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 practiced archery as much as I'd practiced firing pistols over the years. I stretched out my left arm and, at i the same time, pulled back the cable with my right, quickly trying to feed j 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 around 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 tw.a.n.g 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 toward 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.

I raised the arrow in the air again and rammed it down hard. It hit against the bone again, but this time slid off and lodged deeper into his neck. I felt him stiffen, his muscle tensing up to resist the penetration. The gardening glove gave a good grip as I pushed harder, twisting the arrow shaft to maximize the damage. I was hoping to cut into his carotid artery or spinal cord, or even find a gap to penetrate his cranium, but instead I ended up severing his windpipe. Now I just had to hold him as he asphyxiated.

I put all my weight on him to press him against the edge of the box, trying to stop his body-jerking from getting out of hand and becoming noisy. Once I knew I was in control, I looked quickly around me to make sure that no one else had arrived on the scene as I waited for him to die.

Finally, he was going down. His hands started to scrabble behind him, toward my face. I bobbed and weaved to avoid them, and his movements gradually subsided to no more than a spasmodic twitching in his legs. The last reserve of strength he'd found as he saw his life slowly get darker was now exhausted. By the flicker of the TV I could see dark blood oozing out of the wound; it followed along the shaft of the arrow to my glove and dripped onto the floor. When I moved my arm away from his mouth he made no sound.

Still on top of him, I turned around, and could see that MIB had taken a poor shot but I'd been lucky: I'd been aiming at the center of body ma.s.s, but the arrow had entered his head above the left eye and there was about four inches of arrow protruding out the back. His beads lay at his feet.

I didn't have a clue about the young one. He was slumped with his chest on the floor. Blood was coming out of him from somewhere and being soaked up by the rug.

I started to shake. I'd never been so scared in my life, nor so relieved that something was over. Lesson learned: always get a pistol, whatever it takes.

Young One was still alive; blood was gurgling in his throat as he tried to breathe. I lifted myself off Too Thin To Win, guiding his body as it slumped from the box onto the floorboards. I went over to Young One and checked him. His glazed eyes turned to follow mine as I moved my body around him, feeling him for any hint of metal. He wasn't carrying. His eyes were reflecting the TV screen as they pleaded with me for help.

As I looked away, my eyes caught the aluminium box. When I saw what was inside, I felt much better about what I'd just done. Too Thin To Win must have been flapping big time trying to get to the contents; if he had managed it, I might not be here now.

The TV bad die was dying from a gunshot wound given to him by the cop. It must have been near to the end of the film. I went over to the box.

Stowed inside were three collapsible-stock Heckler & Koch 53s, virtually the same weapon as the MP5 used by the Regiment, but firing a larger 5.56mm round. With their thirty-round mags, Too Thin To Win could have taken my head off and still had change.

I picked up one of the weapons and two of the mags. I could now see that on the bottom of the box there were also three silenced pistols, again with mags.

I took one round out of the 53 mag and pushed down on the remainder to check the spring worked. Young One was still moaning as the film credits rolled. He was watching me. I thought for a while. Why take the 53? If I had to use it, I would alert the people in the house next door and maybe even the whole campsite. I picked up one of the pistols. I didn't have a clue what it was, only that, going by the markings, it was made in China. I looked in the mag. The rounds were 9mm. I loaded and made ready with one mag, and took a few rounds out of another and looked inside. These mags held nine rounds a piece. I didn't know why I checked. I never counted them as I fired, I was always too busy flapping.

I replaced the rounds and put the five spare mags in my jeans. This Chinese thing looked quite good. If total silence was required, there was a catch that would keep the working parts in place when you fired. You then had to manually unload and then reload. If not, and you could get away with a suppressed weapon on semiautomatic, all you had to do was take the catch off and the working parts would move and feed another round to fire. The baffling would still do its job in stopping the weapon report; you'd just hear the working parts moving. With my thumb I pulled down on the catch, then jammed it into my jeans.

I got hold of Young One's arms and pulled him up against the settee, and as I did so I could see where he'd been hit. The arrow had entered his stomach, and as he'd fallen it must have been pushed right up into his ribcage. I got him so that he was sitting on the floor with his head lolling over to the left-hand side, resting on the seat. His eyes were still begging me as I placed a cushion under his head, stepped back, and gave him a round in the head.

There was just a noise like someone tapping the edge of a wooden table with their finger. The cushion and settee helped to suppress the round completely as it came out of the back of his head. He just lay there, eyes still open, blood shining in the TV light.

I'd never worked out how I felt about things like this. He would have killed me if he'd had the chance, and I'd just put him out of his misery. I took the catch off, unloaded and fed another round into the chamber, letting the catch down to lock the working parts in place.

I stood, watched and listened. There were a couple of plates on the floor covered with dried sauce and stubbed-out cigarettes, two or three full ashtrays, countless crushed cans of Bud and now these three bodies.

TNT told me they were now going to show Road House with Patrick Swayze. I wiped the blood from my gloves onto the settee and changed magazines, gently pushing a new, full one into position, listening for the click that told me it was engaged.

As I moved away from the TV set, a loud ping! sent my heart leaping into my throat. I spun my head and weapon around, expecting to have to react. The rest of my body followed about half a second later, both eyes open and the weapon up in the aim. I found myself pointing at the microwave oven in the next room.

I needed a minute to calm down and sort my s.h.i.t out and decided to put the weapon into semiauto mode. Time to move on. I was still left with two that I knew of, the American and the Bossman, plus Sarah and there were still another two floors to clear.

I didn't need the bow anymore so I left it on the floor. The TV was still b.u.mping its gums: "Guys who like guy movies ..."

I started to move slowly but purposefully, trying to keep the noise down, both eyes open, weapon up. I had the light from the TV screen shining behind me, projecting my shadow on the wall. I got to the stairs and checked upward. It was dark up there. Eyes and weapon glued to the top of the stairs, I started to move.

I knew this feeling all too well. My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it banging against my chest wall, and I had a horrible, dry, rasping feeling in my throat. My head was so far back that sweat was running into my eyes and down the folds of skin at the back of my neck. I nicked my head to the side, attempting to get rid of it.

It started to get darker and quieter as the glow and noise of the TV faded, and soon all I could hear was the sound of my own breath. I did my best to suppress it because I imagined three people upstairs listening and following my progress.

Moving upstairs like this is physically demanding. Every movement has to be so slow and deliberate that all your muscles are tensed; your body needs oxygen, and your lungs, in turn, need to work harder, but you don't want them to because that makes noise, and on top of all that, at any moment, somebody could be trying to kill you.

I reached the landing of the second floor. I immediately noticed a nice polished smell up here, a different world from the one I'd just left behind me.

There was a wall to my left, with a door that faced the corridor that ran to my right. It must be the bathroom where I'd heard a toilet being flushed last night.

As I looked to the right, I could see that the corridor ran the length of the house. Right down the middle was a single strip rug, which would help m.u.f.fle noise. In the light thrown from a door that was slightly ajar at the far end I could see a table about ten feet away, on the left. The open door showed a sink shining in the light. It didn't sound as if anyone was in there, and I didn't hear water running or a cistern filling up. Maybe they were just scared of the dark and wanted a light on for when they came out for a p.i.s.s. I looked at the crack under each of the other doors to see if there were any signs of life or light from within the rooms. Nothing.

Across from me were the stairs to the top floor. I stayed where I was and listened. I could just about hear the low drone of the TV downstairs, but the sound of my heartbeat seemed louder. I could feel my carotid pulses banging in my ears. I couldn't just wait here all night until she needed the toilet.

With my knees bent, shoulders hunched over, arms out, staring down the thick baffled barrel of the weapon, I started to move along the center of the corridor, using the rug. I reached the first door on the right and edged over, putting my ear to it, but kept the pistol where it was.

I could still hear the TV and the rain. My antennae were out, trying to take in every possible sound, but it was very distant, very indistinct. From inside the room came the noise of snoring. Sarah never snored, but there was always a chance she could be sleeping with someone who did.

I carried on along the corridor to the next room. I listened outside it.

Nothing. As if I were going to hear her singing along to a CD.

I went on, pa.s.sing a fire exit on my left, which I hadn't noticed earlier.

It had bolts top and bottom, which I gently eased back, and a pin-tumbler lock in the middle, which I also undid.

I moved on to the next two doors past the table, hearing nothing. I stood by the lit-up bathroom. This could go on forever. f.u.c.k it, there was no time to do anything but take my chances with whoever was back down the corridor. I just knew I had to do something, and quickly.

Holding the pistol in my right hand, I checked with my left that everything was in place. The Tazer was in my right-hand bomber jacket pocket, with the handle outward, ready to grab.

I got out the flashlight, placed the lens against the wall, and twisted it on to check it still worked. The light hit the wall but wasn't going anywhere else. I turned it off and kept it in my left hand, with my thumb and forefinger at the ready.

I put my right thumb on the weapon's safety catch and pressed down, checking it was off and ready to go. Then I pushed the mag in the pistol grip to make sure it was engaged.

With my left hand I lifted the latch. I wasn't going to try to do it gently; once you've decided you're going in, you might as well get it over with. I pushed the door open a few inches, and at the same time brought my left hand up and switched the flashlight on, using my body to open the door fully.

As I came into the room I moved to the right to avoid silhouetting my body in the doorway. I three-quarters closed the door with my shoulder, and the flashlight beam hit a pile of men's clothes on the floor. I also saw a watch and a gla.s.s of water on a bedside table. There was a shape in the bed. I knew straightaway by its size that it wasn't Sarah. The body stirred, maybe as a reaction to the change in air pressure as the door opened, or the fact that light was shining in his face.

As he turned I saw that he was bald and dark-skinned and had a mustache.

It was Bossman. His eyes opened fully as he settled. He wouldn't be able to see me, just the flashlight.

I moved quickly, getting my left knee on one side of him and my right on the other so I was astride him, pushing him down onto the bed. He was pinioned by the sheet across his chest and gave a quick grunt of protest.

I dropped the Maglite onto the bed. I didn't want him to see my face and, in any case, I didn't need light for what I was about to do.

With the pistol jammed against his clenched teeth he gave a long drawn-out groan as he tried to resist. I got hold of the back of his head with my left hand and forced the weapon down harder. The metal of the silencer sc.r.a.ped against his teeth and he eventually opened up. I pushed the muzzle in until it was nearly at the back of his throat and the suppressor was filling his mouth good style.

He struggled on for a while, not trying to escape, just wanting to work out what was going on and to breathe. He was flapping and snorting like a horse. I moved with his chest as it went up and down. At length he lay back. No one will f.u.c.k around once they realize they have a pistol in their mouth.

I leaned toward his left ear. In my bad, fluctuating American accent I whispered, "If you speak English, nod slowly."

He did. I could feel the pistol moving up and down.

I heard him slurping and retching as his Adam's apple worked overtime.

With his jaw wide open he'd lost the ability to swallow.

"You have two choices," I said.

"Die if you don't help me, live if you do. Do you understand?"

It's always better to take your time at moments like this. If you've got somebody who's flapping and you say, "OK, where's Sarah?" he can't talk because he's got this thing stuck in his mouth, so he gets all confused about what you expect of him. It's better to do it as a process of elimination, and then you know you have the right information. That is, if he knows it in the first place.

There was still a bit of hesitation here. He was still flapping too much and not thinking enough. I said, "Do you understand?" and underlined the point with a jab of the pistol. He finally got the message and I felt the pistol move up and down.

His body smelled of shampoo and soap. Shame he hadn't cleaned his teeth. His breath smelled like road kill.

Now that he understood the facts of life, I whispered, "You've got one woman in the house. Yes?"

I felt his immediate sense of relief. His body relaxed; it wasn't him I wanted. He nodded.

"One woman?"

He nodded again.

"Is she on this floor?"

The pistol shook from side to side.

"Is she on the floor above this one?"

Up and down.

"Do you know which room she's in?"

I could hear his breathing and slurping, but there was just a touch too much hesitation: he was thinking about what to say. He shook his head slowly.

I gave a weary sigh and said, "Then you're no good to me, and I'm going to kill you. I think you're lying."

No response.

I said, "Last chance. Do you know what room she's in?"

I started to rise. He got the idea. He nodded. I came back down to his ear.

"Good. Now think about this. Is she on the left-hand side of the corridor as you go along it from the stairs?" I was a.s.suming it was the same sort of configuration upstairs as down. I didn't know yet, but it was a good enough place to start.

He thought about it and nodded.

"Good. Is it the first door on the left?"

He shook his head. Saliva was oozing out of his mouth and running down his chin. I could feel his chest rising and falling more and more quickly; he was fighting to get oxygen in and there were too many obstructions.

"Is she in the second door on the left?"

He nodded.

"Good. If you're lying, I'll be back and I'll kill you."

He nodded that he understood, semi choking on the suppressor because I pushed it a little more to the back of his throat, just to the point where he was starting to gag. At the same time, I reached down with my left hand, closed it around the Tazer, slid off the safety catch and gave him the good news right on the pectoral muscle. I counted the crackle for about five seconds. If I remembered correctly, that should result in the person being "dazed for some minutes afterward." He jerked about, and then got very dazed indeed.

I climbed off him, picked up the flashlight and put it in my mouth, then turned around and started to look for his socks amongst the clothes that were on the floor. I found one and shoved the toe end of it into his mouth, pulling down on his jaw to force him to take it all. Noise comes from the throat and below, not the mouth; for an effective gag, you have to ram obstructions down there as far as they can go, so that when the person tries to scream the sound can't amplify in the mouth. A strip of gaffer tape over the face isn't enough to achieve the desired effect. A sock stuffed in the mouth also calms people down, because they become more worried about choking than about raising the alarm.

I could hear moans and groans from the back of his throat as he began to come around. I couldn't have him alerting the others, so I gave him another three-second burst. That settled him down again, and gave me time to finish filling his mouth. Once that was done, I got his shirt from the floor and wrapped the sleeve around his face to form a seal over the sock.

I kept his nose free because he had to be able to breathe, but wrapped the sleeve as tightly as I could around his lips.

I pulled a leather belt from his trousers that was about an inch and a half wide, with a bra.s.s buckle, and grabbed the tiebacks from the curtains, lengths of rope with shiny ta.s.sels. I tied his knees together with the first tieback; if you can move your knees, you can crawl and maneuver, if not, you haven't got much scope for movement.

Next I tied his ankles together. He was semiconscious, breathing and moaning in the back of his throat. I turned him over on the bed and got his hands behind him, tying them tightly together with the belt, making sure that I'd left the buckle and some of the other end free. It was going to hurt him, and he was going to have hands like balloons by the morning, but he'd live.

By now my breathing was almost as labored as his. This was physical stuff, spinning him around, trying to do it quickly, but also trying to keep everything quiet to cut down on noise. I got hold of his shoulders and pulled him down gently, so that his head and his shoulders were on the floor, then I grabbed his legs and dropped them down, too.

There was still a little bit of moaning, especially when I got hold of his ankles and brought them up toward his tied hands. I put the ends of the belt around the tieback that secured his wrists, did up the buckle, and that was him trussed up like an oven-ready chicken.

He was coming around again. I held the Tazer on his thigh and gave him the good news for another five seconds. He tried to scream, but the sock did its stuff. As I lifted the Tazer away from him I still had the b.u.t.ton depressed; the bolt of electricity crackled brightly as it arced between the two terminals. The glow that it cast added to the flashlight's beam, and I could see the suit carrier, now open, hanging on the wardrobe. Inside was a gray business suit, white shirt and patterned tie, already knotted and hanging around the hanger.

I got to the door, checked the corridor and turned left toward the stairs.

This flight was different, the stairs turning back on themselves to reach the top floor. As I climbed and turned left, up the next flight, the distant TV mush disappeared, its place gradually taken by the constant ba.s.s drum rhythm of rain bouncing off the roof. It was almost soothing.

I got to the top and lay down on the stairs. I looked left along the corridor, but this time there was no light to help me and I couldn't see any coming from under the doors.

I twisted the Maglite on and headed directly to the second door on the left. There was no rug up here. I moved slowly. Between the first and second door, against the wall, there was a semicircular table with a lamp on it.

I got to the door. It was exactly the same as the one downstairs, with the latch on the right. I crossed over and got against the right-hand wall. I just had to get in there, be hard and aggressive, grab her and get out before my new mate downstairs started trying to become Houdini.

I listened for a few seconds, just in case she was in there expecting me and loading up her 53. Then, with the Maglite in my mouth, I put my hand on the latch and pressed.

There was a small bundle in the bed, and I knew at once that it was Sarah. I could smell the familiar fragrance of her deodorant. It was the only one that didn't leave white powder marks on her clothes.