The Head of the Snake

Table of Contents Title Page Burning Chair Limited, Trading As Burning Chair Publishing Also by Lucy Hooft For Salone Schematic, map Description automatically generated PROLOGUE CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5 CHAPTER 6 CHAPTER 7 CHAPTER 8 CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10 CHAPTER 11 CHAPTER 12 CHAPTER 13 CHAPTER 14 CHAPTER 15 CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 CHAPTER 19 CHAPTER 20 CHAPTER 21 CHAPTER 22 CHAPTER 23 CHAPTER 24 CHAPTER 25 CHAPTER 26 CHAPTER 27 CHAPTER 28 CHAPTER 29 CHAPTER 30 CHAPTER 31 CHAPTER 32 CHAPTER 33 CHAPTER 34 CHAPTER 35 CHAPTER 36 CHAPTER 37 CHAPTER 38 CHAPTER 39 CHAPTER 40 CHAPTER 41 CHAPTER 42 CHAPTER 43 CHAPTER 44 CHAPTER 45 CHAPTER 46 CHAPTER 47 CHAPTER 48 Did You Enjoy This Book? Historical Note Acknowledgements About Burning Chair More From Burning Chair Publishing THE HEAD OF THE SNAKE Lucy Hooft Book Two in the Sarah Black Series Burning Chair Limited, Trading As Burning Chair Publishing 61 Bridge Street, Kington HR5 3DJ www.burningchairpublishing.com By Lucy Hooft Edited by Simon Finnie and Peter Oxley Cover by Burning Chair Publishing First published by Burning Chair Publishing, 2023 Copyright © Lucy Hooft, 2023 All rights reserved. Lucy Hooft has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as author of this work. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher. ISBN: 978-1-912946-31-0 Also by Lucy Hooft The King’s Pawn – Book 1 in the Sarah Black Series FOR SALONE MAP OF SIERRA LEONE PROLOGUE Skarparov watches the fog creep across the Captain’s gold tinted sunglasses. He can surely no longer see. But if the Captain is bothered by the blinding mist, he doesn’t let on. “Papa wants to know when you can get him a chopper?” The Captain cocks his head. He wears heavy chains, camouflage fatigues and a salt-licked vest in faded black. An oversized hat—gold braid with stars and a pompom—dangles over one eye to complete the look, consciously styled to intimidate. Power, ruthlessness, and a trace of madness spoken by the slip of a hat. “I am happy to talk to Foday Sankoh directly, anytime he wishes,” Skarparov replies, refusing to use an affectionate nickname for a rebel warlord. “Papa sent me. I am him. You talk to me.” The Captain thumps his sinewy chest, rattling his chains, and cracks the butt of an AK-47 against the floor. But his posturing flounders on the white leather of the sofa. It was the right decision to bring him here. In the jungle camps, Skarparov always feels on edge: the constant itch of the unknown, the unpredictability of animals in the wild. But his home imposes a layer of civility on the rebels. Their mud-stained threats are muffled by white leather and glass. “I’m talking to you now,” Skarparov says, “and I’m telling you that the helicopter will have to wait.” The Captain leaps to his feet, shoving the nose of his gun into Skarparov’s face. He can smell the sweat rising from the Captain’s racehorse-lean muscles and for the first time registers the sour tang of fear. These animals need him, he’d made sure of it. But you never know when one of them might forget themselves. “What if we no want to wait?” the Captain jeers, his voice echoing around the cavernous glass cylinder of Skarparov’s living room. He jerks his powerful shoulders forward, giving another push to the gun into Skarparov’s nose. Skarparov curls his palm over the tip of the barrel and pushes it away. “Let’s not forget who got you those,” he nods at the weapon. “You know I can deliver, and now I expect you to keep up your end of the deal. You protect my diamond operations in Koidu, I make sure you get what you need.” A security guard appears from behind the tall metal panel of the front door. “Mr Skarparov, Sah, the next visitors are here. You want them to wait outside?” “No, no, bring them in now. We’re finished here.” He touches his fingertips together and turns to the Captain with a serene smile. Perfect timing. He had taken every step to ensure that the Libyans would arrive to witness this carefully orchestrated scene. They could have been late, or worse, arrived while he had the back foot. But, as planned, they enter the room to be met by a disgruntled rebel commander licking his wounds and retreating. In the simple puppet-show of power, Skarparov is the winner of the bout. “Tell Mr Sankoh to call me with anything he needs,” Skarparov says, a hand placed firmly on the Captain’s sweat-flecked bicep to guide him out the door. The Captain takes in the new arrivals with a shrug, slinging the AK-47 across his shoulder. “Do come in, so sorry to keep you waiting.” Skarparov ushers his next guests towards the white leather sofas. Two men in dark suits, two red ties loosened against the tropical heat. They look like an image and its negative placed side by side: the same careful step, the same air of deeply held suspicion. One with grey hair and a black moustache, the other black hair with a grey moustache. Two more perfect puppets for Skarparov’s show. “Sorry about that.” He waves towards the door, now firmly closed behind the Captain. “I’m sure you can understand how it is. You have to have them on side if you want anything done.” His guests nod cautiously, the grey moustache stealing a glance at his colleague, waiting for a lead. “And