Juggernaut

Soldiers jumped from the Suburban. Irregulars. Mercenaries. They each wore gas masks. They threw smoke grenades and enveloped the vehicle in purple smog.

Ali shook Najjar. His friend was out cold, head on the dash.

Ali reached for his radio. He fumbled and dropped it into the foot well. He kicked at the side door. It was jammed.

He unholstered his pistol. He climbed into the passenger compartment. He fell into the narrow aisle between the prisoners.

He shouted to the guards at the rear of the van.

‘Are you all right?’

Farm boys with rifles. They were uninjured, but sat stupefied with shock.

A baton round punched through a side window and bounced to the floor, jetting CS. Ali snatched up the canister and threw it back out the window.

A second baton round. Ali threw down his jacket and tried to smother the gas plume. His eyes streamed tears. He drooled snot.

He kicked open the rear doors. They tumbled into the road. More purple smoke.

Ali knelt and squinted through tears. Figures in the smoke. Pig-snout gas masks looming out of purple haze like monstrous, hybrid creatures.

He choked. He vomited. He raised his pistol and fired blind. The weapon was snatched from his hand. A punch to the jaw put him on his back.

He was dragged to the kerb. His hands were cuffed behind his back with plastic tuff-ties.

He spat. He blinked away tears. The street was deserted. The locals had fled inside and locked their doors. He could see the soldiers at work inside the van. They cut the prisoners loose. They bit through ankle chain with bolt cutters. They dragged hooded prisoners from the van.

The big guy made a run for it. He sprinted down the street, hands still chained behind his back.

One of the mercs, a tall man with hair tied in a ponytail, casually shouldered a pump action shotgun. He took aim and blew off the prisoner’s foot. The injured man collapsed and lay screaming.

They lined the prisoners along the kerb and pulled off their hoods. Terrified men blinked at sudden sunlight.

A merc walked the line and checked faces. Short and slight. A woman. Her comrades deferred to her, like she was boss.

Her voice muffled by a gas mask:

‘Him.’

They unshackled Jabril and dragged him to the Suburban. They drove away.

Ali sat by the side of the road, dumb with shock. The street was still fogged with purple vapour. He could hear sirens get closer.

Najjar climbed through the shattered windshield. He fell into the street.

‘Hey,’ shouted Ali. ‘Over here.’

Najjar got up. His head was bleeding. He walked to the kerb, opened a penknife and cut Ali free.

He fetched a discarded AK from the back of the van. He checked it was loaded. He handed it to one of the boys.

‘Finish it, before we have company.’

The kid looked down at the assault rifle in his hand, and the prisoners sat at the kerb. The convicts sobbed and begged for mercy.

‘They are trash,’ advised Najjar. ‘Worse than dogs. You know what has to be done.’

The kid shouldered the rifle, closed his eyes and opened fire.

The Suburban sped down the expressway. They left Baghdad. Lucy and her crew peeled off gas masks. They opened the windows and cranked up Cypress Hill.

Voss drove the 4x4. Lucy sat on the back seat with Jabril, released his shackles with a universal key. She told him to hold his head back while she flushed his eyes with mineral water.

‘Thank you,’ said Jabril. ‘You saved my life.’

Lucy tapped his forehead with the muzzle of her pistol.

‘You’re not free yet, Jabril. Consider this parole.’

Into the Desert

Two choppers flew out of a golden dawn.

Raphael flew Talon. The webbed bench seats had been removed. The cargo compartment was stacked with equipment. The payload was draped with tarp, lashed with rope.

Gaunt flew Bad Moon. Lucy and her team were strapped in the rear.

They watched sunrise over Baghdad. Traders heading to market, skirting acres of airstrike rubble. Horse carts, wheeled fruit stalls, painted trucks. The morning haze would soon burn off and be replaced by a brilliant blue sky.

‘Got to make the journey before the noonday heat,’ said Gaunt. ‘Hotter the air, the lower our lift. We’ll burn a heck of a lot more fuel.’

The metal-planked floor of the Huey was lagged with sandbags. Coalition choppers regularly took AK hits as they flew downtown. Crew listened for the tick of bullets striking the airframe. Sometimes RPGs streaked from rooftops, militia hoping to knock out a tail rotor. Most Blackhawks were reinforced with Kevlar. Pilots knew to fly high, fly fast, vary their route. Gaunt had to improvise.

They passed the city limits. Cinder-block dwellings and tin-roof shanties replaced by scrubland.

Lucy breathed slow and steady, tried to get her heart rate under control. Adrenalin rush. ‘Don’t worry,’ Jabril had assured her. ‘It will be a short trip. You won’t see another living soul.’

She checked the 40mm grenade launcher bolted to the barrel-rail of her assault rifle, made sure it was locked tight.