The Fellowship, page 13
part #5 of Rick Fuller Series
“Yes, Ma’am,” offered Mitch, unable to stop himself smiling.
Des turned to the American. I’d never seen him so dark. “Get yer foot down son. Ye can flirt when we have the boy back, eh?”
Des’ phone was connected via Bluetooth to the car’s system and when it rang, I jumped involuntarily.
Simon’s voice boomed through the speakers.
“These mushes have just stopped at Birch, Mr Cogan. The service’s ANPR system flagged it up three minutes ago. I’ll call you back when they pull off.”
Except, he didn’t.
Mitch drove us quickly, without drawing attention to the fact, and we made good progress out of the city and onto the North West’s busiest motorway network.
Once we hit the M62 we were forced to slow due to the obligatory roadworks, but finally, with the phone still silent, we pulled into the tired looking service station.
As with most of the UK’s motorway establishments, parking is limited to two hours, or the driver is subjected to a hefty fine, hence the ANPR system. This is connected to a main server which in turn speaks to a separate site that dishes out the tickets to the unfortunate driver. No doubt it was the ticketing site that Egghead had hacked into, giving us our heads up. Clever, eh?
Birch is a relatively small service area, but still had capacity for over two hundred cars.
It took us just over five minutes to find the Passat we wanted... empty.
I stepped out of the back seat of our Audi with Sellers in tow. We walked to the rear of the target vehicle. I tapped the boot with my fingers and put my ear to the metal. Des was down in his seat, SLP in hand, keeping his eyes firmly on the car. I looked to him and shook my head.
Mitch had taken up a spot by the main doors of the services which gave him a view of the VW and eyes on anyone leaving the food court.
Happy that Kaya wasn’t trussed up in the trunk, we girls trawled the various American takeaways and coffee shops inside the services for any sign of our two targets or Kaya himself. After checking the ladies, we called on Mitch to do the same with the gents.
Ten minutes on, we were pretty sure our targets had got away on their toes.
We returned to the Audi full of frustration.
Des was on the phone to Simon in an instant. I could see him nodding and hear his muffled voice from inside the car. Finally, he rolled down the window.
“Egghead says that the camera systems that cover the inside of the building and the car parks themselves are not connected to a server… he can’t access them remotely. We’re going to have to ask the duty manager nicely.”
“I’ll do that, Cogan,” offered Sellers. “I’m a persuasive kind of girl.”
“Knock yourself out, kid,” said Des. “Just be quick about it.”
Sellers shot the Scot a look, checked herself in the reflection of the Audi’s windows and strode off in the direction of the main building.
Des turned to me. “Keep an eye on her, hen. I’m not convinced.”
I nodded and scuttled after our new employee. As I reached Sellers’ shoulder, she smiled. “He doesn’t trust me, does he?”
“You surprised?”
She shook her head. “Not at all… but he will, soon.”
We strode into WH Smiths. Sellers’ smile disappeared from her face as she approached the middle aged man at the counter. The Queen herself would have been proud of her accent.
“Good evening, would you call your duty manager as a matter of urgency, please?”
The guy looked Sellers up and down. “What’s the problem, love?”
Sellers cocked her head. “Are you the duty manager?”
“No, I’m just saying…”
“Well, don’t just say,” spat Sellers. “I want the duty manager. I’ve told you it’s urgent. And I’m certainly not your love.”
The guy took on a look that told me he’d dealt with many irate customers in his time. I guessed he was the late-night guy, too. Just started his ten hour slog. That meant he drew the short straw. He had the pissed up coach trips, the stag and hen do’s and all the crazies that roamed the motorway networks in the wee small hours to deal with.
He was unimpressed.
The guy was short and stocky. His work shirt had the sleeves rolled down, trying to hide a mixture of professional and self-inflicted tattoos. Company policy, no doubt. His manager probably bent the rules to employ him in the first place, it being hard to find anyone who would work through the night for the money on offer.
He was a Manc, maybe making the trip out each night from Stretford or Hulme, or one of the other less salubrious areas of the city.
He offered a thin sarcastic smile. “Well, as you ask so nicely, I’ll call her for you. But she’ll ask me what the problem is before she even moves her arse from her office, so it would help if you could give me a clue as to what your issue is… love.”
Sellers leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, one elbow on Mr Tattoo’s counter, eyes dark. “Then you’d better call security.”
The guy looked puzzled.
Sellers’s explained. “Look, old chap, if your Duty Manager isn’t standing in front of me in two minutes flat, I’m going to… now what do you Mancunians call it? … Kick off big time.”
Sellers’ ‘off’ sounded more like ‘ourf.’
The guy’s smile widened. “Yeah right, I’m terrified.”
He should have been.
Victoria reached out and grabbed the guy by the wrist. Her left, his left. It was a flashing movement. She took one step, twisted her body so her right hip was against the counter, brought her free arm around at a right angle and, using all the kinetic energy of her twisting torso, connected her palm with Mr Tattoo’s elbow.
The guy found himself, bent at the waist, his arm flat to his counter, palm up, unable to move.
“Want me to break it?” asked Sellers quietly.
The guy shook his head.
She released him and checked her watch.
“Two fucking minutes,” she said.
I did my best to hide my smile as I gazed at the rows of monthly magazines on the shelves.
Mr Tattoos rubbed his elbow and spoke into his headset.
Sellers re-applied her lipstick in a nearby mirror as if nothing had happened. In under a minute, we had a Duty Manager and a very overweight security guard eyeing us suspiciously.
Sellers got in my ear. “We are in luck, darling. The stars are shining upon us.”
“Patricia!” announced Sellers, stepping forward, arm outstretched.
“Ma’am? My God. That you?” offered the Duty Manager, seemingly delighted to see Sellers.
The pair shook heartily.
Patricia turned to the fat security guy. “I won’t be needing you, Colin. This is my old CO from my army days… I’ll deal with this from here.”
Sellers gestured in my direction. “Lauren North… Lance Corporal Pat Murphy.”
The woman smiled at me. She was around my height, a few pounds heavier, but trim and fit. Her hair was cut short and coloured a deep burgundy. She spoke with a north eastern accent. Sunderland, Middlesbrough, maybe. “Ex Corporal, Ms North. I’m a civvy now, as you can see.”
I smiled and kept my mouth shut.
Sellers pressed on. “Now Pat, I’d love to catch up, and now I know where you are, we most definitely will, but we need a quick look at your CCTV. It’s very urgent… sorry.”
Pat looked unsure for a moment. “Is this official business, Ma’am?”
Sellers was flat calm. “Of course it is.”
Pat nodded. “This way, Ma’am.”
And off we went, no ID, no questions. I was learning a great deal about Victoria Sellers in a short space of time.
She commanded respect and I could see why. More importantly, she could handle herself and I had a feeling we would all need to be at our best in that department in the coming days.
The CCTV room was small and cramped. It doubled as an office for the guards working the service area. Various items of hi-viz clothing, dangled from hooks screwed to the back of the door, a small fridge had been pushed in one corner, a tray, four mugs and other brewing kit sat alongside a grubby kettle.
“Brew?” offered Pat Murphy.
We both declined.
Sellers seemed to know her way around the CCTV system and as Murphy looked on, quickly flicked through the couple of dozen cameras located both on the East and Westbound areas. Moments later, she had a clear shot of the Passat.
She stood. “Okay, Corporal, I need to know what has happened to the occupants of this vehicle. We believe two adult males, and one young boy. Are they still on the services? Or have they changed to another car? Quick as you like.”
Pat Murphy immediately took Sellers’ place and began searching the system. An alarm sounded as the car’s registration appeared on a separate screen with a time stamp underneath it.
“Time of arrival,” said Murphy, typing rapidly.
“We had that,” said Sellers.
Murphy eyed her old CO. “I suppose you would,” she said perceptively. “But the rest of the system is local. It’s not connected to the internet so can’t be… accessed.”
Sellers nodded knowingly and waited.
Moments later, we had the first pictures of our targets. The two men Des had described so accurately slipped from the VW and went around to the boot.
They popped it and removed a large suitcase. It took both of them to lift it out and they were very careful to sit it on its wheels before moving off on foot, the youngest pulling it alongside him.
Sellers was strident, challenging. “Where do they go from there?”
Murphy was on the ball, too. She turned to Sellers, horrified. “You think the kid is in the case?”
Sellers was impassive. She shrugged. “We won’t know unless we find them, eh, Corporal?”
“One moment, Ma’am,” nodded Murphy, working the system.
“There,” I said.” “Camera nine.”
Sure enough, there they were, dragging the case with them. Then they were gone.
For almost a full minute, the men were out of shot. No amount of searching would trace them.
“Blackspots,” announced, Murphy. “The whole area is covered in them. We complain, but…”
Then Murphy found them again, and it wasn’t good news.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
When Fin had described the land as flat and open around the target, he hadn’t been exaggerating. As we closed in, I could see a huge barn behind the main house and several other smaller outbuildings dotted around a large floodlit yard. There were three vehicles visible, one Shogun 4 x 4, a small saloon that looked like a Hyundai or some such Far Eastern offering and a big black 7 series BMW.
“Nice motor,” I said.
“They’ve got company,” said Fin with a frown on his face. “The Beamer ain’t theirs.”
There were no signs of any goods vehicles, so I presumed the truck and the AK’s were nestled safely in the barn.
As we drove past the farm, just two hundred yards from the road, lights burned in both the downstairs and upper rooms.
I imagined our boys buttoning their Ben Sherman’s and splashing on the Old Spice in anticipation of their pub crawl in the fair city.
It wasn’t going to be their night.
We drove steadily for about two miles before we came to a suitable place to execute our ‘dirty’ plan.
Our chosen plot was a small layby, large enough for two cars, but only just. It didn’t seem well used. The solitary litter bin was almost empty and the usual plastic cartons and bottles didn’t decorate the trees that lined the edge. There was a small post and rail fence bordering the land beyond.
I kicked the top rail off one section making it a simple stride over to get myself out of cover and alongside the Ford when the time came.
The expression of taking someone ‘dirty,’ is an American one, often used by Delta Force and Recon Marines. Delta used the ploy in Iraq and Afghanistan to great effect, managing to kidnap or kill dozens of known Taliban or Al Qaeda in the process.
Basically, your target believes that they are in a safe vehicle with a trusted occupant, usually the driver. However, the driver is primed to pull up at an agreed location. He ensures the doors of the vehicle are unlocked. His co-conspirator, then appears from nowhere, opens the door, slides in either alongside or behind the target and either slots them, usually a double tap, spine shot, or takes them prisoner. The vehicle then drives away with its living or dead cargo and either dumps the corpse or hands over its shiny new prisoner at a safe location.
This ploy can be used anywhere, from a busy city street to a quiet country lane and was given the nickname ‘dirty’ as it often involved shooting an unarmed enemy in the back.
I’d never been to Iraq or Afghanistan, but I’d fought in Africa, the former Yugoslavia and in South America. Believe me, you didn’t give a shit where you shot the fuckers.
As we had two targets, Fin had agreed to take the front passenger, whereas I would take the guy in the rear. The beauty of the plan was its simplicity.
I was to wait in the treeline whilst Fin collected our players. Shortly after leaving the farm, Fin would announce that he needed a piss. He would pull over in our layby, I would step out from the darkness, slide in the back seat and it would all be over in seconds.
Piece of piss, eh?
Yeah, right.
I watched the tail lights of the Ford disappear into the night, then listened as the engine note grew quieter until the only sounds were those of the night creatures living in the woods around me.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I was just able to make out the shadows of the trees opposite as they rocked in the breeze.
This was a lonely spot. The chances of anyone hearing four sharp cracks from two pistols fired at point blank inside a car was almost nil.
I stepped over the fence and tucked myself into cover. Dropping my day sack that contained the MAC10 at my feet, I checked over my Browning and waited.
Fin had been gone less than ten minutes when I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.
As it was way too soon for his return, I took a step backwards and settled myself further into the undergrowth away from the car’s headlights.
The vehicle in question was a Nissan people carrier of some sort. As it approached my position, it slowed and without indicating, pulled over into the layby. The driver instantly killed the engine and lights and I was plunged into total darkness.
Once again my eyes began the slow process of making the best of any ambient light, but within moments, they were saved the job and all became clear.
The male occupant of the Nissan began checking his phone and the car’s interior was lit up like a Christmas tree.
I could see the driver was a guy in his late forties with a shock of greying hair that fell across his forehead. The phone also gave me a fair view of his passenger. Female, much younger, pretty, and as far as I could make out, quickly becoming naked.
As he lay down his phone I could hear the tinny muffled sounds of music.
I shook my head in dismay and cursed my luck. To add insult to injury, Lionel Richie and Three Times a fucking Lady drifted from the car.
I always hated that song.
The pair locked in an embrace for a few moments, as the guy began the age old ritual of trying to recline the girl’s seat, whilst vainly attempting to keep the romantic feel to the whole proceedings.
In my limited experience of these things, nigh on impossible.
With Fin now minutes away, the only thing I could hope for, was that the guy suffered from premature ejaculation.
As Lionel gave way to Westlife, it didn’t look good.
I’d seen operations compromised in many different ways over the years, but a copulating couple was not a problem I’d encountered before.
I ran the previous few minutes through in my head. What exactly had I seen and heard?
The guy, older, suit jacket, shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
Just finished work?
The girl, half his age, keen to indulge in some early evening sexual activity, peeling off her clothes.
Rushed for time maybe?
What else? The phone, the cheesy music and… a child seat in the back.
Of course, hence the reason they had not climbed over into the far more comfortable rear.
I took a few steps towards the fence, pulled my own phone from my pocket and selected the camera function.
Then, walking as quickly as my eyes allowed me, I made my way around to the passenger side of the car, gave the front window a sharp rap with my knuckles and fired the camera for the first time.
The flash bathed the whole layby in light and I saw the guy twist his head in shock. He was red faced from his exertions, eyes wide in surprise. The girl however, appeared non-plussed and simply looked straight at me with a knowing smile on her face. I took a second and third shot then made a show of capturing the registration plate of the Nissan.
The guy began to bark at the girl to cover herself. He was struggling to roll into the driver’s seat. With his trousers around his ankles and his bare arse like a shiny pink moon in full view through the windscreen, he began to curse me.
“Who the fuck is yees, ye bastard?”
I continued to shoot frame after frame, all angles, striding around the car, knees bent like a deranged paparazzi. The girl hadn’t moved. She lay naked, displaying all she had to offer on the reclined seat as the guy struggled to pull up his trousers and fire the engine.
