THE FOLLOWER: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 4)(11)

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Menwith Hill, Harrogate, Ma’am.”

Willis pronounced Harrogate with a very large ‘o’ in the middle, suggesting her Southern Belle roots.

I’d lived not seven miles from Harrogate as a student nurse. Menwith Hill was notorious with the locals. It was built in the 1950’s and, although it had always been commanded by an RAF officer, the five-hundred-acre site, littered with massive golf ball shaped domes called radomes, was really run by 451st Air Base Group. Them, and the US National Security Agency.

These guys were essentially snoopers, using the massive power of the radomes to intercept intelligence information and communications on behalf of the West’s would-be enemies.

“You’re not 451st,” I said.

Willis looked surprised that I would have that level of knowledge about the base. Probably the same look I gave her when she divulged my age.

“No Ma’am.”

I cocked my head and waited.

It was obvious Willis was not the talkative type. She changed the subject.

“Do you need anything Ma’am? Some water? You said you guys were about to eat… Are you still hungry?”

“I suppose a taxi back to Manchester is out of the question?”

“It is Ma’am, at least until you’re briefed.”

“And when might that be, Britney?”

Unamused, Willis turned and opened my green locker. She removed a set of similar fatigues to her own, together with a towel and some toiletries.

“A shower and some sleep, Ma’am, and I’m sure you’ll feel more obliging.”

She dropped the pile on the bed next to me.

“I’ll be back for you at 0700hrs. If you need anything before then, just knock.”

And with that she was gone.

I didn’t feel obliging at all. I was very fucking upset.

*

Once alone, I had a better look at my cell. Ground floor, 30 square feet max. One exit door, heavy triple locks. One window, no bars, but re-enforced glass. I’d need an axe and a day to get out by force.

For some reason, our captors had taken my heels. They were nice too, black patent, a four-inch spike, by Zelda.

I wanted them back. They were five hundred quid.

To replace them, the United States Military, had kindly left me a pair of plastic flip flops. Inspecting the pile of clothes Ms Spears had laid out on my cot, good old Uncle Sam had also added a pair of cotton briefs that looked big enough to parachute with and a size 34b white brassier.

Not since I was fourteen, love.

One set of camouflage fatigues, a bottle of shower gel, toothbrush, paste and a plastic comb.

I scooped it all up, dropped it on the lone chair by my bed and did what I’d been trained to do under these circumstances.

I slept.

Dawn broke, I woke. I guessed 0450hrs as my watch had gone to the same place as my heels. My head was clear again, but I needed some sharpness. The best way is endorphins…your own.

I started with some squats, just one hundred, then tricep dips, fifty on the edge of the cot, another fifty on the chair to change the angle. Then press-ups, crunchies and burpees. I finished with sprints on the spot at thirty second intervals until I was blowing like a steam train.

Twenty minutes or so later, I paced the small room, hands on head, breathing hard and sweating. Stepping out of my underwear, I ran the shower.

Ablutions completed, I pulled on the cotton briefs, and looked in the mirror.

Mrs Doubtfire

Leaving the bra on the bed, I slipped on the fatigues, pushed my feet into the plastic numbers and ran the comb through my hair.

I approached the heavy door and knocked.

Just as I figured, it was opened instantly. Britney, had been replaced by a sharp featured woman of Italian origin.

She had the name badge ‘Forgioni,’ and the same three stripes underneath.

“Ma’am?” she said.

Groundhog Day

“I’m hungry, Sergeant,” I said flatly.

Forgioni nodded. “Right away Ma’am. How you like your eggs?”

I managed a thin smile. “Poached. Brown toast, no butter, orange juice, tea, black, no sugar.”

Another nod and the door closed.

Well, at least they don’t intend slotting us any time soon.

If Jamie Oliver himself had been standing outside the door with his pan on the boil, the service couldn’t have been quicker.

The door opened and in walked the Italian job. Tray in hands.

I considered making for the door as she had been so slack in her routines. Arms full. Door ajar.

Then I noticed that my exit was blocked by a guy the size of a smallholding.

Forgioni almost smiled. Maybe her idea of a little joke? Helped pass the time this early?

My order was delivered exactly to my specifications, with the addition of a large bottle of Evian and a new bra, size 36c.

I looked at the packaging, and wondered where you found an M&S open at that time in the morning?

Once Forgioni had left, I looked around the room for cameras.

I finally found four, and made a note not to exercise in my Victoria Secret’s again.

The American’s had a shocking reputation for a lack of security when it came to anything computerised, and I had the horrible feeling that my bouncing assets would be available to download by the population of every trailer park in the Deep South by lunchtime.