THE FOLLOWER: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 4)(12)

That said, the breakfast was excellent.

No sooner had I finished my tea, in walked Willis and the man mountain from the door blocking incident.

“Good morning Ma’am,” she chirped. “I hope you slept well.”

I lay down my cup.

“I think you already know that Britney. Especially as there are at least four cameras in this room. And now, in addition to my age, you know my brassier size too.”

I turned to the hulk. All six-six of him. Muscle beach would have paid the guy just to stand around.

“And did you enjoy my morning workout Mr Universe?”

There was a flash of perfect white USA teeth. And two raised, plucked eyebrows.

“Impressive Ma’am,” he said, his voice as deep as a cavern.

I gave him a sarcastic smile and wasn’t sure if he got the message.

“Irony is lost on you people, isn’t it?” I added.

A little of Sgt Willis’ perfect customer service skills slipped as she bit onto my remark. I figured it may have the desired effect. The ‘you people’ part hitting the spot. The Americans being a nation of individuals who care more about where they once came from, rather than where they actually were.

“My people,” she announced. “Hailed from Cornwall, England, Ma’am,” She just about held her smile, and added. “So, I think I might have a grasp.”

I stood, as we were obviously going somewhere.

“Why is it,” I began. “That you felt the need to tell me that Cornwall is in England? Weirdly, us Brits know that kind of thing.”

Man-mountain turned to Willis. “Is that ironic?”

I gave up.

I was marched along three long corridors. Their cement rendered walls were painted drab army green and my flip-flops slapped against recently mopped, cream coloured, linoleum tiled floors. The further we marched, the more the decor improved, and with it, the security.

Card-swipe doors, turned into card-swipe doors with an armed guard attached.

Finally, we arrived at a set of double oak numbers. Nicely varnished, brass fittings, polished within an inch of their life. No card key here, just a pair of large shiny handles, guarded by two large shiny Marine types.

One guard checked Willis’ ID and nodded to the second. He opened up and I was shown inside.

Rick and Des were already seated in beautiful leather wing backed armchairs. Both were dressed identically. White crew neck T-shirts, camo combats, plastic flip-flops. One large Chesterfield chair remained, obviously reserved for yours truly.

Des looked quite chirpy.

Rick looked like he was about to kill everyone.

I sat.

Des leaned over. “You alright hen?”

I nodded.

“Did ye try the breakfast?... I had the blueberry pancakes.”

“Poached eggs,” I said. Then leaned towards Rick. “What about you?”

He glared at me. “Do you think we can wait to see what the fuck this is all about before we start exchanging cookery tips?”

Des winked at me. “He didnea sleep well, I reckon. And he’s no keen on his trousers either.”

There was more glaring until the doors opened again and in walked two men.

Willis and our two shiny Marine types visibly stiffened, but remained in their ‘at ease’ position.

Not military then.

The first guy in was medium height, mid-forties, good teeth, good shape. Definitely not short of a dollar or two. He had a weathered face. Probably due to spending his down time sailing his own yacht, or such like. He was dressed casually, which I considered was for our benefit. Levis, white open-necked shirt. Sleeves rolled two turns. His whole demeanour announced. ‘I’m a busy man, but pretty chilled about it.’

The second looked a whole new ball game. Late-twenties, six two, broad shouldered, sandy blonde buzz cut, black suit, white shirt, black tie. He carried, in a shoulder holster, something chrome, none standard issue. He looked like a serious player.

Delta Force?

He turned to our guards.

“That will be all, thank you, Sgt Willis.”

He had a surprisingly quiet and calm Southern drawl that didn’t match his appearance, and for some un-godly reason, reminded me of Tom Hanks in ‘Green Mile.’

Mr Rich but casual, perched himself on the end of an imposing, ornate desk that sat in front of our three chairs. Indeed, the whole room was impressive. Gone were all traces of the drab olive paint and linoleum flooring. These were replaced by delicate pastel shades and thick piled carpet. All the furnishings looked like they were straight out of Chaplin’s of Chelsea, and I considered that the room would usually be reserved for the highest ranking visitors to the base.

Had I not been wearing Bridget Jones’ pants and plastic flip-flops, I may have been more comfortable.

Tom Hanks stayed where he was, between us and the exit, hands clasped in front of him, eyes sharp.

Both men waited until we were alone. Mr Casual opened his palms and smiled. Unlike Forrest Gump, he had a sharp East Coast accent, Boston maybe? I trusted him as much as a Hong Kong taxi meter.

“Good morning folks. My name is Mason Carver…I trust you have been treated well, and you haven’t been inconvenienced too much.”

Rick folded his arms, but stayed quiet. I figured he wouldn’t be silent for long.

Once Mr Casual realised he wasn’t getting a cosy reply, he dropped the hotel manager act and we finally got on with it.