Later, Mac would be the first to admit he’d spoken too soon, but in that moment he’d been overwhelmed with a huge sense of relief. They were out of the field of fire, one man down, one man injured, and most importantly they’d freed Bakker.
As they jogged down the hill to the waiting vehicles, Mac was able to get his wind back. In the distance, he could hear the approaching rumble of the GAZ-66 as it, and the Hilux carrying the machine-gun teams, came to join them. They’d effectively taken out the enemy in the form of the Dushkas. He’d riddled Jamali’s car with rounds, so maybe the bastard was dead. Sure, his knee was killing him, and his collarbone felt freshly broken, but they’d done what they’d set out to do.
‘Mac, Mac…’ It was Baz, shouting at him from the open passenger window of the ancient Soviet truck.
The driver stopped for a moment, and he jumped up and squashed onto the seat beside her. She clambered onto his lap, so they could close the door.
‘Jesus, thank God you’re okay,’ she breathed against his neck. ‘I was terrified when things kicked off.’
‘So was I,’ said Mac, giving her a hug. It was no lie. This might have been just a normal day at the office for Logan, but Mac’s previous job had been a detective inspector in the Met. He’d never been a soldier.
Mac watched as Ginger was hoisted onto the back of one of the SUVs by a militiaman. Logan lowered Bakker down next to Ginger and Mac heard his grunt of relief as the weight came off his shoulders.
They reached the spot where the Hiluxes and the Surf were parked a few moments later. They quickly rearranged themselves into the various vehicles, and within minutes they were heading out down the wadi.
With Tirich driving the Surf, Logan was able to confer with Beroj in the GAZ-66 over the best route back. Beroj favoured taking the most direct route through the desert to the Helmand Valley, where they would be able to pick up the road north. This was undoubtedly the quickest way back to Lash, but Logan suggested spending more time driving north through the desert, parallel to the river valley, and intersecting with the road at a later point. It wouldn’t be a fast route but, he argued, they were less likely to be ambushed this way. But it was called the Dasht-e Margo, or Desert of Death, for a reason… As the two men hashed it out in Pashto, Mac turned his attention to Bakker, who was sitting between him and Baz on the back seat.
The Dutchman was in a bad way. Although they’d hurriedly given him some clean sweats to wear, he still smelt appalling. He was confused and frightened, and when they dressed him Mac had seen a multitude of welts across his back and bruises on his torso.
Baz gently touched Bakker’s left hand. ‘Look,’ she said quietly to Mac.
He glanced down and saw that all four fingers were twisted. It was clear to him that Bakker had been severely tortured while captive.
Baz gave Bakker water and some painkillers. She offered him bread and fruit, but he didn’t seem to have an appetite. He sat between them, staring straight ahead, with little interest in where they were going or in any conversation. He looked like he needed to sleep, but at the same time he appeared hyper – picking at the hem of his sweatshirt with his uninjured hand, his foot constantly kicking against the back of Tirich’s seat. This earned him a dirty look from the driver, to which he was entirely oblivious.
Baz caught Mac’s eye. ‘Didn’t you find some meds in Bakker’s room?’ she said in a low voice. But it was all right, Bakker wasn’t the least bit interested in what they were saying.
‘Sure,’ said Mac.
‘What were they?’
Mac shrugged.
Logan turned back in his seat. ‘I think they were antidepressants.’
Baz nodded, looking at Bakker. ‘Makes sense.’
If he had been without his meds for a couple of weeks, as well as being tortured and constantly in fear of his life… Mac didn’t like to think about what must be going on inside his skull right now.
It was daylight by the time they emerged from the wadi. Ahead of them lay an exposed plateau of sand and stone, stretching as far as the eye could see. Someone had once said to him that Helmand felt like the edge of the world, and the bloke hadn’t been wrong. To Mac, right now, it seemed like they could be traversing the surface of Mars.
It was already ferociously hot, but Logan wouldn’t allow the vehicle’s air-conditioning to be switched on, as it used too much fuel. They had all the windows open, but it hardly helped – the blasts of hot air did nothing to cool them down. Out of the wadi, they were able to pick up speed, and once more drove in an arrowhead formation. There was plenty of space to swerve around rocks, so they didn’t have to stop and move them, but the faster pace made for a bumpier ride, and Mac had to clamp his jaws shut to stop his teeth jarring against each other. It seemed like Logan had won the argument and they were heading far out into the desert to avoid trouble on the journey back.
Exhausted, ears still ringing, with the night’s sweat dried on his body, he leaned against the window pillar, letting the hot air sandblast his face, too tired to move. It all seemed surreal – Bahram Chah with its crazy opium market, the firefight at the marble quarry, and Tomas Bakker, practically returned from the dead, sitting between them too zombied out to tell his story.
‘You couldn’t have dreamed it, could you?’ he said, looking across at Baz. But she was asleep.
‘Shhhhh,’ hissed Logan, twisting in his seat to look behind them.
Mac did the same and picked up the sound of an engine – the high-pitched whine of a Hando. More than one. Far in the distance, like black specks shimmering in a desert mirage, vehicles were coming after them. Only it wasn’t a mirage, because Mac could hear them. More now, the deeper, throatier roar of technicals, adding a bass line to the Hando’s whine.
‘Fuck!’ said Logan. He grabbed the radio and started barking instructions to the other vehicles.
Mac continued staring out of the rear window. The desert armada seemed to be gaining ground on them, and he could see SUVs bristling with gun-toting bandits, motorbikes with armed pillion riders, and windblown men clutching onto Dushkas on the back of technicals as if they were surfing the sea of sand.
Baz, wide awake now, dug her camera out of the bag at her feet.
‘Fuck’s sake, get down,’ said Mac.
‘Must be Jamali’s army,’ said Logan. ‘Coming for vengeance.’
On hearing Jamali’s name, Bakker’s head snapped up. He looked round. ‘Don’t let them come for me,’ he said, his voice laced with panic. He abruptly unsnapped his seatbelt and started to clamber across Baz to open the car door.
‘No!’ screeched Baz, trying to push him back to the centre of the seat.
Mac grabbed hold of his arm and hauled him back. The man had taken leave of his senses. He struggled to pull Bakker’s seatbelt back into place. ‘Baz, can you reach behind for the trauma pack? Let’s get him sedated.’ Using his weight to keep Bakker under control, he addressed Logan.
‘Plan?’
Logan was scanning the landscape ahead of them.
‘We’ll head for those rocks,’ he said, pointing to an oxide-coloured outcrop about five hundred metres to the north-west. He gave Tirich instructions and the Surf swerved to the left. The other vehicles in the formation quickly discerned their destination and also changed direction. ‘We’ll take a stand. We should be able to wipe a lot of them out using the ZU before they get up close.’
It was then that the first RPG came in. It landed wide of the mark, exploding beyond their flank with a loud crack, sending a cascade of sand and stones into the air.
‘Jeez,’ said Baz, still rifling through the trauma pack for a sedative for Bakker.
Mac watched the militiamen on the back of the GAZ-66 and the PKM teams struggling to prepare their weapons to return fire as they were jolted up and down on the bumpy ground. There would be no chance of accuracy, but hopefully it would be enough of a deterrent to stop their pursuers coming too close. With the ability to fire four hundred rounds per minute, the ZU could sweep anyone coming up behind with a deadly arc.
More RPGs were crashing in around them, but they only needed to clear a short expanse of open ground before they’d be afforded cover by the looming rock formation ahead. Their PKMs were returning fire, and Mac could see that some of the motorbikes that had led the pursuit were now hanging back slightly, hoping to stay out of range. Not a bloody chance of that once the ZU let rip.
The air was rent with the sound of gunfire, and small stones thrown up by the grenades landing all around them were raining down on the Surf’s roof like hail. Triumphant at last, Baz held up a syringe, then plunged the needle into Bakker’s arm, straight through the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Bakker yelped with pain, his head turning towards Baz, but by then she’d whipped the syringe away and dropped it on the floor.
‘It’s okay, Tomas,’ she said. ‘We’ll keep you safe.’
The Surf took a sharp turn to get behind the cover of the rocks, its back wheels skidding out, brakes screeching. Tirich managed to remain in control and as he straightened up, he revved the engine hard to take them out of danger. The GAZ-66 couldn’t take the corner quite so sharply or so fast – it had to brake, causing the Hilux coming up behind it to slam its brakes on too. It was an ill-timed move. A grenade that wouldn’t otherwise have made the mark smashed into the back of it, exploding its fuel tank along with several jerrycans of extra petrol. A huge fireball shot up into the air, turning into toxic black smoke before the sound had even died away.
‘No!’ shouted Mac. It was the car that Ginger was in.
The back of the vehicle was an inferno. At the front, both doors opened. Two militiamen, faces burned and hair singed black, scrabbled out of the driver’s side, collapsing on the ground as they choked on the fumes. Mac craned his neck to see what was happening on the passenger side, but he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t wait either. He snapped off his seatbelt, grabbed his AK, jumped out and ran across the open ground, taking a dive to reach the cover of the burning vehicle.
It was an idiotic thing to do given the firepower raining down on them, he knew that, but he wasn’t going to give up on Ginger. Not yet. Idiotic maybe, but he was right to have done it. Ginger was half slumped out of the passenger side of the Hilux. Black smoke was pouring out of the driving compartment above him and he was semi-conscious, struggling to breathe. Mac slung his AK round to the back and dragged Ginger onto the ground. His hair and eyebrows were completely burned off, and all his clothing was singed. His hands were badly burned and his face was mottled red and black – blood and soot. But he was very much alive.
‘Ah, fuckin’ hell,’ he said, breaking into an uncontrollable coughing fit as Mac grabbed him under both arms.
‘Come on, mate, I’m not leaving you here.’
Mac looked back at the rock formation. It was just fifteen metres away, but that fifteen metres was in full range of enemy fire.
Logan was standing at the edge of the rock, firing furiously, picking off one of the pillion riders. The GAZ was reversing to bring the ZU into a firing position. Logan stopped shooting and put up a hand to Mac, then pointed at the huge machine gun. Mac knew what he was saying: wait for cover. He waited, recovering his breath, hoping it wouldn’t be too long. He looked down at Ginger. The coughing had subsided and he was unconscious.
Fuck.
Suddenly, the deafening roar of the ZU broke out. Mac peered around the side of the burning Hilux. Beroj Kaliq was raining down death, chaos and confusion on his uncle’s enemies. Three Handos went down in quick succession. A technical veered from its path, its driver now just a red smear on the smashed-in windscreen. Two SUVs collided as they lost control.
Now was his chance to run. He took a deep breath, and with an unspoken apology to Ginger for what he was about to do, he dragged his friend roughly over the stony ground until they gained the cover of the rock formation. Baz ran over to them with the trauma pack, blanching as she took in the extent of Ginger’s burns. Mac laid him down as gently as he could, then straightened up. He couldn’t stick around to help – an image had burned itself onto his retina.
As one of the enemy SUVs had rolled and exploded, a dark figure had emerged with an AK47 raised against his shoulder.
Akhtar Jamali.
But he’s dead, screamed Mac’s mind. He was certain he’d killed him in the Mercedes at the marble quarry.
He ran back to the edge of the rocks and peered round. Akhtar Jamali wasn’t dead. He was running from vehicle to vehicle, coming towards them, and some malevolent guardian angel seemed to be protecting him from harm.
‘Today your luck runs out, buster!’
‘What?’ said Logan, coming up behind him.
‘Just a small mopping up job,’ said Mac, ‘before we’re done.’
He raised his AK and stepped out from behind the cover of the rock, firing the moment he got a line on Jamali’s advancing figure. Bullets pinged off the rock face and whistled past Mac’s head as the enraged narco baron got closer.
Like the fucking Terminator!
But Jamali was mere flesh and blood after all, and as Mac raked him with fire, his body danced like a puppet, then dropped.
‘Job fucking done,’ said Mac, lowering his weapon. ‘Job fucking done.’