Sabre Six : File 51 (4 page)

“Go on then
, you fucking wankers, fucking do it! Come on, do it!  Come on – do it then, you bunch of pussies!”

“Shut the fuck up
, Michael, shut up!”

I heard the door go: i
t rocked throughout the house. I fucking shit myself literally. A flash bang was thrown in the hallway. I closed my eyes and prayed like fuck. I could hear double taps all over the place as it instantly filled with a cloud of white smoke. The noise was shattering, and I was deaf as a post after. Men came running into the kitchen, screaming like fuck.

“Cut him down! Cut him fucking down!” I was very confused as
to what the hell was happening: I was still hanging upside down.

It was soon over! Before I knew it, I was carted off in the back of an ambulance and escorted to the nearest hospital. It was three days later that I was woken up by Stanley himself. I was greeted with a bunch of pansies and a box of toffees which I couldn’t eat because my mouth was so swollen. The piss taking arsehole!

“You feeling better
, Michael?”

“Yeah, a little!”

“Killeen got away but we’ll get him mate, don’t worry.”

“Good. He’s
definitely on my most hated list now.”

Stan laughed.
“It’s a shame you didn’t die mate.”

“Yeah
, why’s that then?”

“Because I’d
have moved in with Hannah and shared the money from your death; I’d have been loaded for a few months.” We both laughed.

“It’s good to see you again
, Stan. I’ve been working all over mate – you know how it goes, buddy.”

“Yeah
, I know.”

“Oh
, and before I go, one other thing!” He threw me a brown envelope and walked out of the ward. I used my better hand and looked inside. It was filled with fifty pound notes. Good lad, Stan!

Chapter Two: Sabre Six – File 51

French Connections:
b
efore I tangled up with Stan and Ryan Killeen I was working in Paris as a bodyguard for a somewhat important man – French industrialist, Claude Pierre, a billionaire businessman.

My eyes slowly open to the sound of a howling dog whining downstairs. Griffer is the most annoying, yet lovable bastard you could ever meet.  I try to shut my eyes once more, but his annoying tantrums continue, totally disturbing my sleep.

M
y legs slide over the side of the bed; I am still momentarily attached to my pillow, and I leave a little dribble patch for later.

My body kick-starts itself as I nod off again, jerking me into consciousness. Fin
ally picking myself up, I glide slowly over to the mould now growing on my window ledge.

“Hello
, is there anyone in?” Nothing but silence. I stroll downstairs in my boxer shorts. “Is there anyone here?” No one answers.

“
They must have gone out already.” I continue talking to myself.

The Dr
agon, (well, that’s what I call her in an affectionate way of course!) otherwise known as my darling wife Hannah, works in a bank, and my little one, Fran, is at school, at East Bridge Primary.

I open the fridge door, and then grab a carton of full
-fat milk. Just the way I like it.

Closing it behind
me, I spot a note the Dragon has left for me. Is she taking the Michael?

I’ve already done that j
ob. I mowed the lawn yesterday! She wants me to pick up the dog poo too. “How rude!” I continue to moan to no one in particular. Pouring the milk over my Cheerios, I sit down at the breakfast bar. It looks nice outside, from what I can see. The dog is at my feet begging for food. “Griffer, go away you little bugger!” Griffer continues to sit there until I finally give in and throw him a Cheerio to chomp on.

I finally get to munch away on my own favourite cereal. Griffer does
what he likes and wanders into the garden through the open back door. We’ve tried everything, from group classes, to smacks on the bottom. We even tried one-to-one treatment with a specialist and the sod still continues to annoy me!

My cereal spoon drops from my bowl and then falls to the floor. “Bollocks!”

I shout aggressively for Griffer to get inside. “Get in your bed, you naughty boy, and stop barking, you sod!” He looks so innocent, bless him! As Griffer comes through the back door, he bangs his tiny head on the glass door, poor little sod. I give him a little cuddle and a belly rub.

“You just couldn’t write it could you Griffer, hey?”

I sit down and listen to a bit of Jeff Buckley on my iPhone, chilling out with Jeff and Griffer whilst sipping on my tea. Jeff has a beautiful voice. I would definitely say that his version of Hallelujah is, in my view, his masterpiece.

The song ends, and I cuddle
the dog for a couple of minutes. Looking down at Griffer I reflect on the past. My job in Paris had not been an easy one.

Three months ago, my mate Smithy set me up in a job working for a top firm in London. He was also an ex-regular. I met Smithy in London, and was soon shaking the hand of a fella called Ken. He was a big old bastard. His nose had been broken more times, than fat people have had hot dinners. I had seen a lot of hard men in my time but our Ken was even harder than that. Underneath his explosive shell, though, he was a family man with a heart of purity. His only dress code was shorts and a rugby shirt. We had bets in the regiment that they’d bury him in his rugby shirt. Ken was the boss, the man that issued out contracts. Before you did anything, you had to meet Ken first. If he didn’t like you, he’d say it to your face and you’d be on your way home. Ken seemed happy with me and we signed the contract!

A week later, I flew out to Paris from Gatwick, meeting Smithy over there at the airport. He smiled at me, ran over and slapped me across the back.

“It is bloody good to see you
, my old friend!”

“You too, Our Kid. So where are we going then? What’s the job Smithy?”

“Minor details, Michael, minor details. Just relax. Would one fancy a quick pint later after meeting the boss?” I gave him the nod. After a drive in the most cramped conditions –
a small Ford Fiesta stinking of chips and cigarettes, and with my legs crushed up in the back seat – we finally arrived at an old building just outside the city.

Smithy rang the bell. A tall fella in a black suit opened the door. I could see a Browning 9mm pistol in a pouch under his arm.

“For God’s sake, Smithy, what have you got me into here?”

“You’ll soon find out
, lad.” He laughed.

I was ushered into the lounge by a large figure, who stood by the door holding a pistol.

I sat down in a dusty old armchair feeling like a right plank. Smithy went into the kitchen and got the brews on. The gorilla thing kept looking at me.

“Michael, do you still take two sugars buddy?”

“Yeah, go on mate, two please. Oh, and nice and milky, just like you’re sister used to take it.”

“You cheeky little bastard!”
Even the ‘Missing Link’ released a minor smirk.

Smithy brings the brews into the lounge. A very smart and clean-shaven male shadows him closely. I would say his age was about forty-five and not a day younger.

“There’s your brew, mate.” It was not bad at all.

“Michael, I would like you to meet the boss. This is Pierre.”

I put my tea down and shook his hand up and down, enthusiastically acknowledging his authority. I needed this job.

He spoke
perfect English.

“Hello
, Michael. I have heard a lot about you.”

“
Thank you, Sir! All good I hope!”

He smiles, “Yes, yes
, Michael. So you were in the SAS, Michael?”

“Yes that’s right
, Sir. I need a job, Sir. Things have been a little rough lately, and I’ve got a wife to pay for, and also I’m up for a challenge, Sir.” I was trying not to play the family bullshit too much, but just make him aware.

“Well, that’s all good. My name is Pierre Cudon. I
work for Intelligence here in France; I also work very closely with the British and American Intelligence Agencies. You know how it all works, Michael. We all walk along the same path.”

“We sure do
, Sir!” I said, sounding as endearing and interested as I could.

“Not long ago,
Claude Pierre received a ransom demand for the sum of 150,000,000 Euros, or his son would be taken and killed.”

“Jesus Christ, this fella’s
worth a small fortune then?”

“Very much so
, Michael. He has contracts in the oil industry, building empires across the world. He has a lot of contacts in America: and I mean contacts at the highest level.”

“I got you, Sir. So what do you want me to do and when can we start?” He smiled and the others laughed.

“Good man! We knew we could count on you.”

Smithy told me to drink my bloody tea; it was getting cold and I was not getting another.

“So, what will I be doing then, Sir?” He put his brew down and looked me in the eye.

“Your job will be to babysit the
son. Just keep him safe until we pick these bastards up and put them away.”

“When do I start?”

“Monday, Michael. Is that ok with you?”

“It
all sounds good to me.”

“We’ve
nearly got them, Michael: we just need a little more time.”

“Ok
, boss.” I stood up, and then shook his hand up and down for more reassurance.

“It looks like we got our man
, Smithy.” Pierre walked out the room, patting Smithy on the back.

“Well done
, Michael!” Smithy was happy.

“Come on, Shit for Brains. Let’s go out and get
you a pint.” I quickly rang Hannah, reassured her, and then met up with Smithy.

We jump
ed in a cab, and I didn’t understand a word he was saying. I know the basics of French but I’m not that good. Our Smithy knew the lingo all right – he was a dab hand at it!

The driver dropped us off in a small town, and we
walked over to the alehouse. It looked like the place was full of pretentious twats, and they all stared over at us, but Smithy said the place was safe. He walked to the bar and bought the first round. Anyway, after my eighth pint I started to relax and was soon past caring. I even chatted to a few of them, and they seemed to be a good bunch. I couldn’t hang out with them all night, though. It was getting late and I had to get back to my hotel. Shame!

The next morning it felt like someone had taken a turd in my mouth. Giving Hannah a call on her mobile, I caught her just in time. She was just about to start work. I told her that I loved her and
hoped our Fran was ok. Fran grabbed the phone off her mum and told me she loved me. I was over the moon, telling her I would be home soon. She knew not to ask questions: she was a good girl.

I couldn’t hold it down any longer. I lifted the toilet seat and puked down the hole.

“What a waste of mo
ney!” I made myself a brew and got dressed.

Smithy wanted to meet up with Ken
, who was en route from Arras where he had been on a fastball job. I was told that Ken had been babysitting a French barrister. He’d pissed a lot of people off with a mafia case, so a price was put on his head and he’d received a few death threats in the last few months. The worst part was that his eleven year old kid had been threatened with a knife at school, so through a mate knowing a mate they sent our Ken in and he sorted it out.

I met Smithy outside my room – some swish room in the centre of Paris. Smithy had excelled himself on this one.

“Did you sleep well, Michael old chap?”

“Yes, I passed out about three I think. I was watching some French porn channel, and then I think I passed out on the best bits.”

“You’ve let the side down Michael, mate!” He was laughing his butt off.