THE FOLLOWER: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 4)(18)

Mitch sat in silence in the passenger seat. Either he wasn’t the talkative type, or he was following a brief of least said, the better.

Either way, it suited me.

The Manchester traffic was its usual ponderous self and it took a full hour to drive to my place in Bowden. The American didn’t attempt to move as I pulled up outside my apartment building. He just gave it a quick glance.

“Nice,” he said.

Ten minutes later, I’d ditched my black Paul Smith number and found olive Ralph Lauren cargo’s and a cream polo.

I gave Simon, our friendly tech-head a call to ensure he was still awake and got back on the road.

“So, what’s your story, Mitch? How long have you been here in England?”

“Just over eighteen hours. I was in Germany when the shit hit the fan. I got the first flight out.”

“Does that happen a lot in the Drugs and Alcohol Agency?”

Mitch turned slightly. “I go where I’m told, Sir. I don’t ask too many questions.”

I took that as a ‘mind your own business,’ nodded and hit the gas as we made the M60 slip.

Changing the subject, I asked, “What’s your background, Mitch?”

“Me, I was just a small-town boy, you know? You’ve seen them places on the TV. All pick-up trucks, baseball caps and bottles of Bud. I needed to escape the place, so I joined the Marine Corps. After two tours of Iraq and two more in Afghanistan, I changed my camos and boots for black suits and shiny shoes.”

“The FBI, they picked you?”

“After a spell, in a way, yes Sir.”

“That Sir thing sits well with you doesn’t it, Mitch?”

He smiled. “Yeah, I suppose it does.”

“You must have impressed in your Marine Corps days to get picked up like that.”

“I did okay.”

I was sure he did.

“And now you get all the good jobs, Mitch, you get to work with our rag tag team.”

“Not so rag-tag Mr Fuller. I mean you were decorated five times, first one aged seventeen. And Mr Cogan, well he sits alongside you with four gallantry awards. Ms North, however, I admit is a paradox…”

“A paradox?”

“Yes Sir, I’ve been party to your recent MI5 files. I mean, Lauren is one tough lady, that’s for sure. The job in Belfast, her subsequent capture…I mean, wow. And she fights alongside you guys as if she was born to it. Yet she is so beautiful. You know what I mean?”

I knew what he meant.

“So, The Firm gave you access to our files?”

“That is correct. Cartwright, a man I’m sure you are familiar with, agreed it before you were selected for this role.”

“This selection process, how did it come about? I mean, this is The Firm granting the favour to end all favours. As I understood it, relations between our countries’ security services was strained to say the least.”

Mitch shrugged, “That kind of decision making is way above my pay grade, Mr Fuller. I’m just here to help is all.”

I managed a small laugh at that one. Here was a guy caught in the middle of a political shit storm. Jump the wrong way once, and his career was in tatters.

I also had the sneaking suspicion, this new found ‘special relationship,’ had something to do with our last job in Albania. After all, Carver was the head of the CIA’s Organised Crime unit. Goldsmith would have been high on his list of targets. And he would dearly have loved to have been able to interview him had Cartwright not pulled his smoke and mirrors trick in Strangeways jail.

I made another note to speak with our old spy chum in Whitehall.

I glanced over at the American.

“You know something, Mitch? This guy Larry Simpson, the cop that Lauren knows? There’s no love lost there. If he has his way, he’ll take us all down, even her. We could all end up facing prison for the rest of our days. And I’ll tell you this… I’ve already used my get out of jail free card with The Firm. So, I reckon if this job goes to hell in a handcart, the boys at Quantico, the Pentagon, Whitehall, or any other fucking place you care to mention will walk away and swear on the Bible they never met us. And that will apply to you too.”

Mitch nodded. “Makes you wonder why we do it uh?”

I gave him a wry smile. “Well for me, it’s the million dollars… Anyway, we’re here.”

Egghead, or Simon to his friends, lived with his mother Ethel, in a rambling old farmhouse just off the M60/M66 junction in a town called Ramsbottom.

The front yard leading to the entrance was full of junk, seemingly just thrown down and left. No one in the family ever intent on moving it. Weeds grew through the cracks in the path to the front door.

“Reminds me of my old trailer park,” muttered Mitch, kicking at a discarded paint tin.

I did a quick recce.

“Just watch my back, Mitch. If any of Ethel’s cats come near, you shoo them away, okay?”

Mitch nodded. “Now I understand the cat question…I take it you’re allergic?”

“No, Mitch, I wear good clothes. Just do as I ask, okay?”

I knocked and waited the usual year and a half for mum to open the door. Then we ran the traditional gauntlet of pussycat deposits as we climbed the stairs towards Simon’s room.

Finally, he appeared at the top landing. His face seemed even rosier than usual, as if he’d been doing something rather more physical than tapping a few keys.