Dead Centre - Andy McNab [110]
Nothing.
I moved along the corridor, now just checking the spy-holes left and right.
I could hear a voice. An old man’s voice, like tyres on gravel. It was coming from the room beyond the next one. The door was ajar.
I moved very slowly, my shoulder skimming the wall. As I got closer, the voice became stronger. I lowered myself to my knees, then flat on my stomach. I inched my head towards the gap between door and frame.
The mullah had a small knife against Stefan’s right eye. It looked like it came from a kitchen. He held it with his left arm around his throat so the flat of the blade rested on the little boy’s cheek. His right hand covered the kid’s mouth.
The old guy sat in a chair behind a desk. He had the boy in front of him as cover.
Stefan was a mini Frank, except that I’d never seen Frank with that expression on his face. The small boy was petrified. His brown eyes were wide with terror.
I got up and moved forward, the weapon down by my side.
‘Do you speak English? Come on, let the little one go. Let Stefan go, yeah?’
I spoke more with my eyes than my mouth. He barked something in dialect, and then he started shouting. He didn’t want me to get any closer.
I stopped, keeping eye-to-eye. That was always the most important thing.
I looked at him, almost begging. ‘Mate, you’re not going to get out of here. Help yourself. Give me the boy.’
I held out my left hand. ‘Let me have him. Please.’
I even gave him a bit of a smile.
Stefan’s shoulders heaved as he sobbed into the mullah’s palm. The old man leant forward, his beard draped over the boy’s face. He shouted at me big-time.
My eyes bored into his.
‘Mr Nick! Mr Nick!’
It sounded like Awaale was at the main entrance.
I moved my weapon to one side. ‘Look, mate, it’s OK.’ I didn’t want to get this lad sparked up. I took a step towards him.
The mullah’s eyes darted from me to the door I’d come through. He was unsure. He was getting worried.
‘Mr Nick! We’ve got to leave!’
I could hear flip-flops and the sound of running feet.
Awaale was at the door. I could hear him behind me.
‘Mr Nick!’
The old guy’s eyes went back to mine. They were no longer tense; no longer unsure. He knew he was fucked. I kept mine focused on his head, brought the weapon up, jamming it into my left hand as he raised his knife, ready to ram it into Stefan’s chest.
Stefan screamed. The old guy gripped his hair and pulled back his head.
I took first pressure on the trigger of the Makarov, my eyes glued to a point just above the muzzle. I caught a glimpse of cheekbone and moved the pistol until I had the clear and focused foresight dead centre of the face. The rear sight was out of focus, just as it should be. The first pad of my forefinger squeezed the trigger a couple of millimetres until I felt first pressure.
Stefan struggled. The knife quivered in the air.
I shut Awaale and every ounce of background noise out of my head.
The old guy yelled at me. I could see the veins in his temple swell, and spit fly from his lips.
Then he raised the knife a fraction more to get full force behind it.
His head and beard were fuzzy. My foresight was clear. I brought it up, just above his left eye, and took second pressure. The knife began to plunge. The pistol kicked in my hands and the old guy’s face imploded.
He dropped like liquid. The knife clattered on the wooden floor. The boy followed it under the table, screaming, out of control, curling up like a small, threatened animal.
I ran towards him. ‘It’s OK, Stefan. It’s OK …’
I had to yank him out from under the table. I scooped him up and made him face me, encouraged him to wrap his legs around my waist.
‘My name is Nick.’
Awaale was gobbing off behind me.
‘Shut the fuck up!’
‘We’ve got to go, Mr Nick.’
I got eye-to-eye with Stefan. ‘My name is Nick and I’m going to take you to your mum, OK?’
He wasn’t listening. He was totally freaked out. I was just one more monster in his nightmare. He was going to