Strike Back (23 page)

What’s the bloody point of the last hour? he asked himself bitterly. If they were going to kill me why didn’t they just do it in the back of the car last night?

Just then, a noise echoed down through the tiny slit window.

Gunfire.

Porter froze. He felt certain of it.

The noise he had just heard was gunfire.

He tried to turn round but it was impossible. The ropes binding him to the chair lashed him in place. All he could rely upon were his ears. And they were telling him the place was under attack.

Heavy attack.

With RPGs and machine guns.

‘Move the fuck up against the wall.’

Porter sat bolt upright, the ropes cutting into his skin as he did so. It was an English voice, he could have sworn it. It was carried on the breeze and drifted down through the slit window at the back of the cell. It was little more than a murmur by the time it reached Porter’s ears. He had to strain his ears to catch it above the din of Arabic and the rattle of gunfire. It was enough to give him hope, however.

Maybe the Firm were tracking me? Maybe Katie Dartmouth is holed up in one of these cells and they’ve sent some boys in to break us both out.

A condemned man will grab hold of just about any straw, he reminded himself. But it could just be true.

He listened harder, aware of the adrenalin surging through him. There was the sound of gunfire, and a couple of mighty explosions as RPG rounds smashed into concrete walls. He could hear shouting above the din, all of it in Arabic, and he started to think he’d just imagined the English voice. The battle had been raging for three or four minutes now, and showed no signs of abating: the flow of noise rocked from side to side, as the two opposing forces unleashed lethal firepower.

Whatever’s going on up there, he thought, it’s a hell of a firefight.

The bolt.

Porter’s eyes shot to the door.

He could hear the bolt being slammed back, then the key turning in the lock.

Who is it now? he asked himself.

As the door opened, Porter briefly hoped it might be a Regiment guy, dressed in the olive-grey uniform he’d once been so proud to wear himself: if the Firm was breaking them out, there was only one unit of soldiers who would get the job. But the figure who stepped through the door was dressed in a long black robe, and had dark skin and a thick black beard. He was at least six feet tall, with thick, muscled forearms.

‘I hope you have read those verses,’ he said, leaving the door open to the corridor behind him. ‘Because within a few seconds you will have to explain yourself to Allah.’

In his right hand, he was holding a long, curved, stainless-steel sword. From one end to the other, it must have measured five feet, Porter reckoned, and with its finely chiselled brass handle it couldn’t have weighed less than fifty pounds. It might be a medieval piece of technology but that didn’t mean it wasn’t one of the most deadly weapons ever created. In the right hands, it could do as much damage as a tank. And the thick, stout hands of the man who had just walked into the room looked as if they knew exactly what to do with it.

Porter could feel his neck numbing with fear. ‘I thought you were taking me to the courtyard,’ he said.

Up above, he could still hear the sound of gunfire. They’re under attack, Porter thought. And they want to finish me off while they still can.

‘You are facing Mecca,’ said the swordsman. ‘This is as good a place to die as any.’

He was standing behind Porter now, so close that he could smell the man’s warm, stale breath. Porter’s hands
started shaking slightly as the executioner drew even closer. He put his sword against the chair, and Porter could feel the cold steel of the weapon touching his skin. Drawing a black cloth from his pocket, he placed his warm hand across Porter’s face as if to close his eyes, then tied the blindfold into position. As he did so, Porter was plunged into darkness, and a sense of terror started to overcome him. Get ready for it, thought Porter bitterly. It is dark all the time where you’re going, mate.

He could hear the executioner picking up the sword. Then he felt a slight stab in the neck, where the swordsman had nicked his skin, drawing a few drops of blood. It was a technique Arab executioners had developed over the centuries to prime their victims for the blow that would kill them: a small nick numbed and stiffened the neck, making it easier for the blade to sever the neck.

And then he could hear the slight movement of the sword through the air.

Porter closed his eyes tight, even though he could see nothing through the blindfold. His knuckles were white and shaking, and he felt as if he was about to vomit.

So this is it, he thought grimly.

‘First your tooth,’ said the executioner.

Porter was confused. What could he possibly mean?

He felt the man’s hand gripping his neck. With his fingers, he prised Porter’s jaw apart, and slammed something inside.

Some kind of metal, Porter judged. Maybe a wrench.

He reeled back in pain, and tried to shake his jaw away, but the man was too strong for him.

The wrench was smashing down into his lower left jaw.

Just then, he heard a terrifying crash behind him. It was as if a wall had fallen down.

The noise was so loud that it echoed viciously around the tiny, dank cell. It burst onto Porter’s eardrums, exploding within his brain. Then there was a shot, and another. The
rattle of gunfire and the smell of smoke filled the room.

He could hear one body falling to the floor. Maybe two. In the confusion, and in the darkness behind the blindfold, it was impossible to tell.

‘Who’s there?’ he shouted.

Nothing. Silence.

‘Who the fuck is it?’

Porter could feel a blade against his skin. It was small, but still sharp, and he could feel a hand next to it. There was a sharp sound, then a tug, as the blade cut through the ropes that were binding him to the chair. First the ropes around his hands were severed, then his legs, and finally the bindings around his chest.

For a moment, Porter just sat there, immobilised. Fear and shock had frozen him. Then up above, he could hear the dull rattle of gunfire cranking up again. Whatever kind of danger he was in, it was far from over.

He stood unsteadily to his feet, taking a second to restore his sense of balance.

Reaching behind his neck, he grabbed the blindfold and ripped it free from his face. He blinked once, then twice, taking time to adjust to the dim, fading light of the cell. The wall that led up and out towards the courtyard had been smashed down by a big Mercedes Unimog truck – there was dust and rubble everywhere where the huge front end of the vehicle had punched a hole straight through the bricks.

Porter glanced across to the man standing before him, the man who had just rescued him.

Many years had passed since he had last laid eyes on him. He had grown older, turned from a boy into a man, and the years had hardened as well as aged him.

But there was no mistaking the face. It was burned into Porter’s memory, the way a branding iron is burned into the flesh of a bull.

Hassad.

Hassad grabbed hold of Porter by the shoulder. ‘We haven’t much time,’ he hissed. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

Porter’s eyes were still blinking. Dust and debris were filling the room, and the massive engine on the Unimog was still roaring. Porter’s legs were weak and his head was still spinning. He’d kicked back the chair, and glanced only briefly at the executioner: the man was lying flat on the floor, with his sword at his side, his body punctured by three precisely aimed bullets that had smashed through his chest and into his heart.

‘Just move,’ snapped Hassad, louder this time.

Hassad was already getting into the driver’s seat. Porter rushed round the side and climbed into the cabin. He could feel some blood trickling along his gums where the executioner had tried to wrench out one of his teeth, and he had a dozen different cuts and bruises, but otherwise he was in OK shape.

‘Let’s go,’ he muttered.

Hassad hit the reverse gear on the Unimog into position, then tapped his foot on the accelerator. A big piece of machinery built mainly for farmers, the Unimog was like a cross between a pickup truck and a tractor. It had big tyres, four-wheel-drive and an engine powerful enough to kick down a building when it needed to.

It started to edge into reverse. The route it had taken had smashed its way from the courtyard into the room where
Porter had been held prisoner, and now it was taking the same route back again. The vehicle shook and shuddered as its tyres crunched backwards over the rubble, but it held steady.

As Hassad flung the steering wheel to the right, turning it swiftly round, Porter looked over to the courtyard. Outside the building, a Honda CR-V had been turned on its side, and was being used as a makeshift wall by four men. By the way they greeted him, Porter guessed they were Hassad’s blokes. They were staying close to the underside of the car. All of them were dressed in black, and had neatly trimmed beards and moustaches and close-cropped hair. Two of them had dark glasses pulled down over their eyes. All four had AK-47s gripped tight to their chests, as well as hand pistols and big, lethal hunting knives strapped into their belts. Porter didn’t have much idea what they did to the enemy, but they certainly frightened him.

The firefight looked to have subsided.

‘Is it safe to leave?’ Porter asked.

Hassad barked a few words in Arabic to one of the men behind the Honda, waited for the reply, then looked back at Porter. ‘They’re all dead,’ he said. ‘We can move out.’

He gestured to the four men, and one by one they climbed onto the back of the Unimog.

‘How many were there?’ Porter asked.

‘Ten,’ said Hassad. ‘Tough men as well. We lost men trying to rescue you –’

‘Who the fuck
were
they?’

‘You don’t know?’

Porter shook his head.

Hassad just shrugged. ‘If you don’t know, then nobody does.’

Porter nodded. ‘Thanks for getting me out,’ he said tersely.

‘I invited you out here,’ said Hassad. ‘That makes you my guest.’

The Unimog started to roll again. The courtyard was surrounded by a series of farm buildings and barns, as well as the main building where Porter had been kept since last night. Beyond it, at the bottom of the hillside, there was a road leading away from the site. All around him, Porter could see the debris of the battle, and feel the smell of death in the air.

Next to a wall he could see two corpses. And even though both men were covered in dust and blood, Porter could see one of them was white.

‘Stop a minute,’ snapped Porter.

‘We need to leave,’ said Hassad. ‘There could be more of them.’

‘I need to look at these guys.’

He jumped down from the cabin, kneeling down next to the dead body. The guy had taken about two dozen hits, even though the first two or three had probably killed him. The bullets had smashed up his face, turning his skull into paste, and smearing blood over every surface. One eyeball had been blown out, and the other was still bleeding. Even for a corpse he looked in pretty rough shape. From what Porter could see of him, he was almost forty, with dark brown hair, and tanned, grooved skin. He was wearing an olive-green military uniform, the kind you might pick up in an army surplus store. Porter couldn’t see any sign of a flag, or insignia. ‘Who the hell is he?’ said Porter, glancing back up at Hassad.

Hassad just shrugged. Porter didn’t get the impression he was very interested in corpses. Maybe he’d seen too many of them.

‘What the hell is a white man doing out here, taking British guys hostage?’ growled Porter.

He started rifling through his pockets. In one, he found thirty Lebanese pounds, along with some loose change. In another, he found a picture of a woman: dark-haired, with
freckled pale skin, pretty but slightly overweight, probably in her late twenties. Other than that, there was nothing that might identify who he was or who he was fighting for. No passport, no credit card, no dog tag. The unknown soldier, thought Porter. And you’re welcome to an unmarked grave, mate.
You sodding deserve it.

‘They must have some kit somewhere,’ said Porter, looking around.

Hassad grabbed him by the arm. He gestured to the hillside. Now that they were on the other side of the wall, Porter could see the scrubland sloping away to a dusty track. ‘We’ve got to move,’ he hissed.

‘I need to find out who these bastards were,’ snapped Porter.

‘We haven’t any time,’ said Hassad. ‘There may be more of them here any minute. There are only a few of us left alive –’

‘I need to find out why they bloody took me,’ said Porter. ‘It might be important.’

Another of Hassad’s men was already walking towards them. He was carrying a wounded man who was hobbling, resting on his mate’s shoulder.

Hassad flashed him a smile. As he did so, the deformity of his mouth was cruelly apparent: the smile twisted his mouth into a hideous mangled shape that gave no hint of pleasure or humour. ‘Welcome back to the Middle East, Mr Porter,’ he said. ‘Nothing out here is ever what it seems.’