Aggressor (37 page)

‘What you doing, lad?’

‘Pointing us at Turkey.’

‘No.’ He put a hand on the wheel. ‘Akaki first.’

‘We don’t have time for that.’

His hand didn’t budge. ‘Akaki.’

Fuck it. ‘Just one pass, that’s all you’re getting.’

I threw the wagon into four-wheel and dropped the clutch, swinging us round until we faced the other way. My foot hit the floor.

The poncho had staggered to his feet but now had to dive back into the doorway to get out of the way.

I drove hard for the other side of the square before swinging the wheel right to head downhill. I squeezed the wagon into an alleyway and added a whole new set of dents to its already impressive collection.

We came out into the main drag like a cork from a bottle. The other Taliwagons had pulled in before the bend about 200 metres ahead of us. The militants were putting down a fearsome amount of fire against the BDUs below them. Three bodies lay motionless in the field where the Hueys had landed. The BDUs were still trying to fire and manoeuvre uphill, using the buildings as cover. Now they were closer, Akaki had better targets. Another body lay on the road between them, and I saw a couple of BDUs drag a wounded man into cover just beyond it.

I braked to a halt. Now we were here, I knew Charlie was right. But I wasn’t going to tell him that.

I shoved the wagon into first. ‘It’s one pass, make the most of it.’

He turned his back to me and poked the weapon out of his window, wooden stock resting on the door, butt into his shoulder.

A few faces turned as we moved down the road, then went back to their war.

I accelerated.

Seconds later we were level with Akaki’s crew and Charlie fired short, sharp bursts into anything that moved.

The noise inside the cab was deafening, even with both the windows open, and we were choking on cordite. I tried to keep the wagon as steady as I could. The rounds had to make their spots or we’d get a whole shitload in return.

The bodywork took a couple of crunching thuds as the militants got their act together.

Charlie recocked and got off two short bursts.

‘Stop! Stop!
Stop!
’

I hit the brake and Charlie took aim at a cluster of three men, one of whom, unmistakably, was Akaki. He legged it while the two others tried to shield him.

Charlie’s weapon fell silent.

‘Stoppage!’

He changed mags, his eyes always on the target as it clambered into the back of a Taliwagon.

‘Wait! Wait!’

He recocked and kept the bursts short and sharp. Akaki’s wagon lurched forward and sped back the way we had come.

I braked hard and threw our Toyota into a three-point turn.

As we closed, their rear screen disintegrated and our windscreen took two rounds. The safety glass shattered but stayed intact.

‘Keep going! Go, go,
go!
’

Charlie kicked out his side of the shattered windscreen. Shards of glass peppered my face, blown back by the wind. More rounds thudded into the wagon. Fuck it, there was nothing I could do but drive.

Charlie rearranged himself in his seat and shoved the RPK’s muzzle through the hole in the screen. Its barrel sizzled in the rain. Charlie fought to keep the thing stable on its bipod and aimed as best he could, firing double taps to conserve rounds.

Akaki’s wagon disappeared about fifty ahead of us.

‘Go right, go right – cut him off!’

I swung the Toyota the way Charlie said, and found myself paralleling Akaki along a narrow mud track between two barns. Charlie held the weapon down to control it. ‘Get your foot down! Get up there before him!’

I fought the wheel as the back of the wagon bucked like a rodeo horse.

We roared back up onto the high ground and passed the village square to our left. I threw the Toyota into a turn as Akaki’s wagon broke out from the other side of the square. Charlie started firing before I’d even rammed on the brakes. ‘Give me a platform.
Platform!
’

I held the wagon still as Charlie kept firing, short and sharp.

Mud kicked up around Akaki’s wagon. It took hits but kept going.

Another burst.

‘Stoppage!’

Akaki’s wagon crashed straight into the side of the village hall, its wing ripped open. One body jumped out of the back; another fell. The driver stayed put, slumped over the wheel.

‘Hold on!’

Ramming the gearshift into first, I aimed at the body running along the edge of the square.

Charlie worked frantically to change mags as we bounced and shuddered towards the runner. No mistaking who it was.

He turned, brought up his weapon, and fired.

I didn’t know if we were taking hits or not, and I didn’t care. I drove straight at him. ‘Get that fucking thing loaded!’

The wind roared through the windscreen as Akaki turned and started to run again.

Too late; our wing caught him in the small of his back, catapulting him across the road.

I passed him; hit the brakes.

Charlie tried to get out.

‘Stay!’

I threw the Toyota into reverse. The back wheel lifted over his body then came back down onto the road.

The front wheel followed.

I kept on reversing until Charlie could take aim. Two short, sharp bursts thudded into the body on the ground.

As we crested the hill away from the village, my foot never left the floor.

8

‘One down, one to go.’ Charlie had to shout to make himself heard over the wind rush.

‘You pissed?’ I kept my eyes on the road. We were only ten minutes out of the village and however much we needed them, I couldn’t risk lights. What was left of the windscreen my side was shattered. The smashed glass and plastic safety layer protected me from the worst of the wind, but made it even harder to spot the puddles, or any deep hole that might swallow us up.

The firs covering the high ground to our right made our world darker still. The good news was, we were back on the pipeline, heading for Turkey and Crazy Dave. The five-metre-wide scar ran like a guide rail to our left.

I checked the rear-view. Still no pursuit. Fuck it; I switched on the headlights and put my foot down.

I’d just dropped down into two-wheel to try to eke out the fuel when the headlights picked out a static vehicle at the roadside. It was a rusting, lime-green Lada. The bonnet was up.

‘Thank you, God.’ Charlie reached down and pulled the RPK from the foot well.

I gripped the wheel. ‘Come on, mate, I’ve got to get you home.’

‘Fuck that, lad. We got the first bastard, now let’s finish the job.’

‘What’s the point? He had at least an hour’s head start. He might be in another vehicle by now, and halfway to Turkey.’

‘So what? We check this out, and catch up with him then. I’m going for it. You in?’

As if I was going to leave him and drive on.

I stopped the Toyota and stuck it into first gear, ready to back him. As he climbed out, he pushed the safety lever on the left of the RPK down to the first click, single shot.

He walked around to the back of the Taliwagon, the big RPK in his shoulder, bipod folded up along the barrel.

Once he was level with me, we were ready.

‘Come on then, let’s do it.’

I lifted the clutch and crept forward as he limped beside me, using the wagon as cover. Why he’d got out, I didn’t know. Then it dawned on me. He was enjoying this. He was doing it not only to get Bastard; he was doing it for himself. It was the last chance he’d ever have to do some soldiering, the thing that he was born for.

He stopped short of the Lada and so did I. I kept low in the seat. Bastard still had that Desert Eagle.

Charlie’s eyes were fixed on the treeline, looking for trouble. ‘Stay here, I’ll check for sign.’

He hobbled forward, RPK at the ready.

He didn’t go right up to the car; just circled it, checking the mud for tracks.

He tried the driver’s door. The Lada was unlocked.

Charlie took a quick look inside, then moved slowly up the road, still casting around for sign.

Four or five metres ahead of the Lada, he turned and gave me a thumbs-up.

I rolled towards him and stopped.

He stuck his head through the passenger window. ‘Flat shoes. Leading into the treeline.’ He spoke very quietly, as if Bastard was within earshot. ‘He can’t have gone far; you saw how useless he was. We’ve got the fucker.’

He hobbled off without waiting to see if I was coming.

I killed the engine, grabbed the keys and got out.

9

We moved straight into the trees and started climbing.

Charlie was soon in trouble. I could hear his laboured breathing. He was carrying his injured ankle at a very unnatural angle.

I moved alongside him and put my mouth to his ear. ‘Let’s just do it until we can’t see any more, OK? He could be anywhere.’

It wasn’t as if there was any ground sign we could follow. The floor was covered with pine needles. He stopped and listened, mouth open, his head cocked to the left so his right ear faced dead ahead.

Finding our way back to the wagon again wouldn’t be hard, even in the dark. All we’d have to do was drop downhill until we hit the road.

The rain battered its way through the canopy of firs, and the wind howled.

Charlie set off.

I stayed where I was. I’d be his ears while he moved about five paces ahead.

I drew level with him and he set off again. I wouldn’t move beyond him. I didn’t have a weapon. He was going to be front man. It was the way he wanted it.

He took his time, weapon in the shoulder, forty-five degrees down but ready to swing up, safety still off all the way down to the second click.

He stopped after just one pace. It looked like his ankle had finally packed in on him. He crouched against a tree, looking up the hill.

I spoke into his ear. ‘I’m getting knackered myself, mate. There’s no way that fat bastard’s going to climb any higher.’

Charlie pointed left, parallel to the road. His hand was shaking. He gave me a thumbs-up and adjusted the RPK, ready to move again.

I grabbed an arm before he could do so. ‘You want me to take point?’

He held up a hand and we both watched it shake.

‘Nah,’ he said simply. ‘He owes me, lad. And not just for a fucking bacon sandwich.’

He hobbled four paces to the left, weapon in the shoulder, following the contour of the slope.

I moved up to him again, keeping a bit of distance so our joint mass didn’t present too easy a target.

He was silent for another few seconds, then dropped down into a waist-deep depression carved out by years of running water from the hilltop.

He froze almost immediately, reacting to a rustling noise in the dead ground.

There was a loud shout. ‘Fuck you!’

Then a heavy-calibre shot and a falling body.

Charlie was down.

10

I ran into the dip.

Charlie wasn’t moving, but Bastard was. He was out of sight, but I could hear him pushing deeper into the pines.

I grabbed the RPK and squeezed the bipod legs together to release them. I gave them a tug as I got to the top of the rise and they sprang apart. The barrel supported, I dropped to the ground, pushed safety fully down, and squeezed off a series of short sharp bursts in the direction of the noise. My ears were ringing when I stopped. Smoke curled from the muzzle.

No screams, no begging. Fuck him. I scrambled back down to where Charlie lay on his back in the mud and pine needles, so still he could have been sleeping. I knelt over him and cradled his head, and immediately felt warm liquid on my hands. He was making an ominous, slurping noise each time he drew breath.

I unzipped his Gore-Tex and tore at the hole in his shirt. Blood trickled down my hands. He had a sucking wound. The .357 round had drilled a hole in his chest, just below his right nipple. As he breathed in, oxygen had rushed to fill the vacuum in his thoracic cavity, and the pressure had collapsed his lungs. As he breathed out, air and blood were forced out like air and water from a whale’s blowhole.

‘Nearly stepped on the fucker . . .’ Charlie coughed blood. ‘I couldn’t pull the trigger, Nick . . .’ He tried to laugh. ‘Fucking disco hands . . .’

His body twitched. He was in agony, but the crazy thing was, he was smiling.

But if he was talking, he was breathing – that was all that mattered.

I grabbed his hand and placed it over the entry site. ‘Plug it, mate.’

He nodded. He wasn’t that out of it yet; he understood what needed to be done. With his chest airtight, his lungs would inflate and normal breathing could resume.

‘Got to check for exit wounds, mate. It’s going to hurt.’

I rolled him onto his side, but there wasn’t so much as a scratch on his back. The round must still be in him. A heavy round like that could only have been stopped by bone – maybe his shoulder blade – but a fracture was the least of his problems. We both knew he was in deep trouble.

Charlie began to groan. ‘How’s it look? How’s it look?’

Over and over.

He’d be going into shock soon. I had to act fast, but what could I do? He needed fluids, he needed a chest drain, he needed the wound sealed; he needed the whole fucking cast of
ER
up here.

He groaned again.

Still no need to worry about his airway.

His hand had fallen from his chest. I put the heel of my mine over the hole to keep the seal. He coughed again, and the effort sent him into spasms of pain.

‘How’s it look? How’s it look?’

His face contorted – another good sign. He could still feel it, his senses hadn’t deserted him.

I needed to get him down to the wagon, and I needed to keep the seal while I did so. I’d have to drive back to the village. The guy we’d lifted the RPK from had been standing in the doorway of what looked like a medical station – and the BDUs would have brought trauma packs.

We’d be arrested, but so what? I’d said I’d get the old fucker home, and I would.

‘How’s it look?’