Ultimatum

Eight

09.12

Crack cocaine can be an excellent moneymaker. It’s one of the most addictive substances known to man. That first hit on the pipe is meant to be like having a five-minute orgasm multiplied by a hundred while simultaneously finding out you’ve won ten million on the lottery. Addicts will do near enough anything for their fix — forever chasing, but never quite managing to replicate, that very first high — and there are plenty of them out there living on the periphery of everyone else’s world, unseen and unloved.

So if you’re running a crackhouse selling rocks at ten pounds a hit, you can easily end up taking two, three grand a day. Of course you’ve got overheads. You’ve got to buy the coke to make the end product, and you’ve got to hire security, because there are plenty of people out there who’d rob you blind if they could, but even so, you’re still left with the kind of profit margins most legitimate businesses struggling in the recession would kill for. And you don’t even have to pay tax on them.

Most crackhouses are run by individual dealers who let their places go to shit, attract the attention of the local housing authority and even, God forbid, the cops, and end up getting shut down. But if you’re an entrepreneur with a bit of intelligence, and you keep your dealing discreet, then you can operate under the radar for months, years even, building up a network of establishments. And if you actually import the coke you use to make the crack yourself, then you can end up a very rich man.

Nicholas Tyndall was one such entrepreneur. A well-established gangster with good contacts among his fellow criminals, and even within the police service itself, he ran eleven crackhouses across north-east London that were reputed to net him more than two hundred grand a week. And they were never shut down because one of Tyndall’s front companies bought the properties being used to sell the dope as well as the properties next door (usually at knockdown prices) so that complaints from neighbours were kept to a minimum, which meant the cops weren’t too interested either. If no one reports a crime, there’s an argument that a lot of target-obsessed senior coppers subscribe to that says it’s not actually being committed. Ergo, everyone — dealers, addicts, civilians, the law — stays happy.

One of the headaches you’ve got as a crack entrepreneur, though, is getting the cash out of your establishments and into your own grubby mitts. You need men you can trust for this. Men who are reliable, and who the scare the shit out of people. One such individual was LeShawn Lambden. Now this guy was a man mountain. Six feet five inches tall and two hundred and fifty pounds of pure, rippling, three-hours-a-day weight training’s worth of muscle, with a face like a bull and the kind of coal-eyed glare that puts the fear of God into citizens and criminals alike.

Every few days LeShawn and his crew would travel round to all of Tyndall’s establishments and collect 80 per cent of the takings, the other twenty being paid to the dealer who ran the premises. In order to minimize the risk of being stopped by the cops or, worse, being ambushed by people keen to get their hands on all that cash, LeShawn always varied the days he carried out his collections, and the order he visited the crackhouses in, and he liked to use different vehicles. Street legend had it that in all the time he’d been doing the job, no one had ever held back cash from him, or tried to take it.

And now all that was about to change.

The job had been planned down to a tee. LeShawn might have worked hard to keep his movements unpredictable but it was his leather jacket that let him down. It was a knee-length black thing that he always wore when he was out on business, supposedly because it made him look cool and menacing, like Arnie in the first Terminator movie. It hadn’t been very hard to get a GPS sewn into the lining. A quick and silent break-in at one of his girlfriend’s places when he was staying over a couple of nights earlier, and five minutes later there were four of them planted, so if one ran out of batteries we could just switch on another. The GPS units were attached to a laptop in which the coordinates of all eleven crackhouses had been entered. As soon as LeShawn visited two of the addresses within fifteen minutes of each other, an alarm sounded, letting us know that he was almost certainly on one of his collection runs.

So there I was, sitting in a Volvo C60 on a grimy, litter-strewn council estate in south Tottenham, with Cecil in the driver’s seat next to me, watching the GPS’s progress on his mobile phone. Three minutes earlier LeShawn had stopped at crackhouse number eleven, the last on his list, two hundred yards from where we were parked.

Cecil was short, wiry and very, very hard. He had a very small bald head that reminded me of a fly’s, and the kind of terrifying glare that sets all but the most physically confident men on edge. He was looking at his watch, counting down the seconds. LeShawn and his crew didn’t like to hang around any longer than they had to at the places they visited. They went in, got the dealer to hand over the contents of the safe, gave him his cut, and left. It wasn’t their job to see if the money tallied with the amount of coke entering the premises. This was done separately by Tyndall’s finance people. The average length of time from the moment LeShawn’s car stopped outside a crackhouse to the moment it started moving again was four minutes and fifteen seconds. The one he was visiting now took slightly longer at four minutes and fifty, because there was a bit more of a walk to and from the front door.

Which meant it was time to move.

Cecil gave me a curt nod. ‘You ready?’

‘Sure,’ I said, sounding calmer than I felt. The adrenalin was pumping through me, heightening my senses. This job may have been planned to the last detail, but both of us knew better than most that in fast-moving, violent situations, the first casualty is usually the plan itself. The key when things go wrong is to ride with the punches and not panic.

Cecil switched on the engine and pulled out, taking a left at the end of the road.

The area was vaguely rundown but money had been spent keeping the streets clean and the walls free from graffiti. Low-rise sixties council blocks painted a tasteless mud-brown stretched out on either side of us. The road was quiet. Not many people commuted to work round here, and those kids who weren’t bunking off were already in school.

Halfway down, a gunmetal-grey BMW X5 was parked illegally on the pavement outside one of the blocks. It was one of the cars LeShawn sometimes used, and a young black guy sat in the driver’s seat.

Cecil drove towards him. The road was narrow with cars lining one side, and he had to go quite slow. LeShawn always carried the bag containing the takings with him, never letting it out of his sight as he went into each of the crackhouses, and he was always accompanied by one of his crew. So the plan was to relieve them of the cash when they were en route back to the car. That way we had the whole three-man crew together where we could control them. But the thing was, it required perfect timing. If we were too early making our approach then we’d have to come back round the block again, and as soon as the X5 driver saw our car a second time, he’d be as suspicious as hell. These guys were armed, and if they got nervous, anything could happen. Plus, there were only two of us, when really you needed four or five for a job like this.

It struck me as we crawled towards our targets, and my heart thudded hard and fast in my ears, that this really wasn’t such a clever idea.

But then, lo and behold, there was LeShawn and his wingman sauntering across the stretch of grass at the front of the building towards the X5 with the kind of confidence that only men with guns have. LeShawn had the holdall with the loot slung over one shoulder, and both men had their right hands in the pockets of their jackets, doubtless clutching weapons.

LeShawn’s head turned slowly in our direction.

‘OK,’ said Cecil, still staring straight ahead, speaking as casually as possible. ‘I’m going to count to three, then you do it.’

Without looking down, I removed the jacket that had been sitting on my lap, revealing a brand-new Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistol and the type of black police cap worn by armed CO19 cops.

One … two …

LeShawn and his mate were only five yards away from the X5. He was still staring straight at me as he walked, but making no move for his weapon.

Three.

Our car was still moving as I threw open the door, lifting the MP5 and flinging on the cap, and leapt out. ‘Armed police! Get on the ground now!’ I ran towards them, MP5 pointed straight at LeShawn, who I knew was the one most likely to go for his gun. ‘Now! Now! Now!’

This is the pivotal moment. You’ve made your move, now you’ve just got to wait that single second to see how they react. Most people are so caught out they instinctively do as they’re told, but a few are wired differently. They either bolt for it or, very occasionally, they stand and fight. And if anyone was going to stand and fight it was going to be LeShawn Lambden.

LeShawn didn’t move. Neither did the other guy. They just stared at me, calling my bluff.

I kept coming, yelling at them to get down, pulling the cap down, trying to obscure my face, knowing that if I fired I’d ruin everything, and if I didn’t fire I’d ruin everything as well. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the X5 driver try to reverse the car, then heard Cecil’s barked commands followed by an explosion of gunfire from his MP5 as he blew out the car’s front tyres and one of its headlights.

The sound of automatic gunfire’s a hell of a lot louder than most people expect, and if you’re on a narrow street without ear protectors on, you jump when you hear it.

I took another step forward, my finger tensing on the trigger. ‘On your knees now, both of you, or I’ll blow your fucking heads off!’ I didn’t bother shouting ‘armed police’ again since it was abundantly clear now that we weren’t. If anything, though, this did a better job of securing their cooperation, because they both finally did what they were told.

LeShawn stared me down, a look of simmering anger in his coal-black eyes. ‘You don’t know who the fuck you’re dealing with here,’ he spat.

‘Yeah, I do. An idiot who gets caught with his pants down because he’s too cocky. Now remove your hand from your pocket nice and slowly and throw away the gun you’ve got in there.’

‘I haven’t got a gun.’

‘Just fucking do it.’

‘I’ll kill you for this. You’re a dead man, you understand?’

‘You’ve got three seconds to comply or you’ll be the dead man.’ I lifted the barrel of the MP5 slightly so it was pointed right between his eyes, my aim absolutely steady.

The key is to establish control, but LeShawn was still delaying. Behind him, faces were appearing in the windows of the council block, attracted by the noise of gunfire. Any second now the cops would be called, and there could be an ARV right round the corner. We had to move.

I started counting. ‘One! Two!’ My finger tightened on the trigger, and I pushed the stock back into my shoulder, preparing to fire.

Which was when LeShawn caved. Reluctantly he brought his hand out of his pocket and threw a Glock pistol on to the grass in front of him.

‘Throw the holdall over to me. Now.’

He hesitated, and at the same time Cecil came over, pushing the X5 driver in front of him using the barrel of his MP5, before kicking his legs from under him. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he demanded, pointing his weapon at LeShawn. ‘Do as he tells you or you’re dead.’

Slowly, LeShawn heaved it off his shoulder and threw it over.

I grabbed it, slung it over my own shoulder, impressed by its weight, and took a step back.

‘You,’ I said to LeShawn’s wingman, the third member of the crew. ‘Bring out your gun.’

‘I ain’t got one,’ said the guy, taking his hands out of his pockets. They were empty, and now he looked scared.

I told him to put his hands on his head and, while Cecil picked up LeShawn’s gun from the grass, I gave the guy a quick search, keeping the barrel of my MP5 pressed against the base of his skull. He was holding a knife but that was all, which is the great thing about Britain’s gun laws. The baddies can’t get hold of decent weaponry very easily any more, which gives men like us an advantage.

I pocketed the knife and told the guy to keep his hands on his head, which he did without arguing. It wasn’t his money and he wasn’t prepared to die in order to protect it, which seemed to me to be the sensible option. I’d have done the same thing. Most sane people would. But then with these guys it’s all about respect, and having a rep on the street, and being made to go down on your knees in a public place and give up your stash and your weapons is an insult of the most heinous kind.

Which was why, in the end, I suppose the whole thing was always going to go tits up.

It happened when I was crouched down behind LeShawn, gun pressed against the back of his head. I was about to give him a brief once-over just to check he didn’t have another gun somewhere, while Cecil covered me from the front. By this point the whole thing, from the moment I’d jumped out of the moving car, had lasted no more than forty-five, fifty seconds tops, and was running pretty smoothly. We were ten seconds away from making our getaway when Cecil cursed and looked towards the council block behind me. I heard shouts too, and turned round.

A lanky white guy with wild hair, wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and nothing else, had appeared out of the building’s main entrance and was running towards us, waving a carving knife and clearly off his nut on crack.

Cecil opened fire over the guy’s head, the noise deafening, and the guy had the good sense to hit the deck, dropping the knife in the process. But I’d let my guard down, and suddenly LeShawn swung round, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and tried to yank it out of my hands. I fell forward, resisting pulling the trigger, and fell over him, landing in the grass, twisting round so I could still keep a grip on the gun.

LeShawn fell on top of me, shoving the barrel to one side, one beefy hand going round my throat and squeezing with such power that it cut off my air supply instantly. I tried to kick out, but I didn’t have the room to do any damage. LeShawn roared, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth as he used his free hand to slam the MP5 down into the ground, twisting my arms in the process. He lunged at me, trying to take a bite out of my face, but I managed to free up a hand and smack him hard on the underside of his chin, making him bite his tongue.

He roared with frustration and lunged at me again, which was the moment the left side of his face suddenly disappeared in a welter of red, and I was splattered in warm blood. His grip on my throat weakened as his whole body slumped. He let out a loud grunt, and I had to put up a hand to stop him falling on me.

I kicked him off me and jumped to my feet, wiping the blood from my eyes as I made sure the holdall was still on my back.

‘Come on, move it!’ yelled Cecil, retreating rapidly.

The other two members of the crew were lying on their fronts, still alive but clearly not wanting to get involved, while the wild-haired guy was back on his feet and dancing round with the knife, but still sensible enough not to get too close.

Cecil glared at me as we ran for the car. ‘What the fuck were you doing?’

I didn’t answer as I chucked the holdall in the back of the car while he ran round the front and jumped in the driver’s side.

And then, just when things couldn’t get any worse, they did.

A marked patrol car pulled into the road behind us. There were no lights or sirens, so it wasn’t responding to an emergency call. It had arrived on the scene purely by accident and was driving in our direction. I looked at them, and they looked at me, slowing up at the same time as they took in the sight of a man in a police cap with a submachine gun and a face covered in blood.

The terrible thing was, I recognized them. PCs John Nolan and Gloria Owana. I’d met them both when we’d worked out of the same station. Even so, I didn’t know them well, and I was pretty damn sure they wouldn’t recognize me in the state I was in.

But they still presented a threat, and it was time I showed Cecil what I could do. As their car stopped, I opened fire, swinging the gun in a steady arc as I blew out the tyres, feeling that intense satisfaction that only pulling a trigger can bring, watching as both ducked out of sight. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the wild-haired guy charging me and I swung the gun round, ready to pop him if I had to, but he took a flying dive and landed face down on the pavement with an angry thud, the knife clattering on to the tarmac.

Then, as Cecil gunned the engine, I turned and jumped in the car, and he pulled away in a screech of tyres.

The whole thing had been a disaster. A man was dead; cops had been shot at; half the Met would probably be on our tail in the next five minutes. But in the end we still had the money.

Although if I’d known what it was going to be used for, I’d have flung it out the window there and then.