He collapsed into a chair, swept his hair back from his forehead in a way that only made it more untidy and surveyed the industrious scene of the operations room. He had a nasty feeling he’d just been outmanoeuvred by Mike Holroyd. He had no intention of staying outmanoeuvred for long.

  Danny Black drifted into consciousness.

  He kept his eyes closed. To open them was too massive an effort. He felt nauseous. Every limb was too heavy to move and there was a deep, pounding pain in his left shoulder. Somewhere – maybe it was close, maybe it was far away – he could hear the regular beep of a pulse monitor. Elsewhere, shouting and clattering. None of the voices he heard were speaking English.

  His brain was a fog. He tried to clear it. Where was he? What had happened? It hurt to think. He saw himself, as if from outside, lying in a ditch. A figure standing over him. He tried to make out the features, but couldn’t. Flashes of recollection pierced his consciousness. Freefalling through the cloud line. The first hit. Moving through the village to the second compound. The terrified family it was his job to secure . . .

  Nausea again. The beep of the pulse monitor grew faster. He tried to take a deep breath. It made his shoulder hurt even more.

  He drifted back into unconsciousness.

  When he woke again the pain was still there but the nausea had subsided a little. He was aware of a commotion nearby. An argument. He couldn’t make out the words. He winced as a shock of pain cut down his abdomen from his shoulder.

  He heard a lock click. A door open. Footsteps. Approaching. He sensed somebody close and tried to force his eyes open.

  An opaque blur. Vaguely, he was able to discern the outline of a figure standing by his bedside. But, just as when he’d been lying in the irrigation ditch, he couldn’t make out the face.

  ‘Black?’ said a voice. ‘Are you awake?’

  Danny recognised the voice. He tried to place it but couldn’t. He felt himself squinting, trying to discern the features. But the effort was too much. He closed his eyes and slept again.

  When he woke for the third time it was easier – a little – to open his eyes, and his vision was fractionally less blurred. The figure was still standing by his bedside. Danny didn’t know how long he’d been out. He felt a moment of panic. Who was this person? A doctor wouldn’t just be standing there.

  ‘Black?’ the voice said again. As he spoke, the fog cleared a little more. The figure’s features became visible. Black hair, thinning. Slightly overweight. Thin lips, which he was brushing with his forefingers. A silver fish on his lapel.

  ‘Holroyd,’ Danny breathed. His voice was cracked and weak.

  Holroyd leaned over. ‘ “You restored me to health and let me live”,’ he said in his thick Ulster accent. ‘Isaiah, chapter thirty-eight. But you’ll have plenty of time to be reading the good book where you’re going.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Flew out specially to have a little chat with you, didn’t I? A little chat between friends.’

  Danny tried to take in some more of his surroundings. He appeared to be in a single room. One exit. Distance, seven metres. Door closed. He was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by drip stands and machines monitoring his vital signs. Bright strip lighting on the ceiling. A clock on the far wall told him it was just after five in the afternoon. No windows. There was a low buzz from an air-conditioning unit. Against one wall was a trolley containing medical supplies – tablets, swabs, blue plastic bowls, sample pots. Danny glanced down at himself. His wound was swabbed and padded. Cannulas had been inserted on the back of both hands. Tubes emerged up to the drip stands. An uncomfortable feeling in his dick told him he was wearing a catheter. There was a background smell of antiseptic, but it was overpowered by a rank stench from Danny’s own body.

  He closed his eyes. ‘Get out of here,’ he breathed.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve been a busy boy, Black. I turn my back on you for seventy-two hours and what happens?’

  ‘I said, get out of here.’

  ‘You know, I can’t stop myself wondering which one you did first. The little girl, was it? No? Probably the mum then. Get the adults out of the way before you deal with the kiddies.’

  Danny exhaled slowly. Holroyd wasn’t making any sense – or was it just that Danny was confused? ‘What kids?’ he said.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. I’ve got the pictures. Your team have confessed. Tony Wiseman’s explained why he had to put you down. Under normal circumstances, those three would be looking at the wrong end of a ten-year stretch. As it happens, I’m sure we can forgive them their trespasses, in the light of what you did to that family.’

  Silence.

  ‘What pictures?’ Danny said. ‘What did Tony tell you?’

  ‘Everything, Black.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I knew you were a wrong ’un the moment I saw you. I didn’t predict you’d go berserk, granted, butcher a whole family. But it’s no less than I expected of your lot. Rules of engagement are there for a reason. As soon as we let heathens like you think they don’t apply, this is what happens. Dead women and children. You, my friend, are going down – and you’re going to bring your nasty little regiment of bully boys down with you.’ His toadlike smile spread across his face. ‘And when you’ve answered to me, you’ll answer to a higher power.’

  It still made no sense to Danny. He screwed up his face, trying to keep focused, trying to remember what happened. ‘Tony’s lying,’ he whispered. ‘The wife and kids were fine. I tied them up . . . that was all . . .’

  ‘That was all, hey?’ Holroyd said. ‘Well, it doesn’t look like all.’

  He held up a photograph, colour printed on to a piece of A4 paper. The picture was overexposed – a flash in a dark room – but the image was clear. Four bodies: one adult, three children. Duct tape round their heads. Wrists and ankles bound. But Danny’s eyes were immediately drawn to the horror. The bodies had been split along their torsos. Their guts were bulging out. Danny, who was no stranger to such sights, turned his head away.

  ‘Tony’s playing you,’ he breathed.

  Holroyd smiled. ‘Tony Wiseman,’ he said, ‘is following the right path for once in his life and blowing the whistle. Going the full Snowden, as we say. You, Danny Black, are the worst of everything your regiment represents. I’m making preparations to have you flown back to the UK. Once we’re on home turf, I’m going to throw the book at you.’ Holroyd straightened up. He looked Danny up and down, then placed the gruesome photograph on his bedside table. ‘I’ll leave that picture with you, so you can think carefully about your misdemeanours,’ he said. ‘You’re not in a position to go anywhere by yourself, but I’m putting security on your door anyway. Tony Wiseman seems to have a grudging respect for your abilities. I can’t say I share it.’

  He turned and walked to the exit.

  ‘Holroyd,’ Danny said.

  The RMP man turned. ‘What?’

  ‘Did they get him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The target.’

  Holroyd’s face twitched. ‘No thanks to you. After they’d called in your casualty evacuation, they chased the target north across dangerous ground. They got him in the end.’ He touched his lips with his fingertips again. ‘No doubt somebody at Spearpoint will manage to provide me with incontrovertible evidence that he was about to commit a terrible atrocity. But his family? That’s another matter entirely. You, soldier, will answer for this. In this world and the next. Believe me.’

  He turned again. As he left, Danny caught sight of an Afghan guy in uniform outside. Holroyd started talking to him, but the door swung shut so Danny couldn’t hear the conversation.

  Not that he needed to. Holroyd was plainly giving his guards their instructions.

  He heard the lock click shut.

  Danny told himself to keep calm. A sense of panic was rising in his gut. He forced himself to master it. He needed to clear his head. To work out what the hell was going on.

  His memory of the op was more concrete now. Everything had been going according to plan, right up until the point that Tony and the others had instructed him to leave the compound and head to the RV point. At that moment, he’d been suspicious of something going down. But what?

  And how had those innocent family members ended up not only dead but butchered? Had Tony and his guys done that? They had spun a web of lies. About Danny committing that atrocity, sure. But also about nailing the target. During the op, Dexter had said he’d shot Target Blue in the head while Danny was still in the compound. Tony had told Holroyd they’d gone after the target once they’d called for a casualty evacuation. One of those claims wasn’t true. Maybe both. But for the life of him, Danny couldn’t understand what advantage those lies handed his unit mates.

  Had it all been just to set Danny up? To frame him? Tony hated him; that was no secret. But would he really go to such lengths to fuck Danny over? Would he take such risks? Danny didn’t think so.

  But he knew this: whatever Tony was up to, he had Holroyd eating out of his hand. What was more, the RMP had made his decision about Danny before Danny had even been deployed. It was almost a crusade, as if Holroyd saw him, Danny, as the devil incarnate. As soon as he got airlifted back to the UK, his chances of changing anybody’s mind about what had happened were practically zero.

  He looked towards the door. Then down at the bandage on his shoulder. He tried to lift his left arm and winced with the pain. Movement was going to be difficult. But he did have to move. If he stayed here, he was fucked.

  A noise from the lock. The door opened. A doctor entered. He was wearing green overalls and carrying a clipboard.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said in decent English. ‘I’m Doctor Karim. I removed the bullet from your shoulder. How are you feeling?’

  ‘The catheter hurts,’ Danny said. ‘Can you take it out for me?’ Danny knew it wasn’t a job for unskilled hands.

  ‘Really it should stay—’

  ‘Please, doc. I’ll use a bottle or whatever.’

  The doctor inclined his head. He stood at the side of the bed, lifted the sheets and did what was necessary. ‘I’ll ask someone to remove the bag.’ He walked over to the trolley containing medical equipment and held up a plastic urine bottle to indicate that he would have to use that if necessary. ‘You are lucky. A couple of inches either way, the bullet would have . . .’ He left it hanging.

  ‘Thanks for fixing me up.’ Danny nodded towards the door. ‘They seem a bit nervous about having me here. I’m beginning to get a complex.’

  Doctor Karim forced a humourless smile and avoided Danny’s eyes. Danny knew, immediately, that he had suspicions about him. He knew there was no point trying to deny whatever fake news Holroyd and Tony had been spreading about him. All he could do was to make himself appear relaxed, to gather as much intel as he could, and maybe spread a little misinformation of his own. ‘Guess I’m not going anywhere,’ Danny said as the doctor examined the data on the machine next to his bed, ‘with an armed guard at my door.’

  ‘Two armed guards, sir,’ the doctor corrected.

  ‘Right,’ Danny said, noting that information. ‘Two armed guards. I guess I’ll be out of your hair soon, anyway. Seems they want me back in the UK when I’m fit to travel.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘So, when do you think that will be?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ the doctor said. ‘I have to keep you under observation for one more night.’

  ‘It’ll be good to get back,’ Danny said. ‘See the family.’

  The word ‘family’ had an effect on the doctor. Yeah, he knew.

  ‘Do you need anything for the pain?’ the doctor asked stiffly.

  ‘I’ll take whatever you’re offering,’ Danny said. ‘Just no morphine. I prefer to keep my system clean of that stuff.’

  The doctor nodded and walked over to the trolley against the far wall that contained the medical equipment. He selected a white box of tablets, placed two in a plastic bowl and poured a glass of water. He brought the pills over to Danny and helped him to take them. ‘If you need anything,’ he said, ‘press that button.’ He indicated a button to the left of the bed. ‘I’ll have someone check on you in the night and administer more pain relief if necessary. Is there anything else you require?’

  ‘I guess a hot flannel and a pretty nurse is out of the question?’

  The doctor didn’t look amused. ‘I’ll be here in the morning to discharge you,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ Danny said. ‘Thanks, doc. I appreciate it.’

  The doctor nodded curtly and left the room. The moment the door locked shut, Danny’s fake smile faded. He screwed his face up in pain.

  Time check: 18.29 hours. Danny watched the second hand of the clock on the wall tick a full revolution as he worked out his next move.

  He needed the cover of darkness. That much was sure. And he needed to wait until the medical facility was quiet. The doctor had told him that somebody would check on him in the night. He had to wait until that had happened. Between now and then, he needed to rest up. The painkillers were kicking in, but he was drained and exhausted. He needed as much vigour as possible if he was going to attempt to escape from a military base. There was no room for error: if he was caught trying to get away, Holroyd would take it as further proof that Tony was right.

  No fuck-ups, Danny, he told himself.

  There was a light switch by his bed. He reached over and hit it. The room descended into darkness. He decided that he would feign sleep, to lull his guards into security. In reality, he knew as he lay in the darkness that sleep would be impossible. His active mind, and the pain in his shoulder, would see to that.

  He listened to the clock ticking in the silent room.

  Minutes passed.

  Hours.

  He lay very still, breathing deeply.

  The door opened. A man entered. Behind him, through half-closed eyes, Danny saw his two armed guards. They were seated on either side of the door, legs stretched out. The position of their bodies told Danny they had a low level of awareness.

  The hospital guy switched the light on and leaned over Danny, who groaned. He caught sight of the clock: 23.00 hours exactly. The hospital guy said something in Pashto that Danny didn’t understand, then made a note of the readings on the monitor by his bed. He gave Danny some more painkillers, replaced one of the saline drips and then, wordlessly, switched the light off and left the room. Danny heard the click of the lock.

  He gave himself a couple of minutes for his eyes to get used to the darkness. When he had sufficient NV, he raised his right arm, peeled off the tape that kept the cannula pressed to the skin on the back of his hand, then gently slid the needle out of his body. He closed off the valve to stop the tube leaking, then repeated the process on his left hand, where it was more difficult because of the pain of his wound.

  Free of the tubes leading to the drip stands, he lay back again, clutching the two cannulas so that any unexpected visitors wouldn’t have their suspicions raised by the sight of unattached tubes. He would let half an hour pass. Time for things to settle down for the night in the medical facility.

  The second hands of the clock sounded improbably loud as he waited.

  When he had estimated that half an hour had passed, he drew a deep breath. ‘Hey,’ he called out. ‘Hey, I need some help in here.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hey, can you hear me?’

  The lock clicked. The door opened. One of the guards was silhouetted in the doorway. Danny could just make out the other one, still sitting, head back against the wall as though sleeping.

  The guard in the doorway grunted. A ‘what do you want?’ noise.

  ‘I need to take a piss, mate. You know? A piss? Can you help me out?’

  No reply. The guard stood stupidly in the doorway. Danny leaned over to switch the light on. Checked the time: 23.36. He nodded down at his groin area, made a pissing sound, then nodded towards the plastic bottle that the doctor had left on the trolley for that purpose.

  The guard looked disgusted.

  ‘Please, mate,’ Danny said. ‘I’m fucking desperate. I’ll do it myself.’

  Whether the guard understood him or not, Danny couldn’t tell. But he stepped inside the room, let the door shut behind him and walked over to the trolley. Danny checked him out as did so. He was a big guy, and young – no more than twenty – with a black beard, neatly trimmed. He was wearing standard camouflage gear and desert boots. There was no overt sign of a weapon, but the bulge under the right-hand side of his camo jacket told Danny that he was carrying a handgun there. His gait was relaxed and sloppy. He clearly didn’t see the wounded man lying in a hospital bed surrounded by drips and machines as a threat.

  That was his first mistake.

  His second mistake was getting too close.

  He took the urine bottle from the trolley, holding it between his fingertips like it was a disgusting object. Then he walked it over to Danny. When he was close, Danny reached out his good right hand to take it. The ANA guy’s eyes widened slightly as he saw the cannula fall from Danny’s palm, but by that time it was too late. Danny didn’t grab the urine bottle. He grabbed the guy’s wrist, then yanked him violently towards him.

  Speed was key. If Danny gave his opponent the chance to shout out, it would be game over. But his left arm was out of action. He had to put his man down one-handed. He released his grip, shaped his hand into a hammer fist and cracked it down against the side of his head with all the force he could muster. Danny inhaled sharply as the twisting of his body sent a shock of pain down from his wound. He did what he could to ignore it and delivered a second blow to the guard’s head. Not that it was necessary. The guy was already unconscious and sliding down to the floor.

  The scuffle had been noisier than Danny wanted it to be. He quickly slung his legs over the side of the bed and moved over to the door, his hospital robe flapping around his ankles, ready to attack the second guy if he came in to investigate. Breathing deeply to steady his pulse rate, he listened hard. There was no sound from the other side of the door. He didn’t seem to have alerted the second guard.