The Devil's Shadow: A Gun-for-Hire Thriller

by J E Higgins

  At some level, Crane bemoaned the fact that he had not taken the Lebanese smuggler up on his offer to accompany them. He had considered the benefit of having someone with firsthand knowledge of the area to guide them and help circumvent any complications they might encounter with the locals. Still, these benefits were outweighed by the concern that they would be letting a stranger they knew nothing about accompanying them on a dangerous mission. A stranger who could be a dangerous liability and possibly compromise their mission if it turned out he betrayed them. It was a tough call. One he was constantly punishing himself over due to the problems they had endured on this journey.

  The trucks started up a hill that gradually moved into a stark incline. Falling back against the thin canvass seat cover, Crane felt the engine roar as it struggled to work its way over the hill of this roughly defined trail and uneven ground. It was an exercise that had been repeated numerous times during their journey and yet neither man had gotten use to it.

  In a way, it felt like the truck had tipped over. The truck returned to a somewhat horizontal position. Crane jerked as his body forcefully lurched forward, and he fell against the dashboard. He looked out the side view mirror and could see the other truck coming over the edge right behind them. His attention was temporarily diverted when Espinoza started muttering again. At least this time they were back to being low, inaudible sounds that could be ignored.

  Checking his watch, Crane saw it was almost 0530. In another hour, the sun would begin its ascent taking away the cloak of darkness they were enjoying. Normally, it was not something to be concerned about since they had not seen anybody during their trek across the jungled terrain. And the few they had come in contact with during the day, quickly dismissed them as just another group of peasants going about their business.

  They had been driving in Peru for a day and, according to the map, he figured they would be within the area of Guzman’s operation by the end of this trek. “We’ll continue until we find a good place to stop and then stash the vehicles while it’s still dark,” Crane said. He received a thumbs up from Espinoza along with a distinguishable look of relief. The Welshman repeated the order over the walkie talkie and was met with sporadic replies sounding equally relieved at the news.

  They continued until Crane identified an opening under overhanging trees. Telling Espinoza to stop the truck, Crane exited the vehicle and started scoping out the area. He examined the trees then moved inward. Illumination from his night optics could be easily misleading, and Crane wanted to ensure that the spot to stage the trucks was viable. As he thought, the trees opened like a thick curtain revealing a wide open completely enshrouded area. It was perfect.

  Leading the trucks in one at a time, they settled into the open space perfectly. A short while later, the white Toyota joined them. Standing in the middle of the trail, Crane directed the truck through the curtain of trees where it slid in perfectly next to the larger trucks. Disembarking, everyone began walking around aimlessly trying to stretch out. The additional pleasure of having spent hours driving in uncomfortable seats across long patches of rough, uneven terrain had left everyone needing to walk around to get their circulation back.

  Regan Harkness had leaped from the back of the Toyota and walked the first few steps in a manner making him appear intoxicated. Soon regaining his equilibrium, he began walking and twisting his torso and head trying to stretch out his whole body. He threw off the tattered baseball cap and his optics as he continued his ritual.

  Kusaki strutted up behind him looking like he was marching. It was a display meant to show the other seasoned professionals the level of discipline he possessed. He came to a stop next to where Harkness had halted and began moving his upper body in a series of contortions as he stretched out while looking over the surrounding landscape.

  Mulgrane, quickly identifying the tree line, was in the process of urinating. The crackling sound of his piss blasting against the foliage was an alien sound that was heard by those standing several meters from him. He had been holding it in for some time suffering under the pressure and couldn’t wait any longer when the convoy finally came to a halt. Because of the tight schedule, stopping for breaks was out of the question. It was not in his nature to be reckless while in the field. However, he realized that the powerful noise of the truck engines would have already alerted anyone who was in the vicinity. The rest of the team followed Mulgrane’s example after finally being able to get out of the vehicles.

  The men retrieved their bedding from the back of the larger trucks. Digging through the piles of fertilizer and crates of beer in the dark had become a ritual, one they still found cumbersome to accomplish. Soon, they were stamping out locations and settling in to enjoy several hours of much needed rest.

  Before turning in, Crane, along with McNaulty and Macron, one of the Belgians, moved out into the bush line. When stopping, it was their normal procedure to have someone search the immediate vicinity for any signs that someone had been in the area or was prone to hanging around the location they were now in. Grabbing their weapons, they stepped into the bushes. Crane led. After a few seconds, McNaulty followed, then Macron took up the rear.

  They walked the perimeter in a slow tactical fashion, maintaining a five-meter dispersion between them. It took a little less than thirty minutes to cover the area thoroughly. They found the area was untouched and showed no signs of having any human occupation for a very long time.

  They exited on the other side of the opening and were met by Kusaki and Rubian, the other Belgian. “All seems to be in order,” Crane informed Kusaki. “Let’s give everyone final orders, then we can start bedding down for a few hours.”

  Kusaki nodded as he and McNaulty turned and headed over to where the rest of the men were waiting. The men had kept their weapons close as they waited for the word from the boss. Crane followed Kusaki and McNaulty flanked by the two Belgians who walked alongside him acting like bodyguards. The men formed a semi-circle around the Welshman as he joined them. “We’re secure boys. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been around here for a good while. So, we’re reasonably secure here and in enemy territory now.” He added the last part to emphasize the point of the situation. “From here on out, we move as a tactical unit. No more civilian softies. Tomorrow we move out camoed up and as soldiers.”

  The reply amounted to little more than nodding of the heads, some light murmurs, and some grunts acknowledging his order. Then everyone broke to find places to quickly clean up before laying down to sleep. Crane fell onto his bedding, his mind and body registering exhaustion. Slowly, what little noise there was died down as the men dropped off to sleep.

  Chapter 19

  Major Chris Daphline traversed the narrow pathway to the front of the briefing room using a slow, methodical walk that was intended to promote an unassailable presence. As he did, the group of men dressed in black tactical fatigues stood quietly at attention. “At ease, gentlemen. Seats.” The men, in unison, dropped into the neatly lined rows of hard plastic chairs.

  The Colour Sergeant, James Argyll, a brawny Scotsman who was proud of his roots growing up on the mean, gang-filled streets of Glasgow, stepped to the side giving the commander the floor. Major Daphline gave a respectful nod to his Colour Sergeant as he took his position then turned to address his men. For nearly a year he had been the commanding officer of X Squadron of the Special Boat Service, the Royal Marine equivalent to the better known Special Air Service. A professional officer with a long and distinguished career, he commanded enormous respect from both his men and his superiors alike.

  “Lads, we have our mission, and it begins tonight,” he began. His tone was powerful, authoritative, and with the distinctly polished accent of a man who had been a product of only the finest education and breeding, betraying his upper-class roots. “For the last few weeks, we’ve been training for a very important mission. One that commands the highest level of secrecy.” All eyes were on him, staring at him with an exciting intensity. He contin
ued. “Sadly, though, this will be one of the greatest missions in our unit’s history and one that will definitely show up our army counterparts.” He was referring to the long-standing rivalry the SBS enjoyed with the SAS. “I’m afraid the level of secrecy attached infers that the world can never, will never, know about it.”

  His men were well aware of what he was talking about. After coming off rotation from counter-terror duties, X Squadron had been handed a mission, one in which the details had been vague, only that they would possibly be conducting a high-level commando assault along the coast of Mexico. Having been dispatched to a training center in Belize, used by the SAS for jungle training, under the official cover that they were conducting routine refresher training, they had been practicing port raids along the harbor of the Mexican border city of Chetumal. Using fishing trawlers, the British navy sometimes used for clandestine missions, they infiltrated the port practicing dry runs for an assault. They had been given vague parameters, so they had rehearsed additional operations along Belize City and other more remote coastlines as well. The general belief was Chetumal, or someplace nearby, was the target.

  Then three weeks ago, to everyone’s surprise, it was revealed that the real objective was a shipping company at the port at Veracruz. The company was Santiago Shipping. Having poured over the plethora of information that came pouring in from military intelligence on a near daily basis, Major Daphline and his staff began to develop their plan.

  Now it had all come down to this very evening. Turning his attention to the large aerial photograph plastered on the wall behind him, he focused on it with his green laser pointer. “All right, this is our target.” He ran the pointer down the short line along with the location of Santiago Shipping. “We’ve practiced this extensively. I want to run through it one more time before we depart.” He briefed the group in the methodical way he always did, pausing every so often to ask one of the men in the crowd a question to determine if the plan was well ingrained. His men were all professionals, and his questions were answered with concise responses displaying a high level of comprehension.

  When he finished, he asked if anyone had any questions. Answering the few that were asked, he turned to the young woman who stood silently in the corner. “I believe you have some points to add, Major.” He yielded the floor allowing her to come forward. Major Sarah Dijoubi moved past the Colour Sergeant to the front of the room. No longer dressed in the civilian attire she had been in earlier, she was now dressed in the light brownish camouflage fatigues of the British army. The emblem of the gold crown identifying her rank was prominently displayed on her chest. “Thank you, Major.” She eyed the men sitting before her. “For the most part, I believe everything of any significance has been covered. However, I want to add that my SRR unit has been monitoring this location for quite some time. The security you will encounter should not be taken lightly. Though they will be wearing civilian attire, they are former soldiers. A number of them are from elite units, and have considerable combat experience in their own right.”

  She eyed the men in the room taking considerable care to watch the expressions of her audience. It was common instinct among European soldiers to see themselves as the superior beings on the battlefield and to be somewhat dismissive of non-Europeans as third-rate fighters. The Falkland war which was fought with Argentina decades ago still lingered in the British conscience. It had fostered a poor attitude toward the quality of the South American soldier in general. There was a concern that these commandos might be of the same mindset. As she examined their faces, she saw nothing but the cold, serious look of professionals. Apparently, the intelligence unit in Belize had done their job educating the SBS team on South American militaries and their Special Forces units’ level of training and combat experience. Their education had worked. The marines were listening intently to her, and the expected snickering and joking was not taking place.

  She continued, “My people are out there. For this mission, they will serve as your over-watch and supporting sniper teams. Listen to them. They’ve been monitoring this operation for some time and the positions they’ve taken give them nearly a full view of the facilities. They will also be providing the needed distractions that should draw most of the armed security away from your infiltration point.” Having said what she needed to, she returned the floor to Daphline.

  He took the floor again and gazed at the black-clad figures. “You know how this will go. Remember, our mission is one of grave importance. We will be hitting a powerful criminal organization directly in its wallet. The ships we intend on sinking are heavily loaded with weapons bound for Africa, and the plan is for them to be placed in the hands of very nasty sorts of people. Let’s put a stop to it, shall we?” The men clapped in a show of support. When the noise died down, the major continued. “I must also emphasize that this is not just a strategic operation but a political one as well. Tonight, we send a message from Downing Street to the leadership of the cartels. We are telling them that if they want to come to our side of the world, they’ll do so at their own peril and pay for it dearly in blood.” His words resulted in a loud chorus of enthusiastic cheers as the men practically leaped from their seats. Having said what he needed to say, the major quietly handed the floor off once again to the Colour Sergeant.

  Color Sergeant, James Argyll stomped out in front of the audience and quickly brought order with his thundering voice and practically shook the walls and floor. Not at all a polished man like his commander, Colour Sergeant Argyll was a hard-bitten NCO who suffered no nonsense on his watch, asserting his authority with a fearful autocratic reign. “Alright, boyos! We’ll be within range in twenty minutes. The first troop moves out to get fitted up for your little evening dip. Troops two and three ready your watercraft and prepare for your fireworks.” He glowered at the black-clad figures before him, putting everyone on edge, just the way he liked it. “Now move, Goddamnit!” he roared. The men quickly moved out of their seats heading for the exit behind them.

  “By your leave, sir?” the Colour Sergeant asked gruffly, turning to face his commander.

  “You’re excused,” Major Daphline replied. The Colour Sergeant marched out the exit after his men.

  Outside, the cool wind emerging from the ocean blew strongly across the bow of the fishing trawler. So close to the port, most of the lights were out masking the activities of the commandos as they set about their mission. The ship had slowed to an idling speed to stay out of sight of the port where Santiago was operating in case someone might discover them. As troops two and three readied their cruisers for the water, troop one donned their scuba gear and adjusted their combat loads. The plan called for a five-hundred-meter swim to the docks. In the open water, bearing the weight of their combat gear, none of them looked forward to it.

  On the other side of the ship, the remaining two troops were setting their craft into the water. For this mission, it was decided they would use the smaller rubber zodiacs, better known as Inflatable Raiding Craft (IRC), as opposed to the more commonly used Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats (RHIBs) that were used for missions conducted on the high seas when engaging pirates or responding to a terrorist threat on an oil rig or boarding a ship. Though the RHIBs were also used for missions along coastal waters, they were larger boats, the smallest being 22 feet long and, therefore, too large for their purpose. The IRC craft worked better for this operation because it would allow them to get closer to the ships and wedge into tighter areas in order to place their powerful limpet mines.

  The plan was for Troop One to swim underwater to the most remote pier that was deemed to have the least video surveillance and lighting. They would stage there until the SRR initiated a decoy attack at the front gates, drawing the bulk of the armed security away from the water. Then they would infiltrate, attacking whatever security remained, and move on undetected to secure the main offices, kill all the hostiles, and blow up the building. As this was being done, Troops Two and Three would use the IRCs to get to the ships, place
the limpet mines on the key areas of the hulls, and then detonate the explosives, sinking all the ships and their cargo. Afterward, the fishing trawler would swing back around and pick up everyone as it headed back out to sea.

  The trawler moved within five hundred meters of the targeted pier. With their scuba equipment on along with their tactical kit, Troop One slipped quietly into the water. At the same time, the other troops were in the process of loading and launching their inflatable rubber craft.

  Though it was not standard protocol, Major Daphline decided to go with Troop One while the Colour Sergeant accompanied him in one of the IRCs. With the degree of importance attached to the operation, both men wanted to be on the ground with their men. Major Dijoubi stood at the entry of the hatchway watching the SBS teams disperse over the side of the ship to disappear into the murky blackness. She then headed back inside.

  Several months ago, after the report about Gutiérrez and the Black Crow was brought to the attention of the British ambassador, a secret meeting was held at Number 10 Downing Street. In the office of the Prime Minister, the secret discussion was held with the top officers from intelligence and the Ministry of Defense in attendance. The discussion was over the report and the threat the Black Crow cartel posed to the future of European security.

  After everyone had had a chance to read the embassy report, all attending agreed that the American plan for extraditing Alvaro Gutiérrez would amount to little more than a symbolic gesture at best. Further, it would do nothing to stop this organization from expanding its tentacles overseas and threaten European security. It was decided that stronger action had to be taken. The Prime Minister’s decision was to strike hard at the enemy’s home front and cripple or destroy their efforts. The operation would be a covert military action code-named Red Dog. It would be headed by Major Sarah Dijoubi, an experienced and highly intelligent commander in the SRR.