Chapter Six

Andrew

The last lecture of the day I had to give was on witness protection, and I paced as I spoke, my legs restless and my back tense. I kept glancing at the clock, counting the hours until I could meet with the Galahad guys and come up with a plan to save the women suffering at the hands of Ranson.

The bastard was slippery, though, he’d gotten off twice on charges that should have stuck—a combination of a slick-tongued lawyer, a susceptible jury, and a pool of minions to do his dirty work.

That wouldn’t happen again. No way. The Galahad crew would make sure he didn’t even get put in front of a jury, it wasn’t worth the risk for a third time. The guy deserved a bullet to the brain and nothing less.

Finally, my lecture came to an end, and I gathered my briefcase and without making eye contact with anyone, I rushed back to my office. I stepped in, shut the door, and paused.

A sudden vision popped into my head. Chelsea standing by the window just days before and staring out at the flowering shrubs. She’d been so bloody tempting. Utterly beautiful in her unique, fire cracker, untamed way. The urge to fuck had been the strongest I’d ever known, yet somehow, I’d resisted. It had taken every last shred of willpower not to rip her clothes off and ram into her wetness—and the woman had been wet, I could tell by the desire dripping from her eyes.

Damn it. No wonder I’d pounded the anonymous pussy at Sure Thing. I’d been riled up. Desperate for it. Luckily, the woman I’d chosen hadn’t seemed to mind and had taken it all, and from what I could tell, come spectacularly.

Blood rushed to my cock, stiffening it, but I beat the sensation down. I didn’t have time to fantasize about Chelsea, I needed to get to the west side of the city, to Rose Cottage.

After locking my laptop in the safe along with a pile of essays that had been handed in, I took a bus toward Dean Court. The sun was still high, but many people had finished their day’s work and were spilling from pubs onto the street with pints of beer in hand. They laughed, chatted, and didn’t appear to have a care in the world while standing beneath the gloriously colorful hanging baskets.

I’d been like that once. I’d trusted the system, believed in the judges, the jury, and justice. I still believed in justice, hell, it was a goddamn religion to me. I just didn’t trust other people to dole it out…at least not every time.

I alighted at my stop and headed north, stopping at Waitrose to grab a chicken wrap and a drink. That would have to do for now. I then walked up to Rose Cottage and let myself in, with a key, through the back door.

It wasn’t a cottage at all, it was a large Victorian home complete with five chimney breasts, mock Tudor beams, and a long-lawned back garden the birds loved in winter. It was also home to nine sex workers.

“Hey, Professor. How’s it hanging?”

“All good, Trixie. You?”

“Good, got a new tat, what do you think?” She dropped the shoulder of her pink t-shirt to display an inked dolphin.

“Nice.”

“They are my soul animal, dolphins, they bring me luck.” She fluttered her long fake lashes. “I believe I was one in my last life.”

“Don’t see many sea mammals around here, though?” I popped the ring pull on my cola and took a sip.

“No, but one day, when I get out of Oxford, no offense, I’m going to live by the ocean and see them every day.”

“That sounds like a plan you should stick to.” I pointed at her. “You hear me?”

She grinned and tossed her bleached-blonde hair over her shoulder. “I’m gonna do just that. Bank balance is growing thanks to Rose Cottage.”

“Good. Anyone else here yet?” I glanced at the wall of screens we used to keep an eye on the place.

“A few. They ordered pizza.”

“Ah good, thanks. You be safe, okay.”

“I always am when I’m pulling tricks here.”

I smiled and headed toward Galahad’s meeting room. Once upon a time it had been a drawing room and had a wide bay window and deep fireplace. Now it had a huge mahogany table, ten chairs, and a TV screen on the wall. It also had a gun safe, a decent one, too heavy to lift and practically impossible to get into. A few years ago, Mitch had added a bed in the corner, his shift work meaning he’d grab a few hours’ kip anywhere he could.

The door wasn’t locked, so I let myself in. “Hey, guys.”

A chorus of hellos from Mitch, Grant, Dalton, and Phil. There was a pizza fest going on, and the air was heavy with the scent of cheese, tomato, and herbs.

I pulled out a chair and sat. “Anyone else coming?”

“The twins are just moving some furniture for Katie, upstairs.” Mitch shoved half a slice of pepperoni pizza into his mouth. “Should be here any minute.”

I nodded and opened my wrap. “All the girls okay?”

“Bridget had a bad punter,” Phil said.

I frowned. “What happened?”

“The twins were there in a flash. He got his marching orders.”

“What’d he do?”

“Tried to strangle her.”

“What? Fucking bastard. I hope he got a shakedown.”

“You know Cillian and Finn, they don’t take no shit.” Phil clenched his fist as though he’d wanted to do the shakedown. He worked in sales, garden sheds or something, but he was a massive dude with muscles on muscles and spent all of his spare time in the gym.

“Good, let’s hope he’s learned a lesson.” Mitch huffed.

“Or he’s getting ready to escalate.” It was a common pattern. “Have we got details on him? He’ll need watching.”

“Yeah, he’s in our system now,” Mitch said. “I added him into the police databank, too.”

“Good.”

The door opened, and Cillian and Finn walked in. It was practically impossible to tell them apart except for Cillian had a shamrock tattoo on the back of his right hand. They were Irish with curly fair hair and wiry. But their size was deceiving, they were mixed martial art professionals and seemed to have been bred without the concept of fear.

“Guys,” I said, nodding at them.

“Good to see you, Professor.” Cillian took a seat at my side.

Finn walked to a laptop, flipped it open, and the TV screen on the wall lit up. “Let’s get to it.”

I liked his style, no-nonsense. There were assholes to kill, and we needed to get on with it.

“Ranson is back and bigger than ever,” Finn started. “Just as a reminder, when he was hauled in last time, his charges were possessing and supplying cocaine, procuring prostitution, and handling illegal weapons.”

“And he got off on them all.” Cillian folded his arms and swung back on two legs of his chair.

“Fuck knows how.” Mitch rolled his eyes.

“That’s the past,” I said. “What do we know of his whereabouts right this minute?”

“His last warehouse was in Bicester, the new one is in Swindon. Seemed he bought it while hiding out in Poland, got it all set up, and now is back running it. I can’t imagine he’ll hang around for it to get raided again with him inside, won’t want to push his luck, which is why we have to act now.”

“I say tonight.” Phil pressed his mouth into a tight line; for him, this wasn’t negotiable.

“It might require more prep.”

Phil grunted. No one else spoke.

“Let’s see, carry on.” I nodded at Finn.

“It’s on an industrial estate, plenty of daytime traffic, not so much at night. No nosy neighbors, which I guess is why he picked it.” Phil brought up a photo of the warehouse. Flat roof. Couple of white vans. A dirty sign that read Noah’s Roofing and Window Services.

“And do you know how many girls he has in there?” I asked.

“Last time there were twenty-two, we’re guessing the same,” Cillian said.

I nodded. “Yeah, if it’s the same size building. Poor fucking things.”

Dalton set his hands on the table, his fists balled. “Every minute we sit here we risk one of them overdosing.”

“I know.” Ranson’s MO was to traffic women from Eastern European countries with the promise of a new life then get them hooked on coke and use them as sex slaves. He had to be stopped. He had to die. Too many women had died. Too many were being held by his chains of addiction and being put at mortal risk each time a punter claimed them. They had absolutely no way out. Galahad was their only hope.

“I kinda did a recce,” Cillian said. “Went there last night.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, when Mitch phoned it in, I had ants in my fucking pants to take a look.”

“And what you see?”

“I said I wanted a girl, got in past a big fucking brute with a head like a boiled egg.”

“Was he the only one on the door?” Phil asked.

“As far as I could see, yeah.”

“And inside?” Mitch said.

“The same you would’ve seen last time, mate. A take-your-pick area full of doped-up skinny girls and then a load of beds behind curtains. Fucking stank in there, I tell you.”

“Did you see Ranson?” I asked.

“No, but I reckon he was there. I spotted a green Lamborghini out the back. He’s known for driving one of them.”

“What a fucking eejit when he wants to lie low.” Cillian slammed his chair legs back down. “Guy hasn’t got two brain cells to rub together.”

“For a stupid bloke he’s raking in a lot of cash.” Phil shook his head. “We have to stop him…now. Tonight.”

I turned to Cillian. “So you think Ranson was there with one guy on the door and perhaps a couple of heavies out back?”

“That would be my guess. Seemed to be a few makeshift rooms at the rear, an office perhaps, somewhere for the girls to live, shoot up, that kind of thing.”

I felt nauseated. Sex slavery was fucking revolting. Getting young women deliberately hooked on drugs was downright evil. I made a decision. “Jamie will be here soon, he can watch the house.” I paused. “Are you all carrying?”

Phil, Dalton, and Grant nodded and stood.

Cillian went to the safe. “I’ll get ours.”

“Mine, too,” Mitch said. He didn’t carry a gun for work, few officers did, but he was a fine shot, one of the best owing to years at a rifle range. He’d even represented the UK at some big tournament.

I took a last look at the screen and the warehouse that held our target. The guys were right, what was the point in waiting for another girl to get screwed by an asshole or die?

Forty minutes later, we were nearly at Swindon. Galahad owned a sleek black people carrier; we’d pooled money for it a few years ago. Mitch drove it because he had advance driving skills, and that could come in handy.

There was an air of anticipation between us, the banter was jovial, yet beneath it there was hunger for blood and retribution.

“How are the coffers adding up?” Finn asked Grant.

“We’ve got enough to tick along.” Grant, because he was in banking, was in charge of our funds. We didn’t have loads despite each contributing on a monthly basis. When it came in it soon went out. Running Rose Cottage was expensive, and we took no money from the girls we let work there on the condition they saved up to start a new life.

“It was fucking good luck that Jamie came up with the cash for the last lot of Ranson’s girls to go to rehab,” Phil said. “Reckon he’ll cough up again?”

“Jamie might be rich, but we can’t rely on that.” I scrubbed my hand through my hair. “And it’s not fair.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Grant said. “Let’s just get rid of Ranson.”

“Yeah, he’s got a date with the devil,” Finn said, tugging up his Union Jack mask.

“Time for him to answer for his sins.” Cillian did the same.

“Too bloody right.” Phil checked the bullets in his gun. “And if there’s any collateral damage, so be it. Someone wants to work for a lowlife cunt like Ranson, they deserve to die, too.”

I stubbed out a smoke and pulled up my mask. I didn’t like collateral damage. It suited me to have a target, one target that I was absolutely sure deserved to die, and then get the fuck out. It was tidy and sat better with me.

Some of the other Galahad guys weren’t quite so bothered.

Mitch stopped about a hundred yards from a green Lamborghini parked at the back of a warehouse. Behind us was a cornfield.

“Good, the fuckhead is home,” Finn muttered.

We got out, left the vehicle unlocked, and stalked toward the back entrance of the warehouse. There hadn’t been much activity at the front, and we took that to mean the punters hadn’t started rolling in for the night yet.

Mitch stopped at the door, his jacket bulging in the small of his back where his weapon was. He looked at me over his mask.

I nodded at him and then Phil. Might as well get on with it.

Phil took a step back, lifted his right leg, and kicked the door. It flew open, a lock and bolt flying through the air.

And then we all marched in, weapons out, Union Jack disguises in place.

“What the fuck?” A big bald guy appeared, cheeks wobbling and a burger in his hand.

“Sit the fuck down,” Cillian said, waving a gun in his face.

The man sat on a chair with a bump, his eyes wide. The burger fell to the floor.

“Your boss here?” I asked.

He nodded rapidly and pointed at a door.

I turned to Finn and Grant. “Go check out the front, we’ll take this end.” I wanted the kill. I’d been hungry for it ever since the bastard had been found not guilty. “Dalton, you watch him.” I nodded at Bald Guy.

Phil took a deep breath then kicked a door to his left. It flew open, banging on the wall.

I stepped in, Mitch at my side and Phil coming up the rear. The business end of my gun settled on the first man I saw.

Ranson.

And he was alone.

He half stood from behind a desk then froze. He was an ugly motherfucker with heavily pockmarked skin and an eye patch. No wonder his stupid big flashy car had blacked-out windows.

“Don’t fucking bother,” I snapped from behind my mask. “You’ve got three bullets with your name on, and you won’t be quicker than us.” I’d bet good money he was about to reach for a gun stowed under his desk.

I’d been right. He straightened, hands coming up in surrender. “Who the fuck do you think you are, creeping in here?”

“We’re your worst fucking nightmare.” Mitch settled into his shooting stance.

“And this is my place of work. Piss off.”

“Place of work, that’s rich,” Phil said.

“Makes me rich.” Ranson attempted a laugh, a nasty grating sound.

“Not for much longer.” I put my finger on the trigger of my gun. My heart rate calmed, the way I’d trained it to when about to shoot.

“Do you know who I am?” Ranson swung a furious glare around the three of us. “I’ll fucking have you masked twats gutted for this. Gutted and strung up naked from the nearest bridge so everyone can see you.”

“I don’t think so,” Phil said. “’Cause no one knows who we are.”

“My bosses will, it doesn’t stop with me you know, there’s a whole fucking gang who’ll be after you. Big cheeses who don’t take kindly to being robbed.”

“We’re not robbing you. We don’t want your dirty money.” I gritted my teeth.

A bang came from further in the warehouse. Voices.

It was time to get on with the job in hand. I was done with talking. “One. Two. Three.”

I shot. So did Mitch and Phil.

Ranson took one to the center of his forehead, likely Phil, and two to his chest, close together over his heart.

The force flung him backward, blood spurting, and he slumped against the wall, slid down it and leaving a claret streak on the grimy paintwork.

Mitch went up to the desk, shoved a few papers aside, then grabbed a small black book. He rammed it into his pocket.

“Shit!” Phil turned around, eyes wide.

“What?” I asked.

“That doesn’t sound good.” Phil stepped out of the bloody room. “That noise. What’s going on?”

I followed. The shouts and female screams were louder. “What the hell…?”

“It’s a raid. Cops.” Bald Guy leapt up and frantically looked left and right. “I gotta get out of here.” He pushed past Phil and through the door we’d used to enter the warehouse.

“What’s going on?” I turned to Mitch.

“No fucking clue.” He stepped toward the door. “But I can’t get caught in here, not by the cops. You know I can’t. I’ll get slung in prison, and cops don’t last long there.”

“I know, go,” I said. “Quickly.”

“Finn.” Cillian held his gun at the ready. “I gotta…my brother. I’ve gotta get him.”

“It’s too late.” I put my hand on his arm.

“No, I…”

“You’re no good to him in a cell, Cillian, come on.” I glanced out of the door at the lilac evening light upholstering the cornfield.

Mitch was running from the building toward our vehicle. Phil was in hot pursuit.

“It’s fucking chaos back there. Listen.” I pushed my face up into Cillian’s and shouted through my mask to get through to him. “Finn and Grant are already in the depths of whatever shit is going down with the law. We gotta go. You’re no good to him if you’re banged up, too.”

“But?”

I didn’t wait for him to say anything else and I clasped his wrist and tugged him outside. He didn’t resist and was soon running with me toward the van.

We leapt in. Mitch revved the engine and pulled away.

“Jesus Christ,” Phil said as we took a left onto a dirt track to avoid a dozen cop cars at the front of the warehouse. “Get your foot down, Mitch, this has gone to shit big time.”