Andy McNab - Zero hour

I followed him, crashing past leather sofas and a table. On the table sat an empty plate and a small kitchen knife. He grabbed it. He had a weapon. He turned back towards me. His face was stone.

I spun and tried to dodge the stab but he was too fast. I felt a punch to my buttock. At first there was no pain at all. A split second later, there was a dull throbbing at the site. Then a burning sensation permeated outwards and turned into intense pain. My leg buckled under me. As I crashed to the floor, I vomited. A trainer smashed into the top of my head. A pissed-off voice screamed down at me in a language I didn't understand.

He kicked out at me again and I jerked back my head. My face slid in my own puke. I brought my arms up to protect my head. The top of my right leg felt like there was a blowtorch playing on it.

He yelled something, either to me or to someone else in the house.

I brought my knees up to protect myself, trying to get into some kind of foetal position, but the pain in my leg prevented me. I had to jerk my right leg out to keep it straight, and curl up the left one as best I could. I got a kick to the stomach for my trouble. Thank fuck they were trainers not boots, but it still hurt. I was going down here.

My left eye was blurred. I tried to wipe it on the side of my arm. He walked around me and kicked me in the back. I took a deep breath. I felt his hands and knees pushing against my back, then his hands digging into my pockets. He dragged the cash out of the front of the jeans and I knew I'd never see it again. I hoped he'd count it – anything to give me some time to recover.

The pressure left my back. I watched as the trainers moved round to face me. He carried on to the door, and closed it to contain us both. The next thing I heard was the bleep of numbers being punched into a mobile phone. He was breathing like a porn star, but when he spoke, his voice was calm.

There was a pause.

I opened my eyes. The tattoos running up his forearms were tribal. They looked like the Pizza Express logo, and were very dark and new. He closed down and the phone went back into his pocket. He walked past me and disappeared to the other side of the room. Then he came back over and I sensed rather than saw him reach out. Pain shot through me. I realized the knife was still sticking into me, and he was sawing it backwards and forwards.

He leant down and shouted words I didn't understand. He played with the knife some more. All I could do was take the pain.

I gritted my teeth as the knife came out. My right buttock was on fire.

He screamed it down into me, jamming it back in.

He had to push a cushion over my face to muffle my yells.

The cushion came off and the kicks rained in.

I curled up. I flexed my leg even though I could feel the blade still stuck in my buttock.

There was nothing I could do. Sometimes you've got to accept you're in the shit and ride it out. He wasn't going to kill me. He was waiting for someone. I was still in with a chance.

The kicking continued until he finally lost his breath and beads of sweat poured down his face. Then there was silence. I heard window blinds being opened and closed, and the slam of vehicle doors outside. Black Shirt grunted something as he fought for breath. For all I knew he was talking to himself.

The back door rattled. Not once but twice. That was supposed to be my signal to leg it out the front. Black Shirt took a long, hard look at me and decided I wasn't going anywhere fast. He whipped along the corridor and did the business with the latch.

I heard another voice, deeper, stronger. He didn't like what he found. He started yelling. A pair of legs edged around the vomit. I saw immaculate jeans over smart brown brogues.

My arms were still protecting my face. The blue rubber gloves were covered with vomit. I lifted my elbow. He, too, had black hair and a dark complexion. He had his hands in the pockets of a short camel-hair coat. He bowed from the waist to try and get some perspective on my face. I smelt a mixture of cologne and cigars.

He straightened up and turned to Black Shirt. His hands swung between me and the pool of sick.

Black Shirt hung his head. It looked like Brogues was his boss, and he'd let him down badly. And, going by the concern on his face, Brogues didn't dish out that many second chances.

Brogues shouted as hard as he pointed. My body screamed at me in pain, but the longer his rant, the longer I had to recover.

Black Shirt muttered something and tossed him the container of Smarties.

Brogues threw up both his hands. It clattered to the floor. He didn't want his prints on it. He leant down to me and shouted a question in my ear. I moaned and groaned as if I was out of it on drugs. I wished right now that I was. At least it would dull the pain.

Brogues didn't bother asking again. He looked up and down the hallway, rubbing the designer stubble on his face and then the back of his head.

He pointed at Black Shirt like an inquisitor, his tone lower, more threatening. I still couldn't understand a word he was saying, but was pretty sure he was asking him to solve a problem, and that problem was me.

A moment later Brogues decided the time for questions was over. His jaw jutted and he started issuing orders. Black Shirt was looking for a little sympathy and understanding but getting fuck all. Brogues didn't wait for a reply. His shouts faded down the corridor and I heard my door slam.

I waited for Black Shirt to get close. I coughed and snorted the sludge from my nose, trying to make it sound like I was suffering, but in fact trying to get as much oxygen into my lungs as I could.

He picked up a cushion and kicked me. He knelt carefully behind me so his knees weren't in the puke, and pulled my head back and up. I took a deep breath just as the cushion came down.

Both his hands pushed against my mouth and nose. I gripped his wrists. He grunted with effort. My nose was compressed to breaking point. I knew I could hold my breath for maybe forty-five seconds. I struggled for twenty, and then I let my hands fall from his as he kept pushing. As my right hand dropped I wiped as much puke off it as I could onto my jeans. I jerked my head backwards and forwards to make it look like I was in the final throes of suffocation. I was, but I was also trying to grab another lungful of air while my hand closed round the knife handle.

My chest was going to explode. I could feel my face bloating and burning as I gripped the weapon more tightly. Now was the time. I jerked the knife out of my arse and swung my arm high. I rammed it back down in as wide an arc as I could manage. If it missed him, I risked stabbing myself.

It made contact. He screamed. There was resistance. It didn't go straight in. I had to force it. The skin finally buckled and the blade sank between the bones.

I didn't pull it out. I might not get it in again. I pulled it down towards me as hard as I could and twisted my body as he came down on top of me.

I sucked in air. I saw the blade in his neck. There was no blood. It had missed the artery.

I kept digging, twisting and pushing, swung my left knee and came up astride him. The serrations faced the back of his neck. I got my left elbow onto his shoulder, pinning him with as much of my body weight as I could. His face was turned to the right. I twisted the blade until the serrations faced his windpipe and started to saw. The knife wasn't sharp enough. I had to bring it out and plunge it in again. I kept my arm solid, moving it up and down using the top of my body to get some weight behind it to help it rip through the tissue.

He screamed again. I grabbed the cushion and held it over his face with my free hand as I tried to cut into him.