‘You shout, you die. OK?’ I took the bodycams off his ballistic vest and the leader’s and crushed them both under my boot heel. Next I threw a blanket from the bed over his head; like a black canary he stopped cursing. Outside, his team would be lining up for a fresh assault, assessing whether I’d taken hostages or not. If they stormed the bedroom, the oak door and the tallboy would hold them only so long once they got that Benelli twelve-gauge working on the hinges.

It was time to play chicken.

I stripped the vest off the team leader still sprawled on the floor and strapped it across my own chest, covering it with my shirt, before rolling him into the recovery position. Then I plucked the radio headset from his ear.

‘Man down! Man down!’ I bellowed into the transmitter. ‘Target exiting upper floor window. Weapons free. Repeat weapons free.’ And then for good measure in Irish: ‘Leag é!’ Take him down!

I picked up the old rifle from the bed. Then, as thick shotgun slugs ripped into the door frame, I drew the curtains back and flung open the window. The rush of winter air sharpened my senses, brought me back into contact with the world outside. The police Eurocopter flared into the night breeze, coming in low and loud above the roof of the north wing. A searchlight swept the upstairs windows and rested on mine, bleaching the room white. Two hundred metres away the two-tone hull of the little chopper swung starboard, drifting towards me, doors locked back.

I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was in there, strapped in, staring at me through the scope of a .308. The bird lurched. I gambled on him doing what he’d been trained to do: aim centre mass. Few professionals would risk a headshot, even at that range – myself included. I was relying on him taking his time, too. His unit was in danger. Two were already out of action. The building was on fire. He needed to knock me out. And certainty takes time. I waited, drawing a deep breath into my lungs. The pilot brought the nose further around starboard and held the chopper as it levelled off above the driveway. For both me and the sniper on board the aircraft had to be side-on. He’d be on the gun, waiting for me to settle in his sights. Exhale. I put the short rifle stock into my shoulder. Inhale. From shooting up the ambulance, I knew how the bullet would fall. I half-emptied my lungs. I needed the chopper to be as still as he did. My point of aim settled, just, I hoped, as the aim of the unseen shooter would be settling, too. Our fingers squeezed the trigger steels. And together we fired.