Siege

Eighty-five

SCOPE HAD NEVER intended to be a hero.

His plan had been to try to get on to the hotel roof from where he hoped to be able to summon some kind of help, but as he, Abby and Ethan had reached the ninth floor on the emergency staircase, with its sign for the Park View Restaurant, he’d heard the sound of shouting and gunfire, and reassessed. He could have carried on going but he remembered from the news that the terrorists had been holding hostages in the restaurant, and that the restaurant itself led out on to a flat roof terrace, which probably represented a better escape route.

Having sat Abby down and instructed Ethan to look after her, he’d made his way along the corridor towards the restaurant, and through the glass in the door had witnessed a scene of chaos. One gunman was struggling on the floor with several hostages, while another had his back to Scope and was shouting at the remainder of the group – twenty-five or so people of varying ages, some of whom were on their feet. This gunman had his foot resting on a pedal detonator and was threatening to use it.

As Scope watched, the gunman on the floor threw off one of the people he was struggling with, a blonde-haired woman in a business suit, while the second one took his foot off the detonator and started walking into the crowd.

Immediately, Scope saw his chance. Pulling out his knife, he threw open the door and ran into the room.

At the last second, the second gunman – a big guy with broad, muscular shoulders, and a good four inches taller than Scope – heard him and swung round fast, finger tensing on the trigger.

But he was too late. Still sprinting, Scope dived at him, using one hand to knock the rifle to one side, and the other to ram the knife into his neck.

Momentum sent them both hurtling through the crowd, the blood spurting from the gunman’s severed jugular vein, the life literally emptying out of him. But even as he died, his finger pressed down hard on the trigger, sending more shots into the ceiling, and scattering hostages in every direction.

They hit the floor hard, with Scope on top, and as the gunman made a final grunt as the last of the air escaped his lungs, Scope turned round, just in time to see the other one hauling himself heavily to his feet, kicking off a smaller man who was trying to drag him back down.

The blonde woman jumped up and made a lunge at the gunman, grabbing for his weapon, but this one’s reactions were quick and he slammed the barrel into her face, knocking her backwards to the floor, before swinging the rifle round towards Scope.

Scope yanked the AK-47 from the dead man’s hands and rolled round to face him, but even as he did so he knew he was too late. The gunman had already steadied his aim and was ready to fire. For a split second, their eyes met, and Scope could see him grinning beneath the balaclava as his finger tensed on the trigger.

But the smaller guy grabbed him round the legs again, knocking him slightly off balance, just as he fired a burst of shots. Scope felt them pass close to the left side of his face, but he didn’t even have time to think about how close he’d come to being hit, because he was already firing himself. The AK was set to single shot, and he put two into the gunman’s torso, knocking him backwards at just the moment he let loose another burst of gunfire. Then, remembering that one of the terrorists he’d taken out earlier had been wearing a bulletproof vest, Scope adjusted his aim and shot at the gunman’s head. One round missed and a second hit him in the shoulder, spinning him round, before the third took him through the cheekbone.

Unable to stagger because the smaller guy was still holding on to his legs as if his life depended on it, the gunman began to sway like a tree in the wind, a thin line of blood running down his face, before toppling to the carpet with a loud thud.

Scope could hear his own breathing, even though he’d been partially deafened by the gunshots. His back felt wet, and he realized he was lying in a pool of the other gunman’s blood. He clambered to his feet, knowing that they all had to get out of there before the other terrorists arrived. The hostages were scattered all over the place and they were all looking at him, including the blonde girl who’d helped save his life, and who was now holding her nose as blood poured out of it. Some looked elated; some looked awed; a few just looked plain shocked. Scope looked at the smaller guy – the other person who’d helped save his life. He was panting hard and his face was pale. Scope nodded at him, and mouthed the word ‘thanks’.

‘All right, we’ve got to leave now,’ he shouted.

‘What about that rucksack?’ one of the hostages shouted back. ‘It’s got a bomb in it.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ said Scope. ‘The rest of you, get the hell out.’

The blonde woman got to her feet. ‘Follow me,’ she said through her fingers. ‘We can go on to the roof terrace outside. The doors should be unlocked.’

No one needed asking twice. As they scattered the tables and chairs piled up against the windows and pulled up the blinds, Scope picked up the rucksack, knowing there was no time for caution, and placed it round the other side of the restaurant, out of sight of the windows. Then, slinging the AK-47 over his shoulder, he ran back towards the staircase.

It was time to get Abby and Ethan.