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 . . .
No movement. He had been lucky.
He returned to the rope and tugged it three times – all clear – before investigating the space beneath the overhang to see what the Afghan had been doing. The smell from the little nook provided the answer. He had interrupted the dead man during a call of nature.
A fall of sand announced Starkman’s descent, the American dropping down beside his friend. ‘What happened?’
‘He got caught short,’ Chase replied, the grim gag escaping his lips before he had time to process it consciously.
Starkman grinned, then moved back as Castille descended the rope. ‘Are you all right?’ the Belgian asked.
Chase didn’t want to think about it any more. ‘Fine.’ A wave of his gun towards the fire. ‘They’ll soon start thinking their mate’s been gone too long just to be constipated.’
Keeping low, they advanced, stopping behind a rock some sixty metres from the campfire. Chase’s erstwhile target sat with his back against a large boulder, gnawing the meat off an animal bone. The other Taliban had moved closer to the fire, within reach of the RPG.
Chase was about to take aim when Castille touched his arm, a hint of sympathetic concern in his voice. ‘I can do it, if you want.’
He brusquely shook his head. ‘That’s okay.’ A pause, then more lightly: ‘But thanks anyway.’
‘No problem.’ They shared a brief look, then Chase returned his attention to the scope.
The red dot fixed on the Taliban’s forehead. ‘Ready?’ he whispered to Starkman.
‘Yeah. One, two . . . three.’
This time, nothing disrupted the shots. Each rifle bucked once, the retorts reduced to flat thwaps by the suppressors. Chase blinked involuntarily, his eyes reopening to see a thick, dark red splash burst across the rock behind his target’s head.
‘Tango down,’ Starkman intoned.
‘Tango down,’ Chase echoed. The body of his victim slowly keeled over, leaving a smeared trail over the stone. ‘Okay, let’s bring the boys through.’ He reached for his radio.
The rest of the team arrived three minutes later, Mac leading the way. ‘Good work,’ he said as he took in the bodies. ‘Just these two?’
‘There was another one back there,’ Starkman reported. ‘Eddie took him out. Stabbed him in the neck.’
Mac looked at Chase, raising an eyebrow at the sight of his uncharacteristically expressionless face. ‘Your first kill, yes?’
‘Yeah,’ Chase replied, his voice flat.
‘Well, it’s good to know there’s more to you than just talk, Chase,’ said Stikes sarcastically as he checked one of the corpses. When no reply was immediately forthcoming, he went on: ‘What, no smart-arse comments? Not going wobbly on us, are you?’
Mac’s face creased with irritation. ‘Alexander, take Will and Bluey and check that the way’s clear.’ He gestured at the dusty slope to the north. Stikes gave him a puzzled look, prompting him to snap, ‘Well, go on!’ Annoyance clear even under his face paint, Stikes summoned the two men and started up the hillside. Starkman took the hint and nudged Castille to give Chase and Mac some space.
‘How do you feel?’ Mac asked.
‘I dunno,’ Chase replied truthfully. ‘Shaken, I suppose.’
‘A bit sick?’
An admission took a few seconds to emerge. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’ Mac put a reassuring hand on Chase’s shoulder. ‘If you hadn’t, I would have been concerned.’
‘How come?’ Chase asked, surprised. ‘I mean, after all the training I thought I could just do it without thinking. Without worrying, I mean.’