Andy McNab - Brute force

My head throbbed. I tried to lift my eyelids but they seemed determined to stay glued together. I was dry and thirsty, but my mouth felt too furred up to let anything through again.

I thought I could hear diesel engines, big ones, but for all I knew they could be inside my head.

I took as deep a breath as I could manage and forced my eyes open.

My vision blurred and my head spun. It was like having a lifetime's supply of hangovers in one hit.

At least I was aware how bad I felt; I took that as a good sign.

And wherever I was, it was hotter than hell.

I remembered the first injection, and a couple of the others I'd been given since to keep me under. Rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, vision beginning to go hazy… It all happened so quickly it had to be a scopolamine and morphine cocktail. The mix depresses the central nervous system. I'd treated a few targets to it, but never thought I'd be getting the good news myself.

Attempting to get my head into real-life mode, I checked inside my jacket. They'd had everything away: the Richardson passport and the card and the money. It wasn't worth worrying about; worrying wouldn't bring them back.

My eyes were starting to focus but my fingers were numb. I looked around me, flexing both hands as the pins-and-needles kicked in and they slowly came back to life. I was sitting on a sheet of steel. Some kind of bunk. There was no bedding, only the bunk fixed to the wall, and a slim wardrobe just big enough to hang a jacket in. Next to it was a tiny stainless-steel sink.

The bunk lurched and my head rolled onto my right shoulder.

I wasn't travelling first class. The whole cabin was layered with grime.

There was no porthole. I was probably below sea level and near the engines.

Where's Lynn?

Oh yeah, I remembered.

I rubbed away at days of stubble on my grease-coated skin. My eyes were gummed up and my mouth tasted stale and acidic.

I turned my head towards a steel door, painted to look like wood panelling. The stench of diesel was overpowering.

I dragged myself to my feet and stumbled to the not-so-stainless-steel sink. My knees buckled and I had to grip the rim to stop myself collapsing.

I pushed down on the tap. Water dribbled out. I bent down and sucked in a mouthful.

I staggered to the door.

The handle wouldn't budge. I'd known it wouldn't, but I had to try anyway.

I went back to the sink. I unbuttoned my jeans, tucked in the sweatshirt, pulled up my socks. If I could sort myself physically, maybe I could sort myself mentally.

I was definitely on a boat, and it was moving. On its way to Ireland? Maybe she'd bought the idea of me appearing on TV.

I stooped and sucked again at the trickle of water.

The image of Lynn sprawled across Layla's steps forced its way into my mind. His dad would have been proud of him, giving up his life for something that he believed in. I felt admiration and anger, in equal measure. Nobody was ever going to know what he'd done, and this time next year nobody was even going to care. Nobody apart from me. If I got out of this shit alive.

The door rattled.

Somebody was working the handle.

I took the couple of paces back to the bunk and lay down. What else could I do?

The door swung open. Box-cutter filled my field of view, but he wasn't alone. More than one pair of hands reached down and yanked me off the bunk and onto the floor.

I tensed every muscle that would still pay attention and curled into a ball. I took a hard kick in the back, and then my world became a frenzy of black leather. All I could do was stay foetal and take it. The drugs still had a hold. I'd be too slow to escape or retaliate. I'd have to bide my time.

Each time a boot connected, my whole body convulsed. The drugs were an advantage. I felt I had a barrier against the worst of the pain, at least for now. Tomorrow I'd be suffering. But at least I now knew that tomorrow would come.

The flurry of kicks and punches seemed indiscriminate, but none of them were landing on my face.

Lemony perfume did momentary battle with the diesel fumes and the attack stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

The throbbing of the engines increased. She had left the door open.

I opened one eye. A line of bright white det cord ran down the middle of the knackered red lino out in the corridor.

She hunkered down alongside me. Luxuriant brown hair brushed fleetingly across my cheek.

'Who betrayed us, Nick? Who gave up the Bahiti and my father?'

I kept looking down, waiting for a slap, a punch, a kick, but nothing came. She sounded very calm, very collected, but I could feel the anger burning in her eyes.

'You're dead anyway, Nick. It's not as if you're helping yourself. The woman and that wee little girl, and those two friends of yours from Dublin – they're the ones you can save.'

I stayed clenched, ready to accept the punishment.

I gave it a few more seconds.

'I'm giving you fuck all until I'm sure they're safe.'

Her breath whistled as she stood up. 'You're giving me precisely what I want you to give me, or your friends will die in the most painful ways even you can imagine.'

She stepped back into the corridor.

Box-cutter grabbed my right arm and forced it up. Not even bothering to roll up my sleeve, he jabbed an autojet into the bicep.

My world went into slow motion again. Even his shouting against my ear was muffled and blurred.

I felt myself drift away as my central nervous system closed down and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. The urge to sleep was just too strong.

Fuck it, I needed the rest anyway.

Fifteen seconds and I was gone.

It was like an oven in here. My throat was painfully dry and my head thumped like a bass drum. I tried to sit up but was too fucked and dizzy and out of it. In the end I rolled off the bunk and used the wall to pull myself upright.

I worked my way over to the sink and slapped my hand on the press-button tap. I sucked at the tiny trickle. It took forever to get a mouthful of warm, brackish water.

I swayed back to the bunk. How long had I been out? No idea. I remembered getting injected, filled in, dragged about, no more than that.

I lay back on the bed and rested my eyes. Everything was still fuzzy and hazy. But I became aware that below the thud of the bass drum in my head, the chug of the engines was softer. They were doing no more than ticking over.

I struggled to my feet. The motion of the ship was definitely calmer, but it didn't feel like we were in dock. I tried the door and it was locked.

I went back and lay face-down on the bunk. Now that I'd recovered enough to notice such things, my stomach was aching. Was it the water I'd drunk? Was it the kicking? Or the fact that I hadn't eaten for fuck knew how long?

There was a bang on the side of the hull, then another. The scrape of metal. The odd shout. A couple of minutes later, a mechanical whine. I remembered the sound from the Bahiti. A crane kicking off. They were unloading.

That must mean we were near the coast: making an RV on the open sea would have been difficult for a ship as small as this one.

It also probably meant it was dark.

Ten minutes later, I heard shouts. The Russians. Then a young girl's cries. I was sure they passed the door.

I got up and stumbled towards it. I was about to put my ear against the steel when it burst open and caught me on the side of my head. I toppled backwards, banging my lower back on the edge of the bed.

Box-cutter followed, a whirlwind of punches. He caught me in the stomach and I crumpled onto all fours. My body wanted to vomit but all that came up was watery bile.