The Hostage (10 page)

‘I have,’ Stratton said, his voice suddenly booming over the speaker, making the cook jump which in turn caused the mechanic to do the same.

Mike and Graham looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. Stratton had said ‘I have’ a while ago. They wondered why nothing had changed in that time.

‘Location?’ Mike asked, doing his best to contain a tension he had never experienced before.

There was another long silence. Mike suddenly felt uneasy. ‘Whisky one, what is your location?’

‘We’re going into the green,’ was Stratton’s calm reply.

The uneasy feeling rippled through the room.

Mike lowered the handset. The second in command and ops officer watched him, wondering what his next move would be.

Mike thought long and hard on it. It was obvious what was happening. The van was over the border with Spinks in it. He was not about to consider telling Stratton to cancel the pursuit. Even if that were an option, which in this case it was not, Stratton would ignore him anyway. A border excursion was nothing compared to losing an operative. Mike was the kind of officer who stood by his men in a fight. If he was not going to order Stratton back, it therefore meant he supported him. He might as well start right there and then.

‘Get me Lisburn ops,’ he said calmly to Graham. ‘And get Bill Lawton standing by. We might as well start patching this up with the Irish right away.’ All Mike could now hope for was that Stratton tied it up as quickly and neatly as possible and without taking the battle all the way into Dublin.

 

‘The road, the road!’ Brennan yelled, pointing to a gate in the hedge a hundred yards ahead. Just beyond it was another hedge running parallel that indicated there was a road or track in between. Sean steered a gentle arc, adjusting his angle so that he could crash through the gate and enter the lane without slowing. The gate looked sturdy, but nothing was going to stop them now.

He hit it hard, smashing through it and destroying the headlights, and turned sharply on to the narrow lane, sliding just a little and bashing the far hedge with the flank but without losing much pace.

The Gazelle came on in pursuit like a relentless hunter. It banked hard over and levelled out to the right side of the van, no higher than a goalpost off the ground, and started to push ahead. Sean snatched a glance at it. This was useless, he thought. They were stuck in the lane like it was a bowling alley with nowhere to go but straight ahead.

As the Gazelle inched closer Brennan watched the man in the left seat of the cab leaning out with a rifle in his hand. He could see him more clearly now, his civilian clothes, straggly hair, unshaven features, and he was looking directly at Brennan as he raised the rifle to his shoulder.

‘Pink,’ Brennan said under his breath. ‘Focken Pink!’ Brennan leaned out the window and fired a long burst, almost losing his gun to the hedges crashing past as Sean tried to manoeuvre as best he could in the narrow lane.The two men in the back held on to anything they could as the van lurched heavily, Spinks’s crate sliding from one side to the other. One of the men fell on to his back while gripping his M16 and accidentally loosed off several rounds that ripped along the roof in a line barely missing Brennan’s head. But Brennan was too caught up in the desperation of his position to direct his madness at them.

‘What do we do?’ screamed Sean.

Brennan seemed frozen, watching the man in the helicopter.

‘Brennan?’ Sean shouted.

‘Drive! Just keep driving,’ Brennan shouted back.

‘We could run in four different directions. They couldn’t get all of us,’ Sean said.

Brennan shoved the end of his gun barrel at Sean, glaring at him with manic eyes. ‘You stop this van and I’ll blow you to focken pieces,’ he yelled.

Sean got the message loud and clear.

 

Stratton held the rifle tightly into his shoulder and looked down through the sights. A bullet skimmed the bottom of the Gazelle. Another creased the glass bubble, causing a crack that spread to one of the corners, but Stratton did not move from his purpose.The pilot flinched but he was more frightened of Stratton’s wrath should he veer off course than anything else.

‘Steady!’ Stratton called out. After a short pause, he squeezed the trigger four times in quick succession.

The first round spat through the windscreen and hit Sean in the chest; the second in his gut; a third passed through his neck; and the fourth flew between him and Brennan and into the crate Spinks was in. Sean slumped forward in his seat like a puppet with its strings cut as a jet of blood from his neck spouted around the cab. It squirted Brennan in the face as he grabbed the steering wheel and shoved Sean off his seat and against his door. The van tilted sharply as it mounted the embankment and scraped along the hedge. Brennan did his best to straighten it out, gripping the wheel with both hands. Sean’s feet were twisted and jammed under the dash, keeping the accelerator full against the floor. Brennan managed to manoeuvre it around a tight corner, hugging the outside hedge, and he might well have completed the turn successfully had it not been for the large boulder jutting from the outside hedge that had without doubt been there many thousands of years and was not about to give an inch to a van travelling at speed. And it didn’t. The front of the van collapsed like a bag of crisps and abruptly stopped but the contents continued on at the same speed. Brennan and Sean went through the windscreen and punched into the hedge as though it were a safety net. The two men in the back flew the length of the van and slammed into the front seats. The crate followed close behind and near flattened one of them between it and the seat, his bones snapping like firewood.

The Gazelle turned sharply close to the ground and the rotors thundered as it circled the wreck tightly.

‘Land!’ Stratton shouted. ‘Quickly!’

Brennan lay in the hedge, dazed and bloody. He fought to regain control and tried to move, but it seemed impossible to get his limbs to obey him. Contact was finally made and he moved his legs in search of firm ground below. He turned in the hedge and saw Sean lying beside him, mangled and very dead. The field was within reach just ahead and he grabbed the thorny branches around him and pulled himself forward. Every part of him ached and he waited for the shot of pain from somewhere in his body that would tell him a part of it was broken. As his senses regrouped he could hear the helicopter and the memories of the most recent events flooded back. He increased his efforts to pull himself on. The pain was dull and all over, but nothing appeared to be broken.

He wiped some blood out of his eyes and reached out of the hedge and down to touch the ground. He dug his fingers into the soil and pulled himself further forward, rolling out of the thicket on to his back and allowing himself a few precious seconds to breathe before forcing himself on. As he turned on to his front to push himself up his hand fell on to something metallic. His sub-machine-gun. He willed himself to his knees and picked it up in his battered, shaking hands, then he winced in pain. His leg. He’d forgotten he’d been shot right through it. But the urge to survive took over and he forced himself to take a step. His leg almost gave way but there was enough muscle left to support him.

He saw the helicopter hovering above the field the other side of the lane and shakily aimed his gun towards it and then lost his balance and almost fell over. He steadied himself, got the gun on aim, and squeezed the trigger. But it wouldn’t fire. He checked the safety-catch, almost dropping the weapon. He pulled out the magazine, checked it for ammunition, and pushed it back home. He cocked it, aimed, and pulled the trigger once again. It fired, and on fully automatic!

Stratton had already unclipped his seatbelt and was leaning well out of the cab as the helicopter pulled up into the hover ten feet above the ground. At the sound of the gunfire he jumped, ripping the giro-steady cable from the consul. He hit the ground and jammed the rifle into his shoulder, searching for a target as the helicopter backed away from the fire.

Stratton saw movement beyond the hedge near the van but he was not about to shoot at anyone he could not positively identify.

The Gazelle landed not far behind him, its rotors remaining on full revs. Stratton ran forward, reached the hedgerow a few yards behind the van, dropped the rifle, and took out his pistol. He eased through a gap in the hedge and stepped down on to the lane. It was all very quiet but for the hiss of steam from the van’s engine. Stratton paused to tune his senses and then cautiously headed to the front of the van. He saw the windshield smashed out and Sean lying in the hedge. In the field just beyond a sub-machine-gun was lying in the grass. Stratton eased forward, eyes everywhere, and reached through the hedge to feel the gun’s barrel. It was hot. He then heard what sounded like a snapping stick some distance away and stood on the front bumper of the van so that he could see over the hedge. In the distance a man was limping heavily away.

Stratton stepped back down into the lane and made his way to the rear of the van. One of the doors had popped open on impact. He looked inside. There was some movement and the sound of strained breathing. Stratton climbed in to find the two Irishmen broken and bloody against the back of the seats. The one sandwiched between the crate and the seat was motionless and judging by the unnatural position of his head, twisted three-quarters of the way around, it looked as if his neck was broken. The other lay in an awkward position unable to move, watching Stratton, his every breath a painful effort. Stratton aimed his gun at the man who was in too much pain to care and remained staring at Stratton. A noise came from inside the crate that was lying on its side. Stratton ignored the broken man and pulled the crate over so that the lid was upright. He noticed the bullet hole in the top and its corresponding exit point in the side. He unlatched the lid and opened it expecting to find Spinks seriously damaged.

Spinks lay tightly inside the cramped space squinting up at Stratton, adjusting his eyes to the light, as frightened as he was hopeful.

‘You okay, Spinks?’

Spinks blinked hard as the images came into focus. He knew that voice.

‘Stratton?’

‘Can you walk?’

‘Stratton,’ he repeated, still afraid it was some kind of hallucination. ‘Tell me it’s really you.’

‘It’s me. Are you hurt?’ Stratton asked, then noticed the blood on Spinks’s jacket and crouched to get a better look. ‘You’ve been hit.’

‘They shot me,’ Spinks said.

Stratton raced through his options if he couldn’t move Spinks, none of which were good. This had all been about saving Spinks and there was no point doing anything that would put his health in jeopardy having got this far.

It was as if Spinks had read Stratton’s mind. ‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘In the South.’

‘Then we’d better get going,’ he said as he raised his hands, gripped the sides of the box, and started to pull himself up. A pain shot across his chest and Stratton quickly grabbed him.

‘Easy,’ Stratton said.

Spinks took several short breaths. ‘I can do it,’ he said then pulled himself once again until he was sitting upright. Stratton inspected the entry and exit points high on his chest. ‘As bullet holes go, they’re in an okay place.’

‘That’s good,’ Spinks said, attempting sarcasm. He then braced himself for a major effort to stand with Stratton’s help and climb out of the box. His knees almost gave way as they took his full weight but Stratton held him. Spinks pushed them straight. ‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘I’m okay.’

Stratton helped Spinks out of the box beside the broken man lying on the floor of the van, watching them.

‘What about ’im?’ Spinks asked.

‘What’s your name?’ Stratton asked the man.

‘O . . . O’Kelly,’ the man said, catching his breath. Spinks wondered if Stratton was going to kill him. He wouldn’t be in the least surprised if he did.That didn’t mean he knew Stratton well enough to know he’d do it. Quite the contrary. He didn’t know Stratton well at all, but the rumours about him left one in doubt as to his true character.

‘Looks like he’s paid a price for today,’ Spinks said, hoping that if Stratton was into executing the bloke he might change his mind. It wasn’t something Spinks was into, even after what he’d been through. He wasn’t a murderer.

The man’s eyes started to glaze and his breathing suddenly grew shallower, and then it stopped altogether.

Spinks stared at him with no sign of remorse or celebration. It was simply an event.

‘Come on,’ Stratton said and helped Spinks out of the van.They shuffled to the gap in the hedge and Spinks glanced back at the front of the van.

‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’ he said. ‘Good thing I was in that box.’ As Stratton helped him through the hedge he grabbed up his SLR and they made their way across the field towards the waiting Gazelle. The short walk helped Spinks’s circulation and he could almost support himself by the time they reached it.

‘I knew it was you. I fuckin’ knew it,’ Spinks said. ‘Soon as I ’eard the shootin’ I said to myself, that’s Stratton that is. Then we ’it a fuckin’ wall.’ Spinks chuckled until the pain made it difficult to laugh any more.

Stratton helped him into the back and laid him down on the bench seat. As he climbed into the exposed front passenger seat the Gazelle lifted skyward and turned North.

Stratton put on his headset, positioned the mic in front of his lips, and pushed the send button. ‘Zero alpha, whisky one. I have four two Charlie. He has a gunshot wound but he’s gonna be okay. I’m towards your location.’

A cheer went up in the ops room. Mike picked up the handset. ‘Roger that, whisky one,’ he replied. ‘Any other casualties?’

‘Two, possibly three dead, unconfirmed. At least one escaped.’

‘Understood,’ Mike said. ‘See you when you land.’ Mike put down the handset and sat back in his chair, looking a little spent. ‘Send a tow to pick up one three kilo,’ he said to Graham.