The Fighter Read online

  Robert White

  Robert White is an Amazon best selling crime fiction author. His novels regularly appear in the top ten downloads in the Crime and Action and Adventure genres. Robert is an ex cop, who captures the brutality of northern British streets in his work. He combines believable characters, slick plots and vivid dialogue to immerse the reader in his fast paced story-lines. He was born in Leeds, England, the illegitimate son of a jazz musician and a factory girl. He hated school, leaving at age sixteen. After joining Lancashire Constabulary in 1980, he served for fifteen years, his specialism being Tactical Firearms. Robert then spent four years in the Middle East before returning to the UK in 2000. He now lives in Lancashire with his wife Nicola, and his two terrible terriers Flash and Tia.

  Novels

  Rick Fuller Thrillers:

  THE FIX

  THE FIRE

  THE FALL

  THE FOLLOWER

  THE FELLOWSHIP

  THE FIGHTER

  Det Sgt Striker Thrillers:

  UNREST

  SIX

  Stand alone novels:

  DIRTY

  BREAKING BONES

  THE

  FIGHTER

  A Rick Fuller Thriller

  Book SIX

  (The CIA Diaries Pt3)

  By

  Robert White

  www.robertwhiteauthor.co.uk

  First published in the UK 31/10/2019 by Robert White

  Copyright @ Robert White 2019

  Robert White has asserted his rights under the Copyright and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. This book is a work of fiction and, except for the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed in this work are fictional and do not represent the views of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1702508391

  For my wife, Nicola

  Acknowledgements

  I spent fifteen years of my life as a police officer, five as a member of a tactical firearms team. After leaving the Service I spent four years working in the Middle East and during that time I had the pleasure of meeting and working with several retired members of Her Majesty’s Special Forces.

  One evening, sitting in an Abu Dhabi bar, I was having a quiet beer with two such ex-servicemen I had grown to know quite well.

  Casually, one broached the subject of a job offer. They needed a third man to complete a team who were to collect a guy from Afghanistan and deliver him across the border to Pakistan. The job was worth several thousand pounds each and would last three days.

  I was extremely flattered to be asked.

  I knew my two friends would be soldiers until they took their last breath. Even then, in their mid-forties, they missed the adrenalin rush only that level of danger could bring.

  Personally, I didn’t feel qualified enough to join them and turned down the offer, something incidentally, I have regretted ever since.

  I would like to say a big thank-you to those two men, who, with their many late night tales of war and adventure, inspired me to write this work.

  “Success is not final; failure is not fatal. It is the courage to continue that counts.”

  Winston S. Churchill

  Des Cogan’s Story:

  Throughout my life, I’ve heard a lot of talk about hard men. In some quarters they hold a status close to royalty. Most of you will have met one or two. The guy down the local bar with the bad reputation. The one best avoided when he’s had one over the eight. These men, these subjects of local folklore are revered and feared in equal amounts. I’ve often noticed that women fawn over them, the age old instinct of protection mixed with sexual attraction making them irresistible. And it doesn’t stop at the girls either. Oh no, there’s many a boy eager to be associated with a roughneck. How many times have you heard that no one messes with wee Charlie, cos he’s big Norman’s bestie?

  Protection comes in many guises.

  I grew up in a city where being tough was preferred to being rich. If you’d asked many of my pals raised in the slums of Glasgow which they favoured, many would have chosen the ability to punch their way through life, rather than the silver spoon.

  Now, being tough and being brave don’t always go together. Just because a man wields a fearsome right hook, doesn’t mean he has heroism in his veins. Indeed, I’ve discovered that many a formidable scrapper could be found lacking when the real shite hit the fan. That is where the lines get blurred, and the hard man becomes little more than the school bully.

  Well, as the old saying goes, ye cannea choose yer folks, but ye can pick yer pals, so do it wisely. The thing is, no one is perfect. Therefore ye must forgive some idiosyncrasies in people, or ye’d find yersel on yer Bill more often than not. The flaws we have, are sometimes what makes us most interesting.

  I suppose this tale, or at least some of it, is about such things. About honour, friendship, loyalty and love.

  I was just shy of my eighteenth birthday, had just completed ‘P Company’ at Catterick in North Yorkshire and had been handed my maroon beret. ‘P Coy,’ is basically one long beasting, a series of eight horrendous tests undertaken over a 5-day period, designed to break you mentally as well as physically. My next move was the basic parachute course, but before then, I had five days leave to enjoy back in my hometown.

  Anne and I were already talking marriage, something that is unheard of today, but quite normal back then. Many of my peers were married before they got the key to the door. And quite a few found themselves teenage parents, too. We were hopelessly in love and wanted to spend every available moment together. However, a mixture of peer pressure and stubbornness ensured that one night of the five had been reserved for my mates, and an evening on the tiles to the ‘Barras.’

  The Barras, or the Barrowland Ballroom to give it its full title, was a two thousand seater venue situated in the heart of town. Me and my two old school pals, Jimmy McCreery and Big Gerry Galloway were off to see one of the great bands of the day, The Cure.

  Suffice to say, the Barras was not to be our first port of call. Oh no, we’d started at Granny Black’s in Candleriggs. A popular pub located beside the city’s Merchant Square. The place was busy from early morning, as tired traders downed dawn pints and tucked into full, fried breakfasts. It was a grand wee place that I visited for many years. Now, I’m not one for dwelling on the past, but long before Glasgow disappeared up its own arse and pandered to bearded hipsters, sipping craft beers and eating pulled pork in brioche buns, Granny Blacks was a top night out. Our merry band of brothers left there four pints deep, with smiles on our faces. Sadly, the place is gone today.

  Next was The Ben Nevis on Argyle Street. A corner boozer, famous for its selection of whiskeys and traditional Scottish folk music. At first the landlord had refused to serve the baby-faced Cogan, but when Big Gerry slapped his full week’s wage on the bar top, the guy gave us a beaming smile and the drink flowed.

  Three single malts were added to the four pints of Guinness and our small but intrepid band, ever so slightly staggered to our next venue, The Toll Booth.

  Situated close to The Barras, on Saltmarket, and a regular haunt of the Celtic fan, The Toll Booth was just about as Irish as you could get in Scotland. My old man used to sneak me in alongside my older brothers on match days and I loved the place. Big Gerry pushed his way to the bar, ordered our Guinness and the three of us began the age old game that young men played when allowed out drinking without their girls to keep an eye on them.

  Talent spotting.

  The Toll Booth was a drinkers pub and men outnumbered the women by quite some
percentage. However, the fact that the place was considered a ‘real’ Irish bar, ensured that it attracted tourists from all over the world, particularly Americans, determined to find their long lost Gaelic ancestry.

  These holidaying Yanks were not difficult to spot, with their perfect teeth and All American good looks. They also appeared to have money to burn and quite often, even in the brash and noisy atmosphere of the Toll Booth, you heard them before you saw them.

  My eyes were drawn to a group of six such valiant travellers, three boys and three extremely attractive girls.

  Now, as I’ve already alluded to, I was very much in love with my school sweetheart, and therefore, this game was just that, a game, where Gerry, Jimmy and my good self would eye up the girls and give each a score out of ten. Never played?

  Of course you have.

  The girls were all of similar age to us, late teens, early twenties. Two brunettes, one blonde. All had slim trim figures and wore skin-tight jeans to show this off.

  “The arse on the blonde is a ten,” said Big Gerry. “No danger.”

  “That’s as maybe,” offered Jimmy, stroking the bum fluff on his chin that he insisted was a goatee. “But the wee brunette has a fine pair of tits.”

  “I like the tall dark one,” I said, throwing my own opinion into the mix. “She has lovely teeth.”

  “Teeth!” laughed Gerry almost spitting out his Guinness. “What are you scoring here Cogan, fucking Red Rum?”

  “Aww the boy’s in love, eh?” offered Jimmy. “He’s too scared to score any good bits in case Anne hears about it.”

  “That’s not so,” I said, doing my best to stay with the program.

  Gerry downed his pint and gestured towards the coltish beauty. “Go on then, Cogan,” he said mid burp. “What score for that tight little bod?”

  I gave the girl another once over. Long slim legs, pert bottom, close to perfect proportions. She reminded me of a darker haired Dee Hepburn, the star of the movie Gregory’s Girl that Anne and I had watched the night before.

  “Nine point five,” I offered. “Tits could be a bit bigger.”

  I turned triumphantly to the lads to judge their reaction of my assessment. Unfortunately, rather than a raft of jovial banter, I was met with total silence and a pair of wide eyed statues.

  “There’s someone behind me isn’t there?” I asked.

  Big Gerry nodded slowly. He spoke to the mystery person over my shoulder. “We was just having the craic mate,” he said. “No harm done, eh? Just a Scottish thing, really.”

  “Really?” said the deep American voice from off to my right. “Well I think, in fact we think, that you have insulted our girlfriends.”

  I turned to face the voice. He was a tall broad shouldered guy; the typical Jock type we’d all seen in the American teen films flooding the cinemas. All suntanned gym bunny, floppy blond fringe and pearly white teeth. Standing behind him, were his two pals, both similar height and build and both looking particularly pissed off.

  Now, I must mention at this point, that Big Gerry, was only called ‘Big’ because he was clinically obese. His fighting prowess was about as good as his ability to sprint the hundred metres. In fact he resembled the Milkybar Kid, except he looked as if he’d eaten all Nestle’s stock in the process. That said, Jimmy McCreery was a different kettle of fish. Of similar physique to myself, built like a racing snake, he was a wiry little fucker who didn’t know when he was beat. I’d known him all my life, but always kept one eye on him, as you never knew which way he’d go if someone upset him.

  As we were outgunned and outnumbered, I’d hoped that he’d have his diplomatic head on, but it wasn’t to be.

  “Well yer out o’luck, pal,” shouted Jimmy over the jigs and reels blasting out overhead. “Cause we dinnea give a shite what ye think. So I reckon ye should just haud yer wheesht, and do one, eh?”

  Now, I’d just completed twenty one weeks of gruelling training. That is twenty one weeks of having someone screaming in your face, demanding you attack and kill another human being. I’d been taught to live alongside aggression, to learn to love the pain of battle. This is all very well in the controlled environment of the barracks as all that violence could be channelled positively, but take it out into the real world, add alcohol, and you had a very volatile mixture indeed.

  I’d always been a fiery fucker as a teen. I lacked the self-control that I developed in later life. At that age, I could no more have played the grey man as plait fog. There was viciousness in the air, and I’ll be honest, I relished it. The Yank had no idea what Jimmy meant by ‘hauding his wheesht,’ so I helped him out.

  “He means, keep that stupid mouth of yours shut and fuck off,” I shouted, feeling the skin on my back twitch as the adrenalin coursed through my body.

  The American set himself, bounced on the balls of his feet and raised his arms. He then did something that I’d only ever seen in the movies. He hit himself in the face with each of his balled fists then shook his head as if telling me he could take the blows.

  He looked a proper twat.

  His two mates shouted encouragement from a safe distance.

  “Go get him, Brad,” shouted one.

  “Knock him the fuck out,” yelled the other.

  What the Americans hadn’t counted on, was their surroundings. The Toll Booth was a Celtic pub. In essence, a Roman Catholic fortress where folks bled green and white hoops. What the boy should have done, was offer us outside into the street. More room to move, and more importantly, less likelihood of involving any of the Parkhead faithful.

  Brad may well have been a college student. He may well have come from a very well to do family who were paying for his European adventure, but he wasn’t too bright. He swung an almighty haymaker in my direction and missed by a good foot. His momentum spun him around and he clattered into one of the more robust locals who was enjoying his ninth pint of Beamish.

  This resulted in total chaos. I’m sure that Brad had seen many bar room brawls as he watched his favourite John Wayne movies back home. However, he wasn’t prepared for his first ‘Glasgow kiss.’

  The guy took one look at his half empty pint pot, scrutinised Brad for a second and then stuck the head on him. Brad’s nose exploded and he fell backwards onto a table of four. These Bhoys, unsure of who to blame for their upturned drinks, set about the nearest customers to them. Within ten seconds, the place was in uproar. Less than a minute later, our little group were running up Saltmarket towards the Barras, laughing our bollocks off, unscathed, bobbing and weaving and singing the Rocky theme as we went.

  The Cure weren’t too bad that night and I liked some of their songs. But I didnea care for all that eyeliner.

  As I knew it would be a late night, I’d planned to stay over at Jimmy McCreery’s flat so as not to disturb the Cogan clan. As it had been all my life, my own gaff was still full to bursting, my mother unable to say no to any of my brothers when it came to food or a bed for the night. Therefore, after close to six months of my own bed, hot water and three squares, I had little appetite to go back to sharing with my remaining siblings and their offspring.

  Jimmy was a year older than me and had moved out from his family home at the tender age of sixteen. For the first two years, he’d shared, but now, working three shifts at Allied Vehicles as a fitter, he had his own small flat in Possilpark.

  As you know, I was dragged up in the Gorbals and you didn’t get much rougher than that, but Possil was a whole new ball game to me. The housing had been built for the employees of the Saracen Foundry, but when they closed their doors in the mid-sixties the place fell on hard times. By the time Jimmy rented his wee one bed, the place had become the hub of Glasgow’s heroin trade. Gangs roamed the streets and it was not a place for a stroll after dark.

  Luckily, our taxi had dropped us right to Jimmy’s door and I sat in a worn but comfortable armchair
, sipping a cold can of Tennents and looking out of his window at the mean streets below.

  At the corner, under the lamp, was a dealer. He had two other guys looking out for him, one, across the road, the other a few yards behind him. The second boy ominously carried what appeared to be a baseball bat.

  I watched as a steady stream of people, both in cars and on foot, came and bought his wares.

  “It like this all the time?” I asked.

  “Every fuckin’ night, pal,” said Jimmy flopping down in an identical chair to my own. “First time in ages there ain’t been used needles in the lift.”

  “That’s fucked up,” I offered, lighting an Embassy.

  “Too right, pal,” said Jimmy, popping his can. “Wouldn’t catch me taking drugs, eh?”

  “Me either,” I said taking a long drag.

  Jimmy put on some tunes and turned up the gas fire. We sat in silence for a while, but I could tell that something was eating at him.

  “You all right there, pal?” I asked.

  He looked at the ceiling for a moment, then into my face.

  “D’ya like the army then, Des?”

  I nodded, took a drink. “Aye, I do. What makes ye ask, Jim?”

  He shrugged and looked ever so slightly sheepish. “I was just thinking, y’know? Interested like.”

  At my tender age, I wasn’t the reader of folks I am today. I should have known what his issue was, but I hadn’t seen it coming.

  “Thinking about what, pal?”

  Jimmy put down his can. “I’ve known ye since you was wee, eh? Your family and mine, living in the same street, going to the same chapel.”

  I nodded. “Aye.”

  “What drew ye to the military like?”

  I took a deep breath. “Remember James McFee?”

  “The big tall fella fe Drumchapel?”

  “That’s him. Well he came to ours for tea once, mate of my eldest brother he was. My Dad made a right fuss over him. That kinda planted the seed. Got me interested.”