The Uncounted: Sean Fagan Book 2

By James McKenna

Is the girl on the train beside you a free citizen, or is she enslaved by debt bondage? Human trafficking is the fastest growing industry run by organised crime. Detective Inspector Sean Fagan of SOCA investigates the Agency, a criminal fraternity trafficking illegal immigrants. When MI5 inform Fagan the Agency are contracting expendable people for use by an Islamic terror cell, the pressure mounts while the SIS manipulate dark and secret ways to fight their long-term wars. Trapped in a wretched world of modern slavery, abuse and barbaric killings, Jelena an illegal from Kosovo dreams of freedom but violent forces which shaped her adolescence still dominate her life. Jelena is given to the terrorists as a disposable chattel and finds herself locked in a flat with millions of virus contaminated bank notes. Death awaits until events reunite her with Gavrilo, the boy she had known and loved when both were adolescents. Now mentally disturbed but a successful car thief and solider for the Agency, Gavrilo seeks refuge from reality by busking with his violin while believing Jelena is an angel, a vision who he has always loved but believes is dead. As Fagan closes, a bomb containing enough anthrax to kill thousands is unwittingly carried by Gavrilo into Central London. With Jelena's help, MI5 and SOCA desperately search as the timing device ticks to detonation and the destruction of British democratic tolerance. The slave industry is alive and flourishing. Between 500,000 and 800,000 people are trafficked into the EU every year. The favoured destination is England. Tied by debt bondage women are forced into prostitution while men are used in organised crime or hired out to labour intensive employment where they receive little or no payment. The rebellious are frequently murdered. When beyond physical exploitation many are used for benefit fraud or sold on for organ transplant

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lone Cloud
• Release date: Jul 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781470091842

James McKenna

James McKenna loves to learn and help others learn and improve. He supports organizations to develop, sustain, and leverage inclusive learning and working ecosystems so that individuals and teams can learn, innovate, and thrive. He is a leader, instructional designer, trainer, and facilitator.James serves as the assistant director of Professional Learning and Leadership Development at the California Collaborative for Educational Excellence and is the founder of McKenna Learning, a learning and development consultancy. He is a regular speaker at national conferences and leads the development of digital resources to support inclusive learning at scale. Previously, James was a consultant, administrator, and special education teacher for the Los Angeles County Office of Education, a musician, a nightclub doorman, and veteran of the United States Navy. In short, he's worn a lot of hats.He received a BA in music from the University of Massachusetts - Boston, an MA in education from the University of Phoenix, and an EdD in education leadership with a focus on education psychology from the University of Southern California. He is also certified as a master instructional designer by the Association for Talent Development (ATD). A native of Revere, Massachusetts, James currently lives in the Los Angeles area with his wife, Janine, and his children, Juliet and Jack.

Book preview

THE

UNCOUNTED

By James McKenna

THE UNCOUNTED Lone Cloud Publishing

Unit ¹ Betjeman Close, Cowper Road,

Harpenden, Herts AL5 4XH

2012

ISBN-13: 978-1470091842 [e-mail]

Copyright James McKenna ²⁰¹². All rights reserved

The right of James McKenna to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him

in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form,

or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

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

Library

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade, or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent

in any form of binding or cover other than that is which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Thanks to Kevin for his cover design and

Virginia for her support and tenacity

Visit lonecloudpublishing or jameswmckenna.co.uk for more books by this author,

interviews and comments.

You can sign up for enewsletters so you always hear first about new releases.

Other book: The Unseen

Books soon to be released: Final Justice

Global Raider www.jameswmckenna.co.uk

CHAPTER 1

Jelena felt a sharp claw of cold night air around her naked legs, her flesh exposed for the licentious stares of passing men.  When a car moved on she re-closed the coat over a pelmet skirt, hugging herself, hiding deep inside her mind and body, burrowing down to where she kept the little girl of long ago.

Another car slowed and instinctively she parted the coat, revealing a trim and shapely figure. A young guy stared from behind the safety of his windscreen, his mouth open, secure in his mobile metal box. A gooper, she thought, let's see the freak show before taking home the family kebabs. Coat closed she retreated from the kerbside hoping the shadow from a turned up collar disguised her thirty years and petite features. Agency thugs frequently searched the pickup ground for runaway girls and any secretly soliciting for their own gain. Punishment usually came via a hard knuckled fist.

Under the yellow glow of street lights her coat opened and closed for business men, Asian men, black men, white men full of beer, all in cars, few braving the pavement like the

individual who walked with unseen feet beneath an ankle length coat, a trilby hat pulled low on his forehead.  Jelena watched  him,  her  chin  down.  He  appeared without dimensions, as if stepping from a black and white movie. He stopped, spoke to one girl, then moved on.

Looking for a cheap deal, Jelena thought. But how cheap, below the standard fifty pounds?  He came to her, gliding over the wet drizzled pavement with the movement of a

ghost, his teeth and face grey, his eyes dark orbs. Unreal, she shivered.  Not this one, she didn't want this one; still she spoke.

You want hand job? she asked, opening the coat and hitching the side of her skirt. Thirty pounds.

Too little, too little, but better to have a few pounds for underwear and toothpaste than stand freezing for nothing.

The grey of his teeth glistened while breath seeped in slow escape from his throat. He turned and she watched him glide towards her friend, Lindita.

Cheap bastard, she whispered and checked her watch. They had left the hostel two hours ago, supposedly for

Lindita to buy food and Jelena to help carry.  Lindita was trusted, Bosko's favourite because in fear she sucked up to him, always obedient and attentive. In result Bosko gave her an element of freedom. Being one of the oldest girls and the longest resident, Jelena sensed only hate for him; hate gave cold strength, hate kept her alive.  But after two  hours absence he would realise what they were doing and demand half their earnings. Fingers screwed up inside empty pockets she watched Lindita  and her ghost turn the corner.  No money meant a beating. Perhaps Lindita would loan her ten pounds, ten pounds would mean only a slap across the face instead of Bosko's belt. Twenty minutes, in twenty minutes Lindita would return. Maybe she would buy them a coffee. Maybe a hamburger. Maybe it would be better if they were both dead.

Considering she had her period, Lindita considered the last two hours not bad.  Jelena had done nothing, but then the prissy cow was too expensive, too fussy. Clutching the forty pounds in her pocket she tightened her coat against the cold air, making her want to pee. One more trick and she would go.

The guy passed four other girls, including Jelena. Lindita

opened her coat as he approached and thought maybe she’d

buy her friend a pizza with their coffee, maybe apple cake and

cream.  Why give Bosko all the money?  After two hours absence he would beat them anyway.

You remind me of long ago, of the village girls, the man said, his voice soft, hinting of culture and a Slovak accent.

No customer ever said that. First words were how much? You want business? She preened for him. His eyes were

dark and heavy, but focused, not drunk. This one would be easy.

What do you offer?  His long coat and brimmed hat made him appear old fashioned or maybe, Lindita thought, he had fallen out of the sky from a time she had known when a child.

You want hand job? Thirty pounds, she said. I can do that myself. How about a blow job?

One hundred. She grimaced as he turned away. OK, fifty

He turned back again. "As you are a pretty village girl, I

accept.  Where?"

I have quiet place. She took his arm, leading him to the adjacent street and a blue doorway between shops. She used

her key, blackmailed out of a regular client, then switched on the hall light. Beneath the main stairs an empty space where the shops received deliveries stood bleak and desolate.  She leant back against the scuffed wall and opened her coat. Money.

She watched him take out cash, watched him count fifty in tenners.

When you finish, he said and threw her payment to the

floor.

In the glare of naked light his skin appeared translucent

white. His eyes were smoke grey, intent but calm, as if he entered some act of benevolence rather than lust. Begin, he ordered.

She unzipped him, pulled to extract his rigid penis, then opened a condom and rolled it into place. This part she hated. She knelt and began to masturbate him the same time she

took him into her mouth, it was quicker that way, sometimes only minutes. She kept her eyes closed, holding him between her lips as she moved her hand and reached for the fallen notes.

You have children? he asked.

Children, was he crazy? Her mouth occupied, she shook her head.

"That’s good. This is a bad place for children. Children

should not be born here."

She felt his hand  on the top of her head, felt slight pressure as if some saintly priest had blessed her. She took

her mouth away and looked up to the black steel hammer descending. Then her head burst. She felt it open and hot in momentary pain. Then nothing.

Jelena screamed as the belt seared her skin.

You let her get killed, you stupid bitch.  What if the police had caught you? Do you know what the boss would do to me? Bosko shouted, lashing again.

Stretched across the table by two trusses, Jelena grimaced through tear filled eyes which blurred the faces of the girls around her. How many beatings in fifteen years? How long did hell exist?  She heard the cries of those who watched, heard their protests for him to stop, then felt the searing pain across her back and buttocks, over and over.

Dadda, why is my nose small and beautiful whilst yours is so big? Sophie asked, tapping the item in question with a tiny delicate finger.

Big. Sean puffed out his cheeks and peered at his

daughter. My nose is not big, he sniffed. My nose indicates aristocratic birth inherited  from my Celtic ancestors. My nose, he looked upwards, is noble.

Does that make me a princess? Sophie snuggled beside him, dropping her bedtime book into his lap.

Sophie, my sweetheart, you'll always be my princess. He placed an arm about her  shoulders and felt the glow of paternal love.  Amidst  the  total  destruction of their family unity, such moments returned meaning to life, such moments gave life a purpose.

Becky, Sophie called to her sister. Because of Dad's big nose, you and me are princesses.

Tell it to Harry boy, Rebecca called back from her bedroom.    Then  I stand a chance.  Moments later she appeared at the door lugging a case. It's got my new martial arts stuff plus dumbbells. Could you carry it down, Dad? It's heavy.  Bradley's cleared a space in the garage for my new gym. Gives me more room in the bedroom.

Sure.  Sean looked to his fourteen year old, her appearance more woman than child.  But why dumbbells? You don't want muscle.

Yes I do. So I can pack a punch. I've joined the school kickboxing and martial arts club, there're too many junk heads about. These days a girl needs wham power. She threw a

kiss and returned to her room.

OK, Daddy. Back on the job. Sophie shuffled against

him with her shoulder.  Tonight we start another Rosie adventure, The Mind Traveller. Even Julie, our dorm prefect, she reads Rosie and she's sixteen.

You happy at boarding school? he asked, stroking her arm, thinking her so vulnerable far from home, far from her mother, his ex-wife, sitting rigid with her new partner,

Bradley, in their thirty grand kitchen below.

"You bet.  Being a boarder you're in.  Though I'm only

nine, even the senior girls talk to me.  Day girls, they're nothing. She flicked her fingers, then looked up at him, her eyes huge, loving, trusting. Dadda, you won't ever forget us will you? Sometimes we don't see you for weeks."

I have to chase bad guys, my sweet. And I always think of you, both of you.

Well, I suppose if you chase the bad guys, then they won't get us, ever, will they?

Never, my little princess, never.

When Sean carried Becky's sports bag into the kitchen Camilla suddenly started texting on her iPhone, while Bradley stared with empty eyes into the screen of his laptop.

I'll call around for the girls ten, ten thirty Sunday morning. Sean looked between them for a civilised response. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Camilla nodded her head as if imitating a donkey, waving dismissively which trembled the ever increasing fat on her forearms.  "Just don't be late, we tee

off eleven sharp."

Sean grimaced in despair. Being divorced for two and a half years allowed him to see the person he once married without the blindness of love. Golf, money and self were the only concerns in her head. Marriage, he now knew, lived on a union of minds not bodies.

Till Sunday, he waved. Neither looked up from their mindless distraction.

Becky waited in the hall.  "Thanks for carrying the bag,

Dad,  she  hugged him,  then  whispered,  and don't worry about Sophie.  Mum's always busy or off somewhere.  It's better we board. Sophie's happy, honest. I'm there for her. You take care of the bad guys. Just try and visit more often

'cos we love you." She hugged again and he kissed the top of her head.

I'm never far my love, never.

CHAPTER 2

The sharp spring air filled Sean Fagan’s lungs and felt good, helped him focus the cold resolve he needed for his work, to lead, to save life, to differentiate between the prey and predator. Not easy when dealing with greed and hunger simultaneously.

Head and shoulders above the crowd, his solid, athletic

body parted  the flow of people in Haringey’s busy street market. A six foot five inch frame gave him an advantageous view  above  the heads of a mixed ethnic  community, the bustle of colourful life, those who worried about mortgages and children, football and grannies, people of the real world.

Somewhere amidst the activity he knew members of Red

team were following three Albanian pimps,  men ready to purchase from a slave auction. The information source had

been eager, a buyer threatened with deportation. Somewhere along this busy street a market of a different kind sold young women to the highest bidder.  Women far  from  home, women who did not exist, a few of the uncounted.  Ten thousand pounds a body, ten thousand pounds for a woman without passport or official recognition.  Ten women, one hundred thousand pounds  for the Agency.  The  market around him sounded brisk, noisy with the calls of traders, of people out enjoying their Saturday morning.

From experience Sean kept his emotions wrapped  and followed the rules.  He allowed no anger or personal involvement.  He had informed the Met and had SO19 on

standby  in case  the opposition drew  weapons.  He  had warned  the  local  force that  an  armed  unit  of the  Serious Organised Crime Agency had entered the area on active operation. He had warned that the opposition players would be armed. A lot of cash was involved, but little trust. These men would kill without thought. To retaliate in kind, to blow them all away and slide with them into the dark side would be so easy.

Except this was Britain and life had rules. He rubbed his nose and hunched into his stride.  His own girls would be happy as any kids in the populace around him.  Love and duty made a good anchor into civilised behaviour.  To kill the unwanted would only replace evil with evil. The pimps would be happy, out on a jaunt to buy new meat, new bodies to make them money. Later they would watch football, have a few beers, give their new girls a good screw, maybe slap them a little.  New merchandise had to know their place. That night they would start in the cat house, start payback time for their escape out of poverty. Sean felt the clutch of anger in his stomach and the weight of a Glock 17 automatic strapped under his black leather coat. The pimps never realised they had descended to a substrata devoid of humanity, becoming like maggots feeding on the flesh of others.  To kill them would be so tempting.

The shortwave body set wired from an inside pocket occasionally clicked its presence over the earpiece but otherwise stayed silent.  Somewhere upfront team members were closing in on the target, leaving Sean temporarily isolated in the babble of noise and movement.  All around him everyone looked happy, pleased they had warm sun after a long winter, thankful for spare money on their credit cards. For some, life held promise.

Sean slowed for an old woman shuffling towards him, her handbag open, her purse and money on top.  Dressed in a smart woollen coat she searched the bag with the befuddled look elderly people kept for lost keys lying at their feet. She appeared totally unaware of the kids around her.

Sean counted six boys closing in for the snatch, two girls

at the back ready to take the pass. They were of mixed race, black and white, ten or twelve years old in smart designer gear, their hoods up. Amid the pedestrians they closed and circled, resembling young dogs around a sick old cow. Maybe they were going to offer her a safe escort home, then maybe

they were not.  Sean stepped from the flow of people and stood close to her.

You OK, mother? He  looked round at the kids, grimaced a smile and watched them disperse amongst the crowd, slick, silent.

The woman looked up at him and snapped her bag closed. I’m not your mother, she said, eyes narrow as she moved away.

Sean grunted and considered the incident his good

community act of the day. Good citizens had some use.

At 1105 hours the earpiece came to life with the voice of Simmy, the youngest member of Red team and currently the lead eyeball.

"Suspects entering a restaurant.  Glass door, closed sign

up. Guy who let them in is locking up again. The place is called Zekis.  Looks like we got our venue."

All received, RT4, Sean answered. All units move up. Jan, Diane, Chad, go round the back, see if you can find a rear entrance.  Watch for runners.

Sean kept to the opposite  pavement and positioned himself with cover from a stall, blending with the crowd, trying to keep unobtrusive.

Simmy’s voice came back.  The big boys have arrived. I'd guess the auctioneer and his minder.  Mid forties, Saddam look-alike, moustache, coat, hat, the lot. The guy with him is big as Godzilla.  Dark glasses, moustache, plate head.  The dome’s got a growth the size of a walnut, like he’s bolted down.  Definitely the minder.  He’s carrying a briefcase for the cash.  Has an ankle length coat.  I’d say it’s covering hardware, Simmy paused. Serious stuff. From the visible outline an Armalite or AK with folding butt.

Sean curled his fists. Fuck it. Switching the mike behind his jacket lapel, he spat out orders. "Red team, hold position. Firearms team move forward but wait on arrival of SO19.

Sorry guys, we can't risk a fire fight surrounded by the public, Health and Safety would give us shit."

Sean sensed the team's frustration over the silent radio. Now someone else would take firearms and  operation control.  Someone, he hoped, able to read the situation.  If they cleared the area maybe they might save the girls, secure suspects, but if control considered it too dangerous, a dozen slave traders walked away, the whole operation taking weeks to crank up again.

Sean concentrated on his priorities to save the girls and to

take the auctioneer. The auctioneer worked for the Agency and the Agency organised the trafficking of men and women into Britain, people without legal right of entry, the hundreds of thousands never counted. Sean tried to remain optimistic.

All might go well providing Area Control stayed sharp.

For better observation he moved directly across from

Zekis restaurant.  Fazliu, the informer would be waiting for the expected raid, waiting for police protection, for the Home Office to reverse his rejected asylum claim.  No hope.

A closed sign hung behind the glass door. Two men leant on the bar, possibly minders but not Godzilla. Candle-waxed bottles sat on checked tablecloths. Wine racks stood one side

next to an empty kebab spit. Trade for the day would be in the basement, hidden from the real world. Sean looked across the bright, noisy populace moving around him, people totally unaware of another world existing in their midst.

Both men at the restaurant bar glanced towards the back where stairs led down into the basement. Then, as if summoned, they left their beers and disappeared from view. Maybe the girls were giving trouble.  It only needed one to

start bawling.  Ten girls suddenly realising they were being sold at auction could get very stroppy. Sean hoped they were giving the pimps hell but also realised they had created an opportunity.

"RT¹ to control. The ground floor of Zekis’ restaurant is

empty.  If we move now we can contain this without

endangering the public.  It is imperative you clear the area with minimum noise and allow my weapons response team to activate.  Sean felt the flicker in his gut, the vacuum, the need for immediate action as he waited on Go".

All received, RT1, have passed your request to Control. "Tell Control to activate SO19. Now, now. Get them on

the market perimeter. But no sirens. I repeat no sirens."

"All received, RT¹. Control requires your reason for area

clearance and activation of your team."

Sean sucked breath and clenched his teeth.  I repeat, suspects have no one watching on the ground floor, but there are armed men in the basement.  If we go now we contain engagement to that area and prevent danger to the public. I request permission for immediate action.

All received, RT1.  Control has implemented suspect package evacuation. Your team stay at stand to. No action in case there is danger to the public.

Sean stared at the mike. What wanker sat in the control room? Tell the idiot you report to ... Sean stopped as the clear,  crisp  sound  of police  sirens filled  the  morning  air. Fuck it.  He switched the mike on his lapel.  "Fire arms team close on target.  Surveillance team draw back.  Our

priority is now the public and the women inside.  Carole, Bob, Simmy, take positions at front. Bob, Pete, stand to with the rams. Mike, Steve, watch for runners."

While his team moved into place Sean started across the road. He saw a man reappear in the restaurant window, the same  time  a  female  police  sergeant  strode down  the pavement.  Squat and large chested, she shouted evacuation instructions through a megaphone.  Behind her a young

community officer began herding people, waving his arms at any who lingered to watch.  Suddenly police appeared from everywhere.  Sean saw no sign of flack jackets, no firearms squad from SO19.

The man in the restaurant window hurriedly disappeared and seconds later the clear and rapid crack of automatic

gunfire mingled with the wail of sirens. A few people outside the restaurant stopped, others pushed to get clear while the policewoman stayed her ground, bellowing with gusto.

Sean saw no alternative but to give immediate action. The women inside might be illegal immigrants but they were daughters of parents in some country, not animals for slaughter.

Weapons team, now, now!  Bob, Pete, take the door.

Sean came round a stall on the pavement and flashed his ID card at the woman sergeant. Clear the front, there are armed and dangerous men inside.

Bob and Pete emerged from the rubbernecking crowd, those who were standing around as if events were part of a carnival.  A gang of kids pushed to the forefront, jumping,

making faces. Sean drew the Glock 17 automatic from under his jacket.  Carole came beside him, her firearm at ready, Simmy behind her while Bob and Pete went forward using an enforcer against the door. In a rush to escape, the men inside were elbowing up the stairs when the team burst through. Amidst the terrified screams of hysterical females rising from below, Sean levelled his weapon and fire into a wall.

Don’t move, armed police! he shouted, his Glock

pointed, Carole and Simmy came either side.

The shock of gunfire in the confined room caused

momentary silence and a sudden stillness, then all shouted and pushed at once for the rear exit. Amidst the bundle of pimps Sean saw only one with a weapon.  The guy snarled lifting the barrel to threaten both Sean and those beyond the window. The man’s expression turned to rage as he shoved and made ready to fire. His aim wavered all over and in the split second Sean had for decision he saw the kids outside, fingers up in V-signs as they taunted the woman police sergeant, stolen designer gear bright and sharp in the Saturday morning sun. No time for a second warning, the guy’s gun hand pointed aggressively, his face grimacing. Sean had aim on the only clear target, the man’s face. He saw the stained

teeth, the surrounding cheeks sallow and pock marked. Then the black eyesight of the Glock aligned with the guy's tongue. Sean’s first round shattered the man’s jaw, the second round puncturing his forehead to splatter the contents of his skull against the wall behind. Sean felt the bitterness of revulsion simultaneously with the triumph of his anger.  One  less maggot to feed on fellow humans.

The second shock report of a weapon and the splay of

bloody brain sent the pimps into panic.  For them this was not meant to happen, this was their day out to buy meat for the trade.  En masse  they ran for the back door.  Sean followed with the male members of his team, hitting out with his fist and pistol barrel, all of them ending in a small yard stacked with crates and dustbins.  A high wall and an open rear