He cursed this fucker, and his family, and their shitty pickup, and gritted his teeth.

Keyed his radio. ‘See or hear anything, Kev?’ he said.

A kilometre down the road, McMullen spoke into his own set.

‘Wait one, Geordie,’ he said. ‘Yes, I think…’

Skelton heard the drone of the engines himself almost at that moment, well before he could pick up the blacked-out plane in his night-sight.

‘Inbound, John,’ he said.

‘In a few moments,’ said Carr, never taking his eye off the man to his front, ‘a red light will go up, yes? Then we will have ten minutes before our plane arrives. Ten more minutes, and we’re gone. Two hundred dollars. Yes? Do we have a deal, my friend?’

The man looked at him, directly in the eye.

Tough bastards, the Berber, and this one had the balls of his ancestors.

But he had no personal issues with the British, and the man in front of him wasn’t threatening him.

And two hundred dollars, for twenty minutes…

Behind them both, there was a whoosh, as Skelton fired the flare vertically.

The area was momentarily lit by a bright redness, as the flare exploded at 1,000 feet, and Carr saw through the windscreen into the cab of the truck.

A woman, her face covered, sat on the passenger seat.

Next to her a small boy, craning his neck to see what was going on outside.

On her lap, two more kids, toddlers.

Just a family, trying to eke out a living.

Chapter 112.

112.

THE HUGE A400M was on its final approach when the flare went up.

Stretch Armstrong had picked up the strip miles out, bright in his goggles in the green-coloured night below, and was thirty seconds from wheels down.

The engine note was dropping off as he and his co-pilot went through the landing procedure and the Airbus slowed.

In the back, the team had been counted down at sixty seconds, and then thirty, and were all standing up, holding onto the netting on the fuselage, lit dimly by the red interior night lighting.

Final weapons checks had been completed ten minutes ago, and all the banter had long ceased.

Each man was focused and running mentally through his role: as soon as the bird stopped, they would be out, and pushing into the inky blackness, providing 360-degree protection.

Rich Arnold looked at Lawrence Jones, the new Troop Rupert.

He looked a tad white, and was clearly trying to hide his nerves.

Arnold grinned. It had been a long time since he’d felt that kind of anxiety himself, but he understood it.

He punched the young officer playfully on the shoulder, and winked at him.

Leaning in, and shouting to be heard over the noise of the four engines, he said, ‘Might be earn-your-money-time tonight, or it might just be a day trip. Let’s see, eh?’