SAS: Who Dares Wins star Ollie Ollerton slams soft celebs who go on show to make easy money

Dad, we need to speak. It’s urgent.

But the text message had arrived at night, which was the wrong time for Alex Abbott. Night time was when the other guy was in charge. The drunk guy.

And the drunk guy was way too busy for text messages. Reading them. Replying to them. Remembering them, even.

And so, by the time of the next afternoon, when finally Abbott had surfaced and was contemplating a black hole where yesterday should have been, it was too late.

He had tried the number, and in a voice that quavered with emotion and guilt, left a message, saying, ‘Nathan, it’s Dad, getting back to you. What is it, mate? What’s the problem?’

And, two days later, was still waiting for a reply.

Chapter 53

‘Oh, that’s bad,’ said Abbott. He had pulled back into the cab, dipped his head to look beneath the glare of the sun. ‘That’s really bad.’

Neither of them needed to explain why. After all, they were two blokes in Mahlouthi’s Land Cruiser. They’d just been exchanging fire with an army truck upfront.

From a newcomer’s point of view there could be little doubt who was the friendly and who was the hostile in this situation.

What’s more, they both knew that the security personnel upfront could make contact with the coalition forces in the choppers.

Great to see you guys. We’re under attack. Any chance of an assist?

And maybe that’s exactly what they’d done. Or perhaps the airborne convoy had simply seen what looked like an attempted act of banditry in progress and decided to lend a hand anyway.

As they watched, one of the Apaches tilted and peeled away from the others, adjusting its direction of travel. Heading for the road.

‘Oh, f***,’ said Burton. ‘Maybe I should pull up. Let them know we’re not a threat.’

‘No. F*** that. We’re already a threat. Keep us a moving target.’

At the same time, he was reaching for the radio mic, but knowing the situation was hopeless. There was no time.

Suddenly, there was the Apache, its nose tilted. The guns started up, strafing the ground around the Land Cruiser.

Grunting, Burton fought with the wheel, both of them looking up and into the rear-view, squinting and trying to find the position of the Apache.

There – there it was. Its tail swung round in a wide, lazy arc as the pilot lined them up once more.

Burton had realised that the better strategy was to stay near the trucks ahead but it was too late to rectify that. Now they were out in the open, sitting ducks, target practice.

In a last ditch attempt to try and prove that they weren’t bandits, Abbott shoved himself through the passenger window, waving, trying to show the occupants of the Apache his Western face. But if they
saw, then it was too late.

‘Abort,’ he was shrieking, waving his arms. ‘Abort, abort.’ He saw figures behind the cockpit shield. Anonymous outlines. Did they see him? No.

The Apache pilot opened up again. The chopper’s guns chattered, rounds churning up the ground in front of the speeding Toyota, kicking up giant divots like pillars of sand through which they had to pass.

And Abbott watched, time coming to rest, as though played out in slow motion, as the twin lines of rounds burned a line in the sand, making their way towards them.

His mouth dropped open. He watched death approach. Beyond the chopper he saw the truck containing Nathan obscured by a cloud of dust.

And then it was as though they had been attacked by a giant can opener and their world tilted.

The tyres blew, the front of the vehicle dipped, the bonnet was churned by firepower and the Land Cruiser flipped, rolling end over end.

The last thing that Abbott saw before blackness claimed him was Burton, his head whipping back and forth, smashing against the steering wheel at a terrible, unnatural angle.

• Scar Tissue by Ollie Ollerton (Blink Publishing) is out 12 Nov