A warrior, wearing a black turban, pushed his way through the jeering crowd into the clearing and harshly pulled Hopper up on to his knees.
Stratton recognised the fighter. It was the Saudi.
Sabarak shouted something at the crowd, almost taunting them. He released Hopper who remained on his knees, although he appeared unsteady. Like a man who had taken a severe beating. Sabarak grabbed the Chinese man by the hair and brutally yanked him up on to his knees. Another taunt to the crowd, which responded with a roar.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ Sabarak called to the skies, his arms outstretched.
‘Allahu Akbar!’ the crowd replied.
Stratton felt utterly helpless as he watched his partner, grimy and filthy, on his knees. Hopper’s face was bloody and swollen yet he remained upright and proud.
The Saudi addressed the crowd, who hushed enough to hear his ranting. They cheered each time he paused. Stratton felt surprised at how the man had achieved such an influential position so quickly. After a thunderous and climactic ovation, the mass of men went almost silent. The far side of the crowd from Stratton, nearest the trees, began to shuffle and part as a single voice cried out beyond them. A man, carrying a long, ornately ceremonial sword extended above his head, pushed through those not quick enough to move out of his way.
He entered the clearing and marched around the inner perimeter formed by the wall of men, angrily and enthusiastically brandishing the long thin blade.
The two prisoners remained where they were a few metres apart, oblivious to the swordsman parading around them.
Stratton glanced at the girl who was watching in cold horror. She looked at him for a second then back to the crowd.
If Hopper was about to be executed, Stratton could see no way out for him, not without including himself in the day’s list of attendees. The man with the sword walked the circle a couple of times, stirring up the mob. Fighters stepped forward to spit on the two prisoners, men they didn’t know and knew nothing about. Any one of the mob would have happily taken on the responsibility of killing the two foreigners. They didn’t care that the two had families, friends, people who loved them. All the mob possessed was pure hate. They borrowed it, taught it or imbibed it from their own friends and families.
It was obvious that Sabarak was exulting in the menace and hate. He had finally taken the leap that he had looked forward to for so many years. He was among the fighters, the frontline troops of the jihad. Had Stratton been there, Sabarak would have thanked the Englishman for getting him to Somalia to be among the warriors. The Saudi was already planning for the future. The Somali front of the war on the West would expand. He had made a significant contribution by facilitating the plan that would signal a new offensive outside of the Muslim hubs in East Asia, the Middle East, Afghanistan and other parts of the world. He had been a major contributor to the hijack of the missiles. It was a very proud day for him. He could hardly have been more pleased. The icing on the cake would have been Stratton. But he had that to look forward to. The fool Lotto had no idea who he was dealing with. Sabarak would simply march into the town one day soon and take whatever prisoners he felt like. And he would do to them whatever he wanted.
The jihadist came to a stop behind the Chinese man and slowly lowered the sword as he took the measure of the back of the man’s neck.
The hate-filled crowd became silent in excited anticipation.
The jihadist planted his feet and gripped the haft of the weapon, holding it firmly in his outstretched arms. Stratton could clearly see his face set into a determined grimace, his jaw clench in concentration. The jihadist shuffled his feet to widen his stance and slowly brought the sword up and back over his right shoulder. He held it there over the man whose head looked down and forward. The Chinese man had to be aware of what was happening, but he didn’t move. He stayed absolutely still, just the tiniest sway as he knelt.
The jihadist held the position for several seconds, then he brought the blade down with all of his strength. It cut deep into the man’s flesh and vertebrae. But the blade failed to sever the head completely, the edge of it jamming in the bone. The man fell forward and landed on his face and rolled limply on to his side. Blood began to flow from the partially severed arteries. The sword had penetrated his spinal cord and paralysed his lower body although it had not yet killed him.
The swordsman yanked out the blade and the crowd screamed as the man began to spasm. The girl looked away, unable to watch any more. The jihadist stepped quickly over him, hacking at the neck until the head came free. Then he leaned down and picked up the head by its hair and raised it high for all to see. The warriors roared again.
Stratton stared at the clearing, not so much seeing as thinking, his head buzzing with anguish and intention. The raising up of the head delivered him from inaction. He picked up his rifle and moved the safety catch down two clicks to the single-shot pos -ition. ‘Get ready to run,’ he said in a slow, determined voice.
The girl looked up at him. She looked towards the crowd. Then she looked back at him in horror. Panic spread across her face as she realised his intentions. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, talk some sense into him. But she knew it was futile. She had been with him for little more than a day and already knew him well enough.
The jihadist dropped the head on to the ground and turned his gaze to Hopper. He walked around the Englishman, blood dripping from his sword. Stratton did not take his eyes from his partner. When the swordsman stopped behind Hopper and planted his feet, the crowd fell quiet again.
Hopper by now had a very good idea of his fate. He remained on his knees, back straight, shoulders back, chin out, his jaw tight. Impossibly still. His bloodied jaw began to quiver and then clench.
The jihadist pushed Hopper’s head forward and down, then gripped the sword firmly. The way he shuffled and repositioned his feet suggested that he was determined to cut the head off with a single blow this time.
But Stratton had other plans for him.
The jihadist raised the sword over his head and held it as he had done before.
Stratton aimed the rifle. He prayed that the old carbine was accurate and that the piece of crap would fire.
The jihadist cocked the tip of the blade back a little, breathed in deep, gathered himself. He started his downward arc and Stratton squeezed the trigger of the Kalashnikov. The gun boomed in the operative’s hands disintegrating the silence and the round spat from muzzle to its target, jerking the jihadist’s head back as bloody detritus flew out of the exit hole and his body went limp. The sword fell from his hands into the dirt and he crumpled down on top of his own feet like a puppet that had had its strings cut.
The crowd seemed to freeze as it fought to comprehend what had just happened. Then as one they became aware that an enemy was somewhere on the slope above them. They reacted in panic, running in search of cover.
‘Go!’ Stratton shouted.
The girl scrambled up out of the cover of the rocks on to the incline.
Stratton adjusted his sights and quickly found Sabarak but men were running across his front. The Saudi was looking in his direction. Sabarak began to run as Stratton fired. The round smacked past the Saudi, grazing his shoulder before punching into the back of a fighter.
The crowd continued to disperse in every direction. Into the wood or to the foot of the slope. Which gave the girl the crucial seconds she needed to pull herself over the top of their position and get across the open ground. She cared nothing for the soles of her feet on the stony, dry ground, expecting a bullet to smash into her at any second. She fixed her eyes on the edge of the first ridge and ran for all she was worth.