the slaughter. Didn’t suspect a thing. And the idea of the avalanche...”
“It seemed logical. He was a skier.”
“Ideal. Plant charges, blow up a snowbank, leave the body at the bottom of the slope to get buried... Too bad that a search-and-rescue team decided to comb the area and found him, but, hey. That’s the breaks. We dug the bullets out of him, no alarm bells.”
“Maybe not straight away.”
“Not ever. And on the off-chance that there are, and our targets get wind of what we’re up to, it won’t make any difference. We’ve got what it takes to bring them down, each and every one of them.” Badenhorst jerked his head in the direction of the cargo hold, where eleven steel flightcases were stored, along with boxes of armaments, uniforms and other matériel. None of these items was listed on the flight manifest; nor were the names of anyone on the jet. Bauerfield International was a medium security airport, and no customs or immigration checks were performed on private aircraft landing or taking off from there. This was true of every airport the team had used and would be using. As long as they avoided the major international hubs, they could slip in and out of sovereign nations with the kind of impunity reserved for diplomats and monarchs.
“Let’s not get complacent,” said Roy.
“I never do.” Badenhorst beamed from one side of his broad Boer face to the other. “All I’m saying is, you’re a true asset to the Myrmidons, Roy. I’m glad I chose you. Well done, me.”
“Yeah, well done, you,” said Roy. “Now, if you don’t mind...” He nodded at the Kindle.
The Afrikaner finally took the hint. “Sure, sure. You get on with it. Not much of a reader myself. But this jet comes loaded with movies. I think there’s some Jean-Claude Van Damme stuff on there. Bam! Pow!” He mimed punches. “Give me that over a book any time.”
Shortly, Badenhorst was back in his seat up front, headphones on, watching a film on the 9-inch HD LCD monitor that swung out on an armature beside his seat armrest. Almost everyone else in the cabin was doing much the same. They had a long flight ahead of them, a little over twenty-four hours, not including refuelling stops. Movies helped alleviate the tedium, and the tension. There was also the option of falling asleep. Jeanne, the French Canadian sitting directly across the aisle from Roy, had plumped for that. Immediately after take-off she had reclined her seat, collared herself with a neck pillow, and closed her eyes determinedly.
She opened them briefly, catching sight of Roy as he looked at her. He gave a cockeyed smile. She nodded, not in an unfriendly way. Then she aimed a glance forward at Badenhorst, grimaced in distaste, and closed her eyes again.
Roy got it. Smart move. If only he had had the idea.
He liked Jeanne. Out of the entire squad, she was the one he got along best with; her and the other Englishman, Gavin. The rest weren’t disagreeable by any means, except maybe the German, Hans Schutkeker, who was just a little too full of himself for comfort, and of course Badenhorst himself, who was as aggravating as they come but at least seemed to know it. Gavin Martin and Jeanne... Chevrier? Was that her surname? Something like that. Gavin and her, they had a temperament similar to Roy’s own. They didn’t enjoy what they did – they didn’t get a kick out of it, as some of the others appeared to – they did it because they were good at it and weren’t suited for much else.
Outcomes facilitators was the official, somewhat euphemistic term for them.
Myrmidons was the group name Badenhorst had given them.
Assassins was what they were, if you wanted to get down to the nub of the matter.
Paid killers.
Wetworkers.
Currently flying aboard a luxury private airliner from the scene of their last operation to the scene of their next.
Roy tried to settle back into Killian’s Rage , but the mood was gone. He could no longer concentrate on the
“It seemed logical. He was a skier.”
“Ideal. Plant charges, blow up a snowbank, leave the body at the bottom of the slope to get buried... Too bad that a search-and-rescue team decided to comb the area and found him, but, hey. That’s the breaks. We dug the bullets out of him, no alarm bells.”
“Maybe not straight away.”
“Not ever. And on the off-chance that there are, and our targets get wind of what we’re up to, it won’t make any difference. We’ve got what it takes to bring them down, each and every one of them.” Badenhorst jerked his head in the direction of the cargo hold, where eleven steel flightcases were stored, along with boxes of armaments, uniforms and other matériel. None of these items was listed on the flight manifest; nor were the names of anyone on the jet. Bauerfield International was a medium security airport, and no customs or immigration checks were performed on private aircraft landing or taking off from there. This was true of every airport the team had used and would be using. As long as they avoided the major international hubs, they could slip in and out of sovereign nations with the kind of impunity reserved for diplomats and monarchs.
“Let’s not get complacent,” said Roy.
“I never do.” Badenhorst beamed from one side of his broad Boer face to the other. “All I’m saying is, you’re a true asset to the Myrmidons, Roy. I’m glad I chose you. Well done, me.”
“Yeah, well done, you,” said Roy. “Now, if you don’t mind...” He nodded at the Kindle.
The Afrikaner finally took the hint. “Sure, sure. You get on with it. Not much of a reader myself. But this jet comes loaded with movies. I think there’s some Jean-Claude Van Damme stuff on there. Bam! Pow!” He mimed punches. “Give me that over a book any time.”
Shortly, Badenhorst was back in his seat up front, headphones on, watching a film on the 9-inch HD LCD monitor that swung out on an armature beside his seat armrest. Almost everyone else in the cabin was doing much the same. They had a long flight ahead of them, a little over twenty-four hours, not including refuelling stops. Movies helped alleviate the tedium, and the tension. There was also the option of falling asleep. Jeanne, the French Canadian sitting directly across the aisle from Roy, had plumped for that. Immediately after take-off she had reclined her seat, collared herself with a neck pillow, and closed her eyes determinedly.
She opened them briefly, catching sight of Roy as he looked at her. He gave a cockeyed smile. She nodded, not in an unfriendly way. Then she aimed a glance forward at Badenhorst, grimaced in distaste, and closed her eyes again.
Roy got it. Smart move. If only he had had the idea.
He liked Jeanne. Out of the entire squad, she was the one he got along best with; her and the other Englishman, Gavin. The rest weren’t disagreeable by any means, except maybe the German, Hans Schutkeker, who was just a little too full of himself for comfort, and of course Badenhorst himself, who was as aggravating as they come but at least seemed to know it. Gavin Martin and Jeanne... Chevrier? Was that her surname? Something like that. Gavin and her, they had a temperament similar to Roy’s own. They didn’t enjoy what they did – they didn’t get a kick out of it, as some of the others appeared to – they did it because they were good at it and weren’t suited for much else.
Outcomes facilitators was the official, somewhat euphemistic term for them.
Myrmidons was the group name Badenhorst had given them.
Assassins was what they were, if you wanted to get down to the nub of the matter.
Paid killers.
Wetworkers.
Currently flying aboard a luxury private airliner from the scene of their last operation to the scene of their next.
Roy tried to settle back into Killian’s Rage , but the mood was gone. He could no longer concentrate on the