On the other side of the fence, Alan could hear the slow, lazy footsteps of a person. The foot scraped across the concrete as if struggling to walk. Whoever it was, they were headed for the exit and Alan wanted to cut them off at the pass. His partner was somewhere in there, along with whoever was driving the black van.

And Sykes.

Despite not seeing the man’s face, Alan’s obsession over the years had meant he could spot the man from a mile away. Sykes was a tall, imposing man, and Alan knew it was him the moment they’d heard the bike.

But if this deal was going down tonight, and Sinclair knew about it, why had he not told Alan?

Sinclair was a veteran, less than a year away from a pat on the back and a glorious pension. He’d been a mentor to Alan for a number of years and knew how deep his vengeance ran.

Sam approached the van and Alan held up his hand, a silent order for him to stop. It was a pointless act of authority, but it was instinctive. Sam held up his hands in surrender, pointed to the front of Sinclair’s van, and slowly slid to the side of it. Whatever Alan ordered; he knew Sam wouldn’t listen.

Not until he knew Alex was safe.

Alan needed to know the same about Sinclair, and he rounded the fence and stepped into the slither of light that illuminated the entrance. His nerves were steady, the gun unmoving in his dangerous grip.

The sloppy footsteps grew louder, and Alan lowered his gun, his eyes widening with terror.

Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of a door colliding with something, but he was unmoved.

Through the darkness, the figure of Special Agent Terry Sinclair emerged, the shadow sliding away from him as he stumbled into the light. Weak and wounded, his eyes cried out for help from Alan, with his arm loosely swinging from his side, the gun hanging sloppily in his feeble grip.

His other hand was pressed firmly against his stomach, his white shirt now completely stained with the terrifying shade of blood. His hand was bathed in it to, and he stumbled into Alan’s arms, almost collapsing to his knees.

‘Jesus, Terry,’ Alan yelped, catching his partner before he fell and holding him up. ‘Stay with me.’

From the darkness, two headlights burst into existence, blinding Alan temporarily as he raised a hand to shield the brightness. The van engine roared to life, and the tyres screeched like a banshee as they spun on the concrete.

‘We gotta go, Terry,’ Alan yelled, and with impressive strength, he hoisted his injured partner over his shoulder. The man moaning in pain. Alan shuffled quickly to the entrance, knowing that whoever had done this was likely to be behind the wheel of the van.