Burning Angels

64

Steve Jones moved surprisingly fast for such a massive beast of a man. Using fists and feet, he delivered a series of machine-gun-swift blows, smashing into his adversary with a fearsome force and leaving little time for recovery, or to fight back.

Sweat poured off his semi-naked torso as he weaved, ducked and whirled, striking again and again, merciless despite the searing heat. Each blow was more violent than the last; each delivered with a ferocity that would shatter bone and shred internal organs.

And with each strike from fist or foot, Jones imagined himself cracking Jaeger’s limbs; or better still, beating his oh-so-well-bred face to a bloodied pulp.

He’d chosen a patch of shade in which to train, but even so the midday stupor made such intense physical activity doubly exhausting. He thrilled to the challenge. Pushing himself to the limit – that was what gave him a sense of self; of his own stature. It always had done.

Few were the men who could deliver – or take – such extreme and sustained physical punishment. And as he’d learned in the military – before Jaeger had got him thrown out for good – train hard, fight easy.

Finally he called a halt, grabbing the heavy RDX punchbag that he’d strung from a convenient tree and bringing it to a standstill. He hung on to it for a second, catching his breath, before he swung away and headed for his safari bungalow.

Once there, he kicked off his boots and laid his sweaty bulk on the bed. No doubt about it, at Katavi Lodge they knew how to do luxury. Shame about the company: Falk the hippy-dippy shit, and his band of tree-hugging jungle-bunny locals. He flexed his aching muscles. Who the hell was he going to drink with this evening?

He reached across to the side table, grabbed a packet of pills and swallowed several. He hadn’t stopped taking the performance-enhancing drugs. Why would he? They gave him an edge. Made him unstoppable. Unbeatable. The military had been wrong. Dead wrong. If the SAS had listened, they could all be taking them now. Via the drugs, they could have made themselves into superheroes.

Just as he had. Or so he believed.

He propped himself on the pillows, punched the keys of his laptop and called up IntelCom, dialling in Hank Kammler’s details.

Kammler was quick to answer. ‘Tell me.’

‘Found it,’ Jones announced. ‘Never knew a Land Rover could do such a fine impression of a crushed sardine can. Completely burned out. Ruined.’

‘Excellent.’

‘That’s the good news.’ Jones ran a massive hand across his close-cropped hair. ‘Bad news is, only two bodies inside, and both were deep-fried locals. If Jaeger and his woman were in that vehicle, they escaped. And no one could escape from that.’

‘You’re certain?’

‘Sure as eggs is eggs.’

‘That’s a yes, is it?’ Kammler snapped. Sometimes he found this Englishman’s phraseology – not to mention his uncouth manner – insufferable.

‘Affirmative. Roger that. It is.’

Kammler would have found the thinly veiled sarcasm infuriating, were it not for the fact that this man was about as good as it got in terms of enforcers. And right now, he had need of him.

‘You’re on the ground. What do you think happened?’

‘Simple. Jaeger and his woman didn’t leave in that vehicle. If they had, their body parts would now be scattered across the African bush. And they’re not.’

‘Have you checked – is one of the Lodge’s vehicles missing?’

‘One Toyota is gone. Konig says they found it parked up at some provincial airport. One of his guys is bringing it back tomorrow.’

‘So Jaeger stole a vehicle and escaped.’

Well done, Einstein, Jones mouthed. He hoped Kammler hadn’t caught the gist. He had to be careful. Right now the old man was his sole employer, and he was getting paid big bucks to be here. He didn’t want to blow it just yet.

He had his eyes on a little piece of paradise. A lakeside house in Hungary, a country where he figured they had the good sense to hate foreigners – non-whites – almost as much as he did. He was banking on Kammler’s little gig earning him enough to achieve that dream.

More to the point, with Jaeger having survived the Reaper strike, there was still every chance that Jones might get to kill him. Plus the woman. He’d love nothing more than to mess her up, right in front of Jaeger’s very eyes.

‘Okay, so Jaeger lives,’ Kammler announced. ‘We need to turn this to our advantage. Let’s up the psychological warfare. Let’s hit him with some images of his family. Let’s wind him up and lure him in. And when we’ve wound him in far enough, we’ll finish him.’

‘Sounds good,’ Jones growled. ‘But one thing: leave that last part to me.’

‘You keep delivering, Mr Jones, and I may just do that.’ Kammler paused. ‘Tell me, how would you like to pay a visit to his family? They’re being held on an island not so far away from where you are now. We can fly you out there direct. How d’you think your buddy Jaeger would react to a nice picture of you with his wife and child? “Hello from an old friend.” That kind of thing.’

Jones smiled evilly. ‘Love it. It’ll finish him.’

‘One thing. I run a monkey export business from that island. I have a high-security laboratory there, for researching some fairly nasty primate diseases. Some places are strictly off limits – the labs for developing cures for those pathogens.’

Jones shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t give a damn if you were deep-freezing African babies’ body parts. Just get me out there.’

‘I keep the location of this venture a strict secret,’ Kammler added, ‘to deter my would-be business rivals. I’d like you to do the same.’

‘Got it,’ Jones confirmed. ‘Just fly me to wherever his family are, and let’s get this show on the road.’