their feet. Someone shouted that they were going to detonate the rucksack bomb that was still right in the middle of them, causing a panicked rush after Fox and Bear.
As Fox reached the door, he turned round and unleashed another burst of fire, scattering the hostages as he tried to buy himself and Bear a few extra seconds, not really worried who or what the bullets hit. Then they were through the door and out into the corridor.
Fox couldn’t hear any movement coming from the ground floor but it wouldn’t be long before the SAS came blasting through the doors. Yanking a grenade from his belt, he pulled the pin and rolled it down the central staircase, keen to cause as much mayhem and noise as possible, then he and Bear sprinted through the double doors in the direction of the emergency staircase.
Ahead of them, the corridor was empty, but behind he could hear the panicked shouts of the hostages as they fought their way through the door, followed by the loud blast of the grenade. In a few minutes, this whole place was going to be a screaming mass of people trying to get out, and SAS men trying to get in, which was exactly what Fox had planned. It would have been helpful if the bombs they’d set on timer had accompanied their escape, but in the end it probably wouldn’t matter.
There was just one more thing to do.
As they ran up the emergency staircase to the second floor, where they’d stashed their civilian clothes and fake IDs in separate rooms, Fox pulled out his pistol, and in one swift movement shot Bear twice in the face, not even stopping to watch as the other man grunted and fell back down the steps. He didn’t feel bad about killing the man who’d saved his life in Iraq all those years before, and who’d got his face ripped to pieces in the process. For Fox, it was all business. The fewer people who knew about him the better. Especially ones with big mouths like Bear.
Fox had already stopped thinking about him as he used his master key card to open room 202, from where he would shortly emerge as Robert Durran, freelance architect and guest in the hotel, and join all the other fleeing guests unlucky enough to have been caught up in the terrible events of that day.
Eighty-eight
AS SCOPE GENTLY laid Abby down on the roof terrace, helped by Ethan, she was beginning to come round again and blinking against the search beam of the police helicopter circling overhead.
‘You’re still at the hotel, but you’re going to be OK,’ Scope told her, putting the bottle of Lucozade to her lips. ‘There are people coming to help you.’
So far, though, with the exception of the helicopter, the cavalry hadn’t actually arrived. The twenty-five or so hostages mingled uncertainly on the terrace, some of them standing at the far end, signalling to the people below to send assistance, nobody really sure what was going on. Scope wasn’t too worried. This was just the chaos of battle – all delays and confusion. The rescuers would be here soon enough, and now that Abby was awake, there was less urgency. It was cold and wet out there on the terrace, but he’d wrapped her in the duvet from the room, so she was protected from the worst of it.
He grinned at Ethan. ‘See? Your mum’s going to be all right.’
But as Ethan grinned back, a long burst of gunfire came from somewhere in the building, followed by a loud explosion, and a few seconds later a couple carrying two young children, who must have come from one of the guest rooms, hurried through the double doors on to the terrace.
‘There are terrorists coming!’ said the woman breathlessly.
‘They’ve got guns and grenades,’ added her husband. ‘They’re shooting at everyone and everything.’
Scope stood up. ‘How many of them are there?’
‘I don’t know, but they’re not far away.’
A worried murmur went up among the crowd, and they immediately moved further away from the double doors. Scope picked up Abby and took her over to the far end of the terrace, where she’d be seen and dealt with by the rescuers when they finally arrived.
Another burst of gunfire rang out, closer this time, and people started crying out.
‘Stay here with your mum, Ethan. I’m going back inside.’
Ethan looked scared. ‘But you might get hurt. Don’t leave us. You keep leaving.’
Scope smiled. ‘And I keep coming back. Remember that.’
He looked around for the blonde manager and saw her holding a bloodied tissue to her nose as she directed people back from the edge of the terrace. ‘I’m going to try and hold them back,’ he told her, ‘but can you look after those two over there and make sure they get to safety?’
‘Of course. But be careful.’
‘And you.’
Turning away, he ran back into the restaurant. He’d stashed the AK-47 under a chair to avoid getting mistaken for one of the terrorists by the security forces, and he grabbed it now, keeping it down by his side as he strode over to the doors leading back to the emergency staircase. He peered through the glass and immediately saw a young man in bare feet sprinting along the corridor towards him, as if the devil himself was on his heels. He stepped aside as the guy came charging through without even slowing down and ran towards the open terrace doors.
More gunfire rang out, and this time it was really close. As Scope peered through the glass, he saw a man stagger out of the emergency staircase door, about halfway along the corridor. He’d clearly been shot and was clutching at his side, his shirt already stained with blood. Unable to keep his balance, he fell into the opposite wall and went down on his knees.
Holding the rifle out in front of him, Scope kicked open the door and went out to help him.
At exactly the same moment, the side door flew open again, and a man in a balaclava and boiler suit came storming through, already firing into the injured man, who pitched forward with a strangled scream.
The man turned Scope’s way. He was short and well-built, moving with a confidence that came when you had a gun in your hand and the people you were hunting didn’t. But the moment he saw Scope he took an instinctive, startled step back, and hesitated for just half a second too long.
In one fluid movement, Scope put the rifle to his shoulder and opened up on fully automatic.
The masked gunman flew backwards, firing from the hip, his bullets ricocheting off the ceiling, and Scope charged him, wanting to get in close for a headshot. The gunman went down on his back and lay still, but Scope knew there was a good chance he was wearing a flak jacket, and faking it. He’d been hit in the chest, and was still holding on to his weapon with one hand.
Scope stopped ten feet short of him and took aim at his head.
The gunman realized at the last second that he’d miscalculated and brought round his weapon to fire, but he was too late. Scope shot him twice in the face and the rifle dropped out of his hand as he died.
For a few moments Scope stood staring down at his corpse, then slowly he opened the door to the emergency staircase. There was no longer any shooting, just a lot of shouting, and doors slamming coming from further down the steps, coupled with a pungent smell of smoke and ordnance. It was obvious that those guests who’d barricaded themselves into their rooms had seen images on the TV of their fellow guests escaping and were following suit.
He turned to go, eager to leave himself.
And then he heard a pained cry coming from the next floor down.
‘Is anyone down there?’ Scope called out, still keeping his finger tight on the trigger, knowing it could easily be a trick.
‘Help me,’ came the voice. It was young and female. English accent. ‘I’ve been hurt.’
Knowing he couldn’t just leave her, Scope started down the staircase. ‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘I’m coming.’
He saw her as he came round the corner on to the next set of steps. She was about twenty, no more, a pretty Asian girl in a waitress’s uniform, standing in the middle of the stairwell with her arms down by her side. She was shaking, although Scope couldn’t see any sign of injury. There was another girl, partially obscured, lying in a foetal position behind her.
