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

so sharp you could cut glass with it. ‘When you can get your next high?’

‘It’s not about that, mate. I’m taking this stuff to feel normal. That’s it.’

‘So kick it. If it ain’t about getting high, stop doing it.’

Bowman shook his head. ‘If I went cold turkey, I’d get the shakes. You don’t know what that feels like. It’s the worst thing in the world. I can’t even begin to describe how much it hurts. Addicts – people like me – we’d do anything to avoid withdrawal.’

Loader looked closely at him. ‘How bad is it right now?’

‘I’ve been in darker places.’

‘Are you sure you’re up for this?’

Bowman said, ‘I’ve got pills. Enough to last me the rest of the day. As long as I get a regular hit, I’ll be able to function.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I can handle the firefight. I won’t let anyone down.’

Loader stared at him for a long moment. There was anger in his eyes, but something gentler, too. The concern of an old friend.

‘You can’t go on like this, Josh.’

‘I realise that.’

‘We shouldn’t even be having this discussion. I should go straight to John with this. He’d hit the roof if he found out.’

‘Somehow,’ Bowman said, ‘I think he already knows.’

Loader’s face screwed up. ‘Why would John bring you on to the Cell, if he thought you had a drug problem?’

‘I don’t have a clue. But there’s something about the way he talks to me. Like he sees right through the bullshit.’

‘John don’t miss much,’ Loader agreed. ‘But he might see things differently if he found out you were snorting pills when you should have been protecting the family. He’d boot you off the Cell.’

‘You’re probably right. And I’d deserve it.’ Bowman’s head hung low. ‘I’m sorry as fuck about what happened to that girl and her old man, believe me. I’ll never forgive myself for that. But I’m going to get better. I promise.’

Loader looked at him, tight-lipped, his eyes as narrow as knife slashes.

‘Why should I believe you?’ he asked after a beat.

‘I’ve kicked the pills before,’ Bowman said. ‘I can do it again. As soon as this op is over, I’ll go clean.’

‘You could start now.’

‘I can’t, Tiny. I’d get the shakes if I tried. I’d be no use to anyone in a firefight then. But if you give me a chance, I’ll get my head sorted once we’re out of here.’

Loader kept on staring at him. His face was a picture of indecision. Torn between his loyalty to Mallet and his sympathy for an old friend. Then his face appeared to relax, and he tapped a finger against his chin.

‘I’ve heard about these ceremonies,’ he said. ‘Down in Peru. People go there to take ayahuasca. My missus told me all about them. Mary’s always reading the news. Got a brain on her, she does,’ he added proudly.

‘I don’t follow. What’s that got to do with opioids?’

‘Mary reckoned a lot of addicts go to these ceremonies. To cure themselves. Drug addicts, alcoholics, all kinds of people. Cleanses your body or something. I didn’t understand it myself. But you might want to look into it. Once we’re out of here, like.’

Bowman smiled at his mucker. ‘Thanks, Tiny.’

‘Don’t thank me just yet. I’ll keep this between us for now. But if you can’t get your habit under control, I’m going straight to John.’

‘It won’t come to that,’ Bowman said. ‘I’m not gonna let this beat me.’

‘I hope not.’ Loader flashed a cheeky grin. ‘After all, if you get kicked off the team, who’s going to be my wingman?’

‘With your crap dance moves, Tiny, the only thing you’re at risk of pulling is a muscle.’

Loader laughed. ‘Come on, you Cockney bastard. Let’s go.’

They turned and headed for the stairs.

04.38 hours.

Fifty-two minutes until first light.

Twenty-Seven

They stepped out to a hive of frenetic activity. Teams of Karatandan soldiers were toiling away in the eerie predawn. Four of them worked in pairs, digging gun pits in the lawn either side of the eagle-topped fountain. One other guy hacked at the trunk of a palm tree. His mate bucked another felled tree into six-foot-long logs using a petrol chainsaw. A third soldier lifted up one of the logs and hauled it over to the nearest gun pit. He stacked it beside the heaped soil at the edge of the hole. Another soldier began covering the timbers with the backfilled earth, compacting it with the flat head of the shovel. The wood and soil would create an area of frontal cover strong enough to stop a small-calibre round. Further to the east, a hundred metres away, two other Karatandan soldiers were stacking garden rocks and stones from the pagoda around the rim of their shallow trench. Creating a classic murder hole. The guys would leave a gap in the rocks wide enough to stick their rifle barrels through, allowing them to cut down the enemy without exposing themselves to incoming rounds. The remainder of the local troops were hastily clearing the fields of fire across the ground on the north side of the estate, burning down trees and bushes.

Mallet stood beside the soldiers at one of the half-finished fire pits, bellowing at them. ‘Call that a fucking pit? I’ve seen puddles deeper than that. Keep digging.’

He caught sight of Bowman and Loader and beckoned them over. Mallet scowled at them both. ‘Where have you two idiots been?’

Loader started to reply but Mallet cut him off with a wave of his hand, chopping air.

‘Save your breath.’ He thrust an arm at the irrigation ditch running north to south beyond the garden wall. ‘Set up the Claymores over there. That ditch is the most vulnerable area of the estate. If the rebels cut through the fence, they could use it to crawl right up to us.’

‘Like the battle of Little Bighorn,’ said Bowman. ‘When the Plains Indians used the dead ground to advance on the cavalry.’

‘Exactly. Except Custer didn’t have a couple of Claymores to play with. We do. So