Pirate - Duncan Falconer [59]
The jihadist held the position for several seconds, then he brought the blade down with all of his strength. It cut deep into the man’s flesh and vertebrae. But the blade failed to sever the head completely, the edge of it jamming in the bone. The man fell forward and landed on his face and rolled limply on to his side. Blood began to flow from the partially severed arteries. The sword had penetrated his spinal cord and paralysed his lower body although it had not yet killed him.
The swordsman yanked out the blade and the crowd screamed as the man began to spasm. The girl looked away, unable to watch any more. The jihadist stepped quickly over him, hacking at the neck until the head came free. Then he leaned down and picked up the head by its hair and raised it high for all to see. The warriors roared again.
Stratton stared at the clearing, not so much seeing as thinking, his head buzzing with anguish and intention. The raising up of the head delivered him from inaction. He picked up his rifle and moved the safety catch down two clicks to the single-shot pos -ition. ‘Get ready to run,’ he said in a slow, determined voice.
The girl looked up at him. She looked towards the crowd. Then she looked back at him in horror. Panic spread across her face as she realised his intentions. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, talk some sense into him. But she knew it was futile. She had been with him for little more than a day and already knew him well enough.
The jihadist dropped the head on to the ground and turned his gaze to Hopper. He walked around the Englishman, blood dripping from his sword. Stratton did not take his eyes from his partner. When the swordsman stopped behind Hopper and planted his feet, the crowd fell quiet again.
Hopper by now had a very good idea of his fate. He remained on his knees, back straight, shoulders back, chin out, his jaw tight. Impossibly still. His bloodied jaw began to quiver and then clench.
The jihadist pushed Hopper’s head forward and down, then gripped the sword firmly. The way he shuffled and repositioned his feet suggested that he was determined to cut the head off with a single blow this time.
But Stratton had other plans for him.
The jihadist raised the sword over his head and held it as he had done before.
Stratton aimed the rifle. He prayed that the old carbine was accurate and that the piece of crap would fire.
The jihadist cocked the tip of the blade back a little, breathed in deep, gathered himself. He started his downward arc and Stratton squeezed the trigger of the Kalashnikov. The gun boomed in the operative’s hands disintegrating the silence and the round spat from muzzle to its target, jerking the jihadist’s head back as bloody detritus flew out of the exit hole and his body went limp. The sword fell from his hands into the dirt and he crumpled down on top of his own feet like a puppet that had had its strings cut.
The crowd seemed to freeze as it fought to comprehend what had just happened. Then as one they became aware that an enemy was somewhere on the slope above them. They reacted in panic, running in search of cover.
‘Go!’ Stratton shouted.
The girl scrambled up out of the cover of the rocks on to the incline.
Stratton adjusted his sights and quickly found Sabarak but men were running across his front. The Saudi was looking in his direction. Sabarak began to run as Stratton fired. The round smacked past the Saudi, grazing his shoulder before punching into the back of a fighter.
The crowd continued to disperse in every direction. Into the wood or to the foot