THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (26 page)

Rick Fuller's Story:

I felt pretty good. My legs were still scabbed and itched like hell but apart from that I was in good shape. Des and Lauren had been out fishing most of the day. I had spent my time sorting out what kit we had. We were okay for weapons and ammunition but cash was becoming an issue and I was fed up wearing clothes that had the name Fred or George inside them. I had decided that a trip to Manchester was the order of the day, get my wardrobe sorted, pick up my day car and pay Joel Davies, or what was left of him, a visit. We had been holed up for close on three months and I figured that even someone as vindictive as Edgar David Stern would have moved on and found bigger fish to fry. Still, it was safety first so I’d split what kit we had between Des and me and put a Sig and a box of 9mm to one side for Lauren. Then I called a meeting in the kitchen.

“You’re giving me a gun!” Lauren looked shell-shocked.             

“It’s just for your own protection, hen,” Des soothed. “Just in case we get split up.”

I picked up the pistol. There was no point in fucking about. The girl had put some work into her fitness and even displayed some skill with a weapon. I needed to see a bit more commitment.

.“Are you in or out, Lauren?”

There was a brief silence. She pushed her hair away from her face, puffed out her cheeks and exhaled.

“In,” she said sharply and took the SIG.

I didn’t dwell. “Right,” I said. “We have to presume that the boys in blue will have some interest in us all. Me, as I was found with a bullet hole in my head, Des as he stole me from the hospital, and you, Lauren, as you disappeared the same day. We also have to presume they have photographic ID from CCTV at the hospital.”

“Aye, deffo,” said Des.

“You think we’re wanted?” asked Lauren.

“I don’t think we’ll have warrants, we haven’t actually committed any offence, but a nasty detective could try and get a perverting the course of justice charge on us. I think they might like to talk to us all, and I’d rather not spend a night in Bootle Street cells. So with that in mind, you might want to think about changing your appearance and we should all travel separately tomorrow. The CID may have put a track on our bank accounts, so it’s best we don’t use them right now. If you need cash it will have to come from the pot or one of my bogus cards.”

“Aye, if the thing disnae bounce,” added Des.

“Bounce?”

“Remember, on the way up here we tried to use your snide card and it bounced.”

I had completely forgotten. In my drugged state the fact had left me. I stood up, found the laptop and plugged it into the telephone socket. A minute later I punched in the security code for Stephen Colletti’s credit card account. To my horror it sat at zero. I tried three further accounts all with the same result. Finally I tried my numbered Swiss account. I was penniless.

Lauren put her hand on my shoulder. “How could this have happened, Rick?”

I shook my head. I was in shock.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to fucking find out.”

I slammed the laptop shut. “We’ve got just over five grand in cash, plus the gold coins which will raise another five. We’ll take three separate trains to Manchester. You two go to Oxford Road Station. Des, book yourself into the Novotel. Lauren, you find the Ibis. I’ll use the Britannia. They are all close to the station. Find a Phones 4U and each of you buy a pay-as-you-go mobile on Vodafone. Any make, but make sure it has a USB connection. The RP will be O’Shea’s bar on Portland Street ten p.m. tomorrow. Don’t book anything in advance either by phone or the net from now on. And cash only. Any questions?”

Lauren opened her mouth but didn’t speak. There was no way I was going to pussyfoot around with her. She’d volunteered her help. She was one of the team. I looked her in the eye.

“Lauren, this is for real. We aren’t planning a social outing. The reason you’re holding a 9mm pistol, is because this is going to get very messy. If you want to change your mind and get the train to Leeds, do it now.”

She just stuck out her chin and pushed the Sig into the waistband of her jeans.

“I said I was in, didn’t I?”

Des stood up. “Let’s clean this place and get the fuck out of here.”

I didn’t have much gear to pack. Des had sorted me out some underwear, a couple of shirts, a pair of jeans and some trackies. God knows where he got them, but suffice to say I felt like a born again catalogue shopper.

We had a collection of weaponry and medical supplies which I’d wrapped in pillowcases and stowed in an old suitcase I found in the cottage. My old Bergen was back and I loaded it with what clothes I had, the laptop and my old boots.

Des and Lauren dropped me at Glasgow Central railway station a little after six-fifteen a.m. I bought a Virgin one way ticket to Manchester Piccadilly, got myself a brew and a paper and waited.

I was travelling to a different station than the others as I wanted to go straight to my lock-up on Oldham Street, pick up a motor and the spare keys to my flat, and stow the weapons.

It was a typical Scottish, October morning and I felt the cold as I hadn’t a coat. Thankfully the train was on time and I had a seat with a table all to myself. The thought of making small talk with some dickhead from Salford just didn’t appeal. I drew the occasional look from other passengers; I gathered my angry scarred cheek made for a talking point.

I pulled the laptop from the Bergen and studied Joel Davies’s file for what felt like the millionth time. The only thing that stood out to me was Susan’s surname. She had used it on her wedding certificate, which Joel had proudly mounted in the house. Van der Zoort just rang a bell but I just couldn’t figure out which one. It certainly wasn’t of poor Dutch origin to fit the underprivileged little junkie’s moll story. Then again nothing in this whole caper fitted. It was a typically Dutch royal name, yet I’d bet Susan was not Dutch, I believed she was most probably South African. I knew the name. I’d seen it somewhere.

As soon as we settled we needed to get into Susan’s old house. Joel was probably dead but it was that house where I intended to start our search. From there Stephan and Stern would get the treatment. I wanted my hard-earned money back.

I closed the lid of the computer, and then my eyes. Two hours later I awoke to see the familiar skyline of Manchester. I was home.

It took me just under ten minutes to walk to my Oldham Street lock-up. I entered a nine digit security code into the locking mechanism on the front door and stepped inside. It seemed an age since I had collected Joel’s Porsche from Bootle Street nick, and of course, dealt with Jimmy. The Escort van that I used that night was there, together with three other cars and various bits of kit that needed to be tucked away from the prying eyes of my delicate Quays neighbours. Everything from pneumatic door openers to ‘Stinger’ tyre deflators were concealed in this place. Of course the jewel in the crown was that I’d never had the opportunity to give Joel the 911 back and there it sat like a healthy bank account. I felt at ease for the first time in ages. I was fit again. I had a second chance at life, and once I had dealt with the Dutch connection, this place would be redundant. I would retire.

Honest.

At the back of the lock-up was a small office with an old fashioned safe. I turned the combination and pulled open the heavy door. I removed the spare keys to my flat and the keys to a black Vectra V6 that I hadn’t driven in over a year. I also took my genuine driving licence and passport. I was Richard Fuller again, and intended to remain that way for as long as possible. There was a thousand pounds in cash nestled on the top shelf. I stuffed it into my pocket and shuddered at the thought that someone, probably Stern, had stolen over a million pounds from my bank accounts.

He’d pay for that.

I opened the Vauxhall and it fired up first time. Salford Quays was ten minutes’ drive away and I was looking forward to a shower and to wearing some decent clothes. I figured that I could only risk one visit to the flat. I decided to grab the bare minimum. A few Paul Smith casuals would do the trick. I tuned the radio in the Vectra to Key 103 and trod on the accelerator. Within minutes I was heading along the Mancunian Way towards my home.

I parked the Vectra about half a mile from my block and walked the rest of the way. I went straight to the underground garage. As I opened the heavy barred gate to the cold parking area, I felt my chest tighten. My two private spaces were empty. My classic white Aston Martin DB5 and my Range Rover were missing. I jogged to the lift and entered the security code to get me to my penthouse. I pushed open my flat door. The flat had been stripped of my furniture and every possession I had. I was in shock. I was so angry, no, more than plain anger, blind rage maybe? Fury? Hatred?

No criminal organisation on earth was capable of this kind of asset stripping. It took the police years to seize assets in the public domain, let alone strip cash from carefully hidden numbered accounts. This was the work of someone more powerful than the police. I paced about the interior of what had been my beautifully furnished bedroom. At that moment I noticed a sheet of paper casually left on the floor.

It was an estate agent’s blurb. My flat was for sale. I folded the sheet of paper and stuffed it into my pocket. I stopped briefly and looked out of the panoramic window of what once had been my lounge, the city spread out in front of me like a concrete carpet.

“I’m going to find you, Stern. If it is my last waking moment, I am going to find you, and kill you.”

I drove the Vectra hard towards Cheadle and Joel Davies’s house. I needed to sort my head out and decide on a plan of action.

Within the hour I had found myself a spot where I could observe the front gates of his considerable home.

It took me forty more minutes to see all I needed.

Lauren North's Story:

I’d settled myself in my room at the Ibis, done as Rick had requested, and bought a pay-as-you-go phone. A nice pink Motorola. It was charging on the bedside cabinet whilst I showered and changed.

I felt really uncomfortable being in possession of a gun. Although I’d done lots of shooting with Des the last couple of months, it was always a fun thing, punching holes in tin cans and stuff. This was very different. I was being carried along by an energy that I couldn’t, or didn’t want to fight. I checked my watch and saw I had half an hour before the scheduled meeting at O’Shea’s.

I couldn’t decide whether to take the SIG with me. I eventually decided against it, and concealed the box of ammunition and the pistol in my suitcase. I tucked my new phone in my jeans pocket, pulled on my anorak and walked to the lift.

I could hear O’Shea’s before I could see it. Banging Irish tunes bounced off the office blocks opposite, before disappearing off towards the canal and Manchester’s infamous gay village.

I stepped into the tiled hallway of the bar. Two large shaven-headed bouncers looked me up and down, issued a polite ‘good evening’ and pushed open the interior doors.

I was hit with a wall of cigarette smoke, clinking glasses and a boisterous crowd. There were half a dozen booths to my right, filled with a mixture of student types and Celtic football fans. Obviously a televised game had recently ended, and judging by the mood of the Catholic side of Glasgow, Celtic had been victorious.

The bar then crooked left and I faced a stage, occupied by five guys and a lone female sporting guitars, fiddles and whistles. The backdrop announced the band as ‘The Bogtrotters.’ They were just starting a rousing rendition of
Black Velvet Band
.

A large group of green and white hooped shirts were gathered in front of the band, and clapped and cheered every move.

Finally, I saw Des sitting at a table to the left of the stage. He waved at me and smiled. Rick sat to his right, he didn’t acknowledge me; he simply checked his watch implying I was late. I wasn’t.

“Drink?” asked Des above the din.

“Bacardi and Coke please,” I shouted as the band got to the chorus.

I sat opposite Rick. “You okay? You look pissed off.”

He pointed toward his half empty glass of what appeared to be water. “When we’ve had this we’ll move on, it’s too noisy here.”

Des returned with my drink and a pint of Guinness for himself. He’d read the situation. “I like it in here, there’s no point in moving now, mate. Let’s just organise the morrow and have a few beers eh?”

“Were not on a fuckin’ jolly here, Des, these bastards we’re going after are serious players, we’re not here to have a fuckin ceilidh. Getting pissed and having a good night out is low on my priority list, my old son.” Rick bared his teeth. He looked as scary as hell. “I’ve a feeling about these fuckers. These guys are big, massive. They can do things the fuckin’ CIA have difficulty doing. But I’ll tell you this, the bastards are going to pay.”

Des shot me a reassuring look. He leaned over the table toward Rick.

“Dinnae get shirty now, pal. We’ve all given up a lot to see this through.”

“You,” Des pointed a finger, “said not to check our accounts. But if I were a betting man, I’d say you have, and you are cleaned out, just as I figured when we tried your card three fuckin months ago. I also reckon,” Des pointed between us, “that we are in the same boat. Wouldn’t you? I’d wager that Lauren and me here haven’t a pot to piss in either. I know something’s no right. I knew as soon as that bomb went off in Moston. We’re not here to get legless, we’re here to sort out what happens next. So wind yer neck in, big man.”

I thought Rick was going to explode but Des faced him without a hint of fear. I’d seen fights before. We all had. My heart was in my mouth. I knew if these two went off, it would take a lot more than the two bruisers on the door to stop them.

“For God’s sake, you two,” I heard myself say. “You’re like two big kids. Des, go to the bar and get Rick a proper drink.”

I thought Rick was about to punch me, but I couldn’t stop myself.

I slid in next to him, so close I could smell his cologne. I gripped his wrist and leaned in his ear. It was the closest I’d ever been to the man and his sheer presence scared me. It was too late to back down. I went for him with both female barrels.

“It’s all been about you for a long time, hasn’t it, Rick?”

He turned. His eyes burned into me. He didn’t speak. I sensed we were alone at the table. Des must have gone for that drink. I couldn’t look to check. I was simply mesmerized by his gaze. I took a breath and persisted.

“You haven’t a thought for anyone, have you? All these years you’ve been alone, the solitude, it’s eaten your heart. There’s more to life than cash, and cars, and women.”

I gestured toward Des. “What about him? He’s put his arse on the line for you more times than you can remember. He can’t go home. I can’t go home, and all you can think about is your fucking Paul Smith wardrobe.”

I knew I had already gone too far, but it just came out.

“We didn’t kill your wife, Rick.”

I had found his Achilles. I saw his expression change. The rage fell from his face and his eyes lost their fire. It was replaced by the most incredible pain. He no longer saw me. No longer heard the music or complained about the smoke.

He was alone with his sorrow.

Des came to my rescue and sat. He slid a large single malt whisky across the table. Rick turned his head and stared at the drink. A moment passed. He took the glass and downed the golden liquid.

He stood.

“I’ve parked a Black Vectra on the NCP on Hulme Street, opposite the Salvation Army hostel. That’s the RP, four a.m. I’ll brief you both then. Don’t get pissed.”

And he was gone.