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!’
Chase made an angry move towards him, but Mac raised his hand. ‘Eddie, I’m sorry, but Alexander’s right. The hostages are our priority. The women will . . . ’ He shook his head, downcast. ‘They’ll have to fend for themselves.’
‘Can I at least let them out of the hut?’
Mac considered for a moment. ‘If the situation allows.’
Chase nodded, then everyone looked round as Starkman finished his radio call. ‘Good news and bad news,’ the American announced.
Bluey chuckled. ‘There’s a surprise.’
‘Good news is, there’s a Spooky, call sign Hammer Four-One, in the air. Bad news is, it’s currently on another op and they don’t know when, or even if, it’ll be able to get to us.’
‘No helicopters?’ asked Mac. Starkman shook his head. ‘That settles it, then. We can’t wait for backup – it won’t be long before somebody realises those sentries are missing. We move in now.’
Ten minutes later, Chase was back at the barn. This time Stikes, not Castille, was with him. The captain lurked by the pile of garbage and corpses, while Chase squatted in the shadows against the rusting refrigerator.
Minutes ticked by. Chase’s calf muscles started aching, but he ignored the discomfort, staying focused on his task. This time there was no self-doubt, no uncertainty; the knowledge of what the Taliban had done to the four dead hostages, and what they were likely to do to their other prisoners, had eliminated any concerns about whether he was doing the right thing. He flexed his legs, trying to keep them from stiffening. He couldn’t afford to be even a second late in reacting . . .
‘Psst!’ Stikes, signalling that a guard was beginning another patrol round the barn. Completely still, Chase listened to the plodding crunch of the Taliban’s footsteps, the rustle of loose clothing as he drew level—
Chase leapt up, left hand locking firmly over the Afghan’s bearded mouth as his right whipped up the knife. This time, though, he didn’t drive the blade deep into muscle and sinew, but pressed it flat across the man’s throat to choke him. Simultaneously, Stikes rushed to them, yanked up the Taliban’s robes and jabbed his own knife up between the man’s legs as he hissed in Pashto: ‘Make a noise and I’ll cut off your balls.’
Chase felt the Afghan tense in utter terror. ‘I think he gets the point,’ he whispered.
Still holding the knife to the Taliban’s groin, Stikes straightened and waved at the ditch. Two figures emerged: Castille and Starkman. Stikes spoke again in Pashto, his intense blue eyes glinting in the moonlight as they fixed on the prisoner’s. ‘If you don’t do exactly what I tell you, I’ll gut you like a pig. Nod if you understand me.’ The trembling man did so. Starkman and Castille pressed against the wall just short of the barn’s front corner. ‘Good. Now, call to the other guard – not too loudly – and ask him to come here. Okay?’
Another feeble tip of the head. Stikes nodded to Chase, who took his hand away from the man’s mouth, keeping the point of his knife pressed against his windpipe. The Afghan took several long, gasping breaths, then spoke in quavering Pashto. Stikes pushed his knife harder against the man’s testicles. ‘Again. Less frightened.’ The Taliban repeated himself with fractionally more confidence.
The other guard, out of sight round the front of the barn, replied dismissively. One look into Stikes’s eyes was enough to convince the prisoner to be more insistent. Complaining, the second man padded round the corner – to find five figures in the moonlight where he had expected only one. Fumbling for his AK, he opened his mouth to yell a warning—
Bullets from the silenced C8s of Green and Baine, the two SAS men still concealed in the scrub three hundred yards away, blew out the back of his skull in a spray of brain and bone. His body flopped grotesquely forward – to be caught by Castille, Starkman lunging to grab his Kalashnikov before it could clatter to the ground.
Stikes withdr
ew the knife from his captive. For a moment, there was a faint flicker of hope in the Taliban’s eyes, but it vanished when Stikes placed the blade’s point over his heart. The captain spoke again, this time in English. ‘Give my regards to the seventy-two virgins.’
The man stared in fearful incomprehension – and the blade sank to its hilt into his chest. With a hint of a smile, Stikes twisted it, then yanked it out. The man’s robes darkened as spewing blood soaked them. Chase clamped his hand back over the Afghan’s mouth as he struggled, trapping an animalistic sound inside his throat . . . until both noise and movement dwindled to nothing.
Suppressing shock, Chase let go. The corpse slumped to the dirt. Without even giving it a look, Stikes turned away as Mac and Bluey emerged from the ditch. ‘Bluey, watch the front of the barn; Alexander, cover the back,’ Mac ordered. He pointed at the fridge. ‘Everyone else, move that. Let’s get them out of there.’
With four men to lift it, the corroded fridge was hauled clear in moments. Chase looked into the barn. The confrontation had caught the hostages’ attention, and the bound man he had seen earlier was staring at him in alarm. ‘It’s okay,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re here to get you home.’ He squeezed through the gap, Mac, Starkman and Castille following. The prisoners’ bonds were quickly cut.
‘Mac!’ An urgent whisper from outside. Bluey. ‘Two blokes coming from the house.’
The guards’ absence had been noticed. ‘Hugo, take them to the ditch, then join Bluey,’ said Mac. ‘Eddie, you go with Alexander. Jason?’
‘Already on it,’ Starkman drawled, extracting a pair of Claymore mines from his pack and placing them facing the barn doors before connecting their tripwires.
The hostages were in a bad way, Chase realised as he followed the eight men out through the hole and watched them stagger after Castille. That would slow their escape – not good with forty pissed-off Taliban on their heels.
They would have to reduce that number.
He joined Stikes at the barn’s rear corner. A couple of bearded men carrying AKs were now standing by the horses, another ambling amongst the tents. Behind him, he heard Mac on the radio, alerting the helicopters that they were about to evacuate – most likely under fire.
The hostages were hiding in the ditch. Castille ran to join Bluey. Starkman emerged from the barn and readied his weapon. Chase’s heart pounded, adrenalin rushing into his system.
Someone at the front of the barn called out in Pashto, then with a creak of wood pulled open the doors—
Both Claymores detonated, a pound and a half of C-4 explosive in each mine blasting seven hundred steel balls outwards in a supersonic swathe of destruction. The doors were obliterated, the two Taliban outside disintegrating into a bloody shower of shredded meat and bone.
Before the boom of the twin detonations had faded, Chase and Stikes stepped out into the open and fired. The two Taliban by the horses fell to Chase’s bullets, the walking man tumbling before Stikes switched his aim to the closest tents. Screams came from them as the dirty fabric puckered with bullet holes.
More gunfire from the front of the barn, the suppressed thumps of Castille’s C8 almost lost beneath the chattering roar of Bluey’s machine gun as the pair opened fire on the Afghans outside the farmhouse. More screams, and shouts from within as the Taliban realised they were under attack and piled for the exit—
The house’s front wall blew apart, the roof crashing down on the men inside. It had been hit by high explosive grenade rounds fired by Baine and Green. A huge dust cloud burst from the ruins, roiling over the tents and the panicked horses.
A man with an AK leapt out from a tent – only to fall dead as Chase picked him off. Stikes was still shooting into the other tents to slay their occupants before they could even move. The Minimi’s hammering stopped, angry yells reaching the team as the surviving Taliban started to regroup – then they were drowned out again as Bluey resumed firing.
Chase glanced back, seeing Mac and Starkman herding the hostages along the irrigation ditch. Castille and Bluey retreated to provide covering fire. He knew he should join them, but there was something he had to do first.
The swelling dust cloud covered the tents behind the destroyed house. This was his chance. He broke away from Stikes, and hurried to the hut.
‘Chase!’ Stikes roared. ‘Get back here!’
Chase ignored him, yanking the bolt and throwing open the door. A cry of fear came from the darkness inside. He fumbled for his penlight torch, shining it quickly round the interior to see five dark, almost formless shapes: the women, even their eyes only part visible through the netted slits in their all-encompassing chadris. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their ankles also bound under the heavy robes.
‘Don’t be scared,’ said Chase. ‘I’m here to help. British, not Taliban.’ Despite the netting, he could see that the women’s eyes were swollen and blackened. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered as he drew his knife. One of the women made a terrified keening sound and tried to wriggle away. He put down his Diemaco. ‘Here to help, okay?’ She got the message and turned so he could reach her ties. From outside came another grenade explosion, followed by the thump of a fuel tank detonating: Green or Baine had destroyed one of the trucks.
‘Chase!’ Stikes appeared at the door, gun raised. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘What I said I would.’ He started to saw at the rope.
‘Leave them – that’s an order. We’re moving out. Now!’
‘We can take them with us.’
‘Leave them!’
‘No, there’re enough seats in the choppers. I’ll—’
Stikes fired. Even with its suppressor, the noise of his rifle on full auto was painful in the confined space. The stream of bullets sliced down the five women and spattered Chase with blood.
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Chase yelled, rolling out of the line of fire. He whipped up his C8 at the captain – to find the smoking barrel pointing straight back at him. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘I told you the rules of engagement,’ said Stikes coldly. ‘Anyone who isn’t one of the hostages is a hostile.’ A thin, malignant smile. ‘And as I said, you know what we do to hostiles. Now lower your weapon.’
‘You fucker,’ Chase snarled. The black tube of the suppressor was still aimed at his head. Slowly, unwillingly, he let his own rifle drop.
‘Good. Move it,’ said Stikes. The Diemaco not wavering, he backed out of the shack, then turned and ran for the barn.
Chase jumped up, rage flooding through him. He should shoot the bastard in the back—
No. He shouldn’t. There was a mission to complete. He went to the door, then hesitated, his gaze drawn back to the sprawled bodies. With an angry growl, he ran after Stikes.
Castille and Bluey were still firing as they advanced along the ditch after the fleeing hostages. Stikes ran past the pair, but Chase joined them. One of the UN trucks was aflame, and the other vehicles had all taken damage. There were at least fifteen Taliban survivors, judging from the muzzle flashes from behind the collapsed house. It was mostly panic fire, the shots smacking harmlessly into the ground short of the trench. Chase matched the timing of the closest impacts to the flash of the most accurate gunman, then dropped him with a single round to the head.
‘Good shot,’ said Castille. ‘What were you and Stikes doing back there?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ Chase replied grimly. He looked along the ditch to see that Stikes had caught up with Mac, at the tail of the shambling line of hostages. Starkman, leading, was almost at the bushes. ‘Time to go.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Bluey, releasing a sweeping burst before scuttling crab-like down the ditch. Chase and Castille trailed him. A hollow whomp came from the scrub, and a moment later one of the 4×4s was bowled on to its roof in a huge fireball as another AG-C round found its target. A man, robes and beard aflame, ran screaming into the night. ‘Don’t think they’ll be driving after us now!’
>
‘They’ve still got bikes, though,’ Chase told him. ‘And horses.’
‘Well, they shoot horses, don’t they?’ With a cackle, Bluey fired another sweep to force the Taliban into cover, then hurried after Stikes.
Chase grimaced at the joke, then took up the rear. The AK fire was now more intermittent, but also better aimed. The remaining Taliban had overcome their initial shock.
The hostages were past the bushes, Mac directing them down the slope. A small object, spitting sparks, arced from the scrub – a smoke grenade. A thick grey cloud spewed from it. A second followed, putting an obscuring curtain between the team and the Taliban.
‘Hugo, Eddie, come on!’ Mac called as Green and Baine jumped up from their hiding place. ‘Choppers are on their way. Move it!’