Murder Team Read online

  Former SAS corporal and the only man to escape death or capture during the Bravo Two Zero operation in the 1991 Gulf War, Chris Ryan turned to writing thrillers to tell the stories the Official Secrets Act stops him putting in his non-fiction. His novels have gone on to inspire the Sky One series Strike Back.

  Born near Newcastle in 1961, Chris Ryan joined the SAS in 1984. During his ten years there he was involved in overt and covert operations and was also sniper team commander of the anti-terrorist team. During the Gulf War, Chris Ryan was the only member of an eight-man unit to escape from Iraq, where three colleagues were killed and four captured. It was the longest escape and evasion in the history of the SAS. For this he was awarded the Military Medal.

  He wrote about his experiences in the bestseller The One That Got Away, which was adapted for screen, and since then has written three other works of non-fiction, fourteen bestselling novels and a series of children’s' books.

  Like playing Call of Duty, Battlefield, or Medal of Honour, Chris Ryan's writing will put you at the heart of the action.

  You can find out more information on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ChrisRyanBooks. You can also follow Chris on Twitter @exSASChrisRyan

  Murder Team

  Chris Ryan

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Coronet

  An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Chris Ryan 2015

  The right of Chris Ryan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 473 61635 6

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  ‘This is the law: blood spilt on the ground cries out for more.’

  — Aeschylus

  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

  Hellfire

  1

  You want to contact a gun for hire in a lawless African state? There’s no rule book that tells you how. No number you can call, or website you can visit. You either know about them or you don’t.

  Danny Black did.

  Knowledge like that went with the territory in the squadron hangars at Hereford. You couldn’t help but hear tales – possibly exaggerated – of this or that ex-Regiment guy who ended up plying his trade in some foreign backwater. Everyone knew their time in 22 was limited. When the moment arrived to say goodbye to RAF Credenhill, you needed an exit strategy. For most it would be private security work, guarding beautiful, young rich kids or ugly, paranoid businessmen. For some, it would be a life of exile in the dark and dangerous corners of the world, scratching out a mercenary’s career with the occasional deniable government contract or – easier – simple criminality. Either choice meant keeping your ear to the ground the same way a snake listens for vibrations: because it’s the best way to stay alive.

  That was the kind of guy Danny needed.

  13.07hrs, East Africa Time. Danny stepped on to the terminal concourse of Massawa airport, Eritrea. It only took him a few seconds to locate his guy. A man in his early fifties was standing apart from the congregation of about forty locals waiting to greet those arriving on Danny’s flight from Heathrow. He was leaning casually against a concrete supporting pillar that was covered with what looked like water stains, even though it was indoors. Square-jawed, deeply tanned, several days’ stubble, a blue denim shirt the same colour as his eyes, with a pair of Ray-Bans hanging on a cord around his neck, he looked like a local even though he was Caucasian. Something about the way he held himself told Danny he was perfectly at ease here.

  Danny walked quickly across the concourse towards him, brushing off with a few well-chosen swear words the three yellow-toothed Eritrean teenagers offering to be his guide for ten American dollars a day. Danny had a military bearing, and he knew it. How could he not, after five years in the Regiment? Sometimes he made an effort to shake it off, but right now it was an advantage, because it ID’d him to his contact.

  From the distance of ten metres he saw that the guy in the denim shirt had slightly watery eyes. Redness around the nose and cheek. That figured. It must be lonely this far from home, and a man could find companionship in a bottle.

  ‘John Triggs?’ he asked as the man fell in beside him.

  ‘Black?’ A hoarse, bronchial voice.

  Triggs was one of the old guard. Decades out of the Regiment, but with the Regiment still in his blood. If what Danny had heard about him was true, he was one to be wary of.

  ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘You got any luggage?’ He had the faintest remnant of a West Country accent.

  ‘I decided to manage without my swimming trunks. Where’s your car?’

  ‘You’re in a hurry, boy.’

  ‘Damn right I am,’ said Danny. ‘Enough with the questions. Get me to your vehicle.’

  It was a black Land Cruiser, covered in dust and with mud splashes around the wheel arches. The vehicle was parked up alongside a few others in a cordoned-off patch of hard-baked earth about a hundred metres from the terminal building. Heat haze rose from the scorching metal. A local lad, about sixteen, was sitting on the hood, obviously guarding the car, his head nodding to Afrobeat in his earphones that Danny could hear several metres away. When he finally noticed them approaching he jumped on to the ground, pulled out the earphones and eyed Triggs carefully. Triggs handed him a couple of notes, which he hungrily grabbed, before making a strange clicking noise in the back of his throat and wandering off.

  ‘I drive,’ Triggs said, wandering round to the driver’s side, ‘you talk.’

  Once he was in the passenger seat, Danny pulled his own shades from the top pocket of his shirt, which was already wet with sweat, while Triggs took a hip flask from a compartment in his door and took a swig. He offered it to Danny, who caught a whiff of some rough alcohol he couldn’t identify. Danny took the flask. Then he opened his side window and drained its contents out into the road, before handing the flask back to Triggs. ‘Not on my time,’ he said.

  Triggs gave him a wary look, as though he was deciding whether or not to protest. He clearly elected not to as he shoved the flask back in his pocket. Danny checked out the vehicle’s optional extras. There was an Iridium satellite phone connected to the dashboard and he realised, from the way the sound outside the vehicle was unnaturally deadened, that he was sitting behind thick, toughened glass. It was immediately clear to him that the Land Cruiser was the right tool for certain types of job.

  ‘I’m looking for a friend,’ he said.

  ‘Ha!’ Triggs barked noisily as he pulled out of the parking area. He gave Danny a sidelong glance. ‘You know what nor
mally happens when people come out here “looking for friends”? The friends end up dead in a ditch somewhere in the bush. You want me to help you, let’s drop the bullshit right now. If I’m going to find myself part of a murder team, I need to know.’

  ‘No murders,’ Danny said. ‘Unless someone gets in my way.’

  ‘That supposed to make me feel better?’ Triggs wheezed.

  Danny ignored that. ‘His name’s Spud. I left him here a week ago. We were on an op together. He got badly injured in a firefight. I had to drain his chest cavity and leave him with a couple of Red Cross doctors at the airport. I don’t know how to find him, but I’m not leaving Eritrea unless he’s in the seat beside me.’

  ‘How touching,’ Triggs murmured, his hoarse voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘And you don’t get your money,’ Danny added, ‘unless you help me find him.’

  Triggs fell silent for a moment. He pulled on to a busy, broad highway. The afternoon sun reflected dazzlingly off all the other cars, and the distant tarmac wobbled in the heat haze.

  ‘This op,’ Triggs said finally. ‘Was it Regiment business?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘Hunter-killer mission.’

  Triggs nodded sagely. ‘So, boy, if this Spud fella’s a Regiment lad, what’s with all this lone wolf shit? How come the boys from 22 haven’t rocked up to pick up one of their own? Or have things changed since I was in Hereford?’

  Danny gave that a moment’s thought. Had things changed? He didn’t know. But he knew this: he and Spud had been part of an operation that plenty of people would like to keep quiet, by whatever means necessary. And last time he’d seen Spud, his mate was properly fucked up. Unable to walk, barely able to breathe. It would be the easiest thing in the world, in a backwater like this, to silence Spud permanently.

  ‘You don’t trust them?’ Triggs asked.

  ‘I don’t trust anyone,’ Danny said. Least of all you, he added silently.

  ‘Who else knows you’re here, boy? You tell anyone about your little rescue mission?’

  ‘Nobody. I’m off the grid.’

  Triggs inclined his head, as if to say: That’s what you think.

  ‘Red Cross, you say?’

  Danny nodded.

  ‘They have a facility in Asmara. I’m guessing you already checked that out?’

  ‘He’s not there.’

  ‘Makes sense, boy,’ said Triggs. ‘The NGOs out here make a point of staying out of government business. Last thing they’d want is a wounded British soldier turning up unannounced – they’d have Eritrean officials crawling all over them, getting in the way of them doing their job. He won’t be in an official hospital.’

  ‘I’m not that interested in where he isn’t.’

  ‘Take it easy, boy. Hurt my feelings, I might decide I don’t want to help you.’ Triggs pulled a different hip flask from another pocket and took a swig. ‘Those Red Cross doctors are good blokes. Not the types to leave a wounded man, no matter what the head shed says. If he’s still alive, my guess is they’ve got him under lock and key somewhere safe where the authorities can’t find him.’

  ‘So how do we find him?’

  ‘There’s a crematorium on the eastern side of the city. That might be your best place to start.’

  Danny gave him a dangerous look. Triggs shrugged. ‘Just saying it as I find it, boy,’ he said. ‘We going to agree terms?’

  Danny took out his wallet and withdrew a thick wad of American dollars. ‘Three thousand,’ he said. ‘You get the other half once Spud’s in the airport.’

  ‘That other half, you give to my daughter in London. I’ll let you have her address. Don’t tell her who it’s from or she won’t accept it.’ He sniffed. ‘Long story.’ He nodded at the wad of cash. ‘Stick that in the glove compartment. You’ll find yourself a little welcome gift in there.’

  Danny opened the glove compartment. Stashed inside was a firearm: a Browning Hi-Power tucked into a leather holster. Danny swapped it for the wad of notes and took the weapon out of its holster. It felt good to be armed.

  ‘Loaded?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much good if it ain’t, boy,’ Triggs said. ‘Hopefully those rounds will stay nice and snug in their chamber.’

  ‘So what’s our first move? How do we find Spud?’

  ‘British soldier with a plastic pipe sticking out of his lungs? Not the easiest thing to keep under your hat. Somebody must have seen him. And trust me, boy, people are very bad at keeping secrets round these parts. If you know who to speak to, you can find out pretty much anything.’ Triggs glanced down at his mobile sat phone. ‘I’ll make some calls as we drive.’

  ‘Do that,’ Danny told him. And as Triggs fitted a bluetooth earpiece and started dialling a number with one hand, the other hand only lightly on the steering wheel, Danny looked out of the window. They were on a typical African highway. The roofs of the capital were a mile in the distance, and all around them were a mixture of very old Mercedes, rusty old runarounds and battered white vans acting as taxis, full to the brim with people, their roofs piled high with luggage. There were pedestrians walking by the side of the busy road, and some people had set up stalls alongside the traffic and among the fumes, selling fruit and cheap jewellery.

  Danny felt himself frowning. He ignored the little voice in his head that told him finding his friend would be almost impossible. Triggs seemed confident, and Danny had to hang on to that.

  But where was he? Where, in all this stinking country, was Spud?

  2

  17.00hrs, EAT

  It was all Spud could do to breathe. Speaking was out of the question.

  That didn’t stop his doctors – Jack and Ed – talking to him. He’d learned that it was their bedside manner, and he understood why: keep talking to the patient to keep his mind active. Because a patient with an active mind heals faster and better than one dwelling on his injuries. Spud had spent a lot of time trying to place their accents. Scandinavian, he reckoned. Possibly Norwegian. They certainly spoke very good English. Wherever they came from, they were definitely aid workers of some kind. Probably Red Cross. Spud didn’t know how long he’d been in their care – a few days, he reckoned – but he did know that barely a waking moment had passed without one or other of them talking to him, and sometimes both if they happened to be there together.

  ‘You’re looking good, buddy,’ said Jack.

  Yeah, Spud thought in the depths of his mind. Looking like this I’ll be fighting them off with a shitty stick.

  ‘We might even get you off that drip tomorrow. Your infection’s cleared up.’

  Spud glanced up at the drip stand on the left-hand side of his hospital bed, then down at the cannula stuck into the back of his left hand. A thin sheet covered the lower half of his body, but his torso was open to the hot, humid air, and a five-inch ladder of stitches ran down the centre of his sternum. Last time he remembered looking, the skin around them was puffy and white. It looked less angry now, but he still didn’t like to look at it.

  Instead he rolled his eyes to take in his surroundings. This was no hospital. It was little more than a shack. One room with bare breeze-block walls. A single window, the paint on its wooden walls peeling away and the panes themselves covered with cut-out squares of newspaper to hide the interior from prying eyes. A strip light on the ceiling, which flickered off now and then when the outdoor generator failed.

  ‘As soon as you can walk,’ Ed announced, ‘and that won’t be too long, we can remove the catheter.’ Spud could just see the transparent bag full of dark yellow liquid hanging from his bedside.

  ‘Trust me,’ Jack announced, ‘first time you take a leak in the open air, you’ll feel great.’

  Spud felt himself smiling. These were good men. They hadn’t just kept him alive, they’d kept him dignified: washing his sweaty body, feeding him easily digestible food, and once even rolling him on to his side and helping him take a shit. Bes
t of all, they hadn’t bothered him with questions. Not that they didn’t have any. There had been times, in the confused jumble of the past few days, when they’d evidently thought Spud was sleeping. He’d heard fragments of whispered conversations.

  We can’t keep him here much longer . . .

  He’s a British soldier – an easy target for militant groups . . .

  If anyone finds him . . .

  We’ve told too many people we’re looking after him . . .

  What if one of them talks . . .

  To keep his mind off the pain in his chest, Spud had worked out from their whispered conversations that he was still in Eritrea where Danny Black had dumped him. That both doctors had family out here who knew nothing of their private patient. And that they wanted to keep it that way.

  Spud put his mind to the possibility of walking. The very thought of it made him wince. And it was as if his doctors were in tune with his thoughts, because Jack immediately said, ‘No hurry, buddy. You just take your time.’

  He gave them a grateful smile. Half of him resented being dependent on these two men. The other half was just glad they were there. He closed his eyes, and almost immediately nodded off.

  It was the sound of a vehicle that woke him. At first he thought it was part of a dream, but as the sound grew louder, he shook off his slumber and realised that there was indeed a vehicle approaching. He tried to establish its direction. It seemed to be coming toward the window side of the room. Spud knew that was roughly east, because the sun was always brighter there first thing in the morning.

  He tried to work out in his confused head why this approaching vehicle made him so anxious. It was just a car, after all. But after a few seconds he realised that in all the days he had been lying here, he hadn’t heard a single vehicle outside. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard anything outside. No voices, no animals. Nothing.