My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (20 page)

“The Hoodie Hunter? He sounds like a real pussy to me, man.”

“I’m telling you, Castro, he’s one mean muvver. Doesn’t fuck about. Takes out three at a time. According to papers, he—”

“The papers? Rah, yeah right, man, it must be true then.” Castro drew hard on his spliff as he leaned back on the soft leather sofa and put his feet up on the Jamaican-patterned beanbag on the floor. He liked to call his flat an “apartment”, but deep down he knew it was just a flat, despite the address being Grosvenor Apartments – a sales ploy, nothing more. Still, it was kitted out lavishly from ill-gotten gains, and the Moss Range location was hardly salubrious, ensuring the suspicions of the authorities were kept in check. “C’mon, shock me. He did what?”

“Well, they said he took out three hoodies in one go on the other side of town, but the cops denied they were all down to him. Said it was gang shit.”

“The Hoodie Hunter?” he said disdainfully, clicking his tongue on his teeth. “Okay, so he took out three hooded sweatshirts, in one go? Sounds like an aggressive shoplifter to me, innit.” Castro grinned at his own joke, revealing gold front teeth amid a dark goatee. “Hoodie Hunter, my arse.” He sneered under his own dark hoodie.

“What about our runner boy, Gasbo?”

“That could’ve been anyone who killed him, man. Little twat, sneaking around behind my back, trying to sort shit out by teaming up with the enemy. Fuck him.”

Big-un was worried. All the papers had said this “one-man crime wave” was responsible for up to a half a dozen hits this week alone and he knew the net was closing in on the likes of the Moss Range Crew. They’d done some bad stuff and this appeared to qualify them for whatever this crazy guy was doing. He stroked a hand over the tattooed letters just below each of his knuckles on his right fist – ‘YMRC’ – signifying membership. The ‘Y’ stood for ‘Young’ as he’d been in it since he was thirteen and now helped run the show, second only to Castro.

“But, bro, he single-handedly fucked up the Bad Bastards on the east side,” said Big-un.

“Rah, rah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Those pussies? Blam, blam, fuckin’ blam. Heard it all before, man,” said Castro, sucking the dregs of the spliff. He had to admit, though, their rival gang had been a bit quiet recently, since two of their main men had been smoked by someone. Granted, it saved him a job, but he knew it wasn’t any of his crew. He’d heard the Bad Bastards had been branching out their business into the city centre. They’d dissed a few bouncers from Salford, so that was the most likely reason they’d been smoked, not this vigilante prick. He killed the weed stub in the ashtray on his lap.

“Aw, bro, I had twos-up on that.”

“Fuck you and your bullshit, Big-un. You sound scared, man.”

“Am not scared… just a bit… wary, innit.”

“Rah, a bit? Well, if that pussy ever fancies his chances, then I’m ready.” He stood up, withdrew the Browning revolver from his waistband and pointed it at an imaginary target. “I was fuckin’ born ready, man. Just ask Leroy Bright… or Mad Dog McPherson… or Benny Jacobs…”

Big-un knew he couldn’t ask them. He watched nervously until Castro tucked the Browning back into his waistband. Castro had been rather paranoid lately as whispers about a hit on him had gained ground.

“Anyway, I’m off to drill me baby-muvver,” said Castro with a smirk.

“Which one?” asked Big-un.

“Laticia, of course.” He leered. “Need a fix of her Babylons.”

“Don’t blame you, bro.” Big-un pictured them: impressive to say the least and well worth a juggle. He should know, since unbeknown to Castro, he’d juggled them himself.

“Meet me back ’ere in a couple of hours, okay? And bring some funds for tomorrow.”

“Do I ever let yer down, bro?”

“Never. So let’s keep it that way, man.”

Their fists met in a show of macho respect.

Big-un left Castro’s flat, smirking to himself about Laticia’s Babylons, as he headed to meet up with the boys. They’d jack a few pissed-up students, inflict some pain, sniff some coke, then back to Castro’s flat to discuss business, like they did most nights.

***

Striker and Bardsley skulked in the undergrowth of the woods, having moved twenty or so metres toward the temple, before finding sanctuary behind a large sycamore. The early evening sun had long since disappeared, the darkness their ally.

“No,” whispered Striker abruptly, as Bardsley threatened to light a cigarette.

“Come on, Jack. I’ll cup the flame.”

“I said no, Eric. We’re too close and they may see it. Can’t you wait? How addicted are you? Jeez.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Striker gave him the eye, annoyed with himself for going back on the cigs.

Bardsley huffily replaced the cigarette into the packet. The two detectives peered through the trees as the crunch of gravel underfoot signified the arrival of attendees about fifteen metres to their left.

As planned, Lauren had headed along the short lane, then along the main road to her own car parked around the corner in the car park of a country pub. If anyone spotted her, she was under instructions to say that she was just checking the location for the meeting before having a bite to eat at the pub. However, the text message Striker had just received saying,
All clear, no worries, I’ll be fine. Really, I’m okay now, thanks,
had lifted Striker’s spirits somewhat. He’d remained waiting in the dank woods with the flatulent, chain-smoking Bardsley. Striker had been in more romantic situations in his life, but not for a while.

“And no more bloody farting either!”

“Okay, Jack. But you know I love a good Indian… tindaloo… loo by name and loo—”

“Shh. And get your bloody head on, Eric.”

Bardsley was always like this before any type of job that had the potential of going pear-shaped, and there’d been a few over the years, though none of them were of this potential magnitude. Striker knew it was his colleague’s way of beating the demons, the nerves that every cop felt at times like these, especially with so much riding on it. He also knew, despite Bardsley’s tomfoolery, that he was a damn good cop and Striker couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather be beside, flatulence aside.

A couple of cars approached, so Striker took out two small pairs of binoculars, handing one to Bardsley. The temple itself looked somewhat eerie, its rugged appearance now shadowed with shifting shapes as more cars pulled up.

A couple of doors slammed and Striker manoeuvred the binoculars into position until he saw two women in winter coats and scarves, possibly mother and daughter. He then looked at three men in long black trench coats, standing at the large wooden doors of the entrance, reminding him of doormen. Or bouncers, or door security personnel, or whatever they were called now. Voices travelled in the night, but the exact words were incomprehensible.

He scanned again, this time seeing Collinge locking her car, then lifting the collar of her coat to fend off the chilly night air. She headed for the temple’s entrance.

Striker flicked the binoculars back to the three men, one of whom prodded another as if to alert him, and all three looked sternly at the approaching Lauren Collinge.

On his approach down the subway steps, he could hear their voices growing louder. There was laughter too, but not for long. He knew they’d be here because reconnaissance was one of his fortes.

He saw the first one, then the second and soon clocked that there were five in total.

Careful.

They were listening intently to a big lad in the middle who was gesticulating as if describing beating somebody up. The words “Rah, rah” and “Innit” were prevalent. His instant recognition of the large youth known as ‘Big-un’ from the Moss Range Park estate sparked a surge of excitement within him.

Control and focus.

The others were dressed in the usual dark sports gear, with their hoods predictably up. He stopped at the subway’s entrance, craning to identify his prey from twenty-five metres away. He withdrew a small pair of lightweight NVG7s and soon sussed the one he had no interest in had a bright stripe across his hood.

He then saw that two were going through the pockets of a young curly haired lad he hadn’t initially spotted. The lad was clearly petrified, probably a student.

Right.

“Oy, dickheads!”

They pivoted in unison, looking surprised.

“Want some?”

“You fuckin’ with us, man?” shouted Big-un.

“What do you think, you bunch of low-lives?”

The student was discarded like litter. They all surged forward as one, a mass of arms, legs and aggression, their profanities resounding off the subway’s graffiti-stained walls.

He turned and ran like a fox being hounded, albeit a very cunning one. He took the steps three at a time, soon passing a cul-de-sac on the right…

One…

He ignored the second right turn…

Two…

He heard them closing in…

Three…

He headed into the third cul-de-sac, passing the rows of terraced houses and parked cars, and stopping at the dead end. Breathlessly, he withdrew a baton from his left sleeve – his preferred weapon, not only due to its silence, easy concealment and his dexterity with it, but also because with each hit, he felt the satisfying shockwave of their pain.

He waited.

The noisy throng emerged at the top of the dark street.

“There he is, the cheeky fucker.” Down they ran, their footsteps echoing in the narrow street.

He stood his ground, baton at the ready. They slowed up, still cursing, a wariness creeping into their psyches perhaps.

Big-un drew a blade, glistening under a streetlamp. “You’re fucked now, gobshite.”

He backed off from the gang, sucking them in, slowly edging around them, baton outstretched, slicing the night air with threatening swings. Eyeballing Big-un, he saw a flicker of fear. With deliberate, confident paces, he subtly manoeuvred them into the opening of an adjacent alleyway, a few metres to his right. They spread across the alley’s entrance. One tried to sneak behind him, but the baton cut audibly through the air.

‘Wanker! Am gonna shank you,” said Levi, clicking a flick knife open. He knew all his targets’ names, and more, much more than they would ever know.

He jockeyed them back a few paces, with a few nifty forward steps and vicious swings of the baton, further into the alley, capitalising on their hesitancy.

He took a step back himself when spotting a third knife appear in the hand of Renshaw.

“He’s bottling it now. Ha. His arse has fell out. Fuckin’ slice him, bro,” said Big-un.

Two metres away, if that, their anxious faces just visible in the darkness.

Big-un lunged forward and the others followed, yelling, grimacing. Side-stepping Big-un, he grabbed his arm and jerked it behind his back, wrenching it up to his neck until it cracked. He threw in a kidney punch for good measure with his baton hand.

“Aaargh.” Big-un’s blade clanged onto the asphalt and he dropped like a bag of shit, clutching his broken arm. At the back, Levi shaped to throw something, so he ducked and a bottle smashed beside him on a wall. They surged forward and a 360-turn impacted the baton onto a couple of stray skulls. Spotting Big-un trying to get up, he stamped on the broken arm, producing a girlie squeal.

The gang were getting too close.

Next phase.

He expertly swung his baton, connecting on the nearest cheekbone with a thud, his arm juddering on impact. Shanks cursed, holding his head, the others hesitating again, giving him a second to remove a brick in the wall.

“That won’t fuckin’ stop us, you muppet,” yelled Levi.

Behind the brick was his trusty Glock 17, the silencer already fitted. “This fuckin’ will though!” In one swift movement, he retracted his baton and slipped it up his left sleeve into its adapted sheath. Gripping the handgun in both hands, he took aim. All swagger was gone now, their fear-etched faces frozen. Levi and Shanks turned to run.

“It’s a dead-end, boys – just like your lives.”

“No, man, please—”

Three sharp, muffled shots, one for each forehead, the recoil expertly controlled. They dropped like dominoes.

Whimpering, Big-un tried to clamber up the wall, but fell to his knees. He cowered as he slowly looked up.

Someone was sobbing deep in the alley. It was the last lad standing, the one with the white stripe on his hood, his face pallid and still as the moon.

“Go now. Speak to no one or you won’t be so lucky next time. Go sort your life out.” The lad shot off like shit off the proverbial shovel.

He scanned his work, the useless young bodies strewn randomly, reminding him fleetingly of Kabul. A satisfying thought grew in his mind, that of the numerous crimes prevented and the many victims spared by his actions. Then he gazed at the end-terraced house beside him. Stemming the flow of a thousand memories, he spun round and pointed the Glock at the scampering Big-un. He was trying to sneak away, still clutching his shattered arm, still whimpering like a puppy.

“Pleeease… don’t…”

Control and focus.

Now, let’s move this thing forward.

He fired a couple of slugs that whizzed past Big-un’s head, pinging into the wall behind. Big-un halted, crouched and raised his good arm to cover his face.

“Fuck me, man!”

“No thanks, you’re not my type.”

“You’re Him, aren’t you? The Hoodie Hunter.”

He glanced up the street, noticing a few lights had come on. “Yes, I’m Him.”

“Aw, nooo… Can… I go now… Pleeease?” asked Big-un, pathetically.

“What do you think?”

He strolled over to Big-un, who recoiled and resumed his snivelling, ironically, akin to many of his own victims.