The Child Taker & Slow Burn Read Online Free PDF Page B

and Tank’s body armour was saturated with sweat as they crept beneath the Somali militiamen. The ancient floorboards above them creaked and then there was a loud bumping sound. Something heavy had landed on the floor above them and dust billowed down onto the task force men. Tank froze and held up his hand, a signal to stop.
    The Somali men began laughing and there was another loud bumping sound, followed by another avalanche of dust and grit. Two pairs of legs wiggled as the Somalis laughed. Tank guessed that they were throwing stones from the rubble at impromptu targets, unseen to the counter-terrorist unit below. He motioned his colleague forward again and they were less than three yards away from the dangling legs when the Somalis stopped laughing. There was an excited exchange of words between the militiamen.
    The sound of the approaching Heli-vac was now clearly audible, although it was still far away. The drumming of the engines combined with the staccato of distant machinegun fire had startled the two men, and they were obviously debating what their next plan of action was. Tank signalled with three fingers held up, and a silent countdown began. Three, two, one, and the task force men moved like lightning. Tank grabbed one skinny ankle with his right hand and pulled down hard. The Somali made a squawking noise as he fell through the dusty air and he hit the rubble-strewn ground with a heavy thump. Tank was surprised how light the man was. There was barely any resistance. He was on top of him in a flash, his serrated commando knife was hurtling towards the prone Somali’s throat and then his brain registered several things at once. The man was too light, his clothes were too baggy, his eyes were too frightened and his face was that of a boy. Tank pulled the blade to the right at the last second and it plunged into the compacted sandy floor beneath his head. The Somali could not have been any more than twelve years old. The boy stared at Tank with wild frightened eyes, his mouth was open but there was no sound coming from him. Tank looked around to see how the second Somali had fared. He was lying on his back with his head hanging unnaturally to the side, staring with a lifeless gaze. His tongue was lolling from the side of his mouth and his lifeblood was gushing from a deep rent in his throat. Tank reckoned him to be older, not by much, but definitely not a boy. He signalled to the task force men behind him. They moved through the doorway as one slick unit and joined them.
    “Tie him up next to his friend,” Tank whispered. The agent that he spoke to had a look of uncertainty in his eyes. Tank saw it. “Is there a problem?”
    The agent knew better than to question an order from a senior ranking officer, especially if his name was John Tankersley. The problem was that on a mission as dangerous and covert as this one, no witnesses could be left behind, no matter how old they were. The agent grabbed the frightened boy and dragged him to where his dead friend lay. He took a Plasticuffs from his utility strap and fastened it tightly around the boy’s wrists. Tears ran freely down the boy’s black skin, making shiny trails across his grimy face. He was shaking like a leaf. The agent reached across to the dead Somali and ripped a strip of material from his shirt. The young boy knew that it was to become a gag and he cooperated without a whimper. The Somali militias grew up fast, and this young boy realised that his survival depended on being quiet, not being brave. The sight of his friend bleeding out like a pig in a slaughterhouse confirmed his logic.
    “I don’t think that we should leave him behind, Tank,” the agent whispered into the coms unit.
    “You don’t need to think, you need to follow orders,” Tank hissed back across the coms.
    “Pilgrim two, do we have a problem?” The Major’s voice broke into the conversation.
    “No problem, Sir,” Tank replied. “Number three was expressing his opinion,”