The Fire (12 page)

"OK, J.J., but you should know that it will be very dangerous. I'm not sure I want a man with a family on the team. I've made the call to too many widows in my time."

The Turk lifted his jacket from his chair back and stood. "I guess as we are talking in a coffee shop and not your nice new office in Piccadilly, and you ask me about weapons, this is not a bodyguarding job. If you don't want me, okay, but I do good job for you. I am still good soldier. When this is over, I go back to my family or I die. This is simple. I am man of honour."

I held up my hand and looked into those eyes again. There was something about the guy that screamed reliability to me. We were going to fall out for sure, but he was a fighter, and we needed fighters.

"The pay is twenty thousand pounds. A week's work, maybe two. Pack a bag and say your goodbyes. Leave me an address where to send the money if you can't collect."

He nodded and displayed those teeth again.

"It is a long time since I had fun, Richard."

I left J.J. on the pavement outside Nero's. As soon as Des had finished car hunting he would collect him and we would all RV at the lock-up.

My head felt like I'd stuffed it with cotton wool. I needed to blow away some cobwebs, clear my mind, I needed to think.

Checking my Hublot I figured I'd have enough time to indulge myself in my relatively new passion.

Up until returning to the UK from Abu Dhabi, I had never owned a motorcycle. I'd taken my test with the army, back in the day, but as soon as I could afford a car, biking had taken a back seat. As a young squaddie, a bike had too many drawbacks. It was cold, uncomfortable and you couldn't have sex in it.

Now these days, as you are well aware, I have a love of shopping and the better things in life. Lauren had been in Helsinki and I'd been out looking for shoes to go with a new Jack and Jones suit I had found.

I came back with a black Aston Martin and one of the most exclusive motorcycles ever made.

The guy that found me the Aston had pre ordered an MV Augusta F4 CC back in 2004, before anyone in the UK even knew it was to be built. The bike was named after Claudio Castiglioni, the managing director of the company and the bike had only just been released for sale in Italy. The black, chrome and red beauty was number seven of the one hundred to be manufactured.

He fired up the 1078 cc big bore motor in the showroom and blipped the accelerator. The exhaust note was heavenly. When he explained that the one hundred lucky owners received an exclusive Trussardi leather jacket and a Girard Perregaux watch to go with the bike, my hand was on my cheque book.

By the time I made the lock-up, Lauren had left to collect some clothes from her flat and I had the place to myself.

I pulled on my handmade Vanson leathers, fired up the MV and rode out into a sunny, cold city.

Lauren North's story:

I'd kept myself busy most of the day tying up as much of our legitimate business dealings as possible. Dressed in Levi's, a Karen Millen sweater and my new Belstaff jacket, I was well wrapped up. Although the sun shone, where the shadows fell frost formed patterns on the pavement and felt slippery under my Uggs.

As my Audi was persona non grata and Rick still hadn't made it back from Nero's, I walked from the lock-up and caught a cab outside Oxford Road station. The driver was blissfully silent all the way to my place in Wilmslow.

My home was a two-bed first floor flat just off Station Road. It's a semi-rural area close to Manchester Airport. I paid just under two hundred thousand and the place was in need of complete renovation, so despite my initial misgivings about the new job the Firm had dropped on us, I considered the cash would come in handy.

I had wanted to redecorate the whole place in one go, but so far, I'd only managed the lounge and kitchen-diner. The painters had left various pots and brushes lying around in the hallway and I made a mental note to call them. There were three envelopes on the mat behind the door and I examined them...bill...junk...junk.

After making coffee, I sat on my sofa in what had become half-light, feeling the need to enjoy some time in my own space. Things were about to become crazy again, I just knew it.

After a second cup, I found the fridge and emptied it of perishables before wandering to my bedroom. It was just about habitable. The wallpaper had been stripped and the bare plaster prepared for painting. Stopping briefly, I examined the four shades of tester paint that I had applied to one wall. The eggshell blue had won the contest and full tins of it were stacked in one corner awaiting my errant decorators.

I stretched an arm under my bed, grabbed a holdall, unzipped it and sat it on the duvet. Selecting a few clothes and toiletries that I was not going to find in the lock-up was easy enough. I stuffed them into the bag, shouldered it and made for the door.

My hand was on the door handle when I realised I hadn't turned off the utilities. As I no idea how long I would be away or indeed if I would ever return, I figured it would be a good idea not to flood my downstairs neighbour.

Muttering to myself, I trotted to the kitchen to turn off the stop-cock. As I was about to turn on the kitchen light to help me find it, something caught my notice outside in the street.

What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks.

Lawrence, or Larry, was standing by his blue Nissan, talking into his phone and scanning my front door at the same time.

This in itself would not have been a problem, if during our brief time dating I'd ever invited him to my home, or even told him where I lived.

I had not.

Nonetheless he was there. Bold as brass.

I stepped back away from the window and watched.

Thirty seconds passed and Larry, if indeed that was his name, was joined by another car. This time three guys got out of a Grand Cherokee. All were dressed in suits and sported in-ear comms. As the third guy stepped from the Jeep, his jacket flew open to reveal a shoulder holster, complete with a police issue Glock.

I stayed out of sight, pulled my own SLP from the waistband of my jeans, checked it was ready to go, and pushed it back in place.

Next, I found my iPhone.

"Rick...how soon can you get to Wilmslow?"

Rick Fuller's Story:

The MV rode like a dream.

I'd had my adrenaline fix for the day circling the city using the M60 as my private racetrack. It was time to head for home and I simply breezed through the traffic along Princess Road; did a right past Manchester Academy and headed toward Whitworth park. The bike burbled along at a steady thirty. Lifting my visor, I let the cold winter air into my helmet. At that moment, despite everything, I felt good. The bike had been one of my better ideas. It gave me a shot in the arm when I needed one. Unlike the rush of taking exercise, you simply couldn't let your mind wander when riding the MV. When this beast of a machine was doing its level best to unseat you at over a hundred and fifty miles per hour, there was only one thing in your head.

Of course, when you are feeling good, and attracting admiring looks sitting astride such a beautiful machine, it's just like the old joke about being the pubic hair on a toilet seat. Eventually, someone is bound to piss you off.

I heard my mobile ringtone in my helmet, touched a sensor on the bikes fairing and answered a very unhappy Lauren North.

I knew she had been seeing a guy, but that was all. I didn't know, or want to know, any more details; it was her private life and none of my business. After all, she and I were so different. I had so many issues, and it would be unfair on any woman to start a relationship with someone like me, wouldn't it?

From the brief phone call, I gathered that this guy Lawrence had turned out to be an undercover cop and he and three others were about to pay our Lauren a visit at her flat.

Although our team worked covertly for MI6, this did not mean that this fact would ever be admitted by the Firm, or indeed ever shared with the plod. As far as the cops were concerned, I was no more than a criminal, a professional killer who would work for anyone if the price was right.

I suppose I couldn't complain on that score. After the whole Joel Davies saga, the fire-fight at his house, the Moston bomb, I would be big news down the local nick. All of it was loosely connected to me, and now of course, Des and Lauren.

The cops had no solid evidence, hence our ability to open our legitimate business in the heart of Manchester. They'd definitely been tailing us a few months back, but since Lauren and I had made abject fools of their very expensive surveillance unit, they must have changed tack. And that tack was the very immoral, if not illegal practice of pretending to be someone you are most definitely not, i.e. a boyfriend.

I wondered briefly what Lauren may have given him, before shoving any thoughts of pillow talk to the back of my mind.

Maybe this was nothing more than a fishing exercise. Maybe they didn't expect her to be in and they were just going to turn the flat over. Had the RS6 turned up on some CCTV footage? It was registered to Lauren; Boxing Day car chases and gunfights with big daft Irishmen don't go down well with the cops, even around Whalley Range.

I spun the MV around in the park entrance and wound up the throttle. The bike responded by lifting its front wheel from the tarmac and producing an exhaust note that would kill a cat at a thousand yards. The sheer acceleration wrenched my shoulders from their sockets as a hundred grand of pure unadulterated muscle flew into action. I forced my body forward and pushed my chin to my chest like an old prize fighter. The Augusta's front end dipped and the bike stabilised just as the rev counter hit 12,000 rpm.

I banked hard left onto the A5103 and headed toward the M56. There were twenty-three miles to cover, but I knew that once I negotiated Whalley Range and Northenden I would have a clear run. It would take an average car driver thirty minutes to make the journey.

As I fought to keep the MV stable, I knew I had to complete the journey in ten minutes or less.

The cops wanted to get at Lauren, and that was not going to happen. Larry could swivel.

Four minutes later I was on the motorway and the MV was heading toward a hundred and forty miles per hour. I hit a button on the handlebars to activate my iPhone and used the voice recognition to call Lauren.

"How's things?" I asked.

Despite the howling engine noise, the signal and reception were crystal clear. I could hear that Lauren was either stretching or crawling as she spoke. She was also very pissed off.

"Oh I'm just peachy here, Rick. Where the fuck are you?"

"Now, now, don't get all tetchy 'cos lover boy has turned out to be a member of Manchester's finest."

Lauren's voice was hushed, "This is not the time to start analysing my love life, Rick. I think that this is the time for you to come up with a plan to get me out of this shit."

"Okay...okay, don't stress. Where are they?"

"Larry and one have gone around the back, I can't see them, but I've heard noise from the fire escape. Two more are at the front door. They've been buzzing my neighbour's intercom, but they're out. I don't suppose they are too keen to kick the door in."

Approaching the exit sign for Wilmslow and travelling at two hundred and fifty feet per second, I chopped across three lanes of traffic and the odd irritated motorist blared horns as I hit the deceleration lane.

"Call the cops," I said and braced myself for the negative G force that happens when braking from one seventy to thirty.

"These are the fuckin' cops," hissed Lauren.

I was banking on Larry and his pals being serious and organised crime squad or some such hush-hush department. The one thing they wouldn't have done was tell the local uniforms what their plans were. Doing that in any large organisation is not recommended. Loose lips sink ships and all that.

"Dial 999 and tell them that there is a man in your garden with a gun; then cut the call; do it now and I'll be with you in five."

"Okay, but, Rick...please be quick."

As I turned into Station Road, I let the bike idle quietly along until I cut the engine, fifty meters or so from Lauren's flat. I pushed the MV into next door's drive and pulled off my helmet, leaving the Gortex balaclava I wore under it firmly in place.

I did not want Larry and his mates clocking me so easily. Dropping the side stand, I allowed the Italian monster a well-earned rest. The engine pinged and clinked as it cooled in the winter air.

It was time to give Des the good news.

After a brief call to the mumbling Scot, I clicked open the MV's side pannier and removed my Sig. It made a satisfying solid click as I slid back the action and checked the safety.

I'd managed to obtain the Sig Sauer 1911 Fastback on our return from Abu Dhabi. It was the very latest model. The arms company had redesigned the frame and mainspring housing of the older model. This meant that the back-strap, the part of the weapon that sits between your thumb and trigger finger, was rounded as opposed to squared off. It gave the Fastback the distinctive look I liked, and the advantage of easy concealment. The shorter four-inch barrel that I personally preferred didn't protrude against outer garments or push into your ribs when carried concealed.

Wearing skin-tight armoured motorcycle leathers, hardly the ideal choice of clothing when attempting to move quickly and quietly, meant that the Sig was the ideal weapon to have tucked under your left armpit; especially when riding the most expensive motorcycle in the world.

Either way, Larry wasn't going to notice it, until it was pointing at his head. 

Lauren's building had once been a 1930s family home, latterly split into four flats; two up, two down. A mature privet hedge surrounded a large garden laid half lawn, half tarmac. This gave the residents parking and privacy. It looked a very desirable little property.

I was impressed.

A quick recce through the foliage gave me a clear view of the Cherokee and Nissan parked to the right of the building. Two men dressed in cheap suits were standing by the very solid looking front entrance door. They looked like impoverished insurance salesmen.

A bulky balding type was kneeling, fiddling with what I presumed to be skeleton keys. It was a vain attempt to defeat the lock. 

I'd noticed that Lauren had a card key on her key-ring. I presumed this was for the flat. If that was the case, an electronic door lock works on magnetism. Skeleton keys would be as much use as a chocolate fireguard.

More fuckin' amateurs.

A thinner, floppy-haired bloke with an unfortunate nose stood to one side, pressing the four entrance buttons one at a time and getting no joy.

Feeling quietly confident, that the two men from C&A would be struggling for some time, I made for the rear, keeping in the crouch close to the hedge-line.

There were enough bushes and small trees for me to sprint between until I reached the gable end of the house. Then it was small quiet steps to the corner.

Once there I stopped, regulated my breathing and listened. The wind meant I couldn't hear much more than the suggestion of a conversation coming from the back of the house. That said, it would also cover any noise I was about to make. The boys at the front porch wouldn't hear a thing.

A quick peek around the gable revealed an open metal fire escape that had been added to the property when it had been converted to flats. Two men were standing on the upper platform. The owner of the hushed voice was a tall dark handsome guy, who just had to be Larry. His pal was shorter, stocky and sported an often broken nose.

If what I had in mind was going to work, it would have to take both of them several seconds to recognise me wearing my motorcycle gear. If they made me immediately, plan 'B' would come into play.

I took a deep breath and strode into view. As plan 'B' involved killing four public servants, I hoped for the best.

"Hey!" I shouted to the pair. "What do you think you are doing on my fire escape?"

Tall dark and handsome turned and held up a hand like a traffic cop stopping a wagon in the street.

"Stay back, sir...Police business."

He hadn't recognised me. I was in. He could live.

"You don't look like coppers to me, sunshine," I said, striding closer to the bottom of the escape.

Broken nose started downward, pushing his hand into his jacket as he walked. I was hoping it was his warrant card he was going to pull rather than his Glock.

"Step away, sir! As my colleague said, this is police business. We need to gain access to these premises."

He found his badge, held it out at arm’s length and looked in my eyes. "Please take off your balaclava, sir, so we can converse... can you help us gain entry?"

Fuck that
.

There is an art to disarming someone without causing him too much physical damage. A bull of a man, walking toward you down a metal staircase, off guard and wearing a right handed shoulder holster was about as easy as it got.

As broken nose reached the last two steps I grabbed at his tie with my left hand and pulled him on to me. He was instantly off balance and instinctively clutched at my leathers with his right.

I'd anticipated his move and simply took a single backward step. He was close to falling on his already flat face as I thrust my right hand inside his jacket.

A police issue holster secures the weapon using a leather strap held in place by a press-stud fastener. As you go to draw your weapon, your right thumb naturally forces itself between the two halves of the press-stud, prising it open and releasing the gun.

In a split second I had stripped him of his Glock and pushed it firmly under his chin.

"If you've got kids," I whispered to him. "Best think of them now."

I could see that tall and handsome at the top of the stairs was in the process of drawing his weapon.

Before he could get into the aim, I whipped broken nose around to use him as a human shield, and had old lover boy firmly in my sights. I managed a smile I wished he could see, and kept my voice low.

"Merry Christmas, officer. I'd drop that if I were you."

Larry turned down the sides of his mouth and glared at me. If he was scared, he didn't show it. He threw his Glock to the floor, as a petulant child would a toy.

He opened his mouth to speak, but I shook my head, put Flat Nose's gun to his temple and reminded them both to be quiet with a finger on my lips.

Right on time I heard sirens.

The cavalry were about to arrive in the form of Greater Manchester's ARV cars and I did not intend to be around to meet them. Their first job would be to drag the men to the front of the house to the floor and point MP5's at them. That would be distraction enough for Lauren and me to do one.

I ushered Larry down the fire escape so he could get cosy with Flat Nose. The boyfriend/cop never took his eyes from me. If I were a betting man I'd say it was genuine hatred.

"Cuff yourselves to the handrail," I said. "Do it now."

Larry was moving far too slowly for my liking, stalling for time. I delivered an impatient reminder to him by smashing the butt of the Glock into Flat Nose's temple. The heavy man grunted and dropped to his knees, holding his head. Larry lost it and made to retaliate, but he was forced to stop himself as I rested the barrel of the Glock in the centre of his forehead.