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

by Robert White

  I got his attention, just showing him the Tasco, and Rick put one in his temple with the 08.

  Then I’d walked two bedrooms, the kitchen and bathroom, opened my mic and gave the all clear.

  Job done.

  Rick and JJ went looking for the weapon stash, and sure enough, the Greeks had been on the money. Minutes later, Rick emerged from a bedroom dragging a wooden crate.

  “Bingo,” he said.

  Seconds later, however, a muffled gunshot came from the rear of the gaff.

  “Anyone seen Lauren?” I asked.

  In a move any game show host would have been proud of, the rear patio swished open and in she flounced, sporting a shiner and smelling like she’d bathed in a swamp.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  She strode past, ignoring me. “Is there a shower in this shithole?”

  Rick stood in the doorway open-mouthed.

  “Off to the left,” he said.

  Lauren dropped the Walther, minus Coke bottle, on the table and headed for the door. “I suggest one of you lot make yourselves useful whilst I clean up. Albania’s answer to Giant Haystacks is outside with a hole in his fuckin’ head…Think you could manage to move him before the neighbours start breakfast?”

  “You okay, Lauren?” enquired Rick.

  “Fuck you,” she spat, and slammed the bathroom door.

  JJ emerged from the second bedroom with more kit wrapped in a blanket.

  “Someone’s tired,” he said.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Leaving Lauren to clean herself up, we all walked out back. Just as she’d said, we found a guy built like a brick shithouse lying on his back, dead as the proverbial. His right leg was sticking out at an unnatural angle. Ironically, he’d been shot in the mouth, the round exiting the top of his head and burying itself in the ground.

  Des took the guy’s feet, JJ his shoulders.

  “Fuck me,” whispered the Scot, blowing out his cheeks at the effort. “He’s a big bastard…I’ll tell you something, pal, if you and that lassie do get it together, I’m not too sure who I’d back in a fight. His fuckin’ leg is half hanging off.”

  They dropped the guy out of sight in a drainage ditch that ran the length of the property. There was a splash as he hit the bottom, followed by the sound of rats scurrying and the shocking stench of untreated sewerage.

  I’d seen what rats can do to a dead body. If they didn’t find the boy in a day or two, they wouldn’t find much at all.

  Once back inside we began to take inventory of what we had in the way of weaponry. As expected, the kit was mostly Eastern Bloc.

  Inside the crate I’d pulled from one bedroom were four brand spanking new Bizon PP19 submachine guns, a weapon developed in the early 1990’s by Victor Kalashnikov, the son of Mikhail Kalashnikov, creator of the infamous AK-47.

  PP19’s were first used by the Russian FSB, a modern off-shoot of the old KGB. However, the FSB were more concerned with the fight against organised crime, drug smuggling and border security, than poisoning people with dodgy umbrellas.

  Despite being replaced in 2004 by the Vityaz-SN, the PP19 was also used extensively in combat operations against separatists in the troublesome regions of Chechnya and Dagestan. Thousands had since been illegally sold to the rebels via other friendly countries, and the weapon proved very popular with Eastern European gangsters; probably the reason our unfortunate Albanian friends purchased them.

  I was well pleased as this was a cracking little weapon, and boasted a 64 round helical feed magazine that sat beneath the barrel.

  To go with the Bizons were a hundred boxes of 9 x 18mm Makarov rounds, giving us twenty- five mags’ worth of firepower.

  We could do some serious damage with these babies.

  The pistols were decent too.

  In the same crate were eight Zastava CZ 99’s. These compact SLP’s had been made for the Yugoslavian police back in the day, and were a similar weapon to the SIG P226 and the Walther P88 Compact. With a 15-round magazine, they were a handy little gun. Again, dozens of boxes of ammunition came with them.

  When I saw what JJ had carried out of the back bedroom, I could have kissed him. He unwrapped the blanket to reveal two RMG 27 disposable rocket launchers.

  I knew from our intel, and the satellite shots the Firm had given us, that Goldsmith’s gaff was well fortified. We would have to go in hard, and once again use the early hour and tons of aggression to get inside and slot the fuckers.

  The RMG 27’s would be a godsend.

  The little launcher carries a tandem warhead. The first penetrates armour or other obstacles, in our case concrete walls or fortified doors, then the main warhead creates a fine explosive cloud that spreads into the interior through the hole, pierced by the first charge. When the cloud ignites, everything inside is either blown to bits, or incinerated. Clever eh?

  Des and JJ bundled the two dead boys into one bedroom and closed the shutters. I started loading mags at the table, as Lauren appeared. Her left eye was closing rapidly and she still looked pissed off.

  She sat down next to me, picked up an empty magazine and gave me a hand.

  I caught her gaze.

  “You did well out there, you know. He looked a proper handful.”

  She tapped a full mag on the table top.

  “I forgot to clear the loo. He was in the fuckin’ bog all the time.”

  I shrugged, “We’ve all done it, Lauren…at least you’re okay…I’d get some ice from the kitchen on that eye though.”

  She stood, shook her head, leaned over, and kissed me on the forehead.

  “I’ll see if I can get a brew on before we go.”

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  Lauren had done better than just a brew, and found bread, ham, cheese and gherkins in the kitchen. We stuffed our faces as we loaded the truck, grateful for the fuel we would need for the next battle.

  I eventually found the keys for the L200 in the pockets of the big goon in the ditch. A quick note to self…search the fuckers before chucking them into two feet of rat-infested shite.

  I washed off my boots and combats in the shower but still stank like a sewer.

  Even though the Mitsubishi was a crew-cab and could seat us all, we decided that Rick and Lauren should sit up front whilst JJ and I lay in loading area, covered by a tarpaulin.

  Lauren fashioned a makeshift headscarf to complete the look of a local man and wife on the move.

  Police patrols were a rarity the further north you travelled, but they were replaced by equally troublesome robbers and bandits.

  That said, we would all feel a little easier dealing with the latter.

  We’d fallen on our feet with the pick-up as it was full to the brim with diesel and had another hundred litres in jerry cans in the loading area. Obviously Bajrami and his boys ventured north quite a bit…understandable in their line of work.

  Tropojë was three hours away, Goldsmith’s stronghold being just ten kilometres from the Kosovan border.

  We’d already decided that if things went pear-shaped and we got separated, the trip north through Kosovo and the former Yugoslavia would be a decent alternative.

  By the time we hit the road, it was 0315hrs. First light would come in just four hours. There was no margin for error, no time for a wheel change, no time for a breakdown.

  As I tucked myself under the tarp and the L200 rolled out toward the E853 I did my best to put all negative thoughts out of my head.

  Within ten minutes, JJ was snoring.

  I must have nodded off myself, until the road surface had changed from decent tarmac motorway to rough gravel road. As we bounced along at a fair rate, I pulled myself out of cover and drank in the fresh early morning air. JJ decided to join me and we both went through the dedicated smoker’s routine of attempting a nicotine hit, whilst being bounced around in the back of a pick-up in the wind.

  Rick must have noticed the flickering lighters as we took several attempts to get our mak
ings lit. He slowed the truck slightly, wound down his window and shouted.

  “Don’t be long with those…. ETA twenty minutes.”

  I checked my watch, it read 0550hrs. Again, we were ahead of schedule. “Two minutes, pal,” I shouted back.

  Rick was as good as his word and fifteen minutes later, just two kilometres from our target, he killed the lights on the L200 and slowed to a crawl.

  In typical Albanian fashion, deep ditches ran either side us. This was not the time to test the Mitsubishi’s off-road capabilities or get covered in shite again so, with virtually no ambient light, Rick was forced to pull on our solitary pair of night vision goggles to finish the journey.

  Ten minutes later, he swung our transport into a cutting in the treeline and killed the engine. We stepped out and stretched ourselves, like a family on a motorway services after a long run. Then, standing in a circle in near total darkness, we pulled on our balaclavas and makeshift armour. The vests JJ had fashioned had enough pockets for extra ammunition, and we all stuffed 16-round boxes of 9 x 18mm Makarov into them, to feed the hungry Bizon PP19’s. The weapon itself had come complete with a sling which enabled the little gun to be carried in several ways. I preferred mine to be strapped to my back whilst tabbing. It was a split-second of a job to release it and have the weapon operational. But, if I found myself in the shit, I had two CZ99’s in my belt as back-up.

  JJ carried his the same, but he had the additional baggage of the Karabiner carbine and that fuckin’ huge knife of his.

  Lauren and Rick had the extra weight of the RMG27’s. I knew she’d never fired an RPG, but the Russian model was a simple, pull a pin, lift the sight and fire job.

  Piece of piss.

  When we were all happy, we did our usual buddy-up and checked each other’s kit for loose flaps, buttons and the like. We would leave a lot of empty cartridges on this job. We didn’t intend to leave any other clues.

  Rick took the point, and we were off.

  Rick Fuller’s Story:

  Once kitted up, I led from the front using the night vision goggles. The area of Tropojë that Goldsmith and his sidekick Red George had chosen to ply their trade was a wild and unruly place. The ground leading to our target was uneven and covered in vegetation. Roots stubbed your toes and creepers grabbed at your ankles as we snaked through the thick undergrowth. The last thing I wanted was a team member with a twisted or broken ankle to deal with before we even got on plot, so it was slow going.

  The intel provided by the Firm described our target premises as a detached two-storey job with four or five bedrooms. The ground floor boasted three reception rooms, together with a large kitchen and laundry room to the rear. To MI6’s knowledge, the house itself wasn’t fortified in any way other than steel reinforced doors to the front and rear. Adjacent to the main building was a substantial stable block that had been converted into a vehicle workshop. Aerial photographs showed lots of activity around this building, and we identified at least a dozen guys working there. Hopefully, we would be in and out before the workforce arrived for the day.

  The same shots also pointed to a working spray-shop toward the front of the gaff; no doubt the paint booth was there to ensure the colour of the stolen car Red George had provided was the preferred hue of the bent government employee who had ordered it.

  It seemed that Stefan and Gjergj were forming a thriving business venture in the middle of nowhere.

  The compound itself appeared to be simple rough ground with paved areas leading to and from the main buildings. On every aerial shot, dozens of vehicles were dotted about the place. One area to the side of the main dwelling was in the process of being landscaped and laid to lawn, and a couple of sets of patio furniture were clearly visible. We wouldn’t be invited for cocktails, I was sure of that.

  Outer security consisted of a rusting chain-link fence, which in turn, had a four meter ‘clean’ area surrounding it. This clear space had all its trees and foliage removed and ensured anyone attempting to attack the premises from the forest or bush would be easily seen before reaching the barrier. Infrared security lights were erected on twelve-foot posts every ten meters or so, to deter night crawlers like us. The only vehicular access to the property was via a single-track road and through the main gate.

  One way in, one way out.

  With no suggestion of any alarm systems, and with no further intelligence to indicate any other fortifications, on paper it looked a straight forward job.

  However, the intelligence also proposed that it wasn’t only the remote nature of the plot that had triggered the spooks’ reluctance to attempt a second assassination attempt, it was the suggestion Goldsmith and Dushku had amassed a fighting team from all corners of the former Communist Bloc: Kosovans, Macedonians, Bosnians, Albanians, and Chechnyans, all armed and willing to die for the most powerful and far reaching Mafia in the world. How many would be there overnight, was unknown.

  Like I said, easy on paper.

  It took us thirty minutes to negotiate the thick undergrowth, and by the time Goldsmith’s house came into view, the sky was getting lighter by the minute.

  It was time to wake up the sleepy locals, before their alarms went off for another day of playing gangster.

  We dropped in together at the edge of the treeline, and checked our comms were operational.

  Staying in cover, JJ set off toward the north of the building. This would give him the best view of the compound to the front of the house, and the most height to employ his Swiss Karabiner rifle, with that Kern 1.8 x 9 scope. He only had half a dozen rounds to play with, but I was banking on the Turk’s unnerving accuracy with a rifle. Six rounds equalled six kills in my book, even before he got in close.

  Our plan had to be as simple as possible.

  Me, Des and Lauren, would approach the fence to the south, cut our way in and split left and right. Des would fight alongside Lauren, I would be alone until JJ ran out of ammunition for the rifle, when he would join me in assaulting the front of the building.

  In all, I anticipated we would be through the fence in fifteen seconds and would be in our forward firing positions ten seconds later.

  On my mark, we would simultaneously fire the two Russian RMG’s into the main house. One through the front door, one through the rear.

  By the time Goldsmith and his cronies were pulling their pants up, all hell would have broken loose.

  The RMG27 was a horrible weapon, and within seconds most of the ground floor would be either decimated or ablaze. The occupants would be like rats in a sinking ship and have no choice but to come running into the compound to escape the blaze. Their instinct would be to run toward the only exit, or parked vehicles.

  Unfortunately for them, they would be met with three PP19’s on full auto and the Turk with his Karabiner.

  Once we’d dealt with the boys in the compound, we would have the more dangerous task of clearing the rest of the building room by room. According to the spooks our ultimate targets, Stephan Goldsmith and Gjergj Dushku, both slept in the main house. An operation to fight in enclosed spaces, with a pair like them waiting for you, was as treacherous as it got.

  That said, a similar ploy had worked for us in Ireland; we’d recovered our target there and disposed of the O’Donnell crew, so why not a second time?

  I had one issue.

  The Firm had assured me that there were no ‘soft’ targets on the premises. No women or children. With our plan, there would be nobody left to tell the story. I hoped they were right.

  Lauren North’s Story:

  My heart raced and my mouth, the polar-opposite to my wet palms, craved liquid.

  The wait for JJ to indicate he was in position seemed to take forever. As the seconds ticked by, my fear took hold of me, as it always did. I knew of course that the moment we moved, I would be fine.

  The horror of what might be is always worse than the event itself.

  Finally, I heard the double click in my ear to say the Turk was on plot.
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  I took a deep breath and keeping as low as possible, shuffled in behind Des as we crossed ‘no man’s land’, to the fence.

  As we expected, the security lights instantly detected our movements, and we were in sudden, virtual daylight. Other than the change in visibility, there was no suggestion of an audible warning; no sirens, no raised voices. It seemed that the Firm had it right for a change.

  Des chopped at the fence with his pliers, slicing an ‘L’ shape in the wire, before turning the section backward, like he was opening a tin of sardines.

  I was first through, then Rick, who in turn held the section of fence to enable Des to make his own welcome appearance.

  Once we were all inside the compound, Des sprinted off left to toward the rear of the building and I followed behind him.

  Leaving Rick alone tore at my heart. No time for goodbye.

  See you on the other side.

  As Des and I neared the rear of the main house, I saw the first signs that our little plan was not going to be as straightforward as we thought.

  Sitting off to the right of the back door was a large porta-cabin that hadn’t been there when the satellite shots were taken.

  The door was open, lights were on inside and I could hear a concerned voice that sounded like he was on a phone or radio.

  Had Goldsmith added CCTV cameras to the security?

  There was no time to worry about it. We dropped down behind a large Mercedes 4 x 4. I got into the kneel, and set the RMG 27 into fire mode. Rick crackled in my ear, barely audible, but enough.

  “On my mark…three…two…one.”

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  We were nicely tucked in behind the Merc and had the perfect view of our target. The moment Rick gave the order, I heard Lauren engage the fire button on the RMG 27. There was a whooshing sound, and the backdraft almost took my hair off.