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

by Robert White

  Mitch began the process of rebuilding his Magnum. “Well Ma’am, I suggest we go and ask Mr Carver that same question.”

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  I’d drawn my Glock and stepped into the darkened bar area. The screaming had stopped, but my blood still ran cold. Easing myself forward, controlling my breathing, I allowed my eyes to re-adjust to the gloom; listening for movement from upstairs where I knew Maggie would be.

  As I got closer to the far wall, I could see that the back door of the building was still closed. It seemed secure.

  There was only one other way anyone could have gained access to the pub, and that was through the cellar doors, and then up through the trapdoor behind the bar.

  I took a quick look-see.

  The trap was open.

  There was a bump from above and a muffled cry. I strode to the doorway that led to the stairs. The moment I reached the bottom step, a man appeared on the landing above. He held Maggie in front of him, using her as a human shield. She had tape around her mouth and her hands were bound with the same material. Her eyes were wild with terror. They searched mine, pleading for help, and I felt my stomach turn.

  This is all my doing. I brought these men here to your home.

  The man, a tall gangly Arab, was holding a large calibre handgun. His eyes were cold, his mouth turned in a permanent sneer. The guy raised his weapon to fire and I ducked away just as the round splintered the wooden doorframe to my left.

  As I squatted down behind the safety of the doorframe, I heard the sound of shuffling feet from above. Maggie was struggling with her attacker, trying to kick out at the bigger, stronger man. Then there was another bump as a heavy weight fell against the wall on the landing.

  He’d stumbled.

  I took my opportunity and spun back into the open doorway. Maggie was twisting her body desperate to free herself. Her lanky lean attacker gripping her tight and cursing her in his native tongue.

  I put a round in the guy’s left ankle and he let go instantly, screaming in pain. Maggie twisted herself free and the Arab tumbled down the steps towards me, head first, hands flailing, looking to grab at anything to stop his decent.

  I shot him in the back of his head and he slithered to a silent halt.

  I gestured for Maggie to join me at the bottom, but she was frozen with fear. She shook her head and slid down the wall, trembling uncontrollably, unable to move, transfixed by the dead body at the bottom of her stairs.

  I had to go and get her.

  I’d reached halfway, when an unseen voice came from above me. He was somewhere off to my right, Maggie’s left. Probably just out of sight, up the final two steps that led to the pubs living quarters.

  “That is far enough, Mr Cogan,” said the man in a heavily accented American drawl. “One more step and I will shoot the woman.”

  I did as I was told.

  Maggie was crying, her attention drawn away from the dead man, she seemed unable to tear her eyes away from the direction of the voice. Tears poured down her cheeks. Then I heard footsteps, this time behind me and the cold barrel of an AK47 was pushed behind my ear.

  “Drop it,” said the second man.

  I lost the Glock.

  The moment it dropped to the floor. The owner of the unseen voice appeared on the landing.

  Siddique Al-Mufti was dressed in his trademark suit. Hair pulled back in a greasy ponytail. His eyes shining lifelessly black in the half light. He pointed an MP5K one handed and eyed me quizzically.

  “You know the English saying, Mr Cogan? There is no fool like an old fool? This is you, is it not? I knew that you would play the hero. I knew that you would come running for this woman. A worthless infidel woman at that.”

  I turned down my mouth. “You seem to know a lot about me. Why don’t you answer that one?”

  “Indeed, I know many things about you, Scottish man. I’ve known all about the Special Air Service since being a small child. But only recently did my Father and I discover the names of the troopers that tried so hard to kill our family all those years ago. It was you, Mr Cogan, wasn’t it? You and your friend Richard Fuller. It was you who tried to murder us all in our beds. Twenty years… How time flies, don’t you think? And now, you come to try and kill me a second time.”

  He widened his eyes, and I considered the boy was either high as a kite or completely barking. “What a fascinating coincidence, isn’t it, Desmond.”

  Siddique made a gesture to the guy behind me, who expertly bound my wrists behind my back. He used thin plastic covered line that cut into my skin and I felt my hands start to numb instantly. Whoever had tied me was quickly joined by a third face.

  He grabbed my hair and pulled back my head, so his boss could leer at my coupon.

  Al-Mufti smiled and gripped Maggie by the arm. He pulled her to her feet and shoved her down the stairs towards me. She managed to stay upright and fell against my chest. She sobbed quietly.

  The Arab waved his MP5. “And now, Mr Cogan, let’s sit together and talk about old times.” He glanced at a gold watch on his wrist. “Our transport won’t be too long, and then we shall all go for a ride into the country.”

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  The fact that Mason Carver had been turned was an issue. Just as frustrating was the fact that Mitch had been unable to obtain his last known address from official channels. Apparently, the CIA, FBI and various other US agencies, don’t like each other too much and they all gave him the run around.

  In the end, I rang Cartwright, and other than his irritation at being roused from his bed after midnight, the old codger was neither surprised nor concerned by our revelations. Thankfully, it appeared the British Secret Service kept a better eye on American spies residing in their country.

  We had Carver’s address.

  The CIA man had a top floor penthouse in a newish thirty storey block in Piccadilly.

  It took us less than ten minutes to reach the gaff from the lock-up.

  Lauren worked the concierge, who was so impressed with her cleavage, he failed to notice two big angry blokes at the lift doors.

  The top floor housed just two massive penthouses. I was quite impressed.

  Lauren and I stood out of sight as Mitch knocked and waited. Music was playing from inside the apartment. We were in luck.

  Finally, the door was opened, but not by our man. A pale willowy girl, dressed in nothing but one of Carver’s shirts and a pair of cheap stilettos stood at the door waving a twenty pound note.

  She gave Mitch the once over, then looked either side of him.

  “Where is it?”

  The ever polite American looked puzzled. “Ma’am?”

  The girl pouted. “The takeaway stupid. I mean, come on, it’s been an hour. I rang just before and they said you were here already.”

  Lauren had obviously heard enough. She twisted her body into the doorway, grabbed the glowering girl by the hair and marched her down the hallway.

  “Hey! Come on,” she shouted. “Don’t damage the goods here.”

  I pulled my Sig but kept it behind my back.

  I didn’t want to terrify the kid, but finding myself up close and personal with Carver, holding nothing but a pizza menu in my hand was not an option, either.

  We needn’t have worried. Carver was going nowhere.

  The Secret Service man was firmly tied to his four poster bed, naked but a Red Sox baseball cap.

  Lauren released the hired help. She flounced onto a nearby chair and glared at Carver. “I hope this means I still get my two hundred?”

  In the light of the bedroom, I realised just how very young she was. “Get dressed,” I said. “And if you earn two hundred an hour for this shit, you could at least buy decent shoes.”

  She pulled a face, found some clothes and disappeared into the lounge. A minute later, we heard th
e front door slam and she was gone.

  Lauren stood at the side of Carver’s bed, head cocked, hands on hips. “What food did you order?” she asked.

  Carver was red faced. “What is this? What are you fools doing in my house? Just fucking untie me…Now!”

  Lauren tested one of his bonds for sturdiness. “I kind of like you where you are, Carver. All trussed up like a steer at the rodeo…come on, indulge me. What on God’s green earth were you going to eat whilst tied to your bed? Especially with your daughter for company. How old was she? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

  He turned his head away in embarrassment. “She was of age, that is all that concerns you.” He turned back, glowering with rage. “And it was ice cream. Okay, happy now? Fucking ice cream.”

  Right on cue there was a knock at the door.

  Lauren smiled. “That must be your order… Mitch, get that for me, will you? Oh, and bring me a sharp knife from the kitchen, please.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  Moments later, the American walked back into the bedroom with a large bladed carver and a bag full of Italian ice cream.

  Lauren took the knife and tested the blade for weight. “Thank you, Mitch…help yourselves to gelato boys. Mason won’t mind, will you, Mason?”

  “You’re finished for this,” bawled Carver. “All of you… particularly you, Collins, you’ll never be able to set foot in Quantico again.”

  Lauren produced a copy of the photograph Larry had given her in The Ostrich, and held it in front of Carver’s face.

  “Remember this guy?” she asked. “His name is Siddique Al-Mufti.”

  “Fuck you,” spat Carver. “Is that what this is about? What do you think that picture proves?

  You have no idea what you are dealing with here, or how the intelligence agencies work.”

  She folded the picture, handed it to Mitch, and began tracing the tip of the knife down Carver’s chest, towards his groin.

  Lauren kept her voice level. “Mason, you know, just a few short weeks ago, Mr Fuller here cut off a man’s testicles because he wouldn’t be truthful. Unfortunately, he died of shock minutes later.” She gave him her best beaming smile. “I’d hope to keep you alive a while longer…me being a nurse and all.”

  Carver sneered.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are? You really believe you can slice up a senior CIA agent, right here in the UK. The fallout between our agencies would go on for years. Dream on fool…go on, start cutting. See where it gets you.”

  Mitch squared his shoulders.

  “I feel you owe us an explanation, Sir. You have been filmed meeting with Siddique Al-Mufti, our prime suspect in the Blackman murder case. Also, just hours after this recorded meeting, Al-Mufti’s men were given easy access to the Midland Hotel, where an attempt on Senator JE Blackman’s life took place.”

  Mitch stepped towards the bed, and for the first time, I considered how difficult he would be to stop if he decided to slot Carver before we got him to talk.

  “You were in charge of security that day, Sir, were you not?”

  Carver pulled at his ties. “Fuck you, Collins. You can’t prove a thing.”

  Mitch’s mood turned dark. He slipped his Magnum from its holster and curled his lip. His calm and collected tone wavering with anger.

  “Good men lost their lives that day, Sir. Good, God fearing Americans. Men with wives and children back home.”

  Carver finally seemed to realise the danger he was in, stopped struggling, took a breath and tried another tack.

  “Look, Mitch, you know me. We go back a long way. Remember Iraq, huh? Are you going to believe these mercenaries over me? These fucking limey bastards will work for anyone. Why do you think Blackman chose them? The only reason they are here is the million bucks on the table. I’m telling you, Mitch, there are bigger forces at work here than you know. Forces that want to make our country stronger. Now, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, okay. You made a mistake, you picked the wrong team. Just untie me and I can explain everything.”

  Mitch leaned over. “Where is Siddique Al-Mufti, Mr Carver?”

  Carver shook his head. “Come on, Collins. Remember who you are. You’re a US Marine, trained to follow the chain of command. It isn’t your place to interfere in these things. This is just too big for you. Now untie me… that’s an order.”

  Mitch pointed the Magnum. “I’m a reasonable man, Mr Carver. I don’t hold with torture of any kind; therefore, I will not sit by and watch Ms North remove any part of your anatomy.

  He cocked the Magnum. “However, I will blow your head off… I’ll ask you once more, Sir. Where is Siddique Al-Mufti?”

  “Fuck you,” screamed Carver. “You wouldn’t dare, Marine.”

  He thrashed against his ties once more, his face knotted in rage, twisting one way then another, eyes wild. We watched him struggle in vain, until eventually he fell back, exhausted, bathed in sweat and breathing hard.

  He looked straight at me, wild eyed.

  “Fuller, you need to listen to me. They call Siddique Al-Mufti, ‘The Dragon.’ You know why? He has no remorse. When it comes to inflicting pain, he even outstrips his father. He enjoys it, lives for it. The man is pure evil. Believe me, he will devour you all. Let me go, Fuller. Walk away from this while you still can.”

  Carver’s eyes widened even further. “Walk away, Fuller, because it’s you Al-Mufti wants my friend. Even more than Kulenović wants JE Blackman. Didn’t you know? Oh yeah. He hates you so bad for what you did. He’s been waiting to take his revenge on you for twenty years.”

  A manic laugh escaped from Carver’s mouth. “A million dollars, eh? Blackman is paying you a measly million dollars to save his political skin, to keep his image whiter than white… Chicken feed… a pittance.”

  The CIA man sneered. “The moment Abdallah Al-Mufti discovered it was you that Blackman had employed, Fuller…well, money became no object. A million dollars became a mere drop in the ocean.”

  The bastard was actually smiling.

  “It was all so easy. That fool Cartwright gave me full access to your files. All the way back to your thirteenth birthday. I know more about you than your poor dead mother. It was all in there. The whole story of how you fucked up the Libyan operation and lost one of your team. What was his name now…Freddy?”

  “Frankie,” I said quietly.

  “Yeah, that was it. Frankie Green. Wife and three kids, I believe. Shame that. Must have been tough giving them the bad news, eh? But then again, you are used to bad news aren’t you, Fuller? It follows you around like a bad smell.”

  I felt my temper getting the better of me. “So, you sold us out to a terrorist. You treacherous piece of shit.”

  Carver snorted his derision. “Money talks in any language, Fuller. You know that, only too well.”

  I slid the safety off my Sig. “You gave us to Yunfakh…took their money. You went cap in hand to Abdallah Al- Mufti and betrayed your country in the process.”

  Carver scoffed.

  “It was a very rewarding conversation, Fuller. And now the cat is out of the bag, well…Al-Mufti won’t stop until you’re dead. Preferably, nailed to a cross, like that little fag Todd Blackman. You… and anyone associated with you.”

  He turned to Lauren. “Shame about that honey. I always was a sucker for a brunette.”

  Lauren’s grip tightened on her knife. Carver was very close to losing his manhood.

  Somehow, he didn’t seem too concerned.

  “Don’t be a silly girl, Ms North. Killing me won’t do you any good. You see, you need me. I’m the only one who can help you now.”

  The CIA man’s tone became conciliatory, conspiratorial.

  “Listen. This is over… for all of you. You can’t win this one. It’s a job too far. No one can stop Yunfakh from growing. They’ve already ov
ertaken the Sicilians. Even the Russians and those Albanian fuckers are on the ropes. No one can stop Kulenović from becoming the most powerful man in America. So, what’s it to be, Fuller? Kill me right here? Or make a deal? A once in a lifetime opportunity. Cut these ropes and cut your losses. Walk away. Turn your back on this investigation and I’ll pay you your million, in cash, anywhere in the world you desire. I’m telling you, Fuller, if you stay here and keep this inquiry going, you’re all dead.”

  I shrugged. “We all appear to be breathing, Carver.”

  He nodded. “For now, you are, but I think you’ll find, it’s already too late for your Scottish friend Cogan. Take the offer, Fuller. Take the million and run. Run for your life.”

  Without warning, Mitch snatched the pillow from under Carver’s head and held it over his face with his massive hand. Carver began his thrashing again, pleading this time, begging for his life. But it was no use to him. The immensely powerful American Marine pushed the muzzle of his Magnum into the pillow and held it there a moment. He looked at me briefly. I thought I saw a flash of genuine hatred in his eyes.

  “Traitor,” he said, and pulled the trigger.

  Lauren looked on as the white pillow flowered with crimson. “We need to find Des,” she said. “And fast.”

  I nodded. “It would help if we knew where he was.”

  “I know,” said Mitch holstering his gun. “So, I’ll drive.”

  Lauren North’s Story:

  Google maps will tell you that Piccadilly to Ancoats by car, is a nine minute drive. Not with Mitch driving my Audi RS6, it isn’t.

  He manoeuvred the car expertly along the narrow streets, and four and a half minutes later, we rolled up outside The Prince O’ Wales.

  The pub was in darkness, the front door lying open. Two of the windows had been recently boarded and broken glass glistened on the pavement.

  Mitch killed the engine. We jumped out and approached the pub doorway.

  Rick stopped in his tracks.

  “He’s not here,” he said.