Dead Centre - Andy McNab [109]
Awaale waffled into his radio. His crew ran about laughing manically, firing, shouting.
I got up. ‘BB, take Tracy. Now. Get her on the technicals as soon as they come over.’
Tracy struggled to her knees. ‘No, Nick – no …’
‘Tracy, it’s OK. Stefan will be just fine.’ I pointed to Awaale. ‘You’re going to get the other two white lads out of there as well, remember. Erasto wants to kill them.’
‘No problems, Mr Nick. We’ll take care of them.’
The technicals came bouncing across the square, all guns blazing. If they’d heard Awaale tell them to stop firing, they weren’t taking any notice. As they bounced, tracer arced over the court-house. It was probably landing in the sea or zapping our own boats. Some of it scudded off the dirt and ricocheted into random buildings.
I pushed Tracy down once more. ‘Awaale!’
He was busy shouting orders. An RPG kicked off from fuck knew where.
We couldn’t move.
7
AS THE WAGONS came closer I caught sight of the gunner’s star-shaped, white-framed sun-gigs. The sun had gone down hours ago, but that didn’t bother him. And the driver, for fuck’s sake, was on his mobile. He looked like he was larging it with a blow-by-blow account for the benefit of the girls back home.
BB was out of ammunition. I threw him my day sack with the spare mags. I turned and shouted to one of the crew. I wanted the pistol he had tucked into the back of his jeans. He lay in the dust by the gate, firing at the completely strike-marked court-house. He gave me a big, khat-stained grin. ‘Fifty dollar!’
‘Fuck off! Give me the weapon!’
He shrugged and shouted to his mate the other side of the gate. They both laughed. Another RPG kicked off, this time from AS. It was way off. It almost went into orbit.
The kid with the pistol finally relented. He didn’t even check safety before he threw it. As it sailed through the air I could see it was a Makarov, and so old there was no parkerization anywhere near it. I caught it and pulled back the top slide. A brass case was already in the chamber. I pressed the mag-release catch. It dropped into my hand. The mag was full.
BB was now crouched over Tracy to protect her. He held her head down, trying to calm her.
Awaale and four of his crew peeled off and ran towards the compound building. They were going for Ant and Dec. Awaale was in the middle of the gang, still shouting into his radio as if he was controlling this shit. The technicals banged out 12.7 at every muzzle flash within reach. It didn’t seem to matter who was on the receiving end.
I got up and started running for the madrasah, head down, fast as I could. I reached the massive wooden doors. They were open. I stopped, looked and listened. Nothing. I walked into the hallway. Yellow low-current strip-lights hung from the ceilings. The plaster was pitted. What had probably once been colonial Italy’s pride and joy was now close to a ruin. Dark wooden doors led off it, left and right.
The sound of firing was muffled. The whoops of excitement and fear were mumbles. I ventured into the high-ceilinged building. If this place was a school, there was nothing to suggest it. There were no children’s drawings pinned to the walls; nothing to show children used the place at all.
The door of the first room I came to was open. Looking down the corridor, I could see a lot of the others were closed. This one was full of low desks. They were just inches from the floor, their tops at a reading angle. Each desk had a little cushion.
I crossed the corridor to the room opposite. The hinges were on the right. I put my ear to the wood but couldn’t hear anybody on the other side. I eased it open. The weak light from the strips was enough to show me the room was empty. I went down to the next. My sand-crusted socks rasped on the wooden floor.
This door had a spy-hole bored through it. There was a long bolt at the top. It looked like the schoolrooms doubled as cells; or maybe