Murder Team
pulling in Spud’s direction, half choking, half snarling at him.
    The boss clicked his fingers. One of the two guards jumped forward and handed him the key that he’d used to lock Spud’s manacles. The boss put the loop of string over his head, then walked up to Spud. Face to face. Just inches apart. He stank of weeks-old body odour. But there was another smell too. Something deep and rank and old that made Spud want to gag. He assumed it came from whatever was in the boss’s bag, but he didn’t know what it could be.
    ‘What is your name?’ the boss said. His voice was very deep, and he spoke slowly.
    Spud gave him an expressionless stare. ‘Jimmy Dale,’ he whispered. Like every Regiment man, he had a false persona committed to memory for just such an eventuality.
    ‘What is your job?’
    ‘Aid worker.’
    The boss nodded. ‘I have morphine nearby,’ he said. ‘I can keep you drugged and happy till the end, if you tell me the truth. Most hostages prefer it that way.’ He sneered nastily. ‘But you are lying. And if you lie to me, you will be sorry. What is your name? ’
    ‘Jimmy Dale,’ Spud breathed.
    The boss stared at him silently for ten seconds. ‘Okay, Jimmy Dale,’ he said ‘Let’s see if you still want to lie in half an hour’s time.’ He held up the bag. ‘You want to know what’s in here?’ he asked.
    Spud couldn’t stop himself from gagging now the bag was closer to his nose, but there was nothing in his stomach to bring up.
    ‘It’s food,’ said the boss. He inclined his head toward the straining dog. ‘Animal food.’
    He put one hand into the bag and slowly withdrew an object.
    For a moment, Spud couldn’t work out what it was. It was pale grey in colour, with random patches of white and black. Along the top was a band of dark brown, with something white and splintered sticking up from the top.
    It was a human foot.
    ‘From a prisoner,’ the militant said. He turned and threw the foot within reach of the dog. The animal fell upon it ravenously, expertly tearing of scraps of rotten flesh and consuming like it hadn’t eaten in days.
    Spud averted his gaze and stared straight ahead at the fire, trying to ignore the awful sound of dog’s devouring its supper.
    ‘I will be back in half an hour,’ said the boss. ‘You should think carefully about lying to me again.’
    He turned his back on Spud, and left with his men.
     

6
     
    Triggs made the call from behind the wheel. The light from the keypad of his sat phone glowed in the darkness of the car. It rang five times, then clicked silent.
    ‘If he’s on a job, he won’t pick up,’ Triggs protested.
    ‘Try him again.’
    ‘I’m telling you, boy, it’s a waste of time.’ But he dialled once more. This time, after seven rings, a voice answered.
    ‘ Yeah? ’
    ‘It’s me,’ Triggs said.
    ‘ Not a good time ,’ said the voice at the other end. He spoke with the slight American accent common to many Israelis. Slightly tense. ‘ I’m kind of in the middle of something. We’ll catch up in a day or so, okay? ’
    ‘Wait!’ Triggs said, glancing sideways at Danny. ‘Mate, I’ve got a job.’
    A pause.
    ‘ I’m on a job already. ’
    ‘Not like this one. There’s some gang-bangers in Massawa, need a few people taking care of. I need an extra pair of hands. Fifteen large in it for you, but we need to get moving tonight.’
    Good, Danny thought. Triggs sounded bloody convincing.
    Another pause.
    ‘ You’ll have to come to me. ’
    ‘I can do that.’
    ‘ Grid reference 15, 38, 40 north, 39, 20, 21 east, ’ said the Israeli’s voice.
    Triggs plugged the reference into his sat nav. Ten seconds later the screen showed a direct route across a plain background. No towns or topographical features. This was a trek across open desert. A panel at the bottom left of the screen read: ‘Journey time: 1hr 47mins.’
    ‘I’ll be there in two hours, max,’ Triggs said.
    The line crackled.
    ‘ I’m not in the mood

Similar Books

V.

Thomas Pynchon

Blame: A Novel

Michelle Huneven

06 Educating Jack

Jack Sheffield

Winter Song

Roberta Gellis

A Match for the Doctor

Marie Ferrarella