Empire of Gold

No movement. He had been lucky.

He returned to the rope and tugged it three times – all clear – before investigating the space beneath the overhang to see what the Afghan had been doing. The smell from the little nook provided the answer. He had interrupted the dead man during a call of nature.

A fall of sand announced Starkman’s descent, the American dropping down beside his friend. ‘What happened?’

‘He got caught short,’ Chase replied, the grim gag escaping his lips before he had time to process it consciously.

Starkman grinned, then moved back as Castille descended the rope. ‘Are you all right?’ the Belgian asked.

Chase didn’t want to think about it any more. ‘Fine.’ A wave of his gun towards the fire. ‘They’ll soon start thinking their mate’s been gone too long just to be constipated.’

Keeping low, they advanced, stopping behind a rock some sixty metres from the campfire. Chase’s erstwhile target sat with his back against a large boulder, gnawing the meat off an animal bone. The other Taliban had moved closer to the fire, within reach of the RPG.

Chase was about to take aim when Castille touched his arm, a hint of sympathetic concern in his voice. ‘I can do it, if you want.’

He brusquely shook his head. ‘That’s okay.’ A pause, then more lightly: ‘But thanks anyway.’

‘No problem.’ They shared a brief look, then Chase returned his attention to the scope.

The red dot fixed on the Taliban’s forehead. ‘Ready?’ he whispered to Starkman.

‘Yeah. One, two . . . three.’

This time, nothing disrupted the shots. Each rifle bucked once, the retorts reduced to flat thwaps by the suppressors. Chase blinked involuntarily, his eyes reopening to see a thick, dark red splash burst across the rock behind his target’s head.

‘Tango down,’ Starkman intoned.

‘Tango down,’ Chase echoed. The body of his victim slowly keeled over, leaving a smeared trail over the stone. ‘Okay, let’s bring the boys through.’ He reached for his radio.

The rest of the team arrived three minutes later, Mac leading the way. ‘Good work,’ he said as he took in the bodies. ‘Just these two?’

‘There was another one back there,’ Starkman reported. ‘Eddie took him out. Stabbed him in the neck.’

Mac looked at Chase, raising an eyebrow at the sight of his uncharacteristically expressionless face. ‘Your first kill, yes?’

‘Yeah,’ Chase replied, his voice flat.

‘Well, it’s good to know there’s more to you than just talk, Chase,’ said Stikes sarcastically as he checked one of the corpses. When no reply was immediately forthcoming, he went on: ‘What, no smart-arse comments? Not going wobbly on us, are you?’

Mac’s face creased with irritation. ‘Alexander, take Will and Bluey and check that the way’s clear.’ He gestured at the dusty slope to the north. Stikes gave him a puzzled look, prompting him to snap, ‘Well, go on!’ Annoyance clear even under his face paint, Stikes summoned the two men and started up the hillside. Starkman took the hint and nudged Castille to give Chase and Mac some space.

‘How do you feel?’ Mac asked.

‘I dunno,’ Chase replied truthfully. ‘Shaken, I suppose.’

‘A bit sick?’

An admission took a few seconds to emerge. ‘Yeah.’

‘Good.’ Mac put a reassuring hand on Chase’s shoulder. ‘If you hadn’t, I would have been concerned.’

‘How come?’ Chase asked, surprised. ‘I mean, after all the training I thought I could just do it without thinking. Without worrying, I mean.’

‘Training can only take you so far, Eddie. The first time you actually have to kill someone for real . . . well, it’s different. Some people find they can’t do it at all. Others do it . . . and enjoy it. I’m glad you’re in the third category.’ He squeezed his arm. ‘You did the right thing – you protected your teammates, the mission and the lives of the hostages. You did well, Eddie. I always knew you would.’

Chase managed a faint smile. ‘Thanks, Mac.’

‘So let’s get back to work.’ He waved, telling the rest of the team to move out. As the men set off, his radio clicked. ‘Yes?’

Even over the headset, Stikes sounded concerned. ‘Major, we have a slight problem.’

‘He wasn’t fucking kidding,’ Chase growled.

The team hid amongst desiccated scrub at the top of the slope. Before them was a relatively flat expanse backed by the rising mountains, a few tumbledown buildings about three hundred yards away: the abandoned farm where the Taliban had taken their prisoners.

In its description of the location, the mission briefing had been accurate. In its assessment of the enemy forces, however, it had not.

‘Where the fuck did this lot come from?’ said Baine. They had expected at most a dozen Taliban, but at least that could be seen beside the single-storey farmhouse alone, and the number of tents pitched nearby suggested many more. The three white-painted United Nations vehicles – two medium-sized trucks and a Toyota Land Cruiser