I gripped the wheel. ‘Come on, mate, I’ve got to get you home.’
‘Fuck that, lad. We got the first bastard, now let’s finish the job.’
‘What’s the point? He had at least an hour’s head start. He might be in another vehicle by now, and halfway to Turkey.’
‘So what? We check this out, and catch up with him then. I’m going for it. You in?’
As if I was going to leave him and drive on.
I stopped the Toyota and stuck it into first gear, ready to back him. As he climbed out, he pushed the safety lever on the left of the RPK down to the first click, single shot.
He walked around to the back of the Taliwagon, the big RPK in his shoulder, bipod folded up along the barrel.
Once he was level with me, we were ready.
‘Come on then, let’s do it.’
I lifted the clutch and crept forward as he limped beside me, using the wagon as cover. Why he’d got out, I didn’t know. Then it dawned on me. He was enjoying this. He was doing it not only to get Bastard; he was doing it for himself. It was the last chance he’d ever have to do some soldiering, the thing that he was born for.
He stopped short of the Lada and so did I. I kept low in the seat. Bastard still had that Desert Eagle.
Charlie’s eyes were fixed on the treeline, looking for trouble. ‘Stay here, I’ll check for sign.’
He hobbled forward, RPK at the ready.
He didn’t go right up to the car; just circled it, checking the mud for tracks.
He tried the driver’s door. The Lada was unlocked.
Charlie took a quick look inside, then moved slowly up the road, still casting around for sign.
Four or five metres ahead of the Lada, he turned and gave me a thumbs-up.
I rolled towards him and stopped.
He stuck his head through the passenger window. ‘Flat shoes. Leading into the treeline.’ He spoke very quietly, as if Bastard was within earshot. ‘He can’t have gone far; you saw how useless he was. We’ve got the fucker.’
He hobbled off without waiting to see if I was coming.
I killed the engine, grabbed the keys and got out.
9
We moved straight into the trees and started climbing.
Charlie was soon in trouble. I could hear his laboured breathing. He was carrying his injured ankle at a very unnatural angle.
I moved alongside him and put my mouth to his ear. ‘Let’s just do it until we can’t see any more, OK? He could be anywhere.’
It wasn’t as if there was any ground sign we could follow. The floor was covered with pine needles. He stopped and listened, mouth open, his head cocked to the left so his right ear faced dead ahead.
Finding our way back to the wagon again wouldn’t be hard, even in the dark. All we’d have to do was drop downhill until we hit the road.
The rain battered its way through the canopy of firs, and the wind howled.
Charlie set off.
I stayed where I was. I’d be his ears while he moved about five paces ahead.
I drew level with him and he set off again. I wouldn’t move beyond him. I didn’t have a weapon. He was going to be front man. It was the way he wanted it.
He took his time, weapon in the shoulder, forty-five degrees down but ready to swing up, safety still off all the way down to the second click.
He stopped after just one pace. It looked like his ankle had finally packed in on him. He crouched against a tree, looking up the hill.
I spoke into his ear. ‘I’m getting knackered myself, mate. There’s no way that fat bastard’s going to climb any higher.’
Charlie pointed left, parallel to the road. His hand was shaking. He gave me a thumbs-up and adjusted the RPK, ready to move again.
I grabbed an arm before he could do so. ‘You want me to take point?’
He held up a hand and we both watched it shake.
‘Nah,’ he said simply. ‘He owes me, lad. And not just for a fucking bacon sandwich.’
He hobbled four paces to the left, weapon in the shoulder, following the contour of the slope.
I moved up to him again, keeping a bit of distance so our joint mass didn’t present too easy a target.
He was silent for another few seconds, then dropped down into a waist-deep depression carved out by years of running water from the hilltop.
He froze almost immediately, reacting to a rustling noise in the dead ground.
There was a loud shout. ‘Fuck you!’
Then a heavy-calibre shot and a falling body.
Charlie was down.
10
I ran into the dip.
Charlie wasn’t moving, but Bastard was. He was out of sight, but I could hear him pushing deeper into the pines.
I grabbed the RPK and squeezed the bipod legs together to release them. I gave them a tug as I got to the top of the rise and they sprang apart. The barrel supported, I dropped to the ground, pushed safety fully down, and squeezed off a series of short sharp bursts in the direction of the noise. My ears were ringing when I stopped. Smoke curled from the muzzle.
No screams, no begging. Fuck him. I scrambled back down to where Charlie lay on his back in the mud and pine needles, so still he could have been sleeping. I knelt over him and cradled his head, and immediately felt warm liquid on my hands. He was making an ominous, slurping noise each time he drew breath.
I unzipped his Gore-Tex and tore at the hole in his shirt. Blood trickled down my hands. He had a sucking wound. The.357 round had drilled a hole in his chest, just below his right nipple. As he breathed in, oxygen had rushed to fill the vacuum in his thoracic cavity, and the pressure had collapsed his lungs. As he breathed out, air and blood were forced out like air and water from a whale’s blowhole.
‘Nearly stepped on the fucker…’ Charlie coughed blood. ‘I couldn’t pull the trigger, Nick…’ He tried to laugh. ‘Fucking disco hands…’
His body twitched. He was in agony, but the crazy thing was, he was smiling.
But if he was talking, he was breathing — that was all that mattered.
I grabbed his hand and placed it over the entry site. ‘Plug it, mate.’
He nodded. He wasn’t that out of it yet; he understood what needed to be done. With his chest airtight, his lungs would inflate and normal breathing could resume.
‘Got to check for exit wounds, mate. It’s going to hurt.’
I rolled him onto his side, but there wasn’t so much as a scratch on his back. The round must still be in him. A heavy round like that could only have been stopped by bone — maybe his shoulder blade — but a fracture was the least of his problems. We both knew he was in deep trouble.
Charlie began to groan. ‘How’s it look? How’s it look?’
Over and over.
He’d be going into shock soon. I had to act fast, but what could I do? He needed fluids, he needed a chest
