Siege (13 page)

‘Grandpa!’ cried Ethan, struggling out of his mother’s grip.

‘No, Ethan, stop!’

Abby tried to pull him back into the bathroom, desperate for him not to give them away. But it was too late. He broke away from her and ran towards his grandpa, just as the door was flung open and a man in a balaclava, dressed in what looked like a hotel waiter’s uniform, came into the room. He was carrying a powerful-looking pistol. Behind him the door clicked shut, trapping them inside.

‘You hurt my grandpa!’ Ethan shouted, moving towards him.

The man raised his gun. ‘Stop him or I’ll shoot the little bastard.’

Abby grabbed Ethan and pulled him to her, with all the strength she could muster. ‘I’ve got him. Don’t shoot. Please.’

‘Shut the boy in the toilet,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll kill him now.’ His pistol was pointed at Ethan’s head.

Ethan had stopped struggling but she could tell he was sobbing behind the hand she’d placed over his mouth. Her father lay in front of them, his head almost at her feet. He’d been hit in the upper body, and blood was soaking through his shirt, but he still seemed to be breathing.

‘Come on, Ethan,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve got to go into the bathroom.’

‘Not you. Just him. Get him in there now.’

Something had changed in the gunman’s voice. It took her a moment to realize what it was.

Whatever was going to happen to her, she didn’t want her son to see it, so she pulled him inside the bathroom, then bent down and whispered in his ear. ‘I want you to stay in here until I call you, OK? Please. Otherwise he’ll hurt me.’

It was emotional blackmail of the worst kind, but what choice did she have? She shut the door and turned to face the gunman.

He stood in the middle of the room, his pistol aimed at her chest. ‘Turn round and lift up your dress, or you and the brat die together.’

IN THE STAIRWELL
, Scope was level with the third floor when he heard two gunshots, followed by a woman’s scream. He stopped and listened. He knew he ought to keep going. He only had a knife, but he’d never been one to walk away from someone in obvious danger. It just wasn’t in his DNA.

Trying not to think too hard about what he was doing, he opened the stairwell door and stepped into the corridor, looking both ways. To his left, he could hear voices coming from behind one of the doors. It sounded like a man was barking orders and a woman was pleading with him.

Scope strode over to the door, and put his ear to it. The man had a foreign accent, the woman sounded agitated, and there was another noise – a kid, quite young by the sound of him, crying.

Sliding the homemade lock-picking device he’d brought with him – a credit card with an angled divot cut in its bottom edge – out of his pocket, Scope pushed it into the narrow gap between the door and the frame and lowered it carefully on to the lock. He’d been practising opening doors this way for the past month, but it was hard to do it without making a noise, and he tensed as he gave the door a firm shove, the click of the bolt being released sounding loud in his ears.

Scope pushed the door open, holding his knife by the blade in case he needed to throw it fast.

An old man lay on his back on the floor next to a double bed. His white shirt was stained red where he’d been shot, and a thin trail of blood ran down from the corner of his mouth on to the carpet. At the far end of the room stood the gunman. But unlike the other gunmen Scope had seen, this one was dressed in hotel uniform. He had his back to Scope, and it was clear he hadn’t heard the door opening. He was pointing a pistol down at a dark-haired woman who was on her knees just inside the entrance to the ensuite bathroom, with her arms round a child. Scope’s view of the boy was obscured by the gunman’s legs but he could see that he and the woman were shaking as they prepared for the end.

‘You had your chance, whore. Now you die.’

‘Kill me, but please let my son go,’ the woman was saying, her voice surprisingly clear.

Scope took a long, silent step into the room.

The woman saw him then, her expression changing before she could stop it.

The gunman started to turn round and Scope charged him, ending his run in a flying headlong dive that sent him and the gunman crashing into the far wall. The gunman gasped, surprise rapidly giving way to anger, and he struggled violently as Scope grabbed his gun hand by the wrist and yanked it upwards so that the barrel was pointing up in the air. The gun went off, the bullet ricocheting off the ceiling, and the noise made Scope’s ears ring. Eyes blazing with rage, the gunman drove his head forward, trying to slam it into Scope’s face, but Scope turned, thrusting his shoulder out to deflect the blow, at the same time bringing up his knife hand and driving the blade deep into the gunman’s side, between the sixth and seventh ribs, so that it pierced his heart.

Once again the room erupted in noise as the gunman’s finger involuntarily squeezed the trigger, sending two more bullets into the ceiling. Scope stabbed him a second time, then a third, ignoring the ringing in his ears, and the stinging heat on his face from where the bullets had passed close by, waiting until the gunman’s body relaxed in his arms before letting him slip to the floor.

Behind him the bedroom door swung open. Scope wheeled round in time to see a second gunman enter, this one dressed in dark overalls and carrying an AK-47. He was saying something, but Scope couldn’t catch it above the ringing in his ears. It was clear by the way the AK was down by his side that he wasn’t expecting to see his friend dead.

When he saw the scene of carnage in front of him he hesitated for a split second, and Scope threw the knife just as the guy raised his gun to fire. At the same time he ducked down and weaved away.

The knife hit the guy in the chest, blade first, embedding itself about an inch in, and though the force of the blow made him take a step back, he didn’t fall. Instead, with the knife sticking out of his chest, he raised the AK to fire, which was when Scope realized that he was wearing body armour underneath the overalls.

But Scope was fast. Jumping over the old man’s body, he drove himself into the gunman, grabbing his AK by the stock as the gunman opened up with a burst of automatic fire. The kick from the barrel sent shockwaves up Scope’s arm, but he managed to push it out of the way so that the bullets flew high and wide, then he fell on the gunman, keeping him close, so that the AK was squeezed between them.

The problem was that this particular gunman was a lot bigger and stronger than the other one. With a roar, he threw Scope off, sending him crashing back into the tub chair by the door. But Scope held on to the rifle with both hands, knowing that as soon as he let go of it he was a dead man.

The gunman knew it too, and he yanked on the AK in a sudden, powerful movement, trying to twist it out of Scope’s hands. But Scope clung on, letting himself be taken by the momentum for a couple of seconds so that his adversary thought he had the upper hand. Then, without warning, he dug his heels into the carpet, forcing the gunman to fall into him, before wrapping a leg round one of his ankles and tripping him up.

The gunman fell on to the bed, relinquishing his grip on the AK in the process, and swung round to face Scope, at the same time pulling the knife from his chest.

Scope didn’t have time to turn the gun round and fire. Instead he slammed the stock of the AK into the gunman’s face.

The gunman howled in pain as his nose exploded, splattering blood all over his balaclava. But he still managed to leap back up from the bed and thrust the knife at Scope, who had to jump backwards to dodge its arc.

The gunman’s head was now exposed, though, and Scope came forward fast and drove the butt of the AK into his face a second time. This time, however, there was real power behind the blow, and it drove the gunman’s head back against the wall with such force that part of the stock broke off.

Scope came in close, using the AK as a club to hit him again and again until the stock fell apart in his hands and the gunman slid silently down the wall, leaving a long smear of blood on the paintwork, his damaged head slumped forward as more blood dripped from the holes in the balaclava.

For a couple of seconds Scope didn’t move as the adrenalin that was surging through him began to subside. He put his hands on his knees and took some deep breaths before retrieving his knife and turning back towards the woman and the boy.

That was when he saw that the woman had been hit.

She was sitting back against the bathroom doorframe clutching her leg just above the knee, her face contorted with pain as blood seeped through her fingers. The boy was holding on to her, sobbing and asking if she was going to be all right. At least that was what Scope thought he was saying because he still couldn’t hear much above the intense ringing in his ears.

He went over and knelt beside her, gently prising open her fingers so he could see the wound. Blood leaked out steadily from a five-pence-sized hole three inches above the kneecap, and as he probed round the back of her leg he felt a larger, more ragged hole where the bullet had exited, and this was bleeding more heavily. Scope knew that the ammo used in the AK-47 could cause extensive tissue damage, but from the close positioning of the two holes it looked like this could be a relatively superficial hit.

‘You’re going to be OK,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘I’m going to dress the wound.’

She nodded tightly, her eyes focusing on him, and he was relieved to see that she didn’t appear to have gone into shock yet. ‘I understand,’ she said through gritted teeth.

Grabbing a hand towel from the bathroom, he tied it round her leg to soak up the blood and restrict its flow, careful not to make the knot too tight. As he did so, he took in her appearance for the first time. She was in her late thirties, good-looking but rail-thin, with well-coiffured, shoulder-length black hair, dark oval eyes, and skin that should have looked tanned but was now an anaemic grey thanks to the shock of her ordeal.

Scope knew he had to get this woman and her son out of the hotel fast, but he also knew that, once outside, they’d tell the authorities what he’d done, which would attract a lot of unwelcome attention. He didn’t want anyone linking him with what had happened in the suite upstairs.

He looked at the boy, who couldn’t have been more than seven years old, and who was staring at Scope curiously. He had the same colourings as his mother, and the same dark oval eyes, but his face was rounder and he had a dimple on his chin that somehow made him look even more vulnerable than he was.

Scope turned to the woman. ‘We’ve got to go.’ His fight with the gunmen had made a hell of a lot of noise and it wouldn’t be long before more of them turned up to investigate.

‘It hurts,’ she whispered, closing her eyes.

‘The wound’s not as bad as it looks. I promise you. Now, stay awake for me, OK?’

She nodded weakly.

‘She’s been shot,’ said the boy, his voice high and panicked. ‘People who get shot always die, don’t they?’

‘No, most survive,’ Scope told him firmly.

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’

‘Is Grandpa dead?’

Scope didn’t have to look at the body of the old man. He’d seen enough dead people in his time to be certain of the answer. ‘I’m afraid he is. I’m sorry.’

‘The bad man killed him. He was trying to protect us.’

Scope spoke slowly, his tone reassuring. ‘That’s because he loved you, but the bad man’s dead too. He won’t be able to hurt anyone again, ever.’

The boy’s dark eyes burned angrily. ‘I’m glad you killed him.’

‘How did the bad man get in here?’

‘He had a key.’

So they had key cards to the rooms. Masters probably. It showed a level of planning that was worrying.

Scope got up and took the pistol from the man in the waiter’s uniform. It was a Glock 17. He ejected the magazine and checked the number of bullets. Three. He gave the guy a quick pat down but he wasn’t carrying any spare ammo, and the 7.62 × 39mm bullets his friend was using in the AK wouldn’t be any use. He took both their key cards and went back to where the woman was lying.

Her eyes were closing as Scope picked her up in his arms as gently as he could. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked her.

‘Abby.’

‘We’re going to get help, Abby. I want you to stay with us, OK?’

‘OK,’ she groaned in response.

‘And what’s your name, son?’

‘Ethan,’ said the boy.

‘I want you to follow me and your mum, Ethan, and try to make as little noise as possible. Like you’re trying to sneak up on someone. You think you can do that?’

The boy nodded. ‘But what about Grandpa? I don’t want to leave him here.’

‘We’ve got to for the moment, but the police’ll be coming back in for him very soon.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise. Now don’t say another word, OK?’

‘OK.’

Conscious of the fact that if they were ambushed he wouldn’t have a chance of fighting back, Scope carried Abby out of the room, Ethan following. It was completely silent in the corridor as he made his way over to the emergency staircase, trying not to think too much about what he was doing. That had always been his credo in the military. Never think too much. If you do, you’re likely to get scared. And when you’re scared, you’re ineffective.

He took a brief look through the door’s frosted glass, saw nothing on the other side, and led Ethan into the stairwell.

They’d just started down when Scope heard someone hurrying down the stairs a few floors above them. It might just have been a frightened guest, but there was also a good chance it was another of the gunmen, especially as the pace of the steps suggested confidence rather than panic.

Gesturing for Ethan to follow, he hurried down the steps to the second floor, opened the exit door and turned right down the corridor, trying to put as much distance as possible between them and the emergency staircase.

As soon as they’d turned the corner, Scope stopped outside the nearest room and carefully placed Abby on the floor, propping her up against the wall, while he fished in his pocket for one of the hotel key cards. Her face was contorted in pain but at least she was staying quiet.