Waging War To Shake The Cold Read online

  Waging War To Shake The Cold

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Waging War To Shake The Cold

  Chic McSherry

  A Wild Wolf Publication

  Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2012

  Copyright © 2012 Chic McSherry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  First print

  E-BOOK EDITION

  All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.wildwolfpublishing.com

  Dedications

  Just about everything I do in life I do for my kids, Jamie and Scott, however in this novel they’re going to find out that their dad knows more than a few swear words, so I want to reassure them that I have only heard these words in passing and would never actually use them.

  I really have to thank my editing crew (most writers get one editor - I needed a posse): John Hatfield, Roland Main, Richard Blandford and the indomitable Poppet. Without their help and encouragement this book would still have been possible, but would definitely have been a much poorer reading experience for you.

  If you like what you read in Waging War then I am happy to tell you that this is the first of three books – I can’t quite call it a trilogy because the others involve many of the same characters but don't necessarily advance the plot. Perhaps we can call it a series.

  I’d like to say a big thank you to Sam and the team at Wild Wolf for giving this one an airing and hopefully they will see fit to do the same for the other two.

  Last but not least, I want to dedicate the book to the RAF Engineer who accosted me at a taxi rank at 1am in the morning, both of us worse for wear, and threatened to punch my head in. He’d overheard me saying that I’d had a crap month at work and offered to put me straight about what a crap month at work was really like. It brought home to me just how damaged some of these poor guys are who are returning from Iraq, and now Afghanistan. Thankfully he didn't punch my head in, but neither did we become bezzie mates.

  If this book advances the understanding of the complex personal and psychological issues these lads face when they come back from war zones then I will count that as a major bonus, and if it so moves you then you can get involved at:

  http://www.helpforheroes.org.uk/

  Chapter 1

  Pain rippled up his forearm as his clenched fist connected solidly with the big guy’s jaw. Hopefully he’d hit him hard enough to drop him, but not hard enough to break any of his own fingers. The amount of force needed took fine judgement and he couldn’t always tell till later.

  The dull thud of the punch was still hanging in the damp air as he turned to run for the lorry’s cab. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his victim falling to the ground, the others were simply staring wide-eyed and doing nothing, which was exactly what he’d hoped for because it gave him time to leg it. Not much time, but it should be enough.

  Kats hadn’t come looking for trouble, but he wasn’t about to take any shite from a bunch of dobbers like DJ and his merry men.

  He’d dropped the guy because he knew from hard experience in many a squaddie bar that, unlike in the movies, ninety percent of fights end after the first punch is thrown, so if you’re the one to hit first then you’re the one most likely to win.

  He also knew that if you picked the biggest guy, you’re likely to gain a little more out of it, because big guys aren’t used to being hit and that means they often just go down, more from sheer surprise than anything else.

  Last, but by no means least, the psychological impact of such a bold move often holds back the rest of the gang. After all, who wants to go next after Big Tam or Mad Wullie or The Blade or Whoever-The-Fuck has keeled over with the first punch?

  All the same, this little skirmish was going to be a little different from the normal, what you might call, 'professional disagreement' between The Criminal Brethren.

  That’s because DJ was in charge, and Davie Junior wasn’t about to let him just waltz off Scot free with all the attendant loss of face that would bring, not when the consequences of that loss of face would be a drubbing from his father at the very least.

  Lessons would therefore have to be taught, positions preserved, dominance reasserted. It had now become a matter of diminished status and injured pride, and there’s nothing quite like that for a sauce to spice up the dish of the day.

  The sudden outbreak of violence had come as something of a surprise to Kats; as far as he’d known he was only there to close a simple deal over his cut of the stolen gear, and he had no intention of getting into any petty power plays. Especially not with DJ.

  Not that Kats was averse to a bit of violence from time to time you understand, but he preferred it to be on his own terms, and up until now, he had been very careful not to overplay the hard man ex-soldier card.

  He liked to keep at least some distance from the criminals he supplied, and he always worked alone, more because he didn’t trust anyone than because he didn’t need the help. He considered himself to be self-employed and temporarily in the hijacking business; not that he was particularly proud of it, but needs must and all that. Besides, it was easy money and almost risk free: find some lorry load in a lay-by, driver off for a slash, jemmy the window, hot wire the engine, and he was off before the driver could flush the lavvy.

  The gear was sold on to a variety of underworld characters depending on what it was he had lifted. The stuff from white vans went through the local wide-boys who moved them on at car boot sales, and increasingly, online.

  Most of the booze and fags and all the higher value loads went, by unspoken agreement, to Big Davie, DJ’s dad, because he was the only local player that had both the money to buy them and the network to shift them.

  Kats had known Big Davie from his teen years but had managed to steer well clear of him back then, seeing quite rightly the well worn path to prison that a closer association would lead. Big Davy didn’t do time; his people did it for him. Kats wouldn’t be involved with him now either if it hadn’t been for Boots.

  “Just phone him man,” Boots had said. “He’s lookin’ for guys like you right now. He likes ex-military Kats, he likes the loyalty. He’s always been fine with me; y
e’ll no’ have any problems.”

  And things were fine at the beginning, just as Boots promised, with Kats able to keep everyone sweet and making good enough kickbacks; but now the police were paying more attention to the robberies, looking for patterns, asking awkward questions in certain quarters. It was only a matter of time.

  He’d therefore reasoned that if he was the one taking all the risk, then he needed to be seeing a bit more of the profits. A reasonable viewpoint and not one without precedent in gangland.

  Big Davie had tolerated Kats’ loner status, and until today had always dealt with him personally. So Kats, thinking that he had a level of understanding he could build on, had made a call and talked things through with the Big Man himself.

  “Howz about a step up in the money?” he’d said.

  “Depends on whit’s on offer.”

  “Howz about I only work for you and I only do the big loads?”

  “Now yer talkin’.”

  Stealing to order for the Big Man would have its downsides, but if it guaranteed some more much needed cash it was worth the risk. So Kats had agreed to this meeting in order to discuss terms.

  He thought Big Davie was okay by and large; an old-school East-End villain with whom, despite the fact he was capable of terrifying violence when he deemed the occasion merited it, at least you always knew where you stood. Kats also knew the Big Man liked to think of himself as a bit of a businessman and if you were a good earner and were able to make a good case for yourself, then deals could be struck. Kats was a good earner.

  Whilst Big Davie might be okay as far as villains went, his son DJ was a prize wanker and Kats’ spirits fell when he saw who got out of the black BMW 6 series, predictably plated B16 DAV.

  The face-to-face had been arranged in an off-motorway transport café car-park near Livingston where the latest stolen load, this time it was whisky, was to be handed over after negotiations were concluded.

  After the phone call Kats had thought it would be a straightforward bit of business, but when DJ showed up with a few likely boys for company, he knew things were going to be neither simple nor smooth.

  “Shit, this is all I need.”

  Glancing at the leaden sky and wondering how the hell he had ever gotten homesick for the rain and the crappy Scottish summer weather when he was stationed in Iraq, he shook the drips from his baseball cap while he waited for them to come to him.

  He recognised one of the neds, a low-life called Squeak – so called because he spoke with an improbable falsetto voice – who was Big Davie’s Brown-Noser-In-Chief, but the rest he hadn’t seen before. From the melange of bling and shell suits he guessed they had to be DJ’s personal posse; his father had far too much nous to be seen in public with a bunch of Janglies like these.

  “Awrite Kats my man?” yodelled DJ nasally, as he minced over the last puddle to come to an unsteady stop in front of him. He was grinning like a corpse and all the while, in the manner of those who hunt in packs, he glanced behind to make sure his backup stood firm.

  The whiff of stale booze on his breath confirmed Kats’ suspicion that he was more than a little drunk and his eyeballs, near popping out of his angular pock-marked face, signalled his elevated state of consciousness. In this condition, DJ would be even more dangerous and unpredictable than usual.

  He was kitted out head to toe in regulation Burberry ned gear, The Full Bhoona, The Shettleston Tuxedo, and he had a fag neatly tucked inside the palm of one hand, nipped between forefinger and thumb. He took a drag of it and blew the smoke directly into Kats’ face, stepping in as close as a lover, upping the pressure level.

  It wasn’t a good start but Kats held his gaze before responding.

  “Am fine DJ, yer maw’s still dressin’ ye I see. Where’s yer dad?”

  DJ’s grin fractured on the jibe. He was used to the respect his position as heir-apparent assured him with his crew, and he didn’t take kindly to any challenge to his authority no matter how veiled or trivial.

  Kats knew that DJ thought he was a smart-arse prick, just another loser from the army who was only in it because he was down on his luck, and if he was caught he’d shop the whole lot of them rather than do the time on his own. Kats knew that because he’d heard DJ say it often enough.

  DJ wasn’t exactly subtle about what he thought, who he told, or who heard him say it.

  They were about the same age; Kats, DJ, and Boots, and had known each other pretty much all of their lives. Kats and Boots had been in one street gang, DJ in another, and because of his father, DJ had lorded it over the housing scheme where they ran riot every weekend.

  There had been more than one confrontation between them as kids and DJ never forgot an enemy. Even now that Boots and DJ were ostensibly working together for Big Davie and Kats was their main supplier, it hadn’t eased the animosity between them all. Boots was smarter than DJ; that was all it took really, and since Kats was smarter than both of them combined it wasn’t a recipe for harmony. Blood brothers they weren’t.

  He could imagine that when DJ heard who he was to meet on his dad’s behalf that he would have been hard pressed to conceal his glee. It was in his genes, if not his immediate interest, to snuff out any perceived competition for position, like some crazed cuckoo on crack.

  Kats knew full well that he’d just dissed him in front of his posse. Maybe he should have thought the back-chat through a little bit more, but it was too late now, and anyway, he couldn’t resist it.

  Sometimes DJ just needed a skelp.

  “Always the funny guy, eh Kats? Ye should watch that mouth of yours pal, it’s gonnae get ye intae real bother some day.” He took a last drag on his fag and threw the dowt at Kats’ feet. “Ma dad’s busy, he’s got more important things to do than run about after van-bangers like you, so I’m handling this one, it was lifted on ma patch anyway. Whit have ye got for us then?”

  “Just as I said on the phone tae yer dad DJ; trailer’s behind me and it’s stacked with cases of whisky. But there is the wee matter of the money to sort out first, remember? Yer dad must have told ye enough about whit I’m lookin’ for so whit’s the score?”

  “Ma dad has left it tae me tae sort out Kats, and I was thinking about it on the way over here. I think we’d be happy tae take this load off ye buckshee as a wee down payment, and then we can see where we go from there.”

  “Down payment? Down payment on whit?”

  “Well, if ye want tae step up and play with the big boys we need a wee show of good faith. Ma dad seems tae rate you Kats, he reckons he could use a man like you full time, bring ye in tae the business a bit more. He seems tae think you have contacts he can use back over there,” he nodded vaguely in a direction somewhere behind his left ear. Kats assumed he was aiming at his army days, but it could have been Loch Lomond for all DJ knew about geography and history. “Me? I’m not so sure. So ye can think of this as a compromise.”

  “Whit contacts are those and how d’ye mean, compromise? There isnae anythin’ in this for me as far as I can see DJ. It looks like I’m the only one havin’ to make all the compromises.”

  “Well, it’s pretty straightforward Kats. You want more money, a bigger share of our profits so tae speak, but ye forget we’re the ones takin’ the real risks. We’ve got tae get the stuff away and sold, and if there’s any comeback it ends up at our door, no’ yours. So, the deal is if you’re tae get more out of it then ma dad wants you sharin’ the risk by bein’ a wee bit closer tae the family business. Ma dad reckons if ye were tae work with us on some of our import businesses, use your contacts like I said tae open some doors for us that are shut the now, then we could mibbe do some serious business. Ma dad says he might even go fifty-fifty with ye on yer lifts in the future, if we can get the right deal struck on the other stuff. A wee case of you scratch our backs and we’ll scratch yours.”

  “Fifty-fifty? An’ just whit kind of contacts is he looking for from me? I’m well out of there ye know. I canny get my hands on weapons o
r anything like that ye know.”

  “Ah’m sure he’ll explain it all tae ye Kats when ye see him. He has an idea in his heid ye might have some people that could be of use tae him in gettin’ some things in and out of the country, but that’s all he told me. If ye can help out, he’s prepared tae make ye a good deal. Fifty-fifty on the merchandise. But as I said Kats ma man, that’s how he sees things going from now on.”

  He lit another cigarette and nodded at the trailer meaningfully. “He’s left the details tae me about this load. The way I see it, ye don’t just step intae a good thing like we have going here; ye need tae buy yer way intae a business, ye know what I mean? Let’s just call this load an investment on your part if that makes ye feel any better. You give us the load buckshee and you talk tae ma dad about whit he wants from you for that fifty-fifty split. Easy peasy Kats.”

  “Eh, let’s no’ be callin’ this load anything of the kind DJ,” said Kats evenly.

  The fifty-fifty split sounded, and probably was, too good to be true, and he wasn’t overly keen in getting any closer than he already was to Big Davie.

  Helping them get things ‘in and out of the country’ as DJ put it had ramifications he wasn’t prepared to consider either. Besides, he needed the two grand he was due from this load of whisky right now. Isa’s rent and other bills wouldn’t pay themselves. He’d made her a promise when he’d come back: she hadn’t to worry about anything anymore; he was going to take care of everything. Kats didn’t break promises, especially not to his gran.

  “Look DJ, I came here because I thought I had the bones of a deal with yer faither for a bigger kick-back. I’m no’ interested in buying ma way into the ‘family business’ as you call it, and I don’t have some network of contacts your dad can use for whatever it is he has dreamt up. All as I’m lookin’ for is tae earn a wee bit more for the risk I’m taking. I can easily find other buyers for this load, so if ye don’t mind I’ll be on my way and I’ll sort this out with yer dad later.”