Street Soldier

by Andy McNab

  Sean seethed. ‘How long have you known him for?’

  ‘Mm. Dunno. A year, maybe?’

  A year . . . Sean thought. That was considerably longer than he had known Heaton. Had Heaton made the connection between Sean and Copper the moment he joined the platoon?

  So all that ‘you never said you were in the Why-Oh-Whys’ bollocks was . . . well, bollocks. A way of opening the conversation, that was all. Heaton must have intended to recruit him from the start. The wanker.

  Sean couldn’t deny he appreciated the money. He did not appreciate being played.

  They had come to a small room filled with boxes. Another door led off on the opposite side, to the back of the building.

  ‘The owner lets us store a few things here,’ Copper said. ‘And in exchange we throw a few things his way, if you know what I mean.’

  Another of those times Sean was deliberately not going to ask for details. He passed the package across and Copper carried it over to a bench.

  ‘Just need to check the goods, mate, OK?’

  Sean held out his hand. ‘As long as you don’t mind me doing some checking of my own?’

  Copper grinned and pulled an envelope out of his coat. He placed it in Sean’s hand with exaggerated care. ‘Go wild.’

  Sean went to lean against a wall and shuffled quickly through the notes while Copper opened the box up on the other side of the room. Sean had just got to the eight hundreds when he was suddenly distracted by a sound he both recognized and couldn’t understand. The smooth metallic slick-and-click of a pistol being readied.

  He looked over at Copper with wide eyes. The big lad was hunched over the box and the sound had come from him, Sean was sure of it. But he must have been mistaken. Heaton hadn’t said anything about guns. And he, Matt and Copper – they never used to have guns.

  Then the sound came again, and when Copper raised his right hand, Sean immediately recognized the silhouette of what he was holding. And he wished to God that he didn’t.

  Copper was holding a Glock 17 Gen 4 pistol. And it was Sean who had put it in his hand.

  Chapter 15

  Sean was across the room in a beat. ‘The fuck are you doing?’

  ‘Like it?’ Copper asked, turning his hand to get a good look at the pistol. ‘Here, have a go yourself if you want.’

  Sean didn’t. He’d used one just like it many times. He could strip it down in seconds.

  And now Copper was holding one.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ he said.

  ‘Relax.’ Copper put the weapon back into the box, and Sean saw that it had come with a pancake holster, designed to fit on his belt and hold the gun concealed close to his kidneys. ‘Money well spent, right?’

  Sean didn’t give a shit about the money. ‘I have to take it back,’ he said. ‘Must be a mistake. No way should that be there.’

  But the brutal reality now facing him was creeping into the corner of Sean’s mind. Heaton had said he sold off surplus stuff – kit the stores wouldn’t miss. But guns were not surplus – they were active or they were put beyond use, and there was no middle ground. Heaton supplied stolen weapons, and had lied to him.

  Copper rested a hand on Sean’s left shoulder; it was heavy, like a large joint of ham. ‘I’m guessing,’ he said, ‘that Josh hasn’t told you the whole truth.’

  Heaton wouldn’t be such an idiot, Sean thought. You couldn’t just nick weapons from the MoD. There were procedures. This shit was traceable!

  ‘Unlike you,’ Copper said, his voice slow and quiet, as though explaining something to a child, ‘Josh kept in touch with his old life, old contacts, mates. Smart lad, if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m going to kill him.’

  Copper closed the box. ‘It’s not like it used to be,’ he said. ‘Life is different now. Things have changed. We have to keep up, make sure we’re safe, look after our own. You’ve seen it for yourself, right? That guy coming after your mum?’

  ‘That’s bollocks and you know it!’ Sean kept a lid on the volume, forcing it down from a shout. ‘That was just some lone tosser. It’s not like everyone’s getting tooled up!’

  Copper nodded towards the door. ‘You’ve done your job, Seany. Take the money, forget it. Best way, right?’

  He tucked the box under one arm and headed for the exit that led out the back. ‘See you around, Seany,’ he said. ‘Pull the door to when you go.’

  Sean sat in the Matiz, his whole body shaking. He was beyond anger and into a whole new kind of rage. Then he roared, hammered his fists into the dashboard.

  Heaton had lied to him. Sleeping bags? Ration packs? It was all bollocks and Sean felt sick at the way he’d been taken in. He should have realized. The money should have given it away. No way was any of that other stuff worth what was being paid.

  Then he remembered the day on the ranges. He’d helped clear up and Heaton had insisted on sorting out the spent and unused rounds himself. Even when Sean had offered to help, he had kept him away. Was that what he had delivered to the bloke in the Range Rover? Sean wondered. A box of full metal jacket ammunition, picked up from the range?

  And the Glock in Heaton’s car . . . That couldn’t be his own property at all. It was another stolen weapon.

  Nausea and anger swept through Sean, making his stomach churn, bringing a metallic taste to his mouth. But he kept a hold of himself and didn’t puke.

  He slipped the keys into the ignition. He needed to have a talk with Heaton. A serious talk.

  *

  PLEASE NOTE WE ARE UNABLE TO SERVE YOU IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 . . .

  Sean hadn’t touched his pint – which the barman had served him without question, despite that smug little notice pinned up above the till. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been age checked. Whenever he hit the pub nowadays it was with a bunch of squaddies, and he was usually the tallest, even if he was also the youngest. No one ever bothered with ID.

  And the minor illegality of drinking underage was like ant’s piss in the huge great puddle of gun-running.

  The pint sat in front of him on a small round table in a shadowy corner of the pub. The Monty – the Montgomery of Alamein, officially – was a popular watering hole with soldiers and it would be full of them that evening. It was early enough to be mostly empty, but he still didn’t want any mates coming in and clocking him the moment they were through the door.

  He had arrived ten minutes ago. Heaton would be here any time . . .

  Sean still hadn’t worked out exactly what he was going to say. He’d decided to meet Heaton in the bar because, he reasoned to himself, there was less chance of him decking the bloke in full public view. But the pub was quiet. The only person likely to complain about a scuffle, other than the chubby barman with sweat stains spreading out from under his arms, was the small white dog at the opposite end of the room. The dog’s owner was asleep.

  The door opened. Sean reached for his pint to calm his nerves and two girls walked in. He watched them scan the room, including him. They clocked his expression, which was not exactly welcoming, and pulled a face at each other, and then left, giggling. He put down his glass just as the door swung open again. Heaton strolled in and headed for the bar, bought a pint, looked around, spotted Sean. With a wave, he came over to join him.

  ‘Told you it would be easy—’ he started, but Sean cut him short.

  ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me what you were actually selling?’

  Heaton sipped his pint. Didn’t react, almost like he’d expected the question. And, of course, he had, Sean realized. Copper had been in touch. Which made him even more mad. He wanted to smack the bastard in the teeth.

  ‘Insurance,’ said Heaton. ‘And if I’d told you from the off, you wouldn’t have got involved, right?’

  ‘You said it was stuff the quartermaster wouldn’t miss,’ Sean said.

  ‘And he won’t,’ Heaton replied.

  ‘What do you mean by insurance?’

  ‘Come on, Sean, you
’re not stupid! You delivered the stuff. You can’t turn me in without screwing yourself. See? Insurance.’

  ‘You. Bastard,’ replied Sean, the words barely audible through his clenched teeth. ‘What have you got me involved in? No, don’t answer that. Because I’m not involved. Not any more. I’m out. Here. Keep the lot.’ He pulled the envelope from an inside pocket and chucked it at Heaton, then stood up.

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Heaton. ‘And you know it. Now sit down.’

  Sean hesitated.

  ‘Seriously. Just sit down.’

  He sank back onto his stool.

  ‘First, you need to calm down,’ Heaton told him. ‘Second, you need to listen.’

  Sean leaned forward, folding his arms and resting them on the table. ‘I’ll take orders from you when I have to,’ he said. ‘But here? I don’t have to, do I?’

  Heaton took a long, slow gulp from his glass, his eyes on Sean. ‘The stuff I’ve supplied, it’s for protection,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen the news, right? Terrorists coming home to bring the war back here? People attacking and killing soldiers? Going after our lads with machetes?’ He leaned closer. ‘How long do you think some fundie nutcase with a machete is going to last against a trained soldier with a Glock?’

  Sean shook his head in disbelief. ‘You really are full of shit, aren’t you . . .’

  ‘I’m serious,’ Heaton said. ‘Next time you see Copper, speak to him. Ask him about the threats he’s had from idiots talking about IS!’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’ Sean made to leave.

  The corporal reached out and pulled him back down onto his stool. ‘Gangs aren’t fighting each other any more, Harker,’ he said. ‘They’re protecting themselves from what’s spilling out onto the streets here, just the same way as it has in Syria and Libya! There’s a war coming. We need to be ready for it.’

  Sean rolled his eyes. ‘You really expect me to believe any of this? Islamic State are setting up shop over here?’ He laughed, shook his head. ‘You should hear the shit you’re spouting.’

  ‘And you need to wake up,’ Heaton said. ‘Next time you speak to Copper, ask him about some of the other tossers he’s been dealing with. Morons patrolling the streets to enforce bullshit religious rules. Shops firebombed because they sold the wrong kind of meat. Girls with acid in the face for fancying the wrong bloke.’

  Sean stared at him. ‘Mate.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Mate. You’re missing one thing.’ He leaned closer. ‘This isn’t fucking Syria. It’s fucking England!’

  Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the envelope back towards Heaton. ‘I have never grassed a mate and I’m never going to,’ he said slowly. He looked Heaton in the eye and didn’t blink. ‘So, if you think your little operation is in the tiniest bit of danger from me, then you and me can step outside right now and sort it out. But, mate, I am walking. End of.’

  He saw something change in Heaton’s eyes as he stood up. Disappointment? Well, why should he care?

  ‘I’ll see you at work, Corporal Heaton,’ he said sarcastically.

  Heaton made a strange movement with his head – something between a shrug of acceptance and a shake. He held up the envelope. ‘I’ll hold onto your share!’ he called as Sean walked out into the night.

  Chapter 16

  ‘Now, there’s a pair who will soon be begging for mercy,’ Toni Clark said with a grin as she passed through. Sean looked up and grunted, and went back to polishing the boot with renewed aggression.

  He was with Shitey Bright and Chewie West, in the common area outside their rooms in barracks, cleaning kit. It was good aggression therapy.

  It was Tuesday, three days after his formal resignation from Heaton’s little operation. He had just about come down from his fury. Unfortunately it returned a little whenever he saw the corporal – which, as they were in the same platoon, was several times a day. Meanwhile Heaton just ignored him, like he used to, so you could say their relationship was back to what it used to be.

  And Sean still had the five hundred from the first drop safely in the bank. Shit, sometimes you just had to know when a deal was done and walk away. He hadn’t lied to Heaton – he had never grassed and he didn’t intend to start now. His only problem now was finding another source of cash.

  But still, being monumentally pissed off does not just go away, and being stuck in Heaton’s company for most of the afternoon hadn’t helped. He had been for a good long run when he got off duty, booted feet pounding the perimeter road until he was hot and sweaty and exhausted. Still in the same T-shirt and MTP trousers, he had hurled himself into the next essential task before he allowed himself the luxury of relaxation. And that was kit maintenance.

  After that first day of agony, back in the gym at Burnleigh, Sean had gone back for more without a second’s thought. But the bullshit of cleaning kit once he got to Catterick had almost been enough to make him walk. Wasn’t he there to shoot guns at the nation’s enemies? Did it matter what state his uniform was in? You what? But my boots are polished. Sorry? You want me to pick the dirt out of the tread with tweezers and . . . You’re pissing me, right? . . . Oh, shit, you’re serious . . .

  But it had got into him, soaking in like polish into leather. You didn’t do this because some twat of a Rupert just out of public school told you to – though that seemed to be a pretty good reason to some of the real twats. You did it out of respect for your regiment, for your colleagues, for yourself. If you couldn’t keep your kit serviceable in camp, then once you were in the field you wouldn’t able to function.

  He went back to his boots. Two brushes – one to put polish on, one to take it off. For the polish itself, black Kiwi – accept no substitutes. For bulling the leather, a yellow duster that had been washed and tumbled a few times. For getting rid of the dirt first, an old toothbrush. He knew the ritual off by heart. Keep it all in a drawstring bag so you’ve always got it to hand. And to keep the polish off the floor, an old newspaper. The Sun could always be relied on to give you something decent to look at while you worked.

  ‘So, after all that cleaning, how do you fancy getting a bit dirty?’

  Sean looked up at her from under his eyebrows, ignoring the way West was doing pelvic thrusts under the table. He wasn’t remotely taken in by the innuendo – not with the big grin on Clark’s face. And he was pretty sure he hadn’t totally misunderstood their relationship.

  ‘How dirty?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘Dirty as in you and me getting under the bonnet of the Cosworth? It’s still pinking between sixty and sixty-five and I can’t shake it. I just got it back from the garage, but no joy. So I’d appreciate your input. And this time you actually get a ride. You look as though you could do with cheering up.’

  Despite his determination to hang onto his foul temper, Sean couldn’t help grinning. Shit, he had a good mate in Toni Clark. Maybe it was time to put Heaton down to experience and get on with the rest of his life.

  ‘Shit, yeah!’

  She grinned and ruffled his hair. She was the one member of the platoon who could get away with it.

  ‘Cool. I’ve got some things to do first – meet at twenty hundred? I’ll be at the gatehouse.’ She gave him a wink as she left.

  ‘Hey, Stenders!’ West called across the table. ‘You’ll let us know how many rides you get in the Cosworth, right?’ He and Bright bumped fists at the joke.

  Sean rolled his eyes. ‘Guys, a car is seriously uncomfortable unless you’ve totally got nowhere else to go. The seats are so narrow you’re afraid of falling off, and it’s so cramped, one of you’s going to bang your head on the roof or a window whatever happens.’

  He went back to his polishing, innocently not meeting their looks, fully aware that they were staring at him.

  ‘Experience?’ Bright asked eventually.

  Sean let it hang for a couple more seconds, before modestly admitting, ‘Experience.’

  ‘Nice one, Stenders!’ West shouted. ‘And you owe me a fiver
,’ he added to Bright.

  *

  Sean left barracks at 19:55 with a spring in his step. It was a warm, sunny August evening. His good mood was only dented a little when he noticed Heaton coming down the pavement towards him. The corporal had his eyes glued to the screen of his phone.

  ‘Harker,’ he grunted as they passed.

  ‘Corp,’ Sean acknowledged, and Heaton walked on.

  The gatehouse was ahead. He could see the red splash of the Cosworth parked outside, next to the SEVERE warning. Toni was leaning against it, chatting to a guard. She saw him coming and gave him a wave.

  The barrier was up to let a small convoy of military vehicles through. At the front was a Foxhound, a truck only slightly less fuck-off-now than the Warrior, designed for Afghanistan – apparently by getting a Land Rover and a Humvee to screw and then rolling the baby in armour plating: Gaz would have sold his soul to get his hands on one. Behind it were a couple of troop carriers, the trusty 4x4 Leyland four-tonners. The canvas hoods in the rear were open, and each truck was loaded with getting on for twenty soldiers and all their kit. Probably coming back off exercise, knackered, dirty and starving, Sean thought, happy at that moment that he wasn’t one of them. He broke into a jog to catch up with Clark.

  Just in time to see the explosion that ripped through the guardhouse and enveloped the convoy in flames.

  Chapter 17

  Sean felt it like a hammer blow. He couldn’t remember being knocked backwards – he just knew that his head was splitting, and there was grit embedded in his hands where they had broken his fall, and his mind was screaming that something terrible had just happened.

  And then he staggered to his feet again, and broke into a run, all on autopilot, still only vaguely aware of what the fuck was happening; he just knew that something was, and he needed to be there. He stumbled towards the flames and the smoke and the wrecked vehicles and bodies. There was no sound. He wasn’t sure if he was deaf or if his brain was just refusing to process the information, denying what he knew had just happened.