Night Strike by Chris Ryan

Author:Chris Ryan [Ryan, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: War & Military, Thrillers, Suspense, General, Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Espionage
ISBN: 9781444776935
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2013-07-31T22:00:00+00:00

thirty-five

0701 hours.

‘They’re watching me,’ Bald said. ‘If you do something stupid, they won’t be fucking happy.’

Beard hit the pause button on his trigger finger. ‘Who is watching?’ he demanded.

Bald sensed a seed of doubt and said, ‘NATO, you fucking idiot. I’m here to help you.’

‘Liar! You are both spies.’

Bald rolled his eyes for effect. ‘For fuck’s sake. I’ve got orders from the top brass at NATO to come here. They told me you guys needed my help.’

‘Help?’

‘Training. Explosives. Counter-sniper tactics. How to kill people. That’s my game.’

‘No one told us you would come.’

‘We’re here now. Deal with it.’ Bald concentrated on giving a world-class performance in bullshit. The more convinced you looked of your lies, the more likely you were to get away with it. He eyefucked Beard and did his best to look pissed off.

Beard shifted his feet uneasily.

‘What about her?’ he nodded at Rachel.

‘Human rights observer,’ Bald said before Rachel could open her mouth. ‘She’s here to make sure I don’t do anything stupid.’

Bald had heard all the rumours about the CIA rendering hundreds of Libyan dissidents in the paranoia-fuelled years after the Twin Towers came down. Half the fucking NTC leadership had spent time flying Torture Class on a Gulfstream. Everyone in the private security gig knew it, and Bald figured that revealing that Rachel worked for the Agency wasn’t likely to go down well with Beard and his mates.

Beard shook his head. ‘We don’t need help. This is our fight.’

‘Then why would they fucking send me?’ said Bald. He could see the Makarov faltering in Beard’s hand. ‘Your fucking war, not mine. You’ve still got about a hundred fucking towns ready to bring out the bunting for the Gaddafi-welcome-home party. It’ll take you months and cost thousands of your men to secure them all, but fuck it.’

Beard ran his eyes up and down Bald, as if seeing him for the first time. But he kept the Makarov level with Bald’s head.

‘If NATO sent you, why you don’t wear uniform? You don’t have gun?’

Bald glanced up at the sky. The sun was nowhere and everywhere. Heat fireballed down over the desert, licked at his face. Sweat drenched his arms and back and his balls.

Bald said, ‘I’m ex-British Army.’

‘Why they send someone retired?’

Bald said, ‘Blame the fucking politicians. They promised no boots on the ground. Guys like me, strictly speaking, we’re not soldiers – just hired hands. So the suits get to keep their bullshit promise, and I get to teach dickwads like you how to beat Gaddafi.’

‘We were in the army,’ Beard said. ‘We know how to fight.’

‘But I can teach you how to win.’ Bald laughed scathingly. Took a step towards Beard. Then another. ‘You want to win the war, don’t you?’

Bald was standing six inches from Beard now. Could smell the foul body sweat and tobacco clinging to his skin. He noticed a scar on the guy’s neck. Similar to the one Carlos Tévez had. Beard said, ‘You have no paperwork. You are not in uniform.

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