Killing Time

  KILLING TIME

  By

  JOHN KERR

  A Bright Pen Book

  Text Copyright © John Kerr 2013

  Cover design by John Kerr ©

  Photography by Stuart McGinlay, Glasgow.

  eBook conversion by M-Y Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

  British Library Cataloguing Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Authors OnLine Ltd

  19 The Cinques

  Gamlingay, Sandy

  Bedfordshire SG19 3NU

  England

  www.authorsonline.co.uk

  Biography

  John was born and brought up in Bridgeton, in the East end of Glasgow, and loved every minute of it.

  The tough streets of his home town were a great place to grow up and he returns there at every opportunity. He joined the Royal Highland Fusiliers, serving in both Belfast and Berlin, and now meets up with friends from his old regiment to tell stories and partake of a refreshment or two. John has a love of hillwalking through the night in all weathers, and it was during his wandering in the hills that the story of Jake Silverman and ‘Killing Time’ slowly evolved. John believes in the concept of right and wrong and has never knowingly stated a falsehood. The world has many evil people in it, and sometimes a bullet to the head would make this place a slightly better place to live.

  I give you Jake Silverman…….

  www.jakesilverman.com

  ONE

  Carltonbrae estate, in Fenton, was twenty-five years old and had been established to house the overspill in population from the large city nearby. It was a well-intentioned local-government initiative to help redevelop inner cities, whilst helping small village communities to grow. Some said it had worked, though others maintained it only moved the problems into the countryside. It had been said that the influx of people would bring bad blood and confrontation. There had been some, but over the years a status quo had evolved and an invisible peace-line of sorts had been erected. The estate was at the far end of the village and some of the older, native inhabitants treated it as a virtual no-go area, although others had no choice.

  Jake Silverman pushed the last of his letters through the mail box and turned for home. Across the street a young man screwed the top back onto the wine bottle and placed it on the ground at his feet. He was of average height, with a large mop of bright yellow hair. He was not alone though – two of his friends, both wearing thin grey tops with hoods pulled over their heads, watched Jake move his post bag from one shoulder to the other.

  ‘Do you think he carries money in that bag?’ said the tallest of the three.

  ‘Let’s search him when he passes.’ said the yellow haired youth. A nervous shuffle began as they watched the postman cross the street and walk towards them.

  Jake saw the three youths on the corner and knew something was about to happen. Their body language and the empty bottles of wine were a dead giveaway. He knew that after consuming enough cheap booze they would be full of bravado and were probably bored out of their tiny minds.

  Something inside Jake clicked, and he automatically switched up a gear. Outwardly his appearance didn’t alter, but the soldier deep inside prepared for action. The tallest of them stepped out from the corner and lifted his right hand level with his waist. Jake stopped with his feet shoulder width apart and looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘What you got in the bag?

  ‘You mean apart from two undelivered parcels

  ‘Any money?’ The two other figures edged their way to either side of their friend, so that now Jake stood facing a half circle of young men.

  ‘Listen, boys, lets not extend ourselves here.’ Jake could see the nervous shuffle grow.

  ‘Don’t fuck with us, postie, or you’ll likely get this bottle over your head.’

  ‘You’ll need to be good to get near me with that.’

  ‘Cut the shit. Just hand over your money or you’re gonna feel a lot of pain.’

  ‘Move out of my way before I insert that bottle up your arse, sit you on the ground and let your friends here rotate you in little circles like a carousel.’ Jake saw the nervous half smile force its way onto the leader’s face and continued.

  ‘I’m already late for my tea, so don’t expect me to get an ambulance for you. You’ll be lying on the ground, bleeding heavily, for a long time.’

  ‘You think you can take the three of us, posty?’

  ‘Before breakfast, during breakfast or after breakfast,’ Jake said as he watched them glance at each other nervously. They suddenly doubted their own ability and he knew they were looking for a face-saving way out. He wanted to give them a good hard slap. These clowns needed it and in the past he would have obliged, no problem. Maybe he could give them a quick going over and inflict a little pain. They would bleed onto the ground a little and then try to figure out how a single run of the mill nobody had managed to beat the shit out of them without even breaking sweat. But Jake knew deep down they would just fill their wasted little minds with more cheap wine and never speak of the incident again. He knew it wouldn’t make any difference to them, or to him, and it certainly wouldn’t make the streets any safer. It was a nice thought though, regardless.

  ‘Move out of my way, you’re beginning to piss me off now.’ Jake pushed between them and knew as they cleared his path that they would do or say nothing more. He’d stood up to bullies many times before and they had always either backed down or ended up down. Jake Silverman hadn’t always been a postman.

  TWO

  The two men grunted as they lugged the last of the heavy ammunition boxes from the steel container into their high-sided van. Small beads of sweat sat on the forehead of the smaller man – He was overweight and had struggled more than he should have done with the heavy load. Six boxes now sat inside the hired vehicle and each held 12 smaller boxes with a combined total of 12000 rounds. They included 9mm Parabellum, 5.56 NATO and 7.62 NATO. The last of the boxes held L2 grenades and detonators, complete with fly off handles. They had been liberated from the container depot without a single voice being raised.

  The depot itself was located only four miles from the channel tunnel and security had been lacklustre to say the least. The two criminals had completely bypassed the main gate which left them only a single security man on foot patrol to deal with. He was now lying bound and gagged against the fence behind the last row of stacked containers.

  They left the depot by the side gate and fell in behind the light blue 4x4, occupied by two more men, and headed north. The road to London was busy even at 2.15am and two hours later, both vehicles pulled into a yard in Thurrock, east of the M25 and on the north side of the River Thames. It was dimly lit and had a large brick wall running down the left elevation to the river.

  At some time in the past it had been a boundary wall between itself and a now long gone neighbour. The other three sides were bordered with a chain link fence that had seen better days and inside there were five small square buildings – three to the left and the other two sitting a mere hundred yards to the right. Between these sat a large grey construction with a roller shutter door, complete with red sign which said in bold, black letters: STRICTLY NO ENTRY. Half way up the walls the building material changed from brick to corrugated iron, giving the impression of an old-fashioned aircraf
t hangar.

  The driver of the van flashed the lights twice and immediately two men slid both of the large, heavy doors open. The vehicles quickly disappeared inside, but nobody noticed the van and two cars, hidden amongst the trees opposite the gate. The warehouse was rectangular in shape – eighty feet long and over thirty feet wide. At the far end, four old lights hung from the roof on rusted chains whilst below these a row of strong metal tables sat, holding more military hardware boxes. A number of them were open and weapons had been laid out like a Sunday afternoon car boot sale. Pistols of all descriptions: Glock, Smith and Wesson, Beretta and Brownings. And assault rifles too: M16, AK47, SA80 and even Sub Machine guns – Uzis, Ingrams and BXPs. The six men unloaded the heavy boxes one by one and went through the equipment, checking everything was in working order. Loading, unloading, making sure everything was as it should be. Rounds were split into calibre sizes and laid beside their designated weapons. Soon their work was completed and they congratulated each other on a job well done. £30,000 worth of military hardware smuggled into the country from Iraq and Afghanistan with no questions asked. Little did they realise that within the next 8 minutes all six of them would be dead.

  THREE

  The large figure stepped out of the shadows, lifted the Colt 38 Super and cocked it, all in one simple efficient movement. He held it out in front of his massive frame, the bright, stainless-steel five-inch barrel twinkling in the dim light from above. The weapon looked small and insignificant in his huge rugged hand and he held as steady as a rock.

  ‘Good evening ladies,’ he said with an unmistakable South African accent. The six men turned simultaneously and faced the large square-jawed giant. He stood six inches over six feet, with massive shoulders that threw a crawling dark shadow on the floor. It made him look more imposing than he needed to be.

  ‘I would like to thank you boys for bringing these weapons into the country and saving us the trouble. I’ve heard tell the British import controls are getting harder to evade every day.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ said the small, overweight man.

  ‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Demarco Salis. My friends call me Marco, but you shower of third world retards will call me Mr Salis. Now, my friends and I are going to invest a little time in your country and we are going to relieve you of these weapons.’ He lifted his hand and gestured into the surrounding darkness. Another 9 shadowy figures stepped out of the gloom.

  ‘This is a complete bag of shit, asshole. You can’t come in here and just take this equipment. Have you any idea who the fuck this all belongs to?’ It was the last words the small man ever spoke. A half smile tried to break onto Demarco’s face but it was forced back as a hatred born in hell itself scrambled suddenly to the surface. Demarco’s men had seen this before and to a man they took half a step back. The colt exploded into life and in almost the same second, the little overweight man felt his groin erupt. Spatters of blood mixed and pieces of flesh flew out from the front of him as he buckled, and fell hard onto his knees. Demarco strode over to the bleeding man and as he did so, he casually tossed his pistol to his right. Brooks, a small, bright-eyed thirty-year-old caught the weapon and locked his arms immediately into the aiming position. Demarco gripped the man around the neck with his left hand and squeezed like a steel vice. He lifted the trembling man off his knees and, pulling the eight inch long fisherman’s knife from his inside pocket plunged it deep into his captive’s stomach. The molybdenum stainless-steel blade cut through flesh the way it had been designed. The man groaned as Demarco pulled the blade all the way up, through his chest to his throat. It moved easily, cutting a very fine incision, deep into his breastbone, and up towards his face. A gurgling sound began to emanate from somewhere close to his throat and suddenly, the other five men made a grab for the weapons on the steel tables. In the time it took for them to reach out, Demarco was on them. He slashed and punched with both hands like a terrier working in a barrel of swamp rats. He was a fearsome fighter and waded into them without the slightest hint of fear. Jaws broke easily and flesh was torn open to spill bright red blood all around, like a modern day art exhibition. The dying men were all killers too, but had never come up against an opponent like Demarco before. This wasn’t a job to him; he killed like it was his life’s passion. The warehouse became a complete bloodbath. He cut the head off his final victim and held it high in the air like a trophy. Brooks took another half step back into the shadows, turned to face the gloom and threw up.

  Demarco was a huge man with a deep psychotic fascination in taking people to the very edge of death, looking deep into their eyes and pushing them over. Finally, still holding the dismembered head high in the air, he plunged the knife deep inside the right eye socket. With a flick of his massive hand he launched the bloody appendage towards the massacre on the floor. It rolled under a table and made small circles in someone else’s pool of congealing blood. Demarco stared at the bloodstained knife in his hand. It had worked well today and deserved to be his most prized weapon. Without stopping he wiped the forefinger of his left hand up its full length, turned the finger towards his face and as his eyes opened wider he placed it into his mouth. His lips closed and he lapped at it like a kitten on a bowl of milk.

  ‘Still warm’, he said when he had completed his ritual,

  ‘Just how I like it.’

  The assembled group didn’t really know what was going to happen now they had arrived in the United Kingdom but they did know that Demarco always had something planned. And he always kept it to himself. They had discovered that as they had moved through Europe with him over the last two years. Together, they had battled with the Croatian underworld, fought their way through Bosnia and even tangled with the Taliban in Afghanistan. The war-torn countries all had different factions who were in constant conflict with each other and it made easy pickings for a well trained group. Now that they had arrived in Britain, and had armed themselves, it was going to be a new and different battle. There was no conflict here to hide inside. No turf wars to infiltrate and disrupt while they took whatever they wanted. It would be difficult, but not impossible. They all knew that whatever they were doing here would be illegal. And they knew that with a leader as brutal, and devoid of any kind of social conscience as Demarco Salis was, that people would die. It would be dangerous but it would also make them money, lots of money.

  Demarco had arrived and people here were going to suffer.

  FOUR

  It was a bad night. A really bad night. Sergeant Chris Johansson, strong though he was, struggled continuously with the 4x4s steering wheel. He was fighting with almost everything he had just to keep the vehicle on the road. The rain was now turning to sleet and the wipers, working on full power, were trying their very best. Slowly, out of the darkness loomed flashing blue and red lights and he automatically lifted his foot from the accelerator. He turned the heater up just a little more as he felt a shiver run up his back.

  ‘Fuck. This is going to take all night.’ The thought stung him as he glanced at the clock. It read 2.35 am, less than an hour until he was due to R.V. with Charlie. He pushed a button and the passenger window lowered slowly as he peered into the black night. Chris knew his brother-in-arms was out there somewhere, battling through the darkness. He would be wet, he would be tired and he would be hungry but Chris also knew that his friend was probably singing to himself. Charlie was a true professional and a brilliant soldier; there was no way he would let a little rain get to him. The engine groaned, telling Chris he was in the wrong gear as the car laboured uphill. He hated driving; he would much rather walk but knew that both he and Charlie had to get to London as soon as possible. In the distance he could see the lights of Manchester and estimated that he would be there within the next twenty minutes. Failure to meet his friend would be disastrous and making the big guy wait was a definite no-no, especially on a night like this. The sky was black with tumbling clouds, heavy and angry, and periodic rumbles of thunder could be heard in the di
stance. This was definitely not a night to be stuck out in the hills. First light was over four hours away and Chris knew the bad weather would probably last until daybreak at least. There was very little ambient light as his headlights illuminated the rain bouncing off the road. He ground to a halt at the scene of the accident and waited for the constable to wave him on. Slowly, he drove past the debris – the tangled wreckage of the two vehicles strewn across the wet carriageway. Judging by the look of dejection on the young policeman’s face, there had been fatalities. Needless death was always tragic and served as a grim reminder to Chris of how frail and pointless life sometimes was. The radio blasted out an unknown tune from a long-gone boy-band. Chris fiddled with the dial while he cursed under his breath

  ‘Load of shite’. Suddenly the sound of Jimi Hendrix exploded into the car and the volume completely drowned the outside noise. Once through the carnage, Chris floored the accelerator pedal and continued his journey south. Junction 16, proclaimed the sign overhead. Chris let the vehicle drift slowly onto the inside lane. His R.V. point was directly after the next junction. The road was quieter than usual but the heavy rain didn’t make driving any easier. The neon light from the dashboard clock said 3.22. He was almost there. He knew his big friend would be glad to get in from the cold and rain so he turned the heater up another notch. Directly in front of him he saw the shimmering island of petrol pumps and overpriced cafes, bobbing up and down on his windscreen as he sailed through the sea of darkness towards it. The service-station sat perched on the top of the off-ramp, just before the roundabout. As he passed beneath, Chris checked his rear-view mirror. The road behind was deserted so he let his foot fall off the accelerator and felt the car begin to slow. A hundred and fifty metres past the on-ramp was a police traffic camera mounted on a pole. Chris threw the gear stick into neutral, let the car drift onto the hard shoulder and turned the engine off, stopping directly beneath the camera. He had reached his R.V. point five minutes early …perfect. Chris lowered the window again and stared into the dark. He knew Charlie was most probably either watching him or was very close by. A torch light flickered in the blackness and Sergeant Charlie Paterson suddenly stood up, fifty metres from the car. He was six feet, two inches and weighed two hundred and ten pounds. With powerful shoulders, a square jaw and a small, wafer-thin moustache that he was more than a little proud of, the Sergeant cut a striking figure. He waved like a lost tourist as he pushed his large frame through the heavy undergrowth. It was up to his chest and Chris watched in amusement as Charlie cursed and swore as he finally stepped onto the hard shoulder. Paterson pulled the door open and stood there, his wavy hair weighed down slick across his face and rain coursing over his cheeks. When he spoke, he was louder than everyone else Chris knew and his booming voice almost drowned out the noise of the rainstorm.