Dead Centre ns-14

by Andy McNab

  BB was out of ammunition. I threw him my day sack with the spare mags. I turned and shouted to one of the crew. I wanted the pistol he had tucked into the back of his jeans. He lay in the dust by the gate, firing at the completely strike-marked court-house. He gave me a big, khat-stained grin. ‘Fifty dollar!’

  ‘Fuck off! Give me the weapon!’

  He shrugged and shouted to his mate the other side of the gate. They both laughed. Another RPG kicked off, this time from AS. It was way off. It almost went into orbit.

  The kid with the pistol finally relented. He didn’t even check safety before he threw it. As it sailed through the air I could see it was a Makarov, and so old there was no parkerization anywhere near it. I caught it and pulled back the top slide. A brass case was already in the chamber. I pressed the mag-release catch. It dropped into my hand. The mag was full.

  BB was now crouched over Tracy to protect her. He held her head down, trying to calm her.

  Awaale and four of his crew peeled off and ran towards the compound building. They were going for Ant and Dec. Awaale was in the middle of the gang, still shouting into his radio as if he was controlling this shit. The technicals banged out 12.7 at every muzzle flash within reach. It didn’t seem to matter who was on the receiving end.

  I got up and started running for the madrasah, head down, fast as I could. I reached the massive wooden doors. They were open. I stopped, looked and listened. Nothing. I walked into the hallway. Yellow low-current strip-lights hung from the ceilings. The plaster was pitted. What had probably once been colonial Italy’s pride and joy was now close to a ruin. Dark wooden doors led off it, left and right.

  The sound of firing was muffled. The whoops of excitement and fear were mumbles. I ventured into the high-ceilinged building. If this place was a school, there was nothing to suggest it. There were no children’s drawings pinned to the walls; nothing to show children used the place at all.

  The door of the first room I came to was open. Looking down the corridor, I could see a lot of the others were closed. This one was full of low desks. They were just inches from the floor, their tops at a reading angle. Each desk had a little cushion.

  I crossed the corridor to the room opposite. The hinges were on the right. I put my ear to the wood but couldn’t hear anybody on the other side. I eased it open. The weak light from the strips was enough to show me the room was empty. I went down to the next. My sand-crusted socks rasped on the wooden floor.

  This door had a spy-hole bored through it. There was a long bolt at the top. It looked like the schoolrooms doubled as cells; or maybe the kids weren’t allowed out until they’d learnt today’s chunk of the Good Book. I put my ear to the wood again and went in.

  Nothing.

  I moved along the corridor, now just checking the spy-holes left and right.

  I could hear a voice. An old man’s voice, like tyres on gravel. It was coming from the room beyond the next one. The door was ajar.

  I moved very slowly, my shoulder skimming the wall. As I got closer, the voice became stronger. I lowered myself to my knees, then flat on my stomach. I inched my head towards the gap between door and frame.

  The mullah had a small knife against Stefan’s right eye. It looked like it came from a kitchen. He held it with his left arm around his throat so the flat of the blade rested on the little boy’s cheek. His right hand covered the kid’s mouth.

  The old guy sat in a chair behind a desk. He had the boy in front of him as cover.

  Stefan was a mini Frank, except that I’d never seen Frank with that expression on his face. The small boy was petrified. His brown eyes were wide with terror.

  I got up and moved forward, the weapon down by my side.

  ‘Do you speak English? Come on, let the little one go. Let Stefan go, yeah?’

  I spoke more with my eyes than my mouth. He barked something in dialect, and then he started shouting. He didn’t want me to get any closer.

  I stopped, keeping eye-to-eye. That was always the most important thing.

  I looked at him, almost begging. ‘Mate, you’re not going to get out of here. Help yourself. Give me the boy.’

  I held out my left hand. ‘Let me have him. Please.’

  I even gave him a bit of a smile.

  Stefan’s shoulders heaved as he sobbed into the mullah’s palm. The old man leant forward, his beard draped over the boy’s face. He shouted at me big-time.

  My eyes bored into his.

  ‘Mr Nick! Mr Nick!’

  It sounded like Awaale was at the main entrance.

  I moved my weapon to one side. ‘Look, mate, it’s OK.’ I didn’t want to get this lad sparked up. I took a step towards him.

  The mullah’s eyes darted from me to the door I’d come through. He was unsure. He was getting worried.

  ‘Mr Nick! We’ve got to leave!’

  I could hear flip-flops and the sound of running feet.

  Awaale was at the door. I could hear him behind me.

  ‘Mr Nick!’

  The old guy’s eyes went back to mine. They were no longer tense; no longer unsure. He knew he was fucked. I kept mine focused on his head, brought the weapon up, jamming it into my left hand as he raised his knife, ready to ram it into Stefan’s chest.

  Stefan screamed. The old guy gripped his hair and pulled back his head.

  I took first pressure on the trigger of the Makarov, my eyes glued to a point just above the muzzle. I caught a glimpse of cheekbone and moved the pistol until I had the clear and focused foresight dead centre of the face. The rear sight was out of focus, just as it should be. The first pad of my forefinger squeezed the trigger a couple of millimetres until I felt first pressure.

  Stefan struggled. The knife quivered in the air.

  I shut Awaale and every ounce of background noise out of my head.

  The old guy yelled at me. I could see the veins in his temple swell, and spit fly from his lips.

  Then he raised the knife a fraction more to get full force behind it.

  His head and beard were fuzzy. My foresight was clear. I brought it up, just above his left eye, and took second pressure. The knife began to plunge. The pistol kicked in my hands and the old guy’s face imploded.

  He dropped like liquid. The knife clattered on the wooden floor. The boy followed it under the table, screaming, out of control, curling up like a small, threatened animal.

  I ran towards him. ‘It’s OK, Stefan. It’s OK …’

  I had to yank him out from under the table. I scooped him up and made him face me, encouraged him to wrap his legs around my waist.

  ‘My name is Nick.’

  Awaale was gobbing off behind me.

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’

  ‘We’ve got to go, Mr Nick.’

  I got eye-to-eye with Stefan. ‘My name is Nick and I’m going to take you to your mum, OK?’

  He wasn’t listening. He was totally freaked out. I was just one more monster in his nightmare. He was going to need a lot of help. But if his brain was wired the same way as his dad’s, he’d probably survive.

  ‘Come on, shall we go and see your mum?’

  I turned to Awaale. Four of his crew had piled into the room. I started walking towards the door.

  ‘Mr Nick, you’re a lucky man! That was one lucky shot!’

  I couldn’t be arsed to explain. ‘Yeah, yeah. Let’s get out. Where are Tracy and BB?’

  A stream of gobbing off poured out of his radio. He put his hands up. ‘They’re OK. Come. We must join them.’

  I held Stefan into me as tightly as I could.

  ‘Mummy … Mummy … I want Mummy …’

  I did my best to soothe him as we headed towards the gang-fuck outside.

  8

  The technicals had gone from the compound. So had Tracy and BB. And there was definitely shit on down by the harbour. Tracer swirled into the sky above it from behind the court-house.

  Awaale had already reached the obelisk and was standing there as if he
had fifty layers of Kevlar, back and front.

  ‘Mr Nick, come on — we are waiting.’

  I passed two of his crew kneeling in the open. They were giggling and arguing between themselves at the same time as they tried to load an RPG. Automatic fire still came from the fringes of the square.

  Stefan clung to me, his legs trying to cut off the circulation in my waist. I gripped him tight with my left arm. Just as we passed the stoning holes the RPG cracked off behind us. The crew had fucked up. A split second later it smashed into the obelisk. The pressure wave hurled me to the ground. My ears were still ringing as I staggered to my feet in a cloud of sand and mortar dust.

  ‘It’s OK, Stefan. We’re all right. We’re nearly there. Nearly with your mummy.’

  Maybe the lads hadn’t fucked up. Maybe they’d been aiming at the obelisk. Who knew? There were peals of laughter as they legged it towards us. I wondered if Awaale had enjoyed the joke. I gripped my hands under Stefan’s thighs so I could get my feet pounding across the open ground.

  Bodies lay all over the place. AS, crew or crowd, it was hard to make out one from the other. Skull-cap’s body was draped over the railing of the veranda. Most of the arc lamps had been shot away. The dark liquid pooling beneath him glistened in the light of those that remained.

  I pushed Stefan’s head into my shoulder. He didn’t have to see that shit. He’d had enough drama to be going on with.

  I followed Awaale. My throat was so dry it felt like I’d been swallowing sand. It was a long time since I’d had fluids. I was dehydrating.

  We turned left between the court-house and the compound and then went right. At its far end, the alleyway intersected with the harbour road. I’d just turned into it when I saw a rocket trail at the bottom of the hill. It was heading our way.

  ‘RPG! RPG!’

  I ducked back into the alleyway as the grenade screamed past us, less than a metre above the ground. It hit somewhere the other side of the court-house and exploded.

  ‘Not far now. It won’t be long.’

  Stefan didn’t say a word. He gripped me harder. He buried his head deeper into my shoulder to get away from this nightmare.

  I stuck my head round the corner and yelled, ‘Awaale! Where are you? Get them to stop! Not down the road! Not down the road!’

  The RPG team who’d demolished the obelisk loaded up again, giggling with excitement, then ran out into the road to return fire towards the harbour.

  ‘No! No! No! That’s your crew! Awaale!’

  I could hear his radio in a doorway further down.

  ‘It’s OK, Mr Nick, come on.’

  He sauntered into the middle of the road, waving me on, as if I was holding up proceedings. ‘Come on, Mr Nick.’

  ‘Tell these lads to can it. No one’s to fire down or up the road.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  We’d gone no more than ten paces down the hill when the RPG kicked off behind us, heading back towards the square. I was buffeted by the shockwave, then the hot back blast washed over me. My nose filled with the acrid smell of cordite and spent propellant. My eardrums zinged.

  Ahead of us, muzzle flashes flickered the length of the harbour wall. Miraculously, the tracer headed left and right and over us.

  9

  As we neared the beach I could see the two technicals. They were now weapon free. Awaale stood on the wall. His radio was going ape-shit. All I could hear was whoops and shouts and jibber-jabber.

  ‘Come, Mr Nick, come.’

  There were no more rounds heading our way from the town. The lads here were having a good cabbie.

  ‘Two skiffs left, just for us.’

  He jumped on board the first with the two lads who had stayed with it.

  ‘Where’s Tracy? Where’s the boy’s mother?’

  The rest of Awaale’s crew clambered into the one behind. They were still on cloud nine. Mobiles went off. Lighters were struck and cigarettes lit. I heard the hiss of bottles being opened.

  ‘Awaale. Look at me.’

  He wasn’t on receive. He was stuck on transmit, gobbing off to anyone within earshot.

  ‘Awaale!’ I finally got his attention. ‘Where is the boy’s mother?’

  ‘They’ve gone in the other skiff. No problem.’

  ‘You sure she’s safely aboard?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We need them safe. She’s with the man.’

  ‘What about the other two white guys? Are they on board as well?’

  ‘They’re on another boat. Erasto wants them most of all.’

  I passed Stefan to him. Awaale’s face creased into a huge grin. ‘Hello, big man.’

  I didn’t know if it was what he said or the scary Twilight smile that made Stefan scream, but his little arms swung back towards me. ‘Mummy! I want my mummy!’

  Awaale patted his head and handed him back. ‘Not long now. We’ll see her soon.’

  The engines revved and we headed into the darkness as the RPG team behind us kicked off one last round. Judging by the laughter, it was just for the fun of it. It made contact with one of the low-level buildings lining the beach.

  I took the middle bench. Stefan sat on my knee, legs over one side but face buried in my chest.

  I turned back towards Awaale. He wasn’t too thrilled to be back at sea. He sat to the right of the outboard, arse on the floor, knees up.

  ‘Awaale, good one, mate.’ The lad at the tiller revved the engine to fight the surf, so I had to shout. ‘Really good one. Now, can we hook this boy up with his mum? I want to get them together before the airport.’

  Awaale curled up into a ball. ‘They’re out there somewhere. It’s no problem.’

  ‘We’re not there yet, mate. Make sure your guys know to keep the lights to the left. We need to go north. Let’s keep everyone together. Control them, mate.’

  Awaale heaved himself up and gobbed off into the radio. Six different voices tried to answer at once. I left him to it and pulled out my iPhone. I had one voicemail message.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Stone, Henry here. Just calling again about that apartment of yours. Could you please give me a ring when convenient? Thank you.’

  I felt a bit sorry for Henry. Commission on £150K was never going to make his day, but four per cent of fuck-all was a bit of a choker. I called Frank.

  Two rings.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good news. I have Stefan with me. Tracy’s in another boat. We’re—’

  ‘Is he hurt?’

  ‘No. He’s traumatized, but physically he’s OK.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  I put the iPhone to Stefan’s ear. ‘It’s Daddy.’

  He looked up. He didn’t believe me but he took the phone with both hands. ‘Papa! Papa!’

  There was a chorus of oohs and aahs around the boat before he started gobbing off in Russian. He almost fell over his words as he raced to get them out.

  They spoke for a couple of minutes while Awaale bollocked somebody for something over his radio. The two crew members in the bow were on their mobiles, sucking teeth, flicking fingers.

  We’d left the lights of Merca behind us. There was no sign of land. No sign even of the other skiffs as we bounced out of the last of the surf and started to ride the heavier swell.

  10

  Seven or eight tracer streamed up into the sky. We heard the liberated 12.7’s heavy report a second later.

  ‘There she is, Mr Nick. The little one’s mother.’

  Our boat turned in the direction of a second burst. The propeller left the water for a second as the skiff wallowed in the swell and the outboard went into overdrive.

  Stefan held the iPhone to my face. ‘Papa wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Everything is ready at the airport. How long until you get there?’

  ‘We’ve been linking up again. I’m not sure where we are. But I’m guessing a couple of hours, maybe three.’

  ‘Very good, Nick. There will be transport waiting at Malindi airport. Th
e pilot has the details.’

  ‘I’ll call you before we take off.’

  There was a momentary silence.

  ‘Nick, thank you. Thank you very, very much.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet. We’re still bobbing up and down in the middle of nowhere.’

  There was another tracer burst. Stefan hugged me. I looked down at him. ‘It’s OK, mate. It’s just telling us where your mummy is.’

  Frank barked, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Everything’s fine. They’re just showing us where Tracy is. She’s on another skiff. Would you like to talk with her when we meet up?’

  That was a no-brainer. ‘She and I will talk later. Nick, I know you’re not safe yet — I understand that — but I do thank you.’

  ‘No drama. We’ll talk soon, OK?’

  I slid the iPhone back into my pocket. We were closing on the other skiff. They treated us to another fireworks display even though we were only about ten metres away. The 12.7’s muzzle flash strobed the passengers. BB was down by the engine. Pissed-off was written all over his face. ‘Stop that fucking racket, you cunts! They’re on fucking top of us!’

  Stefan gripped me even harder.

  I hadn’t noticed it before in the frenzy, but he stank. He absolutely reeked. I supposed we all did.

  ‘Your mummy’s right there. You’re going to see her soon, yeah?’

  He nodded into my chest. ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Yes. Not long now. Look.’ I pointed at the dark shape bobbing in the swell about five metres away.

  The two lads in the bow got off their mobiles and grabbed the side of the other boat. We levelled off. Tracy was already leaning towards us, her arms outstretched. ‘Stefan!’

  He almost wriggled out of my arms. ‘Let me help you, mate. It’s a bit late for a swim.’ The last thing I wanted was him falling between the two boats.

  The 12.7 from the technical was hanging off the bow of Tracy’s boat. It was clearly Star-gigs’s turn at the trigger. He couldn’t have been happier if it was a giant marlin. There were empty shell cases all over the deck.