Firefight

• Title
  
• By the Same Author
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Acknowledgements
  
• Epigraph
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter ONE
  
• Chapter TWO
  
• Chapter THREE
  
• Chapter FOUR
  
• Chapter FIVE
  
• Chapter SIX
  
• Chapter SEVEN
  
• Chapter EIGHT
  
• Chapter NINE
  
• Chapter TEN
  
• Chapter ELEVEN
  
• Chapter TWELVE
  
• Chapter THIRTEEN
  
• Chapter FOURTEEN
  
• Chapter FIFTEEN
  
• Chapter SIXTEEN
  
• Chapter SEVENTEEN
  
• Chapter EIGHTEEN
  
• Chapter NINETEEN
  
• Chapter TWENTY
  
• Epilogue
  

Firefight

Also by Chris Ryan

Non-fiction
The One That Got Away
Chris Ryan's SAS Fitness Book
Chris Ryan's Ultimate Survival Guide

Fiction
Stand By, Stand By
Zero Option
The Kremlin Device
Tenth Man Down
The Hit List
The Watchman
Land of Fire
Greed
The Increment
Blackout
Ultimate Weapon
Strike Back

In the Alpha Force Series
Survival
Rat-Catcher
Desert Pursuit
Hostage
Red Centre
Hunted
Black Gold
Blood Money
Fault Line
Untouchable

In the Code Red Series
Flash Flood
Wildfire
Outbreak

CHRIS
RYAN

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781407005379

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Century 2008
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright © Chris Ryan 2008

Chris Ryan has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the
author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by
Century
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

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The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

ISBN: 9781407005379

Version 1.0

To my agent Barbara Levy, editor Mark Booth, Charlotte
Haycock, Charlotte Bush and the rest of the team at Century

'I do not wish to kill or be killed, but I can foresee circumstances
in which both these things would be by me
unavoidable.'

-
A Plea for Captain John Brown
, Henry David Thoreau

Rome, Italy. Mid-December. 17.00 hours.

Rain fell in the darkness outside the Moschea di Roma,
Rome's only mosque; but despite the cold drizzle outside,
inside Abdul-Qahhar felt warm. There were many men
here for evening prayer, filling the magnificent interior of
the mosque with the heat of their bodies and the comforting
sounds of their chants as they knelt towards Mecca. And as
prayers came to an end, they stood up and shook hands
with one another, smiles on their faces as they chatted with
exquisite politeness under the huge, ornate, white dome of
the mosque.

'I invite you to join us for tea,' said the man with whom
Abdul-Qahhar had enjoyed a number of conversations in
the past couple of weeks.

'Thank you,' Abdul-Qahhar replied. 'But tonight I think
I will just go home.
Allahu Akbar
.'

The man shrugged his shoulders, but in a friendly manner.

'
Allahu Akbar
,' he replied in the traditional way, before smiling
and turning to another group of friends who had congregated
nearby.

Abdul-Qahhar had not been in Rome long. When he
arrived he was just another foreign student at the university
and barely knew anybody; but the first thing he did
was hunt out the mosque, and soon he had been embraced
by the arms of that community. Like-minded people in a
strange land.

Prayer was important to Abdul-Qahhar. It refreshed him.
So much so that he found he did not mind the rain as he
stepped out of the mosque and down the steps. It was not
far to his little bedsit, which he had chosen because it was
so close to the mosque, and he arrived there quickly - wet,
but not disconsolate. He put his key to the door of the
apartment block, but as he did so it opened anyway, as the
elderly lady who lived two floors below him exited.

'
Buona sera
,' he said with a smile, doing his best to
pronounce the unfamiliar words in an understandable way.

The old lady stared aggressively at him, then brushed past,
mumbling to herself. She had never been friendly, at least
not to him. It was common enough for people to be like
that. Abdul-Qahhar might be wearing fashionable Italian
jeans, but no amount of denim could hide the colour of
his skin, and there were many people, especially in these
difficult times, who saw no more than that. It made some
of his fellow countrymen angry, but Abdul-Qahhar wasn't
an angry kind of person. Be polite to everyone, that was
his motto. Be polite to everyone, and they will soon learn
that they have nothing to fear from you.

'
Buon Natale
,' he called after her. 'Happy Christmas.' Of
course, Christmas meant nothing to him, but he understood
its importance, especially to the inhabitants of Rome,
living as they were in the shadow of the Vatican. As
Christmas was just around the corner, he saw no reason
to refrain from offering festive greetings to the Italians he
encountered in his day-to-day life. Normally they seemed
pleasantly surprised.

The old lady did not turn back, however, so Abdul-Qahhar
closed the door behind him and climbed the stairs, not bothering
to hit the button that illuminated the time-controlled
overhead light, because he knew it didn't work. Instead he
groped in the darkness, his hand sliding firmly up the wooden
banister. On the second floor was the smell of cooking; on
the fifth floor he heard the ever-present radio playing
Christmas music. Abdul-Qahhar's apartment was on the top
floor, and up here it was silent.

The bedsit was sparsely furnished, but his needs were few.
A bed, a desk, a bookshelf and a small hob for preparing
food. He stripped out of his wet clothes and placed them
on the enormous, elderly radiator that heated the entire
apartment surprisingly effectively, then went to his meagre
closet and pulled out some dry jeans and a T-shirt. He found
it strange wearing these Western clothes instead of the more
comfortable dishdash, but he could not wear the all-in-one
Arabic garment in the streets of Rome, or any other Western
city for that matter, and he knew he had to get used to a
different style of dress. He fixed himself something to eat,
then sat cross-legged on his bed and immersed himself in
his battered, treasured copy of the Koran. He should really
be studying, but sometimes he hankered after the nannying
effect the holy book had on him, and this was one of those
times.

As his eyes scanned from right to left and he absorbed
the poetry of the text, Abdul-Qahhar lost track of time.
When finally he looked at the small clock on his bedside
table, he was amazed to see that it was nearly midnight.
Regretfully, he closed the book, placed it on his little bookshelf,
and went to the sink to fetch himself a glass of water.

He stopped. There was a noise from somewhere. From
outside. But he was on the top of the building, eight floors
up. It must have been just a bird, or perhaps the rain. Walking
to the window he pulled back the frayed curtains, but saw
nothing other than the rooftop of the opposite apartment
block and the clouds scudding in front of the silvery crescent
moon. He drew the curtain again and put the noise from
his mind. Sometimes the pipes could make strange sounds
in these old buildings, sounds that could be creepy in the
middle of the night. That was it. The pipes. He returned to
the sink, turned on the tap, filled his glass and sipped it
thoughtfully.

Abdul-Qahhar was halfway back to his bed when there
was another noise. He turned his head quickly towards the
door. It seemed to have come from outside, in the corridor,
and this time round there was no mistaking it: it was no bird;
it wasn't the rain; it didn't sound like the pipes. It sounded
to him like there was someone there, outside his apartment.

The blood ran cold in his veins.

'
Chi è?'
he called. And then, because he was unsure of
his Italian, he lapsed into English, a language with which
he was more confident and which was more widely understood
than his native Arabic. 'Who's there?'

There was a pause, a silence. And then, with the sudden
force of a thunderclap, they came at him from two sides.

The door burst open and Abdul-Qahhar just had time
to see three men, dressed in black and wearing dark balaclavas,
burst in before the window shattered and another
two landed only feet away from him. All five men brandished
ugly-looking weaponry and the guns were pointed
his way.

'Hit the floor!' one of them shouted in a muffled American
accent. 'Hit the fucking floor.
Now!
'

Abdul-Qahhar felt a harsh blow on the back of his knee
and collapsed, jelly-legged, to the floor.

'Hands behind your back,' the American voice instructed
as the barrel of a gun was placed against his head. He did
as he was told, and as his wrists were roughly handcuffed
with what felt like strips of plastic, a warm, moist sensation
spread through the cloth of his jeans.

'He's pissed himself,' a terse voice said - an English voice
this time, one of the men who had come through the
window. There was no distaste in the way he said it, just a
cold, clinical tone of observation. Certainly he didn't sound
surprised.

'Hood him,' the American instructed and instantly a piece
of course material was forced over Abdul-Qahhar's head,
then tied uncomfortably round his neck; he could breathe,
but only just.

Too scared to speak, he was manhandled to his feet and
pushed forward, through the door of his flat and down the
steps. None of the men said a word as he was rushed down
the seemingly endless flight of stairs and out into the pouring
rain. Above the patter of the raindrops on the ground, he
heard another noise. It was the engine of a vehicle, and it
was being revved. Abdul-Qahhar heard the sound of doors
opening, and without ceremony he was bundled into the
back and pushed over. He shouted out in Arabic as his head
hit the metal floor.

'Shut the fuck up!' a voice said, as the doors slammed
shut and the vehicle jolted into movement.

The urine-soaked patch of his jeans was cold and clammy
now; but his head was hot as he took deep breaths in an
attempt both to calm himself down and swallow big gulps
of precious oxygen. In his mind he saw the guns of his
abductors, and could still feel that patch on his head where
the barrel of the rifle had been pressed. He closed his eyes
in the darkness of his hood and started to mutter the prayers
that he had recited in the mosque only a short time ago.

'
Allahu Akbar min kulli shay. Allahu Akbar min kulli shay.
' But
in the middle of his private chant, he spluttered as a heavily
booted foot kicked him hard in the stomach.

'Quiet!' a voice barked and Abdul-Qahhar did as he was
told. Perhaps soon, he thought to himself, he would wake
up; perhaps soon he would find himself on his bed, having
nodded off over the Koran; perhaps soon the nightmare
would end.

In the darkness, time had no meaning. Abdul-Qahhar
could not have said how long it was before the vehicle
came to a halt and he was manhandled out of the rear
doors. Outside the rain had stopped, but it seemed to be
incredibly windy and there was a loud mechanical noise
that he could not quite place.

'Take his hood off!' a voice shouted. The material was
untied and the hood pulled roughly from his head. Abdul-
Qahhar scrunched his eyes up painfully as a bright light
shone directly in his face. As he gradually opened his eyes,
however, he saw what was making the noise and the wind:
an enormous helicopter, preparing for take-off.

One of the balaclava'd men approached him with his
gun. 'We can do this one of two ways,' he screamed above
the noise of the helicopter. 'You come quietly and get on
the chopper without a struggle; or we do it the painful
way.'

Abdul-Qahhar felt his body start to shake. 'Please,' he
begged,'I have a great fear of flying. Please, there is a terrible
mistake. I don't know who you are, or what you think I've
done, but there really has been the most terrible mis -.'

He was cut short as the butt of a rifle struck him hard
in the pit of his stomach. He bent double in pain, but as
he did so he was dragged towards the helicopter. The rotating
blades sounded louder, an enormous, ear-filling whine, and
the force of the wind almost threatened to blow him over.

As a renewed surge of panic overcame him, he started to
struggle. 'Please!' he yelled. 'There has been a mistake!' And
almost as though he had lost control of his own actions,
he made to run away from the group of armed figures who
were escorting him to the chopper.

He didn't get far. One of his captors grabbed him hard
by the throat; another forced the hood over his head again.

'No!' Abdul-Qahhar shouted. 'Not that! Please, I will come
with you!' But even as he spoke, the hood was tied around
his neck once more and he felt himself being dragged closer
to the helicopter.

He was on a ramp now and the noise of the rotors
seemed to fill all his senses. It was too much: his fear of
flying seemed to pulse through every vein, and with a great
and terrified roar he made one last, desperate attempt to
break free from his captors.

It was a vain move. Instantly he felt the sickening crunch
of hard metal against his head. A moment of dizziness, of
nausea, before he fell hard to the ground, mercifully unconscious,
at least for a little while.

When he awoke, the hood had been removed from his
head. His skull was pounding and he felt sick. He had no
way of knowing how long he had been out cold, but he
could tell that they were airborne and he found himself
unable to move through terror. He tried to speak, but the
words would not come out of his mouth, which was sandpaper-dry.
As he looked up, he saw the five men still there
with him, only now they had taken off their balaclavas.
Through the gloom and his fear, however, he found it
impossible to tell one face from the other.

After a while, the popping in his ears and a slight lurch
in his stomach told him that they were losing altitude. 'What
is happening?' he croaked.

But nobody answered - they just kept their weapons
trained on him.

Minutes later they landed. 'Welcome to Poland,' a gruff
voice said.

'Poland?' he gasped. 'What do you mean? I promise you,
this is a mistake.'

Nobody answered. Instead, Abdul-Qahhar was manhandled
to his feet and roughly escorted off the chopper. There
was snow outside. The cold air hit his lungs like an electric
shock, and the rotors of the chopper whipped up the
powdery snow into a blizzard that chapped his face harshly
and blinded him. His captors seemed to know where they
were going, however. They pulled him away from the
chopper and towards a large mound of earth, covered in
thick snow, but with a concrete opening in the side. There
was a door, which was open and out of which came a flood
of yellow light. Abdul-Qahhar was pushed through that
opening, down a flight of steps and along a long, dimly lit
underground corridor.

The room to which he was taken was icy cold and
contained nothing other than a hard metal chair firmly
bolted to the ground and a large tinted window in one of
the grey concrete walls. Abdul-Qahhar's handcuffs were
removed, then he was thrown into the chair; a new set of
sturdier cuffs strapped his arms down, before his legs were
also fastened to his chair. Without a word, his captors left
the room; he heard them lock the door behind him.

'Let me go!' he shouted. 'Please! Let me go! I'm just a
student. You've got the wrong person.' He felt a tear ooze
down his face as his voice echoed off the concrete walls.

No one answered his call.

It was freezing, and soon his teeth were chattering and
his limbs shaking.

'Help me!' he shouted. And then, more feebly, in a voice
that no one would have heard, even if they were listening:
'Help me. I'm so cold. Please, help me.'