Going Grey Read Free Page A

worst.
    "No cover," Rob said. "Sam, stand by to put some smoke down if we have problems. I don't like the look of the trees."
    Trouble. Check weapons, comms, cam.
    Rob adjusted the microcam clipped to his radio headband in case he needed to prove he'd handed over cash. When the road straightened out of a blind bend, he could see a knot of vehicles blocking the road seventy meters ahead. It resolved into a battered SUV hemmed in by the technicals, three Toyota pickups with Russian RPKs mounted on the back.
    Two of the technicals were parked with their guns aimed down the road. The third faced the opposite direction, giving them a 360 degree arc of fire. These blokes weren't amateurs.
    Rob counted heads while he went through his ritual again, touching rifle, sidearm, and ammo to remind his hands what might be needed. There were eight local lads on and around the Toyotas, all under thirty, five nursing AK-47s and three manning the guns. Next to the SUV, five white civvies – three men, two women – stood in a tidy line that said they'd been ordered not to move.
    Sam brought the ACMAT to a halt at an angle so that Rob was facing the roadblock sideways. At least Sam could get out of the vehicle with the engine block for cover. He was also in position to make a fast exit.
    "That must be the American," Sam said, doing a discreet nod.
    The bloke stood out like the Eddystone lighthouse. He was big and blonde, much taller than the civvies, wearing the unofficial uniform of black T-shirt and desert camo pants that a lot of contractors seemed to wear. No body armour, though, and no weapon: the Nazani lads must have taken them. He looked like the business, but Rob took nothing on trust.
    "When Yanks are good," Rob said, "they're very good. But when they're not, they're a fucking liability."
    Sam fiddled with his headset. "We can rely on your persuasive powers, Robert. And dollars. The Humvees will be in position in a few minutes."
    "Okay, cover the gunner on the left, just in case. Some bastard in the trees has probably got me lined up, but I'll take the other bloke if anything goes wrong. Toss a coin for the third one."
    Rob adjusted his beret and slid out to start the lonely walk to the checkpoint, rifle slung to make it clear he wouldn't take any shit. He glanced at the American, working out whether he was going to help or hinder if things didn't go to plan. Their eyes met for a moment. Rob decided he fell into the Good rather than Liability category. Maybe it was the way he held himself, but Rob just knew the bloke would do what was needed, weapon or no weapon. They stopped short of nodding to each other in silent agreement.
    "Hi. I'm Sergeant Rob Rennie, En-Pro-For," he said. "Call me Rob. Everyone okay? Who's in charge here?"
    A guy loafing in the back of one the technicals jumped down and ambled into the open ground. If he hadn't been carrying an AK-47 and festooned with ammo belts like a terrorist from Central Casting, Rob would have taken him for a distance runner. He didn't have an ounce of fat on him.
    "I'm Tariq." He sized up Rob's weapon. Behind him, one of the technical gunners looked up as if he'd heard something. "You're a Brit . My brother drives a taxi in Manchester. My family, we all learn English."
    Well, that was a good start. Tariq didn't sound like a jihadist, but he didn't have to be to cause problems. Rob treated it like the road toll extortion that it appeared to be.
    "Yeah, I'm English. Good to meet you, Tariq." Rob nudged the conversation closer to the real question. "Okay, what do you want? US dollars? Shillings?"
    "Dollars." Tariq looked past Rob as if he was watching Sam.  Rob didn't risk taking his eyes off him. "And we keep the car for our trouble. We like it."
    If the NGO wanted to argue about rusty tin, they could take it up with NPROFOR later. Rob nodded. "Fine. No problem."
    Rob reached into his pouch one-handed and pulled out the dollars. Tariq's gaze strayed past him again for a second, probably