Andy McNab - Meltdown

'And this… Elena – what happened to her?'

'She's dead. There was a complete fuck-up and she got shot.' Fergus looked at Teddy. 'Just like your friend from last night.' He turned back to Will. 'But they didn't tell you that bit in the papers. And you'll understand why neither Danny nor I have any particular love for the security services or the British government.'

Fergus pushed away his chair and stood up. It was time for the big gamble, the walkout. If it went wrong, there would be no coming back. 'Look, I don't need this. You boys just go play with your Meltdown, or whatever it is you call the stuff.'

He headed for the door of the office, opened it and took a step outside, thinking that maybe he had blown it, when he heard Teddy's voice.

'Mr Watts!'

Fergus stopped and turned back. He stood in the doorway and watched as the brothers exchanged a nod before Teddy spoke.

'We make Meltdown and sell the tablets here and in Europe. We're prepared to show you how we export the tablets but not how or where they are manufactured. Only we know the complete formula – no one else has access to that information – and we would like you to be responsible for our personal security in the immediate future; I don't want to risk another Siddie Richards situation. You'll be paid very very well. Does that appeal?'

Both twins watched Fergus closely as he considered his reply. 'Yeah, the money appeals, but I have to consider our security – mine and Danny's. The places where you make this stuff – are they safe? You get busted and it wouldn't be good to be around.'

Teddy glanced at Will, who nodded his agreement for big brother to continue. 'It's been working perfectly for months and it's quite safe. That's all you need to know.'

Fergus nodded slowly; he wasn't going to push it – he'd made the breakthrough. 'I'll look after you, and your happy pills. As long as the price is right.'

'Oh, it will be,' said Teddy, looking hugely relieved. 'And we'd like you to join us on our next trip. To Barcelona.'

Fergus nodded again. 'When's that?'

'Tomorrow.'

Albie was forcing himself to concentrate as he prowled around the hangar. It wasn't easy: his brain wasn't functioning properly; he couldn't stop the rage building every time his thoughts turned to Storm walking out of the yard with that cocky little wanker, Danny.

It didn't worry him at all when he saw Storm with Teddy or Will. They were poofs anyway, even if they didn't know it.

Albie knew it. Everyone knew it. They just didn't mention it.

But now Albie had to concentrate. Hard. His job was to oversee the final phase of the Meltdown operation. He never saw the first part. All he knew was that a truck would arrive with the first stage completed. The second stage took place in the other truck and then the pills were ready for transfer into the coaches. He had to make sure that it all went smoothly and that the drugs were stowed properly in the ingenious hiding places on the coaches.

A three-inch-deep cavern extending across the entire floor area of each coach was removed in sections. More tablets would be stashed in hollowed-out blocks of the overhead storage lockers, in the steel legs of tables, in wall panels – anywhere there was a space that could be filled, even in the plush seating. The customers had no idea that they rode to Europe on Meltdown.

If anyone local asked what they were doing, the cover story was that the coaches were being prepared for a round-trip to a top European football match – checked for any minor faults, cleaned, loaded with fresh supplies of excellent food and drink, and generally made ready for the guests paying megabucks for their expensive excursion. All of which was true. The cleaners and local delivery vans arrived during the day to do the legit work and the drugs were stowed when they were long gone.

The twins were proud of the beautifully simple operation they had devised and developed.

And they relied on Albie to see that it all ran smoothly. He'd got the first-stage truck away OK – that driver never caused any bother. But now Albie was struggling.

The trouble was, Freddie Lucas was winding him up something rotten. Freddie was the second-stage chemist, and as far as Albie was concerned, he should have been minding his own business. But he wasn't.

The tablets had emerged from Freddie's truck, each stamped on both sides with its distinctive 'M' – only visible under black light – before being sealed in protective silver foil and then bagged in polythene in batches of fifty.

Now Freddie was watching the lads loading the pills, constantly telling them to be careful, getting in everyone's face, especially Albie's.

The lads had nicknamed Freddie 'Fiery Fred', and it wasn't only because of his mop of flaming red hair. He watched over his Meltdown like a mother hen protecting her chicks, guarding each tablet as if it were a newly hatched egg. And if a bag of pills was dropped or split or even dirtied, he would fly into a rage.

It was obvious that Freddie didn't like Albie. Albie didn't give a toss about that – no one liked him, but if they were wise, they kept out of his way. Freddie wasn't and he didn't.

Albie reckoned that Freddie was just another public school prat; the type that thought that they were better than everyone else, that they knew best all the time, that people like Albie were beneath them.

Albie didn't care about that either, but he was just longing to put his fist into Freddie's smug face. He knew he couldn't – he was already in enough trouble with the twins for previous violent outbursts and his dependence on M. He'd managed to convince them he was over that now, but if Freddie got on his case much more, Albie feared he wouldn't be able to stop himself from laying him out.

There was a nagging ache in Albie's back – maybe it was his kidneys – and a stabbing pain in his chest. Neither would go away, and on top of that it felt as though his head was going to explode.

He was sweating under the arc lights; he needed some more Ms. They always made him feel better. For a while. If only Freddie would piss off, he'd be able to do what he always did and slip a pack into his pocket. That way, he'd have enough for himself and plenty to sell on in one of the clubs. But Freddie wouldn't piss off. And Albie had to be so careful. If he got caught stealing the stuff, he'd be in the shit big time. But he didn't have a choice. He needed it.

He also needed some air. He opened the metal door at the rear of the hangar. The arc lights speared through the doorway and out into the darkness, sparking up what sounded like a pack of wolves.

It was the police dogs; some of them must have been on a sleepover instead of spending a quiet night in front of the fire with their handlers.

A voice shouted, 'Quiet, Bruno! And you, Sasha!'

'Shit,' breathed Albie, pulling the door shut. The last thing they needed was Plod calling round for a late-night chat.

He turned back and looked at the coaches. One of them was already loaded with its cargo of Meltdown; the other was well on the way, and Albie had not had one opportunity to grab a bag.

He went across to the coach that was ready to go. After all, it was his job to check that everything was in order.

Inside, it looked immaculate, more like the interior of a presidential jet than a coach. There were just twenty plush, airline-style seats; the remainder of the interior was filled with stylish high-tech business and relaxation areas – an Internet hot zone, plasma TV screens, DVD players – everything the guests needed to relax or keep tabs on important business was no more than an arm's length away.

Albie shrugged. It looked fine, as always. He went to check the other coach. The false floors had been replaced, as had the overhead locker panels; there was little more to be done – just the bags that would be crammed into the seats. They were always done last. The two loaders were taking a fag break. Albie walked up the gangway, briefly alone on the coach. Now was his chance.