The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9 Part 60

"I'm off to drill me baby-muvver," said Castro with a smirk.

"Which one?" asked Big-un.

"Laticia, of course. Need a fix of her Babylons." His smile revealed a gold incisor.

"Don't blame you, bro." Big-un pictured the said Babylons: impressive to say the least and well worth a juggle.

"So meet me back 'ere in a coupla hours, OK? And bring some funds for tomorrow."

"Do I ever let yer down, bro?"

"Never ... so let's keep it that way, man."

Their fists met in a show of respect and Big-un left Castro's flat, then headed to meet up with the boys. They'd jack a few p.i.s.sed-up students, inflict some pain, have a bit of Sniff, then go back to Castro's to discuss business, like they did most nights.

Ten minutes later, he was driving in the opposite direction towards the city centre, having pa.s.sed half a dozen speeding police vehicles. Blue lights and sirens in full flow, plus a couple of plain cars carrying what he suspected were detectives. He could've sworn he'd seen DI Jack Striker amongst them.

If so, job done.

He pulled the black VW Golf GTI into a side street, checked his mirrors and got out. As he descended the steps of the dim, dank subway, what others would construe as fear intensified. Unlike many, he knew fear was his friend and it was just adrenalin heightening his senses, preparing him for battle. He rolled down his hat, which doubled as a balaclava.

On his approach he could hear their voices growing louder. There was laughter, too, but not for long. He saw the first one, then the second, and soon clocked that there were six in total.

Careful.

They were listening intently to a big lad in the middle who was gesticulating as he described beating his latest victim. The words "Rah, rah" and "innit" were prevalent. His instant recognition of the big lad known as "Big-un" gave him a surge of excitement. The others were dressed in usual dark sports gear with their hoods predictably up. He stopped at the subway's entrance, straining to identify his prey from twenty metres away. He withdrew a small pair of binoculars and soon sussed the one he had no interest in had a white stripe across his hood.

He saw that two were going through the pockets of a young curly-haired lad who was clearly s.h.i.tting himself; probably a student.

Right.

"Oy, d.i.c.kheads!"

They pivoted in unison, looking surprised.

"Want some?"

"You f.u.c.king with us, man?" shouted Big-un.

"What do you think, you bunch of low-lives?"

The student was discarded like a rag doll. They all surged forward as one, a ma.s.s of arms, legs and aggression, their profanities resounding off the subway's walls.

He turned and ran, like a fox being hounded. He took the steps three at a time and soon pa.s.sed a cul-de-sac on the right ... one ... then ignored the second right turn ... two ... he could hear them closing ... three ... he turned into the third cul-de-sac, stopping at the end before turning. Breathlessly, he withdrew a baton from his left sleeve, his preferred weapon due to its silence and his dexterity with it.

And he waited ...

The noisy throng emerged at the top of the dark street.

"There he is ... the cheeky f.u.c.ker!" Toward him they ran, their footsteps resounding.

He stood his ground, baton at the ready. They slowed up, still cursing, a wariness creeping into their psyches, perhaps. Big-un drew a blade, glistening under a streetlamp. "You're f.u.c.ked now, gobs.h.i.te!"

He backed off from the gang, slowly edging round them, baton outstretched, cutting the night air with threatening swings. Eyeballing Big-un, he subtly manoeuvred them into the opening of an adjacent alleyway just a few metres to his right. They edged forward, cursing, spitting their venom, spreading across the alley's entrance. One tried to sneak behind him, but the baton cut noisily through the air.

"w.a.n.ker! Am gonna shank you," said Levi, clicking a flick-knife open.

He knew all his targets' names, and more, much more.

He jockeyed them back a few paces with a few sharp forward steps and vicious swings of the baton, further into the alley, capitalizing on their hesitancy.

He spotted a third knife appear and took a step back.

"He's bottling it now. Ha! His a.r.s.e has fell out. f.u.c.kin slice him, bro."

Two metres away, if that, their anxious faces just visible in the darkness.

Big-un lunged forward, the others followed, yelling. He sidestepped Big-un, grabbed his arm and jerked it behind his back, before wrenching it up to his neck until it cracked. He threw in a kidney punch for good measure.

"Aaargh!" Big-un's blade clanged on the floor and he dropped like a bag of s.h.i.t, clutching his broken arm. One at the back shaped to throw something and he ducked as a bottle smashed beside him on a wall. They surged forward and a 360 turn impacted the baton on to a couple of stray skulls. Spotting Big-un trying to get up, he stamped on the broken arm, producing a girlie squeal.

But the throng were getting too close.

Plan B.

He expertly swung his baton and connected on the nearest cheekbone with a thud. The youth yelped like a puppy and the others hesitated again, giving him a second to remove a brick in the wall.

"That won't f.u.c.kin stop us, you muppet."

Behind the brick was his trusty Glock 17. "This f.u.c.kin will though!" He retracted his baton in a blink and slipped it up his left sleeve. Gripping the handgun in both hands, he took aim. All swagger now gone, their fear-etched faces froze. Levi turned to run.

"It's a dead end, boys ... just like your lives!"

Three shots blasted out, one for each forehead. They dropped like dominoes.

Big-un tried to clamber up the wall, but fell to his knees and glanced up.

He heard someone sobbing and looked up at the last lad standing. The one with the white stripe on his hood, his face pallid and still as the moon.

"Go, now. Speak to no one, or you won't be so lucky next time. Go sort your life out." The lad left like s.h.i.t off the proverbial shovel.

He spun, pointing the Glock at Big-un.

"Pleeeease ... you're Him, aren't you ... The Hoodie Hunter?"

He scanned up the street and saw that a few lights had come on. Time to get things moving. "Yes ... I'm Him."

"Aw nooo ... can I go ... pleeease?" asked Big-un, pathetically.

"What do you think?"

Big-un began whimpering, ironically akin to many of his own victims.

"Sorry, Boss, nothing," said the dogman with the powerful dragon lamp, his German shepherd, Reece, straining at the leash.

"f.u.c.k!" Striker kicked a discarded beercan, knowing he'd been suckered. He scanned the vast park to see numerous dipped flashlights dotted about, all heading his way.

Bardsley and Collinge returned with torches from a sweep of the children's play area. "All clear."

"Never mind, Boss. It's just a hoax call. At least no one's dead."

Striker bit his lip, hard. The last person he wanted to snap at was Lauren Collinge.

"Give us a f.a.g, Eric."

"Thought you'd stopped?"

"Just give me one."

Bardsley did as he was told and Striker took an exaggerated drag, instantly feeling dizzy, albeit briefly.

As they were joined by uniform, Bardsley looked at Collinge and whispered, "Lauren, it could still be a decoy. We're all here now, aren't we?"

Collinge nodded and looked a little embarra.s.sed.

"Right. No one goes off duty tonight. He's up to something." Striker's voice notched up a decibel. "I want house to house done around that phone box, the CCTV tapes from the garage on the corner ... and those b.l.o.o.d.y 999 tapes ... now!"

Castro's mobile finally rang and he looked at Big-un's name on the screen.

"About f.u.c.kin time, man. Thought you'd got nicked or summat. Where've you been?"

"Hi, Castro," said the deep voice.

"Who the f.u.c.k is this? Where's Big-un?"

"You'll know me soon enough. As for Big-un ... for a big-un, he's a right cry-baby, isn't he?"

"Yo, d.i.c.khead! If you touch him you're dead meat. Do you know who you're f.u.c.kin with, man?"

"It's too late for Big-un. And, yes I do know you ... man. That's why I'm coming up, right now."

The phone went dead. Castro was confused and felt a surge of panic. Who the f.u.c.k would have the b.a.l.l.s to take out his number two and diss him like that?

He took out his Browning and paced the flat. A quick glance out of the window revealed nothing. s.h.i.t ... who was this muv ...?

Then it struck him like a Tyson punch. It's that Hoodie Hunter guy!

A fear he'd never known engulfed his soul, but he fought it. "OK, Mr Hoodeee-f.u.c.kin-Hunter ... let's see who the man is. I'm not just some punk-a.r.s.ed-muvver you can trample all over ... I'm the man."

Even as he spoke, he could see for himself the pistol shaking in his grip.

There was a bang on the door. Castro's heart flipped. He wished he'd gone easier on the weed today. He pointed the Browning and edged closer.

Another bang.

He moved to the wall away from any line of fire. He needed to check the spy-hole. He took a sharp intake and moved swiftly to take a quick look. What he saw made him jump to the wall beside the door. He registered a snapshot of a man in a balaclava, holding a handgun.

He weighed up his options. He'd have to get the boys to clear the flat of money and merchandise p.r.o.nto, before Five-0 got here, but this was self-defence, right? Bizarrely, he pictured Laticia's Babylons.

f.u.c.k it!

Castro cracked out six shots, splintering the door, each bullet piercing through. Cordite filled the air. Adrenalin pumped. He felt sickly. He heard nothing, except his own heartbeat. Cautiously, still pointing the pistol, he peeped, but saw nothing. He slowly unlocked the latch and jolted the door open.

Relief.

"Woo-yeah, man!" Castro eyed the body. No movement. Definitely smoked. Black trench coat with blood seeping out. He jumped on to the body and began to dance. "Who's the man now, Mr Hoodeee Hunter?"

As he danced, he noticed the floor was wet and got a whiff of something. He crouched and touched the carpet, then smelled his finger. He laughed maniacally, his gold incisor glowing, and resumed his celebrations.

"I was right about you, man ... the Hoodeee Hunter's only gone and p.i.s.sed himself ... what a f.u.c.kin p.u.s.s.y!"

He watched the f.u.c.kwit dancing over the corpse and rolled down the dual-hat balaclava, then readied the Glock 17. He stepped out from the doorway into the corridor.

"You're all the same," he hissed in disgust, causing Castro to pivot like an owl on speed. He cracked a slug into the f.u.c.ker's gun hand and the Browning bounced a few feet away.

Castro shrieked and clutched his hand. His eyes wide with shock.

A woman's petrified face appeared in a doorway down the hall.

"Get back in and you'll be safe!" he said and her door slammed.

A man's m.u.f.fled voice now: "It's OK, Beryl, I've called the cops."

He refocused on Castro. "Pull back the balaclava," he said, gesturing with the Glock's barrel.

Shaking, Castro slowly peeled the facemask back and it revealed a duck-taped mouth. He peeled it further and Big-un's vacant eyes looked up at him.

"Now pa.s.s me my other Glock."

Castro had tears in his eyes. "Look ... f.u.c.k you man! Who the f.u.c.k do you ...?"