CodeName: Orcus Books 1-3 of The Gripping Paddy Regan Thrillers by Thomas J Eyre ➱ Release Tour with Giveaway

 

CodeName: Orcus

Books 1-3 of The Gripping Paddy Regan Thrillers

by Thomas J Eyre

Genre: Crime Fiction, Thriller

Books 1 -3 of the gripping Paddy Regan thrillers in the CodeName: Orcus series in one boxset.

Book#1 Desert OverWatch.

A 1990 deployment to Iraq, in the build-up to the first Gulf War turns deadly.

Sergeant James Regan wants nothing more than to be at home with his family. After nearly two decades of putting his life on the line fighting for Queen and country, he has decided it's time to quit the Royal Marines, he just has to make it home.

Corporal Roger Morgan hates life in the corps and uses alcohol to take the edge off. A downed coalition aircraft brings the two men together while behind enemy lines on a mission to track and destroy Iraqi SCUD missile launchers.

Old rivalry surfaces amid the danger, tension and stress of life behind enemy lines. Was it passion, jealousy or fear that turned a Royal Marine into a calculating, cold-blooded murderer?

Book #2 The British FrontLine

The Russian Mafia picked the wrong girl to abduct. Now Paddy is hunting on British soil, and they are his prey.

The dark forces of the Russian Mafia have launched an assault on the underworld of British society, and the very people tasked with the protection of British Isles, are colluding with the Mafia's hostile intent.

Used to fighting to keep his country safe, Royal Marines Sergeant Patrick (Paddy) Regan, realises there is a war being fought in Great Britain. This brutal conflict is being waged between the Russian Mafia and Britain's organised crime. The rot caused by the Russian Mob's toxic regimen of bribery, intimidation, and violence has reached the very top of Mi5, the British secret service.

What Paddy wants most is to find and rescue his young half-sister, Susie. He knows the Russian Mob abducted her and he's getting zero help from the authorities. He deserts from the Royal Marines, determined to track her down and kill those responsible for taking her. Calling on skills honed in Northern Ireland, Iraq and Afghanistan, he infiltrates their organisation and begins its destruction from within.

Book #3 The Namibian Offensive

A wounded sniper. A mission for revenge. But does he have the skill to take down his most dangerous enemy?

Leicester, UK. Royal Marine deserter Paddy Regan swears vengeance against the Russian Mafia. Enraged by his parents’ savage murders, Regan organizes a rule-breaking rampage to shut down the cruel organization, even if he has to resort to torture. So when the gangsters attempt to rob and kill innocents at an amusement arcade, he seizes the chance to execute every last one…

But with news of his estranged fiancée’s kidnapping by Namibian rebels, Regan and his team must shift their sights on her rescue by infiltrating a terrorist base. As the onslaught of bloody violence in sex trafficking, blackmail and murder escalates, Regan’s forced to deploy his heavy weaponry to end the enemy’s brutal exploits.

Will Regan and his team perish in a hail of bullets before he can claim another Russian scalp?

If you like Lee Child's Jack Reacher, David Baldacci's Amos Decker, and Robert Ludlum's Jason Bourne, you won't be able to put down Thomas J Eyre's compulsively addictive CodeName Orcus series. .

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CodeName Orcus Series Book #2

By

Thomas J. Eyre

 

The British FrontLine © 2018 Thomas J Eyre

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

 

Chapter 1

The reddish-brown walls rose up to about eight feet, surrounding an area the size of a football field. From their hide, the two men could see the majority of the enclosure. A steady breeze lowered the heat a little, stirring up small dust-devils. In the distance, the hot sun reflected from the metal panels of the few vehicles parked in the compound, giving rise to a shimmering haze.

To those inside the compound, the hide was all but invisible at nine

hundred yards distant, perched atop an outcrop of rocks that stretched for three hundred yards and rose to a height of forty feet. Their desert digital camouflage tunics blended perfectly with the scrubby brush adorning the top of the rocks.

Regan wiped away a bead of sweat from his brow, then dropped his hand back to the butt of his sniper rifle. He swung the barrel slowly until the telescopic sight of his L115 rested at the centre of a group of men inside the compound. Despite the distance, the faces of the suspected Taliban fighters were clearly visible through the rifle’s high-powered scope.

This had been their routine for the past three days; Regan scanning the compound while Lucas rested, then the changeover.

Regan had just begun to move on to another cluster of men when one of them turned, giving him a full-face view. Regan froze, the man’s face

centered in his sights. Without taking his eye from the scope, he reached over and tapped on Corporal Lucas’s helmet.

Lucas pushed the helmet up off his face and rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve got one. I think it’s Abdul Kabir… he’s standing a yard to the right of the white Mercedes truck and on the left of the bunch of other rag-heads.

Looks like he’s armed, too. I can just see what looks like a gun barrel sticking out from under his clothes.’

 

‘Hang on.’ Lucas rolled over and put his eye to his spotting scope. He

scanned the distant clusters of men, adjusting the scope’s focus as he found the group Regan had pinpointed. With a little more adjustment, the face of Abdul Kabir appeared in sharp detail. ‘It’s him, okay—Abdul Kabir,

wearing a black dish-dash, a turban and yeah… I’m seeing the gun too.’

Abdul Kabir appeared to be listening to one of his fighters. The man, visibly agitated, made animated gestures suggestive of machine gun fire and explosions going off around him.

Lucas scanned through the picture book of known Taliban leaders active in Afghanistan until he found Abdul Kabir and his identification sign. It

seemed that the ops group were using a similar ID system as applied in Iraq, where Saddam had been the Ace of Spades. Lucas keyed up the radio and

called headquarters. ‘Alpha-Zero-One, this is Alpha-One-Five, how copy?’

‘Alpha-One-Five, reading you loud and proud. What’s on, Dave?’ replied the sergeant manning the base radio.

‘Chalky, this place we’ve been monitoring for the past few days—looks as if it’s definitely a Taliban camp of some sort. Right now we have eyes on the Jack-of-Clubs. We believe he’s armed.’

‘Okay Dave, copy that. Eyes on the Jack-of-Clubs. Give me a grid reference.’

Lucas read out the six figures and waited for Chalky White to relay each one back to him.

‘Okay. Wait one.’

A few minutes later, Chalky came back on the air. ‘Dave, we have a Predator a few minutes out. It’s already used its stores, but the CO wants the yanks to agree the sighting of weapons before deciding what to do next, so stand by.’

‘Okay Chalky, standing by.’ Lucas looked at Regan and rolled his eyes ‘What’s up, Dave?’

‘All this politically correct fucking bullshit, Paddy. I remember when we used to have the authority to select targets and take them out at our own

 

discretion.’

‘No… don’t tell me, let me guess. Would this have something to do with a Predator?’

‘Ta-da! And the prize goes to Sergeant Patrick Regan of her Majesty’s Royal Marines.’

Regan chuckled. ‘They’re scared shitless in case of a fuck-up. They don’t like collateral damage these days, so they make sure all the i's are dotted, mate.’

Two minutes came and went, along with another twenty, before White came back on. ‘Dave, that’s confirmed. There are concealed weapons on nearly every male in the compound.’

‘There’s a shocker,’ Lucas muttered.

‘We have a couple of Dutch F-16s inbound to strike the camp, ETA nine minutes. Dave—can you confirm you’re not danger-close for a two- thousand-pounder?’

‘Roger that, Chalky. We’re well outside the area, but if you get their

attack to come in on a southwest to northeast run, the blast debris will get ejected away from us. I’m just setting up the laser painter now, over.’

‘Copy that Dave, attack run southwest to northeast. Don’t worry about painting the target though.’

Lucas put down his Laser Target Designator, frowning. ‘We’re good to stay and mark the spot.’

‘Not the issue, Dave. The only weapon they have left is unguided.’ 'Shit!'

'What's up Dave?'

'Fucking dumb bomb is what.'

It was Regan’s turn to roll his eyes and he was quietly proud of his

corporal for keeping his cool instead of rapping out at Chalky, who was just passing on the good news. Lucas settled for kicking a few rocks down the

 

hill from the back of their hide. Regan nodded in acknowledgement at their frustration. Now was not the time for reduced accuracy. The laser-painter

would guide a missile right to the Mercedes truck, taking out every man in a ten-yard radius. The unguided or dumb-bombs relied on ballistic trajectories and didn’t always hit where they were supposed to. They needed the damn thing to land on target. Not near it.

The radio crackled in Lucas' ears. From the other end, Chalky piped up again. ‘Dave?’

‘Copy that. Incoming unguided munitions so keep our heads down,’ Lucas confirmed.

‘I’ll call when they’re sixty seconds out. Get this, though—they’ll be running on fumes by the time they hit the target. They’ll have to bug-out as soon as they’ve done the delivery, over.’

Lucas signed out and released a long sigh. ‘Does this remind you of anything?’

‘What?’

‘This whole business of being dumped somewhere and expected to cope while only getting half the infor—’

‘We’re not going to talk about Northern Ireland.’

‘Official Secrets Act? Who’s going to hear anything out here?’

Regan snorted. ‘Fuck the Official Secrets Act. I’m more worried about my blood pressure.’

Lucas laughed as Regan went back to his scope, continuing to watch the camp—Abdul Kabir in particular—while waiting for the inbound air strike. Regan was glad to have Lucas’s company on this job, not just because of their history, but because they were usually on the same page in terms of how to get things done. That said, situations like this just meant that they

were both hanging around, both writhing with impatience, both waiting for other people to make things happen.

The minutes ticked slowly by until Chalky White came back on.

 

‘Ghost-Rider four is sixty seconds out.’

‘Roger, Chalky. No change, friendlies—he’s clear hot,’ Lucas said, confirming that they hadn’t moved position and that it was clear for the aircraft to attack.

Kabir hadn’t moved over the last twenty-five minutes, or so. He was still by the truck, taking reports from different men.

Regan ducked down reflexively as he heard the soft, droning approach of the F16s. As a sniper he ought to keep his body relaxed, but he couldn’t help tensing up while watching the faces of the guys in the compound, hoping they wouldn’t spot the overhead hazard before it shat on them.

Sweat threaded through the grade-two stubble over Regan’s temple, trickling maddeningly down his cheek.

The bomb screamed in from the clear blue sky and slammed into a building at the far north-eastern edge of the compound. The noise of the explosion merged with that from the exhausts of the two F16s as they

streaked overhead. Despite their distance from the target, Regan and Lucas still jerked a little downhill at the shockwave as the building was pulverised, along with a large section of the compound wall. Regan waited for the reverberations to stop before trying to line his sight up again. The

cluster of men around Kabir looked stunned, but unharmed. And the F16s couldn’t return for another run.

‘Shit,’ Regan muttered, seeing Kabir wrenching open the door of the truck. ‘He’s getting his arse out of there—tell the CO I’m taking the shot.’

Lucas jabbed the transmit button. ‘Chalky, the attack missed and the target’s on the move. Paddy’s taking the shot.’

‘The CO heard that, Dave, and he’s giving you the thumbs up.’ ‘Okay Paddy, the CO says shoot.’

‘Got it!’ Regan snapped, then had a moment’s regret for biting Lucas’s

head off, but seriously—they needed a thumbs-up for this? He homed in on Kabir, who was now standing on the top step of the white Mercedes truck, shouting orders to the men still clustered around him. Regan gently

squeezed the trigger, taking up the backlash in the firing mechanism. The

 

gun fired, sending its 300-grain .338 Lapua-Mag bullet hurtling towards the target, striking Kabir just above his left eye some two seconds later. The back of Kabir’s head split open like an overstuffed suitcase, spewing much of its contents over the fighters standing just below. At the sight of their leader’s head exploding, the Taliban fighters, still dusting themselves off from the explosion, dived for cover under trucks and up against some of the large rocks dotted about in the compound.

‘That’s confirmed,’ Lucas said into the radio. ‘Scratch one more Taliban shit-stirrer.’

A bullet ricocheted off the rocks twenty yards in front and ten yards to the right of their position. A smattering of small arms and heavier machinegun fire followed the impact of the first bullet as the Taliban

adopted a spray-and-pray policy, hoping they’d get lucky and hit something.

Lucas snatched up the radio with one hand and the rest of their shit with the other.

They eased themselves back from the edge of the rocky outcrop, slid into the gulley a few yards behind the firing position, and hefted their Bergens before legging it back towards the extraction point, where they were to be

evacuated by helicopter. As they ran, Lucas punched the transmit key.

‘Chalky, situation critical—we have incoming. We need air support and evac, over.’

‘Roger your last, Dave. Ground suppression and evac helos inbound your location. ETA seventeen minutes, over.’

‘Confirmed, evac helo seventeen minutes—roger and out.’

Regan kept up with Lucas as they zigzagged their way across the rock-

strewn plain, their boots kicking up small dust clouds with each step as they headed towards the extraction point. They stuck to ground that was too rough to drive over, forcing their pursuers to give chase on foot.

Five minutes passed, then ten. The pair kept running, knowing the

chasing Taliban would be on them if they slackened their punishing pace. A bullet pinged off the rocks thirty feet to their left, spurring them on.

 

As they approached the extraction point, they could hear the steady beat of the incoming helicopter’s rotor blades. The speed with which the Apache gunship appeared overhead made both men duck. They reached the cover of scrubby bushes and stunted trees as the Apache opened covering fire on the pursuing Taliban fighters. Rounds from its 30-mil chain-gun caught two of them, tearing their bodies apart with the force of impact. Their comrades dived for cover, but continued to fire after the retreating sniper team, though some of them redirected their fire towards the Apache.

Regan and Lucas kept going even as wilted branches and bushes tugged at their equipment and scratched exposed areas of skin. Regan’s chest was beginning to get a little tight but he had to puff his way through it and keep his legs moving. The sound of the Apache’s gunfire gave them some

comfort, but bullets still buzzed about them as the Taliban fired blind into the scrub. They reached the clearing designated as their extraction point and saw a Lynx helicopter already on the ground, its rotor-blades revolving

slowly as the engines idled. Seeing them emerge, the pilot opened the throttles. The Lynx began to shimmy on its undercarriage as if eager to be airborne.

When they were just a hundred yards from the Lynx, a loud explosion

came from above and behind them. Regan accelerated, remaining focussed on reaching the Lynx. Fifty yards left…

50-calibre bullets from a Dushka heavy machine gun ripped through the air around them. Regan saw Lucas pitch forward and face-plant the ground, gripping the back of his leg under his right buttock. Regan skidded around and dropped down next to his fallen comrade. He got a hand under Lucas’s arm and felt his groan without even hearing it.

‘C’mon, it’s not far, can you—’ Regan’s pulse leapt as Lucas’s eyes rolled up into his head and he sagged back onto the ground. ‘Shit!’

Regan shed his Bergen and hoisted Lucas up onto his shoulders. He scooped up his equipment and staggered the rest of the way to the helicopter.

Helped by the helicopter’s crewman, Regan lowered Lucas onto the floor of the Lynx. ‘Grab him, he’s out!’

 

The crewman dragged Lucas further into the cabin, giving Regan the chance to roll through the doorway just as the helicopter lifted off. As it turned away, thin shafts of light suddenly appeared as if by magic,

crisscrossing inside the rear end of the fuselage and tail section, as machinegun fire ripped through the metal. Staying low the pilot used the total engine power to accelerate away from the Taliban, rather than using seventy five percent of it to climb. By doing this he deprived the Taliban

gunners of a clear shot and forced them to expose themselves to the Apache as they had to raise themselves up to depress their gun muzzles. It wasn’t long before the Lynx began to climb, levelling off at a thousand feet.

‘Is everyone okay back there?’ the pilot asked over the intercom.

‘We have one man down,’ the crewman said, ‘but he’s still with us. Apart from that we’re okay, skipper. I can’t see any signs of a problem from the hits we took. There’re a few holes here and there, nothing critical.’

‘Roger. I’ll radio base, let them know to expect wounded.’

The crewman slid the cargo door shut and turned to help Regan with Lucas as he attempted to remove the wounded marine’s Bergen. The

crewman held Lucas up by the front of his ballistic vest as Regan finally got the rucksack off him, and between them they rolled Lucas into the recovery position, injured side up.

Regan took out his combat knife and sliced open Lucas’s trouser leg. He dry heaved; a saucer-sized piece of flesh had been ripped from Lucas’ upper thigh. Blood pumped from the gaping wound and Regan could see the ends of broken bones sticking up through the hole.

He snatched a field dressing kit from his own Bergen, placed some thick gauze pads into the hole, and pressed them down and around the open fracture to stem the flow of blood. Lucas remained unconscious, his body trembling. Regan grabbed his fingers. They were chilled.

‘Shock already?’ the crewman yelled.

Regan squeezed Lucas’s shoulder. ‘It was a bad hit.’ With the air-

crewman’s help, he tied the pads tightly in place then used the drag-bag containing his rifle as a splint to keep Lucas’s leg straight. As he felt for

 

breathing and pulse again, he felt his ears pop, signalling the helicopter’s descent into Camp Bastion.

With only a slight jolt, the pilot landed. Through the window, Regan could see two ambulances. He glanced back at the crewman. ‘Who’s the other one for?’

The crewman shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know.’

Two army medics carrying a stretcher rushed up to the door of the Lynx as the crewman opened it. They slid the stretcher into the helicopter and

climbed in to take charge of Lucas.

Regan picked up his kit and dropped down onto the tarmac of Camp Bastion just as the Apache gunship limped in towards the landing pad, yawing from side to side and trailing black smoke. It landed hard a short

distance from the Lynx, one of its wheels buckling under from the impact. The Apache’s distinctive sensor pod was missing, along with some of the bulletproof glass on the helicopter’s port side. Bullet and shrapnel holes peppered the fuselage and smoke billowed from the cowling of its starboard engine.

Regan looked on in awe—it was a miracle the damn thing hadn’t just dropped from the sky. It was obvious now why they needed a second

ambulance; the pilot looked as wrecked as the Apache. He cut the remaining engine and then collapsed at the helicopter’s controls.

‘Mind your back, Sarge,’ one of the medics said, as they hoisted Lucas out of the Lynx. Regan stepped out of the way, unable to take his eyes off the stricken Apache gunship. A crash tender raced up to the damaged helicopter, disgorging fire-fighters as it came to a halt. A fire-fighter ran out a hose and sprayed foam into the burning engine while another two tried to get the doors open and failed. Without the Apache’s covering fire, he and Lucas would’ve both been cut down, for sure. Regan watched in a daze as they began hacking away with axes at what was left of the cockpit to get at the injured pilot and weapons operator.

The crewman stepped out alongside Regan. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it could fly either, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.’

 

‘It’s in a state alright, poor fuckers.’ Regan turned away from the gut- wrenching sight and they made their way towards the ambulance that the medics were loading Lucas into. ‘Can you tell your jockey we said thanks for getting us out?’

‘Yeah, okay Paddy.’

Lucas started to come round just as Regan reached the ambulance. His normally tanned complexion had turned grey, his hazel eyes glazed.

‘How’re you doing buddy?’ Regan asked.

Lucas gave a weak thumbs-up, but his arm dropped back onto the stretcher as he lost consciousness again.

Regan was about to climb up into the ambulance when a Humvee pulled up and a soldier leaned out of the driver’s window.

‘Sergeant Regan, you’re to come with me.’

Regan looked back at his friend on the stretcher, and then at the medics. ‘Take care of him, won’t you?’

‘Yeah don’t worry about him, he’ll be fine.’

Regan put his hand on Lucas’ shoulder. ‘See you later, buddy,’ he said and walked over to the waiting Humvee. He opened a rear door of the vehicle and hoisted his Bergen up onto the seat. ‘Where’re we going?’

‘Farlow’s office. I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but the Colonel wants to see you.’

Regan grunted in reply. The adrenaline in his system was beginning to taper off. An intense wave of tiredness washed over him. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the seat, images of the past half-hour floating around in his mind.

Fuck me, what a day.

He hoped Dave would be okay—that wound looked pretty gnarly. At least he’d been able to stem some of the blood loss, and give his friend a fighting chance.

 

He couldn’t help wondering what the old man wanted. It had to be

something serious to collar him straight off a shout. Regan scratched his itchy stubble. Perhaps something to do with his request to transfer back to Lympstone, as sniper instructor? Nah, that’d gone through his divisional officer. This was something big, or bad.

Or maybe or both big and bad.

The Humvee engine growled as it rolled slowly over the camp’s recently- laid tarmac roads. After a few minutes, the driver pulled-up outside a grey, two-storey cinder-block building.

‘Here you go, Sergeant,’ the driver said. ‘Go through the door over there, and see the lumpy-jumper in reception.’

‘Thanks for the lift.’ Regan climbed out of the vehicle, dragging his kit with him. He turned away from the Humvee, shouldered his Bergen, and walked towards the door the driver had indicated. Just inside the door, the lumpy-jumper—this one a young corporal—sat at the reception desk.

She looked up with a smile and shot a discreet glance at the rank on his shoulder. ‘Yes Sergeant, can I help you?’

‘Patrick Regan. I’ve been told to report here.’

‘Ah yes…’ Her smile seemed to falter a little. ‘Take a seat and I’ll tell the colonel you’re here.’

 

Chapter 2

Morgan tried blotting out the sound of his mobile ringing on and on, but it was like taking a drill bit to the temple. It was Bob. Had to be Bob. The only other people who let the phone ring that long without quitting were the fraud detection folks at his bank. And Morgan knew his cards were okay. His balance, maybe not. He rammed an Easy-Reef instruction manual into his case on top of the swivel-bearing samples.

This will at least make it look as if getting the fuck out of here so quick is justifiable.

The catches slipped in his sweaty fingers as he snapped the case closed.

He listened for movement on the first floor. The girls should be ready to leave by now. He walked into the hall and bellowed up the stairs.

‘Will you two move yourselves? How long does it take to pack? We’ll miss the tide if you don’t shake the lead out.’

‘Okay Roger, we’re done!’ Carla called back. Moments later, she was downstairs with the cases.

‘About time!’

Carla glared. ‘Don’t snap. You’re the one changing all the plans without asking, so you can’t expect total, sweet-natured compliance.’

Morgan flicked a glance at his watch, feeling sweat pucker his shirt between his shoulder-blades. That Russian bastard was serious—Morgan knew he was—but if Kadyrov thought for one minute he’d just fucking roll over, he had another thing coming.

Seeming to sense his desperation, Carla filled her lungs and bellowed up the stairs. ‘Come on Susie, let’s go. Best we don’t keep your dad hanging

about any longer.’

 

Susie stomped her way down to the bottom of the steps. ‘I thought you

said we were staying here, this time. I would’ve gone home with Hannah if you’d told me I had to go on bloody Cowes week again this year.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Yeah, right. Whatever. Screw my summer holidays up again.’

Morgan ground his teeth. ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into you, lately…’

He didn’t bother finishing since she wasn’t likely to listen anyway. Since she’d hit fourteen, it was as if someone had hit the stroppy switch in her head. ‘Just stop cussing and get yourself in the dinghy, will you?’

‘I wasn’t cuss—’

‘You were cussing,’ Morgan insisted. Okay, so ‘bloody’ was very much a PG expletive, but he still didn’t like hearing those words coming from his little girl. He turned to see Carla heave the case off the floor like she’d packed it with pig-iron instead of clothes. He reached for the case, eager to move things along a little. ‘Here, let me get that.’

‘For goodness’ sake Roger, what’s the hurry? I thought we’d agreed on sticking to day trips while Susie’s home from school this time.’

‘I know!’

‘Susie and I go to town for a couple of hours to get brochures and suddenly—’

‘Look sweetheart, we’ve already gone over this. I have samples I need to show Glen, and what with the competition starting tomorrow, I can’t afford to miss him today or I won’t get the chance to see him until the end of the week. I want to strike while the iron’s hot, so can we please go before we miss the tide?’

Morgan followed Carla and Susie out of the house, locked up and then followed them along the wooden pier that led out into the water from the back garden. Once Carla and Susie were seated in the small dinghy, he lowered the suitcase into the boat, stepped off the jetty, and seated himself in the rear by the outboard motor.

 

He steered the boat across the bay towards the Tempest, which he kept moored further out, in deeper water. Once they’d arrived at the yacht, he handed the suitcases up to Carla then hoisted the dinghy up into the davits, which hung over the stern. He made his way to the open cockpit and flicked on the master power switch, checking the boat’s systems before starting the engine. He engaged the winch that hauled the anchor from the bay’s sandy floor.

Some of his joints popped as he arched his spine. He suppressed a groan, pressing his hands into the small of his back. He shifted the gear lever from neutral to forward and opened the throttle. The yacht began to make headway, helped by the outgoing tide. Hamworthy Park and its row of

colourful little beach huts passed by on the port side as the boat made its

way out towards the English Channel. Once they’d passed the chain ferry at Sandbanks, he used the yacht’s automatic reefing system to raise the sails

and then killed the small diesel motor.

Manufactured by his own company, the reefing system allowed Morgan to keep his six-foot-four frame behind the steering-wheel in the stern as the boat made the transition from motor to sail power. He was proud of it; the smooth mechanics were efficient enough and strong enough to help propel even his 55-foot ocean-goer out to sea with no effort on his part at all.

They’d been at sea for a while when Carla poked her head out of the cabin hatch. ‘Tea, Roger? Susie and I are just about to have a cup.’

‘Yeah, I’d love a brew.’

She eased up out of the cabin hatch carrying a steaming mug a short time later. ‘Tea up, Cap’n.’

‘Thankee wench,’ Morgan said, his mood lifting now they were out of sight of land. They had a decent chance of making it, now. He reached for the cup and winced as a sudden pain stabbed in his lower back.

Carla winced in sympathy. ‘Oh darling, is it your back again?’ Morgan grunted. ‘Yeah, it started to come on this morning.’

‘Here, let me have a look.’ Carla said. She lifted his shirt and gently

touched the scar just above his pelvis and a few inches from his spine. ‘Is it

 

here again?’

Morgan flinched at the touch. ‘Yeah, that’s the spot.’

Carla gently massaged the area around the scar while he reached into a pocket in the console and retrieved a box of paracetamol. He swallowed two of the tablets and washed them down with a swig of his tea. A little of the tension eased as she kept up a circular motion.

‘How’s that?’

‘Yeah, that’s much better, sweetheart. Thanks.’ ‘Roger…about this trip—’

He groaned. ‘I was just starting to relax!’

‘I’m worried about you. You’ve been really stressed, grabbing at the phone as soon as it rings, and you’ve barely slept. Is there something I should know?’

‘We’re fine.’

‘Bob keeps calling.’

Morgan put on a smile as he gathered her from behind and pulled her into his lap. ‘Okay, we fell out a little and it’s been getting to me. But we’ll put things straight. Don’t worry.’

‘Alright.’

The lines on her face seemed to ease as he gave her a hug. If only he

could be so easily soothed. He broadened his smile to a grin. ‘Now, do we have any ship’s biscuits, or have the mangy crew been at them again?’

‘Well Cap’n, we be running low on victuals, but I think we may still have some. I’ll go and check.’

He released a sigh of relief as she left him alone for a few moments.

Things could—would—be okay if he could land a sale from Glen. It’d buy him a little time to move some cash around before he got any more unpleasant ‘visits’. No way was he letting that fucking Russian near his daughter.

 

Carla returned to the deck a few minutes later, carrying a packet of biscuits. Just as he was taking one, she pointed astern. ‘Have you seen that?’

‘What?’ Morgan turned to see a large powerboat closing on their much slower, much smaller yacht. He looked on in alarm; the powerboat looked to be almost double the size of the Tempest and the distance between them was diminishing by the second. Morgan reached into a locker beside the

wheel and took out a gas-powered klaxon. He gave two long blasts on the horn to warn the crew of the powerboat. The boat showed no sign of

shifting course or slowing.

Carla’s eyes widened. ‘Oh God…’

‘Get your life jackets on, and get Susie up on deck, quick. I want both of you up towards the bow. If it hits us, jump over the opposite side and I’ll release the life raft.’

Carla dived back through the cabin hatch. ‘Susie! Grab your life jacket and get up on deck. Susie…?’

Morgan struggled with the life raft, his pulse thumping in his neck as the distance closed. Below, Carla yelled at their daughter to get the hell off the iPad. The sounds of their squabbling voices mingled with the roar of the powerboat engines. Susie stomped up on deck with a face of thunder, Carla following right behind. Just as a collision seemed inevitable, the bow of the powerboat dropped as its pilot closed the throttles. The pilot turned the boat to run up alongside the yacht and used its trim tabs like brakes to slow the big boat down. With impeccable judgement, the powerboat slowed to match the yacht’s speed, leaving a gap of around a yard between the two vessels.

Two men in black overalls appeared at the side of the powerboat, carrying mooring lines.

It was too late to get the girls into the raft.

Morgan snatched his Tariq pistol from the locker, his body a trembling, sweating wreck as the men boarded. There was no mistaking which outfit

they came from. He fought against his erratic, thumping pulse and the light- headedness that usually came with it.

 

No, this isn’t right. That sneaky fucking Russian told me I had a week before he came to collect.

‘Get the fuck off my boat,’ he bellowed at the closest boarder, levelling

the Tariq at him.

‘Not so fast, tovarisch.’

Morgan looked up at the deck of the powerboat. A man stood holding an AK47 covering Carla and Susie. Carla looked back at Morgan, her eyes huge with fright and confusion.

Morgan straightened up and raised his hands. ‘Okay, okay, take it easy.’ He had to bluff his way through. Make out this was all one big mist—

‘You—’ The closest boarder swung the barrel of a pistol up level with Morgan’s chest. ‘Put the gun down and kick it over to me.’

Morgan complied.

‘Now get down on the deck, on your face, with your hands behind your head.’

‘Roger? Who are they?’

He tried to block out the terrified but accusing note in her voice as he lay down, interlacing his fingers behind his head.

‘Shut up,’ the man told Carla, swinging the gun at her and Susie. ‘You, go to the cabin now if you please.’

Carla backed away. ‘What’s going on? Why—?’ ‘No talking, please move.’

Susie burst into tears as her mother ushered her towards the boat’s stern.

Morgan stayed absolutely still while the man who’d forced Carla and Susie down the ladder into the cabin stopped at the door and covered him with his gun. Maybe he could talk to them while the girls were out of

earshot. Maybe—

Morgan suppressed a yell of pain as the other gunman leant over him and yanked his arms from behind his head and pinned them at the small of his

 

back. His muscles screamed in protest as his wrists then ankles were fitted with nylon cuffs. Another thick nylon tie was then passed through each

cuff, linking them all together. As the long tie was pulled tight, Morgan was hog-tied, totally unable to move. He licked the itchy sweat off his lips and kept his voice low.

‘Look, I’ve got more money. Two days, and—’ ‘Not interested.’

Morgan barely had time to catch breath as both men lifted him, and then

he saw the floor of the cabin coming towards him—at speed.

***

Susie hung back in shock as her mum bent over her father, patting his face. She couldn’t get her head around what was happening. Her dad had gone white when the men had boarded, his show of outrage lasting perhaps two seconds. Whoever these men were, he seemed to half-expect them. Her mum’s shock was genuine, though. That much was obvious. Susie felt a little strange. She couldn’t focus quickly enough to warn her mum as one of the men strode up behind her, pulling her away. Her mother kicked and struggled.

‘Wait! You hurt Roger and I’ll—get off!’

‘You leave her alone!’ Susie grabbed at the man’s arm, but he just laughed and back-handed her across the face, knocking her to the floor on top of her father.

‘Not so fast little one, your turn will come soon.’

Her world turned dark for a few seconds, her senses slowly returning as her wrists were secured behind her back. She struggled to move, but the man’s knee pinned her down and he was too heavy. Plastic handcuffs were yanked into place and then the weight eased off her. The man placed a hand under her chin and pulled her up. Susie struggled to her feet. The gunman dragged her backwards over to a couch and sat down, pulling her onto his

 

lap. She felt a throb against her buttock and thigh on her left side. Nausea rose.

‘Showtime,’ he whispered in her ear. He slid a hand up her leg, pulling her short denim skirt up to her waist.

Paralysed by shock Susie tried to meet her mother’s eyes, but the other man was still holding her mother by the hair. As her mother kicked and lashed out with her feet, he rammed his fist into her stomach. The impact literally knocked the wind out of her and she sagged under the onslaught.

‘Mum!’

Susie’s captor called over to his partner. ‘Enough, Mr Petrov.’ ‘She will fight, this one. Do we want her to be problem?’

‘I said enough.’

Scowling, Petrov let go. Susie’s mum dropped to the deck, holding her stomach and gasping for breath.

The man holding Susie nodded his head in the direction of her unconscious father and muttered an instruction in another language. Susie listened to the two men bicker, and wished she’d been born with some

aptitude for picking up languages; all she could work out was that the man holding her was called Romanov. Petrov disappeared into the galley and returned with a beaker of water, which he tipped onto her father’s face.

Susie felt a rush of relief to see her father revive. It had been such a hard drop from the top of the ladder. He blinked a few times to clear his eyes,

spent a few dazed moments clocking his wife on the floor, wheezing, his daughter in the lap of some hoodlum, and immediately began struggling.

Romanov chuckled. ‘No need to get up, comrade. We don’t want you to miss the show.’

‘Show? What the fuck are you—?’

‘Such language in front of a child! Don’t say things like that, Morgan.

It’s not nice, and there are consequences.’ Romanov jerked his head towards Susie’s mum.

 

Bile surged into Susie’s mouth as Petrov slammed her mother face-first onto the table in the centre of the cabin. Neither she nor her father could watch as Petrov ripped open the buttons on the back of her mum’s dress then pulled her upright so he could strip the floral print garment from her. Trembling, Susie offered no further resistance as Romanov slid his hand down the front of her panties.

Susie tried meeting her mother’s eyes as she was gripped by the neck and forced into the master cabin, but her mother looked straight ahead, teeth

clenched. Her father couldn’t even get his head off the decking. He laid still, weeping. Petrov stopped at the doorway of the master cabin and winked at Susie before shoving his captive inside.

Romanov’s fingers began probing deeper into the crotch of her panties. She tried to push his hand away with her elbow, but he tapped the side of her head hard with his pistol.

The invading hand retreated for a few seconds, then something cold touched her leg. She looked down to see the dull glint of a knife blade disappearing under her skirt. She tried to push herself backwards and away from it, but the gun again connected with her temple.

She started sobbing and couldn’t stop. Her breathing came too fast as the knife snagged her panties. ‘No, please—’

‘Quiet.’

‘Don’t, please! No… no, stop!’

Her captor leant sideways, placing his gun onto the couch within her

eyeshot, but out of her reach. With both hands now free, he reached around her waist and in a split second had cut through the gusset with his knife.

He spread her legs with his palms and brought his right thigh over the top of hers so she couldn’t move it. With his left hand pulling her other knee out wide, there was nothing she could do to stop him as he once again reached under the edge of her skirt.

She went rigid as hot fingers brushed against her naked crotch. She could feel her captor hardening beneath her. Too scared to move, she closed her

eyes, sobbing as he explored her.

 

***

Morgan could only look on as this stranger assaulted his daughter. He kept twisting his wrists against his bonds, trying to build up lubricating sweat, trying to find wiggle room. He’d kill those bastards. As soon as he got free, they were dead.

A few minutes later the master cabin door opened and Petrov dragged

Carla back into the salon by her hair as she kicked, struggled and swore. She wore nothing now but her crisp white trainers. Morgan’s pride at her resistance was entirely overwhelmed by fear for them all. Guilt stabbed at him over and over again. He should’ve borrowed less. He should’ve repaid faster. He should’ve told Carla they were in danger and made them all run, marital consequences to be faced later.

He watched and silently raged as Petrov slammed his fist into Carla, time and time again and then one final blow under the chin, hard enough to knock her out. She landed on the deck a few feet away and he couldn’t touch her, however much he tried to struggle his way over. Then he saw

Romanov get to his feet.

‘Come batončik,’ Romanov said, pulling Susie with him towards her cabin.

Morgan used all his strength trying to wrench free from his cuffs as Romanov walked Susie into her cabin in the bows of the boat. He knew

very little Russian, but batončik he understood—it meant young whore. Just as he felt his wrists moving more freely, the butt of Petrov’s pistol

connected with the back of his head.

***

At least the silly little bitch didn’t faint until he was done. Romanov buttoned up, carried Susie from her room, and handed her to Petrov to take on board their ship.

Cleaning up time. Romanov hauled Morgan’s wife from the floor and

slung her over his shoulder, carrying her to the master bedroom and dumped her onto the bed. Morgan he dragged, leaving him on the floor. He used his flick knife to cut the plastic ties from both of them, pocketing the shreds,

 

then cut a strip of foam rubber from one of the cushions and lit it. The old and highly-flammable rubber caught fire immediately, giving off acrid,

toxic smoke. It was a slow burn. Romanov held the remains of the woman’s dress over his face as he nipped to the salon to grab a bottle of vodka, which he splashed all over Morgan, his wife and the bed.

He got to the salon door before the flames expanded with a thumping

sound. Stopping only to turn the knob for the largest burner on the yacht’s propane gas stove, he leapt across to their own boat.

‘Sergei,’ he shouted up to the pilot on the flying bridge, ‘da-vai!’

The powerboat’s engine note went from a deep throated burble to a deafening roar as the pilot jammed the throttles to their stops. The big boat surged away from the yacht, turned, and headed west along the coast.

As the separation of the two vessels increased, Romanov trained his binoculars on the Tempest, watching for any signs of movement aboard the yacht. They’d put a couple of miles between their boat and the Tempest before the propane ignited. An enormous explosion blew the boat to pieces. The only thing left to see after the smoke and fireball had cleared was the hull, sitting very low in the water. The yacht burned for perhaps a minute before slipping stern-first under the gentle swell, pulled down by the weight of the engine.

Romanov put down the binoculars and made his way from the flying bridge down to the stateroom of his Sunseeker Manhattan 70 powerboat. As he passed through the main salon, he saw the deckhand, minus his trousers and underwear, lying on top of Susie. The girl looked as if she was still passed out. Romanov didn’t much care what the deckhand did with the girl, so long as he didn’t damage her. They had to be careful with the merchandise.

‘Bud’te ostorozhnys tovarom, Dmitri,’ he warned, as he passed by.

 

Chapter 3

The base chaplain arrived and the receptionist waved him straight through into the colonel’s office. Regan watched the man enter with a hunched, apologetic look.

His feet a little numb, but unable to stay still, Regan got up to pace life

back into them. It didn’t work. Wiping his palms down his face, he felt a

shitload of grit tumbling down his cheeks. He walked over to the secretary.

‘Excuse me, sorry… do you have a mirror I can use? I don’t really want to see the old man looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

‘Sure.’ She smiled and bent to a bag beneath the desk, emerging with a compact.

‘Cheers.’ He winced at his reflection. The sandy blonde hair he usually kept cropped in grade 1 had sprouted to round about a half-inch in most places, except for the slightly receding spot on his brow. His face was deeply tanned, which hid some of the desert grime but not much of it. Sand had gathered in the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. His eyes weren’t looking too hot either, the red tinge in stark contrast to the ice blue of his irises.

‘Here,’ the secretary said.

Regan looked over to see her passing him a couple of moisturising wipes. ‘That bad, eh?’

‘Just wipe your face, and you’ll do. The colonel won’t be expecting you to be parade-ground fresh.’

‘Good job, too.’ In spite of his nerves, Regan managed a chuckle. He

cleaned off the worst of the crap and handed the compact back. ‘There we go. Will I do?’

‘Very presentable. You’re a credit to the Royal Marines.’

 

‘Yeah, right.’ He winked, needing a little distraction. ‘So…without the grit—can I still pass for forty?’

She laughed and rolled her eyes. ‘I couldn’t possibly say, Sergeant. Now, go sit.’

Another few minutes passed before the intercom buzzed. ‘You can go in now, Sergeant.’

Regan entered the office to see Colonel Richard Farlow sitting with his

arms folded at his utilitarian wooden desk. He marched over, came to a halt and saluted.

‘At ease, Regan. Take a seat.’ Farlow nodded towards the man seated on Regan’s side of the desk. ‘This is the base chaplain, Father Jennings.’

Regan removed his green beret and sat down. ‘Padre.’ The chaplain nodded in solemn greeting.

Farlow sighed, looked up, and ran his hand through his close-cropped greying hair. ‘There appears to have been an incident on your parents’ yacht.’

Regan felt cold tentacles grip his insides. ‘What do you mean by an “incident”, sir?’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that your mother and stepfather were killed in a boating accident somewhere off the Isle of Wight. I don’t have too many details except that there was an explosion, which destroyed their yacht.’

‘What?’ That came out of left field. He could picture Morgan running the yacht aground after too many drinks, but an explosion? Regan caught his breath.

‘I’m very sorry, Regan. Take a moment, by all means.’ When did this happen, sir?’

‘Around eleven-thirty GMT.’

 

‘What about my sister?’

‘I’m sorry, Regan. I don’t know. Do you think it’s likely she would’ve been on the yacht?’

‘She’s a boarder at her school, so it depends if she was home. I have no idea when the private schools break up.’

‘Leave it with me, Sergeant, I’ll make some enquiries and get back to you. In the meantime, as soon as you’ve been debriefed, get your kit packed. You’ll be flying out on the transport to RAF Lyneham at nineteen- hundred hours.’

‘Sir.’ Regan replaced his beret and saluted the colonel before marching from the office.

The padre caught up with Regan as he was collecting his kit from the reception. He put his hand on Regan’s arm. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Sergeant.’

Regan grabbed at his bag, trying to shrug the man off without being directly rude. ‘Yeah, thanks padre. How’s the crew of that Apache?’

‘Not too good. The helo took a lot of small arms fire and a hit from an RPG. They’re in the base hospital along with Corporal Lucas.’ The padre cleared his throat. ‘Could we concentrate on how you are?’

‘Auto-pilot,’ Regan muttered. ‘That’ll do fine for now.’ He bent over the desk to ask the receptionist what time the next bus would be through, to get him to the hospital. The hand landed back on his arm again.

‘Sergeant Regan, you’re possibly looking at a triple loss, here. That’s huge. You need to stop, take a breath, and—’

He didn’t want to. He wasn’t ready. ‘I know the drill, thanks. My father didn’t come home from Desert Storm in Kuwait.’

‘Oh, good Lord.’

‘I haven’t seen my mother for a few years because she chose to spend the rest of her life with a controlling prick, and I’m not prepared to start grieving for my sister before I know something’s actually happened to her.

 

If you don’t mind, I’d just like to get to the hospital and check in on Lucas and the crew of the Apache.’

‘Well at least let me give you a lift.’

Regan hesitated over that, but a swift glance at the clock on the wall made it clear he didn’t really have time to argue if he was going to fit in a visit before his debrief. He nodded assent and followed the chaplain out to his Land Rover. They’d been driving a few minutes when Father Jennings tried once again to pick up the conversation.

‘It’s shame there’s no love lost between you and your step-father.’

Regan snorted. That was something of an understatement; the man had tried knocking him around while he was still in school, but he’d grown too big too early for the man to make a habit out of it.

‘Was it… always a bad relationship?’ ‘Pretty much.’

‘How about the relationship between him and your step-sister?’

‘Half-sister,’ Regan corrected. ‘I was mum’s little surprise when she was a teenager, and then Susie was her big shock in her early forties.’

‘How do you get along with Susie?’

‘We get along fine when I get to see her—which isn’t often. I always try to make it to her sports days, school plays and the like. Morgan was always too busy to go and mum didn’t like to drive far, so if I didn't go Susie’d have been all on her own.’

‘Yes…’ the chaplain murmured, letting the engine idle as they waited for some other vehicles to pass at a road junction. ‘I did wonder at the age gap. Before you came in, the colonel mentioned a brother—’

‘He’s physically and mentally disabled and has lived in a home for years. I’m not worried about him being on the boat, if that’s what you’re working towards.’

‘Very well.’ Father Jennings lapsed into a prim silence.

 

The silence lasted until the Padre found a parking space by the base hospital and cut the engine.

‘Look, perhaps I can help you in a practical way? There are a couple of organisations that can probably offer some sort of help with the ongoing

care of your brother—and sister, praying she’s located. There’s the League of Remembrance, or perhaps the Royal Marines’ Benevolent Fund—’

Regan finally managed a smile for the man. ‘Sorry padre, look, no offence and I don’t mean to knock what you do, but I’d like to get home

and see what’s happening there before I decide on what help I may or may not need. I’d like to think that Morgan’s put aside trust funds for Johnny

and Susie. He’s not exactly skint. So at the moment, thanks, but no thanks. I’ll come back to you if there’s a problem.’

‘Make sure you do.’ The chaplain hopped out of the Land Rover at the same time as Regan and walked with him into the hospital reception.

At the desk, they were told that the co-pilot was in surgery. They finally parted company outside the wing where Lucas was recovering, and the

chaplain went on down the corridor to visit the pilot.

Regan stuck his head around the curtain surrounding Lucas’s bed. ‘So this is where you’re hiding—in amongst all the pretty nursey types.’

Lucas was barely conscious and was hooked up to several monitors and drips. He smiled weakly. ‘It’s a shitty job, Sergeant, but someone has to do it.’

Regan stepped into the cubicle and sat down next to his friend. ‘I

wouldn’t mind you getting all the attention if it wasn’t for the fact that I’d had to handle your arse. I think I should be in here as well, recovering from that trauma.’

‘I’m told,’ Lucas croaked, ‘that if I laugh, it’s going to hurt. So please go away in short-sharp-sexual-jerks and leave me alone with these very lovely people, whose sole purpose in Afghanistan is to look after me, a hero of the realm.’

‘You wish.’

 

The curtain slid back and a male orderly stepped into the cubicle. ‘Sorry Sergeant, but we need to get Corporal Lucas prepped for surgery.’

‘One moment,’ Regan said, irritated. He’d only just arrived. ‘Listen

Dave, I have to go back to the UK to sort out a bit of business. I don’t know how long I’m going to be there, but—’

‘We really have to go, Sergeant.’

Lucas held his hand up at the orderlies, warding them off. ‘Hang on lads, give us a minute, will you?’

‘Make it snappy.’ The orderlies left the cubicle and drew the curtain closed.

Lucas frowned up at Regan. ‘I know that face. What is it, Paddy? Got some trouble at home?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Regan said. ‘I just wanted you to know where I was. If I’m not back out here before you get shipped home, I’ll catch up

with you there.’

‘I don’t know where they’re going to send me. Could be Plymouth, could be Headley Court—’

‘I’ll find you.’

‘Will you tell me what’s wrong?’

‘Look you old woman, I told you it’s under control. If I need anything, I’ll be in touch. Promise. Take care, now.’

Lucas reached out and shook Regan’s hand just as the orderlies came back in. ‘Thanks Paddy, I owe you one. I’ll be seeing you.’

‘Later, Dave.’

Regan left the ward and walked down the corridor to join the chaplain in the pilot’s cubicle. He slipped through the gap in the curtain to stand behind the padre, who was leaning over the pilot and talking in hushed tones.

He looked back over his shoulder and, seeing Regan, straightened up, his face grave. ‘I’ve done all I can. You’ll have to be quick, there isn’t much

 

time left.’

Regan replaced the chaplain at the side of the bed and the breath caught in his throat as he gazed down at the battered girl. Not a guy. A girl. And she hardly looked much older than his kid sister.

The pilot’s eyes flickered open and locked her eyes onto Regan’s. Or rather, her good eye did. The other was bloodshot, its pupil blown wide and sightless. Blood seeped into a thick wad of gauze bandaged to the side of her head, mingling with her curly ginger hair.

‘Daddy, is that you?’ she said in barely more than a whisper. ‘I knew you’d come. Is mummy with you?’

A large tear formed in her good emerald green eye and rolled down her cheek. Regan felt a prickle forming in his sinuses and took a short, sharp

breath to clear it. He looked to the chaplain and mouthed, what’s her name?

Emily, the padre mouthed back.

‘I think I fell off the swing and banged my head. It hurts so bad.’

Regan moved forwards and took her hand. ‘Emily sweetheart, I’m here.’ ‘And mummy?’

He braced himself to lie. ‘On her way. It’s only a scratch. I’ll kiss it better

for you.’ He leant over and gently kissed her forehead. ‘How’s that? Has daddy made it better?’

‘Yeah… thang-you da…’

From the corner of his eye, Regan saw her heart monitor flat-lining. He kissed the back of her hand and laid it gently across her chest. He choked back tears and leaned close to her ear. ‘No, sweetheart. Me and Dave Lucas thank you.’

He stood up, turned, and strode from the cubicle.

By the time the chaplain caught up with him, he’d been on the bench in front of the hospital for a good twenty minutes, his head in his hands.

 

Jennings sat down next to Regan and touched his arm. ‘You helped her more than you can know, Sergeant.’

Regan sniffed and looked up, wiping his eyes. ‘You think? You could’ve warned me.’

‘I didn’t realise that she was dying until I reached her—’

‘That’s not what I mean and you fucking know it,’ he snapped. ‘You could have told me the pilot was a girl. Jesus Christ, she can’t be much older than a teenager and I’ve just gotten her killed!’

‘The Taliban killed her, not you. She was there to do a job and was also fully aware of the risks, the same as any man would have been.

Unfortunately, this time… where are you going?’ Regan strode away. ‘Packing and debrief.’ ‘I’ll give you a lift back to your billet.’

‘Fuck you, I’ll walk.’

Thomas J Eyre was born in Oxford and moved to Tewkesbury in Gloucestershire when his family relocated in 1969. He left school at the age of 15 and worked as a cook, waiter, plate collector and washer-up in his parents transport cafe before joining the Royal Navy in 1973. As an Aircraft Handler/Crash-Rescue Fireman he served on Great Britain's last true fixed wing aircraft carrier, HMS Ark Royal before she was scrapped in 1978. Yes he hears the cries of derision from serving and former members of the Fleet Air Arm who served in big ships since the "Big A" was scrapped, but even the Royal Navy called them through-deck cruisers and they didn't have catapults to launch them, nor aircraft landing at 250 knots.

Since leaving the Royal Navy he has worked as a long distance class 1HGV driver, drayman, fettler and mechanical engineer. He worked on contract in Libya and in 1995 became a Bachelor of Science after graduating with a 2:1 honours degree from Bournemouth University. A motorcycle accident in 2000 left him with serious injuries, finished his engineering career and almost his life. He now lives in Poole in Dorset and after many years writing stories for his own amusement has been prompted by friends and family to publish some of them.

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