THE FOLLOWER: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 4)(8)

Frankie smiled and slouched back to his spot, away from the rest of the patrol. He was a bit of a loner and didn’t say too much. So, when he did you listened, as he normally made sense.

We’d watched the sentries patrol the perimeter of the house for the last two hours. They were obviously as cold and tired as us and at around 0200hrs, they huddled together against the gable wall under a blanket.

By 0300hrs, they appeared to be sleeping, their AK’s resting on their knees.

The only street lighting was at the junction of the main drag and Al Mufti’s road, and that consisted of a solitary flickering streetlamp. Even if the sentries were awake they would have little chance of seeing us. From leaving the safety of our LUP, until we got within fifty yards of our target, I reckoned we would be in pitch black.

Well, so I thought.

We’d soon find out.

At 0330hrs, we bunched up with one last brew, looking out over the ridge of the wadi in silence.

My devastatingly cunning plan was to get us all in close to support Frankie, staying in the inky blackness just over fifty metres from the plot, fanning out across the opening of the junction and covering the Yorkshireman’s back. It wasn’t just a case of putting the whole patrol in the firing line, it was a psychological boost for the man at the sharp end.

My call.

Once Frankie had fitted the device to the underside of the Shogun, we would all return to the wadi, and begin the long patient wait for Al-Mufti to set off to work.

With our target safely tucked in his Shogun, Frankie would then remotely detonate the device from the cover of our LUP, taking out all three vehicles in one hit.

Then, and this was my brilliant idea, rather than run west to the border as the enemy would expect, we would turn north and stay in the wadi for a couple of k’s, then turn, and hopefully avoid any search parties.

Easy eh?

At 0345hrs we had one final check of our kit. Once we were happy that we had no loose flaps, no undone buttons, everything squared away as it should be, we moved.

Des had the extra weight of the AW50 and four clips. Butch and I had our M16’s, grenades and Brownings.

Frankie checked his device one last time and handed me his M16. He needed speed of movement.

“Let’s go blow something up,” he said.





Des Cogan’s Story:

Rick gave the signal for us to leave the wadi and we moved at a steady pace, being as quiet as possible. The darkness was both a blessing and a curse. The uneven ground was difficult to assess with such little ambient light. The last thing we needed was a turned ankle or worse.

Once we’d covered about 400 yards or so, we fanned out, giving us eyes on the gable of the target premises, the front door, and all three vehicles parked out front.

The two sentries were still huddled together under their blanket. I wriggled myself into the prone position with the AW50, and took a close look at them using the Hensoldt NSV 80 night-vision sight. From what I could see, they both slept like babies.

Game on.

As I lay on the ground, I instantly felt the cold of the desert floor filter through my clothing, and was glad that we didn’t intend to sit in position for too long.

Each mag for the AW50 held five Raufoss Mk 211 rounds. The wee buggers would slice through light armour and then blow the fuck out of whatever was inside.

As Frankie set off on his lonely task to fit his device under the Shogun, I quietly slid the action forwards and took aim at the M2 sitting on the top of the Toyota.

If the shit hit the fan, that was the first thing to go.

Butch was off to my left and had the sentries covered. Rick, to my right, had Frankie’s back. As the wee Yorkshireman hit the corner of the street, he was momentarily bathed in the amber glow of the solitary streetlight.

The boy was no fool, and he didn’t stay visible for more than a second or two and hugged the building opposite, staying in the shadows.

There was hardly any moon, just enough to see the vague shape of a man scurry across the street and roll under the target vehicle.

Frankie was on plot. It was 0412hrs.

Three minutes later, the Imam of the nearby mosque picked up his mic to announce prayer time, and the whole fucking job went to shit.





Rick Fuller’s Story:

Frankie was under the Shogun. I could just make out the slightest movement. As the call to prayer echoed along the street, I felt a knot in my gut the size of a football. The door to the building opposite opened and guys started to trudge sleepily out into the darkness of the street. This time, some wandered towards the mosque itself like moths to a flame, whilst others, stuck with their routine and lay down mats in the road. Despite the hour, and their purpose, all carried weapons.

The two sentries pushed off their blanket, stretched themselves and sauntered towards the front door, directly opposite the Shogun. One rooted about in an alcove and pulled out two mats.

They were going to kneel and pray within feet of Frankie.

I clicked off the safety on my M16 and made sure I had both of them in view. Pushing the pressel on my shortwave comms, I whispered into my mic.

“Standby… standby… standby…”

Our luck was out. As the first of the guards touched his nose to the ground, something must have triggered in his peripheral vision.

He jumped up, startled and grabbed his AK. I knew the best I could do was prevent him from giving away Frankie’s position, so I put two in his chest and two more in his partner, before either could get a shot away. A split second later, the whole place went off.