‘I can hear you, Doyle,’ she said breathlessly.
‘I’m going outside,’ he said.
‘No, stay in here.’
‘You want to die like a rat in a fucking trap?’ he snarled.
Silence.
Doyle scrambled to his feet and, ducking low, he scuttled through the house towards the front door.
He could see nothing moving in the darkness outside.
Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.
More gunfire, from the rear of the house.
Doyle could feel his heart thudding that little bit faster against his ribs.
‘What are you doing?’
The voice made him look round. William Duncan was standing at the top of the stairs.
‘You were told to stay up there and keep your fucking head down,’ Doyle called back.
‘I can help you,’ Duncan insisted. He was already advancing down the stairs.
‘Doyle.’ He heard his name in his earpiece.
‘I’m going out there, Mel,’ he told her, his hand already on the lock of the front door. They’ll box us in and blow the fucking place to pieces. It’s only a matter of time before they get in.’
‘You watch yourself,’ Mel told him.
Duncan was at the bottom of the stairs by now. He saw Doyle lift his trouser leg and check the .38 tucked in the ankle holster there.
There was another thunderous roar in Doyle’s earpiece. More gunfire.
‘Let me help you,’ said Duncan forcefully.
‘All right,’ Doyle snapped. ‘Lock this behind me.’
The night air felt cool against Doyle’s skin. He glanced quickly left and right to check it was clear. As he stepped away from the door he heard the bolts being slid into place behind him.
At least Duncan was doing as he was told.
There was little cover between the house and the trees that lined the driveway but Doyle sprinted towards them with a speed he’d forgotten he had.
He reached the first and pressed himself up against the damp bark, looking back at the house.
Apart from the odd bursts of fire from the attackers (who he guessed now numbered about six) and the occasional return shots from Mel or Hendry, the night seemed relatively still.
Doyle pressed the magazine-release button on the 9mm and saw that he was down to three slugs. He slammed a fresh, fifteen-shot clip into the butt and worked the slide, chambering a round.
Now. Think this through. Don’t fuck it up.
He peered through the gloom towards the house and beyond it in the direction of the swimming pool. Nothing moving.
There were trees planted thickly around the path that led to the pool.
A hundred, two hundred yards away?
He could make it if he ran fast enough. And what bigger incentive was there than getting caught in the sweep of an AK47?
Doyle drew a deep breath and sped off across the grass. He heard voices shouting in a language he didn’t recognise. At first he couldn’t work out which direction they were coming from.
Straight ahead. Behind the trees and the low wall that ran alongside the path.
Doyle reached the trees and dropped down, the Beretta gripped firmly in his fist. From his vantage point he could see four of the attackers gathered around the rear of the house. Three were attempting to clamber through a broken window into the building itself. There was another close to the swimming pool, apparently reloading.
Where the hell were the other two?
Doyle could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.
Come on. Come on.
He looked towards the house. One of the men was now inside. His two companions
were attempting to follow him.
Doyle held the pin microphone between his thumb and forefinger and pulled it close to his mouth. ‘Mel,’ he whispered, looking round.
Silence.
‘Mel, can you hear me?’
Still nothing.
He watched as the second attacker slipped inside.
‘Mel, they’re inside the house,’ he said, raising his voice a little more.
‘Check the fucking monitors.’
Close to him he heard words barked in a guttural voice. When he turned he saw one of the remaining men.
Two were inside. Another was about to join them. One more moving up from the direction of the swimming pool. A fifth just beyond the wall behind which he now crouched.
Where the fuck is the other one?
He wondered if the other attacker might be at the front of the building.
Perhaps he was trying to break in there. Force the defenders to split up.
The metallic rattle of a cocking lever cut through the night.
Doyle turned to see the sixth man leering at him.
The AK47 he held was levelled and ready to fire.
Doyle knew he was going to die. From six feet away, even if he was a complete fucking idiot, there was no way his opponent could miss. Not with a submachine gun on auto. The weapon fired over seven hundred rounds a minute and the slightest pressure on the trigger could empty the thirty-round magazine in seconds.
The barrel yawned before him, ready to spew out its deadly load.
As if he were moving in slow motion, Doyle swung the Beretta up, preparing to fire.
You’ll go with me, you fucker.
There was a high-pitched whoosh just above Doyle’s head. It reminded him of the sound a bullet makes when it parts air. But there was no accompanying bang.
He heard a dull thud and the man facing him dropped the Kalashnikov. For interminable seconds he remained on his feet, his bulging eyes still locked on Doyle.
Blood ran in thin ribbons from both his nostrils. Only then did the former counter terrorist realise why.
The arrow had pierced the man’s throat just below the chin and erupted another foot from the back of his neck. Its 30-inch, fibre-glass shaft had penetrated to the flight. The pointed end dripped blood.
There was another similar sound and Doyle saw a second arrow thud into the man’s chest. He fell backwards and lay still.
‘What the fuck … ?’ Doyle gazed at the corpse then heard the sound of movement close to him. He turned, the automatic pointed at the noise.
William Duncan scrambled across the damp grass towards him, the longbow gripped in his fist, another arrow already held in position. ‘I thought you needed some help,’ the industrialist said, glancing at the dead man.
‘I told you to stay in the house,’ said Doyle.
‘If I had you’d be dead now.’
Doyle looked at Duncan but said nothing.
There was an eruption of fire close to them. Bullets drilled into the wall behind which they sheltered and Doyle instinctively put out a hand to push Duncan closer to the earth.
The smell of cordite filled the night air.
Doyle motioned for Duncan to remain still as another burst of fire raked the wail. Splinters of stone flew up and showered the two men.
Doyle heard a shout, then a metallic click as the hammer of the AK47 slammed down on an empty chamber. He swiftly rose to his feet and caught the fifth man in his sights.
