Mac’s breakfast was bread and water, brought by a different guard this time. If he was going to be here long, it was a diet that might become challenging. But at least this visit came with added benefits – a scuffed plastic bucket for him to use as a latrine. And he was even given a moment of privacy with his hands untied so he could make use of it.
He took the chance for a split-second survey of the small storeroom, now that it was light, but he couldn’t see anything useful and there wasn’t time to delve into the boxes and crates stacked up against two of the walls. The guard returned to retie his hands, in front of him this time, which meant he could at least sit up with his back leaning against the wall without crushing them.
Left on his own again, he slumped forward to rest his head on his knees. Despite a couple of hours of fitful sleep, he still felt exhausted – probably due to the pain from his injuries. His head throbbed, his shoulder burned, his lower back complained with every movement and his knee was still hugely swollen and barely mobile. He was a mess.
He closed his eyes and zoned out, wishing he was anywhere but here. Wishing he was with Baz in Dubai, or even just back in Kabul. His mind was suddenly populated with people he knew – people he’d been in the Met with, boys he’d gone to school with, folk from the village, ancient relatives – all sorts of characters he hadn’t seen in years, and now he wondered if he’d ever see any of them again. His mum and his dad. And places – from the familiar landscapes of his childhood to places he’d briefly visited and wanted to return to.
Would he ever see anywhere beyond the confines of this small room again?
Get a fucking grip.
If there was one thing Mac knew, it was that he couldn’t afford to give in to despair. He needed to channel all that emotion into anger, and then use his anger to fuel his survival. Because he was going to bloody survive this. And he was going to see all those people and places again. He wouldn’t let these fucking scumbags win.
Making a plan would distract him from obsessing about bad outcomes, and if he was to have any chance of successfully outwitting his captors, he would need a bloody good plan.
First, inventories. An inventory of his injuries, so he could form a realistic picture of what he might be able to do, and then an inventory of what was in the storeroom, in case there was anything that could prove useful.
He felt his knee gingerly with both hands, wondering how bad it was. No way of telling without an X-ray. But if he was going to get away, he needed to be able to run, and as things were, he could hardly stand and bear weight on that leg. However, he could flex the joint, albeit painfully, which suggested it wasn’t broken. That was a plus.
On the other hand, his collarbone was a nightmare. His arm should be in a sling and immobile for several weeks for it to heal properly. He didn’t have that luxury, and he could only hope that whatever happened to it over the next hours or days could be corrected later with surgery. It also meant that every movement of his body caused a sharp stiletto of pain, distracting him, making all his muscles tense up and his eyes water.
The bump on his head was the size of an egg, and tender to the touch. He was still suffering intermittent headaches, though the pain wasn’t as severe as when he was being jolted up and down in the back of the truck.
The important thing was not how much he was suffering, but what he could do to alleviate the impact these injuries would have on any opportunity he found for escape, however unlikely that might be. Some strapping for his knee could certainly make a difference. Painkillers and anti-inflammatories were a remote hope – even if his captors offered him any meds, he didn’t trust them enough to risk taking them. A sling wasn’t practical, but with his wrists bound together, he could use his right arm to support the weight of his left arm and take pressure off his left shoulder. It wouldn’t do much in terms of healing, but it was a way of minimising the pain.
He spent an hour examining the piles of boxes, crates and jerrycans.
There wasn’t much that would prove useful, but some of it was interesting and had Mac scouring the depths of his memories back to chemistry A-level and the things he’d learned since about drug refining and bomb making. His captors held a good stash of petrol in here for their vehicles, and a large quantity of the chemicals used for heroin manufacture – acetone, ammonium chloride, sodium carbonate. Some things he recognised from the labelling on the containers, others by their smell. There were plenty of other compounds that he didn’t recognise. It seemed they were running quite a cottage industry here.
In one corner, there was a basket of tar-like blocks wrapped in clingfilm. Raw opium – the dried resin from the poppy seedheads, ready for processing into heroin. For a split second, Mac considered taking some of it. He knew it could be eaten, and it would relieve him from the grinding pain in his shoulder and the throbbing in his knee. But he couldn’t afford to be fuzzy-headed, and the last thing he needed was a drug habit to contend with on top of everything else.
There were no tools in the storeroom, and nothing that he could use as strapping for his injured leg. He sat down against the wall again, feeling useless and tired. The anxiety he’d managed to tamp down by assessing his surroundings came surging back, and despite the build-up of heat in the room, he shivered.
He couldn’t just sit here and passively wait for whatever was going to happen. He still needed to devise a plan. Escape seemed unlikely, so maybe he should try and parlay with his captors. If he could make them believe that his employers would pay a high ransom to have him back, perhaps he could persuade them to take him back to Lashkar Gah. Trouble was, that idea wouldn’t work – because when they arrived at Lash, there would be no grateful boss waiting with a suitcase of dollars. At which point he’d probably be paid off with a bullet.
With his watch and phone missing – probably currently residing in pakul and keffiyeh’s pockets – Mac tracked the passing of time by watching a small square of sunlight move across the wall opposite the window. He’d quickly dismissed the high window as an escape route. There was no way he would be able to squeeze through it, which was maybe why his captors had chosen to incarcerate him in here. But it was a window to the outside, and through it he might be able to see some of what was going on in the compound. He’d counted seven men, including White Beard and Black Beard, when he’d arrived the previous day, but he couldn’t be sure that was the total number. He needed a more accurate head count.
It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to push a large wooden crate from the other side of the room to the wall beneath the window. His ankles were still bound, so he could barely shuffle, and pressing against the wood, even with his right shoulder, was agonisingly painful for his collarbone. Furthermore, he only dared to edge the crate across the rough floor a little at a time – he couldn’t afford for anyone outside to hear what he was up to. After each push, moving it a few inches, he would sink down against it, panting, until he got his breath back and the stab of pain in his shoulder receded.
Once the crate was in place, Mac faced the challenge of climbing up onto it with his feet tied together. He started by sitting on top of it, then bent his knees to draw his feet up. His injured leg complained, making him grit his teeth. Mustering all his willpower, he twisted his hips so he could push his feet round to the side, shuffling his arse to the edge of the crate to give himself space to transfer his weight onto his knees. It was more difficult than he had thought, and his right knee was almost too swollen to bend under him. He grunted with pain, then bit his lip hard to stifle it.
His already filthy shirt was now drenched with sweat from the exertion, and for a moment he felt light-headed. Kneeling up, using his forearms to steady himself against the wall, he was finally able to raise his face to the window.
He was looking straight into the sun, and it blinded him. He blinked and looked away, realising that this meant it was lower in the sky than at midday – so, late afternoon.
Time flies when you’re having fun.
When his eyes got used to the glare, he looked out at the section of the compound the window overlooked. It wasn’t much of a view. He could see the back wall of the main house, and just to one side of it he could see two of the heroin factory firepits. The kid he’d seen before was at work again, stirring the contents of the oil drums, mesmerised by what he was doing in a way that suggested, despite masking his face, he was breathing in too much of the drug-laden fumes. Dope Boy – that would be his nickname.
The sound of a car engine caught Mac’s attention, but he couldn’t see the vehicle in question. It revved a couple of times. Then there was the crunch of tyres on gravel. Someone was going somewhere. He listened for the opening of the gates, but couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the engine. However, once that noise became more distant, he heard the gates slam shut behind it. Now, there was at least one person less in the compound. Maybe more.
Footsteps were approaching from the front of the house.
He sunk back down onto the crate. He didn’t want to get caught looking out of the window, in case that led to his captors blocking it off. He dropped to the floor, causing a spike of pain to travel from his knee to his hip, and as quietly as he could he shoved the crate away from its position under the window.
The door opened. The guard who’d brought his breakfast stared at him from the threshold. Mac was sitting on the floor with his back against the shifted crate. He looked up. The man looked barely seventeen years old, his requisite beard just bumfluff and his face unlined, but he held his pistol casually, with a confidence born of familiarity. He could have been an insurgent for a couple of years already. Pistol Boy. In his other hand, he held a bottle of water and a piece of folded bread.
Mac held out his bound hands.
‘Untie me.’
Pistol Boy looked at him blankly, until Mac shook his wrists and motioned an attempt to pull his hands apart.
The lad said something in Pashto, put the water and naan down on top of the crate and shoved his pistol into the pocket of the woollen waistcoat he wore over his shalwar kameez. He undid the rope tied around Mac’s wrists.
‘You speak English?’
No answer.
Mac pointed at the bucket in the corner to convey that he wanted some privacy. Rather than leaving the room, the boy simply shrugged and turned sideways. He got out his weapon again and made a show of passing it from hand to hand, reminding Mac of what might happen if he tried anything. It was pure bravado – the kid was anything but alert.
Good.
Mac stood up with difficulty and took a leak. He couldn’t see a way of leveraging any advantage out of this encounter, so when he’d finished, he picked up the naan and water and sat back down against the crate.
The water tasted stale, and the bread had no flavour at all. Pistol Boy watched him with a look of impatience. Mac wondered how many hostages he’d had charge of. Bakker maybe? He wondered if it was possible the Dutchman was being held in the same compound. Mac drew out the meal for as long as he could, just for the sake of having his hands free, but after a few minutes his guard started shuffling and tutting.
Mac’s temper flared.
‘Fuck you!’ he said, sprinkling crumbs down his front as he spat out the words. ‘I need someone who speaks English. I need to wash. I need clean clothes.’ He pulled the collar of his shirt to one side to show the bruising on his upper chest. ‘I need a doctor and medicine.’
Pistol Boy stared at him blankly.
‘Fuck you!’ he said again.
The pistol butt hit him across the side of the head, smashing him to the floor in an explosion of stars and static. Mac gasped like a fish landed in the bottom of a boat.
Pistol Boy might not have understood much English, but apparently he knew what ‘fuck you’ meant.