Wait for them to come out and hope they wanted to give up instead of fight.
Your choice.
Something glinted across the street. Sunshine on glass. The rays of the sun on a scope? If Doyle had seen it, perhaps Leary or Finan had too.
No reason to be expecting it.
He was less than a foot from the door now, pressed tight to the brickwork. The snipers would be watching him, relaying his progress to Robinson by two-way.
Go in blasting?
He knew there was no back door and if Finan and Leary were going to get away, they’d have to come straight through him.
He raised the butt of the automatic and prepared to bang on the door.
As he did he heard the high-pitched burr of a mobile phone from inside the flat. There was a moment of silence then some muted voices.
Doyle raised his hand again to hammer with the gun. He was about to strike when part of the door exploded outwards.
It was a shotgun. No mistaking the thunderous roar. Doyle had heard the sound enough times.
He stepped away from the door and pressed himself up against the wall, turning his face slightly as lumps of wood and metal erupted into the air, propelled by the force of two massive impacts. Several shotgun pellets rolled across the walkway and the counter terrorist smelled the all-too-familiar stink of cordite.
He worked the slide on the Beretta, chambering a round, his heart thudding more quickly against his ribs, adrenalin pulsing through his veins like heroin through a junkie.
What was fear to some men was close to exhilaration for Doyle.
He looked around. No cover on the walkway. If the fuckers came out shooting,
it’d be messy.
Further down the walkway a door opened.
‘Stay inside,’ Doyle roared and the door slammed quickly.
There was another massive roar as the shotgun was discharged again. Another piece of the door was obliterated, tiny cinders and splinters spiralling into the air.
For one ridiculous moment he thought about telling them to put down their weapons and come out.
Yeah, right.
What else had they got in there with them? More guns? Explosive?
Come on, think.
One way out. One way in. Snipers across the street. Armed RUC men at both ends of the road.
Step back. Let them rot inside there. They’re going nowhere.
He gripped the Beretta more tightly, aware now of the unearthly silence that had descended after the barrage of gunshots. The only activity was below in Dalton Road itself as plain clothes RUC men did their best to keep the thoroughfare clear of passers-by.
Doyle backed off slightly and dropped to one knee, steadying himself. He raised the Beretta and squinted along the sight.
The advantage was his. Finan and Leary had no idea how many men awaited them.
The counter terrorist wondered how they’d discovered they were under surveillance.
Finan’s fucking sister. Little bitch.
He nodded as if to confirm his own suspicions. She must have warned them.
‘Finan,’ Doyle roared.‘Can you hear me?’
Silence.
‘You and your fucking friend can stay in there as long as you like.You’re covered on all sides.You’re going nowhere.’
Still no reply.
‘Personally, I couldn’t give a flying fuck whether you come out with your hands up or you come out blasting,’
Doyle continued. ‘Either way you’re going down. You either walk out of that flat or they carry you both out in body bags. Got that?’
He moved a little closer to the door, his eyes never leaving the sight of the Beretta.
‘Pity about your sister,’ he called, a slight smile on his face. ‘She’s an accessory now. I know she was the one who tipped you off.You’ll do time and so will she. But before I arrest her there’s something I want to give her. And I’m sure I won’t be the first.’
Doyle heard sounds of movement from inside the flat. Muted voices.
‘Pretty little thing,’ he continued. ‘You should have kept your business to yourself. You made her fair game too. After I’ve put you and Leary in the fucking ground I’ll go back and pay her a visit. She looked like she was gagging for it when I was there this morning.’
‘Fuck you,’ roared a voice from inside the flat.
Bingo.
There were more sounds of movement. Doyle steadied the automatic.
‘Nice arse,’ he called back.‘Something for me to grip on to when I’m fucking her.’
‘You fucking bastard,’ bellowed the same voice.
Doyle smiled. ‘Now, are you coming out while you still carr?’
Silence.
Doyle stepped back slightly.
Across the street the snipers kept their eyes pressed firmly to their scopes.
‘Come out now and I might only fuck her once,’ Doyle shouted.
A small package, no larger than a man’s fist, rolled from inside the flat. It bumped against the parapet then lay still.
Doyle saw the detonator jammed into it.
He knew he had just seconds.
Doyle half ran, half threw himself to one side as he saw the package. It probably weighed less than a pound but he knew the damage a pound of plastic explosive was capable of.
As he spun away he gritted his teeth and hurled himself down, scraping the elbows of his leather jacket on the concrete.
The blast was deafening.
Doyle covered his head, the thunderous explosion tearing away part of the parapet and sending lumps of concrete spiralling into the air. Pieces of debris were flung out into the street and those below ducked or ran for cover as chunks of stone rained down like shrapnel.
A great cloud of smoke engulfed the walkway and Doyle found his lungs clogged by the noxious fumes. He rolled on to his side and squinted in the direction of number 44.
Through the smoke he saw two figures.
The bastards were making a run for it
Doyle swung the Beretta up and squeezed the trigger. The burst-fire mechanism sent three bullets from the barrel milliseconds after each other. Two sang off the stonework, another cut through the fume-filled air.
The smoke was still thick and Doyle waved a hand angrily in front of his face as if to clear it. He fired again into the choking fumes. Shots were returned.
He heard a bullet part the air no more than six inches from his left ear.
Opposite, two of the RUC snipers opened up. Doyle heard the loud crack of the HK81 s. 7.62mm slugs struck the brickwork.
Finan and Leary were already hurtling along the walkway towards the stairs at the far end. It was their only escape route.
Doyle scrambled to his feet and squeezed off four more rounds. Empty shell cases spun into the air and the recoil slammed the butt of the 9mm against the heel of his hand. But he remained steady, pumping the trigger.
