Andy McNab - Zero hour

I powered down the window to listen for vehicles or footfall and checked the luminous hands on my watch. It was nearly 20.40.

I switched the internal light to off, so that it wasn't triggered by the opening door, and stepped out of the car. I went round to the passenger side, took out the Bergen and put it down against the fencing. Then I got back behind the wheel.

I turned the ignition key and leant over and pressed the button to tilt the back of the passenger seat as far as possible to wedge Angeles's neo in place, then did the same with the driver's. I opened the door and took a quick final look outside.

I positioned my right foot on the sill, which made my stab wound throb as I strained to keep myself upright. My left hand gripped the edge of the roof. I changed it to my right, and then pushed myself in against the door hinges for support. I needed my left hand and left foot free.

I leant in, pressed my foot on the brake pedal, and selected drive. I let go of the brake as the engine started to take the Passat gently forward. I held on, leaning back into the hinges, and once it had travelled about halfway across the road I pushed my left foot down on the gas and we lurched forward. I held it there a bit longer, but no more than two seconds because it was really starting to roll.

Hanging half out of the car, I pushed off with my feet and the Passat lurched on towards the water. As my feet hit the tarmac I curled up to accept the landing. I was only moving at about twenty m.p.h. but it felt like fifty.

I rolled a couple of times as the wagon disappeared from view, then heard a loud splash.

My arse had taken some of the hit on my right hip and I was in agony. I staggered to my feet and headed for the water's edge. I didn't bother looking left or right. The deed was done. If I'd been seen, there was fuck-all I could do about it.

I got to the edge just as the tailgate disappeared under the water. It looked like the last throes of a torpedoed ship. I'd only left one window open. I wanted the vehicle to fill with water to make sure it sank, but I also wanted it to keep the bodies entombed.

After three days, under normal conditions, the intestinal bacteria in a corpse produce huge amounts of gas that flows into the blood vessels and tissues. Large blisters form on the skin, and then the whole body begins to bloat and swell. The gas turns the skin from green to purple to black, makes the tongue and eyes protrude, and often pushes the intestines out through the nearest orifice. This process is speeded up if the victim is in a hot environment, or in water.

As a young soldier, I used to be on the beach patrols in Hong Kong, looking out for what was left of Chinese illegal immigrants. The illegals travelled in overloaded boats and many of them drowned. They'd make it to Hong Kong, but after floating there for three or four days they looked like aliens from Star Trek.

When this happened to Angeles's neo, I didn't want him to escape as he bloated and floated. With luck, the seats were going to restrain him, and if not, at least he was unlikely to come out through one window and bob to the surface. I just hoped my door had slammed shut when it hit the water and hadn't been forced open.

I looked down. The water was dark and solid. Fuck knew what was down there. Hundreds of years of bodies and secrets. The Passat was already becoming part of history. Or so I hoped.

I pulled out the BlackBerry and flung it as far as I could into the bay. I didn't want that thing banging in my ear when Tresillian went ballistic – which he was sure to do when I got those girls out.

As long as Anna was safe, I wasn't worried about reprisals. What was he going to do? Kill me? If so, he'd better get his finger out or the monster in my head would get there first and do the job for him. That would really piss him off.

I hobbled back to the Bergen. The pain subsided in my hip, though not so much in my arse. I remembered the last time I'd tried to dump a car in a reservoir. I was a young soldier, years before I was sent to Hong Kong. My old Renault 5 was a wreck. I'd have had to pay to have it scrapped, so a mate and I came up with a great idea in the pub one night. We'd drive to the Talybont reservoir in Wales and not stop when we got to the water. We'd go down in two cars on a Saturday night, and Sunday I'd report it nicked from the town centre.

We drove down to Talybont, and things were looking good. I revved the engine, jumped out, and watched the Renault going into what we assumed would be at least sixty feet of water. Instead it settled in what looked like about four feet, visible for all to see. It turned out there were so many cars dumped in that same spot that mine had landed on top of a pile of others. We had to make our way down, climb over the other rust buckets, and rock the thing until it toppled off into deeper water.

All this reminiscing was probably par for the course when you were running out of road ahead. Or maybe there was a little voice telling me that though I'd thought some of these things were pretty shit at the time, perhaps they hadn't been.

I shouldered the Bergen and kept in the shadow of the buildings that lined this side of the road. No more thinking about the old days. I had to concentrate on the job. That was what I was here for – and this was the part I really wanted to do. It wasn't about the killing, however much that was for the greater good, or however Tresillian would justify it. At the bottom of this pile of shit, I was never going to save the world. But it would be nice to think that getting Angeles and Lilian and the other girls out would make it – for them at least – a better place.

As I headed towards the ferry point, the only sound came from the four litres of fuel sloshing about in the container between my shoulder blades.

I slowed down as I neared the ferry point and then stopped. I rested my hands on my thighs, listening and looking. The weight of the fuel made me wobble a bit as I leant down and it levelled off in the top of the container. Apart from my breathing, the only noises came from the other side of the bay and the shipping in between. There was nothing going on over here. I turned the corner, crossed the road and headed along the fence line towards the gap.

The factory beyond the target, where the light had come from, was as dark as everything else now.

I stopped at the rat run between the railings to check for signs of movement. Then I dropped the safe-house keys in the weeds to the right of the gap. I was on foot now, so I wanted them near to me. Sweat gathered where the Bergen rubbed against my back. I leant forward and bounced on the balls of my feet so the Bergen bounced too. At the moment the pressure on the shoulder straps was released, I pulled down and adjusted them so they were nice and tight.

I looked out for the glow of a campfire in the hollow. The junkies must have been having a quiet night in.

Bending low to ease the Bergen through the gap without having to take it off my shoulders, I wormed my way through into the wasteground.

Still there were no lights, no signs of life, just the forbidding outline of the silo in the darkness ahead.

I was about twenty metres short of the target. The tower dominated the night sky. I still couldn't see any lights. There were no obvious changes since I'd last been here two nights ago.

This time, I leant against a slab of concrete instead of sitting down and cocked an ear towards the target. I heard nothing but the distant honk of a ship getting pissed off with another ship in the bay.

I tried to swallow. My throat was dry from humping all the kit. My boots were heavy with mud. I moved off. There'd be no cutting corners. I had to carry out the recce. I might be doing a lot of work for nothing.