The Hatcher File

Chapter One

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 all his agility to move around and operate the small boat. The compact wooden jetty was another reason why they had chosen this property. They loaded the arms and equipment they had used on the mission onto the boat using most of the storage compartments. All evidence of the crime would sail with Hatch on the compact vessel.

The Scot cracked open a bottle of red wine with some difficulty. He was usually a beer drinker. They sat around a small glass table on the rear deck and toasted their good fortune.

“Are you sailing tonight, Hatch?”

“Yeah, the sooner the better.”

“We’ll sanitize the house tonight and catch a flight tomorrow. We’ll meet you in Nassau, tomorrow evening sometime.”

“Look for me at the Atlas Bar and Grill, off the Atlantis Casino,” Tom said.

“Be careful laddie! Don’t lose all our money before we get there!”

They bantered back and forth for half an hour, sipping their wine. Tom dragged his heels, he was comfortable and amongst trusted friends. He was almost reluctant to leave. Finally, he heaved himself up – it was time to go. He hugged his two friends in silence and strolled down to the jetty, they helped him cast off as he fired up the small 15hp kicker engine that would propel him out of the canal and onto the ocean. With a cheery wave, Tom maneuvered the small boat into the center of the canal and left his friends behind on the shore. He turned on the shortwave radio, and tuned into the local police wavelength to follow the raid on the lock-up as it happened.

* * * *

Their actions that night had resulted in a flurry of activity from different factions in Freeport. The police mobilized a couple of squad cars to the lock-up. The phone call that the motorcyclist had made resulted in a greater response. Two large black SUVs left the compound of a large estate a few miles outside of Freeport and collected several armed men on their way to rendezvous with the motorcyclist. The men jabbered away in Spanish as the vehicles made their way to the Running Mon estate.

Unaware of the impending visit from the irate Colombians, Tom’s friends sat and leisurely finished the bottle of wine. They were mellow and relaxed, the tension of the earlier part of the evening forgotten. They left the glasses and empty bottle on the back deck and made their way inside. They would clear up in the morning when they sanitized the place. They would not leave a single fingerprint behind. The rental agency wouldn’t believe three men could be so clean. Jimmy chuckled to himself as he made his way to the foot of the stairs. His companion went to the fridge for a late night snack.

“Goodnight, Bob,” growled Jimmy.

Before his companion could reply, all hell broke loose. The front door burst open with a splintering crash, three swarthy men ran into the room and broke off in different directions. They each had a small Uzi primed and ready. The two Brits reacted without thinking, their SAS training kicking in automatically. Unfortunately, only Jimmy had retained a weapon. He pulled the small pistol from the back of his pants and actually got off one shot before a burst of automatic gunfire caught him midsection and dropped him like a stone. Another burst caught Bob as he dove for the back door. It was over in seconds.

The Colombians searched the house, up and down but found no trace of the money or suitcases. They searched the van in the garage and the garbage in the back yard. They quizzed the motorcyclist who swore no one had left the premises. Increasingly angry and agitated, they lost reason. One of them found some barbeque fluid in the kitchen and set a fire in the sitting room. As the SUVs pulled away, the flames were already consuming the ground floor.

* * * *

Blissfully unaware of his friends’ fate, Tom turned off the engine and unfurled the sail. He listened to the radio as he activated the GPS. He’d chartered a course for Lyford Cay on the western end of New Providence and programmed the first set of co-ordinates into the system.

Tom listened to the police traffic on the short wave radio, about the drug find in the storage unit. He smiled to himself as he heard the amazement in the officers’ voices clearly over the static. Out of the blue, he heard gunfire in the distance. Sound travels a long way over water, and it was impossible to tell where it had come from. Tom knew automatic gunfire when he heard it. Just two short bursts – it was unmistakable. He looked back to the shore and listened intently. The only sound he heard was the slight rushing of the water under the keel. The boat rode well despite the weight of the money. He noticed a yellowish orange glow coming from the shore and realized that a fire burned fiercely. A sudden change in tone on the radio brought him up short.

“Gunfire reported from the Running Mon estate,” an excited voice stuttered over the radio.

Tom’s heart missed a beat. As he listened, and the story unfolded, Tom was horrified. He knew his friends were good and could more than take care of themselves. He also knew that they didn’t have automatic weapons. He had to fear the worst. Had they made a mistake, or had someone betrayed them? Was it the Pakistani? Tom would find out soon enough. He was on a course to meet him. The morning would reveal all.

Using all his discipline and will, Tom prepared to rest. He had to shut out the thoughts that whirled in his head and get some sleep. He dropped a deep sea anchor and let the line out to a comfortable length. He folded the mainsail and bunked down for the night. The Regiment had instilled strict discipline in him. Sleep when you can and eat when you can – you never know when you will not be able to do either. He’d need all his wits about him in the morning.