Paths of Courage Read Free

before realizing he’d given them up. Despite a slight hangover, his brain kicked in and he hauled his naked frame out of the crumpled bed, determined to do his regular run. He quickly donned a tracksuit and joggers and left the flat. The rain sheeted down as he crossed Prince of Wales Drive and entered Battersea Park. Ryder enjoyed running through the park no matter what the weather, especially in the early morning with the wind and the rain lashing at his body. It made him feel alive. When not on assignment, these daily runs served to maintain his fitness, and the isolation gave him time to focus. Early morning running had become a habit since his days with the 1 st Battalion Parachute Regiment and then the 22 nd SAS. He’d spent many a good time with fellow soldiers, pounding in the driving rain around the Welsh hills, taking regular hikes up Pen-y-Fan, the highest peak in the Brecon Beacons, and putting back a few in the Hereford pubs. Morning runs had become a firm habit; even on the day he was ‘badged’ and handed the sand-coloured SAS beret. Ryder had come a long way since those earlier rough days growing up in Brixton before deciding to join the army at eighteen. Surprisingly, he did reasonably well at school with an aptitude for languages and sport. The army, however, gave him the opportunity to discover his full potential; it gave him discipline and purpose. He learned to channel his newfound energy and knowledge into an effective fighting machine. The SAS gave him the independence he had always craved and, strangely enough, satisfaction despite the fact that killing other humans was part of the job. At twenty-eight, in his current civilian/military capacity, he considered himself to be at the top of his game, finding fulfilment of a kind as a no-holds barred paramilitary operating covertly in some of the world’s most dangerous places.
    As he pounded the footpath passing the lake, he decided, if the weather cleared, he would do a spot of fishing later. He was a keen angler, had been since an early age, first on Clapham Common for tiddlers, then graduating to other nearby fisheries and now the lake here in the park. He enjoyed the serenity and ‘get-away-from-it-all’ feeling in this oasis of calm, angling for roach, perch and bream, especially in the early morning and at dusk. He still used the sturdy old rod, colourful floats and basic equipment given to him by his grandfather. Lately he’d been contemplating doing some serious fishing in the carp lakes of Kent and Devon. If nothing came through in the coming week, he’d made up his mind to head off to Kent.
    An hour later, he arrived back at the flat barely winded and with his head just about cleared. Jumping into the shower – hot first, then cold – he dried, slipped into a grey sweatshirt, jeans and trainers. He then made himself a cup of coffee, fighting the urge for a cigarette, having given up for over a month. It was still hard, though, hanging around between assignments without a smoke to keep him company. Suddenly the bleeper on his belt chimed and relief of a sort swept through him; he was wanted at HQ.

    *
    Ryder swung his Harley ‘Fat Boy’ through the gate and into the yard of a two-storey building in Lots Road. Parking, he removed his helmet and placed it on the side rack. He then strode easily towards a modest entrance. His slim, six-foot lithe frame clad in blue jeans and black leather ‘bomber’ jacket reached the single entry door where he looked directly into a small circular glass aperture on the side wall. The iris scanner confirmed his identity and the door clicked open. To any casual observer the plain entrance was nothing more than the way into a small commercial office. A plaque on the wall displayed the sign – “General Commodities Ltd.”
    The building in Lots Road, Fulham, which wasn’t far from Chelsea football ground, had been purchased for its innocuous