Stephen Leather - Hot Blood

The four men ran towards the wall, bent low, guns at the ready.

Shepherd groaned and opened his eyes, blinking. The man with the withered arm spoke in Arabic. Straggly Beard replied and they both looked at Shepherd. Their attitude had changed – Shepherd could see it in their eyes. Straggly Beard put down the bucket and went out of the room.

Withered Arm muttered to the tall guy, who grunted and nodded. Shepherd pulled at his wrists. There was no give in the rope but they weren’t planning to hurt him any more, he knew. They had come to the end of that phase. The two men were staring at him now. He stared back. He knew he could say nothing to stop what was about to happen. He couldn’t threaten them, he couldn’t intimidate them, and he knew that begging wouldn’t work. His mind raced. His wrists were tied and he was in a weakened state. There were at least three of them, maybe more, and they were armed.

Shepherd moved his legs. His boots may have been taken but he could still kick – and he could kick hard. Whatever they were planning to do, he would go down fighting. His heart pounded and he consciously slowed his breathing, not wanting to appear anxious. Giving up wasn’t an option. The thinking part of his brain knew it was hopeless, that he would die at their hands, but he refused to accept the inevitable. He hated the men – hated them with a vengeance – and he would do everything he could to administer as much pain and suffering to them as he could before he died.

The door opened and the tall man came back. He was holding a large knife with a wooden handle and a serrated edge. A bread-knife. He closed the door.

‘My company will pay you,’ said Shepherd, surprised at how calm he sounded. ‘They’ll pay you a lot of money.’

The tall man took a step towards him. The man with the withered arm said something to Straggly Beard, who moved to the right. Withered Arm started to mutter: ‘ Allahu Akbar.’ God is great. Straggly Beard repeated it, then the tall man. All three got themselves into a rhythm. ‘ Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.’

The door opened and a fourth stepped into the room. Shepherd hadn’t seen him before. He was stocky with a shaved head and a beard that went half-way down his chest. He was wearing a floor-length dishdasha and stood with his hands clasped together. He joined in the chant.

Shepherd pulled at his wrists again, even though he knew it was futile. The ropes tying him to the chair were as tight as those binding his arms. He hadn’t tried to stand up but he knew that when he did the chair would force him to bend forward making his head an easy target. He stared at the bread-knife. The man was swinging it back and forth as he chanted. He pulled at his wrists again and felt the rope bite into his flesh. He welcomed the pain: it was a reminder that he was still alive, that blood was still coursing through his veins.

‘ Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.’ They repeated the mantra as if somehow invoking their God legitimised what they were about to do. Shepherd knew that it was also a way of distancing themselves from it. Killing wasn’t easy, and killing with a knife was just about the hardest way to take a life. Guns were easy: you pointed, pulled a trigger, and technology did the rest, but knives had to be used. You had to thrust, hack or saw and keep at it until the blood flowed and the victim died.

The man with the knife was just four feet from the chair. Shepherd could see his Adam’s apple wobbling as he chanted, his right eyelid flickering, and his jaw tightening. The man was preparing himself for what he was about to do.

So was Shepherd. He grunted, bent forward to raise the legs of the chair off the ground, then turned quickly. He yelled, to get his adrenaline flowing, and to shock the men in the room. He bent further down, angling the chair legs up, then powered backwards with all his strength, screaming at full volume. He pushed hard and felt the man with the knife stagger back. Shepherd kept the momentum going and when the man hit the wall Shepherd felt the chair leg sink into his body. Shepherd pushed until he couldn’t go any further, then stepped forward and whirled round. The bread-knife dropped from the man’s hand and he sank to his knees, blood pouring from his stomach. Shepherd turned, bent low and lashed out with his foot. He hit the man in the throat but the kick put him off balance and he staggered forward, trying desperately to regain his footing because he knew that if he fell over he wouldn’t be able to get up.

He slipped on the wet floor and went down on one knee. The man in the dishdasha picked up the knife. He glanced at the man with the withered arm, who nodded. Straggly Beard shouted something in Arabic and pulled a gun from under his sweatshirt. Shepherd dropped low and spun around, lashing out with his right leg. He caught the man at the ankles, tipping him backwards. The gun went off but the bullet buried itself in the ceiling. Shepherd moved backwards and kicked out again, catching him in the knee.

The man with the withered arm grabbed at the chair with his good arm and swung Shepherd round, screaming in Arabic. Shepherd staggered, still bent double – the old man had a strong grip. Shepherd saw the man in the dishdasha waving the knife, a manic look in his eyes, then saw Straggly Beard trying to take aim at him.

The door flew open and a man came into the room bent low with a Glock in his hand. It was the Major. The gun fired twice and Straggly Beard fell to the ground. Another man came in, this one with an Uzi. Jordan raised it but before he could fire O’Brien stepped in and slammed his handgun against the head of the man holding the knife, who went down without a sound. ‘No point in wasting a bullet,’ he said.

The man with the withered arm fell to his knees and began to wail. The Major kicked him in the chest and told him to shut up. He curled up into a ball and sobbed quietly.

Shepherd sighed and sat down heavily. He felt drained, physically and emotionally.

O’Brien grinned. ‘Yet again we pull your nuts out of the fire, Spider.’

The Major walked over to Shepherd, picked up the bread-knife and cut the ropes that were holding him to the chair, then freed his wrists. Shepherd gasped as the blood flowed into his hands and shook them. ‘Are you okay?’ asked the Major.

‘I am now,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did you follow Wafeeq?’

‘No,’ said the Major, ‘but these guys should be able to fill us in. With the right incentive.’

‘Yokely’s on his way, then?’

The Major nodded. He helped Shepherd to his feet. ‘Can you walk?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd, but he needed the Major’s support to get to the door. Jordan knelt down and examined the man that Shepherd had impaled with the chair leg. Blood was pumping from the wound in his stomach, which meant that an artery had burst. He didn’t have long to live.

‘Get them downstairs, Martin.’

‘Will do, boss.’

‘This one’s dead,’ said Jordan. ‘Or will be soon.’

The Major helped Shepherd down the stairs. At the bottom two Iraqis were lying face down on the floor, their hands clasped over the back of their necks. Muller was covering them with his gun. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘Good to see you, Spider.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Shepherd.

‘There’re two alive upstairs, John,’ said the Major. ‘Get them all in the front room.’

The Major took Shepherd into the kitchen. Half a dozen bottles of water stood on the draining-board and Shepherd unscrewed a cap and drank. As he put the bottle down he saw a face looking in through the window and flinched, then realised it was Carol Bosch. ‘Hey,’ she said, and waved her shotgun.

Shepherd grinned. The kitchen door opened and Shortt came in, his gun at the ready. He relaxed when he saw Shepherd and the Major and holstered the Glock.