Pirate - Duncan Falconer [50]
‘I need it to open the door,’ Stratton said, reading the man’s thoughts.
The Dutchman handed the blade to Stratton. The operative couldn’t be sure if the Dutchman decided to trust him or if he had put aside his humanitarianism for the moment. Stratton put his ear to the door. He could hear nothing. He slid the blade through a gap between the edge of the door and the frame until it touched the bolt. He pushed down and sideways on the bolt with the blade and it moved a couple of millimetres. He did it again. And again, sliding the bolt over a little each time.
It didn’t take long to draw the bolt out of its hole in the frame. The next move represented the real risk. He had to open the door without knowing what or who was on the other side, other than the sleeping guard across the street. It was the point of no return for him. If he failed here, they would cut his feet off. That alone would have been a strong incentive. But he didn’t need it.
He pushed the door open gently. It swung easily and silently for the first few inches. Then the hinge protested so he stopped, but only for a second. Anyone looking at the door would know it was no longer bolted shut. He pushed it wide open and stepped out energetically, looking left and right, searching for a target, hand gripping the knife.
A guard stood with his back against the wall to his right. So close Stratton could reach out and touch him. The man lifted his head and saw Stratton and stepped back as Stratton leaned towards him, his arm reaching out. The guard went for his rifle leaning against the wall. He bent and grabbed the barrel and lifted it up and then he saw the blade in the operative’s hand arcing towards him. And that was the last thing he ever did see. The tip of the blade went into the side of his neck and penetrated deeply into it with the force of the swing, severing both of the carotid arteries. Stratton grabbed the rifle before it fell from the dead man’s hand. Blood spurted from his throat and he dropped slowly to his knees, Stratton holding some of his weight.
Stratton’s eyes went to the sleeping Somali across the street, waiting for the slightest indication that the man was about to wake up. But he didn’t stir. He was sound asleep.
Stratton leaned the dead man against the hut wall, moved away from the door, one careful step at a time, while he searched up and down the street, looking for any other sign of movement.
Vorg stepped into the doorway and looked at the dead guard and then he looked at Stratton.
‘Back inside,’ Stratton whispered.
The Dutchman handled the guilt he felt for his part in the Somali guard’s death and did what he was told. Stratton closed the door and drew the bolt across. Then he moved around the hurricane lamp, careful not to cast a shadow over the guard, holding the weapon, ready to fire. Although he wasn’t that confident it would work. The barrel had rusted, as had the magazine and trigger housing. The wooden stock and butt had dried and cracked. He could only imagine what the working parts inside were like. But the AK-47 was, if little else, a robust piece of kit and could generally be relied upon to operate no matter its condition.
He moved up the street, scanning in every direction as he went. The sleeping guard still hadn’t moved.
Once out of sight of the prison hut, he focused his attention ahead, looking for Lotto’s quarters. It dawned on him that he hadn’t heard the girl scream for a while. He could think of several explanations for that, most of them not good, for him or for her.
In his case, he needed her help. She knew where the Al-Shabaab camp was located, or at least she said she did. And that was where Hopper was most likely being held. Rescuing him had become the most important priority. The information Stratton had discovered about the missiles hidden in the hijacked vessels was vital to be sure. But it was going to have to wait.
Stratton might have reminded anyone else in the same position of their duty to get the information back as soon as humanly