Robert Mullen’s office was at the rear of a run-down North Belfast snooker hall. Hardly Hollywood’s idea of a criminal empire’s headquarters, it served its purpose perfectly. Tonight it was full. Six men, all standing while Mullen sat. They were all criminals. Violent. Feared. But each one wilted under the gaze of their employer, a five-foot-six ball of fury.
‘There was no sign of Grant?’ Mullen asked.
He directed his attentions at one man. Andy Ferguson. A subordinate whose size alone should have left him with nothing to fear. But Mullen could see the dread clearly etched on Ferguson’s face.
‘No, Rob.’ His deep voice lacked any confidence. ‘The door was off the hinges. The place was a mess. There was no way to tell where he’d gone.’
Mullen did not answer straightaway, keeping his rage in check. For now. When he finally spoke, he kept his voice calm.
‘So his front door was off the hinges, the place was a mess and there was no sign of him?’ Mullen spoke slowly. ‘Don’t you think that sounds like someone took him, Andy?’
‘Aye, I suppose it does, Rob.’
‘And who do you think that someone was? Have you given that any thought?’
A sing-song tone to Mullen’s voice was accompanied by a dangerous look in his eyes, as he dragged the scene out. He was enjoying Ferguson’s discomfort.
‘I haven’t.’
‘It didn’t occur to you that he might have been paid a visit by Liam Casey? That Casey might have traced McGale back to Grant and started to connect the dots? That there were a few questions the little shit could answer? That didn’t occur to you, Andy?’
‘No, Rob. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry!’
The sudden volume and ferocity of Mullen’s voice were off the chart. Nought to sixty in a heartbeat.
‘I told you Casey was involved. You knew his brother was back. That they were looking into everything we’ve been putting together! I gave you one fucking job. To make sure Grant couldn’t talk. You couldn’t even do that right, you half-wit!’
‘I did what you said, Rob. I swear.’
Mullen stared furiously at Ferguson as he desperately tried to defend himself.
‘I went to Grant’s place just like you said, but I was too late. There was nothing else I could have done.’
Nothing else was said. The pause that followed Ferguson’s answer lasted less than a second. Long enough that he would have known what was coming. Not long enough to avoid it. Ferguson remained rooted to the spot as Mullen leaped from his seat, grabbed a heavy glass ashtray from the desk and brought it crashing into the man’s unguarded temple.
The first blow alone was ferocious enough to render Ferguson unconscious. A fact that did nothing to save him from what followed.
His heavy body hit the floor with a sickening thud. It would have remained motionless if Mullen had stopped there, but he did not. Mullen grabbed Ferguson’s unkempt black hair, pulled his defenceless head from its resting place on the cigarette-marked carpet and hit him three more times with the same ashtray.
Only when the force of the blows caused the glass to shatter did he stop.
Mullen raised himself upright. Breathless. He paused to consider his work. For a moment he seemed to have come back to his senses. For a moment. Then, without warning, Mullen renewed his assault, repeatedly kicking Ferguson in the stomach, chest and head.
Silence filled the room as Mullen continued his attack. A silence born from long experience. No one would ever challenge Mullen. He knew, as did they all, that none was a match for him.
Mullen finished his assault as suddenly as he had started it. He pushed his lank, greasy hair away from his eyes and addressed the room.
‘That’s what complacency gets you.’
Mullen, breathing deeply, pointed at the heavily bleeding near-corpse in the centre of the office.
‘But it’s better than what Liam Casey will do to each and every one of us if we lose this.’
A bare murmur of agreement went around the group.
‘Are you lot not fucking listening?’ Mullen felt his temper beginning to flare again at the lacklustre response. ‘Casey has Grant. That little bastard won’t hold out for long, and when he cracks, Casey’s going to know everything. He’s going to know that we’re in this up to our ears, and then he’s going to realise that there’s only one way to keep that brother of his alive. When that happens it’s gonna be a fucking war. We need to be ready.’
This time the reaction was the one he wanted. Mullen looked for certain skills in his team. Intelligence did not top that list, but an appreciation of danger helped. That appreciation was finally on the faces of the men present.
‘So what do you want us to do?’
The question was asked by Dermot Stephenson, the closest thing Mullen had to a Number Two.
‘First I want that piece of shit out of my sight!’ Mullen pointed at Ferguson. ‘Two of you deal with that. The rest of you come with me. We need to find out what Casey knows and stop this before it starts.’
As the first two men moved towards the barely breathing Ferguson, Mullen stormed off towards the darkened, empty snooker room with the rest of his men.
He had owned the building for over fifteen years. A long time for a base of operations, especially one so well known. But it was the only place he felt completely safe, sheltered from the threats of his chosen career. No one would dare attack him here.
It was a complacent feeling he would soon regret.
It took half a minute to walk through the large hall. Just seconds more to get down the stairs and to the building’s main door.
Mullen stepped out into the dark night and immediately felt uneasy. It took a moment to work out why.
It was the absence of the sodium streetlight that did it. Every night for fifteen years the light had lit up the entrance to the snooker hall. That it was missing tonight could mean nothing. Or it could mean everything.
Mullen found out which before his brain even registered the choice.
The impact of a full-sized aluminium baseball bat on Mullen’s right knee brought him crashing to the floor. The blow to his head from the same weapon kept him there, struck senseless by the force.
As his head began to clear the pavement around him came into focus. Mullen’s men were employed from their size and tendency towards extreme violence, but they had been overwhelmed by the sudden attack. It had lasted fifteen seconds at most, leaving his best men as motionless and damaged as Ferguson had been.
Mullen could not tell if they were dead or alive, and he was given no chance to check. Instead he was hauled up by the hair and dragged ten metres along the street. Finally he was thrown – broken and bleeding – into the rear of a battered Ford Transit van.
Mullen’s usual bravado escaped him. Shock will do that to anyone. Still, he tried to struggle to his feet. To escape. A hopeless effort; he was sent crashing back to the floor with a second blow to the head, this time from a fist instead of a bat.
Staggering from the punch, he rolled onto his hands and knees. Involuntary tears ran down his cheeks as he slowly regained his composure. The embarrassment of allowing himself to cry proved more agonising than any blow.
The van began to move, making escape and rescue equally unlikely.
Mullen took a series of deep breaths, bringing his pain under control. Finally he looked up, towards the six masked faces that surrounded him. Mullen concentrated on the closest silhouette.
‘You were quicker than I thought you’d be, Liam.’ Mullen had no doubt that his assumption was correct. ‘So now what?’
Liam did not hesitate. He reached up with a gloved hand and pulled off his balaclava. The face beneath it was grim.
‘Now, Robert?’ His tone oozed menace. ‘Now we’re gonna have a little chat.’