Mickey snapped his attention forwards. Having raised the Rattler without conscious effort and thumbed the selector to automatic. Emptied the weapon’s magazine in a long burst that hurt like hell. Knowing that a man protected with titanium-backed Kevlar plate wouldn’t be stopped by a single shot. Saw the gunman standing over his dead companion stagger back. Arms thrown wide as the stream of heavy .300 rounds chewed through his armour and killed him instantly.

Three down. Instinctively knowing there’d be a fourth assassin, Mickey slumped sideways back into the van’s cover. Fumbled with numb fingers to eject the spent magazine. Managed, after two attempts, to pull the other from his pocket. Got it seated and pushed it home. Thumbed the bolt release to reload the weapon with a loud clack.

Stalemate? Mickey at one end of the battered van. Shooter four presumably at the other. Neither of them with anyone else to assist. But Mickey, gunshot, was quickly losing his tenuous grip on the situation. Knowing that he had to get on his feet and change position. That he was dead if he stayed where he was. The other man only having to come around either side of the van to find him on his knees.

If he hadn’t just been hit by a high-velocity round, he could have countered that move easily enough. Fallen back, weapon raised and ready to fire. Reducing the other guy’s chance of a first-round hit. Improving his own ability to put the assassin down with the Rattler on full auto. With a hole in his side, however, that wasn’t going to happen. Because hydrostatic shock, for one thing. And blood loss for another.

Which left him with only one possible course of action. One that only worked if he’d guessed the rifleman’s next move correctly. Knowing that if his opponent chose differently he’d come round the right-hand side of the van instead. And find Mickey neatly laid out for the kill.

Knowing that standing was going to be well-nigh impossible, he allowed his body to slump to the ground. Rolled onto his left side and put the carbine to his right shoulder. Barrel pointing, not entirely steadily, at the letter-box gap between the van’s underside and the pavement’s edge behind it.

Perhaps an inch of clear space through which a bullet could fly. If he didn’t fuck it up and put the shot into the kerb’s concrete. And waited. Intently focused on an inch of open air, ignoring the risk of his unguarded back.

A wave of detachment washed over him. The inevitable consequence of having a metal projectile blast through his body at 900 metres a second. Shock sinking sharp teeth into his limbic system. His vision was starting to tunnel, peripheral detail vanishing. Sounds softer, less crisp.