The dangling Englishman stepped sideways across the cliff, bringing himself closer to his target.
Target. A human being, enemy or not.
You’ve never killed anyone before, not close enough to look into their eyes
. . .
The Taliban turned in place. The beam found the dislodged stone, a jagged lump the size of a grapefruit. He peered at it, started to turn away – then some flash of curiosity made him look up—
Chase dived at him, slamming the man to the ground and driving the knife deep into his throat as he clamped his free hand over the Afghan’s mouth. Blood gushed from the wound, an arterial spray jetting over his cheek and neck. The Taliban kicked and thrashed, the fallen torch lighting one side of his face. His visible eye was wide, filled with agony and terror. It fixed on the soldier’s camouflage-blackened features, their gazes meeting . . . and then he fell still, staring emptily at the stars.
Chase regarded the corpse for a moment that felt like half a lifetime, then yanked out the knife and sat up. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, a bilious nausea rising inside him. He forced it back down, wiping the knife clean and returning it to its sheath, then switched off the torch. Darkness consumed his vision for several seconds before his eyes adjusted.
The body was still there, the neck wound glistening accusingly.
He looked away, unslinging his rifle and aiming it towards the distant fire. If the fight had been heard, the other Taliban would be on their way . . .
No movement. He had been lucky.
He returned to the rope and tugged it three times –
all clear
– before investigating the space beneath the overhang to see what the Afghan had been doing. The smell from the little nook provided the answer. He had interrupted the dead man during a call of nature.
A fall of sand announced Starkman’s descent, the American dropping down beside his friend. ‘What happened?’
‘He got caught short,’ Chase replied, the grim gag escaping his lips before he had time to process it consciously.
Starkman grinned, then moved back as Castille descended the rope. ‘Are you all right?’ the Belgian asked.
Chase didn’t want to think about it any more. ‘Fine.’ A wave of his gun towards the fire. ‘They’ll soon start thinking their mate’s been gone too long just to be constipated.’
Keeping low, they advanced, stopping behind a rock some sixty metres from the campfire. Chase’s erstwhile target sat with his back against a large boulder, gnawing the meat off an animal bone. The other Taliban had moved closer to the fire, within reach of the RPG.
Chase was about to take aim when Castille touched his arm, a hint of sympathetic concern in his voice. ‘I can do it, if you want.’
He brusquely shook his head. ‘That’s okay.’ A pause, then more lightly: ‘But thanks anyway.’
‘No problem.’ They shared a brief look, then Chase returned his attention to the scope.
The red dot fixed on the Taliban’s forehead. ‘Ready?’ he whispered to Starkman.
‘Yeah. One, two . . .
three
.’
This time, nothing disrupted the shots. Each rifle bucked once, the retorts reduced to flat
thwaps
by the suppressors. Chase blinked involuntarily, his eyes reopening to see a thick, dark red splash burst across the rock behind his target’s head.
‘Tango down,’ Starkman intoned.
‘Tango down,’ Chase echoed. The body of his victim slowly keeled over, leaving a smeared trail over the stone. ‘Okay, let’s bring the boys through.’ He reached for his radio.
The rest of the team arrived three minutes later, Mac leading the way. ‘Good work,’ he said as he took in the bodies. ‘Just these two?’
‘There was another one back there,’ Starkman reported. ‘Eddie took him out. Stabbed him in the neck.’
Mac looked at Chase, raising an eyebrow at the sight of his uncharacteristically expressionless face. ‘Your first kill, yes?’
‘Yeah,’ Chase replied, his voice flat.
‘Well, it’s good to know there’s more to you than just talk, Chase,’ said Stikes sarcastically as he checked one of the corpses. When no reply was immediately forthcoming, he went on: ‘What, no smart-arse comments? Not going wobbly on us, are you?’
Mac’s face creased with irritation. ‘Alexander, take Will and Bluey and check that the way’s clear.’ He gestured at the dusty slope to the north. Stikes gave him a puzzled look, prompting him to snap, ‘Well, go on!’ Annoyance clear even under his face paint, Stikes summoned the two men and started up the hillside. Starkman took the hint and nudged Castille to give Chase and Mac some space.
‘How do you feel?’ Mac asked.
‘I dunno,’ Chase replied truthfully. ‘Shaken, I suppose.’
‘A bit sick?’
An admission took a few seconds to emerge. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’ Mac put a reassuring hand on Chase’s shoulder. ‘If you hadn’t, I would have been concerned.’
‘How come?’ Chase asked, surprised. ‘I mean, after all the training I thought I could just do it without thinking. Without worrying, I mean.’
‘Training can only take you so far, Eddie. The first time you actually have to kill someone for real . . . well, it’s different. Some people find they can’t do it at all. Others do it . . . and enjoy it. I’m glad you’re in the third category.’ He squeezed his arm. ‘You did the right thing – you protected your teammates, the mission and the lives of the hostages. You did well, Eddie. I always knew you would.’
Chase managed a faint smile. ‘Thanks, Mac.’
‘So let’s get back to work.’ He waved, telling the rest of the team to move out. As the men set off, his radio clicked. ‘Yes?’
Even over the headset, Stikes sounded concerned. ‘Major, we have a slight problem.’
‘He wasn’t fucking kidding,’ Chase growled.
The team hid amongst desiccated scrub at the top of the slope. Before them was a relatively flat expanse backed by the rising mountains, a few tumbledown buildings about three hundred yards away: the abandoned farm where the Taliban had taken their prisoners.
In its description of the location, the mission briefing had been accurate. In its assessment of the enemy forces, however, it had not.
‘Where the fuck did this lot come from?’ said Baine. They had expected at most a dozen Taliban, but at least that could be seen beside the single-storey farmhouse alone, and the number of tents pitched nearby suggested many more. The three white-painted United Nations vehicles – two medium-sized trucks and a Toyota Land Cruiser – and the battered pickup spotted by satellite had been joined by another three well-worn off-roaders, and the ‘couple’ of horses had multiplied to at least ten. There were even some motorcycles.
‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’ said Starkman. ‘Question is, what do we do about ’em?’
Mac looked through binoculars. ‘If this were a search-and-destroy mission, nothing would change – we’ve still got surprise and firepower on our side. But with hostages to worry about . . . ’ His gaze fixed on a barn-like structure a hundred yards from the house. ‘There are two men guarding the barn, but no lights inside. That’s probably where they’re being held.’
Movement at the main building; several Taliban, chattering loudly, went inside, while others headed for the tents. A few men remained outside. ‘That’s useful,’ said Stikes. ‘If they stay in the house, we can bring the whole thing down on top of them.’ He indicated the Heckler & Koch AG-C 40mm grenade launchers mounted on Green’s and Baine’s rifles. ‘Get a lot in one go.’
‘Still plenty left,’ Mac replied. He pointed at a shallow irrigation ditch not far away. ‘Eddie, Hugo, see if the hostages are in the barn. And check for any more tents behind the house.’
Chase and Castille slipped off their packs, then, weapons in hand, crawled across the dusty ground and slithered into the ditch. It took them almost ten minutes to reach the barn, moving at a silent snail’s pace to avoid alerting the guards. The dusty channel passed about forty feet from the dilapidated structure; once out of the guards’ field of view, Chase cautiously raised his head. Nearby was a rubbish pile that would provide additional concealment as they approached the barn. He ducked back down and signalled for Castille to follow, crawling onwards until they drew level with the garbage heap.
He peered up again – and froze as a guard came into view, AK hanging from one shoulder. The man trudged along the side of the barn, passing the pile of rubbish with barely a sideways glance.
Chase expected him to round the rear of the building, but instead he continued across open ground to a small shack. He unbolted its door and went inside.
A woman’s fearful shriek cut through the night air. Chase whipped up his gun. It couldn’t be any of the hostages – mindful of Afghanistan’s repressive attitudes, the UN workers were all men. The Taliban had another prisoner.
Prisoners
, plural. A second woman wailed a plea, which was cut short by the thud of a foot hitting flesh and a pained squeal. The man shouted, his tone filled with disgust, and reappeared, slamming the door and bolting it before stalking away.
Chase waited until he was out of sight, then emerged from the ditch and took cover behind the trash heap. Castille followed. ‘What was that?’ the Belgian whispered.
‘I don’t think these fundamentalist fuckwits are running a women’s refuge,’ Chase snapped. ‘Come on, let’s get them out of there.’
‘Wait, wait, wait! We have to find the hostages first.’
Chase frowned, but knew Castille was right. ‘Okay. You watch for—’ He stopped, sniffing. The stench of garbage was unpleasant enough, but there was another, more ominous odour mixed in with it. ‘You smell that?’
Castille’s large nostrils twitched, and his face fell. ‘Yes. Do you think . . . ’
‘Yeah, I think.’ Chase peeled away a mouldering piece of sacking to reveal what he had feared – a corpse. White skin, not olive or brown. One of the hostages. ‘Shit!’
‘There is another here,’ Castille reported mournfully. ‘No, two more. Their throats have been cut.’
‘Saves on bullets,’ Chase said bitterly as he found a fourth body beneath the first. Even in the moonlight, he recognised the face from the mission briefing. ‘I’ve found our spook. Fuck!’ He sat back on his haunches, fuming. ‘Any more?’
‘No. So, they’ve killed four of them.’
‘Which still leaves eight.’ He looked at the barn . . . then an object beside it. A large, old-fashioned refrigerator lying on its side, the door missing. Churned-up dirt showed where it had been dragged from the trash and pushed against the wall. ‘Keep an eye out, I’ll check the barn.’
Castille covering him, Chase crept forward. As he suspected, the fridge had been moved to act as a barricade, blocking a gap. He peered between the planks.
Holes in the roof provided pools of moonlight inside, enough for him to make out the slight movement of somebody’s breathing. The man was bound, his face darkened with bruises and blood. Another man’s tied legs were visible nearby, other forms in the shadows.
The mission wasn’t over, then. He moved to the corner of the barn and glanced round it, seeing another half a dozen large tents behind the house, as well as more tethered horses. He returned to Castille, and they dropped back into the ditch. Another long crawl, and they reached the scrubby bushes where the others were waiting. ‘They’ve killed four of the hostages,’ Chase reported. ‘Including the guy from MI6.’
That prompted a round of muttered obscenities. ‘The mission’s down the lavatory then,’ said Stikes.
‘There are still the other hostages,’ Mac reminded him. ‘Did you see them?’
‘Yeah,’ said Chase. ‘They’re tied up in the barn. But there’re another six tents behind the house, and more horses. I think we’re talking at least forty Terries altogether.’
‘Hrmm,’ Mac rumbled, thinking. ‘Jason, get on the radio and see if any additional air support has become available. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.’
‘You don’t think we’ll be able to take ’em?’ Baine asked.
‘Not all of them, and if we have to make a run for it with the hostages I’d like to have as much firepower covering us as possible.’
‘There’s something else,’ said Chase as Starkman made the call. ‘There’s a hut past the barn, and there are more prisoners in it. Women.’
‘So what are you proposing we do?’ said Stikes with a sneer. ‘They’re not our problem – our only concern is rescuing
our
hostages.’
Chase stared at him in disbelief. ‘Are you fucking serious? These Taliban arseholes hate women. Whatever they’re planning on doing with them, it won’t be giving ’em flowers and foot massages!’
‘Watch your language with me,
sergeant
,’ Stikes hissed. ‘Much as you might want to play the white knight, we can’t take them with us. There isn’t enough room in the helicopters.’
‘Four of the hostages are dead,’ Chase insisted, ‘so we’ve got spare seats – and if there’s more of them some of us can ride on the skids.’
Baine snorted. ‘I’m not hanging off the bottom of a fucking chopper so some silly bitch in a burka can get a free ride, Yorkie. Fuck that!’