But Newton was the only one among them who’d never proved himself in combat. If there was a nasty scrap to be fought, that meant he was the man holding the short straw. Even though they needed him to talk to his brother, they couldn’t let him duck a scrap. He knew it himself: it sounded as if he’d been about to say something, but he’d caught the words before they escaped his lips.
‘I’ll go,’ was all he said.
There were almost certainly men stationed at every point round the barracks. The only way to take out a machine gun was to come around the back. But Tshaka’s guys looked professional enough to have stationed a guard to protect their flanks. If anyone came close, they’d get gunned down.
‘I’ll go with him,’ said Nick quickly.
The two men veered right. The back of the fort was empty now, and Nick and Newton had the advantage that no one could see them as they approached the barracks block from behind. There was a long back wall to the block, made of wood, with a doorway at the side. The only windows were at the front.
‘I’m going in,’ said Newton.
‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ Nick objected.
But Newton had already clamped the Uzi into his fist.
‘They’re not sending me back to Broken Ridge, or any other jail,’ he said. ‘I’ve had my first taste of freedom in ten years, and if I have to pay for that with my life, then I won’t be complaining.’ Kicking back with his heels, he then threw himself at the door.
It crashed open easily enough. Newton was a big man, and even though his weight had whittled away during the years in prison, there was enough of him to bring down most obstacles. He rolled onto the floor, his shoulder already badly bruised, and screaming with pain. Two guards were standing by the door, and another three men were manning the machine gun. Raising the Uzi, Newton slammed his finger on the trigger and the bullets spat from the barrel of the gun in a hot, angry barrage. The Uzi was capable of firing 1,000 rounds a minute: its rapid bursts of fire were what made it so deadly in close-quarters combat, but also incredibly difficult to control.
The first guard took six rounds to his chin. By the time Newton adjusted his aim, the man’s jaw had been splintered into a dozen different fragments, and most of his face had been shot clean away. He was staggering around, blinded and dying. The second guard took a dozen bullets to his chest, collapsing to the ground in a heap of blood. Without even releasing his finger from the trigger, Newton turned the Uzi towards the machine gunners. One of the three men had managed to draw his own handgun and put one bullet straight into Newton, but it was caught by his Kevlar body armour and, apart from a tear to his shirt, and another nasty bruise to his chest, he was unhurt.
The Uzi’s 9mm bullets ripped into the men in an unstoppable assault of flying metal. None of them were wearing body armour and it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. More than fifty rounds flew into them in the space of a couple of seconds, and although the Uzi wasn’t capable of much accuracy, the bullets were puncturing lungs, hearts and brains. In a fraction of a second, all three men had died. Newton released his finger from the trigger. The magazine was empty. The pain in his shoulder was intense and his chest was injured from the bullet to his body armour.
‘Drop it, drop it, drop it!’ shouted a soldier. He was standing at the back of the barracks block, twenty feet away, pointing his AK-47 straight at Newton. ‘One move and you’re a fucking dead man.’
There was no time for Newton to reload. He’d be dead before he even reached for the mag.
In the doorway, Nick raised his own AK-47 to his shoulder. He took only a fraction of a second to compose the shot. The soldier was cleanly lined up in his sights, but Nick already knew he’d only get one crack at this. If the man wasn’t killed instantly he’d put enough shots into Newton to finish him in less than a second. Adjusting the aim by a micro-millimetre to make sure the bullet would blast into the man’s skull right in the centre of the forehead, he muttered softly, ‘Kill,’ and squeezed the trigger.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said Newton with a crooked half-smile as the man crumpled meekly to the ground, his brains already shot out.
Nick grabbed him by the hand, and pulled Newton to his feet. He ran towards the machine-gun post, and looked out into the parade ground. The ten men were still advancing steadily on the shooting range, laying down a murderous rate of fire straight into the position held by Steve and his unit.
‘Go, go, go!’ shouted Nick, looking back to where Ollie, Ganju and Chris were stationed. ‘The gun is down . . .’