Free Deathlist by Chris Ryan Page B

hardwired into his muscle memory and he knew instantly what he had to do. Get to the bomb site, assess the situation and send for help for the soldiers. The ones who weren’t already dead. The thought flashed across his mind that the fuckers responsible for this might still be nearby. And at least two of them – the ramblers – were armed. And I don’t even have a pistol. But Porter couldn’t worry about that now. His mates needed him.
    ‘Fucking move!’ he yelled at Bald as he sprinted down the trail. ‘Let’s go!’
    Bald sprang into action. The two Blades hurtled towards the main road, racing past the wooded area to their left, their legs scrambling for purchase on the rain-swept track. Two hundred and fifty metres from the telephone box, Porter heard the agonised screams of the wounded splitting the air. He quickened his stride, running for all he was worth, ignoring the savage pain between his temples and the burning in his leg muscles.
    As he drew closer to the road he tasted the acrid tang of blood and burning metal in the air, and the pungent stench of charred human flesh filled his nostrils. He could see the gusts of smoke swirling across the road, blocking his view of the car park. He could hear the shattered glass from the Storey Arms as it showered the tarmac, making a noise like thousands of coins being spat out of a slot machine. A little further on the smoke had cleared and he spotted the pools of blood glistening on the tarmac on the other side of the road. He saw the twisted bodies of the dead sprawled on the ground, and the twisted metal carcass of the car, still churning black smoke into the air. Porter and Bald ran on.
    They were two hundred metres from the phone box when the gunfire started.

FOURTEEN
    0720 hours.
    Ten seconds after the initial blast, the five masked gunmen burst out of the front of the Storey Arms and fanned out across the driveway. They moved quickly but calmly across the road, brandishing their AK-47 assault rifles. Shattered glass crunching under their boots, smoke swirling around their ankles as they headed towards the car park. Towards the screams, and the wounded soldiers.
    They had sixty seconds.
    Deeds led the way. The car park was carnage. He could feel the heat from the blast as he approached, the sweat sliding down his brow under his ski mask. The temperature at ground zero was a million degrees. It was like walking into a furnace, and Deeds found it hard to believe that anyone could have survived such a massive explosion. But as he crossed the road he noticed a few survivors amid the body parts and the charred corpses. Those closest to the Mondeo had been literally ripped apart. There was nothing left of them except chunks of blackened flesh and ruptured organs like diced meat on a chopping board. The instructors and their mates on the SP team had been further away from the blast. Some of the SAS operators had been cut down by the vicious hail of shrapnel that accompanied the bomb. Others were lying on the ground, disorientated and groggy, their hands and feet covered in blood.
    Deeds turned his attention to an operator lying on his side. The guy was easily identifiable in his mixture of civvies and combat fatigues, and his thick beard and military Gore-Tex jacket. The guys on the SP team were the only soldiers carrying pistols. Which made them more of a threat, Deeds knew. The students had nothing but SLRs chambered with blank rounds. And the instructors were defenceless. But the SP team operators had pistols loaded with live ammo. They could shoot back. Deeds and the Serbs had taken that into account when planning the attack. After the bomb, go for the SP team first. Neutralise the biggest threat.
    The operator lying in front of Deeds was in a bad way. His stomach had been torn open and his bowels were spilling out in front of him, like a bulging inner tube out of a slashed car tyre. The guy was desperately trying to shove his vitals back inside his stomach. Deeds