The Fire (2 page)

Des Cogan's Story:

I flew into Paris Charles De Gaulle on EasyJet which drops you into Terminal 3. It's a terminal just for budget airlines, so all the poor people can feel at home together. It also means that your upper-class French passengers don't have to rub shoulders with the likes of me.

The manifest of each arriving aircraft reinforced my thoughts as I seemed to be surrounded by Moroccans, Africans and Eastern Europeans.

I pushed my way toward the CDGVAL (Charles de Gaulle Véhicule Automatique Léger) which is French for tram, and within four minutes I'd stepped off outside Terminal 2A. You had to hand it to the Frogs, they knew how to run a train and tram service. Still, they always were better at running than fighting.

After checking the board for Etihad EY032 and finding it was on time, I fumbled in my Levis for my wee pipe and stepped out into the warm Paris morning to indulge in my nicotine habit.

I inhaled deeply and let the drug do its work. I thought about Lauren and how she had taken the longest escape route of us all. By my reckoning, she would be in a taxi heading to John Lennon; then a flight to Milan. The Italians, like the French, have a separate terminal for us low-life budget travellers; Milano Malpensa 2. Then she would have a short hop to Terminal 1 and catch Emirates EK00094 to Dubai just a hundred kilometres or so from Abu Dhabi and our RV.

I had driven Lauren to the ferry after the job on O'Donnell. She seemed reticent, even disturbed by the events.

I had to remind myself that Lauren had never been a soldier; Rick and I had never been anything else. We had completed selection together and served in every shithole known to man. We were used to death; it was our stock in trade.

We had met Lauren a mere six months earlier. She had been a nurse in ICU at Leeds General where Rick was being treated for gunshot wounds and burns. When I think back, I still can't believe she came on board, left her life behind and became an integral part of our team. Her learning curve had been amazing; but her thirst for knowledge and her determination to match us step for step, shot for shot, had never diminished. Her courage was remarkable.

We'd toyed with a relationship since we'd first met. I'd taken her for a drink in Leeds and I'd been for a meal in her wee flat. As usual I'd cocked it up. Then we'd flirted a bit and even kissed as we stood waist deep in water in Gibraltar. Once again I took that as a signal that we may be about to launch into something more than being just mates. A week or so before the spooks gave us the O'Donnell file, I took her for a meal in London. I made a pass. She told me it was not going to happen, and why. It made life a tad awkward for a day or two, but then we just got on with it. Some you win, and all that.

It was Lauren who had found the chink in O'Donnell's armour. She had discovered his weakness.

Mine is my pipe. O'Donnell's was his prick.

The area of Linen Hall Street in Belfast was little different from any other city centre street. It was a mixture of old and new buildings, offices and apartments; but as darkness fell, it turned from being an ordinary road into a walking brothel.

Our second night in Belfast had consisted of multiple drives along the 'rat run' described by the article in the Belfast Telegraph. The councillor had been totally correct and we took turns in three different vehicles, taking dozens of covert photographs of the girls, the pimps, the punters and the vehicles they were using as the oldest profession in the world went on until the early hours.

It quickly became apparent that we weren't going to get any good sightings at ground level alone so we retired to our digs to look at what options we had.

Rick had booked us in at the Merchant Hotel on Skipper Street. I felt like a fish out of water the minute I walked in the lobby.

The hotel is situated in what had become known as The Cathedral Quarter and nestled just off the bank of the river Lagan. I couldn't help but think it was a stone's throw from the Shankill Road where I had been regularly shot at some years earlier.

It had a bar that served nothing but Verve champagne, a club that played nothing but contemporary jazz and a sauna on the roof.

I was costing us two hundred and sixty pounds a head per night, not including breakfast. It was shite.

Thank fuck, there was a good little pub called The Nest just across the road, where the bar staff knew how to pull a pint of Guinness. I suggested we pay it a visit; Lauren agreed and Rick reluctantly tagged along, but only after changing his clothes for the third time that day.

We found a booth away from prying ears and eyes and sipped our drinks in silence for a while.

I broke it.

"We need a venue to CTR (Close Target Reconnaissance) the street. We need height and a good view of the length, maybe a hundred meters each direction. That won't be possible in any of the available empty buildings I've clocked so far."

Rick played with his glass of water and organised the beer mats on the table so they were in line with each other.

When he was happy, he spoke.

"The way I see it, we need a three tier approach. Des, you need your position high above the street and to act as spotter for me. We need Lauren to play a street girl so she can stop our target in range, and I'll slot him, I've already sourced a C14 Timberwolf."

Now the Canadian PGW-made sniper rifle Rick was talking about was a good weapon, but he wasn't thinking straight. I knew Rick was desperate to be the one to pull the trigger and we all knew why. He was desperate for revenge; it had eaten him away for ten years.

I had to be the one to deliver the bad news. "Look, pal, for a start, you are not a sniper and neither am I.

"I know why you want to pull the trigger on this one but this just isn't common sense. Think about it. The C14 is a .338 right? Even if you use a Magnum load, it's only good for a thousand yards and using a night sight, much less. You would have to suppress it to use it on location or every cop in town would be all over us like a fuckin' rash. That makes it even less powerful and accurate. If the Bentley has a bulletproof screen, a .338 may not penetrate it. Even if it did, it could deflect and you won't get a clean kill. This has to be up close and personal and there is only one person to do that."

Lauren rested her glass on the table.

"That will be me, then."

Rick looked furious, but I knew it was more frustration than anything else. He wanted, no, needed, to be the one to put O'Donnell to bed; but we were not the Mafia, this was not the movies, and the best way was my way and he knew it.

"Yes, hen. That will be you."

I put my hand on Rick's shoulder, something very few people could get away with.

"Look, pal. You get onto Cartwright first thing; get some boys to erect a scaffold in front of the empty brownstone we passed tonight; make sure there is a platform at say, twelve feet, with that green stuff that stops debris falling into the street. That will cover us and I can begin some proper observations. In the meantime you can start doing some close-up work with Lauren here."

Rick's mood was black; he leaned across the table, his voice low and menacing, his face inches from Lauren's.

"Do you realise what our Scottish friend is suggesting here?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"Come on, Rick, it's not Lauren's fault she's no' experienced."

Rick ignored my plea. "What he's suggesting is that you get into this animal's car, all alone, on the pretext of selling your arse to him; drive off to some shit hole back street, wait 'till his pants are round his ankles; put a gun under his chin and blow his brains all over his nice roof lining."

Lauren was in no mood to be intimidated. "I've proved myself more than once, Rick. Don't take your revenge kick out on me. Des is right and you know it. I've pulled a trigger before and saved your arse in the process. What is it, Rick? Scared of losing me? I'm not Cathy if that's what you're thinking!"

I saw Rick's knuckles whiten and the sinews in his neck tense at the mention of Cathy's name. Lauren had crossed a line. Rick stood and threw some cash on the table; his eyes never left Lauren's. They burned with anger.

"You're right, Des. She's capable alright. Don't be late tonight, Lauren, we have a big day tomorrow."

He turned and left us. Lauren followed his every move until he was out of sight. Then she looked at me. There was something in her expression I couldn't quite read. Maybe a little guilt at what she'd said? After what she'd told me back in London, it wouldn't have surprised me.

She forced a smile and picked up her glass. "Another one?"

Lauren North's Story:

My exit had gone exactly to plan. Other than breaking a heel on some very expensive
Giuseppe Zanotti shoes as I ran to get my connection for the Dubai flight, things couldn't be better.

Who was I kidding?

Things couldn't be worse. Mentally I was a mess and I knew it. Rick had been right that night in the Belfast bar. Shooting someone who is shooting at you, or about to kill you is different to executing an unarmed middle-aged man with a wife and two kids. As it turned out, shooting the bastard was the least of my worries.

My problem? I felt dirty.

I'd played the hard case that night and I knew why, but it had backfired on me spectacularly.

I wanted Rick's respect, no, that's a lie. I wanted Rick.

Des and I had an awkward moment back in London. He'd asked me the question and I'd told him where he stood. We'd flirted, and I suppose in another life it may have worked. He was a handsome, good man who obviously found me attractive. Rick was a mean moody bollocks who ignored me most of the time. Who do you think a girl would choose?

Within four days of arriving in Belfast we had our plan in place. When I think back, I was so nervous about pulling the trigger on an unarmed man, that playing a prostitute seemed child's play. How wrong can you be?

By day five, Des had his scaffolding and a place to commence some real observations.

On the night of September 2nd we had our first sighting of O'Donnell and his Bentley. Rick had been on the money. The man was not lending his hundred thousand pound motor to anyone. He picked up a slightly built blonde hooker at ten past nine, drove her away, did whatever he did and dropped her back at the end of Linen Hall Street twenty-two minutes later.

The team were ecstatic.

The following night was my first on the street.

I was dressed in my prostitute's uniform, killer heels, a short mini-skirt, vest, and leather jacket. I sported a curly blonde wig which mimicked the girl O'Donnell had chosen the night before. Tucked under the wig was my covert comms that kept me in touch with Des on the scaffold and Rick, who was mobile and playing punter. I carried my shoulder bag, complete with prostitute tools; condoms, lubricant and mouthwash. I managed to fit a couple of more interesting items in the bag, a police issue ASP and a .38 Smith & Wesson snub nose revolver.

I was, by far, the oldest woman on the pitch. The girl O'Donnell had chosen the night before was a teen. To add to my troubles, I had no idea what to do or say on the street and I immediately attracted some angry comments from other girls who didn't want any further competition. I ignored most and glared at some others. They eventually left me alone.

During the quiet periods, the girls would just stand about in small groups, smoking and talking. The most prevalent languages appeared to be Eastern European, but there was a smattering of English in there. Pimps of various shapes and sizes would arrive at random and break up the chats by pushing the girls around and screaming abuse at them for their seeming lack of productivity.

When the punters were in abundance, I tried my best to listen in to the conversations between the girls and their customers. All took a similar path. The girls would lean into the open car window and ask if the driver was 'looking for business'. The John would then ask for a price. It seemed that starting prices for 'oral' was twenty pounds; 'straight' came in at forty, and 'anal' was sixty pounds. There would then be a short negotiation and the girl would either get in the car or abuse the driver as a timewaster as he drove away.

I couldn't just stand around like a spare prick at a wedding, so I started to approach the kerb crawlers. My skirt was halfway up my backside and I had the most ridiculous amount of cleavage on show. Looking the part was one thing but someone would smell a rat very quickly if I didn't act it out.

They should have given me an Oscar. I would lean into the cars and negotiate my price. I simply charged fifty per cent more than all the other girls and worked on my tirade of abuse as the 'timewasting' punters drove away; much to the amusement of the other streetwalkers. Rick also added to my prostitute street cred by picking me up two or three times a shift in different cars.

This went on for three nights without any sign of O'Donnell or his Bentley. Then on the night of the 7th he was back.

The second he turned into the street, Des was on comms.

"Target will be approaching on your left in thirty seconds. Confirm target is driving and alone in vehicle."

I felt my stomach do a flip, took a deep breath and strutted my stuff toward the kerb and the Bentley's headlights.

O'Donnell slowed as he got close to me. I leaned forward to get a better look at him and some eye contact. I pulled my top further down to reveal even more of my boobs and put on my best smile. He drove by me.

My comms were 'open' which meant that anything I said was relayed to the team without me having to press any buttons or switches and they could hear all my conversations.

"This is bollocks, guys. He doesn't fancy me; I'm too old for him."

Des gave a chuckle. "Better get the schoolgirl outfit out, hen."

As if to reinforce the problem, O'Donnell stopped next to a blonde waif some thirty yards further up the road and within seconds she was in the car.

I strode toward Des's scaffolding and stood underneath to shelter from what had become steady drizzle. Rick had asked that I stay on plot until O'Donnell returned to drop off the near-child he had picked up for sex.

Within a minute I was joined by another street girl taking refuge from the rain. She eyed me guardedly for a moment before rooting in her bag for cigarettes.

She removed a pack and resumed her search for a lighter.

I'm not sure why, but I slipped my hand into my own bag, found a Zippo and handed it to the girl.

"Ta," she said.

The word came out flat and northern. She returned the lighter, her accent unmistakably Mancunian. "You're new; not seen you before."

I pulled my jacket tighter around me. Bare legs and tiny tops are not the best for keeping out the damp chill of Belfast in September. I was born in Leeds and I laid on the Yorkshire drawl.

"Came over from Liverpool couple of days back."

The girl sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She was no more than eighteen and had done her best to cover bad acne scars with foundation. Her thin lips were the traditional dark red and her hair was blonde with essential black roots. The girl's skinny body was adorned by tattoos; some professionally done, some not.

"You workin' fer Barry then?"

I shook my head. "I can look after myself, love. I don't need a man for that."

The girl exhaled a long plume of smoke. "Barry won't like that. He finds you workin' Linen or Adelaide Street, he'll have yer guts."

As if by magic I clocked a rather overweight guy, dressed in a blue Adidas tracksuit, lumbering in our direction;

He was shielding his bald head from the rain with a newspaper. I noticed his belly was so large that it poked out between the waistband of his trousers and the hem of his top. It wobbled grotesquely as he strode angrily toward us.

He was positively dripping in gold. Several chains adorned his neck, some as thick as a rope. Every finger and both thumbs sported heavy shining rings.

"Siobhan!" he bellowed in thick Belfast.

The girl, who had failed to notice the approaching jelly monster, physically jumped with fright and stamped out her cigarette.

"Fuck! It's him...Barry. You better get the fuck away, love."

I wasn't going anywhere. I slid my hand back into my bag and wrapped my fingers around the ASP. I had spent the last week working with Rick on the self-defence capabilities of the ASP tactical baton; that and firing dozens of hollow point rounds at close quarters with the snub nose. The ASP I was carrying extended to sixteen inches and was a real bone-breaker.

Barry arrived in a flurry of expletives. He grabbed Siobhan by the hair. "What the fuck you doin' here? You won't be on an earner, standin' in the fuckin' dark with this bitch."

Siobhan stumbled on her heels and fell backward onto the cold concrete. She cried out in pain as Barry dragged her along by the hair, followed up by a swift slap across her face.

"I got your money, Barry, honest I have. I was just havin' a fag between punters, that's all."

Barry released the prostrate Siobhan, grabbed her bag and emptied its meagre contents onto the pavement. A few coins scattered around.

Barry's face took on the look of a pit bull with piles. He threw the bag to the floor and pushed his fat hands down Siobhan's bra and pants, finding folded notes. I figured that she had a couple of hundred at best.

The girl was pleading now. "I was gonna give it you, Baz. You know me, I wouldn't hold back on yer."

The fat lout was blowing out of his arse just from the exertion of finding the cash. He drew back his ringed fist to punch Siobhan in the gut.

I'd seen enough.

The ASP comes in many guises; mine was the Agent Baton. The catalogue says it is 'uniquely designed for discreet concealment and rapid presentation'.

Rapid presentation means that you use the kinetic energy released by a simple flick of the wrist to extend the baton from 7.5" to 16". It then becomes a solid piece of 4140 high carbon steel.

Rick was insistent that I use the arc of travel of the baton to increase the power of the strike.

My first blow caught fat Barry on his elbow.

Have you ever caught your elbow on something? Imagine the pain.

He screamed so loud I actually looked around to see if I had an audience.

My second strike was his left clavicle. I heard it snap. Barry dropped to his knees. His interest in Siobhan and her pittance was gone; eyes wide and fear-filled, mouth open gulping air.

"Who the fuck...?"

My third strike was the jaw. The conversation was over.

I grabbed Siobhan by the hand and got her to her feet. She picked up her bag and scrabbled around for the notes Barry had dropped.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, love, but you better not be here when he comes round."

Des had done a great job of a blow by blow commentary of Barry's demise. The comms traffic in my ear told me that Barry wouldn't be around for a while. Rick had plans for him.

"Let me worry about the fat lad, love. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm freezing my tits off here. Fancy a brew?"

Siobhan looked down at the unconscious Barry and then back at me. I saw a glimpse of a smile.

"You paying?"

"I'm paying."

We walked in silence. The rain had become heavy and by the time we found a Costa Coffee, we were both soaked.

I ordered two large cappuccinos with extra shots. Siobhan added six sachets of sugar to hers and wrapped her hands around the mug to warm them.

The well lit environment of the coffee shop revealed the true extent of the young girl's ravaged features.

Her nails were bitten down to the quick. Tiny splashes of pink varnish remained but couldn't hide the damage.

Her cheeks were more pock-marked than I'd estimated in the dim light of Linen Hall Street, but it was the red raw skin around her nose and the damage to her teeth, that gave the game away. She wasn't slim, she was pitifully thin and when she removed her wet jacket she revealed muscle wastage on her upper arms consistent with an elderly woman. He breasts were non-existent and her collarbones protruded grotesquely.

I'd seen all this many times when I was a young nurse working casualty in Leeds. Crack cocaine was an evil drug. It hooks the user almost immediately. Siobhan was an addict.

I was so busy thinking about how bad Siobhan looked, that I hadn't considered how good I looked to her.

"Who are you?" she asked quizzically. "You ain't no fuckin' street whore, that's for sure."

My open comms were picking up the conversation. The boys were listening in and Rick immediately started to chatter in my ear, insisting I stick to my cover. I didn't need the reminder. I was there for a reason. I started my tale.

"You're right, honey. I don't usually do the pavement trade. I had a couple of flats in Liverpool and six good girls working for me. It was a nice little earner; regular clientele too; that was until I had a little trouble with the local coppers.

"I was looking at a twelve month stretch for living off immoral earnings. They froze my bank accounts, took my passport, so I did one over here. I've got a couple of hundred quid to my name. I need to earn and get back on my feet. It's what I know, love. Just like you."

Siobhan looked doubtful.

"So where'd you get all that Kung Fu shite from that you used on fat Barry?"

I smiled at the girl.

"That wasn't Kung Fu, darlin'. I bought that stick off the internet. They even sell a video with it to show you those moves. You know the score when it comes to punters. Most are quiet as mice, but some are real bastards. I needed to protect my girls; send out the message."