Fire Force(13)

A hundred grand?

Bruce Dudley didn’t get excited about any number with only five zeros on the end of it. After a decade building one of the most formidable, fearless Private Military Corporations in the world it took at least seven figures for the man to start working up a sweat.

And he’d been sweating this week. You could see it on his face.

‘We’ve got a couple of limos waiting, boys,’ he continued. ‘No point in hanging about.’

It was only a short, brisk walk across the tarmac, past an immigration official who’d already been shown their papers, and then towards a pair of black Mercedes limousines waiting for them right outside the terminal building. There were seven of them now: Steve, Ollie, Ian, Maksim, Nick, Newton and Bruce. Steve sat back in one of the limos, accompanied by Bruce, Ollie and Nick, whilst Ian led the rest of the guys into the second car. The chauffeur pulled away smoothly from the kerb, the engine purring, and steered the vehicle out onto the N2, the main highway that headed south out of the city. The seats were luxuriously upholstered, the wood and metal of the car all freshly polished, the air-conditioning kept at a constant eighteen degrees, and there were bottles of freshly chilled mineral water next to each seat.

‘Private jets, limos - we’re going up in the world,’ Steve commented to Bruce. ‘There’s probably a tasty blonde tucked away in here somewhere.’

‘DEF’s latest client is seriously loaded,’ answered Bruce with a wry smile. ‘This is just the start.’

Steve nodded silently. Over time, he’d learned better than to question Bruce Dudley. The man told you what he wanted you to know and nothing more. Steve had worked for him for three years after quitting the SAS, but he wasn’t on the payroll. Nobody was. Dudley Emergency Forces worked quietly behind the scenes, putting together small groups of men for each job, mixing the units to suit the task at hand. Steve respected and admired Bruce: the Scotsman had been one of the hardest Sergeants in the Regiment and was, without question, the finest judge of men that Steve had ever met.

But he was also a risk-taker, and didn’t mind putting other men’s lives on the line if there was a weighty-enough cheque at the end of it.

We’ll find out who the client is soon enough, Steve told himself. And then I can scoot down to the BA ticket desk and get myself on the first plane out of here.

The drive took less than an hour. The N2 snaked down the coast, heading south through beautiful, lush countryside. The fertile lands around the Cape didn’t look anything like anyone’s idea of Africa. It was more like driving through Northern Spain. There were green, blossoming fields, covered in vines and fruit trees, with mountains rising up in the distance in one direction, and rocky, jagged cliffs tumbling away to the storm-tossed Atlantic coastline in the other. The countryside looked well-kept and prosperous: the land was so rich, you could hardly fail to make a good living from the wine and oranges.

After thirty miles, the limos turned sharply off the highway and drove more slowly along a winding road that led down to Hawston, a small, picture-postcard fishing town nestling on the shoreline. They entered a private driveway, flanked by a huge pair of iron gates and manned by two burly security guards. A strip of barbed wire ran along the perimeter, and a pair of mean-looking Alsatians kept watch. A long, curved drive lined with cedar trees, led then up to a neo-Georgian mansion. which, from the looks of it, had least twenty bedrooms. At the front of the house was a small, artificial lake, whilst the back looked out over the clifftops and across to the ocean beyond. It was set in fifty acres of parkland, Dudley told them, with two swimming pools, several ornamental fountains, and a set of five guest lodges, each with two bedrooms.

‘So whose gaff is this?’ asked Steve as the limo pulled up on the driveway. ‘Nelson Mandela’s?’

‘Archie Sharratt’s,’ said Bruce crisply, climbing out of the car.

A cool breeze was blowing in off the Atlantic, taking the edge off the hot afternoon sun. Steve followed Bruce through the open door that led into the entrance hall. It was laid with creamy white marble, with a circular staircase descending into it, and, at the back, a huge pair of glass doors that led first onto a patio and pool, then down to a private beach. Out at sea, a 100-foot yacht was moored, its varnished wood and gleaming brass reflecting the light bouncing off the choppy blue sea.

‘Nice place,’ said Nick, a hint of awe in his voice.

‘Isn’t your mum’s place a bit like this?’ said Ollie, grinning.

From what Nick had told them on their last job together, he’d grown up on a council estate in Swansea, where his mum Sandra worked on the check-out at B&Q. ‘Maybe with some money from the club,’ said Nick.