The man’s eyes widened. He nodded and obliged.
Satisfied that his request would be accepted without a problem, King turned back to the monitor and set to work fast-forwarding through each security feed in turn. He didn’t begin to grow suspicious until the sixth consecutive video log turned up blank. It had taken twenty-four minutes to navigate through the feeds up to this point, and two entire video files remained. The security official had begun to grow restless behind King. As the man’s cohesion returned, piece-by-piece, he started to squirm against his rudimentary restraints. He had obviously sensed the gravity of the situation at hand. A stranger had knocked him out and proceeded to help himself to the security system.
When the man bucked viciously against the vest wrapped around his wrists, King twisted in the chair again and employed the same tactic as he had earlier, raising the M45 level with the man’s forehead.
This time, the guy reacted differently.
He gasped, and the blood drained from his face all at once. His lips were dry and chapped from panic and stress, but he opened them to speak regardless.
‘I’ve seen the footage,’ he said, his accent thick but understandable. ‘You can delete it, if that’s what you’re here for. I don’t want any trouble.’
‘What?’ King said, confused. ‘I don’t want to delete it. I just need to see it. Where is it?’
The man hesitated. He seemed rattled, thoroughly shaken. King wondered what the hell was different from the first time around.
‘Did you leave them alive, at least?’ the man said.
‘What?’ King said again.
‘My men. I saw you on the security footage. Taking them one by one. Please tell me they are alive. They mean a great deal to me.’
One by one.
I’ve seen the footage.
Realisation hit King like a bolt of lightning. He nearly recoiled in his chair, the grip on his sidearm wavering as he finally understood what was happening.
This man had seen security footage of someone abducting his dock workers, something that had evidently occurred in separate incidents. He feared King suddenly, for no apparent reason.
Now, King knew what it meant.
The security official had recognised him. He had identified King as the man from the footage, returning to eliminate all trace of his deeds.
King recalled his first thought upon meeting Bryson Reed.
His identical twin.
The gravity of the situation struck him at the same time as the office’s front door thundered inwards, slammed open by a heavy boot.
19
In a cramped, claustrophobic industrial unit wedged up the back of the peacekeepers’ compound, Bryson Reed had a military-issue satellite phone pressed to his ear. He listened intently, understanding the narrow window of time he had to make his move. He nodded as each sentence was transmitted across the line.
El Hur.
Twenty-four hours.
‘On it,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’
He ended the call without bidding the man on the other end of the line farewell, electing to only keep the conversation to the bare necessities. They had all the time in the world to converse during the trip across the Indian Ocean.
He took a deep breath and stared out the grimy window at the rest of the compound, noting the tranquility that had settled over his surroundings. Nevertheless, it was time to go. It couldn’t wait any longer. He’d humoured the new arrival for as long as he could, and he hadn’t seen the man leave the complex, but he had to assume Jason King was knee-deep in his investigation of the port.
He didn’t know what King might find. Reed had covered his tracks well, but there was always the chance that a clue might slip through the cracks.
Then everything would fall into place, and King would come hunting for his head.
Best to err on the side of caution, and get the hell out of Mogadishu before the fool realised what was really going on.
It hadn’t been difficult to deceive the bastard. The idiot opened his mouth too much, and Reed had deduced that King was looking to recruit him within thirty seconds of the conversation originating. He’d fed the man just enough bullshit to pique his interest, inventing fictional situations that would portray him as a one-man-army.
Exactly what King had been looking for.
Reed had seen the man’s eyes light up, despite his best efforts to hide it. He thought he had another prodigy on his hands, a star recruit to whatever organisation King worked for.
Reed shrugged in the darkness. Maybe he did.
But the ambush at the docks hadn’t happened, and the encounter with the three al-Shabaab militants certainly hadn’t unfolded the way everyone thought it did. It had taken Reed far too long to realise that in the bloody aftermath of a shootout, it was near-impossible to decipher who had fired the first shot.
It hadn’t taken much effort to instigate the carnage.
The ramifications of the shootout had escalated faster than he thought possible, but he’d successfully diverted attention off the real purpose for his visits to the port. Disguise something under the veil of a more serious incident, and all the attention melts away, redirected to the catastrophe Reed had caused by aggravating al-Shabaab thugs.
Can’t believe it worked, he thought.
He shook himself back to the present. It was time to go, whether he wanted to or not. He crossed to the tiny wardrobe next to his dirty mattress and slipped on a pair of tactical combat gloves.
All his belongings — of which there were few — had already been stuffed into a standard military duffel bag. The straps had been fastened to meet the dimensions of his shoulders. Everything was prepared.
He looped the duffel bag onto his back and secured it tight, ensuring it wouldn’t budge in the forthcoming confrontation. He checked the M45 pistol on the kitchen table had a full magazine chambered within, and he flicked the safety off in preparation for the short trip out of the compound.
Johnson would be manning the gate, as usual.
They didn’t exactly get along swimmingly.
He couldn’t see a scenario where Johnson would willingly gift him passage through to the outside world. It had been the man’s idea to exile him to the portable unit in the first place, mentioned in a passing comment that Reed knew would continue to crop up if he let it be. He’d latched onto the suggestion and twisted it into his own thought, thinking it might show him in a favourable light to his superiors.
He’d only needed a few days of stalling for his acquaintances out at sea to complete their journey.
The ploy had paid off.
Now he snatched the M45 off the table and held it at the ready. He stepped out into the night, the air hot and suffocating even at such a late hour. The compound was dead quiet — the peacekeepers had long since hit the sack and activity had deadened. Reed set off across the rear yard, slicing through waist-high grass and stepping over twisted roots. The ground underneath the overgrown vegetation was covered in a fine dusting of sand, blown across from the surrounding plains.
Reed hunched low as he strode along the side of the main lodge, making sure to keep his sizeable bulk below eye-level on the off chance a peacekeeper felt the urge to stare out their window on a sleepless night.
He made it to the front of the compound, passing the convoy of jeeps that were used to funnel the AMISOM recruits to all manner of colourful locations.
Briefly, he wondered where Beth and Victor were.
Both were unreliable, Victor especially.
Reed had hardly seen the man since he’d stepped foot in Somalia, even though they’d been assigned to the same detail. Beth was polite, but he could tell she had been avoiding him ever since his ill-timed advances.