THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (36 page)

My red hair and clear glasses, my new ID, had not fazed the man that sat five feet away from me. His smile had left his face and was replaced by an evil sneer. With the fleetness of foot a ballerina would have been proud of, he landed on the seat next to mine. My consciousness was filled with a mix of heavy cologne I couldn’t name and the ferocious desire to survive what came next. He cradled my shoulders with a powerful arm. He exerted just enough pressure to make me realise I had no choice in the matter and I felt his hot sour breath in my ear.

“Hello, Sister.”

Stephan held me tight with his left arm whilst he quickly searched me for any weapons with his right. He lingered briefly at my breasts and I was unable to control a shiver that went through my whole body.

I had no gun, of course, it had been left in Manchester and our delivery was still en route.

Stephan however, did have a gun and he pushed the muzzle under my right armpit.

“Now, Lauren. No tricks or funny stuff, understand? We are going to walk out of here all nice and quiet or I will shoot you here and now.”

I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was all those years of abuse from my ex-husband. Maybe it was the time I’d spent with Des and Rick, their thoughts, advice and training, but I knew what Stephan wanted. He would really like me alive or I would have already been lying in a pool of my own blood in the café.

I pushed against his weight and started to bend down and reach for my heel. Stephan gripped me tighter and pressed the gun into my flesh, cutting into me.

He gritted his teeth and grabbed at my hair.

“I said no funny stuff!”

Before he could repeat himself I took my beautiful shoe from my foot and swung at his head with all the power I could muster. The heel buried itself into his cheek and I rolled to my left, kicking out with my right leg as I fell from his grip and my chair.

My foot connected with him as I hit the deck but it only succeeded in putting a few feet between us. That was enough for me. Scrambling to my bare feet, I grazed my knees on the cobbles in my haste. Stephan had risen from his chair, his face pouring with blood. People were shouting and screaming as they saw Stephan point his gun directly at me. He couldn’t miss.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” he bawled.

I leapt over a table to my right, knocking cups and glasses everywhere. Hitting the ground hard, I rolled under the next and heard the explosion of gunfire as two rounds slammed into the table-top above me. There was no time to hide so, on hands and knees, I crawled out into the open, kept my head down and sprinted back the way I came, toward the market.

I had to make it to those stalls and the throng of people that had seemed so welcoming only minutes before. It was my only chance. I pumped my arms and legs. My lungs felt like they would burst. My throat was hot and dry but my vision honed in at the end of the street that would bring me to the crowds.

Stephan’s heavy steps were close behind me. I could hear him but I dare not turn to see. My feet were being torn to pieces by the cobbles but I felt no pain.

Another thunderous roar came from behind me and sparks flew from the wall to my left as another bullet sliced the air but blissfully missed its target. Twenty more yards and I would be at the junction. I could smell the meat roasting and see the glint of lights.

I could almost feel Stephan’s breath on my neck. He was murderously close and I knew it.

Ten yards.

Where were the cops when you needed them?

I felt his hand grip my hair and his foot kick at my ankles. My balance was lost and I crashed to the cobbles, knocking all my remaining breath from my body. He fell on me, raining blows to my head with the butt of his gun. The first strike hit me just below my left eye and sent shockwaves through my teeth and jaw. I felt blood pour from the wound and it flowed into my ear. I deflected the next with my forearm, pushed the heel of my hand into his face and made a decent connection. He seemed not to notice and tore at my hair again, holding my head against the road. I lifted my knees up in an attempt to get some leverage and push off his bull weight but he seemed superhuman. He hit me again with the SLP. This time it was the bridge of my nose that took the full force and I heard it crack under the pressure. A bright metallic taste formed at the back of my throat and I knew blood was coursing down the passageway from by ruined nose. My whole conscious was failing me and I felt drunk and sick all in the same instant.

I hadn’t much left. He knew it. His blond hair was splattered with my blood as it fell over his face. He was actually laughing. He was fucking enjoying it.

He raised his hand again, the pistol gleaming in the darkness, wet and shiny from its demolition of my face. As he brought it down I lifted my right arm to block him. He thought he would just plough straight through me but I had other ideas.

His arm came down, and instead of blocking him forearm to forearm, as he expected, I went to complete the last gasp manoeuvre you would ever make in combat. I went to strip him of the pistol.

He brought the weapon down with terrifying force. I withdrew my arm at the last possible moment and let the barrel of the SLP fall into the cupped fingers of my hand inches from my face. Shifting my weight to my left side to avoid the force of the blow, I forced my left arm from beneath me and slammed my forearm into the crook of his elbow.

His arm folded like paper and the SLP was inverted and pointing directly at Stephan Goldsmith’s solitary visible eye.

Stephan had two choices. Let go or shoot himself.

He let go.

I rolled to my right, gripping my prize but Stephan was fast, vicious and far from discouraged. Before I could stand he had found his feet and launched a kick at me just below my left breast. The force of the blow slammed me into a shop doorway and I couldn’t breathe again. Shards of pain tore at my whole body and stars filled my vision.

I lay unable to breathe or focus.

Stephan stood tall, silhouetted by the dim streetlights. He brushed back his hair, confident, callous. His voice was sickening.

“I was just going to fuck you before I shot you, Lauren. But now, I think I will have to reserve some special treatment for that fine body of yours.”

Somewhere deep inside I knew I wouldn’t die on that Spanish street. The sadistic piece of shit-excuse for a man, tucking in his perfectly pressed fucking shirt, was not going to get the better of me. I dragged the pistol from under my broken ribcage and somehow managed to straighten my arm. I turned the weapon in his direction, squeezed the trigger and the SLP jerked in my hand. The sheer noise in the enclosed backstreet rattled my damaged nose and teeth as the round sped toward its target.

I hit him somewhere, because he fell.

I pulled myself to my knees and vomited.

My own blood dripped and mixed with my stomach contents as I spat out the last of my meal.

I could hear Stephan groaning somewhere to my right.

Then I could hear sirens.

It was time to fuck off.

Stephan had the same idea. I heard him start to move. There was a scrabbling sound to my right and it was getting fainter by the second. The bastard was getting away. My head refused to clear but I managed to stand. God knows what I looked like, bloody broken and barefoot, I presumed, but I couldn’t let Stephan escape. I fumbled in the pocket of my skirt and felt my Motorola, hit the call button more by instinct than sight, put it to my ear and staggered in the general direction of my attacker.

Des answered in an instant. “Where the fuck are you?”

I spat out a mouthful of my own blood.

“I’m on Avenida Cadiz.” I forced myself to focus in the direction Stephan had lurched. “Leaving it now and heading east.”

I could hardly breathe. The pain in my ribs and face was unbearable.

“I’m following Stephan Goldsmith. He’s hit, but moving. I’m in shit state and need some fucking help, get your Scottish ass here now.”

Des was insistent.

“Stay there.”

“Fuck off, Des. I’m not going to lose him now, get the guys over here and I’ll ring in five with my new position.”

I killed the call, wiped my own blood from the SLP, checked the magazine and clicked on the safety. I tucked it into the waistband of my skirt and staggered off in search of the man who had just come close to killing me.

Stephan was bleeding quite badly and droplets of his blood acted like the breadcrumbs of some distant Brothers Grimm tale to me. My feet were in a far worse state than I had first thought and I made a note never to sprint through cobbled streets at night barefoot.

I took careful silent steps from Cadiz and into a narrow alley barely wide enough for two people to pass each other.

I figured I’d hit Stephan in the leg as I could clearly hear his laboured gait echo further into the lane. My head banged with a hundred drums and my nose streamed with blood and soaked my top and skirt, but above it all I could hear his good leg hit the cobbles and the scrape of his injured leg being dragged behind. I followed those sounds for a full twenty silent minutes. He twisted and turned in alley after alley. I could hear him, but was careful not to get close enough to actually get a visual. The tables were turned and now it was I who wanted him in one piece.

The sirens, the market, the café were long gone and I was in almost total darkness in the tightest environment you could imagine.

Then, just as I thought he was headed for the marina, he stopped.

I could hear him fumble and then the tell-tale bleep of a keypad. My breathing had returned to near normal and the sheer adrenalin that had pushed me on was dulling my pain. I listened in the silent blackness.

He was making a call.

I looked around frantically for any kind of sign or landmark so I could text the guys.

His voice was pained but clear enough.

“It’s me.”

Then I heard it. It was a door or gate being opened. Then, a voice, a female voice; he wasn’t on the phone after all, he was at an intercom. He had found sanctuary.

His tone became muffled and unclear as if he’d entered an enclosed space, but hers was crystal. Her Dutch accent was mixed with Afrikaans.

“My God, Stephan, what happened?” 

I heard the door close.

My pulse rate increased again. I waited a full five minutes in total silence. I nipped my nose to try and stem the bleeding. It seemed to help me hear too as I passed the seconds before I approached my target.

Directly in front of me stood a block of six apartments; three ground floor, three first. They were surrounded by a low wall with cast-iron railings cemented into it giving a formidable defence from any would-be burglars. A large double gate barred the way to the path leading to the building. On the left of it was a keypad. Above it was a porcelain sign with pink flowers and ornate script.

It said, ‘Apt El Niño, Avenida Fredo.’ It had blood on it.

Rick Fuller's Story:

We were twenty minutes from her.

Twenty minutes too long for my liking. I felt the same sickness come over me. The same as the day I lost Cathy, Des was driving, Jimmy Two-Times directing, and I was loading weapons in the back seat of a hired Lexus. It reminded me of Amsterdam and I did my best to remove that thought. Spiros had been economical with the truth when it came to the quality of the weapons order. That or the Spanish had got our kit mixed up with a set of Puerto Rican gangsters’. I had handed over a Porsche 911 for a set of weapons we could have bought in a Belgian car boot for five thousand Euros. I would have a quiet word with my Greek friend on my return. That said, despite the age of some of the kit, the armoury was more than adequate for our needs. Some was even familiar to me from my Regiment days.

We had been sold a Mac10 machine pistol. First made in the early ’60s by Ingram, they were a cheap 1000 round per minute room clearer; challenging to master, but really useful. The biggest asset of the Mac10 was its noise suppressor or silencer as they call them in the movies. It was true what people said. The bolt action was louder than the round exiting the breech. The long suppressor also helped to hold the weapon with both hands and it increased accuracy. In the right hands the Mac10 could take out a full room of diners and the bad boys having cocktails next door wouldn’t even spill their brandy.

They Yanks loved them, and it was the automatic weapon of choice with the street gangs of the United Sates.

At .45 calibre it made a real mess. It was two seconds of fatality in a drive-by, but a hostage taker’s nightmare at close quarters.

At over sixteen rounds per second, even in the most economical hands, the extended magazine was empty and on the floor every couple of minutes.

Reassuringly ten spare mags came with the old girl and I pushed it to one side whilst I worked on the next offerings.

Two brand new, straight out the box M4 Carbines with full external sighting and M203 grenade launchers were next. Short and ideal in a car, handy again at close quarters, but at .556 calibre it had the legs to be an asset at a longer distance. The US Navy Seals used it as their preferred kit. With the launchers and what looked like a box of NATO 40mm fragmentation grenades we had some serious fire power. I was beginning to wonder if Spiros knew something I didn’t.