The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) Read Free

police?”
    “Heard them as I was driving away. I left it clean.”
    “Sweet.”
    “It was on the news,” Hicks said.
    “When?”
    “Five minutes ago. They’re saying it was gang related.”
    “Suits us,” Gillan said.
    “It was clean,” Shepherd reiterated. “They’ll be wasting their time.”
    The others indicated their agreement. Hicks slumped down in one of the vacant armchairs. It had been a long day and he realised that he was tired.
    “What was it like to lose your cherry?” Gillan asked.
    “I have done that before,” Hicks said.
    “In the Regiment, maybe. But not with us.”
    “It was fine,” Hicks said. “The plan was good. You follow the plan, you don’t get problems. We followed the plan.”
    “Listen to him,” Gillan said. “Sounds like a veteran already.”
    “You want a beer?” Connolly asked.
    Hicks was thirsty. “I’d love one.”
    “Bar’s downstairs,” he responded with a grin. “Same again for us, too.”
    “Come on,” Hicks protested feebly. “I’m done in.”
    “New boy gets the drinks. Chop-chop.”
    There was no point in putting up a fight. He was the newest member of the unit, and, because of that, he had come to expect a little ribbing. That had certainly been the case. The Americans he had worked with when he was in the Regiment had called it hazing. It was the same the world over. No sense in letting it bother him. He levered himself out of the chair, took his wallet out of his pocket and went downstairs.
    #
     
    GENERAL RICHARD HIGGINS had arrived by the time Hicks returned with the drinks. Higgins had been driven north by Alistair Woodward, and now they had taken two of the armchairs by the fire. Hicks closed the door with his foot and brought his tray of beers to the table. He had bought six pints and distributed them to the men. No one thanked him; instead, Shepherd suggested that he had forgotten the crisps and should go back to the bar to get them. Hicks told him to piss off and get them for himself. Shepherd glared at him, daring him to repeat the suggestion, before he fell back in his chair with a chuckle and told him he was just yanking his chain. Hicks shook his head and sat down with his drink. The men were all experienced soldiers and none of them was younger than forty, but there was still an undercurrent of juvenile humour that was occasionally exposed. The operation had been stressful, and Hicks knew that it would presage a night of boozing. He thought of his wife and kids, miles away in Cambridge, and wondered how quickly he would be able to excuse himself without drawing down more of their abuse for not getting involved.
    He looked around at the others. They were all ex-SAS. An observer would perhaps have said it was obvious that they had been involved with the military at some point in their lives—they all had the same firm posture and shared the same banter—but there was nothing about their appearances that would have marked them as special forces men. Joseph Gillan was the largest of them, but even he could have made his way down the high street in Hereford without drawing attention to himself. The others were much as he was: they were of solid build, they wore their hair close to the scalp, they were clean shaven. There was nothing to suggest that they were killers; nothing to suggest that they had just returned from an expedition to murder five men; nothing to suggest that they had more blood on their hands than the blood they had spilled tonight.
    The general allowed them to finish their drinks before he told them to be quiet and listen. The others all deferred to him. He had a closely cropped white beard, a lined face and pouches beneath his eyes. He had the coldest and most penetrating stare that Hicks had ever seen. It was as if, when he looked at you, he could see through the deceit and mistruths and divine the pure, unvarnished truth. It was those eyes that made conversation with him so unnerving.
    “Well done,” Higgins said.