Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

His C8, with its full thirty-round magazine, was by his side. He placed it in front of him in the firing position. Through the sight he could see the enemy targets: four guys, artlessly standing in a line with no apparent thought for taking defensive positions. He would have to pick them off, one by one, and quickly before they were able to work out his position.

The bad news for the four targets was that Danny Black had clocked up more hours on the range in Hereford than almost any other soldier, in this precise position, preparing for this precise moment. His weapon was also suppressed, which meant that although it was not silent, it would be difficult for the targets to identify the source of the dull knock of its retort.

He rested his finger on the trigger, breathed in and held his breath to keep his body as still as possible. Then he squeezed.

He knew the shot was good the moment the empty casing ejected itself from the rifle and his shoulder absorbed the weapon’s recoil. He half saw the first target crumple suddenly and heavily to the ground as he re-aimed and positioned the second target in his sight, the crosshair directly over his chest. It was one of the RPG guys. He had the launcher by his side and was scanning the desert, plainly not yet aware that his mate had been shot. Danny didn’t give him time to twig what was happening. His second shot was as swift and accurate as the first. The target hit the ground.

There was immediate panic now. The two remaining targets realised that events were not unfolding as they intended. They were shouting. Danny could hear their stressed voices. If they had any sense, they would run, but they were too busy yelling instructions at each other. Danny’s third target was standing side on, waving his arms and rifle at his companion. His movement and position made this a more challenging shot. Danny raised the rifle just a little, so the crosshairs were aligned with the target’s body. He fired and made no mistake.

The fourth man ran. Danny tried to follow him with his sights, but he sprinted behind the nearest truck before Danny could release a fourth round.

There was a deep silence. No movement.

Danny glanced to the left. The quad bike was smouldering. There was still no sign of Bethany on the other side, nor any indication that she was alright. He didn’t budge. He could feel his heart beating strong, but his pulse was slow, controlled by his regular breathing as he turned his attention back to the vehicles. He appraised the situation. There was at least one enemy target left, but there could well be more, and he might be calling for help. The four guys had looked like they’d been guarding something or someone. Danny’s money was on more personnel waiting. What would their next move be? Either they’d make a run for it, or they’d continue their attack. Stalemate wasn’t an option. So Danny needed to be ready to suppress any contact from the targets. He continued to look through his rifle sight, panning the area from left to right. Truck. Open ground. Truck. Open ground. Saloon car. And then back again. Saloon car. Open ground. Truck. Open ground. Truck.

A minute passed. No movement.

Another minute. Danny’s mouth felt dry. He knew something was coming. Any moment now . . .

He nearly wasn’t fast enough. The target appeared from behind the middle truck just as Danny’s sights had panned past him. He only saw a clip of movement on the edge of the sight. By the time he had panned back, the militant was in plain view, an RPG launcher on his shoulder, ready to fire. From the angle at which he was standing, Danny knew the target was not now aiming at the quad bike, but at him.

He released three rounds in quick succession. The first missed, striking the side of the truck. The second hit its mark. As the target crumpled uselessly to the ground, the third round flew over his head and into the desert beyond.

Silence again. Stillness. And then, seemingly from nowhere, more movement and noise. Two of the vehicles pulled away: the saloon car and the truck that had remained untouched by Danny’s ammo. Danny followed the vehicles with his weapon but let them go. Shooting out their tyres meant prolonging the contact. He’d kept the upper hand so far, but firefights when you were as heavily outnumbered as this were unpredictable. Much better for him if the remaining targets got the hell out of here.

The distant sound of the vehicles’ screaming engines faded. The vehicles themselves disappeared along the road.

Danny lay still for a further two minutes. He could see one truck and four corpses, but it would be a mistake to assume the threat had disappeared. There could still be targets behind or inside the truck.

‘You okay?’ he called to Bethany.

‘Just lying here enjoying the show.’

‘No injuries?’

‘I’m okay, alright? Who they hell were those people?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. They weren’t pros. My guess is we stumbled over some sort of deal. Drugs, maybe.’ He glanced at the quad bike again. One tyre was smoking, but that wasn’t the full extent of the damage. The bodywork at the front was gnarled and twisted, and the whole thing was leaning to one side in a way that suggested a broken axle. ‘The bike’s fucked,’ he said. ‘We’re going to need another vehicle.’

‘Only one vehicle that I can see,’ Bethany said.

Danny examined the distant truck. There was no option: if their journey was to progress, he would have to approach it at some point. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘I’m going to recce the truck.’

A pause.

‘Be careful, Danny,’ Bethany said. She had momentarily lost the edge in her voice.

‘Stay where you are until I give you a signal.’

He got up in two movements; firstly on to one knee, weapon still engaged and pointing at the truck. He flicked his weapon to the automatic setting. Then, a minute later, when there was still no sign of enemy personnel, he got to his feet. The truck was 200 metres away. He advanced, the butt of his weapon pressed hard into his shoulder, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. His boots crunched on the hard earth as he advanced, ready to fire at the slightest hint of a threat.

Distance to target: 150 metres. No sign of enemy personnel.

100 metres.

75.

The attack, when it came, was sudden. A figure appeared at the front of the truck, head wrapped in a shamag, an ostentatious bandolier of ammo slung round his chest. He appeared crazed, screaming some kind of war cry, which served no other purpose than to alert Danny to his position. It only took a short burst of three rounds to silence him. His body was thrown back against the truck, then it slid to the ground. Even from this distance, Danny could see the dark swab of blood he left on the bodywork.

He knelt down again in the firing position, waited a minute, then continued his advance.

There was no further contact. As Danny reached the truck, he circled it, searching for enemy personnel. Nobody was left alive. He checked in the cab, under the body and finally placed himself in front of the back doors. He lowered his rifle, pulled his handgun and, with his free hand, opened the back of the truck.

It was stuffed full of weapons. Serious weapons. Assault rifles with underslung grenade launchers, sniper rifles, RPG launchers and wooden crates full of warheads, Claymore mines, plastic explosives, detonators, coils of wire, boxes of ammunition. They hadn’t stumbled on a drugs deal. They’d stumbled on a weapons deal. If the guys involved had had more tactical nous, they might have realised that they had enough gear here to take out an entire squadron, let alone a solitary SAS man and an unarmed former spook. He closed the truck up and checked the ignition. No keys. They had to be here somewhere. He approached the body of his final target. The man was lying at a gruesome angle by the front wheel and the three rounds from Danny’s burst had made a real mess of him. They had torn open his thoracic cavity. His chest still oozed blood and fragments of rib and lung poked through the tears in his clothes. Danny’s hands became bloodied and sticky as he patted his victim down, searching for the keys that he finally found in a back trouser pocket. He took them, then jogged back to Bethany and the wrecked quad bike.