Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,47

to be distracted today.

If he was, it could get him killed.

Cobb showed his ID to the receptionist behind the desk, explaining who he was. She was a middle-aged woman, slightly frumpy, but with a pleasant face that right then looked pretty worried. Although Nikki had called ahead and told her Cobb and his team were coming, Archer realised she was a bit overwhelmed, and couldn't take her eyes off the four black MP5 sub-machine guns the officers were carrying. He guessed most people brought flowers.

After explaining why they were here and the pressing nature of their business, Cobb paused and looked down at the woman behind the desk,

'Is that OK?' he asked her.

'Yes,' she said, still staring at the weapons. 'Of course you can see Mr Fletcher. But could I ask you to leave those here please?'

She pointed uncertainly at the guns as if they would bite her.

‘I don’t want you to give our patients a heart attack. I have a secure room here where you can store them until you leave. I have the only key.’

None of the officers moved. The events of the morning had left them unwilling to relinquish their weapons.

Cobb thought for a moment.

‘Can my men keep their side-arms?’

She frowned at him, about to say no.

‘They will keep them holstered, out of sight,' he added, reading her expression. 'You have my word. I promise. But trust me, it's better for us all that they have them within reach.’

‘OK,’ she said after a brief hesitation, still reluctant but finally giving in. 'I suppose so.'

Cobb turned and nodded. The four officers checked the safety catch was on, then racked the cocking handle back and pulled each magazine from each weapon, ensuring the chambers were empty, much to the fascination of the few residents in the area watching them. The receptionist pulled a key from a drawer and opened up a room behind the reception, and one by one the men stowed their weapons neatly inside, taking the magazines and tucking them into spare pouches on their uniform. They wouldn't leave the weapons with any ammunition, just in case someone managed to get inside the room. Archer stepped back, relieved he still had his Glock 17 pistol in the holster on his thigh. It didn't matter where they were today, at their Unit, a hospice or even a church, they needed to be armed at all times. Some men had come to kill Cobb, and others were still out there somewhere. And there was nothing that would stop them from trying again.

As satisfied as their compromise on the weapons would allow, the receptionist made sure the room was locked by trying to twist the handle. It wouldn’t budge. She dropped the key in her pocket, turned and then looked across the desk at the six waiting men.

‘Come with me,’ she said.

Stepping into the lobby, she keyed in a six digit number on a keypad attached to an internal door, and pulled it open, passing through and holding it for the group. They followed and moved down the corridor into the building after her. They passed rooms on either side occupied by patients, some of the doors were open and Archer could see people lying in the beds, some alone, others with families. He even saw one man with a dog curled up on the bed beside him, both of them asleep. Despite the circumstances, the sight of the two of them made him smile briefly. He remembered at the place his mum had stayed in that one patient had owned some racing stables, and she had one of her favourite horses brought to the hospice and led into the garden so she could be wheeled out of her room to pet and stroke him one last time. Archer had been in the room next door with his mother, and thought he was dreaming when the huge racehorse strolled past the window.

They passed a couple of elderly patients being helped to their rooms by a nurse, both walking slowly, using frames, the officers taking care to step past them carefully and respectfully. The two patients ignored the group, focusing on each footstep they were taking, but Archer saw the two nurses’ look of surprise when they saw them. Leading the way, the receptionist turned to the left, walking briskly down another corridor. She came to an abrupt stop outside a closed wooden door.

Number 32.

‘This is it,’ she said. She knocked softly.

‘Come in,’ a voice said, quietly.

She opened the door and