The Becket Approval by Falconer Duncan (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

turned to look directly at Gunnymede. It was Saleem. Their eyes met above Gunnymede’s rifle barrel.

A thunderous explosion wiped out the Hilux in a massive fireball. The Cruiser was next. Everyone ran for their very lives.

There was no cover in any direction. Just sand. Distance was Gunnymede’s only hope. The vehicle was the bomb magnet. The further he could run from it the greater his chance of survival. Every metre counted. But each pace felt like slow motion. As if he was running through molasses. He pulled his knees up and slammed his toes down, one step after the other, thrusting as hard as he could. But it all seemed too damned slow.

The missile struck the Cruiser, penetrating the roof and detonating inside. The explosion ripped it apart like paper, sending it somersaulting into the air in a fireball. The shockwave followed, radiating in a widening circle towards the fleeing men.

The tip of the wave caught Gunnymede and flicked him up off the ground like an insect. He somersaulted several times before landing hard, bouncing and rolling until he came to a stop. Shrapnel zinged past, ricocheting off the ground around him. Debris followed, landing in chunks.

He lay on his back, breathing hard. He wondered how badly he was hurt. He couldn’t be certain his head was still attached to his body. He felt no pain. Just disconnected from life and hanging by a thread of consciousness. He could see the stars. Not clearly. A blur. His eyes blinked against the flecks of sand blowing into them. And then, as if a dimmer switch to his mind was slowly turned down, everything darkened. The last thing was a high-pitched ringing in his ears before it all went dark.

Neve got to her feet, horrified as the screen flashed where the Land Cruiser had been, figures moving away from it in different directions. When the screen recovered from the burst of light there were heat signatures dotted around the large one which was the cruiser. It was impossible to say which was Gunnymede. One thing they all had in common. None was moving.

 

 

Chapter 6

Gunnymede jolted back to consciousness as hands harshly gripped the length of his body. He was being carried. His bearers were in a hurry. Laboured breathing came from above as he was ferried over rugged terrain. A leg was dropped, his heel dragging along the ground before being picked up. He tried to open his eyes but the sun directly above was too bright. His body felt like a lifeless hulk attached to his brain. His backside hit a bump as they went up a rise. A voice barked in Arabic and Gunnymede was jolted higher, the voice as urgent as the pace.

The sun disappeared as they went into shadow. He could see the faces of those carrying him. Dark-skinned, bearded males. Children amongst them were trying to help. The men shuffled along, out of breath but undeterred. Intermittent structures broke up the light. Mud walls. Corrugated metal roofs. Reed fences. It suddenly went much darker and cooler as he was taken inside and lowered onto a rug on the earth floor.

The men stood back and watched him. A soft word was spoken here and there as they waited. Gunnymede fought against his weakness and struggled to lean onto an elbow. He squeezed his eyes, trying to get them to focus. They began to improve. About half a dozen men were standing inside the small hut. Arabs. Villagers. Poor, grubby, emaciated people. Curious children squeezed between their legs to look at the stranger. An elder shooed them out.

The men’s demeanour conveyed concern as well as curiosity. Gunnymede could also sense their fear. He took a moment to gather himself. To think. He put himself in Syria, on the operation. The drone. Dubai. The Daesh vehicles. The helicopter flight and drop off. Saleem. The air attack.

The pieces fell into place.

He went through the events that led to the attack. Remembered running before the Land Cruiser exploded. ‘Granger,’ he said out loud.

Gunnymede looked around, behind the men’s legs, hoping to see his partner. ‘Where …?’ he started to ask, but his throat was dry and he struggled to release the words. He swallowed and tried again. ‘Where’s my friend?’ he began again, his voice croaky.

The men simply looked at him. One made a sign to another who went to a corner, filled a mug with water from a plastic container and held it in front of Gunnymede. He gripped the mug in trembling hands and took several gulps.

He lay back, drained by the effort although he could feel life coursing through him. His concern for Granger remained. If they’d gone to all the trouble of bringing him to their village, they would’ve most likely done the same for Granger. That didn’t mean the man was dead of course. Maybe he was on his way with another group. Maybe he was somewhere else.

Gunnymede pushed himself onto an elbow again and another effort sat him up. He shuffled back so that he could lean against the mud wall.

He looked around for his gear. His pack. Rifle. Webbing. No sign of any of it. His hands snapped to his shoulder holster to discover his pistol still in it.

He had to find Granger. He couldn’t lie there a moment longer.

With a supreme effort, he rolled onto his knees, an action that alarmed the men. The elder urged him to stay down. Gunnymede ignored him and, using the wall, rose unsteadily to his feet. The old man kept talking as if trying to reason with him.

Gunnymede made hand gestures aimed at easing his concerns. ‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘Ana bikhayr.’

He leaned back against the wall, letting it take his weight while he checked his pockets, taking an inventory. He pulled his satellite phone from a thigh pocket. A piece fell