Chapters (37)
- Cover
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Chris Ryan Readers’ Club?
- Letter from Author
- About the Author
They continued north until they were within sight of the port and then navigated east, steering well clear of the obvious targets. Police stations, army barracks. Radio stations. The president’s numerous residences. Anywhere the rebels might be gathered in large numbers. Mavinda took them on a winding route out of the city, through narrow roads lined with shanty huts and modest dwellings partially hidden behind graffiti-decorated breeze-block walls. The darkened streets were heaped with mounds of rubble and chopped timber and plastic bottles.
As they bulleted east Mallet put in another call to the Voice. He got no answer, left a long message, filling the Voice in on the current situation. The massacre at the palace. The family’s flight to the country pile in Rogandu. The new plan. He asked for an update on D Squadron and the other elements of the strike force: SFSG, the SBS. He told the Voice to get hold of Mike Gregory, if possible. Let him know that the team was on the way. He hung up, plugged the phone into the cigarette lighter receptacle and left the handset on charge.
They crossed a small bridge over the Karatandu River and skirted around the fringes of several outlying villages, avoiding the main highway. The only stretch of paved road outside the capital. The most obvious route to Rogandu, the major had explained. But slower and less direct than the country tracks. And much more dangerous. The rebels might have ambushes set up on the main routes, he said.
The road soon degraded into a rough track, the lights from the smaller settlements shrank to dots, and suddenly they were pushing through the Karatandan countryside. The slums and ruined colonial villas gave way to a seemingly endless sprawl of lowland plains and claustrophobic forest, the muddied track slithering like some giant black snake beneath the gloom of the canopy. The Hilux rocked along in front of them, headlamps cutting through the pitch-black night.
Mallet tried to get hold of Six again. But they were in a sparsely populated area. The signal was terrible. Non-existent. He gave up after the fourth attempt and settled back into his seat as the vehicles steered deeper into the jungle. Bowman glanced over at the bluish digital glow of the console display.
02.00 hours. A hundred miles from the mansion near Rogandu.
Two hours to go.
Two hours until I can pop another pill.