Manhunter Chris Ryan (phonics story books txt) 📖

‘We will not be cowed into surrender,’ Kakuba was saying. ‘If Seguma thinks we are afraid, he is badly mistaken. We are ready to fight . . . even if it means death. Our lands have been ransacked. Our people have been tortured and murdered in the thousands. We have nothing to lose. We will not stop fighting until we have achieved a new dawn for Karatandu, for our people. A new socialist dawn.’

The camera cut again to a shot of President Seguma waving at his supporters as he boarded a plane. Kember shook his head in disgust. ‘I still can’t believe we’re having to protect this twat.’

Bowman said, ‘We’ve protected worse, mate.’

‘The guy is nicknamed the Viper, for fuck’s sake. He tied up one of his political opponents and tossed them into a pit of poisonous snakes.’

‘Come off it, mate. That story isn’t true.’

‘How would you know?’

Bowman shrugged. He was on the verge of an opioid withdrawal. He didn’t want to get dragged into a debate on ethics with Kember.

‘What about all those other stories about him personally torturing victims?’ said Kember. ‘Cutting off fingers and ears and toes, burying people alive, crucifying protestors and putting their heads on stakes? Are you saying it’s all bullshit?’

‘It doesn’t make any difference. We’re here now.’

‘You’re telling me you’re OK with this?’

‘We’ve got a job to do,’ Bowman replied tersely. ‘That’s it. Whatever you personally feel about the bloke, it doesn’t matter.’

Kember shook his head. ‘He’s a world-class psychopath. He’s slaughtering his own people. We shouldn’t be protecting him.’

‘It’s not that simple,’ Bowman said quietly.

‘Yeah, it bloody is.’ Kember nodded at the news report. ‘We’re putting our balls on the line for some tinpot dictator committing atrocities.’

‘This isn’t about Seguma. His country’s sitting on a load of gas and oil. It’s in our interests to keep him onside. If he gets plugged, the next bloke might not be so friendly.’

Kember sneered. ‘I don’t care if the country’s paved with gold. Doesn’t mean we should let the prick get away with murder.’

‘Your feelings about Seguma are the least of our problems.’ Bowman nodded at the screen. ‘Those protests are getting hot.’

‘What’s that got to do with our op?’

‘Think about it, Geordie. Seguma’s enemies will be even more motivated to get rid of him now.’

‘You ask me, they’d be doing the world a favour,’ Kember muttered. ‘But it ain’t gonna happen.’

Bowman turned to him. ‘You don’t think the threat is real?’

‘We’re talking about a few protestors in some African backwater,’ Kember argued. ‘They’re not exactly Delta Force. There’s no way they’ve got the organisation to plan a hit.’

Bowman shook his head, slowly. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

‘Bollocks,’ Kember said. ‘There’s no threat. You heard what they said at the briefing yesterday. Five thousand officers on the ground, plus sniper teams on the rooftops, the guys from Five and Six and the private security teams. No way anyone could get close enough to slot the principal.’

Bowman didn’t reply. The grating flared up between his temples once more. There was a strange tingling sensation in his muscles, like a million invisible ants crawling under his skin. Every cell in his body screamed at him to make the sickness go away, before it became unbearable.

With the pain came the first terrible murmurs of memory, the resurfacing of the nightmarish images he had tried desperately to forget. Like the echo of a bad trip, creeping up on him when he least expected it. Except these visions never faded away. They grew stronger, stalking Bowman. He remembered stepping through the front door. The stillborn quiet in the air, where there should have been laughter, noise. He remembered, too, the knife discarded on the carpet. The blood splashed across the kitchen floor. The bodies . . .

Bowman closed his eyes, as if he could somehow factory-reset his brain. As if it was that simple. Then the pain stabbed at him again, and he knew he couldn’t last much longer without a pill.

Kember was watching him closely, a quizzical look on his mug.

‘Fella? You all right?’

‘Fine,’ Bowman said. He could feel the sweat running freely down his back, seeping through his shirt. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Don’t look it,’ the Geordie said. ‘You ask me, you look like a bag of shite.’

‘It’s nothing.’

Kember shook his head. ‘I know what your problem is.’

Bowman tensed. Did Kember know he was using drugs? Or was that just the paranoia talking?

If he knows about my addiction, I’m done for.

‘It’s all that processed meat you’ve been eating,’ Kember went on. ‘No good for your body. Plant-based, that’s the way you want to go. Clean all that crap out of your system.’

‘Yeah,’ Bowman said non-committally. ‘Maybe.’

The pain intensified. Like holes being drilled into the sides of his skull. Nausea clogged the back of his throat. His hands were trembling. Bowman realised he was perspiring heavily.

He stood up. ‘Wait here,’ he said.

‘Where the fuck are you going?’ Kember asked.

‘Gotta take a piss.’

He hurried across the foyer towards the toilets, brushing past a group of Chinese tourists. The decor inside the toilets matched the rest of the lobby. Polished marble floor, granite countertop, brass taps. Luxury handwash, a posh brand Bowman didn’t recognise.

His hands were shaking as he fished out the plastic pill crusher he always carried. There was a storage compartment above the crusher but the pills inside weren’t the kind of thing you bought over the counter at your local Boots. Four tablets left in the container. Bowman knew he’d have to score a fresh supply soon, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now.

He flipped the cap open, plucked out one of the oval-shaped tablets and placed it in the crusher on the underside of the bottle. He secured the base and twisted the cap several times, grinding the tablet down to a fine white powder. Tipped the contents onto the countertop, dug out a ten-pound note from his wallet, rolled it up and inhaled the lines. The powder burned in his nostrils.