blind burst to keep the troublemakers down. He hefted a grenade, pulled its pin, flipped the handle. “Wahid, ithnain—” he said. One, two—
He tossed the grenade high and deep, aiming at the back edge of the bar. It spun end over end and disappeared. The explosion came a half-second later, and the screams a half-second after that, not even words, pure animal keening. Another wave of shooting began outside, the quick snap of pistols against the rattle of AKs. Amir and Hamoud defending their posts. “Time to go in,” Fakir said. “Finish this.”
Omar’s watch read 12:16. They’d walked into the corridor at 12:13. All this had taken just three minutes.
ROBBY PEEKED DOWN FROM the balcony. He could hear again, a little. Outside, an amplified voice shouted in Arabic. The police telling the jihadis to surrender, Robby figured. Good luck with that. The AKs outside were still firing, three-shot bursts, the SOBs conserving their ammo while the ones in here killed everyone who was left. In London the police wouldn’t have wasted any time; they would have mounted up and attacked. But these Bahraini cops would take ten or fifteen minutes. Too long.
Two men stepped into the bar, holding AKs. They were young, as young as he had been when he joined the squaddies. But old enough to step in here and kill. The one who’d come in first was bigger and seemed to be in charge. He stepped behind the bar, fired a burst.
Robby squirmed back, pushed himself to his knees. The two men who’d helped him in sat with their backs to the wall, their feet pressed against the table that was barricading the stairs. “They’re going to kill everyone down there,” Robby said.
“The police are here,” the man closer to Robby said. He had a faint French accent. “We should wait. The ones down there don’t notice us.”
Shouts came from downstairs as the jihadis herded people toward the bar’s back corner, almost directly below the balcony. Robby didn’t know why no one downstairs was fighting back. He supposed people would do anything for a few extra seconds.
“They’re going to put them in the corner, shoot them all,” Robby said. “Then come up here. We’re gonna die, let’s die fighting.”
“You have an idea?” the Frenchman said.
Robby explained.
“ Merde. Not much of a plan.”
“It’s a start.”
BODIES WERE SLUMPED UNDER chairs, against walls, huddled together behind the bar. At least thirty people were dead. The others couldn’t possibly think Fakir had something different in store for them. Still, they obeyed.
Fakir grabbed a wounded woman by the leg, pulled her from under a table. “Move!” he yelled. She crawled for the corner. Omar could almost smell his bloodlust. Fakir was an animal now, not even an animal. And what am I, then?
“Enough, brother. It’s enough.”
“No. All of them.”
Outside, an amplified voice shouted: “Drop your weapons. You are surrounded by the Bahrain Civil Defence Force. Drop your weapons. This is your final warning.”
A few AK shots stuttered from the street outside. Then a single rifle shot, close and loud, cracked the night. The AK stopped.
“Let us out,” a man in the corner shouted. “It’s over.”
“Quiet—” Fakir yelled.
THE TABLE SMASHED HIS skull wide open.
Omar saw it a quarter-second before it hit, a blocky blur of heavy, round wood, its legs facing up. It caught Fakir’s head with a sick crunch. His neck snapped forward and he collapsed, his bulky body falling sideways like a curtain.
For a moment, the people huddled in the corner didn’t move, as though they, like Omar, did not believe their own eyes. Then a man shouted something in English and ran for the door. And somehow despite his doubts, Omar didn’t hesitate. He turned toward the men and women in the corner and tugged at the AK’s trigger—
Just as Robby Duke, all two hundred pounds of him, landed on him, Robby jumping from the balcony with his arms spread wide,
He tossed the grenade high and deep, aiming at the back edge of the bar. It spun end over end and disappeared. The explosion came a half-second later, and the screams a half-second after that, not even words, pure animal keening. Another wave of shooting began outside, the quick snap of pistols against the rattle of AKs. Amir and Hamoud defending their posts. “Time to go in,” Fakir said. “Finish this.”
Omar’s watch read 12:16. They’d walked into the corridor at 12:13. All this had taken just three minutes.
ROBBY PEEKED DOWN FROM the balcony. He could hear again, a little. Outside, an amplified voice shouted in Arabic. The police telling the jihadis to surrender, Robby figured. Good luck with that. The AKs outside were still firing, three-shot bursts, the SOBs conserving their ammo while the ones in here killed everyone who was left. In London the police wouldn’t have wasted any time; they would have mounted up and attacked. But these Bahraini cops would take ten or fifteen minutes. Too long.
Two men stepped into the bar, holding AKs. They were young, as young as he had been when he joined the squaddies. But old enough to step in here and kill. The one who’d come in first was bigger and seemed to be in charge. He stepped behind the bar, fired a burst.
Robby squirmed back, pushed himself to his knees. The two men who’d helped him in sat with their backs to the wall, their feet pressed against the table that was barricading the stairs. “They’re going to kill everyone down there,” Robby said.
“The police are here,” the man closer to Robby said. He had a faint French accent. “We should wait. The ones down there don’t notice us.”
Shouts came from downstairs as the jihadis herded people toward the bar’s back corner, almost directly below the balcony. Robby didn’t know why no one downstairs was fighting back. He supposed people would do anything for a few extra seconds.
“They’re going to put them in the corner, shoot them all,” Robby said. “Then come up here. We’re gonna die, let’s die fighting.”
“You have an idea?” the Frenchman said.
Robby explained.
“ Merde. Not much of a plan.”
“It’s a start.”
BODIES WERE SLUMPED UNDER chairs, against walls, huddled together behind the bar. At least thirty people were dead. The others couldn’t possibly think Fakir had something different in store for them. Still, they obeyed.
Fakir grabbed a wounded woman by the leg, pulled her from under a table. “Move!” he yelled. She crawled for the corner. Omar could almost smell his bloodlust. Fakir was an animal now, not even an animal. And what am I, then?
“Enough, brother. It’s enough.”
“No. All of them.”
Outside, an amplified voice shouted: “Drop your weapons. You are surrounded by the Bahrain Civil Defence Force. Drop your weapons. This is your final warning.”
A few AK shots stuttered from the street outside. Then a single rifle shot, close and loud, cracked the night. The AK stopped.
“Let us out,” a man in the corner shouted. “It’s over.”
“Quiet—” Fakir yelled.
THE TABLE SMASHED HIS skull wide open.
Omar saw it a quarter-second before it hit, a blocky blur of heavy, round wood, its legs facing up. It caught Fakir’s head with a sick crunch. His neck snapped forward and he collapsed, his bulky body falling sideways like a curtain.
For a moment, the people huddled in the corner didn’t move, as though they, like Omar, did not believe their own eyes. Then a man shouted something in English and ran for the door. And somehow despite his doubts, Omar didn’t hesitate. He turned toward the men and women in the corner and tugged at the AK’s trigger—
Just as Robby Duke, all two hundred pounds of him, landed on him, Robby jumping from the balcony with his arms spread wide,
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