THE FOLLOWER: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 4)(10)

I pressed again. “Let’s get the fuck out of here lads.”

I got two Roger’s from Butch and Des.

Frankie Green’s comms remained silent.





Des Cogan’s Story:

We waited a further twelve hours at the RV, just in case Frankie had somehow survived.

Of course, he hadn’t.

Our mood was black as night, and hardly a word was spoken on the drive back.

Our sailing back to Malta, was no better and Rick prowled the deck like a wounded rhino. Even Butch stayed out of his way.

We docked at Hay Warf and were driven to a small hotel in Valletta by one of our crew. Once there we were met by another ‘Man from the Ministry.’ He took a short brief from Rick and fucked off quick sharp. We all knew there would be a full de-brief when we got back to Hereford and were in no mood to be preached to by a suit.

The three of us went out that night and got royally pissed.

Having a drink for Frankie was the easy part. It was Rick who would have to go and see Karen and the kids with the news.

De-briefs are a necessary part of any operation. Anyone who says they can’t learn from mistakes made shouldn’t be in the Regiment. We were all grown men, and had to face up to our failings as well as our victories.

Our OC was a good bloke and he put a positive spin on the whole operation. After all, even though Al-Mufti survived, we had destroyed his arms cache and decimated his militia, killing between twenty and thirty of his men. In effect, we had put his business out of action, at least for the time being.

The suit… the same suit that briefed us before we left for Tiji was not so complimentary. He couldn’t understand why we didn’t just blow the house. When we mentioned the two children we knew were inside, the fucker just shrugged his posh shoulders and shook his head.

He said the result was ‘disappointing.’

We had to hold Rick down to stop him from snotting him.

There was the usual whip-round for Frankie’s family, and all the troop had a beer for him.

His body was never recovered.





20 years later. The Thirsty Scholar, Manchester.


Lauren North’s Story:

It had been a near perfect lift.

Had Rick, Des and I, not consumed so much Irish whiskey, we may have been capable of inflicting enough damage to our captors to cause a scene outside The Scholar. However, the end product would have been the same. The force was overwhelming.

We would still have been taken. We’d just be nursing injuries.

The instant I’d sat in the rear seat of the Range Rover, there had been the merest hint of a prick to my skin on the left side of my neck and, suddenly, all in the world was rosy.

Less than an hour later, I found myself in a small, military style billet. Single bed, thin mattress, metal chair, slim green locker. A woman stood in the room with me. She watched me intently as I took in my surroundings. She had escorted me from a helicopter, to what was, to all intents and purposes, a prison cell.

The attractive blonde wore baggy USA combat camouflage fatigues that hid her figure. A name plate on her breast pocket announced her as Willis. Underneath this was another emblem. Three stripes. So, Sergeant Willis then.

She studied me some more, then seemed to make up her mind about something. “I think Ma’am you may be intoxicated,” she said.

I eyed the woman with no modicum of irritation.

“Of course, I’m fucking intoxicated, Britney, or whatever your name is, I’ve consumed near on a full bottle of Jamesons, and one of your…let me search for the right word now…buddies, has injected me with something that almost makes me like you”

“I understand Ma’am.”

“No, you don’t fucking understand…come to think of it, why all this ma’am shit anyway…me and you are the same age.”

“You are thirty-eight ma’am, I, on the other hand, am twenty-seven.”

I eyed the girl and considered exactly how much more she knew about me.



Okay, she did look younger.

She was mid height, and despite the fatigues, you could see she was lean and fit. She had that All American Girl thing going on. Probably, before her decision to fight for her country, she’d been a cheerleader, head girl, top of the debating team, that kind of stuff. She had sharp baby blue eyes to match the blonde locks. She also had the good sense to keep me at arms-length, as I was truly pissed off and not as drunk as she presumed Despite the sedative, I knew we hadn’t travelled far.

We’d been lifted from outside The Thirsty Scholar, just off Oxford Road, Manchester. Not the nicest establishment in the city, but one our team was particularly fond of.

We’d ended up there as we couldn’t bear the depression of the official wake.

One of our group, ex-Turkish Special Forces and all round good bloke JJ Yakim, had been killed on our last job. We had been celebrating his life. Well actually, we were approaching the point of shit faced and about to eat Indian.

Then the Yanks turned up.

They were All-American too. With sharp suits, buzz cuts, and the same Sir and Ma’am script that Britney seemed intent on.

In my very happy state, I’d noticed we’d been driven to The City Airport, a grand name for a small airfield close to the M60 and a massive retail park, The Trafford Centre.

From there, the helicopter flight had only been fifteen minutes or so. I have to say, being extracted by what appeared suspiciously like the CIA, was a fairly pleasant experience when it came to the transport. In addition to the Range Rover Vouges, they must have rented the poshest chopper in the world to take us to? …Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?