Page 7 of Savage Protector
I place my eye to the scope, not because I really need it at this distance, but to take in every detail in case I need to recognise any of these jokers again.
They screech to a halt, surrounding Ethan’s Mercedes and effectively hemming him in, or so they imagine. Six men emerge from the cars to saunter around our three, who barely so much as move to acknowledge this ridiculous posturing.
Ethan bows his chin by way of greeting. “Gallagher,” he intones. “You made it, then.”
One of the men, weighing two hundred kilos if he’s an ounce, squares up to him. “You’re in my backyard now, Savage. I do the talking. You listen, then you piss off back to that lump of rock you call home.”
Aaron is the one to respond. “You owe us money, Gallagher. We’ll collect it now and be on our way.”
Gallagher sneers at him. “Ah, the baby Savage. Last time I saw you, you were in short pants.”
“Looks like he’s about to shit his pants now, boss,” one of the other Gallagher crew observes, laughing like a drain at his own supposed wit.
“Two hundred and fifty grand,” Aaron continues. “Cash preferred.”
“You had all the money you’re getting, now turn around like good little boys and fuck off home while you still can.”
Doesn’t sound like they’re in any mood to negotiate. I select my man, the one who mentioned short pants, and train my crosshairs on the back of his head.
Nico and I have an agreement that generally serves us well. We go from left to right, he takes the first, me the second, and so on. We’ll each need to get off three shots, which we can accomplish in less than two seconds. There’s no breeze to speak of. Our accuracy is assured. Those men are already as good as dead.
Gallagher himself will fall to me, and I know not to deliver a kill shot there. He needs to go down, though, and not get up. Taking out his men is one thing, par for the course, but assassinating the head of another family would start a war, and Ethan doesn’t want that if we can help it. Not for a mere quarter of a million quid.
“You’re a thief, Gallagher.” Ethan regards him with contempt. “Worse, you’re a fucking stupid thief. Do you really want to be a dead one, too?”
Gallagher turns to grin at his men, his face contorted into a vicious snarl. “Fighting talk, from the fuckwit who let the goods go without being paid in full. Shall we teach him a bit about how the grown-ups do business?”
“We should, boss. It’d be a service, really.”
Another of the men produces what appears to be a sock from his jacket. He swings it to demonstrate the heavy weight suspended within. A lump of rock, maybe, perhaps a cricket ball. Whatever, it will make an effective club, and he has the demeanour of a man spoiling for a chance to demonstrate his prowess.
“Look around you, Savage. Can you fucking count? Three of you, six of us. Guess what that adds up to?”
“It adds up to six less streaks of shite stinking this place out,” Ethan replies calmly.
“Spud, the car.” Gallagher tips his chin at one of his men, who crouches beside Ethan’s motor and proceeds to slash the tyres.
“Oh dear, I get the impression you’ll be walking home. Oh, sorry, no you won’t. There’ll be no walking for a while, a few months, probably. Such a tragedy.” Gallagher lets out a roar and lurches forward as fast as his lumbering frame will allow.
Ethan drops to the ground to give me a clear shot. He knows our routine as well as we do. A rapid hail of gunfire erupts, and the Gallaghers topple like skittles all around him. Six shots, almost simultaneous, all on target. Head shots, no coming back from that.
But no instant death for Gallagher. He’s writhing on the ground, blood pouring from his shoulder. He screams in agony, fighting to get out from beneath club man who has landed on top of him.
Aaron drags the body off and drops to his haunches beside the fallen hero. “You’d do well to stay still, not bleed out so fast. It could be a while before anyone comes to help you.” He reaches into Gallagher’s jacket and retrieves his phone. “You won’t be needing this.” He drops it onto the concrete in front of Tony, who grinds his heel into it. He straightens with a tight smile. “You take care, now.”
Gallagher sees this as an opportunity to go for his gun. He reaches into his jacket, then screams in further agony when his hand pretty much explodes. My fourth bullet has found its target, there’ll be no more trouble from Eddie Gallagher.
Ethan and Tony jog over to me, Aaron is with Nico. I dismantle my rifle and tripod in seconds and stow it in the rucksack while Tony throws the abseiling rope over the low perimeter wall and secures it with a grappling hook.
Ethan is making a call to the other team at the warehouse. “It’s a go,” he growls and hangs up.
Tony drags a canvas strap harness around his hips, and without a moment’s hesitation, he leads the way over the edge, one rucksack on his back.
Ethan pockets his phone, checks that I’m ready, then follows him. I’m the last one over but I reach the ground just a fraction after the other two. We leave the ropes behind, but everything else goes with us.
We jog around the outside of the old building. “Car will be at the main entrance,” Ethan tells me. “Nice work there. Especially that final shot.”
“Cheers, boss. Happy to help,” I respond.
