and private yachts mostly. Few years back, they took a pop at a German naval tanker thinking she was a merchant and those Krauts chewed their asses up something terrible. I’ll bet ol’ Gerber didn’t tell you what happened last time a pirate crew touched an American ship, did he?’ Lang dragged his forefinger across his throat and smiled wickedly, bits of bacon stuck between his teeth. ‘I got two words for you. Navy SEALs.’
‘What happened?’
‘Let’s just say, our boys went home. The bad guys wound up as fish bait.’
‘These waters are safe as houses,’ Mitch said, ramming home the point. ‘Hell, safer. Naval destroyers patrol up and down the coastline the whole time. Thank your fellow Limeys for that one. We even so much as smell a pirate, all Cappy O’Keefe has to do is dial up UKMTO on the sat phone, and the cavalry’ll be all over us before you can say Jack Robinson.’
‘Who the fuck was Jack Robinson, anyway?’ Condor asked.
‘Fuck should I know?’ Mitch shot back at him.
‘Always wondered about that,’ Condor said absently.
Jude already knew about United Kingdom Maritime Trade Operations, the clearing house that governed shipping security in the Persian Gulf and the Indian Ocean. But he still wasn’t entirely convinced.
‘Okay,’ he said, dubiously. ‘Then if we’re so safe and there’s no risk, then why do we keep the pirate cages locked all the time? And how come these attacks are still going on?’
Mitch waved it away. ‘Chill, dude. Ain’t gonna happen to us.’
The young woman’s eyes were wide with terror and pleading as she tried to scream out from behind the tape that covered her mouth. Her bleached hair was all awry, her hands tied, her blue chequered shop assistant’s uniform ripped at the neck from the struggle with her attacker who, presumably, had already wiped out the rest of her colleagues in his murderous spree.
The hostage taker stood half-concealed behind her, using her body as a shield with one arm clamped tightly around her neck. Was he a terrorist, or just another crazy on the loose? It didn’t matter either way. He was the threat, and he had to be neutralised. He was wearing a black sweatshirt and his eyes were hidden by dark glasses that glinted in the morning sun. He was clutching a stubby pistol that was aimed over the woman’s shoulder and pointing at the hostage rescue team who had come to save her.
Milliseconds counted. At any instant, a desperate man like this, all out of options and wild with panic, might turn the gun on her at point-blank range and blow her brains out.
Brrrpp … Brrrpp. The ripping snort of two short bursts from the silenced submachine gun, punctuated by the clackclackclack of the weapon’s bolt and the tinkle of spent cartridge cases hitting the ground. The hostage’s left eye disappeared as the nine-millimetre bullets punched a jagged line from her throat up to her temple.
Then silence. The smell of cordite drifted on the cold morning air. A small trickle of smoke oozed from each of the bullet holes. The hostage taker’s pistol was still pointing at the assembled HRT operators fifteen metres away.
‘Cease fire,’ Jeff Dekker said. ‘Make your weapon safe.’
The shooter flicked on his safety catch and frowned at the woman he’d just killed.
‘Shit.’
‘Okay,’ Jeff said. ‘Your hostage is dead, and so are you, or maybe one of your teammates.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Tell that to her kids.’ Jeff stepped up to the firing line and took the smoking subgun out of the shooter’s hands. ‘Ben? You want to give us a demonstration?’
The shooter stepped aside, angry with himself and shaking his head. Without a word, Ben took the gun from Jeff, walked up to the line and waited for the buzzer. Jeff pressed the remote button. At the signal, almost too fast for the eye to follow, Ben had the weapon up to his shoulder and on target with a single burst.
Brrrpp.
The hostage taker’s sunglasses shattered into fragments. Shreds of high-density polyurethane foam flew from the back of his head and littered the grass like confetti. Less than three-quarters of a second from the buzzer, he wasn’t going to be harming any more innocents.
Ben lowered the gun, made it safe and handed it back to Jeff, keeping the muzzle pointed downrange. ‘Something like that,’ he said to the first shooter, who was still shaking his head and staring in amazement at the tight grouping of holes between the bad guy’s eyes.
It was just another morning at Le Val. The class were a group of twelve French police SWAT trainees who’d been sent out on a three-day instruction course in close-quarter shooting and hostage rescue tactics. The highly realistic, lifesize 3-D self-healing foam targets were a recent innovation Jeff had come up with, in conjunction with a Normandy plastic mouldings firm who couldn’t manufacture them fast enough to meet the demand from law enforcement and military training units all over Europe.
‘You want to break down for the group how you just did that?’ Jeff asked Ben.
‘We need to look beyond the accepted principles of combat shooting in order to become really fast and accurate,’ Ben told the class. ‘Forget what you’ve been taught about focusing on the sights of the weapon. And don’t think too much about it. When you’ve shot enough to develop the right reflexes, muscle memory will bring the firearm to alignment instantly and without conscious thought. Even at twenty-five metres we’ve found it’s possible to get good, solid hits in less time if you let the sights fuzz out and focus on the target instead. You’ll also have better peripheral vision awareness of hostage movement or additional threats. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ came the muttered replies from the group.
‘Let’s try it again,’ Jeff said.
‘Just like old times,’ Jeff said to Ben as the class broke up for lunch.
Ben said nothing, because he knew Jeff was angling for him to stay on permanently. He didn’t want to commit to anything. His plans were unchanged: to wait a couple more days to let things settle down in Paris, return there to finish doing up the apartment, and go looking for an estate agent.
But Ben privately couldn’t deny that, after a few days back at Le Val, it was beginning to feel like home again, almost as if he’d never left the place. Initially, he’d resisted Jeff’s invitation to get involved with the training side of things, and instead made himself useful elsewhere. He’d helped the decorators finish painting the new classroom building, driven into Valognes in the old Land Rover to fetch supplies, and mended part of the perimeter fence that had blown down. The rest of his time, he’d spent sitting by the fire in the farmhouse kitchen smoking cigarettes and reading with a glass of wine at his elbow, or revisiting his old running tracks through the wintry Normandy woodland with Storm trotting along at his heel. In the evenings, he and Jeff dined together and drank more wine and talked about everything except Ben’s coming back to work at Le Val.
Tuesday Fletcher, the new recruit, was a dynamic addition to the team. He had a quick wit, a lively manner and a ready smile that dazzled away the wintry cold and drumming Normandy rain. Ben liked him at once, and watching him spatter cherry tomatoes for fun at six hundred metres with an L96 sniper rifle, he had no problem conceding to the younger man’s superior marksmanship skills.
‘Sorry to hear what happened on your selection,’ Ben said to him as they were packing the gear away in the armoury room.
Tuesday shrugged. ‘Just one of those things. Would’ve been nice to have been the first black kid in the SAS.’
‘I always used to think it was wrong that we didn’t have