Читать книгу The Killing Grounds: an explosive and gripping thriller for fans of James Patterson - Jack Ford, Jack Ford - Страница 11

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Thomas J. Cooper knew there were moments in life when you only had one chance. One shot. One opportunity to get it right. And he also knew such moments were often lost. Often wasted. Went unseen. But as he stood in the solidity of darkness, in his tomb-like cell, unshod and ankle deep in human waste, Cooper trusted his moment would come soon. And when it did, hell, there was no way he was going to lose it.

His tomb – part prison cell, part grave – was a hole in the ground. The place he’d been lowered into when he’d first been brought to the detention center, however many days ago that’d been.

The bodies of the unknown decomposing dead surrounded him; the ones who were still alive thinking their nameless brothers were the lucky ones. For the uncharged, untried prisoners of Mai Edaga, death would be their only salvation. A deliverance from the near ritualistic daily torture and the searing, crippling heat from the sheet of corrugated metal covering the hole, which acted like a furnace in the Eritrean sun.

The scraping sound of the cover being dragged off the hole had Cooper, along with the other men, protecting their eyes from the burning light.

‘Out.’ The guard – rich black skin, dressed in a knee-length shirt over heavy cotton pants – wiped away the veil of sweat forming on his upper lip. He sniffed contemptuously. Gestured his head to the prisoners.

Whilst the rest of the detainees fought to scrabble out of the hole, using the rotting corpses as a step to reach the edge and pull themselves out, Cooper waited patiently for an elderly man to climb up at the only point which didn’t require such extreme measures.

Once out, the guard sneered and jeered and jabbed the steel muzzle of his gun aggressively into Cooper’s stomach.

It took more than a minute before Cooper shifted his gaze from the gun to the guard. Lifting his eyes slowly. Staring with cutting derision. Then a wry smile spread across his face.

The guard’s broken English was deep. Guttural. He said, ‘What so funny James Dean?’

It was an anomalous reference from a bygone era as if somehow the guard, like the wild barren landscape Cooper found himself standing in, was frozen in time.

In stark contrast to the guard’s voice was the lilt of Cooper’s soft Missouri accent, scornful in its gentle defiance. ‘I don’t have to explain anything to anybody.’

The guard’s hostility darkened. Angered. Aware that he was somehow being mocked, though ignorant of the fact the reply had been a line from an old James Dean movie.

The butt of the guard’s gun smashed into the side of Cooper’s face.

‘What do you say now Americano?’

He stumbled back and it took a moment for him to recover. Longer than he wanted. But it hurt. Real bad. Shot pain waves through his entire body, setting his jawline on fire. But he was damned if he was going to show it… Never did.

Wiping his mouth and tasting the salty blood trickling from his lips, he locked his stare with the guard’s. Stepped forward. Pushed his stomach onto the muzzle of the gun.

‘Haven’t they ever told you?’

‘Told me what?’

Cooper winked. Whispered. ‘Never take on a crazy guy who’s got nothing left to lose.’

The guard, unnerved and taken aback by Cooper’s apparent fearlessness, took a few seconds to regain his composure. ‘Less of your mouth Americano… Now, move it!’

He pushed Cooper towards the line of barefoot prisoners waiting to walk the scorching six kilometre trek through the rough, hard, brutal terrain, to bring back heavy hessian sacks full of rice which tore mercilessly at the men’s hands, leaving them with painful open sores.

And the sun beat down. Ruthless and fierce and unrelenting, and the guard shouted and fired his gun giving the men no choice but to set off.

*

Ten minutes into the journey and the ground was unforgiving. Sharp stones cut into Cooper’s feet but he knew better than to stop, the guards being crueller than any barren land.

Vehicles made their way dangerously fast down the unmarked rocky track. Like giant clouds of powdered cinnamon, the sands swirled densely, high above the road. A battered truck sped along towards them as Cooper and his fellow prisoners approached a huddled figure clad in a full blue chadri, sat beside the road. Their face was entirely covered with dense material, save the small section around the eyes which was laced with a net grille.

As the empty sheep truck slowed down, coming to a noisy stop, Cooper stared at the driver. Locking eyes. Holding his gaze. And then he knew. This was the moment. The one chance he’d been waiting for.

With arresting speed and a quick glance round, he rotated his body and a caught the gun which was thrown to him by the huddled figure in blue, who now stood up, revealing the weapon concealed underneath their chadri. Cooper aimed the gun at the guard.

To the chants and cries and calls and yells of the other inmates of Mai Edaga, Cooper fired warning shots towards the guard, as his disguised associate jumped in the waiting truck. He fired a few more shots for caution. For himself. For every dead man who never made it… For every dead man that was still there.

‘Cooper…! Come on…! Come on…! Jump in!’

Thomas J. Cooper did just that.