‘Ninety seconds to go. Good enough. Let’s light up some diggers, eh? When I shout mag change, Den, you hand me a fresh one. Deano, you take the used one from me and put it in the bag. I want to be out of here in two minutes max. Because when the Met responds to this one they’re going to send every Trojan unit this side of London.’

55

03.10. The assault team were on the street around the corner from the arches. Fully equipped for CQB. Monochrome mottled coveralls, black ballistic helmets with built-in radios and ear protection, black combat boots. Faces hidden under depersonalising skull masks, eyes protected by goggles. Body harnesses loaded with special forces assault gear. Plate carriers loaded with forty pounds of titanium-backed Kevlar apiece. Frag, smoke and stun grenades. Extra magazines for their machine pistols. And first aid kit. Trauma treatment, mainly. Bleeding control and pain relief. Plus a SIG-Sauer pistol and a fighting knife apiece. Weapons of last resort.

As their main weapon, each of the four had a suppressed Heckler & Koch MP7 machine pistol. Loaded with long forty-round clips for almost three seconds of sustained firepower apiece; 4.7mm high velocity. Small rounds, but no less effective when applied generously.

Shaw was wearing additional clothing over his equipment. A voluminous coat, several sizes too large for him. His machine pistol hanging, muzzle downwards, from a harness strap across his back beneath it. The garment was pungently noisome. And covered in a range of stains that had probably taken years to accumulate. The elbows worn thin, one pocket hanging loose. Purchased from a tramp an hour before, for enough money to get him a hostel place for a month. Or, more likely, high, or drunk, or both, for a week.

The hat was his own, an old commando cap comforter that had seen better days. With the coat buttoned, he fully looked the part of an alcoholic tramp. An impression topped off with hypertension-red face make-up. A half-empty bottle of paint stripper own label scotch in his hand.

The team leader looked at each of his people in turn. Asking a silent question. Each one of them answering with a nod. He looked at Mickey, raising his eyebrows in the same, unspoken challenge. Mickey nodded with equal certainty. Understanding his role perfectly. Shaw raised a hand, the universal signal for them to wait. And staggered around the corner, into full view of the CCTV. Which, if whoever was watching the screen had been paying attention, might have been the moment of maximum risk.