Wilco: Lone Wolf - Book 2: Book 2 in the series (Book 2 of 10)

by Geoff Wolak

  And I was almost twenty yards away.

  Rudely pushing the General’s daughter aside and down, the group next to me horrified to see my pistol drawn, I moved forwards, my path blocked, and soon I placed a foot on a chair, up onto the table top as the Asian lads clambered up onto the stage.

  I could see a pistol in a hand. ‘Allah...!’

  I took aim with both hands and loosed off four rounds as screams erupted from all sides, Swifty opening up, Smurf firing from a greater distance than me, Rizzo bursting from the kitchens and adding a few extra rounds to each body.

  I had blocked out the deafening sound and had concentrated on firing, but now my ears adjusted to the screams, the waiter’s white tunics now red, the four waiters very, very dead.

  ‘SAS, stay down. We’re SAS ... get down!’ I roared, but need not have bothered with the last part, the diners now all under a table instead of being sat at one.

  I crushed someone’s leftovers under foot, landed on a chair and leapt over prone people as I rushed to the stage. Getting there, I could see that the waiter’s were not moving, quite still, and I leapt up onto the stage. ‘All round defence!’ I barked, the guys now watching the rest of the room.

  With screams in my ears, I knelt down and picked up a starting pistol, moving it aside, followed by a rusty old Chinese 9mm. Judging by the state it was in it would have probably blown the guy’s hand off if he had fired it. I tore the bodies over and patted them down as best I could one-handed, another starter pistol and one half-decent Walter PPK removed as pandemonium ensued behind me.

  Knowing what needed to be done, I grabbed the microphone. ‘Quiet down, please. Quiet, please. Can anyone see anymore waiters dressed in white, Asian waiters? Look, people, look around you.’

  I could see them checking. ‘If there are any waiters still here, stand up with your hands up now, or you will be killed by mistake. Stand up and come forwards.’

  A bunch of girls stood, their hands high, eyes moist, followed by two young lads, but white-skinned lads.

  I turned my head, buy spoke into the microphone. ‘Rizzo, kitchen staff, all out here now, against that wall.’ He dove into the kitchens. ‘Waiters, come forwards, you won’t be harmed. Can anyone see a waiter hiding?’

  ‘Here,’ someone called, and I aimed.

  ‘Stand up, I can hit you from here!’

  The nervous lad stood, shoved forwards by a few cowering guests.

  ‘Step forwards. Smurf, frisk them.’

  He and Swifty checked those nervous waiters assembled as the kitchen staff came out, hands up, and were placed against the wall by a less-than-tactful Rizzo. I could see the Major easing himself between the cowering diners.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I loudly called. ‘Can anyone see any waiters hiding? Check under the tables!’ With a group of women crying, I added, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you are quite safe now, the terrorists have been dealt with, we’re S-A-S. Please calm down, you’re safe, they have no bombs.’

  A few men stood, one still with his drink in his hand, which made me smile.

  ‘Kitchen staff against the wall, put your hands down, please. Rizzo, check them. Waiters, against the same wall, no sudden movements.’

  I pulled out a spare mag and swapped it quickly, the lads copying. But the crying ladies were starting to annoy me.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please stand up, it’s undignified for you to be on the floor. Stand up, please, and remember that you’re British.’ They all got up as uniformed police with guns appeared at the rear.

  I faced the ladies, who were still crying. ‘Ladies, the danger has passed, you’re quite safe now.’ I could see one shaking, and I focused on her. ‘Madam, these men came here to terrorise you, and it looks like they’ve succeeded. But you don’t have to be afraid, you have a choice.

  ‘Some of you ... may suffer from tonight’s shock, a kind of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, which leads to a loss of sleep, a loss of appetite, a change to normal routines. Ladies and gentlemen, that is exactly what these four young men wanted.

  ‘We stopped them, but if you allow yourself to become victims, to change your day to day patterns, then even though they’re dead they’ve still won – and you have lost.’

  I could see Swifty frowning up at me.

  ‘Ladies, all you need do ... to win here, is to make a choice, nothing more complicated than that. Choose to carry on, choose to come back to a function like this without fear, choose to enter central London without fear, and they’ve lost – their lives thrown away for nothing.’

  I could now see the Major frowning up at me.

  ‘If some of you here this evening change your routines, if you fear central London, then you’re letting them win. All you need do ... is come back to a function like this next week, or better still ... go around the corner and find a nice wine bar and have a drink instead of rushing off home in a state of shock. If you can do that ... then their lives were thrown away for nothing, and mean nothing. If you can do that ... then you’ve won and they have lost.

  ‘You stand there shaking, feeling defenceless, as if you have no weapon to protect yourself with. You do: it’s called defiance in the face of adversity. These four men came here with small pistols, but if you hold your heads up high and get on with your lives then you’re carrying a machinegun around with you.’

  The ladies had stopped crying. ‘In front of you ... you will see my major, the man responsible for recruiting and training us, paid for with British taxpayer’s money. You do have a second weapon, and we’re it. If you have any questions ... the Major is right there,’ I said, enjoying the look on the Major’s face.

  I walked to the end of the stage, and they started clapping, soon a loud round of applause given as I pointed my pistol at the four-piece orchestra, now cowering behind a piano. ‘Get the fuck up, and play something patriotic, like ... Rule Britannia,’ I said as the applause thundered around the room. I put my pistol away and turned to see the Major suffocating with well-wishers, and it made me grin.

  People started patting me on the back as I moved through the crowd, Rule Britannia being played lightly, dozens of yellow-jacket police lining the wall where the kitchen staff still stood, and I found General Dennet.

  ‘You OK, sir?’ I asked, his chubby teenage daughter tearful.

  He stared passed me at the bodies. ‘Those bastards could have killed my family.’

  ‘No, sir, they had starter pistols and rusty old 9mm that would have misfired. Besides, I was here.’ I rubbed a thumb against the tears on his daughter’s cheek and her face lit up like I had just pulled down her knickers and fingered her. ‘Don’t worry, nothing will happen to your father while I’m around.’

  ‘When you...’ General Dennet’s voice was breaking. ‘When you drew your weapon my heart stopped. It’s one thing to be in uniform and fight, but to have my family here...’

  I nodded. ‘Get a drink inside you, sir, it will help.’

  I moved through the crowd as the police led people out, many pats on the back, and to the Air Commodore.

  ‘Thought I was a gonna for a moment,’ he said with a smile. ‘Then saw you up on the table. Those idiots had no chance.’

  ‘None, sir,’ I joked.

  ‘You take these things lightly,’ came a voice, and I turned, finding the sour-faced Defence Minister.

  ‘Training and experience, sir, we are ... trained for this sort of thing – as you well know. And if we let it get to us ... we’d not function. And how many soldiers, sir, during the Second World War, enjoyed their day off without being consider a psycho?’

  ‘A good point, yes. You see these things clearly. And well done, a good show.’

  ‘You should thank my Major, sir, he recruited and trained me.’

  ‘I will, we’ll ... be having a chat.’ And off he went.

  I circled around and collected the lads, police throwing table cloths over the bodies.

  ‘What was all that bollocks on the stage?’ Rizzo comp
lained.

  ‘I’m hoping the Major will get some recognition, because we can ask him for some money towards tonight’s curry and beer.’

  ‘Curry and beer?’ Rizzo repeated. ‘Now we’re talking, and we’re done here with this bollocks, so let’s go.’

  ‘We’ll need to make statements in the morning,’ Swifty cautioned. ‘And hand in our weapons. But that’s tomorrow, so ... fuck ‘em.’

  Smiling, I led the lads towards the Major, who was inundated with well wishers, not least the Defence Minister and Home Secretary. They made way for me.

  ‘Major, I was going to stand down the lads and take them for a curry, if that’s OK with you?’

  He was on the spot. ‘Yes, yes, of course, enjoy yourselves, you deserve it.’

  ‘We could do with a small advance, sir, we’re all a bit short of cash, didn’t think it necessary at this function,’ I said, and I knew the Major would be shouting on Monday, but for now he was stuck – and surrounded.

  He got his hand in his pocket and produced £30, which was matched by the Defence Secretary, and soon I had £200, more than enough.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. With your permission, sir, we’ll stand down till the morning.’

  ‘Carry on,’ the Major ordered, and I led the lads away, Swifty grinning widely.

  ‘You are so dead-meat on Monday,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ I said with a sigh. ‘But that’s Monday.’

  We commandeered two police cars and they drove us back to Chelsea, weapons unloaded and stowed, shoulder holsters off, radios out, the Counter Terrorist detail all sat in vans near the hotel we had come from, the duty officer quizzing us at length – and largely being ignored.

  I knew of a good late night curry house near my hotel, and our police ride dropped us there, but I did request plain clothes SO13 officers in attendance, a bit cheeky.

  As our starters were placed down the police found us and sat with us, but would not drink, and we recalled the shootout, but now with great candour. The lads were drunk when the restaurant staff finally kicked us out, and I had asked for and gotten a police van to take them back to Chelsea barracks.

  I threw back the sheets on my hotel bed, the linen crisp and white and smelling great. I eased in, knocked off the light, a big hug for my pillow, wondering just how mad the Major would be on Monday. I fell asleep with a silly grin on my face.

  Bob called the room Sunday, at 11am, after I had enjoyed the hotel gym for an hour, struggling a bit after a huge breakfast.

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘Monday morning, you and the Major have been summoned to No.10.’

  ‘I was polite to the PM last night, honest, Bob.’

  He laughed. ‘Good show Saturday, it’s all over papers, hell of a stink about the vetting process of those for young Asian men.’

  ‘How did they fool everyone?’

  ‘They each have a cousin with a similar name, and the cousins were clean – worked at that hotel for months. On the night they just swapped, and one Asian lad looks like another. The cousins have been picked up, they’ll get a few years each, Prime Minster is furious.’

  ‘I spoke to him briefly.’

  ‘Your officers are going in uniform, you can be in a suit.’

  ‘Good, because I’m not driving all the way back to Hereford for my damned uniform.’

  ‘Your name is in the papers, your nickname, and quotes from what you said Saturday night. The Sun has adopted you as its mascot – Rule Britannia.’

  ‘Bloody great. So much for a low profile. I’ll ... pop out and buy the papers.’

  And I did, and sat reading them in my room, a mention of my rescue in Somalia, again saying that I was ‘believed’ to have led the team, mention of the attack in Hereford and my alleged missions in Northern Ireland and Bosnia.

  As I sat there I felt good, enjoying this, but a chill came over me, and I knew that my over-inflated reputation would soon get me killed, and it felt like that time was closing in. I stepped to the window and peered out at a grey London skyline, and I wondered how it would happen, or if a serious accident would end my career. And then what? Job as an electrician, an electrician with a bad limp?

  My luck had to run out sooner or later, and it felt like ‘sooner’ was coming around the bend as I stared down at taxis plying their trade, weaving around angry London motorists - and frightening angry London cyclists.

  At 2pm we all met at Padding Green police station and made statements, pistols handed in, fresh pistols issued back at Chelsea Barracks, checked and loaded.

  Monday morning, and one of Bob’s men picked me up as I requested, and I had cleaned up, but my jacket was far from a tux. We drove around the back of Horse Guard’s and parked where told to, and he escorted me in, ID cards flashed.

  Halting at the rear of No.10, I asked the civil servant who had halted our progress if I should hand in my weapon?

  He frowned at me. ‘Since the PM has you down for close protection on his upcoming trip, I’m doubting that he fears you shooting him.’

  I smiled. ‘Fair enough.’

  We were led to a side room, where I found the Major and the Colonel in their No.1 dress uniforms, black, and they looked me over.

  ‘No, sir, no uniform with me nor time to fetch it,’ I told the Major. ‘And ... I don’t have one of those anyhow.’

  ‘You don’t?’ the Colonel asked.

  ‘I had a blue No.1 dress uniform in the RAF, which I handed back in.’

  ‘You’ll have to buy one,’ the Major noted, adjusting his.

  ‘Yes, sir. I borrowed Captain Tosh’s a few times.’

  They led us in, chairs arranged, and already in the room was the Brigadier from the UKSF Directorate, plus two civil servants. We all sat.

  I began, ‘Sorry for the lack of uniform, Prime Minister, I had no time to go back and fetch it ... and MI6 have a job for me straight after this meeting.’

  ‘No bother, I know they keep you busy.’ He studied me. ‘And you pretend to be some Russian terrorist ... so much so that the CIA grabbed you. I had half a mind to make a formal complaint, but ... well, when I got the report it made me smile.’

  We all smiled in response.

  ‘It gave everyone around here a silly grin for a day, I can tell you,’ he added. ‘So well done on that. And well done Saturday, a good result – cock-ups aside with the vetting process, and this is the first opportunity I have to thank you personally for Somalia, a reason for great celebration around here I can tell you. Embarrassing the French was an added bonus.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I said with a smile.

  He faced the Colonel. ‘A formal letter of thanks has gone to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’

  He faced the Major. ‘And a formal letter of commendation has been added to your file, Major, since you seem to have been instrumental in some rather spectacular successes in the counter-terrorism field this year.’

  ‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ the Major humbly offered.

  ‘A New Year award ... is in the offing,’ he hinted, the Major genuinely surprised. ‘Now, I have a three day trip to West Africa next week, and I need bodyguards I can trust, and I appreciate that in the past we have been less than complimentary about the attitude of your men.’

  The Major stiffened.

  The PM continued, ‘But I am led to believe that you, Wilco, have a good team, as well as a good attitude.’ He waited.

  ‘I know who pays my wages, sir, and I don’t have an axe to grind with authority.’

  He slowly nodded. ‘We have used the SBS for close protection of ministers in recent years, but I’d like to request Wilco and his team. We have a specific threat against this visit.’ He waited.

  ‘Be glad to help, Prime Minister,’ the Major offered. ‘But MI6 may have projects for Wilco.’

  ‘I’ll check the diary, sir, and move things around,’ I offered my Major.

  The PM nodded. ‘Good, good, coordinate with the cabinet secretary. It�
��s a three day visit, probably go off without a hitch.’

  I began, ‘May I be so bold as to request, Prime Minister, that we go to great lengths to avoid me being photographed, even in profile, since MI6 have invested a great deal of time and money on a certain project, and my face in the papers would ruin it.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we can issue a D-Notice, and the press know not to print the faces of bodyguards, we’ve had similar issues in the past. And I very much don’t want tax payer’s money wasted.’

  ‘You may see me in a false moustache, Prime Minister,’ I said, making everyone smile.

  Outside, ten minutes later, the Colonel said, ‘A good result for the Regiment, since he did have issues with some of our men in the past.’

  ‘And rightly so,’ I said, knowing the story. ‘He pays our wages.’

  They nodded.

  ‘Charm him on the trip,’ the Major suggested. ‘We’ll get the close protection role back. It’s not that popular with the men, but it’s best not to be in the bad books of the Cabinet Office either.’

  I faced the Colonel with a cheeky grin. ‘Sir, if there is something ... you want, I can have a chat to the PM on the long boring flight.’

  ‘I’ll ... give that some thought. Good idea.’

  On the Wednesday I drove back into the base for squadron orders, after which two men walked in with a fist full of clanking handcuffs, many of the lads joining me for lessons on picking handcuff locks, our fingers and wrists sore after a few hours, various degrees of success achieved.

  They handed me a special belt, and I put it on as the Major observed, sliding out a special key and unlocking the cuffs in a quick time. They had two such belts for me, the lads all wanting them for drunken Saturday nights – and getting shouted at by the Major.

  Our tutors left behind notes and diagrams, and Swifty and I sat studying for a few hours, swapping comments, cuffing each other with various international makes of handcuffs and chains and trying to get out, the squadron now in possession of a dozen cuffs.