Pretorius rested a hand on Bald’s shoulder and looked him hard in the eye.

  ‘I saw how well you fought against the Yanks back at the airfield. You’re a mad, brilliant fucking soldier. You and me’ – he slung an arm round Bald – ‘we’re blood brothers. We’re not young men any more. And that’s a good thing. We’ve seen how the world really works. How it chews people up and spits them out. You know, as I do, that the world owes us. This, truly, is what we were born to do.’

  That voice again. You’ve gone too far now. There’s no going back. Not after this.

  In the back of his head he realized that if the coup failed, he could expect no mercy from Avery Chance and her bosses. They would crucify him for this act of betrayal. Then again, he reasoned, they might punish him anyway. After all, he had ignored the Firm’s instructions to kill Pretorius. Instead he’d taken part in an ambush, stolen a Herc and was now about to participate in the takeover of a sovereign nation.

  ‘Well, John?’ Pretorius asked. ‘Have you made up your mind?’

  Thirty-two

  0717 hours.

  Bald was about to open his mouth in reply when a shout came from behind him. Pretorius stared past his shoulder, his pupils pricked with anticipation. Bald turned and spotted a group of shadowed figures breaking across the clearing from the treeline a hundred and fifty metres to the south. Twelve of them. His stomach muscles pulled tight like tensed rope and for a second he feared that they were about to be ambushed by the local security forces. But then the dozen men pulled clear of the shadows cast by the jungle canopy and Bald saw that they were decked out in the same kit as the soldiers beside the Herc: digi-camo trousers, olive-green T-shirts, polished black boots. They were also equipped with the same Colt Commando semi-automatic rifles. Behind him, Pretorius breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘At last,’ he said. ‘Our brothers have arrived.’

  The second detachment pushed across the open ground and approached the Herc. They were led by a gaunt white guy with about as much meat on him as a kebab stick. He approached Pretorius, gave a half-hearted salute. His face was heavily drawn, his cheeks sunk deep like footprints in mud. His nose looked like a dog had chewed on it. Bald looked at the guy and thought, Eric Cantona on a hunger strike. The eleven black soldiers stopped in a line behind him and formed a quiet, hulking mass.

  ‘You’re late,’ Pretorius said tersely.

  ‘We got held up,’ Cantona replied in a soft voice with a slight accent. French, Bald thought. Or maybe Belgian. ‘Things got noisy.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Pretorius asked.

  Cantona rubbed his unkempt jaw. There was a sullen weariness to the man. As if he’d seen it all. His expression was totally devoid of emotion. ‘The General,’ he said with a shrug. ‘He had company.’

  Then he gave his back to Pretorius and snapped his fingers. The soldiers parted down the middle and one of the men at the rear booted three bedraggled figures to the front. The men were a miserable sight, their hands bound behind their backs, black masking tape pulled across their mouths. One look at them told Bald they were officers. They were dressed in white trousers and matching short-sleeved shirts with green epaulettes decorated with two golden stars. Their uniforms were smeared with blood and dirt. The guy in the middle had ten years on the other two. He wore a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators. He had a large paunch and a toothbrush moustache. A ton of military decorations dangled from the left breast of his jacket. Cantona gestured grandly to him.

  ‘Mr Pretorius,’ he said. ‘May I introduce you to General Hatem Ben Said, Chief of Staff of the Comoro Islands Defence Force. General, Mr Kurt Pretorius. The man who will be your next ruler.’

  The General snorted. Cantona scratched his cheek, then jerked his head in the direction of the south coast.

  ‘We made our way to the General’s house after landing at the inlet,’ he said. ‘As per your orders. Turns out he was having himself a late-night party with his subordinates. Poker, prostitutes, vodka.’ Bald felt thirsty at the mention of booze. He made a mental note: be sure to root through the President’s office once they’ve gate-crashed the palace. The guy was bound to have a collection of fine whisky gathering dust somewhere.

  ‘And these men, Girard?’ Pretorius asked, pointing to the officers either side of the General.

  ‘His subordinates.’

  ‘Casualties?’

  ‘None.’ Girard grinned. ‘Unless you count the prostitutes. We couldn’t leave any witnesses.’ He flashed a puzzled look at the Herc, scratched his chin. ‘Where are the supplies we discussed?’

  ‘We were ambushed at the airfield. Barely got out of there alive. Had to leave all the kit behind. RPGs, grenades, sniper rifles, ammo – the works.’

  Girard looked unsure. ‘But our men are carrying less than a full clip each.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to ration your ammo and take what you can from any guards you drop. Once the initial attack is complete, we can resupply with the weaponry stored at the army barracks.’ Girard went to protest but Pretorius cut him off with a brusque wave of his hand. ‘Don’t test my patience, Girard. We’re going ahead with the mission. We’ve come too far to give up now. Understood?’

  Girard dropped his eyes to his feet. ‘Oui, Mr Pretorius.’

  Pretorius nodded approvingly. ‘I want to speak with the General,’ he said.

  Girard sort of shrugged with his pinched shoulders as if to say, whatever. Then he bent down and ripped the tape off the General’s mouth. The man let out a sharp scream, his face burning. ‘Bitches!’ he roared, spitting uncontrollably as he spoke. Tiny drops flecked Bald. ‘Untie me. I command it!’

  Pretorius put a finger to his lips to shush him. Then he trained the Beretta on a spot between the General’s eyes. ‘General Ben Said.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m the one in charge now,’ Pretorius replied calmly. ‘I give the orders, not you.’

  The General went very still. Breath trapped in his chest. Eyes pasted to Pretorius. His face folding in the middle like a hand making a fist. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Me?’ Pretorius arched his eyebrows and pulled a face. ‘I’m the guy who just landed some thirty armed and highly trained soldiers in your backyard without anyone knowing about it. I’m the guy who is about to seize control of your country. So don’t go pissing me off.’

  The General listened to this, shaking his head furiously. ‘Bullshit. I have five hundred men under my command. Once they hear what you’re doing, they will crush you.’

  ‘Not if you side with us.’ Pretorius smiled.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘Publicly denounce the President and tell your men that you will be supporting our side in the coup d’état. Tell them’ – Pretorius made a grandiose gesture with his right hand – ‘we represent a new dawn for the people of the Comoros. Tell them we’ll increase their pay – whatever. The main thing is, once President Khalifa hears that you’ve turned against him, he’ll have no choice but to surrender.’

  The General almost choked on his own spittle. His facial muscles were knotted with rage. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘President Khalifa is like a brother to me. I will never betray him. Now let me—’

  There was a deafening crack as the gun in Pretorius’s hand lit up and a round smashed into the General’s forehead. The officers beside him flinched, blood splashing their uniforms as their comrade jerked backwards and dropped to the ground.

  ‘I told you not to piss me off,’ Pretorius said as he lowered the Beretta. He fired another shot into the General. His body jolted like someone was using a defibrillator on him.

  Pretorius is speaking to dead people now, Bald thought.

  For several seconds nobody said a word. Then Pretorius trained his pistol on the officer on the left. He was a short guy, stocky build, chest as deep as a fridge. He was shaven-headed, with a gold chain round his neck and big, round eyes like drops of oil in a glass of milk. His mouth was filled with so much gold he could probably open a bank. The man stared blankly at Pretorius, who said, ‘You. Name.’

  ‘Colonel Abdul Rashidi.’ The officer’s voice was like cement pouring from a mixer. Pretorius nodded briskly.

  ‘Here’s the deal, Colonel. You’ve got two choices and about one second to make them. You can take charge of the military, throw your support behind me. Or you can join your general in the afterlife.’

  The Colonel took less than a second to make up his mind. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. He shot a withering look at his dead superior. ‘Rashidi hated him anyway. Piece of shit took bribes but kept many people out of the loop.’

  Pretorius nodded at the third officer. ‘This man is your new subordinate. Here’s what’s going to happen. Two of my guys will escort you to the barracks. You’ll round up your men, explain that the General has stood down and you’re now in charge. Order the soldiers to put down their weapons until further notice. They’re to remain on standby. We’ll need them after we take down the President.’

  Bald felt a hot thrill in his bones. This was what he was born to do, he thought. Fighting dirty wars in the grim corners of the earth, one of a handful of men with guns and the determination to win through on a mission of impossible odds. Taking over a foreign country was bold, reckless – borderline insane. It was exactly how they did things in the Regiment. He was loving every minute of it.

  ‘Girard, take your guys and head for the airport, north of Moroni. The twelve of you should be enough to deal with the guards and secure the airport.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Pretorius.’

  ‘The airport’s closely guarded and you can expect to meet some stern resistance. Meanwhile the rest of us will sweep into the city, then we’ll split into two teams. One team of six guys will seize the radio station.’

  ‘What about us?’ Bald asked.

  Pretorius grinned. ‘We’ll be going for the President. He’s based at the Palais de Beit-Salam, at the northern tip of the city. We fight our way inside and give the President an ultimatum: stand down with immediate effect and go into exile. Or die.’

  Colonel Rashidi thought of something. ‘President Khalifa has a loyal cadre of bodyguards,’ he said. ‘They’re trained by French Special Forces. They follow him at all times. They won’t give in.’

  ‘Then they can die a glorious death alongside their beloved leader. Doesn’t matter. Once all three targets are secured and the President executed, nothing can stop us. The Colonel’s men will sweep through the city, neutralizing any last pockets of resistance. Within twenty-four hours, the entire island will be on lockdown.’

  The Colonel frowned. ‘It’s really going to be that easy?’

  ‘Not easy.’ Pretorius fixed him with an icy glare. ‘Taking over the country – any country – is going to be dangerous and laden with risk. All we know for sure is that the President is a control freak. There is no infrastructure of government here. It’s just one guy. Anywhere else, we’d be dealing with a far wider spread of targets. That means the odds are a little better in our favour. Even so, there’s a fair chance it could turn into a clusterfuck. But no one ever got rich playing it safe.’

  This seemed to satisfy the Colonel, who shifted uneasily on his feet. ‘Who becomes President?’ he asked. ‘You?’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. A white foreigner declaring himself President of an independent country in the Indian Ocean is not only against the local constitution, it’ll attract the attention of Western governments. Attention we could do without. No, we need a Comorian national as President. A face to present to the outside world. Someone who’s pliable. A yes man.’

  ‘Who do you have in mind?’

  ‘There’s an academic who’s been living in exile in Madagascar. We’ll fly him over once the island is secure and install him as President. Naturally,’ said Pretorius, grinning, ‘the real power will rest with us. We’ll be de facto rulers.’

  Rashidi pursed his lips. His pupils receded to pinpoints. ‘What’s in it for Rashidi?’

  Bald rolled his eyes. The guy had an annoying habit of referring to himself in the third person. Like he was some kind of rap superstar. Pretorius shot the Colonel a dark look and for a moment Bald thought he might send him the same way as the General.

  ‘You’ll receive an appropriate cut,’ Pretorius said with a sigh. He smiled thinly as he added, ‘And you get to live.’

  The Colonel said nothing. His face was blank. His range of emotional expression was about equal to a slab of granite. Then he cocked his head at a figure among the group of soldiers and said, ‘Rashidi wants her.’

  Pretorius turned to follow his line of sight. So did Bald. Pretorius cocked an eyebrow at the Colonel as he wheeled back around. ‘That whore?’

  Rashidi nodded. ‘Give Rashidi the bitch, maybe we have deal.’

  There was a long pause as the PMC chief weighed it up. Staring at the Colonel the whole time. Finally he beckoned to the soldier keeping a hold on Imogen. ‘Hand her over,’ he said. Turning back to Rashidi, he added, ‘Don’t take your eyes off this one. She has a bad habit of escaping.’

  Imogen tried to wrestle free as the soldier manhandled her towards Rashidi. The Colonel rubbed his hands expectantly. Wrapping an arm around Imogen’s shoulder, he began to tenderly stroke her cheek with a bony, scarred finger. ‘OK. Now we golden.’

  Pretorius turned away in disgust and muttered to Girard, ‘Move out immediately. The airport is thirteen klicks north of the city, so you’ll need a head start.’ Girard nodded. Pretorius glanced at the Colonel. ‘You’ll head out now as well.’

  There was a murmur of approval from the soldiers at the prospect of finally getting stuck in. Twelve out of the twenty-eight men – Girard and his team detailed to take the airport – climbed aboard two of the Amaroks. Two of Pretorius’s men ushered Colonel Rashidi and his subordinate into a third pickup. The Colonel stopped and snatched the Ray-Bans from the General’s dead body, slipped them on. Imogen sat between the Comorian officers in the rear seat. She looked back at Bald and shot him one last look of utter contempt. He seemed to be getting a lot of those lately.

  The turbocharged diesel engines growled as the three trucks fired up and began trundling down the dirt road leading east from the clearing. The Amaroks picked up speed, the tyres coughing up dirt. With that, fourteen soldiers were gone. That left the same number of men at the RV.

  One of these pounded angrily over to Pretorius. A muscular figure with biceps the size of boulders and a jaw that looked as if it had been chiselled out of marble. Harvey Stegman pressed a fresh wad of khat into his mouth and glowered at Bald with undisguised hatred. Then he turned to Pretorius.

  ‘What’s the deal with this cunt? I thought we were supposed to be slotting him?’

  Pretorius folded his arms across his chest. ‘A misunderstanding. John is with us now.’

  Stegman’s eyes threatened to explode out of their sockets. ‘This bastard ran over Eli. He was like a fucking son to me. He killed him and you’re just gonna let him get away with that?’

  ‘Things have changed,’ Pretorius replied coolly.

  ‘Bollocks!’ Stegman chewed furiously on his khat. ‘I saw him kill Eli with my own eyes. If you’re not gonna do it, I’ll do him myself.’

  He went to raise his Colt Commando at Bald. Pretorius shot forward, slapped the palm of his hand on the receiver and lowered the rifle with surprising force.

  ‘We lost nine good men when the Yanks ambushed us,’ he said firmly as he stared daggers at his 2iC. ‘That’s left us low on numbers. We need every man we can get for the assault. John is on the team. Deal with it.’

  Stegman paused for a couple of seconds. Then he pursed his lips and grudgingly nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Pretorius.’

  ‘Good.’ Pretorius straightened his back. ‘Get the men ready to move out.’

  The South African spun away. As he brushed past Bald he whispered, ‘This isn’t over. Once the island is taken, you’re dead. I fucking promise.’

  ‘But the anticipation is killing me.’

  ‘Fuck you, bro.’ Stegman spat out his khat and ground it under the heel of his boot. Then he strode towards the soldiers grouped by the remaining three Amaroks. Looking back, he shot Bald a final fuck-you. The Scot shrugged inside, turned back to Pretorius and watched him drop to one knee beside Priest. Something had caught the PMC chief’s eye. He picked up a spent shell case glinting dully near the pooled blood, and held it up to the sun.

  ‘Do you know where the name Parabellum comes from, John?’

  ‘Never gave it a second thought.’

  ‘It’s from the Latin. Si vis pacem, para bellum. “If you seek peace, prepare for war.”’ Pretorius swung his eyes towards Bald. ‘You know what I like about a bullet? It has the power to change the world. Forget laser-guided bombs and drones and nuclear warheads. None of those things has changed the direction of history. But a bullet . . .’ His face flushed red with hatred. ‘I remember the day like it was yesterday. I was nine years old when the niggers invaded our farm. Know what that’s like, John? To have some darkie hold a gun to your head while they rape your mother – while they make your father watch? To see your old man screaming as they cut his balls off with a machete. I’ve spent almost fifty years waging wars. Fighting to restore the world to its natural order. Now I’m going to paint my masterpiece. Today. Here. On this island.’

  Bald saw it then. For Pretorius, this wasn’t about the money. It had never been about the money. It was personal. What had he said back at the jungle camp? ‘In this life you’re either the exposed neck or the teeth sinking into it.’ Pretorius had spent his life as the neck. Now he planned to turn the tables. Bald saw that now. And he wouldn’t stop until every last drop of blood had been spilled.

  Pretorius tossed the case aside. Dusted himself down and stretched to his full height. Looked at Bald.