2
SIX MONTHS LATER
Standing’s boots pounded on the grass. There were two men ahead of him, blocking his way. They were in their late forties and their hair was starting to go grey, but they were fit and there was no fear in their eyes. He looked left and right, then waited until the last possible moment before planting his left foot hard and pushing right. The manoeuvre took them by surprise and he sprinted by them. The man closest to him cursed and stuck out his foot but Standing was too quick for him.
He looked over to his left. Ginge Maclean was about fifty feet away and looking around, assessing the situation.
‘Ginge!’ shouted Standing.
Ginge looked over, grinned, and kicked the ball, sending it spinning through the air towards him. He caught it on his chest, let it drop to his feet and turned to face the goal. The keeper had played for Liverpool during the late Eighties and was already moving towards Standing, his arms out to the sides. Standing pushed the ball forward with his left foot and then hit it hard with his right. The ball went straight into the arms of the keeper, who took two quick steps and threw it hard and fast to one of his own defenders.
Ginge let loose a barrage of abuse about Standing’s parentage but Standing waved it away. ‘To my feet next time, you wanker!’ he shouted.
Ginge laughed and went haring after the defender. Standing stood with his hands on his hips. He’d never been good at football, rugby was his game of choice, but the Regiment was short-handed and he’d been called in to make up the numbers on the Pilgrims team. The opposition was a team of the great and good of British football, though few of the names were familiar to Standing. Most of the players were in their sixties but they were still better at the game than any of the SAS men, as shown by the current score of 4-1 with just ten minutes to go. The SAS team were fitter and stronger and even after eighty minutes of running they were still relatively fresh, but the former professionals had the edge when it came to skill and strategy. The SAS spent most of their time running, the ex-professional footballers were more about passing and shooting.
As Standing watched, the defender sent the ball to the feet of a former Manchester City player who was now a pundit on Sky TV. The pundit wrong-footed a sergeant who had just returned from Afghanistan, sporting sunburnt skin and a shaggy beard, and sent the ball over to the far side of the pitch where a former Chelsea striker had all the time in the world to take the ball down the sideline before crossing it over to the goalmouth, where the pundit made a quick dash and knocked it home with a perfect header.
The small crowd of spectators burst into applause and the pundit did a mock bow to them. The annual football match was one of the few occasions when civilians were allowed onto the SAS base at Credenhill. It was a fundraiser, with proceeds going to the SAS’s Clocktower Fund, which helped support former members of the Regiment who had fallen on hard times. A couple of hundred specially vetted visitors were allowed into Stirling Lines to see SAS demonstrations, watch the match, and have a black-tie dinner in the Sergeants’ Mess. During the dinner there was an auction of SAS memorabilia including wines and spirits with the SAS insignia, and afterwards the visitors were taken to the clock tower for a group photograph, one of the few times that picture-taking was allowed on the base.
For a group of VIPs – including the dozen or so former players – the day had started much earlier and they were allowed to live-fire weapons on the outdoor range, take part in exercises in the Killing House and get behind the wheel of some of the Regiment’s specialist vehicles. Standing had been assigned to the Killing House in the morning, following the VIPs through carefully rehearsed scenarios as they fired at terrorist targets, basically making sure that no one got hurt. Lunch had been bacon sandwiches washed down with coffee, after which they had changed for the game.
The event was always popular and the SAS men enjoyed the chance to show off their skills to outsiders. Their soldier skills anyway – there wasn’t much to be proud of when it came to football.
The game ended with the visitors 7-1 ahead, and Standing was pretty sure they could have made double figures if they had wanted to. The players shook hands, acknowledged the applause from the spectators, then ran over to the changing rooms. There were still a few hours to go before dinner, so Standing pulled on his camouflage fatigues. Like the rest of the SAS men, he had a holstered Glock on his hip.
He was just finishing buttoning his shirt when his mobile buzzed to let him know that he had received a text message. It was from an American number. ‘IS THIS MATT STANDING?’
Standing frowned. His phone didn’t recognise the number and neither did he. ‘WHO WANTS TO KNOW?’ he typed.
A few seconds later, he received a reply. ‘MY NAME IS KAITLYN. I AM BOBBY-RAY’S SISTER.’
Standing’s frown deepened. Bobby-Ray Barnes hadn’t mentioned he had a sister, but then they had shared very little personal information during their time together, something Standing welcomed as he was never happy discussing his family, or lack of it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he realised that there was only one reason that Bobby-Ray’s sister was contacting him – she had bad news for him. He walked outside and hit the button to call her number, and she answered on the third ring. ‘Kaitlyn, hi this is Matt Standing—’ he began, but she started speaking over him.
‘I can not hear you,’ she said. Her voice was stilted, as if she was having trouble forming her words.
‘It’s Matt Standing,’ he said again. ‘Is there—’
‘I can’t hear you,’ she said, interrupting him again. He stopped talking as she continued. ‘I am deaf, so I can not talk on the phone. But you can text or we can FaceTime.’
The line went dead and Standing frowned at his phone. If she was deaf, how would FaceTime help? He shrugged and placed a FaceTime call. It was answered almost immediately by a blonde girl with freckles across her nose and cheeks. She grinned showing perfect white teeth. ‘Kaitlyn?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Can you hold the phone a bit closer to your face,’ she said, in her stilted voice. ‘I have to be able to read your lips.’
Standing did so. ‘How’s that?’ he asked.
‘Better,’ she said.
‘Has something happened to Bobby-Ray?’
She nodded, ‘Yes. He’s in trouble and needs your help.’
‘What happened?’ asked Standing.
‘Can you come to LA?’
Standing wondered if she had missed what he’d said, so he repeated himself. ‘What happened?’
‘Bobby-Ray says I can’t say over the phone. He will meet you in LA.’
‘Is he hurt?’
‘I can’t tell you. He says it’s dangerous to say anything over the phone. But he needs your help, Matt. He says you are the only one he can trust.’
Standing didn’t hesitate. Bobby-Ray had damn near saved his life in Syria and the injuries he’d received, while not life-threatening, had ended the man’s military career. ‘I’ll be there,’ he said. ‘I’ll text you my flight number.’
‘When can you get here?’ she asked.
Standing looked at the Rolex Submariner on his wrist. If he left for London as soon as the group picture was taken, he’d be able to catch a morning flight to Los Angeles. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll pick you up at the airport.’
He ended the call, then jogged over to the administration office. Debbie Gilmore, the wife of one of the Regiment’s sergeant majors, looked up from her computer.
‘Debbie, can I see Colonel Davies? It’s important.’
She looked at him over the top of her glasses. ‘How important?’
‘It’s not life and death, but it’s close.’ She waved him to a seat but he just smiled. He wanted to stand. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’ She picked up her phone, spoke to the Colonel, then nodded at the closed door. ‘You’re to go straight in,’ she said.
‘You’re an angel, Debbie.’
‘A
nd don’t you forget it.’
Standing knocked on the door and let himself in. The Colonel was sitting at his desk, the sleeves of his fatigues rolled up above his elbows. He was in his early fifties but without an ounce of fat on him, whippet-thin with steel-grey hair cut close to the scalp and his nose and cheeks flecked with broken blood vessels.
Soldiers didn’t salute officers in the SAS but Standing stood with his back ramrod straight and his hands behind his back as a sign of respect.
‘What’s up, Matt?’ asked the Colonel, sitting back in his chair.
‘I know this is short notice, boss, but I need some time off. I’ve plenty of days due.’
‘You’ve got a problem?’
‘A friend in need, boss.’
‘Regiment?’
‘No, boss. But he’s a good friend.’
‘How long do you need?’
‘A week, maybe longer.’
‘How are you fixed, task-wise?’
‘I’m clear this week. Next week I’m down for the training with the Met’s CTSFOs and hopefully I’ll be back by then but really I wouldn’t be missed.’ The Metropolitan Police’s Counter Terrorist Specialist Firearms Officers were the elite members of the capital’s armed police and they did much of their training with the SAS.
The Colonel tapped on his computer keyboard and looked at his screen. ‘You haven’t taken any leave in the past twelve months,’ he said.
‘I’ve been busy,’ said Standing. ‘We all have.’
‘I hear that,’ said the Colonel. ‘Okay, I’ll do the paperwork. When do you want to go?’
‘As soon as I’ve finished tonight,’ said Standing.
‘How’s it going out there?’
‘Really well.’
‘The Pilgrims lost seven-one?’ said the Colonel.
‘Our best players are all overseas at the moment,’ said Standing. ‘It shows you how desperate they are when they have to put me on the team.’
The Colonel looked at the chunky TAG Heuer on his wrist. ‘I’ll be at the dinner,’ he said.
‘It’ll be a good night,’ said Standing. ‘That Liverpool comedian is always good for a laugh. Thanks, boss.’
‘Just make sure you don’t get yourself into any trouble, Matt.’
Standing smiled. ‘I’ll do my best, boss,’ he said, though he didn’t feel as confident as he sounded.
3
The LAX immigration queue was longer than any Standing had ever seen and it took him the best part of an hour to reach the front of the line, where a pretty Hispanic girl with bright red lipstick asked him what the purpose of his visit was. Standing shrugged. ‘Holiday. Vacation, I guess you’d say.’
‘On your own?’
Standing shrugged again. ‘I prefer my own company.’
For the first time she smiled. ‘Good looking guy like you, I’m sure you’ll find company if you want it.’
Standing wondered if she was hitting on him, but even if she was it wouldn’t matter because he was in the US for only one reason, and that reason didn’t involve any sort of romantic attachment. She gave him back his passport and her face was impassive again. ‘Enjoy your vacation,’ she said, and waved over at the next passenger. She wasn’t hitting on him, Standing decided, and actually felt a twinge of disappointment as he walked away.
He’d flown into LA on a Virgin Atlantic plane. He’d managed to get a seat in Premium Economy, which gave him a little extra legroom, but the three beers he’d downed in the departure lounge meant he had slept most of the way. He had brought with him a backpack containing just the essentials – a change of clothes and a washbag.
He walked through sliding doors into the arrivals area and spotted Kaitlyn Barnes immediately. She was wearing a denim jacket over a white halter top and faded blue jeans. She was small; even in her high heels she barely reached his shoulder. He guessed that she was in her very early twenties. She beamed at him as he walked up to her. ‘Matt?’ she said and he nodded. ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ she said, and she reached for him and hugged him, burying her cheek in his chest. He wasn’t sure how to react and ended up just patting her on the back.
‘Do you have a car or do I need to hire one?’ he asked. It was only when she didn’t react that he remembered that she had to read his lips. He waited for her to break away, made eye contact again and repeated the question.
She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘My car’s outside.’
‘And what about Bobby-Ray?’ he asked. ‘Can I talk to him?’
She nodded again. ‘I’ll take you to him,’ she said.
‘Kaitlyn, what’s happened? Why all the cloak and dagger?’
She looked around, then back at him. ‘There are too many people here,’ she said. ‘Let’s grab a coffee.’
She took him to a café in the arrivals area. Standing bought her a latte and himself an Americano and a sandwich. They sat down and Standing bit into his sandwich as she began to talk, keeping her face close to his and her voice low. ‘Bobby-Ray was working as a bodyguard, what they call close protection. The client was killed three days ago. They say that Bobby-Ray killed him.’
Standing stopped chewing. ‘What?’
‘It was Bobby-Ray’s gun. The client was killed and so were three of the bodyguards.’
Standing frowned. ‘I didn’t see anything on the Internet.’
‘The cops haven’t released his name or description. But they’re looking for him. And so are the Russians.’
‘Russians? What Russians?’
‘The client was a rich Russian. An oligarch. Rich as God. Friend of Putin, they say.’
‘Okay, so why was Bobby-Ray on his personal protection team? Those guys usually have their own people.’
‘They did,’ said Kaitlyn. ‘But the client had just flown in from the UK and they wanted some locals on the team.’
‘How did they find Bobby-Ray?’
‘One of his buddies, a former SEAL. Kurt Konieczny. Kurt worked for a company called Redrock and he brought Bobby-Ray on board.’
‘And where’s Kurt now?’
‘Kurt was killed. They’re saying that Bobby-Ray killed him, but that’s just not possible, Matt. They were joined at the hip.’
Standing put down his sandwich. ‘So this Kurt hired Bobby-Ray to be part of a close-protection team, and now they’re saying that Bobby-Ray shot the client and killed Kurt?’
Kaitlyn nodded.
‘So why doesn’t Bobby-Ray just go to the cops? If he didn’t do it, he must know who did, right?’
‘He says one of the other bodyguards did it and was trying to frame him. Like I said, it was his gun that was used to kill the client. His prints are all over it. And the bodyguard told the police that it was Bobby-Ray. So it’s Bobby-Ray’s word against his.’
‘Still, the cops will have to listen to him. He’s a war hero.’
Kaitlyn shook her head fiercely. ‘Bobby-Ray says they won’t believe him. And he doesn’t trust them. He thinks they’re in on it.’
‘The LA police department? That sounds a bit unlikely, Kaitlyn. Look, call your brother and let me talk to him. His best bet is to talk to the police as soon as possible.’
‘I can’t call him. He was adamant about that. He says they’re tracking his phone.’
‘So how do you contact him?’
‘I don’t. He FaceTimed me once, but as soon as he’d finished he destroyed the SIM card. That number doesn’t work any more and he wouldn’t give me a new number. But he told me the motel where he was staying.’
‘You know the room number?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So call the motel’s landline and they’ll put you through to his room.’
She shook her head again. ‘I can’t use landlines,’ she said. ‘But anyway, he said no phone calls. No contact.’
Standing held up his hands in surrender. ‘Okay. So take me to him. But it sounds to me like all he has to do is tell his side of the story.’ He drained his c
offee. ‘Let’s go.’
She took him to the short-term car park. She was driving a black VW Polo. It was stiflingly hot and she put the aircon on full as soon as she had started the engine. There was a SatNav on the dashboard and she pressed it and scrolled through to their destination. The Sunset Motel. ‘If he’s serious about staying off the grid, you really shouldn’t be putting Bobby-Ray’s location in the GPS,’ he said. She didn’t react and he realised she wasn’t looking at him. He reached out and gently touched her shoulder. She turned to look at him and he repeated what he’d said.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘Because if he’s really worried about people knowing where he is, the SatNav is an easy way to find him. The sort of people who can monitor phone calls wouldn’t have any problems tapping into a GPS.’
She bit down on her lower lip and nodded, then deleted the address from the SatNav. She drove out of the airport and onto a freeway. There was a truck in front of them that was moving at exactly the speed limit and traffic was passing them on both sides. It was impossible to talk to her while she was driving, so he settled back in his seat. There was a row of white wind turbines in the far distance, turning slowly.
They were heading north on the 405, passing Santa Monica on their left, when he first realised they were being tailed.
Kaitlyn had finally overtaken the truck and a black SUV with tinted windows had matched their manoeuvre, causing a car behind them to sound its horn. Standing had seen the SUV in the wing mirror. Having overtaken the truck, the SUV slowed and allowed another car to overtake it, then another.
Kaitlyn had changed lanes again a few minutes later, and this time Standing was watching. The SUV followed suit. The vehicles between them meant he couldn’t read the licence plate and the tinting was heavy enough that he could only make out the vague shapes of the driver and front-seat passenger.
Tailing a car was nowhere near as easy as they make it look in the movies, Standing knew. To do a professional job you needed at least two vehicles, ideally more. The black SUV was a bad choice, the best cars to use were nondescript saloons, the type of cars that you saw but didn’t remember.
Last Man Standing Page 3
