The Wisdom of God

By Ray Knight

Tom Hatcher is a wanted man, dead or alive. Hunted by a crazed Colombian drug lord and hounded by rogue elements within MI6 and the DEA he has nowhere to turn and no one to trust.
The soldier of fortune finds himself in a desperate struggle for his life and a race against time to save the one person in the world he loves.
With no way to escape the circle tightening around him, Tom fights back. The ex-soldier faces ruthless enemies who follow no rules of engagement and he can’t face them alone. But, who can he trust? Enemies become allies and friends become foes as he tries to unravel the web of deceit and intrigue that shields his adversaries.
Inspired by real life events, and in the best Ludlum traditions, this edge-of-the-seat thriller is full of twists and turns that will keep you turning the pages until the final thrilling conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M-Y Books
• Release date: Nov 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781909908840

Book preview

Prologue

Tora Bora Mountains, Afghanistan, October 2001

The air danced and shimmied in the bright sunlight and Tom blinked away the sweat that soaked through his headband and trickled into his eyes. The four-man team had been in position for nine days. Tom lay under field camouflage with several canteens of water to combat dehydration – one of his many enemies. The temperature would drop below zero after sunset. The extremes of climate were physically debilitating.

His spotter took a turn watching the cave entrance while Tom rested his eyes and applied soothing drops. The constant wind had dried his eyes and blurred his vision through the riflescope. The two men lay inches apart and, as was doctrine, had barely uttered five words to each other during the course of the day. Tom broke the silence.

I wonder what he did?

Who? his spotter murmured.

The target.

What do you mean?

Well, what did he do that justifies us killing him?

Don’t worry about that. Just follow orders.

Tom squirmed and stretched out a leg to ease a cramp.

Yeah, that’s what the Nazis did. Followed orders.

What’s your problem, Tom?

Just thinking out loud.

Well don’t let them hear you back in Hereford. They’ll ship you out the regiment back to the Paras in two seconds flat.

My time’s nearly up anyway. I’m thinking about getting out.

You’re joking, man. You love the regiment. It’s all you know.

Things ain’t the same anymore. You know I followed my old man into the army. He was in the Royal Marines. I just wanted to be a soldier, but now all I seem to be is some sort of assassin. A killer for hire.

That’s what soldiers do, Tom.

Yeah, but not like this. I mean, who picks the targets?

Look, when you applied for the SAS you knew they did black ops. So, why the sudden pangs of guilt after nine years?

I’ve had enough. Some geek in military intelligence chooses a target, calls the Regiment and I’m on the next plane to God knows where with a gun in my hand. It’s not what I joined up for.

You sound bitter.

Disillusioned is more like it.

"There you go again with your big words. You think too much. That’s your problem. Maybe you should get out."

Both men lapsed into silence. Tom’s thoughts drifted back to his sniper selection. Together with a spotter, he had lain in a damp, misty field in the Scottish Highlands waiting for a target to appear. The target would pop up for only five seconds during the seventy-two hour exercise and if they missed, they failed. It was a severe test of stamina and patience. It had seemed like a game at the time. It didn’t seem like a game anymore.

The other members of the team were acting as a defensive perimeter. They would rotate at midnight. Twelve hours was the limit they had set themselves for the high-intensity scrutiny of the cave entrance – the routine had become a ritual. Bob indicated that he needed to relieve himself and Tom nodded his understanding. He focused through his riflescope while his partner emptied the contents of his bladder into a plastic bottle, secured the lid and placed the bottle near a Ziploc bag of bodily waste. The enemy had not sent out patrols, but the team would have to move quickly if they did. They would leave nothing behind to indicate their presence.

It was Bob’s turn to break protocol.

This is a harsh bloody place. No wonder these Afghans are so damn tough.

Yeah, they were too much for the Russians. I hope we never get involved here long term.

Don’t worry as soon as we pop this guy we’re outta here.

I don’t mean us, you fool. I mean Britain.

Oh, right. Yeah, it’s too easy to get bogged down here and them Afghans are great at guerrilla tactics. It’s a no-win situation.

On an unspoken agreement, both men remained silent for the rest of the afternoon as they focused on the cave entrance far below their position. The day dragged on and, at times, the sun seemed frozen in place. Gradually it sank lower until it turned into an orange ball hovering low over distant peaks – then it sank like a floundering ship and darkness fell. Tom switched to night vision and doggedly continued his vigil. The temperature dropped alarmingly and he flexed his fingers to circulate the blood.

An intake of breath from his spotter and a sudden flurry of activity at the cave entrance alerted Tom.

It’s him, Bob hissed.

Their quarry had stepped out of the cave entrance, escorted by a loose phalanx of bodyguards. The target was a head taller than his minders and Tom picked him up immediately in his scope. Tom smiled to himself at the poor discipline displayed by the guards who gave scant protection to the target – giving him a clear head shot. He released his breath, steadied his pulse and squeezed the trigger of his L96 sniper rifle. At that range, and with blessedly no wind at the time, it was a formality. The target’s head disappeared in a cloud of spray – a kill shot.

After days of inactivity to the point of stupor, the action was over in the blink of an eye. Such was Tom’s training, and self-discipline, his heart rate had remained constant throughout the whole episode. There was no adrenaline rush to make his hands shake and spoil his aim. The well-drilled team packed and moved off while the panicked militia below scrambled for cover.

The four men tabbed across the mountains by night and concealed themselves by day. It took them seventy-two hours to reach the extraction point, close to the Pakistani border. A day later senior officers of the SAS regiment debriefed them in Credenhall.

Tom sat in the Who Dares Club after the debriefing and contemplated his future. He was almost thirty-four years old, the upper limit for active duty with the regiment. He had undergone a remarkable career with the SAS since his recruitment from the Parachute Regiment at twenty-four. Tom would complete nine years of service within months. He had rotated through all four squadrons of the regiment and often been seconded to anti-terrorist duties. His time was up. His future might well consist of training the younger, eager candidates applying for selection. The prospect did not appeal to him.

He had signed on for fifteen years in the Parachute Regiment when he was an idealistic eighteen-year-old. He had completed six years in the Parachute Regiment before passing the selection for the SAS. His fifteen years were up. He was tired, and needed something new.

Bob interrupted Tom’s thoughts by pulling up a chair and joining him at the table.

You’re deep in thought, Tom. Are you still thinking about getting out?

Yes, I’ve ninety percent made my mind up.

In that case you’d better speak to some of the old boys who hang around the Grapes Pub in Ledbury.

What for?

Well, you don’t think you can just walk into civvy street and get a job, do you?

Why not?

Listen, Tom, you’ve been trained with a very special skill set. But, the ability to clear a landing zone won’t get you a job on the Stock Exchange.

I hadn’t thought about it much.

Look, mate, talk to those guys. They have contacts and information you’ll need. You can make a ton of money if you play your cards right.

Thanks, I’ll think about it. You want another beer?

No thanks. Got some leave starting tomorrow, so I’m gonna make an early start. See you when I get back. Bob stood, shook hands with Tom and left.

Tom took his friend’s advice. Over the following weeks, he paid close attention to the whereabouts and activities of some of his ex-colleagues. He learnt how they kept in touch and what types of jobs were available to men of his background. He cultivated a list of useful contacts, men with varied and unique skills and knowledge, men who could survive outside the realm of normal society. He could not pinpoint the exact time at which he made his mind up to retire from the military. The decision crept up on him like a thief in the night.

Tom had mere weeks to the completion of his fifteen years when MI6 contacted him. Soldiers referred to the department as The Firm and some old-timers even called it 850 in reference to its old post office box number in Vauxhall. Tom would be a very useful asset to The Firm as his skills were many and varied. The numerous courses and missions that Tom had completed during his time with the Regiment made him a prime candidate for wet missions.

He was in The Grapes public house in Ledbury, sharing drinks with friends, when MI6 made contact. He had left his comrades in the saloon area and walked into the small pub garden to escape the music and loud banter for a few minutes. It was a crisp January afternoon, bright and sunny with a chill in the air. A casually dressed man followed him outside.

It’s nice out here, the man volunteered.

Tom grunted an acknowledgment. The English were not famous for striking up conversations with strangers.

You’re Tom Hatcher. I have something to talk to you about that you may find interesting, and possibly lucrative. The man invited Tom to sit at one of the tables in the small area.

His curiosity aroused, Tom sat down and waited to see what the stranger wanted.

Let me introduce myself. I work at Vauxhall Bridge. Do you understand what I am telling you? The man was jiggling two ice cubes in a small glass as he spoke.

Yes, you’re from The Firm.

Precisely. You know of our mandate. I see that your fifteen years are up soon. You haven’t made any contact with your regiment about extending. What are you going to do with yourself?

Even if I knew myself, I can’t see why The Firm would be interested in my plans, Tom challenged.

Don’t be so quick to judge, Tom. We always have need of good men. From time to time we have, shall we say, certain tasks that require special skills. We like to have a number of people on retainer who would be available under those circumstances. Nothing formal or full time, you understand, old chap. We’ll pay you a stipend to have you on call, as it were. If we use you, you’ll receive bonuses for each job.

The man reminded Tom of the young Michael Caine, playing the role of an upper class officer in the classic movie Zulu. The effect was somewhat spoiled by a small tic that pulled repeatedly over his left eye.

Tom sat in silence – the man waited, only the tic betraying any impatience. Tom deliberately finished his drink, placed his glass on the table and looked the man squarely in the eye.

Are you talking about recruiting me for the Increment?

Oh no Tom, don’t listen to all that stuff. I have heard all the names, the Increment, Group 13 and SAS 75. It’s all poppycock. These groups don’t really exist. That’s just romantic nonsense that circulates on the Internet and is used by second-rate authors. Just regard yourself as a consultant for the Ministry Of Defence. The man kept the tone light and casual. He flashed a disarming smile.

Listen carefully, Tom said, as he rose from his chair. I’ve had enough of killing to order, of being sent on missions for which I see no military objective. I joined the forces to be a soldier, not an assassin. It’s time for me to go and see the world, and find out what else is out there, apart from targets!

Tom, it’s not what you think. It’s not all about killing, you know. You won’t be ordered to do anything in the UK. That’s MI5’s portfolio, you’d be working strictly for MI6.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t need orders or missions anymore. I want to wake up in the morning and decide for myself how I’m going to spend my day. Do you know how long it’s been since I made simple plans for myself? Don’t bother answering that. My answer is, ‘thanks, but no thanks’, and I won’t change my mind. Have a safe journey back to London. Tom turned on his heel and walked back inside the dim interior of the pub.

The man smiled to himself. It was all about timing and the timing was wrong. Tom was a potential asset, whether he realized it or not. The Firm had a long memory and a longer reach. This first approach may have failed, but the next one might not. The Firm could be very persuasive under the right circumstances. He would keep an eye on Hatcher’s file.

Oblivious to The Firm’s long-term intentions for him, Tom returned to his friends, had another beer and forgot all about the man from the ministry. The following Monday a senior regimental officer summoned him. Tom confirmed that he would not serve beyond his fifteen years, and the SAS returned him to the Parachute Regiment that same day. Tom spent his final weeks filling out forms and handing in equipment. Suddenly, there he was on the quiet streets of Aldershot, unemployed. The old adage came to him Old soldiers never die, they only fade away. He was not about to die, and he didn’t intend to fade away. That was not his style or his intention.

Chapter One

Freeport, Grand Bahama, June 2007

Torrential rain almost flooded the streets. They’d targeted a self-storage lock up unit in the Broncestone Self Storage Facility. Security vehicles regularly patrolled the brightly lit park at night. The problem with security patrols is they become predictable and complacent when there hasn’t been an incident for a while. The proprietor of the park had installed a rudimentary camera surveillance system that was more for effect than efficiency. Cost was a big factor in his thinking and it was merely a deterrent and a comfort to his renters.

The three-man team had reconnoitered the facility for the past month. It was a tight knit-trio, who had served together on many previous occasions. Because of the mutual trust and confidence, they had eschewed the usual four-man team. The men knew the routine of the roving security patrol, what type of locks were on the door and where to cut the power cables. Their plan was set. It seemed a low risk mission, but a lot of money was at stake. They went over the plan repeatedly, looking for weaknesses, as if they were planning a military operation.

The team had monitored the Weather Channel – waiting for a night when heavy rain was expected. Rain obscured vision, dampened sound and discouraged security guards from venturing from their vehicles. The roads would be clear as nothing was guaranteed to keep a Bahamian indoors more than a stormy night. For determined and trained men with a purpose, rain was an ally.

Their spacious two-storey rental house backed onto one of the many canals that crisscrossed Grand Bahama. It was on an estate called The Running Mon, which was chosen for its closeness to the storage facility, and not for the irony of its name. After tonight, they would be doing a lot of running.

In the front room of the house, the atmosphere between the three men seemed calm, but the underlying tension was palpable. Nervousness before a mission was something they had lived with for many years. If everything went to plan, after tonight, they would be able to put this life behind them and retire into obscurity.

Are you sure about the intel? Tom asked, for the umpteenth time.

Don’t worry yourself, Hatch, the Pakistani knows his stuff. The Firm has used him for years. One of my mates in the Increment recommended him, and you know those boys don’t play. Besides, he’s gonna make a tidy sum when he launders the money for us, said a redheaded, thickset man with a Scottish accent.

It’s a massive amount of money to be lying around like that, Jimmy. It’s almost too good to be true.

Those drug boys pass so much money through here, you have no idea. The local container port is one of the routes the Colombians use to ship their drugs through the Caribbean.

That put an end to the conversation. Each man quietly reflected on the enormity of the sum involved, and what it meant to him.

They left the house just after midnight and climbed into a black panel van for the short trip. Lightning flashed intermittently as the Scot drove through the downpour. The two Englishmen sat in the back with the tools. The taller one applied black face paint and donned a woolen close-fitting hat.

You won’t need that, Hatch, said his compatriot. I’ll be cutting the power.

Just force of habit, Bob, was the reply. You never know.

As they approached the park, they saw the security van leaving after completing its hourly patrol. It would return after completing a circuit of other properties under its watch. The team had followed the driver and his mate over the weeks. They were in the habit of stopping for a Kalik or two at a local bar, and the time between patrols sometimes stretched to two hours.

Every mission, no matter how well planned, needs a certain element of luck. Lady Luck smiled on them in a huge way. In fact, she positively beamed on them. As they entered the storage park, a huge bolt of lightning went to earth adjacent to a nearby electrical substation. The park plunged into darkness – no lights and no cameras. The Scot gave a whoop of delight.

You won’t need to cut the lines now, laddie, he said over his shoulder.

Jimmy carefully navigated the van to the target unit. He avoided the worst potholes, reversed the van to the entrance of the unit and dimmed the headlights. The two Englishmen donned night vision goggles and exited the back of the van. The rain hit them with the force of a power shower. A huge set of bolt cutters quickly took care of the two locks at the base of the shutter door. They joined forces to heave the door up and open.

Inside, the blessed relief from the downpour was negated by the loud noise of the rain pounding on the metal roof. Through their night vision goggles, neither of them noticed the small battery powered infrared camera concealed in a corner of the ceiling.

Before them were three pallets covered by green tarpaulins. The first two contained a cache of guns and a shipment of cocaine, and they left them in place. The third one contained the jackpot. Under the tarpaulin were ten large suitcases each full of cash. They hastily unzipped one and confirmed its contents with satisfaction. The two men loaded six of them into the back of the van, careful not to slip on the wet ground. Despite the rain pouring down, they retrieved the broken locks and shut the unit door. Bob placed two identical brand locks back on the door’s clasps. A nice touch that was all part of the cover up that was to follow.

The Scot carefully negotiated the van out of the park. The whole thing had taken less than eight minutes. Exactly as planned.

It seemed inconceivable that the suitcases contained twelve million dollars in $100 US bills. They drove in silence, each contemplating the repercussions of their actions. They would lose half the amount by the time they had gone through the Pakistani financier who would launder the money for them but still it was more than enough for their needs.

The rain continued to pour down. It obscured the black motorcycle, with dimmed lights, that picked them up less than a hundred yards from the park and followed them home.

They pulled into the garage adjacent to the house. Bob got out and quickly pulled the door closed. He did not look down the road, so he did not see the rider on the black motorcycle pull out a Nokia and make a call.

They quickly unloaded the van, and then sat in the front room staring at the suitcases.

It’s time to make the call, laddie, Jimmy said.

Tom, Hatch to his friends, turned on a cheap pre-paid cell phone and dialed the local police station. Affecting a Jamaican accent, he left an anonymous tip regarding a cache of drugs, guns and cash at the Broncestone Self Storage Facility. That should put the cat amongst the pigeons, he thought.

The police would raid the facility, confiscate the property and announce the amount that they had found. The figure would be a lot less than the owners knew to be there. The reputation of the Bahamian Police, unfounded or not, would work in their favor at this point. Hopefully, the Colombians would believe that the first police on the scene had acquired the difference for the trouble of coming out on such a wet night. The robbery might slip by unnoticed and they would be home free.

The rain stopped without warning, lifting Tom’s spirits. He was hoping to leave with the cash that night. He moved to the kitchen area of the open plan ground floor, opened the back door, walked out onto the rear deck and looked at the sky. It was clear with a red hue on the horizon, a good sign. The remainder of the night should be clear. He walked down to the jetty at the foot of the back yard, tossed the cell phone into the canal and cast an affectionate glance at the Westsail 32 yacht moored there.

Help me load the boat now, guys, he said as he walked back inside.

His two companions gave a collective groan but good-naturedly complied. The heavy cases caused the men to make several trips. The small yacht offered little space for such a cargo and it was a tight fit. Tom would need