The Hostage by Duncan Falconer

the trigger once again. It fired, and on fully automatic!
    Stratton had already unclipped his seatbelt and was leaning well out of the cab as the helicopter pulled up into the hover ten feet above the ground. At the sound of the gunfire he jumped, ripping the giro-steady cable from the consul. He hit the ground and jammed the rifle into his shoulder, searching for a target as the helicopter backed away from the fire.
    Stratton saw movement beyond the hedge near the van but he was not about to shoot at anyone he could not positively identify.
    The Gazelle landed not far behind him, its rotors remaining on full revs. Stratton ran forward, reached the hedgerow a few yards behind the van, dropped the rifle, and took out his pistol. He eased through a gap in the hedge and stepped down on to the lane. It was all very quiet but for the hiss of steam from the van’s engine. Stratton paused to tune his senses and then cautiously headed to the front of the van. He saw the windshield smashed out and Sean lying in the hedge. In the field just beyond a sub-machine-gun was lying in the grass. Stratton eased forward, eyes everywhere, and reached through the hedge to feel the gun’s barrel. It was hot. He then heard what sounded like a snapping stick some distance away and stood on the front bumper of the van so that he could see over the hedge. In the distance a man was limping heavily away.
    Stratton stepped back down into the lane and made his way to the rear of the van. One of the doors had popped open on impact. He looked inside. There was some movement and the sound of strained breathing. Stratton climbed in to find the two Irishmen broken and bloody against the back of the seats. The one sandwiched between the crate and the seat was motionless and judging by the unnatural position of his head, twisted three-quarters of the way around, it looked as if his neck was broken. The other lay in an awkward position unable to move, watching Stratton, his every breath a painful effort. Stratton aimed his gun at the man who was in too much pain to care and remained staring at Stratton. A noise came from inside the crate that was lying on its side. Stratton ignored the broken man and pulled the crate over so that the lid was upright. He noticed the bullet hole in the top and its corresponding exit point in the side. He unlatched the lid and opened it expecting to find Spinks seriously damaged.
    Spinks lay tightly inside the cramped space squinting up at Stratton, adjusting his eyes to the light, as frightened as he was hopeful.
    ‘You okay, Spinks?’
    Spinks blinked hard as the images came into focus. He knew that voice.
    ‘Stratton?’
    ‘Can you walk?’
    ‘Stratton,’ he repeated, still afraid it was some kind of hallucination. ‘Tell me it’s really you.’
    ‘It’s me. Are you hurt?’ Stratton asked, then noticed the blood on Spinks’s jacket and crouched to get a better look. ‘You’ve been hit.’
    ‘They shot me,’ Spinks said.
    Stratton raced through his options if he couldn’t move Spinks, none of which were good. This had all been about saving Spinks and there was no point doing anything that would put his health in jeopardy having got this far.
    It was as if Spinks had read Stratton’s mind. ‘Where are we?’ he asked.
    ‘In the South.’
    ‘Then we’d better get going,’ he said as he raised his hands, gripped the sides of the box, and started to pull himself up. A pain shot across his chest and Stratton quickly grabbed him.
    ‘Easy,’ Stratton said.
    Spinks took several short breaths. ‘I can do it,’ he said then pulled himself once again until he was sitting upright. Stratton inspected the entry and exit points high on his chest. ‘As bullet holes go, they’re in an okay place.’
    ‘That’s good,’ Spinks said, attempting sarcasm. He then braced himself for a major effort to stand with Stratton’s help and climb out of the box. His knees almost gave way as they took his full weight but Stratton