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  ‘No, sir. While the two guards they kidnapped were helpful, I’m afraid we’ve lost them in London.’

  ‘What? How could you have lost them, you bloody idiot? You had a single task to perform, chase Gibbs and his men then apprehend them. Your last report said that you had traced them and were on their tail. What the hell happened?’

  ‘We were intercepted by a large gang, giving Gibbs and his men time to escape. We couldn’t trace them after that.’

  ‘Useless idiots. What am I supposed to do now?’

  There was silence on the line.

  ‘Well, Sergeant?’

  ‘It’s not much of a lead, sir, but a colleague of mine called and said that someone has been making enquiries into Gibbs and his men’s service records.’

  ‘Is that so? Do you have a name for me?’

  ‘Name and telephone number, sir. It’s a David Kirkwood in London. I can call him if you want.’

  ‘No, Sergeant, leave it with me, I don’t want you cocking this up too. If this is the last lead, then I’ll handle it myself, or they will disappear for good.’

  Chapter 14

  Clapham, London, England, UK - 2019

  Gibbs leaned against the granite wall of the Northcote Bar on a busy street in the borough of Clapham. Hundreds of hawkers and passers-by were going about their daily business. The smells and sounds of the street turned marketplace were a pleasant assault on the senses. Aromas from the food stalls reminded him that he’d forgotten to have breakfast. He looked down at the little boy who was standing next to him and copying his every move. The little man’s piercing blue eyes shone against his dirty tanned face. A face that lit up with white teeth at some attention from Gibbs. ‘Come on, mister. Give us some change for my lunch.’

  A commotion distracted him as two women dressed in overalls started fighting over a small mirror that someone wanted to trade. After a few seconds of hair pulling and shrieking, a group of men got involved ensuring the pushing and shoving match got even more violent.

  Tangible goods and possessions were all that mattered in the new underground trade markets. Bartering as the new economy was fast gaining visibility across all the major cities in Europe. Hard cash was difficult to come by and still ruled the new emerging economies, but it was trade that kept people in the cities alive.

  ‘Here you go, wee man. Spend it on food, now,’ Gibbs said, giving him a pound coin. He and his men were lucky to have a skill that wealthy men were willing to exploit or else they could also be down in the mud, scrapping for old mirrors like the group in front of him.

  The team spent the morning in a rundown old pub and took it in turns to observe the address that Kirkwood had passed on to them. After a few hours of observation, the exercise had yielded nothing out of the ordinary at Kirkwood Enterprises. Gibbs tapped on the windowpane and nodded to the two men sitting inside. He crossed the littered road to the green wooden door they’d been staking out.

  A few minutes later they were inside the accountant-like offices and were all seated at a small boardroom table looking over documents. ‘Mason brought me up to speed on what you discussed at your last meeting, Gibbs. I’m glad to have you and your men on board with us. To give the rest of you some background, Mason Waterfield, whom Gibbs met, is chairman of a massive collective of billionaires which influences policy in many countries around the world. They have their fingers in most pies, and you could probably say they’re a sort of government unto themselves.’

  ‘This sounds like a script from a Bond movie,’ Killey said. ‘Does he own a white cat?’

  ‘It does seem like a movie, but some of the more recent British military missions all three of you would’ve fought in were orchestrated by these billionaires. At present, they’re engaged in particularly difficult negotiations with an African government. Your team will be one of five heading to Africa to help destabilise that government to the point where they will either agree to certain political and economic terms or risk having their government replaced,’ Kirkwood said.

  ‘Which country are we talking about here?’ Shredder asked.

  ‘I’ll let Gibbs handle that question,’ Kirkwood said.

  ‘I’ve agreed with Mason and David not to reveal the exact location of the operation until we are airborne. This is standard procedure to ensure both their and our protection should the operation run into trouble before it gets off the ground,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Shredder said.

  Kirkwood continued. ‘You’ll land and cross the border through one of the target’s neighbouring countries. Travel will be by road, using valid business visas under your assumed identities. The weapons, ammunition and equipment will arrive in the country by way of one of our regular African military partners. You and your team can collect all the containers once you have organised your trucks.’

  ‘Can these partners be trusted to deliver on time?’ Gibbs said. ‘We only have a small window of opportunity during the operation to meet up.’

  ‘We have a great working relationship with them. They’ve supported us in many of our operations around the world and will take care of all the legal red tape to ensure the weapons are there.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean that I trust them to deliver on time. It is Africa,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘I trust them implicitly, and I’m happy to vouch for their abilities. I know it’s often tougher in Africa, but they have an excellent track record in securing the correct certificates and import documentation for landing large amounts of military equipment legally. Also, it’s very much in their best interests to keep us satisfied as clients,’ Kirkwood said.

  ‘I’d still like to see all copies of the shipping documents before we leave on this operation,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘I second that. I take it that much of the smaller equipment can be sourced locally,’ Shredder said. ‘Will we have to organise that ourselves?’

  ‘Correct,’ Kirkwood replied. ‘Vehicles and smaller automatic weapons and ammunition can be sourced locally, but be aware that it could attract attention from intelligence agencies. I would suggest that you use any contacts you have in the neighbouring countries instead and take the equipment in with you.’

  ‘That’s all well and good, but you haven’t addressed my concerns about the documents,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Why is it so bloody important that you see them? I told you I could vouch for my contacts,’ Kirkwood said.

  ‘Just get me the copies, or we walk,’ Gibbs said. ‘Our lives are on the line here, and I want to eliminate as much risk as possible before we even leave these shores. Is that clear?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll get copies for you in the next few days.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, what’s the status of our new identities?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘The initial funds for the operations have been transferred to my company so I will cover the costs for them and take it out of your share. As agreed, you gents will receive half of the negotiated rate up front, so ninety thousand pounds will be transferred to each of your accounts once you have opened them,’ Kirkwood said, gathering up his papers.

  ‘How long will our new passports take?’ Killey asked.

  ‘My source can get them done in about five days, which is perfect timing for this operation. They come with a full birth certificate and driving licence.’

  ‘Will the quality stand up?’ Killey asked. ‘I’m not worried about travelling within Africa, but travelling in and out of the UK and Europe will be much riskier.’

  ‘They are flawless, so you won’t have any problems. I’ve been using one for years,’ Kirkwood said.

  Gibbs sat back and looked at the thin man. ‘You’re using a fake passport now? What’s your real name then?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I have several in the same name but with different numbers and details. I do a lot of travel across Europe, so don’t want my number matching up all the time.’

  Something gnawed at Gibbs. ‘Okay. Let us know when you have them.’

/>   ‘Will do. Are you good to source the additional team members that you need?’ Kirkwood said.

  ‘I’ve sourced the best men available in Africa, and they’ll be ready to go. They’ll secure their travel documents, and we’ll meet up with them on the way to the target,’ Gibbs said.

  • • •

  Gibbs, Shredder and Killey left the offices of Kirkwood Enterprises an hour later and returned to the pub for a few beers and a post-mortem of the meeting.

  While he was at the bar ordering the final round of tequilas before they went to the strip clubs in Soho, Gibbs’s mobile phone rang. ‘Gibbs,’ he answered, struggling to hear over the loud background music.

  ‘Hello, mate. Are you in position? Great, your target should be leaving his office in the next half hour so, follow him and find out who he meets up with over the next two days,’ Gibbs said and ended the call with a glance at the bemused Killey and Shredder.

  ‘And what the bloody hell are you up to now?’ Shredder said. ‘Who was on that the call?’

  ‘That was JP,’ Gibbs said. ‘He’s running a small errand for me, off the books of course.’

  ‘No way! What is that mad bastard doing in London and why the fuck is he not here drinking with us?’ Killey said and slammed an empty tequila glass down on the table.

  Gibbs laughed. ‘As I said, he’s doing a small job for me in London before heading back to Namibia. He’ll be joining us on the mission because he speaks so many of the local dialects and has served in some of the countries we are heading to, which could be handy.’

  ‘So, it’s off to Namibia then,’ Shredder said.

  ‘Shut it and get one last round in,’ Gibbs said.

  • • •

  David Kirkwood sat at his wooden desk and finished off the last of his emails for the day. He felt good with the deals he had done. Money was starting to change hands, which always pleased him. It was already dark outside, and his desk lamp was the only light source in the room. He looked at his diary on his desk at the name showing for his final meeting of the day. This would be an interesting one.

  The tall man walked in and stood behind the chair opposite Kirkwood. ‘Please, take a seat, Captain Warren. It is nice to meet you face to face. I’m keen to discuss your reasons for wanting to lead one of our teams to Africa.’

  ‘I’ve taken a sabbatical from the army and wanted to do six months of mercenary work. And, I wanted to get to Africa because I’ve never been and who knows when I’ll get the chance again in my life.’

  Kirkwood stared at him. The man shifted in his seat and couldn’t hold eye contact. A weasel of a man. ‘Bullshit,’ Kirkwood said.

  Captain Warren blinked a few times. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said you’re talking bullshit. Now tell me the real reason that you want to go or get the hell out of my office. And before you go digging yourself into a larger lie, I know you got my details from my contact in the Ministry of Defence.’

  ‘I want to get Kyle Gibbs because I hate the fucker.’

  ‘Was that so difficult?’ Kirkwood said. ‘And you think that you’ll be able to kill this man, who I have on my payroll, so easily?’

  Captain Warren nodded. ‘Those SAS old timers aren’t that great. It’s all prancing around and acting like they own the place.’

  ‘Brave words indeed. But tell me, if they’re useless and all hot air, how come they escaped from right under your nose? How bad a soldier must you be to let that happen?’

  Captain Warren wrung his hands and struggled to get any words out, his eyes looking towards the door. ‘They got lucky and—’

  ‘Save your breath. I’m sending you to Africa, but with a crack team who’ll be reporting to me. You’ll be there for show and because it’ll irritate Gibbs and throw him off balance should your paths cross.’

  ‘That’s great, thanks.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. I give you the orders, and you obey them. I give the orders to your team, and you all obey. Your first order is, you don’t touch Gibbs or his men unless I give you the go-ahead. You understand that order. Nod in case you can’t speak.’

  Captain Warren nodded, his eyes narrowing. Kirkwood knew he had struck a nerve.

  ‘I’ve said all I’m going to say, get out of my office and stay near a phone.’

  Chapter 15

  Somewhere over Morocco, Africa - 2019

  The plane shuddered from more turbulence and dropped altitude for a second. A man standing in the aisle stumbled as his drink spilled, and he hurled abuse in Oshiwambo, a Namibian dialect. Killey and Shredder woke from their drink-induced sleep to see Gibbs standing in the aisle, whiskey glass in hand. ‘Follow me, sleeping beauties,’ he said.

  The luxury of first class on the old Boeing 747 was a big change from the usual rickety military planes they’d grown accustomed to.

  ‘You know what, boss, I could get used to this crap lifestyle of sleeping horizontally on a plane,’ Shredder said.

  ‘It sure beats being seated upright in a DC-10 for hours,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Damn. I’d forgotten about the old Vomit Comet. Let’s not fly in those again, please.’

  ‘It’ll be bumpy as hell in this old tub when we fly into Windhoek, I can assure you.’

  ‘You still sticking to your story that Namibia is not our target, boss?’ Shredder asked.

  ‘Shut up and drink.’

  Sipping on whiskeys and martinis in the vacant eighties-decorated plane bar, the three men were all casually dressed in t-shirts and jeans and passed for wealthy entrepreneurs. Only an observant person would’ve noticed the small, detailed map spread out across the narrow bar counter between them. A stern glance from Killey sent the over-attentive barman to the other side of the bar.

  ‘Once we’ve landed in the city of Windhoek, we’ll be collected by JP and some of his men. Here is the list of mercenary names that he’s selected, all are chaps we either know by reputation or have served with,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Where and what are we up to?’ Shredder asked.

  ‘The entire operation takes place in two locations in Angola over the next week. Four other teams are assembling across South Africa and Botswana with the sole purpose of destabilising and possibly replacing the current Angolan government.’

  ‘It sounds like we’ll finally get to see some bloody combat,’ Killey said. ‘What role do we play in all of this?’

  ‘Assisted by local rebel fighters, we will attack and take control of the Lobito Oil refinery on the coast, south of Luanda,’ he said, pointing to the location on the map. ‘It’s one of the most valuable in the area. We’ll neutralise the small army regiment in residence there and take control of plant security until we get further orders from the operational intelligence folks. They’ll be controlling this all from within Luanda somewhere.’

  ‘Is it just me or do you also see the irony in attacking an oil refinery after just releasing mercs who attacked one of ours?’ Shredder said.

  Gibbs laughed. ‘I did think of that, but we’re mercs ourselves now, so there’s no ours and theirs anymore. Only those who pay our way.’

  The three men remained huddled together, hunched over intelligence documents and maps for a further three hours. As the sun started to rise over the African continent, the plane banked one final time then began its descent for final approach into Windhoek.

  • • •

  Gibbs spotted the burly Afrikaner a long while before they got through to the arrivals hall, which was operating on standard African time – slow.

  ‘JP, you mad bastard,’ Gibbs called to his African contact as they walked through the security doors. The South African Special Forces veteran strode over to him, a broad smile on his face, and Gibbs knew they’d be in good hands.

  ‘Good to see you again, boss,’ JP said. ‘Bloody hell, you three northerners have all got nice and fat. Not much need for exercise while sitting behind a desk, it seems.’

  ‘No, mate, every time we shag your sister, she gives us a d
oughnut,’ Killey replied to the South African.

  The big man let out a riotous laugh and slapped Killey on the back so hard he nearly choked on his chewing gum. Shaking his head as he walked, JP led the men out of the rundown old terminal building and into the heat of the African sun. Hundreds of Africans stood along the barriers trying to sell the newly arriving tourists food products and sightseeing trips. The vibrant colours of their clothing lifted the tired men who were drenched in sweat, as they realised they were a long way from chilly Europe. They walked past small trading stalls manned by smiling ladies selling exotic fruits, beads and carved stone novelties. Stern-faced woodcarvers stood alongside their polished animal carvings, smoking their hand-rolled cigarettes.

  ‘They all seem so happy and content, don’t they,’ Gibbs said to JP.

  ‘They may not be wealthy, but they care for everyone in their extended families, and everyone looks after them. What’s important to them is to smile, laugh and sing. Why would you need anything else?’

  Gibbs stopped at a small mobile barbershop, set up in a blue and white canvas pagoda. He got a thumbs up from a smiling customer while the barber continued shaving his head with a rusty looking straight razor.

  A little further on, they found themselves standing in a bustling parking lot, looking at what was to be their transport for the mission. Parked alongside one another were four old, rusty International trucks of different shades of faded green.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me, JP?’ Gibbs said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Where did you get these rust buckets from? The frikkin scrap heap?’

  ‘The engines, chassis and suspensions are all but new. These puppies will get us to where we’re going without mechanical problems, but crucially without attracting any attention. You know you can’t drive into the bush in brand new trucks. This is Africa, man,’ JP said, a grin on his face.

  ‘You’d better hope we don’t break down in these museum pieces,’ Gibbs said.

  A small shirtless African boy ran up to the group of men and went straight to the South African, handing him a small parcel. JP scraped together coins from his pocket and tipped the kid before turning the package over to Gibbs, who walked over to his bags and stashed the small item deep inside.