Mr Lover Man translated. Then he turned to me. ‘We will kill them all. Mr Timis wants them all dead. All of them.’
I got it. If I’d zapped Stefan, that included me.
‘I will take care of Stefan. That’s still my job, to get to the boy. OK?’
Both of them understood what I was saying that time.
‘Justin — he’s not going to kill Stefan unless he knows he’s lost. At that point, he won’t give a fuck. So we must let him think he’s got a chance. We let him escape out of the aircraft. If we get in there and corner him, Stefan is dead. Let him run. I know him. I know how he thinks. I’ll get the fucker.’
Mr Lover Man wasn’t happy at all, but fuck him. ‘You want the responsibility of fucking up and getting the boy killed? Do you?’ I poked his chest. ‘I’ll take that fucking responsibility. Just like I did hitting the fuel tanks. Let Justin get out of that fucking aircraft, think that he’s running. I’ll sort him out. Don’t corner him.’
Joe rejoined the party. ‘This is it, man. The fucker’s dumping down. He can’t make it to the town. We’re about twenty klicks short. The moment I get you on the ground, I’m going to fuck off while there’s rounds flying about. That’s if you want an airframe to get you home, man.’ He played about with his instruments, his eyes constantly flicking up to lock onto the Skyvan and the terrain below. ‘Assuming I’ve still got fucking landing gear in five minutes’ time.’
I ripped off the cans and went and started pulling up the shutter. The Cessna descended. Mr Lover Man put his body armour back on and Genghis checked his M4.
He saw me looking at it and the scowl I got in return told me it was staying where it was.
28
The wind rushed in but not with such force now. We were lower and slower. The scrub was no more than two hundred feet below us.
I stuck my head out into the slipstream. The Skyvan was touching down ahead.
The Cargomaster’s engine revved higher as Joe corrected. Mr Lover Man and Genghis watched the action from behind the seats.
Power back. The plane slowed. We hit the final fifty feet.
Frank’s lads moved back with me and took up position in the doorway. A huge dust-cloud erupted and swallowed the Skyvan. Grains of sand pitted my face.
I could see the Skyvan’s wheel-prints in the hard red crust directly beneath us. Joe was making sure he landed on proven ground.
Our wheels touched. Joe braked as the Cargomaster bounced towards the dust-storm.
Mr Lover Man jumped, curling his body, ready to take the hit on his Kevlar. Genghis followed. The Cargomaster was bouncing along at about thirty miles an hour. We’d only been down for two seconds.
Fuck it. Why not? I pulled out the mini-flares, gripped one in each hand, and went for it.
The thump as I hit the ground drove the wind out of me. I rolled into a bush, dropping one of the flare packs. Inch-long needles pierced my skin, but I kept on rolling.
I finally got up, spitting out sand and grit.
Genghis sprinted past me. He disappeared into the dust-storm, weapon at the ready. Mr Lover Man was no more than a metre behind him with the axe.
I retrieved the flare pack and started to leg it after them.
29
Joe revved hard, taking off to the left of the Skyvan. The shed was static, but its engines were still running, still stirring up a maelstrom of red dust. There were shouts from inside. I could hear the signature of 5.56 being fired.
I ran to the right of the cloud, to get ahead of it, and dropped into a dip, panting, trying to get oxygen into me. My feet told me there were needles in them too.
There were more shots inside the Skyvan. The props began to wind down. One of them coughed to a halt.
BB stumbled out of the front of the storm, M4 in hand. No Stefan. Fuck.
I willed my body deeper into the sand.
BB turned and ran back, then reappeared almost immediately, dragging the boy. He threw him over his left shoulder. Weapon in the right hand, he headed west, his back to the sun, kicking up grit as he went. He knew where he was going. Even in this heat and with the weight of the boy, BB could cover the twenty K to Jilib in short order.
He didn’t look back. He knew there was no need to. He just had to make distance.
A couple more rounds went off as the second prop coughed and died and the cloud began to settle.
I set off behind them, keeping to the right, using the cover of the bush as best I could. The Skyvan soon disappeared behind me.
I pulled off the top of one of the mini-flare sets to expose the penjector. I took it out, screwed it onto a flare, and pulled it out with a gentle pop. I kept on running. It was vital that BB didn’t see me. His M4 was accurate to about three hundred metres. The flares weren’t accurate at all.
BB disappeared into a stretch of scrub and heat haze and didn’t come out again. My feet slipped in the sand as I tried to make ground, still using the cover.
BB might be fronting it. Going to ground, staying concealed. We look for him, we lose him, and at last light he moves off.
It was what his training would be telling him to do. And he would have the bottle for it. He might even know I was behind him, and be waiting for me to move into his weapon sights. What’s the point of running if there are people behind you that you can’t shake off? Stop, take me on, kill me, and then keep going.
This wasn’t a frightened animal I was chasing. It was a highly trained ex-SAS trooper with a score to settle and a big cash prize ahead of him.
I moved right of the point where he had become unsighted.
Slowing down now. Throat burning. Head burning. Relentless heat.
I kept low but fast, not daring to lose ground. Within a few seconds, I came to a dried-up watercourse. It was three metres deep and a couple wide after centuries of angry flash floods. I lay down at the wadi’s edge and scanned its bed, left and right. There was no sign. No sign at all. No one had been along here in any direction. He must still be somewhere down on my left.
Feet first, penjector in hand, I slipped slowly down the bank. When I hit the bottom, my left hand supported my right, as if I was holding my Glock. My body became a firing platform. My legs were shoulder-width apart, left foot forward so I turned forty-five degrees to the direction I was heading. I was balanced forward and back, left and right, as I started to move along the wadi.
Only my trigger thumb was free. It was the only thing I allowed to move as I kept the flare ahead of me, in my field of view.
30
Slowly, in bounds, as if I was patrolling, I kept moving, using the wadi as cover. I came to a bend. I stopped and listened before inching round it, weapon up, into the dead ground.
The watercourse twisted and turned, casting shadows, as it headed east towards the sea. The sun was now facing me. It burnt into my face, making it hard to see. I stopped short of another bend, listened again, then carried on, keeping low, hands up in the aim.
I negotiated a left-hander and heard a whisper ahead. I stopped. Leaning towards the sound, left ear pointing towards it, I held my breath so I could hear what the fuck was going on three — maybe even six or seven — metres away.
The whisper became muffled. I could only just hear it.
I dried my right hand in the dust on the side of the wadi then replaced my thumb on the cocking piece. I brought the flare back up into the firing position. Sweat dripped off my forehead and stung my eyes. I shook my head. The sun glared down even more fiercely into my face.