‘Whoa … Where are you?’
‘We’re at the junction. We’re waiting.’
‘OK. Can you hear me clearly, Awaale? Can you hear me?’
He was shouting over the gunfire. I could see muzzle flashes in the distance as Lucky’s gang kept giving it some in the ever-darkening gloom.
‘I hear you.’
‘OK. From the crossroads, if you go up five blocks — repeat, five blocks — you’ll come to another intersection, and that’s where they are. I can see one technical — repeat, one technical — with a heavy gun onboard. But it’s not being used, Awaale. It’s just parked up. I’m just seeing small-arms fire. Do you understand that?’
I got nothing back.
‘Awaale? Awaale?’
‘Yes, I understand, Mr Nick.’
‘OK. As soon as I start firing, you start to move on the left-hand side of the road. They’re five blocks away.’
No reply.
‘Awaale?’
No reply. Fuck it. I went to the wagon, jumped onto the back and started shouting at the gunner. I pointed down to the thin green tin boxes of ammunition. ‘You load, yeah?’ I mimed putting one onto the weapon.
The boxes held about fifty rounds each. That was what they normally came with, anyway. Fuck knew what was going on here. There were about twenty-five rounds hanging from the weapon and onto the steel floor. Empty cases were scattered all over the place. I kicked them out of the way with my Timberlands so I could get a firm, stable firing platform.
The firing mechanism was a really old one: two wooden handles on metal frames with a paddle in between. I didn’t bother to check if the safety was on. For sure it wasn’t.
The circular spider-web sight was the kind normally fitted for anti-aircraft work. I lined it up with the foresight on the junction five blocks up. I caught a couple of muzzle flashes and kicked off a three-round burst. The rate of fire was slow. The gas regulator must have been closed down too far. Or, more likely, clogged up with carbon because it was never cleaned.
The next burst included two tracer. They zinged into a wall just left of the junction, where I’d seen bodies taking cover. I quickly checked the belt. It was running fine. The green tip on every fifth round was tracer.
I kicked off at the junction itself. Five-round bursts, trying to control the amount of ammunition I was using, and also to keep the fucking thing on aim. The mount wobbled; it wasn’t bolted in properly.
Pointing down at the next ammo box, I swivelled the gun left and right. I couldn’t see any movement.
I got on the radio as the lads started to load it up. ‘Awaale?’
Still nothing.
‘Move, mate. Awaale, move.’
Two or three seconds later I heard the scream of engines. A cloud of dust billowed above the sea of wriggly tin and moved towards the junction. If Lucky Justice hadn’t known where our technicals were, he did now. All Awaale needed to throw in was a bugle call and the fucking cavalry charge was complete. None of this stealth, getting right on top of the target nonsense: they were just going for it.
10
The leading technical, flatbed heaving, came briefly into view through a gap between the shacks. At least they were outside my arc of fire. I lost them again almost immediately. Every time I saw muzzle flashes, I’d put in a three- to five-round burst. I watched the tracer’s gentle arc towards the target, 350 metres away at the most. I put another five rounds into the junction. And then another.
‘Mr Nick, Mr Nick?’ Awaale was back on the net.
I couldn’t respond. In all the excitement, he’d kept his finger on the pressle. All I could hear was his engine gunning. I had to wait for him to release it.
‘Mr Nick, Mr Nick?’ This time he remembered.
I hit the red tab. ‘Yes, Awaale, yes. Where are you?’
The driver had jumped out, and he was having a go at the targets with his AK. He fired big long bursts, which kicked off in all directions, mostly into the air. He didn’t give a fuck: he was just going for it.
‘Where are they, Mr Nick? Where are they?’
I peered into the gloom. He could be anywhere. There were dust-clouds all over the place.
‘Stop, Awaale. Stop. Can you hear me?
I clicked off.
‘OK, we’ve stopped. Where are they? Where are they?’
‘Calm down, mate. Wait, wait …’
I wanted him to take a breath, and then we could move from there. ‘Where are you, Awaale?’
‘I don’t know …’
They’d gone careering off without a clue.
‘OK. Fire your machine-gun in the air. When I see your tracer I can direct you.’
I got nothing back.
‘Awaale?’
Five or six tracer suddenly blossomed fifty metres short of the junction, three blocks in on the left.
‘Good. I want you to turn directly towards the road. They’re very close to the junction. Is that clear?’
I had to shout so loudly I almost didn’t need the radio. The gunner was going ape-shit on the 12.7. The driver was going ape-shit on his AK. Three empty magazines lay at his feet. Only he knew who or what he was aiming at. If, indeed, he was aiming at all.
I looked up. There was another whoosh from the junction. I could see the smoke trail heading our way. I threw myself to the ground just as the thing exploded. It had landed in front of the shack. An old guy burst out of the door, screaming like a banshee. He legged it down the other side of the mound and kept on running. I didn’t blame him.
Dust and stones showered down on us.
I got back on the radio. ‘Awaale?’
‘Yes, Mr Nick.’
I could hear the engines gunning; everybody shouting.
‘Awaale?
Nothing.
‘I’ll keep firing until you get to the crossing. All right? I’ll fire until you get to the road. Awaale? Can you hear me?’
There were shouts from the two lads behind me. I jerked my head round and scanned the junction. A couple of bodies were sprawled in the dust. They’d got a couple of kills.
I bunched my fists, as if gripping the firing handles. ‘Keep going, boys, keep firing …’
I sparked up the radio again. We just needed the Benny Hill music for this performance to be complete. ‘Awaale?’
Tracer stitched its way across Lucky’s position as Awaale’s team blasted straight through the intersection like a demented cavalry charge, bouncing over the two bodies as they went.
I jumped back onto our flatbed, took over the gun and directed rounds towards Lucky’s side of the junction, into walls and roofs and the shells of ruined buildings, wherever I saw anything moving.
Lucky’s technical emerged from cover to take Awaale head-on. Awaale’s driver spun his wheel so the boys behind the cab could lay down fire without zapping him and the boss if their barrels dipped.
I punched three-round bursts into Lucky’s metalwork from my vantage-point. The tracer burrowed into the dirt, burning for a couple of seconds until it died. His gunner didn’t hang around. He leapt off the back and legged it
