The Reckoning (Carter Brothers), page 1
THE RECKONING
KERRY KAYA
For Elizabeth
CONTENTS
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
More from Kerry Kaya
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
1
Simon Treverne, better known as Skinny to his friends, clattered against the brickwork of the Spotted Dog public house in Barking with such force that his collar-length dreadlocks whipped across his face, stinging his cheeks. Not only had the unprovoked attack knocked the breath right out of him, but his pride had also been dented in the process. ‘Leave it out, man,’ he bitterly complained, ‘there’s no need for this.’
‘Then stop fucking me about,’ Joey Mann snarled. ‘You told me you knew where to find him.’
‘I do,’ Skinny protested, blinking rapidly as beads of perspiration broke out across his forehead. Even before he’d been shoved against the wall, he’d had more than just an inkling that Joey’s patience was beginning to wear thin, and who could blame him? This was the fourth pub he’d dragged Joey and his sidekick Carlos Christos into, and so far there had been no sign of his pal Aaron Garner. ‘He’s around here somewhere.’ Skinny gasped in an attempt to fill his lungs with much-needed oxygen. ‘It’s giro day,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘where else would he be?’
Throwing Skinny away from him, Joey straightened up. Like Carlos, he was a tall, well-built man and the muscles beneath his linen shirt bulged from a combination of steroid use and the many hours he put in at the gym. ‘Then you’d best find him and pronto because I’m not here to play poxy games.’
Skinny smoothed down his crumpled shirt, his dark brown eyes scanning the busy high street. Nestled amongst the various takeaways and chicken shops were a variety of pubs, bars and restaurants. As far as he knew, Aaron could be in any one of them. He slipped his hand inside his trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile phone, hoping by some miracle that the device had somehow sprung to life. No such luck, the battery had drained hours ago, and with no way of contacting his friend, the only alternative left open to them was to trawl every pub and club within a five-mile radius on the off-chance they might stumble across him.
‘Well, come on then, get a move on.’ Joey clenched his jaw. ‘I haven’t got all night,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.
There was something about Joey and his friend Carlos that made Skinny feel uncomfortable – out of his depth, even – and it wasn’t just the fact that they were big men who could obviously take care of themselves. No, it was much more than that. There was a coldness about them, he could see it in their eyes, their stance, the way they spoke, and above all else, he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them; considering his slight frame, he had a sneaking suspicion that wouldn’t be very far.
Wearily, Skinny sighed, and as he trudged along the high street in the direction of the next pub, he silently cursed his mate. This was all Aaron’s fault. If it hadn’t been for him and the murderous plan he’d concocted, he would never have had to seek out Joey in the first place.
Lined up on the bar in front of Aaron Garner were three shot glasses filled to the brim with tequila. He was a handsome man with tanned skin, dark cropped hair and an athletic build. In quick succession, he downed the drinks and as the alcohol burned the back of his throat, he screwed up his face, took a deep breath, then gave a satisfied shake of his head.
‘Same again,’ he instructed the barmaid.
Within minutes, three filled shot glasses were placed in front of him and, digging his hand into the pocket of his denim jeans, he pulled out the money to pay.
‘They’ve already been paid for.’ Leaning across the bar with her ample cleavage thrust towards him, the barmaid shouted to be heard above the music.
‘Paid for?’ Aaron narrowed his eyes. ‘Who paid for them?’
The barmaid gestured behind him. Aaron turned in his seat and scanned the crowded club. Seconds later, he shook his head and laughed. ‘You fucker.’
With his arms outstretched, Skinny flashed a lopsided grin that showed off a set of crooked white teeth.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Aaron asked.
‘Been looking for you, man.’ Skinny pulled his friend into a bear hug. The white cotton shirt he was wearing was at least two sizes too big and hung off his body, emphasising his slim frame. ‘Got a couple of geezers here who want to meet you,’ he said, jerking his head behind him.
Looking past his friend, Aaron eyed the men with interest. Whoever they were, they were lumps, and experience told him that their bulked-up physiques hadn’t only come from their use of a gym. No, he’d bet his life on it that steroids, or roids as they were more commonly known on the street, had played a major part in the fact that they were both built like brick shit-houses. ‘Who are they?’ he asked with a flick of his head.
‘They’re the ones I was telling you about.’ Lifting his eyebrows, Skinny leant in towards Aaron’s ear so that they could speak in private. ‘The ones who can supply you with the shooter.’
As he continued to study Joey and Carlos, Aaron had to admit that he was impressed his pal had actually come through with the goods. Bringing the shot glass up to his lips, he knocked back the tequila, then afforded the men a bright smile. ‘In that case, fellas,’ he said with a knowing wink, ‘let me buy you both a drink.’
The next morning, not only did Aaron’s head feel as though it were in a vice, but as he cautiously opened one eye, a wave of nausea coursed through his body, making him lurch onto his side. The sight of an empty tequila bottle and the smell of a disregarded takeaway container on the floor beside him brought vomit flooding into his mouth.
Leaping off the sofa, he ran into the kitchen and, with barely enough time to swipe the crockery out of the sink, he promptly vomited up the contents of his stomach. The lingering stench of alcohol and greasy fried chicken made him heave even harder and, gripping the worktop, he took a series of deep steady breaths before spitting out bile and the remnants of the meal he’d eaten the previous evening.
‘Fuck me, man, you were on fire last night.’
Aaron turned his head, his bloodshot eyes narrowing on his friend.
‘Last night,’ Skinny reiterated. In his hand, he held a leftover chicken leg and, tearing off a chunk of meat, he chewed noisily, oblivious to the grease smeared across his chin and lips. ‘I ain’t ever seen you so wasted.’
Filling a pint glass with cold water, Aaron gulped the cool liquid down in a bid to quench his thirst. On the stereo, Dr Dre blared out. Aaron turned to peer through the haze of stale cigarette smoke and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘They didn’t come back,’ Skinny confirmed, his mouth still full of chicken. ‘They said they’d meet up with us later today and discuss the plans.’ He dropped the stripped chicken bone into a plastic carrier bag that served as a makeshift bin, then wiped his greasy lips and fingers on a tea towel.
Aaron nodded. From somewhere at the back of his drink-addled memory, the events of the previous evening came rushing back to the fore. Not only had he been wasted but he’d snorted enough coke to make a sniffer dog piss itself with excitement.
‘Are you still up for it?’ Skinny asked. ‘I mean, it’s not too late to call everything off if… you know… that’s what you want,’ he hastily added.
Aaron switched off the stereo. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Skinny. ‘That bastard deserves everything he has coming to him; he left me high and dry, and you fucking know it. It was too much trouble for him to even visit me when I was inside; do you really think I’m gonna forgive or forget something like that in a hurry?’
Skinny gave a noncommittal shrug; Aaron’s hatred of his father Moray Garner was nothing new. Even before he’d been sent down for fourteen years, he’d resented his dad. ‘What about Colm?’ Skinny asked, referring to his friend’s younger brother. ‘He ain’t gonna be happy about this, man.’
For a moment, Aaron’s expression softened. Out of the two of them, his brother had always been a lot closer to their father and Skinny was right, Colm wouldn’t be happy. In fact, he’d be devastated. As far back as he could remember, his father Moray had preferred Colm over him. Oh, he’d never outwardly said as much, he hadn’t needed to, from day one his dad had made it glaringly obvious that he favoured his brother. In Moray’s eyes, Colm could do no wrong – even when they’d been caught dealing ecstasy tablets, his dad had deemed Colm blameless. And then, on his release from prison, his father had point blank refused to help him out in any way, shape or form. Yet Colm, the golden child, hadn’t been subjected to the same harsh treatment; he’d waltzed out of prison and straight into employment. Admittedly, it was only a shitty bar position at their father’s club, but at the end of the day, it was still a job. ‘He’ll get over it,’ Aaron snarled, ‘and if he doesn’t the
‘And what about Danny?’ Skinny asked, referring to Moray’s business partner Danny McKay. ‘He’s not gonna take this lying down, you know he ain’t, he’ll want revenge, he’s gonna hunt us down.’
Aaron gave a nasty chuckle. ‘Let him,’ he answered. ‘He’s an old man; what the fuck is he gonna do?’
Skinny gave a weary sigh. Danny McKay not only had a reputation as a hard man, but he also had a formidable temper on him, one of which Skinny didn’t exactly feel overjoyed at the prospect of being on the receiving end. Pausing to light a joint, Skinny squinted through the curling smoke. ‘I still don’t get this,’ he said, scratching at his head, his expression one of bewilderment. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’ve had a touch,’ he said, referring to the fact that Joey and Carlos had refused any kind of payment for supplying the firearm in return for Aaron murdering his father, ‘but what are they getting out of this? Why are they so keen to do this deal? They don’t even know your old man, do they?’
Aaron took a moment to think the question through and, snatching the joint from Skinny’s fingers, he took a deep toke. ‘Does it even matter?’ he asked, his voice thick with smoke.
Skinny shrugged. In a roundabout way, he could see Aaron’s point and, as his mate had already stated, as long as Moray Garner was brown bread, did it really matter what any of their motives were?
In a Greek restaurant in East Ham, Newham, Gerry Mann was holding court. He was seated at the best table in the restaurant. In front of him was a bottle of ouzo and the remnants of the meals he and his foot soldiers had recently finished devouring. In the background, ‘Zorba’s Dance’ was playing.
Rubbing his hand over his stomach, Gerry belched loudly. ‘That was the fucking bollocks,’ he remarked, his ferret-like features breaking into a smile. ‘You might not have much else going for you, but at least you inherited one thing from your old man,’ he said, by way of a backhanded compliment. ‘He could cook a mean kleftiko; the meat would just fall off the bone, it was that tender.’
As he began clearing away the empty plates, Giorgio Christos resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he gave a stilted smile and allowed Gerry to continue waffling on with the same old tales about his father Adam that he’d heard a million times before. In fact, he’d heard the stories so often he could pretty much recite them off by heart.
As it stood, the bill for Gerry and his associates’ meal came in at just over £150 and that was without the drinks that he knew for sure would soon follow. Not that he would see a penny of it – he never did. As he brought the plates through to the kitchen area, he caught his wife Rosita’s eyes. The look she gave him was enough to curdle milk, and who could blame her? Gerry’s presence was becoming a regular occurrence, one that he needed to nip in the bud and fast. The problem was how. How was he supposed to tell the man that he wasn’t welcome any more without bringing repercussions down on himself, his family and his business? Instead, he gave a helpless shrug and dumped the greasy plates into a stainless-steel butler sink filled with hot soapy water. ‘He’ll be gone soon enough,’ he said in an attempt to placate his wife.
Rosita rolled her eyes and, placing her hands on her hips, she nodded through to the restaurant. ‘You said that the last time he was here, and the time before that. We can’t afford to keep throwing money away.’
‘I know.’ Giorgio held up his hands. ‘And I’m going to sort it,’ he reassured her. He was about to plant a kiss on her cheek when the distinctive scent of cigar smoke assaulted his nostrils. Momentarily he closed his eyes. Time and time again, he’d told Gerry that it was illegal to smoke inside the premises. In fact, they had a perfectly good patio area directly outside the restaurant, should Gerry or anyone else for that matter wish to smoke.
‘Great.’ Rosita threw up her arms, despair etched across her pretty face. ‘And to top it off, we’re going to end up with a hefty fine hanging over our heads and all because you couldn’t put your foot down and tell him he isn’t wanted in here.’
‘I said that I’d sort it.’ Giorgio gave his wife a reassuring smile, then hurried back through to the restaurant. Making his way through a cloud of cigar smoke, he shook his head. ‘Sorry, Gerry.’ He pointed to the ‘No Smoking’ signs dotted around the restaurant, then towards the patio area. ‘You need to go outside to smoke.’
Although Gerry’s expression was contrite, his hard, beady little eyes told a very different story and with the smouldering cigar still clamped between his nicotine-stained teeth, he held up his hands by way of an apology then deliberately made a show of puffing on the cigar for several seconds longer than was necessary before grinding the brown stub out on a side plate.
Giorgio sighed and, with a surreptitious glance at his watch, he wished that his cousin Carlos would hurry up and show his face, conclude his business with Gerry and then let him get on with running his restaurant in relative peace.
Moments later, the restaurant door opened, and two hulking figures entered.
‘Well,’ Gerry asked his son, ‘how did it go?’
Joey gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘The stupid little fuckers fell for it hook, line, and fucking sinker.’ Taking a seat at the table, he helped himself to a glass of ouzo. Swallowing down a large mouthful of the clear aniseed-flavoured liquid, he grimaced. ‘Oi.’ He clicked his fingers in Giorgio’s direction. ‘I can’t drink this shite; get me a proper drink, a beer or a lager, and make sure it’s none of that watered-down shit either.’
‘And they didn’t suspect anything?’ Gerry interrupted, stabbing a stiff finger in his son’s direction.
‘Nah, Dad.’ Joey chuckled. ‘Like I said, they’re as thick as shit. They don’t own a brain cell between them.’ He leant across the table. ‘Trust me, this is going to be easier than we first thought. Garner hates his old man even more than the two of you do and we all know how much you and Carlos’ – he threw his mate a wink – ‘despise the murdering cunts.’
Gerry gave a thoughtful nod. Moray Garner and his business partner Danny McKay had been a thorn in his side for more years than he cared to remember. Just the mere mention of the smug bastards’ names was enough to make his heart quicken and his blood pressure skyrocket. In fact, there wasn’t a word known to man that was strong enough to describe the burning hatred he felt for the two men.
Garner and McKay were a law unto themselves and not only had they committed their fair share of brutal murders in their quest to rule the East End of London, but they had also murdered one of his closest friends, something he couldn’t and wouldn’t ever forgive. Oh, they pretended to have turned over a new leaf, pretended to have gone straight, but it was all bullshit, all lies, and given half the chance, they wouldn’t think twice about throwing their weight around or raining down terror on those around them. It was who they were, it was ingrained in them, it was why they had to die.
‘They’ll get what’s coming to them,’ he reaffirmed, ‘and believe me when I say this, the no-good bastards have had their day. There’s only one top dog in this town and that’s me,’ he spat, jerking his thumb towards his chest.
Carlos nodded in agreement, his eyes instantly becoming hard. Unlike his uncles, he’d never fully believed that Freddie Smith, a known face in the criminal underworld, nor his associate Lee Hart, had been solely responsible for the murders of both Giorgio’s father and their younger cousin Nico – poor, sweet, innocent Nico, who wouldn’t have said boo to a goose. Even as the family had meted out their own form of retribution upon Smith and Hart, Carlos had been unable to rid himself of the niggling doubt at the back of his mind.
It had been the fact that Garner and McKay had been so eager to do a deal with Carlos's uncles that made him question if they had the right men. After all, they had worked for Freddie Smith, so what exactly did they have to gain by pointing fingers, and more to the point, what were they trying to hide?
