Free Masters of War by Chris Ryan Page B

closer to the Land Rover.
    With one hand he felt for the clackers. The militant closest to the vehicle was two metres from it. The furthest about seven, and getting nearer.
    Just a little closer , Danny thought.
    Five metres.
    They were bunched up.
    One of them pushed another in the chest. They were definitely arguing. No point waiting for the row to split them up. If he could take out all five in one hit, the rest of the job would be a lot more straightforward.
    He squeezed the clackers.
    The sound of the Claymores erupting echoed across the desert. The Land Rover exploded and a flurry of body parts showered around it, but Danny had already panned his scope to the right. It took just a few seconds for him to see three hunched silhouettes, about thirty metres from the edge of the village, sprinting towards it now that the signal to advance – the detonation of the Claymores – had been given. Danny got to his feet, flicked the selector switch of his M4 to automatic and sprinted towards the village to join his mates.
    They had to move fast. As soon as the militants realised they were under attack, the hostages would be in even greater danger than they were already. When he was twenty-five metres from the main building, Danny saw a figure at the entrance. He raised his weapon and lined up the scope. AK-47. Bandolier. Danny lined the weapon up with the militant’s chest and squeezed a short burst. The target hit the ground and Danny picked up pace again.
    He reached the building ten seconds later. Boydie was waiting for him, standing to the right of the entrance, his back against the wall, a flashbang in his hand. Danny took up position on the opposite side of the open door and held up three fingers.
    Two.
    One.
    Boydie threw the flashbang into the building. Danny steeled himself for the explosion. It came within a split second – a burst of light and a deafening crack that would disorientate anybody in there. Boydie entered first, NV in place, weapon engaged. Danny did the same.
    The building comprised a single room some ten metres by fifteen. Beds along one side, otherwise empty of furniture. It was full of smoke from the flashbang, but through his NV Danny counted three militants, all of them crouched on the ground, hands over their ears. They were in a neat little row, three metres apart and about eight metres from Danny’s position. ‘Go left!’ Boydie shouted, and Danny knew what he meant. He directed his weapon at the crouching figure on the left and delivered a second burst of fire. The figure shuddered with the impact of the rounds, then fell still. Boydie had gone right, nailing a second militant just as quickly. Which left only one.
    Boydie strode towards him, his weapon aimed directly at his head.
    ‘ Kam antun? ’ he asked. How many men are you?
    The militant didn’t answer. There was a harsh, arrogant look on his face.
    ‘ Kam antun? ’
    Still no reply.
    Danny loosened the ivory-handled knife in his belt.
    A man always has need of a good knife, kiddo.
    He strode towards the militant, whose attention was all on Boydie, and grabbed his right hand. With a sudden, brutal thrust, he slammed the exquisitely sharp point of the knife between the tendons that led to the man’s third and fourth fingers. At first the militant only gasped. When Danny twisted the knife forty-five degrees, hitting the nerve endings, the man screamed.
    ‘ Kam antun ? ’ Danny hissed.
    ‘ Hamastash . . . ’ the man squealed. Fifteen.
    That was all they needed. Boydie fired a single shot into the militant’s head and he slumped to the floor. Then he turned to Danny, saying, ‘Those MREs did their job. Quite the fucking psycho tonight, aren’t we?’
    ‘We didn’t seem to be getting very far. That’s eight men down by my count.’
    Boydie spoke over the radio. ‘Seven men still standing,’ he reported to Tommo and Five Bellies.
    From outside the building came four more bursts of fire. ‘Make that three,’ Tommo