LITMIR.BIZ

       1

      They were all there. All of them. The faces of London coming together, putting their differences aside to sort out the problems hitting the streets of Soho. But as Alfie Jennings sat staring hard at Vaughn Sadler, who in turn was staring hard at Johnny and Frankie Taylor who sat belligerently in the corner with their backs turned on Tommy Donaldson who was refusing to converse with Del Williams, putting their differences aside looked like it was going to prove more difficult than any of them could have imagined.

      ‘Bleedin’ hell, anyone would think this is a flipping wake from the looks on your faces.’ Lola Harding cackled out her words as she served them chipped mugs of over-milked tea in her café in Bateman Street. She smiled an almost-toothless grin but only received deep scowls in return, which only served to make her laugh harder.

      ‘Come on gentlemen, it ain’t that bad. Look at you all! Frankie, you look like a wet weekend in Margate, and Del, cop on to yourself, sitting hunched up in the corner like a crack-addicted little Jack Horner.’

      She exploded into another raucous laugh, making Del scowl and mutter under his breath. ‘Do me a favour.’

      Lola – who was now on a roll and enjoying every moment – continued, not being put off by anyone’s lack of enthusiasm towards her. She shuffled over to another of the London faces, poking him playfully in the chest. ‘Then you, Vaughn; Christ darling, you look like you’re about to shit out an elephant. Come on sweetheart, I expected better of you. What’s there to be glum about? Okay, okay, I know there’s a little bit of trouble bubbling about but nothing you can’t handle. Vaughn! Come on doll. Where you’ve got breath you’ve got a smile. Vaughnie baby, give old Lola a smile.’

      Vaughn glared at Lola. He could feel his face turning red as he tried to keep down his temper. Although Lola’s antics hadn’t brought him out in a smile, it’d certainly brought the others out in one, or rather, it’d brought them out in smirks. And it pissed him off no end – especially as the person who was grinning the most was Alfie Jennings, who was sitting opposite him in the dingy café.

      Being anywhere near Alfie pissed him off. They had history. Too much history. Alfie’s daughter, Emmie – Vaughn’s goddaughter – had come to live with him and his partner, Casey a while back, and for a short time life had been peaceful; he’d even go so far as saying it’d been idyllic, something he’d never experienced nor could have ever imagined before, but then this had happened. This shit which had hit Soho, smashing his peace like a big brass fucking band.

      Vaughn sighed, rubbing his head as his hair flopped over his handsome sun-kissed face, giving him the appearance of a man twenty years his junior. Jesus, he wished he was back in his place in Surrey, tending his roses, making love to Casey or even listening to Emmie’s teenage strops. Anything. Anything, would be better than fucking this.

      He’d left Soho life and all it entailed a long time ago, really only coming up for social gatherings and to catch up with old acquaintances and that had suited him well. It was on his terms. Vaughn had spent too many years looking over his shoulder with his life revolving around money and violence, and finally he thought it was over. But then he’d had the call. The code of honour call from another face. The call which meant no matter how much he didn’t want to be here, he really had no choice.

      The call had come from Greg Bradley, an old face who still lived in Soho after seventy-eight years. Although Greg had retired a long time ago and now chose an early night and a drink of Ovaltine over any form of ructions, all his faculties were still intact and he was the ears and eyes of the place.

      When Vaughn had picked up the call from Greg, he’d had no time for small talk, simply saying. ‘It’s Soho. We’re in trouble.’

      In all his time as a face around London Vaughn had only had the call, once. A long time ago, when he’d temporarily settled in Spain, needing to hang low after a multi-million-pound heist, and then, like now, he’d been forced to return to Soho.

      Back then it’d been the Yardies, a group of tough and ambitious Jamaicans who’d wanted to add Soho to their takeover of London. There’d been a lot of violence, a lot of claret spilt, but eventually after a few weeks, the turf war had come to an end. Soho had been reclaimed and Vaughn had gone back to Spain for a while, whilst the other faces who’d also got the call had crawled back to wherever they’d come from.

      And now twenty-odd years later, the call had come through, but not because of the Yardies or any other group who thought they were tough enough to take the faces of London on. No, this time the enemy were bigger, more dangerous, more ruthless and they needed all the manpower they could get. Because, this time … this time the triads had come.

      The triads were at one time the largest criminal organisation in the world with over half a million members, based mainly in Hong Kong and China with roots dating back to

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