The Hunted: A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked

By the time the boys reached adulthood, they were notorious. Living the straight road, paying taxes, and working for a boss just didn’t appeal, not when they saw how their parents could earn a banker’s annual salary from a single overnight job. So it stood to reason that they would all follow in their fathers’ footsteps – and what better teachers than parents? Like being an apprentice, they learned the art of safecracking, ballistics, reading architectural drawings, and negotiating. As for understanding the tools of the trade for crafting their work, they were masters at extracting information and handing out punishment.

It was a rule that they had each other’s backs, come what may, like their fathers before them. They wouldn’t trust anyone outside the firm, especially once they were taking on bigger moneymaking crimes, like the import and export of firearms. Inexplicably, however, their activities had somehow come to the attention of the authorities.

‘I think I’m right in assuming you’ve found the grass then, Eric?’

Eric gave his brother a cocky smirk and a nod. ‘Oh, Mikey, my dear bruvver, I’ve found a lot more than that.’

Mike was intrigued. ‘Oh yeah, and what’s that then, Eric?’

‘Well, ya see, we were under the assumption that there was a little spy in the camp, an informant for the Ol’ Bill. But we were wrong, Mikey. See, Travis ’ere, ain’t working for the Filth …’ He kicked Travis’s chair. ‘Are ya, Travis?’

Mike inclined his head and stepped closer. ‘Oh, is that so?’

The others were holding their breath, waiting to see if on this occasion Mike would lose the plot and rip Travis limb from limb. But they should really have known that was unlikely, given his track record. Mike was a strategic thinker, rarely losing his cool. He had twin gifts. Whilst there were not many men who could take Mike on one-on-one, he also had an innate craftiness about him. It had eased them out of trouble on many occasions, enhancing their firm’s credibility.

Even his father and so-called uncles saw him as a force to be reckoned with. He’d always been the same. As a ten-year-old, he seemed to have more balls than the others and was lethal with his fists or any weapon at hand.

Nevertheless, their new venture took them into the realm of possible breaches of national security – it was Mike and his firm’s biggest challenge to date – and their major concern was MI5 becoming nosy.

Their latest worrying matter was one of their more secure lock-ups in London getting turned over by the police. The cars were ready to be stripped and refitted, with all the gun parts carefully concealed in every orifice inside the car panels, before they were shipped to Ireland. But, two days ago, the police had surrounded the lock-up and turned the place over.

So there had to be a snitch. Luckily for Mike, though, his own inside man, DI Evans, had tipped them off. Mike was livid because that little tip-off had cost him more than the poxy guns were worth. Nevertheless, it had saved him from serving a big lump inside. But there was still a problem. There was a grass. And it wouldn’t be the Irish buyers because they had no idea where the lock-ups were. And in any case, why would they want to sell the Regan firm down the river? It was a complete head-scratcher.

‘So, who are ya working for, then, if it ain’t the Filth?’ asked Mike, in a menacing tone that would put the wind up any grown man.

Travis knew he was small fry in comparison to the men surrounding him. Right now, he was shitting himself. He knew it was over: there was no mercy showing on Mike’s face. Those icy, emotionless grey eyes made his bowels move of their own accord.

It was true. Mike did have a look that was like death calling, a deadpan steely expression that unnerved many a man.

Staffie, the shortest of the five men, at five foot seven, with no neck, and a goofy, childlike grin, stepped forward holding a torque wrench. ‘’Ere, Mikey, ya don’t wanna get ya hands all messy, now do ya, mate?’

Mike put his hand up. ‘Hang on a minute. Before I smash the granny out of this geezer, I wanna know all the facts.’

Staffie nodded, chuckled, and then placed the wrench back on the tool rack.

‘Take that gag outta his mouth. I think he wants to talk.’

Travis’s eyes glistened as he nervously clocked the blowtorch that was resting on the long wooden bench. Terrifying thoughts pierced his mind. Jesus! A childhood memory of catching his arm over the steaming kettle reminded him of the pain, but he knew that would be nothing in comparison to a naked flame. He swooned and felt the warm liquid run down his leg. Totally consumed by fear, his muscles became flaccid and his bowels relaxed. He wasn’t cut out for this work and stupidly he hadn’t looked beyond the actuality of getting caught. However, now he was facing the consequences head-on.

Willie Ritz, the big meathead with the scar that ran from his forehead down to his chin, cut the gag from Travis using his diver’s knife, his favourite tool. None of the firm ever understood why it was still his weapon of choice, even after an older gang of thugs had taken it from him in a street brawl and run that evil-looking jagged blade down his face. But Willie still turned that knife around in his hand and even kissed the blade. As tall as Mike, but with less meat on his bones, Willie liked to snort cocaine, especially if any violence was to be had. It raised his level of anger and sent him screwy and a little unpredictable. Whenever Willie’s eyes were like saucers, and glared a piercing blue colour, Mike knew his friend had gone over the top, and so he would remove the supply that Willie kept in a pouch shoved down the front of his trousers. Only Mike could get away with it – no one else would dare.

With trepidation, Travis took a few deep breaths and stared wide-eyed, waiting for the inevitable.

‘I think you’d better tell me what you’ve been up to, and, more importantly, who the fuck for.’ Mike didn’t shout or even raise his voice.

Travis looked at Eric and then back at Mike. ‘No, listen, please, ya got me all wrong. I, er … I was just taking pictures for meself, no one else, I swear.’ He knew it sounded stupid. Really, he had no excuse.

Mike looked at his brother. ‘Well, Eric, this prick ain’t playing ball, so you’d best tell me what happened.’

‘Gladly. We all thought that the Ol’ Bill were tipped off, yeah, and I dunno, I just had this sneaky suspicion that it was this little weasel, and so I followed the rat to his house. But, see, Mikey, Travis, ’ere, ain’t too clever. He left his phone right there on the dashboard of his car with the doors unlocked. So, I thought I’d just have a little butcher’s, ya know, to see if the little fucker had any numbers that I would recognize. Well, fuck me, lo and behold, on the screen was a photo of the London lock-up, and so, after ’aving a mooch through the other pics, I found what I can only describe as incriminating evidence. So, I ran in through his back door and there he was in the kitchen, taking his boots off. The shit-licker only had one of our guns tucked inside his fucking Timberlands.’

Mike looked back at Travis, who, in turn, looked as though he was going to pass out. ‘So, how do you know he ain’t working for the Filth, Eric? ’Cos I’m guessing you ain’t completely sure on that score.’

Eric smiled confidently. ‘I ripped the shirt off his back and he wasn’t wired. I tied him up, and the boys and me ransacked his pad. There was no sign of the Ol’ Bill being involved. So, we shoved him into the boot and brought him back here.’

Mike shook his head. ‘Eric, Eric, you have a lot to learn. I dunno, I still think he’s an informant, but I’ll let Travis tell me the facts.’ He turned back to Travis with a sneer. ‘You will, won’t ya, Travis? You’ll be only too pleased to tell me bruvver ’ere exactly who you are working for, eh?’

Willie sniggered. He knew exactly how Mike worked and braced himself for claret flowing everywhere when Mike set to work on their captive.

Travis watched through eyes of terror, as Mike removed his own shoes, his shirt, and then his trousers. ‘Hold me clobber, Eric. I’ve just had them dry-cleaned, and, well, I don’t want them stained, do I?’

Like a boxer ready for the ring, Mike stood in just his underwear. His legs were as thick as tree trunks and his chest was as wide as a standard doorframe.

‘Staffie, hand me a screwdriver. It’s only fitting, since this prick wants to screw me to the fucking wall.’

Travis let out a high-pitched scream like a girl. Then he began to wriggle and writhe about as if he’d been electrocuted. Mike looked at the others and laughed. ‘Fuck me, I ain’t even touched the knobhead.’

‘No, no, all right, I’ll tell ya. Please don’t hurt me, pleeaasse,’ he begged. The tears were streaming down his face and snot was bubbling from his nose.

‘Getting covered in claret, it’s pretty disgusting, don’t ya think?’

Travis nodded furiously. ‘Please, Mike. I’ll tell ya everything ya want to know. Just don’t torture me.’

‘Torture? Who said anything about torture? No, Travis, it’s called negotiation. Or do I mean interrogation? Well, let’s hear it, then. Who’s paying you?’ He tilted his head to the side and gave a sarcastic grin.

Gulping back the fear, Travis thought about the firm he was just about to grass up. Either way, he was a dead man. If only he hadn’t dated the sister. But how could he not? She was such a good fuck he couldn’t get inside her knickers quickly enough. And then he’d had to prove himself worthy of her affections. Really, though, it was her brothers he needed to impress. He was sucked in; before he knew it, they had him planted in among the Regans’ firm. He wasn’t cut out for all this hard-core bollocks.

He stared at Mike’s lifeless eyes, took another gulp of air, and said, ‘Harry Harman.’ Then he lowered his head and waited for the backlash.

Mike looked at each man with a deep furrowed frown, searching for some explanation. They either shrugged or curled down their lips. No one had a clue who this Harry Harman was.

‘Mikey, do you want the screwdriver or the mallet? What’s ya flavour?’ asked Staffie, now eager to see the carnage.

With his eyes blinking away the sweat, Travis peered up and winced. ‘Look, Mike, I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you everything. Just … please, don’t use a tool.’

In an instant, Mike snatched the screwdriver from Staffie and plunged it into Travis’s left kneecap. No one saw it coming, not even Travis. The pain was slow at first, until it reached every nerve in his leg and forced a demonic scream to leave his mouth. Lathered in sweat and writhing, he couldn’t clutch his wound because his hands were tied to the chair. Mike waited for the blood-curdling cries to die down before he handed back the bloodied screwdriver.

‘Mike, please, please don’t torture me. I’ll tell you everything, I swear …’ His cries tailed off, as his head flopped down from the unbearable pain.

‘And, Travis, me old son, I am a man of my word. Ya see, that weren’t torture, that was a dig. Now then, when you get yaself composed and stop the blubbering, I’m ready to listen.’

Eric started to laugh but was instantly silenced. ‘Shut it, Eric. This is no laughing matter, and you, ya silly git, took this rat on the payroll.’ He shot his brother a deadly glare and bit his lip.

Eric was on the point of defending his actions. Being chastised in front of the men was a piss-take. Furthermore, he wanted to be seen as an equal in command. Ideally, he would have loved to have been the main man, but Mike took that position. He always had – at school, at work, and at home. But it was worse when it came to women. Eric’s mind wandered, as it often did, to the one woman he’d wanted more than anyone – except Mike had got in there first. He was furious that when he’d expressed an interest in the woman, his brother had then dated her himself. Mike insisted he had already been seeing her, but Eric never believed that for a minute. However, he had the last laugh when she left the country, and Mike ended up with Jackie the tramp instead of his one true love.

‘So, Travis, from the beginning, what the fuck are the Harmans doing nosing around my business?’

Travis tried desperately to put up with the pain and concentrate before Mike stabbed his other knee. The Harmans had sworn they had his back. Come what may, he wouldn’t get hurt and when the business came their way, he would have a hefty cut of it. All he had to do was to find out where the lock-ups were, who their supplier was, and to record the evidence. The rest was up to them. Now, he wished he’d never agreed to any of it. It was no secret as to who he was doing over or how hard these men were.

The history of the Regans went back decades. The old man, Arthur, ran the firm with an iron fist. With his crew, they controlled the streets in Bermondsey.

Mike and Eric were Arthur’s pride and joy. He brought them up to be a pair of chips off the old block, and they were – to the extent that they were even more fierce and reckless. Learning everything they knew from their father and his contemporaries, so they wouldn’t have to learn their criminal trade within the walls of Wormwood Scrubs, it was almost an early baptism, except it began when they were aged thirteen and twelve respectively.

Travis often drank in the local haunts frequented by Eric and Mike. For years, he was just there mooching in the background, dealing a bit of cocaine and weed or selling knocked-off merchandise. It was Eric who had taken him on board, totally unaware that he was colluding with the Harmans. Yet, Eric wasn’t as sharp as Mike, and had royally fucked up this time, by not doing his homework on Travis.

‘So, tell me then, Travis, because I ain’t got all night, see. Are you gonna be the problem or the solution? It’s your choice.’

‘Harry Harman wanted me to take pictures of your lock-ups and stuff.’

Mike’s blank expression spoke volumes. Travis had to put more meat on the bones to satisfy Mike’s hunger for information.

‘I was seeing their kid sister, Paris. I swear, I didn’t want to get involved, but they … Oh my God, they’re gonna fucking kill me …’

‘No, they ain’t, Travis, because—’

No sooner had Eric opened his mouth than Mike spat, ‘Shut it! Eric, I do the talking, if ya don’t mind.’

Eric took a step back and bowed his head to hide his clenched teeth. It was outrageous. Mike was really getting in his face now.

‘Sorry about that, Travis. You were saying?’

‘I didn’t want to work for them, but they saw it as payback for seeing Paris. They said I owed them for taking liberties, and the only way to pay them back was to take poxy photos … That’s all I know, I swear.’

Mike held his hand up for Travis to stop talking. He paced the floor and then spun around. ‘Staffie, give me that screwdriver.’

In a sudden panic, Travis screamed, ‘Please! No! They know all your lock-ups and how you’re transporting the guns.’ His breathing was fast, and he was tripping over his words. They left his mouth like a pisshead on the run with his pants down.

Mike twirled the screwdriver around with his huge fingers. ‘You missed out the part about our supplier, Travis.’

Travis shook his head. ‘No, they don’t know, Mike. I swear, because I don’t even know.’ His round puppy-dog eyes looked over at Eric, urging him to say something.

‘Is that right, Eric?’ demanded Mike.

Eric snapped out of his sulk and mulled over the past events, trying to work out if there was any way that Travis would have known. He thought he’d been careful. But, had he been careful enough, though, by Mike’s exacting standards?

‘Yes, Mike. That’s right.’

Mike wasn’t a man to take unnecessary risks. ‘What I wanna know is this: what the fuck are they intending to do with that information, Travis? Oh, and don’t leave anything out. I want to know every last detail or … Well, let’s just say I can replace those fucking guns with your body parts.’

Travis eagerly nodded. ‘Oh, please. Come on, Mike. I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell me, would they?’

Mike held his hands up. ‘Tell me this, then. Did the Harmans grass my lock-ups to the Filth?’

Travis nodded. ‘Yes. They want you outta the picture, by any means, even if it means grassing. I swear, if I knew then what I know now, I would never have got involved.’

‘Get the man a drink, Eric. It’s gonna be a long night. Travis, I want everything you have on these Harmans.’

Chapter 2

Jackie was nursing a bruised cheek and drowning her sorrows with another large glass of vodka, disguised with orange juice.

Cooking up another storm, she eagerly waited for Mike to get up from his bed and get on his hands and knees to apologize and offer to send her off on a shopping spree with a fat wad of banknotes. Besides, as she saw it, he owed her big time. Little did she know that Mike wasn’t even in the house.

Fifteen minutes later, as she was about to pour another drink, he appeared in the kitchen, looking washed out.

‘Oh, been on a bender, ’ave ya? Well, you best ’ave a fucking big bunch of flowers ’cos this shiner is not going away anytime soon. And if you think I’m gonna say I walked into a wall, you’re very much mistaken!’

Mike was exhausted, his mind now riddled with worry. Getting an earbashing from Jackie was the last thing he needed.

‘Jackie, just shut it!’

She jumped down from the kitchen bar-stool and stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Shut it? Fucking shut it? Have you looked at my face? Well, ’ave ya?’ she screamed like a woman possessed.

Mike lowered his head. At that precise moment, he wished it was Jackie sitting on the chair with a screwdriver through her eye.

‘Don’t you dare walk away from me!’ she screamed, chasing him across the marble floor. ‘You ain’t getting away with it. I swear, Mike, you’re gonna pay.’

In a fit of rage, Mike spun around, grabbed his wife around the throat and squeezed, watching her eyes widen in fear. She struggled to remove his grip and could feel her throat closing up. Unable to breathe, she really believed she was going to die. Then he let go and she collapsed on the floor, retching and gasping.

‘One more word from your vile mouth and I’ll fucking annihilate you. Now, I’m going to my bed and you’re going to leave me in bloody peace, ’cos, Jackie, I’ve had enough of ya.’ His face was red and angry, and saliva had formed at the corners of his mouth.

She knew she’d lost this fight. As he walked away, she grabbed the bottle of vodka with shaky hands and poured it down her throat. Then she slammed the bottle down hard on the worktop. ‘Cunt!’ she said to herself.

Yet, deep down, she knew he wasn’t that bad – well, not to her and their son. There was many a woman who would give their right arm to be married to Mike Regan, living in a fuck-off mansion, with diamonds in the drawer and furs in the wardrobe. However, all she wanted – ever wanted – was his attention. She craved it. Life should be about her. She felt she’d earned it, coming from nothing.

So motherhood was a complete fuck-up. She missed the nights out in the clubs, being treated like royalty just because she was Mike’s bird. She only stopped taking the pill because she thought he was getting a wandering eye. Really, she didn’t want kids, end of. Pregnancy would ruin her very sexy body. Yet as soon as her son was born, she saw the end of the flash socializing and all the attention that had been focused on her.

Mike had taken a new stance on life. At last, he was settling down. The trips to their villa in Spain were spent building sandcastles and going out on their boat; he was totally absorbed in their son. The neglect, as she saw it, turned to resentment, and so she began to despise the boy. He looked at her with either sorrow or hatred, but either expression grated on her. Those sweet words that Mike had said to her before the birth were now reserved for their son, and the truth be known, she was jealous and did everything to draw her husband’s interest back to her.

It started with the boob job because she caught him looking at a woman with bigger tits than hers. Then she turned her attention to her lips because she assumed he liked that sort of thing. However, all the trips to the beauty salon for Botox and fillers made not one iota of difference: he only had eyes for his boy. When the parties at their home became tame, she tried to liven them up by making cocktails and encouraging the men to drink. But when she downed a few herself, that just infuriated Mike, and so he put a stop to those too.

So now she saw herself drowning in a humdrum way of life. And her wild behaviour became a major source of friction between Mike and herself. His sharp digs irritated her. ‘How fucking old are ya?’ he would say, or ‘Grow the fuck up and be a mother. You ain’t on Jeremy fucking Kyle.’

If only he knew how much she wanted out of this prison called adulthood. It was purgatory for a young hot-blooded woman like her, who craved sex and a heady lifestyle. For Christ’s sake, she was only fucking twenty-six.

Just as she was about to reach for another hidden bottle of vodka, the doorbell rang. Without looking through the spyhole, she opened the door. It was Tracey, Eric’s girlfriend.

‘Cor, Jackie, the state of ya face. What’s ’appened?’ asked Tracey, following Jackie into the kitchen. Plonking her new Gucci bag on the floor, Tracey clambered up onto the bar-stool, preparing herself for the gossip.

‘That bastard up there, clumped me one last night.’ She tried to force a tear; at least she could expect some sympathy from her sister-in-law-to-be.

Tracey looked as made-up and fake as Jackie. Perhaps more so. She’d also undergone the boob job, hair extensions, and lip fillers. And yet, unlike Mike, Eric preferred his birds tanned and toned. She flicked her long bleached mane over her shoulder, placed her hands on the granite worktop, showing off her fake fingernails, and gazed down with pride at the tiny crystals she’d recently had glued on. ‘So, what’s ’appened then, Jack?’

Jackie poured them both a drink and sniffed back the fake tear. ‘I dunno, Trace. He ain’t the same. I reckon he’s got another bird. Ya know what it’s like. Fucking give ’em a kid and then they ’ave ya tied down and go off looking for a fresh bit of skirt.’

Tracey sipped the bitter vodka and poured more orange juice to dilute the rough taste. ‘Oh, I dunno, Jackie. Mike ain’t like that. He’s probably got a lot on his mind.’

Jackie gave her an evil glare. ‘And how the fuck would you know, Tracey?’

She was annoyed that her so-called friend was now sticking up for the enemy, as she saw him.

‘Oh, come on, Jackie. We all know what his line of work is! Perhaps he’s having a bit of bother.’

With a screwed-up face, Jackie spat back, ‘Who cares about his business! Look at me bleedin’ face. I didn’t do that meself, did I?’

Tracey raised her eyebrow as if to say ‘Who knows?’

‘What? D’ya think I’m lying, then?’

‘Wind ya neck in, Jack. We all know you like a drink. I’ve seen you so outta ya nut, you’ve fallen all over the show.’

Jackie shot her jaw forward in anger. ‘Don’t come it, Tracey. I know your game. Ya come in ’ere all done up, with ya tits hanging out and half ya arse showing. Hoping I wasn’t in, were ya?’

Tracey slammed the glass down, nearly shattering it. ‘Now, you listen, Jackie. I didn’t come ’ere to bloody row, and I don’t like what you’re saying. But I’ll not be surprised if he does go elsewhere. I mean, look at the state of ya. And, Jackie, you’re hardly Mother Teresa. He ain’t blind, love.’

Those words were like a red rag to a bull. Jackie launched herself off the bar-stool, and on her way to taking Tracey down, she managed to snatch a clump of her hair, pulling her heavily to the floor. Tracey yelped like an injured dog. She had hit her knee hard and was in absolute agony. Her friend’s shrieks of pain brought Jackie back to reality. But before she had a chance to say she was sorry, Tracey pushed her away. Grabbing her bag and hobbling towards the door in her noisy stiletto shoes, she shot Jackie an evil glare.