The pounding on the security-room door had not stopped.
But Stewart had.
He sagged against the wood, sweat dripping down his temples, fingertips numb from clamping the handle so long. His pulse hammered in his neck. He glanced over his shoulder at the three women behind him — Irene gripping the phone with white knuckles, June and Elaine curled together under the desk like terrified deer.
He couldn't keep this up.
Not against them.
Billy's voice came through the door again, ragged and desperate:
"STEWART! OPEN UP! Or you're getting everybody in there killed!"
Outside, the sirens wailed closer — louder now than the building's own alarm.
Stewart swallowed hard. For a moment he let his forehead rest against the cool paint. He could feel every vibration through it — the weight of armoured bodies outside, the scrape of rifles shifting.
He made his decision.
He lifted his head and shouted, voice cracking:
"O–OKAY! ALRIGHT! DON'T SHOOT! WE SURRENDER!"
Irene snapped upright.
"STEWART, NO!" she hissed, eyes wide with something between fury and terror. "You open that door and we're dead."
"Irene…" Stewart said, voice shaking, "we're already dead if I don't. They're not going away."
He stepped back. His foot slipped from the brace. He let go of the handle.
The door shoved inward at once, then swung wider as Billy pushed through.
Billy McNab — jacket torn, bald head bleeding, face grey with stress — brushed past Stewart with a grimace that was half relief, half apology. He even gave his shoulder a quick pat.
"You did the right thing, mate," Billy muttered. "Nobody else needs to get hurt now."
Irene glared daggers at him.
Billy ignored her.
He crossed to the monitors, stepping over June and Elaine without a glance. His fingers moved over switches and buttons — not elegant, but he'd watched Stewart do this enough times.
Screens blinked to black. Recording decks whined down. He reached under a console, found the stack of VHS tapes labelled CAM 1–16, and started yanking them out one by one.
"Sorry, ladies," he said absently as he worked, "but if we don't get rid of this footage, we're all screwed. So no more police phone calls, yeah?"
He grabbed the handset from Irene's trembling fingers and slammed it back onto its hook.
"There," he said. "Conversation's over."
The women huddled tighter, silent.
The doorway darkened as Braveheart stepped in, three crusaders looming at his back.
For a heartbeat, the room froze.
The women stared at the armoured figures as if they were monsters out of scripture. The crusaders stared back, assessing, cautious, confused by the cramped little cave full of machines and fear.
Braveheart's gaze swept the room. Cameras. Tapes. The four survivors. Billy snapping reels like breadsticks.
"Good," Braveheart said. "Get rid of all of it. Every scrap."
"Aye, already doing it," Billy muttered.
Then Braveheart looked at Stewart, Irene, the twins — and his eyes hardened.
"Right," he said. "Now kill them."
Everything stopped.
Elaine choked on a sob. June's breath stalled in her throat. Irene pressed herself back against the desk, mouth moving soundlessly around an unfinished prayer. Stewart lifted his hands, shaking.
Billy spun around so fast he nearly tripped.
"What the fuck do you mean, kill them?!"
Braveheart stiffened.
"What do you think I mean? They know our faces. They know you, Billy. They're witnesses. We don't have time for mercy."
He jerked his chin toward the terrified cluster.
"Shoot them."
The twins curled tighter beneath the desk, trying to disappear into the carpet. The crusaders filled the threshold — steel, wet armour, blank visors. Their presence made the small room feel microscopic.
Braveheart stepped aside, giving them a clear line.
The girls under the table went rigid. Irene's skin went chalk-white, but her eyes didn't blink. Stewart's jaw clenched; his hands opened and closed, useless.
Billy stared at Braveheart. "What the fuck are you talking about, man?"
Two crusaders exchanged a glance, then looked back at Braveheart.
"Why?" one asked, Middle English thick on his tongue. "They bear nae steel. These be naught but housefolk."
"Aye," the other added. "Nae foes here. Nay sorcery spoken. What sin hae they done that we should slay 'em?"
Braveheart blinked, thrown. "Because they're witnesses. Because they'll give our faces to the police. Because—"
Billy cut in, voice low and flat. "They already have, mate. We're not walking out clean. Not with half the city outside. Snipers'll be set in a minute. IDs are fucked either way."
A beat. The crusaders held their ground — respectful, but unmoved.
Braveheart rounded on Billy. "You've gone soft."
"No," Billy said. "I'm not helping you shoot bank staff for nothing. Not her"—he jerked his chin at Irene—"and not them. It won't change a thing."
Silence pressed in. The only sound was the building's mechanical heart grinding heat in the inner room, and rain drumming stone somewhere beyond the walls.
Braveheart's hands opened and closed, impatience sparking off him like static. He looked again at the crusaders and saw the line they would follow — and the line they wouldn't.
"Fine," he snarled at last. "Then they give us something."
He fixed Stewart and Irene with a hard stare.
"You keep your mouths shut about names. You say nothing. Nod."
Stewart's throat worked. He nodded once. Irene's glare didn't soften, but she dipped her chin a fraction. Under the desk, the twins bobbed their heads quickly, wide-eyed and shaking.
Braveheart checked the corridor, anger cooling into calculation. Too much time had gone. The sirens outside had merged into a continuous wall of sound. Somewhere below, heavy brakes sighed; bullhorn voices barked orders. The easy escape window was gone.
"We're out of time," he said. "Move them."
He pointed at the crusaders.
"Get all four downstairs to the hall. Tie them with the other hostage. Fast. Billy — grab whatever tapes still matter and smash what you can't carry. We're done here."
The crusaders stepped in, careful but firm. One offered a gauntleted hand to the twins; Elaine took it, dragging June up with her. Another gave Irene a short, respectful nod toward the door; she held his visor in a hard stare for a moment, then went. Stewart followed last, shoulders tight. As he passed Braveheart, their sleeves brushed.
"You're insane, man," Stewart muttered. "But sure. Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night."
Braveheart didn't answer.
They filed into the corridor. With the internal alarm dead, the bank felt different — quieter, but only in the way the eye of a storm is quiet. Outside the windows, blue lights flickered across rain and stone; somewhere close, an engine rumbled with the heavy clunk of armour.
Down they went toward the hall — toward Sir Egg, the broken doorway, the hostage chair — dragging the last living seconds of the bank's staff behind them like chains.
For Braveheart, the legend he'd dreamed of felt suddenly very far away.
Not twenty minutes ago he'd felt invincible thanks to that baby and his summoned army.
Now every plan in his head seemed to point toward the same destination:
Not escape.
Not glory.
Just total war.