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Major mistake in Boyle’s book.
Boyle had strolled into Night Moves at a quarter past eleven, with a couple of his boys, and put the smile on everyone in sight. He bought a round for the house and accepted the grateful applause in return, then took Murray to the soundproof office for a private chat. Murray reckoned everything was fine until he saw the ball-peen hammer, then he started bawling like a baby, blubbering and pleading innocence while Boyle got down to work.
Knuckles and walnuts sounded the same when they were crushed.
Boyle had considered smashing Murray’s feet as well, but changed his mind and took the greedy bastard’s shoes instead, along with keys to his brand-new Mercedes-Benz, and tossed him out the back.
Adding, “Oh, by the way, you’re fecking fired,” before he slammed the door.
The dancer who had tipped him off received a healthy tip and was invited to see Boyle at home after she got off work. When she’d arrived, a little after two o’clock, he’d thanked her properly. And twice more in the time since then, leaving her limp and snoring softly on his king-size bed.
No worries there, Boyle thought. He had no wife to scold him, and no kids to barge in without knocking first. After he’d satisfied his thirst, he might go back and thank the lady one more time. It would be fine if she woke up; if not, so be it.
Boyle was all about the gratitude.
Pouring his third straight double shot of Glenmorangie whisky, he thought about Murray again. In the old days, say ten years ago, he’d have likely killed the man for the money he’d stolen. Things had been tight back then, relatively, but now Boyle could dabble in mercy.
Unless Murray was stupid and tried to make trouble.
Boyle didn’t mind if he stayed in Glasgow. Murray could serve as a living example of what befell those who screwed with the boss. Telling the story to selected listeners was also fine, as long as Murray was straight about it, laying out his sins. But if he started agitating, or considered talking to the filth…
Boyle sipped his whisky, savored it, deciding he could always have the boys drop Murray in the Clyde or take him for a ride onto the moors if there were indications of his acting up. Until then, there was no point second-guessing his original decision.
One more shot before he went back to the dancer?
Boyle considered it, weighing the pleasure against any possible decline in his performance, and decided it was worth the risk. These days, it took a fair amount of booze to get him blootered, and in his opinion, he still bounced back in good time for a man his age.
Forty and counting. Who in hell would’ve believed that Frankie Boyle would last so long? he wondered.
Smiling, he took the shot glass with him. Back to thank his friend once more, before he sent her home.
BOLAN HAD USED the day to get his bearings, gather information and to follow Frankie Boyle at a discreet distance. He’d noted the addresses that, given the length of time Boyle spent at them, he had to have an interest in beyond having a drink or watching strippers work a pole.
Mapping the darker side of Glasgow, one stop at a time.
He had been parked a block away from Night Moves, south of Bath Street, when a weeping man had lurched out of a nearby alley, cradling hands that looked like shattered bird’s nests. Bolan let him go and wished him well if he deserved it.
Either way the man turned on Pitt Street, he would find help waiting for him. Go south for police headquarters, north to reach the nearest hospital ER. Both stood within a quarter mile of where Bolan had parked his rented car to wait for Boyle’s next move.
As it turned out, that was the highlight of his evening, until he followed Boyle home and started getting ready for his unexpected meet with Glasgow’s unofficial boss. The city council and police would angrily dispute that title, naturally, but the fact remained that Boyle controlled a major portion of the city’s underground economy.
This night, that would be coming to an end.
Bolan was dressed in black street clothes with sturdy boots, and he wore a light raincoat to hide the Spectre SMG slung underneath his right arm, muzzle-heavy with its sound suppressor in place. He always came prepared for trouble. Bolan didn’t know how many men Boyle had inside his great pile of a house, or how they would be armed.
Ideally, he would have a private moment with the boss and persuade Boyle to give up his terrorist contacts. But that was looking on the rosy side. Things rarely went that way for Bolan, and he guessed that Boyle would be the usual tough nut to crack.
If he had to ice the boss and squeeze somebody else, he’d do that. Ian Watt had named Boyle’s number two as Erik Heriot, presumably well versed on all of Boyle’s big deals. If one nut wouldn’t crack…
Bolan had picked his time deliberately. Countless studies had revealed that human beings generally hit a slump at 4:00 a.m., no matter how much sleep they’d had. Reflexes lagged, distractions were routine. In hospitals, statistics showed a spike in births and deaths.
It was the Hour of the Wolf.
Or, in this case, the Hour of the Executioner.
The closest place he’d found to park was four blocks northeast of Boyle’s place, but the neighborhood had alleys where the well-to-do could leave their garbage cans for pickup without ruining the trim look of their streets. Taking the back way cut his hike by half and gave Bolan a chance to come at Boyle’s house from behind, instead of strolling under streetlights to the tall front door.
The backyard was surrounded by a seven-foot brick wall, but Boyle hadn’t bothered to spike it or set up motion detectors. Bolan scaled the wall and lay on top of it to whistle softly, calling any dogs that might be lurking in the shadows down below, but none responded to the call. No gunmen, either, indicating that the Boss of Glasgow didn’t know that he was under siege.
There had been nothing on the radio about police discovering Watt’s body in the pawn shop, nothing about weapons found or anything related to them. Bolan knew police could keep things under wraps if they collaborated with the media, but unsolved homicides normally rated coverage, even if details were suppressed to weed out false confessions.
So, he had no reason to suspect that Boyle was on alert. All systems go.
Bolan rolled off the wall and dropped into darkness, landed in a crouch and struck off toward the house.
ERIK HERIOT LIT his fortieth cigarette of the day, spent close to a half-minute coughing, then expelled the smoke from his lungs with a sigh or relief. Ought to quit that, he thought, then smiled at the old game he played with himself every day.
He wasn’t ready for a life change at the moment, whether it was swearing off the coffin nails, taking a pledge on booze, or looking for a so-called honest job to fill his time from nine to five.
He had one life, and this was it. He’d come a long way from the borstal time he’d served as a delinquent kid, serving these days as second in command to Frankie Boyle. Hard men all over Strathclyde knew his name, and Heriot could name a few in London who regretted crossing him.
The ones who were alive.
His life was damn near brilliant, when he thought about it, but if there was one thing he could change, it would’ve been the idle waiting that he had to do while Boyle had himself a frolic with a fancy bit. It was a waste of time for Heriot, in his opinion, when he could just as well be shaking down a debtor, say, or getting into some young lovely’s panties himself.
Still, Heriot knew better than to bitch about it, which would certainly rebound against him. It was better if he just—
Now, what in hell was that? he thought in response to the sound he’d just heard.
It was a scuffling noise of some kind from the kitchen, he realized. The last thing that he needed was a couple of his boys banging the pots and pans around like Gordon Feckin’ Ramsey on the telly. If they had to scuffle, he thought, they could do it in the yard. Or, better still, hold off until their shift was over and go down to Rory’s gym. Decide the matter in the ring, where anyone could get a bet down and enjoy the show, Heriot reasoned.
Fuming and trailing smoke, he made his way to the kitchen, ready to unload on anyone who was dumb enough to start a row inside the boss’s house. He cleared the doorway and stopped dead, surprised at seeing Billy Cutler laid out on the floor.
His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling, and what seemed to be a bucketload of blood was pooled around his head. He saw the gun lying next to Billy’s limp right hand, and knew there should’ve been the louder racket if he’d shot himself.
So, wha—?
Warm steel made contact with his skull behind his left ear. Heriot froze where he stood, wondering how much it would hurt to have his brains blown out. Instead of pain and sudden darkness, though, a voice half-whispered to him.
“Let’s go see your boss,” it said.
THE BACK DOOR had been unlocked for some reason. Maybe one of Boyle’s attendants had planned to take out the trash, or perhaps it was simple negligence. Whatever the scenario, it happened, and the ones most likely to relax their guard were people who had been in charge so long that they’d begun to treat the opposition with contempt.
It was a critical mistake.
Bolan had entered with the 93-R in his hand, leaving his Spectre on its sling for the moment. The pistol left his spare hand free for doorknobs, light switches, whatever came along requiring manual dexterity.
He was inside, closing the door behind him, when he realized that there was someone in the pantry, off the kitchen proper to his left. Bolan was gentle with the door, but it still clicked as it was closing, and the soldier in the pantry had good ears.
“Whozat?” the man asked, and had his pistol drawn before he showed himself. Not bad, Bolan thought, risking embarrassment to hold the fort. But whoever had left the door unlocked also had signed his death warrant.
One shot from twenty feet was all it took, sinking a hole between the shooter’s raised eyebrows, just a hair off center. Dying on his feet, the guy still managed two more lurching steps and fell against the stove, left arm outflung to catch the handle of a skillet, flip it once end-over-end and send it clattering across the floor as he went down.
The house was quiet, otherwise, though lights still showed in several of the windows. Bolan had to think the noise would draw somebody to investigate, and he was right. No more than thirty seconds later, when he’d nearly reached the exit to a formal dining room, he heard footsteps approaching at an urgent pace.
Bolan stepped back into a corner where the door would cover him as it was opened. Any SWAT team officer or soldier trained in urban combat would have entered in a crouch, slamming the door back to the wall and stunning anyone who might be crouched behind it, but a little racket in the kitchen didn’t rate that kind of do-or-die response.
So he was ready when the new arrival entered in a cloud of cigarette smoke, gaping at the body sprawled before him. And before the second man could twitch, much less sound an alarm, Bolan had kissed his neck with the Beretta’s warm suppressor.
“Let’s go see your boss,” he said.
The Scotsman almost nodded, then thought better of it. When he turned, it was a slow dance move, away from Bolan, waiting for the gun and whoever was holding it to go along with him. He caught the door before it closed, with his right hand, and stepped across the threshold with the same care he might exercise if he was walking on light bulbs.
“How far?” Bolan asked, not quite whispering.
“Upstairs. First floor, end of the hall.”
“First floor,” in the UK and most of Europe, meant what would’ve been the second story in the States. On this side of the water, the American first floor was called the “ground” floor, logically enough.
“You lead. Stay cool.”
“As ice,” his prisoner replied. Then added, “I suppose ye know yer in the shitebag now.”
“You’d better hope not,” Bolan told him. “If it hits the fan, you’re first to go.”
“Oh, aye. Ah figgered that.”
They’d reached the stairs, and Bolan’s captive started up them, taking each step with leaden strides.
“Faster,” Bolan instructed.
“Och, I wouldn’t wanna get me arse shot off fer runnin’, now.”
Before Bolan could answer, two men suddenly appeared above him, on the first-floor landing. Both scowled down at him, then reached for pistols tucked into their belts. He reached around his hostage, winged the shooter on his right.
And then all hell broke loose.
FRANKIE BOYLE was half asleep when sounds of gunfire yanked him back to consciousness. He tumbled out of bed, naked, his first instinct being to save himself if shooters were about to crash his bedroom door. Another second told him that the noise was buffered by a few more walls, which he figured meant he had at least a little time.
Job one: retrieve the Browning Hi-Power semiauto pistol from the top drawer of his nightstand and be ready to defend himself.
Job two: while covering the door, hit speed-dial on his cell phone for his houseman, to find out exactly what in bloody hell was happening.
Job three: put on some clothes.
The woman from Night Moves had begun to squeal and wouldn’t shut it when he snapped at her, so Boyle reached up and banjoed her with the 9 mm pistol. He thought he heard her nose crack, but had no time to consider it.
The phone rang three times and was going into number four when houseman Davey Bryce answered, breathless. “Yeah?”
“What’s all the feckin’ racket, then?” Boyle demanded.
“Someone’s got inside. I dunno—”
And the line went dead.
Boyle squeezed and shook the cell phone, all in vain. He thumbed redial, waited forever, just to hear a robo-voice say that his party wasn’t answering.
“No shite!” he snarled, and disconnected. He pressed another button with his thumb and waited through two rings before a gruff voice answered.
“Yeah, so?”
“Is ya feckin’ deaf or what, then? We’re gettin’ shot to tatters while you’re whackin’ off. Get yer ass over here right now!”
Boyle cut the link without waiting for a response and scrambled toward the nearby closet on his hands and knees. His private dancer was still wailing from the bed, likely to bring the home invaders down on top of them unless she shut it, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoot her.
Not in his own bed.
Boyle reached the walk-in closet, crawled inside and only then stood up. For all he knew, a bullet might come punching through one of the walls and find him there, but he felt safer, anyway.
And he still had a wild card up his sleeve.
The neighbors didn’t know—or else, pretended not to—that he owned two houses on their precious tree-lined street. One that he lived and partied in, and one next door, immediately to the north, where shooters slept in shifts, ready to scramble in a heartbeat if their boss was threatened. Boyle had built a gate into the fence that separated his two properties, so troops could pass without alerting any watchers on the street.
Not that he gave a damn for stealth tonight, though, with some bastard shooting up his house. His neighbors would be calling up the police by now, he thought. Boyle only hoped that he could meet one of the bastards face-to-face, before the police rolled in.
And maybe get the hell away from there, as well.
But just in case, once Boyle had pulled his trousers on, he made another call. To his solicitor, this time. He figured that for what he charged per hour, the old prick could damn well haul his fat ass out of bed and meet Boyle at the lockup.
Just in case.
FOR SIX OR SEVEN seconds, there was chaos on the staircase. Bolan’s first shot clipped one shooter’s left biceps and staggered him, but both of Boyle’s men still had their guns in hand an instant later, unloading in rapid-fire. Bolan hunched down behind his human shield, felt the man taking some hits while other bullets sizzled past him, then returned fire with his autoloader set for 3-round bursts.
The wounded gunner took a round in the upper chest and sat down hard, then toppled forward, tumbling down the stairs in jerky somersaults. His partner tried retreating, nearly lost his balance with a misstep, throwing out one hand to catch himself. Before he could recover, Bolan’s Parabellum rounds sheared off the right side of his face and sprayed the wall behind him with gray matter.
Done.
Bolan charged up the stairs, taking three at a time, hoping he’d find the first-floor hallway clear between himself and Boyle. He needed time to squeeze the boss and get the information he required, before police came rolling in to spoil the probe.
And failing that…then, what?
No sirens, but he heard a crash downstairs as someone forced a door, then half-a-dozen voices, maybe more, were clamoring for Boyle, advancing toward the stairs. None of the new arrivals bothered to identify themselves as cops, and when he glanced over the railing, Bolan saw that they were reinforcements for the home team, closing in to help the man who signed their paychecks.
Say a dozen guns down there, at least, he figured. Where had they come from? He didn’t know and didn’t care. Only the fact of their existence mattered, and the weapons in their hands.
One of them fired a shotgun blast at Bolan, shattering the banister as he ducked back and out of sight. More bullets followed, peppering the walls and ceiling overhead. Retreating, he could see the door to Frankie Boyle’s bedroom, but Bolan knew the room could be a death trap. Boyle could pin him on the threshold, while his men came up behind and finished Bolan with a spray of lead.
Forget it.
