by Robert White
Five hundred metres from Stern’s yard we slowed and collected Des, who slid into the back seat, a wet and sorry-looking soul. He stowed his surveillance kit and checked his weapons. No MP5 for Des. He loaded a Winchester pump action shotgun with ‘RIP’ rounds.
“It won’t be long before they move now, mate,” he said, double checking his Glock. “Tanya is about a click from us to the north of the yard. There’s no sign of an escort, nothing. The blond guy in the glasses is the main player. He’s organised the team and has been barking out orders for the last hour. The good news is it looks like just three guys in the Toyota.”
I nodded. Stern’s men knew a team was in the country, but he wouldn’t expect us to be able to trace the boat so quickly. It would be too much to ask for the goods still to be on board. No chance. That said, I’d known doors left open before.
Our only plan was to follow at a discreet distance using our two vehicles, Tanya’s Ducati and our Volvo. All we could hope for was a quiet stretch of road where we could do the business as best we could. Once we had the Landmark and the towing vehicle, Tanya would deliver it to Rotterdam docks, where Joel’s team would take over. Once Joel had his boat on the way, Des, Tanya, Susan and I would return to the Dam and wait to see if Stern came out of the woods once his pride had been dented. Then it was time to find big bags of coke, even more bags of money, and the main man, David Edgar Stern. Payday beckoned.
There was a sudden burst of static from our comms and the car was filled by Tanya’s voice. The Jamaican drawl was unmistakable. The Landmark had just passed her position with three men on board.
Within minutes Tanya had dropped back from her position as observer on the cruiser and we had the point. To have a successful tail, it was essential that the point was changed over at regular intervals so the bad guys didn’t get nervous. Anyway, the Landmark was so big they couldn’t see too much behind them and could hardly lose us in a chase. It was the one good point I could think of as I mapped out the stop in my head.
We were on a motorway and the cruiser was managing a respectable eighty kph. Our visual contact consisted of a pair of taillights in the far distance. Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey was the order of the day. Susan hadn’t uttered a word and seemed as focused as any in the car. Des seemed to nod slightly in the back seat, his shotgun resting across his chest.
Thirty silent minutes drifted by and we saw the Toyota and its valuable cargo signal to exit the motorway. We took a chance and got a little closer. I saw the lone headlight of the Ducati appear in my rear view mirror. Swift and purposeful movements from Tanya showed she was ready to commence the proceedings.
The new road seemed ideal. We hadn’t met another vehicle for over five minutes. The road lighting was minimal. A deep drainage ditch at either side of the road made for careful driving.
Susan remained quiet but her eyes flicked around the car. She looked a little nervous. I handed her a balaclava mask.
“When we stop this thing, I want you to wear this at all times. Stay in the car and keep your head down, don’t move and you’ll be fine.”
She eyed the mask, then me. Her manner cold, she crossed and uncrossed her legs. Was it genuine nervousness? I got the feeling she was secretly enjoying the whole thing.
“Why not just follow for a bit longer, they might stop soon anyway?”
I thought it a strange thing to say.
I pushed the comms pretzel and Tanya answered instantly. She was using a ‘hands free’ inside her helmet and I could hear the purr of the Ducati.
“Hi, baby.”
Her casual tone gave me strength and I felt myself smile. My confidence rose.
“Okay, Tanya, time to do this thing. If you have a clear run for one kilometre, go for it.”
Within seconds Tanya flashed past us on the powerful motorcycle. We saw, rather than heard her wind up the Ducati as she passed our prey. The front wheel lifted and the bike’s staggering power was transferred to the rear. It was a show just for the Dutch. They would still be commenting on her poor control when they found the bike and Tanya strewn across the road in front of them.
People are predictable. Men are the worst offenders. I mean, think about it. You work for a very dangerous man. He has entrusted you with a quarter of a million pounds worth of boat, a stolen boat for that matter. You are delivering it somewhere, in the knowledge that if you fuck up, you’re dead.
Nonetheless the three buffoons in the cruiser stopped at the sight of a beautiful black girl sitting next to a prostrate red Ducati.
Their wheels had barely stopped turning when we pulled alongside. I made a quick check to see if Susan was masked, as despite my misgivings it was still important none of us could be identified.
I was out of the Volvo. For a split second I was vulnerable until I rolled over the bonnet and got cover from the car engine block.
Des was out and I heard the sound of the Winchester. The ‘RIP’ was away. So called because the round punches a hole in the first thing it hits and then delivers a block of CS dust into the hole. This time it was the rear window of the Toyota Land Cruiser. The Dutch guys were already fucked. They were blind from the CS and could hardly breathe.
They staggered from the vehicle coughing and choking. The more they rubbed their eyes, the worse it got. With CS, you feel like gouging out your own eyeballs to rid yourself of the irritation.
Tanya had the whole of the front of the scene covered with her MP 5. Des had ditched the shotgun and trained his Glock at the emerging rear passengers.
The driver jumped out holding an Uzi. Tanya double tapped him, and I saw two dark stains appear in the Dutchman’s chest. He went down in silence without getting a round away.
Slick and quick, like a well-oiled machine, Des was barking at one guy to lie down but the sap seemed either too scared or didn’t understand the Greenock accent. I had the second man covered. The safety was off on my H & K. I could see through the haze of CS that he was scared to death.
I noticed a flash of light. It was off to my left, behind Tanya. Headlights, the last thing we needed. Before I knew it there was gunfire, lots of it. It was heavy calibre automatic weapons, probably 7.62.
From the darkness, six rounds tore into the bonnet of the Volvo, missing me by feet. I turned and started to lay down rounds in the direction of the attack. My heart lurched. The attackers were too close to Tanya. She was silhouetted in the headlights of an unseen vehicle. She had no cover at all. We just hadn’t planned on the cavalry and I swore under my breath. Susan! We’d been set up! Our friend Stern wanted his girl back.
I heard the crack of Des’s Glock to my right and cries from the area of the Toyota. The Scotsman was playing percentages. The two guys in the cruiser were dead where they lay, under the circumstances, two less men for us to worry about.
More big stuff flew in my direction and I was knackered for any cover other than the Volvo’s front wheel. The 7.62 rounds would probably slice through the rest of the car. I remembered Susan was inside and crawled backward to her door. I wasn’t going to let her get killed in the process. She was our only ace in the hole. As I opened it she was cowering in the foot-well screaming in Dutch. I gathered she was swearing. I heard more covering fire from Des and the big stuff subsided a little. I reached up and pulled Susan out without looking up. She hit the tarmac hard and I saw she was bleeding. I couldn’t tell from where.
I heard Tanya’s MP5 and saw she was prone behind the fallen Ducati which was her only chance. I poured rounds over her head at a saloon which looked like the Audi from yesterday. At least two men had left it and were firing controlled bursts in Tanya’s direction. She stopped firing to change magazines. I fired again over her in the direction of the muzzle flashes. It was a vain hope as I couldn’t properly see the positions of the shooters, but it was the best I could do.
Her mojo, her protection, had stopped working. I watched helplessly as a line of automatic fire marched relentlessly along the ground toward her. Each round sent small
pockets of dust up into the air, like drops of cold water falling on a hotplate. Then, I found myself in some B movie cheap slow motion shot. The procession of bullets bounced forward. Now, I could see the shooter in faultless focus. The perfect moon again. The man was smiling as the action on the AK47 in his grasp flew forward and backward. Spent cartridges were ejected from the weapon as bullet after bullet flew from the red hot muzzle. His blond hair, which fell across his left eye, was blown temporarily off his face with each recoil. Then, my heart tried to leave my chest. It tore at my ribcage, climbed my windpipe and made for my throat. To my horror the first of Blondie’s rounds reached their target. The black full-face helmet Tanya wore exploded like a dropped peach. Kevlar was never a match for the ArmaLite. I felt physically sick. Her body bucked as the following rounds entered her in a line down her spine.
She didn’t feel them. Her brain had stopped receiving pain messages. But I felt them. Each and every one ripped into my flesh. I suppose I had been kidding myself the last two years. For a moment my body was frozen.
Without my knowledge, I had grown close to someone and once again they had been taken from me.
Des was working like a man possessed. He fired burst after burst in the direction of our attackers. He rolled between each set of fire to confuse the enemy. The technique also made him incredibly hard to hit in the smoke and darkness.
I pulled myself together. The relentless training, first with the Regiment, then my own personal, darker, regime, kicked in. The loss of a friend, even a lover, in battle, was part of the deal. I looked for cover for us all and knew that we had to make the gully at the side of the road. Without the ditch for protection we would die like grouse on the Glorious.
Just like Tanya.
I grabbed at Susan who was still cowering, but the tirade of expletives had ended and she was silent. The air stank of death and battle. I was nearly deaf from the gunfire. Anything other than a shout was blocked by a high-pitched ringing sound. My ears thought I’d just been to see Motörhead.
There were ten metres of open ground to the ditch. Ten meters, in which Blondie and his mates could slice us in two. Susan was injured and appeared traumatised. I knew she would slow me, but I dragged her to her feet and screamed at her to run and get cover. She did. It was a breathtaking turn of speed and I watched as she dived headlong into the ditch.
The boys with the AK’s were having a field day and rounds exploded in front of my feet, shards of tarmac tore holes in my trousers, as I ran for cover myself. I made an almighty leap to the ditch and I was hit by three feet of freezing shit-coloured water.
Seconds later I heard, “Des! Des! Des!” and the Scottish lunatic came flying in on top of me. I have to admit I was pleased to see him. I looked left and right into pitch black.
The gunfire subsided slightly and I risked a look up over the ridge of the stinking ditch. I saw nothing but shadows. Des immediately popped up thigh-deep in water and emptied his clip in the general direction of the Audi.
“How many you think?” he said, panting.
I had it all in my head, I always did. For some reason I could see the battle in my mind’s eye. A recollection only likened to photographic memory, I could place every enemy I’d seen in their last position. The most frightening thing was, I would never forget any or their faces. From Armagh to Amsterdam I would recall every last one.
“Originally four in the Audi, plus the three from the cruiser,” I said, my voice echoing inside my skull. The whistling blocked out most of everything important.
Des was checking his weapon. “Reckon only two men left alive, heading to the Audi. How are you for ammo?”
“Fuck all.”
Des gave me the look that told me he was in the same boat. We had to get the fuck out of there, we both knew it. Where the hell was Susan? The foetid water in the ditch made any movement difficult and slow. We could hear footsteps and shouting maybe twenty metres away. Both of us ducked low into the freezing ditch. Then, even though my ears were shot, I heard Susan’s voice. It was unmistakable even in my poor state.
I popped up to look. The two men left standing had her by the arms and for the first time, I saw that they were not in overalls as I had first thought, but uniform. Specialist shit, not the standard stuff, like some tactical police unit or other. I’d seen the gear before and I was racking my brains when Des got real close and whispered, “They’ve got Israeli Special Forces kit on.”
Both guys looked sorted. Blondie and his best pal carried heavy calibre machine guns. The friend walked backwards as he held Susan and trained his weapon in the direction of the ditch but he couldn’t see us in the dark. The guy looked wired but stayed on his task. He was a pro, no doubt about it. There had just been a small war. Hundreds of rounds had been fired.
Susan looked calm as they helped her toward the Audi. She was limping slightly. The blood I’d seen on her was from a superficial leg wound. She seemed okay. I heard radio transmissions, and then saw what I should have realised from the start. Susan took the handset and started speaking into it, her tone measured and calm. It wasn’t Dutch either, well not exactly, it was Afrikaans, and she was pissed off. I couldn’t understand what she said, but I got the impression she wasn’t happy we weren’t lying dead in the road.
The three walked past Tanya’s body on the way to the Audi and the blond uniform stuck the boot into her midriff.
I knew he’d pay for that one.
We had no way to get to Susan. No ammunition and no cover. It would be suicide and that came extra. We weren’t getting paid by Bin Laden. Des was looking at his hand-held GPS unit. We both carried one, together with the mobile phones.
“I reckon,” he began, “we are twenty clicks from the nearest town. We need to split up and…”
My mind was on Susan and the soldiers. How far away were more of Stern’s guys? What if he could muster air support and track us down? Even more strange, they were leaving their colleagues dead on the ground? Who did that? Not even the worst Mafioso left their dead. There was only one answer. They had a clean-up team on its way and I’d bet next month’s pay Susan had just called it in.
Des shook me by the arm. “You listening?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we gotta move.”
We heard the Audi’s tyres screech as it drove into the night and I looked over the top of our cover. The air had cleared and there was an eerie silence except for the odd metallic clink from the ruined vehicles. Des climbed from the freezing water of the ditch and crawled toward the devastation. I followed his wet trail. My head was in turmoil. Why hadn’t they started a search for us?
I told myself, I didn’t care.
The perfect moon popped out again just for our benefit and Tanya was suddenly surrounded by shimmering black. Her heart had pumped on long after the initial rounds struck her. To the left of where the Audi had been, lay two bodies in uniform.
Des reached Tanya first and took the MP5 from her dead hands. He checked the mag, gave me a ‘thumb’, and approached the bodies lying in the darkness.
He rolled the first with his foot and then quickly knelt at the second.
“This one’s still ticking,” he shouted.
I walked by Tanya. Her face was hidden by her helmet and I was strangely grateful. I paused for a moment and looked at her lifeless form, before I joined Des and inspected the living, a man in his prime, lying gasping for breath. He wore the same uniform as the others in the Audi. I would have put him in his mid-thirties and he sported a military style flat-top. On his left side, he had an entry wound just below his collarbone and a second to his ribcage. Red bubbles formed at his nose with each shallow breath. I guessed he could only be using one lung and was finding breathing an interesting concept.
Des pulled out a first-aid pouch and checked his pre-loaded syringes. He selected adrenaline and administered it to the unfortunate bloke. The reaction was instantaneous. The boy almost jumped to his feet but Des was ready and cradled him tightly. Everybod
y always remembers when John Travolta gave the shot to Uma Thurman in the movie Pulp Fiction. Well, this was a close second.
Des spoke in quiet measured tones as I looked nervously about for the cavalry. “Steady, son, settle down now, you’ll be fine.”
The boy’s eyes were wild. He was shitting himself and the excess adrenaline had tripled his heart-rate. He started to shout. Des put his hand on the boy’s mouth and made a hushing sound. After a few seconds the guy obeyed. So would anyone. Believe me.
“Speak English?” whispered Des and released the grip.
“Please....,” blurted the guy in perfect Queen’s. “Leave me here.”
I couldn’t make out the accent exactly, but thought it sounded American, maybe Canadian.
“How long before your friends get here?” said Des, as if asking directions to the park.
The poor bastard summoned some bravery from somewhere deep inside his gut, did a fair impression of a smile, and told Des to go fuck himself.
Des was ruthless. He searched for the guy’s rib entry wound with his thumb, found it, and plunged the stumpy extremity in up to the first knuckle.
There was a wet plop and the boy made a strange gurgling sound. Des’s thumb had plugged the entry wound and there were weird and wonderful things happening to the boy’s body. He wasn’t quite sure if he should scream or breathe.
He chose to do the former.
“How long and how many?” repeated Des.
There was another gagging effort and a cough that threw blood and snot over Des. The boy was really struggling for air.
“Minutes…” was all he could manage before chucking more of his lungs over Des’s jacket.