Tom Cain - Dictator

Silent Death reached the roof and looked down through the skylight into the changing room. He pulled the pin from the grenade Killaman had given him and dropped it through the broken glass, on to the concrete floor of the changing room. Then he slid to the edge of the roof and jumped back down to the ground.

‘Grenade!’ shouted Justus as the metal sphere, not much bigger than a cricket ball, skittered across the concrete.

He grabbed Zalika, all previous inhibitions dropped in an instant.

Justus knew he had less than four seconds to save their lives. But faced with mortal danger, the mind has a remarkable ability to slow the passage of time, and it seemed to Justus that he had an age in which to consider his options.

He saw at once that the grenade was intended not to kill them – Zalika was too valuable for that – but to drive them out into the open, where she could be recaptured. There was no point trying to throw the grenade back out through the skylight. The risk of missing the gap in the broken glass was too great.

That left only one option.

With one hand clinging to his gun and the other wrapped round Zalika, Justus ran for the shower cubicle. He took three quick strides and then dived, throwing them both through the gap in the breezeblock partition. The air was driven from his lungs as they hit the tiled floor. Gasping for breath, Justus rolled away from the opening, still clinging on to the girl.

The grenade exploded, filling the empty changing room with white-hot shards of shrapnel that destroyed the wooden bench and cut into the breezeblock walls like a million deadly wasp stings.

The shower room was sheltered from the worst of the blast. Even so, it left Justus deafened and dazed. His mind, so sharp and fast just seconds before, now seemed incapable of functioning at all, and his eyesight was dulled by the thick cloud of choking dust that filled the air.

Outside, Silent Death scampered back up the wall of the building and contemplated the hole where the skylight had been before the grenade blew it away. Watching out for the ragged, saw-like edges of the shredded corrugated iron, he clambered across the roof and slipped noiselessly down through the hole into the fog of dust.

Justus did not hear him come. He simply saw the outline of a gun-barrel emerging through the dust by the entrance to the shower, followed by a man’s arm. Operating now on pure fighting instinct, without any conscious thought Justus wrenched his shotgun free from the weight of Zalika’s body, raised it one-handed and fired.

The concentrated blast of a twelve-gauge cartridge ripped Silent Death’s left hand clean away, taking his AK-47 with it. Now he was not so silent. He screamed in pain, though the high-pitched cry of agony was little more than a whisper to Justus’s battered eardrums.

Justus scrambled to his feet, pumped another round into the chamber of his gun and stepped over to the gap in the breezeblock partition. Through the slowly clearing cloud of dust he could see Silent Death bent over, his right hand clinging to a ragged stump of arm from which a geyser of blood was pumping.

Justus put him out of his misery with a second round that hit Silent Death in the chest, lifted him off his feet and flung him against the wall like a doll thrown by an angry child.

From outside there came the sound of another detonation, followed by the angry chatter of small-arms fire.

Justus hurried back to find Zalika slowly rising from the floor. He could see her eyes widen as she spotted the severed hand, still clinging to its weapon, lying on the floor. He got down on his haunches and looked directly at her.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

Zalika shook her head.

‘Good.’

Justus helped her to her feet and led her back into the ruined changing room. In the faint moonlight there was no colour anywhere, just a ghost world of black and grey. Zalika’s hand went to her mouth at the sight of the intruder: his lolling head; his staring sightless eyes; the dark gaping hole that had been punched into his body.

The two of them made their way towards the door.

Justus opened it a fraction and peered out through the crack, expecting to see Carver waiting for him in the porch.

There was no one there.

Somewhere out in the darkness a man was screaming. Not far away a blazing flare was belching crimson smoke across the field. The helicopter’s approach was getting louder with every second.

But Samuel Carver had gone.

Seconds after Killaman sent Silent Death on his mission, he arranged a distraction to keep Carver’s attention away from anything that might be happening in the building behind him. He sent a man running directly across Carver’s line of fire. His orders were simple: run like hell till you are level with the porch, throw yourself to the ground, then fire at the man in the doorway, who will now be completely exposed to your shots.

The man started running.

Carver took aim like a punter at a shooting gallery and hit his target before he could dive to the ground.

A second man ran the gauntlet.

He had flung himself forward, like a rugby three-quarter diving for the try-line, when Carver’s shot caught him in the side, ploughing into his intestines. He lay on the ground, screaming in agony and crying out for his mother.

After that, there were no more runners.

Through the man’s screams, Carver could hear Morrison’s voice in his earpiece again: ‘We got problems. First, you are in severe danger of being outflanked.’

‘I’d noticed.’

‘Second, there is a man on the ground, behind the first line of troops, carrying an RPG. He hits us, we’re fucked.’

‘Can you get him first?’

‘Too risky. You will have to do it.’

‘Where is this guy?’

‘Right in the middle of the field, the centre circle, behind the first line of men.’

‘And where are you?’

‘Holding pattern, six hundred metres out.’

‘Then come on in.’

‘Nah way, man.’

‘Just do it, now. That’s an order.’

If Morrison had any reply to that, Carver didn’t hear it. From behind him came the echoing blast of a grenade going off in a confined space. What the bloody hell had happened in there?

There was no time to answer that question now. The chopper would come in at around fifty metres a second. Anyone who knew how to operate an RPG would wait until it was between one and two hundred metres away, almost impossible to miss, before they opened fire. That gave Carver an absolute maximum of ten seconds, probably less. Saving the chopper was his immediate priority. And that meant no distractions.

He took the emergency flare, pulled the tag and hurled it out on to the field, throwing blind. The moment it was gone, he took out his last grenade, counted two, stepped out of the porch, thanked God for the hellish red smoke now drifting between him and the enemy, and threw.

He ducked back inside the porch. Half a second later, the grenade detonated.

Before the sound of the explosion had died away, Carver was up and running.

A modern anti-personnel grenade will kill any unprotected human within a five-metre radius, and either kill or severely wound anyone within fifteen. Carver had therefore given himself a thirty-metre-wide window of opportunity.

He was going flat out, forgetting the pain from his rib, the choking billows of chemical smoke from the flare and the weight of the weapon in his hands. He paused, turned to face a threat, raised the MP5 and fired twice at a shadowy target. Then he was off and running again.

Carver burst out of the smoke and saw a knot of men ahead of him, apparently unharmed by the grenade. They were shouting, bringing their guns to bear on him. Behind them he could just make out the grenade-tipped barrel of the RPG, and beyond that the outline of the helicopter coming in low and flat over a copse of trees.