by Chris Ryan
Porter looked round.
Part of the wall had come away. Hassad was lying flat on the ground, a heavy timber pinning down his leg and his groin. Flames were licking along the wood, getting closer all the time. He tried to lever himself up so that he could push the timber away, but it was no use. He was trapped, and from the look on his face he knew it. Any moment now, he was going to die.
‘Help me,’ he shouted.
Porter rested Katie on the staircase. The flames hadn’t reached this far yet, but sparks were spitting all over the place, and the heat was intense so it might not be long before the steps went up as well. ‘You going to be OK?’
She nodded. ‘I …’
The words ended in another fit of coughing.
‘Just stay right there,’ said Porter. ‘Don’t try to move.’
He turned and ran back towards where Hassad was lying on the ground. The timber wasn’t that heavy – no more than a hundred pounds – but it was hot. More than half of it was alight now, and the sparks were spitting into Hassad’s leg. Porter grabbed it with both hands, and started to heave it away.
Then he paused. He looked straight at Hassad.
‘This is the second time I’ve saved your life,’ he said.
Hassad glanced towards him.
‘This time I want something in return,’ said Porter. ‘You have to help me get Katie out of here, and across the border.’
‘Just release me,’ shouted Hassad.
The flames were getting closer all the time. A couple of sparks spat on his clothes, singeing his skin. Porter could feel his own face burning up, and his cheeks reddening.
He lowered the burning timber just a fraction, so that it was still pinning Hassad down. ‘Give me your word.’
‘I’ll get her to the border, I swear it,’ screamed Hassad.
With a heave of his shoulders, Porter hoisted the timber up into the air, and tossed it clean away from Hassad’s legs. He reached down a hand, and grabbed hold of the man, pulling him up to his feet. ‘Then let’s get the fuck out of here,’ he said. ‘Before the whole bloody place collapses on top of us.’
TWENTY-THREE
Their way was blocked by what looked to Porter like no more than an old and rusty manhole cover. Unhooking the AK-47 still strapped to his back, and flipping the gun around, Porter smashed its butt into the disc, pushing it open. His hands grabbed the sides of the hole and he pulled himself up with one swift movement. He glanced anxiously around to see if anyone could see him, but the way was clear. Instantly, he plunged his hands back into the mine. ‘Grab hold of these,’ he shouted.
Katie was just below him, and had enough of her wits about her to grip on to Porter’s wrists. He pulled her sharply upwards, dragging her out onto the land. Hassad followed on swiftly behind them. ‘What do we do now?’ said Porter, his voice breathless.
‘Run like hell,’ said Hassad. ‘It’s not safe here.’
Porter hardly had time to take in the scene around them. It was still night-time, and visibility was limited. They had emerged about eighty metres from the main entrance to the mine. There was a huge crater in the ground where the missile had smashed into the site, throwing up a ton of hot, molten rock as it cleaved its way through the ground. A few corpses were scattered around the entrance: men who must have been killed when the missile first struck. However, up to a dozen more were still standing, grouped twenty metres behind that, too far away for them to be able to see Porter. Guys who were out on patrol or too far from the missile strike to be killed on the first impact, he reckoned. Probably trying to figure out what the hell has just happened to them.
And whether there is anything they can do for the poor bastards trapped down below.
Porter grabbed hold of Katie, and slung her onto his back. With some food and water and medicine she might be up to walking soon. But not yet. Never mind, Porter decided, as he started to walk steadily forwards. I’ll carry her all the way back to London if I have to. It would be worth it just to see the look on that bastard Collinson’s face.
‘This way,’ hissed Hassad.
He was tabbing across the open ground. The mine was at the centre of a big, open-cast pit, like a moon crater but filled with old and rusting machinery. The banks rose up steeply, taking you back to level ground, but there were pathways and tracks where the trucks must have carried the finished metals they dug here out towards the railways and ports. It was about thirty metres, heavy going with Katie clinging to your back, but they made it. A couple of times, Porter could feel the ground shake beneath him, like the tremors from an earthquake. Some of the soldiers near the entrance a hundred metres behind them were running around, shouting as holes appeared in the ground where the mine was collapsing. One or two men appeared to have made their way out to the surface, but not many. More explosions, Porter reflected grimly, as he listened to the ground cracking beneath his feet. Finishing off whatever poor sods are still down there.
Sweat was pouring off his skin as he marched on. He’d ripped the wet mask off his face: the air up here was clear and fresh, and just getting some oxygen into his lungs was doing him good, but he was half naked, and his body had taken a terrible beating in the past few hours. There were cuts and bruises all over him, and his skin felt charred from the intense heat of the mine. His lungs felt as if he’d just smoked about two million cigarettes, and his head was spinning.
Even as he walked, the questions were starting to loop through Porter’s mind.
Who the hell fired that missile? The British? The Israelis?
But why?
If they knew where we were, why not just send in a Regiment unit to try and break us out?
Whoever fired that monster must have been reckoning to kill everyone in the mine.
Including us.
As they reached the top of the pathway, Porter laid Katie on the ground. Up over the ridge, the first glimmers of dawn were starting to break through the night sky. It must be five thirty, maybe six in the morning, Porter thought.
Saturday.
The day scheduled for the execution.
But the danger was far from over. Indeed, it might be just beginning.
I’ve no idea where the border is. Or how far we are from safety …
He knelt down and wiped some of the soot away from Katie’s forehead with the palm of his hand. Christ, we better keep this girl away from a mirror for the next couple of days, he thought. Her eyes were like a couple of squashed tomatoes, and her complexion had turned the mucky grey of school-dinner stew. There were scabs across her cheek where she had been cut. And her body was wasting into little more than a skeleton with some ill-fitting skin stretched over it.
‘We’re getting you home,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ she croaked.
‘Just hang in there, that’s all.’
They had paused just where the mine met an old road, made from broken and chipped concrete. Porter was already looking at Hassad suspiciously, wondering if he could be trusted to keep his word or if he was about to call out to his mate. ‘Over there,’ hissed Hassad, pointing towards a tin shack with half its roof blown away. ‘There’s a car we can use. We stashed a few around the edge of this mine in case we needed a quick escape. The keys are left in them, and there’s fuel in the tank.’
Only another twenty metres, Porter thought. They were even further from the Hezbollah guards now, and unlikely to be spotted. But he wasn’t sure Katie should be carried any longer. ‘Bring it here,’ he muttered.
Hassad jogged across the road. Again, Porter wondered if he’d escape. Maybe go and get his mates and come and capture Katie again. Or just escape in the car. He checked the AK-47 on his back, making sure there was still some ammo left in its magazine. If he had to, he’d take the bastard down, and escape on foot himself. But Hassad had given his word when he saved his life back there in the mine. Just so long as he kept it …
The car was an old, grey VW Polo, with what looked to Porter like a hundred thousand miles o
n the clock. It reeked of diesel and cigarette fumes. Its engine roared and stuttered, but seemed to be spinning fine. Hassad twisted the wheel around, pulling it up next to Porter, and flung the door open. Porter grabbed Katie, pulled back the passenger seat, and laid her flat down on the back. She was in no state to sit up, he judged. He pulled the seat belt down to fasten it around her so that she wouldn’t get knocked around too much. There was no telling what kind of roads they might meet. Nor what kind of opposition.
‘Drive carefully,’ he muttered towards Hassad. ‘She can’t take much more.’
‘We still have to get past the soldiers.’
‘Do what –’
‘You think they’re going to be happy to see you drive off with their hostage?’
‘You bloody promised you’d get us to the border.’
‘But my promise doesn’t extend to the rest of Hezbollah.’
Porter looked around. They were on a ridge on the top of the open-cast mine. The road twisted around its edge, before linking up with the main highway about a mile away. Porter didn’t know how many soldiers had remained on the surface and survived the missile strike, but enough to put up a stout resistance should they catch wind of what was afoot. Behind them was a tall, rocky set of mountains. The dawn was starting to break through now, spreading a fresh orange light across the landscape, and yet as Porter surveyed the rocks, he could see there was no way through. Not by car anyway. They might be able to make their way on foot, but the condition they were in, and without any water or supplies, they might easily die within a few miles.
‘Is there a side road?’ said Porter.
Hassad shook his head, gunning up the engine at the same time.
‘Do we look like idiots?’ he said. ‘We chose this old mine because it’s simple to monitor anything coming in or out. You take the main road, which always has some guards on it, or else you have to walk through the mountains and desert, but that’s a hard and difficult journey.’
Hassad tapped his foot on the accelerator. The Polo roared and started to rev, then spun along the track, kicking up a cloud of dust as it did so. ‘They think we’re still down in that mine, and that means they think we’re dead,’ said Hassad. ‘They won’t be looking for us.’
Porter glanced round. Katie was lying motionless on the seat. Her eyes were half closed and she was breathing slowly. They had to get her some food and water soon. She wasn’t going to last much longer.
How far is it to the border? Porter asked himself again.
The Polo was powering steadily. Around the perimeter of the open-cast mine was about half a mile, and for its age, the VW had plenty of acceleration left in it. Hassad was just keeping the engine ticking over, not trying to push it too fast. The road was rough and pitted with stones, and even if you did try to push it above fifty miles an hour, you would probably just crack the suspension. ‘Put your head down while I drive past the soldiers,’ muttered Hassad. ‘And then we just need to get through the roadblock.’
Porter ducked. He buried his head in his knees: in that position, if they drove past anyone at speed, they probably wouldn’t notice him. He glanced back at Katie. No need to hide her. She was already lying flat on her back.
As he dipped his head below the windscreen, Porter could see they were approaching the main road on the far side of the mine. A makeshift roadblock had been set up across the track: it consisted of two mounds of old tyres, with a wooden bar slung between them. Normally, Porter reckoned, there would be two or three soldiers there monitoring who came into and out of the mine, but there was so much chaos down below where the missile had struck there was just one guy, sitting by the side of the road, an AK-47 cradled in his arms.
At his side, Porter could see Hassad tapping his foot hard on the accelerator.
‘There may be an impact when we go through the bar,’ said Hassad. ‘Steady yourself.’
‘Won’t they let you through?’
‘This is Hezbollah,’ said Hassad proudly. ‘Nobody comes in or out of this mine without their vehicle being checked.’
Porter put his hands around his head. The Polo was accelerating now, touching sixty. Suddenly, there was a crunching noise, as the nose of their car collided with the wooden pole. Porter was thrown forward, his head bashing against the cheap plastic of the glove compartment. In the back, Katie jerked upwards and groaned in pain. The Polo served to the right as the impact deflected it off its path. Hassad was gripping the steering wheel, pulling it back onto the track. Behind them, Porter could hear shouting. And then a rapid burst of gunfire exploded behind them.
Porter heard the sickening crunch of a bullet colliding with the back the car. It pierced the steel skin of the vehicle, but lodged itself harmlessly in the boot. Porter glanced again at Katie. There was no chance of moving her now, Porter realised. Too dangerous. But lying on the back seat, she was the most vulnerable of any of them: any bullets that pierced the back window were heading straight for her.
‘Can’t you move any bloody faster?’ he shouted.
‘I’m trying,’ yelled Hassad.
His foot was jamming hard on the accelerator, but instead of gaining power, the Polo was losing it. The speedometer had touched sixty-five as they burst through the wooden barrier, and started heading down the slope that led towards the main road. But now it was slowly dropping down to sixty, then fifty-five.
Porter glanced in the wing-mirror.
The soldier had climbed on board a motorbike. His assault rifle was slung over his back, but there was a pistol clearly visible in the belt of his trousers. The bike was roaring fast, gaining on them with every metre they covered.
Hassad’s grip tightened on the steering wheel as he tried to move them back onto the centre of the road.
‘He’s on a bike,’ Porter growled.
‘The car won’t move, the tyre is punctured.’
‘Fuck it.’
The Polo was still slowing, dropping down to forty-five now. It must be the back wheel, Porter thought grimly. There was no way the car was going to build up any speed with a back tyre blown out. He could see exactly what was about to happen. The bike was going to overtake them within not much more than a minute. The soldier would spin past them, stop the bike in the middle of the road, then turn his AK-47 on them.
Hassad might be one of the leaders of this gang, Porter told himself, but he’d seen these boys in action. Everything was sacrificed to the cause.
And everybody.
If they thought he was pissing off with their hostage, they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him.
And the hostage.
‘I’m bailing out,’ snapped Porter. ‘Keep driving.’
Before Hassad had a chance to reply, Porter had flung open the door on the Polo. As it ripped through the air, Porter curled himself into a ball and kicked back with his legs. Hitting the ground with a heavy thump, a hundred bolts of pain started shooting up through his spine as his back absorbed the impact of the fall. It was only a couple of feet from the Polo’s passenger seat to the dirt track they were driving down, but it felt like at least a hundred. He rolled, keeping his body as curved as possible to smooth the landing, but he was still moving fast over the ground, his naked back taking a dozen different cuts and bruises from the pebbles littering the path.
He could hear a horrible crunching sound where his ankle hit a stone, and prayed to God it wasn’t broken.
No time to worry about it now, he told himself.
I could be dead before the next five seconds are up.
The AK-47 was still in his right hand. Porter rolled to his feet, steadied himself by the side of the road, then whipped the gun into his fists. The Polo was still moving away down the side of the hill, and in its wake, the motorbike was accelerating fast: a Honda, Porter noted, with at least a onelitre engine, the machine should be able to reach eighty or ninety on a track like this, and it was probably hitting those speeds now. He gripped the AK-47 tight in his hands, his fingers closing down on the trigge
r. The bike was close now, but amid the dust kicked up in the Polo’s trail it was unlikely its driver would have noticed Porter bailing out. The bike sped past. In the same instant, Porter slammed his finger into the trigger of the AK-47, unleashing a hailstorm of bullets. The munitions ripped through the bike. The sound of metal colliding with metal cracked through the still morning air. Porter took a step forward. He kept his finger glued to the trigger, the bullets still rattling out of the barrel of his gun, tracking the target as it moved across the rough surface of the ground. The bike was wobbling. Some petrol had started to leak from its tank, and the driver had taken a couple of bullets to the back, and at least one to the leg. He was hanging on desperately to the machine beneath him: enough of his brain was still working to know that the bike was now his best chance of escaping the attack. But the machine was spinning violently out of control now. The bullets had severed the brake lines, and even though it was losing power fast, the driver had no way of slowing it down as he tried to straighten up and get down the hill. It twisted brutally, and the man no longer had the strength to hold onto its jerking handlebars. He was spun out across the dirt track, while the bike crashed into a rock close to the edge of the road. The front wheel broke off on impact, rolling down the hill, while the rest of the bike fell to the ground, the engine still coughing and spluttering.
Porter took another step forward.
The man was fifteen metres in front of him on the road.
He was reaching down for the pistol tucked into the belt of his trousers. There was blood pouring out of the wounds in his back, but he still had enough life left in him to hold a gun. Porter raised the sights of the AK-47 to his eyes, and squeezed the trigger. One bullet, then two, then three, smashed into his chest. Porter moved the AK-47 just a fraction of a millimetre, keeping his finger squeezed on the trigger. The next three bullets smashed into his neck and chin, blowing his face wide open.
The gun dropped from his hand.
The man fell dead into the dust all around him.
Porter started to jog down the road, looking anxiously for the Polo: if Hassad wanted to escape this was his moment. The light was rising all around the mine now. He could see the car had pulled up about two hundred metres down the road. Glancing behind him, Porter didn’t think any more soldiers were giving chase. He ran faster, flinging back the door of the car and jumping inside.
