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

by Robert White

  I nodded. She raised my left leg slowly and rested my ankle on a clean white towel. Then she gently applied the cream. It actually felt soothing rather than painful. It seemed to take away some of the burning for a moment. I lay back and let her get on with it.

  Each leg took several minutes to cover. When she’d finished Lauren washed her hands again.

  “Now for the hard part. We need to get some movement back into your legs. We’ll start with ankle rotations and work up to the knees.”

  She cocked her head to one side and her hair fell to her elbow.

  “This will be unpleasant, Rick.”

  She was right too. She cupped my heel in one hand and my toes in the other and started to turn my ankle. Even though the ankle itself hadn’t been affected, the scalded skin above felt like it was being torn off. I let out a gasp as the rotations got wider. Lauren seemed either not to notice, or was resigned to causing me necessary grief.

  The whole process took over thirty minutes. By the time it was over I was soaked in sweat and shattered.

  Right on cue Des popped his head around the door.

  “Ye coming for a run yet, ye big Jessie?”

  I couldn’t even manage a reply, but flicked him a very shaky pair of fingers.

  “Charming, eh, Lauren? Ye enquire after yer mate and that’s all the thanks you get.”

  “I think Rick is a little sore right now, Des.” Lauren gestured towards the door. “But I’ll go for a jog with you.”

  “Jog!” Des seemed amused by Lauren. “I don’t think so, love.”

  Lauren seemed to take the bait. “I’ll have you know I jog three times a week.”

  Des smiled his knowing smile. “The girl wants to get some in, eh, Rick?”

  I was coming down from my adrenaline rush. The pain was easing a little.

  “Just take it easy on him, Lauren. He’s over forty now.”

  Des guffawed, “Eh! At least I’ve not taken to my bed with no more than sunburn and a toothache.”

  “Fuck off the pair of you.”

  I listened to them sorting out their running gear. Des with his boots and Bergen, Lauren with her Reeboks and trackies, the pair were slagging each other off even before they had even started. It was all good natured banter. I felt a pang of jealousy, at not being able to share the jokes. As I listened to Lauren take the piss out of Des’s knees, I couldn’t help but wonder why someone like her had got so involved with us.

  I mean, the thing was far from over, and from what Des had told me, he hadn’t hidden anything from her. So she was either crazy about him or just plain crazy.

  Well, if Des was looking for a new woman in his life, he could do worse.

  She was adamant that as soon as I was out of any real danger, she was off. I didn’t believe that, and neither did she. Des could have organised the meds and done the physio. If I’d suffered any real setback, or contracted a serious infection, Des would have had to dump me on the NHS and hope for the best. Simple as.

  So why was she really playing nursie?

  I put Lauren to one side and turned back the clock to Amsterdam, Susan and David Stern.

  Lauren North's Story:

  Jesus, the guy was a bloody gazelle. There I was thinking that we’d set a slow pace. Tabbing, Des called it. Murder, I named it. We’d been going for about an hour at something between marching and jogging pace. Des had loaded a big green rucksack he called a Bergen with so much stuff I thought we were going on a weekend trip, never mind a run. The Bergen was strapped to his back and he showed no sign of fatigue.

  I was blowing like an old kettle. I’d reckoned we’d done about eight kilometres, mostly uphill and we hadn’t turned for home.

  “When are we going to head back?” I gasped.

  “About another four clicks and we’ll have a break.”

  Oh my God! That was a minimum twenty-four kilometres by my reckoning. I’d never run further than ten in one go.

  “Turn back if you like,” he said, with a hint of ‘smug bloke’ in his voice.

  “No. I’m okay, I just like to know where I am, that’s all,” I lied.

  “’Kay,” Des chirped.

  Twenty minutes later I was near exhaustion and thankfully Des slowed to a walk.

  “We’ll take a rest here, and have a brew.”

  I could hardly breathe and he’d brought half the bloody kitchen with him. He sat on the grass and unpacked a small primer stove, bottled water and plastic mugs. He settled to his task whilst I took lungful after lungful of air with my head between my knees. Once he’d got the water on he had the audacity to light a small pipe. He blew a plume of bluish smoke into the air and rested back on his elbows. He beamed in my direction.

  “Not as fit as ye thought, eh?”

  “Obviously.”

  I heard mild irritation in my voice.

  “Never mind,” he added. “Soon have you in shape if you train with me and Rick.”

  I sat beside him, my breathing returning to normal. I was suddenly aware of the view. So much beauty surrounded us. The morning air was still, crisp, clean and fresh. Wisps of white cloud were translucent, unable to hide the intense blue of the sky. Rolling green hills that had looked so daunting when we arrived now looked lush and welcoming.

  “There’s no chance of that. It is beautiful here, Des, but I can’t stay. I have a life and a career in Leeds.”

  “None of us can hang about here forever, Lauren. I was just suggesting you might want to stay until Rick was fit.”

  “That could be months.”

  “Weeks,” Des corrected.

  I watched him reload his pipe. I took a deep breath and heard myself say, “I’m going back home in ten days when my leave runs out. You won’t need me then.”

  Des checked the water and rooted for teabags. His voice, flat and matter of fact. There was no hint of displeasure or disappointment.

  “Suit yourself, hen, it isn’t a problem. What you did for both of us was beyond anything that we could have expected. If you go in ten days, we’ll wish you well. If you want to stay on a while and help out, that’s okay too.”

  I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t know what I felt. I was enthralled by the two men that had been thrust into my life. I was bored with my petty existence in Leeds. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to throw everything away. I had friends, a home and a job I loved.

  “Just pour the tea,” I said.

  Des found his smug face again and handed me a brew.

  “We’ll take the short way back.”

  I couldn’t help myself.

  “We bloody well won’t!”

  Four weeks on, I was keeping up with Des on our daily runs. He had added circuit training to his regime and I was fitter and faster. Rick was walking around the house like a caged, bad-tempered lion eager to join in.

  He’d suffered a small setback in the first week after he had attempted to climb the stairs and torn the skin on his left leg. Since then his recuperation had been remarkable and he was able to walk unaided. I had removed the stitches from his cheek and he had been left with a star-shaped scar the size of a two-pence piece. He split his time between exercising his upper body, poring over his computer and being grumpy.

  Why hadn’t I returned to Leeds? Because I’d never felt so alive. I found that I could enjoy the company of men without feeling the pressure of a relationship. I discovered that I liked to fish and I established that I could shoot too.

  It was like living with my two handsome older brothers, who just happened to be your favourite anti-heroes.

  By week six Rick was running and punishing his body in a way a tri-athlete might when preparing for the Olympics. His determination to be fit was only matched by his obsession with finding the man I had grown to know as Edgar David Stern, his femme fatale Susan and his henchman Stephan.

  Rick had been cooking dinner when he called Des and me into the kitchen. I had been in Scotland for almost three blissful months. What I didn’t realise was, that
moment, that meeting of three people thrown together, seated around a kitchen table in Scotland, would change my life forever.

  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: