Fire Force(10)

Just then, a bullet flew overhead, striking the prow of the vessel. Next, there was a vicious explosion as a mortar grenade exploded in the water fifteen yards ahead of them. It blew a huge jet of water up into the air, drenching everyone sprawled out on the deck with salt and seaweed.

‘For Christ’s sake start the engine, man,’ coughed Steve. ‘I’m in no sodding mood to take on the Equatorial Guinea Navy. And that’s what they’ll have on our arses next.’





Four

DAWN BROKE GENTLY OVER THE horizon.

Steve nestled a cup of instant coffee in his hand, and adjusted the wheel. He was steering using a compass and charts but mainly by keeping the West African coastland about a mile to his left.

It was just after six in the morning, and the winds had finally dropped. They had been sailing through most of the night. As they fled the coast, the troops had fired guns and mortars at them, but once the unit had got the diesel engine going, had switched out all the lights and steered straight out into the storm, it had been easy enough to make their escape. A couple of mortar rounds shook up the fish, but unless they managed to rouse the Equatorial Guinea Navy, assuming they even had one, there was no way they’d be able to continue the pursuit. They wouldn’t even have to go back and explain themselves to Abago, reflected Steve with a half-smile. The fat bastard was already dead. ‘That’s the last game of poker I’ll ever play,’ he said to Ian as the latter emerged from the hold.

‘Just as well,’ said Ian. ‘You were crap.’

Steve grinned, draining the dregs of his coffee cup. He’d steered the boat through the night, giving the rest of the guys a chance to get dry and enjoy a few hours’ kip down in the hold. Now he could feel the nervous exhaustion of the battle starting to catch up with him. ‘I was only playing for Ollie’s life,’ he said. ‘If it was something I actually cared about I might have tried a bit harder . . .’

‘Thanks, mate,’ said Ollie, emerging from the cabin, scratching at the week’s worth of stubble on his chin.

Steve glanced across at the man. A huge, orange sun was filling the sky, mixing with the dark blues of the Atlantic to create a vivid riot of colour. It was impossible to be angry with a bloke at daybreak, he decided. Something to do with the beginning of a new day. But later tonight he knew he’d be back to the opinion he’d formed of Ollie when he’d first fished him out of a brothel in Baghdad just before they’d started their first job together.

The man was a decent enough soldier, but he was also a loser. And in the end, that made him a waste of space.

‘So where’s your man?’ he asked.

‘Sleeping,’ said Ollie, nodding in the direction of the cabin. ‘I reckon it’s a decade since the guy had a decent night’s kip so we can hardly blame him for catching a bit of extra shut-eye, can we?’

‘Who the hell is he?’

Ollie walked across to the pot of instant coffee Steve had brewed up on the ledge next to the wheel, pouring himself a large mug of the hot steaming liquid. ‘How should I know?’ he said. ‘Bruce Dudley said there was a guy who’d pay a hundred grand to get the man broken out of Broken Ridge. For that kind of cash you get to keep your reasons to yourself.’

‘And you—’

‘Leave it,’ Ollie said tersely.

Steve kept looking straight ahead. They were heading for Libreville on the coast of Gabon, a total of around 150 miles from Malabo. Nick and Maksim had hired the boat there, as well as picking up the weapons, and they’d steer it into the port, return it to the owner, and then head straight for the airport. With any luck, Steve thought, they’d be on a plane back to Britain by this afternoon. Dudley had got his man out, and the client, whoever the hell he was, would have to pay the hundred grand he’d promised Ollie, and the extra two hundred and fifty he was paying Steve to break Ollie out of the jail. Steve wouldn’t say no to some spare cash: he’d sunk every penny he’d made out in Afghanistan into buying West & Hallam, a vintage car dealership his Uncle Ken had built up in Leicestershire, but with the City boys feeling the pinch, the market in old Jaguars, Aston Martins and Austin Healeys wasn’t as profitable as he’d expected. Some money would help tide it over. But he wasn’t about to take on any more mercenary jobs. He’d watched his best mate Jeff die last time around, and he wasn’t going to put himself through that again.

My AK-47 is hung up on the wall, Steve reminded himself. And that’s exactly where it’s staying.

‘Any chance of a beer?’ said Ollie.