Going back tom novak boo.., p.1
Going Back: Tom Novak Book Three, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Burning Chair Limited, Trading as Burning Chair Publishing
To Clare. Just for being you.
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Did You Enjoy This Book?
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About Burning Chair
Other Books by Burning Chair Publishing
GOING BACK
A TOM NOVAK THRILLER
BY NEIL LANCASTER
Burning Chair Limited, Trading as Burning Chair Publishing
61 Bridge Street, Kington HR5 3DJ
www.burningchairpublishing.com
By Neil Lancaster
Edited by Simon Finnie and Peter Oxley
Book cover design by ebooklaunch.com
First published by Burning Chair Publishing, 2020
Copyright © Neil Lancaster, 2020
All rights reserved.
Neil Lancaster has asserted his right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as author of this
work.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses,
places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of
the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is
purely coincidental.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without
written permission from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-912946-14-3
To Clare. Just for being you.
1
The gates of Centralni zatvor, Belgrade’s Central Prison, opened to allow through the small blue prisoner transport van. It was closely followed by a marked Skoda police car as it swung out into the residential streets surrounding the massive, ugly edifice that was the city’s major correctional facility.
‘How far to Padinska Skela?’ asked Zoran, a hugely overweight uniformed guard who sat in the passenger seat, biting into a chocolate bar.
‘Thirty minutes. Do you never stop eating? You will give yourself a heart attack,’ said Ljubo, the driver, shaking his head.
‘All muscle, my friend,’ Zoran laughed, patting his massive belly.
‘You are revolting,’ Ljubo shook his head in disgust.
‘Why the police escort? We don’t normally have cops with us when transporting prisoners to other jails.’
‘You’ve not heard of Babić?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘Yes,’ scoffed Ljubo. ‘Maybe if you spent more time doing your job and less time stuffing your face, you’d know something about the scum we’ve got. He’s a dangerous bastard. Ex-Paramilitary, and he’s now a crime boss, a really major criminal. He has been causing nothing but problems in the short time he has been here; that’s why they’re sending him to Padinjak.’
‘So why are we not in an armoured van, then? Rather than this piece-of-shit Fiat,’ Zoran said, knocking a fat fist against the dashboard’s flimsy plastic.
‘Ask the Governor. How should I know?’
‘We won’t be missing him, then. We have enough problems with the filthy addicts and the gangs,’ Zoran said through a mouthful of candy.
‘Stop with your spitting, man. It’s disgusting,’ Ljubo said, screwing up his face as he watched the flecks of food splatter the dashboard.
Zoran let out a bellow of a laugh, as he reached out and turned up the radio, so that the other man’s words were drowned out by the music blaring out of the tinny speakers. Ljubo just shook his head at his oafish colleague’s terrible manners.
The traffic was light as they headed up to the main junction leading onto the E70 and north to the Pancevo Bridge over the Danube. The morning sun glinted off the wide expanse of water, shimmering blue in the brilliant sunshine.
Zoran yawned. ‘How was that little lady you were taking out last night, Ljubo?’ he asked as they drove alongside the dark, imposing steelwork that supported the huge bridge.
Ljubo didn’t answer immediately, his eyes locked on the dark van in front of them. It was slowing, without any explanation. It was a dark, anonymous vehicle—not old, not new—with blacked-out windows at the rear, and the licence plate was so filthy as to be illegible. ‘What is this fool doing?’ he muttered as the van slowed even further. He checked his mirrors and was reassured to see the liveried Skoda police car immediately behind him. But he could feel that something wasn’t right.
Suddenly the other van’s left-hand door was thrown open wide, revealing a masked figure in dark clothing clutching a strange-looking, dark plastic implement. It was like a firearm, but at the same time totally different, with what appeared to be a torch head attached to the front. The masked man heaved the large, matte-black weapon to his shoulder and pointed it directly at them. There was no barrel, nothing to give the impression of it being a gun of any type, so what the hell was it?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. There was only one conclusion: they were under attack.
‘Attack, attack!’ Ljubo screamed into the radio on his lapel, his heart racing as he stamped on the brakes. The unrestrained Zoran flew forward, his head crashing into the windscreen.
‘What the fuck, Ljubo?’ yelled Zoran.
The confined cabin was filled with a feeling of mild heat and the faint smell of ozone. Then the van stopped dead. The digital radio was suddenly silent, the readout went black, and the engine cut out as if it had been switched off with the key.
‘Ljubo, what’s happening? Why has the van stopped?’ Zoran asked.
His question was answered suddenly and terribly, as the remaining door on the attacker’s van flew open. Three masked men in dark combat clothing dived out of the van, all clutching sub-machine guns. The lead man charged past them without giving them so much as a glance as he raised his weapon to his shoulder, sprinting past them towards their police car escort. The thunderous, cracking report of the assault rifle was deafening as automatic gunfire was poured into the Skoda.
Ljubo didn’t try to look behind, being more concerned with the stocky, intimidating-looking gunman who was now stood directly in front of him, his weapon levelled at their windscreen. Panicking he reached for the van key and violently wrenched it, but the van was as dead as if the battery had been completely removed. Through his panic Ljubo was sure he could detect a strange smell, almost akin to the charged, ozone smell that often preceded an electrical storm.
The last gunman was stood to the left of the van, his legs planted wide, the barrel of his submachine gun pointing unwaveringly at Zoran. Ljubo felt the weight of his pistol in his belt but knew that any movement towards it would only have one outcome, and that would be bullets crashing into him through the windscreen of the flimsy Fiat. His hands instinctively shot upwards in a gesture of surrender as the unseen gunman behind them continued to stitch the police car with gunfire. He didn’t give the police officers a single thought; his only concern was for his own immediate future.
‘Get out!’ commanded the gunman closest to him, pale blue eyes blazing beneath the eyeholes in the ski-mask. Ljubo’s hand scrabbled for the handle and, trying not to panic he opened the door. He stepped out, his hands aloft. ‘Please, please, I have a daughter,’ he babbled in terror.
‘You have one chance to let the prisoner out, or you die,’ the attacker growled in a pure Belgrade accent. He risked a glance at their police escort vehicle; it looked now more like a colander than a car and the inside of the vehicle resembled an abattoir. The two officers inside were broken shells, their chests studded with bloodied holes. The bottom half of the driver’s jaw had been blown off and the top of the passenger’s head was missing completely.
‘I don’t have the keys, he does,’ he said, his voice wobbling as he looked at Zoran.
‘Keys,’ the other attacker, a much smaller man, said.
Zoran was already out of the van and scrabbling in his pockets for the keys.
‘Quicker! Fucking hurry up,’ the smaller man shouted.
Zoran located the keys in his pocket and held them out.
The smaller man gestured with his weapon. ‘Ope
Zoran nodded rapidly. He turned towards the back of the van and out of sight of Ljubo, who just stood with his hands aloft as the attacker kept his firearm trained on his chest. Ljubo kept his eyes away from him, not wishing to antagonise the man at all. All he wanted was to get home to his wife and kid. Babić could go free, as far as he was concerned.
There was silence for a brief moment, followed by the sound of the van’s rear doors being opened.
‘Handcuffs. Take them off.’ Came a deep voice from the rear of the van. Ljubo recognised Babić’s voice, bringing back memories of the one time he had crossed swords with that nasty, intimidating thug inside the prison over a minor infraction.
And then he was there, stood in front of Ljubo, a small pistol in his hand. Babić was surprisingly short but stocky, with a thick beard and a pale scar bisecting his forehead. His dark, flashing eyes glittered with menace.
The first gunman passed them without pausing and got back into the van, sitting next to the man who was still clutching the strange weapon which had started this whole nightmare.
‘I remember you. You disrespected me in the jail in front of my men. That was a mistake,’ said Babić, a blank, evil look on his meaty face.
Ljubo said nothing and just closed his eyes, consumed with abject terror. He just wanted to live, to see his family again.
‘Please, don’t kill me,’ he whimpered, with no pretences at anything other than utter capitulation.
A slow, unpleasant smile stretched across Babić’s face. ‘You think I am an animal? I’m not going to kill you, so don’t piss your pants,’ he sneered.
Ljubo let out a small exhalation of relief, hope rising in his chest. Babić lowered the pistol from his chest, pointed it at Ljubo’s knee and then the gun cracked and bucked. A 9mm bullet smashed into his patella and he collapsed like a falling tree, screaming as the jacketed round tore through the joint.
Babić nodded and both men jogged off to join the others in the back of the van. The doors slammed shut and then there was a screech as the van sped off in a cloud of acrid smoke.
*
Babić looked across the rear of the van and smiled at the twins, Risto and Milan, who had both pulled their masks up to reveal big, heavy faces swathed in sweat.
‘You did well,’ said Babić. ‘I am glad to be away from that shit-hole.’ He pointed at the slim man with a small moustache, who was still clutching the large, strange looking weapon. ‘Who is this?’
‘This is Cerović. He is the man I talked to you about when you managed to call me from the prison a while ago. He is the creator of this weapon; it stopped the van as if by magic.’
Babić looked at the bulky plastic-covered weapon with interest before turning his attention to Cerović. His dark eyes glittered like a snake stalking a rodent as he appraised the man.
‘Thank you. You did well.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Cerović said in halting Serb laced with an American accent.
‘You’re American?’ said Babić in good English.
‘I was born in Kosovo, but I was raised in New York.’ His voice was light and nasal, with a distinct New York drawl. His movements were nervous and staccato as he shifted from side to side in his seat. He held up the weapon. ‘It worked a fuckin’ treat, right?’
‘Indeed. Like a fucking treat,’ repeated Babić, his face darkening. ‘Can you make more of these?’
‘Sure thing. As long as the price is right. I’m an electronics man and I can make anything you want, dude,’ said Cerović, his confidence visibly rising.
‘Show me?’ Babić said. Cerović handed over the weapon. It was about the same size as a sniper rifle, but much bulkier and covered in a crude, hard plastic. There was a simple trigger mechanism and a rough sighting device, that seemed to have been fashioned from a monocular. The weapon had a cone-type appendage at the end that resembled a large flashlight. It was heavy, at least twenty kilos. ‘Hmm. We will speak of this again, Cerović.’
‘Sure thing, buddy,’ smiled Cerović, beaming with pride.
‘Did you make contact with the arms-dealer we spoke of, Risto? We need to begin operations again, immediately,’ said Babić, not taking his eyes off Cerović. He was not used to being addressed so informally by someone he had just met.
‘Yes. Ex-Bosnian army man,’ said Risto. ‘Seems reliable. He got these submachine guns for us; they are pretty good. He is saying he can get anything we want, no problem; he managed to get us military spec batteries for this device as well.’
‘I want modern weapons, Risto. No old Bosnian garbage. With what I have planned we want the best.’
‘He claims he can get Western weapons; says he has a reliable source.’
‘Where did you locate him?’
‘Dark web. Turns out Cerović has some computer skills, as well,’ Risto said.
‘What’s his name? I want to meet him soon.’
‘Pavlović.’
‘Then make the arrangements,’ said Babić.
‘As you wish. It’s good to have you out again, my friend,’ Risto smiled.
‘It is. You did well but, for now, I need a beer. You have a safehouse?’
‘Not in Serbia. Too dangerous and you are too well-known,’ said Risto.
‘So, where are we going, then?’
‘We are going to Sarajevo.’
2
Davud Babić stood in the middle of the disused and decaying industrial estate, projecting pure menace at the wiry form of Goran Pavlović.
It was a look he had perfected over many years, from being a member of Arkan’s Tigers, through his time in the Serbian special forces, and later when he managed to get a hold on crime in Belgrade and beyond. He had spent the last few months staring down the scum of Serbia in the Central Prison and had always prevailed. He feared no man; particularly not this unknown, skinny pencil-neck who, despite his comparatively diminutive stature, returned his hard stare with an underlying trace of humour.
Babić was angry: really angry. He did not appreciate being ripped off, especially when it was his own people who had made the deal possible in the first place. One thing was for sure: if Pavlović thought he was paying the full price for those machine-guns, then he was sadly mistaken.
‘Do you have the merchandise we agreed?’
‘Yes. It’s all here, just as you ordered, do you have the funds ready to transfer?’ Pavlović had a flat and yet resonant tone with no discernible accent.
Babić stared at him, failing to understand how the little shrimp was so relaxed; he was used to people being far more intimidated by his presence and, unbelievably, Pavlović had come alone. His Ford van behind him sagged tellingly at the rear, indicative of the weighty cargo it carried. Babić feared no man, but there was no way that he would hand over thousands of dollars’ worth of military hardware without some degree of support. For his part, he knew that the reassuring presence of Risto glowered from the driver’s seat of his own pickup.
His world was a dishonest one, and many men would have cheerfully just shot Pavlović and taken his merchandise without a second thought. But there was something about the arms dealer that gave Babić pause. It was the way he conducted himself; it took a great deal of self-belief to carry oneself with such utter confidence, almost bordering on arrogance, when meeting a man with Babić’s reputation.
Babić stared hard at the arms dealer, his anger rising. ‘So, Pavlović, when were you going to tell me that it was the American—no, my American—that tipped you off about the location of these weapons?’
Pavlović’s face didn’t register even the slightest flicker of surprise. ‘Babić, it is a problem for you if your people are holding back information from you. I took all the risks to acquire them the merchandise; they are mine to sell,’ he showed his stained teeth in a cold smile.
‘You disrespect me at your peril, Pavlović,’ Babić snarled. ‘This was my source, not yours, and yet you conspire to cheat me. You are making a big mistake by crossing me. I have a long memory and I do not forgive easily.’
‘You should control your people better, or maybe pay them more: then they wouldn’t cheat you. Now, do you want the guns or not because—I tell you this—you won’t find MP5’s like this anywhere else.’ Pavlović chuckled.
