blinkered masses - that used to be one of Andy’s pet phrases - to the draw.
Sitting pretty.
Maybe not. They might have had their secluded, self-sufficient smallholding, but, she wondered, how long would they have been able to keep hold of it? Especially once the looted supermarket food ran out and hunger began to bite. Those people, the blinkered masses, would come looking, foraging.
Jenny shook her head.
Andy wasn’t the kind of guy who could defend himself, his family. He was a pacifist. She struggled to imagine him guarding their little survival fortress, with an assault rifle slung over one shoulder and his face dappled with that camouflage make-up the boys liked so much.
He could plan, but he wasn’t a fighter.
CHAPTER 42
10.53 p.m. local time Al-Bayji, Iraq
Westley yanked Andy forward with a savage jerk of his arm, almost pulling him off his feet. With his other hand, Andy managed to grab hold of the truck’s tailgate, and together with the Lance Corporal grabbing hold of his sweat-soaked shirt, pulling him up, he found himself lying in the back of the truck, looking up at the flitting moonlit clouds.
With a crunch and a loose rattle of worn metal, the truck finally found third gear, and lurched forward.
Westley was screaming at Lieutenant Carter to get a move on. This truck was not going to slow down for him.
Andy sat up and looked over the rim at the back of the truck’s bed to see the young officer falling behind them. Beyond, a hundred yards back, the mob were furiously pursuing.
‘Come on, fuckin’ move it, sir!’ he shouted.
Lieutenant Carter ditched his webbing and his gun, and pounded the ground hard with his boots, his face a snarl of effort. His arms pumped hard, and to Andy’s amazement, his pace had picked up enough that he began to close the gap. Andy climbed over the rim and joined Westley leaning out of the back of the truck, one arm fully extended. Carter was so exhausted he would need both of them to pull him up, there was no way he was going to have anything left over to get himself up. Once they grabbed hold of him he was going to be dead weight.
‘That’s it!’ shouted Andy. ‘Come on!’
Carter increased his pace, and raised one arm out towards the back of the truck, his fingers brushed Andy’s.
A puff of crimson suddenly erupted from his torso; the young man lurched and fell forward.
‘No!’
Carter shrank as the truck rumbled on and left him behind. He’d taken a hit. Andy could see him scrambling drunkenly to his feet again, clutching at his chest. It was over for him. He could see that on the young man’s face. The gunshot wound looked bad.
‘Oh shit! Oh shit! He’s fucking dead.’
Carter collapsed to his knees, but stayed upright. Andy could see clearly the mob were going to get to him long before the wound did its job.
‘Oh this is fucked up,’ groaned Westley.
Andy quickly pulled himself back up and reached out for one of the SA80s in the truck. He steadied himself as best he could in the lurching rear of the vehicle as it rattled on to the bridge.
‘What are you—?’ Westley had time to say before Andy emptied the magazine.
The dirt around Carter danced. Most of Andy’s shots missed, but mercifully, a couple landed home, knocking Carter to the ground, where, to Andy’s relief, he appeared to lay still.
One of the soldiers up at the front of the truck shouted, ‘Hang on! Blockade!’ A moment later the truck careered into the flimsy burned-out shell of a small car, knocking it effortlessly aside amidst a shower of sparks and a cloud of soot, smoke and baked flecks of paint.
The truck roared past a dozen or so more militia, most of them diving out of the way of the truck and the tumbling chassis of the car. The truck rattled noisily across the bridge and Andy watched as the blockade, the dark, lifeless town and the enraged mob of people, dwindled behind them. The last he could vaguely pick out through the night-sight was the darkening mass of people, silhouetted against the distant bonfire, gathering around the body of Lieutenant Carter.
Already his mind was ready with the slow-motion playback.
He felt a slap on his shoulder, and turned to see Mike sitting behind. He nodded. ‘You did good,’ he said.
Andy looked at his watch. It was half past eleven and there was nothing at all to be seen, or, more importantly, heard, in