He could hear another shot. He couldn't see, but he knew it meant either Rami was protecting his position, or he had lost the initiative. It could only be a matter of moments before he was killed.
No matter. His work was done, and his sacrifice worthwhile.
The door from which the man had exited the house had been left ajar, just as Sallum had expected it to be. A man who sees an assailant on his way to kill him and his family doesn't have time to fish around for keys or shut doors behind him; he wants to leave a quick way back for himself should he need it.
Sallum heard the sound of another shot, then a scream. Rami had been hit but not killed. Over the years, Sallum had learnt to distinguish the screams of a wounded man and a dying man. The boy was young and strong, and could take a couple more bullets — there was time left.
Sallum slipped inside the building. He moved through the kitchen towards the main living room. Nobody there. He ran upstairs — that was where the family would be sleeping. He checked two bedrooms, both empty. In the third, the woman was sitting up in bed, a sheet raised to cover her body. The two children were lying at her side, both of them asleep. Her blue eyes moved up, meeting his. He could see the fear, but also confusion, terror. Silently, without moving her lips, she was pleading for mercy — but she already knew she would be rejected.
Sallum smiled, raised the silenced P7 and aimed. He knew the noise might alert the man downstairs to what was happening, but it would be too late for him to do anything about it.
He could see the woman moving instinctively to protect not herself but her children; she seemed to want to he across them like a warm, smothering blanket.
The gun jumped in Sallum's hand as he fired first once, then twice.
The first bullet hit her just above the left eye, sending her head spinning and a splash of blood colliding with the back wall. The second bullet hit her on the left breast, smashing into her heart. Blood started to seep from the open wound as she slumped forward.
Both the children woke up. They instinctively clung to their mother, breathless and confused, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Sallum stepped towards the bed.
They are small. One bullet will be enough for each of them.
He stood next to the bed, pointed the gun, fired once, then twice. Both children were killed instantly. Their bodies slumped across the bed, still clasped to their mother. The boy was still holding a toy, and the girl had a dummy in her mouth. Neither seemed to have had any idea what was happening.
Sallum spent a moment admiring the delicate, soft purity of their skins.
For infidel robbers there can be no mercy. Not even for their children.
He walked to the window and looked towards the lawn. He could see Rami's body lying out on the grass, the man leaning over him, checking he was dead.
Sallum crept into the space behind the door, waiting. After a few seconds he heard the sound of the door slamming, then a man's footsteps on the staircase.
'Jane?' the voice rang out from the hallway. 'Jane? Are you OK?'
The man came through the door. He looked towards the bed, his eyes darting from body to body. Blood was by now dripping from the sheets, running some of the way towards the bathroom.
The man froze.
Sallum emerged silently and his hand circled the man's neck. Both men were the same height, but Sallum was slightly heavier and had more strength in his shoulders. He jabbed the silenced P7 tight into the man's neck. 'Their death is the first part of your punishment,' he said. 'The second part will follow — but I will allow you a few moments to reflect on what has happened to your wife and children before you die.'
Sallum squeezed tighter on Reid's neck, choking off the flow of air to his lungs. Reid was struggling to free himself, but Sallum's grip was tight, and without oxygen it was impossible to summon the strength to break free.
'Repeat these words,' said Sallum. 'Allahummagh firlee warr hamnee wah-dini wan zug-ni.'
'Fuck off.'
'Would you like me to translate for you?'
'Fuck off you murdering Arab pig.'
'O Allah, forgive me, have mercy on me, guide me aright and grant me sustenance,' said Sallum, his voice touched with laughter. 'It is the dua that is always taught to a new Muslim. I thought you might like to convert, seeing as you're about to meet Allah. For he is a merciful God, and is always ready to greet a sinner who repents. Even scum like you.'
The man roared in anger, jabbing his elbow backwards and catching Sallum in the chest. Sallum's hand fell free from the neck and the man started to spin on his heels, his arm swinging out to grab Sallum's hand. Sallum rocked momentarily backwards on his heels before regaining his balance. He squeezed the trigger on the P7, blowing a hole through the man's neck. Blood and skin splashed on to the floor. Sallum pulled the trigger again, hitting his enemy just below the mouth. The lower part of the jaw was blown away, the bone splintering in different directions.
The man's legs buckled and he dropped to the floor.
Sallum tucked the pistol back into his pocket, stepping away from the body. From another pocket he took out a thin painter's brush. He dipped it into the pool of blood on the floor, and started writing on the wall.
Another limb severed. Two more to go. Then my work will be done.
NINETEEN
Matt walked alone through Regent's Park. It was just after ten in the morning, and apart from a couple of mums out for a walk with their children the place was empty. Heavy clouds were hanging in the sky and some light drizzle was falling into his face as he marched along the pathway.
He had driven straight back up to London after leaving the Road Chef on the M20. He didn't want to go to his flat, and he didn't want to be seen anywhere he might be recognised. So he'd dumped the car at an Avis office, grabbed a coffee, and come for a walk.
Maybe I should just go and take the money for myself. Clear off somewhere, change my name, fix my face and start a new life. After all, it isn't as if I have Gill to worry about any more.
Matt found his thoughts returning to the past. During his six-month selection for the Regiment, after a brutal two weeks of training, he had decided he'd had enough, that he couldn't take any more. For days he had been hiking across mountains, getting shot at, sleeping in open countryside with nothing to consume apart from a few biscuits and some spring water. He went home for the weekend, and decided not to go back. It was Damien and Gill who had persuaded him to return, telling him that he had no choice but to persevere, that he would never forgive himself if he didn't.
They aren't here for me any more.
Another time, during his first tour of duty in Northern Ireland, he'd suffered from a bad bout of what the shrinks would call post-traumatic stress, and the guys in the Regiment would call an attack of the shakes. Three of them had been out on patrol in border country, when they were ambushed by a Provo hit squad. They had been pinned down for ten minutes, coming under sustained fire, before one of them volunteered to break out by rushing their attacker. Matt had been more terrified than he could have imagined possible: his guts had been heaving, he'd thrown up three times, and his fingers wouldn't stop shaking for long enough for him to load his gun.