Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  ‘Long line of trucks, a few jeeps at the front, still a mile away and coming up the hill.’

  ‘Standby. Everyone get ready to move, get fire positions, fast!’

  A mad scramble followed as I called London, and they were ahead of us so at their desks. ‘David, I have a column of soldiers moving towards me.’

  ‘What colour are their uniforms?’

  ‘Can’t see yet, why?’

  ‘National Army is green, and they’re northeast of Cali. Local militia is blue-grey, and they’re on the cartel payroll.’

  ‘And if it is the local militia, do we open fire?’

  ‘Well ... I’d say you defend yourselves at least, they are acting illegally after all.’

  ‘Call the fucking Colombians right now, find out who they are - coming up the main road west from Cali city. Be fast!’

  The teams packed up cooking kit and took down flysheets, getting ready.

  I transmitted, ‘All teams except snipers, move up the ridge to the top and get position over the ridge, ready to run. Move now!’

  I waited for my flysheet to be rolled up and stuffed into my webbing, then led my team off at the sprint, up the ridge a hundred yards and over, soon turning around and looking back down. But I could not see the column yet.

  My phone trilled. ‘Yes!’

  ‘It’s David. Those soldiers have no authority to move, so they’re on the drug payroll. Colombians suggested you wound them.’

  ‘OK, but if they come after us it could be a bit of a scrap.’

  Phone down, No.3 said, ‘They are not Army?’

  ‘They’re local militia, paid by the cartel, now being paid by the new leader.’

  ‘It’s Nicholson. They’ll be coming around the bend in a few minutes, sixteen trucks.’

  ‘Make sure you have a way to fall back,’ I told him. ‘Swann, you there?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘When the lead jeep gets to you, hit the tyres, then tyres on the lead truck.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘We fight them?’ No.3 asked.

  ‘If we don’t they come looking for us. Better we ambush them first, wound a few.’

  The lead jeeps came into view below, easing to a halt next to those jeeps we had damaged overnight, the trucks moving on past and halting in a line, not reaching Swann. Soldiers jumped down, blue-grey uniforms, but they were not alert, nor expecting trouble. Sergeants formed disorderly blocks.

  ‘It’s Rocko. Are they on drugs or something? Or just fucking stupid?’

  ‘Just stupid,’ I responded.

  ‘It’s Swann, I got an eye on the man in charge, far side of the trucks, lot of braid on his shoulders.’

  ‘On my command ... shoot in the feet and legs only, then the truck tyres and jeeps, try for the fuel tanks.’ I repeated it in Russian. ‘Standby. Swann, get the main man and his sergeants, leg wounds. OK, everyone ... open fire!’

  The cracks sounded out as I hit a sergeant in the back on the calf muscle, and he would lose that leg. The blocks of men scattered, a truck bursting into flames as I hit tyres. And someone had put too much pressure in the tyres, because they exploded with force, wounding men nearby.

  It was twenty seconds before anyone down there opened up on us, but they were firing wildly into the trees below us, and then with M16s, no telescopic sights fitted. A second and third truck burst into flames, jeep windscreens smashed. The wounded would be walking out of the valley.

  I could soon see many men crawling along, others rolling around – a leg in the air, a few hopping away north.

  As I called a ceasefire, movement caught my eye on the hill opposite, camouflaged men with long rifles. ‘All snipers, look to the hill opposite, three hundred yards up the slope, there are snipers over there! Get them! Team Two and Four, turn around, check behind us, go down the slope. Fast! Everyone stay down, there are snipers nearby.’

  A minute later came, ‘It’s Swann, we got two snipers – their movement gave them away.’

  ‘It’s Tomo, we got two as well, can’t see any more yet.’

  ‘Keep looking!’ I spun around, and peered through the trees to the hill behind us, some six hundred yards away. Nothing, we were not being flanked, at least not yet.

  ‘It’s Nicholson. Half the townsfolk are driving up that road.’

  ‘Trucks or jeeps?’

  ‘Jeeps, men in the back, armed.’

  ‘Hit the men in the back at distance, you too Tomo. Swann, Leggit, watch that hill.’

  ‘They surround us,’ No.3 cautioned.

  ‘Who surrounds who,’ I replied. ‘They send civilians, part-time gunmen.’

  My phone trilled. ‘Yes!’

  ‘It’s GCHQ -’

  ‘A bit late to tell us we’re surrounded by thousands of men.’

  ‘Ah, well ... yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re not in trouble yet. Papa Victor out.’ Tapping my chin with the phone, I called Franks. ‘Any chance of an airstrike against a bit of road?’

  ‘Should think so, and the detail for that mass grave lifts off soon.’

  ‘There’s a road that runs west into the hills from the city. Hit it a mile up from the city, when no cars are on it, then inland a few miles, cut the road in a few places.’

  ‘Easy enough.’

  ‘And you have ten minutes.’

  ‘Ten minutes? Fuck.’ He cut the call.

  A minute later came, ‘It’s Tomo, we stopped the jeep convoy, they’re out on foot, but a bit of a shambles.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Say ... sixty to eighty.’

  ‘Hit the leaders,’ I ordered.

  ‘Already did.’

  My phone trilled. ‘It’s GCHQ, can you talk?’

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘Just got a report that Torgua is dead.’

  ‘Good news, and the cartel bosses never liked him anyway. Who’s in charge now?’

  ‘No one, it’s a mess, partly thanks to us distorting a few messages.’

  ‘Put a story out that national soldiers, thousand of them, are moving into the city to declare martial law.’

  ‘OK, we can do that. But ... will they anyhow?’

  ‘Yes, soon.’

  Phone down, I heard the screech of a jet and saw a circular con trail above, suddenly a blast coming from somewhere and echoing off the hills.

  ‘It’s Nicholson. American jet just put a fucking big hole in the road down there. The irregulars are crapping themselves.’

  A screech, and the road west of us lifted up into the air, a hole a hundred yards across left behind, the blast registering a few seconds later.

  ‘Why they bomb?’ No.3 asked in a panic.

  ‘Because I asked them to cut that road. Now the men down there think the Americans are coming.’

  ‘Are they?’ No.3 pressed, concerned.

  ‘No, they only drop a bomb where there are no people.’

  ‘No jeep will come up that road for a long fucking time!’ No.3 noted as he peered wide-eyed over the ridge.

  ‘That’s the idea, yes.’

  ‘It’s Nicholson. The irregulars are running away.’

  ‘Get as many as you can. Quickly.’ I peered down at the wounded militia men below, many now assisting each other to hide behind the trucks, a few still firing into the trees. I felt sorry for them, whether they were on the payroll or not. I called Franks.

  ‘Listen, can you organise a medivac for wounded Colombian soldiers? They were on the wrong side, taking money, but just pawns in this game. Ask the Colombian Army to join you, they’re camped out north east of the city apparently. Maybe they have a Huey or two?’

  ‘I’ll mention it now. Where are the wounded?’

  ‘Right between where you dropped the two bombs, but you didn’t wound them – we shot them in the legs. Don’t take them aboard ship, drop them at the airport – some of these boys are on the wrong team.’

  ‘OK, and they started digging up bodies at that
location, wasn’t hard to find them – could be hundreds there. We’ll be flying in Red Cross teams and UN.’

  Phone down, I transmitted, ‘We are leaving! All teams headcount, snipers back to me!’

  ‘What’s next?’ No.3 asked.

  ‘Next ... I make an assessment of the damage done.’ I called GCHQ. ‘I need an assessment made of the groups left operating, and inside the hour. Then I can make a plan.’

  ‘There’s a bit of an exodus in progress, word on the street that the Army will move in and declare martial law – as you suggested we propagate, but there’s also a ground swell of movement, and now Torgua dead, Americans seen dropping bombs heard right across the city.’

  ‘Then I might just call it a day instead of pressing my luck. Papa Victor out.’

  I stood on the ridge, staring at that small part of the grey-building city I could see, and called Franks. ‘Listen, mass exodus of bad boys going on in the city, they’re about to break. Organise a flyby, loud, jets and helos, convince them something big is up for ten minutes. That should be enough for most of the gunmen to high tail it out of Dodge City and go get a day job at some 7-11.’

  ‘Easy enough, I can authorise that.’ After a pause came, ‘7-11?’

  I led the teams west, and a mile on we crossed the road north, heading northwest as helicopters thundered over us, jets screeching by. Even from where we were it looked like World War III was unfolding, so the remaining gunmen in the city must have been crapping themselves.

  David called as we crested a ridge, a nudge about the bank codes, so I risked a Lynx coming in. It landed half an hour later, the bank sheets handed over, No.3 more than just curious, and his chat to the other Russians was now a worry, not least his lack of respect for Tomsk. He had even suggested that I would make a better leader, since I cared for the men’s lives.

  A long, hot, ten hours later we walked into the safe house, a large farm, Sasha and his team greeting us, cold drinks offered, beds offered, beer flowing, soon a group of raucous men toasting each other, No.3 teaching Rocko Russian swear words.

  The Mi8 landed, eight drunken Russians and their kit taken to a ship that was close by, and that process continued till just the British were left with the house guards. Leaving at dawn, most of the lads half asleep still, we drove a short mile to a straight piece of road – Rocko and Rizzo just about carried, the Skyvan waiting, and we boarded in a hurry – before being spotted, and flew low level through the hills and along the coast.

  Nearing the border I had the pilots fly out to sea, just in case, the bad weather both aiding us in our attempts not to be spotted, as well as making everyone nervous – a few going green and about to be sick.

  An hour later we hit a familiar strip, the rain having stopped a few miles back, and Tomsk was stood waiting.

  ‘We all need a wash,’ I told him as I closed in.

  ‘No doubt, yes. Come, some food and rest, you all look ... terrible.’

  ‘Rough flight back,’ I noted.

  At the villa we claimed beds and showers, or showers then beds, Tomo grabbing his ladies for a shower. There was no faulting his enthusiasm.

  I sat with Tomsk, Big Sasha cooking. ‘I have the details of cartel cash hidden here in Panama. I struck a deal with them over it.’

  ‘Deal?’

  ‘First I struck a deal to get their families out if they confessed.’

  ‘They did ... confess?’

  ‘Yes, and they’ll plead guilty, Panama Government looking after the families.’

  ‘I heard some odd things, now it makes sense,’ Tomsk noted. ‘But if they had good lawyers in America they could have got away, so ... this way better I guess. And this money?’

  ‘They offered me 10%, but I said I’d give 50% to their families, 50% to the people who lost relatives to the cartel.’

  ‘They were all on the news,’ Tomsk told me. ‘Hundreds of families who had men killed.’

  ‘If I get the money, they get some money. How much did you get back here?’

  ‘Cash was around a hundred twenty million dollars, jewels were good – maybe sixty million, shares were very good, worth a lot, and on my ship is maybe street value two hundred million dollars of cocaine.’

  ‘Think of a number, my cut. Most goes to the families, rest to my team in England.’

  ‘Team?’

  ‘Sasha and these Russians, another ten men, I train them. I buy some good kit; British don’t like to spend money. Get some cash to England, but not that the fucking British know about.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I take care of you, a little something for these British men. And the price of cocaine has doubled this week!’

  ‘Good for business,’ I noted as I ate.

  I showered in my room, fresh greens laid out for me, and I crawled into bed, out like a light.

  I woke at 10am, having slept ten hours, and was stiff as hell, a long hot shower needed. Dressed, I headed down.

  ‘Ah, you are awake. Long sleep for you,’ Tomsk noted in the kitchen, Big Sasha thrusting a coffee towards me.

  ‘I was tired, yes.’ Coffee sipped, I started on an omelette.

  Ten minutes later, and ex-DEA Frank stepped in, newspaper in hand. ‘Petrov,’ he coldly acknowledged.

  I nodded. ‘Frank.’

  ‘TV news this morning is full of the repatriation of the minister’s son,’ Frank informed me.

  I turned my head to Tomsk. ‘My prisoner?’

  ‘At the camp, waiting. What’ll you do with him?’

  ‘Hand him to the boy’s father.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Frank let out. ‘He’ll beat the man to death.’

  ‘Up to him, it was his son,’ I noted.

  Frank added, ‘Helos landed from a ship, US dignitaries present, the handing over of the body, lot of soldiers lined up, big convoy as they drove the body into the city, people on the sidewalk.’

  I lifted my head to Frank. ‘I found the kid alive, still a heartbeat, but ... they had cut his arms and legs off, castrated him, eyes gone.’

  ‘Jesus...’ Frank let out. ‘Bet they don’t release that after the post mortem.’

  ‘Hope not,’ I quietly added. I faced Tomsk. ‘Put a team together, we go get that money today if we can.’ He nodded.

  No.3 appeared, heard before being seen, my back to him, and I had a choice to make, things to weigh up; the mission here - or someone that was once a friend.

  I already knew what the answer would be as I took out my pistol, cocking it close to my body as Tomsk suddenly looked worried. I spun, and put three rounds into No.3 from just a few feet away, his eyes wide in abject shock and surprise, No.5 jumping back, the house guards running in, but stopping.

  Pistol away, I sat, Frank staring wide-eyed, Big Sasha now with a pistol in his hand, the room deathly quiet. I returned to my omelette.

  Tomsk finally began, ‘There was a problem ... with No.3?’

  I glanced up briefly as I ate. ‘He wanted me to move against you.’

  Tomsk stared at the body for a few seconds, then quietly ordered the house guards to move the body. He sat. ‘He wanted you to kill me?’ he quietly asked.

  ‘I’ll be leaving tomorrow,’ I told Tomsk, Sasha putting away his pistol.

  ‘There are others ... like him?’ Tomsk quietly pressed.

  ‘Maybe, they all thought you stupid to attack Cali Cartel like that, you could have lost a lot of men killed.’

  ‘Did any others ... say anything?’

  ‘No, not that I heard, but all of the men who work for you thought your move against the Cali Cartel foolish.’ I held my stare on him. ‘If I had not been here you would have lost half your men, and then they would have got you. They would have taken you back to Cali, paraded around the streets for the population to see, a very slow death.’

  Tomsk was going pale. ‘It worked out OK ... in the end, so...’

  I shouted, ‘It worked out OK because I was here! Two days later and you and Big Sasha would be dead or captured, this place burnt dow
n, your men killed. And I care about the lives of those men, they’re not to be thrown away! You came very fucking close to losing everything!

  ‘You’re a major player on the world stage, and what you do has consequences. Upset any one of ten groups and they come for you, and you’ve already upset a hundred groups. And now the Medellin Cartel will be worried, and maybe they group together with other cartels and decide to get rid of you.’

  I went back to my food. Calmer, I said, ‘You are king of the castle, and everyone wants your head on a fucking plate. You are welcome to that job, I’d not want it.’

  Tomsk had sat quiet on a high stool, looking terrified, and now sighed. ‘It was not the best idea, to attack Cali. It was all simpler when I was small-time.’

  ‘You need to think first, and call me before moving on someone. If Medellin are a problem ... we deal with them hard and fast, no warning. And the only way you’ll ever leave this job is in a box or an orange prison suit. You won’t be retiring quietly to some island.’

  ‘I get a double, fake my death,’ he quipped, but I could tell he was serious. ‘Tell me ... the soldiers at the camp.’

  ‘They’re fine, they’ll be OK. I heard no other bad words. Pay them well, a holiday, they’ll soon be back and wanting more work.’

  Two hours later we drove to the jungle camp, a five minute wait before two Hueys set down, our friendly minister setting down with soldiers, plus the boy’s father, the man grey-haired and now dressed in a simple short-sleeve shirt and jeans. They walked across, the Huey engines slowing, our prisoner tied to a tree nearby.

  I stood with Sasha and some of the soldiers, four Panamanian soldiers behind the friendly minister. I shook his hand, then just stared at the boy’s father as he stared back at me. I finally said, ‘You have the details of how your boy died?’

  ‘They accidentally informed me that most ... of the body parts had been returned.’ He waited.

  ‘You have a right to know, but I suggest that you leave it and move on.’

  ‘Move on?’ he snarled.

  I stared back at him, my rifle cradled. ‘When I got to your soon he still had a heart beat.’

  The father’s eyes widened. ‘He was alive?’

  I nodded.