THE FOLLOWER: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 4)(7)

“That’s as good as it’s going to get, pal,” said Des.

I shook my head.

“I don’t know. That means we would have to fight our way out in daylight.”

I had a lot of thinking to do.

*

Never being any good at waiting was a weakness of mine, but Butch was even worse. We all took turns at keeping watch whilst the others tried to get some kip, but Butch was irritable to say the least, his infamous temper was never far from the surface and I knew I would have to keep an eye on him.

“You know what pisses me off?” he asked me.

I gave him a look, but stayed quiet. He was going to tell me whether I wanted to hear or not.

“We have to pussyfoot around with these rag head fuckers, yeah? Worry about a fucking mosque or a hospital, even a couple of kids in the gaff. The Paddies don’t worry who they slot eh?” The shoved a thick thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of our target. “These camel fuckers don’t give a shit either. They know that their explosives kill women and children every day of the bastard week.”

“It’s what sets us apart, Butch,” chirped up Frankie. “Tha knows? The difference between a soldier and a terrorist?”

Butch wasn’t having any. He pulled his M16 from his shoulder and began to strip and clean it, even though it was immaculate.

“Slot the fuckers… All of ‘em. That’s what I say.”

Frankie shook his head and got on with building his bomb.

Things seemed to quieten down in the street around noon, when the heat of the day made physical work difficult. By 1300hrs, we had no shade at all in our wadi, and were struggling. Water would become an issue sooner rather than later.

That said, the sun position, gave me an idea. Maybe we could exit in daylight after all.

At 1316hrs the nearby mosque’s speakers crackled into life for the afternoon prayers. It seemed like the whole village turned out as one, except for Al-Mufti’s men, they simply lay out prayer mats on the ground where they stood and did their business in the open.

All of them, African, Eastern European, Russian, Arab, every man a devout Muslim.

It wasn’t just money that tied them together.

The sun started to go down just before 1600hrs. It was weird when you experienced it for the first time. One minute it was broad daylight, the next, pitch black.

At 1632hrs, we saw the headlights of Al-Mufti’s convoy flashing down the street, back the way it had left. Once again, the seemingly undrilled mob that wandered about the place, formed a cordon, and took up strategic positions for the arrival of their leader.

His coming was the mirror image of his exit. His beautiful wife and two children at the door to greet him.

Butch was at my shoulder. “I say we just slot him now and fuck the consequences.”

Butch was a great guy to have around in a fight, but his temperament ensured his decision making left something to be desired.

I turned to Des. “I reckon he’s a creature of habit. I think this is his routine. We’ll plant the charge under the Shogun tonight and detonate it when he leaves tomorrow, just like Freddy said.”

Des turned down the corners of his mouth and nodded.

“You expect us to make the border in broad daylight and forty-degree heat, with half the Libyan army on our backsides?”

“I have an idea,” I said.

“Better be a fuckin’ good one,” said the Scot.

No sooner had our target closed his front door when the mosque fired up again and the call to evening prayer began.

Des scrambled over to me, excitement in his voice.

“If this fucker walks to the mosque now, I say we take our shot and forget the charge.”

Butch looked into my face and gave a beaming smile. “No women allowed in the temple mate eh? I’m with Des. If he walks, we slot him.”

Except he didn’t.

Al-Mufti stayed firmly in his house, as did his close protection team. The men outside, went through the same routine as the afternoon session, praying where they stood.

By 1900hrs, it was all over.

Except for two new shiny sentries, the street was dark and deserted. The smell of cooking wafted towards us on the chilled night air and Des got a brew on, as our mouths watered from the smells coming from the village.

Frankie shuffled over to me and sat, his hands cupped around his mug, warming his fingers from the desert cold.

“What time are you thinking, Rick?”

“They say the time of deepest sleep is around four in the morning. I’d say then mate.”

He nodded and seemed distant for a moment. “Listen… if things go tits up and I get compromised, I don’t want you silly fuckers coming in for me.”

I locked eyes with him. “We don’t leave men behind Frank, you know that.”

He shook his head. “This is different Rick. There must be sixty blokes out there. They all look pretty sorted too. That M2 on the pickup would see to us all in a matter of seconds… No mate. Don’t do owt daft… if it all goes wrong… tha needs t’get out of here. All of yer.”

I rested my hand on Frankie’s skinny shoulder.

“My responsibility is to the whole team Frankie, and that includes you. We’ll get you in and we’ll get you out. All of us will be on that boat back to Malta tomorrow. You’ll see.”