Strike Back (30 page)

Before Porter could reply, Hassad had already left the room. The door had been slammed tight shut, and he could hear a bolt being slid into place.

Porter lay back. The room was not completely dark: there was the single, small candle burning in a pool of molten wax in the corner. The straw felt damp, and he could feel the dirt within it. There was a drip somewhere in the room where some water was coming through the stone out of which it was carved.

‘Shit,’ he muttered.

He tried to make a mental calculation of the time. It had been midnight locally when they’d watched the news bulletin from London, and at least an hour had passed since then. So it could be one, possibly pushing two in the
morning. The dead of night. If there was a rescue attempt coming, his best guess was that the Regiment would strike between three and four in the morning. There was no way of knowing for sure, but he reckoned nobody was coming. All that posturing on TV from Collinson: it suggested to Porter the bastard didn’t have a clue where Katie had been hidden. Hassad’s men were loyal, professional and dedicated, and they were operating in their own country.

He turned onto his side. The ropes were tight, but it was only his right leg and right hand that were immobilised, and that gave him space to move. He slipped his left hand into his jeans, and took out the knife he’d hidden there during the meal. It only measured five inches, with a black plastic handle, but it had a good sharp steel blade on it. It would do, Porter reckoned. Hassad must have decided that one arm and one leg was enough. A man couldn’t untie a knot with one hand: certainly not when the hand in question was short of a couple of fingers.
But he could cut one.

Porter glanced towards the door. It was shut tight, and he reckoned they were leaving him alone for the rest of the night. It would be five, he judged, before the place came back to life. That gave him a couple of hours to play with. What was it Clayton had said to him? Play the bloody hero if you have to.

Gripping the knife in his left hand, he moved his body around until he was level with a piece of clean rock. Turning the blade flat, he started to slowly sharpen the blade by grinding it into the stone. The ropes binding him were thick, made from a plastic cord: the blade right now was nowhere near strong enough to cut through it, but with enough work he might be able to get it into shape for the job.

It was slow, painful work. A couple of times the blade sprung from his grasp, spinning across the rock, and once he was afraid it might be out of reach. The rock was certainly
no grinding stone – just ragged, blunt ore – but if you drove it hard, the blade gradually sharpened. The work was dull and repetitive, but Porter was grateful for it. It took his mind off what was likely to happened next.

Within half an hour, the blade was sharpened. It wasn’t a razor, but the steel was thin, and pointed, and it would do the job. Twisting himself around, he positioned the blade in his left hand. Porter had never been naturally dexterous with that hand, and after he lost his fingers he’d found it wasn’t good for much more than holding the second bottle of vodka if he was ever lucky enough to get his hands on two at the same time. Still, he got a good enough grip between his thumb and his palm and, leaning forward, slashed it into the rope binding his right foot. The knot was strong, and so was the artificial fibre the rope was made from, but the knife was now sharp enough to saw its way through. In just a few seconds, it had been severed. With a kick of the knee, Porter shook his leg free of the stake. Still squatting on the ground, Porter kept the blade wedged tight into the palm of his left hand. A rope was still tied tight around his chest, strapping his right hand to him, but he quickly cut it open. Free, he told himself with satisfaction.

Porter looked up at the bolted door.

OK, he thought, feeling the resolve stiffen inside him. Let’s see if we can’t make some trouble for these bastards.

He collected the tiny candle, holding it up close to the door. There was enough of a crack that he could see out into the corridor. From here, it looked empty, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a guard just a few metres away. The bolt was made from metal, and slotted into position in a socket about four feet off the ground. Porter positioned himself close to the door, and held up the candle so that he had as much light to work with as possible. He slotted the knife into the gap in the door, and slowly worked it against the bolt: he dug the tip into the metal, twisted it to get as much
grip as possible, then used all the strength in his wrist to flick it backwards a couple of millimetres. It didn’t move much, but it did shift a fraction, and to Porter that was all that mattered. He would get there eventually.

It took ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but eventually the lock was freed. He reckoned it was three fifteen in the morning now, although he couldn’t be certain. The door swung open: Porter had to grab hold of it to stop the thing from crashing back and raising the alarm. He blew out the candle, and held his breath tight in his chest. Very slowly, and with the knife gripped in his right hand, he squeezed the door ajar. He glanced into the corridor. The light was murky – there were some lamps in the meeting point but nothing in the corridor – and although he had got used to the semi-darkness it still took a second for Porter to adjust his eyes. So far as he could see the corridor was empty. He inched out, keeping one foot inside the door, so that he could snap back inside if necessary.

Porter already had a plan mapped out. He’d have liked to go straight to Katie, but that route was too well guarded. There was no way he could get through equipped just with an eating knife. Instead, he’d slip through to Hassad’s room. It was a distance of about twenty metres through the tunnels, and he calculated there would only be one guard along the way. The odds of success weren’t great, he thought. But at least they weren’t suicidal.

He moved quietly forward. The guard was standing just where the tunnel met the meeting point. He had his back to it, and he was leaning against the wall. Whether he was drowsing or alert, it was impossible to say from here. Porter inched out further, his back flat against the wall. The knife was nestling in the palm of his hand. He was gradually adjusting his eyes to the soupy light. He could see the barrel of the man’s gun. An AK-47: the lamp in the meeting point was catching on the gleaming wood of its polished stock.
Porter kept moving. He was about ten metres from the man now. He was holding his breath: he knew from his time in the Regiment that it was the sound of your breathing that usually gave you away. The floor was just dust and grit so at least it wasn’t scratching against his trainers. Five metres. His back was tight against the wall, slipping into the shadows, making sure he was virtually invisible against the rock. Three metres. He could see the man’s shoulders twitch. He was a big man, Porter noted: six foot, with hefty shoulders, taking his weight up to two hundred pounds. He could hear him grunt. Or maybe a snore. His hand rose upwards. For a moment, Porter was certain he was going for the gun. All he had to do was look round, and he could spray the space with bullets: Porter would be shredded to pieces within seconds. He tried to melt into the rock. The man picked at his nose, grunted again, then slumped back against the side of the rock. Porter took a step closer, then another. He raised his right hand, and steadied himself. With a sudden, swift movement, he darted forward. He cupped his left hand around the man’s mouth, dragged back hard with all the muscles in his shoulders. He could hear the man starting to cry, but the hand was effectively stifling the noise. He was starting to shudder, and as his muscles absorbed the sudden shock of the attack, he heaved backwards. Porter struggled to contain him. You’ve only got a fraction of a second, he reminded himself. Once you get into a fair fight with this bastard, then you’re a dead man.

In an instant, Porter’s right hand was thrusting towards the man’s neck. The knife pierced the skin, making a neat incision, in the space between the jawbone and the collar bones where a blade could cut straight through to the wind-pipe. Porter had barely a moment, and he knew he had to slice the man open as skilfully as any surgeon: except his purpose was to end the creature’s life, not preserve it.

There was a hiss of air: the unmistakable sound of oxygen
wheezing out of a collapsing windpipe, like an old tyre with a puncture. Porter twisted the knife around, letting it complete its deadly work, while at the same time keeping his hand gripped tight on the man’s mouth. He stifled a bolt of pain as his victim summoned up enough strength to bite into the palm of his hand, but that was the man’s last moment of resistance as the life drained out of him. Giving the blade a final twist, Porter made sure the windpipe was completely cut open, making it impossible for any air to get through to the brain. He removed his hand from the man’s mouth, and checked his pulse. Dead. He yanked his body back, lying him down flat on the ground.

No time to hide the body, he decided. The shifts could change at any moment, and as soon as someone came along, they would know the base was under attack and raise the alarm. They might even think they were under a full-scale assault from British special forces. If that was the case, so much the better. In the chaos, some kind of opportunity to escape might open up.

Porter pulled the knife free from the man’s throat, and wiped the blood away on the back of his jeans. You’ll taste more before this night is out, he told himself grimly.

He picked up the man’s handgun and tucked that into his jeans. A compact Browning M1900, Porter was familiar enough with how it worked. He walked swiftly across the meeting point. He knew where Hassad’s quarters were.

Porter turned into the corridor. The moment of truth has arrived, he told himself.

The light leading up to Hassad’s room was dim, but Porter’s eyes had already adjusted to the murky conditions, and he didn’t have any trouble identifying the right door. He laid his palm flat against it, and exerted the slenderest amount of pressure. It gave. Hassad slept with his door unlocked, the way Porter had figured he would. Soldiers didn’t bolt themselves in, especially when there was
possibility of any enemy assault. They needed to be ready to move the moment an attack started: in the time it took them to unlock their doors, they might already be dead.

Porter held the knife in his hand, savouring the cold sharpness of its blade against his skin. If he could, he’d use that rather than the gun: a shot would alert the whole base, and there would be a dozen soldiers on top of him within seconds. He paused for a brief moment, controlling his breathing. He suddenly recalled Steve, Mike and Keith. He could see them laughing as they went into the battle. He could hear the jokes and the banter, and then the desperate commands as the action kicked off. And then he could recall the moment when he’d seen the three stretchers with white cloths covering them being carried out of the chopper. He remembered the funerals, and the moving tributes from their mates as the bodies were buried in the ground. And he could remember the looks of all the other guys in the base back at Hereford. The looks that said, ‘Here’s the bloke who let three of his mates die because he didn’t have the bollocks to finish off some raghead kid who was intent on killing the lot of them.’

OK, boys, Porter thought bitterly. It’s a bit late, I know. This is a cheque that should have been cashed years ago. But you’re about to get your payback on the bastard that killed you.

He pushed the door open. Hassad was lying on a simple straw mattress by one wall of the small room. In the corner there was a small candle floating in a pool of wax that filled the room with a pale light. He was still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt he wore during the day, although he’d kicked off his trainers and put them at the bottom of the mattress. Next to it, there was a paperback book in Arabic left half open and a tin cup of water. There was also an open packet of some kind of medicine although Porter couldn’t read at this distance what it was. His AK-47 was laid down flat on the
straw right next to him. There was a knife as well. Under attack, he could reach for both within seconds. What was under the cushion he was using as a pillow Porter couldn’t tell. But it was more likely to be a pistol than a spare pair of pyjamas, he thought with a half-smile.

Porter had a fraction of a second. That was all the time available to determine success or failure. He kicked against the stone floor, and threw himself across the few metres that separated the doorway from the straw mattress.

He landed hard on top of Hassad. Immediately, the Arab woke up, looking straight at Porter, his eyes ablaze with anger. But it was too late. Porter was lying right across him. He was a big man, with at least a fifty-pound weight advantage on Hassad, and the sheer bulk of his body was pinning him down to the floor. Porter could feel a heady sense of elation surging through him. Almost as good as double vodka, he told himself. Right now, I’ve got this bastard exactly where I want him. And now he’s going to help me get Katie out of here.

Porter drew back his right hand just a few inches, hovering close to Hassad’s neck. His blade was sharp, it would only need the minimum of force to break open the man’s skin. His hand held steady and his eyes darted across the man’s body, scanning it the same way a butcher glances across a carcass, looking for the best places to cut up the meat. He could feel a surge of anger running through his veins. I’ve waited too long for this, he told himself grimly. Far too bloody long.

He jabbed the knife forwards, using the strength in his elbow. It collided with the skin, nicking open a cut, and suddenly the blade was crimson with blood. In the same moment, however, Hassad had rolled his head to one side, stretching enough of his neck muscles to deflect the worst of the attack. Porter was still lying flat on top of the man, crushing him into the straw bedding, and making it
impossible for him to move. ‘Stay still, you murdering raghead scum,’ Porter spat viciously.