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don’t know and don’t trust. Nor do the
mercs standing around you who can probably do the job without you and will certainly enjoy your money, so don’t look to them for any support. Don’t forget also that I’m paranoid,
must show that I’m the only boss around here and that I can treat my black guys as expendable if it helps me to impress you whiteys.’
    Even before Samson’s high pitched sermon was finished, Josh was moving slowly and deliberately over the couple of metres which separated him from the truck. He placed one hand on the wing
of the vehicle and gestured with the other for one of the soldiers sitting on the bonnet to climb down. It was a moment of challenge. Josh locked eyes with the brutish, slovenly figure who held his
gaze for a full minute before he dropped his face and slid down, encouraged on his way by a barked instruction from Moses. His departure permitted Josh to raise the bonnet a shade and to jam his
water bottle into the gap. Then he crouched to see, dimly, the face inside which was by good fortune turned towards him. The heat inside was terrific and he could make out some of the welts on the
man’s arms caused by contact with the metal and rubber of engine components. The soldier’s breathing was laboured and his eyes rolled, but this seemed to Josh to be more in fury than in
pain. Josh Trollope was a fighting man and in that instant he recognised one of his own. Josh wanted out of there and he had just found a fellow traveller.
    Josh spoke just above the engine beat, allowing its noise to muffle his words from the big Belgian who had moved up to stand next to him.
    ‘Name and rank?’
    Immediate answer.
    ‘Nugumu, Patrick, Suh. From Cross river, Nigeria. Ten years Nigeria Army. Staff Sergeant, Artillery. Last posting with Maiduguri Frontier Force. Retired with honour. Suh.’
    The voice was strong through the pain. The Nigerian was trying to form a bond with his only possible salvation and Josh thought to himself: no choice now, must risk it and use the surprise. And
then, as always, came the tightening stomach muscles and the slowing of time and events as they passed before him, the two harbingers of action.
    He responded.
    ‘I’m Trollope, ex Grenadier Guards. You ready for action on my count of three?’
    A fierce nod in reply. Josh stood upright and turned to Moses Samson who was still standing there with the Belgian at his elbow. Josh spoke slow and clear.
    ‘This man’s an Ibo. He’ll be treacherous and a liar. Clear and lift the bonnet. Turn off the engine. I’ll finish the job’.
    He turned back towards the truck and drew his handgun from the pouch at his belt. He was slow and deliberate in his actions. The big Belgian did not trouble to translate: he didn’t need
to. Moses chattered. The engine silenced. The second guard came off the bonnet and started to lift it. Josh called a soft ‘THREE’, shot the guard in the head, grabbed Moses
Samson’s scrawny neck in the crook of his left arm and threw the gun at Patrick who came out of his trap like a greyhound. The Nigerian caught the weapon smoothly and jammed it straight into
the Belgian’s neck.
    There was the brief benefit of shock and surprise and Josh had to use it fast. He had no trouble in holding the general and now he pulled the revolver from Samson’s belt and ground the
barrel into his right ear, there for all in their little group to see plainly. He practically lifted the little man off his feet and frogmarched him towards his own command vehicle, another tatty
Land Rover only five metres away with the driver standing by the door and goggling. Patrick followed with the big Belgian who was not going to die needlessly for anyone.
    A smooth changeover by the Land Rover, with Josh and the naked Patrick working as if they had trained together. Samson thrown in the pickup rear, with Patrick sitting on top of him and crushing
his face to the floor, one huge hand around the neck, the other still