by A P Bateman
Chapter Twenty-Three
They had chosen a mid-sized SUV from the Hertz desk at the airport and driven South. Stopping at a mall they had bought boots, camouflaged hunting clothes, Bowie knives, water canteens and light backpacks. They even found camo-cream for their faces. Virginia state law ruled that without proof of residence, they could not purchase firearms, but they could buy ammunition. And then it hit them that a shotgun was not under the same firearms infringements. So, they stocked up on .12-gauge slugs and buckshot and legally purchased two Remington pump-action shotguns with no ID.
God bless America…
Their next stop was at an electrical outlet that had a good selection of electronic surveillance equipment. Most of the standard goods were sufficient for the task at hand,
but with Yates’ specialist experience he was able to cobble together something more satisfactory to their requirements. With some powerful magnets, Tupperware, glue and a soldering iron, he made short work of creating the items he needed using the 12v auxiliary power outlet and the boot of the vehicle as a workspace.
The terrain was too undulated and the cover too thick for field glasses to be effective. Instead, Yates and Macintosh had parked the SUV a little over a mile away from
the campsite and came in on a wide arc to the rear of the camp. They had then pincered the property and waited in their individual positions around a hundred metres from the buildings. Not chancing the sporadic cellphone reception, they had bought a set of outdoorsman walkie-talkies, leaving them switched on at low volume and communicating through a code they were used to with the SAS, using the contact switch. This would allow a coded reply before they spoke, negating the chance of giving themselves away if someone was nearby.
A double click and Yates picked up his handset. He clicked once in reply to indicate it was clear.
“I’ll go for the first hut, check there are no sudden surprises,” said Macintosh. “You take the vehicles.”
“Roger that, out.” Yates slowly drew himself to his feet, his eyes on the huts and the main house. There were no lights on within any of the buildings. He carefully
stepped through the undergrowth, mindful of dried branches and twigs that could give away his position, but also aware that rattlesnakes could be nestled up against the larger fallen branches. In the poor light of a half moon, he took it slowly and steadily.
Each device was linked to a separate receiver by its own frequency, and as Yates planted the first, he made a mental note of the pairing. The large SUVs were the same
make and colour, so he memorised the last three letters and digits of each license plate. He already knew which vehicle Ramsay had designated to the MI5 team, and he couldn’t care less about the other ex-SAS men. There was no brotherhood now that he had worked for ten-years in the realms of mercenary. He cared only for money and convenient alliances. Satisfied he knew which device was assigned to each vehicle, he set about sliding under the first and securing it in place. He found a sweet spot beside the exhaust silencer, routed in the middle of the vehicle. The device locked tightly in place, and as he tested it with a wiggle, he was immediately satisfied it would remain in place. Unless the vehicle bounced and grounded on a rutted track or exceeded a hundred-mile-per-hour on the freeway, he was sure it would remain in place indefinitely. He wriggled free, checked the direction of the huts and crawled across the gravel to the next vehicle.
Macintosh had drawn his twelve-inched blade Bowie knife and held it firmly in his right hand. In his left he held a tactical torch capable of a strobe setting, which
would temporarily blind any would-be attacker long enough to sheath his blade in them. With the giant, razor edged blade, one thrust was all he would need. But he was never one to stop short of a twist and slash when he took a blade to someone.
Despite the men inside being trained in one of the world’s leading special forces units - some would argue the best - he could hear the men sleeping fitfully inside. They
were only men, after all. Big Dave in particular had been an excessive snorer, only he was simply too big for the other men to complain too seriously to. He shared the hut with Tattooed Mick. Another snorer. Macintosh eased the door open, and as he suspected, Powell and Adams had shipped out to the other hut after both he and Yates had been cut loose. Maybe they would get some sleep now.
Macintosh looked at the forms of the two sleeping men in their bunks. Mick was half the size of Big Dave, whose feet stuck out a good ten inches from the foot of the
bed. The perverse side of him thought of slitting their throats, but he needed them for now. Perhaps later. He had done it before to men as they had slept. A job in Rwanda had seen him do worse to the women. But he took what he was paid and never questioned anything. The British government had invested hundreds of thousands of pounds into his training, and then discarded him in a round of budget cuts that had seen the SAS slashed by over one-hundred personnel, only to reinvest in numbers with the next Prime Minister. It had been too late for him then, and the British Army always liked to fill the SAS with twenty-something Corporals and save on the salaries of men in their late thirties with several ranks under their belts. They always sighted fitness but in reality, it was just a way of controlling the purse strings. The thought made him angry. He had given his entire adult life over to serving his country, and now for the past ten years he had had to rely on handouts. An overzealous mission had seen him excluded from the international bodyguard circuit – you were only ever as good as your last job in that game - and now he took the jobs nobody else wanted. Handouts from that Welsh cripple who lost three limbs and his dick in an IED he should have been able to avoid. Well, he had forced his way into this job, and even though Taff insisted it wasn’t a heist, he knew better. And that “mouthy-Southey” Yates knew it too. They would turn this around in their favour and they would get what they deserved. Or what he deserved, because the cockney chatterbox would get what was coming to him as well. He needed a partner in this thing, and Yates had gone too far insulting the women. The other Hereford guys would take the money and do the job as if the government were still calling the shots, and not some rogue unit out for their own gains. He had fallen in with Yates because he needed him, and now they were on the outside. But not for long.
Macintosh could see the tactical shotguns stacked against the wall. Two tactical vests hung on a peg, both with Beretta pistols in the integral holsters. It was tempting
to help himself to two of the vests, but it would only let them know they had been here. And there were ways to get revenge on somebody, and ways to make people pay. Big Dave turned over in bed and the Scotsman saw the whites of the man’s eyes, highlighted by his own black face. He took a step forwards, the knife ready, but Dave was still asleep, his eyes closing again as he let out a monumental roar that melted away in a nasal whine. Macintosh stopped in his tracks, because even though Dave was out for the count, his massive snore had woken Tattooed Mick, who was sitting up and scratching his stubbly head. Macintosh froze, the heavy Remington shotgun under his arm, the giant knife raised in his right hand. But Mick was too far away. If he saw Macintosh, then he would have a chance because he would have Big Dave’s bed in the way as a barrier. By the time Macintosh cleared Big Dave, then he will have lost his advantage. And Macintosh had sparred with Mick during training, he was a handy boxer and wrestler. Well-spoken, looked like a thug and fought like a tiger that had been backed into a corner. Macintosh had heard that the man had a PHD. Another anomaly within the special forces. If he had stayed away from the tattoos, grown and combed his hair, then he may well have been a Colonel by now.
Macintosh relaxed as Mick flopped back down and rolled onto his side. He backed away and damn-near stepped into Yates, who was standing to the side of the door
with his knife drawn.
“Shit!” Macintosh whispered as he stepped off the wooden porch. “Are you done?”
Yates nodded. “All set.” He edged away, then scurried over to one of
the SUVs and ducked down. Macintosh followed the man’s stare and saw a figure on the porch
deck of the main cabin. He eased back into the shadows, choosing not to make any sudden movements that the person may well detect in the stillness of the night. He sheathed the knife and eased the Remington shotgun out from under his arm. He kept the tactical torch in his left hand, the strobe setting just a flick away. He had taped up the strap swivels on the sling of the shotgun, making it silent to move. He could see the figure stretching on the deck, one of the men, most likely Rashid as the desk man from MI5 seemed to do nothing more physical than drink coffee. Macintosh did not make the weapon ready. The Remington was a rugged and rustic weapon, and any working parks were metallic and clunky. Whether he worked the action of the weapon would depend on if he had to use it, and once he did, he would go into the huts and cut down the other men amid the chaos. He simply couldn’t afford to be outnumbered in this company. And, whether he used it or not, depended on what the figure did next.
Rashid checked his watch. He had an uneasy feeling that he had not seen the last of the two men. An uneasiness he had learned to trust in the past. Dawn was an hour away. He stretched sideways, easing his tired and tight muscles. The training had been difficult, strenuous. Each man had been designated physical instructor on a rotation. You could never push yourself like someone else could. It was like training with weights at home or working with a personal instructor. Homes all over the world had clothes hanging from exercise equipment long-since pushed into the corner of the room. Powell had taken this afternoon’s session after the firing disciplines, and the tough little Geordie enjoyed upper-body blasts. Rashid’s abs and shoulders were on fire, and he stretched them off before taking a run through the myriad of pathways through the woods that would bring him back by sunrise. He looked to his left, sure he had caught sight of a movement. He stared for a while, then looked back to his right. He was in the Appalachian Mountains and there were deer, coyotes and foxes all over. They had seen an array of roadkill on the drive up. He checked to his left again, saw a light come on in one of the cabins and shrugged. Someone was on a pee-pee sleepwalk, and the light ruined his night vision enough for him to decide to head away from the buildings and jog down the steps and head off to his right.
Macintosh walked casually across the gravel and wood bark parking area and tapped Yates on the shoulder. “Let’s get the fuck out of here while that Paki works up a sweat.”
Yates shrugged. He wasn’t overly-racist, just a casual bigot. He’d grown up on the East End streets of London, and as multi-cultural as it was, he’d mainly mixed with his own kind. The Paki slur wasn’t something he’d usually be a part of, but he was easily led, and Macintosh was his partner now. He wasn’t about to object. They made their way back the way they’d came, a mile or so back down the hill to the logging road where they had parked the hired SUV. They had successfully infiltrated the enemy’s camp and compromised the vehicles, and now the first part of their plan was complete.
Chapter Twenty-Four
King hadn’t known where the man he was to share his cell with had gone. It was unlikely he would have been off on his own time, which meant one of two things. Taking the fact that he was being interrogated himself, or visiting the infirmary out of the equation, the man would be in front of the guards with one of two briefs – to befriend King and glean information or to give King a tough time. King knew how it worked, especially when imprisoned on enemy territory. He was out of the system. No charges had been brought against him, and he doubted they ever would. This was his future unless he could achieve his objective and turn his situation around.
He had eaten a meal of pork and beans and bread. As with prisons the world over, he queued for his food and was the attention of a hundred pairs of eyes. He chose the end of a bench nearest the wall, so he could put his back near it and face the room. He did not make eye contact with anyone, but he scanned the faces, worked out the exits and guard placements, looked for any hierarchy. There would be, of course, whether the guards wanted it or not. Wherever prisoners mixed, a hierarchy would be in place. The law of the jungle. Usually the largest, but occasionally it worked differently. But ruthlessness was always the key. Whoever had the most followers, and whoever had the least to lose would usually dominate. He could have killed for a cup of tea, but there was only water on offer to drink, and he had drunk more than he needed to rehydrate himself. His injured muscles needed to heal, and dehydration would hamper that. There was no dessert, but given the brief of this place, the prisoners it contained and the secrecy of its existence, King was both pleased and surprised the meal had been more than just plain boiled rice. It wasn’t like the prisoners could complain. King wondered what the terminal plan was to keep political prisoners after they had outlived their usefulness. The stark, cold reality hit him. The Great Plains was a vast place, where secrets could easily be buried.
The cell door clattered, and a large Asian man was pushed inside. He was well muscled, and the orange jumpsuit strained around his chest and biceps. He regarded King with distain and waited for the two guards to unshackle him. Once they had, the door closed, and the man sneered at King.
“Pretty boy…”
“You need your eyes tested, mate,” King replied, gently rubbing the side of his bruised and battered face.
“They work fine,” the man said. “What’s your story?” He couldn’t place the accent, but it was Persian, or at least in the same postcode, but with a smattering of American. King perched down on the nearest bed. A solid concrete slab protruding from the wall, three-feet off the ground. A thin mattress, no more than a roll of sponge in a waterproof plastic cover, and a thick blanket. Nothing else. “That’s my bed…” King shrugged as he stood back up and walked across to the other bed. The room was no more than eight by eight. “So is that one,” he said. “You’ll take the floor until I say so.”
King smiled, sat down and said, “I know how this works.”
“You do?”
“More or less,” he answered. “But it won’t work out like the guards said it would. I figured they’d get you to befriend me or give me a hard time. And that’s fine. This is a prison, and everybody has a scam, a way of surviving. I don’t know what they promised you, but I hope it’s worth it.”
“Smart ass.”
“Smarter than you. So, I guess that makes you the dumb ass?”
The man lunged forwards, fists clenched and letting out a full battle-cry. King pushed himself off the bed, dodged left and low and tucked a solid round-house punch into the man’s groin. The man released all his breath at once, but King wasn’t finished and grabbed a handful, dropped to his knees and struck his own forearm with his left hand as he pulled down, doubling the force as he wrenched. Something detached inside the man’s sack and he simply couldn’t get the scream out, panting and dropping to his knees, all hope of continuing his attack gone. King let go and stood up and the man sprawled onto his back, clutching his groin and howling.
“Bastard…” the man eventually panted. He writhed and bucked on the floor, the pain so intense that King was surprised he’d even remained conscious.
“I am,” King replied truthfully. “I bet that really hurts, doesn’t it?” The man didn’t reply. He was rolling from side to side, holding his testicles like they would roll down his trouser leg and across the floor if he let go. “Tell you what, how about some prison anaesthetic?”
King raised his foot and didn’t give the man time to object as he stamped down into his face culminating in a sickening crunch. The man’s hands flopped to his sides and his head rocked back onto the floor. King put his foot underneath the man’s back, levered him over onto his side. No sense in letting him suffocate on blood or his own tongue. He stepped over the man’s bulk and took the original bed. Laying on his back, his hands casually behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling and waited to have an answer confirmed as he started to plan his next move.
It took ten minutes for th
e guards to arrive and open the cell door. And that told King that the cell was under CCTV surveillance. The only place it could be was in the ceiling rose of the single light that had been trunked in to the middle of the roughly hewn rock, twenty-feet above his head.
“Prisoner three-eight-one-four-B! You will stand, turn around and place your hands behind your back!” the guard shouted. King noted it was the same guard as before, so he was ready for a beating, but it never came. The cuffs were placed on and reamed tightly, and he was pulled and pushed out of the door. He could see the same medic who had searched him when he had arrived working on the man on the floor, but not very convincingly. He knew the guy would come around eventually, but he would be in the infirmary for a while, and if he ever got out of here, then he wouldn’t be fathering any children in a hurry.
The guard walked him up the corridor, flanked by two more guards brandishing batons. They passed doors, but most seemed suited for other uses, and not the purpose-built cell types King was being held in. After two-hundred metres King was yanked backwards and bundled through a plain door. Tommy-Lee sat behind a stainless-steel desk. King was pushed down opposite him in the empty steel and plastic chair. He could feel his cuffs locked onto the back of the chair. It felt and sounded like a loop and padlock. The guards left, and the steel door closed loudly in the confines of the ten by ten room.
“Settling in?”
“Don’t hold your breath for the TripAdvisor review…”