Deathlist (23 page)

He figured wrong.

Bald gripped the cutter handles and spread them apart as far as they would go. Then he brought them firmly together. Deeds gave a muffled scream as the jaws sliced clean through his toe, clipping bone and gristle and flesh. Blood spurted out of the torn ragged stump, spilling across the plastic sheeting. The guy kept on screaming, breathing furiously through his nostrils. Bald reached for the blowtorch. He turned on the gas. Took a matchstick from a box of matches, lit it. Held the naked flame to the torch nozzle. There was a sharp hissing noise as a bluish flame lit up. Then Bald took the blowtorch and held the flame close to Deeds’s bleeding toe, cauterising the wound. Deeds screamed again through the rag in his mouth. The smell of burning flesh filled the room as he thrashed wildly in his chair, rocking back and forth and convulsing with pain. He struggled to breathe. Then Bald took the flame away and Porter tore the dirty rag out of Deeds’ mouth. He promptly leaned forward and puked up, emptying his guts onto the floor.

Bald stood back and watched. The blowtorch flame was still running. Deeds spat out blood and made a weird sound that was somewhere between a dry heave and a moan. The flesh around his big toe was charred black. He groaned again.

‘Jesus, okay. Christ. I’ll talk. I’ll tell you fucking everything. Just please, no more.’

Porter stared at the guy in puzzlement. ‘Tell us what? We haven’t asked you a fucking question yet.’

There was a glimmer of fear in Deeds’ eyes. His lips quivered. The guy was absolutely bricking it. His imagination was working overtime now as he wondered how much worse the pain was going to get before he got the chance to spill his guts.

Porter stuffed the rag back in Deeds’ mouth. Bald reached for the bolt-cutters and fit the jaws snug around another of the guy’s toes. Deeds tensed as he braced himself for the pain. Porter clamped his hands down on the guy’s shoulders to keep him still while Bald worked the bolt-cutters and cut through his second toe. Blood oozed out of the stump, spattering the sheet dark red. Deeds screamed hysterically. Piss was running down his legs now, forming a puddle between his feet. Bald took the blowtorch to the wound and the sickly sweet odour of burnt flesh mingled with the rancid stench of urine. When he was finished, Bald stepped back and took a moment to admire his work. Deeds’s foot was in rag order. He wouldn’t be turning out for his Sunday league team anytime soon.

Porter stepped forward and dropped to a knee in front of Deeds. He took out the rag. Fixed his gaze on the guy.

Said, ‘Listen to me carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. You’re going to die tonight. That’s going to happen, and there’s fuck-all you can do about it. How you die, that’s up to you.’

Deeds started crying. Tears streamed down his face. He was muttering under his breath, begging for help. From God or his torturers, Porter couldn’t tell. Either way it wouldn’t do him much good.

‘Bill,’ he said. ‘Look at me.’

Deeds stopped bawling like a baby. He lifted his eyes to Porter. They were big and wide and scared.

Porter said, ‘Here’s what’s going to happen, Bill. You’ve got one chance to tell us the truth. Not some of the truth. We want all of it. Do you understand? If you level with us, then I’ll give you a soldier’s death. A bullet to the head, nice and quick. It’ll be painless. You won’t feel a thing. You have my word.’

Porter paused. He was deliberately using Deeds’ first name. Trying to make the guy think that the two of them had an understanding. That he could trust Porter. Bald stood close by, wielding the bolt-cutters.

‘But if you lie to us, or if you hold back, then my mate here will rip you apart.’ Porter tipped his head at the Jock. ‘He’ll cut off the rest of your toes first. Then your fingers. Then your bollocks. By the time he’s finished you’ll have more stumps than the rainforest. It’ll take you days to die, and it’ll hurt like fuck.’

Deeds hung his head low. He was utterly broken now. He wept uncontrollably, shaking his head and whimpering. ‘This isn’t fucking happening,’ he kept saying, over and over. ‘This isn’t happening. It can’t be.’

‘It is,’ said Porter. ‘And if you want me to make it quick, you’d better start talking.’

Deeds clamped his eyes shut and clenched his brow. His face was a picture of torment as he wrestled with the agonising decision. ‘Fuck it. What do you want to know?’

‘You know who we are, Bill?’ Porter asked.

Deeds nodded. Barely. ‘You’re Regiment. You were there that day. At the Brecons.’

‘Then you know why we’re here.’

Deeds didn’t say anything this time. He didn’t need to. His face gave him away.

‘Who else was involved?’ Porter demanded.

‘There were six of us,’ Deeds said between ragged draws of breath.

‘Who were the others, Bill?’

‘Serbs. They were Serbs.’

Porter glanced at Bald in surprise. He thought back to what Lakes had said. About Deeds going underground after he’d tried to smuggle weapons.
It’s possible the Serbian mafia was involved
, she’d said.

Maybe he’s just one link in a very long chain.

Jesus, thought Porter.

Did the Serb mafia order the hit on the Regiment?

He looked back to Deeds. ‘All of them? They were all Serbs?’

Deeds managed a nod. His eyes were dim and he was slipping in and out of consciousness. The adrenaline was starting to wear off and the pain was kicking in. Any moment now the guy would go floppy.

‘Where are the others now?’ Porter said. ‘Are they here, in Spain?’

‘Scattered,’ said Deeds. ‘All over. That was the plan. That’s what we were told to do.’

‘By who?’

But Deeds didn’t answer. His head fell forward and his shoulders sagged. Spittle dangled out of the corners of his slack mouth, forming a neat pool on the floor. Porter gestured to Bald.

‘Wake this fucker up.’

Bald returned to the table and picked up the can of lighter fluid. He flipped up the red nozzle and paced over to Deeds. Gave the can a squeeze and poured fluid on his chest. Then he struck a match and chucked it at Deeds. His chest went up in flames. Deeds jolted upright. He howled, writhing in pain. When the guy was nice and toasted Bald unscrewed the cap on a bottle of water and chucked it over Deeds, dousing the flames.

‘Jesus,’ he gasped, clenching his teeth. ‘Oh fuck, oh Jesus. Fuck!’

Bald went to light Deeds up again but Porter shot him a look that said,
That’s enough
. They needed Deeds awake. Not dead. Not yet, anyway. Bald reluctantly lowered the can of lighter fluid and took a step back. Porter swung his gaze back to Deeds. The guy looked all kinds of fucked up.

Porter said, ‘Who gave the order?’

Deeds groaned and said, ‘These people. They’re not fucking amateurs, like. They’re big time. They’ve got serious balls on them. You don’t want to mess with them.’

‘I’ll take my chances. Tell me now, or you lose another toe.’

Deeds hesitated. Bald snapped. He moved towards the ex-Para, his face shading white with rage as he wielded the bolt-cutters. ‘You killed our mates, you cunt. You’d better fucking talk.’

Porter ignored his mucker and focused his gaze on Deeds, appealing to the guy’s judgement. He was playing a craftier game than Bald. The Jock was pure anger. Porter knew it was better to try and tease the int out of Deeds by offering him the incentive of a soldier’s death. He was still going to rip the guy to shreds once they’d got all the information out of him. But Deeds didn’t know that.

‘His name,’ Porter said. ‘Tell us who planned the attack, and I’ll make it quick.’

Deeds took a deep draw of breath. Then he spoke.

‘It’s Brozovic,’ he said. ‘His name is Radoslav Brozovic, but everyone calls him the Tiger.’

A long moment of stunned silence played out in the room. Deeds slumped in his chair. Porter felt a cold dread run down his spine. He looked to Bald. Saw the colour draining from his mucker’s face, like water running down a plughole. Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to.

Radoslav Brozovic.

They’d both heard that name before.

TWENTY-SEVEN

0204 hours.

The silence went on for what seemed like a long while, but was probably no more than two or three seconds. Porter just stood there, an invisible band tightening around his chest. Then Bald spoke.

‘The Serb warlord?’ He cocked his head at Porter and frowned. ‘Isn’t that the cunt you went after in Bosnia?’

Porter nodded and said, ‘Yeah. That’s him all right.’

The memories came rushing back at him. Like a fist to the solar plexus. Images he’d spent the past eighteen months trying to erase. Bosnia, 1997. Porter had been part of a four-man team sent out to put a stop to Radoslav Brozovic. The self-styled Tiger of the Balkans commanded a notorious paramilitary unit, the Red Eagles. His soldiers had been running wild, butchering Muslims, raping women and burying kids alive in the villages along the border with Bosnia. Reports flooded in daily of new atrocities linked to Brozovic and his goons. There were rumours the guy took a golf bag and a caddy wherever he went. Instead of clubs, the golf bag was filled with weapons. A length of wood with rusted nails driven through it. A baseball bat. A pickaxe, a crowbar. All different kinds of weapons. Whenever they entered a town Brozovic’s men would round up any Muslims and force them to their knees. Then Brozovic would turn to his caddy and ask for the nine iron, or the wedge or the putter. The caddy would hand over the right club. Then Brozovic would batter the victim until their brains were seeping out of their skull. The Red Eagles made Arkan’s toughs look like the Care Bears.

It had taken months to track Brozovic down. Int suggested the guy was holed up in a remote town close to the border at Zvornik. All the young men had left the village to go and fight for the various sides, leaving the old boys behind. Brozovic’s men moved in and turned the village into a living hell. They lined up every Muslim and had them shot. They kidnapped girls from both sides of the divide and took them to a house on the outskirts of the village. Then they took turns to rape the girls, renting them out to Serbian soldiers who needed to let off steam. When they were done, Brozovic had his men slit the girls’ throats and dump their bodies in a separate room. Porter’s team had gone in covertly and OP’d the village from a lying-up point just to the south. Once they had eyes on the toughs, Porter had called in an artillery barrage right on top of his position, risking his own safety to nail the fuckers. The fast air had narrowly missed Porter. Brozovic had left the village moments before, but most of his lieutenants had been blown to pieces.

Including his younger brother, Bosko.

Everyone in the Regiment knew about the op. Every Christmas all the various squadrons got together for the annual cross-brief. Decorations were handed out, missions were discussed and some of the lads from Delta or the SEALs often joined in, giving briefings on ops they’d run. After the Regimental rugby match the lads had a massive scoff and then got shitfaced in the squadron bars. So Bald knew all about Porter’s DCM. He knew all about the op to take down Brozovic. And he knew that Porter had been warning the head shed of the massacres taking place in Bosnia, long before anyone in Whitehall had stared to sit up and take notice.

Bald shook his head angrily. ‘Why the fuck would Brozovic carry out an attack on the Regiment?’

He looked to Deeds as he spoke. The guy was still groaning in pain, struggling to keep his head up. The skin on his chest was blistered. He parted his cracked lips and said, ‘The same reason you’re here. Revenge.’

‘For killing his brother?’ Porter said.

Deeds nodded. ‘For killing Bosko. And for wiping out half his gang. Brozovic wanted to make the SAS pay. An eye for a fucking eye.’

‘So he had you carry out the attack?’

‘Brozovic had his own men lined up for the gig. But he needed someone local. Someone who knew about Selection, all the ins and outs. Someone who could show his guys the ropes.’

Porter glared at Deeds. A spark of rage flared in his chest. ‘And you just went along with it?’

‘I had no fucking choice,’ Deeds said. There was a pleading look in his eyes as he spoke. ‘Jesus, I needed the wedge. After they kicked me out of the Paras, I couldn’t get a job. I had sod-all. I didn’t even have a pot to piss in.’

‘Spare us the fucking sob story,’ Bald put in. ‘You should have thought about that before you started trading weapons to the Serbs.’

Porter rubbed his jaw and said, ‘How did Brozovic know it was the Regiment who carried out the attack? That op was covert. No one knew we were out there. All the lads were undercover.’

‘Brozovic hired a private investigator,’ said Deeds. ‘Some Serb down in London. Ex-security services. He cross-checked the records of the
London Gazette
looking for anything that matched the date of the bombing. He found that there had been a DCM awarded for a lad in the Irish Guards on that day. And the Irish Guards weren’t even in Bosnia then.’

The temperature in the room plummeted. The hairs on the back of Porter’s neck stood on end as he cast his mind back to the notice in the
Gazette
. He remembered every word of it. The notice had appeared under ‘Honours and Awards’.