Escaping This World: Escaping This World, #1

By Mark Ashmore

Instead of going home directly after a tough week at work, Giles Greenwood and his brother Michael arrive at their favourite pub with their friends Phillip and Francis. Unbeknownst to them, two crime gangs planned to meet at that location to conclude an illicit transaction involving international terrorism plans. Phillip is fatally shot during a brawl that accidentally consumes all the gathered groups. The two criminal gangs quickly disperse, leaving Giles wrongfully implicated in Phillip's murder.

The three agree they must pursue the man who killed Phillip and bring him to justice to absolve Giles. Many elements of their pursuit are unforeseen. They use clandestine crime routes to head out to sea, where dangers quickly surround them. There is much at stake for Giles. He is torn to protect his fragile brother Michael, exonerate himself, and find the elusive happiness he yearns for. However, the quest seems to have a life of its own. The threesome feels they are not in control, and events sweep them further away into an uncertain world.

The companions now learn the world's hard truths and must rely upon each other only. They steer towards Brazil, deeper into a perilous criminal underworld of dark conspiracy which they are unprepared for. A broader international conflagration is about to begin due to their pursuit. A shadowy Illuminati-like organisation is revealed at the centre of all matters as Giles, Michael, and Francis have unknowingly become active players in a more expansive and dangerous struggle by the world's dark forces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Ashmore
• Release date: Aug 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393288763

Book preview

Escaping This World

Departing The Shores of Their Fathers

© Mark Ashmore

Departing The Shores of Their Fathers

BOOK ONE OF

Escaping This World

Mark Ashmore

Escaping This World: Departing the Shores of their Fathers

First Published in Great Britain 2018

Copyright © Mark Ashmore 2018

Mark Ashmore asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events are entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

Contents

Limehouse 6

A Fallen Star 23

Getting Through 33

To The Pub After a Long Hard Day 42

Shadows in The Night 61

Just Another Day 78

Subterranean Council 96

The Beginning of a Very Long Day 107

A Brewing Malice 115

Darkening Skies 120

The Mountain & The Master 127

Fates Collide & the Clouds Burst 133

What To Do? 152

The Hammer & The Anvil 169

Plymouth 176

Meta Incognita: Departing the Shores of their Fathers 196

A Path in the Dark 214

Vasily 235

Many Interests 247

A Battle in the Tempest 275

Cold and Adrift 299

They’re Back! 319

Stars, Blue Skies & Foul Fish 326

Only Forward 356

Limehouse

THE FOREIGN MAN PEERED around the corner of the wall. His tense fingers gripped and strained the old wet brick of a building tightly as he nervously surveyed the dark and gloomy alleyway ahead of him. The area was utterly alien to him. Nothing looked familiar. There was nothing remarkable or distinctive in sight to guide him. Up above, somewhere, hidden from view by the thick storm clouds, passed a roaring plane. He couldn’t see it, but at that moment, he quietly lamented that he wasn’t on that very craft heading far and fast from London. His dark blue suit was wet right through to the skin and torn at the knees from earlier falls and frantic crawling along the dirty pavement out of necessity. He was smartly dressed as though recently dining in comfortable surrounds with attire that was affordable to only a small few. Upon first sight of him, one would have deduced easily from his looks that he was an individual whose life consisted of having successfully avoided all manual toil and labour. This combined tapestry of woven elements created a portrait that illustrated an acute peculiarity of him being present, not only in weather such as this but also in an area such as this: he was far from the elite areas of urban life where such persons often congregated. The Eastern River Thames, among the warehouses and long-abandoned docks of East London, rarely saw his like, especially in the gloomiest recesses of the night.

Noises echoed from all around him like the faint and distant drumming from innumerate varieties of urban movements. Were they feet, as he feared, or simply the result of the deluge of rain that poured from the ominously thick black clouds above? For the moment, at least, there seemed to be no fabricated sounds emanating from behind. Turning his back towards the alley, he realised that ‘they’ were no longer entirely behind him but before him.  He peered with squinted eyes once more around the corner into the thick wet fog of the London evening. Orange lights glowed like floating orbs above the alleyway as the rhythmic drip of rain could be heard in each direction. The only sound that eclipsed the perpetual rain was the thundering beat of his panic-stricken heart-seemingly ready to burst free from his chest. He was being hunted. Like a cornered fox, his senses turned acute and tense, much like a coil waiting to release its pent-up energy. In all directions, the sharp icy finger of death extended itself grimly and now pointed directly towards him. The stranger’s time was running out as he anguished over the choices now before him.

The alleyway, from a neutral pedestrian in a different time and scenario, would seem altogether unremarkable. During the evening hours, the same passer-by would elect (even at the risk of drastically elongating their journey) to bypass venturing through such a route, thereby hedging against any unforeseen risk, and avoiding any needless danger of waylaying or alternative dubious encounters within the alley. For the foreign man, the route was now amplified into a perilous necessity. To return backwards would be running straight into the direction of the police, who by now, after the opening exchange of gunfire at the restaurant he fled from, surely must have been alerted and thus imminently en route.  Yes! He listened. Sirens, not far, but still not near. Each direction seemed as confusing as the other as the strange and desperate man was from afar and distant land. His luck (if any at all) held only in the fact that his pursuers also were alien to London and perhaps maybe equally unfamiliar with the lay of the streets and alleys in that vicinity of East London and the River Thames.  The river was his only chance. But he knew not how to get there. Even in the illuminating light of a fresh day, the twisting and bewildering streets would provide a challenge to clear navigation; but even through the foggy, wet soaked evening, he knew the sole chance of surviving the night lay in achieving flight there. If he could make it, he could stow away in a vessel or barge, snake along the shore of the river or, if it came to it, chance the perilous swim to traverse the river to the opposite shore.  

‘Better to drown...’ he thought to himself ‘, ... then suffer from them.’

He had made up his mind expeditiously. Around him, the world seemed to swirl in a dizzying and spinning impenetrable shroud of fear and terror that closed ever tighter around him. He knew this was the last push towards the end as panic and terror descended over him, isolating him from everything else. Crouching low on one knee, still hidden partially by the damp brick corner of the wall, the stranger grappled with his fear and began, one foot in front of the other, to slowly sleek along with the building towards the downward sloping direction of the alley which he hoped lead ultimately towards the river. Pressing his back flat against the wall, he moved, slowing down towards the direction of the still unseen river. Before him, there were many obstacles, such as large bins and stacks of now soaked discarded cardboard boxes just outside the many sealed metal doors.  The doors to the rear of the buildings were made of solid steel and held no observable means to open from the outside of the buildings. They all seem contrived to be opened from within. Of windows, there were few and too far above the ground to attempt ascending upwards to access. It seemed a purposeful design that the only windows to the backs of the buildings were as far from the ground as possible, dissuading any future attempts by robbers to invade the buildings through them.  The walls of brick were all flush with no noticeable ledge, railing, or pipeline to possibly use, so scaling to the rooftops was equally impossible without a ladder or dangling rope or wire. These buildings, in days past, would have been storehouses for the port of London as in each direction, there can be seen echoes of a long nautical past.  The only choice was now a stealthy slow descent, meandering through the bins and whatever concealing shadows were available. Gazing again above himself, the man realised that the orange alley lights were now a device to his detriment. They would illuminate him to anyone spying in the alleyway. He bit his bottom lip and scurried behind a large rubbish bin where the shadows were dense and black.

There, he scanned back from the direction he had come. Still, no noise or movement could be detected. Looking ahead into the alley, he could now discern that roughly 100 meters ahead, there was what seemed to be an intersection from another alleyway. He was not sure if this was good fortune or not. Nevertheless, that was his direction. On all fours, he proceeded forward now as quietly as possible towards an electrical box that was set within the ground. Cosying up to it, he could hear the buzzing of mechanisms and electricity. The feel of the metal was comforting as heat emanated into his frozen and wet hands. He stopped for a moment, closing his eyes to enjoy the simple pleasure. In all his days past, he had never thought to enjoy the heat of the native climates he visited—never thought to perceive them as something sacred. For a fleeting moment, in a dark alleyway, he found it a gift and comfort. Images came to his head of the hot days he enjoyed for so long in the lands of his fathers.  The memories, never truly appreciated until now, made him weep as he would pay any price to be there now.

He recovered himself and gazed through the falling rain ahead. The whimpering hot tears rolling on his cheeks now mingled with the rain falling on him. He had to decide quickly whether to risk the crossing of the two alleys.  Looking back once more, he knew that forward still was his only choice if he could only make the crossing undetected! He could now see that the alleyway further straight ahead was darker and wider than the stretch he was now in. Perhaps the darkness was an opening up to the riverfront? Was he closer than he thought? The tantalising allure and the prospect of escape were too great, and he now desperately crawled ever quieter towards the crossing.

The Cross way was illuminated by a single orange street light that hung centrally over the exact middle of the crossing by a single wire. The lamp swung dramatically back and forth from the force of both the rain and the winds that flowed through each direction, reaching a confluence where the intersection lay. The effect was as if an orange sheet was draped violently over the area, withdrawn, and then once more covered the area in several blinks of the eye. The crossing was wide enough that, from any of the four directions, any movement would be illuminated by an eye that was transfixed on monitoring that particular area. The stranger could only see a few metres beyond his straight line; however, both left and right were complete unknowns and completely obstructed by the corners of the buildings. His pursuers could be either in front, to the left or right. He paused once more to listen for any indication from either three direction. Nothing but the sustained pitter-patter of raindrops could be heard.

The drenched man crept closer to the crossing and crouched behind a stack of cardboard boxes that pungently smelled of deep old mould. This point now was the farthest he dared proceed as his last refuge of shadows ended as the light of the lamp revealed all just before him.  He remained motionless, alert and still as old stone as his ears probed each direction for sounds that could betray the whereabouts of anyone lurking in the shadows. He tilted his head left and right towards each of the horizontal directions that were hidden from his sight, desperately probing for any sounds. Still nothing. The thick, disquieting tension carpeted the area of alleys. He could feel they were close. It was an ancient game they were now playing. Hunters and the hunted. Whose nerves would hold? Inwardly, there ignited his long-dormant and innate primitive senses for survival. Life or peril!

The man now pushed out a deep breath as he prepared for his inevitable dash through the light, straight down through the middle course of the intersection. If timed correctly, he discerned that he could partially hide in the intermittent darkness as a result of the violent swing of the orange lamp above. His timing must be perfect for taking advantage of what cover there may be. If sighted from the left or right alleyways, there would be pursuit immediately on his heels from any concealed persons monitoring that section of the alley. He knew this.  He would make at all speed towards the river and, from then, hope for the best for cover or any avenue of escape that may be afforded to him. He repeated under his breath once more.

‘I’ll swim in the river if I have to.’

Once more, he peered behind him to check for any threat from that direction. Nothing still. Blackness and the barely perceptible ripples of rain hitting the various puddles were all that could be seen. He didn’t like the silence. It betrayed him overtly. Even mock him. Another deep intake of breath, and the man positioned himself on the very edge of the shadow on the lit side of the stack of cardboard in which he was hiding behind. His stance resembled that of an Olympian just preparing himself for the 100-metre dash, being crouched on one knee and his hands in front of him on the wet pavement balancing his position. He stared upwards towards the dangling lamp, gauging its rhythm and tempo of swing. He meant to instantly spring on the movement of the outward motion of the lamp to the right as it blazed away from the left-hand side of the intersection where he would dash across in the lesser light.

He bowed his head and prepared for the impending excursion when, off to his left, a ringing sound started him straight upwards. The broken silence of the alley was pierced by the echo of what sounded like a glass bottle falling over or kicked, perhaps? He paused in still silence and listened rigidly towards the left entrance of the intersection. An animal, cat, dog, or urban fox may have knocked it over; however, in that case, there were no subsequent audible footsteps from any of the directions toward the origins of the sound.  The man quickly reasoned that the noise must have been made by some of his pursuers. It had to be them! They were too good! They knew, as he did now, that it was a calamitous mistake. They were silent now. Still and frozen. Listening. How many there were, he could not tell. Earlier, he witnessed three, perhaps four, charge into the restaurant with their guns blazing. They were close now, and his previous caution regarding the crossing was well warranted. It was being watched!

The man tiptoed, feline-like, back deeper into the shroud of the shadows and crouched down once more. Looking around, he could see for himself the odd bottle that had littered the alleyway as well. He did not realise the hidden dangers strewn all around him. The man deemed himself rather fortunate to not have fallen into the same mistake himself. He must have passed by so many, luckily without disturbing them and betraying his relative position to his enemy. He was more careful now. Perhaps equally like those in the adjacent alley were now conscious of navigating around them.  The bottles were of a green hue, and the time spent in the rain had withered their labels off, thereby making them even less apparent to an eye that wasn’t paying too great amount of attention to the ground. Drunkards and idlers frequented the alleyways in that area as he perceived with his eye more of the bottles across the ground. He could now discern many laying near the walls, or half-covered among the deeper puddles, following back up from whence he came.

He quickly assessed the situation and realised that hope was dwindling. His enemy had almost surrounded him; he could feel their net tighten around him. And yet still, he concluded that the only hope rested in the making for the river; straight ahead. He now frantically looked around to see if there were any other avenues of escape that he may have neglected to discover in his descent towards the alley crossroad. There was still no chance of ascending to the rooftops; however, something did catch his attention. The building next to him, he noticed was lower than those around. It still was not scalable, but he noticed that the roof seemed to be under repair. There was a membrane that curved over the edge and hung down towards the ground.  Unlike the neighbouring rooftops, this roof had no barrier to anything falling off of its top towards the ground, at least on his side. He could not see the opposite side of the building as that opened on the alley to the left where the previous sounds came from.

Instantaneously he recalled the broken bottle sound, which, through a rough and estimated memory of distance, seemed nearer than the lower-level building he was now surveying. If, if the opposite edge of the roof was equally under repair, then the edge may also have an unobstructed overhanging membrane. He quickly realised an action which may provide a distraction for his attempt to cross the intersection undetected.  He knelt close to a nearby puddle and picked up one of the empty beer bottles that lay in the alley. He disapproved of the brand of lager with a look of pompous disdain, but picked it up regardless, emptied it of its contents of water and returned flat against the wall, back just underneath the overhanging membrane.

His plan was simple but may provide a singular moment distraction that could, for a fleeting time, divert the attention of those in the neighbouring alley away from the intersection ahead. He would toss one of the bottles on top of the membrane and let it slide over onto the alley on the opposite side. That would provide the distraction he would need. What was ahead or to the right was out of his control. Time was running short, and this was his only chance to escape. Timed perfectly (which would have to be the case), he would make a dash through the intersection as the hanging orange lamp swung to the right, thereby providing him with extra shadow as he ran along the left axis.

Standing now a metre from the wall, he surveyed the straight path in which he meant to sprint. The man’s eyes now turned upwards to gauge the rhythm of the swinging lamp. He mentally noted its timing and undulation as he began two or three synchronised movements of upwards tossing of the empty bottle in unison with the swinging lamps. Prone and stiff, he made ready. Once more, he uttered a prayer to his God under his breath, and his eyes widened with anticipation as they transfixed themselves on the swinging lamp. The lamp swung to the right, now on its left zenith; he let fly the bottle upwards, which landed on the roof. He heard a thud and clank as it rolled off to the other side. He started his sprint towards the intersection, and after long one-two leaps, he heard the distinctive smashing of a bottle from the neighbouring alley! There was no obstruction overhanging the other side as the plan for distraction worked! The lamp swung violently to the right, leaving the left side of the intersection shrouded in shadow. He was now in the middle of the intersection in full flight when he heard movement and what seemed to be the deep, concussion-filled sounds rapidly repeating away from the entrance of the neighbouring alley. He was familiar with the sounds of silencer-enabled handguns, which urged him on faster. He cleared the intersection and ran headlong down the alleyway, oblivious of what was before him. Dodging puddles and miscellaneous debris strewn throughout the alleyway, he charged forth with all his remaining energy towards the general direction of the river.  The falling rain hit him directly in the face, further obscuring his vision; however, distantly ahead, he could see many more lights now becoming visible. It was the end of the alleyway that led to the riverfront!

He glanced back as the sound of voices screaming harsh words now ricocheted through the confines of the alley directly behind him. Voices, stamping feet, kicked bottles, and falling bins now shattered the false silence which previously held dominion over the alley. The cacophony of sounds now mixed, and it could be ascertained for certain that there were more than two pursuers behind him. He feared that more lurked in the vicinity as he ploughed all his remaining strength to gain the riverside.  Up ahead, he could now see the ending of the alleyway by way of another orange lamp that hung somewhere just off its entrance. Beyond the yawning opening, he could see, a little apart from each other, small distant lamps intermittently separated by the blackness that defined the border of the opposite shore. Before him, framed in a rippling blackness, was the river. His possible route of escape was before him! It was the tributary of his possible freedom, the balance of life and death!

‘THE RIVER!’ he uttered, both exalting and panting from the excursion of this desperate dash.

The sight spurred him forward with renewed energy as shouts and loud noises from his pursuers followed closely behind. The black strip of nothingness ahead was now tantalising close and represented his window of escape. His thoughts now were bent only to running headlong into the icy waters and swimming straight to the other side, thereby eluding his quarry. So transfixed he was to the allure of escape, and so transfixed were his eyes upon the ever-approaching end of the alleyway that he ceased scanning the ground ahead of him.  He suddenly stumbled and fell with all his weight upon his shoulder into a muddy puddle.  Pain seized his shoulder, and he froze himself numb as he rolled dumbfounded in a large puddle. He gazed back into the dark and saw that a pile of empty beer bottles laying just before the puddle was responsible for his fall. The same instruments that aided him now contrived against him to induce his fall.

He cursed them as sharp screams rained loudly. His pursuers discerned that he had fallen, and they meant to take the opportunity to shower the alleyway with bullet fire. Air-splitting bullets flew around him. The wet and injured man lay flat in the puddle as the screaming torrent flew overhead. Once the firing ceased, he slowly raised himself on his functioning arm and stumbled once more towards the walls of the alleyway. He continued ever forward towards the fast-approaching end of the river, stumbling and knocking over cans and debris before him. He could no longer discern where his pursuers were, nor did he care any longer as his frantic flight grew desperate and raw. His back now ached from exhaustion as he held the limp pain-stricken arm with his opposite hand. Every footstep resulted in a shooting pain throughout his arm and shoulder, which forced his pace to slow.  The shouting and noise of pursuit grew louder and closer. They were almost upon him!

He began to panic and made one last desperate effort to breach through the alley. The pain shot throughout his shoulder as he cried out loud. Metres away lay the alley exit he had been striving towards. With the light on the outside of the entrance, his silhouette was now visible to those behind him. A new volley of bullets smote the air around the desperate man as he leapt through the alleyway entrance, beyond its confines into the open areas of light that marked the position of the riverside. He rolled quickly to the left and stumbled off at an angle, using the edges of the alleyway to block the direct sight of himself. He picked himself up once more and hobbled towards where he thought the river was. He solely programmed himself towards the faint hope that the sole plan afforded to him was to throw himself into the depths of the river and swim to safety. However, even the increasingly sharp pains in his shoulder failed to remind his consciousness that swimming now, as a result of his injury, was almost an impossibility.

He continued ever in a frantic downward direction towards, what he thought, looked like a small walking pier that jutted into the river towards a landing jetty for small craft. The pavement changed to mud, then to pebbles. Visible now were the rolling ripples of water illuminated by the light of the city all around him. Their crests danced an alternating combination of orange and white before his eyes. He stopped and charted his course towards the jetty. He turned behind and could see three men in black emerge from the alleyway in his direction. In their hands were visible long angular shapes that could only be the weapons they were firing at him. Turning forward again, he made for the walking pier with the intent of jumping off the jetty into whatever cover the river could provide him.

There was now no time to contemplate, pray or observe the surroundings. He was spotted by the three pursuers, who adjusted their course and ran directly towards him. The rain-soaked, exhausted, and wounded man sprang forward towards the walking pier. He gazed forward to its narrow opening, judging its footing and looked straight ahead to the landing where he meant to dive headlong into the water.

From the surrounding lights of the riverbank, he was now completely visible and exposed to any eye that lurked in the vicinity.  Springing forwarded onto the wooden pier, he strained all his sinews towards this final, desperate flight when suddenly a thud in the air, coupled with a lightning-sharp pain in his side, smote him down on the floor of the walking bridge. He had been hit by a bullet that originated not from behind but westwards on the river bank from an unforeseen and unexpected foe in hiding. Someone, it seemed, was more advanced than the three pursuers behind him, guarding the river bank as the three flushed the foreign man towards him. That was their plan all along!

The wounded man wreathed in an inconceivable agony as shoots of blinding, white-hot bolts of pain raced through his entire body and shut out the world around him. He cried aloud as there was no relief from the waves of excruciating pain lapping all over him from every conceivable direction. Perception, sound, sight, and feeling of the world around him vaporised as if his present experience formed an isolated universe set apart from all other things.

He mustered his remaining concentration and energy to roll onto his opposite side. A bullet had pierced his side and crushed many of his inner vitals. A black torrent of blood now flowed from under his hand, which had been clamped firmly on his side, covering the wound. Suddenly it changed. He could surprisingly feel little now, so numbed by the shock. Even the kicks of his pursuers, who had by now caught up to him and circled his prostrate self, seemed to have no feeling. The wonder of the sensation was curious to him as he gazed up at the fell faces around him. Some laughed, some cursed in a tongue that was completely foreign to him. Some of the words he did know. It was over, he thought.

‘Mercy,’ he whispered, which exhausted him further of the waning strength that remained.

‘Mercy, please. I was not trying to rob you or deceive you. I was told that....’ Several kicks interrupted his sentence as one of the circling men crouched beside him and forcibly grasped the jaw of the wounded man. Turning his face directly to his, he screamed aggressively

‘Shut up, dog!’ and spat in his face. He cast the dying man’s face away and stood up. He gazed along the bank and smiled in a sadistic fashion.

‘Alikhan would like to speak with you.’

The three men now stood back somewhat as footsteps behind them could now be heard on the pebbles of the river bank. It was the man in the shadows that fired the fatal shot. The wounded man leant up on one arm and gazed upwards towards the sound of his approaching nemesis. Surprisingly, a man dressed in a white coat with long black hair came into sight. The others were clad in black and seemed of a different variety or even species to this one. He was darker in the skin with a pronounced nose. Even in the dark, his eyes were distinct as they were unusual in their impenetrable darkness that seemed to radiate from his black eyes.

The approaching figure possessed dexterity in his walk that was remarkable and suggested almost an Alpha-male swagger or strut, one may call it. His appearance, by itself, seemed to exude presence and command, which was reflected outwardly by the fact that the previously arrived three receded away in reverence as he approached. His authority among the group was already well established, as was the fear they each held towards his potential wrath.

His walk slowed as he approached the captured and agonising man on the catwalk. In his left hand was a long black pistol which smoked slightly from the heat of the shot and struck its mark expertly.  His attire was rich in quality. The shoes were of high value and made a clicking sound with every step. Most likely, the soles were of the highest wooden quality. His long white coat shifted only slightly as the saunter of the approaching man revealed a precise, tailored cut to his outwear. His face, now fully visible to all, was elongated and held a wry smile of devilish satisfaction. He was altogether confident, but within his eyes, there held a malicious evil that froze those that held them in sight.  There seemed within him some latent power which seemed ready to spring at the slightest inducement.

The three compatriots in league with him now fully withdrew from the wounded man leaving for their leader a clear path to approach their catch.

The now dying man saw him clearly and seemingly recognised the approaching figure. Despair gripped him firmly as finally the man stood over him and gazed sadistically at the man.

There was a silence which seemed an eternity. The surrounding air seemed breathless, and the world still and tense. Finally, out of his smirking and boasting smile, ‘So We have flushed our rat out finally. Hiding among your fellow rats in the squalor and filth? Well, I should not think of a better place to find such rubbish.’ His accent was thick and elongated. Its origins were from the Caucuses.

‘Please...’ cried the man as he raised his free hand towards his attacker in a gesture of appeal. ‘... Please. I was only attempting to set up the transaction for the codes. I am working for the English organisation...’ he cringed and seized up as the pain of his wound responded to his pleadings. He pulled himself up and leaned on the vertical struts of the walkway. He continued after a breath, ‘Please. I was just going to help with the codes... the English now only care about their payment. The shipment was transported. Ready for you to move it.’ He took more intakes of breath as speaking was now an ordeal to him.  The wounded man gazed at the man standing over him. All he could transfix on was his smouldering eyes. He waited briefly for his response, but none was immediately coming. He tried to continue, to engage with him and articulate his side of events, desperate to convince him that deceit was somehow not his intention. Just as he opened his mouth to begin anew, the standing man swung downwards quickly and struck the unsuspecting man in the mouth. The dumbstruck man convulsed as the force exacerbated his wound. Streaks of pain flowed over him once more, and he cried out.

‘Shut up, dog!’ Cried his assailant.  The tall man in the white coat now crouched down and seized the man’s jaw with his large, dark, and bony hands. He turned by force the man’s face towards his own. They were now eye to eye as the wounded man froze in terror.

‘I speak, you tell.’ Adamantly spoke the dark man.

‘I speak, you tell, then you die.’ Upon these words, his brow lifted, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes seemed to flick with a black flame that seemed to throw back the layers of shadows from his face.

‘Please...’ whimpered the man as he spoke through the iron clutches of the man named Alikhan. ‘Please. I... I was only working with the English gang. I was going to make sure that there was a second meeting...of course, I was. It’s up to you to finalise the payment.’ He took in more breaths as the warm flow of blood seemed to flow faster from his wound. ‘Please...’ he started again

‘BAH!’ cried the dark man as he flung away the head of the wounded man away in apparent disgust at what he said. Rising, he pointed the idol pistol straight at the man’s face. ‘Lying filth.’ He cocked his pistol and stood slightly farther back now from the laying prostrate man. His three companions did the same as they now looked around in either direction for any potential witnesses to the imminent crime.

The wounded man raised once more his hand in compassionate appeal. ‘Please. PLEASE!’ he pleaded now, frantically looking around at all of them.

‘You indeed tried to deceive us. We are not easily deceived. Nor do we take lightly such betrayals. You were having dinner with the Codeman. You got in touch with him independently. You lured him into meeting with you. You were operating under the pretence that you, you alone, were assigned to complete the deal earlier than intended. You brought in your moneyman- not the moneymen we need to pass the codes to. You intended to take all the payments, weren’t you!’  Alikhan delivered a swift kick which made the man groan in agony.

‘And it is because of you the Codeman has been killed accidentally at the restaurant where we found your meeting taking place. He alone had the codes for the money men to release the money for all of us. Now, what are we going to do? Huh? We needed the Codeman to live! He is from the Big Bosses! But now, you will pay.’

In an exhausted fashion, the wounded man slumped back against the rail of the jetty. It was over. He knew it. He wondered where he went wrong.

‘Someone must have betrayed me.’ He thought to himself.

‘Where did I go wrong? How did they find out?’ he thought as he stared into the barrel of the pistol pointed directly at him. He no longer felt the strength to struggle or resist. He was doomed, and he knew it. There was no reasoning with these people. He knew all about them. Their reputation was ferocious, brutal, and savage. They gave no quarter to those who contradicted their authority or stood in their way.

Thoughts of better times, better places, loved ones that had left him, and regrets all flooded his mind as his eye strayed away from the pistol up towards the sky.  He thought that perhaps one last glimpse of beauty, the moon, or the stars, could afford him one last joy. Instead, the orange glow of the reflected city light upon the low clouds was all that could be seen through the falling rain-this gave him no comfort.

The man with the pistol gave a sharp spiteful kick to the leg, which made the man groan in agony. The tyrant quickly looked down upon his footwear to see that no blemish or disfigurement was inflicted upon his beautiful expensive shoes. Luckily for the wounded man, there was none (as he held his shoes dearer than human life itself). His anger would have been even more terrible. He gestured to the three onlookers to instantly search the man. They were not gentle and were rough and unforgiving with their pulls and probes. They found his wallet, cigarette case and lighter, and a mobile phone. They opened his wallet to find inside several thousand American dollars. It was a fine money wallet with a red silk lining. Its virtues were immediately recognised by Alikhan, who demanded to see it.  With his free hand, he opened it and felt with his fingers the texture of the leather and finery of the silk.

‘Very nice.’ He declared. ‘Italian?’ he questioned.

The dying man gave no response as his dishevelled clothes were blacked by the blood pouring from his wound.

‘For this, at least, I thank you,’ he said mockingly as he slid the leather wallet inside his white coat. ‘For the dilemma you have given us and betrayal; however, I cannot forgive.’ Once again, he raised his pistol towards the man’s face.

‘You and your colleagues have angered me and did not stick to the bargain. I will send them all a message that will remind them...’ he now became precise and pedantic in his mental calculations. His verbal deliberation revealed a sudden change in him. That now (as though he pivoted away from using a sledgehammer and preferring the scalpel), the finest details of his machinations were of paramount interest. The theme must be adhered to. To comply was essential. To deviate? Well, the reward of any deviation must be resoundingly understood by all whom he dealt with. This was his fashion. He was always so fastidious with this subject.

He continued his oration. ‘Your demise will