Exit Wound by Andy McNab Page B

treated. Some of the Brit girls used to get on to her. They said she was too soft with the two girls who ran the house, setting a bad example by not treating them like shit.’
    Dex walked away empty-handed but smiling. I realized he was singing. ‘“Jolly boating weather . . .”’ His Indian-waiter accent was outrageous. ‘“And a hay harvest breeze . . .”’
    The Romford Two were sure he was taking the piss but they didn’t know how.
    Red Ken picked up his set and handed Dex his. ‘You finished? Can we go and get on?’
    Dex grinned and carried on singing. ‘“Swing, swing together . . .”’
    I followed them outside. We sat in the shade to put on our spiky shoes. As soon as we headed back out into the sun, I could see four buggies waiting for us. In one of them sat an egg-shaped guy, his little white legs dangling just above the buggy floor. His short-sleeved white shirt bulged above his smartly pressed red chino shorts and knee-length white socks.
    ‘Spag.’ Dex beamed. ‘How are you, old chap?’

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    I tried not to look surprised.
    Spag stayed under the canopy but a fat and hairy hand stretched out for mine as Dex and Red Ken loaded the clubs into the other three buggies. I clasped his stumpy sausage fingers.
    ‘You look well, Nick.’
    The same couldn’t be said for him. The face under the peak of the cap had had too many visits to the food hall, and its owner had spent far too long sat on his arse. I couldn’t see the eyes behind the dark lenses but I liked to think they were bloodshot. He still wore his seventies porn-star moustache, but like the hair growing out of his ears, it was greyer.
    He let go of my hand and put his foot on the pedal. We followed and drew up at the first tee. Spag climbed out, pressed a blue tee into the grass and a ball on top. By the time he stood up again his face was red and sweating.
    The other two were out of their wagons, staying out of range of his swing.
    Red Ken nodded at me. ‘We knew you’d be pleased.’
    Dex watched with a hand over his eyes, waiting to see where this ball was going to end up.
    Spag took a practice swing. ‘We’ve got a good tee-off time here. Nobody up our asses, listening in.’ His club went back and whacked the ball. I lost sight of it in the low sun.
    ‘Me next.’ Dex selected a club and approached the tee. His whiter-than-white teeth gleamed as he grinned at me. ‘It’s a small world, isn’t it?’
    The whack as his club hit the ball sounded more solid than Spag’s had.
    As Red Ken took his practice swing, Spag came and stood next to me. ‘Damn shame about Tennyson. Goddam Taliban, we should nuke ’em back to the Stone Age.’
    I nodded to keep him talking.
    ‘These guys wanted you on the job all along, you know – like getting the old band together. But nobody knew where to find you. Maybe Tenny getting killed was kind of a blessing.’
    I looked down at him. I couldn’t see his face past the peak of his cap. ‘I doubt he’d see it that way. How did you find them?’
    ‘Right here, on this course. Red was working here at the time. Then I tracked him down in the UK. I need guys I know, who won’t sink under pressure. You still one of those guys, Nick?’ He kept his eyes on Red Ken as he twisted his body, following the imaginary line his ball was going to take. He was waiting for an answer but I wasn’t going to play his game.
    ‘I need people who I know trust each other and know what they’re doing – and more than that, who are mission-oriented. Nothing will get in the way of the mission.’ Spag shooed away an invisible fly. He still wasn’t getting an answer. Fuck him.
    ‘Why aren’t you on the ground with us?’
    His laugh rang out a split second before Red Ken’s club connected. The ball flew off at an angle.
    ‘Bollocks!’ Red Ken glared at him, but Spag was oblivious.
    ‘Once out with you guys was enough.’ The roar of an aircraft taking off just a K away drowned even the hum of traffic on the