Pirate - Duncan Falconer [38]
Stratton straightened and grabbed the climber’s foot as the Somali tried to scramble through the window. At the same time he reached down to the prone Somali’s belt and pulled out the knife. It was fully in his hand as the guard dropped out of the opening on to his feet. As he landed, Stratton shoved the long blade all the way into him just below his lowest rib. The man jerked in a spasm and opened his mouth to yell but Stratton’s free hand quickly clamped over it. The only sound that came from between his fingers was a muted squeal. As the Somali looked into Stratton’s eyes, he recognised the Englishman. The life went out of his eyes and legs at the same time. Stratton lowered him to the ground beside his partner.
Stratton looked up at the hut window to see Hopper’s face in the gap.
‘Stratton!’ he whispered.
‘I’m OK.’
Hopper pulled himself out a little more to take the weight off his unbound hands. He saw the knife in Stratton’s hand and the bodies at his feet. ‘You need a hand with them?’
‘I’ll drag them out of the way. Hopefully they won’t be missed until morning. We’ll stick with the plan. Ensure no one in there makes a fuss. I’ll get back to you soon as I can and then we’ll get out of here.’
‘And if you don’t get back by first light?’
‘Don’t wait till then. But I’ll be back sooner than that.’
Hopper disappeared back into the hut.
Stratton decided to keep the knife. He wiped it on the dead Somali’s shirt, then removed the man’s leather belt and quickly threaded it through the loops of his own trousers and tucked the blade into it. Grabbing a hold of the legs of one of the men, he dragged him into a narrow alleyway and went back for the other.
After piling enough trash on to the bodies to hide them from sight, while it remained dark at least, he set off in the direction of the beach. Stratton made his way across the town, using the darkest, least obstructed alleyways between dwellings, pausing often to listen. He couldn’t afford to bump into anyone. He was the wrong colour to fool any local.
When he reached the last house at the corner of the town, he knelt to take in the ground ahead. The ships were well lit, the sound of their generators drifting on the night air. Laughter came from beyond some piled-up crates further down on the beach. He could see a glow on either side suggesting a fire. That all worked in his favour. It would be difficult for anyone to see into darkness from within a well-lit area.
Stratton headed away from the town, keeping to the higher ground, level with the beachfront houses. He followed a line parallel to the beach, keeping low to avoid being silhouetted. When he was well past the crates with the fire behind it, he headed across the beach towards another stack of boxes. He was exposed to the lights from the ships but knew he was pretty invisible.
When he reached the shadows of the crates he took his time checking the open ground between him and the water. He had twenty good paces of sand to cross. He edged to the end of the pile of boxes until he could see the light from the fire. A couple of guards stood between it and the water.
As he put his head further around the box to look for the rest of the guards, he saw a figure walking directly towards him and jerked his head back, moving into the darkest hole he could find.
The guard came around the corner, his rifle over his shoulder and mumbling to himself. He removed the rifle, leaned it against a crate and unbuckled his trouser belt. The Somali was barely a metre from Stratton, but he had walked into the darkness from the fire and had lost his night vision.
He dropped his trousers and squatted. As he did so he looked down and he saw what was there. A boot. He followed it up to a trouser leg. Then to a torso, up to Stratton’s cold hard face looking down on him.
Before the man could react, Stratton swiftly gripped his shirt collar in both hands either side of the Somali