Burning Angels

86

The three Nissan Patrol 4x4s tore southwards, their massive tyres juddering like machine guns as they ripped across the ridged surface of the rough, unmade dirt road. Behind them they threw up a huge plume of dust, which would be visible from miles around – that was if anyone was watching.

In the passenger seat of the lead vehicle sat the hulking form of Steve Jones, his shaven head gleaming in the early-morning light. He felt his cell phone vibrate. They were barely thirty kilometres out from the airport, and thankfully they still had a good mobile signal.

‘Jones.’

‘You’re how long to Amani?’ a voice demanded. Kammler.

‘Twenty minutes, at the most.’

‘Too long,’ he snapped. ‘It can’t wait.’

‘What can’t wait?’

‘I’ve got a Reaper drone overhead, and it’s picked up a Wildcat chopper inbound. Fast. Maybe five minutes out. It might be nothing, but I can’t risk it.’

‘What’re you suggesting?’

‘I’m going to hit the resort. Amani. And I’ll earmark a first Hellfire for the Wildcat.’

Steve Jones paused for an instant. Even he was shocked by what he’d just heard. ‘But we’re almost there. Fifteen minutes if we really push it. Just hit the helo.’

‘Can’t risk it.’

‘But you can’t just take out a beach resort. It’ll be full of tourists.’

‘I’m not seeking your advice,’ Kammler snarled. ‘I’m warning you what’s about to happen.’

‘You’ll bring seven tons of shit down on our heads.’

‘Then get in and out fast. Kill the kid and anyone who gets in your way. This is Africa, remember. And in Africa the cavalry takes a long time to arrive, if ever. Do it right and you’ll get your biggest ever payday. Do it wrong, and I’ll deal with it by Reaper alone.’

The call went dead. Jones glanced around, somewhat apprehensively. He was starting to get the sense that he was working for some kind of power-crazed lunatic. Deputy director of the CIA or not, Kammler was a law unto himself.

But the money was good. Too good to complain.

He’d never earned so much for doing so little. Plus Kammler had offered him a double-pay bonus on proof of death; proof that the kid had been terminated.

Jones was determined to earn it all.

Anyway, Kammler was probably right. Who was going to rush to investigate, this far out in the African bush? By the time anyone bothered, he and his crew would be long gone.

He turned to his driver. ‘That was the boss. Get a move on. We need to be there like bastard yesterday.’

The driver floored the accelerator. The needle crept up to 60 m.p.h. The big Nissan felt as if it were about to tear itself apart on the uneven surface of the dirt road.

Jones didn’t give a damn. It wasn’t his problem.

They were hire vehicles.