by Robert White
Mitch’s phone vibrated. He checked the text and gingerly had a quick look-see into the yard. Stepping out slowly, Magnum pointed skyward, his empty hand raised, he moved into the open. Even he didn’t trust his own guys not to be trigger happy “Security Services,” he bellowed. “We have the subject…we’re coming out now.”
I saw Mason Carver and three other agents standing next to a limo in the service area. Door open, engine running. We pulled Blackman out into the open and handed him over. Within seconds the Senator was mobile.
Carver stood in the steady drizzle. He looked pale. “Good work, Fuller.”
“Get me the fuck out of here,” I said.
* * *
Whilst the rest of the world talked about the attempted assassination of an American Senator on English soil, Mitch and I drove out of the city. There was no way we were returning to the lock-up. Yunfakh seemed capable of finding any part of our team at will, and I had no intention of leading them to what had become our only safe haven.
Mitch struggled with what he called the stick shift on the Porsche. I’d reluctantly chosen to use Joel Davies’ old 911 for the short hop to The Midland. It was a vehicle I’d acquired after one of his runners needed to be disposed of and before I could return it, Joel himself had been murdered. I’d then tried to use it as collateral in a deal with the recently departed Spiros Makris, but he’d refused it. Now it wasn’t that I believed in bad omens or anything like that, and I‘d never considered the car to be unlucky. The reason I disliked the car was purely down to the fact that Joel had been severely lacking in taste when it came to his prestige motor vehicles. The German flagship was finished in Guards Red. The only colour to have a 911 in, but Joel had this fetish for white leather, which turned the car into a mobile whore’s handbag. Most of the time, I just couldn’t bear to drive it.
Mitch didn’t even notice. He finally found third and the car lurched forward at a rate of knots.
It wasn’t just the American’s lack of prowess with a manual gear change that was getting my goat. I turned in my seat.
“Just how do you suppose three guys, armed with knives and AK’s walk straight into a city hotel and come within an inch of slotting an American presidential candidate?”
Mitch considered my question for a moment, then said, “Mr Blackman’s visit hasn’t been officially reported to GMP, so there was no outer cordon of uniforms. I suppose that explains the ease of access to the hotel.”
I shook my head. “And the lack of cover on the stairwells? Can you explain that? Those three shooters just walked up to Blackman’s floor unchecked. Anyway… it doesn’t make sense. Why try to assassinate Blackman now, just when Yunfakh have him on the ropes? Just when they can humiliate him? Kulenović wants him hurt, wants him ruined. If he’d wanted him dead, he could have slotted him back in the States.”
“That’s just it, Sir. …I’m of a mind that they weren’t after JE Blackman.”
“What the fuck are you talking about Mitch?”
The American took his eyes from the road for a moment.
“They were after you, Sir.”
* * *
We drove out to Cheshire. I used my mobile to book us into Peckforton Castle, a good quality five star hotel with a decent restaurant and a good spa. I was in the mood to chill out for a few hours.
I gave Mitch’s attire the once over. “Now, I hope you have a decent shirt in your carry on.”
“I’ve got a Polo, Sir.”
“Ralph Lauren?”
“Who’s he, Sir?”
I shook my head. “Look Mitch, I’ve booked us a table at the 1851, the Castle’s fine dining restaurant. And I’m not sitting opposite you if you’re wearing a supermarket label.”
The American looked bemused.
“Thank God there’s a hotel shop,” I said. “I take it you do have your credit card?”
“I do, Sir.”
“Good. I’ll come with you. Americans are notorious for poor taste.”
The Castle’s Hotel has an excellent onsite store. I managed to persuade Mitch to part with £120 for a rather nice Thomas Pink fitted cotton shirt. White with a fine blood red pin. He seemed horrified at the price. I thought it was good value.
We were shown to our executive suites by a very pretty blonde who organised swim shorts and robes for us both, as I was determined to use the spa.
Once in the privacy of my room, I sat on the sofa and called Lauren.
She answered within two rings. She sounded sleepy and a little nasal. I wondered if she’d been crying.
“Oh, thank God,” she said. “It’s all over the news… six dead.”
“Sorry I didn’t call before. I wanted to be discreet around Mitch.”
“Are you okay… you’re not hurt at all?”
“I’m fine, honest.”
“And Mitch?”
“Yeah, he’s good too… he did well.”
She lowered her voice and I heard her moving. Obviously trying to get some privacy of her own in the claustrophobic lockup.
“I was so scared, Rick. I… I don’t know why, but I’d got myself all worked up. When they said that some of the people guarding Blackman were dead, well…I just…”
I tried to lighten the mood. “I’ll take you instead of Mitch next time and we can both get shot at together.”
“Don’t tease me. I was really worried.”
“Well, I’m fine
She trailed off and I heard her sob quietly. It was just the kind of chat I used to have with Cathy when I was away on jobs. And with a similar outcome.
“Don’t cry, please. Look, I’ll be back in the morning and, from now on I’ll do my best to keep us all together, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight then.”
“Yes,” she whispered, Goodnight.”
Just as I was about to hang up, she told me she loved me.
I didn’t know what to say.
I sat with my thoughts for a while. It had been a long time since I’d made a call like that, and I wondered if I’d done the right thing. Lauren and I were getting closer.
Too close?
I touched my wedding ring.
Do you love her too?
I dialled Des.
Even though I knew Lauren would give him the heads up, I needed to tell him what kit to pack and the location of where I wanted us all to meet next morning. If he’d thought chatting with Vinnie the Pit Bull was bad, wait till he got up close and personal with Tricky Micky. Salford’s answer to Joe Pesci.
I put love and Lauren to the back of my mind. As I’d booked a late table, it was still an hour to dinner, so I strolled down to the hotel spa and wet rooms to meet the American.
The little blonde had done her best with the swim shorts, but I didn’t recognise the label on my robe and I was sure it wasn’t pure cotton.
The spa was deserted, and I slipped into one of the two massive hot tubs and set the jets bubbling. Mitch stepped in a couple of minutes later and sat opposite me. He turned down his mouth and nodded appreciatively.
“You don’t get this treatment in the Corps, Mr Fuller. I can say that for certain.”
“I didn’t get it in the Regiment either, mate. That said, you Yanks always had better kit and better rations than us. We used to nick loads of stuff from the boys who came over on secondment.”
The American slid down into the steaming water until just his head was visible.
He rolled his neck. Once it had cracked a couple of times, he seemed satisfied. Then he eyed me. Something was obviously bothering him about the attack on Blackman.
“What I said earlier, Sir…in the car… When JE stepped out into that corridor. Both those guys had a clear shot at him, but they didn’t fire. Then you stepped out and one instantly opened up at you. Right so far?”
“Go on.”
“Okay…so you took out the guy kneeling at the elevator, just as I was exiting the doorway. Now, I’m of a mind that if the second shooter hadn’t hesitated, he could have killed you both, but he wanted a clear shot at you, without hitting Blackman. That gave me the time to fire on him.”
“So, what you are saying is that Yunfakh want us out of the equation more than they want Blackman dead?”
He struggled with something for a moment. “Not exactly, Mr Fuller. I do believe they want to keep Blackman alive, at least long enough to humiliate him, to ruin him. And I believe that this is a war between our team and theirs… but there’s something else. Now you can call this intuition, or a gut feeling, or whatever, but those guys wanted you, Sir, not Blackman, not the CP guys, not even me…they wanted you, Mr Fuller.”
I let my head fall back against the edge of the tub and allowed the hot bubbles to massage my shoulders. Probably before the action at the Midland, I would have kept my counsel. But the American had now shown his worth on two occasions. He had earned the right to know the full story.
Over the next twenty minutes, I told him the tale of Tiji. Of how the job had been compromised how, only days ago, we had learned how Frankie Green met his end and who had been responsible.
Mitch had listened intently and without interruption. Finally, he nodded. “Well, Sir, I’m of a mind to say, that some of this makes sense now.”
“It does?”
“Why yes, Sir. I now understand why you and Mr Cogan are so keen to dispose of this guy, Al-Mufti, but…”
“But what Mitch?”
“Well I know how you have identified our target, but I think the bigger question is, how has he identified you?”
He had a point.
Des Cogan’s Story:
It had been the first time I’d seen Lauren so worried about Rick. I also knew why. Her feelings towards him were becoming more and more obvious. My old pal would need to sort things out with the girl… and soon.
We all met a couple of blocks from The Railway pub in Salford, then split into pairs and entered separately. Rick and Mitch first.
Now, I’ve been in plenty of rough boozers in my time and I’m not shy of sayin’, I fair liked some of them too. However, the Railway was up amongst the roughest I’d ever had the dubious pleasure of drinking in.
It was a small corner public house with a stone floor that didn’t look like it had seen a brush or mop in years. As for beer, the place sold Boddingtons, and nothing else. Now, there were many rum tales about The Railway; from gunfights to badger baiting. But the best one I’d heard was about a bloke who’d let his prize chicken loose in the bar for a run about. Seconds later, some other punter’s Jack Russell, flew out from under a table and ripped it’s head off.
You got to love them stories, eh?
However, more important to us, The Railway was where Tricky Micky Fenwick held court at lunchtime each day. Tricky was a mid-ranking cocaine dealer who supplied large parts of Salford and Ancoats. This made him a serious player. He also ran a gang, or crew as he would call them, by the name of The Broughton Bandits. A rag-tag mob made up of old hands and skinny teens, eager to make their mark in the criminal world.
Now gangs were nothing new in the working class areas of Manchester.
From as early as the 1870’s, Salford, and the surrounding townships had wee gangs called Scuttlers… what we might call hooligans today, who caused havoc with their criminal activities and organised street fights.
Jump forward to the 1960’s and it was The Quality Street Gang that were the most feared in the City. In the 20 years that the gang supposedly organised Manchester’s crime, none of its alleged members were ever convicted of a serious matter. I’ll let you stew on that snippet.
Somehow these days, gangsters had got - well, how can I put it, less classy?
Maybe it’s the fuckin’ hoodies eh?
As Lauren and I walked through the door, Rick and Mitch were at the bar trying to get the landlord to serve them a soft drink. They both came away with halves of Boddingtons, shaking their heads.
Tricky was in one corner. He was a big lad and looked like he’d done a fair amount of Clenbuterol in his day. He sported a broken nose and had enough scar tissue around the eyes to keep Chuck Bodak happy for weeks.
Perched either side of Tricky were two of his crew. They boasted the regulation number one crews, shiny tracksuits and lots of bling.
Just like Vinnie ‘Pit Bull’ Vasquez, Tricky knew Rick from back in his dim and distant, and therefore, by his pseudonym of Stephen Colletti. Now, what our fine upstanding leader had failed to mention to the rest of the team was that the reason Tricky knew of Mr Colletti was, because some years back Rick had slotted one of Tricky’s runners.
Not a good start to the proceedings.
Neither Lauren or my good self, acknowledged our partners in crime. We simply grabbed a couple of pints of Boddies, excellently kept by the way, sat in the opposing corner, and waited for the fireworks to start with a keen interest.
The second Rick and Mitch stepped within ten feet of Tricky, both his crew laid their respective pieces on the table, resting one hand on their weapons, whilst scratching their bollocks with the other, again another modern thug habit I cannea get my head around.
Gangsters tend to like big guns, and this pair were no exception. The lad to the right of his boss had a Ruger Super Redhawk. It’s the ultimate Ruger. Chambered to .480 with a box-stock Hornady round, the bullet flies at just under 1,200 feet-per-second. In the right hands, it would stop just about anything in its tracks.
The wee jobby on the left had also gone with the same US maker and boasted a P89, largely based on the Browning M1911. It’s another big blocky powerful gun. I had to admit, it was an impressive show of strength.
If the other drinkers dotted about the bar had noticed the violence in the air, they weren’t showing it. Even the landlord didn’t bat an eye at the pissing contest. He just polished his pumps and kept his mouth shut.
Mitch knowingly took a step to his right to give me a clear view of all three players. I slid my Glock from my jeans and held it under the table out of sight. Lauren, stood as if to go to the ladies, but stopped the second she had a full view of our little gang. I saw her slip her hand into her bag where her own SLP was concealed.
If the two fools sitting either side of our target gangster made a move, it would be their last.
Rick took a step closer. “Alright, Tricky?”
“What you doin’ on my turf Colletti?”
“I’ve come to do you a favour.”
The big gangster snorted down his nose. Both his minions laughed along with him just for the fucking sake of it. There was more furious crotch scratching.
“And why would Joel Davis’ lackey want to do a thing like that, eh?”
“I don’t work for Joel anymore.”
Right hand man couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “That’s coz he’s fuckin’ dead, init?”
Tricky shot his boy a look that said, ‘shut the fuck up,’ then turned back to Rick. “So, who are you workin’ for then?”
“I’m self-employed.”
“An entrepreneur, eh?”
“I do okay.”
Tricky took a glance a big Mitch. “Who’s the big lad?”
Mitch let his jacket fall open to reveal his Magnum in all its glory. The two brave boys with the Ruger’s went a funny colour.
“He’s my chauffeur,” said Rick, unable to hide the sarcasm in his tone.
Tricky wasn’t so easily scared. “So, what’s this favour you want to do me then? It better be good. I’m not keen on being disturbed by trespassers. They tend to end up back on the other side of the tracks with holes in their head.”
“I’m going to keep you alive,” said Rick quietly. “Breathing, walking, that kind of
stuff… that good enough for you?”
The guy with the big Redhawk, cocked the revolver to single action, but left it where it was. Tricky put his hand on the gun and shook his head.
He returned his gaze to Rick. “This is not your best move, Colletti. I mean, I’m a patient man, but I’m thinkin’, should I just let my boys top you right now? I haven’t forgotten what you did to my runner. Because of you, the boy had more fucking holes in him than a cheese grater.”
Rick kept his voice level. “That was business, and you know it. Your runner was a grass, and Mr Davies was incensed. I had no choice in the matter.”
Tricky sat back and cricked his neck. “Maybe he was… so maybe, that’s why you’re still breathing eh?”
“Touché,” spat Rick. “So, do you want to hear what I have to say, or do we keep playing ‘my dick is bigger than yours’ all fucking afternoon?”
Tricky sat up straight and put his hands on the table. He hadn’t survived Manchester’s drug trade for twenty years without having some common sense.
“How about we all put these shooters away and sit down… and that includes him in the corner and the fit bird at the bar.”
Rick turned and gave me the nod. Lauren sauntered back to her seat and the edginess dropped a notch.
Rick sat opposite Tricky. “Your boy Vinnie,” he said.
“What about him.”
“Have you noticed he hasn’t bought any gear recently?”
Tricky screwed up his face. “Fucking hell, Colletti. Runners come and go, you know that. Most of ‘em use too much of their own product. Pit Bull ain’t no exception. He’ll be back when he’s got some coin.”
Rick shook his head. “He’s on his toes.”
“Really?”
“He’s grassed you, Tricky… big style.”
The big gangsters face turned thunderous.
“I think you need to explain yourself a little, Colletti. Sayin’ that kind of thing about a man like Pit Bull can get a man in serious trouble.”
Rick pulled out a picture of Siddique Al-Mufti and pushed it across the small circular table.