Adrian Magson - No Tears for the Lost

But he didn’t see it that way.

‘Up,’ he gasped, and pointed with a mottled hand to a stretch of blank wall, where no furniture stood. She thought he’d lost it completely, because she couldn’t see anything. Then she realised there was the faint outline of a door in the heavy embroidery-style pattern. It must lead to a staircase to the roof.

‘You can’t climb,’ Riley told him. There was also the gunman up there, waiting for them to show their faces.

‘Yes… can,’ he insisted. ‘Fresh air… please.’ He looked sideways at her, his eyes flickering in a beseeching manner, and she nodded. Hell, why not — it was his house.

They crabbed through the narrow door and out onto a small landing, with the stairs leading upwards. The stairwell was cold and dark, and every small sound seemed to echo with terrifying loudness. Riley slipped the automatic out of her pocket and helped Sir Kenneth sit on the stairs. He nodded and urged her on, apparently understanding that the next bit was best done without carrying a dying man.

She flexed her arm, already aching from the strain of supporting the injured man, then crept up the stairs and tried the door. It gave with a faint click of the lock, reminding her of the last time she’d come this way. She waited a few seconds, but there was no sound of movement. There was nothing for it but to step outside and investigate.

She pushed the door open and felt around on the floor with her free hand. Nothing. The wind must have swept it clear of any remaining nutshells. She stood up and stepped through, closing the door behind her, then flattened herself against the wall of the stairwell structure. Up here the night sky had never seemed so attractive, or so far away. A breeze drifted through the treetops beyond the parapet, and a plane droned somewhere high above her. There was no sound to indicate the presence of the enemy, although she knew he was up here somewhere. And his gun carried live rounds.

She peered round the corner of the structure and immediately spotted a darker shadow against the parapet a few feet away. She waited, her eyes adjusting to the poor light. The shadow shifted and became a heavily built man. He was peering over the edge in the direction of the stables.

She couldn’t see a weapon, but she knew it must be in his hand.

She thought about Myburghe, his life leaking away on the stairs behind her. And Palmer and Mitcheson, moving around below in the darkness, possibly even now being watched by the gunman. There was no other choice.

The man was so busy watching the gardens below, he had no time to react. Riley swapped the gun to her left hand, took three long paces and jammed the barrel into the side of his throat, grinding it hard into the flesh.

He froze with a shrill cry of pain, and she grabbed his right arm just above the elbow and jerked it sharply backwards. But his hand came up empty. She realised with a sickening feeling that he was left-handed.

Sensing her mistake, he began to turn, shoulders bunching with effort. Riley made a split-second decision: it was all or nothing. Since she couldn’t very well shoot him with an empty gun, she did the next best thing and slammed it hard across the side of his head. Twice. It wasn’t pleasant, feeling the sickening shock of impact travelling up her arm, but it was preferable to letting him gain control.

With a groan, the man slumped to the floor, his weapon clattering to one side. Dropping the empty gun, Riley felt for his shoes and quickly stripped out the laces. Seconds later, she had his fingers lashed tightly together behind his back with no room for movement.

She scrabbled around until her fingers encountered his gun. It had a chunky, compact feel, but was surprisingly light, and she thought it might be a machine pistol called a MAC10. A horrible weapon at close quarters, it was favoured by gunmen who weren’t fond of selecting their targets with care.

The gun had a slim flashlight clipped to the barrel. She snapped it on and looked over the gun-sight into the man’s face. He was square-jawed and unshaven, with lank, greasy hair and a bruise down one side of his face. It was too mature for the one she’d just given him, and she guessed he must be one of the men Mitcheson had encountered by the river in London.

She felt her hands beginning to tremble with reaction, and killed the light, taking several deep breaths. Then she hurried back down the stairs to where Sir Kenneth was lying curled in on himself. His breathing was hoarse and growing fainter, and she debated leaving him where he was rather than risk killing him by hauling him up onto the roof.

In the end she decided that leaving him to suffer more of Henzigger’s venom was no contest, and helped him up the stairs as gently as she could.

Once through the door, she lowered him behind the cover of a skylight and made him as comfortable as possible. She switched on the flashlight again for a quick check. He was breathing in short, laboured gasps, his face creased and turning grey. A red bubble appeared at the corner of his mouth and his throat made a gurgling sound. When she shifted his legs into a more comfortable position, her hand came away sticky with blood.

‘Keep still,’ she said, although she doubted he could hear her. She dug out her mobile and dialled Weller’s number. Dialling 999 would probably only have summoned an unarmed Community Support Officer in a Vauxhall Astra, more accustomed to dealing with sheep stealing and travellers on cannabis. She didn’t want to be responsible for sending an innocent into certain death at the hands of Henzigger and his Colombian cronies, whereas Weller would be able to whistle up the armed heavy mob at the drop of a hat.

The signal was poor. She stood up and moved about until she got a good dialling tone.

As Weller answered, a shot rang out and chipped away a hand-sized piece of parapet near Riley’s head. She swore and ducked, the ricochet zipping past her ear like an angry hornet.

‘Jesus,’ Weller muttered. ‘Was that what I think it was?’

‘It’s the gunfight at the OK Corral,’ Riley shouted back. ‘Colebrooke House, on the double… four handguns and Myburghe seriously wounded.’ She scuttled back to the door and took out the key, closing and locking it from the outside. Then she returned to Myburghe’s side.

‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ Weller sounded peeved but she knew he was just sounding off. In the background she heard him banging on something to attract attention, and guessed he’d got the phone on broadcast and was urging his troops into action.

Another shot whined overhead. She leaned over Myburghe and flicked on the flashlight. He looked even worse, his breathing now almost undetectable and a line of blood worming its way from his mouth down his chin. If she didn’t get him to hospital soon, he wasn’t going to live.

‘Come on, Weller!’ she shouted back. ‘This is the Royal Triangle. There are armed response units less than fifteen minutes away. And you’d better get a medevac chopper in — Sir Kenneth’s on the roof and about to quit the diplomatic corps for good.’

‘How bad?’ His voice sounded shaky, as if he was jogging.

‘Lung damage, I think. He’s breathing blood.’

Weller uttered several obscenities then asked, ‘Is Palmer with you?’

‘Yes. He’s holding the Alamo downstairs.’ She decided not to mention the shotgun or the automatic pistol. Or John Mitcheson.

‘And Henzigger?’

‘Alive and spitting. He’s got three Colombian helpers with him, all armed.’ Just then, the man she’d hit with the pistol groaned, reminding her of his presence. ‘Correction — make that two; I’ve got one tied up.’

‘Have you, by God?’ He laughed outright. ‘Well, make sure you stay out of the way. When the armed response units come in, they won’t be checking IDs. Any person carrying anything more threatening than a teapot gets one warning. After that, they’re a statistic.’