Siege

Fifty-seven

MARTIN DIDN’T RESIST when he was hauled to his feet and felt the pressure of the gun barrel against his head. In fact, a strange calm descended upon him. The leader wasn’t gripping him roughly, rather there was an almost respectful manner in the way he led him towards the window.

In a few seconds’ time it would all be over. One loud bang and all the stress, the sadness and the regrets would be gone. He would leave his life, and his cancer, behind. He would finally be free. He closed his eyes, shutting out the world, as he allowed himself to be guided towards the place where he knew he would die.

And then there was a sudden commotion, and he was pitched forward.

Martin’s eyes flew open and he saw the young rugby player who’d looked at him a few minutes earlier struggling violently with the terrorist leader as he wrestled to get his gun.

‘Help me!’ he yelled, a desperation in his voice, as he, Martin and the terrorist stumbled around together. The rugby player was holding on to the terrorist’s wrist, forcing his gun up in the air. The gun went off with a loud pop, and someone screamed.

‘Help me!’

Martin knew that this was it – his chance to do something, even if it meant dying a hero’s death – but everything was happening so fast that he didn’t have time to react before the woman took three quick steps forward, calmly took aim, and shot the rugby player in the upper body, the force of the bullet knocking them all backwards.

‘Everyone stay down!’ she screamed. ‘Move and you die!’

No one moved except the rugby player, who let out a tortured gasp as if he’d been winded, and fell to his knees, clutching at his arm.

The terrorist leader threw Martin to the floor, then swung round and kicked the rugby player hard in the chest. ‘You want to die, uh? You want to die? You can fucking die!’ He grabbed him round his neck, dragging him to his feet. Still cursing him, he drove a path through the hostages before slamming him up against one of the restaurant tables in front of the uncovered window and forcing the gun into the base of his skull. The rugby player cried out, but Martin could see it was too late, much too late. The next second, there was another loud pop, and blood splattered against the window.

Immediately he stopped struggling and, as the leader let go of him and stepped aside, Martin could clearly see the wound in the back of his head. Slowly and silently, the dead man slipped from the table and fell to the floor.

‘That’s what happens when you try to escape!’ the leader shouted, turning on the rest of them, the barrel of his gun still smoking. ‘Do you understand?’ He was shaking with rage and spraying spittle as he talked, his grip too tight on the trigger – a stark contrast to the woman, who stood calmly alongside him. ‘He stays here as a warning to the rest of you.’

He looked down at Martin, who looked back steadily. For three seconds they stared at each other, and Martin could hear his heart beating in his chest. Then the leader turned away and he and the woman strode past the two guards and out of the room, leaving the rest of them in stunned silence.