The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3

by B. Hesse Pflingger

  “Aye, for Mairead,” they echoed softly.

  They’d copped a Rover and Vauxhall van. “I’ll take the wheel, and you maintain a sharp lookout,” I told Seamus, and we boarded the Rover. I couldn’t very well warn him we might be riding into an ambush. Clancy, the group’s master of TWOC, fiddled the hotwire and started our engine. The others piled into the van. When I saw the van headlights come up I flicked mine on and pulled out onto the street. I hoped Brennan and the URG had forgotten some of my instructions about ambushes, because if it came to that, we’d be the first car to arrive at awaiting ambushes, and I didn’t want to face a competent one. We were sitting ducks out on the empty road. Seamus and his AK-47 wouldn’t bail us out if we got jumped.

  I’d not waste time evading non-existent pursuers this trip. Real ones lurked out there. The URG gang would have let maybe a quarter hour pass before they concluded I was a no-show, leaving enough time get here ahead of us, though not enough to arrange anything elaborate. The fog would cut down their field of fire, so they couldn’t set up very far from the road. Two two-lane country roads led from Twinbrook out to the vicinity of the farmhouse, passing to either side, and URG might be guarding either or both. I picked the longer of the routes, which I recalled offered the least opportunities for ambushes, and drove cautiously. We’d gone about a mile into the countryside when Seamus asked, “Why so slow?”

  “The fog, Seamus. We’re not needin’ the complication of collidin’ with some farmer’s wanderin’ milk cow right now. Slow and sure’s the way.” The van’s lights were just visible in the fog behind us as I came around a left-hand bend in the road, the view ahead obscured by a stand of trees. As the road straightened out beyond the trees I made out through the fog the shape of a car parked across the road about 30 yards ahead, three black-clothed figures with rifles standing before it. I slammed to a stop. A roadblock made sense in the circumstances, but they should have positioned themselves a little further along—the bend and cover lay only a short way behind us. And standing there bunched in front of it? Brennan was right: they needed professional advice. Looking at the bright side, at least they’d have no trouble getting blooded. Two of them drew their weapons up while one motioned us forward.

  Good luck with that. I doused our headlamps, put it in reverse and spurted backwards toward the bend to the sound of gunfire. I pushed the door open so I could lean down and gauge the edge of the road by the glare of the back-up lights. I was chary of winding up stuck in the roadside ditch, and as a result I oversteered into the turn and exposed the car broadside to the roadblock. The gunmen got lucky. Window glass shattered and Seamus yelped. Count our blessings they carried Armalites: had they opened up with anything full-auto, we’d have been riddled. As it was, the window beside me was blown out. Count my blessings that I was leaning down watching the road, shielded by Seamus.

  I righted our course and took us out of their view behind the trees, no further hits. The grill of the van brought us to a halt, and I lunged out onto the pavement. “Kill your lights, it’s a roadblock up ahead,” I snapped. “They fired on us. Seamus took some rounds.”

  “They’re shootin’ at us?” Clancy asked incredulously. “ We’ve done nothin’. It ain’t fair. Who’d be out here shootin’ at us? “

  “Parties unknown with guns,” I said. “Casey and Kelly, you cover the right side of the road. Hustle fast to the far side of the bend where it straightens out, and take cover.” I passed the Kalashnikov to Kelly. “When you fire, use short bursts,” I told him. “Keep low. Move away after you fire. Clancy, you take your rifle into that stand of trees and cover the left side. All, be sure of your extra clips. You see anyone advancin’ toward us, let ‘em have it. I’ll attend to Seamus.” I drew my SIG and let them see it.

  Seamus was slumped over against his door, still breathing, unconscious but not bleeding badly. Welcome to the wonderful world of warfare, Seamus. Maybe he’d survive, maybe not, but nothing I might do for him right then would make much difference. The RUC was on their way, and provided the PING didn’t mount too stiff a resistance, their medics would attend him better than I could. I left him and joined Clancy in the trees. “Seamus is all right for now, though he’s needin’ medical attention,” I assured him. “You can’t see the roadblock, but it’s up ahead there. I’m going to fire a couple shots their way to locate ‘em for you, then I’ll sneak around these trees and flank ‘em.”

  Clancy was shaking. “Wh, what if they come up shootin’ at me?” he asked.

  “Not likely they will, but if they do, they’ll probably come along the edge of the road. Stay alert. Don’t fire wildly. Aim your shots. Get the ones nearest cover first.” He dropped his gun and clawed his balaclava down over his face, fumbling to line the eye holes up. Good move, Clancy. That’ll fool ‘em. “Casey, Kelly,” I hissed toward the other side of the road. “Hunker down. I’m going to give ‘em something to think about, then I’ll proceed around these trees and come at ‘em from the side while you keep ‘em occupied from the front. Take a bearing on their return fire.”

  I stepped onto the road, popped off two rounds from the SIG high enough in the air to guarantee a miss, then scrambled back behind cover. Flashes answered in the fog, bullets whining where I’d been. Kelly raised the AK-47, to no effect until it occurred to him to release the safety, and when he did the gun barked out an accidental burst wildly into the air. “They gave away their positions, but so did you,” I hissed. “Move away and get down, the both of you! Quick!”

  Kelly crouched and took a couple steps to the side. Casey was a little slower. Distant muzzles flashed and banged, and bullets whizzed past him. “Shite!” he gasped. “That nicked me trousers!” He took three longer, faster steps, just in time to avoid another swarm of slugs. He raised his Armalite and answered with two shots down the road.

  “Shoot only if they reveal themselves,” I said. “Don’t waste your ammo firin’ blind.” I snapped. “Take cover. Wait for me to commence fire. They’ll return it, and you have at their flashes, step away immediately, then spread out and move forward carefully. Wish me well, then.”

  “Go give ‘em what for, Jack,” someone said.

  What I actually went and did, instead of skirting the trees and sneaking up to attack the roadblock’s right flank, was retrieve the satchel from the Rover, wipe the wheel, gearshift and door handles of prints, and quietly melt away into the mist. Hardly outgrown rock-throwing and dodging tear-gas on the barricades, the PING lads now fancied playing soldier. They’d gotten their wish. I started my trot down the road back toward Twinbrook, thankful that URG had set up so close to home.

  We were on ground I’d reconned. I knew it well enough that the fog was not a hindrance but rather was useful cover. The other road to Twinbrook and the factory was a more direct route. I jogged carefully along dirt tracks and country lanes through the farm plots to join it. Because of the fog and dark I had to concentrate on direction: aim perpendicular to the road I left, and always bear to the right, would take me toward Twinbrook, as long as I didn’t get flummoxed by odd twists and bends around the irregular fields. Our earlier gunfire had set the neighborhood dogs off, so the ones that challenged me as I passed by would go unremarked. A rifle shot spattered the dirt beside me. I’d reached the other road only to find another roadblock, and they’d heard me before I spotted them. “Halt,” someone ordered. “You there come forward with your hands up.”

  I lowered the satchel and let it drop quietly to the ground, then raised my hands and advanced a few yards. Someone in a black ski mask shined a torch beam on me. “What? Jake Fonko, is it?”

  I recognized the voice—Brennan McCampbell. Two ski-masked husky URG mates stood beside him. Some kind of local fashion statement, black ski masks? “Well now, Brennan, it’s bloody well time yez all showed up,” I said. “I’ve been waitin’ on you out here, freezin’ my arse in the dark since 4:30. I thought we were supposed to stage an ambush. I h
ad a prime spot all selected.”

  “It’s a fine cock-up,” Brennan said. “Behind the pub was to be our meetin’ place, I thought,” he said. “Absent you we came and set this roadblock and one on the other main road. What’s that shootin’ I heard?”

  “I don’t know, sounds like it’s on the road over yonder. Best you investigate, in case your men need backup. No tellin’ how large a force they’re facin’. But I’d not abandon this position, as you’re well-situated here to intercept the Republicans.”

  “You’re a commando, what would you advise then?” Brennan asked.

  I faked thinking about it for a moment. “It isn’t far. Spare me a man, and I’ll go with him to scout it out.”

  Cormac volunteered. “Bring your weapon and come along,” I said, drawing my SIG. “You two remain here and guard that road,” I told the others. Cormac and I retraced my path, me stooping for the satchel as we passed it. We double-timed to the other main road: a hedgerow lined one side of it. I motioned Cormac to stop. “This is to our advantage,” I whispered. “You see how it provides good cover for quite a ways? You slip through this gap and then proceed forward behind the hedgerow. I’ll slink along parallel on the other side. That way we cover one another, and they’ve no way of twiggin’ there’s a pair of us. Where it ends we’ll meet and plot our next tactic. It’s how we did it in Vietnam. Never failed.” Some more shots popped down the road. “Hurry along now, no time to waste,” I urged him as he ducked through the gap. “Keep low and move quietly.” I gave him fifteen seconds, then crept onto the main road and made tracks toward Twinbrook. I’d covered a half mile when I heard heavy vehicles approaching. I ducked over a stone wall, crouching behind it. Glaring headlights split the mist as two Saracens and an armored troop carrier whooshed by and faded into the fog behind me. I heard the same noise approaching on the road Brennan’s group blocked. Good luck to Seamus, I thought, and resumed my run to Twinbrook at a faster pace. Gun shots picked up down the road. Automatic fire broke out across the fields.

  I reached the factory gate about twenty minutes later. Sidestepped another RUC convoy but otherwise encountered no problems along the way. “I changed my mind about the car,” I told the guard. “There’ll be no one following me, either.” He’d summoned reinforcements, a burly man with helmet, flak jacket and a pump-action shotgun. They looked disappointed.

  “We’d hoped for a little dust-up to enliven our shift,” the guard said.

  “Maybe next time. Much obliged for your assistance.” I passed the inner gate and made for the faint lights of the office building. I hurried inside, quick-changed into my business gear, leaving my rough duds in the office closet. I told the guard I was meeting some important executives in town who’d flown in from head office to straighten out the factory, and that I’d return with them after the breakfast hour. It was getting toward 0700—the story was plausible. I went to the Mini, buried the SIG in my suitcase, laid the satchel on the front seat beside me and exited through the main gate, just another businessman on his way to an early meeting in town. The adventure in the countryside had taken about an hour, so I was not too far behind the schedule I’d had in mind. I’d left the URG watching for the PING to emerge from the gloom, the PING waiting for Jack McCool to roll up URG’s flank, and RUC armored cars and troop carriers closing in. Three blind armies groping through the fog and darkness for sign of one another.

  At that early hour traffic was light. The fog blanketing the road did not slow me. I worried that a checkpoint stop-and-search might turn up the SIG and the cash, but the Saracens and troop carriers streaming past me on the way out of town indicated law enforcement had other priorities just then.

  Rather than do the obvious and beat for America out of the International Airport, I aimed to catch a commuter flight from the City Airport to Scotland. Traveling within the UK there’d be no complications with passports or customs, so Zak Fahnke could leave Belfast without fuss. Jake Fonko would depart London in a day or two. The DeLorean factory would get their Mini back good as new when the police located it or the airport complained about it. I’d not used “Zak Fahnke” in any context in Ireland. Only the RUC, MI5 and MI6 knew of it from their search of my hotel room. I just hoped to God their security was tight enough that nobody’s “sources” ever connected all those dots. I wanted no one in Northern Ireland some day to deduce precisely who Jake Fonko was and what had become of him.

  As for immediate threats, once I reached the terminal I’d be clear: all parties who might recognize me were keeping each other occupied in the countryside miles away. I parked the Mini, transferred papers and essentials to the satchel and schlepped my gear to the Aer Lingus ticket counter. The terminal was moderately busy. Not many were taking the early flights. I scanned the departure board. A connection to Glasgow was next out. My luck held: seats were available.

  “You’re just in the nick, sir,” the ticket agent told me. “The commuter to Glasgow boards in fifteen minutes, and the fog seems to be lifting. Have you any bags to check?”

  “The suitcase and the rucksack. I’ll carry the satchel on”

  “Very good.” He tagged the bags and sent them off. “Here is your ticket and boarding pass and your passport. Your boarding ramp is down the way to the right. Have a good flight, Mr. Fahnke.”

  Mission accomplished. I’d gotten what I was after. Out.

  As for Emil Grotesqcu? I’d left a message at the number he gave me. “Tell Eammon Gahagan to keep his head down. Say the message is from The Cambodian Dragonfly.” It seemed only fair.

  So Jake Fonko once again went MIA. Desertion on the field of battle, you say? Let’s parse that out. Not my field. Not my battle. These folks had for hundreds of years been at their lethal game. They shanghai’d me into joining their table, and I’d not been dealt a fair hand. I’d already lost with DeLorean. Leave it to the vaunted Luck of the Irish to settle matters among PING, URG and RUC out in the foggy bogs. “Fook ‘em all!” was my considered opinion on that subject.

  Glasgow, Scotland. I wouldn’t say it’s the armpit of the world, only because the competition for that title is so fierce. The government buildings were solid, stately and ornate, as they usually are in most major cities, and their grounds and surrounding parks were well kept. But the town proper featured old brick, stone and plaster buildings begrimed with industrial soot, and a pall of smog that would give Los Angeles a go. The wealthy districts weren’t enviable, the poorer ones dispiriting. Stolid-faced, bundled-up people trudged the dank streets. Probably it would be cheerier in the springtime. I took a room in a comfortable downtown hotel as Zak Fahnke, paying in advance with cash. Wait a day or two, get myself organized, then train down to London and from there wing home, was the scheme. DeLorean may have stiffed me, but the $32,000 in the satchel made up for it, and I’d so far avoided entanglement in his drug fiasco. Hopefully I’d return home free and clear, compensated for my inconvenience.

  My two night stay in Glasgow passed without incident. I took in what sights were there to be seen. The biggest adventure was finding restaurants with something interesting to eat. Trains to London left Glasgow Central Station throughout the day. I picked out a late afternoon flight to New York, booked a seat and the next morning boarded an early train, leaving plenty of time to catch my plane. From Euston Station in London I took a cab to Heathrow. Ticket in hand and bags checked, I hit one of the terminal pubs for a final fond half and half while I awaited my flight. I’d soon land in New York, and I’d get a room for the night while I worked out my next move.

  I moved to my departure gate and took a seat, and presently they announced boarding for my flight. A few steps and a few minutes and I’d be as good as home. I grabbed the satchel and rose to queue up, and two large men in dark suits and bowler hats came up and joined me, one on either side. “Mr. Fonko,” one said, “we’d like you to come with us, if you don’t mind.” The other discretely gripped my upper arm in a most com
pelling way.

  “What is this? I’m an American citizen. I’m booked on this flight to New York. You can’t do this to me!”

  “Well, it seems we’re doing it nevertheless. Come along quietly. It would be for the best. If you tried to make a scene, I can assure you it wouldn’t last long.” Sizing the guys up, that had the ring of truth. So we ambled down the concourse, through the arrival gate and out into the lobby.

  “What about my luggage?” I demanded. “I checked two bags on that flight.”

  “They’ve been seen to. This way, if you please.” They frog-marched me through the glass entry and out to the curb, where a black sedan with a uniformed chauffeur sat waiting. “Get in, please, Mr. Fonko,” one said while the other swung the door open for me.

  They were polite, I’ll give them that. They climbed in, one on either side, leaving me plenty of space on the buttery leather seat. This baffled me. I’d given no hint of my escape route to anyone, and I exited Belfast under my Swiss passport. The name Jake Fonko surfaced only when I booked my flight back to NYC. I had to use my right name then, because my entry visa was under that name. Geez, one slip and they were on my ass. Whoever they were. They spoke with refined English accents of the loftier classes, the kind you hear on BBC. Whatever outfit they represented, they had to be high up in it, which was reassuring until I remembered stories I’d heard about anti-terrorist activities by MI6. Well, nothing for it but to wait and see how the situation unfolded. My companions remained mostly mute during the trip.