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

to say that I’d prefer not to spend more than passing moments in the company of a psychopath, but instead I was straight to the point.
    “I like being self-employed.”
    I closed up the holdall with the fifteen in it. It had been delivered in twenties, used, like I asked.
    “I have to be going. I’ll drop the Porsche in a day or two.”
    I was about to leave when he gripped me by the forearm. I don’t like anyone to touch me. When will these tactile idiots realise not everyone likes to play pat-a-cake? I let it show. He shrugged and released his grip.
    “Before you leave I want to show you something.”
    I have to say I wasn’t keen. I had things to do.
    We strolled the length of the lounge, a walk in itself, and exited through patio doors big enough to drive a bus through. Joel looked crisp and clean with his fresh white cotton shirt tucked neatly into Diesel chinos. He swaggered like a king into the sunshine. The perfectly landscaped garden was totally ruined by God-awful pot figures and privet hedges cut into animal shapes. Topiary, they call it. Shite I say.
    He pointed at a large green bird.
    “Works of art, aren’t they?”
    “Different.”
    He eyed me suspiciously so I added, “I’ve never seen a bush like it,” and issued a practised laugh.
    He got the pun and cracked a smile but I could tell he was unsure if I was taking the piss.             
    A cobbled path lined with beautiful bedding plants took us to his garage complex. I counted no less than twelve newly painted doors. Joel pulled a remote from his pocket and made a show of pushing button 6 and smiling as a motorised door kicked into life. The expression ‘big fuckin’ deal’ came to mind.
    The door open, I was faced with an insult to the sensory gift. Joel puffed out his hairy chest and strained the buttons on his shirt.
    “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
    The car was a Lamborghini Diablo. One gull-wing door was open. An elderly man was hoovering the interior, the fuckin’ white leather interior. Now why a car manufacturer with the prestige of Lamborghini makes a purple car is baffling to me. Why an individual with all the cash in the world would want to choose that colour is unbelievable. I had the greatest difficulty in hiding my disappointment. In fact I almost burst into fits of laughter when I saw the private reg. LAM 130. Joel had ensured the plate was made with the 1 and the 3 almost touching so it read LAMBO. I wanted to tell him what a proper arse he would look driving the thing, but as I had just taken the sap for a quick fifteen, with more to come, I kept my mouth shut.
    “Come and sit in her,” Joel said, and stepped forward waving at the old boy to stop his cleaning duties. The cleaner shot me a look that told me he was pissed off with being interrupted.
    I slid into the driver’s seat and smelled the new car smell, something I have never tired of.
    “Go on, fire her up.”
    I looked at Joel; he was like a kid with a new toy. Who was I to say no? The engine roared into life and I had to say it made a fairly satisfying noise for an Italian car. I turned it off almost immediately and stepped from the car with a little difficulty. I had to lift myself from the seat using my right hand on the roof of the car. The old boy scuttled straight over and wiped my finger-marks from the paintwork. Joel gave him a satisfied look and me a derisory one. 
    I had just about overloaded on the Diablo when I heard the tell-tale bubble of a V8. A big bore exhaust was attached to it. It was designed to produce that delightful sound that should be bottled and sold as stress relief. I turned toward the noise and saw the Mustang. It was a ’67 Shelby GT500 Fastback; rare as rocking horse shit; a pure muscle car. A 428 V8 delivered 355bhp at 5400 rpm and 0 to 60mph in just over six seconds. Imagine that in a car just about to have its fortieth birthday bash. Sadly Shelby fell out with Ford after that model and the car was never the same again