by Andy McNab
They took seats near the back of the bus. Fergus pushed Danny into the window seat so that he couldn't try to make a quick exit. But Danny wasn't planning on trying to get away. Not any more. He was scared.
Fergus spoke quietly. 'How did you find me?'
Danny didn't answer.
'I need to know, boy,' hissed Fergus. 'Don't mess me about.'
'Your phone,' said Danny at last. 'I got the number from Kev Newman's mobile and traced where you were on the Internet.'
'But how?'
'A phone location company.'
'But… but you'd need my PIN number for that.'
'It's your army number, last four.'
'How did you…?' Fergus shook his head. 'Kev warned me that you were a persistent little shite.'
The bus was deep in the countryside when Fergus leaned across the aisle and pushed the stop button. 'This is us.'
They got off and hid in the tree line that followed the road. Soon after, two cars went by, one of them a mini cab. Fergus watched them disappear into the distance. The smell of the nearby salt marshes hung in the air and the only sounds came from the cawing of huge black crows as they wheeled their way across the early evening sky.
Danny's anger was growing again. 'Are we just gonna stand here?'
'Shut it,' answered Fergus as he started to walk quickly along the road. Danny noticed his grandfather's limp for the first time and realized it must be the result of the gun battle in Colombia. It made him even angrier.
They reached a long, muddy track leading off the road. Just visible down at the end of the track was a cottage, and when Fergus headed towards it, Danny had little alternative but to follow. He watched, bemused, as Fergus looked under the old chicken coop and confirmed for himself that the mini Maglite wasn't on. He moved on and Danny trailed behind, not spotting any of the cameras, lights or motion detectors.
At the gate Fergus checked that the matchstick was still in place. It was. He opened the front door, pulled Danny inside and closed the door. The sitting-room door was half open, exactly as it was meant to be. Danny could see through to the small bank of TV monitors showing the muddy track. He turned to his grandfather. 'What is all this?'
Fergus didn't reply but grabbed Danny by the collar of his jacket, dragged him into the kitchen and pushed him against the wall. 'Stand there and don't move. Don't even think about moving.'
He stomped away and went upstairs. Danny heard his footsteps moving from room to room. A couple of minutes later he came thundering down the stairs and back into the kitchen, not even looking at Danny as he lifted the rug and revealed the opening to the cellar. He picked up the torch on the top step. 'Stay there,' he growled, disappearing into the gloom.
Danny leaned against the kitchen wall and looked at the back door, thinking about making a run for it.
Then the bleepers began to sound, loud and shrill and piercing.
Fergus came hurtling up from the cellar and rushed to the monitors. Two cars were coming down the track at high speed. Mud flew from their wheels and the beams of their headlights seemed to bounce off the trees. The front vehicle was a Ford Focus. Fergus cursed, turned back to Danny and pushed him towards the open trapdoor. 'Get down there, quick!'
Danny stumbled down the stairs into the cellar and stood in semi-darkness and a pool of water as Fergus pulled shut the trapdoor, turned on the torch and went straight to the boxes against the wall. He yanked them aside and shone the torch into the tunnel. 'In there, boy, get in!'
It was no time to argue. Danny scrambled into the hole and Fergus followed, pulling the boxes back against the wall and switching off the torch to save the batteries. They were plunged into total darkness and Fergus pushed Danny further into the cold, wet, muddy tunnel. 'Get going, boy, hurry up!'
Eddie Moyes was feeling pleased, tired and hungry as he leaned against the chicken coop and stared up towards the cottage. The first hint of night was beginning to slither over the landscape. That suited Eddie: it would make his approach easier. He took a Snickers bar he'd kept in reserve from his pocket and decided to enjoy it before continuing on up the track. Before the chocolate bar had even reached his mouth, Eddie heard the cars screaming up the road and saw the first one turn towards him. The Snickers bar dropped into the mud as Eddie ducked down behind the chicken coop.
Brian and Jimmy were in the Focus, Fran and Mick barely bumper distance behind in the Golf. All four members of the team wore dark blue body armour and had MP5s on slings across their chests. Jimmy also had a sawn-off, pump-action shotgun with seven solid-shot rounds in the tubular magazine below the barrel. He was the MOE man.
Both cars skidded to a halt just short of the garden fence. Jimmy was first out, even before the Focus had stopped. He jumped the fence and ran to the front door, not looking to see what was around him, totally focused on the door. He looked for the hinge side, knowing he had to get it right first time. The slightest delay would give anyone inside priceless escape time.
He heard Brian behind him as he jammed the muzzle of the shotgun into the frame a third of the way down the door where the top hinge should be. He pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared and jolted back and splinters of wood sprayed over Jimmy and Brian. Jimmy was already on his knees reloading as Brian waited, his eyes and MP5 trained up at the first-floor windows.
Mick and Fran came running up as Jimmy jammed the shotgun muzzle into the lower hinge area of the frame, a third of the way up from the bottom. The second shot seemed even louder, and showers of jagged splinters flew into the air. Jimmy dropped the shotgun and moved away as Mick charged the door. It fell away easily and Mick tumbled into the hallway with it.
Fran was directly behind. With her weapon up in the aim, she jumped over Mick and moved into the hallway. She stayed right, clearing the door area, so the others could make their entry. Jimmy and Brian went by, into the kitchen. Their job was to clear the ground floor while Fran and Mick took the upstairs.
Fran kept low, safety catch off and finger on the trigger, looking for any sign of movement from the top of the stairs. She took the stairs two at a time, weapon now up high and pointing at the landing. Mick was close behind.
They could hear the other two as they checked each ground-floor room. 'Clear!'
Fran reached the landing and stayed there, covering the two doors in front of her. Mick went past, reached the first door and pushed it open so that Fran could move into the room. 'Clear!'
They reversed roles for the second room. Mick had the door covered as Fran went by, grabbed the handle and pushed open the door. Mick could see inside immediately.
Weapon up, both eyes wide, chest heaving for oxygen, safety catch off and finger on the trigger, he pushed his way into the bathroom. 'Clear! Top floor clear!'
An answering shout came from below: 'Ground floor clear!'
Eddie wasn't a brave man, but he was a reporter through and through. His nose for news meant he had to get closer to find out exactly what was going on inside the cottage.
It was getting darker. Eddie scrambled over the rough ground, lost his footing and slid into a muddy ditch before he was halfway to the cottage. He was wet through and covered in mud but it didn't matter. This was the story he'd been waiting and praying for. He couldn't wait to offer the exclusive to one of the nationals. He couldn't wait to see the faces of the so-called journalists who'd rejected him, especially that jumped-up little apology for a news editor.
He moved closer and sheltered in a hedgerow fifteen metres from the cottage. As he considered his next move he saw the headlights of a third vehicle approaching along the track. Sweaty and muddy, Eddie ducked down low to await the new arrivals.
The car was drawing to a standstill as Fran led the team from the house to their vehicles. They went to their ready bags and took out NVGs in preparation for a long night in the cuds searching for their targets.
A man and a woman got out of the car. Both were smartly dressed – Eddie could see that these were no knuckle-draggers like the
other four. The governors had arrived.
Marcie Deveraux walked towards the house, shouting out to the team, 'Stop! You won't find him, he's gone. There'll be an escape route from the house somewhere. Find it.' She turned back to Fincham. 'Should we go back and get a trigger on the car, sir?'
Fincham stared out across the fields. Trees and bushes were merging into the darkness as the night swiftly closed around them. 'The car's history, he won't go anywhere near it now.'
Twenty metres away, the camouflaged manhole cover was raised just a few centimetres above ground level, but Fergus heard the voice and saw George Fincham clearly in the light that spilled from the cottage windows.
Danny sat a couple of metres back along the tunnel. He was trembling, with fear and from the cold. The black, wet mud on all sides closed in on him; the air was stale and rank. He could hardly breathe. The sounds of the shotgun had terrified him. The yells and crashes from inside the cottage had terrified him. But most of all, Fergus terrified him.
Fergus raised the manhole cover a little more as he watched Deveraux and then Fincham follow the team back into the house. He turned to Danny. 'They get one sight of us now and we're dead. We've got to get away from here before they find the tunnel. Understand?'
Danny nodded and Fergus slowly moved the manhole cover to one side and climbed out, taking with him the black bin liner containing his escape and evasion kit. Then he reached back into the tunnel and hauled Danny out of the damp, black hole.
The sound of voices wafted over from the cottage and Fincham appeared in the front doorway. Fergus pushed Danny down into the mud, fell down by his side and hissed into his ear, 'Stay down.'
They could both see Fincham, framed in the doorway, as he peered into the gloom. He stood still, looking in every direction. He seemed to look straight at them for heart-pounding seconds. But then he turned away and went back into the cottage.
'Move, now,' breathed Fergus, pulling Danny to his feet.
'I've seen that man before,' whispered Danny as they dodged into the tree cover.
'Just shut up and move,' answered Fergus.
It was also exit time for Eddie Moyes. He knew that the assault team, whoever they were, had missed the chance to capture Fergus and that from now on they would be cleaning up and searching for clues. Eddie had the beginnings of a major exclusive and it was time to go. And quickly. He made his way towards the road, keeping low, being as cautious as possible. But not cautious enough.
Fran was at an upstairs window, checking out the surrounding area with her NVGs. She shouted, 'We've got a runner!'
Fincham, followed by Marcie Deveraux, came bounding up the stairs. He grabbed the goggles from Fran. 'Is it the boy or Watts?' He didn't wait for an answer but pulled the NVGs to his eyes.
Through the green haze he saw Eddie Moyes stumbling about in the mud. 'It's neither. Too fat to be the boy, and no limp.' He held out the goggles for Fran to take.
'Do we kill him, sir?'
It would a simple operation. The body would be taken back to London and frozen so that it could be cut up more easily. That way there was less mess for the team to clean up. The remains would probably then be distributed around London hospitals, to be burned with other body parts that are routinely incinerated. No one would ever know what had happened to Eddie Moyes. He would become a statistic, another name on police missing persons lists.
Fincham nodded and Fran started to leave, but Deveraux gestured for her to wait and spoke to Fincham. 'Sir, perhaps it would be better if we let the runner go.'
Fincham turned from the window. 'Why?'
'We don't know who he is. Get the team to follow him and there's a chance he'll lead us to Watts. It would be a waste to kill him now, don't you think?'
Fincham considered for a moment and then nodded again.
15
It was first light. Danny sprawled, exhausted, just off the road by a clump of bushes, but his grandfather was still standing. Watching. Listening.
Through the long hours of darkness Danny had discovered the difference between walking quickly and a forced march. Fergus was fit and strong and, despite his limp, his pace was relentless.
They cleared the immediate area of the cottage and then travelled in what seemed to Danny to be a straight line across fields and open countryside. They made a brief stop while Fergus delved into his black bin liner and took out a brand-new, compactly folded day sack, still in its packaging. Most of the contents of the bin liner were transferred to the day sack. Smaller items and cash went into pockets.
Then they moved on, and just when Danny was beginning to think they were out of danger, Fergus told him they were doubling back – 'looping the track', he called it. That way, he said, they would know, and possibly even see, if they were being trailed.
There was no sign of followers and eventually Fergus was satisfied that they could head in the direction he wanted to take. Not that Danny knew what direction that was. He had no idea. Fergus walked in silence, and on the few occasions Danny tried to speak he was abruptly told to shut up and save his energy. After a while he realized it was wise advice.
They didn't stop again until first light broke the skyline.
Fergus took the day sack from his shoulders and looked over at Danny, who was lying back in the rough grass, eyes closed. 'No time for sleep, I want you awake.'
'I'm not sleeping, I'm resting my eyes,' answered Danny, eyes still closed.
Fergus allowed himself the slightest of smiles. He sat down next to Danny on the grass and then delved into the day sack and pulled out a couple of small tins. Baked beans with mini sausages. He took the ring-pulls off both tins and placed one tin on Danny's stomach. 'Breakfast. Get it down your neck.'
Danny opened his eyes. 'I don't do breakfast.'
'You do now. Need to keep your strength up.'
Danny sat up, clasped the tin in one hand and looked at the beans and sausages. 'But they're cold.'
'That's right, they're cold. And I'm not a boy scout so I won't be building a fire to heat them up. And before you ask, no, I haven't got plates or cutlery or a bottle of Daddies sauce. So just eat.'
'But I don't like-'
'Eat!'
They sat in semi-darkness and ate. Slowly. It wasn't a pretty sight. But as Danny devoured the sausages and beans he realized he was ravenously hungry.
And while he ate, he looked at his grandfather. Studied him for the first time. There hadn't been a chance before. He looked just like any other bloke. Middle-aged, ordinary, past his prime. His face was lined, and his short, cropped hair was mostly grey. The sort of man you'd expect to see taking his grandchildren for a walk in the park. Or talking to his mates about retirement and the football results.
But Danny knew his grandfather was no ordinary bloke. He'd done terrible things. Almost unimaginable things. He'd killed people on battlefields and in back streets. Shot them. Fought with them. Life-and-death stuff, hand to hand, face to face. He'd seen for himself the results of his awesome combat skills. The gaping wounds, the ripped flesh. He'd watched men die, seen their blood, smelled it, tasted it.
Danny had had a few fights in his time – most had been of the playground variety. A lot of posturing, barging, shoving, threats. But once there had been a real fight. A kid called Peter Slater had goaded him into it for weeks. In the end he couldn't back down. It was set up for after school, behind the gym. Slater boasted all day about what he was going to do to Danny. Everyone in the school was talking about it, everyone wanted to be there.
There must have been a couple of hundred watching when the time came, as many girls as boys. They gathered, shouting and cheering, in a huge circle, with Danny and his mates on one side and Slater and his on the other.
When it began, they both prowled around the circle, feinting, advancing, throwing a few punches that mainly missed or brushed against raised arms or fists. The crowd bayed for more action. The blows got harder and found their target more often as the fighters started to tire.
>
Slater did the first serious damage, thumping Danny in the guts, forcing out every bit of his breath. Danny staggered back, gasping, and a shout went up: 'Finish him! Finish him! Finish him!'
Slater grinned as he moved in for the kill. Maybe he was over-confident: his guard was down and he walked straight into the hopeful punch that Danny threw. Pain jarred up through Danny's arm into his shoulder as his fist smashed into Slater's nose. It crumpled and squashed like a rotten tomato, exploding in a fountain of blood. Slater went down, blood everywhere – on his face, on his clothes, staining his white school shirt. And all over Danny's throbbing hand.
A girl screamed and turned away and then the whole crowd went silent, staring at Slater, pale-faced and spark out on the ground with blood pumping from his busted nose.
This was real fighting. It was bloody. It was horrible. And it was there, in their faces. Not on a cinema screen or a video game.
Slater came round quickly enough. All he said to Danny afterwards was, 'Respect.' Pretty soon he was boasting about his permanently damaged and crooked nose. It was like a battle honour, a medal.
But Danny knew that his one experience of real violence was another world, another planet, another universe to the things his grandfather had seen and done.
Fergus seemed to sense that Danny was staring at him. He looked up. 'What?'
Danny shook his head and went back to finishing the beans while Fergus delved into his day sack again and took out two small bottles of water.
'There's a bus stop a couple of hundred metres down the road from here,' he said, giving Danny one of the bottles. 'First bus is in an hour. We'll be on it.'
'To where?'
'Southend. Plenty of people there to get lost in.'