Dead Centre - Andy McNab [119]
Joe didn’t take long to cast his vote. ‘Fucking A, man.’
Mr Lover Man translated. He and Genghis both gave it the nod. ‘What if they don’t speak English? What are you going to do then?’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’
Awaale had climbed back onto the flatbed. He was standing beside the 12.7. ‘Mr Nick, come, come!’ He had to shout to make himself heard above the music.
I ran over and climbed on board. I stood the other side of the cannon and held on to it for support.
Erasto’s technical stayed where it was. Smoke still billowed out of the rear windows.
We headed off down the runway, music blaring, lights on full beam. The blast of air was just what I needed. I was fucked. Awaale was grinning like a psychopath as he checked the cash was still secure under his shirt. ‘We’re nearly there, Mr Nick. One day you will come to Minneapolis and visit my father. I’ll come too. I’ll call you, yes?’
‘Yep, that would be great, mate.’
He was a good lad, but I didn’t plan to get mixed up with the guy who’d shot down the Black Hawk any time soon. That was, if the legend was true, of course. Every man and his Somali dog would want to claim that hit.
‘Awaale, mate. Bring the two white guys up first.’ I had to shout into the wind. ‘They are there, aren’t they?’
His eyes rolled as if I’d asked yet another stupid question.
‘Good. I want to get them in this wagon for the drive back. The rest can follow. Just make sure you get those two white guys in here first.’
‘No problem, Mr Nick. I want them in the back with us, too. I’ll be the one to hand them over to Erasto. It will be a great moment for me. What do you think? Do you think it will be great for me?’
‘I think it’ll be absolutely fucking brilliant. After all, everybody loves you now, don’t they?’
‘Yes, they do, Mr Nick – they do!’
He sank down behind the cab to make the call. Tracy and me, we’d have the gratitude-fest on the plane to Malindi. For now, I still had work to do.
16
WE STOPPED AT the end of the runway and I jumped off the wagon. Music blasted. Awaale shouted into his mobile and gave noisy high-fives to anyone within reach. The wagon’s crew were still yelling at each other excitedly about the attack.
I hobbled away from them until all I could hear was the pounding surf. I got out the iPhone and dialled. I just got the mad Arab woman again. I tried Jules. Voicemail. But he’d left me a message.
‘She’s OK. The Brits are sending a warship, the Cumberland, to Benghazi to evac UK nationals. No idea when it will get there but I’m trying to get her on board and out of the city soon as. Stand by.’
‘Mr Nick, they’re here, they’re here! Mr Nick, they’re here!’
I turned back. Awaale jumped off the wagon. Ant and Dec were being frogmarched along the edge of the tarmac. Awaale yelled, and they were steered towards the back of our technical.
I joined them as fast as I could. Fuck, my feet were sore. ‘Mate, let’s get them on board and take them down to the sea, yeah?’ If these lads understood English, I wanted them to think the worst. ‘Off the runway, down by the rocks.’
Ant and Dec sat against the back of the cab, their arses on the flatbed. There was no fear in their eyes. They accepted they were about to die. Once that happens, it’s like a massive weight being lifted. Every minute you’re still alive becomes a bonus.
The wagon lurched along the strip. My arm hooked round the 12.7 stand for stability, I squatted in front of them. Their heads lolled with the motion of the vehicle. The runway lights became like strobes as we sped past them.
‘You two,’ I shouted above the engine noise. ‘You speak English?’ I jabbed their chests hard. I wanted to be sure they knew the score.
They looked back at me through bloodshot eyes. Both had growth on their chins, and hair on end after hours at sea. I probably looked exactly the same.
I made eye-to-eye with each of them in turn. I wanted to make sure they recognized me. I wanted