“Here’s what we’re going to do, Twelve. Wait until they’re inside. There’s a reception area, self-contained. We can take them from both ends at once. On my mark, throw in a flash-bang and then pick them off. I’ll do the same. Copy?”

“Twelve, One. Copy that. On your mark. Getting into position now.”

Beatrix turned to West. “There’s going to be some shooting. Stay behind me.”

“I’m a soldier, ma’am. I understand.”

She toggled radio. “One, Twelve. Update, please.”

“I’m ready.”

“One, Twelve. Stand by. On my mark.”

Faulkner had crept up the wall of the building. The men had opened the door by overriding the failsafe and had filtered inside.

They had left it open behind them.

He could hear their voices, low and hard, as they moved farther into the ground floor.

Faulkner took out the cylindrical flash-bang and clasped it in the web between his right thumb and forefinger. He slid his left index finger into the ring pull.

“Three. Two. One. Mark.”

He pulled the pin, the spoon sprung up and he rolled the grenade into the darkened room beyond.

The flash-bang blared a starburst of light through the doorway.

A second flash-bang detonated a fraction of a second after the first.

Faulkner rolled around and raised the FN F2000.

He heard firing from the other side of the room. He saw muzzle flash, neat and regular, every three seconds.

Aim and shoot.

Aim and shoot.

Aim and shoot.

The Sig fired out: blam, blam, blam.

Rose was good.

Every shot found its mark.

Better than good. She was unbelievably good.

She stopped firing, ducked back to reload.

There were two Manage Risk guards nearer to him than to her. They were still stunned, just turning in the direction of the sound of Rose’s gun, their backs to him. He pressed the bullpup into his shoulder, squeezed off a controlled burst, aimed again, squeezed off another burst.

The first man went down.

The second man went down.

He ducked back into cover to allow Rose to fire. She did, and the final operative hit the deck.

“Clear,” Rose shouted, no need for the radio now.

“Clear,” he confirmed.

“Let’s get moving.”

Rose changed magazines as they hurried out into the hot night. The Freelander was parked around the block. Faulkner reached it and turned. They were lagging behind him. West must have been struggling.

And then he realised: it wasn’t West.

It was Rose. She was moving awkwardly.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she said irritably. “Start the car. We’re taking too long.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

They drove back to the foundry.

Mackenzie West sat in the back.

“Who are you?” he asked finally.

“Friends.”

“Sent by who?”

Faulkner turned in the seat to look back at him. “You have something you want to say about what happened the other day, don’t you? The riot?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”