Murder Team (6 page)

‘Are they likely to speak English?’

‘Some of them  do.’

Danny tucked his Browning into his pocket. ‘Get out of the car,’ he said. ‘If things go to shit, we can’t fight from in here.’

Both men opened their doors and stepped outside.

The Rashaida guys were simply dressed: plain white smocks and headdresses. Their weapons, Danny now saw, were Kalashnikovs. Old ones. The component parts of each weapon differed in colour, which suggested that each one was cobbled together from a number of different originals. But that didn’t mean they didn’t know how to use them. Danny examined their faces carefully. Two of the guys were walking toward Triggs, one toward Danny. The gaze of each of them, though, flickered toward the vehicle. It was the Land Cruiser, Danny sensed, that they were interested in.

Danny’s guy was two metres from him. Triggs’s pair were closer: a metre.

‘Keys,’ one of them said, and he held out his palm.

Triggs laughed in a comradely sort of way. The Rashaida looked momentarily uncertain. Danny seized his moment. Leaning forward, he grabbed the Kalashnikov that was slung round his neck, yanked the guy toward him, then spun him round and wrapped a strong arm around his neck. The guy made a strangled sound as, with his free hand, Danny pulled the Browning, unlocked it and pressed the barrel to his captive’s head. At exactly the same time, Triggs pulled his own handgun and aimed at the head of the nearest Rashaida.

‘OK fellas,’ Danny called across the bonnet of the Land Cruiser. ‘Let’s lose the rifles.’

Triggs’s two Rashaida exchanged a worried look. All the swagger had gone out of them. They slowly brought their slings over their heads. Danny saw that Triggs’s finger was resting lightly on the trigger of his handgun, ready to fire at any sudden movement. But there was none. The two Rashaida laid their weapons obediently on the ground, then stood up straight again. Danny checked the position of the woman: he couldn’t see her any more, so he figured she was hiding behind the Rashaida vehicle.

Danny needed to get them away from their vehicle – it provided cover and perhaps carried weaponry. The closer the Rashaida were to it, the more advantage they had. ‘Walk.’ Danny nodded his head in a westerly direction. ‘That way.’

Triggs’s two guys exchanged a second glance. They stepped back from Triggs, three paces. One of them turned west. But the other suddenly plunged one hand into his robe and pulled out a small, snubnose handgun.

He was fast, but he wasn’t as fast as Triggs. The moment the snubnose appeared, Danny’s companion fired. The round echoed across the desert and slammed straight into the gunman’s neck. There was a sudden flash of red as fluid burst from an artery, and the guy hit the floor.

Another shot rang out. Triggs had nailed the second guy. No blood at first, but as he collapsed, it started pooling on to the ground from the entry wound at his chest.

Danny’s guy started to tremble, and from behind the opposite vehicle came the sound of screaming – two voices, female. There was clearly another woman back there whom Danny hadn’t noticed. He released his grip on the guy he was holding, spun him round and ripped his weapon and sling over his head.

‘Go!’ he spat. And when the guy just staggered back, bewildered, he repeated: ‘
Go!
’

The man turned and ran.

‘You should nail him!’ Triggs shouted.

Danny shook his head. ‘Let him run,’ he said. He strode toward the Rashaida vehicle, still brandishing his weapon. As he passed the headlamps, it took a couple of seconds to readjust to the darkness, but he soon saw the two women huddled against the back of the car. He strode up to them, stopping two metres from their position, and saw the fear in their eyes. Their gaze flickered between him and the weapon. One of them shook her head. The other wept.

Danny held out the gun in their direction.

Then he lowered it, and discharged a single round into the rear left-hand tyre. The women started, and the suddenly shredded tyre deflated with a violent hiss. Danny walked round them, took out the second rear tyre, then circled the car and shot a round into the front two.

‘Alright, boy, you can stop taking the stupid pills now,’ Triggs said. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

‘I’m not leaving two women by themselves out here,’ Danny said. ‘If they’re so fucking precious to him, he’ll be back for them.’

‘And he’ll tell his fucking Rashaida mates about
us
, boy. They’ll be after us.’

Danny gave him a dark look. ‘His vehicle’s out of action. It’ll take him hours to get anywhere. If we’re still in the vicinity by that time, we’ll have bigger problems than a few desert gypsies.’

Triggs looked like he wanted to argue, but maybe he saw that Danny was in no mood for it. ‘Get back in the car, boy,’ he said. ‘We need to fucking floor it.’

‘Fine by me,’ Danny said. He blocked out the sound of the weeping women and climbed back into the Land Cruiser. Triggs started the engine and moved off. The vehicle jolted as he drove over one of the two dead bodies. Danny looked left and saw the frightened gaze of the women follow them as they departed into the night.

He checked his watch. 20.15hrs.

‘We’ve got forty-five minutes,’ he said.

Triggs floored the throttle, and the scene of death disappeared behind them.

8

The door to Spud’s hut swung open.

For the past ten minutes, his head had been lolling on his chest and the room had been spinning. He was only vaguely aware of the dog that was still chewing on the remnants of its monstrous dinner, which it had gnawed down to nothing more than soft, white bone and cartilage. There were moments when Spud didn’t even know where he was. The dog at his feet merged in his mind with the black Labrador he’d owned as a child, and for a few peaceful minutes he thought he was back home again.

But the opening of that door dragged him suddenly and brutally back to the horrific reality of his situation. He inhaled sharply and noisily, then raised his head to see a figure framed in the doorway.

The figure approached. It was the militant with the black and white bandana who had questioned him before. Spud felt a surge of fear in his gut, and did what he could to master it. A voice in his head told him that, whether or not this was his final destination, his survival relied on his captors not knowing for sure who he was. As long as they thought he
might
have a value to them – to make some horrific death video of, or to sell on to someone else who would – they’d keep him alive. As soon as they
knew
that he did, they’d
make
their video or hand him over to someone worse.

The militant walked up to him. Spud saw that he held a knife. He closed his eyes and waited for the fun to follow.

Hot breath on his face. A stench of halitosis. The militant was standing very close. He felt something cold and sharp press very lightly against the soft underside of his left eye. He breathed deeply, trying to keep himself calm, but couldn’t stop the icy numbness that seemed to split down his body from the point where he knew this bastard was holding his knife.

‘You a brave guy,’ rasped the militant. ‘Very brave guy.’

Spud felt him move the knife away from his skin. He opened his eyes. Sure enough, the bastard’s face was inches away from Spud’s. There was a ferocious glint in his eyes. ‘You think I can’t break you?’ he said. ‘Think again.’

Spud showed no emotion or response.

‘Tell me your name,’ he breathed.

‘Jimmy Dale.’ Spud’s voice was cracked and dry.

The militant smiled. He looked over his shoulder and barked an instruction Spud didn’t understand. There was a shuffling outside. The two militants appeared – the ones who had chained Spud up. They had a third person with them. It was a young boy, probably no more than twelve. He was writhing and struggling, but each militant was holding the upper part of one of his arms, and there was no way he could escape. He was trying to shout out, but he had a rag stuffed in his mouth so it was impossible for him to make anything other than wordless protests. He wore ragged trousers but no shirt. His abdomen was very thin, his ribcage easily visible. As the two militants dragged him past the fire pit, the kid’s eyes lingered on the tethered dog, which had briefly looked up from its bone. He redoubled his efforts to escape, shaking and scrambling more violently. But Spud could tell he wasn’t going anywhere.

‘You want to know
his
name?’

It was the last thing Spud wanted to know. Something told him this kid was in for a bad ride. If he knew his name, somehow it would make things worse. So he didn’t respond, but simply looked flatly at his tormentor.

‘His name is Biniam. It means “lucky son”. But he is not so lucky. Both his parents are dead. He will be too, in just a minute, if you don’t tell me your name.’

Spud locked gazes with his tormentor. The voice in his head told him to stay expressionless, but he knew, in the seconds that followed, that it was the one thing he couldn’t do. His tormentor smiled more broadly as the hate smouldered in Spud’s eyes. Then he glanced at his two goons.

‘Cut him,’ he said.

For a brief second Spud thought the a blade was coming
his
way. He was wrong. One of the two guys holding the kid pulled out a vicious-looking dagger. Without a moment’s hesitation, he sliced it down the kid’s cheek. The child inhaled sharply through his nose with the shock of it. Then he tried – unsuccessfully – to scream as a thin trickle of blood dripped down his cheek and on to his chest. He writhed even more ferociously, but his two guards held him fast.

‘The next time you tell me a lie,’ the militant said, ‘we cut the other cheek. After that, it’s the throat.’

‘I’ve already told you the truth,’ Spud whispered. ‘I can’t tell you anything else. My name is . . .’

‘Cut him,’ the militant repeated.

There was no hesitation. The knife man whipped his blade easily down the kid’s opposite cheek. The boy obviously wanted to collapse, but the men held him up. His muffled squealing became more frenzied and panicked as a second trail of blood oozed down the other side of his face. A thin strip of red ran along the blade edge of the knife. The knife man held it against the boy’s throat. The writhing immediately stopped. A dead silence fell on the hut. Even the dog had stopped chewing its bone.

‘I’m going to ask you one more time,’ said the militant in the bandana. ‘If you lie to me again, my men
will
cut his throat. Then we’ll bring another boy in. After that, we start on the girls. What is your name?’

Spud jutted his chin at him. Their gazes locked. Spud pulled his away and looked at the child. His face was mess, but it wasn’t the worst thing about his features. Not by a long way. His eyes were brimful of tears. He was a brave kid, and he’d managed to stop them overflowing. But now they did, the salt water trickling horribly into the waterfall of blood on the lower half of his face. His whole body was shaking, and his expression begged Spud to help him.

Spud looked away. He couldn’t allow that expression to sway him.

‘You have five seconds to answer,’ said the militant.

It’s him or me
, Spud thought.
If I let him live, I’m signing my own death warrant . . .

‘Four seconds.’

They can’t keep me chained here forever. There
will
be a chance to escape . . .

‘Three.’

The guy with the knife was watching his boss keenly, waiting for the word.

‘Two.’

Spud glanced at the boy again. He’d never seen such fear.

‘One.’

‘Stop,’ said Spud.

Silence in the hut. Even the kid had stopped whimpering.

‘Your name,’ pressed the militant.

Spud locked gazes with him again. ‘Spud Glover, British SAS,’ he breathed. It hurt to speak, but he had more to say. ‘And you’d better keep me tied up, you piece of shit. Because I swear to God, the moment I get my hands on you, I’ll rip your fucking eyes out.’

A broad smile spread across the militant’s face. He seemed to find Spud’s threat very funny. He turned his back on him, then shouted to nobody in particular, ‘Let them know we have the right man.’ He was making for the door, but when he was only halfway toward the fire pit, he stopped and turned. He flashed Spud a nasty glare, then looked over at the two men who were still holding the boy. He made a flick-knife movement at his own throat.

The knife man understood his command. With a deft whipping of his wrist, he sliced the blade across the kid’s throat.

‘
No!
’ Spud wheezed. But too late. There was a surge of blood from the boy’s jugular. The two men finally let go their grip, and their victim collapsed to his knees. He couldn’t make any noise now. He grabbed his bleeding neck with two hands, but Spud could already see the whites of his eyes as they rolled up to heaven.

The militants left the hut. The boy’s body twitched on the floor as the dog strained against its leash to reach it.

And for the first time in days, Spud felt his blood burning inside him.