Pirate - Duncan Falconer [63]
‘It’s bleeding a little,’ she said as she used a corner of his shirt to dab it. ‘You were lucky.’
‘I have often been told that. But if I am lucky, how did I get into this mess in the first place?’
‘You put a lot of effort into it,’ she said. ‘It will add to all the other scars you have.’
He pulled the shirt back on, impressed with her attitude. They were still in great danger and the odds on her getting out of Somalia alive were not good. ‘Come on,’ he said, preparing to make his way back through the bush on his knees. ‘If we can sleep, it will help ease the pain.’
She followed him. When they were several metres inside the scrub, he dropped down in the dirt and forced his body to relax completely. She lowered her head on to the sandy soil and did the same. Her eyes closed and she fell into an immediate sleep. Flies landed on her face, exploring her eyes and the wounds on her mouth, but she didn’t move.
Stratton watched and listened for a while. But fatigue gradually overcame him and he closed his eyes. He hoped to leave his ears to play sentry for longer. His training warned him to stay on watch and alert but it would have been impossible under the circumstances. He felt confident he would hear anyone approach even in his present state, but if not there was little he could do about it. His back and leg were throbbing and his throat felt like sandpaper. He knew he would drift off to sleep. There were times when things had to be left to fate and the gods.
Within minutes even the flies couldn’t annoy him. His head eased over to one side and he drifted off.
The pair of them remained practically motionless for many hours in the shade of the undergrowth. The wind picked up at times and gently rustled the bushes around them. The sun moved across the sky and began to drop down on to the western horizon. A bird landed close by, gave the couple a curious look and moved on. They were dead to the world.
Bullets suddenly began to tear past Stratton. The air erupted with the sound of gunfire. His eyes were wide with fear as he grappled for the weapon. His face was sweating, his hands bloody and cut. He fired the gun and everything seemed to slow down as he followed the bullet from the muzzle of the weapon. It flew straight towards Hopper, who was on his knees looking directly at Stratton, his blindfold gone, his unshaven face wet with blood and perspiration. When he saw the bullet coming straight for him he began to scream. Yelling Stratton’s name, like he hated the man who had betrayed him. The bullet went into his forehead and punched out the other side. Hopper fell back with the force of the strike and landed on his back where he remained, unmoving, the blood from his head soaking into the sand. And then, like he had become some kind of ghost, he got back up on to his knees and looked at Stratton. The head wound had gone. ‘You missed, you bloody fool. You missed!’
Stratton sat up with a jolt and grabbed for the weapon that he momentarily forgot he had thrown away. He breathed heavy, sweat running down his face. He quickly glanced around before realising it had been a dream.
He looked at the girl. She lay in the same position she had fallen asleep in.
Stratton calmed himself and sat back. Hopper’s image had been vivid. Stratton hadn’t seen the bullet strike the man but he felt sure it had. Doubt suddenly shrouded him. It was possible he had missed. But again he dismissed it, not wanting to face the implications. He assured himself that he had killed his colleague. He had to have.
Stratton felt his throat. His thirst was painful. He couldn’t see the sun and the evening had come on. He had slept longer than he expected he would.
As he eased himself on to his knees his entire body cried out in complaint, in particular the wound on his back. Every joint ached. He felt like he had been thrown off a cliff and landed on a pile of boulders. New pains, in his kidneys and his head, were indications that his body was dehydrated. He looked in the direction