The hospital corridor is horribly silent. Lifeless. I glance to my right. The corpse of one of my bodyguards, Emile, is splayed across the bottom few steps of the staircase. He’s been shot several times in the chest. To my left, another couple of figures lie dead. I recognise them as male nurses who assisted with my operation.
I kneel beside the dead woman’s body and using my thumb and index finger gently close her eyelids. ‘I’m sorry, Claudette.’
I jog over to Emile and, more out of habit than hope, check his carotid for a pulse. Of course, there is none. I begin to frisk him and as I’m about to take his—
Footsteps!
I freeze. The footsteps are coming from an intersecting corridor. Slow but heavy. Deliberate. I stand and press my back against the wall so if the individual keeps walking, he’ll stride past me and I’ll be able to approach him, unseen, from behind.
But he pauses before reaching the corner of my corridor. He says in a low, growling voice, ‘I know you’re there . . . I heard you.’
Desperate to remain silent, I hold my breath. Weigh up my options. If he’s armed and steps forward whilst opening fire, I’ve nowhere to hide.
I say, ‘OK, after three I’ll show myself.’
I slide the biro from my sleeve. Clasp it firmly in my fist.
‘One!’
I swing around the corner, bringing the pen around in a blurred curve that—
I stop, confronted by the porter. Dazed, he takes a couple of steps back.
Billy is unarmed, of course, but, as usual, he’s holding his clipboard, pressing it to his upper ribcage. He’s also unnaturally pale – shock, I suppose – but I can’t see any injuries.
‘Are you OK, Billy?’
‘Not really . . .’ He lowers the clipboard to reveal a bloody cavity where his chest used to be. ‘I feel . . .’
He topples backwards.
I drop to my haunches, and although it’s obvious he’s gone, I try to staunch the blood, offering quiet verbal encouragement and urging him to hang on. After about a minute, I check for a pulse but find none. I stand. The hospital is silent again. My woollen jumper is drenched in Billy’s blood. I briefly revisit Emile’s corpse, but as I’m taking something from him—
‘Novak!’
Stacey’s voice. Fearful.
‘Novak, are you there?’
She’s calling me from upstairs. I move quietly but quickly up the steps. Pause at the top of them, reluctant to turn the corner. Ahead of me, my other bodyguard, Dave, lies supine on the floor. As with Claudette Vale, he has a neat, red figure eight shot into his forehead.
I assume there are two shooters. One who goes for the larger target area of the chest, and another, more precise and skilled assassin who delivers a nucleated pair of shots to his victims’ heads.
I cautiously peek around the corner.
The corridor is littered with corpses. Two hospital staff members lie face down halfway along the passage. Both ooze blood. And just beyond them, a few paces from my room, I spot the fallen figure of Doctor Sharma, obviously taken out by the killer who prefers to obliterate his targets’ upper torsos.
And in the doorway to my room, pale and trembling, I see Stacey Smith.
She notices me but immediately averts her gaze so she’s starring straight down the corridor. Now she calls out, ‘Are you there, Novak? The gunmen have gone, but I need your help!’
It’s obvious they’re covering Stacey from within the room, using her as a Judas goat. It’s not a bad strategy, but I know the gunmen won’t want to remain in the hospital longer than necessary. They’ll give this tactic a go for a couple of minutes, and then, if it’s not worked, they’ll kill Stacey and try to hunt me down.
Treading softly, I turn the corner and begin moving down the corridor as swiftly as I dare.
Stacey glances to her left and says, ‘Do you want me to call him again?’
She’s got guts. I know full well she’s letting me know where the gunmen are located, but any sort of interaction with them presents an enormous risk.
She nods, then calls out, ‘Novak! Let me know you’re all right! Please!’
Her eyes flicker down to her right hand. I follow the glance and she unfurls two fingers, indicating we’re dealing with a couple of assassins.
I nod. I’m only three metres from the doorway. Moments away from reaching Stacey and—
A man’s angry voice: ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
One of them has spotted her signal to me. I hear another voice shout, ‘Bitch!’
Stacey dives to her left as her captors open fire. I raise the Beretta 96A1 I took from Emile’s back holster. I know it was his spare because it’s fully loaded – twelve bullets in the mag and one in the pipe. I empty all thirteen into the wall of my room, raking a line of fire across the area where I estimate the killers will be concealed.
The noise is immense but brief.
Mag spent, I’m already running into my room. A quick glance to my right reveals thirteen was an unlucky number for the two male figures peppered with bleeding bullet wounds. Neither man moves.
To my left – Stacey’s dive clearly meant she avoided the gunfire and it’s apparent I took out the hitmen before they could take further shots at her. She’s on her feet, hurrying towards me.
We hug. No, it’s more than that. We collide and hang on to each other. I say, ‘Are you all right?’
I feel her nod as she replies, ‘I’m all right, I’m all right . . .’ in a tone that suggests she’s anything but. I can hear her weeping and embrace her tighter.
‘You’re safe,’ I tell her. ‘It’s over. It’s over.’
But, of course, I don’t believe that for a second.