slices of yesterday’s pizza. It tasted like salted leather, but his stomach didn’t seem to mind and rumbled its contentment. He switched on the fourteen-inch TV resting on the tattered desk. Flicked over to BBC News 24. Generally Gardner had little time for the media. Back in the line of duty he’d witnessed first-hand how much of the real action went unreported. Journalists instead were spoon-fed bullshit by the head shed and repeated every word to Joe Public.
Between the stories of teenage rape and cancer scares, one item caught his attention.
A dilapidated Arab street at dusk. Onlookers stared at a smoking black object in the road. Ambulance lights illuminated a twisted metal wreckage. Stretcher-bearers rushed across the scene. Men and women hollered at the sky.
A blonde journalist in a shawl gave the lowdown.
‘This is the scene tonight in Herat, Afghanistan, near the border with Iran. Eye-witnesses described a loud bang jolting the street at around 9pm local time. The target, it appears, was former Iranian general Mahmoud Reza.’
Gardner tossed the pizza to one side. Reza. The name clawed at his guts. He remembered Iraq at the height of the insurgency. He remembered two mates of his, good Blades by the names of Luke Williamson and Loke Snuka, a Fijian who ate bullets with his oatmeal.
He remembered the pictures of Williamson and Snuka, their torsos charred and dismembered, swinging from Baghdad lampposts.
‘Authorities claim Reza, a former cadet in the Iranian military who rose through the ranks, is responsible for a series of cross-border attacks against coalition forces in Iraq. Tehran strongly denies these claims.’
The blonde was replaced by a parade shot of Reza, thick-bearded and flour-faced. He looked like he needed to relax, a night out on the tiles.
‘It is thought that Reza, who received drill training in the US, was planning to launch a series of raids on NATO targets in northern Afghanistan. Unconfirmed reports suggest US special forces carried out a long-range air strike on Reza.’
Gardner hoped to fuck the Yanks had slotted Reza.
He killed the TV and fetched his belongings from the safe. Fake passport, credit card and three hundred euros. Gardner figured Land would have already cancelled the AmEx, but the passport and cash ought to be good to ferry him back to Blighty. And then? Gardner wasn’t quite sure. He’d be going home with nothing –
to
nothing. In a weird way, that’s how he liked it. He lived an honest life. Maybe it wasn’t glamorous. It was certainly hard. But as long as it kept him away from two-faced pricks like Land, it was a life that suited him down to the ground.
He zipped up his backpack and cast a final look around the room.
Felt a circle of cool air on his back.
Gardner didn’t turn around. He already knew who was standing in the doorway.
‘Packing your bags already? Looks like we got here just in time.’
Killen.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘To say goodbye, mate.’
12
0229 hours.
‘Give us a smile then, lad,’ Killen said. ‘Thought you’d be pleased to see me.’
Killen had a Glock in his hands. Stainless steel, 17 edition. The Glock eyefucked Gardner.
‘Shut the door, Eddie.’
Stone obeyed, a task that required him to move several tons of muscle bulk. He slipped the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign over the knob and clicked the lock on the opposite side. Stone’s head leached sweat. He gasped for breath. Gardner figured walking took it out of a guy when he had basketballs for biceps.
‘We heard what you did to Terry,’ Killen said.
‘He had it coming.’
‘Just like you. I’m a big believer in an eye for an eye. You do something to a mate of mine, you can fucking expect the same shit done to you.’ Killen gave Gardner a screw-face served with a side order of sneers. ‘Think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well, guess what: I never liked you. Told Terry as much, but he rated anyone who’d done their time in the
Between the stories of teenage rape and cancer scares, one item caught his attention.
A dilapidated Arab street at dusk. Onlookers stared at a smoking black object in the road. Ambulance lights illuminated a twisted metal wreckage. Stretcher-bearers rushed across the scene. Men and women hollered at the sky.
A blonde journalist in a shawl gave the lowdown.
‘This is the scene tonight in Herat, Afghanistan, near the border with Iran. Eye-witnesses described a loud bang jolting the street at around 9pm local time. The target, it appears, was former Iranian general Mahmoud Reza.’
Gardner tossed the pizza to one side. Reza. The name clawed at his guts. He remembered Iraq at the height of the insurgency. He remembered two mates of his, good Blades by the names of Luke Williamson and Loke Snuka, a Fijian who ate bullets with his oatmeal.
He remembered the pictures of Williamson and Snuka, their torsos charred and dismembered, swinging from Baghdad lampposts.
‘Authorities claim Reza, a former cadet in the Iranian military who rose through the ranks, is responsible for a series of cross-border attacks against coalition forces in Iraq. Tehran strongly denies these claims.’
The blonde was replaced by a parade shot of Reza, thick-bearded and flour-faced. He looked like he needed to relax, a night out on the tiles.
‘It is thought that Reza, who received drill training in the US, was planning to launch a series of raids on NATO targets in northern Afghanistan. Unconfirmed reports suggest US special forces carried out a long-range air strike on Reza.’
Gardner hoped to fuck the Yanks had slotted Reza.
He killed the TV and fetched his belongings from the safe. Fake passport, credit card and three hundred euros. Gardner figured Land would have already cancelled the AmEx, but the passport and cash ought to be good to ferry him back to Blighty. And then? Gardner wasn’t quite sure. He’d be going home with nothing –
to
nothing. In a weird way, that’s how he liked it. He lived an honest life. Maybe it wasn’t glamorous. It was certainly hard. But as long as it kept him away from two-faced pricks like Land, it was a life that suited him down to the ground.
He zipped up his backpack and cast a final look around the room.
Felt a circle of cool air on his back.
Gardner didn’t turn around. He already knew who was standing in the doorway.
‘Packing your bags already? Looks like we got here just in time.’
Killen.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘To say goodbye, mate.’
12
0229 hours.
‘Give us a smile then, lad,’ Killen said. ‘Thought you’d be pleased to see me.’
Killen had a Glock in his hands. Stainless steel, 17 edition. The Glock eyefucked Gardner.
‘Shut the door, Eddie.’
Stone obeyed, a task that required him to move several tons of muscle bulk. He slipped the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign over the knob and clicked the lock on the opposite side. Stone’s head leached sweat. He gasped for breath. Gardner figured walking took it out of a guy when he had basketballs for biceps.
‘We heard what you did to Terry,’ Killen said.
‘He had it coming.’
‘Just like you. I’m a big believer in an eye for an eye. You do something to a mate of mine, you can fucking expect the same shit done to you.’ Killen gave Gardner a screw-face served with a side order of sneers. ‘Think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well, guess what: I never liked you. Told Terry as much, but he rated anyone who’d done their time in the
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