Bad Soldier: Danny Black Thriller 4 (51 page)

Danny pressed the barrel of his rifle into Tony’s chest. ‘Maybe,’ he breathed, ‘your day’s about to take a turn for the worse.’

Tony looked meaningfully at the two weapons pointing at him. Then he smiled again, this time as though he was genuinely amused. ‘You’re not going to shoot me,’ he said quietly. ‘Nor’s your monkey. You’re too cute for that, Black. Give it a few minutes, this place is going to be crawling. Security. Armed response. Military. Do you really want to explain to them why they found me with a round from your stolen Regiment weapon embedded in my chest? Who’s going to save your darling little daughter when they’ve stuffed you in a prison cell?’

Silence. Nobody moved.

‘I’m leaving now, fellas,’ Tony said. ‘Do yourselves a favour and don’t try to stop me.’ He stepped backwards. Neither Danny nor Spud lowered their weapons. But they didn’t fire them either.

As Tony continued to move backwards, there was a new sound. A helicopter, somewhere overhead. Clearly heading towards the attack site.

‘Here comes the cavalry,’ Tony said. ‘Get the hell out of here now and I won’t tell anyone you’ve been sniffing around Sandringham, or that you knew about the hit and failed to warn anyone. It can be our little secret, right?’

He turned his back on them. A deliberate gesture. And a brave one. Danny was burning with rage. He was on the point of releasing a round. But Tony’s words had rung true. There was no turning back from shooting a Regiment-mate in cold blood.

‘Hold your fire,’ he breathed to Spud.

They lowered their weapons.

The chopper was louder. Almost directly overhead. A searchlight cut through the canopy and the mist. Tony stopped. He let the chopper pass. Then he turned again.

‘Word of advice, fellas,’ he called. ‘Next time you want to screw me over, like you did after that op in the Med, think twice, yeah?’

Tony cocked his head as though listening to something. Danny heard it too. Voices. Many. From the direction of the Sandringham Estate. Moving this way. A self-satisfied smile spread across Tony’s face. ‘I’d get out of here, Danny Black,’ he said.

He jogged away, and disappeared into the mist.

Twenty-six

‘Danny!’

Spud’s voice was little more than a low, urgent hiss. Danny barely heard it. He was still in shock.

‘
Mate!
We’ve got to get out of here. We can’t let them find us. If they—’

‘You!’ Danny said. He had turned to look at the young man with the glasses and the red hoodie. The kid who’d called himself Joe was still holding his gun, but he was now staggering backwards into the forest, his eyes wild.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Danny said.

Spud stepped even closer to Danny. ‘Fuck’s sake, mucker. Let him go. If we get our collars felt, we’re going to—’

Danny shrugged him off. The voices in the forest were getting nearer. He didn’t care. He stepped towards Joe. ‘How did you get here?’ he said.

Joe blinked heavily, but didn’t answer.

Danny pointed towards Mujahid’s bleeding corpse. ‘You knew where to find him,’ he said. ‘How?’

‘Danny!’ Spud hissed. ‘If we don’t go now, we’re fucked.’

Spud was right. The voices were loud now. Close. Thirty metres. Maybe less. He nodded. Together they jogged past the corpse towards Joe. ‘Stick with us,’ Danny told him, ‘and you’ll be OK.’

Joe nodded nervously. He let Danny take his weapon. Danny made the handgun safe, then grabbed Joe’s arm. ‘Run,’ he said.

The trio sprinted off in a north-westerly direction, into the penetrating mist of the forest. Danny and Spud made almost no noise as their boots skimmed over the forest floor. The kid was more of a problem. He was gangly and awkward. Dead branches crunched heavily under his feet, and he was out of breath within thirty seconds. Danny didn’t let go of him. He couldn’t let him drag behind. He couldn’t lose him.

They ran for two minutes, then stopped. ‘What are we—’ Joe started to ask, but Danny silenced him. He listened carefully. The sound of voices had disappeared. He looked enquiringly at Spud.

‘Nothing,’ Spud breathed.

‘Tony will be telling them that he caught up with and shot the target,’ Danny said.

‘They’re still going to scour the area for accomplices,’ Spud pointed out. ‘We’re going to be compromised in the next ten minutes. We’ve got to keep moving.’

Danny consulted his mental map. ‘By my reckoning, our vehicle’s about a klick north-east of here,’ he said. ‘Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Spud said. They’d parked it in a road siding, well clear of the Sandringham Estate.

‘We can make it in five.’

‘I can’t run—’ Joe gasped. ‘I have to rest . . .’

Danny turned to him. ‘You’re a Muslim kid in the vicinity of a terror attack. Trust me. You can’t rest yet.’

‘We need to get our bearings first,’ Spud said. Danny watched as his mate hurried up to a tree trunk. He circled it, examining it to see which part of the trunk had the most moss. That would tell them which way was south. After a couple of seconds Spud nodded and pointed off at an angle. ‘That way,’ he said.

Danny still didn’t let go of Joe as they changed trajectory. The mist swirled and curled around them. Occasionally, a voice drifted through the trees towards them. Hard to determine the direction from which it came. They had no option but to keep running and to hope they had their own direction right.

Six minutes. They hit a road. Joe was gasping for air. Danny looked to the right. The rented Honda was just visible by the side of the road, fifteen metres distant. Their bearings had been spot on. He was about to lead the others towards it, when the sound of a siren hit their ears – distant, but approaching. He yanked Joe back into the cover of the trees. Twenty seconds later, two police cars screamed past. Their sirens faded. Danny, Spud and Joe remained statue-still. The only noise was Joe’s heavy breathing.

But now there was a new sound. Another chopper overhead. Danny looked up. Through the bare canopy of the forest he suddenly saw the charcoal-grey silhouette of a military helicopter about a hundred feet up, its edges blurred and ill-defined because of the mist. It was moving fast and south, towards the Sandringham Estate.

‘Let it pass,’ Danny breathed.

Thirty seconds later it was out of earshot.

Joe had regained his breath. Now the only sound was the persistent dripping of condensation from tree branches all around them.

‘Get to the vehicle,’ Danny said. ‘Now.’

They sprinted across the road. Once they were at the Honda, Danny threw the keys to Spud. ‘Drive,’ he said. He turned to Joe. ‘You – in the back with me.’

Joe looked scared. His patched-up glasses had slipped down his face, which was sweating and dirty. He seemed very unsure that he should do what Danny said.

‘Unless you get in the car with us,’ Danny told him, ‘you’re
going
to be picked up by the security services. Do you think they’re not going to shoot the only Muslim in the vicinity of a major terrorist event?’

His words obviously hit home. Joe’s face twitched. Spud pressed the key fob to unlock the car doors. Joe clambered into the back. Danny opened the boot. He and Spud carefully placed their weapons inside, then he climbed into the back while Spud took the wheel.

There were no tyre screeches. No revving of the engine. Spud clearly understood that if they were to get out of here they needed to keep under the radar. He switched on the headlamps to burn through the mist, and trundled carefully on to the road.

Danny turned to Joe. ‘How did you know where to find him?’

Joe was digging his nails into his palms. ‘Are you sure I’m not in trouble?’

‘You’re in a world of trouble, Joe. Unless you stick with me. But you’ve got to tell me: how did you know where to find him?’

Joe drew a deep breath. ‘I tracked him,’ he said.

Danny shook his head. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘How?’

‘I – I was forced to work for Daesh in Syria. After he . . . after Mujahid killed my mum and dad.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘Computer systems, social media – they wanted me because I’m . . .’ He searched around for the right phrase. ‘Because I’m good at it,’ he finished a bit feebly. ‘I told your security services this. They tried to threaten me. I ran away.’

‘How did you track him, Joe?’

‘Through his communications with Daesh. And through his phone.’

Danny stared at him. ‘How long have you been doing that for?’ he asked. His heart was pumping hard.

‘A couple of days,’ Joe said.

Danny was almost too scared to ask the question. ‘So you know where he’s been?’ he breathed.

Joe nodded.

‘
Exactly
where he’s been?’

‘Of course.’

‘Can you show me?’

The kid looked at the rucksack on his lap. ‘I need a lead for my laptop,’ he said. ‘And power.’

Danny’s mouth was suddenly dry. He tasted something almost – but not quite – like excitement.

‘You got it,’ he said.

Guy Thackeray, director of MI6, looked sick.

It seemed that with every minute that passed, a new piece of information, each one worse than the last, reached his ears. An innocent choirboy shot in Westminster Abbey in full view of the PM by an out-of-control SAS man. A terrorist strike at Sandringham. Three casualties, including one child.

If Thackeray still had a job by Boxing Day, it would be a miracle. 

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The news out of Iraq had left him dumbstruck. The CIA negotiating with Islamic State. The Americans withholding intelligence from the British because they planned to strike a deal with IS just like they’d cosied up to the mujahideen in the eighties.

No wonder Langley was avoiding his calls.

But they couldn’t avoid him for ever. And now, the secure phone in his office overlooking the London skyline on this brutal Christmas Day was ringing. He picked it up.

‘Thackeray,’ he said.

‘Guy. It’s Al.’

Al Scott, his counterpart at Langley.

‘I have to tell you, Guy, we got some pretty pissed individuals here at the agency, and in Washington.’

Thackeray didn’t trust himself to speak. So he didn’t.

‘It seems your guy Danny Black had every opportunity to help our mole escape out there in Iraq, but didn’t. Blew her cover instead. One of our deepest agents, too. Plenty of folk this side of the water want to have a word with him, Guy. Plenty of people.’

Silence on the line. Thackeray breathed deeply.

‘Listen carefully, Al,’ he said, very quietly. ‘Wars have been started for less than this. I recommend you think about that very carefully.’

‘Back up there, Thackeray, we will
not
be—’

‘And one other thing, Al. If it comes to my attention that Danny Black, or any of my guys involved in that operation, so much as trip up in the street and graze their knee, you’re going to find that your agents in London start meeting with accidents.’

Silence.

The door opened. Alice Cracknell walked in. Her face was haunted. ‘It’s the PM,’ she mouthed. ‘He wants to see you now.’

‘I hope I’ve made myself clear, Al,’ Thackeray said, and he put down the phone. He looked at Alice. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded.

‘We don’t know,’ she said. ‘He’s just . . .’ She spread her hands. ‘He’s just disappeared.’

Thackeray stepped out from behind his desk. ‘He’s in danger,’ he said. ‘Find him.’

‘But sir—’

‘
Find Danny Black!
’ Thackeray shouted, and he stormed out of the office.

Christmas Day. Nothing was open. Spud drove carefully through the wide, flat Norfolk scenery. Past closed-up roadside burger vans, and through sleepy towns with fairy lights twinkling in the windows, and no pedestrians on the streets. The only indication that this Christmas Day was different to any other was the police presence. They passed countless police cars heading in the opposite direction, their neon lights flashing but their sirens switched off. They saw five choppers speeding back the way they’d come, including a Chinook. They passed several military trucks, heavy and khaki-coloured, carrying troops to the strike area.

Each one made Danny’s pulse race. They couldn’t risk being stopped. It wasn’t that he cared about anyone finding the weapons stashed carelessly in the boot of this rented vehicle. It wasn’t that they were AWOL. It wasn’t that they had a wanted former IS associate in the back of the car.

It was simply this: the clock was ticking. And with every second that passed, Clara and Rose’s chances of survival diminished.

1147 hours. Spud slowed down as they approached a roundabout. There was a Little Chef off the second exit. Five or six cars were parked out front. It looked open.

‘Pull over here,’ Danny instructed.

‘Who has their fucking Christmas lunch at a Little Chef?’ Spud murmured as he drove towards the restaurant and parked up.