Wallace was sitting on top of his Land Rover. The still fierce rain was spitting into him, but he’d managed to keep his cigar alight, the thick smoke drifting across his dark face.
‘I knew you boys were going to need your nappies changed at some point,’ he said. ‘I should have hired myself some proper soldiers.’
‘They’d be welcome to the job as well,’ said Steve calmly. ‘We’ve got your man - but I can see why the President’s boys are taking a beating.’
Dan had pushed Tshaka forward, and Wallace’s men had already grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him roughly into one of the waiting Land Rovers. He was still gagged, incapable of speech, but even so you could see the anger and fury in his eyes. He hadn’t expected to be taken alive, realised Steve. For the last two days since he’d been captured, he had remained quietly confident that his men would free him. And now that he had been handed across to Wallace, he knew exactly the fate that awaited him.
He didn’t mind dying, thought Steve. But at the hand of his sworn enemy? That wasn’t a fate he’d settled for.
Ollie led the men into the back of a waiting truck. They climbed in one by one, settling down on the wooden floorboards, their heads lowered and their eyes strained. The truck kicked into first gear, pulling out onto the track and starting the short journey back to the fort at Gull’s Wing. We’ll talk when we get there, decided Steve. Maybe start to unwind. We are all shattered by the battle we’ve just been through, and it will take a while to get ourselves back in shape.
And this job’s not even over yet.
We’ve still got a President to kill.
There were no lights in the fort when the truck drew up at the main gate. Six soldiers were stationed at the entry post, and another thirty inside. It was just after eleven at night - less than thirty-six hours since they had moved out of here, Steve reminded himself. But it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Just one more day, he told himself. And then we’re out of this hell-hole.
Wallace was already out of his Land Rover, leading Tshaka towards a cell block, barking orders at his men. They had to reckon on Tshaka’s army getting wind of where their leader was, and what was about to happen to him - and that meant they had to be prepared for a possible counter-strike. No one in the fort was getting any sleep tonight. They would remain on high alert until the job was finished.
Ollie was helping each man down from the truck. They walked wearily across to the barracks room, the same one they had slept in two nights ago. There was a table spread out with food, and some buckets with clean water, soap and towels.
‘Christ, I could eat a bloody horse - I’m starving,’ said Dan, picking up a couple of sandwiches and some chicken and stuffing them into his mouth.
Steve dipped his hands into a bucket. He could feel the dried blood and grime caked to his skin, and felt a sudden urge to wash himself completely clean. There were no showers, and the water was cold, but it felt good all the same. Ripping off his torn shirt, he splashed water all over himself, picking up the soap and rubbing it into his skin. There were nicks and cuts across his body, and they’d all need washing to make sure he didn’t pick up any infections. Some of us eat, some of us wash, he reflected: it’s just a way of shaking the smell of death from us.
‘Bloody good show, boys,’ said Wallace, walking into the room carrying three bottles of rum under his arm. ‘We thought you were goners when you didn’t call in on the radio.’
He chuckled to himself as he broke open a bottle. ‘I was already wondering where the hell I could get some more madmen to take out Tshaka’s fort. But you pulled through. It was a job well done - and if that doesn’t deserve a bloody stiff drink, then I don’t know what does.’
He poured the rum liberally into a series of mugs, and handed one to each man.
‘To the President,’ he said, raising his mug into the air and knocking back the shot of alcohol in a single gulp.
Steve held his hand rock steady. Dan, Chris, Ollie and, naturally, Maksim, were all drinking and refilling their cups. He’d never criticise a man for having a drink, not after what they’d just been through. But he couldn’t toast the President. As he looked into Wallace’s grey, soulless eyes, he could feel only contempt for the man. He was nothing but a hired gun, a killer who sold himself to the highest bidder. We’re not like that, he reminded himself sharply. We fight when we have to, as the money is good. But only if the cause is morally OK.
‘So what’s the drill now?’ asked Ollie.
‘We’ve already radioed in to the President,’ said Wallace. ‘He’s going to be getting a chopper down here at first light tomorrow. His chief security man Esram Matola is bringing him.’