Mickey raised his hands. ‘All right. If you have to know, I never got the chance to say anything to him. He sacked me through his private secretary.

Kev glared at him.

‘What, nothing? I’ve got a tray of Krispy Kreme riding on something with the word “fuck” in it!’

Mickey, simultaneously amused and exasperated, spread his hands wide. ‘He’s a minister, Kev! What would you have said to him?’

‘Me? With days to go ’til my thirty? I’d have told the bastard to fuck right off!’

‘Yeah.’ Mickey shrugged. Part of him wishing he’d had the chance to tell Sutherland exactly what he really thought of him. ‘But I’m six years short of mine. And six years in the salt mines didn’t really appeal much, at the time. Although it could have been worse. I could have ended up as a glorified knowledge boy in the Special Escort Group.’

‘You ain’t got the patience, boy!’ Kev turning to his teammates with a knowing smile. ‘You think it’s all just riding around and blowing whistles, dun’cha? I’d like to see you try getting your head around the—’

‘Rampage Bronze to all Rampage callsigns, five-minute warning.’

The veteran officer winked at him. ‘Saved by the bell, eh Mickey?’ He waited until the vehicle teams had finished acknowledging the alert, then keyed his own airwave. ‘Rampage Bronze, Easy Rider. All received.’ And turned to his colleagues. ‘Saddle up, boys and girls!’

The riders dispersed to their machines. Kev taking a moment to look Mickey up and down.

‘You all right, Mickey? Not too pissed off?’

‘Me? Yeah. I was a bit disappointed when it happened. And with the way the press got hold of it. But worse things happen, right?’

‘That’s my boy.’ Kev pulled his helmet on, adjusting the strap. ‘And let’s face it, given you’ll be sat scratching your arse in a car, I know which one of us I’d rather be for the next hour.’

Mickey watched as the bikes formed up at either end of the convoy. Two of them zipping away up the Mall to perform an advance route check. And shaking his head in fresh wonder as he looked down its length. First up, a Special Escort Group Jaguar leading the parade. Next, three heavily armoured Chevy Tahoes. Senior presidential staff and Secret Service agents. Behind the initial group, a Prot Range Rover leading the convoy’s heart. After that, the Secret Service ID car. Another hulking Tahoe, but festooned with aerials. Scanning for threats, and probably capable of talking to any American military unit on the planet. Then the Watchtower. Another SUV, with aerials to detect radar and a full-on laser detector built into a glass dome on its roof. Behind them a pair of Beasts. Each weighing in at eight tonnes, twice the weight of a bulletproof Rangie Sentinel.