It Wasn't The Bullet (20) “Just get the fuck up and sit at the table.” Charlie said venomously. The man calling himself MacDonald followed the instructions for getting up and headed to the table. He involuntary bent over slightly as his solar plexus as tightened from the blows it had received. Charlie said nothing as he watched. Samantha suddenly realised that she was naked. There was only one thing she could do, as MacDonald sat down at the old wooden table, she calmly got up and ambled purposely over to where her sarong lay on the floor. She was acutely aware that both men were eyeing her body. Unhurriedly she wrapped the garment around her and sat gently down on one of the overstuffed armchairs that marked the imaginary beginning of the living room. Charlie sat opposite MacDonald and placed his gun on the table in front of him. He then loosely rested his fingertips on the grip, stared at his ‘guest’, then turned to Samantha and asked, “Does your shoulder feel alright?” Samantha could already feel a bruise forming under the skin but she replied that she was fine. Charlie turned back to MacDonald and seemed to be content just to scrutinise his visitor. MacDonald shifted uncomfortably and slowly pulled his hands out from his pockets. “May I?”, he said calmly holding up his hands palm outward, then positioned them palms down on the table. Charlie had not changed his expression by one muscle. He was looking directly into the cold grey eyes of the man on the other side of the aged pine table. “First of all Charles, I can call you Charles?” His cultured vowels and cadence indicated a question. Charlie made no visible sign that he had even heard the query. “I have to say, your ruse was excellent. Perfect misdirection, a man will always look at a woman’s breasts. Especially breasts as exquisite as yours my dear.” He inclined his head slightly to Samantha’s direction, then turned back to face Charlie. “I shall explain myself and my appearance here as concisely as I am able. There are some parts of this narrative you will find hard to accept, or indeed, believe. I assure you when I am finished you will have a greater comprehension of both your friend and some history we were a part of that has affected the whole globe.” He paused and Charlie remained immobile, the only sign that he was even conscious was the slow tapping of his right hand fingers on the butt of the Browning pistol. “As I have already informed you I was a Captain in the British armed forces. I was Terry’s platoon commander. I assume he regaled you with his exploits in various parts of the commonwealth. These tales are but mere window dressing as to how Sergeant Terrence Milligan truly served his country. He and I, with a few comrades in arms were part of an elite unit attached to the Special Air Service. There are less than sixty men in this command, we were the, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, the crème de la crème of British soldiery. We were given the task of entering countries and neutralising threats to our sovereign state when conventional negotiations were ineffective or had not been resolved in our favour. There was no recourse if we were caught, the British government would label us mercenaries in the pay of another regime. We were often placed in some very fearsome circumstances. For the most part we worked in units of six. Lived together, worked together, and eventually died together. We were closer than kin, as tight as red blooded heterosexual males could be without the kissing. There was an incident, which I will explain to you presently, that caused our team to be unceremoniously disbanded, and we were thrown out into the street, as it were, without so much as a thank you for all the blood we had shed for our country. The six of us made a solemn pact to keep in contact with each other by way of letter or the occasional phone conversation. The reason we implemented such a scheme was ensure that we could enact revenge in the very likely event of our own government wanting us to disappear for good. As time passed it appeared our fears were groundless, however we all kept in regular contact with each other. This began to prove very useful as we graduated to different roles in society. We all had skills that were worthless in a peaceful workplace. I became a security consultant to organisations like the one that you and Terrence were involved with. It was lucrative work, and occasionally exciting enough to keep me from being bored. The huge benefit from all of us working in the netherworld of the general public was that we had a network within a network. Charles, there must have been some moments when you were astounded by Terrence’s sixth sense?” Samantha watched both the men as MacDonald left the question floating invitingly in mid air. Charlie did not make any signal at all. He still wore the same expression that he had been displaying from the beginning of the discourse. “My, my Charles. You have been well trained. Interrogation techniques chapter two. You are impressing me more with every passing moment. However, I digress. Terrence, although exceptional at just about everything, was not a psychic. He was receiving intelligence from our little network, and to answer the question I can sense you want to ask, yes it was a two way street. Sadly, the life expectancy in our little community is not long when your luck is all used up. I am the only surviving member of our team. When Terrence missed two letter drops consecutively, I was compelled to investigate. My questions and answers have led me to here. I can see you wanting to know how I found you! Ha!” He slapped the table in glee; Samantha flinched at the two sudden noises, Charlie, once again, remained impassive. “Well, you are going to have to ask me that question aloud if you require an explanation. Before I can move forward with my ruminations, it is necessary to give you a brief history dissertation. In the early part of the nineteen seventies there was a severe political upheaval in Jamaica. You may remember reading in some of the more informed news papers about the Prime Minister of that country. A Mr Edward Seaga. He was trying to affect a radical social reform on a people that could not see the long term vision he had for his populace. The economy collapsed and small bands of very violent gangsters began to appear making some parts of Kingston for instance, no-go areas for everyone. Musicians were being assassinated for merely writing lyrics that offended some thug with political ambitions or a gangster who objected to being vilified in a song. The British government began to get concerned when some of these gang members emigrated to the United Kingdom and formed satellite gangs affiliated to their native land. Their chosen moniker was ‘The Yardies’, an abbreviation of the idiom for returning to Britain, ‘Going to the back yard’. Their philosophy was brutal. They took over some of the drug trade by force. The lords back on the island had solid connections for cocaine and, of course, marijuana. They began to network. MI5 was beginning to hear rumours of smuggling operations of weapons and narcotics in partnership with the Irish Republican Army. This was an unacceptable state of affairs for our powers that be. Political pressure was brought to bear on the relevant government departments in Jamaica to target the leaders of these gangs. This proved an ineffective strategy due to corruption in the police force and upper levels of the government. The wages of the Jamaican police force were supplemented heavily by the drug gangs. They had little incentive to curtail their activities. MI6 were sent to the island to gather intelligence and target the men most important to the infrastructure of these gangs. This was passed on down to our unit. I will not go into the intricate details of the operation, although one day perhaps we will have a good old chin wag about it.” MacDonald paused again; but Charlie would not be drawn into any form of communication. “Our targets were seven men. The plan was to take them all out in the same two hour time period. We achieved five of our objectives before things went a little awry. As I mentioned previously, the police force was compromised, even though we were moving fast between locations, someone managed to alert the last two targets who were together in the same house. When we mounted our covert assault the police arrived and unintentionally flanked us. We were then exposed to a lethal crossfire from the bodyguards of our target, and the police. I made the decision to complete our mission; I took Terrence and Corporal Stone with me, left the others to lay down suppressing fire and keep the police from advancing on our position. We eliminated the bodyguards rapidly, they were not professionals by any stretch of the imagination, Terrence had placed a shape charge on the frame of the door, Stone was first through the hole and immediately took small arms fire. He managed to neutralise one of his assailants before succumbing to his wounds. I will remind you that this is all happening in seconds. The whole action lasted less than ten minutes. As Stone was being shot, Terrence had already assessed the situation and hurled a hand grenade into the hallway. I followed tightly in behind the blast and sprayed the area with full automatic fire. Terrence was already past me and up the stairs as I completed my burst. I heard Terrence fire three times, and then comes tearing back down the stairway. He shouted, ‘It’s done’, and we headed back into the fire-fight outside. Killing eight Jamaican policemen was not in our plan, but it happened. We made followed our evade and escape protocols, taking with us our fallen comrade. We were positive that we had left no trace of our identity. We arrived like ghosts and left the same way. All intelligence relies on triple checking the triple check. You assess a brick by observing each face of it for as long as it takes to determine that it will remain the same. Then when you’ve done that you do it again, until you are left in no doubt that it is, in fact, a brick. The operative who gathered our intelligence on the last targets house missed the four close circuit cameras that had clear sightlines to the front door, and the driveway. The still images of the whole team were sent to a civil servant in London. I do not know what specific threat was made by the Jamaican authorities, nor do I wish to know. Suffice to say, we had been badly compromised and were therefore cast out into the masses. Absolute deniability. We knew the rules and we accepted them. What we failed to comprehend was the total distain in the way we were treated. I was a Captain in Her Majesties Army; I was terminated like I had committed a treasonable offence. No offer of a pension, no compensation for twelve years of serving my country. The others were given the same lack of respect. The reason for me to recall these sequence of events is two fold, point one being that you have clear grasp of the gravity of our actions and secondly, those photographs were passed on to one of the new leaders of the Yardie faction. Corporal Tom Wilson was assassinated two years ago by a contract hit man. Sergeant Lawrence Burns was blown up by a car bomb in Germany. Corporal Evan Harris was shot in the back the head after being tortured. Terrence Milligan died during or after torture. I believe all these contracts were made by a gentleman christened Gordon Hamilton. He resides in one of the more unsavoury parts of Brixton, his house from the outside looks innocuous enough until one observes a little closer. Inside it is a palace, outside it is a fortress. Terrence and I were days away from payback. And as our American cousins are fond of saying, ‘Payback is a bitch’.” MacDonald abruptly stopped talking. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the table, and Charlie made no move to stop him. He dropped his gaze from MacDonald for the first time since the narrative had begun. Samantha heard a soft metallic click that sliced through the silent tension that had enveloped the room. “Now the safety catch is on, I presume I can get up and stretch my legs.” Charlie muttered a soft yes, and also stood up. “I’m going for a run. We have three bedrooms here, pick one, Samantha will look after you while I’m gone. Thank you for coming here Simon.” Chapter Twelve Bloody great big wallop It had grown dark by the time Samantha decided to cook a meal for all of them. Charlie was still out running or sitting or whatever he needed to do to think. She had spent the last hours talking to Simon about Terry, Charlie et al until he pleaded tiredness and asked for directions to a bed so he could nap for a while. He requested a wake up call when either there was some food to eat or Charlie had returned. She knew that Simon, although seemingly well mannered, was a stone cold killer. He had explained how Terry had chosen Charlie as the brother he never had, and in each communiqué Simon had received there was always some mention of Charlie in its content. She had a hankering for something with pasta and began to assemble the necessary tools and ingredients. She had the notion that their lives were going to move fast in the next few days. Simon was an intense man, the entire time he sat and spoke, and there were no wasted words. He had come here for a single purpose, and he had obviously half achieved his goal. She also suspected that he chose to enter through the front door to make a point to Charlie. She stared into the big pasta pot and gazed at the small wispy bubbles as they soared upward to the surface urged on by the steadily warming water. She wondered if she would have a part in the upcoming proceedings. She knew in her heart that Simon was here to take Charlie away to complete his mission of revenge or perhaps it was some form of twisted moral justice. Her own moral standards were changing. The perspective had moved, not to a polar opposite but certainly a significant degree. The key was to frankly examine how she felt. After spending this much time with a man she would never have usually taken the time to know, she was understanding another lifestyle, one which is often glamorised. She was seeing that these men were not dishonourable but viewed the world from another place. The ground beef started to sizzle, the water came to a boil and Samantha sighed. There was no turning back for her now. She had found what was missing in her life whether her ingrained principles liked it or not. She liked where she was, it made her feel vibrant, and scared with equal intensity. The aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh herbs filled the spacious kitchen. She stirred the sauce with her favourite gnarled wooden spoon and lost herself in the swirling patterns. She had made her decision; she would not be left behind. The pasta was almost ready and she walked to the hallway blowing on a spoonful of her sauce, “Simon there’s some dinner ready if you’re hungry.” She tasted the mixture and was pleased with her efforts. She called Simon’s name again, louder this time. She was rewarded with an answer, “Be there in a jiffy Miss Samantha.” She heard the bed creak as he moved. The patio doors rattled and Charlie walked in. His sweat-shirt showed the stains of his exertions, his hair matted to his skull. “Wow, that smells good. Have you eaten yet?” She replied with a no, and you’re just in time. Charlie excused himself to take a shower and promised to return shortly. Idle conversation had engulfed the diners as they ate. The subjects changed with the turn of a word or phrase, now the three of them were quiet as they sat looking into space over the remains of a fine meal. All had much to contemplate. Charlie lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up at the glass lampshade above the centre of the table. “Alright Simon, how did you know we were here?” “Ah ha! I knew you would have to pose that particular question. This is a network house. You see Charles? My fellow travellers and I managed to form a complete secret organisation inside many other clandestine enterprises. We were the watchers, and as I disclosed to you, it is extremely lucrative to know what will be occurring and when. People pay for security and when you have, erm, the inside track, shall we say, the job is infinitely easier.” “How sure are you that this Hamilton guy is behind all the killings?” “An excellent question.” Simon paused to pour a glass of red wine and light a cigarette. “When poor Tom Wilson was gunned down I at first thought he had succumbed to one of the inevitables of his profession. He was part of a high priced personal protection unit for South American cartel leaders. It was a week later reading the updates from my lads, that Evan noted that he was killed with one shot. His charge was not harmed. We concluded the bullet was meant for him. I have some rather unpleasant acquaintances in the gun for hire area of operations. I looked under a few rocks and stones to find a man offering £500,000 for a multiple hit. We eventually traced it back to Hamilton. Incidentally, not one of the men who took the contract is with us anymore.”
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