‘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 fir
e 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.
‘You weren’t easy to find,’ said Shepherd. ‘Are you okay?’
Mitchell rubbed his hand down his face. ‘I thought it was all over, Spider.’
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know how you feel.’
‘The Major’s outside?’
‘Yeah. And the guys.’
‘Thanks.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘Don’t get all sentimental on me, Geordie.’ Mitchell gripped him in a bear hug, and Shepherd hugged him back, hard.
The Sniper pressed his eye into the scope’s cup. All he saw was black until his eye was in the correct position, then through the scope he found the target. An American soldier. Superimposed on the soldier was the sight’s reticule. A curved line was marked from one hundred metres to one thousand metres. All the Sniper had to do was aim his rifle so that in the scope the soldier’s feet were at the bottom of the range-finder. The number closest to the target’s head was the distance away in metres. The manufacturer had calibrated the sight for the average height of a Russian soldier back in the early sixties when the rifle was first manufactured, a shade under five feet eight inches. The Sniper knew that the average American soldier was substantially bigger than his Cold War Russian counterpart. Americans were brought up on full-fat milk and fast food diets and most were a good six inches taller than the height for which the scope had been calibrated. It was an easy adjustment to make.
The one-thousand metre line was optimistic, the Sniper knew. The Russians liked to claim that their snipers could hit a man with a Dragunov at a thousand metres, but the Sniper preferred never to work above five hundred. Six hundred on a windless day, perhaps.
He moved the sight slowly down the soldier’s body, and frowned as he reached the man’s feet. He wasn’t wearing army boots: he was wearing brown shoes with tassels. The Sniper had never seen a soldier in footwear like that. He raised the sight again and focused on the man’s face. It didn’t matter what sort of shoes he was wearing. All that mattered was that he was an American soldier and that he would soon be dead.
He forced himself to relax as he stared through the scope. The soldier was four hundred metres away. The wind was negligible and it would be an easy shot. But he had to wait until the helicopters had left.
Yokely watched the marines pile into the house. No shots had been fired for several seconds and from inside he heard shouts of ‘Clear!’ as they moved through the rooms.
‘I should be in there,’ said the Major.
‘It’s a military operation. We’d be in the way,’ said Yokely.
‘They were happy enough for Spider to go in,’ said O’Brien.
‘They needed the diversion,’ said Yokely. ‘Anyway, all’s well that ends well, yeah?’
‘You can say that when Spider and Geordie are out here in one piece,’ said O’Brien.
‘Speak of the devil,’ said Yokely. Two big marines led the pair out of the house. Yokely grinned. ‘They look fine.’
The Major and Yokely went towards them. One of the marines was a captain. ‘Everything okay in there?’ Yokely asked.
‘Four dead,’ said the captain. ‘No casualties on our side.’
‘Excellent,’ said Yokely. ‘Wafeeq?’
‘We’ve a medic working on him now.’ The captain gestured at Spider. ‘He shot him in the shoulder.’
‘He’s okay, though?’
‘His injury isn’t life-threatening,’ said the captain.
‘We’re fine, too. Thanks for asking,’ said Shepherd.
‘I can see that,’ said Yokely. He called up the lead Blackhawk helicopter on his transceiver. ‘Thanks, guys, we can take it from here,’ he said.
‘Roger that,’ said the pilot.
The two helicopters banked and flew south, turbines screaming.
‘Are you okay, Geordie?’ asked the Major.
‘I will be after one of Martin’s fry-ups and a couple of pints.’
Yokely clipped his transceiver on his belt and nodded at him. ‘This is Richard Yokely,’ said the Major. ‘He arranged the heavy artillery for us.’
‘Thanks, Richard,’ said Mitchell.
‘All part of the service,’ said Yokely, with a grin, and saluted Mitchell.
The Sniper frowned as he saw the soldier salute the man in the orange jumpsuit, then realised the significance of what he’d seen. The man in the orange jumpsuit must be an officer. The Iraqis in the house had been keeping a high-ranking officer hostage and the Americans had rescued him.
The Sniper slowly moved the rifle until the head of the man in the orange jumpsuit was in the centre of his sights. He took a breath, slowly let out half, then squeezed the trigger.
The bullet hit the man in the side of the head. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ whispered the Sniper. A perfect shot.
‘What the hell just happened?’ shouted Simon Nichols, sitting bolt upright. He stared at the real-time video view of the Baghdad city block. The man in the orange jumpsuit was sprawled on the ground. Richard Yokely had dropped into a crouch, scanning the buildings round him. ‘Did Richard just shoot the guy? Is that what happened?’
‘Get a grip,’ said Will Slater. ‘There’s a sniper. Phillip, can you slow it down?’
‘I can drop a few knots but we’re close to stall speed,’ said Howell.
Slater toyed with a joystick and the view on the screen swung to the left. He pulled it back so that he could see more of the city and narrowed his eyes as he stared at the screen. ‘Check the infrared, Simon,’ he said.
Nichols panned the sensor over the scene. He could just make out the figures in the street and hear the engines of the vehicles but the intense heat of the day made it hard to distinguish much.
‘Come on, you bastard,’ muttered Slater. ‘Where are you hiding?’
‘Got him,’ said Nichols. ‘West, about four hundred metres. Two figures on top of a building.’
‘A sniper and his spotter,’ said Slater. He moved the joystick to the left and increased the magnification, found the two figures and zoomed in. The men filled the screen. One was holding a rifle. ‘We have a target confirmed,’ he said.
‘Let’s do it,’ said Howell.
Slater hit the laser illuminator button that bathed the two figures with invisible light. ‘Target locked,’ he said.
‘Missile away,’ said Howell. He pressed the button that launched one of the Predator’s two Hellfire missiles. The Thiokol solid-propellant rocket motor kicked into life and the missile roared away. It had an effective range of alm
ost eight thousand metres but the two men on the roof were much closer than that. Within seconds the five-foot-long missile had reached its maximum speed of Mach 1.3. The laser seeker in its nose locked on to the laser light illuminating the two men and the missile changed direction so that it was heading straight for them. Just behind the sensors and computer in the nose was the missile’s payload, an eight-kilogram charge capable of destroying a tank.
Shepherd knelt beside Mitchell, staring in horror at the wound in his friend’s skull. It was fatal, no doubt about it. Mitchell’s chest was still heaving and his legs were twitching but the movements were reflex. Mitchell was dead, but his body hadn’t realised it yet. The bullet had hit him in the right cheekbone and blown out a big chunk of his head. Clumps of bloody brain matter were smeared across the pavement and his left eye dangled from a blood-filled socket.
Shepherd groped for Mitchell’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry, Geordie,’ he whispered. The hand trembled, then went still. The legs stopped twitching. The chest rose and fell for the last time. Blood continued to ooze from the head wound but no longer pulsed. The heart had stopped.
‘Spider, get to cover!’ shouted the Major. He and O’Brien were behind one of the Humvees, while Shortt and two American soldiers had rolled behind the Bradley.
Yokely had stood his ground. He was scanning the surrounding buildings.
‘Richard, get the hell down!’ shouted the Major.
‘Fuck him,’ said Yokely. ‘He doesn’t scare me. Can you see him, Spider?’
Shepherd kept hold of Mitchell’s lifeless hand. Snipers usually operated between two hundred and six hundred metres. Any closer and there was too big a chance of being spotted by the target; further, and the shot was too difficult. Mitchell had been standing with his back to the building when he’d been shot, so Shepherd concentrated on an arc away from Mitchell, his eyes darting from side to side. ‘Where the hell is he?’ he muttered.
‘Spider, get the hell over here!’ shouted the Major.
Shepherd made out a dark shape on the roof of a building. As he stared he caught a flash of light: the sun glinting off a scope. ‘I see him,’ he shouted, and pointed. Yokely squinted and raised his M16.
Hot Blood: The Fourth Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 39