Free Dictator by Tom Cain Page A

position?’
    ‘We’re by the football pitch, as planned. Did you see the explosion just now?’
    ‘Nah man, there is still a ridge of hills between us and you. It’ll be a couple of minutes before we can establish visual contact.’
    ‘OK, well, when you get over the hills, you should see the fire from Justus’s van.’
    Morrison’s laughter, filled with the savage glee coursing through him at the promise of combat, cackled in Carver’s earpiece. ‘What? You fucked up his precious Kombi? Ah shit, that must be one unhappy munt.’
    ‘He’s fine. So’s the girl. Now listen, there’s a cluster of small buildings approximately one hundred and twenty metres northeast of the burning van. That’s where we are. The closer you can get to that the better. There’s a lighting pole by the corner of the pitch. Your pilot doesn’t want to get his disc anywhere near that. Other than that, nothing to worry about.’
    ‘Apart from all the buggers trying to kill us, you mean.’
    ‘Yeah, apart from them.’
    The helicopter wasn’t the only thing being drawn towards the fire. The men running from the village, whose numbers had swollen as news of the night’s excitement spread, picked up their pace as they followed the route of the two vehicles off the main road and down towards the warehouse. Some of them were shouting. A couple fired their guns in the air.
    The noise distracted Killaman, just as he was issuing orders to his men. He was not happy to see what was coming towards him. The last thing he needed was an ill-disciplined rabble getting in the way and complicating an operation that was already difficult enough as it was. Then he saw the silhouette of the grenade-launcher. That changed everything.
    ‘Stop!’ he shouted, bringing the village men to a halt just short of the flaming VW. He pointed at the man with the RPG. ‘You! Come here. I have special need of you.’
    The man stepped forward, a huge grin across his face, proudly carrying the weapon that had long been his pride and joy.
    ‘The rest of you form a line right across the football pitch over there. All the way across, evenly spaced.’
    Killaman motioned to Silent Death to organize them.
    ‘You will proceed at walking pace down the pitch,’ he said once the line had been formed. ‘The rest of us will follow you. You will look very carefully for any sign of the white girl and the men who took her. Do not be alarmed if one of you is shot. That will simply demonstrate that we are getting close.’
    It was a clear night with the moon almost full. Carver had Justus’s thermal-imaging binoculars slung round his neck, but he did not need them to spot the men coming down the football pitch, making progress with the sluggish inexorability of zombies.
    The building where he, Justus and Zalika were holed up consisted of one main changing room with slatted wooden benches pressed up against the walls along the longest sides. At one end, crude breezeblock partitions had been used to create a rank-smelling toilet cubicle and a shower area whose rusted shower-heads and dusty tiled floor suggested it had long been unused. There were no windows, just a simple skylight to provide illumination, with half the glass missing from its panes. The only access came from a single doorway, directly opposite the shower, accessed via a porch recessed into the building.
    Carver had left the other two inside and was now crouched in the porch. It gave him just enough cover to be able to observe what was happening out on the playing field without giving away his own position. Soon, though, the enemy would be on him.
    There was a crackle in his earpiece, followed by Morrison’s voice: ‘With you in about a minute. We have a visual on the van. Looks like you’ve got company.’
    ‘Are you armed? Can you give me any suppressing fire?’
    ‘Oh ja, don’t you worry about that.’
    Carver could hear the faint sound of the approaching chopper now. He raised the binoculars to his face