Jackson Walker was rooted to the spot as his front door shattered into splinters. His brain was telling him to sprint across the room to pick up the gun he had cleaned minutes ago, but his muscles refused to respond to the messages. A man dressed as a construction worker stepped through the splintered frame and walked calmly towards him. He had a yellow hardhat and a navy blue jumpsuit on. Around his waist was a utility belt with an assortment of tools attached. A grey respirator covered his face. David Lorimar, Dava as his associates knew him, often used this disguise to enter buildings without attracting anyone’s attention but that of the most observant members of the public. He aimed a silenced Glock at Jackson’s chest area and waved the weapon, indicating he should get down onto the floor. A similarly dressed man was covering the doorway with a black plastic membrane. A yellow warning triangle stood on guard in the hallway, telling any nosey neighbours that chemical vermin control was underway.
“Get your hands up, Jackson,” Dava said calmly. “Make a sound and you are dead, understand?”
“What the fuck is this all about?” Jackson asked. He knew it was a hit, but he didn’t know for sure who wanted him dead. It could be any of a dozen people that he had crossed recently, or a hundred others he could have thought of if he had had the time to go back further into his past. Not that it mattered, he was living his last few minutes on this planet, unless he could escape. “Who is paying you?” Jackson knelt down and raised his hands above his head.
“Shut up or you will die slowly,” Dava hissed.
“So this is a hit, right?” Jackson smiled nervously. The hit man had not squeezed the trigger yet, which meant either he didn’t want to make a mess and leave evidence or he didn’t want to carry a body out of the building. If they tried to take him out alive at gunpoint, he had a chance to escape or call for help. His mind was screaming at him to do something or say something, but he was still in shock.
“Well done there, you should have been on Mastermind.”
“At least let me know who is having me wiped!” Jackson smiled again although his guts were churning. He was supposed to be executing a man today, but the tables were turned. There was a sick feeling of panic in his stomach. A dreadful feeling of complete hopelessness seeped through him. There was nothing he could do. He remembered Delamere Forest, where he had watched a man digging his own grave and begging for his life. Tears and snot had mingled on the dealer’s face as he dug his resting place in the dark damp soil. It had been Leon’s idea to bury him alive while his associate had watched in horror, but it had been Jackson who had kicked him into the hole screaming. It had been Jackson who had stood on his chest and covered the poor man in soil. He remembered stamping on the rotting forest floor as he had compacted it around the man until the muffled screams stopped and the undulating soil became still. Somewhere the dead man’s soul would be pointing at him and smiling. What goes around comes around. ‘This is karma,’ he thought. Jackson swallowed hard and waited for his fate.
“Let’s just say someone is hitting you before you hit them, shall we?” David Lorimar looked toward his associate. “Put your hands in front of you.”
He waited for his colleague to cut another length of plastic membrane. He placed it on the floor while Dava fastened plasticuffs around Jackson’s wrists. Jackson was shaking with fear as a thin plastic noose slipped out of the utility belt and his attacker tried to slip it over his head. He realised why he had not shot him already. The hit man was opting for a quieter method of execution. Jackson knew he was about to be garrotted and he threw himself backwards across the floor. His hands were tied but his legs were free and he ran desperately for his life. There was nowhere to run. The doorway was blocked. Jackson stumbled toward the window and he hurled himself headlong at the glass. David Lorimar kicked out as he ran and he caught his ankle, knocking it violently from under his fleeing target. Jackson crashed into the window frame full force and the skin on his skull split like an egg. Blood poured from the wound and blinding white lights shot through his brain. Before he could recover and bolt again, he felt the plastic zip tie sliding over his head and tightening around his throat. It was a murder weapon frequently used by David Lorimar. There was no sound except a thick guttural gurgling sound as the noose tightened and crushed Jackson’s larynx. He felt the blood vessels in his brain swelling before they burst. His eyes protruded and looked like they would pop out and his tongue lolled out of his mouth. As the darkness closed in, the third vertebrae in his spine snapped.
David Lorimar felt Jackson’s body go limp and he let it fall onto the plastic sheet. They moved silently and with a practiced purpose about them. They wrapped Jackson Walker in his own carpet and carried him out of the flat into a battered old Renault Traffic van. No one saw the hit men enter and no one saw them leave. Two hours later, they forced his dismembered body through a mincemeat processer and mixed him with a new batch of pigswill. Jackson Walker was nothing more than a memory, just another gangster who had disappeared in the dangerous quicksand of the underworld.
Patrick Lloyd was in the Bluebell, leaning against the bar reading the sport pages when Nate caught his eye. Patrick watched him closely. He could tell that Nate was watching the property opposite. He lived locally and knew that a well-known drug dealer occupied it. He was curious why this stranger was interested in the property. Patrick figured that he must be a police officer, and he was wary of police officers, although it was obvious that this man was not looking for anyone else except the occupant of the property across the road. After an hour, he approached Nate and began a conversation.
“Tell me to get lost if you like, but are you police?” he whispered with a cheeky smile on his face.
“Get lost.” Nate didn’t look at him.
“Don’t be like that. I’m being nosey, I know, but why are you watching Benjamin’s gaff?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Nate looked at him this time. The fact that the man knew the dealer’s name worried him. He needed to know if the guy was curious or a friend of the drug dealer. He was annoyed that he had made it so obvious he was watching the house. His hatred of the man who owned it was dulling his senses. He needed to keep sharp if he was to revenge his family’s death.
“Are you drugs squad? I hope you are, that bastard needs stringing up by the bollocks, mate.” Lloyd spoke with a thick scouse accent, but there was something false about it. “If I had my way, I would put a bullet in the back of his skull.”
“Do you know him, then?”
“Nah, I know of him. He’s a drug dealing scumbag. It pisses me off that everyone knows what he does, yet the police do nothing about it. The kids on the estate are knocking on the door from dawn until dusk. Are you drugs squad, then?”
“No.”
“Rival dealer?”
“Definitely not.”
“Customer?”
Nate laughed. This man was persistent, he had to say that. He was a strange looking character, but there was something amusing about him. “Let’s say I have a similar opinion to you.”
Lloyd held out his skinny hand. “Patrick Lloyd.”
Nate ignored the gesture and continued to look out of the window. He didn’t want to shake the man’s hand. He was too pushy and there was something strange about him. There was something about his eyes. They were bright and darted everywhere. Gecko had seen that look in people who were being hunted. “What do you do, Patrick?” he asked without looking at him.
Patrick was skinny and lean. He wore his hair cropped short. He looked like he could have been a squaddie once. He took a mouthful of dark bitter and smiled. His teeth looked false. “You know, a bit of this and a bit of that. I’m ex-army, Cheshire Regiment.”
“I thought so,” Nate nodded. “Me too, intelligence.”
“Desk jockey, eh?”
“No. I didn’t have a desk.” Nate looked him straight in the eyes for the first time. It was then that the dealer’s front door opened. Nate looked inside the house while the entourage filed out.
“Benjamin is the lad in the Parka. The others are his lowlife mates. The things you see when you haven’t got your gun, eh?” Patrick winked.
“That is very true,” Nate laughed. “I wouldn’t advise shooting a drug dealer in broad daylight anyway.”
“Do you think anybody from around here would give a shit?” Patrick shook his head as he spoke. “No one would remember seeing anything that happened on this estate. Do you want a pint, mate?”
Nate looked at his glass. It was empty. It was a long time since he met someone who made him laugh. “Why not, I’ll have a lager, please.”
“Nice one, I’ll be two minutes,” Patrick smiled and walked to the bar. Nate looked around the pub, taking it in for the first time. He had been so focused on the Benjamin property that he hadn’t noticed his surroundings. The pub was clean and modern in design. The floors were polished pinewood and the brass rails on the bar sparkled. There were four bandits spaced out, one on each wall. All four machines were being pumped full of dole money; the players were all similarly dressed in tracksuits with the trousers tucked into their socks and training shoes. Patrick chatted with a fat barmaid as she poured two new pints. He eyed her up and down with a little too much interest. She flicked her hair and laughed, flirting with him. The drug dealer and his cronies had disappeared into the maze of alleyways that dissected the estate. “So, are you police or what?” Patrick returned with a big grin on his face.
“No. I’m an advisor nowadays, a consultant of sorts.”
“I can get you into that house.” Patrick stopped smiling and winked again.
“Why would I want to go inside the house?” Nate frowned and looked away. He suddenly felt uncomfortable. It was as if Patrick could read what he was thinking.
“I don’t know. That is your business. But if you did want to, I can get you into that house.” He took a long sip of his beer and licked the froth from his top lip.
“He has cameras all over the place.” Nate looked out of the window again.
“Let’s just say I’m an advisor like you, a consultant expert on breaking and entering peoples’ houses,” Patrick laughed. “The cameras are no problem. He has an old system that uses wires. Wires can be cut.”
“What about the dogs?” Nate knew all the answers already, but he wanted to test Patrick.
“Poison.”
“Here, you two,” one of the tracksuits had approached the table that they were sitting at. “Do you want any weed?” The youth wore his hair shaved and he had stars tattooed beneath his left ear. His accent was local and he looked over his shoulder nervously as he spoke.
“Fuck off,” Patrick Lloyd said politely.
“What did you say, you blurt?” the youth snarled. He was trying to sound tough, but he couldn’t carry it off.
“You heard me,” Patrick stood up. “Fuck off.”
The youth looked him in the eye, trying to decide what to do next. Patrick smiled, but there was no humour in it. It looked more like a grimace. The dealer muttered under his breath and walked away. As he did, he raised his middle finger and waved it in Patrick’s face. Patrick was fast. He grabbed the extended digit and twisted it hard against the knuckle. The dealer went down onto his knees in seconds.
“Ah!” he cried. The pub went silent, everyone looking toward the scuffle. Patrick twisted the finger harder and the youth went over onto his back. “Fuck off! Get off me!”
“I told you to fuck off, now do it!” Patrick was still smiling as he helped the dealer up onto his feet. The other tracksuits in the pub were looking on with interest. Some were laughing at the youth and enjoying his embarrassment while others were snarling. Gecko thought it was time to leave.
“Finish your pint. We’ll talk at my place.” Nate swallowed his beer and stood up. He met the glares with his own stern eyes. They were outnumbered, but the youngsters were wary. Patrick followed suit and emptied his glass. As they left, a beer glass shattered above the door and their legitimate birth rights were questioned, but no one followed them.
“I could have done without that,” Nate said.
“What’s the problem?” Patrick laughed.
“I was trying to be discreet.”
“Well, you weren’t,” Patrick laughed again. “It could not have been more obvious that you were watching Benjamin’s gaff. You were behind a desk too long, soldier.”
Nate laughed too. He was right. Patrick Lloyd was sharp and he could be useful. They climbed into his car and made the short journey in silence. Both men knew they were about to plan a serious crime. A burglary at best, but murder was more probable. Nate lived in a large detached house in a secluded cul-de-sac. Most of the driveways were empty, their owners at work. There were a few obligatory four by four vehicles parked up waiting for the school run, but the road was quiet. As the Gecko parked up, a dark Audi pulled in behind him.
“Rozzers,” Patrick said, looking in the wing mirror. “They’ve been behind us since we turned into your road. I can spot them a mile away.”
“Shit!” Nate whispered. He had left the drugs and money he had taken took from Grebby under the back seat.
“What do they want?” Patrick raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not sure. I lost my son not long ago. It’s probably something to do with that.” Nate opened the door and climbed out. He closed the door before Patrick could say anything. Two overweight detectives approached him, wearing crumpled trousers and scruffy overcoats. The pride of the police force they were not. “How can I help you?” He asked as they came closer.
“Do you know Carl Lewis?” The detective asked without making any small talk.
“He was a friend of my son.”
“Have you seen him at all?” The police officer eyed him suspiciously. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His shoes were scuffed and dirty.
“No, not since Nate’s funeral.”
“One of his friends told us you were asking questions about him,” the second officer added.
“I did ask questions about him, because you didn’t.” Nate answered icily. “I wanted to know who gave my son the ecstasy tablet that killed him.”
“Did you see Carl Lewis?”
“No. I asked who brought the tablets to the wake. That’s it.”
“So you found out who gave the tablet to your son, and then you did nothing about it?” the detective pushed.
“I did do something about it.”
“What did you do?”
“I reported it to you!” Nate jabbed his finger towards the detectives accusingly. His face contorted into an angry snarl. “I reported it to you and you did nothing!”
The detectives looked at one another and blushed. They shuffled uncomfortably on the pavement. “There was no offence committed. Your son took the tablet. Nobody forced him.”
“Fuck you!” Nate snarled. “He had just buried his mother.”
“Where were you last Wednesday?” the detective pushed on regardless.
“Why?” Nate shrugged. He needed to buy some time.
“Answer the question.”
“We were fishing on the Wirral,” Patrick Lloyd spoke. He appeared from behind Nate. “We went to New Brighton last Wednesday.”
The detectives looked deflated. “Were you there all day?”
“We got there about seven and didn’t leave until midnight. We landed shitloads of mackerel, didn’t we?” Patrick turned to Nate. “What’s this all about, anyway?” he grinned.
“Carl Lewis is missing,” the detective answered.
“I’d be looking at his friends and his dealer,” Nate said. “He was selling ecstasy to teenagers at college. It’s a dangerous game to play.”
“Thanks for your time,” the detective mumbled and walked back to their car. Nate and Patrick Lloyd watched them drive away. It was the beginning of a murderous partnership.