Andy McNab - War torn

He burst in through the door, twisting to see all around it at once, wanting to fire but not daring to, at least not until he knew for sure about the grandmas.

The room was empty, to his relief. Suddenly a man jumped through a doorway on the other side. He was carrying a machine gun and behind him were more dark figures.

Jack Binns looked into the thin, bearded face of a Taliban fighter. He stared into the man's startled eyes. He wanted to run away. All his instincts, every reflex, told him to remove himself from this danger. If he had still been standing, hesitating, at the doorway, then he would have done exactly that, but he was so far inside the room he'd be shot from behind if he ran. In a fraction of a second he knew he had to kill this man and kill him instantly, or he would die.

It seemed to Binns that minutes passed between the appearance of the insurgent and the sound of his own weapon firing. And in that time he did not remove his eyes from those of his opponent. The communication was so intense that he felt he had been talking to his opponent instead of killing him. He watched as blood emerged across the front of the man's clothes.

He continued to fire: when the first man fell he left the second without cover. He looked into another set of brown eyes and, as he watched their owner stagger, a cool, rational compartment in his mind told him that a stoppage in his rifle would mean the end of his life now.

He fired more as that same rational part of his mind warned him that the two men behind were not only ready for him but ready together. Fuck! He couldn't shoot them both at once!

Binns told himself calmly that he was about to die but he might as well keep firing. To his astonishment, both men fell at the same moment. One shouted something. It sounded like: 'Oh, Mum, I'm sorry!' Binns assumed it was some Pashtu phrase that sounded like English.

A voice in his ear said: 'Good, Binman, very good.'

It was Finn.

Jack Binns wanted to ask Finn how long he had been there but he couldn't speak.

'You got three out of four!'

Finn threw a few more rounds into the bodies to make sure they were dead and then stepped over them. 'You needed me for the fourth, though. Glad I got the English bastard.'

Binns felt sweat drip down his face and neck and run in rivers along his backbone. The last body lay across the doorway. He knew that he could not touch it or step over it. Finn pushed it aside with his foot.

'Did you catch the Brummie accent? I'm glad I killed him, the fucking heap of traitor shit.'

Binns was starting to shake now. He stared at the bodies scattered across the floor, the faces of the men who only minutes earlier had been alive with all their thoughts, feelings, complexities and inner secrets. He had taken that away from them now, there was nothing left.

'Get yourself together, Binman,' Finn said sharply. 'Come on. So you've killed a few blokes, we've got a lot more to do here.'

Binns didn't move.

Someone came in behind him. Binns jumped nervously and turned to fire again.

'Hey, don't shoot me!' Sol was surveying the bodies. 'You've done some good work, Binman.'

Jack Binns wanted to say: I couldn't run away or I'd have been killed; that's the only reason I did it. But he remained silent.

'This fucker's English,' Finn told Sol. 'Can you believe it? I mean, I could have been at school with him.'

'Thought you didn't spend a lot of time at school, Finny.'

Sol bent down and searched the bag that had been slung across the man's shoulder. He pulled out a mobile phone, a Pakistani passport and a British passport.

'Someone's going to be very interested in that,' Finn said.

But Sol was already moving on.

'Let's go. They're bringing in more men.'

'Think my mate Martyn's still here?' asked Finn hopefully.

'We won't know if we don't look.'

Sol pushed Binns roughly ahead of him.

'Stay focused,' he ordered. 'Stay on the job.'

Binns stumbled forward wordlessly. On the other side of the compound, the firing eased and stopped.

They haven't gone, thought Mal. They're drawing breath.

'There are still Taliban inside this compound somewhere,' said the boss. 'Unless there are tunnels.'

To Mal the place suddenly seemed immense and complicated, full of corners and staircases and dark places like somewhere in a dream. At home he played computer games but this was not like those games. This was full of the sights and smells of recent occupation. A warm teapot. A cushion with an indentation where someone had been sitting. Empty cartridges. A pair of sandals by a doorway, neatly arranged.

Jamie sensed Mal's hesitation.

'We'll work this side together,' he said. Jamie was quick, quiet and methodical. He made Mal feel calm as they entered rooms stealthily, checked briefly for civilians and then attacked the nothingness with a rapid burst of fire.

Finn and the boss were moving forward too. When the boss recognized the doorway to the room where he had sat around the carpet exchanging warm pleasantries with this family, he felt a deep blush start in his chest and creep up his body to cover his face. How had it ended like this? Finn bounced ahead of him into the room and was ready to put down a burst of 5.56mm when he halted abruptly.

'Shit, boss,' he said.

There was the carpet Weeks recognized on the floor, the smell of sweet tea and another smell, an aromatic spice. There were the rugs on the walls. And huddled against them, a small group of civilians.

Gordon Weeks looked at the women and registered their fear. Their eyes were wide and a child hid its face against its mother. Next to them an old man stared at him. Was there accusation in those eyes? Weeks recognized the man. He had handed around tea and warm, flat bread at the meeting. He had stooped and smiled politely. Who was he? A grandfather? A servant? Suddenly Weeks was ashamed of his lack of knowledge of Afghan culture. Why hadn't he asked Asma more, studied more?

He felt his blush deepening. His hosts, or one of them, might have proved to be a prominent Taliban leader but Weeks could not forget that he had been a guest here once and he was no longer behaving like a guest.

The boss greeted the old man in Pashtu and the man bowed his head but did not reply. And that was another thing, the boss thought. Why hadn't he persevered with learning Pashtu?

He said in clear, slow, precise English: 'Please stay in this room and you will be safe. There are Taliban in the house and we are trying to remove them. We are looking for information about the hostage. Then we will go and you can resume your lives.'

He knew the man could not understand. He just hoped his tone was reassuring. But the old man continued to stare at him with accusation in his eyes and Weeks guessed that he was being held responsible for the death of Asad.

'I didn't kill him,' he said to the man, who stared back un-comprehendingly. 'I didn't trust him but I certainly didn't kill him.'

It was ludicrous, but it was better than saying nothing. To his surprise, the man listened and then got up creakily. He traipsed off down the open hallway. The boss understood that he was intended to follow. He warned the lads not to fire.

The old man led him past walls covered with rugs and matting to the shady courtyard where no doubt the men of the house sat and talked under leaves in the daytime and stars at night. The boss remembered that this was not a theatre of war for the people who lived their simple lives here but a home that might be full of memories.

The morning sun was already caning the soldiers in their heavy kit but the courtyard felt cool, as though it was air-conditioned. The leaves created green shade and there was a large stone bowl of water and a few lemon trees, branches weighed down with fruit.