Ismail looked nervously at the gun. 'I am not a fighter,' he whispered.
'I didn't say you were, Ismail. Just do what you have to do.'
The two man stared at each other.
'You must go,' the Afghan said finally. 'They will soon find out you are gone and if they catch you—'
Will nodded, curtly. Then, without saying another word, he left the hut, leaving the frightened Afghan shaking in the semi-darkness.
Ismail stared at the gun.
Soon, he knew, his wife and little son would be facing the barrel of some such weapon and it would be the last thing they saw on earth. It was all he could do not to retch at the thought of it. These Taliban, he knew what they were like. He had lived through their regime. They were merciless. There was no way they would believe Ismail that he had not released the SAS men. No way at all. They would kill his family in front of him, not because they were involved in any way; just to make Ismail himself feel the pain.
A coldness ran through him as a possibility suggested itself. Perhaps there was a way to save them after all. Perhaps there was a way out of this, for his wife and child if not for him. If Ismail himself was not around to witness his family's death, there would be no reason for the Taliban to kill them.
It was like a game of chess. And as his father had taught him so many years ago when they played during the summer outside the cafés of Kandahar, in chess you must sometimes make sacrifices in order to win.
Big sacrifices.
Ismail realised that his body was shaking as he approached the table and touched the handgun before picking it up and feeling its weight.
What he was about to do was haram, forbidden. A line from the Koran flashed through his mind: Whoever takes his life with a piece of iron will be punished with the same piece of iron in the hell fire.
The piece of iron he held in his hand was cold. He prayed silently that Allah would look with forgiveness on what he was about to do.
And then, the whispered words of the takbir repeating on his lips, he put the cold metal to his head and closed his eyes.
It was probably a mistake — Will knew that as he left the hut. But if Ismail had been telling the truth, he was as much a victim of the Taliban as Anderson or Latifa. He didn't deserve a bullet in the head for that, even if it was going to make their escape more risky. But Drew and Kennedy had a good head start and Will himself would be out of the village within minutes.
But his train of thought was shattered by a sudden bang.
A single gunshot.
He flung himself against the nearest wall, looking for the source of the fire; but intuitively he knew where it had come from. Poor bastard.
The gunshot, he knew, would attract attention. He had to get the hell out of there, and fast.
Will upped his pace, skirting around the main square. The others had left from the north, near the units where they had been held. Will wasn't going to do that — if anyone had been roused by the gunshot, the first thing they would do would be to check on the SAS men. That area would be swarming with Taliban within minutes. Instead he headed west, back the way they came, darting down the dark streets where the huts of the ordinary Afghan villagers were to be found. Behind him, in the distance, he heard shouts. Thirty metres away, maybe forty. Too fucking close, in any case. The dog he had heard earlier began barking; this time, though, it was joined by two or three others. It sounded like bedlam back there. Clearly their escape had been discovered.
His breath steamed heavily in front of him and as he ran along the snowy streets he became aware of voices all around. He stopped for a moment, listening carefully. They were to his left and right, but not straight ahead. Will continued to run.
Ahead of him he could see the generator building where they had left Ismail earlier that evening. He sprinted towards it, then hid behind the back wall, which faced out on to the snowy landscape beyond. But as he held his breath and listened, he could hear people approaching the generator. It sounded like two voices.
Will's eyes narrowed slightly as he gripped his Diemaco.
He edged to the corner of the outbuilding, listening carefully. They were near, but he was sure they hadn't seen him — they were just searching here on the off-chance. That gave him the element of surprise. He pressed the Diemaco hard into his shoulder, then swung round the corner of the building.
He nailed the first of them before the guy even knew he was there, the suppressed weapon firing a silent shot that hit him straight in the face. He collapsed like a stone to the ground. But in the split second Will took to aim his weapon at the second man, his Taliban pursuer managed to raise his AK-47.Will released a lethal headshot that brought the man to the ground, but not before his target had managed to release a single burst of fire from his own weapon. It missed Will by several metres, but the sound of gunshot seemed to echo all round the surrounding countryside.
'Shit,' Will whispered to himself. Everyone would have heard that and when they found the two Taliban corpses lying in the snow, they would know which way he had escaped.
There was no time to hide the bodies. It was now just a matter of who was quickest. He checked his watch: 01.35. The others had a twenty-minute start. He had to catch up with them.
Will ran to the back of the generator building and plunged into the snowy countryside beyond.
Distance was what he needed — distance between himself and the Taliban. They would be making chase any minute. They would be on foot. The snow was too deep for any kind of vehicle, so it would all come down to how much distance he could put between them. With a pang he realised that they could well be using the NV goggles they had taken from the SAS team earlier in the evening: it spurred him on to move even faster through the snow.
'Don't look back,' he whispered to himself. The temptation to do so was immense, but it would only slow him down. They'd be on his trail any minute — there was nothing he could do about his footprints in the snow and the Taliban would just have to follow them.
He pushed on into the darkness, cursing his decision to go back for Ismail. Clouds scudded against the silver moon: occasionally the way ahead would be lit surprisingly brightly as the moonlight reflected off the snow; but mostly it was pitch black. Will had to rely on his in-built sense of direction and hope he was going the right way. At one stage, the moon peeped out from behind the fast-moving clouds and illuminated the way ahead. There were footprints — two sets. Drew and Kennedy, it had to be. He was on the right path.
He should be catching them up soon. Will would be moving faster as they would be slowed down by Latifa Ahmed. Christ, he thought to himself. It was going to be a relief. Three men's firepower would make him feel a lot more confident than just his.
He continued to pound the snow-covered earth, his lungs swallowing great mouthfuls of freezing air as he ran.
At first he didn't hear it; his heavy breath was too loud in his ears. But eventually the sound was unmistakable. It was not so much a bark as a yelp. It sounded thin and desperate.
Dogs. And they were close.
How close, Will couldn't say. He allowed himself a moment to stop and listen. The wide open space around him meant that it was difficult to tell which direction the sound of the dogs was coming from. One moment it would be coming from the east, behind him; the next minute, it seemed to come from the north or the south.
'Shit,' he muttered. He started running again. The dogs would be faster than their masters, but also faster than Will. And somehow he doubted that all they were after was a pat on the head and a juicy bone.
As he ran, he prepped the Diemaco. The minute the dogs came into view, there really was only going to be one option.