After the Brigands, there came riders from the Dogs of War and then the Monster Bunch (these two puppet gangs had equal status and a coin was flipped to see who rode first). The final group were riders who didn’t belong to a club. They ranged from long-term Brigand allies like Rhino, to kids like James and even a few wives and girlfriends who were barred from club membership but wanted to ride rather than sit on a coach.
On the stroke of nine Vomit blasted an air horn. The Führer gunned his throttle and pulled out of line. Vomit came next, pulling alongside. Teeth was the first rider in the second row and so on, as the bikes pulled off at two-second intervals.
It would have been easier for the bikes to line up in pairs, but starting a run by blasting out of line was an outlaw biker tradition that required good throttle control and timing. Done properly it was a ballet of engine noise and tyre smoke, but one rider skidding, stalling or otherwise messing up could result in mangled bikes, a broken riding formation and a probable kicking for the rider who screwed up. James’ bottom-of-the-pack status meant that he only had to worry about dropping in alongside Orange Bob. He flipped down his helmet visor and gave Chloe and Dante a quick thumbs-up as the bikes in front pulled off.
James got away fine, but was surprised to find two late-arriving Dogs of War pulling into formation behind him. He’d got used to riding his new bike in traffic, but it was a different skill to stay in formation, with Orange Bob on his left, two bikes less than four metres in front and two more the same distance behind.
After they’d left Salcombe and reached the A38 the bikes sped up until the hedges along the roadside blurred. Even through a helmet the noise was deafening. People stared out of cars coming in the other direction and James felt exhilarated, but at the same time scared by the speed and the knowledge that it would only take a rider braking too hard, or a tyre catching in a pothole to turn the roaring formation into tangled metal.
*
McEwen’s interrogation of Nigel and Julian the previous day had revealed many facts. The most important were the identity of a Newcastle-based drug cartel that was taking delivery of the assault rifles and the name of Paul Woodhead, who’d paid Nigel and told him where to collect the weapons.
Woodhead was an inactive South Devon Brigand. He’d retired after a riding accident and moved to a remote cottage near Dartmouth, twenty kilometres north east of Salcombe. He’d been off police radar for more than a decade and his emergence as an element of the Führer’s weapons smuggling operations was a major breakthrough.
This information was useful, but McEwen suspected Nigel wasn’t telling him everything he knew. McEwen would have liked to spend more time on the interrogation, but Nigel and Julian had to be released or they’d fail to make their delivery in Bristol and the Brigands would become suspicious.
While the boys were under interrogation, Neil Gauche had fitted listening devices inside their mobile telephones and wallets. Nigel told McEwen that they would meet with Paul Woodhead on Saturday morning to receive their payment for the delivery. McEwen planned to follow them to their rendezvous and listen in, hoping that he might glean information on future deliveries and in particular the huge order made by undercover officer George Khan through the London Brigands.
With his beard gone, his hair cropped and the Brigands out of town Neil Gauche felt reasonably safe parked in a street directly below Marina Heights. The bug in Julian’s wallet picked up a muffled version of the teenager’s morning routine, including pissing, push ups, Crunchy Nut and a polite conversation with his parents about the chamber orchestra they’d seen in Torbay the night before.
When Nigel called on his mobile, Julian said goodbye to his parents and picked up his friend in his Fiat at the bottom of the road out of Marina View. McEwen and Neil were in a small BMW less than a hundred metres away.
‘Dartmouth,’ Nigel said. ‘I’ll navigate. I’ve done it before on my bike.’
‘You see Caitlyn last night?’ Julian asked, sounding quite upbeat as he pulled away.
‘Yeah,’ Nigel said happily. ‘You seemed to be getting on pretty good with that girl in the bar.’
‘Twenty-five years old,’ Julian smiled. ‘Got her phone number. I might call her later and ask her out for a meal or something.’
‘Cool,’ Nigel said.
McEwen pulled away as Julian turned out the end of the street. The tracking device in the Fiat’s wheel arch gave an accurate location signal from anywhere in the country, but they had to keep within one and a half kilometres to pick up the audio from the listening devices.
‘I didn’t sleep,’ Nigel said. ‘That guy McEwen really put the shits up me.’
‘My ribs are black and blue,’ Julian said. ‘My nose is all clogged with dried blood. I weigh seventy kilos and he wasn’t even straining when he slammed me down on that table.’
‘Hard bastard,’ Nigel nodded.
McEwen and Neil smiled at each other. Serious criminals like the Brigands didn’t speak openly in cars, avoided mobile phones and used codes, but Nigel and Julian were just a couple of sixth formers and it hadn’t occurred to either of them that their car or possessions had been bugged when they were pulled in.
‘We’ve always been mates,’ Nigel said. ‘I’m sorry I got you into this.’
‘From now on I’m buying my spliff with cash only,’ Julian said. ‘No debts to repay.’
‘This gun-running shit’s too heavy,’ Nigel said. ‘My brother fixed up something else for tonight, but I’m gonna speak to Paul about it. You don’t get MI6 or whoever it was threatening to drop you in the shit when you’re selling weed to a few mates.’
‘So we pick up our money and we’re free and clear,’ Julian said cheerfully. ‘Money in our pockets, no debts and a date with that randy little twenty-five-year-old.’
‘Like old times,’ Nigel said noisily. ‘Sex, weed and parties!’
Neil and McEwen kept a kilometre behind until the Fiat pulled into the grounds of Paul Woodhead’s farm house. Neil had scouted the location the night before and they passed the front gate and pulled on to a track a few hundred metres from the house.
Woodhead came to his door in wellies and jeans. He was a big man, with a knee that buckled with each step. His thinning hair was combed back and matted down with sweat.
‘Another scorcher,’ he said as the door came open. ‘Let’s walk.’
Woodhead was more cautious than his young assistants and rather than inviting them into the house, he took them on a two-hundred-metre walk into an open area with rusting barns on either side. The metal played havoc with the signal from the listening devices, and a generator running inside one of the barns created a background hum.
‘Two hundred each,’ Woodhead said, as he peeled money off a bundle of fifty-pound notes. ‘I hear you were forty minutes late with the delivery. These kind of people don’t like being messed about.’
‘Traffic on the M5,’ Julian said. ‘What can you do?’
‘For two hundred pounds, you can get your shitty arse out of bed,’ Woodhead snapped back. ‘Now, about tonight.’
‘Yeah, about that,’ Nigel interrupted. ‘My brother Will’s out of town and my girl Caitlyn’s parents are out of town, so I’m not gonna be able to make it.’
Woodhead’s voice grew into a reedy shout. ‘We have a consignment tonight, young man. There’s nobody else: the only reason your spotty face got near a job like this is that all my usual people are on the run up to Cambridge.’
‘I’m sorry, Paul. Things just spiralled. I’m not gonna make it.’
McEwen and Neil heard a booming sound, which was Nigel getting rammed against the metal barn.
‘Now you listen to me, you bag of donuts,’ Woodhead shouted. ‘We have a deal. Four hundred pounds apiece for two hours out at sea and some loading and unloading back on shore. And you’re going to be there because if you let me down I’m gonna fix it for some Brigands to pay you a visit. And they’ll fix it for you to spend about two months in hospital suffer
ing from agonising pain because every bone in your body got smashed with hammers.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll come,’ Nigel said. ‘But I can’t bring my brother. He’s left already.’
‘Him then,’ Woodhead said, pointing at Julian.
‘I didn’t agree to this,’ Julian said, sounding stressed. ‘This is serious crime. I’m way out of my depth here.’
‘I appreciate your honesty,’ Woodhead said. ‘But I need bodies tonight and you’re all there is. I’ll pay you the four hundred, plus Nigel’s four hundred. And since you like a smoke I’ll throw in a couple of ounces of the finest shit you’ll ever lay eyes on.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Julian said, audibly trembling. ‘This isn’t my style.’
Woodhead turned towards Nigel. ‘You’d better try persuading your friend, because if you’re not both on that boat with me, you’re the one who’s gonna get seriously mangled.’
‘I could ring around,’ Nigel said. ‘Get someone else.’
‘Great bloody idea,’ Woodhead shouted. ‘Why don’t you put a card in the newsagent’s window while you’re at it? Gun smuggler required, suit teenager, some heavy lifting, applicants with criminal records considered.’
‘Julian, you’ve gotta help me out,’ Nigel begged. ‘With my share and the dope that’s more than a grand for an evening’s work. Please.’
‘If I help tonight, I want it to be the last time I’m involved with anything like this,’ Julian whined.
‘You got my word,’ Woodhead said. ‘I’ve got no beef with you, Julian. It’s this little mother who’s made me promises he can’t keep.’
With that, Woodhead lunged forwards and punched Nigel hard in the stomach. ‘Dumb kid,’ he shouted, as Nigel groaned in agony. ‘You’re out of your depth and after tonight you’d better keep out of my face. Now I’ll see you on the fishing wharf at Kingswear, eight o’clock sharp. Boat by the name of Brixton Riots.’
Nigel gasped and retched as Julian helped him back towards the red Fiat. The audio quality improved as their voices got picked up by the bugs in the roof of the car.
Julian sounded deeply upset. ‘What the hell have you got me into here?’
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ Nigel said, as Julian started the engine. ‘You saved my arse back there. You can have my two hundred from yesterday and you can have all the weed you can smoke from me for two months.’
Julian pounded on the dashboard. ‘What if we get caught on this? What if that crazy bastard McEwen springs up again?’
‘I don’t know,’ Nigel said desperately as he buried his head in his hands. ‘McEwen left me a card. I could call him and tell him what’s going on.’
‘I don’t trust him,’ Julian said. ‘I don’t know who he is or who he really works for. I say we do what Paul wants us to do, then we keep our heads down and stay the hell away from the Brigands, the Monster Bunch and all the other crazy bastards.’
29. SERVICES
The Führer led his band up the fast lane of the M5, locked on the 70mph speed limit with no one daring to overtake on the inside. The procession had been joined by the North Devon and Plymouth Monster Bunch chapters and a friendly Cornish gang called Branding Iron.
James found himself amidst a kilometre-long train of bikes, topped and tailed by a ragtag fleet of breakdown vans and coaches. Horns blasted, kids waved from their parents’ cars and the highlight of James’ morning was a team of hockey players squishing bare breasts against the windows of a coach as the bikers roared past.
Riding a motorbike is more physically demanding than driving a car. James had no farings on his ER5 to keep the wind off and the sun gently roasted him inside his helmet, gloves and thick leather jacket. He was grateful to pull into Stoke Gifford service station with half of the three-hundred-mile ride to Cambridge under his belt.
Parents held their children close and nervous arrivals headed straight for the exit gates as two hundred motorcyclists steamed through the automatic doors to queue in the gents and pile into the restaurants. As the Führer entered he was met by the waiting presidents of the Cardiff and Bristol Brigands and six dark-tanned Brigands from Valencia in Spain.
James joined a huge melee of shouting bodies in Burger King, but the counter was swamped and he realised he had no chance of getting served as higher-status Brigands and Dogs of War pushed in front. James was harder than most of them, but he couldn’t start a fight with a whole gang so he gave up and headed to the confectionery shop.
Again, the counters had a massive queue but here the bikers had the option to pilfer. It started with a couple of riders pocketing Polos and opening cans of beer, but soon turned into a scrum with more than thirty riders guffawing as they stole food and drinks while pushing, shoving and knocking down display racks.
James felt bad for the two women behind the counter. One of them screamed for help as a crash-helmeted Dog of War bundled her to the floor and tossed armfuls of cigarette packets into the crowd. James desperately needed a drink, and his lowly status meant that stealing was the only way he’d get anything before they all had to remount their bikes.
He left the shop guzzling from a half-litre bottle of Sprite and holding a king-sized Mars Bar and a tub of mini Pringles. He stepped over a streak of urine where several Brigands had given up on the toilet queue and pissed over the cash machines.
A coachload of scared pensioners were being herded out through a chirping fire door, while another group of Brigands jeered the man serving in Costa Coffee, and the manager of Marks and Spencer earned a bloody nose after trying to stop a Cardiff Brigand from making off with a bottle of freshly squeezed orange and rasberry.
James was alone and wore no gang insignia. This made him easy pickings if the cops arrived and started arresting people, so he decided to head out to his bike and maybe top up with petrol if the queue wasn’t too bad. But as he stood in the automatic doorway he saw twenty-five men charging towards the doors waving clubs and lengths of bike chain. A shout of ‘Brigand wankers’ went up as they began pouring inside.
James dived back into the shop as men came through the door and immediately chain-whipped a Dog of War queuing for the toilets. Blood sprayed several metres from a deep cut running from the biker’s ear to the side of his nose.
‘Vengeful Bastards,’ several people shouted at once.
James had heard the name: the Vengefuls were a small but fearsome gang, founded by two Brigands who’d been expelled for breaking the club’s strict rules banning members from using heroin. Now with six chapters, the Vengeful Bastards were the Brigands’ sworn enemies.
James’ Sprite bottle got knocked from his hand as members of the Brigands and their support gangs piled out of the shop, the toilets and the restaurant armed with whatever came to hand. A full-patch biker was expected to fight bravely for his gang. Cowardice was grounds for a severe beating, followed by expulsion.
As James backed up into the shop he watched Teeth disarm a Vengeful, sending his bike chain flying towards him. James grabbed the chain, while Teeth lifted his opponent and smashed him head first into a stone pillar.
The twenty-five Vengefuls seemed outnumbered and were getting a pasting. James crouched down, surrounded by cardboard boxes near the till with two female clerks clutching each other and sobbing under the counter.
James pulled on one of his leather riding gloves, then wrapped half the chain around his padded hand. This made a knuckleduster that doubled as a whip if he needed some extra reach.
‘Is there a place to hide?’ James asked.
One of the terrified clerks answered. ‘Our manager’s locked himself in the stock room.’
The fighting outside subsided as Vengefuls were knocked down or ran off, then resurged as a second wave arrived. Some Vengefuls came through the front doors, but a second group poured out of an upstairs restaurant where they’d apparently been waiting in ambush and had missed their cue to pile in with the first wave.
As fists, clubs and boots flew, James watched as a man with a bread k
nife sticking out of his back staggered into the shop. For a second James thought it was his riding partner Orange Bob, but it was a Vengeful Bastard prospect barely older than himself.
James considered first aid, but before he could do anything the fighting came into the shop. Two fat Vengefuls held the South Devon Brigand Dirty Dave by his arms. They bundled him into a glass rack stacked with souvenir playing cards, china figures and other tat. As the ornaments smashed on the floor a ginger-bearded Vengeful pulled out a hammer with its end sharpened into a vicious looking spike.
As the hammer lunged, James lashed out with the chain, hitting the ginger Vengeful’s hand. He then punched the man in the face. As the Vengeful staggered back, Dirty Dave freed himself from the other one and sent him clattering into an open-fronted cooler filled with soft drinks and sandwiches.
James grabbed a large brass model of the Clifton Suspension Bridge, belted his ginger opponent around the head with it and then knocked him cold with his chain-wrapped fist. Dirty Dave was tussling with the other man, but James prioritised grabbing the sharpened hammer before someone else got hold and used it on him.
As James reached down and grabbed the hammer another Vengeful Bastard charged into the shop and swung a punch at his head. James’ vision blurred as the big fist knocked his head against a glass shelf, but he swung the hammer and the pointed end sank deep into the man’s knee.
James ripped the hammer out, causing a spurt of blood. He dived out of the way as the biker crumpled, smashing through two glass shelves and moaning in pain. Another Vengeful charged in as James stood up. This man was smaller, and James threw an uppercut, plunging his chain-wrapped fist into the man’s chin, smashing his jaw and sending him crashing on to the newspapers and cigarette packets spilled across the floor.
While James floored three men, Dirty Dave was still struggling with his original opponent. They had arms around each other’s necks and were throwing weak punches. Although James wasn’t really on the Brigands’ side, he certainly wasn’t with the Vengeful Bastards after three of them had attacked him.