The Crocodile Hunter Gerald Seymour (best ereader for pdf TXT) 📖

assumed his mum had hoped that taking him to Canterbury gaol at an impressionable age would turn him away from a life of crime. Truth was, Cammy had rather enjoyed his half-brother’s company and lifestyle, everything about him except for the years of imprisonment.

He was hungry but he would be fed when darkness fell on the city, when he would go back to his home on the estate above Sturry on the city’s outskirts. He would walk there, had a fast loping stride that could cover ground; was able to trek long distances even when the weight of the heavy machine-gun was biting the flesh on his shoulder . . .

Canterbury prison was now a builders’ site. Men worked in high-visibility orange. Far beyond the cranes were the cathedral’s towers. He would go there, then home. He thought it would be useful to be still and to watch, and he had time to kill.

Perhaps it was that ability, to assess and make judgements, that had propelled Cammy in his role as Kami al-Britani into the rank where his counsel was accepted by the group. If he said how it would be, then there would be no dispute from any of them: not from Mikki or Tomas, nor from Stan or Dwayne, or Pieter – not from Ulrike. Missed them, missed them so bad. Had made his promise while the hatred burned fiercest. Would get to the target, would have it in his weapon’s sight, would shout out all their names – and he would fire. Had nothing without them but for the determination to avenge . . .

Cammy had no idea of the situation affecting his security now that Syria was far behind him. They had lectures from guys representing the Amn al-Askari people but that was about the intelligence needed for planning attacks up the road. Once they had been addressed by a plump, bearded man from Amn al-Kharji which did foreign intelligence, anything beyond the battlefield. Often enough they were visited, even in the front line, by the more sinister of the organisations, Amn al-Dawla, who did the counter-intelligence of tracking down spies and informers, and it was a nightmare for all them around Cammy that they be betrayed. But he knew nothing of the intelligence-gathering systems in place back here, but he was suspicious, cautious. Had slid from the dinghy, and then swum up the shoreline, but had no knowledge of whether his name figured in briefings, whether he was forgotten, whether he was tracked, or whether he was an old file on a dust-covered shelf, deep in a hard drive library, and not looked at. Did not know. But assumed the worst, always good to look for the worst.

Time passed. He was not seen, attracted no attention, and the afternoon came and his stomach hurt, and ahead of him was the cathedral. And in the span of a day and night he would be far from here, and preparing to strike, and the hours slipped by and a man came to shut the gate to the churchyard. When the cranes on the site were still and when the high-visibility jackets were gone, he would move. He had the ability to sustain patience, and would need the rest before the following day came, his reason for living.

“You know what I’m thinking Mags?”

“Sorry, love, not a clue. What are you thinking?”

They were well on the road and the camper was travelling smoothly and within the speed limit, and traffic flowed easily around them. Baz drove carefully, and frequently checked his mirrors, and Mags had kicked off her shoes and had her feet hitched up on the dash in front of her. They were beyond Aachen and short of Maastricht and closing on the internal European frontier. On schedule and going at a speed that matched the habits of an elderly British couple returning home to the UK after a pleasant few days on the Continent – and bringing with them a little cargo.

“I’m thinking that we might have company.”

“You sure of that, Baz?”

“Not entirely sure, but almost sure.”

“You got the nose for it, love, if we have company.”

He explained. There was an Audi in their lane, dark green paintwork. A good colour because it did not stand out. Three back from them. Did not come closer, nor did it drop further behind. Very soon, they would be leaving German territory and going into Dutch jurisdiction . . . which was an opportunity, as he told it. He had her clicking at her i-Pad, checking the map.

“Just sort of need to nail it down.”

“Best idea, Baz, just that – nail it down with a bloody great hammer.”

He did not have to say that “company”, a police tail, would be a severe handicap to their hopes of a better funded lifestyle for their remaining years. Pretty obvious to both that the package they ferried was not cigarettes or cannabis skunk, and the weight of the item was such that there had been a sweat sheen on the forehead of the lad who had slung it toward Baz in the back of the camper. Obvious that it was weapons; weapons, in Baz’s limited experience, paid well. Where weapons were used was not a consideration in his mind, and she had dismissed it. “We’re just the delivery team, love, and how it’s used is not our business.” And he had thought she meant that the contents of a package were unlikely to disturb her beauty sleep – well, what there was of her “beauty”, and he chuckled. He told her what he wanted, and she started to plot the route for him . . . First he had to make sure.

Still in Germany. Still cruising, and had been holding that central lane for the last 40 klicks. A sudden flick of the wheel as they were coming towards a junction for the centre of Aachen, and they went into the inside lane, and he slowed the camper. He was checking his mirrors, and was rewarded. There were headlights flashing in the middle lane,