Logan went over the top first. Mac followed approximately six metres behind him, then the militiamen, with Ginger bringing up the rear – all spaced out, single file, walking slowly, slowly to minimise the noise of their footfall. The initial objective was one of the tumbledown stables they’d seen from the top of the hill. This would put them in a good position in front of the quarry compound, facing the gate, with approximately fifty metres of empty ground to cover. As each of them arrived, they squatted down behind the low mud walls. Logan tasked one of the militiamen to remain inside the structure to give covering fire if they needed it.
Step one accomplished.
They waited, listening. All quiet.
Another hand gesture took them forward again. Next objective – the compound gate. It wasn’t locked. Jamali’s car had left a short while before, and with the typical arrogance of a lot of men with a lot of weaponry, security seemed slack. After all, there was no one for miles around who didn’t already work for Jamali or was in his pay in one way or another. Bahram Chah was the beating heart of his opium empire, and no one would be foolish enough to take him on down here.
Except for them.
Mac cleared his mind of doubts, buttoning down his anxiety and just taking the buzz of energy the action provided. He was ready.
Logan slipped through the gate ahead of him, a length of piano wire looped in his fist. Mac listened. There was a scuffle, a stifled gasp. The slump of a body onto the ground. Mac stepped into the compound courtyard and squatted down over the garrotted guard to help himself to the spoils – a couple of magazines for the AK that lay by his side. Mac didn’t bother to pick up the weapon, as he wouldn’t be able to fire one effectively if he was carrying two. But Logan stooped down for it and slung it round his back, giving Mac a look. There was no point leaving a weapon for the enemy.
As the last two men came through the gate, Logan used hand signals to direct one of them to take defensive positions that would secure their way out. The last thing they needed was to lose access to the gate once they had Bakker.
Mac shuddered. Sure, it had been easy to get in… but now the hard part.
He, Logan, Ginger and the remaining militiaman moved quickly towards the small mud-built hut to which the guard had delivered food and water earlier. There was no guard here, but the rough wooden door was secured with a hefty padlock and chain. They formed a stack along the wall, and Logan gestured the militiaman forward. The man released a pair of bolt cutters that was slung over his back, and seconds later he caught the chain so it didn’t rattle as it fell to the ground.
Logan eased the door open cautiously and Mac went through, pistol raised. There was no light inside and he quickly put a hand up to snap on the head torch he was wearing. Logan and Ginger followed him in and did likewise, and the three beams illuminated a hellish discovery.
The small room was almost completely taken up by a roughly constructed cage made of steel reinforcing bars welded together. It looked home-made. In one corner, there was something that looked like a pile of rags. Until it moved. Then whimpered.
Mac wanted to gag, so strong was the stench of human excrement.
‘Fuck me!’ said Ginger.
Mac had never laid eyes on Tomas Bakker before, but it was a sure bet that he looked very different now to how he’d looked when he’d disappeared less than two weeks ago. The Dutchman was completely naked, clutching at a ragged blanket, stained with blood and shit. His hair was sparse and his scalp bloody, and even now the nervous fingers of one hand were tearing at one of the few remaining clumps. His skin was sallow, his cheeks hollow and his eyes haunted. Keeping hostages naked was just another way of breaking them down.
‘Get him out,’ said Logan, snapping them back to the reality of the moment.
Mac looked for the cage door but there was nothing. On all four sides, every joint was welded.
‘What the hell? How do we…?’ Ginger rattled the structure but it was totally solid.
Mac looked round the room, the beam of his torch swinging as he moved his head. There was nothing, no tools, no discernible way of opening the cage. He went to the door, where the guy with the bolt cutters was standing guard, his AK47 pointing straight towards the entrance of the main building in case anyone came out to see what was going on.
Mac gestured for the cutters and the man turned his back to Mac, who quickly detached them. Seconds later, he had snapped through the first row of steel bars. The tool’s compound hinge, if not making it exactly easy to cut through the tough steel, certainly got the job done. But each cut made a sharp clack, and Mac knew they had only moments before their presence was discovered. His arms ached, and his broken collarbone was screeching at him, so he passed the cutters to Logan.
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Bakker cowered at the back of the cage. He still seemed confused as the beams from the three head torches danced around the room. All he would be able to see were the lights, rather than the faces underneath them, so he probably had no idea who they were.
‘Tomas,’ said Mac, squatting down at the side of the cage where the Dutchman was cowering, ‘when we get the cage open, we’re going to take you out. You need to come with us. Do you understand?’
Bakker stared at him blankly.
‘Are you hurt at all? Can you walk?’
Still no answer. Then Bakker frowned. ‘You’re… you’re English?’
‘Yes, from Well Diggers.’
But that wasn’t the right answer – Bakker cowered even further into the corner, hiding his face in the crook of one of his arms.
On the other side of the cage, Logan and Ginger were now levering a panel of the bars outwards, trying to open up a gap large enough for Bakker to crawl through.
Outside, a shot rang out, then another. Their position had been compromised – they were going to have to fight their way out. Mac raced round to the opening in the cage as Logan and Ginger strained to bend back the remaining metal. He went in on his hands and knees and reached out for one of Bakker’s arms.
‘Come on, chum, we’re taking you home.’
Gradually Mac was able to pull the stunned man across the base of the cage. They helped him out, wrapping the stinking blanket round him as best they could, but it became immediately clear that he was too weak to walk unaided. Mac swore silently to himself. Having to half carry, half support the unresponsive Bakker was going to cost them precious seconds at every stage of the exfil. There was a battlefield stretcher in one of the Hiluxes, but a fat lot of good that would do them now.
Logan detailed off Ginger and the militiaman with the bolt cutters to take Bakker between them. He and Mac went to the door. Logan pointed a finger, indicating to Mac that he should lead the way out. Mac turned off his head torch and kept within the dark shadows of the doorway as he assessed the situation outside in the courtyard. Another of Jamali’s men lay dead on the ground, while their own men were taking cover and exchanging fire with a couple of the narco gangsters who were sheltering behind a parapet on the roof of the building.
‘Fuck, we need support from the FSG.’
Behind him, he heard Logan on the radio, alerting Beroj.
Mac calculated the odds. If they could make it across ten metres of the compound courtyard, they could find safety in the inky shadows of the surrounding wall. But then someone set off a flare, illuminating every corner of the space, even making Mac visible just inside the doorway. More shots rang out, one hitting the door frame beside him. Far too close for comfort. The militiaman at the gate tried to back out as fast as he could, but in the flash of light he froze like a startled rabbit. A long burst of fire, a truncated scream of terror, then nothing. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Logan shoved past Mac, stepping forward with his AK47 held high. He fired a long burst of tracer rounds at the roof of the building, lowering it for a second pass across the doors and windows. As if in reply to his overture, the ZU roared into life up on the ridge, spitting ordnance and chewing great chunks out of the mud structure.
Enemy fire evaporated as they reeled under the ferocious bombardment.
‘Okay, let’s go,’ yelled Mac to Ginger, lined up behind him, supporting Bakker on one side with the militiaman supporting him on the other.
Mac led them across the open ground, firing indiscriminately at the building as they ran. He motioned to the militiaman with them to hold the gate to give the rescue party time to make a start up the hill. It was going to be bloody hard going – Ginger and the militiaman were practically dragging the Dutchman, who didn’t seem to have control of his legs. But if they could get across to the small stable block unharmed, they could work out a better way of transporting him – with more men, they could use clothing to rig up a makeshift stretcher and run up the hill.
They were through the gate now, and the ZU was continuing to do its vicious job. There was no doubt the other side had taken casualties, and even as their fire picked up again, it was nothing like it had been half a minute ago.
But halfway across the fifty-metre stretch to the stable, trouble reared its ugly head once more.