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

by Robert White

  “What’s this about?”

  “Tomorrow lunchtime.” said Rick. “We’re going to pay this bloke a visit.” He handed me a grainy black and white shot of a rough looking man with a broken nose. “Richard Fenwick, aka Tricky Micky, cocaine dealer extraordinaire. It’s an old picture. One I took of him when Joel Davies was on his case over another matter. I think Yunfakh will be paying him a visit very soon, and I want us to be there when they do.”

  “Well, I think Mitch and I got what we wanted,” I said, holding up the DVD.

  Des was more interested in the American’s long face. “What’s the matter with your coupon, son?”

  I gave the Scot a look. “Larry got cold feet, so Mitch had to get the footage from the bars in the Village. One guy took a shine to him.”

  I saw Des stifle a smile of his own.

  Teasing aside, Mitch’s previous outbursts about brimstone and hellfire were obviously behind him.

  “I’m fine, Mr Cogan,” he managed, standing at the coffee machine. “Honest I am. Can I get y’all a hot drink?”

  We all nodded, and he got on with the task. I found my laptop and booted it up ready to view the images of the man that called Todd Blackman on the night he died. The man that almost definitely lured him to his shocking end.

  Mitch dropped my coffee on the table and then walked over to where Rick and Des were busy. He handed them their brews.

  “I had a call, Mr Fuller. A call from Mason Carver. He… he erm would like to speak with you asap. He wants you to meet with JE Blackman. Apparently, the Senator requires an immediate update on our progress, Sir.”

  I’d noticed an edge to both Rick and Des the last day. Something had got under their skin. Rick was at his most unpleasant.

  “And what did you tell Mr Carver, Mitch?”

  “I told him that I would pass on that message, Sir.”

  “And you have,” snapped Rick.

  “But Sir…”

  Rick looked up at the young American, his eyes giving no quarter. “The first thing we are going to do Mitch, is look at your footage of the man we believe to be Sid or Siddique Al-Mufti.”

  Right on cue, there was a muffled shout from the back of Rick’s old Escort van, and it rocked from side to side as someone grew increasingly irritated in the back.

  I raised my brows as Rick and Des ignored the noise.

  Mr Fuller’s delightful mood continued. “Once Lauren prints a clear picture of our target, and I’m presuming that as you are here annoying me, and not still trawling every gay bar in the Village, that you have acquired one I will show it to that evil smelling creature, currently hooded and hog-tied in the back of my van.”

  “I don’t understand, Sir who…?”

  Rick held up a hand. “That grunting individual Mitch, is a low life drug dealer whose identity doesn’t concern you. However, due to his criminal activities, he was unfortunate enough to meet the leader of a new gang that have appeared in Ancoats. From his description of their operatives, their weaponry and the way in which they operate, we believe this gang to be, Yunfakh. Now, as you know, the leader of Yunfakh is Siddique Al-Mufti, our main suspect in Todd Blackman’s murder.”

  Rick pointed towards the rocking van. “So, if this fat bastard ID’s the man in your pictures as the same man who was barking orders at several heavily armed Yunfakh members on the night Todd was murdered, we may have something of interest to say to your Senator, pal…Is that understood, Collins?”

  Mitch looked sheepish. “That’s understood, Sir.”

  Rick gave a fake smile. “Good, so, unless you have something else of ground breaking importance to tell me… can we get on?”

  The footage was tremendous.

  As we watched it for the third time, Des turned to the rather deflated American and gave him a wink. “Good job this, pal.”

  Mitch managed a thin smile.

  The CCTV showed a man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. Tall, slim, long limbed. He was of Arabic appearance with either black or the darkest brown hair, scraped back in a ponytail that bounced between his shoulder blades as he walked. He was a handsome guy and sported a close cropped beard. His suit was a pale pastel blue, and he’d rolled the sleeves up on his jacket, as had been the fashion in the eighties.

  The film clearly showed him make the call from the box on Sackville Gardens and then walk down Canal Street.

  As the printer chugged out half a dozen stills from different angles, Rick selected one and walked over to his old van.

  He pulled the back doors open. There, lying on his back, was a rather large guy in a black tracksuit. He had a pillowcase over his head and was bound by Gaffa tape. Rick ripped off the hood and held the picture of our man in front of the guy’s face. He blinked a few times and then nodded. “Yeah,” he said croakily. “That’s the guy… deffo one hundred percent…now will you fucking let me go?”

  Rick reapplied the hood to the hapless man and gestured to Des. “Drop this fool in town and slip him a few quid.” He then turned to Mitch. “Okay, son. Make your call, let’s go see what the oracle has to say for himself.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  The Midland Hotel is in the heart of Manchester. The place Cartwright said he would have visited had it not been for the heat. Once I discovered that JE Blackman was in residence, I doubted the old spy’s excuse even more.

  Boasting over three hundred bedrooms, fourteen suites, fine dining restaurants and a world class spa and gym, it’s a nice place to stay. It opened in 1903, was built by the Midland Railway at a cost of one million pounds, and faces onto St Peter’s Square. It was where Charles Rolls met Henry Royce and The Beatles were famously refused access for being inappropriately dressed.

  As Mitch and I parked under the arches on Oxford road and walked the two hundred yards or so to the hotel, I studied the American’s clothes and considered he too may not make it past the front door.

  I needn’t have worried, standing next to the hotel doorman was a tall blonde guy, black suit, earpiece, big gun. The Secret Service were in the house.

  He nodded at Mitch and gestured towards a man standing at reception. That man was Mason Carver.

  The CIA operative wore a Hugo Boss three piece pinstripe. He strode over, all confidence and LA tan. He offered his hand. I took it and he shook firmly.

  “Thanks for coming, Mr Fuller. I take it things are moving on a’ pace and you have some good news for the Senator?”

  “I’ll let him be the judge of that,” I said flatly.

  Carver managed a practiced smile. “Of course, well… JE will see you now.”

  He nodded towards a private lift where another equally serious looking guy was stationed. He too, was dressed and equipped like the other American on the door.

  “You won’t be joining us, Carver?” I asked quizzically.

  That smile remained in place. “No, Mr Fuller. Not on this occasion. JE has expressed his wish to speak with you in private.”

  I hadn’t the time or inclination to concern myself with any internal wranglings within the American camp, so turned on my heels and walked to the lift. The doors slid open to reveal agent number three, whose role it seemed was to ride the elevator with whoever was using it. He was a big fella too, and with Mitch and myself in there, it was a real squeeze.

  He chose not to speak, so we rode in silence.

  We turned left out of the lift towards Blackman’s suit. Two more CP guys stood guard at his door. Strangely, no one was visible on the emergency exits. This worried me some, but I figured that they may well be concealed on the landings out of sight. There was another nod of recognition for Mitch and the door to the suite was opened. They knew exactly who we were, no searches, no questions.

  That concerned me too. However, it pleased me in equal amounts. On the downside, Carver had shared my photograph with the hired help
, on a positive note, I still had my Sig.

  The suite was as luxurious as you might expect. Classic furnishings and beautiful accessories befitting the occupant.

  Johnathan Eisenhower Blackman was sitting in a winged armchair studying documents the way that all important people seem to be doing when they know you are about to walk into their office. He was fifty-two years old, looked younger and obviously kept himself in shape. He’d served his country with honour and risen to the rank of Major General. In the States, that meant he would have commanded upwards of four thousand troops and made big fucking decisions on the battlefield. Despite his far right leanings, he must have been a good soldier.

  The Senator looked up from his papers and directly into my eyes. Despite his almost jet black hair, which I suspected had seen the benefit of a hairdressers loving care to hide the grey, his eyes were bright blue, and I was instantly transported back to the picture of Abdallah Al-Mufti and his chilly gaze. They were almost identical.

  Like many men I had met in my life who wielded power, he had that air about him that instantly commanded your attention. His demeanour demanded your respect, warranted or not.

  He stood, lifted his head just enough so he could look down his nose at me and extended a hand.

  “Mr Fuller,” he said flatly.

  “Mr Blackman,” I answered. “My condolences to you and your wife.”

  He pulled a pained face, yet my first impression was not one of a grieving man who had just lost his only son. He waved a hand.

  “There’ll be time for sorrow when these animals who did this to my boy are dead in the ground, Mr Fuller.”

  “Of course, Sir,” was all I could think to say.

  He sat back down and gestured for me to do the same. He left poor Mitch standing.

  “So, Fuller, what do you have for me?”

  I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out an A4 colour shot of Siddique Al-Mufti and handed it to Blackman. He unfolded it and studied the image.

  “This our man?”

  “We think so.”

  Blackman caught me with those eyes again. “Think… ain’t good enough boy.”

  Now, I don’t know about you. But nothing irritates me more than being called… boy.

  I leaned forward in my seat and kept the Senator’s gaze.

  “Listen, Blackman. You are paying me one million dollars to kill the man, or men, that murdered your son. Now, the reason you are so keen for me to do this is because if the truth comes out about Todd’s sexual preferences, you will lose the Presidential nomination, wifey won’t get to play house in the Oval Office and all these nice men in black suits will fuck off to protect the next guy. So, let me tell you something, just so that we can all play nice. I don’t need your money and I certainly don’t need the excitement. So, if you call me ‘boy’ one more time I will walk from this room and let the fucker on that picture, destroy you... Are we clear?”

  I thought I detected the merest hint of distaste in his eyes but it was soon washed away by a wry smile. Blackman was not a man easily riled. After all, he had spent many years negotiating multi-million dollar deals in some of the toughest places on the planet. He didn’t give a monkey’s if anyone liked him or not. He remained silent for a moment, before he sat back in his seat and gestured towards Mitch Collins.

  “Leave us please,” he said.

  Mitch gave me a look and wandered into a side room, closing the door behind him.

  Blackman waited until he was happy the young American was out of earshot.

  “I like you, Fuller,” he said, none too convincingly. “You’re a straight talking kind of guy. But you are wrong about my son. He wasn’t homosexual. His mother and I sent him to…”

  I held up my hand. “Stop right there, Blackman, I’ve heard this story about how you had Todd ‘cured.’ Well, let me tell you this. However much you paid those guys who ‘treated’ your boy, it’s best you ask for your dollars back. Because whilst you were busy electioneering around the Deep South, campaigning against same sex marriage, your son was spending most nights in the Gay Village dressed as fucking Shirley Bassey.”

  I thought I detected the merest wince from the Senator, but kept going.

  “Now, unlike you, Blackman, I don’t have a problem with that. What a man does in his bedroom, and with whom, is none of my business. That said, I’m not a fool and I know what’s at stake here. I know how this would affect your campaign, and I can tell you that our people in Whitehall are just as keen to see you nominated, as you are.”

  Blackman seemed pleased with my last comment and nodded approvingly.

  I wasn’t finished. “But to use an American euphemism here, when it comes to the facts in this case… don’t blow smoke up my ass.”

  Blackman ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath and went into full pulpit mode. When Larry Simpson had described the guy as a piece of work, he was right on the fucking money.

  “You don’t understand, Mr Fuller… can’t understand, the shame that this un-Godly affliction has brought upon our family. I have prayed so hard and so long that Todd may be cured of this terrible illness. My wife and I truly believed that when he returned from his sabbatical, his disgusting leanings, the awful disease that addled his mind, had been driven from him. Mr Fuller, the Bible says, ‘If a man also lies with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.’ And now look… it has come to pass.”

  I shook my head. The guy may as well have been quoting the verse from the Quran at the murder scene. I felt my temper rise again. “I’m not the religious type Blackman, but I think it also says somewhere, ‘who are you to judge your neighbour?’ As far as I’m concerned, you and your Bible bashers are no better that the bastards who cut your son open and nailed him to a fucking wall.”

  “Don’t say that Fuller… that’s a lie. I loved my son.”

  He picked up the picture of Siddique Al-Mufti once more. “And if this is indeed the man who crucified my boy, I want him dead, Mr Fuller. I want him…”

  Blackman didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence.

  The unmistakable sound of big calibre automatic weapons cut through the air in the corridor outside. Rounds were slamming into the plaster by the entrance. I heard one of the two guys guarding the door briefly return fire with his pistol, but it was short lived.

  Mitch was out of the side room in seconds, Magnum drawn. I grabbed at Blackman and pushed him against the wall, away from the windows, unsure where the next threat may come from. As I drew my Sig the hotel room door was torn to shreds by .762. Dozens of rounds cutting through the once beautiful furnishings in the room, blowing feathers and fabric into the air before lodging into the walls.

  Mitch put six back into the door, the massive report of his Magnum rattling my teeth. It calmed the boys down on the other side for a few seconds, but as the American pulled a speed-loader from his jacket and dropped the rounds home, they came again.

  This time our assailants were up close and one smashed at the door lock with his boot. What remained of the wooden structure swung open. The player was a big African. He stepped inside and took aim at Mitch with his AK. I put two in his chest and another in his head as he fell backwards into the hallway.

  Mitch nodded his appreciation and sprinted over to the open door, slamming himself up against the hotel room wall, giving him a view down the left side of the hallway and some cover into the bargain. I mirrored him, and we now had eyes on down both sides of the narrow passage.

  The two boys in suits, who had been guarding the door were dead where they’d stood. Both had been cut to pieces by the high velocity rounds from the AK’s. One even still had his weapon holstered. This had been a swift and professional attack. The second guard gripped his Glock in his lifeless hand, and I knelt quickly, grabbe
d it by the barrel and handed it to Blackman who was crouched beside me.

  “I take it you remember how to use one?” I asked.

  “You bet buddy,” said the Senator, as he expertly checked the weapon was ready to fire.

  However, I wasn’t ready for John fucking Wayne’s next move.

  Blackman edged past me with remarkable speed for a man his age, stepped into the corridor and opened up with the SLP. He also marched straight into the line of fire.

  I had no choice but to follow Mr Hollywood Hero out into the hall. Blackman had spun right, so I did the opposite. Ten metres ahead of me was a shooter in the kneel. He was taking cover in the elevator opening. Wedging the lift doors open was the body of the big CP guy we’d rode up with. His throat was cut so badly that he was almost decapitated. The player opened up on full auto and I felt plaster cut into my face as the bullets smashed into the wall to my left. I was on the move, firing one handed. It took me four rounds to hit the guy and put him out of action. I threw my left arm backward and grabbed at Blackman’s shoulder, dragging him towards the wall, doing my best to keep the fool in cover.

  Then I heard Mitch firing behind me. That unmistakable sound of the Magnum; two short sharp double taps, and the corridor went silent. As I turned, I saw the third shooter lying on his back with four holes in his chest.

  “Stairs! Now!” I barked and pushed the hapless Blackman towards one of the stupidly unguarded emergency exits. Mitch grabbed the Senator’s opposing shoulder and we manhandled him to the top of the gangway. From there, we worked as a two man team, clearing each landing as we went, leapfrogging each other and dragging the presidential candidate along with us.

  I knew the lobby would be chaos, probably already teaming with cops, ARV crews pointing G36’s at every available exit, and I didn’t fancy becoming a victim of friendly fire.

  I shouted to Mitch as I jumped half a flight of stairs. “Get on the blower to Carver. Tell him to meet us around the back of the hotel.”

  The American dialled as we pushed on, along a staff corridor at the side of one of the hotel kitchens. Finally, we reached an exit door and waited, breathing hard, but all in one piece.