by Chris Ryan
‘They must have moved on,’ Mallet said.
‘To where?’
‘The other targets. Mobile transmitters, barracks, border crossings. General Kakuba and his Russian mates will want to gain control of the country as soon as possible. Before the president’s troops can regroup.’
‘Or they might be at the palace,’ Bowman said.
Loader grunted. ‘If they are, we’ll hit them fucking hard. With the firepower we’ve got, we’ll go through them like a dose of salts.’
The convoy rattled on through the main commercial district. Bowman fought to stay alert in spite of his growing exhaustion. The few hours of kip he’d had on the jet had been his only chance to rest in two days, and he wondered how much longer he could push on before it affected his performance. Another six hours, he told himself. That’s all. Get to Mike and the family, secure them until the reinforcements show up. Then you can rest.
He glanced down at the satnav. We’re a mile from the presidential palace. Not far to go now.
As they neared the city centre, Bowman saw more signs of the violent uprising. Dead bodies littered the streets. Some of the victims had been hacked to pieces. Several others were missing arms and legs; blood gushed out of ragged stumps. Gangs of escaped convicts in bright-orange overalls roamed the city, armed with clubs or machetes. Directly ahead, the Hilux rocked as it drove over a corpse in the middle of the road. Bowman wrenched the steering wheel to the right, swerving to avoid the dead body rolling in the dirt.
‘What the fuck are these guys playing at?’ Loader growled in the back seat. ‘We’re supposed to be protecting this lot, not mowing them down.’
‘Not our concern,’ Mallet said coldly. ‘We’re here for the family. That’s it.’
‘Guess the major wasn’t kidding when he said they wouldn’t stop for anything,’ Webb said.
The convoy stuck to the backstreets, avoiding the main thoroughfares. After several quick turns they hit the government district on the western side of Marafeni. The downtrodden huts were replaced by crumbling colonial villas and modern-looking office blocks. The wealthier part of town. But only just. There were signs of decay here, too, in the cracked pavements and potholed roads, the neglected gardens.
Bowman checked the console again: 23.55. A few more minutes until we hit the palace.
The convoy slung a left past the German Embassy and hit down a wide street lined with restaurants and state banks. Two hundred metres further to the west was the presidential palace. From a distance, in the semi-darkness, Bowman couldn’t pick out many details. There was an outer guard post, an inner gate. A high security wall surrounded the compound with guard towers spaced at regular intervals. Beyond the wall stood the palace itself, as white as icing sugar on a cake.
Two bodies were slumped on the ground next to the guard post. Dressed in the uniform of the Presidential Guard.
‘Shit,’ Loader muttered.
Bowman felt his stomach drop.
We’re too late.
The convoy cautiously passed the outer guard post and started down the driveway. It ran on for a hundred metres towards a wide carriage circle in front of the presidential palace. Which looked like a renovated colonial villa, with a porticoed entrance, surmounted by a pediment with the Karatandan coat of arms in the middle: a lion and a snake locked in a fearsome struggle in front of a pair of crossed spears, below a plentiful fruit tree. A gold dome rested on top of the roof. The palace was situated at the northern side of the compound, backing on to the ocean. To the south, eighty metres away, Bowman saw a couple of smaller buildings. From the maps he’d studied at Nice, he knew that these structures housed the guard barracks and servants’ quarters. A service road ran from the barracks to a secondary gated exit in the south-eastern corner of the compound.
The palace grounds were strewn with abandoned equipment: body armour, helmets, canteens, boots. And dead bodies. Bowman counted at least half a dozen of them, their shapes faintly visible in the glow from the security lights. They were all dressed in the dark-grey uniform and green berets of the Presidential Guard.
‘Jesus . . . ’ Loader said. ‘What the fuck happened?’
The rear brake lights on the Hilux suddenly flared as the pickup halted. Bowman quickly stamped hard on the brakes, the Land Cruiser skidded and lurched to a stop half a metre behind the Hilux. To their rear, the Unimog driver had also stopped.
‘What are those idiots doing now?’ Loader said angrily.
Bowman didn’t reply. Beyond the red ghost-like flare of the Hilux brake lights, he spied movement. Fifty metres away. Four figures, near the entrance to the palace.
Not members of the Presidential Guard.
Not friendlies.
The Machete Boys.
Twenty-Two
It took Bowman half a second to identify the four figures at the entrance to the palace. They were dressed in a strange mishmash of cargo shorts, athleisure and brightly coloured T-shirts, their AK-47 rifles slung casually over their shoulders. Therefore, not soldiers or police. All four men wore amulets around their wrists. Animal paws hung from chains draped around their necks. They had small leather pouches tied to ropes around their waists, their chests, their biceps. Presumably containing coins or buttons or other magical items.
Gris-gris, Mavinda had said. Good luck charms. Worn by the Machete Boys to protect them from bullets and other dangers.
A splinter group. More like a gang than soldiers.
Three of the Boys were hauling loot out of the palace. One guy in a replica Portugal football jersey carried a bronze bust the size of a bowling ball. A second man with a red bandana tied around his head gripped the gilt frame of an oil painting. Next to him, a third bloke in a garish pink T-shirt was lugging a wooden chair. They carried their stolen treasure over to a battered truck parked at the eleven o’clock position on the carriage circle. A fourth kid, no older than sixteen or seventeen, bare-chested and wearing flip-flops, leaned against the side of the truck, swaying drunkenly as he swigged from a bottle of whisky.
The guy with the bandana caught sight of the convoy in the driveway. He stopped dead and shouted at his mates, and then Pinkie and Portugal dropped the loot they had been carrying, and Flip-Flops wheeled round to see what they were looking at.
The four Machete Boys had a sudden decision to make. The biggest decision of their lives. Possibly the last, depending on the outcome. They could stand and fight. Or they could turn and run.
The rebels unslung their assault rifles. Going for the first option. Brave, but stupid.
In the Land Cruiser, Casey reacted fractionally quicker than the rest of the team. She flipped her door open, jumped down and raised her Colt rifle at the Boys. ‘Put your guns down! Hands in the air!’
The Boys ignored her. They had already made up their minds. They weren’t going to abandon their goods. They were going to stand and fight.
Bandana and Portugal let rip first, firing from the hip as they emptied a couple of wild bursts at the Land Cruiser. Three rounds missed the target completely, slapping into the tarmac eight or nine inches short of the wagon. Two other bullets struck the grille in a shower of flying sparks. A sixth round glanced off the bodywork near Casey, forcing her to dive for cover behind a statue of the president, two metres to the right of the driveway.
Then Pinkie discharged a third burst. Slower reactions, but a marginally better marksman. Two bullets glanced off the ground at the spot where Casey had been standing a moment earlier. Another round ricocheted off the statue, taking off a chunk of the president’s face.
In the Land Cruiser, Mallet, Bowman, Loader and Webb instantly snatched up their rifles. They didn’t need to communicate with one another. There was no time for a debate, anyway. They knew exactly what to do.
Engage the targets. Neutralise the threat.
The three soldiers leaped out of the wagon. Bowman and Mallet took up positions behind the front side doors, using them as cover. Behind them, Loader and Webb shielded t
hemselves behind the two rear passenger doors. A brief glance at his six o’clock told Bowman that the Karatandan soldiers were still bottled up in the back of the Unimog. Awaiting orders from Major Mavinda, presumably.
In the next half-second the Boys opened fire on the Hilux. Rounds hammered against the pickup bonnet in a piercing din. Two rounds struck the windshield, spider-webbing the glass. Mavinda and his deputies made no attempt to debus. Illogical. But an instinct thing. We’re safer inside than out. Through the rear windshield Bowman glimpsed four heads ducking down as another vicious torrent of incoming rounds peppered the truck.
Four seconds had passed since the first shot had been fired.
Bowman held his weapon in a steady two-handed grip, the telescopic stock tucked against his right shoulder as he coolly lined up the holographic sight with Bandana. He aimed for the midriff. The best target. The percentage shot. Like buying tech stock. Obvious, but lucrative. A 5.56 × 45 mm round could do a serious amount of damage to a person’s torso. Enough to put Bandana and his mates out of the game.
The Boy was still spraying rounds at Hilux when Bowman pulled the trigger.
Two rounds flamed out of the muzzle in quick succession, thumping into Bandana’s upper chest. The lucky charms didn’t save him. His head snapped back and he did a kind of drunken pirouette before he dropped. Bowman plugged him twice more as his body belly-smacked against the blacktop.
A metre to the right, Portugal did the dead man’s dance as Mallet emptied three rounds into his stomach. The two other Boys panicked and ran towards the palace entrance. Rapidly reconsidering the power of their charms. A couple of muzzles flashed in Bowman’s peripheral vision as Loader and Webb gave them the double-tap treatment. Doing the business. Bullets thumped into Flip-Flops and Pinkie, tearing through their upper backs. The pair of them fell to the ground a few metres from the truck.
Seven seconds since the fight had started.
Four dead Boys.
Shadows flitted in and out of the trees studding the lawn at Bowman’s ten o’clock. More looters were scampering out of the palace, alerted by the sound of gunfire. They dashed out of side exits and windows, carrying strips of copper wire, light fittings and bits of furniture and laptops as they scuttled south across the compound. None of them appeared to be armed, but Bowman put an automatic burst down in their direction anyway. Sending a clear message. Stay away. The figures scurried through the gate and disappeared into the shadows.
Mallet shouted, ‘Move yourselves! Get inside! Find the family!’
The team broke forward. Casey picked herself off the ground and caught up with Bowman and Webb as they ran up the drive and past the carriage circle, making for the entrance. Mallet left them and darted over to the Hilux, bellowing orders at Major Mavinda. Shouting at him to get out and order his soldiers to throw up a cordon around the palace.
A warm salty breeze gusted in from the sea, whipping past Bowman as he bounded up the steps to the portico. Loader ran alongside his comrade, breathing hard. Webb and Casey were a couple of paces further back. Bowman could hear their equipment clinking as they raced past the dead Boys. The four soldiers ran past the columns and swept into the palace foyer. Weapons up, covering one another.
Bowman quickly orientated himself as he stepped into a marble-floored reception. There was a courtyard at the far end, he saw. Corridors to the left and right. The palace had been trashed by its latest visitors. Broken glass and spent jackets scattered the floor. Bullet holes studded the walls. Priceless artworks had been cut out of their frames. Other items had been discarded by the thieves in their haste to escape. Books, framed photographs, an ocean of paperwork, various trinkets. One or two wall lights still flickered. The remainder had been torn out of their sockets.
Bowman and Loader moved quickly across the reception, index fingers feathering triggers. They tacked right, moving down the corridor leading towards the banqueting room. Webb and Casey leaped up the stairs to clear the private quarters on the first floor. As Bowman moved down the corridor, he tried to recall the faces of the president’s family. His wife Christel, his three kids. His brother, Francis Seguma. His sister-in-law. Their twin daughters. He’d seen them pinned to the display board back in the Shed. Twenty-one hours ago. Another lifetime. Before the briefing with the Voice, the arrest in Monte Carlo.
His heart was beating frantically as he barged into the staff kitchen. He didn’t know what they would find inside the palace. But he feared it wasn’t going to be good news. The Machete Boys weren’t professional soldiers. They wouldn’t have risked ransacking the palace unless they were sure the fighting was over. And that could only mean one thing.
The rebels have already wiped out the family.
They’re dead.
They cleared each room rapidly, arcs swinging from left to right, looking for enemy targets and friendlies, moving with the speed and controlled aggression of elite operators. They checked the kitchen, the pantry, the banqueting room, the music room. Then they crossed the reception and cleared the offices and the grand meeting chamber on the south side of the ground floor.
Every room had been stripped bare of its valuables. Cupboards had been emptied. Drinks cabinets raided. Carpets ripped up. Furniture broken up or stolen. The looting parties had been extremely thorough. Anything they couldn’t take with them had been damaged or destroyed. But there was no sign of the family, or Mike Gregory, or the other members of the Presidential Guard.
There’s no one here. Just a handful of slotted guards.
‘Where is everyone?’ Loader rasped.
They hurried back down the corridor towards the reception area. From upstairs Bowman could hear the stomp of boots on carpet, Casey and Webb shouting, ‘Clear!’ to one another as they rapidly searched through the rooms on the first floor.
Only one floor left to clear.
‘Come on!’ Bowman roared as he cantered across the reception. Glass shards cracked like ice underfoot as he sprinted back down the corridor to the right. Loader ran after him, and they crashed through an unmarked door leading down to the basement level. A secret network of emergency operation rooms ran underneath the main house, Bowman recalled from the layout. Somewhere for the president and his entourage to bunker down if they came under attack.
He raced down the corridor, past the exposed pipework and ducts, past the ammo crates stacked against the bare walls. They ducked in and out of the various storerooms, the admin offices, the living quarters. The private cinema. The games room.
Empty.
So where the fuck is the family?
Bowman swung back into the corridor and made for the door at the far end. The last room to check. The president’s private library. Which also housed the palace broadcasting equipment. Bowman remembered something from the briefing about Seguma’s family issuing hourly radio broadcasts from the same room. Imploring the soldiers to stay loyal to their great leader.
He crashed through the door, stumbled and almost tripped over the corpse of a palace guard. The man lay on the floor, his dead eyes as wide as golf balls. His lower jaw had been completely blown away. Bowman stepped around the slotted guard, dread flooding his guts as he pushed into the room. He looked up. Turned to his left.
Then he saw the bodies.
Twenty-Three
Bowman stopped cold just inside the room. He was looking at a tangled mass of limbs and torsos. Five guys and two women. Two other victims, dressed in the uniform of the Presidential Guard, were sprawled on the carpet beside a desk. There was a presidential seal on the wall behind the desk and a cluster of lighting equipment and camera tripods and cables. The other seven corpses all wore civilian clothing. Dark suits for the men, skirts and blouses and heels for the women. There was blood everywhere.
Bowman lowered his weapon and approached the victims. The hot stink of gunsmoke and blood clung to the air, thickening in his nostrils. He dropped down beside the dead civilians. Some of them appeared to have been mutilated beyond recognition. One guy ha
d been shot in the face, seemingly at point-blank range. The killers had taken their time. Bowman saw a woman with her eyes gouged out. A man with his throat slashed open. A yawning gash of cartilage and tissue glistened beneath his slackened jaw.
The second time in his life he’d walked into a murder scene.
‘It’s the family,’ Loader said between ragged draws of breath. ‘They’ve been murdered.’
Bowman stared at them in silence, his jaw tightly clenched. He didn’t immediately recognise any of the victims from the photographs in the Shed. But it was hard to be sure. He’d only glanced at the snaps on the wall for a few seconds. The early hours of yesterday morning. Another lifetime. And some of the faces were horribly disfigured.
‘I don’t know, mate,’ he said. ‘It might be them.’
‘Who else could it be? The family are the only civvies we’re expecting to find here. We’re too fucking late.’
Bowman ran his eyes over the corpses. Something about the scene didn’t make sense. ‘I don’t see any kids.’
‘So what?’
‘The president said we’d find his wife and children here. His youngest kid is only a few months old. His brother has a couple of twin girls. If this lot are his relatives, where are the children?’
‘What difference does it make?’ Loader said. ‘The family has been massacred.’
He left the room and hurried upstairs to fetch the others. A short time later there was an urgent patter of footsteps in the corridor. Mallet and Mavinda entered the room, stepping awkwardly around the guard with the missing jaw. Loader followed them inside with Casey and Webb. The major took in the scene, then knelt down and examined the bodies. He inspected each of them quickly, stretched to his full height and gave a slow shake of his head.
‘These are not members of Mr Seguma’s family,’ he announced.
Loader’s brow dropped. ‘Who are they, then?’
Mavinda gently tapped his foot against the nearest body. ‘This one is the education minister. This one, over here, is the minister for agriculture,’ he added, indicating the guy with the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. ‘Or was, I should say.’
