Long Hair raised his mobile to his ear again and began talking, his lips moving rapidly, tension clearly etched on his rough face.

The call finished quickly, and he spoke to his colleague, both men reaching into their waistbands almost simultaneously. To Tom’s eyes this indicated one thing only: they were checking sidearms. It was a habit for all soldiers and operators before any planned situation: a reassuring check that their weapons were still secure. Tom had done it himself in the café, leaning into his Sig in a more covert style.

There was a brief nod between the two before they turned to the door and purposefully strode inside.

Tom threw a crumpled banknote on the table, stood, and walked away from the café, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. His eyes rose to the first-floor window, which was obscured by dark curtains.

‘Two suspects into premises. I’m sure they’re carrying sidearms, acknowledge?’

A double tone spoke dispassionately, conveying nothing of how the agents were feeling.

Control barked in Tom’s ear. ‘Stand-by. Alpha One Zero, move up, move up for possible exfil.’

Buster’s voice crackled in Tom’s ear with a trace of frustration—or was it panic?

‘We’re blocked by a lorry, we can’t advance. Do you want us to deploy on foot? We’re four minutes away.’

‘Negative, we need the vehicle. Get up by any means possible,’ Damien replied calmly.

Tom crossed the busy street and took up a position to the left of the green door, ready to intervene if this was a kidnap attempt. He wouldn’t allow the agents to be taken hostage under any circumstances.

Over the roar of the traffic, Tom heard the unmistakeable crack of a sidearm firing—9mm by the sound of it—coming from the upstairs of the building. An un-silenced pistol report is loud and hard to mistake, particularly if you’re listening for it.

‘Shots fired, shots fired,’ said Tom, still calmly, although he was churning inside. Clearly a major drama was unfolding upstairs.

Damien came in on the net. ‘Mike, Hamed: acknowledge!’

Silence.

Damien repeated the urgent missive.

Silence.

‘Alpha One mobile, how far away?’ demanded Damien, still ostensibly calm.

‘Three minutes,’ said Buster, screaming engine-noise audible over the radio static.

Three minutes is too long, thought Tom. He had no choice.

He moved through the door drawing his Sig in two hands and pointing it at the floor. He quietly ascended the staircase, using the edges of the treads to minimise any creaks.

At the top he was faced with three doors along a short corridor. The closest was ajar and he could hear faint, low voices from within.

Moving slowly, he edged his back along the wall until he reached the door, which was open just a couple of inches. He peered in and quickly took in the scene. Time seemed to slow to a syrupy crawl as he edged closer to the door jamb.