THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (7 page)

I tried not to gawp at the revelation. I knew there was something but this was a real shock.

Joel went back to the story and the computer screen.

“Now, the boat and cargo was to be taken from Amsterdam to Zebrugge by two of this Dutch crew you see here. The big guy and the woman. As I said, they are not my employees, they work for the supplier. Only Susan has seen the main man. He never meets me either. It was a perfect solution.”

“Providing you trust your wife,” I muttered.

Joel glared at me, his eyes and tone fierce.

“As I said, she has done this for me before. The supplier has always been a hundred per cent. I have never had a problem. My guys should have collected the boat and cargo from the Dutch players at a pre-arranged point just north of Zebrugge and were to deliver it to me here in the UK.

“My cutters would then work their magic on it and turn it into lots of money for me. Understand?”

I certainly did.

He tapped the screen again. “I always have a customer for the boat too.”

The man knew how to make money, no question.

“The boat never made Zebrugge. Susan has been in touch with the Dutch coke supplier. He’s telling her that they had delivered to Zebrugge as agreed and waved my boys off into the sunset as promised.”

“So where is it?” I asked straight out.

“They say the boat must have sunk en route and that my two boys must be at the bottom of the channel with it.”

“Together with the coke of course,” I added.

Joel stood and leaned closer to me, both hands on the desk, cigar in the corner of his mouth.

“As I always pay up front for my cargo, I’m nearly two million quid out of pocket and I don’t believe a fuckin’ word the Dutch bastards are saying.”

Joel inspected his cigar to allow the information to sink in and hit a button on the keyboard. The word ‘purging’ appeared on the screen and the information and pictures relating to the Dutch players disappeared. He let out a large plume of smoke. He’d read my mind.

“I’m not as stupid as you think, Stephen. That information was direct from the Dutch Secret Service files. It’s hacked for me by an inside source, sent encrypted and then destroyed. Another of Susan’s contacts, she leaves nothing to chance, my friend.”

My legs were suitably slapped, but I knew computers, they were the most insecure devices we’ve ever invented. And, if Susan left nothing to chance, where was Joel’s bugle?

He handed me an envelope. It contained the pictures of all four Dutch runners including the two that were supposed to do the final drop.

“I want you to collect my boat, find my cocaine and bring it to me. I’ll pay half a million for the boat and goods and I’ll double it if you give me the motherfucker who stole from me and lied to my wife.” He stubbed the cigar, “I don’t care which pieces.”

Now Joel was talking serious coin. However, what he had to realise was this was not a one-man job. There were big expenses, big risks too. You mess with people heavy enough to do a job on Joel Davies and you could end up very dead.

I pressed for a little more.

“Other than the fact you can’t trust anyone these days, what makes you think the boat didn’t sink?”

Joel talked and tapped at his keyboard again, “First, no distress call to the coastguard.”

Understandable
, I thought. The guys wouldn’t want the coastguard boarding a boat with several hundred pounds of pure cocaine stuffed in the hold.

Joel went on. “Second, there were perfect weather conditions and it is a near new vessel. And third,” he spun the monitor again, “this.”

On the screen was a nautical map with grid reference lines superimposed over the coastline. It glowed green, which wasn’t a surprise to me. A red dot flashed. He tapped it with perfectly manicured finger. He was cold and dangerous.

“They think I won’t take them on. The guy thinks he’s too big and I’ll lie down. He’s made good money from me this last year. Now he, or someone on the Dutch side, has got too big for his boots. You know me, Stephen, I’m a careful man, a belt and braces sort of guy. So even though all has been well before, I still had a satellite beacon fitted to The Landmark by my boy in France.” He tapped the red flashing dot.

“The fuckin’ boat is still in Amsterdam.”  

I began to count the cost. I would need bodies and weapons. I didn’t like the Dutch connection. Susan was a loose cannon. So soon after her marriage to Joel she had got herself involved in a major drug deal. It wasn’t just Joel’s cigar that stank.

“I’ll want a hundred thousand up front. It’ll take me a day or so to get a team together.”

Joel wrinkled his brow. “I only want professionals on this, Colletti. You can use some of my guys.”

I was about to decline the job altogether. There was no way I would be doing any operation with his bozos.

“I’ll use my own people, thanks.”

He seemed mildly irritated by my answer. Then, casually as fuck, he added, “No matter, do what you want. Susan will be going with you anyway.”

I stood to leave. It was my turn to say my piece.

“Listen, Davies, sending your wife on this thing is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Davies leaned further over his desk and spoke through his teeth.

“She’s set up all the deals with the Dutch crew last year. She knows the couriers and she is the only one who can ID the main man by sight. Don’t let the pretty girl exterior put you off, son. She’s as hard as fuckin nails.”

Coming from Joel that was some statement.

The plot really thickened. I didn’t argue about Susan. If she was in the game and had done this level of deal before then she might be an asset. I just didn’t like the idea of telling Joel she’d been slotted if the job went tits up. So she was a bad girl after all? I still didn’t like it. A guy of Joel’s standing meets a bird and within the blink of an eye, not only does he marry her but she’s doing his major deals for him? I could appreciate the idea of a broker, or middle-man. I myself used them regularly. But having your wife as the only person who can even ID the dealer?

One thing I knew for certain. The next few days were going to get naughty.

Joel detected the disquiet on my face, not that I cared what he thought. I smoothed my woollen trousers as I stood.

“So, who’s the guy then?”

Davies paused for a moment, looked me in the face and I thought I detected the merest hint of fear.

“David Stern.”

So, we were really playing hard ball on this one. I shrugged my shoulders. The bigger the fish, the bigger the payday.

“You’re the boss, Davies. Have someone bring her to my place in the morning and tell her to travel light.”

As I made to leave, Joel did the inexcusable again and grabbed my arm.

“Bring her back in one piece, Colletti.”

Within minutes I was on the road. My drive back to Salford Quays was spoiled by the smell of cigars on my blazer, and the stench of a conspiracy in my nostrils.

Des Cogan's Story:

Glasgow Airport 2006.

I sat in Glasgow Airport’s infamous departure lounge waiting for the last call for my flight to Manchester. I could see from the crowd queuing to hand in their boarding passes, the flight would be full and noisy. This Friday afternoon trip was often crammed with young clubber types, visiting Manchester for its highly charged music and club scene, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

Whatever the occasion, it seemed my fellow weegies were intent to mix it with copious amounts of Blue Wicked, amphetamine sulphate and cocaine. A visit to the gents prior to clearing security revealed more sniffing than shitting.

I hadn’t seen Rick in seventeen months. I could’ve told you the weeks and days too if you’d wanted. Despite our lack of contact, we were the best of friends and I wouldn’t hear a bad word about him even though he was a twat, and more recently, mad as a box of frogs.

We’d served together in Ireland, Bosnia, Africa and Columbia and he’d got me out of more shit than you could ever imagine, so there you go, there was nothing more to say.

I’d got the call three hours previous. I was just getting ready for a few days fishing in the Highlands and had planned to drive from my home in Loch Lomond along the road to Inverness. Known as the whisky trail, the peaceful but fast driving road that split the country west to east was the gateway to all the major Scottish malt whisky distillers. They, in turn, needed clean Highland spring water to ply their trade. The rivers that wandered along the trail provided the ideal source and great fishing. What could have been total peace and quiet had just given way to almost certain mayhem. Fuck it. It’s what I did best and still is.

From Rick’s brief telephone conversation, there was a rush job going off in Holland. The money was too good to turn down, but more than the money was the chance to work with Rick again. The job would take about three days to a week. I could fish the trail another time, no bother.

Rick, of course, was using one of his many identities, Stephen Colletti, but I knew him as Rick.

I had known him for twenty-six years. He joined the Special Air Service via the Parachute Regiment. I had served with him my entire regiment career until his life went tits up.

He’d come from a poor background like most of us. He had no family that I knew of, having been in the care of the local authority from being a young nipper. I’d always thought the lack of parents made his life hard especially after Cathy died. At times of terrible grief, you need family no matter how distant they may be. Rick, though, appeared to have no one. Nonetheless he was a good bloke and as tough as they come. He had saved my sorry backside on more than one occasion.

I’d known Rick was freelancing for anyone with big money. When you finally leave a job like ours, it’s hard to settle. Most guys had never kept a relationship in one piece, so they lived alone, me included. Some would have a casual affair that kept them home for a while, but all missed the action and the camaraderie. Many ended up fighting alongside some foreign army as mercenaries. I had already done two stints in Africa and I knew Rick had worked in South America. Some guys tried bodyguard work but found being at the beck and call of some Arab’s wife boring, no matter what the pay packet.

I had my house at Loch Lomond where I felt safe and at one with the world. It was a solitary existence, but it suited me.

I had taken a part time job working military shows around the world. I worked for a very well-known glass company. Indeed you probably have some of their products in your own house. Little known is that they also manufacture very specialist lenses for satellite systems and sniper sights. The money was okay and I got to see some of the old faces, who worked the same circuit.

That aside, I had grown tired of smiling sweetly at foreign generals and I was ready for a bit of real action. I put to the back of my mind the fact that the money for this job probably came from a gangster. I was bored shitless and needed to feel part of a team again.

The tannoy announced the last call. Around thirty passengers were left in the row. Most were twenty-something, well dressed and slightly stoned. I joined the back of the queue and shuffled forward until I handed my boarding pass to an uninterested ground crew. I found my seat and, just as I’d thought, the plane was rammed with over-excited clubbers.

Straight after take-off I put on one of the £2.00 headsets to drown out the noise and listened to Terry Wogan. Within ten minutes I was sound asleep.

I knew we’d started our descent into Manchester. Even after years of flying in every possible type of plane and helicopter my ears popped and woke me every time.

A hostess walked along the aisle making a final sweep of the passengers, collecting cans, bottles and crisp packets, at the same time, checking seat belts were fastened and seats were in the upright position. She had beautiful long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and the most striking bright green eyes. She looked Irish. She sported that wonderful clear, pale skin that the Emerald Isle seems to produce.

“Any rubbish there, sir?”

I drifted briefly.

“Sir?”

“No,” I said,” her accent making my next question stupid but my mouth opened and it came out. “Are you from Ireland?”

“From Dublin, why do you ask?”

I smiled.

“You have lovely hair and eyes.”

She looked at me, not knowing if I was the proverbial dirty old man, seemed to decide against it, and gave me a smile in return.

“Why thank you sir, please fasten your seatbelt.”

In the 1980s and early ’90s Northern Ireland was at the centre of a massive political row over the so-called ‘shoot to kill policy’ by the military.

Rick was heading a four-man team out there. We had set up a surveillance of a PIRA weapon stash. I’d been dug in at a farmhouse in the middle of bandit country for several days. Confident that the weapons were there and several players were visiting, we were convinced that we could get a good result. Rick ran the op, he, two other Regiment guys, and me all pissed off and wet through.

We were compromised by a bloody dog. We hadn’t seen it. One of the players had brought it with him during the night and all hell broke loose on our approach. Tactics went out the window and the firefight lasted forty minutes.

To cut a long story short I was shot in the leg and it all got messy. Rick killed five terrorists that day and saved all our asses. When the dust settled we found that two of the Provos’ team had been women.

Two young pretty Irish girls, with nice dark hair and green, un-seeing eyes.

Shaking the images from my mind’s eye, I gave the hostess my headset and returned her smile.

“I won’t need these,” I said.

We landed with a bump at Ringway and it took nearly an hour for the baggage handlers to do their job.

Once outside the terminal, I took a cab to Salford Quays, feeling good about meeting my best mate again. The two dead Irish girls were safely returned to that secret place in my psyche but I noticed that my foot was tapping to nothing in particular, the extra adrenaline reminding me that this was a dangerous job. I felt alive for the first time in months.