There was a hiss of air: the unmistakable sound of oxygen wheezing out of a collapsing windpipe, like an old tyre with a puncture. Porter twisted the knife around, letting it complete its deadly work, while at the same time keeping his hand gripped tight on the man’s mouth. He stifled a bolt of pain as his victim summoned up enough strength to bite into the palm of his hand, but that was the man’s last moment of resistance as the life drained out of him. Giving the blade a final twist, Porter made sure the windpipe was completely cut open, making it impossible for any air to get through to the brain. He removed his hand from the man’s mouth, and checked his pulse. Dead. He yanked his body back, lying him down flat on the ground.
No time to hide the body, he decided. The shifts could change at any moment, and as soon as someone came along, they would know the base was under attack and raise the alarm. They might even think they were under a full-scale assault from British special forces. If that was the case, so much the better. In the chaos, some kind of opportunity to escape might open up.
Porter pulled the knife free from the man’s throat, and wiped the blood away on the back of his jeans. You’ll taste more before this night is out, he told himself grimly.
He picked up the man’s handgun and tucked that into his jeans. A compact Browning M1900, Porter was familiar enough with how it worked. He walked swiftly across the meeting point. He knew where Hassad’s quarters were.
Porter turned into the corridor. The moment of truth has arrived, he told himself.
The light leading up to Hassad’s room was dim, but Porter’s eyes had already adjusted to the murky conditions, and he didn’t have any trouble identifying the right door. He laid his palm flat against it, and exerted the slenderest amount of pressure. It gave. Hassad slept with his door unlocked, the way Porter had figured he would. Soldiers didn’t bolt themselves in, especially when there was possibility of any enemy assault. They needed to be ready to move the moment an attack started: in the time it took them to unlock their doors, they might already be dead.
Porter held the knife in his hand, savouring the cold sharpness of its blade against his skin. If he could, he’d use that rather than the gun: a shot would alert the whole base, and there would be a dozen soldiers on top of him within seconds. He paused for a brief moment, controlling his breathing. He suddenly recalled Steve, Mike and Keith. He could see them laughing as they went into the battle. He could hear the jokes and the banter, and then the desperate commands as the action kicked off. And then he could recall the moment when he’d seen the three stretchers with white cloths covering them being carried out of the chopper. He remembered the funerals, and the moving tributes from their mates as the bodies were buried in the ground. And he could remember the looks of all the other guys in the base back at Hereford. The looks that said, ‘Here’s the bloke who let three of his mates die because he didn’t have the bollocks to finish off some raghead kid who was intent on killing the lot of them.’
OK, boys, Porter thought bitterly. It’s a bit late, I know. This is a cheque that should have been cashed years ago. But you’re about to get your payback on the bastard that killed you.
He pushed the door open. Hassad was lying on a simple straw mattress by one wall of the small room. In the corner there was a small candle floating in a pool of wax that filled the room with a pale light. He was still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt he wore during the day, although he’d kicked off his trainers and put them at the bottom of the mattress. Next to it, there was a paperback book in Arabic left half open and a tin cup of water. There was also an open packet of some kind of medicine although Porter couldn’t read at this distance what it was. His AK-47 was laid down flat on the straw right next to him. There was a knife as well. Under attack, he could reach for both within seconds. What was under the cushion he was using as a pillow Porter couldn’t tell. But it was more likely to be a pistol than a spare pair of pyjamas, he thought with a half-smile.
Porter had a fraction of a second. That was all the time available to determine success or failure. He kicked against the stone floor, and threw himself across the few metres that separated the doorway from the straw mattress.
He landed hard on top of Hassad. Immediately, the Arab woke up, looking straight at Porter, his eyes ablaze with anger. But it was too late. Porter was lying right across him. He was a big man, with at least a fifty-pound weight advantage on Hassad, and the sheer bulk of his body was pinning him down to the floor. Porter could feel a heady sense of elation surging through him. Almost as good as double vodka, he told himself. Right now, I’ve got this bastard exactly where I want him. And now he’s going to help me get Katie out of here.
Porter drew back his right hand just a few inches, hovering close to Hassad’s neck. His blade was sharp, it would only need the minimum of force to break open the man’s skin. His hand held steady and his eyes darted across the man’s body, scanning it the same way a butcher glances across a carcass, looking for the best places to cut up the meat. He could feel a surge of anger running through his veins. I’ve waited too long for this, he told himself grimly. Far too bloody long.
He jabbed the knife forwards, using the strength in his elbow. It collided with the skin, nicking open a cut, and suddenly the blade was crimson with blood. In the same moment, however, Hassad had rolled his head to one side, stretching enough of his neck muscles to deflect the worst of the attack. Porter was still lying flat on top of the man, crushing him into the straw bedding, and making it impossible for him to move. ‘Stay still, you murdering raghead scum,’ Porter spat viciously.
He could see the fear in the man’s eyes, and smell the sweat pouring off him. It was the same look he’d seen seventeen years ago, the one that had persuaded him to spare the life of a small frightened boy. But this time it was the expression of a man, not a kid, and rather than sympathy it aroused only contempt. This time you’re going to do exactly what I tell you, Porter thought. And no mistake.
‘You killed my mates after I spared your life. Now I’m going to kill you, you bastard. Now take it like a bloody man …’
Hassad bucked forward. He was desperately trying to loosen Porter’s vice-like grip on him, but the dead weight lying across his chest made it impossible for him to get up enough strength to free himself.
‘I didn’t kill anyone, I swear it,’ Hassad pleaded.
‘Don’t give me that bollocks, you Arab scum,’ Porter hissed. ‘I spared your life once before, and you took out three of my mates.’
‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ Hassad squealed.
‘You lying bastard.’
Porter drew his hand back the few inches necessary to skewer the knife into the man’s neck. He’d already scanned the flesh, and knew exactly where the windpipe was. With little more than a flick of the wrist he could sever the bastard’s life.
And this is the moment …
‘It was that man on television,’ said Hassad. ‘Collinson.’
Porter paused. ‘Who?’
‘The man on TV.’ Hassad’s body was wheezing with fear, and there was a foul stench of sweat all over him. ‘I recognised him. It was the same man on the raid, I swear it, and it was because of him the British soldiers died.’
‘You’re just a lying raghead scum,’ Porter growled. ‘You’re just trying to save your miserable skin. I bloody know it. Well, it’s not going to work, I tell you. I was going to kill you nice and quick, but now it’s going to be slow and bloody painful, just so you know not to start telling lies.’