Juggernaut

Koell gave the nod. One of his goons put a MOLLE backpack at Gaunt’s feet.

Gaunt popped the clips.

A chunky Thuraya XT sat phone.

Maps and aerial photographs.

A 9mm Sig Sauer automatic with a screw-thread barrel and a long, black titanium suppressor.

A box of tungsten-nytrilium hollow-points. Each bullet spiked like a molar. Designed to fragment and rip a wound like a shotgun blast.

A tube of caulk explosive and green box of e-cell detonators.

‘There are items hidden in those hills. Items we wish you to find, and return to us.’

‘Don’t you have your own guys for this kind of thing? Agency teams?’

‘I won’t bore you with the politics of covert action. A man in my position must make ingenious use of finite resources. A deniable, back-channel asset is always our preferred means of operation. These mercenaries are entirely expendable. They could vanish from the face of the earth and no one would realise they were gone.’

Gaunt examined the pistol.

‘Nothing more?’

‘You’re an ambitious man. You don’t want to be small-time all your life. Those deadbeat mercs, they want money. But you have bigger ambitions. You want to matter. You want to make things happen. So impress me. Show me what you can do.’

Ambush

They came for Jabril at dawn. They kicked him awake and pulled him from his bunk. Full strip search. They had him bend, spread his ass cheeks and cough. They ran fingers through his hair. They checked his mouth with a flashlight. Then they threw him a fresh jumpsuit and told him to dress.

They returned his prosthetic hook. He twisted the hollow plastic cup on to the stump of his wrist.

They locked him in a wire holding pen with eight other men. Rough guys. Lean. Scarred faces.

Marines stood guard and told them to crouch on the cold concrete floor.

‘Don’t speak. Don’t move.’

One of the prisoners stared Jabril down. He radiated violence and hatred. A big guy with one eye. He had seen the three tattoo dots on the back of Jabril’s hand. Tikriti. Ex-Ba’ath. Marked for death.

Iraqi police showed up. They cross-checked charge sheets and magistrate numbers.

Rapists. Car-jackers. Mahdi militia.

They signed for the prisoners. Marines knew half the police employed by the Interior Ministry moonlighted as Shi’ite death squads. The convicts would be dead in a ditch by sundown.

The prisoners were shackled at the ankle, waist and wrist. Jabril’s good hand was cuffed to his belt chain.

The men stood single-file, hoods over their heads. They were led to a loading bay. A young cop jabbed their legs and shoulders with the barrel of his AK to keep them moving.

They shuffled aboard a minivan. Jabril sat patiently in hooded darkness. Door slam. Engine start. He heard cops light cigarettes, the scratch of four matchbooks struck simultaneously.

The van left Abu Ghraib. It got waved through traffic control points and Hesco blast barriers. It joined the expressway and headed for Baghdad.

The prisoners sat in rows. Two guards at the front, two at the back.

The driver was called Ali. The guy riding shotgun was Najjar. The two kids on the back seat looked barely old enough to shave.

‘There’s a car,’ said Ali, checking the rear-view. ‘A shot-up Suburban. It’s been tailing us since we left the prison.’

Najjar turned in his seat. He could see the Suburban fifty yards back. Bullet holes, scorched paintwork, heavy ram bars. No plates. The 4x4 accelerated and sped past. Tinted windows.

Backstreets. Ali checked his map. Designated route to the Central Station marked in red.

‘Forget the map.’ said Najjar. ‘Head for the dump.’

‘The dump?’

‘The captain wants us to send a message. Leave these scum with the rest of the city garbage.’

Ali took his hands from the wheel and lit a fresh cigarette.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Najjar, sensing his friend’s discomfort. ‘Those boys will pull the trigger. They volunteered. They want their first blood.’

Ali surveyed street traffic. The old quarter. A placid vibe. Kids playing at the kerb. Feral dogs rooting in the gutter. Old guys sat at a table smoking narghile pipes, sipping tea, playing dominoes, watching the world go by.

‘Check the prisoners,’ said Ali.

Najjar climbed into the passenger compartment. He tugged cuffs, tugged ankle chains. The big guy snarled and tugged back. He got an AK butt to the jaw to chill him out.

Ali glanced at the rear-view. ‘It’s back. The Suburban.’

‘How did it get behind us?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Speed up.’

They didn’t have time to react. The Suburban revved and roared past them.

The tailgate flipped up. A soldier in a gas mask and Stetson crouched in the rear. Small feet, small hands. A woman.

The soldier raised an assault rifle and fired a grenade launcher. A streak of smoke. Catastrophic detonation as the nose of the van blew out.

The front axle sheered. The van gouged asphalt and came to a shuddering halt.

Ali wiped blood and glass from his face. Ear-whining concussion. He tried to clear his head. The engine block was destroyed. The van was full of smoke. The hooded prisoners were screaming and thrashing in their seats.