by J E Higgins
The Dublin Hit
Book 1 of the Sauwa Cather Series
J. E. Higgins
Mercenary Publishing
Contents
Also by J. E. Higgins
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
The Organizations
The Players
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by J. E. Higgins
The Bosnian Experience: Book 2 of the Sauwa Catcher Series
The Montevideo Game
1
The first litany of explosions pounded the earth like a stampede of enraged bulls were tearing through the camp. The blasts ruptured the ground, shooting waves of dirt and uprooted plants.
Sauwa grabbed her sister, Rena, and held her tight while mortar shells pummeled the landscape around them. Thick clouds of smoke rose from the bombed areas, creating a haze that encompassed the sky in an impenetrable fog.
Rhodesian soldiers─men and teen boys clad in well-worn, dark olive camouflage fatigues─ran to take up fighting positions. The women collected the scurrying children and herded them to cover as the attack worsened.
After the first blasts came the gunfire.
Sauwa held her sister’s face to her chest while bodies fell to the ground in blood-soaked masses from piercing rounds shot from the bushes. A few feet away, James, the young Selous Scout, who only a short time ago had been enjoying a friendly conversation, dropped dead, nearly cut in half by machine gun fire.
Still clutching her sister, Sauwa ran through the chaos and took cover in a sandbag-lined hole. Next to her, men shouted. Dark olive fatigues moved through the smoke around her. Soldiers manned their mortar tubes and attempted to fire back. Enemy shells exploded so close, the deep, penetrating vibrations rattled her bones. Her frightened sister’s tears soaked Sauwa’s shirt as Rena’s baby arms wrapped tightly around her neck.
Her sister screamed. Bullets tore into the burlap of the sandbags just inches above their heads.
Then…nothing.
The shouting stopped. Rhodesian soldiers were sprawled lifelessly above her, their uniforms saturated in blood. The youngest one, a boy no more than sixteen, looked back at her, his lifeless eyes displaying a look of terror from the last thought that had run through his mind.
“Shit!” Sauwa cried as she woke.
Rising from where she lay, it took her some time to accept that it had been a dream. Her heart beat wildly and her undershirt was drenched in her own sweat. Slowly, her mind began to grasp where she was, and her breathing gradually returned to normal.
The rank odor emanating from the ship’s hull was nauseating, to say the least. The combined force of sea water, rotting wood and residue left from decaying fish overwhelmed her. However, in her current situation, Sauwa couldn’t afford to be picky about her accommodations. The captain and his crew were taking a serious risk hiding her. Under the circumstances and time constraints, she was thankful to have been able to arrange this much.
Making the best of the situation, Sauwa managed to find a few soft bags of beans that she’d made into a semblance of a bed. A half-full bag of flour served as a pillow.
She stretched out on her makeshift bed as much as she could and tried to get comfortable within the cramped space. Her lodging was located in the galley storeroom, a small room, only a few feet around the perimeter. Even without the additional supplies crammed inside, it was a tight fit.
Still, it was the best her smugglers could offer her and the first moment of peace she had enjoyed in three days.
The acrid aroma, animalistic living conditions and winter cold temperatures diminished next to the pleasure of several hours of sleep. Despite the additional risk, she had offered to help with chores on the ship, an offer that was sternly rejected by a nervous captain who warned her not to leave the storeroom until they hit port.
Pulling a wool cap tightly over her head and scrunching up the grey flannel coat that hung over her body, she felt her eyelids grow heavy and slip over her eyes.
Taking a few minutes to reflect, she came to the same conclusion she had reached so many times since this all began. Her past, consisting of the last week, had been a series of dramatic events and narrow escapes. Her future, as she looked into the dark room, contained no certainty after the ship ride.
It wasn’t much to think of─how her world had changed so dramatically in the proverbial blink of an eye. She wanted to shed tears at the thought of what her life had suddenly become. But it did no good to dwell on things she couldn’t change. She turned her mind to the future, to forming a workable plan, until the hum of the ship’s engine lulled her into a deep slumber.
Her rest came to an end with a loud pounding at the door and the familiar growling brogue of the Scottish captain.
“Time ti gu, Lassie. We hit purt, and I want yer arse off me fuckin’ boat niew!” He was gruff and demanding, as he had been since the beginning of the voyage.
“Just a minute!” she called back. She grabbed her sandy brown military kit bag and climbed awkwardly through the labyrinth of flour bags and steel shelving that held rows of neatly organized cans.
The captain’s pounded with unrelenting fervor. Coming within arms-length of the door, she extended her arm and turned the knob. The door creaked open a crack before the captain grabbed it and flung it violently the rest of the way.
Sauwa faced the brawny giant.
“The door wasn’t locked,” she said, assuming the reason for the captain’s reluctance to open it himself.
The captain’s squint through the rough, thickly lined face told a story of many fierce sea adventures. “E’m noot ta berberan yi think mi,” he growled back, offended. “Ee dunna berge in un a lady wer she meghta noot be a’decent.” The captain apparently took his gentlemanly conduct seriously.
He stepped aside for Sauwa to pass him. She turned to thank him but was cut off by his arm waving for her to continue walking. Not wanting to exacerbate the situation, Sauwa threw her bergen over her shoulder and went through the small galley into the mess and out into a dreary looking, narrow gangway.
The captain followed closely behind, ready to prod her the moment she faltered in her journey to leave. Ascending a few creaky, wooden steps she exited through the old weathered door.
The night was pitch black, save for the dull lights barely visible from the pier in the distance and the equally dismal ones lining the ship. The air was even colder than her galley storeroom. Almost immediately, she felt her bare hands going numb. Outside, from the bridge, the fishing boat seemed much smaller than it actually was. It sat low in the water, probably because of a large catch of fish the crew netted before continuing on to their destination.
In the faint light, she could see the outline of a small craft, a motorboat with a single figure aboard. It drew closer, then roped off next to the ship.
The captain pressed gently against Sauwa’s back urging her to continue walking. He moved past her toward the motorboat that was now tied alongside. Not knowing what to expect, she followed slowly. Her eyes darted from side to side as she kept abre
ast of everything going on around her. Though dark, she could still see the outlines of the crew, and she watched for any strange or unusual movements that might alert her to a pending ambush or other danger. That these men had taken a great risk to help her, did not mean they couldn’t suddenly decide to the contrary.
Once standing over the motorboat, Sauwa peered down at a thin, frail-looking man, mid-sixties, and wearing a dark overcoat, which made it even more difficult to see him.
“I was told I’m picking someone up from you all,” the old man said in a general statement to whoever was listening.
“We do have someone who’s getting off here,” replied a man from the fishing crew, who was clearly better spoken than the inarticulate Scottish captain.
Sauwa moved toward the craft. The old man stopped her. “This person would be a foreigner.”
“I am sir,” Sauwa replied nervously.
“You sound English,” the old man responded with a hint of suspicion in his voice.
“She is,” interjected the crewman again.
The old man stood poised for a moment, as if debating something with himself. Finally, he shrugged. “Well, let’s be about it then. Come aboard, girl.”
Sauwa approached the edge of the ship and started to climb over. She was immediately hit with a freezing cold splash of water. It sent shivers up her spine. She wanted to shriek but remained silent. She felt the hands of the old man grab onto her to help stabilize her. His grip surprisingly strong given his frail appearance.
“I’ve got this,” he said as he went to lift her bergen off her shoulder, relieving her of the awkward weight. The wind was little more than a light breeze. Still, it was enough to disrupt the transfer.
With her jeans now soaked from the persistent splashes of water, Sauwa was relieved to feel her feet finally touch the floor of the boat. Despite sliding carefully, she nearly slipped over the bow when a larger wave rose up and caught her off balance. The old man steadied her. With one powerful heave, he pulled her back and threw her head first into the boat. Crashing into a pile of ropes, she felt the rough, scratchy nylon strands as she struggled to her feet.
The old man detached his vessel from the fishing boat and was working to activate the motor. The small craft began to drift on the waves. It wasn’t long before the fishing boat was a dim outline.
The small boat rocked violently in the water, making it hard to balance. Sauwa sank back onto the pile of ropes while the old man began pulling the cord to start the engine. After a few tugs and no results, she stood up to offer help. Before she could say anything, the engine suddenly roared to life.
“You stay where you’re at, girl,” the old man said gruffly. “I’ve got this engine. You just sit down and stay quiet.”
Not wanting to argue and feeling the numbness kick in from the cold air and soaked clothing, Sauwa moved to the other side and sat down. The boat sped steadily over the water against the encroaching ocean waves. Water sprayed into the craft with each splash. It was all she could do not to squeal as the ice-cold water ran down the length of her back, but she was determined not to be a burden or an annoyance. She would tolerate her situation and hope something better awaited her at the end of the journey.
“We’re only a few minutes out from our destination,” the old man said, perhaps sensing her mood.
Sauwa was startled by the thump of an object suddenly landing on her lap.
“It’s a rain cover,” he explained. “It should protect you from the water and the air.”
Wasting no time, she unwrapped the bundle and threw it over her body. Huddling with her knees tight to her chest, she breathed hard hoping to warm the environment. It worked, a little.
Gradually the waters calmed, and the spray eased as they neared the shore. The boat slowed to a mere idle. Sauwa came out from the meager warmth of her cover, her body clammy.
The motor went silent. For a moment, she tensed, fearing something had happened. Easing back her flannel and reaching under her sweatshirt, her fingers touched the grip of the Makarov pistol she kept in her waistband. She held off lifting the cover to avoid creating additional noise. Sauwa waited, motionless, until the old man announced their arrival.
Her body relaxed. All was well. Her journey was at an end.
Emerging from the cover, she felt the sharp shock as the cold hit her body again. She began to shiver and tried not to let her teeth chatter.
“A warm meal and bed await you, Lassie,” the old man said, his voice warmer.
He threw a rope around one of the posts and began to secure the craft then reached for an object that crinkled as he took hold of it. He handed it to her after she stepped onto the pier.
“I took the liberty of putting your kit sack in a plastic bag to protect it from the water.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it very much,” Sauwa replied and took the plastic in hand.
The old man followed her up the small ladder along the pier. He gently took her by the arm and proceeded to escort her down the darkened path toward land.
From the fishing boat, the pier was visible due to a few old, dim lights. If an ambush lay at the end of the walkway, she would never know until it was upon her. She couldn’t make out how many other boats were at the pier, or if there were any buildings at the end.
Staying close to the old man, she walked briskly. His hand remained around her arm, which gave her a feeling of safety. If he was setting her up, he would have tried to lengthen the distance between them to avoid any crossfire from an ambush or prevent him from becoming a hostage.
Their feet finally hit the pavement and soon they were standing in front of some sort of truck. Buried in the shadows, it was difficult to make out what type of truck it was. Sauwa could only see the general outline of either a truck or some other frontier conducive mode of travel. The old man took the liberty of getting the door for her. Looking in the passenger side, she saw a cab fitted with extremely worn, weathered seats and the floor caked in a layer of dried mud. There was a variety of personal knickknacks lined up along the dashboard, on the floor, and behind the seats.
This was the man’s personal vehicle, as opposed to a throwaway used only for this particular mission. Slipping into the truck, Sauwa settled into the seat. The worn leather was a welcome upgrade from the cold, hard wood of his boat or the hard, lumpy bags that had been her previous accommodation on the fishing boat.
The door shut after her. Left in the darkness, she waited quietly but alert, not allowing herself to relax, her bergen tucked tightly against her body. Outside, she heard the crunching of the loose dirt with every step the old man took as he walked around to the other side. Gripping the door handle, she tracked his movements. If he veered off, she was ready to jump out and run, even not knowing what the area looked like or where she was at now.
To her relief, the old man opened the driver’s side door and slipped in next to her. In the light, she was finally able to get a good look at him. He looked far different than she had assumed. His hair was charcoal and grey, gathered in a loose ponytail and partially covered by a wool knit cap. His skin was worn, the sign of someone who was used to hard work. Yet, unlike the fishing boat captain, he had a more distinguished appearance; he did not have heavy jowls or the thick crevasses. He had a neat, well-kept goatee, like a professional type or an artist. (Not a hint of a strongman, a kidnapper or a killer, but then again, people were not always what they seemed.)
He shut the door, leaving them in darkness.
2
“Are you comfortable, love?” the old man asked.
“Yes,” Sauwa replied quietly.
They drove along a dirt pathway, then onto a paved main road.
“Get some sleep,” he commanded. “We have a distance to go.” Sensing the girl was still quite cold, he turned the heat to full blast.
Within seconds, a freezing Sauwa was relishing the powerful gusts of heat rolling over her body, a welcome comfort. It had been days since she had felt anything but cold.
Between her fatigue and the soothing warmth, she fell into a peaceful lull and─though she fought hard to combat it, to remain awake and alert─her body and mind eventually succumbed. Her muscles relaxed. Her eyelids once again grew heavy.
Sauwa awoke to a strong hand on her shoulder. The truck had stopped, and a darkened figure was standing at the opened passenger door. Before her mind had caught up, her hand had instinctively found the hilt of the double-bladed gripping knife she used for close range attacks.
But it was only the old man.
Her hand relaxed. She slowly unwrapped herself and shifted out of her seat. In the background, lights appeared from what looked to be a farmhouse.
“I’ve got this.” The old man grabbed her bergen and started walking before Sauwa had a chance to protest. He marched up a small hill over a loose configuration of rocks meant to be a pathway.
“I can get my own bag, thank you,” Sauwa attempted to argue, traipsing closely behind.
The old man said nothing on his way to the house. With a push, he flung the front door open. The light from inside blazed, burning their eyes. They had spent the last few hours immersed in pitch darkness, and it took a few seconds for Sauwa’s eyes to adjust. When they did, she was looking into a kitchen that easily dated back to the turn of the century with a strange intermixing of modern appliances throughout.
A woman stood in the center dressed in a pair of jeans and knit sweater covered by a white cloth apron. She was about the age of the old man, mid-fifties to early sixties. Like the old man, she had the appearance of someone who was no stranger to hard living but also had clean distinguished features. Her hair, also a charcoal grey, was gathered atop her head.