by Will Jordan
‘This isn’t right,’ he said, reaching for the gear stick to put them in reverse.
‘Huh?’ Keegan leaned forward, alerted by the tone of his voice. ‘What’s up?’
No sooner had he spoken than the truck’s rear tarpaulin parted, revealing the long, eager barrel of a Russian KPV heavy machine gun. Drake recognised the distinctive weapon in an instant. Normally used for shooting down low-flying aircraft, it was now swinging around to bear down on them.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Crawford gasped.
Drake reacted on instinct. Throwing the Humvee into gear, he popped the clutch and jammed the accelerator to the floor. Tyres skidding on the rough tarmac and throwing up clouds of dust and burned rubber, the Humvee lurched forward, straight towards the truck and the weapon mounted inside.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Crawford shouted. ‘You’re heading right for him!’
Drake ignored him. The KPV had an effective range of over 3,000 metres; to have attempted to retreat down a busy road would have been worse than futile. His only option, as far as he could judge in the half-second it took to make his decision, was to try to exploit the weapon’s heavy, cumbersome size.
Throwing the wheel hard over, he swung the Humvee left, narrowly avoiding a collision with a small hatchback in front before stomping on the gas again.
And at virtually the same moment, the truck gunner opened fire.
The rhythmic thud of the auto-cannon’s discharge sounded more like the rumble of thunder than the crack of any kind of conventional weapon. The muzzle flare illuminated the truck and the surrounding road like lightning as round after round was expelled, spent shell casings clattering onto the ground.
Their erratic movement proved to be their saving grace, as the first volley missed them by mere feet, instead striking a taxicab that was unlucky enough to be turning the wrong way.
The effect on the civilian vehicle was catastrophic. Steel and glass gave way without resistance, high-explosive shells tearing through the unprotected car to thud into the ground behind it. In a matter of seconds, it had been reduced to a shattered nightmare of twisted metal and mangled human bodies.
‘He’s tracking us!’ Keegan called out, staring at the long barrel of the heavy machine gun as its operator struggled to haul it around.
They were now careening down a narrow side road that paralleled the canal. With water on his right and rows of shops and houses on his left, there was nothing for Drake to do but punch it and try to escape the weapon’s firing arc.
Keeping his foot on the floor, he yanked the wheel left to avoid a faded red Nissan that had jammed on its brakes. The screech of metal on metal told him he’d clipped the vehicle, but he didn’t care. Finding cover was his only concern.
They would not be so lucky a second time. The truck gunner had at last manhandled the 14.5mm cannon around, and now let loose with another burst.
Drake was forced to duck as the left quarter-panel beside him disintegrated in a spray of metal and smoke, leaving a gaping hole the size of a football. Above him the reinforced glass windshield exploded inwards, showering the vehicle’s interior with broken fragments.
‘Get down!’ he screamed, unable to do anything but keep his foot planted on the gas. The engine roared and the vehicle bumped and skidded onwards. Rounds thumped into the buildings above and behind them as the gunner tried to keep pace with their desperate escape attempt, though he clearly had no concern for civilian casualties, keeping the trigger depressed on full automatic.
Drake knew it would happen sooner or later. On a busy road in the middle of the afternoon, one could only drive blind so far before colliding with something.
Suddenly he was thrown forward in his seat as the Humvee slammed into an old Toyota saloon whose driver had been too slow to react. The scream and crunch of deforming metal was almost drowned out by the roar of the Humvee’s engine and the screech of its tyres as it tried to power them through, partially crumpling the unfortunate Toyota beneath it and breaking the forward axle in the process.
With Drake no longer able to exert any meaningful control, the stricken Humvee slewed off the road and down the concrete embankment into the canal, rolling over onto its roof before finally coming to rest amidst a cloud of dust, smoke and steam from the shattered engine.
Kourash picked up his phone the instant it started ringing. The call was coming from Pendar, the leader of the strike team he had allocated to destroy Drake’s Humvee and everyone in it.
‘Is it done?’ he asked.
Situated on the roof of a building about 500 metres from the ambush point, he had both heard and seen the destruction the heavy weapon had dealt out. At least one civilian car had been obliterated and several shopfronts damaged by stray fire, but he felt little concern for such things. They were casualties of war, and this country had seen more than its share of war.
‘The Humvee crashed into the canal,’ came the reply. ‘We hit it hard.’
That was not the question he had asked, Kourash thought with a flash of anger. He had seen it for himself. Rather than try to retreat away from the weapon, the Humvee had launched itself forward in what had seemed a suicidal charge before swinging left at the last moment, disrupting the gunner’s aim. He had watched it hurtle down the road before a burst of fire at last found it.
‘Is Drake dead?’ he asked, leaving a slight pause between each word and the next.
‘We think so.’
Kourash closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t come all this way, hadn’t risked everything, to let Drake slip away now. If he was alive, he was surely trapped in the wreckage. Trapped and helpless, just waiting to be finished off.
‘Move in and confirm he’s dead.’
‘We are exposed here,’ Pendar warned, an edge of anxiety in his voice now. ‘If the ANP arrive …’
Kourash gritted his teeth, threatening to break one of the fillings in his molars. They would never get another chance like this.
‘We must finish him now,’ he hissed, clenching his fist and feeling the two stumps of his missing fingers. ‘Move in. Kill any survivors. That is an order.’
‘It will be done.’
Drake’s mind drifted back from the verge of unconsciousness, alerted by distant shouts and panicked screams.
With great effort he forced his eyes open, and found that the world was upside down. Beyond the shattered windshield, he could see the muddy garbage-strewn channel of the canal, the line of houses stretching out on either side, and the ugly concrete bridge in the distance. Beneath him, the endless blue sky stretched out, the hot sun beating down through a haze of smoke and dust. Dry wind-blown grit whipped in through the broken windows, peppering his face and eyes.
The vehicle must have come to rest on its roof. Still strapped into his seat, he was inverted. How fucking stupid he must look, some part of his mind reflected.
He wasn’t sure if he was hurt or not. He wasn’t in much pain, but everything felt hazy and disconnected, his reactions deadened as if he was intoxicated. He was vaguely aware of something warm and wet dripping across his face.
‘Ryan, you alive?’ he heard Keegan ask.
Managing to twist around in his seat, he saw the old sniper crouched on what had once been the roof, shaking his head to clear it. His face was cut and grazed, but he didn’t look seriously injured.
‘Still in it, mate,’ he replied, unlatching his seat belt and tumbling head first onto the broken roof of the Humvee. ‘Shit. Can you see anything outside?’
‘Not much,’ Keegan said, peering out through the rear window. ‘That was a goddamned ANA truck taking shots at us.’
Drake shook his head, slivers of broken glass falling from his hair. ‘It wasn’t the ANA. That was Kourash.’
Keegan’s eyes lit up as the truth dawned on him. ‘The son of a bitch set a trap.’
‘And we walked right into it,’ Drake replied, furious with himself for not seeing it coming. It all made sense now; why Kourash had broadcast t
hat execution video, why he had allowed the signal to be traced back to its source.
He had done it to lure Drake in, to get him to a place where he could be tracked. No doubt they had been following the Humvee since it left the abandoned cement plant, just waiting for the perfect place to spring their trap.
Wincing in pain, he looked over at Crawford. The man was hanging in his seat, still secured by his belt. An angry bruise was forming down one side of his face.
‘I can smell gas,’ Keegan hissed. ‘We need to get out of here, buddy.’
Drake nodded. ‘I hear you. Crawford, can you—’
He was interrupted by a loud bang that reverberated through the interior. It was the sound of a high-velocity round ricocheting off the Humvee’s armour, and it was soon followed by two more. The crackle of automatic gunfire echoed from outside.
‘Shit. We’re taking fire,’ Keegan said, as if Drake hadn’t realised already.
‘Get out, John. I’ll get Crawford.’ Wasting no time, Drake unlatched the man’s seat belt, causing him to pitch out of his seat and onto the roof with a resounding clang.
However, the impact seemed to have roused him. He groaned and opened his eyes, focusing blearily on Drake.
‘We’re getting out of here, mate. Come on.’ Grabbing his arms, Drake pulled and hauled him towards the door. At the same time, Keegan scrambled out through the rear window, grabbed Drake’s door and managed to lever it open, allowing him to drag the semi-conscious man out.
‘Thanks,’ Drake said quickly, laying Crawford against the side of the upturned vehicle. His eyes were fully open now, though he wore a puzzled look as if trying to work out how he’d ended up in an upside-down Humvee. ‘Crawford, can you hear me?’
His eyes focused on Drake then, and the puzzlement quickly gave way to a look of irritation. ‘Course I can hear you,’ he snapped, shoving the younger man back. ‘Remind me not to thank the asshole who taught you to drive. What kind of shit are we in?’
‘We’ve got company,’ Keegan warned, drawing his side arm and taking cover behind the makeshift barrier as another burst of fire split the air, several rounds hammering off the Humvee’s broken chassis.
‘There’s your answer,’ Drake said. Leaving Crawford to sort himself out, he stole a glance around the side of the Humvee. Sure enough, armed men were advancing towards them along both sides of the canal, clad in the uniform of the ANA.
But these were no ANA troopers. They were Kourash’s men wearing the uniform of their enemies. He counted at least three on each side, all armed with AK-47 assault rifles.
Drake and his two companions could muster only three side arms. He had no idea where his carbine was, but he hadn’t seen it inside the cab. Likely it had been thrown loose when they pitched over.
One of their attackers had spotted him and raised his assault rifle to fire. Ducking back behind cover, Drake heard the distinctive thump as a burst of fire scythed past him, chewing up the ground only feet away or punching holes in the Humvee’s side panelling.
Drawing his Sig Sauer, he flicked the safety off, leaned out and snapped off several shots in his attacker’s direction, none of which found their mark. He considered himself a reasonable marksman with a rifle, but even with the best pistol in the world the chances of hitting much beyond 50 yards was slim to say the least.
He heard the crack of Keegan’s weapon beside him, joined a few seconds later by Crawford on his left. Their desperate volley of fire was enough to force their enemies to duck for cover, but only Keegan scored a hit. Drake watched as one man pitched forward and tumbled down the sloping side of the canal, leaving a smear of blood behind him. Several more shots from both himself and Keegan were enough to put him down for good.
However, the answering storm of automatic fire was enough to force all three operatives to drop down behind the Humvee. They could do nothing but press themselves against its armoured sides as rounds slammed into the ground around them or ricocheted off the crippled vehicle.
‘We’re screwed here,’ Crawford called out above the din, ejecting a spent magazine from his weapon. ‘We have to fall back before they outflank us.’
‘Fall back where?’ Keegan gestured to the open ground beyond their scant cover. ‘That’s a kill zone right there. We move, and we’re dead.’
Drake looked around in desperation. They couldn’t retreat and they couldn’t stand their ground. In a matter of seconds, Kourash’s men would have outflanked and surrounded them. Then they could pick off the three helpless operatives at their leisure.
And in that moment, Drake knew Kourash had won.
Half a kilometre away, Kourash surveyed the firefight through a pair of high-powered binoculars. He had watched the three men scramble from the wreckage, looking desperately for a way out but finding none. He saw one of his own men fall, and the others press forward under a storm of fire to avenge their comrade’s death.
Nothing motivated men more than the desire for revenge. He understood this concept best of all.
Armed only with pistols, Drake and his two companions were unable to put up more than a token resistance as Kourash’s men took up firing positions on the edge of the canal. With a clear field of fire from an elevated position, they couldn’t ask for anything better.
He had won, he knew in that moment. Drake might have proven himself more resourceful than he’d expected, but in the end it had made no difference. For all his cunning and resourcefulness, he was still going to die. He was going to pay for what he had done all those years ago.
And with Drake gone, he could turn his full attention to his true purpose. He would broaden his campaign of assassinations and bombings to encompass the entire country. The Taliban, the remnants of al-Qaeda, the countless warring factions and splinter groups and fanatics fighting for control of Afghanistan would all be swept away like shadows at the coming of dawn. And with the Coalition soldiers withdrawn, this country would finally know true freedom.
That was his destiny. That was the path he had started on when he left behind his abusive childhood four decades earlier. That would be his final testimony on a life used to its fullest potential.
Kourash allowed himself a faint smile of triumph as he trained his binoculars in on Drake, eager to see the man’s final moments. He saw him crouched down behind the crashed Humvee, saw the hope drain from his eyes as the realisation sank in that he was going to die in a shit-filled canal.
This is where it ends for you, my friend, he thought.
But then suddenly the look on Drake’s face changed to one of puzzlement, as if something unexpected had just interrupted him. Kourash frowned, wondering what the man was thinking.
His frown deepened as, to his dismay, Drake rose up from his hiding place without fear to stare at the top of the concrete embankment. Why was the man able to do such a thing? Why hadn’t he been cut down by a burst of AK fire?
Still failing to understand, Kourash moved his gaze upwards, following Drake’s line of sight, and felt his blood freeze.
‘No …’
Drake couldn’t understand it. One moment they had been pinned down, powerless to stop their enemies moving to outflank and pour a murderous rain of fire down on them, the next it had all fallen silent.
Glancing up to the place from which the insurgents had been pouring fire down on them, he saw one of them lying sprawled over the lip, his weapon lying several yards further down the slope, blood draining slowly down the bleached concrete.
‘What in the hell just happened?’ Keegan asked, rising slowly, cautiously up from his hiding place. His face was cut and grazed, smeared with blood and soot, but he had somehow managed to keep hold of his tattered baseball cap.
‘No idea. But we’re alive when we shouldn’t be,’ Drake said.
And then, just like that, four figures appeared at the top of the slope. Not insurgents, not men in fake ANA uniforms, but soldiers. Soldiers armed with M4 carbines and clad in uniforms that were not American or British.
&
nbsp; Soldiers belonging to Horizon Defence.
‘Good to see you again, mate,’ Matt Cunningham said, flashing a grin at his friend. Smoke still trailed from the barrel of his carbine. ‘Are we late?’
For several seconds, Kourash just sat there staring at the scene, refusing to believe what his eyes were telling him.
It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.
Only moments before, his men had been poised to kill Drake and the two men unlucky enough to have been travelling with him. He had felt the rush of success, the joy of knowing he had prevailed over a hated adversary.
And then it had all fallen apart. His men were dead, Drake was alive, and it was all because of the last people on earth Kourash had expected to come to his aid.
Shaking, trembling with impotent rage and despair, he rose from his vantage point and turned away, unable to stomach it any longer.
Still stunned by what he had just witnessed, Drake stood in silence as Cunningham descended the steep slope towards him, apparently untroubled by the dead body he passed. He was a soldier to the core – he lived for this stuff.
Behind him, several Horizon operatives were checking the fallen insurgents, keeping their weapons ready until they were sure their enemies were dead.
‘You did all this?’ Drake finally managed to say.
Cunningham glanced at the crumpled, bullet-riddled remains of the Humvee. ‘Aye. And not a minute too soon by the looks of things.’ He looked at Drake. ‘I thought I was done saving your arse when you left the Regiment.’
‘You two know each other?’ Crawford asked, one hand pressed against the side of his head. The skin was already discoloured and noticeably swollen.
‘We served together when I was with the SAS,’ Drake hurriedly explained. ‘Matt was my sergeant.’
‘That’s beautiful.’ Crawford’s sarcasm was impossible to miss. ‘How the hell did you guys show up so fast?’
‘Believe me, it wasn’t luck,’ Cunningham assured him. ‘We had intel that insurgents were using fake ANA uniforms to get through checkpoints, and that they would be in this area today.’ He gestured to the destroyed Humvee. ‘Looks like you caught the worst of it.’
