In the same instant, Steve, Ollie and the rest of the unit had drawn their Enfields and released a terrifying blast of ammunition. The air was thick with hot, deadly lumps of metal. Steve was firing straight into the soldiers, whilst Ian and Ollie had turned their fire onto Newton and Wallace. The Enfield was a light weapon, easy to fire, without much accuracy, but at this range it didn’t matter very much. The targets were easy enough to hit. By the time he’d emptied half its chamber, it was clear they wouldn’t be having any more trouble from the Sixth Brigade.
‘Drop your weapons or she dies,’ Masksim was shouting wildly. He was still dragging Sam backwards.
Wallace was running towards him, his weapon ready to explode into life.
But Ian and Ollie had started to punch bullets into the man’s back, whilst Ganju had run to the side, slotting one then two bullets into the man’s ribcage. He wobbled first under the impact, then lost his grip as his boots slid on the mud, and crashed painfully onto the ground. Blood was flowing from his wounds, the life draining out of him.
The gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had started, the silence broken only by the relentless rain.
Steve glanced anxiously around. The Toyota had stalled, steam rising from the broken bonnet, and its wheels caught up in the tangled and crushed remains of the soldier.
Maksim was still holding onto Sam, but had put the gun down. Wallace and Newton were dead, and Archie was backing nervously towards the jetty. None of the men had been hurt.
Steve ran towards the Toyota.
Dan was crouching under the steering wheel. His back was covered in shattered glass, and there was a streak of blood where a shard from the windscreen had sliced through his shirt. Steve reached down for his hand. ‘You can come out now, mate,’ he said. ‘Looks like you missed out on the fun.’
Dan climbed from the vehicle. He could see at once that Yohane had been crushed by the wheels. Bullets had entered his body at three different points, but he was already dead by the time the munitions struck. Leaning over the man, Dan pushed his face down into the mud. Pulling the knife from Yohane’s belt, he allowed the blade to glisten in the rain for a brief second, then lunged forward with it. ‘That’s for Chris, you bastard,’ he almost sobbed as he stuck the knife hard into the man’s neck.
Steve waited for a second. Dan was twisting the knife, cutting the corpse open, the way a butcher might fillet the carcass of a bullock. It was a brutal sight, cold and cruel, but Steve waited a moment. That’s soldiering, he reflected sombrely. Each man takes vengeance in his own way.
Slowly, Dan stood up, his hands dripping with blood. He threw the knife away in disgust: the anger had drained out of him, and he was embarrassed by the ferocity of his rage.
Steve ran towards Maksim. He had let go of Sam, and was walking briskly towards Wallace. The Russian’s anger was raised - and like a tiger with blood on its lips, once the killing had begun, nothing could save the prey. Maksim dropped down onto Wallace’s body, and from the way the old mercenary’s legs twitched, it was clear there were still a few embers of life left in him. Maksim began to throw punch after punch into the man, until his knuckles were stained crimson with blood. He kept on, even after Wallace had lost consciousness, unable to stop himself, until finally he paused for breath. With sweat pouring off his face, and with his lungs gasping for oxygen, he took the knife he’d hidden inside his trousers and, holding the blade in the air, he leaned in close to Wallace’s face.
‘Let’s see how you die, mudak,’ he said quietly and, the sentence completed, he cut a surgically precise hole in the man’s throat through which blood started to foam and bubble.
Steve didn’t know much Russian, but he knew mudak meant bastard - and it was a fitting-enough epitaph for Wallace. Even he was taken aback by the savagery of Maksim’s attack, but the dead man had fought for the scum of the planet. Steve had watched plenty of men die on the battlefield: he’d never seen a man who deserved his fate as completely as Wallace did.
He checked on Sam: she was shaken, and there were tears smudging her face, but she was OK. Steve then looked towards Archie.
Sam’s brother was standing on the edge of the pier. The anorak was still pulled up around his neck, protecting him from the rain lashing in from the lake, but you could see the fear in his eyes. He had been looking feverishly at Wallace, soaking up each blow as if it had landed on his own skin. He’d pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket. A Swiss-made Sphinx 3000, noted Steve. At more than $2,000 a time, it was one of the most expensive firearms in the world.
But it doesn’t matter how much a gun costs, Steve reminded himself. It is the man firing it that counts.