The Devil's Work

by Dominic Adler

  “You might need to discuss that with my men,” I replied coldly. “They’ve got other ideas, and Mel’s hardly in a position to give orders.”

  Dancer frowned, but buttoned his lip.

  “We need to get out of here,” I said, shooting Dancer a look. “And we need a vehicle. Then we can worry about this loot.”

  Dancer looked around, running a hand through his hair. Oily seawater trickled through his fingers. “We were held here before they put us aboard the ship,” he said. “The outbuildings to the north by the cliff-edge can’t be flanked. If we could work our way out there, maybe we could hit the Xaboyo with enfilade fire. If Alex is prepared to play sniper, we should be able to do it.”

  Like I said, an average plan committed with speed and aggression…

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Dancer nodded sadly, face battered and grim. He snatched up a Kalashnikov and peeled a chest rig from a dead Xaboyo gunman. “Don’t forget the money.”

  “Do you mean the property of the Zambutan people?” I replied.

  Dancer, scowling, disappeared into the gloom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Alex kept overwatch as we crept across the compound. It was dark now, the only light coming from the bridge of the approaching cargo vessel. Low cloud scudded across the moon, swathing the enemy’s position in shadow.

  The men waited while I jogged to the edge of the wall nearest the shoreline. There was a hillock of trash there, pieces of broken wood, leaves and mouldering furniture. Our crippled pick-up was still parked nearby. Taking a jerry-can of petrol from the flatbed, I emptied it on the trash and lit it with my Zippo. With a whoosh, a pillar of smoky flame shot into the air. I wanted a distraction for the gunmen waiting outside, maybe even enough to draw them in to investigate.

  I crept back to the rest of the team, waiting at the wall until our night vision kicked in. Our NV goggles and other kit was either lost or out of battery life. Oz, Ruben and Dancer each lugged one of the sacks while I supported Bannerman. The Scotsman had taken a Ketamine spray and was in fair shape, except for a few broken ribs and soft tissue damage from the ricochet. As long as we prevented the wounds from becoming infected, he’d be OK.

  “There,” Dancer whispered. At the side of the villa was a rusting metal side-gate. Beyond lay a dark clutch of buildings, built from mud-dried brick. As Dancer said, the terrain was bare-arsed except for a patch of dead ground ten metres from our position. Back towards the compound I saw the amber tips of cigarettes as the Jihadis kept watch.

  Dropping his canvas sack, Dancer duck-walked forward, rifle shouldered. For a big guy, he was surprisingly stealthy. He finally raised his hand, thumb-up.

  “Go,” I whispered to Oz, my AK pointing at the forlorn-looking sheds.

  We advanced toward the buildings, finally going firm in an old workshop. All that remained was a broken bench and a scattering of rusty tools. “We need to go through this wall then follow the compound around to the front,” said Dancer. “It looks like a couple of decent kicks will do it.”

  “Just like Afghanistan,” whispered Bannerman, voice shaky with medication. “Y’know, blowing the shit out of compound walls to get to your target.”

  Ruben lit the wall with the torch fitted to his pistol. I tapped the mud-brick. With no roof, years of rain and sea-air had shot-through the crude mortar. Putting my shoulder to it, I felt some give. Seeing what I was doing, Oz joined me. Dancer nodded and fell back to the doorway to keep watch. Rocking backwards and forwards, we forced our fighting knives into a weak section of brick. The wall buckled and groaned. Then, finally, a section gave, half a dozen mud-bricks tumbling away.

  We all froze at the sound, weapons pointing at the gap we’d created.

  There was silence.

  Nodding at Oz, I began prising more bricks away as quietly as I could. A few long minutes passed, and we’d made a gap big enough to wriggle through. Oz slid through, weapon first, and disappeared into the night. Ruben helped Bannerman next, then Dancer.

  “I’m going to get Bytchakov,” I said.

  Dancer nodded, “we’ll be in cover on the other side.” He hauled the sacks of loot through, piling them next to the wall.

  I doubled back into the compound. I’d found a pebble earlier, a big flat stone of the sort you’d enjoy skimming across a lake. I hurled it at the gaping upstairs window, the sign I’d agreed for the American to join us.

  Thirty seconds later he prowled across the compound, painting arcs with his AK, “are we good?”

  “As good as it’s gonna get,” I replied. “You OK for ammo?”

  “Sure, I checked the bodies. I’ve got six magazines.”

  I led him through the out-buildings, to the rest of the group. Dancer touched me on the shoulder, pointing into the murky night. His voice was barely a whisper, “look right, acacia trees twenty metres.”

  “Seen,” I acknowledged.

  “That’s our flanking position for the trucks out front. I expect there to be a sentry or two, but if we take the position we’ve got the enemy bare-arsed.”

  I heard the metallic whisper of Ruben drawing his combat knife. “I’ve got the sentries,” he growled.

  We lay in the shadow of the compound wall as Ruben crept forward.

  “I’ll head towards the trees,” Dancer hissed.

  I watched Ruben crawl ten metres when a shot rang out. There was a fizzing noise and a flare spiralled into the sky. The ex-marine was illuminated with a splash of silver light. Immediately, he dashed, dropped and rolled. But the deadly arc of light from the parachute flare lit him up, like a target on a fifty-metre range.

  Ruben sprang to his feet, ready to sprint, as the first bullet struck. He spun on his heels as a second round slammed home, more bullets chewing the ground into a tempest of dust and grit. Ruben’s knife tumbled to the ground. He tried to get back up, but a final shot struck his head. A gout of dark liquid splashed onto the dirt, and he was gone.

  We were already returning fire, scrambling to escape the searchlight-arc of the flare. Another popped, the sickly wash of vanilla light revealing our positions.

  “Drop your weapons,” said a voice over a bullhorn. “Drop your weapons immediately.” I recognised the clipped English. It was Zhang Ki. Shapes moved in the shadows around us, armed men displaying professional tactical choreography. I had no doubt it was his best NCOs. The dark shapes moved towards us, into the light. I heard the sound of weapons being readied, the crunch of boots on gravel.

  “Bollocks,” Bannerman spat, drawing his Walther with his good hand.

  “I’m sorry,” said Dancer, levelling his rifle at my head. “But I suggest you listen to the Colonel’s orders.”

  A warning shot hit the ground next to Bannerman’s feet. He glowered at Dancer, face twisted with hate. The red sighting dots of a half-dozen weapons settled on us, floating slowly from our chests to faces.

  “Grow up,” Dancer sniffed. He stepped back, weapon covering us. “I’d prefer not to kill any more of you. It doesn’t mean I won’t.” He patted me down and tugged my sat phone from a pocket.

  One by one, flaming torches lit up the night, fuel-soaked rags wrapped around long metal poles. The Xaboyo gunmen loitered warily around us as the Chinese approached. They wore hi-spec outdoor kit, assault rifles ready. I recognised some of the NCOs who’d tortured us at the airbase among them. The ugly sergeant I remembered said something in Mandarin, and three of his men hefted the sacks of loot away.

  Colonel Zhang Ki strode towards us, an amused smile on his handsome face. “What now, Dancer?” he asked curtly, jutting his chin at us. He glanced at his watch then lit a cigarette.

  Dancer looked nervously skywards. “We need to get them inside, and be very bloody careful,” he replied. “You’ve seen how dangerous they are.”

  “We should kill them now,” Zhang shrugged. “The woman’s plan is too complex.”

  “Not now,” Dancer snapped. “Let’s just get them inside.”

&nbs
p; The colonel hissed something in Mandarin and stalked off towards The Red House. One of the Chinese seized our weapons and took them over to the Xaboyo. The militiamen nodded and shared the guns and ammunition between them. Gunmen barked orders, herding us towards the house. As we walked towards the compound, past the smouldering pick-up trucks, I saw the cargo ship anchored offshore. Torchlight raked the beach, a small launch bobbing in the sea. It was too dark for me to see who the figures sitting upright in the boat were, but I knew one of them would be Juliet Easter.

  Inside the house, the Chinese had cleared the main hall. An arc light rigged to a generator bathed the room with a harsh white glow. Hugo’s body had been brought from upstairs, the contents of his skull spattered down the hard stone steps. The rogue Chinese marines bound us at the wrists and ankles with duct-tape, ignoring Bannerman’s howls of pain when they yanked at his wounded arm.

  Zhang Ki stood examining his cigarette in the wash of the arc light. I saw he was wearing a well-cut civilian suit. Apart from the suppressed machine pistol slung over his shoulder, he looked like he was dressed for a business meeting. Jarringly, two of the Xaboyo gunmen stood behind him, dressed in their distinctive grey cloaks and festooned with weapons and bandoliers of ammunition.

  “A shame about Mister Jackson,” Zhang Ki smiled, cigarette smoke drifting from his nose, “although one less Hong Kong ‘Chinese’ is no loss.”

  “Was this his idea?” I asked.

  “No, but his expertise made it possible. I guess my share of the money has increased now he’s gone. What is it you English say? Look on the bright side?”

  “You sound very calm for a man about to feature on the Peoples’ Republic’s most wanted list,” I said. “The MSS have long memories. You must be crazy.”

  Alex Bytchakov nodded. “You think you’ll get away with taking independent military action like that? Man, you started a war.”

  “Ironic coming from mercenary scum like you,” Zhang replied. “You know nothing about China, and nothing about MSS.”

  “How many of your helicopters did we shoot down?” Oz said. “Or destroy at Quaani?”

  “That is no longer my concern, but I concede you put up a good fight at the airfield,” he said quietly. “Bravo, it was a solid effort.”

  “Fuck off,” Bannerman hissed, voice dripping with contempt. “You were shit. I’ve fought harder on a Friday night in The Gorbals.”

  A cruel smile flashed across the Chinese colonel’s face. “Dancer will be gone for five minutes. Personally, I think it would be easier to kill you all before he returns.” He raised his machine pistol, its ugly black suppressor scanning slowly across us.

  “Do it then, you fucker,” Bannerman continued. His face was phantom-white, rivulets of sweat dripping from his brow. “Don’t just give it the big one. If you’re gonna do it, do it.”

  “Leave it Duncan,” I ordered.

  We sat in an uneasy silence while Zhang Ki lowered the weapon and finished his cigarette. One of his men stomped in as the minutes ticked by. He sat behind his boss, rifle across his legs.

  Dancer finally returned. He’d changed into dry outdoor clothes, body armour over a sweat shirt. He wore a web-belt with a holstered pistol, my sat phone in his hand. “Does this still work?” he said, “I thought you didn’t take any non-issue comms kit in the field?”

  “I picked that up in Afuuma.”

  “Who did you speak to?” he said, voice going up an octave.

  “My handler,” I lied. “They’ve lost interest now the wheels have come off.”

  “Really?” he said suspiciously, examining the GCHQ-engineered satellite phone. “How do I find the call register on this thing?” he huffed.

  I talked him through it. “Press that button, the code there is my security PIN.”

  Dancer followed my instructions, entering the code I’d memorized and tapping the ENTER key. Turning the device off, he clipped it onto his web-belt. “Keep an eye on them,” he said to Zhang, stepping into the hallway.

  “What now?” Zhang sighed.

  “The hawaladar is almost here,” he replied. “We need to decide what we take and what we leave.”

  Zhang Ki shrugged. “Let’s take it all and to hell with this hawaladar shit. Leaving a king’s ransom with some fucking tribal?” He said something in Mandarin, and the marine sitting behind him laughed.

  Dancer’s eyes flashed angrily, “Hawala has been the most efficient method of covert money-transfer since the eighth century. Your contempt for these people is starting to piss me off.”

  The Chinese marine lit another cigarette. “You English, always wanting to play T.E. Lawrence with your noble savages. Like the idiot Murray. Don’t forget these morons attacked your base long before they were meant to.”

  It was beginning to make sense. Zhang Ki wanted the Focus Projects base razed, loose ends stamped on, after their escape. But the Xaboyo had screwed up.

  The two men stepped into the doorway to continue their argument. I tried to listen. Zhang Ki remained calm, his voice barely a whisper, but I was used to Tom’s booming voice. He liked the sound of it too much. I got the gist of their conversation, which was that the Xaboyo gunmen might side with the hawaladar if there was a disagreement or double-cross. Their alliance was on shifting sands. With that much wealth at stake, it was always going to be. I wriggled slightly, testing my bonds.

  The Chinese marine NCO raised an eyebrow and hefted his rifle. “No,” he barked. I reckoned it was the only English he knew.

  “How are you?” I whispered to Bannerman.

  “My arm hurts like fuck. I need Ketamine.”

  “No,” said the Chinese guy.

  “Fuck you,” I said. “Do you understand? Fuck you.”

  The Chinese guy had obviously seen enough Hollywood movies to understand the ‘F’ word. He grunted and punched me in the face. A sharp pain hammered through my jaw, a tooth dislodging itself. My mouth filled with salty blood.

  “What the hell’s going on?” said Dancer, striding back into the hall.

  “Bannerman needs pain relief,” Oz snapped. “Your guard, on the other hand, wants to dish out beatings.”

  I heard more voices out in the hall. One of them was female.

  Dancer took the Chinese guy’s assault pack, waving him away when he protested. He rummaged around and pulled out a first aid kit. “Morphine,” he said.

  “No,” said the Chinese marine, raising his rifle.

  “Fuck off,” Dancer spat, swiping the barrel away from him, “fucking half-wit.” Dancer snatched his rifle, checked the safety and set it on the window ledge. The marine glowered, spitting something in Mandarin.

  “Please,” Bannerman groaned.

  Dancer sighed as he pulled the old-fashioned morphine needle from its brown card packaging. I looked at Oz, blood trickling down my chin. Oz pulled a face and nodded at Alex, who looked back at me.

  “Tom, for God’s sake release Bannerman’s arm,” I said. “It’s screwed, he took a bullet.”

  The ex-SAS officer pulled a small knife from his pocket and slashed the duct-tape away. “Bannerman, I’m going to give you the morphine, but if you make any moves I’ll have you shot. You need to understand none of this is personal, OK?”

  The Scotsman nodded, his blood-stained fingers trembling as he took the needle. “Cheers,” he smiled. “This stuff is fucking marvellous.” Grunting with exertion, Bannerman jabbed the needle-tipped morphine Syrette in Dancer’s neck, straight into his brachial artery.

  “Fuck,” Dancer gasped, eyes screwed up in pain. His hands flapped at the needle sticking out of his neck, a bead of blood like a full stop against his skin.

  “Have that!” Bannerman grabbed the P-229 from Dancer’s drop-thigh holster and shot the Chinese guy in the chest, hitting his body-armoured torso. Howling, the marine snatched his rifle and managed to fire a shot over our heads. Bannerman fired again, the bullet piercing his throat. Gurgling and flapping like a fish, the Chinese marine rolled into a
bloody ball. Bannerman shot the prone figure again, before flopping forwards, grasping at the dead man’s belt kit.

  Oz snatched my boot knife from my outstretched leg. I looked over at Bannerman, now shivering and groaning. The Scotsman kept the pistol levelled at the door as he took something from the dead marine.

  “You fucking idiots,” said Dancer woozily. He’d taken a 3cc dose of morphine intravenously. Usually you’d pop the drug into the armpit, and it wouldn’t work for twenty-odd minutes. Dancer, on the other hand, had taken it the Trainspotting route. “The Chinese will kill us all.”

  Zhang appeared for a moment in the doorway. He raised his submachinegun and fired, bullets stitching along the floor. Bannerman returned fire, forcing the colonel to back off. There was shouting in the corridor, in Swahili and Chinese and English. Spent brass rolled on the concrete floor, trailing smoke.

  Alex reached the dead marine’s assault rifle when a black object bounced off the concrete floor and exploded. My ears felt like someone had smacked the side of my head with a cricket bat, my eyes blinded with a searing light.

  I’d been flash-banged before, and knew I was fucked.

  Around me the men groaned and swore. I heard boots ringing on concrete, weapons being readied. Orders were barked at us in languages I didn’t understand and boots were planted in my guts with great force.

  “For God’s sake, Tom,” said an exasperated female voice. “Are you OK?”

  Dancer coughed. “They stabbed me with morphine,” he said woozily.

  My vision slowly returned.

  Stood in front of me, looking lithe and alert in fresh clothes and body armour, was Amelia Duclair. “Get the others in here, Zhang,” she said coolly, aiming a rifle at us. “I’ve had enough of this fucking about.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “Well clever old me, because you weren’t meant to,” Duclair replied.

  Zhang Ki’s finger curled around the trigger of his machine pistol. “Duclair, with the greatest respect, we need to kill them.”