You're trying to start something.
'How many moves do you plan?'
Matt laughed, looking back towards Ivan and taking a swig from his beer bottle. 'Frankly, I think two is my limit,' he answered. 'And that's on a good day.'
The first punch had been thrown quicker than he'd expected. One of the boys had put a fist into Reid's face, knocking him sideways. The boy didn't look like a trained fighter, Matt judged, but he was young and fit — and he had several pints of beer sloshing around inside him, and that always makes a man braver. Reid staggered two paces backwards, about to regain his footing, when his foot caught some spilt beer. He slipped and crashed to the floor, pulling a few bottles and glasses with him. When he lifted his head, Matt saw a deep-looking cut in his ear. Immediately there was blood on the side of his face, and the crowd around them seemed to freeze.
Mistake, thought Matt. That's a man whose punch was legendary even in the Regiment.
The girls were backing away now. It had started as a bit of fun, making their boyfriends jealous, but now the situation was escalating into something violent and ugly. The fun had shut down.
You girls can start it but you can't finish it.
Reid rose to his feet, the boy taunting him with a drunken grin. Matt watched as Reid pulled his fist back, the shoulder muscles powering up. He threw a left straight into the boy's face. Then, as a right crashed into his nose, the boy's knees buckled beneath him.
The second boy had smashed a beer bottle and was now advancing with it towards Reid and Cooksley, waving the jagged glass edge.
'Police,' shouted one of the men behind the bar. 'Someone call the police.'
This has gone far enough.
Matt signalled to Ivan and Damien, and the three men moved swiftly across the floor, pushing aside the crowd of people gathered to witness the action. One boy was out cold on the floor, Reid was circling the other, waiting for his moment to strike. Two of their mates had walked up and were starting to confront Cooksley, and the two girls stood behind them, their expressions terrified. Cooksley was trying to calm them down. 'That's enough, lads,' he said. 'Let's not all spend the night in a Cypriot police cell.'
In the distance, Matt could hear the wailing of a police siren. He marched into the centre of the crowd, shoving one of the boys aside, and grabbing Reid by the shoulders. From past experience he knew that once Reid had too much juice inside him he could turn into a dangerous animal. Reid was resisting, but with the help of Damien and Ivan, Matt was strong enough to wrestle him towards the door, blood dripping on to his shirt.
'You fucking tossers,' shouted one of the boys from the bar in a scouse accent. Reid turned around and attempted to lunge back into the crowd. Matt struggled to hold him — the man had the shoulders of an ox — and signalled to Ivan and Damien to give him a hand.
Reid snarled as they hauled him off towards the door. 'A bloody Irishman and a bloody bender!' he roared. 'Get your stinking hands off me and let me finish this fight!'
'You're a fucking idiot,' Matt shouted back, steering him out into the street. 'Just leave it. You get yourself arrested, the whole job goes to bloody pieces.'
After the trouble in the bar, Matt wasn't about to let the gang out of his sight. The next morning they were sitting around the hotel, none of them drinking anything harder than orange juice or coke. Reid had a plaster stuck over his ear and a bruise on his face, but otherwise was in good enough nick. 'You don't look any uglier than usual,' Matt remarked, after he patched him up. Reid had apologised to Ivan and Damien and although they had laughed it off Matt suspected it still rankled. Insults, he knew from long experience, are seldom forgotten quickly.
It's going to be hard work to keep this team together.
Ivan was trying to teach them the basics of bridge. He and Cooksley made up one team, Matt and Damien the other. They had played a few rounds already, and Matt could see that Ivan was wondering whether Cooksley and Reid weren't more suited to snap. He was clearly struggling to hold back from making any condescending remarks.
The game was not so different from soldiering, Matt decided, laying down an ace of trumps and collecting the trick from the table. You save your big gun for when you really need it.
'OK,' said Damien. 'After I get this money I can see I'm going to piss it away playing cards.'
'I'll have it off you in no time once we're playing for money,' said Ivan, glancing upwards. 'I'm already working out how to spend four — my two and your two.'
Matt glanced at both men, aware of the tension in both sets of eyes, then gave himself a break by collecting a new round of drinks from the bar. Two Cokes, two orange juices and a large bottle of still mineral water. 'Great looking stag party we make,' he said, putting the tray down on the table. 'I feel sorry for the bride if this is the most fun we know how to have.'
He glanced at his cards. One ace, a couple of queens, and a pile of fives or sixes. Rubbish, he decided. A beep from his mobile broke his concentration. Matt fished the phone from his pocket. A text message. He pressed the button, glanced at the words displayed on the tiny screen, then looked up at the men seated around the table.
'Time to go.'
'Finish the round?' said Ivan.
'Who do you think you are?' Matt said, standing up. 'Sir Francis fucking Drake?'
TEN
The boat ploughed steadily through the night water. Damien stood on the bridge, his hands steady on the wheel. It was one o'clock in the morning and a bank of clouds had drifted across the night sky, dimming the light of the moon. As the darkness descended upon them, their faces were illuminated only by the green glow of the radar screen.
Towards the back of the boat Matt could hear a pair of gulls squawking and the insistent monotonous hum of the engines. But the men had all quietened down — and so had the wind.
There is always a moment of stillness before a mission begins.
'How far?' Cooksley asked, standing next to Matt on the bridge.
'About three nautical miles,' said Matt. 'Maybe another twenty minutes' sailing.'
The radar screen showed their position as a small green dot. Ahead there was another dot, marking the position of the target. It was moving, but they were moving faster. To keep on its track, Damien just had to steer the boat into its slipstream.
Matt looked into the sky, watching the last of the moon slip behind the clouds. The darker it gets, the better, he decided. They can't see us, but we can see them.
Damien steered the boat in silence, keeping his eyes fixed on the radar. Their training was completed, and each of them had practised their moves a hundred times over. Each man knew exactly what he had to do and when. If everything went according to plan, they would be back on the boat in an hour, and safely tucked up in their hotel bedrooms in three hours.
But when did it ever work out the way the plan said it should?
Damien killed the engines on the boat. It was one forty-five. The level of noise suddenly reduced, a stillness descended upon them.
Matt could hear the waves lapping against the vessel — it seemed to be getting rougher as the wind started to pick up again. 'Get the dinghy ready,' he said. 'The target is a mile due west of here.'
Reid and Cooksley lowered the dinghy into the water, steadying it as it started to sway. Matt checked his Bushmaster rifle, made sure his pistol was securely fastened to the belt of his wetsuit, and that his night-vision goggles were strapped into place. 'All systems go?' he said, looking around.