Page 8 of Savage Protector

We round the final corner. The car is waiting, engine running. It’s a Volvo seven-seater SUV, big enough for all of us. Nico and Aaron arrive at the same time as us, from the opposite direction. We all throw our kit in the boot then pile in. Within seconds, the driver is weaving through the narrow backstreets of Newcastle, heading for the rendezvous point.

I lean back in my seat in the third row.

Aaron is next to me. He grins and offers me his hand. “Have we met?”

“Zayn,” I reply, accepting the handshake. “I’m new.”

“Not that new.” Ethan turns to regard us. “He’s been with us for four years. Or is it five? I see you’ve been busy, lad.”

“Training, sir,” I agree.

“Time well spent,” Aaron observes. “What’s your maximum range?”

I shrug. “I do okay. Up to a mile, I guess.”

Nico snorts. “And the rest. Ninety-nine percent accuracy up to two and a half thousand metres.” He grins. “I taught him well.”

Ethan’s eyes narrow. “You did, but shall we save the mutual adoration for the debriefing? How long until we meet up with the rest?”

“Twenty minutes, boss,” the driver replies. “Settle in and chill.”

Forty minutes later, we’re all assembled and on board the chopper. The other team liberated an estimated four hundred grand in cocaine and counterfeit currency which is quickly stowed in our Volvo for onward transit to Glasgow. We soar into the air, and the vehicle heads north.

“Nice work, everyone.” Ethan looks highly satisfied with the outcome of our excursion into England. “Full debriefing in my office at…” he consults his watch, “eight a.m. tomorrow morning. Enjoy your evening, my friends.”

2

Zayn

This is onlymy second visit to Caraksay, Ethan’s private Hebridean retreat. It’s pleasant enough, in a rugged sort of a way. A bird-watcher’s paradise and a haven for those seeking peace and solitude. The scenery is breathtaking.

I consider myself honoured to be here. It’s taken me four years to earn the recognition, if you don’t count the four days I spent initially in the purpose-built clinic the Savages have here. My injuries at the hands of Jack Morgan were limited to cuts and bruises, and I was soon shipped out to join the rank and file at Caernsbro Ghyll. Ethan only allows those he trusts, and just as important, likes, to set foot on his secluded stronghold. This is his place of safety, his family home. Only his elite inner circle get to spend time here.

I like the place well enough, but I’m a city boy at heart. I grew up in a tenement in Havelock Street in Glasgow. It’s a trendy part of town these days, home to aspiring young lawyers and accountants, the occasional sports star, but back then the regeneration gurus hadn’t found their way to our humble close. Ours was a large family, there were eight of us, including my grandparents, in a three-bedroom flat. It was cosy, if you like mess, din, and utter fucking chaos.

I loved the crowdedness, the company of my brothers and sisters, and especially my grandfather. As the eldest I spent a lot of time with him. We’d play backgammon or mahjong for hours or watch endless cricket matches. Life was good.

Not quite so much after he died. It came out of nowhere. He was hit by a drunk driver who never even stopped. He died right there in the road, outside our building on the way home from the mosque. I was with him, nine years old, decked out in my traditionalthawb, the loose white gown worn by men for worship in the Muslim community. My grandfather’s gown was daubed with blood and dust. He gazed up at me and held out his hand. I knelt beside him and wept as he died.

That remains my overriding image of my so-called faith. If he hadn’t gone to the mosque that day, he would not have died. Simple to my nine-year-old logic. So much for a loving God who protects the faithful. I’ve had my doubts ever since.

I got into bother as a young teen. I was well-known to the youth justice system in Glasgow, the proud possessor of an ASBO at one time for riding stolen motorbikes through Govanhill, terrifying the good folks there. It was a badge of honour. I could not have been prouder than on the day the magistrate handed it down.

Naturally, I tried the local delicacies. Skunk first, as it was fairly cheap, graduating to a nice bit of speed at the weekends. I was working out how to scratch together enough cash to treat myself to a spot of smack when I came to my senses. My sudden rush of self-preservation was instigated by the near-death of a cousin of mine who accidentally scored some dirty crystal meth. He was in hospital for a month, a week of that on life-support.

Not for me. No. Way. I wasn’t even that fond of the stuff, it was just what we did.

I went cold turkey. Not a pleasant experience when I think back, but it had to be done. I needed to be clean if I was to live. I got into sport instead for a while, football and swimming. I preferred swimming, I could do it on my own and it was cheap.

Although life as a junkie struck me as a dead-end existence, I couldn’t fail to spot the earning potential. I knew people, I did a few drops. It paid well enough, and I knew the city like the back of my hand so I could stay out of the way of thepolis.

That’s how I got to know Abid Malik. I was sharp, and fast. He noticed me, asked if I wanted to do a bit more. A spot of more serious courier work, higher-value cargoes and perhaps a spot of light thuggery as required. I learned the rudiments of handling a gun and realised I had an aptitude for it. Malik might have trained me up, but I soon realised I’d no desire to work for him long-term. The routine beatings, child exploitation, the trafficking. I’m not squeamish, how could I be? But mindless, pointless cruelty? Not my thing.

My views firmed up once I got to know Shahida, Malik’s wife. She was nice, kind to me on the occasions I was assigned to ‘look after’ her. I liked young Bilal, too. He enjoyed a game of backgammon as I once had when I was his age. He was a bit like another kid brother.

The morning I arrived to take him to school, only to be told he was ‘too poorly’, I made up my mind. Bilal was in his room nursing a busted lip and a huge shiner of a black eye. He wouldn’t tell me at first, but I knew it was Malik. The proof came when Malik himself boasted about ‘teaching the lad a lesson’ to one of his senior thugs.

I volunteered a lot for guard duty from then on, waiting for the opportunity to talk quietly to Shahida. I knew she was on the receiving end of Malik’s fists even more regularly than her little boy. Surely she would agree to leave if she had the right help…

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