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  Boodu gestured to the guard, who clicked the switch with a thumbnail. The LED went dark. Chuckling, he regarded Eddie again. “You shouldn’t have set it to transmit on a military frequency, Chase. A stupid mistake.”

  “Oh, I dunno,” said Eddie. A sudden confidence in his voice was accompanied by distant sounds from outside, a series of flat thuds. Boodu stiffened, realizing that the situation had somehow changed. “It wasn’t to tell my mates I was here.” A broad smile exposed the gap between his front teeth. “It was to tell ’em you were here.”

  He dropped and shielded his head—

  A rising high-pitched whine told Boodu what was happening—but too late to do anything about it as mortar shells struck the prison.

  A hole exploded in the corridor’s ceiling, shrapnel ripping into the head and back of the prison official. The governor was also hit, the blast flinging him into the cell. Both Boodu and the guard were thrown off their feet as more detonations tore through the building.

  Eddie lifted his head as the first round of shelling ceased. As planned, the bombs had been fired to impact in a pattern around his cell as soon as the beacon was switched off. Risky, but he’d had confidence in his collaborators’ aim. The mortars were just over the top of a small ridge almost a mile from the fort, set up and sighted on his position by surreptitious use of a laser rangefinder during the early hours of the morning. So far, they were on target. The door hung off its hinges, the wall beside it smashed. A shaft of sunlight cut through the swirling dust from a hole in the roof.

  He jumped up. The guard was closest to him, breaking out of his daze as he saw the prisoner move and standing clumsily, raising his gun—

  Eddie grabbed his arm and wrenched it up behind his back as he fired. The bullet smacked against the door.

  The sound shocked the governor back to life. He fumbled for his own holstered weapon, broad face contorted in panic and fury.

  Eddie twisted the guard’s arm even harder, jamming the gun’s muzzle into his lower back—and his own index finger on top of his captive’s. Four shots burst gorily through the guard’s abdomen. Even mangled and smashed by their passage, the rounds still had enough force to tear into the governor’s flesh. He screamed, gun forgotten as he writhed in agony from the mortal wounds.

  Pulling the gun from the dead guard’s hand, Eddie dropped the corpse and whirled to face Boodu. The Zimbabwean was on his hands and knees. As he squinted in pain and disorientation, his gaze fell upon his machete, the ornate handle just inches away. He grabbed it—

  Eddie’s foot stamped down on the blade.

  Boodu looked up to find the smoking, blood-dripping gun pointed right at him. “All right, face-ache,” Eddie growled. “Let go.” Boodu withdrew his hand and backed away. The Englishman bent to retrieve the machete. Outside, an alarm bell started ringing—just as another round of far-off thumps reached the prison. “Oh, and if I were you, I’d duck.”

  Boodu shielded his head as another round of mortar shells struck their targets. These explosions were farther away, but still shook dust from the ceiling as guard towers were blasted into fragments and the prefabricated administration block blew apart, the remains collapsing on top of the prison staff inside.

  Eddie jabbed Boodu with the machete. Another noise rose: the helicopter, its pilot desperately trying to take off. “Okay, get up. Get up!” He gestured with the gun toward the broken door. “Move.”

  Boodu had no choice but to obey, though his voice seethed with defiance. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Long term? Botswana. Short term,” Eddie went on as the other man responded with confusion, “we’re going to do what I came here for—get Strutter. Lead the way.”

  “You can’t get out of here,” Boodu spat as they exited the cell. Through the hole in the ceiling, they heard the Alouette’s roar as it left the ground. “The main gate is shut, and mortars won’t break it—I know, I attacked this place during the war. You need a tank. And you don’t have one.”

  “Let me worry about that,” said Eddie. He prodded him again, far from gently, with the machete’s point. “Come on, shift your arse.”

  Making an angry sound, Boodu stepped over the rubble littering the floor and moved down the passage, Eddie a few paces behind. Another explosion outside: a secondary detonation, one of the vehicles inside the compound. There would be a last round of shelling, then after that everything depended on getting the main gate open …

  Frantic yelling and thumping came from a cell as they passed it, a man inside begging in the Shona language. Eddie checked the door, but it needed a key. Shit! He should have taken the set from the dead guard—

  Another guard ran out from a junction ahead, gun in hand. He looked relieved to see Boodu—then realized that the militia leader was not alone and whipped up his pistol.

  Eddie was quicker. A single shot and the guard fell backward, blood gushing from a bullet wound in his forehead.

  Boodu spun, intending to take advantage of the distraction and tackle Eddie, but the Englishman had already brought the gun back to cover him. “Get his keys and open the cell,” he ordered.

  Boodu glared venomously at him; then after a moment, a calculating expression formed on his face. “Why don’t you just kill me?” he asked, more rhetorically than in concern. Cunning replaced calculation. “You can’t, can you? You need me alive.”

  “Not quite,” said Eddie. “I want you alive, ’cause I’ll get paid extra.”

  “And you said you weren’t a mercenary anymore,” Boodu scoffed, before the implications of Eddie’s words sank in. “Paid? By who?”

  “Oh, just the people I got across the border last time I was here. And some other Zimbabweans who escaped.” His voice hardened. “People who had to leave family behind. Family you got hold of. They’re pretty keen to see you again—on their terms.” A flicker of genuine fear replaced the arrogance in Boodu’s eyes. “Strutter’s the main reason I’m here, but giving you to them’s a bonus. Don’t get me wrong, though—if you try anything again, I’ll blow your fucking head off and give ’em what’s left of it in a carrier bag. Now open the door.”

  Boodu did as he was told. The door swung open and a haggard man, face swollen with bruises, rushed out—only to retreat in fear when he saw who had released him.

  “It’s okay, come out,” said Eddie, bringing his gun to the back of Boodu’s head to show the terrified prisoner that the balance of power had changed. He glanced into the cell and saw that the man was not alone; there were five others, all showing signs of recent beatings, in the cramped, sweltering space. He tossed the keys into the room. “Get everyone out, and be ready to run when you see the signal.”

  “What signal?” a prisoner asked.

  Eddie grinned. “You won’t miss it.” He swatted Boodu with the machete as the men in the cell hesitantly emerged, as if expecting some cruel trick. “Keep moving.”

  “You are setting these traitors, these scum, free?” Boodu hissed through clenched teeth. “You’ll die for this, Chase!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Eddie replied with a shrug. “But first, let’s set another scumbag free and get Strutter, eh?”

  Trying to mask his concern, Boodu continued down the passageway, Eddie behind him. More people were quickly released from other cells. Another series of explosions shook the old fort: the final mortar attack. If things were going according to plan, the prison would now be in chaos, with communications and most of the defenses smashed. The next phase—creating an escape route—should now be under way.

  But while freeing Zimbabwean political prisoners would be a great humanitarian feat, it wasn’t why Eddie was there. Only one prisoner concerned him.

  The man behind the steel door they had just reached.

  Keeping Boodu at gunpoint, Eddie listened at the grille set into it, straining to make out anything over the clamor of alarm bells. That the opening was there at all spoke volumes. Torture chambers designed for the purpose of extracting information were generally soun
dproofed, the atrocities committed within witnessed only by the torturers and their victims. This, though, let everyone in the cells hear the screams. Another form of torture, more insidious, one that didn’t even require the abusers to lay a hand on their other victims.

  Through the door, he heard muted gasping. Anything else was masked by the bells and his own less-than-perfect hearing, damaged by years of exposure to gunfire and explosions. “Open it,” he muttered to Boodu.

  The Zimbabwean glowered, but pushed the door open. “It’s Boodu,” he announced.

  There was no answer. Surprised, Boodu stepped cautiously into the chamber. Eddie followed a couple of steps behind. On the far side of the shadowed room he saw the man he had come to rescue: Johnny Strutter, an overweight Kenyan man in his forties. Strutter was shackled face-first against the wall, his bare back marked with savage weals and bleeding lines where he had been whipped. There was also a strong, sickly smell like scorched meat. Burn marks dotted across Strutter’s shoulders and upper back told Eddie that it wasn’t from a barbecue. A bench beside him was home to numerous instruments of torture, some of which had been demonstrated to—and upon—Eddie the previous day.

  Their user was gone, however. The torturer had fled like a coward at the first sign of danger. Whips and hooks and soldering irons were no defense against bombs and bullets.

  Eddie gestured at Strutter. “Get him down.”

  At gunpoint, Boodu unlocked the shackles. The overweight man collapsed when the last one was released, moaning. “Into the corner,” snapped Eddie, signaling for Boodu to back away as he checked the prisoner.

  Strutter forced open his pain-clenched eyes. “Chase?” he rasped in disbelief. “Eddie Chase! God above, it is you! I almost didn’t recognize you with the beard …”

  “Can you walk?” Eddie demanded curtly.

  Strutter flexed his legs and grimaced. “I don’t know. I’ve been through a lot since I was arrested, old friend. You’ll have to carry me.”

  Eddie fixed him with a cold glare. “Let’s get this straight, Strutter. I’m not your old friend, and I’m not fucking carrying your fat arse anywhere. I want one thing out of you—information—and if you can’t move, I’ll chain you back to that wall and carry on where the last guy left off to get it.”

  Strutter hurriedly got up. “On the other hand, I could walk.”

  “Glad we’re on the same page.” Eddie turned back to Boodu. “All right, dickhead, let’s go. Strutter, take this machete. If he tries anything, stab him.”

  Strutter took the blade and eyed Boodu. “It would be a grand thing for the entire world if I just stabbed him anyway.”

  “I know, but I’ll get a few quid for handing him over.”

  “You are back in the mercenary business? I thought you left for good.”

  “It’s just temporary,” Eddie said as he returned to the door. The only people he saw outside were prisoners, a few of whom had acquired weapons from the guards and were exchanging intermittent fire through a door to the courtyard. Fort Helena was still in turmoil.

  But even with the governor dead, there was a chain of command. Somebody would soon take charge; every minute brought a counterattack closer. The armory might have been destroyed, but the guards still had firepower on their side.

  Boodu knew this too. “You can’t get out,” he said, sneering at the prisoners. “You think these starving dogs can break through the gate?”

  “Nope,” said Eddie, heading for the exit. “But I know someone who can.”

  As if on cue, more gunfire erupted outside—though from the prisoners’ confusion, it was clear that it wasn’t being aimed at them. Eddie cautiously peered into the courtyard. The watchtowers were smoldering wrecks, and a column of black smoke rose from the remains of the administration block. A car nearby was also ablaze. But what about the guards?

  He saw several uniformed men race across the courtyard to scale the steps built into the fort’s thick defensive wall, joining others along the ramparts—and firing on something outside the prison.

  Something getting closer.

  A deep rumbling growl filled the air. Boodu’s eyes went wide. “You do have a tank!”

  “Not quite,” said Eddie, “but the next best thing.” He smiled. “Check out my killdozer.”

  The great gates burst apart.

  Roaring through a cloud of dust and black diesel smoke was a large bulldozer, its front blade raised like a battering ram—but this was no ordinary construction vehicle. The engine compartment and cabin were covered by steel plates. The guards’ bullets clanked harmlessly off the armor as the behemoth ground over the ruined gates into the courtyard.

  The killdozer was not simply an impenetrable bullet magnet, however. It had weapons of its own. Slots in the cabin’s shields dropped open—and the muzzles of machine guns poked out, firing up at the fort’s defenders. Guards flailed and fell under the hail of fire. The machine rumbled on, flattening a car into unrecognizable scrap.

  Eddie called to the prisoners. “Okay! That’s your way out of here—there are trucks coming to the gate. When I tell you, run for it!”

  Boodu raged impotently. “English bastard! You’re helping these traitors escape? You’ll die for this—no, you’ll beg me to kill you after I’m finished with you!”

  The prisoners’ own fury rose as they realized who he was. Eddie reasserted who was in charge by cracking his gun against Boodu’s head. “Keep your fucking mouth shut—or I’ll give you to this lot. We’ll see who’s begging then.” Seeing the vengeance-filled eyes of the men surrounding him, Boodu wisely decided to stay silent.

  A thunderous explosion shook the building, and the lights went out. Eddie saw the killdozer backing away from the blazing remains of the prison’s generators. Through the gates, he spotted a pickup truck barreling down the dusty road to the fort. “If you’ve got a gun, get ready to use it!” he called. “If you haven’t, then run for the gate … now!”

  He broke from the doorway into the courtyard, gun at the ready. Strutter followed, forcing Boodu along at machete-point. The prisoners spilled out behind them.

  The killdozer was growling back to the gate, but Eddie was only concerned with the remaining guards. A man leaned around a corner and fired into the fleeing crowd—then dropped with a spurting chest wound as Eddie returned the favor.

  Another two guards rose from cover behind a wall and opened up with rifles. There were screams as prisoners were hit. Eddie turned to deal with the new threat, but the men in the killdozer beat him to it, the machine guns unleashing furious bursts of automatic fire. The wall pocked and splintered under the barrage, both guards tumbling amid bright red sprays of blood as bullets ripped into their bodies.

  Shots cracked out from the escapees. The other guards realized they were overmatched and tried to retreat. Spitting lines of fire from the killdozer tracked them.

  Eddie was almost at the gate. The pickup had stopped outside, more vehicles pulling up behind it. Inside them were resistance members opposed to Zimbabwe’s brutal government, many of whom had been driven to direct action by the imprisonment of family or friends in places like Fort Helena. A man jumped from the pickup and waved frantically to him: Banga Nandoro, one of those with whom Eddie had planned the whole operation.

  “Come on, hurry!” Banga yelled as Eddie charged through the gate, the prisoners following him. More men jumped from the arriving trucks to help pile the escapees aboard.

  Eddie ran to Banga, gun still raised as he watched the fort’s walls for snipers. “Glad you could make it,” he told the Zimbabwean as Boodu and Strutter caught up.

  Banga nodded, eyes fixed on the men emerging from the gate. At the sight of one in particular, he gasped. “Chinouyazue!” he cried, running to his brother.

  Eddie patted his heart. “Makes you feel all warm in here, doesn’t it?” Boodu’s expression twisted into a glower.

  The killdozer reached the gate, the remaining prisoners streaming past as it turned on its tracks
to prevent any surviving vehicles from leaving the compound. A steel slab dropped from the cabin’s side, hitting the ground with a bang. Two Zimbabweans holding machine guns emerged, followed by a huge Caucasian man who unfolded himself from the cramped confines and squeezed out. He saw Eddie and gave him a cheery wave, then hopped down and produced a hand grenade, pulling the pin and tossing it over his shoulder into the killdozer as he jogged away. An explosion ripped apart the controls, turning the makeshift tank into an extremely solid barricade.

  “Little man!” Oleg Maximov called as he approached Eddie. “You okay, da?” The bearded Russian scooped him up in a crushing embrace.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Eddie grunted. “Okay, okay, that’s hurting now!” Grinning, Maximov released him. Eddie saw numerous red marks on his face and arms: He had been scorched by the spent bullet casings pinging around inside the cabin. “Did you get burned?”

  “Da, a little,” said Maximov, tugging out a pair of silicone earplugs; without protection, the gunfire inside the metal-walled cabin would have been deafening. He smiled. “It felt good.”

  “You’re weird, Max.” Years earlier, the muscular giant had survived a bullet to the head, with the side effect that his pain response had become scrambled. Getting hurt now actually gave him pleasure, making the ex-Spetsnaz mercenary an extremely dangerous opponent, as Eddie had discovered.

  But they were on the same side for this job. “Nice work,” he told Maximov before turning his attention back to the escapees. Almost a hundred prisoners had been freed, he estimated—so many that it might be touch and go whether they could all fit in the waiting trucks. “Come on, move it!” he shouted, waving for the stragglers to hurry.

  “And where do you think they will all go?” Boodu demanded with condescending sarcasm. He glanced to the west; Botswana was only ten miles away. “The border is too well guarded—they will never get across it. And if they stay in Zimbabwe, we will find them. There is nowhere they can hide.”