THE FALL: SAS hero turn Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 3)

by Robert White

  “Don’t stress, Richard, these guns are cleaned all the time and fired every year.”

  Rick stepped away from the Greek’s touch. His dander was up and I was beginning to worry that I wouldn’t be able to control him.

  “So,” he began, his voice almost a whisper. “You expect us to launch an assault on a fortified compound containing any number of armed men with two antique pistols, no ammunition and a couple of sawn-offs?”

  The Greek looked puzzled. “Don’t be silly, boys…Look, I speak with my cousin Kostas, yes? He tell me that you come here to borrow my very nice boat. Then he say to me that you need guns too, no? I tell him, ‘what you think we are here, gangsters?’ He say, don’t stress, just give the boys what you have and the address of Arjan Bajrami in Sarande. There, they will find all the weapons they need.”

  I asked a stupid question.

  “Bajrami? Is a mate of your cousin?”

  The Greek’s manic smile reappeared. “Of course not. He is a sworn enemy of the Makris family. He steal thousands from my cousins Spiros and Kostas, they sell many guns to this Albanian malaka, but he never pay.”

  Rick was in. “So why didn’t you sort him out yourselves?”

  Konstantinos eyes grew wide. “Are you crazy? Go to Albania and kill an Albanian?”

  He went to put his arm on Rick again, but Rick was too quick and stepped backward, The Greek shrugged, obviously thinking this behaviour strange. He continued. “Richard, we live next door to this fucking place full of crazy mother-fuckers. Every third guy that walks past my bar is Albanian. So…we go over, kill this robbing bastard Bajrami and recover my cousin’s money? Then what?”

  We waited for the punchline...it came.

  “We all dead the next day.”

  I was doing all the maths in my head. That cheeky fucker Kostas was paying us to top Goldsmith alright, but he was settling another score at the same time. Before we could move on Stephan, Red George and his crew, we would have to sort Bajrami.

  I looked over to Rick, who was shaking his head in resignation. He picked up the Luger PO8 and gave it the once-over.

  “You know how much this is worth, Konstantinos?” he said quietly laying the gun back in position. “More than your BMW, pal.”

  The Greek looked doubtful. “Really?”

  “Really,” said Rick.

  “Fuck,” muttered the Greek. “I need to change my price.”

  “Your price?” I asked.

  It was Konstantinos’s turn to shrug. “Of course, mean, really, I tell Kostas you are insane but he doesn’t listen. Like I say to you on the dock, I am very sorry for this, but the truth is, I will never see my boat, these guns or you again eh?”

  He gave us both his trademark smile. “But hey…fuck it, let’s have a beer.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Konstantinos wasn’t such a bad bloke. Once you got past the manic eyes, the matching smile and his constant attempts to touch you, he was okay.

  And it wasn’t that he was being awkward either. Kostas Makris had called on his cousins out of the blue and dropped our little problem in their lap. To be fair, neither he nor Peri had anything to do with the shadier side of the Makris business. They ran a bar, end of.

  By the time, I’d made it to San Stephanos jetty the following morning, Peri and Konstantinos had the boat out of the water and were patching her up.

  “She will be a good as new, Richard,” shouted Peri as I scrambled over the rocks to the beach where the boat was upturned.

  They seemed to be doing a reasonable job by Greek standards. After three short days on the island, I’d already learned that the Corfiots never threw anything away until it was truly dead.

  As Peri plugged the considerable holes in the hull with fiberglass resin, Konstantinos was re-waterproofing the joints, with what looked suspiciously like a tube of bathroom sealant.

  “Nice,” I managed. “Is the engine in good order?”

  Both brothers spoke in unison. “Perfect!”

  Konstantinos dropped his tube and wandered over.

  Annoyingly, once again he insisted on putting his arm around me as he spoke. “Look, my friend. Don’t worry, the boat will get you where you want to go. It is now just a question of when, yes?”

  He wore a concerned frown.

  “Now…two things, Richard; first, you need to cover the boat with something dark coloured, blankets maybe, and second, you need cloud. I tell you this, if you make the crossing in the moonlight, the Albanians kill you dead before you see land.”

  I looked into the clearest blue sky. “And when are we due clouds?” I asked.

  The smile and the shrug said it all.

  Thankfully the Greek let go of me before lighting his roll-up. He exhaled a large plume of smoke as he spoke.

  “The clouds will come…we tell you when. Anyway, the good news is, to find this Albanian bastard Bajrami, is not so hard. This pig who steal from my cousins, his house is near to the coast and will be easy to get to.”

  I’d already been onto our tech guru in the UK, and Egghead had solved some of our mapping issues by somehow obtaining images from a Russian military satellite that passed within a mile or two over Bajrami’s gaff. I’d downloaded them overnight on my PAYG phone, and sent the stills to a little print shop in Sidari. This stuff, together with the official MI6 file on Goldsmith’s hideout, that Cartwright had provided, meant we were looking a bit healthier in the intelligence department.

  Other than that, we were on a bit of a wing and a prayer. Once we recovered the alleged weapons and ammunition from Bajrami, we would then have to travel by road from Sarande to Tropojë. In Albania, the further north you travelled the more you encountered bandit territory, and once we got to Tropojë, there was the small matter of taking on a fully armed crew of Stephan’s followers, including the formidable Red George.

  Nice easy trip eh?

  I gave Konstantinos a wry smile. “Finding this malaka’s house is the easy part, my friend. Taking his life and getting away without detection, is quite another.”

  The Greek nodded.

  “Your boat will be ready tonight… and I think maybe soon, you have your clouds.”

  Lauren North’s Story:

  Forget Richard Fuller, I was in love with Arillas.

  Okay, I’d been to prettier resorts with more spectacular views and the five-star life.

  But, Arillas was for living, relishing, savouring, like a fine wine. And the more you drank, the more it gave you.

  People talked about the place as having mystical qualities. Well, I’m not certain of that, but it did have something I just couldn’t put my finger on, something enchanting.

  I instantly belonged, and I never wanted to leave.

  After Rick and I had spent most of the previous evening dancing around each other, neither knowing quite how to behave, I was happy to spend the morning alone. Our relationship seemed to have progressed to the occasional knowing look.

  The hot, passionate, sun-kissed romance was not exactly going to plan.

  After breakfasting on Greek yoghurt, honey and pomegranate. I put the big oaf to the back of my mind, bought a large bottle of water and began my planned walk from the resort of Arillas to the hillside village of Kavadades.

  It hadn’t seemed too far away on the drive in, so I figured that I could power-walk, and get some exercise in at the same time.

  Maybe it would offset the wine?

  I hadn’t quite realised quite how the searing heat would hurt my progress; climbing the hills was tough, and my leg and guts complained bitterly. Gritting my teeth, I realised I wouldn’t forget what the O’Donnells had done to me, in a hurry.

  I dropped down the final hill, stopped, pulled a small towel from my bag, dried myself off as best I could, and strolled into what can only be described as the centre of the village.

  Kavadades centre comprised a bakery that sold bread, a closed post office with a digger parked outside, and a Cafeneon.

  It was
wonderful.

  A Cafeneon is a café-cum-shop-cum-bar type place. They’re hidden away in most Greek villages, and tend to be where the locals drop in to pass the time of day.

  My resting place was called Angelika’s, and stocked everything from windscreen wipers to Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls. However, from the age and look of the packaging, she didn’t sell too much of anything except coffee, booze and the occasional bottle of milk.

  The place boasted a couple of outside tables perched precariously by the edge of the road. I selected a fine Formica-topped model, slipped into my seat, ordered an ice-cold Amstel…no glass…and settled down to people-watch.

  Halfway down the bottle, my mobile buzzed. It was Des, there was a team meeting planned for the afternoon.

  He had his serious head on, and I got the impression my holiday was all but over.

  On the stroke of 1400hrs we were all together in Rick’s hotel room.

  Spread across his bed were aerial pictures of two separate dwellings, one larger than the other, together with enlarged sections of maps of Albania. Egghead had provided some excellent intel on our first goal, which was the home of a local arms dealer and all round pillar of the community, Arjan Bajrami. Much to our surprise, Cartwright had given in to Rick’s persistence and finally sent over everything he had on our primary target, the residence of Stephan Goldsmith.

  Stephan’s place looked more like a fortress than a holiday home, and I began to feel a little uneasy.

  For the next two hours, we worked on our plan. Just how we would disguise our boat, where we would land, how we would enter the first house, and finally, by what means we would find and kill Stephan Goldsmith.

  All we needed now was the right weather.

  By the end of the briefing, I felt the need to chill out. Des and JJ attempted to get me to The Coconut for ‘Happy Hour’ cocktails, but I resisted. Rick went all quiet when I suggested a drink, so I left him pondering his maps.

  I ventured no further than next door, to the seafront restaurant, Thalassa.

  I flopped in one of the old-fashioned deckchairs that faced the sea, ordered myself a large glass of Pinot and let my mind wander.

  One glass turned into two, and the sun commenced its slow descent. People were leaving the beach and heading off to their accommodation, to shower and change before their evening meals. The rolling sea began to take on a mercury-like quality, shimmering and flashing all the way to the horizon. Some children, reluctant to leave the beach, still played, silhouetted in the shallows.

  Then I saw him.

  I couldn’t mistake the frame. He must have sneaked by me as I lounged with my wine. Rick was sprinting between two unseen points on the beach. Shuttle runs are hard in the gym, but on sand they are a killer. I watched him push himself left and right, twisting his torso and powering forward, before twisting again.

  If Rick was testing his groin, he was doing a fine job.

  Feeling slightly light-headed, I dropped cash on the table next to me and wandered across the road to get a closer look.

  As I drew nearer, I could see the sweat pouring from his body and hear his breathing as he worked himself to exhaustion.

  My feet hit the hot sand, I was no more than twenty feet from him, his muscular upper body framed against the iridescent waves.

  Without noticing my presence, he turned and ran for the sea. Before he was thigh deep, he dove forward and disappeared below the shimmering water. Then he was up, slicing through the waves, his powerful arms plunging forward, driving him out, deeper and deeper.

  I watched as he turned for the beach and finally strode from the water, dripping wet, his swim-shorts clinging to every curve of his frame.

  Daniel Craig, eat your heart out.

  He wiped his eyes, saw me, and smiled.

  The wine had given me the courage I needed. Taking a very deep breath, I walked to him. Lifting my arms, I clung to his neck, pulling him close, the chill of his wet skin and solid strength of his body making me shiver. His eyes drew me closer, and there was nothing in the world that was going to stop me kissing him there and then.

  I felt him take me in his arms and tasted salt on his lips. Cold droplets of seawater dripped from his forearms down my back.

  My world was instantly perfect.

  Then, somewhere behind us, was a Scottish voice. “Put her down, Romeo…Peri says we’ll have cloud by midnight.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Once again, we all stood around my bed and packed the kit.

  We wanted to leave the hotel looking like tourists, so everything we needed for the job had to be taken out of the rear of the hotel.

  Konstantinos and Peri would see to that.

  Until we hit the first target we were desperately short of firepower.

  However, when Lauren and JJ had travelled to Acharavi to source our comms, purely by chance they’d stumbled across Corfu’s version of a US survivalist store.

  It had proved to be a veritable Aladdin’s cave, and their discoveries had cheered me up no end, especially after the shock of the Makris brothers’ antique German pistol presentation.

  Admittedly, they’d paid an extraordinary amount for a pair of cheap Chinese night vision goggles, but they’d practically stole everything else. Combats, ammunition vests, half decent boots and socks, balaclavas, meds, even some dried field rations. The guy didn’t have body armour, but he did have eight enamel back and breast plates that had been removed from old NATO sets. So, with a bit of handy needlework that problem was solved too.

  JJ…yes JJ, had sewn pockets into the front and back of the ammo vests. This meant you had to pull them over your head, but they were almost as good as full armour and, more importantly, the enamel stopped a Kalashnikov round.

  Apparently, JJ’s skill with the needle had come from many hours of watching his wife work. However, his sewing didn’t hold a candle to his best find. The pièce de résistance had come when the Turk had been rooting around the store.

  Under a pile of sleeping bags he found a 1930’s Swiss Karabiner straight pull, bolt action carbine.

  Admittedly the rifle was almost as old as the Makris brothers’ pistols, but was in fine condition. Sometimes old Swiss carbines had rotten stocks, due to the troops stacking them in groups of three in the snow when on patrol, but this one was mint. The Karabiner had been the rifle of choice for the Swiss Army until the late Fifties and used a 7.5 x 55mm Swiss-made cartridge, very similar in power to our NATO 7.62 x 51mm. When issued to each soldier, the carbine came complete with a six-round box magazine.

  So did this one, and miraculously it was fully loaded.

  Adding to our good fortune, attached to the weapon was a Kern 1.8 x 9 scope, good for 1000 yards. Having seen JJ take half the head off Seamus O’Donnell from a similar distance through a window the size of a biscuit tin, I considered this a fucking godsend.

  The guy who ran the shop was a Finn by birth who had followed his hippy friends to the north of Corfu, and never left. Lauren said he was built like a brick wall.

  As they packed all the gear into two Bergans, the guy counted his wad of cash and asked, “What are you going to do with all this stuff, man?”

  Lauren smiled at him. “We’re going to Albania to kill some gangsters.”

  “Cool,” he said.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  We hooked up the boat and trailer to the Q7 and pulled out of San Stefano harbour. All our ID’s, passports, driving licences, medical cards, the lot, had been left behind in the hotel. If things were to go tits up, the longer it took the Albanians to identify us the better.

  As Rick drove, the crew went quiet. The easy banter that had been ringing around the hotel room as we packed had vanished faster than a Scotsman out of a taxi, and we travelled in silence, each alone with our thoughts.

  It took just over forty minutes to get to a small jetty, north of Kassiopi. This was our jump-off point; from there Albania was just over one nautical mile away.

  As we sto
od on the shore, we could make out Sarande, the lights of its hotels and tavernas twinkling in the distance, warm and welcoming. Our destination was a few clicks further north. There would be little in the way of a warm welcome there. You didn’t need to travel far from the resorts to discover real poverty and real danger in Albania.

  By 2300hrs, the boat was loaded and in the water. Despite the partial cloud cover, we draped it with old grey horse blankets to prevent light reflection, changed into our fighting kit and shoved off.

  Our first target, was the home of arms dealer, Arjan Bajrami.

  Konstantinos’s intel suggested he lived with his cousin in a small one-storey dwelling in the town of Bregas, just over 10k north of Sarande. The Greek described him as a ‘man who fucks goats’.

  Thankfully, Egghead’s intelligence material was more helpful. He had given us an exact GPS location of the gaff and some photographs of the building. We couldn’t be exactly sure, but it looked as if the windows on the house were barred. This, of course, wasn’t surprising. If you were a gun runner, you had things worth stealing.

  In addition to the main house there appeared to be two outbuildings in the garden, one the size of a garage, the other about as big as a shitter.

  One thing was for certain, Bajrami’s gaff was far too close to other dwellings for us to go steaming in with the sawn-offs.

  There was no way we could risk being detected, after all our second port of call, Tropojë province, was three hours away by car, and that’s a long way to be chased by the cops, or worse still, the Albanian Mafia.

  I’d already cleaned and checked all the weapons we had. Rick had selected the Luger 08, whilst Lauren had chosen the Walther P38.

  Rick had manufactured some unusual noise suppressors for each pistol by cutting the tops off two plastic bottles. When the time came, you pushed the necks over the barrels of the pistols and secured them in place with tape. The idea being, you got in close enough to press the open end of your Diet Coke bottle against your target, and pulled the trigger. The bottle was supposed to muffle the ambient noise.