The impact was hard enough to physically tumble him as he fell into the van’s cover. Recovering from the sprawl, ignoring battered knees and elbows, he reached for the Rattler. Realising that his side was wet with blood, and already going numb. It would only be a matter of a minute or so before he went into shock. Before he lost the will to fight. And floated away into the quiet place where serious gunshot wound victims went to die.

Except, on reflection, Mickey decided, fuck that. He’d fight while he could and die on his feet. He struggled up onto one knee. Using the Rattler’s butt as a prop to hold himself vaguely upright. Knowing he needed to get the barrel horizontal and pointed toward the enemy. But not sure if he was capable of making such a complex move, under the circumstances.

And then, to make matters worse, the attacker who’d shot him came around the van’s right front wing. Wearing the same face-masked urban camo as the man he’d just killed. Raising the barrel of his weapon the final few degrees needed to put it on target. After which a short centre-mass burst was going to tear into Mickey’s body and finish his struggle to stand up permanently.

In the brief instant between finding himself looking straight down the rifle’s barrel and the trigger being pulled, Mickey looked into the other man’s eyes. Finding nothing there. No anger. No emotion at all. Just professionalism. Mickey the only thing between him and the kill. And so just collateral. Something hit the gunman hard in the chest. Rocked him back. A familiar bang from behind Mickey announcing that 9mm was being used. Wade?

The bullet had hit Kevlar plate, at a guess. Staggering the assassin, but not putting him down. Probably leaving one hell of a bruise, but nothing worse. Another bang, with no discernible impact. A miss. Mickey absent-mindedly unsurprised, given the shooter sounded like they were thirty yards back. The first shot pretty damned good in itself.

Another bang from behind Mickey, with more spectacular results; 9mm still a lethal calibre even at that distance. If the gods of shot placement and target topography were favourably minded. The gunman’s face mask growing a third eye hole. A perfect head shot, extraordinary at that distance. His body slowly toppling backwards onto the road surface. Rifle clattering to the ground beside him.

Mickey twisted painfully and looked back. Not Wade. Cavendish. With, he presumed, Wade’s Glock in both hands. The approved special force’s gunfighter stance, when a pistol was all there was to be had. His point of aim swinging fractionally, to a new target, Mickey presumed. Then staggering back and collapsing, his shoulder seeming to come apart in a spray of blood.