Andy McNab - Zero hour

I moved along the gable end until I reached the waterside corner. There was nothing new on the hard standing. No boats tied up alongside.

Bergen on my back, I moved slowly along the bay side of the building. I got to the metal doors. They hadn't been tampered with. The grass and weeds were standing to attention.

There was still no light.

I reached the far gable end, passing the window to the office where I hoped the girls were being held. I turned right, and followed the wall to the door. It was still locked. I put my ear to the frame and could hear a faint noise. It was impossible to tell what was making it. I put my nose to the keyhole. It still smelt of cake shop.

I walked round to the back of the building, and carried on to do a complete 360 back to the conveyor-belt. Did anyone have eyes on me? Unlikely. Where would they be? Fuck it, so what? If it was happening, it wasn't going to change anything I was going to do.

I climbed the Meccano as close to the silo as I could. It made for a longer climb, but I didn't want to be struggling along the conveyor-belt with all this gear on my back. I wasn't exactly Spiderman, but even he would have had his work cut out with pains in his arse, hip, head and hand, and the unstable weight of the Bergen with a couple of gallons of liquid moving about inside it.

I took the rusty, flaky struts one at a time, maintaining three points of contact: both feet and hands firmly gripping, then one hand up to the next strut, and then a foot. I stopped and listened every two or three bounds. I was sweating, but it certainly wasn't from fear. I was doing what I wanted to be doing. I was having my one final kick.

And, anyway, this time I knew I was dead. I had an inkling of what it must feel like to be a suicide bomber. Like me, they had fuck-all to lose. It almost felt liberating.

I got to the last strut and hauled myself over the top. I lay flat on the rubber belt. The fuel sloshed as it levelled out. The hatch was slightly ajar, exactly as I'd found it and how I'd left it. I crawled forward. A jet took off from Schiphol in the distance and climbed quietly overhead.

The conveyor-belt creaked under my weight. To me, it felt like I was making enough noise to wake up the whole of Noord 5. It couldn't be helped. All I could do was take my time and not fuck up by dropping anything or falling off.

I slowly pushed the hatch open, just enough to get my head through. As before, my nose filled with the smell of flour. As before, there was the faintest glimmer of light through the gap at the bottom.

I loosened the Bergen straps and lay on my side to wriggle out of them. I had to work my way through the hatch and onto the ladder feet first. It would have been a nightmare with a Bergen on my back. I wrapped a hand around one of the straps in case the thing decided to fall.

I lowered my feet and found a rung. Once I had a firm footing, I dragged the Bergen towards me and hauled it back over my shoulders. No worries about muddy boots this time.

Slowly but surely I made my descent. By the time my boots were on the concrete and adding to the prints in the flour, my hands were caked with mud. I wiped them on my jeans. It was warm down here. I took off the Bergen and rested it against the wall. I eased my head beneath the steel shutters and into the main part of the building.

At first, everything looked exactly the same as before. The top right-hand window was the only one that had a light on. The two windows to the left of it were dark, as were the two either side of the door below into the office block. A TV flickered, but I couldn't hear any sound or movement. A haze of cigarette smoke filled the room.

I bent down and grabbed the mallet from under the top flap of the Bergen. The mush of TV waffle reached my ears and got louder the closer I got to the door into the main entrance hallway.

I knelt down and checked for light the other side of it. There was a soft glow. I put my ear to the door. The TV was still going strong; I couldn't hear anything else.

I tried the handle. It opened into a gloomy hallway

There were two doors on the left and two on the right. Ten fire extinguishers were lined up between them like sentries. At the far end of the corridor was the outside entrance. Light spilled onto it from up the stairs.

Light also seeped from under the second door on the left. I leant as close as I could to the top panel. There was a faint murmur of childlike voices. Someone was crying and being comforted. The Chubb-style key was still in the lock and a bolt – thrown back – had been newly fixed just above it.

I turned the key just enough to confirm that it was locked, then removed it to keep them contained. I could still hear nothing above the TV upstairs. I knew the voice. Horatio Caine was being uber-smooth in CSI: Miami.

The external door hadn't been bolted. The deadlocks were on. No one was getting out unless they had the keys. There were three to undo so it would take them a while. I eased the bolts into place. Now it would also take a while for anyone to get in.

I turned left towards the stairwell. I only had one chance to make this work quickly and quietly. The light on the landing above me came from two naked fluorescent tubes. The steps were solid concrete. Their coating of red paint had faded over the years and the concrete had worn. There had once been a handrail but now only the fixing holes remained.

I clenched the mallet in my right hand. I swung my arms as I took each step, head up, sucking in deep breaths to prepare for my attack. Two neos were now at the bottom of the bay. I had no idea how many of the four I'd introduced myself to at the tile factory were up and about. But I assumed that Flynn and Bitch Tits would be looking after the shop. By the time I was halfway up I could smell cigarette smoke. The kind that makes your eyes water and takes the skin off the back of your throat. Whoever was up there wasn't paying much attention to the government health warning.

I reached the top landing. I was in auto-mode. I felt blood surge into my hands and legs, preparing me for fight or flight.

Then, just when I needed him most, Horatio stopped waffling.

The door to my half-left was open. I had maybe one second's advantage on whoever was in the room, no more. I could hear everyone in Miami loud and clear.

There were other doors: two to the right, three to the left. All closed. Notice boards peppered with rusty drawing pins but no paper lined the walls, punctuated by steel spikes that had once supported fire extinguishers. Faded hazard warning signs still hung above them.

I took three steps across the corridor and over the threshold. Arm raised, I was ready to take on the first part of any body that came within reach.

There was nobody in there apart from Horatio, but the last inch or so of an untipped cancer-stick still glowed in the ashtray.

A cistern flushed and the door opened at the far end of the room. Robot came out, still doing up his flies. He was dressed in the same brown overcoat he'd been wearing in Christiania.

He patted the zip into place and raised his head. There was no surprise on his face when he saw me, no shock, no fear, no hesitation. He launched himself straight at me.

I brought up the mallet. His arm chopped up and blocked it easily. His other fist punched into the side of my head and his leg kicked out. It connected with my thigh and I buckled with pain.

My head hit the floor. Stars burst in front of my eyes. Pain coursed through my body. More kicks landed. I could feel myself starting to lose it. I couldn't let that happen. I worked hard to keep my eyes open, curling up as a knee went down onto my chest.

His face displayed the same lack of emotion as it had when he'd talked about Mr Big's fringe benefits in the kitchen of the green house. Calmly and efficiently, he was just getting on with the job of killing me.