Wilco: Lone Wolf - book 1: Book 1 in the series (Part of an ongoing series)

by Geoff Wolak

  The referee got ready, stood well back and nodded, the bell sounding out.

  I stepped forwards, a large step, the second step launching a kick straight for his chin, his arms coming up for it, but I snapped my leg down and switched legs, catching him across his right eye with the sole of my trainer, and snapping his head to the side. I jumped backwards and watched the blood pool on the floor, the guy’s right eye now closed.

  Foolishly, I waited for the referee to do something, but then realised that he didn’t care, so I moved around to the guy’s right side. Lunging forwards, I came in with a low kick and he reacted to it, his hands going down, but I slammed the leg down and kept going, a risky punch over the top at his nose, a good contact made and loud noise issued.

  He staggered back, now more blood on the canvas than in his veins, and he was in no mood to continue, waving his hands.

  ‘Submission!’ sounded out as I returned to my corner.

  ‘You dragged that one out, at least twelve seconds,’ Sergeant Crow quipped.

  It took a while to clean up the blood and dry out the canvas with paper towels, but it was finally ready, and my next opponent was a big Arab with good muscle tone. Still, he was an Arab, and I figured he’d not have much experience at a professional level.

  As they got ready I struggled to think of a strategy, but realised that he had been watching me, and that I had used kick feints. So, no feints this time.

  The bell went, and I rushed forwards, surprising him and catching him a little unawares, and as he moved to the side he exposed his mid section, my side kick hitting him in the belly button and bending him double, my second kick taking out his knee from the side. I walked back and waited.

  My opponent was on his knees, struggling to breathe, and the referee called it. ‘Disabled!’

  I was now getting more cheers than boos, which I considered a good thing because it was a hostile crowd, and up next was the home team’s champion on his home turf. When he climbed into the ring he got a loud welcome, and he raised his hands in triumph. I figured him to be possibly Mongolian, maybe Turkish, it was hard to tell. He was an inch or two shorter than me, certainly lighter, and he was well toned.

  Looking down, I could see that his shins were black and blue and torn to pieces; he was a kick boxer, and I had my intel. I also had a terrible feeling that he’d kick my shins till they looked like his, or kick a thigh and deaden it.

  I need a strategy, and quickly, because this guy would kick me five times before I could land a punch. There was nothing for it, I would have to take a hit to get some advantage.

  The bell sounded out all too soon, and my heart skipped a beat, the idea of broken bones at the front of my mind. I edged slowly forwards, hands down, and let him do the work. He got his distance, and I read him like a book.

  The kick came towards my thigh, and as it did my fist went high and I turned into the kick a little. The top of his foot hit my thigh hard, but it was a little too high, partly because I was dropping already, and I slammed my first down onto the side of his knee with all of the strength I had, a back fist taking him by surprise as he moved away and as I had moved into him. It sent him spinning away from me.

  Back upright, his mouth was bleeding, he appeared startled, and he limped as he moved around. My thigh injury would be a monster bruise, but for now I still had feeling in my left leg. I needed him to use his legs, and fast, so I lunged, an obvious front-on shuttle kick, and he moved left, onto his good leg, a feeble attempt at a kick with his damaged right leg – which was not co-operating so much.

  His right leg impacted my left knee side on, and as we both dropped our legs and regained our balance I kicked out wildly and caught his right knee as he moved back.

  I could see it in his eyes - two hits to the same knee, so I went for another kick, this one just catching his knee as he moved away from me, but he was facing me - and the ropes were a bit too close, soon rubbing his back and causing him to turn his head for a second as the crowd roared.

  I side-kicked in, and he had nowhere to go, my kick making contact with his ribs and bouncing him off the ropes, and as he came back and I moved in I kicked again, but down and at that knee with all my force.

  A yelp signalled that I had finished off that knee, and I stood back, waiting.

  He desperately tried to regain his composure, but could not put any weight on that knee. I stepped closer, almost to striking distance, and he angered quickly, one last burst of energy as he tried to move forwards and punch.

  I side-stepped to the right, bent and flexed, coming back with a massive right hook that lifted him off the canvas. He landed like a dead fish, and I returned to my corner as people cheered.

  ‘Thirty seconds,’ Sergeant Crow stated. ‘Better for the punters.’

  ‘Knockout!’ sounded out behind me.

  I sipped a little water as they carted him off, the next guy being a white guy, but wearing Star Spangled trunks, so maybe an American serviceman. He was 6’6”, a monster of a man, but he had little muscle tone and thin legs. He was all upper body and top heavy, a bit of a beer gut. Still, he appeared very confident, snarling my way.

  The bell sounded out, and I stepped forward, suddenly not having a clue how to play this, but focusing on his legs. He came in with a big right hook when close enough, but I ducked under it and ended up behind him, and kicked him in the arse just for fun. The crowd cheered, but the big lump was not happy. He rushed at me.

  Not thinking clearly, I took a gamble, and as he came in I dropped to a knee and punched him in the solar plexus with all my strength. My punch was well placed, and the air burst from his lungs, but he collapsed onto me whilst trying to grab me at the same time. His balls were right there so I grabbed them and squeezed, and kept squeezing as he tried to get me in a bear hug.

  With one knee bent I pushed upwards whilst still gripping his balls, getting elbowed hard in the ribs as I did so. As he moved back, now groaning from having his balls squeezed, I snapped my head up and caught his chin, which sliced his tongue between his teeth, a spurt of blood coming my way.

  Both his hands went for his balls, I let go, and both my hands hit him in the throat, but not forcefully, and I managed to step back as he grabbed for me. His knees went, his eyes watered, he spat blood and tried desperately to breathe, his windpipe hit.

  I knew that if I hit him again I’d kill him, so I simply walked to my corner and waited as he fell onto his side, the referee clambering in.

  ‘Disabled!’

  ‘Dirty,’ Sergeant Crow noted. ‘Still, entertaining.’

  They carried my opponent out, and up next was the guy Chuck had warned me about, the 300lb black American sergeant. He looked like he had boxed before, his legs were huge, his abs as good as mine, and I was in trouble here unless I could avoid getting hit or wrestling the guy; he ticked all the boxes. I was smaller and lighter, but I was not that fast.

  Still, I figured that this guy would not kick, but that if I kicked and he grabbed my leg I’d be a dead man. No, I had little choice but to box this guy.

  The bell went, and we moved forwards, and both behaved like boxers straight away, and he dummy jabbed me. I stayed just out of range, ducking side to side and tempting him to commit. After twenty seconds he got bored, and made for a giant right hook. I slipped under it and his forearm brushed my hair, and as I came up I went for a left hook to the ear, a loud noise the result as I stepped backwards.

  He shook his head, got ready and started again, and I would probably not be so lucky next time, but at least his ear was swelling, and distracting him. I taunted him again, and again he went for the monster right hook, but this time he kept it low, as if to hit me as I ducked. Stepping to the side and twisting over, I kicked out and caught him in the balls, but he recovered quickly.

  He was now angered, I had hurt him, and I’d need some luck here to beat him. Facing him, and forcing myself to relax a little and focus, I decided that his memory was probably not that great. I moved in,
soon ducking my head right then snapping left. He went for where my head used to be as I slammed him in the jaw with a good left hook, sending him sideways for two steps and off the ropes.

  Shaking his head, he recovered himself and forced a few breaths, thinking through his strategy, and his jaw had to be hurting, maybe even broken.

  He came at me, his anger getting the better of him, and his momentum carried him, my opening obvious. I kicked hard, straight to the solar plexus, but his momentum kept him coming, my leg down as he reached striking point, but the kicked had lowered his shoulders too much.

  He punched out but hit my shoulder as I spun away my right leg, and as he grabbed my left arm I cut up with the side of my right hand and hit him in the throat, a dirty move. He tried to grab me with both hands as I struggled, but my knee was accidently in the right place and I pressed down with all of my body weight, forcing his knee inwards.

  He still had hold of my left forearm with his right hand, but that simply meant that I ended up pinning his arm behind his back, him kneeling down and me over him. I grabbed at his face and put a finger in his eye and he screamed out, so I pushed him away and jumped backwards.

  He was counted out. ‘Disabled.’

  I faced where I had seen Chuck sitting, and offered a cheeky American salute.

  Back at my corner, I realised that my hip was now killing me, that my left knee ached something terrible, and that my left fist was cut and bleeding - and stiffening up, the adrenalin suppressing the pain for now. I just hoped that I had made a few quid.

  They came and asked if I could carry on, and I nodded, suddenly wishing I hadn’t as the pain increased from everywhere. Sergeant Crow washed off the blood, and bound my knuckles, which was allowed.

  Next up was the Thai fighter, and I could already feel the pain in my legs in anticipation of him dancing around me and striking whenever he wanted, and I wanted to be somewhere else, or anywhere else.

  I needed a strategy, and Sergeant Crow shouted up, ‘No holds barred.’

  ‘No holds barred,’ I quietly repeated.

  I put a leg forwards and moved my body weight as if about to start a sprint, and I could see him puzzling that, and then the bell clanked.

  My head down, I sprinted at him, and he was surprised, but tried to sidestep and then kick me, throwing a punch as well. His kick hit me in the ribs, but my arm protected me from serious damage, his punch hit my ear, but not with great force, but my momentum was key – as was his light bodyweight.

  His bulging eyes betrayed his surprise as I lifted him up off the floor, and I continued forwards, all my effort used to lift him and then to swing him to my left as the rope neared, launching him.

  He reached for the ropes and missed, his hands sliding off my sweaty neck, and he landed on his back, a cry issued, a cry that suggested the concrete floor was not as soft or as even as he might have wished for.

  Spectators lifted him, but it was no use, he was in no shape to continue. I turned to my corner and shrugged, the audience loving it. I wondered if I was disqualified. ‘Is that allowed?’ I asked Sergeant Crow.

  He faced the referee, and the guy just shrugged. ‘Disabled!’

  And that concluded the night’s bouts, two others refusing to fight me.

  Out of the ring, people I knew gathered around, Colonel Ali waving and trying to get close, Chuck telling me that he had waged on me after all. They led me back to the changing rooms, where I found an Arab in a silver suit with two bodyguards.

  ‘You did very well,’ the Arab offered. ‘I am Haseem, this is my place, and you are my honoured guest. Come, clean up, we will talk.’

  ‘Will this talk involve some food, beer, and some ladies?’

  He laughed loudly. ‘For you, anything!’

  I cleaned up with the help of Sergeant Crow, got dressed, and we were led out by Haseem, but I beckoned Colonel Ali to follow, soon to a stretch Humvee and inside. Our host handed me a bag. ‘For you, your winnings.’ I accepted the bag and looked inside, many wads of US dollars and local currency. ‘And there is more where that came from.’

  ‘Good to know,’ I said.

  ‘You are British?’

  ‘Royal Air Force Regiment, down here as a driver and bodyguard.’

  ‘A bodyguard, eh, I would have never have guessed.’

  We laughed.

  ‘This is Colonel Ali, my boss,’ I said, introducing Ali.

  ‘Bahrain Self Defence Force,’ Ali explained.

  They exchanged pleasantries in Arabic for a minute, and ten minutes later we arrived at a tower block, a well guarded and posh tower block. A very posh elevator whisked us up to the penthouse, and I found half a dozen Asian girls serving chilled champagne. We all accepted flutes and toasted, dishes of food brought out as we sat on plush white sofas.

  Half an hour later I stepped onto the balcony and took in the great view, Haseem joining me.

  ‘You like the view?’

  ‘Very nice, sir.’

  ‘No need to call me ‘sir’, I am not a colonel.’

  ‘Do those Asian girls know how to massage?’

  ‘Of course, pick two, you must be hurting.’

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘But you don’t feel it in the ring.’

  ‘I think your opponents felt it,’ he joked, and we laughed, and I was trying to play the role. ‘So, will you fight again?’

  ‘If I’m here, so put in a call to Saddam Hussein and ask him to drag it out a bit.’

  He laughed loudly as I took in the twinkling lights. ‘I shall send in a request. So, next week, tell me about any injuries, and we’ll see, yes?’

  ‘Fine, sir, just hope my bosses don’t find out.’

  I picked two ladies, both quite cute, and they led me to a room, a shower taken together, followed by a massage, followed by a double-header blowjob. When in Rome, I told myself.

  At 1am I was a bit drunk, so I collected my winnings and Sergeant Crow, and bid Haseem goodnight, Colonel Ali staying the night it seemed. Sergeant Crow dropped me off, and I went straight to bed, the cash in its bag.

  At 6am I was up and in the shower, the hot water needed, and I found that I had bruises in places that I did not remember being hit. I was also stiff all over. I took a leisurely swim and sauna, few people about, and ate a good breakfast, soon telling Sergeant Spence that I had fallen over and hurt my wrist, and that I was going back to bed – and to hell with everyone.

  Bob Staines knocked on my door at 8.45am, no surprise at all to me.

  ‘You came for the money, not to see if I’m OK.’

  He laughed. ‘So how are you?’ he lamely asked.

  ‘No serious damage, plenty of bruises. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘You never fail to impress, Wilco, and Colonel Ali and Haseem are now plotting and scheming, so a result there as well.’

  I knocked the kettle on. ‘Do you have any spy work that is ... less painful? I’d even try some desk work if you like.’

  ‘It’s less dangerous than the road to Dhahran,’ he quipped, inspecting the cash.

  ‘That it is,’ I agreed.

  We sat, coffee made, and he counted out eight thousand pounds for me in US Dollars.

  ‘Not a bad night’s work,’ he said.

  ‘You get the lion’s share, yet you teased with me a big payout.’

  ‘Taxes, you know,’ he quipped. ‘And stingy civil servants. This will go towards our war effort.’

  ‘And what are my ... instructions?’

  ‘Take it easy for a while, rest and recover, but if Haseem calls then go suck up ... and play dumb.’

  ‘Did that airport lead work out?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘We have the money man in the frame.’

  I took it easy for a few days, several of the drivers congratulating me since they had been at the fight, and one Army colonel told me he had made a few quid off me. Colonel Ali was told that I had hurt my wrist, and he popped over to my hotel for a drink in the bar, now more like a buddy than a senior office
r, mention of his friendship with Haseem, and mention of another fight in two or three weeks.

  I told him to tell Haseem that I would be interested, on condition that his massage girls assist my training, making him laugh loudly. He agreed to make arrangements, and the following evening a limo came and picked me up, the bell hops and luggage boys puzzling that since I was but a humble driver. The nice Asian ladies did indeed help, but I doubt that they assisted in my fight preparations.

  Haseem introduced me to many of his friends, and at one point I took off my top to display my physique, worried about the queer looks I was getting. Still, I got limo service, free booze and food, and the Asian ladies to play with, it was not all bad.

  The next day I sat and studied photographs with Bob Staines, identifying everyone who was at the party, and who had chatted about money with Haseem – other than betting on fights. One of those at the party was a big fish, and I could see some trepidation in Bob’s eyes when I tapped the photo. Whoever the guy was, he was a bad boy.

  I was all healed up by time the Air Commodore arrived, and I picked him up at the airport in uniform.

  ‘So, how’s it been down here?’ he cheerfully asked as we walked to the car, out of the nice air-conditioned terminal and into the early evening heat.

  ‘Well, sir, we need to talk.’

  ‘Oh?’ he asked, now worried.

  ‘Hey Wilco, good fight!’ an American called as he passed.

  ‘Fight?’ the Air Commodore asked as we headed to the car.

  ‘Boxing, sir, in the ring.’

  ‘You’re back boxing? Here?’

  ‘Well, sir ... like I said, we need to talk.’

  ‘Wilco!’ he quietly admonished. ‘I’m responsible for you!’

  ‘And proud of me you will be, sir.’ We set off. ‘OK, sir, starting at the beginning. After you left I joined the motor pool, and serviced weapons as well, but one day I was driving this Arab officer from Bahrain, and after a trip to the brothel in Dhahran he was a bit drunk, and blabbing down the phone – blabbing about selling our plans to the Iraqis.’