Fire Force(6)

‘You want the guided tour?’ chuckled Abago.

‘The one you give to Amnesty International?’ Steve said coolly.

Abago chuckled. ‘No - not the whitewash we give those fools. The real Broken Ridge.’

‘Somehow I’m not in the mood,’ answered Steve.

They followed the Commandant down a single staircase. With each step the smell got worse: excrement, mixed with rotting flesh. At the bottom was a set of steel gates, left open. Abago stepped right through. Two long corridors stretched into the distance, with just one light bulb in each. On either side were rough cages, each one containing ten to fifteen men. It was late at night now, and most of them were sleeping, but the cells were so cramped it was impossible for everyone to lie down at the same time, so some of them were standing against the walls, or hanging onto the bars, waiting their turn to kip down for a few hours. Each cell had a single bucket to crap in, but there was no sign of any water. The floors were matted with piss and straw. In one cell, a man was groaning in pain, bucking while he was consumed by a fever, but his cellmates were ignoring him as he sweated and writhed in agony. It looked like the end was close, judged Steve. But not tonight. The poor bastard still had a couple of days to get through before he could start to rest in his grave.

As they walked, Steve could feel dark, suspicious eyes tracking them. He glanced into some of the cages but, like animals, the men would instantly look away. The mere presence of the Commandant among them had cowed their curiosity, and they backed anxiously into the shadows, taking care not to draw any attention to themselves. Only the dying man was oblivious to what was happening, grunting like a pig as the fever chewed him up from the inside.

‘This is what happens to white men who try to steal our oil,’ said Abago, stopping in front of a cage. He turned round, switching on a flashlight and beaming it straight into Steve’s face. ‘You’d like to join them, maybe?’

‘Some other time. You’ve been paid,’ Steve said harshly. ‘If you’re not happy with the deal, I’ll take my gold back.’

He then took five paces forward, making sure there was some safe distance between him and Abago, and peered through the bars. It took a moment before he recognised his friend. There were several days of stubble across his face, and his black hair was sweaty and matted with blood. His sweatshirt was ripped in two places, and there were streaks of dark mud down the side of his chinos. Bruises were visible on his neck and arms, and a scab had started to form where his cheek had been cut.

But the eyes were alive with grim defiance.

I’d recognise the man in hell itself.

Oliver Hall.

Once the fastest-rising young officer in the Household Cavalry - before the gaming table and the whisky bottle wrapped him in their deadly embrace. And now languishing in Broken Ridge. Jesus, mate, thought Steve. One day we’re going to straighten your life out.

‘Christ, man, you’re meant to be getting married in four weeks,’ hissed Steve, walking up to the cell and making sure the Commandant couldn’t hear him. ‘The way you look, even Katie might draw the line at shagging you - and the way I hear it, that bird has never been too fussy before.’

Ollie flashed a rough smile. Behind him, there was one other man in the cell - a slender, ghost-like figure who remained in the distance like a shadow. A single metal chain was slung around his wrist, attached to a metal hook on the wall, making it impossible for him to move more than a couple of yards.

‘Well, I’ll be damned - it’s Steve West,’ said Ollie. ‘Now I really can abandon all hope.’

Stepping forwards, Abago pushed his key into the lock, then twisted the metal until the door slung open.

Steve pulled the dark glasses down over his eyes. The dim lights of the jail all but disappeared, and all he could make out through the murky light were figures and shapes.

Suddenly he could feel Abago’s hands on his back. He was shoving Steve towards the cell.

‘Two more white men!’ he roared, his chest erupting into a mirthless laugh. ‘I’m sure someone will pay some more gold coins to get you bastards out of here.’

Steve waited. They’d expected this from the start. At his side, he could sense Ian slipping his hand inside his sweatshirt. Beneath his vest, he’d taped two thunder-flash stun grenades to his chest: originally developed by the SAS, and used most famously during the Iranian Embassy siege in London in 1980, a thunder-flash was the most brutally effective way of temporarily neutralising your opponent. It produced a brilliant flash of light that blinded anyone not wearing protective glasses, and a high-pitched scream of white noise that stunned their senses and left them confused and disorientated. You couldn’t take one onto a plane, it would never get through security, but Ian had placed all the ingredients inside some sandwiches and reassembled them in the hotel room. The grenade mixed potassium perchlorate and powdered magnesium: Ian had combined them in precise quantities, and placed them inside the shell of a mobile phone to create a rough and ready handmade device.