“The ungodly don’t knock on doors: they kick them down.” But he still put down his bag and took out the Beretta, holding the pistol out of sight behind his back before he stepped across to the door to open it. “I just wondered if you’d finished with the first-aid kit,” the bar waiter asked, looking embarrassed when he saw Bronson’s serious expression. “Or if you decided you did need a doctor to look at your wife.” “Thanks,” Bronson said, “but she’s fine.” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” the young man muttered. “That’s fine. Thank you for your concern, but we’re leaving soon,” said Bronson, “and we’re in a bit of a rush.” With that he thrust the first-aid kit toward the waiter, along with a twenty-euro note, and closed the door again. A couple of minutes later he and Angela stepped cautiously out of the room and into the corridor.
