The Network - Jason Elliot [147]
‘You said you’d bring a couple of guards, not six truckfuls.’
‘Couldn’t help that, I’m afraid. They all wanted to join the party. I seem to have scooped up all the bad ones.’ He’s silent for a moment. ‘They’re not planning to let you go, if you surrender.’
‘Somehow I didn’t think so.’
‘You ready for this or do you need me to buy some time?’
‘Ready as we’ll ever be.’
‘Well then. Let’s get it over with. I suppose it’s time to die.’
He calls to his bodyguard in a language I don’t recognise. It must be Chechen. Then he turns around and, walking slowly towards the door, raises his arms out in what looks like a gesture of resignation, so that the others beyond the door can see. It’s safe to say that none of them is expecting what happens next.
I wait until Manny has taken about ten paces and is nearly at the door. Then I pull the Browning from the holster on my hip, aim squarely for the centre of his back and fire twice.
His body tumbles forward and falls face down. Without pausing, I roll to my right, bring up the Browning in a firing stance on Manny’s bodyguard, who’s dropped instinctively into a squat and is raising his weapon to his shoulder. It’s the last thing he ever does. Before I can fire another shot rings out, as H sends a single round into his head. His body slumps like a collapsed puppet. H runs forward like lightning, picks up the bodyguard’s weapon, drags his body away from the doors and calls out to Sher Del as he leaps up the stairway to the tower.
‘RPG! RPG!’
He’s predicted, accurately, that for a few seconds after the first shots are fired the men outside will scramble for cover before returning reactive fire. It’s these same seconds I use to slam the door closed, throw the bolts and haul Manny away into cover.
The shock of the rounds has sent his body into a kind of paralysis. I prop him against a wall and tear at the straps of his body armour as he coughs and gasps for air.
‘Feels like you broke all my fucking ribs.’
‘Breathe. I took out all the powder I could.’
He’s about to say something else but at that moment there’s a high-pitched bang which makes us flinch as the shock wave goes through us like a physical blow. Sher Del has fired the first RPG round into a truck below and is taking aim at a second. H is by his side as I run up, and Manny follows behind me, his lungs heaving in pain.
‘Down!’ yells H a second before the backblast from the RPG roars over us, and the turret fills with hot smoke. There’s another incredible bang from below. We grab our weapons.
‘Support him,’ shouts H, pointing to the other turret. We can hear the first smack of rounds against the wall as we run across to reach the PK, which is chattering deafeningly.
From the slit we look down to the open space in front of the fort, which a minute ago was so peaceful. It’s a chaos of debris, flames and scattered bodies. The PK is firing bursts into the trucks, from which men are tumbling onto the ground and staggering across the dust.
We know our task, and shoot into the nameless shapes until they are still. Cordite-laden smoke surrounds us. Sher Del fires a third RPG, and a thin grey plume streaks down towards a truck attempting to withdraw, exploding with a bright orange burst against the tailgate. The engines of the other three are screaming and their wheels throwing up dust as they lurch frantically towards the track. Bodies are spilling from the flat ground and finding cover among the crags beyond, from which their return fire now begins, struggling to find its mark.
There’s a loud crack as a burst from below hits the turret and a cloud of disintegrating mud erupts behind the Afghan who’s firing the PK. He leaps sideways and I grab him to stop him falling into the courtyard. He rubs grit and blood from the side of his face and returns to the weapon, muttering thanks to Mushgil Gusha, one of the Afghan names for God, before lowering his eye to the sights again and hunting for movement below.
I hear H call to us and run over to him. He points out the pockets of men making their way from our front