The Vengeance Man (21 page)

"Bettah than elevan poun', for shoah." The third speaker was the sallow one. His voice, even across the distortion of the directional mike was thin and mean. Through the remote binoculars I could see him sneering.   I was fully into the watch operator's swivel chair now, using the headphones and binocular controls. With my left hand I reached out and twitched the curtain across, cutting out the view through the windscreen and concentrated on the surveillance periscope. I had had bad luck looking for my three customers in the last month, but finding them on the day I had a brand new fully rigged surveillance van to call my own more than made up for it.

"OK, OK.   Ah'll goah along with it. But only one last bust, then we gotta change our image like an’ and split, man, 'cos it not gonna last for evah." It  was the grey track suit.

"So we do the post offi
ce, roight?" That was red shoes
girl
.

"When?"

"When you like ... Howsart tomorrah? It’s pension day, innit? All the old biddies’ll be art collectin’ their wages."

A pause.

"Ivor ... you scared?" That was the female sneering voice.

"Scared's de wrong word ... I'm jus' cairful. You know what ah mean?" Ivor was the tall grey one. "At least no one belts
me
wiv a stick."

"Shit, it'll be easy, man. We jus' gotta look real cairful ...What we really need is a gun, man." Red shoes, the girl. 
S
cornful, mocking. "Anyway, tha' ol' man won' be usin' his stick for a long time now." Sniggers. A long pause.

"OK, OK. But a shooter’d be dead good, if we could get one. We’d get more respec’ wiv a shoo’ah.” The third voice broke in, muffled. “When're we gonna do it then? Tomorra?"

Red shoes shrugged. "Why not?" She swung round and stared up the street, taking in the van. Through the binoculars she seemed to be looking straight at me, almost at touching distance.  "Lissen, let's do it. You guys are good an’ no-one’s gonna lay afinger on us, man. Know what I mean?" She turned back to the other two who were following his gaze. "We meet up tomorrow, same place, then ease down for a good look, OK?"

The others nodded. Grey top looked uneasy. "C'mon, let’s split”.

Sneery face broke in. "Hey, who's that van? Outside firty free. Darn there. The grey one." He jerked his head towards me.

They all looked at me again. I felt their coldly calculating eyes and held my breath. The earphones crackled.

"Ah doan know. I never see it befoah."

"It locked, huh?"

Grey top shrugged. "Shit, I dunno, Jelly."

"C'mon Ivor, les' go see, huh? Mebbe it's gonna have a weak lock, eh?" They sniggered again.

To my horror, they began to amble down the pavement towards me, the  Red shoes girl leading. While the back double doors of the van were securely locked and no-one could see inside, the driver's door was still unlocked. For a second I was paralysed. Then I pulled off the headphones and dived low under the velvet curtain. By lying flat and reaching full length across the driver's seat, I could press the inner locking button down. I prayed that they wouldn't see the brief white flash of hand, then hardly daring to breathe, I edged carefully on my belly under the velvet curtain back into the body of the van.

They were so close I'd lost them on the binoculars. I softly pulled back the sliding inner covers on the one-way viewing windows to see them about five metres away. The van was fitted with all-round viewing ports and it was eerie to see them so close, knowing that I was invisible to them.   I didn't need the microphone either. Muffled by the bodywork I could hear their voices, and then the van rattled as the driver's door was shaken. "Shit, it's locked."

"Hey, man, doan' fuss. Jelly, try the back."

Sallow face walked round and tugged hard at the back doors. The van rocked. He twisted as hard as he could and kicked the doors. I held my breath. Then he kicked the handle again, which snapped off and sailed into the road.

"Oh, shit, look what ah've dun."  He laughed and the other two came round the back to join him.

The girl sneered. “You'll nevah git in it nah, you ..."

"OK, OK." Someone charged the back doors with his shoulder. The van lurched on its suspension. Frightened now, I looked round for a suitable weapon.   Nothing. The three yobboes kicked the back doors, but, thank God, they had been reinforced against this sort of attack. A wave of rising panic made my armpits begin to sweat. How the hell was I going to explain this away?

"Hey c'mon, why don’ we go rarnd the front." This was Red shoes. "Mebbe you can smash a window." No doubt about it. The girl was the leader.

The three heads moved round the left side of the van. Again it rattled as they tugged at the passenger door. Red shoes swore again at being thwarted and Sallow Face guffawed at her discomfiture.

"Lissen, Nelson, I'm goin' to get into this fuckin’ van now." Red shoes was angry. I wondered if she had to try to impress her two mates. She stumped in front of the van and leant over the pavement wall to get something from a grimy garden. With horror I saw that she had got a brick.

"Hey, cool it girl. We doan' wan' no trouble...."

But Red shoes was angry. Holding the brick carefully by one end she smashed it against the driver's door window.  There was a resounding 'boing' and she staggered back, holding her wrist. The special proof armoured glass was unmarked, but, to judge from her antics, Red shoes wasn't. "You' fuckin..." she trailed off into a stream of bad language while the other two shrieked with falsetto laughter like a couple of seagulls, as Red shoes stuffed her aching wrist under her armpit. Despite the tension I grinned to myself.

Red shoes now bent to retrieve the brick. "What kind of fuckin’ van is this, anyways?" I heard her say, then she threw the brick at the glass as hard as he could.  Again it bounced off, narrowly missing the other two, who ducked and stopped laughing. It was getting ugly. I couldn't afford them going for the wheels or tyres at any price and that could be next.

"Hey, cool it Jelly!" shouted the tall one they'd called Ivor. He looked alarmed. In fact, he looked about a quarter of what I was feeling, standing in the back of a brand new specialist surveillance van costing six figures and full of secret and sensitive equipment, surrounded by three psychopathic vandals. I had to do something to stop them and fast, even if I had to leap into the driver's seat and drive away.  Then I remembered the alarm.   I could hardly use the van's radio phone to dial 999, but I could scare the shit out of them.

As Jelly hefted hers brick to throw one more time, I banged my hand hard down on the round red button. Immediately a police siren wailed overhead, loud and high-pitched.  Inside it was deafening.  The girl Jelly froze, the brick tumbled from her hand and then she was gone, haring down the avenue as if the hounds of hell were at her heels. As if by magic Sallow Face Nelson had already disappeared, and down the other pavement I could see Greytop Ivor was working on the UK all-comers 400 metres backstreets dash record.

Say what you like, they were fast, those kids, especially when they thought they blown it.  They should have enrolled in the local athletics club. Mind you, they’d probably push steroids to the members. But they were quick.

By the time they'd gone, doors were opening and people looking into the street. Round here police sirens were  always interesting.  I waited a few
more seconds, then turned the
off' key on the panel. The alarm siren cut out in mid wail as suddenly as it had started, and a blissful silence descended. I quietly eased into the driver's seat, wiped my sweating palms and pulled away, followed by the wondering stares of the avenue's inhabitants. I didn't mind; it was quite funny really. No harm had been done - and now I knew where to find my three muggers next day. By the time I got into Brixton High Street I was smiling.  I hoped Jelly's wrist hurt from her brick-banging efforts. Her pride certainly had been.

I warned Mallalieu that I would be late in the next day. "Broken tooth," I said glumly;

He smiled. "Sign of age. You're slowing down; falling apart. Fancy letting some yobboes rip the back handle off at traffic lights." This was the story I'd given him about the damage to the van. "Oh, well ... enjoy the dentist; I can't stand them."

I tried to look suitably embarrassed and he wandered off.  I wondered what he'd think he knew of my
real
plans for an appointment tomorrow.
I was going to sort his yobboes out.

And, as a special treat, I was going to let them see a gun.

A marked increase in Gun Crime

I like guns.

In the lock up garage that night I dragged out a carefully loosened breeze block and unearthed a cloth roll containing my oldest and most secret treasures: an ex-SOE Ballester-Molina .45 automatic,  and a Colt Courier .32 revolver. Although I’m not a great fan of  handguns, the old
Argentinean
automatic pistol was far more accurate than any version of the US Colt .45 it had been copied from. With it I knew I could hit a man target 8 out of 10 at thirty metres, which for me was good hand gun shooting. Moreover, the soft nosed .45 bullet was a real manstopper.   But it was unsuitable for what I had in mind, and I daren't scatter empty .45 cases onto the pavement, which automatics do - automatically. No, it was the revolver, .32 calibre, or nothing. Reluctantly I put the heavy silver-grey automatic away and returned to the flat with the smaller gun and twenty neatly packed .32 'New Police' bullets.

On the kitchen table I carefully stripped, cleaned and reassembled the revolver. I left the pistol grips off at first, but a skeleton butt saved little bulk and was uncomfortable in the hand, so I screwed them back on. Then I turned my attention to the ammunition.

Point 32 calibre pistol ammunition can’t really be described as a man stopper. But then I only wanted to drop a bunch of hooligan kids and at short range at that. Stopping power is simply a measure of a bullet's ability to deliver its energy to the target and the most important single factor is its weight. At only 100 grammes, the .32 is little more than a very dangerous toy except in skilled hands. I set out to make my .32 ammunition as dangerous as possible.

Taking six of the rounds, I gently jiggled them until the bullets came out of the end of the brass cartridge cases. Being careful not to spill any of the grains of propellant, I stacked the open shells on the table and
opened
some
of
the spare rounds to pour a little of their propellant into my selected cases.

I'd no idea how much extra charge I'd squeezed in; not much, but the combination of the little extra muzzle velocity and a flat lead dum-dum head should splatter any mugger at close range.

Just to make absolutely sure, I took the six loose bullets and jammed them one at a time, back end upwards, into a modelling vice. With an Exacto razor hack saw, I carefully cut a cross in the lead circle of the flat ends. The lead sawdust sprinkled through the gleaming copper jackets of the bullets and drifted onto the table. By the  time I had finished I had six flat head bullets, each with a deeply incised cross in the wrong end.. Then I carefully pushed them back, point first into their brass cases.  Displaced propellant spilled onto the table. Checking the bullets for length against an undoctored one, I finally sealed the six back to front rounds with a little clear UHU. The blunt exposed ends of the doctored bullets gleamed like miniature metal thermos flasks, each marked with its deep-cut cross on the top.

I now had six .32 pistol rounds, converted to flat nosed dum-dum and pre-cut to 'blossom' on impact. None of them could go far and none of them would be totally accurate, but they would deliver a lot of foot-pounds over the short distances I intended to shoot. I tidied up, had a drink, listened to the news and went to bed. I slept like a log and only woke when the alarm went off next morning. I had no bad dreams.

*
             
*
             
*

I used a nondescript hire car next morning and parked it safely near my planned target area. I had dressed the part carefully; a theatrical grey wig, a walking stick and an old double breasted chalk stripe suit that I had picked up in an Help the Aged charity shop the previous weekend. Apart from my face, I now looked the part of a pensioner. Even the thin grey army surplus pilot's gloves added to the picture.  To confuse the issue further I slipped a pair of glassless orange coloured horn-rimmed glasses on my nose, and stuck a bright plaster across my cheek. Any one trying to describe my face afterwards would remember those decoys, and not my real features.  I slipped the pistol into my waistband, checked my watch and, head down, limped up the pavement.

If I felt any emotion, it was certainly not nervousness, or even a heightened awareness
.
I was calm, relaxed and quietly anticipatory. While I leaned against a lamppost to scan the street, out of curiosity I took my pulse. It was 65, stone cold normal. Somewhat surprised, I tottered to the end of the road. Nothing happened. There was a sprinkling of people going about their business in the windy streets, but not my targets. To keep it looking good I tapped my way to the Post Office and, still seeing nothing,  drifted into the welter of bright boiled sweets and strident girlie magazines.

A cheerful Pakistani took my money for a packet of crisps and some chocolate bars. I kept my head down to avoid his eye and ignored the idle chatter. Clutching my brown paper
bag, I bumbled back into the empty street and retraced my steps towards the spot where I had seen the yobbo gang yesterday. Apart from the occasional passing car, I saw nobody until I turned the corner into the seedy avenue.   There, heads close together, a hundred metres away, three young faces turned to stare at me. A pair of red trainers gleamed like beacons. Like a gulp of brandy on a cold day a split-second glow of satisfaction coursed through my veins.

Gotcha!

I leaned against a wall, making a great act of wheezing and regaining my breath, while I transferred the pistol discreetly from my waistband to the brown bag. Then, head down, tapping my stick in the left hand, gripping a pistol behind a paper bag, I walked up the right hand pavement, closing on my unsuspecting victims, who continued to stare at me while talking urgently among themselves.

Although I kept my head down to mask my face and simulate age, I saw the hasty consultation before they split up. Grey Top leant ostentatiously against a vandalised phone box. This time he was wearing roller skates. Ready for action at the Post Office, I wondered?  Red shoes, the girl, crossed the street and began to move past me on the left hand pavement.   Sallow Face had performed his disappearing trick again. God knows how he did it. Leaning on the stick, puffing and bent, I assessed my targets.

Ten metres ahead, Grey boy blocking my path;  safe cover on my right, a hard brick wall.  Over the road and about twenty metres behind to my left was Red shoes, now stopped and watching.  Otherwise the street was empty.  Sallow face must have slid into the alley on my right alongside grey top Ivor, and was waiting out of sight there.

Easy: taking a firm grip on the pistol, I puffed up to the roller-skated youth in the grey top leaning against the phone box.

As I got level, he stood up straight and moved into my path, looking hard at me. To his obvious surprise I kept on walking, pretending not to notice him until I was almost at the entrance to the alley on the right. Grey Top Ivor on the roller skates leaned a thin arm against the wall to stop me. His eyes flicked into the alley and I heard the pad of running as Red shoes closed up from across the road from my left.  Perfect! I had all three of the bastards trapped.

Trying to look surprised, I backed against the wall and straightened up. At that moment I had all three targets in sight as Sallow face Nelson emerged from the alley, a bottle in his hand two metres to my right.  Grey boy spoke first, stepping towards me.

"Hey,
Granddad
, just give us yo' wallet, man ... " His voice trailed off as he saw my face properly for the first time. "Unless yo' wanta get beat some," he added in a less confident tone.  He stared hard at my face, puzzled.

My back firmly against the wall, I brought the stick in my left hand up to the 'en garde' position, pointing at Red shoes. She screeched to a halt, shouting, "Belt him, Nelson.  Belt him!"

The little semi-circle advanced on me, with sallow faced Nelson on my right raising the bottle. In contrast to the white snarls of the other two, his leer revealed surprisingly bad teeth, I noticed. The sparse black bum fluff framed yellow fangs.

I let the brown paper bag fall away, exposing the blue-black revolver, tight and small in my gloved hand.

For a split second the little tableau froze. Ivor, the tall one in the middle with the grey track suit, spoke first. "Oh, shit," he muttered. Nelson's bottle hovered, raised to strike. Snarling, he took a pace forward.

The CQB (Close Quarter
Battle) in
s
tructors always
say attack the first hostile movement as savagely and as quickly as possible.  It will remove the immediate danger and should frighten off any other would-be heroes.  The more violent and savage the first act, the greater effect it will have.  At a range of about six feet, I swung hard right and shot Sallow Face Nelson in the middle of the visible target, as I had been taught, with two rapid shots. The 'cracks' sounded like fireworks and the over-charged revolver bucked in my hand.

His lunge forward stopped abruptly as if he had run into a brick wall, and his body jack-knifed backwards with the shock of the blossoming dum-dum bullets. The bottle fell slowly from his fingers and shattered against the pavement, its crash sounding louder than the pistol.   His eyes bulged and gazed at me, horrified.

"Oh, Christ," he sobbed, "Oh, Christ ..."but his second curse choked off in a splutter as bright red blood spattered from his mouth and ran freely over his chin. He fell away and I swung left to where Ivor and the red-shoed girl they called Jelly stood petrified, mouths open, literally rooted to the spot with fear.  I fired once straight ahead through Ivor's waving hands, at his lower belly, and the impact of the lead smashed him back against the wooden telegraph pole.

My aim was awful; his thigh was hit and as the roller skates slipped away, he pole-axed down yowling and clutching a dark stain on the grey tracksuited thigh.

I was conscious that I was shouting too; a stream of foul-mouthed abuse poured from my lips as the pistol swung hard left to fasten onto Red shoes. As if a spell was broken she turned to run. And she was fast. Taking my time, I raised the gun and sighted it carefully on her fleeing back, my arm outstretched in the classic duelling pose.

The first shot from the leaping pistol had no effect.  I assumed I'd missed and carefully squeezed off a second, at which her arms flew wide as if crucified.    Then the red shoes slowly seemed to melt into the pavement, her bottom half buckling under her as she ran, until finally she lay screaming and thrashing her arms on the ground, legs seized and motionless, like someone stuck in a quicksand.

We all stopped shouting and Ivor's groans sounded loud in the silence. I straightened up and looked around. The smell of cordite drifted in the air.

In front of me Ivor was lying, moaning, his blood-
smeared hands
desperately
grabbing at the pulpy mass that had been an upper thigh, his back arched in agony against the telephone box. To my right, Nelson lay face down, ominously silent, in a widening puddle of blood that slowly crept over the broken sparkles of bottle glass.   His fingers twitched spasmodically.  He'd had two shots, Ivor one and the running Jelly Red shoes two. That left one left.

I walked ov
er to Red Shoes
strange form flailing the pavement from the waist up. She was fifteen paces away and I seemed to have plenty of time. Things seemed to go very slowly.

Avoiding the scything arms, I pulled her head back hard. Her anguished eyes stared up at me, wide-eyed in panic and terror. She stopped screaming. Had her mugged victims felt terrified like this, I wondered?

"I can't move," she said, and as I looked down I saw why. A small dark stain dead centre in his lower back marked where the single bullet had struck. It had been a good shot.  Very good, considering. She twisted her head to look up at me. The eyes were wide with fear. "I can’t feel nuffing ..." The eyes pleaded.

I wasn't surprised; I reckoned the bullet must have lodged in her spine.

I remembered to speak Scots. "That'll teach you to go mugging innocent women and children, lass
ie.
Not such a big brave fuckin’ girl now,
are we…?”

She didn't seem to hear me. "Ah can't feel my legs ... " She started to cry

"Tough.   D'ye remember the baby and the bleach? How d'ye think it felt? You shoulda staye
d in school, girlie and not gone
robbin’ with yer wee pals…Yer scum!”  She dropped her head, wailing. I looked back up the avenue. A woman had appeared about a hundred yards away and was standing at her gate, head-craned to see what all the noise was about. I realised that I was still clutching the pistol, hanging down in my right hand, so I dropped it into my jacket pocket and loped back to Ivor at the pole.   His thumbs were pressed into the top of his thigh. Sweat beaded his face as he looked at me, wide-eyed.

"Why, man? Why do you do it?"    He squeezed his eyes with pain.

I stood over him. I wanted him to remember the message and the accent. "You know why, Ivor."

He groaned. "Are you a pig, man?"

"No, this is private, sonny Jim. You've been taken out to teach you a lesson and others we're paying off a score. For the baby. And the bleach. And the old folk.  Have you got that?" I glanced up the street.

A little knot of watching people had now formed around the woman. They were pointing and someone was running away up the road. Someone was talking on a mobile phone.  Time to go. I considered knee-capping Ivor with my last bullet, but it was time to quit. On an impulse I kicked his bleeding leg. He screamed in agony.