the time the boys reached adulthood, they were notorious. Living the straight road, paying taxes, and working for a boss just didn’t appeal, not when they saw how their parents could earn a banker’s annual salary from a single overnight job. So it stood to reason that they would all follow in their fathers’ footsteps – and what better teachers than parents? Like being an apprentice, they learned the art of safecracking, ballistics, reading architectural drawings, and negotiating. As for understanding the tools of the trade for crafting their work, they were masters at extracting information and handing out punishment.
It was a rule that they had each other’s backs, come what may, like their fathers before them. They wouldn’t trust anyone outside the firm, especially once they were taking on bigger moneymaking crimes, like the import and export of firearms. Inexplicably, however, their activities had somehow come to the attention of the authorities.
‘I think I’m right in assuming you’ve found the grass then, Eric?’
Eric gave his brother a cocky smirk and a nod. ‘Oh, Mikey, my dear bruvver, I’ve found a lot more than that.’
Mike was intrigued. ‘Oh yeah, and what’s that then, Eric?’
‘Well, ya see, we were under the assumption that there was a little spy in the camp, an informant for the Ol’ Bill. But we were wrong, Mikey. See, Travis ’ere, ain’t working for the Filth …’ He kicked Travis’s chair. ‘Are ya, Travis?’
Mike inclined his head and stepped closer. ‘Oh, is that so?’
The others were holding their breath, waiting to see if on this occasion Mike would lose the plot and rip Travis limb from limb. But they should really have known that was unlikely, given his track record. Mike was a strategic thinker, rarely losing his cool. He had twin gifts. Whilst there were not many men who could take Mike on one-on-one, he also had an innate craftiness about him. It had eased them out of trouble on many occasions, enhancing their firm’s credibility.
Even his father and so-called uncles saw him as a force to be reckoned with. He’d always been the same. As a ten-year-old, he seemed to have more balls than the others and was lethal with his fists or any weapon at hand.
Nevertheless, their new venture took them into the realm of possible breaches of national security – it was Mike and his firm’s biggest challenge to date – and their major concern was MI5 becoming nosy.
Their latest worrying matter was one of their more secure lock-ups in London getting turned over by the police. The cars were ready to be stripped and refitted, with all the gun parts carefully concealed in every orifice inside the car panels, before they were shipped to Ireland. But, two days ago, the police had surrounded the lock-up and turned the place over.
So there had to be a snitch. Luckily for Mike, though, his own inside man, DI Evans, had tipped them off. Mike was livid because that little tip-off had cost him more than the poxy guns were worth. Nevertheless, it had saved him from serving a big lump inside. But there was still a problem. There was a grass. And it wouldn’t be the Irish buyers because they had no idea where the lock-ups were. And in any case, why would they want to sell the Regan firm down the river? It was a complete head-scratcher.
‘So, who are ya working for, then, if it ain’t the Filth?’ asked Mike, in a menacing tone that would put the wind up any grown man.
Travis knew he was small fry in comparison to the men surrounding him. Right now, he was shitting himself. He knew it was over: there was no mercy showing on Mike’s face. Those icy, emotionless grey eyes made his bowels move of their own accord.
It was true. Mike did have a look that was like death calling, a deadpan steely expression that unnerved many a man.
Staffie, the shortest of the five men, at five foot seven, with no neck, and a goofy, childlike grin, stepped forward holding a torque wrench. ‘’Ere, Mikey, ya don’t wanna get ya hands all messy, now do ya, mate?’
Mike put his hand up. ‘Hang on a minute. Before I smash the granny out of this geezer, I wanna know all the facts.’
Staffie nodded, chuckled, and then placed the wrench back on the tool rack.
‘Take that gag outta his mouth. I think he wants to talk.’
Travis’s eyes glistened as he nervously clocked the blowtorch that was resting on the long wooden bench. Terrifying thoughts pierced his mind. Jesus! A childhood memory of catching his arm over the steaming kettle reminded him of the pain, but he knew that would be nothing in comparison to a naked flame. He swooned and felt the warm liquid run down his leg. Totally consumed by fear, his muscles became flaccid and his bowels relaxed. He wasn’t cut out for this work and stupidly he hadn’t looked beyond the actuality of getting caught. However, now he was facing the consequences head-on.
Willie Ritz, the big meathead with the scar that ran from his forehead down to his chin, cut the gag from Travis using his diver’s knife, his favourite tool. None of the firm ever understood why it was still his weapon of choice, even after an older gang of thugs had taken it from him in a street brawl and run that evil-looking jagged blade down his face. But Willie still turned that knife around in his hand and even kissed the blade. As tall as Mike, but with less meat on his bones, Willie liked to snort cocaine, especially if any violence was to be had. It raised his level of anger and sent him screwy and a little unpredictable. Whenever Willie’s eyes were like saucers, and glared a piercing blue colour, Mike knew his friend had gone over the top, and so he would remove the supply that Willie kept in a pouch shoved down the front of his trousers. Only Mike could get away with it – no one else would dare.
With trepidation, Travis took a few deep breaths and stared wide-eyed, waiting for the inevitable.
‘I think you’d better tell me what you’ve been up to, and, more importantly, who the fuck for.’ Mike didn’t shout or even raise his voice.
Travis looked at Eric and then back at Mike. ‘No, listen, please, ya got me all wrong. I, er … I was just taking pictures for meself, no one else, I swear.’ He knew it sounded stupid. Really, he had no excuse.
Mike looked at his brother. ‘Well, Eric, this prick ain’t playing ball, so you’d best tell me what happened.’
‘Gladly. We all thought that the Ol’ Bill were tipped off, yeah, and I dunno, I just had this sneaky suspicion that it was this little weasel, and so I followed the rat to his house. But, see, Mikey, Travis, ’ere, ain’t too clever. He left his phone right there on the dashboard of his car with the doors unlocked. So, I thought I’d just have a little butcher’s, ya know, to see if the little fucker had any numbers that I would recognize. Well, fuck me, lo and behold, on the screen was a photo of the London lock-up, and so, after ’aving a mooch through the other pics, I found what I can only describe as incriminating evidence. So, I ran in through his back door and there he was in the kitchen, taking his boots off. The shit-licker only had one of our guns tucked inside his fucking Timberlands.’
Mike looked back at Travis, who, in turn, looked as though he was going to pass out. ‘So, how do you know he ain’t working for the Filth, Eric? ’Cos I’m guessing you ain’t completely sure on that score.’
Eric smiled confidently. ‘I ripped the shirt off his back and he wasn’t wired. I tied him up, and the boys and me ransacked his pad. There was no sign of the Ol’ Bill being involved. So, we shoved him into the boot and brought him back here.’
Mike shook his head. ‘Eric, Eric, you have a lot to learn. I dunno, I still think he’s an informant, but
