Read Online THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) by Robert White - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert White
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mouthing off even more about what he was going to do to me. Mainly it involved shooting me in the mouth. The other two were gaining in bottle and made the odd remark.
I felt the need to reassert my authority, pushed the revolver into my left hand and kept it pointed at Alfie. I then removed a knuckleduster from my pocket.
It’s an old fashioned item, the knuckleduster, not popular with modern thuggery. I’d had it made for me on holiday in Hong Kong. I thought it an item of beauty.
I punched 17 and Stupid repeatedly and heavily to the head. Each blow with the duster caused severe damage. Alfie was silenced and his mate was sick over his Rockports.
The kid’s face looked like a burst sausage. He lolled forward, bleeding badly and unconscious. Only the ties kept him in his seat. I had made my point. Even Alfie was looking worried.
I hit Alfie’s mate just once. All fifteen stone of me connected with the bridge of his nose. It exploded and I got blood on my sweater. He was screaming and little sick bubbles had formed at the corners of his mouth. I checked that there was no blood on my K Swiss trainers. I liked them and thought to wear them again.
“You owe the Richards brothers from the Moss five grand,” I said. Then I noticed the merest speck of claret on one shoe. I inwardly cursed as I realised I would have to burn them with my other clothes.
Alfie had lost the bravery contest. He blubbered about not having the cash. He’d spent it on gear. He could get it by the end of the week.
“I want it now.”
I did a quick search of the room with a little verbal help from Alfie and found nearly three grand in cash. I reckoned that there were two-thousand-plus tabs, which fitted neatly into a plastic freezer bag I’d brought with me.
I lifted Alfie’s mate’s face upward. I looked at his terrified eyes and spoke deliberately.
“I’m going to let you, and your young friend here, go now. Don’t come back.”
The hand-made duster went in one pocket and I removed a beautiful butterfly knife from my breast. It was a fantastic item with a solid silver casing. I cut them both free. 17 and Stupid fell to the floor. Alfie’s mate picked him up. “Sorry, boss, we won’t come back, he spluttered,” and they staggered toward the front door, shitting themselves.
As they fell toward the front door, I ushered Alfie out of the back door. The three K in cash and ten grand’s worth of tabs sat nicely in my pockets. I rolled up my balaclava and started the Golf with Alfie looking very worried in the passenger seat. After all, he wasn’t going to ID me.
Manchester’s Saddleworth Moor is infamous. The murderers Ian Brady and Myra Hindley buried their child victims there.
The Golf drove quite well for an old shed and I’d enjoyed throwing it around a bit on the country stretches, the Magnum in the door pocket mainly there as a deterrent should my prisoner decide to do something silly. Finally Alfie and I parked in a quiet little spot I’d selected five days ago. I then took my time forcing five of his own green bomber tabs into him. Within twenty minutes his command of the Queen’s best was unimpressive.
Alfie was of the opinion, in his tiny brainless head, that he’d been due a kicking and that was that. His big brave face kept up for a while but once we got to tab three, I think he got the message and the pleading started. After the pleading, came the tears.
So there I was again, the point of no return, a mercenary with no war to fight, no uniform to wear and no cause, only victims, designer clothes and piles of cash. This is what I’d become and some days I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror.
Fuck it.
I shook myself out of my brief malaise, fished two more tabs out of my pocket and stuffed them into Alfie’s mouth. OD level was close. The last one, I just popped in his gob like a sweet. The Magnum was redundant. I manoeuvred him onto the back seat. He muttered quiet gibberish. At least the tears
I felt the need to reassert my authority, pushed the revolver into my left hand and kept it pointed at Alfie. I then removed a knuckleduster from my pocket.
It’s an old fashioned item, the knuckleduster, not popular with modern thuggery. I’d had it made for me on holiday in Hong Kong. I thought it an item of beauty.
I punched 17 and Stupid repeatedly and heavily to the head. Each blow with the duster caused severe damage. Alfie was silenced and his mate was sick over his Rockports.
The kid’s face looked like a burst sausage. He lolled forward, bleeding badly and unconscious. Only the ties kept him in his seat. I had made my point. Even Alfie was looking worried.
I hit Alfie’s mate just once. All fifteen stone of me connected with the bridge of his nose. It exploded and I got blood on my sweater. He was screaming and little sick bubbles had formed at the corners of his mouth. I checked that there was no blood on my K Swiss trainers. I liked them and thought to wear them again.
“You owe the Richards brothers from the Moss five grand,” I said. Then I noticed the merest speck of claret on one shoe. I inwardly cursed as I realised I would have to burn them with my other clothes.
Alfie had lost the bravery contest. He blubbered about not having the cash. He’d spent it on gear. He could get it by the end of the week.
“I want it now.”
I did a quick search of the room with a little verbal help from Alfie and found nearly three grand in cash. I reckoned that there were two-thousand-plus tabs, which fitted neatly into a plastic freezer bag I’d brought with me.
I lifted Alfie’s mate’s face upward. I looked at his terrified eyes and spoke deliberately.
“I’m going to let you, and your young friend here, go now. Don’t come back.”
The hand-made duster went in one pocket and I removed a beautiful butterfly knife from my breast. It was a fantastic item with a solid silver casing. I cut them both free. 17 and Stupid fell to the floor. Alfie’s mate picked him up. “Sorry, boss, we won’t come back, he spluttered,” and they staggered toward the front door, shitting themselves.
As they fell toward the front door, I ushered Alfie out of the back door. The three K in cash and ten grand’s worth of tabs sat nicely in my pockets. I rolled up my balaclava and started the Golf with Alfie looking very worried in the passenger seat. After all, he wasn’t going to ID me.
Manchester’s Saddleworth Moor is infamous. The murderers Ian Brady and Myra Hindley buried their child victims there.
The Golf drove quite well for an old shed and I’d enjoyed throwing it around a bit on the country stretches, the Magnum in the door pocket mainly there as a deterrent should my prisoner decide to do something silly. Finally Alfie and I parked in a quiet little spot I’d selected five days ago. I then took my time forcing five of his own green bomber tabs into him. Within twenty minutes his command of the Queen’s best was unimpressive.
Alfie was of the opinion, in his tiny brainless head, that he’d been due a kicking and that was that. His big brave face kept up for a while but once we got to tab three, I think he got the message and the pleading started. After the pleading, came the tears.
So there I was again, the point of no return, a mercenary with no war to fight, no uniform to wear and no cause, only victims, designer clothes and piles of cash. This is what I’d become and some days I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror.
Fuck it.
I shook myself out of my brief malaise, fished two more tabs out of my pocket and stuffed them into Alfie’s mouth. OD level was close. The last one, I just popped in his gob like a sweet. The Magnum was redundant. I manoeuvred him onto the back seat. He muttered quiet gibberish. At least the tears
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