‘That’s it, they’ve blocked us off,’ Carter groaned.

In the middle of the market-place was a large bonfire; an oil drum, piled with broken-up wooden pallets that illuminated the whole area with a flickering amber glow. Surrounding it, enjoying the warmth and chattering animatedly were at least thirty militia. Beyond them, beyond the market-place, was the road out of town, and just visible, the bridge over the Tigris.

‘What do you think?’ asked Andy.

Carter was silent for a moment before replying. Andy noticed the young officer biting down on his bottom lip, a nervous gesture he’d been aware of back in the compound. But now it seemed a little more pronounced; the young man’s head shook a little too, just the slightest tic that suggested to Andy that Carter was beginning to fracture inside.

‘I d-don’t know. There’s a lot of those bastards out there, and a lot of distance for us to run across. Maybe if it wasn’t for that bloody bonfire, we might have been able to sneak across to the bridge. But this, this isn’t so good.’

Andy looked down at his watch. ‘Shit, we’ve only got nine minutes left. We have to do something!’

Carter shook his head. ‘We . . . we won’t make it through.’

‘Fuck it!’ Andy hissed at him. ‘We can’t stay here either. They’ll be coming up behind us in a minute. We’ve got to go—’

They heard the throaty rumble of a vehicle approaching - it sounded like it was coming down the main road, from the centre of town, and fast, very fast.

A moment later, Andy noticed the men out in the market-place reacting, turning towards the source of the approaching noise. They weren’t readying their guns yet, perhaps thinking the approaching vehicle was bringing more militia up to help them block off this end of town.

And then the truck rolled into view, rumbling down the main road, flanked on either side by the rows of empty market stalls. Without warning, it slewed to a halt. And from the back of the truck Andy saw several dark forms sitting up.

Carter’s hand went up to his earpiece. ‘Those are our boys . . . their PRR just came into range. They’re chattering like a bunch of fishwives.’

‘Who is it?’ asked Andy, ‘Westley’s lot?’

‘That might be Corporal Westley’s lot,’ whispered Carter, ‘or the Fijian bloke’s.’

Andy counted the heads on the back of the truck. ‘Or maybe both.’

The truck came to a halt, on the edge of the perimeter clearly illuminated by the bonfire. The militia-men gathered round the fire, turned to look at the truck. From their casual demeanour, Andy guessed they assumed the men on the back of the truck were theirs.

‘I think they’re waiting for us,’ he whispered to Carter. ‘They’ve slowed down for us, but they can’t stay for long.’

Lieutenant Carter nodded. ‘Maybe.’

Carter studied the edge of the market-place.

‘No sign of Zulu then.’

Andy shook his head. ‘None.’

Carter cursed under his breath.

Andy looked out at the market-place. ‘We’ve got to go!’

‘They’ll see us the moment we step out.’

Andy looked back down the rat-run. Bolton’s gun had stopped chattering a minute ago, and he could see the flashlight beams bobbing towards them. ‘We can’t bloody stay!’

Derry and Peters looked uncertainly at their CO. ‘Sir?’

Carter shook his head. ‘It’s too open, too far.’

Andy grabbed the officer’s arm. ‘Fuck it. This is it. This is our last chance. I’m going.’

He pulled himself to his feet, crouched low, ready to sprint out into the open.

‘All right,’ said Carter, ‘we all go. Fire and manoeuvre in twos. Okay?’

‘Friendlies coming in from our left lads! Give the bastards some covering fire!’

Almost immediately the dozen men on the back of the truck let rip, firing into the scattering shapes of the militia. The short volley took down about a dozen men and was initially uncontested as they scrambled for positions, but very quickly return fire forced the men on the truck to duck back down.

Westley waited a few seconds before sticking his head up to scan the situation. All the militia had gone to ground. There was a paucity of cover for them; the meagre planks and rusty tube-metal frames of the empty market stalls weren’t going to stop anything. Some were firing back towards the truck, and the occasional rattle and spark against the thick side of the truck’s bed was a testament to the fact that some of them had recovered from the surprise opening volley to be aiming their shots well.

‘. . . we go. Got to move now!’ Tajican’s voice crackled over the radio, half the sentence lost amidst white noise and a whining, piercing feedback.

The incoming fire was intensifying now that the militia had recovered their senses. Not for the first time, Westley acknowledged that amongst the mob, there were definitely men who knew how to fight.

‘Okay, but slow . . . we’ve got friendlies coming in!’

The truck began to roll forward with a roar of complaint from the diesel engine and a cloud of acrid smoke that burst out of the exhaust pipe and billowed around the back of the truck.

Westley watched as the four men came in closer, racing recklessly past the prone militia towards the truck - the fire and manoeuvre routine now already abandoned. They sprinted the last fifty yards towards the truck like children chasing desperately after an ice-cream van on a hot day.

‘Come on move it, you wankers!’ he shouted getting up and climbing over the back of the truck, leaning out and standing precariously on the rear bumper.

The truck was moving along a little too quickly.

‘Taj, you got to slow down for ’em.’

There was no answer, just a popping and hissing. Maybe Tajican had heard and was replying, maybe he hadn’t. The PRR was playing up on them.

The men were successfully closing the distance to thirty . . . twenty yards. But the truck was beginning to pick up speed and he could see they were beginning to flag.

‘For fuck’s sake Taj . . . slow down!’ he shouted into his radio.

Westley tossed his SA80 up into the truck and then leant out towards the running men, stretching his arm out towards them. It was then that, catching a glimpse of their faces he registered who the four were.

Lieutenant Carter, Derry, Peters . . . and that civilian . . . Andy.

‘Come on!’ he shouted.

The nearest was Peters. He grabbed Westley’s hand, then quickly got a hold of the tailgate and pulled himself up. Derry was next, with the truck beginning to find some pace after grinding into second gear. Westley had to give his arm a viciously hard tug to pull him close enough that he could make a grab for the back of the truck. With a grunt of complete exhaustion he managed to get himself up and roll over the lip on to the rough bed, where he gasped like an asthmatic.

It was just Lieutenant Carter now and Andy, the Kiwi bloke. He could see both of them had blown whatever strength they had left in them whilst sprinting the last thirty yards, and were just about managing to keep pace, but that wasn’t going to last for much longer. It was sheer terror that was keeping these two poor bastards swinging their spent legs now, nothing less.

Westley leant out as far as he could, stretching his hand so that his gloved fingers almost seemed to brush their faces.

He heard the truck clatter and complain loudly as Tajican slammed it up another gear. He turned round and shouted to one of the men near the back of the truck to go forward, bang on the roof of the cab and get Tajican’s attention . . . and slow the fuck down. But his hoarse shout was lost against the rumble of the truck, and the staccato of the final retaliatory shots being fired out the back towards the militia in the market-place, who had now got to their feet and were pursuing en masse.

And then he felt his hand being grabbed.

One of them had done it; found enough left over to make a final lunge for his hand. The other? The other just wasn’t going to make it. The truck was now picking up speed.

He spun round to see who it was - who was probably going to be the last man up.