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

by Robert White

  My home, come rain or shine, was that roof. I was in permanent contact with Rick at the hotel and continually took digital pictures of all the staff entering or leaving via the gatehouse. Anyone showing an interest in the boat would get special attention. I could instantly download the shots onto a palm-size PC and send them directly to Rick by mobile phone. The chance of any of Stern’s crew monitoring these cyber transactions was unlikely. All Rick had to do was sit in the warm and compare my shots to the pictures Joel gave him of the Dutch players. If we could get a match, Bob would be your father’s brother. Well, that was the theory. It was a place to start. To be fair, I kind of preferred being on the roof, rather than in the hotel.

  The yard would probably run twenty-four hours a day and, as they said at school, I was it. With that in mind, I had packed lots of emergency rations and fluids, thermal blanket, waterproofs and, the containers for my bodily functions. When I left the observation point, so would every trace of me.

  I’d used public transport to get to the observation point, visited several locations, and doubled back on three occasions, before arriving at my final destination. If there was a tail, I was confident I’d lost him. With all the doubling back and checking, the fifteen-kilometre journey had taken me two hours.

  It started to rain steadily. I tucked myself into my poncho and tried to concentrate. I’d felt nervous on my way to the point. It seemed as if every man and his dog were looking at me. It seemed that I, the grey man for so many years, was standing out like a big daft Jock in Holland. It was, of course my own insecurity. After a lay-off like mine the senses get dulled and you lose that edge. I could not afford to lose mine for long. After all it was my second visit to the plot and I should be getting used to the drama.

  I could hear trams lumbering below me taking people back to Dam Square. Their laughter floated upward through the rain and it cheered me up.

  It was getting dark and the rain became more persistent. One of the things I learned in all my time in the Regiment was that the enemy, no matter who, didn’t like the rain. They got lazy and sought cover. It was the best time to operate if you had the resilience.

  I didn’t mind the rain. I’d spent the last several years in it, fishing in Loch Lomond just for fun.

  So there I was all nice and settled. The rain was falling around me in steady droplets. I had an 8 million pixel digital camera, a palmtop, a mobile and a Glock 9mm. pistol. The whole lot was kept dry by my wet weather gear. I took the first picture and settled down for the night.

  Rick Fuller's Story:

  With Des in position, I was alone for the first time in a while and immensely thankful for it. I had become used to my own company and relished the privacy that came with it. People found that selfish but I preferred my own companionship. Despite the tacky décor, the room was comfortable enough. The bellboy had just delivered grilled chicken with lemon butter, shallots and baby potatoes so I settled, ate and relaxed. The food was passable. I found a classical music station on the hotel radio. It played Finlandia by Sibelius. It was dour and depressing so I switched until I found another. I wound up the volume, Bizet, Farandole, from L’Arlesienne. Lighter. Better.

  I lay back on the sofa, closed my eyes and the darkness began. It swirled around me like an ill wind, each twist and turn dragging me down deeper and deeper to the darkest place a human can endure. A place that scares even the bravest soul.

  It was always the same dream. I am standing next my car in the driveway of my house. The front door is open. Something pale is lying just inside. My heart is racing as my adrenalin levels peak out. I try to run to the door, but the stone driveway turns first to a vile liquid and then to a swirling, steaming void beneath my feet. Putrid hands grab and tear at my ankles, pulling at my shoes, wrenching them from me. My bare feet burn and I hear screams of agony beneath them. I am terrified to look down but I am drawn to the tumult below me. My heart is close to bursting, pushing itself upward and into my throat. My chest is being crushed by a massive unseen weight as two rotting female corpses climb my legs and pull me downward. I am filled with despair and look again to the open door. The pale form is still there. Then, I see her face.

  Everyone dreams. It’s just some dream better than others. I suppose I should have been thankful when Susan shook me awake, her voice chasing my personal dragon. Before I had assimilated her identity, my reactions had overtaken my thought process and I had pointed my Glock directly at her head. I heard my own breath and felt the blood pound in my ears. Adrenaline made my legs twitch. It gets everyone.

  Susan seemed scared by my reaction and my facial expression. The dream hatred hadn’t left my countenance. The subject of my recurring nightmare always left me hating just that little bit more. It dehumanised me piece by piece.

  “Christ! It’s me!” she screamed.

  I looked furtively around the hotel room, not knowing what I was looking for, then lowered the weapon and took a drink of water. I could see that we were alone and Susan had entered via the adjoining suite doors.

  “Tanya?” I barked. “Where’s Tanya?”

  Susan pouted and placed a finger to her lips. “Shhhh, she’s sleeping.” She closed the door quietly behind her. “You sure you are okay?”

  I nodded and felt mild embarrassment. I pulled myself back from the edge and concentrated on where the girls had been earlier.

  “Okay. Did you find a place for us to stay?”

  “Yes.” She oozed with a newfound confidence that rattled me. “If I had been one of David Stern’s boys, the dream you were having would have been your last.”

  She was right of course.

  We all make mistakes. I should have locked that door. I should have been awake. Perfection is for the movies. Errors of judgement in this business can be fatal. The first thing that struck me was I had no recollection of Tanya informing me she was going to take a break and sleep. She had let the spoilt bitch out of her sight. I hoped that it would be the last of our cock-ups. We couldn’t afford too many.

  I set up my kit and waited for Des to send the first shots. The laptop had booted and the connection was made. Files would soon be downloading.

  I ignored Susan’s presence as she stood in my peripheral vision. Dreams were put aside and I wanted to get on with the job at hand, but she disturbed me. She had showered or bathed and wore nothing but a white hotel towel. Her hair was dripping on her pale shoulders. She was serious and stunning.

  She looked at her bare feet. “I’m sorry.”

  I waved away the apology. I mean, what was there to apologise for? Typical of a woman, they had to analyse everything. She was persistent. I just considered it an act, another of her many personas. In fact I considered everything Susan did to be an act.

  “I mean it. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  I gave in. I was impatient for Des’s pictures. “Okay, accepted.”

  She looked happier, walked to the sofa, and sat a little too close to me for comfort.

  “Who’s Cathy?”

  I felt like I’d been poked with a cattle prod. I took a deep breath but still couldn’t help myself. She had a triumphant look about her. There was no trace of true compassion on her face, only the half-hidden happiness fuelled by the knowledge that she had the upper hand. I struggled to keep my voice level, keep my hand covered. But my tone held more venom than I would have liked.

  “That’s none of your business, Susan.” I gestured toward the door.

  “Now why don’t you go back to your room and get some rest.”

  She moved away a little, sat side on to me, and crossed her legs. She was insistent and showed no sign of giving up.

  “Is that your wife? Cathy? Are you married? I mean, you wear a wedding ring. And your name, Colletti, that’s not your name either, is it?”

  Too many questions; I kept it as light as I could.

  “Shakespeare said, ‘What’s in a name?’ Romeo and Juliet, wasn’t it?”

  She placed a hand on my knee. The usual knot
did its job in my guts.

  “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “No.”

  She played aimlessly with a lock of damp hair.

  “I want to help Joel, honestly I do.” She raised her eyes to mine. “I love him, but I’m scared of David.”

  I had to remove her hand. “Good.” I changed my position on the sofa, making further casual contact difficult. “Joel can trust you. I’ll remain firmly on the fence until this is over.”

  She was not easily dissuaded. Her tone lightened further. She was almost giddy.

  “If you pull this off, what will you do with the money, Colletti? I mean, you aren’t exactly broke, are you. I’ve seen the clothes, the car and the flat.”

  I smiled as sweetly as my disposition allowed. I decided to fight back, to hit where it always hurt a woman.

  “No, I’m not broke, Susan, and neither are you. The difference is, I know what I am. Do you? I suppose you don’t actually feel like a prostitute? Is that because the money isn’t left on Joel’s bedside cabinet? I mean you’re not a streetwalker, are you, more of a high class call girl. I’ll bet you’ve fucked some high ranking guys eh?”

  She flared at my comment and her Dutch accent reappeared all too professionally.

  “I’m Joel’s wife, not his whore! I have a PhD. I am a fully qualified pharmacist.” She jutted out her chin and looked as ugly as someone like Susan Davies could. What about you, Colletti? High school dropout? Parents in jail? Sent to a care home? The world didn’t understand me, so I just went around killing people for a living? I don’t need to mix with the likes of you. You’re nothing but a mercenary. No honour, no country, a low life murderer.”

  I had long since become immune to insult. I had been my hardest critic for far too long. Any guilt I had left inside my body was reserved for another. What did concern me was how close to the truth Susan was.

  “Why don’t you get dressed, stop playing games and I’ll tell you when I need your services.”

  She was angry. The little girl hadn’t got her own way. She pointed at me, an action that got to me even when made by someone as striking as her. She was in mid-sentence of some verbal diarrhoea when my patience ran out and I grabbed at her. I intended frogmarching her to the adjoining door. It was instinctive and I hadn’t planned it, but in my haste her towel fell downward and over her breasts. I heard a sharp intake of breath from her and the bleating stopped.

  She stared straight at me, her eyes burned. Two naked blue flames flashed and darted. She made no attempt to cover herself. In fact I was sure she arched slightly to improve the view. Her expression showed nothing but confidence and satisfaction.

  I moved slowly, deliberately. She stiffened slightly and I felt her guard slip for a second. I took the towel’s edge between thumb and forefinger and restored her modesty.

  As I did she followed my hand with her eyes and then returned them to mine. Any failure in the confidence department had been repaired and restored. She grinned.

  “Did you like what you saw, Mr Colletti?”

  “I’d have to be blind not to see. But like you said, I’m a married man. There’s something about you, something unpleasant, something not right. You’re like most beautiful things, Susan, you come with a high price. I’m happy to let Joel pick up that particular bill. I’ll console myself with the knowledge that the money I save will buy me a Ferrari.”

  To my amazement she wasn’t fazed. In fact her confidence grew further. She purred,

  “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Stephen.”

  My skin crawled and I couldn’t contain myself.

  “Do you get off on men who kill for a living? Is that it? Is that why you’re hitting on me? Or is it so I‘ll drop my guard and you can warn Stern I’m coming?”

  Once again our eyes locked. It was her turn to show herself. She pulled her towel slowly downward until her naked breasts were on show again. Susan grabbed at my hand with surprising speed and held it against her. Her nipple hardened to my touch. I went to draw away but she leaned into my palm and squeezed my hand into her flesh.

  She took a sharp breath and moaned slightly. Her face was inches from mine. The perfection of the blue in her eyes held me transfixed and I hated myself. Her mouth was open slightly, wet and inviting. She showed no fear, only pleasure. I could feel the heat of her on my face. She was the picture of sexuality. Her whole body oozed it. The towel had fallen at my feet. She was naked and exquisite. Her voice was calm between breaths.

  “I’d like to keep you alive, Mr Colletti.”

  Her tongue slid from her mouth like a lizard catching a fly. She licked my bottom lip.

  “You are the only man I have ever seen that isn’t scared of Joel or David Stern. You’re not scared of anything, are you, Stephen? That’s what I like.”

  I stepped backwards, picked up her towel and threw it at her. She caught it without looking.

  “I don’t mess with married women, especially one whose husband is about to pay me a great deal of money.”

  She stood defiant and held her towel at her side. She displayed her nakedness to me in the austere hotel room light. For many years, I had only seen beauty like it in a dream, a dream that became a nightmare every time. The dream she had interrupted moments earlier. She turned with the grace of a bird in flight. “Have it your own way.”

  The adjoining door closed behind her and I was once again alone.

  I put my head in my hands and felt tears prick my eyes. She had discovered a weakness in me that I had kept secret for ten years. I had told her I was still married. Why?

  Then, in the darkness of my tears, Cathy looked up into my face and smiled. She had a smudge of earth on her cheek from digging the garden. My tears flowed freely and washed her from view.

  My hands were still shaking slightly as I rebooted the laptop and started to download the files that Des was sending me. I looked out of the hotel room window. It was a dark, dismal and cold night for June. Raindrops slid along the pane following each other downward in their own private crazy game of chase. I stood to look out and saw people hunched under umbrellas as they made their way to the local cafés and bars. I thought of Des. It was not a night for sitting on a fucking roof.

  I gave myself a mental kick up the backside. For a moment, I felt for him up there. Then I remembered his favourite theatre was the Arctic. I’d never met a guy who actually enjoyed being cold.

  Minutes later the bleep of the PC told me that the first image was ready to download. The kit that Des had brought along was amazing. He was two hundred metres away from the target, on a roof, in the rain, and the shots were so clear and bright I could read the time off the subject’s watch if I’d wanted.

  The images came thick and fast. Overall views of the yard were first, together with shots of the roads leading to and from the plot. I was as good as there.

  Then came the Landmark, it was still in the same position as in the afternoon shots, except someone had covered part of it with tarpaulin. Were they getting ready to move? As if to confirm my suspicions, the next three shots were of several men and a powerful Toyota Land Cruiser 4x4. It was big enough to tow the Landmark. More pictures, as usual Des and I were on the same wavelength. A sense of urgency formed in his work. Four more shots of the boat appeared on screen in quick succession. Men in wet weather gear pulled more tarpaulin over the vessel. Des then sent close-ups of all of them. I couldn’t match them to Joel’s pictures. Not a single known player. Leaning against the Toyota was a big bull of a man with a white-blond crew cut wearing small, round, gold-rimmed glasses. He was speaking into a mobile and held a newspaper over his head to shield himself from the rain. I again checked the four mug shots Joel gave me. No match.

  I knocked on the adjoining door and Tanya appeared looking fresh, clean and ready.

  “What’s happening, man?”

  I was already packing gear in a holdall. The thought of committing the team to a hard stop weighed heavy on me, but I had no choice.

/>   “We’re off, Tanya. The shit has really hit the fan. They look like they’re going to move the Landmark.”

  I pushed a magazine into an MP 5, cocked the action, released it, and checked the safety.

  “It’s time to get Joel’s boat back if nothing else.” I gestured into the darkness behind her. “Get Susan together. It looks like it’s a hard stop.”

  Tanya turned down the side of her mouth.

  “I dunno man, t’all seem too quick to me.”

  I knew what she meant but we had no choice. A hard stop was exactly what we didn’t want. It always happened on every job. Something always went tits up. I’d had it happen to me in Ireland, in Columbia and in Bosnia. The best you could do was to just get on with it.

  “Maybe we’re just lucky, eh?” I said.

  Tanya looked unusually nervous. Not something I was used to.

  “Ain’t no luck on this job, babe. I can feel it in my bones. Nothing feel right tonight.”

  I ignored the mojo and a small tingle shot down my spine.

  “What car did you get me?”

  Tanya seemed to cheer a little and smiled. “A Volvo S80.”

  I frowned at the word Volvo. How can any self-respecting collector drive a fucking Volvo? She disappeared briefly. Her mojo had taken a back seat, realism had taken over and I could hear her giggling in the background. She knew what I was thinking. When she returned she was pulling on motorcycle leathers over cotton trousers. Before I could ask, she chirped, “Oh and a Ducati 900 for me.”

  I watched as Tanya left in a plume of tyre smoke. Despite the wet weather, she was positively flying on the Ducati. Her orders were to back Des up prior to my arrival and keep a tail on the cruiser if it left before we regrouped. We’d had no practice. We had the bare outline of a plan, nothing more.

  That aside, my humour was restored slightly as I had underestimated the Swedes. The Volvo S80 was as sweet as a nut. The 2.4 litre 5 cylinder 20-valve engine put out 180bhp. It handled well enough and felt as safe as a virgin in a convent.