beer. ‘You’re on holiday, for fuck’s sake. You need to get on it. Five or six of these and everything’ll look a lot better.’
‘Aye,’ said Carr, lifting his own pint. ‘Well, you’d better enjoy it because you’ll no be drinking once you’re in training.’
‘True,’ said George. He rolled his eyes. ‘Of course, Selection was much harder in your day.’
Carr chuckled. ‘I actually pity you, son,’ he said. ‘You havnae got a clue what you’re gonnae…’
But then he paused, glass in hand, and cocked his head.
Somewhere to their rear, a bang and then a rapid series of shorter, sharper reports.
‘What the fuck’s that?’ said George, his mind unable for a moment to assimilate the sounds of war with this environment.
But John Carr was already on the balls of his feet, his neck hair on end, pint glass thrown and gone, lager splashed on the dusty cobbles.
The detonation from the grenade was unmistakable, as was the crack and thump of the small arms.
‘That’s AK, George,’ he said. ‘A lot of fucking AK.’
AK, and screaming.
The hundred billion neurons in John Carr’s brain were pulsating with one almost overwhelming electrical impulse: Get down there, and get Alice.
But after taking two steps, he stopped.
Even when judged alongside other special forces soldiers, Carr had stood out for his singular ability to stay calm and to think clearly under extreme pressure.
He’d been in some very sticky spots indeed, but in the middle of the biggest firefights, often hundreds of klicks behind enemy lines, outnumbered, overrun, fighting for his very life, his pulse rate had barely ticked up from its customary 60bpm.
And he had never panicked.
It was just logical.
Panicking got you killed.
So he didn’t panic.
Not thinking got you killed, too.
So, although he was being tested now as never before, he stopped, and he stood, and he thought.
He could hear several weapons firing, perhaps as many as half a dozen.
People were already running past him, babbling, crying, freaking out.
Some of them wounded.
One guy holding his guts in, stumbling and dragging his bare feet, supported by two of his mates, his mouth slack, minutes from bleeding out.
Carr knew that he couldn’t just sprint onto the sand, because that would get him killed, and if he was killed he couldn’t help Alice.
But he needed to get eyes-on in order to formulate a plan.
To his left, George was staring at him, his own eyes wide with shock.
He’d joined the Parachute Regiment just after the Afghan draw-down.
He was fit and strong, and no doubt he was brave and well-trained, too.
But he was not tested, not hardened and tempered by battle.
And you never know how you’ll react in a contact until it happens.
For an instant, Carr saw him not as the young man he was, but as the child he’d been.
He was on the verge of telling his son to run and hide, to stay safe, when – as if reading his old man’s mind – George spoke.
‘Wherever 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.’
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