Manhunter

by Chris Ryan

  Gregory said, ‘There’s a private airfield twenty miles up the road. President Seguma had it built for his family, to make it easier to jet in and out of here. Some of the guys could land there.’

  ‘I’ll let Vauxhall know,’ said Mallet. ‘Where’s the brigadier now?’

  ‘Holed up in an army base in the north. With a few of his loyal men.’

  ‘And the rest of his troops?’

  ‘Scattered around the country. Some of them have dispersed or surrendered to the rebels. The rest are barricaded up inside their bases.’

  ‘Why aren’t they out taking the fight to the rebels?’ Loader asked.

  ‘They’re waiting to see which way the wind blows. They won’t want to risk their lives if they think it’s a lost cause.’

  ‘Fucking great,’ said Loader. ‘The local squaddies are worried about getting clipped, so they’re leaving us to deal with the mess instead. It’s nice to know they’re up for a scrap.’

  ‘It is what it is.’

  Casey said, ‘Have you had any trouble from the rebels?’

  ‘Not a sniff,’ replied Gregory.

  ‘They’ll come,’ Mallet said. ‘They have to. General Kakuba won’t rest as long as Seguma’s wife and kids are still at large. They’re too much of a threat to his credibility.’

  His phone suddenly hummed into life. He wandered off to take the call, talking in a low voice to Six while the others waited near the bar. The infant was still crying despite his mother’s best attempts to calm him down. The two boys were engrossed in their iPad game. The president’s brother drank from a plastic bottle of water and touched a graze on his head. His wife, the president’s sister-in-law, stared off into nowhere, lost in her thoughts.

  Gregory planted a hand on Bowman’s shoulder and smiled.

  ‘It’s bloody good to see you, Josh. You look well.’

  ‘You too,’ said Bowman. ‘Shame it’s not under happier circumstances.’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Still, I’m glad you’re here. Nothing like the sight of one of my old B Squadron hands to warm the heart. How is your sister these days? Hayley, isn’t it? And your niece?’

  Bowman stared at him in amazement. But he shouldn’t have been surprised. Gregory had always taken a keen interest in the lives of his men, Bowman reflected. Unlike some of the Ruperts, he’d displayed a genuine fondness for the soldiers under his command.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ he said. ‘They’re just fine.’

  ‘So you’re with the Cell these days,’ Gregory said. ‘John’s unit.’ Bowman nodded. ‘I’m pleased for you. I always rated you as an operator. One of the toughest guys I ever had the privilege to fight alongside.’

  ‘Thanks, Mike.’

  Gregory attempted a slight smile. ‘Perhaps once this is over, I can convince you to come and work for me. I could use a good man to help run this show. And the money’s good. Very good.’

  ‘We’ve got to survive the next few hours first.’

  ‘This rebellion won’t last,’ Gregory replied darkly. ‘The rebels might be winning right now, but once the reinforcements arrive, we’ll put the bastards to the sword. Then we’ll round up the ringleaders and teach them a lesson they won’t ever forget.’

  ‘And the Russians?’

  ‘They’ll abandon General Kakuba, once they realise the game is up. Mark my words. No one will dare to challenge Mr Seguma in the future. I’ll make damn sure of it.’

  There was an icy coldness to his voice that surprised Bowman. In the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Major Mavinda shifting uneasily on the spot. The Karatandan officer seemed almost wary of Gregory. Which struck Bowman as unusual. He remembered, too, the apprehensive look he’d seen on the major’s face in the palace basement when Bowman had mentioned Gregory’s name.

  What’s he afraid of? Bowman wondered.

  Mallet hung up and strode back over to the group. He looked worried. The skin was pulled so tight across his face it looked like it might snap. He cleared his throat.

  ‘That was Six,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a problem.’

  ‘What is it?’ Loader asked.

  ‘They’ve heard from the base in Tripoli. The strike force is running behind schedule. One of the Hercs went tech before take-off. Some sort of engine trouble, they reckon.’

  A frigid silence descended over the room. Casey looked startled. ‘When did they leave?’

  ‘Two hours ago. Just after two o’clock our time.’

  Bowman checked his G-Shock: 04.09. He thought: It’s a six-hour flight from the squadron base in Libya to Karatandu. Which means they won’t land in-country until around eight o’clock.

  We’re gonna be on our own for the next four hours. At least.

  Webb said, ‘What about the other elements of the strike force? The SBS and SFSG?’

  ‘They had to wait on the ground until D Squadron was ready to depart. Orders from the head shed. They were adamant that the teams came in together, or not at all.’

  Casey said, ‘But why not send the other teams in ahead of D Squadron? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘That’s not how the Foreign Office sees it,’ Mallet said. ‘As far as they’re concerned, the priority is a smooth operation with no friendly casualties. They don’t want coffins coming home draped in Union Jacks. That means a coordinated attack, maximum firepower. They’re not going to sanction a staggered assault.’

  ‘What if the rebels attack before they arrive?’

  ‘We’ll do what we do best,’ Mallet replied. ‘Fight.’

  ‘The rebels will take hours to get here, anyway,’ Loader said. ‘They’ll be busy securing the rest of the critical infrastructure right now. Scouring the president’s other homes. They won’t hassle us for a while.’

  ‘The Machete Boys aren’t far away,’ Casey reminded the others. ‘They’re at Farangi, according to the last reports. Thirty miles away.’

  ‘Even if they hit us, the odds are still in our favour,’ Loader argued. ‘We’ve got the Gimpys, the .50 cal, the mortars. That’s more than enough hardware to hold the Boys off.’

  ‘Tiny’s right. For once in his life,’ Mallet said. ‘The situation isn’t ideal, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.’

  ‘And if they hit us hard?’

  Gregory’s powdery blue eyes twinkled. ‘Then we’ll give the bastards hell.’

  Mallet checked his watch. ‘It’s first light in eighty minutes. There’s a decent chance that the rebels will hit us then. We’ll need to get the defences sorted out before they turn up.’ He nodded at Gregory. ‘How many lads have you got, Mike?’

  ‘Six. Myself, the colonel, the two guys watching the gate and the two on the front door.’

  Mallet made a quick mental calculation and nodded. ‘That gives us twenty-five soldiers in total. Fourteen in the platoon under the major, your guys, plus my lot.’

  ‘It’s a good number,’ Loader said.

  ‘Against a few small groups of Machete Boys,’ Bowman said. ‘But if General Kakuba’s men and his Russian mates turn up, it’ll get hot.’

  ‘That’s a big fucking “if”. That mob has only just finished capturing the main airport. They’re hours away.’

  Mallet rubbed his temples and turned to Mavinda. ‘What firepower have you got with you, Major?’

  ‘We have AK-47s. Grenades. Browning pistols.’

  ‘Anything heavier?’

  Mavinda nodded. ‘Two FN machine guns.’

  ‘Ammo?’

  ‘Plenty. Twelve hundred rounds of belt apiece.’

  ‘That’ll do.’ Mallet addressed the two Karatandan officers. ‘Major, Colonel, your guys will be posted around the perimeter of the building, covering individual sectors of fire. My guys will take up positions on the rooftop. Mike, you’ll direct one of the GPMG teams on the ground.’

  Gregory grinned. ‘It’ll be just like the good old days in the Regiment, John. Lobbing mortars and whacking the enemy with Gimpys.’

  ‘Aye. Except this time, w
e’ve got no air support to dig us out of the shit.’ The two veterans shared a smile, and then Mallet said to Mavinda, ‘We’ll need shovels to dig the mortar and fire pits. Petrol, too. Whatever you can spare from the Unimog.’

  ‘What for?’ Mavinda asked.

  Mallet waved a hand in the general direction of the front entrance. ‘We’ll need to burn any trees or shrubs around the stronghold. The rebels might use any of it as cover when they attack.’

  ‘There’s a storeroom next to the garage,’ Gregory explained. ‘That’s where the gardening tools are kept. You should find everything you need in there.’

  Casey said, ‘What about the family? We can’t just leave them here.’

  ‘Alex has got a point,’ Loader said. ‘It ain’t safe for them in this room. Not when the rounds start flying.’

  Mallet thought for a moment. Then he turned to Gregory. ‘Is there a strong room anywhere in this place?’

  ‘Afraid not,’ Gregory said.

  Mallet nodded at Loader and Bowman.

  ‘Tiny. Search the house. Find a secure location. The safest room in the building. Somewhere with thick walls, preferably no windows. Stick the family in there.’ He swung back round to Gregory. ‘Is anyone else inside the building? Grounds staff?’

  ‘There’s a housekeeper,’ said Gregory. ‘A couple of maids and a gardener. They’re in the staff kitchen for now.’

  ‘We’ll put them in the same room as the family. They can keep Seguma’s rellies company until this thing is over.’ Mallet’s cold blue eyes rested on Bowman. ‘Stay here until Tiny has found a safe place for the family. The rest of you, follow me outside. We’ll start organising the defences. Questions?’

  He looked round the bar. No one raised a hand. The other four members of the team stared back at Mallet with looks of grim determination.

  ‘Get to work,’ he said. ‘There’s not a moment to lose.’

  Twenty-Six

  The soldiers sprang into action. Bowman and Loader stayed behind while Mallet hurried out of the room with Casey and Webb. Gregory, Lubowa and Mavinda followed in their wake as they raced towards the front of the stronghold to begin organising the defences. The president’s brother and his wife watched the departing soldiers, their faces taut with fear and confusion. Seguma’s wife soothed her infant son, shushing in his ear. The twin girls gazed at Bowman and Loader with shy, curious expressions as they approached the table.

  ‘Ma’am.’ Loader addressed the president’s wife, Christel Seguma. He waved a hand at Bowman. ‘This is my colleague, Josh. He’s going to wait here with you for a bit.’

  ‘Why?’ The brother spoke up. The smartly groomed guy in the embroidered silk tunic. Francis Seguma. The vice-president. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We need to move you and your relatives to a more secure part of the house, sir,’ Loader replied softly. ‘Josh will stay with you while I search the house for a good place for you to shelter in.’

  ‘Are we expecting trouble?’ asked the president’s wife.

  ‘It’s a possibility, ma’am. But if there is any shooting, me and the lads will take care of it. You won’t come to any harm.’

  Francis Seguma let out a bitter laugh. ‘That is what Colonel Lubowa told us at the palace. He vowed to protect us from these . . . these animals. And look how that turned out!’

  ‘It’ll be different this time, sir,’ Bowman said. ‘Help is on the way.’

  ‘You expect us to believe that?’

  ‘It’s the truth, sir.’

  ‘And what are we supposed to do until then? Hide like cowards while these scum attack us?’

  ‘It’s for your own safety.’

  The brother folded his arms. ‘Unacceptable. I demand to speak to my brother. We should be leaving the country while we still can, not waiting for these treacherous dogs to hunt us down.’

  ‘It’s too late for that, sir,’ Loader said. ‘The rebels have closed off the borders. We’re stuck here.’

  Bowman was drowsy with tiredness. The fog in his mind was thickening. He tried to close his mind to it. To the sweats and the cravings, the intense cramping pain in his guts.

  He said, ‘This isn’t up for debate, sir.’

  ‘Why can’t we stay here? This seems perfectly safe to me.’

  ‘Right now, maybe. But when the rounds start coming in, these windows won’t protect you. Trust me.’

  The brother stared at him, fear gleaming in his eyes. He sighed.

  ‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘We will do as you wish. But if anything happens to my wife and daughters, or my brother’s family, I will hold you personally responsible.’

  ‘We’ll keep ’em safe, sir,’ Loader said, gently. ‘You have my word.’

  He left the room and started down the corridor, leaving Bowman to guard the family. Francis Seguma and his wife were having a heated discussion while the president’s wife tended to her baby. The boys seemingly took no notice of their mother. Their eyes were glued to the garish images on the tablet screen. They were playing a cartoonish shoot ’em up. There was lots of tinny gunfire and zombie howls, and jaunty music.

  One of the twin girls cautiously approached him. Francis Seguma’s kids. Her eyes were as round as saucers. A hollow feeling formed in his stomach and he found himself thinking about his little girl. Her infectious giggle. The cheeky look in her eyes. The way his heart would burst with joy whenever she smiled at him.

  His life and joy. Snatched away from him.

  Murdered.

  The girl who wasn’t his daughter held out the fluffy toy bear towards Bowman. Like a peace offering.

  ‘This is Leo,’ she said in perfect English. ‘He wants to say hello.’

  Bowman bent down and attempted a smile. ‘Hello, Leo.’

  The girl leaned in close to the bear and furrowed her brow, as if listening to some whispered remark. Then she looked up at Bowman with a deeply serious face.

  ‘Leo wants to know if you’ll be his friend.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bowman. ‘I’d be honoured.’

  ‘What’s that?’ She leaned in again. Lifted her big round eyes to Bowman and pouted.

  ‘Leo says you look sad,’ she said.

  ‘Does he?’

  She gave an exaggerated nod, in that excited way all small children nod, at the age when the whole world seems impossibly new. ‘He says you have sad eyes.’

  ‘Well, you can tell Leo not to worry. I’m just fine.’

  The girl spoke softly into the bear’s floppy ears. Then she leaned towards Bowman and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Do you want to know a secret?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Leo gets sad sometimes too. Especially when he doesn’t have any honey.’

  ‘Is that so.’

  She nodded eagerly. ‘Leo says it’s OK to be sad. Just as long as it’s not forever.’

  ‘Leo’s a smart bear.’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s the smartest.’

  The president’s sister-in-law called out to the girl. The middle-aged woman with the wide hips and the colourful head cloth. ‘Marie! Come here!’

  The little girl smiled at Bowman, then ran over to her mother, gripping Leo tightly in her right hand. Bowman stood upright and felt a hot pain scratching inside his skull, drilling into his temples. He’d been able to ignore the cravings for the past two hours, but now they came back with a vengeance. His fingertips felt as if someone had taken a blowtorch to them. Sweat percolated down his spine. His stomach churned. He needed to get some pills into his exhausted body. Before he collapsed with fatigue.

  He started towards the door.

  ‘Wait here,’ he ordered the family.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the brother demanded.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  He snuck out of the salon and paced back down the silk-wallpapered corridor. He started pushing open doors, searching for a toilet. One door led into a gym. The second led into a dining room. He got lucky with the
third door on the left. Entered a bathroom with more gold in it than a Swiss bank. The toilet seat was gold-plated; so were the taps and the toilet roll holder. Bowman locked the door, propped his rifle against the tiled wall, tipped two pills into the palm of his hand and ground them up in the crusher. He figured it would take Loader several minutes to work his way through the mansion. He’d want to scope out the first floor, the rest of the ground floor rooms, the basement. The guy would be checking for entry and exit points, looking at the security of the doors and windows, the proximity to likely firing positions.

  I’ve got time. A minute to get my head right, before things go noisy. That’s all I need.

  He snorted up the finely ground opiate dust and felt a sharp searing pain in his nostrils, as if he’d inhaled broken glass. In another few minutes he’d get the electric buzz, the warm fuzzy feeling would flood through his body and the pain would fade away. For a brief while, at least. That was why he’d first got hooked on the pills. People assumed you took drugs to get high, but that wasn’t the point, not really. Bowman wasn’t looking for euphoria. He wasn’t looking to feel anything at all. The opioids gave him that. They took him to a place beyond pain. A place where he didn’t care about anything. Where the grief couldn’t hurt him.

  Bowman tucked the pill container back into his trouser pocket. He ran the cold tap and splashed freezing water on his face, shocking himself out of his lethargy.

  Then he heard a woman scream.

  The echoing boom of gunfire.

  Bowman snatched up his Colt rifle, flung open the door and sprinted back down the hallway to the bar. He heard two more gunshots, a chorus of demented cries, muffled by the sound of the blood rushing in his ears, the hammering of his heart against his breastbone. The fatigue melted away as he charged into the bar, weapon raised, and then his eyes locked on the rebel.

  The man stood a couple of paces inside the room from the terrace. A stick-thin guy with an assortment of good luck charms draped over a threadbare Elvis Presley T-shirt. His AK-47 was trained on the terrified figures scrambling for cover across the room. Bowman saw the president’s brother lying in a pool of blood, a triangle of bullet holes in his chest. His wife, the president’s sister-in-law, shielded the two boys with one arm, her other wrapped around the wailing hysterical form of one of the twin girls. Seguma’s wife was curled up in a tight ball, hugging her screaming baby tight to her chest. As if she could protect the boy from the stopping power of a 7.62 × 39 mm bullet.