Blood Moon Rising (A Beatrix Rose Thriller Book 2) by Mark Dawson Page B
Authors: Mark Dawson
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weird as the rest of the crazy city: armed guards at the door and an atmosphere that was wound tight with apprehension. The other drinkers were going about their business with single-minded determination, as if they could find reassurance in the bottom of their glasses. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a sleeveless top that emphasised her lithe and muscular figure.
A man had been drinking next to her for the last five minutes . He was alone and she had noticed him casting cautious looks in her direction. She had angled her shoulders away from him and was about to take an empty table when he cleared his throat awkwardly .
“I’m Simon.”
She nodded impassively.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He pointed at her empty glass. “But you’ve finished. Let me get you another one.”
She turned to face him. Her eyes, icy powder - blue, were blank and pitiless as she stared at him. She could see the confidence that he had managed to assemble melt like the ice cubes in his glass. “No,” she said. “Thank you. I’m fine.”
He swallowed down his embarrassment and shuffled around on his stool.
“Excuse me.”
Beatrix turned in the other direction, an exasperated retort on the tip of her tongue.
The man standing at the bar was in his early thirties. He was muscular, with thick arms that bulged through a grey T-shirt that was a little too small for him. He had a pair of Aviators pushed back on his forehead, and his black hair was cropped short, a number one buzz cut. His jaw was square and his skin was tanned.
“Miss Rose?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Damon Faulkner,” he said. “Michael Pope sent me.”
Faulkner bought them both drinks, and they moved to a quiet table in the corner of the bar where there was less chance that they would be overheard. Beatrix watched as he brought the fresh pints across the room to her. He was obviously ex-military: he walked with the confident gait that she had come to expect in spec-ops guys and his appearance was straight out of central casting. He deposited the beers on the table and sat down.
“Good to meet you,” he said. “Pope has told me a lot abou t you.”
“Really?”
“I think he’s a fan.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “He hasn’t told me anything about you.”
He smiled. “I was in the Regiment for five years, until two months ago. That’s when I got the tap on the shoulder, and they asked me if I was interested in transferring to the Group.”
“What are you? Number . . . ?”
“Number Twelve.”
“Twelve.” The most junior member of the team.
“That’s right. I understand there’ve been a few vacancies recently.”
Five , she thought. Five traitors whom she and Milton had eliminated on the Russian steppes.
“How much do you know?”
“I know that Captain Pope’s predecessor and some of his agents were corrupt.”
“And what do you know about this?”
“This?”
“This. Why you’re here with me.”
“He wants me to get you into Iraq. Once we get to Basra, he wants me to get you equipped and then get you down to Rumaila.”
“Anything else?”
“We’re going to bring a chap across the border afterwards.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all he told me.”
Beatrix hadn’t asked for help, but if Faulkner was decent, then perhaps it would be useful to have him around.
“Alright. What’s your plan?”
“I’m parked outside. We’ll wait until it’s dark and then we’ll drive west. Once we get to Basra, I’ll fix up an appointment with the Group quartermaster. Should be able to get you kitted up with most of the gear you want. Sound alright to you?”
Chapter Twelve
F aik was taken back into the main prison building and led through the warren of corridors until he reached a s mall cel l with thir ty other men inside. There was a bench along one wall and a bucket for them to relieve themselves. There were no windows and the only light came from a flickering striplight hi gh above .
The
A man had been drinking next to her for the last five minutes . He was alone and she had noticed him casting cautious looks in her direction. She had angled her shoulders away from him and was about to take an empty table when he cleared his throat awkwardly .
“I’m Simon.”
She nodded impassively.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He pointed at her empty glass. “But you’ve finished. Let me get you another one.”
She turned to face him. Her eyes, icy powder - blue, were blank and pitiless as she stared at him. She could see the confidence that he had managed to assemble melt like the ice cubes in his glass. “No,” she said. “Thank you. I’m fine.”
He swallowed down his embarrassment and shuffled around on his stool.
“Excuse me.”
Beatrix turned in the other direction, an exasperated retort on the tip of her tongue.
The man standing at the bar was in his early thirties. He was muscular, with thick arms that bulged through a grey T-shirt that was a little too small for him. He had a pair of Aviators pushed back on his forehead, and his black hair was cropped short, a number one buzz cut. His jaw was square and his skin was tanned.
“Miss Rose?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Damon Faulkner,” he said. “Michael Pope sent me.”
Faulkner bought them both drinks, and they moved to a quiet table in the corner of the bar where there was less chance that they would be overheard. Beatrix watched as he brought the fresh pints across the room to her. He was obviously ex-military: he walked with the confident gait that she had come to expect in spec-ops guys and his appearance was straight out of central casting. He deposited the beers on the table and sat down.
“Good to meet you,” he said. “Pope has told me a lot abou t you.”
“Really?”
“I think he’s a fan.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “He hasn’t told me anything about you.”
He smiled. “I was in the Regiment for five years, until two months ago. That’s when I got the tap on the shoulder, and they asked me if I was interested in transferring to the Group.”
“What are you? Number . . . ?”
“Number Twelve.”
“Twelve.” The most junior member of the team.
“That’s right. I understand there’ve been a few vacancies recently.”
Five , she thought. Five traitors whom she and Milton had eliminated on the Russian steppes.
“How much do you know?”
“I know that Captain Pope’s predecessor and some of his agents were corrupt.”
“And what do you know about this?”
“This?”
“This. Why you’re here with me.”
“He wants me to get you into Iraq. Once we get to Basra, he wants me to get you equipped and then get you down to Rumaila.”
“Anything else?”
“We’re going to bring a chap across the border afterwards.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all he told me.”
Beatrix hadn’t asked for help, but if Faulkner was decent, then perhaps it would be useful to have him around.
“Alright. What’s your plan?”
“I’m parked outside. We’ll wait until it’s dark and then we’ll drive west. Once we get to Basra, I’ll fix up an appointment with the Group quartermaster. Should be able to get you kitted up with most of the gear you want. Sound alright to you?”
Chapter Twelve
F aik was taken back into the main prison building and led through the warren of corridors until he reached a s mall cel l with thir ty other men inside. There was a bench along one wall and a bucket for them to relieve themselves. There were no windows and the only light came from a flickering striplight hi gh above .
The
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