Free Hunter Killer by Chris Ryan

at himself. I look different , he thought to himself. I have grown up in the last ten minutes. I have become closer to God.
    God.
    He looked over at the sheet draped at the end of the room, with its Arabic symbol. Then he looked at his right hand. Karim’s blood was still wet on his fingertips. He moved his right forefinger up to his forehead, where he smeared the same symbol, clumsily, on his skin.
    He stared at himself. Bloodied. Blooded. And in a little corner of his mind, he imagined seeing his face on computer screens and newspapers around the world. The face of terror , they would call it. Western soldiers would hunt the world for him. But away from the lands of the infidel, he would be a hero. Admired and loved by all.
    But every hero has to start somewhere. Sarim tore his attention away from the mirror, stepped back to the rolled-up sheeting, and continued his transition from killer to undertaker. It was clever of Abu Rai’d to think of putting down the plastic, he thought. It made it much easier to clear up the mess.

Five
     
    Tuesday, 08.00hrs
    The rotor blades of the Regiment’s Augusta Westland were already turning on the Regiment helipad as Danny and Spud ran towards it through the early morning drizzle, wearing civvies but with their heavy Bergens slung over their shoulder. The headsetted pilot gave them a thumbs-up as they secured themselves in the aircraft. Seconds later, they were airborne. Time to target, 45 minutes plus.
    There was something disorientating about heading back in to London just hours after they’d left it. Danny stared down at the green patchwork of fields below them. His usual view from a helicopter was the gold and browns of desert terrain, which seemed somehow better suited to the business of war. Neither he nor Spud spoke. The events of the previous night kept spinning through Danny’s mind, but there was something else too. Danny was on edge about the prospect of seeing Hugo Buckingham again. It wasn’t just that he hated the bastard. Somewhere deep down, Danny realised, he associated the MI6 man with his last major op in Syria and all the terrible things that had happened there. Images of that time flashed into his head. Burning buildings. Dead-eyed mercenaries. An old friend, bleeding to death . . .
    What was it Clara kept saying to him? Danny, you have to stop remembering the things you want to forget.
    Danny and Spud almost never talked about that operation, but Syria had also been a very dark time for Spud. Maybe he was thinking back to those devastating few days too. Or maybe he was just too tired for his usual flow of wisecracks. Whatever the truth, the journey passed silently.
    It took 40 minutes for the outskirts of London to come into view. The chopper followed the line of the Thames, winding into the city past the sights that looked familiar even from the air: Battersea power station, Parliament Square, the MI6 building. Between the Millennium and Southwark bridges, the chopper veered to the left, heading north-east over St Paul’s and the Barbican. Moments later, the wide green open space of the Artillery Garden behind the Honourable Artillery Company came into view. Even from a height, Danny could tell how neatly manicured it was, laid out with the perfect lines of a cricket pitch, even though nobody would be playing cricket in this constant autumnal rain. The pitch had been turned into a landing zone surrounded by the high buildings of the city. It had clearly been given over to the security services: Danny’s eyes picked out five police cars and a number of other unmarked vehicles, as well as police officers and military guys in camouflage gear. A small, open-air operations base in the beating heart of London.
    The chopper had barely touched down before Danny and Spud disembarked with their gear and ran from the downdraft towards a soldier with a red beret standing by a black Land Rover Discovery.
    ‘Hereford?’ he asked as they approached.
    Danny and Spud