Free In Cold Blood by Mark Dawson Page A

their guard down. These boys are not professional. They don’t know what they’re doing. They don’t have a plan and they don’t have a routine. There will be a chance. And then I’ll get us out.”
    “So what were you before all this? Military, obviously, but…”
    “Special forces. SAS.”
    “And then private security?”
    “I did something else in between jobs.”
    “You’re not going to tell me what that was, though.”
    “That’s right. “
    “Classified?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Your men the same as you?”
    “Soldiers. Good ones. The kind of men you’d want in a situation like this. They won’t be flustered and they won’t panic. They’re just like me. They’ll wait for a chance. And then they’ll take it.” He sat up a little straighter. “Your crew, captain. Are they alright?”
    “Do you mean are they handling this? As well as can be expected.”
    “I mean do I have to worry about any of them giving us up?”
    Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t speak for them.”
    “You’re the captain, though.”
    “I don’t think that counts for much any more. We’re not at sea.”
    “No, but you’re still their C.O.” He leaned in closer and whispered with taut urgency, “And you need to make them listen to you. If the four of us are compromised in any way, your position gets worse, not better. You can’t do deals with these people. They don’t bargain. It’s all about ideology. If we’re here, we can get us out. If not, I’d say your odds just got exponentially worse. You understand what I’m saying, captain?”
    “I’m not going to say anything,” Joe said. “And these are good men, Joyce. I doubt they will, either.”
    Joe found he really didn’t like Joyce. He had an air of easy arrogance about him that was difficult to stomach. He was happy to let him know that he was a dangerous man, but he wouldn’t say why or how. It was all for effect. Joe didn’t like his attitude and he worried that the haughtiness might rub up against their captors the wrong way. He noted to himself that he would have to be ready to ameliorate the friction, because he guessed that it was coming.
    They heard the sound of footsteps descending the stone stairs and then the door unlocking. It opened and Farax and another two men, both of whom were armed, came inside. Farax was holding a large pot which smelt appetising.
    “Breakfast,” he said, putting the pot down on the floor. “ Behr . Goat liver. You like this?”
    There was also some flat bread, nicely baked and not fried, and some tea. Somali sheh was ridiculously sweet, not much more than a sugar solution coloured with brown dye. There were no plates and so the men tore off pieces of bread and scooped out the liver and onions. It was delicious and eating it reminded him how hungry he was. They hadn’t eaten for over a day. He went back for a second helping.
    Farax watched them with a preoccupied expression on his face.
    When they were done, he came across to where Joe was sitting and crouched down beside him.
    “Now, Joe,” he said. “We will talk about what I said on the boat yesterday. There was a man with a long rifle on the boat. He shot my friend. Shot him in head. Killed him. You must tell me who this man is.”
    Joyce was still next to him. Joe dared not take his eyes from Farax’s face for fear of incriminating him.
    “We had no long rifles,” he said. “I told you already. No rifles.”
    “You are sure?”
    “I am.”
    “Okay, Joe.”
    He stood up and nodded to the two men behind him. One of them stood back and levelled his AK and the other stepped forward and grabbed one of the crew by the shoulder and hauled him to his knees. “Up,” he ordered, tugging again until the man got up.
    Joe recognised the man. He was middled-aged, one of the chefs in the kitchen. He struggled until the AK was turned to face him, the gunman shouting angrily, “I shoot! I shoot!”
    “What are you doing?” Joe