by Chris Ryan
As he reached the end of the tunnel, Jed glanced through the cave that confronted him. It was much smaller than the last one, just thirty feet in length and twenty wide, and there was a single torch in the corner, spreading a pale light over the grey rock. Right ahead of him, he could see a man, shrouded in a thick, green overcoat, starting to run into another tunnel. Salek, he thought. It has to be.
‘Stop,’ he shouted. ‘Stop, you bastard, or I’ll blow your bloody brains out.’
There was a woman at his side. About five foot six, dressed in a burka, which covered her face. Sarah, Jed told himself. It must be. The bastard has made her dress like a local. The man was starting to shove her towards the tunnel that led out of the cave. The woman tried to turn, but the man slapped her forward.
‘Sarah,’ shouted Jed. ‘Sarah, it’s me.’
He was standing still now, holding the Beretta in his outstretched hand. He pointed it straight ahead, but it was impossible to get a clean shot on the man’s back without risking putting a bullet into the woman. ‘Move aside, you bastard,’ said Jed.
At his side he heard a noise. A soldier was lunging towards him, just a few feet away, the blade in his hand glinting in the pale light from the torch. How the hell did I miss you, Jed asked himself. He moved swiftly to the left, dodging the man’s blow. He looked older than the rest of the soldiers. At least forty, with a few inches of fat around his waist, but his eyes were strong, and his expression determined. Jed spun round on his ankles, raising the Beretta straight in front of him, positioning the gun for a clean shot. He fired once, then again. One bullet pinged into the rock. The second blasted into the man’s shoulder, punching a hole through the muscle and flesh. Blood was starting to stain his shirt, but there was plenty of fight in him yet. He roared, his lungs stretching with anger, and lunged forward with the knife again. Jed backed away, stumbling across rock, trying to keep his balance and stay out of range of the knife, and yet avoid turning his back on his attacker. Jed fired the Beretta twice more. One bullet went nowhere, but the other struck the man in the chest. Still he kept coming. Jed stepped back another yard, then another. The soldier made one last desperate lunge. The wounds were taking him apart, and he was coughing blood, choking on it as it foamed up in his mouth, but he still had enough momentum to carry himself forward. Jed stumbled, crashing to the floor, and in the next instant, the soldier was falling on top of him. The man was heavy, like a hod of bricks smashing down. His breath was stale, and there was blood dripping from his mouth. The impact knocked the Beretta from Jed’s hand, sending it skidding across the wet rock towards the gushing stream.
Jed grunted, then heaved upwards. With one movement, he’d turned the man off him, so he was lying flat out on his back. He managed to retrieve his gun and hovered over the soldier. His eyes had closed, and although he was still just breathing, it was clear the fight was out of him. You’ll be dead in a couple of minutes, mate, thought Jed grimly. No point in finishing you off. It’s a waste of a good bullet.
As Jed glanced back up towards the tunnel, he could see the man and woman had escaped. ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered. ‘They’ve gone.’
Moving fast, he grabbed the torch from the ground, and shone it into the tunnel down which they had disappeared. It stretched for a hundred yards, narrowing at one point to just a few feet, before twisting round a corner. There was no way of telling where it led.
One way to find out, Jed thought. Throw yourself into it.
He started running. The tunnel sloped uphill, stretching a hundred yards into the distance, and the stream was gushing down through the rock. He slowed to squeeze himself through the narrow passage, wading through two feet of water to do so. As he reached the corner, he darted around it, looking into another stretch of tunnel. Still no sign of them. The climb was getting steeper, and he had to use the rock to get a grip as he pushed ahead.
Where the hell are they, he asked himself as he flung himself up yet another turning.
Daylight.
About two hundred yards ahead, he could see a narrow crack in the rock. Sunlight was streaming through it, with a light that seemed sudden and dazzling after being incarcerated inside the mountain for the last ten minutes.
But still no sign of Salek. Or the woman.
Jed threw himself harder forward. Fifty yards passed, then another fifty. He was getting closer. As he drew up to the light, he gripped on to the side of the rock, and pulled himself up and out of the tunnel. The stream was coming into the mountain through this opening, and he had to move through the rushing water. His clothes were soaked, and his hair was matted and slicked against his head. It was bitterly cold and the icy water he’d just emerged from was still biting into his skin. But he was back on the mountainside. Looking around, he could see an expanse of rugged, grassy rock, with a waterfall where the stream originated about three hundred yards away. To his left, he could see Nick and Laura. To his right, maybe five hundred yards away, he could see Salek, dragging Sarah after him, running over the rough terrain.
He glanced back towards Nick and Laura, not sure how far his voice would carry against the stiff wind that was blowing down from the mountain. ‘This way,’ he yelled.
Turning, he started to run. The ground was heavy, and wet with dew, and his muscles felt punched and sore. But he was making good progress. Salek and Sarah were racing up the side of the mountain, but Jed could tell he was closing on them. Three hundred yards separated them now, he calculated. Soon it will be two …
‘Sarah,’ he yelled again.
The man glanced round, and Jed could see him clearly. He gripped on to the Beretta, but it was impossible to take a shot from this distance, and not risk hitting the woman he was still clinging on to.
What the hell is he running towards, Jed asked himself. What’s up there?
Salek was moving up a steep incline, towards a formation of huge circular stones. Some kind of hiding place? Jed pushed himself harder. He was using his hands to grip the ground, to help lever himself upwards, but the cuts on his palms meant the dust and the gravel were starting to sting him. Salek disappeared briefly from view, vanishing into the thicket of stones. As Jed pulled himself up level with the rocks, he looked around wildly for any sign of them. Nothing. He listened. The wind was still blowing, rustling the tall grasses growing between the stones, but he could hear nothing else. No movement. No breathing. Where the hell were they?
The stones formed a rough semicircle. Some were as high as thirty feet tall, others just ten, but each one was at least six feet wide. There must be at least twenty of them, Jed reckoned. And each one big enough for a man to hide behind.
He started walking. The stones were twisted into strange, ugly shapes, some like animals, others like trees. A few seemed to be looking straight at you. Jed turned round. He felt certain he’d heard a noise behind him. An animal? No, it was louder than that. A person. From behind the rock to his right. He gripped the Beretta tight into his hand, and broke into a run. As he approached the rock, he paused, leaning close into it, edging around its circumference. His finger was hovering nervously on the trigger of the gun. He could see a shadow moving across the ground, just five feet away from him. They were there, Jed felt certain of it. He looked at the shape of the shadow on the ground. Was it the man, or the woman? It was impossible to tell from here. I’ll just have to take my chances.
Holding tightly on to the Beretta, he leapt away from the rock. Salek was standing just a few feet from him. The woman had fled, and was hiding behind another rock twenty yards away. Jed looked into the man’s eyes: they were cold and vengeful, the eyes of a murderer. Already he was moving, starting to turn and run the moment he saw Jed. A pistol was in his right hand, poised to fire. Jabbing the Beretta forward, Jed fired once, then again. The bullets rattled out of the gun. One struck against the rock, the other crashed into the side of Salek’s chest. He rocked back on his heels, but although the wound was a bad one, he was staying on his feet.
Sod this gun, th
ought Jed. I couldn’t hit a pigeon in Trafalgar Square with this piece of crap.
Salek’s hand was still raised, his gun level and pointing straight ahead of him. Jed swerved, making himself a harder target to aim at as he readied the Beretta for another shot. In the next instant, he could hear the explosion as the bullet exploded through the air. He knew even in the fraction of a second after the trigger was squeezed that Salek’s aim had been a good one. He could see the angle of the gun as it was fired, and even as he swerved backwards there was still no more than twenty yards separating the two men. Salek wasn’t going to miss from there. Not with an aim that was as true as that one.
As time appeared to slow down, Jed steeled himself. He had taken a bullet once before, in his calf, and he knew that the pain didn’t come at once. First the body numbed up, and you could feel nothing. It was as if you’d been jabbed by an anaesthetic. The nerves froze up. Almost immediately, the bleeding would start, and slowly, as the shock started to subside, you would start to feel again. Then the pain would rage through you like a fire.
The bullet smashed into his shoulder. Jed could feel the flesh being ripped open, and he realised with a tremor of cold fear that it had missed his heart by just a couple of inches. The shard of hot metal brushed against the bone of his shoulder blade, and then he could feel it punching a hole through his back and tearing out of his body. The impact of the blow knocked him to the ground, and as he fell the Beretta was knocked clean from his hand.
For a moment, Jed’s eyes closed. His head was starting to spin in shock and consciousness was ebbing away from him. He’d crashed nastily to the ground, catching his spine on the rock, and every muscle in his back was screaming with pain. He could hear feet, running, shouts. Snap out it, he told himself. You’re not bloody dead yet. While there’s life in you, there’s still fight, man.
His eyes snapped suddenly open. Salek was running towards him, the gun in his hand pointing straight at Jed. He fired once, but the bullet smashed into the ground a couple of feet from where Jed was lying on the ground. Desperately, Jed rolled over, reaching out for the Beretta. Just a few feet, he told himself. With a gun in your hand, you’re still in this game.
Salek was now just ten yards from Jed. There was blood seeping from his chest, but he was strong enough to take the punishment and keep going. He closed down the distance separating the two men before Jed could summon up enough strength to grab the gun. With a sudden stamp, Salek slammed his foot down on Jed’s wrist. ‘Good of you to come all this way,’ said Salek. ‘I was planning to kill you back in England. This has saved me the trouble of a trip.’
The gun was five feet from Jed’s face. It was a Viper Jaws pistol, with a sleek black handle and a polished steel barrel: the Viper was a Jordanian gun, designed by the American Widley Moore who created the legendary Widley pistol. It doesn’t make any difference what pistol it is, thought Jed grimly. Every bullet is the same when it’s blasted its way into your skull.
A shot rang out, its explosive noise echoing through the mountainside. Salek staggered backwards. A bullet had landed in his right shoulder, just a few inches from the existing wound. The impact of the blow had chewed up the flesh and bone: his arm was dangling from his shoulders by just a narrow thread of bleeding muscle, and if you looked closely, you could see right through to the bone.
‘Zarba,’ he cried. ‘Zarba.’
He was swaying, struggling to hold his balance. His foot had been taken off Jed’s wrist, but he was still holding on to his gun, switching it from his right to his left hand.
As Jed glanced around, he could see Nick running towards him. He was thirty yards away and limping badly, but he was closing in on them fast, his own Browning handgun gripped in his right hand. How he’d managed to hit Salek at a distance of almost fifty yards while he was running, Jed couldn’t tell. Either it was a lucky shot. Or else he was bloody good.
As Nick covered the last few yards separating them, Jed rolled around, pushing himself the final few inches he needed to reach his own gun. His hand shot out, grabbing hold of the Beretta. Salek was looking at him, then back up towards Nick. There was a trickle of blood running down from his mouth, and his eyes were starting to glaze over. His left hand started to rise upwards, with the Viper still nestling in his palm. He was desperately trying to steady himself and to get some sort of an aim on Nick. He fired off one bullet, than another. Nick was swerving as he ran, making himself a harder target to pin down.
One bullet smashed uselessly into the ground. But the second winged his leg, just above the knee, ripping out a chunk of flesh like a snake taking a bite of its victim. Nick roared in agony, but kept moving, suppressing the pain, finding the reserves of strength within himself. He fired the gun, once, twice, then three times, the bullets punching through the air, hitting Salek in the chest, the neck and groin. In the same instant, Jed steadied his grip on his own Beretta, straightened his arm and squeezed the trigger hard. The first bullet missed, but he’d already adjusted his aim, and the second struck Salek in the left shoulder. The force of the impact knocked the Viper from his hand. Jed fired again, then again. Leave nothing to chance, he told himself. Kill him once, then kill him again, just to make sure the bastard doesn’t ever crawl back out of hell.
Salek slumped to the ground, a torn and mangled corpse. His head crashed against the stone, splitting open, and as he closed his eyes, his breath had already stopped.
Nick glanced down at Jed. ‘You OK?’ he muttered.
Jed started to lever himself from the ground. The pain in his shoulder was murderous, like having a knife continuously twisted into his raw flesh. ‘I’ve been better,’ he said.
‘We’ve all been bloody better, mate,’ he snapped. ‘Where’s Sarah?’
Jed looked towards the next set of stones. The last time he’d seen her, she had been twenty or so yards away, hiding out of sight. During the fight with Salek, he’d lost track of her. If she had any sense, she’d have kept her head down, and stayed well clear of the bullets.
‘Over there,’ he said, nodding towards the stone.
He stumbled as he got to his feet. Nick grabbed hold of his arm, helping him to steady himself. His head was spinning, and his legs were weak: it was hard to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. The Beretta fell from his grip, and used his hand to try and staunch the bleeding from his shoulder, but he was losing blood badly. He reckoned he’d lost at least a pint. Maybe two. That was enough to make a man lose consciousness. Another couple of pints and he’d be dead.
‘You sure you’re OK?’ said Nick.
‘I’m bloody fine,’ said Jed.
They started walking. Jed pointed towards the thick rock, twisted like a giant tree stump, where he had last seen the women in the black burka. It was twenty yards, but both of them were so badly wounded, it was heavy going covering the distance. Nick was limping badly on his wounded leg, and there was fresh bleeding where he had taken the second bullet. They were inching forwards, propping each other up, but Jed could tell there wasn’t much fight left in them. Their number was about to be called. Let’s just hope we can find Sarah first.
‘Sarah,’ Nick shouted. ‘Sarah.’
No answer.
Only silence.
Jed pushed himself forwards, fighting to control the pain. Just another ten yards. He took a deep breath, trying to get as much oxygen into his lungs as possible. The wind was blowing down harder from the mountain now, whipping around his body. He was starting to shiver: with less blood in his veins, he had less to protect him from the cold. There were patches of ice and snow covering the rock, and Jed was taking each step carefully, grimly aware that one slip in his current condition could well prove fatal. Stay upright, and you’ll stay alive, he told himself, through gritted teeth. For long enough anyway.
He approached the rock. It was at least fifteen feet tall, and a dozen wide: a huge, ugly slab of granite that twisted and curled in on itself. Nick let go of him, and started to walk to th
e left. Jed rested one arm on the rock, using it to help hold himself up, and walked slowly to the right.
The woman was standing stock-still behind it. She was dressed completely in black, with a burka covering her face. It was as if she’d been frozen in ice. Petrified, thought Jed. She’s so scared, her muscles have seized up. ‘Sarah,’ he whispered quietly, his words carried on the gusts of wind blowing up behind him. ‘It’s OK, it’s us.’
Nothing.
She remained silent.
‘Sarah,’ said Nick from the other side.
Nothing.
Nick’s expression changed. ‘Sarah?’ he repeated. His voice was rougher this time.
The woman started to flinch.
Nick reached out, and lifted the burka away from her face.
She was about thirty, with dark, delicate skin, and round eyes that appeared smudged with tears. Her skin was dark and flawless, her hands smooth. She looked up at the two men, with tears in her eyes. Her lips were trembling, and her hands were shaking with fear.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Nick snarled.
She shook her head, baffled, with the look of a woman who hadn’t even understood the question.
‘Who are you?’
His voice was louder, more aggressive this time. He reached out for her shoulder, shaking her. She drew away, leaning against the stone, and started to say something in Arabic. The words tumbled out of her, accompanied by tears streaming down her face. ‘Leave it,’ snapped Jed. ‘It’s not bloody her, is it?’
‘Then where the hell is she?’
Nick looked straight into the woman’s eyes. ‘Where is she?’ he shouted. ‘Where’s my daughter?’
THIRTY-FIVE
Jed could feel his head spinning. He was clutching the side of the rock to stop himself from tipping over, and his left hand was trying to keep a grip on his shoulder to stop it from bleeding too much. No matter how much he tried, he could neither focus nor concentrate. He could hear Nick shouting at the woman, but the sound was fading in and out. Only one thought kept repeating in his mind, like a tape stuck in a loop: Sarah’s not here, Sarah’s not here.