Stephen Leather - Hot Blood

‘I’ll give you plenty of warning,’ said Nichols. ‘How’s Shepherd?’

‘All very James Bond,’ said Yokely. ‘Stirred but not shaken.’

‘Does he know how lucky he is?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Yokely. ‘He knows.’

‘Couldn’t help but notice that you put two of the Iraqis in the first Land Cruiser,’ said Nichols. ‘What’s that about?’

Yokely grinned. ‘Watch and learn,’ he said.

The Sniper watched with a growing sense of amazement. What he was seeing made no sense at all. He was lying on an inflatable bed, covered with a piece of sacking. He had chosen the vantage-point carefully. The building below him was six storeys tall and he could see for miles. There were two main roads each within six hundred metres of the building, both used regularly by American troops. There was a fire escape at the rear, which offered a quick way down to a labyrinth of alleyways. He had used the rooftop four months earlier when he had killed an officer leading a foot patrol – shot him in the small of the back as he bent down to tie a shoelace, shattering the spine just below the body armour.

Two patrols had driven along the nearest main road but they had been moving too quickly. The Sniper didn’t waste bullets: he only shot when he was sure he would make a kill, and he had the patience to wait as long as it took. He had two bottles of water in the shade of a chimney-stack, and a plastic bag in case he needed to defecate. The Spotter was lying next to him on a rush mat. Like the Sniper, he was staring at the house some three hundred metres away, wondering what was going on.

They had watched the two Land Cruisers drive up together and park round the corner from the house. Ten minutes after they had arrived, an army Humvee joined them. A soldier climbed out of a Land Cruiser and went to talk to the soldiers in the Humvee. Shortly afterwards two Bradley fighting vehicles arrived with another Humvee. A dozen soldiers in full body armour climbed out and gathered round an officer.

Two helicopters had flown in from the south, then gone into a slow, banking turn that brought them in to a hover about a mile away from the military vehicles. The Sniper recognised them: they were Blackhawks, MH-60L Direct Action Penetrators. They each came equipped with two 7.62mm Miniguns, electrically driven Gatling guns that could fire up to four thousand rounds a minute, and M261 nineteen-tube rocket-launchers, capable of firing a wide range of rockets including armour and bunker penetration and anti-personnel flechette warheads that could rip apart an entire platoon, accurate up to two miles. There was also a 30mm chain gun, which could fire 625 high-explosive rounds a minute with pinpoint accuracy, and two M272 launchers each with four 100-pound Hellfire missiles that could destroy a tank five miles away at the touch of a button. The DAP Blackhawks had been equipped for special-forces operations and were just about the most deadly machines operating in Iraq.

It was what had happened next that had mystified the Sniper. Two civilians wearing body armour had pulled two Iraqis out of the back of a Land Cruiser. One of the Iraqis had been given a handgun and the other a Kalashnikov. Then a Westerner in shirt and trousers climbed out of the second Land Cruiser. He kept his hands behind his back as if his wrists had been tied, but from his vantage-point the Sniper could see a handgun tucked into his belt in the small of his back.

The two Iraqis and the Westerner walked to the house. The American soldiers fanned out, spreading round the street and taking up vantage-points. They appeared to be preparing to storm the house. The Bradley fighting vehicles kept their engines running, ready to move closer to the house, and the Blackhawks continued to hover. The Sniper knew better than to fire while the hunter-killer helicopters were in the vicinity: they were equipped with a full-range of visual, infrared and radar sensors. If they even suspected he was on the roof, they would have no hesitation in destroying the building, no matter who else was in it.

‘What do you think is happening?’ asked the Spotter.

‘I have no idea,’ said the Sniper. ‘But I am sure we will find a target before too long. Inshallah.’

Kamil banged on the door. ‘Colin, stand against the wall, please,’ he shouted. He pressed his eye to the spyhole and watched as Mitchell followed his instructions. Then he unbolted the door and opened it. Behind him, Rahman and Azeem waited, their faces covered with shemagh scarves. Azeem was holding a Kal ashnikov, the safety off.

Mitchell stared at the assault rifle. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. We just need to make another video,’ said Kamil. He walked across the basement and handed the orange jumpsuit to Mitchell. ‘Put this on, please.’

‘What sort of video?’ asked Mitchell.

Wafeeq walked into the basement carrying the video-camera and its tripod. ‘Do as you’re told or we will kill you now,’ he snarled.

‘It’s better to keep him calm,’ Kamil said in Arabic.

‘You are too soft on them,’ said Wafeeq, also in Arabic. ‘They are the infidel. They deserve to die.’

‘It is easier if they are calm,’ said Kamil, patiently. ‘If they struggle, it is harder.’ He smiled at Mitchell. ‘Everything is okay, Colin, we just need another video.’

‘Why?’

‘We need more publicity. We need to put more pressure on your government.’

Wafeeq glared at Mitchell as he screwed the camera on to the tripod. Mitchell slowly pulled on the jumpsuit.

‘I will do this one,’ said Wafeeq in Arabic.

Kamil nodded. ‘It’s your choice,’ he said. They heard shouts from upstairs. It was Abdul-Nasir, the youngest of their group and the one most prone to panic.

‘Kamil!’ shouted Abdul-Nasir. ‘Someone’s coming. Quick! Come and see!’

‘Soldiers?’

‘No. Two men with a Westerner.’

‘What?’

‘Come and see.’

Kamil exchanged a look with Wafeeq. ‘Go!’ said Wafeeq, impatiently.

Kamil hurried into the kitchen, went up to the first floor and peered out of the bedroom window that overlooked the front of the house. Two Iraqis were walking down the path to the house. One was holding a pistol, the other had a Kalashnikov. Between them was a Westerner, head bowed, hands tied behind his back. He stumbled as he walked and the man with the Kalashnikov grabbed his arm. Kamil opened the window. ‘What do you want?’ he shouted.

‘Wafeeq said we were to bring him,’ shouted the man with the handgun.

‘He said what?’

‘He said we were to interrogate him, then bring him here.’

‘What is your name?’

‘I am Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh. This is my son.’

‘Wait there.’

Kamil ran downstairs. A Kalashnikov was leaning against the wall in the hall and he picked it up, then hurried down to the basement. ‘Did you tell them to bring the prisoner here?’ he asked Wafeeq.

Wafeeq frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Two men, upstairs. They’ve brought a prisoner with them. A Westerner.’

Wafeeq looked at Mitchell. He was kneeling on the floor in the orange jumpsuit, his hands at his sides, glaring at them defiantly. The video-camera was ready to roll, and Wafeeq was ready to kill. But clearly something was wrong upstairs. He pointed at Mitchell. ‘I will be back for you,’ he said. ‘Come with me,’ he said to Kamil.

The two men hurried out of the basement. Wafeeq told Azeem to lock the door, then ran upstairs with Kamil.

‘His name is Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh, he said you told him to bring the prisoner here after they had interrogated him.’

Wafeeq shook his head impatiently. ‘I said interrogate him and kill him,’ he snapped. ‘Why would I want them to bring him here?’ He shouted towards the front room: ‘Azeem, Sulaymaan, Rahman, get upstairs now. Cover the front of the house.’