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They entered a private driveway, flanked by a huge pair of iron gates and manned by two burly security guards. The countryside looked well-kept and prosperous: the land was so rich, you could hardly fail to make a good living from the wine and oranges.Īfter thirty miles, the limos turned sharply off the highway and drove more slowly along a winding road that led down to Hawston, a small, picture-postcard fishing town nestling on the shoreline. There were green, blossoming fields, covered in vines and fruit trees, with mountains rising up in the distance in one direction, and rocky, jagged cliffs tumbling away to the storm-tossed Atlantic coastline in the other. It was more like driving through Northern Spain.

The fertile lands around the Cape didn’t look anything like anyone’s idea of Africa. The N2 snaked down the coast, heading south through beautiful, lush countryside. And then I can scoot down to the BA ticket desk and get myself on the first plane out of here. We’ll find out who the client is soon enough, Steve told himself. Steve respected and admired Bruce: the Scotsman had been one of the hardest Sergeants in the Regiment and was, without question, the finest judge of men that Steve had ever met.īut he was also a risk-taker, and didn’t mind putting other men’s lives on the line if there was a weighty-enough cheque at the end of it. Dudley Emergency Forces worked quietly behind the scenes, putting together small groups of men for each job, mixing the units to suit the task at hand. Steve had worked for him for three years after quitting the SAS, but he wasn’t on the payroll. The man told you what he wanted you to know and nothing more.

Over time, he’d learned better than to question Bruce Dudley. ‘DEF’s latest client is seriously loaded,’ answered Bruce with a wry smile. ‘There’s probably a tasty blonde tucked away in here somewhere.’ ‘Private jets, limos - we’re going up in the world,’ Steve commented to Bruce. The seats were luxuriously upholstered, the wood and metal of the car all freshly polished, the air-conditioning kept at a constant eighteen degrees, and there were bottles of freshly chilled mineral water next to each seat. The chauffeur pulled away smoothly from the kerb, the engine purring, and steered the vehicle out onto the N2, the main highway that headed south out of the city. Steve sat back in one of the limos, accompanied by Bruce, Ollie and Nick, whilst Ian led the rest of the guys into the second car. There were seven of them now: Steve, Ollie, Ian, Maksim, Nick, Newton and Bruce. It was only a short, brisk walk across the tarmac, past an immigration official who’d already been shown their papers, and then towards a pair of black Mercedes limousines waiting for them right outside the terminal building. ‘We’ve got a couple of limos waiting, boys,’ he continued. After a decade building one of the most formidable, fearless Private Military Corporations in the world it took at least seven figures for the man to start working up a sweat.Īnd he’d been sweating this week. Bruce Dudley didn’t get excited about any number with only five zeros on the end of it.