Manhunter by Chris Ryan (the false prince series .TXT) 📗

terminal. A lanky, long-necked guy with a shaven head, and a squat man with a badly pockmarked face. They were dressed in loose-fitting camo fatigues, with short-sleeve jackets and AK-47 assault rifles slung over their shoulders. They stopped at the rear of the Skyvan and cast their eyes over the five Brits. Both of them seemed agitated, thought Bowman. Unnerved. The soldier with the pockmarked face kept glancing around, gripping his AK-47 tightly, as if expecting an attack at any moment. Lanky jutted his chin out at Mallet.

‘You’re the team from London, yes?’

‘Aye,’ Mallet said. ‘That’s us.’

‘Come with us. Major Mavinda is waiting for you.’

He walked stiffly off in the direction of the tented area, Pockmark hurrying along at his side. Mallet turned to the others.

‘Tiny, Alex, Patrick. Stay here and watch the heavy kit. Josh . . . come with me.’

Bowman hurried alongside Mallet, leaving the three others behind as they followed the Karatandan soldiers towards the chain-link fence. On the far side of the tarmac stand, a long queue of civilians snaked out from the terminal entrance towards an ancient-looking Boeing 737. Most of the passengers appeared to be local, weighed down with their worldly possessions, clutching plastic shopping bags and backpacks and bulging suitcases. Men argued with one another. Mothers berated their screaming children.

‘Looks like they’re in a big rush to get out,’ Mallet said.

‘Not just them,’ Lanky said. ‘Anyone who has the money is trying to leave Karatandu.’

‘Can’t blame ’em,’ said Bowman. ‘I’d be doing the same thing in their shoes.’

Lanky led them through the gate into a wide open-sided tent. They waited outside while Lanky approached a heavily built officer wearing a red beret. A haze of cigarette smoke hung like a curtain in the air. Soldiers lazed around the tables and chairs. Bowman counted at least thirty of them. Some smoked or drank from plastic bottles filled with some sort of local brew. Others played card games on upturned ammo crates. Two soldiers watched porn on a laptop. Much of their equipment seemed to be in poor condition. Bowman saw rusted AK-47s propped against tables or lying on the dirt floor. The men cut a slovenly appearance. One of the guys wore his water bottle upside down.

‘Let’s hope these lads fight better than they look after their kit,’ Bowman muttered.

Mallet said, ‘We’re not looking for first-rate soldiers. Just guys who can help us out if it goes noisy.’

Bowman looked up as the officer in the red beret strolled over. He was hard-faced and big all over, like an athlete gone to seed, thick fat layered on top of hard muscle. Small round pupils peeked out from beneath his low drooping eyelids. His lips were curled upwards into a permanent sneer. He had the same tribal markings on his cheeks as the bodyguards in London, Bowman noticed.

The man offered a meaty paw.

‘Major Julius Mavinda, commanding officer of the Marafeni airport garrison.’

Mallet shook his hand. ‘John Mallet. This is my colleague, Josh Bowman. We’ve been sent here to safeguard the president’s family and key members of the national government.’

They were in a powerful hurry to get to the family. There was no time to waste shooting the breeze with the Karatandan major and his vicious-looking soldiers.

Mavinda nodded. ‘We’ve received our orders. My men are ready to accompany you to the palace. I’ll be leading the escort personally. But we must proceed with caution. Considering the latest news.’

Bowman caught a glimmer of anxiety in the major’s eyes.

‘What news?’ he asked.

Mavinda nodded at a soldier operating a radio set across the tent. ‘We’ve had multiple reports of gunfire.’

A cold feeling prickled the back of Bowman’s neck.

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘Many places,’ Mavinda replied. ‘An army barracks fifty miles south of here. A police station in Akbeni, in the west. An armoury in the same area.’

Mallet said, ‘Did they give any more details?’

Mavinda scratched his jaw. ‘All we have been told is that there are reports of possible disturbances in other parts of the country. It looks like the KUF paramilitary forces are responsible. General Kakuba’s men.’

‘That’s it? Nothing else?’

Mavinda shrugged. ‘That’s all I know.’

‘When did you hear this?’

‘An hour ago.’

‘What about the capital?’

‘I don’t know. We have tried to contact the other bases and police stations, but no one is answering.’

‘Shit,’ Bowman said under his breath. ‘It’s started.’

Mallet inhaled sharply. ‘How long will it take to get to the capital, Major?’

‘Forty minutes, if we take the most direct route.’

Bowman glanced at his G-Shock: 23.12 hours. If we leave now, we’ll reach the palace just before midnight.

‘We’ll have to get moving at once,’ Mallet said. ‘Major, you’ll need to get us to the palace as fast as possible.’

Mavinda gave a hesitant nod.

‘We will follow our orders, of course. It will be a great honour to help protect the family of President Seguma. But we must be careful. There is a chance we will run into the Machete Boys along the way.’

‘Who the fuck are they?’ said Bowman.

‘A splinter group,’ Mavinda said. ‘They’re aligned with the KUF. But they’re more like a gang than professional soldiers. They wear gris-gris charms to protect them from bullets. Most of them are more interested in drinking and taking drugs than overthrowing the government.’

‘If you think that’s scary, you should see Glasgow on a Saturday night,’ Mallet said.

Mavinda looked steadily at him. ‘The Machete Boys are no joke. They got their name because they offer their victims a choice: T-shirt or shorts. If you tell them shorts, they hack off one of your legs with their machetes. If you ask for a T-shirt, they cut off your arm.’

‘Are we likely to run into these nutters?’ asked Bowman.

‘It’s possible. They’ve been causing us trouble lately, ambushing the roads, kidnapping civilians, executing our troops. If there’s trouble in Marafeni, they’ll be involved.’

‘Don’t worry, Major,’ Mallet said. ‘If we get into a contact, me and the guys will have your backs.’

Mavinda nodded again, but the look in his eyes betrayed his unease. Bowman didn’t blame him. It wasn’t a question of