THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (14 page)

Sure enough we found an ’80’s Ford Escort just ripe for the picking in a corner of the car-park, shaded by conifers. Whilst I kept a casual eye out, Des folded the parcel wrap in two and pushed it between the door frame and centre pillar of the car. Seconds later he had wiggled it over the old-fashioned door lock button and with a deft tug, we were in.

The screwdriver took care of the ignition barrel. Within ten minutes we were back on the road.

Wet stinking overalls and brushed nylon seats. I was more pissed off than ever.  

Stern’s crew would come after us, no doubt. Joel was either dead or on the run. This was the mother of all takeovers. We had a window of opportunity to get some miles between us and them. Also, we didn’t have any petulant passengers to contend with, so we’d be much harder to find.

Des drove in silence I turned up the heater, got my head down and said a little prayer to the nice dream God.

When I woke, the first signs of dawn shone into the old car’s filthy windscreen.

We had pulled into a supermarket car park and Des had worked more magic and got us both a brew.

“Where are we, mate?” I stretched and took the polystyrene cup. “And how’d you pay for these?”

“We’re less than a mile from Rotterdam and I found some change in the glove box.”

I took a sip of tea. It was probably shit but to my bird cage bottom of a mouth, it tasted great. My clothes had dried on me and I was left caked in mud that smelled as good as it looked.

“You’re a star, Des.”

“Yeah right.” He rummaged in his pockets and produced three Euros.

“This isn’t gonna get us over the water though.”

I took another drink of the warm brown liquid that passed for a brew.

“True, but I think I know how to manage it.”

“How?”

“Well,” I turned to him. “You’re going to have to punch me for a start.”

He did, and it fucking hurt.

Another thirty-minute drive brought us to the port of Rotterdam. With the Escort left burning all trace of us some two kilometres behind, we wandered the concourse close to the ferry terminal, keeping one eye out for any sign of anyone who looked like one of Stern’s cronies.

The ferry port of Rotterdam teemed with travellers. Dozens of unwashed hippies with braided hair, smelling of petunia oil, mixed with cheap-suited businessmen.

What looked like an organised party of American cruise ship pensioners was being led toward a coach. They were probably there for the Dutch Flower Festival and I watched the tour guide with interest.

He wore a navy blue uniform with gold trim. The jacket was slightly too small for him, but he was smart with a grey crew cut and a big white smile. I shivered at the thought that he would have to keep thirty overweight geriatrics happy for days on end, listening to their endless complaints. He looked like a good guy, an all American boy. He’d probably served his country too. I could see it in his movements. His stature gave him away.

The clear morning had turned cold, and the stiff breeze was causing havoc for the elderly passengers. They held on to all manner of hats with thin, veined hands whilst the tour guide helped the coach driver to load masses of luggage into the hold.

Finally a couple of the old dears pointed in our general direction. One covered her mouth with shock at our appearance. Des and I staggered along, both covered in mud and the usual bumps and grazes associated with a fire-fight. I sported an obvious fat lip courtesy of the Scot. He was shouting obscenities at the old buggers and doing a fair impression of a drunk.

Within seconds, the coach driver was prodding at his mobile for the coppers. My tour guide watched us impassively, totally unfazed by the din. For a split second he caught my gaze. He had pale grey eyes that matched his crew cut. His tourist smile broadened and became real. I staggered left and Des and I fell to the floor with a fair wallop. I hoped it looked as real as it felt.

The American strode over, doing his best to hide a limp, and knelt by our exhausted bodies.

“Say, you guys better get lost before the cops arrive.” He held out a ham-sized hand to me. To my surprise I took it and he pulled me to my feet with ease. The guy was strong as an ox.

“Thanks.”

“No worries. You guys English?”

“Ah’m no English,” growled Des in thick Greenock.

He shrugged patiently. “Brits then.”

The guy looked me up and down. He knew something wasn’t right.

“Wherever you’re from, you’d better go now, the Dutch harbour police aren’t noted for their hospitality.”

Des sat back onto the concrete. “Fuck ’em,” he slurred.

Once again the big guy shrugged and smiled. “Suit yourself, buddy, just moderate your language around my old folks, eh? Elderly people deserve a little respect.”

I nodded and Des mumbled an apology. “Aye, sorry there, big man.”

The guide offered his hand again. This time my arms stayed locked in place. The guy looked mildly embarrassed.

“Jerry Mahon,” he said, tucking his hand back into his pocket. ”Navy Seal, before I lost my kneecap.”

I heard a voice below me.

“Des Fagan, drunk and happy, before I lost my wallet.”

The three of us burst out laughing. It was the most natural laugh I’d had in years. The guy turned and limped away. I would never meet him again, but he was one of the good guys.

Before he had reached his coach, I heard the first police siren. Seconds later a meat-wagon came into view, driven by a very sour-faced cop. The van was closely followed by a squad car which contained four uniformed officers.

We were unceremoniously dumped onto the cold concrete by the contents of the car, cuffed, with a little too much vigour, and driven to a holding centre that looked like a training centre for suicide bombers.

Neither Des nor I had been prisoners before. We had decided on a story, part truth, and part fiction. This was the standard operating procedure of the Regiment. It was accepted that any man would eventually give in to torture. A holding story was essential. Once the enemy bypassed the tale, lives were at risk.

We stuck to our task. We had flown to Holland via Amsterdam. Our passport swipes would confirm it. We had travelled to Rotterdam and we had been duped by a man in a large saloon car. He had purported to be a taxi driver and had turned out to be a robber. He had stolen our luggage, our money, our passports, indeed everything of worth. He had forced us to stand in a freezing ditch as he drove away. We were poor destitute white European tourists.

We were treated like the latest batch of Eastern Bloc illegal labour. Seventeen hours in a freezing cell did little for my humour.         

You need photographic ID to get on a ferry. That or the relevant documentation from the coppers to say you’ve been robbed. After twenty-six hours of dicking around, we smiled sweetly as we got it.

Once aboard, we ate from a decent buffet, courtesy of a Dutch police voucher and dressed our minor wounds from the ship’s pharmacy. Later Des and I climbed the metal stairwell to the upper deck of the ferry. As it lolled along, piercing the dull grey sea with its blunt nose, my thoughts turned to Tanya. My mind played horrible tricks as she flashed into my conscious, wearing fabulous clothes and a wonderful smile.

I had known her for four years and we had been intimate for two. I knew it wasn’t love, but she knew too. She accepted me for what I could give. She never asked me for more. It was enough for us both and she understood.

The Regiment had its own way of dealing with loss. In general, you accepted it and had a piss up. There was usually an argument over the ownership of the soldier’s boots.

Tanya would be no different. My mind would not allow it. I would miss her, that was true. I knew that I had to meet David Stern and I wouldn’t rest until that day came. My doleful thoughts and fat lip were lifted by a familiar figure striding toward me carrying two brews. Des looked pissed off. The coppers in Holland had given him some clean jeans that were all of three sizes too big. He looked a proper twat. That said, it wasn’t the denims that were bothering him.

“You’re going to take Stern on, aren’t ye?” He shook his head in irritation as he handed me black tea. “You always were a mad bastard.”

I looked into the distance and saw the first shapes of the English coastline. “I can’t let the fucker get away with this though, can I?” I said to no one in particular.

The wind made my eyes water. Des stepped in front of me to get my attention. “What you gonna do about that bitch Susan? She wanted all of us dead on that road, mate. No question. If we’d not been on our game, she would have succeeded.”

I took a drink from the polystyrene cup.

“She had bottle, though. More than I gave her credit for. She could easily have been killed back there. She handled herself pretty well.”

My guts turned over.

“You have to admit it, Des, I should have seen her coming.”

“Aye, maybe.”

I leaned over the rail of the boat and took a few good breaths of sea air. “I think Joel’s already dead.”

Des nodded slowly.

“Maybe, but he’s no great loss though, eh? He disnae concern me. Live by the sword an’ all that. What concerns me is what happens next like.”

“True.” I could see why Des was reluctant to get involved any further. I changed the subject.

“So what are you going to do now, Des? You’ll get your cash as planned, of course.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Me and you need to have wee drink for Tanya. Then I’m going back to Scotland to catch some fish. You know where I am if ye need me.”

I’d lost the best part of sixty grand in expenses, the weapons, surveillance kit and wages. I’d been shot at, been forced to stand in a freezing dirty ditch, Susan had pissed me right off and Joel, my best source of income, was probably in several pieces holding up a section of the M60.

I always had Des.

The crossing to Hull took us just shy of twenty-four hours. I really wanted a shower, but even if we’d had a cabin, we couldn’t have risked some hairy-arsed Dutch drug dealer coming flying in during routine ablutions. So we sat and stank.

Rules, you had to have rules. If you stuck to them, you lived longer.

Once back on home soil I organised two seats on an internal flight from Hull to Manchester simply by blagging twenty pence for the phone and being able to memorise Mr Colletti’s credit card details. Our flight would take a little under forty minutes. We were flying BA. I liked BA. They did it right.

When you sign up for the Parachute Regiment, not only do you agree to jump out of an aircraft, but any aircraft HM Army suggests. In some countries, planes fall out of the sky before you can jump.  

Believe me; never fly on a Russian aircraft. I was once stuck at Charles de Gaulle and the only available flight was Aeroflot. I managed to obtain a seat, but when the air hostess started a collection for spare parts for the plane, I was off. Jumping out is one thing, making sure the thing stays in the air is another. I trust us Brits, personally.

Still, I digress. Des and I sat drinking in the less than comfortable lounge of Hull Airport waiting patiently. Two real Hooray Henrys boasting ‘rugger shirts’ insisted on quaffing ‘champers’ as if grapes were endangered. They were lolling at the small bar and were unfairly abusing a young girl who was serving them.

She wore the BA uniform, which I had to say, was flattering. She had long straight black hair to her waist and typical doll-like Philippine features. Her attempts at politeness were lost on the overpaid louts as they continued with Chinese restaurant humour.

“Say fried rice!” one of them ordered.

“Fried rice, sir,” answered the girl. This seemed to tickle the boys no end.

“Flied lice! Flied lice!” they bellowed. One made chicken impressions and added, “Chicken flied lice!”

Rules you have to have rules. I was in no position to make any kind of scene. The grey man had bigger fish to fry as they say, so I, like the waitress, listened to the inane shit. Everything was bearable until ‘Geoffrey the fried rice man’ decided to invite me into their soiree.

“Have a drink, old boy, you look like you need one. We’ll pay if you’re skinters.” He sprayed me with spittle. I declined, politely. I could hardly comment about the state of my apparel as I looked like the monster from the blue lagoon. I hoped he’d got my message.

He insisted.

I declined again.

He insisted.

I couldn’t help myself.

I stood and faked a clumsy trip over Des’s outstretched feet. The table in front of me, together with my drink fell forward. I tumbled with it, adding all my weight to the pivoting furniture. The table edge landed squarely on Geoffrey’s kneecap, pushing the patella down his leg to around mid-shin. He made the most bloodcurdling sound I’d heard in a long time. I, of course, the tramp-like soul, full of regret (and mud) apologised profusely. His numb friend even told me it wasn’t my fault, ‘just an accident, could have happened to anyone.’

Des smiled and shook his weary head. As the paramedics treated poor Geoffrey, the beautiful Asian girl stood in some shock. Then she looked over, put a delicate finger to her lips, kissed it and blew in my direction.