The Killer
Authors: Jack Elgos
| The Killer | |
| Jack Elgos | |
| YellowBay Books (2012) | |
| Rating: | ★★★★★ |
Darren McCann is a small, young guy but in order to survive the violent streets of Belfast in the 1970s he learns to fight, and he fights well. The I.R.A are interested in him but, though he is of Catholic stock, he has no political affiliation and refuses to take sides until a family tragedy allies him with the cause . After specialist training he becomes an efficient sniper and freedom fighter but it is one night, and one interrogation, which earn him a reputation as The Butcher of Belfast and pair him with his infamous knife, The Killer. After a particularly high profile sniper kill he has to take refuge in Spain where he becomes involved with E.T.A terrorists at a training camp in the Basque country. He takes part in a daring raid and forms strong alliances with his new brethren. When the Provos, and an old friend, call on him again to work for them in Spain he performs his duty, but a moment of doubt makes him realise his home is now in the hills of Spain. He knows he will always fight against the establishment, but one British Government agent has other ideas.
Jack Elgos was born in the industrial north of England. He left school with no education to speak of and his handwriting is illegible to this day. He first joined the family firm but quickly became self-employed due to his independent spirit and a dislike of playing it safe. After the failure of his marriage he grew disillusioned with life in the UK and started to think about emigrating. A chance meeting with a woman of a similar mindset solidified the decision. Twenty years later they remain stubbornly unmarried and childless and have travelled the world, taking a chance at whatever came their way. From the strictly legal, through the definitely dodgy to the downright life threatening, they have enjoyed success and failure in equal measure. Thinking he might be pushing his luck, Jack turned to the computer keyboard as a way to make his writing legible and to earn a little safe money. He has built many websites and writes blogs under a variety of pseudonyms. Now in his fifties his experiences have inspired him to turn his hand to novels. Though his work is fiction, there will always be a little bit of truth in there. How much, he will not say.
THE KILLER
Jack Elgos
YELLOWBAY BOOKS
www.yellowbay.co.uk
Copyright © Jack Elgos 2012
The right of Jack Elgos to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers:
YellowBay Books Ltd
ISBN
9 7 8 1 9 0 8 5 3 0 3 9 4
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Emily Heaton
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“When starting down the road of revenge,
you must first dig two graves.”
This man disagrees with Confucius.
He
knows that two graves won’t be nearly enough.
2 - The Beginning: Northern Ireland, 1978
7 - Euskal Herria AKA the Basque Country
England, 1985
Just before dawn in the half-light of day, he rubbed a small circle of condensation from the ice-cold windowpane.
‘Only the needy and the greedy are out today Liam me lad,’ he whispered quietly as he shivered.
Gazing out over the bleak landscape he took a deep, satisfying drag from one of his favourite fags, Capstan full strength.
‘Ah Jesus, what a miserable cold, grey day,’ he sighed as he continued to stare out at the light rain drizzling slowly down onto the mist-covered fields surrounding the old Derbyshire manor house.
Everything was quiet.
Draining the remains of a strong black coffee, he struggled to counter the pounding effects of last night’s bottle of Jameson as he took his place at the old desk and started his daily ritual of stripping and thoroughly cleaning today’s weapon of choice.
Closing his eyes he picked up the piece and engaged the safety.
He removed the mag and cocking handle, continued with the butt and grip, then finally the
retracting bolt head assembly and recoil spring
.
Only when the HK MP5 was broken down into all its parts did he open his eyes to inspect every single component.
He then cleaned and oiled each piece individually.
‘Clinical cleanliness always, Liam,’ he repeated to himself as he sat in the eerie grey glow coming from the bank of security monitors.
He was about to close his eyes once more to rebuild the MP5 when something caught his attention and a glance at the monitors confirmed the movement.
A car was approaching.
Springing from his seat he watched a silver Mercedes saloon car making its way down the long drive.
Finally it arrived and parked next to his Jaguar, directly opposite his front door.
The bell rang twice.
Checking the monitors for any further movement Liam, a 9mm pistol in his right hand, cautiously eased open the door with his left.
The visitor stood and nodded.
Neither man uttered a word of greeting as Turner entered and strolled across to the drawing room.
Liam secured the front door again before following and eventually taking his seat behind the antique mahogany desk.
In total silence Turner took the seat opposite then, opening his briefcase, he slid a large envelope in the direction of Liam who grabbed it, tore it open and pulled out the sheaf of printed documents.
Page after page he studied the contents of times, dates and locations.
Finally he arrived at the collection of images; cars, houses and offices along with their associated blueprints.
Then he saw a photograph with the face of his new target.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Liam thought.
‘I’d happily hit this bastard for free.’
Showing no emotion at the picture of a man he recognised only too well, he looked directly at Turner asking, ‘Same money?’
‘Yes, of course old chap, the same money as always,’ nodded Turner.
‘However, this one will carry a bit of a bonus.
It cannot appear to be an accident, I’m afraid.
It has to be a very public affair.’
‘Why in public?’ Liam asked, his fingers tracing the line of the old crescent shaped scar on his cheek.
‘Orders,’ Turner replied.
‘You have all the information you need.
The transfer of funds will be made when the work has been completed and the termination is confirmed.’
Turner stood and waited for the briefest of moments, should there be any further questions.
There were none.
He turned and left without uttering another word.
Locking the door once more Liam watched as the Mercedes exited the driveway and then he returned to the drawing room where he studied the security monitors.
Nothing.
Once again all was quiet, just as it should be.
The Beginning:
Northern Ireland, 1978
Butch knew all there was to know about survival; he was an expert.
Having grown up in Belfast, one of the most dangerous cities in the world, violence had been his constant companion.
A little short of stature and a bit underweight he had been the target of bullies, but his early years brawling on the streets had taught him how to survive in this brutal, segregated city.
In his late teens he’d perfected his own unique form of street fighting, turning it into a virtual art form.
By the time he’d reached his mid twenties he’d earned the reputation as a violent man, one best avoided.
Though he didn’t know it at the time Butch was soon to become one of the most feared of Belfast’s many hard-men.
Despite their constant attempts to recruit him, Butch had always refused the Provos with a firm, ‘Look, fuck off boys; you know I’m not political.
Go fight your own war.’
As if to make sure they fully understood his position he’d fight just as hard with the Catholic boys as he would with the Protestants.
‘Darren, my son, as long as I draw breath, promise me you’ll not get involved in the troubles.’
His mother’s constant words echoed through his mind at every attempted recruitment.
Strange to think back then that everyone still called him Darren.
He wished they still would.
He hated the name Butch.
Then, one dark, cold and rainy night, a Proddy outfit abducted and murdered his mother.
Mrs. McCann was making her way home from visiting friends when she had been viciously attacked.
She was brutally beaten and her throat was cut.
Everyone in the province assumed the attack was a punishment.
Her crime?
She was Catholic.
This, signature killing, was clearly the work of a specific Protestant Paramilitary squad: the infamous Shankill Butchers.
The squad took their orders directly from The
Ulster Volunteer Force, a loyalist paramilitary group.
Though never actually claiming responsibility for the killing, the method used put the blame firmly at the doorstep of the U.V.F.
From the moment her body had been found, Darren McCann was transformed from a lone street fighter.
Heartbroken at the loss of his beloved mother, his feelings of hatred towards her killers made him the perfect weapon for the Republicans.
He was recruited into the Provisional I.R.A. the day following his mother’s funeral.
***
The Training Camp - For O
ne
Several weeks later, Darren peeped out of the front door and smiled.
He wasn’t altogether shocked, but he was pleasantly surprised.
After spending several minutes checking both directions of Nansen Street he found there was not one soldier to be seen.
In his vivid nightmare last night he’d opened this door to face hundreds of police and soldiers all waiting to take him, the latest recruit for the I.R.A., and lock him away forever - in the dreaded H-Blocks.
He breathed a huge sigh of relief as he realised it really had been nothing but a bad dream.
He spent the day fidgeting and pacing, waiting for the allotted hour yet dreading it at the same time.
His nightmare kept coming back to haunt him and his disturbed sleep had left him weary and anxious.
Eventually, some time in the afternoon, he felt himself nodding off and sat back in a chair for the quick nap he knew he needed.
