Wilco- Lone Wolf 1

by Geoff Wolak

  Not wanting to break the momentum, and finding him grimacing and moving away, I kicked him in the ribs with my left leg, a hard connect, and immediately went for a right kick to the balls, making contact. It was all over, and I stepped back as crumpled.

  ‘Disabled!’ came after almost thirty seconds, the crowd cheering.

  ‘Could have finished him off,’ Sgt Crow noted.

  ‘Saving energy,’ I replied with a shrug, getting back a shake of the head.

  My next opponent was a black American serviceman, but his shorts said ‘Navy’. I puzzled that, because we were a long way from a sea port. He was heavy on the upper body, thin in the legs, and as he warmed up he told me exactly what his strengths were, his head down, shoulders rolling, arms up in guard.

  Ding!

  I rushed forwards, startling him, and his guard came up, and I simply kicked him in the balls, a roundhouse kick to the side of the head knocking him over, but not knocking him out.

  ‘Disabled!’ came ten seconds later.

  ‘Still saving energy?’ Sgt Crow sarcastically asked as I returned to my corner.

  ‘Saving it for that Thai fighter; he wants to hurt me.’

  My next opponent was around 6’6” tall, well proportioned but thin; he almost looked like a long distance runner. He had the reach, both in arms and legs, and I would need to be careful - I told myself.

  When the bell went he took a martial arts stance, and I cringed when he did the Bruce Lee ‘wave on the opponent with his fingers’ bit. Still, he was some sort of Karate fighter, so I would have to shorten the distance.

  I paced around him, causing him to turn, and stayed just out of range, but when a small flash of annoyance crossed his face I rushed in. He started a kick, but too late, and was giving up on that idea as soon as he lifted his leg, not least because I was in his face.

  Seeing the right leg up, I lunged left, my left arm catching the start of a punch, my right hand grabbing his right wrist as I continued moving into his leg and forcing him not only to turn but also to lose balance, in danger of doing the splits.

  With his wrist grabbed I spun hard, my right leg going out and around and towards the ropes, my upper body soon following, his wrist yanked down, his legs too far apart, his balance gone, and he was too tall to risk losing his balance.

  Yanking his arm with all my might and bodyweight, my left foot well placed, he fell forwards, and as he hit I placed my left foot in his shoulder, his arm pinned, the pressure increased, a scream issued, the canvass slapped hard.

  The referee was a sadist, and took a good ten seconds to decide that the man was giving up, by which time I had torn my opponent’s rotator cuff tendons. He’d not be playing tennis for many months.

  ‘Submission!’

  I eased off and casually stepped back to my corner.

  ‘Lazy toad,’ Sgt Crow issued.

  ‘Yeah, bollocks. It’s a skill, not a scrap. I read him right.’

  We waited, my tall opponent helped out of the ring, and he was replaced with a shorter guy, around 5’10”, and with a Paras tattoo on his chest. He was well-proportioned and looked fit, but he also looked keen and confident, and I wondered why.

  Either he was very good, or he had not seen any of my previous fights. Or, I considered as he sneered my way, that he had seen my fights and figured he could take me.

  He had no obvious faults or physical distinctions which I could base a strategy on, so I would have to make it up as I went along. I told myself to be careful as the bell went, and I stepped forwards, but also left, circling him. He circled me the opposite way, still looking confident, and we completed a lap. This would not be so easy.

  Halting, and facing him squarely, I started to move in, his right leg going back, his stance more Kung Fu than boxing. Possibly a kick-boxer, I noted.

  I moved quickly, a low kick advertised and then withdrawn, but he had not gone to block it but had moved his bodyweight onto his right leg, which had been back ready. I stepped back, nodding my head as I circled him, the crowds wanting blood.

  Timing was everything, and he was not looking behind himself, so I repeated the same kick, this time with more force, and he again retreated onto that back foot, but was also ready to strike.

  I slammed my right leg down, closing the distance and went for a simple shuttle kick to his midsection, and as expected he moved to the side – and touched the ropes, his momentary distraction all I needed, the kick withdrawn and a hammer fist launched down at his collar bone, my left arm up to protect me as he launched a right hook.

  His punched hit my arm and then the top of my head, my first banged down on his collar bone with all the might I could muster, and after contact I jumped back, turned my back on him and walked to my corner, staring down at a perplexed Sgt Crow.

  My opponent’s face turned read, he grimaced, his knees went and his shoulders moved forwards and towards each other, and he ended up looking like he was huddling from the cold.

  ‘Disabled!’ came a long ten seconds later. ‘Medic!’

  They had to stretcher him out.

  ‘What did you do?’ Sgt Crow asked as he stared after the Para.

  ‘Broke his collar bone. No one fights on with a broken collar bone.’

  I rolled my shoulders as my next opponent clambered into the ring, the guy all upper body and barrel-chested, skinny legs. And I could see a distinctive scar where his right knee has been operated on.

  As the bell sounded out I ran in, a lunge right and then left startling him, a dive left – passed him – right foot chopping down after I slammed down my left foot, that knee hit. The look on his face said it all as I spun away. He moved his injured knee back, good knee forwards, ready to box me.

  I adopted a boxing stance, moved into range, and he went for it. I lunged dramatically left and kicked down at the right knee again, a yelp given by the owner of that knee. He spun away, protecting it.

  Now, with all his weight on his front leg, he could not kick me. I launched a series of kicks, each making contact, badly blocked, his injuries accruing. Knowing what he would do now to protect his mid section, I gave a feint to the balls and kicked over the top, skin torn, blood gushing.

  He had felt enough, and gave up, the crowd booing him as he limped out the ring.

  The next guy climbing in made my eyes widen as they just about rolled him under the rope. Standing, and having difficulty in standing by himself, he faced me, and now that I could see him clearly he looked like a Pacific Islander – and twenty-five stone in weight. If this guy wrestled me he’d kill me.

  I glanced at Matt Grow, who shrugged, and turned back to my sumo heavyweight opponent.

  Ding!

  The bell took me by surprise, and I knew that this guy would try and grab me. And he did. He rushed at me, and I had no choice but to slip under and left. Coming up the other side I span, and jumped, landing in his shoulders, two fingers in his eyes, a scream issued.

  Letting go and stumbling back, he was bent double holding his face. I rushed in, and got alongside him unopposed, a foot chopping down at his knee, a crack issued that even the crowd heard, and he was down.

  ‘Disabled!’ came a full minute later, six men trying to lever my opponent out of the ring and struggling with his weight.

  Next up was the Thai fighter, and he did not look happy. And anyone focused on me at that moment would have seen the concern in my face. But I had the reach and the bodyweight, and would need to employ those factors to save a beating here.

  The bell sounded out and we closed, both wary, but I had a plan – and no boxing gloves to hinder that plan. I let my arms drop to my sides, and I let him get close.

  The kick came as planned for, his right foot aimed at my left ribs, and he made contact with my left bicep as I lifted my arm and curled it. With his ankle locked I moved backwards and spun, dragging him off balance and towards the canvas, his face and hands landing first.

  A kick to the balls was followed by six kicks to the balls, an
d he would not be having and kids with those balls. Grabbing his wrist, a knee in his back, I did not go for the submission, I lifted up and lifted him up, like a sack of coal, his back on my back. And I ran to the middle of the rope, bent and launched us both, the ropes hitting my midsection and stopping me leaving the ring.

  My opponent landed on Matt Crow, at least at Matt’s feet as he jumped clear, the crowd cheering loudly. I stopped to peer down at my opponent, and at Matt Crow, who was cursing my way. The Thai fighter was in no shape to continue, and in need of some ice on his balls.

  ‘Disabled,’ the referee said from the ropes.

  My next opponent looked wary of me, which was good, because I had strained a few things whilst throwing my Thai fighter out the ring. I moved in, feint right, moved left, big hook, and it was all over.

  ‘Medics!’

  The final two refused to fight me, and I was handed twenty thousand dollars in small bills, Haseem pleased with the entertainment, the Air Commodore glimpsed shaking his head at me. The after-fight celebration lasted till the early hours, my two massage girls easing my aching limbs, the alcohol helping.

  In the morning I met the Air Commodore at breakfast.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘A few strains, sir.’

  ‘And that small skinny chap?’

  ‘The Thai fighter? He’ll need some ice on his balls, sir.’

  He shook his head. ‘Knew you would do well. And the money?’

  ‘My cut, our cut sorry, was eight thousand dollars. So plenty for beer and curry, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. Knew there was some reason I put up with you.’

  I took it easy for a few days, and life here was good; I did not want this to end. But the good times were about to take a twist, and I should have realised that the spy game involved bad people, and sneaky people, and was generally downright dangerous.

  Called by Haseem on the following Sunday night, a limo sent for me, I was soon in his lift and expecting a good massage, but his security men were off, I could tell; they avoided eye contact. In his sumptuous apartment waited Colonel Ali, no serving girls or alcohol, and he was also looking at me oddly.

  ‘Ah, Wilco, come in,’ Haseem greeted me, and I knew he was off his usual form as well. I found myself facing Haseem on my left, Ali behind me, a guard in my right, two guards facing me, and I knew I was in trouble.

  Haseem continued, ‘We have a ... small problem, in that my good friends at your hotel tell me you speak fluent Arabic, yet you pretend otherwise. So I had you watched, and you went to the building with the British spies in – I know, the English here gossip about such matters.’

  My heart raced, but I controlled myself. ‘Did you have a question?’ I asked, and with some attitude, wondering where the bravado came from.

  ‘No, we know what you really are,’ he said as he took out a 9mm pistol and cocked it right in front of me. He should have paid more attention when watching gangster movies, since he was close enough for me to hit him. And to reach him.

  With my right hand I grabbed the pistol and yanked it towards the guard on my right, that action causing it to pop a round into the guard’s stomach, the man folding over. Back slicing a hand, and I hit a startled Haseem in the throat, my right hand on the pistol and pushing against his trigger finger, a round popping out and hitting the wall.

  Finding my hand on the underside of the pistol as we struggled, two guards closing in, I yanked the pistol towards both and hit both, one just winged. Pistol finally off Haseem as his windpipe closed and he turned red, I hit three guards in the head from six feet away before spinning, a stunned Colonel Ali hit down the throat as he gaped at me. He dropped like a dead fish.

  Out of ammo, I beat Haseem’s skull in with the pistol butt for a minute, stopping to reflect on my madness, blood everywhere, my heart pounding, my breathing ragged. I dropped the pistol and surveyed the mess, expecting someone to shoot me at any moment.

  Coming to my senses, I rushed at the guards and grabbed their pistols, checking them before frantically running room to room, but finding no one; the staff had been sent off. Were the police on the way, I wondered.

  I snapped my head around, seeing the camera I knew was there. Rushing to Haseem’s private room, I found a locked door, the lock shot off, the door kicked in. There sat the machine, a VHS tape yanked out after I hit the STOP button.

  Pausing, I wiped my own prints off and backed up, pistol in hand like an armed robber. I again went room to room, finally out onto the balcony, no flashing lights seen below, no line of police cars.

  I stopped and stood over the bodies, several minutes used up as I calmed down. Grabbing Haseem’s original pistol, safety on, I wiped it down carefully before placing it in Colonel Ali’s hand – safety off.

  Taking one of the guard’s pistols, I fired a round out through the open balcony doors, little regard for where it landed. With that pistol wiped down I placed it in Hassem’s hand, finger on the trigger, his lips now blue.

  Grabbing the last pistol, I wiped it, unloaded and re-loaded without cocking it, wiped it down and put it back in a guard’s holster.

  Stopping to survey the scene, I drifted back to Haseem’s locked side-room. Opening drawers carefully, I found a bag of cocaine, a large bag. Using a napkin, I placed it on the coffee table near the bodies.

  Finally, I opened the balcony door wide and turned off the air con; the heat would distort the time of death.

  With the VHS tape on me, a final look around, I used a napkin to open the door and close it, the fire stairs used, no cameras evident as I clattered down thirteen sets of bare concrete steps. Out in into the brilliant sunshine I discarded the napkin as I walked onto a busy street, my sunglasses placed on.

  After walking several blocks I checked what money I had and got a taxi to Bob Staines’ hotel. He met me in the lobby and led me to seats. I handed over the VHS tape.

  He held it, and puzzled it.

  ‘I just killed Haseem, his bodyguards, and Colonel Ali.’

  Bob looked like he would have a heart attack in front of me.

  ‘I even got it on tape.’

  ‘What ... what the hell happened?’

  ‘They rumbled me, some of my hotel staff telling them I spoke fluent Arabic. Haseem pulled a gun, was about to kill me. Rest is on the damn tape.’

  ‘And the ... bodies?’

  ‘In the apartment, weapons placed to make it look like a drug deal gone wrong and that they shot each other. I wiped the prints, put pistols in hands, bag of cocaine left out. So ... send the police, because they’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Were you seen?’

  ‘Building cameras maybe. But I knocked off the air con and opened the doors, so give it a day or a few hours, be hard to get the right time of death.’

  ‘Well, we’ll give it a day, then ... then I send in a report about drugs.’ He blew out. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘The Air Commodore would not have been best pleased with you if I had been shot dead.’

  ‘No, he would have asked questions, very loud questions.’

  ‘Can you assign me to Dhahran for a while?’

  ‘Yes, easy enough, but you’ll be closer to the front, and they’ll attack soon.’

  ‘Can’t be as dangerous as this place,’ I quipped. I stood. ‘You owe me. And that tape could prove my innocence, so don’t lose it.’

  Back in my room I needed a beer, or ten, and I sat staring out the closed balcony door at the twinkling lights, cursing Bob Staines, and my own stupid bravado. At 1am, and after six bottles, I crawled into bed.

  The Air Commodore needed to be in Dhahran for a few days anyhow, so he was not annoyed at my reassignment there, and he did not question it. We packed up basic items and headed off, but I told the hotel I would be back in a week or so, and that it depended on “Uncle Saddam”.

  We were driving towards trouble, in many ways, more than I had left behind. Settled into a nice hotel in Dhahran, January 15th, I drove the Air
Commodore to meetings the next day and he felt that something was up, but that the Americans were not sharing intel.

  Driving him back we were hit side on, the Air Commodore left with a nasty cut to his forehead, stitches needed. As I waited in the hospital I called his wife and woke her, but reassured her that he was not badly hurt.

  But the next day they sent him home, and I remained in Dhahran, reporting in to the CO of 37 Squadron, but joining the motor pool at the new hotel, expecting the return of the Air Commodore at some point.

  Then the jets screeched over, sirens wailing at 2am. I ventured up to the rooftop pool with quite a few others, seeing the jets flying over, and the next morning we were all glued to the TV sets, but with respirators to hand.

  For a few days I drove senior Army officers around, from one manic meeting to another, most on their phones constantly - and manic with it.

  One day, a week later, I had a colonel in the front seat, a general and two colonels squeezed in the back, an urgent request to get to the air base at 10pm one night. The police had other ideas and stopped us.

  Window down, I started shouting in Arabic, hand gestures used. ‘Don’t you know there’s a fucking war on, you stupid camel shagger! Get out the fucking road and do something useful, like move some camel shit! And turn off your jeep headlights, you fly-infested pile of shit, the German bombers will see us and drop their fucking bombs!’

  The police officer looked up, as if German aircraft might be approaching, and I moved around his roadblock, running over the foot of a second police officer – who screamed.

  ‘Yes, your sister is a whore as well!’ I screamed back in Arabic.

  Window up, I sped on, finding a deadly silence and four faces staring at me.

  ‘Sir?’ I said into the mirror.

  ‘We all speak Arabic,’ came back from the sour-faced general.

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘German bombers?’

  ‘Well, sir, got to try and lighten the mood, might be killed by a scud missile any day now.’