The Swiss Assassin

By Ian McKinley

Peter Villiger is Swiss, a Somali refugee who appears to be an independently wealthy and well-travelled author. This hides his true role as a high-tech hitman working for a secretive, UN-sponsored organisation targeting terrorists and warlords that international law has failed to either control or punish. With biomimetic drones and tailored toxins as the tools of his trade, he has flexibility to make punishment fit the crimes involved – with assassinations documented in videos that strike fear into those who previously considered themselves above the law. The challenges change when the list of targets is suddenly expanded to include white-collar criminals who, although not personally involved in killings, are responsible for huge numbers of deaths through fomenting and arming conflicts. Unlike the war zones of past assassinations, Peter is now operating in the luxurious, decadent microcosms in which the mega-rich live, remote from the multitudes suffering from accelerating climate change.

His wife and her hedonistic twin sister accompany him on apparently straightforward operation in Bali, which unexpected uncovers a global conspiracy to facilitate and benefit from environmental degradation. With the help of the sisters, Peter finds that this threat has links to the very highest level of his own organisation, with a trail leading to the Seychelles and a meeting of the upper echelons of a cabal with the power to influence the tipping points that control socioeconomic change. As his employer is compromised, Peter solicits the support of a local intelligence agency for the key job of hacking a database in Switzerland, which will provide the only possible way of stopping this nefarious plan. With the help of his sister-in-law, the Swiss coordinate a response to the threat at UN level, freeing Peter to take over the job of assassinating all of the remaining key conspirators. The question is, can this be done without actually catalysing a pre-programmed apocalypse?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiction4All
• Release date: Aug 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005000660

Ian McKinley

Ian is a Scot living in Switzerland, working in the rather esoteric field of radioactive waste management. He assesses the safety of disposal sites a million years in the future and analyses how the Oklo reactors operated two billion years ago – which is often hard to distinguish from science fiction. Ian’s experience ensures sound backdrops to his hard science fiction. Adult action thrillers showcase the evolution of society in the face of major technological advances and a degrading natural environment. All extrapolations over the next century are credible, maybe frighteningly so, given their dystopian nature. Previously published novels offer offbeat takes on the impact of the collapse of a future, even more ubiquitous, Internet and the emergence of artificial intelligence.

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THE SWISS ASSASSIN

Ian McKinley

© Copyright Ian McKinley, 2022

The right of Ian McKinley to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

First Edition 2022

This electronic book published by

Double Dragon

an imprint of Fiction4All

https://fiction4all.com

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Nan & Brian for lifelong inspiration,

Linda for putting up with me when I’m writing,

Denis & Susie for review

and Jim McKinley for producing the cover.

The artwork incorporates a was robot image

reproduced with the permission of Haider Ali

(https://www.artstation.com/artwork/eae0y6),

integrated with open access material from Pixabay.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue: 2055 – Glasgow, Scotland

2045 – Zimbabwe

2045 – Glasgow, Scotland

2055 – Glasgow, Scotland

2055 – Bali, Indonesia

2055 – Silhouette Island, Seychelles

2055 – Scotland / Switzerland

2055 – North Vietnam

Epilogue: 2066 – Glasgow, Scotland

Prologue: 2055 – Glasgow, Scotland

A’m goin’ tae fuckin’ kill ye, ya wee black Weedgie bastard!

The shout caused me to spin around, my hand automatically snaking towards my shoulder holster before I halted the movement with a grin. The brown-coloured boy being pursued looked to be Pakistani or Indian, but the shout had come from an even smaller lad who was black as the ace of spades – probably Caribbean roots – and almost certainly also Glaswegian. Indeed, in this part of the city, the chances of either of them being legitimate were pretty small.

When the wee Weedgie bastard raced past me, I estimated his age at about eleven or twelve, maybe a year or two younger than his pursuer. The latter, however, was armed with a rather nasty-looking broken bottle. Just as he passed by, completely ignoring me as if I was a lamppost or some other inanimate object, I grabbed his arm and spun him into a wristlock that caused a squeal of pain and a crash as the bottle smashed on the pavement.

The look of complete surprise on the little thug’s face was comical. What the fuck ya dae that fur, ya big, black bastard? That was fucking sore and A’m only a wean. A’ll have the polis on yous, ya fuckin’ pedo!

Aye, an ah saw it tae! You’re goin’ tae dae time in the Bar-L, getting bum-fucked wae the rest o’ the pedos.

I sighed. So much for the Good Samaritan. This interjection was from the boy that I had stepped in to help. Let never a good deed go unpunished! Okay, you pair of wee shits – just fuck off and kick the crap out of each other somewhere else like good weans, eh?

Like fuck! The smaller of the pair pulled a minute phone from his pocket and pointed it in my direction. You’re fur the polis, ya big cunt!

My move was so fast that he never saw it coming. I had slapped the phone out of his hand and stomped it into oblivion before he could react. Ya stupid wee buggers, I am the fucking polis! So, fuck off hame before Ah gie ye a good kicking. A’m no the nice cop that sends ye aff tae Borstal, A’m the truly evil cop that beats the fuck oot o’ ye and draps yur bodies aff at Easterhoose fur the cannibal junkies tae eat.

For the first time, the little boy truly looked his age as tears came to his eyes – either due to my threat or, more likely, as a result of what I had done to his phone. In any case, the pair took to their heels, running back in the direction from which they had come. As I expected, however, they stopped after only about ten metres without pursuit. They paused for a couple of seconds before one turned and pulled down his shorts to expose a skinny bum while the other gave me the finger.

Nazi fucking nig-nog! Arse-fucking pedo cunt!

I am sure that they could have continued in the same vein for a long time, but the look of shock was unmistakable when I stared straight into their eyes. These kids grow up in a world of hard, truly evil men and women and quickly learn to read the signs when exposed to a serious threat. There is something about the air of somebody who is not only capable of violence, but is a killer – not just once, accidently in a brawl, but many times, deliberately, in cold blood. This is a look I try very hard to keep well concealed but, if I get annoyed, my carefully crafted mask can slip.

They were frozen by fear, a hypnotism broken only when I exposed my shoulder holster and slowly reached towards it. This time they were still running when they disappeared from sight. What did they expect that I would draw? A Dirty Harry magnum, probably. They’d be less frightened if they knew that the pouch contains only a drone-controller. But, in my hands, this is many times deadlier than any firearm. And my tools of death are well used. There aren’t many serial killers who’ve wasted as many folk as I have.

Of course, I am not a murderer, more of an assassin. I rub out only bad guys. At least, that is what I keep telling myself or, more to the point, telling my beloved wife. In the past this was relatively straightforward: psychopathic war criminals are pretty unambiguous targets. But now things are getting trickier, with more grey areas and room for interpretation. Is this something that I’m capable of doing and, even if so, am I risking losing everything I value in this deal with the Devil?

2045 - Zimbabwe

I first encountered the Franklin girls in Zimbabwe, while it was actually an independent country. Like many African countries, it goes through cycles of stability – when investment pours in to pillage local human and natural resources; destabilisation – when a small number of individuals high up the local totem pole conspire to rip-off the entire cake for themselves; conflict – when international arms dealers and mercenaries take it off them; then collapse – when either they are taken over by a bigger neighbour or warlords go apeshit. Of the last two options, the former often results in the original country re-emerging as a result of local independence pressures, while the latter requires external intervention to reboot the entire process back to national stability. That’s where Thanatos gets involved – which is why I appeared in this particular scene.

After graduation, Mary Jane and Jennifer Miranda Franklin were undecided about whether to move into the rat race of the real world or the lotus-eating existence of post-graduate academia. The twins thus decided for the free holiday in a far-off land provided by volunteer aid work. Unfortunately for them, they were assigned as teachers to Zimbabwe, just as it was rapidly transitioning through the destabilisation-conflict-collapse phases in an unexpectedly rapid manner.

The Franklins arrived at a school for the children of rangers of the Mutirikwi Park, a location that was remote even from the regional centre of Masvingo. Indeed, so remote that the national breakdown free-fall had already become ground-rush before they were fully aware of the risks that they were facing. Over a period of two months, they followed news reports of rebellion over a gradually degrading internet, but it seemed to pose little direct threat to them. The progress of rebel forces towards Harare, supported by Zambia, initially concerned the locals only to the extent that it frightened off tourists, who were now rarely seen in the parks or at the nearby ruins of the city of Great Zimbabwe.

Even after Harare fell and government-paid salaries vanished along with all support services, the war seemed to be distant. The collapse of both the army and the police force removed all barriers to the rebels, however; within a week the pillage of Masvingo commenced. Typically, the rebel forces had now fragmented and individual warlords were carving out their own particular fiefdoms. Southern Zimbabwe was now under the control of the most brutal of these, a man called Jason Twalla.

***

Even before this particular conflict, Jason Twalla had been identified by Thanatos as a concern. Born in Harare to a local businessman and the British woman that he married, he was brought to the UK as a child, when the excesses of the Mugabe regime at the turn of the century started the country’s slide into economic chaos. Twalla senior had seen the writing on the wall and diversified his interests outside of Zimbabwe, positioning himself well to act as an interface between the opportunists of the City of London and the expanding mineral and tourism markets throughout the African continent.

Jason received a private school education and obtained a first in politics from Oxford, while rising through the ranks of the university officers’ training corps. To his father’s evident surprise, he then joined the army and was fast-tracked from Sandhurst to command of an army combat unit in the Middle East and then to the SAS. His military record showed well the reasons for his rapid advance through the ranks – high intelligence, great fitness and utter ruthlessness. He thrived in combat, which was summed up in a report by a commanding officer: completely at home in high-risk situations and has a particular aptitude for wet work. Just as well he’s in the Regiment – otherwise would probably end up a serial killer!

Even the SAS was too tame for Jason, however, leading him to resign after four years and move to Africa to work as a mercenary in a range of local conflicts. Here the truth of his CO’s appraisal became clear as he built a reputation for gratuitous brutality. Nevertheless, this was Africa, where such brutality was expected. His military experience, combined with political nous, moved him towards his long-term goal of carving out a little kingdom for himself in the country that had thrown his family out – Zimbabwe.

Brutal conflict during a civil war would not, in itself, warrant our intervention. Jason’s reputation was, however, at the extreme end of what was tolerable and rumours were growing of atrocities that would clearly be classified as war crimes. Twalla was an intelligent man and, in contrast to some of the other warlords, knew well what it would take to allow Thanatos to be let loose. Thus, he was careful to ensure that we never obtained the hard evidence that we needed to allow us to take action. The trail of bodies in his wake showed the results of violent rape and sadistic torture, but he was careful to leave no witnesses alive and assure that his accomplices remained completely tight-lipped.

As Africa coordinator, I had Jason on my list of top five potential targets. In his particular case, the absence of any other evidence meant that I had to take a more active approach, getting micro-drones into place to provide a record clear enough to allow me to take action. This was proving to be far from easy: his SAS background gave him a very good overview of the tools that we had at our disposal and he made sure that he had counter-measures to hand whenever he and his troops went off the rails. Finding fried drones at the locations of atrocities was evidence of sorts, but too circumstantial to provide the support that I needed.

After he established the capital of his new empire in Masvingo, Jason had to build up the finances needed to support it. Initial funding from Zambia was drying up and needed to be replaced by taxes from his new subjects. The major source of income would come from selling rights to local resources to the multinational vultures who were already lining up to feed on the carcass of this vanquished land. In the interim, foreigners captured during his campaign were a more immediate source of revenue, as they could be ransomed to their home governments or their relatives. He also needed to build the foundations for a long-term regime, maintaining the support of his blood-thirsty soldiers and assuring sufficient fear by the general populace to prevent any thoughts of revolt. Thus, when he came to hear about a couple of British women teaching in the middle of nowhere, he decided that he could kill two birds with one stone.

***

By the time that they came to Jason’s attention, the twins had finally realised that they were in a perilous position and started to make plans to escape. The fundamental problem was that, even if they could get a hold of a vehicle, all roads were blocked by checkpoints and, given their obvious ethnicity, they would inevitable be taken captive. On foot, the distance to the nearest national border was the biggest challenge, together with the likelihood that key bridges and settlements en route would be controlled by the occupying army.

A call to the UK government for help was the most obvious solution, but the local cell-phone network had been poor when they first arrived and non-existent since the fall of Harare. Undeterred, they appealed to the parents of their pupils for help and accumulated a collection of old radios from storerooms in the various ranger stations. After a week of trial and failure, reviving ancient satellite radios and hooking them up to equally geriatric satellite TV dishes, they finally managed to make contact with a ham radio enthusiast in Pretoria, who linked them up with the British Embassy in South Africa.

The Embassy supplied them with platitudes and vague promises of assistance when resources became available, but also informed Thanatos of the situation. That was when I finally had a chance to act.

***

My first thoughts when I heard about the Franklin girls focused on getting the evidence that we needed in order to intervene. The twins and the school fit the profile of locations of past atrocities. If he followed precedent, Twalla and his cronies would rape the European women and then confine them for transport back to his base while his troops rounded up the villagers and murdered them en masse. Women, girls and probably some boys, babies and young men would be brutally raped – before, after or while they were murdered. This was not loss of control, but deliberately planned in order to forge links of absolute evil that bound the soldiers and ensured their loyalty. Although there would be no hard evidence, all details would be spread by word of mouth, providing a clear message to his subjugated population of the consequences of opposing him.

Having prior links to a likely target was the first sign of progress in this case, so I mobilised all locally available resources to get stealthed drones into place. I was also able to borrow a few channels on a CIA spy satellite in order to set up direct communication links while the drones were en route. My first contact with Mary Jane was thus over a low-res vid-link that dropped out every couple of minutes. Regardless, she came over as cool and calm, despite being well aware of how precarious her situation was.

Can you hide away for the next day or two? I asked after I had explained what she had to expect from Jason and his army of psychopaths.

Too late, she responded immediately. The village is surrounded and they have already begun to herd the locals into the playground in front of the school building.

Well, can you set up a camera to cover that playground, something that wouldn’t be obvious? If so, you’ll need to put it in a Faraday Cage: that’s a…

I know what a Faraday Cage is, she cut in grimly. You think he’ll use an EM burst before he gets started?

Always has done in the past, I replied, which is why we have no evidence that he is personally responsible for these actions.

Can’t we do something for the villagers? For the first time I could detect fear in her voice.

I can’t do anything at all until I have unambiguous evidence of a war crime. I can try to get ready to move as soon as you can get that video to me, but you’ll need to remove the Faraday Cage before that can happen.

Suddenly it was Jennifer on the line, but the connection was so poor that I didn’t even notice the transition. Okeydokey, I think we can get something sussed out here. How much time do we have?

From what we’ve been able to work out from battlefield forensics, he’ll round up the villagers first, to ensure that there’re no witnesses. He’ll group them closely together, then use an EMP, an electro-magnetic pulse, to take out any electronic monitoring, cell-phones, drones, whatever. In cases where anyone present can be ransomed, they’ll then be taken off; the women will be raped and men beaten up – maybe also raped if they’re young enough. After any hostages are clear, the massacre will begin; sometime after sunset to minimise the chance of spy satellite video. They’ll take their time with that – but it’ll be done within a few hours.

Is there any way of stopping the killing? Can you get here faster?

I’m in the air as we speak, heading for an air force base in Mozambique that the Brits are using for Zimbabwe evacuations. However, our drones will get to you well before I do and, if they can extract evidence from your camera after the Faraday Cage has been removed, I’ll have my committee standing by to authorise a rapid response.

But will that stop the killing? I was suddenly aware that this was not someone that I could calm down with arm-waving and wishful thinking.

I’m afraid not, I confessed. We’d need video from the beginning of the massacre to have any chance of that and I can’t get drones there fast enough if they have to stay stealthed.

There were about five minutes of silence and I began to wonder if I had lost the link. Then the sisters were back, huddled together in front of the cell-phone camera. If we can give you video from immediately after the burster goes off, what can you do?

I’m not sure how you could do that. Anyway, in that case, I can use supersonic attack drones to gas the entire area. A fast-acting anaesthetic will stop anything going on, with, I hope, minimal collateral damage. It won’t help you though, as you’ll probably be clear of the vicinity by then. Finding you will be tricky, especially if Jason’s hand goes from the helm and his soldiers lose the control of all of their top commanders at once. You’re going to be in a lot of danger then.

"Couldn’t you use the GPS from one of our phones to locate us?

Nice idea but, first of all, they’ll be fried by the EM pulse and, even if not, there’s no way Twalla will let you keep a phone with you. After being raped, you’ll probably be moved and held captive naked. Demoralising, in addition to being typical of the man’s inherently evil nature.

To my amazement, the young women merely exchanged a glance and continued, apparently unperturbed by these horrors. Assume that we can do it and that you’ll have both video and our GPS immediately after the EM burst. What can you do?

I’ll be in Mozambique by sundown and our drones there will be fully prepped and at the edge of Zimbabwean airspace by then. We should be able to shut down action in your village about thirty minutes later and I’ll try to pick you up as soon as I can after that. Depends where you are though; I can’t promise anything specific at the moment.

A synchronous shrug of their shoulders. I guess we should get everything ready then.

Apart from the camera, I’m not sure what I can suggest. Despite my attempt to control it, I could sense a sense of impotence seeping into my voice.

A wry grin was exchanged. Well, we have a few ideas. First liberal application of Vaseline to target orifices and then laxatives and some cow’s blood if we can find it. We may not be able to stop them raping us, but we can reduce our pain and make it as unpleasant for them as possible.

I had no response to that, but resolved to do everything possible to save this incredibly plucky pair.

***

To my disappointment, when I arrived at the very basic Mozambique air force emergency landing strip, the entire place was crawling with Yanks. I know that British and EU overseas military resources aren’t what they once were, but this is rather pathetic. Nevertheless, the Americans had been updated on the situation from Geneva and seemed happy to help in any way possible. They have all the best hardware without a doubt, which could help considerably, but also SEALs to provide ground support. Of all of the elite forces that I’ve worked with, SEALs are the least consistent in terms of professionalism. Some are good, maybe Delta standard, while others are little better than psychopathic yahoos. Lack of any clear external control tends to do that. In any case, there’s a serious risk that going up against a group led by an ex-SAS officer could bring out the worst of inter-force rivalry. That I really do not need!

To my amazement the Franklin girls were as good as their word. Just before sunset, a video signal was picked up by our spy satellite and displayed in the portacabin that the Americans had decked out as a state-of-the-art command centre. I leaned forward towards the screen showing about fifty villagers crammed into the corner of what appeared to be a primitive school gymnasium. Rebel soldiers in a ragtag mixture of different uniform components but, in all cases, with orange armbands, had tied up all the men and older boys and started to drag them into a line against one wall of the building.

Three of the soldiers stood together and were clearly distinguished from the others in terms of both their clean, starched, khaki uniforms and their postures, which radiated command and self-confidence. Despite the low resolution of the image, I was fairly sure that the tallest of the three was Jason Twalla and the other pair his most trusted lieutenants. I grimace when I noted that all three were gesticulating at their captives with huge machetes. Fucking Africa! I groaned under my breath. Anywhere else it’d be a case of gunning down the enemy, here they liked to get up close and personal with large, razor-sharp blades.

I set up the link to copy these images to Geneva and New York, where the Thanatos Executive and the UN Oversight Committee would give the okay for action in response to unequivocal evidence of a war crime. The communications officer had now taken remote control of the smartphone feed and was able to zoom in just as Jason lifted a boy about fifteen years old by his hair, turning him towards a man that I guessed would be his father, before expertly disembowelling the lad with a single slice of his blade. We had no sound, but the rebel commander was laughing while he ensured that the blood and guts fell over the screaming man. By the time that about a dozen victims had been brutally slain, we had a go and the drones were streaking towards their target.

I checked on the GPS signal from the Franklin twins, which was displayed on a large-screen monitor. They had started to move just before the massacre commenced and were following a road heading towards Masvingo. The trace was moving at about 50 km/h, which was probably reasonable for a car on the poor quality roads in that area. The hostages were being taken back to base with no particular rush.

There was a clear conflict here. I should go with the team that would follow the drones and secure the murder site. There I could carry out the executions of the three ringleaders and anyone else identified from the videos as actively participating in the slaughter. Nevertheless, I had promised the girls to get them out and was painfully aware that, without their courage and cleverness, I would never have been able to nail down these bastards so quickly.

I would have to use a bit of fancy footwork to talk my way around it, but my decision was quickly made. I confirmed plan B to a rather bemused SEAL group leader and he immediately set off with his team towards the school, with a load of my drones accompanying them in the holds of their fast-attack helicopters. I then raced off to the VTOL troop transporter containing the hostage extraction team.

***

We were twenty minutes out from our interception point when the bad news started flooding in. Just as the gas attack on the school commenced, satellite IR surveillance picked up a trace of a vehicle leaving the area at high speed. It was clearly following the same route as the hostages and it was clear that some of the rebels had escaped our trap. It was no surprise to me when, fifteen minutes later, the SEAL commander confirmed that there was no trace of our three prime targets at the scene.

The question’s now whether Twalla would think to warn the soldiers moving the hostages of this development; if so, our plan would go tits-up rapidly. From the display on my tablet, however, the speed of our target seemed unchanged, so maybe we’re still in the clear.

Our curving flight trajectory brought us down in a field beside the road, about a kilometre ahead of the hostage transporter. We had come in low and had a hill between us and the rebels, so I hoped our landing would go unnoticed. Two SEALs quickly cut down a small tree and dragged it over to block the road, while two others set up a pair of searchlights. All members of the 8-man SEAL squad looked a bit dishevelled with a mixture of assorted uniform kit and lurid t-shirts, designed to fit with the orange arm bands that they all wore. My own uniform was more like those worn by Jason and his top commanders, which I hoped would cause the rebels to obey my instructions.

By the time we had our control point sorted out, with two particularly scruffy SEALs sitting by a small fire on the side of the road as if preparing a meal, the headlights of an approaching lorry were coming around a bend in our direction. One searchlight was then switched on to illuminate the roadblock while I stood in clear view, with a soldier at my side holding up his hand in a clear command to stop.

As the entire area was under rebel control, the lorry driver obeyed without question and slowed to a halt just in front of our makeshift blockade. We could now clearly see two further soldiers in the cab with him. I raised my arm and there were three loud cracks as the snipers positioned in trees nearby responded to my command. The windscreen shattered and the three heads behind it exploded simultaneously. Maybe difficult to control at times, but these guys certainly know how to shoot.

Despite the fact that I knew they were there, I noticed only a trace of shadows as two further squad members entered the canvas-covered back of the lorry. This was the tricky bit. I had made myself extremely unpopular by insisting that this pair carried knifes only – no guns, flash-bang grenades or any of the shit that they usually used. I’ve seen too many examples of hostages killed by the soldiers charged with saving them and this was definitely not going to happen on my watch. These elite troops were paid to put their lives on the line – the hostages weren’t.

There was a brief moment of screaming – which seemed to include both men’s and women’s voices, then all went quiet while I raced towards the back of the truck. The canvas had been thrown back and the scene was lit by a couple of small electric lamps plus a handful of chemo-luminescent strips that were scattered on the floor. Three skinny rebel soldiers, who seemed to have barely passed puberty, lay bleeding in a heap, being checked for signs of life by the huge SEALs, any one of whom would have outweighed all three of their opponents together. Three naked women huddled together as far as possible from the tailgate. Two of them were dirty, bedraggled but calm and clearly protecting the third, who was cleaner but badly bruised and scraped, and seemed on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

I dragged myself into the truck, squeezing around the SEALs and their victims and slowly approaching the women. The Franklin ladies, I presume. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here faster, but at least we now have you safe and sound. How are you doing and who’s your companion?

The mucky twins looked at each other and then one of them responded. We’re as good as could be expected. It’s amazing what blood-stained, shitty knickers do to put a man off rape. We were sent back to be cleaned up before they started on the raping bit. Didn’t attempt to force us into oral: worried about our teeth, I guess. Just pissed on us instead. Poor Sister Jean here didn’t get off so lightly; all three of the big bosses had a go at her. I doubt that she had ever even heard of anal rape before she experienced it, so she’s in a really bad way.

I threw my backpack to the twin’s spokeswoman. Here’s some stuff that I prepared for you. There are a couple of first aid kits, a canteen of water and a couple of pairs of shorts and t-shirts. Shame I didn’t know about our third hostage here. I thought all the nuns had been evacuated after the attacks on missionaries a few years ago.

Sister Jean refused to leave and I guess has fallen off the screen somehow. Anyway, we need clothing for her – ideally more than these running shorts and vests, she responded while pulling kit from the bag.

Okay, can do, I grimaced and pulled apart velcro that allowed me to remove my camouflage trousers over my combat boots. How about these for a start?

Just the job, to my amazement she grinned as she took them from me, are those part of standard kit for squaddies now?

I realised that she was staring at the rather small pair of black briefs that I was wearing. Well, I’m not actually a squaddie and this was just what I had on when I got rushed into this. Anyway, here’s a shirt to go with the trousers, I added as I peeled it off.

You’re a true gentleman, she smiled, apparently oblivious to her nudity while she turned to help her sister wipe down the trembling nun with moistened tissues before helping her into my discarded clothing.

At that point I noticed that the SEALs’ attention was now on the women rather than the corpses. Okay, get the stiffs out of here and start setting up for our next visitors. They won’t be handled as easily as this. What’s their ETA?

The squad leader had appeared at the tailgate and answered for them in a broad Southern drawl. The bad guys are leaving Dodge like bats out of hell. If they don’t wipe themselves out first on this crappy road, they’ll be with us in about twenty.

Fine. As soon as we get the women out and into the VTOL, we need to clear the road and set up the lights for the ambush. Clear?

All we need to do is get this shitty truck out of the way and we’re ready, he grinned. I assume that, there being no hostages and all, we’re free to blast the fuck out of these bastards.

Not quite. I need bits that I can unequivocally identify, preferably before I put them out of their misery.

To my surprise we were interrupted by a voice from the back of the truck. Actually, could you please ensure that they suffer as much pain as possible beforehand? I’d hate any of these cunts to have a quick death.

The SEAL smiled delightedly. You, madam, are one tough lady and a woman after my own heart. I’ll certainly do my best to comply with your wishes and make these bad fuckers suffer.

Well, glad that’s sorted out. I turned back to the women to see that one of the girls was now washing down her twin. Anyway, we should get you out of here so that we can move the lorry. Could you finish that up in the plane?

Two minutes and we’re done, the twin being washed replied. Take Sister Joan first, maybe better on a stretcher, if you can.

We can certainly do that, I jumped out to organise things while the women completed their ablutions.

***

With a couple of minutes to go, the SEALs were in place for our ambush of the fleeing rebel commanders. There had been only one hitch: I could not get the Franklin twins to retreat to the safety of the VTOL transporter. I seriously thought of ordering the squad leader to tie them up and dump them in the plane, but it was very clear that he was much more impressed by them than he was with me. Indeed, they made him love them more when they asked for guns.

We’re not going to interfere, just stay back and watch the action, one of them insisted.

But who knows when a gun might come in handy, added the other. We could be attacked by a lion.

A lion, right, the SEAL drawled, you certainly never can be too careful. You know how to handle one of these things? he asked while he handed over a couple of the SIG handguns that they seemed to prefer.

Safety off, the girl demonstrated the movement, point at the fucker, the gun aimed at one of the bodies hidden under a bush at the side of the road, and fire. She waited for a second before switching the safety back on. However, that I’ll leave to the professionals – I’d probably fuck up and kill the bastard instead of merely blowing his balls off.

Don’t you just love these ladies, real Gunsmith Cats? he grinned in my direction.

I knew when I was beaten and went back to my tablet to follow the IR trace of our targets.

***

Unlike the cautious progress of the lorry, the Range Rover came round the corner towards us in a slide, indicating that the driver may well have spent time rallying. The road ahead was ablaze in the massive headlights, lights mounted on the bull bars and a row of four lights mounted on the roof – further invoking the image of a competition rally car.

As soon as it squirrelled onto the straight towards us, our two searchlights ignited, blasting actinic light towards the car and showing a pair of faces hidden by gas masks for the instant before a rifle-launched grenade exploded into the radiator grill and the bonnet disintegrated in a cloud of flame, with front wheels flying off in opposite directions. It almost seemed like slow motion as the remnants