The shots hit him in the chest. He staggered backwards and dropped the grenade, but raised his rifle. Body armour. I fired again. A single shot to the head. He fell on to his knees and then keeled over. I stepped around the remains of the bar and stooped over his body, keeping the Glock on him until I was certain he wasn’t getting back up. I tucked the pistol in my jeans and picked up the discarded M4. The rig mimicked classic US Special Forces specification: suppressor, holographic sight, magnifier, laser–torch combo and a forward grip. His arms splayed out, cruciform. On the inside of his right wrist a line of gothic script read: The only easy day was yesterday. If I’d have stripped his shirt off, I’d most likely have found an ink trident, too – both tattoos beloved by US Navy SEALs.

The tactical vest under his coat was lined with spare magazines and hung with grenades: one frag, two smoke and another that matched the canister he’d just dropped: a nonlethal sting-ball grenade, which exploded with rubber balls and CS, not shrapnel. I loaded my jacket pockets with the lot. I dropped the used magazine out of the M4 and reloaded with a fresh one, stuffing two more inside my jacket for good measure. Finally, I plucked a pair of Oakleys off his vest and hung them off the neck of my pullover. For an instant: silence.

And then, far off, the old-fashioned nee-naw of French police sirens filtered into the blasted cavern of the little bar. The distorting effect of the maze of city centre streets meant it was hard to tell where they were. I thought of the young squaddies I’d seen patrolling the Gare du Nord. There were ten thousand troops deployed across France, protecting against terrorist attack – two-thirds of them in Paris alone. Of the many ways I thought I might go out over the years, being cornered à la Butch Cassidy by the Foreign Legion wasn’t one of them.

I edged around the bodies on the floor. Glass cracked underfoot. I caught a glimpse of my face in a shard of mirror and did a double take: blood-smeared, tired, hollow-eyed. I barely recognized myself. Voices came through the kitchen door behind me. Distressed, frantic, the trapped customers were arguing among themselves about how best to escape. Enough people had been hit in the crossfire already. I racked the charging handle on the M4 and fired a shot at the doorway to keep them inside. They fell silent instantly. I squatted down next to Lukov and quickly went through his pockets, extracting a tightly rolled wad of fifty-euro notes, a calfskin wallet and an unopened packet of Gauloises. I crammed everything into my overloaded jacket, with the grenades.

Time to run.