by Andy McNab
There wasn’t any light shining through the gaps round the staircase door. I put my ear to the wood and listened. The voices on the TV were louder, but still indistinct. There was more shooting and police sirens, and a fairly constant murmuring, which I could distinguish from the TV; it seemed as if the household was having a long night of telly, munchies and chat.
An inspection of the lock told me it was an ordinary lever type. I gently pushed on the area of the door by the lock, then pulled it forwards, to see if there was any give. There was about half an inch. Then, with my hands down at the bottom of the door and still on the same side as the lock, I pushed hard and slow to see if it had been bolted. It gave way an inch, then moved back into position. I did the same to the top of the door. That also gave way, this time just over half an inch, and I gently eased it back into position. It seemed that there were no bolts on the other side, just the one lever lock to deal with.
Holding my breath, I slowly twisted the handle to check the door was locked. You could spend hours picking the lock only to find the thing was already open; best to take your time and check the obvious. I’d always found that holding my breath gave me more control over slow movements, and it made it easier to hear if there was any reaction to what I was doing. As I’d assumed, the door was locked.
The next move was to check all the likely places where a spare key might be hidden. Why spend time attacking a lock if a key is hidden only feet away? Some people leave theirs dangling on a string on the other side of the letterbox, or on the inside of a cat flap. Others leave it under a dustbin or just behind a little pile of rocks by the door. If a key is going to be left, it will nearly always be somewhere on the normal approach to the door. I checked the shelving above the washing machine, under the old rusting paint tins by the door, and along the top of the door frame and all the obvious places. Nothing. I would have to work on the lock.
I got down on my knees, listening all the time to the TV show, and looked through the keyhole. I could still see nothing but darkness. I shone the torch through and had another look. There was a glint of metal. I smiled; piece of piss. They’d left the key in the lock.
The glow from Baby-G in this darkness was outrageous, but it told me it was now nearly 2 a.m. I’d give it just another thirty minutes, and maybe by then these fuckers would be in bed. Meanwhile, if they came downstairs for more munchies, I’d need to know, so I sat on the floor with my ear to the door listening to the rain and the TV. The police cars were still screaming and the shooting had become more intense. A floorboard creaked above me, then another. I looked up and followed the sound, trying to picture where he was. The movement continued across the floor to more or less directly over my head.
Picking up the bow, I turned and looked through the keyhole to see if he was going to turn the light on and come downstairs. The key obscured most of my vision, but I’d be able to see light, as the teeth were still up in the wards of the lock. There was a faint glimmer, but it was ambient light from quite a distance away, maybe way up at the top of the stairs. No-one was coming down. The light disappeared. There were more creaks above me, then the muffled talking started again. The adverts must be coming on.
There was nothing to do but wait while the minutes ticked away. All I knew was that I had to get in there and do it at two thirty, no matter what. How, I didn’t know; I’d just play it by ear. I sat down again and got back to listening to the TV and the rain.
I was quite thirsty after the exertions of the night. The chest freezer started to rattle again; I tiptoed over and lifted the lid very slowly. The light came on. I had a quick look at all the goodies. There were boxes of Kraft dinners, macaroni and microwave chips. It was obvious that nobody had been giving a lot of thought to the culinary side of this trip, which I bet Sarah didn’t like, and none of it was any good to me. Then I found something I could munch: a Magnum bar. I closed the freezer, took off the wrapper and put it in my pocket, sat back down by the door, put my ear against it and started eating as I joined in the film.
It was now two twenty. This was cutting it really close to the bone.
I finished the ice cream, and the stick joined the wrapper in my pocket. I looked at my watch yet again. Two twenty-five. I couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
With the Maglite in my mouth, I opened the screwdriver part of the Leatherman and worked it into the keyhole. When it had a firm purchase I started to turn the key along its natural line to unlock the door, at the same time pulling the door towards me to release the pressure on the bolt as it lay in the door frame. The key turned until it hit the lock; it would need a lot more pressure now to open it, but that would make noise. I waited. Whoever was pissing off the cops would be doing it again, really soon. Thirty seconds later, it happened: shouting, gunfire and sirens. I gave the key the final necessary twists and switched off the torch.
With the door ajar a couple of inches I could hear the TV much more clearly. Going by the intensity of the shooting, screaming and shouting, the whole State police force was out trying to get the bad guys.
There was no distinct light shining down from above, just a faint glow. I picked up the bow and prepared an arrow. Keeping it in place with my left hand, I got my right hand on the door handle, ready to go. I was going to have a rolling start line: remain covert for as long as possible, and only go noisy if they did. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was enough. If you worry too much about these things, you never get down to starting the job; just get on with it and half the battle is won. Then hope that experience, knowledge and training will get you through the rest.
I checked that nothing was about to fall out of my pockets, then gently pulled the door towards me, ready to stop at the slightest creak, holding my breath so I could hear it happen. There wasn’t a sound from the people upstairs. It must be a good show.
I was facing a flight of worn, bare wooden stairs which climbed directly to the first floor. There was a wall on either side; on the left it was the external wall of the house, and on the right it was plasterboard, which sealed the stairs from the garage, then became a bannister on the right-hand side where the first floor began. Anyone standing up there could easily look down and see me.
Beyond the top of the staircase, and facing me, was another wall, and just off to the right-hand side was a door that was closed. Apart from that, all I could see were flickering images, composed of different tones of light from the TV screen as they flashed on the wall and the closed door facing me. I was happy about that; if the TV was facing the top of the stairs, it meant that the fuckers would have their backs to me as I went up.
The smell had changed. The mustiness of the garage had given way to a more domestic odour: spray polish and cigarettes, the smell of good housekeeping, heavily overlain with nicotine. They must be having a Camel-fest up there; I’d have to be quick about this or I’d be going down with lung cancer.
Drawing the cable half back, focusing my eyes and the weapon on the top of the stairs, I placed my left foot very carefully on the bottom step, then my right. I stopped and listened.
I lifted my left foot again and put it down on the second step, easing my weight down gently, hoping there wasn’t going to be a creak. I had both eyes open, cable half drawn and ready to fire. My ears had cut away from the sound of the rain; they were totally focused, on the alert for signs of movement upstairs. I pulled the bow cable back a little bit more and took another step.
16
The music and the police chase suddenly stopped. So did I, foot raised, bow at the ready. I must have looked like the statue of Eros. A very macho American voice boomed out, ‘Back soon, with TNT’s movies for guys who like guy movies.’ There was a long burst of machine-gun fire, no doubt as bullet holes sprayed over the titles. Then it went into a commercial for a fitness plan that could change all our lives in just fourteen days.
I couldn’t tell how many people were in the room, but the one thing I knew for sure was that Sarah was unlikely to be one of them. She wasn’t
a guy who liked guy movies.
There was some mumbling coming from the room. I couldn’t understand what was being said, but something was agreed on. Floorboards creaked again. I hoped he wasn’t coming back down to the freezer; if he was after the last Magnum he wasn’t going to be a happy teddy.
The shadow of a moving body hit the wall at the top of the stairs, blocking the dancing reflections from the TV screen. It got bigger and higher. I slowly brought the bow up the last two inches, into the aim. The cams at each end of the bow started to strain as I tensed the cable almost to full draw, stopping about three inches from my face. I wasn’t too sure if I needed as much power for the arrow to do its job at this range. But fuck it, I wasn’t taking any chances. I could smell the rubber gardening gloves as I waited, motionless.
The shadow became the body’s back and I saw it was MIB. He now had the TV flickering on his shirt. He didn’t turn and come down towards me. Instead he went straight ahead and through the door to the right of the top of the stairs. Fluorescent lights came on to reveal kitchen cabinets and brightly coloured mugs hanging from hooks.
There was the sound of crockery and cutlery being moved about. The others were talking amongst themselves, maybe about the film, and there was a little laugh as someone made a funny. Still no sound of Sarah, though, which tended to confirm what I’d thought.
A bit more clanging came from the kitchen. I kept the bow in the full draw position. The strain on my arms was starting to take its toll; sweat was pouring down the sides of my face and I knew it wouldn’t be long before it got into my eyes.
I heard the ffsshhht! of a ring-pull being opened in the TV room, then another. Maybe this meant there were three of them in all. With any luck the cans they were opening held beer: if they’d been soaking up alcohol while watching the film that should slow down their reaction times rather nicely.
Mr Macho Voiceover was with us again: ‘We’re back with movies for guys who like guy movies.’ He was greeted by a ffsshht! from the kitchen. MIB emerged, can in hand, muttering away. The others immediately gave him a hard time and he stepped back a few paces and switched off the light, left the door open and went back to join them.
I let the cable relax, brought my arms down and wiped away the sweat.
There was more gunfire. It sounded as if the final big shootout was underway. People were screaming at each other as only actors in cop thrillers do. I’d probably seen it, and was trying to work out what movie it was, so I could guess when the noisy bits were and when they’d finish – anything to help get Sarah out of there without us all getting involved in our own ‘movie for guys who like guy movies’. But no luck.
Someone in TV land was being really brave and shouting for covering fire as he took on the bad guys single-handed. Dickhead.
I really couldn’t delay any longer. I still didn’t know where Sarah was in the house, and this stairway was my only entry point. I checked that the spare arrows were still fixed in the quiver, and that everything on me was secure. I didn’t want the Maglite clattering to the floor the moment I moved.
Keeping the bow in my left hand, arrow still in place, I took a deep breath and lifted my right foot. To reduce creaks, I used the very edge of the stair, then stopped to listen. The shooting had finished and there were murmurs from the audience again. I carried on.
When my eyes got level with the top stair I lay down with my head against the end of the bannister. The cloud of tobacco smoke was thick enough to make me choke. I checked the bow to make sure it was out of my way, then eased myself up on my toes and the heels of my hands, tilted forward and looked around.
I could see at once that the TV was in the far-right corner of the room, facing me. On the screen, someone was getting a doctor to patch his gunshot wound.
Three men were watching; two on a sofa with their backs to me, one of them swigging back on his can; the other guy, MIB, was in an armchair, and at an angle, so that he half faced the kitchen wall. He still had the beads in his right hand, and was feeding each one individually through his fingers as he watched. The room was like a Turkish bath, except with smoke instead of steam. There was also a strong smell of pizza and beer. On the floor beside the sofa on the right-hand side was a twenty-four-pack of Bud, ripped open.
I checked for access to the next floor. This wasn’t going to be easy: the stairs were at the far side of the room, opposite me. I’d have to cross over twenty feet of open floor space.
As I moved my head back into cover, I heard the cardboard of the twenty-four-pack being ripped further open, then the hiss of a ring-pull. They were going to be here a while.
Should I wait it out? No, they could be up all night. Besides, if they moved they would see me. I lay there and thought for a while, and felt the blood pumping in my neck.
If I burst into the room and tried to hold them in position, it wouldn’t take them long to work out that I could maybe take on one of them, but the other two would be climbing all over me before I could reload, restring, or whatever it’s called.
There was only one thing I could do, and that was to try to cross the room without being seen. If I got pinged, I’d just have to ‘deal with the situation as it develops on the ground’ – the last thing the Firm always said when giving orders; it meant they could transfer any blame onto you if it went wrong, or take the credit for a success.
I pushed myself away from the stairs with the heel of my hand and slowly stood up. I checked the arrow position for about the hundredth time and moved onto the final step. I edged out, and was in the room.
With my back pressed against the wall, I started to move towards the next flight of stairs, moving one leg in front of the other very, very slowly, my eyes riveted on the three watching the TV, my left hand on the bow, my right on the arrow, holding the cable one quarter drawn.
I got to the kitchen door and could hear the microwave working overtime. I moved on. They had eyes only for Robert De Niro. I silently thanked him for such a spellbinding performance.
The light of the TV was projected onto the faces watching it. MIB was totally absorbed, as were the other two on the sofa, Too Thin To Win and the younger of the two who’d arrived today. I was maybe twenty feet away from them. MIB was squinting as he inhaled on a cigarette held between the index and middle fingers of his right hand, the glow illuminating his face even more as he played with his beads in the other.
As he blew out the smoke, the screen went blank for a second, then a bright graphic appeared, accompanied by machine-gun fire. ‘Back soon with movies for guys who . . .’
I had fucked up big time. I hadn’t taken into account the commercial break. A pain hit me in the throat and shot down into the pit of my stomach.
Too Thin To Win gobbed something off to the others and moved his head a bit to the right – just a bit too much.
He must have seen me, but these things take a while to sink in when you’re not expecting them, and especially when you’ve been concentrating so intently on something else. But he had detected movement in his peripheral vision and I knew what was coming. It would take him maybe two seconds, no more, to register that something was wrong. Straight away, the body reacts to that: fight or flight. Blood surges into your hands to fight and into your legs to flee, and you can feel it. I had just two seconds up on him. It was all going to be over soon, one way or another.
To me it was all happening in slow motion. As I brought up the bow, Too Thin To Win jerked his head further to the right, did a double take and stared straight at me. By the time his eyes were widening with shock the bow was in the aim and at full draw.
He shouted something, but I didn’t know what. Everything closes down in a situation like that. All I could hear was the voice in my own head, and as my knees started to bend automatically to make me a smaller target it was screaming, Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Too Thin To Win became a non-target as he threw himself to the left and jumped down below the settee. It was MIB that presented himself as the nearest threat,
and at the same time the easiest target. He was up on his feet and had already turned and was facing me, trying to absorb and interpret this new stream of information. I kept my eyes fixed on his and brought the bow round. As soon as I had what I hoped was the correct sight picture, I released the cable and hoped these things were as good as the salesman had said. I was aiming at the centre of the body mass, the centre of what I could see in front of the blinding glare of the TV screen. He took the hit with a dull thwack and went down.
I didn’t know where the arrow had got him because I was too busy loading the next one and wishing I’d practised archery as much as I’d practised firing pistols over the years. I stretched out my left arm and, at the same time, pulled back the cable with my right, quickly trying to feed the head of the arrow into place above my left hand. Then it was straight back up into the aim, the arrow being held in position on the cable by my fingers. I still couldn’t see Too Thin To Win; I was aiming at the young one, who had now decided to run round the settee and try to get to me before I could release. In fact, he was so near that I didn’t so much have time to aim as just vaguely point it at him.
There was a whoosh and a twang as the cable released, then a thud as the arrow punched into him. He didn’t make a sound. I didn’t care whether or not he was dead; there was still one more to deal with.
As I moved towards the settee I could see that Too Thin To Win had remained on the other side of it; I didn’t know what he was doing, and I didn’t care. I just had to get to him. There was no time to reload. I pulled an arrow out of the quiver and launched myself at him.
He was leaning over one of the aluminium boxes I’d seen them unload from the wagon. I swapped the arrow from my left hand to right, gripping it firmly, like a fighting knife, making use of that extra blood now pumping through my hands.
As I fell on top of him, my weight pushed him down onto the box. We both grunted with the impact. While trying to cover his mouth with the crook of my left arm, I jammed the arrow into his neck with my right. Only one of these actions worked. I had managed to cover his mouth, but as I thrust with the arrow I felt it hit bone. Arrowheads are designed to zap into the target at warp speed, and I’d done no more than rip his skin. He was screaming big time beneath my arm. I increased the pressure to try and get better coverage over his mouth.
