And now, suddenly, her dream — his too, since effectively she’d won him over to it — was fading as the reality of his situation sunk in. He was crouched back against the hall wall, facing the door twelve feet away, both hands holding the standard-issue Browning in front of him, listening to the scraping of their feet as they came to the front door.
The door was made of wood and looked reasonably sturdy, but Cheek realized now that he’d made a mistake. In the melee and confusion, he hadn’t been able to find the key to double-lock it, and the chain was too flimsy to act as much of a substitute. If only he’d kept the bloody thing in the door. It was too late now, far too late, and he wondered if it was a mistake that was going to cost him his life. He’d never fired a gun in anger before, even though he’d been a trained firearms officer for close to fifteen years, and had no desire to change that state of affairs now. British police guidelines for opening fire were some of the strictest in the world. If he pulled the trigger, he would face literally hundreds of questions. If he hit anyone, he’d be the subject of a major, and possibly hostile, investigation. There could even be murder or attempted murder charges if he made the wrong decision. It was a bastard of a position to put a man in.
There was a crack as the wood on the door was forced. Cheek’s grip on the gun tightened. He tried to force all doubts and fears out of his head, and focus on the few feet of empty space in front of him. But it was hard. Harder than anything he’d ever had to do before. This was it: life or death.
A second, louder crack split the silence, and he heard the door give. His teeth clenched, and he tried to stop his hands from shaking. But they shook anyway, as the fear dragged him deeper into the darkness. The moment of truth, the moment he wished to God he’d never have to face, and it was coming to him as swiftly and unexpectedly as a heart attack. And still he couldn’t fire, because he couldn’t see his targets, and could not tell for sure whether they were armed or not, even though they had to be, since why else would they be here?
Hold your fire. Pray you can pull the trigger. Pray you’ve got the strength. Pray they don’t fire first.
The door came open slowly, then stopped as the chain went taut. Silence. He thought he heard breathing.
Come on, if you’re coming. Come on.
Bang! It flew open like a shot, and then the shadowy figures were there, facing him down from the porch. His chest constricted painfully as he saw they had guns.
‘Armed police! Drop your weapons now!’
A stunningly loud burst of automatic gunfire erupted in the hallway as one of the figures opened fire. Cheek pulled the trigger, twice in rapid succession, but then his whole body seemed to burn up, and he felt himself being slammed against the wall as the bullets struck him.
The shooter with the automatic rifle had been hit by Cheek’s rounds and he stumbled backwards, still discharging his own weapon in a hail of fire and noise, the bullets tearing into the ceiling. He hit the ground, his magazine empty, and a second figure appeared in his place, opening up in Cheek’s direction with a pump-action shotgun.
Cheek lifted his gun arm and tried to squeeze the trigger again, experiencing a tangible and immediate feeling of pride that his training had come through, and that he’d responded appropriately to the armed criminal in front of him, but then the first deafening shotgun blast ripped a huge hole in his chest, and the second took off most of his face. He died within seconds, knowing that he was in the right, and that the PCA had nothing on him.
The assassin with the shotgun now came cautiously over the threshold, reloading as he did so, followed by another man armed with a.38 revolver.
From where they crouched at the other end of the L-shaped hallway, Malik and Merriweather could see the body of Cheek lying motionless amid the rising smoke. They’d both been deafened by the initial bursts of gunfire, and now realized their complete helplessness in the face of armed opposition.
‘Fuck,’ hissed Merriweather, crawling into a corner out of sight of the door. ‘Never trust a copper.’
Malik moved away to the other side of the door but he knew it was a futile exercise. From his hopelessly exposed position he watched, terrified, as a shotgun appeared round the corner, preceding the powerfully built man holding it. The gunman was dressed in a dark boiler suit and balaclava, giving him the appearance of a medieval executioner of the sort you see in history books. A study in menace.
He started down the corridor in their direction, not having seen them yet, and Malik offered up a silent prayer for salvation, trying desperately to think of a way out of this.
Then, from over the other side of the house, he heard a noise. The gunman turned round towards the lounge, and there was a shout of ‘Armed police!’, then the sound of shots being fired from a police gun. The shotgun barked angrily in return and the glass in the lounge door shattered. Several other shots also came from somewhere else.
Which was when Malik made a decision. The one with the shotgun had his back to him and was facing the lounge. He took a step forward and fired again, the blast ringing round the bungalow and completely muffling Malik’s footsteps as he got to his feet and ran straight at the gunman’s back.
He hit him full on, jumping up and wrapping his arms round the other man’s neck as he used all his momentum to send them both crashing through the lounge door. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the shadow of another gunman, but didn’t have time to react.
As they came into the lounge, with Malik still on the shotgun-wielding assassin’s back, he saw the figure of Dan Harold, gun in hand, behind the sofa. Harold fired another two shots towards the door, and the third gunman dived out of sight; then he pointed his weapon in the direction of Malik and the other gunman, who were struggling wildly in the middle of the floor, the shooter desperately trying to dislodge his limpet-like assailant.
The shotgun discharged into the fireplace and Malik let go of his opponent’s neck and dropped to the floor. The gunman then straightened up and swung round to shoot at Harold, which was when Harold pulled the trigger again, hitting him in the shoulder and chest and sending him crashing into one of the chairs. A lamp toppled over, followed by the gunman.
A second later, the third gunman reappeared in the lounge doorway. Harold hesitated for a moment, no doubt shocked by the fact that he’d just killed a man, then, realizing that it wasn’t over yet, swung round to fire again. But the gunman opened up first, cracking off three shots in quick succession. Harold yelped in pain as one of the bullets grazed his gun-shoulder, at the same time pulling the trigger himself. But he was off balance and the two shots he managed careered aimlessly into the ceiling. The Browning dropped from his hand and he fell back behind the sofa, clutching at his wounded shoulder.
The gunman swung round so he was facing Malik, weapon outstretched in both hands. Malik, still lying on the floor, could do nothing but look up at his would-be executioner, his eyes silently pleading for mercy.
The balaclava-clad gunman simply stared back at him through the near darkness, unmoved and unmoving, and Malik knew that this was it. The end. In the distance, he could make out the sound of sirens. Help was arriving, but it was going to be too late.