Strike Back

TWENTY-SEVEN

Hassad slammed the door of the van shut behind him. Porter watched as the man walked slowly back into the Lebanon. He wasn’t so bad, Porter thought. He did what he said he was going to do, and you couldn’t ask for more from a guy than that.

Shifting across to the driver’s seat, he grabbed hold of the wheel and tapped his foot on the accelerator. Up ahead, the gates were starting to swing open. The road stretched into the demilitarised zone, and there was one more set of Hezbollah guards on the other side, but they had already been cleared, and Porter wasn’t expecting any trouble from them.

‘We’ve made it,’ he said, looking at Katie. ‘We’re back.’

He could see the relief flooding through her. ‘Thank Christ for that.’

Porter drove slowly. It was a mile across the demilitarised zone, and then they would have to get through the Israeli border controls as well. Driving too quickly would only make the guards suspicious, Porter warned himself. Better to take it gradually.

The Fiat slid through the gates, which shut quickly behind them. Just ahead, about two hundred metres in the distance, Porter could see a guard flagging them down. The man was six feet tall, wearing a Hezbollah uniform, with some kind of scarf covering his face. He was holding an AK-47 in his arms, and motioning for the van to pull over.

‘Shit,’ Porter muttered.

‘What does he want?’ Katie asked anxiously.

‘How the hell should I know?’

Looking ahead, Porter wondered whether he should jam his foot on the accelerator, and make a dash for the Israeli border. He could see the one guard flagging them down, and two more men standing behind him. To the side, there was a small hut that seemed to be serving as a sentry post, but could be hiding more men. The Fiat wasn’t in bad shape, but it was still only a van, and there wasn’t much acceleration in the engine. The chances of getting away were minimal.

‘Maybe they only want some paperwork,’ said Porter.

He slowed down, pulling the Fiat to a stop at the side of the road. The tall soldier was walking towards him, his pace deliberately slow. Act casual, thought Porter. Don’t try and pretend to be an Arab, you’ll never fool them. Just tell them you need to get to the other side. Fast.

The man was standing right next to the van now. The two other soldiers were standing astride the road, their faces also masked, but with their guns gripped to their chests. In the blink of an eye, they could shatter the van with bullets, Porter realised. There’s no escape.

He wound down the window. ‘Good to see you again, Mr Porter,’ said Perry Collinson. ‘For a while there, we thought we’d never bloody find you.’

Porter froze.

The words had sliced straight through him, like a dagger cutting through his skin.

‘Now I suggest you and your lady friend step out of the vehicle, and walk across to the hut with me,’ he said.

Porter remained silent. He could feel the blood pumping through his veins, red with fury.

The AK-47 was still positioned next to his feet. Its mag was full: there were more than enough bullets in there to finish Collinson and his two men. Tempting, he told himself. But there was not enough time to get the gun out, and slam the trigger. They’d have shot him to pieces before he’d even got it in his hands.

It was just suicide.

‘C’mon, man,’ Collinson growled. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

‘John, I —’ Katie started.

‘Do as he says,’ Porter snapped.

He pushed open the door of the van, stepping down onto the tarmac. It was completely dark now, and there was a bite the air. As he looked back, he could see they were firmly on the neutral side of the border. The gates had been shut behind them, and the Hezbollah soldiers had already gone back to their positions. Collinson must have come down to this position, and overwhelmed the Hezbollah guards in this hut, so that he could catch us after we came through the Lebanese border, but before we reached Israel, he thought.

He means to kill me. There can’t be any doubt about that.

Katie was now standing next to Porter. She was looking at Collinson, but there was no warmth in her expression. Her hands were shaking, and her skin was pale. ‘This way,’ said Collinson, pointing his AK-47 towards the hut.

Porter started to walk. It was ten metres across the empty ground from where he’d pulled up the van to the hut. It was a small, one-room structure, made out of concrete and corrugated iron. There was one glass window, looking out onto the road that led through the demilitarised zone. It was the kind of hut that was familiar to border guards right around the world. Porter could see the two soldiers from the road take up position behind him, walking five paces to his rear, their guns pointing straight at his back. More men from Connaught Security, he reckoned. And they won’t hesitate to fill my back with lead if they need to.

Collinson had already opened the door, and was pointing them inside. Porter stepped through. There was a coal brazier in one corner filling the small room with cosy warmth. A kettle and some cups were stacked up on a table next to the fire, and there was a bucket with some water in it. Otherwise, the room was empty.

With a slow movement of his hand, Collinson shut the door.

Porter and Katie were standing next to the wall. Collinson was standing next to the door, and the two soldiers were standing by the window.

‘You come with me, young lady,’ said Collinson, gesturing towards Katie. ‘We’ll make sure you get safely home.’

His voice was smug and self-satisfied: a mocking tone, with a note of vindictiveness threaded through it.

Only a single word was rattling through Porter’s mind.

Bastard.

Collinson’s eyes rested for a second on Porter’s face. ‘And this bugger can die right here.’

‘Just so you can take the credit like you did last time, you bloody coward,’ said Porter.

Collinson took a pace forward. His two soldiers were standing rigidly to attention, both their guns pointing straight at Porter. ‘You know about that, do you?’ he said.

‘I know exactly what happened,’ Porter snarled. ‘Steve, Mike and Keith died because of you. And you let me take the fall for it.’

He could see the edge of Collinson’s lip twitching. ‘I might be a coward, but at least I’m not a bloody loser,’ he said, his voice sombre. ‘And I’m not scared of killing a man in cold blood either.’

Slowly and deliberately, Collinson took from his belt a Beretta 9000S compact handgun, the first lightweight polymer gun the company had ever made, with twelve rounds stored in its clip. He motioned to Katie to come towards him.

‘How the hell did you know we were here?’ Porter snapped.

Collinson smiled. ‘It was a nice trick sending your tooth to Jordan,’ he said. ‘But once we reached it, we knew you’d found that tracking device. That meant you were coming here. It’s the only place to get across the border. The Israelis let us come through, and we took out the men on this side of the gate. So long as we checked every vehicle coming through, and there aren’t many of them at this time of night, we knew we’d find you eventually.’

‘Just like you got the Israelis to drop a bunker-busting missile into the mine,’ said Porter. ‘To kill us both.’

‘Quite so,’ said Collinson curtly. ‘You’ve figured everything out. Just a shame it’s a bit late in the day for you.’

He looked back at Katie. ‘Now come here, and we’ll get you home. There’s a camera crew that can be got ready to record the moment when I rescued you.’

She was still standing next to Porter. She glanced into his eyes, but Porter already knew there was nothing she could read there. They had been emptied of all emotion. Slowly and painfully, she started to move away from him, hobbling across the ten feet that separated the two men.

With his left hand, Collinson reached out to grab hold of her arm, pulling her towards him. He looked back to Porter, a twisted smile on his lips and a smirk in his eye. Then he raised his Beretta.

‘To quote Sir Winston, “The armies must cast away the idea of resisting behind concrete lines or natural obstacles, and must realise that mastery can only be regained by furious and unrelenting assault,”’ he said. ‘“And this spirit must not only animate the High Command, but must inspire every fighting man.”’

He looked straight into Porter’s eyes, and chuckled. ‘And indeed, that spirit animates me today.’

I don’t mind dying if I have to, thought Porter. But I don’t think I can listen to this tosser much more.

He could see Collinson’s finger hovering on the trigger. And he could see into the man’s eyes, and tell that he meant to kill him.

There was a movement. Somewhere behind the window.

Suddenly, the rattle of a machine gun filled the air. The window had shattered, and a lethal storm of bullets had ripped through the hut, slicing into the backs of the two men standing guard. They had both tried to respond, their fingers reaching for the triggers of their guns, but the ordnance had already smashed up their spinal cords so badly they were no longer able to control their muscles. They had collapsed on their faces, their weapons sprawling out on the floor in front of them.

Porter threw himself to the ground, narrowly missing the bullets that were starting to slam into the wall behind him: he could feel the used rounds falling onto his body as they pinged off the wall. As he dropped to the ground, he caught sight of the man standing behind the window.

Hassad.

His AK-47 gripped to his fists, he was spraying round after round of bullets through the window and into the bodies of the men who had taken them captive.

Porter reached forward, grabbing hold of one of the guns that had spilt out onto the floor. He rolled away, so that his back was against the wall, then flashed the gun up and lashed his finger onto the trigger. It was pointing straight at Collinson.

Outside the firing had stopped. Hassad must have realised he’d already killed the two men, Porter guessed. To get any more he’d have to come inside.

He doesn’t need to bother, Porter told himself grimly. That’s my job.

As he looked up, he could see that Collinson had shaken Katie free. She was standing next to him, tears of terror and exhaustion streaming down her face. In his right hand, Collinson was still holding the Beretta. Porter gripped the AK-47 tighter in his hands, and although he hadn’t had time to line up a shot, that probably didn’t matter. Press the trigger, and he should be able to pump out enough bullets to bring the man down.

‘Drop it,’ Collinson spat, ‘and I’ll let you go back to the ragheads.’

Porter stood up. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said.

Katie’s eyes were darting from one man to the other. She was standing six inches to Collinson’s left: close enough to be a threat, Porter judged, but not close enough to stop the bastard from shooting me.

‘Go back to ragheads, man,’ Collinson sneered. ‘They can fix you up with a bottle of vodka and a nice archway to kip down in.’

Outside, Porter could hear Hassad moving towards the door, but it was still too dangerous for him to come inside. There was no sign the guards back on the Lebanese side of the border were going to intervene. Maybe they hadn’t heard the gunfire, or else they didn’t want to move into the demilitarised zone.

There were only two men who were going to sort out this fight, Porter told himself. And they are both in this hut.

‘I’ll give you one more warning,’ said Collinson.

Porter held the gun steady. He was pointing it straight at Collinson’s stomach and groin. When he fired, he didn’t much care any more if Collinson shot him back. He just wanted to rip out the man’s guts and his balls before he went down.

‘Take your shot,’ Porter snapped.

He could see beads of sweat starting to pour from the man’s brow. His hand was trembling, the same way he’d started trembling back in Beirut seventeen years ago.

‘We’ll see who the coward is now,’ said Porter. ‘Take the fucking shot.’

Collinson remained motionless.

‘You’re fucking afraid, aren’t you, just like you were all those years ago,’ Porter snarled. ‘Except this time, you’re not going to have me to blame.’

The hand was shaking perceptibly now.

Porter held steady, the sights of the AK-47 lined up straight.

A shot.

Porter could see the recoil on the Beretta as the gun kicked back.

He could feel a bullet winging his shoulder, taking out a chunk of flesh, and biting off a piece of bone.

His feet remained rooted to the ground. He swallowed hard, ignoring the pain raging through him.

He could see Katie jumping out of the way.

He squeezed the trigger on the AK-47.

The bullets flew out of the barrel of the assault rifle. One smashed into Collinson’s guts, spilling blood and intestines onto the ground. Another clipped his groin, taking at least one ball with it as it chewed its way through his body.

Collinson fell back onto the floor. He was clutching his stomach, trying to hold his intestines in place, but his hands were drenched with his own blood. He was screaming for his mother.

Porter kept the AK-47 tight in his hand, and walked the few paces of empty ground that separated him from the dying man.

He looked down. Collinson was writhing in agony. Porter put his boot down on his chest to hold him still. Then he looked into his eyes. They were pale and watery as the life slowly drained out of him, but the man was still conscious. Porter smiled. ‘I’ve got a quote from Winston bloody Churchill you might enjoy,’ he said. ‘“When you have to kill a man, it costs nothing to be polite.”’

He pressed the barrel of the rifle into the soft flesh at the side of Collinson’s neck. ‘So, goodnight, sir, and sweet fucking dreams.’

Porter squeezed the trigger once, then twice, then three times.

He tossed the gun aside. The mag was empty, and it was no more use to him now. The bullets had smashed through the man’s neck, effectively decapitating him. His head was lying to one side, the last of his blood draining away into the cracks in the wooden floorboards of the hut.

It’s over, he thought to himself. At last.

Porter grasped hold of Katie. She was shaking with fear, but she was still standing. There was nasty flesh wound to his shoulder where Collinson’s bullet had hit him, but he strapped that up with a strip of his sweatshirt to staunch the bleeding, and he knew that a decent bandage was all he needed to sort himself out.

‘Let’s get the hell out of here,’ he said.

Hassad had already pushed his way through the door. He looked at the three corpses, then across at Porter. ‘You OK?’

Porter nodded, permitting himself a brief, tense smile. ‘How’d you know we were in trouble?’

‘I could see the van had been stopped,’ said Hassad. ‘That shouldn’t have happened. This is just an observation post, strictly neutral. The guards here shouldn’t stop anyone … so when I saw you’d been pulled up I knew something was wrong.’

They were outside now, helping a weak and frightened Katie to walk towards the van. Porter opened the door, and helped her into the passenger seat. Looking around, he clasped Hassad on the shoulder. ‘We’re quits,’ he said.

Hassad nodded. ‘Good luck …’ he said.

‘I’ll need it.’

‘And don’t come back to the Lebanon,’ he said crisply. ‘The amount of trouble you cause …’

Porter laughed. He’d climbed into the driver’s seat, and fired up the engine, not even looking back as Hassad turned and started walking back to the border.

He kicked on the accelerator, and pulled the Fiat back onto the road. It was less than a mile now to the Israeli border, and they could cover that in minutes. He increased his speed, anxious not to waste any time. The sooner we’re out of here the better.

‘We made it,’ he said, glancing towards Katie. ‘We’ll be eating hot buttered toast at the Tel Aviv Hilton tomorrow morning.’

‘And you know what,’ said Katie, wiping the tears out of her eyes. ‘It’s not even midnight local time. If we could just make to it a newsroom, we could definitely make the second edition of the Sunday papers.’