Last Light

by Andy McNab

  Keeping the bergen on my back, I sat on the tub with the weapon across my legs to protect the zero, the plastic protection rustling gently each time I moved. I was just willing the mozzies to try to take a bite out of me now I was 95 per cent pure Deet, but they seemed to know better.

  I changed my mind about keeping the bergen on. It wasn't serving any purpose and, besides, I wanted water from the side pouch. As I took slow sips I unstuck the T-shirt from my itchy chigger rash and gazed enviously at the house with its air-conditioning and refrigerators working overtime.

  The occasional animal made a noise in the jungle as the mozzies still circled in holding patterns around me, sounding like kamikaze planes heading for my face before changing course after a sniff of what I had waiting for them.

  Once I'd put the water back into the bergen I gave myself another rub down with the Deet, just in case they discovered a gap in the de fences The tiny bits of leaf and bark on my hands scrubbed against my face and stubble.

  I sat, scratched my back, felt the fur on my teeth with my tongue, and wished I'd hit the fire press el three times when I'd had the chance.

  About forty-five boring minutes later I began to see an arc of pale light rising above the treeline. It was going to be a dull one. The birds took their cue to get noisy, and the howler monkeys on the other side of the house woke up the rest of the jungle as if the crickets ever slept.

  I began to make out a low mist lying on the mud of the clearing and, higher up, black and grey cloud cover. It would be good for me if the sky stayed overcast:

  it meant no chance of sunlight reflecting off the objective lens.

  Another ten minutes and light was penetrating the canopy. I could just see my feet. It was time to start rigging the device.

  After rechecking the score marks on the sight, and that the battle sights were pulled back to 400, the kit went back on and I moved slowly towards the gate. I dropped the tub and bergen about two metres short of it, laying the weapon on the ground and not against the wall to avoid any chance of it falling.

  It didn't take long to find a tree of the right height and structure to take the charge there were enough of them about. I took the nylon tow-rope out of the top flap pouch of the bergen, tied one end of it to the tub's handle and gripped the other between my teeth. The taste of petrol nearly made me gag while I looked up and worked out how to climb my chosen tree. My calf was throbbing painfully.

  It was a noisy ascent but a time comes when you just have to get on with it, and now was the moment, before everybody in the house began to stir. Trapped water fell on to my head and I was drenched again by the time I reached my vantage point

  At last I could just see over the wall towards the house, and to the other treeline to my half right, where the bottom couple of feet of the trunks were still shrouded in mist. My firing point was going to be somewhere along that treeline; it was maybe 300 metres away and the tub should be easy enough to find from that distance with the optic. I thought about placing a large leaf or two on top of the wall as a marker to guide me in, but it was too risky. If I could see it, so could anyone driving towards the gate. I had to assume they were switched on, and that anything unusual would be treated with suspicion. I'd just have to open my eyes and find it once I got into position.

  I was still working out how I was going to strap the tub in position when I heard the noise of an engine start up in the driveway. I turned my head to look towards the source. The only things moving were my eyes and the dribble from the sides of my rope-filled mouth.

  It was impossible to make out what was happening. There were no lights from any of the vehicles, just the low, gentle sound of a petrol engine ticking over.

  I had to act. This might be the only chance I got.

  I opened my mouth to release the rope, and almost fell as I scrambled down the trunk. Adrenaline surged as I grabbed the weapon and ran back to the end of the wall, frantically tearing at the plastic, trying to check the score marks, feeling for the ready rounds, feeling for my docs.

  I dropped on to my right knee, brought the weapon up, and looked through the optic, gulping in deep breaths to oxygenate me for the shot, wiping the Deet sweat from my eyes before removing the safety.

  An oldish guy moved around in the low light, the tip of a cigarette glowing in his mouth. He was wearing flip-flops, football shorts and a badly ripped dark polo shirt, and was wiping the night's rain and condensation off the sleek, black Lexus with a chamois leather. The engine must be running for the air, which meant he was expecting passengers soon.

  I sat back on my right foot and braced my left elbow on my left knee, the soft bit just above the elbow joint jammed into the kneecap, butt pulled firmly into the shoulder. Then I checked my field of view into the killing ground.

  There was no pain in my leg now, no feeling anywhere as I prepared myself mentally, visualizing the target coming from the front door, heading for either the rear or front of the Lexus.

  Condensation formed on the lens.

  I kept the weapon in the aim and, with both eyes on the killing ground, rubbed it clear with my right thumb and T- shirt cuff. All the time, taking slow, deep, controlled breaths, I was hoping it was going to kick off, and at the same time hoping that it wouldn't until I was in a better position.

  The old guy made his way conscientiously along the wagon with his chamois. Then the two huge doors at the front of the house opened and I was aiming into a body, the chandelier back lighting him perfectly. The post sight was in the middle of a white, short-sleeved shirt-and-tie, one of the BG, either Robert or Ross, whichever had gone out for the drinks. He was standing in the door frame, talking on his Nokia and checking progress with the wagon.

  My heart-rate soared, then training kicked back in: I controlled my breathing and my pulse started to drop; I blocked out everything around me, closing down into my own little world. Nothing else existed, apart from what I could see through the optic.

  The BG disappeared back into the house but the front door was still open. I waited in the aim, hearing feeling the pulse in my neck, taking controlled breaths, oxygenating my body. If I felt any emotion, it was only relief that it might soon be over and done with.

  There he was. Michael stepped outside, green on blue, carrying a day sack smiling, talking with Robert and Ross either side of him. I got the post on him, centre of the trunk, got it on his sternum, took first pressure.

  Shit... A white shirt moved between us.

  Keeping the pressure, I followed the group. I got part of his face, still smiling, chatting animatedly. Not good enough, too small a target.

  Then someone else, a dark grey suit, blocked my view completely. This wasn't going to work too late, too many bodies blocking.

  They were at the wagon. Shit, shit, shit... I released first pressure, ducked back behind the wall, and ran for the gate while applying Safe. No time to think, just to do. Inside my head I was going ape shit Opportunity target! Opportunity target!

  Fuck the off-route mine now, I just wanted an explosion. Still screaming silently at myself, I grabbed the tub.

  There was a strange, empty feeling in my stomach, the sort I used to have as a kid running scared from something, wishing my legs could go as fast as my head wanted them to.

  Gasping for air, I reached the gate and dropped the tub against the wall, the blue rope still attached, the rest trailing behind.

  Opportunity target, opportunity target!

  The engine note of the Lexus changed as the wagon started down the drive towards me. It got louder as I picked up the bergen and sprinted along the edge of the trees by the road.

  It was time to hide. I launched myself into the foliage at a point about thirty metres from the gate.

  Fuck, too near to the device ... I got into a fire position in the mud, using the bergen just like the mound, my breathing all over the place.

  The electric whine of the motor opening the gates drowned out the noise of the Lexus as it came nearer and then stopped.
>
  I was too low, I had no muzzle clearance.

  I jumped up in a semi-squat, grabbing air, legs apart to steady myself, butt of the rifle in my shoulder as I pulled and twisted to get the fucking stupid safety off.

  I could see the wraparounds of the two white-shirts in front as we all waited for the gates to open, and knew I was exposed to them. I kept as low as I could, my chest heaving up and down as the Lexus finally started to roll forward.

  Just twenty feet to go.

  The wagon stopped so suddenly the rear bucked up on its suspension.

  Shit! I stopped breathing and fixed both eyes on the tub. I brought the weapon up to refocus into the optic, and took first pressure.

  The engine went high-pitched into reverse and I saw the blurry whiteness of the tub and the post clear and sharp in the middle of it then fired.

  I dropped the weapon as I hit the floor, screaming to myself as the shock-wave surged over me. It felt like I'd been free falling at 100 mph. and was suddenly stopped by a giant hand in mid-air, but my insides kept going.

  Grabbing the rifle, I reloaded and got to my feet, checking the battle sight.

  There was no time to watch out for the debris falling from the sky: I had to confirm he was dead.

  The wagon had been pushed back six or seven metres on the tarmac. I started towards the dust cloud as shattered masonry and bits of jungle fell back to earth, butt in the shoulder, ears ringing, vision blurred, my whole body shaking. Rubble and twisted ironwork lay where part of the right-hand wall and gates had once stood.

  I closed in on the mangled wreck, running in a semi-stoop, and took up a position by the remains of the wall just forward of a smouldering, man-sized crater. Chunks of brick rained down on the wagon. The once immaculate Lexus now looked like a stock car, smashed, beaten, its side windows missing, the windscreen safety glass shattered and buckled.

  I took aim with the battle sights through the driver's window. The first round thudded into the bloodstained white-shirt who was slumped but recovering over the steering wheel.

  Two!"

  Maintaining the weapon in the shoulder and supported by my left hand, I reloaded and took another shot into the second slumped, bloodstained white-shirt on the passenger side.

  Three!"

  With only four I had to remember my rounds fired; I was crap at it and counting out loud was the only way for me.

  Only smaller fragments of leaf and tree floated from the sky now, landing on the vehicle and tarmac all around me as I moved in, weapon up, towards the rear door. The angle changed: I saw two slumped bodies covered in shattered glass:

  one the green T-shirt and blue jeans, the other the dark grey suit. I closed in.

  The suit was Charlie. I hoped he was alive.

  THIRTY

  The target was more or less collapsed in the foot well with his dad down on the seat draped over him. Both were badly shaken, but alive. There was some coughing from Charlie and I could see the target moving.

  Mustn't hit Charlie ... I took another couple of steps to get me right up against the door and rammed the weapon inside with my face through the window gap. The muzzle was no more than two inches from the target's bloody, glass-covered and confused head.

  Bizarrely, the air-conditioner was still blowing, and a Spanish voice jabbered on the radio as the target moaned and groaned, pushing his father off him. His eyes were closed; I could see fragments of glass trapped in his eyebrows.

  I felt the second pressure on my finger pad, but it was refusing to squeeze further. Something was holding me back.

  Fuck, get on with it!

  The muzzle followed his head as it moved about, turning over on to his side. It was now virtually in his ear. I moved it up a little, to the tip.

  It wasn't happening, my finger wouldn't move. What the fuck was the matter with me?

  COME ON, DO IT! DO IT!

  I couldn't, and in that instant I knew why. A stab of fear ripped through my body.

  My brain filtered out almost everything, but it let in the shouts; I turned to see partly dressed men starting to pour from the house, carrying weapons.

  I withdrew the rifle, reached in the front, and pulled the Nokia off the BG's belt. Then I wrenched open the buckled metal and seized a fistful of suit. I dragged a fucked-up Charlie on to the tarmac, virtually running with him to the other side of what was left of the wall.

  "Move! Move!"

  I kicked him to his knees and he fell forward on to his hands. Stepping back out of grab range, I aimed at his head.

  "Can you hear me?"

  The shouts were getting nearer. I kicked him.

  "The missile guidance system, make sure-' "What is wrong with you people?" He coughed as blood dribbled from his chin, not lifting his head as he shouted back angrily, without a trace of fear.

  "It's been delivered last night! You have the launch control system you have everything! The Sunburn is complete! What more do you want?"

  "Delivered? This is about getting it delivered?"

  He looked up at me, staring along the barrel that moved up and down as we both fought for breath.

  "Last night! You people use my son to threaten me, demanding it by tomorrow night, you get it and still-' As the blood ran down his neck he saw my confusion.

  "Don't you people know what each other is doing?"

  Tuesday the guy in the pink Hawaiian shirt. He was here -has he got it?"

  "Of course!"

  "Why should I believe you?"

  "I don't care what you believe. The deal is done, yet you still threaten my family... Remember the condition no Panamanian targets. Why is it still here?

  You said it would move straight to Colombia not use it here. Do you know who I am? Do you know what I can do to you?"

  "Fatherrrrr!" Michael had seen us and his eyes widened.

  "Don't kill him please don't kill him. Please!"

  Charlie yelled something in Spanish, probably telling him to run, then fixed his glare on me once more. There was not a flicker of fear in his eyes.

  "Well, Englishman, what now? You already have what you came here for."

  I took a swing with the rifle butt and got him on the side of the neck. He curled into a ball of pain as I turned and ran along the treeline, back towards the bergen. I grabbed it in my spare hand, looked back and saw Michael limping towards his dad as people and vehicles converged.

  That was the problem. Michael was real people. He was a kid with a life, not one of the shadow people I was used to, the sort of target I'd never thought twice about killing.

  I hurled myself into the jungle, crashing through wait-a-while, not caring about sign. I just wanted to get my arse out of here and into the wall of green.

  Barbs tore into my skin and my throat was so parched it hurt to take breath. But none of that mattered: the only thing that did was getting away.

  The commotion behind me gradually faded, soaked up by the jungle as I penetrated deeper but I knew it wouldn't be long before they got organized and came in after me.

  There was automatic fire. The follow-up was much quicker than I'd expected: they were firing blindly, hoping to zap me as I ran. That didn't bother me, the trees would take the brunt. The only important thing was whether or not they were tracking me.

  I pulled out my compass, checked, and headed east for about twenty metres, towards the loop, taking my time now, trying not to leave upturned leaves or broken cobwebs in my wake. Then I turned north, then west, doubling back on myself but off to the side of my original track. After five or six metres, I stopped, looked around for a thick bush, and wormed my way into it.

  Squatting on my bergen, butt in the shoulder, safety off, I fought for breath.

  If they were tracking, they would pass right to left, seven or eight metres in front as they followed my sign. The rule about being chased in the jungle, learnt the hard way by far better soldiers than me, was that when the enemy are coming fast you've got to sidestep and creep away. Don't keep on running,
because they'll just keep on following.

  Slowly peeling three rounds from one of the ready rounds I pulled back the bolt.

  The bearing surfaces glided smoothly over each other as I caught the round it was about to eject, then fed the four rounds slowly and deliberately back into the mag before pushing the bolt home.

  I sat, watched and listened as I got out the blood-smeared mobile. No matter what was going on down here stop delivery, guarantee delivery, whatever I'd failed to do what the Yes Man had sent me here for, and I knew what that meant.

  I had to make a call.

  There was no signal, but I tried the number anyway, just in case, my finger covering the tiny speaker hole that sent out the touch tone. Nothing.

  Baby-G said it was 7.03. I played with the phone, finding vibrate, and put it away again.

  Shit, shit, shit. The pins and needles were returning. I had the helpless feeling that Carrie had described, that awful emptiness when you think you've lost someone and are trying desperately to find them. Shit, not here, not now A frenzied exchange in Spanish brought me back to the real world. They were close.

  There were more shouts from under the canopy but were they following me? I sat motionless as seconds, and then whole minutes, ticked by.

  Nearly seven fifteen. She'll be getting up soon for school... I had fucked up, I had to accept that. But what was more important now, at this very moment, was getting a signal on the mobile, and that meant going back uphill towards the house, where I'd seen it used.

  There was the odd resonant yell that sounded like a howler monkey, but I saw no one. Then there was movement to my front, the crashing of foliage as they got closer. But they weren't tracking: it sounded too much of a gang fuck for that. I held my breath, butt in the shoulder, pad on the trigger as they stopped on my trail.

  Sweat dripped off my face as three voices gob bed off at warp speed, maybe deciding which direction to take. I could hear their M-16s, that plastic, almost toy-like sound as they moved them in their hands, or dropped a butt on to the toecap of a boot.

  A burst of automatic fire went off in the distance and my three seemed to decide to go back the way they'd come. They'd obviously had enough of this jungle lark.