Andy McNab - Boy soldier

Marcie Deveraux walked towards the house, shouting out to the team, 'Stop! You won't find him, he's gone. There'll be an escape route from the house somewhere. Find it.' She turned back to Fincham. 'Should we go back and get a trigger on the car, sir?'

Fincham stared out across the fields. Trees and bushes were merging into the darkness as the night swiftly closed around them. 'The car's history, he won't go anywhere near it now.'

Twenty metres away, the camouflaged manhole cover was raised just a few centimetres above ground level, but Fergus heard the voice and saw George Fincham clearly in the light that spilled from the cottage windows.

Danny sat a couple of metres back along the tunnel. He was trembling, with fear and from the cold. The black, wet mud on all sides closed in on him; the air was stale and rank. He could hardly breathe. The sounds of the shotgun had terrified him. The yells and crashes from inside the cottage had terrified him. But most of all, Fergus terrified him.

Fergus raised the manhole cover a little more as he watched Deveraux and then Fincham follow the team back into the house. He turned to Danny. 'They get one sight of us now and we're dead. We've got to get away from here before they find the tunnel. Understand?'

Danny nodded and Fergus slowly moved the manhole cover to one side and climbed out, taking with him the black bin liner containing his escape and evasion kit. Then he reached back into the tunnel and hauled Danny out of the damp, black hole.

The sound of voices wafted over from the cottage and Fincham appeared in the front doorway. Fergus pushed Danny down into the mud, fell down by his side and hissed into his ear, 'Stay down.'

They could both see Fincham, framed in the doorway, as he peered into the gloom. He stood still, looking in every direction. He seemed to look straight at them for heart-pounding seconds. But then he turned away and went back into the cottage.

'Move, now,' breathed Fergus, pulling Danny to his feet.

'I've seen that man before,' whispered Danny as they dodged into the tree cover.

'Just shut up and move,' answered Fergus.

It was also exit time for Eddie Moyes. He knew that the assault team, whoever they were, had missed the chance to capture Fergus and that from now on they would be cleaning up and searching for clues. Eddie had the beginnings of a major exclusive and it was time to go. And quickly. He made his way towards the road, keeping low, being as cautious as possible. But not cautious enough.

Fran was at an upstairs window, checking out the surrounding area with her NVGs. She shouted, 'We've got a runner!'

Fincham, followed by Marcie Deveraux, came bounding up the stairs. He grabbed the goggles from Fran. 'Is it the boy or Watts?' He didn't wait for an answer but pulled the NVGs to his eyes.

Through the green haze he saw Eddie Moyes stumbling about in the mud. 'It's neither. Too fat to be the boy, and no limp.' He held out the goggles for Fran to take.

'Do we kill him, sir?'

It would a simple operation. The body would be taken back to London and frozen so that it could be cut up more easily. That way there was less mess for the team to clean up. The remains would probably then be distributed around London hospitals, to be burned with other body parts that are routinely incinerated. No one would ever know what had happened to Eddie Moyes. He would become a statistic, another name on police missing persons lists.

Fincham nodded and Fran started to leave, but Deveraux gestured for her to wait and spoke to Fincham. 'Sir, perhaps it would be better if we let the runner go.'

Fincham turned from the window. 'Why?'

'We don't know who he is. Get the team to follow him and there's a chance he'll lead us to Watts. It would be a waste to kill him now, don't you think?'

Fincham considered for a moment and then nodded again.

It was first light. Danny sprawled, exhausted, just off the road by a clump of bushes, but his grandfather was still standing. Watching. Listening.

Through the long hours of darkness Danny had discovered the difference between walking quickly and a forced march. Fergus was fit and strong and, despite his limp, his pace was relentless.

They cleared the immediate area of the cottage and then travelled in what seemed to Danny to be a straight line across fields and open countryside. They made a brief stop while Fergus delved into his black bin liner and took out a brand-new, compactly folded day sack, still in its packaging. Most of the contents of the bin liner were transferred to the day sack. Smaller items and cash went into pockets.

Then they moved on, and just when Danny was beginning to think they were out of danger, Fergus told him they were doubling back – 'looping the track', he called it. That way, he said, they would know, and possibly even see, if they were being trailed.

There was no sign of followers and eventually Fergus was satisfied that they could head in the direction he wanted to take. Not that Danny knew what direction that was. He had no idea. Fergus walked in silence, and on the few occasions Danny tried to speak he was abruptly told to shut up and save his energy. After a while he realized it was wise advice.

They didn't stop again until first light broke the skyline.

Fergus took the day sack from his shoulders and looked over at Danny, who was lying back in the rough grass, eyes closed. 'No time for sleep, I want you awake.'

'I'm not sleeping, I'm resting my eyes,' answered Danny, eyes still closed.

Fergus allowed himself the slightest of smiles. He sat down next to Danny on the grass and then delved into the day sack and pulled out a couple of small tins. Baked beans with mini sausages. He took the ring-pulls off both tins and placed one tin on Danny's stomach. 'Breakfast. Get it down your neck.'

Danny opened his eyes. 'I don't do breakfast.'

'You do now. Need to keep your strength up.'

Danny sat up, clasped the tin in one hand and looked at the beans and sausages. 'But they're cold.'

'That's right, they're cold. And I'm not a boy scout so I won't be building a fire to heat them up. And before you ask, no, I haven't got plates or cutlery or a bottle of Daddies sauce. So just eat.'

'But I don't like-'

'Eat!'

They sat in semi-darkness and ate. Slowly. It wasn't a pretty sight. But as Danny devoured the sausages and beans he realized he was ravenously hungry.

And while he ate, he looked at his grandfather. Studied him for the first time. There hadn't been a chance before. He looked just like any other bloke. Middle-aged, ordinary, past his prime. His face was lined, and his short, cropped hair was mostly grey. The sort of man you'd expect to see taking his grandchildren for a walk in the park. Or talking to his mates about retirement and the football results.

But Danny knew his grandfather was no ordinary bloke. He'd done terrible things. Almost unimaginable things. He'd killed people on battlefields and in back streets. Shot them. Fought with them. Life-and-death stuff, hand to hand, face to face. He'd seen for himself the results of his awesome combat skills. The gaping wounds, the ripped flesh. He'd watched men die, seen their blood, smelled it, tasted it.

Danny had had a few fights in his time – most had been of the playground variety. A lot of posturing, barging, shoving, threats. But once there had been a real fight. A kid called Peter Slater had goaded him into it for weeks. In the end he couldn't back down. It was set up for after school, behind the gym. Slater boasted all day about what he was going to do to Danny. Everyone in the school was talking about it, everyone wanted to be there.

There must have been a couple of hundred watching when the time came, as many girls as boys. They gathered, shouting and cheering, in a huge circle, with Danny and his mates on one side and Slater and his on the other.