Jermaine O’Shay was wary. He didn’t trust Michael Flynn as far as he could throw him. As far as Jermaine was concerned, Palmer should have been removed from the equation the minute he fucked up. But Michael Flynn had been determined to find a way to sort everything out. He had understood Jermaine’s problem – had agreed with him, sympathised – but he had still wanted him to let it go. He had even asked him to swallow as a personal favour to him.
As if that was ever going to happen. Jeffrey Palmer wasn’t a cunt, but by the same token, he had tried to treat Jermaine like one. Palmer had a good rep, was well-liked, but then so was he. This was about respect, and Michael Flynn needed to understand that. His assurance that he had sorted everything out just wasn’t good enough. It had gone pear-shaped from day one. Palmer had tried to tuck him up and there was no way Jermaine O’Shay was going to back down. He was going mob-handed to this meet and, if it all went off, he would be prepared.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Jeffrey Palmer sipped his whisky, and felt himself relax. This had not been anything like he had expected. Declan and Michael were both friendly and chatty, making sure he was comfortable, asking if he needed anything else.
The scrapyard was legendary, and this was the first time he had been there. Everyone knew that this was where Michael and Patrick had conducted their real business. It was also a big earner in its own right; he had been told that over a million pounds worth of scrap went through the place every year.
‘I hope we can sort everything tonight, Jeff. I don’t like discord within my workforce. It causes unnecessary aggro for everyone.’
Jeffrey sipped his drink, savouring the taste of the whisky. ‘You know I don’t want it either, mate. I dropped a fucking big bollock, and if I could fucking take it back I would. I just got a bit overenthusiastic, that’s all. I was blinded by the earn.’
Michael laughed at the man’s honesty. ‘Well, you will know for the future.’
The headlights from a car played over the ceiling, and Michael got up from his chair behind the dilapidated desk, and walked to the door. Opening it wide, he said gaily, ‘Get yourself in, mate. It’s fucking freezing.’
Jermaine got out of his car, and Michael saw he had two men with him. They were both close to Jermaine O’Shay, had worked for him for years. Michael Flynn ushered them into the Portakabin, before closing the door. Then, rubbing his hands together noisily, he said jovially, ‘It’s fucking taters out there tonight, all right. Colder than a witch’s tit.’
The Portakabin was warm and inviting. Motioning to Jermaine with his hands, Michael watched as he sat down in the only other available chair. His two minders stood awkwardly by the doorway. The Portakabin was already filled to capacity; none of the men there were exactly small.
‘I thought I said to come alone, Jermaine?’ Michael’s voice was cold now. His face without his usual smile, without any emotion whatsoever, looked very different, like a mask.
Jermaine O’Shay was not going to be intimidated. He had two of his best men with him and he was here to fight his corner, and remind Michael of who he worked with, and why he was so well thought of. He was partner to some of the hardest men who walked the earth. This was not a fucking friendly sit down, as far as he was concerned. This was him, making a point, once and for all. This had gone on too long now, and he was bored with it.
‘Well, as you can see, Michael, I didn’t. I haven’t come here to negotiate.’
Alarm bells rang for Jeffrey Palmer – there was going to be trouble. He swallowed the last of his whisky quickly. He could see that Declan Costello was as nervous as he was. This was not going to end well, he knew that much.
Michael laughed gently. ‘Do you know what, Jermaine? I fucking knew you would come mob-handed. I said that to you, didn’t I, Declan?’
Declan nodded his agreement. ‘You did at that, Michael. That’s why we made provision for just such a situation.’
Jermaine O’Shay frowned. This was not what he was expecting at all.
Declan got up and opened the door that led to the other office.
Michael Flynn called out happily, ‘Come in, guys, your moment in the spotlight has arrived at last.’
When Jermaine O’Shay saw the Barker brothers enter, he felt his heart sink like a stone in his chest. There were four Barker brothers, they were each born within a five-year period, and looked like clones. They were all over six foot, heavily built, with a natural penchant for extreme violence. Born from a Jamaican father, and a second-generation Dutch mother, they were handsome fucks, with coffee-coloured skin and dark blue eyes. They were Michael Flynn’s private army, and he paid them well. He had their loyalty but, more importantly, he had their friendship. They only worked for the people they wanted to; they were known throughout England as men of courage, men of good character who couldn’t be owned. They had always stood alone, and that was why they were so sought after. Now they were standing there with machetes in their hands, and smiles on their faces, eager to get down to business.
‘I think this is what is called in France, a fait accompli. Basically, mate, you’re fucked.’