by Tom Benson
For a moment, the large head turned towards Jake and tested the temperature of the obstruction. Jake remained perfectly still. They eyeballed each other. There was no danger of a poisonous bite because the arrowhead shape of the head and the dark markings declared it a boa constrictor. It was a large specimen, meaning it was a female.
Winding itself around this human would condemn the reptile to a short and bleak future. Jake’s right hand had been moving as slowly as the snake, and he grasped the handle of the razor-sharp hunting knife in the left side of his lightweight webbing. The massive reptile continued its journey.
For a given period, this mission was observation only, so it was imperative there was no movement. An offensive plan existed, however just for use if deemed necessary. The local gangsters had a daily distraction through the punishment of their local workforce. During such a window of opportunity, the team would rescue the men from the hut and ex-filtrate through the jungle.
It was a deniable operation so there would be no apologies between diplomats. If these men were captured or killed, there was to be no official recognition. Black ops had many dangers, and the men who completed the missions recognised those dangers as part of the job.
Jake listened intently for the faint clicks that would signal Daz and Mash were in position. Daz Wilson was an ex-Royal Signals radio operator whose speciality had naturally continued to be communications, although there was more done now with satellite communication than with manpacks and four-foot-whip antennas.
Stan ‘Mash’ Miller had been a member of the Royal Army Medical Corps, so his decision to join an elite unit was unusual when considering his military background. Like the other team members, his physical fitness was at an incredible level.
He gained the nickname ‘Mash’ from the acronym used for the US field units; Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. Mash took his speciality so seriously he often helped out as a volunteer at a local hospital whenever he was back at the peacetime base in Hereford.
6. Jungle Animals
.
Colombia
South America
A door swung open, and a man in a white suit and Panama hat stepped outside to the wooden porch. The surrounding greenery was an impenetrable curtain, but he was in an excellent position to see movement. He gazed from side to side. Eyes squinted and lips pursed, he stared at individual sections of the jungle.
He was around five-foot-nine tall, and of average build. His reddened face glowed with perspiration. His dark beard was more like designer stubble than a prominent feature. He removed the hat, revealing dark hair. He next whipped the green silk scarf from his neck to wipe his face. He replaced the hat on his head and slipped the scarf loosely around his neck.
The man lit up a cigar and took a long pull. He briefly closed his eyes, as he raised and moved his head side to side while he exhaled the bluish grey smoke. It was a ritual. It was a practised movement, and his hard features softened.
Jake couldn’t place the man immediately and wondered if he was an international criminal, or possibly somebody from somewhere far off in his past. The beard looked wrong, but why? It was the way the man moved and his bearing that was bringing back memories to the soldier.
Two more men exited the building. One of them had a mobile phone to his right ear, and when he responded to the caller, he raised his voice in brief, agitated statements. He was speaking in Spanish and continued the conversation, waving his free hand and turning his head left and right without focusing.
The man with the phone was tall and heavily built, with a thick neck and broad shoulders. A shorter man of a similar muscular frame accompanied him. The phone call ended, and the two darker-skinned men began a conversation, still using their native tongue.
Both had the natural tan of the Latin American, and long dark hair, tied back in a ponytail. They wore garish, multi-coloured shirts, stylish light trousers and expensive shoes. The outfits looked out of place in the jungle, and no doubt there were two matching jackets in the building. They dressed alike, including their shoulder holsters.
The muscular pair fitted the descriptions of two of the Colombians the SAS team learned about during final briefing before the mission. Both men were smoking cigarettes. Apart from nodding towards the man in the white suit, they didn’t include him in the heated conversation.
Birds in the vicinity squawked and fluttered around at the sound of an engine. The Colombians stepped down from the porch onto the lush grass. The taller one looked back at the bearded man and indicated to him with a nod and inclination of his head for him to join them.
The bearded man did so but remained silent. He held the bannister as he came down to ground level. He took the steps one at a time, limping when he walked.
The peacefulness disappeared as engine noise grew. A black SUV with tinted windows appeared from the narrow track on the west side and pulled up a few metres away from the porch. The driver and front seat passenger climbed out and went around to the tailgate. They were wearing black shirts, black Chinos and black shoes. Both wore a tan shoulder holster.
There was a muffled groan as one of the men opened the tailgate. The sound of flesh on flesh emanated from behind the big vehicle, and then the two men in black reached inside. Two prisoners who were bound, gagged and blindfolded, were dragged from the car and allowed to fall to the floor. They had blindfolds removed, but not the gags.
The prisoners blinked rapidly and looked around to take in their new surroundings. Blood stains covered their torn clothing, and they displayed an abundance of bruises. One prisoner was a teenager, and the other was a man in his forties. Both men wore the ragged clothes of Campesinos. The pair were local hillside farmers who cultivated the coca plantations.
Both prisoners were roughly pulled to their feet and then dragged while being kicked and punched. The prisoners found themselves presented to the smartly dressed Colombians. The older prisoner emitted a muffled scream through his gag when a cigarette was stubbed out on his neck by the taller man.
“I am Sal,” the big Colombian said. “My associate is Rico, and our boss likes us to teach people to be obedient, and to learn from their mistakes.” He grinned and looked at the older prisoner. “I understand your name is Carlos.”
The older man nodded. One swollen eye was closed.
“Well Carlos,” Sal said. “You are going to help us to send a message.”
Sal nodded towards the bearded man in the white suit. “This gentleman is from Europe. He must witness how we deal with those who are disobedient. It is for his benefit I am speaking English, and I know you can both understand. This knowledge is good.”
As Sal was talking, his colleague Rico stepped forward to the edge of a nearby pond. It was rectangular in shape - approximately five metres by four metres. A large bamboo frame stood across the width of the pond, and from the centre of the bamboo crossbar, hung a metal meat-hook.
From the hook, a rope led to a pulley assembly at one corner, and down the upright post to a wooden stake with a shackle. Rico bent down and untied the rope. When he pulled the thin cord, the meat-hook slid along the beam to the upright post nearest to him.
Sal stepped forward and gripped Carlos by the shirt collar.
“You, Carlos, are going to pay the ultimate price for disobedience and treachery.” He glanced back at the other prisoner. “You, Santos, will observe your father’s punishment, and then you will be returned to the terraces. You will explain to your companions there about the need for obedience and loyalty.”
Carlos stood with squinting, bruised eyes, shaking his head, Rico slammed his fist into the man’s gut. Carlos doubled over and fell face forward to a kneeling position. At a nod from Sal, Rico pulled the grappling hook down from the frame and hooked it onto the bindings on Carlos’s wrists.
Rico pulled on the end of the rope, and as the strong cord attached to the hook strained, it held at an angle from the bar on the frame.
Sal said, “Lift him.” He turned and nodded at the
European visitor.
There was a nod from the man before he took a long pull from his cigar. His expression was deadpan.
Rico pulled on the rope, and the prisoner slid over the grass. His body lifted to an upright position. Carlos’s fingers were turning white, and his thin arms were almost straight. He resembled a goalkeeper reaching up with both hands to the crossbar.
The man’s lean bodyweight pulled on the bindings of his wrists and arms, and his head turned rapidly from side to side. He muttered in Spanish and a sheen of moisture formed over his bruised and bloodied face. The language was unimportant, because his wide-eyed stare, shaking head and thrashing, suspended body suggested his mental state.
From behind his back, Rico produced a large knife with a bone handle and gleaming silver blade. At a nod from Sal, Rico stepped forward and gouged a line deep into the prisoner’s lower right leg. The man muttered in his native tongue and cried openly for mercy. He squirmed, and his legs thrashed as blood flowed and began to stick to the torn clothing. It also pooled inside his canvas shoe, before dripping into the water with tiny splashes.
There was a ripple on the surface of the pond, but more significant than would be caused by dripping blood.
At another nod from Sal, Rico pulled on the thin cord. The dangling prisoner was eased out at a steady pace, to hang over the centre of the pond. From the moment Carlos had bled from his leg, there had been a ripple beneath the surface of the water. The ripples increased and followed his progress across the pond.
When blood flowed freely from the gashed leg, there was a bubbling of the water. Carlos shook his head as he looked down, his damaged, squinting eyes staring. His chest heaved, and his breath came in loud gasps around the gag material.
Carlos hung from the hook, and his teenage son continually murmured and pleaded in Spanish. One of the captors regularly silenced the teenager with a backhanded blow.
Rico lowered the prisoner towards the water, and the suspended man kicked his legs and tried to curl them up. His body became limp for longer after each effort. There was a continuous muffled scream and moan through the blood-soaked gag as his head flicked from side to side. Beads of moisture dripped from his anguished face. Carlos’s legs fell straight, and his feet skimmed the surface of the pond. He gazed at his son and shook his head.
The two men in black held the struggling teenager still, and one held the boy’s head up. Young eyes glistened with tears, and loud sobs came from within his gag. He strained against his guards and continued to scream and plead. He looked from one Columbian to the other, shaking his head, but smiles met his desperate gaze.
Carlos found himself lowered slowly. Immediately his feet broke the surface of the pond his body had become much sought after by the ferocious creatures below. The tiny fish leapt and tore off chunks of flesh from the man’s lower limbs.
Piranha fish are among those creatures surrounded by myth. Stories abound of humans and animals stripped to the bone in a matter of seconds, which is not the case. Most of the species are not more than 30cm in overall length, but the piranha does, however, have razor-sharp, interlocking, triangular teeth. Whatever they bite is severed.
Certain species of piranha are omnivores and will feed on vegetation, or meat. They tend to live and feed as a group, which is related more to fending off predators than hunting prey.
Like many omnivores, however, if the piranha species are kept hungry, they will eat anything, including each other. The fish under the unfortunate Colombian prisoner were in just such a condition. It wasn’t the dripping blood that attracted the small school of fish in the pond. It was the imminent offer of a meal.
In his final desperate seconds of life, both Carlos’s eyes bulged, and his head jerked from side to side. The gag continued to reduce his screams to a muffled cry. Blood dripped from his lips as he bit through his tongue. His eyes rolled back, and he made a weak attempt at kicking his legs. All movements were slowing, and blood poured.
The dying man was hoisted up long enough to let his sobbing, distraught son see his father no longer had legs below the knee. It was nerve endings and not the pain which caused Carlos’s body to tremble. A few fish hung to the flesh, before falling back into the water. Mercifully, Carlos’s eyes closed.
Young Santos lost sight of his mortality, turned and head-butted one of his guards. The other guard struck the teenager on the back of the skull with a pistol butt.
Rico lowered the remainder of the man, and Carlos’s remains submerged under the surface, forced by the combined efforts of the tiny carnivores. The water surface bubbled and foamed for no more than a few minutes before all was calm.
The blow to the head was a blessing because as Santos lay unconscious in a pool of his puke and blood, he did not witness the feeding frenzy a few metres away.
Even the European and the two escorts grimaced when the skeletal remains were hoisted up. The bearded man in the white suit stepped forward and took a long pull from his cigar before he spoke.
“Gentlemen, that display was impressive. It was gross, but fucking impressive.” The Glasgow accent seemed out of place in such surroundings, but his tone demonstrated how much he’d admired the despicable execution.
Apart from a few words, Jake had been lost when it came to the translation of the Colombian’s conversation with each other, but he was confident his sidekick Colin would be equal to the challenge. Colin was the patrol’s linguist and spoke Spanish and Arabic; apart from English. It was when Colin spoke foreign languages he was able to disguise his broad Glasgow accent.
Jake watched the European go back up onto the wooden porch and lean on the wooden rail. Apart from the distinctive accent, the man favoured his right leg. When Jake’s brain processed all the details and considered the voice, it struck him like a bolt from the blue.
“It can’t be—” Jake mouthed the words in disbelief. “Not out here.”
7. Men in Black
.
Wednesday 23rd June
Drumchapel, Glasgow
Scotland
A gleaming black VW Golf GTi drove around the sprawling council estate driven by Tony Harrity. The short, wiry, twenty-two-year-old thug and drug dealer lived in a house paid for by the taxpayer, and from outside it looked like any other house in the street.
Behind the regular windows and drapes was a home fitted with the latest high-tech entertainment, and the best in furnishings. Sheet steel reinforced the front door, and all of the windows were alarmed. Each room had CCTV fitted, and there were handguns in every room, including the bathroom and kitchen.
Apart from his reputation for always being ‘armed and extremely dangerous’, Harrity also had a reputation for selling drugs to any person of any age. He had a zero-tolerance to bad debt, so those who crossed him only did so once. Two regular sidekicks of his generation were happy to break bones, cut, or hospitalise a bad debtor with minimal prompting.
On this summer day, Harrity drove to the local filling station on Kinfauns Drive. Every time he topped up the tank of his pride and joy, he would take it through the carwash. It was mid-morning, and as always during mid-week, he wanted to get his drug deliveries done by noon. Two hours of personal effort a day was enough. He had his helpers, so why work?
There was a deep rumbling noise, and Harrity glanced over his shoulder. He continued to squeeze the pump trigger as he watched the black motorbike pull up. Harrity smiled when he saw the rider and pillion were dressed in black from head to foot, including the helmet visors. They rode a powerful black Ducati. It was a cool look.
“I’ll have a number four token please, darlin’,” Harrity said and handed over crisp banknotes for his fuel. “You must be new in here. Are you free later?”
“Aye,” the pretty dark-haired attendant said. “I could be free after two o’clock.” She fluttered her lashes. “Why? Were you thinking about taking me somewhere nice?”
“Nah,” he winked. “I thought you might like a good shaggin’.”
The te
enage girl’s eyes widened. “Fuck off,” she said, protected by the double-glazed kiosk.
“Oh, I like your spirit. You don’t know me, do you?”
“No, and I don’t want to know you. Go and play with yourself in the car-wash.”
“I’ll definitely be fuckin’ you darlin’. You need to learn respect.” Harrity picked up the plastic disc for the car-wash and puckered his lips at the attendant. “I’ll be seeing you later—sweet cheeks.”
There was a dull click as the token slipped into the slot. Harrity pressed the green button. A number four would ensure the bodywork and wire wheels would get a decent clean and shine. He drove onto the rollers, switched off the engine and released the handbrake. White suds were sprayed over the car as it moved forward. Harrity increased the volume of his music.
Four minutes later, three sets of thin air vents jetted warm air across the car from above and both sides. The rinse water blasted away, and the sleek lines of the Golf shone before the vehicle was in sunlight.
Appropriately, loud garage music boomed from the car’s multi-speaker system as the drying blades moved up and away from the vehicle. Harrity reached forward to turn the ignition key and realised there was something parked across the exit of the car wash. It was a biker.
Harrity’s lips curled for a moment as he recalled the Clint Eastwood western, ‘Pale Rider’. The thought disappeared, and his lips parted when he realised it was the biker from a few minutes before, but there was no passenger on the back.
The glove-box clicked as the drug dealer pressed the release button. He lifted out his Glock automatic and sat up, placing his left hand over the breech to cock the weapon. His hands froze as he turned slowly. A black visor faced him from outside his driver’s window.
Fragments of glass and minuscule droplets of water drove into the entry holes in Harrity’s forehead. His face had been turned towards the window when the first two rounds fired. The door opened with a quality thunk, and then four extra rounds were fired into the dead man for good measure. Unlike some of his clients, Harrity had no time to register pain in his death. The black bike had gone by the time the car-wash dryer went quiet.
