Ghost Flight by Bear Grylls Read Free Book Online Page B

and snap! – it fell away. He slipped Annie’s spare key into the main lock, and pulled open the split doors that gave access to the interior. His was a Thames barge. Wider and deeper than your average narrowboat, they tended to offer the space to indulge in a little luxury.
    But not Jaeger’s.
    The interior was strikingly sparse. Utterly functional. Devoid of all but a few personal effects.
    One room formed a makeshift gym. Another a spartan bedroom. There was a tiny kitchen, plus a living area with a few worn rugs and cushions scattered across the wooden floor. But the majority of the interior was given over to desk space, for it was from here that Jaeger preferred to work whenever the hectic commute into head office – the Global Challenger – could be avoided.
    He didn’t linger for long. He grabbed a second set of keys hanging on a nail and stepped outside. Lashed in the prow of the boat and firmly sheeted over was his Triumph Tiger Explorer. The motorbike was an old friend. He’d bought it second-hand to celebrate passing SAS selection a good decade or more ago.
    He untied the sheeting and rolled it aside. He bent over a second security chain, cut it, and was just about to straighten up when he detected a faint noise; just the barest hint of a heavy footfall in wet, greasy gravel. In an instant he’d wrapped a loop of the thick chain around his hand, leaving a generous two feet hanging free, the heavy padlock swinging on one end.
    He spun around, the makeshift weapon poised like a medieval ball-and-chain.
    A giant figure loomed in the darkness. ‘Thought I’d find you here.’ The eyes flicked down to the chain. ‘Figured on a warmer welcome, though.’
    Jaeger let the tension drain out of his bunched muscles. ‘Fair enough. Brew? I can offer you three-year-old milk and stale tea bags.’
    They stepped inside. Raff glanced around the barge. ‘Blast from the past, mate.’
    ‘Yeah. We spent some good times here.’
    Jaeger busied himself over the kettle, then handed Raff a mug of steaming tea. ‘Sugar’s hard as rock. Biscuits’re soft as shit. Presume you’ll take a pass.’
    Raff shrugged. ‘Tea’s good.’ He glanced out the open door at the Triumph. ‘Planning on taking a spin?’
    Jaeger was giving nothing away. ‘You know how it is: live to ride.’
    Raff delved into his pocket and handed Jaeger a slip of paper. ‘Smithy’s family – their new address. No point going to the old one. They’ve moved twice in the past three years.’
    Jaeger’s face remained an unreadable mask. ‘Any particular reason? The moves?’
    Raff shrugged. ‘He was making good money working for us. For Enduro. He kept upsizing. Needed the extra room. Planning on having another kid, so he said.’
    ‘Not exactly suicidal behaviour.’
    ‘Not exactly. Need a hand with the bike?’
    ‘Yeah, thanks.’
    The two men manoeuvred the Triumph across a makeshift gangplank and on to the riverside path. Jaeger could feel that the tyres had gone half flat. They’d need a good burst of air. He returned to the boat and fetched his biking gear. Waterproof Belstaff jacket. Boots. Thick leather gloves. His open-faced helmet. Lastly he grabbed a scarf and an ancient pair of what looked like Second World War flying goggles.
    Then he pulled out a drawer, turned it upside down and ripped off the envelope that was taped to the underside. He checked inside: £1,000 in cash, just as he’d left it.
    Jaeger pocketed the money, locked up and rejoined Raff. He plugged in an electric compressor and reinflated both tyres. He’d left the bike with a solar charger wired to it. Even in the depths of winter it provided enough of a trickle charge to top up the battery. The engine turned over a few times, then roared into life.
    Jaeger wrapped the scarf around his lower face, pulled on his helmet, then dropped the goggles over his eyes. They were special to him. Precious. His grandfather, Ted Jaeger, had worn them during the Second World War