Pirate - Duncan Falconer [123]
It was the Saudi.
He sat with his legs outstretched, one of them bloody, disfigured by a gruesome wound on the thigh.
Sabarak raised his head to look at the new visitor. When he saw who it was his expression turned grey. When the glider attack had first begun and a mortar had struck the shed next door, sending a piece of shrapnel through the wall and into his leg, he had thought his end had come and had sat on the floor waiting for his executioners to arrive. When the two SBS operatives walked into the hut, Sabarak had fully expected them to shoot him. But they had simply looked around and checked him for a weapon. Sabarak had decided to risk communicating with them. It hadn’t surprised him that the men spoke English. He knew the attack had to have been carried out by either the British or the Americans. When they left him on his own, Sabarak realised he was going to survive. The British were not bloody executioners. They had come for the missiles.
But as he stared into the cold eyes of the man standing in the doorway, his confidence in that last analysis withered. He swallowed, his throat dry, hoping there was a chance the man, whom the other one had called Stratton, had come to arrest him as he had in Yemen.
Stratton allowed the end of the barrel of his Colt to drift in Sabarak’s direction.
The Saudi read the message clear enough. He had killed Stratton’s friend. He knew Westerners weren’t generally savage without a cause, not like his own people. He regarded it as a weakness in their race and a strength among his own kind. But he was well aware of the Westerner’s appetite for revenge. This one had braved hundreds of fighters and risked his life in an attempt to rescue his friend. And he had failed. He then had tried to kill Sabarak. He wouldn’t fail this time. Sabarak could see it in the eyes. There was no doubt there, just a cold hard reality.
‘I have something for you,’ Sabarak said.
He reached under the desk. Stratton applied a little pressure to the Colt’s trigger as a warning.
Sabarak froze. ‘You can shoot me after. But allow me the pleasure of seeing your face when I present you with my gift.’
Stratton didn’t move, suddenly curious about Sabarak’s ‘gift’.
Sabarak took hold of a heavy bundle covered in a towel. The effort caused him some pain, which he fought. He tossed the bundle towards Stratton while keeping a hold of the corner of the towel.
A human head rolled out and came to rest on the floor between the two men.
Hopper’s head.
20
Stratton looked down at the head, Hopper’s eyes half open, teeth visible and all of him, especially his hair, matted in dried blood, his neck in tatters where it had been hacked at. So the replacement executioner had his own problems cutting through it cleanly.
But the thing that struck Stratton most was something he couldn’t see. Stratton had last looked at Hopper’s face above the sights of the AK-47. It was not an accurate weapon and he could easily have been off by several inches. But he could see no damage to any part of Hopper’s head. A bullet would have created a neat entry hole and a larger exit hole. So they had carried out the ritual. They had cut off the head because Hopper had been alive.
Stratton needed to confirm that. ‘Why did you kill him?’ he said.
‘What else should we have done with him?’ Sabarak asked, like the question was a stupid one.
It was all Stratton wanted to know. He hadn’t killed Hopper, despite his efforts. Matt had been right in part. Stratton had decided Hopper’s fate, like he had been God. If these bastards had only waited a couple of days longer, Hopper would most likely be alive and thanking the lads for rescuing him. But only because Stratton had missed the shot. Hopper might even have forgiven Stratton for leaving him in the prison hut. But he couldn’t, because he was dead. And it was still Stratton’s fault.
Downs stepped into the hut. He saw the Saudi first and then Hopper’s head