PP-2000 and scarpered.
With the other Messengers content to put down rounds from their concealed positions, Gardner pulled back from the window and tended to Falcon.
‘Wal-ah,’ Falcon said. Gardner could see his lips were dry as bread crust. He retrieved Falcon’s canteen and tipped a precious few drops into his open mouth. Falcon swallowed greedily. Gardner had a sip himself. Wished it contained something a little stronger.
Falcon was slipping in and out of consciousness now, his eyes glazed over. Gardner gave him a hard slap on both chops.
‘Wakey, wakey. We need to get arses into gear.’
‘Where am I?’
‘In Rio, mate.’
‘I’m dying.’
‘Bollocks. You’ll be fine.’
Falcon mumbled something that sounded like a prayer.
‘Do yourself a favour and look at the ceiling,’ Gardner said, as isolated bullets pinged against the front of the school. He rolled up Falcon’s left trouser leg, unlacing the combat boot to get a close-up view of the trauma wound.
‘How is it… bad?’
Gardner didn’t reply.
The lower portion of Falcon’s leg was totally fucked.
Beneath his knee the skin was singed and covered in burn marks, like his leg had been used as an ashtray. The bullet wound was a smooth, inch-wide circle bang in the centre of his shin, blowing out the bone and everything else with it – muscle, skin, a piece of his trousers. The lower half of his leg flopped like a rag doll.
‘Want the good news first, or the bad?’
‘I’ll take the good.’
‘It could have been worse,’ Gardner said. ‘You’ve been shot in a part of your body that’s mostly bone. If the fucker caught you higher up the leg, at the knee or thigh, they’d have burst your popliteal or femoral artery and caused you to bleed out.’
‘So I’m not going to—?’ asked Falcon, risking a sideways glance at his leg.
‘No, mate. You’ll live.’ Gardner smiled. ‘The bad news is, until we get you to a doctor, it’s gonna feel like you got an arrow stuck through your ankle, and there’s no morphine to numb the pain.’
The rate of gunfire suddenly increased. Dozens of bullets struck the door, like a hundred sets of hands rapping against the woodwork. Rounds whizzed through the exposed window. The noise lacerated Gardner’s ears.
I need a distraction, he thought. Something to give us a chance to bug out. He rummaged through the pouches on Falcon’s assault vest and located an M67 frag grenade. A little buzz of excitement rose inside him. Trailing back to the window, he tore the safety pin from the clip, maintaining a firm grasp on the spoon to stop the grenade igniting. He released the spoon, waited two seconds for the cook-off, and then raced past the window, lobbing the grenade thirty metres into the street. The M67 rolled.
Four metres short of a Messenger’s foot, it came to rest.
Gardner stepped away from the window as the Messenger moved to pick up the grenade. He was going to chuck it back to its sender, like they did in the movies. But the grenade had less than a second to detonate, and as he disappeared from view Gardner heard a powerful
whump
, accompanied by the sound of hot steel splintering flesh and concrete, like a million stones spilling. Someone screamed at the top of his voice and suddenly Gardner was back in Sangin, listening to the life bleed out of the delirious kid to his right.
‘What about a tourniquet?’ Falcon asked.
‘On that? Fat chance, mate. Cutting off the blood supply will do more harm than good. Leave it exposed for now, until we can get it properly seen to.’
‘Shit, my lungs. I – I can’t breathe.’ Falcon looked at Gardner’s outstretched hand, seized it. ‘Fuck. Those bastards keep coming. They won’t stop, not until we’re both hanging by our legs.’
‘We’ll pull back to the rear. The school’s not far from the jungle, right?’
‘A hundred metres, maybe less. Why?’
‘That’s where John Bald is.’
Gardner shouldered Falcon and led the way
With the other Messengers content to put down rounds from their concealed positions, Gardner pulled back from the window and tended to Falcon.
‘Wal-ah,’ Falcon said. Gardner could see his lips were dry as bread crust. He retrieved Falcon’s canteen and tipped a precious few drops into his open mouth. Falcon swallowed greedily. Gardner had a sip himself. Wished it contained something a little stronger.
Falcon was slipping in and out of consciousness now, his eyes glazed over. Gardner gave him a hard slap on both chops.
‘Wakey, wakey. We need to get arses into gear.’
‘Where am I?’
‘In Rio, mate.’
‘I’m dying.’
‘Bollocks. You’ll be fine.’
Falcon mumbled something that sounded like a prayer.
‘Do yourself a favour and look at the ceiling,’ Gardner said, as isolated bullets pinged against the front of the school. He rolled up Falcon’s left trouser leg, unlacing the combat boot to get a close-up view of the trauma wound.
‘How is it… bad?’
Gardner didn’t reply.
The lower portion of Falcon’s leg was totally fucked.
Beneath his knee the skin was singed and covered in burn marks, like his leg had been used as an ashtray. The bullet wound was a smooth, inch-wide circle bang in the centre of his shin, blowing out the bone and everything else with it – muscle, skin, a piece of his trousers. The lower half of his leg flopped like a rag doll.
‘Want the good news first, or the bad?’
‘I’ll take the good.’
‘It could have been worse,’ Gardner said. ‘You’ve been shot in a part of your body that’s mostly bone. If the fucker caught you higher up the leg, at the knee or thigh, they’d have burst your popliteal or femoral artery and caused you to bleed out.’
‘So I’m not going to—?’ asked Falcon, risking a sideways glance at his leg.
‘No, mate. You’ll live.’ Gardner smiled. ‘The bad news is, until we get you to a doctor, it’s gonna feel like you got an arrow stuck through your ankle, and there’s no morphine to numb the pain.’
The rate of gunfire suddenly increased. Dozens of bullets struck the door, like a hundred sets of hands rapping against the woodwork. Rounds whizzed through the exposed window. The noise lacerated Gardner’s ears.
I need a distraction, he thought. Something to give us a chance to bug out. He rummaged through the pouches on Falcon’s assault vest and located an M67 frag grenade. A little buzz of excitement rose inside him. Trailing back to the window, he tore the safety pin from the clip, maintaining a firm grasp on the spoon to stop the grenade igniting. He released the spoon, waited two seconds for the cook-off, and then raced past the window, lobbing the grenade thirty metres into the street. The M67 rolled.
Four metres short of a Messenger’s foot, it came to rest.
Gardner stepped away from the window as the Messenger moved to pick up the grenade. He was going to chuck it back to its sender, like they did in the movies. But the grenade had less than a second to detonate, and as he disappeared from view Gardner heard a powerful
whump
, accompanied by the sound of hot steel splintering flesh and concrete, like a million stones spilling. Someone screamed at the top of his voice and suddenly Gardner was back in Sangin, listening to the life bleed out of the delirious kid to his right.
‘What about a tourniquet?’ Falcon asked.
‘On that? Fat chance, mate. Cutting off the blood supply will do more harm than good. Leave it exposed for now, until we can get it properly seen to.’
‘Shit, my lungs. I – I can’t breathe.’ Falcon looked at Gardner’s outstretched hand, seized it. ‘Fuck. Those bastards keep coming. They won’t stop, not until we’re both hanging by our legs.’
‘We’ll pull back to the rear. The school’s not far from the jungle, right?’
‘A hundred metres, maybe less. Why?’
‘That’s where John Bald is.’
Gardner shouldered Falcon and led the way
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