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

by Robert White

  “There’s a new crew in town… in Ancoats to be precise. Not that they’ll stop there. The guy in that picture is running them. They’ve started hitting all the runners in your areas, roughing them up, putting the frighteners on them big style. I happen to know that Vinnie dropped your name as his supplier… and where you work out of. Now, call me old fashioned, but I reckon their next move is to slot you…”

  Rick glanced at each of Tricky’s minders in turn. “And your little crew. Clear the decks. Out with the old so to speak.”

  Tricky was shaking with anger.

  “I’d like to see the fuckers try. They don’t know who they’re dealing with…”

  Rick raised a hand.

  “With all due respect, Tricky, it’s you who doesn’t know the score. This crew have big money behind them. They are well armed and well organised. Like nothing this town has seen since the fucking IRA.”

  “You’re saying they’re paramilitaries?”

  “Of a sort.”

  “And how do you know so much about this, so called, new crew?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “And what’s in this for you?”

  “I have an interest in seeing them… eliminated.”

  Tricky snorted again and gave his boys a nudge. “Eliminated eh? That’s a good way of putting it… init lads? I think we’ve got the fucking terminator sitting opposite.”

  Both Tricky’s boys figured that this was hilarious and went about touching knuckles across the table. They looked proper twats.

  Rick kept trying. “You’re going to need some help with this crew. We can…”

  Tricky pointed. His temper, pride and stupidly had got the better of him.

  “We don’t need your help, Colletti. Your big-time dealer mate Davies is dead in the ground. Without him behind you, you ain’t nothin’ no more. You’re out of touch, pal. Times they are a changin’, yeah? Just like the fuckin’ tune, man. I got twenty guns I can call on. So, if this camel fucker wants to come and take us on… let him try. This is my town, my turf.”

  Surprisingly Mitch chirped up. He gestured towards the big bay window to the left of the three gangsters. “Y’all like sitting in the window? Is that so you can see outside, or so the guy with the AK-47 across the street can blow your stupid heads off?”

  All three turned to see the empty footpath opposite.

  Tricky didn’t find Mitch’s humour amusing. He snarled. “Yeah, funny guy.” He turned to Rick and pointed. “Why don’t you take your Red Neck friend home? In fact, why don’t you all fuck off before this gets messy.”

  Rick slid a business card across the table and stood.

  “We don’t want anything from this arrangement, Tricky. We don’t want your turf. We don’t want your customers.”

  He tapped Al-Mufti’s picture with his finger. Just keep this eh? Get some copies made. Hand them around to your runners. If the fucker turns up, and you change your mind, call me. That’s all I’m askin’”

  The pair locked eyes, like two heavyweights before the first bell.

  Finally, Tricky nodded. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”

  * * *

  Without the good will of Tricky and his gang, we couldn’t spring our trap. That said, it was his funeral. If we didn’t get to Al-Mufti soon, I reckoned the Salford crew’s days were numbered.

  Either way, it was back to the lockup, and back to the drawing board.

  I flicked through our file, desperate to try and find a hole in Yunfakh’s armour, but to no avail. All I got was sick to my stomach at the shocking crime scene pictures, and a rising sense of my own anger at events long past.

  Lauren made us all a delicious chicken dinner, yet we picked at it and sat around in silence, deflated, brooding.

  The evening was uncomfortably humid as I stepped out for a smoke. The rain had left the air damp and the rising heat made for a sticky evening. I loaded my pipe and took a deep drag, feeling the nicotine do its job. As I tapped out the bowl, ready to refill it. My mobile buzzed.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello Des, it’s Henri. Henrietta Duvall, Todd’s friend.”

  I could hear that she was somewhere noisy, a bar or a club.

  “Oh, hi Henri, are you okay hen?”

  “I’m fine Des. It’s just, well, it may be nothing, but remember when you asked me if there had been anybody suspicious ever hanging around with Todd?”

  “Aye, go on, hen.”

  “Well I said no, didn’t I?”

  “Ye did.”

  “Well…I mean, it’s just a feeling, and I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but…ages ago, when I first met Todd, I was in his apartment, when a guy came up to see him. He was older than him, maybe thirty, dressed like something out of the eighties. They went into the kitchen to talk, as if they had some kind of secret. He didn’t stay long, but I just got the impression he was a bit dodge, you know?”

  The description hit me like a brick and my mind flipped through those old CIA surveillance reports I’d just re-read. Day six, the unidentified male, stayed fifteen minutes.

  “Henri, was the guy Arabic, tall, slim?”

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “So… why tell me now, hen?”

  “Well, he’s here… in the club now.”

  I felt my heart skip a beat.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the Village, well on the edge of it. I’m in The New Union on Princess Street.”

  I stepped back inside into the cool of the lockup, put my hand over the phone and hissed.

  “Kit up now, we’ve got Al-Mufti in a bar off Canal Street.”

  The team instantly set about their tasks. I got back on the phone. “Can you still see him Henri?”

  “Yes, he’s watching the show.”

  “Are there any other guys with him?”

  “I can’t really tell Des… I mean, it’s packed in here.

  “Okay, now listen very carefully hun. Don’t go near this guy, or let him catch you watching him. Just ring me if he leaves…yeah?”

  “Oh okay… this is rather exciting, isn’t it? Have I solved the case?”

  “Henri. Don’t joke about this guy darlin’. Stay out of his way, and promise you’ll call if he moves or you feel scared…okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The roller shutters opened on the lockup and out rumbled Lauren’s RS6. Rick was driving. He opened the window and handed me my Glock19 and a spare mag.

  “Let’s go do this,” he said.

  Lauren North’s Story:

  There was no time to plan. Rick handed out four sets of covert comms from a case. We’d all seen to our individual weapons.

  “Comms check now, please,” shouted Rick over the growl of the RS6’s engine.

  We all pushed in the tiny wireless earpieces and checked the receivers were switched on. I pinned my mic to my jacket, depressed the pressel attached to it, tested my unit and got three thumbs up.

  Once we had all repeated the process and were all happy, the car fell silent.

  Rick swung the Audi into Princess Street.

  “Okay, listen up. Des, as you can ID Henrietta, I want you and Lauren to get inside the bar, find her and find our target. I want to know the second he leaves. If he comes out the front I’ll get up close, and take him out there and then. Mitch, this place is a hotel, so it will have rear exits and upper fire escapes, take the back. Same scenario, if you get eyes on, just slot the fucker and get back to the car…. Questions?”

  There were none.

  “Good,” he said. “Let’s get this done. I’ve had enough of this fucker already.”

  We dumped the car and stepped out into the night.

  Mitch jogged to the rear of the hotel as ordered, Rick perched himself on the low wall separating the w
aterway from the road.

  Des and I linked arms and strode to the New Union’s Canal Street entrance. Just an ordinary couple, looking to enjoy all the glitz and glamour the Village had to offer.

  The tables and chairs outside the bar were packed, the street teaming with people. The air was muggy after the earlier rain, and musclebound shirtless men stood guzzling pints from plastic glasses as the bouncers kept a careful eye on them.

  And that was our first issue. As we approached, I noticed the doormen were searching all bags on entry. As both my Colt and ASP were sitting inside my brand new Alviero Martini number, that was an issue.

  I let Des walk in front of me as I removed both and pushed them into my Levis.

  As we got to the door, I could feel the heat of hundreds of bodies radiating from inside the place. Cheesy pop blasted our senses.

  I dutifully opened my bag for the monstrously built doorman and we were both allowed inside.

  “Stay close,” said Des. “We’re looking for a blonde, nineteen, very pretty.”

  As we entered, there was a small traditional style bar to our left, but as we ventured further into the building, it opened up into a large oblong room with a stage at one end. The dancefloor was a writhing mass of people of all shapes and sizes. The heady mix of music, heat, and flashing lights made it hard to distinguish male from female, let alone gay from straight.

  The stage was lit by dozens of spotlights. Dancing to thunderously loud Kylie, was a troop of transgender performers, all spinning around in sync, dressed like their heroine.

  “Jeezo,” shouted Des. “I’ve never seen anythin’ like this in my life. Ye wouldnea know what ye’d be goin’ home with eh?”

  I nodded towards a stunningly beautiful blonde girl who was leaning against a pillar, drinking a bottle of Blue Wicked through a straw and fending off the attentions of two young men.

  “That our girl?”

  He turned. “Aye. Well spotted, hen… stay here, see if you can find our boy while you’re at it. I don’t want him creeping up on me.”

  I knew what he meant. From what Rick had told us. He believed that Yunfakh had been able to identify him at the Midland Hotel. The meant, they may have photographs of Des and me too.

  I rested my hand on my Colt and kept my eyes peeled.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  Shoving my way through the crowd towards Henrietta, I wasnea surprised that she was surrounded by young lads, she was a fine looking girl. That said, I had some bad news for them. I was about to dampen their ardour.

  “Alright, hen?” I shouted above the din.

  Henri’s eyes widened. I didn’t know if her excitement was real, or intended to free her of her admirers, but she jumped forward, screamed my name, and to my horror, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me full on the mouth.

  One boy turned and gave me a derisory look. “Who’s this Henri? Your dad?”

  There was no time for arguments. I grabbed his left elbow and dug my thumb into the joint. It’s very painful.

  “Fuck off,” I said, in my best Glaswegian.

  The boy fell back against the pillar holding his left hand, which I knew would be totally numb.

  I gave his pal a manic smile, slipped my arm around Henrietta’s waist and moved away.

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “Who?” she said.

  I looked into her eyes, and for the first time noticed she was stoned.

  My heart sank. “Aww for fucks sake, Henri,” I shouted. “The guy you rang me about? Where the fuck is he?”

  She looked at me blankly for a second, before I saw a moment of recollection. “Oh, sorry babe. Yes. The creepy guy with the beard.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Where is he?”

  She looked about.

  “He’s here somewhere… I didn’t see him go.”

  Then the light went out again and she wrapped her arms around my neck for a second time. “You’re very handsome, Des,” she slurred. “I’ve slept with older men before, you know.”

  I prised her arms away. “Henri, please… I need you to help me find him. What was he wearing?”

  She pursed her lips like the petulant child she was. “That’s not very nice.”

  I gripped her shoulders. “Henri!”

  I thought she was going to stamp her fucking foot. Finally, after another pout, she got her memory back, “A suit. He was wearing a suit. He looked like John Travolta, silly man.”

  I cast my mind back to the days when I still went to the pictures.

  “You mean like in the old film? The one with all the disco dancing… Staying Alive?”

  She nodded drunkenly. “Yup.”

  My comms crackled. It was Lauren. “Two, o’clock. Near the stage.”

  And there he was. Siddique Al-Mufti. All white suit and shiny hair. If Henri had the attention of the boys in the bar, our Sid was just as popular.

  The Arab had his arm draped around a fresh faced teenage lad.

  Not in the slightest bit hypocritical then, eh, pal?

  “I’ve got him,” I said.

  Rick was straight on the mic from outside.

  “Confirm positive ID, over?”

  I moved slightly closer, so I had one of the three supporting pillars that loomed either side of the dancefloor to stand behind. From my position, I could see both our target and Lauren. I was shocked at how much like his father Al-Mufti was. It didn’t really come over in the stills or CCTV. But in the flesh, the resemblance was uncanny. What was equally odd, was that the boy had chosen to copy his father’s hairstyle and clothing, almost exactly. It could have been 1987 and Abdallah could have been standing there amongst the revellers.

  I touched my pressel.

  “Roger that,” I replied. “Positive… If he goes to the Gents, I’m going to take him in there, over.”

  I saw Lauren nod her acknowledgement.

  “That’s a Roger,” said Rick.

  Two clicks from Mitch.

  It was my call. I’d weighed up the options. The bog was a safer location than the street.

  Whether he went to stand up, or sit down, it wouldn’t alter things. Follow him in, get in super close and put two in his lower back, just above the pelvis. Less chance of the rounds exiting that way, and other than the guys taking a piss in the stalls, no one would hear a thing.

  I’d be back in the RS6 before you could say Jack Robinson. He’d die slow, but that wasn’t my problem… so did Todd Blackman.

  I waited ten endless minutes, my ears pounded by the seemingly limitless stream of sugar pop.

  Finally, Al-Mufti dropped his arm from around his friend, kissed him lightly on the mouth and began to explain something to him. The younger lad was nodding.

  I touched my comms again.

  “He’s on the move.”

  Three double clicks.

  “He’s towards me and the main door. Looks like he’s leaving.”

  Three double clicks.

  The Arab was shoving his way through the mass of bodies on the dancefloor.

  He was twenty feet away, when I felt a tug on my sleeve.

  I turned to see Henrietta Duvall even more stoned than before.

  “Not now, Henri,” I barked and pushed her gently away and behind me.

  She staggered sideways and bawled. “Don’t be a shit, Des… I came to tell you something. Something important.” She lifted a straight arm and pointed directly at Al-Mufti. “See, that’s the guy. The creepy one. That’s him…the guy you want… there.”

  Whether he’d heard, or had just seen Henri’s movements, I couldn’t be certain. But I watched as his dark eyes were drawn to her, examining her, I could almost see his brain computing, assessing exactly what he had witnessed. Then he followed her gaze, and a split second later, he found me.

&nb
sp; Lauren North’s Story:

  I saw the look of recognition.

  Al-Mufti, spotted the girl, then looked straight at Des.

  His face was instantly contorted with hatred. He drew a gun from inside his jacket and opened fire without a second thought.

  Henrietta was hit in her chest, and I saw her legs give way.

  It was immediate chaos.

  Al-Mufti began hacking his way through the crowd, using the barrel of his gun as a club. Then, determined to cause the maximum pandemonium to disguise his exit, he fired into the air, once, twice.

  The massive doorman, who’d checked my bag on the way in, was pushing through the crowd towards the Arab. Al-Mufti spotted him, stood stock still, extended his arms, and adopted the classic pistol shooters stance. He opened up hitting a young black guy to the left of the bouncer with his first effort, but then tearing open the big man’s neck with his second round.

  The security man fell, blood pouring from the wound and I knew he wouldn’t make it.

  At that, the music was turned off and all I could hear was screaming.

  My own survival instincts took over. I was in danger of being trampled by the stampeding crowd, so I took shelter behind the pillar opposite Des’ position.

  I could see and hear him relaying the events to Mitch and Rick outside.

  Rick was desperate to know the area Al-Mufti would exit.

  I knew I needed to stay close to our target in order to give him that information, but the sheer numbers of panicking, terrified revellers made progress almost impossible.

  Ahead of me, I saw Al-Mufti rip off his white suit jacket and throw it over his head. A split second later, he disappeared from view.

  Playing the percentages was the best I could hope for. The bar had two exits proper and two rear fire exits, both already pushed open by the crowd desperate to escape the gunfire. People were being trampled underfoot, broken glass was everywhere. Making myself as tall as possible, I scanned the crowd, but I couldn’t see the Arab. Then the fire alarm went off. Another diversionary tactic.

  Fire glasses are placed by fire exits.

  I got on my comms.