Shadow Kill: A Strikeback Novel

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Over there,’ Bald said, appearing at Porter’s shoulder. ‘Another twenty X-rays. East of us.’

  Porter looked in the direction his mucker was pointing, shading his eyes against the rising sun. Six hundred metres east a second group of rebels was streaming towards the hotel from the direction of the roundabout. The black shapes of several slaughtered civilians dotted the ground either side of the Cape Road. Half of the second group of rebels hurried along the Cape Road, racing after the first group of rebels to the east. The other half broke south and charged across the open ground towards the eastern side of the hotel.

  ‘More coming this way,’ one of the Belgians to the south cried.

  Porter looked towards the Belgian. He had a shock of blond hair in a widow’s peak, muscles like granite, and skin so bronze it looked spray-on. The guy looked like Dolph Lundgren’s long-lost twin.

  ‘How many?’ Porter asked.

  Spray-Tan strained his eyes. ‘I count at least fifteen.’

  Porter hurried over for a better look. He spotted a tight cluster of rebels manoeuvring in a loose formation through the barren field three hundred metres south of the hotel. They were heading for the low wall backing onto the swimming pool and tennis courts at the rear of the hotel grounds.

  Porter thought, Twenty rebels to the north. Twenty more to the east. Fifteen to the south. At least fifty-five rebels in total. With more on the way, judging from the shooting and voices in the distance.

  And there’s only eight of us.

  He tensed his neck muscles and turned to the other guys.

  ‘This is what we’re gonna do. We’ll work in pairs.’ He pointed at Nilis. ‘You’ll go with Bob Tully and take the east. Take two of the Belgians with you. The other two can cover the south. Jock, you’re with me,’ Porter added, turning to Bald. ‘We’ll take the north. That way we’ll have all the approaches covered.’

  Bald smiled grimly. ‘About time we gave these pricks a good kicking.’

  Porter turned back to the Belgians. ‘Kill anything with two legs and a weapon. We’ve got the advantage of surprise, since the rebels won’t have spotted us yet. Make those early rounds count.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Nilis, giving a thumbs-up and smiling. Bald rolled his eyes at the guy.

  ‘One more thing,’ Porter said, looking at each of the other Belgians in turn. ‘Keep an eye out for any fuckers packing RPGs.’ He tipped his head at Nilis. ‘Your mates know what an RPG looks like?’

  ‘Yes. We used them in training before. Don’t worry, we know what to look for.’

  ‘Good. You see an X-ray carrying one, you make sure you put them down. They’re the main threat. The AKs only fire 7.62mm short. At this range they won’t be able to do much damage. But if they get one of them RPGs on target, anyone inside the hotel room won’t stand a fucking chance.’

  There was no need for Nilis to translate. His four mates all spoke decent English and understood Porter’s instructions. They swiftly divided into two pairs and spread out across the rooftop, lugging their SLRs and spare clips. Tully and Nilis raced over to the section of the parapet overlooking the north-east corner of the hotel, facing out towards the roundabout, with one pair of Belgians setting up shop at the south-east corner. Spray-Tan and the fourth Belgian took up their positions on the south side of the rooftop. Porter and Bald turned back to the north-facing wall and peered down at the Cape Road. The first wave of rebels were three hundred and fifty metres from the hotel now. All twenty of them were rushing across the main road, showing no caution, gesturing at the access road with their machetes and assault rifles. Any half-decent soldiers would have been making their approach behind cover, thought Porter. But these guys weren’t trained operators, he reminded himself. They were rapists and thieves and murderers. They weren’t technically minded. All they wanted to do was kill the civvies trapped inside the hotel.

  Not today.

  As he watched, half a dozen of the rebels surged ahead of their mates. Four of them were clutching AK-47 rifles. The fifth guy wore a replica Liverpool shirt with HESKEY on the back, and shouldered an RPG launcher. A sixth rebel wearing a pink skirt ran close behind the guy with the RPG. He was carrying a bag of spare rockets for the launcher. The lead group of rebels were three hundred metres from the front of the hotel now. Porter pointed them out to Bald.

  ‘I’m gonna drop the one with the RPG,’ he said calmly. ‘Get him wriggling. I’ll slot his mate too. Then you light the rest of the fuckers up.’

  ‘Roger that, mate.’

  Bald looked on whilst Porter hefted up the SLR and tugged on the bolt handle located on the right-hand side of the receiver. The SLR ker-chacked as the first round of 7.62 milli shunted into the chamber. Porter tucked the stock tight to his right shoulder, with his legs shoulder-width apart and his left arm directly under the rifle supporting its weight. Resting his cheek on the receiver, he peered down the rear iron sighting post and lined up the rebel in the Heskey shirt. The one with the RPG. He was the most immediate threat, because a badly-aimed rocket could do a lot more damage than a badly aimed burst of ammo. Heskey was racing to catch up with his mates several metres further ahead of him, with the rebel in the pink skirt running close behind. Porter relaxed his right shoulder, slid his index finger onto the trigger. Rested the sights on Heskey’s groin. Porter didn’t want to kill the rebel. A head-shot would merely send the other five rebels running for cover. Which was not ideal, because moving targets were always trickier to hit than static ones. But if he wounded the rebel, one of the other guys would automatically rush over to help. Simple guerrilla warfare tactics, perfected by the Viet Cong against US troops.

  He took a deep breath.

  Exhaled.

  Fired.

  The SLR made a satisfying crack as the first round spat out of the snout. The spent jacket flung out of the ejector and landed a few feet away to Porter’s right. Down on the main road, Heskey folded at the waist as the round smacked into his balls.

  ‘Target down,’ Porter reported, keeping his voice flat and steady. Like a surgeon giving instructions during an operation. All of his mental and physical energies concentrated on making sure he achieved the maximum kill rate.

  Heskey released his grip on the RPG and fell to the tarmac in the middle of the Cape Road, squirming in agony and screaming to the others for help. The bait was set. Now I just need someone to take it.

  The four rebels ahead of the wounded rebel stopped dead in their tracks and glanced around the hotel, looking for the direction the shot had come from. Several metres behind them, the guy in the pink skirt dropped the bag of rockets and bolted forward. His instincts were kicking in. He wouldn’t have a clue where the shot had come from, Porter knew. The guy probably wasn’t even aware a shot had been fired. But he would have seen his mucker tumble to the ground, and his first instinct would be to go over and help his mate. His second instinct would be to pick up the RPG launcher and get off a shot in revenge. It was basic human psychology.

  Porter hovered the SLR sights over the injured rebel and waited for the guy in the pink skirt to rush over. He was unnaturally calm and focused. He was in control of the situation. Setting the stage for the next shot, directing the action.

  Waiting for the target to make himself static.

  Porter counted to two. He watched the second rebel move directly into his sights.

  The guy stopped. Reached down for the RPG launcher.

  Then Porter pulled the trigger again.

  The SLR kicked up. There was a puff of bright red behind the rebel’s head. Or what was left of it. The guy jerked and did the dead man’s dance. He dropped like a marionette with the strings cut, landing next to the wounded rebel.

  The four rebels ahead saw their friend’s head explode and simultaneously turned towards the rooftop, hefted up their rifles and returned fire. They didn’t bother to aim properly. They just emptied bursts in the general direction the shooting was coming from. The rounds struck harmlessly wide and low of P
orter and Bald’s positions.

  ‘Nail those fuckers, Jock,’ Porter said.

  ‘About fucking time,’ Bald said.

  He stepped into view at Porter’s right, squeezed the bipod legs together and folded them into the clip on the underside of the barrel. Bald propped the gun on the top of the breeze-block parapet, and adjusted the dial for the sights. Then he pressed the safety button above the pistol grip, switching it from SAFE to FIRE. Down on the Cape Road, the four rebels who had been returning fire ran for cover at the slum dwellings north of the road. Bald depressed the trigger. The gimpy made a deep thunderous roar, blasting Porter’s eardrums. Like a chainsaw cutting through a car engine. The GPMG muzzle flashed. The first couple of two-round bursts fell short of the targets by nine or ten metres. The fifth round was the tracer. The marking round. Guiding the shooter towards the targets. It scorched through the air like a bright red arrow pointing to treasure on a map, leaving a puff of smoke on the ground.

  The four rebels in the lead group ran on, straining every sinew to reach cover. Like sprinters leaning forward at the finishing line. They were fast. But not fast enough. Bald followed the line of the tracer. Adjusted his elevation. Aimed.

  The rebels were ten metres from the slums when he let rip again.

  Bald unloaded a dozen rounds at the rebels in two quick bursts. At eight hundred metres a burst from the GPMG was capable of smashing through solid brick walls. At less than half that distance, the rebels didn’t stand a chance. The bullets literally chopped one guy in half, severing his torso at the waist in a spray of blood and viscera. The brass punched holes the size of Coke cans in another target, the velocity of the rounds sucking his guts out through his exit wounds. Bald kept firing. The other two rebels disappeared in a cloud of dust and blood and bone fragments.

  Porter turned his attention to the other rebels in the first wave, fifty metres further east. Some of them saw their mates getting slotted and ran for cover at the banana plantation north of the Cape Road. One rebel with a bright-yellow beanie hat dropped to a knee beside the road then aimed his RPG launcher at the rooftop. Bald raked him down with a four-round burst before he could fire. The impact knocked the guy off his feet, his right arm jerked up and his finger automatically depressed the trigger. The RPG hissed out of the launcher and burred across the road, thumping into a vehicle parked at the side of the street. The backblast from the RPG engulfed the rebel immediately behind the target, tearing at his flesh and ripping off his left leg at the knee. One of his mates heard his screams, rushed over and started to drag the wounded rebel away from the kill zone. Porter put a round through the guy’s groin and watched him keel over, writhing in agony on the ground. He kept the sights trained on the wounded rebel. Looking to see if any of his mates came to the rescue. But none of the rebels emerged from cover. They had learned their lesson. They had seen what happened to the last guy who tried to help his injured mate, and wisely decided to stay out of sight behind the banana trees. They were getting plenty of on-the-job training today.

  Nine targets down, Porter thought.

  Forty-five left.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see how the other guys were getting on. Over on the eastern side of the parapet, Tully and Nilis were putting down a steady burst of rounds on the rebels advancing from the direction of the roundabout. The pair of Belgians stationed at the south-east corner were dropping the targets trying to make their approach from the direction of the athletics track. Spray-Tan and the fourth Belgian knocked down the rebels advancing from the direction of the barren field to the south of the hotel. The Belgians were communicating with one another in their own language, operating like a separate entity from the other guys. Their shots were striking the enemy with impressive regularity, Porter noticed. None of the Belgians showed any sign of fear or nerves at the situation they were facing. Like pros, he thought.

  Nilis took another shot and pumped a fist in delight at scoring a kill. He looked over at Porter and gave him the thumbs-up, grinning with delight.

  ‘Prick,’ Bald muttered under his breath.

  ‘He can Fucking shoot, though.’

  ‘So can his mates.’

  ‘I thought they were supposed to be rusty,’ Porter said.

  Bald shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re not labourers.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe they’re with the Belgian military. Maybe they’re special forces. Either way, I couldn’t give a toss. As long as they know how to fire a weapon.’

  Porter looked back to the north and trained his sights on the banana plantation. He caught sight of four enemies scuttling forward from the treeline, running low while their mates at the trees put down covering fire. The rebels were making for the slum dwellings to the west, Porter realised. The reckless bursts from their muckers at the plantation landed well short, hitting the front of the hotel several floors below the rooftop. These guys might have the upper hand in numbers and firepower, he thought. But they can’t shoot for shit.

  ‘Movement,’ he said to Bald. ‘One o’clock. Four X-rays, heading for the slums.’

  ‘I see the bastards.’

  Bald zeroed in on the targets and put down a rapid series of two- and three-round bursts with the gimpy. The bullets thudded into the ground, throwing up geysers of smoke and dirt, forcing the rebels to turn around and head back for the trees in an attempt to escape the blistering gunfire. Porter dropped one guy wearing a Chicago Bulls jersey, nailing him in the leg. The man fell forward, pawing at his rag-order ankle as he screamed at his mates for help. He was still crying when Porter put a single round in the back of his head. His skull exploded in a shower of gristle and brain matter. Porter cut down a second, lanky guy wearing shades before he could scramble for cover, firing twice and nailing him in the upper back. He fell away, the shades tumbling from his face. Bald arced the gimpy across and pulverised the other two retreating rebels, their bodies thrashing wildly as the rounds smashed into them, severing another of the targets at the waist in a glistening bright red shower of entrails.

  ‘More X-rays incoming!’ Tully shouted. ‘Three o’clock. Thirty of ’em, six hundred metres away.’

  ‘Great,’ Bald muttered. ‘Just what we fucking need.’

  Just then a muzzle flashed at Porter’s twelve o’clock. In the next instant a volley of bullets struck much closer to the rooftop, six of them striking the air-conditioning duct two metres to Porter’s left, glancing off the metal sheeting and making a din like a thousand hammers banging against a lead pipe. Porter arced his sights across the road and glimpsed another flash coming from the side of the garage west of the treeline. As he watched, three more rebels crept out from behind the banana trees snaked around to the back of the garage before he could line up a shot.

  They’re changing their tactics, Porter realised. They know they’re getting walloped whenever they set foot on the main road. Now they’re trying to sneak around us instead. He pointed the garage out to Bald.

  ‘X-rays on the move. Three hundred metres to the front. The building with the blue roof. Get some rounds down on the fuckers.’

  ‘With fucking pleasure, mate.’

  Bald trained the GPMG sights on the dwelling. Two shooters fired rounds at the rooftop before ducking out of sight. The rebels figured they were safe behind the side wall of the garage. They were wrong. Bald emptied ten three-round bursts at the wall, aiming for a point midway up, roughly level with the enemies’ torsos. The bullets chewed through the concrete as if it was made out of papier-mâché, punching a hole in the wall a foot in diameter and knocking down the rebels hidden behind like they were bowling pins in an alley. The targets collapsed in a tangle of limbs and clothes.

  Five more rebels scurried forward from the plantation to the garage. Two of them stopped to fire their rockets at the rooftop before they ducked behind cover. The rockets corkscrewed way off target and burred high over Bald and Porter’s heads before whistling into the distance. Bald dropped both of the rebels with
the gimpy. Bullets tore through the concrete wall, riddling the targets with hot lead.

  ‘How many more of these fuckers are there?’ he said.

  Porter had no answer to that. He faced forward and searched for his next target. The rebels were definitely acting more cautiously now, he thought. They were shrinking behind cover as much as possible, loosing off bursts at the rooftop. But they were still crap shots. They were still operating in small, uncoordinated gangs rather than attacking the hotel in an organised military pattern. As long as they keep this up, thought Porter, we’ve got a chance of holding them at bay.

  But if someone with proper military experience takes command of this lot, we’re in fucking trouble.

  A three-round burst walloped into the parapet six inches to his left, flinging hot dust into his face. Porter looked for the tell-tale flash of the muzzle to identify the shooter. Caught a glimpse of the guy in the periphery of his vision, crouching by the wall of one of the derelict structures at his one o’clock. The guy stepped back behind cover before Porter could get a shot off. Porter didn’t panic. He just kept his hands steady, trained the SLR’s iron sight at the spot where he’d last seen the rebel. Racked the handle just enough to cock the hammer, and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Two seconds later, the guy popped his head out from the side of the dwelling. He was still hefting up his AK-47 when Porter squeezed the trigger in a smooth, controlled movement, keying into thousands of hours he’d spent on the field firing ranges in Brecon. A hot tongue of flame licked out of the SLR snout. There was a spray of red mist behind the target as the bullet bored through the man’s skull before exiting out of the back of his head. Like someone shaking a bottle of Veuve Clicquot then uncorking it.

  Now Porter glimpsed two more rebels scuttling around the back of the banana trees. They were heading towards the easternmost dwelling, taking the place of their slotted mate. He swept the SLR across, lined up the first guy in the metal sights, and nailed him in the chest. The target was still falling away as Porter emptied two rounds in the back of the second rebel moments before he reached cover. The guy tumbled forward, blood spraying out of his exit wounds in bright red torrents.