Hard-on turned to Mac, pointed to himself and held up one fi nger.
He would go fi rst. Pointed at Mac, held up two. Mac was backup.
Hard-on slid into the next room. It was darker, sheets over windows. Two camp beds, one on either side of the room. Walkway down the middle. On the left, an Indonesian man was asleep on his side, facing away from Mac and Hard-on. The other bloke was sleeping on his back, snoring, fatigues on, boots by the bed, M4 leaning against the wall.
Hard-on took two strides to the guy in his fatigues, clapped a gloved hand fi rmly over mouth and nose and slit his throat, all in one movement. He didn’t hesitate, made two strides to the guy under the sheet, who made a humming sound – like he was waking up next to his girlfriend – and Hard-on did the same thing to him, except he entered the bloke’s neck from the side, taking the carotid artery direct.
Total silence. No more snoring, no more breathing. The white sheet was now dark and shiny. The bloke hadn’t moved from his sleeping position. The other bloke hadn’t even opened his eyes.
Hard-on stood up too abruptly, the M4 clattering briefl y on his webbing. They paused. Mac’s wrist had almost seized up in the cup-and-saucer position. Nine-millimetre handguns actually had a decent amount of kick and with the suppressor hanging off the end, he was scared his wrist wouldn’t be able to deal with it.
His breathing was plain embarrassing. Special forces blokes lived, slept, ate and trained together, and after a while their breathing got synchronised. So Mac knew Hard-on was probably spooked by the ragged, gasping sound coming from the intel guy. He could imagine the Green Beret having a beer with his boys after this was over, saying something like, ‘That Pizza Man – he asthmatic or some shit?’
Hard-on put the Ka-bar in his webbing scabbard, brought his M4 up to his eye line again. Pointed. Now they were looking at another doorway, this one with an actual door in it.
Hard-on made a gesture with his hand to show he wanted a low-high team for entry. He wanted Mac covering left, he would cover right.
Mac crouched on one knee in front of the door knob. It was an away-swinging door. Hard-on was in standing marksman pose straight over the top of him. If there were people on the other side, they would look up and see the profi le of one man. Less to aim at.
Mac went to turn the knob, an old brass number, nice and worn and quiet. His breathing was now coming so fast and shallow that it reminded him of what he was like after a fi fteen-minute session with the jumprope at the gym.
He shook it off. Sweat fell onto his forearm. Took a deep breath.
Exhaled. Pushed the door in, brought the SIG up to eye line. His heart thumped in his temples, throbbed at the lump on his head, roared in his ears.
The door opened into a long corridor with doors and rooms. This was not what Mac wanted. It was gloomy but he reckoned there were at least three rooms off the corridor. The only good part? Not all of them had doors.
Hard-on and Mac moved forward, Hard-on in the lead.
Same routine for the fi rst door. Mac kneeling, Hard-on standing.
Door swung open with a creak. They took it in. Moonlight came in the large sash window, a naked Asian man lay on the only bed. The bloke lifted his head, opened his mouth in surprise.
Mac rose, SIG ready, levelled the suppressor and was about to fi re.
Heard Hard-on say, ‘No.’ Then saw why.
There was a woman behind the bloke.
Naked, blonde, and out to it.
CHAPTER 13
Mac hesitated, then lowered the SIG so it was at hip-height and popped the Asian man in the forehead.
Blood sprayed on the girl, but he was pretty sure he’d missed her with the slug.
The sound of voices and feet hitting fl oorboards came from next door. Urgent commands.
Hard-on keyed the throat mic. ‘Sonny, shit’s started. Bring it.
Bring it now.’
Almost immediately the staccato sound of short-burst machine gun fi re came from further down the building. Glass smashed and someone screamed. Shots fi red back, echoing inside the building.
Hard-on said, ‘Get the girl.’ Then he went to the doorframe, stood beside it and fi red in short bursts down the hallway. The air fi lled with thumps and male fear.
Mac knelt on the bloody bed, pulled the dead guy off the girl.
Two rounds came through the wall above him. He was full-on panting now, muttering to himself. The girl was Judith Hannah, he was sure. She was naked and from the breasts up she was covered in blood. There were bits of brain and bone in her hair.
She was tied to the bed head with cargo ties, both wrists, both ankles. He tried to get them loose. Reached for his own Ka-bar, fumbled, dropped the knife. He was not handling this well. Then he realised there was no response from Hannah.
‘Judith – how are you?’ He picked up the Ka-bar and slashed the ties on her wrists.
No response.
Panting, gulping and muttering like a madman, Mac checked for a pulse on her inside wrist. Pressed three fi ngers close to the bone.
Got it in one. Drugged? Catatonic?
He gave her a soft slap on the left cheek. Her eyes didn’t open.
‘Judith – talk to me!’
The shooting went on around him. He slashed the ankle ties.
Hard-on popped shots like a robot and yelled, ‘How we going, Pizza Man?’
‘Almost there.’
‘Where’s the other girl?’ shouted Hard-on before shooting again.
‘She’s not in here, mate,’ he yelled over the gunfi re.
He knew Hard-on would avoid fi ring in a downward trajectory until they knew where the younger girl was. Mac looked around in the gloom and realised he hadn’t looked behind the door. He pulled it away from the wall and looking straight back at him were big dark eyes under a fringe; a cuddly blanket clutched into a naked chest.
Total fear.
Minky’s girl, alive.
Splinters of doorframe fl ew into the room.
Hard-on yelled, ‘Fuck!’ and staggered in, clutching at his right bicep. ‘Fuck it!’
Minky’s girl screamed.
Mac leapt up, took a crouch at the doorframe. Two men down the end of the corridor were laying down indiscriminate fi re. It whistled around, sliced through the wooden walls, tore strips off the plaster ceiling. There were two sounds: loads fi ring and the building being torn apart. Mac pulled back in.
The radio crackled. ‘Blue team, this is Red. Ten more tangos from another building. We’re bogged down. Can you hang on?’
Hard-on winced, growled at his pain. Keyed the mic, said, ‘Red team this is Blue – we have both targets. Repeat both targets. We need cover. We need it now. Over.’
Radio contact ceased.
Hard-on took his hand away from his bicep. It was a mess. The shirt was torn and blood was seeping into it as Mac watched.
‘It’s a fl esh wound,’ said Hard-on. ‘But a bad one.’
‘Can you cover me if I get the girls?’ asked Mac.
Hard-on nodded, reloaded, moved back to the splintered doorframe. The shooting had died down. They were probably waiting to see if it was safe to approach. Hard-on did a quick peek, then pulled back.
Mac went to the bed, dragged Hannah up to a sitting position.
Kneeling on the fl oor he pushed her arms up, pulled them over his left shoulder and her body followed. He wrapped his left arm around the back of her knees and when he stood she hung limp down his back.
He turned for Minky’s girl. She would have to run.
Hard-on counted his fi ve then leapt into the corridor, laying down fi re. Mac would have maybe ten seconds to make a dash for it with the girls, before the return fi re came back twice as hard.
Smiling at Minky’s girl, he put his hand out.
She shook her head.
Mac smiled harder, wiggled his hand, tried to grab her wrist.