Free Boy Soldier by Andy McNab

his regular order of bacon, burgers and whatever else was running low. His pay-as-you-go mobile was switched on during the day for phone-in orders but was always turned off before he left for home.
    He was on the line to the cash-and-carry again, checking that the order was ready for collection, when he heard the footsteps approaching. No vehicle had pulled in and Frankie didn't get pedestrian customers. He hung up, put down the phone and let his hand rest on the Alabama lie detector he kept under the counter.
    This was the moment Frankie had feared ever since arriving back in England. He hadn't expected it to happen this way, but then he'd been trained to expect the unexpected. He didn't panic. Frankie never panicked.
    The footsteps got closer and louder and then stopped completely, just out of Frankie's line of vision. He waited, his fingers tightening on the baton, and then his unexpected, unwanted visitor moved towards him again.
    It was Danny – he recognized him instantly. But there was no sense of relief; it simply meant they were both in terrible danger.
    Danny's moment of recognition was just as instantaneous. His grandfather looked older, but the face that stared back at him was the face he'd seen so many times over the past few days in the old photograph. And the eyes were just the same as the eyes that stared back at Danny from the mirror each morning.
    'Thought I'd never find you, didn't you?' he snarled. 'Thought you could run away from me, didn't you, Fergus Watts?'
    Fergus had to try to bluff it out. He smiled. 'I'm sorry, son, I think you're mistaking me for someone else. The name's Frankie, like it says on the van. Frank Wilson. Do you want a cuppa tea or something?'
    But Danny was too pumped up and certain to be sidetracked. 'I don't care what you're calling yourself now, but you're Fergus Watts. My granddad. I wish you weren't, but you are.'
    It was pointless trying to continue with the subterfuge. Frank Wilson the smiling, friendly roadside tea-bar owner instantly disappeared and Fergus Watts, highly trained and skilled SAS veteran, took over.
    The shutter slammed down and Danny heard the click of a heavy padlock. The side door opened and Fergus emerged carrying his jacket and a bunch of keys.
    'Get in the car,' he ordered as he locked the van door and fixed another padlock.
    Danny pulled his mobile phone from his jacket. 'Piss off! I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm calling the—'
    He got no further. Fergus grabbed him by his jacket collar, snatched the phone away and shoved it into a pocket. As Danny struggled, Fergus dragged him to the blue Fiesta, pulled open the door and threw him inside. 'Stay there!' he yelled and slammed the door.
    'Stand by, stand by. Jimmy has Bravo One and a definite Fergus towards the car. That's a positive ID on Fergus. He's limping. Jimmy still has the trigger and can give direction at the main. Wait . . . wait, that's both complete in the car . . . engine on. That's the car mobile towards the main . . .'
    The Fiesta roared away, spewing up gravel and dust as it raced from the lay-by.
    That's blue Fiesta gone left on the main . . . repeat, left on the main . . .'
    Another voice burst into Jimmy's earpiece.
    'Mick has the Fiesta . . . mobile on the main.'
     
    The team had been all over Danny from the moment he left Foxcroft that morning. It had been difficult once he'd taken the train at Liverpool Street. Fran had followed Danny onto the train, taking a different carriage. She checked at each station to see if Danny had got off and constantly relayed details to the others. The two cars and a motorbike had undertaken a high-speed chase from station to station through the streets of east London and Essex as the train ploughed through the suburbs and into the countryside.
    The TDM was no longer part of the operation. Jimmy had realized the machine had become too hot for the follow. He crawled out from under the tangle of bush and scrubby grass fifty metres down the road from