so far, Eddie. The first time you actually have to kill someone for real . . . well, it’s different. Some people find they can’t do it at all. Others do it . . . and enjoy it. I’m glad you’re in the third category.’ He squeezed his arm. ‘You did the right thing – you protected your teammates, the mission and the lives of the hostages. You did well, Eddie. I always knew you would.’
Chase managed a faint smile. ‘Thanks, Mac.’
‘So let’s get back to work.’ He waved, telling the rest of the team to move out. As the men set off, his radio clicked. ‘Yes?’
Even over the headset, Stikes sounded concerned. ‘Major, we have a slight problem.’
‘He wasn’t fucking kidding,’ Chase growled.
The team hid amongst desiccated scrub at the top of the slope. Before them was a relatively flat expanse backed by the rising mountains, a few tumbledown buildings about three hundred yards away: the abandoned farm where the Taliban had taken their prisoners.
In its description of the location, the mission briefing had been accurate. In its assessment of the enemy forces, however, it had not.
‘Where the fuck did this lot come from?’ said Baine. They had expected at most a dozen Taliban, but at least that could be seen beside the single-storey farmhouse alone, and the number of tents pitched nearby suggested many more. The three white-painted United Nations vehicles – two medium-sized trucks and a Toyota Land Cruiser – and the battered pickup spotted by satellite had been joined by another three well-worn off-roaders, and the ‘couple’ of horses had multiplied to at least ten. There were even some motorcycles.
‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’ said Starkman. ‘Question is, what do we do about ’em?’
Mac looked through binoculars. ‘If this were a search-and-destroy mission, nothing would change – we’ve still got surprise and firepower on our side. But with hostages to worry about . . . ’ His gaze fixed on a barn-like structure a hundred yards from the house. ‘There are two men guarding the barn, but no lights inside. That’s probably where they’re being held.’
Movement at the main building; several Taliban, chattering loudly, went inside, while others headed for the tents. A few men remained outside. ‘That’s useful,’ said Stikes. ‘If they stay in the house, we can bring the whole thing down on top of them.’ He indicated the Heckler & Koch AG-C 40mm grenade launchers mounted on Green’s and Baine’s rifles. ‘Get a lot in one go.’
‘Still plenty left,’ Mac replied. He pointed at a shallow irrigation ditch not far away. ‘Eddie, Hugo, see if the hostages are in the barn. And check for any more tents behind the house.’
Chase and Castille slipped off their packs, then, weapons in hand, crawled across the dusty ground and slithered into the ditch. It took them almost ten minutes to reach the barn, moving at a silent snail’s pace to avoid alerting the guards. The dusty channel passed about forty feet from the dilapidated structure; once out of the guards’ field of view, Chase cautiously raised his head. Nearby was a rubbish pile that would provide additional concealment as they approached the barn. He ducked back down and signalled for Castille to follow, crawling onwards until they drew level with the garbage heap.
He peered up again – and froze as a guard came into view, AK hanging from one shoulder. The man trudged along the side of the barn, passing the pile of rubbish with barely a sideways glance.
Chase expected him to round the rear of the building, but instead he continued across open ground to a small shack. He unbolted its door and went inside.
A woman’s fearful shriek cut through the night air. Chase whipped up his gun. It couldn’t be any of the hostages – mindful of Afghanistan’s repressive attitudes, the UN workers were all men. The Taliban had another prisoner.
Prisoners, plural. A second woman wailed a plea, which was cut short by the thud of a foot hitting flesh and a pained squeal. The man shouted, his tone filled with disgust, and reappeared, slamming the door and bolting it before stalking away.
Chase waited until he was out of sight, then emerged from the ditch and took cover behind the trash heap. Castille followed. ‘What was that?’ the Belgian whispered.
‘I don’t think these fundamentalist fuckwits are running a women’s refuge,’ Chase snapped. ‘Come on, let’s get them out of there.’
‘Wait, wait, wait! We have to find the hostages first.’