Andy McNab: Exit wound

Spag barged past Red Ken and the contact. ‘OK, what you got? Show me.’

Vladislav caught his drift, unzipped the suitcase and threw back the top. Spag snorted from excitement or exertion. Either way, he should have stayed behind his desk.

Vladislav dug through a pile of old shirts and pulled out what looked like a long-legged metal spider. When he held it up to the light, I could see it was some kind of circuit board with wires coming off it in all directions.

He stood back and let Spag inspect the goods. ‘It’s intact. I have much more on offer if you are interested.’ His English was good.

Spag held out a hand. ‘You got a pen?’

Vladislav fished about inside his coat. Then he knelt to empty the bundles of hundred-dollar bills into his suitcase.

‘Don’t you wanna count it?’

‘I know you will be back for more, so why would you try to cheat me? If you have, I’ll go elsewhere.’

Red Ken leant over to me. ‘These Russians will do just fine, whatever happens to the Wall. There’s no ideology here, mate. It’s every man for himself.’

Spag’s eyes gleamed. He finished writing on one of the wrappers. ‘Come direct to me. We could do some serious business.’

He stood and they shook.

There were shouts from outside.

I started running.

I cannoned into a body at the door. My face rubbed against

sheepskin.

Red Ken yelled from behind me, ‘Leave him!’

I pushed against the coat, not even raising the Maglite, just squeezing past as Red Ken took him.

There were two bodies by the rear of the car. One was staggering to his feet. The other lay still. The upright one wore a long leather coat. He turned towards me and lifted his arm.

My vision tunnelled. All I could see was the weapon I was running towards. The barrel headed my way in slow motion. I felt nothing but the thump of my heart as I got within striking distance.

The Maglite came down on what I could see of the pistol and his hand. He buckled, but not enough. The weapon didn’t fall, and neither did he. I connected again, this time to the right side of his neck.

I kept hitting, kept hammering his head, his neck, his arm.

A round kicked off inside the barn, then a double tap.

I slammed the Maglite down again and again on the target’s head, jumping into the air to get that extra bit of momentum, until I heard the crack I wanted and felt warm blood spurt against my face.

He dropped into the shit beside Tenny.

I used the Maglite for the job it was designed to do – to find the weapon in the mud and guide me back to the barn.

‘Red! Red!’

‘Clear this end.’

I turned back, dropped to my knees beside Tenny and ran the Maglite beam over his face, searching for signs of life. ‘It’s OK, mate. You’re breathing – means you’re still winning. Got to turn you over. Take the pain.’

A gunshot wound to the gut. I grabbed his shoulder, log-rolled him and looked for an exit wound.

‘It’s fine, mate – it’s still inside you.’

The only good thing about a gut wound is that it isn’t as painful as anywhere else on the body. There aren’t any nerve endings there. If there were, it would hurt to eat. As long as no major organs were hit, Tenny could live for a day, maybe two, without treatment.

I pressed my beanie against the entry wound. ‘Keep it there, mate.’

Spag loomed out of the darkness with Vladislav. They both headed for the Trabant.

Red Ken had other ideas. ‘Get in the fucking van – now!’ He and the contact weren’t far behind, hefting Sheepskin by his arms and legs. They dropped him into the mud next to his mate. The Trabant rolled out of the farmyard and Spag pushed himself into the Gaz.

One look at Tenny, and Red Ken binned whatever plan he’d had to hide the Stasi boys. ‘Fuck ’em. Let’s go.’

We loaded Tenny into the Gaz and the contact pressed his foot to the floor. I got on the radio to Dex.

Tenny was less worried about his guts than about what had happened.

‘It was so quick. I sparked up the radio to give Dex a sitrep and they went for it. I-’

Red Ken placed his hand on Tenny’s forehead, like a father with a sick child. ‘It doesn’t matter. Getting you back is all that does. Not long now, mate.’

Spag just sat there with his bag of tricks on his lap. I didn’t blame him keeping out of it.

When we reached the field, Dex’s props were already turning.

Lincoln

14 April 2009

Judging by the number of lads packing the bars around the cathedral, the funeral was going to be a big one. I recognized a few of the faces knocking back the pints as they sheltered under awnings and patio heaters.

I pulled up my jacket collar, and not just against the wind and rain. I was hoping they didn’t recognize me back. I didn’t want to be pulled into any of the groups and have to waffle about jobs and families and how much hair we’d all lost. I’d only get agitated. I wanted to be here as much as I had to be here, but I couldn’t stand the garbage people spouted at reunions. Maybe I was just jealous of them for having normal lives. There were a couple of lads I was looking for in the sea of faces. They were the only ones I wanted to waffle with.

‘Oi, Nick!’

I turned. He wasn’t one of them. I didn’t know the guy from Adam – except that I don’t remember Adam eating all the pies. He was surrounded by other beer bellies and red faces, throwing down the pints like they were still nineteen-year-old squaddies. Many were thinning on top; some were bald or grey. All of them were bullshitting about how great it’s been since they got out. Great house, great car, everything’s gravy.

Some wore their Green Jacket blazers and ties over crisp white shirts and neatly pressed slacks. Others were in their best suits. Me? I was in a Tesco shirt, washable trousers and cheap leather jacket. Most of them would have been lorry drivers, security guards, painters and decorators, firemen or policemen. That was what normally happened with the lads. The odd one would be on the circuit, fucking about in Iraq or Afghanistan, but today it really didn’t matter who or what you were. The one thing everyone had in common was that they knew Tenny.

Tennyson had spent the best part of a year sorting out his gut before marrying Janice and taking up his commission in the Green Jackets – which had become the Rifles in the next shakeup. He never did make general, but was promoted to full colonel in command of media ops at Camp Bastion in Helmand province. It was a plum job, making sure reporters and news crews got where they were needed, and managing the PR output. Until he got zapped again, this time in the head by a 7.62mm short from an AK.

The voice called again: ‘Nick! Nick Stone!’

I still didn’t have a clue who he was, but shook his hand anyway. I didn’t have much choice: he’d gone for it big-time. He pumped my arm so vigorously my shoulders shook.

‘Good to see you, mate.’

Maybe he’d had more hair the last time I’d seen him.

‘Graham – Graham Pincombe. How you doing, mate?’

Still none the wiser. ‘Ah, yeah, fine… mate…’

My brain whirred into hyperspace as the very thing I was trying to avoid started to happen.

‘What you been doing with yourself? The last time I saw you…’ At last his hand released mine and for some reason headed for the tip of his nose. ‘Ah, yeah. Germany – remember when we were on exercise in Germany?’

No, not a clue. ‘Shame about Tenny, eh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What exactly happened – anybody know?’ I scanned the group for a face that might give Mr Pincombe some context.