Read Online THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) by Robert White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert White
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had stopped. I nearly spoiled the whole plan at one point by shooting him in the face, he was blubbering that much.
I stepped out into the cool air and stretched my back. Alfie was incapable of any movement. I lifted the tailgate of the Golf and removed a canvas sack which contained everything I would need to conclude the grisly business. I rigged a hose I’d bought from B&Q to the Golf’s exhaust using some gaffer tape, and pushed the business end through an inch of open window. By the time I strolled the ten minutes to my van Alfie Summers was dead.
Now I could point out that Alfie was the type who gets young children hooked on drugs. Moreover, of course, he did beat Tanya’s seventeen-year-old cousin to death with a house-brick. Did that excuse my line of work? Did it validate my actions? All I can say to you is I’d lost many hours of sleep over the last ten years, but I wouldn’t lose any for Alfie or his kind.
No one would shed a tear for me either.
I pushed the van hard, all the way to my lock-up on Oldham Street. Once I’d parked it in a bay, I lit the gas burner on the internal furnace which heated the unit and destroyed anything incriminating in the process. I pushed all the clothing I had on, including the trainers I liked and latex gloves, into the flames. I dressed in a pair of Levis and a Lacoste polo shirt, dropped the cash and pills into my small safe, locked up and hailed a cab back to my flat. Twenty minutes later I sat on my designer sofa and surfed through meaningless TV channels.
Not for the first time I felt a pang of loneliness.
Around one a.m. I gave up and went to bed. Sleep brought the usual mix of nightmares. Alfie Summers didn’t figure.
I’m an early riser. I usually wake at seven-thirty a.m. and have breakfast at eight. Once I have consumed my grapefruit, forty grams of bran cereal, low fat milk and two cups of black coffee, Brazilian fresh ground, not instant rubbish, I am ready to start my day.
I took the lift in my apartment block to the gym which was my first task at ten .am. I ran ten kilometers on the treadmill to warm up. Then weights, chest and triceps alternated with back and biceps exercises. Twenty minutes of abdominal work and two thousand meters on the rower to finish. A shower, shit and a shave (not necessarily in that order) and the day was mine.
The bad dreams of the previous night behind me, I read the daily papers in peace. Apparently there were two unfortunate souls, who due to drug abuse had taken their own lives, the first by throwing himself from a sixteenth floor balcony, the second, by a mixture of carbon-monoxide poisoning and a drug overdose.
A picture of Jimmy’s body covered with a tarpaulin and a shot of the GTi, with the hose still attached, sat at the top of the articles. The headline, DRUGS PUSH PUSHERS TO SUICIDE, slapped you in the face. I wonder who’d thought that little gem up?
Of course, every two-bit grass in Salford would be telling the law how these two deaths were really underworld hits. The Jacks, in turn, would be telling their snouts to stop using so much bugle.
The people that mattered knew the truth.
Tanya had already been on the phone. My fee had been deposited by code number direct to an account in the Isle of Man. I’d move it later. She laughed at the suggestion that she should sell me the Jag.
She’d come around.
Now don’t go thinking that I went around knocking off people every week. This had just been a busy, and I might add, very profitable time. By the time I’d collected what was in my lock-up, I’d have banked thirty-five thousand pounds in just under six days. Not bad work.
With that in mind, it had been some time since I had a break. You know, even people in my job needed a holiday.
I flicked through the usual holiday web pages on my laptop, unable to decide where to go, but knowing I wanted to go somewhere, recharge my batteries and feel some sun on my back.
I gave up and clicked on the British
I stepped out into the cool air and stretched my back. Alfie was incapable of any movement. I lifted the tailgate of the Golf and removed a canvas sack which contained everything I would need to conclude the grisly business. I rigged a hose I’d bought from B&Q to the Golf’s exhaust using some gaffer tape, and pushed the business end through an inch of open window. By the time I strolled the ten minutes to my van Alfie Summers was dead.
Now I could point out that Alfie was the type who gets young children hooked on drugs. Moreover, of course, he did beat Tanya’s seventeen-year-old cousin to death with a house-brick. Did that excuse my line of work? Did it validate my actions? All I can say to you is I’d lost many hours of sleep over the last ten years, but I wouldn’t lose any for Alfie or his kind.
No one would shed a tear for me either.
I pushed the van hard, all the way to my lock-up on Oldham Street. Once I’d parked it in a bay, I lit the gas burner on the internal furnace which heated the unit and destroyed anything incriminating in the process. I pushed all the clothing I had on, including the trainers I liked and latex gloves, into the flames. I dressed in a pair of Levis and a Lacoste polo shirt, dropped the cash and pills into my small safe, locked up and hailed a cab back to my flat. Twenty minutes later I sat on my designer sofa and surfed through meaningless TV channels.
Not for the first time I felt a pang of loneliness.
Around one a.m. I gave up and went to bed. Sleep brought the usual mix of nightmares. Alfie Summers didn’t figure.
I’m an early riser. I usually wake at seven-thirty a.m. and have breakfast at eight. Once I have consumed my grapefruit, forty grams of bran cereal, low fat milk and two cups of black coffee, Brazilian fresh ground, not instant rubbish, I am ready to start my day.
I took the lift in my apartment block to the gym which was my first task at ten .am. I ran ten kilometers on the treadmill to warm up. Then weights, chest and triceps alternated with back and biceps exercises. Twenty minutes of abdominal work and two thousand meters on the rower to finish. A shower, shit and a shave (not necessarily in that order) and the day was mine.
The bad dreams of the previous night behind me, I read the daily papers in peace. Apparently there were two unfortunate souls, who due to drug abuse had taken their own lives, the first by throwing himself from a sixteenth floor balcony, the second, by a mixture of carbon-monoxide poisoning and a drug overdose.
A picture of Jimmy’s body covered with a tarpaulin and a shot of the GTi, with the hose still attached, sat at the top of the articles. The headline, DRUGS PUSH PUSHERS TO SUICIDE, slapped you in the face. I wonder who’d thought that little gem up?
Of course, every two-bit grass in Salford would be telling the law how these two deaths were really underworld hits. The Jacks, in turn, would be telling their snouts to stop using so much bugle.
The people that mattered knew the truth.
Tanya had already been on the phone. My fee had been deposited by code number direct to an account in the Isle of Man. I’d move it later. She laughed at the suggestion that she should sell me the Jag.
She’d come around.
Now don’t go thinking that I went around knocking off people every week. This had just been a busy, and I might add, very profitable time. By the time I’d collected what was in my lock-up, I’d have banked thirty-five thousand pounds in just under six days. Not bad work.
With that in mind, it had been some time since I had a break. You know, even people in my job needed a holiday.
I flicked through the usual holiday web pages on my laptop, unable to decide where to go, but knowing I wanted to go somewhere, recharge my batteries and feel some sun on my back.
I gave up and clicked on the British
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