John Carr. James Deegan

you’re going,’ he said, ‘I’m coming with you.’

      In that moment, Carr saw a soldier in front of him.

      He knew he stood a better chance with some help.

      ‘Okay, son,’ he said. ‘But you listen to everything I say, understand? No rushing off. You stick by me.’

      George nodded.

      Then two police officers came into view, running, heads down, terrified, away from the shooting.

      Father looked at son.

      ‘Those two,’ he said. ‘If they’re not going to use their weapons, we will.’

21.

      THEY STOOD IN THE street, against the flow of fleeing holidaymakers, and clotheslined the two cops as they sprinted by.

      ‘Lo siento, señor,’ said Carr. ‘But I need your pistol.’

      The man just stared up at him and said nothing.

      It was a look that Carr had seen many times before – notably in Bosnia, when the line was broken around Goražde and the men of the BIH were scrambling for the safety of the town, with only one thought in their minds: Please let me survive another day, and I’ll worry about tomorrow… tomorrow.

      Carr stood up. Next to him stood George, pistol in hand, an unconscious policeman at his feet, his jaw broken.

      Carr looked at the weapon.

      Heckler & Koch USP.

      Made himself take another moment.

      No point charging onto the sand with an empty pistol, either.

      Dropped the mag out.

      Pushed on the top round.

      It moved downward only slightly, indicating that the magazine was full.

      Hadn’t even been fired.

      Carr replaced the magazine, pulled the topslide back slightly, to double-check that a round was in the breech, and tapped the slide forward to rehouse the round.

      Ready to go.

      He looked at George, who had copied him.

      ‘Used one of these before?’ he said.

      ‘No, we’re on the Glock 17.’

      ‘Same principle. Safety’s here. How many rounds have you got?’

      ‘Full clip.’

      ‘Take the spare mags, too. Fifteen rounds of nine millimetre in each one. Make sure you count your shots. And get as close as you can.’

      George nodded.

      Flinched at the rate of fire coming from the beach.

      Looked down at the peashooter in his hand.

      Hesitated.

      ‘Now, son,’ said Carr, clapping his boy on the shoulder, and flashing him a savage grin. ‘Come with me, and I’ll show you where the Iron Crosses grow.’

      In spite of himself, George grinned, and felt his fear melting away at his father’s certainty. And then John Carr was off and running towards the sound of the shooting, against the thinning tide of people, past dozens of white, multi-million dollar yachts bobbing at anchor, seagulls whirling overhead, oblivious, as though this was a day like any other.

      In a matter of moments, the two men had reached the low wall in front of the sands.

      They crouched behind it.

      ‘Safety off,’ said Carr.

      ‘Safety off.’

      They peered over.

      Beyond was a scene of almost unimaginable carnage.

      Dozens of people lay dead or dying on the beach.

      Two pairs of killers.

      One pair, thirty metres away to their left.

      Slowly edging backwards on to the sand, covering approach routes from the town.

      As the Carrs watched, one of them leaned over a teenaged boy who was trying to crawl away.

      Shot him in the head.

      The second pair, forty metres to their right.

      Levelling their weapons at four people.

      Four of the Brits from earlier, Carr realised.

      Not far from where he and Alice had been sitting.

      But none of them was Alice.

      And now, with a three-round burst into the chest, one of them killed the only male of the group.

      The other grabbed the middle girl – the tall blonde in the shocking pink bikini – by the scruff of her neck, and started half-dragging, half-pulling her off the beach.

      His mate got behind the other women and pushed them after him.

      Shouting, Yallah imshi! Yallah imshi!

       Hurry the fuck up!

      Carr looked at George. ‘Can you see Alice and Chloe?’ he said.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Please God,’ breathed Carr.

      He was not a religious man, and he didn’t see the inside of a church from one funeral to the next, but plenty of men find time to say a quick prayer when the rounds start flying.

      Every man says a prayer when they’re flying around his baby girl.

      ‘What do we do?’ said George.

      Carr thought for a second or two.

      His lengthy secondment to the Det in Northern Ireland had left him an outstanding pistol shot, that being the primary weapon of the surveillance operator, but if he engaged the further pair to his right at this range… The best shot in the world would be just as likely to kill the three women.

      Whereas the closer pair, to the left, were actually edging his way.

      Plus which, they were focused on the streets, not on what was behind them.

      No-brainer.

      ‘Those two first,’ he said. ‘Then we get after the others.’ He turned to his son, and winked. ‘Hold your fire until they get as close as possible, and if it all goes to shit I’ll see you in Valhalla.’

      ‘Bollocks to that,’ said George. ‘One of these days it’s got to be your round, and I’m not missing that for anything.’

22.

      THE TWO MEN were within fifteen metres when they began to turn around.

      ‘Now,’ said John Carr.

      Both Carrs stood up and levelled their weapons.

      The terrorists stopped in the sand, mouths open, startled eyes, and started to raise their AKs.

      They never stood a chance.

      Cumulatively, John Carr had spent months of his life double-tapping targets in various ranges and shooting galleries in Hereford and elsewhere around the world, and he’d done it for real enough times, too.

      At the peak of his skills, he’d have got off four aimed shots in under a second, easy.

      He was a little rusty, so it took him just over a second – though they were still fired so quickly that it was hard to distinguish between each round.

       Tap-tap.

       Tap-tap.