10
Quraishi watched the body fall from the balloon with impotent horror. He knew it wasn’t the American agent; he could see the rope used by the pilot for support fluttering now in the breeze, and it was clear that nobody was holding it any longer.
There was only one body; which meant that somehow, the agent must still be clinging to the basket. And, realizing now the utter single-mindedness of his opponent, Quraishi understood that the next thing that would happen was that the man would climb up into the basket.
And then what?
His plan — so many years in the making — was just about to reach fruition. And while he didn’t strictly need to be involved from this point on — everything would go ahead just as well, just as lethally, without him — he felt the need to see the results of his endeavours.
He wanted to see the West crushed beneath his feet, he wanted to see his beloved Arab homeland as a free country again, no longer dominated by a corrupt, hated monarchy.
He wanted to see it, and he wasn’t prepared to let this insignificant insect, this dog of an American, spoil his enjoyment.
He breathed deeply, preparing himself for combat.
Allah would be with him, and he knew this would give him the courage necessary for the fight that was surely to come.
Cole’s muscles were burning now, the lactic acid building up in his shoulders, forearms and fingers to excruciating levels as he held onto the metal frame. The climb up the rope had exhausted him, but at least he had been able to balance his weight out through his feet on the rope; now all he had was the grip of his hands, bound close together, the restraints making the position even harder, even more painful.
But he knew he had to somehow keep moving, get into the basket; if he did not, his grip would eventually give way, and he would plummet to the dusty streets of Riyadh as the pilot had before him.
And so Cole clenched his teeth against the pain and started to edge his hands slowly along the metal rail which made up part of the frame suspended below the basket; his fingertips struggling to keep hold as they walked Cole ever closer to the edge.
But soon enough he was there, where the frame ended and the edge of the basket began. He took a deep breath to center himself, and — keeping his grip strong — rocked his body first one way and then the other, finally bursting upwards and shooting out his nearest leg, his bare foot hooking onto the lower guard rail of the basket.
Cole tested the position, could feel it holding. The next part, he knew, would be so much easier with his hands free; but that was a luxury he didn’t have, and he cut the thought from his mind, focusing only on what he could do.
The bland, brown concrete mass of Riyadh stretched out below him, and for a fraction of a second, he imagined himself falling, his body plummeting through the warm air, breath caught in his throat, organs lurching around inside his body making him want to be sick, but unable to be sick, unable to even breathe as the velocity of his fall increased, until he blacked out completely, long before his body was smashed into little pieces as it finally made its impact with the unforgiving earth.
And then the image was gone just as soon as it had appeared, and Cole contracted the tiny muscles of his foot, causing it to grip hold tighter, tighter; and then he let go with his hands and lurched his body sideways and upwards in a near-suicidal last-ditch bid for the basket.
His hands made contact with the cords which ran down the side of the basket and they closed tight immediately, securing his grip once more; and then he pushed up with his foot and levered his other foot up onto the guard rail next to it, his body crunched up onto the side of the basket.
He breathed out steadily, controlling the fierce spike of adrenalin from the maneuver.
And then he extended his legs further, hands going over the top of the basket, taking hold and pulling himself upwards.
And despite the pain in his muscles, the terror which had gone unbidden through his heart, he couldn’t help but smile.
Quraishi was soon going to tell him everything he wanted to know.
Quraishi saw the American’s face as it rose above the side of the basket, flushed with effort but set with determination.
Quraishi had been scanning the rim of the basket continuously, waiting for the first sign of the man, ready to respond to his appearance.
And when Mark Cole appeared, Quraishi didn’t waste any time at all; he merely planted one booted foot on the base of the basket and unleashed the other, kicking the American with all of his force right in the center of his face and sending him flying away from the basket.
Quraishi smiled.
It had been even easier than he’d thought.
The impact rocked Cole’s head back with savage force, tearing his body from its secure hold on the basket.
There was a flash in Cole’s head and for a moment, he could see nothing, think nothing, do nothing; but he felt his body falling backwards and registered the danger, his mind switching back on just as his feet also began to lose their grip on the guard rail.
In that brief instant when he regained his senses, he saw and sensed everything with perfect clarity; the angle of his own body as it fell backward, the distance and relative angle of the basket, the level of grip retained by his feet, the rope which had secured the pilot, blowing about in the warm air.
And within that same instant, angles and speeds calculated instantaneously, his bound hands reached out and grabbed hold of the discarded rope.
Cole transformed his downward momentum into a sideways swing on the rope, travelling round the basket in a tight arc, legs releasing their grip and extending high upwards until the first one hooked over the edge of the basket and gripped tight; and then Cole pushed the rope away, his hands on the basket’s edge, pulling himself inside, his body rolling forwards until it landed safely on the inner floor.
With no chance to get his breath back, Cole looked up to see Quraishi’s booted foot aimed once again at his face and pushed his hands out, smothering the kick.
He rolled into the support leg in the same movement, taking Quraishi down, but the man quickly lashed out again and caught Cole across the jaw, making his head spin. He was moving more slowly than normal, he knew; but it was the fatigue of the past few minutes which had sapped him completely and left him sluggish.
Cole shook his head clear and clambered across the floor towards Quraishi, who seemed to anticipate the movement; and instead of knocking him down, the other man instead struck Cole in the face with an open palm, fingers then closing, gripping hard into Cole’s eyes and cheeks, forcing his head back…
Cole could feel the burning heat on the back of his head, and knew what Quraishi was doing; he was trying to force Cole’s head onto the burner unit, the flames arcing high up in the balloon above them.
Cole’s balance was gone, and he felt the flames from the burner shockingly, painfully close, threatening to burn the skin from the back of his head.
Cole’s head pulled forward away from the red hot burner in a powerful reflex action, his bare foot coming up into Quraishi’s groin instinctively, making the man instantly release his hold on him.
Cole dove forward, taking Quraishi violently down to the floor, the impact jarring the breath from his opponent. Cole quickly capitalized on the situation, forcing the cords which bound his wrists towards Quraishi’s throat to strangle him.
Quraishi’s chin came down quickly to block the cords from getting to his neck, and Cole let the cords instead come up under Quraishi’s nose, forcing the head back painfully, grinding upwards until the man had to turn his head away. Waiting for the movement, Cole immediately moved the cords back to Quraishi’s neck, this time getting them into his throat, pushing down and cutting off the man’s air supply.