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

by Robert White

  It made you look a proper twat, like you were carrying a kid’s plastic ray gun, but Rick said he’d tried it before and it worked.

  Who was I to argue?

  Unsurprisingly, JJ had found himself a knife to play with. A WWII double-edged knuckle-handled trench knife, to be precise. It was a beast of a thing, about the size of a British Army issue bayonet that was held by a handle-cum-knuckle-duster type arrangement. He’d spent most of the last couple of days sharpening the fucking thing.

  Just looking at it made me wince.

  As Rick was determined to keep the Swiss carbine in reserve for our assault on Goldsmith’s place, I was left with a shotgun…which I wasn’t allowed to use.

  Happy days.

  Once the boat was out of the shallows I dropped the motor into the Ionian and tried to start it. The ancient Yamaha coughed and spluttered before rattling along like an old steam train. Within ten minutes, all ambient light had gone.

  I was so dark, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. JJ pulled on the night vision binos he and Lauren had sourced in Acharavi and directed us toward our landing point by tapping the port or starboard side of the boat indicating that I should edge left or right.

  Forty silent minutes later, I killed the motor and let the little craft coast to a tiny shingle bay.

  We were in Albania unscathed and undetected.

  Taking great care, we dragged the old tourist rental boat from the water, and took even greater care with the ancient Jap engine. After all, it wouldn’t be good to damage the prop and find we had to swim back eh?

  This time we covered the craft completely with the blankets and added a few bits of driftwood to complete the picture. Our feeble attempt at camouflage wouldn’t pass any proper scrutiny, but anyone offering a casual glance from the top of the ridge above, or a passing patrol boat in the channel, probably wouldn’t notice her.

  We each pulled on our makeshift body armour and checked each other over for loose kit. It was down to JJ and me to carry the Bergans as Rick and Lauren were still trying to gain full fitness. Finally we donned our balaclavas, which were thankfully lightweight cotton and not the Scottish woolly variety, and commenced the ascent of the rocky outcrop that led to the road.

  Once on level ground, we began our tab to Bregas. Rick had meticulously planned the route, ensuring it took us away from populated areas and main roads. This meant fifteen kilometres over rough terrain to achieve ten by road. Rough was one thing, but our Rick hadn’t counted on the locals’ obvious love of a good drainage ditch.

  Now I wasn’t too clued up on the Albanian year-round weather, but, believe me, one thing was for certain, if it rained, the bastards were prepared. After 5k, I began to feel like I was on some kindae fuckin’ rollercoaster.

  Add to the fact, that it had been a while since I’d done any real tabbing and, I’ll tell you straight, I was blowing out of my arse after 10k no bother.

  Blowing or not, as the home of Arjan Bajrami came into sight the time was 0152hrs, and we were eight minutes ahead of schedule.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Bajrami’s house was a single-storey block and render job, very similar to many Greek houses we had seen on Corfu. However, this one had bars on the windows, as opposed to nicely painted shutters. Thankfully, the metal grill to secure the front door was ajar. Maybe the boy had visitors?

  Either way, the whole look of the gaff was more reminiscent of the Anson Estate in Manchester, rather than Arillas’ shabby-chic. To add to the British industrial revolutionary feel, it had an outside toilet.

  The property was set on a large plot, of maybe 1000 square meters. The white face (front), comprised of a wooden entrance door with small windows either side, black face (rear) had a patio-style slider, whereas red sported one small window, too small for a man to exit from, and green, no access at all.

  The outdoor loo was adjacent to green face so could be covered from black.

  What we had identified as a garage from the aerial shots, was no more than a roof on stilts that shaded a very shiny Mitsubishi L200 Animal pickup, from the heat of the sun.

  Bajrami the unfortunate didn’t buy that from the profits off his two goats and six chickens.

  JJ, Des and I used his near-new truck as cover for a brief LUP (lying up point) as it gave us a safe place to give one final brief, and had a decent view of the property. I have to admit, we didn’t have much of a plan, but sometimes a wing and a prayer was as good as anything else you might have in your pocket.

  The secret to this little escapade was going to be aggression, and we had that in spades.

  Lauren would cover black face, and the outside shitter, in case we lost a player. Her sole task was to slot anyone who managed to make it out of the patio doors.

  To keep our presence a secret, she would have to get in close and use the plastic bottle suppressor, but after O’Donnell and Belfast, I had every faith in her.

  Our intel was that we had two males in the house, Arjan and his unnamed cousin. As far as we knew they would be armed and most definitely dangerous.

  So, just how would you coax an Albanian out of his house at two in the morning?

  Send a Turk to knock on the fucking door of course.

  Lauren North’s Story:

  I left the boys talking tactics at the L200 and made my way to the rear of the house. I needed some cover to sort myself out, and surprise, surprise, not ten feet from the back door was a drainage ditch. My legs were so pleased to see another one, they burst into a cramp spasm the second I slid down the bank and hit the bottom.

  Much to my disbelief, this one had water in the bottom that smelled so vile I almost threw my breakfast.

  Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it did give me a clear view of the rear patio door and the outside loo from a position of relative safety.

  I did my best to ignore the stench, and stretched my aching muscles.

  Rooting in my combats, I found a ration pack that would replace the salts I needed. Ripping open the packet, I squeezed the contents into my mouth. It didn’t taste too good, but was nowhere near as revolting as the shin deep, slimy water I found myself in. There was no doubting the outdoor toilet that served Bajrami’s house had a connection to my ditch somewhere along the line.

  Not content with ensuring I was wading in ten inches of shit, the Lord in heaven had sent my favourite creatures to join me in my venture.

  Rats.

  Dozens scuttled around my legs in the darkness, slashing about in the fetid water.

  I’d pushed the empty ration sachet back into my combats; after all, it wouldn’t have been prudent to leave litter in Mr Bajrami’s garden, or indeed any evidence of our presence. Trouble was, the odour from the packet, must have smelled like a full-on Sunday dinner to Mr Ratty and his pals. Within seconds, one fat brown lump of vermin decided he was going to retrieve it, ripping at my trousers with his razor-sharp teeth.

  I desperately wanted to check over my comms and weapon before taking up my position, but the thought of being bitten by a rat that lived in that stinking cesspit made up my mind for me, and I clambered out, quick sharp.

  Seconds later, I stood with my back to Bajrami’s rear wall shaking with revulsion. I pulled out the Walther, and gave it the once-over. The magazine would usually hold eight 9mm rounds and one in the chamber, but we were terribly short of ammunition. I had just five ancient shots to my name.

  The Walther indicated a chambered round with the presence of a small pin that jutted out, just above the trigger, but with little light I needed to make sure, so I slid back the action and physically checked that the WWII bullet was actually there. Belt and braces and all that.

  Then, pulling my home-made silencer kit from my pocket, I pushed the plastic device over the barrel and used a small roll of insulating tape to secure it.

  After firing up my comms I connected my earpiece, and was delighted to hear the relevant clicks to confirm we were all in position and ready to go.

>   I felt much better.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  I’d been first out from behind the L200, keeping low and using the garden’s many bushes for cover. I reached the furthest away of the two small windows that sat either side of the front door, and knelt below it. Pulling the P08 from my combats, I checked it and fitted the plastic silencer. Seconds later Des was in the kneel, under his window. He held one of the single-barrel sawn-offs the Greeks had given us, toward the door, but I knew he was more likely to use it as a club than pull the trigger. If that baby went bang, the neighbours would be on our backs in seconds, and the shit would really hit the fan.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, but as JJ appeared from behind the Mitsubishi I saw that he had removed his body-armour and balaclava. The Turk casually wandered out of cover wearing his black T-shirt, combats and a big grin. He stood calmly at the door, and I shook my head in disbelief when he ran his fingers through his hair as if he was about to meet his date for the evening. At least when the bloke looked through the spyhole, JJ would look the part. However, the big difference was this late-night visitor was an angry Turk with a big fucking knife strapped to his thigh and he wasn’t there to get a kiss goodnight.

  Some kind of Russian or Balkan gangster rap tune rumbled from inside the house and there was the faintest smell of cannabis in the air.

  Nothing changes wherever you are, eh?

  JJ looked at me and gave the faintest nod, we all gave a single click on our comms and waited for Lauren to do the same, confirming she was in position.

  The Turk wasted no time and hammered on the door with his fist.

  We waited…nothing…JJ tried again, this time he shouted, “zgjoheni ju derra yndyrë.”

  He later told me this roughly translated as, ‘come out, you fat pigs.’ I’m not sure about that, but it definitely did the trick.

  There was the scraping of chairs, raised angry voices and the door was almost ripped off its hinges by an angry-looking bloke with a very shiny Tasco 7ET9 sub-machine gun in his hand.

  It was similar in size to the Israeli-made Uzi, and I’d only ever seen a picture of the Ukrainian-built weapon. Allegedly it was notoriously unreliable. However, I had no desire to find out if this one was in full working order.

  JJ was in like a flash. I’d never seen such lightning speed and technical brilliance hand to hand. Elbows out, he twisted his torso, as you and I would do to stretch before exercise. But as his body pivoted, he allowed his left arm to loosen, drop backward toward his thigh, and locate the scabbard that held his knife.

  His right arm, however, had stayed in the horizontal. As he rotated his body back to centre he grabbed the underside of the boy’s Tasco. The speed and energy of this movement pushed the machinegun upward and toward the face of his opponent preventing him firing. In perfect concert, his left hand flashed forward, and with the grace of a fencer’s riposte, JJ plunged the razor-sharp blade into the boy’s throat.

  The Albanian made a funny gurgling noise as his legs gave way. The Turk let his blade slip from the boy, stripped the Tasco from his grasp and threw it to a grateful Des.

  The second JJ stepped back I was through the door, with the Scot at my shoulder.

  Just like old times.

  Lauren North’s Story:

  I heard the entry, the unmistakable sound of conflict, and a body fall. Raising the Walther I set myself and waited for the patio door to slide open and for my target emerge. The kill would be as simple as a single step forward, safety off, and pull the trigger.

  A single muffled gunshot reverberated from inside the house. I figured that it had come from Rick’s Luger, and our second guy would be accounted for. Ten seconds later, my comms burst to life and I heard Des give the all clear. Someone with taste turned off Bajrami’s music, and the night was instantly silent.

  Feeling my body relax, I started to tear at the tape from the muzzle of my Walther, so I could remove the bottle top silencer and slip the weapon back in my belt.

  I was impressed. Rick’s idea had worked. I mean, you could hear his shot from the garden, but it wasn’t loud enough to wake the neighbours or anything.

  It was, however, loud enough to be heard by the guy who’d been sitting in the dark on the outdoor bog all the time.

  It was a fucking schoolboy error. I’d had the time to clear the outdoor loo. So why didn’t I? It was an obvious thing to do…so bloody obvious, I’d missed it.

  The guy had sprinted toward me in the darkness, and by the time I knew he was there, it was way too late.

  He smashed my body against the wall, knocking the wind from me.

  Gripping tight onto my useless, now un-silenced Walther, I attempted to twist away. I did my best to use my elbows and knees, hoping to catch his chin or groin, but he was too strong, too quick. He cuffed me up the side of my head with a massive hand, rocking my senses and sending bright sparkles into my sightline. In the same movement he pulled off my balaclava, and for the briefest moment, he inspected me.

  The guy was a brute, well over six feet, huge shoulders and arms. With a vice-like grip, he held me against the wall by my throat, cutting off the blood to my brain. He fumbled around with his other, trying to grab my pistol as I did my best to keep it from his grasp. I knew that within seconds I would be unconscious and this guy would not be concerned about waking the locals. On the contrary, he would gleefully empty the Walther into me, as if he’d come across a rabid dog in his yard.

  Once again, I tried to fight him, but he just batted my efforts away like a grown man would a child.

  He finally gripped the barrel of my pistol and gave me a sickening smile as he now had total control.

  To my surprise, he momentarily slackened his hold on my neck, deliberately keeping me conscious. He leaned in close, and his lips touched my ear as he whispered to me in harsh rasping Albanian. I could smell his sour breath.

  Sweat poured down his face, he sounded measured; yet there was a hint of panic in there. His eyes bulged as he waited for an answer, I had none of course, I didn’t understand.

  He squeezed my neck again and said in English, “How many are you?”

  I considered his red round face; despite his size, fear filled his eyes, fear of the unknown and the identity of his attackers. My guts churned, but I was never going to show my own anxiety. I’d seen and been through too much for that.

  I didn’t know any Albanian, but I knew that he would understand one Greek word.

  I eyeballed him and managed a grin.

  “Enough to kill you, malaka,” I said.

  The guy flew into a rage, drew back a huge fist, and went to punch me full in the face. This was, as they say in the north, shit or bust time.

  I had just enough movement, just enough strength and the last of my wits to tear my head to the left. His blow glanced my cheek, simultaneously sending spikes of pain upward toward my eye and down into my teeth, rattling my already dulled senses.

  However, big boy had punched more concrete wall than Yorkshire lass. The pain in his hand must have been horrendous. So much so, he released his grip on my throat.

  You need space to fight anyone. Being pinned against a wall by man-mountain was not conducive to a fair contest.

  I took my chance.

  Slipping to my right, I had some clean air in which to move, and miraculously still held the Walther. With his good hand, the brute swung another haymaker in my direction, but this time I was easily able to avoid it and he was instantly off balance.

  I knew I wouldn’t have enough weight or power in my upper body to cause any real damage to such a heavy guy.

  I would have to use my most powerful muscle group.

  Lifting my right knee to my chest, I powered my foot downward toward the Albanian’s knee joint.

  This was a one-time opportunity. The move needed accuracy, speed and power to work. Miss my target, and I would simply fall into the arms of my opponent in a heap.

  I drove down my boot with everything I had, fo
llowing in with my upper body so that all my weight and kinetic power would be concentrated on my target, the inside of the knee.

  I connected.

  Because your opponent’s standing foot is planted, the sheer power of this blow opens the joint, tearing the anterior, medial and lateral ligaments away from the femur and fibular. I’d seen footballers with minor tears of one ligament, but nothing to compare with the devastating damage this move inflicts.

  The guy collapsed in a heap.

  I knew I only had the time it would take him to draw breath before he would start screaming in agony.

  Stepping in, I kicked him in the temple with everything I had.

  He lay on his back blowing hard, eyes open but barely conscious.

  I walked over to the L200 and found a grubby roll-up sleeping bag tossed in the back, ideal for my needs, then returned to the boy.

  He was moaning quietly, beginning to come around. Kneeling next to him, I pushed the barrel of the Walther into his mouth, covered his face with the sleeper, and pulled the trigger.

  A dog barked somewhere in the distance then, for a second time that night, all was quiet.

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  The entry had gone as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

  JJ had dropped the boy at the door with a move fuckin’ Bruce Lee would have been proud of. Rick had taken the point and I dropped in behind. A nice short hallway with no doors either side, opened up into one large room.

  Standing next to a large wooden table adorned with more drugs than you could shake a stick at, was a very stoned player, waving a Desert Eagle around in no particular direction.