Empire of Gold

target.

The Taliban with the rocket launcher took aim, the RPG-7’s sights fixed on the Black Hawk as it hovered the final few feet above the ground. The helicopter was two hundred metres away, large, barely moving – an unmissable target.

Mac’s shouted warnings finally reached the soldiers. They dropped, pulling the hostages down with them.

Chase fired his C8 on full auto, emptying his magazine into both the bike’s riders. The old Soviet motorcycle swerved . . .

But the trigger had already been pulled.

The rocket-propelled grenade burst from the launcher as the bike tumbled. It streaked past Mac and hissed over the men on the ground, heading for the Black Hawk—

Thrown off target, the conical warhead only caught the cockpit canopy a glancing blow. The rocket spiralled away, exploding harmlessly fifty yards beyond the helicopter.

But the danger was far from over. The pilot had jerked in fright at the impact. The Black Hawk rolled sideways. The tips of its rotor blades dropped towards the ground, carving through the air like a giant circular saw . . .

Straight at Castille.

The Belgian froze as he saw the helicopter bearing down on him. The blades buzzed at his face—

The pilot yanked the collective control lever and applied full throttle. The Black Hawk lurched upwards, engines screaming - and the rotor passed six inches over Castille’s head, the force of the displaced air knocking him flat. ‘Merde!’ he screeched, hurriedly patting his hands over the top of his skull to check it was still attached.

The gunman on the second bike kept shooting. Chase scrabbled backwards as more bullets cracked off the rock, but the Afghan would have a direct line of fire in moments.

And he was out of ammo.

Three seconds to reload, but he didn’t have even that long—

Instead, he flung the empty rifle with all his might. It arced through the air – and hit the bike’s driver hard in the face as he rounded the formation. The bike crashed down on its side, throwing the two Taliban into the sand.

The gunman groaned, then realised he still had his AK. He saw a figure in the moonlight and brought up the rifle—

Chase fired first, four shots from the Sig P228 he had snatched from his chest holster slamming into the man’s upper body. The Taliban slumped lifelessly to the ground. The driver struggled to rise – and another two shots to his head dropped him beside his comrade.

Breathing heavily, hands trembling from a burst of adrenalin, Chase lowered the Sig and looked across the plain. The Black Hawk had finally touched down, the rescue team bundling the hostages into the cabin.

But now he could hear another sound echoing through the pass. Not the roar of more motorcycle engines.

The pounding of hooves.

‘Oh, fucking pack it in!’ he gasped. The bike’s engine was still sputtering, but the front wheel was buckled. Unrideable.

Two options. Either sprint for the Black Hawk, and be trampled or shot before he reached it . . . or make sure it took off safely and got the hostages and his comrades home.

The decision was made before the thought was completed. He recovered his rifle and loaded his final magazine. The last few men boarded the Black Hawk. Even from this distance he could pick out Mac’s grey hair, his commander – his mentor, his friend – waving for him to run to the chopper. Chase instead crouched and took aim.

The first horseman emerged from the pass, hunched low on his galloping steed with an AK raised in one hand—

Chase tracked him, firing twice and bowling the Taliban off his horse. But his rifle’s suppressor was now completely burned out, and the shots had given away his position. Another horseman appeared, and a third, charging at him.

A mechanical roar: the Black Hawk taking off. Three more riders thundered from the ravine, going after the helicopter as it lumbered into the air. AK-47s chattered, tracers streaking after the rising aircraft. Moonlight flashed off another RPG-7 as a Taliban slowed his mount to take aim. A burst from Chase’s C8 cut him down before he could fire. The chopper was safe, but now the nearest riders were almost upon him—

A sizzling chainsaw rasp from above – and men and horses alike were torn apart by a laser-like stream of orange fire.

The Little Bird swooped down, its twin six-barrelled Miniguns blazing as each unleashed over sixty rounds per second at the Taliban forces. It pulled up sharply, pivoting to follow the surviving horsemen, then fired again. Hundreds of spent shell casings hailed down around Chase, one plinking off the top of his head and singeing his scalp. ‘Great, now I’ll have a fucking bald spot,’ he muttered as he fired at the last of the horsemen. The shot hit home, but it became academic a moment later when the man literally disintegrated under the force of the MH-6’s firepower.

The Miniguns stopped, but he could still hear more horses approaching. Holding back a curse, he looked up at the Little Bird as it started a rapid descent towards him.

No time for it to land. This would have to be a moving pickup, and he would only have one chance . . .

He glimpsed the pilot in the green light of his instruments, his night vision gear making him look like a cyborg. The Little Bird was coming right at him, slowing, but still travelling at twenty miles an hour.