THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

washing line filled with grotty socks and skids.
    I ushered Jimmy to the balcony rail, pulled the syringe from my pocket, and showed it to him. He giggled stupidly.
    “Good shit, man.”
    I wiped the item clean of my prints and gave it to the clown. He took it and attempted to remove the needle guard.
    Slowly, he looked up from the needle and straight at me. There, in that moment was the grim realisation of who I was. Where he was, and what was about to happen.
    I pushed my right hand between his legs, my left under his chin and the balcony rail hit him in the small of his back. His heavy upper body pivoted him over.
    The poor useless sod grabbed at the washing line. I watched him drop. The line and its pegged coalition fluttered above him like the tail of a kite. I followed him all the way down.
    It was a mess.
    Jimmy was a bad boy but he probably didn’t deserve to go flying from sixteen floors up. Maybe he should have been given a second chance by Joel Davies. The trouble is, the drug business is one of ‘eat or be eaten’. These people have to be seen to be ruthless. One chink in their armour is seen as weakness. Before they knew it, some other meaner, more ruthless guy would turn up and take the business away from them. Fear was their greatest weapon.
    Jimmy stole drugs from his boss, simple as.
    Me, I’ve never used the stuff. It’s a mug’s game.

Joel Davies was forty-four years old. He started out with a second-hand goods stall on Stockport market when he was sixteen. His three older brothers assisted him by actively burgling various quality homes in and around the city. The stall became an antiques shop. The shop, in turn, became a warehouse exporting artefacts to the USA by the container load.
    Five years ago, Joel discovered his older brothers were on the take, creaming off the best quality gear before it hit the company. They met with an unfortunate boating accident in the North Sea, courtesy of yours truly.
    His seemingly bona fide antique business made Joel over a million quid a year. That would have been enough for most men. Not Joel. He supplied cocaine, Ecstasy, and cannabis in massive amounts to scally crooks who thought they were ‘big time’ dealers, and recently opened a lab that manufactured enough amphetamine sulphate to speed up the whole of Greater fuckin’ Manchester. The drug business made him three times more than his antiques.
    His ruthlessness was matched with great business sense. His big weakness, as I told you earlier, is he paid peanuts and ended up with monkeys, for instance, Jimmy the skydiver.
    I sat in his lounge. It was a shrine to overindulgence and bad taste. Joel could tell you the story and value of every quality antique in the place, but nothing fitted. Some huge sideboard that looked every inch of Far Eastern origin dwarfed a splendid Victorian child’s chair. It’s as if he couldn’t decide where to put anything. Having said that, any man who was willing to have all three surviving members of his family topped for stealing from him had to be considered decisive and driven.
    Totally fuckin’ evil, actually.
    I sat in a green wingback leather chair. It was very comfortable but cold to the touch, sort of gentleman’s club chic.    
    He smiled at me as I counted my fee the way a shark looks at a seal cub.
    “It’s all there I take it?”
    “It is.”
    “Fifteen ‘K’ is steep for a little shit like Jimmy.”
    “The risk to me is the same no matter who it is. Besides, he was putting two hundred quid a day up his nose. In a couple of months you’ll have broke even.”
    Joel was a small man, maybe only five foot five or so. He was well-muscled and treated his fitness seriously. His body was almost completely covered with thick black hair. A tuft of it protruded from the neck of his shirt. He swallowed a large shot of Blue Label and the tuft was momentarily dislodged by an equally prominent Adam’s apple.
    “Why don’t you work for me full time?”
    I wanted