THE FALL: SAS hero turn Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 3)

by Robert White

  “You can kiss and make up another day,” I said. “We need to get a seat with a clear view of the carpark.”

  Lauren gestured toward a circular Formica-topped table and two, once comfortable, chairs available against the window.

  I parked my glass and checked the view. “Perfect,” I said with a smile. “And you thought this job was going to be shit, didn’t you?”

  Lauren North’s Story:

  We’d been sitting less than ten minutes.

  “I need the loo,” I said, knees trembling.

  Our table shook with me. Our drinks shuddered in concert.

  “You okay?” asked Des, knowing the answer.

  I nodded unconvincingly.

  “Has the doc got you on anything?” he prodded.

  I shrugged. “Stopped taking it.”

  Des took a breath. “When?”

  Another shrug. “Today.”

  He took a sip from his pint and tipped his head to one side. “Good move.”

  “I know…look…whatever…I still need the loo, and the Andrews sisters over there are going to follow me into the Ladies, sure as eggs are eggs.”

  Des gave the two feral females a cursory. “Don’t make a mess,” he said casually. “Leave your bag, just take the ASP, and don’t be too long in case our body turns up.”

  Realising that I wasn’t going to get any special treatment did me good. I think if Des had tried to protect me in any way, I would have folded there and then.

  Even so, my confidence wasn’t quite strong enough to stop my stomach doing a flip as I slipped my hand in my bag, gripped the baton and pushed it up the sleeve of my Levi jacket.

  The ASP is a weapon regularly used by the police, particularly support groups. They are the guys and girls you see on the TV wearing NATO helmets, looking like Robocop, smashing down doors in drug raids.

  When collapsed, the ASP is not much longer than a pencil. Imagine the old-fashioned car aerial pushed down to its smallest size and you aren’t far away. The difference being that, with a flick of the wrist, the ASP extends and locks itself into a solid tungsten bar capable of breaking bones.

  I strode to the toilets, with half an eye on the two sweethearts that were checking my Italian Loriblu sneakers, I’d recently bought them from Forzieri, a very nice Italian designer Rick had introduced me to. It was my own fault. I should’ve stuck with my Adidas trainers rather than a £600 pair of fur cuffed numbers, but it was too late for that.

  I opened the loo door, to be assaulted by the smell of ammonia. The once white tiled floor was wet with goodness knows what; the walls were covered in foul graffiti.

  To my horror, the two toilet cubicles had no doors.

  It was just as I was coming to terms with the lack of privacy whilst taking ablutions, that I was joined by the first of the two shoe admirers.

  She was tall, maybe five ten…well over six feet in her killer heels. Her peroxide white blonde hair with the inevitable dark roots was cut to shoulder length. Good figure, lots of makeup.

  Without a second thought, she pulled down her jeans and knickers and sat to pee in the open cubical.

  I did my best not to stare.

  “They took ’em off a few months back,” said the blonde. “The doors like.”

  She pulled tissue from the roll, wiped herself and stood revealing, well, just about everything she had.

  “Knob heads were shooting up inside,” she said as she restored her modesty. “That or doing lines, or shagging. So Frankie, he’s the landlord like, unscrewed ’em and took ’em away.”

  I did my best to push the images of the locals’ drug-addled romps from my mind.

  Despite it all, I still needed the loo, so bit the bullet, stepped into the next cubical, wiped the seat and went about my business.

  Seemingly unfazed by the fact that I was half naked, the blonde stood at the opening and continued her conversation.

  It was exactly how I’d expected it to go.

  “Not seen you before,” she started.

  I wanted to tell her to go away in short sharp jerky movements whilst I did what should be done in private. Instead, I played on my Leeds accent.

  “No, my other half has been looking at a car around the corner, so we just nipped in for a swift drink. We’ll be off after this one.”

  I buttoned my jeans and felt slightly less vulnerable.

  “Nice shoes,” she said.

  I went about washing my hands. “Thanks,” I said. “Got them off the market in Leeds, only fifteen quid they were.”

  The girl turned down the corners of her mouth. “They look dear to me, don’t look like snide.”

  I knew, that no matter what I said or the way I said it, the conversation was designed for one thing only, to start a quarrel, to begin the process of showing who was boss, whose turf it was.

  To be honest, despite my earlier nerves I wasn’t scared, I was more concerned that this sideshow could spoil our other plans.

  Right on cue, the loo door opened, and in walked blondie’s mate. She was shorter, heavier, black leggings, boots, big boobs.

  I made to leave but both women blocked my exit. The blonde stood slightly to my right, her mate got in close and eyeballed me like a boxer before the bell rings.

  “I reckon she’s a copper, Kylie. What you reckon?” said Boobs.

  “Might just be right there, girlfriend,” added the blonde in a stupid American accent.

  There was no point in attempting to reason with people who were plain fucking stupid.

  With my left hand, I grabbed the heavier girl by the larynx, my thumb and forefinger digging in hard. I knew she wouldn’t be able to breathe and her natural reaction would be to try and prise my hand from her throat. Despite my recuperation from injury, I was still way too strong for her. As I held tight with my left, I let my right arm drop and the ASP slid into my palm. With a flick of my wrist, the kinetic energy needed extended the baton in a split second.

  I gave blondie a swift crack on her collarbone, not hard enough to break it, but enough to cause considerable pain. She fell backwards, clutching her shoulder, cracking her head on the wall on her way downward to the pee-covered floor.

  Boobs was gasping for breath. She’d gone a funny colour and her legs were beginning to give way. I increased the pressure on her throat and guided her down to sit beside her mate who was checking the back of her head for blood.

  Both looked up at me with a mixture of fear and bewilderment.

  I prodded each of them in turn with the ASP.

  “Listen, you two fuckwits, me and my man are here to do some business with Jimmy London. You heard of him?”

  Boobs nodded furiously. “Jimmy, yeah, course, everyone knows Jimmy…why didn’t you say? I mean…”

  I cut her off.

  “And I mean, it’s none of your fucking business eh?”

  Both women looked at each other and then at me.

  “No,” they said forlornly.

  I touched each on the mouth with the cold steel of the ASP. “So, when you go back to the bar, you keep them shut…Okay?”

  More nodding.

  I smacked the tip of the ASP hard on the counter to collapse it. Pushed the weapon up my sleeve, checked my lipstick, and went back to my beer feeling much better.

  Des watched me walk to the table. He was checking me over.

  “You look pleased with yersel,” he said, before drinking the last of his pint.

  As I was about to reply, the two shoe admirers tottered from the Ladies, looking pale.

  Des watched them find their seats and smiled. “Not lost yer touch then?”

  I picked up my Stella and put the glass to my mouth. As I felt the cold beer on my tongue, I saw a black Range Rover pull onto the car park. Black car, black alloys, black glass.

  “Jimmy’s here,” I said.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  From our position I could just make out the driver, a skinny guy, dressed in a white top with MCFC embossed in pale blu
e letters on the front. The Range Rover swung in very slowly and eventually reverse parked next to our Golf.

  From our intel, the slowcoach driver was a positive ID for Jimmy’s cousin, Kevin London. He dropped down from the driver’s seat, a small, bird-like man with a thick, black crew cut that resembled Lego-man. As I watched him stand in the carpark fumbling in baggy black trackies, the reason for his slow driving became apparent. He lit what looked like a half smoked joint, took a long drag on it and stretched himself.

  As I expected, Jimmy’s security stepped out of the passenger side. The brute of a man had a brief gander at our empty Golf. It was probably the first time in months another vehicle had been left in the vicinity and he checked it inside for bodies.

  He was indeed a big old unit. Well over six feet, and broad-shouldered with it. In some ways he reminded me of Dougie McGinnis. More muscular, but just like his psychopathic countryman, he seemed to have gained his strength from his genes, rather than a gym.

  Unlike Dougie however, this boy looked switched on.

  “So, that’s Paddy Devlin then,” said Lauren, stating the obvious.

  I gave her a look, pulled my phone from my pocket and hit Rick’s speed dial.

  Holding the phone to my ear and squinting into the half-light outside, I watched the carrot-topped bodyguard walk to the rear door of the Rover and allow his second charge into the fading light.

  Jimmy entered the fray exactly as Rick had described him, all Beatle cut and Army and Navy store catalogue. He sauntered over to Kevin, took the joint from his cousin and treated himself to a pull.

  At least that was two out of the three that would be placid.

  My eyes were drawn back to the big fella. Finally, a light came on in my thick Scottish head.

  Paddy Devlin. Of course, when Rick mentioned his name, I had it in my mind I’d heard it before, and now, peering through glass that hadn’t seen a window cleaner in months, I understood why.

  In 1997 Rick had fallen off the perch, was drinking himself to a stupor, and was taking on half of Manchester.

  Me? I’d been sent to Bosnia as part of a training and recognisance mission. There were three new guys that formed part of 22’s crew on that job, and one, was an ex-2 Para guy. A big red-haired Northern Irishman…Patrick Devlin.

  Now, ten years on there he was, holding the car door open for one of Manchester’s most infamous and dangerous criminals. His fall from grace was not surprising. Paddy had issues. His love of Queen and Country was there for all to see, and despite his name being of infamous Catholic descent, the Ulsterman’s father was actually Grand Master of an Orange Lodge. It wouldn’t have surprised any of our team out there, if Paddy wore Union Jack pyjamas to bed.

  Being someone that ‘kicked with the other foot’ so to speak, quite a rarity in the British Army I might add, I steered well clear of Mr Devlin on my travels.

  Bosnia was his first and last job with the Regiment. There were lots of hard men in the Army, they lived with violence all their lives, yet they were trained to control their aggression. Paddy had slipped the net when it came to selection. There was no doubting his physical abilities, or indeed his bravery. The problem with Paddy was, he enjoyed inflicting pain and relished firing that final round that ended life.

  He was a dangerous combination, capability without credibility.

  For what it was worth, Lauren and I had worked a little plan between us. She would take control of Paddy and Kevin, much like the cops would. Keep a safe distance, hold them at gunpoint, get them down on the ground, hands behind head, that kind of thing, whilst I dealt with Jimmy until the cavalry arrived.

  Of course, when the cops took on someone as dangerous and as unpredictable as our three souls, they usually had a good number of guys at their disposal and used the concept of overwhelming force to their best advantage. We, on the other hand, were only two. Had we to take down a going-to-seed ex-Para, then we had a chance.

  Controlling Paddy Devlin was going to be a whole different ball game.

  I checked the screen of my Nokia.

  Rick wasn’t answering. In fact, his phone wasn’t even ringing.

  No fucking signal.

  Didn’t I say this was a shit job?

  Lauren North’s Story:

  Didn’t I say I wanted a run through? Didn’t I say we needed checks and balances?

  I pulled my phone from my bag as I hurriedly followed Des toward the door and an uncertain future.

  One bar flickered on the screen.

  There was time for a one-word text before I pushed it back in my bag and wrapped my hand around the Colt. Saying a little prayer that the technology would do its job, I took a deep breath and walked into the night.

  I remember Jimmy and Kevin were sharing a joint and talking as they sauntered toward us.

  Rick was right about the way that Jimmy walked. Okay, it wasn’t just Jimmy, it was this Manchester vibe, or street cred, or whatever. The way his knees seemed to stick out to the side as he bounced along on the balls of his feet. To me, he looked like he’d forgotten to wipe his arse. Des was off to my left making a beeline for Jimmy, our target.

  Paddy Devlin had locked eyes on me the second my feet hit the tarmac. Yet the moment Des’s hand moved toward the small of his back, the Irishman’s lecherous gaze left me and he changed tack. He stepped in front of Jimmy, his massive frame blocking any chance of Des getting close.

  Adrenaline coursed through my body. My skin prickled with it. When they say that putting yourself in danger is like a drug they are right. The endorphins hit you so hard, it’s almost like a sexual encounter.

  The fact that Devlin was |Northern Irish only served to shatter my nerves further. McGinnis, McDonald and Findley flashed in my subconscious. I gritted my teeth and put recent history to the back of my mind. I was not going to let Des down.

  With our targets just twenty feet away, Paddy’s eyes locked on mine again. It wasn’t like I’d just left the pub and he was a bloke looking an unfamiliar female up and down, he was taking me apart with his gaze, asking the question. I wanted to avoid his eyes, to appear nonchalant, simply a customer leaving the pub on the way to her car with her partner, yet I felt he could read my thoughts, see inside my head and anticipate my every move.

  Ten feet away.

  Now or never, girl.

  I pulled the Colt from my bag, punched it forward in my right hand cupping the bottom of the grip with my left; feet apart, knees slightly bent, the classic police handgun shooting position. Not in the manual, however, was the fact that I had my finger on the trigger and the safety off.

  There was no point in following the usual cop protocol and screaming orders at the big Irishman. Firstly, it wouldn’t worry him if he thought I was a detective, and secondly, I didn’t want half the pub rushing out to his defence.

  “Hands on your head, Paddy,” I said quietly. “Don’t be a hero, big fella.”

  He sneered at me, but he knew he was too far away from me to grab my weapon, or reach for his without taking a round or two.

  He stood stock still and gave me a death stare.

  Knock yourself out, son.

  Des had drawn his own gun and was barking at Jimmy to lie on the floor. In turn, the mop-haired gangster was informing Des, in the broadest of Manchester accents, that he was a ‘dead man’ for daring to take him on in ‘his’ city. The Scot got in close and gave Jimmy a crack with the butt of his SLP for good measure.

  This seemed to quieten Jimmy momentarily, and gave Des the opportunity to grab him by the hair and stick the muzzle of his SIG in his ear.

  Jimmy was going nowhere for a minute or two.

  Kevin was rooted to the spot, shitting himself. It seemed he wasn’t so brave when his opposition wasn’t a sixteen-year-old kid with her clothes torn off.

  I kept big Paddy in my sights.

  All we needed now was Rick and JJ. Trouble was, they were nowhere to be seen.

  I couldn’t check my phone, to see if my text had sent. N
ot knowing was the worst part.

  Exactly as Des had predicted, as the seconds ticked by, both Jimmy and Paddy realised that this wasn’t a hit, but a kidnap.

  Jimmy began to scuffle, knowing Des wasn’t going to pull the trigger, his confidence growing, feeding his violence.

  I felt increasingly concerned with each passing second, and as I risked a glance toward Des, Paddy took instant advantage of my loss of concentration and lurched forward.

  He swung a massive hand toward my outstretched weapon, his connection sending it spinning from my grasp. The small silver pistol looped in the air, before clattering along the tarmac toward the gloom and clutter around the builders’ skips.

  Paddy was amazingly quick for such a big, strong man. He reversed the swing of his powerful arm, intending to hit me square in the jaw with the back of his hand.

  A year or so ago, he would’ve knocked me unconscious, but not now. I was already on the balls of my feet, and rather than do what all my instinct screamed at me to do and duck my head, I rolled my torso backward from my waist, the way a professional fighter would, taking me out of his range. Without the connection of a solid object to stop his swing, Paddy’s bodyweight propelled him to his right. For a split second, he was out of control and off balance. My hand found the ASP in my bag and I grabbed my opportunity. Shuffling in an arc, just as that same fighter might, looking for his opportunity to find a telling punch, I flicked the baton open and swung it at the Irishman’s head.

  Somehow, Paddy managed to raise a massive forearm and block the blow.

  Even so, there was a sickening crack as the tensile steel connected and he cried out in pain.

  “Fucking bitch!” he bawled as he made a grab for the ASP, attempting to pull me in close where his superior strength would tell, and easily overpower me.

  I was having none of it, I was too nimble, too quick. Any lingering fear, any doubt in my abilities, had vanished the second he’d failed to connect with his first swing.

  Now I shuffled left and forward, dropped my shoulder and took an almighty swing at the Irishman’s knee.