Wilco- Lone Wolf 2

by Geoff Wolak

  We set off, and just ten minutes later we reached the drop off point, and I slid awkwardly out.

  ‘Good luck,’ the Major offered.

  ‘Wait the phone call,’ I told him and slammed the door, soon in a field and crossing to a track. Once there I put on my facemask back on, and checked again my weapon, soon crossing an unmarked border.

  A mile on, and I approached a village and started hunting around for what I needed, edging along a line of gardens, the rain keeping everyone inside. At the fourth house I spotted what I wanted, and clambered over their hedge, damaging it as I went.

  Grabbing quietly what I wanted, a push bike, I slung it over the hedge and clambered back across as a dog barked, and they’d notice the damage in the morning.

  Carrying the bike across a field, I got to a road and pulled out my secret weapon, a blue all-in-one cycle coat and bike cover. I sat on the bike, put on the cover, adjusted it, and then set off, the blue plastic soon shimmering with the rain.

  Picking up speed, I exerted myself, soon doing thirty miles an hour down dark lanes, and judging where to go by the black hedges. I passed through a village and swerved to avoid a car, getting a horn, and sped on, avoiding the main roads.

  I had made it almost all of the way to where I wanted to start walking when a police car flashed his lights at me. Since I was cycling at night with no lights, I soon figured out why. There was nothing for it, so I accelerated, pretending that I had not seen him.

  He tooted his horn, but I kept going and - seeing a sign for a footpath on the right, I swerved in front of him and shot down it, scraping bushes as I went, and I kept going.

  ‘Hey!’ someone screamed, and I felt the impact and heard a squeal. I had run down someone’s small dog, its owner not happy, so I kept going as he shouted colourful abuse at my dark receding figure.

  Emerging onto a road, I crossed it and carried on down the track, but slowing for a tight bend I could see flashing blue lights somewhere distant behind me, so dismounted and started carrying the bike, the rain cover rolled up. I headed across country at a jog, panting.

  Half a mile on and I came across the woods all too soon, hiding the bike some thirty yards into the woods. I readied my weapon, checked my kit, but then took a few minutes to calm my breathing before I set off. Getting damp from the rain, I skirted the edge of the woods for half an hour, and turning south at a particular road I knew exactly where I was.

  Across the road I found the track I wanted, and plodded along at a very slow pace through the dark, looking and listening. Spotting a car ahead with no lights on, I ducked into the woods and skirted around it, soon glimpsing the loch. I was now on a ridge above the loch and moving west, my navigation confirmed by the body of water.

  A mile short of the cottage I pulled out my second secret weapon, and I tied onto to my feet the cut-off soles of a pair of size eleven Wellington boots, the exact brand favoured by farmers in these parts. Tightening the knots, I tested them and set off down a track, making a point of walking in any mud or damp areas I could find.

  Just north of the cottage rested a farmer’s field, and it appeared ploughed, not grass, so I walked across it diagonally, certain that the black night and the rain was covering me. I was also certain that the Garda would find these prints.

  Halfway across the field I opened a pocket and pulled out a plastic bag, dropping an empty cigarette packet I had found close to where I pinched the bike, along with a few euro coins I had brought along, prints wiped off them.

  Reaching the edge of the field, I was now in bandit country, just three hundred yards to go. Very slowly, and as quietly as I could, I eased over a wire fence, and just into the woods I made a trail that anyone could follow, albeit done very slowly, each foot placed down to test the ground, no twigs snapped.

  I burnt up a nerve-racking half hour moving just fifty yards through the dark wood, stopping to listen and to sniff the air, and to look for anyone smoking. As slow as I was moving, not even an OP ten feet away would have spotted me.

  Finally I caught a glimpse of the cottage, a warm and welcoming orange glow coming from the windows, people seen moving around. Nestling into a tree, I peered through my telescopic sight, and could see six men. There were no guns visible, but the men did not seem the farmer type; most looked fit and dangerous.

  Over a period of an hour I carefully scanned left and right, the road, and I could see where Swifty might arrive the next morning, and as I stood there one car left and another arrived.

  With the rain intensifying it was going to be a long night, and I considered my chances of getting some of them now. But the windows were small, they looked double-glazed, and after the first shot they’d all be behind thick walls, the Garda alerted.

  I stopped to wonder if they really would alert the Garda, and if they were unarmed they certainly would call the police. It was too much of a risk, so I waited, getting chilled as the trees above dripped water onto me rhythmically.

  Peering through my sights, I could see them enjoying a meal, a bottle of scotch downed, and I was envious; I was out here in the cold and the wet.

  At 11.35pm the last man knocked off the lights, one sat reading in bed, but soon even he knocked off the light. Now it was a waiting game, and the rules of the game were simple; if they had someone hidden nearby, a sentry, then I’d have to out-wait him; whoever screwed up first would be killed.

  Easing down, I found a stump and sat, resting my back against a tree, the cottage in sight, just the wind in the trees for company. And I shivered quietly.

  Every little sound caused me to turn my head, and a passing car lifted the tedium for a few seconds as I observed it.

  An hour of cold rain, and I stood stretching quietly. I backtracked to the field, and stood staring across it for ten minutes. Back at my stump, almost twenty minutes taken to return, I found the cottage still dark, and so edged off to the right, the best part of an hour used to get to another vantage point, the front of the cottage glimpsed, the cars counted.

  Reversing my meandering course, and leaving a suitable trail, I arrived back at the stump and hour later and I reclaimed my damp seat, thankful of the leather in my combats. Placing my rifle across my legs, I opened a chocolate bar and nibbled on it, thinking about the men inside the cottage; if they knew I was up here they would not be sleeping too well this night.

  The damp night dragged on and on, but I broke the tedium with strolls through the woods, leaving imprints of the Wellington boots, and in a few places I walked backwards, even sideways.

  At the first sign of dawn, the rain having eased off, I was sat on the stump, stiff and cold. With a grey pre-dawn light assisting my view of the wood, and assisting anyone viewing me, I edged slowly forwards and found a suitable fire position.

  Most of the cars were parked to the right of the cottage and I had a line of sight to them, figuring that the men would leave around the same time, and that I might get some of them before running down and firing through the windows. And Swifty should be at the front of the cottage by now, and he might shoot at anyone I missed.

  Lifting my telescopic sight, I scanned the woods where I figured Swifty should be, but could not see him, or movement, and I would have been disappointed if I could.

  Back focusing on the cottage I saw movement, someone in the kitchen. That gave me a timeframe of around thirty to forty minutes.

  Ten minutes later, and a man appeared with an Alsatian, and my heart skipped a beat. I aimed at the dog, realising that I would have to shoot it first. The dog barked at the tree-line to my east, the man calming it, the dog focused on something. Was it Swifty?

  No, if I was an INLA hard man I would have set the damn dog loose, so why calm the dog? The dog disappeared from view, so I followed the direction of the dog’s previous gaze, and focused on the bushes I found there.

  Something did not seem right, there was ... a square? I puzzled it, and five minutes later realised that it was a hide, the kind use for bird watching, square sides.
They had a man watching after all, and he was all warm and toasty in his hide whilst I had got wet.

  Eyes, peering out, a rifle. But why? Did they know I was coming, did they suspect, or was this routine? Routine, I considered. If I was a terrorist I’d rely on the fact that the cottage was unknown, rather than apply the logic of a sentry ready for a shootout with the Garda.

  No, the IRA or INLA would always avoid a shootout with the Garda, so who was the sentry for? I was back to considering that they knew I was coming, but if they had ... who in the right mind would sit and have breakfast with an SAS team outside ready to kill them. No, this sentry was a precaution, just that, no action expected.

  And whoever he was, he had sat quietly all night, not a peep, and he never left the hide to even have a pee. He was good, but that dog had just cost him his life. And if I had opened up on the cottage then that man would have a chance at shooting me. I was camouflaged, I was in the trees, but still ... he had the advantage.

  Blowing out, I waited, now partly focused on the cottage, partly focused on the hide, and damn worried about that dog. And I dare not move position and check my rear. I was here now, this was the situation, and I’d have to make best use of it, various strategies going around in my mind.

  Half an hour later the first man appeared, checking the area carefully as he went to his car, but he soon returned to the cottage. Counting the men again, I had figured on six the night before, and that number again today. Two were in their fifties and grey, the rest in their forties. I got ready.

  Two men went to cars, but I held off, and they returned to the cottage, almost as if they were baiting me, but who would do that with their lives. I discounted the idea.

  Catching a reflection in the glass of a car, I could see five men. This was it, the best chance I would get. I aimed at the hide, got ready, but focused on the cars.

  One man visible. Two men. Three. I held my breath. Five moved into view, chatting away, just a few more steps... I focused on the hide, took a careful aim, and fired three rounds, swinging right quickly as the men ducked, two running back to the cottage. I hit both men, spinning them, then immediately hit them again on the ground, firing quickly at a third man and getting a lucky head shot, the rest down behind cars.

  Seeing a leg, I hit it, and seeing a shadow I hit the stones under the car, the ricochet bound to have hurt the man.

  Up and running, I followed a track directly back to the west, no time for being stealthy, and I jumped logs and ducked and weaved around trees, soon back to the point I had reached last night, aiming and firing quickly, the back of a head hit, a shoulder, then another leg – a thigh shot.

  With a man rolling around wounded, I put two rounds into his stomach, a single shot for each body I could see.

  Movement. Back door, man with a rifle. I aimed, but then waited, and a face appeared from behind a bush, and I took the back of his head off. Six.

  Lifting up, I emptied my magazine into the vehicles, smashing glass and puncturing body work, soon discarding the magazine and leaving it behind. With a fresh magazine in I ran, right back to the stump, and I put an extra four rounds into the hide just in case, soon hitting all of the windows, the cars, I even hit the chimney.

  Remembering Swifty, I took careful aim and twice hit a tree close to where he should have been.

  ‘Dog,’ I said. ‘Where’s the damn dog, and its handler?’

  I focused on the broken windows in turn, finding a moist nose peering out. Smiling, I turned and ran through the trees, back to the field, a quick scan made before I sprinted down the track, now in plain view to any observer.

  Back into the woods, now beyond the field, I slowed down and retraced my steps, but it was still early and few people would be about. Time was on my side, and it would be an hour or so before the Garda came looking, that timeframe dictated by whatever car first came across the scene and reported it.

  Approaching the bike cautiously, I scanned the area before slinging the rifle, placing on the blue bike cover like a poncho, soon lifting the bike, which only now did I realise was bright red, and I headed back across the field.

  At the track, and puffing a bit now, I put down the bike and swung a leg across, straightened out the rain cover, and pushed off. The tied-on Wellington soles caused me to stumble, so I stopped, frantically trying to untie them and get them off, finally stuffing them inside my jacket.

  I set off again, peddling hard and getting faster, and bumped down onto the road and headed north, only now it was not raining and I was covered as if it was and looking silly.

  With tea in hand, the Major said, ‘So you cycled back without incident.’

  ‘I even waved at a few people. Who’d expect a gunman on a red bike with a blue rain coat?’

  ‘And these tie-on soles?’

  ‘I dropped them in a river. They’re very common around here, so the prints will prove nothing.’

  ‘You left the casings?’

  ‘All prints wiped, and a magazine left behind – maybe it has prints of the previous owner.’

  ‘And you shot up the damn cars and cottage?’

  ‘I wanted to make it look like I was anything other than a professional. It will look like more than one person, and firing on automatic.’

  He nodded. ‘All dead?’

  ‘Don’t know, but I put extra rounds into each man.’

  ‘And the man in the hide?’

  ‘Could just be wounded.’

  He nodded. ‘I made several radio checks, and you walking right up to the tower confirmed things.’

  ‘Any word from Swifty?’

  ‘He called in, in code, some payphone near Dublin.’

  ‘He might have been in a comfy hotel the whole time!’ We laughed.

  ‘The rifle?’ the Major asked.

  ‘In a deep pond. Might be found years down the road, no big deal if it is.’

  The next day, the Monday, Bob Staines appeared at Bessbrook, but we had not expected him. He had his ‘concerned’ face on. In the Major’s office he began, ‘We have a problem.’

  We waited.

  ‘The two gunmen from the attack on Hereford are dead, as well as four INLA members, the province alive with gossip – the IRA getting the blame at the moment. But ... but one of the bodies, found in a hide, was a man from 14 Intel.’

  I eased up, and shot a look at the Major, both of us shocked. ‘What the fuck was he doing there?’ I hissed at Bob.

  ‘He shouldn’t have been, unless they were observing the cottage.’

  ‘He wasn’t observing, he was working with them!’ I insisted.

  ‘Can you ... be sure of that?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Yes, the hide was fucking obvious, twenty yards from their back door, and they had a dog, an Alsatian. The dog barked at the hide, but the handler quietened it down. He knew the hide was there, and he’d have to be fucking blind not to see it.’

  ‘It was well camouflaged?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Yes, I missed it, and the guy sat still all night. I only spotted it because of the dog. What kind of gunman silences his dog barking at the trees?’

  ‘You said you missed it,’ Bob noted.

  ‘From the north, from two hundred yards, yes, not from their back door, twenty yards!’

  ‘Well, it’s done now,’ Bob finally said.

  ‘What the hell would 14 Intel be doing south of the border?’ the Major asked of Bob.

  ‘We don’t know, and they don’t know, the man was supposedly on leave in the UK.’

  ‘He was dirty,’ I stated.

  ‘That ... could be an issue, coming so soon after Bromley,’ Bob noted. ‘We will try and cover it up, but the Garda have him down as a signaller in the Royal Engineers. We will, at best, say he was observing them, a row with Dublin.’

  I stood and paced around, finally facing the Major. ‘I killed one of ours.’

  He stared back. ‘Someone else’s screw up again. But we dare not kick up a fuss about it.’

  ‘Why the fuck
... would the INLA trust someone from 14 Intel?’ I asked the Major.

  ‘I’d say they wouldn’t, unless they blackmailed him somehow. They’d pin him for a double agent and roast him alive.’

  I faced Bob. ‘They deny he was sent?’

  He nodded. ‘They’re being hauled in front of the General as we speak, an internal enquiry – which we could do without.’

  ‘There’s no evidence,’ I said. ‘In fact, there is contra evidence.’

  ‘Swifty ... could be in trouble,’ Bob mentioned. ‘Our man in the south, a few others, they know he was there.’

  ‘Are any likely to blab?’ I asked.

  ‘They know we’d go after them if they did,’ Bob insisted. ‘It’s just the risk of idle chat down the line.’

  I sat, and I went over the images in my mind. ‘He was dirty. So ... so I’m not that cut-up about it.’

  ‘Can you be certain?’ the Major asked.

  ‘The hide was obvious to the cottage, and the dog knew it was there, the dog handler knew as well, and not even that guy’s bosses knew where he was south of the border.’

  The shit storm hit later that day, and 14 Intel were ordered to suspend all operations, and as part of a wider review we were ordered back as well.

  Two days later, and Bob Staines turned up at my apartment just after Swifty. I made him a tea

  ‘I have the evidence that the Garda has so far,’ he began. ‘They have one, possibly two gunmen, size eleven Wellington boots.’ He focused on me.

  I shrugged, ‘Don’t look at me, I don’t know where they get this stuff from.’

  ‘They have sixty rounds fired, the casings, no prints oddly enough, a magazine – no prints, they have some euro coins and a cigarette packet.’

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Well, that’s all they have. So I’d say well done, no evidence left behind.’

  ‘They all dead?’ Swifty asked.

  ‘All dead, one dying in hospital. And the old SLR that the chap from 14 Intel had was an illegal weapon, his prints all over it, calls from the cottage to his home in England.’