Overwatch Page #2

A Tier One short story

• Fiction
• Short story
• Action and Adventure

								

The solo work was refreshing, as was the infil into the country and into theatre, but now it was time to get to work.

They’d been briefed a few days ago, by their commander John Leopard. Mason had remembered the faces of the two men on the LCD screen.
“Hamza and Rayan Shahid. Two bomb-makers, they honed their talents in Afghanistan, making IED’s for the Taliban and any other bad actors who could pay. When it got too hot for them, we believe they jumped the border and now live in Peshawar, Pakistan, operating from a studio apartment. We believe they’re going to make a sale to a terror group who want to use these explosives on UK soil, just like 2017,” said Leopard to a quiet briefing room. The operators remembered the dark times from which the Task Force was born.
“We’re going to prevent this from happening again.”
“Where did we get this intel?” Mason had asked.
“MI6 operatives, handled by Mrs Rook. Pakistani intelligence gave us some intel too.”
“They know we’re coming?” Mason’s best friend, Scott Ridley, had asked too.
“F*ck no. These guys could have reach, it would explain why they’re not dead already. We’re operating anonymously this time. We make our way in solo, spread out, over the course of a few days. We conduct overwatch on the apartment, gather any Intel we can and either execute a raid, or kill the brothers. Understood?”
The operators voiced their agreement.
“Then it’s settled. We get a lift into Jordan tonight, then you’re on your own. I’ll see you lads in Peshawar.” 
Chapter Two
Mason stepped into the crumbling apartment block, ascending the stairs. Faint scents of cannabis drifted down the staircase, as well as piss and cigarettes. 
Fucking lovely.
Mason walked up the stairs until he reached the sixteenth floor, where he turned right and moved slowly to flat 1628. He pulled his pistol, and knocked on the door. After a few seconds, a voice responded.
“Sierra Hotel.”
“India Tango,” Mason responded, and was rewarded with the sound of a deadbolt unlocking and the door creaking open.
“You’re one of the first to arrive,” Leopard said, allowing Mason into the flat and shutting the door quickly behind him. The first thing Mason noticed was a suppressed HK416 rifle propped up in the corridor, Leopard’s rifle. 
“Anyone else here?” Mason asked, taking off his shemagh and shaking the dust off. 
“Scott arrived a couple of hours ago. He’s asleep right now, in the room on the right. On the left is the bathroom, and out front is the living room and kitchen.”
“Roger,” Mason said, and he opened his mouth to ask a question that Leopard asked before a sound left his mouth.
“Yes, you can have a shower.”
Five minutes later, Mason was under a surprisingly hot, powerful stream of water. Two days worth of dust, grime and sweat pooled around the drain. His FNX-45 was on the shelf next to the shampoo, staged for him to grab it and dump half a dozen rounds through the shower curtain if he needed to. 
All Mason needed to do now was shower and think, but he only had the time to wash.
After donning a white T-Shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, Mason made his way to the front room where Scott was sitting, his HK417 rifle on the table in front. Mason admired the weapon, before heading to the big Bergen sitting in the kitchen. He pulled out his SR-25, unfolded the stock and slid a twenty-round magazine into the marksman’s rifle, before screwing on the KAC suppressor. He popped the bipod down, and set it down next to the HK on the table. The two men sat facing from each other, grimy light filtering through the equally grimy windows and onto the table.
They made eye contact, and smiled.
“Safe travels?” He asked.
“Got into a bar fight, but other than that there was nothing.”
“Didn’t you start in Kabul? How’d you get away with drinking there?”
“This was in Camden three days ago.” Scott said, laughing. 
Mason chuckled too, before staring out of the window. 
“Hamza and Rayan Shahid. Two shitheads.” Scott said.
“Two shitheads.” Mason said. 
“I can’t help but feel a little different about this one, ya know,” Scott said.
“In what way?”
“I dunno… I just reckon there’s summat more to this one.” 
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much; we’re just trigger pullers mate.”
“I think there’s another reason we’re here.”
“The only reason we’re here is to pull some triggers.” Mason countered, before shifting over to the left to make room for Leopard.
“The Op starts tomorrow. There’s another four cells around this flat. We’re the only one with eyes on the building. We reconnoiter and provide overwatch for the assault and cut-off teams downstairs. They haven’t arrived yet, but they will soon.”
“Let’s get some sleep lads, we’ll need it.” 
Chapter Three

Hamza Shahid looked around the studio flat, his heart swelling with pride. Explosives lay in various stages of completion around the open plan apartment, from some being just piles of material to the other end of the scale, where there was a small quantity of explosives ready for shipment. They were in a box by the guest bedroom, where the four-man security detail was based. A few AK and Galil rifles were in a cage, along with a few handguns. Not that Hamza knew how to operate them; that was left to the four burly Pakistani’s posted around the flat block, with Makarov pistols tucked into their waistbands. The shower ran in the bathroom, where Rayan was now.
One of his phones buzzed inside of his pocket; he retrieved it and picked up. 
“Hamza?” 
The voice was altered electronically to the point where it was genderless and accent less, as well as the call being end-to-end encrypted. Hamza and his associate couldn’t be more secure.
“Hello? You didn’t arrange this call beforehand. I assume there is an important matter to attend to?”
“They are watching.”
“They?”
“Solace.”
A chill ran down Hamza’s spine.
Shit.
Despite all logical sense, he looked over his shoulder. Nothing and no one were behind him.
“How do they know where I am?”
“Intelligence collected from Peshawar station. SIGINT said you were going to make a sale this week. Did you make the sale?”
“Yes. It went fine… the guy was scary as f*ck, but it went okay.”
“Just sit tight.”
“Sit…tight?” 
Hamza heard his contact sigh on the other side of the phone, his English was good but not idiomatic.
“Stay in the apartment, send the guys out to get shopping when you need it. Keep weapons nearby, and act normal. If the guys watching you think something is up, then we’re all fucked.”
“Understood,” Hamza said, sweat dripping down his face.
“Should I tell Rayan?” He said, looking towards the bathroom.
“As soon as possible.”
“Okay,” Hamza said, before speaking again. “Why are you telling me this?”
His contact paused for a beat.
“I’ll do anything for my friends. Have a good night Hamza, I’ll call you again with more information.”
His contact hung up, and Hamza sat down on the overstuffed sofa, steeling himself to deliver the bad news to his brother. They’d grown up together in the slums of Lahore since 1980, desperately poor. Hamza, the older sibling, had buried himself in the books at school, getting into The University of Lahore and graduating with a degree in chemistry, despite his impoverished background. 

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes