37

The final crate was about to hit the rollers. I watched from just beyond the light. Dex stood on the Tata’s flatbed with the control box. Spag and Red Ken were the other side of the cab, just out of sight.

A movement caught my eye from inside the aircraft. A body crossed the front cabin window. My eyes flicked to the cockpit. I could only see part of it, but the pilots were both mincing about with the controls.

Spag had said two or three, plus crew. The body crossed the next window, heading to the rear of the aircraft. It wasn’t running.

The last crate disappeared into the hold and the two loadies jumped down to dismantle the conveyor. Dex brought the crane back into the idle.

The face that appeared at the cabin door was Middle Eastern – with a nose like a Roman emperor. The body was tall and angular. He surveyed the scene. He wasn’t in uniform or jeans. He wore a tan windcheater and trousers. His eyes scanned the pool of light, like an ageing rock star looking out at his audience. His eyes were hooded, but unforgettable.

As quickly as he’d appeared, he jerked back inside the cabin and the two loadies drew down.

‘Gun!’

The first rounds kicked off.

My pistol was out but Dex was already falling. He hit the edge of the flatbed and cartwheeled onto the runway, drilled by Tattoo’s semi-automatic.

I broke into a run.