The Hostage
The Hijack
The Protector
Undersea Prison
Mercenary
Traitor
First Into Action
To Tristan and Barty
In a work of fiction it will be no surprise to anyone that none of the characters in this book are other than the product of my imagination. If there are any resemblances to any living persons, they are entirely accidental and unintended. Equally readers will appreciate that for obvious reasons I have deliberately disguised a number of technical details of the composition of the explosives.
1
Stratton climbed from a local taxi outside a row of detached homes just off the Wareham road in Poole, Dorset, paid the driver, and headed along a gravel track towards the front door of the largest house. His battered old leather jacket was draped over an arm in the crook of which he held a bottle of inexpensive wine. A large present splendidly finished off with a red-ribbon bow rested in the other. Stratton owned a car, an eight-year-old Jeep that he’d had for several years, but he had been away on an assignment for the past three months and when he’d tried to start it that morning for the first time since his return the engine wouldn’t turn over. He wasted little time with it, refusing to squander his first day home tinkering with his ride, so he called a mate in the camp’s motor transport department who said he would take a look at it the following day. Then Stratton spent the morning shopping for a new pair of trousers, a shirt and a pair of shoes, getting a trim for his tussled dark hair, and generally being self-indulgent.
Spending a day shopping in Bournemouth, or anywhere for that matter, was not normal for Stratton, and devoting that amount of time to his personal attire and appearance was downright unusual. This man could never be accused of hedonism by anyone who knew him: in fact, in higher circles, specifically among his bosses in the SBS and Military Intelligence, he was considered unkempt. That was not a complaint, of course, not from those he worked for directly. It was an unkempt world he operated in and Stratton could often be found in its darkest and most dingy parts.
Stratton could not say for sure why he had woken up that morning feeling entitled to a day of decad ence. But he assumed it had a lot to do with having spent the last phase of a boring operation holed up in a camouflaged observation position in a pile of large, unstable boulders on the side of a mountain overlooking the summit of a ski lift a few miles outside the town of Almaty, Kazakhstan. He’d been waiting for a caravan bringing a supply of heroin over the mountain range from Afghanistan.
Drug smuggling was not Stratton’s usual area of operation but it was true to say that anyone who worked in anti-terrorism ops was by default connected with the drug-smuggling business. Finally, after three weeks of eating American MREs (meals ready to eat), getting a hot drink only during daylight hours for tactical reasons and breathing air with a markedly reduced oxygen content due to the altitude, the caravan had finally arrived and Stratton had carried out his task – which was to do nothing more than film it. He was glad that the task had not gone on any longer and that he had made it back home, and on this day in particular. It was Josh Penton’s birthday, a six-year-old boy whom Stratton had known since the day the kid had been born, son to one of his oldest friends in the SBS – and Stratton’s godson.
There were a number of cars jammed along the usually quiet gravel drive and as Stratton approached the front door he could see several people in the large kitchen. As he raised the hand with the wine in it to push the front doorbell the door opened. Jack was standing in the hallway looking somewhat sombre and holding a bottle of beer, which he immediately thrust at Stratton.
‘You’re adrift,’ Jack said accusingly.
‘Car wouldn’t start,’ replied Stratton with equal gravity.
‘We don’t accept excuses in this business. Take the bottle and drink the contents.’
‘You’re a beer behind, laddy,’ a voice barked behind Jack. It was Smiv, a tall, red-headed Scotsman with a bull neck and a build to match.
Jack pushed the beer closer to Stratton, frowning. ‘Refusing will not help your case,’ he said.
‘It’s not even one o’clock,’ Stratton pleaded.
Jock and Smiv were joined by Bracken, a dark-haired
‘He’s a beer behind,’ Smiv told Bracken.
‘That right?’ Bracken said as he put a bottle to his lips and took a swig. ‘Who does he think he is?’
Stratton rolled his eyes, took the bottle and put it to his lips.
‘You don’t get in this door until that’s emptied,’ Jack added.
Stratton sighed, tipped back his head, and slowly emptied the glass container, not as adept as most at divesting a bottle of its contents in one go. He handed it back to Jack who beamed as if all negative issues had been suddenly resolved.
‘Come inside,’ Jack said, stepping back to allow Stratton entry. As he closed the door he gave Stratton a bear-hug, then stepped back to look him over. ‘Everything in order? No bits missing?’
‘No. The most boring job I think I’ve ever done. I had piles from sitting on cold, damp rocks for a couple of weeks, but other -wise no complaints.’
‘Always take a packet of Anusols with you on ops,’ Smiv advised like an old sage.
‘Might as well shove ’em up your arse, all the good they do,’ Bracken chimed in as he took another swig from his bottle.
‘Sad thing is he’s serious,’ Smiv confided to the others.
‘Go say hello to Sally,’ Jack said, nodding towards the kitchen and taking Stratton’s wine. ‘And then go see Josh. He’s been going on at me all week about when you’re coming home and if you’ll be in time for his party.’
