‘ Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.’ They repeated the mantra as if somehow invoking their God legitimised what they were about to do. Shepherd knew that it was also a way of distancing themselves from it. Killing wasn’t easy, and killing with a knife was just about the hardest way to take a life. Guns were easy: you pointed, pulled a trigger, and technology did the rest, but knives had to be used. You had to thrust, hack or saw and keep at it until the blood flowed and the victim died.
The man with the knife was just four feet from the chair. Shepherd could see his Adam’s apple wobbling as he chanted, his right eyelid flickering, and his jaw tightening. The man was preparing himself for what he was about to do.
So was Shepherd. He grunted, bent forward to raise the legs of the chair off the ground, then turned quickly. He yelled, to get his adrenaline flowing, and to shock the men in the room. He bent further down, angling the chair legs up, then powered backwards with all his strength, screaming at full volume. He pushed hard and felt the man with the knife stagger back. Shepherd kept the momentum going and when the man hit the wall Shepherd felt the chair leg sink into his body. Shepherd pushed until he couldn’t go any further, then stepped forward and whirled round. The bread-knife dropped from the man’s hand and he sank to his knees, blood pouring from his stomach. Shepherd turned, bent low and lashed out with his foot. He hit the man in the throat but the kick put him off balance and he staggered forward, trying desperately to regain his footing because he knew that if he fell over he wouldn’t be able to get up.
He slipped on the wet floor and went down on one knee. The man in the dishdasha picked up the knife. He glanced at the man with the withered arm, who nodded. Straggly Beard shouted something in Arabic and pulled a gun from under his sweatshirt. Shepherd dropped low and spun around, lashing out with his right leg. He caught the man at the ankles, tipping him backwards. The gun went off but the bullet buried itself in the ceiling. Shepherd moved backwards and kicked out again, catching him in the knee.
The man with the withered arm grabbed at the chair with his good arm and swung Shepherd round, screaming in Arabic. Shepherd staggered, still bent double – the old man had a strong grip. Shepherd saw the man in the dishdasha waving the knife, a manic look in his eyes, then saw Straggly Beard trying to take aim at him.
The door flew open and a man came into the room bent low with a Glock in his hand. It was the Major. The gun fired twice and Straggly Beard fell to the ground. Another man came in, this one with an Uzi. Jordan raised it but before he could fire O’Brien stepped in and slammed his handgun against the head of the man holding the knife, who went down without a sound. ‘No point in wasting a bullet,’ he said.
The man with the withered arm fell to his knees and began to wail. The Major kicked him in the chest and told him to shut up. He curled up into a ball and sobbed quietly.
Shepherd sighed and sat down heavily. He felt drained, physically and emotionally.
O’Brien grinned. ‘Yet again we pull your nuts out of the fire, Spider.’
The Major walked over to Shepherd, picked up the bread-knife and cut the ropes that were holding him to the chair, then freed his wrists. Shepherd gasped as the blood flowed into his hands and shook them. ‘Are you okay?’ asked the Major.
‘I am now,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did you follow Wafeeq?’
‘No,’ said the Major, ‘but these guys should be able to fill us in. With the right incentive.’
‘Yokely’s on his way, then?’
The Major nodded. He helped Shepherd to his feet. ‘Can you walk?’
‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd, but he needed the Major’s support to get to the door. Jordan knelt down and examined the man that Shepherd had impaled with the chair leg. Blood was pumping from the wound in his stomach, which meant that an artery had burst. He didn’t have long to live.
‘Get them downstairs, Martin.’
‘Will do, boss.’
‘This one’s dead,’ said Jordan. ‘Or will be soon.’
The Major helped Shepherd down the stairs. At the bottom two Iraqis were lying face down on the floor, their hands clasped over the back of their necks. Muller was covering them with his gun. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘Good to see you, Spider.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Shepherd.
‘There’re two alive upstairs, John,’ said the Major. ‘Get them all in the front room.’
The Major took Shepherd into the kitchen. Half a dozen bottles of water stood on the draining-board and Shepherd unscrewed a cap and drank. As he put the bottle down he saw a face looking in through the window and flinched, then realised it was Carol Bosch. ‘Hey,’ she said, and waved her shotgun.
Shepherd grinned. The kitchen door opened and Shortt came in, his gun at the ready. He relaxed when he saw Shepherd and the Major and holstered the Glock.
‘Tell me, Jimbo, why are you always late?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Traffic was murder,’ said Shortt. ‘Camels, goats, all sorts of shit on the road.’
‘Any excuse,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’m glad you made it.’
Shortt held up a pair of boots. ‘Thought you might like these,’ he said. ‘The guy who took them from you doesn’t need them any more.’ He tossed them to Shepherd.
‘How did it go?’ asked Haschka, following Shortt into the kitchen, Uzi in his right hand, barrel pointing at the floor.
‘Two dead,’ said the Major. ‘Four still alive.’
‘Are you okay?’ asked Bosch, who was in the doorway, her shotgun at her side.
‘I’ve had better days,’ said Shepherd, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood streaked across it and he wiped it on his jeans. ‘But, yeah, I’m okay. A few minutes later and it would have been a different story.’ He sat down and put on his boots.
‘What went wrong?’ asked Bosch.
‘Wafeeq found the transmitter,’ said Shepherd. ‘I guess he put two and two together.’
O’Brien walked into the kitchen, opened the rattling refrigerator and found a cooked leg of lamb wrapped in Cellophane. He took it out, sniffed, pulled a face and tossed it back. ‘Why don’t these people buy any decent food?’ he growled, and slammed the door.
‘What do you want, Martin?’ asked Shortt. ‘A kebab?’
‘They probably weren’t expecting guests,’ said Bosch. She went to Shepherd and put a hand on his cheek. ‘Still got your rugged good looks.’
Shepherd smiled at her. ‘You too.’
She patted his groin. ‘They didn’t hack off anything down there, did they?’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Are you sure? I could check.’
‘Maybe you two should get a room.’ Haschka laughed.
‘Yeah, and maybe you should get a life,’ said Bosch.
The windows started to vibrate and seconds later they heard the rotors of an approaching helicopter.
‘Five will get you ten that’s Yokely,’ said Muller.
‘Doesn’t like bullets, I guess,’ said O’Brien.
‘He was in the Green Zone,’ said the Major.
‘Convenient,’ said O’Brien.
‘Trust me, Richard Yokely isn’t scared of a bit of rough-and-tumble,’ said the Major.
Shepherd went to the kitchen door and looked out across the backyard. A Blackhawk helicopter was hovering above the farmland close to the boundary wall. The helicopter continued to hover a few feet above the ground as Yokely clambered out, holding his M16, and jogged over to let himself in through a wooden gate. He waved at Shepherd as he hurried across the courtyard. The Blackhawk lifted into the air and flew off.
‘They’re worried about mines,’ said Yokely, as he reached them.
‘And you’re not?’ asked Shepherd.
Yokely grinned. ‘I had my palm read by a gypsy psychic a while back,’ he said. ‘She said I’d live to a ripe old age and I believe her.’ He slapped Shepherd on the back. ‘Good to see you’re okay, Spider,’ he said. ‘You had us worried for a while.’