Another silence. Less gripping, less horrifying this time.
Slowly another noise ebbed into the silence. It was boots. Boots running up a staircase. Boots with guns, boots fanning out. Boots with orders.
"And I think...I think I should explain things to you" another pause. He looked down at the man that he had taken so long to guide to that one seat. "You know some of the story - you think you know it all".
Boots clattered louder, clothes rustled and steel staircases clanged in protest.
"You think you've got to the bottom of this thing, don't you?" He stepped back, and admired the room.
"Knowing me, knowing you" he smiled a moment at the reference - a man of his times, "I have the full...picture."
Boots getting more urgent, bouncing off the steel stairs and onto concrete. The corridor in a dark warehouse. A collapsing warehouse that now, in its dying moments, set the backdrop for a dramatic hail of gunfire that would end and begin so many things.
"I'm going to die very soon," again he licked his lips, and yet they looked awfully dry, "well I'm not really going to die. I'm going to disappear. This is my final performance, but don't worry! A sequel is planned."
He nodded to himself slightly.
Then he let out an elegant cackled and checked his watch. He slid a small revolver from his trouser pocket. A single bullet was loaded.
"You see, I needed you".
He enjoyed his prey's shocked look, his quizzical eyebrows. "Oh, what you uncovered is all true. I just gave you some...assistance. I had it all acted out; because of you".
Boots pushed forwards, a steady line with guns swinging this way and that. The pistols were at the back, the Winchester shotguns at the front with the Sten submachine guns. All panning and tracking, moving forwards carefully.
He bent down low and looked into the other man's eyes. They were a picture of wary resentment. "I needed you" he spat, almost laughing again. He stood there, bent over for a few awkward seconds and then straightened out.
The boots were slowing, stopping.
The man brushed his suit, self consciously, checked his gun and span smartly to the door. The one door.
The boots smashed threw it. In a ripple of khaki the wooden rectangle flew from its hinges and plunged to the concrete floor. A large splinter hung from the top hinge. The revolver exploded in smoke, its bullet crashing out and upwards.
The Sten guns erupted in a blaze of orange and red. Light and colour throwing themselves at each other with loud howls and whistling ricochets. Holes racked through the walls; the smoke from the revolver curled upwards. Khaki spread out as the bullets echoed down, the confusion spinning through the room.
The revolver dropped to the floor. The man dropped to his knees, a smile on his face. The Sten guns were lowered.
Silence.
Boots.
"We've got the hostage. He doesn't appear to be wounded."
***
