Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

AS HEROES FALL By Frank Sonderborg

She spotted him standing by the police barrier. It was still chucking down hailstones. So he stood out in his Armani overcoat and smart hat. Not many men wearing smart hats these days. He was staring in the direction of the body by the canal. The wind battering him and the water pouring down his expensive coat. As if he knew she would be forced to go and ask who the hell he was. She ignored him and went back to her day job. She had just been promoted to Detective Constable Anne Silkton. It still sounded so good on the ear. The crime scene guys where doing their stuff and she got a run down as to what they believed happened to the victim. She took copious notes. As the rain threatened to blow her and her iPad away. And wondered again where the hell was her new partner DC Brian Evans. This was a big case and had all the hallmarks of a ritual gangland liquidation. And she was stuck here doing it on her own. She did have a weird feeling about this.

Back in the station there had not exactly been a wild rush to take on the case. But she had just put it down to the bad weather that had been battering the UK for the past month. Evans just told her to head on out and he would follow as soon as he was finished with some very important business.

She had nearly thrown up when she had seen the naked body spread across the canal towpath. Things had been done. How could anybody be that vicious, that barbaric?

He was still there, watching and getting very wet. She thanked the Gods again for her wet proofs. And then decided she better do some detective work and see who this smart dressed good time Charlie was.

She had spent her time pounding the Basingstoke beat and had not come across anybody like this piece of work.

He looked very muscular and very tall, at least 6'4''. So she had to look up under his smart hat, when she asked him the obvious first starter for 10. “So who are you?”

McColl had watched her move around the crime scene taking notes and every now and then looking his way.

She seemed to know her job. Now she was in his face and asking questions.

He waved his big gold detective badge. “Garda Siochana Detective Inspector Vincent McColl seconded to EuroPol. And you are?”

This threw her as she had expected lots of answers but not this. “DC Anne Silkton,” was all she could say.

“Bad business,” said McColl.

“EuroPol?” said Anne “What’s it got to do with the Euro Police Dept.”

McColl looked down at her, dripping water in her wet proofs.

Blonde short hair under her hood.

No make up. No boyfriend.

Good looking in a fresh farmers market non-plastic country type of way.

Tough. Smart. But alone on a shit murder case.

“Your victim’s name is Tony Molony, age 24, from Cabra on the North side of Dublin. Ran with the Maddox tribe. Formerly employed as an enforcer, hit man, face smacker, bone breaker. A charming guy, unhappily married with 3 children. Had a mistress in Foxrock and a Russian boyfriend in Alicante. Worked out, took lots of dodgy steroids, banned vitamins and even dodgier sun-bed trips. Alive he looked like a muscle bound orange. Dead, he looks just dead.” McColl said this all in one go, totally devoid of emotion. “He has been dead around three days, tops.”

Her mouth dropped open.

She closed it immediately as it started to fill with the falling water.

“You don’t happen to know how he died?” she asked sarcastically.

McColl stared down at her and continued, “They cut off his balls. More than likely while he was still alive. Sewed them in his mouth. Comanche style. Then they burned out his eyes. Colombian style. Blow torch I would presume. They gave him a few thousand cuts with his own Spyderco Native Knife. Burned him some more with the blowtorch. ‘Bleed and Burn’ I believe they call it in the North Dublin Skanger lingo.” Again delivered like a shopping list from Dante’s local supermarket.

She had held it back when she was with the Vic.

But now she turned and threw up most of last night’s Meat Monster Pizza and a half bottle of Chilean Merlot.

What she desperately needed now was a whiskey.

“Shall I continue…” said McColl.

“Don’t let me stop you,” said Anne as she wiped her mouth with her handkerchief.

“He has been shot once in the head,” said McColl. “His throat has been cut and to top off a great day at the slaughter house, a large spike has been hammered through his left eye. The shooting, cutting and the burning where not done here. So you will not find much blood. The spiking is the last act. So it will have been done on the canal tow path while he was very much dead. It’s – how would Shakespeare have put it? – an artistic gesture, a dramatic warning.”

“Wow,” said Anne in spite of her self.

It was more or less word for word what was in her notes.

“You have played this game before.”

“Indeed I have,” said McColl. “And more importantly so have they.”

“They? So who, are they?” said Anne.

“Who might they be? What mastermind could have planned and executed this dastardly deed,” whispered McColl.

“Cut the fucking Shakespearian word games. Yes, who the fuck would do something like that?” said Anne pointing back at the corpse. She was starting to get annoyed as her case seemed to have spiralled out of control.

And going through her head, again and again for about the thousandth time, was, where the fuck was that smug bastard DC Evans?

“Yea, I know who killed your Vic. I know why they killed him. And I know why you are standing here in the cold rain while your partner is off having a warm wank.”

This really threw her out of her comfort zone.

“How? What the fu…” But she was too shocked to continue it.

“Can we get in out off the rain? Please?” McColl asked.

She nodded.

They went over to his hired Jaguar and sat in the comparative warmth out of the gale.

She sat staring ahead, feeling very uncomfortable sitting this close to a stranger.

All her training, all her life, was filled with the first command. ‘Thou shalt not get into cars with strangers.’ It was never ‘Thou shalt not get into bed with strangers’ which is all she had been doing since she was sixteen.

She felt a strong urge to smoke a cigarette.

Or chew gum or drink Vodka, or just do something.

McColl just stared out the Jag’s window.

“Molony was over here to do a job.”

“A job? You mean kill someone?”

“Yea, Kill, Top, Slot, or whatever the latest Andy McNab action word is for it these days.”

“The Hallorans brothers; Tommy and Willie. Big players on the drug scene in Dublin. Ran an army of cutthroats and skin the bags. North side gangland warlord stuff across Swords, Ballymun, Coolock.”

“You make them sound so romantic, so like the shit hole places we read about in Afghanistan.”

She said to lighten the tone.

It worked. McColl gave a tight smile.

“Afghanistan is civilized compared to these pumped-up lawless skin the bags.”

“So what are two – what did you call them, skin the bags? – doing in Basingstoke?” “Simples,” said McColl

“They are hiding. Well at least they where hiding." He continued, "Look, the drug scene in Dublin shifts more sand than Dollymount strand.”

Anne looked confused.

“Never mind, let’s just say its hard to see when the tide is in or out, except by counting the floating dead cats.”

“The body count,” said Anne surprising herself by getting it.

“Yea. Indeed. You are sharp as a tack,” he continued as dry as ever.

“Some big drug deal went pear shaped and the Hallorans brothers where no longer welcome hanging out with the in crowd. So they absconded to Alicante.”

“Alicante? Why not Hawaii or Bali?”

“No, Alicante is home from home for these skin the bags. People know who they are and are suitably shit scared. These guys are Warlords, scrotum royalty.”

“Oh! So they weren’t hiding then?”

“No, not then. Not until Maddox decided to remove them from this good earth on a permanent basis.”

“So that’s what the shootouts in Spain were all about?”

“Yes. It did, surprisingly, make the UK news for once. I was sent down to see what was going on, but by that time the Hallorans had done a runner.”

“To Basingstoke!” said Anne.

“Yea, balmy, sun-soaked palm tree-lined home of the stars, Basingstoke.”

“Where are they now?” asked Anne, sipping on the flask of whiskey McColl had given her. It was still bitter cold and still chucking down rain.

The police unit was finished and were packing up and moving on.

“The Hallorans are renting in one of those high-rise apartment blocks beside the Basingstoke railway station. And they hang out in a bar called -” he read from a bright pink card “- The Baz Bang Gang Bar.” He sighed and said, “Just lovely.”

“I know it,” said Anne “The Baz Bang Gang Bar: its on the Parade. It's a favourite haunt for the local Baz Gay community. Are they gay?”

“Gay, not these fucking two Neanderthals.”

Then he turned and looked at her.

“But they will fuck anything that moves on 2, 3 or 4 legs. Then kill it for fun. Think pumped up Polish steroid muscles, sun bed-tanned bodybuilder egos. Pink beach brain wear. You get the picture?”

“I think so,” said Anne. Not really getting it at all.

“Molony used a pistol, a Glock 17. Did you happen to find it?”

“No, nothing on the body or near by. It’s possible its in the canal. We can dredge it if you like.”

“Not my case remember,” McColl said taking back his whiskey.

“What are you really here after?” she finally brought her self to say. Turning now to look in his brooding brown eyes.

He stared at her a moment and then looked away and started tapping the steering wheel with his right index finger.

“Justice, I suppose I am here about justice. Molony was a punk, but he did not deserve that. Nobody deserves to end up like that.”

Anne felt like throwing up again. She controlled it and told him to get his ass down to the station.

“You can make out a full report. You seem to know all about their ritual killing games.”

She got out and headed for her own car.

He drove off at speed.

She did not like it but she had a feeling she knew exactly where he was going.

McColl was angry at himself for going to the crime scene as it served no professional purpose. He was annoyed at opening up himself to the girl.

He was surprised at the feelings that were going through his head. He liked her. He really liked her. And he wanted her to be impressed. The innocence of the moment had touched him.

He drove fast into downtown Basingstoke and parked in the Malls car park.

Went to his hotel room and changed from his Armani suit to a more discreet blue boiler suit.

He placed the untraceable Glock 17 pistol on the bed alongside a brand new razor sharp Spyderco Native Knife.

He had extra magazines for the Glock if needed.

Packing his bag he placed the Glock in his Dragonfly quick draw vertical holster. Strapped tight to his chest.

No telltale side arm bulges. The knife and extra magazines went into his boiler suit pockets.

A long Velcro closing overcoat on for the rain and a hat because he liked hats. He made his confirmation call and then left the hotel and headed for the Parade and the infamous Baz Bang Gang Bar.

Anne arrived back in time to catch DC Evans coming out of the Chief’s office. “Where the fuck have you been?” she threw at him.

“Have fun did we?” he said, followed by a big wide smirk. “Get wet did we? Now let’s forget all about this canal nonsense and get down to some real police work.”

“Wait a minute,” Anne countered. “That was a ritual gangland killing, a gruesome killing and we can't just drop it.”

“Look! Let it go DC Silkton. It’s been bumped up to London. MI5 are involved. It’s now in the land of James Bond. It’s no longer our case or our problem. Finito."

“What? Why?” Anne asked confused.

" Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares?" said Evans. “‘A matter of grave national security’ were the words of the Chief. And that’s good enough for me.”

“You knew this before I went out on my fucking own.”

He touched his nose with a finger and said smiling, “Need to know. I needed to do some shopping. And you Miz Trainee DC Silkton did not need to know.”

“Well, fuck you Evans,” and this time she said it loud so everybody heard.

He grabbed her arm, pulled her in close and whispered roughly, “Shut the fuck up.”

“What about McColl?” she countered.

“McColl? Who the fuck is McColl? Another dumb Mick I suppose.”

Evans boomed this all over the office.

“Yea, Irish cop. He works out of The Hague for Europol.”

“Wait, stop, stop right there. You met a Mick who said he was working for Europol? Where exactly did you meet this Europol Cowboy?”

“At the crime scene. At the canal. He showed me his badge.”

Evans was too busy laughing to notice how embarrassed Anne was feeling.

“So this Europol Wyatt Earp waved his badge around and said he wanted just what exactly?”

Evans was enjoying it, milking the moment. Playing the crowd. The office had gone quite. Everyone was waiting for her reply.

“He said he wanted justice.”

The place erupted with laughter.

Evans could not contain himself.

“Justice, in Baz, for a dead dumb Mick? What planet weed have you been smoking on sister?”

She moved in close and hit him quick and hard with a short pointed knuckle punch to the solar plexus.

Then caught him as he jack-knifed forward. And helped him and gravity on his way down. “Oh Dear,” she said as his head whacked off the floor.

Chief Brown had been standing watching and listening to the encounter at his office door.

“Can somebody give DC Evans a hand. I think he may have fainted. It is rather warm in here,” said Brown as Anne looked suitably shocked.

He waved her in to his office as Evans’ cronies rushed to his aid. “Come in, take a chair. Nicely done, I can't stand that creep,” he said smiling. “So,” he continued, “you met a man from Europol?”

McColl was at that point standing outside the Baz Bang Gang Bar.

Dropping his holdall off to one side, McColl entered.

It was now mid afternoon so the place was dark and empty of normal punters.

Two shadows rose out of the gloom to block his path.

Local Baz muscle.

Pretty poor specimens at that.

More bodies pumped with shit Polish steroids.

More designer drugs than time at the genuine muscle coal face.

“The Hallorans,” was all McColl said as he brushed past.

They where standing at the bar.

Two more pumped muscles were hovering behind them. These looked more the part. North side Dublin Vipers, enforcers. Condensed Evil.

He could tell by the skin the bag look and the knowing smirks. Dangerous, like snakes uncoiling in the shade. They where used to striking when they smelled the stinking odour of fear. Sucking, feeding off the energy from their terrified victims. Contempt written all over their orange glow faces.

The Hallorans both had long stemmed glasses with some sort of Veggie green juice in front of them.

Long straws for sucking. Very nice. Very trendy.

Their skin glowed a very sick sun-bed artificial tanned carrot yellow.

They turned slowly to look at him.

“And who in the name of Jazus are you?” said Willie H stepping away from the bar.

Willie was rumoured to be the smarter of the two.

McColl took them both in.

Muscle bound freaks. Necks like steel cables, muscles defined like square blocks. Exploding out through their snow-white designer T-Shirts. Tight jeans, the latest and greatest trainers. Mohawk hair cut dyed blue, movie star flavour of the month. All ahead, bound for glory.

What great things could these low life punks not achieve?

He could see they felt untouchable, invincible, immortal.

The fix was in. But they would soon find out that their verbal contract was not worth the nose dust it was written with.

Behind him, McColl could feel the local muscle fingering their hard on pistols. Uncertain as to what exactly was going down.

He dismissed them from his thoughts and concentrated on the two movie stars and their moving Viper shadows.

His tight overcoat had no bumps where a side holster would show. His hands hung nonthreateningly free.

Easy meat.

Another victim for the Halloran meat-grinder.

Tommy H had his hand in a brown paper bag on the bar.

His pistol ready.

Willie H had his right hand behind his back on his piece stuffed in his belt.

Safe, so safe. So bullet proof.

The Vipers where unlimbering slowly behind them.

A bored look on their faces. Just another body to burn and bury.

One had a throwing knife down by his side.

The other was just moving forward, smoothly, on the balls of his feet.

Obviously had some training and had done some killing.

They too felt invulnerable. So secure. So protected.

Were they not part of Her Majesty's Secret Service?

Had they not just got rid of the Maddox Numero Uno hit man?

Had they not got every single angle covered?

Having sent a Burn and Bleed message.

Don’t mess with Da H Boyzz.

And then McColl went and ruined it all by saying something stupid like, “Tony Molony.”

The Hallorans looked at each other and started laughing and singing to the tune of 'Only the Lonely'.

“Tony Molony, ba da ba dodo do wa.”

The two Vipers joined in, a regular Baz Bang Gang Boy Band.

McColl never could figure out why all the skin the bags, as soon as they made some serious dosh, started working out, started popping shortcut designer steroids, turned muscle-bound Oompa Loompa orange and only then, amazingly, discovered they were bisexual.

Maybe McColl should ask one of them. And then again maybe not.

Willie H turned his head to say something witty to his brother at the bar.

McColl drew the Glock 17, practised, fast, slick and it was Turkey shoot time.

The first bullet through Willie’s left ear and the next through Tommy's right eye.

These guys made enough money to buy “Enchanted Elven Mithril Vests” so McColl took no chances on body shots.

It is true, McColl though, time does slow down when you are having fun.

Traverse right. Smooth. Keep it cool, keep it smooth.

The North side Vipers were moving towards McColl so the next four went through their head and throats.

A death-thrown knife whistled by McColl’s head.

He heard a crash behind him, the sound of a premature ejaculation of a hard on gun going off, as it was being hurriedly pulled out.

It made McColl smile.

Traverse. Right, right, right, still cool, still smooth, still rock steady.

Surprise, surprise, the local Baz muscle behind McColl had their pistols out but nobody was home.

Just dumb stares, not used to seeing people getting shot for real.

Not really believing what they where seeing. Suspended in time.

Watching in shock as their future and their heroes fall.

Welcome to the killing dome, McColl thought.

Both went down with head shoots.

McColl could hear a bar hostess screaming and screaming as he advanced on the two fallen movie stars. He changed magazines and put two more bullets through their heads.

Took out the Spyderco Native Knife and slit their throats.

Then he carved a big cruel J on their foreheads.

As an artistic gesture you understand.

He pumped a couple more into the two Vipers lying on the floor.

Again head shots. To be sure, to be sure.

The gun and knife where dropped and McColl walked out of the Baz Bang Gang Bar.

Thought, after this, it will have to change its name to the Baz Bang Bang Bar and smiled.

He picked up the holdall outside and stepped into the waiting Mercedes and was driven away.

"Well what are we going to do with you?" said Detective Chief Superintendent Brown as all the phones started going off in the office. There was a loud commotion outside his office door.

The duty officer for the day burst in and said breathlessly, “There has been a shooting at the Baz Bang Gang Bar. It sounds like a gangland massacre, sir.”

“And what does it sound like to you DC Silkton?” Brown said, turning to Anne.

“To me, Sir, that sounds like justice.”

BIO:

Frank Sonderborg is a writer of Action and Adventure short stories.

He is currently working on his first adventure novel 'Brighton City Of Gold': A novel of human survival after the great economic crash. Before taking up writing he was a shipbuilder, Webmaster and IT Consultant. He is currently residing in Hampshire in the UK.