Then they were by the cage. None of the other Blueshirts were awake, but Max and Sami peered out anxiously from behind the bamboo bars.

  ‘Surprise!’ Abby whispered, even though they didn’t seem surprised at all.

  ‘What kept you?’ Max breathed.

  ‘You’d better be nice to me, Maxy baby, otherwise I might decide not to let you out of this funny little cage.’ Even as she spoke, however, she pulled out her earring and went to work on the padlock. Her boasts hadn’t been idle. She had it open in seconds.

  ‘Has anyone seen Lukas?’ Max whispered as Abby quickly and quietly undid the chain.

  ‘Not since last night,’ Lili said.

  ‘Roland …’ Sami started to say.

  ‘We know. Guys, we have to activate that watch.’

  ‘We think it’s in Babaka’s hut,’ Max said.

  ‘Right,’ Lili said. ‘You and Sami go get it. We’ll distract any guards if we need to.’

  ‘By throwing rocks in their faces?’

  ‘We might need to be a bit more subtle this time.’

  The cage was open. Max and Sami stepped out.

  ‘Chain it up again,’ Max said. ‘Otherwise it’ll attract attention. But don’t lock the padlock. When we’ve activated the GPS signal, we’ll get back in the cage and wait for the Watchers to get here. You two will need to go back into the jungle.’

  ‘Okay,’ Lili said. She nodded towards Guards 1 and 2, who were stubbing out their cigarettes. ‘Go!’ she hissed. ‘Go!’

  A part of Max wished he was back in the cage. There, he would at least be safe and undisturbed until morning. Another part of him knew that this was exactly how Oscar Juwani wanted him: subdued and fearful. Passive. It was the first step on the path to being completely controlled.

  Which wasn’t going to happen.

  He and Sami ran to the hut nearest the cage. They pressed against the wall and waited in the shadows. The guard patrolling the length of the clearing was approaching. He was about thirty metres away. Slowly they edged round to the other side of the hut, where they could wait for him to pass without him seeing them. Max’s palms were clammy, his jugular pulsing. He heard the guard humming tunelessly to himself as he passed nearby. And as the humming faded, he focused on the path to Babaka’s hut. There were three other huts between them. Distance between each hut: approximately fifteen metres.

  ‘Go!’ he whispered to Sami. Together they crossed to the first of the three huts, and took refuge once again in the shadow of its exterior wall.

  Max checked back the way they had come. He could see the guard walking towards the far end of the clearing. He also saw a dark figure flit between two huts. It reminded him of catching a glimpse of a bat flying against the night sky. He knew it was Lili or Abby following the guard, ready to distract him if necessary.

  But they had to move again. The other guard, the one patrolling the width of the clearing, was close. Too close. They could hear his footsteps. As they edged round the hut, he appeared to their right. They froze. To Max’s horror, the guard started to turn to his left. He was going to spot them any second …

  A noise. A throaty kind of screech. Was it an animal? Or was it, as Max suspected, one of the girls? Whatever, whoever, it was, it distracted the guard, and he carried on walking across the clearing.

  Silence. Max and Sami moved to the second hut, then the third. Here they had to wait in the shadows once more. The guard at the perimeter had stopped and was staring curiously in their direction. Then he shook his head and continued his patrol.

  The coast was clear. Or as clear as it would ever be. Babaka’s hut was ten metres away. But there was a problem. The door was ajar, and a faint, flickering light glowed inside. Maybe a candle. Cursing himself, Max realised he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Babaka would still be awake.

  ‘We can’t go in,’ Sami said, so quietly that Max could barely make out his words. ‘If he sees us, we’ll never get another chance to –’

  ‘Wait there,’ Max breathed. He knew they couldn’t delay. After another night, there was every chance that the SAS men and Roland would be dead. ‘Make a bird sound or something if anyone comes.’

  ‘But, Max …’

  Max didn’t wait. Quickly and silently he crossed over to Babaka’s hut, where he stood with his back to the wall, next to the open door.

  He listened intently. There was no sound of movement. But there was, he thought, the sound of heavy, regular breathing. Not snoring exactly, but definitely the noise people made when they were asleep. He glanced at Sami, who was staring at him in alarm. Then – carefully, and infinitely slowly – he pushed the door open a little wider.

  He looked inside.

  Babaka’s hut was sparse. There was an old mattress resting on a bed frame made of logs. No sheets. Next to it, a three-legged stool. On the stool was a candle, short, stubby and guttering. Babaka was lying on the bed, his eyes closed, his mouth open, his chest softly rising and falling. He was definitely asleep. Max noticed a poster on the wall: Lionel Messi. It seemed bizarre that Babaka should be interested in something so normal as football. Max reminded himself that Babaka was, under it all, a teenager like him. Well, maybe not quite like him. Babaka lay on his back, his submachine gun next to him. His left arm lay protectively over his weapon. His right hung over the side of the bed. The watch was around his wrist. Babaka had put it back on.

  Great, Max thought. Now what? He checked over his shoulder. Sami was silently, but furiously, gesturing at him to get out. Max turned back to the hut. He had already made his decision. He knew it was risky, but he also knew that if they didn’t take a few risks, they’d never escape. And he might not get another chance like this.

  He stepped into the hut. The thick silence seemed to amplify his every move. As he stepped towards the sleeping man, he was acutely aware of his footsteps, and of the sound of his trousers brushing together, and of his heart. He wanted to move fast, to be out of there as quickly as possible. But he forced himself to be slow, to avoid waking his enemy.

  Three paces.

  Five.

  He was by the bed. Babaka hadn’t stirred. Max knelt, wincing at the rustle of his trousers. He was so close to the watch, and he had a decision to make. Should he activate the PLB while it was still on Babaka’s wrist? Or should he remove the watch first?

  He decided he had to remove the watch. Once the PLB was activated, the antenna would be visible, and the game would be up. His hands shook. He breathed deeply to steady them. Then, gingerly, he felt for the clasp on the underside of Babaka’s wrist.

  His fingertips touched the metal.

  Babaka stirred.

  Max jumped. Babaka rolled over and his watch hand almost hit Max in the face. He lay facing away from Max, his watch hand draped over the other side of the bed.

  Silently, Max cursed. He stood up. His shadow, long and flickering in the candlelight, darkened Babaka and the floor and wall beyond him. Stealthily, Max moved round the bed and crouched down. He reached out for the clasp. Touched it.

  Babaka’s eyes flickered open.

  18

  PLB

  Max froze. Babaka’s hand shot out and he grabbed Max by the throat. His big hand squeezed Max’s carotid artery. A sharp pain cracked through his neck. He tried to breathe. It was impossible.

  Still clutching Max’s neck, Babaka sat up. The submachine gun was lying on the mattress. With an almost inhuman snarl, Babaka grabbed the weapon with his free hand. Max thought he was going to fire at him from point-blank range. But then he saw that the Blackshirt was not holding the weapon in the ordinary way. He was clutching the stock and raising it to use as a bludgeon.

  Max raised his left arm to ward off the blow. He hissed with pain as the weapon struck his forearm, but managed to clench his right fist and thump Babaka in the side of the face. Max was strong, but it was as if Babaka was made of iron. Max’s fist practically bounced off him. Max went for another punch as Babaka raised the weapon again. Max aimed his fist directly at Babaka’s nose, hoping to break it. But he was concentrating so much on that manoeuvre that he failed to protect himself. The gun cracked against the left side of his face. White-hot agony shot through him and he felt the slow, warm ooze of blood trickling from his nostrils. He fell to the ground, stunned. He tried to grab Babaka’s ankles, but Babaka’s hand was around his neck again, pulling him up to his feet, pushing him against the wall of the hut. Babaka was muttering something, his voice a growl. He sneered again, then brought his knee up hard into Max’s stomach. Max doubled over, gasping for breath. Then he felt the bony impact of Babaka’s knee again, this time cracking into Max’s chin. His head swung back, and blood sprayed from his nose.

  Everything spun. Max fought to stay conscious. Not easy. He had an urge to vomit, and it took all his effort to remain standing. Babaka was shouting – screaming, in fact, at the top of his voice, raising the alarm. Other voices, from all over the camp, joined in. Max zoomed his attention back to Babaka. He had Max by the throat again. The wristwatch was only inches from Max’s chin. Max knew he had a chance. He raised his right arm – it was shaking and weak – towards the watch. If he could just reach it, he could activate the GPS signal …

  But Babaka was throttling him. His fierce expression told Max he was enjoying it. The Blackshirt stared into Max’s face as though waiting for the light to leave Max’s eyes. It meant he wasn’t paying any attention to Max’s hands. Max’s fingertips were almost touching the watch …

  Suddenly Babaka pulled Max away from the wall and hurled him across the hut. Max stumbled over a corner of the bed and collapsed. Babaka engaged his weapon, pointed it directly at Max and made a ‘get up’ motion with the gun. Max forced himself painfully to his feet. Babaka gestured. His meaning was clear: get outside.

  There was a good deal of noise in the clearing. People were awake and moving around, on high alert. Max’s thoughts turned to the others. Were they safe? Had they been captured? Had Max messed things up for all of them?

  He had his answer as soon as he stepped out of the hut.

  There were three Blackshirts immediately ahead of him. Two of them held burning branches to give them some light. One of them had Sami. He clutched Sami’s hair with one hand. The other hand held a knife, pressed close to Sami’s throat.

  ‘No!’ Max screamed, attempting to lunge at them. Babaka was close behind him however. He grabbed Max’s own hair before he could take a step, and threw him to the ground once more. As Max hit the hard earth, the man with the knife spat at him. Babaka pointed in the direction of Oscar Juwani’s plateau. The knife guy spun Sami around and started to frogmarch him across the clearing. Beyond him, Max could see more people, including two figures who were struggling. His heart sank. Was it Abby and Lili? If so, the guards had caught them and were leading them, along with Sami, up to the plateau.

  Every cell in Max’s body burned with panic. His head and stomach ached atrociously. He wanted to curl up on the ground to protect himself from any further beatings. But he also knew that this was his last chance. The Special Forces Cadets were blown. Captured. Their lives were at risk. If Max didn’t call in the cavalry – immediately – their chances of survival were zero.

  Babaka loomed over him, his submachine gun in his hand and contempt on his face. He gestured at Max to get up. At first Max pretended to be doing just that. Wincing dramatically, he pushed himself onto his knees. He straightened his back.

  Then he struck.

  He lunged at Babaka with all the momentum he could muster. He wrapped his arms tightly around the Blackshirt’s knees and yanked his feet from under him by pushing one shoulder hard against his thighs.

  Babaka was not expecting the attack. He collapsed, the back of his head thumping against the ground. As he fell, his finger slipped. A blistering line of rounds burst into the ground, inches from Max’s leg. He felt the dirt exploding over him. He reached up with his right hand and knocked the MP5’s safety switch into place. It wouldn’t stop Babaka turning it back to automatic, but it would buy Max a couple of seconds.

  Babaka still seemed stunned by the fall. Max took advantage of that. He clambered over the Blackshirt, landing heavily, his knees on Babaka’s left arm.

  The arm that had the watch.

  Now was not the time for stealth or subtlety. Max grabbed Babaka’s wrist with one hand. With the other, he felt for the dial on the side of the watch. All of a sudden, Babaka was writhing and roaring with rage. Max heard the safety switch clicking on the MP5. He knew he only had seconds. He dug his dirty, torn fingernails into the gap between the dial and the watch face. And as soon as he had a little purchase, he pulled.

  The personal locator beacon was a thin wire, about thirty centimetres long. As Max tugged it from the watch, there was no indication that the GPS signal had been activated. No lights, no beeping. Just a length of wire flopping from the watch’s body. Max couldn’t examine it any further. Babaka smashed his gun against Max’s side, knocking him to the ground again. As he fell, he managed to unclasp the watch from Babaka’s wrist and pull it off. Babaka was so enraged, he didn’t even seem to notice. The Blackshirt pushed himself to his feet. As he hulked over Max, he trod on the watch. To Max’s horror, it shattered underfoot. Babaka pointed the MP5 at Max’s head. His finger moved from the trigger guard to the trigger. Max knew he was about to fire.

  So this was it. All he could do was hope that he had raised the alarm in time to save the others …

  He closed his eyes and waited for the shots.

  They didn’t come.

  Instead, there was a voice, low and harsh. Max opened his eyes again. The first thing he saw was Babaka lowering his weapon. Then he saw the man who had spoken. He was flanked by two armed guards and was immensely fat, with scars on his face and one milky eye. Max noticed in the moonlight that he was sweating heavily. He had a lit cigarette in one hand and was wearing military camouflage. He wheezed as he walked up to Max.

  ‘Good evening, young man,’ he said. And, when Max didn’t reply, ‘I assume you are a friend of Lukas. I must say, for a while he had me fooled. And it is not an easy thing to fool Oscar Juwani. But the idiotic actions of you and your other companions this evening have blown his cover, I’m afraid. I really should have listened to Babaka. He mistrusted you from the beginning. But it doesn’t matter. We shall put an end to your games very quickly.’

  Oscar Juwani nodded at Babaka, who yanked Max to his feet again. Then Juwani turned and, still accompanied by his two guards, walked across the clearing towards the plateau. Babaka poked his MP5 between Max’s shoulder blades and nudged him forward. Max stumbled ahead, but as he moved he glanced back. The watch, crushed and broken, was still on the ground, the PLB snaking away from it. In the struggle, Babaka seemed to have forgotten all about it. He jabbed the barrel of the gun between Max’s shoulder blades again. Up ahead, Max could see Sami, Lili and Abby being forced up the steps leading to the plateau.

  He had no option but to follow.

  19

  Coward

  Max knew that a fire burned constantly up here on the plateau. Over the past two days he had watched it from the clearing. Sometimes it smoked lazily. At other times it was fierce and hot. This was one of those times. It had obviously been newly stoked. Flames licked high and radiated a tremendous heat. Nobody stood closer than five metres to it, and most were further away than that. But the fire gave off as much light as it did heat, so as Babaka forced Max across the plateau, he was able to take everything in.

  Eight Blackshirts stood there, all armed. Six had their weapons pointed at Lukas, Sami, Abby and Lili, who were kneeling along the far edge of a rectangular pit, their hands behind their backs. Their faces glowed and the reflection of the fire danced in their eyes. They were sweating. The six armed Blackshirts were behind them, their backs to the jungle. At the left-hand end of the pit, Roland was on his knees. Behind him stood Oscar Juwani, his smile fat and toad-like. He had his hands out, palms upwards. Had it not been for his camouflage gear, Max would have thought he looked like a priest about to administer a sacred rite. The sight made him shiver. Three people stood behind Oscar Juwani: the two Blackshirts who had guarded him, and a young man in a red shirt with a piercing on his upper lip.

  Elsewhere on the plateau, to Max’s right as he approached the pit, was a small crowd of Redshirts and Blueshirts. Their faces were indistinct in the darkness. There was a low-level hubbub as a few of them spoke in low voices. All Max’s attention was on the pit. He didn’t know what it contained, but he could tell that the other cadets were scared of it. As Babaka forced Max closer, he smelled a terrible stench. The smell of something rotting. It turned his stomach. Every muscle in his body wanted to resist approaching the pit, but that was not an option. He felt the MP5 poke him in the back again. He stumbled forward. Seconds later he was at the edge of the pit, on the opposite side to the other cadets. He could hear an angry hissing.

  ‘Oh man,’ he whispered. ‘Not sn—’

  ‘Silence!’ Oscar Juwani’s hiss was as sibilant as the sound from the pit.

  The crowd of Redshirts and Blueshirts immediately fell silent. Nobody around the pit dared to speak. The fire crackled. Max could feel its heat on his back. Oscar Juwani licked his lips a little, then spoke again. ‘I don’t know who you are,’ he said, ‘and I don’t really care. After tonight, you will no longer be a concern of mine.’ He inhaled deeply. It was as if he liked the stench from the pit and wanted to get a lungful. ‘My Blackshirts are all keen to kill you. They have been well schooled, and they would like to practise their weapons training with real targets. But special prisoners deserve special treatment, wouldn’t you say?’ He spread out his hands to indicate the pit. ‘Anyway, we have Redshirts who are eager for promotion. What a shame it would be to deny them this opportunity.’

  Oscar Juwani stepped aside and turned. The Redshirt with the lip ring was just behind him. Juwani took him by the arm and brought him closer to the end of the pit. The Redshirt’s expression was dead. It reminded Max of Babaka. He was staring vacantly – not at the cadets, but at Roland. It looked as if Roland could feel the Redshirt’s eyes burning into the back of his head. He was breathing heavily and looked terrified. Oscar Juwani said something to the Redshirt. The Redshirt started to talk quickly, his voice high-pitched and excited. Oscar Juwani translated. ‘This excellent young man is called Katva. A few weeks ago, we had some guests who decided they did not want to stay with us. I’m afraid this is not something we like to encourage. One of these young men was this one.’ He pointed at Roland. ‘How nice it is to have him back here. The other was his brother – I’m afraid I forget his name.’