Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  I showed them the wet cover, and gave my jacket and facemask to a few to try. Back at the lecture theatre they asked about Northern Ireland, and I told them what I could, but nothing about going south of the border. They were very interested in my distance sniping in Bosnia, and I gave them opinions on hitting men beyond 600yards, the group laughing about the Serb CO being hit whilst sat having breakfast.

  That led to QMAR, and I gave them all my best advice on maintaining optimum performance for the least effort, some taking notes. I went over my experiences of artillery and mortars, and they wrote down distances verses damage done to the human body with a keen interest. The kill zone, the concussion zone, the wobbly-on-your-feet zone; it would be added into their courses.

  We left three hours after getting there, a long drive back, but I left behind a bunch of smiling faces, some new friends. I was doing my ambassador bit well enough, Taffy Senior happy that I had done a good job – and that I had not let loose any detail I should not have.

  Petrov

  I got a call at home, 6pm on a Friday, Bob Staines. Could I do my Petrov impersonation in the morning? In London. He had called Bradley at home and cleared it.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘When and where?’

  ‘Car will pick you up at 6am,’ he said before hanging up.

  I headed out for a curry with Smurf and a new guy, but didn’t drink much, thinking that I was not getting paid for this weekend work. At 6am the car was waiting, and I recognised Bob’s guy. I was in civvy clothes, a jacket, pistol under my arm.

  ‘Up early?’ I asked as I slid in next to him.

  ‘Stayed with family near Malvern,’ he commented.

  ‘Got a brief?’

  ‘Not much, Yuri wants a meet, used a secure messaging system.’ He handed me a mobile phone. ‘That’s clean, his number in it. Hash One.’

  I pocketed it as we headed up the hill and towards Ross-On-Wye.

  He took out another phone, a different make. ‘That has our number, plus it transmits continuously if you press green with no number for a few seconds. Set it up before the meet.’

  I pocketed that one as well, making sure I didn’t mix them up.

  ‘Service pistol?’ he asked.

  ‘Never leave home without it.’

  ‘It can be traced.’

  ‘Only after I’m dead,’ I told him, getting a side look.

  He turned the radio on, we eased back as we joined the A49 south, and a long three hours later he dropped me near Chelsea, a side street. I had called Bob and listened to the message, and noted the address and time. Yuri would be there for five minutes, no longer, then off.

  I stopped to consider, that - as a teenage boy - I would have loved this: spy work with a gun under my arm. Now, all I could see was the chance of getting wounded, killed, or being sent to prison. It took the fun out of it. I wondered to myself if this was the definition of maturity - doing something without enjoying it.

  I stopped for a coffee since I was early, took a pee, had a doughnut, and then walked around the corner. Turning the next corner I checked over my shoulder, then the street, finally facing forwards – where I suffered a minor heart attack as two armed men sprinted towards me.

  A shout. A pistol aimed. A crack, a sharp pain in the side of my head. In slow motion I pulled out my jacket with my left hand, reached in and grabbed my pistol, aimed with both hands and put two rounds into the chests of both men, knocking them backwards and down. Only then did I register the second crack, or was it three.

  It fell quiet, just my heart pounding in my ears, my breathing ragged. People ran and screamed, a face peered out from a shop. I stared at the two bodies, but then checked the street carefully for other men, starting to walk forwards.

  Yuri had set a trap. I shook my head, and started walking forwards, pistol still in hand. But ... the meeting place was three streets away, he would never know what route I would take. I frowned at the two bodies, dark skinned men, then focused down the street, a group of people looking my way, some two hundred yards away.

  Reaching the bodies, a leg still twitching, I could see that they were both very dead, enough blood to fill the pavement and pool in the gutter, two high chest shots pumping blood.

  An old man stared at me from a shop entrance.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked him. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, mister, but you is.’

  I touched the side of my face, finding warm blood, but it could not be serious, just a scrape.

  The old man took in the bodies, two Asian men. ‘You shot them before they knew what hit ‘em.’

  ‘You saw what happened?’

  ‘I wuz right here, young fella. They shot you, you shot them and killed ‘em good. Never seen anything like that before, like a Wild West show and stuff. You shot them both before they could do nothing. You police?’

  I could see his face at the enquiry. ‘SAS, top secret, you’re not supposed to know.’

  ‘I ain’t saying nowt,’ he insisted.

  ‘But I want you to, I need your help. Just tell the police the truth.’

  ‘Well ... they shot first, so ... to hell with ‘em. Robbed that shop.’ He pointed, and I frowned down the street, putting my pistol away.

  ‘They ... robbed a shop?’

  ‘Jewellers, second time this year.’

  ‘They ... robbed the jewellers,’ I repeated with a heavy frown. Then I lightened. They were not after me. Then I considered another enquiry. ‘Shit.’ I took out the right phone, and hit Hash One. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Duty officer?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, SAS, active duty in London for Bob Staines,’ I rushed to get out. I looked up at the street sign. ‘Chelsea, SW1, Denby Street, shots fired, two x-rays down, I’m wounded, civilian witnesses everywhere.’

  ‘Jesus...’

  ‘I need a tactical response, police, SOCO, and some fucking containment!’

  ‘On the way.’ He hung up.

  I lowered the phone, hesitated, glanced at the old man, then dialled 999. ‘Which emergency service do you require?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Police operator.’

  ‘This is SAS solider known as Wilco, Denby Street, SW1, active service for S-I-S. Shots fired, two men down, I’m wounded. Warn your officers that an armed soldier is on scene, no risk to their approach, the two gunmen are dead. Ask the fuckers not to shoot at me. Wilco out.’

  I heaved a big breath, soon the sound of sirens, but the police car shot past me and the bodies, and to the jewellers. It was not until the officers were on the pavement that they noticed me, and the bodies, and started towards me. I had no ID on me, and that was a problem.

  They approach cautiously, pistols in hands, and I raised my hands, the old man copying. They slowed to a walk, cautious about what had happened.

  ‘Move back...’ one started, thinking me a civilian.

  ‘I’m Intel, undercover, no ID on me.’ I opened my jacket, showing the pistol.

  ‘You ... shot them?’

  ‘I came around the corner, they were running at me, pistols drawn, fired a shot – probably because I was blocking the pavement, so I returned fire.’

  ‘You’re hurt,’ the second officer noted.

  ‘Scrape,’ I noted.

  ‘How many rounds did you fire?’ the first officer asked, cautiously glancing at the bodies.

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Real quick,’ the old man said. ‘Fast as anything. But they shot at him first.’

  I was smiling inwardly. ‘Guy’s, my people are on their way, and they outrank you, so ... be a love and fuck off back a bit, put your weapons away.’

  They glanced at each other, but then lowered their pistols. I took out my phone and called the base.

  ‘Duty officer.’

  ‘It’s Wilco, I’m in London, Denby Street, SW1. Shots fired, two x-rays down, I’m hit, notify Bradley. Wilco out.’ I put the phone away as two police cars screeched past, the first offi
cer now calling it in.

  He got a message back, and then stared at me. ‘They know you’re on scene. You ... er ... need an ambulance, sir?’

  ‘Couple of stitches probably,’ I idly commented as additional officers ran down the street, soon moving civilians back, and soon inspecting my handiwork.

  A nice policewoman cleaned up my head wound as we waited, the street soon full of police cars, an ambulance or three on scene, a helicopter overhead.

  Four men burst from a car, in civilian clothes, and walked forwards flashing ID cards. ‘Fuck off out the way,’ they told the uniformed officers, making me grin.

  The eldest man, grey haired, had a long good look at the bodies before approaching me. He put out a hand to shake. ‘The infamous Wilco.’

  I shook his hand reluctantly.

  ‘I’m Commander Wilson, Special Branch, know Bob Staines well. Met your major as well a few times.’ He faced the bodies. ‘Two high chest shots?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I responded, now holding the pad to my head.

  ‘The entry wounds would seem too high.’

  ‘Heart is higher than people think, and I aim at the major arteries above the heart, higher blood pressure, second round higher again to cut the wind pipe where it branches, blood pumped straight into the lungs.’

  The police woman was listening as intently as Wilson, and I had just made that up.

  ‘Cut the aorta and the wind pipe,’ Wilson noted. ‘Certain death, and not pleasant.’ He glanced at the pretty police woman, and thumped towards me. ‘He has more than three hundred confirmed kills,’ he said, trying to impress her, which annoyed me greatly.

  An ambulance crew appeared behind me, but I waved them off.

  ‘Best go quietly,’ Wilson told me. ‘They need to check that wound. We’ll meet you there.’

  Sighing, I walked to the ambulance and waited as they put the stretcher away. Sirens on, we made a short trip to a hospital that could have been anywhere, I saw no signs, and I was led in, Commander Wilson and his men hot on my heels. He flashed his badge and I jumped the queue of those poor Londoner’s sat waiting patiently, soon into a side room. I eased off my jacket, the doctor in blue a bit disturbed by my pistol till Wilson flashed his badge and told the doctor to “Just get the fuck on with it!”

  Two stitches later, a sliver of metal removed – I got a ricochet and not a scrape, Bob Staines appeared with protection. But not with his happy face on.

  ‘What ... happened?’ he asked, a glance at the doctor.

  ‘Was on my way to meet, turned a corner, two armed robbers sprinting down the street towards me, nowhere to go. They fired rounds to frighten me out the way, simply because I was blocking their path. I figured them ... after me.’

  Wilson piped up with, ‘Plenty of witnesses, they fired first.’

  I added, ‘I’ll call the mark later, and say ... that I saw police cars and legged it.’

  Bob seemed to accept that, but was not a happy bunny. When his mobile went he handed it to me. ‘Your major.’

  I took the phone and stepped out, the corridor not quiet, but better. ‘Sir?’

  ‘What the fuck you done now?’ he bellowed. ‘You killed two civvies on a London street?’

  ‘Two armed robbers who had just done over a jewellers, sir. They ran down the street, I came around the corner, blocking their path, so they fired warning shots, I got a ricochet, so I returned fire.’

  ‘They fired first?’

  ‘Dozen witnesses to that effect.’

  ‘Well ... you can’t just stand there and let people shot holes in you. So ... so fuck ‘em. How bad you hurt?’

  ‘Just two stitches, sir, no big deal.’

  ‘Fucking panic down here, civvies killed.’

  ‘Armed robbers, who shot at pedestrians, sir.’

  ‘Be another enquiry.’

  I sighed loudly. ‘Be a simple one, this time.’

  ‘Update me later if anything changes.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  I stepped back inside, and handed Bob his phone as the nurses handed me a tea, much appreciated, my mouth dry.

  Bob drove me to Scotland Yard, a MOD solicitor waiting us, and I made a statement, signed it, and a long two hours later we left, my pistol handed in.

  At the MOD building, Bob’s team were waiting. A sour-faced man handed me a mobile. ‘Unregistered, call Yuri.’

  As they all observed, I dialled the number shown to me on a piece of paper.

  ‘Da?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Was a few streets away from you, saw a lot of police cars, turned around and did some double backs. I’m now in a cheap hotel, paid cash.’

  ‘A true professional. I saw the police as well and left as well. They say it was a jewellers...’

  ‘Jewellers?’

  ‘A shop being robbed, armed men, but the police shot and killed them.’

  ‘Then, my friend, I am very glad I was not on that street. Police cars make me nervous.’

  ‘You and me both. Tomorrow, same place, 11am.’

  ‘No problem, but I have a small injury.’

  ‘Injury?’

  I rushed to the tube, nudged a black man, it ... started a fight, his ring finger cut me.’

  ‘You hurt him?’

  ‘Knocked him cold, then left, head down.’

  ‘Cameras?’

  ‘Maybe. But not many choices in the matter.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  I pressed the red button several times before handing the phone back. ‘Tomorrow, 11am, same place.’

  They lightened a little, the kettle knocked on.

  ‘Listen,’ I began. ‘There was a key witness, and old man, get me his name and address ... like right now.’

  ‘What’ll you do?’ they protested.

  ‘Buy him a fucking beer. We do have an enquiry ahead for this shit.’

  Bob reluctantly agreed, and at 7pm, now cleaned up and booked into a hotel, but not a cheap one, I knocked on the old guy’s flat, a pistol on loan under my arm.

  ‘Oh ... you!’ he said, and it seemed like he may have been asleep.

  ‘Fancy a beer or a curry?’

  ‘Oh ... er ... oh alright.’ He got his jacket, stroked his curious cat, locked the door and checked it several times, and we were off around the corner for an early India.

  I bought him a few beers, told stories about jumping out of helicopters and of Northern Ireland, and he recanted funny stories from his time in the Merchant Navy. I walked him back three hours later, and I had a new friend in the world; this guy would do anything for me.

  I wished him well, reminded him about the upcoming enquiry, and made a note to come back and see him before then, which was not just stretching a few laws but downright breaking them.

  In my hotel room, now fed, I had just turned the TV on when Bob Staines called me, on the room phone. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘As I expected, he loves me to bits. His testimony will be solid, solidly in our favour, but ... he doesn’t even need to lie, they did shoot first.’

  ‘Big flap going on, as usual, but there’s a D-Notice on the press, story being that a Special Branch officer shot the two robbers.’

  ‘Then get some rest, or go out, it’s Saturday night!’

  ‘Are you going out?’ Bob queried.

  ‘No, quiet night in with the TV. Relax, eh.’

  At 11am I made the coffee shop meeting, walking past several times, finally seeing Yuri emerge, Yuri simply nodding his head for me to follow. He got into a car with a driver, I followed him in, and we drove off.

  He handed me an A4 envelope. ‘You remember that favour?’

  I glanced at him, then at the black and white photo. ‘You want this guy killed?’ He nodded. I turned the photo over, the guy’s home address listed, and his usual haunts, his girlfriend’s name, the works. ‘You want people to know it was you?’

  He took a moment. ‘Not the police...’

&nb
sp; We laughed.

  After another long moment he said, ‘I want ... certain people to know it was me.’

  ‘Loud and bloody, or quiet and messy?’ I asked, whilst not having any intention of harming the target.

  He shrugged. ‘I want him out the way. So ... quietly would be good. How soon?’

  ‘I’ll check his movements for a week, then let you know.’

  Yuri nodded, and we stopped at the next corner and I eased out, the envelope folded into my jacket pocket.

  Forty minutes and numerous double-backs later I was at the MOD building, Bob Staines and his team very expectant of some interesting intel.

  ‘He wants me to kill this guy,’ I said, handing over the photo.

  ‘Oh,’ Bob let out, deflated, as they each scanned the photo. ‘Well ... we could deport the target and pretend he’s dead, for a while at least.’

  ‘I have an idea,’ I told them.

  ‘You can’t kill anyone, we don’t do that,’ they insisted. ‘Jewellery thieves aside.’

  ‘Like I said, I have an idea,’ I insisted. ‘Less you know the better. And no ... I won’t be killing him.’ They did not look convinced.

  Monday morning I drove onto the base in civvy clothes, the guys all jeering and clapping as I entered the squadron briefing.

  The Major looked me over. ‘You out of action?’

  ‘Few days, sir, get the damn stitches out.’ I sat next to Smurf as the orders were read out, courses noted, upcoming deployments. Finished, the lads broke up for Prime Time – a.k.a. doing fuck all, and I followed the Major with the SSM, the Colonel waiting.

  ‘You out of action?’ the Colonel echoed.

  ‘Just till the stitches do their job and close the wound, sir.’ We all sat.

  ‘Fucking panic down here Saturday,’ the Colonel unhappily noted. ‘But I had faith. I refused to scream at you in your absence till I got the detail. And ... it’s black and white, just ... just that we could do without such incidents.’

  ‘No one wants that more than me, sir, but ... but Bob Staines and his people have an idea to keep me in situations where shots will be fired.’