THE FOLLOWER: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 4)(6)

Then, four more guys exited and jumped in the back of the second pick-up - all had AK’s, seemed switched on and well drilled.

I focused my binos on the front door and held my breath.

Two massive faces stepped out. They were black, of African origin. Nigerian? Sudanese maybe?

No flowing robes for these boys. It was all tight black t-shirts, Levis and Ray Bans. Both sported tan leather shoulder holsters with big calibre chrome SLP’s sitting in them. They stood either side of the door scanning the street which seemed to have cleared completely of any locals. Even the scabby dogs had fucked off. Everyone was waiting, including us.

Then, there he was.

Abdallah Al-Mufti.

He was a tall handsome man, lithe and long limbed. The full beard he’d sported in his photograph, was now no more than designer stubble and his jet black hair, was slicked back and tied into a ponytail. Those light eyes on the black and white shot we’d seen, were the sharpest blue. He stood on the doorstep wearing a pale linen suit and white open necked shirt, king of all he surveyed.

Butch cocked the AW50, but Rick placed his hand on top of the sight and shook his head.

Not now.

Al-Mufti turned.

Standing behind him was a stunningly beautiful woman in a long yellow dress that hugged every curve of her figure. At her side was a boy of about nine. He was a serous child and wore the traditional Arabic white dishdasha and crocheted skull cap. He carried a brightly coloured plastic toy in this left hand. Resting in the crook of the woman’s olive-skinned arm was a baby of about six months.

Al-Mufti kissed his children and then the woman, who we could only presume to be his wife.

She smiled as they exchanged a few words. Then he turned to his two bodyguards, gave them the slightest nod and they escorted him to the Shogun.

I could see why Butch had been tempted to let go a couple of rounds and try and take out our boy as he stepped out into the morning sunshine. But the chances of a clean shot and us living to tell the tale would be minimal. Escaping back through the desert at night gave us a chance. In the daylight, and with the firepower at Al-Mufti’s disposal, we would be picked off like ducks in a gallery.

The three vehicle convoy did a U-turn at the junction and headed slowly back up the narrow street past the house and away from our position, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it.

“Just another fuckin’ day at the office,” said Butch.

I turned to Rick. There was no way on God’s green earth any of our patrol were going to blow up that house with two kiddies inside.

“We need a new plan,” I said.





Rick Fuller’s Story:

Al-Mufti was in control of a small militia that seemed well trained and switched on. They weren’t all Arabic either. There were white faces mixed in there, Slavic or Russian, and the two Africans closest to him were not the only black faces. I counted at least another five, and they all worked alongside each other with no issue.

The building opposite the main house both worried and intrigued me.

After Al-Mufti’s convoy left, the remaining guys were in and out of the place constantly and the sounds of trucks being loaded and unloaded echoed from the rear yard towards our position.

I turned to the lads. “I’ll bet a pound to a pinch of shit that gaff is Al -Mufti’s arms dump.”

“Two points,” said Butch.

Des lit his ghastly pipe and took the briefest drag.

“Aye, I’m with ye on that, pal.”

“Tha can’t do nowt w’it though,” said Frankie. “Not wi bairns in t’house opposite like. Light that place up an’ it’s likely to take out half the fuckin village.”

Frankie was a family man, the only one of the patrol with children, but his judgement wasn’t flawed. He was right.

I wasn’t a fool either, and I’d never buried my head in the sand. Collateral damage was a fact of war. Men women and children died in conflicts. It was horrible and distressing, but sometimes, unavoidable.

However, killing Al-Mufti’s wife and children to get to him, was not an option. Even blowing up the building opposite was a last chance saloon moment.

I nodded. “So, we have to take him in his vehicle.”

“What if he doesn’t come back anytime soon?” asked Butch.

“He’ll be back,” said Des, stowing his tobacco. “No luggage, not even a briefcase.”

“I agree,” I said. “This is where his operation and his family are. He won’t be gone long.”

Frankie gripped a grey box with a retractable antenna in his left hand, and a smaller device with protruding wires in his right. He held them up in turn as he spoke. “Here we have a radio transmitter… and receiver. Just like the ones used to drive my lad’s toy car back home. The transmitter sends a control signal to the receiver via radio waves, and the receiver, using a tiny circuit board carries out that command. In this case, opening or closing a simple circuit. If I can get underneath his Shogun, I can plant a charge, big enough t’slot the fucker and take out the lead and following vehicles. Even detonate it from here.”

I looked at him. “And the house… the kids?”

Frankie shrugged his narrow shoulders. “This box has a range of about a thousand yards. If we plant the charge tonight, we wait until our guy sets off tomorrow, and when he does his U turn at the junction… boom.”