He took a cylindrical remote from his pocket; it looked like a battery, and he placed his thumb over the button at the top. The Porsche pulled almost level with the bushes when he pressed the button and closed the cinema doors at the same time triggering the IED, or `improvised explosive device` as the British press called them. Military personnel called them IFD`s or improvised formed devices, which was the more descriptive name for this type of bomb. He had used a thick piece of steel, cut into a square, which had once been part of a salad bar in a restaurant, as a base, and then he`d tacked a two foot section of a car exhaust pipe to it at a perpendicular angle.

The exhaust pipe was then packed with a home-made explosive material, which was popular with Britain`s modern Islamic terrorists. Hydrogen peroxide, which is a hair bleach, and brown cooking flour, when mixed together in the correct quantity make a powerful explosive material. The London tube and bus bombings on the seventh of July 2007, which killed over fifty commuters from all walks of life, were a sad endorsement of how effective it could be.

He knew only too well how to utilise its potential. The open end of the exhaust pipe was packed with a conical copper lump, which he had hammered into shape using every day plumbing pipe.

The effect on the Porsche was similar to the impact delivered by any other military road side device. The explosive material causes a devastating blast wave, which can only escape its confined space in one direction, toward the copper lump. The copper projectile is then propelled at six thousand feet per second toward the target vehicle, which in this case belonged to Rashid Ahmed. At that point the combined speed and density of the copper means that it can easily penetrate armour plate, so the Porsche wasn’t really a challenge. It ripped through the metal door like it was made from rice paper, flattening the projectile on impact, and making it both fatter and flatter. Then the red hot softened metal bounced around inside the Porsche turning the driver into so much flesh and blood splatter that it took the forensic units three days to bag it all. The force of the blast had buckled the Porsche in half lengthways, making it impossible to open any doors or windows. It was only dental recognition that identified the driver as Mrs Mira Rashid Ahmed.

Chapter Seventeen

Manchester

“Hello, where have you been man? I`ve been trying to ring you for an hour, init,” the voice of the caller said, when Jay answered the cell phone that he had found on the floor.

“Am I speaking to Omar?” Jay asked laughing, and he wandered toward the alleyway at the side of the Phallic Palace.

“No, I`m using Omar`s phone, init, who is this?” the voice replied angrily, confusion made the man`s voice rise in pitch.

“Oh sorry, I`ve not explained have I? I found the phone on the floor; do you know who it belongs to by any chance?” Jay goaded.

“It`s Lewis`s phone man, init, where did you find the phone at?”

“I found it on the floor,” Jay pretended to be thick.

“Where did you find the phone on the floor man?” the voice spoke slowly.

“In Manchester, I`ve found it on the floor in Manchester,” Jay bit the back of his hand trying not to laugh.

“Are you winding me up man? Put Lewis on the phone man,” the voice became angry again.

“I can`t I`m sorry,” Jay carried on enjoying the charade.

“Why not?”

“He`s a bit tied up at the moment I`m afraid,” Jay choked back a snigger.

“What about Michael man, is he with Lewis, init?” the man was becoming frustrated again. He still wasn’t sure if his colleagues were just drunk somewhere, messing him about on the phone.

“Michael has got a really bad headache man, init,” Jay tried to put on a strained Jamaican accent goading the caller even further.

“Who is this man, and all your bullshit? Put Michael on the phone right now man,” the caller shouted down the phone.

“I really can`t do that because he has a terrible headache, you see I put a nine millimetre bullet through his brain, and you can tell Omar that his days are well and truly numbered,” Jay cut the call off, and then punched three numbers into the phone, nine, nine, nine.

“Hello emergency, which service do you require?”

“Police please,” Jay stepped into the darkness of the alleyway.

“Hello Police emergency, how can we help?”

“I want to report a shooting on Canal Street, there was a fight outside Marley`s bar and the bouncers dragged a man down the alleyway next to the Phallic Palace, and then there was a gunshot, send the police quickly please,” Jay cut the call off, and then hit the `power off` button, making the cell untraceable.

Chapter Eighteen

The Terrorist Task Force

John Tankersley was the lead officer of the Terrorist Task Force. He was an ex-special forces` operative, selected to head up a taskforce which had been formed to combat the growth of international terrorism. They were neither police nor military, and they answered directly to the Minister of Defence. Their brief was to identify terrorist cells and remove them from existence, by whatever means necessary. John Tankersley was an eighteen stone fighting machine, trained in mixed martial arts, and a natural marksman and weapons expert. Everyone that worked with him called him `Tank`.

Tank had been stationed in Liverpool with the Terrorist Task Force since 1991. As a younger man he had completed a six-year stint in the British Army and was almost immediately sent to serve in Northern Ireland. He was quickly selected for a position with Special Forces before joining a mixed task force that combined military personnel with civilian law enforcement officers. Tank had joined the armed services as a seventeen-year-old boy just out of high school. He was always a well-built young man, naturally bigger and stronger than most boys his age, and he was picked for the army boxing team. Tank was a fit young soldier and he quickly became a talented pugilist. In his first competitive bout he had come up against a much older opponent from the Paratroops regiment. British Paratroops regiments have a fearsome reputation and the men that serve in those divisions are fiercely proud of their regiments. The boxing matches that were organised between different regiments held a lot of kudos, and regimental pride is always at stake. Despite his strength, Tank was not expected to win. His opponent was bigger, stronger and more talented. The fight was held over six three minute rounds and Tank had stood toe to toe with his bigger opponent every round, not appearing to feel the blows from the heavier man. No matter what combinations the talented paratrooper hit Tank with he couldn’t make any head way against the younger soldier.

“It`s like firing a pea shooter at a fucking tank! I`ve hit him with my best shots and he`s still standing.” his opponent had said after the third round. That was it. The nickname stuck, Tank.

The nickname suited him more now that he was older than ever before. Tank had become a keen martial arts exponent trained in Thai-boxing and Brazilian wrestling. The effects of combining the powerful kicks and punches of Muay-Thai kickboxing, with the lethal chokeholds and lock techniques of Brazilian Jujitsu were devastating. John Tankersley was a one-man demolition squad. He had lifted weights three times a week religiously since leaving school and had increased his muscle mass since joining the Army. His shaved head and muscular physique had an intimidating effect on most of the criminals he encountered. His Glock 9mm scared the rest.

The uniformed police division had called the Terrorist Task Force in to investigate the incident at Westbrook, as soon as they realised that it was a roadside bomb that had caused the explosion. Forensic teams had already cordoned off the area by the time Tank and his team arrived at the scene.

“What are all those people doing there?” Tank asked as he climbed out of his black Shogun.

He was pointing toward a crowd of about a hundred people who were milling about near the back of the cinema, watching the police process the scene. Tank checked his watch. It was half past one in the morning, and a little late for a group of passersby to be gathering.

“They`re the cinema goers from the late show, which finished just after midnight,” a uniformed officer greeted him and answered his question.

“Why haven’t you cleared the area?” Tank asked grumpily. He couldn’t tolerate incompetence.

“All the cars on the car park belong to them, customers and staff. We didn’t know if you would need to keep them here for forensics or not, so we asked them to wait,” the officer shrugged, a bit put out by the big man`s attitude.

“I can see from here that the blast came from those bushes that are charred at the end of the car park,” Tank pointed again.

The bushes adjacent to the destroyed Porsche were illuminated by spotlights, which had been brought in by forensic teams, and they were clearly burnt. The officer looked at the bushes and then looked back at Tank, blankly.

“Whoever set the detonator walked past all those cars toward the cinema, therefore they`re evidence. Get rid of all those people. Give them a receipt for their vehicles, and tell them to go home, and do it right now please,” Tank brushed past the uniformed officer and headed to the back of his Shogun.

He was met at the rear by his colleague Grace Farrington, who was of West Indian decent. Grace was currently one of only two female members of the Terrorist Task Force, and she was Tank`s best agent. She looked concerned as he approached her. The black skin on her forehead was creased into a frown. Her beauty still struck Tank whenever he saw her, even now after all the years that they had been fellow agents and lovers.

“What are you frowning at? You`ll get wrinkles doing that,” He pushed her gently as she stood on one leg whilst pulling on a white paper forensic suit. She nearly toppled over and punched him on his massive bicep.

“I`m looking at the state of the Porsche,” she replied, nodding toward the mangled wreck.

“It`s bent completely in half by the blast, an absolutely classic sign of an `explosive formed device`, I would hazard at a guess,” Tank picked up another paper suit and sat on the tailgate while he pulled it on over his clothes.

“I haven’t seen damage like that anywhere outside of Afghanistan, have you?” Grace asked.

“No, not even in Northern Ireland, it`s definitely Iranian technology similar to the devices they`re using in Iraq, only more powerful,” Tank answered.

There was nothing new about roadside bombs, but there certainly was something new about devices that could take out an armoured battle tank. Iranian militias had developed the formed devices, and then passed on the technology to Iraqi insurgents and the Afghanistan Taliban fighters.

“What are your first thoughts?” she asked, zipping up the front of her suit and pulling up the hood.

“If we can identify who the target was, then we have a good chance of identifying the bombers,” Tank said. He reached into the trunk and grabbed two mag-lights, handing one to Grace.

“Let`s go and see what we`re dealing with then.”

They approached the wreckage, which was now screened off from the public`s view by canvas screens. The spotlights cast a stark light illuminating the crumpled vehicle and forming eerie shadows beyond it. Graham Libby, the head forensic advisor for the taskforce saw them coming and walked to meet them on the periphery of the crime scene.

“What do you know so far?” Grace asked, looking at the Porsche with an expert eye, searching for clues all the time they spoke.

“There`s a stainless steel base plate in those bushes there,” Graham Libby pointed beyond the wreck.

“I noticed the bushes are burnt,” Tank added.

“Yes they are, and the plate is buckled. There is what appears to be the remnant of a welded exhaust pipe attached to it, and a remote detonator manufactured from a garage door activator,” he explained.

“How do you know it`s from a garage door?” Grace asked.

“It`s still intact, with the manufacturer`s name on it. They are made predominantly to activate up and over garage doors for the domestic market,” the scientist enjoyed putting the puzzle together.

“What`s the range of the remote then?” Tank mused, looking around for a convenient place to detonate the bomb from.

“Probably a few hundred yards or more,” he answered.

“That gives us a wide search area,” Grace said.

“I think they could have been in a vehicle, parked on the car park, detonated the device and then left quickly, no witnesses and no residual evidence. All we have is the device itself and the target vehicle,” Graham Libby explained.

“What information do we have on the target?” Tank asked.

“It`s a leased vehicle registered to a notorious financial institution, which has dominated the news headlines of late,” the scientist explained smiling at his cryptic description.

“Rashid Ahmed?” Tank didn’t seem too surprised by the news.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Libby noted.

“We interviewed him a few weeks back about allegations of arms dealing, but there wasn’t enough to make anything stick at the time. We investigated him and I remember one of his properties was in this area, so I guessed that he could have something to do with it,” Tank approached the mangled wreck and shone his mag-light inside, trying to find something that would confirm the victim`s identity. There was nothing distinguishable left intact.

“There are two more crime scenes in the town centre, I`ll have to move on to them when we have finished here,” Graham Libby played his trump information card.

“What?” it had the desired effect, as Tank looked puzzled, and so did Grace.

“An estate car was used to transport gas canisters and other firebomb making paraphernalia into the town centre, and then it was rigged to explode simultaneously with the head office of a certain bank,” the scientist explained.

“Rashid Ahmed`s Blackstallion finance?” Grace was intrigued.

“Exactly, I`m thinking that it was a decoy to get Rashid into his car at night when the service road was deserted,” Graham Libby held out his hands like a magician ending a card trick.

“Now that would take some planning,” Tank looked at Grace, almost impressed by the complexity of the plot.

“It also indicates a bomber with a conscience,” Grace added.

“I don’t follow that,” the scientist said.

“What Grace means is that to go to those lengths to ensure that the target vehicle was the only one on the road, indicates that our bomber didn’t want to risk any collateral damage,” Tank filled in the gaps.

“Our bomber must have wanted Rashid dead, desperately to risk an operation this complex,” Grace speculated.

“This could have been carried out simply by one man, providing the preparation was immaculate,” Tank said. He knew that a plan like this would take the training and knowhow that only a handful of Special Forces trained operatives possessed.

“I think we are looking at a Special Ops unit,” Graham Libby speculated.

“What, operating in the United Kingdom? Absolutely no chance,” Tank snorted in a derisory fashion. The thought had occurred to him, but he had dismissed it just as quickly.

“Why not? It wouldn’t be the first time a foreign national has been assassinated on our soil,” Graham Libby came back strong, remembering that it was only twelve months since a Russian exile had been poisoned with a radioactive substance in his cup of tea.

“No it isn’t, but look at the planning here. Whoever set this operation up was making sure that no one else got injured in the blast,” Tank countered.

“Tank is right, a foreign Special Ops team wouldn’t give a monkey`s who got injured. They would have taken him out and been out of the country before we found him, but this was set up to draw him out of his home, after dark, when no one else was around,” Grace joined in, agreeing with Tank.

“So that only leaves us with a few million people with the motive to kill him,” Graham Libby said, referring to the adverse news coverage that Rashid`s bank had received.

“Well if you play with fire,” Grace said.

“Then you get burned,” Tank finished it off.

“It`ll take us a couple of days to confirm who your victim is, but it seems to be clear that this isn’t a random attack. It is a well planned, well executed, targeted attack carried out with military precision and there-in lies the conundrum ladies and gentlemen,” Graham Libby said.

Chapter Nineteen

Warrington Police Station/ Terry Nick

Terry Nick sat in a stinking cell in Warrington`s Victorian built police station. The cell was twelve feet long by six feet wide, fitted with a stone cot bed and a stainless steel toilet pan. The cot had a thin rubber coated mattress on it, which stank of urine. The smell in the cell was almost overwhelming when he had first walked into it, but its noxious effect was wearing off now. He had been sat in the cell for nearly six hours now, without so much as a drink of water being brought to him. The explosion at Westbrook had taken all the on duty police officers out of the station, leaving only a skeleton staff to guard the prisoners that were already occupying cells in the custody unit. Of course none of the current prisoners knew what was going on across town.

Terry had spent more nights in these cells than he cared to remember, usually as a result of assault charges following trouble in one club or another. Few of the charges had stuck over the years, but the inconvenience of being held in custody for twenty four hours was still irritating. He looked at his watch, and then realised that the police had taken it from him when they booked him in. A flash of frustrated anger shot through his troubled mind and he stood up and kicked the heavy metal door. The pain in his toes screamed up his leg and he grabbed for the injured digits. The police had also taken his boots from him, kicking a metal door with just bare socks as protection was not clever. He hopped back to the cot and cursed under his breath, while he rubbed his injured toes. There were footsteps coming toward his cell door, and he stopped and listened for a moment. The metal hatch clunked open and a face that he didn’t recognise appeared.

“Any chance of a brew?” Terry shouted.

The hatch clunked shut again, and the footsteps walked away from his cell door, disappointment set in.

The only positive thing that he could take from the experience was the fact that he hadn’t been at liberty to organise a premature retaliatory hit on the Somali Yardies, or whoever they were. He had plenty of time to think things over while he sweated in his cell. Two of the Brigade men had been put under surveillance and then targeted in a hideous attack, designed to send a message to their organisation that the Manchester gang meant business. They wanted to take over the Brigade`s door contracts in Manchester city centre, which equated to less than five percent of their financial income. Although the Brigade fronted an extreme right wing politically active organisation, it was the business side of the organisation which allowed it to function. The contracts in Iraq and Afghanistan wouldn’t last forever. The Americans and the British couldn’t wait to get their troops out of there, which meant that the domestic security business had to be protected at all costs. The Brigade relied on its hardcore membership for its existence, and their hardcore members relied on being employed by Brigade Security Ltd. If the organisation ever had to rely solely on the subs paid by affiliates and fringe members, then they would cease to exist.

Terry Nick had time to stop being angry, and to think like a businessman in charge of a multi-million pound company, which essentially he was. All their door contracts were legally binding rolling twelve month agreements. The only get out clause for the customer was if the Brigade acted in a manner which brought the premises into disrepute, or if they lost their licence to operate as a security guard agency. The clubs that the Brigade monitored were trouble free, and their customers overlooked their political agenda because they were guaranteed to remain so. Brigade security didn’t allow anyone to peddle drugs of any description, except the dealers who paid them a hefty tax to ply their trade. This system was highly illegal however if drug supplies were not controlled and restricted then it became a free for all, so it was tolerated by the club owners, and ignored by the police drug squads, in exchange for information from time to time.

In the cold light of day, sat in his cell there was no crisis. Brigade Security Ltd had been transformed from an established and somewhat respected doormen agency, which outperformed any of their opposition, into a private mercenary army supplying well trained soldiers to allied governments, including their own. Responding to the horror of the previous evening`s events with violence would ultimately result in the Brigade losing men and their core business interests, which he couldn’t allow. The gang that had attacked them were ruthless, and there was no doubt in his mind that they wouldn’t just walk away and leave them alone. No small drug ring had tried to move into the city centre with such audacity in the three decades that Terry Nick had worked on the doors, which meant that something had changed to affect the equilibrium.

Six hours sweating in a urine stinking cell had cleared his mind and allowed him to think clearly and rationally. The difference had to be that a new ambitious leader had established himself as the new boss in Moss Side, a ruthless killer that was now looking to expand his drug business. Terry Nick was going to offer the police as much information as he could dig up from his wide circle of informants, as a public display of cooperation. Behind the scenes he was going to behead the snake that had bitten them, and redress the balance of things. At least that was his plan.

Chapter Twenty

Jay/ Canal St. Manchester

Jay looked at his watch when he heard the first siren in the distance. Six minutes had passed by since he`d called the emergency services. He smiled and walked into the Phallic Palace. Danny Holley and Brendon were lurking by the front doors, still on edge about the kidnapped Yardie in their van. Brendon was making exaggerated chewing actions, as if he had a golf ball in his mouth instead of gum. He was glaring around the busy dance floor almost daring someone to step out of line. Jay chuckled to himself at Brendon`s attitude. It reminded him of his younger self.

“Brendon have you still got your lockup in Warrington?” Jay asked, thinking that he had better get the Somali moved before the police swamped the area, but not wanting to panic the younger Brigade men into making a mistake.

“Yes, I keep my motorbike in there,” Brendon perked up, as he loved to talk about his motorbike.

“I`ll cover you here, get that van tucked away in your lockup, and make sure the Yardie can`t escape, we`ll sort him out later,” Jay grabbed his arm firmly and guided him toward the back of the club.

“What`s all the panic about Jay? He`s not going anywhere,” Brendon hated being ordered about, and he didn’t want to miss out on the action.

“The police are on their way Brendon, now get that fucking van out away from the city centre, and do it now,” Jay glared down at Brendon and saw the flicker of anger in the younger man`s eyes, but he also saw fear.

Brendon thought better of antagonising a Brigade General and snatched his arm away from Jay`s grip. He stormed off toward the fire doors at the back of the club. Jay breathed out a sigh of relief and looked around the club. Danny Holley sidled up to him, not wanting to be left out of the action.

“Where`s Brendon going?” he asked annoyingly over the sound of the blaring music.

“He`s moving the van,” Jay turned toward him.

“Why, what`s the rush?” Danny looked put out that he hadn’t been consulted before one of his men was sent home.

“Shut up Danny,” Jay said.

“Don`t tell me to shut up,” Danny puffed out his chest and sucked in his beer belly, but Jay wasn’t paying any attention to him, he was looking around the busy bar area.

“Shut up Danny, who is dealing in here?” Jay glared at him.

“Tom Welsh, he`s over there,” Danny flushed red with anger and pointed to a fat man standing next to the gents toilets.

Jay walked through the crowd quickly toward the dealer. The dealer wasn’t familiar with him as Jay usually handled the dealers in Liverpool. The dealer saw the massive skinhead making his way in a bee line for him, and expected the worst.

“Hello mate I`m Tom, Danny knows that I`m working here,” he said as soon as Jay was within hearing distance.

“Good for you, now I need you to do something for me, and we`ll forget tonight`s rent,” Jay grabbed his arm in a vice like grip and pushed him toward the front door.

“Okay mate, there`s no need to drag me, what do you need me to do?” the fat drug dealer complained as he was practically carried through the crowd.

“Stand near the footbridge, and when the police arrive tell them that you saw the bouncers from Marley`s bar dragging a black bloke down the alleyway,” Jay said and pushed him out of the door.

“You`re fucking joking aren’t you, I`m a dealer,” the fat man shook his arm free and faced Jay.

“I`ll make sure that you never deal again anywhere my fat friend, now do as you`re told and stand by the bridge,” Jay pushed the unwilling man away from the club as the first police cars screamed down the canal banks on both sides.

The policemen were members of an armed response team, and the only unit that could enter a potential gun crime scene, until it had been declared safe for their fellow officers to attend. Two vehicles screeched to a halt and one of the officers barked a series of orders to the others. Three officers approached the baffled doormen outside Marley`s reggae bar with their guns drawn.

Jay couldn’t hear what was being said across the canal, but within seconds the two burly black bouncers were pinned up against the wall being frisked. Two more police cars arrived and uniformed officers entered the reggae bar, within minutes the music had been turned off and their customers were being processed outside. There were three uniformed policemen taking names and addresses, checking ID`s and asking questions.

Jay watched with interest as two of the armed response team made a quick search of the bouncer`s alcove. Voices were raised and several more officers ran to the alcove when the Berretta was discovered underneath the stack of magazines. The black doormen began to protest that they knew nothing about any guns, but they were already handcuffed against the wall. Jay couldn’t hear the words but he could see them becoming agitated. One of them panicked and tried to run. He only succeeded in making it three yards before a swarm of uniformed officers were on him, batons drawn. Jay grimaced as the baton blows rained down on the bouncer`s arms and legs, beating him into submission. He could hear the black man shouting for them to stop but the beating went on about sixty seconds longer than was necessary, especially since the man was already cuffed. A blue custody van arrived on the scene and the two doormen were manhandled into the back by half a dozen over eager policemen.

“What`s going on Jay?” Danny Holley was on his shoulder again.

“I`m not sure mate to be honest, looks like something has gone off at Marley`s bar,” Jay lied, the less said the better.

“I`m not fucking stupid Jay, what`s happening?”

“Well if you`re not stupid mate, then you can tell me what is going on, because I haven’t got a Scooby doo,” Jay walked away toward the front door and nudged it open with his knee.

Police cars were manoeuvring around the side of the Phallic Palace, forming a metal barrier between the nosey public and the entrance to the alleyway. There were three officers huddled together discussing their next move when another one of their colleagues approached them, leading Tom Welsh, the fat drug dealer with him.

The drug dealer pointed to the alleyway as he explained what he had allegedly witnessed. The policemen took his details and made a fuss of thanking him.

“What is Tom Welsh doing talking to the dibbles?” Danny asked Jay. Jay ignored him.

One of the officers organised a search team consisting of six uniformed policemen, and they set off down the alleyway using long metal torches to illuminate their progress. Jay lit a cigarette and waited for the inevitable gruesome discovery, and sure enough before he had smoked it halfway down the body of a black man had been discovered in a skip with a bullet through his brain.

Chapter Twenty One

Terry Nick/ Alan Williams

Tank was sat behind a mirrored glass window watching Terry Nick talking to his legal representative. He recognised the Brigade leader. The Terrorist Task Force had the Brigade under permanent watch, as did the security services, MI5 and MI6. Right wing groups like the Brigade were becoming more and more prevalent across the British Isles as the country`s education and health services buckled under the weight of immigrant numbers. Integration was becoming a myth as religious and ethnic ghettos appeared and began to fester in every major town and city. Racism was becoming an everyday fact of life as resentment grew, and organisations like the Brigade fed on the hatred. Racist attacks were on the increase, and were becoming better orchestrated every day. There had been discoveries of weapons grade explosives made, uncovered by covert agents who had infiltrated right wing groups. Tank feared that it was only a matter of time before material of this type fell into the wrong hands undetected.

The door to the interview room opened and two plain clothed detectives entered. They both looked dishevelled, collars unbuttoned and ties hanging loosely down at odd angles. The officers were unshaven and red eyed, obviously well past the end of one shift, and a considerable way through the next. They didn’t speak as one of them ripped the cellophane wrapper from an interview cassette, and slotted it into a recording machine. The detective pressed play and record.

“This is the recording of an interview with Terrence Nickolas, present in the room are detectives Bill Smith, and John Jones, and legal brief,” the detective nodded to the lawyer, indicating that he had to confirm his presence.

“Alan Williams,” the lawyer said, running his hand through his thinning hair.

“Terry, I can call you Terry can`t I?” the detective began, trying to build a rapport.

Terry didn’t respond to the detective`s feeble attempt to break the ice. He stared at the policemen.

“We have spoken to the doctors at the hospital, and your friends are both in intensive care. One of them is undergoing reconstructive surgery to reattach his hand,” Jones tried to make a connection.

“What can you tell us about the men that attacked them?” Smith asked.

Terry looked to his brief, and he nodded for him to answer the question.

“There were two cars, both two door hatchbacks, both customised with big bore exhausts and boom box stereos,” Terry began to explain the evening`s events.

“What about the men?”

“They were all tall, all skinny and all black, probably Somali,” Terry said.

“What makes you think that they were Somali?” Jones interrupted.

“I travelled to Kenya on holiday a few years back, all the security guards were from Somali because they`re tall I think. They have distinctive facial features,” he explained.

“Anything else?”

“The gunman had gold teeth,” Terry added.

“It`s all a bit vague Terry,” Smith said.

“What do you mean vague?” Terry snarled. “It was dark and the headlights hid them from view, all we could see was silhouettes, and the next thing there was a fucking Mach-10 blasting bricks off the building. What should I have been doing, taking notes?”

“Calm down Terry. We`re trying to catch the men that killed Mandy Bates, and hurt your friends,” Jones interrupted trying to calm things down.

Terry looked at detective Jones and sat back in his chair. His lawyer placed a hand on his arm trying to settle him.

“You were close to Mandy weren`t you?” Smith enquired.

Terry sat bolt upright again and glared at the detective. His lawyer put his hand on his arm again, but he was coiled like spring.

“What`s that supposed to mean?” Terry asked, taken aback by the inference.

“Just exactly what I said, people have told us you two were close,” the detective shrugged indifferently. He was probing for a reaction, looking for Terry`s weak spots.

“No comment,” Terry fastened down the hatches.

“Do you think she was shot to get at you personally?” Jones pushed.

“No comment,” Terry was finished with cooperating, before they had even got started.

Detective Smith realised that the interview was going nowhere. Everyone was tired and tetchy, so he began to change tack.

“Look Terry, we`re trying to get to the bottom of why anyone would attack you and your men, killing Mandy Bates in the process,” the detective coaxed.

“In my business you make a lot of enemies, as you well know, and you know who most of them are without me telling you,” Terry said wearily.

“Fair enough that`s true, but why this tonight? Why so brutal Terry, there must have been some reason?” the detective asked, opening another button on his shirt. He rolled up his sleeves.

“It`s a brutal world detective, someone wants to move in on our business interests,” Terry explained.

“Okay, I want to turn your attention to another issue,” the detective placed two photographs in front of Terry Nick. His lawyer slid them closer and studied them intently.

Terry sat back and folded his arms, raising the barriers again.

“Do you recognise these places?”

“No comment,” Terry didn’t recognise them, but they seemed familiar somehow.

“This is the Blackstallion bank in the town centre,” Smith pointed to a picture of the remains of an entrance doorway, reduced to a gaping black maw. The mangled remnants of a double metal doorframe lay on the pavement twenty yards away from its previous home.

Terry chewed a nail on his little finger ignoring the detective. The policeman pushed the picture closer to Terry angrily. Alan Williams spoke for the first time during the interview.

“My client has no knowledge of this and we will not answer any questions relating to it, on the grounds that he may incriminate himself,” the lawyer quoted the law book verbatim.

“What about this?” Jones pointed to a picture of a twisted car wreck.

“No comment,” Terry said without looking at the photograph.

“This vehicle belonged to the owner of this bank,” Jones pointed to both photographs in turn.

“No comment.”

“We think that someone firebombed the bank in the knowledge that the owner would be contacted, and then blew his car to bits,” Detective Smith made wide circles in the air with his hands, depicting an explosion.

“No comment.”

“Are you actually going to ask my client a question?” the lawyer interjected.

“We are investigating an act of terrorism against a Muslim businessman Mr Williams and we are giving your client the opportunity to divulge any information that he may be in possession of,” the detective pressed the point, never taking his eyes from the Brigade leader, looking for the tell tale signs of guilt.

“No comment.”

“We think that the perpetrator has a military background, and probably belongs to a racist organisation like the I8th Brigade,” Smith continued.

“That is not a question detective,” the lawyer made a note on his file.

“We will need a list of all your active members Terry,” Jones jumped into the fray.

“That information is protected by the data protection act,” Alan Williams didn’t even look up from his note making as he spoke.

“Not if the information protected is, or becomes, part of an investigation which could lead to the apprehension of terrorists Mr Williams,” the detective countered.

“My client is not a terrorist detective, and the fact that he is here helping with your enquiries reinforces the irrefutable fact that he was elsewhere when these incidents occurred,” the lawyer looked straight into the detective`s tired eyes. They were getting nowhere. The police were on a fishing trip, but nothing was biting.

“We have not accused your client of anything other than being in possession of information which could benefit a murder inquiry,” the detective spat back, slamming his pen down on the table.

“I think the detective is getting pissed off now,” Terry turned to his lawyer sarcastically.

“I think so too, you don’t have answer any more questions unless they charge you with something,” the lawyer picked up his papers and started to pack them away. The police detectives looked to each other for inspiration but none was forthcoming. Their silence said everything that Alan Williams needed to hear.

“Then if there`s nothing further then I must insist that you release my client immediately,” the lawyer tried for checkmate.

“Your client is going nowhere until we get some answers,” The detective slammed his hand on the desk.

“Oops! Calm down now officer, you`ll do yourself a mischief if you`re not careful,” Terry sniggered at him.

The policeman stood up quickly, his chair scraped noisily across the floor. Terry Nick jumped up to meet him and the two men glared at each other across the table. Alan Williams placed his arm on Terry`s shoulder and whispered into his ear.

“Don`t give them any excuse to hold you.”

The door opened and in walked a heavily decorated police chief. Terry didn’t recognise his rank, but he looked important. The two detectives blushed red and looked perturbed at the senior officer`s interruption,

“Do you have anything to charge Mr Nicolas with?” he asked curtly, showing no emotion at all.

“Chief Constable, sir we are interviewing Mr Nicolas as a key witness to a violent murder late last night.”

“I asked you if you were going to charge Mr Nicolas with anything detective,” the chief flushed angrily, his hands shaking slightly.

“Not at this stage sir.”

“Your client is free to leave,” the chief spoke to Alan Williams, completely ignoring the Brigade leader. Terry smirked across the table at the silent detectives.

“But sir, we haven’t finished questioning the witness.”

“Are you deaf detective?”

“No sir.”

“Then see Mr Nickolas out of the station and do it now,” the chief nodded at the solicitor and slammed the interview room door behind him.

Tank watched the scene from behind the two-way glass and turned to Major Timms.

“What just happened there then?” he said confused and amused at the same time. He hadn’t expected anything much to be gleaned from the interview in the first place. The Brigade seemed to be a tight run ship nowadays.

“I think someone further up the pecking order has applied some pressure, don’t you?”

“They must be very high in the pecking order because that was the Chief Constable of Cheshire,” Tank remarked.

“Do you think he was withholding anything?”

“What about the roadside bomb?”

“Yes, and the bank,” the Major added.

“No, I don’t think he knew anything about it. His face didn’t even flinch when they showed him the pictures,” Tank answered rubbing his shaved head with a big hand.

They watched slightly bemused as the Brigade leader left the room with his solicitor, followed by two angry detectives.

Chapter Twenty Two

Lewis

Lewis woke up in a very distressed state. His mouth was so dry that he couldn’t swallow, and when he tried he was gagging on something that had been stuffed into his mouth. His head was foggy with alcohol, and it took him several minutes to realise that he`d been bound and gagged. The sound of a diesel engine and the sensation of moving at speed indicated that he was in a vehicle, but he couldn’t understand why anyone would tie him up and kidnap him. He swallowed hard and gagged again almost choking. There was the distinct taste of white spirit on the material that was in his mouth, and it was making him nauseous.

He tried to recall what had happened prior to waking up in this nightmare, but it was a drunken blur. He remembered being in a gay bar on Canal Street, because the Yardie gang that he belonged to weren`t welcome in the clubs frequented by mostly black customers. They had made too many enemies within the Afro-Caribbean communities of Moss Side, especially since the arrival of Omar to the gang. It was dangerous going out into the city centre anyway, but with just two of them they daren`t risk Marley`s bar or the other reggae clubs. In hind sight it was a mistake going to town, full-stop. The gang members had been warned that there was something big going down, and to take precautions, but the call of women and beer had been too tempting to resist.

Lewis had been born in the coastal town of Marka, one hundred miles south of Mogadishu, Somalia. He had been brought up as strict Muslim by poverty stricken parents, who struggled daily to feed their eight children. At ten years of age he had been taken to the capital city, Mogadishu by his father, and sold to a militia for three bags of rice and some powdered milk. The militias were always on the lookout for new recruits. In return for pledging allegiance to the militia the young recruits were fed daily and given an endless supply of drug weeds, which they chewed every day giving them a cocaine type high. It was here that he`d first encountered Omar.

Omar was older than Lewis and already had a reputation as a cold blooded assassin. He feared no man, which is a valuable attribute in a cauldron of violence like Mogadishu. As time went by more and more rival militias had a price on Omar`s head. His notoriety was becoming a liability to the entire militia, which wasn’t the strongest outfit in the city by a long chalk. Eventually the militia leaders realised that Omar was worth more dead than he was alive and they betrayed him by setting him up to be taken by a neighbouring gang. If captured he would have been tortured to death as an example to others. Lewis caught wind of the plot to betray his older comrade, and he warned him of the conspiracy. They both left the city under the cover of darkness and headed for their new life in Britain. Lewis looked forward to a new life, a life of peace. He couldn’t have been further from the truth. Omar had ambitious plans and a driving desire to achieve his goals regardless of how they affected anyone else. Lewis was dragged along in his wake.

Once in the country they headed for the Somali community in Moss Side, and soon joined their ranks. Lewis was mesmerised by the city centre and its night life. He had never seen white women in the flesh and he became obsessed by them, partying at every opportunity. While Lewis was becoming a social animal, Omar was becoming an animal of different type. The two men drifted apart as they established their relative positions within the gang, Omar as the new ruthless leader, and Lewis as a fringe member, rarely given anything important to do.

Lewis realised with a jolt that Michael had been winding up the skinhead doormen all night. He had joined in himself although he wasn’t sure why. There was a foggy memory of going outside to answer his phone, and then he recalled a concussive blow to the back of the neck. Now he was trussed up like a prize pig, and he had no idea where he was being taken, or by whom. There was one thing that he had learned from his experiences in Mogadishu, and that was when someone was kidnapped and tied up, it rarely had a happy ending.

Chapter Twenty Three

Terry Nick/ Jay

The sun had been up a few hours when Jay eventually woke up. He was still tired. The police found the Yardie’s dead body in a skip down the alleyway and had shutdown everything on Canal Street. Jay had slipped through the back doors of the club and headed for his motorbike, leaving Danny Holley to coordinate their men in Manchester. Everywhere had been quiet, and there were no other sightings of any of the Somali gang members.

There was a loud banging on the front door, which dragged him from a deep slumber. He stood up and wiped sleep from his eyes. In front of him there was a wide mirror fixed to the wall and he caught his reflection in the glass. Thick heavily muscled shoulders and arms, covered in tattoos supported his massive neck and shaved head. He slapped his belly and breathed in, any desire to own a six pack had been beaten down by age and a taste for beer. The loud knocking at the door began again.

He walked down the stairs stealthily, stepping lightly on the carpet with bare feet, suddenly feeling vulnerable in just his boxer shorts. Heavy bangs on the door again made him jump. There was a baseball bat positioned next to the front door, leaning against the frame in case of emergencies. It would take a brave crew to come looking for Jay, but it was not unheard of, and the audacity of the Yardies had taken everyone by surprise. He picked up the bat and held it behind his back, hidden from view by his legs. Then he slid the security chain into place. It wouldn’t stop a sustained attack, but it might hold an attacker long enough for him to make a quick getaway. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Open the door dickhead,” Terry Nick barked through the narrow gap between the frame and the door.

“Fucking hell Terry! What are you doing here?” Jay complained as he unfastened the chain and opened the door.

“I need a word in your ear,” Terry growled as he pushed past him into the house.

Brendon followed Terry like a mini-me into the house, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Alright fatty,” he sneered and patted Jay on the belly as he walked by him. Jay breathed in instinctively.

“Don`t push your luck Brendon, it`s too early in the morning,” Jay scolded the younger man.

Jay followed Terry Nick and Brendon into the kitchen, feeling like his personal space had been invaded. Terry was filling the kettle with cold water from the tap in silence. Jay was worried as to the reason for this uninvited incursion into his home. Terry plugged the kettle in and switched it on. He opened a cupboard door and rummaged around for teabags and a sugar bowl, which he placed on the worktop next to the kettle. Then he reached in again and came out with a packet of Hobnobs. He took the first three from the top of the packet and stuffed the first one into his mouth, and then passed the biscuits to Brendon. He followed suit eating hungrily from the packet.

“Just help yourself why don’t you?” Jay snatched the biscuits from Brendon and put them back into the cupboard, slamming the door shut. Brendon burst out laughing, and sprayed the kitchen with half chewed Hobnobs.

“We need to talk Jay, but we are tired, and hungry, been awake all night in the cells,” Terry Nick said.

“That`s fine Terry, but I`m not having this little toe-rag walking into my home and taking the piss out of me,” Jay stepped toward Brendon and stabbed a chunky finger in his chest.

Brendon fronted up, but he stood a long way short of the big general, and a good three stones lighter. He would definitely have come off second best against Jay. Jay glared down at the younger skinhead, and Brendon backed down and broke his gaze, thinking better of annoying him.

“Brendon tells me that we have a surprise package in his lockup,” Terry said ignoring the standoff next to him, and pouring boiling hot water into three mugs.

“That`s right,” Jay said, turning away from Brendon and opening the refrigerator to remove a bottle of milk.

He smelled the white liquid to confirm that it was still fresh, and then passed the bottle to the Brigade leader. As he turned toward Terry Nick, Brendon was standing directly behind him, holding his index finger to his lips and pointing through the kitchen window. Jay was confused and looked at Terry, who nodded slowly and placed his finger to his lips, in a shushing action. Brendon grabbed a post-it-note pad from the fridge, which had a small plastic pen attached to it by a coiled plastic extendable spring. He scrawled one word on the pad.

`Police! `

“I`ll have two sugars in mine,” Jay said looking out of the window, but he couldn’t see anything untoward.

“I was questioned for three hours by detectives this morning,” Terry said, adding milk to the steaming brews, as if he was talking about the weather.

“About the shooting at the Turf?” Jay played along with the charade.

Terry Nick passed out the hot tea to each of them, and slurped a mouthful of his own before replying.

“Well, they obviously wanted our witness statements, but they spent more time quizzing me about a firebomb attack at that bank in town,” Terry moved his hands in a circular motion indicating that they should draw out this particular conversation.

He put down his tea and picked up the note pad and pen, and he started to scribble something that Jay couldn’t see from where he was standing, so he moved closer to him, sipping his tea as he went.

“Why would they be asking you about that then?” Jay waffled.

“They seem to think that is was a racially motivated attack, and that we might know who did it,” Terry continued to scribble.

`I think we were followed by a surveillance team, don’t say anything about the Somalis` the note read.

“Why would they think it was us?” Brendon piped up, trying to join in the pretence, but not quite having the intelligence to carry it off.

Jay and Terry looked at each other in disbelief, shaking their heads.

“Have you had a look in the mirror lately you stupid twat?” Jay answered him. Brendon flushed bright red realising how stupid he had sounded. His hand went to touch the swastika tattoo under his right ear almost unconsciously, confirming that he looked every inch the racist thug that he was, as did all his colleagues.

“I wish we had done it,” Terry nudged Jay and pointed to the notepad, “Whoever it was did a blinding job of it. They firebombed the bank and wacked the owner when he was called out to the fire. Now that is classy, well impressed I am.” Terry finished writing and passed the note to Jay.

Jay read the note, nodded and started to scribble the answer to Terry`s written question, while keeping up the staged conversation for the benefit of the police surveillance team.

“That would take an awful lot of planning. I don’t think any of our boys could have pulled that off without someone knowing about it, do you?” Jay said.

“No way, I think they are barking up the wrong tree, but we`ll have to investigate just in case, we`ll need all the rotas for the last week or so, and then we can see if anyone has been absent without leave,” Terry took a long gulp of tea, and read what Jay was writing.

Brendon looked on a little bored of the game now that he`d realised that it was better if he kept quiet. He picked his nose and pulled out a meaty piece of snot, which he studied closely before wiping it on the side of Jay`s refrigerator.

`I have a CD of our last meeting. I`ll put it on then you two fuck off out of the back door the Somali boss is called Omar, his missus lives on the fourth floor, number 43 Salford Towers, off Cross Lane. I`ll meet you at the lockup in a few hours` Jay`s scruffy handwriting was barely legible.

Terry nodded in the affirmative, and finished his tea with one huge gulp, and he folded the note into his jean`s pocket. He patted his huge general on the back, a gesture of praise and gratitude. Jay went into his living room and flicked through some CD cases until he found the one he wanted. He looked at the label and then thought for a moment. The one underneath was more suitable. It was an interview with a reporter from the Liverpool Echo newspaper, who wanted to talk about the increase numbers of disgruntled people joining up to right wing organisations like the 18<sup>th</sup> Brigade. It was mostly himself and Terry waffling on with well prepared answers, which they had since edited for use elsewhere. He slotted it into the stereo and pressed play. Terry`s voice filled the room mid sentence, explaining that the Brigade was ultimately a legitimate limited company, often maligned and blamed for any racist attacks that occurred in the north of England. Jay turned it down a touch and then went back into the kitchen. He pressed play on a cassette recorder that lived on top of the fridge. The right wing skinhead band Screwdriver burst into song, adding to the sound of the recorded interview.

Terry passed Jay his car keys, shook his hand, gave him a bear hug and slipped out of the back door. Brendon passed Jay, thought about bear hugging him, and then thought better of it. He jogged through the back yard catching up to the Brigade leader, and gave Jay thumbs up sign as he entered the alleyway at the rear. Jay closed the back door deftly and headed upstairs. He was going to get an hour`s sleep while the police listened to no one. It would take at least an hour before they realised that the recording was on a repeat setting, by which time Terry would be free from surveillance, and a team would be well on the way to Salford Towers.

Omar would wish he`d stayed in Somalia.

Chapter Twenty Three

The Arsenal

Dano had been released from the cells in Warrington an hour before Terry Nick. He`d made a few calls and arranged for one of the Brigade members to pick him up from outside the police station. His junior colleague turned up in a dark blue Jeep Cherokee, the old model with the square bonnet. Dano opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat, rocking the vehicle as he did so with his considerable weight.

“I thought you might be hungry,” his junior handed him a brown paper carryout bag from McDonalds, two Big Macs, large fries and a fried apple pie, washed down with a chocolate shake.

“You are a fucking superstar,” Dano said stuffing the salty fries into his mouth with one hand, and ripping open the first Big Mac box with the other. He didn’t speak for a few minutes while he chomped his way through most of the food. Quick service restaurants had become the staple diet for doormen across the country, as the burger giants started to open their doors twenty four hours a day.

“One of our informer friends in the police station called me and said that you were being released. He also said they`re questioning Terry about the firebomb in town earlier on, and that a surveillance team had been sanctioned to watch us.” The Brigade men had informers within the ranks of the uniformed police.

The Brigade welcomed ex-service men into their ranks, as did the police force. Many ex-army personnel shared the anti immigration ideals of the Brigade, and organisations like them. The sympathetic police officers were a constant stream of information which kept the Brigade one step ahead of the law. There were many officers disillusioned by the rising crime rates following the deluge of foreign immigrants. Political correctness gone mad had left the police handicapped when they were dealing with foreigners and the race card was played at every opportunity. Nine times out of ten suspects walked without being charged, leaving the police snowed under with useless paperwork to complete upon their release.

“They`ll follow Terry, not us,” Dano said with a mouthful of burger and fries.

“That`s what I thought,” the junior said.

“Have you heard anything from the hospital?” Dano asked.

“Yes, they`re still trying to reattach Norman`s hand, and Dithering is out of surgery but still in intensive care.”

“I think we need to break out the weapons, before the police start tailing us,” Dano crammed the last piece of Big Mac into his mouth and reached for the apple pie box.

“I agree, we`ll head over there now if you want to,” the younger man selected first gear and the Cherokee pulled away from the kerb, heading down the deserted street.

Dano bit into the hot apple pie and the thick sticky interior burnt his lip. It didn’t deter him from taking a second bite as he removed his mobile phone from his breast pocket. He punched in two numbers, using a speed dial and then waited for the quartermaster to answer. The quartermaster was an old soldier, once a proud member of the Red Berets, 2^nd Parachute Regiment. They were an elite fighting force if ever there was one. His father had seen action in the killing fields of Normandy toward the end of the Second World War, when they had been part of the biggest parachute drop of all time, dramatised in the movie `A Bridge too Far`. The military tradition continued when he followed his father into the service, and joined his father`s regiment, and then his son also followed him, and gained the prestigious Red Beret too.

The quartermaster held a large stock of the Brigade`s automatic weapons in his cellar, where he lovingly stripped, cleaned, and serviced the machineguns, keeping them in excellent condition. Although he was well into his seventy third year he was still as spritely as many men twenty years his junior. His son had been part of the Brigade in its formative years, before leaving home to join the parachute regiment.

Old Jim, as he was called, kept in touch with his son`s friends when he left to join the paras, and he attended some of their meetings and became involved in the organisation eventually offering a safe haven for their weapons, and a free maintenance service to boot. The Brigade kept a reasonably small arsenal in his cellar, which was used only in emergencies or for training exercises. Their training was done covertly because of Britain`s strict gun laws. Old Jim shared the Brigade`s racist ideals and was only too happy to help, especially because it meant he could still be around guns. Jim would be a soldier till the day he died.

He was woken from a troubled slumber by the telephone, and he recognised the caller from the illuminated display.

“Hello Dano, is there trouble, it`s the middle of the night?” the quartermaster said sleepily, rubbing his tired eyes and searching for his glasses. He put them on and reached for his alarm clock to verify the time.

“Hello Jim, sorry it`s so late, or early, but we need some gear”

“I gathered that, what do you need?”

“Half a dozen Uzis, five hundred rounds, and a dozen fragmentation grenades should do it Jim.”

“Fucking hell Dano! Are you starting world war three or something?”

“Yes, something like that, but we didn’t start it.”

“Does Terry Nick know your taking the gear?” the old soldier was a stickler for protocol, and he made sure authorisation from a senior Brigade man was given before he`d hand over any of the arsenal.

“He`s banged up, but he`ll know as soon as he gets out Jim, we`ll be thirty minutes,” Dano clicked off the phone, avoiding any further argument from the old soldier. He liked Jim, and had once been good friends with his son, but he could be a real pain in the arse when anyone needed a weapon.

Jim struggled to swing his weary body out of bed, while his joints remained stiff from slumber. He pulled on a pair of loose tracksuit pants and padded into the bathroom. He sighed as he relieved himself, dark urine filling the pan, an indication that his kidneys were not working as well as they used to. Jim lifted the lid off the cistern and removed a sealed plastic bag which contained the keys to his cellar. He headed downstairs treading slowly, allowing his knees to loosen up as he descended. There was a doorway beneath the stairs which he opened to reveal a small cupboard containing his gas meter and a few carrier bags full of old books. Jim moved the carrier bags and placed them behind him in the kitchen. He rolled the frayed carpet back and exposed a brass ring pull, which he tugged, lifting up a concealed trapdoor.

The trapdoor hid a steep set of wooden stairs which descended into the gloom of a large cellar area. Jim walked down the first three steps and then felt for a light pull that was hanging from the ceiling. He pulled it, illuminating an awesome display of automatic weapons attached to the wall and laid out on the work benches. The cellar had the aroma of old wood and gun oil, mixed with polish and white spirit. The atmosphere was dry and warm, ideal for storing mechanical weaponry and avoiding dust and rust, which had cost many a soldier his life. A jammed weapon is no more use than a club in a battle zone.

Jim approached a workbench and placed a large suitcase on it. He removed an Uzi machinegun from its holding bracket on the wall, and handled it fondly as if it were a much loved pet, or a fragile antique vase rather than a lethal killing machine. He took an oil cloth and wiped the cold dull metal lovingly, wondering at its deadly beauty. The weapon slotted into a moulded inner, inside the suitcase, alongside two similar weapons. Jim repeated the process with three more machineguns, and then added a box of nine millimetre slugs, before locking the cases shut.

Jim carried the heavy cases up the cellar stairs one at a time and put them near the back kitchen door. He returned to the arsenal and used a thick moulded plastic toolbox to store a dozen fragmentation grenades. The grenades were stored beneath the workbench, kept inside a cool storage box which was designed for picnics and camping. He noted that the lid on the box next to it was on the wrong way around.

Jim looked at the box for long moments trying to remember if he had checked the contents recently, he hadn’t. He was fastidious about his arsenal, and where everything was kept. None of the Brigade men came down into the cellar. When weapons were needed Jim packed them and then left them in a left luggage locker at the bus station. That way if the Brigade were ever caught in possession of illegal firearms the weapons dump would still be a secret. Years ago the Brigade lost all their firepower in one foul swoop, which taught them a harsh lesson not to put all their eggs in one basket.

Jim lifted the lid from the cool box and panic set in. He caught his breath in his chest and looked in disbelief. The Brigade had acquired six kilos of military weapons grade explosive, just a month ago. Jim had been very uncomfortable storing the material, but after some research on the internet, and some monetary persuasion he`d conceded. As he trawled through his mind for an explanation he picked up the empty box and stared into it, as if six kilos of explosive were hidden in the corner somewhere.

He shook his head searching for an explanation, but there wasn`t one. Only a handful of the Brigade knew that there was cache of weapons. There were rumours about an underground arsenal, but none of them knew where it was, or about the trapdoor, or where he kept the keys. Jim sat down on a stool and continued to look open mouthed into the empty cool box, shaking his head in disbelief.

He hadn’t moved it.

He hadn’t mislaid it.

Someone had gained access to his house, located the keys and the hidden trapdoor, removed the explosive and returned everything to its rightful place without leaving any evidence of the incursion.

As his mind raced realisation hit home. He couldn’t tell Terry Nick that the explosive was missing, presumed stolen. No one would believe his story. They would assume that he had panicked about storing it, lost his bottle and dumped it or worse still, sold it for a profit. Either way he wouldn’t see another birthday, and that was a fact. The telephone rang again.

“Jim it`s Dano,” he had lost track of the time while he had been traumatised.

“Hello mate.”

“Never mind hello mate, where the fuck are you?”

“I`ll be ten minutes, I`m leaving now.”

“There isn’t a problem is there?”

“No.......no problem, I was stuck on the loo that`s all, bad guts, you know how it is at my age,” Jim tried to control his nerves.

“Yes you silly old fart, hurry up,” Dano hung up impatiently.

“I am a silly old fart, you have no idea exactly what a silly old fart I really am,” Jim said down the phone to no one but himself. He had that twisted sick feeling in his stomach, the one you get when you are really scared.

The only person that knew where the arsenal was, had come back from Afghanistan a year ago, and he was so badly injured that he hadn’t left hospital yet.

Chapter Twenty Four

Salford Towers

Lewis felt the van come to a halt and he hoped that they would kill him quickly. The white spirit soaked rag that gagged him had caused painful blisters in his mouth, and he couldn’t swallow properly. The plastic bag ties that bound his arms and legs were digging deep into his flesh, and the more he struggled the deeper they cut. He`d heard voices surrounding the van shortly before, and then the engine had been started. He felt the vibration of two passengers climbing in beside the driver before the doors were slammed shut. The journey was a mystery to him as the occupants in the front of the vehicle remained silent for the duration of the trip.

The backdoors opened and he sensed daylight entering the back of the van through his blindfold. Strong hands grabbed at his legs, dragging him out roughly. He felt fingers fumbling with his blindfold and then there was a blinding pain as his eyes tried to become adjusted to the sudden rush of light. Lewis squeezed his eyes tight, and then opened them squinting and blinking to become adjusted. He saw six men stood over him, hooded and dressed in dark clothing. They were all carrying machine pistols, which he recognised as Israeli Uzi nine millimetre weapons. As his eyes began to focus one of the men removed the stinking gag from his mouth, and he heaved, bending double and vomiting stale alcohol onto the floor, splattering six pairs of shiny combat boots.

“Dirty twat,” Brendon jumped back out of vomit range.

“Shut up Brendon,” Jay said through his balaclava

“I`m getting sick of you lot telling me to shut up,” Brendon responded being churlish.

Jay slapped him hard across the face with the palm of his big hand. Brendon`s head was knocked sideways by the force. Jay was tired and his nerves were on edge. Terry had stayed at the Brigade headquarters. He`d been released from the cells only to be informed by his men that he was under surveillance. Only a flash of brilliance from his general, Jay, had thrown the police off his trail. He had then contacted Dano and arranged to meet up with a crack team of men, armed and ready for a retaliatory attack. Terry spent all day planning the attack, waiting for the sun to go down so that they could use the darkness as an ally. Two Brigade men had been sent to the tower block earlier to make sure that Omar hadn’t already left the building. They couldn’t risk their business interests with open gang warfare, so this would be a one off decisive attack, aimed at beheading the Somali gang, and sending them back to selling crack on the street corners of Moss Side. He could not jeopardise their international business by being implicated in criminal activity of any kind. He intended to come up with a plan of action, and then disappear from the scene.

“Now is not the time Brendon, so shut the fuck up,” Jay leaned toward the smaller man as he spoke. Brendon remained silent, but he was tempted to use the machinegun that he held tightly in his hand.

Jay saw the glint of defiance in his junior`s eyes, and he knew that this was the end of the line for his young colleague. He couldn’t tolerate insubordination, but he couldn’t allow anyone with as much inside knowledge as Brendon had to walk away either. It was a shame, but he had seen it coming for a while now. He turned back to the trussed up Somali, who appeared to be confused by the dispute between his hooded captors.

“What`s your name,” Jay grabbed the Somali by the jaw and lifted his head up at an obtuse angle.

“Lewis.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“No,” said Lewis trying to look around, but his head was locked into place by the Brigade leader`s grip.

Jay rolled his captive`s head right and left, allowing him to see the tower block behind him. There were only a handful of lights still burning, as the rest of the inhabitants slept unaware of the danger lurking below.

“Do you know where we are now?” Jay snarled into the Somali`s face.

“Salford Towers.”

“We know where Omar`s woman lives, fourth floor number forty two right?” Jay lied.

“That`s right man,” Lewis lied too.

“Good,” Jay said nodding, “Is the door reinforced?”

“No way man,” Lewis lied again.

Jay pointed to the back of the van, and Dano reached in and grabbed a sledgehammer.

“Ask him again Dano,” Jay said stepping away from the lying Somali, allowing his much bigger colleague room to swing the hammer.

“What number does she live at, is it forty two?”

“Yes man, I told you it was forty two,” Lewis stared into Dano`s eyes trying not to show any fear or anxiousness.

“But your friend Michael told us it was forty three, just before my colleague shot him through the head.”

“I`m confused then, I`m sure it is number forty two, init,” fear crept into his voice as realisation that his friend was already dead set in.

Dano swung the sledgehammer in a high sweeping arc, bringing the seven pound metal head down on the Yardie`s foot. Brendon smothered the man`s scream with his hands and struggled to control him as his body jack knifed in pain. Lewis shook his head quickly pleading with Dano not to hit him again. His eyes widened and tears ran down his face as he watched in terror as the hammer swung again. The hammer struck the same foot again, crushing the few remaining bones to a pulp. It was only his shoe that kept the mangled flesh attached to him.

Lewis lost consciousness for a few brief moments, but was rudely awakened by a hard slap across the face.

“I truly hope that you`re no longer confused Lewis,” Dano said leaning on the handle of the sledgehammer like it were a walking stick.

Lewis shook his head and gasped for breath. The pain in his foot was unbearable. All feelings of loyalty to Omar had gone before the second blow had landed, sadly too late to save him from the terrible torment that he now suffered.

“What number does she live at?”

“Forty three, she lives at forty three,” his words came out in short rasps.

“Is the door reinforced?”

“Yes, it has a metal door inside the front door, and there is a view hole cut into it.”

Jay looked at Dano and nodded thoughtfully. Metal inner doors were par for the course wherever drug dealers were concerned. They were virtually impossible to smash down using tools. It would have to be opened from within or blown off its frame with explosives.

“He keeps a weapon behind the door, a sawn off shotgun,” Lewis offered the information freely, pain was dulling his mind and his body was going into shock.

“What do you think Jay?” Dano turned to his boss.

“I`m wondering if our friend Omar will open the door for his man Lewis, especially if he thinks he`s hurt,” Jay mused.

“We`ve brought grenades,” Brendon interrupted.

“We just want Omar, not to demolish the fucking building,” Jay snapped.

“I`m thinking more of a two pronged attack. My brother told me about them from his army days, like the Iranian Embassy siege,” Brendon continued, excited by the prospect of using hand grenades properly, as opposed to tossing them into a lake in the middle of nowhere, just to see what happens.

“What the fuck are you on about Brendon,” Dano asked incredulously.

“You have to think outside the box in the military,” Brendon repeated his brother`s favourite saying.

“I think he`s off his box, never mind outside it,” Dano was becoming frustrated.

“Look, you`re all stumped because the Yardie has told us that the door is reinforced. Do you think that would stop the SAS?”

“I`m going to shoot him in a minute,” Jay said quietly.

“The front door is not the only way into the flat, but it is the only way, that they will expect you to come in.....you see?” Brendon became animated as he tried to explain.

“It`s four floors up Brendon.”

“So how do they wash the windows then smart arse?”

Jay was shocked and stunned, but also pleasantly surprised.

“What have you got in mind Brendon?” Dano was catching up with him slowly.

“There will be a window maintenance cradle on the roof, so you go to the front door, and draw their attention, while I toss a couple of grenades through the windows. Simple, you don’t even have to go in,” Brendon was giddy with excitement.

“I think I like this thinking outside the box idea,” Jay said. He liked it a lot, as he could kill two birds with one stone, literally.

Chapter Twenty Five

`Tank`

John Tankersley woke up and stretched his huge arms, trying to loosen his shoulder joints. He was incredibly muscular in build, which meant that he often woke up with cramp and dead arms, due to his weight squashing his limbs as he slept. The telephone was ringing on the bedside table next to him, and he knew that it must be work. He felt a sharp dig in the ribs, prompting him to answer the ringing phone.

“Answer it you lazy oaf,” Grace Farrington always sounded husky when she awoke, and it turned him on. That and her well toned body too.

“Agent Tankersley,” he said gruffly, sounding like he had just woken up.

“Morning John,” Major Stanley Timms sounded as perky as only he could in the middle of the night. The Major was responsible for the Terrorist Task Force, and the only person that Tank answered to. He was an ex-Royal Marine, Green Beret officer with a war record that would make Rambo blush.

“Morning Major.”

“I`ve had the results on the roadside bomb back from forensics.”

“What do they tell us?” Tank yawned and stretched again.

“The victim was indeed a member of the Ahmed family, unfortunately it was Mrs Ahmed in the vehicle,” the Major said matter of factly.

“So, someone has scored a miss,” Tank said.

“That`s what I thought, if they missed their target then they could be tempted to try again,” explained the Major.

“Assuming that her husband was the target, does anyone know where he is?”

“He`s not been traced yet, but we`re pretty certain that he`s in the country somewhere. We have to assume that he was the target,” the Major answered.

“It doesn’t help us to identify the bombers though does it?”

“No evidence at all on that front, the bomber was very thorough in removing incriminating DNA, so I suppose we are still faced with the usual suspects,” the Major stated the obvious, as the operation had been too well planned to be tarnished by a simple mistake.

“I`ve been thinking about when we watched the interviews with the 18^th Brigade men, including their leader Terry Nick,” Tank said.

“What did you make of them?”

“They have come a long way from the last time we were involved with them, more sophisticated, far more intelligent and legally well protected. They`re far better organised than they ever were, and exceptionally well funded, but...,” Tank left the sentence unfinished.

“But what?”

“Their leader didn’t seem to be hiding anything, although he made a no comment interview to most of the amateurish interrogation, I really don’t think he knew anything about it. He almost seemed intrigued by the crime scene photographs and impressed by the operation logistically,” Tank recounted his observations.

“We have had a very unusual directive from Westminster regarding the Brigade,” the Major spoke cryptically.

Grace had been lying still and listening to one side of the conversation, but she needed to pee, and she climbed out of the bed and walked across the room naked toward the bathroom beyond. Tank wondered at the muscular curves of her body, accentuated by her black skin.

“Don`t tell me we can shoot them all?”

“Unfortunately not, quite the opposite in actual fact,” the Major skirted the details, drawing out the conversation.

“We have been instructed not to investigate the 18^th Brigade unless we have irrefutable evidence that they have been involved in terrorist activities.”

“I don’t understand, why would anyone protect them?”

“Does Blackwater Worldwide mean anything to you?”

“Of course they do. I had to work with some of their cowboy security guards in Iraq. What have they got to do with it?”

“They are a little after my time really, what do you know about them?” Major Timms hadn’t been operational for many years.

Grace walked back into the room with two steaming cups of coffee. The cups held a full pint, and were printed with the Disney character Grumpy, a reference to Tank`s demeanour in the morning. She passed one to Tank and then scrambled back into her side of the bed. He looked across at her beautiful black body and remembered how they had become lovers.

Grace Farrington had beaten all the other female applicants during the selection trials and most of the men too. Whole rafts of men from a myriad of regiments were asked to apply to make the new Terrorist Task Force, along with a handful of women. She had finished third overall after the gruelling physical tests of strength and stamina. Her father had been the first ever black man to reach the rank of Regimental Sergeant Major in the British army, although he fought tooth and nail to prevent Grace from joining up, she stuck to her dream and was now at the ultimate peak for enlisted soldiers. She had become a key member of the elite taskforce, which consisted of the cream of Special Forces. Tank took a sip of his coffee and carried on talking to the major.

“To cut a long story short, they were formed by an American Navy seal called Erik Prince in the late nineties, initially as a security contractor. They are based in North Carolina where they now have the largest tactical military training facility in the world, training upwards of forty thousand men every year, military offensive training, defensive operations and close personnel protection techniques,” Tank had learned a lot about Blackwater during his last tour of Iraq.

“Forty thousand men every year, almost a small army.”

“That is exactly what they have become. At the last count they had hired and trained over one hundred thousand men, all ex-military or ex-security services. The American government has a multi-billion dollar contract with them to provide close personnel protection all over the world, especially in Iraq, the Middle East and Afghanistan,” Tank explained.

There had been uproar amongst the allied soldiers on Tank`s last posting when Blackwater troops began to arrive in Baghdad. They were earning three times the salary of a normal enlisted British soldier. They also operated with impunity, mercenaries allowed to run amok without consequence. The American government brought them in to relieve the stress on their conventional troops, initially as bodyguards, but as time progressed they were tasked with protecting embassies and government facilities.

On September 16^th, 2007, Blackwater guards opened fire in Nisour Square, Baghdad, killing seventeen civilians. Witnesses said that the mercenaries attacked unprovoked and continued to fire on civilians as they tried to run away. An FBI investigation found that at least fourteen of the dead were killed unjustifiably, and there was no evidence found to corroborate claims that the civilians opened fire on the Blackwater mercenaries. Because of their impunity they could not be prosecuted by either Iraq or America.

“It would seem that our government is in negotiations with sixteen large security companies in the British Isles, looking for them to provide a similar role in active battle theatres, releasing our troops for the front line,” the Major explained sounding very concerned.

“What, and the 18^th Brigade are one of those companies?”

“They are not just one of them. The Brigade are being favoured because of their numbers and military style hierarchy. When that is combined with their apparent success at controlling violence they are on a short list. They have a surprisingly large number of ex-military personnel, policemen and security guards within their ranks,” the Major said.

“I can`t believe Westminster would want to build a mercenary army.”

“It`s just for personnel protection apparently.”

“That`s how Blackwater started, and now they protect facilities as far away as the Philippines and Indonesia. Did you know that they were the first troops to be sent to New Orleans after hurricane Katrina hit?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Within twenty four hours they had shot three alleged looters,” Tank recalled.

“All that aside do you think the 18^th Brigade are involved in this roadside bomb attack?”

Tank remained silent while the thoughts bounced around inside his bald head. The rise of giant security firms and mercenary armies across the Western world was a frightening concept, but a very real one too.

“I don’t think that the organisation planned and executed the attack, no,” Tank admitted somewhat reluctantly.

“Then we leave them alone for now. I`ll speak to you when you get into the office,” the Major sounded reluctant too.

“I`ll be in shortly Major.”

“Oh, one more thing John.”

“What`s that?”

“Say good morning to Grace for me please,” The Major rarely acknowledged that they were an item, it was against taskforce guidelines, but on the odd occasion he let it be known that he was aware of it.

“Yes Major, see you later,” Tank smiled and hung up the telephone on its cradle.

“What did he say?” Grace asked.

“He said that I had to say good morning to you for him,” He turned to her and pulled her lithe body close to him.

“How long have we got?” she whispered into his ear, her breath sending shivers down his spine.

“Long enough.”

Chapter Twenty Six

Salford Towers

Brendon stepped out of the lift on the top floor of the tower block and knelt down in a military defensive position, pointing his Uzi one way, and then the other, down the silent corridor. He pulled his balaclava down over his face and ran toward the roof access door. There was a rusted padlock hanging from a clasp and bracket fitting. Brendon had a small eight inch wrecking bar on his utility belt. He`d stolen the belt from his soldier brother the last time he was home on leave, before he`d been released from active service on mental health grounds. His brother was his hero, and a decorated veteran of three tours of Iraq, but the final tour had taken a heavy toll on the mental health of his older sibling, resulting in him being sectioned for months at a time, as he slipped in and out of severe fits of depression.

Brendon had aspirations to follow his hero brother into the army, but a long list of minor criminal offences on his youth record had stopped him from joining up. The army refused to take young offenders into their ranks. He had dealt with the disappointment by joining the 18^th Brigade, which was the closest thing to a military organisation that he could find, and they utilised his excessive penchant for violence to the full.

Brendon slipped the bar into the padlock and snapped it down quickly with limited noise, no louder than a door being closed. He paused and waited a moment, listening for the sound of anyone moving behind the closed doors, alerted by his lock breaking.

He couldn’t hear anything untoward so he opened the heavy door and entered the narrow stairwell beyond it. He closed the door behind him, leaving the access shaft in almost total darkness. There was a light switch next to him, but he was relishing his covert mission, and so he opted for a small penlight from the belt. That`s what his brother would have done, never expose yourself until you`re ready to be seen. As he switched the penlight on, a circle of light appeared on the stairs in front of him. There were six stone steps between him and the next door. He bounded up them in two strides, and then twisted the roof access door handle, which opened without complaint. There was no separate lock attached to it. The block management had assumed that if you had reached the roof door, then you must be an authorised key holder.

On the roof he immediately spotted the maintenance cradle to his right. He ran toward it and leaned over the lip of the roof wall, trying to coordinate his position with that of the target flat. The height was awe inspiring. He could see right over the entire city, a panoramic view of a million twinkling streetlights stretching to the horizon. He looked down over the edge of the high rise tower block, and the vehicles below him looked like fixtures in a model village. A torch blinked from the car park six hundred feet below him. Brendon waved his penlight in answer to them, letting them know that he was in position.

The torch light below moved across the car park and then climbed up the wall of the building, stopping above the window of flat number forty three, confirming its position to him. The cradle needed to be moved about seventy yards to the left, in order to be positioned directly above the fourth floor flat. The cradle was twelve feet long and hung from two U shaped bars, which were welded to a guide rail on the roof. The guide rail had a winding handle attached to it, and Brendon turned it quickly. The well oiled cog twisted silently, and the cradle moved without making a sound along the edge of the roof.

Brendon leaned over the wall and checked the position again. It was set directly over the target row of windows. He cocked his leg over the wall and stepped into the cradle. The cradle swayed gently and he grasped the edges and froze, frightened by the dizzying height, yet flushed with adrenalin and excitement. He checked his kit again, three hand grenades, a lump hammer and his Uzi, all present and correct. Brendon crept along the cradle slowly toward the electric pulley motor. There was a square metal control box attached to the cradle by a thick extendable flex. He put the penlight into his mouth and gripped it between his teeth while he studied the buttons, up, down, and stop. He grinned in the darkness and pressed the button marked down. The cradle rocked gently as the motor whirred into life and began to descend toward the unsuspecting targets below.

Chapter Twenty Seven

Lewis

Lewis regained consciousness with a jolt. He blinked and looked around, trying to get his bearings. The harsh reality of his situation came crashing down around him as he felt himself being dragged across a tiled floor. There were two sets of strong hands holding his arms in a vice like grip. He could see a trail of blood smeared across the beige tiles, which was leaking from his tennis shoe. The pain in his foot and ankle was mind numbing. It felt like it was on fire. The gag had been stuffed back into his mouth and he couldn’t swallow. The back of his throat tasted of acidic vomit and white spirit. He tried to shout for help, a futile attempt to escape the horror of his desperate circumstances. A crushing blow to the bridge of his nose deterred him from making any more noise. Blood ran freely from both nostrils and the thick coppery taste of his own life force mingled with the others, making him queasy. He felt like he was going to vomit again, but he knew that to do so would choke him.

The surroundings changed as he was dragged into a lift. Stainless steel walls daubed with graffiti, and numerous bodily excretions, and the overwhelming stink of urine floated into his surreal world of pain. Lewis felt like his senses were being completely swamped, pain, panic, and fear mixed with a sickening myriad of tastes and smells. He knew that he was probably about to die, but he still couldn’t embrace it. He wanted to fight it. All the years of war and violence that he had experienced in his native Somalia flashed before his eyes. He could have died a million times before this moment. He wondered if he had survived all that Somalia had thrown at him only to die with a stinking rag choking him to death. The elevator doors opened and he was dragged out onto a wide landing area.

Each landing led to a small community of ten apartments, five to the left hand side, and five to the right. There were three two bedroom flats on each side, and two, three bedroom flats on the other, which balanced the use of the architectural living space. The even numbers were to the right, and the odd numbers were to the left. Lewis felt himself being dragged to the left of the landing. His injured foot snagged on the lift door as he was pulled through it, sending stabbing bolts of pain shooting through his body. He arched his back, every muscle in his body tensed to combat the pain. He screamed in agony but the gag muffled the sound to a garbled cry. There was another heavy blow to his already broken nose, rendering him useless. Unconsciousness dragged at his befuddled mind, mercifully dulling his senses. He heard voices whispering but they seemed very far away now, as his brain began to shut down, and he drifted toward the darkness.

“That`s the door.”

“Text a message to Jay with your mobile and tell him that we`re here.”

“Cut his hands free.”

“Who`s got the nail gun?”

“It`s here, hurry up and cut him free.”

The screen of the mobile phone glowed and it beeped as a return message arrived.

“Jay is at the fireman`s switch. He`s going to kill the power as soon as Brendon has reached the windows.”

“Tell him to fucking hurry up, if someone comes out of their flat we`re fucked.

“Shut up; nail him to the wall opposite the door, directly in front of the spy hole.”

“Help me lift him he`s out of the game, a dead weight.”

“Hold his arm up there, I`ll put it through the palm of his hand, and one through the wrist so that it doesn`t rip out.”

Lewis heard the whispering, but it was dream like. It didn’t affect him anymore. Pain was a thing of the past, or that`s what he believed for a few precious moments, until the first nail punctured his right hand, pinning it to the wall. He was shocked back into the land of the living just in time to feel a second nail punched through his wrist. He gagged, and his eyes widened, almost busting out of his head. Hot stinging tears ran like small rivers down his face and his body started to convulse as his left hand was nailed to the wall in similar fashion. The volume of his struggling cries was increasing despite the gag. A solid punch to the stomach knocked the wind from his lungs and his body sagged, supported by the cruel nails. Lewis was delirious with pain and agony, wanting death to come and release him from his torment. The overriding sensation of warm blood running down his outstretched arms, tickling his armpits was surreal. For one brief second he thought he had died, but he hadn’t, it was just the lights going out as the power in the building had been turned off at the mains.

“Take the gag out.”

“What?”

“Take the fucking gag out, we need him to make some noise.”

A hooded Brigade man snatched the gag out of Lewis`s mouth, and he gasped clean untainted air deep into his lungs. He took another deep lungful and then started screaming for Omar`s help. The Brigade men skulked in the darkness of the corridor and waited for a reaction.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Omar

Omar stood in the bedroom looking through the window into the night. Across the road was the head office of McDonalds, the burger giants. A brown brick building built on the outskirts of the city, beneath the tower block, because the real estate value of the land was significantly lower outside of the city centre. The burger moguls had made doubly sure that their administration headquarters wasn’t just a financial drain on the system by building a huge drive thru restaurant adjacent to it, generating a constant profit.

The Golden Arches glowed brightly, an icon of the Western World. Omar drew deeply on a joint, allowing the noxious fumes to fill his lungs and seep into his blood stream, spreading its narcotic effect through his body. He was adjusting to cannabis resin. The Somalis recruit young men and boys into militias by offering food and lodgings, plus as much Khat as they could use. Khat is a drug weed, unique to Somalia. It is distributed at lunch time in the form of blades, similar to long grass, and is chewed throughout the day. The cumulative effect of the drug is displayed by the gang members as the day wears on. Fear disappears, and aggression takes control, resulting in fierce battles between rival militias, most of which are instigated by the excessive use of Khat.

Omar yawned and moved away from the window. He was thirsty and needed to drink water. He still found the taste of clean cold running water from the tap heavenly. His girlfriend, Gemma, stirred in the double bed, reaching over to where he should have been lying. They had spent all day sharing drug fuelled sex, stopping only to roll another joint or sniff another line of cocaine. Gemma`s pale skin seemed luminous in the darkness. She was strawberry blond, almost platinum sometimes and other times golden, depending on how the light caught her hair. She had highlights bleached into it which made it shine, and catch the eye. Omar stared at her body in the glow from the streetlights outside. She was built like a goddess, lean where she should be, curvy at the hips with a flat stomach and a narrow waist. He treated her body like a sexual theme park, his first white woman, his first blond, brilliant white teeth and the smile of an angel. She moved again and he smiled as he opened the bedroom door and headed toward the kitchen.

He poked his head around the doorway as he past the living room. There were two of his affiliates crashed out on the armchairs, one of them still holding a long black Colt 45 as he snored. The television was still on, casting shadows around the room as the scenes changed. There was an ashtray overflowing on the coffee table in-between the sleeping Somalis. Omar deduced that they had smoked at least half a pound of weed between them, little wonder they were sleeping. He walked over to the television and switched it off, plunging the living room into darkness. He chuckled to himself as he walked back toward the door, and then he stopped suddenly. Omar thought he`d heard something, scraping outside the window. Maybe it was intuition developed by years of living in fear for your life, or maybe it was the drugs making his hearing muddy. He looked toward the window and stared at the heavy drapes, trying to see through them with his mind`s eye, piercing the curtain material and the glass beyond, searching the darkness outside for danger. He stepped toward the drapes and reached for the Colt, when suddenly the power was cut and the flat was plunged into darkness. It was only moments later when he heard the screaming start.