He was surprised at the feelings that were going through his head. He liked her. He really liked her. And he wanted her to be impressed. The innocence of the moment had touched him.
He drove fast into downtown Basingstoke and parked in the Malls car park.
Went to his hotel room and changed from his Armani suit to a more discreet blue boiler suit.
He placed the untraceable Glock 17 pistol on the bed alongside a brand new razor sharp Spyderco Native Knife.
He had extra magazines for the Glock if needed.
Packing his bag he placed the Glock in his Dragonfly quick draw vertical holster. Strapped tight to his chest.
No telltale side arm bulges. The knife and extra magazines went into his boiler suit pockets.
A long Velcro closing overcoat on for the rain and a hat because he liked hats. He made his confirmation call and then left the hotel and headed for the Parade and the infamous Baz Bang Gang Bar.
Anne arrived back in time to catch DC Evans coming out of the Chief’s office. “Where the fuck have you been?” she threw at him.
“Have fun did we?” he said, followed by a big wide smirk. “Get wet did we? Now let’s forget all about this canal nonsense and get down to some real police work.”
“Wait a minute,” Anne countered. “That was a ritual gangland killing, a gruesome killing and we can't just drop it.”
“Look! Let it go DC Silkton. It’s been bumped up to London. MI5 are involved. It’s now in the land of James Bond. It’s no longer our case or our problem. Finito."
“What? Why?” Anne asked confused.
" Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares?" said Evans. “‘A matter of grave national security’ were the words of the Chief. And that’s good enough for me.”
“You knew this before I went out on my fucking own.”
He touched his nose with a finger and said smiling, “Need to know. I needed to do some shopping. And you Miz Trainee DC Silkton did not need to know.”
“Well, fuck you Evans,” and this time she said it loud so everybody heard.
He grabbed her arm, pulled her in close and whispered roughly, “Shut the fuck up.”
“What about McColl?” she countered.
“McColl? Who the fuck is McColl? Another dumb Mick I suppose.”
Evans boomed this all over the office.
“Yea, Irish cop. He works out of The Hague for Europol.”
“Wait, stop, stop right there. You met a Mick who said he was working for Europol? Where exactly did you meet this Europol Cowboy?”
“At the crime scene. At the canal. He showed me his badge.”
Evans was too busy laughing to notice how embarrassed Anne was feeling.
“So this Europol Wyatt Earp waved his badge around and said he wanted just what exactly?”
Evans was enjoying it, milking the moment. Playing the crowd. The office had gone quite. Everyone was waiting for her reply.
“He said he wanted justice.”
The place erupted with laughter.
Evans could not contain himself.
“Justice, in Baz, for a dead dumb Mick? What planet weed have you been smoking on sister?”
She moved in close and hit him quick and hard with a short pointed knuckle punch to the solar plexus.
Then caught him as he jack-knifed forward. And helped him and gravity on his way down. “Oh Dear,” she said as his head whacked off the floor.
Chief Brown had been standing watching and listening to the encounter at his office door.
“Can somebody give DC Evans a hand. I think he may have fainted. It is rather warm in here,” said Brown as Anne looked suitably shocked.
He waved her in to his office as Evans’ cronies rushed to his aid. “Come in, take a chair. Nicely done, I can't stand that creep,” he said smiling. “So,” he continued, “you met a man from Europol?”
McColl was at that point standing outside the Baz Bang Gang Bar.
Dropping his holdall off to one side, McColl entered.
It was now mid afternoon so the place was dark and empty of normal punters.
Two shadows rose out of the gloom to block his path.
Local Baz muscle.
Pretty poor specimens at that.
More bodies pumped with shit Polish steroids.
More designer drugs than time at the genuine muscle coal face.
“The Hallorans,” was all McColl said as he brushed past.
They where standing at the bar.
Two more pumped muscles were hovering behind them. These looked more the part. North side Dublin Vipers, enforcers. Condensed Evil.
He could tell by the skin the bag look and the knowing smirks. Dangerous, like snakes uncoiling in the shade. They where used to striking when they smelled the stinking odour of fear. Sucking, feeding off the energy from their terrified victims. Contempt written all over their orange glow faces.
The Hallorans both had long stemmed glasses with some sort of Veggie green juice in front of them.
Long straws for sucking. Very nice. Very trendy.
Their skin glowed a very sick sun-bed artificial tanned carrot yellow.
They turned slowly to look at him.
“And who in the name of Jazus are you?” said Willie H stepping away from the bar.
Willie was rumoured to be the smarter of the two.
McColl took them both in.
Muscle bound freaks. Necks like steel cables, muscles defined like square blocks. Exploding out through their snow-white designer T-Shirts. Tight jeans, the latest and greatest trainers. Mohawk hair cut dyed blue, movie star flavour of the month. All ahead, bound for glory.
What great things could these low life punks not achieve?
He could see they felt untouchable, invincible, immortal.
The fix was in. But they would soon find out that their verbal contract was not worth the nose dust it was written with.
Behind him, McColl could feel the local muscle fingering their hard on pistols. Uncertain as to what exactly was going down.
He dismissed them from his thoughts and concentrated on the two movie stars and their moving Viper shadows.
His tight overcoat had no bumps where a side holster would show. His hands hung nonthreateningly free.
Easy meat.
Another victim for the Halloran meat-grinder.
Tommy H had his hand in a brown paper bag on the bar.
His pistol ready.
Willie H had his right hand behind his back on his piece stuffed in his belt.
Safe, so safe. So bullet proof.
The Vipers where unlimbering slowly behind them.
A bored look on their faces. Just another body to burn and bury.
One had a throwing knife down by his side.
The other was just moving forward, smoothly, on the balls of his feet.
Obviously had some training and had done some killing.
They too felt invulnerable. So secure. So protected.
Were they not part of Her Majesty's Secret Service?
Had they not just got rid of the Maddox Numero Uno hit man?
Had they not got every single angle covered?
Having sent a Burn and Bleed message.
Don’t mess with Da H Boyzz.
And then McColl went and ruined it all by saying something stupid like, “Tony Molony.”
The Hallorans looked at each other and started laughing and singing to the tune of 'Only the Lonely'.
“Tony Molony, ba da ba dodo do wa.”
The two Vipers joined in, a regular Baz Bang Gang Boy Band.
McColl never could figure out why all the skin the bags, as soon as they made some serious dosh, started working out, started popping shortcut designer steroids, turned muscle-bound Oompa Loompa orange and only then, amazingly, discovered they were bisexual.
Maybe McColl should ask one of them. And then again maybe not.
Willie H turned his head to say something witty to his brother at the bar.
McColl drew the Glock 17, practised, fast, slick and it was Turkey shoot time.
The first bullet through Willie’s left ear and the next through Tommy's right eye.