drain, he needed the wound sealed; he needed the whole fucking cast of
He groaned again.
Still no need to worry about his airway.
His hand had fallen from his chest. I put the heel of my mine over the hole to keep the seal. He coughed again, and the effort sent him into spasms of pain.
‘How’s it look? How’s it look?’
His face contorted — another good sign. He could still feel it, his senses hadn’t deserted him.
I needed to get him down to the wagon, and I needed to keep the seal while I did so. I’d have to drive back to the village. The guy we’d lifted the RPK from had been standing in the doorway of what looked like a medical station — and the BDUs would have brought trauma packs.
We’d be arrested, but so what? I’d said I’d get the old fucker home, and I would.
‘How’s it look?’
‘Shut up, and think life.’
There was nothing up here I could use to keep the seal, apart from my hand. How the fuck was I going to do that while I got him down the hill?
Bastard would be heading there too. He knew we hadn’t come here by bus. But he wasn’t going anywhere fast. I’d deal with him once Charlie was safe.
I looked down at Charlie’s face. It was swelling like a football.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’
I lifted my hand.
There was a hiss, like air escaping from the valve of a car tyre, and a geyser of blood mist.
The round had certainly gone through one of his lungs, maybe both. Oxygen was being released into the chest cavity through any wounds. With me holding the seal, it had nowhere to go. The pressure in his chest had built so much that when he tried to breathe in, his lungs and heart had no way to expand.
I pulled him over onto his right side; blood that had pooled inside the lung poured out like milk from an overturned bottle.
I rolled him back and sealed the hole again.
He was losing consciousness.
11
I had to keep trying. ‘It’s OK, you can talk to me again, mate.’
There was no response. ‘Oi, come on, speak to me, you old twat!’ I pulled his sideburns. Still no response.
I lifted his eyelid.
So little dilation I could scarcely see it.
His breathing had become very rapid and shallow. His heart was working overtime to circulate what fluid was left around his body. There’d be more blood in his chest cavity now, pooling and killing him.
I listened to his breathing. ‘Show me you hear me, mate… Show me…’
There was no reply.
‘I’m going to move you, mate… not long now before we’re out of here. Soon be on a plane, be back in Brisbane… OK, OK? Give me a sign, mate, show me you’re alive.’
Nothing.
I lifted a lid, felt for a pulse.
None of those either.
I touched his face; the smile was still there. It was sign enough for me.
‘Won’t be long, you old fucker. Back soon.’
I picked up the RPK and lunged down the hill. I pulled off the mag as I ran, and pushed down. About ten left. I flicked safety to the first click. Every round had to count.
I checked left at the treeline, towards the wagons.
About 100 away, Bastard swayed from side to side as he stumbled along the road, arms flailing in an effort to maintain his balance.
Keeping in the trees, I followed.
He fell, and floundered for a moment like an upturned turtle.
I slowed almost to a walk, scanning ahead for a decent firing position.
He finally reached the Taliwagon. I watched him head for the driver’s door and lean inside.
I put the weapon on the ground again, bipod in place, and eased myself down behind it.
The iron sights were on battle setting: 300 metres.
I felt surprisingly calm as I brought the butt into my shoulder, closed my left eye and took aim.
As I’d assumed, he was no big-time hot-wire man. He emerged from the cab and kicked the side panel in frustration before moving back to the Lada. A second or two later the engine turned over, but that was all it did.
Wet spark plugs. It must have been what had stopped him in the first place, and nothing had changed.
He persisted, but the battery was draining and it turned over slower and slower.
The wind took the sound and carried it away into the trees, but I watched him screaming out, punching the steering wheel with rage.
He climbed out and started towards the pipeline.
It didn’t matter what his plans were; they weren’t going to happen.
My eyes focused on his body mass. Left eye closed, I aimed low, into his gut.
I took first pressure on the trigger; breathed in, held it.
The foresight was sharp and Bastard was blurred.
Perfect.
I squeezed second pressure.
The weapon jolted in my shoulder and Bastard went down.
There was no movement at first, then his legs started to scrabble in the mud.
I got up. Weapon in the shoulder, bipod down, I moved towards him.
He was beginning to crawl over the pipeline scar, instinct dragging him away from danger. I doubted he even knew he was doing it.
He saw me coming.
He stopped, and curled on his side in the middle of the scar.
Dark, deoxygenated blood oozed from his gut and ran down the shiny chrome of the Desert
Eagle in his belt.
Weapon in the shoulder, eyes on that.357.
I was only a couple of metres away when he held up a hand. He’d been saving his breath until he absolutely needed to speak.
‘Nick, I’ll split my half million with you… Chuck got his half mill…’
I just let him fill the gaps.
‘I’m sorry about the cemetery thing, but I’d taken half his cash, man… I had to tidy up… Loose ends…’
His hand was still up, but more in supplication now than self-protection. ‘You already got two-fifty, right? You said you’d split it down the middle. So I’ll give you another two-fifty… That puts you ahead of us both…’
I heard the rattle of heli rotors in the distance. Bastard heard them too.
‘Hey, Nick, tell you what — I’ll give you it all… Get me back to Istanbul, I’ll arrange the transfer. Come on, man.’
Hand still in the air, he pointed to his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll even give you the tape back. You’re no fool, Nick. You know it’s a good deal. Think about it. Chuck’s gone. You gotta think of yourself now.’
This guy never gave up, did he?
