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

by Robert White

  The Merc was a couple of hundred yards back, but still there.

  We needed to get into the city proper, find some of the quiet backstreets around the universities where we could either lose our tail, or take the fuckers on away from the public eye. I pulled off the motorway onto Cambridge Street, then took another sharp turn into Booth Street, only to find the road blocked by a delivery van. The Merc was only seconds behind and we had nowhere to go.

  Mitch leaned over his seat, opened his case and lifted out the Howa type 89. I’d never even seen the Jap weapon before. It was some piece of kit, I’ll tell you. It doesn’t even need a launching attachment to deliver a grenade, because it was designed specifically for riflemen. The 06 just slips straight onto the muzzle in a split second.

  The Yank slotted one into place and stepped into the street, calm as you like. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Mitch…don’t tell me you are going to…”

  As the Merc turned the corner, the driver saw what was coming and hit the brakes. I heard a whooshing sound and Mitch sent the 06 on its way. The front passenger rolled out of his door and hit the deck hard, scrambling clear just as the heat seeking grenade found its target. The driver wasn’t so lucky. The Merc went up like a Roman Candle. I reckoned the good folk of Manchester must have thought that the PIRA were back in the fucking Arndale.

  Mitch, the epitome of cool, slipped the assault rifle back in his case, lifted it from the seat along with his day sack and slammed the door shut. The passenger was off and running. The American looked at me quizzically.

  “Well, I can’t chase him and carry these, Mr Cogan.”

  I shook my head and set off after our one remaining pursuer. “Fire the Beamer, I shouted as Mitch sprinted off. “You… are fucking nuts, pal.”

  The guy I was chasing looked to be in his thirties, fair haired, well over six feet and built with it. However, being wee has its advantages in a chase. I have a lot less to carry. That, and my man had obviously hurt himself de-bunking the Merc and was favouring his right leg.

  I was within twenty yards of him when he darted left down a narrow alleyway. I powered around the corner after him. I should have had a look-see first. He was leaning, back against the wall, just out of sight and caught me with a chopping blow grazing my cheek. I’d seen it coming at the last second and managed to lean away so that my shoulder took most of the impact. It was a good job I’d had my wits about me too, as it felt like I’d been hit with a lump hammer rather than a bare fist. My nerve endings sent enough pain signals down my arm to make me think I was having a heart attack.

  He was fast for such a big bloke, and instantly swung a second low punch towards my guts. Despite the pain, I pushed both my arms downward, crossing them at the wrists to block the blow. As I made contact, pushing his fist away from its intended target, I grabbed hold of his wrist, stepped to my left and twisted his arm in the direction it wasn’t meant to go. I hadn’t the bulk to drag him down, but it gave me a split second to lift my right leg and rake my heel down his shin.

  He cried out as my foot landed on top of his with a nasty crunch and I made his day by smashing my forehead into his nose in typical Glasgow fashion.

  He staggered, but was far from beaten. As he wiped blood from his face, I got my first good look at him. He was Russian or at least from the former states, Kazak maybe.

  He came at me again.

  I parried one, two, three, short sharp blows aimed at my head, stepping away each time. The speed and the ferocity of his attack confirming he was no ordinary slugger. I knew that I needed to sort this guy, or he was going to put me in the hospital at best.

  Now, either side of your neck is a main artery that feeds the brain. When you’ve been to the pictures to watch yer favourite wee hero smash the baddies to bits, you will have seen folks rendered unconscious, by what is known as a sleeper hold where the assailant squeezes his opponent around the neck, temporarily cutting off the flow of blood to the old grey matter. No good here like. If I’d tried to squeeze this fucker’s neck, he would have thrown me around the alley like a terrier with a rat.

  However, what you probably don’t know, is that any short, sharp loss of feed, causes all kinds of issues to your bonce. It puts you on your arse for a start, and it don’t matter if you are five-two or as in our Russian pal’s case, six-two. I’ve always found the blow best delivered by the forearm. Step forward, lock the elbow, and in one swift sweep, aim to connect your radius and ulna an inch or two just below your target’s ear.

  As he came at me for the fourth time, I caught him just peachy.

  His legs gave way instantly and there was a rather nasty crack as he hit the cobbles.

  The boy was on his hands and knees, trying to get his shit together, blood dripping from a cut somewhere on his scalp. I smashed the heel of my boot into his temple, and he was really struggling. Scarily, he shook his head and roared like a fuckin’ lion. I couldn’t believe he was going to get up and start again.

  Well he was, but he wasn’t going to play fair. His hand went inside his jacket and I saw the glint of an SLP.

  Fuck that. I drew my Glock, steadied myself and put a round in his forehead.

  The boy fell back, eyes open. Stepping in close, I checked his clothes for any ID but found nothing. He carried a small amount of cash, no phone, no cards. His only identifying mark was a small tattoo on his neck that looked like the mast of a boat. I confiscated his SLP, a Russian made P96 and stepped out of the alley. Wiping the sweat from my face, I felt my eye socket and cheek swelling.

  I was going to have another shiner.

  Sirens wailed in the distance and I presumed they would be heading for the decimated Mercedes. Obviously, Mitch Collins hadn’t read any terms of engagement recently. We would need a little chat with the American about our mantra of keeping a low profile.

  My phone buzzed, it was the big daft Yank.

  Starbucks, Oxford Road, sugar?

  Fuck that. The Thirsty Scholar was just across the road.

  Lauren North’s Story:

  All four of us sat around the table in the lock-up. Rick, Des and I, drinking tea, Mitch with a coffee.

  Rick was not a happy bunny.

  “You are telling me you destroyed a car with an anti-tank grenade on a public street?”

  Des was nursing what was quickly becoming a black eye. He scratched his head, and gave Mitch a telling look.

  Mitch himself, just shrugged those broad shoulders of his, as if what he’d done was the most natural thing in the world.

  Rick was fuming.

  “It’s not fucking Chicago in Prohibition, Mitch! You can’t go blowing shit up in the middle of Manchester on a school day.”

  Mitch sipped his coffee. “They had us at a disadvantage, Sir. We were blocked in.”

  Rick threw his arms in the air.

  “So, do one! Run away, get yourselves lost in the city. Live to fight another day.”

  The American pursed his lips. “That wasn’t an option, Mr Fuller. In order to do that, I would have had to leave my Buddy behind.”

  “Buddy?”

  Des shook his head. “That’s what he calls that fuckin’ big gun he has in that case over there. The one that fires the oh sixes.”

  Mitch finished his drink. “Actually, that is what the Japanese soldiers nicknamed the weapon, Mr Cogan. I simply copied that tradition.”

  “You could have killed innocent civilians,” barked Rick.

  Mitch shook his head. “I was sure the street was clear, Sir.”

  I was in. “This is getting us nowhere boys. What’s done is done… Mitch what can you tell us about the guys who were chasing you?”

  Rick snorted down his nose, venting his irritation. “Not much from a few incinerated body parts and another guy with a 9-mil round in his fucking skull.”

  It was Des’ turn to snap. “Oh aye, and I
was supposed to let the big fucker slot me then? Or maybe you would have preferred he beat me to death on the cobbles.”

  I gave them all a stern look. I felt like a headmistress with three naughty boys sitting in my office.

  “Come on lads, stop squabbling… This is childish. Rick, what do we have from Cartwright?”

  Rick sat back in his seat. He gave Des a look I’d never seen before. “Remember Tiji 1987?”

  “Aye, how could I forget that one.”

  “Tiji, that’s Libya, right?” asked Mitch.

  Rick nodded. “Des and I were part of a patrol that went out there to eliminate a guy who was supplying weapons and explosives to the PIRA. A Guy called Abdallah Al-Mufti. The plan was to blow his house, but when we got on plot, he had his wife and two kids inside. So instead we decided to take him out in his car, along with his security detail.

  Things went wrong, we were compromised and we lost one of our patrol. A guy by the name of Frankie Green.”

  “Top bloke,” muttered Des.

  “Well,” said Rick. “After my meeting with Cartwright, I found out more about what happened to Al-Mufti once we got home, and how that job from twenty years ago, relates to Todd Blackman’s murder.”

  Rick rested his elbows on the table. “Apparently, during that firefight back in 1987, we destroyed most of Al-Mufti’s operation, so he fled to the Lebanon with his wife and kids. Once there, he built up his business again. Some years later, as a result of his daughter using the internet, the Americans discovered his whereabouts and conducted an air strike on his house. His wife and daughter were killed. Abdallah and his son Siddique survived.

  They fled to Afghanistan where they went on to form the bones of a criminal gang called Yunfakh.”

  “That means ‘the wind’ in Arabic,” said Mitch.

  “Correct,” said Rick. “Now just like the band of fighters, Al-Mufti had in Tiji, this gang are made up of many nationalities from around the world. Black, white, Asian, Arab… yet all Muslim. Also, Al-Mufti ensures they have no searchable background, and they never, ever, use digital devices or mobile phones. They don’t have credit cards, a dentist, a passport… nothing. All they have to distinguish each other is a single small tattoo…”

  “… Of a mast and sail,” said Des. “The big bloke had one on his neck.”

  Rick slapped the table with his palm. “Correct again… confirmation of who we are dealing with right there… Yunfakh are here in Manchester.”

  Des nodded. “Aye… and if they don’t use computers, that’s the reason the gang haven’t posted crime scene style photos on the internet.”

  Mitch screwed up his face. “Well, I’ve spent a long time in the Middle East, and I ain’t never heard of no Yunfakh, and I don’t see how they are connected to our murder case.”

  Rick pointed. “Khalid Kulenović.”

  That stopped Mitch dead in his tracks. Des turned to the American and gave him a nudge in the ribs. “The CIA’s number one suspect, pal. The guy who owns Lucas Estates and the flat where our boy was topped eh?”

  Rick suddenly found his edge again. He pointed at Mitch. “You knew about Kulenović and you didn’t think to brief us?”

  Mitch raised his eyebrows. “We knew that JE Blackman and Khalid Kulenović had some history, is all.”

  Rick blew out his cheeks. “History? Fuck me, you could call it that, or blind hatred. This is all about two unbelievably rich men behaving like a pair of rutting stags… But, before we go any further Mitch, I need to know I can trust you to keep your mouth shut. Are we on the same page here? I can’t have you running to Carver every five minutes with the odd snippet to keep him quiet.”

  “We are, Sir… I just want to get the guys that did this and head home.”

  Rick looked around the table and got nods of agreement from Des and me.

  “Okay, here’s the story.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  It took me an hour to brief the team on most that Cartwright had told me. I did my best to answer their questions.

  I kept any mention of Stephan Goldsmith, the transcripts of the interrogation of the dead player, and the awful picture of poor Frankie Green to myself for a while. The Americans could never know that Goldsmith had survived his Strangeways incarceration, or that he went on to be Cartwright’s informant, and I wanted to sit Des down one to one, before I showed him what the fuckers did to Frankie.

  Lauren gave us the low down on the new head of the police investigation, DCS Alan Williams. I wasn’t surprised that he was an advocate of the Baptist religion, but I’d never heard of the SBA and didn’t realise that their tentacles stretched across the Atlantic. Obviously, JE Blackman had got his own way with GMP, but I was determined that he wouldn’t interfere with our team.

  Des filled us in with what he’d gleaned from Henrietta Duvall, and Todd Blackman’s last movements and by the time we’d finished, we all felt like we needed some air.

  “You like English grub, Mitch?” I asked.

  “Where I come from, sir, you eat what’s in front of you.”

  “I could eat a scabby donkey,” chipped Des, rooting in his pocket for his lung cancer inducing device.

  “Okay,” I offered. “Well I had a large lunch with our pet spy, but I could still do with a change of scenery.”

  Examining Des’ and Mitch’s casual attire, I shook my head ruefully.

  “As usual, Lauren is fine, but you two appear to shop from the same catalogue. That means we can’t go to anywhere decent.”

  Lauren stood. “Rick, you are such a food snob. I liked that place we went to just before we left for Puerto Banus, you can eat in the bar there, remember?”

  “Aye, the chop house,” agreed Des. “That’s traditional English, although, I think ye might find that the fish is all from the far superior country of Scotland.”

  I actually liked the old Manchester establishment, despite its informality. “The Chop House it is then,” I said.

  I thought it unlikely that any of the Yunfakh crew would have been able to follow our movements since Des and Mitch had dispatched their Mercedes saloon in the middle of the afternoon, but we made a few twists and turns enroute, just to feel better.

  After being shown to our table by a stick thin Irish girl with fiery ginger hair, we tucked ourselves in and perused the menu.

  Our waitress was obliging and witty and seemed very keen to help Mitch with what ingredients were contained in some of the local fare. I suspected that she had another agenda, but it seemed wasted on the big Yank.

  Des ordered his usual Guinness, and Lauren, a glass of Mamaku Sauvignon Blanc. Mitch and I opted for water.

  As the evening wore on, the team enjoyed their food, Mitch even trying Thomas’ signature corned beef hash and finishing every scrap.

  We did our best not to talk shop and the American turned out to be a knowledgeable and polite young man, with a dry sense of humour.

  It also became obvious to us all why he had little interest in our Irish waitress…he’d taken quite a shine to our Ms North.

  It was just before 2200hrs when Des took a call on his mobile. He excused himself from the table and went outside, both to hear the caller and to have a smoke.

  When he came back in he seemed excited.

  We all hunkered around our table, getting in close so Des could lower his voice.

  “That was wee Henrietta, Todd’s pal from the college like. Now, you remember on the last night she saw him, she said he’d taken a call from this mystery guy and he’d seemed all excited and went off to meet him?”

  We all nodded. The Scot continued. “Well, that has been bothering me some, as in, I checked the property sheets from Larry’s files and there is no mention of a mobile phone either on the body, the murder scene or in Todd’s flat.”

  “So, the perps stole it,” offered Mitch.

/>   “Or disposed of it,” added Lauren.

  I nodded. “Lauren’s right. They left his wallet, cash and cards. And as Yunfakh never use mobiles, they must have dumped it.”

  Des pursed his lips. “Aye, I think you’re right, pal. And if that’s the case, I reckon we’ve already missed a trick in not accessing Todd’s phone records… But listen, here’s the thing. When I asked Henrietta who it was that had called that night, she said she thought it was someone older than Todd, because he had an old fashioned name, like Bert or Alf… Well, she now says she is positive that Todd called the guy… Sid.”

  My stomach flipped. “You’re thinking Siddique, aren’t you? Al-Mufti’s son.”

  The Scot sat back in his seat and finished his beer. “Makes sense to me, shorten your name to make it more Westernised. Loads of young Muslim guys do it.”

  I nodded. “And Todd’s phone number?”

  Des pushed a slip of paper across the table. “She just gave it to me… and his email. I reckon he would have been billed paperless.”

  I pulled out my own phone. “Simon should be able to get access to Todd’s phone records. We know Al-Mufti won’t have used a mobile to ring Todd. It must have been a public telephone box and I reckon the caller will have been close by. Walking distance. Maybe even somewhere in the Village. That area is full of CCTV cameras, it’s probably the safest place in the city.”

  I turned to Lauren. “As soon as we have the exact location, I want you to get hold of Larry again and see if he can pull the strings with the council CCTV operators in the area.

  I want a picture of the fucker that made that call by tomorrow lunchtime.”

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  Rick called Egghead and got him on the case. The kid hardly ever slept at night, so staying up trying to hack into Todd Blackman’s email and then BT’s mainframe, would be child’s play for the lad.