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

by Robert White

  Lauren North’s Story

  I had to say, I was impressed. Rick made shopping so easy. Well it is very easy when you can spend four hundred and twenty pounds on two pairs of shoes and not even blink, isn’t it?

  I’d had a wonderful afternoon and had managed to put the reason we were in Spain behind me for a couple of hours. Suddenly that was all about to change.

  Rick and I were strolling along the harbour marvelling at the fantastic array of yachts when I saw him stiffen. He was looking over at the terrace of a bar we had planned to visit.

  When I followed his gaze, I could see Des was there, sitting at a table, shaded by a large Martini umbrella. He was in deep conversation with a man who looked very scary indeed.

  He had a big tattoo covering his bald head and it ran down his neck and inside his top. He was very muscular. Not like a body builder, more like a professional boxer or sprinter.

  He wore a pair of mirrored wraparound sunglasses which hid his eyes. Somehow I didn’t feel like looking into them.

  Rick stopped and let a delivery van obscure us temporarily. He flicked open his phone and dialled Des.

  The conversation was brief. I heard him say something like ‘are you sure?’ and then close the phone.

  Rick looked at me and smiled a rare smile. “Come and meet Jimmy ‘Two Times’ Smith,” he said. “He’s a good bloke from the Regiment.”

  From Armani to army in one fell swoop. We sauntered over to the two men.

  Jimmy stood up and removed the shades to reveal eyes that were considerably more pleasant than I expected. They were chocolate brown, quick and full of life. He smiled to reveal perfect teeth that had cost more than some family cars.

  “I spotted you fifty metres before the jetty there, boss. You must be getting old, getting old like.”

  Rick took his hand in another rare moment of physical contact and pumped it. Both men held each other’s stare. Des broke the silence. “Sit the fuck down, the lot of you. Yer makin’ the place look untidy.”

  We sat and Jimmy turned his attention to me. He gave me an intense stare. A piercing examination that made me shift uneasily in my seat. A look that told me I wasn’t one of ‘them’. A look that offered me nothing yet drew on my thoughts and fears. It was as if he was reading my face itself.

  Des saved me.

  “This lovely creature is Lauren, Jimmy. She’s part of the team. The big man would no be here if it weren’t for her, isn’t that right, Rick?”

  “That’s right, Jimmy, she knows her stuff, and a top medic. She can handle herself when the shit starts flying too.”

  Jimmy stopped his examination almost immediately, but I figured he’d already got the information he needed. He bowed his head in true embarrassment. He rested his hand on mine and it felt like sandpaper.

  “Very sorry, ma’am, very sorry. If I didn’t make you feel welcome like. Just that I’m not good around strangers.”

  I removed my hand from under the dense weight of his.

  “No problem, Jimmy, nice to meet you.”

  Jimmy’s dark eyes flickered in the sunshine. “So you’re a medic, Lauren, a nurse no doubt, something in intensive care I’d guess and from Yorkshire?”

  I’d met people like Jimmy before. They were on the spectrum. He fell short of any major learning difficulties, but carried traits of both autism and other syndromes. This was a man who could see things others couldn’t. Here was Rain Man with muscles.

  Rick threw his hands up faster than an Italian in a trench, his own South London accent showing through. “Fuck me, two bleedin’ Yorkshires and a Jock. I’ll never get a bloody drink bought for me!”

  We laughed.

  It was the last time we all laughed together.

  Rick Fuller's Story:

  An omen had come, a good luck charm. I’d always liked working with Jimmy. I used him on jobs where, if it got very physical, and I mean the times when your enemy was close enough to bleed on you, he was a big bonus.

  I love Monty Python, don’t you? Have you seen ‘The Holy Grail?’ The scene where John Cleese is the black knight and he gets all his limbs chopped off by another knight? In the end, he’s just a stump left on the ground, but Cleese still won’t yield and shouts at the other knight, “Come back and fight, you pansy!” or words to that effect.

  Well that was Jimmy ‘Two Times’ Smith in real life. I mean it when I say this. I have never seen a man give and take so much punishment and live.

  Back in the day, everyone thought he was thick muscle, nothing more than that.

  But Jimmy was much more.

  He saw things we didn’t. He just couldn’t always tell us because of his problem.

  Jimmy’s talent for spotting people in a crowd was just short of creepy. His ability to read situations, almost what people were thinking, was very bizarre. The trouble had always been that he often took three days to tell you what he’d seen or worked out. Back then, to be honest, I didn’t give a fuck because he could save your whole team’s skin if it got to hand to hand combat. He was that good.

  Now, things were like chalk and cheese for Jimmy. He could tell you there and then what he knew. He’d got some help and was doing well for himself. He’d sorted a nice little business in the harbour renting high-end powerboats. He was charging over a grand an hour and had a waiting list.

  This was a very different Jimmy.

  The fact was, for the last four years he’d seen Williamson drop in and out of Puerto Banus. The man shopped here, drank and ate here but lived in Gib. He’d watched him from a silent distance. After all he was just an ex-squaddie trying to scrape a living in the sun. He thought all his mates were all dead or missing anyway. God bless us all. We all needed a living wage. Jimmy’s looked like it was a substantial fee too.

  He had chosen to remain covert and to keep his identity and history a secret. He didn’t do so just to protect himself. He had been waiting for this day. Waiting to repay Charles Williamson for his crime.

  He told me that somehow he knew that this very day was coming.

  He also knew something we didn’t back then. Back in 1996, he’d seen something we hadn’t, he’d read the situation whilst we’d all missed it. Whatever it was, he’d never forgotten, and like me, never forgiven.

  He truly believed that I would come and take vengeance on Williamson. When he saw Des in the Midge Hall, he wasn’t surprised. To him it was the fulfilment of a dream, a vision he’d had many times.

  Jimmy lounged on the plush sofa of my suite and flicked through every available channel on my TV. He settled on Mastermind, the final, 2001. He answered every question out loud, no stutter, whilst texting his girlfriend in Thailand. She didn’t speak English.

  We now had a fourth man. He was eerie, and very dangerous, but a very welcome addition to our menagerie.

  “Did you know Butch had been killed in Iraq?” Jimmy hit the mute button. He’d beaten Magnuson. He did his weird look, the one all the lads hated back then, over the water. The one that X-rayed you.

  I couldn’t even start to explain. With the way my life had turned out, how would I have known about poor Butch with the way my rich but grubby existence had drawn me away from all that had been good? I knew I couldn’t say the right words, so I stayed quiet. He read me, I knew he did. He gave a nod and he said, “I ran into his brother by pure accident. He was on holiday here three days after he was buried. We had a beer or two, you know, boss.”

  I felt bad. Like shit. He knew it. I changed the subject.

  “We’re off to San Pedro tonight. A little collection job. We need some hardware, if you know what I mean.”

  Jimmy smiled.

  “Fuckin’ top one, top one. I’ve still got the odd bit of kit myself but count me in, boss. Whatever you need, I’m in.”

  Lauren North's Story:

  I knew it was time for Des to collect the weapons from the safe house. He was off to meet Rick. He’d showered and changed quickly and I was left in the hotel room surfing satellit
e TV.

  I felt uneasy at what I’d witnessed. Jimmy ‘Two Times,’ ‘good guy’ whatever he was called didn’t sit straight with me. In fact I was damned well suspicious of him. He was really creepy. The way he looked at people. He almost took something from you each time he spoke to you. I got the impression he did it every time he had contact with another human being. He captured something from inside you. Does that sound strange?

  Well it was.

  Anyway I was the new girl on the block and what could I say about an ‘old boy’ from the Regiment days?

  I was pissed off at being left alone. I admit I was a little resentful.

  Once I’d flicked through all the English-speaking channels I killed the set and sat in silence for a while.

  Feeling lonely for the first time in months, I opened the sliding doors which led to the balcony and sat in the warm Spanish twilight.

  I could hear the sound of silver on china. It tinkled below me as the early diners devoured their fabulous evening menu at the poolside restaurant. The low mumble of voices and the occasional chorus of laughter rose up to my solitary refuge. I slid deeper into my beautiful rose-coloured armchair, feeling like the last chicken in the shop.

  Envy is a terrible thing.

  I avoided the balcony lights and opted for the ornate oil lamp which took pride of place on the cast-iron table. It lit my small world and made me feel warm and cosy.

  The sun had long since lost its battle with the horizon and darkness overcame the earth.

  Taking a bottle of white from the minibar, I poured myself a large measure. It tasted fruity and calmed me. I checked my Motorola for messages but found nothing. San Pedro, where the guys had gone, was only a few miles away. I felt a sudden chill and snapped the phone shut. I looked out past the diners and onward to the fabulous harbour. The moon threw down yellow droplets of light. They shimmered on the crystal sea which rolled dark and mysterious without the sun for company. The moonlight flashed upward, iridescent against the gently swaying white hulls of million-dollar craft waiting silently for their next passage.

  It was all so sweet.

  Fuck this, I thought. I’m going out.

  I took a shower but was careful not to wet my hair, then quickly dressed in my denim skirt and a pretty summer top I bought five years earlier for a holiday in Cyprus. I’d never worn it, as my husband thought it too revealing. It showed an inch of my midriff.

  Selecting my new kitten heels to match, I grabbed my bag and made for the door. No make-up. No perfume. No problem.

  As I stepped from the lift I could hear the ‘clip clop’ of my new shoes on the marble tiled foyer, making me feel slightly self-conscious. The doorman must have heard me and he turned and smiled.

  “Taxi, madam?”

  I returned his grin and checked his name badge.

  “No thank you, Louis, it’s a lovely night, I’ll walk.”

  It was indeed a warm, balmy evening and as I trotted down the steps of our hotel I felt my spirits rise. At first I enjoyed wandering around the glitzy souvenir shops along the front but soon tired of the patter and compliments from the smooth salesmen. I made myself a little promise to see the real Puerto Banus and find a nice coffee shop.

  With that singularly simple thought I started away from the harbour and along the cobbled streets that led me away from the tourist trap. After fifteen minutes or so of steady walking I noticed any shops that were present were actually closed and their signs no longer bothered with the English translation. Seville orange trees lined my way. They were so full of fruit that some had fallen and dotted the path. No one would pick them up to eat of course; the bitter Seville orange is only of use for making jam. That aside, they filled the warm evening air with a luscious smell that for some reason reminded me of Christmas. The bustle of the harbour was left behind and all I could hear were my own feet and the occasional barking dog.

  I was close to turning back toward the hotel, disappointed that I had not managed to find the enclave I’d hoped for, when I heard the unmistakable sound of people having fun.

  As I drew closer to the noise I could see that a street market was in full swing. Coloured light bulbs were strung between lamp posts and dozens of trestle tables blocked the road from any vehicles. The stalls were piled high with all manner of goods from cured meats to silver jewellery. Each stall-holder seemed to be shouting to the world that they had the best deal in town. With my very limited Spanish they could have been saying anything. The walkways between the various traders were packed with shoppers. Not a pair of Union Jack shorts in sight, I was in a locals’ market. I was very much the lone tourist and glad of it.

  I spent the best part of an hour wandering between the makeshift wooden shops. I even treated myself to a small silver bracelet.

  As I passed a stall where a large man in a bloody apron sliced hot roast boar, my stomach told me I hadn’t eaten since lunch. Two Euros bought me a huge slice of mouth-watering meat together with crusty bread and pickles.

  At the north end of the market was a small square with benches and more orange trees. I parked myself there and, in the shaded moonlight, ate. Once I’d devoured half of my meal I was full and in need of that coffee I’d promised myself. I checked my mobile again for any messages from the lads but found none. I started to feel real concern. San Pedro was twenty minutes away and three hours had passed. I pushed the remnants of my meal into a nearby bin and headed east along a narrow cobbled path which boasted the sign ‘Avenida Cadiz’. After a hundred and fifty meters or so, a brightly lit pavement café filled the street with the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee.

  After all the oranges trees I’d seen the last hour, I was unsurprised to find the café was named ‘Cafeteria Sevilla’. The sign appeared to have been handwritten by someone without any artistic qualities. Despite the basic sign-writing the place was busy with people who, like me, had done some shopping and needed a break. I sat at an outside table where a very handsome waiter took my order. Minutes later my latte arrived steaming hot and smelling of cinnamon.

  I felt my Motorola vibrate in my pocket and my spirits rose. It was a text from Des. It read Collection complete. Where r u btw?

  I hit the reply button and started to text but was suddenly conscious of a man who had seated himself at the table to my right. He was in my peripheral vision but I was acutely aware that he was staring.

  I stopped pressing buttons and took a better look at the guy.

  My heart lurched and I felt the palms of my hands sweat in an instant. The man was indeed staring. More than that, the piercing blue of his solitary visible eye held me for that split embarrassing second. He instantly realised my discomfort, and spoke. He brushed his white-blond hair from his face, dragging me further into his gaze.

  “Lovely evening,” he said.

  I didn’t, no, couldn’t reply. I felt my legs start to shake.

  “You are English, I take it?” He produced a flashing smile. My throat was constricted by an invisible ligature and I remained mute.

  He pointed to the back of my neck, his smile broadened. “Your label,” he said. “Marks and Spencer’s, it’s sticking out. I saw it, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But you are English, right?”

  I fumbled with the back of my top, inwardly cursing my hurried exit from the hotel. The man’s South African accent was mixed with the USA and somewhere else. It was educated, sophisticated even, yet primitive and callous all at the same time.

  I fixed myself, took a breath and forced a smile back at Stephan Goldsmith.

  “How observant of you, are you a detective?”

  He wore a crisp white shirt that was so perfectly pressed it looked starched. His skin was tanned and he had an obvious bite scar on his cheek. Another thin white blemish led from just under his Adam’s apple down over his sternum and out of sight. He tugged at the cuffs of his shirt in turn, pulling one over a solid gold Rolex and the other over an equally impressive bracelet.

  “Not a detective
, more of a soldier of fortune.”

  He nodded at my frothing cup.

  “Can I get you a real drink? I know the English like to indulge.”

  I’d managed to stop my legs from shaking but didn’t feel confident enough to lift my coffee cup. My mind was a complete whirl. My whole body was telling me to get up and run but I just knew it would be a mistake.

  He persisted as I fought with my inner self.

  “Xavier does a lovely margarita. It might bring some colour back to those beautiful English cheeks of yours, Lauren.”

  His voice cut into me. The sound of my own name had never frightened me before. In that instant I was terrified.

  I instantly realised this was it. This was my personal test. How long had he followed me? Was this pure coincidence? How careless had I been? Of course, there was no way of knowing. Did the guys have similar problems? Who had really sent that text from Des’s phone? I said a silent prayer.

  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.”