by Chris Ryan
‘What is your name?’ the boss said. His voice was very deep, and he spoke slowly.
Spud gave him an expressionless stare. ‘Jimmy Dale,’ he whispered. Like every Regiment man, he had a false persona committed to memory for just such an eventuality.
‘What is your job?’
‘Aid worker.’
The boss nodded. ‘I have morphine nearby,’ he said. ‘I can keep you drugged and happy till the end, if you tell me the truth. Most hostages prefer it that way.’ He sneered nastily. ‘But you are lying. And if you lie to me, you will be sorry. What is your name?’
‘Jimmy Dale,’ Spud breathed.
The boss stared at him silently for ten seconds. ‘Okay, Jimmy Dale,’ he said ‘Let’s see if you still want to lie in half an hour’s time.’ He held up the bag. ‘You want to know what’s in here?’ he asked.
Spud couldn’t stop himself from gagging now the bag was closer to his nose, but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up.
‘It’s food,’ said the boss. He inclined his head toward the straining dog. ‘Animal food.’
He put one hand into the bag and slowly withdrew an object.
For a moment, Spud couldn’t work out what it was. It was pale grey in colour, with random patches of white and black. Along the top was a band of dark brown, with something white and splintered sticking up from the top.
It was a human foot.
‘From a prisoner,’ the militant said. He turned and threw the foot within reach of the dog. The animal fell upon it ravenously, expertly tearing of scraps of rotten flesh and consuming like it hadn’t eaten in days.
Spud averted his gaze and stared straight ahead at the fire, trying to ignore the awful sound of dog’s devouring its supper.
‘I will be back in half an hour,’ said the boss. ‘You should think carefully about lying to me again.’
He turned his back on Spud, and left with his men.
6
Triggs made the call from behind the wheel. The light from the keypad of his sat phone glowed in the darkness of the car. It rang five times, then clicked silent.
‘If he’s on a job, he won’t pick up,’ Triggs protested.
‘Try him again.’
‘I’m telling you, boy, it’s a waste of time.’ But he dialled once more. This time, after seven rings, a voice answered.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s me,’ Triggs said.
‘Not a good time,’ said the voice at the other end. He spoke with the slight American accent common to many Israelis. Slightly tense. ‘I’m kind of in the middle of something. We’ll catch up in a day or so, okay?’
‘Wait!’ Triggs said, glancing sideways at Danny. ‘Mate, I’ve got a job.’
A pause.
‘I’m on a job already.’
‘Not like this one. There’s some gang-bangers in Massawa, need a few people taking care of. I need an extra pair of hands. Fifteen large in it for you, but we need to get moving tonight.’
Good, Danny thought. Triggs sounded bloody convincing.
Another pause.
‘You’ll have to come to me.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Grid reference 15, 38, 40 north, 39, 20, 21 east,’ said the Israeli’s voice.
Triggs plugged the reference into his sat nav. Ten seconds later the screen showed a direct route across a plain background. No towns or topographical features. This was a trek across open desert. A panel at the bottom left of the screen read: ‘Journey time: 1hr 47mins.’
‘I’ll be there in two hours, max,’ Triggs said.
The line crackled.
‘I’m not in the mood for any funny business, Triggs. Make me nervous, I’m going to start squeezing triggers.’
The line went dead.
‘He’s suspicious,’ Danny said.
Triggs sniffed as he turned the engine over. ‘Of course he’s suspicious,’ he said. ‘That’s the only reason he’s agreed to the RV.’ He yanked the steering wheel down and sped into a full turning circle.
‘What do you mean?’ Danny said.
Triggs gave him another of those sidelong glances. ‘I keep him close, he keeps me close. That’s what enemies do. But he’s greedy too. Gilad Friedman isn’t going to risk turning down 15k. He wants to sound me out.’ He gave Danny a sidelong glance. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn, boy. A hell of a lot to learn.’
Danny let that pass. Triggs accelerated across the desert, leaving the ramshackle building with the two dead doctors in the darkness behind them.
They travelled, at first, in silence. Triggs kept his eyes on what just about passed for a road. Danny stared through the windows into the surrounding desert. The stony ground, lit up by the vehicle’s headlamps, zoomed past like a piece of black and white film. In the middle distance he saw nothing except the night. Further than that, toward the horizon, he saw the occasional set of moving lights.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked Triggs when he first saw them.
Triggs shrugged. ‘Probably Rashaida,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘Rashaida. Desert nomads, a bit like the Bedouin, but with a nasty edge. They trade in camels – make a lot of money out of them – but they shun modern technology.’
‘Except cars.’
‘Right. I never said they were consistent. Some of them have vehicles, and they often travel at night. If it’s not Rashaida, it’s Eritrean police or military, running them down.’
‘What for?’ Danny asked.
Another shrug. ‘We’ve got Yemen across the sea, Ethiopia to the south, Djibouti and Somalia to the south-east. Surely you don’t need me to tell you parts of those countries are full of jihadists and other militant groups. The Eritrean authorities refuse to crack down on them. They use this route to move weapons and personnel across Africa and up into Europe. I heard a rumour that some of the Charlie Hebdo killers came this way. Anyway, the Rashaida are devout Sunnis. Veils, child marriages, all that bollocks. They value their women because they know they can sell off daughters for marriage at a decent price. They also help terrorists – particularly the Somali ones – transport themselves and their weapons across Eritrea. They pretend to be doing it for ideological reasons, but that’s a load of horse shit if you ask me – I never met a Rashaida who wouldn’t sell his grandmother for a few nafka.’
‘I’m more worried about the military.’
‘You shouldn’t be. Soldiers and police, we can bribe. The Rashaida are more unpredictable. Trigger-happy.’
They fell again into an uncomfortable silence. Danny kept his eyes on the distant lights, whenever they appeared. He found himself wishing they had night-vision goggles. That way they could drive blind, without the headlamps. As it was, they were lit up, visible from miles around.
They’d been travelling for an hour when Triggs said: ‘When we get there, you’ll need to stay out of sight. Gilad’s a jumpy bastard. If he thinks I’ve got company, he might decide to do something about it.’
Danny didn’t like that idea. How did he know he could trust Triggs? He didn’t. These days, Danny Black didn’t trust anybody.
Triggs cleared his voice. ‘You know, I was in the Province, boy,’ he said. ‘Long time ago now. One time, we’d put in surveillance on a Provo target. He was holed up in a supposed safe house in Antrim, and our orders were to enter the house and apprehend him. I made the call to move in, but we hadn’t clocked a Provo shooter on a nearby rooftop. My oldest mate took a round and died at the scene.’ Triggs gave Danny a meaningful stare. ‘I know the score, boy. I came up through the ranks in Hereford and I know what it’s like to lose someone in the field.’ He turned again to get his eyes back on the road. ‘Remember, he’s no good to anybody dead. That’s what gives us a bit of time.’
A pause. Then Triggs gave a low hiss. Danny looked sharp-eyed through the windscreen. Headlamps facing them. Distance: about 200 metres.
‘Company,’ Triggs said.
‘Military?’ Danny asked tensely.
‘Or Rashaida?’
Whoever it was, they spotted Danny and Triggs. There was open ground all around. No place to run hide.
Triggs slowed the vehicle down to a halt.
‘Let’s find out, shall we?’
7
Danny’s fingers felt for his weapon. It was cocked and locked.
‘Go,’ he said.
The vehicle crawled forward. After twenty seconds, over a distance of 100 metres, Danny could make out figures. Three of them, standing directly in front of the headlamps. The backlighting distorted the shape of their bodies, but Danny could make out that they were each carrying assault rifles.
‘They outgun us,’ Triggs breathed. But he didn’t stop moving forward.
They came to a halt twenty metres from the other vehicle – an old truck of some sort. Danny saw another figure behind it: a woman in colourful clothes, the bottom part of her face and her nose covered by a veil, her eyes and wild woolly hair on show.
‘If they’ve brought a bird with them, that’s good,’ Triggs said. ‘It means they’re travelling, not looking for a fight.’
Danny wasn’t so sure. The three guys with rifles were walking toward the Land Cruiser, and they had a kind of swagger that Danny recognised. But they’d already made their first mistake, because they’d left their weapons hanging from their neck slings rather than holding them in the firing position, ready to go.
‘Are they likely to speak English?’
‘Some of them do.’
Danny tucked his Browning into his pocket. ‘Get out of the car,’ he said. ‘If things go to shit, we can’t fight from in here.’
Both men opened their doors and stepped outside.
The Rashaida guys were simply dressed: plain white smocks and headdresses. Their weapons, Danny now saw, were Kalashnikovs. Old ones. The component parts of each weapon differed in colour, which suggested that each one was cobbled together from a number of different originals. But that didn’t mean they didn’t know how to use them. Danny examined their faces carefully. Two of the guys were walking toward Triggs, one toward Danny. The gaze of each of them, though, flickered toward the vehicle. It was the Land Cruiser, Danny sensed, that they were interested in.
Danny’s guy was two metres from him. Triggs’s pair were closer: a metre.
‘Keys,’ one of them said, and he held out his palm.
Triggs laughed in a comradely sort of way. The Rashaida looked momentarily uncertain. Danny seized his moment. Leaning forward, he grabbed the Kalashnikov that was slung round his neck, yanked the guy toward him, then spun him round and wrapped a strong arm around his neck. The guy made a strangled sound as, with his free hand, Danny pulled the Browning, unlocked it and pressed the barrel to his captive’s head. At exactly the same time, Triggs pulled his own handgun and aimed at the head of the nearest Rashaida.
‘OK fellas,’ Danny called across the bonnet of the Land Cruiser. ‘Let’s lose the rifles.’
Triggs’s two Rashaida exchanged a worried look. All the swagger had gone out of them. They slowly brought their slings over their heads. Danny saw that Triggs’s finger was resting lightly on the trigger of his handgun, ready to fire at any sudden movement. But there was none. The two Rashaida laid their weapons obediently on the ground, then stood up straight again. Danny checked the position of the woman: he couldn’t see her any more, so he figured she was hiding behind the Rashaida vehicle.
Danny needed to get them away from their vehicle – it provided cover and perhaps carried weaponry. The closer the Rashaida were to it, the more advantage they had. ‘Walk.’ Danny nodded his head in a westerly direction. ‘That way.’
Triggs’s two guys exchanged a second glance. They stepped back from Triggs, three paces. One of them turned west. But the other suddenly plunged one hand into his robe and pulled out a small, snubnose handgun.
He was fast, but he wasn’t as fast as Triggs. The moment the snubnose appeared, Danny’s companion fired. The round echoed across the desert and slammed straight into the gunman’s neck. There was a sudden flash of red as fluid burst from an artery, and the guy hit the floor.
Another shot rang out. Triggs had nailed the second guy. No blood at first, but as he collapsed, it started pooling on to the ground from the entry wound at his chest.
Danny’s guy started to tremble, and from behind the opposite vehicle came the sound of screaming – two voices, female. There was clearly another woman back there whom Danny hadn’t noticed. He released his grip on the guy he was holding, spun him round and ripped his weapon and sling over his head.
‘Go!’ he spat. And when the guy just staggered back, bewildered, he repeated: ‘Go!’
The man turned and ran.
‘You should nail him!’ Triggs shouted.
Danny shook his head. ‘Let him run,’ he said. He strode toward the Rashaida vehicle, still brandishing his weapon. As he passed the headlamps, it took a couple of seconds to readjust to the darkness, but he soon saw the two women huddled against the back of the car. He strode up to them, stopping two metres from their position, and saw the fear in their eyes. Their gaze flickered between him and the weapon. One of them shook her head. The other wept.
Danny held out the gun in their direction.
Then he lowered it, and discharged a single round into the rear left-hand tyre. The women started, and the suddenly shredded tyre deflated with a violent hiss. Danny walked round them, took out the second rear tyre, then circled the car and shot a round into the front two.
‘Alright, boy, you can stop taking the stupid pills now,’ Triggs said. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
‘I’m not leaving two women by themselves out here,’ Danny said. ‘If they’re so fucking precious to him, he’ll be back for them.’
‘And he’ll tell his fucking Rashaida mates about us, boy. They’ll be after us.’
Danny gave him a dark look. ‘His vehicle’s out of action. It’ll take him hours to get anywhere. If we’re still in the vicinity by that time, we’ll have bigger problems than a few desert gypsies.’
Triggs looked like he wanted to argue, but maybe he saw that Danny was in no mood for it. ‘Get back in the car, boy,’ he said. ‘We need to fucking floor it.’
‘Fine by me,’ Danny said. He blocked out the sound of the weeping women and climbed back into the Land Cruiser. Triggs started the engine and moved off. The vehicle jolted as he drove over one of the two dead bodies. Danny looked left and saw the frightened gaze of the women follow them as they departed into the night.
He checked his watch. 20.15hrs.
‘We’ve got forty-five minutes,’ he said.
Triggs floored the throttle, and the scene of death disappeared behind them.
8
The door to Spud’s hut swung open.
For the past ten minutes, his head had been lolling on his chest and the room had been spinning. He was only vaguely aware of the dog that was still chewing on the remnants of its monstrous dinner, which it had gnawed down to nothing more than soft, white bone and cartilage. There were moments when Spud didn’t even know where he was. The dog at his feet merged in his mind with the black Labrador he’d owned as a child, and for a few peaceful minutes he thought he was back home again.
But the opening of that door dragged him suddenly and brutally back to the horrific reality of his situation. He inhaled sharply and noisily, then raised his head to see a figure framed in the doorway.
The figure approached. It was the militant with the black and white bandana who had questioned him before. Spud felt a surge of fear in his gut, and did what he could to master it. A voice in his head told him that, whether or not this was his final destination, his survival relied on his captors not knowing for sure who he was. As long as they thought he might have a value to them – to make some horrific death video of, or to sell on to someone else who would – they’d keep him alive. As soon as they knew that he did, they’d make their video or hand him over to someone worse.
T
he militant walked up to him. Spud saw that he held a knife. He closed his eyes and waited for the fun to follow.
Hot breath on his face. A stench of halitosis. The militant was standing very close. He felt something cold and sharp press very lightly against the soft underside of his left eye. He breathed deeply, trying to keep himself calm, but couldn’t stop the icy numbness that seemed to split down his body from the point where he knew this bastard was holding his knife.
‘You a brave guy,’ rasped the militant. ‘Very brave guy.’
Spud felt him move the knife away from his skin. He opened his eyes. Sure enough, the bastard’s face was inches away from Spud’s. There was a ferocious glint in his eyes. ‘You think I can’t break you?’ he said. ‘Think again.’
Spud showed no emotion or response.
‘Tell me your name,’ he breathed.
‘Jimmy Dale.’ Spud’s voice was cracked and dry.
The militant smiled. He looked over his shoulder and barked an instruction Spud didn’t understand. There was a shuffling outside. The two militants appeared – the ones who had chained Spud up. They had a third person with them. It was a young boy, probably no more than twelve. He was writhing and struggling, but each militant was holding the upper part of one of his arms, and there was no way he could escape. He was trying to shout out, but he had a rag stuffed in his mouth so it was impossible for him to make anything other than wordless protests. He wore ragged trousers but no shirt. His abdomen was very thin, his ribcage easily visible. As the two militants dragged him past the fire pit, the kid’s eyes lingered on the tethered dog, which had briefly looked up from its bone. He redoubled his efforts to escape, shaking and scrambling more violently. But Spud could tell he wasn’t going anywhere.
‘You want to know his name?’
It was the last thing Spud wanted to know. Something told him this kid was in for a bad ride. If he knew his name, somehow it would make things worse. So he didn’t respond, but simply looked flatly at his tormentor.
