The Fighter

by Robert White

  Now, other than smoke it all, Jimmy had no idea what to do with his compensation, until he bumped into one of the boys that hung around on Possilpark’s street corners each night. Jimmy discovered that these wee boys would gladly take the said resin off his hands and more if he could get it.

  He doubled his money within the week, and the rest, as they say, was history. He was half owner of a small club in town that washed his money. Had the stunning Chantelle warming his bed and drove a Jag. He made it all sound so easy.

  Just before nine o’clock, Jimmy asked for the bill. As it arrived, he stood so that he could again slide his hand into his jeans pocket and remove the now infamous wad of notes.

  As we were perched in the window seats and I had my back to the street, I barely noticed a dark shadow standing outside on the pavement. I certainly didn’t see the sawn off.

  The glass separating us from the street exploded into thousands of razor sharp shards and I felt my skin tear around my neck and scalp as the minute pieces lodged there. People were screaming and there was total panic in the restaurant. Jimmy had been blown off his feet and was lying on his back clutching his chest.

  I dropped to my knees beside him and pulled his hands away from the injury so as I could get a better wee look. There were at least three entry wounds and looking at their positions, all had pierced Jimmy’s chest cavity. I’d seen a similar wound before. I was first on the scene when a young kid had been shot by the UVF, just off the Falls Road. That proved fatal.

  Jimmy was gasping for breath, his eyes wild. “Don’t let me die here, pal, eh?” he managed. “No here.”

  “You’re not going to die, ye daft bastard.” I said, not knowing what his prognosis would be. I stretched up, found a bunch of clean cotton napkins and applied some pressure to his wounds.

  Looking up at the carnage in the rest of the dining area, I saw that another victim had been hit, this time a young woman. Somehow, I managed to catch the eye of one of the staff.

  “Tell me there’s an ambulance coming?” I barked.

  “I called, sir,” he said.

  I looked into Jimmy’s eyes. His pupils were dilated. “Hold these to yer chest, mate,” I said, and shuffled through the broken glass towards the injured woman. As I reached her, I could see that she had taken a pellet to the face. It had entered her cheek and was lodged somewhere at the back of her throat. Her husband or boyfriend was in full shock and just sat by her, holding her hand, muttering gibberish. Finding more napkins, I turned her into the recovery position and applied the makeshift bandage.

  Mercifully, within minutes, medics arrived. Jimmy’s right lung had collapsed, but they managed to get some oxygen into him. Once they were stabilised, both victims were on their way to the Infirmary.

  I sat pulling bits of glass from my head. One of the ambulance crew had stayed behind to tend to the many diners with minor cuts and shock. She strode over to me, had a quick look at my neck and said, “Maybe you should nip up to casualty and get those looked at, eh?”

  She was right of course. “Aye,” I said. “I will hen.”

  “I’ll give you a ride up there,” said a deep voice with an Edinburgh lilt.

  I looked up to see a rather burly detective dressed in a beige raincoat sitting at the next table. He had a heavily lined face and a shock of pure white hair. His eyes were dark as coal and he examined me closely. As a young Catholic lad, growing up in the west of Glasgow, I’d always distrusted the Police. They were notoriously sectarian and best avoided, no matter what foot ye kicked with.

  “I can get myself there, pal, no bother,” I said.

  “I’m sure ye can,” said the cop. “It was just a friendly offer.”

  I nodded and kept my mouth shut. But the guy wasnea done.

  “What regiment?” he asked. “I mean, ye are a squaddie, eh? I can see that fe here.”

  “The Shiny Two,” I said, using 2 Para’s nickname.

  The cop knew exactly what I meant. He nodded and rubbed his chin with his hand.

  “So… what’s a fine upstanding member of Her Majesty’s military doing sharing a table with a scumbag like Jimmy McCreery?”

  I stood. “Why is a member of the Police asking me questions rather than out looking for the guy who just shot two people?”

  “Touché,” said the detective. “Did you get a look at the gunman?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing much more than a shadow. I’d say above average height. I got the impression he was a white guy, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  “You got a name son?”

  “Cogan.”

  “Big Celtic fan then, eh?”

  “None of your fucking business,” I said, and made to leave.

  As I reached the door, the Detective called out. “Hey, Cogan,” he shouted. “People get judged by the company they keep.”

  I gave the cop a look. “That’s why I’m leaving.”

  * * *

  It took until just after two in the morning for me to be seen, have the remaining shards of glass tweezered from my head and neck and be issued with some antibiotic powder to slap on twice a day. After some gentle persuasion from yours truly, I managed to find out where Jimmy was. He’d left theatre and was in recovery under armed guard.

  So he was alive.

  I called a cab and made my way home. As I gently pushed the front door open, I could see a light on in the back parlour. My Dad sat at our kitchen table, stripy pyjamas buttoned to the neck, dressing gown over his shoulders. He hugged a cup of what smelled like coffee.

  “Yer late, son,” he said quietly.

  “Aye, sorry Dad,” I said.

  He studied me a moment. “What ye done to yer neck?”

  “Ah,” I said. “Been a bit of a night to be fair. Remember Jimmy McCreery?”

  My Dad pulled a face that I’d seen many times when he didnea care for his company. “Aye, Bernie’s wee boy, used to live by us.”

  “That’s him, well someone shot him through the window of the curry house we were sitting in.”

  “Jeezo!”

  “Aye. He’s still in the hospital. I just caught some of the glass, is all.”

  My Dad sipped his coffee and shook his head. “Sit down a minute son, I want to speak to ye before you go off again.”

  I did as I was asked. My old man ran his hands through his thinning hair.

  “Desmond, ye need to think on a wee bit more these days. About who ye knock around with, I mean. It’s very easy to get caught up in the wrong crowd.”

  “Come on, Dad. I’m not fifteen anymore.”

  “I know, I know, yer a grown man with yer own life, and I’m proud of ye son. It’s just, well, lads like Jimmy are bad news. His mother talks to your mother and I hear all the tales. McCreery’s nothing but a low life drug dealer. Okay, he’s survived this one and it looks like you struck lucky too. But one day he won’t be so fortunate. All I’m sayin’ is, you will put yourself in harm’s way often enough. You’ll see enough danger, enough blood. Ye won’t be needing to hang around with gangsters for excitement that’s fer sure. Believe you me, son, you’ll face enough enemies in your life, and you’ll stare down the barrel of a gun more than most.”

  He reached across our tired worn table, the place I’d eaten, drank, laughed, fought, cried and danced. Never a man to show his feelings, this was a rare display of affection. He slid his hand across that scratched mahogany top and took mine in his. “Desmond,” he said. “If ye going to go son… go in style, not sitting next to Jimmy McCreery eating that terrible food.”

  “Ye still don’t like the curry then, eh, Dad?” I smiled.

  “Shocking,” he said, lifting himself from his chair.

  “Goodnight son.”

  Twenty five years later, Ardkilly Ridge, The Republic of Ireland.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

&nbs
p; I was pushed below by the big Yunfakh goon. Past the first room I’d encountered, through a second door and down a further set of metal steps into what looked like a provisions store. The boat rocked gently. We were still in the estuary and not yet out at sea.

  “Kneel,” said the guy, arm outstretched, Glock firmly pointed at the back of my head.

  I did as I was told, all my training flooding back. The gates to the past, wide open. The old Survive, Evade, Resist, Extract training, was finally about to come in handy.

  “Hands on your head, interlock your fingers.”

  I felt the cold metal of a set of cuffs being applied to my wrists. The guy then yanked my arms above my head and fastened the cuffs to a metal bar driven into the hull of the boat. I wasn’t going anywhere, unless those limpets were detonated, then I was going down with the ship, no danger.

  “Can I have some water?” I asked, doing my best to look the beaten man.

  It wasn’t that I was thirsty, it was just that I wanted to know what this guy’s intentions were. After all, there’s no point in feeding and watering a bloke, if you’re going to drop him in the Celtic Sea ten minutes later.

  The goon grunted, slipped upstairs, out of the door and returned moments later with a cup of water.

  I wasn’t food for the fish then.

  I took a good couple of gulps. “Thanks,” I said, and noticing the boat was still stationary, tried my luck. “Why aren’t we moving? Can you tell me?”

  The guy snorted his derision. “You ask too many questions, Fuller.”

  “Sorry,” I said, allowing my head to fall.

  The guy dropped onto his haunches and gave my forehead a rough slap to get my attention. My poor beaten prisoner act was having a different effect than I’d hoped. It’s intended to save you some physical punishment, not encourage it. The blow was nothing too painful, but I could tell that the big lad was itching to dish some out. There wouldn’t be much I could do about it either. In the position I was in, all I could hope for would be to tuck my knees up, drop my chin on my chest and kiss my arse goodbye.

  I looked into his face but a split second later, dropped my eyes again, instantly submissive. He gave me a second slap. Harder this time, right across my cheek. He was a big old boy too, strong as a fuckin’ ox.

  “Look at me,” he said quietly, cocking his head inquisitively.

  I slowly raised my face to his again and this time, looked him in the eye.

  A big mocking smile spread across his face. He had a huge square head, all pig eyed with a Desperate Dan chin. “Where is the big brave Rick Fuller?” he said. “Where has he gone? Who is this slithering weakling that has replaced him?”

  My mind worked overtime. There was no doubt that guy was Yunfakh, he had the tattoo, and fitted the type without a doubt. But he was just a big lump, he was definitely not the brains of the outfit.

  My capture, this whole debacle had to have been an elaborate set up. Inside information had been accessed at the highest level.

  Just look at who were involved. The CIA, MI6, the IRA and Yunfakh, the most powerful organised crime syndicate ever to come out of the Arab world. Someone who had access to all those agencies and criminal enterprises had conspired to ensure that it was me that did the deal alongside Finbarr O’Rourke, and that it was me that would be on that beach with those AK’s. Al-Mufti had paid dearly for that to happen, and it wasn’t just about three hundred grands’ worth of old PIRA arms either. I mean, look, the Yanks had just paid our team a cool million dollars just to save a Senator’s blushes. There was a much bigger payday for whoever had organised this little party, and it wasn’t in those old crates. Al-Mufti and his boss, Khalid Kulenović had the resources to make that kind of transaction happen, and I was very keen to find out what that was. However, first I had other more pressing problems.

  Whatever Square Face was, who exactly he worked for, and where he fell in the pecking order, he wasn’t finished with me. He grabbed a handful of my hair and snapped my head back. “Where is the hero?” he sneered. “Where is the star of Her Majesty’s Special Air Service?”

  He made a low guttural sound and gobbbed straight in my face.

  Well, if the foul bastard had been a few inches closer, he’d have discovered that Mr Fuller was alive and well. My teeth would have been locked onto his nose whilst I kicked fuck out of his meat and two veg with my Timberlands. As it happened, he wasn’t, and all I could do was wipe my face on the arm of my shirt whilst he stood up and walked upstairs to the door.

  “Coward,” he said and slammed it shut behind him.

  The boat continued its gentle rocking motion. Whoever was doing the sailing was simply ticking the engines over and keeping her steady. Either he was in no hurry as the vessel was in blackout, or we were waiting for someone else to arrive, the latter concerning me even more. The trackers Sellers had fitted inside the AK crates had been discovered and removed. Just how our team of happy clappers knew about those only added to my conspiracy theory. Either way, there would be no easy way for Des and the team to find the boat in the dead of night.

  I was also concerned about Theo ‘Marvellous Marvin’ Varese, who would no doubt be trying to call the shots on how to proceed, now that I was indisposed. I trusted him as much as I’d trusted Mason Carver during the Todd Blackman investigation, and look what happened to him.

  Moments later, my thoughts turned back to my imminent future as the big Yunfakh guy lumbered back into the room. This time, however, he had company, in the form of a slightly built man. He looked to be in his sixties with small rodent like features. I would have put him as Libyan or Moroccan. As it turned out, he was an Afghan and a fully-fledged member of the Taliban.

  I was having a fucking bad day.

  “Are you comfortable, Mr Fuller?” he said in an accent that had been moulded in the best Universities any money could buy.

  It was, of course, imperative that I didn’t lose my rag, didn’t turn up the heat in any way, so I looked towards my shackled wrists above my head.

  “I have pins and needles in my hands,” I said quietly, allowing my head to fall, resting my chin on my chest as if exhausted.

  “Yes, of course, that is natural under these circumstances,” said weasel-face, pushing thick glasses up his nose and peering at me. “But I assure you, Mr Fuller, these are not life threatening symptoms.”

  I nodded and wondered if the guy was a doctor.

  “However,” he added, “you should be aware, that it is my task to deliver you to my great friend, Abdallah Al-Mufti, with whom, I believe you have had a long and difficult relationship.” He pursed his lips. “Therefore, I cannot see this ending well for you.”

  The plot grew ever stickier, but I played the game and kept my counsel. After all, there was no point in mentioning that Abdallah’s only son, Siddique had fallen foul of an angry Scotsman and a six inch nail. He’d find all that out in good time.

  “That was a long time ago, when I was in the Army,” I said. “I was just following orders, just like any soldier.”

  A thin smile flickered across Weasel’s face. He removed his glasses and polished them on the tail of his long shirt. “I’ve heard this said by your kind many times, Mr Fuller, ‘following orders.’ However, these thin words do not bring our brothers back that you and your friends have murdered.”

  The glasses were returned to his considerable nose.

  “Now, Abdallah is a wise and generous man, who has supported our brothers in many conflicts, and many countries where the infidel has chosen to interfere. He has quietly gone about his business, raising money for the cause, helping the downtrodden and the invaded.”

  I wanted to say, ‘oh yeah, he’s a fuckin’ pillar of the community. A drug supplying, arms dealing, murderous bastard.’ But, of course, I kept my mouth shut.

  Weasel hadn’t finished his uplifting portrayal of my favourite Arab
.

  “I first met him in my homeland when I worked as a doctor… in Bagram. Do you know of this place?”

  So he was a quack after all. I shook my head, giving nothing back. I’d heard some of the stories that had come out about the airfield there and the detention centre, but I’d never had the pleasure. That said, I had the feeling the guy liked the sound of his own voice and was going to tell me all about it anyway. Dr Weasel was warming to his task.

  “Bagram is the site of the strategic United States Airbase. The runway was built in 1976, by the Soviets, before they ran home with their tails between their legs. But it was the Parwan Detention Facility that was my responsibility. The detention centre was a place of torture and depravation, Mr Fuller. It was I who tended to some of the terrible injuries inflicted on innocent civilians by your comrades in arms, the Americans. Bagram made Guantanamo Bay look like a five star hotel. Men were chained to ceilings and walls and beaten to death. They lay in their own excrement, starved of food and water, unable to pray to their God.”

  He took a breath and the thin smile returned. “So, Mr Fuller, you now understand why your pins and needles are of little consequence to me.”

  Lauren North’s Story:

  Despite the body armour doing its job, my whole body ached from the rounds I’d taken back on the road to the port. However, I was still able to hold a gun, and as Varese opened his mobile to make the call that would send Rick to the bottom of the sea, I lifted my Colt to his temple and pulled back the hammer. In the confines of the small cabin, the click of the ratchet sounded like a bomb going off. It was a standoff that nobody wanted.

  Des was instantly in Varese’s face, snarling like a pit bull. The American was younger, bigger and stronger than the Scot, but none of that was going to help him this day. Mitch had instinctively pulled his Magnum and had it pointed at me, but Sellers had been equal to his movement, and her own weapon was aimed at the big American.

  “Oh dear,” she said in her finest English Rose accent. “Do you know that the French don’t have a word for stalemate?”