

### CELT

The Journey of Kyle Gibbs

Book 1

By Wayne Marinovich

Copyright © Wayne Marinovich 2014

First published 2014 in Great Britain by Umduzu Publishing

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

Print Version 2

The right of Wayne Marinovich to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

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Action thriller, Climate fiction, Cli-Fi, action adventure, secret organisations, dystopian thriller, Kyle Gibbs series, race for resources

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For Anneli

My wife, soul mate, best friend, creative muse and fellow traveller.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Excerpt from book 2: PHOENIX

Other books by Wayne Marinovich

Acknowledgements

Note from the author

Author Bio

Notes about the book

# Chapter 1

Carshalton Estate, Surrey, England, UK - 2013

Death, sweat and fear drifted on the stale air.

The short, round figure of Lord Francis Butler gagged a second time as he walked down the old sandstone spiral stairs, the stench of it all causing his body to convulse. Dizziness forced him to stop and grab onto the rope balustrade with one hand, the other hand pushing up against the opposite curved wall. Passing seven locked doors that lined the dimly lit stone corridor that ran below Carshalton House, he stopped at the last room. Shifting in his stance slightly, he felt himself getting aroused at what awaited. Pulling at his white long shirt sleeves, he readjusted his waistcoat and walked into the open doorway, stopping to look at the figure in the centre of the room.

Bound to the small wooden bench positioned beneath a single hanging light bulb was the naked Monhinder Singh. The Indian billionaire's cheeks were stained with tears and blood from his swollen eyes. He trembled violently from cold fear and looked up at Lord Butler with begging eyes, mumbling something through the mouth gag.

'Would you remove his gag, please?' Lord Butler said to the well-muscled figure of Alex Brun, who stood beside the billionaire. He leant across the trembling man and yanked the dirty rag from his mouth.

Monhinder Singh gasped at the fresh air eagerly before focusing on Lord Butler. 'Francis, what the bloody hell is going on here? What have I done to deserve this barbaric treatment?'

Alex punched the battered man in the face again, sending a spray of blood and sweat across the concrete floor. The captive man groaned and swayed to the side, his long black hair falling across his face.

'Thank you, Alex, that's enough,' Lord Butler said, pulling a wooden chair closer. 'I think it is time that Monhinder and I have a little chat about his predicament. Get him a blanket, please. He looks decidedly frozen.'

Monhinder bowed his head slightly, the long matted hair falling forward.

'You've disappointed me, Monhinder, and because of that, you don't get to address me by my first name anymore. Is that clear? Friends and those whom I trust may call me Francis, and at this moment, you are neither.'

Monhinder Singh leaned forward against his restraints and shook his bowed head. Alex grabbed a handful of long hair and snapped his head back, causing him to whimper in terror.

'Time and time again, we've explained the generous offer on the table yet you refuse to cooperate with us. Every billionaire at the lavish party above our heads has signed up to be part of this organisation. I have personally invested everything I own into this new venture. It all makes logical sense.'

The man stared at Lord Butler. 'Why would I join a deluded organisation that is high on the lust for world domination? A group which mistreats its partners like I'm being treated? You've just demonstrated to me that if I ever disagreed with you in the future, I would be tortured again. You're all bloody psychotic.'

'Monhinder, dear fellow, you need to be more open-minded about the world we're building. We're a crucial organisation for the future of the planet and will go on to do a lot of good in the world. We want you to be a part of that.'

'Ha! What a load of rubbish,' Monhinder said with a slur as a trickle of blood dripped off his chin.

Lord Butler shifted in his seat. 'By pooling all of our wealth and assets, we'll be able to control and influence government policy around the world, thereby ensuring that no one country ever gains monopoly over the planet's dwindling resources.'

'That's a load of bullshit,' Monhinder said. 'You must think I'm bloody naive? None of you gives a shit about the planet or its resources. It's about you and the rest of the power-mad vultures upstairs wanting to control the world like spoilt little bullies trying to control a playground. I will have no part of it. There's nothing you can say that will change my mind.'

Lord Butler felt the darkness swelling within him. He swallowed hard to stem its rise because there was diplomatic work to be done. He cracked his knuckles behind his back and chewed his lower lip, eyes narrowing as he stared across at the Indian billionaire. The man dared to question the motives of the Billionaires Club which he'd started two years before. His smile skewed into a sneer as he struggled to control the dark lust. A black shroud that always took charge of his psyche when he cowered away from making tough choices. The small pine chair creaked as Lord Butler leant back. He ground his teeth and forced a grin, nodding across to Alex, who laid into the man with a flurry of fists. Screams echoed around the cold dark walls of the room, and Lord Butler realised he had an erection.

'Now, let's take a look at your dilemma here. Upstairs, there's a group of the world's wealthiest and most influential men, who witnessed you taking recreational drugs while seated at the dinner table. They saw you kissing a young prostitute and fondling her breasts before dragging her off to your room. Quite decadent and hedonistic behaviour even for one of my parties. She will, of course, testify to the fact that you collected her in London and brought her to the party knowing full well that she was below the legal age of consent in the United Kingdom,' Lord Butler said. 'This information is being collated and will first be leaked to every member of your respected family back in India before being sent out to the global press.'

Monhinder sat upright, his eyes pinched into a swollen squint. He shook his head a few times, swaying in the wooden seat. 'Butler, you cannot blackmail me,' he said. 'Go ahead and inform my family. They will forgive me my transgressions. My reputation will suffer a setback, but it will survive. You will not get away with this farce. I promise you that.'

Lord Butler felt the last of his patience ebb away as the darkness rush in to consume him. It would only ever be satisfied with the spilling of blood. He leaned forward and sneered. 'Okay then, Monhinder, have it your way.'

A slight nod to the two heavy-set men standing in the shadows at the back of the room moved them into action. One of them checked the binding that kept Monhinder tied to the bench before the other heaved Monhinder forward. There was no way to break his fall with his hands bound behind his back. A loud crack rang out as his face hit the concrete. He screamed out in pain, wriggling to turn his face to the side as his lips started to quiver.

Lord Butler felt giddy as he walked over to a small metal side table against the brick wall and ran his hand over the extensive range of Alex's implements of torture. The cool feel of the metal excited him even more. He lingered over one of them for a brief moment like a child picking his favourite sweet, then eagerly grabbed it. Happy with his selection, he walked to Monhinder and squatted next to the man's head. 'This could have been such a painless exercise, my friend, but now you must pay for your stubbornness and stupidity.'

He placed the scalpel at the base of the man's buttocks, which were comically raised into the air, and made an inch long incision, drawing a small trickle of blood that followed gravity down the groaning man's back towards his neck. Lord Butler continued with a second cut, then a third, each getting deeper along the spine. The tortured man's groans got louder, and Lord Butler's breath quickened as the euphoria grew stronger inside him. The darkness sang out with happiness.

Alex walked over and placed his hand over the scalpel in Lord Butler's hand. 'Shouldn't we move on with the next phase of the plan, sir?'

Lord Butler blinked slightly, hearing his own shallow, rasping breath. Disorientated with pleasure, he smiled up at his trusty henchman and nodded. 'Thank you, Alex,' he said, taking a deep breath. 'Monhinder, you sack of shit, now listen to me. I'm going to give you twenty-four hours to reconsider the offer on the table. I'll be upstairs having a wonderful time with our other colleagues if you do have a change of heart. This will be your last chance to reconsider, and if you fail to change your mind, I am going to instruct Alex to go to work on your delicate bits with some of his favourite toys over there. He won't be as nice as I've been. You see, I've witnessed his work in Equatorial Guinea on many unfortunate prisoners of war. I can assure you he understands the finer art of inflicting pain and terror better than I could ever hope to do.'

Lord Butler nodded to Alex, who opened the heavy wooden door. Two more of his men dragged a corpse of a naked woman into the room and laid it down on the floor next to the Indian billionaire. Monhinder desperately tried to turn his head away from the lifeless face of the girl, placed inches away from his, her opaque eyes staring at him coldly. He started to sob. 'Please, Lord Butler, you've made your point. She smells disgusting so don't leave her here. Who is she?'

'She's another young prostitute who caused me some embarrassment yesterday, so I had her killed and placed on ice. Such a pity really, she seemed like such a bright little thing. Her death won't be in vain because I had such a great idea this morning. I could put her corpse to good use.'

Lord Butler threw the scalpel back onto the table, grabbed an old wooden cricket bat that was leant against the nearby wall, and walked back to the whimpering man.

'I've always loved the feel of wood, you know. The feel against one's skin is just so... just so natural,' he said. Clenching his fists around the wooden handle, he swung the bat over his head and slapped it across the man's exposed buttocks. He slammed the bat down again and again until the darkness ebbed away, satisfied. Wiping away beads of sweat from his reddening face with his forearm, he tossed the bat across the floor.

One of his henchmen handed him a small tied-off plastic bag, which he threw onto the ground in front of the crying billionaire's face. 'That's what's left from her so-called heroin overdose. You have twenty-four hours to make the right decision, or it'll be pumped into you after Alex has finished with you.'

Walking down the stone-walled corridor to the staircase, Alex turned to his boss. 'I'll check on him every hour, sir.'

'Oh, don't worry about checking that often. Let the bastard stew in his own private hell for the night.'

'As you wish, sir.'

'Thank you for pulling me back from the edge there, Alex. It's has been quite a while since I lost control like that.'

'I am always here to assist you, sir. If I may say, I've never seen you give a man a second chance before. What if he won't sign?'

Lord Butler stopped at the base of the stone spiral staircase and placed his hand on his long-serving bodyguard's shoulder. 'I need him to sign over all his wealth to us. He's one of the only billionaires in India who we deemed as controllable, you know, with his illegal vices. However, my patience is wearing thin with him, so if he doesn't sign, we'll have to get someone else. Then, Alex my friend, I'll have no further use for him, and you can have him for as long as he will last.'

• • •

Lord Butler and Alex Brun walked through the high-ceilinged reception room at Carshalton House, taking in deep breaths of the fresh, sweet-smelling air that came through the large bay windows on either side of the open front door. Alex whistled across to one of the young waitresses carrying slim flutes of champagne as she headed towards the group of billionaires gathered in the main lounge. She hurried over to give Lord Butler a glass, which he downed in a single gulp then took a second before waving her off. It was time to let go of the troubles in the basement and have a good time.

One of the wealthy guests caught his eye and peeled away from a tall brunette escort to intercept him.

'Alex, would you mind if I have a word with Lord Butler in private?' the slim, balding man asked. Alex bowed slightly and took two steps to the side.

'Hello, Jürgen. I hope you are having fun so far.'

'Has the man signed, Francis?'

'Jürgen, tonight I'd just love to relax with my friends and not bother with Billionaires Club matters. I've presented our case to Mr Singh, and he needs time to think about it. Let's give him time to come to terms with that.'

The forty-something German billionaire took a sip of champagne. 'But will he sign the document? Jürgen Kohler asked. 'We can't afford to be without a presence in India much longer.'

Lord Butler frowned and clenched his teeth. 'I said I'd make it happen. One way or the other we will get into India, okay?' A warm sensation started to flood through him again. He clenched his fists once and stretched his fingers outwards.

'Why are you taking so long to bring him around? You claimed your tactics and methods were foolproof. Maybe someone else should try and speak to him. You know, someone he may listen to.'

Lord Butler took a step forward and spoke in a hushed tone. 'My friend, we've been through this before. I've warned you several times about questioning my wishes. Let me stress again that I will not be questioned over this, certainly not by the likes of you. You don't have a choice here. Now go away and have a good evening with your lady friend there.' The darkness swirled around in his core, and he felt his shoulders move backwards.

'Or what, Francis? I'll end up like your best friend, Michael Mercer? Found rotting at the bottom of a gorge with my car brakes that have accidentally failed? I'm not intimidated by you or your methods,' Jürgen said and turned away.

The darkness made Lord Butler feel ten feet tall. His gaze focused on the back of the slim man's head. 'Tell me, my German friend. How is that beautiful young wife of yours doing? And what about those two handsome boys of yours? What are they now, sixteen?' Lord Butler said. He turned to Alex and placed his hand on his shoulder. 'The most beautiful twins I've seen, Alex, but thankfully they take after their mother. And pretty soon they will be adults, going out into the world by themselves. A delightful thought.'

The German spun around, his pale face reddening as he walked back towards Lord Butler, his finger pointing. 'You stay away from my family.'

'I only have to whisper a word into Alex's ear, and your family will suffer horrors that you don't want to imagine. What's more, I'll make sure you're there to watch the whole gory thing. Question me or my methods again. I dare you.'

Jürgen went pale and started to speak.

Alex moved in front of Lord Butler and took a step towards the German. 'I think you should go back to the party, Mr Kohler. You don't want to make a scene, now do you?'

Jürgen looked past Alex Brun. 'Someday, your henchman won't be at your side to protect you, Butler.'

He walked backwards for three steps before turning and trudging back to his date for the night.

Lord Butler walked up next to Alex and placed his hand on his shoulder. 'They don't always understand what we are trying to achieve here. So, consumed by their wealth, they fail to see the importance of it all to our planet.'

'You will make them understand, sir. They are all expendable.'

'Exactly. But first, we drink.'

# Chapter 2

Naudeh, Afghanistan - 2013

Rocks made for cold mattresses.

Kyle Gibbs shifted his body position in another futile attempt to get comfortable against the wall of stone. He looked down at his chapped hands and gently rubbed them together to get the circulation going. Gibbs looked across to Malcolm "Killey" Kilfoyle and Spike Johnson, who also huddled against the natural stone wall of the small ridge. It was the only shelter from enemy eyes for them. As longer serving SAS soldiers, they seemed more at ease with waiting around for the action to begin. He was the new kid on the block.

At three-thirty the early morning chill started to descend onto the desert, making it uncomfortable for all the SAS units that were dotted around the five designated targets. The desert terrain was stark and barren in the bright moonlight, and the clear evening meant a light frost would soon form around them. The waxing moon would make movement across the open areas towards their target easier underfoot but would increase the chance of being spotted.

Gibbs studied their unit's intended target, a dilapidated clay brick building, through the night vision scope he had bartered back in the camp in return for a few gentlemen's magazines. A single guard was on duty, huddled next to a drumfire that was under a wood and corrugated iron lean-to that was in front of their target. The intelligence brief had predicted more sentries, but it seemed all the major personnel movement was up at the main building to the west of them.

Gibbs looked towards the main building and counted three old trucks parked outside. With only four guards patrolling around the outskirts at thirty-minute intervals, it indicated that most were still asleep inside. Further up the gradual slope from the main buildings, nestling in rocky alcoves were the two enemy machine gun positions they'd been warned about. These were the target of the snipers.

Blinking twice, he switched his focus back to the old building and caught sight of the guard stretching and yawning in the golden light of the fire before wrapping himself up in a blanket again. He could just about make out the guard's M16 leant up against the wall.

At four am, team commander Sergeant 'Whitey' Lawson and three other team members, who were laying-up about thirty meters to the west of Gibbs's position, got up and slowly moved down the gentle stony slope towards the main opium factory building. Gibbs, Killey and Johnson followed seconds later, moving quickly in a low crouch towards their smaller target. By keeping low, and with the hillock behind them, they were unlikely to be silhouetted against the moonlit horizon.

The three men spread out and spanned about five meters apart as they trod carefully in a low crouch, trying not to dislodge any loose rocks that would give away their position and draw the guards' attention. Gibbs's adrenaline level ratcheted upwards as a man dressed in army fatigues appeared at the open door in the front of the building. He spoke in Arabic to the guard, who threw off his blanket and stood up to stretch. The three SAS soldiers dropped silently onto one knee, keeping their guns trained on the guards.

The soldier laughed at a joke the other guard had made and walked straight towards the waiting SAS men. Gibbs swallowed hard. The man stopped at the small mud wall and squinted, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark, barren landscape.

Gibbs's finger caressed the trigger lightly. Would he spot them?

The man stood looking into the moonlit night for a minute then reached down and unzipped his fly.

Gibbs looked across to Killey and signalled that he should take out the tall soldier who was now urinating over the wall. Gibbs, as previously agreed, would neutralise the guard by the fire.

He looked at the guard through his MP5 nightscope and slid his forefinger onto the trigger. The guard had sat down again and looked like he'd soon be asleep. He stirred when he heard the dull thump of Whitey's grenade launcher as their leader fired a grenade into the main group of guards to the west of their position. The explosion shattered the quiet desert night, and Gibbs squeezed the trigger. His target sat up in shock then slumped backwards as two bullets exploded into his head, sending a wash of blood-splatter up the wall behind him.

Killey fired twice at the standing soldier, hitting him in the chest. He stumbled backwards, golden urine backlit by the fire, spraying everywhere. The soldier looked down at the holes in his chest then collapsed as his legs gave way.

The instant the guards went down, Johnson was up on his feet with Killey right on his heels, running hard towards the building. They jumped over the small eroded mud wall and ran straight towards the open doorway.

Gibbs covered their approach to the building before running towards the target himself. As he leapt over the small peripheral wall, a bearded man emerged from the doorway, his white thawb flowing as he ran. He shouted something in Arabic and fired his pistol blindly into the night. Gibbs dove face down into the ground and heard the whizzing of bullets flying over his head. Killey swung his M16 machine gun at the man's head and clouted him flush on his jaw, the force smashing him backwards with his flailing gun arm firing into the sky. In one swift movement, Killey stood on the man's pistol hand and pulled out his trusty hunting knife then knelt on the flailing man's chest. With a sawing movement, he slit the man's throat and silenced him. Gibbs pushed up off the floor and ran to the side of the doorway, preparing to enter the building.

Killey sheathed his knife and lifted his M16 moments before a volley of gunshots erupted from inside the building. Two bullets hit him in the chest area of his body armour, flinging him backwards onto the ground, gulping for air as the wind was knocked out of him. Mike Johnson's head snapped back as a bullet ricocheted off his helmet. His knees buckled slightly, sending him staggering backwards before he tripped over the peripheral wall, disappearing from view. Gibbs froze for a split second then fired a long covering volley into the room. He heard a man cry out in pain.

Gibbs wondered how many more guards were inside and was loudly answered when he heard the rattling of machine gunfire from inside. Fragments of mud and plaster from the door frame radiated outwards. Killey was in their line of fire and not moving.

Diving down to the dusty floor again, he reached across to drag Killey out of the path of the doorway by his chest webbing.

Gibbs's world seemed to slow down as he plucked two flash grenades from Killey's webbing and tossed them through the doorway. A few seconds later, the deafening explosion and blinding flash went off inside. He flipped the night vision goggles down and crouched as he walked in.

The acrid smoke still burnt his nose and lungs despite their numerous training exercises. Gibbs stood with his back against the nearest wall waiting to see if anything moved. Through the green hue of the goggles, he saw two men staggering about near the opposite wall, their machine guns hanging downwards as they tried to reach four old filing cabinets. With quick bursts from his MP5, he dropped them both and continued to move through the adjacent rooms, checking for other enemy soldiers.

Loud explosions and more stuttering machine gunfire drifted on the wind from other parts of the complex. Would the other teams need their help? He walked back to secure the main room and grabbed a pile of burning documents out of a coal burning stove, stamping on them to preserve any possible intelligence. Looking down at the dull stare of one of the bodies, he shook his head. The body belonged to a teenage boy, the AK47 still in his grasp.

Gibbs moved back to the doorway. 'Killey, I'm coming out,' he called, waiting a moment and then walking out weapon first, scanning the desert in front of their target then up in the direction of the main building. All seemed clear. Sporadic gunfire could be heard throughout the complex with the odd muzzle flash the only indication that the battle was still underway. He moved past his friend and looked over the wall to where Johnson had fallen. The man was lying down on his back, looking at the dent in his helmet. He looked up and raised his eyebrows.

Gibbs turned to see Killey kneeling and gulping in a large lungful of air. Helping him up, he led him to a bench up against the building. There were no traces of blood on his friend, so the body armour had done its job. 'You okay, mate?'

Killey nodded. 'A bit embarrassed, mind you. I should have shot the bugger instead of trying to silence him with a knife. The bastards were sleeping near the doorway. Are they all dead?'

'It's all clear now, and there weren't that many of them. I shot a few of them trying to destroy documents, so the operation might have been worth it after all.'

'Thanks, mate. I owe you,' Killey said.

'Aye, you do, and I'll take payment in cases of beer when we get back.'

'Don't tell anyone about this, yeah.'

'Sure thing, mate. It'll stay between us,' Gibbs said.

The night sky to the east was changing to an orange glow, and the barrenness of their surroundings became more apparent. Gibbs stood and faced the main buildings that had now fallen silent. Looking down at his hands, he clenched his fists to stop them from shaking. The adrenaline was taking its time to dissipate, fuelled by an old anger. A deep breath or two usually brought him back to the moment, but it wasn't helping this time.

'You okay, killer?' Killey said.

Gibbs nodded, looking across at three goats that had started to work their way down the hillside.

'You still see your old man's face when you're in the middle of the action?' Killey asked, walking up behind him.

'It's crazy, right,' Gibbs said.

'It'll get easier over time.'

'But when? These memories drive me to a dark place, man. Even after all these years, the fucker still lives in my head.'

'That dark place saved my life today, so let's leave it inside you for now. In the meantime, stop whining like an old woman.'

Gibbs turned to see his friend holding out an open pack of cigarettes. He took one and looked down at it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

'Jesus, Killey, you smoking plain cigarettes now?'

'All I could get my hands on before we left camp,' he replied, lighting both their cigarettes with a single match. 'Take a nice slow draw on this baby.'

'After surviving beatings from my drunk old man for all those years, it would be a shame to die because of your bloody cancer sticks,' Gibbs chuckled, taking a long draw and instantly feeling himself relax.

'Like I said, less moaning about the past, more living for the future?' Killey said, patting Gibbs's shoulder.

• • •

After thirty minutes of waiting and keeping a concussed Mike Johnson company, Gibbs could make out the figures of Whitey Lawson and a radioman making their way towards him. He signalled to let them know all was secure in their building.

'Any major problems here?' Whitey asked, glancing at the bodies of the men lying outside of the building.

'Nothing we couldn't handle, sir,' Gibbs said. 'There's a load of documents lying around inside plus a few old filing cabinets in the main room. They might be of interest to the intelligence boys.'

'Good job, Gibbs,' Whitey Lawson said, slapping him on the back. 'We rotate out at ten hundred hours, so wait for the intelligence boys to arrive, then get back to the vehicles. Beers are on me this evening.'

# Chapter 3

Carshalton Estate, Surrey, England, UK - 2013

A dim light flickered at the end of the basement corridor as Lord Butler followed his faithful bodyguard to the end of the cold passageway. As they approached the wooden door, Lord Butler felt himself gag again, and he stopped walking. The scent of death filled his nostrils and stung the back of his throat _._ A headache throbbed in the centre of his forehead from too much champagne the previous night and he felt a cold sweat down his neck and spine.

They got to the room where the Indian billionaire had been restrained, and Lord Butler turned to the oversized guard outside. 'Why haven't you done anything about the damn smell in this corridor? It'll start to make its way upstairs, and will upset my guests.'

'Governor, we've been spraying air freshener all bloody night, but the hooker is getting a little ripe.'

Lord Butler's eyes narrowed, then he slapped the guard on the side of his head. 'Show a little respect for the dead, won't you?'

'Sorry, sir. I didn't think you'd care.'

'I don't pay you to think,' Lord Butler said and brought his cotton handkerchief up to cover his mouth and nose. Alex Brun had opened the door, and the pungent smell of decay washed over them.

'Get Mr Singh out of there and put him in the next room,' Lord Butler said, remaining in the corridor.

The two guards cut Monhinder Singh loose from the bench and picked him up off the floor. He hung limply on his captors' shoulders as they dragged him through the door. The adjacent room was better lit by three dirty wall lights, and it had a small open window that allowed a little fresh air to circulate. They brought the traumatised man to a table and lowered him into the chair. He slumped backwards, both hands falling limply to his sides. The guards stood back and took up their positions against the cobweb-covered tables and chairs that were piled up at the back of the room.

'Good morning, Mr Singh. I take it you had a pleasant night,' Lord Butler said.

'Fuck you, Butler.'

'Now, now. Please try to remember your manners. After all, without manners, we are nothing but savage beasts.'

Monhinder stared at Lord Butler across the table for a few seconds then leant to one side and spat out a bloody globule of spit. 'You are a monster, Butler, so don't lecture me about manners and class.'

Lord Butler took a long deep breath. 'Well, you've had enough time to digest our generous offer, and before I give you one last chance to agree to our terms, I'd like to show you some photos.'

Alex walked over to Monhinder and handed him two colour prints. Lord Butler placed them on the table. 'As you can see in the photographs, you and the lovely Anna got cosy and intimate in the room upstairs.'

'This never happened,' Monhinder said, staring at the graphic content in the photos in disbelief.

'Of course it did, my dear man, and it's in print for all to see. Anna was working for me and spiked your drink during dinner. She helped us to set you up for this little pornographic photoshoot. It all had happened before you were brought down here to what very well may be your last few hours on this planet. A planet, my dear friend, which we are intent on preserving with or without your bloody help.'

'You're all nuts to think you can control the world. You won't get away with this.'

'Thank you for the compliment, Monhinder. The thing is, dear chap, I have already gotten away with it. I've lined up another Indian billionaire in case you refuse to join us. He's keen to be involved as it will give him more leverage and power to take control of all your businesses. Your family will be out on the street begging within the year.'

Monhinder shook his head.

'Aside from the graphic photos you see before you which will still be sent to your wife, parents and extended family, I have staged a little crime scene in a hotel, not ten miles from here. The investigating police officer, who is on my payroll, has verified everything is forensically accurate at the scene where you will be my leading man. Your leading lady will be the young woman next door, and you'll both be accompanied by all manner of sordid sex toys and copious amounts of alcohol and drugs. The coroner will sign off on both your death certificates as sad but accidental overdoses.'

Monhinder stared at Lord Butler, a single tear appearing from his left eye. He blinked both eyes and swallowed hard.

'Sign the bloody papers and this all goes away.'

Alex Brun walked over from the side wall and placed a pile of documents and black fountain pen in front of the beaten man.

'I'll make you a different offer to the ones who've already signed before you. If you sign over all your assets and wealth to the Billionaire Group of companies and agree to serve with me for five years, you'll be able to walk away from this with all the profits of the investments made on your behalf plus a healthy salary befitting a man of your stature. No questions asked. Do we have a deal?'

The broken man slumped forward, leant on the table and nodded. 'Have it your way, Francis. I accept under duress.'

'A wise choice, my friend,' Lord Butler said. 'You'll now be welcomed with open arms into the Club.'

Lord Butler felt the elation as he clutched the signed documents to his chest and walked up the stairs to his study. He had what he wanted, the massive subcontinent of India. The Billionaires Club now spanned the entire planet. They could begin their influence.

• • •

Twelve hours later in the ornate and neat library of Carshalton House, a freshly shaved and showered Monhinder Singh stood sipping champagne in the company of the other men of the Billionaires Group. Only his bruised and battered face hinted to the trauma he'd endured.

Alex Brun walked Monhinder over to Lord Butler then and took a few steps around the man to stop next to his employer.

'Francis. I have a long way to travel and would like to be excused if I may. I'd like to see my family,' Monhinder said, dabbing a hanky to his seeping eyelid.

'Of course, Monhinder. Alex will see you to your room and make sure you have everything you need for your departure.'

'I don't want any more of his help,' Monhinder said.

'I wasn't offering you a choice,' Lord Butler said, nodding to Alex who bowed, and felt his heart begin to beat a lot faster.

Five minutes later, Monhinder opened his room door and walked in. It was lavishly decorated with a red and blue colour scheme, the high ceilings accentuated by the large black wooden beams that traversed the room. He stopped and looked at the four-poster bed where the graphic photographs had been taken.

He stepped aside to let Alex enter. 'You people disgust me.'

'Your luggage, Mr Singh,' Alex said, pointing to the pile of suitcases that had been packed already.

Monhinder stared them and then back at Alex. 'You will get what's coming to you. I promise you.'

Alex smiled. 'As will you, sir.'

A bald, heavy-set man in a dark blue overall stepped out from behind the door and crept up behind the billionaire, slipping a yellow nylon noose over his head. 'What the?' he screamed, clawing at the tightening noose.

A third man with a physique of a bodybuilder ran out from the en-suite bathroom and tackled Monhinder to the ground, subduing him under his weight. Alex grabbed the loose end of the rope and flung it over one of the big ornate oak beams in the room ceiling. The bodybuilder pulled on it slowly, lifting Monhinder into the air. As his legs lifted off the ground, his feet kicked out wildly as he scratched at the noose on his neck.

Alex Brun checked that the long corridor behind him was empty and walked back into the room, closing the door behind him.

Alex grabbed a radio from his jacket pocket. 'Security, kill all recording devices in room twelve. Mr Singh's room. Copy that?'

'Copy, sir. Killing all feeds to twelve.'

Alex walked over to a rectangular mirror and pulled on the left side. It swung open to reveal three hidden shelves. He watched the red light on the router, which was next to two recording devices, flicker and then go black. A groan from his subject yanked him back to the room.

'Don't kill him, you idiots. Lower him until his toes touch the ground.'

Slipping an old straight razor with an ivory handle out of his pocket, he lovingly slid his thumb over the blade, drawing a droplet of blood. Now was his turn for pain and pleasure.

# Chapter 4

Camp Bastion, Afghanistan - 2013

A hot wind blew a swirl of dust and debris through the opening of the beige tent. The uncomfortable heat sapped all the energy of the tired soldiers who sat on an old paisley print couch in the centre of the floor. Eight green army bunks were made up and lined along the sides of an adjoining tent. Gibbs and Killey were playing football on a games console, which was one of the preferred ways for soldiers to pass the time between assignments.

'Are you boys Gibbs and Killey?' a soldier asked, entering through the canvas tent flaps.

They both nodded without taking their eyes away from the TV screen. 'Who wants to know?'

'Fraser Byrne, but everyone calls me Shredder,' he said, and threw his kit down onto an empty army bunk. 'I come bearing welcome gifts for you. And your new orders, well, our new orders really, because I have the misfortune of joining your unit.'

Gibbs stood up to shake his hand and was surprised at how tall the new man was. Gibbs stood over six feet tall and was now looking into the new man's neck. 'Damn, Shredder. You're one lanky piece of shit.'

'First prize goes to you, young man, for stating the bloody obvious.'

'You could probably hunt flying geese with a rake,' Gibbs said, returning to his seat.

'Good God. Is that the quality of the jokes around here? It looks like I got here just in the nick of time to rescue this show before it tanks,' Shredder said.

Gibbs smiled at their newest member. He would fit in perfectly. 'You mentioned something about our orders?'

'Aye, we're all heading to Baghdad for a spell of covert protection of some inbound British dignitaries,' Shredder said with a thick Scottish accent.

'That's just bloody great, more VIP shit,' Killey said, tossing a chocolate bar across to Shredder. 'I suppose it beats sitting around here and kicking Gibbs's arse at football all day long.'

'Old man, you've yet to score a goal against my fantasy team, let alone win a game,' Gibbs smiled, leaning back as he clicked on the game controller in his hands.

'These games are all you're good at, sonny,' Killey said, kicking out his boot at Gibbs's bare feet. 'Your girlfriend told me that last week.'

Gibbs flipped him the middle finger.

'So, Shredder, where does that ridiculous nickname come from? I suppose you shredded some poor bastard with a knife?' asked Killey.

'Nah. Nothing that bloody morbid. I used to love Shredded Wheat cereal during basic training. Ate it all the time, so the name stuck.'

'You any relation to Jaime Byrne from Stonehaven or Aberdeen ways?' Gibbs asked, putting the game controls down.

'Jaime Byrne. Aye, he's a distant cousin of mine or something like that. Scrawny little runt. I take it you know him then?'

'We grew up in Stonehaven together and were best mates back then. I've tried to contact him a few times when I was back up in Aberdeen, but I think he moved away.'

'I'd say he's moved away alright,' Shredder said. 'When was the last time that you heard from the little shit?'

'Not sure. The end of 2005, I think,' Gibbs said.

'You wouldn't have heard them. He's in prison for manslaughter,' Shredder said, unwrapping his bar of chocolate.

'What?' Gibbs said and turned to face the new man.

'He got in with a bad crowd in high school, and they expelled them for selling heroin to fellow students. Jaime was an addict by then and got thrown out of home. I'm told he lived on the streets after that, and you know where it goes from there.'

Shredder got up and slowly walked over to his large brown duffle bag lying on the bunk. He rummaged around inside it and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Like an old Western cowboy, he pulled the cork out with his teeth and had a long swig, then passed it around to the other two men.

'What did he do to get manslaughter?' Gibbs asked.

'He had to pay for the habit and got caught stealing clothes from a department store in Aberdeen. There was a chase, and he bolted out into the street to get away from the store security only to run into two plainclothes policemen who also picked up the chase. The fool got cornered in a student bar and grabbed a young woman as a hostage. The situation escalated quickly once the armed police arrived. You know how twitchy those idiots are. While trying to avoid being tasered by one of the officers, Jaime tripped and fell while still holding the girl and accidentally stabbed her. She died at the scene.'

Gibbs was silent. He sat back down on the couch, the bottle of whiskey in his hand. Guilt flowed through him as he pictured the face of his friend, tears streaming down his freckled face. He'd left him behind at the bus stop all those years ago. It wouldn't have taken much more convincing to talk him into getting on board with him. Why hadn't he?

'We'd planned to run away from Stonehaven together and join the North Sea fishing fleet. You know how teenage boys are. We wanted to get away from the drunken abuse we were living with. Jaime got cold feet and stayed behind to look after his little brother. It could all have been so different now,' Gibbs said.

'Jaime's old man was a right royal bastard,' Shredder said. 'Why did you leave?'

'Our fathers could've been twins,' Gibbs said and swigged more whiskey.

# Chapter 5

Grosvenor House, Hyde Park, London, England, UK - 2015

Two years later in an affluent Victorian apartment overlooking the green expanse of Hyde Park in London, the figure of a man stirred in his antique high wing-backed chair as he slipped his legs off the leather-covered footstool. Leaning forward to reach for a smouldering Montecristo cigar from the crystal ashtray, he took another long draw, allowing the dark, warm aroma to fill all the reaches of his lungs. He carried on reading the crumpled copy of the _Financial Times_ and exhaled slowly, allowing the ghostly breath to wisp up over the top of the front-page headline, MARKET CRASH - GLOBAL DEPRESSION.

The man took another long pull on the cigar and grinned. It was all going swimmingly.

'Shall I pour you a drink to celebrate with, sir?' Alex Brun asked.

'Excellent idea, Alex. Pour me a double of the Oban Special Edition. I know it's crude to celebrate the decline of our civilisation, but 2015 will go down in our history as a defining moment that shaped the destiny of this planet. With all the shares that have been dumped and the run on the banks, it was only a matter of time before it all collapsed in on itself. The world ruled by bankers and computer geeks is over. We've worked damn hard to position ourselves to make a huge windfall during this time. We are now in control.'

'Your mother would be so proud, sir.'

'That she would, my friend,' Lord Butler said, looking at the ember of the cigar which he blew on lightly. 'I've come a long way from all that darkness. I owe her so much for getting me out of there.'

'Now is the time to cherish and enjoy it. I'll get the Oban,' Alex said.

A massive explosion erupted somewhere in the park and shattered the apartment's bay window. The huge velvet curtains billowed inwards from the explosion, blowing papers off the dining room table and clear across the room. Alex dropped the whiskey and dived on top of Lord Butler to shield him from any debris.

'Bloody heck!' Lord Butler shouted, feeling sick with shock, his stomach balled up into his lungs, like he couldn't breathe.

Both men stood up and walked over to the wrecked window. 'Thank you, Alex. I fear we're witnessing the start of the violence for the night.'

Alex nodded as he pulled back the curtains then dusted glass fragments from Lord Butler's dinner jacket. 'The numbers of protesters have doubled in the park since yesterday. The building supervisor believes they may be taking on the military again tonight by breaking curfew.'

'I can see that. Such stupidity really because it will give the military the excuse to open fire. Maybe it's time to leave for the safety of Carshalton House,' Lord Butler said, standing calmly at the window, the golden light from the flames lighting up his face. He smiled at the chaos and flames below. 'Send for maintenance. Let them know that there are a few bits of broken glass up here.'

A few minutes later the stuttering of machine gun fire could be heard across the park, intermingled with angry shouting and the screams from the homeless protestors.

'Are we ready yet, Alex? I need to leave within the next thirty minutes. And don't forget the new curfew passes again. I don't want to be held up at any roadblocks this time.'

'I have the new ones,' Alex said.

'I also need to speak to Secretary Waterfield before I leave, so please get him on the line.'

Lord Butler stared down at a group of around forty people who were sprinting down the road in front of his building, closely pursued by a green Land Rover. It mounted the pavement after them and smashed through the thin metal railing in pursuit. Chasing the protestors towards a cluster of old oak trees, it veered to the left with the right side of its canopy engulfed in flames. Another Molotov cocktail looped through the night air and smashed into the back of the Land Rover, enveloping it in bright yellow and orange.

The Land Rover skidded to a stop on the wet grass and soldiers jumped out the back door to escape a fiery death. A rioter stepped up with another glass bottle filled with amber fuel, set the paraffin-soaked cloth that was stuffed down the bottle's neck alight and prepared to throw it at the vehicle. His body shuddered with bullets from one of the troop's machine guns, and he fell forward onto the muddy ground, spilling the fuel that set his body on fire.

The shrill sound of the phone broke Lord Butler's stare, and he touched his chest in shock.

'Mason?' he said as he took the phone from Alex.

'Hello, Lord Butler. How are things this evening?' the deep voice of Secretary Mason Waterfield asked.

'It's all kicked off here in Hyde Park again. I'm leaving for Carshalton House in the next few moments to get away from the carnage.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, sir,' Mason said. 'What can I do for you?'

'Not sure if you've read this evenings papers but the moment we've planned for is now upon us. Can you call together all the members to the Canary Wharf address for a meeting in two days?'

A short silence followed. 'Do you believe it's time to come out of the shadows?' Mason asked.

'Yes, I do. We've to formally start looking after what's left of our planet's resources. We can no longer allow the governments of the world to keep working in isolation or against one another. As they've demonstrated over the past few months, they're barely able to control their own people, never mind cooperate on a project of this scale. The planet's assets, along with our accumulated interests, must be centralised and preserved.'

'Is Lady Winterton still to be appointed as the first Chairperson?' Mason said.

'She is, as agreed.'

'Shouldn't she be the one to call the members together then?'

'It is my vision that got this project ready, so, I'll call the first meeting. After that, it will revert to the chairman. It's a mandatory meeting for all members so come back to me when all have confirmed their attendance.'

# Chapter 6

Grangemouth, Scotland, UK - 2019

'I swear if another person bumps into me tonight, I'll lay them out in a hospital bed,' Killey said, shoving the drunken reveller off the pavement and into the empty street. The man mumbled abuse before carrying on through the mass of bodies celebrating the start of Scottish Hogmanay - the last day of the year.

'Let's not spend the first few days of 2019 in a prison cell, shall we?' Gibbs said. 'It's the first night we've managed to get off the bloody base in a while so let's get drunk and go home with something local and blonde.'

'I'm going to have to smash down a few quick drinks to get on the same level as these clowns,' Killey said.

'Is this the only place you could find to have a drink in this town? I mean, what sort of bar name is the Earl of Zetland?' Gibbs said.

'Forget the damn name. It's a bloody church that's been converted into a drinking hole,' Shredder said, looking up at the old gothic spire.

'And when exactly did you get religion, mate?' Killey asked.

'You don't have to have religion to realise that you don't mess with this kind of shit.'

'When we get inside, I'll order you a glass of bloody church wine, shall I? Now shut up and make yourself useful. Go speak to the bouncer and see if we can jump this queue of teenagers,' Killey said.

After a bit of wrangling at the door, the group of soldiers walked into the cramped, bustling interior of the old church. The smell of sweat and smoke machine assaulted the senses. Gibbs looked at the writhing mass on the dance floor, pulsing in sequence to a heavy bass beat. A wall of glass blocked some of the sound as they walked left of the dance floor. The high ribbed vaulted ceiling and large organ pipes behind the long bar counter were the only clues to the building's previous spiritual incarnation. As they moved past the wall of glass, loud music crackled out of old speakers that were mounted on the gothic pillars along the sides of the church.

'Isn't that our acting Commanding Officer over there harassing that blonde? 'Killey asked, as they walked up to the bar.

'And so, it is. Captain Warren out drinking with the local townsfolk, no doubt boring them with his tales of wars that he never fought in. Not sure what he'll say if he sees us here,' Shredder added. 'We are supposed to be tucked up in bed.'

'Doesn't it look like he's upsetting that girl?' Gibbs said. 'I think I should be a gentleman and step in.'

'No. Definitely not,' Shredder said. 'We haven't even had a drink yet, and you want to go and cause trouble. Remind me who said they didn't want to spend New Year's Eve in prison. You've already had two altercations with that bloody man and both times you ended up in solitary.'

Killey nodded. 'Yeah, sit the hell down, boss. Let's get a few more into us first, and then we can go harass our own blondes.'

'What the hell has got into you the last few days?' Killey said, calling over the spotty-faced teen behind the bar.

'Whose round is it?' Gibbs said, sliding onto a wooden barstool.

'I'll get the first one in, grumpy,' Killey said.

Gibbs downed the whiskey. 'It's just this bloody job we're on. What sort of operation is it to have SAS regiments protecting a bloody oil refinery? There's no chance of any decent combat here. No civil war that may cause issues.'

'You need to ask why in today's world? Someone's got to protect our oil and gas industry,' Shredder said.

'From who? Hairy icemen marauding from the bleeding Arctic?' Gibbs said.

'Whoever the powers that be believe think are going to steal our shit.'

'Shredder, do you genuinely believe that we'll see any action in this town over the next few months?' Gibbs asked.

'We've had countless missions where we've had to sit around babysitting someone or something. What's the difference here?'

'Don't you think we're better than this?' Gibbs said, downing another shot of whiskey. 'Aren't you fed up with babysitting crude oil and taking orders from wannabe officers?'

'We're fighting men, mate. What else are we good for?'

'I don't know. Guess I'd just like to get out there and have the chance to find out.'

'You thinking of leaving the service and going civilian, boss?' Killey said.

Gibbs shrugged. 'I'm getting tired of sitting around and wondering what else we could be doing.'

They all turned their heads towards the sound of a nearby commotion. The sight of Captain Warren falling on top of the scantily clad blonde woman had drawn attention from everyone. He drunkenly pushed himself up off her and received a slap to the face when they got to their feet. The drunk captain pushed the young lady in the chest, shouting incoherently. Her hands went up to her mouth in shock, and her bottom lip quivered.

'Bastard!' Gibbs shouted and slipped off his chair in a flash.

'Here we go,' Shredder said.

Gibbs was the first male to arrive at the scene, and he grabbed the captain's arm, twisting it behind his back as he pushed him forward through the dancing gridlock of drunken partygoers. Captain Warren tried to turn his head around to shout at his assailant, but Gibbs grabbed a handful of the officer's hair and snapped his head back. With his other hand, he grabbed the man's belt and drove him into a granite pillar near the main door. A loud moan escaped his lips as the wind was knocked out of him. Gibbs gave a final shove and guided the drunken officer outside.

'You need to learn how to behave around women, you arse,' Gibbs said.

The man stumbled backwards for a step or two then slipped on the wet paving stones and landed in a heap. He sat staring down at the road then pushed himself up and looked at his attacker. 'You? You're one of those bloody SAS boys who strut around the base like they own the fucking place. What are you doing out of camp? I'll have you charged with AWOL.' He stumbled forward and took a swing at Gibbs, the arm going past at neck height as the captain fell forward onto his knees.

'Get up so we can settle this like real men, Warren?'

'Fuck you, sonny,' Captain Warren said, getting to his feet.

Blinking his eyes, he threw a slow punch which Gibbs dodged, moving his head to his right. Captain Warren fell forward onto Gibbs, alcohol fumes washing over the SAS man.

Gibbs grabbed the man by his shirt front and head-butted him, breaking his nose with a crack. His eyes rolled back with pain and Gibbs released him to sink to his knees, blood pouring onto his white shirt. Adrenaline flowed through Gibbs, and he grinned at the three advancing bouncers. Battle at last.

Killey and Shredder moved in alongside Gibbs, Killey stepping forward, a large hunting knife in his hand. 'None of this has anything to do with you, gentlemen.'

The huge men stood three abreast in black overcoats and scarves, staring at the SAS soldiers. The middle man who was sporting a black wool beanie said, 'Best you take this elsewhere. You're no longer welcome here.'

'So, Gibbs, was that enough action for you?' Shredder said.

'It's more that we'll see in this bloody place,' Gibbs said.

'It's so frikkin early. Thanks to you, we might as well head back to base for hot chocolate and biscuits,' Shredder said.

'Shut up.'

# Chapter 7

Firth of Forth, Scotland, UK - 2019

The rhythmic thumping sound of the water slapping against the boat's hull was all that could be heard as it sped past the southernmost tower of the Forth Rail Bridge. Ton de Geest glanced up at the crumbling metal structure for signs of danger before looking down at his luminescent diving watch again.

He rose from the seat amongst his men and moved to the front of the assault craft, taking a seat beside the blond boat-pilot. As he squinted into the wind, the icy Scottish air brought a chill to him. They were nearing their target. The young pilot stared ahead to the distant floodlit horizon of the Grangemouth Oil and Gas refinery. Large golden gas flares burned brightly against the vanishing dark of night.

'Can we make up the lost time, Walter?' Ton said.

'It's going to be close, sir,' the young man said, not daring to shift his gaze from the refinery.

'Push her up to seven knots. We'll have to risk being spotted to make the target on time,' Ton said, returning to his seat amongst the rest of the men in the boat.

The tall blond mercenary from Amsterdam sat down next to his second-in-command.

'You look worried?' the big Russian said.

'We're behind schedule and could miss our operational window.'

'With the vicious tides here that's not good news. It is the calmest window we can dive in without drifting off the target,' the Russian said. 'We won't get a second chance at this.'

'I know the pressure, Gregori. The client is expecting a successful mission here. Just make sure the men know this.'

'These are the best men money could buy in Europe,' the Russian said. 'The client will get what he paid for.'

Ton nodded and gave a circular signal with his index finger to Gregori Zykov to get the men suited up.

The soldiers of fortune went about putting on all their scuba gear in silence. They wore black dry-suits with hoodies, gloves and boots to help negate the icy tide coming in from the North Sea. Their buoyancy compensators and tanks had also been blackened out for the mission, and they were hoisted up from the centre of the boat onto their seats to be tested one last time.

Ton looked at his watch again. Adrenaline started to flow as he looked at the horizon then back at his watch. The diversion was to be their signal, and there was none. There must be a problem _._

If the other insurgency teams had been taken captive while they positioned the charges at the refinery, it would jeopardise their mission. He looked up towards the distant hills and the brighter morning glow. He could wait for another minute or two before making a decision.

A flash of golden light suddenly lit up one of the darkened tanks on the outskirts of the refinery. The low booming sound of a second explosion followed a few moments later.

Ton pressed his radio transmitter button three times and waited for the coded reply. He pushed the transmitter again. Silence.

'They are dead?' Gregori asked in his thick Russian accent.

'Or captured,' Ton said.

'What are our orders?'

'We still have a job to do regardless of Bravo team's position. The sun is nearly up, and we need to get moving.'

'I agree,' the Russian replied, and barked out an order to the waiting frogmen.

Raising their tanks and buoyancy compensators over their heads, they slipped them on and buckled the straps. Grabbing their black assignment bags, they moved into position at the back of the boat. Ton stood beside Gregori and nodded to him. Slipping their masks down, they placed the regulator mouthpieces into their mouths and did a final breath test. With an 'OK' signal, one by one they took a long stride off the back of the boat into the dark depths.

The group descended into the silence in a plume of silver bubbles as they equalised to the increasing pressure. On cue, they flicked on their waterproof spotlights. Gregori led the way down with a receiver in his hand that he moved from side to side, monitoring a pulsing green light that indicated the direction they had to swim in.

Long, slow kicks of their fins helped them drift down into the strong tide before six algae- and seaweed-encrusted gas pipes became visible in the murky beams of light. Their target loomed into view like the sunken monument of ancient Atlantis, and the diving pairs fanned out across the length of the designated target area. Packs of explosives were hastily removed from their black bags and the charges laid along the thirty-metre section of the pipe. Seeing the agreed two quick flashes from their torches, Ton had the confirmation he was waiting for. The charges were successfully laid. He cracked two luminescent underwater flares and dropped them. All the men activated their timers.

With the clock ticking, the divers ascended in a blizzard of bubbles, legs driving them upwards as quickly as they dared. Gregori grabbed Ton by the arm and gestured upwards. Against the background of the orange morning sky, Ton could make out the darkened hull of another much larger vessel circling their boat, the hum of the propellers barely audible. He could see the intermittent spitting of yellow muzzle flashes as gunfight erupted above them. The occasional bubble stream whizzed downward as the bullets sheared through the water.

Ton stopped ascending and waited for the men to reach him at a depth of four metres. He signalled for the pairs of men to move off in different directions. They needed to outflank the attacking vessel to stand any chance. The taste of bile from the exertion of swimming into the tide for so long stung his throat. A gut feeling told him the mission was compromised.

The stiff westerly breeze would disguise bubbles that reached the surface but not all of them. Armed with only 9mm pistols, it was up to his men on board their boat to act as cover for them until they were able to engage the enemy fully.

Ton's head broke the surface, and his heart sank at the sight of two more enemy vessels circling in a wider arc. One of his men was on his knees on the bow of their boat, firing at one of the attacking craft. Ton watched as the man doubled over when a bullet slammed into him, and he slumped forward over the side of the boat, his arm hanging down into the water, moving eerily as the boat rocked from side to side.

A salvo of bullets flicked up the churned water all around Ton's head, and he looked to his left to see two figures standing on the back of a nearby gunboat, their automatic weapons trained on him. Kneeling between them was Walter Nigge, his boat pilot, and nephew. His hands were placed on his head with a look of terror on his face. More weapons were suddenly trained on him as he trod water. He would get off two or three rounds at their attackers but that could cost Walter his life. Ton raised both hands out of the water in surrender. They were outgunned.

The large stealth boat circled the battle scene picking up a few remaining survivors, and Ton was one of four captives kneeling on the rubber decking. He knew from their equipment, clothing and demeanour that their captors, who were all dressed in black, were from some Special Forces unit. They all had black scarves pulled up to cover their faces and communicated in short, sharp sentences, giving no other information away.

Two of the masked soldiers dragged another body out of the water onto the back of the boat behind him and checked through the man's pockets and pouches on his BC. One of the soldiers turned to the man who stood nearest to Ton and in a thick Scottish accent said, 'Look like mercs to me, boss.'

The man in charge just nodded and replied, 'Take any relevant documents and toss the bodies overboard.'

His radio suddenly squawked into life. 'Alpha one, we have traces of explosives here, spare detonators and timing devices. Copy over.'

The leader walked over to Walter Nigge and dragged him up off his knees. 'So, it seems your boys have been quite busy down there.'

The young man flashed a beseeching glance over at Ton for a second, his eyes wide. 'I am just the boat pilot. I don't know anything.'

Ton's heart sank. The masked man had caught the fleeting look from the young man. He looked across, his dark brown eyes studying the kneeling man's reactions for a few seconds. Ton didn't break his gaze and watched the tall man withdraw his hunting knife from its belt sheath and press the black blade to the young man's throat. 'Give me the coordinates of where you laid the charges, and I won't slit his throat and throw his body overboard for the crabs and eels.'

Ton glared up at him then looked forward.

The tall man in black reached up and pulled the scarf down from his face. 'My name is Gibbs, and I'll be responsible for your interrogation for the foreseeable future. Start talking and you might save a few of your boys here.'

A few seconds later Gibbs took a step back and smashed the handle of his knife against Walter Nigge's temple. The young man moaned as he went down onto the rubber deck of the boat. Gibbs nodded to a second man who was standing nearby, who moved forward to kneel down over Walter and place his razor-sharp blade at the shocked boat pilot's throat.

'You are running out of time, mate. He is seconds away from joining your other men at the bottom of the Forth.'

'You only have about two minutes to detonation. There won't enough time to deactivate the charges,' Ton said.

Gibbs turned and sheathed his knife. He lowered his machine gun and walked over to Ton, smashing him in the face with his rifle butt. 'That's not what I wanted to hear.'

Ton fell backwards, and his head hit the deck with a loud thump. As he grew dizzier, he felt a monstrous thud reverberate through the hull of the boat. Men started shouting at each other, and the engines roared into life. He shook his head and blinked as a spray of seawater washed over the boat as it listed to the left. Ton rolled across the deck and stopped up against the side of the railings. The taste of blood and seawater in his mouth. _Job done_.

# Chapter 8

Central London, England, UK - 2019

The brick looped up through the driving rain and followed its natural downwards arc to crash onto the bonnet of the car.

'Holy shit!' Mason Waterfield shouted from the back seat of the chauffeur driven car.

'Little bastard,' the driver shouted and pressed the accelerator to clear the area. 'You okay back there, sir?'

'Yes,' Mason said. 'I never get used to that sort of thing happening.'

'A young tearaway, no doubt, trying to impress some gang lord.'

'Indeed,' Mason said, shifting around on the black leather seats. 'Drop me at the Watergate Street entrance tonight, David. This bloody weather is frightful, and I will get soaked if I use the main entrance.'

'Yes, Mr Waterfield.'

'Our weather does seem to have taken a turn for the worse these last few years, doesn't it?' Mason said. 'Maybe all that climate change bullshit is true after all.'

'I'm not a follower of the sciences, sir. To me, if it rains, I take out my umbrella.'

Mason smiled and checked his jacket pockets for his phone. 'How are you and Cindy managing with all these blackouts?'

'Coping well, sir. We have a few new coal burners in the house, and it's not too difficult to trade for coal nowadays. The little lady is happy, so I am happy.'

'I'm glad,' Mason Waterfield said and looked out through the tinted windows. Black smoke from coal burning fires drifted across the London's once majestic skyline, blocking out much of the natural light. Continuous rioting and protests during the previous two years had resulted in the army being stationed all over the capital with the unilateral power to quash any threat to public order. Although the military had tried martial law and curfews, they were fighting an ongoing battle with ever more organised gangs and other crime syndicates.

'Is it difficult trading with these gangs?' Mason asked, feeling the gulf of living standards between them.

'As long as you pay up on time, sir, they're okay to deal with. Just normal blokes wanting to provide for their families, I guess.'

'I wish I could do more to help.'

'I'm sure you already do enough with your charities.'

'One can always do more for the world,' Mason said, clearing the condensation on the inside of the window.

The sleek form of the black Maybach slipped across a rain-soaked Blackfriars Bridge and drove around the back of the abandoned Unilever building, stopping silently in front of a dimly lit green door. Mason eased his big frame out of the car and shouldered into the icy rain, pulling his overcoat collar up to his neck in an attempt to keep dry. Two uniformed security guards opened the steel door as he approached and checked the street in case someone had followed him. Mason then followed them through the old abandoned corridors of the major corporate giant that once did business on the premises.

'Has everyone already arrived, Steven?' he asked as they walked.

'All present except Mr Mountford, governor,' the burly man replied.

'Of course,' Mason said. 'Bloody Mountford.'

Mason walked into the great elaborate boardroom and took his seat at the head of the long rectangular dark-wood table. Everyone was already seated, and with the raising of his left hand he brought the meeting to order. The antiquated odour of the room was mixed with the smell of wet coats and lit cigars.

'Does anyone object if we begin without Mr Mountford this evening?' Mason asked. A loud murmur broke out amongst the members at the mention of the absentee. 'Lord Butler?'

Lord Butler sat to the side of the gathering, from where he monitored proceedings from a large black leather couch with the ever-present Alex Brun standing alongside. 'No objections from me, but may I reiterate that although many of you would like to get rid of the young man, I believe that his ambition, aggression and inherited billions are still required by this group. I still endorse his membership, and I expect you all to follow my lead.'

Murmurs of discontent filtered around the group.

'Thank you, Lord Butler,' Mason said.

'Down to the first order of business then. Our sources in the Ministry of Defence have been monitoring UK troop movements over the last three to six months and have informed me of the steady rise in the troop withdrawal from our government's overseas interests. Homeland security now seems to be becoming a major priority to our friends in Westminster,' Mason added.

'But so many of our assets listed in those countries will have no protection. We could lose billions,' Lady Winterton said, fiddling with her pen which was placed on the table in front of her.

Mason smiled and looked at the grey-haired woman. She was always immaculately dressed and added a sense of refinement to the group of ageing men.

The conference room door opened, halting Mason before he could reply. The tall figure of John Mountford strode in, dressed in a black Armani dinner suit that highlighted his sickly pale skin. He strode around the seated members and took his seat at the table.

'It's so nice of you to make an effort to join us, John,' Mason said, staring at the latecomer.

'My pleasure, Mr Chairman. What's so urgent that I had to fly back to London at such short notice? I was at an important function, you know,' he replied.

'When it comes to the matter of the Club, these meetings trump all other priorities, John. I have no interest in the urgency of your personal affairs. Our bylaws state that when summoned to an urgent meeting, attendance is mandatory for all members, and promptly, I might add,' Mason said.

'Yes, Mr Chairman, and as I've pointed out on numerous occasions, it's a list of bylaws that would not be enforceable in any country. What will you do to me? Throw me out of your little club?'

'Yes, John, and you will leave with nothing. You of all people understand that all of your assets are tied up in this organisation. Assets may I remind you, that you only inherited,' Mason said.

'We're not back to that shit again, are we? Yes, I inherited my money as did most of you old folks. Can we please move on from that snobbery now?'

'It's very simple, John. Obey the bylaws or leave. That's what every member across the planet signed up to,' Mason said, looking at the younger man who was sitting back in his chair, his arms folded.

John rolled his eyes.

'Moving on with the reason for this meeting,' Mason said.

'I wait with bated breath, Mr Chairman,' John replied, waving Mason on.

Mason paused for effect. 'It's become more evident that the UK government is no longer honouring its agreement with us to share military resources across the European economic zone. What's more, they are moving the remainder of the navy into the Atlantic and the North Sea. I have here a transcript of a conversation that we obtained from the Chief of Defence Staff, General Malcolm, authorising the withdrawal of Special Forces units from the Middle East to assist in defending the UK's remaining oil and gas supplies.'

'Was that in retaliation for the gas pipeline explosion that happened a few days ago?' Lord Butler said.

'No, Lord Butler. There were already SAS units present at the refinery, but sadly they were unable to prevent it,' Mason said.

'How could they let it happen right under their bloody noses?'

'Apparently, bad intelligence was picked up on the wires, and the units were deployed to the harbour refinery and not the gas pipelines directly. We believe that one of our European partners instigated the attack and used mercenaries who have since been captured at the site,' Mason said.

John laughed and said, 'So much for global Club members working together, then.'

'Has the navy already been redeployed or is it still possible to influence their decision?' The question came from a bald man with a goatee who sat to the left of Mason.

'I believe they're en route as we speak, Sir Michael,' Mason said.

'We must continue the policy of arbitration between governments and try to influence them to resume sharing of resources in this zone. It's the only way we can preserve our way of life in Europe,' Sir Michael Cameron added.

'What utter rubbish,' John said. 'No common ground has ever been reached across the European continent when it came to a cohesive energy policy or any other policy that made sense for that matter. In these difficult times, why would leaders behave any differently to how they have in the past? The race for resources has already begun and has resulted in national protectionism the likes of which we've not seen in hundreds of years. The explosion at the Grangemouth plant just proves that.'

'We all know this, John, but we must still explore all avenues of diplomatic solutions to keep the economic zone together,' Sir Michael replied.

'With all due respect to you, Sir Michael, screw diplomacy. Those days are gone. Moving forward, we need to take steps to maintain the presence of the supremacy we've built around the world. This Club has the power and funds to set up small military forces that can bring about the changes we all know will safeguard our future.'

The noise level rose as members shouted him down, some arguing among themselves.

Mason tapped the top of the table loudly with a small gavel. 'John, you've raised this idea on many occasions, and we've debated it in this forum and across the Club as a whole. It is not what we are about,' Mason said. 'What you're talking about is military style government influence through destabilisation, and it will never pass as a Club policy.'

'That's just bollocks, Mason. None of you has ever bothered to look at other possible solutions in any real detail. Times have changed so fast that we need to be far more flexible to accommodate future changes that we all agree will happen. I will keep bringing it up because I believe it's the only possible solution to get governments to pool their resources. Diplomacy might have worked ten years ago, but the time for talking has passed,' John said.

As the members took a break for fifteen minutes, Lord Butler walked over to Mason who was having a cigar by himself in the corner of the large hall. 'Nice work, Mason. The Billionaires Club has done supremely well under your chairmanship. Your predecessor had it easier than you and I'm glad I selected you for this phase after Lady Winterton.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'I would love to nominate you for a second term, and you know nobody will go against me. I need you to do something for me first though,' Lord Butler said.

'Name it, sir.'

'I need you to get behind and promote young Mountford from here on in. Obviously, with the subtlety and diplomacy I know you have. While he does behave like a spoilt brat on occasion, he is critical for my vision for the Club's future. I have an operation planned that I need him to lead, and I want your support. Can I count on you?'

Mason swallowed hard. 'Of course you can, sir.'

# Chapter 9

Grangemouth Refinery Barracks, Scotland, UK - 2019

As he looked down at the form of Private Smith who lay battered and bruised on the interrogation room floor, visions flooded back of his abusive father. Anger and violence flowed through him, needing an outlet. It had driven him to serve and kill for his country but when would he ever find peace?

The young soldier's eyes were both swollen and bloody, his lips had been split in two places from the beatings. Experience told Gibbs he'd probably pushed the interrogation of the prisoner a little too far. The younger man had just got the brunt of his anger for the failed mission. Two other prisoners, kneeling next to the prostrate young man, looked on in shock.

'Gentlemen, you need to start talking, or things are going to get a lot worse for all you. Are you prepared to die for the men who hired you?' he said, turning towards the table. 'You come into our country, blow up our gas lines and expect to be treated with open arms and a pat on the back?'

Gibbs knew that the tall blond man kneeling next to Private Smith had led the team into UK waters. He'd already shown a weakness for his troops during the boat ride back to the base. A weakness Gibbs understood all too well. Something to exploit.

Reaching down, Gibbs picked up his Sig Sauer P226 pistol off the table and walked back over to Smith.

'I'll ask you one last time. Who are you working for, soldier?' he said, pointing the pistol at the young man.

'You can't shoot me. That would be—' Gibbs squeezed the trigger and shot the man through his muscular shoulder. The thunderous blast echoed throughout the small interrogation room, deafening everyone. Smith groaned then rolled over, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

Gibbs looked across at Ton and pointed the Sig back down at Smith's head. 'Look, mate, I know you're the highest-ranking officer here, so why don't you just start talking? Do you want me to go and fetch young Walter from the cell next door?'

Gibbs could see a flicker of fear and doubt in his eyes. 'Ton de Geest, ex-Captain,' he said.

'See, Ton, was that so bloody difficult? Now, who hired you to hit the lines?' Gibbs said, still pointing the pistol at the wounded man. A loud banging came from the cell door. Gibbs ignored it. 'Well, Captain?'

'We were hired by a wealthy group of men based out of Brussels. The task was to destroy the refinery and gas lines. They put together the mercenary teams independently of any government knowledge. Now, can you please get a medic for my colleague?'

The banging on the room door grew ever louder until the hinges finally gave way, and it crashed open. Killey burst through the doorway with his pistol drawn, staring in silence as he took in the scene, his weapon arm sweeping the cell. 'Everything okay, boss? What the fuck happened in here?' he said, staring down at the man who lay whimpering on the ground.

'Jesus, Sergeant,' Captain John Warren shouted as he stormed through the doorway a few seconds behind Killey. 'I thought you'd been overpowered.'

'Get the hell out of here. I'm still working on the prisoners,' Gibbs said as he glared down at Ton.

Captain Warren frowned, making the two bruises under his eyes from his recently broken nose more comical. 'I don't think so, Sergeant. Your time is up here pending a formal investigation. Corporal Kilfoyle, radio for a medic, this man is bleeding all over the damn floor.'

Captain Warren made a grab for Gibbs's pistol, only to have his hand slapped away. He tried a second time. Gibbs turned and squared up to the man. Glaring at him, Gibbs moved his face closer to his superior. 'I've knocked you on your arse a few times before, Captain. Keep being an idiot and I'll do it again.'

'You have gone too far this time, Sergeant. Your job here is done.'

'It's what I do for a living, so I'll decide when I am done,' Gibbs said, pushing the captain backwards.

'You're not thinking straight anymore, Sergeant.'

'Don't lecture me mate. You know nothing about me.'

'You're no longer cut out for this life, Sergeant,' Captain Warren said. 'Maybe it's time to retire.'

Gibbs clenched his teeth as his finger stabbed into Captain Warren's chest. 'You'll never get that satisfaction from me.'

'I think it's time for a short break, Gibbs,' Killey said, as he grabbed his boss and tried to steer him towards the door.

Gibbs pulled away from Killey and took a swing at him, but he skilfully ducked in expectation of the retaliation. He'd moved in closer to Gibbs to avoid any contact with his sledgehammer-like fists. Captain Warren, on the other hand, had not learnt his lesson and was caught unawares. With a sickly crack, Gibbs head-butted the officer and broke his nose again. Screaming in pain, he held his face as the blood dripped down to the ground.

Pushing and shoving ensued before they managed to usher Gibbs out of the interrogation room and into the long corridor.

'You're under arrest for striking an officer, Gibbs,' Captain Warren said. Stumbling out of the interrogation room clutching his nose, he instructed two military policemen who were standing guard to escort Gibbs to solitary.

Half an hour later Gibbs lay on the old rusty bunk in his cell. It was cold on the steel bed, but he was still running hot. He punched the unpainted concrete wall, swearing out loud. He hated the bureaucratic army types like Warren, but once again he'd given them ample reason to throw the book at him. With this recent transgression, he knew they would. Rubbing his face repeatedly, he knew that he'd brought it all on himself. He punched the wall again.

The Captain Warrens of the world had got in the way of his interrogations on many occasions. They didn't have what it took to do the dirty stuff in battle. Gathering intelligence was part of that battle and part of being a soldier. The big Dutchman had just started talking, and he could've gotten all the info he needed in another hour or two. Warren had wasted hours of good work. Gibbs took a deep breath. If you're going to make omelettes a few eggs would have to be broken. He had to get back into the interrogation cells and find out the names of the men who funded the attack against them.

# Chapter 10

Unilever House, Central London, England, UK - 2019

Chairman Mason Waterfield leaned back and listened to two other members who were debating a few of the smaller agenda items. He glanced across to John Mountford who was sitting to his right. The young man had his hand up to his face with his eyes closed and shook his head at the comments from his fellow billionaires.

'Bloody hell, people, would you just stop and listen to yourselves?' John said. 'The reason the United Nations failed on so many occasions in our history is that diplomatic solutions are not always practical or culturally viable. Sometimes situations can only be resolved by force, not by groups of squabbling old men and women.'

'We're very well acquainted with your bloodlust and heavy-handed business approach, John. It's a little infantile,' Lady Rosemary Winterton replied with a wry smile. The large-framed woman had been the previous chairperson and never liked the younger man. 'Many of us here realise that force is sometimes an inevitable recourse, but not until all avenues of negotiation have been explored and exhausted.'

'You're out of touch with reality, Lady Winterton. That logic no longer applies to the dynamics of current day global politics,' he replied. 'Have you bothered to take a look at what's going on outside your vast, empty mansion?'

'Young man, I get out there and do a lot of good with my charity work. Unlike you, with your continued travelling and partying.'

John smiled. 'The only time you leave the house is when you have to walk those two fat mutts of yours. And I'm sure your dogs wouldn't mind a walk sometimes too.'

Lady Winterton gasped. Another member stifled a laugh.

'Okay everyone, let's have some order, please. You two can continue this after the meeting,' Mason said and sat forward. 'With the critical state of the global resources we are trying to pool and manage, who knows what the future will bring? Maybe it is time for us to open up the debate again and look at alternate solutions before another organisation rises up and succeeds by using force while we're still at the negotiation table.'

Lady Winterton sat open-mouthed for a second. 'Mason, you don't agree with this buffoon, do you?'

Mason smiled. 'A man can change his mind too. Situations have dramatically changed in the past two years, and I believe we need to re-discuss other solutions we could use, including military force.'

John frowned, shifting in his chair. 'We have on the odd occasion used mercenaries for covert operations and reconnaissance, so are you now advocating that the Club consider other possible military options?'

'We all know that you have employed subversive tactics like that in the past, John, but they were never a sanctioned solution by anyone here. Please don't see this as a justification for you to keep going behind our backs in the future,' Mason said. 'What I mean is, judging from the recent Club chairman meetings I attended, many of our global members are changing their opinions towards military interventions. This change of heart is not based on any clear strategy, but rather that they're being driven by the fear of other organisations employing military initiatives. We could be left behind in the race for resources.'

'Fear cannot be the reason for us to use force,' Lady Winterton said. 'We've survived so far without it.'

'Lady Winterton, Mason is right to at least question our ongoing strategy,' John said. 'Why was the Billionaires Club formed in the first place, and please don't tell me it was for the consolidation of global resources? We all know that it was born from the fear that we would all lose our assets, and therefore, our easy way of lives. What we need now is more open-minded thinking to protect ourselves and our position in the world. We need a new way. Your methods have been tried and are now failing.'

Lord Butler slammed his hand down on the armrest of the couch he was sitting on. 'John, don't lecture us on our motives or aspirations for this organisation. I've been part of this evolving group since I started it in early 2004. We all had different motives for joining this project, and they are all still valid and just as important.'

'But people's ideas are out of date.' John said before Lord Butler raised his hand to stop the younger man talking.

'Most of our assets and wealth are invested in those very same resources that are now under threat. Regardless of everyone's initial motives, the result is that all our interests have now merged. We do need to secure the resources, ergo, our wealth. I concur with Mason and John's suggestion that maybe it is time to start looking at alternative methods, regardless of the motivation.'

• • •

The heated debate continued for another hour before an end to the meeting was called. Members drifted away down the dark corridors, and as John Mountford headed for the door, Mason called out after him. 'John, may I have a word in private, please?'

John was putting on his coat, and his shoulders dropped. He walked over to Mason. 'Don't you think we've hashed this crap out enough for this evening? It's three in the bloody morning, Mason, and I have my plane waiting to get me out of here.'

'It will only take a few minutes,' Mason said in a hushed tone, glancing at the other members as they left the room.

'John, I hope you understand that I don't agree with you on the point of us recruiting a permanent army to work for us. However, I do have a possible test project in one of our troubled economic zones for a few mercenary teams. It's something that will be financially and politically very beneficial to both of us. A project which may do a lot to help convince the other doubters here in the Club.'

'Go on, I am listening,' John said and took his coat off.

# Chapter 11

Grangemouth Refinery Barracks, Scotland, UK - 2019

The metal hatch in the centre of the green cell door slammed open, and Gibbs jumped up with fright. He was jolted awake, eyes blinking as a beam of bright light streamed onto his bunk from the door. Looking around, it took him a second to recognise the solitary confinement cell.

'Get up, Sergeant Gibbs,' Captain Warren shouted through the door.

'What do you want? It's the middle of the night, and I was sleeping here.'

'I gave you an order to get up and come to the door,' Captain Warren said.

'Get lost.'

'I have a deal to offer you.'

Gibbs smiled in the darkness and got up off the bunk. He walked over to the door and peered through the hatch. 'I see your black eyes have darkened again, my little panda friend.'

'Tread carefully, Sergeant. As the acting Commanding Officer of this base, I have the power to keep you in this cell for as long as I choose.'

'Finally grown a pair, have you?' Gibbs said. 'Well you've woken me up now, so spit it out.'

'In return for getting more information from the Dutch prisoners, I'm willing to throw out all the charges against you.'

'Let me guess, you've got nowhere with them, and now need me with my so-called barbaric methods.'

'It's not going to work like that, Gibbs. You can interrogate the prisoners under the eye of two military policemen.'

'The mercenaries have seen you undermine me. They won't say shit with other people in the room. I have to do it my way. A way that works,' Gibbs said.

'I'm giving you a chance to get out of here.'

'You've messed up, Warren, and now you need me to bail you out. Don't try and make it sound like you are doing me a favour. Get the fuck out of here and let me sleep,' Gibbs said, returning to his bunk, the sound of the metal latch slamming reverberating around his cell.

• • •

The interior hallways of the refinery barracks were yellow-walled, dark and sucked the life out of you. Last painted in the seventies, was the estimate by Captain Warren as he strode along the top floor corridor. A wall on his right side, paned glass windows on his left. He could see the parade ground below. His parade ground. A place where he could bring order to the hopeless troops under his command.

The sound of someone running caught his ears. The click-clack of boots on old polished concrete floors got louder. He'd ordered them never to run in the building, so he moved to the centre of the corridor.

The thump on his right arm and shoulder pushed him forward a step. A gasp of air as someone was winded came from the person who had clattered into him. The hair on the back of Captain Warren's neck rose as the anger intensified inside. White papers in dirty brown folders came flying past him and exploded outwards as if they'd been fired out of a cannon.

'What the hell?' he said, his loud voice echoing in the narrow space. Spinning around, he saw a young man in brown army fatigues and black boots, his beret rolled up and stuffed through his left shoulder epaulette.

The young man's bespectacled face changed from wide-eyed shock to fear in seconds. His mouth closed then opened to speak. He couldn't.

Captain Warren grabbed him by the front of his shirt which wasn't tucked in properly and slammed his slim frame back against the yellow wall. 'What have I told you about getting in my way, Thompson?' he said, teeth gritted and jaw clenched.

'Sorry, sir. I'm late getting these files to the admin block.'

'I don't fucking care. You smashed into me again.'

'You moved across the corridor, sir,' he said, wincing as he was slammed against the wall again.

'You ran into me last week, and that resulted in you standing out in the rain and sleet with a log above your head. I think you are getting an unhealthy attachment to that log. I mean, why would you keep running into me?'

'Sorry, sir.'

'You're a snivelling waste of army money, aren't you? Think I should take you outside for a PT session for a few hours to rid you of all that energy.'

'Please, sir. I have admin files to complete before I go out tonight.'

'Go out?'

'It's my birthday, sir. My lieutenant said I could have the night off if I finish my work.'

'As the acting CO of this base, I rescind those orders. You will spend the night in the barracks.'

The soldier's eyes widened as he struggled for words. 'Sir, I have invited family and friends to join me.'

'I could also send you to solitary for the night if you don't want to spend it in the barracks. You do realise that I don't give a crap about your family plans.' Captain Warren felt the resistance of the soldier against his hand fade, as he relaxed against the wall, his shoulders drooping.

'Is everything okay, Captain?' said a female voice from his left.

'I'm busy here.'

'Thank you, Private Thompson. You may carry on.' The sweet voice was nearer.

Captain Warren turned and looked at the woman who'd dared to interrupt him disciplining one of his troops. She was always around, interfering in the discipline of the men and women. He glared at her and clenched his fists as he barged past her in the narrow corridor.

'I'd like to discuss Sergeant Gibbs with you,' she said, catching up to him.

He took larger strides as he heard more sounds coming out of her mouth, but he had more important concerns. He needed coffee. Getting to the end of the corridor they walked down ten steps and turned right into a second, much darker corridor. She was still talking as he turned into the first door on the left and spotted the vending machine. She carried on talking and then asked him a question. He wondered what she'd look like naked.

'Lieutenant, you'll have to go over it all again. Why do I have to let the man go? He shot and tried to kill a prisoner of war,' said Captain Warren, as he stood in front of the old vending machine in the empty officers' mess hall, watching coffee flow into his paper cup. 'I'd be more than happy to discuss this case over dinner. Maybe we could go to a club afterwards.'

'That's unprofessional, Captain, and I don't operate like that. It would be seen as a conflict of interest if any tribunal should hear about it.'

'Then I guess your client will remain locked up in solitary.'

'I've been doing my own investigation, and you don't have anything from the shooting to keep him locked up,' Lieutenant Matthews said.

'You're representing Gibbs, so of course you'd say that.'

The slim, blonde JAG officer folded her arms, squashing her breasts together beneath the ironed white shirt. He stared at them for a few seconds then looked back at her as she smiled at him. 'Glad to have your attention back, Captain. It's a little embarrassing for you because you drifted off there for a while. Is everything okay?'

He shifted in his stance and took a sip of coffee. 'Just bloody say what you came to say. I have work to do.'

'I've spoken to all your witnesses, and it appears they're either not willing to testify or claim they didn't see Sergeant Gibbs deliberately shoot anyone.'

'Rubbish. What about Corporal Kilfoyle, he was first into the cell?' Captain Warren said.

'Claims he didn't see the actual shooting,' Lieutenant Matthews said.

'They're best mates, so what did you expect he'd say? He is covering for him. Get him under oath, and I'll get the truth out of him.'

'I have a signed statement from Corporal Kilfoyle.'

'They're all lying bastards. I should throw him out of the army along with Gibbs. Dishonourable discharges all around.'

'You can't do that without just cause. The court-martial will accept his statement as fact unless you have other proof. It's his word against yours.'

'Fine, but there are the prisoners, and don't forget the man that Gibbs shot.'

'I spoke to them, and they did hint that they would be prepared to testify against Sergeant Gibbs if you guarantee them their freedom and safe passage back to Europe.'

'What? I'm not going to release the terrorists responsible for destroying our storage tanks and pipelines. That will never happen on my watch.'

'In that case, Captain, you'll have to release Sergeant Gibbs. We cannot detain him any longer.'

'Not so fast, pretty thing, what about the charge of striking an officer?'

'Watch your tone and choice of language please, Captain. I'm a lieutenant with the Judge Advocate General.'

Captain Warren felt his rage percolating to the surface. This was his army base.

'Gibbs will be charged with striking an officer, and will face a court-martial, but you cannot hold him in a cell for more than forty-eight hours for that.'

'I'll release him when it suits me, Lieutenant. I am still in command of this base, am I not?'

'No, you won't delay his release,' she said. 'You see, Captain, I have a witness who says you struck Sergeant Gibbs outside a nightclub.'

'They were all AWOL. I was not.'

'Shall we wait and see what the real Commanding Officer decides when he returns from vacation next week?'

• • •

'How was the vacation, boss?' Killey asked as he and Shredder walked to where Gibbs was resting on a bunk in the centre of the row of neatly made up army beds. The barracks were empty at that time of day because all other men were on duty with the high alert status.

'Very relaxing, thanks, gents. Three days in solitary was just what I needed to catch up on some sleep.'

'You'd do anything to get out of doing a few bloody patrols, wouldn't you?' Shredder said, sitting down on an adjacent bunk. 'But I'd advise you to stay out of Warren's way for a while. He's not very happy with you. His nose is badly broken, and his sweet feelings have been hurt. He's been telling anyone who will listen that he is going to throw the book at you.'

'I don't give a shit, to be honest,' Gibbs replied. 'He typifies what's wrong with the army nowadays. Full of incompetent desk jockeys who sit around all day shuffling paper and getting in the way of real army business.'

'I heard that he was trying to get you thrown out on a dishonourable discharge,' Killey said.

'Let him do his damnedest. I am done dealing with bureaucrats like him,' Gibbs said. 'The good thing about a few days of solitary is that it gives you time to think. I haven't said anything to you guys before, but this bloody posting and our role here has been bugging me for quite a while now. I think my days are numbered in the service.'

'No shit, Sherlock. You've been grumpier than a hyena on her monthlies,' Shredder said. 'What are we going to do now?'

'It's time to hang up my beret and look at doing something else. Maybe a little mercenary work in the private sector. Like those prisoners in there.'

'You being serious, boss?' Shredder said.

'Yeah. I want to have another chat with them to see if they'll pass on any of their contacts,' Gibbs replied.

'I did manage to sneak a look at the intelligence file that Warren received on the Dutch guy who led the attack. He's quite the accomplished veteran, so may have good contacts,' Shredder said. 'Although I'm not sure he'd be too happy to see you after you shot one of his team members right in front of him.'

'Plus, if you do get discharged for attacking a superior officer, a vast majority of the agents won't be too keen to put you forward for projects,' Killey said.

'Bollocks, lads. With our military records, we'd be snapped up for any type of work. And, the agencies are only in it for the money anyway. You've both met mercenaries during your travels so don't tell me that we're worse than they were.

'Fair point,' Shredder said. 'What's next?'

'We've seen a ton of action together, but I can't ask you to join me when I go over the wall. You have to make up your minds on this one,' Gibbs said.

'Going AWOL is serious business, Gibbs. I'll need to think about it,' Killey said, glancing across to Shredder.

'I'm the only one going AWOL, you muppet,' Gibbs said. 'You two can go on a sabbatical or get an honourable discharge if you choose to do this with me. Anyway, I'm going to need to get as much information from the big Dutchman as I can and pretty damn urgently, and that's where I could use your help.'

'What's the bloody hurry?' Shredder asked.

'You know my previous shooting record. Do you think they won't consider a prison term for me after this latest stunt? I'm not taking that risk, thanks. Now, how are we going to sneak me into that lockup tonight?'

Shredder laughed. 'You are bloody joking, right?'

• • •

Gibbs eased the brass key into the lock and slowly pushed the passage door open. Looking back to the guard room, he saw it was closed as negotiated. He walked down the corridor and stopped in front of the green door for cell twelve. Slipping the noisy metal hatch open, he knocked twice. The sound reverberated around the empty corridor like thunder.

'Ton,' Gibbs said. 'Wake up.'

A few seconds went by before a drowsy Ton de Geest appeared at the opening, squinting through the hatch to acclimatise to the bright light from the corridor.

'What the hell do you want? I thought you'd have been locked up for attempted murder by now.'

'Calm down, Ton. You'd have done the same as I did to extract information from a prisoner,' Gibbs said.

'Don't compare us, Sergeant,' Ton said, his eyes narrowing. 'You behaved like a cold-blooded thug. A disgrace to your uniform.'

'Look, Dutchy, I didn't bullshit my way back into this prison to argue with you. I managed to get a look at the file our intelligence people have on you and realised that we've served in many of the same campaigns. You knew the risks of mounting a cross-border sabotage mission into the UK. You knew that if you got caught during this mission, you'd be detained and interrogated. Besides, we've both killed for a lot less so let's not debate whose conscience is clearer.'

'What do you want?' Ton asked after a few seconds.

'The details of the agent who recruited you for this sortie.'

'Don't your intelligence people have all those details by now?'

'I'm sure they have the names of all the men who paid the bills, but I want the man who recruited you,' Gibbs said.

'Look, we've been captured and will no doubt serve time in one of your local prisons. I see no reason to land our agent in trouble as well,' Ton said. 'Why do you want it?'

'I have many reasons,' Gibbs said. 'Let's say I may soon be up for a bit of private work myself.'

Ton stared at him through the prison door hatch. 'Get us out of here and down to London, and I promise I'll introduce you to him myself.'

Gibbs burst out laughing. 'I'll have to respectfully decline. I'm in enough trouble as it is, so I won't be breaking perceived terrorists to the UK out of prison anytime soon. Besides, there must be a few agents out there looking for good men so with a bit of asking around I could probably find my own.'

'Not anymore and certainly not without a decent referral, you won't,' Ton said. 'They'll check your military records thoroughly and would want current references. Ten years ago, you could have easily got an agent to put your name out there, but in today's climate, most of those agents have disappeared. If you don't have a referral to go along with the AWOL, there is no chance in hell you will get any decent work.'

Gibbs felt the anger rising within him. The man was right. 'Enjoy prison, mate,' Gibbs said and closed the metal hatch.

• • •

'Sergeant Gibbs, wake up. Please, you need to get up now.'

Gibbs stirred and rolled over onto his back and looked up at the white ceiling. He'd had a skinful of beer with the boys the night before in a local Grangemouth bar, and felt like something had crawled inside him and died. Opening and closing his mouth, it tasted of an old man's sandals. He blinked and slowly opened his eyes to see an attractive blonde woman in a full military dress suit, standing over his bed. He smiled and sat up in bed, all too aware of her apparent awkwardness at him being naked.

'Cover yourself please, Sergeant,' she said, looking across the empty sleeping quarters.

'Hello, Lieutenant Matthews,' he replied. 'How did my hearing go yesterday?'

'It would have gone better had you bothered to turn up.'

'If I recall correctly, you told me it was a tribunal to determine what charges would be brought against me and that I didn't need to be there.'

'That may be the case, but Captain Warren is trying to nail your lily-white backside to the wall, Sergeant. Your presence at the tribunal would have gone a long way to show remorse for what you did.'

'My lily-white arse feels no remorse for giving that idiot those black eyes. It was the least I could do for humanity. I do, however, feel at a disadvantage now that you have seen said lily-white arse,' he said. 'What is your first name, Lieutenant?'

'You can call me Lieutenant,' she said with a smile.

'Well, that's just silly. How are we going to have a conversation over a romantic dinner if it's all Lieutenant this and Sergeant that?'

'A dinner that will never happen, Gibbs,' she said.

'Take me up on the offer of a meal while I am still here,' he said. 'You'll miss me when I am gone, you know.'

'Much in the same way I'd miss root canal treatment?'

Gibbs chuckled, his voice hoarse from singing along with a live band the night before. 'So how bad is it for my lily-white arse?'

'You've been stripped of your rank, and have been confined to these barracks on full pay, until the court-martial next week. Who knows where it goes from there? We're still busy preparing your defence, but judging from your file, it's going to be tough to keep you out of detention barracks, and in the army.'

'Guess it's my time to pay for all the fun I've had here. We all have to pay the piper eventually.'

'What? You could be locked up for a while before being turfed out into the world with nothing to show for all your years of service.'

'I might just like that to happen, you know.'

'Be serious.'

• • •

A few days into his confinement, Gibbs lay on the bed with his hands tucked behind his head. Killey was face down on his bed snoring loudly while Shredder sat on the bed across from him and listened to some or other loud rock band. Boredom was starting to take its toll on men who thrived on action.

Gibbs stared at the same cracked white ceiling panel he'd looked at all week. A big fly walked along the crack, and he could see it washing its eyes before it flew off. His phone rang with the caller ID showing _Aunt Rhona_ and his spirits lifted with the chance to talk to her. She was the spitting image of his mother with the same temperament, and always stirred up memories that had long been beaten out of him.

'Hello, my boy,' his aunt said.

'Hi, Aunt Rhona. This is a nice surprise.'

'It's not the call I wanted to make, Kyle,' she said. 'I'm afraid I have terrible news.'

Gibbs felt his chest tighten. 'Has something happened to Uncle Gordon?'

'No, son. He's great as always, just getting old and grumpy. I've rung about your father.'

Gibbs lay in silence for a few seconds, looking across to Shredder. 'What's the bastard done now?'

'I'm afraid he died last night,' she said in a strained tone. 'I'm so sorry, Kyle.'

'What happened to him?'

'The fire service said that he'd been on the drink and passed out with a lit cigarette. He didn't even move off the couch, apparently.'

'It was inevitable, wasn't it?' Gibbs said, picturing his abusive father living by himself above the family pub. A pub that had been Gibbs's home for his first fourteen years.

'I guess so. At least, no one else was injured. The funeral will be this Wednesday in Stonehaven, and he'll be buried next to your mother.'

'Okay. I guess it makes sense. She was the only one who loved him,' Gibbs said. 'To her detriment in the end.'

'Don't go there, son,' Aunt Rhoda said. 'Will we see you on Wednesday?'

'No. The man treated us all like shit. I have no respects to pay at his graveside,' Gibbs said.

'That's what I thought. We'll go anyway because it'll give us a chance to tidy your mother's grave.'

'Put some flowers down for me and send Uncle Gordon and the cousins my love.'

'I will do, Kyle,' she said. 'Come and visit us sometime. We all miss you.'

'I miss you too. Take care.'

He lay back and thought of all the anger that he'd felt throughout his violent past. It had driven him to make all his choices in life. What would drive him on now? Maybe a change of career was the way to go.

'Sorry to hear about your old man, mate,' Killey said, sitting up on his bed, wiping the drool away from his cheek.

'Thanks,' Gibbs said with a smile as he looked back up at the crack in the ceiling. 'Let's not waste any more time on him. That chapter is over.'

# Chapter 12

Grangemouth Refinery Barracks, Scotland, UK - 2019

Adrenalin coursed through the man as he moved from the corner of the barracks building across from the open dust parade ground to the main shower and ablution block. It was a full moon, and the mission to sneak around the large base undetected was proving trickier than ever. The guard who'd helped them get into the cells previously was off duty, and they had no easy way in. Behind them, a female fox screamed her ghost-like mating call to nearby males, and the man stopped to listen for sounds of patrolling guards.

Security on the army base had been tightened since the destruction of the pipeline, with the guard being doubled at all external posts. The man paused for a moment to peer around the corner of the main shower block at the stockade where the captive saboteurs were being held. Time dragged as he waited for the sound of soft footfalls to steal up behind him.

'Last chance, gents,' Gibbs said in a whisper.

Shredder just smiled and nodded his head in the direction of the admin building. 'See you both a little later.'

Gibbs and Killey walked straight up to the guard at the main door. The young guard dressed in brown fatigues brought his weapon up. 'Halt! Password?'

'Glen Fiddich,' Gibbs replied, the words they had procured from an entrepreneurial staff sergeant on Captain Warren's team. The guard lowered his weapon, the relief evident on his face.

'Evening, Sergeant Gibbs, I thought you were confined to barracks, sir. May I inquire what business you have in here at this time?' the corporal asked.

'Of course you may, Corporal. I intend to break some of the captives out of their cells and take them with me off the base,' Gibbs said, a big smile on his face.

The young corporal laughed. 'No, seriously, sir,' he replied before he collapsed as Killey struck the base of his neck with his sidearm, knocking him out cold.

'Bring him inside,' Gibbs said.

Dragging the unconscious guard into the main passage, they turned into a side guard room. Two men were asleep on army cots waiting to start their later shifts. Killey laid the unconscious guard down on the floor and quietly closed the door on his way out.

Gibbs walked out into the main corridor again and down to the cells, and on reaching Ton's cell looked back before tapping softly on the metal door. After a few seconds, he opened the metal hatch and whispered, 'Ton, wake up, it's Gibbs.'

'What do you want now?'

'Just to be clear, if I get you to London, you'll give us the necessary agent's details and introductions?' Gibbs whispered.

'That's what I said. When do you propose we leave?'

The sound as the key slipped into a keyhole and unlocked the cell door seemed as loud as a gunshot in the quiet corridor.

'How about now?'

'What about Walter? I've had no news of him in days and won't do this without him.'

'Just go with Killey,' Gibbs said. 'I'll go and get him.'

A few minutes later Gibbs led the men down the corridor and stopped suddenly as the two guards stood before them, their SA80 machine guns covering the group. One blinked, wiping sleep away from his eyes.

'Stay where you are,' the first guard shouted.

'You thought we were sleeping, did you?' the second guard said.

Hiding behind one of the protruding corridor pillars and facing Gibbs stood Killey, who had been keeping a watchful eye on the parade ground outside when he heard the two men talking behind the closed door. He smiled at Gibbs and shrugged his shoulders.

'Now, gentlemen, why don't you lower those weapons before you go and hurt someone?'

'Quiet, Sergeant Gibbs,' the second guard said. 'You've been caught so please do as we say.'

'Robinson, I'll cover them while you go and trigger the alarm,' the first guard said.

As the guard turned to leave, bright lights from outside shone through the front door and lit up the whole entrance area. The two guards briefly turned to look at the source of the lights.

Killey spun around the corner and with a roar like a crazed mythical Minotaur, charged headlong into the two young guards who were just metres from him.

He hit them both in the throat area with his outstretched forearms as he ran between them, smashing their upper bodies backwards. As they fell, he grabbed the muzzles of both their machine guns and ripped the weapons from their grip. 'Now, stay down, kiddies, or I'll slap you so hard, you'll think you've had a hiding from God.'

Gibbs ushered the mercenaries past the frightened guards, who had slithered on the floor to the side wall. The sound of a truck door slamming then the crunching sound of approaching footsteps on the gravel outside made them all drop to their knees. A few seconds later Shredder appeared in the doorway with a big smile on his face. 'Taxi's here, ladies.'

'Perfect timing,' Gibbs said.

'Killey, bring those two lads with us. I don't want to make it too easy for Warren to work out who did this. We can let them loose for a little day trip in London.'

• • •

A clanging bell-like alarm outside Captain Warren's window wrenched him from his sleep. He sat up quickly and fumbled with the bedside lamp before stumbling into his brown army fatigues. A loud banging on the door made him jump. The nervous twinge in his stomach grew stronger. Had there been another attack at the refinery? It would look terrible on his file.

'Yes, I'm coming.'

'Hurry, Captain,' the voice said.

'What is it?' he said, yanking the door open.

A young soldier in brown fatigues stood outside the door trying to catch his breath. His beret had slipped forward, and his glasses had dropped to the tip of his nose from all the running. 'The prisoners have escaped, sir.'

'What did you say?' Captain Warren said.

'Three of the prisoners have escaped, sir.'

Pushing past the soldier, Captain Warren walked out of the officers' quarters across to the admin block. Flashing blue lights from three military police Land Rovers lit up the red-bricked building. Urgency filled the air as men scurried in and out of the main door. The officer of the day jogged away to his left, in his fatigues, but without his boots. A sergeant saw him approach and saluted his greeting. 'Good evening, Captain.'

'What the hell happened here, Sergeant?' he asked.

'Three of the men who were involved in the recent pipeline explosions have been freed, sir.'

'What? You mean escaped?'

'I am afraid not, sir. Although we don't have all the facts yet, it seems that a number of men assisted them in getting out of their cells. They commandeered a truck from the motor pool, and we believe they have left the base, sir.'

Captain Warren struggled to gather his breath as he felt a panic attack setting in. He would be relieved of his post. 'Well, let's not stand around. Show me, Sergeant.'

They had a quick look inside the three empty cells then went to the guard room where two military policemen were searching the place. Sitting on the edge of a bunk and being treated by a medic, was the young guard.

'What happened to the other guards that should be here?' Captain Warren said.

'No sign of them, Captain. We assume they were involved in the escape and have already begun a base-wide search for them.'

'Is that the guard who let them in?' Captain Warren pointed to the injured young man.

'Yes, sir. They knocked him out cold,' the sergeant replied. 'I don't think he'll be of any use for a while.'

'Let me be the judge of that.'

The medic looked up and snapped to attention. 'Captain?'

'Has he told you what happened, or who caused this?'

'No, sir, he is suffering from a severe concussion and is not making any sense. He is slurring his words and keeps passing out.'

'Has he said anything that could help us?' Captain Warren said.

'He's mumbled the name Gibbs a few times, but none of it makes sense.'

Captain Warren's jaw dropped. He tried to take a deep breath to compose himself. 'Bloody Gibbs again. I knew I should have kept him locked up,' he said. 'Go and fetch him, Sergeant.'

The open doors to the now vacant holding cells made him feel dizzy, and he wanted to throw up. This was the nail in his military coffin. People had been demoted for lesser security lapses. A few minutes later he found himself outside the main door, taking in the cool night air. The sight of the sergeant running across the courtyard towards him, a grim look on his face, told him that his worst nightmare had come true.

'We can't find him, sir.'

'Of course you can't.'

'And it seems some of his unit have also disappeared. Should I alert the Metropolitan Police to keep a lookout for the truck?'

'Don't be stupid, Sergeant, this is a military matter. You'll lead the investigation and personally see to their capture. Use as few of the Military Police as you can. They have access to the base and its CCTV, so get access to it. You will only report back to me. No one else,' Captain Warren said.

'What about my superiors, sir?'

'You have your orders, Sergeant. Speak directly to me about this,' Captain Warren said. 'Only me, do you understand that? Now, go and catch the bastard.'

• • •

Gibbs opened his eyes and looked out over the blocked tarmac that lay ahead of them. They were on the M4 motorway into London, one of the main arterial roads into the city. They'd travelled through the night down from Grangemouth via Manchester and were now on their final stretch into the capital. The boredom in the front cab of the truck was only punctuated by the occasional aeroplane on final approach to land at London Heathrow.

'It's weird to see so few planes coming in to land at the airport,' Shredder said. 'There used to be several lined up at any one time.'

'Since it was taken over by the government last year, strict controls on the numbers of commercial flights have been implemented. I hear that only government and military flights are allowed nowadays,' Gibbs said.

'I bet rich folk are still able to fly all over the place.'

'You're right about that.'

'What would you give to be able to go on holiday again?' Shredder said.

'I know, right. Walking along a beach somewhere with a bronzed beauty, a couple of drinks and not a thought of this chaotic London we're about to enter. I reckon the Caribbean would be great this time of year,' Gibbs said.

'Once we have made decent cash doing a few mercenary jobs, do you think we'll be amongst the privileged few who fly around the world?' Shredder said.

'Not bloody likely, mate, the costs are huge. Just look at all these abandoned cars along the verges of this motorway. At some point, a family couldn't afford to finish a journey and simply left their car on the motorway. Only the seriously wealthy can afford to operate a car let alone fly around in a plane. You have to have serious connections in the military or with the gangs who control most of the fuel.

'The military was more prepared and had stockpiled large amounts of diesel and petrol for any military operations. The everyday man in the street had no chance in all these luxury and small engine vehicles that you see parked here. They simply coasted to a stop. You'll see the same all over London.'

Shredder looked out over the steering wheel and said, 'It's like we're part of an apocalyptic movie with all these rusting cars. Some are even burnt out. Why would you set your car on fire?'

'Selfishness of the naked ape, I guess. When times get this tough, why let others have your shit for free. I get the feeling that it'll get worse before it improves. Apocalypse might be the right word in the end.'

'Next thing we'll be attacked by zombies or something,' Shredder said.

Gibbs laughed and looked down at the sliver of paper with the phone number and address on. Ton had been true to his word when he was dropped off at the airport. A good professional to the end.

'You still think that contact is legitimate?' Shredder asked as he swerved across the road to get around a deserted vehicle.

'I hope so. In the end, I don't think Ton had any reason to bullshit us. We did get him and his nephew out of a tight spot back there,' Gibbs said.

'We also shot and killed many of his men,' Shredder said.

Gibbs nodded. The knot in his stomach was not going away.

• • •

Condensation dripped off the cold beer and into Gibbs's lap as he sat on the veranda beneath a big outdoor umbrella. The hot weather certainly had added to the lively atmosphere on the waterfront in Richmond-upon-Thames. He smiled at the thought of Killey and Shredder watching him through binoculars from a distant rooftop, all the while baking in the scorching sun. It had been their idea to cover Gibbs while he sat waiting at the Pitcher and Piano bar for the meeting with Ton's agent. He raised his beer to the men observing him and smiled, fully aware of the verbal abuse he would get when they met up later. Gibbs's phone started to vibrate with an incoming call.

'Gibbs,' he answered.

'It's David Kirkwood. I'm changing the venue, so get a cab to the Duke's Head in Putney, it's on Lower Richmond Road, I will be waiting,' Kirkwood said.

'Is this necessary?'

'Yes, it is, and please leave your men behind this time.'

Gibbs looked at all the people milling around on the banks of the River Thames. This was still a well-to-do area, and no one looked out of place. None had mobile phones to their ears, so he was being watched from further away. 'You'd better not be jerking me around, Kirkwood.'

'It should take you about twenty minutes at the most to make the journey. If you're not here at the thirty-minute mark, I will leave, and with that goes the opportunity of working together.'

Gibbs jumped into the clapped-out green Ford Fiesta he'd borrowed and pulled out onto the Richmond high street. He slipped the Glock17 out from under the front seat and rested it between his legs. Driving along the pothole-strewn road, he swerved around the deserted vehicles and trucks as hundreds of ashen-faced pedestrians watched his progress with both envy and disdain etched onto their troubled faces.

After a fifteen-minute journey through an affluent old suburb of London, Gibbs stood outside the agreed meeting place, The Duke's Head pub, its decaying sign swinging above the door.

Pushing the door open, he walked into the well-lit bar and saw a man with short strawberry blond hair sitting by the large windows that overlooked the Thames River. Gibbs scanned the rest of the quiet venue and made a quick mental note of all three available exits before he looked over a few other local patrons who were drinking in the lounge.

'Kirkwood?' he asked as he approached the table.

The slender, effeminate man nodded and gestured for him to sit. 'I had a quick phone call with Ton de Geest this morning, and he brought me up to speed on the developments of the past few days. He's not a major fan of yours, but he felt indebted to you, as I do, for getting him out of a rather tight spot. It's why I agreed to meet with you.'

'Ton would have done the same in my shoes,' Gibbs added, leaning back in the chair.

'Nevertheless, you and your men have now brought additional baggage to my door. I'm sure most of the military wires have lit up after your recent shenanigans. Personally, I don't care about that, but it might be a problem if they alert the Metropolitan Police and border control.'

'My team and I can stay hidden from the police and have crossed many international borders without being caught.'

'Fair enough. Should I agree to represent you and we move ahead with this, I'll require you to get fake travel documents anyway.'

'I don't have the contacts for that here in London,' Gibbs said.

'I will get that arranged for you,' Kirkwood said. 'I have someone who does all that sort of work for me.'

'Are they good enough to stand up to scrutiny at banks and airports?'

'My man is the best in the business. You won't be able to tell that they are fakes. How many sets would you need?'

'Three full sets of IDs.'

'Okay, but they'll cost you. They're currently going for around ten thousand pounds per person.'

'What?' Gibbs said. 'You're bloody joking.'

'You're paying for the quality here. It's pay on request, and there's a lead time of a week. You can settle up with me as I'm the only one who'll deal with my contact.'

'Okay, that's fine,' Gibbs said, leaning forward. 'How do I know you're not messing me around, Kirkwood?'

'I think you'll find me as professional as they come. Ton will attest to that.'

Gibbs nodded. 'What sort of work do you have on your books at the moment? Is there anything we can get involved with right now?'

'I have three projects on the horizon in a timeframe that would suit men of your alleged skills.'

'Alleged?'

Kirkwood chuckled. 'I have loyal sources in military intelligence circles, so I'm in the process of getting copies of all your service records and checking the reference you gave me as we speak. If they all check out, I'll pitch your unit to clients immediately and see which one bites first.'

'How long will all this take?' Gibbs asked.

'All in good time, Gibbs, all in good time,' Kirkwood said, getting up and throwing a twenty-pound note onto his plate. 'My clients rely on me to be thorough and discreet. Above all, they want me to source professional men who value money above loyalty. That takes time.'

Gibbs stood up and shook Kirkwood's small, dry hand. He watched the thin man leave the pub then ordered another drink. The man was not one of those you trust early in the process. Instinct was warning him to be extra careful.

# Chapter 13

Richmond-upon-Thames. London, England, UK - 2019

'Hey, move along, buddy. I'm not going to ask you again,' Shredder shouted at the beggar who had been harassing them since they sat down at the table in the White Horse beer garden. The sun had broken through the week of dour drizzle and rain, lifting their spirits as they sipped drinks along the river. Old weathered wooden benches were placed out on the long green grass, and the group drank golden pints of ale, discussing possible missions.

Gibbs looked at the unfortunate man kneeling in front of them, his once clean suit now dirty and stained from sleeping rough in shop doorways at night. His white collar sticking out above his jacket lapel was a grimy brown from dirty hands that constantly pawed at it. Sitting next to him on a grassy patch, was a dirty white dog that was missing a front leg. Gibbs had once despised the suits who ran London and the country. They'd been the cause of the demise of so many countries around the world with their greed, but no one deserved to live like this.

'Please, gentlemen. I have a family who haven't eaten in a few days. Any change or items that I can trade at the market would be appreciated,' he said.

Shredder moved to get up and hustle the man along when Gibbs grabbed his forearm. 'What can you trade out there, mate?'

'Any metal of value, sir, or whatever small change you can muster.'

Gibbs reached into his pocket and pulled out the small brass and wooden-handled pocket knife he'd stolen from his father when he'd ran away. He opened up the blade and threw it at the man in front of them. It pegged into the wet grass. 'Can you trade that, mate?'

'Wow, sir. That'll get me food for a week. God bless you.'

'Fine. Now move along before my friend here takes it from you. And make sure that you feed that mangy dog too.'

'I will do. My family, and Toby here thank you again,' he said and stood up.

Once the man had sloped away to another group of drinkers, Shredder looked across at him. 'You are getting soft, boss. Wasn't that the knife you got from your dad?'

Gibbs nodded and sipped more ale.

With a few more pints of ale down their throats, the conversation was starting to get more boisterous with plans being made to get to one of the legendary strip clubs in London. A female voice behind them dragged them back to reality.

'Gibbs? When are you going to do something about that bloody green truck blocking my driveway?'

The men spun around to see the shapely form of a tall woman in her late forties with long wavy blonde hair. She stood dressed in dark jeans tucked into brown leather boots with a red and white jersey stretched across her large breasts, fighting to get free as she crossed her arms. Her eyebrow slowly rose as she looked around the group.

'Good day, Sheila,' Gibbs said, smiling at her like a chastised teenager.

'Don't pitch that charming smile at me, lover. Not while there's a stolen truck in the back garden, and I have three fugitives sleeping on my lounge floor.'

'It won't be for much longer, love. Let's not get things into a twist?'

'Carry on speaking to me like that, and my bed will be off-limits to you,' she said.

Gibbs and his men burst out laughing. 'Shredder will get rid of it tomorrow and pick up some flowers to reward you for your patience.'

'I will?' Shredder said.

'A bottle of scotch might go a long way to wiping you layabouts and your bloody truck from my memory. The older the better, Shredder,' she said, looking back across to a brooding man skulking at the main gate to the beer garden. He pushed away from leaning against the cold brick wall and approached like a circling hyena.

'Gibbs, this is Martin. He runs the Richmond Green Vikings,' she said.

'Are they a football team?' Gibbs asked, and they all burst out laughing.

'Stop being an arse, Gibbs,' Sheila said. 'He and his gang need trucks, and he's keen to take it off your hands.'

Gibbs sobered up quickly and looked at the man who stood steely-eyed before him. A vicious scar stretched from the corner of his mouth to midway on his cheekbone. 'You get that from a knife attack?' Gibbs asked.

The man nodded slowly and looked Gibbs over. 'The other guy thought he was tough. I left him in a big puddle of his own blood. Now, what do you want for that truck?'

'I'm new to all this trading crap. What will you give me for it?' Gibbs said.

Sheila walked over to Gibbs and placed a hand on his shoulder. 'I've found Martin, and his organisation are wonderful people to owe you a favour. He has untold resources at his disposal in the southwest of London. Very handy if you need a specific item or if you need a group of people to help you with something a little less savoury.'

Gibbs continued to look into the dark brown eyes of the man across from him. Martin shuffled from one foot to the other under the gaze. The faded blue denim jacket he wore fell open, revealing the handle of an old Beretta 9mm.

Instinct told Gibbs to trust Sheila on this. They were old acquaintances, and she'd once wanted to settle down with him a few years back. The urge to settle down and have a family had just never been there for Gibbs, and after a few heated arguments, they decided friends with benefits was the only option. Sheila was one of the most trustworthy people who walked on the other side of the law.

'Okay then, Martin. How about we say that you just owe me a huge favour?' Gibbs said, standing up and shoving his hand forward. Martin walked forward and shook on it, a skewed smile on his face.

'Sure, mate. Let me know when you need me.'

Sheila walked around Martin and roughly forced Gibbs back into his seat. She straddled him and looked into his eyes.

'By the way, lover. Someone by the name of Woolfson called and left a message for you at the house. He said that David Kirkwood has arranged a meeting for you and that you would be collected at eleven tomorrow morning at the pub where you met. You are to come alone. Did you understand any of that?' she said.

Gibbs nodded.

Killey looked at Gibbs. 'It could be a trap, boss, so it's probably best that we shadow you along the way.'

'There's not much point, Killey. I am pretty sure that Kirkwood has had us under surveillance since our first meeting and by now he knows what you two uglies look like. I honestly don't think he will try anything stupid at this stage because we can be of use to him. I'm sure he stands to make a large amount of money out of us. If I've read our dear Mr Kirkwood correctly, money is something that he gets very excited about,' Gibbs said.

• • •

Gibbs looked at the two men standing alongside the dark green Land Rover. They stood tall and confident and, he guessed, were ex-military. Bulges on their hips indicated they were carrying concealed weapons. Despite a few last-minute objections from Shredder and Killey before he left, he got into the Land Rover with the two men, and they drove him in a southerly direction away from Richmond. Fifteen minutes later, they stopped at a roadside lay-by to make sure that they were not being followed before making their way down the A3 towards Guilford.

'Please put this on, Mr Gibbs,' the man in the passenger seat said and handed him a small brown hessian sack.

'You are joking, mate?' Gibbs replied, looking at the small hessian sack. 'This isn't some bloody spy movie.'

'Just following Mr Kirkwood's instructions, sir,' the driver said, looking at him in the rear-view mirror.

'And I'm supposed to trust Kirkwood, am I. Would you?

'He gives us jobs to do and pays us on time. Trust doesn't come into it.'

The men were right of course. Gibbs placed the foul-smelling sack over his head. He was barely able to make out any shapes, shadows or variations of light. It was going to take some concentration to remember the route they were taking to the meeting. After another long spell of driving, he realised that they were regularly doubling back to confuse him.

They came to a halt after what seemed like an hour, and Gibbs was instructed to remove the blindfold. Stepping out of the Land Rover he looked around, his eyes growing accustomed to the bright conditions. Rolling green fields that disappeared into the distance showed the size of the property they were on. It was a large country estate with a long gravel-covered driveway that wound its way through lush green orchards and horse paddocks up to the parking area. The ivy-covered, old manor house towered behind them. Looking over the vast estate, Gibbs strode after the two men in the direction of the large Gothic wooden front door that was opened by a smartly dressed butler. Gibbs followed them in silence as they crossed the threshold and were shown past an abandoned marble reception area, into a side room.

The room was sparsely decorated with tapestries hanging from the dark, wood-panelled walls and with brown tiled floors. The only light came from the large bay windows along the back wall. It was a vacant old study except for a man sitting in a wing-backed reading chair near a large bay window. He was engrossed in a brown folder and only looked up when one of the guards cleared his throat.

'Ah, Sergeant Gibbs. Please do come in,' the man said, offering his hand. 'I'm Mason Waterfield.'

Gibbs nodded and walked over to acknowledge the firm handshake. He was a large hulk of a man, slightly hunched over by the ravages of old age highlighted by his full head of grey hair.

'I see that you've had quite an active and fruitful military career, Sergeant,' Mason said, patting the brown folder as Gibbs sat down opposite him.

Gibbs nodded as he looked down at the file and frowned.

'I have tasked David Kirkwood to put together a team of men for a small initiative abroad, and he selected a few names for me to look at. I have to concede that we had a tough time getting all of your details, Sergeant,' he said.

'Mr Waterfield, as you are aware, I am no longer in the military. Please call me Gibbs.'

'Fair enough, Gibbs it is then. I hear that you got into a spot of bother up in Scotland.'

'I was told that wouldn't be a problem,' Gibbs said.

'Let me finish, Gibbs,' Mason said. 'While I only care about our present and future endeavours, I have learned from painful experience in business that one's past can come back to haunt one if not properly dealt with. This is the reason I want to know all the dirty details of the people I employ before they join up so that nothing comes up to surprise us later.'

Gibbs waited for a second. 'May I speak now?'

'Of course.'

'The real reasons behind me and my men leaving the military are personal and of no consequence here,' Gibbs said. 'You are undoubtedly more than aware of David's contacts, and he assured me that obtaining top quality false identification documents for travel for my team would not be a problem. My past should not be a problem.'

'You weren't listening, Gibbs. If we do go ahead with this contract, everything you have done could be of consequence to me, and I want to be prepared if something does go wrong. If I know a man's past, I can prepare for surprises. You may be entering into the contract with David's agency, but the organisation that I chair will be funding the operations. I still have the final say in the recruitment, planning and execution of this mission.'

Gibbs stared at Mason Waterfield for a few seconds, sizing up the man. 'Okay, Mason, what is this mission then?'

'You will be tasked to run a destabilisation exercise in an African country that we are in negotiations with.'

'You want my team to support a coup?'

'In a manner of speaking. There's a much larger agenda in play here, but you need not concern yourself with all the details at this early stage. You would lead a team in a coordinated strike on a selected target while other teams execute their missions in parallel. David Kirkwood will assist you with the detailed planning and set-up for your specific operation.'

'How much would we be paid for this job?'

'I was wondering when you were going to bring that up. Most soldiers would have brought up the topic of money a lot sooner,' Mason said.

'Sizing up the mission first before I talk money, that's all. I like to know who I'll be working for and what exactly will be expected of my men and me. I also need to understand more detail about the operation before I can ascertain what the level of risk is to us.'

'All monies to cover the operating costs and salaries will be paid directly to Kirkwood Enterprises. David will then pay seventy thousand pounds per person for the operation and cover all your operational expenses. Forty percent of the money will be paid into bank accounts of your choosing upon acceptance of the job, and the balance will be due upon the successful completion of the job.'

'Come on, Mason. I may be new to mercenary work, but I am not a novice when it comes to knowing what is expected from an operation like this. Which country will we be travelling to?'

'I won't give that away just yet, but it's in Sub-Saharan Africa. Does that help?'

'It does indeed. All of the countries in that region have well-established and long-lasting governments, which means they will have seasoned military to call upon. The price has just gone up,' Gibbs said.

Mason smiled. 'What sort of figure do you have in mind, then?'

'Two hundred and fifty thousand per man, half now, half at the end, all expenses paid.'

Mason chuckled, smiling at the Scotsman sitting across from him. 'I've long been a student of European history, especially of the Celts of Europe. I've had many business dealings with Scotsmen like yourself, and I must say that you seem to have more of a wild imagination than most I've dealt with. Please understand that there are many mercenaries around who would leap at the chance to do this piece of work for us. Not forgetting about the chance to be involved in a larger organisation with many more follow-up missions in the future. I'm sure such teams would gladly do this for, say, a hundred and twenty thousand each.'

'Before we continue discussing money, Mason, may I remind you that it is my team and me who will assume all the risk on operations like this. If we are caught in Europe planning a coup, we will go to prison. If we are caught en route with arms and ammunition, we go to prison. If we are caught in the target country before, during or after the coup, we will probably be sent to prison or possibly even be executed.'

'Okay, you've made your point,' Mason said.

'We're not done yet, Mason. I'm also convinced that you've got men in your employ who usually handle the recruitment of resources for you, so I'm assuming that this is a sensitive and covert operation. Probably even hidden from others within your organisation, hence the need to oversee this yourself.'

Mason leaned back in his chair.

Gibbs continued, 'You're hiring us personally because we're great at what we do and more importantly, we're expendable. In essence, we take all the risk, and in turn, you buy our experience, silence and loyalty.'

'Okay then, a hundred and eighty thousand per man, half now and a half on completion, and that is more than I would usually authorise.' Mason leant forward and stuck out his hand to seal the deal.

Gibbs smiled and shook it.

• • •

Captain Warren sat with his feet on his desk and stared out of the small-paned window as the rain pelted down against it. Another fine Scottish storm had blown into the Firth of Forth from the east, and was hammering the base. He looked down at his mobile phone that lay shattered on the floor. His mood, like the weather, wasn't getting any milder.

'Yes!' he said as he picked up the phone ringing on his desk.

'Sergeant Walsh here, sir.'

'It's about time, Sergeant. Have you caught Gibbs and his men yet?'

'No, sir. While the two guards they kidnapped were helpful, I'm afraid we've lost them in London.'

'What? How could you have lost them, you bloody idiot? You had a single task to perform, chase Gibbs and his men then apprehend them. Your last report said that you had traced them and were on their tail. What the hell happened?'

'We were intercepted by a large gang, giving Gibbs and his men time to escape. We couldn't trace them after that.'

'Useless idiots. What am I supposed to do now?'

There was silence on the line.

'Well, Sergeant?'

'It's not much of a lead, sir, but a colleague of mine called and said that someone has been making enquiries into Gibbs and his men's service records.'

'Is that so? Do you have a name for me?'

'Name and telephone number, sir. It's a David Kirkwood in London. I can call him if you want.'

'No, Sergeant, leave it with me, I don't want you cocking this up too. If this is the last lead, then I'll handle it myself, or they will disappear for good.'

# Chapter 14

Clapham, London, England, UK - 2019

Gibbs leaned against the granite wall of the Northcote Bar on a busy street in the borough of Clapham. Hundreds of hawkers and passers-by were going about their daily business. The smells and sounds of the street turned marketplace were a pleasant assault on the senses. Aromas from the food stalls reminded him that he'd forgotten to have breakfast. He looked down at the little boy who was standing next to him and copying his every move. The little man's piercing blue eyes shone against his dirty tanned face. A face that lit up with white teeth at some attention from Gibbs. 'Come on, mister. Give us some change for my lunch.'

A commotion distracted him as two women dressed in overalls started fighting over a small mirror that someone wanted to trade. After a few seconds of hair pulling and shrieking, a group of men got involved ensuring the pushing and shoving match got even more violent.

Tangible goods and possessions were all that mattered in the new underground trade markets. Bartering as the new economy was fast gaining visibility across all the major cities in Europe. Hard cash was difficult to come by and still ruled the new emerging economies, but it was trade that kept people in the cities alive.

'Here you go, wee man. Spend it on food, now,' Gibbs said, giving him a pound coin. He and his men were lucky to have a skill that wealthy men were willing to exploit or else they could also be down in the mud, scrapping for old mirrors like the group in front of him.

The team spent the morning in a rundown old pub and took it in turns to observe the address that Kirkwood had passed on to them. After a few hours of observation, the exercise had yielded nothing out of the ordinary at Kirkwood Enterprises. Gibbs tapped on the windowpane and nodded to the two men sitting inside. He crossed the littered road to the green wooden door they'd been staking out.

A few minutes later they were inside the accountant-like offices and were all seated at a small boardroom table looking over documents. 'Mason brought me up to speed on what you discussed at your last meeting, Gibbs. I'm glad to have you and your men on board with us. To give the rest of you some background, Mason Waterfield, whom Gibbs met, is chairman of a massive collective of billionaires which influences policy in many countries around the world. They have their fingers in most pies, and you could probably say they're a sort of government unto themselves.'

'This sounds like a script from a Bond movie,' Killey said. 'Does he own a white cat?'

'It does seem like a movie, but some of the more recent British military missions all three of you would've fought in were orchestrated by these billionaires. At present, they're engaged in particularly difficult negotiations with an African government. Your team will be one of five heading to Africa to help destabilise that government to the point where they will either agree to certain political and economic terms or risk having their government replaced,' Kirkwood said.

'Which country are we talking about here?' Shredder asked.

'I'll let Gibbs handle that question,' Kirkwood said.

'I've agreed with Mason and David not to reveal the exact location of the operation until we are airborne. This is standard procedure to ensure both their and our protection should the operation run into trouble before it gets off the ground,' Gibbs said.

'Fair enough,' Shredder said.

Kirkwood continued. 'You'll land and cross the border through one of the target's neighbouring countries. Travel will be by road, using valid business visas under your assumed identities. The weapons, ammunition and equipment will arrive in the country by way of one of our regular African military partners. You and your team can collect all the containers once you have organised your trucks.'

'Can these partners be trusted to deliver on time?' Gibbs said. 'We only have a small window of opportunity during the operation to meet up.'

'We have a great working relationship with them. They've supported us in many of our operations around the world and will take care of all the legal red tape to ensure the weapons are there.'

'It doesn't mean that I trust them to deliver on time. It is Africa,' Gibbs said.

'I trust them implicitly, and I'm happy to vouch for their abilities. I know it's often tougher in Africa, but they have an excellent track record in securing the correct certificates and import documentation for landing large amounts of military equipment legally. Also, it's very much in their best interests to keep us satisfied as clients,' Kirkwood said.

'I'd still like to see all copies of the shipping documents before we leave on this operation,' Gibbs said.

'I second that. I take it that much of the smaller equipment can be sourced locally,' Shredder said. 'Will we have to organise that ourselves?'

'Correct,' Kirkwood replied. 'Vehicles and smaller automatic weapons and ammunition can be sourced locally, but be aware that it could attract attention from intelligence agencies. I would suggest that you use any contacts you have in the neighbouring countries instead and take the equipment in with you.'

'That's all well and good, but you haven't addressed my concerns about the documents,' Gibbs said.

'Why is it so bloody important that you see them? I told you I could vouch for my contacts,' Kirkwood said.

'Just get me the copies, or we walk,' Gibbs said. 'Our lives are on the line here, and I want to eliminate as much risk as possible before we even leave these shores. Is that clear?'

'Fine. I'll get copies for you in the next few days.'

'Thank you. Now, what's the status of our new identities?' Gibbs asked.

'The initial funds for the operations have been transferred to my company so I will cover the costs for them and take it out of your share. As agreed, you gents will receive half of the negotiated rate up front, so ninety thousand pounds will be transferred to each of your accounts once you have opened them,' Kirkwood said, gathering up his papers.

'How long will our new passports take?' Killey asked.

'My source can get them done in about five days, which is perfect timing for this operation. They come with a full birth certificate and driving licence.'

'Will the quality stand up?' Killey asked. 'I'm not worried about travelling within Africa, but travelling in and out of the UK and Europe will be much riskier.'

'They are flawless, so you won't have any problems. I've been using one for years,' Kirkwood said.

Gibbs sat back and looked at the thin man. 'You're using a fake passport now? What's your real name then?'

'No, it's nothing like that. I have several in the same name but with different numbers and details. I do a lot of travel across Europe, so don't want my number matching up all the time.'

Something gnawed at Gibbs. 'Okay. Let us know when you have them.'

'Will do. Are you good to source the additional team members that you need?' Kirkwood said.

'I've sourced the best men available in Africa, and they'll be ready to go. They'll secure their travel documents, and we'll meet up with them on the way to the target,' Gibbs said.

• • •

Gibbs, Shredder and Killey left the offices of Kirkwood Enterprises an hour later and returned to the pub for a few beers and a post-mortem of the meeting.

While he was at the bar ordering the final round of tequilas before they went to the strip clubs in Soho, Gibbs's mobile phone rang. 'Gibbs,' he answered, struggling to hear over the loud background music.

'Hello, mate. Are you in position? Great, your target should be leaving his office in the next half hour so, follow him and find out who he meets up with over the next two days,' Gibbs said and ended the call with a glance at the bemused Killey and Shredder.

'And what the bloody hell are you up to now?' Shredder said. 'Who was on that the call?'

'That was JP,' Gibbs said. 'He's running a small errand for me, off the books of course.'

'No way! What is that mad bastard doing in London and why the fuck is he not here drinking with us?' Killey said and slammed an empty tequila glass down on the table.

Gibbs laughed. 'As I said, he's doing a small job for me in London before heading back to Namibia. He'll be joining us on the mission because he speaks so many of the local dialects and has served in some of the countries we are heading to, which could be handy.'

'So, it's off to Namibia then,' Shredder said.

'Shut it and get one last round in,' Gibbs said.

• • •

David Kirkwood sat at his wooden desk and finished off the last of his emails for the day. He felt good with the deals he had done. Money was starting to change hands, which always pleased him. It was already dark outside, and his desk lamp was the only light source in the room. He looked at his diary on his desk at the name showing for his final meeting of the day. This would be an interesting one.

The tall man walked in and stood behind the chair opposite Kirkwood. 'Please, take a seat, Captain Warren. It is nice to meet you face to face. I'm keen to discuss your reasons for wanting to lead one of our teams to Africa.'

'I've taken a sabbatical from the army and wanted to do six months of mercenary work. And, I wanted to get to Africa because I've never been and who knows when I'll get the chance again in my life.'

Kirkwood stared at him. The man shifted in his seat and couldn't hold eye contact. A weasel of a man. 'Bullshit,' Kirkwood said.

Captain Warren blinked a few times. 'What did you say?'

'I said you're talking bullshit. Now tell me the real reason that you want to go or get the hell out of my office. And before you go digging yourself into a larger lie, I know you got my details from my contact in the Ministry of Defence.'

'I want to get Kyle Gibbs because I hate the fucker.'

'Was that so difficult?' Kirkwood said. 'And you think that you'll be able to kill this man, who I have on my payroll, so easily?'

Captain Warren nodded. 'Those SAS old timers aren't that great. It's all prancing around and acting like they own the place.'

'Brave words indeed. But tell me, if they're useless and all hot air, how come they escaped from right under your nose? How bad a soldier must you be to let that happen?'

Captain Warren wrung his hands and struggled to get any words out, his eyes looking towards the door. 'They got lucky and—'

'Save your breath. I'm sending you to Africa, but with a crack team who'll be reporting to me. You'll be there for show and because it'll irritate Gibbs and throw him off balance should your paths cross.'

'That's great, thanks.'

'Don't thank me. I give you the orders, and you obey them. I give the orders to your team, and you all obey. Your first order is, you don't touch Gibbs or his men unless I give you the go-ahead. You understand that order. Nod in case you can't speak.'

Captain Warren nodded, his eyes narrowing. Kirkwood knew he had struck a nerve.

'I've said all I'm going to say, get out of my office and stay near a phone.'

# Chapter 15

Somewhere over Morocco, Africa - 2019

The plane shuddered from more turbulence and dropped altitude for a second. A man standing in the aisle stumbled as his drink spilled, and he hurled abuse in Oshiwambo, a Namibian dialect. Killey and Shredder woke from their drink-induced sleep to see Gibbs standing in the aisle, whiskey glass in hand. 'Follow me, sleeping beauties,' he said.

The luxury of first class on the old Boeing 747 was a big change from the usual rickety military planes they'd grown accustomed to.

'You know what, boss, I could get used to this crap lifestyle of sleeping horizontally on a plane,' Shredder said.

'It sure beats being seated upright in a DC-10 for hours,' Gibbs said.

'Damn. I'd forgotten about the old Vomit Comet. Let's not fly in those again, please.'

'It'll be bumpy as hell in this old tub when we fly into Windhoek, I can assure you.'

'You still sticking to your story that Namibia is not our target, boss?' Shredder asked.

'Shut up and drink.'

Sipping on whiskeys and martinis in the vacant eighties-decorated plane bar, the three men were all casually dressed in t-shirts and jeans and passed for wealthy entrepreneurs. Only an observant person would've noticed the small, detailed map spread out across the narrow bar counter between them. A stern glance from Killey sent the over-attentive barman to the other side of the bar.

'Once we've landed in the city of Windhoek, we'll be collected by JP and some of his men. Here is the list of mercenary names that he's selected, all are chaps we either know by reputation or have served with,' Gibbs said.

'Where and what are we up to?' Shredder asked.

'The entire operation takes place in two locations in Angola over the next week. Four other teams are assembling across South Africa and Botswana with the sole purpose of destabilising and possibly replacing the current Angolan government.'

'It sounds like we'll finally get to see some bloody combat,' Killey said. 'What role do we play in all of this?'

'Assisted by local rebel fighters, we will attack and take control of the Lobito Oil refinery on the coast, south of Luanda,' he said, pointing to the location on the map. 'It's one of the most valuable in the area. We'll neutralise the small army regiment in residence there and take control of plant security until we get further orders from the operational intelligence folks. They'll be controlling this all from within Luanda somewhere.'

'Is it just me or do you also see the irony in attacking an oil refinery after just releasing mercs who attacked one of ours?' Shredder said.

Gibbs laughed. 'I did think of that, but we're mercs ourselves now, so there's no ours and theirs anymore. Only those who pay our way.'

The three men remained huddled together, hunched over intelligence documents and maps for a further three hours. As the sun started to rise over the African continent, the plane banked one final time then began its descent for final approach into Windhoek.

• • •

Gibbs spotted the burly Afrikaner a long while before they got through to the arrivals hall, which was operating on standard African time - slow.

'JP, you mad bastard,' Gibbs called to his African contact as they walked through the security doors. The South African Special Forces veteran strode over to him, a broad smile on his face, and Gibbs knew they'd be in good hands.

'Good to see you again, boss,' JP said. 'Bloody hell, you three northerners have all got nice and fat. Not much need for exercise while sitting behind a desk, it seems.'

'No, mate, every time we shag your sister, she gives us a doughnut,' Killey replied to the South African.

The big man let out a riotous laugh and slapped Killey on the back so hard he nearly choked on his chewing gum. Shaking his head as he walked, JP led the men out of the rundown old terminal building and into the heat of the African sun. Hundreds of Africans stood along the barriers trying to sell the newly arriving tourists food products and sightseeing trips. The vibrant colours of their clothing lifted the tired men who were drenched in sweat, as they realised they were a long way from chilly Europe. They walked past small trading stalls manned by smiling ladies selling exotic fruits, beads and carved stone novelties. Stern-faced woodcarvers stood alongside their polished animal carvings, smoking their hand-rolled cigarettes.

'They all seem so happy and content, don't they,' Gibbs said to JP.

'They may not be wealthy, but they care for everyone in their extended families, and everyone looks after them. What's important to them is to smile, laugh and sing. Why would you need anything else?'

Gibbs stopped at a small mobile barbershop, set up in a blue and white canvas pagoda. He got a thumbs up from a smiling customer while the barber continued shaving his head with a rusty looking straight razor.

A little further on, they found themselves standing in a bustling parking lot, looking at what was to be their transport for the mission. Parked alongside one another were four old, rusty International trucks of different shades of faded green.

'You've got to be kidding me, JP?' Gibbs said, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Where did you get these rust buckets from? The frikkin scrap heap?'

'The engines, chassis and suspensions are all but new. These puppies will get us to where we're going without mechanical problems, but crucially without attracting any attention. You know you can't drive into the bush in brand new trucks. This is Africa, man,' JP said, a grin on his face.

'You'd better hope we don't break down in these museum pieces,' Gibbs said.

A small shirtless African boy ran up to the group of men and went straight to the South African, handing him a small parcel. JP scraped together coins from his pocket and tipped the kid before turning the package over to Gibbs, who walked over to his bags and stashed the small item deep inside.

'Um. Is there something we should know, boss?' Shredder asked Gibbs as he rejoined the group.

'All in good time, mate,' Gibbs replied, patting him on the shoulder.

• • •

The four-truck convoy made its way out of the bustling, and surprisingly modern, streets of Windhoek and out into the hazy Namibian wilderness. The landscape changed quickly as they left the leafy oasis of Windhoek and drove north onto the Central Plateau of Namibia. The first three hours to the town of Otjiwarongo were comfortable driving with the black-tarred B1 motorway snaking through the scrub and arable landscape. JP had already managed to get a fair amount of their general supplies in neighbouring South Africa, but they'd still need other items like gas canisters, water and fresh meat.

'Do you think ten days' worth of supplies will be enough for the job?' JP asked as they sat up front in the truck cab.

'Yeah, should be more than enough,' Gibbs said.

'Just remember we're picking up the 32 Battalion boys along the way, and they do like their meat and beer.'

'Ah yes, _Os Terríveis,_ ' Gibbs said. 'They do love a good fight and feast.'

'You've heard the Portuguese name for them. The Angolans called them _the Terrible Ones_ after thousands of their soldiers were ruthlessly killed and mutilated by so few from the battalion. They still command much respect even though they've long been disbanded. Great group of warriors.'

'Let's hope that they bring their A-game to the refinery. I'm looking forward to fighting alongside them.'

JP chuckled and lit up a cigarette. 'Don't worry, their lust for Angolan blood will never die.'

A few hours later, once they'd loaded the supplies and made the acquaintance of the new recruits in the desert town of Otjiwarongo, they pushed up to the bush town of Tsumeb where they would spend the night camping. The Angolan border was only a short four-hour drive north of that.

• • •

A big zebra stallion raced ahead of the convoy with his six mares and three foals following at close quarters. Gathering pace, they kicked up more and more of the fine white desert sand, which blew across the road in front of the trucks like a ghostly dust curtain. Gibbs marvelled at the grace with which the zebra ran, perfectly evolved to survive in the barren landscape.

'How far to the border, JP?' Gibbs asked.

'About an hour to the checkpoint, but we turn off twenty minutes before that,' JP said, looking across to Gibbs. 'The detour will add an extra hour, but it limits the chances of being seen as we cross.'

'You said we wouldn't have any problems at the border post,' Gibbs said.

'Two of the 32 Battalion boys are not happy about going into the country through that particular checkpoint. Apparently, they caused a lot of havoc on their last operation in Angola and would rather cross under the radar,' JP said.

'Fair enough,' Gibbs said. 'But what are the chances of impromptu roadblocks on the side roads?'

'Not on this side of the border, but on the Angolan side, we'll run into two or three. I have a stash of one-dollar bills, sweets, pencils and notebooks ready to trade our way through them.'

The convoy crossed the dusty riverbed that served as the border, fifteen kilometres west of the main national border crossing, and they started the five-hour journey north to Lubango. Gibbs was asleep with his boots up on the dashboard when a loud clattering noise from below the floorboards of the cab woke him up. He looked across at JP, who smashed his hand down on the steering wheel and swore out loud, slamming his foot on the brakes.

JP jumped down from the truck cab and crawled around underneath the truck in the dust like a lizard. More foul language filtered up through the floorboards. It was a few minutes before he reappeared all covered in sweat and red dust. 'The bloody U-bolts are stuffed. One is sheared right off, and the other one is barely holding the leaf springs in place.'

'Fucking old rust bucket!' Gibbs said. 'How long to fix it?'

'It should take an hour or two. I can do a makeshift job until we get to Lubango where one of the bush mechanics can weld it,' JP said, wiping his filthy hands on his pants. 'They were brand new U-bolts. What did I tell you, Africa can break anything.'

The team helped JP pirate spare parts from the other three trucks, then left him to fix the broken suspension. Gibbs stood leaning against the back of the truck, chewing on a handful of the locally dried apricots, the sweetness helping to ease his mood. A huge billowing cloud of dust grew larger behind a vehicle as it approached them. It was coming in at speed. For five long minutes, he waited and watched as a banged-up, white Land Rover Defender approached them.

Its wheel bearings screeched in protest as it passed by, and he noticed one of the back doors was missing. The grim stares of the occupants caused his stomach to tense, the fighting instinct within setting off danger signals in his head. He stepped into the dust as the vehicle slowly drove past and stopped a few hundred meters further up the road, turning across the road to block their path. Gibbs watched as three athletically built Africans exited the vehicle and started slowly walking towards them. 'Heads up, JP. We've got company.'

The three figures approached cautiously. Two of the three men carried pistols, and a third had a large machete in his hand.

'JP, go and see what they want. We'll cover you from the trucks.'

'Killey, Shredder, cover JP. If those men so much as raise their weapons, take them out,' Gibbs whispered to his men sitting in the back of the truck.

• • •

JP reached the three men and discussions began with local civil greetings and handshakes. They enquired what he had in the trucks and where they were headed.

'We're heading to Luanda to sell or trade those trucks for scrap metal then hopefully buy locally carved souvenirs and take them back to Namibia,' JP said.

The tall leader of the group, a dark-skinned Angolan with numerous scarification marks across his right cheek and neck leading down into the collar of his white business shirt, looked JP up and down. He then slowly walked around the tall South African, trying to intimidate him. 'You are foreign traders in my country and now need to pay my road tax.'

'We don't have cash on us, buddy, but I can give you pencils and notebooks for your children.'

'You are lying to me. Give me your money, or there will be trouble.'

'We don't have any.'

'Don't take me for a fool, friend, I know you have dollars for diesel,' the tall man said, emphasising his point by shaking the old Beretta revolver in JP's face.

A small puff of crimson spurted over the man's colleagues. Both looked stunned as their leader collapsed at their feet, and before they could raise their weapons, a second one dropped, clutching at his chest, his machete dropping to the ground.

The third man jumped forward and grabbed a startled JP, swinging his arm around his throat. The man's old Beretta 9mm pistol dug into JP's temple, causing him to wince in pain.

'Tell them to stop,' the man shouted. 'Tell them to stop and get out of the truck, or you will die!'

JP shouted across to the truck and Gibbs appeared from around the back of it. He walked quickly towards them with a Glock pistol down by his side, and his other hand raised, a wad of dollar bills waving in the wind. A fourth man emerged from the open door of the Land Rover, his hands clutching a hand grenade. He cowered behind the spare wheel that was bolted to the back door, watching the scene in front of him.

Gibbs spoke to the man holding JP hostage. 'Friend, let's calm down for a minute. Here's all the money we have on us so let's make a swap. The money in return for my friend,' he said, holding the cash out towards the man.

The hostage taker's eyes gleamed at the currency, and he slipped his hands away from JP's throat. As he reached for the cash, his head snapped back as a bullet from Killey's sniper rifle entered just above his eye and blew a hole out the back of his head. He fell where he stood.

'Down, JP,' Gibbs said as he noticed the driver from the Land Rover come out from his hiding place. The man screamed in anger, pulling the pin of the grenade and launched into a throw, but before he could release the grenade, Gibbs fired twice into his shoulder and chest, dropping him to his knees, the grenade rolling under the vehicle beside him.

'Grenade,' Gibbs shouted and pushed JP to the ground next to him.

The explosion ripped through the quiet savannah air with the sound of tearing metal deafening them where they lay. Bits of burning debris landed all around the two men, which kept them lying in the dust for a few more seconds before JP slowly stood up. He looked aghast at the bodies around him then looked back at the burning Land Rover, a black plume of smoke spiralling upwards on the gentle breeze.

JP shook his head, furious with Gibbs. 'What the fuck? I was busy negotiating with them and was close to making a deal for our safe passage. Now we have a huge plume of smoke for all to see.'

'When the guy raised that revolver, I took them as a threat to our lives and the mission,' Gibbs said.

'This is Africa. Roadblocks like this happen all the bloody time. I could have negotiated our way through painlessly and would have saved us the bother of burying them. What's more, they were from Lobito, so I could have got up-to-date intelligence from them,' JP said.

'It's done now,' Gibbs said. 'Let's get moving.'

'There'll be no moving as I have U-bolts to repair. You'd better get busy burying the bodies,' JP said, walking off.

A few helpers came forward to drag the bodies to the side of the road and cover them with stones and old dead shrubbery that they could find in the barren landscape. They were now behind schedule.

• • •

The cool breeze blew off the icy Benquela current which flowed down the west coast of Africa and was a refreshing treat for the labouring men. The hundred and twenty large wooden crates had to be unloaded from the rickety fishing trawler that was moored just offshore. Most of the backbreaking work was being done by a long line of local volunteers who lined up from the boat, up the sandy beach and onto the road near the waiting trucks. One man sang a mournful song with the others chiming in for the chorus. Gibbs marvelled at the harmonisation that came so naturally to the people of Africa.

Shredder stood next to Gibbs, a smile on his face. 'Man, that is one haunting sound.'

'I know it gives me goose bumps every time I hear them sing.'

'JP, the singing won't attract any attention, will it?' Shredder said.

'We should be fine here. Many of these little trawlers moor up here to offload their catch for the local villagers. They sing all the time so it shouldn't draw any unwanted attention,' JP said.

'Make sure that those men don't drop any of the crates and spill guns and ammunition all over the beach. The bush telegraph would light up all the way to Luanda. Imagine it, a group of white men unloading weapons and supplies on a deserted beach. That's not something the Angolan authorities would ignore, and the mission would fail before even starting,' Gibbs said.

'Sure thing, boss.'

'So, have you stopped sulking yet, big man?' Gibbs asked.

'Of course. I just forgot you're still the trigger-happy arse we all love to hate,' JP said, with a big grin on his face.

'Move on before I shoot you too.'

'You'll miss me too much. Who will spoon you to sleep each night?'

'Shut up, you arse. You keep going on about Africa breaking things, so run along and make sure our weapons don't get broken.'

# Chapter 16

Unilever House, Central London, UK - 2019

'What do you mean, you have mercenary teams stationed in Angola?' Lady Rosemary Winterton raged, her high-pitched voice filling the room. 'What are they doing there and more importantly, who the bloody hell sanctioned their deployment?'

'That would be me, Lady Winterton,' the large figure of Mason Waterfield replied.

'It's quite alright, Mason. There's no need to cover for me on this occasion,' John Mountford said, turning towards the woman. 'I organised the teams in Angola.'

Lady Winterton threw down her pen on the table in disgust. 'Good Lord, John, do you even have the slightest comprehension of what you've done? We've tolerated you being reckless and foolish in the past, but this stunt is just plain mutinous. You have ruined our global reputations with this random idiotic act.'

'Please refrain from snapping at me like I'm a little barnyard dog, Lady Winterton. You know full well that we've been in contact with different factions throughout Africa. In fact, I have it on good authority that you have been speaking to the revolutionary group Unita in Angola. Are you going to deny that?' John said.

Lady Winterton looked shocked. Her eyes showing concern as they darted across to the only man who could have possibly betrayed her. 'M...Mason?' she stuttered, staring at him.

'Ladies and gentlemen, let's take a step back at this point to look at the wider picture. Think about the original mandate that we all drew up a few years ago,' Mason said. 'It's true that Lady Winterton and I have been in discussion with João Baptista from the New Unita movement in Angola as a means of keeping a clear and open line of negotiation. This is nothing new. You're all in contact with your designated regional leaders, both on government and opposition levels.'

'Yes, but we haven't mobilised military teams into action in our areas,' the member from the Asian region said.

'That is true, Dr Watanabe, but your regions in Asia are more agreeable to dialogue and negotiation. Africa is still very suspicious of any dialogue with Europe and the USA since their respective market crashes,' Mason said.

Lady Winterton shook her head. 'But what of our envoys in Luanda who are currently in negotiations with the Manual Abilo government? We've worked extremely hard to get Mr Abilo to discuss the prospect of sharing resources with other African governments in the region. We now stand to lose months of hard work and effort.'

'Rosemary, I asked John to mobilise teams from here, and from within Southern Africa, to be on standby in case the negotiations fail,' Mason said. 'And based on reports which are coming out of Luanda in the last day or two, it seems unlikely that a favourable diplomatic agreement will be reached which will result into policy made by the Abilo parliament going forward.'

'So, we have mercenaries waiting to strong-arm their way into Angola if the negotiations fail?' Lady Winterton said, her voice shaking with anger. 'Do we get a say in whether this military action is the best course of action or not?'

The portly shape of Lord Butler stood up from his usual seated position at the side of the room and walked over to stand behind Lady Winterton's chair. 'I happen to agree with Mason and John on this, Rosemary, we are not the United Nations and have been guilty recently of overanalysing topics. We're all aware of the dire state of the planet's resources, and we must lead the way in centralising control of what is left, by any means necessary.'

'Thank you, Lord Butler,' Mason said.

Lord Butler turned to Mason. 'Don't think for one minute that I am condoning your and John's clandestine actions here. You should not have proceeded with any military actions without this group's approval.'

'Yes, sir. We will table a motion for future use of military actions and take a vote on it at the next meeting.'

'Good. I take it that we are covered against any reprisals if the military intervention fails? I don't want this coming back to haunt the Club.'

'Lord Butler, I do believe we have enough men between us and the mercenaries who would take the fall if things go sour. We've worked hard to keep the Club's name out of this. There are plans in place to point the Angolan government in the wrong direction if the operation fails.'

• • •

Mason walked away from the other members in the hall to an abandoned office where he sat down on the edge of a dusty metal desk and looked around at all the scattered office documents that were strewn across the floor. He dialled a number from memory. 'Gibbs, it's Mason here.'

'Hello, Mason, how are things? I wasn't expecting a call from you at this point in the operation,' Gibbs replied.

'This is the last time you and I will discuss this mission. Are you able to talk freely?'

'Yes. A few of my men are with me but can be trusted.'

'Are you and your team in position in Lobito yet?'

'Yes, sir. Everything is going according to plan here. We have just set up camp and have already undertaken a few recon trips to the refinery and surrounding area. All we need now is the date and time of the assault. Will the strike order come from you directly?'

'That's good work. You'll get the call on this phone from David Kirkwood once the rebel leader is prepped and in position with his men, then you will attack. We are trying to close out negotiations with the Abilo government, and are not sure exactly how long that will take, so sit tight.'

'Roger that,' Gibbs said. 'We're ready and eager to go.'

• • •

'So now that Unita's rebel leader, João Baptista, is aware of exactly how much oil the Abilo government is sitting on, will he not simply hoard it and sever all ties with us once we've placed him in power? Will this military action not simply transition him into power without the exorbitant cost of an election campaign?' Lord Butler asked from his place on the couch.

'Not to mention the twenty-million-pound sweetener that we transferred into his overseas bank account to get him to the negotiation table,' Lady Winterton said.

Mason was leaning on the lectern at the head of the table, his large frame resting on his hands. 'We know in the past many such attempts to manipulate African leaders would have been met with fierce opposition. Fortunately, as you all know, João Baptista is an incredibly pragmatic man, educated in America, and has always been an advocate of the pro-climate change lobby. He understands the importance of pooling all our resources.'

'So, forgetting about their oil reserves for a minute,' Lord Butlers said. 'What is his stance on the water issue?'

'He's well aware of the security risks and potential conflicts of water wars in sub-Saharan Africa. The main reason we feel comfortable that he's on board with this is that he requires our expertise and substantial investment for the planned Cubango Dam project,' Mason said.

'I take it we are still struggling with the Botswana government's reluctance on the damming up of the Cubango River?' another member asked.

'Yes,' Lord Butler said. 'They're adamant it'll have disastrous effects downstream, and therefore can see no benefit to the project. The Okavango swamps and Maun could suffer dramatically once the dam is built and operational. I guess the government in Botswana will take more persuading that the Angolan government won't simply cut off their water.'

'Are we talking about more forceful persuasion here?' Lady Winterton asked.

'Possibly, but I think that scenario won't play out for another eighteen months or so,' Lord Butler said.

'It certainly appears as though we have to effect a lot more forceful change than we ever mandated,' she murmured, shaking her head.

'Yes. It was never going to be easy to consolidate all the resources around the planet. We knew at some point, we'd have to use coercion and force on the odd occasion,' Lord Butler said. 'The more precious the natural resource, the more force may be required at a point in the future. We're already seeing a marked increase in illegal immigration from Africa to Europe as the localised water wars continue. Our mandate is to try and get regions to consolidate resources so they can support their people and not have them pouring into our major cities that are still thriving.'

'I take it we'll need to hire your mercenary teams again to do more work in the future?' she said. 'This strikes me as a very devious and backhanded method of getting us to approve of a small Billionaires Club army.'

'Lady Winterton, you are making a rather broad assumption considering we are only talking about the Angolan action here. How do you suddenly jump to the conclusion that we will have our own army?' Mason replied.

'Oh, please don't insult our intelligence, Mason. We all know the slippery slope we are about to embark on here and where it eventually will lead.'

'I disagree, but let's put this action to the vote,' Mason said.

# Chapter 17

Lobito vicinity, west coast, Angola, Africa - 2019

Ten men huddled around the smouldering ashes of the campfire, holding steaming coffee and eating local hard biscuits called rusks for breakfast. The sun had yet to start warming up their part of Africa, but the cacophony of the cicadas was already deafening. A sweltering day lay ahead for them.

Gibbs and his team spent the rest of the morning inspecting the forty-five new African recruits who had covertly appeared out of the bush during the night. The tall, stern-faced men had all arrived in simple civilian clothes with cloth bags over their shoulders. One or two had looked intimidated by the well-armed soldiers who they were about to go into battle with. An hour later, they'd all changed into old army fatigues and suddenly had the makings of a competent fighting force.

'Quite a few have really old AK-47 machine guns,' Shredder said. 'We can get to work on them and repair the odd one. Other weapons could be usable with just a bit of oil and a good clean. None of them has any ammunition though, so it's lucky that we've brought enough.'

'Great, take JP and do a thorough inspection of all their hardware. Fix as many as you can because I don't want to give them any of the new machine guns that they've never used before.'

'Killey, you and I can take a few of the 32 Battalion boys through the handling of the M203 grenade launchers. I don't think they've used them before either but are more competent with advanced weaponry. Let's all meet up again at eighteen hundred this evening to run through the strike plans one more time. I'm not sure when they'll call the strike, but let's get everyone prepared for action,' Gibbs said.

• • •

The crack of a dry twig underfoot caused Gibbs to turn around quickly, his finger moving down to the trigger. JP and four 32 Battalion troops were slowly making their way down the steep incline of the hill that overlooked the refinery. They crouched low as they crept forward, stopping at regular intervals to ensure their movement had not been detected. His heart was pounding in his chest, and a small grin appeared. He had missed the adrenalin.

Twenty minutes later they reached Gibbs's position, and all knelt in the dry brown grass next to him, focusing on their target. Silence fell over them again with only the incessant cicadas' humming and the occasional mourning dove ringing out.

'Looks too quiet, boss,' JP said in a whisper.

'I tell you, mate, it's bloody weird. Something is not right.'

'Both machine gun turrets are manned, but the guards posted on them are fast asleep,' JP said.

'They've hardly moved in the hour that I've been here,' Gibbs said.

'I thought this was supposed to be a big strategic target.'

'According to Kirkwood, it is. Killey was here all day yesterday doing reconnaissance and said that most of the guards finished work at six in the evening, then jumped into a truck that went towards the town centre.'

'I don't like it at all,' JP said. 'Do you think it is a trap?'

'Nah,' Gibbs said. Instinct told him that there was no trap. They'd been watching the refinery for three days now and would have seen any obvious attempts to entrap them.

'Nearly dawn,' JP said.

Gibbs looked down at his watch. Five minutes to go.

He looked through the night scope at the left-hand machine gun turret just as the gunner stretched his arms and yawned. The turrets stood above each gatepost of the main gate, wrapped in barbwire, and were covered with square, fibreglass rooves. The guard stood up and shouted something to the other gunner in the right-hand turret. They chatted for a minute and shared a joke. One picked up a metal box and took out some food which he started eating.

Gibbs flipped his arm over again to look at the time then waited for a few seconds before he lined up the sights on his SA80 assault rifle and slipped his hand down to the grenade launcher's grip. He took a last look at the machine gun post on top of the refinery's main admin building that was set back from the main guarded gate. Gently squeezing the trigger, he sent the first grenade off towards its target. In a single movement, the men around him rose to their feet and started down the hill towards the Lobito Refinery.

Gibbs reloaded and fired two more grenades, neutralising both the machine gun turrets above the gates. It was time for him to get down into the battle.

The two guards in the machine gun turrets were blown out of their lofty perches. One of their bodies thudded to the ground right in front of the closed metal gate, the other got tangled up in the barbed wire fencing above the eight-foot wall, dangling like a macabre Damien Hirst work of art. Gibbs lifted his SA80 as he ran, focusing on the door of the main gate guardhouse. It swung open, slamming on its hinges, and government troops streamed out firing wildly into the vanishing night sky. Gibbs picked off the first two men as he ran, then heard another grenade launcher fire from behind him. He dropped down to one knee to cushion himself for the blow.

The main gate shuddered as the grenade exploded against it, the right-hand side of the metal gates ripped open like an aluminium can. More guards panic fired in all directions, unable to see the attacking men from within their well-lit guardrooms. They'd clearly decided to stay put and fight. One of the rebel soldiers ran past Gibbs, ignoring the call to back down. The man fired into the guard house and as he reached the open doorway, recoiled, shuddering as bullets tore into his body. Gibbs loaded another grenade into the launcher and fired it through the open doorway. The explosion shattered all the windows and blew open the rear door. As he shouted more orders to JP and two of his men, they slowly made their way up through the open refinery gate.

At that early hour, the main courtyard was deserted of any workers, and the administration buildings were all locked up. The men fanned out and positioned themselves around the courtyard walls, in anticipation of any counter attacks.

Gibbs forced long breaths of dusty air into his lungs to suppress the urge to sneeze. Sheltering behind a parked pick-up truck, he was about to cross the empty courtyard when two ground-floor office windows shattered, and two machine gun barrels appeared between the horizontal window blinds. The staccato snapping of an old Uzi machine gun sent a hail of bullets into the walls around the men who were taking cover.

'Bastards,' JP said and slipped a fresh magazine into his SA80.

'JP, lay down cover fire into that room for me. I have one grenade left so will head across the courtyard to those two air conditioner units,' Gibbs said.

'Gotcha, boss. Go on three.'

Counting down, JP and two soldiers fired into the window of the offices, the blinds ripping apart under the barrage. Gibbs sprinted across the courtyard and slid to a stop against the wall with a thud, the wind driven from his lungs on impact. He closed his eyes for a second and could hear his heart thumping in his ears.

The Angolans fired another burst at him, hitting the solid metal structure of the air conditioner units that shielded him. JP then popped up to lay the second burst into the windows which gave Gibbs his chance.

Gibbs lifted the SA80 and held his breath for a second then squeezed the trigger of the M203. The grenade looped into the smashed window and was followed by screams of terror. The explosion drowned out the screaming as the remaining glass and debris were blasted out into the courtyard.

'JP?' Gibbs shouted. 'Take two men and break down the doors to the main administration block.'

'Yes, boss.'

'Set up our command post in the reception area and get the radioman up and running.'

Gibbs covered the men as they got up and walked pressed against the wall. Was that it? Surely there must be more Angolan soldiers.

From an area to the south-west of the refinery, where Shredder and Killey had mounted their attacks, he could still hear the odd explosion and sporadic echo of gunfire.

• • •

'Job done, boss,' Shredder said as he walked up to Gibbs thirty minutes later. He was covered in dust and had specks of blood spattered across his face.

'Everything secure?' Gibbs said.

'Yeah. We set up the agreed watch posts, and the boys are digging the mortars in which will cover the road from the south,' Shredder said. 'Everything go to plan here?'

'We only had one casualty who got hit as we came through the main gates. Our mortars are also set up, covering the road north. We just need Killey to cover off securing the refinery tanks,' Gibbs said.

Killey walked in a few minutes later. 'The gas tanks are all secure, and I've set up three teams to patrol the water's edge. If we're attacked from that direction over the next few days, we'll be in serious trouble. We're extremely exposed from the main seafront as you know. It's a massive area to patrol bearing in mind our limited resources.'

'I know it is, mate,' Gibbs replied. 'But depending on the news from Luanda we might have to change plans anyway. If the coup fails, I believe a counter attack will most likely come from the north-east, not the seafront.'

Gibbs turned and looked at the map. 'So, while we wait for news, JP, can you take two men and head back up to the hill opposite the main gate? It has a fantastic vantage point of the approaching road. Set the men up with radios and rations. I want a twenty-four-hour watch on that road.'

'I'll stay up there with them for a while,' JP said. 'The buggers will probably fall asleep on the job or get bored and disappear back into the bush.'

'Fine, but no drinking with them either, okay,' Gibbs said, winking at him. 'I know how you like a few brandies while you wait.'

• • •

The following morning, Shredder walked into the ops room just before sunrise. It had proved to be an uneventful night, and they had managed to get some sleep. Large maps of the area had been hung in the old reception area windows near to a small radio station that'd been set up for operation communications. Two guards were standing at the main doors keeping watch, and nodded at him as he walked past. Another one of the troops had set up a kettle and was making coffee and preparing breakfast packs.

'Morning, boss. Any news from Luanda?' Shredder said, taking a cup of coffee from the soldier.

'Not a bloody word,' Gibbs said.

'Hmmm... it's been over twenty-four hours.'

'I know. I've tried to contact them on both frequencies we were given, and still bloody nothing,' Gibbs said.

'That can't be good news,' Shredder said. 'What do you want us to do?'

'After sun up, if we still have radio silence from Luanda, I'll contact Kirkwood directly to see what is going on. The strike on Luanda should have occurred two hours after our attack, so I guess from the radio silence the original plan is dead in the water.'

• • •

Gibbs flipped the page of an old Wilbur Smith novel he'd found in the ops room. Sitting on a tattered old couch, he heard JP over the radio. 'Alpha one, Alpha one, this is Bravo one.'

He rushed over to the table. 'Go ahead, Bravo one.'

'We have a military truck approaching your position. It's being driven at speed by men in army uniforms. Heading past our current position. Should I engage, Alpha one? Over.'

'Confirm it's just a single truck, over?' Gibbs said.

'Affirmative, Alpha one. Do I engage? Over.'

'Negative, Bravo one, let it through. We'll engage it here if necessary, copy over,' Gibbs said and put out a call to Shredder and Killey.

The team in the admin block sprang into action and opened the compound gates to allow the inbound truck inside. Gibbs's men were stationed on either side of the courtyard, facing the gate, and with orders to hold their fire until they got the command.

Minutes later the drab green truck stopped just short of turning into the refinery. Both the driver and passenger put their hands out of the window to show they were unarmed. A couple of Gibbs's team appeared from up on the hillside and surrounded the truck, performing a search of the contents in the back of the covered Mercedes. When all was deemed safe, they signalled to the driver to pull the truck into the compound.

Gibbs and Shredder led the two young rebel fighters away from the truck into the ops room to interrogate them. They were shaken up by their journey south from Luanda and sat timidly on the old beige reception couch. Both were dressed in dirty green fatigues with black army boots, and one of them had dried blood covering most of his sleeve and shoulder.

Gibbs dragged an office chair over to the couch and sat in front of the men. 'Has João Baptista taken over the government buildings in Luanda?'

'No, sir. He is dead.'

'Have the rebels taken control of the radio and television building?'

The men shook their heads. 'It is finished, sir. Even our second-in-command, General De Govea, was assassinated.'

'Did the army stop the coup?' Gibbs asked.

'Yes, sir. They and the white soldiers from England were waiting for us.'

'What?' Gibbs said. 'Are you saying there were men like us fighting against you?'

'Yes, sir, in the same clothes as you. They killed Mr Baptista.'

'Boss?' Shredder said and nodded towards an adjacent room.

They pushed their way into an abandoned office and walked over hundreds of office documents scattered around on the carpeted floor, then stopped to look through the dust-covered windows, overlooking the main courtyard windows.

'Other mercenaries?' Shredder said.

'It would seem so.'

'I wonder what the hell happened. How did they know about the coup?'

'No idea, mate, but how much do you want to bet that we will be their next targets?'

# Chapter 18

Lobito vicinity, west coast of Angola, Africa - 2019

'Do you think they were the same group of Kirkwood's mercenaries who were supposed to be leading the coup?' Killey said from his position on the couch. He had a mess tin on his lap and was eating a freeze-dried lasagne.

'That was my initial thinking, but it makes no bloody sense, I mean, why would they plan the whole operation and have us take control of this refinery, only to assassinate the man they were trying to get into government?' Gibbs said.

'What if we were only meant to be a diversion?' Killey asked.

'I'm not sure about that,' Shredder said. 'The army forces that were guarding this place were undertrained. And I expected, at least three times more firepower here than we encountered during our attack. Is this a valuable strategic asset as we were led to believe? Based on the number of men here, I doubt it.'

'I agree. There was no real resistance here to meet us,' Gibbs said. 'This couldn't have been a diversion. These guys looked as though they were going about their normal daily routine. Taking this refinery would have had no real effect on any coup.'

'Maybe we're being set up as scapegoats if the coup failed,' Killey said.

Gibbs nodded. 'Now, that reasoning is harder to argue against. If it's the case, we can expect a few angry visitors at the gate shortly.'

'Wonderful,' Killey said, chewing with his mouth open. 'Best we put the old kettle on and roll out the welcome mat.'

'JP, do you need more men on the hill? More eyes and ears?' Gibbs said.

'No, boss. I think we've got enough men up there. All are well dug in and ready for anything,' JP said. 'Now that we think we might be attacked, you'll need the additional men down here more. Want me to stay down here with you softies?'

Gibbs shook his head.

'What else do you want us to do?' Shredder asked.

'Well, we have to assume they'll try and catch us off-guard and mount either an evening or early morning attack.'

Gibbs turned to the big South African and said, 'Sorry, mate, you'll have to head back up to the lookout point and watch that road. Select a few of the best men and send them a kilometre further north. That should buy us more time. Once they spot the Angolan forces moving in, you can alert us, and we'll all be in a good position to attack from the hillside. It'll mean their troops will be outflanked and caught in the crossfire.'

'When do think they will hit us?' Shredder asked.

'Based on the timeline since the coup was quashed, I guess tomorrow morning or maybe the next.'

'Bastards,' Shredder said. 'Do you suppose Kirkwood or Mason knew about all this?'

'Maybe Kirkwood is simply supplying both sides with mercs,' Killey said.

'I wouldn't put it past the money-grabbing little git,' Gibbs said.

• • •

'Alpha one, Alpha one, this is Bravo one, come in, over.'

Gibbs grabbed the handset from the radio man. 'Go ahead, Bravo one.'

'The forward position has been compromised, and the men have pulled back to my position, over,' JP said.

'Did they sight enemy troops, over?'

'Affirmative, Alpha one. Ten trucks carrying troops and two trucks carrying Olifant tanks, copy over.'

'Confirm two Olifant tanks Bravo one, over,' Gibbs said, looking across at Shredder, whose eyes widened.

'Affirmative, over,' JP replied.

Gibbs threw the headset down on the table. 'Shredder, I need you to head up to JP's position and see if there is any possible way we can negate the tanks from up there. Let me know if it is possible to use the mortars on them before they make their move.'

'Copy that,' he replied.

Gibbs nodded silently and turned back to the map on the table. They had to weather the initial attack to buy them more time to find out what was going on. He picked up the satellite phone and dialled the number he had been trying for the past two days. The single dial tone teased him until eventually, the robotic voice told him to leave a message.

'Bastards,' he said and threw the phone down on the table. Gibbs walked across to the dirty windows that overlooked the courtyard. They were alone on this one.

• • •

Gibbs sat at the radio table and called again. He had been trying for thirty minutes to raise JP on the radio. 'Brave one, Bravo one, this is Alpha one, come in over.'

Nothing.

'Brave one, Bravo one, this is Alpha one, come in over.'

More silence.

Then he heard three clicks through the earphones he had on. He executed the agreed reply with two clicks of the transmitter button on his handset. A few seconds later, a solitary click came through on Gibbs's headphones. JP couldn't communicate for some reason. Gibbs's heart started to beat a little faster. He walked over to the army cot he'd been sleeping on and picked up his SA80 machine gun. Chambering a round, he walked out of the ops room.

Twenty minutes later, Shredder, JP and two rebel fighters rushed into the compound and took up positions alongside Gibbs and his teams who were positioned just inside the main gate. 'Jesus, that was close,' Shredder said, breathing hard. 'We couldn't contact you as we were almost outflanked by a large group of Angolan soldiers sweeping the south side of the hill. What's more, there are a few mercs helping them. I heard a good few English accents amongst them.'

'Are they all coming out of the encampment on the north road?' Gibbs asked.

'Seems so, we didn't detect any other troop movements. However, we did see a small recon plane coming in over the ocean. It circled once and then went south,' Shredder said.

'Yeah, we saw it too. I've placed one of the men in the top lookout tower with a Stinger missile and told him to take it down if it comes within range again,' Gibbs said.

'You had any contact with Kirkwood or Luanda yet?' Shredder asked.

'Sweet fuck all,' Gibbs replied, checking the rounds into his spare magazines.

'Great! Oh, and the news gets better. I could've sworn I saw that prick John Warren, in all the excitement,' Shredder said.

'What?' Gibbs stopped dead in his tracks.

'I know, boss. I had to look twice, but I am pretty sure it was him giving the orders to the Angolan troops. He was pushing his men to get set up, and they seemed to be ready to move in on us at any moment,' Shredder said.

Gibbs checked his magazine again and slipped the safety off. 'It's a long way for Captain Warren to come to die, but I guess Angola is as good a place as any. This time, there won't only be broken noses when we meet.'

One hour later the first tank shell smashed into one of the vacant guard towers alongside the gate, demolishing the main struts and causing the roof to collapse. The screeching sound of metal tracks pierced the air as one of the tanks slowly edged its way down the winding road to the refinery. It started to pepper the admin building with explosive shells that rained down brick and mortar on everyone below. Gibbs and Shredder crouched down and ran towards the main gate then ducked into an alcove as they came under enemy fire from the Angolan troops hidden on the mountainside. Reaching around the corner, they returned fire into the hillside, but with only occasional muzzle fire to aim at, it was futile.

The Claymore anti-personnel mines that JP and his men had deployed along the lower parts of the mountain started to go off, and with each detonation, the screams of the victims echoed from the hill.

Amidst the chaos, Gibbs radioed Killey. 'Delta one, Delta one, come in.'

'Delta one here, over,' Killey replied.

'What is the status of that bloody tank?' Gibbs shouted.

'It's stopped midway down the tarred road into the refinery area. The troop carriers behind it have also stopped. Men are sweeping for IEDs ahead of the tanks and trucks.'

Silence followed for a few seconds as Gibbs thought about the situation. 'Delay them by using your sniper fire. Target the men on foot, over.'

A loud hissing sound that echoed through the courtyard caused Gibbs to spin around and look skyward. The Stinger missile flew upwards from its shoulder-mounted launcher, away from the guard tower towards an advancing helicopter. The missile tracked in a northerly direction toward the approaching Puma helicopter, which suddenly lurched to the left as the crew spotted the advancing threat. The pilot dropped the nose of the helicopter sharply to try and escape towards the ground, but the missile slammed into the engine cowling just below the spinning rotor.

A huge orange fireball lit up the blue sky, and burning bodies leapt from the briefly suspended fuselage before the engulfed wreck dropped down into the clearing behind the admin block.

Little flicks of sand suddenly licked the ground near Gibbs as an enemy sniper spotted him huddled against the side of the main gate. He rose to his feet and dashed off towards the main admin building again, bullets flying over his head and thudding into the walls near him.

He had to try to reach Kirkwood again. After a further two failed attempts, he knew it was time to change approach. Crouched in the corner of the main reception he punched in one of the numbers he'd memorised before leaving the UK. The ringtone mocked him as nobody answered the first time. He redialled a second and third time, and finally, someone picked up.

'Mason, it is Gibbs,' he shouted down the line. Another mortar blast exploded closer to the building, shattering the windows and ripping the maps to the floor.

'Gibbs, I asked you not to contact me directly at this number,' Mason said.

'What the fuck is going on here? You're the only person I can get hold of. We're taking a bloody pounding here at the refinery,' Gibbs shouted. 'Angolan troops from Luanda have descended upon us here in Lobito and are trying to take us out.' Another shell blast nearby destroyed a corner of the building.

'What?' Mason said. 'Do you know what happened in Luanda?'

Coughing loudly from all the dust, Gibbs shouted, 'That's what I want to know. We're being pounded by tank and mortar fire here. I have had no radio comms from Luanda or contact with bloody Kirkwood.'

'I've had no contact with them either, but it sounds like something must be wrong.'

'You think?' Gibbs said. 'And, Mason, the attack on the refinery seems to be commanded by white mercenaries from Europe.'

There was silence on the other end of the line. Gibbs shouted again, 'Mason? Did you hear what I said?'

'Yes, I did,' Mason replied. 'Do you think you can hold them off long enough to retain control of the refinery?'

'Negative, we are running low on ammunition and have taken quite a few casualties. We can probably hold them off for another hour before we're overrun.'

'Gibbs, listen to me. If you cannot hold them off indefinitely then get your men the fuck out of there,' Mason said. 'Cover your tracks as best you can, we can't risk any of you getting caught. Get the hell out.'

'Understood,' Gibbs said.

# Chapter 19

Lobito vicinity, west coast, Angola, Africa - 2019

A few minutes after the call, Gibbs was back amongst the chaos trying to neutralise the Angolan snipers hidden up on the hill. He heard a loud moan near him as a rebel fighter went down on his knees, clutching his chest. Gibbs looked around the courtyard and counted four other soldiers who had perished where they fought.

He pulled out the small two-way radio from the khaki chest-webbing. 'All units. Alpha one here. Retreat to evacuation points. Retreat. We are pulling out.'

The men's focus changed, and they slowly retreated to the back of the courtyard. Gibbs opened the door to one of the disused admin offices and rushed the men through to the back window. The previous day, under his instructions, they had removed the window frame and all the glass leaving a gaping hole that overlooked the refinery tanks, and off in the distance, the Indian Ocean. Parked outside the windows were their escape vehicles.

'Everyone into the trucks,' he shouted, ushering the men through the gap in the wall. The gut-wrenching screech of the tank tracks came from the direction of the main gate causing him to spin around. It had made it down the road and just rammed the gate. One shell through the door could end it all.

His thoughts turned to the men on the hill. They had some work to do to evacuate. A loud explosion in the courtyard snapped him back to reality. He jumped through the window opening as the office wall behind them was demolished by a tank shell. Splinters and concrete shards showered the truck as the men climbed in.

'Move out,' Gibbs shouted to Shredder, who was driving one of the trucks.

'Any news from the other boys?'

'Nothing. I hope they got the message.'

'The big Afrikaner will get his men out. He always does,' Shredder said. 'Now, hold on tight.'

The two trucks smashed through the compound fence that encircled the admin section and entered the expanse of the refinery grounds. Only one more fence to get through and they would be away.

Shredder slammed the gearstick forward. 'Boss, I know that we have been in tight spots before, but this one takes first prize.'

• • •

John Warren was hot, sweaty and tired. None of the local troops could understand a word he said. He kept trying to drive them forward, but they were scared of mines and were waiting on the winding dust road. He wiped his forehead and the back of his neck with a damp cloth. The incessant African heat would drive a man berserk if he were not accustomed to it. The relentless humidity easily drained the resolve of any determined soldier, and he was determined.

A communication received from his scouts had confirmed that two army trucks were hastily being loaded up and readied for what seemed like an escape attempt from the refinery compound. He glanced anxiously at the map again and traced his finger along a red line south of the refinery. There were so many routes out of the place, and London would not be happy if he let Gibbs get away.

'Sergeant, bring me three trucks with three army units. We need to cover a possible escape to the south.' The man looked at him and didn't move. John raised three fingers. 'Trucks. Here.'

The man smiled and ran off up the road.

A few minutes later, they pulled up to a dusty intersection a kilometre south of the refinery. The roads were eerily empty of any local Angolans who, with all the shelling going on, had gone into hiding. John scanned the road in all directions. 'There they are!' he shouted with relieved excitement.

One of Gibbs's trucks had pulled over with what looked like a puncture. The nervous driver in the cab with John then also pointed in the opposite direction to the road leading south. A large dust cloud hung in the air as an unidentified vehicle disappeared away from them in a southerly direction.

John barked into the radio at the truck behind his. 'Stay here and check out the stranded truck. Keep your eyes open for any booby traps because the bastards seem to have laid them everywhere else.' He felt better about having a plan, at least the other trucks had Western mercenaries in each group.

John glared at his driver and shouted, 'What the hell are you waiting for? Follow that damn truck, will you, they're getting away.'

They sped south along the road towards a small town called Catumbela, the plume of dust from the speeding truck in front of them obscuring the empty road. John sat with his black-and-white print scarf over his mouth and looked down at the folded map for a hint to where they might be headed.

'Put your foot down, driver. They must be heading to the Catumbela Airport,' he said, confident that he knew how Gibbs planned to escape. The man he was chasing would clearly hightail it out after the spanking his team had handed out. John smiled.

A few minutes later they reached the turn-off to the airport, yet the truck up ahead carried on straight, still headed south. Could Gibbs be making a break for Namibia instead? His thoughts were quickly answered as the dust plume up ahead suggested that the truck had turned off onto another side road.

'Pull over and get the tracker to have a look at the tyre treads. Make sure we follow the right truck,' he said, and they slowed down to wait for the second truck to catch up.

A short Angolan soldier in an ill-fitting green overall walked up to the driver's window, and after a brief conversation walked around to the front of the truck and stood for a while, scanning the road. He walked back and forth across the road before indicating that he had the spoor, then he jumped up onto the side runners of the truck door. He continued to converse with the driver as they sped off along the road, hand on the side mirror for grip.

A few kilometres after the turnoff for the town of Benguela they suddenly slowed, and the tracker jumped down from the truck, taking a keen interest in the road again. After a quick scout amongst the myriad daily African tyre tracks on the road, he jumped up onto the door again, and the driver started to turn the truck around.

'What are you doing, man? Why are we turning around?'

'Truck drive off another road,' the driver replied in broken English.

A few hundred meters back on a small dirt track, they found the elusive truck tyre tracks heading inland once more.

The cat and mouse game continued for another fifty kilometres before the chasing convoy caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the abandoned truck on the side of the track. They stopped a few hundred metres away, and John with three other mercenaries slowly approached the truck with their weapons raised.

John scanned the barren horizon for any possible layup positions for Gibbs and his men to hide in. His heart thumped at the thought of Gibbs out there with a sniper rifle. The red sandy soil made it impossible for anything to grow in the area apart from the occasional acacia thorn tree that was dotted around the landscape. Isolated clumps of shrubbery also grew in attendance by a herd of goats.

'Damn it,' John said. 'It looks abandoned.'

One of the mercenaries nearest to him grunted his agreement. 'We'll have to track them on foot.'

'Tracker!' John shouted back to his truck.

The little man in overalls ran forward and studied the ground, and sandy verges of the road where the old truck was parked. He squatted down at one point and grunted a few comments to the Angolan soldiers who were eagerly awaiting his verdict.

'Well?' John asked.

The little man gestured for them to follow, and they walked off in single file into the dry scrubland towards a large range of mountains. The tracker occasionally glanced down at the ground as he tracked the spoor of the group of men.

'Where the hell are we going?' John asked the little man, who simply gestured for them all to follow.

After twenty minutes of walking in the scorching noonday African sun, John's temper was percolating at a steady heat. The thought of killing Gibbs was the only reason that drove him to continue, and he touched the scars on the bridge of his nose. Up ahead the tracker suddenly stopped, dropping down to his knee. John eased his way towards the little man, who was pointing to what looked like a big pile of clothing lying under a small bush in the path up ahead.

'Yes, I see it. A pile of old clothes and boots. What of it?' John said.

The tracker looked up at John and replied in surprisingly good English. 'It is the clothes of the men we follow.'

'Why would Gibbs and his team change their clothes here? What the hell is he up to?'

'We do not follow the white soldier. These are African soldier. Look at feet pattern,' the tracker said, pointing to the barefoot spoor leading off to the east.

'What?' John replied. 'How can you be sure these aren't Gibbs's clothes?'

'These are African feet. See toes are spread far apart from not wearing shoes, white soldier's feet have toes together.'

'Arrrrrgh!' John screamed, and punched the tracker in his smiling mouth.

• • •

'Stop the truck right here, Shredder,' Gibbs said. They pulled over, and all jumped out a few hundred meters short of the main intersection out of town. Shredder reached down to the left front tyre and forced his knife into the threadbare tread, puncturing it in three places. He gave a quick thumbs-up to the second truck, which had the remaining Angolan rebel fighters in it, and then they turned and ran down along the refinery perimeter fence for about two hundred meters towards the sea.

The big smiles of JP, Killey and seven others greeted them at the meeting point. They continued running along the small wooden marina to two black rubber Zodiacs. Killey had tied them up two days before and hidden them under large tarpaulins, which were quickly removed and disposed of under the jetty.

'Get down, everyone,' JP shouted, pointing back to the intersection. Three Angolan army trucks pulled up to the crossing. Gibbs's men all dropped down onto their bellies, their machine guns out in front of them, ready for anything. In silence, they trained their weapons on the Angolan soldiers who got down from their truck and then carefully took their time looking around the abandoned truck. Meanwhile, the second truck turned left at the intersection and sped off in a southerly direction following the rebel fighters.

The Angolan soldiers stood around the stricken truck and laughed amongst one another as they shared a joke. One of them lit cigarettes and passed them around the group.

'Come on, gents,' Gibbs whispered, willing them to move off. He unclicked the safety on his weapon and heard everyone around do the same.

One of the soldiers sat on the ground and was about to lie back in the shade of the truck wheel when a radio broadcast made them all jump up and head back to their truck and drive off.

With the immediate threat gone, Gibbs and his team jumped down into the Zodiacs. 'Shredder, let's move out of here at five-minute intervals. Head across to the peninsula, then turn north-east, parallel to the coast, before doubling back on yourselves towards the Lobito lighthouse. You can see it clearly from out at sea, so make your way to the truck parked in the main car park, we'll rendezvous there.'

'Roger that. By the way, did you see who was sitting in the front seat of that other truck?' Shredder said.

'I sure did,' Gibbs said, smiling as he looked out to sea.

# Chapter 20

Benguela Road, Angola, Africa - 2019

John Warren paced back and forth checking his watch, sweat dripping down his temples. The grey, wooden boards of the Lobito marina creaked and groaned under each step. Aged wood, worn smooth by decades of fishermen hauling their catch from the boats. The still water across the bay did little to calm John down as he looked at the large white-tipped waves beyond the peninsula. The rough sea out there could easily conceal a small boat, and he wondered whether Gibbs had left the safety of land as part of his plan. His phone rang, and the caller ID caused his stomach to tighten. Time to face the music.

'How the hell did you let them get away, Captain Warren?' John Mountford said. 'We hired you specifically because you said you could neutralise Gibbs and his team in Africa when the time came. You assured us that your plan was simple but effective.'

'Mr Mountford, things don't always go according to plan on operations like these.'

The billionaire cut him off. 'Being prepared for the unexpected goes with the territory on these types of operations, Captain. You should've known they wouldn't roll over and surrender.'

'We were as prepared as we could be.'

'That doesn't seem to be the case now, does it? Your role was a critical cog in our strategy for Africa, starting with this simple mission. We needed you to frame Gibbs then eliminate his team at the refinery. That's all you had to do. I'm starting to regret not contracting Sergeant Gibbs to execute this mission rather than you.'

The silence stretched between them.

'They couldn't have gotten very far, sir,' John said, strangling back his rage as he stared back at the two black plumes that came from the refinery.

'Why don't you get in touch with the contacts you claimed to have in the area and finish the job you were hired to do? I don't want to hear from you until it is done. What happens if Gibbs and his team realise that they were set up as scapegoats and decide to come after us?'

'I'll get right on it.'

'You made a mess of this. Make damn sure you clean it up.' The line went dead.

• • •

The Zodiac raced along the calm sea within the safety of the long and sandy Lobito peninsula. Gibbs could see the rest of his team in the other boat a kilometre ahead of him. They had already turned east and were heading straight for the beach below the Lobito lighthouse. He felt calm and determined as the fresh sea air swept around his face. Their exit plan was now in motion, and he knew it was a solid one. Getting back to London was the only priority. The answers to all his questions lay with two men there, and they had to be held accountable for all who died.

Twenty-five minutes later both teams had reached the sandy beach and successfully hidden the Zodiacs from local prying eyes. The longer they remained undetected, the bigger the gap they could put between themselves and the Angolan authorities pursuing them. Two old green trucks were parked up in the dusty parking lot of the abandoned lighthouse. Gibbs called the group together.

'Gents, as you've probably guessed, we are going to have to fly under the radar for a while to get clear of Angola. Neil, you and your team will head inland as discussed, before turning south to go through Botswana and on to Johannesburg. JP, Shredder, Killey and I will head north through the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) to Kenya, before making our way back to Europe,' Gibbs said.

Opening up his bag, Gibbs pulled out the brown paper package that JP had given him at the start of the job.

'Here are additional passports I had made before we left London. Memorise your names and come up with a plausible backstory, just in case. Make sure these stories will stand up to questioning because we have no corresponding drivers' licences or bank accounts.'

Opening his passport, Killey smiled. 'Duncan McLeod? Not a stereotypical Scottish name at all.'

'They're good enough to get us through Africa. We have no credit cards so will settle all bills and bribes in cash,' Gibbs said.

'This is what you had JP doing behind our backs in London?' Shredder said. 'Nice one, boss. We should be able to cross the borders quite easily with these.'

Nodding his head, Gibbs replied, 'What's more, the false identities that we travelled out to Africa on, will now show up as never having returned to the UK. Should anyone be looking for the men who were involved in the coup in Angola, they will draw a blank. If there are no more questions,' Gibbs said, 'Let's get the hell out of here.'

'Thought you might have got us a more comfortable ride home, boss,' Shredder said, looking at the trucks.

'It's more than you bastards deserve. There are hidden compartments behind the drums of diesel in the back of the trucks for us to conceal ourselves in should we need to. Water and mattresses will make it slightly more comfortable on the trip, but we'll take it in turns up front and also share the driving until we cross the border. We're being smuggled in under the guise of being diesel traders.'

JP chuckled as he opened up the driver's door. 'No bloody smoking in the back there, children, or we'll arrive back in London a lot sooner, and in little pieces.'

• • •

The journey out of Angola passed by without any incident all the way to the border with the DRC. With the local fixers paving the way and greasing the right palms through the border posts, they quickly approached their target, Brazzaville, its capital.

'Jesus, this road is crap. I am going to lose my bloody lunch,' Killey said, hidden in the back of the dirty truck under layers of wooden pallets. The trucks slowed down again 'Arrrgh. I hate these frikkin potholes probably more than that idiot Kirkwood.'

'That's the hundredth time you've said that,' Shredder said.

'Just putting it out there,' Killey said, flicking him the middle finger.

'Ssssh,' Shredder said, raising his finger to his mouth. Before Killey could continue grousing, they heard shouting outside. The truck ground to a complete halt. Gibbs peeked out through a crack in the wooden planks that hid them from view and spotted four African youths carrying AK47s. They stood behind a makeshift roadblock of two forty-four-gallon drums and a large makeshift boom, cut from a nearby acacia tree.

'Bloody kids are playing pirates,' Gibbs whispered. 'I hope JP's fixers can talk our way through here. I don't want to have to shoot kids.'

He slipped the Glock17 out of its holster. He raised it and aimed through a gap in the side panels. The young boy who was doing all the shouting was between fourteen and fifteen years old and carried an old Beretta 9mm pistol. The little man was shouting orders while frantically chewing on a piece of gum. Without a word, Shredder and Killey drew their weapons. Gibbs gestured to Killey to move into position on the roof of the truck to get a better vantage point.

One of the youths walked around to the back of the truck, his AK47 dwarfing him as it hung from a strap around his neck. He chewed his gum frantically, blowing the occasional bubble, then climbed the small three-rung ladder that hung from the back of the truck.

The young man flipped open the flap of canvas that covered the back and squinted into the darkness as he waited for his eyes to acclimatise to the black interior.

Gibbs looked back to see that Shredder's finger was on the trigger, and he clearly had the kid locked in the sights. His breathing had also slowed. The shot was on. Gibbs turned his head back and focused his sights on the other boys outside.

Shouting and whistling came from the group at the front of the truck as the fixer furiously haggled with them. Laughter erupted as one of the boys raised his AK47 and pointed it at the fixer.

On the back ladder, the bored youth scanned the metal drums of diesel and stacked pallets of wood then jumped off the back of the truck, satisfied it was empty.

The shouting and gesticulating continued in front of the truck for another five minutes, when finally the young men accepted their bribe of cash, pencils and JP's hunting knife. Gibbs could see the young men discussing their trophies as the truck finally passed, big grins on their faces.

# Chapter 21

Somewhere in southern England, UK - 2019

Gibbs swayed to the rhythm of the train as it clacked along on the slightly misshapen and bent rail tracks out of Dover. He looked at his reflection in the graffiti-scratched mirror of the grimy train toilet. A tired and gaunt looking man who he barely recognised stared back at him.

Twenty hours earlier they'd left the heat and mosquito-infested Congo for Nairobi to get a plane to Paris. From there coming through the Channel Tunnel, from a grey and cold Paris Gare du Nord was the easiest way to sneak into the United Kingdom because the border control booths were empty most of the time.

Gibbs rubbed his face and splashed water on it from the bottle he was carrying. In an hour, they would arrive at Victoria Station and blend back into the chaotic masses of London.

'Come on, boss, get your round of drinks in,' JP said as Gibbs walked into the empty bar coach. 'These kind folks serving drinks could do with a bit of cash. One of them just told me that he traded two beers for a packet of potatoes the other day.'

'Potato trading is the new future,' Gibbs said. 'Anyway, didn't I just get one in?'

'You're the boss. We drink on your account because you nearly got us killed,' JP said.

'Don't forget who got us out of it again. You should all be buying me drinks.'

'In the next life maybe. So, what's the plan now?' Shredder asked, leaning on the bar staring into the dark pint of stout in his hand.

'Once we hit Victoria, I think it's best we split up for a few days and find obscure hostels or hotels to stay in. I will contact Sheila every morning and evening around eight. I'll leave any instructions with her, and you can leave any messages in the same way. If it's critical, you all know where she lives, but don't go there unless it's urgent. I'm going to get hold of Kirkwood personally even if I have to stand outside his office until the little shit shows his face,' Gibbs said.

'There are many among us who would like a little one on one time with him,' Shredder said.

'If it turns out that he did set us up, you'll have to take a bloody number. The more I think about the operation, the more I believe we were meant to get caught by the Angolan government. Someone set us up, and I'm going to find out whose idea it was. In the meanwhile, lie low and keep out of trouble,' Gibbs said. 'And, JP, that means paying the strippers for their services this time. No causing a fight simply because you're lonely.'

JP grinned and drank his beer.

• • •

Gibbs sat on the end of the double bed at the White Lady bed and breakfast. The room was decorated like a country fair, and he hated all the tattered, frilly and lacy fabrics from a time of plenty. It was conveniently located a few streets behind Vauxhall Station, so was pretty central for getting around London. Steam train travel was one of the few reliable forms of travel left, due to a resurgence and easy accessibility of coal in the UK. Lying back on the bed with every intention of having a few hours of sleep, he was kept awake by the nagging urgency to find the people who tried to kill him and his team.

Picking up the cheap mobile phone he'd bought from a street vendor at Victoria, he dialled a number from memory.

'Hello, lover,' he said.

'Well hello, stranger, how are you?' Sheila said.

'Alive and well, thanks. Thought I would just check in and see if you want to hook up tonight.'

'I'm afraid not. I am seeing someone now so our little arrangement will have to be postponed for a while,' she said.

'What a damn shame,' Gibbs said. 'Can't you send him away for the evening?'

'I am sure Martin would love that.'

'The gang lord? Well, talk of jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire,' he said.

'Easy, lover,' she said, laughing out loud. 'By the way, there were a few calls for you from a Captain Matthews. Apparently, she has transferred down to London and is keen to catch up with you. She sounds like she knew you quite well.'

'She's my wife.'

'What? You never told me you were married. You cheating bastard.'

Gibbs interrupted her tirade. 'You have to stop being so gullible. What has Martin done with your sense of humour?'

'You're a bloody arse, Gibbs. Do you know that?' she said.

'I know. Now give me Sharon's contact number.'

• • •

The bitter liquid burnt the back of Gibbs's throat as he took another long sip of the cheap house red. He looked up at the waiter. 'Is that the best plonk you have, mate? It could strip paint.'

The man in the smart white shirt and black apron shrugged and grabbed the jug of wine from the table.

'Leave it,' Gibbs said. 'Just call an ambulance and have it wait nearby.' He smiled and took another sip. He was glad to be back. A feeling of calm filled him as he sat in silence amongst the noisy diners.

Dexter's was one of the last few remaining restaurants in Vauxhall, situated on Kennington Lane. In current times, good restaurants were hard to find let alone get into and judging by the queue of people outside trying to get in, it was still quite popular. Serving a tour of duty in Iraq with the owner had been a help to get a booking.

'Thanks for squeezing me in, Andy,' Gibbs said, looking up at the tired face of the ex-paratrooper who was wiping his hands on his food-stained white apron.

'Anytime, Gibbs. It's always great to see a friend from the service. Are you doing well for yourself these days?

'Not too bad, thanks. Still kicking around doing what we do. By the look of it, the restaurant business is booming for you. Loads of hungry people in that queue.'

'Most of them outside are just desperate souls trying to cling to their old way of life, so I guess I shouldn't complain,' he said.

'We all do whatever makes us feel normal I suppose. Have you ever thought of getting back into the game? You know, doing more mercenary work. It pays extremely well.'

'I'd love to, but I took a few bullets to the gut and hip on the last job, so I doubt anyone will employ me again.'

'Rubbish, mate. Times have changed. A good soldier is a good soldier and in very short supply. Remind me to give you my number before I leave. There's a lot of work out there that could use a man with your skills. And I don't mean your cooking.'

Andy laughed. 'Your agent have a lot of work out there?'

'It seems like he has good connections with senior people. Give me a call, and I can make the introductions. You can take it from there.'

'Sure, let's see what he has.'

'Great. Now, do you have any decent wine hidden away somewhere?'

Andy smiled and picked up the bottle. 'That plonk is all you can get nowadays. It's homemade and kicks like a mule with chillies wedged up his arse. The gang lord who supplies all the local protection in the area also brews this stuff, so I have to buy from him.'

'You taking orders from criminals now?

'That's the way it works now, mate. If you need something, chances are your local gang will be able to get it for you.'

Gibbs's concentration was snapped away from his old friend as Sharon Matthews walked through the door. Gibbs recalled the last time they had met; she was in uniform and staring at him as he lay naked on a bed. He blushed and felt the butterflies in his stomach take off in a swarm. She looked stunning with her shoulder-length blonde hair falling loosely on her brown leather jacket that hung over the skin-tight blue denim jeans she wore.

'Hello, Gibbs,' she said, a warm smile lighting up her blue eyes.

Gibbs stood up too quickly, knocking over his glass of wine. 'Ah shit. Hello, Sharon.'

She tucked her hair behind her left ear and hung her handbag on the back of the chair. It slipped off and landed on the floor.

'I'll leave you two bumbling Bambis alone. Let me know when you are ready to order,' Andy said.

They both laughed a little too loudly and sat down. Gibbs poured more wine as he explained what had happened to them in Angola and the journey back.

'Why don't you let me help you?' she said. 'I still have a lot of colleagues in the military, and a few spread across MI5 and MI6.'

'Blimey, living it up with the spooks, are we?' Gibbs said. 'Are they still tapping everyone's calls and emails?'

'They probably are. How else would they get the information they need nowadays?'

'I don't think I'd ever trust them, all that bloody espionage,' Gibbs said.

'And this from a man who's just been on a secret mission, and illegally crossed international borders after going on the run from the secret organisation he did a job for.'

Gibbs chuckled. 'When you put it like that.'

'Why don't you give me a list of names that you want them to look out for?' Sharon said. 'They owe me a couple of favours.'

'I've learnt the hard way that these men are not to be trusted, and they have a surprisingly long reach. They're dangerous people to have on your tail, and besides, you've only just arrived in London. The last thing I want to do is drag you into all of this.'

'Listen, it'll give me something to sink my teeth into. One of my ex-boyfriends still works at MI6 so I could give him a call and find out what news they have on the coup,' she said.

'How ex is he?' Gibbs asked.

She smiled at him. 'A long time ago. He helped me with a few legal cases when we served in Iraq together. We keep in contact for old times' sake.'

'It would be a great help if he could find out anything, but I wouldn't want you meeting up with him in person and getting involved in any of the usual spy crap that they do,' Gibbs said.

'I'll get on it this week.'

'Thanks. So, what brings you down to London then?'

'The MOD is in chaos all over the country except here in London. It can barely pay its people and corruption is rife. Plus, all the decent people up north have left so I'll end up leaving I guess.'

'I thought I was a lot better than decent?''

She smiled. 'You were one of my first cases, so I had little to compare you to. You were an annoying client if I'm honest.'

'It's why I've been sent into your life.'

'We all have our crosses to bear,' she said, and let out a laugh that melted Gibbs a little.

'You have no ties to Scotland?'

'No. My folks passed on a year ago so nothing there for me anymore,' she said, staring into her wine glass.

'Upwards and onwards,' Gibbs said.

She raised her eyebrows.

'Yeah, I know how bloody clichéd that sounded the minute it came out.'

'At your age, I expect these things.'

'Hey, cheeky, I'm not that much older than you.'

'Gibbs, I've seen your military file, so I know how old you are. And may I say that you haven't aged all that well.'

'Yes, twist the knife after you've plunged it in.'

She laughed again, and took a long sip of wine, pulling a face after swallowing. 'Yikes.'

'Good for open wounds too,' he said, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. Her smile kept drawing him in.

'Do you miss Scotland?' she asked, running her hair behind her ear.

Gibbs drank more wine. 'I miss my uncle and aunt. They helped me through a tough time when I was a teen. Uncle Gordon was the one who triggered my interest in the military. Aunt Rhona is a saint and still clucks around me like a mother hen. I also miss the laugh of my twin cousins who are batshit crazy, but other than them nothing more. Scotland is part of my past.'

'I remember your psyche evaluations mentioned you had problems with your father as a kid.'

'The idiot ended up setting himself on fire and can't hurt people anymore,' Gibbs said, grabbing his wineglass and taking a large gulp that made his eyes water. 'Now enough of my morbid past.'

'Agreed. To the future.'

Gibbs reached across the table and took her hand. She didn't pull away, and her big smile sent warmth through him like an African wildfire.

• • •

Lord Butler sat at the long mahogany dinner table eating his leek and potato soup. The liquid warmed his body, making him feel content and at peace. The vicious darkness that lurked within him was dormant, and he leaned back when the plate was empty. A young male servant whisked it away as another dish was placed before him. His favourite, piping hot lamb stew.

'What's that one's name?' he asked, staring at the young man who left in the direction of the kitchen. 'Is he new?'

'Yes, sir. That's Lloyd,' the elderly servant said.

'Invite him to join me in the library for a glass of brandy after dinner, would you?' Lord Butler said.

'Of course, sir.'

'I heard the phone rang during the soup course, Jackson. Was it urgent?'

'Mr Brun is holding on for you on line three, sir. He says that it is important. Shall I take a message?'

'I'll take the call in here,' Lord Butler said, watching the man bow and slowly leave the room. A few minutes later, Lloyd shuffled through the door with the hands-free phone from the study. Lord Butler nodded and waited until he'd left. It was time to replace him with someone younger.

'Hello, Alex,' Lord Butler said.

'Good evening, sir. I apologise for interrupting your evening.'

'That's quite okay, my friend. I was just finishing up. What's so urgent?'

'My contacts have managed to trace Kyle Gibbs and his associates to London, sir. I have people tracking their movements as we speak,' Alex said.

'Excellent news.'

'Do you want me to take care of them, sir? They're starting to ask questions, and I'm told one of them is staking out Mr Kirkwood's premises.'

'No, Alex. I think it is too early to step into the game, but please drop John Mountford a line and pass on the information to him.'

• • •

Gibbs adjusted the position of the Glock17 which he had stuffed into the back of his jeans. He looked down the Clapham high street to where JP and Shredder were standing between two empty market stall frames. JP looked back at him and shook his head.

'Seems he's not here,' Gibbs said to Killey from their position in the doorway directly across from them. All seemed quiet at Kirkwood Enterprises.

'We've been here for most of the day. No one has moved in or out of that door.'

'Damn it. Where the hell is this arsehole?' Gibbs said and looked across to a homeless man who was working a nearby rubbish pile just down from the green Kirkwood Enterprises door. His rolling eyes and slow hand movements hinted that he was high on something as he staggered around, mumbling incessantly. He dropped the dirty white duvet that was draped around him and stood staring at it for a few seconds.

'Why don't we just break in and have a look around?' Killey said.

'Was just thinking that. Let's go,' Gibbs said, signalling to the other two.

The sun had just dipped behind the row of shops, casting a long shadow across the empty Northcote Road. The four men converged upon the concrete steps and followed Shredder up to the green door with the small brass plaque on it. After a quick scan in either direction, Shredder knelt down and jimmied the lock.

All four men drew their weapons and pushed their way through the front door, going straight up the pale carpeted stairs to the first-floor landing. The stagnant smell of old air flooded their nostrils, and Gibbs signalled them to spread out, each taking a room that was behind one of the four closed doors.

Gibbs grabbed the brass door handle of the door furthest away from the stairs and slowly turned. He raised the Glock and pushed the door open to what was Kirkwood's office. A few weeks prior there had been two bookcases and a couple of filing cabinets against the right wall overlooking a large oak desk in the middle of the floor which faced the door. Now the room was empty.

'Clear!'' he shouted. Only to hear three similar calls.

Kirkwood Enterprises were no longer trading at the premises.

'Any ideas, boss?' Shredder asked.

Gibbs shook his head and walked over to a pile of paper. He picked up a few sheets and flicked through them. 'I'll call Sheila and Martin to see if they know anything.'

'Do you expect her to look in a phone directory or something?'

Gibbs flipped him the middle finger. 'We need to find out who the gang lord is for this area. Andy said that these gangs charge protection rates to all businesses like this, so I'm sure they'd know. They must know where Kirkwood moved to.'

'Gibbs!' JP shouted from the landing. 'You'd better get out here.'

They spun around and ran out of the office, straight into a wall of pungent smell.

JP stood on the landing with his Sig pointed at the back of the homeless man from the street who'd wandered in through the open door. 'Jeez, buddy, how about standing a little closer to the water in the shower,' Shredder said, clasping his nose.

'Are you friends of Mr David?' the toothless man asked, scratching at his matted long grey hair.

'Yes, we are, mate,' Gibbs said. 'Do you know where he went?'

The man nodded and carried on looking into one of the vacant rooms. Gibbs and Shredder stood aside and let the haze of smell walk past. He mumbled his way over to the discarded papers lying on the floor and started stuffing them into his large tweed overcoat.

'Hey, buddy. What is your name?' Shredder asked, taking a cigarette out and offering it to the man.

His eyes lit up, and he snatched the whole box from Shredder. 'Gareth Simpson.'

'Okay, Gareth, you said that you know where David is,' Gibbs said, watching the man trying to decide which pocket to hide the pack of smokes in.

'I am Mr David's friend,' he said.

Gibbs walked closer. 'Where can we find him, Gareth? We'll give you another two packs of cigarettes if you tell us.'

'I helped him move from here. I can show you. Where are my cigarettes?'

'Mr David has them,' Gibbs said, and stood aside, pointing to the door.

# Chapter 22

Clapham Junction, London, England, UK - 2019

The hour dragged on as Gareth Simpson stumbled and meandered the few hundred yards along the littered Northcote Road, then across to the St John's Road pedestrian walkway. Checking every pile of rubbish as he was accustomed to doing took an age as he searched for anything that he deemed useful in his world.

'Jesus, boss. This could take all bloody day,' Killey said. 'Should I hurry him along?'

'His mind seems a little broken, so let's just be patient and see what happens. It is the best lead we've had in days,' Gibbs said.

The four men followed him past Clapham Station, and two abandoned London buses that now served as dining eateries parked up near the entrance. The group ambled past the Public and Commercial Services Union Building, where he stopped and pointed to a carpark of an old Lidl supermarket.

'Where is Mr David, Gareth?' Gibbs asked, getting as close to him as his nostrils would allow.

The homeless man fidgeted and rubbed his nose with his palm. His eyes squeezed shut. Scratching his mass of entangled hair, he pointed directly at the abandoned supermarket. Gibbs looked up at the grey fascia boarding of the shop with its blue, red and yellow logo signboard hanging precariously over the chained front entrance.

'In there,' he said. 'Where are my two packs of cigarettes?'

'You'll get them once we find Mr David.'

Shredder walked over to Gibbs. 'Hiding in an abandoned Lidl. I find that hard to believe. Something is not right here.'

Gibbs nodded.

They crossed over to the car park that was littered with rusty car shells and countless mangled shopping trollies. All four men drew their weapons as they fanned out amongst the debris.

'Keep your eyes peeled, boys,' Gibbs said, glancing over at four men who were sitting around a small drumfire to the side of the car park They glared at Gibbs and his men while warming their hands over the flames, and took swigs of rotgut gin out of a clear wine bottle.

_A very mild evening to be sitting around an open fire_. Gibbs's fighting instincts ratcheted up a level.

Another group of men suddenly appeared from a railway underpass ahead of them and walked directly towards them. The approaching men had also been living rough, with dishevelled hair, and wearing mismatched articles of dirty clothing. All carried a primitive homemade weapon of sorts.

'On me, men,' Gibbs shouted as two more menacing forms stepped through a large hole in one of the smashed supermarket windows.

'What have you done, Gareth?' Gibbs said, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket.

He just started laughing hysterically. 'You're trapped. I tricked you, and now it's time to die.'

Gibbs smashed his Glock17 against the side of Gareth's head, and he whimpered midway through his laugh then sank to his knees in a heap.

'I have four on me,' Shredder called out.

'Me too,' JP said.

'Another two coming out of the supermarket,' Gibbs said. 'Do you see any guns on them?'

'One has a metal pipe. The other might be concealing a firearm,' JP said.

'Okay then. Let's not waste any ammunition unless we have to.'

The three small groups started to circle them like nervous hyenas circling a pride of lions on a kill. Chains, metal poles and wooden posts appeared out of grimy sleeves and jacket pockets. They looked very nervous. One or two snorted and spat globules of tobacco-coloured phlegm at the feet of the four men they had cornered.

'Why don't we all calm down and talk this through. No need to do anything stupid,' Gibbs said.

One of the attackers dressed in a long-faded leather jacket, with a greasy comb-over, took a step forward, and Shredder raised his Glock. 'You're outgunned here, mate, so step back and leave us be.'

'Fuck you, mate. People don't have so many loaded weapons anymore. They are all empty and just for show,' he said, glancing around at Gibbs's men.

'Okay then. Would you like to take another step forward and test your theory?'

The man stood motionless, glaring at Shredder, a thick metal towing chain swinging slowly from his right hand.

A tall man, resembling a character from a Mad Max movie complete with yellow builder's helmet on his head and a red scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, lifted an old sawn-off shotgun out from under his dirty beige trench coat and held it at waist level, pointing it at the four men. Their attackers all screamed encouragement and started to move forward.

Gibbs calmly raised the Glock and fired at the tall man, knocking his helmet off in the first shot as a small trickle of blood wound its way over his bushy eyebrow. The second made a neat hole in his forehead, sending him falling forward to the ground. The surprised attacker standing next to him reached down for the fallen shotgun, but never got the chance to raise it as Gibbs fired again.

Shredder and JP took down two more of their motley attackers before the rest of their collective nerve broke. Dropping their primitive weapons, they turned and ran.

A few more shots near the feet of the retreating group and Gibbs called a ceasefire. He picked up the tall man's sawn-off shotgun, cracking the ancient weapon open to reveal a single shotgun shell next to an empty chamber.

'Damn idiot,' he said, emptying the shell out and slipping into his pocket. His attention turned to a groggy and mumbling Gareth Simpson.

Gareth scampered backwards, as the four men turned and walked towards him.

Killey holstered his Sig 226 and slipped out his large hunting blade. 'Let me get him to talk, boss.'

'What do you think, Gareth? Should I let this man skin you alive?' Gibbs said.

'I am sorry, Mr Gibbs, he made me do it.'

'Who, David Kirkwood?'

'No, the tall blond-haired man.'

'Tell me his name, Gareth, or my friend here will begin by cutting off all your fingers, one by one,' Gibbs said, grabbing the man's lapel and dragging him to his feet.

'He made me promise not to tell you and said he would give us a large cow carcass to cook for our families when you were all dead.'

• • •

A few hundred meters away a gust of wind flicked the man's neatly combed fringe up into the air. His blond hair came to rest on his fingers as he rolled the focusing ring on the high-powered binoculars. He'd been sitting patiently on the roof of the Public and Commercial Services Union building for twenty-four hours. It had cost him his treasured titanium Breitling wristwatch to blag his way up to the roof through the hundreds of squatters' homes erected inside the building.

With his temper boiling and thoughts dwelling on how to get his timepiece back, the players to his little story all came into view.

He saw the four men set up a small fire and take a seat to the side of the car park. Movement and shadows inside the supermarket told him that some had taken a flanking position, with the rest waiting and smoking behind one of the underpass's concrete pillars.

The bumbling fool appeared first, picking up and throwing a bit of litter away. The German smiled as he watched the show the man was putting on through the binoculars. Gareth was a consummate actor from one of the street theatres and was doing his best to suck the targets in. Clearly it had worked, as he saw the four men walk into view.

'Fools,' he said.

Like a slow-motion car crash, he watched with a smile as the plan to flush the men out was in its final scene. The street dwellers never stood a chance and the plan that his paymaster had devised would fall apart spectacularly. He had warned him that it would fail.

When the last few shots echoed through the streets, and the remaining attackers ran away, he hit the redial on his phone.

'Yes?' the voice said.

'As I predicted, sir,' he said. 'Your plan has not worked.'

'What the hell happened?'

'The four targets have neutralised the ten attackers and are now questioning one of the men they've captured. What do you want me to do?' he asked.

'The bloody job I am paying you for. Alex Brun gave me your name and said that this was a job you could handle. Can you handle it?' the man said.

'If we'd done it my way, it would all be over by now.'

'There is nothing wrong with the plan. You can't be using the right people.'

'Don't turn this back onto me. You have underestimated this Gibbs very badly.'

'He's just another soldier. I guess he got lucky this time.'

'He and his men drew their weapons the second they set foot in the carpark. That is battle instinct. Something I know you know nothing about.'

The line was silent for a few seconds. 'Can you turn the situation around?'

'My assessment of the situation is that it's best to leave it for another day.'

'I need this situation rectified now.'

'I will try, but I will do it my way. Is that clear?' the blond man said.

'Fine then. I don't want any loose ends coming back to haunt us. Neutralise them all,' the man said and hung up.

'Idiot,' the tall German said, and pocketed his phone.

He looked down at the car lot and saw that the four men had surrounded the fool and were pushing him around. They ushered and pushed the street actor towards the supermarket.

_Smart men_ , he thought and reached down to feel the cold metal of the Heckler-Koch MSG90 laid down on the roof near his feet. He picked up the sniper's rifle, checked the long silencer on the end of the barrel then pulled out the twenty-round box-magazine of 7.62mm calibre bullets and clicked it back into place.

Resting his left elbow on the concrete edge of the roof, he nestled the hollow stock of the semi-automatic rifle into his right shoulder. Taking a few deep breaths, he flipped up the covers on either end of the Nikon hunting scope and slowly lowered himself into position for the job ahead.

# Chapter 23

Clapham Junction, London, England, UK - 2019

'Did this big German fella give you my name too?' Gibbs asked, pushing Gareth towards the shop entrance.

The man kept quiet.

'Start talking, or else I'm going to start cutting your dangly bits off,' Killey said, holding up a knife to the man's throat.

Suddenly with an eloquent and sophisticated accent, the man transformed right before their eyes and said, 'Look, fellas, he'll kill me if I give you any information.'

Gibbs's mouth fell open as he saw Gareth's posture straighten up and his eyes focus.

'What the hell? Have you been playing us all along?' Shredder said.

'One of my better pieces of street theatre, if I do say so myself,' he replied.

Gibbs raised his Glock and placed it against Gareth's forehead. 'Start talking, Mr fancy pants, or I'll kill you like your friends back there.'

The man looked past Gibbs at the two bodies lying in pools of blood. 'I was to lead you here, they were supposed to kill you, and we would meet him on Waterloo Bridge to get our payoff.'

'I can promise you that the men you're dealing with have no intention of paying you anything. They will kill you all just as they planned to kill us here. Give us the information we want, and I promise you that I will let you go,' Gibbs said, lowering the Glock.

'All I know is that his name is Woolf, and he found us at the street art theatre near Embankment, where we all perform. He said he worked for wealthy individuals.'

Gareth Simpson didn't get another word out as his head jerked to the right in a crimson mist before he collapsed into Gibbs's arms.

'Sniper,' Gibbs shouted and pulled back, dropping the body.

Gibbs and Shredder ran to the left of the car park towards an old green Range Rover and dived behind it for cover. Killey and JP made for the rusty shell of an old VW Golf. Bullets ricocheted off the old tarmac and slapped up into the side of the supermarket.

'Did you spot where they are shooting from?' Gibbs asked.

'Can only be from the tall building across the road. I'll try and get another visual,' Shredder said, looking up at the roof of the building through the vacant car door spaces. Two more rounds thudded into the hard chassis of the car, causing Shredder to duck down again.

'Yip, on the roof,' he said.

'JP, Killey, do you boys have a visual on the shooters?' Gibbs shouted.

'Seems to be a lone gunman, boss. Sounds like a semi-automatic,' JP said.

'Crap,' Gibbs said. 'Pinned down like pigeons.'

Shredder checked the clip in his pistol. 'I have eight rounds left so cannot lay down too much cover fire.'

'It's getting dark pretty quickly so we could just try and wait him out. Then, one at a time we could make it to the smashed window of the shop,' Gibbs said.

'If he is a pro, he'll have a night scope?' Shredder said.

'Possibly, but I am not sure he is an experienced sniper. I mean, why would you silence the man being questioned and not your target that you came to kill? You know a sniper's priority is the target.'

'True, but maybe it's more important to cover up the identity of the sniper and his paymaster than hit the target,' Shredder said.

Gibbs thought for a moment. 'We must be getting close to finding out who set us up. I vote that we stay alive long enough to kill the bastards.'

'Amen to that. We wait for dark then run like chickens and dive through a smashed hole in a large glass shop front window,' Shredder said.

'Sounds about right,' Gibbs said. 'Tell the others.'

'Life is such a joy with you, Gibbs.'

Thirty minutes later Gibbs felt Shredder nudging him awake. He opened his eyes to a clear starry night sky above him. He'd dozed off, dreaming of Sharon, settling down with her and having some kids. Not just yet though.

'Is he still up there?'

'It's been all too quiet,' Shredder said.

Gibbs inched his head up and could just see the corner of the building where the shots seemed to have been coming from. Shedder moved a nearby discarded box above their heads, trying to create some visible movement. Nothing.

'Well, looks like he has gone. So, what now, do we make a run for it?' Shredder said.

'Let's not all rush out together. I'll go first from this side, JP and Killey next, and you run last,' Gibbs said. 'We all lay cover fire as the others run. Single shots only.'

• • •

Upon the building roof, a frustrated Woolf Schmidt had his eyes welded to the night scope. His targets had fired a few random shots in his direction, but he kept missing them as the two groups were split across two sites, thirty meters apart.

Darkness made things more difficult than they already were, and he saw one of the targets pushing a box around the side of the big vehicle. A ploy to check if he was still there.

Looking over the top of the scope, he thought that they would either run to the right and back towards the station or left to the safety of the underpass. Most of those distances would be a fairly long enough run for him to track with the rifle and kill at least two of them.

Suddenly gunshots from both groups whizzed over his head and thumped into the brickwork just below his position. He inched his trigger finger down again and chose to focus on the right-hand Volkswagen. Out of the corner of the crosshairs he saw movement, and swung the rifle to the left to see a body running towards the shop. He tracked as fast as he could and was about to squeeze when the man dived through the hole in the glass.

' _Scheisse!_ ' he screamed, knowing full well that he would have to cover three target areas now. It was not going well. Three targets meant three groups firing at him. He decided to focus on the broken window instead. Let the next one try to dive through.

More bullets fizzed over his head, and a single one hit the lip of the roof, showering him with concrete and broken roof tile. Bullets hit the concrete section of the roof. They were getting closer. He looked up again just as another pair of legs disappeared through the window.

It was a futile exercise now, so Woolf stayed below the rim. Another opportunity would present itself again in the future. He broke down the rifle and carefully packed it into a brown duffle bag, which he slung over his shoulder as he snuck away to the centre of the roof. A loud screech reverberated across the roof as he swung open the steel trapdoor, the metal ladder leading into the dark belly of the building reminding him of a descent into hell.

A breeze smelling of coal and human waste blew into his face as he reached the top floor and walked across the landing to the main stairs. Hundreds of watching eyes from the hidden hovels and homemade corners followed him as he walked. Laundry hung on stolen telephone wire that spanned across the derelict stairwells, limiting his view. Someone could jump him at any moment. Turning to walk down the top flight of cracked wooden stairs, he saw four men with axes and metal poles waiting at the bottom of the first landing.

'Step aside and let me through,' Woolf said. 'I don't want to hurt any of you, not in front of all your families.'

The man who had commandeered his watch the day before pushed his way through the group of rag-wearing men, carrying a home fashioned machete. 'Leave that large bag behind, and we may let you out alive.'

'Don't be idiots,' he said. 'You already have my expensive watch. That was more than enough to cover my exit.'

'We will decide what your exit value is, mate,' the man said, waving the large blade at him.

Woolf sighed and reached into his jacket for the safe feel of his Heckler and Koch P8. He pulled the weapon with its noise suppressor out and floored all four men where they stood.

Keeping the weapon at his side, he walked down the stairs and stepped over the scattered bodies. Reaching towards a body, he ripped his watch from the dead man's wrist.

# Chapter 24

Vauxhall, London, England, UK - 2019

The smell of fresh jasmine and warm water woke Gibbs from a deep sleep. Sleep he'd craved and needed after a long week. He sat up on the mattress that was on the floor in the centre of the room. It'd been a long time since he had slept between freshly cleaned sheets. Behind him stood a cupboard with military uniforms hung and folded with the precision of a well-ordered person. He looked across the neat room at the oak chest of drawers that stood next to a small dressing table with a large mirror placed on top. Next to the mattress, an antique wooden wine box with a few old candles had been used as a bedside table with an empty bottle of whisky and two glasses on top of it.

He frowned and massaged his brow as the dull hangover headache begun to pound incessantly.

'What would you give to have two aspirin right now?' Sharon said.

Gibbs started to speak, and then stopped as he stared at the toned naked body of the woman in front of him while she dried her short blonde hair with a bright pink towel. Beads of water surfed their way down her defined feminine form, trying to escape the impending drought.

'Bring that body over here, and you'll find out,' he replied, trying not to leer at her.

'Sadly, you won't find any tablets in this flat so may I suggest you have a quick shower so we can go and find breakfast.'

'It's so bloody early, come back to bed.'

'No, Gibbs. Get up and make the bed. You do remember how to, don't you?' she said, throwing the wet towel at him. It smelt of jasmine.

Later that morning they held hands as they walked together in silence through a busy park behind Sharon's flat. Stopping at a few market stalls that sold bits of other people's junk, they hurried on as the smell of bacon from a food stall drew them away.

'Did you have a chance to speak to your contact at MI6?' Gibbs asked. 'I'm keen to find out who's being trying to kill us all.'

'You can say "my ex" you know, you don't have to keep calling him my contact,' Sharon said.

'What did your ex have to say?'

'I spoke to him yesterday, and he said it was proving difficult to get all the pieces of the puzzle for the Angolan trip because a lot of information had gone missing.'

'Missing?'

'Removed, deleted, whatever you want to call it. He did keep seeing the name John Mountford popping up, and he apparently works with a group of wealthy individuals in some club or another,' she said.

'That sounds like the group of individuals who hired us. Did he mention a David Kirkwood at all?'

'He did. And your friend Captain Warren also showed up although I don't understand what he has to do with it. Isn't he still be based up in Grangemouth? Why would they send out so many teams to help with a coup, yet have none of the teams meet up?'

'If you want to appear to be helping a government, you need to create a crisis first, and then you step in to help defuse the crisis by bringing the men who perpetrated that crime to justice,' he explained. 'I think we were named as the team working with the rebels during the coup.'

'So, it was a set-up.'

'I didn't think so in the beginning while we did the planning, but once we were in Angola, my suspicions grew. After they attempted to take us out the other day, I'm convinced it was a set-up. Can you do me another favour?'

'If you buy me breakfast first,' she said.

'Deal,' he said, squeezing her hand. 'I've been struggling to get hold of a man by the name of Mason Waterfield. I think he will be able to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle.'

'Why?'

'He was one of the first people I met with and was responsible for hiring me, yet his name doesn't appear to be on any of the intelligence about the coup, so either he is the mastermind behind the whole thing and covering his tracks really well, or he's also in mortal danger.'

• • •

John Mountford climbed the stairs of a nondescript house on the quiet Mount Road, off the expanse of Hyde Park in London. He glanced around to make sure that no one had followed him. A tall man wearing a long brown coat, jeans and sporting a black beanie on his head, stopped further up the road and turned towards the wall to light a cigarette. John felt his stomach clench. Had he seen the man somewhere before? He looked across to the row of redbrick houses opposite to him. A curtain fell closed in one of them. Glancing upward to the roof of the building, he looked at the CCTV camera that would already have alerted the occupants of the house that he'd arrived. He lifted his hand to use the large brass knocker. The knot in his stomach tightened even more.

A tall blond man, who John recognised as another of Lord Butler's right-hand men, opened the door, his huge frame blocking the entrance. He stared at John, looking him up and down.

'Hello, Markus,' John said.

The German giant grunted a greeting and stepped aside, his right hand never leaving the Heckler and Koch pistol tucked into the back of his trousers, glancing past the visitor and scanning the street.

'A usual beacon of happiness, I see,' John said, brushing past the man.

Taking a deep breath, John entered the stuffy old study on the first floor. The walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with books, old magazines and small trinkets. Lord Butler was seated behind a large stained oak desk, reading from a red leather-bound book. 'Come on in, John. Have a seat,' Lord Butler said. 'It's nice to see you again.'

'Morning, sir. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,' John said, sinking into one of the big red leather antique chairs. 'I know that you're a busy man.'

'That's quite alright, John. Have you ever read Sun Tzu's _The Art of War_?'

'No, I cannot say I have.'

'You really should, John. It could help you with some of the Billionaire Club politics. I particularly love this quote - _Appear where they cannot go, head for where they expect you least.'_

'I'll have to read it, sir.'

'Good, you'll learn a thing or two. Now, what is this about, John? It's highly irregular to meet outside the scheduled Club meetings. I can only assume it's to discuss the disappearance of your hired guns in Africa.'

John Mountford swallowed hard.

'The same men who were supposed to take the blame for the failed coup attempt,' Lord Butler said. 'Am I correct?'

'You are, sir.'

'One of my African sources has recently been in touch with me. He informed me that the coup was successfully quelled and that the Angolan government is now extremely grateful for our help. A government now more inclined to agree with us regarding our global resource strategies,' Lord Butler said.

'That's a fortuitous result,' John said. 'We still have the other problem, sir.'

'No, John. You still have a problem. Your team let the scapegoats get away. I warned you not to use that team under Captain Warren. The German ex-Special Forces soldier you just walked past in the corridor a few minutes ago, looked at all the team résumés for me and said that the wrong teams were doing the wrong tasks. That's been proven right, hasn't it?'

'I take your point, Lord Butler, but regardless of who is to blame, it still needs to be sorted,' John said.

'And I take it you want my help to tidy up your little mess?'

'You do claim you have contacts all over the world,' John said.

'Easy, my dear boy. Show me the respect I believe I've earned as the founder of the Billionaires Club,' Lord Butler said. 'You've made a few enemies in the Club with that petulant attitude of yours. I warn you not to add me to that list.'

John turned pale and felt a cold sweat sweep through him. 'My sincere apologies. I'm just keen to sort this problem out as soon as I can. We were unable to pick up their trail in Africa after they gave our men the slip at the refinery.'

Lord Butler stared at him for a while, eyes narrowing as he increased the tension with a long silence. 'The one thing we know for sure is that they will be travelling under false identities. I take it that you've already contacted David Kirkwood to verify what those names are?'

'Yes, sir, I have.'

'That's a positive start at least.'

'I believe there was a sighting of one of them in Dover and that they are back in the UK already. We are just not sure where, because the passports' identities don't tie up with the sightings,' John said.

Lord Butler was silent for a few seconds. John felt the stare burrowing through him. 'I will use my own, more reliable, resources to track them as they travel. If they are in the UK, let them travel around freely and get comfortable on home soil. When they drop their guard, we can then deal with the situation ourselves at the time of our choosing. I'm concerned that if they get caught up in the immigration system first then into the legal system, silencing them will be more difficult at a later stage.'

'I have men in the prison services here who can do that job,' John said.

'So, what? Why would you chance them striking a deal with the prosecution service?'

'At least they could be silenced before any trial.'

'No, John. That's what your man was supposed to do in Angola, thus eliminating any chances of it coming back to haunt you. It will have to happen in the UK now. Let the targets move around freely and watch them carefully. Oh, and call Captain Warren back to London immediately before he causes any unpleasant diplomatic incidents.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Before you leave here, I want to let you know that I have long backed your position in the Club, John, despite everyone telling me I shouldn't,' Lord Butler said.

'And I thank you for that, sir,' John said, shifting in his seat.

'It breaks my heart and angers me to learn that not only have you been lying to my face as you sit here but you have been hiding things from me. Is that how you intend to repay my continual support?'

John blinked rapidly, his hands clasped together. 'I don't follow.'

'Hiring one of my key personnel in a failed attempt to assassinate the team led by Kyle Gibbs and being stupid enough to believe that I wouldn't find out about it,' Lord Butler said.

John sat with his mouth open, his heart pounding in his chest.

'It was a reckless and amateur endeavour, John. The job was rushed and not properly planned out at all. Luckily some good has come out of it,' Lord Butler said.

John rubbed his forehead. His throat felt like a desert.

'Come on, John, think about it. We now know that Gibbs and his men are looking for revenge on the men who set them up to die, and that would be you, John. Our enemy has revealed his intent,' Lord Butler said, tapping the red book on his desk.

'I will take care of it.'

'Yes, and you'll only get one more chance to rectify this issue, my friend. I'm growing tired of your incompetence.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You'd also better start looking into one Captain Sharon Matthews, she is asking very pertinent and difficult questions in the intelligence community and getting closer to finding you,' Lord Butler said, picking up the book. 'Make sure it all goes away this time, John.'

# Chapter 25

Clapham, London, England, UK - 2019

Captain John Warren stood in the teeming rain outside what looked like an abandoned old bar. He'd been instructed to attend a meeting with a man he didn't like. It was going to be a long bitch session about his recent failure in Africa. He couldn't wait to get back to Scotland and away from the politics. Looking up and down the street for faces he might recognise as he'd been instructed to do, he turned back to face the green tiled walls and blackened out windows of the building in front of him. A distant thumping baseline from a nearby building shook the pavement where he stood. The faded brass lettering above the door of The Goat pub glistened in the evening drizzle. A large doorman filled the doorway, glaring down at him as he stepped forward.

'Have you been in here before, mate?' the man said, dressed in a long black trench coat and Doc Marten boots.

'Several times,' Captain Warren said, looking up at the giant of a man who slowly moved out of the way.

'Just a friendly reminder. Keep your hands to yourself unless you are paying for the goods.'

He entered through the blackened entrance and walked down a dozen wooden steps into the darkness. The dim atmosphere was intensified by the blackened-out window panes, and he stopped to allow his eyes to acclimatise to the dark. His memory failed to identify the classic rock song booming out of oversized speakers around the dimly lit old pub. He forced himself to focus on the reason for his visit.

Scantily-clad young ladies smoked and chatted as they huddled together in a small enclave to the left of him. They all looked up at him simultaneously as he walked past. Two topless girls were perched on barstools at the velvet and leather-lined bar counter. They stopped speaking what sounded like Russian and smiled seductively at him. He nodded then scanned the bar and saw John Mountford seated in a side booth with a lady companion.

'Give us a few minutes, love,' John Mountford said to the topless woman straddling his lap. She slipped out of the leather booth, smiling at Captain Warren as he stared down at her large swinging breasts.

'Take a seat, Captain.'

He obliged and slipped into the grimy plastic seat opposite the billionaire.

John Mountford took a large swig of his whiskey. 'I've spoken to Lord Butler, and we are both in agreement that this Gibbs affair needs to be cleaned up bloody quickly. Failure to do so will result in you and your team not receiving the balance of money owed to you.'

'But that's bollocks.'

The man opposite him slammed his hand down on the table. 'Don't interrupt me again, Captain. Is that clear? You fucked up a very simple mission which resulted in me having to grovel in front of the founding member of the Billionaires Club for his help. A man who takes great joy in paying brutal men to dispose of anyone who screws up or crosses him in any way. That means both you and I are in his crosshairs right now. Do you understand?'

'Sorry, but I had no idea the Club was directly involved in this shit. I thought it was David Kirkwood's operation. What do you want me to do?'

'Kirkwood reports directly to the man who started it all. Someone who despises incompetence and loose ends.'

John swallowed hard. A bead of sweat broke out on his temple.

'Here is what you are going to do, Captain. You are going to make this whole bloody issue disappear. If you don't complete the job, you will never do business with our organisation again. Are those threats clear?'

'Crystal. I will need time to try and track Gibbs and his men down,' he said, his voice trailing off as John leaned forward.

'After the fiasco in Angola, did you think I would give you this job without taking direct control of it? No chance, Captain. From now on you take direct orders from me and report back to me on a daily basis.'

'Yes, sir.'

'We know they used false passports when they left for Angola. What we didn't know was that they had a second set of false passports made, which they've now used to re-enter the UK. That's the reason you couldn't track their movements out of Africa. We got very lucky in Dover when a resource of ours recognised one of Gibbs's men coming in via Calais.'

'Who was it?'

'It was one Martin Stander, aka Simeon de Klerk, aka Jean-Pierre Greeff,' John said, signalling across to the busty hostess.

'He is Gibbs's South African connection. I wonder what he is doing in the UK.'

'You don't get to wonder about anything anymore, Captain. That is now beyond your remit. He's here now, and we are tailing him until he leads us to the rest of the team. Once that has been achieved, I will pass on their whereabouts, and you can finish off your damn mission. Here is a contact number for the crew who are tailing him. Now get out of my sight.'

• • •

JP Greeff finished off the last of his pint of lager and walked out of the pub onto the warm sunlit London high street. He wasn't sure if it was the effects of the few beers or the large bank account that he had just withdrawn money from, but life was good. He turned off the busy Oxford Street to head down to the small hotel he was staying at, and his thoughts turned to the juicy steak he was going to order when he got there.

The side road bustled with street traders and beggars, all working their little patch of London. A quick flash of the pistol under his jacket chased away a few persistent beggars who harassed him for loose change, and he knew to guard his wallet for most of the walk. It all added to the charm of the historic city that was once again in flux, and he loved being part of it. Another young urchin ran up to him, begging for food. JP was near the hotel door so decided to capitulate and give the little man his spare change. As he reached for his wallet, a strange feeling washed over him, a feeling honed from battlefields around the world. He was being watched.

He dropped the coins on the ground as the glancing blow of the bullet hit the side of his head like a battering ram forcing him against the wall of the building. Then two quick hits to the back drove the wind out of him. He looked down at the red stain of the through-and-through, showing on the right-hand side of his shirt, then he coughed up the blood from his collapsing lung.

JP didn't hear any gunfire, and a feeling that he was floating took over as his legs gave way. He could hear a passer-by screaming. He clutched his blood-stained chest and rolled forward, pushing himself up on one arm as two more bullets narrowly missed his head, smashing into the marble pillar of a nearby doorway.

' _Kom jong_ \- come on, man,' he groaned to himself in his native Afrikaans. His legs felt like jelly and resisted his commands, but he managed to stumble towards the corner of the street. Another bullet nicked his right shoulder. He cried out, gritting his teeth as he made it around the corner of the building. Jumbled thoughts flashed through his mind, the pain was excruciating as he tried to take a deep breath to slow it all down. It felt like he had a truck resting on his chest as he wheezed then coughed up darker red blood into his hand.

'Let me help you,' a voice with a German accent said. Someone grabbed him by his arm and ushered him away from the main street.

'Cheers, mate. Can you call an ambulance, please?' JP said in a soft voice, wiping the blood away from his mouth.

'Sure,' the helper said, subtly moving his free arm to his belt. He slipped out a silenced Sig 226 pistol, thrust it into JP's ribs and pulled the trigger three times.

• • •

Gibbs slammed his beer down on the stained and rickety oak table, splashing amber liquid everywhere, his eyes riveted on the television that was encased in a metal cage and bolted onto the wall. 'Do me a favour, mate,' he called to the barman. 'Can you turn up the volume on the TV?'

He sank back into his seat just as Shredder and Killey returned from the beer garden outside, with two young ladies in tow. Gibbs glanced at them and then pointed to the television screen. The headline, "South African gunned down near Oxford Street," streamed across the bottom of the screen as a reporter delivered a broadcast from outside a London hotel.

'JP?' Shredder asked, his face suddenly pale.

'I think that's his hotel. The reporter said they hadn't confirmed an identity yet,' Gibbs said, his gaze fixed on the screen.

The young woman with Killey asked, 'Do you know the man that was shot?'

Gibbs glared at her and then back at Killey.

'Love, why don't you girls go and get us a round of drinks, we need a few minutes of privacy here,' Killey said.

The on-scene reporter rambled on about the time of the shooting and possible motives. The bit of news that did get their attention was the fact that witnesses said the bullets were coming from all directions, and also that the man was gunned down in a quiet side street nearby.

'Sounds like pros,' Shredder said, in a hushed tone. They all nodded.

Gibbs took a long sip of his draught beer and took out his mobile phone.

'Who are you calling, boss?' Killey asked.

'Whichever shit will take my call,' Gibbs said, sliding off the chair to head outside.

# Chapter 26

Oxford Street, Central London, England, UK - 2019

'Sir, I'm not getting any answer from Mr Greeff's room,' the voice said on the other end of the line. 'May I take a message? Wait a minute, sir? Let me try one more time.'

Gibbs frowned as the phone rang again.

'Hello, this is Detective Mills here. I've been told that you are asking for Mr Greeff. May I enquire what your business is with him?' the voice said.

Gibbs hung up the phone and went over to the minibar. He cracked open the half-jack of cheap whiskey he'd traded for and poured a large wedge into a plastic cup, lifting it in a toast to acknowledge a fallen brother in arms. He smiled as he recalled the big man's smiling face and loud laugh. A man who'd saved his life on more than one occasion. 'Safe travels and good battles, big man,' Gibbs said, swallowing hard, as the whiskey hit his stomach and smoothed out the hollow feeling.

The shrill ringing of his phone snapped him out of his gloom. 'Yes!' he answered.

'It's David Kirkwood.'

Gibbs crushed the cup and threw it on the table next to the bed. Emotions raged inside him as he looked at the phone handset, wanting to strangle it. He took a long slow breath. 'Kirkwood, you bastard. Where the fuck have you been? I've left you so many bloody messages.'

'Calm down, Gibbs.'

'What happened in Angola, and why were we set up?'

'Jesus, Gibbs, slow down. I've been a little busy of late. It seems I've been implicated in the coup attempt along with you and I've had to go into hiding because someone is trying to kill me.'

'We've had a major attempt on our lives already, and now JP is dead, so pardon me for not caring about your scrawny arse.'

'Who did you tell about the mission? It seems that my name is now linked to yours,' Kirkwood asked.

'No one, you idiot. Don't lay the blame at our door. Why would we tell anyone? If there is a leak, then it is on your end.'

'Just calm down, man. We'll need to work together to find out who is trying to kill us,' he said.

'Someone in the Billionaires Club is responsible for the whole damn thing. I'll chase that lead down. You get busy looking into JP's murder,' Gibbs said.

'Going after a member of the Billionaires Club is a bit premature, don't you think?'

'Don't tell me what to do, Kirkwood. Let's get that straight from the outset. I won't rest until I get to the bottom of JP's murder. He should've died in some godforsaken jungle. Not assassinated by cowards on a city street in cold blood,' Gibbs said.

'I understand your grief.'

'You don't understand anything about losing a man in combat, Kirkwood. We have to find out who did this and fast. Do you have any additional information regarding the shooting?'

'Just why would I have any additional information about this?' Kirkwood said.

'You claim to have all these resources and contacts at your fingertips. Start using some of them, or were you also lying to me about your influence?

'Don't patronise me.'

'You don't have any contacts who can help then?'

'I have a source in the Met Police who I know is working on the case. All they have so far is that his murder was perpetrated by at least two people, and they've found the likely spot from where the sniper pulled the trigger, but no weapon or cartridges were found. The grouping of bullets in the chest and ribs show two shooters who knew what they were doing.'

'Of course they did,' Gibbs said. 'It happened on a busy street in broad daylight, and the reporters say there are no witnesses. Have you heard anything out there about a contract out on my team?'

'No, nothing like that. It may not have anything to do with the job you've just done. JP could have made other enemies. Are you sure you are not overreacting a little here, Gibbs?'

'Overreacting? I'll show you overreacting when I wring your scrawny little neck. In case you don't know already, the media have just released his real name and the fact that he was checked in at the hotel on a false passport. Who do you suppose leaked that to them? In the messages I've left you, I told you that we were all being targeted as a group. Whoever they are, they may now have decided to take us out individually.'

'Okay, you have a point. I still have a few other sources I can contact to see if you are on a hit list. Now stay put and please don't do anything stupid. If you give me the address of where you and your guys are staying, I can arrange for extra protection.'

Gibbs laughed. 'Fat chance. I know how this all works. We'll remain below the radar until I can get some answers. You don't seem to be able to give me the answers I want, so set up an immediate meeting with Mason Waterfield.'

'He won't meet with you now, and you know that. Not with one of your men all over the bloody news.'

'We've not been paid the balance of the cash for Angola yet, so tell him it's in his interest to meet with me before his involvement in the failed coup is leaked to the press.'

'You seriously can't try to threaten a man like him without proof, Gibbs. There are simply far too many people between you and him who could take the fall.'

'Including you?'

'Give me a bloody break, Gibbs. I'm also owed a lot of money, so it would be stupid of me not to protect him on this issue. I'm just being honest here.'

'Fine, but now it's my turn to be frank. If we're forced to stay below the radar, things could get very difficult for this illustrious Billionaires Club. I was smart enough to record a few of my meetings, and the one with Mr Waterfield at his mansion makes for interesting listening.'

There was silence on the line for a few seconds. 'I'll try and set up a meeting, but you're playing a very dangerous game.'

'Dangerous games don't scare me, Kirkwood. You of all people should know that. Set up the damn meeting or we go public with this.'

# Chapter 27

Carlington Estate, Surrey, UK - October 2019

Gibbs followed the heavy-set man who was dressed in a tight-fitting tweed shooting jacket, green trousers and wellington boots as they slowly walked away from Carlington House and down a small leafy lane. It was a surprisingly warm day for autumn in the UK, and he loved being out in the countryside again. The poverty and squalor of London were a long way away from the luxurious old manor and those who called it home. Scanning the horizon for threat or menace, he only saw the occasional farm worker going about their business of preparing the soil for planting. Most of these labourers worked for the landowner, which Gibbs assumed to be Mason Waterfield.

The brawny man ahead of him was no farm worker though, and judging by the bulge in the left side of his jacket, he was armed. Gibbs felt naked without a sidearm, which he had been forced to relinquish when he arrived at the mansion.

They continued along the overgrown public pathway, over a mud-covered footpath stile and then walked across three more fields, the sound of gunfire getting louder as they approached.

The pheasant drive was already in full flow by the time they arrived, and Gibbs spotted Mason standing in an enclosed wooden hide, shotgun raised aloft as the distant beaters drove the pheasants towards their guns. Small puffs of smoke flashed from the shotgun barrels a split second before the thunderous noise reached Gibbs.

They had to wait until the pheasant drive was complete, and after thirty minutes of sitting down at the foot of an old oak tree, Gibbs was summoned to one of the hides.

'Good morning, Gibbs,' Mason said as he entered. 'You certainly have made quite a nuisance of yourself over the past few days, haven't you?'

'When I don't get the answers I want, I'm forced to keep rattling cages until I get to the man who has all those answers.'

'I see, and I assume you think that I'm that man,' Mason said, handing his shotgun to another armed guard. 'How can I be of service?'

'I have a few issues that need clarifying, but you can start by telling me what the hell happened down in Angola?'

Mason motioned for Gibbs to enter the hide and asked his two bodyguards to step away. 'What in particular would you like to know?'

'Let's start with why the hell we were forced to scramble out of there with our tails between our legs. We only just managed to destroy four of the storage tanks and pipeline before the Angolan forces overran the refinery,' Gibbs said.

'Did you do everything that you could have done to destroy the plant?'

'Under the circumstances, I'd say yes, but I should have been involved in the planning of the coup, Mason. The taking of Luanda was far more important than us securing an oil depot,' Gibbs said. 'I'd also like to know who the hell sent John Warren after us once the coup had gone tits up. Was he on your payroll or was he hired independently by the Angolan government? Which you have to admit, would be one hell of a coincidence?'

Mason stood with his arms folded and his legs spread apart. His jaw muscles clenched as he ground his teeth. He was not a man who was usually spoken to like this. 'Four teams were sent to Angola at the same time as you. All had to execute different tasks that would add to the overall cohesiveness of the mission. The planning was done with certain strategic goals in mind and not all of them would have been made available to you.'

'Obviously, the coup failed because the government wasn't overthrown, now was it?'

Mason smiled. 'This is sensitive information, Gibbs, but between us, the strategic plan was never to topple the Angolan government.'

'Why the hell were we there?'

Mason stood looking at him for a few more seconds.

'I'm going to trust you with classified mission information because of the recent incident with your colleague. I need you to keep this to yourself,' Mason said. 'The plan was to create a simple diversion. A simulated coup to get the Angolan government which was already at the negotiating table, to discuss what has become the main issue in the central African region.'

Gibbs took a step towards Mason. 'I'm sorry, but did you just say a diversion? Are you saying that my men and I risked our lives for a fucking diversion without knowing about it?' he said, his voice low and menacing. 'Do you know how many rebel fighters lost their lives for your so-called diversion?'

'Come on, Gibbs, you're a soldier and more importantly, a mercenary. You know that lives are sometimes lost for the greater cause, whether you agree with that cause or not.'

'What was the greater cause here, then? Oil?'

'Oil was simply a front, but by stepping in and quashing an attempted coup, the Billionaires Club has secured a vital deal with the Angolan government, who have now signed up to be part of a new economic resource zone with Botswana, Zimbabwe and Mozambique.'

'For what possible reason?'

'Water,' Mason said. 'Our aim is to control this critical resource across the globe to prevent any conflicts and wars that may result from any attempted exploitation of the valuable resource. This new Southern African zone will secure and control all the water flowing in the Cubango, Okavango and Zambezi rivers. It is the most precious of resources we have now, and the Billionaires Club wants to control as much of it as we can, either directly or indirectly. That was the reason for the diversionary coup, Gibbs. To get the unequivocal trust of the Angolan government.'

'If what you're telling me is true, my team's role is complete, then?'

'Yes, it is, and we may need your talents in the future. We're going to need you and your men's skill, with the proviso that you hand over any recordings you may have of our conversations. Although, personally I think that was just a bluff, wasn't it?'

'That depends on your next two answers. Firstly, why the hell are people still trying to kill us? And secondly, why haven't we received the rest of the money you owe us?'

Mason frowned. 'That cannot be right. I'll have a chat with the other members.'

'Who? Like, John Mountford? I have it on good authority that it was him who hired John Warren to eliminate us in Angola.'

'Leave that point with me, Gibbs. As the Chairman of the Billionaires Club, I can tell you that we never sanctioned any hit on you or your team. I will look into it,' Mason said.

'What about the balance of our payment?'

'We paid Kirkwood Enterprises up front, and in full, covering all your costs and salaries. That was done more than two weeks before you left these shores. As your agent, you'll have to take that up with him.'

'That jammy little bastard...' Gibbs started to say when something hit him on the side of the head, and he staggered sideways, grabbing on to one of the wooden beams in the roof of the hide. He looked across at a shocked Mason before it all started to go dark. His legs gave way, and he slumped to his knees.

A few seconds later he opened his eyes and shook his doughy head. Touching the side of his temple caused a shooting pain into his brain as he stared down at the crimson liquid smeared on his fingers. 'Bastards,' he said.

Rolling over, he looked across to where Mason lay slumped against the opposite wall of the shooting hide. Blood trickled from a hole in his temple and streamed down his grey hair onto his shooting jacket, a surprised stare etched on his face.

Gibbs scanned the horizon, but his vision was blurred and hazy. Nearby, he could make out the two bodyguards lying on the floor, also dead. Disorientated but driven by instinct, he crawled over to one of the bodies and rolled the downed man onto his back. A warm trickle of blood ran down over his eyebrow and into his eye. Wiping it away, he removed one of the Sig 226 pistols from the dead bodyguard's holster.

The gunmen would probably want to make sure that all their targets had been eliminated. He had to be ready but still felt drowsy and shook his head in an attempt to stay conscious. 'Come on, you bastards, let's see your bloody faces,' he whispered. Lying on the floor of the hide he used the body as a shield. He had to let them get close.

A few minutes later, the shape of the first sniper emerged from the oak tree line to the east of the hide, followed shortly afterwards by another one a hundred meters further south. A third appeared less than fifty metres away. They were cautious and methodical as they zig-zagged their way towards the hides, silenced rifles lifted in front of them to cover their advance. Gibbs grabbed another magazine from the dead bodyguard. He squinted towards the west and recognised the small wooded area just off the path, which he had walked through earlier.

Lifting the pistol, he held his breath as he aimed at the closest sniper. He paused for a second, allowing his groggy senses to focus, and then squeezed the trigger. The sound of the discharge and recoil moved Gibbs into action as the first sniper stumbled, a bullet catching him in the hip.

'Move, legs,' Gibbs urged himself on as he stumbled out of the hide and ran towards the path. His heart was soon bursting from the effort as he made it to an old dry-stone wall at the top of the field. Bullets ricocheted off the wall around him, flicking shards in all directions as he made his best effort to clamber over. A sharp pain surged up his leg, and he knew that he had been hit again. Gibbs fell over the wall and started to crawl, trying to block the pain out as he focused on the woods ahead.

Turning back, he fired a quick burst over the wall in the rough direction of the second sniper who veered right then ran back towards the woods. Gibbs finished off the magazine and ejected it in a single movement.

'Arrrgh!' Gibbs screamed, realising that one of them had gotten away. 'Come on, you bastard, show yourself.'

He slammed the last magazine into the Sig 226. He had ten shots left. Taking a deep breath, he started off for the trees, the pain from his leg nearly crippling him as he jinked to change direction. His senses began to fail with each step, and he fell forward onto a pile of sharp sticks, groaning with pain. Energy sapped away from him as he struggled to his feet again. A crack from a bullet hitting a tree ahead of him galvanised him. _Move your arse, Gibbs._ Finally, he reached the safety of the trees. Taking deep breaths, it felt like he had acid in his lungs. Slumping down behind a fallen tree, he waited, all his focus channelled into staying conscious. Drowsiness drew a veil across his unsteady gaze, and he blinked a few times to clear his vision. Blood trickled into his eye, and he rubbed it away with the back of his hand again. Movement near the wall to his left, and he fired a few shots at the moving shape of one of the snipers.

'Gibbs,' a voice shouted.

A voice he recognised. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he recalled a voice he despised. He slowly turned to see the butt of a machine gun hurtling down towards his face.

# Chapter 28

Aldershot, Hampshire, England UK - 2019

Gibbs gasped as he opened his eyes. Blurred and swirling patches of light confused him as he stared up at the ceiling. An incessant beeping from somewhere behind him added to his bewilderment. Blinking a few times, he recognised Mason, who was standing at the foot of his bed, surrounded by people wearing surgical masks and speaking in hushed voices. He started to speak to Mason, but a wave of drowsiness swept over him again. A young woman walked over to him said something to him, but her voice was distorted and muffled. He tried to raise his hands, but they seemed stuck to his sides. Was he awake? She leaned over to him, but his eyes fluttered closed again.

The overpowering aroma of chemical cleanliness filled his nostrils as he slowly opened his eyes. The lights above him were shimmering with a fusion of blues and yellows. Sounds bashed and gnawed at his brain.

'Mason?' he said, his throat dry and scratchy.

A blonde nurse with her hair tied up in a ponytail and wearing brown army fatigues walked over from where she had been standing next to a range of lit-up medical machines and placed her hand on his shoulder. 'It's okay, Sergeant Gibbs. Everything will be alright.'

'Where am I?'

'Frimley Park Military Hospital, Sergeant.'

'What the hell happened? How did I get here?'

'You're very lucky to be alive, Sergeant, the bullet grazed your head, severely damaging your skull, so the surgeon placed you into an induced coma for a couple of weeks until the internal bleeding stopped and the swelling on your brain eased up,' she said, adjusting a bandage on his head. 'The bullet from your leg has been removed. It missed a crucial artery so you should be fine.'

Gibbs lifted his hand to try and touch the bandages on his head, but his arm was restrained. He looked down in surprise to see both his arms had been handcuffed to the bed's metal frame.

'I'm afraid you are also under arrest, Sergeant. Our orders are to keep you restrained at all times. Captain Matthews will be along later to discuss the charges against you.'

'Shredder and Killey?'

'I don't know who or what those are, Sergeant. All that's important now is that you relax and get your rest.'

He looked up at the fluorescent striplights and recalled the shocked look on Mason's pale face, a few jumbled memories of assassins and a familiar voice calling out his name, a voice that he couldn't quite place. Closing his eyes, he fell back into a deep sleep.

• • •

In a smart Richmond-upon-Thames restaurant, located in one of the last four-star hotels remaining in London, four men sat finishing another bottle of red wine. John Warren, Mark Cooper, Matt Hagen and Chip Ripley were being their obnoxious selves and had ensured that all of the other diners had wolfed down their meals and retreated to their rooms. The cute, brunette waitress who'd drawn the short straw to serve them for their third consecutive meal that weekend, had done her best before a loud slap to her bottom had seen her run out of the restaurant in tears.

'Hold on, gents,' John said, taking a phone out of his jacket pocket. 'Shut up will you, I need to take this.'

'Hello, sir,' he said.

'No, sir. There weren't any problems with the job. We made all the changes to the plan as per your instructions.'

'Yes. All the weapons and evidence were given to the Judge Advocate General (JAG) who'll take it from there. You said that you would pass it on to the Crown Prosecution Service yourself, didn't you?'

'Afraid we lost two of our men, but I managed to stage their deaths as part of the new scenario.'

'Thank you very much, sir. I'm confident that it'll all point to him.'

John ended the call with a large smile on his face. Reaching for his glass of wine, he raised it into the air. His dinner companions did the same. 'To the end of fucking Sergeant Gibbs.'

Outside, a black Range Rover slowly drove past the hotel before parking nearby on the darkened Queen's Street. Two occupants sat and waited for a further ten minutes before getting out.

They walked around the corner and headed towards the hotel's small gate that allowed access from the pavement. The two-storey white building was lit up against the late evening sky, and the doorman was at his post, preventing a few young beggars intent on accessing the main lobby to beg. The men stopped, scanned the street in both directions then drew their modified Sig P226 pistols with attached silencers from their belts. Slipping amongst the parked cars, they walked towards the main entrance, pulling balaclavas down over their faces as they approached.

The young street kids had seen them approaching through the car park and scurried away amongst the parked luxury cars, sensing the danger. The doorman looked up just as they reached the steps and his smile quickly vanished when he noticed their handguns. One of the men walked up to him and punched him in the face, the force laying the doorman out cold against one of the ornate pillars that framed the large glass doors.

Entering via the lobby, they saw their target through the engraved glass door of the otherwise deserted Stag Restaurant. Peering through the door, they saw the restaurant was deserted except for their targets. The first bullet hit Mark Cooper in the chest as he dropped to his right. Chip was faster off the mark and had just managed to pull his weapon before he too collapsed, the force of two closely grouped heart shots knocking him backwards, his pistol hitting the floor with a clunk. John Warren had only just managed to turn around in his seat and look at the men when the second assailant shot him in the head twice. He fell forward into his plate of chicken soup, blood splattering onto the white tablecloth.

Revenge had been served.

Shredder and Killey lifted up the balaclavas and walked over to the table to make sure all the targets were dead.

'We were told there would be four men here tonight,' Killey said.

'There should have been. Look, someone's been eating at that place setting. Maybe they went off to bed or are in the toilet,' Shredder said.

'Let's check. I could use a slash.'

'Sure. Let's hang around after slaughtering the patrons in the dining room.'

'Who are they going to call? Nature calls for me and cannot wait.'

'Fine. Lose the balaclavas as you walk through the hotel,' Shredder said.

They turned back towards the doors, tucked the balaclavas into their jackets and hid their weapons. Matt Hagen walked through the double glass doors of the restaurant. He was still wringing his hands of excess water from the washroom when his eyes flicked to the bodies of the three men then back to Killey and Shredder, who were walking towards him.

The panic in the man's eyes as he reached for the phantom pistol that wasn't on his belt sparked Shredder into action. 'It's him,' he said and reached inside his jacket for the Sig.

Matt spun around and pushed his way through the glass doors as Killey and Shredder fired after him, shattering the doors into a thousand pieces. By the time they reached the restaurant door frame and looked out, Matt Hagen had disappeared through the main hotel doors and into the night.

Killey reached the front stairs outside the hotel first and fired three suppressed shots after the vanishing man. 'Jesus, he's quick.'

Both of them set off through the parked cars and quickly reached the small perimeter wall that they jumped over before crossing the tarred road.

'You sure he came this way?' Shredder said.

'Yes. He was like bloody lightning and jumped this wall like a kangaroo,' Killey said, jumping up onto the brick wall that surrounded a large redbrick house. 'You coming or what?'

'I'll head around the wall to the left and meet you out front. Take care, I don't think he is armed, but he might still be hiding somewhere.'

A minute later they met in the front yard of the house looking in either direction of the wealthy suburban road. 'Damn it. He could be anywhere,' Killey said.

'We don't have time to look around either,' Shredder said. 'Let's get out of here.'

• • •

'I am afraid those are only the military charges, Gibbs,' Captain Matthews said, sitting next to the hospital bed, a worried look on her face. Despite being professional about the whole affair, Gibbs could see she'd been crying, and he longed to reach up and wipe her cheek, but the handcuffs restrained him.

'Accompanied with your previous indiscretions, I am afraid you'll be given a dishonourable discharge.'

'That's okay, Sharon. I am done with the military.'

'As I said earlier, Gibbs, that's not your main problem.'

'Have you missed me?' he asked, taking her hand.

'Of course I have, Gibbs, but I need you to focus for a bit,' she said.

'I am focused. You said they were going to throw the book at me, so I am expecting to be discharged, and then I'll spend all my time focusing on that great body of yours.'

Sharon blushed a bright red, glancing across at the military nurse who was standing at the side of the room staring at them. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

'Gibbs, I'm trying to tell you something, but you aren't bloody listening. Once you are discharged, you will be handed over to the civilian police for the murder of Mason Waterfield and four others.'

'What?' Gibbs said. 'You're joking, right? That's a load of crap. Mason was assassinated by two or three snipers right after I went down. I managed to kill one of the snipers who was shooting at us.'

'That is not what the JAG or civilian prosecutors are saying. They've built up quite a case against you and have a lot of evidence. The worst news is that they claim to have an eyewitness who saw you do it.'

'Do I look like a murderer to you? I'm a bloody soldier.'

'I know that, but it seems somebody high up in the government wants you to stand trial for this, and the military is intent on helping them out by handing you over. Usually, we'd be ordered to keep this an in-house affair, but I am afraid that your enemies want to see you in court.'

'This is another set-up, Sharon. I didn't kill Mason Waterfield. Has your ex-boyfriend been able to get to the bottom of what role Mountford played in Angola yet? Mason was unaware that Mountford had hired that prick Warren to go out to Angola, even though he was the chairman of this bloody Billionaires Club. He said he was going to look into it just before they took him out.'

'It's all cloak and dagger stuff,' she said. 'Anyway, Mason is dead now.'

Gibbs shook his head a little. 'Oh yes of course. You have to believe me when I say that I didn't do this, I mean, why would I kill Mason and three of his men, and then shoot myself? I needed him alive to get answers.'

Sharon squeezed his hand again. 'I believe you, Gibbs.'

'Where are Shredder and Killey?'

'Haven't you heard? They're in custody for the murders of John Warren and two of his men.'

'Jesus, what has been happening out there while I have been under? Don't get me wrong, I am glad the idiot is dead but not at the expense of the boys going to prison. What will happen to them?'

'I am not representing them personally, but from what I heard they claim that they had an anonymous tip-off that John Warren and his men were responsible for killing you, so they took the law into their own hands to avenge your death.'

'But I was lying right here in the hospital!' Gibbs said, his voice raised. 'Why didn't they just come and see me?'

'They claim that they didn't know you were still alive. No one told them.'

Memories in his brain merged and aligned. He'd just recognised the shrill voice of the man who had knocked him out in the wooded area.

'Warren!' Gibbs said. 'I recognise his voice now. He was the one who knocked me out cold, so he obviously had something to do with the attack.'

'Are you sure it was him?' she asked.

'Yes. He and his team must have been used as pawns to get rid of Mason and me before we could reveal who was responsible for trying to silence us. We need your ex to dig deeper into Mountford as I'm sure he's at the bottom of this.'

'I'll chat with him again and see what he says. If I find anything, I'll give it to the prosecutor for the civil case. I am afraid it won't help Shredder and Killey because they have already pleaded guilty to John Warren's murder.'

'What will happen to them?'

'The same as you. They're due to stand trial in a civilian court in a week,' she said.

'This is bloody ridiculous, Sharon. We're being set up for crimes we didn't commit.'

Sharon got up to leave the room. She leant down and kissed him on the lips. 'Gibbs, I promise we'll get to the bottom of this. I'll speak to my ex. Give me a few days.'

# Chapter 29

Trafalgar Square, London, England UK - 2019

The tall figure of John Mountford crouched over his small desk, engrossed in the long debriefing report prepared by David Kirkwood. He eagerly paged through the thick document, the yellow light from his desk lamp giving his pale complexion a jaundiced appearance. A wry smile spread across his face as he scanned the pages of the dossier before him. Things were aligning themselves neatly.

Movement in front of his desk shifted his gaze to the tall man who'd entered the room.

'Thanks for bringing me the report, Markus. It seems that the loose ends are all being tied.'

The German bowed his head a little.

'Has all the correspondence from this office to Mason's office been destroyed?'

'Yes, Mr Mountford.'

'I take it that the same has been done at the other Billionaire members' offices? There can be no trace or evidence of his death leading back to any of us.'

'As I said, it has been taken care of, sir.'

'Thanks, Markus. I'm not questioning your abilities at all. I simply want to make sure nothing comes back to bite us in the arse.'

The tall blond soldier stared at him.

'Do you know whether your employer had anything to do with framing the mercenaries who assassinated Mason?'

'No, sir, he did not,' Markus said.

'Are you quite certain?' John asked, staring into the German's ice blue eyes. 'Everything seems to have worked out so well, I'd have thought that only someone with Lord Butler's contacts could have pulled it off.'

'Lord Butler does not order the murder of innocent men. He only passed on the intelligence to you and Captain Warren to do with it as you wished. He had nothing to do with the framing of anybody either. You should speak to Mr Kirkwood about that.'

'Fair enough. If you say so,' John said. 'I'll take it up with David when I get hold of him. He seems to have disappeared. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?'

Markus turned and walked across the small dark office, opening the door. 'We have to leave now, Mr Mountford. The security convoy will not be able to wait much longer.'

'Ah yes. The inaugural meeting of Lord Butler's brand new Phoenix Council,' John said. 'You know it's just the same organisation of old codgers incapable of organising a piss-up in a brewery. All this effort just for a little rebranding. What's the bloody point?'

Markus remained silent in the doorway.

They exited the building and pushed their way past the assembled mob of beggars to the parked armoured vehicle. The cacophony of shrieks, shouts, and death threats from the street dwellers frightened John as he cowered behind Markus on the way to the vehicle's door.

'Markus? Help me.' He shrieked and pulled away as someone grabbed him by his jacket sleeve.

The German leaned across and punched the man before grabbing John by the neck and marching him towards the door of the vehicle, which opened as they approached. John felt the sheer strength of the soldier as he was shoved into the back of the Land Rover, followed by his luggage.

He sat on an uncomfortable seat in the back of a modified Land Rover troop carrier, unable to see the outside world due to all the armour plating welded into the window frames. The two armoured vehicles set off on their five-mile journey to the meeting at the Phoenix Council headquarters in Canary Wharf, passing the empty carcasses of vandalised buildings and countless burnt out cars along the route. Surges of brown water had started to flow over the embankment walls designed to hold the Thames River back. They were starting to fail, so an alternate route would be needed.

John jumped as something slammed into the side panelling of the Land Rover. 'What the fuck was that?'

'Probably just a brick or something, sir. We get pelted all the time. Don't worry, we're protected by metal that is an inch thick,' the driver said, as he dodged a small group of street urchins.

The Land Rover unexpectedly lurched, then swerved and slowed to a halt. 'Sorry, sir. I think we have something wrong with the engine,' the driver said.

• • •

Markus Schmidt rubbed his oversized hands on his knees to dry off the perspiration and reached into his green army jacket to pull out his favourite weapon. He loved the feel of the Sig 226 as it sat in his open palm. He quickly checked the silencer tension, popped out the magazine to check the rounds then slammed it back in.

The driver who had sat silently next to him through the first part of the journey turned to him. 'Mate, that is the third time you have done that. I think we can safely assume that it's still loaded.'

Markus glared across at him, his piercing gaze forcing the man to focus on the road again. 'Mind your own business, or I'll make sure you're out on the street scratching a living. Get ready as it's going to happen around the next corner.'

They followed the lead Land Rover around the corner, swerving for a broken, deserted refuse truck. A teenager wearing an oversized bomber jacket and dirty, ripped jeans ran out from behind an old bus stop and threw a brick.

Markus watched it bounce off the side of the vehicle and break up on the tarmac below the back wheel. The Land Rover lurched to the left then slowed to a halt as planned. Markus stepped out of his vehicle before it had fully stopped.

'Keep the engine running.'

He walked up to the back door of the lead vehicle and banged on it twice with his left hand, letting the occupants know that he was about to open it. The heavy latch usually took some effort to open, but not for the big man, who swung open the metal door and raised his pistol.

'Markus? What the—'

With barely any recoil, Markus fired three rounds into John Mountford's chest. He dragged the body from the vehicle and impassively dumped it onto the pavement then calmly reached into the vehicle to grab the dead billionaire's two Louis Vuitton suitcases. With a big heave, he threw them to the small group of street dwellers who were rapidly congregating. For a short while, he stood and stared dismissively at the prowling group of urchins who rifled through the luggage for valuable items.

A dishevelled teenager shuffled over to him. 'Hey, mister, give us some spare cash?'

'Keep moving, child,' Markus said, waving him off with a flick of the Sig.

'It might be in your best interest to reconsider,' the teenager replied, and puffed out his chest. 'When the police come, I might be forced to tell them everything I saw.'

Markus's eyes narrowed as he stared him. 'You are right, of course.'

Raising the Sig, he shot the teenager in the head.

Shocked street kids stared at their friend who lay sprawled on the pavement, then turned to bury their heads in the luggage again.

Markus hit the speed dial on his phone. 'It is done, sir.'

# Chapter 30

Central Criminal Court, London, England, UK - 2019

'May I remind you that you are still under oath, Mr Hagan,' the prosecutor said as he walked towards the wooden witness box.

Matt Hagen looked down at his hands for a few seconds, and then Gibbs saw him slowly raise his head. Their eyes met. They stared at each other for a fleeting second, and it was long enough. There was turmoil and conflict raging within the young soldier. Gibbs felt sorry for the prosecutor's chief witness, as it was clear that he'd been coached.

'I'll repeat the question. Can you identify the man who murdered Mason Waterfield?'

The witness sat in silence then looked at the back of the court where the public was sitting. Gibbs could see his eyes scanning for someone. Then Matt answered. 'Yes, it was that man.'

'Let the record show that the witness has identified, Mr Kyle Gibbs, the accused.'

'Bullshit,' Gibbs shouted above the murmur from the public viewing area.

'Silence,' the judge said, smashing his gavel on the wooden bench top in front of him. 'That's the second outburst, Mr Gibbs. One more and you'll watch proceedings from an isolated room.'

Shredder leaned across and whispered, 'He was the one who got away the night we sorted John Warren out. Sorry, boss.'

'It's okay, mate. I have a feeling he was also the one skulking along the treeline the day they killed Mason. I should have got him then,' Gibbs said.

• • •

The wooden bench in the dock was far from comfortable, and Gibbs shifted around again, letting out a loud breath as he looked around the court. He'd had better days. All three of the accused were sitting to the left of the judge, behind their three legal representatives. The jury had just been led back into the court from the adjacent room, and the volume of murmur in the courtroom increased. Gibbs smiled when he glanced across at Shredder and Killey, who were both trying desperately to stay awake. The whole trial had lasted ten days.

'I thought the jury would've taken a little bit more time to deliberate,' Gibbs said, leaning forward to talk to his barrister.

The man shrugged his shoulders. 'With all the evidence they had against you, it wasn't going to be tough, Mr Gibbs.'

'Thanks for your effort. My apologies for keeping you from your round of golf, you jumped up old windbag.'

Shredder grabbed Gibbs by his shoulder. 'Don't take it out on him, boss. They paid all the right people to sink us, even our bloody lawyers.'

Gibbs leant back and kicked out at the wooden partition in front of him.

A smartly dressed clerk of the court walked over and gave Gibbs's lawyer a folded piece of white paper. The old man turned and scowled at Gibbs before passing it over.

You should have a good think about all the recent events to find the man who orchestrated this all - D.K.

Gibbs frowned at the note and turned it over to see if there was anything else written on it. He looked up and scanned the faces of the people in the packed viewing gallery at the back of the court. Sitting smugly in an aisle seat was the grinning culprit. David Kirkwood.

Gibbs pointed at the man.

Kirkwood smiled and tapped his chest.

'Bastard!' shouted Gibbs and launched over the short partition in front of him. He landed next to his shocked barrister, and with three long strides, ran towards the main partition that separated the court procedures from the viewing area. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two court security officers spring into action and start running towards him. As he reached the partition and jumped over, he felt a hand grip his arm. The force of the grip pulled him off balance, and he was spun around in mid-air. He landed on the other side of the partition facing a bald, snarling security officer. Gibbs lashed out with a vicious punch, and the officer groaned as a fist thudded into his jaw, causing him to release his grip just enough to allow Gibbs to yank his arm away. He turned back towards Kirkwood again just as the second officer reached across his falling comrade to try and catch the escaping man.

Gibbs's target had seen him coming and jumped up out of his seat and made for the large double wooden doors at the back of the court. Even though he was no athlete, being of slender build and smartly dressed, the fear drove him on, and he reached the doors ahead of Gibbs. The large, solid court doors had to be opened inwards and would take some effort. Kirkwood had just slipped through when Gibbs rugby-tackled him. They both slid a few meters across the black and white checked tile floor outside the courtroom before Gibbs managed to get a handful of Kirkwood's hair. Twice he smashed the man's face onto the hard floor before being ripped away by three court security officers. Kirkwood rolled onto his back wailing as he clutched his bleeding nose. He rolled back into a foetal position, screaming even louder.

'Did that make you feel better, boss?' Shredder said when the court was restored to order.

Gibbs nodded. 'It was that slimy prick all along. I should have trusted my instincts about him. The bastard will pay someday, no matter how long I spend in prison. He will pay for all of this with his life.'

All three of the men got life sentences without the chance of parole. They were told they had the right to appeal, but that would simply cost too much money. What made it a brutal ruling was that their sentences were to be carried out on the new high-security prison ships that had been brought into service. With the lack of space in all land-based prisons and the scarcity of manpower, giant old oil tankers and container vessels had been converted into floating jails. They were notorious for being home to the most violent and dangerous prisoners in the UK. A place where men were sent to be forgotten.

# Chapter 31

HM Prison, Wandsworth, London, UK - 2019

Sharon Matthews wiped her tear-filled eyes with a tissue as she looked at Gibbs sitting across from her at the low tables in the mixed visiting room. Other wives and girlfriends were also present and leant across the tables talking to their partners in the male-only prison in Wandsworth. The noise in the room slowly increased as the excited couples got reacquainted and caught up on the news outside.

'I cannot believe that you got life on one of those ghastly prison ships,' she said, her eyes filling with tears.

Gibbs reached across and held her shaking hand. 'No prison ship is going to be able to hold the three of us for very long. I'll be back here irritating you before you know it.'

She smiled. 'I still think we should try the appeal route seeing that my ex has managed to unearth a few emails that would help with the process.'

'That may be so, but none of us has the cash for an appeal, and the same men who fabricated the whole bloody thing will just do the same thing again, I guess,' Gibbs said.

'Not if there is clear evidence that they set you up.'

'Is there such evidence?'

'My ex believes there is enough to get your case thrown out. Something about emails that were deleted from their local Club servers but not before critical keywords were flagged and those emails copied to monitoring servers for evaluation,' she said.

'Can we get our hands on these emails?'

'I'm meeting him later this afternoon.'

Gibbs sat forward and said, 'Please be careful, Sharon. These men have fingers in lots of government pies, and you could both be at risk. They have shown that they'll do anything to make this issue go away, and I've grown fond of having you in my life.'

The last comment made tears well up in her eyes again, and she squeezed his hands tightly. 'You too, Gibbs, and don't worry, I'll be careful to get the information back safely.'

'Okay, but as a precaution I want you to contact Sheila and get her to organise her gang lord boyfriend to go with you to see your contact,' he said.

'My ex won't meet me if I arrive with a full entourage, but I'll speak to Sheila and sort something out.'

'Okay, fine, I also need you to pass on one more message to her from me,' he said.

'What is it?'

'It's about a favour I'm owed.'

• • •

The oak and beech trees that lined the Battersea Park pathway swirled in the strong breeze and blew Sharon Matthews's beige overcoat open. She tied her coat belt tighter around her waist and carried on walking along the gravel path that ended in front of the old Victorian tower, long used as the Pumphouse Street Art Gallery.

Looking behind her, she scouted the treeline a final time then walked into the ground floor space still used by street artists and painters. Two Scavengers were painting a mural of the better days that London had had. They looked up at her before continuing.

Someone grabbed her arm, and she yelped with fright. The person pulled her to the side of the doorway.

'Hello, you.'

'Jeez, Colin, you scared the shit out of me,' she said, hugging the man who was dressed in a dark red jumper and blue jeans.

'All this spy stuff got you a bit jumpy, then?'

'What do you think?' she said. 'You've been doing this a lot longer than I have.'

'True,' he said.

'Thanks so much for doing this for me.'

'You know I'd do anything for you,' Colin said.

Sharon looked at her ex-boyfriend. 'Even if it's for my new boyfriend?'

'You always said I was too nice and decent for you, so I can only wish you all the happiness. If you're are not a happy girl, how can I possibly be happy? I'll always care about you,' he said, taking her hands. 'Besides, injustice is an injustice. Of course I am happy to help.'

'Stop it, you flirt, or you might make me regret breaking up with you.'

'There is that hope too, you know.'

She smiled and pulled her hands away. 'What have you got for us?'

'Random printouts of about twenty emails between the two gentlemen we've been discussing,' he said, reaching into a leather shoulder bag to take out a large brown manila envelope.

Sharon looked around at the artists who were now working on the floor of the gallery. None of them stirred as she took the envelope from him. Opening it up, she took the pile of papers out and started reading them. Her hand flew up to her mouth. 'Colin, this is wonderful. Thank you. I have to rush off to get these to a contact who is waiting nearby.'

'Of course. I thought these might get you excited. As a backup plan, I've made two copies of the email correspondence onto small flash drives. I've put one into that envelope with the printouts. I'll drop the other one through your letterbox in the next few days as a precaution,' he said, taking her hand again. 'Good luck, gorgeous.'

She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek. 'Thanks, Colin. I will never forget this.'

As she walked out of The Tower Gallery, the envelope felt like it was burning a hole under her arm. Her pace quickened when she thought of the magnitude of the contents. This changed everything.

Outside the wind had picked up even more. Fallen leaves were being whipped across the concrete path and blown into her as she leant forward to shield her eyes from the gusts. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move and turned to see two men appearing from around the corner of the art gallery. They saw her looking and stopped to have a conversation.

'Oh God,' she said and picked up her pace to get to the Albert Gate of Battersea Park. Another glance back a few minutes later confirmed her fears. Both men, who were dressed in black suits under large pale brown overcoats, had also picked up their pace after her.

She walked a little further down the path, then stooped to fiddle with the strap on her shoes. A glance back allowed her to see the men stop two seconds later. They turned to one another and started talking.

She let out a little whimper and made it to the Albert Gate before crossing the quiet intersection to a corner bar called The Prince Albert. Five old men drinking at the bar lifted their grey heads in unison and stared at her as she walked in. Scanning the large bar for her contact, she felt the tension lift from her shoulders as she spotted the long scar on the cheek of the man she was to meet.

'Martin?' she asked, approaching the corner table.

'That's me, love,' he said and showed her to a seat at the small table next to his. He stared at her with intense brown eyes, his arms folded. Two hefty men approached them through the bar, and she felt her stomach tighten.

Martin raised his hand, and they stopped nearby. 'Don't worry, love, they're with me. You can never be too careful nowadays, you know. Place the contents of the envelope on your table, please.'

She removed the printouts and the blue flash drive from the envelope and laid them down on the table. Martin stood up and placed his newspaper down, covering everything as he picked it all up.

'We've only made two men following you right now. I take it they're after these documents. After I leave, I suggest that you fill the empty envelope with something else and then lead them towards the river. Let them see you dispose of the envelope. That might throw them off for a while. I wish you good luck,' he said.

'Can't you escort me home?'

'We cannot risk getting involved with this. We're already in another gang's territory so need to leave. Head over the bridge and into Chelsea. It's busier than these parts too. Stay out in the open and if you see a taxi, take it, no matter what they charge,' he said and walked away.

Sharon felt her heart sink as Martin disappeared through the door with his two bodyguards. The plan to distract the men who were following her simply had to work. The emails that would help the man she loved were now in safe hands. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Nerves that pointed to the obvious. She was on her own.

# Chapter 32

Albert Bridge Road, Battersea, London, UK - 2019

Sharon tried in vain to stop her hair from blowing across her face in the strong wind as she walked across the exposed expanse of the Albert Bridge. Tucking her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, she leaned forward into the gusts. The dual lane bridge was still in operation, unlike many other bridges in London. Pedestrian walkways had been laid out on either side of the tarred surface, and many street dwellers stood hawking their wares. Two main concrete piers housed the tall towers of the bridge that held the metal cables, giving it the appearance of a large suspension bridge.

There was no need to turn around to know she was still being followed. Her nerves jangled, but she felt a determined peace starting to flow through her.

Clutching the manila envelope closer to her chest so the wind couldn't rip it from her grasp, she strode towards the middle of the bridge. From her beige overcoat pocket, she took out her mobile phone and dialled the number of Gibbs's message service.

'Hello, my darling. I am being followed by two men but have made sure that you get all the evidence you need for your appeal. My ex informed me that John Mountford has recently been killed in the city so is clearly out of the picture. It probably means that someone higher up in the Club is tying up loose ends. I did manage to get the home address for David Kirkwood, which you have been so desperate to get. It's Morrison House, 32 Somerset Road, Wimbledon. Hopefully, I will see you soon. Oh, and I like you too.'

Sharon looked down at the silent phone. Would she ever see Gibbs again? There was no knowing what might happen. Gibbs had made her feel alive, and she had to fight for that. Wiping away the tears with her sleeve, she turned to face the men who stopped abruptly in their tracks at the beginning of the bridge. She smiled at them then showed them the phone before placing it in the envelope that contained an old newspaper. Sealing it, she threw the precious cargo over the bridge with all her might and stood watching it frisbee out into the middle of the rampant, muddy Thames River.

With a deep breath, she walked as fast as she could, past dishevelled beggars and street dwellers who were all hanging over the bridge railing and staring at the disappearing envelope.

One drunken man with long tatty hair and a dirty tweed overcoat moved in front of her. 'Hello, lovely, why don't you and I have a little fun?' he said and waved a bottle of alcohol in a brown paper bag in her face.

'Not today, sweet cheeks,' she said and kicked out at the man's knee. He screamed as the tendon popped and buckled him into a heap onto the cold pavement. Sharon stepped over him and carried on walking, wrapping the jacket tightly around her.

With her high heels making a clicking sound on the paving stones, she turned right onto Chelsea Embankment road and caught a glimpse of her pursuers, who were both making calls on their phones.

Putting their phones away, they started after her again, and cold fear washed over her. They weren't interested in the documents she'd been carrying. She was always the target.

'Let see just see how fit you are,' she said out loud and started to run along the riverfront. They both broke into a run and soon reached the end of the bridge. She carried on running for a few hundred meters before turning left up into Chelsea Manor Road, heading away from the river. _Great day to wear heels, Sharon._

With lungs bursting and legs aching, she ran onto the pavement and climbed four small stairs to try and gain access to an apartment block along the affluent road. She yanked on the brass door handle a few times, aware that her pursuers were gaining on her with every second she was stationary. Running her fingers down all the buttons on the brass numbered panel, she activated all the intercom buzzers at the main entrance, and various people answered. 'Can someone please help me? Some men are trying to kill me,' she shouted.

The main door didn't buzz open.

Sharon reached down and took her heels off, then ran across to the adjacent apartment block and tried the same trick. Nobody was going to chance letting a screaming woman into the front door. She had to find another place to hide.

Five minutes later as she zigzagged her way through the urban streets towards South Kensington, she turned to see that the two men had gained on her. A small whimper slipped out. A heightened panic filtered through her.

The sun had disappeared behind the tall buildings, and she was running out of time to find a place to hide. Maybe she could wait them out somewhere. Running along a thick leafy hedge that concealed an open courtyard behind it, she stopped at what looked like a small opening low to the ground, and she crawled in on her hands and knees. Her heart sank as she crawled up against a wire mesh fence and looked despondently across the small well-tended private yard. The open white gate at the opposite end of the park taunted her.

Shouts from the street behind her roused her fighting spirit again, and she cursed herself for feeling self-pity. Turning around in the narrow crawl space, she faced the pavement again, cringing as she felt a large spider's web drape across her right ear.

The two men ran past the hole in the hedge and ran up to a T-junction, stopping to look in either direction. Sharon Matthews smiled as she heard one of them gasping for breath.

She waited and listened. Nothing from her pursuers.

Her skin begun to crawl as she could feel something moving in her hair, and then something else crawled across her cheek. She quickly sat back on her heels and flicked at the cobwebs with both hands, ruffling her hair and doing all she could to kill the creatures that she imagined were crawling all over her.

She held her breath and listened for any movement along the road. All was quiet as far as she could tell, and she sighed with relief.

A large hand with a gold signet ring on the little finger reached in and grabbed a handful of her jacket. She screamed. The man dragged her out of the hole as she tried to bite down on his arm, the thick brown tweed fabric of his jacket shielding him from any injury.

'Got you, bitch,' he shouted and dragged her up to her feet, his other hand grabbing a handful of her blonde hair. 'Stop all this running, will you? Our boss only wants to have a word with you.'

Sharon spun herself towards him and raised her knee into his groin. The man's eyes forced shut with tears of pain as he fell to his knees.

Pulling herself loose from the weakening grip, she looked up to see his partner accompanied by a third man, come around the corner. 'Stop running,' one of them shouted as they started towards her again. She turned and ran back in the direction of the Thames River.

Crossing another road, she saw a large construction site with an eight foot, black-painted hoarding around it. Running along the length of it, she passed a big double gate with a large chain and lock on it, positioned in the middle of the long wooden wall. As she pushed hard on both sides of the gate, a narrow sliver of a gap appeared, large enough for her to squeeze through.

Once inside, she scanned the abandoned site. Her heart sank. There was nowhere to hide other than two large mounds of builder's rubble that stood three metres tall, covered in weeds and a few small bushes.

'Arrrgh!' she screamed and was about to slip out of the site again when she heard the footsteps and panting of the men chasing her.

She simply had to chance hiding behind one of the piles of rubble. The footfalls of the men outside stopped. One of the men said to his partner, 'You head around the other side of the site and make sure she doesn't slip away.'

Sharon sat down on the dusty ground and hid from the view of the main gate, trying not to burst into tears. She knew what they would do with her when they caught her, but she forced that thought from her mind. _This is all for Gibbs, and our future together._

The two men patrolled around the site for about twenty minutes, occasionally giving away their position by an odd cough as they recovered from their chase. Vapour from her warm breath started to show in the evening air, so Sharon pulled her jacket tighter around herself. How was she going to get out of this?

The squeaking brakes of a car pulling up at the main gate made her jump to her feet again. Men's voices outside the gate grew more vocal as they argued. She wouldn't be captured without a fight, and she reached into her handbag to pull out her house keys. Her attackers would need to be close.

The blast of a shotgun ripped her back to reality as the links on the chain securing the gate gave way. One of the men kicked both gates open. 'Miss Matthews, this is stupid, we only want to talk to you.'

The brawny figure of one of the men remained in the open gateway while the other two walked towards the mounds she was hiding behind. She watched them intently as they split up, the bigger man walked to the left, and the slim man took the right. She fancied her chances against the smaller man.

Crouching down as the silhouetted shape of the man slowly appeared around the pile of rubble, she exploded forward with all her might, running straight at him screaming at the top of her lungs, her house keys sticking out between her fingers. She swung at his face but he feigned to the left at the last minute, and she collided into him. He dropped slightly and hoisted her over his shoulder and flipped her onto her back, the wind driven out of her lungs with the brutal force.

'Please calm down, Sharon,' the effeminate voice said. 'I just want to ask you a few questions.'

'You!' she whispered, recognising the face from photographs she'd just seen.

'Please get up,' he said.

Sharon slowly stood up, her lungs burning for breath. 'You conniving little bastard. I have nothing to say to you.'

The man briefly switched his focus to the larger man stalking up behind her, and she took her chance to strike out at him again, driving her fist towards his slim pale face. He dodged at the last second, but one of the keys from her key-encrusted fist slit his cheek to the bone as he screamed in pain. He managed to grab hold of her by the shoulders as she kicked out and screamed.

The larger man grabbed her from behind in a vice-like grip that stopped all movement, his cigarette-laced breath against her neck, causing her to gag.

The injured man took out a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it against his cheek. 'I can see why Gibbs is so taken with you. You suit each other quite nicely. Feral creatures who're suited for scrapping and scavenging around in the slime of this world. I'll only ask you this once, Sharon. What was in the envelope you disposed of and who did you call?'

'Get fucked, little man.'

'Okay then,' Kirkwood said.

He walked away, and in a loud voice said, 'Shoot her then dump her body in the Thames for the eels.'

# Chapter 33

HM Prison, Wandsworth, London, UK - 2019

Gibbs picked at the dirt beneath his fingernails with a piece of cardboard, feeling like he needed a shower. It had been a while since they were allowed out of solitary. Killey dozed on a bench on the other side of the cell while Shredder sat on the edge of a table reading the remnants of an old newspaper. Gibbs was happy to be reunited with his team.

'Any idea who has decided to visit us today?' Shredder said, breaking the silence.

'Nope. My lawyer was here yesterday so it can't be him, damn useless bastard,' Gibbs said.

'Ours is no better, she barely looks eighteen and is as skittish as a mouse in a pet kennel,' Shredder said.

'She's not bad looking though. I'd give her one,' Killey said.

'You'd fuck a cereal box if you had the chance, mate,' Shredder said to a smiling Killey.

'I guess it must be someone who we all know, I mean, why else would they request the three of us together in one cell?' Gibbs said.

The rattling sound of the cell door being unlocked interrupted their banter, and two wardens walked in and went about handcuffing them one by one. They were escorted from the large communal holding cell, out of the cellblock and across a fenced-in walkway to the main building. The wardens instructed them to sit at a large table in the centre of the interrogation room then handcuffed each of them to a large chain that was bolted down across the centre of the tabletop.

'This just got interesting,' Shredder said. 'Since when do they restrain us in these rooms?'

'No idea, mate,' Gibbs said.

They sat in silence and fifteen minutes later another side door opened. David Kirkwood walked through, a grin on his face. He closed the door behind him and leant his slim figure back against it. Two black rings under his swollen eyes from the broken nose that Gibbs had given him were made worse by the bloodstained bandage stuck to his cheek.

'Now we know why they cuffed us, Shredder. They knew I'd rip this weasel's arms off and feed them to him,' Gibbs said.

'And I'd get his legs, boss.'

'No need for all of that, gentleman. Let's try and have a civil conversation?' Kirkwood said, taking a seat across from them.

'Shut up, you snivelling little rat. You told me in court that you are the reason we're all locked up. Are you now admitting that you set me up for Mason's murder? You know bloody well I didn't do it.'

'I'm afraid all the evidence against you refutes your claim. The case against you was quite overwhelming, you know,' Kirkwood said with a grim smile. 'But I'm sure your barrister pointed that out to you before the trial. He took some persuading, your barrister. You should've paid for better representation.'

'I would have, you thieving shit, but you stole the balance of our money. Mason said that he'd paid you in full just after the coup in Angola.'

Kirkwood looked down at the long chain they were handcuffed to then moved across to a side table to make sure all the installed recording devices were turned off. The metal chair screeched on the ground as he pulled it a little further away from them.

'I hope you've all been sitting in your cells wondering why this was happening to you,' he said. 'Wondering what you'd done to deserve this.'

'Spare us the bloody amateur dramatics,' Gibbs said.

'Do you three morons recall someone by the name of Terry Mercer?' Kirkwood asked.

'Terry "Tracer" Mercer?' Shredder said.

'One and the same,' Kirkwood replied.

'Of course we bloody knew him. Terry used to be part of our unit. What does he have to do with Mason?' Gibbs said.

'My real surname isn't Kirkwood. It's Mercer. David Mercer to be precise,' he said. 'And the man you left for dead was my twin brother.'

Visibly shocked, the three prisoners looked at one another.

'But you look nothing like the fighting brute who was our friend,' Gibbs said.

'Ever heard of non-identical twins, you idiot?' Kirkwood said.

'What does this have to do with us?' Gibbs asked.

'Do you always leave your friends for dead, like you left my brother?'

'What?' Gibbs said. 'Kirkwood, you obviously don't have all the facts. He wasn't left for dead. An Improvised Explosive Devise or IED explosion killed him while we were out on patrol.'

'Don't feed me the standard military bullshit response,' Kirkwood said, slamming his hand down on the table. 'You forget that Mason Waterfield asked me to do multiple reference checks on all of you bastards before he would consider hiring you. He gave me a lot of cash to grease the palms of a few of my contacts in the Ministry of Defence. I was given copies of all of your files going back fifteen years.'

'Don't talk crap, mate. Those documents are classified,' Shredder said.

'I'm not your bloody mate!'

'Okay then. Don't talk crap, you little turd.'

'You three are clueless, aren't you? I was simply doing what I was paid to do,' Kirkwood said. 'And to my utter disbelief, I found out that my brother was part of your team on your first ever mission in command, Gibbs. He didn't die patrolling dust roads in Iraq, as my family and the press were told, but taking part in a covert reconnaissance mission in Ahvaz, Iran. Isn't that true?'

'It's not that simple,' Gibbs said.

'You left him there to die,' Kirkwood said, his face going red. 'Try and deny it. It was all in the debriefing notes that you signed.'

'Terry was mortally wounded and chose to stay and fight, thereby buying us valuable time to make our getaway. It was his decision, Kirkwood, not ours. He knew that we couldn't carry him all the way to safety. None of us would have gotten out of there if it weren't for his bravery,' Gibbs said, looking at his hands, remembering the first man he had to leave behind.

Kirkwood swallowed hard before he replied. 'You left him there to die. He died all alone, and now you will pay.'

'Let me get this straight. You think we're responsible for your brother's death so to get your revenge, you kill an innocent man and set me up for murder.'

'I don't waste my time killing people, Gibbs. I arrange for others to do my dirty work for me, usually simple-minded people like you,' Kirkwood said, a smug look on his face.

'Who the hell did you con into killing Mason for you, then?' Gibbs said.

'Quite a few events led up to the day you went to the meet with Mason. The Angolan trip was never about a genuine coup as you are now well aware. Nevertheless, it allowed me the chance to tip off the Angolan government that you were leading the whole damn thing. I had hoped that it would result in your team either being killed or at least jailed out there, but unfortunately, you disappeared before that could happen.'

'I guess we were a little too clever for you,' Shredder said.

'So clever you're going to prison for a murder that I set you up to commit. Why don't you just shut your mouth, you bloody idiot? Don't interrupt me again,' Kirkwood said.

'Listen, you little runt, I will tear you apart like toilet paper,' Shredder said, yanking his cuffs against the chain on the table.

'Not from a prison cell you won't,' Kirkwood said, and then turned back to Gibbs. 'You should never have trusted the document forger, Gibbs. He might have given you a second set of false papers, but he owed me so many favours that he came running back to me as soon as he'd taken your money. My contacts notified me the very minute you set foot on UK soil again.'

Gibbs sat back in his chair, chewing the inside of his lip.

'When your dear friend, John Warren, was stupid enough to let you get away and then returned from Africa with his tail between his legs like a mangy pup, he was more than happy to discuss a plan to eliminate you right here in the UK. We started with your South African friend in London, which was surprisingly easy, I might add. I knew you would react and expected your call to see what I knew of the incident. It was simple after that. I happily admit that I originally wanted you all dead, but this is so much more satisfying, don't you agree? I now have the satisfaction of knowing that you will rot in a dark prison cell for the rest of your life.'

'You're one sad little fuck, Kirkwood,' Gibbs said.

'And you're a hot-headed and predictable idiot. I knew that you would go over my head and would want to speak Mason directly. I just had to ignore you for a few days, let you reach boiling point then watch you storm off to see him. John and his team were already in place to take you and Mason out.'

'If Mason employed and tasked you to put the teams together, what was there to gain by killing him?' Gibbs asked.

'Mason gave me orders, but I didn't work for him. You and Mason were just pawns in a much bigger global game. Expendable and simple pawns,' Kirkwood said. 'When Captain Warren called to say he'd dealt with you and Mason, but that you had survived the shooting, I decided to set you up for killing Mason right there and then. Pretty clever, don't you think?'

'You murdering little toad,' Killey said. 'Terry was twice the man you'll ever be.'

'While you were lying in a coma in the hospital, I tipped off these two loyal lapdogs of yours that John Warren had killed you, and how he had boasted how easy it had been. They dutifully obliged and murdered him and two of his men, unaware that I had already tipped off my contact at the police about the planned attack, and well, here you three idiots sit.'

Killey, who was shackled at the end of the table, made a desperate lunge at Kirkwood who quickly slid his chair backwards, smiling at him.

'Down, boy, you might hurt yourself,' Kirkwood said, pointing to Killey. 'Your blind loyalty to Gibbs has cost you your freedom in the same way my brother's blind loyalty cost him his life. Your misguided sense of loyalty is of no consequence anymore because, with the help of some very influential people, I have managed to avenge my brother. He can now rest in peace in the knowledge that you were all found guilty and that you are guaranteed to rot in some distant cage for a very long time.'

'I'll make you pay for this, Kirkwood, you and these so-called influential people. Someday very soon, I'll make you all pay for this injustice,' Gibbs said, through gritted teeth. 'Watch your back because I promise you that you will not see me coming. You won't get away with this.'

'My dear Gibbs, don't you see? I have already gotten away with it,' Kirkwood said, leaning forward. 'I will now disappear with my new identity to some faraway land to live off all of your money.'

Even though his hands were still bound to the table, Gibbs lunged at the little man and managed to whip his leg out from under the table. With a roundhouse kick, his boot hit Kirkwood's head with a sickening thud and sent him sprawling across the dirty floor into the corner of the room.

He staggered to his feet, shaking his head, blood seeping from a small cut near his temple. Stumbling to the door, looking at the blood pooling in his hand, he started smiling. 'One last thing, Gibbs. Have you had any news from the lovely Captain Matthews recently?'

'You better not have hurt her, Kirkwood,' he shouted. 'I'll kill you if you have.'

'She was meddling in very dangerous intelligence affairs. Getting way too close to the men who sanctioned all this, so she had to be disposed of,' Kirkwood said, opening the door. 'We threw her body in the Thames for the eels to feed off.'

Gibbs screamed and pulled at the chains with all his might. Kirkwood gave him one last smile and slammed the door behind him.

# Chapter 34

HM Prison, Wandsworth, London, UK - 2019

The recreational floor of B-wing was overcrowded, the atmosphere on a knife's edge. Most of the gangs of London who were mortal enemies outside the stone prison walls had representatives doing time in Wandsworth prison. Someone was always spoiling for a fight.

Gibbs was sitting on a plastic bench consumed by loss. Memories of his and Sharon's short time together tore through him, but the regret of being too stubborn to tell her how he felt about her tore at his soul. She was the first person he had ever loved other than his mother, and now he would never get the chance to tell her.

'Hey, boss, you want to play a game of pool?' Shredder said. 'It's been a while since I gave you a thrashing.'

Gibbs shook his head.

'You're thinking about Sharon again, weren't you?'

Gibbs smiled and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall.

Across the room, a ruckus broke out as a shiv-wielding member of the Peckham Collective wrestled with a smaller member of the Baghdad Reds. The blue scarf wrapped around the Peckham member's arm was ripped off during the struggle just as he suddenly freed his arm from the smaller opponent's grip, and repeatedly stabbed the other gang member in the chest and abdomen with a sharpened spoon handle. As his opponent went limp, he stood up and raised his arms above his head for all the other gangs to see. Loud cheers broke out.

On the metal gangway above them, a group of prison guards walked in, all dressed in black riot gear with helmets, shields and batons. One of them, armed with a shock shotgun, fired the non-lethal shock shell into the back of the victorious gang member, and the tasered young man started to shake violently as he fell forwards, writhing on the shiny blue linoleum floor.

The rest of the riot officers moved down the metal staircase, guns at the ready, taking up positions around the two wounded men.

'Everyone back to your business,' one of the guards shouted.

Shredder turned to Gibbs. 'What I'm trying to say is that busy hands and a busy mind might help with the grieving process.'

'Are you suddenly bloody Aristotle, oh wise guru?' Gibbs said. 'Thanks, but I attended the same psych training as you did about dealing with grief.'

'Heads up, boys,' Killey said under his breath.

The lone figure of a young man dressed in a red tracksuit top and low-cut jeans swaggered over to them from where one of the other gangs were seated. His shaven head and scowl added menace to his appearance as he glanced around the wing suspiciously.

Two servicemen who happened to be doing time in the same prison, and had latched on to Gibbs and his men, stood up to intercept the young man before he got to Gibbs. They stood shoulder to shoulder and folded their arms as he got near.

'I am looking for Mr Gibbs,' he said, peering around the men.

'What do you want with Mr Gibbs?' one of the soldiers said, taking a step towards the young man.

'I have just been reassigned from H-wing and have something to give him.'

'Give it to us, and we will see that he gets it,' one of the servicemen said.

'That's okay, boys, let him through,' Gibbs said. 'I don't think he will try anything stupid. Will you, sonny?'

'Thank you, sir,' he said, scanning the rest of recreation floor. 'My name is James, and I am a member of the Richmond Green Vikings. I'm told you know who they are? I was transferred here to give you something from a mutual friend.'

Gibbs nodded.

The young man gingerly took out a small square-shaped object wrapped in a dirty white cloth and handed it across to Gibbs. 'You'll receive a call later this evening from a mutual friend.'

• • •

The narrow confines of the prison cell made for cosy relationships between cellmates as they were forced to bond with each other. Gibbs and Killey had been assigned together and were sitting on the lower bunk of their two-tier bunk bed, playing poker on the rough blue blanket that covered the mattress, roasted peanuts being the currency for the wager.

'I remember when I lost my fiancée to a drug overdose. It took me a long time to make peace with what happened,' Killey said. 'This won't help you now, but time will make it easier.'

'I know, I just keep wishing I'd told her what she meant to me, especially knowing that she died while trying to help us.'

'What I did when my fiancée died was to tell her how I felt every night in my prayers for a year. It helped,' Killey said.

'I always forget that you believe in the Big Man,' Gibbs said.

'Doesn't make me a better person any more than it makes me a guilty soldier.'

'You should have a quiet word with him and get us a little help.'

'He'll help us alright, just try to focus on getting us out of here. You can wring that little arse's neck after that.'

The small phone that had been smuggled in for Gibbs vibrated in his pocket. 'Exactly right, my religious friend.'

'Hello.'

'Hello, lover,' Sheila said.

'What would Martin say if he knew that you called me that?' Gibbs said.

'He is lying next to me in bed as we speak, so the jig is up,' she said. 'How are things in prison?'

'Bloody peachy.'

'We received all the email documents, and there's incriminating stuff in there. Strong enough to get you out of that place.'

'That's good to hear, Sheila, but that would still leave Shredder and Killey in here, and I couldn't let them stay behind, not after they sorted out that prick Warren on my behalf.'

'That's what we thought,' she said.

'Not sure if you have heard, but apparently they got to Sharon,' Gibbs said.

'I am so sorry, pet,' Sheila said. 'I had heard.'

'Thanks, but I need you to make sure that it's true. Can Martin get one of his men to go around to her place and have a look around inside? You know, just to make sure that I am not being lied to, and they have got her captive somewhere.'

'Of course, Gibbs. We'll scope the place out for a week or two,' she said.

'Cheers.'

'The reason for my call was to let you know the plans that you and I made are near to fruition, so be prepared and alert for the opportunity,' she told him.

'Thanks, Sheila. So, are you the newest recruit to the Richmond Green Vikings now?'

'No, lover,' she said and laughed. 'I'm the one who started them off.'

'What? I thought you were always joking about that.'

'They were my idea all along. I'll tell you all about it when you and your boys are safe and free.'

'How will I ever repay you?' Gibbs said.

'Just don't go getting killed.'

• • •

The clean-shaven man walked towards the large white Eagle Security van and adjusted his black leather belt that held the standard '38 revolver issued to all security guards. He tucked his dark brown shirt into the dark brown pants that he despised. It was a good job, and he had a family to feed, but the outfit made him look like a parcel delivery man.

The van had been reversed down the side of the prison as it had been on many occasions when they transferred prisoners to other institutions. He could see both security guards smoking inside the cab of the van, watching him cautiously as he approached.

'Hello, gents,' he said.

The men nodded with suspicion.

'You're Chris White, correct?' he asked the driver.

'Yes, and you are?'

'I am the bearer of bad news, I am afraid. HQ sent me to relieve you as your wife, Carol, was injured in a hit and run incident. She's on her way to the hospital right now. Charing Cross Memorial, I am told.'

'Oh shit,' the man said, his face turning pale.

'Here are the official orders from the sector leader switching you and me as drivers. I would hurry, Chris,' the tall man said.

Chris White hesitated for a few seconds before handing over the transfer clipboard and cell keys, then slid down from the driver's seat.

The tall man climbed into the cab, unclipping his holster as he pulled himself up. He turned to the passenger and introduced himself. 'Dave McLaren.'

The passenger kept smoking and blew smoke through the open window. He flicked the remainder of the cigarette out of the window and leant across to shake the new driver's hand. 'Bill King.'

'Good to meet you.'

'Isn't it normal protocol to switch the whole team out, rather than split the team up?' Bill asked.

'Usually, it is, so I'm not sure what's going on. Guess you'll have to ask them. Get them on the radio if you want. I would rather be watching the big cage fight anyway,' Dave replied, hoping to get the banter going.

A look of suspicion came across Bill's face, and he reached for the radio handset.

'And I had bloody tickets to the fight, you know,' Dave said, shaking his head.

Bill leant back, holding the handset on his lap. 'Was that the Tommy Smith and Carlton Reeves cage fight?'

Dave exhaled, his information had been correct. 'Yeah. I take it you're a fan then?

'I sure am. I was at Tommy Smith's last fight at the Kingston Odeon. What a fighter he is proving to be,' Bill said. 'A bloody animal.'

'Nah. Carlton will get a KO in the third.'

'What! You have got to be kidding. Want to put a wager on that, mate?'

# Chapter 35

Wandsworth, London, England, UK - 2019

A gentle rain had been falling all day, and the road glistened in the sunset as the white prisoner transport van drove around the old Wandsworth town one-way system. The odd rebellious teenager ran out and threw a stone or brick at the old symbol of government, but it failed to alter the truck's course. Once clear of Wandsworth, the truck accelerated towards Wimbledon before they were scheduled to turn onto the motorway that led out of London.

'Jesus, who is driving this bloody death trap?' Shredder said as he sat in the cramped confines of the prison van. Each convict was handcuffed inside their own cubicle, so they had no direct contact with each other, but after years of neglect, most of the cubicle doors had been torn off and discarded.

'Must be a blind guy,' Killey said, as the truck dropped into another pothole.

'It feels like we're sitting in our own bloody toilets in these things,' Shredder replied, looking across the narrow corridor at Gibbs, who was sitting on the small bench in his cubicle. 'So, boss, when do you think they will try and spring us?'

'Not soon enough. We might just die in this death trap before we get the chance though,' Gibbs replied. 'We're losing valuable time on Kirkwood the longer we stay here. I hope they don't wait until we get to the prison ship in Wales to put their plan into motion.'

Suddenly the van lurched violently to the left and crashed into something, which caused the inmates to be thrown against the sides of their cubicles.

'Bloody moron.' Killey shouted, and kicked the side of his cubicle.

'Shut it for a minute, everyone,' Gibbs said, cocking his ear up to the small window behind him. 'Was that a tyre bursting or a gunshot?'

• • •

Bill King was looking out the window when the van lurched to the left and crashed up onto the concrete pavement. He was flung to his right and dropped the thermos of coffee he was holding all over the floor in front of him.

'Bloody hell,' he shouted as the van stopped just short of a six-foot stone wall that ran parallel to the road. 'What the fuck happened?'

Dave vigorously turned the steering wheel from side to side. 'Feels like the steering column has bloody snapped or something. It could also just be a puncture from those potholes I hit back there.'

'I didn't feel any blowout, though,' Bill said, unhooking his revolver. 'Could be a trap, so stay sharp. Can you see anything in the side mirrors?'

Dave feigned looking out of his window and dropped his hand down to his revolver. 'Why don't you radio it in before we look at the tyres?'

'Protocol dictates that we stay inside the front of the cab. I'll radio HQ anyway,' Bill said and switched his revolver to his other hand to reach for the radio. He grabbed the black handset hanging from the dashboard just as the bullet hit him under the arm. A second, then third hit him in the midriff as Dave fired sideways, his revolver resting on his lap.

Bill dropped his gun in shock then tried to reach for it as it fell into the footwell but it was too late, a gurgling sound was coming from his punctured lung as it rapidly filled with blood. Dave picked up the revolver and placed it on the dashboard before reaching across the dying man and opening the passenger door. Bill grabbed the killer's shirtsleeve and stared into his eyes.

'Sorry, Bill, but Tommy is going to get his arse kicked tonight,' Dave said and pushed Bill out into the street. He closed the door and locked it again before placing the van into gear and driving off the pavement and back onto the street.

He followed the prescribed driver's route on the transfer manifest and knew that HQ was monitoring his movements with an inbuilt tracking system. He smiled as the radio on the dashboard remained silent.

A mangy fox ran across the road, and he slowed down because ahead of him loomed the Tibbett's Corner roundabout where he was supposed to join the motorway. Instead, he took the first left exit and accelerated towards Wimbledon Village with the vast green expanse of Wimbledon Common whizzing by on his right. Hundreds of wooden squatters' shacks had sprung up throughout the green area over the past few years. Grey smoke drifted across the road from all the wood and coal fires which meant it was getting late as families started to sit down to dinner.

He looked at the watch on the dashboard and felt the tension lift. They were still on schedule for the meeting. He took the next major tarred road right and then drove towards the abandoned Wimbledon Windmill Museum building. The ragged blades of the windmill stood motionless and silhouetted against the darkening sky.

'Charlie four three one, come in, Charlie four three one,' the radio sprung into life, the LCD lights coming on.

'Oh, do shut up,' Dave said.

He pulled into the overgrown parking lot and parked at the parking bay furthest from the entrance, aware of teenagers standing nearby smoking some or other drug. Climbing down from the cab, he withdrew his revolver as he walked around the front of the cab and through the beams of the headlights, towards the group of kids. As one, they all took a few steps away from him, their hands lifted in resignation, then turned to melt away into the wooded area.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and he felt the tension rising within him again at the thought of being out after dark. Dave jumped when his company phone rang. The caller ID read - _Control Room_. He took a deep breath.

'They're attacking us! Send back up!' he screamed into the handset and fired a shot into the air. He dropped the phone onto the concrete and drove his heavy black size eleven boot onto it.

'And that is all she wrote,' he said, walking around to the back of the van.

# Chapter 36

Wimbledon Common, Wimbledon, England, UK - 2019

David McLaren looked at his wristwatch and took out a black lock-knife from his trouser pocket. He snapped it open and slipped it under the thin metal band that served as the vehicle security seal. 'Oops,' he said, as the seal ripped and he reached for the large stainless-steel handle. With a tug towards him, then upwards, the door hissed slightly as the rubber seal eased open. He pulled the door and swung it around to the side of the van. Jumping up the three small steps, he walked down the van corridor.

'Good evening, gentlemen. We have reached the end of your journey, so please leave your trays tables in the upright position. Don't leave any personal belongings behind as the staff members are a little immoral, and you might not see your goodies again. Can Mr Gibbs make himself known to the cabin staff, please?'

'Here, funny man. I'm Gibbs. Who the hell are you?'

'Never mind my name, sir. I'm just a bloke who owes a mutual friend of ours a large favour,' he said, producing a key and opening Gibbs's handcuffs.

He walked along the cubicles and released the other four men. 'Mind your step out of this contraption. People have died to get you out of here, and it would be tragic if one of you fell and broke your bloody arse.'

'You sure like the sound of your own voice, my friend,' Gibbs said, rubbing his wrists.

'Just happy to have completed my side of a very longstanding bargain,' he said, cupping his ear. 'And speaking of which, I think I hear them approaching.'

Around the corner a small white transit van appeared, followed by a large black Range Rover. They raced up to the security truck, stopping just short in a flurry of dust.

Six men wearing red tracksuit tops jumped out carrying shotguns and pistols of different makes. They walked a few metres away from the security van to secure the perimeter. Martin appeared out of the driver's seat of the Range Rover, smiling at Gibbs.

'Hello, lover,' he said, a skewed grin on his face.

Gibbs shook his hand and then realised that he was also smiling. 'Thanks for this, Martin.'

'My pleasure, mate, although Sheila would have had my balls for dinner if I'd fucked this up. I take it that we're all square for the army truck?'

'All squared up, mate,' Gibbs said.

Martin turned to Dave and shook his hand. 'Consider your debt paid, Dave. Speak to me next week if you want to earn some cash.'

'I will do.'

'Time to leave, gentlemen, they'll start looking for this van very soon,' Martin said, throwing Gibbs the Range Rover keys. 'There are weapons and other ammunition in the back if you need them. Let's go. Sheila's waiting for us.'

# Chapter 37

Richmond-upon-Thames, London, England, UK - 2019

Gibbs could almost hear his ribs creaking as Sheila hugged him, lifting him off his feet. Her smoky laugh, which everyone loved, was music to his ears. Looking into her eyes, the tough London gang lord's eyes welled up. 'Glad you got out in one piece, pet.'

'Thanks to you and your boys.'

'My pleasure, but we can stand here and exchange pleasantries, or we get you back out the door to find the shit who killed Sharon. I'll keep the email evidence hidden along with the phone message from Sharon,' she said.

'I would like to hear them before I leave.'

'Not now, Gibbs. There will come a time when I'll let you listen to the message, and you can grieve as long as you need to. Right now, you have more important things to do, and time is no longer your friend. One of our scouts reported that Kirkwood is still at the address, but they must be looking to move soon.'

'You're right of course, we'd better get moving,' Gibbs said, placing his hand on her arm. 'Look at you two, London's own Bonnie and Clyde, running the Vikings together.'

Sheila laughed out loud. 'It's my baby so, don't give Martin credit or it'll go to his head, and I'll never hear the end of it. Go and get that bastard. I'll drive to Heathrow to see if I can get my hands on any flight manifests, just in case you miss him.'

• • •

The black Range Rover's 3.6-litre engine roared as Shredder pressed the accelerator to pass a large truck holding up traffic on the road to Wimbledon. They sped along without a word passing between them, a job had to be done. Slowing down, they to turn into Somerset Road, which was lined with luxurious family homes and apartment blocks in the quiet leafy suburb. All the houses had tall brick walls and steel fences out front, with barbed wire and glass on top to deter intruders. Machine gun-wielding guards patrolled inside the perimeters to deal with anyone who made it through.

They inched up to house number thirty. 'Pull over here, Shredder, let's scope out the address before going in,' Gibbs said.

'Right, gents. I've loaded up four magazines each,' Killey said from the back seat as he passed the magazines forward for the suppressed Glock 17s that Shredder and Gibbs had chosen.

They sat watching the split-level, grey plastered mansion with four chimney stacks on the roof for fifteen minutes. A rooftop balcony had been purposefully built with wood and metal scaffolding allowing surveillance in either direction of Somerset Road. Gibbs lifted his binoculars and looked straight at a man lying on the temporary balcony, who had his binoculars trained on them.

'Looks like we have been made, gents,' Gibbs said. 'Let's just sit tight. No one raise a bloody weapon.'

'Someone has joined him in the watching game. First-floor window below him,' Shredder said.

'Martin has armed men covering the back of the house so they will have to come out onto this road if they want to leave,' Gibbs said.

'There!' Shredder pointed to a black BMW X5 that was reversing from the garage on the side of the premises. It pulled in front of the large white front door and stopped. Shortly afterwards the front door of the house opened, and four armed men walked out and surrounded the X5.

'They're on the move,' Gibbs said. 'Killey, you cover the man on the roof balcony. Shredder, use the car bonnet as cover and take out as many of those men as you can. I am going to make a break for that neighbour's gate to the left of them and try for Kirkwood as soon as he comes out,' Gibbs said.

Killey got out and used the open door window to lean on. He focused his pistol on the figure lying on the roof. As soon as the man saw Gibbs get out and advance to the neighbour's brick gatepost, he moved his rifle around to cover him, and Killey opened fire in quick silenced bursts. Bits of concrete and roof tile exploded. The man who'd ducked down reappeared and tried to aim at Gibbs, but Killey let off another burst, covering him in debris.

A first-floor window swung open, and a man dressed in black let rip with a volley of bullets at the gatepost. Shredder returned fire from over the bonnet of the parked Range Rover and hit the man in the chest, sending him back into the dark interior of the room.

The four men stationed around the X5 had all gone to ground and were opening fire. Gibbs managed to reach the gatepost and took out the closest man, just as two men charged out of the main door of the house and dived into the X5. The panic-stricken face of the man he'd come to kill was only visible for a second, as his target's bodyguard shielded him from the attack, and shepherded him into the car. Gibbs got off two rounds into the bodyguard, who slumped down in the car doorway.

One of the guards in front of the car tumbled forward from his kneeling position. Gibbs locked his sights on a third man when he saw the brief flicker of reverse lights on the X5 as the driver shifted through the automatic transmission. They were about to escape.

Gibbs fired two rounds into the back of the x5 then his Glock's chamber locked open. Empty. His hand dropped to his belt for another magazine.

Meanwhile, Shredder had read the play unfolding before him and fired a few rounds at the BMW before he realised that the gate was still closed, so he started to walk out from behind his covered position, emptying another magazine. The X5's engine roared as it pulled off, following the bend of the driveway to the right, and then it burst through the closed cast iron gate, catapulting it outwards across the road.

'They're on the move,' Shredder shouted, running back to their car.

Gibbs stepped out from behind the gatepost and shot the last man who was trying to get back into the house. The Range Rover screeched to a halt next to Gibbs, and he jumped in just as another shooter appeared at the first-floor window, firing at them as they passed. A bullet hit the side post between the front and back window and went straight through into the opposite door.

'Jesus, that was a little too close,' Shredder said, above the whining engine.

'You catch the direction they're heading?' Gibbs asked.

'Turned left at the next road,' Shredder said, accelerating towards the corner. They sped down past the old All England Lawn Tennis Club that was once home to the Wimbledon Championships, then approached a T-junction and stopped, looking in either direction.

'Damn it,' Shredder said. 'Any idea which way they went?'

Gibbs opened the window and called over to a young street dweller. 'Hey, kid. You see a big black BMW come down this way?'

The kid smiled and held his hand up, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, asking for something in return. Gibbs aimed his Glock out of the window at the kid, whose eyebrows shot up. He pointed to the left.

Killey threw out a pound coin to the boy as they raced off.

'Damn softie,' Gibbs said.

'We don't have to be horrible to everyone we meet, you know,' Killey said, and leaned over to his right as Shredder screeched around another corner.

'There they are,' Shredder said and downshifted again, the revs wailing as the power went down to all four wheels.

• • •

David Kirkwood was shaking with fear as he crouched down on the floor behind the front passenger seat. Again and again, he was thrown forward against the driver's seat as he slammed on the brakes. He desperately tried to wipe the blood off his arm from the bodyguard's corpse which he'd struggled to push off him as they sped away. Relief flooded through him when he realised that it could have been him lying dead in the paved driveway. Money bought expendable men for those who could afford it. He felt lucky to be alive as bullets clunked into the back of the BMW.

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he started to dial the number of a man who knew what to do in these situations. 'I need your help. Gibbs has ambushed me, and they're chasing us. There are bullets flying all over the place. My driver is hurtling around all over the road.'

'Where are you now, David?' the man asked.

'In the back of a bloody car, where do you think?'

'David, if you want my help, the first thing you have to do is pull yourself together and remain calm. Where exactly are you headed?' the man asked again.

'We are headed towards the M4 motorway out of London towards Heathrow. I'm supposed to catch a plane out of here this evening.'

'That's perfect. Do you know where the Styx Enterprise warehouse is? The one near the old Terminal Four?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Tell your driver to get there as fast as possible, and we'll be waiting for you with a trap set to take care of these men once and for all,' the man said.

Kirkwood felt elated that he could still get away. The panic ebbed away. 'Driver, make for the Styx Enterprise warehouse at Heathrow. Do you know where that is?'

'Yes, I do, sir. We may struggle with the fuel if we keep driving like this. It'll cost a fortune, and we only have a quarter tank left. There is no way we'll get back to London.'

'Do you know who I am, and who pays for all of this? I don't care about your bloody fuel levels. Fill up the damn tank once you've dropped me off.'

The driver laughed, and the other guard in the passenger seat turned to face Kirkwood. 'I know that you don't get out into the real world, sir, but petrol stations around here no longer have any fuel. It is all rationed.'

'I don't care. The man we're going to meet has all the petrol in the world. You have failed to keep me hidden from Gibbs who is now chasing me. You can take up your problems with him.'

The men in the front of the car went silent.

'Now, do your bloody job and get me there without any bullet holes in me,' Kirkwood said, hunkering down again. He thought of the money and the warm weather he would soon be enjoying. His spirits lifted.

# Chapter 38

Chiswick, London, England, UK - 2019

Gibbs thrust his hand onto the dashboard to brace himself as Shredder hit the brake to avoid slamming into a large truck that pulled out of a side road. The black Range Rover's wheels locked up and screeched for a few meters before Shredder spun the steering wheel to the left and the large car swerved around the old truck. It bounced up onto the concrete pavement with a thump, flattening an old post box as they stopped.

'Move the bloody truck,' he screamed out of the window, but the shocked truck driver flipped him the middle finger. Shredder reached down and pulled up the Glock, resting it on the window frame. The driver's eyes widened, and he slammed the gear shift into reverse to send the truck lumbering backwards.

The Range Rover pulled out onto the street again and headed towards the old Wandsworth one-way system again.

'Bloody heck, we've been around Wandsworth a few times today,' Killey said. 'Do us a favour and don't lose them, mate.'

'You do the looking. I'll do the driving,' Shredder said. The X5 turned off down a narrow street and headed along the Thames River towards Putney.

Killey opened the right passenger window and leant his body out, aiming for the X5 driver. He fired, and the first bullet hit the back window upright of the BMW. The driver swerved to the left and the second and third bullets tore through the side mirror, ripping it from the bodywork.

The X5 swerved across the road a few times as Gibbs and his team once again got close. In the narrow streets of Putney, which were lined with old parked cars and rusty vans, getting alongside for a killer shot was impossible.

Flashing blue lights in the rear-view mirror caught Shredder's eye.

'Oh goodie. The police have decided to join our merry little chase,' he shouted over the high revs of the engine. 'How many are there, Killey?'

'Two small Mitsubishi Impreza. Those things can motor along.'

Gibbs spun around. 'We have to get rid of them, mate. They may be joined by a helicopter or two if they're in the area. If that happens, we'll never bloody get away.'

'With pleasure, boss.'

Killey reached down for the semi-automatic shotgun that was on the floor then spun around in the back seat and leaned out of the window.

'Hold her steady, Shredder,' he shouted above the rushing wind.' Bring them up on the right-hand side.'

Shredder swung to the left, leaving a small gap for the first Impreza to drive into. The police cordially accepted and drove into the space provided. The shotgun roared twice. Killey swore as he missed the tyre and took out the front light and left-hand fender.

'Again, Shredder.'

'Get him already, will you,' Shredder said and swerved the car.

Killey took his time and squeezed the trigger, and the tyre blew. The front of the Impreza dipped down onto the rim, rubber exploding and flying everywhere. The car lurched to the left and smashed into a parked Mercedes, stopping instantaneously. The police car following it slammed on the brakes and just managed to stop short of the wrecked car, its path blocked.

• • •

In the centre of the large metal-clad hangar, the old Boeing 747 stood as a testament to man's greatest achievement in the sky. Many of the small windows had been removed from the upper and lower decks making the once majestic plane look like a tramp with missing teeth. Adding to the humiliation, two of the monstrous Rolls-Royce RB211 engines had been pirated for other flying planes, rendering it crippled.

Alex Brun walked into the hangar through one of the side doors and looked up at the large plane's nose, which dwarfed everything around it. He shouted a few orders to the assembled group of men, all dressed in black uniforms with black riot gear helmets on their heads. Everyone was armed with variants of the American M16 machine guns and went through meticulous checks and preparations.

Alex dialled a number on his phone. 'Hello, sir.'

'Yes, I'm aware of the original plan, sir, but Mr Kirkwood was insistent that those chasing him were trying to kill him,' Alex said. He listened for a while as the man on the other end of the line laid out the new plan.

'Yes, sir, I've told them to make their way to the main hangar. We're ready and waiting. Mr Kirkwood said that Gibbs is hard on their heels and I think he will chase them into the hangar.'

He was cut off by the man on the other end again as a new plan was detailed to him.

'Are you sure, sir? May I say that he could prove useful at this juncture.'

Alex walked away from the assembled men He clenched his teeth as the person spoke. Anger started to fill his cool and calculating self.

'Have I not always served you well, sir? Have I not always been honest about my assessments of the situations we face?'

Alex turned towards his men. With a nod of his head, they all fanned out, running to their covert positions in the warehouse.

'That's okay, sir. I'll take care of him myself.'

'There will be no loose ends.'

• • •

The chase continued as the two cars sped over the quiet and deserted Chiswick Bridge, swerving to miss a burnt-out refuse lorry that was still smouldering. The rioting in London was getting worse as gang-driven anarchy spread. London security forces were now fully engaged in helping to build flood defences along the Thames River as the flooding escalated.

'Shredder, we're not getting a decent crack at passing them on these suburban roads, so let's back off a few yards and see where they lead us,' Gibbs said.

'Gotcha, boss. Do you still think they might be heading to Heathrow?'

'Yeah, I'm pretty sure they are.'

Shredder turned left at the broken traffic light just after they crossed over the Thames.

'What the bloody hell are you doing?' Gibbs said.

'A shortcut, boss,' he replied and worked his way up the gears again.

'You'd better not lose him.'

'We all believe that he's heading to the airport, and I think we can head him off if I go this way,' Shredder said and snapped the steering to the right into another suburban street. The Range Rover responded with a slight body roll and threw Gibbs and Killey against the left-hand doors.

'We won't get to them if you crash into someone's living room,' Gibbs said.

Two more side streets and it brought them to the intersection with the M4 motorway, the main road out west of London. 'Now we wait,' Shredder said.

'And you'd better pray they come this way,' Gibbs said.

The men sat watching the empty road when after a few minutes Killey broke the silence. 'Blue flashing lights heading this way.'

'Damn it, they're ahead of Kirkwood's car,' Gibbs said. 'Let's go, Shredder. Let the police get alongside us this time.'

Unaware of the danger ahead of them, the X5 tried to pass the police car on the right-hand side, distracting the officers. A flurry of small arms fire hit the left-hand side of the passing Impreza, blowing out both tyres and sending sparks over the roof. The policeman lost control of the car, and it spun to the left of the road and careered into the Armco barrier at speed, before spinning back across the three lanes and coming to rest against the central reservation, flames flicking out of the front wheel arch.

'Let's go,' Gibbs said, watching the X5 pass them.

The black vehicle came back into range again, and Shredder tried to pass on the right-hand side, but the other driver swerved across to cut them off. Gibbs leant out of the passenger window and fired a few rounds at the back of the X5. The back window finally erupted and sent shards of glass all over the following Range Rover.

The two black vehicles jinked and swerved across the dual lanes of the M4 flyover that eventually merged onto the main motorway. The lighter BMW X5 seemed to have the speed to allow them to stay ahead on the cluttered motorway. A few miles further down the road the X5 took the off-ramp off the motorway to Heathrow.

Gibbs could see the driver was hunkering down, and the shooter sitting in the passenger seat turned to fire a volley of bullets at them. Shredder anticipated it and swerved hard to the left, the Range Rover leaned over precariously at high speed, and Shredder was forced to counter-steer to stop them rolling over. The X5 moved to the right again, allowing Shredder to downshift and ram the left side of the vehicle.

Sparks burst upwards into the air as the metal growled and gave way on both cars. Killey leaned out on the right side and fired a short volley, killing the man on the passenger side. 'I cannot see Kirkwood anywhere,' he shouted into the rush of headwind.

'The coward's probably lying on the floor. We'll have to stop the vehicle to get him,' Gibbs shouted, then sat back in the leather seat. 'Kirkwood is not getting away today, boys. He dies in the UK, or we die trying.'

'Amen to that, mate.'

They entered the major roundabout at the airport entrance, and the Range Rover followed the X5 to the left and then powered up onto the road that led around the perimeter fence of the airport.

On another roundabout, as they drove around to the right, the driver of the X5 fired a volley into the side of the Range Rover, hitting the right back tyre in the process.

'Arrrgh! Lost the back tyre, boss,' Shredder shouted, as he fought hard to control the vehicle, backing off the accelerator to keep them from tipping over.

'Keep after them as best you can, mate,' Gibbs said, leaning out the window and emptying his magazine in the direction of the X5.

The Range Rover had no option but to slow as the ripped tyre started to flail against the bodywork with a thunderous noise. Up ahead they saw the X5 turn right as it reached the furthest point of the airfield and then turn a sharp left into an open gate towards a group of large aircraft hangars. The Styx Enterprises logo was emblazoned across the top of the largest structure.

Shredder brought the Range Rover to a noisy halt at the main gate of the premises. They watched the X5 drive right up to the partially opened hangar doors and pass through into the well-lit interior. 'They must have a plane or helicopter in there.'

'I've flown out of that hangar before, boss. The back doors also open and lead straight onto the runway,' Killey said. 'There could be a plane on the tarmac on the other side.'

'Can we get around the hangar and try to head them off?'

'No. It'll take too much time to get around with this tyre. Best we follow them in.'

'It could be a trap, you know,' Gibbs said.

'Yeah, but if there is a plane waiting for him in there and the bastard gets on board, we will have lost him,' Killey replied.

'Agreed. Reload everything and let's go and get this fucker.'

Two minutes later they drove across the concrete apron in front of the hangar and into the bright stream of light that shone out into the dusk of evening. The tyre-less back rim occasionally touched the concrete, screeching and throwing white sparks up into the dark. Gibbs changed his magazine for a full one and looked up as they rounded the door and crossed onto the smooth polished concrete floor. The wheels squealed as Shredder drove the Range Rover around the perimeter of the hangar, past the giant tail of the Boeing 747.

'There it is. Over by all those tool racks and crates,' Gibbs said, pointing to the X5 that was parked up with all the doors open. Shredder slowed the Range Rover down as they drove under the tip of the large wing, briefly losing sight of the X5.

'Get us close, mate.'

A volley of gunfire erupted from locations amongst the tool racks and crates of aeroplane spare parts beyond the X5. The windshield and side window of the Range Rover shattered, sending glass inwards over Gibbs and Shredder as they were forced to cower down. Men in black uniforms appeared behind them too, hidden by large plastic tanks near the doorway they had just driven through, and fired into the back of the Range Rover.

Gibbs and Killey fired quick bursts out of the left-hand windows while ducking down as more bullets thudded into the metal bodywork. The Range Rover dropped down as the remaining tyres were shot out from under them.

Killey cried out as a bullet hit him in the arm, and he lay across the back seat.

'We're surrounded,' Gibbs said. 'Throw your weapons out of the window.'

As the pistols and shotguns hit the floor of the hangar, the shooting ebbed away. A deathly silence ensued after the last of the gunshots echoed around the metal hangar.

Gibbs sat up in the passenger seat to see men in black uniforms with scarf-covered faces approaching cautiously, their M16s trained on the car. Anger rose within him. Their chance was gone.

A shaken David Kirkwood walked out from his hiding place, behind a large metal cabinet. He glared at Gibbs.

# Chapter 39

Heathrow Airport, London, England, UK - 2019

'On your knees!' the nearest uniformed man shouted, jabbing the muzzle of his machine gun into Gibbs's back. Killey, who was already kneeling on the shiny concrete floor in front of the Boeing, was grimacing in agony as he tried to keep the pressure on his arm, blood seeping through his fingers.

'You gonna make it?' Gibbs asked.

'Think they just winged me. I'll survive.'

Gibbs scanned the hangar. Twenty men with M16s closed in on the group of kneeling men. Anger rose up inside him when his eyes locked on to the man they'd chased down. Kirkwood kicked a small plastic crate along the floor towards them. A little grin across his face, and then with a big sigh, he sat down in front of them.

'Well, that was a bit of fun, wasn't it? Kudos to you for wasting my time and causing me to miss my plane out of here. But now, I'm looking forward to having some fun with you before my next flight.'

Gibbs spat on the ground in front of Kirkwood.

'Was that the best that men from the illustrious SAS could do to stop me from getting away?'

'Go fuck yourself, Kirkwood,' Gibbs said.

'Another failed mission for you and your team then, Gibbs. You have to admit that your record has been poor of late, hasn't it? But don't worry, the prison ships are not going anywhere soon, and you will have the rest of your days to reflect on your failed attempts to kill me,' Kirkwood said.

'You seem to have overlooked the fact that despite all of your best efforts, we've managed to escape at every turn. Those prison ships won't hold us for very long, Kirkwood,' Gibbs said. 'Mark my words, when I get my hands on you, I am going to make you suffer for the people's lives you've destroyed.'

'Be honest with yourself here, you're in no position to make any threats. One of your lapdogs looks very injured and probably should be put out of his misery. In case you haven't realised it yet, all these men are mine to command. I can have them kill all three of you with a simple click of my fingers. That's real power, Gibbs, not wielding a gun, but commanding men who carry guns. Loads of guns.'

'You're too chicken-shit to kill a man by yourself? Nothing but a puny little coward,' Gibbs said.

Kirkwood bristled with the insult, his shoulders straightening.

'Even Tracer Mercer, your flesh and blood, wanted nothing to do with you. He always moaned about having to meet up with you and said he would rather eat his own arse than spend any time with a little runt like you. We were his true family, not you.'

Kirkwood clenched his teeth, his jaw muscle twitching in his slender face. His eyes narrowed, then he smiled and walked over to a large red cabinet. Opening the two doors, he pulled out a large iron spanner. He walked back, smiling at Gibbs as he bounced the big piece of metal in his hand before swinging it into Killey's stomach. The injured man doubled over, crying out in pain.

'You're a bloody coward. Why don't you pick on me or are you scared that I'll fight back?' Gibbs said.

Kirkwood mulled it over a minute then walked over to Gibbs and lifted the large spanner over his head. It hovered in the air for a second, when he screamed out in pain, buckled over and fell to the ground clutching his knee, the spanner spinning out of his reach. Everyone turned around to see who'd shot him.

One of the men lowered his silenced pistol then raised his gloved hand and pulled down the scarf that covered his face.

'Alex?' Kirkwood said, screaming with pain as blood poured out from the back of his knee. 'What the hell are you doing?'

Alex held up a finger up to his lips. He calmly walked over to the kneeling men. 'Mr Gibbs, my name is Alex Brun. It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Under different circumstances, I would have loved to work with you and your men, but alas that's not been possible.'

'I must admit I'm a little confused, Alex,' Gibbs said, looking down at Kirkwood.

Alex slipped the magazine out of his pistol and then flicked all the remaining rounds out of the magazine with his thumb. He slammed the magazine home and chambered the single round.

He silently handed the pistol to Gibbs. 'One left. You are free to seek your revenge for your girlfriend's murder and please make it count. If you try to use the weapon to escape, my men will be forced to shoot all of you, and I would not like that.'

'What are you doing, Alex?' Kirkwood said, his lower lip quivering.

Gibbs stood up and took the Sig 226 from Alex Brun then slowly walked over to Kirkwood. He walked past the groaning man and picked up the iron spanner. Flipping it over in his left hand he walked back and swung it at the man's outstretched hand. He screamed with pain as the bones in his hands shattered with a loud crunch.

'I'm sorry, Gibbs,' he screamed, clutching his hand. 'Let me make it up to you all. I have all your money. I'll pay back every penny.'

Gibbs swung again. The scream pierced the silence in the hangar as the iron spanner smashed into Kirkwood's ribs. A whimper escaped his lips as he fell onto his side.

Gibbs's eyes narrowed then he stomped down on the man's bleeding leg. A blood-curdling scream echoed out into the hangar. Kirkwood pawed at Gibbs's boot. 'Please stop.'

Gibbs leant on the man's leg with even more of his weight. 'This is for JP, and for Sharon. And for all the men who have died as part of your fucking little game.'

Gibbs raised the Sig 226 and shot him in the stomach.

'It's your turn to suffer and feel the pain they felt. You are going to die slowly and in agonising pain on this cold floor without anyone here to feel sorry for you.'

He walked back to Alex and handed him the gun. 'Thank you. What now?'

'I'll get a medic to attend to your man before you're all taken to the prison ship in Wales. My employer tasked me to both eliminate Mr Kirkwood and to capture you and your men. And that's what happened here. Nobody needs to know how justice was served today.'

'You could just let us walk out of here, you know,' Gibbs said.

'You, more than anyone, Mr Gibbs, understand the importance of following orders.'

# Chapter 40

Carshalton Estate, Surrey, England, UK - 2019

Lord Butler relaxed at the head of the long mahogany table in his breakfast room, sipping sweet tea from a white china teacup while reading a final report from the Billionaires Club. Markus Schmidt waited patiently in the corner of the room for his employer to finish his breakfast.

'Markus, I'm aware that you informed the members that all documents and correspondence relating to the Angolan incident had been destroyed, but have you kept copies of everything as I instructed you to do?'

'Yes, sir. Copies have been made and are now stored on servers in your basement rooms at the Canary Wharf office.'

'Thank you. I take it you were as discreet as usual?'

'The young man who made all the copies for me was involved in a fatal car accident, sir.'

'I see. That's unfortunate. Please send my condolences to his family.'

'You have already made a sizable donation to the cost of the funeral. What's to be done about David Kirkwood?'

'No need to worry about him. I've personally had that taken care of. David is no longer part of this organisation, so if anyone enquires as to his whereabouts, just say that he's left the country for good. He did always have a separate agenda to the Billionaires Club, but I was fortunate that our two agendas complemented one another. I will miss his company in my bed at nights, but needs must.'

'What of Alex Brun, sir?'

'Alex is on his way to the USA. He'll take control of my primary enterprise there.'

'Lord Butler. Is it wise to leave someone out there who possesses such an in-depth knowledge of our recent activities, and knows our plans too?' Markus said.

Lord Butler smiled at the German. 'I am truly touched by your concern, Markus. I did think long and hard about Alex and how he fits into our plans before I sent him away. I think he still has a large part to play, so for the time being, he stays alive.'

'What if we need one of his particular services again?'

'I'm sure that you could perform the same tasks that Alex offered if I needed them urgently,' Lord Butler said, sipping his tea.

'Of course, sir. It's what I was trained for.'

'That's good to hear,' Lord Butler said. 'You know it might have taken me over ten years to achieve, but I now have a nucleus of men and woman who are on board with the plan to secure the last of the planet's resources for our new organisation. Moving forward we will be more aggressive and brutal in our missions. That's why I had to dispose of so many who were linked to the Angolan initiative. It was the last piece in our global puzzle.'

'Then why keep all the documents, sir? If they were to be leaked, we could be in trouble.'

'Leverage, Markus, for leverage. You never know who might need their minds changed in future,' Lord Butler said and took a folder out of a briefcase at his feet. The words _Phoenix Council_ were printed in red on a label on the cover.

'From now on, the Phoenix Council will decide on the correct way to store and use the planet's remaining resources. We will make and decide policy, not the facile and useless governments whose influence is waning by the day with all the rioting and chaos around us. There are exciting times ahead for us.'

'I'm pleased to be a part of it,' Markus said. 'But why the name change?'

'I thought that Billionaires Club sounded a little arrogant and too exclusive so decided that we needed something with a little more gravitas and presence. It was the late Mason Waterfield's idea to use the Phoenix to represent the new beginning the world will see under our guidance and leadership.'

'Wise choice.'

'Markus, you have taken care of tricky loose ends for me recently and have done so without question. I thank you for your loyalty, but I need to ask one more thing of you.'

'Anything, sir,' Markus replied, bowing his head slightly.

'The Phoenix Guard will be the global military wing of the Phoenix Council, and it will have many varied roles and duties to perform. The primary function, however, will be to ensure that all the economic regions we have established over the past few years obey our wishes. I want you to be the first appointed captain of the Phoenix Guard.'

'Thank you, Lord Butler,' Markus said. 'I would be happy to.'

'Good. Each captain will have thirty crack military or policemen under his command and will be deployed as and when we need them, so I'll need you to start recruiting suitable men to the cause immediately. It's a real shame that we lost the likes of that Gibbs character because I think he would have been perfect for the Guard going forward. But alas, sometimes you have to lose a few pawns on the chessboard to start a winning game,' Lord Butler said, closing the folder.

# Chapter 41

The prisonship, ICARUS - Wales - 2019

Gibbs narrowed his eyes as the wind blasted from ahead of them. The handcuffs chafed his wrists while he stood looking down the glistening jetty. The Welsh coastline was being hit by a cold front, and the waves in the harbour were throwing spray up over the pier and jetty walkways. Shredder stood next to him, calm and serene, but with his lips showing a blue tint from the cold. They needed warmer clothes.

Alex Brun walked back towards them, accompanied by a bull of a man. His shaven head and crooked bulbous nose overshadowed a square jaw and thick neck. He wore a thick brown parka with a fur-lined hood, and black pants that were tucked into black boots. Two similarly dressed wardens walked behind them, armed with pump-action shotguns.

'Welcome to my ship, ladies. I'm happy to have you join our little family. Mr Brun has informed me of the need to keep you separated because of your habit of escaping. There won't be any of that nonsense from here.

'If we catch you planning an escape, we throw you overboard. If you get caught trying to escape, we shoot you. If you fall in the icy water, you are on your own. These are the only rules that I have on my ship. You are welcome to try and jump overboard, that'll mean more food for the rest of the inmates. In these waters, you'll last but one or two minutes before you seize up from the cold, and sink without a trace. Those are my only rules, and if you follow them, you may survive for a couple of more years. Whatever hopes and dreams you have for your future, leave them on this jetty. Survival is your only future from here on in, and it's the last time you'll set foot on dry land.'

He turned and nodded to the men behind, who stepped around him and grabbed Gibbs and Shredder's arms, hustling them forward.

'What about Killey? Is he okay?' Gibbs asked.

The head warden stepped forward and grabbed Gibbs by the throat. He had a grip of steel, but Gibbs kept staring into his eyes. 'Your friend is in with the medic. If he survives that surgery, which will be a surprise given Doc's shaky hands, and if he survives any infection after that, he will be released into the general population.

'Don't ever address me directly again. Is that clear? You speak to your junior warden. I'll let you have this one because, like me, you're ex-fighting men. I respect the old world we had in common but don't ever vomit out anything in my direction again. And when addressed by any warden on the ship, you say, sir.'

He squeezed again and then let Gibbs go. He snatched a breath as bright coloured flashes fluttered in his eyes and he felt dizzy.

'Do you grasp that concept, soldier?' the head warden said.

Gibbs nodded. 'We do, sir.'

The big man stood aside, waving them on along the jetty to a small boat that was bobbing about viciously on its mooring. The tide was coming in, and Gibbs looked up to the tanker prisonship in the distant blue haze.

• • •

The stench was going to take some getting used to.

Gibbs had been aboard the ship for a few hours and still felt the assault on his nose from unwashed men and full toilet buckets. From the small holding cell, he was moved along a narrow passage, ducking low to get through the tanker's small doors.

Coming to one of the large internal tanks, he could look across what seem to be walled-off cells, with mesh roofs. A nudge from the warden behind him forced him to take a step onto the narrow metal stairway that descended along the left side of all the tanks.

'How many tanks are there like this one, warden?'

'Four tanks on the ship, twenty cells per tank with thirty men in each cell.'

'Do we ever get to go up top?'

'Not in your first year,' the warden said. 'Now shut the fuck up.'

The key rattled in the rusty lock, and the warden swung the door open, pulling his Sig 26 at the same time. Two other wardens had appeared from the other side of the tank. Glancing upwards, Gibbs counted six other wardens armed with Heckler & Koch MP5s all sporting scopes and noise suppressors.

The warden raised the Sig and walked in front of Gibbs, stopping in the open doorway. 'Stand back, everyone one in Cell twenty-three. Newbie coming in.'

'Everyone clear, sir,' came the reply from someone close to the door.

The warden peered inside and then took a step back. Gibbs was pushed forward and stopped in the doorway. The warden leaned in towards him. 'I have ten bucks that says you'll last the night. The other wardens reckon that you'll last a few hours. The rules of the tank cells are that there are no rules. To get a bed, you'll have to fight one of the lower ranked inmates.'

Gibbs turned to the warden. 'No rules, sir?'

'On you go, Gibbs. Make me proud, and earn me some money, and I'll get you up top within six months.'

Gibbs stared at him, and the urge to head-butt him was overpowering. Sharon's enduring image in his mind made him smile. He had to bide his time. There was someone in London who'd pulled Kirkwood's strings. He knew what was happening and did nothing. Taking a deep breath, Gibbs calmed his nerves, and the adrenaline ratcheted up a level.

'If I make it through to the week, will you let me up top in three months?'

'Ha,' the man said. 'Get in there.'

As he stood inside the metal doorway, the door slammed behind him with the sound of a rifle shot. Bunk beds were placed around the walls, with six single beds in the middle. Men slowly got up off their beds or came out of hidden corners to look at the newbie. Gibbs rubbed his fingers in his palms and stretched his fingers to click his knuckles. He scanned all the men, assessing the real threats. And there were a few.

His gaze stopped on the farthest corner and a bunk that was decorated with books and pictures of naked women. A small fan oscillated a breeze onto a tall African man who sat on the edge of the bed looking at Gibbs. A younger prisoner was sitting at his feet on the floor, draped across the African inmate's legs.

Gibbs took a step forward, watching the men in his peripheral view, the first one to move would get smashed. No one moved. The big African got to his feet and walked around the single beds in the middle, his gaze never leaving Gibbs's. Inmates parted out of his path as he approached.

'Newbie. This is my cell. You have to fight one of the men in these middle beds for your chance to get food and a place to sleep. You could choose to sleep on the floor in front of the door or sleep with one of those two men to your left. They'll break you into prison life, and you can become their bitch. You may stay with them as their prison wife. I have no problem with that.'

'Tell me, big fella, is this really your cell?' Gibbs said as the man drew nearer. Gibbs took a step to the side, towards a skinny prisoner standing at the foot of the nearest single bed.

'My cell. My rules. If you pick that man, then let the fight begin.' The men all started whooping and whistling. Shouts from neighbouring cells also kicked off as they listened in. Anything that happened here would be heard all over the tank. If this went wrong, Gibbs would not be in good shape.

Gibbs walked past the African who stood a foot taller than him and smelt like a buffalo. His eyes narrowed as he focused on the skinny man, who'd gone a lot paler. Spinning around to his left, Gibbs punched the African in the throat with a vicious right hook, the crunch of the cartilage ensuring he stayed in shock as he struggled for breath.

Dropping his left shoulder, he swung his left fist up between the man's muscular thighs. The pop of his testicles spurred Gibbs on to finish him quickly. The big man dropped to his knees, then fell onto his side holding his throat and balls. A spoon with a sharpened handle dropped from his sleeve, the grip bound with resin, and it rolled towards Gibbs. He snapped it up then brought his right heel down onto the man's contorted face. Two more heel strikes rendered the man unconscious.

Gibbs flipped the shiv over and pointed it at a man who'd stepped forward. 'Don't take another step, fucker, or you'll bleed out and die over this body.'

Gibbs walked backwards to the door and thumped it twice with his heel. A creak broke the silence as it swung open. The warden appeared with a smile.

'Excuse me, warden. Would you mind getting this sack of shit out of my cell?'

The warden laughed and signalled to two inmates. 'Get old Cyril out of here and to the infirmary. Wait there in case you have to toss the body overboard.'

They dragged the lifeless body out of the door. Gibbs swung around and looked at the skinny man. 'What's your name?'

'Mike.'

'Don't just stand there, Mike. Clean up the blood from my cell floor.'

'Yes, sir.'

Gibbs walked towards the corner of the room, the shiv nestled in his palm. The effeminate young man stood up and smiled as he approached. 'Don't smile at me. Get back to your bunk. I won't be needing your services.'

The man's shoulders dropped, and he started to chew on his nails. He smiled at Gibbs again.

'Who is second-in-command here?' Gibbs said, looking at the man who'd stepped in to help Cyril. 'You?'

The man nodded.

'You a friend of Cyril?'

The man shrugged. 'We had a business arrangement.'

'What's your name?'

'People here call me Butcher.'

'Okay, Butcher. Your arrangement still stands, but with me. Do you want to challenge me for this bed? You say so now.'

The man stared at him for a few seconds and then shook his head. 'What do I call you?'

'Call me Gibbs. You've been here longer than me so take whatever crap you want of Cyril's possessions. You've earnt it. Just leave me that fan. Oh, and take Cyril's girlfriend if you want him. I won't be here long enough to have a proper relationship.'

The men in the cell all started laughing.

# Chapter 42

Hopen Island, Svalbard, Norway - 2021

A lone figure trudged through the mossy tundra on the west side of Hopen Island in the Svalbard archipelago. Stopping briefly to glance behind her again, she readjusted the straps on her laden backpack and switched the Browning hunting rifle to the other shoulder. Scanning the horizon for the dangerous lumbering shape that posed a lethal threat, she felt relieved to be in the clear and continued up the tricky scree slope.

A large herring gull floated above her on its way to prey on the guillemots' roosting grounds among the rocks above her position. She knew that it wouldn't be long before the guillemots would take to the air en masse to try and confuse the gull, swirling around in large black clouds as they headed out to sea. As she glanced down at the ocean again, something caught her eye. _What the hell is going on down there?_

A large swathe of lighter coloured seawater ran parallel to the entire coast of the island. It hadn't been there the previous day. She'd never seen anything like it during all her time in Norway and was so transfixed by the unknown phenomenon that she failed to spot the danger creeping up behind her.

It moved swiftly across the tundra towards her, its large pad-like paws squelching through the small tundra plants under its starved frame. Its head was carried low to the ground as it moved, lifting it occasionally to sniff the scent of the human on the breeze.

The woman remained transfixed on the wide band of bleached water in front of her. _Plankton bloom, maybe. No, don't be stupid, that is not possible_. She had to get a closer look at it and decided to give the guillemots a miss and head back down to the rubber Zodiac. She looked up the slopes one last time and froze with fear.

The phantom creature was standing fifty meters above her, moving its head from side to side, contemplating its attack, and with its known burst of speed it could be on her in seconds.

'HA...away!' she screamed, waving her arms to try and scare it off.

The bear groaned out loud and drew more resolve from its elevated position so took another step towards her. Slipping the long Browning rifle from her shoulder, she chambered a round and switched the safety off.

The starving bear stopped, groaning as its nose filled with the scent of a possible meal. Turning its body slightly towards the woman, the huge animal lowered its head again. She raised the rifle and aimed at the rocks in front of his nose and squeezed the trigger as she had done on so many previous occasions. The bullet smashed into the rocks just in front of the bear's nose, sending shards in all directions. The bear recoiled, growling, then turned away and ran over the hill.

Her heart was still thumping wildly in her chest when she turned back towards the ocean and began her descent to where the black Zodiac was moored. The incident with the bear drifted from her thoughts with possibilities of what could have caused the bizarre ocean discolouration.

• • •

Hours later she raised her hand, and the pilot of the rubber Zodiac eased off the throttle, and they slowed to a halt. Flipping open her waterproof case, she reached inside for five small plastic sample containers. Leaning over the side of the boat, she stared at the sea beneath them.

'Bubbles?' she said. 'It's bubbles, not plankton.'

Marine biologist Sigga Lauridsen was busy with her doctorate on the effects of climate change on the diminutive Brünnich's Guillemot of the island, but her heart belonged to the sea. In an ocean full of mysteries, this was a true mystery.

Scooping out four samples of whatever the mysterious gas was, she quickly sealed the containers to trap the gas in the water. The water had no distinctive smell so she was not sure what gas it could be. Her mind raced through the possibilities, but nothing made any sense. 'Let's get back to the ship, Mika,' she said. 'And make it quick.'

Once back in her lab, she sat on a small stool in front of the computer, going over the tide charts and weather patterns for any possible clues. Whatever it was, the sheer size of the event meant that it had to be a release that would have been triggered en masse. She knew of no gas pipeline that ran through the region. It had to be natural.

'It's methane, Sigga,' a voice behind her said, making her jump.

'What? Are you sure?' she asked her assistant. Sigga walked over to the lab bench where the samples had been placed into a larger sealed glass container with a portable manometer to determine the type and quantity of gas.

'Without a doubt, and it's in a very high concentration so I wouldn't light a match in here,' her assistant said, a cheeky grin appearing on her face.

'Jesus. This is dangerously high for an ocean release. Set up some standards right away so we can work on a two-week testing cycle before we alert anyone,' Sigga said.

'Sure thing. Do you think that we have a large-scale methane hydrate melt happening here?'

'I don't want to speculate, to be honest. The sea in this area is quite shallow, so I'm not sure if someone has already researched the island. We don't know if someone has mapped and accounted for all this methane in previous studies,' Sigga said.

'But the readings we're getting must mean it's more than an isolated pocket. This is a few kilometres long, and the sheer size of the release could have a marked impact on the planetary climate.'

'Just hold on now. Science has proven that most of the mixture of methane gas and water that makes up the ice-like particles of methane hydrate, and that covers the ocean floor, would dissolve or be oxidised well before reaching the surface, never mind making into the atmosphere. You would have learnt that at university.'

'Of course I did. But the sheer expanse of shallow seas around the planet that have not been explored to date poses a threat that more of these massive melts could occur.'

Sigga nodded. 'There could be more in the future.'

• • •

'Good afternoon, Sigga, this is Professor Victor Greenway, chief scientist at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.'

'Hello, professor. I'm of course familiar with all of your work,' Sigga said. 'What can I do for you?'

'Allow me to apologise in advance for having to question your findings that have just come across my desk,' he said, his voice sounding hollow over the ship's satellite phone.

'It's okay, professor.'

'We need to make sure these astonishing results are correct and above question. Are you sure of your results?'

'I am, sir.'

'Okay then, but be aware a few of my colleagues are querying their validity because of the alarming weekly increase in the quantity of methane that you document as being released into the atmosphere.'

'I expected pushback and doubt from everyone, which is why we've been meticulous in our testing and have actually over-tested in most cases because of the alarming nature of the results. The numbers are shockingly high.'

'High, is a bit of an understatement, Sigga. We've never seen levels like this in any ocean. If we extrapolate this out over a few months, we're talking about a global catastrophe.'

'I concur, professor, and what's more worrying is that the surface area we are talking about has expanded by a few square kilometres in the last week.'

'That's astonishing.'

'It's now all you can see from the island we work from.'

'Thank you, Sigga. May I ask that you keep the numbers coming daily? Please send them to me directly from now on,' he said.

• • •

'Good Lord! It's getting worse,' Professor Greenway said and sat back in his chair, staring out over his view of night-time Washington from his office. His thoughts drifted to his grandchildren and the world they might have to live through. It was past midnight, and he was the last one left in the NOAA office. It'd been two weeks since his last chat with Sigga, and he flipped over the latest aerial photograph, reading the pencilled notes on a white label - Greenland _. It's spreading to other parts of the planet. Time to alert the world._

Two days later, he felt the butterflies in his stomach as he stood at the metal lectern in the George Washington Lisner Auditorium. As he flicked through the images taken from an orbiting satellite, a discernible hush swept over his scientific colleagues in the auditorium. They were his peers from all over the world, and he had piqued their interest.

'As many of you are well aware, I've long been outspoken about the dangers of the feedback effect methane could have on climate change and the warming of our planet. I now firmly believe that we have passed the point of no return. We now find ourselves in a negative feedback loop. One which we will not be able to reverse.

'Even though methane oxidises to become CO2 after about a decade, it is this longer-lived oxidation product that I believe has caused the excessive atmospheric warming of the planet. Over the past two years, we have seen more unprecedented glacial melting resulting in the 0.5 m sea level rise that has started to wreak havoc in the lower lying areas of the planet.

'Ladies and gentlemen, I have new devastating research that the sea level rise will worsen quicker than estimated. The timeframe of between 2070 and 2150 is no longer valid. I believe there is enough corroborating evidence of an imminent climate change catastrophe and that the world must prepare itself for a two to three-metre rise in the next five to ten years,' he said, looking down at his notes. A weight lifted from his shoulders.

Consternation erupted within the auditorium. A thin weasel of a man stood up and called him a delusional old man while others shouted that he had misinterpreted the facts. Fierce arguments broke out between attendees, with ushers having to pull them apart as they came to blows.

'Ladies and gentlemen, please,' he shouted, bending down to reach the microphone. 'The statistics are here for all to study, along with the latest data to prove that the permafrost and Arctic shelf methane hydrate melting is also getting worse, and is accelerating as I speak.'

A figure at the back of the room calmly sat in his chair, paging through the thick dossier given to him when he walked in. He slowly shook his head at the facts that had been highlighted for his benefit by a confidential source in the NOAA. It didn't matter if the professor believed it would happen in the following five to ten years, or if the catastrophe would hit in the next fifty years. The fact was it was going to happen, and there was nothing they could do to reverse it.

The short slim-figured man stood up and walked out of the auditorium, and he dialled a number on his mobile phone.

'Lord Butler, it's Dr Watanabe.'

'Hello, doctor,' he replied.

'The catastrophic event that we've been predicting seems to be well underway. I recommend we call together an urgent meeting of the Grand Founders. There is a lot to discuss.'

# Chapter 43

Canary Wharf, London, England, UK - 2021

The new offices of the Phoenix Council were located at the top of the popular and iconic HSBC building in Canary Wharf, London. Lady Winterton had been unanimously elected as the first chairperson of the Council after Lord Butler had endorsed her candidacy. No one voted against him.

Standing behind the lectern, she welcomed everyone. 'Like everyone here, I don't have a lot of information behind the reason for this urgent meeting, but Dr Watanabe has new critical data that Lord Butler felt had to be shared with the group as a matter of urgency. Doctor, it's over to you.'

The slim and smartly dressed Dr Watanabe stood up from his plush leather seat alongside Lord Butler and walked around the large mahogany table where they were all seated to take his place behind the ornate lectern that had been placed at the head of the table. Shuffling a few pages around, he cleared his throat. 'Good afternoon, everyone. I've just returned from an emergency meeting of the NOAA called by Professor Greenway with alarming news about an imminent climatic catastrophe.'

A low murmur spread amongst the members.

'The Greenway report has shown incontrovertible evidence taken from two large sites, that we have entered a phase of irreversible methane emission which will dramatically increase the global temperature. This will result in a colossal ice melt in the north and south glacial areas. All of this means that our oceans will rise to devastating levels.'

'How do we know this isn't another doom and gloom computer projection?' Lady Winterton asked.

'You have answered your own question, Madam Chairman. Everything before this was based on projection, forecasting and computer modelling. This report is based on pure science and facts from the field studies in the affected areas. We need to make the necessary changes to our strategies and accelerate all of our plans immediately.'

'Climate scientists have been wrong before,' Lady Winterton asked. 'How do we know that these findings are sound?'

'I have looked over their analysis and findings that come from a source in the NOAA. I deem them to be correct. We're passed the point of no return with the climate and cannot reverse the downward spiral we now find ourselves in. With the average temperature rising, colossal glacial melting will be imminent in Greenland and the Antarctic Region. The sea level will rise by a minimum of two meters which will decimate low-lying inhabited areas around the world. Professor Greenway estimates a three-and-a-half-meter rise as most realistic over a five-year period.'

'But if that is the case, it means cities like New York, Los Angeles, most cities in Florida, California, cities in Bangladesh and even European cities will be flooded,' Jürgen Kohler, the Grand Founder from Germany said.

'And don't forget about our dear London,' Lord Butler said.

'Yes, all of those cities are in danger of permanent flooding or, at least, being decimated by the daily tidal surges. What's more, the sheer number of climate change refugees who will look to migrate from those low lying areas to safer cities and towns on higher ground will cause major social and economic problems,' Dr Watanabe said.

'You're correct. It will result in chaos and unrest in all of those areas of a magnitude never seen before on this planet,' Lord Butler said. 'Can we trust these timescales if we decide to change our strategies?'

'We've known about these issues for decades, Lord Butler, and they've gradually been getting worse,' Dr Watanabe said. 'These latest developments were predictable.'

'To cut our timeframes and change our strategies so dramatically would be unachievable,' Lady Winterton said.

'The timescales are irrelevant. It will happen, of that I'm convinced. Let's not find ourselves in the same situation as the crew of the Titanic, standing on the deck, arguing about how quickly the ship is going to sink. In the end, the result was the same, it sank. We need to get ahead of the game.'

Lord Butler laughed and nodded his head. 'Okay, doctor, point made. Now, what do you propose?'

'I believe that whatever remains of global governments will attempt to control the effects of the sea level rise like the population displacement, changes in temperature, food production and health. They will fail to prioritise nuclear plants, oil refineries and desalination plants built at sea level that will be flooded and cease to produce much of our needed energy. It is that energy that will drive everything else.

'So, I suggest our priority should be to secure all the inland energy production facilities as these will continue to produce and, therefore, earn those controlling them untold wealth. It will cement our control and power over the planet. We also need to protect all closed coal mines because these will attract attention from smaller businessmen looking to make money from the coal resurgence. In essence, all facilities that are set at about fifty to one hundred meters above sea level are the ones that we need to own and control.'

'What about wind farms?' Lord Butler asked.

'Any onshore wind farm that is above one hundred and fifty meters needs to be included in our strategy. All offshore wind farms will be destroyed over time as the maintenance costs will render them redundant,' Dr Watanabe said.

Lord Butler nodded. 'May I suggest that the highest priority action step is the acceleration of the recruitment and arming of our Phoenix Guard? We already have fourteen well-trained units deployed around the world, and by the sound of it, we'll probably need twenty to thirty times more during the next ten years.'

'Agreed, Lord Butler,' Lady Winterton said. 'As a second action may I suggest, Dr Watanabe, that you draw up a comprehensive global list of nuclear plants and other resources you mentioned which won't be flooded and will still be functional. We need to focus on those.'

Andrei Kirilenko sat quietly, listening to the rest of his fellow Grand Founders discuss the pending crisis. With a thick Russian accent, he finally spoke. 'We will have problems with swift recruitment.'

'Andrei, you told me it was all under control,' Lord Butler said.

'Because of the changed timelines, it will be difficult to recruit enough men conditioned and trained to move on so many possible targets all at once.'

'What do you think needs to be done to ensure that we are in a position to take control of these resources?' Jürgen Kohler asked.

'In Russia in the nineties, the oligarchs helped secure valuable assets and enforced local law and order in their own regions. The FSB denied that they were working together, but I can assure you that the oligarchs assisted them in return for untold riches. I can attest to that fact as you know,' the ex-FSB director said.

'Andrei, you're not suggesting that we establish a working relationship with gang lords and other mafia type thugs, are you?' Lady Winterton said. 'I'm not sure that would be a good direction to take. How would we control and influence them to deliver on our interests?'

'I've already been in contact with one such man who, along with his two brothers, leads a powerful gang in London called the Asylum Road Boyz,' Andrei said.

'I don't like the sound of that,' Lady Winterton said.

'Let me finish, please,' Andrei said. 'I've had two meetings with the leader Thompson Scott, or Tom Scott as he is called. He and his family now control most of the criminal activities in central London, having eliminated most of the rival gangs over the past five years. I'm sure he'd be happy to serve as a type of warlord of London for us.'

'This isn't some damn computer game, Andrei,' Lady Winterton said. 'If we give these types of people an inch, what's stopping them from taking over?'

'He would represent us and help enforce law and order at street level as long as we overlook some of his dealings and allow him to continue to trade in certain banned substances. Both sides win.'

'I still don't like it as a concept,' she said. 'It's too dangerous.'

'Let's not be too hasty in dismissing this idea,' Lord Butler said. 'I think it's something we have to look at, Lady Winterton. I know it seems contrary to the way we've all been brought up. But if Dr Watanabe is correct about the chaos that will ensue very shortly, I think that having streetwise men acting as a second-line militia to support the Phoenix Guard in cities around the world, is a credible solution to our recruitment problems. Just think about it, they can perform some of the less savoury tasks while we can maintain our image of looking after the last of the world's resources respectably.'

'Fine, but I think we should at least interview this Tom Scott, before taking a final vote on this issue,' Lady Winterton said, folding her arms.

'Andrei, please set up a meeting with this warlord as soon as possible,' Lord Butler said.

# Chapter 44

Richmond-upon-Thames, London, UK - 2021

The black Mercedes pulled up the hill and into the long driveway of the old Petersham Hotel. Four men of African descent patrolled the carpark armed with sub-machineguns. They glared dispassionately as the car glided past. The stone building had retained all its glory with the tall spire in the middle over the main door. Five levels of rooms and conference facilities had once entertained royalty and presidents from all over the world.

Lord Butler got out of the car and walked towards the main door, glancing down the hill to his right, to the swollen Thames River. Two more guards appeared on balconies on the first floor, armed with long rifles. He sensed the presence of Markus just off his shoulder and felt safe despite the convergence of well-armed gang members who clearly distrusted everyone except the leader they were there to protect.

A tall man walked down the stairs to greet them, dressed in a checked shirt which was tucked into his blue jeans that covered brown hiking boots. Big shoulders and large muscular arms hinted to a physical lifestyle, with a shaved head adding to the menace.

'Lord Butler?'

'Tom Scott, I assume?' Lord Butler replied.

'It's a pleasure to meet you. Andrei has told me a lot about you.'

Lord Butler looked to his left, past Markus, to Andrei who'd just walked up. 'I hope he was complimentary. You know how depressing our Russian friends can be.'

Andrei stared at him, then looked at Tom. Lord Butler always felt uneasy around the Russian. There was an indomitable strength in the billionaire who'd come up through the ranks in the FSB only to leave and make billions on oil. Stories of the hundreds of thousands of men who'd died because of him was the reason he was sought out to join them.

'See. Not even a smile, or a smirk,' Lord Butler said.

'It would worry me deeply the day I saw my friend smile,' Tom said. 'Let's head inside for a drink.'

They walked into the marble hallway and passed the old hotel reception counter which had two vases of flowers plus a family portrait in the middle. Lord Butler felt the history of the place as he stopped to look at the photo. A family portrait of a gang lord and his family, like a scene captured from _The Godfather_.

As they entered a large lounge which had old paintings and tapestries hung between the long bay windows, a young African woman approached carrying a tray of glasses with a jug of water.

'Welcome to our home, gentlemen,' she said. 'May I offer you some lemon water on this warm afternoon.'

'Thank you,' Lord Butler said. 'We've just had water in the car.'

Andrei walked past and grabbed a glass, which she started to fill up. 'Thank you, Mrs Scott.'

'Leave us, now,' Tom said as he ushered the men towards three-seater couches that were placed in a square around a coffee table. Whiskey and vodka bottles were placed in the middle with an assortment of mixers. 'Something stronger perhaps.'

'Indeed, Tom,' Lord Butler said. 'Markus, can you do us the honours.'

The tall German went about pouring drinks and handing them out.

'I take it that you know why we're here, Tom,' Lord Butler said.

'I have a fair idea judging from the cryptic messages that Andrei sent to me. I'm afraid that you may have wasted your time.'

Lord Butler sipped his whiskey. 'You don't want to be the warlord for London? One of the biggest cities in the world, having exclusive access to other warlords in global cities with whom to discuss trade opportunities.'

'I own most of London's streets at the moment,' Tom said. 'In a few years, I will have them all.'

'You will take a lot longer, I think,' Andrei said. 'You've been trying to defeat the last gangs for three years now and have made little inroads.'

'You want me to defeat your fellow countrymen?'

'Pah. They are Russian drug addicts, peasants and whores. I'll gladly help you chase them out of London.'

'What my colleague is trying to say is that the Phoenix Council will gladly help you destroy them. With the help of the police, army and the Phoenix Guard, you'll own London in six months,' Lord Butler said.

Tom was frowning, and Lord Butler knew that he'd piqued his interest. Bringing the Russian had been a stroke of genius on his part.

'What do you want in return for helping to control the streets of London?'

'You and your men will be the unofficial London militia should we need you. We're heading for an incredibly difficult time and are sure the many low lying areas will be flooded in a few years, that includes properties along the Thames.'

'I've been briefed on the forthcoming sea level rise. Your man Markus sent me that report. How will we survive this and still control London?'

'We have plans to use the flood to make a megacity that is more water based,' Lord Butler said.

'Life will be tough on the people. Most will move out to the country.'

'Exactly, Tom. Then when they realise that we are surviving, the most entrepreneurial and hardened Londoners will come flooding back, excuse the pun. You will be their beacon and provide jobs. You will be their hero.'

'It's certainly something to consider.'

Lord Butler felt the elation filling him from within. 'I'm glad we could talk. So let's drink a toast. To our future, and all the power it brings.'

# Chapter 45

The Prison Ship ICARUS III - Wick, Scotland, UK - 2024

Gibbs shifted forward on his small bunk and wrapped the two thick blankets around him even tighter. The ice-cold air got through to your bones no matter where you were on the ship, or what manner of clothing you had traded for. He looked across to Killey and Shredder, who were also sporting thick dark beards with flecks of grey in them. The conditions were cramped, dark and cold in the metal containment cells they were all forced to share. Together with thirty other prisoners, they lived on top of one another like a pack of wild animals. After years of separation, they'd finally acquired enough favour from the guards to get them into the same cell.

'Okay, it seems that we have a little more privacy now,' he said, looking around at the other sleeping cellmates. 'Looks like plan C has been thwarted. I hear that the bastards have welded shut the rusty porthole we discovered last week.'

'Shit, man. I thought it would be our way off this tub,' Shredder said.

'We'll just have to find another way off, then,' Gibbs said.

'It's great that you're so optimistic, boss, but they're shutting down our escape attempts faster than we can come up with them,' Killey said.

'Chin up, boys, we'll get off this bloody ship. I swore an oath to find out who helped Kirkwood do this to us, and I intend to get us off this rust bucket so we can kill the fucker.'

'That's if he or she is still alive?'

'The past few years in these cells have made me do a lot of thinking. Even that Alex Brun chap said that he had an employer who told him to tie up loose ends, that being Kirkwood and us.'

'True,' Shredder said. 'You have to wonder what Kirkwood did to piss that person off.'

'Doesn't matter. We just know that he exists, that's all,' Gibbs said and looked up at the door as a siren rang out above the containment cells. Two long sounds, which meant it was time for topside exercise.

'Watch your backs out there, boys,' Gibbs said.

• • •

An icy wind whipped around the prisoners' heads as they shuffled around in single file in a large rectangle, covering the length and breadth of the old oil tanker's main exposed deck. Sleet and hail blew across the deck, making their weekly two-hour exercise session less than pleasurable.

Gibbs pulled his thick coat tighter around his neck to try and keep the cold out while staring at the prisoner a few men in front of him. Inmate McCabe, with tattoos covering his bald head and neck, stood head and shoulders above the surrounding prisoners. He looked around and stared at Gibbs before scanning for the movements of the wardens on deck. The ongoing feud with McCabe and his sidekick, Henry, had been simmering for the five years they'd been prisoners. They'd had two previous run-ins which resulted in a few black eyes for McCabe, and a lengthy stint in solitary. He'd not handled the humiliation well.

'Halt!' the command boomed over the on-deck loudspeaker system.

'Inmates of the prison ship Icarus III. This is to be your last exercise session for the next three weeks as we are hoisting an anchor to pick up additional scum like yourselves. Please welcome the new inmates with your warm smiles and happy demeanour. All below deck duties will continue as usual while we make room for the new inmates.'

Gibbs looked across to the other side of the ship and spotted Killey in the adjacent line of prisoners as they started walking again. He nodded a greeting. Killey pointed to Gibbs's left, giving him the signal to watch his back. Gibbs turned his head to see the evil smile of Henry positioned two men behind him. Their eyes met, and Henry made a fist and dragged his thumb across his throat. Gibbs blew him a kiss then faced forward again, as the call to continue walking came over the loudspeaker.

Where would he launch the attack if he were planning it himself? McCabe would try something first because he was the leader. Reaching the bow of the boat, McCabe was at the furthest point from the bridge and warden's stations. The warden who was usually stationed on the bow was missing and nowhere to be seen. _Get ready, any moment now._

McCabe stepped aside, letting the man behind him pass by, then turned and came at Gibbs with a sharpened shiv made from a filed down spoon handle wrapped in cloth and resin to form a crude handle. He stabbed at Gibbs's torso but found only air as Gibbs jinked sharply to his right and landed a punch on the side of McCabe's face. The large man recoiled under the blow but managed to swing his sledgehammer fist back at Gibbs's head.

Gibbs dropped to one knee to dodge the blow, at the same time swinging his fist upwards into McCabe's testicles. He heard a popping noise as one of them ruptured, and his opponent let out a bloodcurdling scream, collapsing onto the deck in pain.

Gibbs jumped to his feet again just as Henry tackled him from the side. Both men hurtled towards the ship's railing, coming to a thudding halt against the cold metal. Gibbs gasped for breath as the wind was forced from his lungs, then he retaliated as best he could, slamming his elbow down onto the man's back.

Henry tried to scoop him over the railing by grabbing Gibbs's legs, but he kept twisting to his left and right, switching the point of balance from his attacker. From the other side of the deck, he could hear distant whistles being blown but knew that the wardens had no intention of getting to the skirmish on time. Henry pulled one of his hands free from Gibbs's grip and managed to get his palm under his chin. This would give him greater leverage as he pushed. Gibbs smashed his fist into the side of his assailant's body as he needed to do something quickly. The wardens didn't fish anyone out of the ocean.

Gibbs reached around with his other hand and managed to gouge at his attacker's eyes, his finger slipping into the eye socket. Henry groaned and released the pressure on Gibbs's chin for a second. It was the chance he needed, and he retaliated with a vicious head-butt to Henry's left eye. He staggered back a little, Gibbs grabbed him by the lapels of his winter jacket with both hands and turned his right hip into Henry's midriff, lifting him up onto his own body, and then in a swift judo throw, swung him over his shoulder onto the ship's railing.

Henry lay there for a split second with his legs dangling over the side of the ship. He made a frantic grab for Gibbs's jacket, but his hands were slapped away. The scream drifted away on the wind as he plummeted into the North Sea.

_One down, one to go._ McCabe tried to stagger to his feet and fell forward, his face red with pain. Walking over to him, Gibbs let rip with a vicious right hook that laid the big man out cold on the deck. Looking up, he could see that the wardens had managed to secure Killey, who was pinned face down on the deck. Other wardens had secured Shredder further back along the row of men. The large deck door slammed open and more wardens scampered up from the lower deck and walked towards Gibbs, their guns and tasers drawn. All weapons were pointed straight at him. He placed his hands on his head and knelt down on the deck.

'Well, prisoner. It seems you and your little friends here have earned yourselves an extended stretch in solitary confinement for your sins. Let me see? Should we say about six months? Yes, that sounds about right to me,' the Chief Warden said.

There was no point in protesting. The small-minded wardens didn't take kindly to backchat. Three prison wardens dragged Gibbs into his new metal cell below deck and threw him on the floor. One of the oversized men placed his knee on Gibbs's back and knelt on him while he cut the cable ties that bound his hands.

'Now you be a good boy and don't give us any more shit, do you hear me?' he said, leaning forward and stuffing a small parcel down the back of Gibbs's trousers so the other guards couldn't see.

Gibbs turned around and watched the prison screw back out of the cell. He flipped the man the middle finger, a smug grin on his face.

'Enjoy your stay, Gibbs. Come see me when you're done here,' the overweight warden said, and slammed the metal door.

A solitary yellow light bulb lit the dark, isolation cell. Gibbs had spent a good few months in the cell before so was accustomed to being on his own. He walked over to the side wall and slid down to sit on the floor. Leaning against the cold metal wall, he reached into his trousers and pulled out the dirty piece of cloth. As he unwrapped it slowly, two large iron keys fell into his palm. There was a note written on the cloth - _Your services are required in London. Be ready to leave._ _More to follow._

'Six months in solitary?' he said, smiling to himself. 'I don't think so.'

The End

PHOENIX

The Journey of Kyle Gibbs

Book 2

By Wayne Marinovich

### Chapter 1

East of Lake Turkana, Kenya, Africa - 2028

Sweat dripped from the leader's face as he looked back at the mountain range behind them. The chasing group were hidden from his gaze.

'Run, brothers.'

The group of men wound their way in single file along the grassless and barren shores of Lake Turkana. Running in a northerly direction, they followed an old path that had been used by fishermen and herders for generations. Their pace was at a steady lope, like the jackal that once roamed the grasslands but there was a determined urgency in the men's gait. Each man focused on the sandaled heels of his comrade in front of him, all of them following the lead of the tall, dreadlocked man who ran up front. The heavy, tattered backpacks they all carried swayed rhythmically in time with each footfall on the dusty red ground. Machine guns, pistols, axes, and their trademark machetes added to their burden.

The leader glanced behind them again, scanning the mountainous horizon for any signs of movement. As the sun approached its zenith, Chilemba Wangai eventually slowed his pace and came to rest under a lone acacia tree beside the dusty path. The deep, laboured breaths of his men showed him that they were grateful for the opportunity to rest and have a drink of water, which they sipped cautiously from their water bags. Not a precious drop could be wasted.

'Fellow warriors of the Njenga Mungiki gang. Gather around quickly for we can only rest for a few minutes,' Chilemba said, breathing deeply as his men approached. With a casual flick, he tossed his dreadlocks over his lean muscled shoulder and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His brown t-shirt was soaked through and stained from where the backpack had been in contact with his body.

The men squatted down on their haunches in front of him, as was their custom, glistening beads of sweat running down their faces and dripping down onto the parched soil. They all took long, deep breaths to quickly cool their bodies down. The shimmering heat haze that rose from the barren landscape closed in on them, oppressing any cooling breeze.

'Dudu Njenga, our fallen father, would have been proud of this fierce pace, my warriors,' he said, looking at the rag-tag bunch of men squatting around him who all wore different lengths of khaki pants, sleeveless shirts and tyre tread homemade sandals. Chilemba glanced up at the rocky escarpment they had just descended from. Still, nothing moved. He hoped his men didn't notice his concern. He locked eyes with one of the runners sitting across from him. One who knew his soul as well as he did. One who knew the danger that followed them.

Chilemba looked around at the proud marauders he led, all of them staring intensely at him, waiting for their next instructions, waiting for him to take the lead again. He rubbed at the itching poultice that covered the grenade shrapnel wound on his forearm. The pain was intense, but he wouldn't let it show.

'Men, our two comrades who volunteered to wait behind to observe the mangy hyenas who chase us and want to send us to meet with our forefathers, should have caught up by now. I fear that they have perished,' Chilemba said.

'Jackson Bayo. Brother, do we wait for the others?' Chilemba enquired of his second-in-command. The man squatting across from him was shorter than Chilemba but more muscular and wore the scars of battle across his face. He clenched his jaw out of habit while he thought.

'Brother, the men tracking us are getting closer, and I believe our cadres may have been killed. If we keep stopping, sooner or later we will be caught. It is your decision that we will listen to, and obey.'

'We will keep at this pace and only stop once more today. Then we will assume that they have been captured or made their own way to Ethiopia,' Chilemba said.

One of the other Mungiki members said, 'We agree with your decision, Chilemba. We will follow where you lead.'

'Jackson, take the lead,' Chilemba said, pointing north with his outstretched hand. All the men rose slowly, adjusted their backpacks and slipped their machine guns over their shoulders.

'Forward,' shouted Jackson. He jogged along the path, and in unison all the men followed and slipped in behind one another. Within a few paces, they were in the perfect rhythm again, and Chilemba fell in at the rear of the group, smiling fondly at the thought of his ever serious friend up front.

• • •

With the monotony of the barren landscape continuing, Jackson eventually shouted from the front of the column, and the men rapidly came to a halt. The rocky floor of the valley went on for as far as the eye could see and they stood at a junction in the dusty path. Jackson turned to Chilemba.

'Which way, brother?' Jackson said.

Chilemba briefly looked down both dirt paths, and then said, 'Head up into the mountains, the other path goes to Lake Chew Bahir. We can hope that they think we have gone south.'

The tired group of men started their slog up the winding path. The landscape resembled a plateau on an alien planet, the narrow dusty path winding through areas of large rounded boulders and splintered scree that littered the valley sides, forcing the men to stick to the stony path. They moved through the midday heat without stopping, as the path continued relentlessly upwards through the valleys. Legs and lungs burned from the strain of climbing towards the heights of Ethiopia.

Dead acacia trees and clumps of small shrubs became more prevalent as they moved onto a higher plateau. Small dust devils whipped up on the gusting wind, and Chilemba could not remember when last he had felt the refreshing sensation of raindrops washing down his skin.

Suddenly Jackson's clenched fist shot up into the air, though no order came from his lips. Everyone stopped immediately. Chilemba felt his gut tighten, and his hand dropped down to his machete. All of the men went down on one knee, instinctively reaching down to slip the safeties off their machine guns. They waited in silence as Chilemba made his way to the front. He knelt beside Jackson, who pointed down to the floor of the valley.

Nestled amongst a clump of dead acacia trees was a small rural village. Eight huts were positioned in a semi-circle around a central fire and a much larger dwelling. All had blackened grass roofs that shimmered in the sun while traditional white painted patterns and markings adorned the mud-covered walls, which were instrumental in keeping the occupants cool in the scorching African sun.

'Any movement down there?' Chilemba said.

Jackson shook his head, eyes trained on the nearby valley walls. 'I see no movement anywhere, it seems deserted,' he said.

'The path takes us right through the middle of it. We cannot go around it either. We will lose too much time,' Chilemba said.

Jackson nodded. 'It will be risky to go through the village because this narrow path will mean we cannot fan out or flank it from either side. We will be easy targets. It is risky, my brother.'

Chilemba sat studying the small innocuous village. The livestock paddock was empty, so the men and boys could be out looking for grazing, and the woman might be fetching water or firewood. It would still have left the elders and young children, running around. There was no gentle spiral of smoke from the open fire, or puff of smoke from a hastily extinguished one either.

'It is deserted, I can feel it,' Chilemba said.

Jackson looked at his friend and nodded. 'I trust your instincts as my own, brother.'

Together, they rose from their haunches, repositioned their weapons and made their way down to the silent valley.

With their senses heightened, they walked into the small village and spread out to walk between the small round huts. The smooth hardened floor around the blackened central fireplace and semicircle of huts was baked solid by the sun, and would usually have been swept clean each day by the women. A layer of dust had been blown down from the valley wall, with small acacia leaves pushed up against the mud steps in front of the open doorways. The residents had long since left their homes, and no personal possessions were left behind, indicating that the tribe had simply moved on to better things. Chilemba let off a short, sharp whistle and gestured to all the men to join him in front of the large main hut.

'Sit, everyone. We'll rest for fifteen minutes,' Chilemba said. 'We will wait this one final time and see if our scouts can catch up with some news.'

'Will the gang follow us into Ethiopia?' one of the men asked.

'If they are part of a bigger group, they might give up and return home, but if it is only a small roving gang, then they will follow us across the border,' Chilemba replied.

'Should we not wait for them to catch up and settle this?' asked Jackson.

'This is not the place to stage an ambush. If we can find such a place, we will fight. We don't have enough ammunition for a frontal attack. We need to lie in ambush,' Chilemba said.

'Like the puff adder,' one of the men replied.

Chilemba smiled. 'Like the puff adder.'

'Remember how we used to set ambushes for the hyenas that raided our goat herds at home? So, we shall wait for the best opportunity to kill this chasing pack,' Jackson said.

'I remember with great fondness those youthful, carefree days we had shared before we were kidnapped by Dudu Njenga to serve in his army,' Chilemba said.

'We became men very quickly, brother,' Jackson replied.

'You became a man a long time before that, Jackson. The day you took your spear and ran it through the leopard that was on top of me, tearing at my flesh. The whole village hailed your coming of age.'

All the men sitting around Chilemba had heard the story before. The tale of bravery from the two men who led them would be told for years to come.

'This is true. Those were terrible wounds, my brother.'

'All have long healed thanks to you and the kind missionaries who helped raise us. I still owe you a life debt.'

'Which you will settle when you get the chance, brother.'

'That I will. Maybe when we are clear of this dry place, I'll find you a nice fat wife to tend your fire and your bed,' Chilemba said.

• • •

The group sat on their haunches in front of the scraped-out fireplace and ate dried fish and wild cabbage out of a small plastic container. The gusting wind had died down in the village, and there was silence on the valley floor.

One of the other men nearest to Chilemba asked, 'From Lake Chew Bahir, are we to progress straight to Addis Ababa? What happens when we get there? I hear that it is a difficult city to live and work in.'

Chilemba was silent for a while before turning to Jackson, who answered for him. 'We have been running for nearly nine years now and have nothing to show for it, our families are most likely murdered, our country is no longer able to provide for her children, our future is dark and dangerous.' All the men looked down at the dry soil beneath their feet, nodding in silent acknowledgement.

'After Dudu was killed, Chilemba and I started talking about leaving our beloved Africa for the shores of abundant Europe. The white missionaries told us so much about it. A place where fields are green, rain falls in abundance every day, and a man can raise and feed many cattle. A great place to raise a family.'

The sound of scree and falling rocks broke the reverie, and they all swung their weapons in the direction of the path that led into the village. Stumbling towards them were two figures. One of the men, who had his bloodied arm around the taller man's shoulder, had blood stains all over the front his green shirt, and he dragged his left foot, using his AK47 as a walking stick.

'Help them,' Chilemba shouted.

Two of Chilemba's men ran out to meet the men and helped carry the wounded man into the village. His face was a mask of pain, and he winced every time one of the helping men moved in the slightest. Blood dripped down the front of his shirt, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

'Lay him against that hut and get him something for a pillow,' Chilemba ordered. 'Get him some water, Jackson.'

'No, brother, do not waste your water on me, my time has come. Water will not help me now,' the wounded man replied.

Chilemba knelt beside the wounded man and took his hand. 'Speak, young Chambonda.'

'There are around thirty men tracking us including some of those mangy London Boys. They are heavily armed and about five kilometres behind us. They were tracking easily on the dusty path,' he struggled to say, his breathing laboured and the pain evident on his face.

'How long until they reach us?' Chilemba asked.

'About an hour. Leave me a little ammunition and a grenade, and I will hold them off as long as I am able. I cannot travel anymore and will be pleased to take some of them with me to meet my ancestors,' he said, grabbing Chilemba's hand.

Chilemba swallowed hard, and he looked deep into his comrade's eyes. He unclipped a grenade from his military webbing and pressed it into the man's bloody hand. 'Your sacrifice will not be forgotten, brother.'

Chilemba walked away from his men towards the edge of the village, looking up to the spot where their pursuers would come over the ridge. He turned to look at his small group of men.

'You two! Carry our brother into that hut over there. Make sure he can see the incoming path and has a good view of the filthy hyenas when they fall to his bullets. The rest of you, pack up,' Chilemba said. 'We will not waste the time that Chambonda will buy for us.'

Quickly and well-drilled, the men packed without saying a word and moved to the furthest edge of the village. Slipping into running mode, they moved up the other side of the valley, driven by a welcome rest and a new urgency. To make the time count.

• • •

The sun had started to throw long shadows across their path, and Chilemba felt the tiredness in his legs. The terrain had thankfully softened, and the narrow path had all but vanished, giving way to large whistling thorn acacias and small shrubs on either side of them. A fine carpet of green grass shoots covered the floor in between the trees, and they sensed that they were through the bad terrain for a while. One of his men shouted something from the back of the group.

He pointed to a grassy area in a thicket of small trees to their right. Hidden by large bushes was a donkey. Excitement broke out at the sight of a possible meal.

As the group of men slowly approached the little brown animal, it looked up at them with shaggy brown hair covering its eyes, and then carried on eating. When they got near, Chilemba raised his AK47, and a second donkey calmly walked into his line of sight, followed by a few more. Two of them had crude hessian halters on them.

'There are seven of them,' Jackson exclaimed. 'Scout around and see if there is an owner sitting under a tree somewhere.'

The men split up and calmly canvassed the area, and a few minutes later one of the men came running back to Chilemba. 'We have found the old man. He is dead. It looks like old age took him.'

'Okay then, leave him where he fell. We will take the animals and use them as a diversion,' Chilemba said.

'What do you have in mind, brother?' Jackson asked.

'The path has opened up for us because of the open terrain, and the ground is a lot softer, so we can start to anti-track. These animals can help us to create some confusion and buy us some more time,' Chilemba said. 'Tie them up in pairs. Leave the little one to run loose, and hurry, my brothers. The hyenas are near.

'Jackson, take three men and the donkeys and head west,' he gestured. 'Stay on the valley floor for about two kilometres and make as much spoor as possible. Then you must anti-track and head to the top of that west ridge. We will anti-track in an easterly direction from here, and then head up to the East Ridge. Both groups can then turn north, and move on to Chew Bahir.'

Jackson nodded and smiled. 'We will meet in Chew Bahir, then.'

'Until then,' Chilemba said.

Chilemba turned and headed east, feeling revived to be doing something to thwart the pursuing men. They all followed each other, taking care to walk in one another's footprints. The two men at the back then masterfully walked backwards and brushed away any sign of the spoor using clumps of local foliage. They didn't have time to do it properly, and a real seasoned tracker would, on closer inspection, notice the deception, but it would slow them down.

Thirty minutes later, Chilemba walked up to an old barbed wire fence that ran in a northerly direction. He climbed onto it and slowly made his way, hand over hand, foot over foot, along the length of the fence. Although it was rusty, it could still carry a man's weight, so his men waited their turn and one by one they followed him. Blood wetted their hands from the occasion nick of the old barbs, but they soaked up the pain. Two hundred meters along, Chilemba climbed off, and they started up the side of the valley wall again. He felt the pressure of the day release from his shoulders.

They pressed hard one final time, and as dusk turned to darkness, they crossed the border into Ethiopia.

To read the rest of the book, follow the link to Phoenix - book 2

Why not get a FREE copy of _Gibbs: The Early Years?_ Look back at the events which moulded and shaped Gibbs's character, and made him into the man he is.

CLICK HERE to claim your short story.

# Other books by Wayne Marinovich

The Kyle Gibbs Series

GIBBS: The early years  
(a short story)

CELT - book 1

PHOENIX - book 2

KHARON - book 3

ANHUR - book 4

JANUS - book 5

The Hudson Drake Series

IGAZI

ORANG

TIGER

Published Short Stories

FLOODLANDERS

Website: www.wmarinovichbooks.com

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Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/user/show/24143783-wayne-marinovich

If you liked the book and have a moment to spare, I would really appreciate a short review. Your help in spreading the word about my work would be gratefully received.

# Acknowledgements

To my parents, Mark and Jenny, for allowing me to spend time reading, instead of doing my chores.

To all the teachers at boarding school, who believed my bullshit excuses at evening study, and allowed me to do my homework in the school library. There, I escaped from the boring world.

To Bill King and Walker Cairns, two noble Scottish lads, who listened to my book ideas over many drinks in bars across Aberdeen. Thanks for being my beta-readers and whisky companions.

A big thank you to _The Grill, Aberdeen, Scotland_ where I sipped whisky and watched the character of Kyle Gibbs come to life.

# Note from the author

I would love to hear more from you and would like to welcome you into my tribe. Why not subscribe to my newsletter? Please follow the link to learn more. Marinovich Books

The market for books is large, diverse and very crowded. It can be difficult for new works to stand out and be discovered.

Now, more than ever, word of mouth is the key market tool that authors like myself have to depend upon to get noticed.

If you enjoyed this book, please find a few minutes to rate and review it on the site you downloaded it from. And, please feel free to recommend me to your friends when they need a good read.

# Author bio

Many of you know about my passion for our planet. I write about it, and I try to capture its wonders through the wildlife and landscape photographs that I take.

For as long as I can remember I have loved reading books and studying nature. Growing up on a farm in South Africa meant that I was always out and about, up to mischief somewhere. My imagination flourished and ran wild as I spent my childhood sitting in trees, climbing on rooftops, fishing in our local dam and bird watching from one of the hides that I built.

My love of the outdoors developed in those early years and my passion for all things wild and natural meant that my reading, writing and photography inevitably followed that path.

Now, many years later, I'm moving ahead with writing and photography on a more serious basis. I hope my passion for conservation and environmental issues will make some small contribution to opening people's eyes to the beauty and fragility of the planet we live on. I intend to use my blog as one of a few platforms to share my creative content and the content of others who share the same passions.

The first major environmental piece of work that I am working on is the Kyle Gibbs series. A series set in a climate-changed world, which is a topic very close to my heart. My current focus is to write novels and short stories that span the action/adventure/ thriller genres, with a particular focus on the environment and our planet.

I invite you to take this journey with me and look forward to chatting with you as we go.

# Notes about the book

This book is a work of fiction, so any similarities to living people or anyone that you may know is purely coincidental. The places that I have written about in the Kyle Gibbs trilogy are all places that I have visited, either in real life or virtually by the powers of Google Maps.

Military equipment, fighting units, and battle manoeuvres were all sourced via the standard search engines and thus deemed to be in the public domain.

Being a wildlife photographer and conservationist, the topics of climate change and overpopulation are never far from my mind. I researched climate change for four years before writing the Kyle Gibbs series and found that there is a myriad of facts and misconceptions out there, no matter what media formats you read.

For many years, global warming was the buzz word until scientists realised that it was a confusing term as not all the areas of the planet are indeed heating up. I believe that climate change is the better term to use.

The science that I researched tells me that man is indeed responsible for the changes in our climate and the massive increases in CO2 over the past 40 years. Many anti-climate-change scientists have come around to accept man's role. Now the debate is more about how much it will affect our future.

The premise of methane release in the novel is pure fiction because, although there are vast reservoirs of Methane Hydrate in the ocean depths, scientists agree that it would not be a single planet changer on its own and what I understand is that most, if melted, would simply not make it into the atmosphere.

