occupants.
Inside the bungalow Paula had hauled on her boots, grabbed the Uzi she had placed on a table close to the bed. She flung open the door to the living-room. Beaurain was standing close to the front door, his weapon in his hands. He smiled grimly.
'You watch the kitchen door. I'm taking the front one…'
He unlocked the door, stood to one side, flung it wide open. Mist drifted in. Not helpful. He listened. The firing at the rear of the bungalow had ceased. The silence was ominous.
No one in the alcove porch. He stepped into it, listened once more. Nothing. He suspected the attackers could move like mice. No warning they were coming. He peered out of the alcove, checking both directions. No one. Then he heard faintly but clearly a voice he just recognized. Newman's, shouting a warning through hands cupped round his mouth. The words, muffled by the mist, just reached him.
'Two of them near you. I brought down other two in the field behind…'
Two? Dangerous. If they both attacked at once. To make himself a smaller target, Beaurain sat down outside the porch, a tactic he'd used successfully fighting terrorists over the water. He heard the faint jostle of a pebble to his right. A man appeared, a silhouette in the mist. Holding a Kalashnikov. The barrel came up to kill Beaurain. The Belgian had his Uzi aimed in that direction, fired a long burst. The figure jumped – under the shock of the bullets hitting him – dropped his weapon, leaned against the wall of the bungalow, slithered down it, lay very still. Beaurain's weapon was already aimed to his left. Nothing, no sound.
Inside Paula had darted into the kitchen, paused, facing the heavy back door which she knew was bolted. No one was going to get in through that. She also was listening, now the shooting from the front had ceased. She prayed Beaurain was still alive.
They couldn't get in through the living-room windows -the shutters, closed, were heavy. Newman's shout had just reached her. Difficult to hear but she'd caught the gist of his warning. Was there one more out there?
She wasn't frightened. She had been startled to be woken from a deep sleep by the sound of gunfire. Now her training came to her aid. Her nerves were cold, controlled. She was ready to kill. She held her Uzi across her waist, ready to aim it in any direction.
The back door was bolted top and bottom, but when they arrived the key had been missing, although the door was locked. Billy must had slipped it into his pocket without thinking. So she had no way of knowing a ferocious eye was peering at her through the keyhole.
Some instinct made her back further away from the door. Still she held the Uzi across her stomach, parallel to the floor. Frequently she glanced back over her shoulder. When she had rushed into the kitchen she had hauled down two large pans off hooks, had dropped them at the entrance to the kitchen. She had used the dimmer to lower the lighting. If anyone came through the door from the living-room they would, with luck, stumble over the pans, announcing their presence.
When the attack came it was still a shock. The heavy back door was smashed inwards, breaking free of its hinges, the bolts giving way. A huge figure stood in the doorway, the biggest man she had ever seen. His weight had destroyed the back door as though it were made of matchwood. On his head he wore a black turban. His black beard was glistening with moisture from the mist.
He was grinning savagely. His Kalashnikov was looped over his shoulder. In his right hand he held a horrible- looking curved knife. He was going to slash her to bits. Quite confident – peering through the keyhole he'd seen that her Uzi was held across her waist. His trunk-like legs carried him forward like a juggernaut.
She swung the barrel of the Uzi through ninety degrees, was pressing the trigger, kept on pressing it, emptied the magazine into him. Forty rounds. He stood perfectly still for a mind-breaking moment, then fell forward. She had to jump backwards to avoid this immense body hitting her. It thudded to the floor, caused a shuddering vibration. She forced herself to bend over it, checking the carotid artery in the bull-like neck. He was dead.
Before checking the artery she had hauled out the empty mag, had inserted a fresh one. Behind her she heard a clatter of pans.
She jumped up, her weapon aimed at the entrance into the kitchen. Beaurain's voice shouted.
'Don't shoot. It's Jules…'
She smiled wearily, lowered her gun. He came forward and stared, first at the smashed door, then down at the body. He whistled.
'What a giant.'
'It was like something out of Psycho. He came in like an express train, waving that knife. My training saved me. He's dead as a dodo, thank God. What a brute.'
Beaurain looped his Uzi over his shoulder, put both hands on her shoulders, pulled her close. She was trembling. He held her like that until the trembling stopped and she released herself.
'I'm OK now. What's the situation?' she asked briskly.
'There were four of them. Newman must have been guarding us, hidden in Black Wood. He got two of them.
I got one. You brought down this bull, who was probably the leader. They're al-Qa'eda. Look at the turban…'
He whipped his weapon off his shoulder as he heard someone outside the back door. A voice called in, cautiously. Newman's.
'Are you both all right? Heard you talking.'
'I think we'll let you in,' Paula called out impishly.
Newman appeared. He paused to look down at the intact door lying on the floor. Its heaviness had saved it from any real damage. It had simply given way in one piece under the massive onslaught.
'Tell you about that later,' Paula said with a smile. 'So good to see you. Thanks for the back-up. Now, can we fix the door before we freeze to death…'
Between them, Beaurain and Newman lifted the door, slotted it back into place. Newman opened drawers, found a collection of spatulas and large knives. They used these to ram them into the edges of the door, which held it firmly in place. It was a makeshift job but served the purpose.
Paula, who didn't fancy staying in the kitchen with the body on the floor, said she'd clear up her bedroom while they worked. She'd jumped out of bed so quickly the sheets and duvet were strewn over the floor. When she came back Newman was having a long conversation with Tweed on his mobile, reporting what had happened. He paused for a short time, then resumed the conversation briefly.
'That's organized,' he told Beaurain.
'What is?' asked Paula, prodding him. 'I'm still here, you know.'
'Tweed phoned Buchanan while I waited. Roy is rushing ambulances up here to collect the bodies. He also wants to know who up here has reacted – which is something Roy and I have decided to check.'
'We'd better get outside now then…'
The mist was thinning when they all left the bungalow.
The lights were on in every house. Martin was already outside, using a flashlight to examine the killer Newman had shot down. He looked up.
'What the devil happened? Who is this guy? He looks dead.'
'He is,' Newman told him. 'We had a gang of burglars who came armed.'
'How long have you been out here?' Beaurain asked. 'And I see you're fully dressed at 3 a.m.'
'How observant of you,' Martin sneered as he stood up. 'I don't think we've met before.' He looked back at Paula. 'And what are you doing inside Billy's bungalow? Where is Billy?'
'He decided to take a holiday,' Paula said, smiling acidly. 'Loaned us his place – I don't think he wanted to leave it empty.'
'Didn't say a word to me.'
'Maybe he doesn't always tell you about his plans,' Paula suggested sweetly.
'The police will have to be informed,' Martin snapped. 'I'll call them
'Don't bother,' the Belgian told him. 'We have already done that. And I'm Commissioner Beaurain.'
'I see. And I dress quickly. Heard the gunshots.'
'Very quickly,' Beaurain commented. 'Down to inserting a clip in your tie.'
Tin going back to bed,' Martin snapped and walked back to his bungalow. He slammed the door shut once he was inside.
