Street Soldier by Andy McNab Page A

too?’
    He opened the box out of curiosity, and whistled. Inside, as the box had told him, was a replica Glock. Avery accurate replica, right down to the wear and tear detail on the moulded matt surface.
    ‘Give it a feel,’ said Heaton. ‘Only don’t wave it around. Police don’t like seeing blokes in cars waving guns about. It’s political correctness gone mad, but what can you do?’
    ‘So what? It’s still a fake.’
    But Sean picked it up, as invited. It sat comfortably in his hand with just the right weight and balance. The NSPs – the Normal Safety Precautions – that had been drilled into him meant he automatically pulled back on the slide to reveal the chamber, and peered into it to check for rounds. It was the first thing any trained soldier did when picking up a fresh gun, to ensure they knew what state it was in.
    And suddenly, with a feeling like cold water trickling through his body, he knew that this wasn’t a fake. This thing didn’t fire bits of plastic. He was looking into a chamber that was precision engineered to take standard NATO 9mm Parabellum rounds. This was real. Empty, but real.
    ‘Uh . . . Corp . . .’
    In the mirror, Heaton’s eyes were cold. ‘No one wants to be the next target, right? I’m just being pre-emptive. It saves time and bother if you keep it in a box that says it’s not real, you know?’
    ‘So . . .’ Sean struggled to think this through. ‘You’ve got a real Glock just knocking around in your car?’
    ‘It’s all legal and licensed and signed for. Trust your corporal. And put it back in the box.’
    Sean did as he was told, quickly.
    Club bouncer? No. Whatever it was Heaton was doing, if it required his very own Glock, then he was into something way heavier than that. And Sean was pretty sure Heaton was winding him up, deliberately being mysterious until Sean just had to ask what was going on. And then he would be in whether he liked it or not.
    Sean didn’t appreciate dancing to other people’s tunes. If Heaton wanted him, Heaton could tell him. In his own time. Badgering him would just sound desperate.
    And then they were at the station. Heaton pulled into the drop-off zone. ‘Have a good weekend.’ He held out his hand.
    Sean, surprised, reached over and shook it. ‘Will do. And thanks for the ride.’ He pushed the matter of the gun to the back of his mind and took one last look around as he climbed out. ‘Shit, I seriously need this car.’
    Heaton winked. ‘Well, maybe we can do something about that, eh?’

Chapter 10
    All the familiar smells of home , thought Sean. Damp concrete, frying stuff – and do I detect the faintest aroma of stale piss? I believe I do.
    God, I used to live here.
    He’d got into London at lunch time, and then spent a few hours knocking around the West End before heading east. Part of it was just practical – his mum had told him not to turn up before she ended her shift at the shop. And part of it . . .
    Part of it, he had to admit, was that he hadn’t been sure if he would still recognize the place.
    He got off the Tube for the familiar five-minute walk to Littern Mills. The estate was basically three large squares, each one surrounded by four tower blocks. The ground level of each block was a row of shops set behind concrete pillars. Above them were levels and levels of open-air balconies, and the front doors of the inhabitants.
    The sun was halfway to setting and the tower blockscast long shadows over the square where his mum lived. He scanned the shops at the bottom of his block as he slouched his way over, bag slung over his shoulder. They seemed pretty much the same. The laundrette and the chippy – both doing good business on a Saturday evening. Lakhani’s, the small general store where his mum had stacked shelves for as long as he could remember. It was closed, with a metal shutter pulled down over the plate-glass windows. Cool – she would be home.
    For some reason he remembered Copper’s dire warnings,