Hunters: A Trilogy Read Free Page A

no more words, no more Noman.
    Ken shook the image from his mind. ‘We should make this prick pay Noman’s family – look at him, the waste of space,’ he said, nodding at McGuire’s quivering form, ‘one empty shell-case to the head and he passes out! And he’s crapped himself, too, the dickhead!’ He stared out of the side window to watch the madness of Karachi’s traffic.
    Mike nodded. ‘We should get out of here for good, Tommy says he can get us flights anytime we want,’ he said, manoeuvring expertly around a stuttering motorcycle, which carried a family of seven.
    Ken reached for his smokes. ‘Yeah, that sounds like a plan to me, I’m up to the gills with these retards,’ he said, nodding at the back seat. He and Mike had known each other for several years now and they’d been through a lot of situations together, both good and bad. Today was definitely leaning toward the latter. Ken knew there were better jobs out there, and better people to work for. ‘Yeah, get me outta here,’ he said, sarcastically. ‘I’m a fucking mercenary!’
    Mike laughed, floored the accelerator and burst through the junction, just as a red traffic light illuminated. An array of screeching tyres and blaring horns erupted behind their racing vehicle.
    ‘Mikey, you’re a twat!’ Ken murmured, grabbing hold of the handle above his side window.
    ‘And you, Kenny, sound just like my old Mum…’ the Australian retorted, grinning as he swung the vehicle into yet another tyre-smoking manoeuvre.
    More horns.
    Ken held on tight. He knew that the ride ahead was likely to be a bumpy one, and not just in the next five minutes, either. He had his mind set on going back to Afghanistan. If Tommy was able get them out of here this week, well...who knows what the future would bring? Ken knew that whatever the outcome, it was likely to be a wild ride. He was right about that, he just didn’t know how right.

2
The Storm
    Four years later.
    Ken left the office and walked out into the early morning sunlight, standing on the steps for a moment to watch the dust blowing across the airfield. It was the leading edge of a much bigger storm, one that had been brewing for a couple of days now. In the distance he saw the redness of the sand as it flirted with the sky above. Ken had been caught in the open on more than one occasion and it was never good. He stared across the base and watched as the dawn began to unfold into the day, yet another day in this godforsaken, shit-hole of a place – Kandahar airfield, or KAF, as it was known to all who lived there.
    The airfield was massive, its perimeter covering a least a couple of square miles. From the air the place looked like an intoxicated spider had been busy. A giant web of makeshift buildings, shipping containers, portacabins, and hundreds upon hundreds of tents in all shapes and sizes littered the place. Huge hangars, sprawling fuel stations, busy kitchens and prefabricated shopping areas lay spread in organised chaos. A maze of dusty roads and endless gravel tracks tethered the whole lot together in a crazy weave. All of it was covered in dust.
    Every few minutes overworked helicopters whirled across the airbase, the thudding ‘Wocka-Wocka’ of their spinning rotors easily being drowned out by the incoming thunder of the cargo planes that took off and landed morning, noon and night. It was, however, the explosive howl of the fighter jets that completely dominated the endless noise war. They always took off in pairs, the wingman about fifteen seconds behind his leader, the ground vibrating as they hurtled into the dirty sky with a deafening scream. One of Ken’s American friends had once said: ‘You know what that noise is, buddy? That noise is the sound of freedom, my friend – the sound of freedom!’ The irony of that particular comment still made Ken think, even to this day. With a wry smile, he climbed into his vehicle and inserted the ignition key.
    It was already hot at this