Limit of Exploitation (11 page)

Sam sees an entry wound in Jacks right chest, she slaps on a gauze and applies pressure with both her hands, now on her knees she pushes down firmly, blood pisses through fingers. Air had already rushed into Jacks chest collapsing his lung.

“A chest seal, he needs a chest seal.”

Phil applies pressure to another entry wound under Jacks arm. He balls his fist and pushes up hard on the gauze. “There’s a Bolin chest seal in the daysack.”

Jack chokes and grabs, his life slipping away. John tries to keep calm but anger and frustration is welling inside him.

“Exits, I can’t find any fucking exits.” With no exit wounds, the three of them know that the rounds that entered Jacks body would have caused massive internal injuries and would still be in there. Sam gives John a hard stare.

“This is a fucking drama John, he needs a Hospital NOW!”

“There’s no fucking time, stabilise him here first. Phil quick, gimme the chest seal”

A chest seal allows air and blood from a sucking chest wound to escape through an integral valve built into the seal, while preventing the re-entry of either. Jacks stops grabbing as his arms slow. This is a bad sign, and Phil knows it.

“We’re losing him! JACK! JACK! Don’t you fucking die on me boy!”

Jack becomes calm, his breathing shallows, he is slipping away.

“JACK!”

Jacks arms rest; a contented look passes over his face. He breathes his last. Phil places his hands around Jacks head. “JACK, JACK.” John grabs his arm.

“He’s gone mate, he’s gone.” Phil sits back on the tarmac, head in his bloodied hands. Sam leans forward and closes Jacks eyes. The three are stunned into silence.

Leaping to his feet Phil quickly makes for the open boot of the Omega. He pulls an M4 out of a holdall and cocks it. John looks on and thinks about grabbing the other one. Sam is straight on her feet following him.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Some bastard is gonna fucking pay for this, these fuckers are gonna PAY!”

Up beside the Van, Sam blocks him. “Who Phil? Who is gonna pay?”

Now John is on his feet. There’s a blind fury building in him but Sam was right. Who was going to pay? Phil was losing it and just wanted to get that weapon on someone, anyone.

“Get the fuck out of my way captain.” Phil tries to barge past Sam but she blocks him again, grabbing at the M4. In an instant Phil releases the pistol grip and grabs her throat, ramming her hard into the side of the van. Shock lights up Sam’s face as she fights for air. Phil grips harder, pushing her with his body weight.

He feels something pushing on his groin, something hard and metallic. Quickly looking down, he see’s Sam’s SIG pushed against his crotch.

She spits her words through gritted teeth. “Take… your…fucking… hands…off…me.” John steps in and grabs Phil’s hand.

“ENOUGH! Get a fucking grip the pair of you.” Phil reluctantly steps back breathing hard, but Sam doesn’t move her SIG. Her eyes are wide and burn into Phil. John lowers his voice and steps between them. “Sam, that’s enough. We’ve got bigger problems right now. This won’t help.”

For a few seconds Sam just stares in a trance like state before her breathing calms and she comes back to earth. She flicks her eyes to John and then back at Phil. Slowly lowering the SIG she gently nods. John turns to Phil.

“Mate, gimme me a hand with Jack.” The big ex army boxer takes a deep breath and hangs his head.

“He was, - he was my friend.”

John just nods, there’s nothing more to say. Both men look over to where Jacks body lay’s on the wet tarmac. Sam walks over to the Omega and pulls out a tarpaulin sheet and the car blanket. She stares into the boot as she speaks.

“Look. I know he was your friend, and I’m sorry, but we have to get moving, we have to clean this up now.”

She approaches the two men with the tarpaulin in her hands. “We can use this to wrap his body. I’ll help to –”

Phil snatches the tarp from her. “No, we’ll do it.”

She raises her hands in mock surrender before backing off.

Phil and John man-handle Jacks wrapped body into the boot of the Omega while Sam clears the area of the medical packaging and blood soaked dressings. She uses her Maglite to sweep the area, checking that nothing of forensic value is left.

After closing up the boot, the two men set an incendiary in the van. Chemicals or fire being the best way to destroy forensics and trace evidence. Sam throws in the medical waste next to the bin liners containing their dirty clothing. No one speaks. John sets a Parkway Timer on the incendiary and shuts up the van. The three of them turn and walk in silence to the Omega.

The parkway timer was an old IRA favourite. It was originally manufactured as a key ring that warned a motorist when their parking meter time was due to run out. By rotating a clockwork central section, any time could be set to a maximum of two hours. John had made some minor adjustments on his so that when the timer unwound, a protruding nail soldered to the central section would make contact with a battery terminal and complete an electrical circuit.

They had now established what the core business of Eastern Logistics really was and successfully destroyed one of the Zemun clans drug manufacturing plants. But they still hadn’t located Emma, were gambling on flipping Senka and now one of their mates had been killed. All in all it hadn’t been a great night out.

In the driving seat John pauses. Closing his eyes he grips the wheel hard.

“I think you two should cut away from this now. This is my drama, and I’ll deal with it, I should have never got you involved. I’m already responsible for one death.”

In the rear view mirror he catches Sam’s eyes, dead and expressionless. Phil breaks the silence.

“Bollocks mate. We all knew the risks when we started this, Jack included. We see this thing through to the end together. We finish it, OK?”

Sam leans forward. “Phil’s right. There’s no going back now John, we have to see it through. I’m in.”

John fires up the Omega. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

As he makes distance on the Jamaica Road the parkway timer on the incendiary winds down. The contained blast of flame bursts through the Vans windscreen and back doors illuminating the surrounding area.

Miroslav knew how to live; his country retreat was a Palladian style mansion houses set in three manicured acres of rolling Surrey countryside. The property enjoyed its own perimeter wall and private wood overlooking the main house. There was a gated access point leading from a private road onto the gravel drive, and a security post at the main gate ensured nosy parkers were kept at a distance. The rear of the pile boasted a tennis court, a garden pavilion and entertainment areas that included a spa and swimming pool. This was serious money on display; JR Ewing would be quite happy slumming it here. Such properties are often owned by individuals who would rather not go into too much detail when it came to filling in their tax returns. Oil and mineral giants from Russia, South East Asia and the Middle East all maintained properties here. Dig deep enough and you’ll find the odd deposed dictator kicking about too.

In his dining room Miroslav is at breakfast and sips coffee over a morning paper. On the white linen tablecloth his Blackberry beeps into life. Caller ID tells him Belic is on the line.

“Yes Belic.”

“You were right, seems we have attracted a fan club.”

“How’s it looking?”

Belic is parked up outside the EL Unit in Deptford. He watches as Firemen roll up hoses to nearby tenders after battling the blazing storage unit. The building has been reduced to a gutted, smoking shell. Charred timbers poke skyward from the blackened brickwork. The place is a complete write off.

“It looks like the last days of Mostar here; it’s a fucking mess, totally destroyed.” Miroslav sounded even more like Dracula through Belic’s handset. “And our friend? What of him?”

Belic shrugs. “I guess we’ll send flowers, but it wasn’t the flames that killed him.”

Policemen in high vis jackets stand behind incident tape and get busy taking notes. The greasy spoon café has never been so busy.

“Go on”.

“I asked about, apparently he was shot before he burned up, and there’s something else. The cause of the fire was a blast incendiary, correctly placed right in the middle of the Lab, Whoever hit us knew what they were doing. We have a problem.”

Back in Surrey Miroslav’s jaw muscles are working overtime. “Yes, a little more than I was led to believe. This wasn’t in the plan and wasn’t the course of action our source suggested. Ok, good work my friend, come on home.”

As he hangs up Senka breezes in.

Dressed for the city, she stands at a wall mirror checking her hair and makeup. Miroslav goes back to his paper but keeps Senka in his peripheral vision.

“Where are you going?”

“Into town, shopping and lunch.”

“Again? And what time can we expect you back this time?”

She just shrugs, concentrating on her lipstick. “I don’t know. I’m back when I’m back.”

She leans over to kiss him but Miroslav grabs her wrist hard. She winces.

“Hey, you’re hurting me. I’ve told you, stop fucking hurting me!”

He’s not listening. He wants her to know who wears the trousers. “Be careful Senka, we have many enemies out there.”

She wrenches her hand back and quickly leaves the room, uncertainty and fear on her face.

Outside the mansions double doors Marko is waiting with the X5. “I’m to drive you into town.”

She’s in a hurry and now pissed off with Miroslav’s little stunt. She ignores Marko and jumps in, slamming her door. Brooding away in the front seat and nursing her wrist she thinks of the real reason for going out today. She and Marko will spend a pleasant few hours together in a quiet little hotel in the country. Senka smirks to herself. Fuck you Miroslav.

Marko slowly noses the X5 along the gravel driveway to the decorative wrought iron front gates. As the gates slowly power open a couple of security heavies give him a wave from the security post. He accelerates out onto the private approach road and once clear of the CCTV coverage breaks the silence.

“You ok Senka? What’s wrong?”

“Same as usual, that fucking pig! He grabbed at me and told me we have many enemies, and that I should be careful.”

“You think he suspects us?”

“I don’t know Marco, I don’t think so. But what with us, and now the girl to worry about, things are getting very uncomfortable in that bloody dolls house of his.”

Marko shakes his head. “One of the Labs was firebombed last night, the guard was killed as well, this is bad Senka and I don’t like it. Lets just leave now. Lets just go, disappear.” It’s a nice thought but Senka is older and wiser.

“Calm down Marko, have patience. Just blindly running away will not be enough believe me.” The conversation is cut short as her iPhone gives a quick blast of Jennifer Lopez.

“Yes?”

Through the handset Senka recognises the voice trilling through the earpiece. “Its Paula, Senka. I need to meet you.”

Senka is caught off guard, this is unexpected. “Paula? How did you get this number?” Marko flashes her a concerned look.

“Never mind that. We need to meet as soon as possible.”

“What? No! Impossible. Listen I have –”

“NO! You listen Senka.” Paula’s newfound confidence unnerves her. “That shit in Deptford? Well that’s just the start. You and I are gonna meet, you got that?”

Senka closes her eyes, this is all she needs. “Paula you bloody fool.” Her mind is racing. “Okay, okay we can meet. In town though, I’ll text you later today where and when.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Paula snaps off the line.

Senka closes down her iPhone and turns to Marko who is almost hyperventilating. “Fuck Senka, this is getting out of control.” She stares at the passing countryside as if looking for an answer.

Back in her flat, Paula passes Sam’s mobile back to her. “How was that?”

Sam’s face breaks into a smile but her eyes remain cold. “Great Paula, you did just great.”

The station concourse is rammed, noisy and teeming with people jerking around in all directions as they make for train platforms, the underground or the bus terminus outside.

Billy and Ritchie carve a wake through the masses as they force their way up the steps from the tube. With daysack's slung over their shoulders they head towards the bus terminus exit. Scouser Billy zips up his fleece against the grey day. The blazing sun of Afghanistan is now a distant memory.

“I fookin hate London. I mean does anyone here actually speak fookin English?”

Ritchie grunts. “No, and that includes you. Which way then?”

“To the right, down Vauxhall Bridge Road, then the other side of Vincent Square”

“Lets go. Fuck me I need a brew.”

Billy nods. “We'll get one when we meet John at the café kidda.”

Before leaving Afghanistan the pair had been given a list of phone numbers by Ian and Taff, Paula's was one of them. She took some convincing but eventually she let them know where John could be found. In a teary phone call she also brought them up to speed on events. The Zemun Clan, Senka, Deptford and Jacks death. Billy and Ritchie quickly decided that Ian's original plan would require a degree of adjustment. The gloves were coming off, it was payback time.

They arrive at Vincent Square and then crossed to Regency Street. Ritchie takes a quick look at the Google map on his iPhone and nods in the direction of a large corner café.

“That's it.”

The Regency Café is a slightly upmarket greasy spoon that panders to city types looking for an old school full English and mug of tea. The gloss black exterior tiles and cheesecloth curtains in the windows are the stuff of legend. Sat inside at a table that gave him a good view of the door, John sits staring into his mug of tea, lost in thought. He slowly stirs his brew; a plate of bacon and eggs is ignored. It's been an eventful few days. As he looks up movement catches his eye.

Through the café's windows he can see two men approaching. They strut along like they own the place. They look confident, capable and are eyes about. John sees their suntanned faces, familiar faces. He frowns as the two men enter.