The TV bad die was dying from a gunshot wound given to him by the cop. It must have been near to the end of the film. I went over to the box.
Stowed inside were three collapsible-stock Heckler & Koch 53s, virtually the same weapon as the MP5 used by the Regiment, but firing a larger 5.56mm round. With their thirty-round mags, Too Thin To Win could have taken my head off and still had change.
I picked up one of the weapons and two of the mags. I could now see that on the bottom of the box there were also three silenced pistols, again with mags.
I took one round out of the 53 mag and pushed down on the remainder to check the spring worked. Young One was still moaning as the film credits rolled. He was watching me. I thought for a while. Why take the 53? If I had to use it, I would alert the people in the house next door and maybe even the whole campsite. I picked up one of the pistols. I didn't have a clue what it was, only that, going by the markings, it was made in China. I looked in the mag. The rounds were 9mm. I loaded and made ready with one mag, and took a few rounds out of another and looked inside. These mags held nine rounds a piece. I didn't know why I checked. I never counted them as I fired, I was always too busy flapping.
I replaced the rounds and put the five spare mags in my jeans. This Chinese thing looked quite good. If total silence was required, there was a catch that would keep the working parts in place when you fired. You then had to manually unload and then reload. If not, and you could get away with a suppressed weapon on semiautomatic, all you had to do was take the catch off and the working parts would move and feed another round to fire. The baffling would still do its job in stopping the weapon report;
you'd just hear the working parts moving. With my thumb I pulled down on the catch, then jammed it into my jeans.
I got hold of Young One's arms and pulled him up against the settee, and as I did so I could see where he'd been hit. The arrow had entered his stomach, and as he'd fallen it must have been pushed right up into his ribcage. I got him so that he was sitting on the floor with his head lolling over to the left-hand side, resting on the seat. His eyes were still begging me as I placed a cushion under his head, stepped back, and gave him a round in the head.
There was just a noise like someone tapping the edge of a wooden table with their finger. The cushion and settee helped to suppress the round completely as it came out of the back of his head. He just lay there, eyes still open, blood shining in the TV light.
I'd never worked out how I felt about things like this. He would have killed me if he'd had the chance, and I'd just put him out of his misery. I took the catch off, unloaded and fed another round into the chamber, letting the catch down to lock the working parts in place.
I stood, watched and listened. There were a couple of plates on the floor covered with dried sauce and stubbed-out cigarettes, two or three full ashtrays, countless crushed cans of Bud and now these three bodies.
TNT told me they were now going to show Road House with Patrick Swayze. I wiped the blood from my gloves onto the settee and changed magazines, gently pushing a new, full one into position, listening for the click that told me it was engaged.
As I moved away from the TV set, a loud ping! sent my heart leaping into my throat. I spun my head and weapon around, expecting to have to react. The rest of my body followed about half a second later, both eyes open and the weapon up in the aim. I found myself pointing at the microwave oven in the next room.
I needed a minute to calm down and sort my shit out and decided to put the weapon into semiauto mode. Time to move on. I was still left with two that I knew of, the American and the Bossman, plus Sarah and there were still another two floors to clear.
I didn't need the bow anymore so I left it on the floor. The TV was still bumping its gums: 'Guys who like guy movies ...'
I started to move slowly but purposefully, trying to keep the noise down, both eyes open, weapon up. I had the light from the TV screen shining behind me, projecting my shadow on the wall. I got to the stairs and checked upward. It was dark up there. Eyes and weapon glued to the top of the stairs, I started to move.
I knew this feeling all too well. My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it banging against my chest wall, and I had a horrible, dry, rasping feeling in my throat. My head was so far back that sweat was running into my eyes and down the folds of skin at the back of my neck. I nicked my head to the side, attempting to get rid of it.
It started to get darker and quieter as the glow and noise of the TV faded, and soon all I could hear was the sound of my own breath. I did my best to suppress it because I imagined three people upstairs listening and following my progress.
Moving upstairs like this is physically demanding. Every movement has to be so slow and deliberate that all your muscles are tensed; your body needs oxygen, and your lungs, in turn, need to work harder, but you don't want them to because that makes noise, and on top of all that, at any moment, somebody could be trying to kill you.
I reached the landing of the second floor. I immediately noticed a nice polished smell up here, a different world from the one I'd just left behind me.
There was a wall to my left, with a door that faced the corridor that ran to my right. It must be the bathroom where I'd heard a toilet being flushed last night.
As I looked to the right, I could see that the corridor ran the length of the house. Right down the middle was a single strip rug, which would help muffle noise. In the light thrown from a door that was slightly ajar at the far end I could see a table about ten feet away, on the left. The open door showed a sink shining in the light. It didn't sound as if anyone was in there, and I didn't hear water running or a cistern filling up. Maybe they were just scared of the dark and wanted a light on for when they came out for a piss. I looked at the crack under each of the other doors to see if there were any signs of life or light from within the rooms. Nothing.
Across from me were the stairs to the top floor. I stayed where I was and listened. I could just about hear the low drone of the TV downstairs, but the sound of my heartbeat seemed louder. I could feel my carotid pulses banging in my ears. I couldn't just wait here all night until she needed the toilet.
With my knees bent, shoulders hunched over, arms out, staring down the thick baffled barrel of the weapon, I started to move along the center of the corridor, using the rug. I reached the first door on the right and edged over, putting my ear to it, but kept the pistol where it was.
I could still hear the TV and the rain. My antennae were out, trying to take in every possible sound, but it was very distant, very indistinct. From inside the room came the noise of snoring. Sarah never snored, but there was always a chance she could be sleeping with someone who did.
I carried on along the corridor to the next room. I listened outside it.
Nothing. As if I were going to hear her singing along to a CD.
I went on, passing a fire exit on my left, which I hadn't noticed earlier.
It had bolts top and bottom, which I gently eased back, and a pin-tumbler lock in the middle, which I also undid.
I moved on to the next two doors past the table, hearing nothing. I stood by the lit-up bathroom. This could go on forever. Fuck it, there was no time to do anything but take my chances with whoever was back down the corridor. I just knew I had to do something, and quickly.
Holding the pistol in my right hand, I checked with my left that everything was in place. The Tazer was in my right-hand bomber jacket pocket, with the handle outward, ready to grab.
I got out the flashlight, placed the lens against the wall, and twisted it on to check it still worked. The light hit the wall but wasn't going anywhere else. I turned it off and kept it in my left hand, with my thumb and forefinger at the ready.
I put my right thumb on the weapon's safety catch and pressed down, checking it was off and ready to go. Then I pushed the mag in the pistol grip to make sure it was engaged.
With my left hand I lifted the latch. I wasn't going to try to do it gently;
once you've decided you're going in, you might as well get it over with. I pushed the door open a few inches, and at the same time brought my left hand up and switched the flashlight on, using my body to open the door fully.
As I came into the room I moved to the right to avoid silhouetting my body in the doorway. I three-quarters closed the door with my shoulder, and the flashlight beam hit a pile of men's clothes on the floor. I also saw a
