Dead Centre - Andy McNab [120]
‘OK – if you understand me or not, I don’t give a shit. But these lads here, they want you bad. The guy you killed in Bristol? Their boss’s brother. And you killed a woman. The woman you were with in the AS compound? That was her sister. Both of you have fucked up big-time.’
There was a glimmer of understanding in their eyes. These fuckers knew exactly what I was talking about.
We bounced off the tarmac. Their heads bounced left and right as the wagon negotiated the rubble-strewn terrain.
‘So, lads – you’ve got to tell me where you come from, who you work for. I’ll see what I can do for you. Otherwise, you’re fucked. They’ll make sure it ain’t quick, believe me.’
I kept eye-to-eye, switching between them, making sure they took every word on board.
We juddered to a standstill.
The surf pounded against the rocks below us.
All I got from them was the same look Mr Lover Man and Genghis had given Awaale in the back of Joe’s Cessna.
The other technical passed us on the runway, packed with bodies. Tracy was wrapped around Stefan. BB stood behind the cab, one hand gripping the 12.7.
I had to get this bit done quickly.
I stood up.
‘OK, then, fuck you.’
I jumped over the side.
‘Awaale, let’s get them on the ground and stripped. Get their kit off.’
He issued a string of orders. I heard ‘Erasto’ a couple of times. The crew’s reaction was to kick and slap the two Georgians off the back of the wagon.
They fell into the dust. Even the driver jumped out to help deliver the message. The Somali boys pulled off the Georgians’ jeans and shirts and tugged at their boots.
‘I want them stripped totally. Everything off.’
Awaale and his mates laid into them like a pack of wild dogs attacking two antelope. Ant and Dec tried to curl up in the cloud of dust that billowed up around them.
17
I LET THEM get on with it for a couple of minutes.
‘All right, let’s have a look at them.’
Awaale didn’t answer. He was somewhere in the mêlée.
I moved forward. They carried on slapping, punching, raining down rifle butts.
‘Awaale, where the fuck are you?’
No reply.
‘Awaale!’
He emerged out of the darkness. A layer of dust clung to his sweat-covered face.
‘Enough, mate. You’re handing them over to Erasto, remember?’
His eyes were glazed, as if he was drunk or high.
‘Awaale, come on, mate, switch on.’
Behind him, the crew kept pounding into Ant and Dec. These lads really did have a different mindset.
I grabbed Awaale’s arms. ‘Get them to stop. I want these fuckers alive. You’re the main man, remember? You’ve got to step back from this shit and see the bigger picture. Awaale? You listening to me?’
He showed signs of rejoining Planet Earth. His eyes started to focus. ‘Yes, yes, of course, Mr Nick. Of course.’
He turned and re-entered the dust cloud, gobbing off as he went. He pushed and pulled the crew off the wounded animals. He had to slap a couple of the boys to make them get out of the way, bollocking them as if he’d had nothing to do with it.
Ant and Dec’s grazed and soon-to-be badly bruised bodies were curled up into balls. They looked as though someone had set about them with a cheese-grater.
They coughed and spluttered into the dust. Their tattoos glistened with blood and sweat. They were the normal snakes-wrapped-around-daggers stuff. Plus a couple of tribal tats, all that shit. It was the ones that had writing round them that I was interested in. Ant’s was a mermaid with tits. Dec’s was a fox. The writing beneath them looked like a row of twisted paperclips, like some sort of elaborate Far Eastern script. But having done some stuff in the Tbilisi neighbourhood, I knew exactly what it was. It was Mkhedruli, the Georgian alphabet.
I still had no boots on. My Timberlands had stayed behind in the AS compound, along with my day sack. But I kicked into them anyway. I wanted to get their attention.
‘Who sent you?’
Nothing.
‘If you don’t help me, these lads will keep on going until you do.’
Ant spat a mixture of saliva and blood into the dust, and maybe a couple of teeth as well. ‘Fuck