by Angus McLean
Moore and Katie froze as the guy pushed the door closed behind him then began to turn as he stepped forward, still oblivious to their presence.
Time stood still for a second as he took a step and raised his head. The captive under Moore’s arm grunted and began to struggle. The third guy’s head snapped up sharply and he locked eyes on them. He grabbed for the AK swinging at his hip, and it all went noisy very suddenly.
Moore had his own AK braced in his right fist and he swept the safety off as he brought it on target, at the same time as the captive wrenched violently and half broke free.
Katie’s pistol cracked loudly at his shoulder and he felt a spray of wetness across the side of his face and neck. He saw the third guy had the AK coming round, then a splash of red appeared on the guy’s chest and he stumbled backwards.
Moore squeezed off two rounds single handed, dropped the dead weight of his captive, and got a proper grip on the AK. He snapped two more shots and saw the third guy going down, the rifle in his hands but his brain unable to send the message to operate it now. Another red splash appeared on the guy’s shoulder as he hit the deck on his knees then Katie’s Beretta fired again and his head jerked back, blood and brain spraying the wall behind him.
Silence fell.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Moore’s ears were ringing like Notre Dame’s bells.
He glanced to Katie, who still had her pistol up in a Weaver stance. He gently waved his hand at her, knowing she would be as deaf as he was. He indicated his intentions and moved forward, checking the room properly then closing the door. The third guy was rocking backwards on his knees, leaking fluids onto the floor from multiple wounds.
Moore toppled him over with a foot and grabbed the AK he’d dropped. The room stank of burned cordite, spicy food and the metallic stench of blood.
He waved Katie in and pointed at their bags. While she busied herself he checked on their captive. The guy was as dead as a doornail, half the back of his head missing. He’d obviously moved across Katie’s arc when he tried to break free, and took an unintentional round in the skull.
Moore left him and re-joined Katie. She had pulled a bag onto the floor but was now bent at the waist, breathing hard.
‘We need to go,’ Moore said. He grabbed his own bag off the shelf and put it by the door.
He went back to the table and filled the cup with water from the plastic jug. He handed it to Katie and told her take it slowly. She downed half of it in one go and let out a sigh of satisfaction. Moore waited until she’d finished it before filling the cup again and drinking from the jug himself. The water was warm and had an unpleasant tang to it, but it was better than a terrorist’s piss and Moore drank gratefully.
He wiped his mouth and put the jug down before crossing the room again. He cracked the door open and peered out. Darkness everywhere, not a light to be seen. He edged out and took in his surroundings.
They were definitely on farmland. He couldn’t hear a thing aside from the occasional animal noise, although his ears were still ringing from the shooting. No sign of anyone else.
He moved further out from the building and had a quick scout around. There was another building of some sort thirty metres or so away, maybe stables, all in darkness.
No sign of a vehicle.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness Moore spotted a water trough nearby and crossed to it, the stony ground hard beneath his feet. He scooped handfuls of water and washed as much blood and crap off him as he could.
Katie appeared in the doorway behind him, perfectly silhouetted by the back lighting, and he ushered her back inside.
‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘We’re going to leg it from here.’
She put the Beretta on the table and opened her bag on the floor. Moore stood ready with the AK by the door, keeping guard while she stripped out of her bloodied T-shirt.
She was bare breasted beneath it and Moore turned away self-consciously while she found a bra and put a fresh blue T-shirt on over the top. She dropped the cheap pants and pulled on a pair of her own jeans, socks and trainers.
As soon as she was done it was Moore’s turn. He tossed the stolen pants and sodden briefs aside and pulled on cargo pants, socks and boots, and a grey T-shirt. He zipped up his bag and grabbed the walkie-talkie off the table.
He searched the room for anything useful, finding a large torch in working order and another burn phone. He recovered a spare magazine from the third guy and handed it with the second AK to Katie. He took the Beretta back and tucked it into his waistband, gave her a ten second lesson on the AK and they were good to go.
Moore killed the light and they waited in the darkness for a couple of minutes, getting their night vision sorted before venturing out. He felt better now, properly dressed and with a weapon in his hands.
Even after the beating he knew he could tab for hours if he needed to, and his mind set was good. He was also feeling more confident in Katie after the contact inside. She had acted fast and efficiently, and dealt with the threat in front of them.
The death of the captive was unfortunate, not least because Moore wanted someone to interrogate, but in the circumstances he couldn’t blame Katie for that.
They moved in the darkness, crossing a yard towards a driveway. Beyond it they could make out a road.
Moore was about to speak when he saw a shifting shadow on the road. Through the ringing in his ears he faintly heard an engine. It was a vehicle without lights, approaching from the right.
‘Car!’ Katie hissed, grabbing his arm.
Brake lights flared red in the darkness as the vehicle slowed then they heard the first crunch of tyres on gravel.
This had to be the boss, whoever the hell he was.
‘Move!’
Moore hurried to the left, reaching a stone wall and hunkering down beside his bag. The vehicle was coming up the drive. He could make out the shape of a people mover.
‘Get over!’ he hissed, covering her while Katie clambered over the wall and dropped out of sight. He quickly followed with his bag, just as the vehicle came into the yard and pulled up near the main barn doors.
This could be an ideal opportunity to take a prisoner who could shed some light for them on what exactly the hell was going on. Either that or it could all go tits up in a big way.
Chapter Twenty Eight
The headlights flicked on, lighting up the yard for moment, before the engine was cut and the driver’s door opened.
A Turk in jeans and a shirt stepped out, lit up by the interior light. He had a full beard and a slim build. The rear door slid open on the far side and Moore craned his neck to see.
A second man climbed out of the back, this one more solidly built, in casual gear and carrying an AK47 in his right hand with the stock folded. He said something and a moment later a third man emerged from the back of the people mover. In the cone of the interior light Moore could just make out a suit and a balding head.
The second and third men moved to the front of the vehicle and the first man shut his door, killing the light. The engine ticked in the stillness.
One of the men muttered something and they began to move towards the barn doors. Moore tracked them silently, his night vision near perfect now.
They were nearly there when the second guy – Moore presumed he was the bodyguard – hesitated and held out a hand to the suit. The barn light was off and it obviously tripped his alarm.
The driver immediately turned and scanned behind them, his hand going under his shirt for a weapon.
Moore pushed up from behind the stone wall eight metres away with his AK up on line. He triggered his first shot before they even knew he was there, dropping the driver with a gut shot.
He moved the barrel to the right, squeezing off a double tap at the BG, who was turning towards him and starting to step protectively in front of the suit.
The first round missed but the second took the BG in the arm, causing him to grunt loudly. Moore gave him two mor
e, both through the chest, and saw his form drop in the darkness.
The suit was moving now, feet scraping at the stony ground as he began to run. Moore hurdled the stone wall and punched out a double tap at his fleeing figure, the beige of his suit easy enough to see in the darkness.
The suit stumbled and went down, scrabbling in the dirt.
Moore paused over the driver, who was in spasms on the ground and trying to stem the flow of blood from his gut. Moore put a round in his head and moved past to the BG. The bigger man was on his side, hands covered in blood and the front of his shirt reddened with his life force. He wasn’t moving but Moore made sure anyway, another round to the head.
By the time he got to the suit and flicked the torch on, the balding man had blood bubbling over his lips and down his chin, indicating some kind of internal bleeding. The man managed a smirk as he stared up at his killer.
‘Who are you?’ Moore said, although something was tugging at the back of his memory, some vague kind of recognition. ‘What’s your name?’
The man smirked again and muttered something Moore didn’t understand. Moore had the impression he was an educated man, so he almost inevitably spoke English. The look on the man’s face indicated he understood perfectly well. He repeated the questions in Arabic anyway, and got an immediate reaction of surprise.
‘So you do understand,’ he said, watching the man carefully.
‘I will tell you nothing,’ the man responded. Blood bubbled over his lips. ‘I will die first.’
The memory tugged harder at Moore’s brain, there but just out of reach. He knew he knew who this clown was, or had at least seen his picture somewhere.
‘There’s no question of you dying, shitkicker,’ Moore told him. ‘The question is how?’ He poked the barrel of the AK down into the guy’s right thigh, jabbing it in painfully. The man grimaced but said nothing.
‘You won’t shoot me,’ the man coughed, ‘you have rules.’
‘Not out here mate.’ Moore gestured at the empty blackness around them. ‘There’s no one here. No witnesses.’ He ground the rifle barrel into the thigh again, bringing another grimace of pain. ‘No rules.’
He heard Katie arrive behind him, and in that moment he snatched the memory from the clouds in his mind.
They called him The Doctor. He was Jordanian and had been a dentist in a previous life, but since the War on Terror had begun he’d been deeply involved in the insurgency. There was solid intel linking him to the torture of many informers over the years, as well as training other terrorists in the dark arts of torture. He was highly placed in ISIS and as such he was a high value target for the Allied forces.
Moore stood over him, studying his face and committing it to memory. He dug out the seized cell phone and found the camera function.
The Doctor helped him by leering at the phone and weakly snarling a curse as Moore snapped several images in the torchlight. They were probably going to be crap quality, but short of beheading the man it was the best he could do.
‘Why us?’ he asked The Doctor.
The man sneered dismissively. ‘You will never know,’ he said. He coughed wetly and a large pinky-red bubble expanded at his lips before popping and dribbling down his chin.
Moore handed off the AK to Katie and roughly flipped The Doctor over on his side. The man tried to struggle but the fight had gone from him and Moore easily pinned his arms behind his back before tying them with The Doctor’s own belt.
He ripped the front from The Doctor’s bloodied shirt and blindfolded him, then grabbed him by an ankle and dragged him across the stony ground to the water trough he’d found earlier. The terrorist squealed with pain as his flesh was ripped by the rough ground.
‘Go inside and get one of those hoods and the water jug,’ Moore told Katie, passing her the torch. She looked uncertainly at him. ‘Go!’
A minute later he pulled the hood over The Doctor’s head and tied it off with a shoelace from the dead bodyguard. He tied the man’s ankles together with the bodyguard’s belt. He hefted the man under his arm and stood as if carrying a heavy roll of carpet. The Doctor’s feet were higher than his head and he was securely bound.
The Doctor began to struggle, knowing what was coming. The world was aware of waterboarding as an enhanced interrogation technique – commonly accepted as torture – and a number of Islamic terrorists had been subjected to it by Western forces.
Nobody could resist the stress it put them under, with most subjects surrendering within seconds.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Moore balanced The Doctor’s head above the water trough.
‘Why did you kidnap us?’ he rasped.
A muffled curse was the only answer. Dropping his grip he dunked the terrorist’s head into the water, holding him steady as the man struggled. Mentally ticking off ten seconds, he lifted again and brought the head up.
The Doctor gasped, shaking his head in the wet hood.
‘Try again,’ Moore said. ‘Why did you kidnap us?’
The Doctor used English now. ‘Fuck you, you pig.’
‘Wrong answer.’ Moore dunked him again, giving him a fifteen count this time.
‘He’s gunna drown,’ Katie said, sounding panicked.
Moore glanced sideways at her. ‘Maybe,’ he grunted. ‘It’s his choice.’
The Doctor came up again, his chest heaving and his body shuddering. Moore knew that with internal injuries his prisoner was not going to last long.
‘Last chance,’ he said, hefting The Doctor for a better grip.
‘Just tell him,’ Katie urged the terrorist, and he turned his head towards her as if only now becoming aware of her.
‘You’re…the…one,’ The Doctor wheezed.
‘What? What d’you mean?’ Moore’s arms were trembling with the strain of holding him up.
The Doctor took another heaving breath. ‘The…one.’
‘What does that mean?’ Moore said. ‘How do you know her?’
‘You…die…dog.’
Moore braced his feet and dunked him for the third time, his whole body tensing up as he held the pose and contained the prisoner’s thrashing for fifteen long seconds. Finally stepping back, he pulled The Doctor free and dumped him on the ground. The prisoner heaved and strained for air, and Moore knew the end was near. Either the guy was going to go toes up or he’d talk.
He freed the tie on the hood and lifted it far enough to uncover The Doctor’s mouth, allowing him to breathe. Blood streaked vomit dripped from the inside of the hood. The Doctor gaped like a fish, struggling to fill his lungs with oxygen. He coughed and spewed, gasping some more.
‘What do you mean she’s the one?’ Moore asked, crouching over him.
‘The white girl,’ The Doctor wheezed, ‘she will die.’ His chest heaved and shuddered as he finally got his lungs open properly.
Moore mentally counted off – one full breath.
‘This girl?’ he said. ‘Or another one?’
‘The white girl.’ A second full breath. ‘New Zealand…girl.’
Third full breath.
Moore tugged the hood down over his mouth and The Doctor twisted, trying to break free. Moore rose half way, holding The Doctor’s legs under his right arm, the man’s shoulders and heads at an awkward angle on the ground. He took the water jug from Katie.
The Doctor thrashed hard now but Moore held firm.
‘Which white girl are you talking about?’ he demanded. ‘This girl or Natalie Oldham?’
‘Paradise waits for…’
Moore cut him off with a torrent of water over his face. The wet hood clung to the terrorist’s mouth and nose, bringing on an instant sensation of drowning, and he thrashed hard, whipping from side to side. Moore maintained a steady pour until the jug emptied. He passed it to Katie. In the torchlight her face was pale and drawn, her eyes wide. This was so far from her world it wasn’t funny.
The Doctor let out a keening wail as he sucked in air. Moore kept him
in the same position, knowing the pressure on his upper body would cause The Doctor immense pain and fear breaking his neck.
‘Tell me about Natalie Oldham,’ he demanded. ‘You start talking, Doctor, and I’ll stop this.’
‘You know him?’ Katie said with surprise.
Moore gave a grim nod. ‘Yeah, I know who he is.’
‘You know…nothing!’ The Doctor screeched from beneath the wet hood. He kicked out to no avail.
Moore gave him a shake. ‘Tell me about Natalie Oldham. Where is she?’
The Doctor switched back to Arabic. ‘May Allah be praised...’
Katie stepped forward now and began the pour, a steady stream of dirty trough water cascading down onto the terrorist’s face. He spluttered and coughed and writhed, weaker now. The Doctor let out an animal-like screech and bucked hard, Moore hanging on desperately to contain him.
He mentally counted off the seconds, reaching fifteen before giving Katie the nod to stop. He dropped The Doctor down again and lifted the hood to help him breathe. Blood covered the chin and flowed down onto the throat.
Alarmed, he jerked the hood up further. The Doctor was spasming now, thin gasping sounds emitting from his bloodied mouth.
‘Fuck!’ Moore ripped the hood away and grabbed the torch from Katie, shining it on the terrorist’s face. It was waxy looking and twitching, the mouth wide open. He checked the carotid pulse – nothing.
‘Is he dead?’ Katie asked, a distinct quaver in her voice.
‘The fucker bit his tongue,’ Moore muttered, peering into the blood-filled mouth.
‘Did I kill him?’
‘No.’ Moore stood, pushing away from the body. ‘He refused to talk; better to be a martyr than surrender to us.’
‘He bit his own tongue off?’ Katie sounded incredulous.
Moore looked at her. ‘This ain’t fuckin’ tiddlywinks, Katie. These pricks are fanatics. He would rather choke on his own blood than give in.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Katie stepped back, a hand to her forehead as it all sunk in. ‘Jesus fucking Christ…’
‘They may be jihadists, but there’s nothing holy about these bastards,’ Moore said grimly.