Fire Force(27)

‘Where I come from they’re the same thing,’ said Ian. ‘History has a funny way of coming back and biting you in the bollocks.’

Up on the screen in front of them, their flight for London was being called. Bruce nodded the men towards the gate.

Suddenly, Steve heard a shout.

Chris Reynolds was bounding towards them. Dressed in black jeans and a blue sweatshirt, there was a small canvas bag slung over his back. ‘You’re not going without me,’ he said.

‘Christ, man, we already told you,’ Steve said irritably. ‘This is no job for a bloke with a new kid to look after.’

‘And I said I’m coming.’

Bruce handed him a boarding card. It was clear to Steve that the two men had already spoken. How else would Chris know which plane they were on, and have a seat already booked for him?

‘I thought—’

‘You need someone who knows how to fight in Africa, Steve,’ said Bruce sharply. ‘Every continent has its own style of warfare. Chris knows what the rules are in this part of the world.’

‘It’s too dangerous.’

Chris looked straight at Steve. He was a big slow man, with a ponderous manner, but like an ageing ox he had a steady determination to him. ‘It’s personal,’ he said. ‘I have my own reasons why I want Kapembwa dead.’

‘Such as?’

‘I just told you, it’s personal,’ repeated Chris.

‘Fantastic,’ said Ollie, clapping him on the back. ‘Pleased to have you back on the bus, mate.’

Steve glanced back once at the airport before stepping through the departure gate.

Next time we’re on this continent, he thought, we’ll be kicking off a small war.

And once you start one of those, there’s no way of knowing how it will finish.





Twelve

THE FARMHOUSE WAS DOWN AT the end of a long, twisting lane, surrounded by fields that at this time of year were damp and lifeless. As he looked out, Steve couldn’t help but be reminded of the place Chris had built for himself out in Africa, bathed in brilliant blue sunshine and surrounded by wide open spaces that a man could feel still needed to be conquered.

It wasn’t hard to understand why blokes had gone out to places like South Africa or Batota. There was a freedom, a sense of adventure out there, which could never be found at home.

‘Let me do the talking,’ said Ollie. ‘He’s my kind.’

‘What kind is that then?’

‘A public-school tosser.’

Steve grinned. ‘OK, you’re doing the talking,’ he chuckled. ‘You boys should get on like a house on fire.’

They’d touched down at Heathrow early this morning after an overnight flight from South Africa. There wasn’t any time to lose. Over the next two days, they’d need to put together the rest of the team they needed for the job. That meant tracking down the other men who’d been with them in Afghanistan: the Gurkha warrior Ganju Rai, an expert in stealth fighting, the organisational and logistics maestro David Mallet, and Dan Coleman, the Australian Special Forces trooper who knew more about weapons than any man Steve had ever met.

But before they did any of that, they had to get themselves hired by Wallace. Until they had done that, they hadn’t even touched first base.

Guy Wallace lived in a big old stone farmhouse set deep into the Dorset countryside. Bruce had called him from South Africa - the two men knew each other from the old days - and said he had some guys who might be up for a job in Batota if he was still recruiting. Wallace had told him to send them straight down. He needed some fighters and he needed them fast.

On the drive down from London, Steve and Ollie had run through their lines. They wouldn’t mention that they were working for Bruce. They’d just say he’d made the introductions. And they certainly wouldn’t mention Archie Sharratt. You had to be pretty desperate to sign on for Kapembwa: only men who were millimetres away from the gutter itself were likely to take that shilling. The way they’d tell it, they were both strapped for cash, and were up for anything.

‘Mr West and Mr Hall,’ said Wallace, stepping out from behind a tractor. ‘I’ve heard plenty about both of you. Most of it bad . . .’ He laughed to himself.

The courtyard of the farmhouse was covered in hay and mud. There was a pair of horses in a stable, both of them neighing. Wallace led them inside. The house was built of stone, with low beamed ceilings, and Steve had to stoop to get through to the kitchen. From the musty smell, it was clear that Wallace lived here alone on his occasional trips back from Africa. No woman would allow it to get into this state.

Wallace put a pot of freshly brewed coffee on the table. He was a tall man - thin, with strong muscles, and a greying beard that made him look all of his fifty years. In his runny, blotchy eyes you could see the effects of half a century of drinking and fighting; at different stages in his career, Wallace had spent around a decade in African jails, and the brutal conditions had taken their toll. Yet he moved with a catlike agility, and there was rough intelligence to his face. Steve knew of cars that were just the same - and he usually bought them for the dealership if he got the chance. In another decade, they’d be scrap metal, but for now there was plenty of punch left in their engine.