Short Story: Kill Them All… ...g.o.d Part…

Short Story: Kill Them All… ...g.o.d Part V

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

Four days later, the Jackass and her Tech Sup Team in the names of Trudy Kwaso left Magamaga barracks and headed for Kampala.

They had earlier in the day met with a representative of the National Hit Squad, whose official name was Urban Tactical Security Force. The guy had left them a thin folder put together by the Ministers of Finance and Defense. In brief, their assignment was to `put out of action` a one Mwana Lumba Kabuye.

Apparently, MLK was in cahoots with several high ranking civil and security officers and was thus a menace to deal with. All arrests (only one actual one it turned out) were turned into circuses with files and witnesses disappearing like firm skin on an octogenarian`s elbows.

MLK was a money launderer, currency counterfeiter and accomplished conman. According to his thin file, he was a well-fed looking grandfatherly innocent type aged thirty four, though his size and demeanor suggested he was either older or had poor eating habits. There was a grainy photograph of him, obviously a surveillance photo, with four others.

The file was thin because UTSF did not deal in files; they were a specially trained small group of government assassins who put criminals out of their happiness. When the girls asked the UTSF Rep why they were not doing the hits themselves, the answer was that with MLK`s various contacts in government, a leak would bring bad press and open up doors that the public did not even know led to certain buildings. So the hit had to be carried out ‘by Indians who did not belong to any reservation.’

Miss Langley, with all her training and expertise and beauty and resourcefulness, knew nothing about counterfeiting so the Jackass took her through some verbal drills.

*****

The most important tool in the counterfeiter`s arsenal were the plates. So counterfeiting involved, among others, serious artists who either could not make it in the straight-and-narrow avenues of business or chose not to, chasing the thrill of possible arrest and incarceration coupled with big and fast rewards. In essence, preferring if not succumbing to the Easy Come Syndrome.

After a good artist was on board, the perps now needed a good press, but not of the news variety. The more mobile a press was, the better for then they could easily switch it around various locations, some hundreds of miles from each other.

Next came the paper, the closer to the real note being fabricated the more excellent the end result so Europeans got a bit of business from many counterfeiting businesses out to purchase quality paper. Of course an inside man always helped, preferably one working with a national bank.

Then came the ink. The more indelible this was, the better the product. But the ink also tended to depend on the mark; the less sophisticated a mark was, the cheaper the ink. But if one wanted to go after big names, like ministers or ambassadors greedy for more gathered for less, then one needed better ingredients in the kitchen. And a great chef, of course.

The distribution depended on the perp. The big ones had moles in banks and sneaked millions into the system. The smaller ones targeted the public, exchanging fake notes for goods or services.

“Wow!,” enthused Trudy Kwaso, “and how do you know all that?”

“Oh?” said the Jackass, balancing the wheel with only her right hand, the left texting on her IPhone. “Now I`m also a suspect?”

“Sorry,” said Trudy. “I really didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, I read reports when I feel like it and I`m not above surfing the net every now and then.”

“So, what`s the play here?”

“K.I.S.S,” replied Jackline Assimwe.

“Yeah, have heard that one before. But how, in this case?”

“We reach Nasser Road, identify the marks, come out of the vehicles with guns blazing. We kill them all and let God do the sorting. We get back in the vehicles and drive off.”

“Vehicles?”

“When we reach the underground garage on De Winton Road, we shall find switch cars. The cars will have GPS, loaded hand guns and smoked windows. Each of us shall have two guns, both Glocks. One will have a red strip on the barrel, the other a blue one.”

“Why?”

The Jackass forced a Harrier to break suddenly when she drove into an intersection without reducing speed.

“The Glocks with the red strips are loaded with 15-round clips of live ammo, for the perps. The other gun, with the blue strip, is for shooting at nosy civilians, cops or security guards in the area.”

“Cops too?”

“Yes, the blue strip is loaded with rubber bullets but shoot any armed cop or guard and innocent bystander right in the head. They will get a nasty bump and a vicious concussion but they will live to tell their grand kids about the day they chased two girls who had run amok with automatic hand guns.”

“Okay, that looks simple enough. What`s the exfiltration plan?”

“The boys from UTSF have commandeered two police patrol vehicles and they will appear on the scene to assist in our getaway.”

Trudy raised one eyebrow and gave the Jackass a long sideways look.

“How the hell are they gonna assist our escape if we are shooting them in the head?”

“Don`t you worry, just follow me and once we get back into the cars, put your hand out the window every few minutes to shoot backwards…and try to aim at the police trucks.”

*****

At the restaurant on Nasser Road where intel placed MLK, the two girls disembarked. The Jackass was driving a black Honda CRV while behind her Trudy was in a Toyota Caldina, maroon. They had both changed into black oversize jeans and baggy Tees with large hats and the kinds of sunglasses that are a common sight on Sunset Boulevard.

As the Jackass laid foot on the paving in front of the cheap restaurant, MLK and six associates of his walked out. Even as she wondered why a rich crook would eat at such a place, she raised her right hand and the red strip gun begun spitting deliberate fire at the group.

Four shots, one in the heart and the last in the head, dropped MLK and three of his goons took one each in the head. She turned to the remaining two to find them dropping from Trudy`s fire. After this she turned around heading back to her car, eyes alert.

In a country where private security companies were four dozen a dime, such operations without official back up were always risky. She did not relish a security guard putting one in her; and those buggers carried G3s and other such no nonsense guns that could blow a hole into twelve people without a second thought.

Both their hands pointing automatics left and right, the two girls made it back into their cars and drove off headed in the direction of Nakasero in Upper Kampala. At the Jinja Road junction, the Jackass turned right, in the direction of Jinja. Trudy followed and as the first police vehicle made to follow, an army Land Rover V8 crashed into it, making a mess and blocking the junction.

After this, it was smooth sailing as no one on Jinja Road knew about their business on Nasser. At the lights at the Jinja-Yusuf Lule junction, they patiently waited their turn, then turned left. A few minutes later they were in the underground garage on De Winton.

Switching clothes, they switched back into their Escalade and drove to the Sheraton Kampala Hotel for a swim. During the seven o`clock news on UBC, the bodies of yet unidentified `Kampala businessmen` killed in cold blood were paraded. This was followed by the attendant experts on crime and politics and the theories began.

The Jackass raised her fruit juice and toasted Trudy who was sipping something probably from Thailand or Taiwan. All she could remember was that the other girl had asked for something with a badly pronounced `May` in it and a `tie`.

“To new and successful partnerships,” she said. A handsome middle aged man who had been surreptitiously eying them with hope looked away in disgust.

The Jackass smiled. Since the LGBT upswing any two same sex people eating or drinking alone were suspected to be gay, lesbian or gay-lesbian/lesbian-gay. The Jackass did not see herself as a heterosexual woman, she knew she was a woman and that was it.

Now, thinking about it and trying to picture herself and Trudy doing it, she realized she was actually gay, but not the lesbian kind; she loved to have sex with men!

*****