Sacrifice

by Will Jordan

  Stopping after about twenty paces, both men dropped to their knees, weapons trained outwards while Crawford and McKnight sprinted past. Nothing was said, because concealment was vital to their survival.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Drake saw Crawford and McKnight take up firing positions close to the compound. That was their signal to move. He looked at Keegan and gave a simple nod, pulling himself to his feet again.

  They had covered about 40 yards before they were spotted. Bullets whizzed past, slamming into the ground and showering them with dirt and fragments of rock. There was no way to avoid such things; they just had to keep running and hope that luck was with them.

  Sighting several muzzle flashes off to their left, Drake raised his P90, took aim and put down half a dozen shots on their position. The kick of the weapon in his shoulder was a familiar sensation, and instinctively he adjusted his aim with each shot to allow for the recoil. At least one of his shots found its mark, and he heard an agonised scream as his target went down.

  ‘Go! Get in there!’ Crawford yelled as both men rushed past and into the compound. ‘You too, McKnight.’

  He was about to fall back himself when something slammed into his left shoulder. It hit hard – hard enough to spin him around. Caught off balance, he fell to his knees and looked down, noting with a kind of hazy detachment the bloody hole in his shoulder.

  ‘Shit …’

  Keegan was first in through the door to the compound, sweeping his sub-machine gun from left to right in search of a target. The big open area, about 40 feet square, seemed to be deserted. The walls were simple mud brick, cracked and worn by long years of exposure to the elements.

  There had once been a roofed dwelling set against the west wall, but it had long since collapsed, taking a portion of the outer wall with it. All that remained were piles of rubble.

  ‘Clear,’ he hissed.

  Drake was next in.

  ‘Keegan, take position … by that breach,’ he gasped, backing up against the solid cover of the stone wall, sweating and breathing hard as McKnight hurried past.

  Nobody followed her.

  Drake’s stomach lurched. Reaching out, he grabbed the woman by the arm. ‘Where’s Crawford?’

  ‘He … he was right behind me.’

  Rushing back to the entrance, Drake peered out into the winding, arid river bed they’d just sprinted along. In the darkness, it was hard to make out details amongst the rocks and straggling bushes.

  Then, at last, he saw what he was looking for, and felt his blood run cold.

  Encased within an armoured panic room at the core of the Horizon building, with its own independent air supply, phone lines and access strictly controlled by biometric safeguards, the security room was undoubtedly one of the safest places in Kabul, if not the entire country.

  No unauthorised personnel could get in or out.

  Three operatives were manning the room, their eyes glued to the bank of monitors facing them. Fully twenty surveillance cameras covered every possible approach to the compound, with intercom links to the four permanently manned guard towers and secure radio comms with any roving patrols they had set up. Even the rooftop heliport was covered.

  Nonetheless, despite all these safeguards, the mood in the room was fraught with tension. Each man was well aware of the explicit orders that had come direct from Carpenter himself. No one was to come within 50 yards of their perimeter.

  And Carpenter was not a man to look kindly on failure.

  Glancing up at the clock, Frank Wilson, the acting head of security, hit the intercom to connect him with his roving security teams.

  ‘All sectors, check in.’

  ‘Sector One, all clear.’

  ‘Sector Two, clear.’

  ‘Sector Three, we’re clear.’

  As the security operative for sector 3 gave his brief report, the door behind him eased open and a figure slipped silently out into the corridor, stealing towards him with the sinewy grace of a predator born to end lives. Momentarily preoccupied with his radio, he neither saw nor heard what was coming for him.

  The instant he let go of his radio, strong hands clamped over his mouth, yanking his head back with vicious force. He felt the cold steel of a blade pressed against his throat.

  ‘Drop your weapon,’ a voice whispered in his ear. It was cold and hard, yet too high-pitched to be a man. ‘Drop it now or you die.’

  The blade pressed in tighter, slicing the skin. Warm blood flowed down his throat and instinctively he tried to pull away from the knife, but that only caused it to press in harder.

  Resistance would mean death. Even in his state of shock and fear, he realised that and released his grip on the carbine, allowing it to clatter to the floor.

  ‘I will take my hand away now,’ the voice informed him. ‘If you try to call for help, you die. Cooperate and you will live.’

  Definitely a woman. How the fuck could a woman have gotten the better of him like this? And how the hell had she even managed to get in here?

  The gloved hand was removed from his mouth, though the knife remained firmly in place. Any attempt to cry out would result in the blade being thrust into his windpipe.

  ‘Where is the security room?’

  ‘What—’

  Suddenly the knife switched position, moving up to his face, the tip pressing into the skin of his lower eyelid. Her other hand clamped around his jaw, preventing him from twisting his head aside.

  ‘Let me make this simple. Each time you don’t answer, I will cut part of you away.’ The gleaming, wickedly sharp blade pressed deeper. ‘And they will be things you will miss. Do you believe me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, trembling, sick with fear. He didn’t doubt for a second that she would carve out both of his eyes without hesitation.

  ‘Good. Where is the security room?’

  ‘One floor up, main corridor, on the left.’

  ‘What is the access method?’

  ‘Biometric.’

  ‘Eye scanner?’

  He tried to shake his head, but immediately realised how unwise such a movement would be. ‘Fingerprint.’

  ‘Lucky for you.’

  The next thing he knew, both the knife and the gloved hand were withdrawn. He started to turn, but before he could act, something struck him hard at the base of his skull. White light flashed across his vision, his legs buckled and he went down.

  No sooner had he fallen than Anya hooked her hands beneath his armpits and dragged the unconscious man into the stairwell she had just emerged from.

  She was obliged to put the knife to work, though not to kill him. She had kept her promise on that account. Bound to a water pipe by the handcuffs she had escaped from earlier, the unconscious guard would live, though minus the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Those she took with her.

  She didn’t think he was lying about the biometric reader. But if so, she would know exactly where to find him.

  Raising her M4 once more, she hurried out into the corridor with Frost close behind. Anya knelt down, picked up the weapon dropped by the security guard and handed it to her companion.

  ‘You know how to use that, I assume?’ she asked without turning around.

  ‘I think I can manage,’ Frost replied in a sour tone, pulling back the priming handle to check that a round was chambered.

  With a faint smile, Anya glanced at her watch. Fifty-seven seconds until the next perimeter check.

  ‘Good. Follow me.’

  They had to hurry.

  Crawford had often wondered what it would feel like to be shot. During his time in Afghanistan he’d seen casualties brought in by evac chopper or Humvee, some moaning in pain, some crying and begging for help, others quiet and peaceful as if untroubled by their injuries. But in all his years in the service, he’d never experienced it himself.

  Now he had.

  It didn’t hurt as much as he’d expected. He could feel the tingling warmth of blood on his skin, and he sensed the for
ce of the impact as if someone had clouted him hard across the upper arm, but the pain hadn’t found him yet.

  He could hear voices over near the lip of the wadi, and looked up just as three Horizon operatives appeared out of the darkness, weapons up at their shoulders.

  Gritting his teeth with the effort, he raised the P90 with his good arm and opened fire. His closest target jerked as rounds slammed into him, some stopped by his body armour but others tearing through his flesh. Only when a round entered his skull just above his right eye did he fall back and collapse in a bloodied heap, while his companions threw themselves down to avoid a similar fate.

  It was just as well, because Crawford had expended the last of his ammunition.

  Dropping the useless weapon, he struggled to his feet and made a last desperate run for the compound. He was starting to feel the extent of his injuries now, every movement sending flashes of pain through his body. He closed his eyes, trying hard to ignore it as he struggled onward.

  Almost there.

  Unknown to him, he was being watched. Crouched behind a rocky outcrop on the other side of the river bed, Piet Vermaak raised his AK-47, took careful aim and loosed a single well-placed shot.

  He didn’t feel the impact right away, but he heard the dull wet thud as the round tore through his thigh, severing arteries and muscle. Unable to support himself, he collapsed to the ground with a groan of frustration, pain and despair.

  ‘He’s down,’ Vermaak spoke into his radio. It was almost too easy. ‘Move in.’

  He was down, and he knew he wouldn’t get up again. Judging by the size of the wound, he’d been hit by a 7.62mm AK round that had torn through his thigh muscles as it exited. Blood was pumping from the severed arteries.

  Groaning in pain, he rolled over to see the remaining two Horizon operatives coming for him. Knowing he was unarmed and no longer a threat, they didn’t hurry. They were waiting until they had a clear shot. They’d just seen him kill one of their comrades, and now they were out for revenge.

  His concentration was waning, his vision growing hazy. With a trembling hand, he reached for the side arm holstered at his hip, knowing even as he did so that he’d never make it. Even if he could find the strength to aim and fire the weapon, both men had the drop on him.

  He had heard that one’s life was supposed to flash before one’s eyes at a time like this, but no such thing happened for him. He wasn’t afraid. It had all happened too fast for that. His only thought was that he wasn’t ready to die.

  At that moment, the din of weapons fire cut through the air and both men went down, crumpling before his eyes under a hail of impacts.

  ‘Clear!’ he heard a voice yell. A British voice. Drake’s voice.

  ‘Got his fucking number,’ Keegan said as he knelt down and ejected the spent magazine from his weapon. He had emptied the remainder of his magazine into Crawford’s would-be killers.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Crawford asked, managing a pained grin as Drake knelt beside him. Wisps of smoke trailed from the barrel of his weapon.

  ‘Had to stop for a breather.’ He smiled back, but his smile vanished when he saw the extent of Crawford’s injuries. ‘Come on, mate. Let’s get you out of here.’

  The next thing Crawford knew, he was being hauled to his feet by Drake, with Keegan covering them. Pain lanced through him when he put weight on the injured leg. He stumbled, on the verge of blacking out, but Drake hauled him upright again.

  ‘Come on, get up. You still have to kick my arse for going AWOL, remember?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ he replied, stifling another groan of pain.

  With Drake half-dragging, half-carrying him, they staggered into the compound and collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. Crawford was pale, his face tight with pain, drawing fast, shallow breaths through clenched teeth.

  Drake forced himself up, ignoring the pain of his own injuries. ‘Keegan, cover the door.’

  ‘On it, buddy.’ He had already taken up position beside the doorway, though he was obliged to duck as another burst of AK fired traced its way along the wall, blasting away part of the frame.

  Drake jabbed a hand towards the gap in the west wall. ‘Sam, cover the breach.’

  Nodding, she rose up and hurried over, keeping low to avoid stray rounds.

  Drake, meanwhile, had turned his attention back to the injured man. He grabbed the torn fabric of Crawford’s trousers. ‘I’ve got to look at it.’

  The shoulder wound was still leaking blood at a steady rate, but it was unlikely to be fatal in the short term. The gunshot wound to his thigh was another story. Several big arteries ran through that area, and if one of them had been severed, he’d bleed to death in minutes.

  With a single jerk, he ripped the trouser leg apart, exposing the gory exit wound. A 7.62mm round doesn’t leave much to chance, and this was no exception, tearing apart Crawford’s quadriceps muscle on its way out. By the looks of things, it had also severed an artery. Blood was pumping out in time with his pulse.

  Crawford guessed his thoughts. ‘Doesn’t look good, does it?’

  Drake avoided his gaze. ‘We have to stop the bleeding.’

  Removing his belt, he wrapped it around Crawford’s leg, just above the wound. ‘This is going to hurt.’

  ‘What else is new?’ Taking a deep breath, he tensed up and gave a nod.

  He was as ready as he could be, but he couldn’t stifle a cry of pain as Drake pulled the makeshift tourniquet tight. Painful it might have been, but it was doing its job. The bleeding began to slow as the constricted arteries tried to force more blood through.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ he groaned, spitting on the ground. ‘That was fun.’

  Over by the doorway, Keegan shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make any goddamn sense. What are they waiting for?’

  Before Drake could reply, a bright flash lit the night air, followed by a thunderous boom that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them.

  ‘What was that?’ McKnight called out, unable to see from her position.

  Leaving Crawford for a moment, Drake ducked over to the doorway. Pillars of fire rose up into the night sky from the shattered wreck of the chopper, casting their baleful orange glow for hundreds of yards in all directions. Caught in thermal updraughts, pieces of burning paper fluttered up into the darkness like fireflies.

  ‘The chopper,’ Keegan replied. Crouched by the doorway, his craggy face was illuminated by the glow of burning aviation fuel. ‘It’s gone.’

  And they were next.

  Chapter 53

  The mood in the security centre was fraught with tension as operatives scanned the external security cameras, looking for any sign of approaching hostiles. So far, nothing.

  Wilson’s radio crackled into life. ‘Perimeter here, sir.’

  ‘Go,’ Wilson commanded.

  As instructed, he had dispatched most of his remaining men to cover the perimeter, particularly the breach now opened in the outer wall. Several men had also hurried forward with extinguishers, braving the fire and smoke to tackle the flames that were still raging.

  ‘It was the car we brought in,’ the crackly voice reported. ‘The thing went up like Hiroshima – must have been packed with explosives.’

  Wilson felt a knot of fear twist his guts. One of their patrols had been involved in a smash with a civilian vehicle apparently under the control of a drunk driver. When they had requested to bring her in and keep her in holding overnight, he had agreed without much thought. It had been an inconvenience, nothing more.

  He had even dispatched a truck to tow her crashed vehicle into the compound, knowing it would be stripped by looters before dawn if it was left unattended. Anyway, if they decided to press charges against her, they would need the vehicle as evidence.

  Only now did he see the crash for what it was – a ploy.

  Mere seconds after receiving the report, he keyed his radio. ‘Martinez, what’s the status of that detainee?’

  There was n
o response, save for the crackle of static.

  ‘Martinez, report.’

  At that moment, the electronic door locks clicked open as the biometric reader outside recognised an authorised thumbprint.

  Wilson spun in his chair as the armoured door slid open on its metal runners, moving with crisp precision to reveal the new arrival. And in a sudden, heart-stopping moment of absolute shock, Wilson found himself face to face with the detainee.

  Taking a step inside so that the automatic door could close behind her, Anya surveyed the room and did an immediate threat assessment. Three men in charge of the building’s security system, all armed with Glock 17 automatics, all staring at her in blank shock.

  She expected that to last another second or so. In situations like this, there was always one who acted without thinking; always one who had to be put down.

  Sure enough, the man on the furthest side of the room reached for his weapon. Without hesitation, Anya raised the M4 carbine, got a good sight picture of his head and pulled the trigger.

  There was a single, loud crack, followed by a wet crunch as the back of his head disintegrated in a spray of blood and bone. He went down immediately, toppling sideways in his chair, having never even managed to draw his weapon.

  She had the other two covered in a heartbeat.

  These two were smarter than their companion; smart enough to know that they didn’t want to meet a similar fate. Neither man moved a muscle.

  She knew she should kill them both. They were enemies, whether through choice or by sheer bad luck. They had seen her face, and subduing them would take precious time.

  But they were no threat to her now. It was likely they had no knowledge of or involvement in Horizon’s misdeeds. For all she knew, they could have wives, children, families. People depending on them. People who would mourn their deaths.

  It happened almost before she knew it.

  ‘If either of you want to see tomorrow, lie down on the floor with your hands behind your head,’ she instructed.

  Neither man was inclined to argue with that; not with a high-powered assault rifle pointed at them.