Hey kiddo, what are you doing?
I buy you a fancy Mexican meal
and you're feeding it to a mutt.
Real fancy.
Have you any idea what that is?
- What? - Tree chicken.
- What? - That's what the locals call it.
Colds, headaches, hangovers. Cures anything.
Iguana. That's what they say.
What about indigestion?
Fucking iguana taco.
Yeah well, you had it in Salvador.
Yeah, and that was shit.
What about Angola? The food was good there right?
Shit.
- Yeah? Rhodesia? - Shit.
- Hamburg? - Shit.
So if it's not New York it's...
You got it. Shit.
Look at you wasting away.
We got to get a job in New York.
That won't be a problem. Plenty of assholes there.
Time to move kiddo.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Fuck!
Stay down!
Stay down kid!
What happened?!
There was a kid in the car.
- What?! - There was a kid in the car.
Go, go, go, go! Fuck!
I'm done with this. I'm finished.
I can't do this anymore.
I can't do this.
Oh, shit!
Shit.
Danny, get in.
These camel-jockeys shave got diseases
I don't want to think about.
Where is he?
The Client still has him.
- What Client? - We're going there now.
Okay, drive.
So the client's an oil sheikh, no less.
Used to rule some huge stretch of desert
'til his houses tribe kicked him out.
Been living here in exile ever since.
Anyway, sheikhy was loaded, and he wanted a job done.
Unter took the contract, then he ran.
They caught him atthe airport.
And?
You know the rest. You got the package.
Yeah, I got it. What's the job?
Ltjust came with a price tag, no details.
Hunter took it cold.
Why would he do that?
Six million dollars. A bigscore, Danny.
Too bloody big for Hunter.
Yeah. Well, why'd you offer it thim.
He wanted the money
and you were out. Remember?
Yeah. Still am.
I'm done with killing.
Yeah well maybe killing ain't done with you.
Hunter needs the old Danny, the bestin the biz.
The one with balls of steel. You remember him, right.
Look, it comes down to this.
You don't do this job, Hunter's a dead man.
They're waiting for you.
This way.
He is waiting for his eyes to adjust.
Be careful around this one, boy.
My son forgets the ways of the desert.
Since our war against the Sultan,
all he has had of his homeland is this paint.
Plaster.
My first son, Hussein, was slaughtered here.
Shot before his children.
And here, at the battle of Mirbat
his brother, Salim, was wounded and then killed.
Murdered.
And then my third son was taken from me. Ali.
Hunted down and slaughtered.
The law of the desert says the blood of the victim
must be washed away by the blood of the killers,
but I refused revenge
and saved my last son, Bakhait, from the war.
So I was exiled to this desert.
I have wealth, power,
But rich men die too.
When I die,
I want Bakhait to go home to my tribe.
But for that to happen,
the killers of my sons must be killed.
You don't need me or Hunter for this.
You've got all the men you need.
What use would my men be in England?
England?
The English sent their fiercest dogs
to kill for a Sultan's oil!
The SAS?
Yes, their glorious special forces.
- It was a war! - It was not England's war!
They came to my land, murdered my sons,
now they will face my law!
The doctors say I have six months left to live.
You must avenge my sons before I die,
or your friend will die with me.
I don't care how you kill the killers,
But they will admit their guilt on tape.
And their deaths must look like accidents.
This must not lead back to my son.
So go.
Show the English a war isn't over
'til both sides say it is.
I want to see Hunter.
Oh, Danny,
No, Danny, no, no, no, no.
What are you doing here? Get out of here.
You all right?
Am I all right? Yeah, I'm all right.
You got to Danny and go.
Get away from Hunter here. Go, go, go, go.
I'm not here for you anyway.
I was thinking about the girls and Celine.
Me too, me too.
What's that supposed to mean?
It's tough putting food on the table.
What are you feeding them?
Six million, no questions?
You must've known that was a bullshitjob.
Yeah, I know. Fucking SAS, a one-wayticket for sure.
Well, you took the job and I'm notleaving you here.
Hey!
Get this man a drink.
- I missed you. - Well, I didn't miss you.
Every day you were out of this game was a good day for me.
I was proud of you when you got out.
Stay out.
Too late.
You should have stayed away.
Or run faster.
Son of a bitch.
- What are you doing? - Let me get my watch back.
Go! Go!!
Go! Go! Get the door.
Get the door!
Give me the gun!
Bravo. Bravo.
If you need to be shot, I'll happily oblige.
I'm sorry, kiddo.
My father needs him alive.
Nice try.
You know they'd have found you.
Everybody gets found.
You knew!
My gut tells me you knew the target and
you knew Hunter wouldn't take it!
You used him as bait.
That's a lot of angles, Danny.
You think I'm that smart?
Get out.
And you, out.
We missed you at the dance last night.
I'm not much of a dancer.
Besides, I'm still trying to find out
how much house is under this.
Right. Big plans.
Yeah, maybe too big.
You don't remember me, do you?
Yeah, well. It's been a while.
I'm Anne Frazer.
Anne Frazer?
Anne had red hair full of grass.
And weird red gumboots.
With eyes on them. Oh my God!
Oi, you owe me fifty quid.
Told you he'd be back, didn't I?
We missed you.
Yeah? Well here I am.
All right then, do you want some?
Yeah, mate, you still got it.
You still got that edge.
You're a real killer!
Come on, let's talk.
While you were away,
you didn't start a family, did you?
No.
So no one's depending on you.
- Only Hunter. - Only Hunter.
Because one- you're going after the SAS.
They're aparanoid bunch.
They've always got their back up.
Two. You need info on Oman.
No one talks about Oman.
They went in there as advisers
and ended up fighting the fucking war.
Real hush-hush, semimercenary stuff.
Three. You need confessions.
They're trained to resist torture,
so no matter what you say or do, they'll say nothing.
And four, Danny,
this is the best Special Forces Regiment in the world.
They make the Navy Seals look like a bunch of cupcakes
and not only that,
You're trying to take down three of their geezers
and make it look like an accident.
All I'm asking is give it some thought.
Take a day, more if you want. I'm going anyway.
Course I'm in, you silly bastard.
It's what we do, right?
Anyway, I got a score to settle with them.
I tried out for them when I was in the Paras.
Did Hereford, the whole fucking lot!
What? And they wouldn't have you.
You want this bottle shoved up your ass?
Are you upset? Would you like a lolly?
- I'd love a lolly. - Strawberry, or fuck you?
Meier.
In.
Why?
Ah, six million reasons. So what's the split?
After the Agent takes his slice,
fifty-fifty between you two.
Fifty-fifty? How about you?
I'm in this for Hunter.
How wonderfully touching.
Touching but fucking stupid.
The Sheikh could only ID one of the killers.
I need you to come up with the nameson the other two.
Start with the one Sheikh's sons they killed a Mirbat.
So the one target we do have is Steven Douglas Harris.
He stayed on in Oman after the war.
Ended up flying choppers for the Sultans armed forces.
Great. Ajuice junkie.
Me and Meier will head there to track him down.
Boys? Danny.
Meier.
What the fuck!
It's Harris!
Harris, you prick!
Fuck off!
Well, I hope the buggers like sandin their burgers, huh?
White Range Rover coming your way.
It's Harris.
What are you doing?
- Come on, have a go. - No, I'm not.
Have a go. Look,
just aim and shoot. Go! Here we go!
- Oh you horny git! - Come on! Come on!
All right, ladies,
you can throw your knickers if you want!
Go on, you cheeky bugger!
You serve in Oman?
That Mirbat. That was a day, wasn't it.
What about Mirbat, that was a right mess.
- Wasn't good. - Had a mate there.
- Go on, get that, quick! - Yeah, all right. All right.
- Hello? - Spikey, it's Bazza.
I'm unplugging that bloody thing next time, and I mean it!
Yeah, I'm on to this bloke here, right.
He was in the Bear earlier pumping some SAS
lads for info on Mirbat.
Mirbat? And?
He says he's Welsh but he don't sound it.
I don't know, maybe booth I'm being a bit paranoid, but...
Hey, just because you'rebeing paranoid,
doesn't mean to say they're not out to get you.
All right mate,
give me what you got.
I'll put one of my Locals on to him.
The Omani Embassy.
Our Local followed him into the visa section.
Says he's Welsh. Calls himself Mr. Jones.
We lost him after he left.
Lost him. How come?
He never came back to his car. Stolen.
Anyhow, he flies to Oman in four days.
Id like permission to send
one of my boys out there to tail him.
This was definitely some kind of recce.
That was a dirty war.
What we did there was questionable.
Oman is a bloody hornet's nest.
Right. And if this bugger is poking at it,
I want to know who he is.
I say we send a Local. Any objections?
Noted.
We'll leave you to choose the right man.
I'd also like it noted that we are ex-SAS.
The men we protect are ex-SAS.
And you, Spike,
though you hate to admit it, are ex-SAS.
Remember, we're businessmen and bankers now.
What we do here is illegal.
We can leave no trace of our activities.
That's why we're called The Feather men.
Because our touch is light.
Our Spike is a good man.
The day the SAS lost him, they lost a good soldier.
Yes, but the problem is, he thinks he's still in the SAS.
Well, someone has to do the dirty work.
None of us want blood on our pinstripes.
Listen, I've got no problem with blood.
What worries me is ink.
Make sure he keeps us out of the newspapers.
What's doing boss?
Your Arabic's still good, right?
- Good enough. - You're going to Oman.
I've got a bloke I want you to tail out there.
You lucky bastard.
You know what, you're gorgeous.
Where you staying?
I'm staying at the Hilton.
As a matter of fact, so am I.
What room are you in?
Why, would you like to know?
Love to know.
You are smooth.
What are we doing out here then,
in the middle of nowhere?
Well, I ask him to go hide it, he hides it.
Could have been your asshole. Consider yourself lucky.
Shut it, Meier.
Appreciate it, thank you.
These tiles are an exact match and to the shower step?
Hundred percent.
Harris comes home, parks the car.
It's been a hard day. I'll have a shower. Whoops...
He slips on the shampoo...
Hits the corner of the step with his occiput.
- Case closed. - Get out of it.
You boys are going about this all wrong.
That bird he's screwing is married.
Why don't we just pop 'em both
and make it look like her husband did it?
Pop 'em both.
What's she ever done? It's Harris we're after.
Poor bastard.
Ten years after the war he cops it for doing something
he was ordered to do.
He knew what he was doing when he joined the club.
- Yeah. What club? - The killing club.
Could've been you or me.
Yeah, but it's not.
I'm just glad I never killed a Rag head.
No offence, my son.
Let's get this done.
Excuse my friend, he's a royal asshole.
Shit!
Where's he going to run?
It's the middle of the fucking desert.
Son of...
Meier! Cut him off at the next shaft!
Let's go! Let's go!
Where is he?
Get out of here! Fucking hell!
So what, now somebody's on our ass?
We should move right away.
I'll set up Harris's interview for tomorrow.
Davies, you make sure his girl doesn't show.
She has nothing to do with this.
Wanker!
We're military historians.
I'll do the talking, allright.
Well, it's five o'clock somewhere, isn't it?
So where's this documentary going to be shown then?
On the telly?
The chair.
Those bastards in C company put this together hmm?
What's the matter?
They didnt like sand in their burgers.
Eh? Hello, boys!
Lm not saying a word til I see my lawyer.
Think back. The village of Qum.
You killed a guerrilla commander.
His name was Hussein bin Amr.
Do you admit it?
Fuck off! You're kidding, right?
You commanded a company there.
Aye, I led a company on that op, sure.
Yeah, you assassinated Hussein bin Amr.
There were witnesses.
You dropped him in front of his family.
All right, you got me. I did it!
Fuck you! Good one!
Now untie me!
Get up.
Hey! Piss off!
We have what we need.
What if I told you
somebody else dropped your guerrilla commander?
- His name is? - I can't remember.
But he's writing a book about the whole Oman gig.
You might find it in there.
If you could read.
To the bathroom.
No, no, no. No, no, no.
Wait, wait, wait!
It's coming back tome, looking at your fucking face!
His name's Captain R. Sole!
Shut up.
You're fucking dead yeah?
On your knees!
Fucking queers! Serve you fucking right!
Head down.
Get your fucking hands off me, you queer!
- You're fucking kidding me! - Hold him still.
If I find you I'm going to put your fucking head in the toilet.
Poor fucker.
Jay!
I need money forthe taxi. I had to take a taxi.
I had a flat.
Fuck you
Case closed.
Thank you.
Seems your friend did what you couldn't.
- Wouldn't. - Wouldn't. Couldn't.
He's avenged Hussein.
Good news for the old man. Not for you.
What do you mean?
Three brothers dead. Rotting in the sand.
You didnt want to get revenge yourself?
Scared of getting your hands dirty?
Better get used to it.
No palace where you're going. A tent and a hole to shit in.
He's your worst nightmare because he's gonna do it.
And when he does, you're outta here.
And when I find you in that desert,
I pray God keeps my aim...
True.
- Well, what do you think? - Yeah, it's coming along.
What are you doing for New Year's Eve dinner?
Oh shit!
Bollocks!
Strangers are a bit of an exotic thing around here.
Oh, come on. I didn't think I was a stranger.
Well, but you're still exotic.
Danny, something tells me you've got a story to tell.
Yeah.
Come on, what are you waiting for?
Party's outside.
Happy New Year.
It's a tradition around here.
Happy New Year.
Shit!
Mirbat.
The artist's name is on the back.
Have them talk to him.
One more thing.
My boys had some trouble in Oman.
Somebody was tailing them.
We'll have to have a look into that, won't we?
Ah, that's how you get it so life-like then.
- Sorry? - Photos of the lads.
Isn't that like Davies cheating?
I'm recreating a historical event. Accuracy's everything.
Mm, that Mirbat painting stopped me cold when I saw it.
- You were at Mirbat? - Had a mate there.
I was hoping you might have an address for him.
- You with the SAS? - Was.
Your best bet for an address
would be Regimental Association...
They won't talk to me.
I spent the last few years plying my trade overseas.
Angola and that.
I come to you un official like.
Ah. Well, I might have something somewhere.
- Just give me a few minutes. - Be my guest.
I've got a bullshitter asking about Mirbat.
Yeah, claims he's with the Regi...
No, there's no way he was SAS.
Yeah, I can smell it off him.
Nah, he's a bloody fake!
My contact says the call was cut off,
but Gowling said that
there was somebody there asking about Mirbat.
It has tobe our guy.
And what would you have us do about it?
Find him.
If we don't, there's going to be another murder
and it'll be one of our Mirbat boys.
Then who are they?
Well, they're pros for sure.
If these guys are going after the SAS,
they're going to be top class professional assassins.
They must have astring of hits behind them,
but they're completely under the radar.
- All we've got is Oman. - Oman?
We all know our peoplewent too far.
Oman. Mirbat. It all needs to be left alone.
You should try telling that to the Welshman.
He's right.
We have to find this phoney Welshman and his crew.
The file says an SAS officer
killed the Sheikh's son at Battle of Mirbat.
Warwick Steven Cregg.
He was the only officer there that night.
Killed everything that moved.
He's our worst nightmare. A real hotshot.
Paintings of him. The lot.
Where'd you get this?
The bloke who did the paintings.
Don't you worry about that all right?
He's shuffled off this mortal coil.
That wasn't part of the deal.
Come on. Shit happens when you play
in the deepend of the pool, Danny.
Why can't you two stick to the plan, Danny huh?
Well you've been watching this Cregg.
What's your next big idea?
His wife's in hospital.
When he's not training for the selection march
he spends most days there.
So why don't we hit him there?
No. Not near his family.
Get me everything you know on that march.
We'll see where that goes.
Okay, so...
there's only four Mirbat survivors in Britain.
I've got Locals on the other three.
You get the celebrity.
Warwick Cregg? You're kidding.
Wish I was.
Welcome to hell the SAS selection march.
Forty-one miles, fifty-five pounds of gear.
They lose someone every couple of years.
Don't you even think about it. Why not?
During the march this place is crawling with SAS.
Yeah, you said it yourself. It's an accident waiting to happen.
How are you going to catch him then?
He's been training for months. He's like a greyhound.
Just have to slow him down, won't we?
Insulin, Chlorpropamide.
Initial here.
Anything doing?
Nah. Cregg's still in there with his missus.
Here boss, this'll keep you going.
Cheers.
Pennock!
I need you back here, mate. Pronto!
What are you doing? You're fucking mad.
Get out of the fucking way!
You wouldn't fucking believe it. Somebody was watching Cregg.
What?
You think he's from the same stable
as the shooter in the desert?
Maybe. He was good.
But whoever he is, he's too late.
Ah good, good.
Chroma slows him down, insulin sends him into shock.
Hypothermia to you.
And when were you planning on getting it to him?
Before the march.
How? It's an SAS base, Danny.
That you trained in.
So think back, the security layout, the lot.
- You're nuts. - Are you going to do it?
Man, you really are one crazy son of a bitch, Danny.
Clock's ticking.
You've got under a minute, all right?
We got company.
- Lovely night. - You can't stop here, mate.
I didn't stop. The truck did!
If you don't fucking move it, we will!
All right, all right. But it's pissing oil, mate.
Theres nothing I could do about it.
Turn off the bloody radio.
Right! On the trucks!
I don't care what regiment you're from.
I don't care how great you think to get on trucks you are.
Let's see what you're made of, ladies.
On the trucks.
Come on.
Get moving you lot.
He only got half the dose!
Is it enough?
Enough? He's a dead man walking!
Stay on him, okay?
His name was Salim Bin Amr. Do you remember the name?
Did you kill him? Think back.
Did you kill him, Major?
Yeah, I did it. I did the bastard.
Danny didn't want to do this.
And your boy doesn't want to goback to the desert.
The Ministry of Defence today announced
the death of an army officer during manoeuvres.
The 33 year old, Major Warwick Steven Cregg,
died of exposure during an SAS exercise
on the Brecon Beacons.
Weather conditions at the time
were described as appalling...
Show a bit of respect lads.
- Top that. - I come bearing gifts.
From my boys in Angola.
I have no idea how you're meant to eat this. So.
So. Who's on our arse?
I'm on it. Don't worry.
Look, there's only one more to go.
After this is done I'll get you boys
a nice cushy job in the sun. Hm?
There is no 'after this.'
I'm a vulture. I live off killers.
Gives me a unique perspective.
Have you heard of the 'two percent'?
That's you, Davies, the SAS. All you lot.
Mercenaries, hit-men, heroes.
You're all part of that two percent of men
who are natural killers.
That's why you'll never get out.
You can't run away from who you are, Danny.
That's not who I am.
That's what I've done.
And I can do something else.
Yeah, yeah. That's all nice and good,
but let's just take care of business first, shall we.
Your third target, Major Simon McCann.
Mad Simon McCann of late.
How'd you find him?
Asked around. Was easy.
These days hes your basic cash for trash mercenary.
He's a sitting duck.
Now didn't I tell you I came bearing gifts.
You know where to find me.
You don't trust that snake, do you?
- He's lying. - Yeah? How do you know?
His lips were moving.
He just gave us a third target.
You've done nothing on that last file.
Someone's onto us!
I want Hunter out of there. I want this finished!
And I want to be around to enjoy the money when it is.
Well the first thing you should buy
is a pair of balls.
We're going after McCann. All right?
I miss you.
There's a lot I don't know about you,
but I do know that much.
I convince myself that everything's okay,
because when I'm with you, I'm happy.
But then you go away and I realize that I know nothing about you.
I don't know where you go
and I don't know what you do. I mean,
You've got a whole other life Danny.
- Is there someone else? - Come on Anne.
Well then what is it?
I mean, Jesus, what are you not telling me?
What are you hiding?
Can we talk about this when I get back?
To hell with it.
Fuck!
What?
You show me a beautiful woman
and I'll show you a bloke that's sick of her shit.
- Shut up. - Roger that.
- That him? - That's him.
Major Simon McCann.
Served in the Sultans forces
til he was pensioned out four years ago.
And another!
Oi! What the fuck do you think you're doing?
- Piss off, Grandpa. - You want some?
Doesn't look like an invalid.
Like I said, a bomb went off under his jeep.
Scrambled his wiring.
He can't keep a job. He's a fucking psycho.
Jesus.
Come on, mate. That's enough.
What's he doing here?
That's the one I went head to head with at the hospital.
- Right. - Wait, wait, wait.
Let's go.
Stick with him.
Mac, it's me. You okay?
Oh, yeah.
Still scraping skinheads off my doorstep.
All right, mate. I was just checking in.
Bloke who drives that green Jag.
What's his name?
His name's Spike Logan.
He's an ex-soldier of some kind.
He got his eye shot out playing a hero somewhere.
He's got no job and he keeps odd hours.
Don't you know who these guys are?
I mean, secrets being your bread and butter.
Don't worry about it.
I do worry about it. You should, too.
Every move my guys make, these lot are waiting.
If you ask me,
I think it's time you put those fancy shoes of yours
on a few throats.
Yes. But no one is asking you.
You'll be interviewing for a security position, Mr McCann.
Right.
Actually we got your name through a mutual friend in the SAS.
Yeah, really?
So we'll see you Tuesday the 17th at ten?
Okay.
We look forward to it.
- See you then. - All right, my son.
- He'll be there. - Good.
I don't get it.