Andy McNab: Exit wound

‘I used the gold to buy the missiles from Vladislav. You remember him?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Then I geared up by trading the missiles to the Taliban for heroin, via that fuck Altun.’

His hands finally came down. ‘Iran’s having an election soon, Nick. The Taliban paid us way over the odds to get their hands on the missiles. We’re going to flood the country with their heroin and pocket the proceeds. Double whammy! The CIA needs black money to finance guys like me and you.’ He reached out a hand for me to help him up.

I stared along the barrel. ‘Not me, Spag. I was stood down. But you know why I’m here. You were there when it happened.’

His jaw dropped. ‘This whole thing – for two guys? You’re kidding, right?’

I was almost in a trance. I just looked at him, wondering when I was going to pull the trigger. ‘Not just two. There’s Tenny, and all the others like him.’

‘Big boys’ rules, Nick. They knew what they signed up for. This is bigger than them.’

‘Wrong.’

As I brought the weapon up he sprang towards me, slapping my hand off to the left.

The weapon spun and he started running for the gap.

It was OK. I had five or six metres. I wanted to take my time, get it right, savour the moment.

I turned, brought the weapon back up – even thought about my stance. Nice stable position with the feet; weapon solid in the right hand; web of the thumb and forefinger tight into the back of the grip. Nice straight right arm; left now bent, fingers closing over the right wrist.

Both eyes open, fixed on the foresight so it was clear and sharp, I took aim in the centre of the big, now out-of-focus mass dodging the oxygen masks and debris.

The pad of my right forefinger rested on the trigger.

‘Nick! Nick!’

She stood in the opening, right in my arc of fire.

‘Out of the way!’

He saw his chance. The gap between them closed.

I started to run.

The chainsaw engine roared, but it was drowned almost immediately by Spag’s high-pitched scream.

Red stuff exploded over the rear cabin as he fell to his side, the chainsaw still embedded in his chest.

Drenched in his blood, Anna dropped to her knees and vomited.

I jumped over the American’s body and put my arm around her shoulders.

Spag’s eyes were fixed wide open, like he was watching with amazement as the blood dribbled from his nose and mouth and his intestines spewed out over a rack of his own ribs. The motor idled, making it pulse from side to side.

I dragged Anna to her feet and out of the cabin. Out on the tarmac, I kept her upright. Once people are on the ground they flap even more. It’s all to do with the body language of surrender.

‘Anna – switch on!’

I shook her. I squeezed her face with my hand, trying to force her to focus. ‘Look at me! It isn’t over yet!’

It took her a while. ‘Yes, yes.’ She swallowed hard and I smelt strawberries again. ‘Yes, Nick, you’re right.’

She wiped hair from her face and I let her go. ‘Now listen to me. I want you to take the wagon…’ I kept my voice slow and low. ‘Take the wagon, and go and untie Zar. Don’t bring him here. He can do that himself. Tell him it’s steak time for him and the lads.’

‘What?’

‘Tell him to take as much money as he can carry and bury the rest. He can come back for it later. Do you understand?’

She nodded.

‘Deep breaths, Anna, it’s all right.’ I kept an eye out for the crew, but if they had any sense they were going to stay where they were until the dust had settled.

‘Then get the bags and all our kit from the bike. We don’t want to leave anything here that can be connected to us. Do you understand?’

‘Grisha’s bike… we can’t…’

‘Just leave it, Anna. We’re taking the wagon. You got what you wanted. It’s time to let go.’

She looked dazed. She needed gripping.

‘Anna! Switch on!’

‘Yes, yes – Zar, I’ll go to Zar.’

She turned away and I went back into the aircraft. I tipped half a dozen immaculately pressed shirts from a Louis Vuitton bag and started stuffing it with muddy hundred-dollar bills. When it was full I found another, and then another. I’d filled four by the time the wagon came back down the runway. The tailgate was still open.

I threw the bags into the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

Anna was recovering. ‘I heard him shouting at you. What did he tell you, Nick?’

‘Nothing we didn’t already know. Everybody’s got their face in the trough and the ones who pay the price are lads like Grisha… my mates… and the rest of us at the shit end of the stick. So fuck it, let’s go.’

We passed the missile-launcher. He hadn’t moved anywhere fast, and was going to need a lot of work on that jaw of his. She was more concerned about me. ‘Nick – your head…’

‘Don’t worry about me.’ The pain was excruciating, but I managed a smile. ‘I’m still breathing. So I’m still winning.’

A fourth drone cut across the sky, not realizing this particular show was over.

She drove fast. We were just about to enter the trees when Zar burst out onto the tarmac, staring wild-eyed at the wreckage at the end of the runway. Anna smiled as she watched him run towards the Ural. ‘I told him to take Cuckoo. It’s his now.’

Saturday, 18 July

1456 hrs

London City airport

Late-afternoon sunlight streamed in through the big plate-glass windows as I strolled through the automatic doors.

Through half-closed eyes, London City airport on a Saturday afternoon was how air travel must have been forty years ago. The building was almost deserted. A couple with small kids were making their way up an escalator towards the departure lounge. Some punters ambled from the shop, magazines in hand, to one of the two short check-in queues. An announcement encouraged last passengers for a flight to Geneva to make their way to the departure gate.

The person I’d come here to meet wasn’t where he’d said he would be, but I’d half expected that. We were at an airport, after all. I turned around and headed back towards the car park. It should have been the first place I’d looked.

A couple of vehicles came and went in the unloading bay. An overweight woman with a bad case of sunburn lugged a heavy suitcase on wheels across a pedestrian crossing, shouting at her overweight kids to keep up.

I heard the roar of engines behind me as a commuter jet pulled into the sky.

I stepped out of the bright sunlight, and scanned the cars. I picked him out of the background clutter, his face angled skywards, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare. I hadn’t a clue what the plane was – I didn’t care – but I knew this was where his attention would be. Once a geek, always a geek… ‘Oi, Ali.’

He lowered his arm and dropped his gaze. ‘Jim!’

That was a bridge we had yet to cross. He rushed up and I held out my hand. ‘Good to see you, mate.’

‘You, too.’ His eyes flicked from my face to my head. The scabs had gone and the skin was starting to lose its redness, but there was still a rather obvious lack of hair on one side.

I bent down so he could have a good look. ‘Came off a motorbike.’ I showed off the little stubby hairs trying to push through. ‘But I can see the green shoots of recovery.’ I stood up again, feeling quite pleased with my joke.

He didn’t get it.

We were supposed to meet in the cafe – the airport being a handy halfway house between my place and his. He looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry. Have you been here long?’

I shook my head. ‘No drama, mate. Settling in OK?’