‘I see,’ Susan says softly. ‘Then I can buy you time to get him away,’ she adds, summoning pride and dignity back into her voice. ‘I will go down and . . .’
Miri considers the option, but knows exactly what will happen. They’ll grab the mother and inflict instant torture to draw Bertie out. What son could ever stand by and listen to his mother screaming in pain? Sacrificing one to save many is a valid option, but right now it will not work. This is the level of the game. The other side have gunships. Enough said.
‘No, we go now . . . We run for the top floor . . . Nobody stops . . . Understood? Bertie must get through . . .’ Miri says.
‘Agent down . . .’
‘Fall back, fall back . . .’
‘DO NOT FALL BACK . . . Bravo, get down and lead them through . . .’ Alpha orders, seeing the chaos in the lobby.
‘Be happy to oblige,’ Bravo mutters. ‘Anyone with a flash-bang can throw it in that room now,’ he says, pointing at the door of the drawing room as he runs down the stairs.
Bodies lie dead and injured. Blood everywhere. Bullet casings shining on the floor. The pressure grows. The need to secure the target, while very aware of the satellite feed overhead and Mother listening into their comms. How can over thirty operatives fail to secure a handful?
‘They’re scared to return fire.’ Charlie voices his own thoughts.
Alpha doesn’t reply. The quandary is clear. Shooting back means a dead target, but then he also heard a woman shouting the name Harry. That must be Safa. If Safa and Harry are in this house with Roland and the inventor, then it means the device is active. The portal is open right now. He cannot let them get through it.
‘THIS IS ALPHA . . . SHOOT TO KILL . . . MAXIMUM AGGRESSION . . . MOTHER, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, DEPLOY THE SOLDIERS TO THE GROUND FLOOR . . .’
‘About bloody time,’ Mother’s icy voice quips. ‘Soldiers to you, Alpha.’
Flash-bangs sail through the door. Tens of them flying together on orders from Bravo. The figures drop, turn and cover their heads as the grenades detonate in a deafening cacophony of explosions that seemingly boom together in one sustained, thunderous clap. The house shakes from the pressure waves sent out. The windows in the drawing room blow out. The air charges, becoming thick and hot with the stench of chemicals and black smoke billowing out into the lobby.
‘IN IN IN,’ Bravo roars, his strong, cultured, private-school tones so loud and deep. He goes first, his submachine gun raised and ready as his laser sight cuts through the smoke. Flames lick at the sofas and armchairs. The once glorious chandelier now smashed to bits on the floor. The walls blackened and the door Ria led them through hanging open. Bravo fires at it. Emptying his magazine as he marches forward. More guns join in as the Ones and Twos left in the lobby rush after him. The rounds slam into the wall and door. The wooden frame shreds apart, with splinters flying off. Voices from outside. Boots running that crunch over the gravel laid to the front of the house as the soldiers charge at the front door and burst through to a scene of carnage.
Bravo drops to a knee, ignoring the smouldering bodies scattered about the floor. A change of magazine and he rises to go forward, but stays low to hook his arm through the door, firing the submachine gun one-handed. The second he fires, the pistol rounds slam into the wall behind his hand. He drops lower, squeezing the trigger before scooting back to change again. As he scrabbles away, he glances up along the wall, tracking the rise of the stairs to where he thinks they level out.
‘STAIRWELL TOWARDS YOU . . .’ Bravo roars into the radio, aiming to fire into the top of the wall. The rest follow suit. Submachine guns spraying fire to shred the wall and ceiling apart, with bricks, plaster and wood flying everywhere. ‘FIRE INTO THAT WALL,’ Bravo orders the first soldiers running in. They drop to their knees with assault rifles braced into shoulders to strafe along where the wall meets the ceiling.
Harry runs with his arm covering his face. Noise everywhere. Rounds slamming just inches away. The submachine-gun rounds ricochet and lose all momentum from hitting hard bricks. The bigger rounds in the assault rifle get through. Embedding in the walls and gouging splinters through the floorboards. Debris grazes his shoulder and arms. Splinters cut across his face. He drops low, pinned in place from the barrage of fire.
Miri checks her stopwatch. ‘Five minutes, six seconds, five minutes, six seconds,’ she mutters to remember. Lodging the numbers in her head.
‘WE’VE GOT THEM PINNED,’ Bravo shouts into his radio. The ruined carpet now thick with shell casings.
Miri blinks and looks down past the heads to Harry lying flat. Her breath held. Waiting. Listening.
‘GO NOW, GO NOW,’ Harry roars. The big man knows they are pinned. He rolls on his back to change the magazine in his pistol. He’ll charge down and out. He’ll give them something to aim at. The boy has to get away.
‘HOLD’ Miri shouts, raising a hand and seeing the look of intent on Harry’s face.
Bravo grins. He’s got them held in place. They can’t come down. They’ll either die there or give up. He turns towards the door with his hand lifting to the radio mic to transmit the situation and suggest they look for the exit point from that corridor. As he does so, he hears the instantly recognisable thud of a heavy machine gun. The years of experience make him drop instantly. Sudden sustained firing coming into the room. Rounds whizzing over him, slamming into walls, furniture and people. The kill rate is staggering. Blood flies everywhere. Soldiers and operatives screaming out. Bravo snakes towards the hallway, screaming into his radio that someone outside is firing in.
In the corridor, Miri holds her hand out, indicating for everyone to hold. All eyes on her. The sound of the heavy machine gun comes clear over everything else. Her hand drops. ‘Now,’ she says, looking at Safa.
Echo staggers from the door ramming into his back. The five agents turn as one to see a face they all know. A face made famous from a time she stood on duty outside Downing Street when bored photographers became captivated by her beauty and snapped away to plaster her image in every newspaper and website, and those same pictures that were released again when that same woman died saving the Prime Minister. They all recognise Safa Patel, but they all know Safa Patel has been dead for over forty years. That split-second surprise that gives Safa the edge to press the attack with a mask of pure aggression as she rushes into their midst with her hand moving round to aim and fire the pistol.
A blur of motion as Delta’s hand shoots out to grip the barrel of the gun in Safa’s hands, preventing it rising. Safa counters, twisting as she slams her hip into Delta, ridding his grip.