Page 22 of The Professor
“Tried to strangle her.”
“What? Fucking bastard. I hope he got a shakedown.”
“You know Cillian and Finn, they don’t take no shit.” Phil clenched his fist as though he’d wanted to do the shakedown. He worked in sales, garden sheds or something, but he was a massive dude with muscles on muscles and spent all of his spare time in the gym.
“Good, let’s hope he’s learned a lesson.” Mitch huffed.
“Or he’s getting ready to escalate.” It was a common pattern. “Have we got details on him? He’ll need watching.”
“Yeah, he’s in our system now,” Mitch said. “I added him into the police databank, too.”
“Good.”
The door opened, and Cillian and Finn walked in. It was practically impossible to tell them apart except for Cillian had a shamrock tattoo on the back of his right hand. They were Irish with curly fair hair and wiry. But their size was deceiving, they were mixed martial art professionals and seemed to have been bred without the concept of fear.
“Guys,” I said, nodding at them.
“Good to see you, Professor.” Cillian took a seat at my side.
Finn walked to a laptop, flipped it open, and the TV screen on the wall lit up. “Let’s get to it.”
I liked his style, no-nonsense. There were assholes to kill, and we needed to get on with it.
“Ranson is back and bigger than ever,” Finn started. “Just as a reminder, when he was hauled in last time, his charges were possessing and supplying cocaine, procuring prostitution, and handling illegal weapons.”
“And he got off on them all.” Cillian folded his arms and swung back on two legs of his chair.
“Fuck knows how.” Mitch rolled his eyes.
“That’s the past,” I said. “What do we know of his whereabouts right this minute?”
“His last warehouse was in Bicester, the new one is in Swindon. Seemed he bought it while hiding out in Poland, got it all set up, and now is back running it. I can’t imagine he’ll hang around for it to get raided again with him inside, won’t want to push his luck, which is why we have to act now.”
“I say tonight.” Phil pressed his mouth into a tight line; for him, this wasn’t negotiable.
“It might require more prep.”
Phil grunted. No one else spoke.
“Let’s see, carry on.” I nodded at Finn.
“It’s on an industrial estate, plenty of daytime traffic, not so much at night. No nosy neighbors, which I guess is why he picked it.” Phil brought up a photo of the warehouse. Flat roof. Couple of white vans. A dirty sign that read Noah’s Roofing and Window Services.
“And do you know how many girls he has in there?” I asked.
“Last time there were twenty-two, we’re guessing the same,” Cillian said.
I nodded. “Yeah, if it’s the same size building. Poor fucking things.”
Dalton set his hands on the table, his fists balled. “Every minute we sit here we risk one of them overdosing.”
“I know.” Ranson’s MO was to traffic women from Eastern European countries with the promise of a new life then get them hooked on coke and use them as sex slaves. He had to be stopped. He had to die. Too many women had died. Too many were being held by his chains of addiction and being put at mortal risk each time a punter claimed them. They had absolutely no way out. Galahad was their only hope.
“I kinda did a recce,” Cillian said. “Went there last night.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, when Mitch phoned it in, I had ants in my fucking pants to take a look.”
