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  When his victim was unconscious, Phil sliced through the seat belt in two places, which gave him a robust binding material. He got out and opened the driver’s door to tie O’Connor’s wrists to the steering wheel.

  At the street corner, a woman hobbled by. She paused to lean on her walking stick and looked along at the car before walking on, smiling.

  Phil took the keys from the ignition and dropped them down a kerbside drain. O’Connor coughed and spluttered as he regained consciousness. When Phil squatted down near the open driver’s door, he saw his victim’s blistered eyes half-open.

  “I’ll tell you once,” Phil said. “My name is Hawk, and this was a warning.” He looked around to ensure no witnesses. “I’ll be checking the local businesses and if you visit any of them—I will visit you.”

  O’Connor emitted a strangled, rasping sound.

  Phil whispered. “The next time you won’t be as lucky. Tell your boss if he takes me on, I’ll kill you both.”

  As the hoodlum blinked and stared through swollen, scalded eyes, he saw his attacker remove a small business card from inside his leather jacket and place it on the dashboard. It said HAWK. It showed a graphic of a hawk descending; wings extended and talons spread.

  Phil stepped into the takeaway wiping cheese from his hands. “I’ve come back for my Coke.”

  Alfredo stood wide-eyed at the counter with his assistant.

  “My name is Tony,” the young man said as he handed over a towel.

  “Pleased to meet you, Tony,” Phil said, wiped his hands and handed back the towel. “When I leave, I want you guys to close, and open up from tomorrow as normal.”

  “Right,” Alfredo said, staring. He removed his apron. “Open tomorrow as normal.”

  Phil produced a business card, wrote on it, and handed it to Alfredo. “This is my number. Use it if you have to, but keep it to yourself.”

  “Bring on the fucking bad guys.” Phil raised his face to appreciate the steaming spray of a hot, cleansing shower. Afterwards, he read the featured crime story in the Daily Record, before going to bed to sleep soundly. He was at peace regarding his intentions. The Hawk had arrived in Glasgow and was established.

  3. The Good, The Bad, and The Lovely

  .

  Tuesday 2nd July

  Phil warmed up and took a gentle run around Glasgow Green. When he returned, he enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. Flat Three would be maintained as living accommodation. He went into Flat Four and converted the living room into an operations room. Keeping the two flats in separate use allowed for the possibility of unwelcome visitors, or the police.

  He’d already checked the window and reassured himself the living room couldn’t be overlooked. He also preferred to have natural lighting. It took twenty minutes to set up the basics. Phil located most of his needs during his walk around the Barrowland market.

  He moved the sofa against the side wall. He next removed the landscape painting from the main wall and replaced it with a Scotland map, and a Glasgow Streetmap. The dining table pushed against the wall under the maps provided desk space for notepaper, and the large pad he’d use for brainstorming sessions. On the wall near the window, he mounted a large cork notice board.

  It took an hour, using a handful of tools, to create a secret compartment behind and in the base of the built-in wardrobe of the large bedroom. A casual glance would not spot the wardrobe was ten centimetres narrower on the inside than it should be. While cleaning up, he received a phone call.

  “Hi,” Phil said. “Thanks for calling. Yes, today at 13:30. You know the cafe in the People’s Palace. Good. Ciao.” He didn’t usually end a call with Ciao, and it struck him he had imitated the caller.

  Phil plotted the positions of the divisional police stations across the Glasgow map. Blue pins were the appropriate colour. Setting up the remainder of his ops room could wait.

  .

  Callander

  To the casual observer, the two players with their caddies on the third green were merely a couple of men enjoying a game of golf. The caddies were good at their real job, using furtive glances when other players appeared within firing range. Both caddies had practised the skill of detaching the Uzi machine guns from behind their bosses’ golf trolleys. All four men were content, strolling in the mid-morning sunshine on the scenic Callander Golf Course.

  William Hartley putted and watched with a self-satisfied grin as his ball rolled five yards across the immaculate green to rest briefly at the lip, and dropped into the pot. He turned to his opponent and bowed his head when he received sarcastic applause.

  “Thank you, Mickey,” Hartley said and strolled forward to retrieve his ball. He went down on one knee, reached for the small dimpled sphere, and stood up to inspect it before handing it to his caddy.

  “Well played, Boss,” the caddy said as he accepted the ball and putter.

  “Thank you, Joey. It was, wasn’t it?” He laughed.

  Hartley, at thirty-eight, was one of the youngest men ever to reach the status of Godfather in Glasgow’s criminal underworld, but he was astute enough to know he could be replaced at any time. He had a full head of dark brown hair and kept himself physically fit. He used the multi-gym in his luxury home every day.

  Hartley was wearing a bright yellow sweater and dark tartan golfing trousers. He looked every inch, ‘to the manor born’, except for his half-closed left eye. A membrane had been torn in a fight at school when he was a twelve-year-old. The memory never bothered him, because he blinded the other boy in one eye. From an early age, he rarely lost.

  “Fuck it,” McGinley said as his version of a putt sent the ball skimming past the flag.

  “Calm down, Mickey,” Hartley said. “It’s a game.” It amused Hartley, his opponent used the correct club; more by luck, than judgement.

  As they walked to the next tee, both players took in the beautiful highland scenery around them and felt a pride in being Scottish. The expressions on their faces made them look normal—or in McGinley’s case, as close as he’d ever get.

  Unlike his opponent, Mental Mickey McGinley wasn’t at his most comfortable with a golf club in his hands, unless he was using it to beat somebody to death. He’d used golf clubs as weapons before he attempted to use them for their intended purpose.

  Mickey, or Mental as most of his associates addressed him, was the archetypal psychopath. He had a short fuse in an argument, and he preferred to bludgeon someone to death than stab or shoot them. ‘Blades or bullets are too quick,’ was one of his maxims.

  Apart from using the sporting equipment to play the game, McGinley was uncomfortable in the accepted outfits worn for playing golf. He dressed appropriately because it helped him look the part. It took a glance at his Neanderthal stance, scarred face and tattooed hands to know he wasn’t in his element.

  His head was shaved, and his skin resembled tanned leather, thanks to his many visits to his villa in Spain. His brow had more furrows than a ploughed field, which made him look older than his forty years. If he had one good point; he was easy to read.

  By the time the two hardened criminals reached the fairway of ‘Dell’, or the sixth, McGinley wanted to get down to business. He hesitated over his ball and gazed with trepidation at the bunkers guarding the elevated green up ahead. The last time he’d played this green, he’d spent fifteen minutes in what he referred to as; ‘one of the sandpits’. He lifted his five-iron to rest it on his shoulder.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, Billy,” McGinley said, being the only person to address Hartley as Billy. “What’s on your mind?”

  Hartley stood with his hands resting on the handle of his club which was standing to his front, slightly forward of his feet. He glanced at the caddies ensuring they were out of earshot.

  “We’ve got two pieces of business to discuss.”

  “Go on.”

  “You’ll be aware, Bullets Barnes and Frankie McSherry were set free on Friday.”

  “Aye,” McGinley said. “Your la
wyer is a fucking magician.” He grinned. “It didn’t do McSherry much fucking good.”

  “I reckon Barnes killed McSherry, but I’ll deal with Barnes later.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about either of them.” McGinley didn’t give a fuck about much. He lowered his club to stand like Hartley.

  “They were both out of line,” Hartley said. “The job was to waste the copper, but killing a child wasn’t sanctioned by me.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the copper—he was undercover, and he got found out,” McGinley said, his rage simmering. “We have fucking rules Billy, and they were broken. One of those two shot the man in front of toddlers, and shot the teenage daughter in panic.”

  “They didn’t panic Mickey—”

  “Which makes them fucking worse,” McGinley interrupted. “The lassie was a civilian. She could have reported two masked men shooting her fucking father, but she wouldn’t know identities. I wouldn’t shoot a kid—and I’m a fucking class-one nutter.”

  Hartley stepped forward to close the distance between them before he spoke. “I want you to leave it with me, Mickey. If it was Barnes, I’ll have him punished. I want to keep it in-house.” Hartley did what few men could afford to do. He reached out a hand to McGinley’s shoulder. “While I’m controlling north of the Clyde and you’re controlling the south side, we have to respect each other’s activities.”

  “I want him to fucking regret killing the girl, and what he put those toddlers through.” Like many gangsters, McGinley imagined his own children in such a situation. His rage wasn’t the thought the undercover cop being killed in front children. It was the thought of shooting an innocent teen and leaving two toddlers traumatised. Mickey loved children.

  “He’ll be punished, Mickey.” Hartley squeezed McGinley’s muscular shoulder. Hartley had no offspring, but he understood McGinley’s rage. He gave the impression of also being angry to pacify the psychopathic Godfather of the south side. It had taken many bloody years to establish the status quo across the city.

  The golfers didn’t notice the two caddies exchange a glance.

  To most people, a handshake was a regular, pleasant thing to see, but when the handshake was between two underworld Godfathers in Glasgow, it usually meant bloodshed.

  Hartley was enjoying his game. At the ninth tee, he brought up his second point. “Do you remember a while back, we discussed spreading a disease in the police force?”

  “Aye.” McGinley laughed. “You mentioned giving their computer system a wee virus. How are you getting on?”

  “I played a round of golf with my good friend Bobby Davenport on Sunday,” Hartley said. “I gave him the memory stick, and told him what to do.”

  “When will it work?”

  “Our Bobby will be attending a one-day seminar at Tullieallan today.” Hartley stopped to watch a squirrel run across the fairway. He raised his club into his shoulder like a rifle as if aiming for the tiny animal. “As long as he’s done what I’ve told him, the program will kick in while he’s away from Glasgow.”

  “Tullieallan,” McGinley said, his eyes squinting. “Isn’t Tullieallan the Police College?”

  “Yes, it’s perfect timing to have him away somewhere official for the day.”

  “It means Davenport’s arse will be covered.”

  “It covers us as well. As long as Davenport isn’t at his desk in Pitt Street when the virus hits, he’ll be less likely to panic when questions are asked.”

  The fifteenth, known as ‘Avenue’ involved a tee shot through a narrow gap in a stand of trees. Hartley completed the hole in three strokes, which pleased him, but his joy was dampened by Mickey hitting a hole-in-one. He hit a textbook drive from the tee. The ball flew straight and true, landing one hundred and thirty-five yards away on the green before it rolled the final yard to the pole and disappeared. Mickey had no skill—he’d merely whacked the ball.

  For the next two holes, McGinley’s game improved. It wasn’t good, but it was for him. “Wasn’t it your man O’Connor the police found last night?”

  “I was wondering when you’d bring his name up,” Hartley said and nodded.

  “It sounds to me like he bit off more pizza than he could chew.” He fell into fits of laughter at his own sick humour.

  Hartley maintained his composure. “Who did you send across?”

  “What do you mean?” McGinley said and faced his opponent. “It had fuck-all to do with me. I thought it was one of yours with a score to settle.”

  Hartley moved closer. “Whoever it was left a calling card.” He searched McGinley’s face for recognition. “It gave the name Hawk.”

  “It was fuck-all to do with me, mate,” McGinley said, his brown eyes squinting.

  “This guy Hawk told O’Connor, he’d kill him, and his boss.”

  “It sounds to me like you have a freelancer on your patch, Billy.” McGinley met Hartley’s gaze.

  “I don’t like freelancers, Mickey. You and I are alike there.”

  By the time they reached the end of the round, McGinley’s score was embarrassing; even for him.

  Hartley read his final figures and nodded slowly. His first opponent was always himself, no matter who he played. He was a lowlife in many respects, but he believed he’d attained certain standards. He also thought he was good at golf.

  “Leave Barnes to me,” Hartley said.

  “Aye, okay,” McGinley said. “Make sure he learns a fucking lesson.”

  The two men never used the word goodbye with each other. They stepped apart, and like two martial arts opponents, nodded before parting company.

  .

  Glasgow

  Two men, who knew nothing of the agreement which had been made in Callander, were about to discuss the hit carried out on the unfortunate policeman. One of those men was Benny Bullets Barnes, who was at home in Anniesland. He was alone in his house enjoying a beer and a cigarette when the doorbell rang.

  Standing outside the detached four-bedroom property with his left forefinger on the doorbell was the other man, Phil McKenzie. He would have used his right forefinger, but it was curled around the trigger of his 9mm automatic. The weapon was held under a soft, brown paper parcel. The newspaper over the handgun was okay in the movies, but Phil preferred the facade of the deadly courier.

  The door opened, and Barnes stood with a cigarette in hand. He was wearing a T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and leather sandals. He glowered at the man in the brown courier outfit.

  “Aye, what do—” he glanced from Phil’s deadpan expression to the black cylindrical end of the suppressor under the parcel. He attempted to close the door, but a leather boot was already pressing against it. “Fuck you—” Barnes reached for something inside the doorway.

  From under the edge of the parcel came a dull ‘phutt’ and a hole appeared in the upper part of Barnes’s right thigh. He let out a grunt, keeled over and grimaced as he lay on the polished wooden flooring clutching the wound. The baseball bat he’d tried to lift fell onto the floor with a clacking sound.

  Phil stepped inside and closed the door, before kicking the bat out of the way.

  “Who sent you?” Barnes said. “I bet it was fucking McGinley.” He gripped his injured leg with both hands. The bullet had torn the muscle, and it hurt like a bastard.

  The man in the dark brown overalls and baseball cap ignored the question. He motioned with the gun for Barnes to move further into the house.

  “Fuck off,” Barnes said.

  Phil removed the packaging from over the gun with his left hand and aimed directly at the injured man’s groin. The Browning and the long black suppressor on the barrel were in full view.

  “Alright, alright—” Barnes half stumbled, half crawled into the house. He was leaving a trail of sticky blood across the shining oak floorboards. He reached the well-appointed living room and stopped.

  “Armchair.” Phil indicated with the weapon.

  Barnes obeyed and glared at his assailant. “My missus will
be back in ten minutes. Say your bit and fuck off.” He squinted, and sat, sweating profusely.

  “What transport has she got?” Phil raised an eyebrow.

  “What do you mean? What fucking transport?”

  “I mean, she’ll have to get a move on,” Phil said. “When I spoke to her on the phone a short while ago, she was in your villa in Marbella, which if I recall, is in Spain.”

  Barnes' eyes opened wider. “You’re fucking bluffing.” He glanced at his wound, and his eyes screwed up tight. “Are you the bastard who shot McSherry?”

  Phil responded by lifting a mobile phone which had been left on the coffee table. He held it out, and his latex gloves were obvious. “Any last-minute messages for your wife?”

  “You’re gonna’ fucking die,” Barnes said, through gritted teeth.

  “We’re all going to die—but some of us have priority.”

  “If you’re gonna’ shoot me—fuckin’ go ahead.” Barnes was gasping, and grasping at straws. “You haven’t got the balls.” A surge of pain went through his injured leg.

  “Why did you kill the girl?”

  “Ah, it’s about the kid. Did Hartley send you to punish us?”

  Phil was intrigued. He now had the names McGinley and Hartley to go on, and whoever they were, they were higher up the food chain than the two shooters. Phil aimed the gun at the hit-man’s groin.

  “Why kill the girl?” Phil asked.

  “I wanted information, and the copper wouldn’t talk.”

  “You shot a teenage girl to get information?”

  “McSherry was gonna’ shoot her, but his fuckin’ gun jammed.”

  “Why would you shoot a child you fucking worm?”

  “She would have been a fuckin’ witness anyway—”

  “You shot her in the stomach you heartless bastard. She’d have bled to death, in agony.” Phil controlled his anger. “She had nothing to do with it.”