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

by Robert White

  “Well, Ma’am, we were kind of hoping that you would be able to help us out there.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. I believe you know the senior offer in charge of the investigation personally.” Mitch leafed through a report in front of him. “… One Detective Chief Inspector Larry Simpson.”

  You should’ve seen the look on Rick’s coupon when he heard that little gem.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Lauren gave me the longest look. I knew what she wanted to say, so there was no need to say it.

  No need to worry.

  No need for jealousy.

  All part of the job.

  I wasn’t so sure.

  Detective Chief Inspector Larry Simpson was the head of Manchester’s Serious and Organised Crime Unit, SOCU.

  He first appeared in Lauren’s life when he’d posed as her boyfriend attempting to infiltrate our operation. Even though the bogus relationship had been in its early stages, once Lauren had discovered Larry’s true motives, she had felt horribly betrayed. From that day, Lauren always considered that the Detective owed her for his deception. As a result, some months later, she secretly met him to obtain information we desperately sought in our investigation into the murder of Spiros Makris. Just before we left for Albania, Larry had visited Lauren again at her home. This time, telling her that his feelings were genuine. He begged her to leave the team and start a new life with him.

  She caught my eye and smiled a nervous smile.

  She was incredibly beautiful, and I knew she cared for me.

  I nodded… Enough.

  We needed to get moving. I stood up and looked out of the window. Collecting my thoughts, I did my best to lighten the mood.

  “Okay, Lauren, you need to go and change before meeting our pal Larry. We can’t have you looking like Cruella De Vil in your funeral outfit.”

  “Charming,” she said.

  “Don’t be touchy…anyway, before that you need access to a computer and printer.”

  “Consider that done, Sir,” said Mitch grabbing the offending reports from the table, seemingly relieved he was no longer the subject of our cross examination.

  I turned to him. He was indeed a big lad with a rower or swimmer’s physique. You wouldn’t want to meet the American in a dark alley, yet he had an almost gentle way about him that made him instantly likeable.

  “Listen Mitch,” I said. “First off, we don’t do Sir, Ma’am or Mister here okay? We call ourselves by our names, or worse. And as we have inherited you for the foreseeable, you need to get used to that…and Lauren’s use of the Anglo-Saxon vernacular.”

  Mitch gave a broad smile. “Okay, Sir…I mean Rick, yes …good.”

  I pointed at him. “Just make sure that computer is secure, okay?”

  He nodded. But I didn’t believe him.

  “As soon as you’ve done that son, lose the sidearm and pull on some casuals. We’re going on a visit…. So, we’ll need a car.”

  Mitch looked out of the window, towards the car park. “I can obtain a pool car, Mr Fuller.”

  “What make are they?” I asked, removing my tie.

  “Chevy mainly, or Hyundai.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t drive either of those cars, Mitch. Get one of the Range Rover’s you lifted us in. The Vogue will do…unless you have a Sport knocking about…I prefer that model, especially one with black leather and cream pipe.”

  Mitch looked around the room. Des had a big smile on his face. “You’ll get used to it, Mitch pal, welcome aboard.”

  The Yank left shaking his head at the mad English people he’d been landed with.

  * * *

  Finally, we were alone.

  “Am I the only one who thinks this job stinks to high heaven?” I said.

  I got two shakes of the head.

  I turned down the corners of my mouth. Not a happy bunny. “I’ll get onto Cartwright as soon as I can, and find out what being ‘loaned out’ entails.”

  I looked towards the door. “Mitch seems a good boy, but I reckon he’s only here to keep an eye on what we get up to, and report back to Carver, who will have Senator Blackman’s ear no doubt. Now, very important, I don’t want to have to explain to Carver why his All American Boy is lying in a gutter in Moss Side with his head blown off. So, if anything comes on top, get him out of the way. Okay?”

  Two nods.

  “Good. “I rubbed my hands together. “Right, Lauren, get on the net and find out everything you can about Senator J.E. Blackman. Family, friends, business dealings, gossip, likes, dislikes…you know the script. Print everything so we can start a dossier.

  When I get back, I want you to go straight to Lawrence’s offices. I’m sure you can handle him.”

  She smiled at me again, this time with slightly more confidence. “Easy,” she said.

  “Des, grab one of the pool cars, you don’t mind Korean engineering, do you?”

  The Scot fumbled for his disgusting pipe. “I mind you being a smug prick. But if it means I can get outside for a wee smoke, I suppose it’s okay.”

  “Now don’t be tetchy. I want you to go to Ancoats and find the murder scene. It will still be under guard, but have a snoop about the area. Visit the pubs…chat with the natives…who’s running around that part of town? You’re good at that.”

  “Aye, I’m good at getting punched in the kipper for askin’ stupid questions too.”

  I slapped Des on the back, just as Mitch re-appeared with a laptop and printer balanced precariously in his arms.

  “Ah good,” I said. “Are we ready?”

  Mitch plugged in the machine and set Lauren up with a password. “All ready,” he said.

  “Excellent,” I managed. “…and the car?”

  Mitch smiled. “I got us the Sport, Mr Fuller…I mean Rick.”

  I gestured towards to door pleased with my transport. “Good lad, right…first we need to swing by my place so I can change. Then we’re going to see Egghead.”

  “Egghead?”

  “Yes, he’s a clever guy…. Now…Do you like cats, Mitch?”

  * * *

  I drove. The car was tight and responsive, just as I remembered my own model to be. However, the Americans had spared no expense and our model was similar to one I’d owned. Well, before Goldsmith and company came along. It was the supercharged version, delivering 390 bhp as standard. It came with Stormer 20ins alloys and Brembo disc brakes to stop the big beast. Sounds were provided by a Sirius satellite radio nestled into Limed Oak wood trim, and we sat comfortably encased in black leather sports seats.

  I made a note that at least part of my $333,333 fee for the job was going to be spent at my local Jaguar Land Rover dealer.

  Mitch sat in silence in the passenger seat. Either he wasn’t the talkative type, or he was following a brief of least said, the better.

  Either way, it suited me.

  The Manchester traffic was its usual ponderous self and it took a full hour to drive to my place in Bowden. The American didn’t attempt to move as I pulled up outside my apartment building. He just gave it a quick glance.

  “Nice,” he said.

  Ten minutes later, I’d ditched my black Paul Smith number and found olive Ralph Lauren cargo’s and a cream polo.

  I gave Simon, our friendly tech-head a call to ensure he was still awake and got back on the road.

  “So, what’s your story, Mitch? How long have you been here in England?”

  “Just over eighteen hours. I was in Germany when the shit hit the fan. I got the first flight out.”

  “Does that happen a lot in the Drugs and Alcohol Agency?”

  Mitch turned slightly. “I go where I’m told, Sir. I don’t ask too many questions.”

  I took that as a ‘mind your own business,’ nodded and hit the
gas as we made the M60 slip.

  Changing the subject, I asked, “What’s your background, Mitch?”

  “Me, I was just a small-town boy, you know? You’ve seen them places on the TV. All pick-up trucks, baseball caps and bottles of Bud. I needed to escape the place, so I joined the Marine Corps. After two tours of Iraq and two more in Afghanistan, I changed my camos and boots for black suits and shiny shoes.”

  “The FBI, they picked you?”

  “After a spell, in a way, yes Sir.”

  “That Sir thing sits well with you doesn’t it, Mitch?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, I suppose it does.”

  “You must have impressed in your Marine Corps days to get picked up like that.”

  “I did okay.”

  I was sure he did.

  “And now you get all the good jobs, Mitch, you get to work with our rag tag team.”

  “Not so rag-tag Mr Fuller. I mean you were decorated five times, first one aged seventeen. And Mr Cogan, well he sits alongside you with four gallantry awards. Ms North, however, I admit is a paradox…”

  “A paradox?”

  “Yes Sir, I’ve been party to your recent MI5 files. I mean, Lauren is one tough lady, that’s for sure. The job in Belfast, her subsequent capture…I mean, wow. And she fights alongside you guys as if she was born to it. Yet she is so beautiful. You know what I mean?”

  I knew what he meant.

  “So, The Firm gave you access to our files?”

  “That is correct. Cartwright, a man I’m sure you are familiar with, agreed it before you were selected for this role.”

  “This selection process, how did it come about? I mean, this is The Firm granting the favour to end all favours. As I understood it, relations between our countries’ security services was strained to say the least.”

  Mitch shrugged, “That kind of decision making is way above my pay grade, Mr Fuller. I’m just here to help is all.”

  I managed a small laugh at that one. Here was a guy caught in the middle of a political shit storm. Jump the wrong way once, and his career was in tatters.

  I also had the sneaking suspicion, this new found ‘special relationship,’ had something to do with our last job in Albania. After all, Carver was the head of the CIA’s Organised Crime unit. Goldsmith would have been high on his list of targets. And he would dearly have loved to have been able to interview him had Cartwright not pulled his smoke and mirrors trick in Strangeways jail.

  I made another note to speak with our old spy chum in Whitehall.

  I glanced over at the American.

  “You know something, Mitch? This guy Larry Simpson, the cop that Lauren knows? There’s no love lost there. If he has his way, he’ll take us all down, even her. We could all end up facing prison for the rest of our days. And I’ll tell you this… I’ve already used my get out of jail free card with The Firm. So, I reckon if this job goes to hell in a handcart, the boys at Quantico, the Pentagon, Whitehall, or any other fucking place you care to mention will walk away and swear on the Bible they never met us. And that will apply to you too.”

  Mitch nodded. “Makes you wonder why we do it uh?”

  I gave him a wry smile. “Well for me, it’s the million dollars… Anyway, we’re here.”

  Egghead, or Simon to his friends, lived with his mother Ethel, in a rambling old farmhouse just off the M60/M66 junction in a town called Ramsbottom.

  The front yard leading to the entrance was full of junk, seemingly just thrown down and left. No one in the family ever intent on moving it. Weeds grew through the cracks in the path to the front door.

  “Reminds me of my old trailer park,” muttered Mitch, kicking at a discarded paint tin.

  I did a quick recce.

  “Just watch my back, Mitch. If any of Ethel’s cats come near, you shoo them away, okay?”

  Mitch nodded. “Now I understand the cat question…I take it you’re allergic?”

  “No, Mitch, I wear good clothes. Just do as I ask, okay?”

  I knocked and waited the usual year and a half for mum to open the door. Then we ran the traditional gauntlet of pussycat deposits as we climbed the stairs towards Simon’s room.

  Finally, he appeared at the top landing. His face seemed even rosier than usual, as if he’d been doing something rather more physical than tapping a few keys.

  “Hey, Mr Fuller. Good to see you again.”

  Simon had an adjustable wrench in one hand. He caught me looking at it. “Ah, this,” he held it up. “Just sorting out me old Mum’s bog. Seems to have sprung a leak.”

  I turned to Mitch. “He means the John…watch for those fucking cats.”

  Mitch nodded his understanding.

  “You brought a mate with you then, Mr Fuller?” said Simon, stating the obvious.

  “Mitch Collins,” I said. “He’s American.”

  “Really?” Simon stepped down a stair and took Mitch’s hand. “Come up Mitch. Come into my parlour…. where in the States you hail from then?”

  “Alabama, Simon.”

  “Wow, yeah, like the song Mitch. Sweet Home eh? Funny, I flew over there just yesterday.”

  Mitch looked confused. “You flew in from the States last night?”

  Simon found a spot for his wrench and rubbed his hands together. “Not actually flew, Mr. Collins, more like hitched a lift. See, I hacked into one of your fancy satellites for an hour and had a mooch at what it was looking at.”

  Mitch gave me a look.

  “He hacked into a United States satellite?”

  Simon beamed. “Yeah, top it was, right good crack.”

  I leaned in to Mitch. “He means it was fun.”

  Simon was oblivious to Mitch’s consternation. “Anyway, what can I do for you fine gentlemen?”

  We sauntered into Simon’s work room, which in contrast to the rest of the house, was not only clean and tidy, but mercifully cat free.

  I closed the door behind us.

  “I need to get information from a computer,” I said.

  Simon shrugged. “Okay, easy enough, Mr Fuller.”

  “Not when we don’t possess this computer, Simon. Not when it belongs to a senior policeman.”

  Simon shivered theatrically. “Aww, please don’t mention the Plod in my presence Mr Fuller. The old crone has just made me lunch…nice bit of pork pie. Puts me right off it does.”

  I was losing patience. “Simon!”

  Mitch quizzed me, “Plod?”

  “Cops,” I offered.

  Egghead held up both palms. “Okay, fair enough…so where is this computer and can you get any access to it at all?”

  “It’s in Levenshulme Police Station, the property of one Detective Chief Inspector Larry Simpson…and yes, maybe, but only for a short time.”

  Simon shivered again. “You do know this bloke is the head of the Serious and Organised Crime Unit, Mr Fuller?”

  I cocked my head. “Really, now that is a fucking surprise.” I raised my voice slightly. “So, can you, or fucking can’t you?”

  Simon nodded and smiled, his idea of a little joviality over.

  “Course I can, Mr Fuller.”

  He rooted in a drawer for a moment and removed a memory stick; inserted it into a laptop, opened a file, copied it to the device, removed it, and handed it to me.

  I raised my eyebrows quizzically. “And?”

  “Whoever is going to visit this mush Simpson, needs to get him to connect that stick to his computer. May I suggest, Mr Fuller, that you, or one of your colleagues, load something onto the device that the Old Bill would find interesting. So as to make it look all kosher like.”

  “Okay….and?”

  “And as soon as Plod opens the stick, the code I have just programmed into it, releases a clever little worm into his computer and sends me a me
ssage here.”

  Simon tapped the top of a monitor on his desk.

  “I can then remotely download anything he has access to, and him being the big cheese Mr Fuller, I would suggest that is everything important.”

  “And how long would that take you?”

  “Depends on the size of the files, Mr Fuller, but if it’s just text and still pictures…. Sixty seconds, maybe ninety at a push. If it’s video, a minute or two longer.”

  “Jeez that’s fast,” said Mitch.

  Simon beamed, his red cheeks shining in the fluorescent lights of the room.

  “Thank you, Mr Collins. We do try to please.”

  I went to my back pocket. “Okay Simon, how much for the stick?”

  “A monkey, Mr Fuller.”

  I nodded and started to count out cash.

  Simon shifted from foot to foot, as was his want. “But that doesn’t include the download…and…and I’ll need to know exactly what you are looking for, Mr Fuller, it would take too long to copy everything he has on there.”

  I gave Simon a look. “Go on.”

  He did his best not to beat about the bush, but Simon couldn’t help it. “Well, Mr Fuller, that kind of depends on how sensitive the nature of this information is.”

  “Extremely sensitive,” blurted Mitch. “It’s regarding the murder of an American student by the name of Todd Blackman, the only son of Presidential candidate Senator J.E. Blackman.

  Simon raised both brows and a solitary finger. “Ah! Now that sounds dangerous…and expensive. In that case, I’d want five large, Mr Fuller.”

  I gave Mitch a hard stare. “Perhaps you should never play poker, eh?”

  The American gave a meek smile.

  I turned to Simon. “Okay, you’ll get your five, but only when I’ve got the documents in my hand.”

  “Fair enough, Mr Fuller…oh, and whoever is visiting this mush at the cop shop needs to bring the stick away with them. It will take them a while, but eventually, if you leave it there the security breach will be traced back to that storage device, and therefore the face that delivered it.”

  I nodded to Mitch. “Let’s go,”

  We tripped down the stairs to the front door and outside into the fresh air.