Another short burst. Dum-dum rounds stitched the sofa behind which Abbott crouched, gun held by his thigh. Rounds tore through the frame, destroyed cushions, dug divots in the carpet, none of them, thankfully, finding Abbott. He shifted position, correctly anticipating the gunman would vary the direction of attack. Sure enough, another burst, furniture mauled by high-velocity gunfire, the whole exchange wildly destructive and yet at the same time strangely quiet, a series of muffled pops, the sound of somebody thumping a pillow.

Traditionally, Abbott had been calm in the heat of a gunfight, and maybe that was because he’d always had a low opinion of his own life. Here the same applied, at least some of the SF training coming back as bullets rained around him, so that instead of being panicked into reacting prematurely, he held fast.

And then when the assault rifle fired dry, he rose fast from behind the sofa, making a quick forty-five-degree motion in order to find his target.

What would a combat instructor have said? Marks for patience. For waiting. For keeping cool under fire.

Points deducted for underestimating the enemy. Failing to anticipate his next move.

Sure enough, the attacker had shifted, expecting Abbott to launch his counter. Rather than trying to reload, he decided to resort to close combat. Pain lanced along Abbott’s forearm as from outside of his peripheral vision, the attacker came, using the butt of the MP7 to knock the Glock from his hands.

Abbott let go of the gun but held onto the pain, refusing to be overwhelmed by it and turning to meet his attacker. He found himself staring into the eyes of a guy just like him, almost the same age, probably ex-forces, maybe even SF. A kindred spirit. A man who in another life he might have found himself fighting beside but was now his mortal enemy.

His mortal enemy.

Abbott’s arms came up to grasp the MP7 before the attacker could swing it at his skull, and for a moment or two they wrestled until with a surge of strength and a grunt of effort, Abbott shoved the guy backwards. He was gratified to see the panic flare in the man’s eyes as the backs of his legs made contact with the coffee table and he was sent off-balance.

The attacker fell, smashing into the coffee table, rolling off and slapping a hand into the exploded head of Scutter. Abbott dived for his Glock and almost got there but the other guy was up and on him. Thoughts of guns were gone now, the guy’s hands going to Abbott’s face, his thumbs trying to find his eyes.

Trying to gouge them out.

It was an old combat trick. The very act of trying to gouge out your victim’s eyes was so barbaric that it could have a shocking, even paralysing effect on them, and the advantage might be just enough to gain the upper hand.