Free Who Dares Wins by Chris Ryan Page A

a silence. A silence that Sam remembered well. It put him on edge and caused a hotness at the back of his neck. Embarrassment.
    ‘I think you should drive home, Sam,’ Jacob said. ‘Now.’
    Sam looked into the rear-view mirror. No sign of his mates. Not yet.
    ‘You think you’re the big man. You think you’re the brave mister soldier. You think I’m too yellow to do this.’
    Jacob’s expression barely changed. If he was insulted by Sam’s words, it didn’t show.
    ‘I don’t think you’re too yellow to do it,’ he replied calmly.
    They sat there in silence for a moment. Jacob did not take his gaze away from Sam’s eyes.
    And then Sam had started the car. As he pulled out into the traffic he saw his mates arrive, but he didn’t stop. He drove home with his brother, neither of them saying a word.
    It was months later that Sam heard what happened to his accomplices. Three years, each of them. Out in eighteen months if they were lucky. But by then, Sam’s life had changed. On Jacob’s insistence he had already been recruited into the Paras; by the time his mates were back on the streets, Sam had his sights set on the Regiment. As his brother was so fond of saying, you’re a long time looking at the lid.
    He drained his pint and walked back up to the bar. The barmaid’s face spread fatly into a toad-like smile. Jesus, Sam thought to himself. Is she giving me the come-on? It was enough to put him off his beer. For a split second he considered fleeing to another pub, but that thought was interrupted by his mobile phone buzzing in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. Number withheld. His instinct was to leave it: it was probably one of the girls calling to give him his welcome-home present. But as his eyes flickered up again at the barmaid, the prospect suddenly didn’t seem so bad. He flicked the phone open and walked out of the pub to answer the call.
    ‘Yeah?’ he said.
    ‘Evening, Sam,’ a voice replied. ‘Jack Whitely.’
    Sam’s brow furrowed. Jack Whitely was the Ops Sergeant back at base. What the hell was he doing calling him now?
    ‘What is it, Jack?’ He knew he didn’t sound very friendly, and he didn’t much care.
    ‘You’re called in. Squadron briefing. 07.00.’
    ‘What are you talking about? We only got back this morning. We’re not standby squadron.’
    ‘07.00, Sam. CO’s orders. I’m calling in the rest of the squadron now.’
    ‘Good luck,’ Sam snapped. ‘It’ll go down like a pork chop at a fucking bar mitzvah.’
    ‘They’ll get over it. Go and get your beauty sleep, Sam. Or sleep with whichever beauty you’ve got lined up. I’ll see you in the morning.’
    There was a click as the Ops Sergeant hung up.
    Sam stood for a moment looking out into the darkness, with the phone still pressed to his ear. When he finally clicked it shut, it was with a sigh of pure irritation. After eight long, dry weeks in the field the beer was going to his head. He was knackered and he needed to lay up for a bit. A squadron briefing first thing in the morning was the last thing in the world he wanted. He glanced over his shoulder through the frosted glass window of the pub door. There was a warm glow from inside that belied the spit-and-sawdust nature of the place and he wanted to go back in. Then he looked back out towards the car park.
    ‘Fucking hell,’ he whispered to himself as he stuffed the phone back into his pocket, pulled out his keys, walked to the car and headed for home.
    *
    It was midnight and the pubs were chucking out. Jamie Spillane had tried to get drunk, but without much success. It wasn’t lack of money – earlier on he had withdrawn cash on the card Kelly kept hidden at the back of one of her dressing-table drawers; it was just that the booze wasn’t doing its job. He wasn’t feeling woozy and pleasant; he was feeling lairy and on-edge. The bar staff had lowered the lights in a last attempt to get the punters out, but Jamie was