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Rated: 13+ · Chapter · Ghost · #1760533
One man's ultimate revenge from beyond the grave.

DC Brockwell                                  Reckoning From Beyond

My head hits something hard and it awakes me. I try to rub my head, but my hands are bound behind my back and my legs do not part when I try to move them. Whatever I'm bound by is eating into my wrists and ankles; it's thin and strong. I blink three times, but it is pitch black in here. My head hurts. I realise I can't breathe easily.

  Whatever I'm in is moving. We go over another bump and my head hits the roof of whatever it is I'm in again. I hear laughing in the distance and realise I'm not alone. I can feel my heart racing and my buttocks clench. It's fear.

  It smells of a musky mixture of bad feet, petrol and dog in here.

  I try and think how I got here, but my head's fuzzy. Being in the dark doesn't help, either. How did I get here? My mind's all over the place. My pounding head prevents me from thinking it through. I feel nauseous.

  Suddenly I feel the deceleration until it comes to a complete stop.

A switch the ignition off and glance over at ma business partner, Jerome.

  We 'ave a white boy tied up in da back. We been drivin' for ages, but found da best place to do it.

  Jerome is big man, my brother. We known each other for years, man, since we five year old. Eighteen month ago 'e came 'ere to start again, man. 'e got int' lot trouble in a home country, Jamaica. A miss Kingston, man, but 'ad to come 'ere to 'elp Jerome set up club in Soho. It da best move a ever made. London cool, man. It so easy make cash in dis country.

  Ma crew are sittin in back. Two whiteboys, who Jerome 'ired to 'elp wit' security. A control da door, wit' 'elp from ma boys. Dey better on door dan any other whiteboys a know. And dey come wit' us on occasions like dis. Personally a not like dis, but Jerome say it wort' lotta cash to us, man, lotta cash. 

  'Well, Jamal, we do dis or not?' Jerome say 

  'Let's get dis over wit', man,' a say.

  We all get out.


I hear four doors closing. I can hear chatter, but can not hear it properly.

  I grope around, then feel the plastic under me. It crinkles between my fingers. If I could think of a reason why I’m here, it'd be something, but I can't. My mind draws a blank.

  There's a noise to my side.

  The boot door opens.

  Lying here, looking up at a dark silhouette, I feel helpless. Whoever it is can do what they want to me; I'm in no position to do anything. The silhouette is big and broad.

  'Get 'im oota ‘ere,' says a deep Jamaican voice.

  The next thing I know I feel an arm around my neck, one around my waist and another around my legs. There are at least four people here with me, including the silhouette. I don't struggle when they lift me up and out of the small, plastic encased space.

  The three arms place me on moist ground.

  It's so dark I can barely make out where I am. The earth beneath me gives it away; I'm in a wood somewhere, but I might as well be in China for all my geographical knowledge. The last I remember I was in London.

  I'm in trouble, and my arse and bladder knows it.

  The headlights are facing away from me, casting the four men in darkness. I can't make out any features. They’re just silhouettes.

  'Take 'im oover there, man,' says the same voice.

  I'm carried to the front of the car and placed in front of the headlights, looking away. I glance around looking for any sign of life or help I can call for. There's none.

  The four men stand in front of me.

  At the rear is a white man in a black leather jacket and blue jeans; he has a shaved head and is probably six foot two, maybe six three. He has a goatee and a tattoo on his neck. The man in the middle is another white man, who is shorter but wider. He has a cap on and is wearing a puffa jacket, making him look even wider. He also has a scar from his cheek to his chin; he probably got it from some bar fight or prison rumble. The third is a black man with dreadlocks and the stockiness deserving of a weightlifting, steroid-injecting junkie.

  The fourth man is the Jamaican who'd spoken earlier. He is a mean looking bastard with rings on every finger; he has an Afro and a hard looking face with square features. He's the type of black man I'd spent hours prosecuting as a lawyer for the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS). He's the most threatening of all; the rest listen to his orders.

  A memory suddenly surfaces. The last thing I can remember is walking to my car in the CPS underground car park. Hang on, that's where I was when it happened! I'd put my key in the car door when I felt something round my mouth. Shit! Bastards!

  'Get on your knees, man,' orders the Jamaican.

  I slump to my knees with my hands tied behind my back.

  'You scared?'

  I suddenly realise I haven't said a word. 'Yeah!'

  'Ya should be,' adds the Jamaican. 'Ya know why ya 'ere, man?'

  I should be begging for my life, but I'm not. I can't explain why.

  'Well? I ask ya question, man,' hisses the Jamaican.

  I don't know what to say.

  'Come on, let's just do 'im and get outta 'ere,' says Leather Jacket. 'It's freezin!'

  'Shut it! Ya pussy,' says the Jamaican, putting his white accomplice in his place.

  I kneel waiting for the inevitable, not knowing what to say or think. My heart is racing; I want to throw up.

  Jamaican reaches behind his back and pulls out a shiny silver pistol.

  My heart leaps again; I don't know if I can hold it together much longer.

  Dreadlocks pulls a pistol out from behind his back.  The three others follow suit.

  Taking two steps forward, Jamaican squats down and looks me in my eyes. 'Ya want tell me why ya ‘ere, man? Or do a need tell you?'

  'I don't know,' I say, racking my brain.

  'You been bad boy,' he replies. 'And when ya been bad boy ya get visit from me an' ma boys.'

  He prods me in the forehead with his pistol and I jerk backwards slightly.

  'My employa want ya dead, man.'

  Employer? So someone's hired him and his thugs to kill me? My mind fires in several different directions but settles on one. 'How much is your employer paying you?'

  I hear laughter in the background.

  'More than you can afford, Mr. CPS,' says Leather Jacket.

  'Whatever your employer is paying you, I'll double it,' I say, sounding desperate.  If there's ever a time I can sound desperate it's now; I'm fighting for my life. 'I have more than you think I have.'

  Jamaican stands and looks skyward, scanning the area around him as though searching for an answer. 'Our employa pay us well, Mr. CPS. No deal.'

  I look up at him as he points his pistol at my chest. 'Come on, don't be a fool, I can make you a very rich man,' I say.

  'Come on, Jamal, get it over with,' says leather jacket. ‘I need to be somewhere.’

  'No deal,' repeats Jamaican. He turns and looks at Leather Jacket, 'an' don't use ma name, man.’

  'Whats it matter? He's gonna be dead in a minute.'

  Jamaican turns back to me, the gun pointing at my chest. ‘We don't deal wit' dead men.'

  He squeezes the trigger nonchalantly.

  The noise of the shot reverberates around the woods.

  It feels as though I've been kicked in the chest. I fall flat on my back with my hands still bound under my body. My legs are bound, too. I suck in, but can't catch my breath; it feels like I've been winded. Adrenaline numbs the pain as the endorphines kick in. I can smell cordite, sulphur. I'm confused.

  Jamaican steps on my chest with a metal toe-capped boot and looks down at me. 'Any last words, Mr. CPS?'

  I look to my left and right, trying hard not to look up at him. Finally I do. I can feel warm moisture pooling under me. I’m cold and shivering. I'm dying and I'll be dead in a couple of minutes. I can't believe this is it. It’s too hard to comprehend.

  Jamaican points his pistol down at my forehead.

  An inner rage engulfs me. It's so intense, not like anything I've ever felt before. Who does this guy think he is? If he pulls the trigger I'm going to get some payback. I'm a winner! I always have been and always will be. I stare up at him. 'I'll come...Back.' The air is being sucked out of my lungs and my mind is firing a thousand thoughts at once about my son, wife, mum and dad, friends, brother and sister and nephews and nieces.

  'What ya talkin' boot, man?'

  I smile up at him. 'I'll...come back..and...haunt you all.'

  Jamaican smiles down at me wryly. 'Sure ya will.'

  'I'll...drive.....you.......crazy....and then...I'll kill you,' I say, my heart slowing. I find the energy to spit up at him.

  'See you around Mr. CPS,' says the Jamaican as he pulls the trigger.

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