Bravo Two Zero by Andy McNab

Author:Andy McNab [McNab, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Persian Gulf War (1991), Persian Gulf War; 1991, Political Science, Military, Undercover operations, General, History
ISBN: 9780552153577
Publisher: Corgi
Published: 1994-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

I took the threat seriously. He had just confirmed my worst fears. They would give us both a good kicking, then take us off and slot us.

Good, I thought, let's get on with it then.

They dragged me to my feet again. Blood was pouring down my face from gashes in my scalp. It trickled into my eyes and mouth. My lips were numb, as if I'd been to the dentist. I couldn't control them to blow the blood away. I bent my head forward to redirect the flow and to avoid any eye-to-eye contact. I didn't want these bastards to see what I was thinking.

For another fifteen minutes people continued to take turns at punching and slapping, often not even bothering to put me back on the chair. I stayed crunched up as tightly as I could. A pair of hands grabbed my feet and started to drag me across the room so that the others could get an improved angle on their kicking. This is way out of control, I thought. Any more of this and I'm going to be well out of the game.

The blindfold had come off by now with the hustle and tussle of events.

I didn't bother looking that much. All I saw was my knees hard against my face, and the light-cream lino floor, once beautifully polished but now smeared with mud and blood. I was finding it more and more difficult to draw breath. I was really getting concerned about the long-term effects. I felt my body disintegrating. I could die here--and the only good thing about it would be that I'd mucked up their floor.

The back of my throat was rattling. I coughed blood. Another twenty minutes, I thought, and we'd be into serious damage. That would really slow down my chances of escape.

At last they must have tired of the game. I was a bag of shit, they'd got me where they wanted me, there was little point going on.

I lay there on the floor, drenched with my own blood. There was filth and gore everywhere. Even my feet were bleeding. My khaki socks were wet and dark red.

I opened my eyes for a moment and caught a glimpse of a pair of brown Chelsea boots with zippers on the side, and a pair of bell-bottomed jeans. The boots had cheap and nasty plastic heels, the stuff that Saturday markets are made of. The jeans were dirty and faded, and well and truly flared. Whoever was wearing them probably had on a David Cassidy T-shirt as well under his uniform shirt. Glancing up quickly, I saw that they were all ruperts, very clean-cut and smooth-faced, not a hair out of place. Everybody had a mustache and hair that was sleeked back. The Saddam look was in.

I lay in a corner against the wall, trying to protect myself. There were people on three sides of me. Their faces loomed down at me. One bloke flicked his fag ash at me. I looked up at him pitifully.

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