Ice Force

by Matt Lynn

Genres: Action & Adventure

Synopsis

The fourth book in the brilliant Death Force series plunges the elite squad of hardened mercenaries into a deadly battle for survival in the frozen wastelands of the Arctic. A plane carrying a Russian oil billionaire has crashed mysteriously in the Arctic in the middle of a brutal winter. Nobody knows why, nor can they locate the aircraft's black box. With only days left before the signal switches itself off, the men from 'Death Force' are hired by a rival billionaire to make one last desperate bid to find the black box. But when they finally locate the plane, they also uncover a deadly secret. This was no ordinary crash. There's a reason why the black box went missing. And soon they find themselves on the run for their lives, battling an unseen enemy, across the world's most terrifying landscape. Caught up in a vast conspiracy to control the world's last great reserves of oil, the men from 'Death Force' must fight the most overwhelming odds they have ever faced just to stay alive.

Release date: January 5, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 482

Sample

The Unit

Steve West A South Londoner, Steve served in the SAS for five years, fighting in Bosnia and behind the lines in the second Iraq War. After leaving the Army, Steve started freelancing for Bruce Dudley’s private military corporation, Dudley Emergency Forces – an outfit known in the trade as Death Inc. for the high-risk, high-stakes jobs it is willing to take on. With the money he made in Afghanistan – a mission described in Death Force – Steve has bought out his uncle Ken’s half-share in a vintage car dealership in Leicestershire. At the end of Shadow Force Steve discovered that he had a son called Archie, but he has never met him.

Ollie Hall Once an officer in the Household Cavalry, the most blue-blooded of British regiments, Ollie was trained at Sandhurst, and was, for a time, one of the fastest rising young stars in the armed forces. But he had a problem with drinking and gambling, and eventually left the Army to make a career in the City. When that failed as well, he started trying to form his own PMC, before joining up with Steve for the mission in Afghanistan. At the end of Fire Force, he breaks off his engagement to Katie, a London PR girl.

David Mallet With twenty years’ experience as an officer in the Irish Guards behind him, David is an experienced, battle-hardened soldier, an expert in logistics and military strategy and planning. He is divorced from his first wife, with two children at private schools to pay for. With his second wife, Sandy, he has twins. In Shadow Force, David suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder but eventually manages to overcome it.

Nick Thomas From Swansea, Nick spent two years in the Territorial Army before joining Steve on the Afghanistan mission. An only child, he was bought up by his mother Sandra, now working as a lap dancer, and never knew who his father was. He is the man with the least military experience on the team. But he is also the best marksman any of them have ever met, with an uncanny ability to hit a target with any kind of weapon.

Ian ‘The Bomber’ Murphy A Catholic Ulsterman, Ian grew up in Belfast, and spent ten years working as a bomb-maker for the IRA. He was responsible for several explosions that killed both soldiers and civilians, and was sentenced to life imprisonment. After spending years in the Maze prison, he was released as part of the Good Friday Agreement. He is no longer a member of the IRA, and has severed his connections with his old life. But he is still an expert bomb-maker, able to fashion an explosion out of the most basic components.

Dan Coleman A former member of the Australian Special Air Service Regiment (SASR), a unit closely modelled on the British SAS, Dan fought in Afghanistan as part of an SASR unit deployed against the Taliban. He accidentally killed two children, and spent a year in a military jail, although he always maintained his innocence. Haunted by the incident, he has left the Australian Army, and has taken up freelancing for PMCs. Dan is an expert on weaponry, always aware of the latest military technology, and desperate to try it out.

Maksim Prerova A former member of the Russian Special Forces, the Spetsnaz, Maksim is a suicidally brave soldier. His father was killed in Afghanistan in the early 1980s, and he has a bad vodka habit. During the mission in Afghanistan described in Death Force he was tricked into betraying the unit, but was forgiven because he proved himself the most ferocious fighter any of the men had ever seen. Fit, strong and courageous, Maksim is always ready for a fight.

Henri Colbert A sailor with the French Navy, Henri qualified for Commando Hubert, that country’s formidable unit of underwater combat specialists. After five years in Hubert taking part in missions around the world, Henri left the French forces and became a freelance consultant specialising in marine security. Brave and resourceful, Henri is a tough soldier, but he is also proud and argumentative, and finds it hard to fit into a team. He joined the unit in the mission against Somali pirates described in Shadow Force.

Bruce Dudley A gruff Scotsman, Dudley is the founder and chief shareholder in Dudley Emergency Forces. A former SAS sergeant, he left the Regiment ten years ago, and soon realised there was money to be made from running a private army. He was a legendarily tough soldier himself, and doesn’t see why anyone else should complain about terrifying conditions. He has an acute understanding of what makes his soldiers tick, and knows how to manipulate them into fighting every battle as ferociously as he did when he was younger.

Maya Howowitz Maya comes from an Israeli military family. Of Ukrainian origins, her grandmother and much of her family were killed at Auschwitz. Her grandfather escaped to what became modern Israel, and both he and Maya’s father were soldiers in the Israeli Defence Forces. Her father went on to become a Kidon, a licensed Mossad assassin. Maya served in the Caracal Battalion, the mixed-sex combat unit created by the Israeli Army. Unofficially, she is also an informer for the Mossad. She is fiercely loyal to the Israeli state. But she has started working in protection for a Russian billionaire because she wants to raise money for a kibbutz that is being converted from agriculture to manufacturing pharmaceuticals. Maya is tough and sexy and confident, and insists she is as skilled a military operator as any of the men – and, on seeing her in action, they are quick to concede that she is right.

Deceased

Ganju Rai A former Gurkha, Ganju served for eight years, in C Company, in the 2nd Battalion of the Parachute Regiment, primarily staffed by Gurkhas. He came from a small Nepalese village, and was fiercely loyal to the traditions of the Gurkha Regiments. Rai’s brother, also a Gurkha, was killed in Kosovo, and his wife and children were not getting a pension. Ganju became a mercenary to earn enough money to help support his extended family back home. He was an expert in stealth warfare. He died in the mission described in Shadow Force.

Chris Reynolds A veteran of South Africa’s Special Forces Brigade, known as the ‘Recce’ unit, Chris spent fifteen years in the South African Defence Force, and regarded the Recces as the finest fighting unit in the world. But he left the armed forces after he became disillusioned with the post-apartheid regime. He bought himself a farm in South Africa, but when that went bust he was forced to work as a mercenary to pay off his debts, even though it is illegal for South Africans to work for PMCs. He was brutally crucified in Batota, a mission described in Fire Force.

Jeff Campbell A former soldier, Campbell came from South London, and grew up with Steve. The two men were best mates. He was the man in the unit with the greatest sense of camaraderie, always organising a party, and making sure everyone had enough to drink. He died from wounds on the mission in Afghanistan described in Death Force despite the best efforts of the rest of the men to save him.

One

IT’S HARD TO KEEP YOUR make-up in place when a SIG Saur P220 pistol is pressed into the side of your face, reflected Steve West. Even when you are the third most beautiful woman in the world. Still, he noted with a grudging respect, Aletta Sansome was giving it a bloody good go. If anyone could get out of this scrap without smudging her blusher, then this was the girl for the job.

‘What do you reckon, boys?’ he asked tersely.

‘I’d say third most beautiful woman in the world was pushing it,’ said Ollie. ‘I mean top ten, fair enough, but there’s Keira Knightly to consider, and Angelina Jolie—’

‘And Catherine Zeta-Jones,’ interrupted David.

‘Or Alicia Silverstone,’ said Dan.

‘Or Kristen Stewart,’ said Ian. ‘The babe from the Twilight movies.’

‘Jesus, pal, that’s vampires. Steer well clear . . .’

‘I’d shag her,’ said Nick.

‘Yeah, but you’d shag a tin of frankfurters, so that doesn’t really count, does it, mate,’ said Ollie. ‘Now, we haven’t even started to consider Penelope Cruz or Cheryl Cole.’

‘For Christ’s sake, boys, can you sodding well leave it out,’ snapped Steve. ‘I meant how the hell are we going to save her life?’

The men fell silent, and looked through the pale, early evening light. Aletta Sansome was being held at gunpoint, a hundred yards in front of them, across a deserted stretch of wasteland alongside the District Line as it ran down from Fulham Broadway to Putney Bridge. One of the most famous models in the world, she was dating Chelsea’s Argentinian striker Luis Fessi. But she’d been kidnapped, and was being held at gunpoint down by the tube tracks by a group of Thai gangsters intent on making sure Chelsea lost the match and cleaning up on the Far Eastern betting markets.

And it was their job to rescue her.

Steve glanced at his watch. There were only ten minutes left until the second half kicked off. Ten minutes to rescue Aletta and get her back to the ground. Christ, he reflected. When you work in close protection, there are impossible jobs, completely sodding impossible jobs, and then this.

How the hell did we ever get into this mess?

And how the hell are we going to get out of it?

The evening hadn’t been planned this way. Half an hour earlier, the unit had been sitting in an executive box at Stamford Bridge, enjoying the first leg of a quarter-final Champion’s League game against Barcelona. Steve had been enjoying himself immensely. It was a year since Dudley Emergency Forces, the elite private military corporation for which he’d worked after leaving the SAS, had completed its last job, taking on the pirates in Somalia, and it was great to see all the boys from the unit again. In the twelve months since they’d got back with their lives more or less intact, Steve had been concentrating on building up the vintage car dealership he’d bought from his uncle Ken up in Leicestershire, and although he kept in touch with the rest of the lads via the occasional text message, and some round-robin emails on the latest guns that Dan sent out, he hadn’t seen much of the gang since then. He’d missed them, no question about that. They were the finest group of men he’d ever fought alongside. But any contact with the unit usually involved getting shot at, blown up, thrown out of a chopper and forced into a long march under brutal fire though a jungle, or a desert, or a mountain range. And he wasn’t going to miss that. Not one bit.

The reunion had been Maksim’s idea. The Russian former Spetsnaz soldier was the hardest, maddest warrior Steve had ever met but, like many ferociously fierce men, he was also a loyal friend. In the last few months he’d started working as a security guard for the Russian oil tycoon Alecsei Kolodin. A man who rarely travelled without a platoon of Red Army and Israeli special forces operatives surrounding him, Kolodin was also friends with the Chelsea owner, and Maksim was part of the team arranging security for the oligarch’s travelling circus of bodyguards, businessmen, bankers and model girls. Maksim had managed to get an extra ten seats for the unit, and a text had gathered them all together at short notice. Ollie Hall, the ex-Household Cavalry officer who’d been a certainty for general at Sandhurst before drinking and gambling his way out of the Army; Ian ‘The Bomber’ Murphy, the former IRA man who’d done years in the Maze before being released as part of the Good Friday Agreement; Nick Thomas, the lad from Swansea who’d done a couple of years in the Territorials before lying about his age to join them on the job in Afghanistan; Dan Coleman, the Australian SASR man who now ran a beer bar in Majorca; David Mallet, the former Irish Guards officer; Bruce Dudley, the former SAS sergeant who’d made himself a small fortune from setting up DEF just as private military corporations turned into a boom industry; and Henri Colbert, the French Commando Hubert operative who’d joined them on the piracy mission, and was now as loyal a member of the unit as any of them. They might not see each other that often, reflected Steve, but they were bound together in the way that only a group of men who have been to hell and back several times over, and who have left good mates in graves along the way, can be.

‘Maksie’s arranging the footie, and I’m in charge of the beer,’ Dan had announced, laying down a crate of Toohey’s New, his favourite Australian lager, and one of hundreds he stocked at ‘Dan’s Beer Bar’ out in Majorca. He slammed a fist down on Steve’s shoulder, half knocking him over with the massive strength in his right hand. ‘And maybe this bloke can find us some totty.’

‘I’m on holiday, mate,’ said Steve. ‘And for an ugly bastard like you, that sounds like hard work.’

Steve had settled back in the box to enjoy the football. He’d supported Chelsea since he was a boy; most of the kids around Bromley, where he grew up, were either Chelsea or Charlton fans, and he’d been devoted to the Blues ever since. A ball signed by Kerry Dixon in the season he’d scored as many goals as Gary Lineker was one of his prized possessions. That, and some gold taps from a bathroom in Saddam Hussein’s palace he captured during an SAS raid he’d led on the centre of Baghdad during the second Gulf War, were about the only two ornaments he had to decorate the small cottage he’d bought close to the dealership. Like every other fan, he had his doubts about what had happened to the club since the Russians had taken over, but he enjoyed their success, and anyway they didn’t look like big spenders compared to Man City, so no one could say they were buying success any more.

It was a cracking game right from the kick-off, and there was nowhere better to enjoy it from than an executive box. Barcelona were playing with the swagger and verve the world had come to expect from them, but Chelsea had dug in for a hard slog, defending valiantly. The game plan was clear enough from the start. Defend, defend, and defend some more, then try to nick a goal on the break, and hope that would be enough to see them through at the Nou Camp for the return leg in a fortnight’s time. It wasn’t the prettiest football Steve had ever witnessed, not from the home team, and the chilly wind and gusts of rain sweeping through West London that evening weren’t making it any more elegant. But the sport wasn’t that different from soldiering, he reflected as he admired the way the Chelsea captain lunged in for a tackle that, for all its aggression, was also skilful enough to remain just on the right side of red card territory. Everything started with the right kind of defence. And guts, doggedness and determination were qualities that could overcome any opposition; without those, superiority of numbers, or skill, or equipment, counted for very little.

‘This is the life, lads,’ boomed Dan, opening up another round of beers, and putting a bottle down for each man.

Indeed it was, thought Steve. Kolodin travelled in some style. The man himself sat at one side of the box. He was short, with dark hair, slicked back over his head, and an air of brooding mystery about him. Only just over forty, how he’d managed to amass a fortune of many billions in the Siberian oil industry was a mystery to the business pages of the papers. No one really knew how much money he actually had, or how it had been acquired. There was some violence along the way, Steve reckoned. You could tell that just from one glance at the man. Steve had seen it before, in the SAS and even more among the men who ran the private military corporations out in Afghanistan and Iraq. There was a coldness to the eyes and a cruelty to the lips that told you this was someone who could send a man to his death without a moment of hesitation or regret. It was a rare quality, but one which, in the right circumstances, could win a man a war or make him a fortune.

Around the Russian was a close protection unit of six special forces men, big, heavy guys, commanded by a slender, fierce woman called Maya Horowitz, who sat next to the oligarch all through the first half, hardly moving a muscle, and rising just once to rearrange the two bodyguards who sat next to Kolodin at all times. Behind them was a retinue of bankers, some associates from the oil industry, and a collection of icy Russian beauties who pretended to be models but Steve reckoned were probably there to entertain any guys with at least seven figures on their bank balance. One of them had just brushed past Nick, leaving the Welsh lad open-mouthed, and lost, Steve decided, somewhere between lust and bewilderment.

‘It’s hard to know whether there’s more talent up here or on the pitch,’ said Steve, giving Nick a wry half-grin.

‘It’s sodding Chelsea, isn’t it?’ said Nick. ‘Just a bunch of overpaid ponces. Not a real team like Liverpool.’

Steve grinned, and nodded towards the blonde who’d brushed past Nick a second earlier, and was now talking with an equally stunning brunette. ‘I tell you what, lad, there’s more chance of our left-back scoring than you.’

‘I do all right,’ muttered Nick grumpily.

Steve just laughed, and nudged Ian in the ribs, and soon both men were smirking. But Nick walked up to the two women and began chatting away to both of them, though it was the blonde who had most of his attention.

‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Ian. ‘I’m jealous of Nick. I really have touched a new low in life.’

Steve focused on the football. Chelsea were still hanging on, but the Spanish striker had just had a diving header saved and it was going to be tough to get to half-time with the scores level.

I’ve made the right decision, he thought to himself during a quiet moment in the game. It’s great to see the boys again, but I’ve hung up my AK-47 for the final time. He could remember the moment when the Gurkha Ganju Rai had died alongside them out in Somalia, and it stayed with him, a vivid reminder that in the mercenary trade every job you took was also another step closer to the grave. He’d seen death close up too many times now, felt its clingy, cold embrace, and decided he didn’t want any more of it.

There’s just one thing I miss. Samantha and, of course, Archie. My boy.

Down below in the stands, Steve could see a couple of dads next to their kids, and he felt a pang of jealousy. It wasn’t something he’d ever experienced before. Plenty of his mates from the Army had got married and knocked out a couple of sprogs and he never felt anything but bemused sympathy. The nappies, the noise, and the way that a tasty young girl you fancied across the bar suddenly turned into someone who looked more like your mum on a bad day, were more than enough to put him off. But a year ago, he’d found out that Sam, the girl he’d slept with on the African job, had a son, his son, called Archie. She’d wanted him to know, but hadn’t wanted to see him enough to let him know where she was. And although he’d tried to locate her a few times, looking on the web, or scouring the phone book, he hadn’t been able to track her down.

Not that I’m kidding myself I’d make a great dad, he reminded himself. I’d probably be as rubbish as my own father. But it would be nice to meet the little guy. Maybe bring him to a game.

Down below, the ref was blowing for half-time, and the players were trooping back towards the dressing room.

Behind them, Bruce clapped his hands together.

‘Playtime is over, boys,’ he said briskly. ‘There’s some trouble brewing.’

Two

THE BEAD OF COLD SWEAT on Bruce’s neck revealed precisely how worried he was right now. A hard, strongly built man, Bruce had been one of the toughest sergeants in the SAS before founding Dudley Emergency Forces, a private military corporation with a reputation for taking on jobs so difficult and so dangerous that the men on the Circuit referred to it not by its formal name of DEF but as Death Inc.

Bruce doesn’t do rattled, thought Steve. No matter what kind of fire they were under, or how intense the pressure, he always remained completely composed.

Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever even seen him sweat before.

Until today, that is.

‘We’ve got fifteen minutes, lads,’ he said crisply.

They’d retreated into a back room across the passageway from the executive boxes, a square, concrete space used by the caterers who served the champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches to the people watching the game. There were six crates of Dom Perignon stacked against the wall, glasses next to them, and beside that an industrial-sized tub of caviar. ‘What the hell’s up?’ asked Steve.

Maksim held up a picture.

Steve recognised it at once. Just about anyone would. Aletta Sansome was one of the most photographed women in the world. A supermodel who appeared on dozens of magazine covers, she had her own range of perfume and lingerie and, as if that weren’t enough, she was also dating one of the world’s most talented footballers – Luis Fessi, who’d just signed for Chelsea, and who’d probably been the best player they had on the pitch during the first half.

With tumbling, auburn hair, high cheekbones, and rich grey-brown eyes, Steve could see exactly why she was regularly voted one of the world’s most beautiful women. She put the peroxide blondes he met up in the wine bars around Leicestershire to shame.

‘She’s been kidnapped,’ said Bruce.

‘I’d take her,’ chortled Dan. ‘I’d bring her back in one piece, though, even if her hair might be a bit messed up.’

‘This is serious, boys,’ snapped Bruce. ‘Aletta has vanished from the box she normally sits in. She comes to every game, and she always gives her boyfriend a kiss before he goes back on to the pitch for the second half. Kind of a good luck thing. If she’s not back in fifteen minutes, Luis will know something’s happened to her.’

‘What did I tell you?’ said Nick. ‘A bunch of overpaid ponces. Stevie Gerrard doesn’t need a kiss from the missus before he gets out on the pitch.’

‘Can’t we just text her?’ said Ian. ‘She’s probably getting her nails done.’

Bruce shook his head. ‘She’s been kidnapped to destabilise the team. The gaffer round here reckons it’s one of the Thai betting syndicates. There’s a fortune in Far Eastern money riding on Barcelona winning this game, and by taking Aletta they reckon they’ve as good as sewn up the result for the Spanish. Unless we can bring her back . . .’

Maksim had opened up a laptop. ‘We’ve traced her mobile,’ he said. His finger pointed to a Google Maps page displayed on the screen. ‘She’s right here. On the railway track that runs down to Putney Bridge.’

‘Isn’t this a job for the police?’ questioned Ian.

‘There isn’t enough time to mess around with the Bill,’ snapped Bruce. ‘They’ll call in a specialist hostage unit, cordon off the whole area, and spread the whole thing out for hours. We need to get cracking.’

‘Then we’re wasting time,’ said Steve decisively. ‘Let’s move.’

There were two cars parked at the hotel adjacent to the stadium: Bruce’s powerful Jaguar XJS and a Range Rover that Maksim was using to ferry the security team into the ground. The unit ran as fast as they could, hurtling down the stairs and leaving a pair of bemused ground stewards in their wake. Bruce took the wheel of the Jag, with Steve up front, and Dan and Nick in the back. Maksim took the Range Rover with Ollie, Ian, and Henri riding alongside him. Steve was about to slot the seat belt into place as the car screeched out of the car park, but Bruce told him not to bother. He’d taught himself how to disable the irritating voice on all modern cars that kept telling you to fasten your belt. ‘You’re safer without it,’ he said crisply. ‘So long as you know how to drive.’

‘You need to teach me that one.’

‘You don’t exactly need it for the Aston DB5s and the Jag Mark IIs up at your garage,’ answered Bruce with a rough grin. ‘They knew how to make proper cars in those days without some snooty bird who sounds like your maths teacher telling you to get the bloody seat belt on.’

The XJS was already hitting fifty as Bruce steered it up on to Fulham Road. The streets were quiet by the standards of central London right now. Anyone with any sense avoided the Chelsea ground on a match night, and the crowd who’d come for the game was still inside the stadium. There were plenty of police cars, however, and Bruce had no option but to tap on the brakes, slowing the Jag as they cruised down past the junction with North End Road. There was no point in getting into an argument with the coppers. ‘She’s just down by the junction with Munster Road,’ said Steve, looking at the map he’d called up on his mobile. ‘Go, bloody go.’

With the police safely behind then, Bruce plunged his foot on to the accelerator, and took the XJS up to sixty-five. The smart shops and cafes along the stretch of Fulham Road that ran down to the river passed in a blur. The District Line snaked down from Fulham Broadway to Parsons Green, then headed around again, passing directly over the stretch of Munster Road that ran down from Fulham Road to New King’s Road before ending up at Putney Bridge. Just before the old metal bridge that crossed the main road there was a strip of wasteland, with a pair of corrugated iron engineering sheds that had long since been abandoned next to a half-acre of scrub and weeds.

Bruce pulled the XJS up to a screeching halt. Five seconds later, Maksim braked the Range Rover behind them. Steve had already bailed out of the car, followed by Dan and Nick. There was a high metal gate with a strip of barbed wire across it, and a Transport for London sign threatening prosecution for anyone who trespassed on to the railway lines.

‘Give us a bunk up, mate,’ Steve barked at Dan.

‘Wait,’ growled Bruce.

He’d already opened the boot of the Jag, taken out the spare tyre, and slotted his hand inside. He pulled out a Browning Hi-Power, the rugged reliable 9mm handgun that was standard issue for the SAS. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it across to Steve.

‘That registered?’ asked Steve.

‘Let’s put it this way, it’s about as legal as the mileage I saw on the red Austin Healey 3000 in your garage.’

‘We’ll keep this between ourselves then.’

Steve tucked the handgun into the pocket of his leather jacket, and glanced up towards the fence. It was seven foot high. Dan had already crouched down, and cupped his hands into a rough ladder. Steve jogged forward, caught his foot in Dan’s hand, then let the massive strength of the Australian lever him upwards. He slammed his fists into place on the strip of metal that held the spikes in place, then pulled himself upwards. It took all his strength just to get his body up, and once he was in position, there was no choice but to fling himself straight down, and hope there was something soft to land on down below. He flew though the air, his legs swivelling in front of him to carry himself forward. A spike snagged his shirt, but stopped short of cutting his skin. Steve ignored it, concentrating on getting his fall right. He’d practised coming down for a hard landing into Christ knows what plenty of times in the Regiment but this wasn’t something you could really train for. Coming down from seven feet would take a toll on even the fittest man. He straightened himself out ready to absorb the impact of the landing in his knees, before hitting the ground with a thud. He could feel brambles and nettles all around him, and he must have taken at least fifty stings. But the ground was soft enough; it had been raining steadily for the past few days, and there was plenty of water in the earth. He rolled once, taking the rest of the impact on his side, where it wouldn’t do anything worse than leave a couple of bruises, then looked back upwards just in time to get out of the way as Maksim narrowly avoided landing on top of him. ‘Steady, pal,’ he said, looking up at the Russian. ‘We’ve got enough problems without trying to kill each other.’

While the rest of the unit levered themselves over the fence, Steve and Maksim started to advance across the strip of wasteland. They had no torches, and only the one pistol between them. Maksim had picked up a length of rusty old steel from the ground, and was holding it in his right fist like a mallet. Steve reckoned the Russian was probably as dangerous with that as a unit with a machine gun, but they still had no idea what kind of firepower they were likely to be facing in the next few minutes. He was struggling to see what was ahead of them. It was never completely dark in this part of London. The soft electric glow of the houses and the cars kept it illuminated twenty-four hours a day, but it was only when a train rattled along the tracks to their right, its headlamps flashing across the wasteland as it trundled towards the station, that Steve could get a clear sense of the lie of the land. The two sheds were fifty yards ahead of them. As the light swept across the brambles and thistles, there was no sign of her. It could only mean one thing. She was being held in one of the buildings.

‘Stop,’ he hissed. ‘There’s something in the second shed.’

Maksim paused. Steve was peering forward, his eyes straining through the murky darkness. He was listening, his ears alert to see if could catch some sign of her. But all he could hear was the crunching of feet behind him.

‘Found her yet, chaps?’ said Ollie.

Steve glanced around. The rest of the u