Over my panting breath, I heard West whistle again.
Rutherford glanced back over his shoulder toward the village as he changed mags.
Through the rain and the gloom I could see a truck coming down the road between the last of the huts. The odds were good that this was the vehicle we wanted. I climbed up into the truck’s cab. The interior was like a slaughterhouse, with blood spatter everywhere, especially across the windshield. Trying to wipe it off would just create a big smear and reduce visibility further.
‘I’ve got the cab. The passengers are yours again,’ I called out to Rutherford, slamming a fresh mag in place.
The Brit darted into the forest, gone in an instant.
I picked up a beret left behind by its previous owner and put it on to improve my profile and confuse the issue. Something warm and wet slid out of it, ran down the side of my face and plopped into my lap. I didn’t want to know what it was, instead keeping my eyes fxed on the approaching vehicle. Through the blood-speckled windscreen and the rain, I could see three men sitting abreast in the approaching cab. I had no idea how many were in back, under the tarpaulin cover stretched high over the load area. The Dongfeng came to a halt twenty meters away. The driver gave the horn some exercise, a lightweight toot better suited to a cheap Chinese motor scooter. I gave the driver a wave out the window and he waved back. The number of choices I had open to me had narrowed to one. The front passenger door opened and a man swung out of the cabin and impatiently motioned at me to get my vehicle off the road, out of the way.
I angled the barrel up and pulled the trigger and the windshield in front of me shattered into a screen reminiscent of crushed ice, before collapsing inwards. The next burst had the same effect on the windshield of the truck facing me. I sprayed the cabin as the glass exploded inwards, and made doubly sure with another burst that the occupants wouldn’t cause any trouble. And suddenly men were everywhere, jumping out the back of the truck like folks escaping a burning building, running in random directions, looking for safety but not knowing where to find it. I dropped out the QCW’s mag, jammed in a replacement, cocked the weapon and did what I had to do, hitting one guy on the run in the thorax. He fell down dead. Rutherford took down two men running around on the passenger side of the truck and they slammed into the road face first, the way the living never do. A man was creeping down the driver’s side of the vehicle, hidden from Rutherford’s view, his rifle up and looking for trouble. He found it. I took aim and fired and he slumped back on his ass in the mud like he’d decided to have a quick nap.
The remaining four soldiers running toward me figured pretty quickly that their present predicament had something to do with the truck stopped in front of theirs. They turned, the way schools of fish get the message all at once without any obvious communication, and started fleeing toward the village, shooting back over their shoulders. I raised my M4, aimed and fired. Their chances of making it to the village were zero.
Rutherford appeared from out of the bush, running onto the roadside as I changed mags and then jumped down out of the driver’s seat and onto the mud. I felt something slide off my thigh and land on the toe of my boot. I glanced down and saw an eyeball attached to a length of optic nerve. I flicked it off my toe into the bushes.
Among the bodies sprawled on the road and its verge, nothing moved.
‘We’ll put ’em all back inside the truck,’ I told him. ‘Take that guy’s hands. I’ve got his feet. Let’s do this quick.’
We picked up the nearest corpse and walked it to the rear of the truck. I set my end down on the ground and lifted up the fap of the tarpaulin, and a shower of bullets blasted past my head as the bark of full automatic fire spat from the shadows within. Rutherford and I dropped to the mud beneath the tailgate with the body as the rounds clanged off the Dong’s metalwork and my heart thundered in my chest. Shit! I swore at my own stupidity. I nearly walked straight into that. The stream of hot lead had been far too close.
On full automatic, the shooter’s magazine emptied itself within a few seconds. I was tempted to jump up and send a few rounds back, but there was going to be cargo in there that I didn’t want damaged. I heard the hollow clatter of a magazine being ejected, hitting the metal floor of the truck. My cue. I bobbed my head up, then ducked below the lip of the truck’s cargo tray. Stacked Kevlar cases, just as I’d hoped. There was also the movement of a soldier fumbling with his weapon, anxious to get it reloaded. I came up for a longer, more confident peek, submachine gun shouldered, and Rutherford was beside me, his QCW likewise trained on the moving shadow which was trying to hide in the twilight, tucked into a corner behind the cabin.
‘Jesus,’ said Rutherford.
The shooter was a boy of around eleven or twelve years of age. I could see the large whites of his eyes darting between Rutherford and me.
‘Drop it!’ the sergeant yelled at him.
The kid stuttered something at us in a high-pitched, prepubescent voice, but held onto his rifle.
‘Drop. Your. Weapon,’ Rutherford repeated.
The kid got the message second time round and threw down his rifle, an old AK-47, which clattered against the containers.
I gestured at him to come forward.
He didn’t move.
‘Come!’ I said, adding a little authority to the command.
He inched forward, frightened and confused, his eyes darting between us. We were obviously out-of-towners, but from which town? I could see that there was a lot going through the kid’s mind, overloading it. When he was close enough for me to grab his shirt, I lifted him one handed out of the truck. He was a lightweight, all skin and bone, his nervous brown eyes the biggest part of him. His weapon was on the truck’s metal floor, within reach. Rutherford leaned in and retrieved it. We glanced at each other, both knowing the score. There was a lot at stake and the boy was a problem.
The SAS sergeant checked that a round wasn’t left in the AK’s chamber. ‘I’m not killing kids, skipper,’ he said, in the event that his actions with the rifle appeared ambiguous.
‘Then how do you feel about standing him in the naughty-boy corner for around twenty-four hours?’ I asked.
The boy watched me carefully with a mixture of curiosity and fear, eyes shifting to the weapon in Rutherford’s hands. ‘How old are you, kid — twelve?’ I asked him.
No answer.
‘The only things you should be shooting live on XBox,’ I said.
The urchin had no idea what I was saying.
I gave the road a visual check — clear as far as I could see. Nothing from West to indicate otherwise.
Rutherford leaped up into the cargo space and inspected the goods. I heard something rattle.
‘Seven cases, a dirty great padlock on every one,’ he called out.
‘Officer?’ I asked the boy. ‘Officer. Which one? Him?’ I pointed to one of the men lying on the road. The kid looked at me like I was from outer space.