Authors: Andy McNab
I was just behind as she took one pace into the next room. I followed, going right, my thumb continuously checking single-shot.
MTC was small, with just an old counter and shelving. Raised voices filtered through from the other side of the chipboard barrier, an argument between a minicab driver and a bunch of clubbers. My eyes followed the voices – a man leaning against 297 was telling the driver he could shove the ride up his arse because twenty-five quid was way too much to get to Herne Hill. The door was bolted, one up, one down.
I turned back towards Jim’s, weapon still in the shoulder, picking my way through the shit on the floor. Now that some night vision was kicking in I could make out a sliver of light coming from the bottom of our entry-point doorway into the corridor. A couple of cars passed.
Suzy covered upstairs while I pulled some of the scaffolding pieces from my jeans. As quietly as I could, I wedged three of them firmly between the door and its frame. I didn’t want to hang around: I jammed one in about a third of the way up, another a third of the way down. A third went underneath. There was no way this door would be opening in a hurry.
We picked up the bags and moved back into Jim’s. Suzy covered her hand with the fleece again to close the door behind us. The room was so dirty and caked with grease I could taste it.
An emergency vehicle drove fast down Pentonville the other side of MTC, its blue light bouncing off the ceiling. I moved to block the door to 297 with the remaining scaffolding joints as Suzy started to get into her NBC kit.
43
I joined Suzy and got the NBC kit on. My SD was never more than arm’s length away, lying on its left side, so I could just lean down, grab the pistol grip and flick off the safety catch with my thumb. My eyes never left the closed door into the corridor.
I was soon ready, apart from my respirator. The pistol went into the smock’s chest pocket, and I checked the spare SD mags in the map pockets, making sure the rounds were facing down and the concave shapes of the mags were facing backwards. If I had to change mags, all I’d have to do was shove my hand into a pocket, drag out a mag, and the rounds would be facing up and the mag the right way round so it was ready to be placed into the weapon. That was the theory, anyway. In reality, the mags would twist and turn in there, but I liked to feel they were at least in the correct position to start with.
My mind shrank even further as I checked for the last time that the mag was on tight, and that the safety catch moved freely all the way to three-round burst. As Suzy bent to put on her boots, I tested the extended butt to make sure the two rods were still locked. It wobbled a little on its joints, but these things never give you the firm fire position you get with a solid one.
I’d have preferred to be clad from head to toe in Kevlar body armour, but apart from that I was ready. One final check with my thumb that safety was on, and, with my respirator in my left hand, I started moving, picking my feet up carefully as I tried to get used to the big rubber boots again.
A clatter of high heels and laughter passed Jim’s kebab as I reached the door. I moved to the right, by the handle, before kneeling down to lay my SD on the floor. I checked the respirator’s pressure valve was still tight, pushed my hair back from my forehead and fitted the respirator over my face, making sure I had a nice tight seal and the canister was on firmly.
I took slow, deep breaths to oxygenate myself, inhaling the strong smell of new rubber. Then I stood up. Pistol grip in my right hand, butt in the shoulder, index finger straight along the trigger guard, thumb ready to flick off the safety catch, I checked the SD sight.
Suzy adjusted the butt of her weapon into her shoulder, lodging it in the soft area between the collar-bone and ball-and-socket joint, then flattened herself against the wall on the other side of the doorway. I eased myself forward to get my right ear against the door. I could hear nothing but the sound of vehicles ploughing through puddles in the street. I stood back, adjusting myself into a fire position, legs shoulder-width apart, leaning forward with my left leg bent, hunched over the weapon, making it part of me once more. Suzy reached across and grasped the handle. I nodded, and she eased it down.
The door creaked open a fraction; two inches, then three, then four. I could see nothing but darkness. When the gap was about a foot and a half wide, I moved my left foot very slowly over the threshold, letting the edge of my boot down gently into the corridor. I felt a small chunk of plasterboard press against the rubber, and shifted an inch or two to one side until I found a clear area. I did the same with my right foot, probing for a nice bit of bare concrete. To my right, a sliver of light glinted beneath our entry-point, and just the other side of it two more vehicles splashed through a rain-filled pothole.
Sucking air through the canister, I made my way towards the staircase, five paces to my left. I had both eyes open, weapon at forty-five degrees, pointing up into the darkness.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and peered up into the darkness. My lungs strained to fill themselves with air.
I could hear the faint rustle of Suzy’s NBC suit and checked behind me. She was in the doorway, weapon up, covering the darkness above me. She was going to be my one foot on the ground during this tactical bound. While I concentrated on getting up the stairs as quickly and quietly as I could, she’d remain static. When I went firm, she’d come up to me. If there was a drama it would be difficult for her to return fire without hitting me, and the higher I went the more I’d fill her sights. If it went noisy, my plan was to fall flat and slide back down the stairs, letting her take on whatever was up above me.
Time to go for it. I took a slow, deep breath, every muscle in my body tensed to keep the weapon in a really tight firing position.
I moved to the right of the stairway to give Suzy a slightly better arc of fire, and, lifting my right leg, moved it slowly forward, wary of old cans or crisp packets, anything that would make a noise. Once my toe touched the wall, I trod down on the first step, easing my weight on to the ball of my foot. The bare wood creaked louder than the noise of my breathing. I stopped in mid-stride, and listened. Nothing.
I put the rest of my weight on my right foot, repeating the process with the left on the step above, swivelling my body against the wall. My skin prickled with sweat as my eyes scanned upwards, adjusting slowly to the darkness. It looked like there was a landing up there; I couldn’t tell whether there was a door as well. I stopped on the fifth step, rolling my eyes, trying to distinguish any shapes or figures in the darkness. It wasn’t working: I couldn’t see anything yet. We could have done with some NVGs in the ready bags.
I probed further up the steps with my feet, stopping each time there was a creak, waiting to see if there was any reaction from above me. My face was now soaked: the respirator seal felt as if it was floating over my skin. My muscles were close to cramping as I used all the strength in my legs to move and keep balance, while still keeping eyes and weapon up.
I’d got half-way to the landing, maybe ten or twelve steps up, when I felt my right foot start to wobble and had to lean my shoulder against the wall for support. I sucked in oxygen like a deep-sea diver. The respirator sounded like a waterfall. Sweat trickled down my back; the thighs of my jeans were soaked and tugging against my skin.
The landing had no doors, just plastered walls. There was a different kind of light above me now, probably fighting its way through the first-floor windows from the street. It came from the right, which meant the staircase probably turned back on itself.
I wrestled my way up, still leaning against the wall, focusing completely on the quality of light, trying to detect any shift in its consistency that might indicate movement on the next flight.
A few more steps and I finally made it to the landing. I moved across Suzy’s arc of fire, weapon still in my shoulder, and pushed myself back into the far left-hand corner of the stairwell.
I could see six or seven steps from there, leading up towards the light, but I wasn’t going to move all the way round and risk showing myself to anyone higher up; I wanted Suzy here to back me. I looked down and saw her dark shape emerging gradually from the shadows. She would have her weapon down now, concentrating instead on keeping as quiet as possible.
I strained my eyes and ears for movement or sound, but all I could hear was the odd creak from below, myself trying to breathe through this fucking respirator, and the sporadic murmur of traffic.
I stayed static, weapon up, feeling the sweat pool at the seal. I hated this gear, but it always seemed to me a miracle that there was never any condensation on the eyepieces. I opened my mouth and leant forwards to listen again, trying to ignore the stream of saliva that dribbled down my chin.
A couple of minutes later Suzy was two steps away from me, her back against the right-hand wall, SD across her chest. I gave her another minute to sort out her breathing.
She nodded and I moved, my back against the wall, weapon up, edging my way until I was bathed in the soft light coming from above me.
I stayed to the left side of the staircase this time; Suzy kept right as I started to climb, my back drenched and hands soaking inside the rubber gloves. I kept wanting to use them to wipe away the sweat that stung my eyelids.
As my head came level with the first-floor landing, I could see the source of the light – a grime-covered, six-foot-tall window facing on to the street.
Rain pelted against the glass, camouflaging the traffic noise and, I hoped, the sound of our progress. The rooms above Costcutter directly opposite were at the same level, their droopy window nets showing no sign of life.
I was half-way through my next step when I heard a sound, a scraping sound, from above.
I froze, mouth open, holding my breath.
A truck roared past below us.
Had it just been a wooden beam settling down for the night, or a rat? Maybe.
I lowered my foot to get stable, and started to breathe again, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. I stayed static, waiting to hear if it happened again.
Six, maybe seven minutes passed. My muscles were close to cramping. The odd vehicle moved below me and a couple of dossers growled at each other in a doorway. Then the rain got heavier again, and started to pound against the glass.
I looked down at Suzy, still on the first landing, weapon up towards me. It didn’t matter if she’d heard it or not. She would know something was wrong because I was static. She’d just react to what I did.
I gave it another thirty seconds, then moved again, weapon up, butt in the shoulder, thumb checking single shot. I kept close to the left-hand wall until I reached the landing and moved into the left-hand corner to keep away from the window. Dull globules of light and shadow streamed across the bare floorboards as the rainwater ran down the glass. Opposite me, past the window and stairs that turned back on themselves once more, there was a closed door. A cheap, light-coloured interior type with a handle to the left.
Suzy began to move up as I dragged some more oxygen through my respirator. She stopped just short of the landing, her back against the right-hand wall as she waited for my cue.
I moved sideways, hugging the wall, weapon up. The light from the window died about a third of the way up the next staircase. I stopped with the window frame against my left shoulder and could see street level as far as the still-closed police station. As a truck rumbled past below, Suzy bent low and moved across my arc to take position by the door. Fuck the window, it just had to be crossed. I joined her, ready to make entry, my thumb checking single shot, my left hand adjusting itself on the barrel, the pad of my trigger finger taking first pressure.
I nodded, and Suzy’s hand closed round the handle and gave it a twist. There was the tiniest of squeaks as the door inched open. My eyes saw light, first from the window one side of the ship’s bow, then the other. I moved over the threshold, going immediately left, sweeping the room, keeping low, clearing the doorway for Suzy to come through just one pace behind.
Three paces in, I went static, leaning into the weapon. I could see the whole bow of the ship. The floor wasn’t subdivided as it had been below; it was just one big open space. There was an old steel desk near the windows, and a couple of upturned plastic chairs. On its side in the middle of the room was a knackered old satellite dish, a solid plastic meshy thing about five feet in diameter. The rest of the place was in similarly shit state. The windows were really getting hammered by the rain here, and it sounded like we were inside a snare drum. The sign for King’s Cross station shone at us opaquely from across the street.
I took a couple of deep, noisy breaths and was turning back towards the door when I heard a dull knock above us.
Suzy was rooted to the spot, her head cocked upwards.
I tried not to breathe. Saliva streamed down my chin.
It had come from above us, no doubt about it.
They were up there. The fuckers were up there, directly above us, somewhere on the second floor.
44
I stood rigid, my head still cocked towards the ceiling.
I closed my eyes to concentrate harder, but the noise didn’t come again. All I got was the drumming of the rain, and the odd splash of traffic.