Who Dares Wins

A little bit different for me this one. One for Harry and the lads maybe, who I honestly hope enjoy it.

Sorry if any of the technical side is a bit out, but I've got a bit rusty about these things these days, so I've done my best within time constraints. Please enjoy, please vote and feel free to comment.

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I felt the compacted sand under feet change to tarmac as I followed my four colleagues towards the great aircraft that loomed there in the darkness in front of us. The plane was an American transport, a C130 Hercules. On this cold and windy night it was just my compatriots and I that were it's miniscule charge. Five members of the British SAS, all dressed up and ready to go for our night out in black fatigues, black boots and black balaclavas, our hand and faces smeared with ample quantities of her Majesty's Government's very best black camouflage. Our own mothers wouldn't have seen us if we'd passed by more than ten feet from them. A very small load indeed for such a big plane, but those that make those decisions thought it worth it.

Our weaponry was light, a selection of light machine guns, standard Browning HD pistols and our knives strapped to our thighs ready for close quarter fighting. That night we were being dropped way out in the desert where our guys had been made most unwelcome for some time; not to take on the enemy ourselves but to use the equipment that three of them carried on their backs to direct an American airstrike. That would be followed by a full head on attack by a large detachment of crack Yank troops from the north, while a smaller force of Brits would be parachuted in to the hills in the South to cut off the escape of the bastards we were in battle against.

Us Brits, and them Yanks argued and disagreed with one another constantly about everything from which was the real football, whether you should drink beer ice cold or not, how you pronounced tomato, to the shape we liked our women. But by Golly, as so many wars had shown, when we fight side by side then the other side had better take cover.

AFGANISTAN --- 2010 ---- JUST NORTH OF HELMAN PROVINCE ----- 1.45 IN THE MORNING ----- TEN DAYS AGO!

We approached the waiting flying machine, sitting there like a black bird waiting to devour us, walked under its high wing and with a last check from the Major counting us out, we scrambled easily up the cold metal ramp that had been lowered to welcome us. Once inside the belly of the great beast we obeyed the orders of the young, but huge black loading master with hardly a grin, politely listening to his instructions about how things were done by what he claimed to be the best air force in the world. He was a big sod, so who were we to argue, even though between us we'd maybe jumped out of more aeroplanes than he'd ever flown in.

Once strapped in, we heard the engines wind up, and soon we were bumping along the uneven approach way, all with our own thoughts about what the next twenty four hours would bring -------- Assuming we survived long enough to reflect upon it of course.

In fairness that night's mission was what we would call a doddle. The biggest risk was landing on unknown terrain in the dead of night, and then we'd lay up, direct the Yank bombers in, and then wait for the 7th cavalry or whoever to come galloping in and save us.

Well ---- Something like that! And if someone didn't arrive to give the guys a lift home, then it was going to be an awful long walk back home.

Not quite true though!

That's what my four colleagues and friends would be doing, but not me. NO! I had another mission, albeit a totally unofficial one.

The engines reached an inferno and we felt the acceleration as our mother ship roared down the runway, the infernal row from the wheels on the rough runway through the un-insulated fuselage, suddenly dying away as the great bird broke its earthly bonds and took to the sky.

As expected the pilot turned into a wide circle, partly to gain ground and partly to confuse any unfriendly eyes as to which direction we might be going. What wouldn't have been expected at that moment was that he let the loading ramp back down again.

"Good luck Sarge," shouted each of my guys above the roar of the plane as I passed them, each of them more than happy to be doing what they were scheduled for rather than the task that had fallen to me. They were good friends and we'd fought side by side enough that I knew wild horses wouldn't drag the fact that I hadn't been with them the whole time. If our commanding officer questioned them, then they'd tell him immediately of course. But he wasn't going to ask them anymore than the two Yank pilots up front that three of us dragged back from behind enemy lines after they'd crashed, less than two months ago were. And the loading master? It was a risk, but I'd been assured that he'd know to keep his mouth shut.

Taking a pre-prepared smaller rucksack from my back pack, and with a final salute and good luck wishes both ways, I ambled down to the back of the aircraft, and launched myself into the unwelcoming darkness as I felt the expected tap on my shoulder.

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From the height that I jumped one didn't worry about freefall, the chute snapping open almost as soon as I exited the plane, yanked out by the ripcord to make sure that it did. Within moments I found myself dangling above the darkened countryside, only the dimmed lights from the base that we had just left to guide me. Too quickly the ground rushed up to greet me and a little harder than I would have hoped for, I hit the ground.

Up on the rebound, I gathered my chute, bundled it up and hid it under a nearby scrubby bush. Maybe sometime some lucky tribesman would find it, and who knows, maybe some lucky tribesman's wife and daughters might find themselves with enough fine underwear to last them a lifetime.

Then I yomped!

A term made popular during the Falklands when British Special Forces almost galloped rather than marched miles across the Island to surprise the Argentinean forces before defeating them around Port Stanley. In no time at all, I approached the perimeter fence to the base, formidably guarded, but no problem to the forces who had redesigned the defences recently and regularly tested them out to check them ever since. Panting hard but confident, I was soon inside and making my way back over to the very airfield that I had left from less than half an hour previously.

Time was of Importance!

A quick face wash and donning a borrowed great coat from my rucksack, just in time, I joined the end of a queue of British servicemen boarding yet another transport plane ---- yes one of those big fuckers again, but this time one of the later C130Js.

"Seventy seven?" queried the erk counting us on board. "Shouldn't there be ......"

"Go back to school laddy," butted in the burly Scots guardsman who commanded the squad. "You can't count."

"But Sir," the young lad complained. "There should only be seventy six."

"Are you calling me a liar laddy?" the Scotsman demanded, raising himself to his full six foot five of brawn and muscle.

"No sir, sorry sir," the erk backed down and went about his business.

"Find yourself a seat Tim lad," the Scot, an old pal of mine, whispered to me and I merged in with the others knowing that they would be more interested in getting home to see their loved ones than to give any thought to the late arrival.

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The flight back to Blighty is bloody long on one of those things, especially when you have to land to refuel, conserving fuel in Afghanistan for those that might need it more than we did.

Uncomfortable as well.

Bloody miserable also when I had to contemplate the problem that I was flying home to deal with.

It started as a rumour. They were common enough in the services. There was always someone or other's wife up to monkey business.

But not my wife, not Jill, my beautiful, blonde bundle of fun that I'd fell in love with at school. It was the legs I guess, not that the rest of her wasn't fantastic. But with legs that seemed to go up to her armpits she was the only woman that I'd ever wanted.

Well?

You know what I mean for Christ's sake.

We'd been married eight wonderful years, and as I'd clawed my way slowly up the ladder in my chosen profession, then she'd done the same in hers.

She was a copper!

Yes, honestly, she joined the police force and became a policewoman, rising to Detective sergeant, with hopes of becoming an inspector soon. She was good at her job. Efficient. Caring. A good leader. Successful. Popular.

Too damn popular by all accounts!

According to rumour someone else, a colleague of hers had also been taken in by those damn legs. According to rumour, more than taken in by them, having had them wrapped round him on several occasions.

Her fucking Superintendant, her boss and all.

Worst of all, was that it wasn't just rumour anymore. It was fact! Doesn't matter how I knew, but I did, and now I had to do something about it.

As I said, it was a long, long flight home!

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Time moves on.

We touched down on an RAF base west of London, and in my borrowed great coat over my combat outfit, I made my way over to Hereford, not a million miles away. In that area nobody would remember the Corporal from the REME, and if they did, then they would never connect him with me.

So far, so good.

By the time I arrived at the estate where Jill and I lived, off base, as many of us married guys did, night had fallen. The time difference was confusing, even though I'd planned it all out, and as I stood there hidden behind a bush on the corner of our street, I thanked the stars that I'd been able to catch a few winks on the flight over. I'd stripped off the REME coat and was back in combat black so it was unlikely that anyone would spot me. If they did? Then that would take some explaining.

More time passed.

About eleven O'clock that night, my lonely vigil started to come to an end as a big silver grey Mercedes pulled up in front of our house ---- my house, and a tall chap jumped out and rushed around to the other side to open the door for his companion.

Is that why she'd wandered? Had my chivalry deserted me over the years?

The most outrageously long pair of shapely bare legs swung out, eventually being followed by a small, tight, black mini skirt.

Yes I recognised them!

I'd recognised my wife's legs anywhere.

The bastard took her arms and pulled her out of the car and into his arms, where they stood for some minutes clinging onto to one another, their lips locked in seemingly mortal combat.

"Fuck her!" I thought. "Surely the neighbours must be seeing this."

And then I remembered where I got my information from. Yes ---- One neighbour at least had noticed.

Arm in arm they sauntered up OUR garden path, the bugger unbuttoning her blouse as they did so. By the time they disappeared inside OUR front door, then he had the blouse in his hand and was unclutching her bra.

Jill giggled.

I nearly puked.

For the next hour I settled in my hiding spot, my years of training making that no problem, till I was sure that the pair of them had at least gone to bed, and that the neighbours had switched their antennas off, the nightly performance over.

I made my way stealthily round to our back door. No problem! Stealth is my stock in trade after all. There I took my own back door key and let myself in, carefully listening to make sure nobody was about, but nearly shitting myself when something brushed against my leg.

Shit, I nearly screamed out loud, biting it back as I heard our cat, Bubbles, meow her welcome home message to me. Well at least someone wanted me back.

A quick stroke and Bubbles was happy and wondered off to chase imaginary mice or whatever, her duty done satisfactorily.

I needn't have worried too much about stealth, and could have bought half the damn Taliban and their camels home with me for all them two would have noticed. Jill had always been noisy in bed, but even from downstairs it seemed exceptional. Maybe no more than our early days when we'd embarrassed both sets of parents on several occasions, but it hadn't been like that between us for quite some time.

I wearily staggered up the flight of stairs that normally I would have bound up three at a time if I'd Known Jill was still in bed, and stood listening at the door.

"Damn it John, Your cock fills me so good."

"Your pussy's so good sweetheart. Doesn't that wimp husband of yours ever service you?"

"Not like you do John honey. He's too busy over there fighting them rag heads."

"Maybe one of them will shoot his poor ass off with any luck."

"Please don't say that John. He doesn't fuck me like you do, but he is some kind of hero, and I still love him despite what I do with you."

"His loss is my gain Sergeant."

"Only till he comes back Mr. Superintendant, sir. Then this all ends."

"Till he goes away again, you mean?"

"Maybe."

"That's what you said last time Jill."

"OK, probably then."

I couldn't resist it.

I know I shouldn't have taken the risk, but they were so taken up with one another, and I just had to see it --- To know. Call it risk assessment, intelligence gathering or what you will. I just had to see, if only to give me the resolve to do what I had planned.

I edged open the door and peered inside, straight away seeing the pair of them lying there naked on the bed, entwined in one another's arms, Jill gasping while he sucked on her left tit, the movement of his hairy backside indicating exactly what he was doing with his wedding tackle.

Standing there transfixed for some time, I couldn't move to stop them, and had no intention of doing so. I simply wondered what he had that I didn't. Then they changed position and I saw the reason. I saw what he had that I didn't have, or at least not as much as he had.

For a few fleeting seconds I saw what was no doubt his pride and joy, but which, unknown to him would be his downfall. The Angel of death was not far from him at that moment, but not ready yet. The Angel of death closed the door on the awful scene and went back downstairs, where I sat in my favourite armchair and played with Bubbles who had come back to favour me with her presence. (Sorry DQS, it just sort of slipped in.)

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Training!

Training can teach a man many a thing, and as an SAS soldier, I'd had more than my fair share of training. Training can teach you how to operate a computor, or a bus or a train, or even an aeroplane. Training can make you a better manager, or a better sales person, or even a better bricklayer.

My training taught me patience when facing an enemy no matter what the provocation, and that's what I employed for the next few hours till the row upstairs died down.

My training also taught me how to use good intelligence, and mine told me the John, bless his soul, would be staying the night unless he broke his regular Thursday night habit.

My training also made me an expert on how to kill people, singly or in numbers, but that would be for later.

I waited. Just like my training had taught me.

Some time in the early hours I picked Bubbles off my lap and laid her down on the sofa beside me. Then lifting myself up from my comfortable position, I walked across the room, picking up my rucksack with what I needed as I did so. Listening at the door and hearing nothing but the familiar faint snore from my ever loving wife, and a louder one that I didn't recognise, I carefully pushed the bedroom door open again.

They were both there sound asleep, both worn out by their athletics, the bedclothes strewn everywhere, more on the floor than still on the bed. I had no wish to look at him, but my heart missed a beat as I stared at my beautiful wife laying there naked, his cum in streaks all over her body, laying on her back with her legs splayed out wide, as if waiting for her next lover to come a calling.

Shit!

She even still had her high heels on.

That hurt.

It always made her long legs look even longer, and I thought that was our special thing.

Then again, I'd been wrong about a number of things hadn't I?

Satisfied that they were both in a deep sleep, I padded silently over to the bed, taking out a length of cotton wool, which I liberally doused with the liquid from a small bottle. No, it wasn't chloroform, but something similar; more modern; more effective and pretty well untraceable. Putting it firmly over the bastard's mouth and nose, I held it there till his breathing changed.

He was out for the count, and when he was due to wake up, then he simply wouldn't.

I would have liked him to know what was going to happen to him, but couldn't risk it.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I next took out my knife. Yes the one that I'd had with me in Afghanistan, and with some pre gained knowledge ---- Yes training again ---- I carefully made an incision in his throat, not slashing away like some crazed murderer, but more like a surgeon. Having just nicked his jugular, his lifeblood started to seep out, till it become a steady trickle, giving him I estimated about ten minutes or so to depart from this earth of ours.

I then turned my attention to Jill, who fortunately hadn't been disturbed by her lover's impending demise, as like any good soldier I had a plan 'B'. Fortunately, because though it would have worked, it would have been an awful lot messier, and Jill would never have known either what happened to poor John.

Now that would have been a pity, wouldn't it?

I rumbled silently through her work clothes and found what I was looking for. A pair of handcuffs, standard police issue and issued to her. Better that way, than using the plastic ties I'd bought just in case, I thought. Carefully taking her outstretched arm, I pulled her hand up to the bed head, where I attached one end of the cuffs to her wrist and the other to our mock old fashioned Victorian style bed-head. Very solid cast iron thing it was to.

It was done.

She gave me a moment of worry when I'd put the cuff round her wrist, but she'd nodded off again. Probably worn out with all that activity poor girl. Then with a last lingering look at the beautiful slender body that I knew I would never enjoy again, I left the room and exited the house, leaving Bubbles as the only one that knew I'd ever been there, and I was pretty confident that she wouldn't blow the whistle on me.

The journey back was uneventful, and I soon found myself on another flight back to Afghanistan, even having a proper seat to sit in this time on a domestic airline.

Prior to this posting I'd been on a security rosta for a year or so, watching the back of the MI5 guy who was looking after someone very important to world peace. I'd had to intervene one day when some guy got a bit too close to the pair of them, which might not have been that worrying except that he had a gun, and his swarthy looking pal had his weapon lined up on the bodyguard. I took that one out with a single shot, but before I could round on the other one, the MI5 agent had put the first one down.

Job well done, and I got a medal, albeit incognito, got pissed out of my mind with the MI5 guy, whose real name I never actually found out, a citation from the American Government, and three months leave. Great except that my cover was blown and I got reassigned. I ask you; swanning around the capitals of the world and staying in posh hotels, or parachuting into hostile territory to face the Taliband? Which would you chose?

I did however end up with a couple of additional identities, and passports to go with them.

"Lost them sir!" Was my claim and they'd heard that before, but sign the form and that was the end of it.

Came in handy though for buying airline tickets when you didn't want anyone to know it was you buying them.