Really.”
“Later, Joe. We talk later.”
The door shut behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MOHAMMED SHOWED Pope to one of the guest rooms. Beatrix went back down to the shooting range and unlocked both cupboards. She collected her gear in a pile on the floor: a pair of Kiowa lightweight tactical boots, Mechanix fingerless gloves, a Tactical riggers belt and a collection of magazine and dump pouches. She added night vision binoculars, a Leatherman Wave multi-tool, two hydration pouches and a zippered nylon pouch that contained twenty four anodised steel throwing knives. She dropped in three flash-bangs and three fragmentation grenades. Her primary weapon was a Heckler & Koch MP-5 with a full thirty round magazine in the weapon and another couple of spares. She chose a Glock 17 for her secondary weapon. Both the Glock and the MP-5 were chambered for 9mm cartridges. She only wanted to carry one type of cartridge.
If she needed anything else she would scavenge it when she got to Somalia. She knew it would be simple enough to do.
The last item she added was her kukri . It was a large, curved knife that was much favoured by the Gurkhas, the Nepalese soldiers with whom Beatrix had served in Iraq. It had belonged to a corporal who had died after Beatrix had rescued another two of his men. They had given it to her as a reminder of their gratitude. It was a little shorter than her forearm, kept in a leather scabbard that she could fit to her belt, and carried with a steel that was used to repair the edge of the blade.
She packed the gear in a waterproof rucksack and locked the range behind her. It was a bright night, with a full moon overhead, and eldritch light flooded down into the courtyard. The square aperture overhead framed the abundant star field like a painting. Beatrix sat by the plunge pool, took off her sandals and dipped her feet into the water. It was icily cold and refreshing, and, after just a handful of seconds her skin was tingling and alive. She looked around at the courtyard and then up to the second and third storeys. This was all hers. She loved the city and she knew that, had circumstances been different, she could have made a good life for herself here. But there was no point in fantasising about that. It was not the hand she had been dealt. She allowed her thoughts to drift and, for a moment, she lost a little of the fierce resolution that had driven her ever since John Milton had persuaded her to come out of hiding and leave Hong Kong behind.
Could she stay here and enjoy the time that she had left? There were eight years to catch up with Isabella. That would be challenging, but it would also be rewarding.
She felt the itch of the tattoo on her arm.
There was space there for five more.
Pope couldn’t seriously have expected her to just let it go?
She was owed a debt and she meant to collect it.
A blood debt.
To be paid in full.
HER ROOM was the biggest, and most luxurious, in the riad. It had its own veranda, swathed with bougainvillaea, overlooking the makeshift roofs and minarets of the city. She enjoyed the view and the cool night air for a moment and then returned to the bedroom. The walls were painted pink with tiny pieces of glass mosaic embedded within them. There were rustic woollen curtains before the wide windows and a pom-pom fringed throw on the bed.
She was tired, but her bones ached and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She went into the large bathroom, its walls of polished cream tadelakt , and drew a bath. She undressed and slipped into the steaming hot water, cleaning herself with the orange peel soap and the argan oil that Mohammed sourced from a supplier in the souk. She had endured eight years of privation during her exile before John Milton had found her. She was prepared to spoil herself now.
There would be precious little time for any of that later.
She untethered her thoughts and let them drift. They travelled back across those eight years, the most recent
“Later, Joe. We talk later.”
The door shut behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MOHAMMED SHOWED Pope to one of the guest rooms. Beatrix went back down to the shooting range and unlocked both cupboards. She collected her gear in a pile on the floor: a pair of Kiowa lightweight tactical boots, Mechanix fingerless gloves, a Tactical riggers belt and a collection of magazine and dump pouches. She added night vision binoculars, a Leatherman Wave multi-tool, two hydration pouches and a zippered nylon pouch that contained twenty four anodised steel throwing knives. She dropped in three flash-bangs and three fragmentation grenades. Her primary weapon was a Heckler & Koch MP-5 with a full thirty round magazine in the weapon and another couple of spares. She chose a Glock 17 for her secondary weapon. Both the Glock and the MP-5 were chambered for 9mm cartridges. She only wanted to carry one type of cartridge.
If she needed anything else she would scavenge it when she got to Somalia. She knew it would be simple enough to do.
The last item she added was her kukri . It was a large, curved knife that was much favoured by the Gurkhas, the Nepalese soldiers with whom Beatrix had served in Iraq. It had belonged to a corporal who had died after Beatrix had rescued another two of his men. They had given it to her as a reminder of their gratitude. It was a little shorter than her forearm, kept in a leather scabbard that she could fit to her belt, and carried with a steel that was used to repair the edge of the blade.
She packed the gear in a waterproof rucksack and locked the range behind her. It was a bright night, with a full moon overhead, and eldritch light flooded down into the courtyard. The square aperture overhead framed the abundant star field like a painting. Beatrix sat by the plunge pool, took off her sandals and dipped her feet into the water. It was icily cold and refreshing, and, after just a handful of seconds her skin was tingling and alive. She looked around at the courtyard and then up to the second and third storeys. This was all hers. She loved the city and she knew that, had circumstances been different, she could have made a good life for herself here. But there was no point in fantasising about that. It was not the hand she had been dealt. She allowed her thoughts to drift and, for a moment, she lost a little of the fierce resolution that had driven her ever since John Milton had persuaded her to come out of hiding and leave Hong Kong behind.
Could she stay here and enjoy the time that she had left? There were eight years to catch up with Isabella. That would be challenging, but it would also be rewarding.
She felt the itch of the tattoo on her arm.
There was space there for five more.
Pope couldn’t seriously have expected her to just let it go?
She was owed a debt and she meant to collect it.
A blood debt.
To be paid in full.
HER ROOM was the biggest, and most luxurious, in the riad. It had its own veranda, swathed with bougainvillaea, overlooking the makeshift roofs and minarets of the city. She enjoyed the view and the cool night air for a moment and then returned to the bedroom. The walls were painted pink with tiny pieces of glass mosaic embedded within them. There were rustic woollen curtains before the wide windows and a pom-pom fringed throw on the bed.
She was tired, but her bones ached and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She went into the large bathroom, its walls of polished cream tadelakt , and drew a bath. She undressed and slipped into the steaming hot water, cleaning herself with the orange peel soap and the argan oil that Mohammed sourced from a supplier in the souk. She had endured eight years of privation during her exile before John Milton had found her. She was prepared to spoil herself now.
There would be precious little time for any of that later.
She untethered her thoughts and let them drift. They travelled back across those eight years, the most recent
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