by Chris Ryan
Hassan felt a knot in his stomach. But he jutted out his chin and said, ‘Yeah.’
‘Good. You have probably noticed that we have a prisoner in our midst.’
Hassan nodded.
‘His name is Alan MacMillan. He calls himself an aid worker, and he thinks that makes him important. But he is just another infidel of no significance. Our duty is clear.’
Hassan nodded mutely.
‘The lights, Jahar.’
Jahan flicked a switch on the wall of the second room. A tiny part of Hassan’s brain wondered where the electricity was coming from. But by far the greater part studied the room.
It looked, in some respects, like a professional photographer’s studio. Two lamps shone from the corners on to the prisoner, who was blinking in the sudden brightness. Behind him was a backdrop that showed a convincing daytime desert scene. Along one side, out of the way, was a camera on a tripod. Hassan walked into the room. He saw that the prisoner’s hands and feet were tied behind his back and strapped to a post protruding from the floor behind him. There was no way he could move from his kneeling position.
The man spoke from the doorway. ‘You will have the honour of dealing with him.’
At these words, the prisoner started to whimper. Jahar entered the room. Hassan saw that he was carrying a needle and syringe. He stuck the needle through the orange cloth of the prisoner’s clothes and into his upper arm. Almost immediately, the prisoner’s head bowed again, and he fell silent.
‘Valium,’ Jahar said. ‘Stops them struggling. Makes it cleaner and easier.’
‘Makes what easier?’ No reply. ‘You mean . . .’ Hassan made a small slicing movement with his hand.
Jahar smirked. He moved the camera and its tripod into the doorway. Moments later he was handing Hassan a knife, about nine inches long and obviously viciously sharp, along with a black balaclava. ‘Put it on,’ he said. Hassan did as he was told as Jahar stood behind the camera, leaving Hassan in the room next to the drugged prisoner.
‘Show us you are not a coward,’ said the man from the other room. ‘You know what to do.’
Hassan looked at the knife, then at the prisoner. He realised his hand was trembling slightly, and he tried to stop it.
‘If you prefer,’ the man said, his voice quiet and taunting, ‘you could be given women’s work. The washing of clothes and preparation of food for real fighters like Jahar. Perhaps that is all you’re good for.’
Hassan straightened himself up. ‘I could hurt him first,’ he announced. ‘Beat him up a bit. Stick something in him . . .’ He put his palm flat over the hostage’s face, yanked his limp head back and touched the tip of his knife to the his cheek.
‘It’s not necessary. Beatings do not interest anybody. Nobody watches the video of a beating. Beheadings are a different matter. You must learn the skill. You will probably start to enjoy it.’
Hassan touched the knife against the back of the hostage’s neck. It broke the skin immediately, and blood started to drip down the side of his neck. Hassan’s hand was trembling. He tried to steady it. He saw a little red light on the camera that told him it was recording.
The man was still talking. Hassan breathed deeply, barely listening.
‘Then you will travel away from here and continue your new life as an executioner. You might even be afforded some respect like Jahar here, who has now conducted four beheadings, to the glory of Allah.’
Hassan wanted to do it quickly and cleanly. ‘Where . . . where are you sending him, Caliph?’ said Jahar. In a corner of his mind, Hassan knew Jarah sounded nervous, asking such a bold question of this man. But there was also a note of envy in his voice. Hassan felt pleased. He raised one hand – it was still trembling slightly – and prepared to make the first hack.
‘Nigeria,’ said the Caliph quietly. ‘To do God’s work and punish the infidel, I am sending him to Nigeria.’
PART ONE
Target Red
ONE
‘Nigeria! Of all the bell-ends of a place, we get deployed to fucking Nigeria.’
Danny Black stood on the edge of a well-manicured lawn watching his Regiment colleague Tony waving a pair of barbecue tongs in the air, and listening to his constant stream of complaints. Even though they were being deployed tomorrow they were still on standby, which meant the two-pint rule applied. Both men had a Stella on the go anyway.
‘Last time I was there,’ Tony continued, ‘mate of mine pulled this Nigerian bird down by the docks in Lagos. Got so many fucking diseases his dick nearly fell off.’
‘Right,’ Danny said. ‘Shame.’
‘Seriously, though, I’d rather do the tango along the top of the Kajaki dam than sweat my nads off in Abuja. Eh, Danny? You agree with me, right?’
Danny took a long swig from his bottle of Stella, and said nothing as Tony turned back to the barbecue and started rotating a line of sausages. The pre-deployment moan was as much a part of life in the regiment as an afternoon on the range, or being beasted up the steepest hills in the Brecon Beacons. And privately, Danny did agree with Tony. With half the regiment combing the Middle East for Islamic State militants and the other half on the ground providing forward air control for the coalition fighter pilots targeting them, their job – being packed off to West Africa to provide close protection for a British diplomat – felt like the short straw. True: there were parts of north-eastern Nigeria that were under the control of Boko Haram, a faction of murderous extremists with a sickening line in beheadings, mass murder, rape, torture and abduction. But Danny and the guys wouldn’t be going anywhere near Boko Haram. This was a soft job, and if it had been anybody else moaning about it, Danny would have joined in good-naturedly.
But there was something about Tony that made him keep his distance. Tony wasn’t his real name. Just a joke that he’d never done anything to stop, thanks to the rumours that he was a regular Tony Soprano. Not in looks, maybe: he had thick blonde hair and tanned skin that had gone leathery from so much time working abroad. But in attitude, definitely. Danny had the sense that, with Tony – real name Craig Wiseman – as soon as you agreed with one thing he said, he’d pressure you to agree to a whole lot more.
Danny looked around. Nice gaff. A bit too nice for someone on a Regiment salary. Huge garden. Summer house at the bottom. Expensive conservatory. Danny had even noticed a jacuzzi in the bathroom when he’d gone for a slash, and he was pretty sure Tony was the only SAS soldier with one of them. Not to mention the two Beemers on the front drive. Whatever Tony used to pay for all this, he didn’t earn it from his day job risking his arse for queen and country. It was no secret around HQ that he had other irons in other fires.
There was a copy of the Mirror lying on the table next to Tony’s barbecue. Danny glanced at the front page. It was taken up by the blurry portrait of a young man whose slightly dark skin suggested he was of mixed race. A crooked nose looked like it had been broken at some point, his hair was black and greasy, and he had a light covering of wispy whiskers on his chin. Underneath the image was the caption: ‘Jihadi Jim: First Picture’.
Tony noticed him looking at the newspaper. ‘ISIS bastards,’ he said. ‘Remember the good old days, when the time to shit yourself was when someone shoved a gun in your face? Now you know you’re in for a much worse time when they get their fucking iPhones out and press Record.’ He sniffed. ‘Hopefully one of our lot will stick a 7.62 in that fucker’s head, anyway,’ he said.
‘Roger that,’ Danny murmured. Here was something they could definitely agree on. Jihadi Jim – real name James Wilson, assumed Islamic name Hassan – was the moniker the press had given a young British man from Peckham in south London who had joined Islamic State fighters in Iraq or Syria, nobody was quite sure. A video of him beheading a British aid worker in an orange jumpsuit had gone viral. Syria held bad memories for Danny. He had no desire to go back there. But like every member of the Regiment, he’d have been happy to be the one who send Jihadi Jim packing off to paradise.
>
That wasn’t going to happen, though. And privately, Danny had his reasons for being secretly pleased not to be in the heart of a war zone. He absent-mindedly put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his phone. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d done this over the last three days, to stare at a text message that had come through in the middle of the night. ‘Not much chance of nailing him while we’re driving the British High Commissioner round cocktail parties in Lagos,’ he said as his thumb swiped the screen.
Tony laughed and clamped an over-friendly hand on Danny’s shoulder. Danny didn’t like it. They hadn’t yet been told which of their unit would be in command out in Lagos. But Tony’s body language was that of a guy who clearly thought he’d be in the driving seat. That was the whole reason he’d invited them to his house in the first place: to assert his authority, and let them know who was boss.
Danny stuffed his phone back in his pocket without bringing up the text, then looked meaningfully at the hand on his shoulder. Tony’s friendly demeanour immediately fell away.
Before either of them could say anything, Danny’s mate Spud appeared at the French doors. Spud was the spitting image of a young Phil Collins, but in recent weeks his features had been etched into a permanent scowl. Today was no different.
‘Oh well,’ Tony said, with a spiteful glance at Spud. ‘Could be worse. Could be a bleedin’ desk jockey, hey Spud?’
Danny knew Spud well enough to recognise the dangerous look in his eyes. He turned on his heel, walked straight towards his mate and grabbed him by the elbow. ‘Inside, mucker,’ he said. ‘Now.’
‘Twat,’ Spud muttered as they walked back into the conservatory. ‘I’ll shove those fucking tongs up his . . .’
‘More beers, lads?’ Tony’s wife, Frances, was walking from the kitchen into the conservatory holding two bottles of Stella. Smart woman. More than a match for Tony, Danny always thought. Or maybe she just knew which side her bread was buttered. A looker, too, with her blond hair and a cleavage that was obviously making Spud forget his bad temper. She handed them the bottles, repositioned the solitaire diamond nestling at the top of her cleavage, gave them a slightly distant smile, and walked out to join Tony by the barbecue. Spud blatantly watched her hips sashaying out the door, then suddenly doubled over in a fit of hoarse coughing that lasted a full thirty seconds.
‘You alright?’ Danny asked, when the coughing had subsided.
‘Fucking dandy,’ Spud said darkly, before necking half his Stella in one hit.
In truth, Spud was lucky to be alive, and only he and Danny knew just how lucky. Their last op together had gone badly wrong. Spud had taken a round to the guts, and it was only Danny’s field surgery that had saved him. In the middle of the desert he had stuck a wide-bore needle directly into his mate’s lung to stop it from collapsing. Then he’d manoeuvred him across land and water to get him into the hands of the Red Cross in Eritrea, where things had turned even worse . . . The bottom line was that his abdomen had been sliced to bits, the rest of his body had been abused and broken, and it would be a while before Spud found himself on the front line again – if he ever did. It was obvious that the only reason Tony had invited him to this pre-deployment piss-up was that he didn’t know exactly what had happened to Spud. Danny sensed that if there was one thing Tony hated, it was not being in the know. He’d have to get used to it, though. What had happened was entirely between Danny and Spud, and only one thing was for certain: Spud owed him one, big time.
In the meantime, though, Danny’s mate had been stuck behind a desk in Hereford. Pushing paper. Babysitting the occasional spook venturing down to Hereford from the bright lights of the capital. Spud wasn’t the paper-pushing type, as the top brass at Hereford had soon found out, so they’d started trying to shift the responsibility for him to someone else. For that reason, he was heading to London the following day to shadow an MI6 agent. It was obvious to Danny that he didn’t relish the idea of acting as little more than muscle for the Firm, especially when his mates were on the front line. ‘Like having your bollocks cut off when your pals are at an orgy,’ was how Spud had described it.
Spud belched loudly. ‘I should nail his missus while you’re out in Bongo-bongo land,’ he announced.
Danny looked around. ‘You think the rumours are true?’
‘About Tony?’
Danny nodded.
‘No smoke without fire, mucker,’ Spud said. Danny was inclined to agree. The word back at base was that Tony had a nice little sideline going, creaming off live ammo from the armoury and flogging it on to his mates in organised crime. Plenty of that round Hereford, as Danny knew well – but you didn’t get a lifestyle like this just from shifting a few 7.62s. Danny suspected that Tony’s links with the underworld didn’t stop there. A man of his talents would be useful to anyone who needed some muscle. Like him or loathe him, Tony Wiseman was a very good soldier.
‘Don’t know how you’re going to put up with the fucker,’ Spud said. ‘How long are you out there for?’
‘Open-ended,’ Danny said. ‘British High Commissioner’s feeling edgy. Wants a CP team. Could be a few months.’
The doorbell rang in the sound of Big Ben. Frances reappeared from the garden. Danny noticed how she brushed Spud’s arm as she passed. Spud eyed her up and down as she went to get the door. His body might be all fucked up, but his considerable libido obviously wasn’t.
It was Ripley at the door. He looked very similar to Danny – dark hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders. As usual, he wore a leather motorbike jacket. He was the third member of their team for the Nigerian job. As Frances fetched him a beer, he gave Danny and Spud an unenthusiastic nod. They were good mates, and that meant Ripley had a similar opinion of Tony – and of the prospect of spending weeks or months with him in West Africa. Like Spud, he gave Frances the eye as she stepped out of the conservatory. Then he turned to his two mates. ‘Do us all a favour, Spud, give her a proper seeing-to while we’re away. Breaks my heart to think she only gets that cunt Tony to cuddle up to at night.’
Spud grinned. ‘Consider it done,’ he said.
‘Course, you might get one of Tony’s mates knocking on your door at two in the morning with a baseball bat.’
‘Bring it on,’ Spud said darkly.
Ripley looked round. ‘So where’s our fourth member?’
‘They’ll be here any minute,’ Danny said.
‘Don’t see why we can’t have another Regiment guy,’ Ripley said. ‘What are you looking so shifty about, anyway? What do you know about the newbie?’
‘Australian,’ Danny said. ‘On secondment. Ex-military intelligence. Nigerian specialist. At least, that’s what I heard.’
‘Yeah, well I hope he knows his way round an an assault rifle.’ Ripley glanced outside. ‘Suppose we’d better join the fucking Sopranos outside. Hope he’s cooked extra, I’m Hank Marvin.’ He took a swig of his beer and headed out of the conservatory. Spud followed, but Danny lingered. He pulled his phone out of his pocket again and swiped to his texts. This time he had no interruption, and the text that had been burned on his mind since it arrived filled the screen.
It was from Clara, Danny’s ex. Deep down, he hadn’t blamed her for walking away from him. She’d seen first-hand what it meant to be in the Regiment. She’d seen what Danny was capable of.
She’d seen him kill.
His victims had been two Polish drug dealers in Hereford. They’d kidnapped Clara and paid the price. But Danny’s summary justice had been too much for her to stomach. She’d cut off all ties. Until now.
The text said: ‘I’m pregnant.’
Even on the hundredth time of looking at it, Danny’s gut tightened with a kind of excitement. He’d been to see her two days ago near her parents’ place in Wiltshire where she was staying until the baby arrived. Her due date was a week away. She knew it was a boy. And although she’d greeted him warily, like he was a dog who could turn at any minute, she’d told Danny that a boy needed a f
ather. And that she needed him.
But he’d have to change, she’d said. Danny had told her that he would, and he almost believed it.
He put the phone back in his pocket and stepped outside to join the others.
There were a few spots of rain as they congregated around the barbecue. ‘Get used to it, fellas,’ Tony announced as he slapped a few burgers on to the grill. Danny’s stomach rumbled. He didn’t trust Tony, but he was looking forward to eating his food. ‘Rainy season where we’re going.’
‘Personally I could do without it,’ Frances said. Danny noticed how Tony scowled slightly at being interrupted by his wife. ‘I’m running the London marathon next week,’ she explained to the guys. ‘I don’t want to be jogging round Hereford in the rain.’
‘You should try the bleedin’ fan dance,’ Tony said.
Frances gave him a withering look, then turned to Spud. ‘Feel my thigh muscles, Spud,’ she said. ‘Amazing what a bit of exercise does, isn’t it?’
Spud hid a smile by putting his beer to his lips as Tony shot him a poison look. ‘Nah, you’re okay, Frances,’ he said. ‘I can see you’ve got all the curves in all the right places.’ He took a pull of his beer.
‘Hey, Spud,’ Tony said. His voice had a nonchalant quality that told Danny he was about to come out with something his mate wouldn’t like. ‘I heard your bike’s up for sale. What you replacing it with – a mobility scooter?’
Spud didn’t answer. For a Regiment guy, your wheels were your status symbol. But the medics had told Spud he needed to stop riding a bike and now his BMW was on the market.
The doorbell rang before Spud had a chance to answer. ‘Get that,’ Tony told his wife. Frances looked like she was spoiling for an argument, but Tony gave her a look and she did as she was told. ‘It’ll be our fourth man,’ Tony added, turning back to the barbecue. ‘Don’t know why the Ruperts are keeping it all so hush-hush. What is he, SBS or something?’
Danny suppressed a smile. He had one up on Tony and the others. The ops officer back at base had given him the lowdown about their fourth member, and he’d kept it quiet so he could see the look on their faces.
