She said, 'You will now turn around and put your hands on your head.'
He knew the routine. If you've got your back to the person who's pointing the pistol at you, you can't assess what's going on.
'Move out of the blood, then down onto your knees.'
Once you're on your knees, you're very vulnerable.
She had more instructions.
'With your left hand, using your thumb and forefinger, take your weapon out. Do it now.'
I was helpless, just a curled-up bundle of shit. I heard voices in the corridor.
I recognized the loud Hispanic accents of the two white-shoed women, walking from the direction of the fire doors. Sarah quickly checked her watch again.
Should I call out? I didn't have the strength. They wouldn't hear me. I looked over at Josh, who I could see side-on. He was considering the same option.
He wasn't flapping as he obeyed her, his finger and thumb on the pistol grip.
'I'm taking it out now, Sarah.'
'Good, Josh. Now put it on the floor behind you.'
Keeping his right hand on his head, he flicked the weapon behind him onto the lino. I could see the sweat coming down from his bald head onto his face and the wet patches in the armpits of his jacket as he raised his arm again. Fear is a good thing, there's nothing wrong with that, it's a natural reaction; you've just got to be able to control it. He'd been here before and knew what to do.
For a moment I had the strange feeling that I was in an audience, looking at actors on a stage. I knew exactly what would be going through Josh's mind. He'd be wondering how he was going to get out of this, and just waiting for the chance to do something about it anything.
Blood is the same as milk. Drop a carton on the floor and it looks as if three have been emptied. Davy's blood had spread outward and was mixing with mine around my face. I didn't have the energy or inclination to move, I just spat from time to time to try and keep it from going in my mouth.
Sarah threw Josh's weapon the length of the bowling alley and the clatter echoed around the walls. She checked her watch once more.
'OK, Josh, this is what you will do. Are you listening?'
He nodded.
'You will take me to the Diplomatic Reception Room. You will be my escort. Do you understand?'
He was very calm as he answered, 'I can't do that.'
Americans have this wonderful total conviction about themselves and their country. Even when they're up to their necks in ten types of shit they have this unshakeable belief that everything will be all right, that America is behind them and the Seventh Cavalry will come over the hill at any moment.
After being captured during the Gulf War, as opposed to asking for things, American prisoners would demand them--they just knew they were on the winning side. In the Regiment, you always knew that if you were in the shit you would never be left behind, and that was sometimes the only thing that helped you through, but the Americans believe that at a national level. I wished I had their confidence.
Sarah couldn't quite believe what she'd heard.
'What?'
Josh said simply, 'I will not do that.'
There was a pause, and I watched Sarah's face for a reaction. It wasn't long coming.
'Josh, you've got some thinking to do, and not a long time to do it in. Think about your children. This is no time to mess about with your family, Josh. Take me to that room or you will die. I've got nothing to lose, I'm going to be dead soon anyway.' She had certainly listened to my brief on how to get Josh to do want she wanted. She checked her watch. If she needed to get to the Diplomatic Reception Room before the end of the coffee break, there wasn't much time left.
'They're great kids. Josh, and they need you. You're all they have left.
Besides,' she smiled her curious little smile, 'you could even try to stop me. You can't do that if you're dead. I'm either going with you, or on my own, with you dead--in ten, Josh.'
I saw his chest rise and fall as his body took in more oxygen to suppress the shock it was experiencing. I could only guess what he was thinking:
Do I die now? Or do I accept what she's saying, and try to prevent it on the way? At least then I'm going to be alive for a little longer.
I had blood in my throat and my voice was hoarse as I said, 'Take her, Josh. Just do it.'
He looked at me and our eyes locked. I could see for sure what he was thinking now: You fucking asshole. No matter if I had known what she was going to do or not, to him I was now the world's biggest bastard.
Fair one.
I looked up at Sarah as she gave the final warning.
'It's make-your mind-up time.' She didn't have long until the coffee break ended.
He looked at the wall, thought for a few seconds more, and quietly said,
'OK.'
'If you try to fuck with me, Josh, know this: I will kill you before anyone has time to react. I don't want your president. I just want the other two. But if you fuck with me ... do you understand me?'
He closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them again he fixed them on mine. I hoped my eyes were saying: I didn't know this was going to happen, mate, and I'm sorry, so sorry.
But his expression told me it was a bit late for that.
Now that she was going to have an escort, Sarah took off Davy's ID card and put her own one back on. That was detail, and detail counts.
She said, 'Let's go.'
She stepped back from the door as Josh walked toward it.
'My weapon might be hidden, Josh, but at the slightest sign that you're fucking with me I'll ensure that I get you first.'
He nodded, looked back at me and walked out.
She followed without giving me a second glance.
Everything was out of focus; my head was spinning. I was losing too much blood. Between us, Davy and I had the lino pretty much covered.
But now wasn't the time to worry about that; I had to accept that I'd been shot, and get on with it.
struggled onto my hands and knees, sucked in a couple of deep breaths and started to crawl over toward the abandoned ID card. Every movement was agony. With each bend of a knee or stretch of an arm I felt as if a red-hot saw was working on my stomach. It took me what felt like forever to cover the ten or so feet. My head was swimming as I tried to pull the nylon loop over my head without disturbing the injury in my guts.
When I'd finally finished, I couldn't even remember why I'd done it.
I began crawling to the door, coughing, spitting lumps of blood, moaning to myself like a drunk in the gutter, my clothes, face and hair soaked with my blood and Davy's.
On my knees, I fumbled with the handle like a panicking child. It was a normal knob, with the tumbler lock in the middle, but I couldn't make my hands work. My fingers weren't listening to my brain, or maybe it was just that they were too slippery with warm red fluid.
I knew what I was trying to do, but I couldn't accomplish it. Maybe it's true that your life can flash before you as you die. I was suddenly looking down a long tunnel, to when I was about six years old and fell through a glass roof into a garage. I'd been with a gang of older boys, running across the roof as an initiation test. I hit the ground, cut and bruised, and had to fight with the door bolt to escape. I was so scared that I couldn't make any
sense out of how to pull the fucking thing across, and once I'd gone through all that, there was no way I was going to show them how much it hurt. They let me join their gang.
My hands started to shake as they slithered around the door handle. I was losing it. I knew I was going to die soon. I didn't care; I just didn't want it to happen until I'd at least tried to stop Sarah.
I forced myself to calm down, take deep breaths and tell myself what I needed to do, just as I'd done back in that garage. It worked.
'Help ... help me ...' I tried to shout, but could only manage a weak splutter. Not surprisingly, nothing
