Strike Back

SEVENTEEN

Hassad grabbed hold of Porter by the shoulder. ‘We haven’t much time,’ he hissed. ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’

Porter’s eyes were still blinking. Dust and debris were filling the room, and the massive engine on the Unimog was still roaring. Porter’s legs were weak and his head was still spinning. He’d kicked back the chair, and glanced only briefly at the executioner: the man was lying flat on the floor, with his sword at his side, his body punctured by three precisely aimed bullets that had smashed through his chest and into his heart.

‘Just move,’ snapped Hassad, louder this time.

Hassad was already getting into the driver’s seat. Porter rushed round the side and climbed into the cabin. He could feel some blood trickling along his gums where the executioner had tried to wrench out one of his teeth, and he had a dozen different cuts and bruises, but otherwise he was in OK shape.

‘Let’s go,’ he muttered.

Hassad hit the reverse gear on the Unimog into position, then tapped his foot on the accelerator. A big piece of machinery built mainly for farmers, the Unimog was like a cross between a pickup truck and a tractor. It had big tyres, four-wheel-drive and an engine powerful enough to kick down a building when it needed to.

It started to edge into reverse. The route it had taken had smashed its way from the courtyard into the room where Porter had been held prisoner, and now it was taking the same route back again. The vehicle shook and shuddered as its tyres crunched backwards over the rubble, but it held steady.

As Hassad flung the steering wheel to the right, turning it swiftly round, Porter looked over to the courtyard. Outside the building, a Honda CR-V had been turned on its side, and was being used as a makeshift wall by four men. By the way they greeted him, Porter guessed they were Hassad’s blokes. They were staying close to the underside of the car. All of them were dressed in black, and had neatly trimmed beards and moustaches and close-cropped hair. Two of them had dark glasses pulled down over their eyes. All four had AK-47s gripped tight to their chests, as well as hand pistols and big, lethal hunting knives strapped into their belts. Porter didn’t have much idea what they did to the enemy, but they certainly frightened him.

The firefight looked to have subsided.

‘Is it safe to leave?’ Porter asked.

Hassad barked a few words in Arabic to one of the men behind the Honda, waited for the reply, then looked back at Porter. ‘They’re all dead,’ he said. ‘We can move out.’

He gestured to the four men, and one by one they climbed onto the back of the Unimog.

‘How many were there?’ Porter asked.

‘Ten,’ said Hassad. ‘Tough men as well. We lost men trying to rescue you —’

‘Who the fuck were they?’

‘You don’t know?’

Porter shook his head.

Hassad just shrugged. ‘If you don’t know, then nobody does.’

Porter nodded. ‘Thanks for getting me out,’ he said tersely.

‘I invited you out here,’ said Hassad. ‘That makes you my guest.’

The Unimog started to roll again. The courtyard was surrounded by a series of farm buildings and barns, as well as the main building where Porter had been kept since last night. Beyond it, at the bottom of the hillside, there was a road leading away from the site. All around him, Porter could see the debris of the battle, and feel the smell of death in the air.

Next to a wall he could see two corpses. And even though both men were covered in dust and blood, Porter could see one of them was white.

‘Stop a minute,’ snapped Porter.

‘We need to leave,’ said Hassad. ‘There could be more of them.’

‘I need to look at these guys.’

He jumped down from the cabin, kneeling down next to the dead body. The guy had taken about two dozen hits, even though the first two or three had probably killed him. The bullets had smashed up his face, turning his skull into paste, and smearing blood over every surface. One eyeball had been blown out, and the other was still bleeding. Even for a corpse he looked in pretty rough shape. From what Porter could see of him, he was almost forty, with dark brown hair, and tanned, grooved skin. He was wearing an olive-green military uniform, the kind you might pick up in an army surplus store. Porter couldn’t see any sign of a flag, or insignia. ‘Who the hell is he?’ said Porter, glancing back up at Hassad.

Hassad just shrugged. Porter didn’t get the impression he was very interested in corpses. Maybe he’d seen too many of them.

‘What the hell is a white man doing out here, taking British guys hostage?’ growled Porter.

He started rifling through his pockets. In one, he found thirty Lebanese pounds, along with some loose change. In another, he found a picture of a woman: dark-haired, with freckled pale skin, pretty but slightly overweight, probably in her late twenties. Other than that, there was nothing that might identify who he was or who he was fighting for. No passport, no credit card, no dog tag. The unknown soldier, thought Porter. And you’re welcome to an unmarked grave, mate. You sodding deserve it.

‘They must have some kit somewhere,’ said Porter, looking around.

Hassad grabbed him by the arm. He gestured to the hillside. Now that they were on the other side of the wall, Porter could see the scrubland sloping away to a dusty track. ‘We’ve got to move,’ he hissed.

‘I need to find out who these bastards were,’ snapped Porter.

‘We haven’t any time,’ said Hassad. ‘There may be more of them here any minute. There are only a few of us left alive —’

‘I need to find out why they bloody took me,’ said Porter. ‘It might be important.’

Another of Hassad’s men was already walking towards them. He was carrying a wounded man who was hobbling, resting on his mate’s shoulder.

Hassad flashed him a smile. As he did so, the deformity of his mouth was cruelly apparent: the smile twisted his mouth into a hideous mangled shape that gave no hint of pleasure or humour. ‘Welcome back to the Middle East, Mr Porter,’ he said. ‘Nothing out here is ever what it seems.’

‘But —’

‘I told you nothing out here is what it seems …’

Porter had already noticed the AK-47 slung around Hassad’s shoulders was suddenly cocked. His finger was on the trigger, and there was no mistaking the casual way its black metal barrel was pointing straight at Porter’s chest. A mistake? Not likely, thought Porter.

‘Take your clothes off,’ Hassad snapped.

‘What —’

‘I said, take your clothes off. We need to make sure you are clean.’

As he finished the sentence, he barked something in Arabic to one of his men. The guy came back from the Unimog with a pair of black jeans, a sweatshirt and some trainers, and a can of petrol. Porter realised what they were doing: he’d have done the same in their position.

They wanted to make sure he didn’t have any bugs on him before they took him back to their base.

He ripped the clothes off himself, tossing them on the dusty ground. While he was pulling on the fresh jeans, the soldier had already soaked Porter’s clothes with petrol, and set fire to them.

‘OK,’ said Hassad. ‘Now we can get out of here.’