Chris Ryan: Who Dares Wins

‘You,’ the tall one continued, nodding at their hostage. ‘Come with us.’ There was no attempt to speak to him in his native language, but the Iraqi understood what was being said to him well enough. He followed the two soldiers across the courtyard, disappearing with them through another archway on the opposite side.

‘Have a nice day,’ Mac muttered in a sarcastic American accent.

The three of them stood there in silence – a rare moment of rest. It was good to be out of the heat just for a few minutes. ‘Won’t be long before he’s crying for his mummy,’ Mac observed, breaking the silence. ‘Those CIA boys won’t fuck around.’

Jacob and Sam nodded curtly in unison. Sam’s blood was boiling at the way they’d been spoken to and he could sense the annoyance radiating from Jacob too.

Whenever Sam Redman looked back at the events of the next few minutes, they would always have the hazy, detached quality of a dream. There was something hazy about them as they happened, too. Perhaps it was because his ears were still numb from the flashbangs; perhaps it was the heat. Whatever the truth, he felt like an outsider looking in as the main entrance door slammed open. He squinted slightly at the sudden influx of light, then saw three soldiers enter. They had a kind of swagger that instantly set Sam’s teeth on edge. If they noticed the three of them dressed in blood-spattered dishdash, they made no attempt to acknowledge them; their attention was firmly fixed on the people they were bringing in.

There were three of them: a grey-haired man, a woman and a young boy. A family? Sam didn’t know, but they could well have been. What was obvious from the first glance, however, was that they were scared. With good reason. The soldiers had them at gunpoint and were manhandling them roughly into the courtyard. One of the uniformed men even elbowed into Sam. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ the newcomer muttered without even looking at him. ‘Get out the way. We got hostages.’

‘Yeah,’ Sam murmured. ‘They look like a dangerous bunch, too.’

Only then did the solder pay any attention to Sam. He looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed by his dirty dishdash, then spat at his feet before joining his mates. Sam caught Mac’s glance. It said it all.

As the troops spilled out into the courtyard, the three SAS men closed ranks, like a thick curtain being drawn. They stood in the shadow of the arches and watched in silence. The Iraqi man had been thrown to the floor. He was a pitiful figure as he sat in the dust looking up and watching one of the soldiers grab his wife by the face and squeeze his fingers into the hollow of her cheeks.

‘Easy, mate,’ one of the soldiers called. Sam was surprised to discern a Birmingham accent – this lot were British army. ‘I don’t think you’re in there!’

The others laughed, just as the young boy hurled himself at them. His arms and legs were bony; they flailed inexpertly and inefficiently as he tried to attack the soldiers. Of course, he was no match for them. One solid blow to the stomach and he was bent double in pain, gasping for breath. The soldier who had hit him grabbed a clump of his hair and dragged him across the courtyard, dropping him in the dust just as one of the others landed a brutal and quite gratuitous kick in the stomach of the older man.

The soldiers turned their attention back to the woman. She had started to sob, but that only seemed to amuse them more. ‘Please…’ she said in faltering English. ‘ Please …’

‘Look at that,’ one of the soldiers announced brutishly. ‘She’s begging for it. You’ve got her fucking begging for it, mate!’

The soldiers laughed again.

It could have been any of them who stepped in to stop it happening. Sam had no doubt that they all felt equally sickened by what was unfolding before their eyes. It just happened to be Jacob. He strode out into the sunlight and grabbed the wrist of the soldier who was still clutching the woman’s face.

‘Enough,’ he said, his voice perfectly calm, but braced with authority.

Sam felt himself tensing up like a tightly coiled spring, ready to pounce; he could sense Mac breathing steadily, meaningfully beside him.

The soldier who was dragging the boy stopped and turned. Everyone else was like a statue. Jacob pulled his man’s wrist away from the woman’s face. There was clearly some resistance, but Jacob was the stronger of the two.

‘I said, enough,’ he repeated.

A brief pause. A flurry of movement as the three Iraqis ran to each other and huddled up, while the two other soldiers went to the defence of their mate.

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ one of them called. He was broad shouldered and his lip curled in derision. ‘Robin fucking Hood?’ As he walked forcefully towards Jacob he stretched out his arms, his palms flat outwards, ready to push him away.

He never got the chance.

Jacob’s reactions were cheetah-like. He yanked the wrist of the man he was holding, pulling it behind his back in a nelson hold that made his the soldier cry out in pain, before throwing him at the advancing man. The two of them tumbled to the floor. Sam and Mac stepped forward, ready to help him if necessary. At the same time, the third soldier who had been kicking the older Iraqi man advanced. He swung his big fist in the direction of Jacob’s jaw.

He missed. Jacob grabbed him and, with a sudden, brutal force, swung him round in the direction of Sam and Mac.

The soldier almost flew through the air. Sam had to step sideways to avoid a collision, but he was still the closest to the soldier when it happened. The man’s head cracked against the corner of the concrete archway – a vicious, sickening slam that made everyone in the vicinity freeze.

He crumpled.

As he fell, his head landed against the corner of the concrete step that separated the room from the courtyard. This time there was blood. A lot. The guy was hurt. Badly.

After the sudden burst of violence, everyone was silent – even Jacob, who looked uncharacteristically worried at what had just happened. Sam hurried to the fallen man, who was lying face-downwards in the dust, a small trickle of blood seeping from his ear and forming a dark, dry puddle next to him. He rolled the guy over, then briefly closed his eyes.

The soldier didn’t look good. Not good at all.

Then Jacob and Mac were there, towering above him. Sam looked up at his brother. Neither of them spoke.

From behind Jacob came a voice – it was one of the soldiers, the one with the Brummie accent. ‘You fucking psycho…’ he said.

None of them acknowledged him. Sam placed two fingers on the fallen soldier’s neck then pressed lightly.

Nothing.

He looked up at his brother.

‘What?’ Jacob demanded, his face red. ‘Fucking what? ’

Sam drew a deep breath. ‘He’s dead,’ he replied.

Jacob stared at him, his lips receding in anger. Sam tried to think of something to say, but there was nothing. His brother had just killed a British army soldier. He didn’t need Sam to point out to him the implications of that…

A hunted look passed over Jacob’s face. He spun round to stare at the other soldiers, all of whom took a wary step backwards. Then he turned again and looked desperately at Mac and then Sam, both of whom were struck into silence.

And then he looked at the corpse of his victim. His eyes flashed and in a sudden outburst he kicked the dead man in the stomach before stepping over him and disappearing into the shadow of the reception room. Sam heard the door slamming, then exchanged a glance with Mac. Their look said one thing and it was Mac who articulated it.

‘Jesus, Sam,’ he whispered. ‘What’s he done?’ And then, shaking his head in disbelief at the sight of the British army soldier lying dead at his feet, he repeated himself quite unnecessarily.