The Right Reason Page 6

  Two to the chest, one through the neck.

  The man was dead moments after hitting the dirt.

  Five down.

  One more to go.

  Sam shimmied uncomfortably around the bullet-riddled rock he’d used for cover and slowly ascended upon the base camp. The entrance way was littered with the motionless bodies of the Taliban extremists, each one of them wildly racing into Sam’s line of fire, their fingers manically squeezing the trigger.

  A few of them managed to aim the gun in his direction, their bullets embedding in the thick rock.

  But most of their shots went wayward. There was no composure or conviction in their attack.

  These men were extremists. Not soldiers.

  They had survived by waving their guns in the air, sticking together, and intimidating anyone foolish enough to step up to them. None of them were truly killers and Sam would have felt cruel for the quick and easy way he dispatched them if it wasn’t for what they stood for.

  Only one of them was a killer.

  The leader.

  And he was the last one remaining.

  With the rifle still pressed to the cavernous muscle of his shoulder and his eye locked steady on the sight of the gun, Sam approached the entrance, stepping over the recently deceased and treading onto the blood-soaked dust below.

  Five more kills.

  Sam had learnt to deal with the burden of taking a life, knowing the mission was always bigger than the man. With the mission came orders, which he was trained to follow.

  This, however, was personal.

  Sam stepped into the base camp and did a quick sweep, his hips swiveling and causing him to grimace with pain. A few more bodies lay prone on the floor, their skulls open and their brains splattered across the fireplace.

  Among the dead were more guns, which Sam noted. There was every chance a few more convoys of overly eager extremists could be advancing on his position and if he was going to go out, he would make damn sure he went out fighting.

  Behind the large rocks at the back of the camp, Sam heard the scraping of a boot on the harsh, rocky terrain. He spun and trained the gun on its location.

  Sam’s training kicked in and as he focused on the area, he felt the volume of the world decrease. He could hear the man shuffling slightly, his breathing elevated.

  The leader was panicking, and Sam gently caressed the trigger with his index finger.

  A hand shot up from behind the rock and Sam almost relieved it of its fingers.

  But it was a sign of surrender and Sam steadied his position, locking his feet in place. He held the gun tightly, ignoring the aches from his muscles.

  The meek figure of the leader slowly rose from behind the rock, a look of fear hidden behind his head scarf, shades, and beard. The sun poured down from above and Sam could feel it burning the back of his neck. Sweat ran down from his dark hair and trickled down the back of his shirt.

  He didn’t move a muscle.

  The leader smiled pathetically; his mangled teeth clasped together as he stepped around the rocks. Sam noted the man’s left hand was firmly behind his back, concealing his final move.

  ‘Let me see your hand,’ Sam yelled, his voice dry and croaky, dehydration making his throat as baron as the surrounding land.

  The leader continued to step forward, and Sam readjusted the rifle threateningly. The leader shook his head.

  ‘This is not your fight,’ he said calmly, his English surprisingly good. ‘What do you care for those people?’

  ‘You killed a good man,’ Sam said coldly.

  ‘No good man fights against his people.’

  ‘He saved my life.’

  ‘And you cost him his. So, what is this?’ The leader shrugged. ‘Revenge?’

  Sam paused, the leader’s words hitting hard. Sam knew he would never lose the guilt of Farhad’s death, but knew the man had died to protect his children, not Sam. The least Sam could do for him was ensure his kids made it out alive.

  The leader snarled, his left arm flicking out to the side, his hands clasped around something.

  Sam pulled the trigger.

  At that range, the bullet completely shattered the leader’s wrist, causing him to drop the grenade to the floor, the pin still locked in place. Howling with pain, he stumbled back, his other hand feebly clutching at the blood. Sam pulled the trigger twice more, sending two shots through the man’s knee caps, and him stumbling backwards into the rocks.

  Blood pumped from the shattered kneecaps, turning the leader’s white gown a vile shade of red. With the pain and shock wrestling control of his body, he turned back to Sam, who approached calmly. The leader smacked his lips together, his mouth begging for moisture. With his final moments of strength, he tilted his head up to face his killer.

  ‘Is this revenge?’

  Sam pressed the piping hot metal of the barrel against the leader’s forehead.

  ‘Redemption.’

  Sam pulled the trigger.

  The leader’s head snapped back, painting the dirty stone with a combination of blood, brain, and bone. Sam let the rifle fall from his hand and onto the lifeless, bloodstained legs of the leader. Sam stumbled back slightly, the heat and pain beating him into near submission. He took a deep breath and looked around at the carnage caused by his hand.

  The ground was bathed in a dark red.

  The air hung heavy with death.

  Sam’s eyes lit up.

  Just as he was about to accept his fate of dying alongside the people he’d killed, he noticed the dark box on the table, concealed by a plastic sheet. With every ounce of energy he could muster, he waddled across to the table, dropping to his knees in front of it and steadying himself with his elbow. He drew back the cover.

  His heart flipped.

  A radio.

  Sam bowed his head and felt his back arch slightly. His chest began to shake, and it took him a few moments to realise he was crying.

  He should have been dead.

  Now, for the first time since his world went black on that cliff face, he dared to dream about seeing Lucy’s face one more time.

  Sam lifted the receiver, ready to go home.

  The repetitive thud of the helicopter echoed through the sky and Sam felt his eyes open heavily. Somewhere between the shrapnel he had had removed or the vicious burns on his body, it had begun to shut down. Concealed beneath the table to shield himself from the heat, Sam had begun to lose consciousness.

  The welcoming hum of the chopper soon snapped him back to reality.

  Scrambling to his feet, Sam limped through the camp towards the corpse filled entrance in time to see the British helicopter slowly descend, wafting impressive waves of bloodstained dust into the air.

  Sam dropped to his knees.

  The door to the chopper opened and Sam felt the relief flood to every muscle of his body, and he collapsed forward. Sergeant Carl Marsden dropped from the seat as soon as the door slid open and Sam could hear his superior’s boots thudding against the earth as he rushed towards him. Sam pushed himself back up, just as Marsden reached him. As his commanding officer, Sam knew that Marsden cared deeply for all his men and Marsden wrapped both of his thick, solid arms around Sam and drew him in.

  Sam felt the tears slide down his cheek.

  Marsden pulled back, his brown eyes scanning Sam’s battered face with concern.

  ‘Sam. Jesus,’ he said shaking his head. ‘We thought you were a goner.’

  ‘You can’t get rid of me that easily, sir,’ Sam joked, wincing in pain.

  ‘Can you walk?’ Marsden asked, refusing to let go of him. Sam nodded and Marsden clambered to his feet, easing him up as slowly as he needed. Both men were covered in dust as they got to their feet and Marsden draped Sam’s arm over his shoulder, letting him dictate the pace. Each step was gingerly followed by the next, the heat and pain taking its toll on Sam. Marsden glanced around the campsite, the bullet-riddled bodies of the Taliban were sprawled out in whatever chaotic demis
e they’d met. Marsden shook his head slightly.

  ‘You’ve made quite a mess here,’ he said, his eyes locked on the brutally slain body of the leader.

  ‘They deserved it,’ Sam said coldly. ‘They killed a good man.’

  ‘Well, they almost killed another one,’ Marsden said with a smile.

  As they approached the helicopter, Sam took a deep breath as his friend, Theo Walker stepped from the chopper, his dark skin caked in a thin layer of sweat. Theo had looked better, but Sam knew that Theo’s loyalty meant he’d demanded to be on the chopper the second his SOS came through. As one of the finest medics in the British Military, Theo would want to help.

  As his best friend, Theo just wanted to see him again.

  ‘Theo.’

  Sam greeted his friend, who didn’t say anything, but wrapped his arms around him. Sam felt a tear fall from his eye as he embraced his friend, returning the hug with as much force as his weak body could muster. For a few moments, the two of them stood, both of them knowing how close it had been.

  Theo pulled back shaking his head and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  ‘Fucking hell, mate.’ Theo chuckled. ‘You had me going then.’

  ‘I’m sorry...’ Sam began, before Theo stuffed a bottle of water in his hand.

  ‘Don’t you dare apologise,’ Theo angrily remonstrated. ‘It wasn’t your fault. None of it was. We had bad intel and that nearly killed you.’

  ‘Theo, enough,’ Marsden interjected, raising his voice over the low hum of the propellers as the pilot slowly brought them to life. ‘We’ll debrief back at base. Let’s get him in.’

  Theo scowled at their superior but obliged, helping Marsden guide Sam up the step and into the cabin where another soldier greeted him and helped him to his seat. Theo followed, a look of concern on his face as he perused the brutal impact the shrapnel had inflicted on Sam’s body. The burnt flesh would scare but nothing seemed life threatening.

  Whoever had treated Sam had been a good doctor. Marsden was the last in, slamming the door closed and then giving the pilot the thumbs up.

  The engine roared to the life, the main rotor blade whizzing into life and gently, the landing skids lifted from the land below. As they rose into the scorching sky, Sam glanced out of the window. Below, he could see the bloodstained sand surrounding the bodies he’d sent to the afterlife.

  It had been an execution, his own rage had taken control and wiped out the evil squadron that had terrorized the village of Chakari.

  It had left Tahir and Masood without a father.

  Somewhere, through the shattered remnants of what had happened, he felt it had claimed someone else.

  A friend. Perhaps?

  Sam grunted with discomfort as Theo pressed a cloth of antiseptic against his wounds, but his friend’s caring smile placated him. Sam pressed his head against the window, staring out at the wasteland before them. He took another swig of water, his body craving the moisture like it was a drug.

  ‘Sir,’ Sam piped up. ‘Why did you risk coming back for me?’

  Marsden turned to Sam, the emotional weight of bringing him home was hanging heavy from him. His eyes, usually filled with conviction were red,

  ‘You’re one of my men, Sam,’ he said softly. ‘I would walk into hell to save any of you.’

  Theo and Sam both smiled at him, nodding their appreciation. Theo went back to Sam’s wounds, while Sam closed his eyes, resting his head against the cool glass. Before he dozed off, he quietly responded, ‘Me too, sir. Me too.’

  Sam allowed himself to slip into a much-needed sleep, hoping to dream of the wonderful woman he would soon return to.

  As the sun slowly began to set, they headed home.

  EPILOGUE

  ‘Get lost.’

  The angry stall owner raised the back of his hand as if to strike him and Tahir cowered backwards, colliding with a passing couple who barged past him, ignoring his plight. It had been four days since he had packed a bag for himself and Masood and took the bus to the market nearby.

  Four days of sleeping on the streets.

  Tahir could feel the starvation beginning to kick in, his malnourished body beginning to do whatever it could to prolong its existence. What little food he had got from begging had been given to Masood, who had been surprisingly calm through the ordeal. Tahir knew his younger brother was too young to fully understand their circumstances.

  Their father had been killed in cold blood.

  Their home was gone.

  They were now forced to look after each other. There was no route to a refugee camp. No handouts. No warm bed or even a safe place to sleep. The town was riddled with homeless people, and Tahir hadn’t slept properly since they’d arrived. The only ventures to the town had been with his father, who had kept them safe.

  Tahir felt the guilt pound away at him like a heavyweight boxer. Despite his anger towards his father, the man had always put them first.

  Now, because of Tahir’s foolish notions of rebellion, he lay dead in a ditch back in their village.

  No, not because of Tahir.

  Because of Sam Pope.

  The soldier.

  If he had not invaded their lives, Tahir’s father would still be alive. He would be fearful for his brother’s life.

  During the shock of watching his father die, Tahir had let Sam step in, guide him back into the house, and demanded the bullets for the gun. Tahir knew Sam had every intention of executing the Taliban group but then what? Head home?

  Back to his happy life?

  To a medal?

  It caused tears of anger to form in his eyes and Tahir weaved his way back through the market place, to the small, well-hidden nook that he and Masood had camped out in. As he returned, he greeted his brother with a smile.

  ‘No luck this time, little one,’ Tahir said cheerily, ruffling his brother’s thick hair.

  ‘Will it be home time soon?’ Masood asked, sitting cross-legged on the hard stone.

  ‘Not yet, Masood,’ Theo said sadly. ‘But soon.’

  Tahir looked out over the market square. The bizarre was a beehive of activity, with each stall full of pots, pans, and food, all run by an enthusiastic salesman, desperate for a sale. The colours and smells were extravagant, and Tahir tried to figure out which stall was the easiest to steal from.

  Being caught would most likely result in his death.

  Not trying would almost certainly doom them both to the same fate.

  As his eyes scanned the flurry of people, he noticed two British soldiers stood by the far wall, head to toe in their camouflage attire. Their heads covered by their helmets.

  Their hands gripped their loaded rifles.

  Tahir felt nothing but hatred.

  Masood reached forward and gently tugged at the dirty, tatty shirt that wrapped itself around Tahir’s frail body. Tahir turned to his younger brother, who had begun to cry. It was as if the realisation of their situation had finally hit home.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Masood asked, sniffling. Tahir turned back to the soldiers, allowing the hate the take complete control. He gritted his teeth. He clenched his fist.

  He responded.

  ‘We will fight back.’

  It was a strange sensation.

  The missile had hit the ground a few feet from Private Matthew McLaughlin and the whole world seemed to be pushed away from him and he fell into complete blackness.

  All he remembered was calling for Sam before the world shut off.

  As he blinked his eyes open, he felt like he was floating, like his mind had returned to the earth but not the rest of his body.

  They had been on a mission to track and eliminate a key Taliban leader who was soon to be arriving in the vicinity. One of the neighbouring towns had become a safe haven for a Taliban outpost and Sam was ordered to bring it to an end.

  Mac would be there beside him.

  But once their position had been compromised, they ran.

  Mac
had heard the bullets.

  He saw the explosion.

  Now, it felt like a dream. The pain that arced through his body soon told him it was real. Very real.

  ‘Sam,’ he called feebly, his mouth dry. Dehydrated, he felt his skin beginning to burn in the sun. Mac tried to push himself up.

  He couldn’t move.

  He tried again, but the pain in his back meant the simple task of even sitting up was impossible. He took a few deep breaths and then rolled to the side.

  The entire sleeve of his jacket was missing.

  So was the top layer of skin on his right arm. The explosion had burnt it clean off and he closed his eyes to compose himself. The pain was being subdued by the shock, but he knew that unless Sam found him soon, he would die underneath the baking sun.

  He tried to move his legs.

  They barely wriggled.

  ‘Sam.’ His voice rasped out as barely a whisper.

  Just as Mac had given up hope, making peace with a noble death serving his country, he heard the crunching of dirt underneath a boot. Relief flooded over him as the footsteps grew nearer, his mentor emerging from the battle to take him home.

  A figure appeared above him.

  The sun causing his vision to blur, but the white head scarf and thick beard told him it wasn’t Sam.

  The appearance of three more bearded men told him it wasn’t good.

  One of the men chuckled at the state of the British soldier completely at their mercy and Mac felt his heart beat ferociously. Panic set in instantly and suddenly, Mac felt abandoned.

  Sam was gone.

  He was alone.

  Mac prayed for a quick death, but as the men reached for him, he knew that a merciful god would have killed him in the blast.

  With a tear struggling to make its way down his face, Mac felt the Taliban soldier drag him across the rough terrain, to a fate worse than any death he could have imagined.

  THE END

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