Hard Place Read Online Free

in droves. Ever since, day by day, their power and control of the drug scene became stronger. The toughest and most ruthless had risen by fear and intimidation to become the bosses. Bastards like Boris Zandro had grown tax-free rich. It was cat-and-mouse stuff. Ratso knew every one of them from old files and the well-collated material on the database, even shirt size and name of their favourite tailors—but making something stick? That was the challenge.
    These thugs had been destroying British families for profit—dividing parents from kids, undermining and abusing the inherent values of decent folk. Destroying kids like Freddie, his brother’s son. Last seen alive snivelling in a doorway off the Edgware Road. Later found dead in a bus shelter on the Kilburn High Road two weeks back. Aged just nineteen.
    Destroyed by a drug cartel, probably Zandro’s.
    At a Home Office briefing, he’d learned how the Albanians had brought heroin, cocaine and pills into City bars, London discos, clubs and hangouts at every level of society. From that base, with mounting brutality, they had won turf wars, extending their power through the nation’s arteries until their evil was everywhere. Places better known for genteel respectability like Canterbury, Chester, Tavistock and Tunbridge Wells, had fallen into their clutches. Nowhere was immune. And it wasn’t just drugs. Ratso flung his jacket onto a visitor’s chair and scowled as he considered how these gangsters had muscled their way into every criminal racket: brothels, sex trafficking, cigarette smuggling, counterfeiting, immigration and arms dealing. Murder and torture were weapons of choice for Erlis Bardici as he kept the foot soldiers in line.
    The great British public still remembered the Krays, the Richardson gang or talked in pubs about killers like Fred West but few were aware of the fierce grip of the Albanians. Now, they dominated the length and breadth of the British Isles.
    The Yardies? The Krays? The Richardsons? Pussycats compared to this lot. These Albanians had started a nationwide war. And the bastards were winning.
    As a detective inspector fronting operations, there was little time for fear—during the day, anyway. But nights were different. In quiet moments, he relived running for his life through the narrow alleys of Tirana, the machine gun firing, bullets ricocheting off the walls, his weary legs screaming for relief. Hiding beneath a truck. Heart pounding, the black night his only friend.
    Every day was about joining the dots. He knew Erlis Bardici was the enforcer, a murderer at least twelve times over. He knew Zandro and his cousins but there were still big gaps, the missing dots between Zandro and the engine room of the trafficking empire. Putting them all away would be beyond pleasure. It was even beyond obsession. It was a way of life. He owed it to Freddie—mouth open, emaciated, filthy T-shirt and no shoes—found next to the fast-food cartons in a stinking bus shelter. Wasted to a frazzle by drugs and starvation.
    Futile, really. You nail the Zandro gang. You even jail Boris Zandro. Cut off one head, there’ll be another tomorrow. Relentless. Bring down Zandro and another clone would move in. The Drug King is dead. Long live the Drug King.
    But Boris Zandro, I’m coming anyway. Operation Clam is gathering speed. I’m coming to get you, Boris, if it’s the last thing I do.
    As he was about to ease into his seat, he saw a yellow Post-It pinned to his computer screen. It was Jock Strang’s writing. See me, boss. Urgent. Without even booting up the computer, he edged back round his desk and headed downstairs to the Cauldron.
    When he saw the machine, he debated whether to risk a cup of coffee. Had the pipes been cleaned recently? Probably not. He decided to leave it. An espresso at Caffé Nero across the road was a better option. And maybe a toasted panini. He’d skipped breakfast, eager to get to base as soon as Nadine’s taxi sped off to Dollis