Targeted, p.1
Targeted, page 1
Targeted
THE BOY LANE CREW, Volume 2
MARK HOUSTON
Published by MARK HOUSTON, 2022.
While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
TARGETED
First edition. February 27, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 MARK HOUSTON.
ISBN: 979-8201282127
Written by MARK HOUSTON.
Also by MARK HOUSTON
THE BOY LANE CREW
The Hunters and the Hunted
Targeted
VAUXHALL GAY VILLAGE
Hunted
Payback
Standalone
Phyllis and Dolly Take a Stand
Nuts Allowed
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By MARK HOUSTON
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty Eight
Chapter Forty Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
Chapter Fifty Two
Chapter Fifty Three
Chapter Fifty Four
Chapter Fifty Five
Chapter Fifty Six
Chapter Fifty Seven
Chapter Fifty Eight
Chapter Fifty Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty One
Chapter Sixty Two
Author’s Note
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Also By MARK HOUSTON
Chapter One
Arran Rush’s long shift at Bananas left him dead on his feet. The bar had been crammed with men, clamouring for drinks, dancing themselves silly and desperate for some man on man action. All thought of the homophobic Russian gang, targeting gay men in Vauxhall to groom, abduct, torture and kill had been forgotten. Old news. The sickening sight churned Arran’s stomach. These guys should have more respect for their fallen brothers. The war against homophobes was neverending. Gay rights were hard won and not set in stone. They had to be jealously guarded. Politicians were a fickle breed that swayed in the breeze of public opinion. Gay people had to make sure their voices were heard, loud and long.
Arran pulled up the zipper on his jacket against the chill night air and hurried through the dark streets of the industrial area outside Vauxhall, keeping his eyes keen. The Russian gang had been rounded up by the police and were in custody, awaiting trial. All except one. Maxim Azarov had eluded arrest and had been on the run for weeks. Maxim would be hellbent on revenge against those who had brought his gang to justice - Arran and his friends. If Maxim caught any one of them, it would mean almost certain death. Where was his bar mate, Serge, when he needed him? Off sick with man flu, the slacker.
Twenty minutes later, Arran reached Boy Lane and let himself into the house he shared with Miss Givens and Gregor. In his bedroom he tore off his clothes and fell into bed just as his phone pinged. Shit! Who the hell would be texting him at this time of night? Another minute and he would have been dead to the world. He wouldn’t even have heard it. He snatched up his phone from the bedside cabinet. The text was from Alex. Arran bolted upright, unable to believe his eyes. Alex had found Maxim.
Come now. I need your help.
An address was given for a garage not far from a place he knew well - Shah’s Clothing Company was the place where he had been picked up by the Russian gang. The place from where it had abducted all its victims. Arran texted he was on his way. He didn’t risk calling in case the sound gave Alex away. He jumped out of bed and threw on a sweatshirt, hoodie and trackies. On the way down the stairs he deliberated whether to alert Miss Givens or Gregor as to where he was going. Deciding against it, he left the house. Miss Givens would only worry. Worse, Gregor might want to go with him. No way could he deal with babysitting duties. He and Alex could look after themselves, but Gregor wasn’t built the same way, being more of a bookworm.
Arran let himself out of the house and unlocked his bike. He walked it to the pavement before mounting and pedalling off into the night. How the hell had Alex done what the police couldn’t and found Maxim? All along the route Arran waited for another text from Alex, keeping him up to date with what was going on. None came. He might not be in a position to use the phone again. Or was there some other reason he couldn’t get back in contact? With no traffic around, Arran sped along the middle of the road, eating up the yards. After leaving behind Shah’s Clothing Company, Arran slowed his pace, wanting to avoid rushing headlong into a situation not in his control. His days of rushing in half-cocked were over. He had learnt that particular lesson the hard way, coming close to death at the hands of the Russian gang because of his reckless nature.
At the end of the street, where the garage was located, Arran dismounted his bike. He couldn’t afford to announce his arrival and give away the element of surprise. He parked it out of sight, by the side of a unit selling motor accessories. Halfway along the street he picked out the garage, a yellow glow showing at the small window. Where was Alex? He knew Arran was on his way. He should have been here to meet him. Minutes ticked by and Alex didn’t show. Something must have happened and he’d tackled Maxim on his own. He had to be inside the garage with Maxim. The question was: Which one of them was on top? For Alex to have won out, he must have surprised Maxim. Arran only hoped that was the case.
The street lighting wasn’t good in this area, dominated by commercial properties, factories and industrial units. By day it was populated by an army of worker ants. By night they had fled to their nests and the area was deserted. The orange light from a solitary street lamp provided scant illumination. Useful for keeping him hidden, but putting him at risk of ambush. Sticking to the shadows, Arran crept along the cracked paving stones and crouched down behind a low wall. A quiet breeze ruffled his hair as he watched and listened. No sound came from the garage. No indication of what was going on inside. Desperate to find Alex, he forced himself to wait. Getting captured wouldn’t help his boyfriend. More minutes passed and still nothing happened. Rising, he edged forward. Coming to the garage, he slid down the side wall. It had the look of a place long abandoned, in bad shape, the door splintered and the window cracked. He tried peering through. Dirt and grime made it difficult to see anything. He would have to make his way inside. He didn’t like it. The whole situation smelled of a set up. But what choice did he have? Alex was likely inside and in need of his help.
An inch at a time, Arran eased open the door of the garage. One creak and he was done, all element of surprise gone. From inside came a slapping sound, reverberating around the walls. Heavy breathing and grunts of pleasure accompanied the slapping. What the hell was going on in there? It sounded like a brothel. Probably teenagers with nowhere else to go. Jesus, if he’d got the wrong fucking place ... He shrugged off the uncomfortable peeping Tom feeling and opened the door wide enough to slither through. He had to check who was inside and see what was happening. One check, just to make sure. The sex was coming from the back corner. Between here and there the floor was littered with car parts, old bits of engines, tyres and hub caps. Dark blotches showed everywhere. Oil patches, judging by the greasy odour. A dark rectangle dominated the centre - the work pit. If he took a tumble down there, he could well break his neck. Game over.
Arran edged forward, careful of each and every foot placement. Ten steps into the interior and he realised the commotion was not coming from teenagers. All the slapping and grunting was coming from Maxim. He was on some kind of makeshift bed and near naked. He was lying on top of Alex, his meaty hands around Alex’s neck, forcing him down. Alex was just lying there, not crying, not moaning, not making a sound. Maxim was ripping into him and revelling in every thrust. What a hypocrite! Good men had died at his hands because he hated homosexuals. Or so he said. Best mate Jez had died in great pain because this prick had kicked the life out of him.
Please don’t let Alex be dead.
Arran s
Six feet away, he raised the pipe above his head. Maxim still had no clue he was there. In two strides Arran was on him, swinging the pipe down at his head. The two connected with a sickening crack. Maxim gave one last grunt and collapsed onto Alex, a red streak opening up on his head. Blood leaked out from the wound. He wasn’t moving.
Neither was Alex.
The ground was shaking beneath Arran. Someone was calling his name.
‘Arran, wake up! Wake up!’
Arran opened his eyes. Alex was looking down on him, his hands resting on Arran’s shoulders.
‘Another nightmare?’
Arran turned onto his back. The sheet beneath his naked body was drenched in sweat. He swung his legs out of bed and sat on the side, resting his head in his hands. A heavy sense of dread clung to him and wouldn’t let go.
‘You need to talk to someone. You can’t go on like this, night after night. These nightmares are killing you.’
‘How the hell can I? After what I’ve done?’
Alex reached his arms around Arran and hugged him. ‘What we’ve done, Arran. You didn’t do it alone. I helped you. That makes me just as guilty in the eyes of the law.’
Alex’s loyalty crushed Arran. When Alex had needed him, he’d taken the high moral ground. He hadn’t listened when Alex had explained how he’d been just a kid when his sister and the gang had forced him to be a honeytrap for gay men. He’d dismissed the massive burdens on Alex in turning on his old gang and helping the police with their prosecution case. He’d had the gall to label Alex a murderer, even though he hadn’t actually murdered anyone. To Alex’s face, he’d told him that whatever the situation he still wouldn’t have done what he’d done. And now he had. Worse. He’d killed Maxim. Even though it was an accident and he hadn’t meant to hit him so hard, the man was still dead.
Banging on the front door made them jump.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Arran said.
Downstairs, doors opened and closed. A light showed under the crack of their door. The murmur of voices was heard. Then footsteps pounded up the stairs.
‘Oh, fuck! It’s the police. They’ve come for us.’
Alex took Arran by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes. ‘Say nothing when they get you to the station. We’ll speak to Sydnee. She’ll find us a good solicitor. When the police tell you I’m talking, that I’m betraying you, don’t listen. Don’t let them get us to turn on each other. You hearing me, Arran?’
Arran nodded. ‘I hear you.’
Someone rapped on the bedroom door. ‘It’s me, Gregor. You awake?’
‘What is it?’ Arran said.
‘You need to come downstairs. Now. It’s important.’
‘Be right down.’
Arran and Alex pulled on t-shirts and trackie bottoms. Before leaving the bedroom, Alex hugged Arran. ‘We can beat this, I promise. Stay strong. I love you.’
Walking down the stairs, a strange kind of relief came over Arran. His mum and stepdad would be devastated, heartbroken, at finding out what he’d done. That he’d killed a man. But at least this soul-destroying burden would be lifted and the nightmares would end. He could plead his case in court, take his punishment, serve out his time and start afresh. In the living room, only Miss Givens, Gregor and Sydnee were waiting for them. No police.
Arran looked at Sydnee. ‘What’s going on? Why are you here so late at night?’
‘You’d better brace yourself, love. Bad news, I’m afraid. Mr Cheung has passed away.’
Arran sank down onto the settee. Somehow he’d sensed something was wrong. He just hadn’t expected this, the death of his friend and mentor, and at a time when he needed him most.
Chapter Two
The train on the London Waterloo to Reading line stopped at Ashford in Surrey. The man hadn’t expected it to be on time, given everything he’d heard about British inefficiency in general and public transport in particular. Though the journey was in the middle of the day and there weren’t too many travellers on the train. It would probably have been a different story at rush hour. He pressed the exit button and stepped out onto the platform. After asking at the ticket office for directions, he left the small station and walked a short distance to a bus stop.
The town consisted of a strip of stores and a cluster of houses surrounded by lots of green. It wasn’t much more than a blip on the map. He moved around and stamped his feet to keep the blood flowing. He should have worn a heavier jacket, he thought. The air was fresher here than in the middle of London and the thin spring sunshine did little to warm him. After twenty long minutes, a bus pulled up at the stop. He checked the number on the front - 117. The bus was almost full. He got on, paid and took a seat halfway back, next to a young guy with lots of tattoos on show. He hadn’t asked the driver to put him off at his destination, imagining it would be too big to miss. Hardly had he settled into his seat before his journey’s end came into sight. Someone rang the bell. When the bus came to a stop, it emptied, everyone dismounting. This was a popular destination in these parts - HM Prison Bronzefield.
The man stood for a few seconds and took in the prison, disappointed it wasn’t as he’d pictured in his mind - a dark and foreboding structure, like the Tower of London. This building more resembled a giant leisure facility. So much for modern punishment, he thought. No wonder crime did pay. He followed the signs to the visitor facility and joined the end of the queue. When his turn came, an obese female officer ran her shovel mitts all over him. Probably the closest she ever got to sex. Rolls of fat spilled over her black trousers and large patches of sweat soiled the underarms of her white shirt. Gross. She asked if he was bringing in alcohol, drugs or weapons. Oh yeah, blimp, I have a giant meat cleaver stuffed up my sweater that I’d like to embed in your head for asking such a dumb fucking question. He smiled and shook his head. Ms Blimp directed him to a bank of lockers in which to leave his personal possessions. He took out a five pound note from his wallet before depositing it and his mobile phone inside a locker. He was then allowed to enter the Visits Hall - a large open-plan room with tables and seating dotted around. Some overpaid architect’s idea of an indoor plastic picnic park. At the refreshment counter he spent all of the money on two coffees, the colour of cloudy piss. He took them over to a corner table that had a bit more privacy than the others. Not that privacy mattered. No one other than the no-count jailbirds would see them together.
The man only had to wait another few minutes before the lowlifes came spilling in. He recognised the one he’d come to see straight away. She looked like her photo, only rougher. He waved his hand and called her name. She picked him out and came over. Up close she looked especially rough, hair in bad shape and eyes ringed with black. As she sat down opposite him, he recoiled from the whiff of boiled cabbage. No wonder she’d dropped weight.
A mixed race bitch walked by and drummed a meaty fist on their table top. All the while she kept her eyes fixed on the woman opposite him. The mongrel made for the nearest table to theirs. Svetlana shrank down under her hostile gaze. Hello, the man thought. What’s going on here? Svetlana’s blackened eyes weren’t just from a lack of sleep. Ha! How juicy.
‘Svetlana,’ he said, sliding over a coffee to her, ‘this is for you.’
She rewarded him with a weak smile. ‘Great to finally meet you. I was surprised to hear from you again. What brings you all this way?’
‘I think you know why.’
‘Maxim.’
The man nodded. ‘Maxim. Someone has to look after his interests, since he has no one else.’
She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘I couldn’t believe what you told me on the phone. I had to come here and look you in the eye. So why don’t you make me understand?’
