Free Hot Blood by Stephen Leather

a hand over his mouth and seized the hood of his parka with the other. Between them, they hauled him towards Armstrong at the van’s door.
    Shortt scrambled in, pulling Basharat after him. Shepherd’s hand slipped from the man’s mouth, but before he could shout, Shortt slammed him on to the floor and put a hand round his throat.
    Shepherd and Armstrong piled in and Shepherd pulled the door shut as O’Brien drove off.
    Shortt took his hand off Basharat’s throat.
    ‘Who the hell are you?’ the Arab hissed.
    ‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Armstrong, shoving the barrel of his gun under the captive’s chin.
    ‘Are you Israelis?’ he asked. ‘If so, there’s been some sort of mistake. I’m just a journalist.’
    Armstrong put his masked face close to the Arab’s. ‘If you say one more thing, I’ll smash your fucking teeth with the butt of this gun. Understand?’
    The man nodded.
    Shortt picked up a roll of electrical tape and used it to bind Basharat’s wrists together behind his back. Then Shepherd pulled a sack over his head. ‘Breathe slowly and you’ll be all right,’ he said. There was no sound from the Arab. ‘Nod if you understand,’ he added. The sack moved up and down.
    O’Brien drove south out of London, heading to a farm in Surrey that the Major had cased that morning. It had been put up for auction after the death of its owner. The livestock had gone and the house was empty. The nearest neighbour was half a mile away, a cottage occupied by an old lady and her six cats.
    Following the Major’s directions, O’Brien turned off the main road, drove through two villages then down a rutted track. He switched off the van’s lights and slowed while his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. They passed an auctioneer’s sign, then a smaller one that gave the farm’s name. O’Brien brought the van to a standstill: there was a barred metal gate across the track and the Major got out to open it.
    The farmhouse was a two-storey building with a line of outhouses jutting from the right-hand side. There was a large corrugated metal barn and, lined up in front of it, a range of agricultural equipment, including a tractor and several ploughs. O’Brien parked in front of the barn. ‘Get him out,’ said the Major.
    Shortt opened the van’s rear doors. Armstrong and Shepherd seized an arm each and dragged Basharat out. It had started to rain and the Arab slipped on the wet grass as they frogmarched him towards the barn. Shortt hurried ahead and pulled open the wooden door for Armstrong and Shepherd to haul Basharat inside. Shepherd wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of pigs. Shortt switched on a flashlight and played the beam around the interior. There were metal pens to the right and storage bins to the left. Fluorescent lights hung from rafters that ran the length of the barn.
    ‘Down on the floor,’ hissed Armstrong. When Basharat hesitated, Armstrong kicked his legs from under him and the Arab fell. He landed heavily, his shoulder and head slamming against concrete.
    The Major helped Shortt to shut the door, then pulled out his own flashlight. He motioned for Shortt to put his ski mask back on, then pointed at Shepherd and signalled for him to remove Basharat’s hood.
    Shepherd did so and Basharat coughed, then tried to sit up but Armstrong planted a foot on his chest and forced him back to the floor. The Major stood by the door, his arms folded.
    Armstrong glared at Basharat. ‘We’re going to ask you some questions,’ he said. ‘Tell us what we want to know and you’ll be free to go.’ He pointed his gun at the Arab’s head. ‘If you don’t tell us what we want to know, you’ll die in this place. You’ll die and we’ll bury you in a field and no one will ever find your body.’
    ‘I’m a journalist,’ said Basharat. ‘I’m just a journalist.’
    ‘The videos of the hostages in Iraq – where do they come from?’
    ‘What?’ Basharat frowned.
    Shortt stepped forward and kicked him