beforehand.
Martin caught Elena’s eye and they gave each other the kind of supportive look they’d been exchanging all night. Something had changed between them, though. Elena looked more self-conscious under his gaze, embarrassed even, and he guessed it was because she hadn’t intervened earlier, when he was about to be shot. Not that he blamed her. Ultimately, there was nothing she could have done. He wanted to explain this to her but he wasn’t sure how he could do so without it sounding like he
A few feet away, the businessman’s breathing was getting louder and more laboured, and he was now bent forward, one hand on his chest, the other holding a handkerchief to his forehead. Martin could see he was in a bad way, and he wanted to do something to help. Too many people had died needlessly already that day.
Elena was looking over at him now, a concerned yet helpless expression on her face. She wanted to help too. Martin could see that. But she wasn’t going to. None of them was, including Martin himself.
He suddenly felt a terrible anger, not just towards the terrorists, but towards himself, for not doing something. He might be unarmed, physically weak, and desperately thirsty, but he had one huge advantage over all the hostages: he had nothing left to live for. He was already a dead man. It was just that his body hadn’t yet realized it.
The businessman suddenly cried out in pain and fell over, clutching at his chest with both hands as he began to hyperventilate.
Several people gasped, but no one moved.
Martin knew that for once in his life he had to stand up and be counted. ‘This man needs help urgently,’ he shouted at the two terrorists, who were both looking over but making no move to do anything. ‘Please. You’ve got to help him.’
Other hostages murmured in agreement, their confidence boosted by Martin’s actions.
‘Leave him, he’ll be all right,’ said Dragon dismissively.
‘He won’t be all right unless he gets some kind of medical attention.’
Martin crawled over to the man on his hands and knees, feeling liberated now that he was actually doing something, and put a steadying hand on his arm. The man stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes, but he was still conscious, and Martin had no idea whether he was experiencing a panic attack or something more serious.
He looked round at the other hostages. ‘Does anyone have any first aid experience?’
‘Get back!’ yelled the Scandinavian, the crueller of the two terrorists. ‘You were told to leave him alone. Get back now.’
But Martin was defiant, the fact that he was finally doing something worthwhile empowering him. ‘He needs some water. Come on. Please. Have some kind of humanity.’
The man’s gasps were coming thick and fast now, and Martin feared some kind of heart attack.
‘I’m a retired doctor,’ someone called out from behind him, but before Martin could turn round to see who it was, the Scandinavian marched over.
‘You want to see my humanity?’ he sneered. ‘Yeah? I’ll show you my fucking humanity.’
He grabbed Martin by the shirt and yanked him out of the way. Then, with barely a moment’s hesitation, he took a step back, pointed his assault rifle down at the businessman’s chest, and pulled the trigger, shooting him three times in rapid succession.
The man’s desperate, rasping breathing suddenly stopped, just like that, and he lay still.
The Scandinavian turned to Martin, his bright blue eyes alive with excitement. ‘There. That’s my humanity. Anyone else move, and they get the same. And that includes you, big man.’ He aimed the rifle at Martin’s head. ‘Get it?’
Martin looked down. Said nothing.
‘Good. Now shut up. All of you.’
The gunman turned away, walking back towards his colleague.
Which was when Martin Dalston leaped to his feet, fury sweeping through him in a physical wave that gave him a strength he’d never experienced before. He charged at the Scandinavian, grabbing him in a bear hug and biting him as hard as he could in the exposed flesh of his neck, almost immediately tasting blood.
The Scandinavian let out a startled yelp and tried to throw him off, but the adrenalin was pumping through Martin and he held on tight. He knew that the moment he fell off, he was dead.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blonde. Elena was on her feet and leaping towards him too, her momentum knocking all three of them to the floor.
A burst of gunfire filled the room as the assault rifle discharged, but Martin had no time to see who, if anyone, had been hit. The Scandinavian had rolled on to him as he struggled to break free from his two attackers, and Martin was no longer biting him. Instead, he was gouging at his eyes and face, while Elena fought with him from the front, the weight of their two bodies crushing down on him.
Another burst of gunfire filled the room, as Dragon fired into the air. He was shouting for people to sit down. ‘Get back, or I’ll blow the bomb!’ he screamed.
It was difficult to see from Martin’s position on the floor, but it looked like more people had got to their feet to join in the resistance, but even as he watched, he could see Dragon looking more confident, as if he could see that his orders were being obeyed.
Above him, the Scandinavian threw off Elena, and tried once again to wrench himself away from Martin’s grip, but still Martin held on like grim death, even though he could feel his strength fading.
And now Dragon was coming over, his rifle pointed at Elena, who was on her hands and knees looking terrified.
Which was the moment when a figure appeared out of the corner door behind Dragon and charged him.
Eighty-five
SCOPE HAD NEVER intended to be a hero.
His plan had been to try to get on to the hotel roof from where he hoped to be able to summon some kind of help, but as he, Abby and Ethan had reached the ninth floor on the emergency staircase, with its sign for the Park View Restaurant, he’d heard the sound of shouting and gunfire, and reassessed. He could have carried on going but he remembered from the news that the terrorists had been holding hostages in the restaurant, and that the restaurant itself led out on to a flat roof terrace, which probably represented a better escape route.
Having sat Abby down and instructed Ethan to look after her, he’d made his way along the corridor towards the restaurant, and through the glass in the door had witnessed a scene of chaos. One gunman was struggling on the floor with several hostages, while another had his back to Scope and was shouting at the remainder of the group – twenty-five or so people of varying ages, some of whom were on their feet. This gunman had his foot resting on a pedal detonator and was threatening to use it.
As Scope watched, the gunman on the floor threw off one of the people he was struggling with, a blonde- haired woman in a business suit, while the second one took his foot off the detonator and started walking into the crowd.
Immediately, Scope saw his chance. Pulling out his knife, he threw open the door and ran into the room.
At the last second, the second gunman – a big guy with broad, muscular shoulders, and a good four inches taller than Scope – heard him and swung round fast, finger tensing on the trigger.
But he was too late. Still sprinting, Scope dived at him, using one hand to knock the rifle to one side, and the other to ram the knife into his neck.
Momentum sent them both hurtling through the crowd, the blood spurting from the gunman’s severed jugular vein, the life literally emptying out of him. But even as he died, his finger pressed down hard on the trigger, sending more shots into the ceiling, and scattering hostages in every direction.
They hit the floor hard, with Scope on top, and as the gunman made a final grunt as the last of the air escaped his lungs, Scope turned round, just in time to see the other one hauling himself heavily to his feet, kicking off a smaller man who was trying to drag him back down.
