Fair Game (50 page)

‘Who are the snipers?’ Shepherd asked O’Brien.

‘No one you know,’ said O’Brien. ‘Two of them are SAS that Jack and Billy met in Iraq, and two are former Irish Rangers. Before my time but they come highly recommended and they’re Irish so they’ve got to be good. They went overland last night and they’re already dug in with clear views of the buildings.’

‘Let’s try to do this without hurting anyone,’ said Shepherd.

‘We’ll give it a go,’ said O’Brien.

Jack Bradford kept the plane below eight thousand feet during the flight through Ethiopian airspace then dropped down to below a thousand feet for the flight across Somalia to the pirates’ airfield. They kept away from any populated areas and all they saw below them was scrubland, red-brown earth, rocks, and whatever vegetation could suck enough moisture from the ground to survive.

Ten minutes before landing, O’Brien unbuckled himself from the co-pilot’s seat and went back to the main cargo area. There were no seats on the plane so everyone was sitting on the floor, their equipment between their legs. ‘Sorry about the lack of creature comforts,’ he shouted above the noise of the engines. ‘The plane’s normally used for flying goats out to starving farmers.’

Jordan bleated like a goat and everyone laughed, more from the tension than the humour.

‘The runway isn’t exactly Heathrow but this plane is designed for short take-offs and landings so it might be bumpy but we’ll be just fine.’ He grinned at Shepherd, who was sitting next to Bosch. ‘If you can find anything soft to grab on to, go for it,’ he said.

Bosch looked at Shepherd. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said.

O’Brien made his way back to the co-pilot’s seat as Bradford began his descent. He made a slow pass over the airfield, which was little more than a dirt track in the brush, then flew away from it before making a sweeping left turn and then a sharper one, and then he throttled back the engines and brought the plane into land. It hit the ground smoothly enough but bumped and shook and rattled as it rolled over the uneven clay surface.

It came to a stop fifty feet or so before the end of the runway and he made a tight 180-degree turn before taxiing back to where it had landed, then he made another tight turn before throttling the engines back to idle.

O’Brien got out of his seat and patted Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘Right, let’s do it,’ he said. ‘Remember, John’s the boss so let him do the talking.’

O’Brien threaded his way to the side door at the rear of the plane and unfolded the metal stairway. He stepped out on to the runway. Shepherd followed him.

Half a dozen pirates were standing around three open-topped Land Rovers just off the runway with their backs to the control tower building. They were all holding Kalashnikovs. O’Brien and Shepherd moved away from the plane while Muller climbed down. The American flexed his shoulder muscles and stood with his hands on his hips. He was wearing a beige safari suit and brown loafers. He waved a hand at Shepherd. ‘Help Billy with the cases,’ he said, and strode towards the group of pirates, his chin thrust up arrogantly.

‘He loves this, doesn’t he,’ Shepherd whispered to O’Brien, before hurrying over to the plane to help Billy bring out the two Samsonite suitcases.

‘Who’s in charge?’ shouted Muller. ‘Where’s the big boss?’

A pirate striding over from the control tower building let loose a burst of gunfire and everyone ducked. He was in his thirties, tall with jet-black skin, bare-chested and wearing red and blue surfer pants and flip-flops. He had greasy ringlets and around his neck was a large shark’s tooth on a leather necklace. There was a manic look in his eyes and in his left hand he had a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label whisky. ‘I am Roobie,’ he shouted. ‘These are my men.’

‘We need to see the hostages,’ said Muller.

‘Money first,’ said Roobie, striding towards him.

Muller folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. ‘Hostages first,’ he said. ‘We need proof of life.’

Roobie brought his gun to bear on the American’s chest. ‘Fuck proof of life. Money first, then you see the hostages.’

Muller sighed and then nodded slowly. He reached behind his back and pulled out a Glock, which he pointed at Roobie’s face. ‘Then we’ll just get back on the plane and take our money with us,’ he said.

The group of pirates all jerked into life, pointing their AK-47s at the four men and shouting. Shepherd looked up at the watchtower nearest them. There were two men standing looking down, sighting along their Kalashnikovs.

‘John . . .’ said O’Brien. ‘Don’t antagonise them.’

Muller ignored O’Brien and walked towards Roobie, holding his gun out in front of him. He stopped a few paces in front of Roobie and stared at him coldly. ‘I’m a professional, and I would hope that you are as well,’ he said. ‘In this business we always check on the health of the hostages before we hand over any ransom. That is what professionals do.’

Shepherd saw O’Brien’s hand move towards the red handkerchief in his back pocket.

Roobie stared at the American with undisguised contempt, and then he smirked. He nodded slowly. ‘Professional,’ he said. ‘Yes. We are professional. One of your men can go check.’ He waved his Kalashnikov at the control tower building. ‘Over there,’ he said. ‘One of the huts.’

O’Brien nodded at Shepherd. Shepherd walked across the runway and past the group of pirates. There were a dozen more pirates standing around the building, all of them armed.

Shepherd walked by a tent in which there were another dozen or so pirates lounging on camp beds. There were empty whisky bottles everywhere and plastic bags filled with khat leaves and a stack of assault rifles and an RPG on a table. Several of the men were snoring loudly.

There were two guards in front of one of the huts, barely more than teenagers. One had a bolt-action Mosin-Nagant Russian military rifle and his companion had a machete and what appeared to be a Russian copy of a Smith & Wesson revolver.

The pirate with the machete pushed the door open and waved for Shepherd to go inside. Even before he stepped across the threshold his stomach lurched from the foul smell within – sweat, urine and faeces. There were four people in the small hut, two men and two women. He recognised Katie Cranham, though she looked a good ten years older than in the picture he’d seen. There were dark patches under her eyes, her skin was covered in spots and sores and her hair was matted.

Four pairs of eyes stared at him in disbelief. ‘I’m here to get you out,’ he said.

‘Oh my God, you’re English!’ gasped Katie.

‘Yes, I am,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just need you all to stay here a little longer.’

Katie hugged the woman next to her. She was in an equally bad state. Joy Ashmore. ‘We’re going home, Joy,’ said Katie. ‘We’re going home.’

Shepherd looked at the two men. One of them was getting unsteadily to his feet. He was filthy and unshaven and there was a dead look in his eyes that Shepherd had seen in battle-scarred soldiers. Graham Hooper, the Australian captain. Hooper held out his hand unsteadily and Shepherd shook it, even though the fingers were crusted with black mud and dried blood. ‘Please, sit down, best you all keep down for a while.’

He looked across at the other man, who was sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, a dazed look in his eyes. Eric Clavier, the Frenchman.

Hoop sat down heavily and stretched out his legs. ‘We’re really going home?’

‘Soon,’ said Shepherd.

‘Someone’s paid the ransom?’

‘Sort of,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where’s Andrew? Andrew Ashmore?’

Joy Ashmore started crying and Katie hugged her.

‘He’s dead,’ said Clavier. ‘They killed him.’

‘What happened?’

‘The leader, the one called Roobie, hacked him to death. They hauled away the body and washed away the blood.’ Hooper buried his face in his hands.

‘Can we go?’ asked Clavier.

‘Soon,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s a few things to be done yet.’

‘But the ransom’s being paid?’ asked Katie.

‘There are men outside handling that,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I need you to stay here and keep down, no matter what happens outside. And when we come to get you, do exactly as we say with no talking. We have a plane outside and we’ll get you there. Do you all understand?’

They all nodded.

Shepherd reached for the door. ‘Don’t go!’ begged Joy. ‘Please don’t leave us.’

Shepherd went over and knelt down beside her. She was battered and bruised and she had the eyes of a frightened animal. ‘I’m going to get you out of here, Joy,’ he said. ‘I swear.’ He stroked her matted hair and she tried to smile but started crying again. Shepherd stood up and went out.

The two guards laughed when Shepherd came out of the hut and the one with the rifle said something in Somali. The other one laughed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

‘Does you speak English?’ Shepherd asked.

The two men looked at him blankly.

‘Does either of you two scumbags speak English?’

The man with the machete said something to Shepherd in Somali and the other one laughed.

Shepherd smiled. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said. ‘Because I want you to know that I’m going to shoot the both of you.’ He made a gun with his hand and pointed it at the chest of the pirate with the rifle. ‘Bang, bang,’ he said quietly.

The two pirates roared with laughter as Shepherd walked away.

Muller and Roobie were still facing off, but they had lowered their weapons. Shepherd nodded at O’Brien. ‘There are four hostages and they’re not in great condition but they’re alive,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘Andrew Ashmore is dead, though.’ He jerked a thumb at Roobie. ‘Apparently he did it.’

‘Shit,’ said O’Brien.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd.

‘Now we count the money!’ shouted Roobie. He pulled the trigger of his Kalashnikov and fired a short burst into the air.

‘There are a dozen soldiers in a tent over there, drunk and drugged,’ whispered Shepherd. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about going into that building.’

‘Yeah, you and me both,’ said O’Brien. ‘Best we do this out in the open. The Land Rovers will provide cover.’

‘Agreed,’ said Shepherd. ‘John, let’s roll.’

Muller shoved his gun back into his holster and pointed at the control tower building. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

Roobie grinned and took a drink from his bottle.

‘I’m going back to the hostages,’ said Shepherd.

‘Roger that,’ said Muller. He grabbed the handle of one of the Samsonite cases and Bradford took the other. They started walking after Roobie, who was swaggering towards the control tower building.

Shepherd looked up at the two watchtowers. The men in both had relaxed and were no longer sighting down their weapons.

The gang of pirates turned and followed Roobie. They all had their backs to the plane.

Shepherd began walking confidently towards the huts. He had a Glock in a nylon holster in the small of his back but he knew that the semi-automatic only had fifteen rounds and that wouldn’t be enough for what he needed to do.

He looked over his shoulder. Muller and Bradford were about ten feet behind Roobie and his gang.

O’Brien was hanging back, his right hand reaching towards his pocket.

Shepherd began walking faster. He reached for his Glock as he broke into a run.

The two guards outside the hut looked up, their mouths open in surprise. As Shepherd pulled out his gun he heard the double crack of sniper rifles and he knew that it had started. He shot the nearest pirate in the chest, just above the heart, then shot the other in the face. Both men went down without a sound.

As Shepherd turned away from the hut he heard more sniper fire and saw Carol Bosch leading the charge from the rear ramp of the Sherpa.

Muller and Bradford had both hit the ground and were firing their handguns at the pirates grouped around Roobie.

Shepherd reached the tent where the pirates were sleeping off their drugs and drink. One or two were sitting up, but most still hadn’t reacted. Shepherd figured that gunfire was probably a regular occurrence at the camp.

One of the pirates stumbled over to the table, groping for a weapon, but Shepherd put two rounds in his chest and he fell back on to a sleeping pirate.

More men started getting to their feet, shaking their heads in confusion, and Shepherd shot three of them, each with a single round.

He’d been mentally counting the rounds. Seven gone. Eight left.

The men in the tent began screaming and several crawled under the canvas and ran away. Two made a run for the table and Shepherd shot them both in the chest. Six left.

Behind him he could hear the rat-tat-tat of automatic-weapons fire.

Shepherd stood at the tent entrance, covering the men inside. Most of the pirates left were lying on their camp beds, transfixed with horror. One of the men that Shepherd had shot was curled up in a ball, screaming.

If the pirates stayed in the tent Shepherd knew that he’d have to shoot them all. He couldn’t leave them, not when all their guns were lying on the table. He fired the rest of his rounds as he ran towards the guns, then grabbed a Kalashnikov, checked that the safety was off, and swung it around. ‘Get out now!’ he screamed. He waved the gun towards the rear of the tent, then fired a burst into the ground.

The remaining pirates bolted to the back of the tent and scrambled under the canvas. Shepherd fired another burst, then turned around.

O’Brien’s men had formed a semicircle and had taken up positions behind the three Land Rovers. There was gunfire coming from the control tower building. Shepherd couldn’t see Roobie’s body among the dead scattered in front of the building and figured that he’d made it inside.

He tossed the Kalashnikov on to the table and picked up the RPG. It was a Russian-made reloadable RPG-7, the middle of the steel tube wrapped with wood and the end flared to shield the user from the blast. The bulbous grenade was a PG-7VL standard high-explosive anti-tank round and the weapon was armed and ready to fire.

Shepherd turned and hurried away from the tent, then went down on one knee and sighted on the door to the control tower building. He had been trained in the use of RPGs during his time with the SAS and was confident that he’d hit the target. He pulled the trigger and the gunpowder booster charge started the grenade on its deadly trajectory. After ten metres the grenade’s rocket motor kicked into life and two sets of guidance fins clicked into place to keep it on target. It left a plume of white smoke behind it as it streaked towards the building, then the door erupted in a ball of flame and the ground juddered from the force of the explosion.