Authors: Robert Muchamore
Dee shrugged. ‘Then tell me what you know and pray it makes me happy.’
‘We got the information about the cocaine off this guy. He’s black, but I don’t think he works for you.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Kelvin Holmes.’
Major Dee looked towards Colin. ‘I don’t know that name. You ever hear it?’
‘From my boxing days,’ Colin nodded. ‘Kelvin used to coach in the old gym on the Thornton Estate. Had a shot as a pro-fighter, but got busted for dealing.’
Dee raised an eyebrow. ‘You talking about Keith Moore’s old gym?’
Colin nodded. ‘Which means Kelvin’s probably mixing with the Mad Dogs now.’
Major Dee turned back to Aaron. ‘You hear this Kelvin say anything about Sasha Thompson, or the Mad Dogs?’
Aaron nodded. ‘Well … not
exactly
about the Mad Dogs, but Kelvin put us in touch with this brother who said he’d give us a good price for whatever coke we stole.’
‘And what was his name?’ Dee asked.
‘That I don’t know, I
swear
. But everyone seemed to think that he worked with the Mad Dogs – and come to think of it, I heard one or two others say that Kelvin was one of Sasha Thompson’s boys too.’
Dee’s eyes bulged like ping-pong balls. ‘I knew Runts weren’t capable of this,’ he hissed, as he threw down the drill and pounded a fist into his palm. ‘Sasha hasn’t got enough manpower to take me on, so he sets up a war with the Runts …’
‘Makes sense,’ Colin said.
Michael was relieved that Aaron wasn’t getting tortured, but in every other way this was the worst thing that could have happened. Major Dee knowing that Sasha had robbed him could only lead to an all-out war.
Dee smiled at Aaron as he pulled a money clip out of his pocket and began peeling twenties. ‘You know the Mad Dogs created a lot of trouble for you? I’ll need a man on the inside. Here’s a hundred pounds. I’ll pay you more every time you tell me what you hear about the Runts and Mad Dogs.’
Aaron was in no position to refuse Dee’s offer. He’d been expecting a drill through the back of his head and his smile was pathetically grateful as he grabbed the banknotes fluttering into his lap.
‘But don’t deceive me,’ Dee warned. ‘Colin’s been through your wallet. We have your address and a picture of your family. Any slips and you be back here with the Black and Decker.’
‘I understand,’ Aaron stammered. ‘I completely understand.’
‘Glad you do,’ Dee nodded. ‘Now you better prove where your loyalty lies.’
‘I won’t mess you about, Dee. I’m not a smart guy like you or Sasha. All I’ve ever wanted was a bit of extra money to make things good for my girl and my baby.’
‘How
nice
,’ Dee grinned. ‘But Owen Campbell-Moore was a long-standing friend and I bet you know details of the other boys that were around when he got done in.’
Aaron looked edgy. ‘Not addresses and everything, but I know all their names.’
‘That’ll do,’ Dee nodded, as his eyes turned to Michael. ‘Mickey boy, have a look around. There’s gotta be a pen and paper in this house.’
As Michael began lifting back the plastic sheeting to look in cupboards around the room, Dee continued to explain. ‘You going to write down the names and everything you know about the men who killed Owen. Then at the bottom, I want your signature.’
Aaron looked worried as Michael found an airmail pad and a pen inside a bureau and passed them to Major Dee.
‘If that got out I’d be a dead man,’ Aaron whispered.
‘As long as you’re loyal to me, you have no problem,’ Dee said, but nobody believed that for a second.
Major Dee hadn’t become boss of the Slasher Boys without some guile and cunning. But his defining characteristic – some said his Achilles heel – was his capacity for swift and completely ruthless violence.
Most people starting a war with a man regarded as one of the cleverest criminals in the country might have sat down and put some thought in. But Dee was angry that Sasha had made him look foolish, and while the Mad Dogs were a small crew, Dee was all too aware that they had informants everywhere. He reckoned the only way to ensure complete surprise was to attack immediately.
Once they’d ditched Aaron, Michael and Colin took part in a mass ring-round of Major Dee’s most trusted associates. Within an hour a meeting was taking place in a private room above the Green Pepper, and by the time the sun had dropped, Michael was part of a posse, with four vehicles gathered in an empty lot behind a fried chicken shop and a car wash.
The lead car was a dilapidated Range Rover with huge bull bars over the headlamps. The eighteen-man crew was tooled up with everything from baseball bats to machetes and the pride of Major Dee’s gun collection, a Skorpion ultra-compact machine gun.
Dee was paranoid about traitors and made it clear that he didn’t want anyone ringing out on their mobile phones. Michael managed to sneak into the filthy bathroom at the chicken joint and text Maureen Evans to say that something big was going down, but Dee had given no clue about the target. The only sure thing was that people would get seriously hurt.
*
The Mad Dogs’ first team were three-nil up, which made Sasha Thompson happy enough to embrace sweaty players as they headed into the clubhouse at half-time. Bruce was playing away with the under-fifteens, but James and Junior had turned out to train for the Sunday league side.
The first team and the various Mad Dogs youth teams took their football seriously, playing in competitive leagues with proper kits, three paid officials and an FA qualified coach. In contrast, the two Sunday sides played in a local pub league. Their yellow kit was shabby because the first team got a couple of years’ wear out of it first, and Thursday night training was usually nothing more than a couple of warm-up laps and a kick-about.
The youngest Sunday players were James’ age, whilst the oldest were flabby-legged men with rose-tinted memories of the first team behind them. James was no fan of playing in the cold, but once he’d accepted that he was going to end up muddy, he had a pretty good time of it. He was fit enough to side-step all but one of the crazy tackles and fast enough – at least in such mediocre company – to look like a half-decent footballer.
On the other hand, Junior was a disgrace. James had sparred in the ring with Junior when they were both twelve. He’d been shorter than James, but Junior had been lightning quick and even with gloves on you knew all about it when he hit you. But the intervening three years had seen James continue combat training while regularly running and lifting weights. Junior had developed a taste for cigs and a tidy cocaine habit, and the only time he ran anywhere was when the cops were on his back. Junior was still young enough to look OK, but he struggled to keep up with the ball and a sixty-metre run down the wing left him doubled over, hacking phlegm on to the ground between his boots.
As the Sunday team headed into the changing room for their half-time break, James was called inside the clubhouse to speak with Sasha. This meant he didn’t get a chance to check his mobile in his kit bag, where he would have picked up a voicemail telling him to call Maureen urgently.
*
James felt edgy as he ditched his muddy boots in the doorway and walked to the small bar in his socks. The Mad Dogs had the smartest clubhouse in their league and Sasha acted like lord of the manor, propping up the bar with a brandy in hand and the Mad Dogs FC’s trophy cabinet at his back. Nobody else was in earshot.
‘Drink?’ Sasha asked, as James got close.
James was out of breath and Sasha reached behind the bar to grab him a bottle of Coke. As he pulled the lid with a bottle opener, James propped himself on a stool.
‘For god’s sake,’ Sasha yelled. ‘Get off there.’
James shot up and saw that his muddy shorts had left a brown mark on the stool.
‘Sorry,’ he gasped.
‘Haven’t you got
any
sense?’ Sasha snarled, as he tried brushing the mud away with a bar towel. The towel was damp and made everything worse. ‘Kids these days … If this doesn’t brush off when it dries,
you’re
paying for a new stool.’
James didn’t know where to look or what to say, but he knew it wasn’t a good sign when the three other men in the clubhouse headed for the exit.
‘What happened out there with you and Wheels today?’
‘Things got untidy,’ James shrugged. ‘We didn’t lock the shop door and this old dear—’
‘Who’s
we
?’ Sasha snapped. ‘Who was responsible for locking the door?’
‘Well, I was the last one in so I guess it was me.’
Sasha grunted. ‘So Wheels
told
you to lock the door?’
‘No, but I guess it was obvious.’
‘Not if you’re nervous and you’ve never done something like that before,’ Sasha said. ‘He definitely
didn’t
tell you to lock the door?’
‘No way.’
‘I had Wheels round my house earlier. He’s trying to say that you messed up and the little piss-taker even tried getting me to pay towards having his car resprayed.’
James grinned slightly, unsure if he’d get his head ripped off if he laughed.
‘Wheels is a good lad if you keep him on a leash,’ Sasha said. ‘But he’s too casual about details and he likes to lay the blame. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the new kid while he’s been around for a few years. If something goes wrong the only thing I want Wheels to do is doff his cap and say
sorry boss
.’
‘I’m not a baby though,’ James said. ‘We messed up and I’ll take my share of the blame.’
This seemed to be what Sasha wanted to hear. As James placed his empty Coke bottle on the bar, Sasha reached around and grabbed him another.
‘Cheers.’
‘I’ve been asking around,’ Sasha said. ‘Ormondroyd down at the parole office pulled your file. Apparently you never cooperated with the cops and you never gave the screws an inch while you were in young offenders. A couple of Keith Moore’s old mates also told me you’re solid.’
James didn’t know what this was leading up to, but he couldn’t help smiling. The mission required him to feed the cops information on who the Mad Dogs were and how they operated. Winning Sasha’s trust made that a lot easier.
‘What are you like with electronics, computers and stuff like that?’ Sasha asked.
‘I can use ’em, but I’m no boffin,’ James said.
‘Do you think you could handle it if I asked you to rig up some CCTV equipment and keep tabs on who’s coming and going at a certain address?’
‘I suppose,’ James said. ‘As long as I’ve got all the instructions and that.’
‘Yeah, course you will. I’ll pay you thirty quid a day. Once you’ve set up the cameras I want you to go in every day and skim through the recordings. I want a written log of who’s coming in, who’s going out and how many people are putting money through the letterbox to buy drugs.’
‘Drugs?’ James nodded casually.
‘It’s a hard front,’ Sasha said. ‘You know what a hard front is?’
James did, but he wouldn’t have known if he wasn’t a cherub, so he asked Sasha to explain.
‘A hard front is a place where people deal drugs. Sometimes it’s a house, but usually it’s a flat in a multi-storey block. The dealers put steel reinforcement up behind the front door, bars over the windows and keep the curtains shut twenty-four seven. There will always be two or three people inside. Business is arranged over the telephone and people turn up at the door, push money through the letterbox and get handed drugs.
‘A hard front is a dealer’s dream and a policeman’s nightmare. If the cops find the place and start picking up the individuals buying drugs outside, the dealers just buy another lump of steel and move to another flat. The cops can
try
taking the place by storm, but by the time they batter their way through all that steel you can guarantee that anything illegal will have been flushed down the toilet or thrown over the balcony.
‘The cops’ third option is to video the dealers, but all you can ever film is hands passing stuff back and forward through a letterbox. As long as there’s always two or three dealers inside, it’s impossible for the cops to prove who was actually selling the drugs. The dealers all blame each other and the case gets laughed out of court.’
‘Sounds neat,’ James nodded.
‘It’s tried and tested,’ Sasha said. ‘Hard fronts are used everywhere, from Brazilian slums to Siberian ghettos.’
‘So what use is this surveillance to you?’ James asked.
Sasha smiled. ‘A dickie bird tells me the joint is also being used for some major heroin deals. If I’m gonna get my mitts on that gear, I need to know what makes them open the front door.’
‘Gotcha,’ James said. ‘Every dealer’s got to bring the groceries home once in a while.’
‘Or carry a big pile of cash out.’ Sasha grinned. ‘You’re a smart boy, James.’
But James didn’t want to seem too eager. ‘You know, thirty a day isn’t a lot if you’re planning to rip off a major drug dealer.’
Sasha bristled. ‘I look after my crew, James old son. If you do a good job I’ll see you get a cut, but don’t go expecting fortunes in week one.’
James nodded, but Sasha had jumped off his stool and was dashing towards the French windows along the front of the clubhouse.
‘What the hell’s that noise?’ Sasha asked, as he stared out into the dark.
Michael thumped his masked head on the roof of the Range Rover as it veered off-road and ploughed through a low hedge. With a Slasher Boy squished up on either side, machetes resting in their laps, it was a scary moment.
This was as wrong as something could get and Michael was shitting himself. He looked behind and saw two more cars ploughing through the hedge. The fourth was a little Nissan laden with five thugs, and it ended up wedged on a split tree trunk with its front wheels spinning helplessly in mid air.
Colin Wragg accelerated over the grass towards an under-twelves game, as Major Dee pointed his Skorpion out of the passenger side window. The compact machine gun was a short-range weapon, designed for close-quarter work like spraying bullets up a staircase when you’re clearing a building. But people don’t know that kind of stuff. All anyone knew was the sound of gunfire and the orange flashes around the muzzle.