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

‘So is taking the mick out of your love life, Tiny,’ said Webb.

Mallet shot them both a stern look. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourselves,’ he warned. ‘You won’t be laughing if we get overrun by those bastards. Back to your positions.’

The team returned to their observation points on the other sides of the parapet. Looking out across the flanks and rear, watching for the enemy. The sun climbed above the mountains to the east, burning fiercely in the cloudless blue sky. Sweat leached down Bowman’s face as he scanned the ground to the west. He suddenly remembered he was thirsty, grabbed a bottle of water from a crate near the skylight and took a long swig. The warm liquid refreshed him. Like the best pint he’d ever had. He set the bottle down, checked his G-Shock.

06.57.

Still more than an hour to go until D Squadron was due to land.

Mallet called out to him.

‘Get down to the mortar pit,’ he said. ‘See if you can bolster the defences around that garden wall. Give them two some more protection.’

‘Roger that.’

‘Take the RPG from that dead fucker as well,’ Mallet added. ‘Leave it with Alex. Might come in handy.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Bowman.

He ran downstairs, hurried out of the atrium and broke into a steady jog across the heat-baked ground. Bowman ran past the water fountain, past Gregory and Toothbrush in the gun pit with one of the platoon’s GPMGs. He willed his exhausted body on as he continued up the front drive, his throat burning. He reached the sprawl of dead rebels ten metres from the archway, found the guy with the trapper hat next to a blackened stump of a tree. The bullet from Webb’s AWC had struck the rebel through his left eye, boring deep into his skull. Instant death. There was a dark glistening crater where his eyeball should have been. Bowman rolled the man onto his front and tore off the canvas backpack containing the three spare rockets. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, snatched up the RPG launcher and cantered back down the driveway to the ornamental garden.

Casey was hunkered down beside the mortar, gazing out through a gap in the crumbling wall at the treeline. Pockmark, the other member of the mortar team, grazed on a chocolate bar while he kept an eye on the fence to the west. Casey looked up at Bowman as he dumped the canvas bag and the RPG at her feet.

‘What’s this for?’ she asked.

‘Extra firepower,’ Bowman replied. ‘Compliments of the Machete Boys.’

One of her eyebrows hitched up. ‘Do you think we’ll need it?’

‘We’re not likely to get hit again,’ Bowman said. ‘Not unless the Machete Boys want to send any more of their mates to their deaths.’

‘Those KUF rebels won’t be so easy, will they?’

‘No,’ Bowman said. ‘But D Squadron is an hour out. As soon as they arrive, we’re safe.’

‘Unless the KUF gets here first.’

Bowman nodded. He pointed to the missing sections of the wall beside the mortar pit. ‘We’ll need to reinforce this position. Get some more stones around it. Stay here.’

He called over to Pockmark. The two men worked hastily, grabbing rocks from the loose stonework on the other sections of the garden wall, then carrying them over to the mortar pit. Casey helped them pile the stones around the base of the wall, plugging the holes. They added more rocks on top, raising the height of the wall so that it was level with their waists. Once they had finished, Bowman sprinted back across the front lawn, into the mansion and up the emergency stairwell. Out of the fire exit. Back to his OP on the western side of the rooftop. He guzzled water. Took up the GPMG. Checked his watch.

07.09. Fifty minutes until D Squadron landed.

The sun climbed higher above the hills. Bowman wiped sweat from his brow and scanned the west flank. He saw nothing except the palm grove, the long grass swaying in the faint early-morning breeze. Around him the other guys were watching their individual observation points, glancing at their watches and taking gulps from their water bottles. Mallet smoked a cigarette. Webb took a piss in the far corner of the rooftop. Loader bit into an apple and spat it out, a disgusted look on his face.

‘Shit’s rotten.’ He threw the core away. ‘Tell you what. Them guys in D Squadron had better have some good rations on them. Been ages since I had a decent meal.’

Mallet gave him a disgusted look. ‘You stuffed your face on the jet, you greedy bastard.’

‘A few protein bars, some crisps and sandwiches. That’s hardly what I call a slap-up feast, John. I’m talking about a nice lamb roast with all the trimmings. Like what my Mary cooks. She doesn’t hold back on the portions, either.’ He licked his lips. ‘Best food in Wales, that,’ he added wistfully.

‘She’d better be a good cook. She’s feeding half the fucking country, what with all the kids you’ve got.’

Webb said, ‘What’s the plan once D Squadron gets in?’

Mallet said, ‘No reason for us to hang around. Once we’ve made the handover, our job is done. We’ll wait for clearance from Six to fly out. With a bit of luck, we’ll be back home this evening.’

‘Not a moment too soon,’ said Loader. ‘Give me Swansea over this place any day of the week.’

‘Or anywhere that’s not a war zone,’ Webb added. He shook his head bitterly. ‘I was told I’d be wearing civvies and carrying a PKK when I transferred to the Cell. Fighting drug barons and running surveillance jobs. Now look at us.’

Mallet laughed cynically. ‘Thought you’d be used to it, Patrick. All those years you spent in the SRR and the Rifles regiment.’

Bowman looked curiously at Webb. ‘You were in the Rifles?’

‘Five years. First Battalion. Sniper team.’

So that’s why the guy is so good with a sniper rifle, thought Bowman.

‘Why’d you join them, mate?’ he asked.

Webb stared evenly at