by Geoff Wolak
‘Look for the second exit!’ I shouted. ‘Spread out.’
A light, movement, and we fired at a man half out a trap door fifty yards away. I ran to it and fired down, No.3 at my side. He snapped the fuse on a charge and dropped it. We moved back and knelt.
The muffled blast blew smoke out the trap door, but anyone inside would now be stumbling around. I fired a burst inside, cries heard.
With the smoke clearing I reached inside with my rifle, and fired down the direction of the valley, emptying the magazine. As I lifted up, No.3 repeated that exercise.
Waiting for five minutes, we decided to take a look. Rifles down, pistols out, I stuck my head inside and finished off three wounded men, not seeing any others. I climbed down quickly and knelt behind a desk, moving forwards and checking the angles, past the open-plan kitchen, men behind me.
One man was still alive, a shoulder wound.
‘Speak any English?’ I asked him as I knelt on his groin, the man screaming loudly.
‘Some.’
‘Panama Minister son?’
‘Hills ... Camp Belayo.’
‘How far, what compass?’
‘Five miles ... southwest, near rocks.’
‘OK, good.’ I put my pistol to his eye and pulled the trigger.
Searching around, I found a rota going back years, names of men, a filing cabinet, sheets with addresses as well. I stuffed it into my bandolier – this was good evidence. A few magazines pinched away, and I led the men out and up the ladder, rifles retrieved and checked over.
‘Wait,’ No.3 shouted up, then scrambled quickly up. ‘I kick over fire, wood on it.’
‘Form up in teams, ready to go. Follow me.’
Upwards we trekked, slowly, many men weighed down, the rain stopping and starting, and I zig-zagged over ridges and climbed higher till we had a commanding view of the city – and of the burning villas. I stood panting and sweating, as did the rest.
‘Ain’t no fire trucks at them villas,’ Rizzo noted as we stood in a cool breeze peering down.
‘There, look,’ Rocko said. ‘That underground thing. It’s on fire.’
Far below us I could see the flames, but figured the lack of air would have smothered the fire. There had to be many vents fanning the flames.
My phone trilled; Tomsk. ‘Ah, you’re awake now,’ I teased.
‘Fucking Sasha let me sleep through it.’
‘Don’t worry, went well, only one man killed.’
‘So what happened exactly?’
‘We shot the guards, raided the villas, got the old men tied up, got some money and jewels, and some evidence for the Americans, and killed maybe eighty of their men. We set fire to their villas after the Americans came and took the cartel bosses.’
‘So they’re fucked now..?’
‘I still have to kill a lot of their men, and destroy the drugs.’
‘I have a small helicopter ready, I figured ... get you out of there if there was a problem.’
‘That’s so kind...’ I teased. ‘Have it come to the high ridges above the burning villas, say four kilometre due west, collect some heavy bags. We signal by torch.’
‘I send it now, wait there.’
My sweat cooling, I told everyone to rest. Tins of meat were opened, and I tackled one myself.
Fifteen minutes later a loud Jet Ranger circled, and we signalled it with torches. It landed on a small flatish area atop the ridge, little room for error as we knelt nearby, and we loaded the shares plus a few money bags, but I had Sasha’s team keep their cash. I kept the bank details. All of the rest was loaded, the helicopter pulling away quickly and heading north.
Since it had a limited range, I figured it might go to the safe house area. Either that or the pilot was now rich, and on the run.
Sat there, the dawn coming up, I called up Sasha and showed him the map. ‘You head off, your team, head for the safe house. Get to this place then call Tomsk and get the exact location, slow and steady, don’t get caught. No roads, avoid people, take your time.’
He tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Good look with the drug labs.’
No.3 questioned his departure, which I explained, wondering what No.3 was really thinking.
I transmitted, ‘Listen up. We have less than three miles to get to a location where a hostage is being held, after that we rest. Fifteen minutes to eat, take a shit, then we go.’
As they ate I studied the map, the light improving all the time, and I figured I could see my target valley southwest, and when ready I led them along the top of the ridge we were on and down diagonally, a final look back at Cali city, smoke rising from ten locations, as well as from the leadership estate.
My phone trilled. ‘It’s CGHQ. Can you talk?’
‘Yes, go ahead.’
‘Well, we were busy, all a bit exhausted now, but it did the trick. Seems like someone set off small bombs in many places, but with few casualties, a great many reports to the police about gunfire and broken windows. Poor girls at police HQ stopped answering the phones, not least because we sent their officers north on wild goose chases.
‘But now the head of security for the Cartel, Torgua, has taken charge and is rallying men. Unfortunately for him we’re listening in and countermanding his orders. He’s a bit stressed and confused, threatening many people.
‘On the plus side, many low ranking cartel members are passing the rumour that the Americans took the leadership, and that it’s all over – time to leave town.’
‘Do me a favour, keep those stories going. We need the rank and file disillusioned. As well as reports that the attackers left by helicopter. We’re now moving on the target cliffs, five miles southwest, reported to be a hostage there. Concentrate on that location then update me.’
‘Right oh, will do.’
Phone down, I mocked, ‘Right oh.’
‘Some news?’ No.3 asked from behind me.
‘Cartel head of security has taken charge.’
‘Ah, he wants top job, no.’
‘Till he meets us,’ I threatened.
The day brightened, broken clouds above, a cool breeze down the valley, and an hour’s hard slog through tight trees brought us to a high ridge, and looking down I could see the cliffs, but nothing else. Whatever was there had been well hidden.
I dropped down the valley side diagonally, and we took a steady half hour to reach a safe distance from the cliffs. ‘Team Two, go left and around, dead slow and quiet. Team Three, around to the right, try and get a high firing position to cover the valley. Go.’
Teams moved off, all alert as I peered down the lush green valley, some of the bushes having leaves a yard across.
A truck, coming towards me, six hundred yards down the valley, but I could not see the road it was driving on, so the road had to be painted green. It stopped four hundred yards from me, men getting down, a loud debate with other men, much waving of arms and pointing. There was discord in the ranks – wages would not be paid this week.
It turned around and drove off, rude hand signals offered both ways, words shouted. The rude men on foot walked back to their hidden base on the right, and I know knew where that base was.
‘Listen up, hidden base is in the cliffs on the right, four hundred yards head. They may have cameras, static guards, trip wire, so be careful. Tomo, Nicholson, go left, go high, aim at the entrance, scan the area. Go.’
Over my shoulder I saw them run off towards the eastern ridge, and I waited ten minutes before I slowly started forwards through low bushes and tall trees. I moved right, to the west, and into better cover.
‘It’s Tomo, I can see the entrance, green door under an overhang, second green door big enough for a truck, window up above, lights on, people moving around.’
‘Look for cameras and wires ahead of us.’
Five minutes later came, ‘It’s Tomo, there’s a bank of cameras, say six, pointing in all directions, all clumped together.’
‘They have a common wire or box?
’
‘Yes, big thick swirl of it, then a box.’
‘Hit the cable and box, then report their reaction.’
I knelt and waited, now just a hundred yards from those green doors. I saw man walk out, not even armed. He peered up at the cameras, a hand over his eyes, threw his arms in the air, and walked back inside. A minute later two men appeared, armed, but with rifles slung. They walked to the middle of the valley and sat on a log, lighting cigarettes.
‘Tomo, kill those two idiots.’
A few seconds later the quiet cracks sounded out, the two men violently jerked off their perch. I moved forwards whilst hoping that the cameras were out, and along the edge the cliff to the garage door. I got an eye to the door crack, seeing a long and well-lit cave big enough for trucks going back a hundred yards or more.
There were men loading trucks and jeeps, bales of marijuana, stacks of white powder in plastic, desks and cabinets, a man sat taking stock and shouting instructions, side caves seen. Given what had happened last night they were carrying on, business as usual. I guessed that their fear kept them at their desks, rumours ignored.
Easing back, I studied the door, seeing an internal bolt. I transmitted, ‘Anyone with charges, bring them forwards.’
Three men came forwards, three charges placed on the large green doors, one on the small green door. A nod of heads, and we all broke the fuses – and ran.
‘Tomo and Nicholson, Team Two, open fire when the doors are gone.’
I ducked behind a rock with my team, Rocko and Rizzo behind us, soon the blasts echoing around the valley, dozens of overlapping quiet cracks following. I ran back to the doors. ‘Ceasefire, unless you have a good target!’
Knelt next to the splintered doors, smoke wafting, bursts of fire came from within. No.3 handed me a CS flashbang and I tossed it inside as hard as I could, a second soon following.
‘Team Two, watch the cliffs above, might be an escape tunnel. Team Three, report.’
‘We’re up above, on the side, we’ll see them if they come out someplace.’
Bursts of fire continued to register, but also quiet cracks from my snipers.
‘It’s Tomo, we got about ten of them, few left moving around now.’
‘Standby.’ I whispered, ‘On me, run fast,’ and I sprinted across the gap to the smaller door. Firing from the hip, I put ten loud rounds down the passageway of the smaller door, the rounds pinging around off the rocks. I moved inside and ran forwards to a cabinet and knelt, men heard behind me, a slight whiff of CS gas evident on the breeze.
Ahead of me the carved tunnel branched left, an opening to the right to the garage. Moans permeated the air. I lifted up and put my head around the corner, seeing several offices behind glass panes, all brightly lit. I also saw several heads peeking above desks.
Pushing my rifle around the corner, but not my body, I loudly demolished the glass, brass cartridges tinkling off the concrete floor. ‘Surrender ... you walk, we take drugs. Cali Cartel no more, Russians here!’
‘Do not be shoot us,’ came back.
Rifle slung, pistol out, magazine swapped, No.3 followed me with his own pistol, the remaining men inching into the garage and immediately finishing off wounded men.
I held my pistol level, No.3 at my side, five terrified men standing with their hands up, one quite young, two old, one in a white lab coat, desks littered with drug-testing kit and computers.
I moved inside, the prisoners quiet. And they looked like technicians more than hired killers. But as I stood there I got all sorts of smells, one being rotting flesh. There was a door to my immediate left, and I turned the handle and cautiously opened it, a large room found, cabinets and medical kit, and on the table was ... something small and grey - and looking like a dead alien.
I moved inside and had a closer look, finding severed arms and legs in a bin, covered in plastic but still smelling, and there on the table lay a teenage boy, the smell horrendous.
‘Fuck me,’ No.3 let out from the door, his nose in the crook of his elbow.
The boy had both arms removed below the elbow, both legs removed below the knees, and as he lay there naked I could see that he had been castrated, his eyes missing. Near his head rested an expensive camera.
I turned my head to the five men stood with their hands up. ‘He is the son of the Panama minister?’ A man nodded, but not the guy in the white lab coat, he lowered his gaze. I brushed past No.3, Rizzo now looking through the drug samples.
I stopped and pointed my pistol at the throat of the man who had nodded. ‘This man, white coat, hurt the boy?’
I got a shame-ridden nod, so I pulled the trigger without remorse. The man fell back, gurgling as he tried to breathe. I shot the second man in the throat, No.3 hitting a third.
I hit the man in the lab coat in the nose with my pistol. ‘He comes back with us,’ I said as No.3 killed the fourth man, all of the four taking a long time to die. ‘Rizzo, tie him up, get him outside.’
Rizzo put down his drug samples, and with white powder on his gloves he grabbed the bloodied man and dragged him out. Back with the boy, No.3 at the door, I stared down at the broken body, placed my pistol behind the boy’s ear and eased his pain.
‘He was the son of the minister in Panama?’ No.3 asked, keeping his distance from the smell.
I nodded as I stared down at the body.
‘Could not be saved?’
‘Would you want to go on, looking like that?’
‘Me, fuck no. No eyes, no cock. Yuk.’
I finally turned after sighing, and led No.3 into the garage, the teams searching.
‘On the trucks,’ No.7 told me, his words echoing a bit. ‘Lot of drugs, some cocaine, some marijuana.’
‘Drive them all outside, check fuel,’ I shouted. ‘Load any more drugs.’
‘What’s that lot worth?’ Rocko asked as we stepped towards the daylight, the roar of engines deafening within the cave.
‘On the streets of London, twenty million quid. But here it would be worth a million say.’
‘Every fucker takes a cut up the line,’ Rocko noted. ‘Price gets higher every step.’
‘Yep.’ Outside, I had a look at the map as the trucks and jeeps lined up, fuel levels checked, and I sighed loudly.
‘Problem?’ Rizzo asked, Rocko closing in.
‘That road could be swarming with men, or empty,’ I began. ‘It’s ten miles to where I want to go, and ... no one knows it’s us in the trucks -’
‘They won’t open fire on their own trucks,’ Rocko suggested.
‘So ... do we take the risk?’ I thought out loud.
‘We get a bonus?’ Rizzo asked.
‘If we get that lot back ... yes, but a bonus is no good if you’re dead,’ I told them as I put the map away. ‘I want to nick the drugs, or destroy them, but I also want to hit any roadblocks down that road ... and kill the fuckers.’
‘Enough of us,’ Rocko encouraged. ‘Tarp on the back, they won’t see us, we cut holes to fire out of.’
‘Then get aboard, cut holes, first truck is the battle wagon.’ They moved off. In Russian I shouted, ‘Go back inside and get some metal sheet or thick wood, bullet proof, for the trucks.’
Someone fired twice. ‘Report the shooting!’
‘It’s Tomo, someone sneaking up the side of that road.’
‘Guard posted down the road,’ I transmitted. ‘Stay sharp.’
Men ran inside as Team Three came in from the hill, Tomo and Nicholson watching the road, and five minutes later we had a thick wooden desk with the legs removed, two metal desks with legs still attached, and some metal sheets. It would have to do.
A glance over my shoulder, a theatrical sigh, and I took out my phone.
‘Franks.’
‘It’s me. Note these coordinates, send choppers and recover the body and body parts of a teenage lad in a cave facility – he’s the son of a minister in Panama. Those recovering the body will need face masks and gloves.’
> ‘Jesus...’
‘Then gather evidence, there are papers here, shipment details. But be quick. Oh, no one left alive around here.’
‘Figured that. OK, I’ll get the helos off.’
‘And if you can blow the place ... all the better.’
Stood there, I glanced at the garage, but then turned to the trucks. ‘Get some drugs off, scatter them around, open them.’
Puzzled lads did as asked, white powder soon in the dirt.
I had Rizzo take off his webbing and put on a jacket belonging to a dead body, and I had the prisoner ride up front, his face wiped of blood. I climbed up into the back of the first truck, metal desks at the rear, metal plates at the side, wooden desk at the front, but we still had lots of gaps.
Holes had been made, both to look out of and shoot out of, ten men in this truck. I banged on the roof of the cab, and we eased off. I transmitted, ‘Russian teams, headcount.’ I could see the British, they were all here with me.
Four trucks and two jeeps trundled along a smooth road, painted green, half a mile of it, soon to a tarmac road, a police car on the side of the road.
I said, ‘Wound the police.’
As we turned onto the tarmac road cracks sounded out, the police hit in the feet and shoulder, Rizzo pulling off and picking up speed, as well as murdering the gears, Rocko shouting abuse at our driver.
Ten minutes along the winding road a few cars passed us, a few farm vehicles, but so far no large gathering of men stood ready to intercept us, no roadblocks at all.
Around the next bend we spotted a body on the side of the road, fresh. Someone had evened a score here in the hills, or maybe someone had been disciplined – for the fear of others, those others hearing the rumours.
As we drove on I could not get that boy out of my mind, but I was sure I had done the right thing; he had a massive infection and would not have survived. And if he had, he’d be on a special bed the rest of his life, spoon fed, a catheter for a cock.
I made a call.
‘Hola?’
‘Minister, it’s Petrov.’