4. Gray Retribution

by Alan McDermott

  Gray had lost count of the number of times he’d been confronted by the man, be it outside his home, in the supermarket or even at the cinema. It soon became clear that doing an interview was the only way to stop the nonsense. But Gray had decided that Boyd wouldn’t be the one to get the scoop.

  Vick, with a background in journalism before she set out as a travel writer, knew a few friends who would spin the story sympathetically, and Gray had allowed one of them, Sheila, to tell his side of the story. She’d suggested going the whole hog and writing a biography, but Gray was content with just getting it out in the open and putting an end to the hassle. Financial gain had never been his motive, but now, with clients walking away, a lucrative book deal didn’t seem such a bad idea.

  After being snubbed for the story, Boyd had done some digging into Gray’s affairs. A lot of the information was in the public domain, but Gray was convinced money must have swapped hands at some point, because almost every single client had been mentioned in Boyd’s full-page article.

  It had only been a week since the story broke, and now four blue-chip companies had terminated their contracts with Viking’s subsidiary, Minotaur Logistics. The latest, an oil conglomerate, was worth over a million a year, and it wasn’t going to be an easy hit for the company to take.

  Personally, Gray remained financially sound, but it was his staff that he felt sorry for. He knew all of them by name, having served with a lot of them in the Regiment. The others had come highly recommended from serving officers he kept in touch with, but almost all of them were men with families to support, and doing hazardous work for a fair day’s pay was all they knew. Quite a few would struggle with the transition to a traditional nine-to-five job, but with work drying up he would have no alternative but to let a lot of them go. Not even the money he was likely to make from the British Army for the rights to his ‘sentinel’ prototypes would be enough to keep them all on even a meagre retainer.

  Gray looked through his client list and noted three more companies likely to sever ties with him. That only left roughly a dozen foreign customers that he could rely on. The new kingdom of Malundi was one such contract, with a six-month training schedule having just kicked off. According to Len Smart, while their charges weren’t competent in many respects, they did possess a tactical awareness that wouldn’t take long to fine-tune. This wasn’t news Gray wanted to hear now, as it meant there was little likelihood of Malundi’s president extending the contract or taking on additional resources.

  He put in a call to Andrew Harvey. Once adversaries, they were now good friends, and Gray had picked up a few pieces of work thanks to Harvey’s insider knowledge.

  ‘Andrew, how’s things?’

  ‘Good, mate. How’s the family?’

  They chatted for a few moments, getting the pleasantries out of the way.

  ‘Anything on the horizon that I should be interested in?’ Gray finally asked.

  ‘Nothing that you haven’t already seen on the news,’ Harvey told him. ‘I’d love to help you out, but the foreign desk has been pretty quiet this week.’

  ‘That figures. There’s never a military coup when you need one.’

  Harvey promised to get in touch if he knew of any situations that might prove beneficial to Gray.

  ‘We’re having a dinner party on Friday,’ Gray said. ‘Why don’t you come along, and bring a friend this time.’

  ‘Sounds great. I can be there by seven, if that’s all right. Oh, and Tom, don’t go doing anything stupid to Donald Boyd.’

  ‘Don’t worry, those days are behind me, but I’ve asked my solicitor to consider suing him for loss of earnings. It doesn’t look promising, though.’

  Gray put the phone down, and wondered if Harvey would actually bring someone this time. Vick was a lovely woman with a heart of gold, but she was always trying to set Harvey up with one of her friends, despite his insistence that he much preferred the bachelor life.

  Another email interrupted his thoughts, and he slumped in his chair as another big fish escaped his net.

  Chapter Four

  Monday 30 September 2013

  Ken Hatcher bagged up the oranges and handed them to the elderly lady. ‘That’ll be one pound fifty, please.’

  The customer gave him the correct change and thanked him before exiting the shop, leaving Hatcher to reflect on his first eight hours in business.

  Takings hadn’t been as much as he’d hoped for, but he knew it would take time for word of mouth to bring patrons to his fruit and veg establishment. The location was, truth be told, his second choice, but the preferred spot on the high street was simply too expensive. Still, his was the only outlet selling fresh produce in a one-mile radius, and he was hopeful that the lack of competition would help to make his first business venture a success.

  If it didn’t, he knew he’d never hear the end of it.

  His wife was far from happy at the amount he’d invested in the shop, and despite his projections she saw nothing in the future but failure and leaner times. The fact that he’d used all of his redundancy money and borrowed from family members to finance the project hadn’t sat well with Mina. She’d begged him to look for work in the software field he’d known so well for thirty years, but Hatcher was under no illusions as to his prospects. With unemployment so high, finding another development role while in one’s early fifties wasn’t easy, especially when companies could take on someone fresh from college for half the salary.

  He was determined to prove Mina wrong, despite the inauspicious start, and he headed for the door to take in his display so that he could close up for the evening. Through the window he saw two men approach the shop, and he held the door open for them, offering the same welcoming smile that every customer had been treated to throughout the day.

  ‘Evening, gents. What can I get you?’

  The elder of the two, in his early fifties and still sporting a full head of close-cropped, chestnut hair, returned his smile. The younger one sauntered through the shop, idly perusing the goods on sale.

  ‘Didn’t know we had a grocer’s on the manor,’ the man said, his accent marking him as a local.

  ‘We opened this morning,’ Hatcher told him, the smile still on his face.

  ‘Is that right? And how was your first day?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ Hatcher lied.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ He extended a hand. ‘The name’s William. William Hart.’

  Hatcher shook it. ‘Ken.’

  Hart’s grip was firm, almost painfully so, and he looked Hatcher in the eyes. ‘Have you spoken to your new neighbours?’

  ‘Not really,’ Ken admitted. A few weeks earlier he’d enquired about footfall with a few of the shops on the street, but hadn’t let on that he was planning to set up business.

  ‘Then I suggest you do,’ Hart said, all pretence at amiability instantly gone. ‘They will clue you in to the insurance arrangements we have in place.’

  Hatcher looked at the man, fear fluttering in his chest as the nature of Hart’s visit became clear.

  ‘Got any kids, Ken?’

  Hatcher hesitated, then nodded. ‘A son. He’s about to start university.’

  ‘Ah, just like Mr Singh down the road. He’s got a boy about the same age. Tragic accident, that one.’

  ‘Accident?’

  ‘Yeah. Seems Mr Singh wasn’t too keen on accepting our offer. Still, being confined to a wheelchair doesn’t stop the kid studying, does it, Aiden?’

  The other man shook his head but remained silent. The two looked similar: father and son, Hatcher guessed.

  Hart was smiling, but there was no warmth to it. ‘You’ve got a little gold mine here, Ken. No local competition and a decent location. There’s a lot of money to be made.’

  Again, Hatcher nodded, but was fearful of where the conversation was heading.

  ‘The trouble is, you’re close to a council estate which has a high rate of unemployment, and those kids like nothing better than to terrorise sh
op owners. Don’t they, Aiden?’

  The son gave a mischievous smile, and the family resemblance was even more obvious.

  ‘Fortunately, they listen to me,’ Hart continued, ‘and I can tell them to behave themselves when they’re in the area. For a small fee, naturally.’

  Hatcher struggled to control his voice as he asked the question, dreading the answer.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three hundred,’ the elder Hart said, and Hatcher felt like the blood had drained from the upper half of his body. The projections he’d been working with—while on the conservative side—left him little room for an extra commitment of that amount.

  ‘There’s no way I can afford three hundred a month!’

  Hart laughed and gave Hatcher a mighty whack on the back. ‘It’s three hundred a week, Ken.’

  While Hatcher tried to recover from the bombshell, the two men headed for the door.

  ‘Aiden will be back next Monday for the first payment,’ Hart senior said over his shoulder and picked up an apple on his way out.

  Ken Hatcher walked slowly, mechanically to the stool behind the counter and collapsed onto it, his mind numb as he tried to come to terms with the last few minutes. He sat there for a quarter of an hour, picking at his lip as he fought for a solution, and it took him a while to recognise the sound as the door chime tinkled to announce another customer.

  After serving the woman and adding another couple of pounds to his takings, he brought in his display and closed up for the night, all the while considering his options. As he set the alarm, he made his decision. He would speak to the surrounding shop owners in the morning, and if Hart’s threat was real, he would consider going to the police.

  There was one thing he wouldn’t do, though, and that was to involve Mina.

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday 1 October 2013

  Nafari Cisse sized up the small stone in the middle of the dirt road and pictured himself in the last minute of the African Cup of Nations final. His penalty could win it for Malundi, and as the crowd roared, he took a run up . . . and scuffed it, the pebble skittering feebly into the long grass off to his left.

  It didn’t matter.

  His twelfth birthday was just a couple of weeks away and his father had promised to buy him a proper football, one made from real leather, not the cheap, hard plastic one his friends played with at school.

  Nafari picked up the pace, eager to be one of the first into class. The school building was designed for roughly thirty children, but more than fifty pupils managed to cram themselves in each day, and desks were on a first-come, first-served basis. His teacher wouldn’t stand for bullies turning up late demanding a seat—not that he would ever consider such a thing for fear of a beating from his father—and so he always made sure he was one of the first at the door when Miss Olemba opened up.

  He heard the sound of a vehicle approaching from the rear and moved off to the side of the narrow track to let it pass, but it slowed as it neared and pulled up alongside him. The windows were wound down and he could see three male occupants. The front passenger leaned out of the window, his right arm flopping lazily against the hot, red door.

  ‘Hey! How do I get to Milanga village?’ he asked, his manner friendly.

  Nafari pointed down the track. ‘Go down here until you see a giant tree and turn right there, then you go past the watering hole and turn left and . . . ’

  ‘Someone else told me to turn right at the watering hole.’ The man continued to smile, despite his challenge. ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

  ‘I am!’ Nafari said, full of indignation. ‘I go to school there every day.’

  The passenger laughed. ‘Okay, Simba, calm yourself. If you’re going that way, why don’t you come with us to make sure we don’t get lost?’

  The boy liked the idea of taking his first ever ride in a car, and he was still quite a long way from school, but his father’s warning about not talking to strangers was at the forefront of his mind.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll walk.’

  The man’s demeanour changed instantly. He pushed the door open and for the first time, Nafari could see the machete in his left hand. He tried to run but got no more than five yards before an arm wrapped itself around his waist and he was swept off his feet. The rear door flew open and Nafari was bundled in before a rag was forced into his mouth and he was covered with a dirty blanket.

  ‘One word and I’ll kill you.’ The rear passenger pressed the flat blade of his own machete against Nafari’s skull.

  Tears streamed down the terrified youngster’s face, but he stayed as quiet as he could. In a country where life was cheap, he didn’t want to anger his captors.

  They drove for more than an hour, and having never been more than five miles from his home, Nafari had no idea where he was or where they were going. Despite the windows being open, he was desperate for a drink when they reached their destination two hours later.

  He was ordered out of the vehicle and led to a heavily wooded area, where a haphazard collection of crude buildings had been built. Care had obviously been taken when constructing one particular hut, and in its doorway a giant of a man was overseeing unarmed combat practice. The combatants were all boys, ranging from Nafari’s age to their late teens, and instructors were standing by to admonish anyone who showed their opponent mercy.

  He was shown into a shack where three frightened boys were sitting huddled together. Nafari was shoved inside and the door secured from the outside.

  Despite being petrified, he tried to strike up a conversation with the others. He discovered that they’d arrived the day before and had been in the hut ever since, and though they’d been fed and given water, they had no idea why they were being held captive.

  One of the boys had a persistent cough and complained of stomach pains, and the others put this down to the cigarettes they’d all been forced to smoke. They, too, had abdominal cramps, and the only thing that relieved the pain was to smoke some more.

  As if on cue, the door opened and a man stood in the doorway, wearing nothing more than combat trousers and a pair of boots. He lit two large roll-ups before handing one to Nafari.

  ‘Smoke.’

  It wasn’t a question, and he tentatively took the cigarette, looking at the other boys for guidance. They were far more interested in the cigarette the man still held. He grinned as he tossed it in front of them, causing a scramble for the first toke.

  The largest of the three came out victorious and sucked greedily, taking three long drags before eventually passing it along. Nafari got a kick in the thigh and was once more ordered to have a go. He thought briefly of disobeying, but when the man pulled his machete from his waistband, he did as ordered.

  The harsh smoke burnt his throat and he coughed violently, bringing another grin from his guard.

  ‘Again.’

  Nafari took another draw, tears welling in his eyes. This time the he managed to inhale and immediately felt strange.

  ‘That’s good whoonga,’ the soldier said.

  The cigarette Nafari was smoking had been spiked with a psychotropic drug that made the user susceptible to suggestion. As Nafari’s eyes glazed over, the guard began working on the boys.

  ‘Who is your father?’ he shouted.

  The words were heavy in Nafari’s head, and it took him some time to arrange them into a coherent sentence.

  ‘My father is Hans . . . ’

  When the slap landed it felt like the skin had been torn from Nafari’s face.

  ‘You have no father!’ the guard shouted. He let the news sink in for a few seconds.

  ‘Who is your mother?’

  Nafari was still reeling from the blow, and the question was repeated.

  ‘I . . . my mother . . . ’

  Another blow landed. ‘You have no mother!’

  Nafari dropped the cigarette and the guard retrieved it, forcing it into the boy’s mouth.

  ‘More!�
�

  As Nafari took another drag, the guard went to work on the other three, repeating the same questions. Having been through the procedure before, their answers matched the soldier’s expectations, and he knew that in a couple of days they’d be ready to join the rest of the population for the next step of their induction.

  Chapter Six

  Wednesday 2 October 2013

  Len Smart checked his watch and let the other three training officers know that it was time to kick off the exercise.

  Sonny Baines—so nicknamed by his colleagues long ago because of his youthful good looks and blonde hair—toggled the view on the handset that he was using to communicate with sentinel number one. After a few seconds of playing with the settings, he declared them good to go.

  ‘All set for three-round bursts every four seconds, with an angle variation of six degrees.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Smart. ‘Let’s see how clever these guys really are.’

  The sentinels were set up in the treeline, around five yards in. There were four in all, spread out a dozen yards apart. Each unit consisted of a round base containing two hundred rounds of 7.62 mm ammunition, fed through a seven-inch central tube to the electronic firing mechanism that sat atop it. The four-inch barrel meant the effective range was two hundred metres, which was more than enough for the engagements it was designed for, and the tiny video camera mounted on the barrel fed real-time pictures to the operator.

  Sentinels had initially been designed to give retreating troops a little breathing space, allowing them to fall back while their enemies were pinned down by the automated fire. They had a default setting that allowed quick deployment, or if time permitted, the units could be preprogrammed, as Sonny had done. To prevent them from falling into enemy hands, a small explosive package could be detonated, which would destroy the electronics and render the device useless.

  That wouldn’t be necessary during this training exercise, however. The electronic laser attachments were in place to register any hits, and with all preparations complete, Smart led his team on their silent circumnavigation of the farm. It took them over an hour to make their way to the rear of the building, crawling most of the way on their bellies while remaining at least five hundred yards from the target.