The Hunt

33

Ending up dead would be far better than being captured, Jaeger reflected. Although getting out alive and returning to Luke and Simon would be infinitely preferable. If Jaeger was taken alive, they’d torture him, body and soul, until he would be begging for his own death.

As for Narov…

Jaeger realised he felt strangely protective towards her. He could not let harm come to this extraordinary yet infuriating woman. In spite of everything, there was something bewitching about her; something that brought out in him the desire to break through her ice-cool shell.

A thought struck him, as horrific as it was dark. If Narov was about to get captured, would he shoot her himself? He just didn’t know. All he could do was live the mission with one hundred per cent focus.

Finding this shitty drainage ditch was crucial.

By rights, it should lie just a few feet in front of them. Jaeger went down on one knee, turning to Narov. Their eyes met across the darkness. They didn’t need to speak. Her expression echoed what he felt. This is hellish, but it’s what we came here for. Just do it.

They turned to face Dodge Central, settling down to observe. Being watchful was everything. They squatted shoulder to shoulder, rock still and utterly focused.

Jaeger’s legs and back were soaked with perspiration, but worse were the mosquitoes. He was being eaten alive. There was nothing he could do about that. Sudden movement would be a dead giveaway. Swatting at a cloud of buzzing, biting insects was likely to invite a hail of bullets.

‘Two o’clock,’ Narov hissed. ‘Car. Hazards on.’

‘Seen.’

Hammering down the main drag was a pickup truck, lights blaring. It had to mean something. But what? Was that code to get the narco gunmen on standby when a hostile force had been spotted? Or was the driver signalling that more bales of cocaine were needed at the airstrip?

No way of knowing.

Keep watchful.

Silent.

The preep-preep of cicadas echoed deafeningly in Jaeger’s ears. It provided the bass track to the heartbeat of Dodge: the pulse of the Latino dance tracks that were being pumped out with increasing gusto from the nearest of the bars.

‘Eleven o’clock,’ Narov hissed. ‘Airstrip. Movement.’

Jaeger swung his eyes around. Sure enough, a group of males were milling about on one side of the dirt strip. He counted around three dozen, all armed. Question was, what were they there for? To usher in a narco flight, or to mount up the gun trucks and come racing after Jaeger and his team?

He couldn’t believe that they’d been detected, but it was crucial to be ready. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.

Jaeger signalled to Narov that they should move. In a low crouch, and hugging the earth, he turned north, creeping towards the dark heart of Dodge. The nearest buildings were no more than fifty feet away. His every sense was projected forward, focused on the potential threat.

As a result, he almost tumbled into the ditch.

He regained his balance at the last moment, then tentatively eased his leading foot forward, advancing with the slow, calculated movements of a predator. Ahead of him yawned a dark pit maybe five feet wide. He flicked his eyes down its length: it stretched dead straight right into the heart of Dodge.

As Raff had suggested, perfect cover for executing a CTR.

Two things struck Jaeger. First, the smell. He twitched his nostrils: something distinctly chemical, mixed with the rank scent of stagnant water and human faeces. Second, the lack of any noticeable reflection. A patch of still water normally mirrored the moon, stars or street lighting. Here, there was nothing. The ditch had to be coated in a thick scum.

Jaeger pulled out a scarf made of a light khaki cotton, brought with him for this very purpose. On an Afghan mission in 2001, his SAS squadron had been tasked to snatch an HVT – high-value target – from a heavily defended compound. A veritable fortress.

They’d needed a way in that would take the defenders by utter surprise. As a captain commanding D Squadron’s mountain troop, Jaeger had chosen what he deemed was the best option: a sewer of sorts; an open ditch that ran beneath one of the walls, emptying into a river. The lads hadn’t thanked him for that one.

Before entering, they had wrapped their faces in shemags; traditional Arab headscarves. It had helped filter out the stench. He and Narov did the same now. When they were done, only their eyes showed above the swathe of cloth.

Without a word, Jaeger turned, placed his hands on the side of the ditch and lowered himself in.