Last Light by Andy McNab Page A

light brown nylon jacket had ridden up to expose part of a black leather pancake holster sitting on a leather belt, just behind his right hip, and a green T-shirt dark with sweat. Even the back of his belt was soaking, and had turned a much darker brown than the rest.
    I could still hear the kids in the background, kicking their ball and yelling at each other. The pitch of their voices changed as one probably mis-kicked and was treated to squeals of derision. My hands, still stuck in the surgical gloves, were pruning up in the heat.
    Trainers lined up three not-too-healthy-looking Simpsons mugs, Bart, Marge and Homer, which pissed me off. Maggie was missing. There obviously wasn't going to be any brew for me. He threw a tea bag into each, splashed milk on top, then dug a spoon into a crumpled, half-empty bag of sugar, tipping heaps of it into two of the mugs.
    A toilet flushed in the garage area, and the sound got louder then softer as a door opened and closed. I could hear Sundance and the driver mumbling to each other but couldn't make out what was said.
    The Merc door slammed, the engine turned over, and there was more squeaking and grinding as the shutter lifted. Thirty seconds later the car backed out into the road and drove away. Maybe one K of the mugs was for me after all.
    | Sundance appeared at the office door, his back to us, checking |that the shutter had fully closed. As the steel banged on to the I floor, he walked to the settee and threw his green cotton bomber jacket on to the armrest of the nearest chair, revealing a wet maroon polo shirt and a chunky Sig 9mm, holstered just behind his right hip. On his left hip sat a light brown leather mag-carrier, with three thick pieces of elastic holding a magazine apiece. The first brass round of each glinted in the ceiling's white light. I almost laughed: three full mags, and just for little old me. I'd heard of overkill but this was something out of the last five minutes of Butch Cassidy. It was obvious where this boy had got his best ideas.
    He stripped off his polo shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from his face, exposing a badly scarred back. Two indentations were clearly gunshot wounds: I recognized them because I had one myself. Someone had also given him the good news with a knife, some of the slashes running the whole length of his back, with stitch marks either side. All in all, it looked quite a lot like an aerial photo of Clapham Junction. I Trainers, who'd just finished squeezing and fishing out the tea bags lifted up a brew for Sundance.
    "Still want one?" His accent was 100 per cent Belfast. If the driver turned out to be Welsh we'd be able to put together a joke book.
    "Right enough." Wiping his neck and shoulders, Sundance sat down in the chair nearest the TV, avoiding resting his wet, bare back against the velour by sitting upright on the edge. He took a tentative sip from Bart, the mug without sugar.
    He had been hitting the weights, but didn't have the chiselled look of a bodybuilder. He had the physique of a con who'd been pumping iron: the diet in prisons is so bad that when the lads take to the weights they end up barrel-chested and bulked up, rather than well honed.
    He glanced at me for the first time and caught me studying his back.
    "Belfast when you was just a wee soldier-boy." He treated himself to a little giggle, then nodded at the third Simpsons mug still on the floor by Trainers.
    "D'you want a tea, then, boy?"
    Trainers held up Marge.
    I nodded. Teah, I would, thanks."
    There was a pause for a couple of seconds while they exchanged a look, then both roared with laughter as Trainers did a bad Cockney accent.
    "Gor blimey, guy, I would, fan ks
    Trainers sat himself down on the settee with Homer, still laughing as he took the piss.
    "Strike a light, guvnor, yeah, I would, cheers. Luv a duck." At least someone was having fun.
    Trainers put his own brew on the cracked tiled floor and took off his jacket.
    He'd obviously had a tattoo removed