CHAPTER 3

Two of the trucks at the front gate of the compound started up their engines and
peeled off towards the airport to find out what had happened. Gradually the
excitement of the moment died down and calm fell back over the city.
Inside the compound, caged dogs barked madly. But their handlers shrugged it off as
agitation to the explosion. They did not observe the two intruders moving quickly
and covertly. Placing small devices in specific locations.
The compound was the size of four neighbourhood blocks. The warlord’s residence
was a large palatial house in the centre with a wall surrounding a private garden.
Luxurious, except that all of the windows had metal bars blocking them.
Around the perimeter of the compound were additional, detached buildings. In
colonial times, the area had been an army base. The buildings now functioned as
garages, storage, and accommodation for the workers.
The two men knew that in one of the storage houses, the woman was being kept.
It was not difficult to decide which one. At least eight armed men were lounging
around the entrance.

The two intruders quietly surveyed the building and decided that there was only one
way in: on the rear roof there were windows leading to the attic. They had been
boarded up, but once on the roof the two men had little trouble entering. And with
night vision goggles, the two men quietly began exploring the interior.
The building had once been a pavilion with many individual rooms. The grandeur of
the place had long been lost, however, and it lay derelict. The men found several
locals on the ground floor, lying passed out in filth. Syringes scattered beside them.
The leader then made his way down to the basement, while the other man discretely
kept guard. From the bottom of the stairs, a long corridor opened up with cellar
rooms leading off it. Two guards sat on plastic chairs beside one locked door.

“Megan O’Connor?” the leader asked quietly as he opened the door.

The two guards lay dead on the floor in the hallway.
The woman was sitting in the corner of the dark room, hugging her knees. She
nodded nervously.
The soldier put his index finger to his mouth as he stepped into the room.
“We’re here to get you out” he continued slowly as he moved towards her.
She seemed to realised who he was, but didn’t immediately look relieved.
He beckoned her with a hand.
But she shook her head.
Something was wrong.
“Move and you’re a fucken dead man”
A male voice came from behind the leader.
He froze.
“Drop the rifle”
Yorkshire English, he thought as his M16 clattered to the ground.
“Now turn around. Reeeal slowly. With your hands up”
The voice was confident. Someone who knew what they were doing.
The leader did as ordered.
“Take the hood off”
Torchlight flashed in the soldier’s face as soon as he had tossed the hood back. He
closed his eyes and turned away from the light. The beam bounced around his head
as though it were searching for something. And then it suddenly stopped.
“Cyrus?” the voice asked disbelievingly, “Cyrus Harding?!?”
The soldier didn’t answer.
“Jeeesus. It’s you, innit. The rich bitch must be important if they sent in the
regiment” the other man breathlessly chuckled.
Sergeant Cyrus Harding of her majesty’s forces opened his eyes and started shaking
his head slowly.
“Mogadishu? Christ Jackie, is this the best you could do for yourself?” he quietly
responded, recognising the older man’s voice.
“It’s been a while, hey mate?” the other man smiled, still in a state of disbelief. He
lowered his torchlight and flicked on a gas lamp beside him. The filthy concrete
room was bathed in dull light. Harding blinked rapidly adjusting his eyes. Then he
regarded the man standing in the corner of the room. The facial features of the old
colleague had changed little. The sun and age had added some wrinkles. But dressed
in long khaki pants and a collared polo, ex-SAS specialist Jack Trotter could have
been in a golf club had it not been for the Heckler & Koch MP5K machine gun in his
hands.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Harding asked as he started lowering his arms.
“Heading up security, didn’t you know,” Trotter responded, confident again, “And
you can keep those fucken hands up, thank you very much. My oh my, this will make
good reading in the Guardian tomorrow”
Harding re-raised his arms.
“Got to make a living somehow, Cyrus,” Trotter continued, “The better question here
though is who are you working for? Queen and country? Or just one of Lizzie’s
chums?”
Realising that the clock was ticking, Harding ignored the question. His mind was
working fast.
“Look Jackie. You don’t wanna do this”
“Oooh yes, I do”
“Just let us take the girl and be gone. We can sort you out later”
Trotter’s face suddenly turned cold and hard.
“I’m a dead man talking if you walk out of here with her. Sorry Cyrus. It’s just
business. You understand. Now where are the others?”
Trotter grabbed a radio attached to his belt and was about to make a call, when the left
side his head suddenly exploded outwards. His body dropped to the ground like a
lifeless puppet. The woman sucked in air at the suddenness of the event, and Harding
moved quickly for this gun. The other robed soldier quietly emerged in the doorway.
His silenced rifle still pointing at the body.
“Thanks Tank”, Harding quietly said.
But the other man simply frowned and jerked his head suggesting they should go.
Harding turned back to the girl. Her eyes were wide with fright, darting madly.
“Can you move?”
She focused on him, and nodded jerkingly.
“Then let’s go” he said offering his hand again.

They stepped over the dead body in the middle of the floor and quietly closed the
door behind them. The man named “Tank” led them down the corridor towards the
stairs. His rifle was up and waving side to side as he moved forward. The O’Connor
woman followed him and Harding brought up the rear, checking the passage behind
them as they moved.
At the top of the stairs, Tank grabbed the door handle and turned to look at Harding.
Cyrus pulled from his pocket a small detonator and pushed a red button.
 CHAPTER 4

Explosions erupted around the compound.

Thick, dense clouds of smoke began filling the air, and chaos ensued. Previously
dormant men ran in every direction, yelling at each other. The general belief quickly
developed that the compound was under some kind of attack.
Despite the unexplained absence of their security chief, the personal protection detail
rushed the warlord and his family from their house into awaiting cars. The rear gates
of the compound were opened and a line of armoured vehicles quickly departed.
Once the boss was safely away from the situation, the foot soldiers could be left to
fight whatever battle ensued.
The guards in front of the pavilion could not see all of this due to the dense clouds of
smoke quickly enveloping the compound. They also didn’t see the three people leave
the building they were guarding. Nor did they see them climb into one of the pick up
trucks parked near by.
Vehicles could be heard moving around in the fog-like smoke. But Harding waited
until it had cleared a little bit before attempting their escape.
“Get down under the dash board”, Harding ordered to the woman, “and you stay
there. Ok?”
The woman nodded frantically. She just wanted this terrible ordeal to be over.

The plan was to quietly drive out of the compound as chaos descended upon the
place. Their smoke bombs were providing cover for an escape.
As vision became clear at 10 meters, Harding started the truck and edged forward.
Tank sat awkwardly in the passenger seat, his Sig Sauer pistol ready between his legs.
Neither man liked this part of the plan, but walking out of Mogadishu with the woman
was simply not an option.
Ghostly figures ran across their headlights as they slowly moved towards the front
gates. But as they neared, it became apparent that other vehicles were causing
congestion at the exits. No one was sure where the attack had come from and few
wanted to risk moving out into the street only to be shot.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Harding thought and checked his rear view
mirror. Other vehicles were gathering behind him.
Suddenly the skeletal-like face of a Somali man appeared out of the smoke at the
driver side window. He yanked on the door handle and appeared to be demanding a
ride. But then confusion and surprise momentarily washed over his face as he looked
Harding in the eyes. He mumbled something inarticulate. And then he saw the
woman looking up at him from under the dashboard.
The militiaman’s eyes went wide with recognition and he started yelling to his
colleagues.
“Fuck!” blurted Tank as he raised his silenced pistol and shot the man in the face.
The driver side window became a bloodied spider web of broken glass and the man’s
head dropped from view, but other militiamen in the area suddenly turned their
attention towards the truck.
“Oh shit” quietly passed across Harding’s lips.