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- Herausgeber: Alfredbooks
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
by Alfred Bekker Inspector Jörgensen and the unscrupulous: A brutal gang controls the drug business in St. Pauli - and wages a merciless war against the competition. A series of murders appears to be linked to this drug war - but Detective Chief Inspector Uwe Jörgensen and his colleague Roy Müller have their doubts ... Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden and Janet Farell.
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Inspector Jörgensen And The Unscrupulous: Crime Thriller
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Inspector Jörgensen And The Unscrupulous: Crime Thriller
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Inspector Jörgensen And The Unscrupulous: Crime Thriller
by Alfred Bekker
Inspector Jörgensen and the unscrupulous:
A brutal gang controls the drug business in St. Pauli - and wages a merciless war against the competition. A series of murders appears to be linked to this drug war - but Detective Chief Inspector Uwe Jörgensen and his colleague Roy Müller have their doubts ...
Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, crime thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden and Janet Farell.
Copyright
A CassiopeiaPress book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books, Alfred Bekker, Alfred Bekker presents, Casssiopeia-XXX-press, Alfredbooks, Uksak Special Edition, Cassiopeiapress Extra Edition, Cassiopeiapress/AlfredBooks and BEKKERpublishing are imprints of
Alfred Bekker
© Roman by Author
© this issue 2023 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia
The fictional characters have nothing to do with actual living persons. Similarities in names are coincidental and not intentional.
All rights reserved.
www.AlfredBekker.de
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1
Hamburg 1997...
Christoph Franz saw the light at the end of the Elbe tunnel that connects Hamburg-Othmarschen with Hamburg-Waltershof. The tunnel runs deep under the Elbe and emerged to the surface again in Hamburg-Waltershof.
Franz squinted his eyes as he drove out of the tunnel. The glaring daylight blinded him a little.
Little did he know that at the same moment his face would become visible in the scope of a precision weapon.
The crosshairs right on his forehead ...
Franz took a deep breath, thinking about the appointment he had ahead of him at a law firm in Hamburg-Mitte.
He knew the route like the back of his hand.
Only a good two hundred and fifty meters to go, then the road led through the open.
Franz raised his eyes.
Above the tunnel exit, we continued on the A7.
Against the bright sunlight of this cold, clear day, he couldn't see the guy with the gun standing up there with him in his sights.
Only seconds had passed since his BMW had passed the exit of the Elbe Tunnel.
A bullet shattered the windshield and penetrated his forehead. A small, round hole formed slightly above his eyes. A red dot that quickly grew larger.
The force of the projectile caused Franz's skull to hit the headrest, which was not properly adjusted, with a jolt. His neck was already strangely twisted when the second shot pierced his jaw and lodged in the seat cushion of the back seat after shredding the headrest.
The BMW broke out of its lane.
The dead man's hands tightened around the steering wheel. And his foot was still pressing on the accelerator.
The car scraped against a delivery van, which tried to brake and skidded. A sports coupe chased it from the side into the load compartment.
The sheet buckled like cardboard.
Tires squealed.
With a bang, other vehicles followed. An articulated lorry just managed to swerve out of the way, forcing a limousine off the road and causing both to get stuck in the crash barriers a moment later.
Meanwhile, the BMW continued to chase at undiminished speed.
Like a projectile.
A corpse at the wheel.
Of course, he was unable to take the bend in the highway at the Kohlbrand.
The car crashed head-on into a concrete barrier.
The engine section of the BMW folded up in seconds as if it were made of newspaper. The car stopped with a tremendous bang.
A figure stood above the road and calmly watched the action. The murderer grimaced.
He stowed the precision rifle in a sheath. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his worn leather jacket and pulled out a spray can of black paint.
With quick, confident movements, he skillfully sprayed lettering onto the asphalt.
BLOOD ANGELS was written there the next moment in large, jagged letters.
And a little smaller below: WE ARE EVERYWHERE!
An Opel stopped at the side of the road.
The murderer took a few quick steps towards the car and got in. The Opel drove off with screeching tires and disappeared into the traffic jam moments later.
"Everything okay?" asked the driver.
The murderer took a deep breath.
"I think so," he said.
"We'll take the next exit and then drive back to Othmarschen."
"Why?"
"Because I got the car from there. I'm putting it back exactly where it was."
"The owner will be delighted."
"If someone just watched the car and the police show up at the guy's house, probably not anymore." A crazy giggle followed. The driver seemed very amused by this idea.
The murderer, on the other hand, just shrugged his broad shoulders.
2
When Roy and I arrived at the exit of the Elbe tunnel, all hell was breaking loose. My friend and colleague Roy Müller was at the wheel of a Mercedes that we had been given by the Hamburg Criminal Investigation Department. It was a big limousine.
Roy parked them at the side of the road. The exit from the Elbe tunnel had been closed in both directions. And it would certainly stay that way for a few more hours.
We got out of the car.
I turned up the collar of my coat.
A damn cold wind blew in from the Elbe and made your nose freeze to a crisp within a few moments.
Numerous emergency vehicles from the police, highway police and fire department crowded onto the asphalt. There were also a number of medical rescue teams and officers from the homicide squad, the central identification service of the various police departments in the city of Hamburg, which was also frequently called upon by our office.
"That looks terrible," Roy muttered with a furrowed brow.
I just nodded.
We showed our ID cards to a uniformed police officer.
The officer nodded curtly.
"Bad thing ..." he said.
"Another attack by this gang called the BLOOD ANGELS?" I asked. We hadn't been told much. The news had reached us just after we had entered our office at the police station. We had left immediately.
"It's about time this gang of terrorists was finally cleaned up, if you ask me," said the officer. "Look at what they've done here!" He pointed in the direction of the resulting chaos and then in the opposite direction. "The guy was standing there and pulled the trigger. Randomly - some car. Just to prove his courage or because he didn't like BMWs ..." The officer took a deep breath.
As a patrolman, he was certainly used to a lot. It was not a job for the faint-hearted.
But this visibly affected him.
"I can understand if someone wants to be rich and robs a cash-in-transit company because they think it's their big chance. I can also understand if someone kills someone in a fight because they just blow a fuse. My God, but this..." He shook his head. "It's so completely pointless." I could only agree with him. I nodded. He said, "I hope the guy gets what he deserves."
"I hope so too," I replied.
I looked at a van that looked like a crushed metal coffin. Some men were busy cutting someone out of the pile of scrap metal. There was a pool of blood on the cold asphalt. It had already dried.
A tragedy, I thought. I could understand the policeman's anger only too well.
"Five dead," he murmured to me. "And it's not yet clear whether all of the injured will survive ..."
3
Inspector Lothar Jacobs, head of the Hamburg-Mitte homicide squad, approached us. His walkie-talkie was sticking out of his coat pocket. His hair was unkempt and he certainly hadn't had breakfast. His face looked gray.
"Hello, Uwe," he greeted me curtly. I knew him from various missions. He greeted Roy with a nod of his head. "The forensic experts are going to be busy for a while yet, but it looks like one of those cursed tests of courage that the BLOOD ANGELS use to accept their new members." He pointed to the pile of metal that had once been a BMW before this assassination. Some members of the forensics team then got to work on the car.
"Do they know who the victim was yet?" I asked.
"No. We have to painstakingly cut the body out of the BMW first. I don't think that would help you either. The victim was chosen completely at random. The guy was standing back there at the top of the road and picked out one of the vehicles that had just come out of the Elbe tunnel."
I nodded.
More details would probably be found in the reports. Both in the coroner's report and in what the ballistics experts would find out. We followed Inspector Jacobs to the BMW.
A terrible sight!
I made a note of the number. May the devil know what I would need it for.
Jacobs took a deep breath and then said sombrely: "The last time I was here was two weeks ago. In almost exactly the same place and for the same reason ..."
"I know," I said.
"It's hard to believe! These brothers have really become brazen. Twice in a row in the same place!" He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Maybe it was an act of special courage," he said with a caustic undertone.
"We're doing everything we can to catch the perpetrators," explained Roy. "But after all, we can't just go to St. Pauli and arrest all the people wearing strange leather jackets ..."
"That shouldn't be an accusation," replied Inspector Jacobs. "But when you see something like that, you can get angry." He pointed to the spot where the shooter had been standing. "I assume you still want to see where the shot was fired from ..."
"Yes," I nodded.
"The perpetrator can't have been a bad shot," Jacobs then stated.
"What makes you think that?" said Roy. "A BMW like that is no small target!"
"No, but mobile. The shooter only had a few seconds to hit the car before it would have whizzed past. Where he hit the BMW is almost irrelevant. Even if it's just a tire, a catastrophe is inevitable. More or less, anyway."
"Are we taking our car?" asked Roy.
Inspector Jacobs nodded.
"My colleague is currently on the road with mine."
We got into the Mercedes. This time I was at the wheel. We passed an underpass and then had to drive around a bend to finally reach the A7, which ran in the opposite direction. It was hard to miss the spot where the killer had been lying in wait for his victim, because there were lots of police vehicles there too.
One lane was closed.
We stopped at the side of the road and got out.
A little later, the three of us were standing in the exact spot from which the perpetrator had had his wonderful view. Right at the exit of the Elbe tunnel.
Jacobs said: "It looks like the killer hit the BMW driver. That means he must have hit him fairly soon after the car came out of the tunnel. Otherwise the angle would have been too unfavorable ..."
I looked at the writing that had been sprayed on the floor.
"The BLOOD ANGELS lettering is well done," said Roy.
"I would like to have prints of the photos that the forensics team hopefully took as soon as possible."
"Smearing," said Lothar Jacobs lightly.
"Wait and see," I replied. Every little thing could mean the decisive clue in the end.
One of the policemen now approached us and turned to Jacobs.
"Mr. Jacobs, I have the chief of police on the line."
Jacobs nodded.
"I'm coming," he said and followed the officer to his patrol car.
Roy looked after him for a moment.
"Seems like people are getting nervous on the higher floors too, Uwe."
"Are you surprised?"
"Not really," Roy replied. "After all, these BLOOD ANGELS are spreading through St. Pauli like an epidemic, block by block, street by street. It's reminiscent of guerrilla warfare."
We exchanged a quick glance.
Yes, it was a war waged by the BLOOD ANGELS.
A war against the police, the citizens, hostile gangs and every crack dealer between Altona and Harburg who didn't have the cheek to give them at least half of their profits.
St. Pauli, Altona and parts of Hamburg-Harburg were the places in Hamburg where drugs ruled openly. Gangs that ruled a few streets were nothing unusual. And the fact that such gangs stretched out their fingers for whatever promised them profit was unfortunately also the order of the day.
You could still earn more as a drug dealer in St. Pauli than in any of the jobs that were available here. A lot more.
But the BLOOD ANGELS were not just any gang. Not one of the many gangs, some of which operated quite openly and ensured that in certain streets the police only dared to leave their cars with a pump gun at the ready.
But the BLOOD ANGELS were something special in every respect. Better equipped, better armed and better organized than all the others who drove them down street after street.
Of course, we had our informants on site. And so we knew, at least in broad outline, what was going on. All the findings pointed in a very specific direction.
The BLOOD ANGELS were probably working for someone who wanted to take control of the crack trade by waging an extremely bloody campaign against the competition.
Someone with a lot of money - a lot of money.
We had no idea who they were. Most of the crack dealers and the lower ranks of the BLOOD ANGELS probably didn't either. Perhaps even the leaders only knew some of the middlemen.
In this way, this unknown person in the background kept himself completely out of the line of fire. And the ANGELS not only did the dirty work for him, but also bore the full risk.
I looked down again at the entrance to the Elbe tunnel, which had become a death trap for the previously unknown BMW driver.
As tragic as this event was, it was basically nothing more than a footnote in a cruel drug war that the man at the wheel of the BMW certainly had nothing to do with.
Roy stepped up next to me.
"What are you thinking?" he asked. "Something's buzzing around in your head."
I smiled wanly.
"Are you a telepath?"
"No, but I've known you for a while, Uwe."
"Slight understatement, eh?"
"Maybe a little ..."
There was a pause. I went through everything again in my mind. Roy had recognized that correctly. There was indeed something that was bothering me.
"This is not the first such attack by the BLOOD ANGELS," I said cautiously. "But so far they've never struck twice in a row in the same place ..."
Roy raised his eyebrows.
"So, what do you make of that, Uwe?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Nothing," I said. "I just noticed it and I wondered if there could be any sensible reason for it."
Roy made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"A reasonable reason?" he quoted me. He shook his head vigorously. "Sorry, Uwe, but that sounds a bit strange in this context ..."
4
Pietro Borinsky stood at the window of the rather run-down house and pushed the curtain aside. He briefly checked the fit of the huge Magnum revolver he was carrying on his back in his waistband.
His brother Darius, meanwhile, was writhing in one of the rather worn leather armchairs, desperately trying to open a can of beer after he had been clumsy enough to break off the handle. Darius cursed obscenely as he soiled his jeans. He held the can over the low glass table, on which traces of white powder could be seen.
Baking powder. xxx
It could be boiled together with cocaine and then turned into crack cocaine. It was a good business because the consumers had no way of checking afterwards how high the proportion of baking powder was.
And often the cocaine had already been adulterated.
Crack was the devil's stuff. Much cheaper than heroin and cocaine, but just as addictive. The drug of the little people who couldn't afford pure coke.
"What's there to see?" asked Darius, turning to his brother after he had drunk half the can.
Pietro narrowed his eyes.
"Our customer," he said.
"That's fine. Business was pretty slow today!"
Pietro observed a Ford stopped at the side of the road. A man got out. Middle-aged, belly bulging, hardly any hair left on his head. He pulled up the collar of his coat and looked around nervously.
"What kind is that?" asked Darius.
"Never been here before," Pietro replied. "If you ask me: small employee who can't cope with the stress. Lives in Wandsbek! A coward according to his telephone voice."
Darius laughed uproariously.
"Harsh judgment," he said.
"I'm rarely wrong."
"Don't get any ideas!"
Pietro now watched as the customer approached the front door.
He crossed the small overgrown patch of lawn, which had actually once been a front garden, with long, sweeping strides. He looked around again. Nervousness was written all over his face. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out an envelope. Then he bent down and inserted the envelope into the letter slot.
"I'll go to the door and count," said Darius.
Meanwhile, Pietro watched the customer.
He walked back towards the car. After turning around again, he turned to one of the overflowing garbage cans. He opened it and took out a newspaper. A copy of the Hamburg Abendblatt. He opened it, took out something, which he immediately put in his coat pocket and then got into his car.
Darius, meanwhile, called out from the corridor leading to the door: "The money's right!"
"Okay..."
In the other case, Pat could have stopped the customer with a well-aimed shot in the tire.
But that never really happened. The risk of being cheated by customers was low because they knew what could happen to them if the dealer got hold of them.
But the risk of being convicted was minimized in this way. From time to time, such crack houses were raided by the drug squad or the relevant police departments and the dealers were arrested. But if the police were not very diligent, nothing usable in court came of it. After all, anyone could have put the drugs in the garbage can. And the customer may only have gone to the front door to see if he was at the right address.
You needed clever lawyers, but with a bit of small change it was no problem.
Darius returned to the living room. He placed the envelope on the table.
Pietro took a deep breath. He sounded almost relieved.
"What's going on?" asked Darius.
"I had a bad feeling," said Pietro.
"Why?"
"You always have to be careful with new customers. Can always be a cop ..."
"We're careful," said Darius. And that meant, in particular, that there wasn't a single gram of crack or cocaine in the entire house.
Not now.
"I'm not particularly afraid of the cops," said Pietro. "They're bound by the law. I'm more worried about those who make their own law."
The sound of an engine caught Pietro's attention. He looked out of the window but couldn't see anything yet. Then he saw some motorcycles speeding along the road. They weren't paying attention to anyone, but simply assumed that they had the right of way. Black-painted motorcycles with martial emblems painted on them using airbrush technology. Here and there, the words BLOOD ANGELS could be read in jagged capital letters.
The helmets were also black, the visors lowered and fitted with tinted lenses so that not the slightest bit of the drivers' faces could be seen.
These helmets had a white cross on the forehead.
"I hope they don't want to join us," said Pietro.
His brother had already disappeared through a door into an adjoining room and returned with a pump-action rifle.
Darius grasped the situation immediately.
"Of course those bastards want to join us," he hissed between his lips. "They want war, you bet they do! Let them have it ..."
Pietro had not drawn the Magnum revolver. Instead, he made a gesture with his hand to make his brother stop in his tracks.
"Take it easy, Cy! If we're not careful now, our scalps will be hanging on these fire chairs as trophies."
"Fucking assholes..." Darius hissed between thin lips. He reloaded the pump gun with a vigorous movement.
Pietro stayed at the window and looked out. He watched the motorcyclists. He counted at least a dozen. And they rode like an escort!
Three or four limousines then roared past. All luxury class cars. Mercedes or BMW. No Toyota or Honda and certainly no Korean car.
The BLOOD ANGELS didn't like Asians, that was common knowledge. That's why they also detested Asian cars. This was only an advantage for the owners, because of course none of these vehicles had ever been purchased.
If they needed a nice sled, one of them would simply drive to Hamburg Mitte or another district and get one.
Free delivery for self-collection, they used to call it cynically.
Pietro began to sweat.
The fact that the gang had arrived with a whole army couldn't mean anything good. It occurred to him for a moment that it might have been better to leave the area after all when these figures in black leather outfits turned up.
The motorcyclists took up position.
They drew their weapons.
Automatic pistols, Uzi machine guns and, above all, pump guns that they had taken from police patrols. It was a colorful mixture. A fearsome force that seemed to be well equipped.
Some of them took off their helmets. And now you could see how young they were. The average age could hardly be over twenty. Only the leaders were much older. Maybe up to thirty years old. The doors of the limousines opened. Armed men took up positions everywhere.
"We have no chance," said Pietro Borinsky. "We can't even escape ..."
"I wonder who sent them," growled Darius.
"It doesn't matter to us. We can't compete with them either way."
"I'll get a few people together," Darius said. The sweat of fear was already on his forehead. His eyes were shining. He reached for the phone. Then he slammed the receiver back on the hook.
"Dead," he said tonelessly.
The next moment, the inferno broke out.
Dozens of weapons fired incessantly.
Windows were broken. Pietro threw himself into cover. Darius made a dash for the window. He wanted to shoot back, but he couldn't get rid of more than an unaimed lead charge. Then he had to put his head down as quickly as possible.
Footsteps could be heard.
They came from all sides.
Something flew through the window.
A hand grenade.
It was the last thing Pietro saw. Then there was a huge detonation. Pietro was completely torn apart. Even specialists would later have difficulty identifying him.
Darius scrambled sideways just before the grenade exploded. He doubled over as the deafening noise of the explosion filled the room. The next moment he felt a hellish pain in his back. A splinter must have hit him there. The pain spread through his whole body. His hands were still clutching the pump gun. He tasted blood in his mouth. He tried to roll over on the floor. It hurt like hell.
A rattling sound escaped his lips.
He heard a crash, as if wood was breaking. Someone broke down the front door.
Then footsteps in the hallway.
Darius Borinsky looked up and saw above him a slender, towering figure clad in black leather. The face was pale, the eyes dark brown. The chin jutted out slightly. A cynical smile played around the thin lips. He held an automatic in his right hand.
This man was about thirty. He was flanked by two younger men, one of whom was armed with an assault rifle and the other with an automatic.
Darius recognized the pale-faced man with the dark hair, who seemed to him at that moment like an embodiment of death itself. He had met him briefly once.
That was Killer-Kai.
He was known by this name in St. Pauli. Nobody here knew his real name. He was ruthless and ice-cold. And his young followers looked up to him in awe. He was their role model. And one day, perhaps one of these young guys would put a bullet in his skull behind his back to put himself at the top.
But they weren't ready yet.
Killer-Kai bent down. Unlike his men, he wasn't wearing gloves. The martial symbols he had tattooed on the backs of his hands were clearly visible.
There was a flash in his eyes.
"You should have listened to me, Borinsky!"
Darius Borinsky replied with a gasp.
He wanted to yank up the pump gun and shoot a full lead load into the cynical face of this pale angel of death. But his hands and arms no longer obeyed the crack dealer.
Played out, he thought. Over and done with.
Kai laughed harshly.
"I hope as many people in the neighborhood as possible hear about the pathetic way you died, Borinsky. And maybe then they'll finally realize what happens to everyone who doesn't understand who's allowed to deal crack around here and who's not. Maybe you'll save a few more lives that way, Borinsky. Do you like the idea?"
Killer-Kai took his automatic and placed it against Darius Borinsky's skull. Darius closed his eyes.
But then Kai decided otherwise.
He turned to the young man standing to his left.
"You do that, Sören!"
"Me?"
"Do you have it with your ears?"
"But..."
"That at the Elbe Tunnel was just a gimmick! Now you can show that you're one of us, Sören! Go on, then! Kill him and look him in the eye!"
Sören swallowed.
Killer-Kai stepped aside.
Sören raised his automatic, took aim and pulled the trigger. He fired almost half the magazine's contents.
