Brute Force Read Online Free Page B

a stanchion and went down on his knees. I grabbed hold of the three metres of det cord still connected to the TPU, flicked it like a skipping rope over his back, whipped out the rubber pad and dived for cover.
The det cord kicked off and the concussion wave hit me, short and sharp, as my face was sprayed with warm blood. The detonation rattled around the cargo hold.
I jumped back up, in case he was doing the same.
He lay on the deck. The det cord had crossed his chest and the left side of his head. The explosion had cut a deep groove in his flesh and muscle, as if someone had run a chainsaw all the way down his body. He was still alive, still kicking out to fight the pain, but not shouting. He still had a job to do. He dragged himself towards the TPU, smearing blood over the carpet of wheat grains.
I wiped his blood from my eyes. I knelt next to him. He tried to push forwards, but it was no good. I put my right hand over his mouth and nose and my left behind what was left of his neck and pushed them together. He fought it. His hands came up but he knew it wasn't going to help him. His eyes burned with hatred and defiance.
After thirty seconds he started to struggle furiously, with all the frenzied strength that a man draws on when he knows he's dying. But no matter what he did now, he wouldn't be getting up.
His hands scrabbled at my face. I bobbed and weaved to avoid them, but maintained the pressure on his nose and mouth.
Gradually at first, his frenzy subsided. Soon there was no more than a spasmodic twitching in his legs. His hands stopped grasping. Moments later, he was unconscious.
I gave it another thirty seconds. His chest stopped moving. Another thirty and I released him. He slumped face down in the wheat grains, grease and dirt.

9
Fuck knows what was happening on deck. I could hear helicopters in the hover.
I didn't know what I was looking for, but I went through his pockets anyway. They were empty. Maybe his wallet was with the rest of his gear in a cabin or up on the bridge. I rolled him over. The edge of a bloodstained piece of card peeped from the top of his shirt pocket. I pulled it out and turned it over.
Her face had been charred by the det cord, but she was as hauntingly beautiful in the photograph as she had been alongside Mansour on the gangplank. Thirties, maybe. Palestinian. Her piercing sea-green eyes gazed straight into the camera: passionate, obsessive, almost manic. Those eyes had burned into Lesser's with fierce love. They seemed to stare into mine with nothing but blame and reproach.
I legged it back to the door, across the corridor, and into the engine room. The engines were idling. I killed the lights. The stench of diesel fumes and grease was overpowering.
I tucked myself behind a couple of tool lockers.
I could extract myself when the ship had been towed into port. If I got lifted before that, at least I would be out of sight of the crew. I took deep breaths, sucking in the diesel fumes as I tried to re-oxygenate myself. What was left of Big Ben looked exactly like it should have done. He'd been cut almost in half by the det cord. To whoever found him, he must have gone in, cut the det cord to stop the ring main going off while he sorted out whatever the problem was, and the TPU had kicked off.
Shouts in Spanish echoed around the ship. Their search had begun. I sucked in more air and tightened myself up, as if that was going to make me smaller behind the lockers.
The doors opened and a torch beam flicked around the engine room. The main lights came on. Two seconds later, the muzzle of a 5.56mm assault rifle was pressing into my cheek.
I let them shout and holler. It was pointless trying to explain, even if they did speak English. I put my hands behind my head. It's always best to do that.
They pushed me down onto the floor, and gave me a proper going over. My hands were plasticuffed behind my back. A couple of unseen hands hauled me to my feet and dragged me towards the stairs. Lads were