Free For Valour by Andy McNab

the stench of garlic, sour cabbage, untipped cigarettes and unbrushed teeth with every tortured breath.
    His neck muscles tautened as he strained to bring up the Dragunov’s muzzle so he could blast a hole in my chest, and I suddenly knew beyond any doubt that he was going to do it before I could bring my weapon down again.
    I let go of the grip with my left hand and kicked out. I missed the barrel but connected strongly enough with his arm to shunt the muzzle off at an angle.
    I felt the round before I heard it. It kicked off millimetres away from my right cheek, smashed the ice axe out of my hand and sent shock waves along my arm. The impact propelled me backwards but I somehow managed to stay upright. I knew that if I went down now, it was over.
    I was fresh out of options as he brought the weapon back up. All I could do now was take one step forward and launch myself at him, feet first.
    My right crampon caught him in the gut. I felt its claws rip into him, but he just took the pain. My left crampon clattered against gunmetal. Without any purchase, I lost my balance and had to jerk back and plant it in the snow again to stop myself falling.
    Its claws were too short to puncture an organ, so I raised my right foot and stamped on his face instead. I channelled my entire bodyweight through that one leg and kept it there. He finally let go of the Dragunov and grabbed my ankle, but instead of dislodging my boot he forced its metal sole to grate against his jawbone. His flesh fell away like raw meat spilling from a mincer.
    He bucked and heaved and flailed his arms, fingers scrabbling to reclaim his rifle. I kept my right foot in place and skewered his neck with the left. For a moment I didn’t think that was going to stop him either.
    His lips peeled back in a ferocious snarl, but blood gushed from his mouth instead of sound. He arched his back and shuddered, like he’d chewed on a power cable, then lay very still.

16
    I fetched the Dragunov and pushed up the safety lever on its right-hand side, then removed my gloves and went through Sniper One’s pockets. I didn’t expect to find anything, and I wasn’t wrong. Apart from a half-empty packet of dextrose tablets and two hundred and fifty quid or so in well-used notes poking out of a money clip, they were empty.
    I kept the cash and powered up the torch app on my iPhone so I could take a closer look at him. You’re never at your best when your face has been rearranged by a set of crampons, but even on a good day this guy wouldn’t have turned heads on the catwalk. If he had done, he’d have had to choose a different line of work. Snipers and surveillance operators aren’t supposed to stand out in a crowd. With his closely cropped hair, broken nose and cold grey eyes this lad was every bit as forgettable as I was. And we pretty much shared the same tailor.
    I unzipped his waterproof top and wrenched open the layers of fleece and thermal kit beneath it. There were no coal-dust tattoos telling the story of his life – just the sculpted pecs of a man who took his fitness seriously.
    Then I caught sight of something on his neck. At first glance I assumed the crimson splash was blood or possibly a birthmark. When I turned his head and ran the beam beneath his shattered jaw I realized it was neither.
    This was quality ink work, somewhere between a starburst and a multi-leaf clover. It reminded me of the so-called roses that decorated the roads and pavements of Sarajevo when the locals had filled the Serb mortar scars with red resin to honour their dead.
    Well, I wasn’t in the mood to honour this fucker. I put my gloves back on, grabbed him by the legs and dragged his body into the Bolthole, leaving a trail of dark red deoxygenated blood on the snow. I sat him against the rock wall and reunited him with his Dragunov in the flickering light of my hexy bonfire.
    As soon as the weather cleared and the ramblers got back into their anoraks, this area would turn into a major