yanked the glove
compartment open. Inside was a Mac-10 and two magazines. An unwieldy and
unsophisticated weapon, but perhaps the ideal thing to keep hidden inside a
glove compartment. She punched one of the magazines into the handle of the snub
nosed machine pistol and crawled out into cover. Bullets pinged the classic
Jaguar and she could almost hear her father wince every time it was hit. The
MCU were raining down Hell on them. Major Stone’s men gave the same in return,
letting off round after whizzing round from their own pistols and revolvers.
Sarah snuck a peek over the car door she was kneeling behind
and saw Sergeant Mattock. He was aiming shots carefully, not, as yet, lining up
kill shots, seemingly more interested in suppressing the enemy than killing
him. It was a stupid tactic and not something Mattock would not do ignorantly.
Ollie was blind-firing around the back of one of the vans, squeezing his eyes
shut in fear as he pulled the trigger on a shiny revolver. He might not have
been the solider the rest of the men were, but he was keeping his ground all
the same. Rat was an entirely different animal. He was smiling gleefully as he
unloaded round upon round into one of the MCU’s black Range Rovers. Spots and
the older man, Graves, had similar expressions on their faces, but her father’s
final man, Rupert, was completely blank, returning fire like a robot and
showing no emotion of any kind. Sarah had seen men like him before, the ones
who entered a daze under fire and let their training take complete charge of
their actions. A pure soldier — not good, not evil, just thoroughly trained to
do a job.
“Sarah, take the blighters out,” her father shouted at her
from the other side of the car, bellowing through the open interior.
Sarah looked at the Mac-10 in her hands and realised she was
in a firefight. She couldn’t stay in cover while her comrades took heavy fire.
She was going to have to get involved. It was time to commit herself to her new
family. She leapt up and pulled the trigger.
Mattock didn’t see her until it was too late.
14
Summer, 1987
“Sarah, dinner in one hour.”
Eight-year-old Sarah ran through the living room and into
the kitchen where her mother stood in front of the stove. The air was hot, from
both the bright sunlight coming through the window and from the heat coming
from the cottage’s Aga. They had lived there less than a year, after having
decided to lay down roots, instead of moving all over the world with her daddy.
Sarah loved her new home and had even made a friend at school. Her name was
Holly and her parents were farmers. Sometimes, Sarah even got to spend time
with her daddy, who was home at the moment for two whole weeks. Her daddy was a
brave soldier.
“Can I go out and play until it’s ready?” Sarah asked her
mother.
“Of course, but don’t wander off into the road. Stay by the
house.”
“Can I have a biscuit to take out with me?”
Her mother turned away from the bubbling pot on the stove
and looked at her daughter. She rolled her eyes. “Go on, then. But only one.”
Sarah hopped up in the air and then ran over to the biscuit
tin, taking out her favourite chocolate digestive. She took a bite immediately
but took the rest out into the sunshine with her. She decided to play beside
the house, in the pebbled driveway that was flat enough for her to kick her
football around. Her father was always on at her about how little girls should not
be interested in playing football, but she loved running around and kicking it
far more than playing with her dolls or the plastic kitchen she had got for
Christmas.
Her daddy was in the garage, where she was not to disturb
him. She often heard him talking in there on the phone he had at the back,
inside a little office, but she never understood what he was saying. He spoke
lots about places with funny names and about men that sounded scary. She always
stayed away from the garage.
Her daddy’s car was parked
compartment open. Inside was a Mac-10 and two magazines. An unwieldy and
unsophisticated weapon, but perhaps the ideal thing to keep hidden inside a
glove compartment. She punched one of the magazines into the handle of the snub
nosed machine pistol and crawled out into cover. Bullets pinged the classic
Jaguar and she could almost hear her father wince every time it was hit. The
MCU were raining down Hell on them. Major Stone’s men gave the same in return,
letting off round after whizzing round from their own pistols and revolvers.
Sarah snuck a peek over the car door she was kneeling behind
and saw Sergeant Mattock. He was aiming shots carefully, not, as yet, lining up
kill shots, seemingly more interested in suppressing the enemy than killing
him. It was a stupid tactic and not something Mattock would not do ignorantly.
Ollie was blind-firing around the back of one of the vans, squeezing his eyes
shut in fear as he pulled the trigger on a shiny revolver. He might not have
been the solider the rest of the men were, but he was keeping his ground all
the same. Rat was an entirely different animal. He was smiling gleefully as he
unloaded round upon round into one of the MCU’s black Range Rovers. Spots and
the older man, Graves, had similar expressions on their faces, but her father’s
final man, Rupert, was completely blank, returning fire like a robot and
showing no emotion of any kind. Sarah had seen men like him before, the ones
who entered a daze under fire and let their training take complete charge of
their actions. A pure soldier — not good, not evil, just thoroughly trained to
do a job.
“Sarah, take the blighters out,” her father shouted at her
from the other side of the car, bellowing through the open interior.
Sarah looked at the Mac-10 in her hands and realised she was
in a firefight. She couldn’t stay in cover while her comrades took heavy fire.
She was going to have to get involved. It was time to commit herself to her new
family. She leapt up and pulled the trigger.
Mattock didn’t see her until it was too late.
14
Summer, 1987
“Sarah, dinner in one hour.”
Eight-year-old Sarah ran through the living room and into
the kitchen where her mother stood in front of the stove. The air was hot, from
both the bright sunlight coming through the window and from the heat coming
from the cottage’s Aga. They had lived there less than a year, after having
decided to lay down roots, instead of moving all over the world with her daddy.
Sarah loved her new home and had even made a friend at school. Her name was
Holly and her parents were farmers. Sometimes, Sarah even got to spend time
with her daddy, who was home at the moment for two whole weeks. Her daddy was a
brave soldier.
“Can I go out and play until it’s ready?” Sarah asked her
mother.
“Of course, but don’t wander off into the road. Stay by the
house.”
“Can I have a biscuit to take out with me?”
Her mother turned away from the bubbling pot on the stove
and looked at her daughter. She rolled her eyes. “Go on, then. But only one.”
Sarah hopped up in the air and then ran over to the biscuit
tin, taking out her favourite chocolate digestive. She took a bite immediately
but took the rest out into the sunshine with her. She decided to play beside
the house, in the pebbled driveway that was flat enough for her to kick her
football around. Her father was always on at her about how little girls should not
be interested in playing football, but she loved running around and kicking it
far more than playing with her dolls or the plastic kitchen she had got for
Christmas.
Her daddy was in the garage, where she was not to disturb
him. She often heard him talking in there on the phone he had at the back,
inside a little office, but she never understood what he was saying. He spoke
lots about places with funny names and about men that sounded scary. She always
stayed away from the garage.
Her daddy’s car was parked
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