Strike Back

by Chris Ryan

  In an instant, Porter’s right hand was thrusting towards the man’s neck. The knife pierced the skin, making a neat incision, in the space between the jawbone and the collar bones where a blade could cut straight through to the wind-pipe. Porter had barely a moment, and he knew he had to slice the man open as skilfully as any surgeon: except his purpose was to end the creature’s life, not preserve it.

  There was a hiss of air: the unmistakable sound of oxygen wheezing out of a collapsing windpipe, like an old tyre with a puncture. Porter twisted the knife around, letting it complete its deadly work, while at the same time keeping his hand gripped tight on the man’s mouth. He stifled a bolt of pain as his victim summoned up enough strength to bite into the palm of his hand, but that was the man’s last moment of resistance as the life drained out of him. Giving the blade a final twist, Porter made sure the windpipe was completely cut open, making it impossible for any air to get through to the brain. He removed his hand from the man’s mouth, and checked his pulse. Dead. He yanked his body back, lying him down flat on the ground.

  No time to hide the body, he decided. The shifts could change at any moment, and as soon as someone came along, they would know the base was under attack and raise the alarm. They might even think they were under a full-scale assault from British special forces. If that was the case, so much the better. In the chaos, some kind of opportunity to escape might open up.

  Porter pulled the knife free from the man’s throat, and wiped the blood away on the back of his jeans. You’ll taste more before this night is out, he told himself grimly.

  He picked up the man’s handgun and tucked that into his jeans. A compact Browning M1900, Porter was familiar enough with how it worked. He walked swiftly across the meeting point. He knew where Hassad’s quarters were.

  Porter turned into the corridor. The moment of truth has arrived, he told himself.

  The light leading up to Hassad’s room was dim, but Porter’s eyes had already adjusted to the murky conditions, and he didn’t have any trouble identifying the right door. He laid his palm flat against it, and exerted the slenderest amount of pressure. It gave. Hassad slept with his door unlocked, the way Porter had figured he would. Soldiers didn’t bolt themselves in, especially when there was possibility of any enemy assault. They needed to be ready to move the moment an attack started: in the time it took them to unlock their doors, they might already be dead.

  Porter held the knife in his hand, savouring the cold sharpness of its blade against his skin. If he could, he’d use that rather than the gun: a shot would alert the whole base, and there would be a dozen soldiers on top of him within seconds. He paused for a brief moment, controlling his breathing. He suddenly recalled Steve, Mike and Keith. He could see them laughing as they went into the battle. He could hear the jokes and the banter, and then the desperate commands as the action kicked off. And then he could recall the moment when he’d seen the three stretchers with white cloths covering them being carried out of the chopper. He remembered the funerals, and the moving tributes from their mates as the bodies were buried in the ground. And he could remember the looks of all the other guys in the base back at Hereford. The looks that said, ‘Here’s the bloke who let three of his mates die because he didn’t have the bollocks to finish off some raghead kid who was intent on killing the lot of them.’

  OK, boys, Porter thought bitterly. It’s a bit late, I know. This is a cheque that should have been cashed years ago. But you’re about to get your payback on the bastard that killed you.

  He pushed the door open. Hassad was lying on a simple straw mattress by one wall of the small room. In the corner there was a small candle floating in a pool of wax that filled the room with a pale light. He was still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt he wore during the day, although he’d kicked off his trainers and put them at the bottom of the mattress. Next to it, there was a paperback book in Arabic left half open and a tin cup of water. There was also an open packet of some kind of medicine although Porter couldn’t read at this distance what it was. His AK-47 was laid down flat on the straw right next to him. There was a knife as well. Under attack, he could reach for both within seconds. What was under the cushion he was using as a pillow Porter couldn’t tell. But it was more likely to be a pistol than a spare pair of pyjamas, he thought with a half-smile.

  Porter had a fraction of a second. That was all the time available to determine success or failure. He kicked against the stone floor, and threw himself across the few metres that separated the doorway from the straw mattress.

  He landed hard on top of Hassad. Immediately, the Arab woke up, looking straight at Porter, his eyes ablaze with anger. But it was too late. Porter was lying right across him. He was a big man, with at least a fifty-pound weight advantage on Hassad, and the sheer bulk of his body was pinning him down to the floor. Porter could feel a heady sense of elation surging through him. Almost as good as double vodka, he told himself. Right now, I’ve got this bastard exactly where I want him. And now he’s going to help me get Katie out of here.

  Porter drew back his right hand just a few inches, hovering close to Hassad’s neck. His blade was sharp, it would only need the minimum of force to break open the man’s skin. His hand held steady and his eyes darted across the man’s body, scanning it the same way a butcher glances across a carcass, looking for the best places to cut up the meat. He could feel a surge of anger running through his veins. I’ve waited too long for this, he told himself grimly. Far too bloody long.

  He jabbed the knife forwards, using the strength in his elbow. It collided with the skin, nicking open a cut, and suddenly the blade was crimson with blood. In the same moment, however, Hassad had rolled his head to one side, stretching enough of his neck muscles to deflect the worst of the attack. Porter was still lying flat on top of the man, crushing him into the straw bedding, and making it impossible for him to move. ‘Stay still, you murdering raghead scum,’ Porter spat viciously.

  He could see the fear in the man’s eyes, and smell the sweat pouring off him. It was the same look he’d seen seventeen years ago, the one that had persuaded him to spare the life of a small frightened boy. But this time it was the expression of a man, not a kid, and rather than sympathy it aroused only contempt. This time you’re going to do exactly what I tell you, Porter thought. And no mistake.

  ‘You killed my mates after I spared your life. Now I’m going to kill you, you bastard. Now take it like a bloody man …’

  Hassad bucked forward. He was desperately trying to loosen Porter’s vice-like grip on him, but the dead weight lying across his chest made it impossible for him to get up enough strength to free himself.

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone, I swear it,’ Hassad pleaded.

  ‘Don’t give me that bollocks, you Arab scum,’ Porter hissed. ‘I spared your life once before, and you took out three of my mates.’

  ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ Hassad squealed.

  ‘You lying bastard.’

  Porter drew his hand back the few inches necessary to skewer the knife into the man’s neck. He’d already scanned the flesh, and knew exactly where the windpipe was. With little more than a flick of the wrist he could sever the bastard’s life.

  And this is the moment …

  ‘It was that man on television,’ said Hassad. ‘Collinson.’

  Porter paused. ‘Who?’

  ‘The man on TV.’ Hassad’s body was wheezing with fear, and there was a foul stench of sweat all over him. ‘I recognised him. It was the same man on the raid, I swear it, and it was because of him the British soldiers died.’

  ‘You’re just a lying raghead scum,’ Porter growled. ‘You’re just trying to save your miserable skin. I bloody know it. Well, it’s not going to work, I tell you. I was going to kill you nice and quick, but now it’s going to be slow and bloody painful, just so you know not to start telling lies.’

  ‘It was Collinson, I tell you,’ said Hassad. ‘The man was a fucking coward.’

  Porte
r’s hand paused again.

  What if he’s right? he wondered suddenly. Christ, maybe, just maybe, the bastard isn’t lying to me.

  Hassad’s hand snapped sideways so it was resting on the barrel of the AK-47. Porter immediately slammed his fist down on the hand so that he couldn’t pick up the gun. ‘Take it,’ said Hassad. ‘Take the fucking gun, and hold it on me. I’ve got no chance of escaping. I’ll tell you the real story of that day, and if I don’t convince you, then you can shoot me all the same.’

  ‘It’s a trick,’ snarled Porter.

  ‘No trick,’ snapped Hassad.

  ‘You’ve got ten seconds,’ said Porter. ‘No more.’

  He dropped the knife from his hand, and grabbed the AK-47. He climbed off Hassad’s chest, and knelt beside him, jabbing the muzzle of the gun straight into the man. ‘OK, mate,’ he said roughly. ‘Tell me what really happened that night.’

  Hassad pulled himself up. He was sitting now, with his back to the wall. He had sweat dripping off his face: the cold, angry perspiration that Porter had smelt before on men who were convinced they were about to die. There was a deep cut on his neck where the knife had caught his skin, and some blood was still oozing out of the wound, although a scab would soon start to form around it. The side of his neck and the top of his sweatshirt were both stained crimson. But in his eyes there was a brightness again: the hope of saving his life had begun to return.

  ‘You knocked me out cold,’ he said, some calm in his voice now. ‘I remember that as clearly as if it was yesterday. But you didn’t make a great job of it. A couple of blows to the head, enough to make me dizzy, but not enough to put me out for long. Perhaps it was because I was so young. Boys can take a terrible beating and come back pretty quickly.’

  ‘Go faster,’ growled Porter. ‘Don’t play for bloody time.’

  ‘I think it was only a few minutes later that I came round. I was scared out of my life, and so I just lay there on the ground, with my eyes mostly shut. Playing dead, or at least unconsciousness, seemed like the best strategy. But I could see enough of what was going on, and hear it as well. That man Collinson was insisting on taking command, and the others were arguing with him. There was a lot of shouting between him and the other guys. You’d already been evacuated, and they were clearing a space for another chopper to come in to take them out. Just then, a unit of Hezbollah reinforcements arrived. About a dozen men in all. It started to turn nasty. There was a lot of shooting, and a few grenades. The British managed to subdue the attack, but it was impossible for the chopper to come down to the roof. There was too much incoming fire. I didn’t reckon there was any serious danger, though. Patience and a little perseverance, that was all that was required. But Collinson panicked. I could see and hear it. He was shouting a series of stupid and contradictory orders. He wanted a couple of them to march out of the building straight into the line of fire so that he could get up onto the roof. They were screaming at him not to be an idiot.’

  Keeping his eyes on Porter, his expression turned deadly serious. ‘Then he shot one of them in the back, and told the other two they were bloody cowards, and if they didn’t go forward he’d make sure they were going to be court-martialled on charges of desertion. They started to run towards the man who had been shot in the back, but he was right by the window and the poor guys had no chance. They were both mowed down by raking machine-gun fire. While that was happening, Collinson used the cover to sneak up to the roof, and guide the chopper home. There was no point in fighting any more, and the Hezbollah guys fell back. The chopper took off. I just stayed there, must have been a couple of hours at least, waiting until I was sure the fighting had all died down.’

  Hassad’s expression was now calm and composed. ‘So whatever the official report said, the reason three of your guys died was because that Collinson man lost his nerve.’

  Porter could feel a hardening of his skin. It was the same feeling you got when the doctor gave you a local anaesthetic. Your body gradually turned numb. The nerves stiffened up, and all your senses withered away. The last seventeen years, he told himself, had all been a lie.

  I’ve wasted an entire lifetime regretting something that never even bloody happened.

  ‘That fucker,’ he muttered aloud.

  ‘What … ?’

  ‘He said you came round and shot Steve, Mike and Keith. That made it my fault for not finishing you off when I had the chance. But it was his fault all along … the cowardly fuckhead didn’t know how to fight, and he didn’t know how to take the rap when he screwed things up either.’

  He let three men die because of his cowardice, thought Porter bitterly.

  He let another man die inside because he didn’t want to take the blame.

  And offered the choice between believing Hassad’s version of what happened and Collinson’s, then Hassad’s seem the more credible.

  I always knew Collinson was a coward.

  I saw it the moment he started puking up when he stepped off that Puma and into the fighting.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Porter was still holding the AK-47. His finger was still twitching nervously on the trigger. And the gun was still pointed straight at Hassad’s chest.

  ‘I owe you my life, nothing else,’ said Hassad.

  ‘Take me to her,’ said Porter.

  Hassad remained silent. His eyes were fixed on the barrel of the gun. ‘And you expect me to help you?’

  ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t.’

  ‘You are my enemy,’ said Hassad softly. ‘I allowed you to come here because I owed you, but now that you have discovered the truth, all the debts between us are ended. And the woman dies at eight tonight.’

  Porter caressed the trigger of the AK-47. ‘This gun says differently.’

  ‘Kill me if you want to,’ Hassad snapped. ‘If that’s what you came for, just do it, then … the woman stays right where she is.’

  For a moment Porter was about to fire. Why the hell not? he asked himself. Whatever the truth of what happened seventeen years ago, Hassad was still a brutal terrorist who had tortured an innocent woman until the will to live had been drained out of her. Even if he didn’t deserve to die for killing Steve, Mike and Keith, then he certainly deserved to die for that.

  His finger stopped.

  I don’t have it in me to pull the trigger, he thought.

  As he gripped the barrel of the AK-47, everything was slotting into place for Porter. Someone had tried to kill him back in London – someone who knew the details of the mission he was about to go on. When he arrived, he was captured by a British-led private military corporation – by someone who knew precisely where he was going, and what passwords needed to be used.

  That person could only be Sir Peregrine Collinson.

  Why? Because he was desperate to prevent me from seeing Hassad again, for the simple reason that I might learn the truth of what happened on that bungled mission to Beirut all those years ago.

  The bastard is going to pay for that.

  ‘Take me to her,’ Porter growled.

  ‘I can’t.’

  Porter stood up, and jabbed the barrel of the AK-47 into Hassad’s chest. He could feel the hard, solid muscle as he prodded it with the cold steel of the gun. ‘You bloody well can, and you bloody well will,’ Porter snapped. ‘I just want to talk to her, that’s all. I won’t cause any more trouble, not for you anyway.’

  Hassad got slowly to his feet. Maybe he’s just playing me along, Porter thought. Perhaps he’s just going to walk me straight into a trap. I have to take that chance: it’s the only hope I have of breaking Katie out of here.

  They strode briskly through the meeting point. Hassad glanced at the one corpse Porter had left behind, then glanced at Porter. He could tell from the expression on his face that he knew exactly what had happened. Porter jabbed him forward with the AK-47. They kept walking towards the room where Katie had been tied to a stake. Porter was struggling to keep track of time: he reckoned it was three thirty i
n the morning, but it could be as late as four. The two soldiers stood rigidly to attention as they saw them approach. Their own assault rifles were snapped into position.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Hassad softly. ‘We’re just going inside for a moment.’

  Smart, thought Porter. He knows they could shoot me, but it would be a bloodbath, and probably all four of us would die. Once you started letting off AK-47s in a confined space, the bullets would shred everyone. Better to let me inside: there’s still a chance he might be able to talk me into dropping the gun.

  Pale light had spread across the room. Porter glanced at Katie. It was only a couple of hours or so since he had last seen her, but her condition was even worse. So far as he could see, she had lost consciousness: she could be sleeping, but with the pain she had endured Porter reckoned she’d gone under.

  He kept his gun trained on Hassad.

  ‘Untie her,’ he snapped.

  He knew his drill. Get her off the stake, then try and fight his way out of here, room by room. It was probably the worst plan he’d ever heard. Against so many men, there was practically no chance of success. But at least this way they’d take a few of the bastards with her. And it wouldn’t be on worldwide TV.

  ‘No,’ said Hassad, with quiet determination.

  As he spoke, Porter could see Katie’s eyes slowly open. He could see the pain each movement caused her, but there was a glimmer of defiance in her expression. Her boss was right, thought Porter. The woman has nerves of steel. She glanced first at Hassad, then at Porter. ‘I …’ she croaked, coughing as she struggled to form the words on her lips.

  Porter raised a hand to stop her from speaking. He pushed the AK-47 closer to Hassad’s chest. ‘Then she’ll at least have the satisfaction of watching you die first,’ he said. ‘And then I’ll untie her myself.’