'But you said he might open fire on them if they rushed it,' Mason reminded the counter terrorist.
Doyle smiled thinly.
'I'm not talking about going in the front door,' he said. 'There's another way.'
9.06 A.M.
Robert Neville raised the automatic as he saw the policeman moving slowly towards the house.
Squinting, Neville steadied himself, lining up the sights until the pistol was aimed at the uniformed man.
His finger tightened a fraction on the trigger.
It would be so easy.
One shot, maybe two.
Start it off now.
They must have armed men out there, Neville mused. They must know he was armed. What they didn't know was that, in addition to the. 459, he also had a. 357 Sterling revolver and a Steyr MPi 69 submachine gun.
They were in for one hell of a fucking surprise when things finally kicked off.
The MPi could fire over 550 rounds of 9mm ammunition a minute.
Come in, boys. Join the fucking party.
The policeman he'd drawn a bead on was standing beside a car talking to a colleague.
Neville reckoned he could take them both out with ease.
Just a little more pressure on the trigger…
'Why don't you just kill us and get it over with, Bob,' said Julie, sitting watching him.
'I don't want to kill you, I never have,' Neville said, softly, the pistol still trained on the policeman.
'Why did you come back?'
He finally turned away from the window and faced her.
'It would have been easier for you if I'd just disappeared, wouldn't it? Better still if I'd been killed out there.'
'I never wanted that. I never wanted you dead, I just wanted you to realise that it was over between us. I tried, Bob. I tried harder than a lot of wives would have. I stuck by you when you left the army.'
'Out of duty?' he chided.
'I didn't enjoy watching you drink yourself into a stupor every day,' she told him. 'I should have left when you disappeared. Why did you go back to Ireland? You'd been out of the army for six months but you went back. Why?'
'There were some things I had to do,' he told her.
'Did you miss it that much, Bob?'
He rounded on her angrily.
'Yes,' he snarled, taking a step towards her. 'Everything I was, I left behind when the troubles ended. That's why I went back. There was nothing for me here, there still isn't.'
'What about me and Lisa?'
'You were going to leave me,' he roared, his face contorted, eyes bulging.
For the first time that morning, Julie felt genuine fear.
She could feel the colour draining from her face.
'I'm not going to give in,' he rasped. 'It's all I knew, all I wanted. It's what I was trained for. I can't spend the rest of my life like this. I'm too young to die but I'm frightened of living. I don't know how to live without it, without the fighting. I could carry on from day to day, wait for cancer or a stroke or some other fucking thing, but I won't. All I want is to die like a man.'
'Why do you have to die at all?'
'Because there's nothing else for me and, when I go, I'm taking as many with me as I can.' He sat down wearily on the end of the sofa.
'Including me and Lisa?' Julie asked quietly.
He didn't answer, merely sat there staring at the floor, the. 459 still gripped in one fist.
'Life's overrated,' he said, smiling bitterly. 'But people take it for granted. They take men like me for granted. The public is as bad as the media and the politicians. When there's a war on everybody wants to slap you on the back, buy you fucking drinks, tell you how brave you are, and do you know why? Because the cunts are pleased it's not them. And then, when everything's over, they don't want to know you. You're not front-page news any more, you're no good to politicians because they can't use you to vote-catch. And you're no good to the public because they find new heroes. And they expect you to go away quietly and not bother them again because once all the fighting's over, they don't want to be reminded of it. There were fucking victory parades after the Falklands, after the Gulf. How many fucking victory parades have there been for the soldiers who were in Ulster? Who gives a fuck? Who's ever given a fuck?'
His voice was rising steadily in volume. 'I'll make them care. I'll make them remember,' he shouted.
'Dad.'
He turned as he heard the word, pushing the. 459 into his belt.
Lisa Neville was standing in the living-room doorway.
She looked at her father, then across to the sofa where her mother sat.
There was bewilderment in her eyes.
'I heard shouting,' she said quietly.
'It's all right, sweetheart,' said Neville. 'You go back upstairs to your room.'
'Mum, can I have an apple?' Lisa said, twisting some strands of hair around her finger.
Julie nodded, tried to smile.
'You get it, darling.'
Lisa scooped a Golden Delicious from the bowl on the coffee table and scurried back upstairs. They both heard her footfalls then the banging of her bedroom door.
Neville looked at Julie but neither spoke.
He wandered back to the front window and looked out once more.
It wouldn't be long now, he thought.
He glanced up towards the ceiling and smiled.
9.24 A.M.
Doyle didn't know the names of the two men with him.
He didn't care.
They were both uniformed and in their late twenties. One fresh-faced and slightly built, the other broader across the shoulders. The bulletproof waistcoats which they both wore added to the bulk.
Doyle had seen both of the policemen inspecting him as Calloway had briefed them and then he'd heard names mentioned.
Scott and Wilde? Something like that.
Who cared?
They both carried Sterling 81 rifles.
Doyle held a two-way radio in his hand, the volume turned down as low as possible.
The three men were less than fifty yards from number ten London Road, ducked low as they sprinted towards number six, passing other policemen, some of whom were crouched down behind the many parked cars which clogged the street.
Doyle saw more guns.
The counter terrorist slowed his pace when he reached the short path leading towards the front door of number six. There was a high fence to one side of the house which would shield their approach. It also hid the
