THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (41 page)

Rick Fuller's Story:

The door of my cell opened and I shielded my eyes. Two obviously sorted-looking faces I hadn’t seen before stepped in and stood against opposite walls whilst I made it to my feet. Both guys carried side arms but looked straight ahead and didn’t acknowledge my existence.

Stephan made his entrance, looking a little pale.

“Colonel Williamson will see you now, Richard.” He threw clothes on my cot that the doctor had previously taken from me. They had obviously been screened and my captors were happy enough to let me have them back. I took my time dressing until Stephan chimed in with, “Don’t keep the boss waiting, fuck-wit.”

I took the hint and followed the prick out into the corridor. He’d changed his own clothes and it stuck in my throat to admire his new Duck and Cover polo shirt.

I noticed a slight limp as he walked in front of me and the two heavies stuck close. I hoped it was fuckin’ painful.

The bunker was larger than I thought and it took several minutes to arrive at my destination.

Finally, I was ushered into a fine office. Oak panels and classic furnishings held my attention. A mahogany desk was set with five matching Spanish antique chairs.

Des and Lauren were worryingly still missing, so I sat alone whilst Goldsmith and Williamson sat opposite. Both were the picture of calm only billions of dollars could attain.

The two suits stood off to my left, arms folded. Stephan took a more senior position behind his father and looked smug.

Goldsmith was how I remembered him from that night in Hereford, all CIA black suit and posh attaché case. Williamson was dressed in full army fatigues and caught me cold.

“Richard Edward Fuller.”

He let each name fall from his tongue, flat, equal, with no value or worth.

The disdain in his voice was as culpable as the forced smile on his craggy face. 

Years of military training took hold of me and I became aware that I’d stiffened and sat just that bit straighter in my seat. I felt like a squaddie about to be bollocked for some parade ground misdemeanour.

Williamson kept the pretence of a smile but I could see his anger behind it. Then I noticed a strange look, a look in his eyes that gave me strength. There was weakness there, I could almost taste it. Something was wrong.

“Do you remember me, Fuller?”

I didn’t speak.

“I remember you well. Not a bad soldier, as I recall.”

I stared straight into his face. A drinker’s face if I ever saw one. Red veins drew complicated maps on his cheeks, forced to the surface by copious bottles of claret and port consumed in the officers’ mess.

“You have caused a lot of trouble these past weeks, Fuller.” He twisted in his chair, found a brandy decanter and glass and poured himself a generous measure.

The first gulp appeared to revive him and he strengthened some.

“Do you like our little headquarters, Fuller? You know the beauty of this place is that the MOD paid for half of the cost of the restoration believing it to be a working military museum. We actually open to the public in a month.”

He gave a low chuckle which turned into a smokers cough. When he recovered from his own irony his mood changed.

“Quite frankly, this is where it ends for you, Fuller. Not just for you of course, but for your two colleagues who will be here shortly. They must pay too.”

The second swig flushed his face further and he placed the glass on the table a little too heavily for a sober man.

“We thought we’d disposed of you ten years ago but the Irish missed you and took out that very pretty wife of yours.”

He examined my face and his smile broadened, I felt my hackles rise.

“That’s what this is all about isn’t it, Fuller? That young woman?”

He shook his head in total disbelief.

“You see the problem with people like you, is you don’t see the bigger picture. We have a business here worth millions of pounds a year. It stretches from Scotland to Morocco, employs close on a thousand people in sixteen countries.”

He found the decanter and poured as he spoke.

“You could have been one of those fortunate people working for us. Instead you chose the scum of the earth, common drug dealers and murderers.”

I couldn’t help myself.

“Can’t you see that you are no better? You kill, maim, torture and make money from drugs yourself. You ordered the hit on me because I saw you two at the DLB. Because you thought you might fall at the first hurdle and your little empire would tumble.”

The two men looked at each other and it was obvious I’d told them something they knew nothing about.

Goldsmith spoke for the first time. He had a small voice but I could hear Susan and Stephan in it. That strange mix of accents was ever-present.

“We gave the position of your home to an informant. A man who provided us with the location of the cocaine you and your team stole. It was always going to be part of the deal.”

I couldn’t hide the venom in my voice.

“An informant! So it was that young kid McGovern, the one who got nicked by the RUC, the murdering fucker!”

One of the suits nervously went for his sidearm, but Williamson waved his hand at him and it was holstered immediately.

The Colonel took over the conversation.

“That ‘murdering fucker’ as you so callously call him, is not the young boy McGovern. He is, however, a respected member of the Northern Ireland Assembly, and a key player in the peace process.” He poured yet another brandy. “He is also firmly on our payroll and will remain so for many years to come and as you won’t survive this day, I see little point in indulging you with his name.”

He raised his glass and another mouthful disappeared. He sneered at me.

“Do you have nine lives, Fuller? Like a cat? First the Irish missed you, and then you turn up in Amsterdam messing about in our business. Stephan here even put a gun in that foul mouth of yours and you are still here to annoy me. Sticking your nose in where it isn’t wanted.”

I stood up and the boys in suits both drew on me. I didn’t give a fuck. I didn’t care if they shot me, I needed to know that name; the name of the man who shot Cathy.

I leaned against the French-polished wooden top of the table. My face inches from Williamson’s. Every sinew in me was on fire. I wanted to tear him apart.

“Give me the name and fuckin’ kill me. Kill me any way you want, you bastard, I really don’t care, but give me that name. I’ll see the evil swine in hell and get my revenge there.”

Lauren North's Story:

Des pulled the car over about twenty yards from what looked like a solitary door set into an arch of concrete. A single reddish light illuminated the entrance.

“That’s the gaff,” he said flatly, and slammed the gearstick forward into first. “There’s no time to fuck about.” He looked into my face, his hair still wet from the sea. There was a trace of a smile, “You got everything you need, babe?”

“No!” I said. “Wait! I want to know where you got the idea for the Coke bottle silencer.”

He smiled, nodded and he revved the engine hard.

“Harry Bosch!”

“Who?”

“I like detective novels.”

Then he let go of the clutch and with a beaming grin he shouted, “Brace yersel, Sheila,” and the Cruiser lurched forward toward the metal door at full speed.

I pushed my feet hard into the foot-well as the car destroyed all in its wake.

I was still thrown forward against my seatbelt, knocking the wind out of me. The massive impact drove the metal door into its opening in a cloud of dust and debris. The engine screamed and Des forced the vehicle into reverse. The gearbox complained with a long painful howl before engaging and we flew backward from the gaping hole.

One of the car’s headlights had miraculously survived and through the dust and carnage I could make out a tiled entrance hall.

Des jumped from the cruiser, the sheer weight of the weapons he carried forcing him to lean into his first stride toward our target. Two SLPs and spare mags, an M4 Carbine with six fragmentation grenades for company and the trusty Mac10.

As I dropped in behind him I checked the safety of my own M4. This was the reason we came. It was always going to end this way and I’d known it for weeks.

My nose didn’t hurt anymore, neither did my ribs, and if Stephan Goldsmith was inside this rock I was determined to finish what I’d started.

Rick Fuller's Story:

Williamson opened his mouth to speak but there was a dull shudder that rattled through the room and forced all three men to look toward each other in some puzzlement. Twenty seconds of silence were broken by the shock of an explosion that sounded much closer. Everyone in the room seemed frozen as the seconds ticked by. A second explosion, definitely a grenade of some kind then rocked the room, and screams cut through the sound of falling masonry from down the corridor.

The two suits sprinted toward the obvious mayhem, leaving me in the opulent company of Williamson and father and son. Then I heard automatic gunfire. Short controlled bursts of it. 

My spirits rose. Des, it had to be Des and Lauren.

Goldsmith Snr. was white as a ghost.

Stephan was totally calm. He drew his own gun and produced that sick smile of his. As he strode confidently toward the open door and what was obviously a raging gun battle, he spoke; the words were to his father, but he looked me in the eye. “Keep him here. When this is over I want to kill this fucker slowly.”

He turned for the exit and I took my chance.

Stephan was halfway through the door when I launched myself from my seat and drove my left shoulder into his hip. I knew he had damage around the groin area and the impact would cause him severe pain. He fell against the wall and I heard him cry out. More importantly I had gripped his wrist and held onto his gun hand with grim determination. He squeezed the trigger, sending a stray round into the ceiling, and screamed abuse at me in what I figured was Dutch. There was more movement from behind me as the two older and slower men attempted to join the fray. I smashed my elbow into Stephan’s face and there was a satisfying crack as it landed. I sensed his body strength dip for a second and I made a grab for the SLP. He was a strong fucker, though, and within a breath he had fought through his pain and grabbed my own arm, causing the gun to wave wildly around the room.

There was another explosion, another grenade and more screams of agony.

This time it was very close and I heard two different reports following it. Two fighters were coming my way.

It gave me hope.

I saw panic in Stephan and he pulled the trigger again. Another wayward bullet flew harmlessly over my shoulder.

Then, amidst the chaos, somewhere behind me I heard a body fall. In that moment everything changed.

Des Cogan's Story:

I stepped into a tiled hallway that had an old-fashioned lift shaft and a staircase leading downwards into the depths of the rock. Lauren was close behind and I pointed toward the swing doors, for her to cover them. She dropped into a crouch to my left and brought up the M4 into her shoulder.

I loaded a fragmentation grenade under the barrel of my carbine, poked it downward through the concertina style gates of the lift and let it go. The car was some thirty feet below our level. Even so the ferocity of the blast surprised me. The dust was thick but I saw the drive cabling swinging loose through it, my intended task was completed. Now there was only one way in and out of the place.

There is no safe way to attack a stairwell, it’s marginally better going down one than fighting up in my opinion, but very marginal. We had no time to lose and I kicked open the fire door before we leapfrogged each other landing by landing, covering each other as best we could.

Ten steps or so before the bottom, the first of our enemy started their own journey upward.

Lauren had the point and the guy had no chance as she poured four rounds into his chest. He fell half in, half out of the doorway, propping it open with his immobile torso. It gave me a sight of our next battleground so I launched another grenade through the gap. The flash of the launcher forced me to close my eyes, but the explosive device was true and rattled down the corridor and I heard screams as it detonated.

I trod over the first guy’s body and took a look-see. Lauren was just behind me her body pressed hard against the wall of the tiny landing, breathing hard through her mouth, her carbine covering over my head.

There was a long tiled corridor with small rooms dotted either side that looked like old military hospital treatment quarters. The grenade had torn away some of the green tiles from the walls and had also made a mess of two other guys who lay obviously dead some ten feet in front of me.

I gave Lauren a signal and she skipped past with her weapon in her shoulder. I noticed she had attached a grenade to the M4.  

We started to clear each room in turn as best we could whilst keeping an eye on the locked door at the end of the corridor. Death could come from any opening at any second.