Empire of Gold

The hostages were in a bad way, Chase realised as he followed the eight men out through the hole and watched them stagger after Castille. That would slow their escape – not good with forty pissed-off Taliban on their heels.

They would have to reduce that number.

He joined Stikes at the barn’s rear corner. A couple of bearded men carrying AKs were now standing by the horses, another ambling amongst the tents. Behind him, he heard Mac on the radio, alerting the helicopters that they were about to evacuate – most likely under fire.

The hostages were hiding in the ditch. Castille ran to join Bluey. Starkman emerged from the barn and readied his weapon. Chase’s heart pounded, adrenalin rushing into his system.

Someone at the front of the barn called out in Pashto, then with a creak of wood pulled open the doors—

Both Claymores detonated, a pound and a half of C-4 explosive in each mine blasting seven hundred steel balls outwards in a supersonic swathe of destruction. The doors were obliterated, the two Taliban outside disintegrating into a bloody shower of shredded meat and bone.

Before the boom of the twin detonations had faded, Chase and Stikes stepped out into the open and fired. The two Taliban by the horses fell to Chase’s bullets, the walking man tumbling before Stikes switched his aim to the closest tents. Screams came from them as the dirty fabric puckered with bullet holes.

More gunfire from the front of the barn, the suppressed thumps of Castille’s C8 almost lost beneath the chattering roar of Bluey’s machine gun as the pair opened fire on the Afghans outside the farmhouse. More screams, and shouts from within as the Taliban realised they were under attack and piled for the exit—

The house’s front wall blew apart, the roof crashing down on the men inside. It had been hit by high explosive grenade rounds fired by Baine and Green. A huge dust cloud burst from the ruins, roiling over the tents and the panicked horses.

A man with an AK leapt out from a tent – only to fall dead as Chase picked him off. Stikes was still shooting into the other tents to slay their occupants before they could even move. The Minimi’s hammering stopped, angry yells reaching the team as the surviving Taliban started to regroup – then they were drowned out again as Bluey resumed firing.

Chase glanced back, seeing Mac and Starkman herding the hostages along the irrigation ditch. Castille and Bluey retreated to provide covering fire. He knew he should join them, but there was something he had to do first.

The swelling dust cloud covered the tents behind the destroyed house. This was his chance. He broke away from Stikes, and hurried to the hut.

‘Chase!’ Stikes roared. ‘Get back here!’

Chase ignored him, yanking the bolt and throwing open the door. A cry of fear came from the darkness inside. He fumbled for his penlight torch, shining it quickly round the interior to see five dark, almost formless shapes: the women, even their eyes only part visible through the netted slits in their all-encompassing chadris. Their hands were tied behind their backs, their ankles also bound under the heavy robes.

‘Don’t be scared,’ said Chase. ‘I’m here to help. British, not Taliban.’ Despite the netting, he could see that the women’s eyes were swollen and blackened. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered as he drew his knife. One of the women made a terrified keening sound and tried to wriggle away. He put down his Diemaco. ‘Here to help, okay?’ She got the message and turned so he could reach her ties. From outside came another grenade explosion, followed by the thump of a fuel tank detonating: Green or Baine had destroyed one of the trucks.

‘Chase!’ Stikes appeared at the door, gun raised. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘What I said I would.’ He started to saw at the rope.

‘Leave them – that’s an order. We’re moving out. Now!’

‘We can take them with us.’

‘Leave them!’

‘No, there’re enough seats in the choppers. I’ll—’

Stikes fired. Even with its suppressor, the noise of his rifle on full auto was painful in the confined space. The stream of bullets sliced down the five women and spattered Chase with blood.

‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Chase yelled, rolling out of the line of fire. He whipped up his C8 at the captain – to find the smoking barrel pointing straight back at him. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘I told you the rules of engagement,’ said Stikes coldly. ‘Anyone who isn’t one of the hostages is a hostile.’ A thin, malignant smile. ‘And as I said, you know what we do to hostiles. Now lower your weapon.’

‘You fucker,’ Chase snarled. The black tube of the suppressor was still aimed at his head. Slowly, unwillingly, he let his own rifle drop.

‘Good. Move it,’ said Stikes. The Diemaco not wavering, he backed out of the shack, then turned and ran for the barn.

Chase jumped up, rage flooding through him. He should shoot the bastard in the back—

No. He shouldn’t. There was a mission to complete. He went to the door, then hesitated, his gaze drawn back to the sprawled bodies. With an angry growl, he ran after Stikes.

Castille and Bluey were still firing as they advanced along the ditch after the fleeing hostages. Stikes ran past the pair, but Chase joined them. One of the UN trucks was aflame, and the other vehicles had all taken damage. There were at least fifteen Taliban survivors, judging from the muzzle flashes from behind the collapsed house. It was mostly panic fire, the shots smacking harmlessly into the ground short of the trench. Chase matched the timing of the closest impacts to the flash of the most accurate gunman, then dropped him with a single round to the head.

‘Good shot,’ said Castille. ‘What were you and Stikes doing back there?’