Empire of Gold

He lowered his gun, judging the distance. Slightly under two hundred metres: well within range of his Diemaco, even with its power reduced by the bulky suppressor on the end of its barrel. An easy shot.

Starkman had come to the same conclusion. ‘Let’s do ’em,’ he said. ‘You take the left guy.’

Chase nodded and shifted into firing position. The Taliban member reappeared in his scope. He tilted the gun up slightly, the red dot at the centre of his gunsight just above the man’s head. The bullet’s arc would carry it down to hit his temple . . .

A part of his mind intruded on his concentration. You’ve never killed anyone before. Not that he knew of, at least; he had been in combat, fired on people shooting at him . . . but this was the first time he had ever prepared to kill an unsuspecting man.

He shook off his doubts. The Taliban were enemies in a war, and the man in his sights would kill his friends and comrades if he got the chance. It was up to him to make sure that didn’t happen.

‘On three,’ Starkman whispered. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

‘Okay. One, two—’

‘Hold fire, hold fire!’ Chase hissed. His target had just hopped to his feet. He tracked him. ‘Wait, wait – shit!’

The Taliban disappeared behind a boulder. Chase quickly panned past it in the hope of reacquiring him on the other side, but after a few seconds it became clear that he wasn’t coming out. ‘Arse! Lost him.’

Castille searched through his own gunsight. ‘I think he has sat down. The other one is still talking to him.’

‘We need to get both those fuckers at once,’ Starkman muttered. ‘If one gets off a shot . . . ’

‘We’ll have to get ’em from the ground,’ said Chase. He saw a large rock near the ridge’s edge. ‘Tie a rope round that – I’ll go first.’

A line was quickly secured to the rock. Chase glanced down. This side of the ridge was roughly sixty feet high, more cliff than slope. He slung his rifle and took hold of the rope. ‘Okay, if the guys by the fire start moving, pull on the rope twice.’ Castille gave him a thumbs-up, Starkman nodding before aiming his rifle back at his target.

Chase began his descent. Even with two hundred metres separating him and the Taliban, he still moved stealthily, a shadow against the ridge’s craggy face. Ten feet down, twenty. Sandstone crunched softly under his boots with each step. Thirty feet, halfway. The fire was now out of sight behind the rocks, though its glow still stood out clearly. Forty. He checked the cliff’s foot. He would have to clear a small overhang, but another few feet and he would be safely able to jump—

A crunch beneath one sole – then a louder clonk and hiss of falling grit as a loose stone dropped away, hitting the ground with a thud.

And a voice, a puzzled ‘Uh?’ below—

Chase froze. Another Taliban! The overhang was deeper than he had thought, enough to conceal a man. Pashto words came from below. Chase didn’t know the language, but from the tone guessed that the unseen man was asking, ‘Who’s there?’ A flashlight clicked on, a feeble yellow disc of light sweeping across the sand.

More Pashto, the tone annoyed, not concerned. That was something, at least; the Taliban wasn’t expecting anyone but his comrades to be nearby. But if he remained suspicious and decided to investigate further, all he had to do was look up . . .

The C8 was hanging from Chase’s back on its strap. Gripping the rope with his left hand, he tried to reach back with his right to take hold of the rifle . . . but as his weight shifted the weapon swung round, the suppressor almost scraping against the cliff. He held in an obscenity. Even if he got hold of the gun, he would still have to fumble it into firing position with just one hand, an awkward – and almost certainly noisy – task.

He had a handgun, a Sig P228 holstered across his upper chest, but it was unsilenced. The shot would be heard for miles.

That left his combat knife, sheathed on his belt. He slowly reached down and released the restraining strap, then drew out the six-inch blade.

The yellow circle danced over the ground as the man emerged from the overhang. He gazed towards the campfire, then looked round. Chase knew what he was thinking: none of his companions was nearby, so something else must have made the noise.

The dangling Englishman stepped sideways across the cliff, bringing himself closer to his target.

Target. A human being, enemy or not. You’ve never killed anyone before, not close enough to look into their eyes . . .

The Taliban turned in place. The beam found the dislodged stone, a jagged lump the size of a grapefruit. He peered at it, started to turn away – then some flash of curiosity made him look up—

Chase dived at him, slamming the man to the ground and driving the knife deep into his throat as he clamped his free hand over the Afghan’s mouth. Blood gushed from the wound, an arterial spray jetting over his cheek and neck. The Taliban kicked and thrashed, the fallen torch lighting one side of his face. His visible eye was wide, filled with agony and terror. It fixed on the soldier’s camouflage-blackened features, their gazes meeting . . . and then he fell still, staring emptily at the stars.

Chase regarded the corpse for a moment that felt like half a lifetime, then yanked out the knife and sat up. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, a bilious nausea rising inside him. He forced it back down, wiping the knife clean and returning it to its sheath, then switched off the torch. Darkness consumed his vision for several seconds before his eyes adjusted.

The body was still there, the neck wound glistening accusingly.

He looked away, unslinging his rifle and aiming it towards the distant fire. If the fight had been heard, the other Taliban would be on their way . . .