Blackout

by Chris Ryan

  He could feel her solid palm hitting his skin, and the

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  flesh underneath started to swell. 'Get back to your bloody camel, bitch,' shouted Josh.

  He spat up into her face, putting a gob of saliva directly into her eye.

  She hit him again and again, the fury rising within her. The blows rained down on Josh's body and he could feel his strength ebbing away under the punishment. The veil had fallen away from the woman's mouth, and he could see her full face for the first time: an ugly, sour set of features -- a pinched, thin mouth and a heavy, brutal jaw.

  This is it, thought Josh. I'm going to die. But at least I'll take my secret with me . . .

  Azim ran into the room. He yanked the woman hard by the shoulders. 'Stop it, Nadia, in the name of all that is sacred, stop it,' he yelled. 'You'll kill the man.You'll kill him.'

  The woman resisted Azim, still trying to strike Josh with her fists. She hit his face again, then his ribs. The pain raged through Josh's body. I haven't eaten, I haven't drunk, I've been tortured for four days, I've got no strength, no endurance left. Lose consciousness now, and I'll never wake up.

  'Stop it now' roared Azim, throwing both his arms around the woman in an effort to control her.

  'He insulted me,' she spat. 'He dies.'

  Azim slapped her hard across the face. A trickle of blood started to seep from her nose.'Calm,' said Azim.'Calm down.'

  Her breathing started to slow, and her fists dropped to her side. A tear was running down the side of her face.

  Josh lay still on his back. Every inch of his body was screaming out in pain. The bruises and swellings on the front of his chest were turning purple, and he could still see the punctures where the snakes had bitten him. Still alive, he told himself grimly. I can't even get myself killed.

  And I can't do another round with the snakes.

  Azim turned to him and smiled. 'Clever, Josh, clever,' he said. 'You want us to kill you. And we will, don't worry. A

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  nice clean bullet to the head. Right after you tell us where Luke is.'

  Another day, another two days, that's how long I have to hold out. Luke has sent me a message, but if I don't respond in two or three days he must realise that something has gone wrong. He must realise it's time for him to move on. He won't keep waiting for me.

  Take the punishment for another forty-eight hours. Then tell them. And let it all end with a simple bullet to the head.

  'Get the snake,' snapped Azim.

  The woman stooped to collect her veil from the floor. She rearranged it over her face, then stalked from the room.

  'The snakes aren't bloody working,' said Josh. 'Haven't you got anything else?'

  Azim rubbed his hands together. 'Torture is not a pick 'n'mix buffet,' he said. 'That is the trouble with the infidels. They have no attention-span any more. If they don't get instant results they lose interest. That is not the way a real torturer works. He picks his point of weakness and he scratches away at it until the stress and the pain become unbearable.'

  He leaned down close to Josh's face. 'You see, I've heard the screams, Josh. I've heard the moans and the howls as the reptiles sink their teeth into your flesh. And I know that snakes are your weakness.'

  The woman had walked back into the room, the wicker basket in her hand.

  'Please, no,' said Josh, the anxiety already building inside him. 'I've told you, I don't know anything.'

  The woman unfastened the basket's lid and the snake inside shot out: this time it was one with yellow eyes and a skin that was jet black. Josh could feel himself recoiling: every muscle and nerve in his body screamed with pain, begging him to snap, to reveal where Luke was.

  Josh closed his eyes, but despair was starting to overwhelm him.

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  'Luke, Luke . . .' he started.

  Azim turned to look at him, his stare burning with curiosity.

  'Yes, Josh? What about Luke?'

  'Luke, Luke . . .'

  The words had taken Josh himself by surprise, tumbling out of his mouth as if he could no longer control his own tongue. The snake was edging along the side of the bed, its eyes darting from side to side. A dead mouse was already dangling from Azim's hand, ready to be placed on Josh's chest.

  'What about Luke? Where is he?'

  'L, B and J,' stuttered Josh. 'It means . . . you need . . . I . . .'

  No, he screamed silently to himself. No, hold on, man. If al-Qaeda gets hold of that software they'll wreak havoc on the whole world.

  You mustn't break for at least another forty-eight hours.

  Just take the punishment. You're a bloody soldier.

  'What does it mean?' shouted Azim.

  'Fuck off,' spat Josh. He felt relief flooding through him as he regained control of his tongue. 'Fuck off,' he spat again.

  'The snakes will chew you to ribbons, Josh,' shouted Azim. 'Just tell me.'

  Josh pressed his lips together.

  Azim turned around and strode from the room. 'You're breaking, Josh,' he said coldly as he left. 'I can smell it.You're breaking. And in a few minutes you'll be mine.'

  The snake was slithering up the side of Josh's leg, its tongue darting out of its mouth. Josh could feel sweat pouring off his body as he steeled himself for the reptilian attack that was inevitable.

  Somewhere in the distance, Josh heard an explosion. And gunfire.

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  Sunday, June 14th. Evening.

  The explosion had come from fifty, maybe a hundred yards

  away, Josh judged.

  The snake was advancing up towards his neck, its dry skin scratching against his chest. Josh could ignore it because he was listening out for more explosions, more gunfire. He could hear feet running along the corridor.

  A rescue. Please God, let it be a rescue.

  Then Azim burst into the room, the woman at his side. 'Unchain him,' he shouted. 'Get him to the car. I'll fight them off.'

  The woman leaned over Josh, unlocking the two pairs of handcuffs. With a sweeping movement of her hand, she struck the snake on the side of its head, knocking the startled reptile to the floor. She had a .45 Colt automatic in her grip. Then Josh was dragged to his feet. The gun was pressed against his head, and he had only a pair of boxer shorts for protection.

  'One wrong move, and I'll shoot you,' she hissed.

  Josh could feel the adrenalin surging through his veins. A few minutes ago he'd been ready to die. Now there was the possibility of survival.

  Stay calm, he told himself. Think clearly. You've got a chance.

  Azim had left the room again. From somewhere in the distance, Josh could hear another burst of gunfire. A machine

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  gun, he reckoned, from the sound. He got unsteadily to his feet. It had been two days since he'd been allowed to walk, and his body had taken a terrible beating. His balance was unsteady, and he needed the woman's hands on him to help him hold himself up.

  'Move,' she shouted, pointing to the door. 'Move.'

  Josh edged his way to the corridor.

  'Faster,' she shouted. 'Move, kwanii, move.'

  Josh picked up on the Arabic expression. She's calling me a faggot.

  Another man was standing in the corridor. A guard, guessed Josh. He pointed a Colt pistol like the woman's at Josh, and nodded him towards the doorway. Suddenly Josh was starting to get some bearings.The building was a cheaply built bungalow. One central corridor ran through it and Josh's room had been at the end. He could see a living area and kitchen at the front, and through a doorway lay a dark patch^of lawn fronting the road.

  The gunshots seemed to be coming from the front of the building, but amid the noise of shooting it was impossible for Josh to get a precise fix on their location.

  Josh could see another guard running with Azim to the front of the bungalow. Both guards were young Arab men, stocky, dressed in jeans and black
T-shirts with bulging muscles and trim black beards.

  'This way, this way' hissed the first guard, urging Josh on along the corridor towards the back.

  I'll make my move any moment* now, Josh decided. If I die trying, then that's what I wanted all along.

  Josh reckoned he'd already figured out Azim's plan. The terrorist wanted to hold off his opponents for a few minutes to buy himself enough time to hustle Josh into a van and get him out of the area. To another safe house.

  They passed a window and Josh glanced out. In the gloom of the evening he thought he could make out at least three

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  men crouched behind boulders in the scrubland outside. They were at least thirty yards away. Their faces were obscured but he could see the muzzles of their rifles. At the end of the corridor, Azim and his guard were stationed behind the metal door frame, using it to protect themselves, their own weapons ready.

  Azim began to lay down a deadly barrage of fire that would make it impossible for the attackers to advance.

  A stand-off, thought Josh.

  'Faster, faster,' shouted the woman, her voice breathless.

  Both the guard and the woman had pistols rammed hard into Josh's flesh. A terrible thought struck him, slowing him down. Maybe I'm not being rescued? Maybe it's just Flatner and his thugs come to take me back?

  Maybe I'm better off making a run for it and letting them shoot me now.

  The woman shoved him through the back door. Immediately, Josh could feel the blast of warm air hitting him in the face. His vision was blurred. He paused, taking two deep breaths.

  The back of the building gave onto a square compound, marked by a boundary of rocks but no fence. The tarmac driveway circled the building and ended up there, in a parking space ten yards from the back door.

  A white van was sitting on the tarmac. The woman pointed to it. 'There,' she hissed. 'Get in.'

  Josh started to move. The woman was gripping his arm, and ahead of them the guard had already unlocked the van's door and was gesturing to Josh to get inside. A thin mattress was laid out on the floor, and chains, ropes and manacles were attached to the inside of the van. Great, thought Josh. A bloody travelling torture chamber.

  'Get in now, man,' hissed the guard, in an accent that was part American, part Saudi Arabian.

  No, decided Josh. I'm not bloody getting in there, pal.

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  You can shoot me if you want to, but I'm not bloody going.

  He swung his elbow sharply upwards, smashing it into the woman's jaw. It was a move he'd first learned as a defender for the school football team, and he'd found it as effective as anything he'd ever learned. The woman spun around, shocked by the sudden pain shooting through her face, her gun loose in her hand.

  A deafening roar rolled out across the yard which was instantly filled with the smoke of the explosion. A stun grenade, reckoned Josh. Or some kind of homemade mortar shell. He closed his eyes and mouth to protect himself. He could feel the heat of something burning, and he started to run to get away from the blaze.

  'Stop or I shoot,' shouted the guard, his voice ragged and tense.

  Feel free, pal. My funeral can't start soon enough.

  Josh kept running, his eyes still tight shut, stumbling forwards. He wanted to get round to the front of the house where the attackers were.

  He heard a shot, then another one.

  Somewhere nearby he could hear a bullet slamming into the ground.

  'Quick, this way, man,' snapped a voice. 'Fucking run, man.'

  Josh recognised the coarse croak. O'Brien.

  Josh swivelled to the left. He heard another shot. The guard was shooting blind.

  Josh pushed forwards, picking up speed. He was holding back the pain as best he could. A

  Death or freedom, pal, he yelled inwardly as he willed himself forward. Either is better than going back to that hell.

  'Here, over here,' shouted O'Brien, somewhere off to Josh's left.

  Another explosion. Someone was laying down a heavy barrage of stun grenades and smoke bombs. Rescue tactics, Josh realised. Put down enough fire and confusion to get

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  your man out without killing him in the process. These guys know what they are doing.

  The air was thick with sulphurous smoke. Josh swerved further to the left, avoiding the explosions letting himself be guided by the lethal heat behind him and the noise ahead.

  'Jump, man, jump,' shouted O'Brien. 'Over the ridge.'

  Josh glanced up. The ridge to the right of the compound that surrounded the bungalow was just ten yards away. The ground rose up steadily until it reached its full height. He would just have to take a run and jump at it. There was no other way.

  Ten yards, then five. Despite the waves of pain crashing through him, Josh did his best to pick up all the speed he could. Then he jumped, pushing back with his legs to gain as much height as he could. For a brief instant he was flying through the air. Then he landed hard on the ground. It took another second to find his balance again. He opened his eyes. O'Brien was kneeling in a ditch in the classic firing position, an XM8 assault rifle -- a weapon issued only to American troops and still in extremely restricted circulation even among criminals -- tucked against his shoulder. With a distinctive brown plastic casing and a black metal barrel, the weapon was capable of laying down a ferocious 750 rounds of deadly fire a minute.

  A hand reached up, dragging Josh down behind the bank of earth that O'Brien was using for cover. 'You okay, man?' shouted O'Brien, starting to stand up.

  A shot rang out. A splatter of blood hit Josh on the chest, smearing his bruised skin. For a second he thought that he'd been hit. He was waiting for the pain to kick in. Then he saw O'Brien drop to his knees. Blood was pouring from a head wound and there was a pitiful whimpering sound coming from his lips. Dying, realised Josh. Only seconds left. No point in even putting him out of his misery.

  Josh's eyes swivelled desperately around. Where the hell

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  did that shot come from? he wondered. He was positioned behind a ridge of earth overlooking the bungalow. The van the guard had been trying to put him in was already engulfed in flames, filling the area with thick, ugly clouds of black smoke, and the guard was lying bleeding on the ground. There was no sign of the woman.

  From the noise of the gunfire, Josh reckoned that there were three, maybe four men attacking the house. About as many defending it.

  Josh reached down and grabbed the XM8.The barrel of the weapon was wet and slippery with O'Brien's blood. Another shot whistled over the ridge. It glanced against the casing of the gun, knocking it from his grip. Josh stumbled backwards, his balance thrown by the force of the impact. He noticed that the noise of the gun battle and the grenades had stopped. For a moment there was silence. Then . . .

  'Hold it right there, Josh.'

  Josh recognised the voice immediately: it was cold and precise. Azim.

  You can take me if you want to, Josh told himself, but not alive.

  The XM8 was lying in the dirt. Josh glanced up. He could see Azim standing ten yards away, walking slowly towards him. The terrorist was holding a Swiss-made SigSauer P220 handgun, the American version with a stainless-steel casing, a weapon noted for its reliability and accuracy. It was pointed straight at Josh's head. And Azim didn't look like a man who wou^d miss a shot like that. Not at ten yards.

  I'm not going back, Josh told himself. I'll take a soldier's death if it's offered to me.

  He reached down quickly for the XM8, planning to grab it in one movement and then turn it on Azim. The chances of survival were poor, but Josh no longer cared. His heart was thumping furiously as he began the move, but his mind

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  was suddenly calm. You make a decision, he told himself. And once it's made, that's it.

  Another shot. The XM8 jumped off the ground and into the air, striking Josh's hand. By the time it landed again, the trigger mechanism had been bent out of
shape by the impact of the Sig's bullet.'Hold it,Josh,'Azim shouted again. 'Stay still, and put your hands in the air.'

  Josh pulled himself upright. The XM8 was useless now, he realised bitterly. He looked up at Azim. There was a smile on the man's lips. 'Morant is dead. O'Brien is dead. There is no one to help you,' he said coldly. 'Now, do as I told you and put your hands in the air.'

  Josh remained perfectly still. Whether he was the only man left standing it was impossible to say. He couldn't hear or see anyone. Right now it was just him against Azim. One against one.

  You're not taking me, Josh repeated to himself, the phrase hammering inside his head. You're not taking me alive.

  Azim was walking slowly towards him, taking tiny cautious steps. The Sig was aimed straight at Josh's head. My only hope is to rush him,Josh thought.Throw my body against him, and hope that his reaction times are too slow for him to shoot me first. My chances of survival? Above zero -- but only just.

  'Give me the bullet now,' snarled Josh. 'Just bloody give it to me now.'

  Azim wiped a bead of sweat away from his brow with the back of his left hand, while using the right to keep the Sig aimed straight at Josh. 'A nice, clean soldier's death here on a battlefield of your own choosing? We've already had this discussion, Josh. It's not going to happen.' There was a mocking, lilting tone to his voice as he spoke: the sound of a man charmed by his own rhetoric.

  'Just give me the fucking bullet,' shouted Josh.

  'Your friends have tried to rescue you and they've failed.

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  You're mine now, and you'll break. I know it, you know it.'

  The throbbing inside Josh's head was getting worse. L, B, J, he repeated to himself. That was the code from Luke. / know where he is.

  'Give me the bullet,' he shouted.

  'Start moving sideways, very slowly, Josh,' Azim ordered. 'Do exactly as I say'

  'Hold your ground, Josh.'

  Josh spun around. Marshall was standing ten yards behind him, holding an American-made Ml Garand sniper rifle. Its long narrow barrel was pointed straight at Azim. Josh judged that Marshall must have crept round the back of the ridge. Josh looked up at him. In the older man's eyes he could see the calm, implacable expression of an old soldier. A man who would be happy to kill you if he needed to.