Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

I shared his concerns.

“Three, two, one…”

I took a deep breath, held it, squeezed the trigger gently, put a bullet in the guard’s heart and splashed his innards across a brick wall. He fell without a sound. I saw my dad catch and lower him to the ground. Then he stood and drew his sidearm. Tariq’s shot also found its mark, and his target jerked backwards as the top of his head exploded. Jane flinched in surprise and failed to catch him. He crashed into the wall and slid down, staring up at her in reproach.

“Head shot?” I asked as grabbed my heavy pack. “Flash bastard.”

“Sight’s high,” replied Tariq as we got to our feet and picked our way carefully down the rotten, rickety stairs. We left our sniper rifles behind us. They were no use at close quarters, and if all went according to plan they would be collected for us. We pulled the straps of our SA-80s over our heads as we emerged onto the street. As I did so, I realised that my hands weren’t shaking any more.

As we ran down the road, the five kids that Dad and Jane had been escorting were throwing away their handcuffs and pulling guns from under their coats. By the time we reached them, the team was ready.

Dad led the way into the compound.

“WE’RE GOING TO go with a variation of the Trojan horse approach that Jane used a couple of years back,” my dad had said, earlier that night. We had huddled around the feeble flame we’d just kindled in the fireplace of an abandoned farmhouse about a mile outside Thetford as he outlined his strategy.

“I had Rowles and Caroline with me then,” said Matron, as if pointing out the flaw in his plan.

“There are nine of us this time. The odds are better,” he replied, unsure what point she was making.

“You never met Rowles,” I said.

Dad rolled his eyes and continued. “Jane and I will escort the younger children to the gate. You kids can stay bundled up in your winter coats, so there’ll be plenty of places to hide your weapons. You’ll be bound with what will look like handcuffs, but in fact…” He threw pairs of handcuffs to each of the twelve and thirteen year-olds we’d selected for this mission. The five children examined them and smiled one by one as they realised they were plastic toy cuffs, easy to pull apart but good enough to fool an unobservant guard in the half light of early morning.

“Sweet,” said one of them — a beanpole boy called Guria who had become de facto leader of the younger group.

“We know they keep two guards at the main gate but if last night was routine, they have no one else on the walls or, as far as we can tell, inside the compound,” Dad went on. “They are not expecting to be attacked. Anyway, there’s plenty of open ground between the gates and the nearest houses, so they’d see a frontal assault coming in plenty of time to sound the alarm.

“Jane and I will approach with the kids in tow and our hands up. They should assume we’ve come to sell them and let us approach.”

“How do we deal with the guards?” asked Tariq.

“I don’t want to get involved in close quarters fighting with the young ones around, so while we keep them talking, you and Lee will have to use the rifles to take them out quickly and quietly. The nearest house will provide a perfect vantage point. I couldn’t find any booby traps when I recced the area earlier, so you should be fine.”

Tariq and I glanced at each other and nodded. “No problem,” we said in unison.

“Once the guards are down, you kids take off the cuffs, get out your guns and scatter to the nearest houses. I don’t want you inside the compound, because things could get messy, but if we need to make a quick retreat you can cover our withdrawal. Guria, you know how to use the sniper rifle, so you take up Lee’s position.”

“Fine,” said Guria.

“Jane, Lee and Tariq, you’ll come with me, inside.”

“And then?” asked Jane.

“Then we improvise.”

DAD WENT IN first, Tariq followed, Jane and I brought up the rear.

I watched Jane move as we entered enemy territory, marvelling at the change in her. I’d fought beside Dad and Tariq in Iraq and England, but Jane and I had only fought together once, very briefly, during the siege of the original St Mark’s, three years earlier. I knew she was capable and ruthless, but I’d not seen this side of her in a long time, and even then I’d never had a chance to study her in action. I’d become accustomed to seeing the gentler, nurturing, matronly for want of a better word, side of her, during the past couple of years. I had mixed feelings about watching her creep into danger, all stealth and purpose. On one hand, I hated the idea of her being in harm’s way. I wanted to protect her and keep her safe. On the other hand, damn , it was sexy.

She glanced back at me, perhaps sensing how closely I was watching her. She gave me a quizzical look then a quick, amused smile, as if she was reading my mind.

“Focus,” she whispered. Then she turned away, back to the business at hand.

The wooden door in the old brick wall led directly into the playground of what had once been a primary school. We crept across a faded hopscotch cross that seemed to be pointing us to the main building — a solid, Victorian stone box with big, high windows which sat at the centre of a maze of single storey brick extensions built in the 1960s. The only sound was the crunch of gravel beneath our boots and the raucous crowing of a rooster, informing the world that dawn was nearly here. Anyone inside was obviously accustomed to sleeping through his daily performance.

Dad waved us towards a side door. We were still in the middle of the playground, as exposed as we could be, when the door handle turned. Dad didn’t hesitate. He ran to the door, still totally silent, and was there with his knife drawn as it swung open to reveal a short, heavy-set man in a black jacket. The man was only half awake, mechanically going through the routine of opening up the building for the morning. He was so focused on his task that he didn’t notice Dad’s approach until the cold knife point brushed against his cheek. Dad grasped the man’s top and pulled him outside the door, letting it swing to. We crowded around our prisoner as his surprise faded, to be replaced by amused defiance.

“How many of you, and how many kids?” whispered Dad as Tariq pulled a sidearm from the man’s belt and shoved it into his own.

“Fuck off,” replied the man, misjudging the situation entirely. He probably thought he could issue a few vague threats, put on a show of defiance, and then we’d knock him out or tie him up or something.

Dad considered his smug captive for a second, shrugged, and slid his knife between the man’s third and fourth ribs, straight into his heart. The man never even had time to be surprised. He was dead before the blade came out again.

“Jesus,” whispered Jane, involuntarily.

Dad lowered the body gently to the cold, hard tarmac, then flashed her a sharp look as he wiped his blade.

“Problem?” he mouthed silently.

Jane waited perhaps an instant too long before shaking her head. They held each other’s gaze for a second. She looked away first. Dad turned, pulled open the door, and led us inside.

Subconsciously I think I’d been expecting the building to have that familiar school smell, but instead we were greeted by the stench of rotting timber, pervasive damp and unwashed bodies.

We found ourselves in a corridor that stretched to our left and right, ending in double swing doors at each end. Wooden doors with glass panels led into what had once been classrooms. A notice board hung on the wall directly facing us as we entered. It still had water damaged paintings and faded crayon drawings pinned to it.