Wilco- Lone Wolf 15 Page 6

  ‘They’re a gang, and they were the ones who paid for the coup attempt in Liberia, they want your oil.’

  ‘So I kill these fucks.’

  ‘First, grab some of them and make them talk, but always have someone else to blame ready, a body found after a shoot-out. They are very powerful, so be careful.’

  ‘They’re not getting my oil!’

  Off the phone, my daughter said, ‘Preevyet, kag dillar.’

  Surprised, I turned to Kate, and waited.

  She explained, ‘It’s a posh kindergarten, they teach languages.’

  I faced my daughter. ‘Well done, baby. Horror-show. That means good.’

  ‘I knew that!’ she protested.

  I glared at Kate. ‘She takes after you I see.’

  My daughter shrugged a shoulder and returned to her colouring book.

  ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t have your stubborn streak,’ Kate quipped. ‘The teachers have already noticed that she won’t put something down till she understands it.’

  The food was good, and I got extras – my daughter pointing out that I got extras so I must have behaved myself today, making Kate laugh.

  ‘Daddy doesn’t always behave himself, but grown-ups are allowed to be naughty sometimes,’ she explained.

  With my daughter in bed Kate opened a bottle of wine, but then re-corked it.

  ‘You cutting down?’ I asked her.

  She faced me. ‘I was wondering, if you’d … donate some sperm before you’re killed.’

  ‘That’s the most romantic thing a woman has ever said to me, almost as romantic as your last offer.’

  She slipped off her dress in one easy move. ‘Have I changed much?’

  I took in her silky-white skin, the same upturned boobs and perfect legs. There was a small birthing bulge, but otherwise she was in good condition. ‘No, you … look just the same.’

  She eased off the bra, the boobs not falling much, the knickers off in one swift movement, her pussy now shaved. She had previously kept a blonde tuft above her pussy, but that was now gone, just a small slit despite having a child, and no stretch marks except at the top of her arse.

  Giving in to temptation, and not really giving a fuck if I lived or died this week - but edging towards being dead in a week, I dropped my trousers.

  ‘If it’s not a passion killer,’ she began, leading me to the sofa. ‘Have any hordes of young ladies been serviced by you lately?’

  ‘Very few young ladies, very few, and I had my annual check-up, AIDS test and all for servicemen these days, and since that check-up … no loose women. And I’d never risk your health.’

  ‘I know, but I wondered, you being abroad a lot.’ She got a cold hand onto my cock as it stiffened.

  ‘Not many hookers in the jungle or in the deserts, and there are no hostages on the Costa del Sol.’

  A hand on my arse, and she yanked me forwards, a warm mouth around my cock.

  ‘I would have washed it,’ I offered as she moved her mouth up and down the shaft. I closed my eyes.

  ‘I missed this,’ she told me, taking a breath.

  ‘No hordes of posh young Ruperts for you?’

  ‘No, just an older doctor I like to spend time with, a quickie once a month. He’s good company, but not a Greek god.’

  I knelt, spreading her legs. With two fingers I parted the top of her lips and moved in, Kate gasping before I had even made contact. I could smell her, but I didn’t care, soon flicking my tongue up and down, Kate about to explode; she needed to get out more often, more action seen than her old doctor friend provided.

  A finger in, and she was already wet, so I straightened up, shuffled forwards with my trousers around my ankles – stuck by my boots, and eased inside her to a loud moan. Whilst thinking about whether this was wise or not, and deciding I didn’t care either way, I began to thrust slowly, a hand on a nipple, her expensive magnolia sofa soon to get a stain.

  Grabbing the small of her back I eased her up and gently bit at a nipple, getting a louder moan. I moved up to her neck, always a sure way to make her moan, and I finally kissed her. Only then did I realise how much I missed this, and that I probably loved her, and that we had made a mistake by staying apart.

  But then I knew what she would be like after sex, all moody and bitchy, and that our worlds would never meet. Still, I had this now, here and now, and to hell with the world outside.

  She came quickly, I felt the squeeze on my cock, and I did not take long either; it had been a while for me as well. Considering my sperm donation request, I kept thrusting after ejaculating, and I left my cock inside for ten minutes as we cuddled, my knees starting to hurt.

  ‘That’ll be a dollar, Madam,’ I whispered.

  ‘Worth it,’ she gasped out.

  As I eased out I sucked on a nipple for a minute, her breathing ragged. Standing, I pulled up my trousers like a teenager after a naughty quickie, and zipped up my wet end.

  ‘Stay,’ she said as she reached for her dress, and with it on – her shoes held, she led me by the hand and to the posh bedroom, the joining door ajar, our daughter asleep. Hopefully asleep.

  ‘No wine?’ I asked.

  ‘Wine and sperm don’t mix,’ she told me, checking in on our daughter.

  With the door left ajar we stripped off, a quick wash in the en suite, and we eased into bed, the sheets crisp and fresh, the bed massive.

  ‘Better than the FOB,’ I told her as she snuggled up.

  ‘And your place on the base?’

  ‘Small double bed, not that comfy, and sometimes I get disturbed by gunfire, explosions, hired assassins...’

  ‘Only you could joke about something like that.’ She hesitated, a quick look up at me. ‘I worry, and I cry sometimes.’

  I gently ran a hand through her hair. ‘Sorry, I … figured on you being a tough bitch.’

  ‘I am, most of the time, but sometimes it gets to me, and sometimes I think what it would be like if you were with us.’

  ‘First off, I’d be abroad three weeks a month, and second – you’d be bitching at my muddy boots and lack of tolerance for your idiot friends, and my pistol on the floor.’

  She eased up and looked past me. ‘It’s safe?’ she worried.

  ‘Not cocked, safety on, so small hands won’t discharge a round. Relax.’

  She eased back and I cuddled her, her head on my shoulder. ‘Married couples don’t cuddle, at least none that I know. Many have two single beds, those past fifty have separate rooms.

  ‘Ginny and Trevor, they have separate rooms for his snoring, and … he has trouble getting it up. Ginny got a babysitter, a good-looking one, big boobs, and slipped her some money. Now, the baby-sitter gets him hard and then they have sex.’

  My eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell. But what a great wife, to do that.’

  ‘Once a month he’s allowed a blowjob from the baby sitter, and birthdays and Christmas. It saved their marriage, for their kids.’

  ‘She sounds like a hell of a woman.’

  ‘They’re happy, eating out three times a week, and they like salsa. They have a good life.’

  ‘French men, business men, they have wives and mistresses, common over there.’

  ‘And you have a rifle for company…’

  I sighed. ‘I know I must seem to be mad, but … I like the work, I like fighting the terrorists, I like getting the hostages home, I like training the lads. It’s an all-consuming passion, a calling not a 9-5 job.’

  ‘When I saw the photo in The Sun newspaper I was very proud of you, all the people you rescued lined up. They meet once a year before Christmas, a hotel ball room, six hundred people – families as well as those you rescued. And in France they meet, the French and Belgian former hostages. They have a club, they go on holiday.’

  ‘Angola seems like a lifetime ago,’ I softly told the top of her head. ‘And later, when a French helo was hit, that was hard; I rescued them, then they burnt alive right in front of me. But I think the hardest
was Algiers and the burning plane. I could see them through the windows, hear the screams.’

  ‘God, how awful.’

  ‘It drives me on, to rescue more.’

  The door opened and a girl with her eyes closed walked in, teddy in her hand and dragging along. She clambered up with just slits for eyes and I eased her onto me.

  ‘I had a bad dream.’

  ‘No one will hurt you with me here,’ I whispered into her ear.

  ‘Tell me a story.’

  ‘Oh. Well … there was once a brave knight call Wilco, the bravest in all the land -’

  ‘Wilco,’ Kate growled.

  ‘OK, another story. Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far, away…’

  I woke at 5am, having gone to bed at 10pm, and I found our daughter snuggled between us, and for a moment I was angry, very angry, but I was not sure quite what I was angry at. Maybe the outside world, maybe the men trying to kill me, and maybe mad at myself for not being the right man for Kate and our daughter.

  The Regimental helicopter dropped me back at 9am, and as I straightened up after clearing the rotors I could see a clean airfield, hardly a sign of where the bomb had detonated, an oil slick and a burnt area that was not that obvious, marks on the grass, windows boarded up.

  But there were now many men patrolling around, and I made a point of chatting with most of them, Regulars still here, the RAF Regiment still here. And Max.

  I stepped to him as he came out the canteen. ‘You live here now?’

  ‘I figured you’d not mind, and I got a four page spread in this morning, some copy for tomorrow.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Saw your TV statement, most here did.’ He laughed. ‘They got your muddy boots.’

  ‘Remind me to clean them next time.’

  ‘Paras volunteered to come here, and last night there were stones thrown at the Mi5 building, windows broken, but the plonkers never knew which building so the MOD building was hit, windows broken, two hundred police outside, armed police, the works.’

  ‘That won’t make me popular.’ My phone trilled.

  ‘It’s David. Crown Prince of Oman will here today, he asked to see you.’

  ‘Best get permission from the PM before I chat to the guy, I can pop up later.’

  ‘Will do, yes. All OK..?’

  ‘I had a quiet night, for a change.’ Off the phone I faced Max. ‘The Crown Prince of Oman is here, wants to meet me, to ask why I let his son get killed.’

  ‘Not your fault, you can’t stop these Mi5 shits if they’re determined.’

  ‘I can try.’

  In the Intel room they all stopped dead when I entered.

  ‘Boots clean?’ Major Bradley asked me.

  ‘They are now,’ I quipped.

  Tinker stepped out of an office. ‘We got tracks in south woods, size ten shoes, not boots, no cigarette packets. Farmer saw an old blue car parked oddly at the right time.’

  ‘OK, listen up!’ I had their attention. ‘Captain Harris, get MP Pete and two CT police, then get Gloucester police to help you. You get a stopwatch, and you stand where that man stood in the woods. You start the stopwatch, walk quickly to the road, get into your car.

  ‘You then drive steadily the most practical route to the M4 motorway, but as you do so you look for cameras and petrol stations, pubs and cafes, and look for a pond for him to chuck his phone into.

  ‘You then start that journey again, stopwatch in hand, and drive to the first convenient services on the M4, steady sixty, note the time. Same for the next services, assuming that he never stopped at the first.

  ‘You get the police to check the CCTV for the time in question, and we may get lucky, blue car. If we get a vehicle, you then have London cameras check for it coming off the motorway at Chiswick, or going up around the M25 or the North Circular, but first we check a direct route to central London. Work fast, someone get a map and plan a route.’

  ‘You think this guy was sloppy?’ the Major asked as the Brigadier stepped out.

  ‘He’s not invisible, we may get the car and his face. They’re only human, like us.’

  ‘Is the Prime Minister on our side?’ the Brigadier asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, firmly on our side, and Mi5 walked right into my trap – bomb under the van when it was inside.’

  ‘Gloucester police SOCO have been on,’ the Major told me. ‘No damn timer found according to them.’

  ‘Mi5 were sloppy, thinking the PM would just nod and accept it. But I prepped him first. New head of Mi5 is the old Deputy from GCHQ, I know him, good man.’

  ‘Might make some progress then,’ the Major complained.

  When O’Leary stepped in I said, ‘Your wife?’

  He stopped and took in the faces. ‘Not a happy bunny, no. I … told her I was at GCHQ yesterday.’

  ‘Why not,’ I approved.

  Bongo stepped in, bandage around his head. ‘You OK?’ I asked. ‘Never knew you were injured.’

  ‘Bit of metal flew two hundred yards and clobbered me. Anyway, I quit, too fucking dangerous around here for an armourer like me, I ain’t fucking Rambo.’ He handed in his letter.

  ‘I don’t blame you. What’ll you do next?’

  ‘Some quiet job, garage, I fix cars.’

  ‘Don’t blab about us, they will be monitoring you, and prison is no fun.’

  ‘I won’t blab.’

  ‘Major Bradley, replace this man please, and today. Some cash for his long service.’

  The Major led Bongo out.

  I faced the Brigadier. ‘The catering ladies, sir?’

  ‘Shaken up. I’ll go chat, see if they want to quit.’ And he headed out.

  I faced Captain Harris as he readied an Ordnance Survey map of the area. He stared back.

  ‘We’re … OK for now,’ he finally told me, meaning him and his wife.

  I nodded.

  After lunch, Tinker came running as I sat with the Major. ‘We got a hit. Man fishing yesterday, saw a blue car pull in, a man throw a phone onto the lake, landed near him. He was hidden in the reeds, and pissed off by the splash. He can pin-point where it landed to within inches.

  ‘Blue Ford car, old, dented, partial number plate. Man was in his fifties and grey, green wax coat despite it being summer time, a bit of a tan, and … a kid in the car.’

  ‘A kid?’ the Major repeated.

  ‘Good cover story,’ I pointed out. ‘Less likely to be pulled over.’ I faced Tinker. ‘How old was the kid?’

  ‘Girl, say three to four.’

  I moved to the next office and called SIS. ‘It’s Wilco, put me through to Mister Kitson, new Director in Mi5, urgent.’

  ‘Hold on. Putting you through.’

  ‘Wilco?’ came finally.

  ‘Got a paper and pen, sir?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Phone trigger man. Fifty, grey haired, tanned face, blue Ford car, old and dented, Gloucester police have a partial plate. He had a girl with him, three or four, so I’m thinking he didn’t kidnap one, she’d be his own or from his extended family. I’m working on the assumption that he lives up your way, freelancer maybe. They’re matching the car to CCTV on the motorway as we speak.’

  ‘We have a computerised staff system here, and it says where they are any moment of the day, so I’ll start with people out yesterday or off sick, then match the age, then look for a family link, should narrow it down nicely.’

  ‘We should have a grainy image of his face by end of today.’

  ‘Then we’ll have him very quickly.’

  ‘How’s it going, sir?

  ‘Well, in the past twelve hours I’ve asked a dozen people if they’d like a cell all to themselves. It motivates people.’

  ‘Frighten the bastards. Oh, Crown Prince is in town and wants to meet me, and shout.’

  ‘I heard, yes. He’ll meet the Prime Minister, and that will be a very difficult conversation.’

  ‘Perhaps he should meet me first. In fact, send that idea t
o the PM, as having come from me.’

  ‘OK. You do like to stick your neck out, don’t you.’

  ‘I have a plan. Trust me.’

  Tinker was back to me an hour later, and just as excited. ‘We got an image, and the full number plate. London is tracking the car now, but they say that the plate is for a car scrapped years ago.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I told him. ‘That image, I want it on the BBC news, with the car details and the plate. Don’t get permission, just do it.’

  I went and found Max and briefed him, a coffee shared, the Major asking if Max was now on the payroll.

  An hour later Mister Kitson was on. ‘We found our boy, freelancer as you suggested, South African, lives near Wembley – his apartment cleaned out long ago, his sister a druggy and he takes the kid often.’

  ‘Can you put his face on the BBC news?’

  ‘Might not need to.’

  ‘Trust me, he’s dead already. Unless they’re very sloppy.’

  ‘So we find a car with a body in…’

  ‘That would be my bet, sir.’

  ‘OK, we’ll see what turns up.’

  ‘His line manager?’

  ‘Isolated, on the Q&A, his phone being examined, but he’s a twenty year veteran and could hide his tracks. Even if he’s not guilty I’ll retire him off, just in case. I’ve pulled over two chaps from GCHQ, both promoted so they’re happy.’

  ‘So at least you have someone there you can trust.’

  In the canteen later I watched the news with many, the man’s face displayed, many questions fired at me about him, many men wanting to catch up with him – not least Rocko.

  An hour later, as I sorted my house – MP Pete sat in the kitchen and minding me, David Called.

  ‘Our friend the bomb trigger man was picked up in Belgium, now being held on a European terrorist warrant.’

  ‘He might accept a deal, but I doubt it.’

  ‘And next, the Crown Prince never met with the PM, he’ll meet you tomorrow, at your convenience.’

  ‘At my convenience?’

  ‘That’s how it was worded.’

  ‘Odd. OK, I’ll travel up in the morning.’

  ‘Suit and tie, no muddy boots please.’