Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  I smiled and nodded. ‘Take a good look at me, gentlemen, I’m full of holes. Not quite Rambo. Still, it’s a compliment of sorts. I’d say that I killed under fifty.’

  The next afternoon, and the Mi6 guy was back with Bob Staines. I got the kettle on.

  ‘Did you not believe my story?’ I teased the second guy.

  ‘How much was true?’ he countered with.

  ‘Most of it, apart from the action on that third day.’

  ‘That was you?’

  ‘No other fucker in those woods,’ I retorted, handing out the teas.

  Bob said, ‘How many did you shoot?’

  ‘Take all those wounded or killed, take off thirty, and that’s your number,’ I said as I sat.

  They exchanged looks.

  ‘Did you get mad at them?’ Bob asked.

  I made a face. ‘I don’t think so, but by the third day I was on automatic pilot and not thinking, just operating.’

  ‘Were there chances to get out?’ Bob pressed.

  ‘When there was I took them, but got spotted – and shot. I certainly had no desire to hang around.’

  ‘And the distance sniping?’ Bob pressed.

  ‘Could be argued as being unnecessary, but I was trying to throw them into confusion, to keep them out of the woods, and because I couldn’t simply let them form up and make plans to enter the woods. So when I saw officers organising groups and patrols I opened up, anything up to 800 yards.’

  ‘You winged the senior officer present,’ Bob noted.

  ‘By chance.’ I sipped my tea. ‘I saw tents out at 700 yards and fired on them.’

  ‘You were hurt on the first day?’ the second guy asked.

  ‘I was hurt in the first hour,’ I quipped.

  ‘Four days continuous fighting,’ Bob noted. ‘Remarkable.’

  ‘Survival instinct, plus marathon running I guess,’ I stated. ‘And a large dose of luck.’

  Bob glanced at his colleague. ‘You aim to go back to The Regiment?’

  ‘I have no strong desire for a job as a plumber, if that’s what you mean. And using the treadmill this week has given me hope; every day it gets easier. It all hurts like fuck, and I feel ill all day long, but less so. From very shit, to just a bit shit.’

  ‘We’d have some work for you,’ Bob offered.

  ‘No doubt, but I just came from one hell hole, are you really so keen to drop me back into another?’

  ‘We’re normally far more stealthy than direct action, rarely are shots fired,’ he said. ‘Little publicity.’

  ‘Colonel Richards has already suggested “E” Squadron.’

  ‘And your feelings on that?’ Bob pressed, crossing his legs and easing back.

  ‘If I go back, then I have a lot more courses to complete, starting with the Marines sniper course.’

  They laughed.

  Bob said, smiling, ‘You might shoot straight afterwards.’

  ‘And I want to do the re-breather course, some boat work.’

  ‘But you are not averse to the idea of “E” Squadron?’

  ‘Not averse ... when considering a job as a plumber, no. Not overly keen either, but then again ... could it be any more arduous or dangerous than my holiday in sunny Bosnia.’

  ‘Given what you’ve been through, it should be walk in the park,’ Bob emphasised. ‘As easy as your holiday in sunny Riyadh.’

  Swifty turned up that evening, a bag of goodies in hand.

  ‘I’ve been here weeks, and you only turn up now?’ I teased.

  ‘Had work to do,’ he replied. He took a moment to study me. ‘You getting better?’

  ‘Kate thinks I’ll be entering next year’s London marathon.’

  ‘They would never let you,’ he stated, and I guess that he was probably correct.

  I nodded. ‘Any shit from the Garda?’

  ‘They know it was us, just damned short on evidence – for both jobs. They’re looking for a smoker who wears size eleven wellington boots for the one job!’

  I smiled. ‘I never saw you that day, so you could have been sleeping!’

  He smiled. ‘It was odd from my angle, seeing them come out, then the shots fired. I didn’t see you, so maybe it was Rizzo.’

  ‘I think we should alter some records, and put down Rizzo’s name,’ I agreed.

  ‘Cycling back and forth was brilliant, or crazy, I’m not sure which. But Bob Staines and his crew all think you’re fucking James Bond, and after Bosnia – they’re fucking certain of it.’

  ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘I spoke to Bob at length, and he knows more than most, certainly more than those idiots in 14 Intel. How many did you shoot?’

  ‘Must have fired off a thousand rounds, wounded or killed three hundred.’

  ‘Shit...’

  ‘A lot of the time their officers were lining them up ready, not realising that I could see them, and that I was just 200 yards away. I would open up, hit a dozen, then leg it. And on the third day I was in the woods when lorries drove past, canvas on the back, thirty men inside each. I opened up and emptied the magazine before any fucker realised it.’

  He shook his head. ‘Poor bastards.’

  ‘They sent in dogs at one point, maybe three points, and I shot them from distance, but no matter how I aimed I always managed to shoot a leg off, and I shot a dog’s nose off more than once by accident.’

  He laughed loudly.

  ‘Fucking thing ran yelping out the woods.’ I shook my head. ‘Went hand to hand a few times, right hook taking down a few dark shadows, and I stabbed a dog to death, shot another down the throat as it bit at my pistol.’

  ‘Most troopers serve years without that much action,’ he noted. ‘My first year, I never fired a shot in anger. And Rizzo, he was considered the big man because of six confirmed kills. You shot that many every hour.’

  ‘Do the lads back here know?’ I asked.

  He lifted his eyebrows. ‘They talk of nothing else. Some are suggesting a training scenario based on it.’

  ‘Huh?’ I queried with a squint at him. ‘How do you train for a grenade hitting you in the arse?’

  ‘They want to create a scenario of three days fighting, dogs, explosions, the works. Could be done in a wood near a firing range, so that it’s live firing.’

  ‘I could help, I suppose,’ I said with a shrug.

  ‘We all deny the jobs south of the border, but some suspect it was us, and that gets lots of hot air as well.’

  ‘The Colonel was right, it will be difficult to go back into a squadron.’ I sighed. ‘I’d have to be an outsider like you.’

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said with a smile. He stopped smiling and studied me for a moment. ‘Bob has a job, you’re perfect for it, but he’s afraid to ask you.’

  ‘When I’m better, he can ask.’

  ‘No, now, this week.’

  I stared back. ‘Take a fucking look at me!’

  ‘That’s what we need, an injured man, and your injuries are real. Stuff like that can’t be faked.’

  ‘What the fuck for?’

  ‘We have a dead Russian contract killer on ice, but no fucker knows he’s dead. He died at the hands of a dodgy out-of-work Russian doctor who we banged up; he didn’t want to go to a normal hospital.’

  ‘My Russian would not stand up...’

  ‘No need, this guy was raised in Canada and lived in the UK, and no fucker knows what he looks like, he was very secretive. He was thirty-three when he died, and you can pass for that.’

  ‘So ... what do I need to do?’

  ‘We’d stuff you in a safe house, and some guy would come in and look you over, confirming you’re alive and that you are you. That’s it for now. But you’d have to study the legend, the cover story. If that went well, then six months from now you’d offer your contract killing services, only we’d be there to sniff out the bad guys.’

  ‘His ... physique?’ I pressed.

  Swifty smiled widely. ‘A few old g
unshot wounds, lots of signs of recent torture, gunshot wound or wounds to the head, and built like Rambo. The guy liked cage fighting in Romania.’

  I made a face. The profile fitted. ‘Tell Bob I’ll do the first part. But Kate must never know.’

  ‘Just so happens I have the legend in the car,’ Swifty said as he stood, smiling widely.

  Rizzo turned up a few days later, in uniform, off on a re-breather course. ‘Christ, you’re looking better,’ he noted. ‘Soon be back to chasing the birds.’

  I made him a tea. ‘There are a few nice nurses here, but ... but I’m not sure how I feel about Kate.’

  ‘She’s up the duff, yeah. I heard. They going to give you shit about that?’

  ‘They can try!’ I warned.

  He sipped his tea, glancing around at the large common room. ‘This is where you done all that QMAR bollocks.’

  ‘Yep, I was here for just over four months, running like a hamster in a wheel every pigging day.’

  ‘Do they say you’ll heal fully?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, and I’m starting to agree with them. I feel better each day, and ... anything is better than a cold wet grave in a forest.’

  He studied me for a moment. ‘It was bad?’

  ‘Think yourself lucky you weren’t there, but I think you would have survived.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he smiled.

  I nodded. ‘You’re good at the hard routine, and that was what was needed. If you were injured you’d fight on, I’m sure of that. The rest ... the rest is down to luck. I was shot high in the chest twice, but the rounds hit my magazines.’

  ‘I know, we saw the holes, got the webbing on your jacket in Bosnia, or back here now I think,’ Rizzo informed me.

  ‘So it was luck. If you had been there, and had no magazines tucked in, you’d have been killed. Simple luck. And the falling mortars? You turn left when you should have turned right, and that’s it – your time is up.’

  ‘You wuz in a hell of a mess in that chopper, and when they stripped you off – fuck you wuz a mess.’

  ‘I got good help, and quickly,’ I noted. ‘Otherwise, you’d be back to being No.1 again.’

  ‘I’m still No.1,’ he insisted with a grin, ‘because I have more courses done and more experience.’

  ‘Ah, but I have more confirmed kills,’ I challenged.

  ‘Your shoot-out in Bosnia is being denied, so they ain’t your kills,’ he challenged with a cheeky smile.

  ‘I’ve asked the Major to alter the records and put you down as having been there.’

  ‘Don’t start that bollocks again, you take the credit.’

  ‘All I want ... is a quiet life.’ I sipped my tea. ‘Colonel says that the lads gossip about me, and that returning might be hard?’

  ‘Yeah, why?

  ‘Because, my poorly educated friend, I should be treated just like one of the team.’

  ‘You never were before this, so fuck ‘em and just get on with it.’

  I sighed. ‘Well, we’ll see how it goes when I’m fit.’

  He stayed for an hour before heading off, and I was jealous, wanting to be off on that course as well. And wanting to be ordinary.

  A week later I lay on a bed in dingy London mews near Paddington Station. Mi6’s man came in and stopped near the door, a second man entering; grey haired and tough looking. And Russian looking, a bulge under his jacket. He approached, so I let my legs drop.

  ‘You are Petrov?’ he asked in Russian, taking in the room.

  ‘Right now ... I’d rather be anyone else,’ I replied, easing up, my stage clothes in need of a wash.

  ‘You were tortured for many days, and shot in the head, this they swear!’

  I eased off my shirt, and stepped forwards, my guest taking a very good look, a finger tracing my old London marathon wounds, and he got up on tip toes to examine my head. ‘I am not so easy to kill.’

  He pointed at my appendix scar, discolouration still evident. ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Shot me with a .22 pistol, right into the appendix. It became infected.’

  He made a face. ‘And ... these other marks?’

  ‘Knives mostly.’

  He shook his head. ‘They are amateurs, I have no more respect for them. They did not make you talk, and neither did they kill you as they said.’ He nodded to himself. ‘You will ... mend?’

  ‘How would I know?’ I quipped. ‘I had some half-arse doctor from Pakistan patch me up. Probably a few bullets left inside me.’

  ‘Your accent..?’ he challenged.

  I sat, wincing. ‘My father was with Aeroflot, and I grew up in Canada from age three to twelve, then Germany, Turkey, and then here in London.’

  ‘And ... you came into this line of work ... how?’

  ‘I was a grade ‘A’ student at seventeen, but met a girl and ... got caught with some weed, so I was kicked out of school. I had a fight, and the man was badly hurt, and ... my luck was not good. I fell out with my father a few years before he died, lived in a London student shit hole and found some work, but ... my fighting was noticed and I hurt a few people for money, easy money, and got into cage fighting.’ I shrugged. ‘I could find no other work.’

  ‘It does not look like you will be doing much cage fighting for some time,’ he quipped.

  ‘I’ll mend. Or maybe die, who knows.’

  ‘And if I give you the money?’

  ‘I’ll mend quicker ... and then I owe you a favour.’

  ‘You’ll kill a man for me, here in London, no evidence?’

  ‘No evidence,’ I promised. ‘I have a policeman friend, and he likes his vices.’

  ‘You will go after Demitri and his men?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not unless someone is paying me, it would serve no purpose, and I’d risk getting caught. I do what I am paid to do, I don’t work on emotion.’

  He nodded. ‘A true professional. And Demitri will be laughed at now, his boasts made into lies. I have seen you with my own eyes, and people will know.’

  ‘Perhaps you could do us both a favour...’

  ‘What is that?’ he guardedly asked.

  ‘Tell him, and others, that you found me dead.’

  He waited, then nodded, smiling. ‘A true professional.’

  ‘If I was not desperate, and half dead, I would not have let you see me. Now, the money?’

  He handed over several large wads. ‘You ... have your own money, hidden?’

  ‘Yes, but not here, and I cannot get on a plane like this.’

  He nodded his acceptance.

  I counted the money. ‘Thanks. If I am alive in two months, I will contact you, and I will honour my agreement.’ I put out a hand, and we shook. And that was it. I was soon on my way down the M4 towards Cheltenham, the money handed in – and carefully counted by Bob Staines’ man.

  Bob turned up the next day. ‘Well done,’ he said as he sat. ‘He bought it – we’ve bugged his lines. He took one look at your body, and then at your injuries, and that convinced him.’

  ‘What’s your angle with this guy?’

  ‘The old Russian Section of Mi6 has gone from looking for Cold War spies to looking for Russian gangs - drugs and gun smugglers and hired killers. That guy is right in the thick of it, so the lads are all excited like Christmas, hoping for a big bust and a thank you note from the Prime Minister. Technically, it’s a job for Mi5, but the old Russia House was well established and so they got the UK work as well, or part of it.’

  ‘Yeah, well give me some time to heal before putting me down for anything that involves moving my body. Sat down jobs are fine. I could even do some filing, if you have some.’

  The next day I tried a gentle jog, but after ten minutes my left foot hurt like hell and I called in Kate.

  After a quick look, she said, ‘Where it was injured it’s a build up of calcified cartilage, that’s normal and to be expected. I’ll have the physio break it up. It will hurt, but just press on, you’re not damaging anything.’

&nbs
p; ‘How about ... a local anaesthetic, and I run on it.’

  She made a face, and then injected the foot. ‘Try that.’

  And I did, a gentle jog, followed by a walk, and then another gentle jog. The physio then did her bit, but an hour later I was in screaming agony, another local anaesthetic used. I got very little sleep because the foot throbbed, but the next day I repeated the painful procedure, and that evening the pain eased a little.

  Many of the bandages were now off, pads removed, the bicycle helmet still worn. My skin was more of a human colour now, and the bruising was mostly gone, still some discoloration around the appendix, and each entry wound was a red-pink that stood out.

  Standing in front of a large mirror that day I shocked myself, and I spent ten minutes staring at the scars. I was now a freak, and good for little other than soldiering. Whatever I did in the future, walking down the beach in just swimming trunks would not be an option.

  My parents had popped in a few times, my mum always keen to chat about anything other than me, which was normal, and my father kept me up to date on how well his garden was looking.

  A week later the RSM popped in. ‘By god, you’re looking better,’ he let out as I eased off the treadmill. ‘I would not have believed it.’

  ‘Feeling better as well,’ I said as I wiped the sweat.

  ‘You’re back running I see?’

  ‘Not a great speed and distance, but it’s getting there. The muscles are willing, but things keep hurting. I can run if I ignore the pain.’

  We sat, and I grabbed a cold drink of water.

  ‘How’s the Regiment?’ I asked.

  ‘”D” Squadron are back from Bosnia, “G” Squadron are over there, more of an aggressive role.’ He took a moment. ‘Captain Tyler’s body should be back with the MOD in a day or so, hence my visit.’

  I stared past him. ‘I’m well enough for the funeral, but I guess his family would need to invite me.’

  The RSM nodded. ‘The Red Cross got several heads, and limbs, and they’ll use DNA to identify the bits. They were buried exactly where you said, and as you stated -’

  ‘Still people doubting my fucking story?’ I angrily got out.

  He shrugged. ‘It all has to be proven, to go through the motions.’ I reluctantly nodded. ‘There’ll be a ceremony at the base for the lads.’