THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (15 page)

Our flight was being called. I apologised to Geoffrey again but he was in too much pain to care. I looked back but the British Airways girl had gone; one of the good guys, you meet them wherever you go.

I boarded, feeling much, much better.            

Manchester, The Northern Quarter, 2006.

“I need a fuckin’ drink.” Des was severely pissed off. His weathered brow was creased in temper. It was unusual, Des didn’t lose his temper, he was never just ‘angry’.

The pub we’d opted for was an Irish theme job called Finnegan’s and was in need of a re-fit. Des had picked it as he said it would do good grub. The countless drunken feet that had danced on the furniture had taken their toll. The place was pretty lively. A DJ with a ’70’s haircut and a beer belly blasted out good time music from a small stage in one corner. The place was popular with the student fraternity and I spotted too many woolly jumpers for my liking. Hardened drinkers lined the bar. Brickies and scaffolders with red faces threw pints of Guinness down their necks. Small groups of mainly overweight women cackled their way through vodka and Red Bull, which appeared to be the trendy drink.

Des and I found a quiet snug and settled in. The Scot ordered the ‘All Day Irish Breakfast’ and two pints of Caffreys. I had an espresso. I was intending on a recce to Joel’s gaff later and I wanted a clear head.

We blabbed on about old times like a pair of wounded veterans and Des worked hard at getting pissed. Finally, Des had consumed enough and, as usual, the floodgates opened. It was a story I’d heard before, too many times before.

“It was never the same after you went, mate,” he slurred, “you know I’m straight, straight as they come.”

“Forget it, Des.”

“Bollocks. You will never forget or forgive, not after Cathy.”

I didn’t want the conversation. It was a part of my life I needed to forget. The dreams were enough. The reality was just too much to bear.

I remember as I pulled into the drive I could see that our front door was open. The window on the Cavalier was still misted despite the heater and I couldn’t quite focus. The sodden trees were being whipped around by the breeze. I felt the cold on my shoulders from my earlier drenching between DIY store and the vehicle.

I remember stepping out of the car. The open door was not that unusual. Cathy would often be pottering around in the garden. We lived in a very safe area.

I moved around to the boot and opened it with the key. I gazed at all the orange and white plastic bags inside and my stomach churned. I held my head in position staring at the collection of home improvements. My neck was locked, because I had seen.

All my life, ever since my first memories, I’d had the ability to freeze a scene in my mind. One glimpse was enough. I could tell you numbers, colours, name plates, anything you wanted. For some it was on a page, for me it was in the real world.

And I had seen her.

She lay face down; her right arm flopped over the front step. Hair covered her face, but she was naked.

I couldn’t find the courage to raise my head toward the door and take a second glance. I squeezed my eyes tight shut and said a prayer to a God who had never listened to me and never would.

It was no use. Each facet of the doorway thundered through my head. Flashes of extreme detail tore into my skull and strangled my heart. Her left shoulder-blade had been pushed out of her back by an exiting bullet. Her flesh was torn away in grotesque pieces as each white hot cartridge had taken her life. 

From somewhere outside my own body I heard a scream. I know now it was my soul deserting me.

It has never returned.

In the following weeks and months after Cathy’s murder, Des was a rock. I was completely on my arse. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have ended up in the loony bin for good. But I think that was the Army’s plan.

I sat looking at the drunken Jock who was my only friend in the world.

“You’re right, Des, I’ll never forgive.”

I gave him a playful slap.

“Come on, fuck Joel’s pad, let’s get pissed.”

I awoke with a hangover for the first time in years. The hotel room smelled like a brewery and the sunlight hurt my eyes as I opened the curtains. It had been a night of bad dreams. Cathy had visited me for good measure. At first, just after she was murdered, she would fill every dream, but more often, every nightmare. The last few months I’d had more sleep. It was just every waking hour that was a real bastard.

I realised I should have done my job and checked out Joel’s house and that it had been a bad idea to get leathered with Des. If Joel was dead, it put a whole new complexion on the game, and the Richards brothers needed warning that something big and ugly could be brewing. I also regretted that I’d stayed in the Novotel. It was like kipping in a Burger King.

By ten a.m. I’d managed to get myself home and sorted.

I punished myself with a ten kilometer uphill run on the gym treadmill and finished with four sets of bench press exercises. I had worked so hard that my muscles twitched under the skin and my hands shook, not with alcohol but with adrenaline. I lay in the hot Jacuzzi until my heart rate returned to normal and my head was clear. Breakfast was masses of fruit, cereal and eggs.

I had just about decided on my wardrobe for the morning when my flat door exploded open.

Mr Stern’s boys had come to call, and they didn’t look happy. I reached for my Beretta but it was pointless, two serious looking faces stood feet from me. One I knew immediately. He had white-blond hair that fell across his left eye in a side parting. His sparkling blue eyes followed my every move. The man who had killed Tanya with expert precision made no secret of the fact that he was armed. He was pointing an Uzi directly at me at hip height. I knew that if he pulled the trigger it would cut me in half before I even drew my gun.

“Richard?” he questioned in a clipped Dutch accent. “That’s the name, isn’t it? Richard Edward Fuller to give you your full title, ex of her Majesty’s Special Air Service? Poor little orphan type, joined the Parachute Regiment as a boy soldier?”

I stayed silent. It was obviously a rehearsed patter. My skin crawled due to his close proximity and I felt genuine hatred for him. He started to wander around my lounge, picking up items at random. Whilst his silent partner trained his big bore handgun at me.

Blondie wore flesh-coloured latex gloves.

He rediscovered his sarcastic tone.

“You resigned from the Regiment before you were kicked out, I believe.

Nasty business about your wife.”

I nearly lost it there and then. The piece of shit had no right to talk about my wife. He could see my rage building inside me. Everything I had learned in my years of service was being tested to the limit. If I exploded he would have even more of an advantage. These were his mind games. The physical stuff was just around the corner. He laughed dismissively. He held all the cards, after all.

The Dutchman stepped sideways but kept his eyes firmly on me.

“Stop trying to look so tough, Richard. What are you going to do now? Bleed on me?”

He thought he was really funny.

“You went a little crazy after the Irish shot your wife, didn’t you, Richard? She was naked when you found her wasn’t she? It was you who found her, wasn’t it, Rick?”

He took two steps toward me and gestured for me to take a seat. I did as I was told. My mind was racing as I tried to get a handle on the situation. How had they found my flat? Of course, it was Susan. I knew that stupid bitch would get me into trouble. My address was one thing, but how did they know my identity and background? Joel had no idea. I was sure of it, so it couldn’t be him. I had to presume he had been their first port of call and that he was dead. Then I remembered Susan’s little outburst about me being in care as a kid and it all started to fit into place.

Blondie continued inspecting my possessions, keeping his Uzi pointed in my direction at all times.

“You like the good life, don’t you, Rick? Good clothes, good wine, fast cars? Shame about your nigger girlfriend, eh? Fancy that, you, a pure bred Englishman fucking a black.”

His last word was flecked with the same Afrikaans accent I had heard from Susan. The guy looked relaxed and tanned as he spoke his tirade of shit. He was immaculate and his voice was completely level. But there was anger there under the surface, expertly controlled, but there. I got the impression that he could explode into violence at any second. He looked the epitome of the pissed off gangster. The fucker just needed a white cat to stroke and I would have felt like an extra in a Bond movie.

“So what do you want?” I asked. I kept my voice level, even subservient.

He shrugged as if it was a question that was unimportant to him. “I have to say that you and your friends made a pretty good job of our boat. It’s going to cost a small fortune to make it seaworthy again, if we ever manage to get it away from Customs. You killed some very good friends of mine too. My boss is very angry. He never thought you would ever turn up again. This visit, though, is a cleaning up exercise, Rick. The boss wants you to know it’s nothing personal, just business.”

Now my mind was working overtime. How had I turned up again? Had I met Stern before? How did he know my past?

Blondie took the lid from my brandy decanter and sniffed at the contents. “Were you close to Joel Davies, Richard? Mr. Manchester?” He looked straight at me and his thin lips turned upward into a smile.

“The big fat fucking joke squealed like a pig when I finished him. Not that it will concern you much. You do realise you’ve had your day too, Richard. What are you now? Forty-five? Forty-six? You’re a bit past it. You should have retired. This was one job too many.”

He motioned toward his silent partner. “This is Max. I will look after matters here. When I’m finished with you, Max will pay your friend Des Fagan a visit, another over the hill has-been. I’m sure you’ll provide us with all the information we need to find the little Scottish prick.”

He poured himself a drink. “I think it best you do that sooner rather than later, Richard. There is no point in unnecessary suffering. You know the drill, been through the training eh? If you are a good boy, it will all be over quickly. All the remaining ties between us and this operation will be severed within days. We will simply walk away and leave the remainder of the Manchester scum to it.”

He stood close and I considered an attempt at stripping the Uzi from him. Max was on to me and just shifted slightly to make life impossible. Max stepped in close and they grabbed an arm each and quickly tied my hands with plastic cuffs. I didn’t see the point in struggling.

I gave it my best shot. Under the circumstances I had to try and buy time.

“Let me and Des sort this out for you. I’ll smooth the waters with Tanya’s brothers. No one, not even Stern, needs a war with the Yardies.” Max stopped briefly, gave me a sickening smile and spoke for the first time.

“Rick, you have no idea what is going on. Don’t even try to understand.” I’d never been captured. Obviously I’d known lots of guys that had. I’d heard all the tales about Iraq, even read the book one of the boys did about it. I was in Belfast when the Provos captured two Det guys after driving into a funeral procession by accident. They killed them both, eventually.

In the Regiment we were told that no man would stay quiet under torture for too long. Therefore just as Des and I had used the day before in Rotterdam, we always had a cover story ready prior to an operation that we could use as a delaying tactic. The interrogators didn’t believe the tale for very long, but it could buy you some time and hopefully keep the rest of your guys in the field safe for a while longer.

As Blondie and Max chattered away in Dutch in my kitchen I was trying to think. Where had I met Stern before? He knew everything about me. I pushed him to the back of my mind and concentrated on the problem at hand. I figured that the easiest way out of this was to give a false address for Des and hope that some opportunity arose for me to escape or disable the two goons.

They had relieved me of the Beretta and now had me tied to one of my dining room chairs by both ankles and wrists. They’d done a good job too and the lack of circulation to my extremities was starting to cause me pain. I could just about feel my toes but my fingers tingled as the bloodflow ground to a halt. This I knew would be temporary unless they left me for any length of time.

Blondie walked in carrying a kettle of boiling water, and my blood ran cold. He was a big man as you might expect. The fine blond hair that fell across his forehead was well cared for, no ten pound haircuts for this guy. He had added gold-rimmed glasses which made him look younger. He smiled to reveal perfect white teeth.

“Rick, I don’t need to tell you what scalding water does to the skin. I’m sure you have had medical training. The body can withstand an enormous amount of pain. Although the problem is, as more and more areas are scalded, there is the risk of the person dying from shock and lack of fluid. I want you to tell me where your friend is in Scotland. Max will then travel there, and, when he returns, having dealt with Desmond, I will ensure that you do not suffer unduly.”