In the front, Burton threw a furtive look over his shoulder.
‘Negative, mate,’ he said, laying down his phone quickly. ‘Baghdad. It’s the only place they have the facilities. He needs a life support.’
‘He’s right,’ confirmed Marsh from behind him. ‘Sorry, mate, I should have said. We talked about it while you were out.’ He placed the bandage down and shifted position, as if wanting to get the blood back into his legs. At his thigh, a Glock.
‘Baghdad is a three-hour drive,’ said Abbott. ‘He hasn’t got that long. We get into the nearest hospital. They can fly the gear to us.’
‘Baghdad, mate, trust me,’ insisted Marsh. ‘Sit back. See to your boy. Come on, we know what we’re doing.’
Abbott rounded on him. ‘Oh yeah? Like you knew what you were doing when you pronounced Burton dead, mister paramedic.’ At the same time something occurred to him and he went back to the separator. ‘Who were you talking to just now?’ he bellowed through it.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Burton. The retainer of his sidearm holster was loose. Had it been like that before?
‘I mean that you were on the phone just now. Who were you talking to?’
‘The hospital. I was hoping they could meet us halfway.’
Abbott dropped back, unconvinced. His mind raced and his eyes went to Marsh, who was watching him. Marsh’s forehead shone. There was something in his eyes. A wariness.
Abbott thought back to the fact that Stone had always seemed one step ahead of him, and yet the path to him had seemed smooth somehow. How did Stone know that SF were planning to come for Executive Alliance Group? Because he had been tipped off, right? And who might it have been that had tipped him off? Abbott started to wonder about Burton’s words when he burst into the burning stable block.
He’d screamed, ‘You fucked me.’
Which, at the time, Abbott had taken to mean one thing and now thought meant another. Neither of those things being that they’d actually fucked.
But if Stone and Burton had been in league and then had fallen out, what the fuck was Burton doing now?
‘The blond guy,’ said Abbott. ‘You know him, don’t you? You know who I’m talking about?’
‘I’m telling you, mate, just settle down,’ Burton called back over his shoulder. ‘My priority now is saving your son, and if you’ve chosen this moment to go completely loco, well, I’m sorry, but I have to do something about it.’ He reached down to his sidearm, calling at the same time, ‘Marsh!’
Abbott looked back to see that Marsh was holding a gun on him, his other arm braced on the side of the truck for support.
CHAPTER 60
For a moment or so they looked at one another in silence. The truck groaned and creaked, bumping over uneven road. ‘You and him, then?’ said Abbott at last, indicating forward to the lorry cab with his chin.
‘Yeah,’ said Marsh. ‘I’m not quite the number two, despite what you’ve seen. I’m more what you might call your replacement. Mowles, Burton and Stone were the ones who formed the Executive Alliance Group. They wanted you, of course, but you were too busy getting pissed even to notice they were doing it, let alone get involved, so I got to step in, like Ringo.
‘The thing is that as soon as Jeremy was killed, they knew that military intelligence would be onto them. But they’d already built in an insurance policy. Stone was the figurehead. Me, I was on board, too, keeping shop. Burton and Mowles were the invisible backroom boys. The idea was that if military intelligence ever got to sniffing too hard, then Burton would duck out of sight. He would be the disgraced and corrupt former chairman, and we would step into the breach in order to keep the business going but at the same time ensure that Stone was getting paid, and everything could go ahead as planned.’
Abbott found his eyes going to Nathan, who lay still on the truck bed. His eyelids fluttered. One finger moved, and although these were feeble movements, almost those of an animal, trapped and dying, Abbott was grateful for them, for the signs of life still there.
‘What “everything”?’ he asked Marsh. ‘What was planned?’
‘The Hexagon takeover. That was the whole idea. Big business is moving into Baghdad and they’ve got big money to spend. It was no good just turfing out Hercules and setting up shop ourselves, we wanted somebody even bigger to come in and take over so we could retire to Monaco. But of course they weren’t going to shower us with money if we had a crook at the helm, even if that crook was the guy who built the business up in the first place. Hey, listen, none of us made the rules. You play the hand you’re dealt, all that kind of stuff. But yeah. That was the game plan. The idea was that we swept in, built it up, gave the business a lick of glossy paint, waited for the sharks to start nosing around and then,’ he made a whooshing sound, ‘get the hell out.’
‘And Mowles?’
‘A combination of greed – just wanted too fucking much – and you. He wasn’t happy about Stone and his plans.’ Marsh shrugged. ‘He was just in the way, basically. Just needed booting off the project.’
‘And me? Where did I fit in?’
‘You didn’t “fit in”.’ Marsh rolled his eyes as though the whole issue had been the bane of his life. ‘I mean, yeah, you – you and him,’ he inclined his chin to gesture at Nathan. ‘You two were Stone’s pet project, and given that he was somewhat essential to the programme, we had no choice but to go along with it. And so here we are.’
‘Except that’s not it,’ said Abbott. ‘Not “here we are”, because there’s something else, isn’t there? Stone’s dead now …’
‘Burton and I would have killed Stone at some point. Once the deal went through he was another inessential part of the programme. The thing is, we saw a way to maximise the profits.’
‘The white-haired geezer,’ said Abbott. ‘Mr fucking clean jeans.’
‘“Clean jeans”? What are you on about? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. You’re dying to tell me. It’s the blond guy, isn’t it? Tell me, how much?’
‘Now you’ve lost me.’
‘I’m talking about the bounty on my head. How much is it for? And when did you find out about it?’
Marsh seemed to consider, maybe knowing he’d already gone further than he’d intended. ‘OK, yes, there is a bounty on your head.’
‘And that’s where we’re going, isn’t it? You’re taking me to him.’
Every muscle in Abbott’s body was taught. In his mind, total focus. And then he made his move. He launched himself forward at Marsh, catching the other man’s gun arm and rolling around it, the two of them both falling backwards simultaneously so that for one strange moment it was like they were sitting together at the back of the truck, like a couple of old pals in the aftermath of a drunken fall. Until Abbott snatched up Marsh’s arm and, exerting as much pressure as he was able, snapped it.
Marsh had not been expecting Abbott to be so fast, so decisive – so ruthless. The gun dropped and skidded, his sleeve was suddenly soaked with blood, and Abbott knew from experience that the bone beneath would be showing.
Up ahead, Burton had heard the commotion and the truck swerved. He was shouting something, but his words were drowned out by Marsh’s agonised screaming as he slithered away clutching at his arm, only just attached. When he looked at Abbott it was with sheer disbelief as he was unsure whether to fight back or simply tend to himself and scream like a wounded animal. His mind was made up when he saw Abbott make a dive for the gun. Burton chose that moment to swerve the truck, perhaps seeing what Abbott was up to, and the sidearm slid away. Now Marsh went for it, too. Diving over Nathan’s prone body in a bid to reach it first.
Abbott got there ahead of him, scooped up the gun and put a round in Marsh’s face.
Marsh’s chin disintegrated in a cloud of blood, bone and teeth – the kind of damage only a hollowpoint can do. But it was his gun. Served him right. Still not quite dead, he emitted an even higher-pitched
screech, so Abbott shot him again then kicked him over the tailgate of the lorry, feeling nothing as Marsh’s body tumbled in a cloud of sand to the desert below. Nothing but the need to get the truck turned around and to the hospital in Kirkuk. He pulled himself up, shouting out in pain but ignoring it as he pulled the tarpaulin to one side and swung out of the lorry, around to the cab.
‘Fuck,’ yelled Burton, caught by surprise. He tried to reach for his pistol, but Abbott put a boot in his face. The truck swerved once more, lurched and hit a pothole, the poor understress suspension unable to cope with the sudden demands on it. Abbott tried to grab the wheel but Burton hung on, yelling obscenities, seemingly fixated on something outside. Abbott glanced out of the windscreen and saw what they were heading for – a car wreck by the side of the road. The whole route was lined with them and maybe Burton was hoping that if they hit one, then he could throw Abbott off.
With a shout, Abbott tried to pull the wheel over. Shouting back, Burton hung on. Both men were badly wounded, covered in blood and stripped of everything except need and instinct and bloodlust now.
Abbott’s effort wasn’t quite enough. The truck clipped the car wreck. It seemed to hop. The rear stepped out. For a second Abbott thought it might maintain traction, ride out the storm, but something had to give and give it did, and the whole thing tilted, throwing Abbott forward onto Burton and smothering the other man’s attempt to reach his weapon. The truck fell to its side in a confusion of twisted metal and shattered windscreen glass.
CHAPTER 61
Abbott and Burton pulled themselves out of the cab and faced each other across the sand. Burton’s face was speckled with broken glass, blood running freely from the cuts, his long beard glittering with it. Abbott put a hand to his own face and felt chunks of glass fall away. Every muscle, every atom of him seemed to hurt but Nathan was in the back of the lorry and right now the only thing standing in the way of saving Nathan was Burton, which meant that Burton had to die.
No doubt about it. The feeling was mutual. ‘You’re a fucking cunt, Monk,’ said Burton. He spat blood and glass. ‘You know you were a good bloke once, but you sold out your mates, first to the grog and then to Mahlouthi. I bet you think it was you who was betrayed, don’t you? Wrong. You were the one. You were the bloke who did all the betraying.’
‘Oh, come off it, we were never mates.’
‘Not in your mind, maybe. But we should have been. We fucking could have been.’
Abbott shook his head. ‘And you’re mad at me? What about Fingers, eh? Fucking tried to kill you. Left you for dead in the desert. Why’d he do that, do you think? Out of the kindness of his heart?’
‘Yeah, it’s like a rot that spread, though, isn’t it? And where do you think it fucking started?’
‘And that’s why you took part in this, is it? Why you let Stone kidnap and burn my son?’
Burton made a scoffing sound. ‘It’s why I let him, yes. It’s why I didn’t give a shit.’
Abbott saw the hurt inside Burton and maybe for a second he understood it, but there was too much at stake now, too much shit had gone down to worry about it. He saw Burton’s pistol lying in the sand. At the same time, Burton saw Abbott look, and in the next instant Burton saw it and they both dived for it at once.
Burton was closer but Abbott reached him before he could get to it and the two of them fell as Abbott grappled Burton to the ground. They were close to the wreck now. Burton put one hand to the hot metal to steady himself, kicking out and making painful contact with Abbott’s cheek. He did it again. Abbott hung on grimly to his other leg, knowing he couldn’t take much more punishment. Sure enough, the boot hammered down again and this time Abbott was forced to relinquish his grip as with a shout of triumph Burton pulled free and made a dive for the gun. Abbott scuttled back at the same time as Burton reached the gun. He’d already seen what Burton had failed to see. Snug against the sand piled up against the side of the wreck: a flash of metal and a single protruding red wire.
It was an IED.
And Burton, if he continued his current trajectory, was going to blunder right into it.
‘Right, you fucker!’ screamed Burton.
Which were his parting words. In the next instant Abbott was cowering as with a flash followed by a hollow-sounding bang the IED detonated, sending a shower of dirt and blood and flesh raining down around him.
It was over in an instant. As the fury of the explosion receded, Abbott picked himself up, coughing, shaking debris off himself and thanking God that the wreckage had absorbed most of the blast and Burton had absorbed the rest. All that was visible of him through a cloud of debris was a leg – just the calf portion. The rest of him was drying scattered on the sand.
But Abbott wasn’t sticking around to enjoy the sight. He limped to the truck, bits of Burton dropping off his tattered clothing as he hurried, coming to the back of the truck. ‘Nathan,’ he called, his voice hoarse. ‘Nathan.’
His son lay in the back of the truck, tangled in the wreckage. Abbott dragged him clear, bringing him out into the sun. He rolled him over, checking for a pulse. Was there one? He couldn’t be sure. His hands shook.
‘Nath,’ he said, his voice hoarse. He could hear himself on the verge of panic, forcing it back, bringing his SF training to the fore.
Starting CPR. Chest compressions. Rescue breaths.
Droplets of something fell to Nathan’s unmoving body. Tears or sweat, Abbott didn’t know. ‘Come on, mate,’ he was saying. ‘Stay with me. Stay. With. Me.’
Dark blood oozed from Nathan’s mouth. His head lolled. And Abbott continued with CPR. He continued until he was too exhausted to do any more.
A vehicle approached where Abbott knelt beside Nathan. It drew to a halt, the driver’s door opened, and the sole occupant of the vehicle stepped out, with his gun drawn and pointed at Abbott. Slowly, carefully, he approached, until he stood behind Abbott, who even though he must have been aware of the vehicle had neither moved nor said anything.
The new arrival had a shock of blond hair and wore a pristine pair of jeans. He waited a moment or so, and when there was still no response from Abbott, coughed politely.
‘He’s dead,’ said Abbott. In his voice was only emptiness.
‘I see,’ said Kind.
‘I never got to—’ started Abbott. He stopped. Below him, Nathan was burned almost black. Grotesque bubbles of traumatised and charred flesh had formed on his face, but to Abbott he looked almost beautiful. And his hair. His hair had grown a little so that despite his burns he looked more like the old Nathan than he had before. In death he reclaimed his true self.
‘I never got to be a better father. I never got to be the father he deserved,’ said Abbott.
But Kind wasn’t listening. Still with his gun held on Abbott, he had pulled out his phone. Pressed to dial.
After some moments he spoke.
‘Contact,’ he said.
CHAPTER 62
Two months later
Abbott held a bunch of party balloons as he made his way along a corridor of the Swallow Hotel in Shoreditch. Ahead of him went a member of the cleaning staff.
The balloons he held were the foil, helium-filled type. They had the words ‘40 today’ printed on them. In his other hand was a bottle of champagne. Completing the picture, he was smartly dressed, but that was also because he had a dinner date at Kettner’s in Soho later on.
The cleaner stopped at a door and, with a look left and right, her forehead creased with worry, used her pass card to open it. She poked her head in the door. ‘Housekeeping,’ she said. There was no reply from inside. She looked at Abbott and nodded.
‘Brilliant,’ he said. He gave her a sloppy grin and a wink. ‘You’re an absolute star. I’ll take it from here.’ He passed her a wad of money which she pushed into the hip pocket of her uniform and then moved off.
Abbott watched her go and then stepped into the room, careful not to touch anything until he had pulled on a pair of surgical glove
s. Without the key card there was no electricity in the room, and it was beginning to get dark, so he moved quickly. Early evening Friday and there was a party atmosphere in the air, both in the streets outside and in the hotel itself. Muffled music came from the room next door.
He secured the balloons by the side of the bed. Next he searched the drawers and then the wardrobe, finding a suitcase which he rifled through. From the suitcase he removed a pistol. He put it to one side, relieved to see that it was the Glock nine he had expected. Then he placed a chair facing into the room so that anybody entering would not immediately see him and manoeuvred a side table into position beside it. He found the minibar, raided it, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be paying, and laid out various miniatures and mixers on the table, helping himself to a glass and starting on the first of his evening’s drinks. From his pocket he took a suppressor and fitted it to the Glock, which he kept within reach. He placed a phone on the table. Beside it he placed another phone, this one with a particular number on speed dial.
And then, in the dark room, he waited.
After about an hour Abbott heard movement at the door as the key card was presented. He reached for the gun and held it steady as a man passed through the door and into the vestibule, activating the electricity with the key card.
The lights came on. The door swung shut. The man walked into the room, preoccupied with the phone that he held. And then the balloons shifted with a rubberised tin-foil squeak and he became aware that he was not alone.
He looked up sharply. Saw Abbott. Saw the gun.
‘Hello, mate,’ said Abbott.
Potter blinked. ‘Hello, Abbott,’ he said. He looked at the balloons, arched an eyebrow. ‘Forty? I’m not quite there yet.’
‘Not quite,’ said Abbott, and although Potter looked the same as always, cool and unruffled, he knew that his death was surely just moments away.
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