The Eleventh Hour (The King's Watch Book 3) by Mark Hayden

Author:Mark Hayden [Hayden, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Urban Fantasy
Publisher: Paw Press
Published: 2018-08-17T00:00:00+00:00

19 — The Luck of the Irish (Part Two)

I had the SIG out of my waistband just as Diarmuid slumped forward. I stood up, using the rush of adrenaline to get me upright, propped against the wall and out of sight from the passage to the antechamber. Vicky had had the same idea and was on the other side of the opening. I raised my gun and made a motion for her to get down so that I could shoot anyone who came after us. I strained my ears for sounds, but heard nothing over the aftereffects of the gunshot.

What did we know? I knew, and was very grateful for the fact that it was a hunting rifle. The distinctive sound and the single shot said that. If the shooter had had another weapon, he or she would have come in and attacked all three of us, but they had chosen to use their one free shot to kill Diarmuid. Even a novice, in a panic, would have reloaded by now.

I made eye contact with Vicky and mouthed the word mirror to her and pointed to her bag on the floor. She rolled her eyes at me like a total teenager and reached into her pocket. She took out her phone and unlocked the screen. She hit a button and lay on the floor, stretching the back of the phone to the corner of the passage, angling the screen so she could see it. Of course. A camera.

I waited while she tried for a better angle. She pressed the screen, then turned to show me. I could just make out an empty passage with no one in sight. I stood up, and motioned for her to do the same, and at that moment we did hear a noise: the sound of the grille being raised.

If that grille got to the top of its casing, we’d be well and truly stuck. I raised my gun and dashed out, and then dived into the open bathroom. There was no one in sight behind the grille. I grabbed the towel off the floor and limped up to the entrance, keeping my gun raised. Still nothing. The towel was wet, giving it just enough weight to be a missile. I slung it at the shrinking gap above the grille and it landed on the mesh as the motor pushed it home. The metal compressed the towel, but it hadn’t slotted completely home. The motor whined, then stopped. I’d hoped it had a safety feature that would lower the grille again, like a garage door that hits an obstacle, but no. It just stopped.

Vicky was checking Diarmuid for signs of life. In vain. She wiped away a tear and stood back. ‘Poor sod. Didn’t stand a chance.’

I stood next to her, moving her out of the sight line to the entrance and taking her right hand in my left so that I could keep hold of the gun. She squeezed my hand, and we gave Diarmuid a moment.

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