Free War Torn by Andy McNab, Kym Jordan Page A

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‘McCall, step back to fire,’ Dave said. ‘So you get something a bit more useful than his arse.’

Angus had frozen when he had a clear view of four insurgents crossing a field. He’d frozen when he found one of them wasn’t dead. Now Dave wanted to give him another chance but he saw the lad’s face was rigid with alarm. He’d experienced enough death for one day.

Finn said: ‘I’ll do it.’

He stepped back.

The Taliban sniper looked down at them, knowing what was going to happen. Dave stared up into his brown eyes. The man looked back at him and started to speak. He didn’t cry or yell and he showed no fear. He spoke in a strange, soft way, without pleading. It was affecting, more affecting than any cry or shout could have been.

There was a flash and the report of a weapon. The man slumped forward.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Dave said quietly.

A mobile phone fell from the man’s clothes and Jamie caught it neatly. The convoy drew level with them and, under fire, they piled into the back of the first two Vectors.

‘Let’s go.’

Dave thought about the man in the tree, whose pleas for his life he’d ignored. Technically, it was a legitimate killing: the man’s weapon had been trained on the convoy. He told himself that the man wouldn’t have spared him if their positions had been reversed. All the same, he found himself wishing he had brought him in as a prisoner. He didn’t feel uncomfortable about the insurgent Mal had shot in the ditch, even though he was aware that this might be harder to explain under the Rules of Engagement.

Finn said: ‘That’s the first time I’ve killed someone.’

‘Me too,’ Mal said.

‘All right with it?’ Sol looked up at them as he nursed his ankle.

‘Yup,’ Finn said. ‘’Course. That’s what we’re here for.’ But his face was hollowed and drawn.

‘It did feel well weird.’ Mal sounded uncertain.

Angus said nothing. He examined his feet, his cheeks hot and red, as the convoy sped out of the Green Zone.

Chapter Eight

BOSS WEEKS COLLECTED HIS MEAL IN THE COOKHOUSE THAT EVENING and, without giving himself a chance to think about it, joined the two female interpreters. His heart started beating faster and his senses were suddenly extra alert, symptoms he now associated with enemy contact.

The women, who’d been talking intently to each other, looked up without welcome when he sat down.

‘
As salaam alai kum
,’ Weeks said awkwardly.

‘What?’ Jean stared at him.

He tried to smile back. He didn’t dare look at Asma.

‘
As salaam alai kum
,’ he repeated, more clearly this time. His food suddenly looked less appetizing.

‘Oh-oh,’ Asma said. ‘We’ve got another Captain Boyle here.’

‘Captain Boyle?’

‘He was with A Company.’

‘A marine?’

‘Engineer. He had this book:
Speak Pashtu in Six Weeks
,’ Asma said. ‘He used it like a car instruction manual.’

Weeks permitted himself to look at her, but only briefly. She really was stunning. Those large, almond-shaped eyes and slanting cheek bones. Why wasn’t every man in the place writing her poems and offering to clean her weapon?

‘
Kur-see
,’ he said, pointing to the chair. ‘
War!
’ He pointed to the entrance. ‘
Meez.
’ He tapped the table.

‘Oh Christ.’ Asma rolled her enormous eyes.

Jean started to giggle.

‘How long have you been learning it?’

‘For months.’ Weeks gave a gesture of helplessness. ‘I still can’t complete a sentence.’

‘Most people give up when they get to the sentence structure.’

‘The alphabet alone makes me feel like coming out with a white flag. How did you two crack it?’

They both looked as though they’d answered this question a thousand times before.

‘I was in Kabul as a kid,’ Jean said. ‘My parents were aid workers out here until I was twelve. Asma came to the UK at about the same age.’

Asma nodded. ‘My parents managed to slip through the Soviet net and, well, it’s a long story but we