Andy McNab: Deep Black

I silently willed the Paveway to come tumbling out of the sky.

Zina scrambled across the open ground, slipping and sliding in the mud. The ski jacket was suddenly a sentence of death: it was going to make an easy target in the gloom.

Zina tripped and fell into a large puddle, then scrambled to her feet, face and hair dripping, and carried on running. She switched direction, making for the treeline. She was heading straight towards me.

The Serbs hadn't fired a single shot. Maybe she was still too close to them, not enough of a challenge. I could hear them laughing and joking with each other; it looked as if they were trying to work out who was going to have first pop.

She was getting closer to me. I could hear her sobbing.

The first shot rang out. It missed. I didn't see where it landed but I heard the thud somewhere in front of me.

Zina kept coming. There was another shot. Missed again. More laughter and jeering from the Serbs.

There was another shot, then another. They pounded into the mud in front of the hide. At this rate, it was only a matter of time before the LTD took a hit. Zina was no more than ten metres from me now, five. Then she saw me. Confused, she stopped, looked around, started to run again. There was another shot. She took it in the back and fell directly in front of me. Mud splashed through the cam net on to my face.

She managed to raise herself on her elbows and tried to crawl the last few feet towards me, her eyes begging me for help. I couldn't do anything but look back at her, hoping the next round would kill her and stop the pain before she compromised me. Another couple of rounds rang out in quick succession. She jerked forwards, almost landing in the hide. She gave a whimper, then a gasp. Blood trickled from her mouth into the mud just a few feet in front of me. The entry wounds in her back steamed in the cold air.

I heard clapping and a few mocking cheers. Someone had won the bet.

I wondered how long it would take them to stop the backslapping and come to check her out. All it would take was one of Mladic's boys getting busy with his binos.

I didn't move an inch. I felt her lifeless gaze bore into me.

There were no sounds of feet splashing through the mud towards me, just more laughter from the Serbs and more screaming from the girl in the upstairs room 217 metres away.

Another shot was fired and Zina's body jolted as she took the round. Good; it looked like they were going to save themselves the journey.

Then I realized one of her legs was splayed across the LTD's line of sight.

I couldn't hold the LTD: it had to be braced firmly on the tripod. I checked the field of vision to the right of the shell scrape, thinking I might be able to re-site it, but there were too many bumps in the ground. It had to stay where it was.

Besides, I'd run out of time.

I would have to clear the body.

I kept very still in case they were watching her, ready to take another pop. But I had to get my head up. The target had to be splashed. I raised my head millimetre by millimetre, and looked over the lip of the shell scrape.

Zina's blood had stopped steaming in front of me and was already congealing in the mud. Her leg was still blocking the line of sight of the LTD.

The Serbs' attention was back on the three surviving girls, two on the third floor and one still outside. Now was my chance.

I crawled out of the rear of the hide as the cries of anguish and despair continued from the top window. Taking care not to disturb the cam net, I inched forward to the left of the hide. Camouflage wasn't a problem: the sniper suit was already caked with mud.

After five feet of crawling I was able to reach Zina's leg with an outstretched hand and pull it towards me. Her skin was still warm. I had to be careful now: too much movement and one of Mladic's boys might notice a difference in the body's position, even if it seemed they had other things on their minds.

I crawled back into the hide and checked the viewfinder. The LTD had a clear line of sight once again on to the target.

The exertion had warmed me a little, but now I was static again the cold renewed its attack. I picked up the binos.

The last girl was being dragged into the building. Mladic stood in the doorway, his ugly fat face creased in a grin. I longed to plant a high-velocity round right in the middle of his greasy forehead. After a while he turned and went back inside. Maybe it was time to push his way to the front of the queue.

There was nothing I could do but wait as the girls' screams and sobs rattled around the building. What the fuck was happening? Where the fuck was that platform?

I checked the viewfinder once more, but I had a sinking feeling deep in my guts. Who was I trying to kid? The strike wasn't going to happen. Mladic and the rest of his bastards were going to get away with this. And they were going to live to do it another day.

Zina's eyes stared back at me. They were no longer clear and bright, just vacant and drab like everything else around her.

Fuck the Firm, fuck Mladic. I should have called in the Paveway as soon as she'd turned up.

Washington DC Thursday, 2 October 2003 'Fuck it, that was over nine years ago. It's all history now.'

Ezra sat back in his chair and studied me with one of those serious yet deeply understanding looks they probably teach at shrink school.

I shifted slightly in my own chair and the leather squeaked. I let my gaze wander along the wood-panelled walls, past the pictures and framed certificates. Ezra would probably say this was me looking for a way out, but I knew there wouldn't be one for another twenty minutes at least. I ended up staring through the window at the Arlington Memorial Bridge, fifteen floors down and a couple of blocks away.

'Was that the first time you felt betrayed?'

I looked at him across the low coffee-table. There was nothing on it but a box of tissues. In case I ever wanted to burst out crying, I supposed.

Ezra was maybe seventy, seventy-five, something like that. His hair was like a steel-grey helmet, and although the rest of his face had aged, his eyes sparkled as much as they probably had when he was thirty and knocking women shrinks senseless at conferences in Vienna. For all I knew he still was.

Why was he still working? Why hadn't he retired? I'd wanted to ask him that ever since I started with him nine months ago, but these sessions were strictly about me. He'd never tell me anything about himself. All I knew about him was that he was the one who got lumbered with the fruits who worked for George and needed sorting out.

He raised an eyebrow to prompt my answer. I was well used to his repertoire of body signals by now.

'Betrayed? No. Shit happens. It was more a turning point in how I thought about them. So many deaths, so many of them kids. Especially Zina. It's just, well…' I paused and looked back out towards the bridge. 'It doesn't matter now, does it?'

He didn't believe me and I heard myself filling the silence. 'Three hours I waited there. All that time, calling on the net, trying to find out what the fuck was happening. Meanwhile, Mladic filled his face, had his afters and left. And all that time his boys were upstairs with the girls. When I finally got back to Sarajevo I didn't even get told why the job was cancelled. Just to wind my neck in and hang around the hotel for the next one. Which never happened.'

Ezra just sat and waited.

'Who knows? Maybe if Zina had held on and not done a runner she'd still be alive. Maybe if I'd called in the Paveway earlier she would have lived, or I would have put her and the others out of their misery. Fuck it – who cares? It's all in the past.'

Ezra tilted his head a little to one side. Even through the double-glazing I could hear an aircraft coming out of Ronald Reagan airport just the other side of the Potomac. I watched it lift into the sky, probably rattling the windows of my apartment block as it went.