Andy McNab - Exit wound

I took a breath to slow everything down.

Key in, ignition on.

The windscreen took a round top right. It crazed like a spider’s web but the toughened glass held. I pushed my foot to the floor and the auto-transmission did its stuff. I steered for the gate on full beam, hit the main road and swung the vehicle left.

There was no follow-up in the rear-view – at least, none using headlights.

Why would they bother? They’d got everything they wanted, apart from one crate.

I fought to contain the emotion that boiled inside me. Anger wasn’t going to help get me out of here. First I had to pick up my passport and then get out of Dubai – maybe head east for Oman a couple of hours’ north. Once I was safe, I’d call Julian. He’d get me out of the shit.

I was back on the coast road. The city soon glowed on the horizon. A few K more and, as I passed the rest area where we’d loaded the Suburban, I could see the warning lights blink on top of the skyscrapers.

Six K later I was pulling into wasteland just inside the city limits. I jumped out, looking for something hard to do some damage. ‘Sherry, it’s OK – get up.’

The ground was littered with piles of broken-up concrete blocks and reinforcement rods from the construction sites all around us. A lump of concrete would work for me.

By the time I got back to the wagon she was sitting up with the blanket still over her head. ‘You don’t need that any more.’ I opened the rear door. One look at what I had in my hand confirmed her worst fears. ‘God, please, no!’

I headed for the windscreen. ‘Shut up and get out!’

I started by giving the bullet hole a couple of hits to disguise it. Sherry stood there, the blanket still in her hand. ‘You’re safe, Sherry. It’s all over. I’m fucking off now and so should you. If you want to see your husband, don’t say a word to anyone. If you do, you’re in the shit with the UAE.’

I didn’t give her time to answer. She just needed gripping. ‘Go get the windscreen replaced.’ I gave her half the money I had on me. She took the cash and didn’t say a word or even draw breath before jumping into the driver’s seat and hitting the gas. Fair one.

I watched her rear lights melt into the mass of streetlights and neon before I started walking in the same direction.

First light

I asked the driver to drop me off along the Creek, just past the tunnel. I walked along the waterfront towards the toilet block a K away. There were a lot of people about, despite the time of day. Indians and Filipinos, of course. The traffic was constant but not dense.

I stopped short of the toilet block, taking a seat inside one of the space-age bus shelters. I looked and watched, clearing the area around one of our known locations. It would have appeared a long shot to the lads who’d been following us, but one they would have considered.

I’d take the others’ passports and cash as well. They had no use for them now.

A couple of old Indian women came and sat down beside me. They ignored the white man in shit state who was waiting for a bus.

I couldn’t see a Toyota or Mazda, no one sitting in any vehicle, just the odd guy going in and coming pretty much straight out again. Everything looked normal.

I nodded goodbye to the women and headed down the subway. I turned left as I emerged and went straight into the toilet block. It was empty.

I felt along the shelf. There was nothing.

Shit .

I started running to the door. I was heading out into the market area, anywhere I could make distance and lose myself down alleyways, behind buildings, anywhere to escape.

A body crashed into me in the doorway. I stumbled backwards. There were another two, maybe three, behind him. They flooded me, and as my head hit the wall I caught a flash of blue shirt. The next thing I heard was the crackle of a Tazer. A nanosecond later, my body exploded and I dropped.

I came round feeling like I’d been on a four-day bender. My mouth was as dry as sand and my teeth were coated with fur. I breathed out and the blanket bounced it back at me. It wasn’t my best day out.

I forced my eyes open and looked around. I was in an orange jumpsuit. I was in a cell. There weren’t any windows, just a fluorescent light with a mesh cover fixed flush with the ceiling. The walls were plain plaster. I could see scrawls in English. There was a familiar institutional smell, a mixture of school dinners and cleaning fluid.

I vaguely remembered being moved and shoved about…lying on a stretcher… the horrible feeling of waking up wet because I’d pissed myself.

I rubbed my face. My hands grazed a good two days’ worth of stubble.

They definitely had eyes on me. It wasn’t more than a minute before I heard boots squeaking down a corridor. I studied the sheet-metal door. There was no peephole or any of that stuff off The Bill. There’d be fibre-optics or some sort of shit chased into the walls.

Keys jangled and the lock turned with a heavy clunk. I got my head under my arms, curled up and waited.

The door burst open and boots and blue trousers headed my way. They were black Hi-Tec, high-leg boots. This was feeling more familiar by the second. I ventured an eye upwards to see two Brit policemen in white short-sleeved shirts, one balding, one with a shaven head. Neither looked in much of a mood to fuck about. They grabbed hold of me. The shaven-headed one had ginger-freckled hands. He did the business with issue cuffs, the ones with a rigid link between them. Even the sight of those was comforting.

His massive fist closed around the link and jerked me to my feet. No words, just actions. He tugged the link behind him and I followed as fast as I could to relieve the pain of the steel against my wrists. My legs took a while to spark up and I had to keep my arms horizontal.

Metal doors lined the narrow corridor. Every one of them was closed, and the ID plates bore no name, blood group or religion. Either I was the only one in here, or they were playing mind games.

Were they trying to disorient me? Then why wear watches that agreed with the big wall clock ahead of us? They all said just after three o’clock. A.m. or p.m., what did I care? At least I wasn’t lying dead on an airstrip or banged up next to Sherry’s old man. Whatever, it was time to buckle up. Things could still get hairy, depending who had brought me here.

They hauled me into an interrogation room. Why they called them interview rooms I hadn’t a clue. We all knew what went on inside them.

The steel table in the middle had four tubular legs bolted to the floor. The two bench seats either side were also fixed. The walls were cream. The paint, I could smell, was fresh. I wondered what had happened to the last occupant to prompt a makeover.

Fluorescent lights were set into the ceiling, like in the cell. Nothing to grab, nothing to pull out.

The two handlers’ boots squeaked over the polished tiles and came to a halt. They turned me round and plonked me by the bench furthest from the door. I kept looking down. My bare feet had left a trail of sweaty prints across the floor.

I was allowed to sit myself down, but they attached my cuffs to the retaining chain welded to the table. I was free to move my hands, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

They turned and left the room. I was being watched, of course. There weren’t any two-way mirrors. This place had cameras in each corner.

I sat there with the strange sense of comfort that came from being somewhere that felt familiar. Red Ken and Dex had been right. There was no way I was going to fester in a Dubai jail.

The squeaks came down the corridor once more, and the door was unbolted. It wasn’t Ginger who came in armed with two steaming mugs, but Julian, the Premiership player from the funeral.