Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

The guy turned and bore down on him again. This time he was ready for Danny’s sidestep. His fist clipped Danny’s right shoulder. It was enough to send him staggering back. His arm went numb. The mohawk guy pressed his advantage. When he charged again, Danny was too dizzy from the last hit to get out of his way, and he landed his first proper hit. It was a solid punch to the solar plexus, and it delivered all the raw power that the guy’s physique promised. Danny’s legs collapsed beneath him and the air shot from his lungs. The pain was excruciating – he wondered if he’d cracked a rib or even his sternum. His respiratory system didn’t seem to work, and he felt a moment of panic as he tried to inhale but couldn’t.

The next blow came to the side of Danny’s face. It came from the thick sole of the mohawk guy’s boot, and it nearly took Danny’s head off. He felt blood spurt from his nose as he hit the dirt, and it was flowing more freely from his left ear again. He choked and coughed and tried to grab some loose earth in the hope that he could throw it at his assailant to blind him. But the ground was baked; his fingernails only scraped the hard earth and one of them tore.

Then the mohawk guy was standing above him, huge and threatening. Danny looked up at him through a film of sweat. He noted that the guy hadn’t yet pulled his weapon. He obviously wanted to finish Danny off manually. But he wanted to gloat first.

‘SAS scum,’ he said. He spoke English, but his accent was definitely Russian. He tapped the two patches on his jacket. ‘I killed two of your comrades with my hands. You will be an easy third.’ He laughed, as if he’d just told a great joke. Then he took a couple of steps back, like a rugby player preparing to take a kick. And Danny’s head was the ball.

His mistake was not finishing Danny off the moment he was on the ground. In a weird way, Danny was disappointed in him. This guy and his men had just ambushed and massacred an SAS team. They were pros. They knew what they were about. And the first rule of hand-to-hand combat? Fight to win. Finish your opponent quickly and by whatever means possible. No second chances.

Danny had a second chance.

The Russian took his run up. Before he could take his kick, Danny rolled fast towards him and into the foot that remained on the ground. The guy tripped and fell, and now he was on the ground, face up, and Danny was on his feet. Danny stamped his heel into the Russian’s face and he roared in pain as his nose broke and blood spread and spattered over the scarring on the side of his scalp. He was fumbling for his weapon now and Danny had a split-second call to make. Observe the first rule? Grab his gun and finish him? He couldn’t. His arm was still numb. He wasn’t sure he could operate the handgun effectively and in any case the Russian had gripped it now.

So he ran like hell towards the motorbike. It was twenty metres away. He moved in a zig zag, out of the beam of the headlamp, so he was hard to see and harder to hit. He figured that, big as his opponent was, a boot in the face and a broken nose will at least have stunned the Russian and give Danny time to reach the vehicle.

He figured right. Danny threw himself on to the bike – just as he heard the retort of a handgun behind him. There was no sound of the bullet impacting. Danny forced the bike into a tight turning circle. The tyres protested against the desert floor as he moved the vehicle and accelerated hard. The gap between him and the mohawk guy began to widen: thirty metres, then forty.

Danny braked and skidded. The headlamp lit up the terrain in front of him. He could taste the fight in his mouth; a taste of blood and dust and pain. Around him, he was aware of the burning fires of the Jackals and the Bushmaster and the bomb site, and he felt again the bitterness of losing his unit mates. He turned the bike to face his enemy and revved the engine, fully intent on accelerating towards his assailant and hitting him with the full momentum of a heavy vehicle at speed.

The Russian was now on his feet again. He had his weapon raised and pointing at Danny. There was no chance of him landing a shot on target at that range. Their eyes locked. The guy had blood streaming down his face. Danny knew he himself probably looked twice as bad. He let the guy’s features imprint themselves on his mind. The buzz-cut mohawk. The horrific scarring on the scalp. The SAS flashes on his jacket. ‘One day,’ he muttered to himself. ‘One fucking day.’

It was almost as if the Russian could hear him. He grinned, inclined his head and then he spat on the ground. But he didn’t lower his weapon.

Danny turned the bike and accelerated again, heading east. He only glanced in the side mirror once to see the burning remnants of the Zero 22 op and the fading silhouette of the man who had just tried to kill him, and failed.

TWO

Devon. One week later.

Half past three. Going-home time.

The rain was incessant. The kids were spilling out of the playground, anonymous in their raincoats with the hoods crimped tight around their faces. They shook their teacher’s hand before being allowed off the premises to meet their parents. The mums and one or two dads congregated around the gates, a phalanx of umbrellas protecting them from the unusually heavy rain. When they each saw their child, they bustled them under their umbrella and hurried them to the car.

One of the kids was called Danny White. He didn’t have many friends. In fact, he didn’t have any friends. He’d arrived halfway through the school year. Friendship groups were established and, try though he might, he hadn’t been able to break into any of them. So he was alone as he shook soggy hands with the teacher. ‘Where’s your mum, Danny?’ she asked. He pointed to the yellow umbrella that he recognised, set slightly apart from the crowd. ‘Alright then. Good afternoon. Have a nice weekend.’

Danny didn’t think he would have a nice weekend. His weekend would be like all the others. Solitary. Since moving down here with his mum, she had been different. She was kind enough, alright, and she looked after him, made sure he had enough to eat and his clothes were clean and he got to school on time every morning. But she was distracted. She kept the curtains closed during the day but often slightly parted them to look outside, as if checking for something or someone. When Danny asked if they could go to the park, she always found a reason to say, ‘Another time, sweetie.’ She only went out to do the school run and make the occasional trip to the supermarket, and even then, she always wanted to get back as quickly as possible.

His mum was standing next to the lamp post as usual. Danny’s shoes were wet through as he approached her. He was looking down at them, thinking about how much darker they looked when they were wet, so it wasn’t until he was under the umbrella that he realised that the person holding it wasn’t his mum. It was a man. Danny was embarrassed and was about to turn away when the man took his shoulder. He had a cheery, friendly face.

‘Danny?’ he asked.

Danny nodded. The man wore brown leather shoes, smart new jeans that were wet from the knee down and a black leather jacket. He offered him a Maoam chew. ‘Your mum said these were your favourite,’ he said.

They were Danny’s favourite. He took the Maoam and started to peel the wrapper, but then decided he might keep it for later and put it in his pocket. ‘Where’s my mummy?’ he said.

‘Her car broke down,’ said the man. ‘She asked me to come and get you. Shall we go?’

Danny frowned. He knew about stranger danger. ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

‘Sorry. I’m Andy. You’ve probably seen me around?’ Danny shook his head. ‘Well, I live next door. Come on, let’s get you home.’