NINE

 

Ronnie Holtz refilled the crystal glass from the very expensive bottle of red wine.

‘That’s enough for me.’

Holtz smiled. ‘Not driving are you?’

‘No, but I’m a lousy drunk.’

He placed the bottle back down and took a small sip of wine from his own glass, while eyeing the woman sitting opposite him. In a few words, she was tall, blonde and delicious. Holtz knew she had been a model for a while and made a lot of money at it. She was exquisite, elegant and the perfect accompaniment to the surroundings, one of London’s top West End restaurants.

Holtz, too, looked as though he fitted in. His grey, thousand pound Italian cut suit that somehow never seemed to crease and always looked ultra-cool, was just right and covered Holtz like the best camouflage should, because in reality he was a cold-blooded predator and his prey that evening was the woman at this table – and the money behind her. He intended to fuck one and help himself to the other.

He sliced a chunk off his blood-oozing, perfectly cooked sirloin steak and almost groaned with pleasure as it disintegrated in his mouth. Then he sat back and surveyed this woman.

‘Are you? Define lousy.’

‘Well, put it this way,’ she smiled, ‘last time I got drunk I entered a wet T-shirt competition on holiday.’

Holtz grinned, felt his groin react at the thought of this woman’s gorgeous breasts, visualising them in his hands, her nipples between his teeth. ‘Is that right?’

‘I won, of course,’ she said, sat upright and slyly adjusted her position to gently push her breasts forward so they strained against her silk dress. Holtz felt himself move even more when he saw her nipples had hardened and grown, clearly visible against the material.

He swallowed. ‘Obviously.’

She let her posture drop slightly and took a forkful of her vegetarian risotto.

Holtz topped up her glass again. She didn’t raise her eyes but saw what he’d done and grinned naughtily to herself before looking up and asking him, ‘What type of drunk are you?’

‘I can be quite incorrigible.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, having her own thoughts, ‘I imagine that mouth of yours get you into all sorts of trouble.’

‘You make it sound like a bad thing. Unlike most people, I embrace the effects of alcohol. I certainly don’t beat myself up about having a good time.’

‘And this is your assessment of my character?’

‘Not necessarily. But I can tell you’re cautious, timid, sheepish, almost, in the face of a lovely glass of wine because you’re terrified of that sexy little dress of yours ending up on my bedroom floor, your panties in my collection and my tongue licking your clit.’

‘I’m not wearing panties,’ she retorted, blushing coyly. Holtz knew he had hit the mark.

Their eyes levelled at each other and she reached for the very full glass of wine and swigged its entire contents in one. Holtz watched and raised his eyebrows.

She replaced the glass on the table, about to say something inappropriate, but stopped herself just in time as her husband, Alex, returned to the table, picked up his knife and fork, completely oblivious to the sexual interaction that had just taken place. He did, however, notice that his wife’s wine glass was empty. He refilled it.

‘Thirsty, Sophia dear?’

She glanced at Holtz.

Alex said, ‘Sorry about that,’ Referring to his absence from the table. ‘Now, where were we?’

Holtz shifted uncomfortably and readjusted to being a businessman. This man – Alex – was the money behind Sophia and he was rich beyond Holtz’s wildest dreams. And Holtz was interested in separating him from some of that fortune, more interested in that than screwing his wife, although that would be a nice bonus.

‘I think we were about to come to thirty per cent, Alex, we were gonna shake on it and then move onto dessert. That’s what your lovely wife was saying.’

‘Ahh, was she now?’ He raised his chin, pretending to be suspicious, but still having no clue about the sexual banter. He looked at Sophia admiringly. ‘Well that’s why I like to bring her along, Ronnie. Such a good judge of character, aren’t you my darling?’

She smiled enigmatically.

Alex held her look, frowning, trying to read her, but nothing was forthcoming, so he made the decision and, turning to Holtz, he said, ‘You got yourself a deal.’

The two men shook warmly and as they did, Holtz spotted a familiar figure perched on a barstool, clearly having observed the whole of the interplay. It was Jimmy Vickers, dressed appropriately for the surroundings in a black cashmere three-quarter-length coat, Chinos and brogues.

Holtz wiped his mouth with his napkin.

‘If you guys will excuse me for a second.’ As he stood, his napkin fell to the floor by Sophia’s feet. Holtz stooped to pick it up and slipped his business card into Sophia’s purse that hung on a gold chain down the side of her chair. It was a swift, almost unnoticeable move, but she saw it with a glance and a smile. Then Holtz moved away to the bar alongside Jimmy.

He snorted derisively. ‘You know, it doesn’t matter what you wear, Vickers, you still don’t look right without an MP5 in your hands and an ammo rig across your chest like a fuckin’ Mexican bandit.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

They smiled at each other, former comrades in arms, familiar but not friends and not close enough to shake hands on meeting. They kept a certain psychological distance between themselves, all the better to stay protected.

‘She’s something else,’ Jimmy commented about Sophia.

Holtz flagged the barman, relieved it was no longer necessary for him to hide behind the smooth guy image, which he did so well. Jimmy knew a very different person behind the façade.

‘So is her fella’s wallet, mate. Get you a drink?’

Jimmy downed his Coke, implying another one would be good. When it arrived, Jimmy’s tone became professional. ‘I need to get my hands on some bits – if you’re still in the business?’ He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and slid it along the bar. A shopping list.

Holtz read it, a serious expression on his face, his air of smoothness now having completely evaporated.

 

***

 

It was instantly cold as Jimmy, led by Holtz, stepped into the enormous walk-in refrigerator, in which hung rows and rows of huge, trimmed and gutted animal carcasses. Hundreds of cows, sheep and pigs, hanging silently and unmoving in frosted air rising from the chiller units. Holtz threaded through this slaughterhouse maze, Jimmy keeping with him, until they came to a huge metal desk in the far corner where a sleeping man sat with his feet up on the desk top, his ankles crossed, tilting back in a wide, comfortable office chair. The man was dressed in a huge duffel coat, probably with many layers underneath, a Ushanka hat on his head with the woollen flaps covering his ears and thick mittens on his hands.

His breath steamed out of his nostrils as he exhaled.

Holtz and Jimmy watched him for a few moments, the man Holtz knew as Trojan. He glanced at Jimmy, then nudged the man’s chair.

Trojan’s eyes shot open wide as he woke, startled and relieved to see it was Holtz waking him up.

‘Ronnie.’

‘Alright, Trojan?’

The man wiped his eyes with the back of his gloves. Despite the duffel coat and the under-layers bulking him out, Jimmy could see that Trojan was actually just a skinny streak of piss, looked like a good meal wouldn’t go amiss and though he came across as edgy, there was a glint in his eyes that made Jimmy think he had a good heart.

 

***

 

Trojan led them further into the warehouse, from one refrigerated unit to another, until they finally reached their destination, a cold room about as far away from the main entrance as possible. Trojan opened a huge chest freezer and took out two stacking trays filled with meat cuts.

Jimmy and Holtz looked in at the selection of items laid out underneath where the meat had sat. An array of knives, all sizes, all uses.

Holtz reached in and picked out a Rambo-style knife with a ten inch blade. He held it up admiringly, then offered it to Jimmy.

‘You’re fuckin’ jokin’ ain’t ya? Looks like Excalibur. I ain’t walking round with that.’

‘Just in,’ Trojan said proudly. ‘Titanium. That’ll go through a car door.’

‘Fuck do I want to stab a car for?’

Jimmy leaned into the freezer and selected a lock knife, smaller, more subtle, but equally deadly.

‘That’ll work too,’ Trojan admitted.

Jimmy looked at Holtz, who was still admiring the Rambo knife, making slashing and stabbing motions like a kid. ‘Put that away, will ya, before you have an eye out.’

‘You wanna try that out?’ Trojan asked Jimmy, nodding at the lock knife.

Jimmy screwed up his face, not understanding, and Trojan gestured to the hanging meat.

But Jimmy hesitated.

‘Ever stabbed someone before?’ Trojan asked but didn’t wait for Jimmy to reply after getting a sidelong glance from him that told him he didn’t want to hear the answer to that. Trojan set off to the nearest carcass and slapped it.

Jimmy and Holtz were behind him. Holtz nodded, ‘This is the streets now, Jimmy. Different battlefield. Time for you to adjust.’

Jimmy assessed the meat.

Then a veil came down over his eyes and Jimmy Vickers stepped into the zone.

Holtz had witnessed this before. He stepped back cautiously, pulling a slightly mollified Trojan with him who opened his mouth to say something. Holtz silenced him with a glare.

Jimmy stepped up to the meat.

Images swept across his imagination. The indistinguishable faces of his parents’ killers.

Then – snick, snick, snick – the knife slashed the meat with three well executed knife attacks.

‘Again,’ Holtz encouraged him.

This time Jimmy saw one face he did know: Warren’s. It did not matter that he was already dead, because it gave Jimmy the focus he needed.

He rammed the knife into the meat again, seeing the terror on Warren’s face, driven by it.

There then followed a series of slashes and blows as Jimmy’s face became that of a demon again and he moved in a coordinated, supremely well-trained way with the grace and precision of a highly tuned athlete. He stabbed again and again and again, driving the final thrust up to the hilt and then stopped, his eyes ablaze.

Trojan gave Holtz a terrified look.

Jimmy stepped back and when Holtz saw his shoulders lose their tension he knew it was safe to speak.

‘Not bad. Bit rusty.’

Jimmy turned, giving him a sardonic look while playing with the knife, locking it, unlocking it, whizzing it around and catching it by the handle like a cowboy twirling a six-shooter.

‘Quite finished?’ Trojan dared to ask. He led them into another cold room and opened a drawer in an old filing cabinet by the wall.

Inside hung a rack of handguns, a long row of them: Glock 17’s, Glock 19’s, HKP3000 and a Sig Sauer P226.

Jimmy reached in for the Sig.

Trojan said patronisingly, ‘Now that’s a Sig Sauer P226…’

Jimmy cut in mechanically. ‘Takes fifteen 9mm calibre rounds in the clip, effective up to fifty metres … in the right hands…’

Trojan nodded appreciatively. ‘Man knows his toys.’

‘Classic two-tone,’ Jimmy went on. ‘Stainless steel slide, polymer grips … used by numerous law enforcement and military organisations worldwide, including US Navy Seals, the British Army … the SAS. Takes fifteen 9mm rounds or twelve .357, weighs thirty-four ounces with the full magazine.’ Jimmy weighed it up, a weapon very familiar in his hands. He had used one on many occasions, though the model and colour varied slightly.

Trojan handed him a loaded magazine.

Jimmy slotted it into the grip and cocked the slide, keeping the muzzle pointed to the floor.

Then he swivelled on the spot where he stood, adopted the classic combat stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent and brought the gun up in his right hand, cupping it with his left, making the weapon the acute angle of an isosceles triangle, elbows locked.

He had already chosen his target: a slab of meat about fifteen metres away from them.

Holtz instinctively covered his ears, knowing what was coming.

Trojan looked on, mesmerised.

The finger tip of Jimmy’s right forefinger rested on the DA/SA trigger.

Then he fired fifteen continuous rounds into the carcass. It wasn’t fancy shooting. None of that holding the weapon sideways and parallel to the ground gangster crap. It was fast, efficient and effective, learned and drilled in and practised and then practised again in a multitude of conditions, until the practice became second nature and firing this type of weapon, and many other types, became an integral part of who Jimmy Vickers was and what he became.

Then, the shooting done, he lowered the weapon, the cordite rising and the sound reverberating around the room until the ringing died away and all that could be heard was the electric hum of the refrigerators.

Holtz slowly unpeeled his hands away from his ears. Trojan, temporarily deaf, looked on – still mesmerised.

Fifteen metres away, the carcass of a cow had been shredded.

Jimmy looked critically at his handiwork. He hadn’t wanted to impress, had just needed the release and – yes, maybe – the confirmation that he still had it, even though he knew he had.

Holtz said, ‘We’ll take it.’

Trojan, whose hearing had returned, said, ‘I’ll get you a silencer for that.’

 

***

 

Holtz paid cash and Trojan gave them both a wave before returning to his reclining position at his desk.

At the warehouse exit, Holtz laid a hand on Jimmy’s arm.

‘You should know that’s not me any more, Jimmy,’ he said, wafting a hand at the warehouse. ‘I’ll dip my toe in now and again to help out a pal. That’s all. My life has moved on.’

‘Appreciate it.’

The two men hesitated. Jimmy made to go, but Holtz stopped him gently. Jimmy saw it coming: speech time. He hoped he wouldn’t have to tell Holtz to fuck off. The last thing he needed was a lecture.

It wasn’t.

‘Listen Jimmy, we’ve been through the shit, the blood and the mud together. Bullets zingin’ over our heads like they’re going out of fuckin’ fashion – but that look I saw in your eye, it ain’t good, Jimmy mate.’

‘I got it under control.’

Holtz’s face softened – and Jimmy realised that he knew it all. ‘I feel your pain, sunshine and I get all of that “the police ain’t gonna do nothing so I gotta stand up and do it myself” business. I’d be doin’ the same. But I meant what I said back there, man. This is a different battlefield,’ he warned Jimmy – who was listening because he respected this man and owed his life to him on a couple of occasions, just as Holtz owed his life to Jimmy. ‘You wanna take a stand out there, you got to be tall. Taller than you’ve ever been before. People wanna hide in their living rooms with their infomercials, eating sixty-seven flavours of crisps, wanting to see if anyone’ll comment on their status update while the world fuckin’ burns at their doorsteps. There’s more crimes than coppers. These streets are lawless, man.’ He paused and Jimmy sensed the guy’s heightened emotions. ‘The difference with fighting in the desert and here is that over there you’re actually surrounded by people who have your back and give a shit. Here…’Holtz let the speech fade with a hopeless gesture. Jimmy took it in, then Holtz shrugged and said, ‘You need anything else, you give me a shout … come here.’

Holtz offered his hand and the two men shook, then hugged before Jimmy broke away, turned, left.

Holtz watched him go, wondering if he would ever see him again.

 

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