The End Game

THE END GAME Bill Rogers ALSO BY BILL ROGERS DCI TOM CATON MANCHESTER MURDER MYSTERIES The Cleansing The Head Case The Tiger’s Cave A Fatal Intervention Bluebell Hollow A Trace of Blood The Frozen Contract Backwash A Venetian Moon Angel Meadow The Girl and the Shadowman The Opportunist JOANNE STUART NATIONAL CRIME AGENCY SERIES The Pick, the Spade and the Crow The Falcon Tattoo The Tangled Lock The Blow Out INDIVIDUAL WORKS Teenage and Young Adult Fiction The Cave Short Crime Stories Breakfast at Katsouris Eight walks based on the Manchester crime novels Caton’s Manchester The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior consent of the copyright owner, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that with which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. While this book is based on factual research, and actual police operations are referred to as background context, all of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance, if any, to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any references to businesses, organisations, places, or localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of authenticity. All of the events and behaviours described as taking place in those settings are fictional. The End Game was written in real-time, and changes will inevitably have taken place post publication, including the rebranding of the Brecon Beacons as Bannau Brycheiniog. A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library. Published by Caton Books Paperback ISBN: 978-1-909856-31-8 Cover Design by Bill Rogers Cover Image ©@gettysignature via Canva.com Design and Layout: Commercial Campaigns Editor: Monica Byles First published May 2023 Copyright © Bill Rogers First Edition "He that dies pays all debts." Stephano, Act 3 Scene 2 , The Tempest, William Shakespeare Prologue So near and yet so far. Crouched on a ledge, behind a wall on the crest of the hill, he had a clear line of sight. Or would have done, were it not for the sun setting behind the blue-grey mountains. He counted eleven buildings in all. Seven single-storey mud-walled houses with flat roofs and holes for eyes, scattered around a central compound behind whose high walls stood a large concrete two-storey house and three small outbuildings with corrugated iron roofs. According to intel, this was where the hostages were being held. Three women aid workers from the US, France and the UK. Five hundred thousand dollars by midnight tonight or they would all be executed. He looked at his watch. It was 18.39 local time. Less than six hours left. He checked on the other seven members of his patrol. All eyes were on the compound, through the scopes of sniper rifles or glued to their M22 binoculars. His colleagues’ body language told him that they shared his apprehension. Between them and the village lay stony open ground, across which snaked low broken walls, half a dozen irrigation ditches and scattered yellowed stalks of crops long harvested. Poor cover and multiple traps for the unwary. No time and too exposed to check for improvised explosive devices. In short, a tactical nightmare. Worse still was the eerie silence and the absence of any sign of life. It was as though the scene had been frozen in time. Or that they were expected. He slid from the ledge and sat with his feet against the wall. Nothing to be done but wait for the sun to go down. A blood-red sky. The shadows of buildings, cast in sharp relief, were spectral fingers probing towards him. In the afterglow, seconds before darkness descended, he glimpsed a solitary eagle as it spiralled upwards. He checked the safety on his compact carbine and pulled his night-vision goggles down. Turning his head from left to right and back again, he cursed their limitations as he scanned the scene below. The fields glowed pale green, the stone walls, and the buildings, a darker forest green. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the absence of any lights in the compound. This was all wrong. Even worse, one of the two helicopters had been diverted on an evac’ mission. They were waiting for news of the remaining Apache before commencing their assault. The chopper’s role was to provide covering fire for the attack and then evacuate the hostages and the troop. Timing was everything – too early, and the hostiles would be alerted; too late, and Taliban reinforcements could arrive. Three clicks in his headset. He turned to see the sergeant raise his right arm, point to the eastern sky, and signal, Helicopter incoming. They crouched on the ledge, waiting. The sergeant’s hand was still aloft. He counted down from three with his fingers and then waved his men forward. Over the wall and down the slope, heels sliding on the rocky scree. Eyes focused on the open ground ahead. He sensed his colleagues a metre or so behind. His lead leg slipped. He slid on his back the final stretch to level ground. Vaulting the first of the walls, he jogged across the field beyond, leapt the ditch and hunkered down behind a second wall to take stock. Less than sixty metres to the gates of the compound. His heart was pounding. In spite of the cold night air, sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He peered over the wall, scanning from left to right. Still nothing. Up again, and into the next field. One wall to go, and then a short sprint across open ground to the compound. Believing that they had the crucial element of surprise, he felt a surge of adrenaline. Behind the compound walls, a blinding flash launched an emerald ball