He thought about Minky’s girl and what Sawtell had said. He hadn’t deprioritised her because she had brown skin; he’d done so to keep his mind focused on the mission. Still, it didn’t look good.
He admitted that. He just couldn’t admit it to them.
His heartbeat rose in his throat. He took a couple of deep breaths, then held down an acrid sensation in the back of his mouth. Nerves rising, Mac pulled down his black cap, looked at Hard-on and nodded.
‘Red team, this is Blue,’ said Hard-on into the throat mic.
‘Approaching.’
Mac’s ears roared with nerves as he scooted along the south wall of building three. He was in shadows but still vulnerable. The moon was out and while that was good for his general vision it was also good for an enemy who might be watching.
He battled to control his breathing. Hard-on crouched in front of him. Before them was the expanse of the courtyard - about thirty metres across and fl ooded with artifi cial light. They’d spent the last fi fteen minutes circling round behind building number three, now they were tucked in behind it, under the window line.
Hard-on took his time. Mac watched the soldier’s back heaving through fatigues and webbing. You couldn’t stop the nerves, but you could breathe with it. They waited. Listened for the slightest sound.
Nothing. Except the sound of heartbeats roaring in Mac’s ears.
Hard-on put his hand slightly above his shoulder. A get-ready signal. Then he picked up the M4, shouldered it and shifted his feet and hips into the marksman position.
Mac stood from his crouch, pulled the SIG out of its webbing, checked for load, checked for safety, slapped his breast pocket for the spare mag. He fi shed the suppressor from another webbing pocket, twisted it on, giving it a fi nal hard screw at the end for good luck.
Then they heard it. Faintly at fi rst, like it might have been a monkey.
But they stopped, tensed. Waited. It came again. A yelp, some words.
Indonesian, female, high-pitched. Yearning then trailing off.
Mac felt ice in his heart. They could barely look at one another.
They’d just heard a young girl crying out in a nightmare. They had the right building. And one of the hostages was alive.
Hard-on looked at him through the holes in the ski mask.
Mac didn’t know how Sawtell had handled the bit about Minky’s girl. But Hard-on seemed focused on the mission rather than angry with him.
Hard-on held up his right hand again, numbered down with gloved fi ngers: fi ve, four, three, two, one. Then he thumbed-up. Mac moved around the Green Beret, trying to keep his eyes on the clay ground while also looking ahead. He kept to the short side of the building but the fl oodlighting increased. He felt like he was walking onto a stage. It got brighter and brighter until he was standing at the last corner before he’d have to turn right and go up the entrance stairs and into the front porch of the building. He squinted - a bug under a microscope.
He paused, stuck his head around. Looked. Nothing. Pulled back.
Looked again. Realised he’d been holding his breath, and made himself breathe out.
To his left Hard-on was circling further into the courtyard, M4
to his eye line. He held a perfect shooting stance while also crabbing silently sideways - right leg over left - and keeping his sights trained on the building. He trained the weapon back and forth down the eight windows of the building. Anyone sticking their head up was going to get shot.
Mac swung around the corner, into the full blast of the fl oodies.
He walked the twenty paces to the entrance steps, stayed close to the wall, under the window line. His footsteps roared like a rock concert.
At the steps he stopped, lay on the dark red clay and pulled himself under the wooden steps like he was inspecting a car. Looked for weight and movement sensors, looked for grenades and trip wires.
Nothing.
He pulled himself out, his wrist aching and his head throbbing from Sonny’s butting. He’d stopped breathing again. He wasn’t feeling so good. Cold sweat soaked into his cap.
Hard-on moved in from the courtyard. No resistance. Still no movement from inside. Hard-on put a hand on Mac’s shoulder, his eyes questioning. Mac gave thumbs-up.
Hard-on handed the M4 to Mac, and walked up the beam on the side of the stairs rather than the stairs themselves, landing like a cat on the porch. Mac covered the courtyard from beside the stairs. Took long sweeps with the assault weapon, looking for movement, sounds.
He glanced over his shoulder a couple of times, saw Hard-on working his lock magic. When he looked back a third time, Hard-on had his gloved hand reached out. Mac handed over the M4 and pulled out his SIG. Then he joined Hard-on on the porch. The door was now slightly ajar and Hard-on took his standing marksman stance. Nodded at Mac.
Mac put his back against the wall, reached his left arm out and slowly, at arm’s length, pushed the door open. It was silent for the fi rst half of its arc. Then it made the slightest squeal which ended in a small croak. Hard-on stood like a statue, the door open before him.
If anyone was waiting, or anyone just happened to be in that zone, Hard-on would nail them and the shit would start.
But there was no shooting. Hard-on looked briefl y at Mac, held up his hand in a ‘wait’ signal. Lay on the fl oor, looked along it for thirty seconds, looking for tripwires and lasers. Mac thought back to the fear he’d evoked in those boys at the Honda Accord. Realised that to a special forces guy this whole mission might look like one big booby trap.
Hard-on stood and fl icked his head. Mac came away from the wall, into the room. It was a kitchen. Mac held the SIG in cup-and-saucer, moved immediately to his right, around the side of the room. Pots and pans hung from hooks along the wall. Musty smell. Moonlight came through the window over the sinks. He moved around the right wall towards a portal without a door and took a position. He turned back and watched Hard-on check behind the door, look up at the ceilings and walls, crouch down to look under the large table in the middle of the area, even open a broom closet door.
They stood either side of the doorway. Hard-on took off his ski mask and stashed it in his back pocket, did a quick peek around the corner. Pulled back. Looked again, slower. Mac took his six o’clock.
Hard-on slipped the M4 strap over his neck so the thing was hanging horizontal across his chest. His eyes were fi xed on something.
He pulled his boot-blacked Ka-bar from the webbing, held it hammer-grip, blade up - less likely to cut one of your mates than if you held it hammer-grip, blade-down.
Hard-on turned to Mac, pointed to himself and held up one fi nger.
He would go fi rst. Pointed at Mac, held up two. Mac was backup.
Hard-on slid into the next room. It was darker, sheets over windows. Two camp beds, one on either side of the room. Walkway down the middle. On the left, an Indonesian man was asleep on his side, facing away from Mac and Hard-on. The other bloke was sleeping on his back, snoring, fatigues on, boots by the bed, M4 leaning against the wall.
Hard-on took two strides to the guy in his fatigues, clapped a gloved hand fi rmly over mouth and nose and slit his throat, all in one movement. He didn’t hesitate, made two strides to the guy under the sheet, who made a humming sound - like he was waking up next to his girlfriend - and Hard-on did the same thing to him, except he entered the bloke’s neck from the side, taking the carotid artery direct.
Total silence. No more snoring, no more breathing. The white sheet was now dark and shiny. The bloke hadn’t moved from his sleeping position. The other bloke hadn’t even opened his eyes.
Hard-on stood up too abruptly, the M4 clattering briefl y on his webbing. They paused. Mac’s wrist had almost seized up in the cup-and-saucer position. Nine-millimetre handguns actually had a decent amount of kick and with the suppressor hanging off the end, he was scared his wrist wouldn’t be able to deal with it.
His breathing was plain embarrassing. Special forces blokes lived,
slept, ate and trained together, and after a while their breathing got synchronised. So Mac knew Hard-on was probably spooked by the ragged, gasping sound coming from the intel guy. He could imagine the Green Beret having a beer with his boys after this was over, saying something like, ‘That Pizza Man - he asthmatic or some shit?’
Hard-on put the Ka-bar in his webbing scabbard, brought his M4
up to his eye line again. Pointed. Now they were looking at another doorway, this one with an actual door in it.
Hard-on made a gesture with his hand to show he wanted a low-high team for entry. He wanted Mac covering left, he would cover right.
Mac crouched on one knee in front of the door knob. It was an away-swinging door. Hard-on was in standing marksman pose straight over the top of him. If there were people on the other side, they would look up and see the profi le of one man. Less to aim at.
Mac went to turn the knob, an old brass number, nice and worn and quiet. His breathing was now coming so fast and shallow that it reminded him of what he was like after a fi fteen-minute session with the jumprope at the gym.
He shook it off. Sweat fell onto his forearm. Took a deep breath.
Exhaled. Pushed the door in, brought the SIG up to eye line. His heart thumped in his temples, throbbed at the lump on his head, roared in his ears.
The door opened into a long corridor with doors and rooms. This was not what Mac wanted. It was gloomy but he reckoned there were at least three rooms off the corridor. The only good part? Not all of them had doors.
Hard-on and Mac moved forward, Hard-on in the lead.
Same routine for the fi rst door. Mac kneeling, Hard-on standing.
Door swung open with a creak. They took it in. Moonlight came in the large sash window, a naked Asian man lay on the only bed. The bloke lifted his head, opened his mouth in surprise.
Mac rose, SIG ready, levelled the suppressor and was about to fi re.
Heard Hard-on say, ‘No.’ Then saw why.
There was a woman behind the bloke.
Naked, blonde, and out to it.
CHAPTER 13
Mac hesitated, then lowered the SIG so it was at hip-height and popped the Asian man in the forehead.
Blood sprayed on the girl, but he was pretty sure he’d missed her with the slug.
The sound of voices and feet hitting fl oorboards came from next door. Urgent commands.
Hard-on keyed the throat mic. ‘Sonny, shit’s started. Bring it.
Bring it now.’
Almost immediately the staccato sound of short-burst machine gun fi re came from further down the building. Glass smashed and someone screamed. Shots fi red back, echoing inside the building.
Hard-on said, ‘Get the girl.’ Then he went to the doorframe, stood beside it and fi red in short bursts down the hallway. The air fi lled with thumps and male fear.
Mac knelt on the bloody bed, pulled the dead guy off the girl.
Two rounds came through the wall above him. He was full-on panting now, muttering to himself. The girl was Judith Hannah, he was sure. She was naked and from the breasts up she was covered in blood. There were bits of brain and bone in her hair.
She was tied to the bed head with cargo ties, both wrists, both ankles. He tried to get them loose. Reached for his own Ka-bar, fumbled, dropped the knife. He was not handling this well. Then he realised there was no response from Hannah.
‘Judith - how are you?’ He picked up the Ka-bar and slashed the ties on her wrists.
No response.
Panting, gulping and muttering like a madman, Mac checked for a pulse on her inside wrist. Pressed three fi ngers close to the bone.
Got it in one. Drugged? Catatonic?
He gave her a soft slap on the left cheek. Her eyes didn’t open.
‘Judith - talk to me!’
The shooting went on around him. He slashed the ankle ties.
Hard-on popped shots like a robot and yelled, ‘How we going, Pizza Man?’
‘Almost there.’
‘Where’s the other girl?’ shouted Hard-on before shooting again.
‘She’s not in here, mate,’ he yelled over the gunfi re.
He knew Hard-on would avoid fi ring in a downward trajectory until they knew where the younger girl was. Mac looked around in the gloom and realised he hadn’t looked behind the door. He pulled it away from the wall and looking straight back at him were big dark eyes under a fringe; a cuddly blanket clutched into a naked chest.
Total fear.
Minky’s girl, alive.
Splinters of doorframe fl ew into the room.
Hard-on yelled, ‘Fuck!’ and staggered in, clutching at his right bicep. ‘Fuck it!’
Minky’s girl screamed.
Mac leapt up, took a crouch at the doorframe. Two men down the end of the corridor were laying down indiscriminate fi re. It whistled around, sliced through the wooden walls, tore strips off the plaster ceiling. There were two sounds: loads fi ring and the building being torn apart. Mac pulled back in.
The radio crackled. ‘Blue team, this is Red. Ten more tangos from another building. We’re bogged down. Can you hang on?’
Hard-on winced, growled at his pain. Keyed the mic, said, ‘Red team this is Blue - we have both targets. Repeat both targets. We need cover. We need it now. Over.’
Radio contact ceased.
Hard-on took his hand away from his bicep. It was a mess. The shirt was torn and blood was seeping into it as Mac watched.
‘It’s a fl esh wound,’ said Hard-on. ‘But a bad one.’
‘Can you cover me if I get the girls?’ asked Mac.
Hard-on nodded, reloaded, moved back to the splintered doorframe. The shooting had died down. They were probably waiting to see if it was safe to approach. Hard-on did a quick peek, then pulled back.
Mac went to the bed, dragged Hannah up to a sitting position.
Kneeling on the fl oor he pushed her arms up, pulled them over his left shoulder and her body followed. He wrapped his left arm around the back of her knees and when he stood she hung limp down his back.
He turned for Minky’s girl. She would have to run.
Hard-on counted his fi ve then leapt into the corridor, laying down fi re. Mac would have maybe ten seconds to make a dash for it with the girls, before the return fi re came back twice as hard.
Smiling at Minky’s girl, he put his hand out.
She shook her head.
Mac smiled harder, wiggled his hand, tried to grab her wrist.
‘Come on. Let’s go.’ She pulled her hand away.
‘Come on, darlin’ - I’m here to help,’ said Mac, clicking his fi ngers at her.
Hard-on looked back to Mac. ‘On my fi ve, Pizza Man.’
Mac made another attempt at Minky’s girl and she pointed at her ankle. He looked closer: the girl was handcuffed to a pipe on the wall.
The fl esh around the steel cuff was worn and bleeding.
‘Fuck!’
With Judith Hannah on his back, he knelt to the dead rapist on the fl oor. But the guy was naked. Where would he keep his keys, Einstein? Up his arsehole?
Mac was seriously losing it. Hard-on was losing ground and yelled into the room, ‘Ready?!’
And then he smelled it.
Smoke!
The joint was on fi re.
A bullet passed inches from his face, thwacking into the opposite wall. It was time to go. Mac returned to Minky’s girl, pulled the SIG
from the webbing holster, pointed it in close at the handcuff chain and pulled the trigger. Minky’s girl screamed as his fi rst shot missed.
Mac got the suppressor’s muzzle closer to the chain and tried again as the girl jerked around, scared of his gun. Her shrieks hurt his ears but this time the handcuff fell away. Mac put his hand out again and the girl took it.
They moved to the doorframe, which was now hanging by a few shreds of wood and plaster. Hard-on was ready to go, his right arm limp and dripping blood at his side. The M4 was in his left.
There was a lull in the gunfi re. Mac gripped tighter on the girl’s hand, but he could feel her pulling, scared witless. Hard-on fl icked his head and Mac took the two girls into the corridor, but as he did more gunfi re erupted. Hard-on fi red back but in the confusion the girl pulled free as Mac ran in a crouch towards the exit. He looked back and saw the wall and door give way as the girl disappeared back into the room. She was buried in wood and plaster.
Hard-on and Mac looked at one another and Hard-on shook his head.
Mac fi red back down the hallway with his SIG as Hard-on joined him, and they jogged out the way they’d come in.
The radio came back to life as they went down the entrance stairs and into the courtyard. A scene of carnage met them, fi re billowing out of the far end of building three and bodies lying on the red clay.
Spikey and Sawtell walked along the courtyard side of the building, aiming up at the spaces that fi ve minutes earlier had been windows.
Sporadic fi re issued from the windows. The Americans returned with interest.
The fi re was taking hold. More gunfi re came out of the building.
On the radio, it sounded like Sonny and Hemi were nailed down elsewhere. Mac wanted to drop Hannah and Hard-on in the bush and get back to rescuing Minky’s daughter.
Hard-on was in a bad way as they headed for the RV, groaning every time his feet hit the ground. Judith Hannah bounced rhythmically against Mac’s back. At least her legs were warm, which was a good sign.
Mac keyed the mic: ‘Red team, this is Blue. We have one target.
Repeat one target. Need help on the other. Over.’
No reply.
He tried again. ‘Red team, Minky’s girl is in building three, repeat building three, in one of the middle rooms. A wall has collapsed on her - can we get someone there?’
Hard-on, through his agony, shook his head. ‘It’s not going to happen, Pizza Man. This is one we’ll just have to live with.
Fuck it!’
They hit the cover of the jungle and made up the slope for the RV.
Mac dumped the girl softly on the mossy forest fl oor. Hard-on almost collapsed in the leaves. He was in shock, losing blood and in a lot of pain.
Mac opened Billy’s triage pack which had been left at the RV.
Alan McQueen - 01 - Golden Serpent Page 13