Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

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Two brothers, one mission, and a whole world of trouble…They are Sam and Jacob Redman. Two brothers, SAS through and through. They fight alongside each other; they watch each other's backs. They are ruthlessly professional in the field of war, fiercely loyal wherever they are. But when Jacob is booted from the Regiment for a moment of madness, he disappears. Not even his family knows where he is, or even if he's still alive. All that is about to change. On his return from a brutal mission in Afghanistan, Sam is ordered to conduct another dangerous operation into an inhospitable part of the world. He soon learns, though, that his unit are not being told everything by their government paymasters; and so he is forced to choose between his duty to the men around him and his loyalty to the brother that he loves. Is Jacob part of a plan that threatens world peace? As the body count rises, only Sam can stop these events from reaching their terrifying conclusion.

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Brookes blinked. Bland had never asked his opinion. Never . The old man avoided his eye, and in a flash of intuition Brookes realised that he was unsure of himself.

He stuttered.

‘You think I am foolish, giving any information at all to a man like Sam Redman.’

‘His talents don’t lie between the ears, sir, if you understand my meaning.’ Instantly, Brookes regretted his comment. He should have flattered the boss. That was what he wanted to hear.

‘I most certainly do understand your meaning, Toby. I most certainly do.’ Bland’s eyes became lost in thought once more. ‘Sam Redman is a man who thinks with his emotions, and with his biceps; not his mind, Toby. We’ve given him enough to be going on with. I predict that he will do whatever it takes to locate his brother. And we must locate his brother. That much is clear.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brookes agreed obligingly.

Bland nodded his head, then looked directly at Brookes. ‘See to it that he is followed. Category one target. Phone taps, trails, the works. Don’t concern yourself with legalities – I’ll clear it all with the chief. I want our best people on it, Toby. And I don’t want them to be seen.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Brookes repeated, before turning to open the door.

‘Toby,’ Bland called. There was a warning in his voice.

He turned.

‘I mean it, Toby. Our best people. This will be the making of you.’ He smiled, a rather sweet, paternal smile. ‘It’s a most important operation, Toby. I just want to make sure you fully appreciate and share my sense of urgency.’

Brookes nodded, not knowing if he was expected to speak.

‘Good,’ Bland said calmly. ‘Good. Now then, I suggest we leave this place. I’ve never liked it much. It smells of men. Most unpleasant. Really most unpleasant.’

And with a sudden speed he walked towards the door. Toby Brookes only just managed to open it in time to let him through.

FOURTEEN

He had driven all day, stopping only to refuel the truck from the canisters of diesel in the back, or to buy fruit from one of the occasional stalls that popped up from nowhere. Whenever he stopped he kept the engine running so that he didn’t have to hotwire it again; and he kept the handgun close to his body in case anyone got any clever ideas.

Now it was evening. He was numb with tiredness. The road stretched out ahead of him, wide and empty. This place seemed to go on for ever and with only his sense of direction to guide him, Jacob Redman experienced many moments of doubt. He knew he needed to travel west and slightly north and, unable to read the road signs and in the absence of maps or any proper navigation gear, he had relied on his reading of the sun during the day and the stars at night. But these were not precise measurements. Distances were long in this part of the world and if he went wrong, he could find himself stranded in an unpopulated part of Kazakhstan with no diesel and a dwindling supply of money. The few notes he had stolen from the guard when he took the truck were enough to buy him a little food, but not nearly enough for fuel. There were a limited number of times he could steal from people before getting caught and he really didn’t want to have to fight his way out of a Kazakh police cell.

Not that there were many people to steal from. In this vast country he could drive for an hour without seeing a soul; when he did it was frequently just a peasant tending animals in a field. No police, thank God. No army. Not yet.

He glanced at the fuel gauge. Close on empty. He pulled over and jumped down, walking round to the back and opening up. He had kept hold of the empty fuel canisters – four of them, lying on their sides with only the AK-47 for company – on the off chance that he came across a free supply of diesel. But he hadn’t. Only one of them had any of that precious, pungent liquid inside. He heaved it out of the back, undid the screwtop and started pouring it into the truck’s fuel tank. There was a glugging sound, as though the engine was thirstily drinking the fuel. Before long, the last drops had been squeezed out. The canister clattered as he threw it back into the van; Jacob took his place behind the wheel once more and allowed himself to close his eyes. Just for a minute.

He shook himself awake. ‘Damn it,’ he hissed, angry at his lack of self-control. There was no time for sleep; and he had wasted fuel while the engine ticked over. He shook his head and pulled out into the road once more.

It was growing dark now. The sky, which had been blue but dotted with cotton-wool clouds, grew orange. He had left the hemp fields of the Chu Valley far behind and now the surrounding countryside was far more flat. Fields of grassland extended into the distance. Soon they would be parched by the fierce summer months. Summer. But Jacob could not expect to see the greens and yellows of England. That thought came to him with a pang and not for the first time he found himself hankering after home. You could be an exile for any amount of time, he realised, but you never fully grew used to it. There were always moments when you wanted the comforts of home and for Jacob this was one of them.

He pushed that thought from his mind, as he had so many times before. He wasn’t going home now, or any time soon.

A town up ahead. He trundled through. It was indistinguishable from the one where he had picked up the vehicle. A little bigger if anything. On the far side of the outskirts, he pulled over. It was a risk, but he had to check he was on the right track. An elderly man sat outside his house on a low wooden bench. He had the Mongol-looking face indigenous to the region, deeply lined; he wore a winter jumper, despite the fact that it was a warm evening; and he looked at the new arrival with undisguised mistrust. Beside him, tethered to a splintered old post, was a goat. The animal looked a lot sprightlier than its owner.

Jacob had one note left. He pulled it from his back pocket and handed it to the man. The man looked for a moment as though he was going to take great offence, but at the last minute he stretched out a thin, trembling hand and accepted the offer. He secreted the money in the breast pocket of the shirt he was wearing under the jumper, then turned his attention back to Jacob.

‘Baikonur?’ Jacob asked.

At first the old man appeared not to have heard; at least, if he had heard, he pretended not to. So Jacob repeated himself. ‘ Baikonur ?’

Slowly, the man started to nod. He turned his head looking in the direction Jacob was travelling, then gradually raised his arm and pointed.

‘Baikonur,’ he said in a grizzled voice. His lips receded in on themselves, in the way only the lips of old men can. He pushed himself heavily to his feet and tottered the couple of metres over to where the goat was tethered. He held out a bony hand and the animal nuzzled his fingertips. Everything about his body language indicated that the conversation was over.

That was fine by Jacob. He’d found out what he wanted. He was on the right track. He rushed back to the truck, took his place once more behind the wheel and drove off. With luck, he would have enough fuel. If not, he’d just have to improvise. That didn’t matter. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last.

He shook his head again and tried to stop his drowsiness from overcoming him.

*

Sam’s mind was ablaze.

Everything Bland had said chased its way around his head. Did he believe him? He didn’t know. He certainly didn’t trust him. And he certainly didn’t like the way the bastard spoke about his brother. One thing was for sure: there was no way Sam was going to take Gabriel Bland’s word for anything.

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