Soft Target (Major Crimes Unit Book 2) (8 page)

“
I
need to contact Homeland,
”
Dr
Bennett said, standing up to leave the room. 
“
See if President Conrad is going to make a statement of support.
”
 

Bradley zapped something over
to the television screen.  It was the black and white CCTV feed from the pub in
Studley.  It showed a middle-aged woman wearing a long black cardigan.  She
’
d just entered the bar area of a typical bistro pub and was looking
around casually.  It was a place more eatery than boozer
–
the money was in the grub these days.  It made a strange target for
a terrorist attack.

“
What are we looking at, Bradley?
”
Howard asked.

“
This is CCTV video footage taken from the Barley Mow pub in Studley,
”
he explained. 
“
The local police have cleaned up the image as best they can and cut
the footage down to the two minutes before the explosion.  We have everything
except sound.
”

The woman in the video
wandered into the middle of the pub
’
s dining area.  A few
seconds later, she ripped open her cardigan and shouted something.  The video
’
s resolution was too low to make out what was around her waist, but it
was pretty obvious from the frightened screams of the victims.  The bomb vest
exploded and the CCTV feed ended.

Everybody in the conference
room groaned, even Sarah.

“
An initial background has been compiled,
”
said
Howard. 
“
The bomber
’
s name was Caroline Pugh.  She was white, middle-aged, and worked a
full-time job as a legal secretary.  I
’
m working on getting
a deeper background, but so far she doesn
’
t
appear to be a typical terrorist either.
”

“
What is a
typical
terrorist?
”
Sarah
asked.

Howard sighed. 
“
You know what I mean.  I
’
m not being racist,
just realistic.  At the very least, you would expect a terrorist to be from
another country or part of a group with an agenda.  Jeffrey Blanchfield and
Caroline Pugh were average UK citizens.  It doesn
’
t
make any sense.  How do they connect to Shab Bekhier and the man in the videotape?
”

“
I don
’
t know,
”
Sarah admitted. 
“
But I know who the man in the videotape is.
”

Everyone stared at her. 
Bradley stopped typing.

Sarah thought about the man
she
’
d just watched onscreen. 
She hadn
’
t been positive of his
identity until he
’
d spoken his
final words:
Sometimes only death can ensure life.
 
”
The man in the tape is Wazir Hesbani,
”
she said. 
“
I
’
d know his face anywhere, because he
’
s the man who took mine.
”

AFGHANISTAN, 2008

Sarah
blinked.  She took a deep breath, but instead of oxygen she got smoke and
fumes.  A rising pressure in her head threatened to split her skull and she
realised she was upside down, hanging by her seatbelt.

Everything came rushing back. 
The woman, the watermelons, Miller ripped apart by an explosion, and then white
light followed by utter darkness.

Had they hit an IED?

Sarah craned her neck and glanced
around inside the Land Rover.  She saw shapes in the darkness. 
“
Hamish.  Hamish?  Anyone?  Sound off.
”

There was nothing, just
silence and smoke.  Sarah was lucky to be alive.  She needed to know which of
her men were still breathing and get them the hell out of there.

She pulled out the small
flick-blade she kept on her belt.  She wished it was a machete, but it would
have to do.  With it she began sawing at the strap around her waist, gritting
her teeth as she did so.  There was a white hot burning in her left thigh, but
in the darkness she couldn
’
t see the cause.

Voices. 

For a moment, Sarah thought
that one of her squad had awoken, but then she realised the voices were coming
from further away.  After what had happened, the approaching strangers were
more likely enemies than friends. 
Why do they hate us so much?

Sarah ground her teeth and
swore through pursed lips.  She sawed harder at the seatbelt and had to blink
as either sweat or blood filled her eyes.  Her face throbbed almost as badly as
her leg and she remembered her reflection in the Snatch
’
s
visor.  There had been an open wound beneath her left eye, halfway down her cheek.

“
Hamish
…
anybody?  If you
’
re breathing, now is the time to look lively.
”

Silence. 

“
Damn it!
” 
Sarah had sliced halfway through her belt now, but the
voices outside were getting closer.  She had only minutes before they were
right on top of her.

The nylon seatbelt held itself
together by one last measly thread.  Finally, it snapped, and Sarah slipped
free.  Her head hit the roof panel of the Land Rover and her teeth clacked
together, but she shook away the stars immediately.

The voices were right on top
of her now. 

Sarah snapped into action.  Her
training and instincts made her focus on the task at hand and not the pain and
fear.  There would be time to cry later.  She slipped her hand down to her
waist and slid her sidearm out of its holster
—
a
SIG Sauer L105A1 9mm
—
and thumbed the safety off.

One last time, she shouted
out. 
“
Hamish!  Hamish, are you awake?
” 

Still no answer.  She thought
she heard a shuffling behind her, but there was no time to investigate.  She
straightened out her legs and shuffled towards the opening where the Snatch
’
s windscreen used to be.  Bits of glass and jagged stones dug into
her shins and elbows as she crawled, but she moved quickly.  Even now she could
hear the strangers outside chattering to one another and kicking up sand as
they rushed towards her.

Sarah rolled onto her side and
clutched her SIG, ready to start popping shots at whoever looked like they
deserved it most.  She clawed her way through the last of the broken windscreen
and made it out onto the dusty road.  The heat was on her back immediately. 

She spotted the body of one of
her men.  It might have been Hamish, for he hadn
’
t
been in the driver
’
s seat when she came to.  He was lying on his back, one arm missing
and his face completely gone.  Sarah was glad he was dead, instead of screaming
in agony and begging for his mother.  One of Hamish
’
s
biggest fears was finding himself in a wheelchair or a hospice bed.  He would
rather have lost his life than his legs.

Sarah dragged herself to her
feet just in time to meet the approaching crowd.  She raised her SIG and
prepared to pull the trigger.  Her burning legs wobbled beneath her and blood
ran down her face, but her hands were still as stone. 

There were children in the
crowd, with wide brown eyes and gawping mouths.  Their innocence was still
intact
—
it was clear on their
frightened faces
—
but
that innocence was fading fast, about to be washed away by the blood of Sarah
and her squad.  It was how children were baptised out here in the desert.  They
were about to witness an execution, and in that moment Sarah finally
understood: you couldn
’
t stop
violence with violence, and you couldn
’
t teach children with
bloodshed. 

A man stepped out of the crowd,
putting a hand up in front of him as he approached Sarah. 
“
Please, we not here to hurt you.  You are British, no?
”

Sarah nodded.  She realised
that her hands were no longer still and that her arm and aim were shaking. 
“
Y-you speak English?
”

The man nodded and smiled. 
“
I studied at your Oxford University.  Economics, yes?
”

“
I need to get back to Camp Bastion,
”
Sarah
said. 
“
If you
’
re friendly, let me go on my way.
”

“
Your Camp Bastion is sixty miles away.  The sun is hot, your face
and leg are bleeding.  You will not make it there.
”

Sarah glanced down at her leg
and saw the top of a twisted nail sticking out of her thigh.  It must have come
from the IED.  She was lucky it hadn
’
t entered her skull. 

Seeing the cause of the pain
in her leg seemed to make it hurt worse, as if she could feel the nail clawing
its way into her muscle.  The stranger was right: she would never make it back
to camp by foot, but what were her options? 

“
Give me a car,
”
she said. 
“
It will be returned
later along with a reward for your assistance.
”

The young man looked at her
like she was a confused child. 
“
We have nothing.  You
think we have car?  You think we believe in British reward?  You offer only
death and suffering to people of this village.  If we help you, Taliban kill us. 
We help Taliban, British kill us.  You are not our friends and you do not offer
reward.  Only Allah can provide justice for our actions.  We all get what is deserved.
”

“
If you don
’
t help me, I
’
ll die.  Will Allah provide you justice for murder?
”

The man continued smiling at
her like she was a child.  There was something predatory about the way he was
looking at her.
 
“
Sometimes death is the only way to ensure life,
”
he said.

Sarah felt her knees wobble. 
“
I
’
m sorry for what you people are going through,
but we
are
here to help you.
”

“
Afghanistan does not need your help.
”

Sarah noticed blood dripping
on the sand next to her foot.

“
Your face is bleeding,
”
said the young man. 
“
Let me help you.
”

Sarah staggered backwards and
held her SIG steady, aiming it at the man
’
s
face. 
“
No!  I need to get back to camp.
”

“
You need rest.  Tomorrow you think about returning to your camp.
” 
The man took a stride towards her, closing the gap between them to
only a few feet.  The crowd behind him muttered and mumbled.  If Sarah fired on
the man, they would be on her in seconds.

“
G-get away from me!
”
she shouted weakly.

“
Let me help you.
”
 
He spoke softly and reached out to her, revealing the
image of a dagger on his forearm. 
“
You are bleeding very
badly.
”

“
No!  Step back or I will shoot you.
”

“
No, you will not, I think.
”

Sarah almost called his
bluff.  She felt the trigger twitch beneath her finger, but pulling it all the
way required a strength she didn
’
t have.  Her legs
folded and she stumbled sideways.  She tried to stay on her feet, but her body
ached so badly that it was almost a relief when she hit the dirt and sprawled
onto her back.

The young man was on her
immediately.  He yanked the gun out of her hand and released the magazine.  He
tossed the pistol aside but kept a hold of the ammo. 
“
Your
face is very bad,
”
he said. 
“
I need to close wound
or infection kill you, no?
”