THE FIX_SAS hero turns Manchester hitman

by Robert White

  I pushed against his weight and started to bend down and reach for my heel. Stephan gripped me tighter and pressed the gun into my flesh, cutting into me.

  He gritted his teeth and grabbed at my hair.

  “I said no funny stuff!”

  Before he could repeat himself I took my beautiful shoe from my foot and swung at his head with all the power I could muster. The heel buried itself into his cheek and I rolled to my left, kicking out with my right leg as I fell from his grip and my chair.

  My foot connected with him as I hit the deck but it only succeeded in putting a few feet between us. That was enough for me. Scrambling to my bare feet, I grazed my knees on the cobbles in my haste. Stephan had risen from his chair, his face pouring with blood. People were shouting and screaming as they saw Stephan point his gun directly at me. He couldn’t miss.

  “Fuckin’ bitch!” he bawled.

  I leapt over a table to my right, knocking cups and glasses everywhere. Hitting the ground hard, I rolled under the next and heard the explosion of gunfire as two rounds slammed into the table-top above me. There was no time to hide so, on hands and knees, I crawled out into the open, kept my head down and sprinted back the way I came, toward the market.

  I had to make it to those stalls and the throng of people that had seemed so welcoming only minutes before. It was my only chance. I pumped my arms and legs. My lungs felt like they would burst. My throat was hot and dry but my vision honed in at the end of the street that would bring me to the crowds.

  Stephan’s heavy steps were close behind me. I could hear him but I dare not turn to see. My feet were being torn to pieces by the cobbles but I felt no pain.

  Another thunderous roar came from behind me and sparks flew from the wall to my left as another bullet sliced the air but blissfully missed its target. Twenty more yards and I would be at the junction. I could smell the meat roasting and see the glint of lights.

  I could almost feel Stephan’s breath on my neck. He was murderously close and I knew it.

  Ten yards.

  Where were the cops when you needed them?

  I felt his hand grip my hair and his foot kick at my ankles. My balance was lost and I crashed to the cobbles, knocking all my remaining breath from my body. He fell on me, raining blows to my head with the butt of his gun. The first strike hit me just below my left eye and sent shockwaves through my teeth and jaw. I felt blood pour from the wound and it flowed into my ear. I deflected the next with my forearm, pushed the heel of my hand into his face and made a decent connection. He seemed not to notice and tore at my hair again, holding my head against the road. I lifted my knees up in an attempt to get some leverage and push off his bull weight but he seemed superhuman. He hit me again with the SLP. This time it was the bridge of my nose that took the full force and I heard it crack under the pressure. A bright metallic taste formed at the back of my throat and I knew blood was coursing down the passageway from by ruined nose. My whole conscious was failing me and I felt drunk and sick all in the same instant.

  I hadn’t much left. He knew it. His blond hair was splattered with my blood as it fell over his face. He was actually laughing. He was fucking enjoying it.

  He raised his hand again, the pistol gleaming in the darkness, wet and shiny from its demolition of my face. As he brought it down I lifted my right arm to block him. He thought he would just plough straight through me but I had other ideas.

  His arm came down, and instead of blocking him forearm to forearm, as he expected, I went to complete the last gasp manoeuvre you would ever make in combat. I went to strip him of the pistol.

  He brought the weapon down with terrifying force. I withdrew my arm at the last possible moment and let the barrel of the SLP fall into the cupped fingers of my hand inches from my face. Shifting my weight to my left side to avoid the force of the blow, I forced my left arm from beneath me and slammed my forearm into the crook of his elbow.

  His arm folded like paper and the SLP was inverted and pointing directly at Stephan Goldsmith’s solitary visible eye.

  Stephan had two choices. Let go or shoot himself.

  He let go.

  I rolled to my right, gripping my prize but Stephan was fast, vicious and far from discouraged. Before I could stand he had found his feet and launched a kick at me just below my left breast. The force of the blow slammed me into a shop doorway and I couldn’t breathe again. Shards of pain tore at my whole body and stars filled my vision.

  I lay unable to breathe or focus.

  Stephan stood tall, silhouetted by the dim streetlights. He brushed back his hair, confident, callous. His voice was sickening.

  “I was just going to fuck you before I shot you, Lauren. But now, I think I will have to reserve some special treatment for that fine body of yours.”

  Somewhere deep inside I knew I wouldn’t die on that Spanish street. The sadistic piece of shit-excuse for a man, tucking in his perfectly pressed fucking shirt, was not going to get the better of me. I dragged the pistol from under my broken ribcage and somehow managed to straighten my arm. I turned the weapon in his direction, squeezed the trigger and the SLP jerked in my hand. The sheer noise in the enclosed backstreet rattled my damaged nose and teeth as the round sped toward its target.

  I hit him somewhere, because he fell.

  I pulled myself to my knees and vomited.

  My own blood dripped and mixed with my stomach contents as I spat out the last of my meal.

  I could hear Stephan groaning somewhere to my right.

  Then I could hear sirens.

  It was time to fuck off.

  Stephan had the same idea. I heard him start to move. There was a scrabbling sound to my right and it was getting fainter by the second. The bastard was getting away. My head refused to clear but I managed to stand. God knows what I looked like, bloody broken and barefoot, I presumed, but I couldn’t let Stephan escape. I fumbled in the pocket of my skirt and felt my Motorola, hit the call button more by instinct than sight, put it to my ear and staggered in the general direction of my attacker.

  Des answered in an instant. “Where the fuck are you?”

  I spat out a mouthful of my own blood.

  “I’m on Avenida Cadiz.” I forced myself to focus in the direction Stephan had lurched. “Leaving it now and heading east.”

  I could hardly breathe. The pain in my ribs and face was unbearable.

  “I’m following Stephan Goldsmith. He’s hit, but moving. I’m in shit state and need some fucking help, get your Scottish ass here now.”

  Des was insistent.

  “Stay there.”

  “Fuck off, Des. I’m not going to lose him now, get the guys over here and I’ll ring in five with my new position.”

  I killed the call, wiped my own blood from the SLP, checked the magazine and clicked on the safety. I tucked it into the waistband of my skirt and staggered off in search of the man who had just come close to killing me.

  Stephan was bleeding quite badly and droplets of his blood acted like the breadcrumbs of some distant Brothers Grimm tale to me. My feet were in a far worse state than I had first thought and I made a note never to sprint through cobbled streets at night barefoot.

  I took careful silent steps from Cadiz and into a narrow alley barely wide enough for two people to pass each other.

  I figured I’d hit Stephan in the leg as I could clearly hear his laboured gait echo further into the lane. My head banged with a hundred drums and my nose streamed with blood and soaked my top and skirt, but above it all I could hear his good leg hit the cobbles and the scrape of his injured leg being dragged behind. I followed those sounds for a full twenty silent minutes. He twisted and turned in alley after alley. I could hear him, but was careful not to get close enough to actually get a visual. The tables were turned and now it was I who wanted him in one piece.

  The sirens, the market, the café were long gone and I was in almost total darkness in the tightest environment you could imagine.

  T
hen, just as I thought he was headed for the marina, he stopped.

  I could hear him fumble and then the tell-tale bleep of a keypad. My breathing had returned to near normal and the sheer adrenalin that had pushed me on was dulling my pain. I listened in the silent blackness.

  He was making a call.

  I looked around frantically for any kind of sign or landmark so I could text the guys.

  His voice was pained but clear enough.

  “It’s me.”

  Then I heard it. It was a door or gate being opened. Then, a voice, a female voice; he wasn’t on the phone after all, he was at an intercom. He had found sanctuary.

  His tone became muffled and unclear as if he’d entered an enclosed space, but hers was crystal. Her Dutch accent was mixed with Afrikaans.

  “My God, Stephan, what happened?”

  I heard the door close.

  My pulse rate increased again. I waited a full five minutes in total silence. I nipped my nose to try and stem the bleeding. It seemed to help me hear too as I passed the seconds before I approached my target.

  Directly in front of me stood a block of six apartments; three ground floor, three first. They were surrounded by a low wall with cast-iron railings cemented into it giving a formidable defence from any would-be burglars. A large double gate barred the way to the path leading to the building. On the left of it was a keypad. Above it was a porcelain sign with pink flowers and ornate script.

  It said, ‘Apt El Niño, Avenida Fredo.’ It had blood on it.

  Rick Fuller's Story:

  We were twenty minutes from her.

  Twenty minutes too long for my liking. I felt the same sickness come over me. The same as the day I lost Cathy, Des was driving, Jimmy Two-Times directing, and I was loading weapons in the back seat of a hired Lexus. It reminded me of Amsterdam and I did my best to remove that thought. Spiros had been economical with the truth when it came to the quality of the weapons order. That or the Spanish had got our kit mixed up with a set of Puerto Rican gangsters’. I had handed over a Porsche 911 for a set of weapons we could have bought in a Belgian car boot for five thousand Euros. I would have a quiet word with my Greek friend on my return. That said, despite the age of some of the kit, the armoury was more than adequate for our needs. Some was even familiar to me from my Regiment days.

  We had been sold a Mac10 machine pistol. First made in the early ’60s by Ingram, they were a cheap 1000 round per minute room clearer; challenging to master, but really useful. The biggest asset of the Mac10 was its noise suppressor or silencer as they call them in the movies. It was true what people said. The bolt action was louder than the round exiting the breech. The long suppressor also helped to hold the weapon with both hands and it increased accuracy. In the right hands the Mac10 could take out a full room of diners and the bad boys having cocktails next door wouldn’t even spill their brandy.

  They Yanks loved them, and it was the automatic weapon of choice with the street gangs of the United Sates.

  At .45 calibre it made a real mess. It was two seconds of fatality in a drive-by, but a hostage taker’s nightmare at close quarters.

  At over sixteen rounds per second, even in the most economical hands, the extended magazine was empty and on the floor every couple of minutes.

  Reassuringly ten spare mags came with the old girl and I pushed it to one side whilst I worked on the next offerings.

  Two brand new, straight out the box M4 Carbines with full external sighting and M203 grenade launchers were next. Short and ideal in a car, handy again at close quarters, but at .556 calibre it had the legs to be an asset at a longer distance. The US Navy Seals used it as their preferred kit. With the launchers and what looked like a box of NATO 40mm fragmentation grenades we had some serious fire power. I was beginning to wonder if Spiros knew something I didn’t.

  Finally I felt a pang of reminiscence as I loaded three Browning Hi Power SLP’s. The old faithful had been named the P35 by some. To me the gun was the BAP, the Browning Automatic Pistol. The Irish knew it well.

  It had a thirteen round capacity. Compared to any other SLP it almost doubled your ammunition, in fact you had fourteen shots without a reload if you counted the one in the spout.

  I felt ripped off with the price, but I was very comfortable with our armoury. Nothing too long range, but I had the feeling this little job would be bayonets before snipers.

  I became aware that we were passing through throngs of tourists. They were having a great time and were totally unaware of what murderous thoughts were going on in our Jeep. Neon and music were on the periphery of my senses. I was concerned we were driving just a little too fast and I asked Des to take his foot off. We were no good to Lauren being hounded by the local constabulary.

  He snorted his displeasure.

  “Why the fuck did she go out on her own without checking in?”

  Jimmy stared straight ahead, his tone almost absent. “The girl has done good, boss. Whatever happens now, you won’t have to go looking for Charlie and his mob.”

  When you took the emotion out of it, Jimmy was of course, right. He instantly changed the atmosphere in the car from one of worry and anger to one of a focused team once again.

  By my reckoning we had Stephan and Susan Goldsmith holed up in the same building and it was not an opportunity to be wasted. I wanted to have a little chat with them both, for very different reasons.

  Lauren was in shit state, I presumed because of one or both of the Goldsmith gang. ‘Shit state.’ Her words. When I heard them, Des and I exchanged glances that any ignorant bastard could have read in an instant. That had been our problem the last hour. We had let it become personal and let down our guard.

  Jimmy had no connection with Lauren. He was at the opposite end of that spectrum. When he heard the news he chipped in with. “She’s a tough little fucker, that one, guys, mark my words.”

  He was right. I got on with my job and pushed rounds into magazines and together with them, Lauren’s injuries from my mind.

  Eventually Jimmy motioned Des to slow down and we parked alongside what looked like a town square filled with orange trees. There was plenty of litter around and the last of what appeared to be market stalls were being packed away by tired-looking traders in the street opposite.

  I phoned Lauren.

  “Jimmy reckons we are ten minutes by foot from you.”

  She sounded drowsy and as if she had the flu.

  “It’s all quiet. No movement as yet. How long before you get here? I’m fucked.”

  “We’re coming for you,” I said. “The second you see Des, start walking away from the plot toward him. Stay calm, Lauren. This is all good.”

  Jimmy had a basic map of the area and I had formulated a plan. First job was for Des to extract Lauren. Jimmy would cover the back of the building whilst I took the front. We could get the car to within a street of the plot, after that it was on foot. The good thing was, so were our quarry.

  Des and Jimmy checked their Brownings over, knowing I had just done it. “I want this smooth and very relaxed, guys. Don’t attract a soul. Des, you get directly to her, I’ll be ten yards behind. Take her straight back to the car and give her what treatment you can. If she can drive, that’s going to be her job for the next few hours.”

  He nodded and felt his shirt pocket for his pipe and tobacco.

  “She’d better be fuckin’ fine and dandy, boss, or I’m gonna have a wee disagreement with this Stephan fella myself.”

  Jimmy pushed his gun into his waistband. “I think you’ve a soft spot for this Lauren bird, Des. What do you suppose there, boss?”

  Des pulled his pipe from his pocket and slowly filled the small bowl with his favourite tobacco. He then lifted his face to Jimmy’s.

  Des’s eyes were pure blue glass, almost fish-like.

  “What I think is my business, okay, big man? And if you think you’re all clever now you can talk and all that, remember this. You don’t know me well enough to take the fuckin�
� piss…okay?”

  Jimmy would have murdered Des hand to hand. Jimmy knew it, Des knew it, but the wee man from Glasgow was never gonna back down.

  Jimmy looked ever so slightly hurt. “Sorry, mate, I were just sayin’ like, that’s all.”

  “Well, dinnae.”

  Des Cogan's Story:

  Jimmy had fuckin’ annoyed me. It wasn’t his fault like. He had no way of knowing how close we’d become, no, I’d become, to Lauren. He just saw a pretty girl and a Jock with a hard-on. He thought he was being funny, who’d he think he was? Fuckin’ Billy Connolly or what? Personally in the circumstances, I wouldn’t have found the Big Yin amusing. I had too much to lose.

  I inched along the cobles toward where I knew Lauren would be watching the front of the plot. Our targets may have done one from the rear and be gone, but that was a serious doubt as it sounded like Stephan needed some attention to a bullet wound.

  Clear skies and a near full moon had chased the last of the summer warmth from the air and, despite the narrow streets, the buildings were bathed in sapphire as the first dew of the morning glistened on the ancient stones underfoot.

  Then I saw her.

  Just a glimpse, but it was her. Barefoot and leaning awkwardly against a recessed gateway, her face bloodied, one eye almost closed with swelling. She saw me and tried to straighten herself. I noticed she’d done nothing to hide an SLP tucked into the waist of her miniskirt. One of her knees was damaged and I could see bloody tracks which had gravitated from the wound to her ankle and splashed around her foot as she’d walked, before drying dark on her skin as she’d waited.

  I felt my temper rise. The girl was in a fucking mess. She’d had the living shit kicked out of her.

  Without a trace of drama she walked steadily in my direction whilst keeping an eye over her left shoulder at the apartment. She walked straight past me and I turned in silence to follow.