to start putting the feelers out for a location on this Dion Franklin.”

Luke surprised Connor by saying, “He splits his time between the Puertos Banús and Dubai. I know he stays mostly in Dubai to avoid extradition, so fuck knows who runs the day-to-day when he’s not here. When he comes back, he’s confident the bribery money he chucks ’is Spanish contacts makes him immune to a European Arrest Warrant.”

“You got contacts that could tell you where he is at any time?”

“I’ll make some calls. But I’ll have to be careful how I word it because once people find out Tom is out of play, they’ll look at us differently—not that they would go against the FOC for us.”

“I’ll call Charlie. Try and get a bead of the FOC’s hierarchy, soft targets like money launderers and depot managers. We might be able to get a timing for when he comes over. And we need to work out who their enemies and potential enemies are.”

“I know. We’ll need all the help we can get here.”

“Hey, no one expected Leicester to win the league,” said Connor, referring to the football team that won the coveted English Premier League in 2016 despite odds of 5,000-1 at the start of that season.

Luke looked at him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Leicester had Vardy and Mahrez, but our Kanté is in a coma.”

“You’ll have to be the Kanté now,” said Connor. “Let’s hope the law enforcement officers at the scene don’t have that type of talent—for policing, I mean, not football.”

Raphael Del Piero approached from the opposite side, where a police cordon held back a small throng of camera-waving media and a smattering of phone-baring civilians.

Raphael, one of the most aggressive and successful investigative officers in Italy’s ROS (Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale), had answered a call for a year-long secondment at the request of Interpol in the Dienst Landelijke Operationele Samenwerking (Special Investigative Services) of Holland’s National Unit.

The ROS was the principal investigative arm of the Carabinieri, dealing with organised crime and terrorism.

With the murder of Dutch lawyer Derk Wiersum, some feared Holland descending into a narco-state, as they saw the country as the gateway to Europe’s drug trade. As a result, Moroccan-Dutch and Caucasian-Dutch—the Penose—gangs went through a perpetual cycle of conflict and cooperation. However, it had been more of the former in recent times.

For this reason, the Dutch government requested a handful of foreign law enforcement officers as advisors. Given his reputation, and that he could speak fluent English, as could the vast majority of the Dutch population, his name had been one of the first to be put forward.

Jacco Verkerk, an investigative officer within the National Crime Squad (Dienst Nationale Recherche), met him at the rear of the house.

The two men stood at a similar height, Raphael being taller than the average for an Italian, Verkerk being of regular height for a Dutchman, and the same age of thirty-six.

However, Verkerk had a fair complexion, blue eyes, and blond hair, whereas Raphael had black hair, brown eyes, darker skin and a Roman nose.

Raphael appreciated Verkerk’s lack of preamble.

“Raymond Van Der Saar is dead. Massacre. As you can see, forensics has a major challenge.”

What evidence the fire did not destroy would likely be contaminated by the arrival of the fire service.

“Is a shooting scene reconstruction impossible?” asked Raphael, already knowing it was a fool’s hope.

“We can do what we can. But some of the structures have collapsed or burnt to complete cinders. And it is impossible to know how much evidence has been displaced by hoses and boots. They have not allowed the forensics team access yet. I have been able to walk around as I knew the Fire Chief, but a full forensics team isn’t permitted yet.”

Raphael stopped his thoughts from becoming words and instead asked, “Any survivors? Witnesses?”

When Verkerk shook his head, the Italian continued, “Seems strange that a major gun battle followed by a fire of that magnitude wouldn’t have brought out the authorities sooner.”

Verkerk, a national, not local asset, did not seem to take offence at the remark. “Raymond Van Der Saar was a very influential man. Perhaps they knew not to disturb him unless he requested them to. There is no confirmation, but I am reckoning on the use of some accelerant.”

“Have you managed to survey the scene?”

“A cursory one. Lots and lots of shell casings. Lots of charred bodies. Skid marks denoting speedy getaways. Traffic surveillance picked up three suspicious vehicles. One, a white Mercedes Sprinter, stolen out of Rotterdam nearly two weeks ago, has now been found burnt out in Het Amsterdamse Bos National Forest. Got a BOTLO out for the grey Citroën Jumper and a black Land Rover Discovery,” answered the Dutchman, using the unofficial acronym for Be On The Look Out.

“Any initial thoughts?”

“My first judgement was that the Mocro mafia had swung a decisive blow in their off-on war with the Van Der Saar cartel. But we’ve had Interpol reports, backed by our CIs, that it is a dispute with the Franklin Organised Crime group.”

The Mocro mafia constituted a specific gang of Moroccan descent whose origins began with a band of jewellery thieves operating out of Amsterdam, but now Belgium too.

“Territorial?”

“The details are scarce at this moment, but it seems Van Der Saar rebuffed an offer for partnership. The street myth is Van Der Saar’s chemists have developed a drug capable of a high without the subsequent low. Whether it is true or not has not been confirmed. I think it’s doubtful.”

“This would indicate it might be true. Might justify a massacre like this,” said Raphael. “I am sure an inspection of pharmaceutical plants could be arranged.”

“It wouldn’t glean anything. The official plants are always in order.”

“Do you have an idea where the unofficial plants are?”

Verkerk shrugged. “Some rumours, maybe.”

Raphael asked, “Would I be correct in assuming that all the Dutch authorities might consider the Van Der Saar outfit more…acceptable?”

The Italian detected a hint of a smirk on the Dutchman’s face as he replied, “Off the record?”

“Yes.”

“You and I know our role is to maintain order. It has nothing to do with eradicating crime. Do you agree?”

“I agree.”

“The Van Der Saar organisation is the most…responsible. They have been the most discreet when dealing with disputes.”

“That is likely to be in the past now that the head of the organisation lies slain.”

“Not necessarily. His second-in-command, Rayen Hauer, a natural successor, has the entire organisation’s respect. And this day was going to come.”

“The entire organisation? In my experience, enemies within aid massacres of this kind.”

Verkerk nodded, seemingly in agreement. Raphael said, “Looks like they have managed to disperse the crowd. Let’s take a walk around the perimeter.”

It did not take long for his keen eyes to pick out empty shells away from the remnants of the mansion.

Raphael remembered when, as a boy, his father threw cold water on his desire for a Lamborghini Diablo. When he discovered the price—nearly seventy million lira or half a million dollars back in the early nineteen-nineties—he approached his father with his suggestion of how he might afford one based on a horse breeding idea he had had. Before he could convince him of the scheme, his father took the opportunity to list all the running costs, including fuel, insurance, tax and the likely repair bills, from gearbox malfunctions to scratches to the bodywork. And he informed him that, in the event of repairs, it could take weeks for simple parts to arrive due to the relative rarity of supercars.

As Raphael looked at the ashes of the once impressive mansion, he wondered about the financial cost of the destroyed contents.

His eyes flicked over the tyre marks in relation to the empty round casings.

One factor making Raphael good at his work was the ability to superpose the evidence in such a way he could replay the crime in the theatre of his mind. Indeed, to make a good detective, one needed to possess to some degree, many traits—an ability to listen and observe body language, the interpersonal skills to make witnesses feel comfortable and form relationships on the street and judicial system, a keen eye and adroit writing skills—but he believed the truly remarkable ones could blend painstaking, systematic logic with a great imagination.

“I believe there have been survivors from either side who have managed to escape.”

“How do you know this?”

“The configuration and distance of the empty casings. Not sure how many—maybe one but no more than four on one side. Several on the rest.”

“Interesting.”

Raphael added, “And it seems like a woman managed to escape too.”

He pointed to a blue and yellow sapphire diamond pendant necklace in the tree line.

“Not captured?”

Raphael looked at the sky. “No. They wouldn’t have time to look if she remained hiding here. I guess she escaped through the forest to the edge of the main road. From there, she will have either used her phone to call for help, walked further along or, though I don’t think this is probable, hitchhiked.”

“Why don’t you think that is probable?”

“The last thing you want to do as a woman who has just survived a mass shooting is jump in a steel box with a stranger.”

“Interesting.”

“Let’s walk down there.”

Raphael watched his Dutch counterpart’s eye shift to the muddy soil. The Italian suppressed a smirk as he reached into his jacket and produced two pairs of disposable blue plastic overshoes. Verkerk bowed his head in muted thanks.

After donning them, the two men began to investigate along the treeline painstakingly before walking down the shallow descent. Raphael knew within certain British criminal fraternities that Amsterdam was known as ‘the flat place’ due to its lack of hills.

His eyes scanned not only the ground but the trees. He kept looking back as he passed them.

After three minutes, only a few metres into the forest, he saw them—large, triangular prints with deeper but much smaller squares behind.

“Over here,” he called out.

Verkerk joined him. “High heels.”

Raphael looked ahead. “I think after another ten metres, these will disappear.”

“She got captured?”

“No. High heels are for show, not practicality,” he answered, following the prints before they proved his hypothesis correct. “She took them off here.”

“I can’t see any other sign. The ground is not soft enough for her feet to leave behind prints.”

“Agreed. But she will have gone down the path of least resistance. Let’s walk a little further before alerting the forensics team.”

Raphael tried to put his mind in that of a frightened woman and walked. After a while, he found himself verging on the bank before the road.

He turned and caught the glint immediately. Reaching into a dense bush, he gripped what appeared to be a diamond-encrusted hair clip by its edge. He removed a transparent evidence bag as Verkerk sidled up and whistled, “Must be thousands of Euros.”

“If they are real diamonds, then I agree,” said Raphael. “Which will narrow down our search for its owner.”

“Want me to contact Interpol?”

Raphael shook his head. “For now, the fewer outside agencies, the better.”

Ciara rubbed chalk into her hands and psyched herself. Her dark indigo lycra wrapped around her hard physique.

She blocked out the surreptitious glances from men and women alike to ready herself for an attempt at the infamous gymnastic feat known as ‘the iron cross’.

She had performed one over a month ago, albeit for less than a second. However, she had purposely held herself at ‘one second’ holds for a month until they became easier.

She had learnt the value of shunning the bodybuilding mantra of always pushing harder with each successive workout from the power lifters she had conversed with.

Some of the lifters competing in the weight-restricted classes had physiques of iron, and she had noticed there seemed to be far more lifters into their forties and fifties still competing than bodybuilders of a similar age.

They had advised her to either consolidate her strength by staying on the same amount of repetitions, set number and weight until it felt ridiculously easy before upping the weight.

Or to ‘cycle’ her workouts in that once she had hit a PB—Personal Best—to return to week two or three of her current cycle and rebuild from there.

She had chosen the former this time.

Jumping to grasp the smooth wood of the rings, she fired up with a ‘muscle-up’ into the ‘support position’ with her arms straight, and the rings turned out.

Rolling her shoulders forward, she lowered herself while pulling down on the rings. She felt the vibration of great tension as she controlled the descent.

The shaking became more pronounced as her arms angled her into a crucifix position. She counted in her head, ‘One, Two, Three, Fou—’

Her muscles gave out, releasing her into the pull-up position. She dropped off and checked her phone.

The text message appeared to be from her mobile phone provider, informing her of offers when using her phone abroad. But she recognised it as Jaime Rangel—The Chameleon Project’s tech and logistics Chief.

Rangel was originally from Peru—hence the name pronounced ‘Hai-mee’—and had been recruited years ago by McQuillan after his hacking activities had fallen him foul of Russia’s SVR.

He had proved to be a guardian angel to the select few agents working for The Project, including herself, when she had worked in the field.

She cut her workout short and skipping her stretch, showered and changed.

Once in her Grey Audi RS3, she connected to the Bluetooth and relayed the required number.

The digital voice, which she felt to be mildly sinister when she had first heard it, now gave her a feeling of assurance.

“Raymond Van Der Saar was assassinated in his home, along with several of his guests and members of his security team.”

“It won’t be long until Connor finds out. If he hasn’t already.”

“He was there.”

Her heart pulsed in her ears. “And?”

“He’s OK. His phone has been active.”

She released the breath she did not realise she had been holding. Jaime continued, “Seán O’Neil made the trip to Marbella. He has not been seen or heard from since.”

“Maybe the Franklins are tying loose ends?”

“That is one theory.”

“Do you have another?”

“I only present you the information.”

“The good news might be they’ve softened their stance on targeting civilians. The bad might be one of our routes into them has disappeared.”

“Perhaps. These things tend to be revolving in my experience.”

“Any confirmation with regards to Mr Edward O’Neil?”

“No.”

This surprised Ciara since Jaime could usually get a rough location on most people in urban settings.

“It seems the man is truly the ghost they say he is,” she said.

“Seems so.”

“OK. Anything else?”

“No.”

Bruce waited but two rings before Chen Zhao—the head of Interpol—answered in perfect English, “Yes, my friend.”

“Give me the highlights of the incident in Amsterdam.”

A pause, and then Zhao said, “Raymond Van Der Saar and most of his immediate personal security detail are dead. Rayen Hauer has disappeared.”

“Who’s behind it?”

“I am almost certain the Franklin Organised Crime Group employed them.”

“How did they gain access?”

“The details are still being received, but it seems Van Der Saar threw a party at his residence. The hired catering company were made up of killers, mostly women. Dental records and DNA are slowly coming in, but it seems at least two are from Estonia, one from Ukraine—”

“The Nerium,” said Bruce, almost to himself.

“Nerium?”

“Nerium Oleanders are a type of plant; all parts of it, including the pretty crimson flowers, are exceptionally toxic if ingested. Nerium is also the name of a small organisation rumoured to be based in Tallinn specialising in using female assassins, along with their male counterparts.”

“Why have I never heard of them?”

“Naturally, they keep themselves under the radar.”

A brief pause, and Bruce knew Zhao wanted to ask him how he did—but didn’t.

Bruce said truthfully, “I cannot be certain they exist, and therefore I do not know who might run them if they do.”

“But you’re saying I must direct my efforts there?”

“Some, yes, but I would suggest focusing on the FOC’s next move.”

Luke stood in the brightness of the Paris supercar showroom, trying to keep his incredulity off his face.

Yesterday they dumped the Discovery at the Brussels scrapyard Rayen specified before being given a non-descript blue Dacia Sandero. They spent the rest of the day shopping for expensive shoes, evening and summer wear before crossing the border at dusk.

Now he watched Connor talk stilted French mixed with English to the pretty blonde woman—who could speak both languages perfectly—fawning over him as he sat in the dark racing green Porsche 911 GT3 Grand Tourer.

He got out of the car and tapped on his phone for a good few moments before showing her the screen, eliciting a giggle and a nod.

Again, Luke felt an uneasy admiration for Connor’s ability not to exhibit signs of stress because Luke had to fight hard to keep his worry for his family, especially Tom, from constantly invading his mind.

As they followed her, Luke whispered, “Not the Aventador, eh?”

“I think I’d end up in the same hospital bed as Tom if he were to wake and find out I spent a quarter of a million pounds on a car.”

“How much is the Porsche?”

“Over a hundred grand—thousand, I mean—less,” said Connor. “Plus, it’s meant to be fucking mega to drive. It’s less conspicuous than a standard GT3 because it doesn’t have that ironing board of a rear spoiler on it, let alone that spaceship Lamborghini.”

“I remember grandad telling Tom off too for using ‘grand’ for a thousand—said it was a ‘bloody Yank’s word’.”

Connor smiled. “I read the Americans have—or had—a thousand dollar note with the face of Ulysses S. Grant, and over time, ‘Grant’ became ‘Grand’. Another explanation is Americans referred to a thousand dollars as a grand amount.”

Before Luke could ask more questions, the saleswoman led them into a clean-glassed office.

They went through the paperwork. Connor used a false name—Jack Smith—backed by a false passport, as did Luke—now Alex Armitage.

Finally, when Connor signed the last document and the monies had been transferred, she leaned over. “Mr Smith, I have provided free air freshener because you are a very handsome man.”

Luke frowned as Connor turned his smirking face towards him.

After a moment, it clicked—his cousin had told the saleswoman to say that via text on his phone screen when showing her earlier.

Luke said, “She’s not made of wood, is she?”

She quizzed, “Made of wood?”

Connor answered, “He means you’re only human.”

She smiled. “Not made of wood. I will remember that one.”

Within ten minutes, Connor drove the ‘new-car’ smelling GT3 away, with Luke in the passenger seat.

After a while, Connor said, “Feels nice, this. You could have it as a daily driver. I know you’re upset, but the suspension on that Huracan would have been so firm that if you ran over a penny, you could tell if it was heads or tails.”

“Suppose I would have cringed every time you came to a speed bump too,” said Luke. “So, what’s the plan?”

“It’s too dangerous for us to fly to Dubai to try to hit Dion there because he’ll know as soon as we start asking around after him. We know most of his businesses, like money laundering, are handled from Marbella. His foot soldiers, including those in his family, live there. He meets many of his business contacts over there.”

“Which part of Marbella did we need to get a car like this for? I have pictures in my head of Brits getting on the piss and those ‘Rise of the Foot Soldier films’.”

“That’s one part of Marbella. But there’s the Marbella Golden Mile, where the multi-millionaires and billionaires keep their holiday homes. You’re talking properties worth millions and millions of euros that are empty most of the year. But some people live there all year round—especially criminals who want to avoid extradition and/or paying UK taxes. One of them is this money launderer for the FOC that Charlie sent us the package about.”

Their cousin Charlie was the technical wizard of the family. As a result, he sometimes answered to the nickname ‘Donatello’ after the purple-bandana-wearing Ninja Turtle, who had an aptitude for science and technology.

“Be lost without our Charles, wouldn’t we? Tom told me most of our ‘naughty’ money goes through these crypto accounts he’s set up.”

“It’s swings and roundabouts. Governments are trying to phase out cash so ‘Bartosz the builder’ can’t fiddle his books with homers but hasn’t counted on cryptocurrencies. They’ll catch up, though. They always do. It wasn’t so long back when every grafter and his dog thought EncroChat phones were untouchable, and look what happened.”

Connor referred to the European service provider that offered encrypted communications and thus was used mostly by the members of organised crime. However, after its penetration by law enforcement, at least 1,000 arrests were made across Europe.

“Whereabouts in Marbella are we going to stay then?”

“Charlie has found us a place to rent in the area’s hills.”

Luke exclaimed, “How much for?”

“Well, the one we got is for eighteen-hundred euros a night.”

“What the fuck! I don’t get it. I think Tom will be pissed off at us enough for buying a supercar, but us forking out fifteen hundred pounds a day on a Marbella pad will send him over the edge.”

His cousin glanced at him. “There isn’t any other way. Cos of the value of the properties and that Marbella is seen as a haven for grafters—from all over the world, not just the UK—they have armed guards there. It’ll be too much of a nause for us to start from outside the perimeter.”

“Has Charlie asked if there’ve been hints of the FOC declaring war on us?”

“Not yet, but when they do, I am debating whether we should feign an olive branch of peace.”

“How come?”

“The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so he cannot fathom our real intent.”

Luke said, “Ahh, Sun Tzu.”

His cousin looked at him with an expression of approval. “So you read it.”

“You said I should,” answered Luke with a flicker of pride. “But there was a quote saying, ‘The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting’.”

“Considering our ‘Grandad in Crime’ has been murdered, and our cousin is lying in a strange hospital, I think destroying them would be better, and I’m up for a fight.”

“Same,” said Luke, thinking of Tom.

Then, as if trying to take Luke’s mind off it, Connor said, “I was listening to a podcast—how many average eight-year-old boys could you beat up before getting overwhelmed? And before you ask, yes, they are fully clothed, and no, they are not armed.”

Luke, a highly regarded bare-knuckle boxer, answered, “It would fuckin’ take a hundred of ’em to stand a chance. They have fuck-all testosterone at that age—even if they piled on, I don’t see how they could inflict damage, so I’d just obliterate ’em one by one. I reckon I’d die from the exhaustion of battering so many before I’d die of any damage they’d do.”

Connor laughed, and Luke continued, “Plus, you said ‘average eight-year-olds’, so I reckon, as soon as you crunched one, the rest would shit themselves.”

“Good point, well presented.”

“Then I have a question for you—would you rather fight five thirteen-year-olds or a kangaroo?”

Connor took a moment to answer. “My immediate thought was five thirteen-year-olds because I’d know what I am dealing with, but I saw that video of the Aussie guy cracking one that was attacking his dog.”

“Why would the kangaroo own a dog?”

Connor tipped his head back in muted laughter, and Luke continued, “Yeah, plus you do Jiu-jitsu, the kangaroo would have zero ground game, and you could get it in an arm bar cos it wouldn’t have the…dexterity in the joint.”

“Ah, dexterity—like it, see what happens when you read more often,” said Connor. “But, even if I could take it to the ground, it would be a cunt to get past its legs, and I don’t think I’d fancy trying to leg-lock it. I’ll stick with fighting five thirteen-year-olds.”

An open road appeared through the windscreen, and Connor announced, “Let’s see what this bad boy can do.”

The GT3 shunted them back into their seats as the engine whine crept into a screaming howl.

Luke felt a whirl in his stomach akin to being on a rollercoaster.

“Fucking hell,” he called out to Connor over the noise. “It’s getting up to nine-thousand revs—better steady it there.”

His cousin slowed to a reasonable speed, and they didn’t speak as the GT3 thrummed around them. As the cloud of levity began to disperse, Connor said, “Look, neither of us are robots, so our minds are going to stray to what’s happening with Tom. Even if I wasn’t related to him, I’d wish I was. But for one, we don’t know what’s going to happen to him yet. Yes, he might die or wake up a cabbage or crippled. But he could just as easily wake tomorrow with just a sore head and a tight back—we can’t let our imaginations of a future that might not happen drain our energy. We are at war now; our focus has to be on how to stop these people and protect ourselves.”

“Yeh, I know. And I know things like this are bound to happen in our game, so we can’t feel sorry for ourselves. But, I feel for Gran—how many funerals has she had to attend for the men in this family now?”

“Too many. But I feel for Bill—he’s the one who has to tell her they’ll all be flying to Japan.”

Connor had completed a mission in Japan as an agent for The Chameleon Project. In doing so, he had assisted the Okada company, and by proxy, the most secretive, but perhaps, the most influential Yakuza clan now known as Gādian—the guardians.

And now he had asked for their help.

“Yeh, I know. Can’t you speak to her? She’ll listen to you…eventually.”

“Yeh, I will. And if Tom does peg it, I want you to know,” started Connor before sighing, “that I’ll be getting first dibs on comforting Cara.”

Luke shook his head in a futile effort to get rid of his smile.

Connor said, “Right, better get this call to Gran over and done with.”

He tapped the screen and brought up her number.

“Gran’s phone won’t be secure, though?”

“She’s been in ‘this life’ a lot longer than we have. She knows how to speak in code.”

Her voice billowed through the car. “Yes?”

“Gran it’s Connor.”

“Oh, I should feel honoured to recei—”

“Gran, there’s no time. I want you to listen to me very carefully.”

12

Lina Van watched Dion’s animated elation with distaste. He lay in the huge, regal, crushed, black velvet bed, proclaiming his plans for world domination, while she dressed at the foot of it.

“With Van Der Saar dead, we can swoop in and take over the distribution of the product. And it is real, Lina, dis is real—Botic confirmed it.”

“The same Botic who is now dead. He was supposed to ensure our sole distribution of this product. This Rayen Hauer might be just as difficult to deal with.”

“Dey haven’t finished identifying the bodies. Dat bald, two-bit kickboxer is probably dead too. And even if he isn’t, he’ll know his place now.”

“But you said the police reports have included the dead bodies of the sicarios? How has that happened? I thought Botic had insiders within the bodyguards. None of the sicarios should have died.”

Dion shrugged. “One of Van Der Saar’s guests noticed something, and all hell broke loose.”

“What guest?”

“Van Der Saar had some members of the Ryder family over. Dey graft out of Leeds in the North of England. It’s not even that big of a city, Lina. Stop panicking. Dey are small time compared to us. Dey will take their horses back to England, keep their heads down, and hope we never know.”

She fought to keep the agitation from her voice. “They are so small that Raymond Van Der Saar invited them into his home? So harmless that now, several trained killers are dead because one ‘noticed’ something?”

“Relax, Lina. I’ll send ‘The Clock’ and Kevin if it makes you feel better, Mo ghrá,” he said, smooshing himself back into the soft pillows.

She had always secretly disapproved of his comfort-loving side; this disapproval had grown into loathing in tandem with his face morphing into a plastic mask over the last few months.

Though she recognised Seamus Malley and Kevin Diver as competent and cruel men, she remained unsure of their proficiency in gun battles beyond executions.

Before she could respond, her eyes caught movement outside through the windows. She bared her teeth in a wolfish smile as a pair of chauffeur-driven black Mercedes-Benz GLS63 AMGs approached on the long, white stone track.

“They are here,” she announced, placing the backs of her spider earrings in before skipping out and down the stairs to the entrance.

An excited warmth plumed within her as five raven-haired, mahogany-skinned men alighted from them. The man with a mane of curly hair and thick eyebrows lit his face with a wide, boyish smile. Her cousin, Fernando ‘Maradona’ Garzon—a native of the port city of Barranquilla—held a fearsome reputation, belying his fresh-faced looks and comparatively short stature.

The man who got out behind Fernando stood a cropped head of hair, taller and broader, with a pair of striated, hairy forearms attached to plate-sized hands she knew had strangled at least two men to death. Andrés Santos had been given the grotesque moniker, Comedor de bebé—‘Baby Eater’, and although she believed her cousin that Santos had been given the nickname because of his looks and ruthless nature and had not eaten babies, she’d sometimes wondered.

The three other men she only vaguely recognised as part of Fernando’s BACRIM—bandas criminales emergentes—crew.

There were now numerous such crews since the 2006 destabilisation of the former Colombian far-right paramilitary and drug-trafficking organisation, the AUC (Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia). Collectively, the BACRIMs controlled forty percent of Colombia’s cocaine, leading to fierce fighting not only amongst themselves but also FARC-EP guerrillas—a left-wing guerrilla group—whom, as often is the case in crime circles, they also colluded with on occasion.

Fernando approached her with arms outstretched, as he always did.

“Lina, you look fantástica,” he enthused.

Embracing, she bent down so her chin touched his shoulder, “Gracias, siempre fuiste mi prima favourite.”—Thank you, you always were my favourite cousin.

She knew she was his favourite, too, and played on it. She had not told Dion she and Fernando were cousins.

“Santa Madre, this is a very, very nice house.”

“You should see inside,” she smiled before turning to the hard-faced enforcer. “How was your trip, Andrés?”

“Good,” he answered, looking over her shoulder as an Irish voice boomed, “Is dis the gang den?”

She quarter-turned to acknowledge Dion striding down the marble steps. Lina noticed Fernando’s smile stretched wider while Andrés’s face remained stony—she knew the former’s expression was the more intimidating.

The other three men stood back in bemused inquiry.

She knew Dion—indeed men in general—well enough to know the Irishman only appearing once they had arrived, and the volume of his voice was the first salvo in ensuring his dominance over the party.

She felt his arm wrap around her waist as he thrust his hand out to Fernando. Her cousin kept the smile on his face despite her knowing her boyfriend would have squeezed the hand harder than necessary.

“Good to meet ya,” said Dion.

“Nice to meet you,” said Fernando.

Dion turned his attention to Andrés and stuck out his hand. The time it took the big Colombian to grasp it bordered on disrespect. She saw the extensor and flexor muscles in the dark forearm rise; she knew the South American to be exerting his dominance.

After a few strained moments, the hands released, and Dion reached between the two men—Fernando moving to the side half-a-step with Andrés remaining immobile—to shake hands with the other three—Juan, Miguel and Antonio.

Dion raised his arm, clicked his fingers, and the Spanish footmen behind him rushed to collect the South Americans’ belongings like ants.

As one walked past the group, Andrés shot out a hand to snatch a suitcase out of a footman’s hand.

It created a moment of tension, broken by Lina explaining, “The childhood poverty some Colombians have had to endure can breed a protectiveness over one’s possessions.”

“He can suit himself. I don’t give a monkey’s ass what he’s got in dere.”

She silently cursed the petulance displayed by Andrés while acknowledging it would have been difficult to imagine him acting any other way.

When the ensemble congregated beyond the Roman-style pillars in the golden-lit hallway, Dion announced, “Mi casa, su casa. Dinner will be in an hour, and we can discuss business. I hope you like Italian.”

Raphael Del Piero sat in the backroom office, poring over the evidence.

His suit jacket lay over the back of the chair, and his tie lay unknotted against his chest.

At the tap on the door, he called out, “Yeh.”

Jacco clicked the door open, approached and handed the Italian a disk. “Have a present for you.”

The ROS officer quickly loaded it into the computer and watched the loading symbol.

Surveillance camera footage from outside a nightclub called ‘Club Harlow’ appeared, the venue’s sign glowing a purplish-blue over a churchlike door.

He watched Rayen and three other men wander out and climb into a limousine.

One of the men had obscured his face by stroking his eyebrows with the back of his thumb.

“This caught a few hours before the massacre at Van Der Saar’s. The two, whose faces you can see, are Thomas and Luke Ryder.”

“Part of the Ryder crime family in the north of England?”

“Yes.”

“Any ideas on the stranger?”

“Nothing yet. But as you can see, he’s part of the Ryders and not Van Der Saar’s crew, as he was seen entering the club with them a few hours earlier.”

“Yes, and he obscures his face again.”

“Do you think he knew something would happen that evening?”

“Perhaps, but the other pair are not attempting to hide their faces. I think he is an individual who is constantly aware of security cameras.”

The Dutchman shrugged. “Unless he’s an outsider trying to convince the Ryders of his trustworthiness?”

“Maybe, but the body language indicates they are extremely comfortable with him.”

“So, what is the next move?”

“I will request a file of known associates from Interpol.”

Connor manoeuvred the GT3 along the A-7, skirting the Mediterranean coast. The way the sun struck the waves made him think of a jewel in the sea.

Asleep, Luke’s head lay on his arm against the window.

Connor knew he had to keep his worry over Tom’s condition off his face, voice and demeanour—it wouldn’t help.

In truth, Connor had suspected his eldest cousin’s desire to retire ever since he got serious with Cara.

The succession of head of the crime family had been passed from their grandfather, Frank, to Connor’s father, Greg Ryder, to his father’s brother, Derek, and now Tom.

Connor had been brought up in Roundhay, miles away from his cousins, who hailed from the rougher areas of Beeston and Burmantofts. And his father, Greg, insisted he take his mother’s maiden name, ‘Reed’, to not be adversely affected by the notorious ‘Ryder’ surname.

Despite speaking with a less pronounced accent than his cousins, they looked up to him, even Tom, despite being older. And Connor loved him for it, as he knew Tom to be the true leader of the family, even during the days when their Uncle Derek seemed intent on destroying the family business and their name with it. It had been Tom, working tirelessly and with great diplomacy behind the scenes, who ensured the right people—other gangsters, money launderers, members of the public, business owners, and certain law enforcement officers were paid and relationships with them maintained.

Connor had been away from the family for long periods for some years, first in his career in the Royal Marines, then in the first couple of years, as a black operations agent for The Chameleon Project.

However, Tom would tell anyone within their inner circle who asked, ‘Connor is the boss of this family.’

Over a year ago, both agreed to bring Luke into the inner circle of knowing—or at least having access to knowing—of every contact and scheme within the Ryder family’s criminal organisation. In this respect, Connor knew Luke would be more up to speed than himself. Though all expected Luke’s readiness to be a year or so away, Connor was aware he might have to lean on his younger cousin.

And he wasn’t sure he liked the thought.

The GT3’s cabin filled with Connor’s phone ringing.

He clicked to answer.

“Yeh.”

Charlie’s voice came on. “How’s things?”

“Can’t complain,” said Connor, meaning—I am not under duress. “What about yourself?”

“I also can’t complain. The Birdman has requested to meet with you through Cleanface.”

Birdman was the term they used for Harry Ellis, a former Godfather of the loose collection of organised crime outfits known as The Liverpool Cartel. Once an enemy, he and the Ryder family had a relationship that Tom described as ‘distant friendliness’.

“We haven’t got time—”

“It’s directly to do with the challenges we’re facing now. He said you’d appreciate the quote, ‘An enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

The realisation dawned on Connor—Ellis has back channels to Eddie O’Neil.

“We can’t fuck around with going back for meetings now, and I am not doing a video call. The quicker we can strike back, the more chance we have of containing any damage.”

“He said this guy will come to you.”

“How confident are you about this line’s security?”

The answer was immediate and confident. “It’s secure.”

“Is it Eddie O’Neil?”

“He didn’t say the name, but yes.”

“Then his passport will be flagged on every airport database and port security system in the UK and Ireland.”

“Ellis seemed confident, Connor. And it isn’t as if this O’Neil guy doesn’t have a history of pulling something like this off.”

“Does he know Dion probably isn’t in Spain?”

“Yeh, he knows. He’s probably just thought, ‘Fuck it’ now and wants to hit everyone in the FOC.”

Connor looked at Luke, now awake, and it gladdened him that instead of being non-committal, his younger cousin gave him an insistent nod.

Connor replied to Charlie. “Tell O’Neil if he can make it anywhere within the triangle made up of Malaga, Gibraltar and Seville, then we’ll come and meet him. I am going to send you a list of what I need—if he can get the items on the list for me, then we’ll talk. If he can’t, then we don’t want to meet him.”

“Alright.”

“When’s the girls’ flights out?”

“In two days. You can imagine what they said when they were told they were being shipped off to Japan.”

“I don’t care. Unless the FOC has connections to Japanese assassins, then it’s the safest place in the world for them to be now.”

“It’s alright. Gran snapped them in line.”

“Good,” said Connor. “You heard anything in cyberspace about them turning on us?”

“No, but I am not sure you’re aware that the place got torched to the ground. The media hasn’t released names yet. I am not sure if whoever attacked you thinks you all died. Or even if they knew you were there in the first place.”

“We can’t take that chance. We have to be close in case it blows up.”

“What happens if you strike, and it turns out we didn’t need to?”

“All we are doing is preparing for the possibility. You never know; it might just be sunbathing and sangrias.”

“Knowing you two, that’ll probably be what happens. Any other questions?”

“Not as yet.”

“Alright, Sayonara.”

The call cut and Luke said, “Gran might be cracking the whip, but I wonder how she’ll be after a ten-hour flight.”

“It’ll be a bit longer than that, but you know as well as I do that she’ll still be cracking the whip. It could be a thirty-hour flight, and she wouldn’t let it show that it bothers her.”

“Fair point.”

“Charlie’s right, though. We still don’t know if we are in the crossfire. I’ll tell you now, Luke, with wars like these—even if we win, we will sustain casualties. Wars like these can destroy both sides. Do you know what a pyrrhic victory is?”

“Something like the win wasn’t worth the effort or something?”

“Yeah. A Greek King named Pyrrhus of Epirus invaded Italy nearly three hundred years before JC Superstar was born. Managed to smash the Romans twice but lost nearly a third of his blokes—about seven-and-half thousand of them, and you get your best blokes to do most of the work, so many of them were his elite guys, and loads of his officers too.”

“What happened?”

“He had no way of replacing the soldiers he’d lost. The Romans were still standing—barely—but this tanked the Greeks’ morale. This Pyrrhus said, ‘If we win in one more battle with the Romans, we will be fucked,’—I’m paraphrasing. Anyway, he had to fuck off back to Greece.”

After a few moments, Luke asked, “What you saying, then? I thought you wanted to kill this Dion anyway because he murdered Van Der Saar?”

Connor took a few breaths. “I’ve had a chance to think a bit. Van Der Saar and I were close, and he was a great man. But he was still a criminal like us, and we accept the consequences of this life. Like we said, Tom might wake all hunky-dory. If we pull the trigger prematurely, then who knows how many of our family and lads will see the inside of a prison cell or coffin before it’s over.”

“Then what about this Eddie O’Neil? He’s already at war with them. Surely, by even agreeing to meet him, we are also saying we are at war. Those Irish gangs always have a few interchangeable members, or at least back channels. As soon as we meet with him, I guarantee it’ll find its way back to the FOC.”

“On the flip side, if we are already at war, then having someone like that on our side could be massive—he’ll know the FOC players more intimately, he’ll have back channels, and apparently, he’s like the Irish version of George Clooney’s character from Ocean’s Eleven.”

“What you going to ask him to bring?”

“Several items but the main thing being a Nr.7 Blaser R93 Tactical.”

“What’s that? A gun?”

“A sniper rifle made by zee Germans.”

“How do you know he’s got one of them?”

“He probably doesn’t. But I have. I have weapons caches dotted around—after this is over, I’ll tell you where they are.”

“Anything for me?”

“There are a couple of FN Five Sevens. You haven’t fired one yet, but your practice with other pistols should transfer enough after some dry-firing practice. So, what do you want to do?”

Luke took a moment to reply. “If he gets here, then we’ll meet him.”

“Alright.”

“I also wanted to ask you that if the FOC wants to kill us, won’t we have just trapped ourselves?”

“Potentially. But the last place they’ll expect us so quickly is on their doorstep.”

Bill Hopkins sat on the doorstep looking out into the dark, shrouded meadow. The sixty-four-year-old’s face lit with the drag of his Benson & Hedges cigarette.

The engraved sterling silver case he kept his cigarettes in mocked his working-class roots, but since it had been a gift from Greg Ryder—and because he hated looking at the grotesque warning labels they had on the packet—he treasured it.

He wore a dark brown quilted winter jacket, which Luke Ryder had once seen him in, calling him ‘Sylvester’, as it resembled the one Rocky wore when training in Russia in the fourth instalment. Bill had smiled—it was warm, and he lacked self-consciousness regarding his appearance besides being clean and tidy.

The Browning Hi-Power pressed against his ribcage. Connor had told him he could have any gun he wanted, but Bill had replied, ‘If it’s good enough for the SAS, then tha’s good enough for me,’ the memory of watching the said Special Forces unit storming the Iranian Embassy still vivid.

He felt a cool liquid slosh in his stomach as he stared at the unfamiliar landscape. He had been with the Ryder family since the 1980s, though it hadn’t exactly been a ‘family’ back then as it was essentially him providing Frank Ryder backup in looking after a handful of pubs. However, Frank and Paulette had brought up the lads to be straight-goers. That changed when Frank—in his fifties at the time—had been hospitalised in an unprovoked attack by five twenty-something-year-olds with gang ties.

As Bill had prepared to strike back—fully prepared to die—he had been approached by Greg Ryder, about nineteen or twenty years old, demanding names. When Bill had told the young boxer, a reserve for the Barcelona Olympics at the time, to keep out of it, the middle Ryder son had told him—‘You either tell me, or I go into that pub and start punching the fuck out of anyone I reckon might know a name.’

Knowing the lad the way he did, and the look in his eye, Bill had no doubt he’d do as he’d said. Bill told him the players involved. And the carnage Frank’s lads enacted on the underworld precipitated their rise in taking over the Leeds and the West Yorkshire criminal underworld.

And, overall, for nearly twenty years, things had been good. Greg had held the family steady, with the profits, goodwill, and respect remaining high.

Then Greg was murdered, and his elder brother, Derek, took over the family and spent the next few years doing his damnedest to fuck everything up. It hadn’t taken Bill long to suspect Derek had been behind Greg’s murder, but without proof, he hadn’t breathed a word.

It had only been at the remonstrating of Tom that Bill had stayed on in any capacity. And he was glad he had; Greg’s son, Connor, arrived back on the scene after a period in the Marines and then doing God knows what. And one day, Derek Ryder disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

Now, with Derek gone with the geese, Tom at the helm, and Luke becoming more mature, things were beginning to be better.

And right now, the adage of, ‘If it’s too good to be true, it almost always is’ rang around his head.

He did not know yet what had occurred but didn’t think the order to scoop almost all the Ryder family left in Leeds to take them to a safe house and ensure they board a plane to Japan boded well.

The door behind him opened, and Lee Ryder, the dad of Luke and Dan, stepped out before sitting beside him.

“Curtis is guarding the back,” answered Lee before the question flicked off his tongue. “Can I cadge a cig?”

“No, you fuckin’ can’t. Your mum will have a fit when she smells it off ya.”

“She’s gone to bed.”

Bill lifted the case to Lee and gave him his lighter. He listened to the nerves in the youngest of Frank and Paulette’s kids as he exhaled.

Lee asked, “How come she never has a go at you for smoking?”

“I’ve known Paulette for about forty years, mate. She’s a persistent one, but even she knows not to waste her breath. You, though, I heard she ’as swung for you more than once for staying out two or three days at a time.”

Lee answered with a short laugh. “Nineties, wasn’t it? Almost feel sorry for kids today. Drugs back then were purer—or maybe I wasn’t as desensitised.”

“I thought the product you bring in is meant to be the purest?”

“I wouldn’t know, Bill. Been off drugs for years now. But when I was on ’em, when I was young, Leeds was one of the clubbing capitals of the nation. I’d rather take a couple of her digs for not coming back for a few days than for her to see some of the states I got into—wicked days, though.”

Bill’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He knew Lee hadn’t been cut out to be a gangster. Indeed, while his brothers were forever cutting deals, making alliances, and occasionally engaging in violence, the young Lee could be found—despite being straight—raving at a Gay-friendly night or sharing a spliff on a stranger’s sofa. He just loved people and never took on the edge of suspicion towards strangers that his brothers adopted.

“I am sure they were. I don’t know whether it is because you didn’t appreciate it at the time or whether your mind is making out that it’s better than it was. But I remember thinking it was great going to the football—and even after the Don Revie years, and the team started going down the pan, I still loved it.”

“It wasn’t just watching the football that you loved, from what I heard.”

The older man knew Lee was referring to his hooligan days with the Leeds United Service Crew—so-called because they travelled on the ordinary public service trains to avoid the heavily policed, organised ‘football special’ trains. Bill had only just turned seventeen when he managed to scrimp, save, beg and borrow enough money to make the journey to Paris to watch the European Cup Final against Bayern Munich.

Leeds lost 2-0 that summer day after the bastard French referee—as he became known to the Yorkshire faithful—rejected two United penalties and Peter Lorimer’s goal.

Anger swept through the Leeds fans, and then it began. They ripped the seats off the stands and began to hurl them onto the pitch.

Bill had found himself swept up in excited, adrenaline-fuelled energy as they stormed the pitch. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself fighting with French police. As they began to pull him down, he managed to tear himself out of his shirt and away from their arresting hands, roaring off screaming profanities with some of the other fans cheering him on.

A few of the top boys in the firm noticed his antics, and his reputation rose sharply. Bill ‘served’ for nearly ten years with the Service Crew until he watched a fourteen-year-old lad die down at St Andrew’s stadium in Birmingham.

Shortly afterwards, Frank Ryder took him under his wing, and he’d had an allegiance to the man and his family ever since.

“Those days are long gone now. I am happy with my life. I have regrets, but as some probably wise old Chinaman said, ‘It’s better to regret the things you have done than the things you haven’t’.”

He saw Lee wrap an arm around himself despite the mild night air, and Bill then said, “You’re worried about him.”

“He’s my son,” replied Lee without a hint of irony.

It was an open secret that the likelihood of Luke being his was debatable due to an affair Stephanie had around the time of her conceiving.

“He’s a smart lad. Besides, Connor is with him.”

“That’s the thing. A lot of things ’av changed since Connor has come back on the scene—a lot of it good, but not all. Our Michael is dead, and—”

“You can’t blame that on Connor, Lee.”

“I am just saying, if he hadn’t been so…so ‘my way or the highway’ towards Liverpool, then that might not have ’appened.”

“Am not saying anything is worth Michael being shot dead, but the Ryder family was getting ripped off for years by Liverpool under Derek. Connor and Tom put a stop to that. And now the brass is rolling in, and the respect for the Ryder name is high again. No one could have predicted that that cunt, McKinley, was making moves.”

He referred to Marty McKinley, a scouse gangster who had traitorously usurped Liverpool Godfather Harry Ellis despite working for him. And he had caused the Ryders untold strife over the years.

“Yeh, I know. I am just being daft,” failing to disguise the hitch in his voice as a hiccup. “I just worry about him—about Luke. I wasn’t happy when he started boxing—followed Connor down there, you know. I didn’t bother to stop him because our Greg said, “Nine boys out of ten leave after their first sparring session”—the first bang on the nose that makes the eyes water. I maybe thought he’d be like me, ’av a few amateur boxing matches and leave it at that. But he ’ad fucking loads. I know I am not his hero. Never have been. He’s always looked up to Connor. I’ll be honest, Bill; I was glad when Connor went into the Marines. I was scared Luke was gonna sign up, too. But he never, and I was glad when Tom took ’im under his wing. Calmer, isn’t he? With Connor, it’s like he attracts bloodshed.”

Bill opened his mouth to respond but found that he couldn’t. Greg Ryder’s son did seem to draw violence and seemed to like it.

“We’ll have to see what transpires,” replied Bill, docking out the cigarette.

He thought he caught a movement in the darkness. With his eyes not being what they once were, he squinted. He was about to ask Lee if he could see anything, but it came out, “Get inside now. Warn Curtis.”

A thudding sound came from within, and both scrambled inside. Bill pulled out the Browning Hi-Power from his chest holster.

They entered the door to the dining room.

A masked man stood side-on to them, holding a submachine gun.

He whipped around to face them.

Bill tackled Lee sideways into the stairwell to avoid the spray of bullets.

“Up, up, up,” he rasped, and they scrambled up the stairs.

Bill heard the muffled shout; “One of de fuckers is armed!”

Fright gave Bill speed in ascending the stairs. He barely registered the Ryder women bursting into the corridor in masks of terror.

He hid himself the best he could around the balustrade corner and pointed the Hi-Power down the stairs.

Death sat in the back of his brain, waiting for the inevitable. The balaclava swung into view, and Bill fired.

To Bill’s amazement, the intruder collapsed.

Struggling up off his knees, Irish screams preceded an Uzi barrel snaking to point at him. He ran to catch the back end of the herd of Ryder women as the rapping of feet flew up the stairs.

Knowing he wouldn’t make the safety of the corner, he spun around, tripped and landed on his back.

The impact tore the Browning from his hand, and he heard his life clatter away after it.

13

Bill only registered the snub-nose of the Uzi as his killer slowly walked towards him.

The realisation of his lack of options struck just before a wind of euphoria swept through him.

Sixty-four….could have been worse.

Three gunshots rang off the walls—except they came from behind him.

Bill twisted his torso to see a man of a similar age to himself walk up with a pistol.

The white-haired and moustached man stopped at the forlorn Hi-Power, knelt despite keeping his eyes looking past Bill and picked it up.

The Irish brogue growled, “Come oan, we ’aven’t got all night.”

The dark eyes under the black eyebrows compelled Bill to stand. The Northern Irishman spun the pistol in his hand and held it out. As Bill took it, he said, “Watch where you’re pointing it. You go to the women, and I’ll cover you.”

Bill, not wishing for the women to run haphazardly into the night, shouted down the corridor, “Paulette, stop! It’s Bill.”

He heard her corralling the girls to a halt just outside the door at the end of the corridor.

The herd, including Lee, stared at him wide-eyed, except for Paulette, who demanded, “What has happened? I thought this was a safe house. And who is this?”

The stranger hissed at her. “Close your mouth, woman, and open your ears if you want to live. What will happen now is—”

Paulette interrupted, “What will happen now is you’ll tell me who you are! Or else we aren’t going anywhere.”

The man’s eyes flicked to Bill, who understood the man just realised who the boss was.

“Madam, my name is Eddie O’Neil. My family and I are currently at war with Dion Franklin, the head of the biggest, richest and cruellest organised crime organisation in Europe. And it seems your family is now at war with them too.”

“Where is Curtis?” she demanded.

O’Neill said, “I will do a sweep of the house with yer man ’ere. But you need to do as I say.”

“How do we know you are who you say you are? How do we know you’re not a part of this?”

“Because he’s here and has just witnessed me putting a bullet in the brain of a man who was about to kill him.”

Paulette’s hawkish eyes, and everyone else’s enquiring ones, turned on Bill, who answered, “It’s true.”

“Good thing you happened to be walking by.”

“I have my sources.”

“Surprised you can shoot anything at your age.”

When O’Neil replied, “Thank you,” Bill thought he saw a glimpse of a smile on Paulette’s face, who responded, “OK. Say, I do believe you. What now?”

“What now is that you collect whatever you need and leave this place. You’re not safe here, and there is no one to protect you from who they’ll send next. You haven’t got much time. We will go look for this Curtis fella.”

O’Neil turned to Bill. “What’s he look like?”

“An inch shy of six feet. Light brown hair. Twenty-four years old. Black tee-shirt and a parka-type jacket.”

“We’ll split up. I’ll loop around the back of the house, give me twenty seconds, and start making your way down the stairs. Do not fire until you know what you are firing at.”

As the Northern Irishman bolted out the door, Paulette looked at him. “Be careful, Bill.”

Bill crept down the stairs swirling in a mist of fear and vulnerability. He was acutely aware he had no formal training except on static ranges in the early nineties.

The closer he got to the corner opening into the dining room, the stronger his fear grew.

Rolling into the room, he saw a man—back to him—who he did not recognise, with his left palm cupping his eyebrows and a pistol in his right hand.

Bill barked, “Don’t make sudden moves, son.”

The man’s posture straightened rigidly. Bill saw the twitching in the man’s pistol-gripping hand.

O’Neil’s voice sounded, “Don’t try it. We want to talk to you. Not explain another dead body.”

The figure seemed to nod before angling the pistol sideways in his grip and began to kneel.

Four shots rang out, and the man jolted in tandem with them.

“Bill, it’s me,” cried Curtis’s tremoring voice.

Bill thawed and called out, “Alright, Curtis. Another older fella is with me. Do not shoot him. Just walk out, but not with your gun raised.”

Curtis slowly appeared, pale-faced and trembling. He seemed transfixed by the man he had just killed—his first time.

Bill held his hand sideways and patted the air in a calming gesture to O’Neil and gently called out to Curtis. “Alright, lad, he’s gone now. You did the right thing. Now we have to make sure there aren’t any others about. The girls and Lee are out back. Remember to call out to Lee before you step out so as not to fritten him.”

Curtis gradually nodded his understanding and skulked away.

The search took a few minutes, with Bill taking O’Neil’s lead.

Once back outside, Paulette, the only one of the women not visibly shaken, demanded of O’Neil, “Where are you taking us?”

“I am not taking you anywhere. That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourselves.”

Paulette said, “So you’re not coming with us?”

O’Neil shook his head. “Someone needs to get rid of the bodies. And someone needs to get your grandson’s guns to him. You let him know what happened here tonight.”

Paulette said quietly, “OK,” before barking at the others to move.

Once they were alone, Bill said, “On their, my, and her family’s behalf, thank you.”

Usually, when Raphael Del Piero picked up the trail of suspects, he felt like a predator tracking his prey.

Now, with the breeze buffeting against his light suit jacket in the truck depot, he stared at the red and white articulated lorry and felt like he was chasing ghosts. He was not far from where the refugee and immigrant encampment known as the ‘Calais Jungle’ had been.

He had tracked Luke Ryder and the mysterious man to an exotic car rental showroom in Paris. After being shown the stills of the three men, Tom and Luke Ryder, with the unknown man, the staff confirmed Luke and the stranger had purchased a dark green Porsche 911 GT3 and produced their security footage of the day in question.

Though angled, Raphael had a clear view of the man’s face and sent it to Interpol for recognition, along with the ID scan—under Alex Armitage for Luke Ryder and Jack Smith for the mystery man—and requested any file should it come up.

And Raphael had chased the vehicle’s tracking device signal to Calais, though he couldn’t understand why they would have gone to the trouble of purchasing a vehicle worth over a hundred thousand euros if they were trying to escape Europe.

Watching the French officers question the non-plussed lorry driver, Raphael wondered what sort of man could remove the GPS without triggering the anti-tamper security and place it inside another vehicle without the driver knowing.

The sports car’s license plates leaned tauntingly against the green, diamond-patterned fence—another signal of the man’s skill.

Why have you bought a Porsche?

The answer came to him without effort. These guys were not looking to escape anything.

On the elevated road, the GT3 purred behind a convoy of trucks belonging to a masonry company. This gave Connor a chance to take in the view of the Marbella hills backed against the blue sky.

Looking towards sunlit villas nestled in green trees overlooking the golf courses, he lamented that he used to believe everyone must suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) to some degree and depression rates must have been lower in warmer countries. However, he had researched the subject and found conflicting results from various studies, with some papers suggesting hotter weather led to more suicides.

As if reading his thoughts, Luke said, “You know I love Leeds. But I could easily live out here. But I wonder if you would get used to it? I mean, plenty of people come from Australia to London.”

“I don’t think they come for the weather, mate.”

“Why do they come over to the UK? Fish and chips?”

Connor smiled. “Sometimes there are more job opportunities here. UK interest rates are lower than Oz, so you get more house for your money. I think it’s much higher rent over there too. They have to import their food, so their weekly shop, or groceries, or whatever they call them, is much higher. Then again, their average wages are nearly a third higher, so the short answer is, I don’t know why they’d come over—some people just like different experiences. Maybe the UK is less disorientating than fucking off to Mexico.”

“Do you think your mum will come back to the UK?” Connor’s mum now lived in Australia.

“I don’t think so, mate. Tell me about Ibiza. I haven’t been before.”

“I am not sure you’d get it like me.”

Connor agreed but nevertheless said, “Sell the experience to me.”

“One thing that’ll hit you straight away is it is crawling with fit birds. You know, when you see a bird in Leeds, you have time to give them the once over. Over there, as you’re turning to check their arses, you catch another one, so your head is on a swivel. After my first day there, I had to use the sun lounger to rest my neck.”

Connor smiled. The club scene had never really appealed to him; he remembered accompanying Luke to one rave and felt vaguely awkward. He favoured bars, preferring to make conversation. He wondered if one of the reasons Luke liked Clubland might be because he could attract gorgeous women just by his looks alone. Connor, though he had been told he was attractive, knew he needed to make conversation with girls to ‘punch above his weight’.

“What’s your favourite club?”

Luke’s voice took on an edge of enthusiasm. “Well, the big super clubs are Space and Amnesia, and they are awesome. I remember walking into Amnesia and thinking it even smelled great, like a perfumy kinda smell that usually clubs only attempt to put in their toilets—I used to like going to Northern Light in Leeds, which smelled of brick, like a courtyard. But my favourite is a club called DC10.”

“How come?” asked Connor, wanting Luke to enjoy his memories.

“So, this DC10 is underground, but all the top DJs want to play there. It’s sacred because it’s all about the music. And I’ve heard the DJs—no matter how famous they are—are paid the same flat rate. Guess how much?”

Connor shrugged. “Over a thousand? Two, maybe?”

“Three-hundred euros, mate. That’s it. Because they know what an honour it is to play there.”

“What was it like the first time you went?”

“I was in the queue and behind the heavy doors, you could hear this ‘ommph, ommph, ommph’ comin’ out of ’em. And then you get in there, and the steam and smoke engulf ya like a huge diffuser hits you with a smell of how God’s wife would smell like, because you have these gorgeous birds in there wearing different perfumes. So if fragrances were paints and mixed, it would make gold. It’s dark in there, so you feel more than see. And the music. You don’t so much hear it but feel it—it moves through you. It’s like all the music you’ve heard has a blanket over it. The racks of speakers are like eyes looking down at you at an angle, with the equalisers bouncing in tune with the music—so it looks like a green wave. The sound is godly. The drugs are amazing. There are two rooms—the terrace is painted red and more for your house crew, but I like the techno room, which is dark but has green lasers and strobes going off. If you go, not into the music, you’ll come back with it possessing your soul; happens to everyone I can think of.”

“Fuckin’ hell. Looks like I’ve missed out.”

“Missed out? What’s stopping you from going—after we’ve sorted this out, I mean.”

“Nearly thirty now, mate. I would—”

“That doesn’t mean fuck all. There’re all age ranges—well, sorta. Anyway, thirty isn’t sixty, is it?”

Connor gave him a nod. He felt a tinge of guilt that took him a few moments to work out why. Then he realised—he wondered if his, and Tom’s, sitting down on Luke’s party-animal ways had robbed him of something special. Nearly two years ago, he and Tom decided to bring their at-times-wayward younger cousin into the inner circle of leadership. In doing so, they clarified that his hard drinking and drug-taking had to be curbed.

And Luke had largely adhered to this and proven adept at running some of the more sensitive operations of the umbrella.

“Ever miss it?” asked Connor.

“Ibiza?”

“I mean everything—the drinking, staying out…”

Luke took a few moments to answer. “Not really. I mean, I will go back, but I’m needed in Leeds now. I think…I think that feeling of being needed beats any…desire to go out constantly and get fucked up. I like that quote you came up with— ‘Never let recreation go past the point of restoration’.”

“I try not to. Difficult to know when that is at times. What’s worse is not knowing in which environment you can relax now. I remember the days when we could get pissed and not worry about getting shot. Fights, maybe, not shootouts.”

“You never thought about getting out? Without being harsh, this life has seen your dad get murdered, Michael too. Derek an’ all, although no one misses ’im. Now Tom’s in the Ozzy.”

Connor didn’t speak for a few moments. “I think Leeds is better off with us at the helm than anyone else. Besides, what else would we do?”

“I don’t know. Run the legitimate businesses?”

“We’ll have to discuss it when Tom’s better. Thoughts of putting our feet out the door won’t help us get through this.”

Shortly after, he turned the vehicle onto a better-maintained road, cutting through a residential area of angular, colour-roofed houses; blues, pinks and whites.

Luke pointed to a gaggle of dog walkers and exclaimed, “Even the pets wear designer clothes out here.”

Once beyond the village, he took another right onto a higher ascent, where the leafy trees obscured the road from the sun. He slowed the GT3 on arrival at a gate of black-painted iron spears with golden tips.

Lowering the window, he reached over to the keypad and, more out of habit, used a knuckle to type in the code.

The gates opened silently, and he drove through. In the last few years, Connor had been in several mansions—indeed, Tom had previously owned one for a business of staging parties, where the wealthy in and around Leeds could indulge. However, he remained impressed.

The two-floor, horseshoe-shaped structure seemed made entirely of glass and polished marble.

The blue and aqua green pool sat on two levels, with the water flowing off the upper level in a short waterfall to the bottom one. White and cream sofas skirted its perimeter with black and grey satin cushions.

“Fuckin’ hell,” murmured Luke. “And you said some of ’em use gaffs like this just as holiday homes and don’t bother renting ’em?”

“There are levels to everything—and especially with wealth.”

He slowed the GT3 to a halt on a smooth stone area beneath rows of palm trees, their fronds curving in at the top towards one another.

When they got out, Connor unbuttoned his suit jacket, stopped Luke at the boot of the Porsche, and quietly said, “Just wait for a minute.”

His eyes scanned the treeline and the entrance to the mansion. His instincts hadn’t tingled, but for the sake of a short listening stop, he thought he better.

Unable to detect the presence of the abnormal or the absence of the normal, he said, “We’ll skirt around it at first. Stay at least three steps behind until we know it’s clear. Keep your hand ready to pull your pistol.”

“Why don’t we just have them out?”

“Because if I let strangers rent my house out, and it was worth millions, I’d have the cameras hooked up to my phone. I’d have an alert on it for the initial entry of the gates, and I’d be checking that the people were who they said they would be. Entiendes?”

“Understood.”

As he approached, he kept his hand floating around his hip.

Walking the perimeter took around five minutes of stepping around the tropical-looking trees. Once satisfied, they made their way in.

The warm air danced on the white stone pillars with a set of glass stairs on the left leading to the upper floor.

Ultra-realistic flickering flames in silver dishes lit the side of the stairs.

A black-clothed vinyl pool table lay towards the back within a glass enclosure, in the corner of which stood a cobalt blue Greek bust watching over the baize.

About to ascend the stairs, Connor felt his phone vibrate.

When he answered, Bill Hopkins said, “Are you sitting?”

Bill rarely interacted with Connor, who answered, “I’ll call you back in less than five minutes.”

He ended the call, reached into his jacket, found a woven compartment and pulled out what looked like a USB in a plastic case, which he removed. He thumbed the scanner, and it extended an inch.

The tool scrambled audio and surveillance devices within the immediate vicinity, apart from phones, which it had been pre-programmed not to, in this case, his phone.

He technically should not have brought it as it was a device given to him in his role as a Chameleon Project agent. However, given that it had an inbuilt anti-tamper mechanism, he had taken the risk of incurring Bruce McQuillan’s wrath.

He called out to Luke. “Come in here, but leave your mobile outside.”

When his cousin had done so, he put the phone on loudspeaker but turned the volume down.

“Go ahead,” Connor said.

With Bill’s next words, his blood ran cold.

“I don’t know how, but three armed masked men showed up at the safe house—”

“Who has been—”

“No one was harmed. Not from our side, anyway.”

Luke interjected, frowning at Connor. “Fuck me, Bill, you handled the three of ’em?”

“Was it fuck me? An Irishman named Eddie O’Neil shot one of ’em dead just as he was drawing down on me.”

Connor lifted his head. “Are you on your own?”

“Yeh.”

“Eddie O’Neil is technically Northern Irish but also an Irish citizen. He’s been courting us for a while. Is there any chance he could have staged this?”

“Trust me, lad, if it was, then the lads he shot weren’t in on it—I watched one’s face turn into mash ’n’ ketchup.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. He told me to leave with the girls and that he’d deal with the dead bodies. Told me to come back in twenty-four hours, and it’ll be spotless. I didn’t feel like arguing.”

“Have you been back?” asked Connor.

“I am here now. It is immaculate. Even the bullet holes have been polyfilla’d in.”

“How’s he managed to do that so quick? This isn’t even his manor. And Harry Ellis has gone legitimate—I am not sure he’d have helped him with it.”

“It beats me,” answered Bill. “I’ve checked for bugs. Doesn’t seem to be any, but the equipment I have isn’t that fancy, so I am outside.”

Connor said, “This is very strange. Did he say how he knew the house would be hit?”

“Says he still has contacts on the other side. Didn’t go into details.”

“Alright.”

“He’s asking if he can use our trucking to meet you in Europe. Says he’ll come by his own means if he has to, but it’ll take longer and have more risk.”

“Us smuggling him in or as a driver?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Hang on.”

Connor muted the call, thought and turned to Luke. “If we have him smuggled, it puts the driver and our business at risk.”

As if reading his thoughts, Luke said, “He can cop it for being stolen if he’s the driver. It’s a bank holiday an’all.”

He unmuted the call. “He’ll have to take it over this weekend, Bill, and sort his documents out. He’ll have three days to get to us before you call it in on the Tuesday.”

“Alright.”

To Connor’s vague guilt, Luke said, “How are the girls? How’s my Dad?”

“Your gran has the girls in check, lad. Due to fly tonight. Your dad is a bit shaken. He’ll be alright, but for fucksake, just come back safe and sound. One more thing: Curtis shot one of the intruders dead—I think he’s a bit stirred.”

“Keep an eye on him, Bill,” said Luke. “Keep in touch.”

Once the call ended, Luke looked at Connor with eyes wider than usual.

“Fuckin’ hell! Our Curt did what he had to do.”

“Yeh,” Connor murmured.

“Do you believe this Eddie O’Neil story about him having contacts in the FOC?”

“It’s plausible. You know how it is in our world; characters are interchangeable. Fallings out happen all the time, but bridges rarely get fully burnt, at least not with the tertiary members. Besides, the Nazis recruited Jews to keep the other Jews in line in the camps, and then Mossad recruited Nazis to shop other Nazis.”

“How’s that relevant?”

“I am just saying some people’s self-interest exceeds any loyalty to belong to a group.”

14

Eddie O’Neil pulled the black flat-cap a little further down his forehead. This had been the first time he had worn such a cap since the seventies.

He’d noticed a recent revival of such hats in the young people before discovering it had been down to a popular television show based on a Birmingham street gang active around the turn of the last century. He lamented on how almost everything came, went, and came again.

Indeed, he remembered when he was younger—he had a steadfast belief it was more of him happening to life rather than life happening to him.

The older he got, the more he felt like a stick meandering down a river.

Across from the trucking depot, he now stood with his dark green wax leather jacket wrapped around him in the evening air.

A high, galvanised spiked fence guarded it. Angled corrugated roofing capped the two-storey red brick building on the left. The green, black and blue bins stood cheerfully to the left of the glass door, with a smoking area resembling a bus stop far off to the right. Past it on the right, the various trucks were visible behind automated gates. Tall woodland trees overhung the fence.

The red-eyed security cameras, some moving and some static, looked down from their perches.

He donned his black leather gloves and checked his watch before counting slowly to sixty. The red eyes faded to black before he reached forty-one.

Moving quickly, he mentally admonished his past self for not appreciating his youth more. He squeezed his frame between the fence and the trees, fighting forward twenty metres to reach the pre-placed rolled-up carpet and short step ladders.

Placing the ladders against the fence, he clambered them, unfurled the thick carpet and threw it over the spikes.

He heaved up and scrambled over, despising his inelegance as he felt the blunted prods.

He dropped onto the asphalt and jogged over to the row of trucks, making a beeline for the second truck at the back—white cab, black trailer with the ‘Hopkins’ logo stencilled white against a grey background.

The thought had occurred to him that the Ryder family might have been willing to broker a peace deal with the FOC in exchange for him.

Part of him felt that faced with such overwhelming odds against a foe, who had proven their willingness to target civilians, the Ryders would be silly not to do so.

However, from what Ellis had told him, this Connor Reed would never forgive anyone targeting his family, especially not the civilians.

And another source corroborated that assumption.

The Northern Irishman’s hope of not being compromised rose as the cab door opened. He climbed up and fished the keys from one of the cup holders that were as spotless as the cab smelt.

O’Neil adjusted his seat and mirrors before turning on the ignition and driving slowly to the automated gate. Then he took out his burner phone and began dialling the memorised number.

After many rings, a young male voice answered. “Optimal securities. How can I help you?”

He spoke sharply with a West Yorkshire-edged accent, “Eeyup, I’ve told you people to reschedule the gates closing until 21.00. I sent an e-mail to Mr Mailer regarding it at 13.16 yesterday and received one back at 14.33. It’s now 20.47, and I am locked into my truck site. What’s your e-mail address? And I’ll send you the e-mails. This is fuckin’—excuse my language, I am upset—this is the second time I’ve had to wait for an engineer to come out, and the last time, I had to wait for nearly forty minutes!”

“Calm down, Sir, and tell me the site number.”

“1473. But I’d rather climb the fence than wait, to be honest. There are spikes, but—”

“There might not be any need for that, Sir. I can open this remotely. Are you driving out or walking?”

“Walking.”

“Alright, read me the gate number from the information board.”

“Which one is it? There are loads of numbers,” Eddie snapped, despite knowing which one it was.

“The eleven-digit number in red. Should be at the bottom left-hand corner of the board,” soothed the voice.

“Yeh, 322-76567-254.”

“OK. Wait on the line for a moment.”

After a few seconds, the automated gates began to rumble open.

Eddie said with unfeigned relief, “Nice one. They are opening. Apologies for being snippy.”

“Don’t worry about it; it’s Friday night.”

“I know, and you’re still working, you poor beggar.”

“Tell me about it. Enjoy your weekend.”

“You too.”

The call ended, and he gunned the engine and drove through and around the corner.

He resisted the urge to drive away from the crime scene. Instead, he parked and alighted from the cab and fought through collecting the step ladders and carpet, despite the difficulty getting it off the spikes. In his experience, the more work you gave the Garda to do, the more chance they would drop the investigation down the line.

After throwing the steps and carpet into the cab’s passenger well, he headed towards where he had cached Reed’s weapons.

Dion Franklin eased back into the dark red velvet of the enormous, curved, almost circular sofa.

The crystal chandeliers bathed the palatial room in gold.

Fernando and the one they called ‘The Baby Eater’— Santos—sat on one side, with Dion and Lina on the other, a diamond-edged coffee table separating them.

On observing the Colombians’ nonchalance to the decadence he’d allowed them to behold, Dion felt a twinge.

Instead, Fernando seemed more enraptured by the bowl of pink Himalayan stones lying on pink sand from the centre of which emitted a spray of pink vanilla & magnolia-fragranced mist.

Fuckin’ peasant—thought Dion.

The Irishman had only seen a drop in the Colombian’s expression once, a few moments ago, when he pulled Lina into the crook of his arm.

Fernando spoke, “You have big war? Dangerous enemies.”

Dion saw Santos smirk at this, so he took his arm from around Lina, leaned forward and looked directly at him. “They are not dangerous to my organisation. But why bark when you have dogs?”

Happy to see the smirk change to a sneer, he felt Lina’s calming hand on his arm.

Fernando leant forward. “And we are big dogs who bite. Grrrrr.”

The jovial statement helped break the tension.

“Good,” said Dion. “And our business partnership can dominate the market.”

Fernando spoke Spanish, and Dion kept the annoyance off his face.

Lina turned to him. “Fernando says if you have intelligence on your enemies, then he will be happy to deal with them in whichever way you see fit.”

“I am grateful for the offer,” said Dion, not wishing to appear over-eager despite Lina’s prodding. “Now, what can I do for you, Mister Garzon?”

The Colombian said in English, “Please, call me Fernando.”

When Dion nodded, Fernando went into a monologue in rapid Spanish while pulling out his phone. He tapped the screen several times, and Lina pulled hers out, opened the message, and showed Dion what looked like a design diagram of a boat.

Finally, Fernando slowed his talking before stopping. Lina turned to Dion and took a breath. “For years, our people have what the media call ‘narco-subs’ to transport our product. They can be nearly fully submerged into the sea—mucho dificil for coastal guards to see.”

“OK. What has this got to do with me?”

“As you know, Fernando has the best boat designer in his pocket. These designs are his. The biggest cargo load a narco-submarine has ever carried is seven to eight tons. This can easily carry eleven. Another problem with other narco-subs is that only a few can cross the Atlantic, and none has been seaworthy enough to make it back.”

“They are only used once, you said.”

“Yes, and they take a year to build and cost two million dollars. But Fernando’s man says his can be built for only double the money but shorter time. And they will be forever—be used permanently. And they can sustain a range of almost thirteen-hundred kilometres without an outside power source—more than enough to cross the Atlantic.”

“That is great. What does he want from me?”

Before she could speak, Fernando began his Spanish again.

She translated, “For the vessels to be forever and not one-time use, they need zinc bars to make protection of the boat. I read that the seawater attacks these…Ah-noo-des…wait, anodes, so it does not attack other, more important parts of the boat.”

“OK.”

“The more zinc bars, the more of these new submarines they will have. The two countries that have the most zinc are China and Australia.”

Dion nodded in realisation. “So, they want to use my contacts in Australia to mine and ship out this zinc so they can build their submarines?”

She shook her head. “They will not just be their submarines but our submarines. This will be an exclusive partnership. We share the costs of the construction. We can bring in many times more of the product, which means the first loads will pay off the investments.”

Dion felt a strange feeling of suspicious excitement. He didn’t trust these Colombians, but as his uncle would say—‘You can trust people’s greed’. If these Colombians wanted zinc, they would have to go through him because his people over there wouldn’t trust them, not that they would ever find out who his contacts were.

Some of his mates had—carefully—asked him if he could trust Lina. The truth was, she was the only one he now trusted. If she’d wanted to have him over, she could have by now. She had been there through his uncle and brother’s deaths and had never asked for a penny.

This deal could be his ticket to the stratosphere of being ‘un-prosecutable, un-writeable, and untouchable’ that his uncle had said they would one day become.

He remembered visiting his uncle in Dubai. They had caught up over a game of pool, and his uncle began laughingly telling him of an Arab billionaire who had been married to a former model.

“So after being married to this model for over ten years, which is donkey’s years for that type of marriage, he decides he wants to be with this younger version he’s been cracking on with on the side. But he can’t outright divorce his current wife—still a fine thing, by the way—without giving up a load of his money and assets in the divorce settlement. So here’s what this crafty Arab does—He flies into some third-world shithole and says he wants to help them through a charity—can’t remember, maybe water, or health, or education, whatever. So, while this government is lickin’ their lips at the cash coming their way, he says they should—one not being reliant on the other, of course—make him a foreign diplomat to the UK. He ’as fuck all experience in foreign relations, by the way, but they don’t give a fuck.”

“What then?” Dion had asked.

“Then he flies back, goes to the auld bird and says the auld ‘I divorce you…or thee’ three times, and boom, they are getting a divorce. Except she says, ‘Not without you keeping me in mansions, holidays, yachts, handbags and shoes’, to which he says, ‘What the fuck you gonna do? I am a foreign diplomat and have diplomatic immunity’.”

“No feckin’ way.”

“Yep. Would have gotten away with it too, but he fucked some minor detail, and she got ’im on a technicality. But the lessons are, one, be aware of the details. And two, we want to get to that level with money—remember, the tabloids aren’t scared of losing court cases; they are scared of getting bankrupted by the trial itself. Now, I’ve been around these people, and trust me, we ain’t there yet, but we fucking need to be. Maybe not in my lifetime, but you and your brother could see that happen.”

Dion said to the current ensemble, “My lawyers will need to go over the particulars.”

When Lina translated this, the pair began to shift around.

Dion said, “Tell them not to worry. The amount of shite I have on dem, and dem on one another, means I could be responsible for nine-eleven, and they couldn’t say shite about it.”

When Lina translated, Fernando gave him an unconvincing smile.

“Now,” announced Dion. “There are several jobs you can do for me. I need you to head to Holland and—”

The door barged open to reveal one of Dion’s foot soldiers who gasped, “Dion, the informant messaged. You’ll never guess who’s heading our way.”

Anne De Jager sat on a solid wicker chair on the wooden balcony. She watched the light rain form a rim under the roof before falling in drops.

The cool air smelled even cleaner and fresher than Amsterdam.

She had an elevated view of the red and brown bricked street of this small street in Muiden. She felt grateful in the extreme for the advice dear Raymond had given her when she first began;

“Anne, use your money to get yourself a little holiday place but under another name. Perhaps more than one. Make it somewhere obscure but not too remote that people will notice. And do not tell a living soul about it, Anne—not your family, not your priest, not even me.”

Though she had dutifully followed his advice, as time went on, she thought it less and less likely she would ever have to escape to it.

Though only mid-afternoon, she sipped Anijsmelk from a pink china cup. The old Dutch drink blending hot milk, anise seed, and sugar would be traditionally enjoyed as a nightcap for its relaxing properties.

The pharmacologist thought about her boss, and only now did the weight of his passing begin to settle on her chest.

She had always looked up to him, though he hadn’t been much older. Anne knew he recognised in her a need to feel an acknowledgement for her work, and he did; having a background in the same field, he could identify her brilliance. And Raymond also recognised her affection for money and the things it could bring, hence his affectionate nickname for her—‘Elton’.

And she was unashamed of this part of her character. Her family had moved—or escaped, depending on whom she spoke to—from Chernivtsi, a city in what was then the Ukrainian SSR of the Soviet Union when she was seven years of age. Her father had been a chemistry professor back in Ukraine, but with his lack of Dutch or English, had to take on odd jobs such as driving a taxi and working as a porter in kitchens while walking for miles on a night to take English classes.

And despite her mother taking cleaning jobs when she was at school, they remained poor.

Because they could not afford to buy her a pet, her mother had caught stick insects in the park for her to keep in a tank. Anne had painted on an expression of gratitude.

However, in conjunction with studying library books on the creatures, she grew to find them fascinating and kept a collection of Achrioptera mangas— Metallic Stick Insects—in her university dorm.

Her parents eventually moved back to Kiev a few years after Ukraine gained its independence following the 1991 collapse of the Soviet Union.

A boat of fear sailed on her welling grief, as she now had no idea who she could trust. Even Raymond was fond of saying, ‘An organisation can survive its fools and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within,’ and, ‘When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt us.’

She later discovered, the former was a derivative of a quote by the Roman Statesman, Cicero, and the latter, by Winston Churchill.

And they must have entered her psyche because she had not immediately attempted to contact Rayen. She couldn’t see how it could be. He had been fiercely loyal to Raymond over the years.

But Raymond had said if he was ever assassinated, she should look at the people who would stand to gain the most from his demise and Rayen—though she knew Raymond paid him exceptionally well—would gain control of the entire operation, along with all the money and power that would come with it.

She also knew that if Rayen inherited the empire, she would not be safe in Holland. She would have to find a way of escaping until she knew what was happening. And she would need to do it without alerting the authorities who, she had to presume, were looking for her now.

Though the media lacked details, they knew Raymond had died in a fire at his house.

However, she was primarily a chemist, not someone well-versed in the criminal underworld and its mechanics.

Think harder.

Her mind peeled open to reveal Connor Reed. Raymond had mentioned to her that he trusted him more than anyone—and even at the time, she found him saying that strange.

However, when she thought about it, she realised Connor Reed would have little to gain from assassinating his family’s leading supplier—especially as they had been promised the first point of contact for the NoLo synthetic cocaine.

Besides, he was the one who initially attacked the ‘waiters’, and she remembered him firing on them.

Yes, he would be the one to turn to.

She finished her Anijsmelk, got up, and went back into the dining room.

Reaching into her handbag and purse, she found his card and saw the e-mail address, password and answer to the security question written in block capitals.

She remembered his words, “Leave a draft in the e-mail. I check them regularly. I’ll delete yours and put mine when I’ve seen it.”

15

Luke said to Connor, “You sure he’s not going to be a liability? I mean, he’s touching seventy. I bet when he cums, it sounds like a balloon being let off.”

Connor replied, “He’s also a proven tactical virtuoso, a killer, and he can still shoot, according to Bill. Unless you’re planning on shagging him, he might be worth the risk.”

They lay prone less than a metre apart, looking down on the quiet hill-cutting road. Eddie O’Neil would be due soon.

After a few moments, Luke asked, “OK. What’s the most complete Mixed Martial Arts performance you’ve ever seen?”

He smelt the grass crushed beneath him, as his cousin answered. “If I had to pick, I’d say Raphael Dos Anjos when he tore the UFC lightweight title off Anthony Pettis. His attacks were quick, hard and varied—kicks to the legs, body and head mixed with punches through and around the guard. Took him down repeatedly and smashed him on the floor. He put Pettis under more pressure than a woman in her late-thirties puts a new boyfriend under for marriage and a kid.”

Luke smiled. “Is that more pressure than what a LIDL cashier puts you under to bag your shopping faster?”

His cousin replied straight-faced, “Not quite, but it’s more pressure than Bill Clinton put his PR team under.”

“Isn’t he the Brazilian who Conor McGregor was meant to fight in his first fight at lightweight?”

“Yeh, it was cancelled when RDA got injured.”

“So you think this Raphael Dos Anjos could have had McGregor back then?”

“Can’t say that. Eddie Alvarez stopped Dos Anjos—he did tend to get hit quite a bit. McGregor battered the same Alvarez like I would punch through fifty eight-year-old boys—easily.”

He grasped the binoculars Connor handed him as his cousin said, “That’s the truck. Do you second my ID of him?”

He focused them on the driver of the slowing truck.

“Yeh, that’s ’im—I concur,” he replied, taking out the phone and keying in the number.

They watched Eddie pull into the designated parking—more grooved out by tyres than designed on purpose—and slowly get out.

Despite the white hair and ’tache, O’Neil stood straight-backed without his movement betraying any fragility. He wore an olive-collared shirt with matching trousers resembling a type of uniform.

A racing green Mercedes V-Class emerged from the far corner and drove—quite slowly.

Luke pressed the dial button and watched the old man answer it.

“Yes,” came the Irish voice.

“Once this Mercedes passes, lift your shirt.”

Luke had expected some form of protest, however mild, but the car zoomed by, and the shirt came up, followed by a slow full rotation.

“Lift your trousers so we can see your ankles.”

Again, no issue, but O’Neil said, “I’ve seen that Mercedes back in Jaén.”

Luke repeated this to Connor, who said quietly, “That’s a hundred-and-sixty miles away.”

“It might have been a different one?”

“Trust me. With this bloke, it’ll be the same one.”

After a moment, Connor looked at him. “I was thinking of ambushing them.”

“But won’t that bring the heat on us? I mean, they don’t know we know yet. I thought you said we couldn’t win a fight of attrition with them, anyway.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” answered his cousin before looking around. “Put it on loudspeaker.”

When Luke did so, Connor said, “You’re on with us.”

“OK.”

“You’re going to have to dump the weapons and drive back. There is no point ambushing the minions.”

“I understand. At least allow me to keep a pistol.”

Luke said, “Wait a minute.” He reached over and pressed the mute button before turning to Connor. “I’ll take the truck back. Am—”

“No. You—”

“I am registered as a company employee. And—”

“And whoever was in that Mercedes might follow you.”

“I’ll keep to the main roads. What are they going to do? Shoot at me, Hollywood-style, from the car? I’ll just ram them off the road.”

Connor didn’t know if it was his common sense or his protectiveness over his younger cousin coming through when he said, “They might shoot the fuel tank. They might—”

“They might do a lot of things. But that bloke down there has more intel on this than I could ever have, and he’s used to killing, isn’t he? And you said yourself—he’s a bright spark.”

Connor frowned. “And he’s also a former Irish Republican terrorist.”

“Fuckin’ ’ell, mate, didn’t you once say, ‘If I was a Catholic in Northern Ireland in the seventies, I might have joined the IRA’, and I thought you said he was a shooter, not a bomber?”

“I am not sure what he was.”

“They will come for our businesses now that the girls are out. I am best off getting our UK ducks in a row.”

His cousin stared at him for a few moments. “Is there anything back at the villa you need?”

“Nothing I can’t do without. Besides, he’ll need clothes.”

Connor unmuted the call. “What have you cached the weapons in?”

“I sealed the roll mat you had them in with polythene and put them in a wooden box of vegetables.”

“Alright. This is what is going to happen. You’re going to stay where you are, and my cousin is going to come down and commandeer the truck. Before he does, you’ll tell me exactly where your weapon is in the cab. And don’t plead ignorance; I know you would have armed yourself sometime after passing the Spanish border.”

“There is a toolbox underneath the passenger side seat. If he removes the top rack and peels away the foam padding, there is a false bottom. Underneath is a loaded M1911 and a spare magazine.”

“Alright. He’s going to come down to check the cache before dumping it by the side of the truck. He’s going to check the M1911 before driving off. Then I will pick you up in a dark green GT3.”

“Whoever’s following the truck must have been alerted way back.”

“We’ll work that out in due course. We’re going to follow my cousin for around fifteen miles. Any questions?”

“No.”

“OK. Drop your phone to your side, but leave the line open.”

Connor said, “Don’t let him within arm’s reach of you,” before gesturing with his head, and his younger cousin made his way down.

Though he lacked grappling skills, Luke was perhaps the best fist fighter he knew. Connor had been an excellent amateur boxer, but he knew if he ever had to combat Luke in a ‘street’ scenario—not that he could ever envision such a scenario —he would immediately look to take him down. And although he deemed it highly unlikely that the unarmed O’Neil knew wrestling or ground fighting skills, the older cousin still felt a hint of nerves as Luke ascended.

Connor kept flicking his gaze to the apexes of the road while seeing the scene unfold without a hitch.

Once he observed Luke pulling away, Connor leapt to his feet and ran through the trees, saplings, and scrub. He halted on the edge of the alcove containing the GT3 to observe for atmospherics—the presence of the abnormal and the absence of the normal, as was impressed on British infantry soldiers, especially before deployments.

Not seeing either, Connor jumped in but paused at switching the ignition on—Fucksake, stop being paranoid!

He remembered McQuillan once telling him, “It’s not good to be suspicious all the time, but if you can’t find a balance, it’s better than sleepwalking.”

He started the engine and whirled the Porsche down the narrow track and onto the road to see—to his relief—O’Neil waiting for him.

Bruce McQuillan leant against the stone shoulder on top of the steps overlooking a green lake in the French sun.

The pleasant walk through the flowery, warm wind of the Parc de la Tête d’Or— “Park of the Golden Head” brought him here to meet one of his most important professional contacts.

Once again, he appreciated Chen Zhao’s punctuality. Not that he spotted the man himself, but two men in casual attire who entered the area before taking position around seven metres behind him and eight metres apart.

Less than a minute later, Zhao entered the area in a royal blue suit and a matching tie with white lettering—which Bruce recognised to be Mandarin, though he could not decipher it.

Two years ago, the Shanghai native, then fifty-three, looked over a decade fresher than his actual age. Now Bruce would have guessed the leaner-faced Zhao to be more like five years younger if he did not know.

However, Zhao smiled with his typical boyish charm and flawless, faintly French-accented English. “It is good to see you, Bruce.”

“And you.”

“Especially since I did not think we would ever meet again in this capacity.”

Mighty geo-political powers had pressured the Chinese government to force Zhao to tender his resignation.

However, a mission conducted by Bruce’s Black Operations Unit had—amongst other things—prevented that from being necessary.

“Some things in life we cannot control—but some things we can.”

“How can I help you, my friend?”

“A war between Irish crime factions has begun to make me feel uncomfortable.”

“I think the targeting of civilians makes you feel uncomfortable.”

“Yes, it does,” said Bruce. “Is it correct that the harming of civilians has been by one side so far?”

“So far.”

After a moment’s silence, Bruce asked, “I need anything you’re willing to give me on the situation.”

The Chinaman reached into his pocket and pulled out an object resembling a gold Zippo lighter wrapped in polythene.

“All the data is on there. Please destroy it and all records once you have viewed them.”

“Of course,” said Bruce, with genuine gratitude. “How did you know?”

“Kathryn mentioned she had been in a meeting with the Garda Síochána and PSNI to discuss the issue. I assumed she might have shared her insights with you.”

“I forget you are first and foremost a policeman,” said Bruce, grateful Kathryn didn’t disclose that he had attended the meeting.

“Seems a long time ago now,” said the Interpol Chief, with what Bruce thought to be a hint of melancholy. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I risk pushing the boundaries of our relationship—”

“Do not be silly. I will always be in your debt.”

“Alright, I need everything you’re willing to give me on the shooting that transpired at the residence of Raymond Van De Saar.”

Zhao nodded without a hint of reluctance. “I will e-mail you through our ‘quiet means’ as soon as I get back.”

“Any theories and details?”

“I believe Van De Saar to have been betrayed by an insider high in his organisation.”

“Why?”

“I have had it on authority that when he throws parties such as this one, he uses a waiting staff. Forensics is still limited due to the fire, but there is evidence of waiting staff being the hit team, the details of which you see in the full report.”

“But no sign of bodies in waiting attire.”

“Yes. Amongst other things,” said Zhao, looking out to the lake before continuing, “What was the saying you said about plans and when guns fire?”

“No plan survives contact.”

“Well, I do not believe this one did either. Several of the assaulting party were killed, but most of their bodies were taken away. Whoever came to remove them did not have time to fully complete the task—perhaps they simply did not properly plan for anything less than complete success.”

When Bruce did not answer, Zhao continued, “If you’re professional enough to infiltrate Van Der Saar’s operation, then I would assume you would be able to kill who you needed to more cleanly. There are bullet casings and marks everywhere, in almost every sector of the large mansion.”

“Possibly a running gun battle. Possibly an attempt at disinformation for subsequent investigative teams.”

Zhao sniffed. “Maybe the former. Doubtful the latter. As I said in our earlier conversation, we’ve found DNA belonging to people not from Van Der Saar’s known security team. There is no official confirmation yet, but it seems to belong to Estonians Julija Lossman and Nikolai Mae, formerly of the Estonian Defence Forces but now turned assassins for hire. Also, Yana Romanenko, a former soldier within the Ukrainian Defence Forces. I followed your advice regarding the Nerium.”

“Find anything?” asked Bruce, confident he had. Zhao might have more investigative clout than his Chameleon Project in this instance.

“It seems its fixer is the Tallinn crime lord, Nikolai Kuzim. I doubt they would have left their blood behind for disinformation.”

Bruce hid his unease at hearing Nikolai Kuzim had a hand in this.

In 1987, with perestroika—a political reform within the Communist party—and Gorbachev’s introduction of the policy of openness named Glasnost, the then twenty-two-year-old crook, despite becoming a member of the Popular Front of Estonia, campaigning for Estonian independence from the Soviet Union, embraced alliances with Russian organised crime gangs in the subsequent years.

Bruce had crossed paths with Kuzim in the mid-nineties when he had taken part in a rescue mission of an SIS officer, whom Kuzim’s gang had somehow unmasked and captured—a feat that Bruce, though having theories, did not know for sure how they did it.

Though many of the gang members died, Kuzim escaped and remained under the radar for the next two decades, diversifying into different crimes and forming valuable relationships.

Bruce had kept reasonable tabs on Kuzim’s activities over the years, but he still asked Zhao, “What can you tell me of Nikolai Kuzim?”

“A bit strange. I come to know that the once fame—no, the better English word is notoriety-hungry young Kuzim changed to a more secretive criminal. He used proxies. He pretends to be his bosses, but he runs much of the Tallinn criminal underworld. He also invested heavily in the disgruntled Romanian IT specialists post the Soviet era. We have traced many of the original Craiova bank card skimming gangs as taking his money to start up. Initiatives like this are more profitable and less dangerous than his earlier MO of Tiger kidnappings.”

Zhao referred to the practice of abducting the wealthy relatives of wealthy people willing to pay. The name Tiger kidnappings referred to how the victim would be stalked before capture.

“So, someone paid Kuzim an awful lot of money to pull this off.”

“Yes, however, one of the reasons behind his ‘good’ reputation is the reliable intelligence he gathers beforehand. In this case, he might have been reliant on the information provided by the client. If that is the case, he will not be pleased to discover unknown elements have shot the assassins he sent. They are a commodity to him, and his reputation is the reason he can command such fees.”

“Who’s leading the investigation?”

Chen Zhao smiled. “Holland’s National Crime squad is handling this. The lead investigator is a Jacco Verkerk, a very competent officer. And… Raphael Del Piero is assisting him. A strange twist of fate.”

Though Bruce had never met the cunning ROS (Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale) investigator, the Scotsman had an in-depth knowledge of him.

Over a year previously, his agent Connor Reed had uncovered an island under the supervision of the now-deceased ’Ndrangheta underboss Salvatore Mancuso. Then, without the knowledge of the Calabrian mafia’s high council, he arranged for the kidnap of people selected by higher geo-political powers to brainwash them on an island in the Ionian Sea.

With Interpol lacking investigative powers—it facilitates international police collaboration—and Bruce’s unit being deniable black operations, he and Zhao leaked evidence to Raphael Del Piero. The investigative officer duly had the island seized and the ‘patients’ appropriately processed.

“Why would an Italian anti-mafia cop assist the Dienst Landelijke Operationele Samenwerking on their home soil?”

“He answered the call for a secondment to them in light of previous escalations in events in Holland’s capital.”

“Meaning you arranged it,” Bruce said, as more of a statement than a question.

“He’s an excellent law enforcement officer,” shrugged Zhao. “I read that the Honey Badger follows—or is led by—a bird named the Honeyguide to beehives. They do the dirty work of breaking open the hives.”

Bruce nodded straight-faced despite enjoying Zhao’s attempt at subtlety, whose tone changed as he continued, “He is already on the tail of a couple of suspects.”

Zhao pulled out his phone, and Bruce felt his heart rate quicken on viewing the still images of Connor Reed and Luke Ryder.

“These were taken in an exotic car garage in Paris where they purchased a Porsche 911 GT3. Del Piero has requested any files I have on both. And for dispensation to travel to Marbella to liaise directly with the Spanish.”

Bruce hid his nerves with a laconic “OK.”

“I haven’t yet complied with the requests.”

“Why?”

“You forget I was a good investigative officer myself before being assigned to a desk,” answered Zhao without boast.

Indeed, Bruce knew Zhao, the detective, had been described with various superlatives. Still, having one of—if not the—world’s most powerful law enforcement officer knowing the identity of one of his agents injected a sense of unease.

Bruce stared at Zhao without any attempt to intimidate or coerce him.

The Chinaman continued, “I will tell Del Piero that Connor Reed is an Interpol asset. This is not a lie; if he’s an asset to you, he is an asset to me. Del Piero will be encouraged to focus his attentions outside of Spain, for the time being at least.”

Bruce, not wishing to acknowledge anything directly despite the magnitude of the favour Zhao had just extended to him, said, “A man like Del Piero will need to be thrown a bone.”

“Which I am sure you’ll provide him with.”

When Bruce answered with a ghost of a smile, Zhao said, “I am confident the Franklins have contacts high within law enforcement. It would be folly if they did not invest their great wealth into that, but do not discount that Edward O’Neil does not also have a guardian angel. The man is a ghost, and a man cannot be a ghost without help in this technological age.”

Bruce felt the air draw into his lungs as the swords of conflict clashed in his mind. “He does have someone high up watching out for him, though not an angel.”

“Do you know who or what it is?”

“Yes,” answered Bruce.

Connor stopped the GT3, jumped out and ordered O’Neil, “Get in. I’ll be less than a minute.”

His hands rapidly worked against the roll mat’s straps before rifling into it to pull out the Czech CZ 75 and the Belgian FN Five-seveN, both semi-automatic pistols.

Refastening the weapons roll, he slung it into the back along with The Irish citizen’s duffel bag and got back in.

As he did, Connor put the pistols between his legs and used the GT3’s internal Bluetooth to call Luke.

“Yeh.”

“Turn on your phone’s GPS so we can follow you without having to keep eyes on you. Keep your Bluetooth hooked up, and if you see anything untoward, call through immediately.”

“Will do.”

The call ended, and Connor said, “Do you have a preference between the CZ and the Five-seveN?”

“Do you have a preference?”

“I can shoot equally well with either.”

“The CZ.”

Connor felt a coolness in his chest as he handed the weapon to him. “Any idea how they got onto you?”

“Maybe they have people in Morlaix. It isn’t likely—I’d have spotted a tail then.”

“Morlaix? The trucking manifest states Calais? And there are no direct commercial trucking routes from the UK to Spain?”

“No. But there is from Ireland. I am sure a man such as yourself, in your profession, knows never to take a direct route when you don’t want people to know you’re coming.”

Connor didn’t take the mild admonishment to heart. “So, how did you manage to doctor the manifest and still make it down in good time?”

“I had a fake manifest made before I took the truck.”

“You didn’t think to ask us for a kosher manifest?”

“I don’t trust anyone; I don’t have to.”

“How did you make it down so fast?”

“I’ll keep that to myself.”

Connor reached into the visor and donned his blue lens Aviator glasses. “Desperate times and desperate measures.”

“You talk like you’re not in the same boat.”

“No, you’re right, I am. That’s the only reason we have even considered being in cahoots with a former terrorist.”

O’Neil emitted a low chuckle. “With you being a former Royal Marine, I should hold you responsible for every atrocity the British Government has committed in its recent history?”

“You never targeted civilians?”

Again, Connor saw O’Neil’s smile was like a parent explaining something to a small child. “Back in the eighties, I primed six bombs to go off in different areas of Belfast with long intervals in between. I did it that way to allow the RUC enough time to clear the areas when I telephoned them using the prearranged code so they knew it was us. Told them the exact locations so they could clear them. Guess how many locations they did?”

“None?”

“One. A bank. The rest they claimed not to have had—but they fuckin’ did.”

O’Neil’s outburst seemed genuine to Connor’s ears, though he restrained himself from outright believing him.

The Yorkshireman said, “I’d always heard you were a shooter rather than a bomber.”

“Well, from that day on, I was.”

Connor glanced at the tracking monitor and determined they’d reach him in fifteen seconds if Luke stopped dead.

They didn’t speak for a while. Connor’s mind drifted to the situation’s absurdity and how he and his family got here.

Of course, life had always been strange, but more so in the last four years. He had shot a politician with a stolen sniper rifle before kidnapping and torturing him. MP Hardcastle had sexually assaulted a young girl named Rayella Scott, someone Connor was and remained very close to.

His dismembering of Hardcastle had been interrupted by members of Bruce McQuillan’s Chameleon Project.

Instead of being imprisoned, Connor had been recruited into the black operations unit. As a result, he had gone against some of the deadliest people on earth. However, though two years ago, the criminal element of the Ryder family had been involved in an underworld war, never in its criminal history had the civilian members of his family been targeted.

He broke the silence with, “Listen. I apologise for coming across as ungrateful. The first words out of my mouth should have been, ‘Thank you for rescuing my family.’”

“There is an old Irish saying, ‘Here is to the health of your enemies’ enemies’.”

“I don’t think the quote includes your enemies’ family, though I thank you anyway.”

After a moment, O’Neil said, “They are good people. And I only needed a few minutes to know your grandmother is the rock of your family.”

Though he didn’t say it, Connor knew the family’s rock lay in a Dutch private hospital. And when he had left a draft e-mail for Rayen regarding his cousin’s status, the reply came back—No change.

“She’s a hard woman.”

“She wasn’t always that way. She’s learnt how to be.”

Connor glanced at him. Despite knowing the answer, he asked, “Is it true you have a psychology degree?”

“Aye.”

The answer impressed the Yorkshireman because O’Neil did not immediately tell him it was a ‘first’—the highest honours degree grade you could achieve, needing a pass mark exceeding seventy percent. Nor did the Belfast man mention he also had a first in law.

“Must have been quite a student to deduce something so personal about her having met her once.”

O’Neil smirked, “I didn’t need a psychology degree to know when a woman has had to decide to either stay the victim or be strong for her family.”

Connor decided to change the subject. “Though our conflict with Dion Franklin isn’t related to yours, I am intrigued to know why it kicked off between your families. I’ve been led to believe there were a lot of business links there.”

He declined to say there might still be amongst some.

“You ever wondered why that family grew so fast?”

Connor shrugged. “Smart and ruthless?”

“Unwanted plants grow wild when the farmer doesn’t put weed killer on them.”

“I think it would be a given the FOC would keep more than their fair share of corrupt coppers, barristers and judges in their pocket; unless you’re suggesting, it goes further than that?”

“It goes a lot further, in depth and time. One day—do you see this?”

Connor did, and his senses flared; around three-hundred metres behind appeared the three sinister-looking matt black Kawasaki Ninja H2 motorcycles, with the riders in similarly coloured leathers and helmets, reminding him of flying black beetles.

The Yorkshireman knew motorcycles were often used when committing crimes as DNA didn’t stick to them, as it did to their four-wheel-based cousins, and thus, did not usually need torching afterwards.

He said, “Can you ID any weapons?”

O’Neil squinted, “I am in my sixties, lad, but there seem to be bulges underneath the armpits.”

“And none of them are wearing gloves, and the zips are halfway down on all of them.”

“Yeh,” answered the Northern Irishman, almost as a confirmation of Connor’s suspicions.

The black operations agent steeled himself—he didn’t know for certain if they were assailants—but he wouldn’t risk his cousin’s life to find out.

The giant insects began to separate—two on the left and another on the right.

He timed the jerk of the steering wheel, first banging into the front rider and sending him flying. He then clipped the front wheel of the bike behind, sending it and its rider sliding away.

Connor’s brain had zipped through to either crunching the third rider with a similar side-on knock or a brake check if it retreated to the back.

Except, the rider slowed right down to increase the gap.

“He’ll be calling his friends.”

Connor barked. “We’re going to have to switch positions.”

Without hesitation or a murmur of dissent, O’Neil nodded, and Connor kept his eyes on the motorcycle as they went through the awkward manoeuvre.

He caught sight of the rider reaching inside his jacket.

As Connor began to wind down the window, O’Neil exclaimed, “Who the fuck do you think you are? Martin Riggs?”

The former marine was inclined to agree with O’Neil’s scepticism—to hit a moving target as small as a motorcycle from a moving platform like the car with a pistol would be difficult in the extreme. He had shot a moving vehicle from a moving vehicle before, but that had been into a Jeep Patriot’s engine block.

The rider sat up, raised one arm and pulled out a Steyr TMP.

Connor said, “Cut the distance to twenty metres.”

“He has a machine pistol.”

“Trust me.”

He leaned his torso out as the GT3 slowed. The wind buffeted the backs of his ears, and the door edge dug into his hip.

The TMP raised its barrel to strike.

Connor extended the FN Five-seveN with a roll of his shoulders. He judged the amount of aiming-off due to the wind, and four smooth squeezes of the trigger occurred between one and two seconds as his enemy’s burst went wide.

Three of the FN Five-seveN shots struck the rider in phufts of leather—left clavicle, right pectoral, and edge of the right rib cage.

The bike began its epileptic fit before the beetle’s body separated, and the rider fell into a bone-crunching roll.

Sliding back in, he noticed O’Neil’s approving glance and disguised his earlier lack of confidence with, “What did I tell ya?”

He reached for his phone and called his cousin.

“Hello,” came the answer with a nonchalance that sounded strange.

“We have just disabled three armed motorcycle riders.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

“We are not sure, but we think one of them might have made a call. To who, I wouldn’t know, but you’re in danger the longer you’re in that truck.”

“Can’t ditch it, surely? They’ll be mine and our friend’s DNA all over it.”

“I’ll see if there—”

O’Neil interrupted, “There is enough petrol and flammable materials in the back of the truck to set it on fire three times.”

Connor frowned, “Why did—”

“Plans for contingencies. It’s always good to have them.”

“Luke, I’ll call you when I have a location.”

As Connor began tapping on his phone, O’Neil asked, “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“I have a military background.”

“I didn’t ask where you learned to shoot—I asked where you learned to shoot like that?”

“Mister O’Neil, I am not going to lie to you,” said Connor, calling Luke. When his cousin answered, Connor said, “Switch the maps on your phone to GPS coordinates and let me know when you have.”

When Luke had confirmed, Connor gave him an eight-figure grid reference—which was accurate to a 10-metre square.

The location lay approximately three miles away.

“What you planning?” asked O’Neil.

“I want my cousin away from here and back in the UK. We need allies now.”

“You realise the first thing young Dion will do now is put up a handsome sum for you or any member of your family?”

Connor weighed up how much to tell the older man. “My cousin is a relative neophyte when it comes to guns and firefights. He has the temperament but not all the skills. I need him back in Leeds running things.”

“You must really trust your family.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because they are the ones who can hurt you the most.”

“Luke wouldn’t ever turn on his—our—family.”

“No one knows what a man might do when the screws are turned. Even if he’s stood before, men can change over time.”

“I am all set without your philosophical musings. Besides, when we’ve gotten him away, no one except you and I will be privy to what exactly we’ll be doing.”

Eventually, they joined the back of the HGV, trundling down a dirt track into an area of forest.

Connor called up Luke again to tell him to stop.

All three men got out and converged between the two vehicles.

Connor looked up from his phone and said to his cousin, “I’ve sent you the location of a drop box and a garage space where you can drop this off. They are both in separate locations in Córdoba—a couple of hours North. Wear your baseball cap, angle your head away from any security, pick up the garage keys, go to the garage, dump the Porsche, and fuck off. We can’t put it past those riders not to have contacted the local police—and it’s not the most discreet of vehicles.”

“How did you arrange this that quickly?”

“I arranged it in advance. Contingency planning isn’t a dirty phrase,” said Connor, his words reminding him of Bruce McQuillan.

The truth was, Connor had a few such places in a handful of European countries.

Luke flicked his eyes between them. “You’ll have to come with me, won’t ya? Franklin must know you’re ’ere, and his cronies will be scouring Marbella for you?”

Connor looked at O’Neil. “They might be. But we’re here now.”

The older man replied, “And the last thing they expect is for us to stay.”

Luke shook his head as he took the GT3’s keys from Connor, who shooed him away with a reassuring chin tilt.

As he drove off, O’Neil asked Connor, “What are you thinking?”

“I can’t tell you why, but I reckon it’s the lorry that is being tracked. I also reckon that rider might have contacted whomever and whoever will be looking for this lorry.”

Connor thought he saw a smile creep on the former IRA man’s mouth.

16

Bill stood back from his computer in the office of Lambert Transport Ltd and hid his fatigue from the two police officers as he again prepared to parrot out the rehearsed story of how one of their lorries had gone missing.

The female officer with the brunette bob and the hard eyes had asked him again regarding the vehicle’s tracking. The taller, black-haired male officer pretended to know how to operate the system.

Before he could reply, Curtis cut through with, “He’s told you this at least three times since I’ve been ’ere. Is there something wrong with your iPad or whatever it is? Don’t you take notes?”

Indeed, the hand-held mobile devices the pair used instead of paper notepads seemed strange to Bill.

“Sir, we are just attempting clarification of—”

“You can clarify by looking at your notes instead of asking Mr Hopkins here the same questions over and over again. Unless this is an interrogation? Are you saying we need a solicitor?”

Bill felt a mild surprise at the confidence in Curtis’s voice.

“Not at all,” she said, the assuredness of her voice wavering a little. She looked at her colleague and asked, “Got what you need?”

The policeman nodded, and as they stood, she held out a card each and said to Bill and Curtis, “We’ll be in touch. If you remember anything that could aid us in our enquiries, don’t hesitate to contact us. The crime reference number is written on the back.”

“Good! Cheers!” said Curtis dismissively.

The pair walked out after giving Curtis an arched look.

Once they heard the door at the end of the corridor click shut, Bill popped his head out to check they had indeed disappeared.

When he turned back, Curtis said, “Fuck me! You took a risk letting ’im on the computer, didn’t ya?”

Bill decided against telling Curtis what the policeman had looked at was a ‘shadow screen’ put in place by his brother Charlie for eventualities such as this.

“He didn’t know his arse from his elbow. We’ll be OK.”

“You heard any news?”

“Nowt really,” answered Bill, despite the short call he’d received from Luke saying he’d be returning to Leeds.

Bill wanted Curtis to leave so he could start arranging a new rental for Luke. He wanted to smoke but felt uncomfortable leaving Curtis around the office.

“Want a cuppa?” asked the young Ryder.

“Nah, I’m alright.”

After a few moments, Curtis said, “I know you don’t trust me, Bill.”

Bill had thought about denial but said, “I know it’s silly, given what you did back at the house. It’s just that you were away for a while. Your family has brought you back into the fold, which is good enough for me.”

The older man braced himself for some of the attitude he’d witnessed from Curtis before his short-term excommunication to Hull.

“I understand. I will prove myself to you and anyone else I have to.”

Bill nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll have a white coffee with two sugars.”

Connor adjusted the Vortex telescopic sights onto a tree at the edge of the clearing. He had only used the Nr.7 Blaser R93 Tactical Sniper rifle on a range but rated it. Though smaller and lighter than its longer-range cousins, its accuracy held even at eight-hundred metres and more.

The lorry lay in the centre. As he smelled the petrol off his fingers, he hoped the rocky outcrop lacked the foliage to set off a bush fire.

With masking the smell an impossibility, they had left a couple of the empty petrol cans laying in full view at the rear of the lorry with a burnt-ended rag next to it. They hoped it would give pursuers the impression they had been disturbed amid attempting to burn the truck.

He and O’Neil agreed to wait for ten minutes.

As he lay there, he lamented what he would do when he caught Dion Franklin for putting his family through this. A smile crept over his mouth; if his older self felt any guilt for torturing the Irish crime lord, he could always cajole himself with the knowledge he targeted civilians.

He thought about how Tom was the one who wanted to get out of this life, and it was he who now lay in the hospital. He began to be mindful of his breathing, needing to divorce his thinking from the burning anger these thoughts brought forth.

Several months prior, he read a book titled ‘Tribe of Mentors’ by Tim Ferris that transcribed interviews of set questions with an array of ‘successful’ people. One of the more common practices had been meditation, and Connor had made a concerted effort to incorporate it into his daily routine.

He had struggled with this as he sometimes did not have the mental energy, at the end of the day, to even follow his breath consistently. However, one thing he had found interesting was being told—via a voice on a guided meditation phone app—that emotions could be risen above and observed. That pain in the mind was the fear of future pain as the pain experience had already occurred.

Though Connor saw the point, he wondered if the voice would be so confident in his proclamations if he had been an enslaved Black person in the early nineteenth century having to endure repeated whippings—Theories needed constant readjusting to practicalities, he thought.

He understood book-based information was useless without applying it. Often, he’d only find one to two pieces of useful information in each thick tome but knew they would accumulate over time.

The sounds of vehicles rumbling through the forest snapped him back to the present.

The engines cut out before anyone appeared, and he began to breathe rhythmically.

Five armed men appeared from the opening.

Connor cursed; despite looking whiter than he would have expected, they wore dark navy blue, short-sleeved shirts, peaked caps and trousers. The gold lettering of the Guardia Civil stretched across their upper backs.

He and O’Neil wore earpieces.

Connor whispered, “We’ll have to abort. I’ll take a wide route around to your position.”

“Wait,” came the reply, then after a moment. “That isn’t the Garda—the police, I mean.”

“I thought that, but we can’t be sure, just because they look a bit more…North European and have tight uniforms.”

“I recognise two. Notice the emblems on the back pair are on opposite arms. And they have no communications sets. And I can hear their English and Irish voices.”

“Yeah,” agreed Connor. “The emblems are off to a slant, too.”

“It’s up to you, boy.”

Connor smiled at the attempt to needle him. “There’s little point in killing a few soldiers. All it’ll do is confirm we are here and planning to stay to battle it out. They’ll end up combing Marbella, and we won’t be able to operate.”

“I’d agree. But the taller one is Seamus ‘The Clock’ O’Malley; he’s Franklin’s key man in Spain—what you Brits would call ‘A High-Value Target’.”

Connor was familiar with the gangland assassin and coordinator and thought his moniker—on account of his having one hand larger than the other—to be one of the better ones.

He answered, “Sell it to me.”

“If we take him out—and the man beside him, Kevin Diver—we’ll have taken out Franklin’s key war chief and second-in-command. They’ll be all over the show for a bit afterwards. Whomever they do get in will be weak—probably Colin ‘Bugsy’ Malone, who’s a fuckin’ eejit. That cunt Dion might be forced out of his rat’s nest in Dubai to come back here.”

“Alright. My rifle has a suppressor fitted. Don’t fire unless I tell you to.”

Connor had only seen what he was about to attempt a few times, years ago as a young Royal Marine. Except not in reality but in the grots while playing the computer console game ‘Call of Duty’.

The fivesome split up; two sliding up one side of the truck, two on the other, and a single man pointing an Uzi at the rear doors.

The two that included O’Malley peeled off to the right of the HGV out of his vision. The visible pair, led by Diver, crept along the left side.

Connor floated the scope’s crosshairs to the man covering the truck’s rear.

In the short pause after breath expulsion, he squeezed the trigger. Connor only glimpsed the face vacuuming in a vortex of red and white, as he swung the crosshairs to the man behind Diver.

He caught this target mid-turn towards the first corpse, but a shout from the other side already went up.

Kevin Diver made the sound tactical decision to sprint forwards and around, but Connor caught him in the shoulder blade, sending him diving to the deck.

“Shoot targets in the open,” commanded Connor through his tac-mike.

The piercing gunfire clacked through the sky as Connor lined up the crosshairs on Diver’s arse, only for his quarry to roll fast beneath the lorry.

“Fuck,” he hissed, “I’ll converge to the right of your position.”

“No need,” came the confident reply. “They are shooting in the wrong direction.”

The flame from the high-flying glass lemonade bottle erased Connor’s momentary confusion. The Englishman didn’t see it explode against the HGV’s side but heard the whoosh of the petrol-spewed blaze—then the screams.

Where the fuck did he get that from?—thought the Brit.

The trio of giant, thrashing fire beetles appeared in different directions. Connor dropped the three in four shots as Diver rolled out like a burning crocodile.

The former Royal Marine sniper squeezed the magazine’s final round into his head before reloading.

The silence that replaced the screams echoed in his ears. He said, “What’s your status?”

“I am deadly,” came the reply. Connor knew some Irish used it, meaning ‘brilliant, fantastic, great’, but he knew the literal to be apt too.

“Take a wide sweep towards me, and we’ll head off.”

“Roger…the cabin boy,” came the reply, and Connor waited.

After a few minutes, the Northern Irishman’s voice crackled in his ears. “The Police have arrived. The real ones. I can see their vehicles at a distance.”

Connor hid his anxiety with, “Get a move on, and we’ll make a plan.”

He unloaded the rifle, extracting the chambered round before reloading it to ‘make it safe’. As he sleeved it, O’Neil appeared as the sounds of the barks echoed.

“Fucksake,” said Connor. “Give me your pistol. I’ll catch up.”

O’Neil frowned, “Kellin’ real Garda will cause a storm we don’t need.”

Connor’s expression matched his own. “I am not talking about killing police, but unless you can run faster than a pack of fucking Alsatians, then give me your pistol.”

“You’re not kellin’ dogs—and they’ll be Belgian Shepherds,” said O’Neil, gripping the gun. “This is what is going to happen. I am going to give myself up. You have the best chance now. And you can run faster.”

“You’ll never see the light of day again, you old bastard—”

“And believe me—nothing will motivate a police force more than seeing their dogs dead.”

Connor recognised the truth of the words. Realising the dogs were snapping into his time, he turned and ran.

He felt vague guilt for doing so and heightened respect for O’Neil.

17

Oshain ‘Bambi’ Riley, despite the spring month, wore a black cashmere jacket. He had come out to show his face at the front door, and the blond, lantern-jawed Krzysztof, a native of Poland, nodded to it. “That will be your father’s side of you that needs keeping warm.”

Oshain smiled—most people presumed that of his Jamaican side, but it had been his deceased mother who had been Black.

“It’s to make me look as massive as you, Krzysztof.”

Despite the humour, he saw the Pole’s chest expand before he asked, “How is the new guy doing?”

“His name is Stuart, and he seems to carry himself well. But nothing has been happening at the minute.”

Krzysztof nodded before cutting away to conduct random searches.

Oshain kept an eye on the long line of customers vying to get in. Mostly male, as expected at a strip club, but a surprising number of women.

The owner, Cara Sinclair, had told him, “Keep groups of loud, young pissheads out of my club, Oshain. I know they bring in the most money cos they’re reckless and think with their dicks and egos. But they are the ones who cause the aggro because they think with their dicks—understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he had answered, fully expecting her to ask him to desist from being so formal, but she didn’t.

A group of five in their early twenties, fitting her description, approached the front. All sported physiques of developed chests and biceps—indeed, the tallest had his shirt lifted and was aggressively pounding his raised abdominals with his hand’s heel. Oshain could not tell if he wore a grimace or if he was gurning. The rest began indulging in similar peacocking displays.

Oshain sighed. They had adhered to the club’s dress code policy, so he would have to use another reason to bar them.

He put a hand on Krzysztof’s arm as the Pole reached out to search them. “Not tonight, lads.”

The blond straightened in time with the compression of his facial features. “You what?”

“‘Not tonight’ from a doorman translates as—we are not letting you into the club tonight.”

“Eh? We’re all dressed right. Why the fuck you knocking us back?!”

The nights of Oshain conjuring abstract reasons had gotten boring to him. “Because we don’t want a gang of young, coked-up lads with attitudes around the girls.”

“You fuckin’ what?” barked the blond. “You’re calling—”

“I think the noise from the entrance is mashing your hearing, bruv. Let’s go around the corner, just you and me. Krzysztof, can you hold the door?”

“Yeh, boss.”

“After exactly one minute, let his mates come around. I’m not doing any heavy lifting myself.”

Oshain looked at the guy before slanting his head to the corner leading to an alleyway, the side of the club on one side and a high wall on the other.

He began to walk backwards, and after two paces, he took out a plastic case before removing a yellow and black striped gumshield.

Before he could raise it to his mouth, the lad exclaimed, voice now higher pitched, “I’m not going around there. Anyone could be around there. You might have a weapon.”

Oshain stepped back towards him, drilling him with a cold stare. “I’ll stay here with yer friends…well, yer mates, while you check it out. Once you’re happy, I’ll come around. If I come before you’ve said you’re happy, then they can try to stop me. If you are happy, then I’ll come around.”

The disappearance of the guy’s aggressive posturing reminded Oshain of the air release of a balloon. “Nah, we’ll go somewhere better. Probably shit here, anyway.”

Oshain, aware his anger was overcoming his professionalism, lowered his voice. “Nah, it’s not shit, mate. Now don’t cause a scene; let's go around the corner. It’s a square fight. No cornermen. Just you and me.”

“Nah, fam. It’s not record,” answered the man with a tremor.

Oshain raised his eyebrows in wry amusement he knew would sting the lad’s ego. “Off you wander, then.”

The group sloped off, muttering as Oshain and Krzysztof stared them down.

One of the other door staff appeared to resume the random searches, as Krzysztof gave a low laugh. “The ‘challenge and gum shield’ trick hasn’t failed yet.”

“At least these didn’t get their phones out.”

“No,” said Krzysztof. “Maybe one day, a brave one will say ‘Yes’, and he’ll take your job when he beats you up.”

Oshain smiled at the teasing. “And if he’s white, then your right-wing heart won’t get tortured every night taking orders from a mixed-race guy.”

Krzysztof laughed, but Oshain knew, in the beginning, the colour of his skin might have gotten the Warsaw native’s back up.

However, after several skirmishes with unruly customers, Krzysztof seemingly warmed to the amateur mixed martial artist.

The Pole said, “That was the only group tonight. Quite a lot of them have come in twos or threes.”

“That’s not a bad thing. As long as the club is full of the right people.”

The veteran doorman said, “If we get this reputation for not allowing groups in, then they are just going to come inside in pairs and join up inside, anyway.”

“Yeh, fair point,” replied Oshain. “I’ll have a word with the boss.”

“Does she whip you when you’re in the office?” asked Krzysztof with a grin.

“Only when I am good,” said Oshain. “Speaking of which, I better go see her.”

He re-entered the club with the neon blues and purple lighting dancing over his face.

The Leeds native felt unsettled when surveying the crowd. It took him a few moments to work out why.

Generally speaking, unless making conversation at the bar, the men would only talk to the girls or whoever they came in with.

Although never mentioned, Oshain knew the Ryder family used ‘The Helena’ for money laundering. Because of that, they could afford to pay the girls—and boys for the ‘Women’s Only Night’—almost extortionate wages, which they also paid to him. As a result, the club attracted the most stunningly attractive girls—to Oshain’s mind, at least.

He remembered when he and Connor had been observing the customers enraptured by a stage performance, and he had said, “Look at how beguiled these lads are. A pickpocket would have a riot in here.”

But many of the men tonight looked more interested in looking at one another.

He began to ascend the stairs to the balcony. In the far corner was a white-framed door with a painting of the teeth of a woman biting her multicoloured lower lip.

The doorman surveying the VIP balcony nodded to Oshain as his knuckles loudly rapped a pre-determined knock.

The answer, “Yes, come in,” sounded clear even through the door.

Art covered the walls of the four-metre square office, with even the wall planner designed to show crows perched in and around it.

One of his favourite pictures hung to his left, an Afrocentric Goddess portrait that showed a light emitting from the beautiful woman’s forehead like a picture he had seen of Buddha, and peacocks and feathers framing her face.

In the far-right corner sat a curved, polished wooden desk supported by chrome legs.

One of the most attractive women Oshain knew sat at it.

Perfectly contoured eyebrows framed her coffee eyes, subtly contrasting a caramel complexion like his own. Blonde highlights lit her curly brown hair like sparkles under the lights.

Her frame resembled a stretched hourglass covered in a light cotton, emerald trouser suit.

Aside from her physical appearance, her manner captivated him the most. Though only a few years older than his twenty-two years, she carried herself with effortless authority without compromising her femininity.

She looked at him. “How’s it looking, Oshain?”

Cara had always refused to use his nickname of ‘Bambi’ even before being apparently horrified when she discovered how he obtained it.

“Heaving as usual.”

“Any trouble?”

“Nothing to get your knickers in twist over,” said Oshain reflexively.

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me! My knickers are none of your business.”

“I meant, I meant, there was nothing big—”

“Relax, Oshain. I am having you on,” she smiled. “So, another good night?”

“Yeh…well, yeah.”

“Go on.”

Oshain shrugged. “A few tables keep looking over at one another. Just strange in this club. Hopefully, they are not members of rival gangs from somewhere.”

“Not local?”

“If they are gang members from anywhere around here, me or one of the lads would recognise ’em.”

“I’ll be down to have a quiet word with one of them if you point—”

“No, you won’t.”

“Excuse me,” she said, brows raised with an edge to her voice.

“You’re not dealing with male customers; we don’t know who’s had a drink while you’re pregnant.”

“I’ll talk to whoever I like in my club; thank you very much.”

“No, you won’t. Tom said—”

“Tom isn’t the boss—I am. And he’s not here so—”

“Yeh, but I am the head of security for a reason, so if you go out there, then I’ll walk out.”

Her stare of annoyance and surprise of a few seconds seemed to last for a minute before dissolving. “Well…that’s me told. Keep me updated.”

He walked out to the sound of the ‘Praise You’ song cover by Hannah Grace. He wandered over to the balcony and peered down.

Two tall, lissom dancers danced ballroom style—the blonde with short hair in a groom’s suit and the longer-haired brunette in a wedding dress. As they danced, they slowly and deftly stripped garments from one another.

Every night he had seen this performed, he’d never seen the audience anything less than transfixed—except tonight.

He stood back, watched the room and caught three tables making subtle hand signs to one another while looking around. They were also using their phones—not to take photos but appearing to message one another.

He clicked the communications unit button, surreptitiously located under the collar of his shirt.

“Am going to have a word with the table in F-section.”

One of the lads named Kano answered, “I’ll hover back.”

Despite not having directly communicated with him, it pleased Oshain to see Stuart, the new guy, edging closer to the scene.

Oshain made his way down the stairs and noticed one of the groups only gave him a cursory glance.

This did not surprise him—although tall and well-built, he might have been the least imposing member of the door team.

The table he approached comprised three bulldog-shouldered men. Two had their back to him, but the one he had pegged as the leader straightened his back.

Oshain instinctively stood a metre away from the trio, despite the music.

The leader—a touch shorter than Oshain but much broader with dark hair cropped to the scalp—looked at him with wide but steady eyes.

“Hi, Sir. Can I have a quiet word off to one side?”

The man’s eyebrows pressed down, and he cupped his ear.

Oshain considered beckoning the man towards him but understood he had no right to do so.

He stepped closer and bent his head. “Sir, can I—”

A half-empty glass of lager, belonging to the man on his right, hurtled up to his face as a vice snatched his right wrist.

Oshain’s crunching uppercut elbow—Sok Ngat—had the dual effect of blocking the glass and knocking his assailant out.

Then the whole club seemed to erupt against him.

Connor heaved himself out of his agricultural make-shift hide. He had used his commando dagger to undercut the foliage before burrowing underneath.

Now, the sweat-laced soil had dried on his forehead. He brushed the flakes off, knowing he would still resemble a member of KISS after a show until he found water.

He took a knee, remained still and listened for a minute.

Then he fired his phone on and swiped through it.

His eyes caught and then hovered over a message.

It took him a few moments to decide before keying in the number requested.

No answer.

The former commando began to jog down the steep, angled outcrop, zig-zagging to avoid the momentum taking control of his legs. Stopping before the edge, he scrambled across the grey and white rock face, ensuring against skylining himself despite the darkness of night.

He knew it would be dangerous to return to the villa, especially given his appearance, but he reckoned the risk to be worth it. On the few known occasions Eddie O’Neil had been interrogated by either law enforcement or the security services, Connor couldn’t research an instance of him saying a word.

The former Royal Marine had read and thoroughly absorbed the anti-interrogation techniques outlined in the IRA’s ‘Green Book Volume Two’, which detailed the exact mindset and behaviour a volunteer should adopt from the point of arrest. It also described, in apparent unerring accuracy, the process and tactics that would be employed against them.

And Connor seriously doubted the Spanish police could put the old man under more pressure than the security services of Northern Ireland in the eighties could.

He scaled down the rock face, knowing he’d have no reasonable explanation for doing so if caught.

Ever since his days as a young Marine, he’d developed a knack for knowing where he was in relation to where he had come from. He had developed the habit from constantly tracking the distance he had travelled, the changes in direction, any reference points—including the distance between them, and the terrain.

The former soldier began his hike through the edge of the suburbs, keeping away from the roads. Though he realised the preciousness of time, he refrained from running so as not to draw attention to himself.

He began strategising how he would now take the war to the FOC.

Though suspicious of the Northern Irishman, the loss of the knowledge, cunning and drive to destroy the FOC that O’Neil possessed had hit him hard. And now he wouldn’t have access to the useful contacts the former armed robber had on the continent.

Connor briefly thought of ways he might get him out of the clutches of the Spanish police but quickly realised it would be implausible.

And he did not know if assassinating Dion Franklin would immediately end the conflict. Whoever took over might see destroying the Ryder family as a way to cement their claim to an inherited empire.

Connor also couldn’t fathom who would take the helm when he killed Dion Franklin.

His mind began to wander to Luke, and he bit down on his anxiety. Connor, being an only child, saw Luke as the closest he had to a younger brother, and that never changed even upon discovering the open secret that Luke was not his Uncle Lee’s biological son.

Not long back, Connor would never have considered letting Luke return to Leeds to oversee the domestic operations. Though always mentally sharp, his younger cousin had been prone to recklessness and overindulgence in drink and recreational drugs.

He had also shown both signs of a lack of self-assurance, despite Connor and Tom’s faith in him, and overconfidence when it had not been warranted.

All this had receded in recent times, but these were hard times to fully take over the domestic operations while fighting back against such a larger and more powerful organisation.

He prayed the rest of the coal would turn to diamond under the pressure.

Thoughts began to drift to Jackson and Grace. He had been briefly tempted to have them scooped up and sent to Japan with the rest of the family.

However, had he done that—not that Jackson would be allowed to fly—there would be no turning back as far as keeping their link with him a secret.

Connor began to ascend a small hill before skirting it just shy of its peak. In the near distance, he could see one of the mansions not far from his villa.

In the far distance, he could make out the lights of the nightlife spots amongst the trees. He briefly thought, I wish I was there instead of doing this, but immediately realised, no, you don’t.

He walked on before picking out the back alleys of beige stone walls darkened grey by the night and guarded by quiff-haired trees.

A tawny-coloured spotted cat with pointed ears, the proportions of a medium-sized dog, leapt across his path around ten metres away, causing his hand to whip to his pistol.

The Iberian lynx’s amber eyes appraised him for a few seconds before crouching and leaping the opposite wall Connor estimated to be around two metres in height.

He walked on for a while, thinking of the rumours of wild big cats in the British countryside. He felt it the more reasonable of the conspiracy theories, as a puma had been caught in Scotland in the early eighties along with a smattering of Eurasian lynxes. The generally accepted explanation was that these were exotic pets released after the introduction of the Dangerous Wild Animals Act 1976, as the stipulations were too restrictive for some owners. Though Connor would have liked it to be true, he thought it highly unlikely, as with all the phones and drones, surely a clear image would have manifested by now.

He reached the tree line of the small forest separating him from the villa. He began to cut through, halting every so often for a thirty-second listening stop before reaching the other edge overlooking the villa.

He watched it for a few minutes before sliding back into the trees and walking to a new position to observe from a different angle. This method of observation, known as ‘petalling’, had been learnt on his Junior Command course to be promoted to Corporal in the Royal Marines.

Once as satisfied as he could be that an ambush had not been set, he made his way to the part of woods closest.

He had a brief internal conversation about whether he should zig-zag across the open ground, which ended with—If there is a sniper, then it might stop your head from getting blown off. If there isn’t, no one is going to see how weird it’ll look, anyway.

He made it without incident and took out his pistol just before entering the villa.

He began to clear the first floor, being wary, in this relatively unfamiliar environment, not to fire into human shapes like the Yucca tree in the hallway.

Twelve minutes into clearance, his phone vibrated against his thigh. He ignored it.

He cleared the house—a further four minutes.

He took out the phone, still vibrating. He clicked answer and said nothing.

The female voice said, “Hello.”

“Do not say my name over these means—over the phone—but do you recognise my voice?”

Anne De Jager replied, “Yes.”

“Is your line secure?”

“It is a secure phone.”

“Talk in code as much as you can.”

She paused, “OK.”

“Is my cousin OK?”

“Your cousin?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

Fucksake! It’s falling down already, he thought.

“How is Tom?”

“Tom your cousin?”

Connor couldn’t jam the lid on his temper in time. “No, Jerry’s fucking nemesis—Yes, my cousin.”

“I do not know. What has happened?”

“What do you mean ‘What has happened?’. Hasn’t our bald friend informed you?”

After a moment of silence, she said, “How can I trust him? How can you trust him?”

“What do you mean?”

“You saw how it happened. How did all those guns get so close to Ra—the boss?”

“The head of security, Anne. I saw.”

“OK. But…our bald friend might have consulted with the head of security.”

“Because I saw our bald friend fire back. Trust me; he was not complicit.”

He heard her sigh. “I should have stayed back home.”

“Where are you?”

After a moment, she said, “Three nations southeast of where we first met.”

His mind whirred, and he asked, “Whereabouts in that country? North, south, east or west?”

“Southwest.”

Connor became suspicious. “Why that country, and why that part of it?”

“One of my safe houses is located there.”

The recesses of Connor’s brain threw the realisation of its likelihood to the forefront. He remembered during his research that Anne De Jager had an aunt who lived in Seville.

“How’s your aunt?”

“She’s…how did you…she died recently.”

“Sold the house yet?”

Silence for a couple of beats. “No. Time must pass.”

“I am going to message you my location. You are not far away.”

“I thought you said it would be safe to return?”

“I think it is, but I need your help.”

Oshain stepped back, whipping a roundhouse kick into the teeth of the now-standing leader.

The man spewed claret-laced tooth shards with unblinking eyes as he fell without his joints moving.

Oshain barely got his arm in the way of another glass thrown by the third man.

In his peripheral vision, he caught the men at the surrounding tables shooting to their feet and rushing towards him.

He turned to see Kano intercepting another attacker with a knockout blow.

Shock bolted through him as he saw Stuart smashing Kano to the floor with a knuckle-dustered fist.

A berserk rage burned Oshain from the inside out.

Then he felt a crush of muscle and bone around him, and the bars of pain thudding into his body and protecting his arms.

Somewhere in his subconscious, he understood the attackers to be using weapons.

Without the space to use full-leverage punches—let alone kicks—he resorted to elbows. However, given the target area he offered, he found himself crunching himself down in a futile attempt to protect his head and body.

He ripped away from the onslaught, leaving two attackers on the floor. As a trio—including the tall, bald Stuart—stood off him, seemingly daring themselves to re-attack, he could see his doormen being surrounded and overpowered by an onslaught of chairs, steel fists and stamping boots.

The sight of this fired a desperate anger into him, propelling him forward with a fusillade of punches.

The three fell away from him as he bulldozed his way towards Kano.

He stopped to stamp on Stuart’s face three times before dropping a knee on the unconscious head.

In that moment, he caught sight of Cara, slack-jawed, looking over the balcony. In the same instance, he saw three enemies cease kicking one of his men to snap their heads in her direction.

He knew their intentions, perhaps, even before they did. He sprinted towards the stairs two seconds before the three did. Scrambling through the smell of panic and escaping patrons, he reached the stairs before them.

One stepped forward with what looked like a bottle of bleach. It fired a jet of liquid, like a cobra spitting venom.

He caught the fluid on his arm.

The limb went up in invisible flames of pain with the smell of burning fibres and flesh.

They smashed into him, briefly collapsing him to a knee and then to his arse as they rained punches down.

Protecting his head from the blows trying to steal his consciousness, he knew to get up—he’d need to apply his hands on the stairs for purchase.

He thrashed his arms wildly and moved his head exaggeratedly.

A steeled blow knocked him groggy, and fear washed through him.

A burst of carbon dioxide and water hit his assailants while dripping on him.

He craned his neck to see Cara operating it. A mental image of Ellen Ripley using a flame thrower superimposed itself on Cara.

He rolled so that he could stand without being hit by the jet. As he did so, the torrent ceased, only for the extinguisher to come hurtling past him into the three drenched and nonplussed men.

Oshain, vaguely aware of the searing pain shaking him, launched himself at the nearest, stamping on the inside of the knee with a sickening crack.

The blows he had received slowed his reflexes, and a brick wall of fists and boots began to cave in on him.

The sense of failure hurt his soul more than the acid burn, the booted toe punts and bulbous knuckles dragging him off to unconsciousness.

The hitting abruptly stopped. Oshain tilted his head to watch the surreal vision of his attackers falling away to reveal Krzysztof.

The battered-faced, blood-flecked Pole, in a voice crossed between a shout and a scream, ordered Cara, “Get in the fucking office!”

Another shout, Irish-accented, rocketed like a flare, “The fuckin’ Garda. Let’s move.”

Feet trampled over Oshain as flashing blue lights pulsed through the main window.

He rolled over to see the attackers fleeing through the fire escape.

In addition to his burnt sleeve and skin, his nostrils picked up a pungent, vinegar-like smell as his ears detected a faint hiss.

And his eyes spied the acid bottle, wearing its hazard labels, like a convict covered in tattoos. The red top lay next to it like a road accident victim as its liquid contents ate the green leather of one of the chairs.

18

Luke straightened his back and kept his face neutral. A man of similar age, with a grey T-shirt covered in fingerprint smudges, led him through the crowd of Gypsy eyes.

Only just arrived back, he had called Bill Hopkins as soon as he stepped foot on UK soil and began the nearly three-hundred-mile drive from the south coast to Leeds.

The camp covered just shy of a football pitch and boasted a mixture of modern caravans interspersed with colourful Vardos— the traditional horse-drawn wagon the Romani Gypsies used.

Despite the stares, he admired the woodcraft and engraved designs on them.

The largest stood proudly at the back of the flat land. The racing green curved roof and the royal red face glittered with the gilding of gold with matching wheels.

Luke studied the gold upon approach; the wheels and gilding did not have the intensely yellow hue of plated gold—solid gold was mixed with tiny amounts of other metals to make it more hard-wearing.

The man stopped him short and shouted, “Uncle Hughie. One of your favourite Gorgas is ’ere.”

The bellow from the caravan came back, “Tall, middle or short?”

“Tall.”

Luke guessed this was how Hughie divided them; himself—tall, Connor—middle, and Tom—short.

“Arrhh, the Blond Bomber himself,” came back the reply, followed by the man’s appearance.

Dressed in slacks and a white vest so clean that Luke’s dad would have said it could pass the Daz doorstep challenge—the sixty-odd-year-old, with black and grey slicked-back hair, leant forward against the sides of his magnificent Vardo.

“I would ask to what I owe this pleasure, but I already know,” said Birtle in a voice a little louder than his average speaking voice.

Though the Ryder cousins used to parody the Gypsy accent seeped in Irish, as per the Guy Ritchie directed film, ‘Snatch’, Birtle had a Yorkshire accent much more robust than their own.

“Not surprised with the size of those ears.”

The man beside him stiffened, and the silence rolled in his ears to the rest of the camp.

Birtle’s roaring laugh billowed relief into Luke’s diaphragm.

“Nowt wrong with big ears, young Ryder,” smiled Birtle. “Let’s go for a cup of tea, then. Unless you prefer something stronger?”

Luke felt the pull of temptation at the offer. He had curbed his intake of booze but couldn’t ever imagine being teetotal. He reckoned delving into an alcohol-infused state from time to time gave him a restorative reprieve. He often wondered what it was like for non-drinkers to just walk around, day after day, week after week, month after month and year after year.

He remembered his Uncle Michael telling him the Frank Sinatra quote, “I feel sorry for people that don’t drink because when they wake in the morning, that is the best they’re going to feel all day.”

Tom drank—though rarely to the point of losing his faculties—Connor hardly ever went past two gin & tonics. Or if he did, Luke had noticed him using soft drinks as ‘spacers’.

“Are you joining me?” asked Luke, climbing the stairs.

“Not for me, Cool Hand Luke. I am a clean-living man,” announced Hughie, using a moniker that Luke’s grandad had bestowed on him as a youngster.

Birtle stepped to one side, and as the golden tubes of the chime curtain stroked past his face, he exclaimed, “Fuck me, it’s like Aladdin’s cave in ’ere.”

The resplendent chiffons and satins of the inside matched the outside’s gold, red, and greens. The smell of myrrh floated through the air.

A grand bed lay over the far side.

“Yes, this Vardo ’as been four generations in my family.”

“Where do I put my shoes?”

“The same place you’ll put your clothes,” growled Birtle, clasping a calloused hand on the back of Luke’s neck. “I only bring the ones I really like to ‘negotiate’ in ’ere.”

Luke’s head whipped around with his forearm batting off the rough palm, only to find Birtle’s head thrown back in roaring laughter.

Another lower-pitched laugh and a hand came from behind a theatre-like curtain, and Bill Hopkins appeared with a grin.

Luke’s face quickly mirrored the older men before he exclaimed. “And what the fuck would you have done if I said OK?!”

“No shame in it nowadays,” announced Bill.

“Steady on there, William,” said Birtle with playful disapproval. Luke briefly wondered how hard it might be being gay within certain traveller communities.

Luke said, “I didn’t even know you two knew one another that well.”

“William and I have known one another since before you were born from your mother.”

“Who else would I be born from? And are we sitting down or not?”

“You think I am going to let two Gorga lounge around here, especially the human chimney here? Follow me.”

He led them out and around the back.

The front of the near-futuristic-looking, grey, white, and black touring caravan reminded Luke of a Japanese bullet train.

“Very impressed,” said Luke. “I bet the wheels don’t fall off that.”

“Why would they fall off?” asked Birtle, seemingly bemused.

“Never mind,” said Luke.

They stepped in.

A smell similar to Luke’s maternal nan’s pantry perfumed the air. The peach lighting bounced off the white plastics of the kitchen unit.

Stuck up around the left wall were Polaroids Luke assumed to be of friends and family, and a few crayon drawings—one of a ship and another of a dragon—though done by a child, were impressive.

An array of mugs lay strewn across the kitchen counter. Behind them stood three ceramic jars with words and pictures in the style of 1950s advertisements denoting ‘Tea’, ‘Coffee’ and ‘Sugar’.

Luke smiled at the silver toaster in the shape of a caravan.

“Go on. You’re making the place untidy,” intoned Birtle, tilting his head to the rhubarb and cream-striped sofa units facing one another over a black wooden table.

Two brass monkeys held a stack of books upright at the far edge with their hind feet.

Luke said, “Not to be offensive, but I didn’t think Gypsies were much into reading.”

“Many Gypsies don’t read and write because they don’t read and write. But I don’t think having pride in being a Romany doesn’t mean you should think being ignorant is something to shout about.”

“I think you and Connor would get on. He’s always reading—listens to audiobooks in his car.”

Birtle laughed, “I tried one—fiction book, but they could only find one actor to do all the voices. His voice doing the little girl’s parts was like nails down a blackboard.”

“Blackboard?” replied Luke, keeping his face straight. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a blackboard as it was whiteboards by the time he got to school.

“Get out of it,” exclaimed Bill and Birtle in unison.

When Luke smiled in reply, Bill said, “You’ll never know the pain of having a wooden blackboard eraser twazzed at yer sweade.”

“And they wonder why we gyspies keep our kin out of school. My father said he’d never have a Gorga hit me.”

“We had a Mrs Rowntree who could flick a piece of chalk from across the room and smack yer in the ear,” said Bill. “Fuckin’ wench was a sniper.”

Birtle laughed as he took their beverage requests, and soon they sat, Birtle on one side, Bill and Luke on the other.

“Hear your family has gotten into another spot of bother?”

“You could say that.”

Bill spoke, “Luke has only just arrived back. I haven’t had a chance to speak to him. I brought him here because…it’s one of the few places I thought were safe.”

Luke felt a cold bloom in his stomach and asked, “How bad?”

“The Helena got hit last night. Full-blown invasion—no shooters this time, thank Christ. Luckily, young Oshain and the door team fought like animals, but a few have been hospitalised—the errr...invaders managed to spirit their lot away. They’ve wrecked the place. There ’as been customers glassed. Coppers have been out. It’s a nightmare. Place ’as had to shut, Luke.”

Luke took an invisible breath and asked, “What about Cara?”

“To tell you the truth, she’s more mad than anything else. She—”

“But she’s alright, though? Not been touched herself?”

“No. But Oshain ’ad his arm burnt from acid squirted out of a bottle. At least we got the rest of the girls out to Japan. But yes, Cara is safe.”

“Yeh, Tom made the office into a sort of a panic room,” said Luke, heart beating hard, wishing for his elder cousin’s presence now.

“No, Cara came out of it. We think the acid was for her. Thank Christ for Oshain—he heroed her. And here’s more,” sighed Bill. “Your Auntie Jo’s house got firebombed, alright whoever did it probably knew she wasn’t there, but the threat is there—Not even civilians are safe. Fuckin’ cunts!”

Birtle rasped, “Aye, and whatever blind eyes the coppers have turned to youse Ryders will end if Leeds gets turned into a warzone. And I’ll tell thee now, any corrupt councillors in your pocket will run—or fly—like bats from a Chinese barbecue.”

Luke’s stomach tightened at ‘blind eyes’ and ‘coppers’.

Backchannel communications between the Ryder family and local law enforcement went back nearly two decades, though the faces—on both sides—had changed a few times. This was due to the autonomy of movement of a police officer becoming restricted once reaching a certain rank, usually the level of DCI (Detective Chief Inspector).

Though Tom had known Arthur Berry of the local CID (Criminal Investigation Department) when the policeman was Detective Constable several years ago, Luke had only met him once.

And Luke wondered how much the Gypsy king suspected and how much talking to the police would offend his sensibilities.

As if sensing his fears, Bill said, “Charlie says they’ve begun a propaganda campaign on the tintaweb. Usual shite about being police informants.”

Bill’s calling the internet the tintaweb highlighted his continuing lack of familiarity as a global social enterprise.

However, Luke knew this was a disaster. The FOC’s digital disinformation machine had a notoriety for being as widespread as it was relentless.

Bill continued with, “Charlie has been on it. He’s meant to be the brainbox in that department.”

“Yeh, but one man is one man. He could be Professor Xavier and still drown in the shit they could pump out.”

Bill said, “Sorry, kid, but there is more. One of our money men—the Harrogate one—had his Bentley firebombed. Don’t be surprised if he refuses to work with us. And this is just the beginning.”

An avalanche of snow thudded into the spaces between Luke’s lungs and heart until he remembered something Connor had told him about dealing with crises coming in from different directions, “There is a time to look at the big picture and a time to make your world small. If problems are overwhelming you, prioritise what you need to do, and focus on each one at a time. And remember the quote—“When going through Hell, just keep on walking”.”

He’d give anything to have either elder cousin with him now. Connor had always been his hero, ever since he was young—charismatic, enigmatic, funny, a devastatingly effective fighter; Connor seemed to know a lot about a lot of things and spoke a bit more upmarket than the rest of the Ryder cousins.

But the more time Luke spent with Tom, the more he saw him as the true General—the guardian—of the Ryder family. Every decision Tom made seemed geared towards making the family’s standing stronger. And because of that, he hardly ever exuded the image of a gangster, and Luke had seen him ‘yield’ to men much lower in the UK underworld’s food chain to ensure the best deal for the Ryder’s criminal enterprises, even if it meant enduring a mild slight.

However, Tom had maimed, tortured, and murdered plenty of people.

Birtle, who had remained quiet for longer than he could ever remember, spoke, “You know, I read about a book about Xenophon of Athens leading ‘the ten thousand’ out Persia. You know it?”

“Unless it’s been adapted to a film like ‘Gladiator’ , then probably not,” said Luke.

“Well, allow me to educate a Gorga. Abart four hundred years before our Lord an’ savior Jesus Christ came, the heroic Prince Cyrus led an army to dethrone his treacherous brother—got his ’ead cut off and paraded around the battlefield, but that’s by the by. Anyway, during this battle— the Battle of Cunaxa is called—the Greek mercenaries, ’specially those Spartans, they were like the fuckin’ SAS and SEALS of the day—the way they used their shields meant despite being outnumbered by all these Persians, they could go wherever they wanted on the battlefield.”

“Yeh, the Phalanx—I remember the mongoloid midget in ‘300’ not being allowed in the gang cos he wouldn’t be able to protect the man to his left,” said Luke.

“Exactly, the Phalanx. Anyway, cos this Prince Cyrus had been beheaded, there was no point in ’em continuing cos who was going to pay their wages? So the Greek mercenaries says to this Persian King— Artaxerxes II— ‘Listen, we don’t have anything against you. If you let us go, we’ll just fuck off back to Greece’. So this King says, ‘Aye, come up for tea, and we’ll talk about it’. So all these generals of this Greek mercenary army goes up to get wined and dined, and after they’ve finished their pudding, this bastard King slaughters ’em all.”

“Fuckin’ ’ell,” murmured Bill, seemingly genuinely interested. “Then what happened?”

“One of the men escapes and alerts the camp. This Persian messenger comes down a bit later and says, ‘Listen, we outnumber youse like a plague of locusts. So you can either die, or you can surrender and be our slaves—all of you, which includes the women and kiddies. So now, the entire leadership has been slain, the rest start panicking a bit until this Athenian—not Spartan—steps up and says, ‘fuck being their slaves. We’ll do a fighting withdrawal’. This is despite them having next to fuck all horses, no archers and having all the kiddies, old people and women to protect. So they eventually agree, and because he stepped forward, they elected him as their overall commander—the…what’s the word those Greeks called it?...the strategos; that’s it. He never put himself forward. They did it even though there were loads more experienced—I think that was the Battle of Cunaxa. Loads of Spartans there, too, had loads more experience, but they trusted him to lead them.”

Luke, to his surprise, eagerly asked, “So what happened?”

“Well, the Persians knew it would be too dangerous to try to take on this Greek mercenary army head-on. But like I said before, there are millions of ’em…well, maybe not millions. So they harassed these Greeks from a distance with arrows and spears while the Greeks had to go hunting for their food to feed everyone and ration their water, even with the fucking sun belting down on them. Horrendous!”

Bill asked, “How far did they have to go?”

“Nearly eighteen thousand miles. Imagine the state of their feet!”

Luke asked, “So…they made it?”

“Aye, they made it. They started crying when they saw the sea because it meant they were safe. They lost quite a few minds. Eggs to make omelettes. But you see what I am saying to you?”

Luke did but asked, “What are you saying to me?”

“Your two cousins are…unavailable. You’re the one who has to step up now. Take counsel where you can, but be decisive when you make decisions; wear a mask of confidence.”

Feeling an expanse of gratitude in his chest, Luke replied, “Thanks,” before turning to Bill and saying, “First, I need to speak to Bambi and the rest of the lads. Then we need to work out a strategy.”

Bill nodded. “Do you have any thoughts?”

“Well…problem is… is we don’t know the guys he’s using. If they’re Irish—”

“They were Irish,” interjected Bill. “At least, some of them. Oshain heard.”

Luke continued, “I don’t think it’ll be too clever to take a group over to Dublin or wherever blind—I don’t know my way around or who we can trust.”

Bill said, “Well, our Irish friend could have helped you there. Not sure what he’s doing in Spain, anyway. I know he’s meant to be a Laurence Olivier, but every corrupt copper and gangster will be scouring the area for him.”

“I’ll get a message to Connor to see. In the meantime, we are pretty much fucked, as we don’t know the men the FOC is using on the ground against us. I can’t hit back when I don’t know where or who they are. Unless…”

Luke’s mind raced, then began to outline a plan.

Ciara threw her charcoal, hard-shell travel suitcase onto the tightly made hotel bed.

The bed lay within a varnished wooden box frame. The carpet matched her suitcase, as did the sofa in the corner, with the coffee table harmonising with the box frame.

The bay windows revealed a golf course, and watching the distant figures play, she wondered if she would ever like to take up the sport.

She wore a black stretch-denim suit jacket with matching jeans over a white-collared shirt.

Bruce had told her to switch her face-to-face appointments to Zoom calls and cancel those that couldn’t be converted.

An encoded knock at the door sounded, and Ciara opened it with her arm extended, her other forearm braced, as taught in agent training.

Two men stood in the doorway, and she ushered them inside. One stood shorter than average height, approaching forty with a touch of marbling through a stocky, compact physique. He wore a dark, woollen jumper with some of the threads pulled, and despite having a sharp widow’s peak of grey-streaked brown hair, Ciara thought it looked better than he would be bald.

She knew Welshman Kevin Anderson was an excellent agent, especially as a shadow on the street.

The other man, Dave Prand, was taller, younger, and leaner than Anderson, with a khaki ‘Under Amour’ T-shirt peeking out from the ‘V’ of his black fleece.

He had been a member of the SAS, and Bruce managed to recruit the West Country native some years ago.

Anderson asked, “What’s the crack, boss?”

Ciara answered, “Both of you, take a seat.”

They did so, looking mildly uncomfortable being close together.

“You’ve been brought up here for a protection detail, except I do not know as yet who the person or persons we have to protect are.”

A mild bemusement appeared on their faces, and she continued, “I know. We know it’ll be in Leeds, and we know that if there is an attack, it will be orchestrated by the Franklin Organised Crime Group against the Ryder family.”

Both men glanced at one another; they had been on a mission run by Connor a handful of years ago.

Anderson asked, “And where is my big shag?”

“He is away at the moment,” answered Ciara, knowing ‘big shag’ to be a Welsh colloquialism for ‘mate’.

Prand said, “Wherever he’s to, I’d feel sorry for anyone who would think it’s a good idea to go after his family.”

Anderson joined in with, “And shouldn’t there be more of us to watch over them?”

Ciara gave them an overview of the situation, including that most of the family members were being protected in Japan, with Cara Sinclair watched by an undercover protective police detail.

“So we don’t know who they might strike?” asked Anderson.

“Not yet.”

Prand asked, “What does this mean, then? We are under house arrest or hotel arrest, I mean?”

“You can leave, just as long as you stay within the city, and can be in the car driving to where you need to be within three minutes.”

She observed a lifting of their mood in their demeanour and expression, and she continued, “If you go anywhere, then check in on the group chat.”

“Roger,” they said in unison.

19

Having slept two nights in a holding cell, Eddie O’Neil knew the Spanish police officers didn’t know who he was.

These were still the Policía Municipal—the local police—and O’Neil knew had they found out his name, they’d have immediately transferred him to Madrid.

However, he knew these peelers wanted the credit for breaking him—and a multiple murder case—themselves.

And this was why they had taken him to some outpost in the hills —To keep me out of the way. It reminded him of his school caretaker’s house back in the sixties.

The former IRA member had said nothing during the three ‘interviews’ so far.

He saw their exasperation in his non-reaction to their questions the first time but knew they might attribute it to the language barrier.

This was confirmed the second time when they brought in a man with excellent English, but he remained silent. When the man left, the two policemen came around the table and stood on either side of him before taking turns slapping the back of his head while jabbing questions at him in broken English.

He saw their mirth descend into frustration when his expression remained static.

Eventually, they dragged him back to his cell. Not that he needed to be. Still, he knew they were venting their exasperation at his non-compliance and their apparent unwillingness to leave bruises or abrasions.

The door rattled open to reveal one of the stony-faced policemen. He gestured for O’Neil to get up before smacking his hands together to chivvy him along.

O’Neill had already decided to test his theory that they were unwilling to mark him by laying down once they got into the ‘interview room’. He remembered being told a story in a pub back in the seventies by one of the older IRA volunteers about how the man had simply lain down during an interview. The following month, nineteen-year-old O’Neil had decided to implement it himself.

However, O’Neil had forgotten the part where the man said it had taken place in England with their police and not the back of a Saracen APC with British Paratroopers. The ache in his ribs had lasted for days and convinced him of the mantra ‘know your audience’.

Stepping out of his room, he saw a smartly suited middle-aged woman with silver-flecked black hair in curls that sat crown-like, with the lower curls straightening over her shoulders.

“Mr McGowan. I am Carla Reid.”

O’Neil straightened. “Doesn’t sound like a very Dutch name.”

“I heard you have an ear and tongue for accents,” she said. “And to answer your question, I married a man from England. West Yorkshire.”

He nodded, thankful none of the police officers present could speak English well, as they might ask why he needed to interrogate his own solicitor.

“Alright.”

“Have they been treating you well?”

“Oh, they have been grand, so they have.”

One of them eyed him strangely but said nothing.

The lady continued, “They’ll be taking us down to Madrid.”

So it had finally been tasked to the CNP—Cuerpo Nacional de Policía for processing. O’Neil knew he preferred to be held captive by these yokels than to be processed deeper into the system.

He kept his face impassive and replied, “OK.”

After receiving his clothes and items back, he got changed before being returned to handcuffs.

Led outside, he felt a mild surprise seeing a boxy white police car with a navy blue flash down the side.

Next to it sat a sparklingly white Peugeot 2008. As O’Neil felt an unnecessary hand on the back of his head, his ‘solicitor’ called out, “I will be right behind you. Put your seatbelt on,” before getting into the Peugeot.

Once ‘guided’ into the back of the car, the two cops squeezed into the front, and both began to smoke.

After applying the fiddly seatbelt, Eddie asked, “Can I have one, please?”

The passenger looked at the driver before a ghost of a smile appeared. The passenger then turned around without the encumbrance of a seatbelt, placed a cigarette between O’Neil’s lips, and turned around.

The policemen began to chuckle at O’Neil’s inability to smoke it without a light.

O’Neil, genuinely finding the humour in the trick, laughed with them. The driver, looking at him in the interior mirror, said to his colleague, “Dale fuego”, and the other cop turned and lit his cigarette for him.

“Gracias,” he said to his captors, meaning it. As they smoked in communal silence, he remembered how he didn’t actually hate British soldiers—though he had lost any sense of mercy he might have had in the wake of The Bloody Sunday Massacre—but often surmised that had he been born on a UK council estate, a career in the British forces might have appealed to him.

Then the indoctrination would have begun until tearing Catholic men out of their beds in the dead of night before frog-marching them out to an RUC pig wagon while their wives cursed and children cried would be seen as his duty.

It was the British establishment he held an utter intolerance for. The Labour Party under Wilson and Callaghan did not care for the plight of Catholics, and the toffs mass-produced from Eton probably laughed with a cigar and whisky chasers on learning of volunteers starving themselves in Long Kesh.

The narrow road slipped around the mountainside, and O’Neil’s body punted hard against the seatbelt.

The front passenger’s head banged on the glass while the driver managed to brace his arm across his face against the steering wheel.

O’Neil shot his head around to see a tired-looking Red Hyundai stretched across the road. He spun his head around further to see that the Peugeot 2008 had stopped within a metre of the police car.

From behind the blocking car, a Heckler & Koch UMP 45 beneath a balaclava appeared a couple of seconds before his door cranked open, and the Dutch woman pushed a Luger P08 into his hand.

When O’Neill touched it against the back of the passenger’s neck, he noticed that the UMP swung to the driver.

Neither Officer had attempted to reach for their service pistols, which he put down to shock.

The driver’s door opened like a dragon’s jaws. A pair of black industrial-duty cable ties sailed in.

The balaclava barked, “Póntelos. Ajustado,” before roaring at the lack of movement, “Ahora!”. The pair began to thread them together, looping them around their wrists and used their teeth to pull them tight.

The balaclava said to O’Neil, “Take his pistol.”

The voice belonged to Connor Reed.

Once the men were rendered weaponless, they handed over their phones under orders barked in Spanish.

O’Neil and his rescuer then used the policemen’s handcuffs to secure their ankles together before removing their keys.

They left them on the side of the road while dousing all three vehicles in petrol and setting them ablaze.

The Dutch woman and Reed led O’Neil around the Hyundai, running down the single-lane road for almost a hundred metres until they reached a smoke-grey BMW iX.

Pulling his balaclava off, Connor jumped into the driver’s seat. O’Neil got into the passenger seat and the woman in the back. The iX’s acceleration forced their backs into the seats.

The Englishman began to speak, “I am staying, but you’re returning to the UK. Anne here is going to have you smuggled back through Holland.”

“I don’t need her help. I can make it back myself.”

“Then look after her until you’re out of Spain.”

“What good am I going to be back in the UK? I can wear a disguise and help you co-ordinate—”

“You’ll go back to Ireland to co-ordinate the fight there.”

O’Neil said through narrowed eyes, “What good am I going to be over there? I barely have the men able or willing to take the fight to them. My family has been decimated—”

“You will take my Cousin Luke and a few of his lads over.”

O’Neil, used to restraining and masking his emotions, could not prevent his exasperation from bursting from his mouth, “Ireland—the Ireland that you’re talking about isn’t like the Hobbiton town you’re from. Sending your lads there will be like rats into a pit of cobras.”

“And that’s why they won’t expect them. And with you leading them. And don’t plead that you have no one to aid you over there.”

O’Neil stopped his protest—it wouldn’t get him anywhere, and instead asked, “What are you going to do? Even if Dion returns from Dubai, he will be more protected than ever.”

“I need to tap into some of the other sides of your skill set.”

“Like what?”

“I know you’ve managed to smuggle weapons inside household items and have them sent to where you needed them. I need you to do that again. Anne has the details concerning addresses and weapons. I have a cache in Zaragoza that includes a Trojan Horse.”

“The security around Dion will be alert to that. They’ll check any item coming in.”

He saw Connor glance at him before saying, “Around Dion, maybe. There might be tears peeling an onion, but you’ll get to the centre eventually.”

O’Neil replied, “Let’s hope your ability in ‘One-Man Army’ missions is better than your quotes.”

Dion Franklin    stood next to his pool as a pump of anger—and anxiety—spewed a tirade out of his mouth.

“I sent a team to take one old fookin’ man! And now half of ’em are dead, including my main guy.”

He did not have to mention Seamus ‘The Clock’ O’Malley was also his friend.

The three men standing before him did not meet his eye as his spittle flecked them.

One risked a, “I think he had help.”

“Fookin’ A he had help,” roared Franklin. “But he doesn’t have a fookin’ army down ’ere, does he? Unless…unless he has help within my organisation? Maybe I should let the spics chop up half of ya to see if anyone runs? Whatcha think about dat?”

The Dubliner knew he was ranting. And he knew they knew he would calm down. But he knew they knew he had done some terrible things while in a temper.

“You can trust us, Dion,” came back the reply. “And without being cheeky, can you be sure whoever provided us with the information didn’t lead us into a trap?”

Dion’s stomach turned on hearing this but brazenly said, “Are you tellin’ me my business, Liam?”

“Never. I was just—”

“Well, don’t fookin’ just. In fact…you lead the lads now. That IRA motherfooker is still here. He can’t go back to Ireland cos he knows he’ll die. And where else is he gonna hide? Thinks he’s master of disguise; thinks he could walk past us dressed as the Pope, and we wouldn’t notice.”

Liam said, “What am I doing with those spics?”

Dion filled and emptied his diaphragm. “Take ’em, but don’t let them forget who the bosses are. They are in our manor.”

“I don’t like ’em, boss. Something about them. I don’t include your girlfriend, obvs.”

Dion nodded, “Don’t let them speak dat monkey language in front of ya. They know enough English to know how to make themselves heard.”

“So you’re saying, don’t trust them?”

“You don’t see me talking to them, do you?” said Dion. “My trust has to be earned. And it needs to be constantly earned.”

One of the other lads tilted his head towards the darkened windows of the mansion. “I bet they are watching us now.”

“Fuck ’em! Use ’em for what they are,” said Dion. “And another thing—keep your heads down. That bitch from the tabloids and every creature like her will come to Marbella ready to get in yer faces with cameras. Spanish coppers were already down this morning.”

“What did they say?”

“How the fook should I know? Told them to bring a warrant or an official summons and shut the door in their faces.”

His lads gave him a nod and a smile.

Dion handed one of the men his empty Steelite craft coffee mug and strolled back into the mansion.

Lina Van hid her smile as Fernando whispered in English, “That guy is a fucking weak peasant. And has a stupid face—I think only a woman has injections in the head.”

“Fernando, we have spoken of this,” she replied in Spanish. “No one can know how well you and your men can speak English.”

They looked down at the four Irishmen. Dion’s animated hand gestures and attempted facial expressions indicating panic had not gone unnoticed by Fernando.

“I can speak it better than him,” said the Colombian Sicario. “I like how you use him.”

He gave her a surreptitious pat on the ass, to which she whirled around, sticking a finger in his face and hissing in Spanish, “Do not let your cock make you reckless, Fernando. Not when we are so close.”

He snatched his hand back and raised them both in mock surrender. “I will bow to your wishes.”

Her face softened. “The world will be ours once again, and we can return home to reclaim what is ours.”

In truth, she had little interest in Fernando as a romantic partner. The man had an animal-like cunning and ruthlessness but was not the type to build a far-reaching empire—no IQ for intricate details and too indulgent of his natural urges.

She had been the one to negotiate with a group of disgruntled maritime engineers to design and build the miniature submarines. And it had been she who had raised the finances for them.

Once Fernando realised he was superfluous, she would have to calculate how to remove him from the equation.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Be friendly, Fernando. And I know this offends your macho pride but act subservient to him and his men. Gain their trust. We need them for now.”

“I will buy a shoe polishing tin from the market?”

She laughed, “I do not think that is necessary. He’s coming back now. Please be good. And you’ll become the King of Colombia.”

“And you, the Queen.”

She flicked her head theatrically. “Of course. And no one will get in our way.”

Connor sat under the purple glow of one of Marbella’s quieter side street bars.

The faint blended aromas of sea air, citrus, perfumes, aftershaves, and alcohol misted the air.

He felt confident the Franklin Organised Crime group remained unaware of his presence. O’Neil had given him a list of businesses the FOC extorted for protection.

Marbella, a city with a population of nearly one hundred and fifty thousand people, was the capital of the Costa Del Sol—an urban stretch alongside beaches, cliffs, estuaries, bays, and dunes sprawling from Málaga to Estepona.

The Brit had read a report from the Spanish Intelligence Centre for Counter-Terrorism and Organised Crime indicating that over one hundred criminal groups comprising almost sixty different nationalities operated out of the area.

Though the Irish had a heavy presence here, he knew the Swedes had a growing and formidable one.

It reminded him of something he’d heard a Canadian professor say: “Though a tiny fraction of people “control” the world, the people within that fraction continually change”.

Connor had also read Marbella being described as “the UN of criminals for a globalised world’ by the Central Organised Crime Brigade chief. The chief also said, ‘If a crime boss from Liverpool wants to traffic drugs on a large scale, he knows he has to make an appearance in Marbella. He doesn’t have a choice.”

However, Tom told him he’d always resisted going there to make contacts, as he felt it would be a hotbed for law enforcement surveillance.

The Englishman sipped a Bushmills whisky and watched the tourists and locals move in and around one another.

He felt faintly vulnerable as he looked over to the high-rise beige apartment complexes in the mid-distance. He remembered re-watching the film ‘Leon’—reaffirming his opinion of Gary Oldman being the best technical actor he had seen on screen—and was reminded of the scene in which Léon is teaching Mathilda the nuances of killing with a sniper rifle from a high-rise rooftop.

Why don’t they make a sequel with an adult Natalie Portman? What a woman, a Harvard Graduate, superb actress, and gorgeous, I’d like to—

His thoughts were interrupted as a taller-than-average woman with her chestnut hair highlighted blonde at its edges walked to his table smelling of soft flowers.

He detected a ribbon of Scandinavian in her voice as she said, “Are you waiting for anyone?”

Her short Khaki jacket matched the trousers and opened to reveal a buttery buttoned shirt. Its top buttons were unfastened to display an amber pendant carved in the shape of a tree.

He tilted his head. “For you.”

Only the laughter lines around the blue eyes and angles of her face indicated her age to be early forties.

“Possibly, all your life,” she smiled. “May I sit?”

Ordinarily, Connor would have jumped at the chance. However, though he thought himself attractive, he couldn’t remember a woman approaching him like this. Perhaps if he had the looks and height of Luke, it might have happened, but not to him. And being in enemy territory made him alert to an entrapment.

Still, best to allow her request because if ‘they’ had made him, whoever ‘they’ were, then it would be a tactical error to let them know he knew.

“Please,” he said, gesturing to an empty seat.

She sat before lifting her hand to the olive-skinned, white-shirted barman, who immediately came over. She turned to Connor. “Would you like another, Mister…?”

He refrained from the ‘Bond’ answer and said, “You can call me Connor. And yes, I’ll have another Bushmills.”

She looked at the waiter. “And I’ll have French 76, please.”

The waiter departed with a nod, and she asked, “Do you know who invented the French 76?”

Connor smiled. “I am not sure swapping out the gin for vodka on a French 75 constitutes inventing, but the answer is Kate Moss.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “How did you know that?”

“She used to brag about it when she was attempting to sleep with me.”

“‘Attempting’. Too old for you?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. Let’s be honest; if Kate Moss asked me out in her sixties, I would say yes.”

He felt a pull in his lower abdomen when she replied, “Good to know.”

The waiter came back with their drinks.

She said, “You look like a former smoker.”

“How did you deduce that?”

“I watched the fingers of your right hand rub together a few times—like they wish for a cigarette to be there.”

“That might be true, but the thought of it gives me a hint of the nausea I’d feel after sparking up.”

“Have you tried snus?”

She referred to tobacco products—either in loose form or sachets— placed between the gum and upper lip.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t fancy walking around like I have a gum shield in.”

“Yes, some Swedish men do look strange.” Sliding her tongue under her upper lip, she added, “The old men use the brown powder—very nasty. I have the more discreet pouches if you would like to try one?”

“I’m OK.” Though intrigued, he did not say anything else.

Let her lead, he thought.

“You haven’t asked me my name.”

“I apologise. What is your name?”

“You can call me Ingrid.”

Connor sipped his whisky. “So, what brings you here?”

“I live here.”

“I meant, what brings you to my table? Not that you’re not welcome.”

She regarded him for a moment before shrugging, “When you get older, you become more aware of not wishing to look back with regret.”

He nodded in agreement. “But sometimes it’s difficult to know what you’ll end up regretting or not.”

“Do you really think that?”

He thought for a moment. “I followed—or at least I did—the saying of ‘I’d rather regret something I have done than something I haven’t done’.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“I suppose I have added on, ‘Unless it’s destructive to other people’. Well, other innocent and or good people.”

“And not all innocent people are good, or the good innocent,” she answered, briefly angling her head back.

“Philosophy already.”

“I would say you started it, but               that isn’t true.”

“So, what brought you here to live?”

“My husband and I came over for a holiday almost twelve years ago. Never left.”

“And where is your husband now?”

She smiled, “He’s not far away.”

“Meaning he’s the guy sat on his own, smoking with his left hand?”

Her mouth fell open. “How did you know?”

“Instinct.”

When she nodded, seemingly absent-mindedly but didn’t respond, Connor added, “How often has your husband been cuckolded?”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “It’s not exactly like that. My husband is never physically present—”

“So, he’s not sat in the corner masturbating while getting told off by ‘the bull’?”

She shook her head. “Me telling him the details afterwards could suffice if the gentlemen in question do not wish to…wish to—”

“Be on camera?”

“Exactly,” she said, with the inflexion of her voice rising. “Instinct again?”

He smiled. “So, your place, my place, or a neutral place?”

Her eyebrows raised, and she answered, “A hotel.”

“Do you have to rush off afterwards?”

“No. My husband works in the oil industry—he sets off for Qatar in a few hours,” she said. “Do you have to rush off?”

“I can take some time off from my life of international espionage and organised crime for a night.”

20

Fernando watched the scene with disdain. He sat on the dark crimson leather seat with polished brass arms supporting his own.

The cherry and gilded carpet rolled out in front of him for five metres, separating him from the coal fire.

Two sofas lay on either side of the carpet, facing in.

On one sat the two Irishmen, and on the other the owner of this luxuriant villa.

The owner’s profession was not as a high-performing businessman, lawyer or architect. The Comisario Principal of Marbella’s police service owned it.

Strange-looking cats, with their fur coats shorn so short they appeared to be hairless, fawned all around the living area.

The glass of the drinks cabinet, encased in a heavy wood frame, glinted.

Fernando knew the mantra of any self-respecting drug dealer from the south and central Americas—Plata o Plomo—‘Silver or lead’.

However, whereas he knew paying off various members of the ‘judicial’ system was favoured amongst most of his contemporaries back home, and though the Colombian could see the sense in it, he had never liked it.

And now, he watched the two Irishmen trying to cajole—through the veneer of intimidation. And if he could see through it, then he didn’t doubt the policeman did too.

Fernando thought the presence of the very large Mayordomo—butler led partly to the policeman’s air of nonchalance.

Fernando had not been formally introduced, nor had Andrés, who sat beside him.

The Commissar smirked at one of the Irishman’s assertions that ‘things might get uncomfortable’ and said to his butler, “Estos son podencos tratando de parecerse a lobos. En realidad, son como mis Peterbalds tratando de ser Tigres.”— These are podencos trying to look like wolves. Actually, they are like my Peterbald cats trying to be Tigers.

Podencos were harmless, pointy-eared, doe-eyed dogs—a far cry from wolves.

And Fernando realised then that the Commissar did not know his or Andrés’ nationality, or worse—he did not care.

The ‘butler’s’ head snapped around as Fernando picked up one of the cats who had come to investigate his feet.

The big man then took a few steps towards him as Fernado walked the cat over to the drinks cabinet, coddling the feline like a baby as he did so.

However, when Fernando looked at the policeman enquiringly whilst gesturing with his free hand at the drinks cabinet, the Commissar stopped his bodyguard with a gesture and said in English, “Go ahead. Make us all a drink.”

The Colombian bowed and opened it up.

After feigning deliberation, he picked a bottle with a green top and labelling.

As he turned around with a grin pushing into his cheeks, the Spaniards began laughing.

Eventually, the policeman said, “Spirytus Rektyfikowany—a vodka from Poland, very strong. For real men.”

Fernando nodded cheerfully, manoeuvring the cat into the crook of his biceps and unscrewing the cap. The whiff of alcohol hit him like smelling salts.

Satisfied, he walked back to the group and asked the policeman in his best English, “Can I use the whole bottle?”

The Spaniards responded with a strange look on their faces, as did the Irishmen—but he guessed for different reasons.

After a moment, the house owner said, “Of course. Go ahead.”

One of the Irishman exclaimed, “You’ll fuckin’ die yer mad bastard.”

Fernando grinned wickedly. “Someone might.”

His hand snaked around, snatching the cat by the scruff of its neck, crushing it tight to him.

He doused the squirming cat with the ninety-percent strong vodka before hurling it into the fire.

The butler ran towards his flaming pet with outstretched arms as the room erupted in chaos.

The shrieks of the cats knifed through the shouting in Spanish and Irish.

Fernando ducked the brick of a fist, thrown so hard it spun its owner around. The bottom edge of the heavy vodka bottle crashed into the back of the butler’s neck, pitching the big man onto his front.

The second blow smashed the bottle as it took its victim’s consciousness.

Fernando whirled around to see the policeman on his knees, rolling the red carpet over a wriggling lump as the two Irishmen stood back.

Finally, trembling hands revealed the motionless, scorched remains.

The policeman resembled a mute man attempting to vomit before descending into sobs.

Eventually, he lifted his mask of fury before it melted off his face, making eye contact with the diminutive, curly-haired Colombian.

Fernando’s voice clawed through his next Spanish words. “See, cats do not have nine lives, and you have many cats. And you have many kin. Your eldest daughter is at the University of Barcelona. Your youngest is currently in Peru, backpacking. Very dangerous part of the world. But do not be troubled—we will watch over her very well.”

The policeman’s chest heaved before his head dropped to his cat.

Fernando lifted the Commissar’s face with the jagged edge of the broken bottle without touching it and switched to English. “Money stays the same. And you will work harder. If your daughters act suspiciously, they will be put on a table and sawn in half. Their stomachs will be removed and replaced with their legs. A human vase. We will send you the pictures.”

The tear-stained face went through a kaleidoscope of emotions before settling on anguished resignation.

Cream walls and rich chocolate curtains enclosed the hotel room. The low glow of the ceiling light reflected on the polished oak flooring.

An abstract painting of splotches of orange-edged blue and aqua greens hung on one side of the room. Another portrait painting of a red-lipsticked, beguiling-faced woman smoking hung over the tawny duveted bed.

She seemed to watch the carnal scene with a mild approval of Ingrid’s soft moans and the faint sounds of wet smacking.

Positioned diagonally on the bed, the Swede and Connor faced the phone, balancing against the lampshade, recording their fucking.

Ingrid, naked on her knees and forearms, had her face pressed against the bedsheets. Connor watched her chestnut hair flickering on her shoulders in time with the pounding.

With his centre fingers gripping her by the crease where her upper thighs and stomach met, he used his thumbs to spread her wide.

When the moist warmth of her pussy pulsed around him, he gripped her under the jaw, forcing her to face the camera.

“Let him see you cum,” he said.

Connor watched her flickering eyes above her slack jaw as she cried out. He fucked her harder through her orgasm until he reached his.

He turned her face to his, and they shared a deep kiss until her hand scrambled for the phone, switching off the recording mode.

She flopped down on the bed, and he watched her back rise and fall as he withdrew.

After a few moments, he asked, “Do you want a drink?”

With her face still nestled into the bedsheet, she waved her hand. “I will make them.”

Connor chuckled. “I wouldn’t feel right letting you make them after you paid for the room.”

She rolled onto her side to look at him. “That was more than worth it.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“What are you having?”

“I will be a cliché and make myself a cup of decaf tea.”

“Then I will have one too. One sugar.”

Minutes later, they sat under the sheets, nursing their cups.

Connor said, “I wanted to pick your brains about Marbella.”

“What about it?”

“Do you know anything about the criminal underworld here?”

“Are you a journalist?”

“No.”

“Then why the interest?”

“I am a secret agent for a secret organisation tasked with combatting organised crime and terrorism too hideous and time-sensitive to risk going through conventional judicial systems. I am also a member of a prosperous crime family currently at war.”

She reached over and rubbed his arm. “Awww, look at your little imagination again.”

When he smiled, she continued, “Like I said, we’ve lived here for over ten years, and we are sociable people. What do you want to know?”

“How’s the place changed since you’ve been living here?”

“Well, it has always been a haven for criminals, but of course, you know that.”

“Yeah, my cousin has had ‘The Rise of The Footsoldier’ films on when I’ve been around.”

“Rise of the…?”

“Never mind.”

“But up to a few years ago, it would be the higher ones living here—not the lower ones. Now you have them running around with those bags at their front. What are they called?” she asked, making a grabbing motion at her abdomen.

“Bum bags.”

“No, they are not!”

“It’s true.”

She shuffled up against the headboard. “OK, whatever they are called. But we have always known this criminal underbelly, but it has become more obvious—brazen—in the past few years. They used to be more subtle. Now they are not so careful when they speak. And the tattoos…I was doing my shopping, and there was a guy with a tattoo of a gun…a rifle gun on his forehead. And meanwhile, many bosses are in Dubai dodging the authorities.”

“Why don’t you move there, then?”

“Oh, you’re a secret real estate agent?”

Connor shrugged. “Just sounds like how Marbella used to be, that’s all.”

“It isn’t. Besides, this is our home. But the pandemic lockdowns removed the cloth to show how many criminals live here. Without the tourists, you see just how many are criminals.”

“Who are the main ones here now?”

“There are all sorts, but my…countrymen seem to have a stronghold here. Until recently, it had been the Irish, but they are at war with one another. But everyone comes here—and it has become more violent. I put sweatbands over my bracelets when I go jogging now.”

The outlaw frowned. “But you’ll go back to hotels with strangers?”

After a moment, she said, “I would not think a mugger would give me an orgasm.”

Connor smirked at the dryness of the joke. “You could always leave your jewellery in the house.”

“Pfffttt, last August was terrible—Black August, they called it. The Eastern European gangs breaking into homes all the time. They are high tech too—the security will be like it is for the whites in South Africa.”

Connor remembered back in the Marines, sitting in on a presentation by one of his Saffa friends and being shocked by the security protocols residents took over there.

“How do you know I am not a criminal?”

“They are trashy people—English criminals. Big, heavy gold chains. Aggressive dogs. No fashion sense.”

“Thank you for noticing my dress sense.”

“So…anything else you wish to interrogate me on?”

“You said it used to be the Irish that ruled this area. Have they fallen far?”

“No, it’s just that they are tied up in this feud, so their presence is not as strong. The big boss now lives in Dubai, but,” she said before dropping her voice to a low whisper. “He’s back.”

Connor’s chest expanded at this, but he kept his voice nonchalant. “Whoever he is, does he have Superman hearing?”

She imitated a chuckle but continued in a low tone, “The walls might have ears. His name is Dion Franklin. I keep my voice low because no one is meant to know he is here.”

Connor felt his heart flick at the taut skin beneath his sternum like the batter head of a drum.

Keeping his voice and posture neutral, he asked, “How do you know?”

“Like I said, I have been a Marbella socialite for a long time. I know restaurant owners, hotel owners, other business owners of various kinds.”

He caught a subtle change of inflexion in her voice as she said ‘various kinds’.

“What kinds?”

“There is a taxi company in the town. They do everything from limousines to small car transport. I know the owner and sometimes work on the booking desk there.”

Connor’s suspicions rose; what were the chances of this potential source of intelligence seeking him out?

“Why? Surely you don’t need the money?”

“Being too much a lady of leisure can be boring. I only do it when my husband is away with work,” she replied. “And sometimes it is difficult to appreciate luxury when it is constantly fed to you.”

Her words reminded Connor of a passage he read in a book by Yuval Hari, ‘Today’s sensations become tomorrow’s tediums’. He thought the reason behind the depression and drug abuse of many rich people was that when one’s dopamine receptors were continually hit with ‘the good life’, then a person had nowhere else to go.

“He ordered a limousine? I thought he was supposed to be staying inconspicuous?”

She snorted. “He has nothing to fear here. The policemen in his pocket warn him about the ones who are not. Besides, he’ll pull the security from his top guys here so he can walk around with an entourage.”

“His top guys?”

“You know, his financial guys,” she said. “Besides, it wasn’t a limousine, and it wasn’t for him. It was a couple of SUVs for a group of Colombian gentlemen.”

“From where?”

His peripheral vision caught her looking strangely at him. “Colombia.”

“No, I meant, where did they get picked up from?”

“The airport. Though it was strange, they did not come from AGP, which is only thirty minutes away, but from the airport in Jerez, which is nearly a two-hour drive.”

Connor knew this would be to enact anti-surveillance measures; the long roads between Jerez and Marbella would have made surveillance easy to spot.

“What are the other agencies he uses for his transport?”

She shrugged. “As far as I know, he only uses us.”

Though not an exact science, Connor had been trained to detect traits of lying—speaking in sentence fragments, undue pauses before answering, repeating questions before answering, and fidgeting behaviours, amongst other giveaways.

Ingrid displayed none of these. However, if she was a capable agent from an intelligence agency, she would be well-versed in hiding the ‘tells’.

Connor calculated the odds that the FOC had employed such an agent to be low. They would have to be on guard that such a person wasn’t still employed within whatever agency they would have professed to hail from.

Besides, he would begin his due diligence into her background as soon as they parted.

He asked, hiding his hesitancy. “If he, or his top men, required transport again, could you contact me to tell me?”

“And why would I give out details like that to a stranger? It could cost me my job, and I do not think Mister Franklin would be too happy with me.”

“I would say you do not need that job, and Mister Franklin will never find out. But I reckon saying, ‘I don’t think you like him or what he stands for, and helping me…undermine him, would give you a thrilling sense of purpose’.”

“OK, Mister…?”

That was the second time she had attempted to find out his surname. Connor considered giving her a pseudonym but did not feel right in light of the risk he instinctively knew she was about to take.

“I can tell you my surname, but then I’d have to insist on you deleting that video.”

“Your face isn’t in it.”

“My tattoos are.”

“OK,” she said thoughtfully. “I do not need to know your surname.”

Luke Ryder sat beneath a tree of plastic leaves in the food court of the services adjoined to the Eurotunnel Le Shuttle Freight.

Curtis sat next to him, nursing a cappuccino to his flat white.

Currently, amid a debate, Luke had temporarily forgotten his uneasiness around his younger cousin.

“I am telling ya,” said Curtis, reinforcing his point, “A nine-darter is harder than a one-four-seven.”

Luke narrowed his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about? It’s potting thirty-six snooker balls on the bounce, making the white ball come back into position to pot again, versus throwing nine darts accurately.”

“You’re understating it. It’s throwing nine darts into boxes about one centimetre by three to four centimetres from eight feet away on different areas of the board,” answered his younger cousin. “And if it’s that much easier, then how come there ’as been only seventy—if that—nine-darters on the telly? I bet there ’as been triple that in one-four-sevens.”

“I bet you were one of those people who wore a mask alone in his car during the pandemic.”

Curtis spread his palms open. “I know you’re sweating when you come out with an insult instead of a point.”

“Mate, I sweat less than a pizza-scoffing prince,” said Luke before raising his coffee to his mouth to hide his appreciation of his joke. He continued, “Snooker has been a professional sport—game—for miles longer, and it’s played all over—the Chinese are bang into it now. Who plays darts? Apart from the Dutch and us?”

“Well, get this then; in the time it takes to complete an average frame of snooker, you can finish seven legs of darts. So, if all things were equal, there should be seven nine-darters to one maximum break, but there isn’t. And…and, the aim of darts players at the start of each leg is a nine-darter—a snooker player just tries to win a frame, not score a one-four-seven, cos if it was, you’d see even more of ’em.”

Luke held his tongue. He remembered Connor telling him once debates aimed at getting closer to the truth and arguing for the sake of winning showed childishness.

Instead, he said, “We’ll come back to this in ten years. If there’s still not many nine-darters, then we’ll know you’re right.”

Curtis nodded and asked, “He should be here soon, shouldn’t he?”

“Not too long.”

“What’s happening about the coppers with the nightclub?”

“Whoever attacked us did us a favour by breaking into the security unit and erasing the video footage. The Police will ask why the club doesn’t have off-site recording or why it’s not backed up on the cloud, but it’s not illegal.”

“What about the papers?”

Although he felt a pang of reluctance, Luke answered, “We have contacts in the press who’ll downplay it as a brawl. The acid won’t be mentioned. So far, there haven’t been videos on social media. I think the customers ran for the door when they saw how violent it got. Only time will tell how much damage it’s done to ‘The Helena’.”

“How’s Oshain?”

“Dinged up, arm burnt, and he’s pissed off,” replied Luke before sipping his coffee. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Bad though, isn’t it? If we just had Connor or Tom here…they’d know what to do.”

Luke felt an ice cube in his sternum at the words. Having someone else, even if it was Curtis, highlighting his lack of experience compared to his two elder cousins, still caused his confidence and ego to singe. “All we can do is what we can do. It’s not as if we’re going to surrender.”

“No,” said Curtis with a shake of the head. “What about this guy? Apparently, he’s an old hand.”

“That’s what the streets say.”

“Here he comes,” said Luke, inclining his head subtly. “Go start the car.”

Curtis finished the coffee dregs and wandered through the other patrons in the services and out the exit.

Luke watched O’Neil coming down the terminal tunnel.

He saw his eyes scanning without the head moving. The former IRA operative merely glanced at Luke once before walking past him.

Luke waited a few moments, watching out for anyone loitering, as the old man made his pre-planned entry into one of the fast-food outlets.

Once satisfied, Luke walked past him and headed out of the exit towards the light blue Nissan Qashqai.

He opened the driver’s side door and said to Curtis, “Get in the passenger’s seat.”

He studied his cousin’s expression for a sign of dissent but found none.

Once behind the steering wheel, Luke watched O’Neil from across the car park pretend to tie his laces at the white Kia Stonic as arranged.

O’Neil found the keys where Luke had hidden them.

Luke and Curtis set off a few moments after the Stonic pulled away.

Curtis asked, “How does he know where he’s going?”

“I put it in his SatNav.”

“How far away?”

“About twenty minutes.”

After a few moments of silence, Curtis said, “Do we trust this guy?”

“We don’t trust anyone,” said Luke. “But he has more motivation than anyone to destroy these people, and he knows them more than we do.”

Luke forced himself to marinate in the ensuing awkward silence.

Let him break it, thought Luke.

“You got a regular bird?” asked Curtis.

Luke considered how much to tell him before saying, “Sort of. You?”

“I was ’til I fucked it.”

“A girl in Hull?”

“Yeh, it’s a weird accent,” said Curtis. “Banging body, though.”

Luke lifted his chin a fraction. Curtis had gathered a bit of a reputation for ‘romancing the truth’ as their late grandfather would say.

As if he read his mind, Curtis tapped on his phone screen to display a picture of a girl—strong-jawed, dyed blonde hair, glitter on her face—with her arm draped around Curtis in a nightclub.

“Nice,” said Luke insincerely. “How did you fuck it up?”

“Errrm…right…well, this was her idea. She blindfolded me. I was a bit…you know, but it was good cos I didn’t know what I would get.”

“Could only be one of four body parts unless you have a foot fetish or she feeds you an elbow.”

“Don’t you like feet?”

Luke’s forehead scrunched. “Why would I like things that have been squashed into shoes and walked on each day?”

“You know they’ve got these things called showers now?”

“Yeh, but it’s the bacteria under the toenails, isn’t it?”

“So, you wouldn’t let a girl put her fingers in your mouth?”

Luke opened his mouth to retort but changed his mind. “Never thought about it like that. Fucking…it’s a point.”

“I heard Connor saying Quentin Tarantino has a bit of a fetish for feet. Films the feet of a lot of the actresses.”

“That ‘foot massage’ conversation between the two hitmen in ‘Pulp Fiction’ too,” said Luke. “Tell you what, if Margaret Qualley wanted to put her feet in my mouth, I’d let her.”

“Who’s she?”

“She plays a girl member of that Manson family in ‘Once Upon a Time in Hollywood’. I think the character she plays is meant to be underage in it, but she’s in her mid-twenties in real life. A worldie.”

“I haven’t seen that yet.”

They didn’t speak for a while. Luke knew the awkward undercurrent to be down to Curtis’s excommunication, causing him to miss several film nights that had steadily become a tradition with the Ryder cousins.

Luke broke it with, “Tell me how you fucked it with this girl, then.”

“Well, she started to ride me and…I don’t know why I said it—I thought it would turn her on, but I said, ‘I could be fucking anyone right now’.”

Luke couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “What did she say?”

“Nowt at the time. But she was mega off with me afterwards, and then I got the ‘Dear John’ message.”

Luke’s diaphragm began to vibrate with the laughter bubbling inside it.

“What did you use for the blindfold?”

“When I went to Hull, I started running a bit,” said Curtis. “But the sweat would get into my eyes, so I bought this Nike headband. I turned it inside out so you couldn’t see the tick.”

Luke drove on with a smile. Though reticent, he felt glad that Curtis seemed to have turned over a new leaf. He knew how he’d feel if he were ever to be ostracised from the family.

However, what Curtis had done had been inexcusable and perhaps unforgivable. And the more Luke thought about it, the angrier he became.

Finally, he said, “Why the fuck did you try to get someone to break Connor’s legs? Even if he wasn’t a member of our family, I could have told you that wasn’t a good idea. You’d need someone like John Wick to be confident of pulling that off—and you and I wouldn’t know them kinds.”

“I…it…—”

“Fuck that, anyway! How the fuck could you hurt one of your own? And for what? To get your thing going cos Tom said no to ya.”

“I just felt he—”

Luke had a mental flash of Connor lying with his legs broken, and his hand shot out to bounce his young cousin’s head off the window.

He snapped some control over his temper and the steering wheel to avoid snatching hold of the ear. Instead, he glared at his cousin for a reaction, but the expected defiance gave way to a look of contriteness.

To stop himself from doing any more physically, Luke began spitting venom.

“In our family especially, what sort of fuckin’ cunt would think they knew better than Tom? Or that Tom would ever hold someone back to spite ’em. Or would try to take out our blood relative who helps protect us from all sorts. A lot of the reason for how we’ve grown over these years is down to him. And you wanted him crippled cos you wanted to sell shooters to bag money for yourself?”

Luke felt his hand twitch and decided to leave it at that.

After a few miles, Curtis spoke up. “I know what I did was wrong. And I know Derek was a cunt. But how come nothing was said when Connor killed him? I mean, if family is meant to be sacred?”

“You numb cunt! If Connor was going to kill him, he’d have done it in the Buxton that night. And he’d have had every right to. Remember, Derek had Connor’s dad—our uncle and his brother—killed. But he didn’t kill Derek. Another gangster did—and good riddance.”

Luke followed O’Neil’s vehicle down a narrower residential road before cutting through an urban area.

O’Neil pulled into the hard shoulder and alighted.

Luke said to Curtis, “Stay in the car.”

He had fully intended to bring Curtis forward as an equal, but the more he thought of his younger cousin’s betrayal, the more he decided he had not been punished enough yet, despite his actions at the safe house.

Luke walked to O’Neil. “How did you make it back?”

“It’s not what you know at times but who you know.”

The Yorkshireman yanked back his curiosity. “Fair enough.”

O’Neil nodded. “Why’s he been left in the car?”

“It’s nothing to do with you.”

O’Neil raised his eyebrows. “It’s everything to do with me.”

Luke acknowledged the truth of the statement. “Curtis betrayed our family. He’s making amends, but that doesn’t mean I have to welcome him back like that story in the bible…the Prodigy Son…Prodigal Son, I mean.”

“What did he do?”

When Luke took a moment to answer, O’Neil prompted, “I am meant to be taking you to war on the streets of where I am from. If there isn’t trust, then we are fucked from the start.”

“Just because I am not spilling my guts to you doesn’t mean there is no trust.”

“This is something I need to know.”

Luke peered into his dark eyes. “How do you think certain drug dealers can sell on a large scale, given the technology at the police’s disposal and the number of informants?”

Without hesitation, O’Neil replied, “By working with the police.”

“Exactly,” said Luke, and he saw a flicker in O’Neil’s eyes and saw him slip into a boxer’s stance. Luke subtly mirrored this and continued with, “But the arrangement we have with them isn’t informing. Apparently, Leeds is seen as a jewel in the north—or at least that’s what big business and the council are planning it’ll be. They are trying to push for a twenty-four-hour European city that already has more banks than any UK city outside of London. The coppers don’t want to see young divs running around with guns or crackhead zombies floating around the city centre.”

“So they use you to keep the peace?”

Luke nodded. “We try our best to keep our end of the bargain. We control the cutting of the product we bring in, and our main customers are upper-middle-class types around the north of Leeds, York and Harrogate. Sometimes, we call in unmanned drug and weapon caches so they can have a bust for the media.”

“So no names are given to the police? Not even of your competitors?”

“We don’t have competition in selling to the rich crowd. There’s an Indian family that runs puff out of an area of Leeds called Beeston, and a friend of ours controls Bradford. We keep a lid on the street dealers getting out of hand.”

“How does this relate to ’im in the car? I watched him shoot an enemy, so why isn’t he out here with you?”

“He was given chances working certain areas of the family business but kept fucking up—overeager, maybe. Chip on his shoulder too. So Tom relegated him. Curtis got a cob on about it, and after a while began to cosy up to gangsters in Hull who supplied him guns…and he supplied them to local West Yorkshire contacts, including in Leeds, which was exactly what we didn’t need.”

Luke stopped there, not wishing to elaborate further. Surprise jolted him when O’Neil said, “And?”

“And he tried to have one of ours hurt so he could continue doing what he was doing.”

“If you’re not sure about him, then why does he get to see my face again?”

“I’d rather keep him close.”

O’Neil just looked at him for a moment before saying, “He isn’t coming to Ireland. You can do with him what you wish, but he isn’t being around me and mine.”

“I understand,” said Luke, feeling a sense of relief.

21

Connor sat back in a Vitra wiggle side chair—a quirky design reminding him of caramel being factory layered into a biscuit.

He’d had a derivative of the same morning routine for several years. He would wake, splash cold water on his face and begin exercising. If resistance training, he would opt for low repetition, high tension bodyweight exercises but not taken to failure. This would be especially true on operations—Connor had once left himself exhausted catch wrestling in Japan and had almost paid the price. He had read the Spartans trained to the point of exhaustion but rarely over it, as they did not want their warriors to view complete fatigue as a target, as no one knew how long a battle might take.

He would then complete three or four rounds of various static stretches before taking a long, cold shower.

He knew the cold water helped shoot nitric oxide to the brain, helping dilate the blood vessels. This led to a ‘wide awake’ feeling. Connor suspected they had helped prevent him from becoming sick less often.

And finally, he made himself a black coffee—now over his initial feeling of childishness from drinking it out of a straw so as not to stain his teeth. Then he completed his forty-five minutes of study, this time on the intricacies of crime in southern Spain, as well as brushing up on a few phrases of Spanish.

He rubbed his temples and reached for his phone. Rayen had informed him in their latest e-mail interaction that Tom had regained consciousness. He rang the Dutchman’s number from his encrypted phone.

Rayen’s voice came on the line, “Yes.”

“How is he?”

“It is hard to tell. He does not have full use of his legs, but the surgeon said that might be down to post-surgery inflammation.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“You can, but he is heavily sedated. He might not make much sense.”

“Alright, leave it, then. I’ll call later.”

Once the call ended, Connor took a breath and began to divorce himself from the emotion of fear by ‘observing’ it as separate from himself.

A sense of burning resentment threatened to overwhelm him. Unlike himself, Tom’s spite only manifested itself in defence of his family and friends. And now that he had expressed a sincere desire to leave ‘the life’, he faced the possibility of being crippled.

Connor poured the liquid of stoicism on his anger—no one forced Tom into this life. And he might make a full recovery—post-operation inflammation, Rayen said.

The Yorkshireman made his way over to the bed. Often, at times of high stress, he noticed a heightened pleasure from masturbation. However, he was amidst a personal challenge of abstaining from pornography and pleasuring himself.

He reckoned the purported near-superhuman benefits he read about were massively exaggerated, especially if one hadn’t an addiction to it.

But who knows, maybe I’ll gain the confidence to tell the barber I don’t like my haircut if I don’t.

Instead, he opened the curtains, revealing the Marbella hills in the distance, before sitting straight-backed and cross-legged on the bed.

He had been trying for a while now to obtain the habit of daily meditation—again, he thought this down to an unreasonable expectancy due to the overblown claims that did the rounds.

Still, he knew it helped with clarity of thinking and that he needed that right now.

He followed his breath—light in, darkness out. He continued this as he looked at the stratus clouds hovering above the hill. He remembered how, as a child, he would look out of a car’s window and imagine a dragon chasing them. He wondered if, with the advent of handheld technologies, children used their imaginations as much; or if his seven-year-old self had used his as much as a child version of his grandad.

Stop, and focus on your breath.

He did so for a while until the sentiment in his mind slid down and began to evaporate.

The situation was what it was. As much as Connor truly believed his family—on balance—were a force of good, they were still criminals who distributed drugs, and with that came the high likelihood of prison, being maimed, or killed.

He could not do anything for Tom now. He had to trust Rayen to protect him and the doctors to watch over him.

And it surprised him that his anxiety became stronger when thinking of Luke. Now thrown into a situation that might have even unnerved himself or Tom—temporarily at least.

And Connor knew the quicker he could either eliminate Dion Franklin or cut the FOC off at the knees, the easier it might be to bring the war to a close. He could at least resume leading the remainder of the Ryder crime group until either Tom regained full capacity or Luke proved himself beyond doubt.

And he realised that was what it had turned into—a group, smaller but with the same concept. The Ryder family’s active members had dwindled over recent years, and their positions augmented with ‘outsiders’. Then again, Connor wondered what would constitute an ‘outsider’—his Uncle Derek and Cousin Curtis had betrayed the family terribly; indeed, Derek had his brother murdered.

On the other hand, Bambi had almost died defending the club—and Cara. And he had insisted on going to Ireland.

And there was Curtis. Connor was an advocate of a man being able to change. However, he knew how hard it was—putting on the façade and masking one’s behaviour was easier than going to war with your impulses.

He remembered a quote by Alan Robert Neal, ‘If you are waging war against parts of yourself you dislike, do not be surprised if they fight back.’

All he could do now was to prepare the best he could and wait.

He reached for his laptop and clicked play on a hybrid One Championship fight between Mixed Martial Arts legend Demetrious Johnson v Muay Thai phenomenon Rodtang Jitmuangnon. The first and third rounds being fought under Thai rules, and the second and fourth under MMA rules.

Amid the first round, Connor murmured, “Fucking hell.”

Luke would like watching this, he thought.

He felt the vibration of his phone going off and answered it with, “Yeh?”

He listened for a few moments and said, “Thank you for this,” and he listened some more before asking, “Did your husband like the video?”

After business hours, Luke stood in the warehouse in front of a ten-man semi-circle. Bill stood to his right. Luke had instructed Curtis to stay with and assist Dan.

“The FOC attacked us. They think they can walk into Leeds, attack and fuck off again without any comebacks. That’s going to change.”

Kano, whose bruised and puffy left cheek shelved his eye, asked, “You know where they are holed up? Manchester or Liverpool or summat?”

“No, but we know where they live in Ireland.”

The silence swirled in his ears. Tim said, “We’ll get made as soon as we get off the boat, won’t we?”

“Depends on the boat,” answered Luke. “Besides, I can only take a few men. The rest of you will have to stay.”

“How many?”

“A few. And I can only take volunteers.”

He knew if he dictated a specific number, the less keen would wait a moment or two before putting their hand up. Not that it would make a difference, but Luke liked knowing some of them might worry.

He then realised how stupid that was—he should have them chomping at the bit to go.

“Everyone who wants to come, step forward.”

Oshain immediately stepped forward, as did Henryk, closely followed by Tim and Kano. A few more shuffled forward, but a handful remained.

Luke said, “Bambi, you’re better off staying ’ere with the nick of ya. If you—”

“Nah, I am coming, or I won’t be working for you again.”

Luke felt Bill glance at him.

“I need someone here to run the doors properly. And it’s between you and Henryk. I can’t take you both.”

“Henryk isn’t the one that got ragged around his nightclub and his arm burnt. So he isn’t going.”

Henryk briefly looked at him with an expression of annoyance that instantly melted at his friend’s return glare.

The Pole shrugged and stepped back.

Someone asked, “You’re just taking one person?”

“Yeh. That’s all I need,” Luke said.

Luke only went through this after-hours charade to discern the true warriors on the team; he didn’t mention that Oshain was now the only one he trusted for this.

The only one stood on British soil, at least.

Connor felt the dance club’s music pulsating through his ribcage as the red strobe lights flickered across his face.

The perfumes and aftershaves merged into a heady blend as he stood in a jostling line at the bar.

Now nearly thirty, he felt vaguely conscious of his age amongst a crowd with an average age of early twenties.

A thin and loose fawn jacket lay over the top of a similarly-coloured but lighter-shaded shirt. His dark-blue stretch jeans were complimented by clean but unpolished Oxford shoes. Many of the other men dressed similarly, albeit with their garments tighter-fitting.

In truth, clubs hadn’t ever been his thing, though Luke’s descriptions of Ibiza super clubs had sounded appealing.

Connor didn’t ‘get’ the music that sounded repetitive to him and had wondered if you needed to be pilled up to do so. Maybe you had to initially before finding an appreciation for it.

His cousin had not been lying about the women. Mostly lithe bodies wrapped tightly in an array of different colours, gliding with surprising grace given their high heels.

Looking around, Connor guessed the door staff might only let in girls of a certain level of presentability with immaculate hair and makeup and with a healthy BMI. Though, to Connor’s eyes, a couple seemed a touch emaciated.

He stood in the jostling queue, aiming for the centre of the bar; he could never understand people hanging off the more often ignored edges.

He knew he couldn’t stay long; a lone man would attract attention and then maybe suspicion.

The curly-haired brunette asked, “What can I get you?” before turning her head.

He caught the edge of dialect in her voice and said, “Soy un demonio de los mojitos.”—‘I am a fiend for Mojitos’.

“¿Qué ron?”—“Which Rum?” she answered with a smile.

“Captain Morgan’s, por favour.”

“De nada.”

As she began to busy herself with his drink, he called over, “Fui a ver a un psíquico ayer,” —“I went to see a psychic yesterday.”

When she simply looked at him with a raised eyebrow, he added, “Llamé a su puerta y ella gritó ‘¿Quién es?’, así que me fui.”— “I knocked on her door, and she shouted, ‘Who is it?’ So I left.”

A ‘trying not to laugh’ expression struggled on her face before she cleared it with a headshake.

She replied in English, “I am impressed…with your Spanish, not you…¿Qué dicen los ingleses?—‘Dad Joke’.”

She gave him his mojito and asked, “Why did you learn Spanish so well?”

He angled his head with the barest smirk. “For free drinks?”

She smiled and waved him away, indicating he had got his wish.

He chose a table of polished black stone at the back and kept an ‘I am waiting for someone’ expression and posture. He’d give himself fifteen minutes before leaving, one way or another.

He kept his eyes scanning without moving his head as he sipped the crisp liquid.

The assassin tried not to make potentially unnerving eye contact with anyone without looking standoffish.

A girl brushed past him, but he refrained from engaging. He thought of Luke and knew his cousin would have followed the girl. He’d have sat with her and her girlfriends—without invitation—and have been welcomed, either immediately or within a minute.

One of the reasons that made Luke his favourite was the evolution of his character. Connor remembered him as an awkward, unconfident youth prone to a mild stutter when engaged in banter with his cousins and a worse one under their Uncle Derek’s malice-edged teasing.

Connor used to throw a proverbial wing over him when he saw the taunting beginning to sting.

He remembered Luke, peering out through foppish hair, sheepishly asking him if he could come with him to ‘play boxing’. Connor had bit his tongue on the cliché of ‘You don’t play boxing’ and instead told him, ‘Well, you better get a haircut or at least a hair band.’

And the older cousin had been surprised when Luke indeed did turn up with his blond locks shorn so that his head resembled a golden tennis ball.

Connor left his cousin to the coaches but hung off the ring apron after a couple of weeks to watch his first sparring session.

It had been then Connor had seen another side to him. Luke had been doing reasonably well against a more experienced boy. Connor thought the other kid felt embarrassed by his lack of ability to hit Luke because he began to open up hard against him.

When Luke caught a few to the face, Connor had winced and glanced at his coach, thinking he might stop once he saw his sensitive cousin’s reaction.

Except, Luke’s reaction had been to bite down and wade in windmilling. Despite catching even more shots, he did not seem deterred. When the coach did call time early, Connor could not tell for which boxer’s benefit it had been.

Connor had heard various statistics bandied about—‘Nine out of ten lads quit after their first spar’ or ‘Only five percent of boys return after getting whacked on the nose’.

However, Luke just kept coming back, and soon, his attendance, and rate of improvement, exceeded his own. In the early sparring sessions, it had been Connor teaching him. It wasn’t long before Connor had to put some spite into the punches to get his younger but more naturally talented cousin to back off. Once, he had to floor him with a liver shot.

The teenage Connor had espoused Luke’s ability to everyone, even before he started competing and winning matches.

The metamorphosis had been astounding, but Connor had caught glimpses recently of the less confident boy he used to know. And that had to be expected with the amount of responsibility Tom had hoisted onto him relatively quickly.

Connor’s quarry arrived, interrupting his thoughts.

22

Luke peered out of the taxi’s window at the tall, aqua-sheened glass buildings.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” he murmured, more to himself than the taxi driver, who nonetheless answered.

“What were you expecting? Leprechauns and potatoes?”

“No, just…didn’t expect it to look this… corporate.”

The driver exhaled through his nose. “This part of Dublin is where all the corporate giants set up. All their headquarters are here, and Ireland has the youngest population in all of Europe, so they got a boost—and all those computers, matrix types have come over. And then, when you lot decided to leave the EU, the IDA began appealing for foreign investment—and they got it, too.”

“Who’s the IDA?”

“Industrial Development Agency.”

“So that’s why they have come here. I thought they would go to London or that American Silicon Valley.”

“Well, Dublin isn’t at Silicon Valley’s level yet. Not everyone welcomes it. With these yuppies moving in, it’s pushing out locals who’ve been here in the flats for generations. That’s more in the north of Dublin, but it’s starting to creep up.”

Deciding to gain intelligence, Luke said, “I heard the North of Dublin was where those two crime families started. Unless it’s not supposed to be talked about?”

The cabbie laughed, “Everyone—and their dog—talks about it behind closed doors. It’s all over the newspapers and Facebook. Just be careful talking about it in pubs in the north. That said, they are all in Dubai and Spain, anyway.”

“So it’s calmed down a bit now?”

“It’s more spread out than calmed down,” said the cabbie. “Those bastards are targeting civilians.”

“Who?” asked Luke, already knowing the answer. “Both sides?”

“No. Those bastard Franklins!”

“So, no one in Dublin likes them then?”

“The only people who ‘like’ the Franklins are those who are having their pockets filled by them. And I am not just talking about the dealers they employ. There are people in this city, high up, who all get a taste.”

“Who? Councillors?”

“Let me tell you something. Nowadays, no one shifts drugs in any significant amount without the police knowing about it. They can spy on you from space now—I can go on Google Maps and see what colour someone’s house door is in Settle if I know their address.”

“Knowing about it is one thing, but doing—”

“You have to work with them. It’s not the sixties now. You’re talking about billions of Euros. You think the Garda will let you get away with that unless they are taking a piece?”

A few years back, Luke might have dismissed the talk of a taxi driver until Tom pointed out that they talk with the broadest array of people of any working man.

“How? Won’t people get suspicious if Irish police officers go on holiday to the Caribbean or drive around in Bentleys?”

“Aye…but not if they are retired. Can do what they want then. And they retire in their fifties,” sniffed the driver. “It’s not just that with ’em; remember, they’ve falsified about a million breath tests. And there was the fund at the Garda Training College—laundry, they said, but nearly forty percent of it was being used for food and golf. This is the fookin’ place where they train our law enforcement.”

Neither spoke for a while until the taxi driver said, “Does he not speak?”

He referred to Oshain sitting in the back. Oshain responded, “A person has two ears and one mouth for a reason, Mister Cab driver.”

“No offence, son.”

When Oshain did not respond, Luke quickly asked, “Something I always wanted to know; do you ever get girls asking to be let off the fares for…you know?”

“Ahhh, sometimes, but they’re mostly drunk munters. Although there was this one time…years ago, I picked up this eighteen-year-old barmaid at the end of her shift. She was a uni student but was going back to her parents for the weekend, hence the drive. Gorgeous she was—tits out, tiny waist with a peach of an arse,” the driver gestured with one hand for emphasis. “We got to pattering, and she was laughing and joking. Anyways, got to her parents’ house, she paid, then invited me in for a ‘coffee’.”

Luke sparked up. “What did you do? Was it at the end of your shift?”

“Aye, it was the end of my shift. But I have a wife I love who I think might have been pregnant, or the kids might have been bairns. I didn’t think it would be worth it.”

Luke asked, “You still with your wife?”

“Aye, still happily married. Got grandkids now.”

“So you’ve never regretted taking up that girl on her offer?”

The taxi driver laughed, “No. But let’s say I am glad God only tested me once!”

All three laughed, but the words reminded Luke of something. “My uncle once told me God will keep giving you the same test until you pass it. At the time, I was a kid; but I now realise what he meant.”

Connor watched Andrew Branch as he strode in with a head-turning entourage of five bodyguards twice his size. And Ingrid had told him that the big boss might have poached some of his security for himself.

Connor had often wondered what it would feel like to be constantly surrounded by people you paid. He wondered what it must be like to be a celebrity needing an entourage, not knowing whether any endearments were genuine or if they had more ammunition than anyone to bring to light deviant behaviour.

A “Hey” interrupted his thought, and he smiled at the barmaid who had served him earlier and now stood before him.

“How is your mojito?”

“Really good.”

“I am on my break. Thought I would come and talk to you.”

“They let you have a break when it’s heaving like this?”

He caught a flicker in her eyes when she replied, “It is in the contract.”

“Well, I am glad they adhere to it.”

“So, what brings you to Marbella?”

“Business and pleasure.”

“Have you come on your own?”

“The person I came with had to cut his trip down here short. I decided to stay.”

“So, you’re not waiting for anyone?”

“I didn’t say that,” he smiled. “What brought you here?”

“How do you know I was not born here?”

“I can tell by the Spanish accent you spoke with earlier.”

“You have good ears.”

“How long is your break?”

He caught her flinch before she answered. “I have time yet.”

“That’s good,” said Connor, his instincts sending a tingle. “I won’t look such a Billy No Mates.”

“Billy No Mates?”

“A person with no friends. They don’t have to be named William.”

“Why is a William called Billy? Is it because Willy is rude in English?”

“No, I think it’s because Irish Gaelic turns the sound of ‘Wuh’ into ‘Buh’. Irishmen hated this protestant king named William III by calling him ‘King Billy’. Might derive from that. Not sure about John to Jack, though.”

“Pretty smart.”

“No, I just make a conscious effort to learn a bit every day. The compound effect and all that.”

Connor caught sight of Andrew and his bodyguards standing up in the corner of his eye. They began to make their way back through the parting crowd.

“You study random topics every day?”

“Pretty much,” he said before finishing his mojito and getting up. “That was great, thank you. The chat and the drink.”

Surprise lit her face. “You leaving after one drink?”

“Afraid so.”

“Something I said?”

“Not at all.”

Connor turned without looking at her and cut through the throng and past the doormen.

Once outside, his eyes scanned his surroundings, lit by the amber lights in the palm trees.

He caught the end of the entourage slithering like a snake around the side into the car park.

The Englishman followed, knowing he could make it to his hired black Triumph Street Twin motorcycle and track them.

He rounded the corner and walked straight into a semi-circle of bodyguards.

A limousine purred behind them.

The central of the three said, “How come you ditched poor Maria? She’ll be heartbroken.”

“She wasn’t my type,” said Connor, deliberately allowing the tremor to come through his voice.

“What’s your type, then?”

“It’s none of…look, if this is the local gay-bashing party, then get it over and done with. I thought he looked cute. He seems important, and my date hasn’t turned up. It isn’t my fault your barmaid’s gaydar isn’t up to snuff. I was polite.”

The bodyguard stared at him for a few long moments.

A giggling couple came around the corner. Their laughter ceased, and they gave the group a wide circle.

Finally, the bodyguard turned away, telling the others, “Don’t let him go anywhere.”

He walked over to the limo and leaned to talk through the open window.

After a few minutes, he walked back and said, “Mr Branch would like to invite you for a drink now if you are free?”

Connor refrained from asking ‘where?’, instead saying, “OK. I’d like that.”

The Leeds man had been in the presence of more gay men recently, as the strip clubs owned by the Ryder family had put on LGBT nights. Previously, Connor might have been liable to put on a ‘camp’ accent, however vague, but he had met enough with a ‘normal’ voice to find it unnecessary.

The bodyguard opened the door to reveal the upper class Englishman a few years Connor’s elder. His spikey, blond highlighted hair reminded Connor of the ‘Game of Thrones’ character Joffrey wearing a crown.

His denim shirt had sleeves two inches shorter than Connor would have worn them. He twirled a golden glass in his fingers before raising an eyebrow at Connor. “Would you like to jump in then, sir?”

Connor did so, sitting across and nestling into the white leather. Until that moment, he had been unsure how to play it.

Andrew flicked the top of a bottle lying in the ice tray and said, “This is a limited edition Dom Perignon. Nearly two and a half thousand a bottle.”

“So you’re wondering if I am worth it?”

“This is like drinking a beer to me.”

Despite the haughty tone, his demeanour seemed almost shy.

“Cos you’ve gotten used to it or because of the money you now have?”

Andrew held Connor’s gaze only for a moment before smiling. “I was born to affluence. But this champagne might be a novelty for you.”

Connor smiled. “How do you know I don’t drink it all the time?”

“You look good, but if you had the money, you would be wearing a Rolex, my good chap.”

“Or maybe I like the idea of people not knowing who I am. You’re freer that way.”

A ghost of a grimace appeared on Andrew’s face. “You do not think I am free?”

“A gilded cage is still a cage. Though your cage is probably made of solid gold.”

“Not just a handsome face,” he laughed nervously. “You having some or not?”

Connor flicked his fingers in a beckoning manner. He caught the brief frown before being handed a glass.

Taking a sip, initially, he thought it tasted faintly acidic before the richness of the lemon and melon bathed his tongue.

“Wow,” he said. “You’d have to drink a lot of that before you got used to it.”

“You like it?”

“Fuck me! I could drink a case of that.”

Andrew grinned and took a breath. “Come and sit over here.”

“No,” said Connor. “You sit over here.”

The accountant pressed his head back and narrowed his eyes. “You playing hard to get, old sport?”

“How do you work that out? I am the one who followed you out. And I am the one who’s telling you to sit here. If you have to be one of those who has to be in control all the time, then you can let me out here,” said Connor, meeting his gaze before softening with, “But maybe let me have a bottle of this.”

Andrew returned his smile before lifting himself off his seat and nestling beside Connor.

Though he did not have feelings of repulsion towards the thought of gay sex, many from his working-class, northern England background would profess that it didn’t turn him on either.

However, he had open-mouth kissed men before. In the Corps, Marines would sometimes kiss other Marines on nights out to shock civilians and test that the other Marine would not flinch.

These ‘tests’ of a marine’s lack of squeamishness came under the blanket of being ‘Royally, Royally’ and made all seemingly socially intolerable behaviour acceptable. Connor had heard some stomach-wrenching stories from a time before social media and camera phones.

Connor reached around to grip the back of Andrew’s head, angling his face as if examining it.

“You’re cute enough,” he said, thankful for the man’s lack of bad breath. Connor pulled him in for a kiss.

Get into it, or he’ll know, thought Connor, feeling the stubble against his.

He broke away, held Andrew’s jaw and said, “Less wet.”

He watched Andrew swallow and went back in. As Andrew dabbed his tongue against his, Connor felt his hand creeping towards his crotch.

He grabbed the wrist, not wanting the gay man to feel his lack of a hard-on.

Connor broke away. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“I can.”

“Not in the back of a car. Let’s go to a hotel room…better yet, somewhere where they can’t hear you cry out.”

“I…I do not ordinarily bring strangers back to mine.”

“Then a hotel it is. We’ll have to cover your mouth, then.”

“I meant…I do not usually, but I’ll make an exception.”

“Good,” said Connor. “Where is your Viagra?”

After a moment, Andrew reached into his jacket pocket and asked, “You forgot yours?”

Looking at the blue diamonds, Connor guffawed. “I have something better.”

He took out his wallet, slid a finger to the back of the cardholder section and pulled out similar but more oval-shaped green tablets.

“What the devil are they?” asked Andrew.

“You acting innocent?”

“No…But I can,” said the accountant flirtatiously, seemingly gaining in confidence.

Connor believed him. “They are called Black Ant Kings. My mate, straight despite my best efforts, swallows them before smashing ladyboys.”

“I do not ingest anything I do not know.”

“They are not for you, you daft ’apeth. It’s not me who’s going to be the bottom, is it,” announced Connor rhetorically.

23

Connor felt the blood pressure increase in his sinuses as the Black Ant King pill took effect. He’d caught sight of himself in one of the mansion’s huge mirrors and saw his mouth to be almost lipstick-red.

However, unlike regular Viagra, the hardening of his cock had begun without physical or mental stimulation.

The security detail followed as Andrew gave him a tour. Connor briefly wondered why the former public schoolboy would bother before it dawned on him—Fuck me! He sees me as potential boyfriend material.

Connor looked around, making mental notes of possible exits, the angles and distances between features large enough to hide behind.

He felt the guards’ wary eyes on him, which meant they had a semblance of competence—they hadn’t just accepted him just because their boss had.

Though he knew they saw Dion as their ultimate paymaster, not Andrew.

The evil committed by the FOC would make his life easier when dealing with anyone in their voluntary employ.

Andrew prattled on about the exclusivity and expense of the various features; the jacuzzi, the minibar, the art, the décor—exquisite though it was, the cars and the security.

Another thought played in Connor’s mind—Should I try it? Life is all about experiences. No one has to know. And so what if they did—as long as you’re the giver. At least he’s clean and tidy. Fuckin’ facial hair, though. He’ll have a hairy arsehole, too—it’ll be a right turn-off. Wouldn’t matter on these Black Ants, though. Plus, what would be the point of fucking a guy unless he looked like a he?

Playing ignorant, Connor asked, “Jesus, what is it that you do?”

“I work for a pharmaceutical company. In their accounts department.”

“You must be very good at what you do.”

“Yes,” said Andrew. “Almost too good.”

Connor pretended not to pick up on the inflexion in his voice and instead said, “I bet. And I bet your bedroom is filled with treasures, too.”

Andrew grinned. “That is the final destination.”

The accountant held out his hand, which Connor took, suppressing the grin at the thought of the teasing he would suffer at the tongues of his uncles and cousins if they had witnessed it.

Branch led him across the threshold of the patio. Two of his security team followed, and Connor asked, “They coming in too?”

“Well, just outside the door,” Andrew answered with an almost forlorn expression.

It then dawned on Connor; they weren’t only protecting him. They kept him captive.

A green baize covered the corridor, with an assortment of signed snooker memorabilia lining the walls.

“You into snooker at all?” asked Andrew.

“Not particularly,” said Connor. “Read Ronnie O’Sullivan’s autobiography. Didn’t know he was a county-level cross-country runner.”

“Yes, he is. My father knew him from when they were young. Same area.”

“Oh, yeh?”

“Yes, and my father reckoned he would never see him surpassing Stephen Hendry, but look at him now—greatest to ever have picked up a cue. People can get better.”

Connor nodded his agreement.

The Yorkshireman thought the bodyguards would maintain a discreet distance, but they followed right to the door.

As they entered, Andrew flicked over the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, amusing Connor.

He stepped inside the almost palatial bedroom—You can’t do this to him just out of curiosity. You wouldn’t let a woman service you just to kidnap her.

Andrew turned to him, and Connor looked at the point of his jaw and stepped towards him.

The accountant stopped him with, “Are you here to kill me?”

Keeping in character, Connor painted an expression of disbelief on his face and asked, “Why would you say such a weird thing?”

“Because we both know you are not gay.”

“How do you know? Because I don’t have the ‘gaylisp’? Because neither do you?”

“Gaydar,” replied Andrew. “You do not need a lisp, flamboyant clothes, a weak wrist, or whatever some straight men think gay men have for me to know if you are gay or not.”

Connor asked, “What gave it away, then?”

“You showed a lack of appreciation for the décor and art of my mansion.”

“I see. I heard of studies done that suggest gays are more attentive. Probably why they make great interior decorators.”

“Presumptuous of you, but if you like.”

“I think you’re being presumptuous. I didn’t fawn over the painting because I’ve already visited the Museo del Prado and stared at the original version of Las Meninas for around twenty minutes—the intriguing bouncing of the shadows and mirrors, the intricate arrangement which tests the sensitivities of illusion and reality.”

Andrew’s eyebrows raised. “I am impressed.”

“And I might be curious.”

“Well, I am curious about your intentions.”

“I was looking to kidnap you.”

Andrew nodded. “Then I am curious about how you will get out of here. Especially since you are unarmed.”

Connor nodded to the large lava lamp of aqua-green octopuses. “Lovely that, isn’t it?”

“It was complimentary from a company I regularly buy from.”

“Luckily, they knew your preferences, eh.”

The man met Connor’s gaze, and a flicker of understanding passed through his eyes. As Connor stepped towards the lamp, he said, “I intended to knock you out and possibly use pain to coerce you. But something tells me that might not be necessary.”

Connor switched off the lamp, tipped it over, and used the key for his motorcycle to unscrew the bottom.

He slid out the polythene-wrapped FN Five-seveN, its suppressor, and a knife by Tom Garbett from the lamp’s hollow centre. Connor had TG Knives make it to his specifications; full tang, matt black stainless blade with a kaidex sheath.

Connor heard Branch’s sharp intake of breath before the stuttering—“H..h…how?”

“I have a friend full of ingenuity,” answered the assassin, inspecting the blade.

Full tangs—where the blades extend into the handle’s full length—offered more resistance against bending. Connor had once seen a bouncer in Tenerife survive a stab aimed at the heart by a disgruntled Moroccan via the blade bending around the ribcage.

He favoured stainless over high carbon steel even though the edge stayed sharper for longer on the latter; the former had the benefit of being resistant to rusting.

In his opinion, fixed blades held sway over locked blades for being quicker to draw and much easier to clean without the potential fiddliness of a folding knife.

Connor could now see that a medium calibre pistol such as the FN 509 or Glock 19MM might have been more appropriate for what he looked to be up against. However, going by the logic that he’d rather have too much than too little, he had opted for the FN Five-seveN, which fired a rifle round more than 2000 feet per second, thus being better against body armour.

Through thousands of hours of high-tech range work and numerous real-life firefights, Connor was a superb shot, particularly with this weapon.

He looked at Andrew as he fitted the suppressor. “You want a way out, don’t you?”

“Yes, but…but there are seven of them. They are armed, too. Not in public, but once inside, their guns come out to play.”

Connor suspected as much but still asked, “I thought someone could only obtain a firearm license from the Guardia Civil after passing a police background check, a physiological and medical test, and a practical and theoretical exam? And that was just for shotguns and hunting rifles?”

“You think she or Dion give two hoots about whether one of these is caught with one? Besides, with the police in their pocket, and the security apparatus, it is easy for one man to escape with all the guns. And even if they get caught, I would have plausible deniability.”

Connor frowned. “You said she?”

“Yes, she,” said Andrew with an expression of fearful anger. “Dion has always been a wild boy. I admit he got worse after his brother got killed. But he would always see reason, especially after I had spoken to him. Then she came along, pouring pure poison in his ears. He would never have attacked civilians before she arrived.”

“Who?” Connor asked, despite knowing. He wanted to hear Branch’s undiluted take.

“Her name is Lina Van. She met Dion at church, of all places, which I am surprised didn’t burn down.”

Connor smiled at this as Andrew continued, “And now she has brought over her cousins. Colombian psychopaths. I have been in the presence of many an amoral man, but these fellows will kill people with the same emotion as wiping their bottoms and torture people like catching fish.”

The Northerner gestured to the door, “Aren’t they going to expect the sounds of man love on the other side of the door?”

“They always move away—offends their sensibilities.”

Connor decided to glean whatever intelligence reasonable from the accountant, not knowing if the accountant would survive what was about to happen.

“Tell me about these Colombians.”

“When Colombia’s AUC destabilised, out of it emerged lots of criminal organisations. You know what the AUC was?”

“Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia.”

“Not just a pretty face.”

Connor almost admired the man’s flirting despite the danger he was in and said, “Carry on.”

“These criminal groups are known as BACRIMs—”

“Bandas Criminales Emergentes.”

“Yes,” said Andrew. “And the ones now here have survived the bloodletting in their wars with one another and the FARC-EP. Those exaggerated threats in the movies—these people actually will cut you around the waist and pull your skin over your head to suffocate you.”

Connor suppressed a grin at the image. “What about the ones outside?”

“They might not be so imaginative, but their God is money—if Hitler threw them a few pennies, they would have slung the women and kids into the chambers without having to listen to his eulogising.”

Connor found the man’s expressions amusing but said, “Alright, is there anyone inside your mansion—other than you and I—who doesn’t deserve to die?”

“Christ, you’re actually contemplating this after I have told you they will be armed. Do you know how hard th—”

“Harder than scrubbing the teeth of a meth-cranked baboon. But it’s still going to happen, so answer my question.”

Andrew’s mask of incredulity morphed to one of pondering, and he said, “The twenty-something-year-old with the dark hair over his eyebrows. You see him?”

“The one that looks like Robert Pattison’s Bruce Wayne?”

“That is him. Very innocent but strapping. Though I prefer blonds.”

Connor briefly thought of Luke but said, “I should spare him because he’s cute?”

“He is also nicer to me than the rest, and I think he is curious—very curious.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” smirked Connor. “Now I am going to have to tie and gag you.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“Because if I die, they’ll crucify you for not alerting them. So get undressed.”

“Why undressed?”

“Because they’ll be suspicious that you allowed yourself to be tied up for no apparent reason. At least this way you can pretend you fell for some kinky sex game.”

“Just pretend?”

Luke sat in a high, stilted office similar to Tom’s at the original garage. An old, faded poster of Eric Cantona hung behind the paper-strewn desk in front of him with the caption, ‘1966 was a great year for English football…Cantona was born.’

He sat on a swivel seat matching the one opposite, except his was more worn.

To his right, on the shelving unit, sat an aquarium with a sky blue backdrop contrasting with an array of different coloured and shaped fish, rocks and plants.

To his left, he looked out the tinted window down on the plumbing merchant’s warehouse floor, where men in hard hats guided the pallet-laden forklifts while others counted stock.

It occurred to Luke that he had never had a full-time job. However, a jeweller in the north of Leeds—whom Tom had laundered money through—had agreed to take Luke on their books. And Luke regularly attended, mainly at Tom’s behest, who said if the police ever checked in on him, then he’d have to be aware of what he was talking about.

He missed his cousin now. Especially during conferences like the one about to happen. His cousin had been involved in these meetings since he was seventeen, and since he had taken him under his wing, Luke had come to hold Tom—whom he had already respected—in much higher regard.

His eldest cousin preached the importance of doing your homework before such meetings, particularly to ascertain their desire.

In addition, Connor’s insistence on reading books had partially gotten through. Luke had downloaded two audiobooks, one being Dale Carnegie’s ‘How to Make Friends and Influence People’, which he thought interesting, but Robert Greene’s ‘48 Laws of Power’ truly caught his intrigue. He listened to it twice, leading him to give Connor the opinion that it was “a fucking naughty book”.

Luke knew O’Neil’s nephew keeping him waiting to be a power play.

Luke had tried to glean whatever he could off the internet, but it mostly consisted of tabloid articles. Their opinion of the thirty-three-year-old Irish mobster seemed in direct contrast to O’Neil’s, who described him as a good man with “He’s a bit of jizz in him”, which Luke came to understand to mean he was energetic.

The door handle on the cabin’s right side swivelled before a beige hoodie appeared, with a head shorn on the sides leading to thick black curls on top.

Luke stood as Liam thrust a hand out with a, “How are ya?”

“Good, thanks,” said Luke. “Yourself?”

Though it singed his ego, he did not try to win the hand-squeezing contest the Irishman had induced—Never outshine the master.

“Fine, considering,” said Liam. “Take a seat.”

“You own this place?” asked Luke, knowing he didn’t.

“You the taxman?”

Luke returned a grin as a reply, and Liam continued, “I might have a piece in it.”

“Nice,” said Luke, knowing the Irishman didn’t even collect points from the owner.

“So, what can I do you for?” asked Liam.

“Your uncle didn’t tell you?”

“No, he didn’t say much. Can’t stay on the phone for long.”

“It’s what I can do for you,” said Luke, echoing a play out of ‘How to Make Friends and Influence People’—Think what you can do for them, not what they can do for you.

Of course, the Irish gangster would know no one in their profession did things for strangers without considering their self-interest.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Your family is getting hammered. Every time you attempt to step out and attack, you get hit. I know—like everyone does—the O’Neils and the Franklins worked together in the past, but I wonder—like you wonder—how many of your lot still work for them.”

Liam grimaced, “What did you say, you Brit cunt? I should stab you up now.”

“But you’re not gonna. You can give me your outrage, but if youse don’t win this war, then everyone in Dublin is gonna die, cos they aren’t going to stop. You know this, which is why you took this meeting.”

“I took this meeting cos my uncle told me to.”

“Alright. You’ve met me. We’ve had the meeting. Let’s call it a day then.”

With his heart beating hard in his chest, Luke stood to leave.

Liam stopped him with a, “Hold your horses. Sit down.”

The Englishman did so, not wishing to cut his nose off to spite his face.

The Irish gangster said, “Go oan.”

“You have the intelligence. You know where the players left here live. You know where their businesses are. You just can’t hit them on your tod cos you’re being constantly watched—that’s why you made me turn up half an hour before, and I had to let myself into an empty office with tinted windows. And you can’t ask the lads, you know, because of reasons I have just said.”

“You think you’re going to be able to just cut around Finglas and North Dublin and no one is going to notice you?”

“I don’t want to be ‘cutting around’. I want you to tell me who they are, tell me all about them and where they hang out and live.”

Liam looked at him for a moment. “What else do you want?”

“What you talking about?”

“Well, firstly, what guns do you need? What transport do you need?”

“Don’t worry about all that.”

Liam frowned. “There is no way you’ve come over here without carrying—”

“You getting me a gun or arranging transport means you have to get other people involved and I don’t want that.”

“Then what else do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“So you’re going to do all this heavy lifting and you don’t want money? My uncle is pleading poverty at the moment?”

Luke couldn’t help his eyes crinkling—Your uncle keeps you in the dark about a lot of things, doesn’t he?  thought Luke, feeling a swirl in his stomach.

“Don’t worry about that.”

Liam gave him a nodding frown. “OK. How will I send you what you need?”

The Yorkshireman slid a hand into his pocket to remove the burner phone and gently handed it to his Irish counterpart.

“Contact me on that.”

“Give me a day or two,” said Liam, who stood and continued, “Wait twenty minutes, then put this jacket on and leave.”

When the Irishman walked out the door, Luke felt some of his control over the situation went with him.

And he never asked me if I had other guys with me.

Connor got off the bed on which Andrew lay, tied and face down.

He rammed the magazine inside the Five-seveN’s trigger housing before pulling back the top slide a few millimetres to see that the round sat correctly before testing the tightness of the suppressor.

He felt assured, due to Andrew’s bachelorhood, that no one other than the security team stood within the mansion—due to the high stress of firefights, a great temptation pervaded to fire into any human-shaped targets one saw.

He steadied his breathing as a means of controlling his adrenal system. Though he had done everything reasonable to train his shooting with his heart rate elevated, he needed a handle on his fine motor skills to go into any type of firefight-induced fear.

On the one hand, he had survived gun battles while being outnumbered before; his skills—obtained initially through the Marines—were now greatly honed through almost daily training, and he also had the element of surprise.

On the other hand, the numbers were against him; they had a better understanding of the layout, and he didn’t know their current positions.

In enclosed spaces like corridors, they would not need a high level of accuracy, and a hit anywhere on his person would likely prove fatal due to impairment—he needed to kill them without being hit.

Come on! You’re too dangerous a cat to get scratched by kittens.

Knowing that no one in the corridor would expect the following sequence, he simply opened the door.

Though remaining leaning against the wall, the two men snapped their heads towards him, their eyes flicking down to the T-shirt.

The throat of the first splattered against the wall a fraction of a second before the second. Though mindful of ammunition conservation, Connor shot them a second time between the eyebrows.

Thankful that neither made a sound, he checked behind him before walking down the corridor with the Five-seveN on aim.

The former soldier kept alert to sounds behind him and moved forward.

The recesses of his mind analysed the pair’s demeanour before they were shot and evaluated them as slovenly and unprofessional. He ignored his rising confidence as he stood off the corner and began to ‘slice a pie’ into the right angle.

No one.

He heard the call of “Mitch” somewhere down and left of the corridor’s end.

The general principles of Close Quarter Combat had embedded themselves into him—Speed, Surprise and Violence of Action. Another principle, impossible to adhere to as a solo operator, was the maintenance of 360-degree security.

He ghost-walked quickly, hearing steps approaching on his left.

Though he did not like to be covered in the DNA of arterial spurts, his MO was to conserve ammunition if on a limited supply.

He slid out the blade and passed the FN Five-seveN to his left hand.

Listening hard, sure of one pair of feet, he spun out at the last moment, clapping a pistol-gripping fist around the back of the victim’s head and thrusting the point of the blade through the Adam’s apple.

He stepped whilst turning the gurgling corpse on the knife to avoid the iron-scented red spray.

Catching the movement in his left peripheral, he barely avoided the wall-punching rounds.

A stutter-scream of “attac—attacker, intruder—armed attacker in the mansion!” went up from the firer, who now ducked back around the corner.

The mansion came alive with shouted replies. Connor sheathed the blade and, as he sprinted to the firer’s disappearing point, the Mac-10 snaked back around.

Clamping it to the wall as it shuddered, spitting furiously hot metal wasps, Connor’s gun blew a flesh and bone vacuum through the Mac-10 owner’s face.

Tempted to relieve the corpse of the submachine gun, he decided against it.

He briefly shook his head, recognising—by the clothing—that it was the boy who Branch requested be kept alive.

Seeing little point in the slow and quiet approach now, he darted down the corridor to reach the T-section.

A cat careered out and tangled with Connor’s feet, making him stumble forward to avoid stamping on it.

The thud to his temple took his

consciousness.

24

Luke and Oshain sat at a table in the ‘Scorpion and the Frog’ pub in Dublin’s city centre.

Though Luke had not developed a taste for ‘the black stuff’ back in England, he’d been told it didn’t ‘travel well’. Indeed, he could taste the contrast of the malty sweetness, with the bitter hops more and the amplified roasted cream.

“I’d drink this back at The Buxton if it tasted like this.”

Oshain twitched his upper lip, “It’s alright.”

Luke realised this was the first time he’d seen Oshain drink and asked, “Do you get fucked up often?”

“A bit of weed or CBD oil after a shift. Helps me sleep after being keyed up.” Oshain nodded to a set of lads crowded around a fruit machine. “I’ve seen lads spend hours on those things. Fuckin’ suckers!”

“Could look at it that they are paying for the buzz.”

“Course they are. A buzz that keeps them hooked—and steals their money.”

“I was thinking, if you had enough money, a way to guarantee you win is to keep doubling your bet.”

“Ahh, right, so if you lose, then you double the money you put on the next? It would have to be similar or better odds.”

“Not if it’s blackjack.”

“Why haven’t you done it yet?”

“Not sure,” replied Luke, genuinely. The question made him pause for thought as he remembered contemplating making a living from matched betting only a few years back. He was about to tell Oshain there would still be the possibility of losing several times in a row, and therefore everything, with not a massive amount of gain. But the truth flowed out of his mouth, “Because I’d just be a pisshead in a casino.”

And a few years ago, you’d have jumped at that, he thought. He caught the collective eyes of a group of girls. “Some worldies down there looking at ya.”

Oshain smiled, “I noticed them ten minutes ago coming back from the toilets—they were looking at you.”

Luke looked down. “Reckon we could take them back?”

Oshain shrugged, “Maybe. You want to crack on with them?”

The Ryder felt the temptation in his face and groin before a flickering image of Tom came to the fore. “No. If we get the call, we have to be ready quick.”

“Maybe one day we’ll come back here.”

Luke appreciated the sentiment and raised his glass to clink with Oshain’s before saying, “I appreciate you doing this. I don’t understand why, but I appreciate it.”

“What don’t you understand?”

“That you’ve come to Ireland. You know that anyone else wouldn’t think it a good idea coming over and fighting for us. I mean, you can get door work anywhere.”

“You think I am here cos of the door work?” Oshain raised his eyebrows.

“No. That’s why I am asking.”

Oshain took a few moments and a sip of his Guinness. “I want to be part of this…I mean…you know the story with my mum and dad. Bounced around foster homes, I’ve never had a group of guys I could rely on properly. Then I met Connor at the MMA gym one time. Class fighter-like. Anyway, we paired up for the technical session. I’d only met him a few times before, and I was telling him how my car had been set on fire—neighbour arguing with another neighbour. This guy thought my car was this other guy’s because I was parked there one night because some dickhead had taken my spot.”

Luke said, “You found out it was Connor who parked in your spot?”

“No,” replied Oshain with a chuckle. “But my insurance company wouldn’t give me a courtesy car because it said in the terms and conditions they only could if it was being fixed, and an engineer had to tell them if it was going to be written off or repaired, blah, blah, blah.”

“Cunts,” sighed Luke.

“I know,” agreed Oshain. “Anyway, there’s a quick break between the technical session and the rolling session where you can have a piss and neck some water. Your cousin must have been on the phone because after the session, Tom—never met him ’til then—comes down with a three-year-old black Audi A3, and Connor says it’s mine to run around in until I get my car back.”

Luke frowned. “Let me guess—cost you fuck all.”

“Yeh,” replied Oshain. “My cousin—who likes Connor, by the way—said, “Watch. He’ll ask you for a favour.’”I got the car sorted after a few days, so I take it to Tom’s garage. He says, “Do you like the Audi?” And I’m thinking, “Here we go”. But he offers a straight exchange for my thirteen-year-old motor that I’d have struggled to give away. I don’t see Connor again for months. That was over two years ago, and I’m still waiting for them to ask this favour.”

“So, how did it come about you getting the doorman shift?”

“Cos my cousin was joking with him on the mats about how they’d have to interview hundreds of applicants for The Helena’s head doorman position. I needed a bit of extra coin, so I asked him.”

“He wanted you as the doorman all along?”

“Nah, mate,” announced Oshain. “Said I was too young and inexperienced. Eventually, I went up for the interview myself. It was Cara who interviewed me, not Tom. If she knew who I was, she could give Zoë Kravitz a run for her money. For acting, I mean.”

“Offtt. Have you seen ‘The Batman’ yet? She’s fucking smoking, and I bet she bangs like a cat flap in a storm.”

“Steady! She’s the mum of your future niece or nephew.”

Luke smiled at Oshain’s attempt to make him bite, even though he felt a pang at being reminded of Tom’s predicament.

“You know you wouldn’t put them two together if you only knew them separately, would you,” said Luke before continuing slyly, “I’d have put you two together, though.”

“Why? Because we are both mixed-race?”

“I was talking about you and Tom.”

Oshain smiled. “How long do you think we will have to wait?”

“Could be soon. Could be a few days.”

“And…how far we going with this?”

Luke had been wondering about this himself. “We don’t want them coming back, do we?”

“No,” replied Oshain. “I wonder what Connor would do?”

Luke smirked. “I’ll tell you this about my cousin—he’d go out of his way to torture them before killing them.”

“For real?”

“Oh, yeah. If he knows they are…he calls them baddies…then he finds it hilarious to torture them. If you’ve never seen that side of him, it’ll seem a bit weird, but we’ve grown up around him.”

“Who does he see as ‘baddies’?”

“I think it’s anyone who hurts innocent people—who doesn’t take steps not to. You’d have to ask him. Anyone I’ve seen him doing it to has deserved it.”

“It’s good that they deserve it,” nodded Oshain. “Cos you do something enough, then Karma dives on you, eventually.”

Connor’s hearing came back online first. He caught his instinct to move or open his eyes just in time.

The pain clawing the curves of his ribs and throbbing from spots on his upper thighs told him he had received a kicking on the floor—but probably not the one on which he now lay.

His senses began to tune in, and he heard them talk around him at height.

“If Dion finds out we just let whoever this is in to fuck his accountant, it’ll be our heads on the chopping block. Let’s put a weighted vest on him and chuck him in the Med.”

Another voice edged with more authority, said, “Lies lead to more lies. And if we’re caught lying, we’ve no chance. Besides, we don’t know who this guy is. He could be an undercover peeler.”

“He’s fuckin’ shot dead almost all our crew—he ain’t a fucking copper, Bugsy!”

“Relax,” replied the man whom Connor presumed to be Bugsy.

His left eye involuntarily flew open as a thumb pressed into his upper right eyelid in a classic military ‘dead-check’ method known as the ‘eye-thump’.

“There he is,” said the lined, bespectacled face crowned with slicked-back, centre-parted iron-grey hair.

Connor recognised the stocky, medium-height man as a senior Franklin associate named Colin ‘Bugsy’ Malone— the one who O’Neil described as ‘a fuckin’ eejit’.

Two others stood behind him on either side— Desmond Franklin, a cousin of Dion and a swarthy-skinned man whom he didn’t recognise.

The small conservatory looked out into the pool area. To his left, an open door revealed a laundry room, and to his right, a bookshelf built to follow the contours around a fire—even in his current situation, he lamented the hazardous design.

A brass ornament of a crossed-legged gorilla wearing oversized headphones sat on the mantlepiece between two plumes of electric blue orchids.

Desmond reached around Colin to slap Connor hard in the face.

Andrew entered, face sheet-white, clutching the Persian cat Connor had tripped over.

It had not been that long ago when the resistance to interrogation training for a British serviceman had revolved around simply stating your name, rank, number and date of birth and being reminded of your duty to escape.

This had become modified, in that it was incumbent on the soldier, airman or sailor to maintain operational security as long as bearable before drip-feeding information—preferably disinformation—to buy time for one’s command structure to make obsolete mission-critical information you might have.

Connor kept a neutral expression and hated the icy cold snake now slithering in his bowel—How many times have you done this to people? You’ll take what’s coming to you until you find a way to escape. Don’t let them see you scared. Be...silent…no…be John McLane.

It surprised him none of them recognised him. It was a testament to how well the Ryder family had kept their anonymity despite their growing power.

Tom had instructed Charlie to root out digital mentions of the family, and if the tech brainbox of the family couldn’t make them disappear then, depending on the situation, either a high-powered legal team, intimidating men, or a financially motivated private investigator, were instructed, if not all three.

Malone stood with his hands on his hips. “Who are ya, then?”

Connor said nothing and clenched internally.

Malone inclined his head in Andrew’s direction. “What, he in on it?”

Andrew exclaimed, “You brought him to me! How could I have known?”

“Then how did he get a gun in here? You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“He planted it,” cried Andrew, his face morphing into a white mask of horror.

“Shut it,” hissed Desmond.

When Connor remained silent, Desmond Franklin stabbed a finger at him, announcing, “Am gonna go put the kettle on. This is your last chance for a pain-free night.”

Connor knew the chances of them not hurting him, even if talked, would be minute.

“You know,” croaked Connor, nodding to the cat-clutching Andrew. “I knew one day my fall from grace would be down to pussy.”

“Very fuckin’ funny,” sneered Desmond before using his thumb to point out the door. “Tell us what we need to know before you know how it feels to be a fuckin’ tea.”

The Yorkshireman straightened in the chair and looked Desmond in the eye. “Put the milk in first, will ya?”

Desmond gave him a scornful smirk before marching out of the room.

Malone murmured, “For fucksake!” before speaking Spanish to the squat man, who took out his pistol and pointed it at Connor.

Malone said, “I’ll be back in a min. If you so much as twitch, this man will shoot ya.”

Frustration shot through Connor as Malone disappeared. He knew this to be his window, but the pistol, and the brown eyes, remained pointed unwaveringly at him.

The sounds of Andrew’s erratic breathing matched the muffled argument down the hallway.

Connor felt the accountant’s eyes drill into him. He fought the temptation to meet his gaze, but Andrew seemed to inch closer to the mantlepiece.

The accountant gingerly grasped the brass gorilla with his left hand, with the cat still in his right.

As he stepped out, Connor said to the man holding the pistol— “Mira la captura segura”—Look at the safety catch.

This caused a millisecond of an eye flick to the Glock; its safety was an increased trigger pressure when de-cocked—not a safety catch.

As the gorilla thunked off the pistol bearer’s head, Connor leapt forward, scythe-smashing his forearms on either side of the pistol-gripping wrist.

The carpet muffled the clattering of the Glock as Connor snatched a Kimura grip, forcing the squat man into a bow with shoulder-breaking force.

Connor’s knee smashed his victim’s head into a whiplash of unconsciousness.

Desmond skidded into the doorway entrance first, wielding a pistol. Connor threw the South American hard into him, skittering him back through the door.

Connor flew into a side squat to scoop up the Glock.

Quicker to the draw, he drilled Desmond in the face with a double tap and the Colombian with a single shot behind the ear.

He kept the Glock pointed towards the doorway.

With his left hand, he gestured for Andrew to move away from the door behind him.

He guessed Malone was wily enough not to charge the door and to be waiting in the hallway.

Connor briefly considered grabbing the cat and slinging it. Instead, he stood as quietly as he could and stepped towards the door.

It was drilled into him during his CQB training to clear as much of the space you were about to enter with your eyes first before stepping in. And despite the risk of exposure, the training instruction had been “Fire at what you can see, not what can see you.”

He wondered if Malone had gone to collect one of the assault rifles Andrew said they had.

Connor, satisfied that the part of the corridor ahead of him was clear, performed a sharp feint—Clear.

His instinct roared from the back of his brain, and he spun around, retracting the Glock to see Malone in the pool-facing window bringing to bear an AK Variant.

The shots hit Malone before he achieved trigger compression, and he fell backwards into the pool. A crimson cloud formed and floated away from him like a watercolour.

Connor ran through the shards with a protective forearm before shooting Malone in the forehead—he had seen too many films where the ‘bad guy’ came back to life after being riddled with bullets.

He turned back in and couldn’t help smirking at the similarity of Andrew’s and the cat’s terrified faces.

Connor said, “Can you wipe the surveillance footage?”

After a moment, Andrew thawed out into a nod. “I can erase the onsite from the IP cameras. They are secured with SSL encryption to encrypt the video feed and surveillance footage. The WPA2-AES encryption to secure users’ Wi-Fi network, and SSL-TLS to provide data encryption and authentication when video feeds are sent across insecure networks.”

Connor realised screaming nerves had caused the tech guy’s verbal diarrhoea.

“We need to move fast. Take anything essential, but don’t take the piss. If you do, then certain people will suspect you came with me voluntarily.”

“I get the choice?”

The Yorkshireman took a gamble. “Yeh.”

Andrew’s eyes darted in thought before his face became a mask of fear.

Connor said, “No…I won’t kill you if you choose not to come.”

“But you were going to kidnap me, wasn’t you?”

“That was before you saved my life—despite whatever reasons why.”

Andrew nodded. “OK. I’ll come.”

With this not being his first time, Connor said, “You’re going to insist we take the cat, aren’t you?”

Connor watched the moisture creep into Branch’s eyes, who shook his head. “I’ll put him in the carrier. We have to drop him off at my neighbour's. They will take care of him. I’ve already arranged it.”

“You arranged it?”

“Long story.”

“If the FOC ever finds out, they are going to know you came willingly.”

Branch looked at him. “I do not care. I am not leaving Bonny here for those animals to find.”

25

Luke felt his heartbeat rise as he heard vehicles crunching to a halt outside.

He gripped the steel tube—two inches in diameter and a metre long—knowing Oshain would be doing the same on the other side of the metal merchants.

The warehouse covered an area of half a football pitch. Black powder-coated vertical and horizontal racking held an array of different sizes and shapes of metals that Luke didn’t recognise.

He had crouched behind a large, rectangular box which he knew to be a sheet metal guillotine—he had pulled rank on Oshain, who now lay crouched into a ball behind a machine bandsaw.

He had anticipated the rumbling of the main warehouse door rolling up but heard the doors to the reception area instead.

Fucksake, course they are not going to come in the warehouse door.

He calmed his whirring mind; no change of plan was necessary, except he would be striking from the front and Oshain from behind.

What if they have their meeting in the reception area? Fuck, fuck, fuck—

Excited adrenaline halted the stream of negativity as the reception-warehouse doors kissed open.

Luke counted five seconds before bursting out.

The sight of the pistol levelled at him caused a stutter, but he kept on charging—no point stopping now.

The bastard set us up for an ambush.

Gunfire bounced off the walls and rang in his ears.

Lina hid her disgust at Dion’s animated shouting as he paced around the mansion with his phone glued to his ear.

“Get down ’ere    now, Fred…I don’t give a fook! Bring your entire crew, and I mean, yesterday!” he bellowed.

He had refused to listen to her warnings.

So concerned with protecting himself and his family members, he had left a group of amateurs to protect his most valuable business asset.

And he had also trusted the accountant to be too scared and greedy to try running.

“Where the fook is he gonna run? And that faggot wouldn’t dare rat on me,” he had said.

Whether Andrew Branch had been kidnapped or facilitated his own escape, it had been Dion’s bad decisions that had helped lead to this; and now, he strutted like an angry peacock.

While it might have worked with his subordinates, she saw through the display of anger attempting to cloud his unadulterated fear.

His fear had merit—though the FOC had around half a dozen premier money movers, Andrew Branch was the one he most leaned on. She couldn’t be sure, but she reckoned Andrew oversaw nearly half of the FOC’s assets.

Still, she remembered one of the poster quotes written in English at the first gym she began to frequent.

‘To the victim, adversity is bad. To the leader—the warrior—hard times are life’s richest times of growth, opportunity, and possibility. Use them to fly.’

She felt the last line spoiled it a little, but she found the sentiment uplifting.

Finally, he seemed to run out of steam. “Fred and the boys are coming down from the ’dam.”

She replied, “More of your enforcers will not make a difference if we do not have a strategy, my love.”

“I fookin’ know dat.”

She continued as if not hearing the anger in his voice, “This kidnapper and Branch will still be in Spain.”

“How do you know dat?”

“Because they would need help getting out of the southern ports, and no one will provide it when it means death to them and their families. Not when helping us means becoming rich. No—they will be laying low here in Marbella.”

“Where in Marbella?”

“In the forests.”

He snorted, “You’ve been watching too much Rambo.”

“Fine. Do it your way…again.”

He looked at her. “What’s your big plan, then?”

“We send Fernando and his men. They have experience in this.”

She saw a flicker in the Irishman’s eyes and instantly knew what he was thinking. She played on this with, “Unless you want some of them to stay here to protect—”

“No,” said Dion. “They can all go. It’ll be better to keep them together than to split them up.”

“Yes. That would be the best action.”

“I need him back. And I need whoever took him to die.”

“No,” she said. “You need what’s in his head back—he is just the shell it hides in. And this man who has taken him—he needs many long days screaming in pain so that it hurts the ears of whoever might betray us.”

The man holding the pistol at him spurted bloody bone shards from his head before collapsing. The other two men followed suit.

The loudness of the silence almost matched the gunfire.

Luke’s head snapped up to the scraping sound on the roof of the office.

Eddie O’Neil stood with his AR-180 semi-automatic rifle. Luke spun around and found relief at seeing Oshain OK.

He turned back and wrestled his breath back to normal. “You knew.”

O’Neil called down, “I didn’t want it to be true. Step right back.”

When Luke did so, O’Neil fired another burst into each face.

“To make sure they are dead?” Luke asked. “Or so they can’t have open caskets?”

O’Neil didn’t answer the questions, instead removed the magazine, cocked the rifle and let the chambered round fall into his hand before firing off the trigger in a procedure Connor had taught Luke as the ‘make safe’.

The Belfast native called down, “Catch this.”

Luke stepped forward and caught the Armalite. O’Neil descended the ladder and turned towards the Yorkshiremen.

Oshain barked, “You used us as bait!”

“I did what I had to do.”

Luke’s confusion came through his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell us the plan? We didn’t even have to be here.”

“Because if they hadn’t been armed, I wanted to see how far you’d be willing to go.”

Luke nodded once. “You wanted to see if we’d kill them?”

“Well, were you?”

“Probably.”

“Probably isn’t good enough. A probably is someone that can rise against you again. If not, a probably is a living witness.”

Oshain said, “You want us to kill for you?”

“Kill for yourselves. This is war. If you’re not willing to go that far, you’ll lose to those that are. And these rats will go farther than you can imagine.”

Luke asked, “Why are we just standing here? Shouldn’t we take off before the police arrive?”

“The police aren’t going to come here.”

“What you saying? The Franklins stop the Garda responding to gunshots?”

“That’s what I am saying. You must not forget they are people who want to harm you and your family. If it’s the thought of prison that’s stopping you, then let me tell you, living in a cage of fear, knowing you or your family can be harmed and killed, is infinitely worse.”

“Awesome speech,” said Luke.

“It was just for your benefit.”

Oshain’s sneering reply came back, “You think giving your Samurai speech or whatever is going to change the fact you set us up to die?”

O’Neil picked up one of the pistols from a corpse’s hand, pointed it into the guillotine sheet metal cutter and fired.

No bullet holes appeared.

“I have my contacts—fewer to be sure—I don’t needlessly risk the men I work with.”

Oshain stated, “You couldn’t know for sure those guns would be empty—or filled with blanks, I mean.”

“No. That’s why I said ‘needlessly’.”

Luke cut off Oshain’s retort with, “So…You want us to kill your nephew.”

“How did you know?”

Surprised by his apparently correct deduction, Luke said, “You used us as bait to see if your nephew was a rat. He will now think it suspicious if you ask to meet him, knowing his plan didn’t work. Even if he was stupid enough to, you don’t trust yourself to kill him despite what he’s done. You need us to do your—now our—dirty work for you.”

O’Neil nodded with an approving, grimacing nod before saying, “Will you?”

The two men stared at one another for a moment.

“Yeh.”

26

Connor did not look forward to the following week. He had spent the four previous nights constructing the ‘hide’, digging for hours before camouflaging his work. He had put out invisible ‘checkers’ to ensure the work was not disturbed.

He knew to spend four nights constructing a hide would be considered sacrilege by British soldiering standards. Still, Connor realised he’d have to make the civilian as comfortable as possible.

What concerned him the most was he couldn’t trust him for sentry duty—he had known Royal Marine recruits fall asleep, and he’d even heard of a UKSF patrol doing the same on operations.

If there had been a known enemy, he would have done everything he could to avoid such a measure.

Connor knew the FOC’s immediate reaction to the accountant’s disappearance would be a high-alert lockdown of southern Spain where every corrupt police and snitch would be on the lookout for Branch.

Still, seven days underground would take a toll on himself, let alone a man used to luxury even before working for the cartel.

The man slept an inordinate amount, which Connor had seen in others during his custodial sentences in HMP Wetherby as a teen, and later a short stint in Colchester; he surmised sleeping made their sentences go faster.

He had taught Andrew a series of hand signals and told him they would not speak for the duration. However, it had become apparent Andrew wouldn’t be capable of either, so Connor relented to whispers and allowed for a conversation on the second night.

Connor said, “Tell me what you’ll do if we get ambushed, or I tell you to run?”

Andrew slid out the compass hanging around his neck. “I am supposed to rotate my body with this in the flat of my hand so the luminous needle lies between these two markers. Then I am meant to run while keeping the needle between the two markers until I hit the ‘metalled road’—whatever that means—and wait and hide for you at the corner of it.”

“That’s correct. And a ‘metalled road’ is a road that can sustain a vehicle.”

“But more likely, I jump up, scream, get shot, and die in the woods.”

Connor smiled. “Tell me. How does an Eton-educated toff end up working for a gang of Paddy gangsters? Shouldn’t you have been laundering for the fox-hunting crowd?”

“You should not speak about things you don’t understand.”

“You mean fox hunting?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what someone would get out of chasing a small animal with a pack of dogs, but I know if a sport existed where working-class teenagers got to ride around on their BMX’s with their pit bulls chasing stray cats so they can shoot them with air rifles, there would be uproar.”

“Foxes lack natural predators. So hunting them is the most humane way of exterminating them. The younger, fitter foxes will outrun the dogs, leaving the older, weaker ones to die—natural selection, old chap.”

“I am sure being chased for miles before being ripped apart by hounds is lovely for them. Except, I heard—or read—that when a fit fox escapes in…what are those holes called?—an earth—the ‘Terrier Men’ will put the terriers down the hole to hold the fox in place until the diggers ‘unearth’ it and the hounds rip it to fuckin’ bits.”

“The chase pumps the fox full of adrenaline and endorphins so that it would not be as painful as you imagine.”

Connor gave him a sideways glance despite the darkness. “You really going with that one?”

“Are you a vegan?”

“No.”

“I am sure you mourn the death of whatever you’re eating. I am sure the taste is bitter knowing how it died.”

“No, but I eat to live. You hunt for the fun of it. I wonder why there aren’t fox burgers.”

“The same reason there are no rat burgers—because they are dirty pests ridden with disease,” announced Andrew. “Besides, I refuse to be lectured on morals by a drug dealer who murders people.”

Connor smiled—that would have been his first reply. “We supply tops of higher quality, and therefore safer product to those who might look elsewhere, and I assassinate bad people.”

The accountant chuckled, “That might be the finest example of mental dissonance I have ever heard.”

“What about women who refuse to stop smoking because ‘stress is bad for the baby, and stopping would stress me out’?”

“I might agree with that.”

“Yes, I thought the abhorrence of women smoking while pregnant would be something a cartel money-launderer and drug-dealing murderer could agree on.”

“Quite.”

“You never answered my original question of how you got involved in all this?”

“The short answer is to spite my father.”

Sensing he wanted to elaborate, Connor said, “Well, just give me the long answer since I am stuck ’ere with you.”

“Very much about appearances, my father. I believe this stemmed from my grandparents —though rich—pretending to be wealthy. He received scorn at schools they put him through. Even though he hated it, he got into the oil industry and insisted I needed to do something ‘respectable’. I wanted to be a musician, something he tolerated until one day, my grades were not quite what they should have been—and bang, he smashed the piano to pieces and told me if my performance at school did not improve, he would cut me off from his money. I must have gotten brave that day because I told him it would not look good to his friends, and do you know what he said?”

“That you don’t look good in your mum’s clothes?”

“Pa…pardon?”

“Nothing. Tell me what he said.”

“Said he would propagate a rumour that I was a drug addict, and he had been advised giving an addict money would kill him faster.”

“Fuck me, were you on drugs?”

“Noooo,” hissed Andrew. “Have you not been listening? He is a megalomaniac.”

“But you didn’t tell him to fuck off then and there, did you?”

“How do you know?”

“It was by towing the party line that got you the skills you needed through your degree.”

“I might have done my research.”

“No. I reckon you chose to make the best of the situation first. Probably to see if you liked it.”

Connor couldn’t see Andrew’s face in the dark as he turned his face to him but guessed the expression to be one of surprise.

“And I didn’t like it, but I worked diligently. On getting a 2:2, my father simply grunted. And that, my friend, was when I snapped—if nothing would ever be good enough, I would show him what an embarrassment I could be.”

“So then, you dressed in your mother’s clothes?”

“Pa..No, it’s—”

“I know. I was teasing.”

“Are you homophobic?”

“No. I don’t think so—just insensitive. Continue.”

“I am not sensitive.”

“Then why are you attempting to make me feel guilty?”

“I asked a question—if you feel guilty, then that’s your problem.”

“Fair enough,” said Connor. “So…how did you become acquainted with the Franklins?”

“It was at a function, and I met David—he was lovely, quiet but lovely. And we became friends. Naturally, I found out what he did, and I offered. I never interacted with Dion until David died.”

“And then you saw what a proper criminal looked like.”

“Well…proper criminal is one thing…evil is something I didn’t see until I met her.”

Though Connor knew to whom he referred, he still asked, “Who?”

“Lina Van. Dion was always more…bombastic than David and would go further, but he could see reason. Even when David died, he wanted heads to roll, but he’d have never gone this far if it was not for her whispering poison into his ear. It was her who turned him insane. And then she will take over.”

“What do you mean, take over? The Franklins have crushed the O’Neils.”

“Do you not work for the O’Neils?”

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’ll keep my counsel on that.”

“Whoever you are, you are not law enforcement—but with all due respect—it is them who will take down the organisation.”

“I’ll guess he pays certain people a lot of money.”

“Exactly! Rats care about the food they get, not the person who feeds them. He is blind to it—the manoeuvring. They will take him and agree with whoever is left—and it’ll be her, not his family. She’s already brought over her cousin and his cronies to ‘help’. They say love is blind, but hate and lust come close, believe me.”

“Her cousin?”

“Yes, I’ll remember his real name in a minute, but his nickname is ‘Maradona’—probably because of this silly perm he has. And his friend is called ‘The Baby-Eater’! Make of that what you will.”

The tide from the back of Connor’s head swelled to the front, and he said, “Fernando ‘Maradona’ Garzon and Andrés ‘Baby-Eater’ Santos?”

“You know them?” asked Andrew, and Connor could hear the trepidation.

“I know of them.”

“What do you know?”

“That they were assassins for the AUC, and when that broke up, they formed their criminal band.”

“But they came here?”

“From what I know, they became so powerful that the other BACRIMs and the FARC secretly began to co-ordinate to run them out. The war is still ongoing. I am guessing they’ve come to make alliances or—”

“Or take over.”

“Maybe,” murmured Connor, feeling a sense of unease as he looked out into the darkness. “Maybe you should think about getting your head down.”

“I can sleep when I am dead, which won’t be much longer, anyway.”

“You have little faith. We might get out of this yet.”

Branch made a noise that fell between a snort and a sigh. “There is no getting out of metastasized oesophageal cancer.”

Connor didn’t speak for a moment. “So that’s why you didn’t seem terrified when you thought I could have been there to kill you.”

“Maybe.”

“How long do you have?”

“Treatments might buy me a year or two. They gave me the diagnosis a few months back. It has already spread to my lymph nodes.”

“Does Dion know?”

“No. If he finds out it is terminal, he would look for a replacement, and she would convince him to have me killed—a dead man cannot be an informant.”

“So—”

Connor’s phone vibrated in a pattern that made him rifle into his pocket to get it. He tapped it twice before whispering, “Fuck.”

When setting up the hide, he had also put out tiny motion-sensitive cameras he’d had Charlie find on the dark web. Charlie did not know that through a series of subsidiaries, the cyber genius and logistics magician for The Chameleon Project, Jaime Rangel, had placed them in cyberspace for him to find.

The cameras only alerted his phone when sensing movement above a certain size threshold so as not to be set off by small animals.

On his phone’s screen, picked up by the furthest camera forward of their position, appeared three ghost-like figures amid the darkness, all searching and scanning their surroundings.

Connor whispered with urgency, “We have to move. Right now! Take out your compass and get your grab bag. We’re going out the back. You go first, as I’ll need to take up the rear. Repeat what I have just said.”

Connor did this to ensure understanding and as a form of ‘grounding’ to prevent the fear-inducing the freeze effect.

“I get my grab bag and head out the back. I keep this needle between these stripes until I hit the metalled road.”

“Good. Whatever happens, don’t turn back. You’re on your own if I don’t arrive within five minutes. I’d suggest you hand yourself over to them and claim I took you against your will. Let’s get moving.”

Connor gripped the suppressed Five-seveN as he crawled out. He felt his vulnerability in the cool night air.

He turned, using his left hand to grasp the accountant’s wrist as he aimed into the darkness.

He pulled Andrew’s shoulder to prevent him from standing and instructed, “Move. Low crouch.”

Andrew scampered off as Connor covered him. Part of him wanted to stay and fight, but only a small part. An image of Carlo, an ‘Ndrangeta assassin who had aided Connor recently on a mission in Japan, came to his mind—He would stay and fight.

He slid backwards, looking for silhouettes before reaching a tree for cover.

The lack of wind might have saved him. The crunch sounded to his left, and Connor dropped to one knee as the bark skimmed off the tree.

The clack followed within a split second. The time between the bark exploding and the sound of the firing of the suppressed weapon told him that the shooter was no more than twenty metres away. And a shot that accurately told of the shooter’s skill.

The former commando returned fire in the general direction.

He mentally cycled through his options. Connor had been trained in FIWAF (Fighting In Woods and Forests) in the Royal Marines, and Bruce McQuillan had sent him on an intensive course in Finland. He had been in awe of the Finnish instructors’ noiseless movement in the dark, dense forests and their innate sense of direction, knowing he wouldn’t be able to replicate it without months and months of practice.

But he had fought firefights in environments such as these since then.

They outnumber you. And you have an out-of-shape, spoon-fed civilian to look after, he thought.

Connor backed away with a reverse ghost-walk.

He heard a faint snap, spun out his arm and fired. On hearing the cry of pain, he knew the collective would hone in on his position.

Choosing speed over stealth, he turned and ran in a zig-zag.

After a few seconds, he heard shouts in Spanish—South American Spanish—before the steel wasps zipped by his head.

He cut diagonally through the forest, pulling out his compass as he went.

Marrying the luminous needle between the stripes, he cut diagonally again to follow the bearing.

He willed the accountant to be there—and though nonchalant before, he knew Andrew to be the key to winning this war.

Money formed the lifeblood of any business—legitimate or dirty.

The bearing pointed him over a clearing, and he took the risk and sprinted hard.

A black dog bolted across the clearing, looking at him with amber eyes. Connor felt a whirl of surrealism at the sight of an animal seemingly not of this world.

His eyes attempted to track it, but it disappeared as he turned his head, and he knew it to be a creation of his imagination.

Except it had turned the Englishman’s head toward a silhouette bringing a suppressed pistol to bear on him.

Connor dived, rolling onto one knee facing his would-be killer and shot a Failure Drill—two in the chest and one in the face.

He felt trapped in a haunted forest with ghouls that could kill him—Stop! You haven’t even been hit. They are jackals chasing a wolf.

Death fear pumped his legs faster through the trees.

He caught sight of the metalled road and followed it up, knowing the ERV to be on the high ground.

He reached it in less than a minute, hissing, “Come out”. His eyes darted before his heart slid into his diaphragm at the sight of the face-down body.

He spun around to protect himself against the killer, only to find Andrew shaking.

“I had to kill him. He was—”

“You can crack therapy later. Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Run in that direction,” commanded Connor, using the Brecon Chop to point northwest. “You’ll be leading the way.”

Connor followed him at a slow jog. However, he could hear the man’s breathing and restrained himself from hurrying a man already in total exertion.

A dead man was a dead man, whether from a heart attack or a bullet.

Dan Ryder turned the decade-old blue Honda Civic into a layby not far from the small North Yorkshire town of Richmond.

For the past ten years, he had never driven a vehicle worth less than ten times the Civic’s market value, but Bill told him one of the requisites to ‘going to the mattresses’ was non-flashy cars. He had quickly adapted to its lack of control buttons on the steering wheel, the low burr of the Bluetooth adapter and heated seats and found it fun to drive.

The traffic on the main road running parallel to him zipped by, combing the long grass of the land separating the two.

The grey Mercedes Sprinter with ‘Stealmain & Joyce’ striped on the side sat under the overhanging tree branches.

He got out and stepped wide so the driver could see his approach.

The cropped-headed, stubbled face—unsure whether to be square or round—turned to look at him through bushy eyebrows. The window slid down, and the middle-aged man grunted, “Bang on the door three times so you don’t fretten him.”

Dan nodded and did so.

The door slid back, and Dan straightened at his cousin’s appearance.

“Goodness' sake, Charlie, you could carry the shopping with the bags under your eyes.”

Charlie Ryder nodded in haggard agreement. “Come in.”

The inside looked like a weird cross between a surveillance office and a family caravan.

A wide, subtly convex screen perched on a black, chromed table. This was in front of a dual leather buffet seat, which looked angled towards the roof.

“What’s that?” asked Dan, gesturing to it.

“An ergonomic kneeling seat,” answered Charlie, briefly demonstrating by kneeling on the lower buffet while sitting on the upper one. He got off and said to Dan, “Go sit down, and I’ll make us a coffee.”

Dan sat on the floral patterned cushioned seating. “You don’t need a coffee. You need to sleep—for a week.”

“Fuckin’ tell me about it.” Charlie busied himself with making the coffee. “It’s starting to calm down a bit.”

Dan’s muscles tensed upon seeing the cross between a fat rat and a rabbit hop out of a hole in the cupboard. “What the fuck is that?!”

“Chill out,” soothed Charlie. “It’s my Chinchilla, Barney.”

He reached into a drawer and took out a stick of rose petals and coconut flakes, passing it into Barney’s dwarf-like paws.

Charlie handed Dan his white coffee and sat beside him, blowing on his tea.

Something came into Dan’s head. “I can’t remember if there has ever been a time when it has been just us nerds.”

The term had been used by the other members of the Ryder clan—affectionately—to describe them, and Charlie echoed his sentiments. “I am proud to be one, mate. Especially in this age where Elon Musk rules the world.”

“How come you’re so tired?”

“Well, what we thought was going to happen happened. The Franklins have spread their social media campaign to us.”

“Social media campaign?”

“Usual crack when gangsters fall out these days—such an’ such is a nonce this, so and so is a grass that.”

“So, why are you bothered if it’s the usual crack? Why is it keeping you up?”

“It’s not keeping me up because it’s getting to me emotionally. It’s keeping me up cos I have the software to tell the social media platforms so they block them, but I have to infiltrate these profiles and hide the comments until they do. And I have been shutting some of them down. There are loads of them, though, and more keep popping up. A bit like a game of ‘Whack-a-Mole’. Getting on top of it now.”

“I see. And if enough mud gets thrown, then some of it sticks?”

“Exactly. Plus, Tom never wanted us to be known. He’s always said that.”

“And are we?”

The younger cousin rubbed his stubble and answered, “Nah, not really. I have seen nothing on the net about how much we control and the investments we own. There were a couple on the dark web, but I’ve managed to contain them. And I can’t believe Connor’s name isn’t mentioned, ’specially as he and Tom were in the dock together for battering those bouncers that time.”

“What about the video of them doing it? Thought that spread like wildfire?”

“It did,” said Charlie with a crease on his forehead. “But it’s disappeared, and I can’t tell how. Connor must have a digital guardian angel watching over him.”

Dan looked at Charlie. “Really?”

“Seems to. We don’t ask him, though—that was the arrangement he made with Tom when he came back to Leeds. Connor can drop everything at a moment’s notice, go dark, and the family can’t contact him until he’s back. And we’re not allowed to ask where he’s been. It’s been like that for a few years, as you know.”

“Bet you’ve thought of using your cyber skills to pry, haven’t you?”

Charlie chuckled, “Yeh. But the thought of having to explain myself to him stops me. I am not that much of a risk taker.”

Though rougher around the edges than Dan, the underworld’s action did not stimulate him or Charlie the same as the others.

Dan loved business, specifically the cause and effect of actions on sums of money, of anticipating investment vehicles, how the markets always told the truth in the end and how money helped catalyse ideas and creativity.

“Why do you love computers so much?” asked Dan.

“Loads, really. Suppose one part of it is being another person—like a more powerful being. Do you remember those old eighties Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle DVDs at Gran and Grandad’s they used to chuck on when they couldn’t be arsed entertaining us anymore?”

“Yeh, always ended in a ninja-kicking fight between us all.”

Charlie smiled. “Yeh, well, there was that character called Krang.”

“Oh, yeh. That brain with arms inside a giant android body.”

“That’s him. It was a human-shaped exo-suit. Sometimes, I think me at the computer is like Krang in that suit. Like they would be nothing without one another but put him in it, then he was a super villain.”

“You think you’re a villain?”

“No. I mean, maybe I am, but I don’t think so. I mean, if you know what you’re doing, you can be more powerful with a computer than you would be in ‘real life’,” said Charlie, using his fingers to air quote ‘real life’.

“Never thought about it like that.”

“And you’ll never stop learning. Plus, I mean, I am not completely soft like—not like you,” smiled Charlie without malice. “But I am not like Connor, Tom or Luke. I couldn’t be an asset to the family without this. I’d be a messenger, and that’s it.”

Dan felt his stomach expand at his brother’s name. “Is there news from Ireland?”

“He’s alive and alright—been using his card and has paged me a couple of times. That’s all I know. You know everything is on a need-to-know basis.”

Dan sighed. “I don’t know why he has to be there in the first place, to be honest.”

“It’s so they don’t think they can hit us in our hometown without reprisals.”

“They are massive compared to us. Do you—”

“Which is why we have to use our greater manoeuvrability.”

“No disrespect, Charlie, but those sound like Connor’s words—and it’s him who should be in Ireland, not my brother.”

“Dan, I know you’re upset. But you know full well Connor is in Spain because extracting Branch might have been beyond Luke.”

Dan took a breath. “You’re right. It’s my nerves talking. You got to remember he’s still my little brother—even though he’s probably been able to have me in a fight since he was six!”

They chuckled, and Dan continued, “And it wasn’t that long ago when people would tell me that Luke was a wild child, that he was reckless—the same as he’s always been.”

“Well, all I can say is Luke isn’t the man from two years ago, let alone from when you left for London.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you think Luke is ready for this?”

Charlie’s eyes turned to his. “All I can tell you is, I don’t think he’s not ready. How could I know? But we are at war, Dan, and like you said, we don’t have their resources. We’ve got to take risks, or else not only are we all fucked, but everyone in our entire family is and everyone who’s ever been linked to us. They are worse than fucking animals. An animal does what it needs to do to survive—these are doing it because they are evil cunts with power.”

“So, we don’t know,” said Dan flatly.

“Remember what Uncle Mike used to say about boxers when they win their first world titles?”

“It’s either the making or breaking of them. It either goes to their head or satisfies them and sends them on the downslope. Or it raises their confidence. Gives them a fierce will to defend it—and makes them better.”

“Exactly,” said Charlie. “We aren’t going to know until this is all over.”

27

Luke Ryder sat in the driver’s seat of the Dacia Duster, looking out the downed window. The evening had simmered the sky to dark blue, and the Halfpenny Bridge, and its reflection in the River Liffey, formed an oval that reminded him of a shark’s jaws.

He took out his phone and dialled.

After five rings, the voice came on the line with a “Yeh?”

“Don’t fucking yeh me!” said Luke with indignation slicing his voice. “Your lack of professional intelligence almost got me killed.”

“Tell me what happened?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yeh.”

“Don’t say you are when you’re not. And don’t be thinking you know who you can and can’t trust now cos—”

“Am on my own.”

“Good. Cos there is a rat. Think back to who you have told—which shouldn’t be many people if you’re as smart as your uncle Eddie says…”

“What is it?”

“Holy fuck, I should have thought of it. You and your uncle set us up, didn’t you?”

“Now, hold on. If I wanted you dead, I’d have killed you in the office during that time. I wouldn’t have arranged something so complicated, would I?”

“But there was only you and him who knew? What are you telling me? Or not telling me?”

Luke listened to the far-off voices and distant cars as he waited.

“My uncle…my uncle might have made a deal with the Franklins. If he hands you and your family over, then the war is over.”

Luke took his time to answer. “You know this for sure? Cos that’s something dangerous to be gobbing off about without proof.”

“I am informed by people I trust. Besides, did you tell him where the meeting would be and where?”

Luke lied, “Yes.”

“Then there you go,” said Liam. “How did you survive it?”

“I am not going to discuss that on the phone. Let’s just say my partner knows more about these things than I do.”

“If we meet, then it has to be just you and I.”

“Agreed, but I need to know you aren’t going to be telling anyone about our meeting. If you’re nervous, you can pick the place and time, but there better not be anyone else there.”

“There won’t be. I’ll call you soon when I’ve figured this out.”

The call ended, and Luke turned to Eddie O’Neil, sitting in the passenger seat. “Think he bought it?”

“Probably,” said O’Neil quietly. “But I can’t be sure of much these days.”

Oshain, sitting in the back, added, “You reckon this plan is going to work, Luke?”

“We don’t have much choice now, do we?”

Eddie turned to him, blinking, “I’ll help you, but I can’t be there for…you know.”

Luke stared back. “Even after everything he’s done?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” said Luke. “If you warn him of the plan, Connor won’t let you live while he is alive.”

Connor drove the silver Peugeot 106, hastily stolen a few hours ago.

He took in the scenery of the parque natural sierra de baza and how it reminded him of the backdrop to Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns starring Clint Eastwood, films he had first seen as a boy with his grandad.

He doubted the original family patriarch—Frank Ryder—could have envisioned where it would all lead when he first started putting a protective wing over a few public houses in exchange for free drinks.

And he knew—or at least thought he did— his grandad wouldn’t have gone down the road, knowing it would lead to the death of three of his sons.

Connor remembered when his grandad entered palliative care, calling him every day to hear his voice to gain another story to absorb more of him, knowing he wouldn’t be able to in the not-so-distant future. However, the fatigue was obvious in the old man’s speech, which set Connor on the mourning process, despite the family’s patriarch staying alive for a few more months.

He hadn’t had the opportunity to do that with his dad. And he still missed them, despite the grief subsiding.

Much later, Connor remembered reassuring his gran he would get the family out of the crime business, only to be astounded by her reply, “That was your dad’s problem. Thinking he could get the family out. That’s when he took his eye off the ball—started dreaming of a life of legitimate businesses, of a family of straight-goers. And that’s what killed him.”

And she implored Connor not to do the same—instead, to embrace the outlaw business more fully and deeply. And to enact revenge on their enemies as a warning to others.

He had thought, and read, about the passing down of generational pain. His stomach clenched in thinking of his son, Jackson. Then he felt resentment—towards Grace and his gran for not keeping him away from the family. The knowledge that the two women just wanted Jackson to have more family members to love him cooled his angst, as it always did. The same worry he got when thinking of Rayella. The sister of his deceased best friend was now sixteen.

Andrew’s snore—mercifully, just the one—broke his stream of thought. The accountant had been aghast at the suggestion that he would be able to sleep when Connor had suggested it.

However, the Chameleon Project agent had explained that there wouldn’t be anything he could do awake, that sleep would be a temporary escape from his fear, and if he couldn’t get to sleep by closing his eyes for a mere five minutes, he would be free to stay awake.

His guess that the adrenal fatigue would wash over the Etonian proved correct as Connor observed the ‘catching flies’ expression soon afterwards.

He had decided to take this route, heading southeast through Spain instead of north, as he anticipated the FOC might expect him to escape back to the UK somehow.

He realised now that assassinating Dion might not end the war. If Lina Van had orchestrated the evil bloodshed, then it might carry on indefinitely.

However, he had the crowning jewel to their business in his possession. He had begun to like Andrew Branch, despite their marked differences in background and motivation.

Still, everyone had priorities.

Liam O’Neil felt a lightness about him he hadn’t felt in months.

He walked out into the evening air, with the blue door of the ‘Oh Mai Mai Massage Parlour’ on the Dublin Quays closing behind him. He always received ‘favours’ there even though most customers were not after a slew of Trip Advisor reviews.

Passing a long row of turquoise labelled renta-bicycles, the smell of the River Liffey, and the artistically graffitied outhouse, he knew this sense of buoyancy had little to do with the deep tissue massage and cumming in the oriental girl’s mouth.

Soon, he would no longer have to keep up the charade of keeping his head down around Dublin.

He’d been in contact with the Franklins since it had first begun. He didn’t know what his uncle was thinking, not trying harder for peace.

The loose arrangement between the Franklins and the O’Neils had been that the FOC imported the drugs, and the O’Neils distributed them. There had been rumblings amongst the O’Neils that this arrangement made them more susceptible to the Garda.

To Liam, that was a matter of course. Distribution always carried the same risk, and they had more or less admitted to this as they granted him more power and access.

However, his uncle had told him he had discovered the FOC’s deal with the local Dublin Garda—they fed O’Neils to them in exchange for the freedom of movement.

Despite acting on the contrary, Liam believed it to be true immediately.

And he didn’t care.

It had been due to this power and access that he remained untouched. And Liam believed Dion Franklin knew better than to try to shop him to the Garda—the things he knew could bring the FOC down.

His uncle put far too high a premium on family loyalty, which Liam found strange; were they going to be any more useful to you just because they shared the same name? A person had no choice in what sort of person their mum or aunt gave birth to. He noticed a lot of lads using the word ‘brother’, when talking to mates, and how, to him, a ‘brother’ was just a person the rest of the family forced you to speak to as not to make it awkward at weddings, funerals, and christenings.

However, his uncle had a different philosophy, which was why he had warned him of the ambush Luke Ryder was attempting to lure him into. The Yorkshireman would have no idea he was about to walk into his death.

Of course, Dion had used him as an undercover agent against members of the O’Neil family. Liam had protested, but in truth, this had been to extract more money, and so successful was he in doing so that his off-shore bank account had millions in it.

The agreement had been that Liam would take over as the family’s patriarch. When asked why he couldn’t simply lure his uncle into an ambush, he had been sent a link on his secure phone’s messenger.

The link opened to a scene of the television series ‘Peaky Blinders’ where Mafioso Luca Changretta explains to Thomas Shelby that leaving killing him until last will hurt him the most, as he is forced to experience the murder of his family.

When he had asked just how many would be enough, he had been told unceremoniously to shut the fuck up unless he wanted the remainder of his family—civilian and criminal—to know of his complicity.

But they did pay him, so he complied.

And Liam knew they had recruited Seán, but he wasn’t sure Seán didn’t know they had recruited Liam.

When he arrived back in Dublin with a face like Harvey Dent, screaming about vengeance, Liam knew he’d have to act. There would be no telling who Seán would blab to—and it would have reached their Uncle Eddie’s ears.

It had surprised Liam how little guilt he took in shooting dead his younger cousin. It pissed him off more that he had to dump the vest-weighted body off Kilcoole Beach.

His thought stream diverted when he passed a group of men who seemed to be staring and whispering amongst themselves. He knew they’d be asking themselves if it was him and how he would dare walk the streets with a FOC contract on his head.

And he revelled in the attention—and if his uncle, apparently some oracle, did not suspect his duplicity, then the Dublin public wouldn’t either. They would just think he was a ballsy bastard.

He cut right and passed the St Mary of Angels church. He remembered when his Uncle Eddie first took his ten-year-old self there for Mass. They had arrived early, and Liam had admired the light grey limestone, the spires, and the statue of the Virgin Mary flanked by those of Saint Francis and Saint Claire looking down from under canopies. A white marble statue of the crucifixion stood to the right of the arching entrance. He remembered his uncle had told him the architect didn’t even live to see it completed—and how being told reinforced in him that you needed to get what you could when you could.

Liam crossed the road to follow the red brick houses leading to Church Terrace.

He jumped at the roar of the engine behind him. He glanced at the white van before it hit him like a giant’s fist.

Spun into the air, two more blows struck him, his landing on the pavement and the street bollard crushing him to a stop.

The van’s doors flew open like wings as men masked in balaclavas shot out like bats.

He could scarcely move to resist the clamping hands elevating his pain-stricken body into the air.

As two of the men carried him, another whipped plastic zip ties over his wrists and ankles.

He barely made out the pedestrians speed-walking past with their eyes rooted to the floor before being thrown into the back of the van.

The guy who zip-tied his ankles and wrists got in with him.

He heard the sticky tear before rough fingers shunted his chin up, snapping his jaws shut and the silver duct tape clamp wrapped around his lips.

Only then did the figure peel off his balaclava to reveal himself as his Uncle Eddie.

“Jesus Christ himself can’t help you now, Liam.”

28

The young Dubliner kept touching the acid bottle with his elbow. They’d collared him after Sunday League football and given him a burner phone and five-thousand euros in a bag. They promised him the second half once he had completed the mission.

And they had always paid up what they promised, ever since he carried out his first beating for them, receiving a brand new Moncler jacket, all the way to the ten thousand euros he got for shooting Geoffrey Connelly.

He hopped on the ferry to Liverpool and spent the ride over on a car sales app, looking at what a deposit of ten thousand euros could buy.

Once he landed in Liverpool, his phone rang, and he was told to go to the car park, get into the blue 09 plate Renault Megane and that his instructions were in the glove compartment.

And the voice instructed him to snap the SIM card, throw the parts out at different intervals on his journey, and use the SIM card in the glove compartment.

He felt very spy-like until he read the instructions on a file with the new SIM.

He was to squirt the bottle of acid into the face of the pretty ginger woman in the phone’s image file. And the instructions told him not to worry about harming her child—if it happened, then it happened.

There were details on her movements, with the text recommending attacking her in Roundhay Park in Leeds around ten o’clock in the morning.

You didn’t say ‘No’ to the Franklins, especially not after taking their money.

And now here, his nerves began to pummel him as he caught sight of her at a distance, pushing a pram.

He pulled up his COVID mask and pulled down his baseball cap.

He breathed hard, his breath pluming out of the fabric as she approached.

A Hi-Vis vest using a kind of grabber stick now stood as the only person between him and his victim. A man in his late twenties walked behind the pram-pushing ginger, but although he looked fit, the Irishman had chosen his ambush site well—he would immediately cut through the forest to his left. He had his trainers on and a head start and had already checked out the route he would go.

He began to unzip his jacket slowly—this was it.

Three steps, and he would be past the litter picker. Four more, and she would be at the correct distance for him to unscrew the cap and squirt it in her face.

One, two, three, past litter man, one, two—

The woman turned around as the man behind her said something to her.

He felt the impact a second before the pain exploded at the base of his neck and before bolting his body rigid.

As the ground began to rise to hit him, a pair of strong hands gripped him under the arms to prevent his fall.

Grace had felt a sense of unease as the masked, baseball cap-wearing youth hip-thrust off the wall to approach her.

She quietened her nerves on looking behind, realising it would take a very brazen youth to mug her in front of two immediate witnesses.

Still, his wide-pupiled eyes seemed to burn a hole into her forehead.

The voice behind her made her jump, “Hey, love, does this belong to your little guy or girl?”

She spun around to see a tall, sandy-haired man holding an orange, Zog the Dragon fluffy toy.

Confusion briefly creased her forehead; Jackson owned no such toy.

The man’s mouth fell open, and he ran past her, shoving the toy into her arms.

When her gaze followed him, she saw the litter man attending to the youth she had felt threatened by.

The man who had handed her the toy reached him, and she heard him say, “He’s having an epileptic fit. Just clear anything out of the way so he doesn’t harm himself.”

The boy stopped fitting as she got to him.

“I am a health professional,” she said. “Can I help?”

“No, on you go. He’ll be OK and back on his daps before we know it,” said the litter man in a Welsh accent.

Grace felt relieved at the confident reply. It meant she could walk away without guilt.

She held out the Zog dragon. “This isn’t mine.”

The taller man waved her away. “It is now.”

Ciara had fought to keep her nerves from rising from the sea of her stomach as she watched Grace Lewis push the pram through The Castle of Roundhay Park.

To shadow a suspected terrorist or a career criminal effectively took at least fourteen personnel rotating and changing their appearances between shifts.

Thankfully, with Grace being a civilian, they could tail her, and even though the two women had met before, the dark wig and baseball cap she now wore would be enough of a disguise so as not to draw her eye, especially as Ciara kept well back.

She did not yet know how Bruce knew Grace was the target, and she had not pressed him. It had taken her aback to discover Connor seemingly had a son, but she pushed it from her mind for now.

Prand had walked far ahead of Ciara but behind Grace, with Anderson ahead of the beautiful redhead, imitating a litter picker.

Roundhay Park covered over seven hundred acres of gardens, lakes, parkland and woods, attracting almost a million visits a year, so Ciara experienced a relieved delight when the operation went off without a hitch.

Prand had skilfully distracted Grace as Anderson deftly tazed the Dublin youth.

They couldn’t hand the youth over to the police—which meant they would have to interrogate him themselves.

Connor heard Branch stir awake.

“How far are we?” asked Branch.

“About twenty minutes.”

Now in Holland, twenty-four hours earlier, Connor had contacted Charlie, who used his cyber magic to have a car waiting for him in Toulouse. Although not registered under Connor’s name, he had been designated to collect the fourteen-year-old black Alfa Romeo 156.

To save time, he had allowed Andrew to drive some of the way while he snatched cat naps. It had taken them just over forty-eight hours.

Charlie had assured him that nothing had come on the Spanish news about his kidnap—and the massacre of FOC foot soldiers.

Still, he couldn’t be sure law enforcement was not keeping it under wraps or hadn’t issued a European arrest warrant.

“Thank you for this,” said Branch with seeming sincerity.

“Thank you for what? Kidnapping you so I can hit my enemy harder?”

Branch shook his head. “For allowing me to fight back.”

Connor nodded. “And then what will you do afterwards?”

“Honestly?” Branch sighed. “Kill myself.”

“You’ve given up any hope?”

“There is no cure. All the doctors can do is extend my life. A year perhaps, maybe eighteen months. And for what? I have no children, no true friends, and am estranged from my family. I want to do what I can to right wrongs, and then I will shuffle off this mortal coil.”

Connor said nothing, and they sat in silence until he could see the rows of two-storey solar panel-roofed buildings in the distance.

“It’s over there.”

The road skirted the compound on its right-hand side, with the trio of runways to its left.

He breathed slow and deep as they arrived at the gate and wound the window down as instructed.

If this was to be an ambush, he had little means to escape—he had separated the guns he had used into their components and dumped them after a thorough wipedown into different rivers or lakes en route.

His heart soared as Dan and Charlie appeared out of the stilted cabin and began to walk down the steps. He scrutinised their faces for signs of fear but couldn’t see any.

Connor got out of the car and hugged Charlie, who reached him first. He stuck his arm out to invite his more reserved cousin into the embrace. He surprised himself at the strength of his feelings at seeing them again.

The huddle broke, and Connor asked, “Any news from Luke and Bambi?”

“They are alive. That’s all we know at the moment,” answered Charlie.

“What’s the plan, then?” asked Dan, jutting his chin towards Andrew Branch, still in the car.

“Whatever he knows, we’ll know. He’ll need your help to rinse as many of the FOC’s accounts as possible. I think Dion Franklin has leaned on him more since his brother’s demise.”

Dan exclaimed, “Jesus! Connor, if we do this, we’ll be sentencing him and his family to death.”

Connor shook his head. “His only real family was his dad, who died recently.”

“What about him?”

“He knew the risks when he decided to get involved—like we all do…don’t we?”

The two men nodded—though Dan a little more slowly than Charlie.

“When we seeing Tom?”

“We can’t risk seeing him until this is over.”

“But he’s right down the roa—”

“I know. But if the wrong person sees us or remembers us after the fact, then all we would have done is draw attention to him—in the most vulnerable state he could be in.”

They nodded at him, and Dan asked, “What happens to this Andrew Branch character after he’s finished helping us?”

Connor said, “I might have another use for him after that.”

Lina Van kept her expression neutral as Dion began smashing ornaments off the mantlepiece.

Fernando and ‘the baby eater’ sat at a ninety-degree angle on the opulent sofas. They, too, shared an expression of nonchalance, which she had told them to adopt.

Dion screamed, “They have my fookin’ accountant. No—not my accountant, my fookin’ money. Do you know what happens if I can’t pay people? I am fooked.”

“We still have strategies to play.”

“Oh, because your last idea went so well, didn’t it?”

“I correctly guessed they were hiding in the forest.”

“And then what happened? You sent my guys out with the Colombian A-Team. Coincidence that only my guys got killed?”

“They rushed in against Fernando’s orders. They got themselves killed. I told you it was a mistake to send them.”

“Told me? Told me? You don’t tell me fook all you daft fookin’ wench. You give advice and dat’s all. Unless you have forgotten who is in charge?”

She smiled. “What makes a person in charge?”

“What the fook are you talking about?”

“What makes a person in charge of others?”

“It’s power,” he sneered. “Everyone knows dat.”

“And where does your power come from?”

“It come from…from…,” he stuttered before injecting some conviction in his voice. “The name. I am the name.”

“The name used to be underpinned by the money this business could generate. And the violence your men could inflict. Now, both are dwindled.”

“I still have enough of both,” he bellowed.

“You don’t have enough. But do not be troubled. We are your partners now.”

“What the fook you mean, partners? I fook you, and I let them work for me. Dat’s it.”

She continued like she had not heard him. “But you do have the name. A name—a brand—means a lot. So we will keep the name under the Franklin Organised Crime group.”

Dion rushed towards her. Fernando performed a cross between a kick and a sweep to take the Irishman’s ankle from beneath him.

“Fred!” screamed Dion, and Fernando stood on his left arm and the ‘Baby Eater’ on his right, pinning him to the floor, with a third kneeling on the legs.

Lina strode over to the holdall, picked it up, and stood astride Dion. She unzipped the bag and poured two pints of blood out before reaching in and pulling out Fred’s head.

Dion stilled his face a mask of horror.

“Fred will not be coming to the rescue, Dion. But do not fear. Fernando will go to Holland, and we will get our accountant back.”

Dion, flicking his head side-to-side in a futile attempt to rid it of the blood, rasped, “How do you know he’s in Holland?”

“Can you not remember what your contact told us? Somewhere in Holland, the head of Ryder family lies in a hospital. Your contact claims not to know which hospital—but the Dutch will.”

“And you think they are going to tell you.”

She smiled, “We will…what is the film you like so much? Oh yes, we will ‘make him an offer they can’t refuse’.”

Her compatriots sniggered, and she continued, “Fernando and his men will take an Irishman to help with translations. You can choose.”

Lina could still see the fury in his eyes.

And fear.

Luke sat across from the hooded Liam, wondering how he had come to be conducting an interrogation.

The old barn’s stone floor smelled of hay and sawdust despite being spotlessly clean.

Eddie O’Neil’s respect towards him seemed to have grown since it had been Luke’s idea for Eddie to warn his nephew he was stepping into an ambush, only to kidnap him en route.

Though Eddie had aided him and Oshain in the kidnap, he had vehemently refused to conduct the interrogation himself.

Instead, he insisted on isolating his nephew for a couple of days in the farmhouse, with just water and the amenity of a toilet. The sixty-eight-year-old had calmed Luke’s haste to ‘soften’ Liam up physically.

During that time, Eddie O’Neil rigorously briefed him on how to conduct an interrogation.

Luke nodded to Oshain, who loosened and then removed the hood.

The Irishman’s face looked a little haggard, and his hair matted, but he still seemed spirited enough.

After a few moments, Luke asked, “What’s your full name?”

“You know what my fucking name is.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Donald Duck. Now—UMMMPPPPHHH.”

After a few seconds, Oshain took the taser off the back of his neck.

“What’s your full name?” asked Luke in the same tone.

“Liam Patrick O’Neil, for fucksake!”

“What’s your date of birth?”

“You thinking about getting me a present?” sneered the O’Neil.

“What’s your date of birth?”

“Its…its…UMMMPPPHHHH.”

Once Oshain removed the taser, Luke asked, “What’s your date of birth?”

“The first of December, nineteen-ninety-one.”

“What’s your mum’s maiden name?”

“O’Hare.”

Luke asked a series of these questions, observing and memorising the facial expressions, the time between the delivery of the question and the answer, the tone of voice and body language. This established the interviewee’s truth-telling style.

“How do you make contact with the Franklins?”

A pause, and then, “What the fuck you talking about?”

He flinched as he said it, presumably in anticipation of another tasering. Instead, Luke continued with, “We found your phone, Liam. All the messages. Including the one where you ask for law enforcement to be kept away from the metals warehouse for our ‘meeting’.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Oh,” said Luke. “Not, ‘Fuck off, it doesn’t exist’, but ‘Where did you find it?’”

“I said that because I know you can’t answer, you gom,” announced Liam, with what sounded to Luke like artificial confidence.

“We found it behind the grandfather clock in the spare room at your Aunt Angela’s. Well, Eddie did—he thought it was strange you would go from hardly seeing her to being the world’s most attentive nephew. And he couldn’t understand why you had a free pass to walk the streets of Dublin. Don’t think he wanted to believe it. But he couldn’t deny it when he found the phone, could he?”

“Where is he then?”

“He’s near. But he doesn’t want to do this. You’re still his nephew. I don’t know him very well, but I know this has cut him deep.”

“You’re right; you don’t know him. He could have avoided all of this if he’d negotiated.”

“I thought he already had.”

“I mean, after a while. Dion just wanted to make a point, that’s all. When I told my uncle, he said, “You can’t trust those people”.”

“Then when did you start working against Eddie?”

The former IRA man had briefed Luke to avoid the words ‘Uncle’ or ‘Family’ when referring to his informing. The more Luke could insinuate Eddie O’Neil was bad, the more likely Liam would confess.

“What do you mean, start working against him?”

“You know what I mean.”

Luke jutted his chin at Oshain, and Liam’s voltage-induced screams echoed around the room.

Once he had recovered, he rasped, “It wasn’t like that at first. I just told them bullshit stuff at first—like little bits. Then they’d pay me.”

“And you used that money to help the family out?” said Luke, feeding him untruths of honour.

Liam jumped at the offerings. “Exactly. We were—are—losing a shit ton of money. I was just doing what I could to get some back.”

“So, we know the first hits were against O’Neils, who had been siphoning from the family’s bottom line and doing dirty deals. Suppose it was clever of you to have the Franklins do the dirty work.”

Luke knew no such thing, but Liam jumped out of the water for the hook. “Exactly, exactly. They had it coming anyway.”

“Did Lorna have it coming?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I had nothing to do with that.”

Luke looked over Liam’s shoulder. “Don’t take it off until I say. If he dies, then he dies.”

Watching Liam convulse, Luke held his nerve, remembering Eddie’s words. “The voltage can’t kill him. You can hold it on for a while.”

After thirty seconds, the Ryder gestured for the removal of the taser.

Liam’s head flopped down and hung as a lace of drool broke off.

Luke said, “We got the old data, so stop lying. But what we don’t know is, did you know what they were going to do to her?”

Seal-like snorts punctuated Liam’s reply, “I swear I didn’t know. I thought they would use her to bring my uncle out into the open. I never thought they’d burn her.”

“Why couldn’t you bring him out into the open? Just request a meet?”

“Cos when we went to war, my uncle insisted on digital communication.”

Luke nodded and asked, “So after they did, why did you still feed them information?”

“Because…because…,” Liam stuttered and added, “they said they’d tell everyone I supplied them the information. And….and….,”

“And they began to pay you obscene amounts of money.”

The opening and closing of O’Neil’s mouth was as good as an admission.

“We need the names of your contacts.”

“Names?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know any names. I’ve got three numbers. I can only guess.”

“Go on.”

Liam took a few deep breaths. “One belongs to the FOC, but I can’t tell if it’s Dion or someone close to him. I reckon it might be Dion himself—he’s a twitchy fucker now. One is someone high here in the Garda. He’s the contact I in…inform if I know there is a crime going down with someone the FOC wants to pinch.”

After a moment, Luke said, “Don’t keep me in suspense. Who’s the third?”

Luke thought he saw a smile flicker before Liam replied, “It’s one of yours. Someone close to you knows all about what you’ve got going on in Leeds.”

Luke felt his diaphragm expand. “If that was true, then why wouldn’t that contact just get in touch with the FOC directly?”

“I reckon it’s because the Franklins figure if whoever it is gets caught, then youse lot could track the phone.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would they give a fuck if we know whose phone it comes from? It’s not as if we don’t know where they are.”

“Nah, your guy didn’t want to send directly. He sends the information to someone who sends it to me, and I send it on.”

“Why would he go around the houses like that?”

“I reckon it’s because if his phone is checked, he can just say he’s calling someone like a mate, a company he’s worked at, or anything that doesn’t lead back to Spain or Ireland.”

Luke felt his heartbeat.

“Where does the number lead back to?”

“How am I meant to know?”

Luke nodded his acceptance of the answer before asking, “So you never speak. It’s all done by message?”

“Yeh.”

“What about security?”

Liam’s lips parted for a few moments. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Luke made a show of looking at Oshain.

“My initials backwards at the start of messages.”

“And they do the same?”

“I guess.”

“What is the return sign-off?”

“TA.”

Luke briefly racked his mind. “Whom did you use to hit our nightclub?”

“It was the Franklin guys. I swear I didn’t know they would acid attack the boss man’s wife, the manageress or whatever her name was.”

Luke kept his face from twitching and stared back as his mind clawed for the best thing to say.

“How did you find out? We’ve suppressed that.”

“I have a few back-channel contacts,” he said with what Luke sounded like a hint of pride.

“I thought all these James Bond codes and secret phones were to keep things hush.”

“Yeh, before it happens,” said Liam with arrogance creeping back into tone. “But afterwards, everyone knows, don’t they?”

“Take it you’ve seen the pictures, then?”

Liam nodded solemnly. “So sad. They say she some Beor before they fucked up her face. Like I said, I didn’t know they were gonna do that to the poor mare.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me that can help us?”

“Like what?”

“Like, do you know anything that can help us?”

“Nah. The only power I had with ’em was through the phone. And you have it now.”

Luke nodded. “And we could just pretend to be you now, can’t we.”

He watched the arrogance slip from Liam’s expression. “Err, suppose.”

Luke smiled at him until Liam asked, “What?”

“You couldn’t have seen pictures because Bambi here took the acid on his arm,” said Luke.

With that, Oshain came around and stood before the Irishman. He slowly slid up the sleeve of his button-down shirt to reveal his hideously scarred arm.

It reminded Luke of a scene from ‘Terminator 2’ when the Terminator revealed his exoskeleton arm to Miles Dyson.

“We didn’t even know the acid was meant for her—but you did. Not surprised you lied, though; I would have done the same if I was in your position.”

“Nah. I just thought it had gone ahead cos they said it was nailed on to happen,” said an animated Liam, voice laced with desperation.

“Then why did you say you had seen the pictures?”

Liam dry-retched for words, but Luke cut him off. “So you provide the enemies of your family intelligence so they can acid-burn girls. We get the picture. Except, it’s not just that—we’ve seen the messages of you instructing your cousin, Seán, to burn Lorna, a member of your family. Fuck knows where Seán is now.”

Liam sneered, “She wasn’t a member of my family. She was a member of Uncle Eddie’s wife’s family. She isn’t blood.”

“And Seán?”

“Fuck should I know? Franklins probably ’ad him.”

Luke stood and walked around Liam to intimidate and hide his shaking.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to look into Liam’s eyes.

Oshain looked at him and gestured to himself.

Luke shook his head—he knew how it felt to murder and did not wish to put that on another man.

He took out a Damascus steel blade with a horn handle.

He remembered watching a film where a hitman played by James Gandolfini described how feelings of remorse lessened with each murder you committed.

So, it now surprised him that a nervous reticence threatened to freeze him. He remembered his first time and how justified he felt in slaying the Turkish gangster who’d had his brother’s fiancé killed.

He remembered the nightmares had not begun until weeks later. And then, after that, flashbacks would be triggered, accompanied by anxiety. Counselling wasn’t an option—how could a therapist help him if Luke couldn’t tell the truth about what was bothering him? He had contemplated asking Connor, who had once described PTSD as being sometimes caused by “The eyes seeing more than the soul can take”.

Luke had planned on seeking his advice after they had watched ‘Once Upon a Time in Hollywood’. However, after observing his favourite cousin’s hysterics at the gruesomely bloody finale, Luke decided not to.

He didn’t know what might have happened if Tom hadn’t collared him the day after. Might he have snapped out of it, or would he have kept descending?

He felt an overwhelming fear about his eldest cousin’s well-being.

Then came the image of the British model Katie Piper’s burnt features—which morphed in his mind onto Cara’s seared face.

Then hate knotted his intestines, and he walked around to face Liam.

He spat the question. “How the fuck could you do that to your fucking family?”

“Fuckin’ told you, haven’t I? They were—”

The first bladed blow split the Adam’s apple as it punched right through the Irishman’s throat. The following five thump-stabbed the stomach as the room filled with the smell of iron and excrement.

Even in his frenzied attack, Luke was aware not to mark the face—A promise he made to Eddie O’Neil.

Luke stepped back out of his murderous rage, his face twisting in revulsion at the scene before him. The smell hit him harder than the macabre vision of the upright corpse slumped, wearing a bib of gore with links of bloody sausages piled on his lap.

The back of Luke’s hand flew to his mouth as Oshain doubled over and vomited.

After several heaves, he straightened and announced, “That’s fucking rank.”

“Yeh…sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Luke,” said Oshain, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That cunt was the lowest of the low.”

“I know. Could have just left it at one stab, though.”

“Yeh, well, you were very upset.”

Luke looked at Oshain, and for a reason he couldn’t explain, they began to laugh hysterically.

29

Rayen sat across from Anne De Jager at her grey wood corner desk.

Behind her hung a portrait of an Arabian woman whose beautiful eyes radiated from the exquisitely patterned hijab.

The drawn wooden slats revealed the warmth of the sunlight flowing through the trees of the grand Gelderland forest beyond.

“It is good to see you are well, Anne,” said Rayen sincerely in their native Dutch.

“I am glad,” she said as the hum of the chemical factory outside muffled through the door.

Beneath this first floor lay several others underground.

“I bear no ill will to your…not fully trusting me,” he said, knowing the likelihood that it was still the case.

“It is a tough time for everyone,” she answered flatly.

“And I am sorry you missed Raymond’s funeral. I know how much he meant to you.”

“That could not be helped.”

Rayen nodded. “All we can do is carry on his legacy—his ethos. The quality of the product is paramount.”

“Well, not quite. His aspiration was always the quality of the experience. You know he was always a hippy at heart.”

Rayen switched to English with an injected American accent. “You could have fooled me!”

She gave him a seemingly sincere smile before asking, “How is Connor Reed?”

“He has brought back an enemy asset for interrogation,” he replied, not wanting to elaborate on the accountant’s ambiguous status.

“No, how was he when you last spoke to him?”

Rayen shrugged. “The call was more…soldier-like. Told me what I needed to know and no more. You will know his mental state more than me.”

She cocked her head slightly. “He sometimes seemed a little sad. But most of the time…maybe…mentally stimulated.”

Rayen knew what she meant—it seemed the Englishman walked with heightened awareness.

The Dutchman also knew a shadow stood in the room now.

He looked into her eyes. “I will tell him, Anne.”

Despite the crinkle of the mouth, she replied, “Tell him what?”

“I am not a stupid man. I know Raymond wanted Connor to take over all of this. I do not understand why you have not told him yet?”

She shrugged languidly. “How do you know I haven’t?”

“Because he has never mentioned it.”

“That does not mean I haven’t.”

“Have you?”

“No.”

His shoulders imperceptibly relaxed. “Why?”

“Like you said—you are not a stupid man, and so you already know the answer.”

He smiled. “You wanted to know if I would tell him myself?”

“I do not think he would accept.”

“Not accept the control of many millions of euros?”

“Do you think he is a man ruled by money?”

“No,” said Rayen after thinking for a moment, “But what is he ruled by?”

The alert siren knifed her response and set off an adrenaline sparkler in his stomach.

Her hand shot to the computer, tapping the keyboard.

The wall screen came alive with rows of images showing the compound’s sentry positions.

Rayen estimated almost half had a man down in them. Blurs of camouflage overran some of the positions.

He snapped his head to Anne. “Initiate lockdown.”

Anne pressed the intercom and barked into the microphone.

She turned to him. “I will alert law enforcement.”

Rayen became aware in working for Raymond Van Deer Saar that the greatest outgoing of the operation was the paying of ‘the right people’ in events such as this.

Anne spun her chair around, her face ashen. “Lines are down.”

The blood withdrew from his face—communications could only be overridden internally.

They both snatched their mobile phones from their pockets, and her voice echoed what he could see. “Full signal but no service.”

“Stay here,” he commanded, unholstering his Glock 17M.

He had to make it to the electrical systems box room located opposite the factory floor.

Nearly a hundred workers at this plant—it only took one.

In the same instant he reached for the door handle, the door hit him in the face and chest, sprawling him onto his back.

An invisible hammer smashed his right shoulder, elbow, thigh and shin in tandem, turning gunshots into screaming agony.

The grip on the Glock slackened involuntarily.

A man once told him the pain of being shot might not materialise immediately unless the bullet shattered the bones.

Olive-skinned men poured into the room.

A large man stepped on his left wrist while the smallest, with a Jheri curl-type haircut, stepped on his right before removing his Glock.

Three others rushed past to grip Anne. Rayen craned his head to see her lack of resistance—What would be the point? he mused.

For the same reason, he didn’t protest her rough handling.

That changed as her scream came a microsecond after a dull thump. He craned his neck to one of the men holding a hammer over her now misshapen knee.

In Spanish-laced English, the Jheri curls asked, “Where is Thomas Ryder?”

“Do not tell him! Ray—arrrgghhhh.”

The hammer cut short Anne’s demand.

Mercifully, the same knee. He struggled with fitful futility against the boots pinning him.

His neck strained as he took in the scene of two men unfurling a body bag onto the floor as if it was a bedsheet, unzipping it and using her hair as an appendage—as well as a lung-expelling punch to her stomach—forcing her to lay down in it.

When she yelled, “They will kill us anyway,” they forced her hand flat to the floor as the hammer hovered over it.

“Stop!” Rayen barked.

A hand clamped over Anne’s mouth, muffling her protests.

“I will take you.”

“You will tell us.”

“You will not be able to get in without my presence.”

“Then we will beat you.”

“You can. But they will be suspicious if I am limping, have a broken face or smashed hands. Powerful people are invested in that hospital.”

The small man seemed to look into his eyebrows. “We keep her. If you try to be bad, we cut off her ears, nose, eye, feet and hands. Then make fire of her.”

“Yes, I understand.”

The man slowly removed his hand from Anne’s mouth, who said quietly to Rayen in English, “And then they will let us ride into the sunset.”

Connor sat outside on one of the several wicker chairs, looking at the lights of the airfield. The sound of the idling aircraft engines permeated the night air. He observed the runway’s lights and imagined them to be lasers from a Star Wars X-Wing. From this, his mind drifted to Luke—Skywalker and then Ryder.

He fought the urge to call his formerly wayward cousin.

A quote from Marcus Aurelius’s ‘Meditations’ sprang to his mind—‘You have the power over your mind—not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.’

Experience and training through his meditative practices had improved his ability to rein in his thoughts when situations sparked off negative emotions, improving his ability to observe the sensation as a separate entity from himself.

Still, the thoughts and the dread they brought intruded—more than he liked. He had allowed the inexperienced Luke to go into unfamiliar enemy territory with a man he did not fully trust as his guide. And his other cousin, the man who had held the family together through its most trying times, now lay in a strange hospital, hundreds of miles from home, without a loved one near him.

The bastard’s been spared all this worry, though—thought Connor.

Resting by his feet lay a heavy vest. He had made the call to Leonid Honchar, a boss within the Odessa Mafia and a business partner of the Ryder clan, back while Branch had slept in the car. Connor would have feigned a toilet break, but Branch hadn’t woken even when Connor left the car.

Now, as he looked at the vest, it reminded him of the body armour they had all worn back in Afghanistan. The thought occurred to him how two identical objects could perform very different purposes—A bit like people, he thought.

The patio door slid open behind him, and his cousins came and sat on either side of him—Dan on his left and Charlie on his right.

“How’s he been?”

“Don’t know. A bit hesitant at first,” answered Charlie. “Got going more as he warmed up. He’s sleeping now.”

“Any chance he’s doing some digital trickery to fuck us over?” asked Connor.

“Holy fuck, you think that’s possible?” exclaimed Dan.

“I don’t discount anything,” said Connor before looking at Charlie, who replied, “I don’t think so, but that’s why it’s been so slow cos I made him explain everything to me before we did it. He’s high-level—higher than me.”

“That’s the benefit of experience.”

“And a private education at Eton.”

Connor said, “An education in places like that is more about the contacts you make than the education you receive. And the proof you can stick at something hard. There isn’t anything you can learn there, information-wise, that you can’t get from books off the internet.”

“Yeh, I think we’ve all seen ‘Good Will Hunting’ Connor,” said Charlie.

Connor smiled at the playful jibe.

Dan asked, “What’s the plan?”

“No doubt they’ll be flapping now. We can use their desperation.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I am going to keep that close to my chest for the time being.”

“Fair enough.”

“You still don’t think we can negotiate with them?”

“No, that’ll be worse than the Munich Agreement.”

Connor thought of Luke again, as he knew he would have asked what the Munich Agreement was.

Charlie asked Connor, “What’s the vest for?”

“I’ll tell you if I have to use it.”

After a few moments, Dan sighed, “I can’t wait for this to be over.”

When Connor smiled, Charlie asked him, “What is it?”

“Wanting for one problem to be over is just another way of wishing your next to arrive faster.”

Rayen drove the white Audi A7 as his brain searched for a way out of the current predicament.

The Jheri curls, whom Rayen was now required to call ‘Boss’, sat diagonally behind him with a pistol resting on his lap. One of the ‘Boss’s’ henchmen sat next to him in the front passenger seat.

And Anne was in the grey Audi, behind with several men.

He and Anne might not have always seen eye-to-eye, but he liked and respected her.

However, his attempted protection of her was born more of the knowledge of her as a business asset.

She headed the science team regarding their pharmaceutical enterprises, for one. For another, how she blended flamboyance with professionalism and her ability to articulate complex ideas into simplicity meant she had closed almost every major deal Van Der Saar had wanted in the last decade.

Though Rayen didn’t blame her for not trusting him, he had planned on telling Connor Reed of Van Der Saar’s desire for him to take over. Though it hurt a little—Rayen had saved Raymond’s life more than once—he fully understood; if half of the Englishman’s exploits were true, then he was a very impressive man.

And Rayen liked him personally. Not only that, but Rayen also felt that Connor Reed would not take Van Der Saar’s posthumous offer—maybe if the old man had offered it in person, he might have been able to tempt him.

He spied the church spire indicating the hospital to be less than ten minutes out.

“I will have to go it alone.”

Boss chuckled. “You think I am a clown. You go, and police will come with guns.”

“You think I would risk her life to do that?”

“I do not know.”

“Look,” he said sharply, “I do not want to walk in with someone who cannot speak Dutch or even English very well. It looks suspicious.”

“You will make it all OK.”

Rayen, sensing he would only agitate rather than convince the South American, said, “Tell the car behind to drop back. We are nearly there.”

The man took out his mobile, and after a few moments, the Audi behind dropped back.

The subtle red and purple signs denoting the differing wards appeared seemingly from nowhere. Rayen’s heart beat harder as he snaked the car towards its designation.

He realised then he feared Connor Reed’s future reaction almost as much as the more immediate consequences should he fail to extract Thomas Ryder from the hospital.

He had made the staff aware he would be arriving but not with company.

He slid the car into one of the parking bays and turned to look at the boss.

“I will say you are here as my bodyguard and that I have left a driver in the car. Do not be waving around your gun. Comprende?”

“Claro.”—Clear.

The last update he’d had regarding Thomas Ryder’s condition had been that he had awoken two days previously in an expected state of disorientation. Rayen, adhering to Connor’s ‘need-to-know’ policy, did not inform the Englishman, deciding to wait until he was in a fit state to move him.

They got out of the car, and a flock of rose-ringed parakeets—green-feathered and red-nosed—squeaked disapprovingly from the trees at him.

Rayen skirted to the back, where they met an iron-haired man with character lines grooved into his forehead and around his mouth.

“Mister Esser,” said Rayen, unusually in English so as not to unnerve the boss, “I am sorry we are meeting like this.”

“What is this?”

“We have to move him. Now.”

The man stood back on his heels. “That is out of the question. We do not know yet if he still can walk.”

“We haven’t got time. People are coming to take him. People you don’t want here.”

“Then we must call the police.”

Rayen inwardly winced, even though he had anticipated this response.

“And what would you say to the police when they ask why you have a victim with gunshots and failed to report it?”

Peter Esser hissed, “Your side is to handle that. Have things fallen so quickly after Raymond’s passing?”

“Listen, we have—”

Boss snatched Esser’s blazer in the same instant he jammed a pistol into his throat.

He growled, “You do as we say, or I will kill six of your patients in their beds.”

Esser’s eyes iced with fear before changing to blazing anger when he flicked them towards Rayen’s.

The consultant eventually nodded, and Boss returned his gun before shooing him in.

Once inside, Rayen was reminded again of how much it resembled a grand hotel as opposed to a hospital.

Highly polished wood made up the floors, presumably to ease gurney travel, or else Rayen would have imagined a luxuriant carpet.

One of the nurses approached, and Esser said, “We have to move Thomas Ryder immediately.”

Her mouth opened in tandem with the confusion of her expression. But she said, “Yes, Doctor Esser.”

She skipped ahead of them, and Esser growled, “Please say you’ve brought a vehicle he can lay down in.”

“There is a van ready to be brought here.”

“Then bring it.”

Rayen glanced at the Boss, in whose hand appeared a mobile phone. He uttered several phrases in rapid Spanish with a couple of pauses before putting it away and indicating they continue with a jut of his chin.

Three pairs of feet tapped down the quiet evening corridors until they reached Thomas Ryder’s room.

Doctor Esser went first, followed by Rayen, who silently cursed—Fuck, he’s awake.

The nurse busied herself removing various tubes and the catheter.

Lines appeared on Tom’s forehead as he lifted his chin in a ‘what’s up’ gesture.

Rayen approached and looked into his eyes.

“We have got to get you out of here, Tom.”

Tom stared back for a few moments before nodding. “Alright. I haven’t tested my legs yet.”

“It is OK. We have a van.”

“Yeh, OK. Let me just test them,” he said, swinging his legs out.

As he did, all three men rushed him to put him back in the prone position.

Tom snatched Boss’s wrist, and a knife appeared in his hand with the blade pressed into the Boss’s throat.

Tom growled, “Rayen, get his gun.”

Rayen’s hand shot inside Boss’s jacket and pulled out his pistol.

It felt abnormally heavy, as did the weight resting on his heart and left lung.

He placed it on Tom’s temple. “They have Anne, Tom. I cannot replace her.”

“You mean her life is worth more to you than mine. And it should be.”

Only the sound of their collective breaths filled the silence. Then Tom took the knife off the smiling South American’s throat before, after a moment, handing it over.

Rayen braced for a violent reaction that did not come. Instead, Tom swung his legs back, lay down, and announced, “Alright. Away we go.”

The Hollander briefly wondered how Tom concealed a knife from the nurses while comatose before realising the nurse must have slipped it to him while awake.

He hoped that the South American did not realise that.

They wheeled him around, with Esser leading. They reached the automatic door, which parted to reveal the white van with its doors open and two olive-skinned men inside it. They wrestled the gurney inside.

Boss then turned to snatch the nurse by her arm and held the knife to her throat, freezing Rayen and Esser.

He growled, “She comes with me. If you call the police too soon, then I cut her head off.”

The terror shone in her eyes and Rayen subtly nodded, though his stomach wrenched.

He said quietly, “These guys do not want to kill anyone unless they have to. They are just taking you, so Doctor Esser does not call the police too fast. Do you understand?”

She nodded woodenly and followed him into the back.

The darkness surrounded them as the door closed.

The van’s engine started, and as it vibrated the floor beneath him, Rayen could not help but imagine that a timer of some kind had begun.

The van’s forward inertia shunted him onto the balls of his feet. Two of the guards leant against the back doors, staring.

Tom lay by his feet, and the nurse leaned against the side, hugging her knees.

Rayen’s mind began to run back through all his mistakes that led him here.

His failure to vet more thoroughly the new security officer who had not come up through the ranks. His failure to properly secure one of the major factories. His failure to properly protect Anne. Now the enemy clasped in their fist one of the leaders of an organisation that doubled as one of the Van Der Saar Penose’s best contracts, an innocent nurse and the most crucial member of his organisation.

The slowing and eventual stopping of the van interrupted his thought. The doors opened, and Rayen shivered despite the mild air.

The Boss appeared and barked phrases in Spanish. One of the guards pointed the SMG in his and Tom’s general direction as another snatched the nurse by the hair.

Dragged and then flung out, the two men restrained her in the standing position before the one behind clamped a hand over her mouth and pinched her nose.

Her muffled screams and their laughter attacked his ears as the one holding the gun jabbed it in his direction for emphasis.

Her teary eyes bulged as she shook and writhed in the four-handed vice. Finally, she stilled and slumped into their arms before being taken away.

30

Connor walked into the lounge area to see Charlie and Andrew Branch in an animated conversation around the computer screen.

Though Connor’s skills and interest in the cyber world had grown, he knew it took a certain kind of mind to immerse themselves in it.

And Charlie and Andrew shared this mindset. He smiled, thinking how two men from wildly different backgrounds could intensely bond over common ground.

Branch said, “Use the Hikvision hack.”

Charlie’s fingers tapped several times, and he exclaimed, “Fuck me, it worked. Didn’t think it would be that simple.”

“Always try the handle before kicking the door in,” said Branch.

Connor smiled—he used the phrase literally.

He had heard of the case back in 2017 when a key flaw in the Hikvision seven series was exposed; a “backdoor” command line of code in the system that granted admin-level access when exploited. The Hikvision hack was known to be code “12345” with a username of “admin”.

It seemed other password-protected entities, including dark web sites, had the same vulnerability.

“What you looking at?” asked Connor.

“Someone’s dark web account. Now we are on his Evolution Market history. It looks exactly like eBay, except people go on it to trade illegal goods and services anonymously,” said Charlie.

“Isn’t there a non-profit organisation called The Digital Citizens Alliance that tracks sites like that?” asked Connor.

When both men looked at him with raised eyebrows, he said, “That’s right, I am not a complete neophyte.”

“I am impressed,” said Andrew.

“What you shopping for, anyway?”

Charlie answered, “We are just looking. Found glass pipes for smoking meth ‘Made in the USA’. Completely lead and additive-free, unlike the crap you get in China!”

Andrew said, pointing at the screen. “Look there; you can purchase synthetic clean urine. This company sells a fake penis you can use with it.”

“Don’t buy it for what you’re thinking of buying it for, Charlie.”

His cousin frowned. “What would I be buying it for?”

“You forget we are cousins,” said Connor with a smile, holding up and wiggling his little finger.

Charlie sniffed. “Everyone knows I have a chopper.”

“Well, old boy,” announced Andrew theatrically. “I do not know who to believe. Surely there is a simple way of settling the debate.”

As Connor spied his cousin’s expression of discomfort, he straightened the ghost of his smile.

Andrew laughed. “Relax. You’re not my type.”

The reply Connor had anticipated came from Charlie. “Why?”

“You are a handsome chap but not enough of a brute.”

Connor could see Charlie holding back a further protest.

The black operations agent said, “How long do you need in all?”

Charlie glanced at Andrew, who answered, “This time tomorrow, the monies should be out of reach.”

“Good.”

“What then?”

“I presume you have money stashed away,” said Connor.

Andrew shrugged noncommittally, and Connor added, “You know it isn’t just going to be the FOC hunting you.”

“Yes, I know. Law enforcement has a long memory, and money laundering for one of the most high-profile organised crime gangs is not something they are likely to forget.”

“That’s what I am saying. Maybe we could sort you a moody passport and get you off to Saint Lucia or wherever, but they will find you eventually.”

“I am acutely aware. Thank you for reminding me, though.”

“Well, I was thinking—” said Connor before his phone vibrated.

He recognised the number to be one of Rayen’s emergency contact numbers.

He answered and listened to Rayen say, “It is I.”

Connor’s heartbeat increased— ‘It is I’ was their code to indicate they were under duress.

Though the phone had been fitted with an encrypted voice app, he wanted to abbreviate the conversation as much as possible. “Speak.”

“They have us. Me, Anne….they have Tom.”

Connor fell into a pit of icy cold black water. Charlie must have noticed because he stared at him.

“What do they want?”

Charlie walked over.

“They want to trade. You and the accountant for me, Anne and your cousin.”

Connor knew never to take the first offer. He knew they were desperate for Andrew Branch, but he also knew they could start cutting pieces off his cousin.

“Are they listening to this call?”

“Yes.”

“If they harm Tom in any way, then there is no deal.”

Another voice, italicised with an accent Connor recognised as South American, replied, “You give the accountant, or I will begin to chop tu primo’s feet.”

“Listen, cabron, it’s better to start slow and chop his toes,” said Connor to Charlie’s frown. “But if you touch my cousin, I’ll take your accountant to a place where you’ll never find him. I’ll break him and get him to drain all the FOC accounts. You’re lucky I have been without the means yet.”

“You would not risk tu primo’s blood.”

“I have other cousins—you fucking try me.”

Silence, and then, “Your cousin for accountant.”

“All three for the accountant. He’s worth the three of them. Who knows, we all might do business in the future.”

More silence and then, “Wait for my call. No tricks.”

The call clicked off as Charlie looked at him wild-eyed.

He stared back. “They have Tom.”

The colour from Charlie’s face seemed to come out of his descending mouth. “Holy fuck, no!”

Connor’s eyes drifted to Andrew to see his chest expand, and as he looked at his once-kidnapper, he gave a nod of acceptance.

“I bluffed them on the phone,” began Connor. “They think their money is safe for the moment. And nothing means more to them than that. And as far as they are concerned, you’ve been kidnapped.”

Andrew replied, “And what happens when they discover the money has been siphoned?”

“Can’t you put it back?” asked Connor.

Andrew’s mouth fell open before saying, “It’s millions and millions in accounts only Charlie and I have access to. You’re saying you would give that up?”

“This has never been about the money for our family—it’s about winning this war. We can’t afford to lose Tom. We, as a family, won’t lose Tom. If you need to put the money back to feel safe enough to go back, then that’s what you’re going to do.”

Andrew’s face began to change. Connor couldn’t quite tell until Andrew spoke, seemingly to his own feet.

“No. I’ll go back. But I am not putting that money back,” before looking at Connor. “I told you, I want to make things right before I go.”

Tom lay in the dark of the van, with the painkillers barely keeping the throbbing in his back at bay. This did not concern him. What scared him was his lower limbs failing to respond properly to his commands. He thought he could feel some sensations, but when his brain commanded his legs to move, he could only twitch his toes.

This reminded him of watching ‘Kill Bill Vol One’ where ‘The Bride’ had awoken from a coma to find herself in a similar predicament. She had gone from being paralysed to fully mobile in minutes by summoning memories for strength.

He thought of the nurse who had slipped him the knife, presumably given to her by Connor, should an event like this happen.

Only his anger prevented him from sinking into the quicksand of sorrow. The lady had risked her life for him, only to be callously killed as unnecessary collateral. He knew Connor would have negotiated a ceasefire for an exchange. And Tom knew, despite how he felt right now, he would accept it once his anger simmered—and he hated that.

The bumping of the carriage sent shooting pains into his lower back. Every so often, his back would spasm and feel like fifty miniature Samurai stabbing him.

He could see the irony of perhaps being paralysed when on the verge of quitting a life of crime.

But he knew—until now, he hadn’t been sure.

And he realised the reason would be the distance, unspoken as it might be, it would put between him and his cousins. He knew on social occasions there would be an air of expectancy of what they needed to discuss once he left, either to the bar, toilet or for the night.

Then he thought of his new family. The same cliché ran through his mind; very few sailed off into the sunset in this game, and most spent much of their adult life incarcerated, maimed or dead. His Uncle Greg, one of the most cunning and wisest men he had ever known, had fallen to an assassin’s bullet, as had his Uncle Michael.

Some criminals who had managed to live into old age had done so by wrapping themselves in chains of paranoia.

The Ryders had been betrayed by two of their own—first, his uncle, Derek, and second, his cousin, Curtis.

He briefly wondered what Curtis would be doing now.

Rayen had visited him a few days ago once he had gotten out of the coma. The doctors had him on morphine, and Tom could only describe it as floating in a warm, euphoric embrace. He had more empathy for addicts, but he remembered his Uncle Greg saying, “Thinking a smackhead is addicted because of the drug is like thinking a gambler is addicted because of race horses”.

Tom briefly smiled at the memory and had always held some guilt; he suspected he received more fatherly advice from Greg Ryder than Connor, his son, might have.

But Connor never showed resentment towards him over that.

Tom began mentally preparing himself as he felt the vehicle come off the highway onto a slower road. But he didn’t know what he could do outside of keeping alert to opportunities. And he had never felt this vulnerable since infanthood.

After a while, the vehicle began to take shorter lengths of time to turn, and he knew they were getting closer.

Finally, the van slowed to a stop. His hearing became sensitive as he strained to hear the goings on outside.

He could barely make out the Spanish-laced words. “Let me see him. No tricks.”

Tom’s ears picked out the Yorkshire brogue of Connor’s muffled shouts.

Eventually, the van doors opened, and the glare of headlights blazed in and briefly attacked his eyes.

Once used to them, he made out the assault rifle pointed at him by one of the men and a smaller one with his back to him. He squinted to see Connor in the distance by the vehicle with the headlights on.

He saw his cousin opening the car door and a man getting out. Tom’s squint made the man’s torso appear out of proportion to his head. The smaller man clicked his fingers, and Tom’s gurney hit the runway within thirty seconds. Rayen and Anne joined him and began pushing him.

Connor’s eyes lasered in on the scene, and even at this distance, the black operations agent watched the South Americans finger their triggers. This would be one of the few times he could remember feeling a moral conflict about a tactical decision made.

And he knew he would go through with it.

He thought of a quote about how it wasn’t the men who cried before a battle that you had to worry about—they cried because they were going to fight.

Cowards did not cry because they knew they were going to run away.

Connor remembered experiencing this after being told by a massive school bully in the year above that he would fight him at home time. Connor, eleven at the time, just shrugged noncommittally when asked by the other children, indeed encouraged by the other children, to inform the teachers. In Connor’s brain, he hadn’t made up his mind, but his body must have known his decision as he fought not to allow the adrenaline to shake him throughout the last two lessons.

Despite Tom’s insistence that he shouldn’t take on the boy, Connor insisted harder against it and mercilessly destroyed the boy to the point a caretaker and the PE teacher had to drag him off the lad.

His conviction got stronger as his cousin came closer. Though the South Americans reneged to double up on the deal that they only bring two men, Connor knew they would not initiate a fire-fight or else risk Andrew Branch’s life. Connor had purposely dictated this distance of forty metres.

Once Andrew had crossed past Tom, Anne and Rayen, he kept an eye on the enemy—watching to see if they would attempt to renege on their deal and hurry Andrew.

As the trio drew close, he indicated the van door to be opened. Charlie jumped out to assist with lifting Tom’s gurney into the van.

Connor watched as they went to grab Andrew Branch to bundle him into the van. Judging by the whipping around of Andrew’s hand and the way the men closest to him swept their palms to their eyes, Connor knew Branch had used the pepper spray—like he told him to.

They swarmed on him with all four punching him—like he said they would.

Connor took a breath and squeezed the clacker—like he said he would.

Thousands of hot ball bearings sliced all five men. They fell like puppets exploding in pops of pink mist.

The smaller man, whom Connor now knew to be Fernando ‘Maradona’ Garzon, looked to have been partially shielded from the blast as he lay writhing on the ground.

The Yorkshireman could see that though he no longer gripped the SMG, his sling remained attached to it and him.

Connor took a jog out of the South American’s field of view.

He kept his FN FiveseveN trained on the dangerous prey as he circled him. Once satisfied with the angle, he closed the distance.

Garzon’s hand snatched the submachine gun a microsecond before the FN FiveseveN smashed two rounds into the fingers and trigger housing.

Connor allowed himself a glance at the pulpy remains of Andrew Branch.

Garzon rewarded him with a growl of pain and anger as he stepped on his smashed fingers. The South American’s other hand clutched his stomach in a futile attempt to stop the blood now forcing its way between his fingers.

Connor cocked his head in amusement at the fury in the FARC soldier’s eyes and said, “Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like I’ll have a lot of time to have fun with you.”

Connor could tell he understood at least some English. Still, he wanted to be sure he would be understood.

“No mataré a tu prima. Se suicidará después de lo que le haga.”—I will not kill your cousin. She will kill herself after what I do to her.

The dying man let out a groan of anguish. And Connor said, “She’ll see you again—your face, at least, in this life, and then, in the afterlife.”

With that, Connor’s boot drove the hand off the stomach, stamped down on it and watched Fernando Garzon bleed out.

After which, he bowed to the remains of Andrew Branch.

31

Lina Van fought not to mimic the hysterics demonstrated by Dion. She idly filed her nails while she lounged next to the pool, listening to Dion berate the skeleton crew of their protection team. She knew his wrath would have been directed at her if not for his fear of reprisals. His acts of vengeance would come if Fernando and his team were confirmed dead.

She had to formulate a plan. If she broke her façade of nonchalance, then Dion would smell blood like a shark.

Without Fernando and his men, Lina would be at his mercy.

When he had asked, she said, “Fernando has it under control. You know he said he should not communicate until he arrives back.”

Dion must have been trying to contact his contingent.

The abrupt halt to his shouting sounded eerie to her.

After a few moments, Dion marched out, surrounded by his cronies, the way she imagined an SS Nazi peacock might. One of the men clutched a box for a glass kettle.

They halted in a rough semi-circle around her.

She waited a few moments before turning her head, feigning boredom. “Yes?”

Dion nodded to the box holder, who steadied it on his palm, reached in and removed the head of Fernando by his hair.

Her heart rocketed, but she said languidly, “Oh good. Andrés made good on his promise. You see, Fernando would never have allowed him to marry me.”

Dion’s forehead briefly knotted with what seemed like uncertainty.

“What are you saying? That he was going to get rid of me?”

“I told Andrés you and I were short-term. Luckily for you, he believed me.”

Dion sniffed before his chest expanded. “I think you’re lying. Those two looked chummy.”

“You’re welcome to ask him when he gets back.”

“If he gets back. He’s probably been offed by the same people who have sent this.”

“He has not. But you are welcome to believe what you want.”

Dion said, “Call him then.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’ll find out in a minute if you don’t,” menaced Dion.

She smirked, “OK. Are you sure?”

“I am sure.”

She reached down for her phone. On straightening herself, his hand snatched her hair in a painful bunch.

She punched the Ruger EC9s into the crease beneath his jaw.

“Let go, ahora.”

Once he did so, she switched to his left foot and fired.

Dion fell but took a moment to scream as Lina pointed the Ruger at his underlings.

“The next one will be through your fat fucking heads.”

She could sense anticipation amongst them, a twitchiness of waiting for someone to make a move, so she said, “You will step back in three seconds or one of you dies.”

The Latina knew she had to convince them she now ruled, not Dion. Without her insistence, they raised their hands in unison; this reminded her that men could sense power.

The metallic bump against the back of her head, the hand clamp on her shoulder, and the growl of, “Do not make any sudden movements. Take your finger away from the trigger and lower the Ruger,” shook her into a freeze.

A snarl of, “Now!” bought her compliance, and she slowly lowered it.

She guessed the voice’s owner by the terrified look on Dion’s face.

“On your knees,” the voice commanded her with a hard tap, and to the group, “You all too.”

With her and Dion’s men on their knees, Eddie O’Neil stepped into her vision, along with another two men she did not recognise: handsome, one mixed race and the other Caucasian with blond hair.

O’Neil said, “It’s time for a private chat.”

Raphael Del Piero stood on the periphery of the gruesome scene and imagined the event.

He could still smell the traces of iron and nitroglycerine.

Though the dead had yet to be officially identified, he could see one to be Andrew Branch—enough of the face remained.

Also, though shredded, the remnants of the ‘suicide vest’ hung off the Englishman’s carcass, indicating him to be the trigger of this gruesome horror.

Jacco Verkerk, appearing at his shoulder, said, “Looks like we should have kept our investigation here.”

Knowing there to be no malice in the statement, Raphael nodded though did not agree.

“There is an office two hundred metres away. There is something in there addressed to you.”

“Does it require bomb disposal to check it?”

The Dutch police officer shook his head. “Unless it is a bomb from the future.”

Raphael followed Verkerk down the health and safety track to the office.

The forensics team began to file out as they approached.

They stepped inside to be greeted by the head forensics officer, who said, “Just one set of fingerprints.”

Behind him sat one of the computer technicians.

“And I’ll guess that belongs to Andrew Branch.”

“We cannot confirm, but you are the detective.”

Raphael asked, “What do you have to show me?”

The forensics chief pointed to the computer.

Raphael walked forward, and the technician vacated the seat to allow him to sit.

“You haven’t accessed it yet?” asked Raphael, bemused.

“No, sir, I have just got past the firewall. Your eyes only,” the technician answered.

The Italian turned to Verkerk, who answered his inquiring eyes with, “Orders came from the top. No one is to look at what’s on that computer until your say so.”

Raphael sat, and the three stepped away from him.

He typed in his date of birth at the request of the six-figure key code.

He spent the next few minutes trying to control his breathing as he flicked through the files.

Finally, he jerked his head to gesture Verkerk over.

Once beside him, he said, “If this is true, Andrew Branch left the evidence we need to take down the Franklin Organised Crime group. Associates, money launderers, corrupt officials all in Europe, Australia and the Middle East.”

“The expression, ‘If it’s too good to be true, then it probably is’. Why would he turn now?”

“It’s here. He was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Maybe he wanted to repent before he left this world.”

Dion, even now, could not believe how this had happened. Only weeks ago, he stood at the head of what read in one article, ‘…the most profitable second generation organised crime syndicates in the world’.

Now he sat restrained, gagged, in just his underwear, to a steel chair in a room without windows. Most of his loyal soldiers no longer breathed, and the woman he thought would help him elevate to a dynasty had betrayed him.

His only solace being she now sat in the same position as him. And so did a handful of his men, including two of his cousins.

The door behind him cranked open, and each step clicked on his nerves.

A well-built man with dirty-blond hair appeared in front of him.

“Eddie was nice enough to hand the pair of you over to me.” He reached down and gripped Dion by the chin. “Look at the state of your face. Too many ‘Yes Men’, Dion. Can’t believe no one raised an eyebrow, and now it doesn’t look like you can either.”

The Englishman painfully tore off the masking tape.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dion spat.

The Dubliner’s blood froze when the man answered, “Connor Reed.”

Dion summoned the nerve to ask, “What do you want?”

“It’s Eddie. He says I have to ask you certain questions, and if you hesitate or answer with a lie, I get to hurt you. So I am hoping for a Rambo-esque performance from you.”

“I’ll tell—”

“Wait. Wait. Wait,” said the Englishman, producing a small remote.

He tapped it, and Dion recognised the beginnings of the song ‘Sledgehammer’ by Peter Gabriel playing low in the background.

“OK,” said Connor Reed. “Now, who is your highest contact within the PSIN and the Irish Garda?”

Dion had already calculated his answer to a question like this. He knew he couldn’t give up his highest contacts—to do so would be the end of him and his organisation—but he knew better than to lowball this Englishman too much.

“Peter Mallory. He’s a high-level detective with the Dublin Garda. I get my information from him.”

Connor smiled broadly at him. “I hoped you’d say something like that.”

With that, he pressed on the remote and plunged the room into pitch darkness.

Then the volume of the song was amped up.

Dion’s heart began pounding.

Just as the lyrics ‘I wanna be..’ blared out, the lights came back to reveal Connor behind his Cousin Mick with a sledgehammer.

Right on the lyric ‘Sledgehammer’, the Englishman brought down with a mighty force on top of Dion’s cousin’s cranium.

The head cranked into the neck on a forty-five-degree angle, and the impact forced the eyes to bulge from their sockets. Rivulets of bloody mucous ran from the ears and eyes. The twitching fingers juxtaposed the lifeless stare.

“So,” said Connor. “We’ll start again. I’ll enunciate my words with greater care. Who is your highest contact? The contact no one knows about and would shock everyone if they knew? Please lie again. I know that wasn’t even your favourite cousin.”

“Jesus Christ, please.”

He watched as Connor burst into a seemingly genuine fit of laughter.

Once he had calmed down, he said, “How many times have you been in my place, giving scary speeches as you torture people? I wonder if you ever thought you’d be able to take it any better.”

“I….I…” stuttered Dion before Connor’s raised finger silenced him—then he began to dance to the music.

Ice fingers gripped Dion’s spine as the Englishman disappeared behind him again.

He returned dancing around his Cousin Tony with white spirit, a fire extinguisher and a small blowtorch.

“I don’t take any pleasure in hurting simple grafters. But you see, this cunt helped Seán O’Neil to burn Lorna O’Neil. So I hope you don’t tell me the names.”

“Noel O’Duffy!” Dion shouted. “The deputy commissar. It’s him. He hates O’Neil.”

“What about the other one?”

“What?”

Dion instantly regretted it.

Connor doused Tony in white spirit and set him on fire. Through his laughter and Tony’s screams, he said, “I’ll put him out as soon as you tell me the second name—the Northern Ireland one.”

“Elaine Rosebecker. She’s an escort. I ping money to her to pump John Turner. He’s high in PSNI.”

Like a macabre ‘Stars In Their Eyes’ reveal, the fire extinguisher’s contents surrounded Tony’s face before revealing a molten hunk of red, oozing flesh.

The music lowered into mute, and the doors opened again.

Eddie O’Neil came in and stood beside Connor.

Dion’s mouth flapped, “Eddie. Eddie. You and Uncle Thomas were close and —”

The masking tape, applied by an unknown behind him, zipped off the rest of his plea.

Eddie sighed to Connor. “About what I expected. How could Turner be so stupid?”

“Lonely widower, isn’t he? People always find a way to believe what’s desirable to them.”

Eddie seemed to nod before asking, “What’s the plan, then?”

“I want this one and that one,” said Connor, pointing at Lina, then Tony. “I’ll get rid of this one’s body. You can have the rest.”

Dion observed a strange look between the two men as they shook hands.

Lina knew she had been left alone for anywhere between two hours and three minutes to two hours and seven minutes. She had developed this habit as a girl hiding under the bed from her drunken stepfather. She would purposely leave the window ajar, which never failed to trick him into thinking she had escaped to a friend's house. She would memorise the time on her star-framed, wall-mounted clock just before she hid, and immediately before emerging, she would guess the time—and eventually became unerringly accurate.

Dion and his men had been removed from the room, leaving empty, bloodied chairs behind.

She could not remember a time since that she felt as vulnerable as she did now.

The door slid open behind her, and she fought to keep a neutral expression.

Connor Reed pulled up two of the chairs to sit a metre away from Lina with his feet up. He sipped from the mug with Prince’s caricature on it, emanating an aroma of coffee.

“Back when I was in the Royal Marines, they had a type of corporal punishment where they whack you across the arse with a flip-flop—within the ranks, it’s not as if the hierarchy did that to you,” said Connor, smiling as if she was in on a joke.

“You had to take it ‘non-emotionally’ or else you’d get more. It wasn’t pleasant—not for the recipient, although everyone watching used to find it funny. Well, nearly everyone. I remember one corporal asking another corporal who walked in if he wanted a shot. This corporal just shook his head and walked back out. He told me later he’d had it done to him as a sprog—an inexperienced marine—and because of that, he would never do that to anyone else.”

The Englishman took a sip of his coffee. “Which was counter to what everyone else said, which was, ‘It happened to me, so it’s happening to everyone else after me’.”

He stared at her intently. “So you see, I don’t give a fuck what might have happened to you. You made your choices. Like the choice you made to order acid attacks. Andrew Branch told me all about it. I thought it might have been a case of you influencing Dion. But Andrew told me Dion was away in Dubai and left you in charge of the communication systems. And you took the opportunity to order the attacks.”

She didn’t want to debase herself by protesting into the gag, and Connor continued, “I was reading a theory that any experience had in childhood that creates a psychological schema before the age of five to seven can’t be wiped off. It’s like it’s stuck to the hard drive. Anything that happens after that age, you might have a shot at with therapy. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll turn out to be a bad or evil person—some of the best people in the world are fucked up—but certainly, for you and I, we are bad people.”

He took another sip and continued, “But everything is relative. Whereas you ordered acid attacks on innocent people hundreds of miles away, I always ensure the people I needlessly hurt are evil and beyond redemption. I can’t get excited about it if not. I’ve killed people who haven’t been evil per se—for the greater good and all that—but it never gave me the satisfaction that torturing someone like you would. How can I explain this? It’s like shagging a brass—a prostitute, I mean— I can get hard and go through with it, but because it isn’t a bird I’ve pulled, I can’t get that excited about it. You know what I mean?”

He looked at her as if expecting a nod of agreement. When he didn’t get it, he tipped the remnants of the coffee down his throat, stood and reached over to untie her gag.

She spat. “Your family is soft. That is what will be your downfall.”

He grinned, “None of my family members are currently tied to a chair at the mercy of an enemy, are they?”

“Family?” she smirked back. “How do you think we knew the things we knew? How do you think we knew you have a secret son?”

Her statement momentarily froze his face before he said, “You’re going to tell me.”

“Believe me; I would if I knew. We got our information from Ireland. They are all disloyal rats.”

“Including the ones you had burned?”

“There is always collateral in war.”

The impact of the back of his hand colliding with her face sent equal parts shock and pain through her.

His patronising finger wagged in her face. “You know full well what the definition of collateral is. Now, why did you have them burned with acid?”

“Because…why not? They are our enemies’ families. Who are you to say who shouldn’t be hurt, or scarred, or killed? And God doesn’t care.”

“Nothing to do with the fact they were pretty girls.”

She sneered, “They aren’t now.”

The Englishman smiled as he walked behind her, opened the door and she could hear the scraping of wheels on the floor.

Her reflection stared back at her haggardly as the full-length mirror rolled in front of her.

The Englishman laughed. “This reminds me of how Perseus defeated Medusa.”

Her heart began its attempt to escape her ribcage when she saw the light-grey plastic bottle with the red band beneath the screw top.

“Back in the eighteenth century, sulphuric acid was known as the ‘oil of vitriol’, and in Victorian Britain, jilted women sometimes used acid against the men who had fucked them off— attacks were known as vitriolage. It was a cruel punishment indeed. Between 1837 and 1913, almost twice as many women as men stood trial at the Old Bailey for committing this crime. So at least, you’ve brought something back—not that you did it yourself, did you?”

He cracked open the top. “When the burns get deep enough, it stops hurting because the nerve endings go.”

She began screaming even before the liquid touched her.

32

Eddie O’Neil stood with hands thrust into the pockets of his thick green Parka fleece jacket, looking at the circle of jagged stones rising from the grass.

The Braid stood as remnants of a pair of Norse long houses and an Iron Age roundhouse. The Isle of Man site displaying two merged cultures reminded him of the man he was due to meet. O’Neil had arrived early to take in the scene before the punctual Scot appeared.

They had gone back over thirty years now. Despite far-reaching but deeply hidden family links, Eddie O’Neil hadn’t met Bruce McQuillan until the early nineties; Eddie had still been an active player within the IRA and Bruce a young SAS trooper.

He heard the footsteps before Bruce announced his arrival with, “Hello, Eddie.”

O’Neil turned around and exclaimed, “You’re a bastard, so you are, have hardly changed!”

“That’s kind of you to say,” answered the intelligence officer.

“Thanks for not being insincere and returning the compliment.”

Bruce, O’Neil’s junior by nearly fourteen years, said, “I wouldn’t have thought you would have needed a compliment regarding youthfulness—not considering you’re nearly seventy and still playing Cowboys and Indians with the young teams.”

Eddie smiled. “I wouldn’t have gotten far without you helping me. Speaking of which, do I have to fear the peeler bracelets?”

“Certain pieces of evidence have been ‘lost’ or seen as not in the best interests of Interpol and the Spanish police to pursue. Scotland Yard might still want a word with you, but they don’t have the evidence to make anything stick. Still, maybe save yourself the headache, and stay in the Republic for a while after this.”

“Thank you.”

“It was to our mutual advantage. Just like it was back in old times.”

Eddie nodded. “You know there wouldn’t have been a Daniel Day-Lewis if I hadn’t gotten mixed up in The Troubles. And I tried, young McQuillan, I really tried. Even when the bastards interned my father for no fuckin’ reason, I stayed away from all that. And that’s when that bastard had my brother killed to recruit me. I’ve always wanted to ask you, did you tell me off your back, or did they tell you to tell me?”

O’Neil referred to an IRA recruiter having his brother killed but blaming it on the loyalists. Many years later, a young McQuillan showed Eddie irrefutable evidence of the truth.

He then helped O’Neil strike back at the perpetrator, and McQuillan aided O’Neil in killing Loyalists who had targeted Catholic civilians during The Troubles.

In exchange, O’Neil provided information on the more macabre members of the IRA.

The two men stared at one another for a few moments before McQuillan answered, “My mother told me you did her a kindness once.”

“So, she told you about that? Only animals do that to young girls. Let alone family members,” said O’Neil. “Is that why you’ve protected me all this time?”

“You’ve never needed much protecting, Eddie. Besides, you could always bring me down with you.”

“I wouldn’t. Doing a favour, just to expect a favour in return, defeats the purpose; it’s no favour at all.”

Bruce arched his head back a little. “Well, that makes what I am about to ask a little harder.”

“Go oan.”

“We routed out the phone call details and discovered who betrayed the Ryder family.”

“Let me guess, the one they call Curtis?”

“How did you know?”

Eddie shrugged. “Luke Ryder kept him in the car while we talked business. If your family can’t trust you fully, there must be a reason.”

“But I thought you said he killed one of the men who attacked you at the Ryder safe house?”

“Aye, after the majority had been kelled. The lad was ready to throw his hands up and start talking for his life. I am guessing this Curtis might not have liked what might have come flying out of this fella’s mouth.”

Bruce nodded. “This is twice now that he has betrayed them. They exiled him to Hull, and he snuck back in. I wouldn’t want to take the risk of having him in my family.”

“Have you told young Connor?”

Bruce shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to burden them with what would have to be done.”

“You’re sentimental about him.”

“He’s a superb asset to us.”

“He is that,” smirked Eddie. “Why can’t you make the problem disappear?”

Eddie could see the weight in the Scotsman’s eyes and answered for him. “You don’t want to use your people to kill a member of his family.”

McQuillan’s lack of an answer was an answer, so Eddie said, “I’ll handle it.”

Grace smiled as she pushed Jackson in the child’s swing. Her son waved his hands and pointed out his desire to go higher.

She looked around the park, and though mums with their kids made up the majority, a few dads looked on to simmer her mood; as Gran Rene reminded her, they only remained children for a fleeting amount of time.

She told herself many children had dads who worked away or died. It helped, but she couldn’t shake the surreality of their situation—she knew the father, she was in love with the father, and the father provided, but they had to keep his paternity a secret.

She went through the familiar cycle; now came anger—why couldn’t he just quit?

Then came guilt; she remembered the despair she had felt when she had been kidnapped by a psychopath along with several children. And she had come to know true evil when she had witnessed the murders of two of these children.

She had felt her hope dying, but Connor had arrived and saved them. And now, she admonished herself for wanting to deprive someone else of that in the future.

She began to slow the swing to take Jackson off. A nasally male voice sounded behind her, “’ere Luv, want me to play with the ickle tyke while you put your feet up?”

Grace whirled around with her retort, ready to pounce off her tongue. It stopped on seeing Connor standing there with a grin.

She feigned disappointment. “Oh, it’s you. Thought I might have been in luck. Little Jackson is a bit of a man magnet.”

“I am sorry for cramping your style.”

“It’s OK. I need a rest from it anyway,” she replied, waving her hand over her crotch.

She felt warmth at his smile. “You’ve caught the sun, I see.”

Connor stretched and replied, “I needed a holiday from this absentee dad work. You know how it is.”

“I can imagine.”

As she lifted Jackson out of the swing and set him down, Connor asked, “Anything exciting happened when I was away?”

“Well, a man fainted in front of me while I was taking Jackson out in the pram.”

“You are a bit of a stunner.”

“Well, yes, but he seemed a bit young to keel over at the sight of me clothed. I didn’t actually see it, though.”

She watched Connor frown before he replied, “Thought you said it was right in front of you?”

He picked up Jackson, who looked up at him intently. Her son’s lack of protest surprised her.

“It was strange. A call from behind me at the very moment he must have fainted. Asked me if Jackson had dropped a toy.”

“And had he?”

Grace shook her head. “No, it was a ‘Zog the Dragon’. The man practically threw it at me as he ran past to help the lad.”

“So he just fell over?”

“Well, no; luckily, a council worker caught him just before he hit the floor. The two of them seemed to know what they were doing. The lad must have been drinking— though it was a strange bottle he had on him. Like bleach. I just walked on when I saw the guys knew what they were doing?”

“Surreal turn of events, eh,” replied Connor as he put down the squirming Jackson.

“Yes, I thou—”

Connor clawed his hands and growled to impersonate a monster, and Jackson stumbled off in apparent delight as his dad chased him deeper into the park.

Curtis sat in the hum of The Buxton Arms with Dan, Luke, their dad—his uncle—Lee, Oshain, as his other uncle, Ryan—Tom’s dad—regaled them with stories. The screens surrounding them showed the Leeds Rhinos v Hull FC Rugby League game.

He felt the warmth he first felt as a child when watching his twin brother take the blame for something he had done. He had stuck a pin on one of his classmate’s chairs, and once the tears began, luckily for him, someone swore they saw Charlie do it.

From that day to this, Curtis never told anyone it had been him.

He felt a jolt of jealousy watching how Ryan interacted with Luke, especially with a level of respect that should be his.

His uncle tapped Luke’s arm with the back of his hand but addressed the table, “I’ll tell thee this; the best investment I ever made was leasing that car park, fuckin’ raking it in now.”

“Where is that?” asked Dan.

“Across from the high court. It’s always packed. Needs next to fuck all maintenance either. It’s the closest to that daft phrase kids nowadays use, ‘passive income’.”

“Why is it a daft term?” asked Curtis.

“People who use that term…well, I don’t know what’s wrong with ’em, but I bet it’s hard to pronounce,” declared Ryan. “Am telling ya, all money takes some time and money to make and to keep making. There isn’t such a thing as ‘passive income’ and—go on, Ash!”

Ryan jumped out of his seat as Leeds winger Ash Handley scored to the roar of the pub. Ryan nodded to the table and sat with an announcement of, “He’s like new—Martin Offiah, that kid.”

Lee frowned, “But not quite the new Jason Robinson, though.”

And so began a ‘who was better’ argument the uncles had when talking sports. Curtis had heard many in his time; ‘Michael Schumacher v Lewis Hamilton’ in Formula One, ‘Prime Lennox Lewis v Peak Mike Tyson’ in Boxing, ‘Barcelona 2008-09 v Manchester United 1999’ in football, and now ‘Martin Offiah v Jason Robinson’ in Rugby League wingers.

“Why do you put Robinson over Offiah?”

“Let me see, miles more versatile, could tackle for one thing. Better footwork so he good find space. Offiah was just a fast one-trick pony.”

“Yeh, that trick was scoring tries—Offiah could find space in a single bed with Gemma Collins!”

The final whistle interrupted the laughter, and Curtis stood and announced, “I’m off.”

To his surprise, Oshain stood with him. “Same. Got an early start.”

As they walked out together, Curtis felt the alcohol more than he expected. As if sensing this, Oshain said, “Where you going?”

“Back to my mum’s.”

“I’ll take you. I haven’t had much to drink.”

Curtis wavered but decided to be happy to accept the gesture from a man that the rest of the Ryder family held in high esteem, especially after the attack on The Helena.

An attack he provided intelligence for.

“Cheers. Thanks.”

They climbed into Oshain’s black BMW 3 Series, and the doorman engaged his phone to the internal Bluetooth.

“Nice motor,” said Curtis.

“Yes, Tom gave it to me as a present after the nightclub attack.”

“You deserve it,” said Curtis. “I wish I’d have been there.”

“So do I.”

His phone buzzed, and Curtis felt an adrenaline whirl around his stomach as he recognised the contact number the Franklins said they would use in an emergency.

Cupping the phone, he read the message:

‘Head towards the Rodley Nature Reserve. Your money is in a black and red leather holdall behind an electricity box at these coordinates: 53.821720, -1.650150. There are twenty thousand pounds in notes in it. Throw away this phone once you’re happy, and never contact this number again.’

Throughout his working for them, his communications had always been through Andrew Troy, a gangster from the Troy crime family in Hull. Over a year ago, Tom had exiled Curtis to go work for them in their Letting Agency.

Curtis guessed whoever was looking after him on the Irish side didn’t want to risk Troy scooping the cash himself.

“Listen, Bambi, is there any chance you can take me to Rodley?”

“Err, yeh, sure. What’s up there?”

Thinking fast, Curtis said, “There is a worldie I’ve been trying to get around for weeks. Looks like it’s on.”

Oshain laughed and patted Curtis on his chest. “Nice one, bruv.”

They made light-hearted conversation during the twenty-minute drive.

Finally, they made it into the Rodley Nature Reserve car park, and as Curtis went to get out, Oshain exclaimed, “What you doing? There’s no one ’ere.”

“She’s just messaged. You get yourself off, mate. I don’t want her looking at you and your new motor and changing her mind.”

Oshain gave him a strange look but thankfully laughed. “Alright, mate. Give me a bell if she’s a no-show, and I’ll come back for yer.”

Curtis got out, and his excitement rose as the BMW disappeared.

He tapped the coordinates into his phone’s app and began to follow its direction through the sounds of the dark.

Thoughts of what he could do with the money quickened his pace to a jog.

Within two minutes, he came to a small footbridge and could see the silhouette of the electrics box.

Curving around onto a path, he broke into a run. Reaching the box, his diaphragm sang at the presence of the holdall.

Dropping to a squat, he tore at the zip, and his organs dropped into the pit of his stomach.

Newspapers.

The Irish voice behind fired a shock of electric fear into him.

“Don’t make sudden motions, son, unless you can move faster than a bullet. Now stand and turn around.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Curtis did so.

He began to shake at the sight of Eddie O’Neil pointing a silenced pistol at him.

O’Neil spoke, “Had to see your face to make sure it was you. I won’t be making that mistake again.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you are doing, but my family will come for you.”

“Your family will think the Franklins have killed you to stop you blabbin’. The phone messages will lead back to them. So the only people who will know will be Oshain and I.”

It took a moment to compute that Bambi set him up. He tried to speak, but his brain refused to form words.

As if to help him, O’Neil asked, “What is a man without honour?”

The round through his brain cut any attempt to answer.

The End

GLOSSARY

Ali G— a television satirical fictional character portraying an anti-social working-class youth.

Beor— Irish slang for an attractive woman or girl.

Brasses— Slang for prostitutes. Seemingly from the Cockney rhyming slang “brass flute”—prostitute.

Brecon Chop— A four-finger point used for either indicating a direction or emphasising a point.

(The) Circus— Nickname for MI6.

Craic— pronounced “crack”. Irish term for banter or fun.

CroCop— Nickname of Mirko Filipović, a retired Croatian professional mixed martial artist and kickboxer. A former commando in the Croatian police anti-terrorist unit, hence the sobriquet.

Daft ’apeth— Yorkshire slang for a silly person. ‘Apeth’ is an old northern English word meaning ‘half pence’.

Daps— Welsh colloquialism for trainers.

Eejit— Meaning idiot. Usually used affectionately but not always.

Fretten— Slang for Frighten

Geordie— A person, or an accent, originating from Tyneside area of North East England.

Gom— Irish slang for a stupid person.

Gorga— A Romani term for a non-Gypsy.

Gormless— Stupid/ dopey.

Grafter— Has two meanings in British slang: 1) a person who obtains money or other advantages by dishonest, unfair, or illegal means. 2) a particularly industrious or dedicated worker.

Grots— Flat-like (Apartment-like) residences of military personnel on camp.

Hellbanianz— A crime clan based out of London, who have ancestral roots in Albania.

HMET— Homicide and Major Enquiry Team. An elite crimes unit that conducts investigations pertinent to West Yorkshire.

Homer—A job that a tradesman does for a private customer in the customer’s home, especially when this is done in addition to their main job and without them telling their employer or the tax authorities.

Loiner— A term describing a citizen from Leeds. There are at least three theories for its origin.

Mocro Mafia— Organised crime elements made up mainly of those of Moroccan ancestry, with their epicentre being the port of Rotterdam.

Matched Betting— A theoretically risk-free technique of making money by taking advantage of the free-bet incentives offered as ‘hooks’ by online bookmaker sites.

Mithered— Nothern English slang for ‘to make a fuss’ or ‘to moan’.

Mo ghrá— (moh graw) Irish for ‘my love’.

Narco-state— a term applied to nations where all legitimate institutions become infiltrated by the power and wealth of the unlawful drug trade.

Nause— A person or activity that is annoying.

NCA— National Crime Agency; the UK’s very rough equivalent of the US FBI.

Noirette— A black-haired woman.

Ozzy— Slang word for Hospital originally deriving from Liverpool.

Penose— Usually means organised crime in Holland perpetrated by those of Dutch descent.

Pepper-potting— A method used by infantrymen moving over ground during ‘fire and manoeuvre’ or ‘cover and manoeuvre’ scenarios where the moving soldier stops in line with the covering soldier before the roles are switched. (Yes, I would just Google it too). Leap-frogging refers to the practice of the moving soldier running past the covering soldier before switching roles until the ground is covered.

Pilled Up— On Ecstasy tablets.

Punching— When your romantic partner is significantly higher on the ladder of attractiveness, as in ‘You’re punching above your weight’.

Radgie— North-East of England slang term for angry.

Skylining— Giving yourself away to a potential enemy by presenting a silhouette against the sky.

Spacers— Soft drinks consumed between alcoholic ones to wade off or delay inebriation.

Tops— Slang for ‘top shelf drugs’.

Tunnel Method— An infantry method of moving backwards as a unit whilst maintaining the principle of ‘cover/fire and manoeuvre’.

Walter-Mitty— People who boast, either verbally or by their dress, about fictional military service or achievements. Derives from author James Thurber’s fictional fantasist of the same name.

Young Teams— Glaswegian slang for gangs/ groups of youths who frequently clash. Expanded out to describe any grouping of young people.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Quentin Black is a former Royal Marine corporal with a decade of service in the Corps. This includes an operational tour of Afghanistan and an advisory mission in Iraq.

Black has competed in numerous boxing and Brazilian jiu-jitsu Gi and No-Gi matches.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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IN THE CONNOR REED SERIES

The Bootneck

Bruce McQuillan leads a black operations unit only known to a handful of men.

A sinister plot involving the Russian Bratva and one of the most powerful men within the British security services threatens to engulf the Isles.

Could a criminal with an impulse for sadism be the only man McQuillan can trust?

https://mybook.to/TheBootneck

Lessons In Blood

When Darren O’Reilly’s daughter is found murdered with her kidney extracted, he refuses to believe the police’s explanation. His quest for the truth reaches the ears of Bruce McQuillan, the leader of the shadowy Chameleon Project.

As a conspiracy of seismic proportions begins to reveal itself, Bruce realises he needs a man of exceptional skill and ruthlessness.

He needs Connor Reed.

https://mybook.to/LessonsInBlood

Ares’ Thirst

When a British aid worker disappears in the Crimea, the UK Government wants her back—quickly and quietly.

And Machiavellian figures are fuelling the flames of Islamic hatred towards Russia. With ‘the dark edge of the world’ controlled by some of the most cunning, ruthless and powerful criminals on earth, McQuillan knows he needs to send a wolf amongst the wolves before the match of global war is struck across the rough land of Ukraine.

https://mybook.to/AresThirst

Northern Wars

After ruthlessly dethroning his uncle, Connor Reed must now defend the family against the circling sharks of rival criminal enterprises.

Meanwhile, Bruce McQuillan, leader of a black operations unit named The Chameleon Project, has learnt that one of the world’s most brutal and influential Mafias is targeting the UK pre-BREXIT.

https://mybook.to/NorthernWars

Counterpart

Bruce McQuillan’s plan to light the torch of war between two of the world’s most powerful and ruthless Mafias has been ignited.

Can his favoured agent, Connor Reed, fan the flames without being engulfed by them?

Especially as a man every bit his equal stands on the other side.

https://mybook.to/Counterpart

An Outlaw’s Reprieve

Reed, a leader within his own outlaw family, delights in an opportunity to punish a thug preying on the vulnerable.

However, with his target high within a rival criminal organisation, can Reed exact retribution without dragging his relatives into a bloody war.

https://mybook.to/AnOutlawsReprieve

The Puppet Master

When a British scientist leads a highly proficient Japanese engineering team in unlocking the secrets to the biosphere’s survival, some will stop at nothing to see the fledging technology disappear.

In the Land of the Rising Sun, can Bruce McQuillan protect the new scientific applications from the most powerful entities on earth?

And can his favoured agent Connor Reed defeat the deadliest adversary he has ever faced?

https://mybook.to/ThePuppetMaster

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

AUTHORS NOTE

RYDER FAMILY TREE

PROLOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

GLOSSARY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AUTHOR’S NOTE

IN THE CONNOR REED SERIES