He’d been in dozens – probably hundreds – of very sticky situations, in the Middle East, the Balkans, Africa, South Armagh…

And he’d come through them all without a scratch.

A memory came to West: pitch-black, January 2003, driving like hell down a main road in Iraq, near some town the name of which was long gone.

Five hundred klicks behind enemy lines, before the air war was even launched.

They’d been in one of four pinkies sent to recce some defensive positions – Kev McMullen at the wheel of the lead vehicle, Jock Lawlor in the commander’s seat, himself at the gun.

Suddenly, tracer had erupted all around them, and the vehicle behind them had been hit.

They’d all shaken out and started putting fire down, as the damaged vehicle extracted itself.

It had seemed like an eternity, swapping rounds with a massively superior enemy force, all sorts of munitions flying towards them – S60, .50 cal, 7.62mm, the sky lit up like a firework display.

But they’d stood firm, and had eventually withdrawn in good order.

Amazingly, no-one had been hit.

They found out later that they’d driven into an air defence battery and its supporting infantry, including some armour – about four hundred blokes, the intelligence suggested.

Fred West smiled to himself as he remembered that night: the Iraqis were brave men, and they were always up for the fight, but their accuracy was shit.

Sure, the job they were on now was dicey, no doubt about it.

But compared to that? Piece of piss.

John Carr had proved often enough that he was a hard man to kill, and he generally kept his blokes alive, too.

Just then, Carr walked over.

‘Not moving tonight,’ he said. ‘No word from Six on the 18:00 about the new location.’

Chapter 87.

87.

AT 06:00HRS THE FOLLOWING morning, Carr set up the comms laptop once again.

He was prepared for the long haul, but the morning’s message from MI6 changed all that.

‘Intelligence confirms information gained via your tactical questioning sent on earlier SITREP,’ it said. ‘Targets have moved away from Sirte. Believe new safe house located approx 100km south-east of your current position. Stand by for more 18:00hrs. Note: intelligence suggests targets may move again soon.’

Carr acknowledged, closed the laptop, and walked over to where Geordie Skelton was lying, right next to one of their wagons.

He tapped the big northerner’s foot with his boot.

‘Fuck off, man,’ said Skelton, quietly. ‘I’m asleep.’

‘Wake up, then, you lazy fucker,’ said Carr, with a grin. ‘It’s not Sirte. That Brummie cunt was right. The Chechens were spooked by something and they’ve done a runner. But Six think they’ve found them. They’re trying to confirm. Tell Fred. I’ll tell Kev.’

He clambered up the steep side of the wadi and walked along the lip to where Kev McMullen was on stag.