‘Fuck you,’ roared a voice from inside the flat.
Bingo.
There were more sounds of movement. Doyle steadied the automatic.
‘Nice arse,’ he called back.‘Something for me to grip on to when I’m fucking her.’
‘You fucking bastard,’ bellowed the same voice.
Doyle smiled. ‘Now, are you coming out while you still carr?’
Silence.
Doyle stepped back slightly.
Across the street the snipers kept their eyes pressed firmly to their scopes.
‘Come out now and I might only fuck her once,’ Doyle shouted.
A small package, no larger than a man’s fist, rolled from inside the flat. It bumped against the parapet then lay still.
Doyle saw the detonator jammed into it.
He knew he had just seconds.
Doyle half ran, half threw himself to one side as he saw the package. It probably weighed less than a pound but he knew the damage a pound of plastic explosive was capable of.
As he spun away he gritted his teeth and hurled himself down, scraping the elbows of his leather jacket on the concrete.
The blast was deafening.
Doyle covered his head, the thunderous explosion tearing away part of the parapet and sending lumps of concrete spiralling into the air. Pieces of debris were flung out into the street and those below ducked or ran for cover as chunks of stone rained down like shrapnel.
A great cloud of smoke engulfed the walkway and Doyle found his lungs clogged by the noxious fumes. He rolled on to his side and squinted in the direction of number 44.
Through the smoke he saw two figures.
The bastards were making a run for it
Doyle swung the Beretta up and squeezed the trigger. The burst-fire mechanism sent three bullets from the barrel milliseconds after each other. Two sang off the stonework, another cut through the fume-filled air.
The smoke was still thick and Doyle waved a hand angrily in front of his face as if to clear it. He fired again into the choking fumes. Shots were returned.
He heard a bullet part the air no more than six inches from his left ear.
Opposite, two of the RUC snipers opened up. Doyle heard the loud crack of the HK81 s. 7.62mm slugs struck the brickwork.
Finan and Leary were already hurtling along the walkway towards the stairs at the far end. It was their only escape route.
Doyle scrambled to his feet and squeezed off four more rounds. Empty shell cases spun into the air and the recoil slammed the butt of the 9mm against the heel of his hand. But he remained steady, pumping the trigger.
One of the bullets caught Finan in the shoulder, blasted through his right scapula and erupted from his chest just above his nipple. Gobbets of flesh, pulverised bone and pieces of clothing spewed into the air, propelled on a gout of blood.
Finan stumbled.
Doyle fired again. His next shot caught the Irishman in the thigh. Moving at close to 1,700 feet a second, the bullet fractured the left femur and sent Finan sprawling.
He dropped his weapon and Doyle saw Leary grab it and swing the Ithaca pump-action shotgun up to his shoulder and work the slide.
Doyle hurled himself to one side as the discharge dug a crater in the concrete close to his left foot.
By this time Leary had reached the stairs.
Doyle paused beside Finan for a moment, pressing two fingers to the jugular vein of the motionless younger man. There was a faint pulse but looking at the amount of blood spouting from the Irishman’s leg wound, Doyle wondered if his bullet had cut Finan’s femoral artery. If it had, he had about two minutes before his life fluid finished jetting from him.
There was already a huge puddle of it around him, and Doyle could hear the liquid spurts, like a conduit firing thick crimson from an unattended garden hose.
Doyle left the man and ran on in pursuit of his other quarry.
One down. One to go.
As he reached the top of the stairs another blast from the shotgun shattered the bevelled safety glass in the double doors.
Doyle saw that the slide on his automatic had shot backwards. He fumbled in his pocket for a fresh clip and slammed it into the butt.
His breath coming in gasps, he put his shoulder to the door and crashed through.
Fragments of shattered glass cut Doyle’s cheeks and chin but the counter terrorist kept going. He stayed low in case Leary decided to let loose another blast.
Doyle could hear footsteps pounding down the concrete steps and he chanced a look over the metal banister. There was a deafening blast, amplified by the stairwell and a portion of the handrail simply disintegrated as the buckshot destroyed it.
He stuck the 9mm over the rail and fired three times. Another wave of sound shredded the eardrums of those on the stairs. Bullets screamed off concrete and the smell of cordite grew more intense.
Doyle dashed down the next flight, taking the stairs two or three at a time.
He hit the landing hard and rolled, hauling himself upright as he charged on after Leary.
He could now hear his quarry breathing. The man couldn’t be more than one flight ahead of him.
As he ran the counter terrorist holstered the Beretta and dragged the Desert Eagle from beneath his right arm. Even in Doyle’s hand the pistol looked huge.
Its triangular barrel was as distinctive as its incredible destructive power.
The breath searing in his lungs, he swung himself round on to the final flight of steps.
Leary was rushing for the main doors to the flats.
Doyle swung the Desert Eagle up and squeezed off two shots. The massive recoil was mostly absorbed by the weapon’s mechanism but Doyle still needed all his strength to control the pistol.
One bullet punched a hole in the door, the second powered into a wall, shattering brickwork and sending a fine cloud of reddish powder into the air.
Leary ran on and out into the street.
Doyle vaulted the last handrail, dropping the twelve feet to the ground. He hit the concrete hard, rolled over and dragged himself up, wincing from a pain in his left ankle.
Might have sprained it Fuck.
But the pain was secondary and he ran on, bursting out into the street.
He looked to the left and right and saw Leary running towards the far end.
There were men spilling from the Land Rover parked there.
Leary raised the shotgun and fired twice at the vehicle. The first blast sent the RUC men scurrying for cover. The second punched several holes in the chassis above the front offside wheel.
‘Stop him,’ roared Doyle, swinging the Desert Eagle up once again.
Leary was already pulling open the driver’s door and clambering behind the wheel of the Land Rover.
Doyle fired. The bullet stove in most of the windscreen and Leary ducked down as fragments of glass showered him.
The driver of the Transit was attempting to manoeuvre into the path of the Land Rover but Leary jammed it into reverse and slammed into the larger vehicle with such force that he cleared a way through for himself.
‘Shoot him, for fuck’s sake,’ Doyle bellowed as he charged at the reversing Land Rover.
‘We can’t open fire on a street,’ one of the armed RUC men shouted back.
‘He’ll get away,’ snarled Doyle.
He squeezed off two more shots from the Desert Eagle.The first of the .50
calibre shells drilled into the spare wheel, tore through the chassis and buried itself in the back of the passenger seat. The second ripped off a wing mirror.
Leary stepped on the accelerator. The back wheels spun madly for a moment then gripped the tarmac and the Land Rover shot forward as if fired from a catapult.