THE FOLLOWER: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 4)

by Robert White

  Frankie shrugged his narrow shoulders. “This box has a range of about a thousand yards. If we plant the charge tonight, we wait until our guy sets off tomorrow, and when he does his U turn at the junction… boom.”

  “That’s as good as it’s going to get, pal,” said Des.

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t know. That means we would have to fight our way out in daylight.”

  I had a lot of thinking to do.

  * * *

  Never being any good at waiting was a weakness of mine, but Butch was even worse. We all took turns at keeping watch whilst the others tried to get some kip, but Butch was irritable to say the least, his infamous temper was never far from the surface and I knew I would have to keep an eye on him.

  “You know what pisses me off?” he asked me.

  I gave him a look, but stayed quiet. He was going to tell me whether I wanted to hear or not.

  “We have to pussyfoot around with these rag head fuckers, yeah? Worry about a fucking mosque or a hospital, even a couple of kids in the gaff. The Paddies don’t worry who they slot eh?” The shoved a thick thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of our target. “These camel fuckers don’t give a shit either. They know that their explosives kill women and children every day of the bastard week.”

  “It’s what sets us apart, Butch,” chirped up Frankie. “Tha knows? The difference between a soldier and a terrorist?”

  Butch wasn’t having any. He pulled his M16 from his shoulder and began to strip and clean it, even though it was immaculate.

  “Slot the fuckers… All of ‘em. That’s what I say.”

  Frankie shook his head and got on with building his bomb.

  Things seemed to quieten down in the street around noon, when the heat of the day made physical work difficult. By 1300hrs, we had no shade at all in our wadi, and were struggling. Water would become an issue sooner rather than later.

  That said, the sun position, gave me an idea. Maybe we could exit in daylight after all.

  At 1316hrs the nearby mosque’s speakers crackled into life for the afternoon prayers. It seemed like the whole village turned out as one, except for Al-Mufti’s men, they simply lay out prayer mats on the ground where they stood and did their business in the open.

  All of them, African, Eastern European, Russian, Arab, every man a devout Muslim.

  It wasn’t just money that tied them together.

  The sun started to go down just before 1600hrs. It was weird when you experienced it for the first time. One minute it was broad daylight, the next, pitch black.

  At 1632hrs, we saw the headlights of Al-Mufti’s convoy flashing down the street, back the way it had left. Once again, the seemingly undrilled mob that wandered about the place, formed a cordon, and took up strategic positions for the arrival of their leader.

  His coming was the mirror image of his exit. His beautiful wife and two children at the door to greet him.

  Butch was at my shoulder. “I say we just slot him now and fuck the consequences.”

  Butch was a great guy to have around in a fight, but his temperament ensured his decision making left something to be desired.

  I turned to Des. “I reckon he’s a creature of habit. I think this is his routine. We’ll plant the charge under the Shogun tonight and detonate it when he leaves tomorrow, just like Freddy said.”

  Des turned down the corners of his mouth and nodded.

  “You expect us to make the border in broad daylight and forty-degree heat, with half the Libyan army on our backsides?”

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  “Better be a fuckin’ good one,” said the Scot.

  No sooner had our target closed his front door when the mosque fired up again and the call to evening prayer began.

  Des scrambled over to me, excitement in his voice.

  “If this fucker walks to the mosque now, I say we take our shot and forget the charge.”

  Butch looked into my face and gave a beaming smile. “No women allowed in the temple mate eh? I’m with Des. If he walks, we slot him.”

  Except he didn’t.

  Al-Mufti stayed firmly in his house, as did his close protection team. The men outside, went through the same routine as the afternoon session, praying where they stood.

  By 1900hrs, it was all over.

  Except for two new shiny sentries, the street was dark and deserted. The smell of cooking wafted towards us on the chilled night air and Des got a brew on, as our mouths watered from the smells coming from the village.

  Frankie shuffled over to me and sat, his hands cupped around his mug, warming his fingers from the desert cold.

  “What time are you thinking, Rick?”

  “They say the time of deepest sleep is around four in the morning. I’d say then mate.”

  He nodded and seemed distant for a moment. “Listen… if things go tits up and I get compromised, I don’t want you silly fuckers coming in for me.”

  I locked eyes with him. “We don’t leave men behind Frank, you know that.”

  He shook his head. “This is different Rick. There must be sixty blokes out there. They all look pretty sorted too. That M2 on the pickup would see to us all in a matter of seconds… No mate. Don’t do owt daft… if it all goes wrong… tha needs t’get out of here. All of yer.”

  I rested my hand on Frankie’s skinny shoulder.

  “My responsibility is to the whole team Frankie, and that includes you. We’ll get you in and we’ll get you out. All of us will be on that boat back to Malta tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  Frankie smiled and slouched back to his spot, away from the rest of the patrol. He was a bit of a loner and didn’t say too much. So, when he did you listened, as he normally made sense.

  We’d watched the sentries patrol the perimeter of the house for the last two hours. They were obviously as cold and tired as us and at around 0200hrs, they huddled together against the gable wall under a blanket.

  By 0300hrs, they appeared to be sleeping, their AK’s resting on their knees.

  The only street lighting was at the junction of the main drag and Al Mufti’s road, and that consisted of a solitary flickering streetlamp. Even if the sentries were awake they would have little chance of seeing us. From leaving the safety of our LUP, until we got within fifty yards of our target, I reckoned we would be in pitch black.

  Well, so I thought.

  We’d soon find out.

  At 0330hrs, we bunched up with one last brew, looking out over the ridge of the wadi in silence.

  My devastatingly cunning plan was to get us all in close to support Frankie, staying in the inky blackness just over fifty metres from the plot, fanning out across the opening of the junction and covering the Yorkshireman’s back. It wasn’t just a case of putting the whole patrol in the firing line, it was a psychological boost for the man at the sharp end.

  My call.

  Once Frankie had fitted the device to the underside of the Shogun, we would all return to the wadi, and begin the long patient wait for Al-Mufti to set off to work.

  With our target safely tucked in his Shogun, Frankie would then remotely detonate the device from the cover of our LUP, taking out all three vehicles in one hit.

  Then, and this was my brilliant idea, rather than run west to the border as the enemy would expect, we would turn north and stay in the wadi for a couple of k’s, then turn, and hopefully avoid any search parties.

  Easy eh?

  At 0345hrs we had one final check of our kit. Once we were happy that we had no loose flaps, no undone buttons, everything squared away as it should be, we moved.

  Des had the extra weight of the AW50 and four clips. Butch and I had our M16’s, grenades and Brownings.

  Frankie checked his device one last time and handed me his M16. He needed speed of moveme
nt.

  “Let’s go blow something up,” he said.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  Rick gave the signal for us to leave the wadi and we moved at a steady pace, being as quiet as possible. The darkness was both a blessing and a curse. The uneven ground was difficult to assess with such little ambient light. The last thing we needed was a turned ankle or worse.

  Once we’d covered about 400 yards or so, we fanned out, giving us eyes on the gable of the target premises, the front door, and all three vehicles parked out front.

  The two sentries were still huddled together under their blanket. I wriggled myself into the prone position with the AW50, and took a close look at them using the Hensoldt NSV 80 night-vision sight. From what I could see, they both slept like babies.

  Game on.

  As I lay on the ground, I instantly felt the cold of the desert floor filter through my clothing, and was glad that we didn’t intend to sit in position for too long.

  Each mag for the AW50 held five Raufoss Mk 211 rounds. The wee buggers would slice through light armour and then blow the fuck out of whatever was inside.

  As Frankie set off on his lonely task to fit his device under the Shogun, I quietly slid the action forwards and took aim at the M2 sitting on the top of the Toyota.

  If the shit hit the fan, that was the first thing to go.

  Butch was off to my left and had the sentries covered. Rick, to my right, had Frankie’s back. As the wee Yorkshireman hit the corner of the street, he was momentarily bathed in the amber glow of the solitary streetlight.

  The boy was no fool, and he didn’t stay visible for more than a second or two and hugged the building opposite, staying in the shadows.

  There was hardly any moon, just enough to see the vague shape of a man scurry across the street and roll under the target vehicle.

  Frankie was on plot. It was 0412hrs.

  Three minutes later, the Imam of the nearby mosque picked up his mic to announce prayer time, and the whole fucking job went to shit.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Frankie was under the Shogun. I could just make out the slightest movement. As the call to prayer echoed along the street, I felt a knot in my gut the size of a football. The door to the building opposite opened and guys started to trudge sleepily out into the darkness of the street. This time, some wandered towards the mosque itself like moths to a flame, whilst others, stuck with their routine and lay down mats in the road. Despite the hour, and their purpose, all carried weapons.

  The two sentries pushed off their blanket, stretched themselves and sauntered towards the front door, directly opposite the Shogun. One rooted about in an alcove and pulled out two mats.

  They were going to kneel and pray within feet of Frankie.

  I clicked off the safety on my M16 and made sure I had both of them in view. Pushing the pressel on my shortwave comms, I whispered into my mic.

  “Standby… standby… standby…”

  Our luck was out. As the first of the guards touched his nose to the ground, something must have triggered in his peripheral vision.

  He jumped up, startled and grabbed his AK. I knew the best I could do was prevent him from giving away Frankie’s position, so I put two in his chest and two more in his partner, before either could get a shot away. A split second later, the whole place went off.

  Al-Mufti’s men poured into the street, from the mosque, from the storage building and from the main house.

  First from the house itself was the big guy who manned the M2. He clambered onto the Toyota, but the moment he reached the weapon, Des opened fire with his AW50. The round struck the heavy machine gun and exploded sending the barrel spinning into the night and tearing the guy to pieces in the process.

  I heard Butch firing his own M16 and instantly men were dropping like flies in front of the storage facility. He fired in short bursts and changed his position after each, rolling in the desert sand to confuse the enemy.

  Des fired again, this time at the engine compartment of the Toyota. The explosive charge in the AW’s cartridge blowing the bonnet into the night and destroying the engine.

  Flames leapt from the vehicle and lit up the street.

  I kept my eye on the front door of the main house, as more of Al-Mufti’s crew barrelled outside. They were in the light, firing wildly, unsure where the threat was coming from. We were in the dark, and other than our muzzle flashes, they had no way of identifying our positions.

  I opened up again, and took down two more men at the door.

  Then they found Frankie.

  Two men had been taking cover behind the Shogun, and with its raised suspension, Frankie had been in plain sight.

  I heard the hi-pitched crack of the Yorkshireman’s Browning and one of the men cry out. The second man was about to push his AK under the Shogun and let fly, but I caught him in the throat and head with two rounds before he could fire.

  Frankie’s only cover was the narrow entry that lead towards the rear of the main house.

  I hit my comms again.

  “Frankie, you need to move now, roll out towards the front door and we’ll cover you. Get into the alley ten metres to your left.”

  I didn’t wait for him to answer, just poured rounds towards the men exiting the main house, whilst Butch did the same with the storage unit. We needed to buy him precious moments.

  Dozens more men were running down the street from the mosque screaming in Arabic, and I wondered exactly how many more we would have to deal with. One thing was for certain, if Frankie didn’t make the alley in the next few seconds, they would be on him.

  Des fired at the approaching hoards with the AW50, then gave up with the big cumbersome weapon and let go with the M16, dropping two or three guys and sending the rest scattering for cover.

  I saw Frankie sprint along the pathway and dart left into the ginnel that ran alongside the property towards the rear of the house and I felt instantly better.

  It was short lived. The second he turned, there was a tirade of automatic gunfire from deep in the alley, the muzzle flashes lighting up the narrow lane.

  My heart sank. I tried the Yorkshireman’s comms, once, “Frankie come in…” Twice… “Frankie, do you read me?”

  I got nothing.

  There were lights and engine noise from behind Al-Mufti’s property and I heard a vehicle driving away at speed.

  No one needed to tell me that it was our target, his wife, his children and his close bodyguards on their way to safety. In that moment, I realised that Frankie Green, had walked straight into our target’s CP team as they were extracting their subject. Al-Mufti would not be fighting us today.

  We had failed, and we’d lost a good bloke.

  Gritting my teeth in anger, I emptied my second thirty round clip at the approaching militia, dropping four, maybe five more, but they still came.

  The enemy’s return fire had been wayward at the beginning of the battle, but now they were getting their shit together and identifying our positions. The sand around me was kicking up with white hot .762 and .556. I was forced to wriggle down into what cover I had, and it was getting harder to get my own shots away.

  Then one of their guys opened up with some big stuff.

  They’d found a second M2 from somewhere and loaded it with .50 tracer. It crackled though the air above my head, the massively powerful rounds lighting the night sky.

  We were massively outnumbered and out-gunned.

  It was time to fuck off, but not before we did the maximum damage possible to Al-Mufti’s operation.

  Des put a round into the Shogun with the AW50 and blew the engine compartment to pieces.

  Even though Frankie had managed to plant his device under the car, C-4 is very stable and cannot be detonated by a gunshot, even one so powerful as the one fired by the AW. It must be initiated by a shockwave
or detonator.

  I threw one of my HG85’s under the car.

  180g of TNT did the trick, triggered the C-4 and the Shogun was blown ten feet into the air, spitting lethal shards of razor sharp metal in all directions, killing and wounding several more of our enemy.

  I knew if we wanted to put distance between us and the marauding hoards, we needed an even bigger bang.

  For once, I had to agree with Butch. This was no time to worry about collateral damage. Al-Mufti’s kids were long gone and any civilians with any sense had fucked off too.

  I hit my comms. “Des, put everything you have left from the AW into the front of the storage building.”

  “Roger that,” was all he said before he started the steady single shots into the warehouse.

  If I had been right and the gaff was indeed Al-Mufti’s dump, we were in for a major firework display.

  On shot four there was a whoomph from deep inside the building as the incendiary rounds did their job.

  I pressed again. “Let’s get the fuck out of here lads.”

  I got two Roger’s from Butch and Des.

  Frankie Green’s comms remained silent.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  We waited a further twelve hours at the RV, just in case Frankie had somehow survived.

  Of course, he hadn’t.

  Our mood was black as night, and hardly a word was spoken on the drive back.

  Our sailing back to Malta, was no better and Rick prowled the deck like a wounded rhino. Even Butch stayed out of his way.

  We docked at Hay Warf and were driven to a small hotel in Valletta by one of our crew. Once there we were met by another ‘Man from the Ministry.’ He took a short brief from Rick and fucked off quick sharp. We all knew there would be a full de-brief when we got back to Hereford and were in no mood to be preached to by a suit.

  The three of us went out that night and got royally pissed.

  Having a drink for Frankie was the easy part. It was Rick who would have to go and see Karen and the kids with the news.

  De-briefs are a necessary part of any operation. Anyone who says they can’t learn from mistakes made shouldn’t be in the Regiment. We were all grown men, and had to face up to our failings as well as our victories.