Page 63 of Savage Protector

“Right-o. Bring the gear, Albie.”

Albie produces three body bags from the van, along with a stinger device and a portable high-pressure spray. He tucks everything out of sight in the shrubbery beside the road. We check that the road is deserted in both directions, then we unload Iftikar and Mehrban into two of the bags. Harry flings one over his shoulder, and Albie picks up the other. Both are deposited in the back of the van.

Immediate tasks sorted, Albie hands round chewing gum. We all accept a piece, then wait in silence.

One or two vehicles pass us, but not the one we are waiting for. Ten minutes crawl by, then Harry’s phone rings. He accepts the call.

“Right. Thanks. See you soon.’ He ends the call then looks to us. “Next one along. Registration checks out.”

Albie sprints to the undergrowth and grabs the stinger device. It’s a piece of equipment usually used by the police to bring a suspect vehicle to a sudden halt. A bit like a rolled-up chain, you fling it across the road in the path of the target vehicle. Hollow spikes shred the tyres, and that’s the end of that. The vehicle stops, usually more or less under control.

Albie crouches by the roadside, stinger at the ready, just as headlights appear. The rest of us stay out of sight among the trees flanking the road. The stinger snakes across the tarmac a few yards in front of Abdul’s car. Moments later, with a screech of ruined tyres, it slews to a halt in the middle of the road.

I doubt if Uncle Abdul even saw the stinger, let alone had a chance to react. He’s still in the driver’s seat looking stunned when we surround his car.

I grab the door handle and fling it open. “So, here we are again, Abdul.”

“What the fuck…?” He tries to get out, but of course, he can’t. His wheelchair is in the boot along with his crutches.

“I did warn you. I told you that if we had cause to meet again, the next bullet would be between your eyes. And here we are, having much the same conversation as before. You just don’t learn, and it needs to stop, Abdul.”

He’s spluttering with rage. “You cocky little bastard! I’ll?—”

I produce my Glock, with the silencer, as before. “Your boys are already dead. Now it’s your turn.”

I suspect he pales, but it’s dark and I can’t really tell. And there’s no time to ponder the matter. I place the muzzle of the gun on his forehead and pull the trigger.

Blood and brains explode in the car.Fuck, what a mess!I step away, wipe my gun down, and let my comrades do the rest.

Albie produces the remaining body bag, then grabs Abdul by the feet and drags him out onto the road. It’s the work of moments to zip him into his sack and throw him into the back of the Transit with his boys.

We’re joined by Joey who has jogged down the road. He’s hardly out of breath when he arrives. Between him and Albie, Abdul’s car is treated to a bit of a makeover with black tape to amend the number plate. A zero becomes an eight, and aa. L becomes and E, just to confuse any ANPR they might pass on the way. Then the car is hoisted onto the back of the recovery vehicle for transport to fuck knows where. All I do know is, it’ll never be seen again.

Neither will the dead men in the van. They’re on their way to the industrial waste incinerator near Aberdeen where we have an understanding with one of the supervisors. It’s an excellent way of disposing of potentially incriminating evidence.

Joey makes himself busy with the pressure wash, eradicating any remaining signs of a disturbance. The bloodstained road surface is soon clean, helped by the light drizzle which is starting to become heavier. With any luck, a decent downpour will finish the job off nicely.

We get back in our four-by-four, and the cleaning team hop into their vehicles. Albie and Joey are in the van heading north to Aberdeen, Harry in the truck, destination unknown. With cheery waves, they all pull away.

“Right. Job done. Nice work, Zee.” Tony grins at me, then nods to the two in the back. “Now, we have calls to make back in town.”

“Anything exciting, boss?” Nico enquires.

“Nope, just the usual crop of idiots who think they can avoid paying us what’s due. Just routine stuff.”

Nico shrugs. “Oh, well, never mind.”

15

Zayn

“Drop me at Temple Street,if you would.”

Tony glances across. “Ah, yes. It’s Friday. You should have said earlier.”

“No sweat. Prayers don’t start until twenty-one minutes past.” I know, I checked today’sSalahtime earlier on the app on my phone. Most devout Muslims pray five times a day at prescribed times. It’s vital to be accurate, and to make sure no one gets it wrong the Imam broadcasts an alert from loudspeakers on the roof of the mosque. The wailing sound is the call to prayer, and most men within earshot respond. Women, too, though they generally don’t attend the mosque but pray in private at home.

I’m somewhat casual about religious observance, but I make an occasional effort, especially after a busy night like we just had. At such times I do feel a need to make my peace with my Maker, but I rarely get along to the main prayers,Salat al-Jumu’ah, on Fridays because it is always held in the afternoon, not usually a convenient time for me. I generally prefer theFajr, early morning prayer time. Before dawn suits me fine. It’s the best I can manage, and so far, the Almighty seems satisfied.

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