Hot Blood (49 page)

Yokely grinned. ‘Watch and learn,’ he said.

The Sniper watched with a growing sense of amazement. What he was seeing made no sense at all. He was lying on an inflatable bed, covered with a piece of sacking. He had chosen the vantage-point carefully. The building below him was six storeys tall and he could see for miles. There were two main roads each within six hundred metres of the building, both used regularly by American troops. There was a fire escape at the rear, which offered a quick way down to a labyrinth of alleyways. He had used the rooftop four months earlier when he had killed an officer leading a foot patrol – shot him in the small of the back as he bent down to tie a shoelace, shattering the spine just below the body armour.

Two patrols had driven along the nearest main road but they had been moving too quickly. The Sniper didn’t waste bullets: he only shot when he was sure he would make a kill, and he had the patience to wait as long as it took. He had two bottles of water in the shade of a chimney-stack, and a plastic bag in case he needed to defecate. The Spotter was lying next to him on a rush mat. Like the Sniper, he was staring at the house some three hundred metres away, wondering what was going on.

They had watched the two Land Cruisers drive up together and park round the corner from the house. Ten minutes after they had arrived, an army Humvee joined them. A soldier climbed out of a Land Cruiser and went to talk to the soldiers in the Humvee. Shortly afterwards two Bradley fighting vehicles arrived with another Humvee. A dozen soldiers in full body armour climbed out and gathered round an officer.

Two helicopters had flown in from the south, then gone into a slow, banking turn that brought them in to a hover about a mile away from the military vehicles. The Sniper recognised them: they were Blackhawks, MH-60L Direct Action Penetrators. They each came equipped with two 7.62mm Miniguns, electrically driven Gatling guns that could fire up to four thousand rounds a minute, and M261 nineteen-tube rocket-launchers, capable of firing a wide range of rockets including armour and bunker penetration and anti-personnel flechette warheads that could rip apart an entire platoon, accurate up to two miles. There was also a 30mm chain gun, which could fire 625 high-explosive rounds a minute with pinpoint accuracy, and two M272 launchers each with four 100-pound Hellfire missiles that could destroy a tank five miles away at the touch of a button. The DAP Blackhawks had been equipped for special-forces operations and were just about the most deadly machines operating in Iraq.

It was what had happened next that had mystified the Sniper. Two civilians wearing body armour had pulled two Iraqis out of the back of a Land Cruiser. One of the Iraqis had been given a handgun and the other a Kalashnikov. Then a Westerner in shirt and trousers climbed out of the second Land Cruiser. He kept his hands behind his back as if his wrists had been tied, but from his vantage-point the Sniper could see a handgun tucked into his belt in the small of his back.

The two Iraqis and the Westerner walked to the house. The American soldiers fanned out, spreading round the street and taking up vantage-points. They appeared to be preparing to storm the house. The Bradley fighting vehicles kept their engines running, ready to move closer to the house, and the Blackhawks continued to hover. The Sniper knew better than to fire while the hunter-killer helicopters were in the vicinity: they were equipped with a full-range of visual, infrared and radar sensors. If they even suspected he was on the roof, they would have no hesitation in destroying the building, no matter who else was in it.

‘What do you think is happening?’ asked the Spotter.

‘I have no idea,’ said the Sniper. ‘But I am sure we will find a target before too long.
Inshallah
.’

Kamil banged on the door. ‘Colin, stand against the wall, please,’ he shouted. He pressed his eye to the spyhole and watched as Mitchell followed his instructions. Then he unbolted the door and opened it. Behind him, Rahman and Azeem waited, their faces covered with
shemagh
scarves. Azeem was holding a Kal ashnikov, the safety off.

Mitchell stared at the assault rifle. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. We just need to make another video,’ said Kamil. He walked across the basement and handed the orange jumpsuit to Mitchell. ‘Put this on, please.’

‘What sort of video?’ asked Mitchell.

Wafeeq walked into the basement carrying the video-camera and its tripod. ‘Do as you’re told or we will kill you now,’ he snarled.

‘It’s better to keep him calm,’ Kamil said in Arabic.

‘You are too soft on them,’ said Wafeeq, also in Arabic. ‘They are the infidel. They deserve to die.’

‘It is easier if they are calm,’ said Kamil, patiently. ‘If they struggle, it is harder.’ He smiled at Mitchell. ‘Everything is okay, Colin, we just need another video.’

‘Why?’

‘We need more publicity. We need to put more pressure on your government.’

Wafeeq glared at Mitchell as he screwed the camera on to the tripod. Mitchell slowly pulled on the jumpsuit.

‘I will do this one,’ said Wafeeq in Arabic.

Kamil nodded. ‘It’s your choice,’ he said. They heard shouts from upstairs. It was Abdul-Nasir, the youngest of their group and the one most prone to panic.

‘Kamil!’ shouted Abdul-Nasir. ‘Someone’s coming. Quick! Come and see!’

‘Soldiers?’

‘No. Two men with a Westerner.’

‘What?’

‘Come and see.’

Kamil exchanged a look with Wafeeq. ‘Go!’ said Wafeeq, impatiently.

Kamil hurried into the kitchen, went up to the first floor and peered out of the bedroom window that overlooked the front of the house. Two Iraqis were walking down the path to the house. One was holding a pistol, the other had a Kalashnikov. Between them was a Westerner, head bowed, hands tied behind his back. He stumbled as he walked and the man with the Kalashnikov grabbed his arm. Kamil opened the window. ‘What do you want?’ he shouted.

‘Wafeeq said we were to bring him,’ shouted the man with the handgun.

‘He said what?’

‘He said we were to interrogate him, then bring him here.’

‘What is your name?’

‘I am Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh. This is my son.’

‘Wait there.’

Kamil ran downstairs. A Kalashnikov was leaning against the wall in the hall and he picked it up, then hurried down to the basement. ‘Did you tell them to bring the prisoner here?’ he asked Wafeeq.

Wafeeq frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Two men, upstairs. They’ve brought a prisoner with them. A Westerner.’

Wafeeq looked at Mitchell. He was kneeling on the floor in the orange jumpsuit, his hands at his sides, glaring at them defiantly. The video-camera was ready to roll, and Wafeeq was ready to kill. But clearly something was wrong upstairs. He pointed at Mitchell. ‘I will be back for you,’ he said. ‘Come with me,’ he said to Kamil.

The two men hurried out of the basement. Wafeeq told Azeem to lock the door, then ran upstairs with Kamil.

‘His name is Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh, he said you told him to bring the prisoner here after they had interrogated him.’

Wafeeq shook his head impatiently. ‘I said interrogate him and kill him,’ he snapped. ‘Why would I want them to bring him here?’ He shouted towards the front room: ‘Azeem, Sulaymaan, Rahman, get upstairs now. Cover the front of the house.’

The three men ran out of the front room and up the stairs, carrying Kalashnikovs. ‘Azeem!’ shouted Wafeeq. ‘Take the RPG.’ Azeem scurried back to the front room, then reappeared with the weapon. He rushed upstairs after his two colleagues.

‘What do you think is happening?’ Kamil asked Wafeeq.

‘Something smells bad,’ said Wafeeq.

‘Did you tell them where we were?’

‘Of course not.’

There was a loud knock on the front door. Wafeeq switched off the Kalashnikov’s safety catch and nodded for Kamil to open it.

Kamil kept his gun at his side as he pulled back the bolts. Wafeeq stood with the gun on his hip, his finger on the trigger. Kamil took a deep breath and opened the door.

The two Iraqis were holding the Westerner. Yuusof’s face was drenched in sweat and he looked nervous. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Kamil.

Yuusof said nothing.

‘Speak!’ shouted Kamil, gesturing with his gun.

The Westerner lifted his head and smiled. ‘Surprise,’ he said.

Mitchell got to his feet. He was sure they were getting ready to execute him, and he was equally sure that Wafeeq was going to do it. Something had happened upstairs but he knew it was only a temporary reprieve. They would be back soon and when they did come back they would kill him.

He went to the paperback book, moved it aside and picked up the magnetic chess set. He opened it, took out one of the small plastic-covered metal pieces and knelt by the electric socket. The screws came out easily. He took off the cover and pulled out the wires. He wasn’t sure if they were live so he touched the bare wires together. Sparks flew. He did it again and this time there were no sparks so he figured he’d blown a fuse. He gripped the wire and pulled hard. There was a ripping sound from behind the wall and several feet of wire came out of the hole. He stared at it. He would have given anything right then for a knife or a pair of scissors. He smiled to himself. If he’d had either a knife or scissors he wouldn’t have been messing around with the wire. He bent over, put his head close to the wall and began gnawing at the wire with his teeth.

Shepherd pulled out the Glock and shot the man in the forehead twice in quick succession. He slumped to the ground without a sound. Wafeeq stood in the doorway, holding a Kalashnikov. Shepherd dropped into a crouch and brought the gun to bear on Wafeeq’s chest but before he could fire the door slammed.

The two Iraqis who had walked him to the house dived to the ground and lay face down with their hands over their heads. There were no rounds in their guns and they had been told to stay down until the shooting was over.

Shepherd heard shouts above his head and looked up to see two men at the upstairs windows. One was aiming an RPG, the other had a Kalashnikov. The Kalashnikov fired and bullets sprayed round the gate as one of the Blackhawk helicopters swooped down to hover above the buildings on the far side of the street.

He kicked the door, which burst open, dived inside, rolled over and got to his feet, Glock in both hands. The man with the Kalashnikov had gone, and blood was pooling round the head of the man Shepherd had shot. Outside, he heard the Blackhawk’s massive chain guns burst into life. The high-explosive dual-purpose rounds ripped into the upper floor of the house for five or six seconds, then there was silence. He heard shouts outside, American voices, then M16s being fired, the thump of footsteps below him. He looked around for the door to the basement.

Mitchell had felt the shells smash into the upper floors of the building. Now he could hear the throb of helicopter blades, which meant the Americans were outside, more gunfire – M16s – and shouts and yells.

He had been standing with his back to the wall waiting for Kamil and the rest to come back, but now he knew that all bets were off. He had a length of wire wrapped round his right wrist. When he heard the thump of feet on the stairs, he moved quickly to the far side of the room and stood to the left of the door. It was all about survival now. The Americans had the technology and the manpower. It was only a matter of time before they overpowered his kidnappers. All Mitchell had to do was stay alive until that happened.

He heard the bolts slide back, then more gunfire upstairs. He let the wire swing loose from his wrist.

The door flew back and Mitchell put up a hand to stop it. One of the kidnappers stepped into the room, his Kalashnikov at waist level. Mitchell kicked out at the weapon, knocking away the barrel. It went off and bullets hammered into the far wall, the shots deafening in the confined space. He stepped forward and threw the wire round the man’s neck, caught the free end and pulled it tight. The Kalashnikov went off again and two shots smacked into the ceiling. Mitchell pulled back on the wire and the man lost his balance. He looped the wire round the man’s neck again, then stepped back, pulling it taut. The man twisted, trying to point the weapon at Mitchell, but the wire bit tighter into his throat.

A second figure appeared. It was Wafeeq, holding a Kalashnikov. He pointed it at Mitchell, but before he could fire Mitchell kicked at the door, which slammed shut. The man he was strangling tried to slam the butt of his Kalashnikov against Mitchell’s knee but he moved backwards to avoid the blow.

The door slammed open again. Wafeeq was screaming in Arabic as he pulled the trigger.

Shepherd hurtled down the stairs. There was a doorway to the right and as he reached the bottom of the stairs he heard Wafeeq shouting. He brought up his Glock with both hands as Wafeeq’s Kalashnikov fired a quick burst and the air was filled with the tang of cordite. The door to the basement room was half shut and Shepherd couldn’t see inside so he ran forward and kicked the door open.

Mitchell was in a corner behind an Arab whose torso was peppered with bloody holes. As the door flew open the dead man’s Kalashnikov clattered to the ground.

Wafeeq was standing in the middle of the room, still screaming.

‘Wafeeq!’ yelled Shepherd.

Wafeeq turned and Shepherd fired. The shot missed the back of Wafeeq’s skull by an inch and thwacked into the wall. Wafeeq’s finger tightened on the trigger and Shepherd dropped into a crouch and fired again, hitting him in the shoulder. Wafeeq staggered back. Mitchell dropped the man he was holding, rushed forward and kicked Wafeeq in the small of the back. Wafeeq staggered forward, Shepherd slammed the Glock against his temple and he slumped to the ground without a sound.

Mitchell stood where he was, panting. ‘Bugger me, what took you so long?’ he gasped.