Quentin regained his balance. The sentry had drawn back, his finger curled round the trigger of his rifle. “Get back!” he said savagely. “Get back!”
As Anita fell, the negro shoved out his foot and kicked her off the bayonet. It was a tremendous kick and it sent her crashing down the stairs. Her body thudded to the floor almost at Quentin’s feet. The sentry took his eyes off Quentin for a moment to gape at her. Quentin didn’t hesitate, his hand flashed to his pocket and with one movement shot the sentry between his eyes. The big negro, hearing the shot, came charging to the top of the stairs and Quentin fired again. The negro gave a startled grunt, put both his hands to his belly and sat down heavily on the floor.
One glance at Anita was sufficient. She was pathetically, horribly dead. Quentin spun round. “Let’s go,” he said; “no time like the present.”
“I’ll take the rifle and go first,” Morecombre said, stepping forward. “You bring Miss Arnold and cover the rear.”
Before Quentin could protest, Morecombre was already off down the corridor.
Quentin said sharply, “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
Myra came to the doorway, very white, but steady. He grabbed her arm and bustled her past the two bodies. His face was set and grim. He knew this wasn’t going to be a picnic.
Morecombre had already reached the head of the stairs. Faintly they could hear the General shouting, and as Morecombre took one step down, a soldier came dashing to the foot of the stairs. Holding the rifle at his waist, Morecombre fired at him. The rifle kicked up, and the bullet swished over the soldier’s head. As Morecombre fumbled at the bolt, Quentin came up behind him and shot the soldier as he was about to fire in his turn. “Use your gun,” he snapped. “You ain’t used to a rifle.”
“You’re telling me,” Morecombre said, wiping the sweat from his face. He dropped the rifle with a clatter, and pulled a police .38 special from his hip pocket. They got down the next flight of stairs into the lobby of the hotel before three soldiers and a sergeant appeared from out of a side room. Two of the soldiers fired point-blank at them. Quentin felt the wind for a bullet against his face, and he fired with Morecombre. Two of the soldiers pitched forward, and the sergeant was shot through the arm. He turned and ran back into the room, shouting at the top of his voice.
Morecombre said: “Go down to the cellar—you won’t get out any other way. They can’t get you there… I’ve seen it.” He swayed on his feet.