Wilco- Lone Wolf 17

by Geoff Wolak

  Weapons checked in the dark – just crickets for company, silencers on, we test fired, then hit a distant roadside light, confident of our telescopic sights now. A sip from our water bottles, and I led Sasha off, weapons pointed at our left boots, eyes wide open, ears intently listening.

  I followed the faint outline of a track. ‘How are your boots?’ I whispered.

  ‘Fine so far. Yours?’

  ‘A little big, but comfy.’

  ‘Too big is better than too small,’ he noted.

  Up on a ridge we peered out, seeing a distant road, vehicles passing, and finding a jeep track I followed it, picking up the pace, a few miles to cover. I sniffed the air, something detected, a sweet smell, maybe a local flower species, and very different to Africa.

  After an hour we were warm in our jackets, stopping to sip water from a gurgling stream.

  Up the next ridge we spotted vehicles in a group to the south and so changed tack towards them, soon above those vehicles and five hundred yards distant.

  Through my sights I could see a grave being dug. ‘Come on,’ I urged, and we moved quickly to within three hundred yards, some cover found.

  ‘Start left and work in,’ I told Sasha. Weapons checked, sights adjusted, we got comfy, a look around us, and I aimed down.

  The main man was stood directing the impromptu burial, no priest to hand, no headstone to mark the lonely hillside spot. I took careful aim, first pressure taken, half a breath out and hold, round released, a clanking re-load felt through my cheek, and I was straight onto the grave diggers, four fast shots as Sasha fired down.

  With the burial detail all down, we hit jeeps and destroyed them.

  ‘We wait?’ Sasha asked.

  ‘They’ll be missed, and men will come, but … maybe not for hours. No, we walk and stay warm, but we keep that road in sight.’

  I led Sasha west, no track to follow, knee high shrubs to negotiate, slow going in places till I stumbled across a track that was going roughly in the right direction.

  An hour later the lights of a jeep convoy appeared, a mile distant.

  ‘They looking for us?’ Sasha asked through the blackness.

  ‘Hope so,’ I told his black outline.

  ‘We spoil their day, no.’

  I moved fifty yards down the slope and found a dark gully, adopting it as a new happy home for a while, a good fire position found, the convoy getting closer, six jeeps.

  ‘Fifty cal!’ Sasha hissed.

  ‘Hit the man on it first, I’ll hit the driver. I’ll hit the lead jeep to start.’

  I took careful aim, at a tyre as that tyre moved right to left, and when that tyre was almost directly below me I fired. The tyre blew, the jeep swerving and stopping, the jeep behind nudging it.

  Sasha laughed quietly as he took aim, and I killed the fifty cal driver – his window having been open. The man operating the fifty cal flew off the jeep, and the game was up.

  Aiming at the second jeep in, I hit the driver’s side glass three times, soon aiming at the third jeep in, smashing the side glass, Sasha pumping out rounds.

  Rounds cracked overhead and I saw muzzle flashes, but they had no clue as to where we were on this dark night. Focusing on the men firing, I hit three muzzles flashes and silenced them, soon finding more muzzle flashes coming from behind the jeeps. Taking my time, I fired two or three rounds at each muzzle flash, aiming slightly low and slightly right, to hit a man holding a rifle in the chest.

  Fifteen minutes, and it was all over, no one seen moving around, the area lit by the jeep headlights. We hit the jeep tyres, swapped magazines and hit gas tanks, three jeeps set alight as we turned and moved bent-double west and up the slope.

  Twenty minutes later, and we could see a village below, but more than a mile distant. We could also hear gunfire every now and then. There was a ridge above the village, a track heading that way, so I adopted the track and followed it down at a steady pace.

  Getting above the village, I was now moving slowly, sniffing the air and pausing, wondering if any of the idiots below had sentries out. I figured not; they were all warm and toasty in bed with their fat wives.

  A slow half hour brought us to a good position above the village and its main road, a four hundred yard shot.

  Below us, in a dimly lit side street, armed men were loading something to a jeep. Sasha took aim with me, two men down quietly. We waited, the crickets chirping loudly. Somewhere below us a goat bleated.

  A third and fourth man appeared, checking their dead colleagues before running to the main road, weapons ready. After peering around, they ran back, and knelt over their dead colleagues, nice wide backs presented to us. Two quiet cracks, and two men now had very large holes in their chests.

  ‘The jeep will not be loaded in time,’ Sasha noted.

  ‘In time for what?’

  ‘For their delivery. Pizza, I think.’

  I turned to his dark outline. ‘Pizza?’

  ‘I was thinking about pizza. Pepperoni.’

  ‘Stop thinking about pizza, you ate enough before we left.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ he challenged.

  ‘Getting use to home cooking, home husband?’

  ‘I am not a home husband!’ he hissed. He quietly added, ‘Not yet.’

  Skirting south, we found a gang of armed men around a bar, two stood arguing.

  I hit one of the men in the head, the remainder ducking and turning. Setting automatic, I sprayed them, those not hit directly getting some ricochet.

  ‘What was that?’ Sasha scoffed. ‘Waste of ammo. You having fun, no.’

  ‘It was a well-aimed burst.’

  ‘Ha.’ He picked off four wounded men as I shot out the bar windows and hit the neon sign, moving on to the parked jeeps, tyres hit, windscreens hit.

  Fun over, we inched further south, the shooting having attracted local people, heads now peering out of doors and windows. Ten minutes later a convoy approached from the south, ten jeeps, thirty heavily armed men.

  ‘That is a lot of men,’ Sasha cautioned.

  ‘Good, a higher tally.’

  Taking aim, I waited for the main man to get down, to strut around and to talk to local people before I hit him in the balls. Sasha had set automatic, a fresh magazine, and he sprayed the jeeps in long bursts.

  ‘Having fun?’ I teased as I picked off men jumping down. Finally, with no one visible, no one alive, I said, ‘Ten made it to cover, at least ten.’

  Sasha let off a round. ‘Nine.’

  ‘Smartarse.’ I took careful aim and scanned the walls of the houses, soon finding a face peeking around a corner. My shot hit the wall, his rifle dropped, his hands holding his face together as my second shot cut his spine. ‘Eight.’

  Sasha loosed off a round. ‘Seven.’

  Rounds cracked overhead, and hit the dirt near us. ‘Random fire, they can’t see us.’

  ‘I see a white face, an American, mercenary maybe. Do we shoot him?’

  ‘If he’s working for that lot, hell yes.’

  Sasha fired. ‘Aiyah. I took half his face off.’

  I saw a shadow under a jeep, a moving shadow, so hit the tarmac under the jeep, sure to cause a painful injury. A face appeared around the tailgate of the jeep, my shot taking the back of his head off. ‘Five left.’

  A man got up and ran, both myself and Sasha firing, the man spun and down. As he crawled I hit him in the arse, the man rolling over. But it was a lethal wound, so I left him to bleed out, magazine swapped as I checked the scrub behind us and listened intently.

  ‘Pssst,’ came from Sasha. He peered down the slope. ‘This is embarrassing.’

  ‘What is?’ I whispered.

  ‘Man coming up in a white hat.’

  ‘A white hat?’

  ‘A big white hat.’

  I peered over the gully and down, seeing a distinct white hat moving. My shot went through the hat, which stopped moving. Easing back, I said, ‘These are not soldiers, they operate in tow
ns through fear; they’ve had fuck-all training. Hence a guy in a white hat sneaking up a dark hill.’

  Ten minutes later I nudged Sasha and we eased back and up the ridge and over, moving further south. I had grabbed tins of corned beef before we left, and we stopped to share one, sat in the dark on a low stone wall around a farmer’s crop.

  Sasha noted, ‘Carlos was happy, you got him his money back.’

  ‘He’s not the cold killer they say on American news.’

  ‘Pah! American news always exaggerates, makes for a better story. They say this place is dangerous. Yes, if you walk down a street unarmed. Here in the hills, we are boss.’

  ‘No.4 is now No.1,’ I noted as I ate.

  ‘He’s OK, I liked him before, now a wound to the knee. But not so much trouble there now, not like the FARC – that was a battle, surrounded on all sides!’

  ‘Maybe someday they make a movie about it.’

  Moving on south, the wind chilling a little, we used up an hour to find ourselves above a large compound, bright lights within, and some dodgy commerce going on within. Sneaking down slowly, the guard post was obvious, a silenced shot silencing the bored man sat there, his rifle having been slung.

  Beyond him, and further down the slope, we were now 200yards above the compound, a good view, a nice stone wall to get behind. Sasha found a hole on the wall and so lay down, rifle poked through, plenty of room to aim left and right.

  I quietly removed several large stones and made myself a fire position, both of us studying the ground behind us, then left and right. It seemed that we were alone up here.

  ‘Gas tanks,’ Sasha suggested. ‘Left side, far wall.’

  I peered through my sights, seeing many small blue cooking-gas cylinders and two tall red cylinders. ‘I’ll hit the red ones.’ A planned moment, breathe in and out, ready, and I fired, a burst of flame and a loud bang, but the flame died quickly, no one hurt as men ran around shouting.

  ‘Idiots,’ Sasha cursed, selecting automatic. He sprayed the central area, ten men spun quickly as I picked off those who I thought were giving orders.

  Automatic fire cracked over our heads but also hit the wall.

  ‘That was close!’ Sasha shouted. ‘Off to the right.’

  I aimed right, soon seeing the muzzle flashes, three rounds released, the firing halting. Aiming down, I hit men as they ran to jeeps, then hit the jeeps; engines, tyres and windscreens.

  Onto my second magazine, plenty of fire was now coming our way, and I had to duck, our wall hit. They had a good idea where we were. Pushing over rocks from the wall, I had a lower fire position and eased in, aiming down, muzzle flashes hit one by one over twenty minutes till the firing eased.

  Pulling back and turning, I both looked and listened at the dark hill, no one yet daft enough to try and flank us, Sasha still firing now and then.

  ‘Come on, let’s not press our luck.’

  Bent double and moving slowly, we inched up the ridge, bush to bush, gully to gully. At the crest I froze, rifle up, cigarette smoke detected on the breeze. I rushed back down and left, Sasha close behind, and we moved in a wide circle, down a hundred yards and passing a dilapidated old barn, up a small ridge, behind a wall and peering back to our previous position.

  Six men moved slowly over the ridge. I laughed quietly; two had white hats on. ‘You start on the left, I start on the right. Standby.’

  I took aim at the right-most man, light from the compound partly illuminating their fronts, and I gently squeezed the trigger, my man sent flying, the second man kneeling but still in view and hit as Sasha fired twice. Now we had no targets, they were down and hiding.

  ‘Come on,’ I whispered, and moved backwards and down the ridge, away from the men.

  Fifteen minutes of shrub and grassland put some distance between us, a road crossed, a stream forded, a ridge clambered up. Sat on a wall, we sipped water and ate corned beef in the dark.

  ‘Will there be a response?’ Sasha idly asked.

  ‘These are small independent gangs, so … there’s no one to respond, unless they’re affiliated to some larger gang.’

  ‘We have to watch ammo,’ he cautioned.

  ‘I have six left.’

  ‘About the same, so we take it easy or find some.’

  ‘Many of those men had American hunting rifles,’ I noted. ‘Some M16. Only one AK47 I saw.’

  ‘Convoy,’ Sasha noted ten minutes later.

  Easing down, we got ready, sights adjusted, a look behind us at the immediate area as the convoy approached, eight jeeps.

  ‘Another fifty cal,’ Sasha hissed.

  ‘We’re on the ridge, the rounds will pass over,’ I assured him. ‘But we hit and run.’

  I took aim at the driver’s window of the lead jeep, and when it was level with us I fired two rounds, the jeep serving off the road and crashing. Sasha fired at the fifty cal jeep, and it rolled nicely, the man in the back crushed, jeeps behind nudging each other as they screeched to a halt.

  I fired twelve rounds quickly into the jeep cabs before I eased up and led Sasha west, a 400yard quick jog past crops, then due north six hundred yards, cracks heard a long way off; they were shooting at shadows.

  An hour’s slog brought us to a high point, the town now seen west of us and below, perhaps the town Carlos mentioned.

  ‘We look for some ammo or grab an M16,’ I told Sasha as we started down, a track found, a tall mast passed – maybe a mobile phone mast.

  I stopped, aimed up, white boxes of kit hit, sparks seen.

  ‘Bad sport,’ Sasha told me as we turned away. ‘No calls to order some pizza.’

  ‘Get that damn pizza out of your mind,’ I hissed.

  It took forty minutes to reach the town, a few houses avoided, dogs barking in the distance, and we scrambled up a steep slope, over rocks and to a precipice that would afford us a 400yard shot to the town centre.

  Lying down, we could fire out without people below seeing the limited muzzle flash, or hearing us. I got comfy, a few stones thrown away, and I set my sights at 500yards. Breathing controlled, final adjustments made, my cheek moulded into the butt, and I took in the main drag.

  Up on a bar roof a man patrolled with a rifle. ‘Up on that bar roof.’ I took aim, waiting for him to reach the end of his slow patrol and to turn, a gentle squeeze of the trigger, and I spun him off his feet. We looked, but there was no reaction below.

  Aiming down, I could see a huge jeep, with suitably huge tyres. When the men tending the jeep stepped to the far side I fired, a tyre exploding nicely.

  ‘Too much air in tyre,’ Sasha scoffed as men ran around and studied the blown tyre, hands thrown into the air.

  The local kingpin stepped out with bodyguards, and this guy did look like someone off an old western movie. My shot hit him in the bladder and bent him double, sure to hurt, my round probably cutting his spine where it joined the hip bone.

  His men knelt, and looked this way, no clue as to where we were. Sasha fired, a man knocked back, his brains spattered over his colleagues. My shot hit a man turning his head to look at the brain spatter, my second shot hitting a man up and running, spinning him down.

  Sasha fired, and the bar’s neon sign shattered, sparks seen.

  I turned to his dark outline. ‘Having fun?’

  ‘What?’ he protested. His next shot hit a power distributor up a pole, more sparks seen, the street plunged into darkness.

  Panning left, I could see armed men up on a roof staring towards the action. My shot spun two of them, the rest getting down.

  Easing forwards, I peered down, seeing four armed men in a yard, and they held AK47s. ‘Reposition, we get some ammo.’

  Both of us now knelt upright, a risk, we fired down, four men hit, and we were soon scrambling down the slope and over rocks, down the side of the ridge, and to a track, dogs barking. When a dog ran out, a big nasty thing, I shot it from just ten feet away, stepping past it and to the start of the tarmac road.

  Insi
de the compound, I found a dark shadow knelt over a body and fired twice, soon spinning left and shooting at another dark shadow. Four magazines grabbed, Sasha grabbing five, I lifted an AK47 and its owner, dragging him to the street, where I dumped him down. Using his rifle, and one of my half-full magazines, I fired bursts towards the main road before throwing down the rifle and running like hell back up the road.

  At the dirt track we had to duck and run left as rounds came in, badly aimed rounds. Back up on the rocks, and out of breath, we leopard crawled to the edge and peered down. Men were now either side of the street and sneaking along.

  A fresh magazine in, checked first that it was not modern 5.45mm Russian ammo, and I loosed off a round, a man knocked back, a chest shot. His colleagues fired down the road at the body, Sasha killing two quickly. I hit two, and the advance was called off, the final men legging it away sharpish.

  Panning right, I could see armed men on a roof watching the action, or trying to watch the action, the main street blacked out. I hit a man in the stomach, bending him in half. His buddy went to help, my shot sending that man over the edge and down.

  A shower of sparks, and the lights went out in a street.

  ‘Stop doing that!’ I hissed. ‘Wait till we leave.’

  ‘Keep panties on, eh.’ He panned left, and hit the neon sign of a gas station, then its forecourt lights – the attendants running for cover, then the pumps, flames shooting skywards.

  But those flames died quickly, just a small fire seen, soon a huge blast as the petrol station decided to go visit people in the town, parts of it raining down all over, Sasha laughing.

  Shaking my head, I panned right, to the man I had knocked off the roof. Faces peered over a wall at the burning petrol station, two hit before they decided that ducking was the sensible approach here.

  Closer in, I noticed movement, a kid with a rifle. He aimed out at the main street, fired, and I saw a gunman fall. ‘There’s a kid on a roof doing our jobs for us.’

  ‘We recruit him, no.’

  I aimed into the streets near him, seeing a gunman peering up and towards the kid. My shot hit the man in the shoulder, preventing further enquiry about the young vigilante’s exact whereabouts.

  Ten minutes later, three men inched towards the kid, and I was hoping that the kid would stop firing and go hide. I hit the first man, knocking him back into the second, the third man knelt but killed quickly, the man crawling away hit in the arse.