Firefight

by Chris Ryan

  Will remained silent.

  'It doesn't matter,' Ismail whispered. 'If you escape, they will kill me anyway, and my family. But not before torturing me first to see if I know where you have gone. My family is as good as dead. Perhaps it is best that you end it all for me now.' He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath.

  Will's finger hesitated on the trigger. Whether Ismail was telling the truth or not, he was a liability to the safety of their mission. He should plug him now. Silence him. Make sure he could not tell the Taliban where to look for them. But something stopped him. Silently he cursed himself. Two years ago he wouldn't have given this a second thought; if Drew or Kennedy were in his position now, Ismail would already be dead.

  'Did you tell them?' he asked, quietly. 'Where the truck is, I mean.'

  Ismail looked up at him. 'No. Not yet. But they asked me if I knew where it was. I will do my best not to take them,' he replied. 'But I am not a strong man. I am not like you and your friends. I cannot guarantee that I will be able to withstand their tortures. You must either kill me or leave quickly before they realise you have gone.'

  The Afghan's ultimatum hung in the air. He continued to shiver, his whole body consumed with trembling.

  'You're coming with me,' Will stated, firmly.

  An uneasy smile came on to Ismail's frightened face, and he shook his head. 'I cannot,' he whispered. 'If I do that it would be like pulling the trigger on my family myself. You do not perhaps understand quite what the Taliban are capable of.'

  'I've got a pretty fucking good idea,' Will murmured, almost to himself. He thought for a moment before speaking again. 'Get up against the wall,' he said, quietly. His Diemaco was still pointing directly at Ismail's head.

  For a moment Ismail didn't move. But then he nodded his head fearfully and shuffled backwards.

  Once he was pressed against the wall, Will stepped back. He opened the door with one hand. 'Stay there,' he told Ismail, before turning and stepping outside.

  The Sig handgun that he had given the Afghan and which only a minute earlier he had knocked from his hands was still lying in the snow. He bent down, picked it up and stepped back inside. Ismail was still huddled against the wall. Will placed the gun on the table.

  'If you're not going to come with me, then you're on your own. Use this to defend yourself when they come for you.'

  Ismail looked nervously at the gun. 'I am not a fighter,' he whispered.

  'I didn't say you were, Ismail. Just do what you have to do.'

  The two man stared at each other.

  'You must go,' the Afghan said finally. 'They will soon find out you are gone and if they catch you—'

  Will nodded, curtly. Then, without saying another word, he left the hut, leaving the frightened Afghan shaking in the semi-darkness.

  *

  Ismail stared at the gun.

  Soon, he knew, his wife and little son would be facing the barrel of some such weapon and it would be the last thing they saw on earth. It was all he could do not to retch at the thought of it. These Taliban, he knew what they were like. He had lived through their regime. They were merciless. There was no way they would believe Ismail that he had not released the SAS men. No way at all. They would kill his family in front of him, not because they were involved in any way; just to make Ismail himself feel the pain.

  A coldness ran through him as a possibility suggested itself. Perhaps there was a way to save them after all. Perhaps there was a way out of this, for his wife and child if not for him. If Ismail himself was not around to witness his family's death, there would be no reason for the Taliban to kill them.

  It was like a game of chess. And as his father had taught him so many years ago when they played during the summer outside the cafés of Kandahar, in chess you must sometimes make sacrifices in order to win.

  Big sacrifices.

  Ismail realised that his body was shaking as he approached the table and touched the handgun before picking it up and feeling its weight.

  What he was about to do was haram, forbidden. A line from the Koran flashed through his mind: Whoever takes his life with a piece of iron will be punished with the same piece of iron in the hell fire.

  The piece of iron he held in his hand was cold. He prayed silently that Allah would look with forgiveness on what he was about to do.

  And then, the whispered words of the takbir repeating on his lips, he put the cold metal to his head and closed his eyes.

  *

  It was probably a mistake - Will knew that as he left the hut. But if Ismail had been telling the truth, he was as much a victim of the Taliban as Anderson or Latifa. He didn't deserve a bullet in the head for that, even if it was going to make their escape more risky. But Drew and Kennedy had a good head start and Will himself would be out of the village within minutes.

  But his train of thought was shattered by a sudden bang.

  A single gunshot.

  He flung himself against the nearest wall, looking for the source of the fire; but intuitively he knew where it had come from. Poor bastard.

  The gunshot, he knew, would attract attention. He had to get the hell out of there, and fast.

  Will upped his pace, skirting around the main square. The others had left from the north, near the units where they had been held. Will wasn't going to do that - if anyone had been roused by the gunshot, the first thing they would do would be to check on the SAS men. That area would be swarming with Taliban within minutes. Instead he headed west, back the way they came, darting down the dark streets where the huts of the ordinary Afghan villagers were to be found. Behind him, in the distance, he heard shouts. Thirty metres away, maybe forty. Too fucking close, in any case. The dog he had heard earlier began barking; this time, though, it was joined by two or three others. It sounded like bedlam back there. Clearly their escape had been discovered.

  His breath steamed heavily in front of him and as he ran along the snowy streets he became aware of voices all around. He stopped for a moment, listening carefully. They were to his left and right, but not straight ahead. Will continued to run.

  Ahead of him he could see the generator building where they had left Ismail earlier that evening. He sprinted towards it, then hid behind the back wall, which faced out on to the snowy landscape beyond. But as he held his breath and listened, he could hear people approaching the generator. It sounded like two voices.

  Will's eyes narrowed slightly as he gripped his Diemaco.

  He edged to the corner of the outbuilding, listening carefully. They were near, but he was sure they hadn't seen him - they were just searching here on the off-chance. That gave him the element of surprise. He pressed the Diemaco hard into his shoulder, then swung round the corner of the building.

  He nailed the first of them before the guy even knew he was there, the suppressed weapon firing a silent shot that hit him straight in the face. He collapsed like a stone to the ground. But in the split second Will took to aim his weapon at the second man, his Taliban pursuer managed to raise his AK-47.Will released a lethal headshot that brought the man to the ground, but not before his target had managed to release a single burst of fire from his own weapon. It missed Will by several metres, but the sound of gunshot seemed to echo all round the surrounding countryside.

  'Shit,' Will whispered to himself. Everyone would have heard that and when they found the two Taliban corpses lying in the snow, they would know which way he had escaped.

  There was no time to hide the bodies. It was now just a matter of who was quickest. He checked his watch: 01.35. The others had a twenty-minute start. He had to catch up with them.

  Will ran to the back of the generator building and plunged into the snowy countryside beyond.

  Distance was what he needed - distance between himself and the Taliban. They would be making chase any minute. They would be on foot. The snow was too deep for any kind of vehicle, so it would all come down to how much distance he could put between them. With a pang he realised that they c
ould well be using the NV goggles they had taken from the SAS team earlier in the evening: it spurred him on to move even faster through the snow.

  'Don't look back,' he whispered to himself. The temptation to do so was immense, but it would only slow him down. They'd be on his trail any minute - there was nothing he could do about his footprints in the snow and the Taliban would just have to follow them.

  He pushed on into the darkness, cursing his decision to go back for Ismail. Clouds scudded against the silver moon: occasionally the way ahead would be lit surprisingly brightly as the moonlight reflected off the snow; but mostly it was pitch black. Will had to rely on his in-built sense of direction and hope he was going the right way. At one stage, the moon peeped out from behind the fast-moving clouds and illuminated the way ahead. There were footprints - two sets. Drew and Kennedy, it had to be. He was on the right path.

  He should be catching them up soon. Will would be moving faster as they would be slowed down by Latifa Ahmed. Christ, he thought to himself. It was going to be a relief. Three men's firepower would make him feel a lot more confident than just his.

  He continued to pound the snow-covered earth, his lungs swallowing great mouthfuls of freezing air as he ran.

  At first he didn't hear it; his heavy breath was too loud in his ears. But eventually the sound was unmistakable. It was not so much a bark as a yelp. It sounded thin and desperate.

  Dogs. And they were close.

  How close, Will couldn't say. He allowed himself a moment to stop and listen. The wide open space around him meant that it was difficult to tell which direction the sound of the dogs was coming from. One moment it would be coming from the east, behind him; the next minute, it seemed to come from the north or the south.

  'Shit,' he muttered. He started running again. The dogs would be faster than their masters, but also faster than Will. And somehow he doubted that all they were after was a pat on the head and a juicy bone.

  As he ran, he prepped the Diemaco. The minute the dogs came into view, there really was only going to be one option.

  The barking grew louder. It was frenzied and Will tried to work out how many animals he could hear. Three? Maybe four? It was impossible to tell: the noise of their yelps seemed to merge into one great howl of fury. The more of them there were, the more difficult this was going to be. He would have to wait until they were close enough to see, but they would be fast-moving, unpredictable targets. He'd need to take them all out before they got close enough to attack.

  Will stopped to give himself time to prepare. He turned round, hit the ground and lay on his front, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of cold snow seeping through his clothes. He pressed the butt of his Diemaco hard into his shoulder, then surveyed the darkness, waiting for the first sign of the animals he could hear so clearly, but could not yet see.

  The horrific noise of their barking grew even more frantic. It was as if they sensed they were close.

  They emerged like ghosts from the darkness, silhouettes that seemed to dart around without coming any closer. Will knew they were coming closer, however. It was just a trick of the light. As if called to attention by that one thought, the moon suddenly emerged from behind the clouds and the ground was illuminated before him like a floodlit football pitch.

  He only had a few seconds to take it all in. There were five of them, running as a pack. One dog strayed a few metres away from the others, but immediately rejoined them. It got too close to another of the animals, however, and was snipped and snarled at by its pack mate. It was obvious that they were hunting like this out of necessity, not unity. They were lean and vicious-looking, as if they had not been fed for many days; even from a distance Will could see a wildness in their eyes that chilled him.

  These were mad dogs. They were hungry and they had caught the scent of food.

  They were about thirty metres away and had not yet seen Will pressed down in the snow. That soon changed, however. As soon as they caught sight of their quarry, their snarling and yelping became hysterical. Their pace quickened as they bolted towards him. Twenty metres. Fifteen.

  One of the dogs was out in front. The leader of the pack. It took all Will's self-control not to rush the shot. Fifteen metres was close range, but the target was moving unpredictably. He kept the gun trained accurately at the head of the beast and only when he was sure he was on target did he squeeze the trigger.

  The bullet entered the dog's skull with a deadly silence.

  As soon as it was hit, the dog raised up in the air. The animal's forward momentum, combined with the power of the bullet, caused it to flip a somersault on to its back, spraying blood from its exploding head across the surrounding snow and all over the rest of the pack. The remaining four dogs halted. They looked back at the fallen animal and, as if they had suddenly forgotten about Will, they turned on its corpse. Easy meat. As one, they started to rip into the flesh of their dead pack mate.

  'That's right,' Will whispered as he watched the horrific scene with a crashing sense of relief. 'Get stuck in.'

  He started to aim at a second dog. They might have been distracted, but he wasn't going to leave any of them alive. His eyes narrowed and he squeezed the trigger.

  Click.

  'Fuck,' Will whispered. The weapon had jammed. He tried to fire it again, then a third time, but no luck. It was as good as useless.

  Gingerly, he started to push himself up. The dogs were thankfully distracted, but as he got to his feet, a fight broke out among them. Two of the animals, more dominant than the others, started to snap at their mates, warning them off from helping themselves. The two losers whimpered slightly, but they clearly understood the pecking order. Low growls rumbled in their throats; one of them allowed its tongue to loll lazily from the corner of its drooling mouth; and they turned to look at Will, who had no firepower now with which to stop them.

  Then they fell silent.

  Will swung the Diemaco over his head just as the two of them, in unison, started to bound towards him. Gripping the barrel of the gun firmly, he prepared to fight off these snarling animals using his weapon as a bludgeon. But their teeth were sharp and they were desperate. He knew his chances were slim.

  It all happened in what seemed like a fraction of a second. The dog in front leapt at him, just as Will raised the gun over his shoulder like an axeman preparing to chop wood. The beast was so close he could smell it and he knew in that instant that without a working gun, he would be no match for the animals.

  But just as he was beginning to swing the Diemaco, there was a loud bang from behind him and the dog fell to the ground, its head blown away. Will felt the animal's blood spatter over his face as, from behind him, a weapon cracked repeatedly through the night air, despatching the remaining three animals with pinpoint accuracy.

  Will turned to see a familiar figure lower his Kalashnikov.

  'Jesus Christ,' he breathed at Kennedy. 'Leave it a bit later next time, will you?'

  Kennedy grinned. 'Didn't really think you'd need my help against a few Snoopies.'

  'Fucking weapon jammed,' Will spat. 'I'll have something to say to the armourer when we get back home.'

  'Yeah, speaking of which—' Kennedy peered into the darkness beyond the carnage of the dead dogs. 'They probably heard the sound of this fucking AK back in Hereford.'

  'The Taliban won't be far behind,' Will agreed. 'How far ahead are Drew and the girl?'

  'About a hundred metres. I only came back because I heard the sound of the dogs - figured they probably hadn't been let out just for a bit of fresh air and a run around. Did you find Ismail?'

  Will nodded.

  'You plug him?'

  Will sniffed and looked back towards the village. 'He's dead,' he said, quietly. 'But it doesn't matter. We've still left a trail.'