by Geoff Wolak
Our Mi6 guy arranged for two staff cars to be handed over. They were not beaten up, but did not look like official cars either. Rizzo took the place of the Ambassador, M4 held as I got into a small Fiat with Swifty and the ex-SBS guy. Napoleon, Tomo and Malcolm would be in a small orange Skoda.
Tomo’s voice came over the radio. ‘Boss, promise me you’ll not tell anyone we were in an orange Skoda,’ he pleaded, laughter echoing.
‘If you do a good job ... maybe I’ll leave it out of my report. Besides, it’s more of a pink colour from where I’m sat.’
‘It’s fucking orange!’ came back.
Swifty drove out first, still smiling, having first agreed a route there and back with the usual drivers, and our usual drivers were tasked with following us, but back twenty yards, or two cars between us at most. The rest of my team would follow behind.
As the sun started to dip we drove north, soon to a set of traffic lights. I wound down my window, Swifty copying. The lights changed, the tension palpable, eyes everywhere, Swifty and myself checking mirrors often, the two white jeeps seen behind, one civvy car between us, two women in it.
We drove on, but slowly, cars moving around us, some irate evening commuters tooting us, and we tackled another set of lights without incident, passing a police patrol and what looked like someone else’s bullet proof convoy.
A mile on and we turned east, off the dual carriageway, and now found more traffic, soon turning back on ourselves and due south, towards the Ambassador’s house.
‘Dumpster!’ Swifty and I said at almost the same time.
‘Standby!’ I transmitted. ‘Garbage truck, right side, big fucking green thing oddly parked.’
Two men stood next to it, smoking, cigarette stubs at their feet, two men sat in the cab.
‘Fucking obvious or what!’ Swifty complained.
‘Get past them and ease up,’ I whispered, we were that close, the windows down.
Just past the dumpster I opened my door an inch, M4 ready. Sudden movement in the mirrors caught our attention, the big green dumpster moving out and ramming the lead jeep, a bang and a crunch, a belch of smoke from the dumpster.
Swifty hit the brakes, but we had been crawling anyway. I spun left and out, loud horns honking at the blocked road and at what seemed like a simple accident.
The man in the car behind us got down at the sight of my M4, and as I stepped past him bent-double I could see eight armed men - also bent-double and moving out in a line, using the dumpster as cover. They saw me too late, as I rounded the civvy car, abject shock on their faces. And they were all bunched up, at angle to me, almost front on.
I had been out of my vehicle for two seconds when I squeezed the trigger, one long burst raking the men from the front of their little line to the back, and then back to the front.
As I had fired I had not been aware of Swifty firing, or the SBS guy, but as I knelt behind the civvy car to change magazines the wounded men in front of me were peppered with dozens of rounds.
A burst of fire tore up the tarmac near me, the hollow echo of metal puncturing registering with me as I fired again, hitting two wounded men that were firing back - but with short bursts, and they were the only two firing back.
With those men down I spun around, full circle, people running and screaming, but I could not see anyone pointing a weapon at us.
‘RPG!’ came a voice, and I dived down. The blast washed over me, and I knew I had some ricochet in my back.
With my ears ringing, smoke wafting, I lifted up in a hurry, and stopped dead. The dumpster cab had been hit, and peeled like a tin, now roaring and on fire, someone’s head on the road near me. For a moment I had to stop and blink, puzzling it.
Turning right, to where the RPG had come from, I took aim at a window as two faces peered out. I hit both, or at least they dropped away from sight.
It suddenly fell quiet.
Swifty appeared at my side, blood on his face. ‘Not the best aim, are they.’
‘They hit the dumpster,’ I puzzled.
‘Were aiming at the jeep, but too high.’
Rizzo walked around, through the smoke. ‘You still alive?’
‘I got some shit in my back,’ I told him as I took in the scene. I faced Swifty. ‘You hurt?’
‘Some ricochet.’
Tomo and Napoleon came jogging up, Malcolm with them, police sirens sounding out.
‘You OK, Boss?’ Tomo asked me. ‘Blood all over you.’
‘Got some pieces,’ I told him as Malcolm checked bodies and kicked away AK47s.
Napoleon smiled. ‘Tomo hit a guy in the bollocks.’
‘He did?’ I puzzled.
Tomo explained, ‘Was this street sign in the way, had to get down low, couldn’t see much, so hit him in the goolies a few times.’ He kicked the head like a football. ‘That guy’s having a bad day.’
I pointed at the open second floor window. ‘Some fucker up there with an RPG.’
‘Crap fucking aim,’ Rizzo said, the Ambassador’s usual driver shaken up, and looking at us like we were mad.
As the police approached I shouted, ‘Weapons down, hands up!’ We all placed down weapons, hands up, the police running forwards and taking in the scene and the bodies, our driver explaining who he was, who we were, the police none too bothered either way, hands lowered and weapons picked up.
Swifty tapped my shoulder, a big smile displayed. He pointed at our ride, now a diagonal line of holes through it. ‘Belongs to some secretary.’
‘Oops,’ I let out. ‘We’ll be popular.’
From the civvy car that had been behind us, closer to the dumpster, a man crawled out, wide-eyed and taking in the scene. Only now did I notice the damage to his car.
‘Sorry, mate, you’ll need to claim on your insurance,’ I joked.
‘You’re ... British?’ came a British accent.
‘Yeah, where you from?’
‘Brighton. I ... live here ... ex-pat ... construction.’ He took in his car, now riddled with holes.
‘Just a car, mate, be glad you’re alive.’
He rubbed his face and forced a breath, taking in the head at Tomo’s feet. ‘First trouble I’ve had since getting here, been good up to now; cheap villa, a view, a pool.’
‘Sounds nice,’ I told him as more police arrived, as well as ambulances, a crowd gathering down the street, faces peering out of windows. ‘Swifty, on me, rest of you - take the other vehicles back, escort the Ambassador home. But don’t admit to being a pink Skoda.’
They laughed.
‘It’s fucking orange!’ Tomo insisted as he disappeared through the lingering smoke.
They headed off around the dumpster as I led Swifty to an ambulance, taking out my phone. ‘Bob, we were ambushed, shot ten of them, one of the Ambassador’s vehicles damaged, slight injuries, I’m heading to the local hospital now, have some police cover arranged for us, eh.’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Got some shit in my back, it’ll need surgery.’
‘Bugger. OK, I’ll make some calls now.’
I dialled the FCO. ‘It’s Wilco, SAS, Bogota. Sitrep: ambush contact, ten x-rays down, minor wounds on my side, threat eliminated.’
‘Dear god, I figured it was just another threat. The PM could have been the target!’
‘Was he due to eat at the Ambassador’s home later?’
‘No.’
‘Then he wasn’t the target. Wilco out.’
We made safe our weapons, not that the chatty paramedic cared, he liked Man Utd football club, and we were soon at the hospital, my jacket off, pads on the wounds, M4 carried.
A row of Police Federales intercepted us, one speaking good English, and we handed over our weapons as we entered the hospital, flanked by four officers each. But at least they didn’t want to talk about English football leagues.
I was shown to a bed by the doctors, who all spoke good English, took off my shoulder holster and shirt, and I shocked them. Face down, th
ey examined my back, and I was put under.
I woke to bright sunshine coming in through a window, and I eased up, wincing. I eased back down as my memories came back, two police officers in blue the other side of a glass pane, Tomo sat in a chair reading a paperback.
He lifted his head. ‘You still with us, Skipper?’
I nodded. ‘Water,’ I croaked out.
He handed me the water, and I sipped it. ‘They operated on you, but said it wasn’t serious, could have done it under local anaesthetic, a few bits of metal pulled out and some windscreen glass – or some shit like that.’
‘Good to know.’
‘I spoke to my mum in the UK this morning, it’s all over the news, and they’re saying we foiled an attempt on the Prime Minister, and they mentioned you and that we hammered them, pictures of the bodies and that burnt-out bin lorry.’
‘Did you shoot some guy in the balls?’ I asked with a frown.
‘Yeah, only angle I had,’ he said with a smile. ‘Rizzo never got a shot off, got rammed, and the doors were stuck. That RPG could have spoilt his day though.’
I nodded as best I could, lying at an angle. ‘Prime Minister still at the embassy?’
‘He has some meeting today, hundred fucking police around the embassy; well embarrassed they were, all over the news.’
‘And the people firing the RPG?’
‘Man and a woman, you winged them both. Stupid fucks hit their own people.’
‘We were lucky.’
‘We’re always lucky, Skipper. And some tasty nurses in here an all I noticed, like Spanish birds.’
‘They are ... Spanish birds. Swifty OK?’
‘Couple of stitches, that’s all. He went back last night.’
‘Prop my bed up a bit,’ I asked, and he pressed a button on a wire and I lifted up.
An hour later a group approached, the Ambassador and the PM coming in to me.
‘How you doing, Captain?’ the PM asked, grasping my hand.
‘Nothing serious, sir, just some shrapnel in the back from when the RPG hit the truck. Be out of here today I hope.’
‘You and your men foiled the attack, killed twelve, two taken into custody,’ the PM informed me as they stood over me. ‘Good work all round, but that is why we asked for you.’
‘They were after you, sir,’ I told the Ambassador, and he lost his smile. ‘PM was not due to visit your home.’
He sullenly nodded. ‘Risk of the job, but at least the intel process worked, and we would have probably sent out a decoy convoy as well. Would that RPG have penetrated the vehicle?’
‘Hard to tell, but I’d say yes – they can penetrate armour, if it was an anti-armour head they fired. Fortunately they were crap shots, ill-prepared and badly trained, and they killed their own people by mistake.’
‘A lucky break,’ the PM noted. ‘We don’t need people firing rockets at our staff. Well you get well, I guess they’ll fly you back soon, and well done, excellent show.’
The Mi6 guy popped in later, after my evening meal. ‘You still in one piece?’
‘Nothing major.’
‘I spoke to Bob, and we have your weapons and phone, ID, stuff like that, wouldn’t trust the locals.’
‘PM suggested they’d fly me out, but I’ll stay, I can recuperate here, might have a need ... to be here.’
‘Oh, well, no problem, doctor can visit the embassy. No arrangements have been made to ship you out I don’t think.’
‘Any word on the shooters?’
‘All clean, hired for the one job, some training, usual story, but one of them has links to Charlo.’
‘Pieces fit the puzzle then. I doubt that dumpster would have cracked open the bullet proof jeep, and their rifles wouldn’t have penetrated. The RPG might have worked, but the second vehicle could have gotten away, so it was not the best thought out plan.’
‘No, amateurs, which is often the way these days down here; throw away one-time-use assassins, which makes it damned hard to prevent.’
They let me out around 10pm, and odd time to be releasing someone, and a few of the lads escorted me back, my jacket now ruined. I’d have to buy one.
I found Swifty and Malcolm in the common room.
‘Still alive?’ Malcolm asked.
‘Ruined that fucking jacket,’ I said as I knocked on the kettle. ‘Any grub, hospital food was shite.’
Swifty pointed at the fridge. ‘Sandwiches in there, microwave burgers.’
After a burger and a can of beer I felt better, many of the lads coming in to chat; Rizzo had led the team protecting the PM yesterday, no incidents. I chatted to the Major and Bob on the sat phone, and to Moran – who was jealous at not being here, and he passed on a few rude messages from the lads.
That night I slept face down, a damn awkward position on a small bed, and in the morning Swifty checked my stitches, antiseptic cream placed on them, pads back on.
Mid-morning, and still taking it easy, Bob rang. ‘We have an opportunity, but we’ll need to move fast. Get some rough clothes, some cash – I’ll instruct my man at the embassy to assist, and he’ll drive you to the airport, private jet to Panama, diplomatic protection papers.
‘Once in Panama you’ll be dropped on the side of the road and you’re then Petrov on the run. Head towards the border town of La Palma, but be very careful and don’t show your face. Find the Hotel Granada on the main drag, sit having a beer, our man will find you, code word is ‘ice-beer’, which no one else should be using – we’d hope.’
‘La Palma, Hotel Granada, Ice-Beer,’ I repeated.
‘He’ll get you next to the local Russians, rest is up to you. Say that you’re trying to get to Bogota, to a Russian named Yuri Slav, who fixes things. He was killed a few days ago, but your character doesn’t know that.’
‘Yuri Slav. Got it. How will I know if it’s the right Russian group?’
‘Boss is Tomsk, very short and fat, likes tall girls.’
I laughed, picturing them. ‘And my extraction?’
‘We have a Royal Navy frigate on the Caribbean side, so I’ll put four of yours aboard on some pretext, Lynx available. Call the switchboard here and leave a message, but if you’re in a hot area it will be difficult, you’d need to be on a hillside or the coast.’
‘I go in with nothing but cash?’
‘Yes, make it look like Petrov is trying to hide, no traces left behind him. We’ll create a back-story in Panama City, including your recent injuries. There’s a big FBI team in Panama for a few days more, you can claim they were after Petrov.’
‘Proper spy work, eh.’
Phone down, I stood and stared out of the window, wondering if I was doing the right thing – in that I was being driven by professional pride. This was a challenge, I enjoyed it, but it was also reckless and foolish, a great risk. I was in two minds as usual, but as usual I wanted to do well, to keep getting that pat on the back – but figuratively, because right now a pat on the back would hurt.
All too soon I was off, telling the lads I had an appointment with a spinal specialist in the States, and I’d be gone two weeks or more, Rizzo left in charge. But, with the threat having been dealt with, the Ambassador’s staff felt the team would be withdrawn anyhow.
On the plane I chatted to the Mi6 guy, and we made a plan, a few things gone over. Little more than an hour later we touched down, IDs shown to airport officials, and we were soon in a big and boxy air-conditioned jeep heading out of the airport. I changed my clothes, handed over everything I had, and accepted a wad of dollars, the equivalent of £10,000.
We drove southeast, and at the edge of a shanty town he let me off with, ‘Good luck, and you must be fucking mad.’
As he drove off I realised I was naked, figuratively, money strapped to my lower legs under faded blue jeans, some in my pockets, some taped under my armpits, a loose short-sleeve shirt covering my stash – and not so much as a bottle cap in my pockets.
Walking down the street, local people
glancing at the muscle-bound ‘gringo’, I took out the smaller dollar bills without being seen and crumpled them up. Finding a muddy puddle I made my shirt dirty, my face and my hair, and seeing my reflexion in a shop window I figured I looked like a gringo down on his luck, a big nasty one.
As the sun dipped I stopped at a corner cafe, fried chicken ordered with a beer, and I sat adjusting, adjusting my mind to the new role. My dilapidated state got a few looks, but no one was interested in bothering me, which came as a disappointment.
I was half-hoping some wandering Russian gunman would challenge my background story, or that a local gang would pick a fight, but the people here had their own daily grind to get through and could not care less about me. I was a bit deflated at the lack of interest in me.
After the chicken, which was damn good, I sat in the oppressive heat observing the street corner, the traffic, the long-legged hookers wandering along plying their trade under street lamps, flies bothering me.
A commotion, and I turned my head, a man being slapped about by a lady, men sat on doorsteps laughing at the guy. The man, hen-pecked to the point of death threats, got into a beaten-up old taxi and drove off, but just around the corner, far enough to be out of sight of his dear darling wife.
He clambered out, looking a bit drunk, and sat on the bonnet, smoking. I paid for my meal with a small note, a crumpled one, checked the change – trying to look poor, and approached the hapless taxi driver.
‘Speak English?’
‘Some,’ he replied with a shrug, his eyelids drooping a little.
‘La Palma.’
‘La Palma?’ he said, squinting at me. ‘Mucho...’ he waved a hand in the direction of wherever he thought La Palma was.
I nodded, and gave him three fingers. ‘Three hundred American, no police.’
His eyes widened. ‘Three hundred. La Palma?’
‘No police.’
‘No police?’ He rubbed the stubble on his chin, sensing an opportunity. ‘Five hundred American.’
‘Four hundred. If good time, five hundred.’
He rubbed his forefinger and thumb. ‘Gasoline.’