Free Kill Zone (A Spider Shepherd Short Story) by Stephen Leather Page B

‘I’ve slotted more than my fair share of guys like
you.’
    The Afghan gave a
mirthless smile. ‘Tread carefully, my friend. We Afghans are a proud people. We
don’t give in to threats, nor tolerate insults to our honour.’
    ‘Leave it,
Geordie,’ said Shepherd, putting a hand on the medic’s shoulder. ‘He can’t hurt
anyone now.’ He nodded at the Captain. ‘Morning prayers are about to start,’ he
said.
    Shepherd and
Geordie walked away from the entrance as the two paratroopers stepped aside to
allow the Captain and the Afghan to enter.   They caught up with Jim ‘Jimbo’ Shortt, an SAS trooper who
had been on selection with Shepherd four years earlier.
    ‘What’s up with
Goldilocks?’ asked Jimbo as Shepherd and Geordie fell into step with him.
‘Porridge too cold?’
    ‘He’s come in
with an SEP,’ Shepherd said. ‘And because the guy speaks English, Todd thinks
he’s some sort of Deep Throat in a dishdasha.’
    Jimbo gave a
weary shake of his head. ‘Typical fucking Rupert,’ he said. ‘They always think
locals who can speak English must be trustworthy.’
    They walked up to
the HQ - a grandiose name for the mud-brick building shielded by berms and
banks of sandbags, that served as camp office, briefing room, and sleeping
quarters for the officers. They filed through the doorway and along a corridor
with a series of small, dark rooms opening off it, lit only by narrow windows
high up in the walls. There was no furniture in the rooms, just mattresses on
the floor with personal belongings kept in plastic bags hanging from nails
hammered into the walls. At the far end was a larger space, the office and
briefing room, with two trestle tables pushed together in the centre of the
room and the walls and every available surface covered with maps, documents and
surveillance photographs.
    There were
already half a dozen troopers there and the three men flopped down into empty
chairs.   Major Allan Gannon
appeared and took his place at the head of the table. He was a big man with
wide shoulders and a nose that had been broken at least twice.   The Major looked at his watch just as
Captain Todd appeared.   The Captain
nodded at the Major. ‘Sorry, Boss,’ he said.
    ‘No problem,’
said The Major.
    The Captain led
the morning prayers, giving his intelligence briefing including outlining
possible targets on satellite surveillance photographs. When he’d finished, he
folded his arms and looked at the Major. ‘I have some very interesting human
intel that I want to take advantage of,’ he said to the Major. ‘I have access
to an SEP who has just defected.   He’s on the compound as we speak. But Ahmad Khan has not only defected
himself, he has persuaded the rest of his group of twenty Taliban fighters to
surrender as well.   I need an escort.
All his fighters want is five hundred US dollars each and the guarantee of safe
conduct that your presence will provide.’
    The Major raised
his eyebrows. ‘Where has this come from?’
    ‘He walked up to
an Afghan Army patrol and gave himself up. He said he wanted to speak to the
Brits.’
    ‘And not the
Yanks?’ said The Major.
    ‘He says he
doesn’t trust the Americans.’
    ‘Is that so? And
what is he exactly? A Taliban fighter?’
    ‘He was a sniper,
but he’s been trained in explosives and IEDs.’
    ‘Has he now?’
    ‘Boss, this
stinks to high Heaven,’ said Geordie.   ‘If this was genuine then his men would have come in with him.’
    ‘He thinks there
is a risk to their safety if they come in on their own. His men fear that the
Afghans might be trigger-happy. They want an escort to bring them in.’
    ‘Boss, I wouldn’t
trust this raghead as far as I can throw him,’ said Geordie. ‘I certainly won’t
be taking a trip up the road with him.’
    ‘That sort of
language is unacceptable,’ said the Captain.
    ‘What sort of
language?’ asked Geordie.
    ‘You know what
I’m talking about,’ said the Captain. He looked over at