He smashed one into the ground, then another.
In an instant, the prison was illuminated by a flash of white light, and a noise that ripped through your ears like a hurricane. Even through his dark glasses Steve could feel his eyes blinking at the explosion. He’d practised with thunder-flashes plenty of times back at the killing house, the mocked-up building next to its Hereford headquarters where the SAS practised hostage rescues. But it didn’t matter how many times you ran through the drill. You never got used to the dazzling light, so harsh it seemed to slit open your eyeballs, or the screaming noise that drilled into your brain. That’s why they were so lethally effective. Even the best trained soldiers started to fall apart under the brutal assault on their senses. If you knew it was coming, you could steel yourself: their impact on anyone who wasn’t prepared was devastating.
And to get out of here alive it would need to be, Steve told himself grimly.
He could feel Abago’s grip loosening on his shoulder as he tried to adjust to the shock. Steve reached inside his sweatshirt, whipping out the snub-nosed Raven Arms M-25 pistol that he’d taped to his chest. Known as the Saturday Night Special in the US, the Raven was one of the smallest firearms ever produced. It didn’t pack much punch and it didn’t have much range, but none of that mattered when you were standing only a foot away from the man you were planning to kill. The tape ripped off his chest, taking a clump of hair with it, but Steve ignored the pain, balanced the handgun in his fist and squeezed hard on the trigger. A bullet tore into Abago’s face, impacting just below the right eye, smashing through the skull, and chewing straight into the man’s brain. He reeled backwards, his hand reaching up to his face, just in time for the second bullet to cut through the flesh and dig into his mouth.
‘Bloody move, bloody move!’ shouted Ian. He reached into the cell, grabbing hold of Ollie.
The man was shielding his eyes, blinded by the flash. Abago had just crashed to the floor, blood pouring out of his face, grunting with pain, but with the last remnants of life fast ebbing out of him.
‘Bloody move, man!’ bawled Ian, louder this time, struggling to make himself heard over the echoes from the flash grenade still reverberating around the cell block.
Through his dark glasses, Steve could see the two guards from the doorway running towards them. They were still blinded by the light, although its intensity was starting to fade now. All around them, the men in the cells were screaming. Steve fired at the first man, the bullet smashing into his shoulder. Steve cursed the miserable accuracy of the Raven: he’d aimed for the chest, and felt certain he’d take out the heart or the lungs. He fired again, this time slotting the bullet neatly into the side of the man’s chest, pushing him spluttering to the ground. Adjusting his sights, Steve then lined up a shot on the second man.
Two bullets left in the mag, thought Steve. I can’t waste any.
He fired once, aiming at the chest. The bullet struck the soldier in the lungs, sending him flying backwards, blinded and bleeding heavily.
Normally, Steve would have stepped forward to put another bullet into him. The double tap was part of SAS training, drilled into you on the parade ground until you could never forget it. ‘Your enemy is still your enemy until his last breath has been drawn,’ he could remember his Sergeant yelling at him.
But not today. There’s not enough ammo left.
‘I’m not going without this bloke,’ shouted Ollie, gesturing to the man chained up behind him.
‘Jesus Christ, you mad fucker, there’s no time,’ screamed Ian.
‘He’s the bloke I came to rescue,’ Ollie said hoarsely. ‘The bastard’s worth a hundred grand.’
Pulling out the gun he too had bought in the market before heading up to the jail, Ian shot once.
For a split second, Steve thought the Irishman had killed the other prisoner. He was certainly capable of it: Ian liked to settle arguments quickly and simply, and nobody was going to rescue a corpse.
But the bullet had sliced open the chain binding the man to the wall. His hand had been injured by the ricochet, cutting a wound that ran up to his elbow, but he bounced forwards like an animal that had suddenly been released from a trap.
‘Now sodding move!’ yelled Steve.
All four men started to run.
Both Ollie and the prisoner were still blinded by the flash grenade. The Commandant was lying dead on the ground, and so were the two soldiers. Steve bundled Ollie forwards, while Ian dragged the prisoner. They dashed up the stairs, leaving behind them the wails of hundreds of imprisoned men, then hurtled out into the courtyard. Steve was already running towards the exit, his Raven in his hand. One soldier was still standing guard, whilst the second man was rushing towards the barracks to stir the rest of the men. Up on the watchtowers, flashlights had been turned on, sending shafts of light scattering across the dusty surface of the ground. Bullets were starting to pepper the dirt around them. Steve had no idea how many men were firing on them. Three - maybe four, he guessed. He charged faster, his legs beating against the ground, yelling at Ollie to run even though he couldn’t see where he was going. Raising the Raven in his right hand, he pointed it straight at the guard by the exit, loosening off the final bullet in the mag. It struck the man in the shoulder, spinning him around, making him clutch the wound in agony.