THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (42 page)

We took three rooms before the obvious happened. The end door flew open and the next wave of defenders burst into view.

This time three men in suits sprayed us with MP5s set to fully automatic. We darted left into one of the medical quarters, pinned down by the sheer volume of fire. The three men were sorted enough to fight their way about twenty feet into the corridor and get some cover in the doorways leading off. We were close to helpless in a doorway of our own as 9mm rounds bounced around us, only stopping when they found a soft surface to bury themselves.

Luckily they didn’t find their targets and we started to return fire in short bursts, Lauren prone and me in the kneel. I’d hit one guy with my first shots when I heard Lauren shout “stoppage.”

I was almost deaf from the fight but I could hear enough to know she was struggling to clear and reload the carbine.

The two remaining guys were laying down rounds like they had a munitions factory attached to their belts and I was forced into cover and unable to see if they were moving closer as they fired. We were in the shit and needed to split up. We needed to give them two targets to aim at.

Lauren threw her broken carbine to the floor in anger and drew her SLP. Then, in act of incredible bravery, she rolled across the open corridor to the room opposite, firing as she went.

This move prompted a hail of gunfire in her direction and I swivelled my head just in time to see her find her feet across the way and give me a ‘thumbs up’.

I fumbled for another fragmentation grenade, loaded it, and aimed it on an angle at the wall opposite. It ricocheted down the tiles and there were shouts from the boys in suits to take cover.

The explosion rocked the floor as once again we stepped into the open. One guy had taken the full force of the grenade and his guts were spilled everywhere but the second was functioning just fine.

Lauren double tapped him to the chest and he fell backwards against a doorframe, eyes wide and unseeing.

Rick Fuller's Story:

Stephan let out a sound I had rarely heard from a human being before. I’d heard it in the Sudan after a massacre of women and children and in Bosnia in my early days of service when ethnic cleansing was rife. It was the sound of total grief and despair. A low moan that turned into a bellowing cry, followed by hacking sobs.

All his strength was gone.

I stripped the SLP from his hand with ease, stood and turned.

His father lay flat on his back; a single bullet had pierced his left eye and killed him instantly.

Williamson stood beside him, open-mouthed and unsteady on his feet. There was a lull in the fighting down the corridor. All seemed uncannily quiet.

“Richard,” Williamson said, his tone hushed, calm and officer-like, a hint of weakness and pleading in his voice. “Can we?”

He held out his palms to gesture me to sit with him. I just couldn’t believe his nerve. He had the fuckin’ face to plead with me?

“Please, let’s sit down and talk.”

There was a tremor in there, inside his guts, that made his voice shake. It may have taken ten years, but finally he knew how Cathy must have felt that morning when she saw the gunman at the gate; the realisation that you have no control over life and death.

I brought up the SLP and shot Colonel Charles Williamson in the head. He fell silently until he hit the carpeted floor and his last breath was forced from him.

Lauren North's Story:

We stepped over our latest casualties. Des pushed the door aside with his hand and poked the carbine through into a well-lit and plush office area. All was eerily quiet.

We moved inside and pointed our weapons at an empty space. I wiped my face of sweat and grime. There was a metallic click which made me jump and swing round towards it. Two men in white coats stepped from a door to our left with their hands up in surrender.

We hadn’t planned on prisoners and I looked to Des for some guidance.

He didn’t wait for me and started to bark at the two guys.

“Get on the floor now! Hands on your heads! Do it now! Do it now!”

A single shot rang out from somewhere further into the rock and stopped him in his tracks.

We looked at each other for a couple of seconds and I felt a trickle of sweat find its way down my back. I said a silent prayer for Rick.

“Cover these two fuckers, love,” he hissed. “I’m gonna finish this.”

Des Cogan's Story:

I sprinted down the carpeted corridor reloading the M4 as I went; all idea of tactics out the window. I had a straight run with the corridor deserted and finally I came to a panelled door. I could hear crying behind it.

“Rick! Rick!” I shouted; the carbine trained on the opening.

I saw the handle turn and the door slowly opened. I slipped off the safety until a very familiar voice greeted me.

“You took your time, you Scottish twat.”

Rick Fuller's Story:

Des stepped into the room and glanced at the bodies of Williamson and Goldsmith but made no comment. He found himself a seat, tossed his carbine onto the polished desk and pulled out his dreadful pipe.

He glanced over at me and pointed with the evil smelling instrument. “Dinnae say a fuckin’ word, pal, I’ve saved yer Cockney arse again and I’m havin’ a smoke.”

Stephan sat blabbering in one of the fine office chairs, pleading with me to kill him.

I raised my gun and pointed at his head. One squeeze of the trigger and it would be all over; but I needed that name and Stephan Goldsmith was the only man left alive that could tell me.

Then I heard the padding of feet from the corridor and Lauren stepped into the room.

“I think we have a problem, guys.”

We did indeed have a problem.

The centre had been sealed off by a British Police tactical firearms unit. Even if we’d had the ammunition there was no way we would have attempted to fight our way out. With no hope of escape we surrendered.

We were unceremoniously handcuffed, cautioned and dragged out into the Gibraltar night.

After four uneventful hours in police cells we were bussed to the Gib airstrip and flown by military aircraft to Farnborough.

We arrived just as daylight broke and were met on the tarmac by the men in suits.

We were separated so I can’t say exactly what happened to Des and Lauren, but I figured it must have been a similar experience.

A four day MI5 de-brief is an unpleasant experience, I can tell you. Our only plan was to remain silent and I knew the team would do just that.

On the fifth day a very plain-looking woman came to my cell holding a package. I opened it and found it contained clothing. I dressed in a terrible suit and waited for something to happen. Finally a musclebound youth escorted me into the daylight and I was driven in convoy to the City of London by silent unsmiling agents.

An hour later we stopped in Canary Wharf and I was led to a very expensive and secure office.

Once seated inside I was delighted to see my two compatriots had not come to any harm other than the same terrible clothing choices of the British Secret Service. Lauren had two lovely black eyes from her fight with Stephan but she had been given cheap sunglasses to hide her injuries.

We looked like three naughty schoolkids in the headmaster’s office.

Across a massive desk sat three men.

Sir Malcolm Harris, the head of MI5, Anthony Cyril Thomson, Home Secretary and a man in dark Ray-Bans who had to be CIA.

Sir Malcolm was the first to speak.

“Richard, Desmond, Lauren, would you like some tea?”

Des chirped up. “Aye, I’ll have a brew, I’m gasping.”

Sir Malcolm waved at some minion who scuttled off to find a kettle. He opened a file, peered down briefly and then turned his attention to me.

He was a classically handsome fifty-something, Harrow-educated ponce.

“Stephan Goldsmith has been a very reliable and informative witness, Richard.”

He looked down his nose.

“Unlike you and your colleagues here.”

He pretended to check a sheaf of papers in front of him.

“On the contrary, you have been a very bad chap these last few years, Mr. Fuller. One of a million questions I ask myself is why would a soldier of your standing work for such a low life as Joel Davies?”

He looked up and waited for a reply. When he was sure he’d get none he went on.

“We understand that you are in possession of a number of hard drives stolen from the Davies residence in what can only be described as a bloodbath?”

He removed his gold-rimmed glasses and peered at me with watery blue eyes.

“I don’t suppose you would care to tell us where those particular pieces of equipment might be, Richard?”

I shuffled in my seat.

“Ask Stephan Goldsmith.”

Sir Malcolm looked sheepish.

“Mr. Goldsmith hanged himself yesterday morning.”

I felt a pang of pleasure.

More silence greeted our three inquisitors.

Sir Malcolm continued, his voice sounded tired, lethargic.

“Are you going to speak, Richard?”

I couldn’t cope with the bollocks any longer.

“Look, sir, you know as well as I do by now, that Gerry Goldsmith Jnr, an ex-colleague of your CIA friend to your left and the ‘most respected’ Colonel Charles Williamson have been making millions out of drug running for years. Not only that, they have done it under the noses of the British and American Secret Service for all that time.”

I crossed my legs and felt a bit more at ease.

“I’d say that a thing like that must be very embarrassing to you all. Now, if it were not for those bits of computer hardware you so desperately require, our little team here would either be floating in the Straits as dead as dodos, or locked in some high security nick awaiting trial. I presume the reason that neither of those scenarios has come about is that you are worried that the information on those drives would be a great embarrassment to Her Majesty’s Government. That, or you have other plans for us.”

The Home Secretary whispered into Sir Malcolm’s ear and he nodded.

“Both, Richard; of course we would like to examine those drives. They are a matter of National Security and you realise how important that is to us?”

He leaned forward, elbows on desk. Here was the punchline.

“And we do have a proposition for you, Richard.” He sat back in his chair and fiddled with a John Lobb tie which I liked very much. There was more than a hint of derision in his voice.

“It’s a dirty little job so it should suit the three of you down to the ground. Complete it, and you will be free of any charges against you and handsomely paid.”

I nearly fell off my chair when Lauren spoke.

“How much?”

Sir Malcolm raised his impressive brows.

“I beg your pardon, young lady?”

“Well, I want to know what kind of fee you have in mind. I mean, Rick’s right, if you could find those drives we’d be dead meat, now you want us to do ‘dirty’ jobs for you. I for one don’t trust a word out of your upper-class mouth.” Lauren pointed at the Home Sec. “I don’t trust him either, I remember when he was Health Secretary and he shafted the nurses. Said he’d give them a pay rise but never came good. I’m with Rick on this one. You’re terrified that this nonsense will get out and want to buy us off. Well I don’t think we need you ponces to earn a living, I think we could do that on our own.”

Des gave out a low chuckle and felt for his pipe but it had been confiscated along with everything else. His broad Scottish accent cut the atmosphere in the room like a blade.

“Who is it? Who de ye want slotted?”

Sir Malcolm coughed into his hand and once again consulted the Home Sec. Finally he answered.

“O’Donnell, Patrick O’Donnell.”

Des whistled through his teeth. “The First fuckin’ Minister of the Northern Ireland Assembly. Fuck me, sir, and pardon my French like, but I hope you’ve got deep pockets.”

Sir Malcolm once again turned in my direction.

“You have a vested interest in this one, Richard. Patrick O’Donnell is the man you stole the cocaine from all those years ago. It was his house you entered. I'm sure you remember how easy the job was. He even left the key, I recall.”

I rubbed my face with my hands and felt nervousness in my stomach that I couldn’t fathom. O’Donnell? It couldn't be, he couldn’t inform on his own family could he?"

“How much? That’s all that matters.”

The Home Secretary spoke for the first time. “Two hundred and fifty thousand a head paid any way you want.”

I was about to nod when he added.

“By the way, Fuller, O’Donnell, you’re right. He was the informant, the man who shot your wife.”