Strike Back

by Chris Ryan

  ‘I haven’t killed any Zionist, imperialist scum for more than a week,’ he said. The words were pronounced in whiny, heavily accented English. ‘So I think I’m going to enjoy this.’

  It takes character to listen to your own death sentence in silence, thought Porter. But maybe when you don’t care any more it doesn’t feel so bad.

  ‘It is ten o’clock now,’ the man continued. ‘The beheading – your beheading – is scheduled for one hour.’

  Porter flinched. It was an involuntary instinctive twitching of the muscles, one that he couldn’t control, and he felt instantly ashamed of himself. Take this like a soldier, he told himself. It is the last shred of dignity left to you.

  ‘Before then, we offer you the chance to make your peace with Allah.’

  ‘I’ll make peace with my own God, thank you,’ Porter spat contemptuously.

  The man smiled. ‘You will die in accordance with the teaching of the Koran,’ he said. ‘That is our way, and if you attempt to resist us, you will only make things worse for yourself. You will be led from here, and taken to a courtyard, where you will be allowed to face Mecca. You will be allowed to kneel, and whether you wear a blindfold or not is up to you.’ The man’s face creased up in another pudgy smile. ‘The blade will be sharp, but of course you are a strong man, with a thick neck, and as I am sure you can imagine, it is hard for even the most skilful swordsman to sever a neck in one blow. I have watched several beheadings and the head nearly always comes away from the neck on the third or fourth strike of the sword.’

  Porter could feel the muscles on his arms straining against the ropes that bound him to the chair: if there was even the remotest possibility of release, he would flatten the bastard in a hailstorm of punches. But there was not so much as a millimetre of leeway in his bindings.

  The man started to unroll some sheets of paper he was holding in his hand.

  ‘The holy book says, “When a man dies they who survive him ask what property he has left behind. The angel who bends over the dying man asks what good deed he has sent before him.”’ He paused. ‘You should take heed of those words.’

  Porter caught his breath inwardly, and remained silent.

  The man folded his arms and began to pray, and as he did so, his voice turned from a whine into a slow, respectful chant.

  ‘In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate

  Praise be to God, Lord of the Universe,

  The Compassionate, the Merciful,

  Sovereign of the Day of Judgement!

  You alone we worship, and to You alone we turn for help.

  Guide us to the straight path,

  The path of those whom You have favoured,

  Not of those who have incurred Your wrath,

  Nor of those who have gone astray.’

  Porter could feel a bead of cold sweat running down the back of his spine. I don’t mind dying, he thought bitterly. But I could do without the bloody RE lesson.

  The man had briefly closed his eyes at the end of the prayer, in a moment of religious contemplation, but now he opened them again. ‘I will leave these with you,’ he said, holding out the few sheets of paper in his hand. ‘You are an infidel, and maybe you wish to die an infidel. That is your choice. But we are holy men, and we wish you to have the opportunity to come to know the one and true God before you pass from this world to the next.’

  ‘Maybe I’d rather not die at all,’ growled Porter.

  ‘A soldier always wants to die,’ said the man.

  He placed the sheets of paper down on Porter’s lap. It took all the self-control Porter could muster to stop himself from spitting on them. Instead, he merely looked up impassively into the man’s eyes. Don’t give him the satisfaction of even the smallest victory over you, he told himself. It will just be one more regret to take with you to your grave.

  Porter watched as the door clunked shut, and listened as the bolt was slotted into place. Even though he was securely bound to the chair, with no possibility of freeing himself, they weren’t taking any chances on his escape. Porter could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. His blood was beating furiously, and even though the cell was dark and damp it was impossible to stop the sweat dripping down his back.

  Now there can be no doubt, he told himself morosely. Within the hour, I shall be dead.

  He was afraid, he didn’t mind admitting that. When he was a soldier he knew he might die, but that was in a firefight, with a weapon in his hand, when he would at least have had a chance to defend himself. This was different: a cold and premeditated death at the hands of a bunch of religious psychopaths and gangsters. Of all the ways to go, Porter reckoned, being murdered was the worst, for the simple reason that some bastard was getting the better of you.

  And it made it worse to die without knowing who was killing you or why they wanted you dead so badly?

  He peered into the darkness. His arms were still straining against the ropes binding him to the chair, but he knew it was useless: the wrestling with the bindings was just the instinctive desperate reaction of a condemned man, like a person who has been accidentally buried alive clawing hopelessly at the lid of their own coffin.

  Hassad wasn’t here, he told himself. Or at least, if he was, he had no intention of showing himself. If it had been a trick all along, just to lure me out here to my death, then I don’t suppose he is about to change his mind now. But maybe it isn’t a trick? Perhaps someone back at the Firm betrayed me. Maybe someone who wants Katie Dartmouth to die, perhaps so the government will fall? After all, someone already tried to kill me back in London. Who’s to say they aren’t trying again out here? And this time, they look like making a better job of it.

  I can wrestle with the riddle. But unless the bastard chooses to tell me in the last seconds before the sword cuts into the back of my neck, I will never know the answer.

  Porter tried to calm himself. He knew he had to keep himself together if he was to walk out of here and face his execution. Avoiding humiliation was the only shred of control he had left over what remained of his life, and he was determined not to squander that now: for all he knew, the beheading might be broadcast on television or the Internet. The minutes were ticking by, although without a watch he had no sure way of knowing how much time was left to him. Half an hour maybe? It could even be less.

  What’s the bloody point of the last hour? he asked himself bitterly. If they were going to kill me why didn’t they just do it in the back of the car last night?

  Just then, a noise echoed down through the tiny slit window.

  Gunfire.

  Porter froze. He felt certain of it.

  The noise he had just heard was gunfire.

  He tried to turn round but it was impossible. The ropes binding him to the chair lashed him in place. All he could rely upon were his ears. And they were telling him the place was under attack.

  Heavy attack.

  With RPGs and machine guns.

  ‘Move the fuck up against the wall.’

  Porter sat bolt upright, the ropes cutting into his skin as he did so. It was an English voice, he could have sworn it. It was carried on the breeze and drifted down through the slit window at the back of the cell. It was little more than a murmur by the time it reached Porter’s ears. He had to strain his ears to catch it above the din of Arabic and the rattle of gunfire. It was enough to give him hope, however.

  Maybe the Firm were tracking me? Maybe Katie Dartmouth is holed up in one of these cells and they’ve sent some boys in to break us both out.

  A condemned man will grab hold of just about any straw, he reminded himself. But it could just be true.

  He listened harder, aware of the adrenalin surging through him. There was the sound of gunfire, and a couple of mighty explosions as RPG rounds smashed into concrete walls. He could hear shouting above the din, all of it in Arabic, and he started to think he’d just imagined the English voice. The battle had been raging for three or four minutes now, and showed no
signs of abating: the flow of noise rocked from side to side, as the two opposing forces unleashed lethal firepower.

  Whatever’s going on up there, he thought, it’s a hell of a firefight.

  The bolt.

  Porter’s eyes shot to the door.

  He could hear the bolt being slammed back, then the key turning in the lock.

  Who is it now? he asked himself.

  As the door opened, Porter briefly hoped it might be a Regiment guy, dressed in the olive-grey uniform he’d once been so proud to wear himself: if the Firm was breaking them out, there was only one unit of soldiers who would get the job. But the figure who stepped through the door was dressed in a long black robe, and had dark skin and a thick black beard. He was at least six feet tall, with thick, muscled forearms.

  ‘I hope you have read those verses,’ he said, leaving the door open to the corridor behind him. ‘Because within a few seconds you will have to explain yourself to Allah.’

  In his right hand, he was holding a long, curved, stainless-steel sword. From one end to the other, it must have measured five feet, Porter reckoned, and with its finely chiselled brass handle it couldn’t have weighed less than fifty pounds. It might be a medieval piece of technology but that didn’t mean it wasn’t one of the most deadly weapons ever created. In the right hands, it could do as much damage as a tank. And the thick, stout hands of the man who had just walked into the room looked as if they knew exactly what to do with it.

  Porter could feel his neck numbing with fear. ‘I thought you were taking me to the courtyard,’ he said.

  Up above, he could still hear the sound of gunfire. They’re under attack, Porter thought. And they want to finish me off while they still can.

  ‘You are facing Mecca,’ said the swordsman. ‘This is as good a place to die as any.’

  He was standing behind Porter now, so close that he could smell the man’s warm, stale breath. Porter’s hands started shaking slightly as the executioner drew even closer. He put his sword against the chair, and Porter could feel the cold steel of the weapon touching his skin. Drawing a black cloth from his pocket, he placed his warm hand across Porter’s face as if to close his eyes, then tied the blindfold into position. As he did so, Porter was plunged into darkness, and a sense of terror started to overcome him. Get ready for it, thought Porter bitterly. It is dark all the time where you’re going, mate.

  He could hear the executioner picking up the sword. Then he felt a slight stab in the neck, where the swordsman had nicked his skin, drawing a few drops of blood. It was a technique Arab executioners had developed over the centuries to prime their victims for the blow that would kill them: a small nick numbed and stiffened the neck, making it easier for the blade to sever the neck.

  And then he could hear the slight movement of the sword through the air.

  Porter closed his eyes tight, even though he could see nothing through the blindfold. His knuckles were white and shaking, and he felt as if he was about to vomit.

  So this is it, he thought grimly.

  ‘First your tooth,’ said the executioner.

  Porter was confused. What could he possibly mean?

  He felt the man’s hand gripping his neck. With his fingers, he prised Porter’s jaw apart, and slammed something inside.

  Some kind of metal, Porter judged. Maybe a wrench.

  He reeled back in pain, and tried to shake his jaw away, but the man was too strong for him.

  The wrench was smashing down into his lower left jaw.

  Just then, he heard a terrifying crash behind him. It was as if a wall had fallen down.

  The noise was so loud that it echoed viciously around the tiny, dank cell. It burst onto Porter’s eardrums, exploding within his brain. Then there was a shot, and another. The rattle of gunfire and the smell of smoke filled the room.

  He could hear one body falling to the floor. Maybe two. In the confusion, and in the darkness behind the blindfold, it was impossible to tell.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted.

  Nothing. Silence.

  ‘Who the fuck is it?’

  Porter could feel a blade against his skin. It was small, but still sharp, and he could feel a hand next to it. There was a sharp sound, then a tug, as the blade cut through the ropes that were binding him to the chair. First the ropes around his hands were severed, then his legs, and finally the bindings around his chest.

  For a moment, Porter just sat there, immobilised. Fear and shock had frozen him. Then up above, he could hear the dull rattle of gunfire cranking up again. Whatever kind of danger he was in, it was far from over.

  He stood unsteadily to his feet, taking a second to restore his sense of balance.

  Reaching behind his neck, he grabbed the blindfold and ripped it free from his face. He blinked once, then twice, taking time to adjust to the dim, fading light of the cell. The wall that led up and out towards the courtyard had been smashed down by a big Mercedes Unimog truck – there was dust and rubble everywhere where the huge front end of the vehicle had punched a hole straight through the bricks.

  Porter glanced across to the man standing before him, the man who had just rescued him.

  Many years had passed since he had last laid eyes on him. He had grown older, turned from a boy into a man, and the years had hardened as well as aged him.

  But there was no mistaking the face. It was burned into Porter’s memory, the way a branding iron is burned into the flesh of a bull.

  Hassad.

  SEVENTEEN

  Hassad grabbed hold of Porter by the shoulder. ‘We haven’t much time,’ he hissed. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

  Porter’s eyes were still blinking. Dust and debris were filling the room, and the massive engine on the Unimog was still roaring. Porter’s legs were weak and his head was still spinning. He’d kicked back the chair, and glanced only briefly at the executioner: the man was lying flat on the floor, with his sword at his side, his body punctured by three precisely aimed bullets that had smashed through his chest and into his heart.

  ‘Just move,’ snapped Hassad, louder this time.

  Hassad was already getting into the driver’s seat. Porter rushed round the side and climbed into the cabin. He could feel some blood trickling along his gums where the executioner had tried to wrench out one of his teeth, and he had a dozen different cuts and bruises, but otherwise he was in OK shape.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he muttered.

  Hassad hit the reverse gear on the Unimog into position, then tapped his foot on the accelerator. A big piece of machinery built mainly for farmers, the Unimog was like a cross between a pickup truck and a tractor. It had big tyres, four-wheel-drive and an engine powerful enough to kick down a building when it needed to.

  It started to edge into reverse. The route it had taken had smashed its way from the courtyard into the room where Porter had been held prisoner, and now it was taking the same route back again. The vehicle shook and shuddered as its tyres crunched backwards over the rubble, but it held steady.

  As Hassad flung the steering wheel to the right, turning it swiftly round, Porter looked over to the courtyard. Outside the building, a Honda CR-V had been turned on its side, and was being used as a makeshift wall by four men. By the way they greeted him, Porter guessed they were Hassad’s blokes. They were staying close to the underside of the car. All of them were dressed in black, and had neatly trimmed beards and moustaches and close-cropped hair. Two of them had dark glasses pulled down over their eyes. All four had AK-47s gripped tight to their chests, as well as hand pistols and big, lethal hunting knives strapped into their belts. Porter didn’t have much idea what they did to the enemy, but they certainly frightened him.

  The firefight looked to have subsided.

  ‘Is it safe to leave?’ Porter asked.

  Hassad barked a few words in Arabic to one of the men behind the Honda, waited for the reply, then looked back at Porter. ‘They’re all dead,’ he said. ‘We can move out.’

>   He gestured to the four men, and one by one they climbed onto the back of the Unimog.

  ‘How many were there?’ Porter asked.

  ‘Ten,’ said Hassad. ‘Tough men as well. We lost men trying to rescue you –’

  ‘Who the fuck were they?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Porter shook his head.

  Hassad just shrugged. ‘If you don’t know, then nobody does.’

  Porter nodded. ‘Thanks for getting me out,’ he said tersely.

  ‘I invited you out here,’ said Hassad. ‘That makes you my guest.’

  The Unimog started to roll again. The courtyard was surrounded by a series of farm buildings and barns, as well as the main building where Porter had been kept since last night. Beyond it, at the bottom of the hillside, there was a road leading away from the site. All around him, Porter could see the debris of the battle, and feel the smell of death in the air.

  Next to a wall he could see two corpses. And even though both men were covered in dust and blood, Porter could see one of them was white.

  ‘Stop a minute,’ snapped Porter.

  ‘We need to leave,’ said Hassad. ‘There could be more of them.’

  ‘I need to look at these guys.’

  He jumped down from the cabin, kneeling down next to the dead body. The guy had taken about two dozen hits, even though the first two or three had probably killed him. The bullets had smashed up his face, turning his skull into paste, and smearing blood over every surface. One eyeball had been blown out, and the other was still bleeding. Even for a corpse he looked in pretty rough shape. From what Porter could see of him, he was almost forty, with dark brown hair, and tanned, grooved skin. He was wearing an olive-green military uniform, the kind you might pick up in an army surplus store. Porter couldn’t see any sign of a flag, or insignia. ‘Who the hell is he?’ said Porter, glancing back up at Hassad.

  Hassad just shrugged. Porter didn’t get the impression he was very interested in corpses. Maybe he’d seen too many of them.