THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (5 page)

Hereford 1996

Jimmy Two Times and Butch had collected me on their second pass at the DLB. Neither asked what I’d seen and I didn’t mention it. We drove in silence for over two hours and headed straight for the airfield, boarded the already waiting Hercules, and were back in ‘H’ in time for breakfast and debrief. I’d figured the guy in the suit must have been DEA rather than CIA. The other man was Major Charles Williamson. He ran the whole army ground operation in East Belfast. He had the reputation of getting the job done, but not always by the book. I’d met him on several occasions and didn’t care for him. Why he needed to collect the bag personally was beyond me. I put it from my mind. When you are part of any operation, it isn’t always necessary to see the big picture. I was also delicate enough not to mention any of it in my briefing notes.

I took the debriefing, Des was still over the water and not present. He was probably digging himself another hole in the freezing Irish countryside, whilst Butch, Jimmy and I drank tea and ate bacon sarnies. Once the Head Shed were happy that the operation had gone off as planned, I took a walk to the office and dropped in a leave request to start with immediate effect.

There was nothing left for me to do other than get home to Cathy and catch up on some much needed kip.

As I pulled into the drive Cathy was in the garden digging out borders. She loved gardening and as we hadn’t been in the house long, she was keen to make her mark on it. We had decided to buy, rather than rent. It was an old house and was in need of some major decorative work but was basically sound and within twenty-five minutes’ drive of the camp. The old lady who had been the previous owner had let the garden grow wild and the paintwork peel. Cathy and I looked forward to turning it into a family home to be proud of.

She wore faded jeans and Wellingtons with a thick Aran knit sweater to keep out the chill of the February wind. As she saw the car, she pushed the spade into the damp earth and left it upright. She strode over, and by the time I got the car door open, she was standing in front of me smiling and beautiful.

Cathy was twenty-four, petite framed, and just over five foot three. She had long raven-coloured hair that was as unruly as her persona and I loved her more than life itself.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” She had her hands on her hips and a broad smile on her face. Her usually pale complexion was flushed pink from the mix of her exertions in the garden and the cold wind.

I never mentioned work, but she had obviously checked with ‘H’ that the Herc had landed three hours earlier.

“Well, you have my undivided attention for the next two weeks, I’ve got some leave.”

Cathy let out a little shriek of delight and gripped me around the neck. She looked up into my face; her eyes were like the darkest chocolate. One disobedient strand of hair blew across her face in the breeze and she tried to blow it away with her mouth and failed miserably. I assisted and tucked it behind her ear.

“Kiss me,” she said.

I did and we both walked inside. The garden could wait a while.

We spent the whole day and the following night in bed. We made love to exhaustion, ate pizza and drank wine.

The following morning I left her to go to the local DIY store and buy paint. It was the last time I saw her alive.

Manchester 2006

The job for Tanya and the boys was proving far from easy. I’d spent three days sitting on and around the plot; a three-bedroom maisonette built in the 1970s, smack in the heart of shit land. Jimmy the skydiver’s flat was a palace compared to this gaff. The makers of
Shameless
would have run a mile.

It took me the first two days to ID the target. I was beginning to think he’d done a runner.

I’d bought a 1987 Golf GTi for the job. It stood me at five hundred quid from a local auction. I paid cash and gave false details. It was disposable at that money. I cleaned it and only ever went near it wearing surgical gloves. Flesh-coloured were the best, they didn’t attract any attention. At first glance they were invisible.

The reason this job was difficult was Tanya’s specific instruction. She insisted the guy knew why he was getting the good news, but she wanted it done quiet. It had to look like an accident but his mates had to know why he was being taxed and who was collecting. It was all about face and reputation.

This was a dress down job and fed my obsessive compulsive disorder to excess. The car was fine, one of many hot hatches floating around the estate and I had a soft spot for V-dubs as they reminded me of my youth.

I looked younger than my forty-five years, but not young enough to wear baggy fuckin’ pants and a hoodie from poxy Top Man.

Still, I looked and felt like a reject from Oasis. I bought cheap jeans that were once black but I boil-washed them with a little bleach to give them that, ‘I’ve had these for too long,’ look. A dark blue V-neck sweater from Famous Army Stores with a hole in the elbow covered a plain white T-shirt. The only decent things I had were the latest K Swiss trainers. I could get away with those. Every little shit on the estate seemed to have expensive runners.

I must say though, if I had to wear the Polaroid shades for any longer than the four days I’d allowed for the job, I was sure I’d go blind.

I decided to blag my way into the plot on the pretext of a small buy. There were enough customers using the place. One more wouldn’t be unusual. I watched maybe twenty or so sad fucks knock on the door each day. Tanya had given me a brief and I knew the target by name and several of his associates. With that knowledge and a wave of a wad, I had a good chance of getting in the gaff and sorting out the boy.

The target was Alfie Summers. He was just twenty-two. He would not see twenty-three. Remember the Shogun brigade I told you about? This boy was typical. A big daft lad from the heart of Salford with his father in Strangeways for blagging and his mother shoplifting more razor blades than Wilkinson Sword could produce, he hadn’t much to lose. He thought he was on the up and up. The best thing that ever happened to him was selling his first bag of grass. Drugs were his escape route. Not frightened to get his hands dirty in the process, he’d done eighteen months in a young offenders’ institution for tying a seventy-two-year-old women to her wheelchair while he robbed her of her pension and her TV. Once out, he thought he was a bad lad and went from minor deals in grass to moving five grand’s worth of charlie around town each and every night. He was making five hundred quid a day and all the coke he could shake a stick at. He, like all dealers, eventually got greedy.

You see this whole job was about a designer drug. Alfie boy had stumbled upon a line of gear, probably an E/amphet mix. He and his cronies had put it on the street and it had been selling like the proverbial hot cakes.

Alfie was making a fortune. By his standards he was king of the hill. He’d even given himself the nickname, The Lieutenant.

Tanya’s crew had been told by their runners and muscle that a new product was available on the street and wanted part of the action, so they set up a buy. If the gear was as good as they were told, then they had the capability to obtain the chemical formula and manufacture it themselves. They sent their youngest cousin Vivien, a seventeen-year-old kid with no form, to do the business so Alfie wouldn’t suss it was Yardie cash. Worst case scenario for Tanya’s crew was that they moved the pills and made a profit. 

Problem was, Alfie thought he was fuckin’ Al Pacino. He’d convinced himself he was big time. Now anyone with an ounce of sense knows, before you go taking five grand of anyone’s cash and smashing their runner’s brains out with a house brick, you find out who you’re going to upset. It’s a dangerous game and Alfie was probably using too much of his own product to know better.

From what I’d seen, there hadn’t been a delivery to the house in three days. That would be my cue. Then all this shit would be worth it and I would be on an earner.

In the late afternoon of day four I followed matey boy to his local. It was typical of the area, all spit, sawdust, Prada and Burberry. I sat on a filthy stool, just as I had the day before, and listened to Alfie’s inane macho conversation. He was describing his third teenage conquest of the week and I was just about to burst when the dick-spring announced to half the boozer that his new batch of super kick-ass whiz was on its way. It was happy days. I’d started to spend my fifteen before I left the boozer.

I’d been forced to ditch the motor for the final night’s observations as it was starting to get attention from the local TWOC boys. I was reduced to lying in the mud on a piece of waste ground where I could see the front door of Alfie’s pad undetected. I wasn’t my idea of fun, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t done it all before.

I lay in constant drizzle, obscured by two overgrown bushes of doubtful origin, his whole place was in darkness and my spirits started to sag.

I started to think about Susan. Joel’s wife, if you could believe that. There was something about her that made me itch. She played the gangster’s moll all too well for my liking.

I checked my watch, half one in the morning.

Finally two very nervous-looking faces arrived on plot with a holdall. At last there was some action and lights appeared on in the house. The boys knocked on the front door and dropped the holdall in the doorway, and our Alfie took it from them. No cash was exchanged, which was a shame, I might have considered rolling the delivery boys too. The two faces fucked off quick sharp into the pissing rain.

So it was time for the dodgy bit. The reason I can make five grand a day.

From what I’d seen the past days, I reckoned Alfie, plus two maybe three others were on the plot. Alfie was a big lad and could be a handful. The others I’d seen enter earlier would be no worry. The only problem could be if people were coming and going out the back door unseen and I ended up with six meat-heads to contend with. I could only watch the front.

I strolled up to the door as cool as you like. My only extra was a black woollen hat that turned nicely into a balaclava.

Knock, knock
.

I heard activity. Someone looked through the front door spy-hole.

“What d’ya want, mate?”

It was a stoned voice.

I’d heard Alfie call the tabs ‘green bombers’, so I used the same term. I told the kid I wanted twenty tabs. A hundred quid deal. I showed the cash at the spy and hey presto, he opened the door first time. Not noted for their educational qualifications, speed freaks.

The small hallway stank of fags, sweaty feet and hash, no carpet, and two pairs of foul trainers, kicked off and left to fester, were a less than fragrant greeting. The door opener told me to close it behind me and turned his back. He was a kid, seventeen maybe; scrawny with a glue sniffer’s mouth. I pulled down the mask, grabbed the kid by the hair and punched a .45 Magnum handgun into the back of his head. I had the youth’s undivided attention.

“How many guys are in the house, son?”

He whispered and I could feel him shake.

“Just me an’ Alfie, an’ Alfie’s mate, boss.”

I was feeling lucky, this was gonna be just fine.

As I walked into the room, Alfie and Alfie’s mate were counting tabs on a coffee table. A perfect little pair they were too.

Alfie was there stripped to the waist showing off some big Celtic tattoo, no shoes or socks, just trackies and a big open gob. His mate looked about the same age. He had the compulsory Burberry baseball cap, an absurdly large gold chain around his neck and the worst case of acne I had ever seen.  

Once over the initial shock of my entrance, Alfie wanted to be brave and show his minions what he was made of, but when he saw the Magnum he thought better of it. He was still gobbing it though; his kind couldn’t help it.

“You’re a fuckin’ dead man!” he screamed every ten seconds or so. That and, “Do you know who I am?”   

I handed Alfie a bunch of cable ties and, after some gentle persuasion he set about fastening his bezzie mates to two dining chairs whilst telling me how many different ways he was going to kill me. I seated Alfie on a third chair but didn’t tie him. I couldn’t have marks on his wrists.

Alfie was mouthing off even more about what he was going to do to me. Mainly it involved shooting me in the mouth. The other two were gaining in bottle and made the odd remark.

I felt the need to reassert my authority, pushed the revolver into my left hand and kept it pointed at Alfie. I then removed a knuckleduster from my pocket.

It’s an old fashioned item, the knuckleduster, not popular with modern thuggery. I’d had it made for me on holiday in Hong Kong. I thought it an item of beauty.

I punched 17 and Stupid repeatedly and heavily to the head. Each blow with the duster caused severe damage. Alfie was silenced and his mate was sick over his Rockports.

The kid’s face looked like a burst sausage. He lolled forward, bleeding badly and unconscious. Only the ties kept him in his seat. I had made my point. Even Alfie was looking worried.

I hit Alfie’s mate just once. All fifteen stone of me connected with the bridge of his nose. It exploded and I got blood on my sweater. He was screaming and little sick bubbles had formed at the corners of his mouth. I checked that there was no blood on my K Swiss trainers. I liked them and thought to wear them again.

“You owe the Richards brothers from the Moss five grand,” I said. Then I noticed the merest speck of claret on one shoe. I inwardly cursed as I realised I would have to burn them with my other clothes.

Alfie had lost the bravery contest. He blubbered about not having the cash. He’d spent it on gear. He could get it by the end of the week.

“I want it now.”

I did a quick search of the room with a little verbal help from Alfie and found nearly three grand in cash. I reckoned that there were two-thousand-plus tabs, which fitted neatly into a plastic freezer bag I’d brought with me.

I lifted Alfie’s mate’s face upward. I looked at his terrified eyes and spoke deliberately.

“I’m going to let you, and your young friend here, go now. Don’t come back.”

The hand-made duster went in one pocket and I removed a beautiful butterfly knife from my breast. It was a fantastic item with a solid silver casing. I cut them both free. 17 and Stupid fell to the floor. Alfie’s mate picked him up. “Sorry, boss, we won’t come back, he spluttered,” and they staggered toward the front door, shitting themselves.

As they fell toward the front door, I ushered Alfie out of the back door. The three K in cash and ten grand’s worth of tabs sat nicely in my pockets. I rolled up my balaclava and started the Golf with Alfie looking very worried in the passenger seat. After all, he wasn’t going to ID me.

Manchester’s Saddleworth Moor is infamous. The murderers Ian Brady and Myra Hindley buried their child victims there.

The Golf drove quite well for an old shed and I’d enjoyed throwing it around a bit on the country stretches, the Magnum in the door pocket mainly there as a deterrent should my prisoner decide to do something silly. Finally Alfie and I parked in a quiet little spot I’d selected five days ago. I then took my time forcing five of his own green bomber tabs into him. Within twenty minutes his command of the Queen’s best was unimpressive.

Alfie was of the opinion, in his tiny brainless head, that he’d been due a kicking and that was that. His big brave face kept up for a while but once we got to tab three, I think he got the message and the pleading started. After the pleading, came the tears.

So there I was again, the point of no return, a mercenary with no war to fight, no uniform to wear and no cause, only victims, designer clothes and piles of cash. This is what I’d become and some days I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror.

Fuck it.

I shook myself out of my brief malaise, fished two more tabs out of my pocket and stuffed them into Alfie’s mouth. OD level was close. The last one, I just popped in his gob like a sweet. The Magnum was redundant. I manoeuvred him onto the back seat. He muttered quiet gibberish. At least the tears had stopped. I nearly spoiled the whole plan at one point by shooting him in the face, he was blubbering that much.

I stepped out into the cool air and stretched my back. Alfie was incapable of any movement. I lifted the tailgate of the Golf and removed a canvas sack which contained everything I would need to conclude the grisly business. I rigged a hose I’d bought from B&Q to the Golf’s exhaust using some gaffer tape, and pushed the business end through an inch of open window. By the time I strolled the ten minutes to my van Alfie Summers was dead.