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

by Robert White

  I woke in a pool of sweat. I’d bitten my lip and there was blood on my pillow as if I needed any more realism. My hands shook as I sat up and brought my head back to the present. I didn’t know if other people felt genuine hatred the way I did, the way I still do, but if they feel that emotion with the passion I feel it, I am sorry for them. It is a destructive emotion. But regardless of its vicious power I sought vengeance every single waking hour of the last ten years. I knew it was slowly destroying me, destroying Richard Fuller. Even Stephen Colletti was touched by it.

  Despite my shaking limbs and nagging doubts about the kind of money Makris was asking for, I did a full hour of core yoga, before showering and dressing. I didn’t shave as I knew I would need to change my appearance sooner than later and a beard would be a start.

  I clothed myself quickly in a pair of Levi casual cotton trousers that were the star of my recently devastated wardrobe. I topped them with a plain white open neck shirt by George, which I had discovered to my horror, was a supermarket label.

  Then, pulling on a black bomber of doubtful antecedents, I surveyed my form in the cracked full length mirror fastened to the rear of my hotel room door.

  I looked like a villain, and a cheap one at that. I secreted my SLP in my waistband at the small of my back and it struck me that my appearance was about spot on.

  Being a rogue was one thing, but a cheap rogue was a totally different matter. We needed cash, lots of it, and quick.

  Mr. Thomas’s Chop House was reportedly the best gastro-pub in England. Egon Ronay said so, and who was I to argue.

  It had just about everything you could want from a city centre boozer, which was reflected in the clientele. A mix of corporate suits pored over the substantial menu and well-dressed city visitors quaffed pints of real ale. Muted conversations were almost made inaudible by Rufus Wainwright’s latest single, protesting American foreign policy. A uniformed waitress with a frilly white apron looked me up and down. She smiled weakly before offering me a poorly positioned table. I was convinced it was the George shirt. I took a disdainful look at the offered seating and reverted to type. I had scanned the room and decided a window seat would suit my guests just fine.

  “I’ll take the table for four in the window,” I said in a matter-of-fact tone. The girl was about to protest but I was already drawing my chair and making myself at home.

  Frilly Apron thrust a menu into my hand and gave me a cruel look. She was of Eastern European origin, quite nice-looking in a scrubbed kind of way.

  “Drink, sir?”

  From the accent I guessed Slovakian.

  I scanned the starters and without looking up said, “Stella Artois, a bottle, no glass.” And she was gone.

  The drink arrived chilled and it tasted just fine, I had just taken the neck from the bottle, when Des flopped down in front of me wearing a sweater that looked like his mother had knitted it and a broad smile. Frilly was on to him like a rash and he ordered a pint of Spitfire bitter.

  He waited in silence until the drink arrived.

  “Take it you saw the fuckin’ news,” he said, wiping foam from his top lip.

  I nodded.

  “Once Lauren gets here we need to work out how to get our hands on some serious coin. I’ve been on the phone to Makris and he wants a hundred thousand to unlock the hard drives and get us three sets of docs.”

  Des let out a low whistle. “Fuck me. Nice work if you can get it. Even with the gold coins and every bit of cash we have we could only raise half of that. But we need to move and fast, mate. Whoever is in control of this shit will be out there right now, wanting to snuff the three of us out like a candle, and get their computer drives back quick sharp by the fuckin’ way.”

  I took some more Stella and a slightly paranoid glance out of the window, and wondered if my vain seating requirements had been the best idea I’d had in a while. Before I answered I saw Lauren saunter past and into the bar. She had a relaxed smile on her face. I had marvelled at her capacity to learn the killing craft in such a short space of time, indeed to become another person. She looked amazingly fit and her triceps bulged as she dropped both palms on the table and leant in to speak. She had definitely just worked out.

  “Everyone okay? Seen the news, I take it?”

  Both Des and I nodded sombrely in agreement. Lauren, on the other hand, seemed unworried by the TV revelations. Indeed she was buzzing with excitement. She was dressed in tight jeans and a white vest which proclaimed ‘fit as fcuk’ in silver lettering.

  She sat, and Frilly was at our table before we could say another word. Lauren was dismissive and simply waved her away.

  “I can’t eat at the moment.”

  “A drink, madam?”

  “Cranberry juice, ice, no lemon please.”

  Neither I nor Des had seen this side of our new partner before. Des held a wry smile as he watched her.

  “So what’s the crack then?” she said.

  I placed my hands on the table and lowered my voice. “I know a guy who will get us new ID’s and decrypt all the hard drives we have, but he wants big money. He knows how dangerous it is for him. He wants a hundred thousand for his trouble.”

  Lauren’s cranberry arrived and she sipped it. She wore no noticeable make-up.

  “We can’t stay here much longer, that’s obvious. We need to get those drives looked at and we lower our profile whilst that happens. I say we find the money.”

  Des and I looked at her and nodded again in total agreement.

  She shuffled along the seat closer to me and I could smell Chanel No5.

  “Look, why don’t we get a price for the new ID’s, get the fuck out of here and then try and sort the hard drives ourselves?”

  Des leaned back in his seat with the broadest grin. “Ye gotta hand it to the lassie, by the way. The most important thing now is for us to get our heads down.”

  I spun my empty Stella in front of me. “I can get the cash, no problems. I still have Joel’s Porsche 911 in my lock-up, that’s worth seventy thousand at least, but before we go and spend, spend, spend, I have another idea.

  Lauren looked me straight in the eye and I thought I detected a hint of excitement. “Go on,” she nodded toward Des. “We’re all ears, mate.”

  I pulled the estate agent’s flyer from my pocket, the one I had found on the floor of my flat and handed it to my two colleagues. Lauren let out a low whistle. “Nice gaff, six hundred thousand for a flat, eh? Whose is it?”

  “Was it,” I countered. “It was my flat before Stephan took me for a ride in the country, and now it’s for sale.”

  Lauren leaned in, barely able to contain her enthusiasm. “So when do we go and have a look at the agency then? There has to be a lead to Stern there.”

  Des shook his head. “Maybe, hen, but not necessarily. These guys can set up so many bogus companies and bank accounts it could take months of unravelling and we could still be no nearer.”

  Lauren turned to me. “But we are going to have a look, right?”

  I waved my bottle and my stomach rumbled as Frilly walked by with two plates of glorious-smelling food.

  “Yes, we’ll have a look at the place, probably best if you and Des go and check it out this afternoon. It’s got to be worth a try before we do anything else.” I felt myself smile, an unusual sensation. “But first we need to eat, I’m ravenous.”

  Lauren had the broadest grin too, the cat had her cream.

  “You know, guys, suddenly I’m hungry too.”

  Lauren North's Story:

  I’d never ridden in a Porsche before. Come to that I’d never shopped in Karen Millen or worn Giorgio Armani shoes either.

  Des looked very handsome in the outfit Rick had chosen for him although he didn’t look too happy about wearing a pink shirt, even if it was a Dolce and Gabbana original. I was amazed at Rick’s fashion sense and knowledge. After our meal we had walked along Deansgate and shopped in places I had only ever dreamed of. In less than an hour we had spen
t close on three thousand pounds, and by the time Rick sat me in the bright red sports car my head was swimming. I was beginning to realise the power of money and the kind of life he had been used to. I also realised that he was still terribly unhappy and that the old saying was probably right.

  Rick was not being a spendthrift for its own sake, of course; if you were going to view a six hundred thousand pound penthouse then you had to look like you could afford it.

  Des wore a lightweight navy two-piece suit from Hugo Boss and the infamous pink open-necked shirt. I was power-dressed to the max in my Karen Millen charcoal number and I had to admit that the clothes, the car and my new found fitness regime made me feel incredibly sexy for the first time in years.

  The car was hard to get into and even harder to get out of, my skirt being pencil-tight with no room to hide my SIG which was stowed in an equally impressive Gucci clutch bag.

  Des fired the car into life and we pulled out into the Manchester winter with Rick’s orders whizzing around my head.

  We would be at Crowder and Madden Estates within thirty minutes and Mr. and Mrs Cogan were in the mood to buy.

  After a few minutes in slow traffic the road opened up and the car hit the expressway with acceleration that took my breath away.

  “You look nice,” said Des, in his short clipped Glasgow accent.

  “And you are very handsome, Mr. Cogan,” I replied, watching the hard Scot blush.

  “Ach,” he said awkwardly, brushing his hand down the lapels of his jacket, “this kinda thing is no good tae me, Lauren. I’m a simple kinda guy, you know. I’ll probably rip the bloody thing before we get to the poncing estate agents anyway.”

  I patted his knee playfully. “Never mind that, you are a fine looking man, you should look after yourself a little more. Maybe when all this is done you can get yourself a nice woman to share that cottage up north.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to find one,” he glanced over at me. “Maybe she’s already here.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe.”

  We travelled the remaining miles in silence, both thinking our own thoughts. I have to be honest; romance was not on my agenda, finding Stern was. That may seem harsh to you but I wanted to see the whole thing through, then, well, then I could think of other things. Des was a nice handsome guy but I relished my freedom and my newfound confidence. I didn’t want to spoil what we had. In my experience, sex spoils any good friendship.

  The estate agency was situated in a twenty-plus-storey building in the green quarter of Manchester.

  New money.

  Thrusting execs eating sushi and drinking smoothies by the bottle walked purposefully along pavements that a few short years ago they wouldn’t have been seen dead on.

  Des parked the 911 on a ridiculously expensive meter and we strode into the lobby of the building hand in hand, every inch the successful couple in search of new lodgings.

  According to the wall planner, Crowder and Madden were on the third floor so we took the lift with me holding the flyer for Rick’s flat in one hand and my Gucci bag complete with 9mm pistol in the other.

  As the doors opened we stepped into a small, sparsely furnished waiting room with a receptionist’s desk. Several aerial photographs of monstrous properties in exotic locations adorned the walls. The perma-tanned receptionist who had obviously never eaten a potato in her life smiled sweetly enough to get our attention.

  “Good afternoon, guys, and how are we? What can Crowder and Madden do for you today?”

  I was nearly sick. Des seemed impressed by the girl’s obviously surgically enhanced assets and stepped into the breach.

  “Well, err,” he leaned over to see the girl’s name badge that teetered on her mountainous cleavage, “Madeline, we’d like to enquire about a property you have for sale here in the city.”

  He put on his cheekiest smile, took the flyer from me and handed it over to the girl. She batted her eyes in Des’s direction and the pair of them flirted silently before she spoke.

  “Ah, the penthouse on the Quays, yes a lovely property, but I’m afraid this one is now under offer.”

  “Oh no!” I didn’t need to feign any upset as I was gutted we might fall at the first hurdle. Des walked over to me and put his arm around my shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, darling, let’s see what we can do. Madeline will help, won’t you, dear?”

  “I’ll try, we do have several other properties…”

  “No,” Des cut the woman off in mid sentence. “We like this property, Madeline. Besides the owners may wish to take another bid if it is more financially rewarding than the one on the table. Why don’t you contact them for me and see if they are open to another offer?”

  Madeline shook her head and lowered her voice as if telling a great secret.

  “I’m sorry, folks, but this property is owned by a Crowder and Madden subsidiary offshore company. Mr. Crowder deals with all their sales directly and he is out of the office at the moment.”

  Des pressed on as I eyed the stunning villas pictured on the walls and pretended to be comfortable.

  “Can you ring Mr. Crowder and ask him when he might return? My wife has fallen in love with this property and we are very keen to buy.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Crowder is in Spain viewing properties and won’t be disturbed. Besides we at Crowder and Madden have very strict rules when it comes to our transactions and it would be unprofessional to accept another offer on a property at this stage.”

  I was thinking that the bullshit smelt worse with each syllable. This was the first estate agency I’d ever known that wasn’t into making more commission. I was looking at a picture of a large villa in the middle of refurbishment nestled at the foot of the Rock of Gibraltar.

  Des was insistent. “Surely you have the details of whoever owns the property? Maybe I could…”

  Melanie was not for turning either. “Sir, Mr. Crowder deals directly with that particular side of our business. Technically the property is owned by us. Our offshore investment arm purchase many repossessed properties and sell them on via our agencies. But as I said, that property is sold. Now, if I could interest you in another similar penthouse…”

  Des turned on his heels and spoke into my ear.

  “Nothing doing here at the moment, hen.”

  I nodded toward the picture of the half completed villa with what was going to be two large swimming pools. “Nice if you have the money eh? Swimming at the foot of one of the Pillars of Hercules.”

  I decided I would try my luck on Melanie myself and turned to the woman. Before I could speak, Des grabbed at my very expensive sleeve.

  “What did you just say?”

  “I said nice if you had the money but...”

  “No not that, after that, about the pillars?”

  “Oh the Pillars of Hercules, you know the myth, one pillar was the Rock of Gibraltar and the other was the Moroccan coastal mountains. Hercules is supposed to have used his super-strength to push the pillars apart, creating the Straits of Gibraltar which have been fought over ever since.

  Des rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “One minute.” I turned to our smiling if unhelpful receptionist. “Do you sell property for other individuals here or is it just this mysterious foreign snatch-back merchant?”

  “I beg your pardon.” Melanie pushed out her huge bosom and gave me an incredulous stare. “We are a bona fide agency with very strict policies and procedures. There is nothing underhand in our dealings.”

  “I take that as a ‘no’ then. This agency is just an outlet for the bigger guy who buys up all the repossessed houses for a cheap price and you sell them on at a pretty profit.”

  “Since when was making a profit been illegal?” The voice came from a very smart-looking man in a three-piece suit. I placed him in his mid-sixties. He had pure white hair swept back in a style slightly too modern for his years. His eyes were bright blue and they
darted between Des and me devouring information at a rate of knots. He walked from behind Melanie’s desk purposely toward me and extended a perfectly manicured hand. I didn’t see which door he’d emerged from. “Edward Madden,” he announced.

  I managed a smile but the guy gave me the instant creeps. I made the expected introductions. “Lauren, and this is my husband Desmond.”

  Madden looked Des up and down and offered his hand once again. “You are a very lucky man, Mr?”

  “Cogan.”

  “Ah, Mr. Cogan and what part of Scotland are you from?”

  “From Glasgow, Mr. Madden.” Des gave me a look that told me we were leaving and smiled at the very suspicious-looking Madden. “I’m sorry we have no time to chat, Mr. Madden. I understand the property my wife and I were interested in has been sold. Lauren was just a little disappointed and got upset, that’s all. So, we’ll bid you good day and continue our hunt elsewhere.”

  Madden smiled to reveal a Hollywood set of teeth. “That’s a shame, sir, we always try and accommodate our clients if we can, maybe if you leave your details with Melanie here we can put you on our mailing list.”

  I grabbed Des by the hand and we made to leave. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Madden, I prefer to know who I am buying from and it seems that is not the way in your business.”

  And we were out, leaving Madden standing rooted to the spot, paranoia thrashing through us both. I checked for tails as Des drove us back to town. There were none but my heart rate told me we had taken a step closer to David Stern. Edward Madden did not strike me as an estate agent. The company was as straight as a nine-bob note.

  As we parked, Des was already on the phone to Rick, something had clicked in his head and it involved Gibraltar and a file on Rick’s laptop. Des was very excited, and as it turned out, he had every right to be.