Wilco- Lone Wolf 9

by Geoff Wolak

  I reached the tunnel as a truck thundered past us overhead, and we ran through, soon glimpsing the ocean and a deserted stretch of coastline. Turning left, I could see a small dilapidated building from within the river bed, and so led the men off bent double towards it, all soon grouped behind it. That just left two hundred yards to the villa.

  ‘Nicholson, you there?’

  ‘Here, Boss, good position, tight little ravine. We’re a hundred yards up from the road, hidden, can see two guards with dogs, rifles slung, more men inside the villa, maybe five in total.’

  ‘Silencers on, then hit the two men with dogs, then the dogs, then wait and report. When ready, open fire.’

  I thought I heard the cracks as we waited.

  ‘Two men down, dogs hit. Wait ... men coming out.’

  ‘Hit them as well.’ I waited, now certain I heard the quiet cracks.

  ‘Five men down, can now see some women.’

  ‘See a phone line?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hit the hub.’

  A minute later came, ‘We hit the phone box near the villa and on the pole, line is cut.’

  ‘Any other movement?’

  ‘Just some women on the second floor.’

  ‘Rocko, Rizzo, go right and around. Go!’ Four men ran off. ‘Everyone else, on me!’ I ran around the ruins, the sand slowing me in places, and short of the villa’s nice white-washed walls I stopped, soon shooting out the windows. The men beside me joined in, all of the windows loudly shot out.

  Running to the wall and left, and I went around to the ornate main gates, finding them propped open. Inside, I ran to the main door around several bodies, the door also open, and fired inside, windows this side of the villa now being shot out. Screams came from within.

  I ran up two steps and into the darkened interior, Swifty and Moran right behind me, and we checked the first room left, finding a nicely decorated lounge of low cushions and carved silver ornaments, typically Moroccan. Backing up, Liban was moving up the stairs with his men as I moved down the corridor. Nods exchanged, and I span into a room, finding no one home.

  Spinning into the large kitchen we found a teenage girl under a table.

  In Arabic I said, ‘Go down the road, you will not be harmed. ‘Go now, call to the other women. Where is Hammad?’

  ‘In his bedroom,’ she said as she fled.

  I transmitted, ‘Girl leaving, don’t shoot her!’ Back along the tiled corridor I left Sasha’s team at the base of the stairs with the remaining French, and we sprinted up two at a time, shouts and screams coming from several directions, women in face veils being herded downstairs.

  A doctor appeared in a white lab coat, arms raised.

  In Arabic, I began, ‘Tell me how he fell sick. Now, or I set fire to you!’

  ‘Poison. We don’t know what type.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A year ago, but I think he was poisoned several times.’

  ‘Will he live?’

  ‘No, just a few months left I think.’

  ‘What do you know of him poisoning others?’

  ‘Others? Like him? There are no others like him here who were poisoned.’

  ‘And his revenge..?’

  ‘Revenge?’

  ‘His men brought down that plane!’

  The doctor glanced over his shoulder, puzzled. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Sedan did it.’

  ‘Sedan? He was banned from here six months ago. He claimed the Israelis and the French were behind the poison and he wanted revenge.’

  ‘Is Hammad coherent?’ I pressed as women rushed down the stairs, French soldiers searching rooms.

  ‘No, not for four months.’

  ‘Four months, so he didn’t order the recent attacks,’ I realised.

  ‘What attacks?’ the doctor asked his hands still up.

  ‘In Mali and Mauritania. Poison from Hammad’s factory would have killed thousands of Arabs, women and children, but only with water from French water plants.’

  ‘Hammad would not have done such a thing.’

  ‘And Jillil?’

  ‘He disappeared many months ago.’

  ‘You have samples of Hammad’s blood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fetch them for me.’

  He led me into a large bedroom, Major Liban noisily searching around with three men, Hammad on a hospital-style bed away from a period four-poster wooden bed, our main suspect wired to machines. The bad smell hit me as the doctor handed me samples in a plastic box, I handed them to Liban.

  ‘Make sure your government analyses the blood for the poison used.’

  Liban had a soldier place the samples in his webbing.

  I faced the doctor. ‘I am not sure if Hammad is guilty or not, but I can’t take the chance.’ Rifle up, French moving back, I put four loud rounds into Hammad’s chest through his blanket, and loudly shot out the machines he was wired to, sparks seen.

  Facing the cowering doctor, I said, ‘Leave now, you will not be harmed. But anyone known to be associated with Hammad will be hunted down and killed, so go far. Go!’ I transmitted, ‘Let the doctor leave.’

  With the doctor gone, Liban said, ‘Hammad was not giving orders, not like this.’

  ‘No, not for many months. But maybe he started the research about the poison.’ I shrugged. ‘Everybody out!’

  Outside, I led the teams back through the main gate. Halting, I turned and fired at the nice carvings, then at the house walls, the French joining in. Outside, I transmitted, ‘Shoot the cars, shoot the walls, damage the fucking place!’

  From a hundred yards away I sprayed the nice whitewashed walls, and each hit tore away the white plaster to reveal a dark brown hole, and by time we finished firing at the villa and its walls looked like a kid with measles.

  I finally turned away, the women in a line on the side of the main road and observing us as we damaged their former happy home.

  ‘Wilco!’ came a shout, and Swifty ran. A car was approaching. Swifty knelt and fired at the engine grill, then the windscreen as I sprinted forwards kicking up sand, men on my heels.

  Swifty was at the driver’s door first, a man dragged out. ‘He has a pistol.’

  I put a knee in the man’s back as he hit the dirt with his face. ‘Search the car!’ Pulling off the man’s shoes, a ring of French soldiers knelt down around our driver. ‘Cigarette lighter.’

  A French soldier moved in, lighter out as I pulled off the socks. A foot grabbed and lifted, and a small toe got roasted to very loud screams.

  In Arabic I began, ‘What do you know about Sedan?’

  ‘Nothing, I am just a driver.’

  ‘Wilco,’ Swifty called. ‘He has maps of Mali and Mauritania, petrol receipts from Mali!’

  ‘Take it all back with us.’ I nodded at the French soldier with the lighter, skin soon cooking to loud screams. ‘Tell me something and I let you walk away.’ Another toe was burned. ‘Where is Sedan?’

  ‘He went by ship, to Corsica,’ the prisoner strained to get out.

  ‘From where?’

  ‘From Tunis.’

  ‘What will he do in Corsica?’

  ‘He goes to France with the chemical.’

  ‘What will he do in France?’

  ‘He did not trust me with this.’

  A glance at the French soldier, and another toe was cooked to loud screams.

  ‘Where is the poison made?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Sudan?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How much poison is there?’

  ‘Barrels of it, I saw it, a metal barrel inside a glass case with a metal frame.’

  ‘More attacks are planned here?’

  ‘No ... they panicked ... the men killed ... they left.’

  ‘Left from where?’

  ‘From the base in Algeria, south, Al Had.’

  I nodded and stood.

  Moran said, ‘We have an audience.’


  I glanced at the women on the road. ‘I want an audience for this.’ I stood the prisoner up. ‘Walk. Go.’

  He hobbled of, one foot a bit sore.

  ‘Firing squad, set automatic, take aim!’ Twenty men took aim. So did I.

  Our limping prisoner turned, suddenly horrified by what he saw.

  ‘Fire!’

  As I fired, I could see our prisoner knocked backwards and through the air, hit more than a hundred times by the look of it. When the firing eased, I said, ‘Someone check his pulse,’ the French laughing.

  Liban closed in, a hand on my arm. ‘The poison, it goes to France?’

  I gave him a solemn and apologetic nod.

  Liban exchanged a look with Henri. ‘There will be many dead if we do not find them.’

  ‘So let’s go find them, lunch afterwards.’ I led the teams off, the car shot-up as we left.

  Moran said, as we kicked up dust, ‘A bit ... loud and public back there.’

  ‘Within an hour, Reuters will report the plane being brought down by poison made in Sudan, by Algerians, by Hammad. And it was mostly Moroccans that died on that plane, and on the ground. Around these parts, vengeance is called for, and appreciated. Besides, those women will report us as being French, and the French public will be more than happy with the damage done here.’

  We adopted the river bed, and plodded off through the tunnel. Out the tunnel, Liban made a call, our rides to be back in forty minutes. I called in our snipers.

  Back at the strip, I went straight to the DGSE room, the FBI waiting there. I ignored Manstein. ‘The poison was moved by ship from Tunis to Corsica, to be taken on to France. Update Paris now.’

  They were horrified.

  ‘Arrange transport for us, fast jets like the FBI plane. Two or three aircraft, and fast aircraft.’

  Manstein closed in. ‘A productive mission, Captain?’

  ‘Poison is on its way to France. Barrels of it.’

  ‘What!’ He took out his phone and stepped outside, the DGSE also on their phones.

  Outside, I called David Finch as Hunt and Harris closed in. They listened in, squinting in the bright sunlight. ‘It’s Wilco. Poison, several barrels of the stuff, set sail from Tunis for Corsica, don’t know when, on its way to France. I’ve asked the French for transport, small fast jets. If we get a lead we need to be there fast.’

  ‘I’ll see what’s in your area and hire it, the oil industry has a few.’

  ‘My guy at GL4, Mutch, has a list of those.’

  ‘I’ll try him first them.’

  ‘Make sure I can get from “A” to “B” quickly, spare pilots, planes always fuelled ready.’

  ‘OK. Oh, story on Reuters -’

  ‘I had Max run the story. If that place in Sudan is making the poison then the local police - they’ll raid it, the Sudanese won’t want to take the blame for that plane coming down.’

  ‘Hell no, be a few harsh words later in the UN.’

  ‘Get me that transport.’

  ‘Be on it now. Oh, regular SAS will be with you soon.’

  ‘OK.’

  Back at the hut, I shouted, ‘Be ready to move, but sit and wait!

  Moran asked, ‘What about the rest of our lot in Sierra Leone?’

  I raised a finger, and took out my phone. ‘Hamble, where are you?’

  ‘Back at the FOB, busted up.’

  ‘You were in a fist fight?’

  ‘No! We hit a large force, a few wounded men.’

  ‘What wounds? How bad?’

  ‘Couple of scrapes, some splinters and shrapnel. No one fatally wounded, but eight of us are out of action.’

  ‘That’s all of you!’

  ‘Fuzz got a through and through.’

  ‘Shit. Still, nice scar for him. We’re off to Corsica chasing the poisoners probably, you ... get a ride home and heal, eh. What about the regulars?’

  ‘They got some shit as well, a through and through or two.’

  ‘OK.’ I stepped back to Moran. ‘Hamble and the regulars, plus the Salties, hit a large force, all wounded. Fuzz has a through and through, not a man left standing.’

  ‘Shit...’ Moran let out. ‘So much for backup.’

  A Hercules touched down. ‘Talk about back-up.’ I walked with Moran around to the apron, finding Fishy and his “A” Squadron lads. They waved and shouted.

  On a busy apron we greeted their troop captains as their kit was unloaded, a few Signals and Intel along with them. I told them, ‘Make a happy home here, make sure you have a ride at all times, fuelled and ready to go at a moment’s notice, and if there’s another attack around here you go, or if we get intel. We might fly to Corsica or France after the bad boys, but that’s down to the French, it’s their turf. Oh, you got any civvy clothes?’

  ‘Yeah, in the crates.’

  ‘We need to borrow some, so ask for donations. Shoes, warm jackets or jumpers. It’s cold in France.’

  I led Moran to Hunt as Harris closed in on his colleagues. Having collected Hunt I approached the senior DGSE agent as he finished a call. ‘What are our orders from Paris?’

  ‘They wish you to continue to pursue these men.’

  ‘Even in France?’

  He made a face and shrugged. ‘You shoot them, we shoot them.’

  ‘Will we be stepping on anyone’s toes?’ I pressed. ‘Like the GIGN.’

  ‘It is ... odd, but Paris trusts you, and you get this information quick.’

  ‘And someone British to blame,’ Moran curtly put in.

  Our host shrugged. ‘You know how Paris works.’

  I exchanged a look with Moran. Turning to Hunt, I said, ‘Update London. We’ll pursue Sedan no matter where he takes us, so it seems. If he hides out in Disneyland Paris we’ll trash the place.’

  Liban appeared at my side. I said to him, ‘Your men have civilian clothes?’

  ‘Oui!’

  ‘Have them change now, we’ll go to Corsica. Pistols on them, weapons and webbing in crates.’

  He glanced at the DGSE agent, who nodded.

  ‘You have a photo of Sedan?’ I asked, and they handed one over. I asked for photocopies, and took away ten copies.

  My phone trilled, a “001” number. ‘Wilco.’

  ‘Deputy Chief. Can you talk?’

  ‘Yes, just back from a job.’

  ‘Listen, Sudan. Is there any evidence against them?’

  ‘Not a shred.’

  ‘And this story on Reuters?’

  ‘Might be true, but now the Sudanese will go look at the pesticide plant and do our jobs for us.’

  ‘You have the FBI with you?’

  ‘Yes, and we’re all playing nice.’

  ‘Apart from you not telling them a few things...’

  ‘Well, a few things I skimmed over, yeah.’

  ‘And the danger here?’

  ‘I tortured a guy, and he saw several large barrels of the poison boxed up ready, and it was shipped to Corsica from Tunis, on its way to France, enough of the stuff to kill half of Paris.’

  ‘An embassy alert has gone out, but we don’t want to start a panic that will have the French at our throats. What are you tasked with?’

  ‘I’m tasked with doing what the French ask me to do, and that now means I follow the trail to France itself.’

  ‘Seems odd, you doing that when they should be handling it.’

  ‘They may want someone to blame if things go wrong.’

  ‘Possibly, so why go along with it?’

  ‘London has agreed it, and I don’t have anything else on this week.’

  ‘You used your friends in low places to get intel?’

  ‘Yes, and it helped, or we’d not have known about the villa we just hit, then about the poison heading to France.’

  ‘A very valuable asset you have there. And we had a tip-off about a major drugs movement, Brazilian gang, from Tomsk.’

  ‘Not from Tomsk, that would have come from my new friend in Bolivia.’<
br />
  ‘Ah ... yes. If it pans out we’ll have another intel source of great value, so ... be careful out there. We don’t want to lose you in some gun battle.’

  ‘I’m a soldier first, Petrov second. And after I’m dead you can deal with Tomsk direct.’

  ‘Still, from our own selfish perspective we’d rather you limit the risks.’

  ‘I now have a warm glowy feeling all over now.’

  He laughed, ‘Fuck off. And be careful.’

  In the darkened hut, I handed out the photocopies, and checked my kit as we waited a ride.

  Moran lifted his head. ‘Back there you were a bit open, torturing some guy in front of witnesses.’

  The lads turned to me.

  I began, ‘If the idiots with the poison accidentally drop it in the right place, a hundred thousand people die; women and kids. I don’t have time to piss about. And if it’s my career swapped for a hundred thousand civvies, so be it. We may rescue fifty people in a year, but if we don’t get these idiots then that’s fifty thousand dead.’

  ‘Ain’t our fault,’ Rizzo protested.

  I told him, ‘London assigned us to this, I didn’t say no, so ... it’s up to us, the best people for the job.’

  ‘Fucking Rocko’s fault,’ Swifty said.

  ‘What did I do?’ Rocko protested.

  ‘You found that body six months too late, or we’d have these boys by now.’

  I nodded. ‘Staff Sergeant, find the bodies earlier next time.’

  Rocko protested, ‘Not my fault where some fucker dies with his trousers down.’

  ‘All of you,’ I called. ‘If someone is in your way, kick them out your way or shoot them, this next part is important. We move fast and hard, and we find these boys - there are no rules on his job.

  ‘If Swifty or Moran is shot or wounded I’ll leave them and keep going, because they’re two people, and we could be reading a newspaper headline that says fifty thousand died. Nothing matters more than getting that poison. Nothing.’

  They exchanged concerned looks.

  Half an hour later a Learjet landed, enough room for twenty men, so I loaded my team plus Liban and Hunt. We were all now in civvy dress, many in trainers. I elected for boots, knowing that Corsica would be mild, but that France would be damn cold.

  Crates in the hold, a few doubled-up, a few left behind with “A” Squadron, and we powered down the runway after I told the two commercial French pilots to get a move on.