Both men were grasping and pulling when the gun went off.

Slaton held firm, unrelenting.

The man below him went slack.

He wrestled the gun free, and saw a wound at the katsa’s throat pulsing blood. This, he knew, was no more than a mechanical aftereffect, fluid dynamics taking its course. The upward angle of the shot had sent the round into his head, and the man’s eyes were already lifeless and wide, staring at the sky. With bright red blood pooling on the floor, Slaton stood with the gun in his hand. He quickly gauged the movement around him, and registered nothing as a threat. Briefly, he considered searching the body for documents or identification, but knew it was pointless. And there was no time. He had completed his objective, made the sought connection. Now the situation had digressed, and only one thing mattered.

Get clear.

Slaton had backed one step away when he was struck by an opportunity. He pulled the phone from his pocket and took a quick photograph. Then he ran.

He dodged tables amid cries of shock and outrage. The chaos around him, on appearances random and uncontrolled, was in fact quite predictable. Those nearest the fray were leaning away and trying for distance, while others, farther back and with the illusion of security, dialed 112 on their mobile phones to reach the police. Slaton ignored them all. In the last hour he had studied every man and woman in the place, and seen no one with the air of a would-be hero. No off-duty policeman or soldier on leave. If a threat remained, it would be outside.

Reaching the sidewalk with the gun still in hand, he palmed it discreetly to his thigh. A voice from the past played in his head. A man moving fast generates attention. A man moving fast with a gun generates panic. Slaton broke into a purposeful jog, the pace of a man trying to reach a stopped bus before the door closed. He’d gone no more than five steps when he skidded to a stop.

Two men had him perfectly bracketed.

*   *   *

If there is a recipe for disaster it is to put three men who are armed and trained in one place, and then fix that each is unaware of the others’ motives.

Of the three, it was Sergeant Elmander who was taken completely by surprise. He’d been completing the call to dispatch, his mobile stuck to his ear, when he saw flashes of movement under the café’s cheerful yellow awning. He’d seen the table go flying, and watched Deadmarsh jump to his feet. The man who’d been sitting across from him disappeared in a burst of commotion.

Then Elmander heard the gunshot.