‘I still reckon we should have taken the scenic route,’ said Nick cheerfully.
Sam handed around bananas and some biscuits, and the men chewed their way through them, keen to get as much liquid and food down their throats as possible to prepare for the rest of the journey.
‘Any chance of sitting up front for a while?’ Ian asked Moses.
The African shook his head. ‘There could be police or Army checks anywhere along this highway, and certainly on the roads in Ibera,’ he said.
‘I don’t know how much longer we can hold out in there,’ said Steve.
‘We’ll be there by nightfall,’ Moses told him. ‘No later than eleven.’
Steve took another slug of water, stretched his muscles and climbed back into the Hyundai. ‘Then let’s crack on.’
Ollie was still shaking, recovering from the shock of the hanging. He was sitting in a corner of the cell, slowly piecing his thoughts back together as David explained to the rest of the men what had happened.
‘We did that all the time in the Spetsnaz,’ chortled Maksim. ‘I remember one guy - Vladimir, I think he was called - he was so fucked up by the whole experience, he hung himself for real a couple of days later.’
‘Very comforting, mate,’ said Ollie sourly.
‘The point is, they are determined to break us,’ said David. ‘And we have to ask ourselves how long we can hold out.’
‘I’m not signing any bloody confession,’ said Dan.
‘No matter what they do to us?’
All the men in the cell fell silent for a moment.
‘Do you reckon Steve and the boys can do anything?’ asked Chris.
‘I’m sure they’ll try,’ said David. ‘But it’s a hell of a big ask.’
‘We don’t sign yet,’ said Ganju, his voice threaded with quiet determination. ‘We play for time, because that’s the only thing we have going for us. Make them wait for us to agree to sign, then delay again when we’ve said we will. That way, there’s more chance for Steve to get us out of here.’
As he spoke, a group of six soldiers appeared, walking straight towards their cell. Wallace was standing in front of them, looking around menacingly. ‘I’ve got another treat for you boys,’ he said harshly. ‘I hope you’re ready for it.’
Reluctantly, the six men stood up and followed Wallace through the dark cell block and up onto the parade ground. It was just after six in the evening and all of them were dog tired. Their muscles and limbs were aching, and they had been given nothing more to eat or drink since the bucket of swill that had been handed to them in the morning. The soldiers were jabbing them with the barrels of their assault rifles as they shunted them across the dusty ground.
‘Form a line, you miserable bastards,’ Wallace ordered.
He was standing right in front of them, with Park at his side. There were another two dozen soldiers standing directly behind them, their purple and gold berets gleaming in the sun. Wallace started to walk up and down the line, looking into the faces of the men.
He’s scrutinising us for weakness, decided Ollie. Trying to figure out which of us is most likely to crack. And that will be the man he chooses as his next victim. It’s standard bully boy tactics, he reflected. He probably learned them at Eton.
‘Him,’ he snapped, nodding towards Chris.
Two of the Sixth Brigade soldiers stepped forward from their line and yanked Chris hard out of the group.
He’s got the wrong bloke, thought Ollie. Chris isn’t the weakest man here. Not even close.
‘Christopher Reynolds,’ Wallace said, looking him up and down contemptuously. ‘A bloody Recce were you, man?’
Chris remained silent, his face defiant.
‘I reckon your boys inflicted some nasty injuries on Sixth Brigade soldiers, back in the old days,’ continued Wallace. ‘What was it you used to call the black soldiers? “Kaffirs”? “Niggers”? “Bushcats”?’
The two soldiers dragged Chris back twenty yards. Wallace was walking behind them, leaning down into the man. ‘Well, I reckon they’d like a bit of payback.’
He turned towards the other five prisoners. ‘You blokes ever seen a crucifixion, African-style?’ he enquired.
They all remained silent, rooted to the spot.
‘He’s bloody kidding,’ hissed Ollie. ‘It’ll be the same as the hanging. He’s just trying to frighten us.’
‘Four bayonets,’ Wallace rapped out.
Four of the Sixth Brigade men stepped smartly forwards, the bayonets on their rifles glinting menacingly in the late evening sunshine - each one twelve inches of hardened steel, sharpened to lethal precision. One of them grabbed Chris then thrust him hard onto the ground. There was sweat pouring off the man’s face, and a wild, burning anger lighting up his eyes. This was the same way his mate had died. Another soldier thrust his knee hard into Chris’s chest, pinning his back into the dirt, whilst the third held onto his right arm, splaying his hand onto the ground. Drawing back his rifle, he then, with a sudden movement, thrust the bayonet downwards, piercing the flesh in Chris’s right hand. The scream that blasted through the evening air was filled with terror and hatred. The soldier was leaning heavily on the bayonet, pushing the spear deep into the ground so that there was no chance of the man it was pinning down breaking free. His comrade was grabbing hold of Chris’s left arm, splaying it down and pressing the palm close to the dust whilst another soldier speared his bayonet into the bone and muscle.