By rights, he should have used the gun to make me an easier target. A shot in one of my legs, or my gut, would have left me at his mercy. That he didn’t take it shows his confidence.

  It’s hard to argue with his belief that he’ll win the fight.

  He’s got at least five inches and forty pounds on me.

  And a knife.

  He’s also a lot fresher than I am. For the last few hours, he’s been inside where it’s warm and dry, while I’ve been running around a mountain in a snowstorm. Fair enough, he’ll have gotten wet and a little chilled in the last hour, but he hasn’t been cold for hours. Nor has he been punched and kicked the way I have.

  Every advantage he could have over me is right there at his disposal.

  I feel for my own weapons but find them missing. One or another of my headlong dives must have dislodged them. Maybe it was being thrown across the room by Swimmer that did it. The cause doesn’t matter, I’m down a pistol and a knife. Even the sharpening steel I took from the kitchen would give me a chance against Swimmer and his knife, but that’s no longer inside my sleeve.

  The one advantage I’ve got over Swimmer is his over-confidence. I expect he’s going to toy with me, cut me several times without doing any real damage other than hurting me. His desire to inflict pain will stop him going for a quick kill.

  As we square up to each other, the odds are so heavy in his favour only a fool would bet on me.

  I’m not a fool, but as it’s my life on the line, I’m not of a mind to make things easy for him.

  Chapter 81

  Sharon doesn’t have time to register her bullet smashing into the terrorist’s face and blowing his brains out of the back of his buzz cut.

  All she’s aware of is the female terrorist’s shoulder crashing into her ribs and driving her backwards.

  As she staggers back, she trips over someone’s leg and crashes onto her back hard enough to loosen her grip on the pistol.

  The terrorist is on her before she can even start to rise.

  The woman’s legs are straddling her and the punches she’s throwing are enough to take the pain Sharon had previously felt and multiply it into a blur of agony.

  Sharon curls her arms over her head to protect her face, and writhes to free herself. She’s not successful, but she feels a pause in the rate of punches so she moves an arm enough to let her see what’s happening.

  If the female terrorist is reaching for her knife, Sharon knows she’ll need to be aware of it and ready to counter any strikes.

  She sees a wicked smile on the woman’s lips and a knife comes into view. It’s just as she feared.

  Sharon expects the worst.

  The best happens.

  Something slams into the female terrorist’s back hard enough to jolt her forward. When Sharon looks to see what’s happened, she sees one of the customers holding a chair.

  It’s not an adult. None of the men in the room have come to her aid.

  It’s a child who’s had the guts to act. Specifically, it’s a boy of around fifteen. The smart kid whose name Sharon doesn’t know.

  He swings the chair again, but this time the terrorist is aware of what he’s doing and grabs at the chair, yanks it out of his hands, and throws it back at him.

  One of the chair’s legs smashes into the boy’s face and opens up a cut above his eyebrow.

  The boy’s mother flies into the female terrorist and knocks her off Sharon, as she rains wild blows at the woman who’s injured her son.

  Sharon scrambles to her feet as a loud scream pierces the air.

  The mother rolls off the female terrorist with a knife handle protruding from her stomach. Bright red blood seeps past the hands she’s clasping around her wound.

  The terrorist is on all fours, presenting too good a target for Sharon to pass up, so she takes a vicious kick at her head.

  The thunk from her soft work shoe connecting with the terrorist’s head isn’t as satisfying as it would have been had Sharon been wearing her old combat boots, but it still sounds good.

  She repeats the kick then pounces on the terrorist and rolls her over so she can rain blows onto her face.

  Time after time she throws her fists into the face of the vicious killer until she feels the fight has been knocked out of the other woman.

  With her opponent incapacitated, Sharon scrambles off the woman and goes to retrieve her pistol.

  Once the gun is back in her hand, Sharon returns to the terrorist and stands over her.

  She kicks the woman’s shoulder three times until a bloodied eye opens and looks up at her.

  Sharon wants the terrorist to know she’s going to die, she wants to see the fear in her eyes and relish the terrorist’s anguish as she realises that, not only has she lost, but losing is going to cost the woman her life.

  ‘No.’

  The single word is spoken in a calm tone with just enough authority to prevent Sharon from squeezing the trigger.

  A hand touches her arm and exerts a gentle force to shift Sharon’s aim away from the terrorist’s head.

  ‘Don’t do it, ma’am. She deserves to die in prison. Let her spend the rest of her life there. Don’t be like her, you’re way better than she is.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  Sharon doesn’t just say the words to appease the speaker. She agrees with him and his logic. The way that her agony and rage have almost driven her to kill a defenceless person shames her.

  When she looks round to address the man who’s spoken to her, her mouth drops open in surprise.

  It’s not a man, but the boy who’d come to her aid. As shamed as she feels by her own actions, she hopes every adult in the room is feeling ten times as bad. A child has shown more guts and humanity than any of the adults who are present.

  While his mother lies bleeding, he’s found the time and reason to prevent her from executing the female terrorist.

  People like this kid give her hope for the next generation.

  Chapter 82

  The knife flashes again and I feel its sting as it slices through the sleeve of my jacket. That’s the fourth time he’s slashed at me and the third time he’s made contact.

  So far, this fight is going the way Swimmer is dictating, and if it carries on in this vein, I’m not going to survive it.

  As I back away from him I bump into something.

  My hand goes behind me and I feel the soft upholstery of a chair. I know from our position in the room that it will be a solid tub chair that’s too heavy and cumbersome to be used as a weapon.

  I jink left and wait for him to follow.

  I don’t know where I’m leading him to, but if I’m not within his reach he can’t use his knife on me.

  He takes a half step to his right and turns his body to face me.

  The way he’s moving suggests he’s trying to back me into a corner, or up against an obstacle – like the tub chairs.

  I’m not at all keen on the idea of being cornered, so I take two steps to my right.

  As a rule of thumb, when faced with an opponent with a knife I’d remove my jacket and wrap it around my left arm so I could reduce my risk of stab wounds and keep my right hand free to punch or counter-punch. That’s what I would do, had I not tied a rope around my waist as a belt.

  I can’t even loosen the knot as I had made sure it was well enough tied to stay knotted, regardless of my actions.

  Because of the knife, I can’t get close enough to him to land any blows of my own.

  I have no problem with catching the odd punch if it means I can land a fight-ending blow of my own, but when my opponent has a knife rather than fists, I know that any contact from him could deliver the kind of wound that would incapacitate me.

  He dances forward like a fencer and aims a slash at my head.

  I manage to lean far enough back so his knife misses my face, but when his arm returns with a backhand slash, it’s dropped to waist level and I feel the knife slice into my stomach.

  This has gone on way too long for my liking, and every time he adds a new cut to my body, the more he’s weakening me.

  The problem I have is working out how to attack him without exposing myself to a wound that’ll debilitate me.

  My bare feet are useless as weapons. If I had shoes or boots on I could dislocate his kneecap with a kick, but with bare feet, all I’ll achieve is a set of broken toes.

  He dances forward and feints before taking a step back. I have to concede more ground, and that’s when I feel my shoulder bump against something solid. I can go left or right now, but I can no longer go backwards.

  Again, he dances forward with his knife moving so fast it’s little more than a blur.

  If this swing had connected with me it would have opened me up from my left shoulder to my right hip.

  Before he can reverse his thrust, I twist, so his chest is against my back, grab his wrist with my left hand, and loop my right arm over his elbow and lift up.

  This kind of arm bar is a standard move in many forms of martial art, and I’m exerting all the pressure I can to either snap his elbow or force him to release his knife.

  The problem with knowing such fighting moves is that there’s every chance your opponent knows them too. And more importantly, they may know how to counter them.

  Swimmer is no novice, and before I’ve put enough pressure on him to achieve either of my aims, he’s yanked his arm backwards and out of my grasp. The knife in his hands cuts my side as his hand is drawn back.

  Rather than allowing him time to regroup and come at me again, I whirl round and slash my left arm upwards to deflect his knife arm up and away from my body, while throwing a swinging roundhouse with my right.

  I’m aiming at his body and I’m not fussy where my punch lands. A solid blow to the liver, kidneys or solar plexus will stun any man long enough to allow you to pick your spot for the next blow.

  Swimmer has twisted enough for my punch to glance off his stomach.

  I’ve put so much power into the blow that I rotate until I’ve got my back to him again.

  He tenses his muscles and starts to draw his right arm in. The knife in his hand is moving towards my face and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  Both of my hands are wrapped around his knife arm, but he’s got his left hand wrapped over his right and he’s using both of his powerful arms to pull the knife towards my eye.

  I’ve seen what happens when a knife is plunged into an eye and it’s not something I want to experience myself.

  The knife is now so close to my face its tip is blurring out of focus.

  I do the only thing I can do in the circumstances and shift the emphasis of my exertions.

  Rather than pushing his arms out, which isn’t working, I push them upwards. By doing this I’m altering the balance of power. I’m pushing upwards with all my strength, whereas he’s pressing down. Regardless of how strong he is, without something to push off, even the strongest person in the world can’t push downwards with anything more than their own bodyweight.

  I allow the action to force my head and shoulders towards the floor and away from his knife. I release the upwards push at the same time as I drop to my knees and haul down on his arms.

  The combination of my weight and my sudden change in thrust, coupled with the fact I’m pulling with him rather than offering resistance, means the knife now arcs towards his chest.

  In an ideal world the knife would slip between his ribs and pierce his heart.

  It clumps against his sternum instead.

  I roll away to one side and scramble to my feet.

  At least when I face him, I now have my back to the room rather than the corner he was trying to pin me in.

  He steps forward a half pace. He’s learned I’m not the patsy he thought I was and he’s now taking me as a serious threat.

  I stand my ground and feint the same defensive up-swinging arm that I’ve just tried on him.

  It’s what he was expecting, and he ducks his arm back out of reach before lunging with a stab towards my stomach.

  I wrap both my hands around his arm as I jump backwards.

  He’s now off balance and over-extended so I twist his arm until I hear cartilage tearing.

  The knife drops from his hand, punctuating his screaming with a thud as it hits the floor.

  Swimmer steps forward far enough to allow him to swing punches with his left hand, but I don’t let go of his wrist until I hear the snap of bones splintering.

  I straighten and jab his eyes with extended fingers.

  He howls as he uses his good hand to reach up and protect his eyes.

  Right about now I’d usually bury a boot into an opponent’s groin but, as I’m barefoot, I use a knee instead, and put enough force behind it to lift him up onto his toes.

  Whether or not his current blindness will be permanent remains to be seen, but for now it’s making him vulnerable.

  The punch I land on his jaw is hard enough to break two of my knuckles, but I don’t care. I’ve knocked out a few people over the years, but never has it felt as sweet as this.

  As he’s crumpling into an untidy heap I remember there may be other threats in the room.

  I cast my eyes around and see live hostages and dead terrorists.

  Sharon is standing over Hannah with a gun in her hand, but from her body language, I can tell she’s guarding the woman rather than threatening her.

  I walk towards her and see the mess of bruises and cuts on her face. I also see Daniel crouched beside his mother. There’s a cut on his head and a knife in her gut, but I can find out about them later.

  Chapter 83

  As I stand beside Sharon I realise how much is still to be done and how little leadership there is in the room.

  I point to Fleming. ‘Go to the cableway station and get a roll of duct tape from Steve’s toolbox and bring it here. When you’ve done that, go back and reconnect the phones and the router.’

  I retrieve the walkie-talkie and press my thumb against the call button. ‘Nathan, you there?’

  ‘Copy that, I’m here and at your service. What’s the state of play?’

  ‘So far as I’m aware, the terrorists are all defeated. If that salmon you mentioned is armed, tell it to stand down. Also, get more salmon up here, along with a team of paramedics. We’ve got a woman with a stab wound to her stomach, another three with severe facial injuries, and a lot of people who’re chilled to the bone. A couple of the terrorists may need a band aid or two as well.’

  I stand in front of the assembled crowd and raise my hands for silence. When I speak, I make sure I have a smile on my face and avoid using any words that may be similar to those used by Hannah.

  ‘Hey, folks. I think the threat is over, but to be on the safe side, I want you all to stay here until the police arrive. Once they have secured the building properly, we’ll be able to start shipping you out, or, at the very least, we’ll let you get some warm, dry clothes from your rooms.’ I look at the head chef, an obstinate man who views his kitchen as a personal kingdom. ‘I’m sure some soup and coffee will also be made available for those waiting to be evacuated.’ The approving nod I get from the chef makes me revise my opinion of him.

  Somewhere at the back of the room someone starts clapping. By the time I’ve taken three steps towards Sharon, every hostage has risen to their feet and is applauding me.

  As nice as the intent behind the sentiment is, it’s wrong. I’ve killed men tonight and I’ve disabled others. I expect to face arrest for my actions, and quite possibly one hell of a lot of jail time.

  While I appreciate the back-slapping and the handshakes that are coming my way, I don’t feel like I’ve earned thanks, much less praise. None of the people rejoicing in my actions will be aware of what it’s like to live with the fact you have taken a life.

  There’s a reason that I’m walking towards Sharon, and it has nothing to do with Glaswegian kinship, and everything to do with the man who’s five paces behind her.

  I pass by Sharon, grab the guy by his collar and pull him onto the most vicious headbutt I can deliver.

  He drops in an untidy bundle and I let him lie there moaning in pain.

  Fleming returns, so I instruct his brother to use the tape to bind Hannah, Swimmer and the man at my feet.

  The faces that were cheering me a minute or two ago are now looking at me in puzzlement. Maybe a couple of them will work out why I dropped the guy in the yellow shirt, maybe they won’t.

  Before the security boss binds Hannah, I remove the backpack she’s wearing. I spotted it during my charge from the kitchen, and if it holds what I think it does, it’s the key to everything that has gone on here tonight.

  Rather than reveal to everyone what I’m doing, I step into the manager’s office before opening the backpack. When I do, I find a laptop and a lead with a USB connection at one end and a range of different connectors at the other. I’ve had enough kinds of phones and tablets to recognise that this lead will connect anything to the computer or laptop it’s plugged into.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and look to see if it has battery and a signal. It has a lot of the latter and only a little of the former.

  There’s only one person in the world I trust to look at this laptop, so I call Alfonse on the off chance he’s still awake.

  He’s said nothing more than my name when I hear a shriek that forewarns me of a maternal lecture.

  Mother comes on the line. The only reason I tolerate the tongue lashing she gives me for risking my life, yet again, is that I can hear the relief in her voice and the catch in her throat.

  I tell her to put Alfonse back on the phone.

  She does so after only a minute’s more lecturing.

  Alfonse listens as I tell him about the laptop and my suspicions. He tells me to open the laptop, plug my cell into it and then call him back from another phone in ten minutes.

  While he’s doing that, I grab a pistol from one of the fallen terrorists and head towards the cableway station to meet the salmon.