Gray Vengeance (3 page)

Chapter 3

12 March 2014

Despite the sun beating down on Tom Gray as he steered his daughter’s pushchair into the Minotaur Logistics car park, March had served up a bone-chilling day. He pressed the intercom and was grateful when the door buzzed open, allowing him entry into the warm reception area.

‘Hi, Tom,’ the receptionist said, walking round to get a look at the warm bundle in the chair. ‘Melissa, you’re getting so big!’

‘That’s because she never stops eating.’ Gray smiled, lifting his daughter from the conveyance. He allowed Gill to fuss over her for a couple of minutes, then asked if Len was busy.

Gill called through to the office to check, then nodded for Gray to go in.

‘You can leave Melissa with me if you like,’ she said, but Gray declined the offer.

‘Len wants to see her, too,’ he lied, carrying his daughter to the office door.

The truth was, Gray felt uncomfortable leaving his daughter with anyone, even his secretary-cum-receptionist of more than five years. The fire that had killed his wife Vick had almost claimed the life of his daughter, and having discovered that it wasn’t an accident, he remained reluctant to let Melissa out of his sight. He’d been in Africa when the blaze took hold, and he still blamed himself for not having been home to save Vick.

In the office, Gray found Len Smart sitting behind the desk that had been his own for many years. Though Smart held the title of managing director, it was purely a smokescreen. Minotaur remained Gray’s company, one that he’d built from the ground up after leaving the army years earlier.

Having sold the company to fund his infamous escapade, Gray had subsequently bought it back, despite his solicitor Ryan Amos’s warnings that his customers wouldn’t want to be seen as bedfellows with someone the newspapers called a terrorist.

Don’t expect the world to return to normal after you kidnap five criminals, parade them on the internet, and hold the entire country to ransom
, Amos had scolded.

Unfortunately, Amos had been right. The customers had been fine with the arrangement when no-one knew about it, but once a tenacious tabloid reporter had published a list of the blue-chip clients Gray was servicing, the clients had wanted nothing to do with Minotaur.

Gray’s only option had been to resign his position to prevent the company from folding completely, though he still earned a monthly stipend for his consultancy work, which involved making all the important decisions while letting Smart act as his steel-plated mouthpiece.

‘Hey.’ Smart walked around the desk and greeted Melissa and Gray with a broad smile.

Gray happily handed his daughter over, watching the big man make a fuss over her.

Smart looked every inch the company director, with his
balding
pate and bushy moustache. Those who met him for the first time invariably saw him as a competent businessman with an affable disposition; few would have guessed that he’d served with
distinction
in the Special Air Service for a number of years, including in Iraq.

Smart was one of Gray’s trusted employees and—more
importantly—
friends. They’d been through a lot together, both in the SAS and subsequently in civilian life. He’d saved Gray’s life more than once, and Tom couldn’t think of anyone better to
represent
his company.

‘At least you’re not skimping on her food,’ Smart smiled as he lifted Melissa up above his head, earning a giggle from the nine-month-old.

‘She eats more than you,’ Gray said. ‘I may need to ask for a raise.’

‘Now would be the time,’ Smart said. ‘I’m working on a new
contract
in northern Nigeria. A petrochemical company is heading into DSA territory, and they want a four-man protection detail.’

‘Da Sunan Annabi? They’ve been quiet for a few months now.’

‘I know, but the client wants to be on the safe side.’

‘Who have we got available?’

Smart returned to his desk and opened the personnel files before rattling off a dozen names. ‘They’ve all got time on the continent, so acclimatisation shouldn’t be an issue.’

‘Well, you know the score,’ Gray said. ‘Choose a squad leader and three men, but make sure they’re near the top of the detail roster.’

The list was ordered by the amount of time it had been since a contractor had been on assignment, and it was designed to ensure that roles were dealt out fairly. It meant those who had been waiting longest for a contract were at the top, and as the list was updated monthly and emailed to all staff, it eliminated any suggestion of favouritism. Of course, there were times when a certain skill was needed and the person at the top had to be skipped, but everyone understood that this could happen. It was details like this that meant Gray had a constant stream of top-class talent to choose from; no other private security firm offered such transparency to its operatives.

‘There is someone who has requested the squad lead position . . . .’

Gray knew what was coming. ‘It’s Sonny, isn’t it?’

Smart nodded. ‘I hate to even suggest it, but he’s been begging me for weeks.’

Simon ‘Sonny’ Baines was another of Gray’s close friends. Sonny and Smart had long been inseparable on operations, but while Smart was happy in his new role of office manager, Sonny was itching to get back into the field. His current role of liaison officer didn’t exactly offer the excitement he craved.

‘I won’t risk his life again,’ Gray said. ‘Sonny may look and act like a twenty-something, but he’s about to hit forty. He’s been in enough scrapes to last a lifetime.’

‘Agreed,’ Smart said, ‘but he’s a kid at heart. Screening potential recruits isn’t his forte, and you know it.’

‘I know, but I almost got you guys killed in Malundi. I can’t go through that again.’

Just mentioning the place again brought back thoughts of Vick, and Gray closed his eyes in an attempt to banish the image of her lying unconscious while flames leapt around her . . . .

‘Now, that wasn’t your fault, so get over it. Not even the Foreign Office knew what was going on. I’d have made the same decision.’

Gray knew his friend was right, but it didn’t detract from the fact that if he’d pulled the men out a day earlier, he wouldn’t have gone in to get them, and his wife might still be alive.

Melissa began fidgeting, and a noxious odour emanated from her jumpsuit.

‘Come on, you,’ Gray said. ‘Let’s get that nappy changed.’

‘Ah, Tom?’

Gray looked to Smart. ‘What?’

‘What about Sonny?’

‘I’ve got something in mind that’ll keep him happy,’ Gray promised, then made a beeline for the bathroom.

Chapter 4

12 March 2014

‘What the hell are you doing, Erik?’

Roberts watched the tall Dutchman glancing furtively around the departures lounge at Heathrow Airport, his actions more than suspicious.

‘They’re going to come for us,’ Erik Houtman whispered. ‘I can feel it. I told you this was a bad idea.’

Roberts, not for the first time that day, regretted bringing Erik along. He’d always been a belligerent shit, and his dedication to the cause was the only reason Roberts hadn’t kicked him out of the organisation. That, and the fact that their numbers were already on the lean side.

Today, however, Erik had been worse than usual. He’d constantly stared out of the rear window on the taxi journey to the airport, convinced they were being tailed, and anyone who looked at them as they queued up at check-in just
had
to be an undercover police officer.

‘We’re doing nothing illegal,’ Roberts whispered, ‘so just shut the fuck up and relax.’

Easy to say
, he thought. He hadn’t done much relaxing since the initial meeting with Efram, despite making a big dent in the alcohol he’d bought on that first night. It had been with a sore head that he’d taken the call the following morning, and while still hesitant, he’d found himself agreeing to Efram’s proposal. After taking down instructions on what to pack, he’d met with his three fellow members. As per Efram, he’d chosen a trio with no family ties, so their absence wouldn’t be questioned. Roberts had told them what little he knew about the offer, and two had been keen to take part.

Erik was the exception.

The Dutchman was in his early forties and had taken part in the poll tax riots in 1990, the worst civil unrest London had seen in more than a century. He hadn’t even been required to pay the new duty, but the chance to attack the government—any
government—
had been too hard to resist. Since then, he’d been in and out of prison in several countries for a number of violent acts, with his most recent spell ending only six months earlier.

Houtman had at first been keen on the idea of causing havoc, but as the story of the meeting progressed, he’d become increasingly uncomfortable, his hatred and distrust of authority fuelling his native paranoia.

‘This Efram sounds like a plant,’ Houtman had argued, and while the others agreed that it was suspicious, Roberts had pointed out that they were being asked to do nothing more than boa
rd a flight.

To Nigeria, it turned out.

‘What do you think they’ve got planned?’ Tony Eversham asked.

‘They want us to play for the national football team,’ Ed
Conran
deadpanned. ‘But first, you need to get a haircut.’

‘Piss off, Ed.’

Eversham was proud of his long hair, which reached well below shoulder length. Not proud enough to wash it regularly, but proud nonetheless. He tended to let his hair hang around the sides of his face, and Roberts wondered if he did so to take the focus off his acne-covered cheeks. Roberts had always thought that spots were an adolescent thing, but Eversham seemed to be producing them in abundance well into his thirties.

‘Yeah, knock it off,’ Roberts agreed. He found Conran annoying as well. Most days he spent his time teasing Eversham about his bountiful locks, but for Roberts, the joke was becoming stale. Conran’s one redeeming attribute was his planning skills. He’d been the one to suggest giving the prime minister’s car an ad hoc paint job, and while others would have just stood near the gates waiting for the vehicle to pass through the security gates, Conran had scoped out several ambush points over the course of a week, and had found the ideal place to lie in wait. What was particularly impressive about that surveillance was that he’d changed his clothes and appearance each day to avoid arousing suspicion.

Roberts had a feeling these qualities were going to be useful on this venture.

An announcement invited the passengers to begin boarding, and despite Houtman’s fears, they managed to get to their cramped seats without being accosted.

Six and a half hours and one plastic meal later, they arrived in Lagos, where, as promised, someone was waiting for them. A tall Caucasian figure with military written all over him held up a sign bearing Roberts’s name, and the man eyed them disapprovingly when they approached him to introduce themselves.

‘I’m Dan,’ he said by way of welcome. He handed out airline tickets, and they followed him to the departure area.

‘We’re taking another short hop,’ Dan explained.

‘Where to?’

‘North. Kano.’

Roberts pressed for more information, but Dan simply told him they’d find out when they got there.

‘That’s a Yorkshire accent,’ Conran said. ‘What brings you o
ver here?’

‘Work,’ Dan said, and resisted any further attempts at
conversation
.

The two-hour flight north was spent in silence, and
Roberts
spent his time trying to control his anxiety. Efram stank of
government
—current or ex, he couldn’t tell—and Dan, with his buzz-cut hairdo, had to be ex-army. Had he made a mistake in trusting them? Was he leading his friends into a government-sanctioned trap—and a bullet in the brain in the middle of a jungle?

There was nothing he could do about it now, so he tried to focus on positives. As Efram had said, he wasn’t that big a fish in the grand scheme of things, and there would certainly be more deserving cases if their destination were indeed a termination camp.

After landing and taxiing to the domestic terminal of Mallam Aminu Kano International Airport, Dan led them through cursory identification checks and out into the warm night. A clock mounted on the wall told them it was just after eight in the evening, and they hoped their twelve-hour journey was over, but Dan walked them to a dilapidated minibus and told them it would be another three hours until they reached their destination.

The conveyance shuddered down Airport Road and turned right into the city, where Roberts got his first real glimpse of life on the African continent. It wasn’t all jungle, as he’d envisaged, but a flat expanse of low, irregularly shaped stone and concrete houses in a myriad shades of browns and whites. An occasional malnourished dog could be seen rummaging in the gutter for scraps to eat, and goats wandered the side streets.

It took an hour to navigate their way through the town and out into the countryside, where they relied completely on the vehicle’s headlights to guide their way. After two bone-juddering hours, they pulled up at what Roberts imagined a 1930s holiday camp to have looked like. Dozens of small chalet-like wooden huts formed two rows off to one side, with a larger, rectangular building opposite.
Separating
them was a large area of bare soil, where a few wooden tables st
ood empty.

The bus pulled up at the main building and Dan ordered the men out, leading them up the wooden steps and through the door. The small entrance hall led to three doors. One was marked as the mess, while the others served as offices. Dan knocked on one of th
e do
ors and opened it, ushering the party of four inside.

A Caucasian man in his fifties wearing army fatigues was
sitting
waiting, and Dan addressed him.

‘Colonel, the latest arrivals,’ he said, handing over their
passports
.

The officer regarded the newcomers, comparing them to their documents before dismissing Dan with a nod of the head.

‘Gentlemen, so glad you could join us,’ the officer said, while managing to sound far from pleased. ‘My name is Colonel Mitchell. You’ll be wondering what you’ve signed up for, so I’ll keep this brief and to the point.

‘We will be launching a guerrilla campaign against England at the end of the year. During the next five months, you will be given all the training you need in order to carry out your assignments, which will be many and varied. You will see other recruits here, but you will not engage with them.

‘As of now, you have no names. You will be known by numbers, and that is the only way you will be addressed. Anyone caught using names will be disciplined.’

Eversham flicked his hair back and stood with his arms crossed. ‘I knew this was bullshit,’ he said. ‘You bring us halfway around the world and tell us we’re just numbers to you. I had enough of that shit back home—’

Eversham was cut off as a bullet from the colonel’s pistol caught him in the centre of his forehead, and he collapsed to the ground in a heap.

‘In case you were wondering,’ Mitchell said, ‘that is what passes for discipline around here.’

The three men looked in shock from the corpse to the colonel and back again.

‘We didn’t bring you here to hear your complaints; we recruited you because you want to bring Britain to its knees, and we have the resources to help you do that. However, only by treating this as a military operation can we expect it to work. If anyone else feels they don’t want to be here, tell me now.’

All three looked at the pistol held at Mitchell’s side and decided to hold their tongues.

‘Good.’ Mitchell pointed to each man and gave them a number. ‘You are 134, you’re 135, you’re 136. Do not forget those numbers. If you fail to respond instantly to your number when called, expect to be disciplined.’

The three men stood upright, eyes front, showing their understanding.

‘Sergeant!’ Mitchell called, and Dan opened the door a se
cond later.

‘Colonel.’

‘Have them clear this mess away, then show them to th
eir bunks.’

Dan barked instructions, and the trio made a meal of carrying Eversham out of the office, through the main door and down th
e ste
ps to the training area, where their luggage was lined up, the bus having departed.

‘There are two shovels at the side of the building,’ the sergeant said to Conran, who disappeared like his life depended on it. He was back in seconds, and handed one of the tools to Houtman.

‘You,’ Dan said, pointing to Roberts, ‘get back in there and clean the colonel’s floor. There’s a mop and bucket in the mess.’

Roberts initially baulked at the thought, but a glance down at Eversham steeled his resolve.

He returned five minutes later and found Sergeant Dan waiting for him, another shovel in hand.

‘Get round the back and give them a hand,’ he said, holding it out. ‘Once you’re done, get back here, sharpish.’

Roberts trotted to the rear of the building, where his two sweat-covered friends laboured over a shallow pit, their fallen comrade lying nearby. Five other graves were visible, the fresh soil
suggesting
they had only recently been filled.

Bugs flitted around their heads as they worked the hole, their only illumination the faint light of an ancient oil lamp.

‘What the fuck have you dragged us into?’ Houtman hissed.

‘How the hell was I supposed to know this was going to
happen
?’

‘You’re the one that sold this deal to us,’ the Dutchman
continued
. ‘I swear, if I have to dig another grave, the next one will be yours.’

Roberts looked down at Eversham’s body and had to wonder whether his dead friend had got off lightly.