‘Right,’ Jason said. He uncapped another gas can and began dousing Al-Zahrani and the mattress, trying to avoid breathing.
‘It’s a fucking shame, really,’ Meat said, motioning to Al-Zahrani.
‘How’s that?’ Jason said, pouring out the last of the gasoline.
‘We’re about to light up a ten-million-dollar barbecue. We actually bagged this fucker and now we’re going to destroy any proof of it. For the record, though, it’s not about the money, Google,’ Meat confessed. ‘I’m just glad this fucker’s dead. You know, for Camel and Jam.’
‘Me too, buddy,’ Jason said, patting him on the shoulder. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the camera he’d confiscated from the crash site. ‘But don’t worry, we’re going to show the world this guy’s toast.’
Meat smiled. ‘Awesome.’
Jason snapped a dozen photos of Al-Zahrani’s corpse, including close-ups of the face. ‘That should do it.’ He slipped the camera back into his pocket.
‘Show time,’ Meat said. He handed Jason one of the match-books he’d found in the downstairs kitchen. ‘I’ll give you the honour. I’ll take care of the other room. The downstairs is ready to go. We just need to light it on the way out.’
When Meat left, Jason set the gas can down and filed the image of Al-Zahrani in his memory. He peeled back the match-book’s cover, tore off a match and struck it.
‘Burn in Hell,’ Jason said.
He flicked the match on to the mattress.
66
‘Oh that is some nasty shit.’ Disgusted, Private Miguel Ramirez aimed his light down on the slippery red goop smeared over the rocks. Seeing that some of the slime was dangling between his fingers — long strands of black hair clumped together by mocha-coloured skin — stimulated his gag reflex. So he looked away, flung the fleshy chunks off his fingers, and wiped his hand clean on his pants.
‘Man up, Ramirez. We’ve got work to do,’ Shuster said.
The pallid marine slid down the steep rock pile and cycled a few calming breaths.
‘You good?’ Shuster asked.
‘I’m good,’ Ramirez unconvincingly replied. He pulled the M-16 off his shoulder and slid the flashlight into the mounting clip on the rifle’s muzzle.
‘All right,’ Shuster said. ‘I’ll take the lead. Ramirez, you’re behind me … then Holt.’ He turned to address the surprisingly resolute Kurd, whose primary concern seemed to be the handgun, which he handled as if it were on fire. But the man had plenty more to worry about, because up close in the glow of the flashlight, Shuster now noticed how pale Hazo looked. The tiny veins in his eyes now formed a web of red around his irises. It wasn’t the most opportune time to come down with a cold. ‘Hazo, you’ll be in the rear. Keep a safe distance, and if for some reason we have company in here, don’t wait around to ask questions. Just make it out as fast as you can. Understand?’
Hazo nodded.
‘You remember how to use the gun?’ he said pointing to the M9.
‘I do.’ The words brought a scratchy tickle to the back of Hazo’s throat. He buried his mouth in his sleeve and coughed to alleviate the discomfort. He could feel a tightness settling into his lungs.
‘All right. Here we go.’ Shuster used his sleeve to mop the sweat from his eyes, then directed his M-16 straight down the tunnel. The muzzle-mounted flashlight cut four metres into the darkness, revealing solid rock. He felt like he was staring into the entrance to Hell itself. Even with all his military training and field experience, he wasn’t prepared for a hostile encounter in this environment. Should an enemy be lurking in the shadows, there’d be no choice but to face him head on — no cover, nowhere to run. The light would provide plenty of warning to anyone hunkered down in the darkness, mark a clear target even for a novice shooter. The weighty Kevlar-lined flak jacket that covered Shuster’s chest offered little solace, feeling like nothing more than tissue paper. And at close range, he felt that his combat helmet would shield his skull no better than a Tupperware bowl.
Shuster set off down the passage. The tunnel ran straight for fifteen metres and felt perfectly level underfoot. With the scuffing of boots and the clattering of gear, it was difficult for him to hear anything. So every few metres, he’d signal for the procession to stop. Then he’d listen for any sounds that might be emanating from within the mountain. When all went still, however, the only noise he detected was the wheezing sounds coming from Hazo’s chest.
Fifteen minutes had elapsed since they’d left the entry point forty metres back. The ground began to gradually pitch downward as the passage narrowed and began curving in a wide arc.
As they went deeper, the cool air got thinner.
The passage straightened again, just before the ceiling seemed to disappear. When Shuster aimed his light upward, he felt like he was staring up from the bottom of a crevasse — as though a colossal axe had cleaved the inside of the mountain. Instead of opening into sunlight, however, the sheer walls tapered gradually inward until fusing once more about ten metres up.
Shuster halted the procession once more to listen for activity.
This time, he thought he heard something. And it wasn’t the Kurd’s stuffy chest. The lofty ceiling was amplifying a sound that seemed to be carrying up from inside the mountain.
‘What the hell is that?’ Ramirez whispered.
‘Don’t know,’ Shuster said. The persistent churning sounds were difficult to place, but didn’t seem to indicate a human source. ‘Maybe an underground water source. Like an aquifer or an underground river.’ He pressed forward.
‘Wait,’ Ramirez protested.
Shuster stopped and turned back to the private. ‘What?’
‘That doesn’t sound like water to me. I don’t like it.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Shuster said, motioning ahead. But Ramirez wasn’t moving.
‘I say we tell Crawford to go fuck himself. Let him send his robot down there.’
‘Hey!’ Holt interrupted. ‘I saw something moving up there.’
Shuster spun and took aim with his M-16. He swung the light side to side, up and down. Ahead, the passage was still.
‘Oh that’s it,’ Ramirez said, repeatedly looking back the way they’d come. ‘I’m getting the fuck out of here.’
‘No you’re not,’ Shuster said. Shaking and fidgeting like a caffeine junky, Ramirez clearly had an extreme case of jitters. ‘Pull yourself together, will you?’
Hazo shimmied past Holt, saying, ‘Excuse me, please.’
Confused, Ramirez backed up to the wall to let the Kurd through. ‘Where are you going?’
Hazo didn’t answer. When he tried to squeeze past Shuster, the corporal grabbed him by the arm, saying, ‘Hold up, Hazo.’ He glanced back at Ramirez. ‘I’m not about to send our interpreter to do your job. Ramirez, be a man for God’s sake.’ He patted Hazo on the shoulder and motioned for him to return to the back of the line. ‘We’re got a plan. Let’s stick to it. Stop wasting time.’
Shuster raised his M-16 and moved forward.
‘You’re a pussy, Ramirez,’ Holt said, giving the dissenter a prodding push.
‘Fuck you. You would’ve been right behind me and you know it.’
67
‘Thanks for getting here so fast,’ Jason yelled to Candyman over the sound of the Blackhawk’s whirling blades. Once in the helicopter, he buckled his harness, tightened the chin strap on his flight helmet and adjusted the mic boom on his headset. Next to him, Meat fussed with slackening the shoulder straps to accommodate his bulk.
‘No problem,’ Candyman said. ‘It was easy to find you. That’s a mighty big fire you boys lit up. Could practically see it the second I got up in the air. Didn’t even have to bother with the GPS.’ He motioned to the ravaged outline of the safe house, engulfed in orange fire. A column of thick black smoke boiled straight up from the conflagration into the windless sky before melding into the night.