THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (33 page)

Lauren North's Story:

Rick rang.

The shit had hit the fan. Somehow Tanya’s family had found Des’s hotel room, or followed Rick to it, and sent a message to us that Tanya’s death, together with the Moston bomb, was firmly placed on our shoulders. Having Yardies after us when we were already targeting Europe’s biggest cocaine dealer was not what we needed. It would seem that the Williamson organisation’s plan of propaganda and divide and conquer was still working a treat.

Also, the drink with Rick had kind of done my head in a bit and, before the call I’d spent most of the evening thinking about him.

I’d even considered ringing Jane back in Leeds, but quickly realised I could never do that.

Everything I’d known before was gone. Can you imagine that?

The emergency, and I didn’t get to hear about how hairy it was ’till we’d made Spain, meant we were holed up in Rick’s lock-up, freezing our bits off and pretty pissed off.

By seven-thirty in the morning we were all up and about looking pretty bleary-eyed, having washed in cold water and slept little, each of us in different vehicles. I’d chosen a van thinking I could stretch out in the back in my makeshift sleeping bag, but I was cold and the van stank really badly inside.

Rick looked smart and was getting the red Porsche ready to do the deal with Makris.

Des and I had no choice but to sit it out and wait for him to come back. I wasn’t like we were going to starve; we had supplies from a nearby Spar shop and a small radio for entertainment. I felt safe enough, no one knew of Rick’s lock-up and it was built like a fortress.

My secure feeling was about to take a knock.

“I’ll be a few hours.”

Rick checked his watch. “If you don’t hear from me by 1300hrs, split the cash and weapons we have between you, and go your separate ways.”

I felt myself nod, but didn’t want to even dream of being alone and hunted. Des shot me a glance and a cheeky grin that made me feel a little better.

“We’ll be just fine, pal,” he said.

“Don’t even consider leaving me alone with this mad Jock,” I joked, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.

I suppose this was the kind of moment I’d ‘signed up for’.

There was a cold blast of air as the roller shutters were raised and the lock-up was filled with the noise and fumes from the Porsche as Rick rolled it out into the open air.

Within thirty seconds the doors were firmly shut again and the waiting game began.

Rick Fuller's Story:

Spiros Makris’s house was half an hour or so from the city centre. It was everything a home should be. Warm and inviting, full of the noises you would associate with a large family all living together under one roof. I don’t know how many rooms the house had, as I was never invited to look around, but it was substantial and I would hazard a guess that you would need a couple of million pounds to buy it.

Not that it was overwhelming in any way, small children ran around playing games. Delicious smells came from a distant kitchen and a white-haired grandmother surfed endless daytime television channels in a cosy study with the volume far too high for the rest of the household.

Despite the fact I was about to be robbed blind, I smiled as Makris sauntered toward me in the untidiest hallway I’d ever seen. I had to stop myself from hunting for a vacuum and rubber gloves.

He wore his customary faded, stained polo shirt and cheap jeans. He was wiping his hands and hairy forearms with what appeared to be an ancient tea towel.

“Richard! How good to see you, my friend. My heart is full again. Come and sit in my office.”

He waved his hand around at the wrist and shrugged a very Greek shrug. “This place is a menagerie, no? How can a man do business in such a place? Come, please.”

I followed him upstairs to a small office.

The room was equally untidy by anyone’s standards and I marvelled the man could ever find anything. Piles of papers, pictures of bygone days simply pinned to walls. Blemishes long forgotten and bothersome dust basically pushed away with the naked palm.

He flopped in a worn armchair, opened a small drawer, removed a pack of Marlboro Red and much to my disgust, lit one and exhaled sending a bluish plume of smoke toward me. He must have noticed my obvious distaste as he quickly wafted the smoke with his hand and stubbed out the offending article.

“Sorry, Richard,” he muttered. “I forget myself sometimes. I think all my visitors are Greek and smoke.”

I managed a weak smile. “No problem.”

Spiros settled further back into the armchair, locked his fingers together and nestled them behind his neck, revealing a damp patch under each armpit.

“So...you have the pictures and names I need?”

“Of course, Spiros.”

“Good. 

“And the car?”

“Outside. Do you want to have a look now?”

Spiros shook his head. “I trust you, Richard, you know that. Just as long as you have the documents so I can sell the car on legitimately if you, how you say, don’t come home to roost, eh?”

I removed a wallet with all the documents I had kept since I’d collected the car from the unfortunate Jimmy at Bootle Street police station. I dropped them onto Spiro’s cluttered desk.

“Everything you need is there, all genuine. The car has to be worth eighty thousand.”

“It’s a buyers’ market Stephen, I’ll be lucky to raise half of that, but you are a long term valued customer and I’m willing to make exceptions for you.”

I was in no mood to argue, besides, I had nothing to bargain with. We were on our uppers with both the Williamson organisation, and what appeared to be left of Tanya’s family, chasing us around Manchester, we needed to move quickly and without fuss.

I wanted to know timescales and exactly what was on offer. “What about the hardware and when can you deliver?”

Spiros became serious. “You want it conveyed to Spain, no?”

“Puerto Banus.”

“Ah! The home of many gangsters.”

“I suppose.”

He looked at me. It was a look I’d never noticed before. I saw affection, a strange feeling; I’d never considered that Makris actually liked me.

“I will have the most excellent documents available anywhere in the world for all of you. No problems with H.M. Customs or any nosey Guardia Civil. I will also ensure you have good quality weapons, together with enough ammunition to take on Hitler himself, dropped in the back of a nice restaurant that serves the finest Beluga caviar and Bollinger. I myself have dined there when visiting my cousin in San Pedro. I avoid Banus these days, my friend, it came under the spotlight and many reporters and television people spoiled the good atmosphere. I make a point of never visiting now. It is a home for villains with no class.”

He shrugged the very Greek shrug again.

“It is full of ‘chavs’.”

I had to suppress a smile, but I had to admit he was right.

Puerto Banus was a millionaire’s playground. Just a few kilometers west of Marbella, famous for a picturesque marina filled with multi-million-dollar yachts, Puerto Banus also boasted a beach that stretched for almost a mile. The golden sands though, were not the only major attraction to this town. Neither was the three hundred euro fee for the hire of a sun bed for the day in the trendiest parts.

In 2003 Britain held a list of over two hundred known criminals wanted for questioning by UK police, sheltering in Spain. Most of the guys they were ‘looking for’ lived openly in and around Puerto Banus.

You could find a prick in a baseball cap, with a full sleeve of tattoos and more sovereign rings than an average car boot sale, driving a Hummer, any day of the week in Banus. It was that kind of gaff.

It was a place I hated, but a place where everyone turned a blind eye.

“You are right, Spiros, but beggars and choosers and all that.”

He waved a hand knowingly.

“Twenty-four hours from now, you can collect your papers from my youngest son’s café bar in Liverpool, which is where I suggest you depart from, my friend. The weapons will be in Spain twelve hours after you text my private number to say you have arrived safely.”

Spiros leaned forward and placed his hand on my shoulder. I felt myself stiffen but managed to stay still.

“My dear Richard, yes, leave me the car. Rest assured, it will be here when you return. I will also be here to collect my substantial fee which I’m certain you will deliver.”

I had to marvel at the man’s abilities. Not just three full biometric passports in twenty-four hours, but fully automatic weapons and handguns too. No expense spared. If he’d been a woman I’d have kissed him.

We had some tea, and Spiros insisted I try his mother’s kleftico, which I have to say was first class. Once fed and watered, he walked me to a double garage and handed me the keys to a battered Ford Ka. It looked like he’d been dodgem racing in it.

“Take care of my car, my friend. I had her from new, no?”

I shook his hand. Sometimes you just knew who your friends were.

I didn’t hang around. I squeezed myself into the little Ford and headed for Liverpool John Lennon Airport where I paid cash for three return flights to Malaga from the EasyJet desk. No point in pussyfooting around this time. I didn’t care if we were visible once we got to Spain, but I didn’t trust online booking with all the technology available to Williamson and Goldsmith. The fact was, once we left the country, I wanted them to come to us. I just hoped we’d be using both parts of the ticket this time.

Des Cogan's Story:

Rick was back in good time and seemed in equally good spirits. Lauren and I had passed our temporary incarceration by packing our kit and stripping and cleaning all the weapons.

Routines had to be kept up no matter what. Lauren didn’t complain and did a fair job of her tasks, asking questions only when she was stuck removing a mechanism from an MP5K.

The weapons and the hopefully valuable hard drives that would become evidence against Williamson and Goldsmith were secured in Rick’s safe in the lock-up. We kept a handgun and ammunition each for the journey to John Lennon and the plan was to leave those in the Vectra until, hopefully, we all returned in one piece.

It was going to be my job to collect our new weapons and ammunition in Puerto Banus and deliver them, by sea, to Gibraltar. I always got the good jobs, eh?

On paper Rick thought it wouldn’t be too hard. Then again it wasn’t him who was going to have to swim the final mile or so to one of the best patrolled shores in the world whilst pulling a float with over fifty kilos of kit. It was going to be a test of my fitness and my stealth.

I was secretly looking forward to it. All this pissing around was even starting to get on my goat. The time had come for the reckoning and I was as ready as I’d ever been for the fight.

We had twenty-four hours to wait for our docs. Something I was good at but Rick was his usual caged lion the whole time. He prowled around the lock-up, checking his packing and cleaning everything in sight including the Vectra which positively gleamed. Lauren worked out, and I read the papers and drank enough tea to keep a plantation in business.

When the time came, I was confident we would all do our job in our own way.

Finally, for the patient and the intolerant alike amongst us, the night turned into a grey morning and it was time to leave our hiding place for the last time.

Rick ushered us all together. He’d dressed in a new crisp white shirt and smart trousers and looked as good as I’d seen him look in years. Lauren stood at his side, her now toned legs unusually on show in a short black skirt. With her new red hair tied back in a ponytail, her subtle make-up completed her stunning look. There was an air of self-belief in that chilly lock-up. An atmosphere of confidence brought about by the knowledge that any of us was prepared to give the ultimate sacrifice for the other.

Comrades in arms, brought together by a series of incidents no one could have anticipated.

“We all ready?” he said.

“Aye, big man.”

Lauren looked at us both in turn. “Well let’s fuck off then.”

We all burst out laughing.

Rick Fuller's Story:

The 737-800 banked hard left on its final approach into Malaga and I felt like I’d been in a cattle truck for two hours. Screaming kids, buffoons in replica football shirts and stewardesses from the John Prescott school of charm and service, all made the in-flight experience one for me to forget.

I was considerably irritated by my lack of legroom, which in turn badly creased my new Duck and Cover Chinos. The three of us chose not to be seated together, so, on one side I was forced to listen to the inane twittering of someone called Olive, who had just bought a caravan in nearby Fuengirola where she was about to retire as soon as she could arrange the transportation of her two cats. On the other, a clinically obese bloke called Colin, who ate his way through the entire Subway menu which he’d packed for the route, explaining that ‘you can’t get food on these cheap flights’. Had the guy considered not pushing four thousand calories down his neck in just under an hour and a half, he might not be such a fat bastard. Add to that he spilled mayo on my Giorgio Armani shirt.

It was a good job they didn’t allow firearms on aircraft.

Just because an airline advertises itself as ‘budget’ doesn’t forgive this level of condensed offensiveness.

I will never fly in an orange plane again.

We landed with a jolt. A few of the more nervous flyers applauded the fact that we were on the ground. I managed a quick glance out over the wing to see bright sunshine, and my spirits were momentarily raised. The overall feeling of being transformed into some kind of bovine creature continued as we were herded into a ‘bendy’ bus and then shuffled through passport control.

All three of our new biometric documents passed their tests as the duty Guardia gave me a cursory glance and added, “Welcome to Malaga, Mr. Frasier.” Ms Forsyth and Mr. McGreevy were similarly greeted.

The baggage reclaim area was awash with holidaymakers and the odd person of doubtful origin as belied the close proximity of ‘Gangsters Paradise’, but for all that I felt relaxed. I popped into the gents’ and changed my stained Armani shirt for a short-sleeved powder blue number by Teddy Smith and by the time I met Des and Lauren at the Avis desk, I felt much better.

We hired a Jeep Grand Cherokee which had lots of space and good air-con but was a disappointing drive. In just over ninety minutes we were pulling up outside The Hotel Park Plaza Suites in Puerto Banus.

It is an excellent hotel with only forty-five double rooms and five business suites, all of which overlook the stunning harbour. Staying at the Park Plaza also gains you access to the elite beach club and keeps you firmly away from the rest of the cattle I had the unfortunate experience of flying with.

Lauren and Des were in a room together which kept down our costs but didn’t seem to please Lauren much. I, of course, had a business suite which had a living room suitable for any briefings we might have.

Once I’d unpacked I found my PAYG mobile and sent the text Spiros needed to start the weapon drop. I wiped it from the phone memory, took a shower and changed into more suitable clothes for a trip to the beach bar.