Events seemed to drop into slo-mo, as a booted right foot appeared in the gap, in front of the van’s nearside front wheel. After a moment’s pause, another step taken behind the van’s wheel, the same boot came down again. Urban combat footwear, rubber soled for stealth. Moving quickly, but with exaggerated care. Rolling the foot from heel to toe to move silently. Another pace forwards, balancing stealth with the need for haste.

Mickey leaned into the Rattler’s butt. Knowing that shooting was going to hurt. Gritted his teeth. Tensed his body as the next step put a boot down in his sight picture. A split-second alignment of rear sight, front sight and the bottom inch of his opponent’s left foot. He fired, the weapon’s report thunderous in the narrow space beneath the van. An aural assault that blasted his hearing back to almost nothing. A tinnitus roar in his ears like a jet engine spooling up twenty feet away.

The gunman screamed with pain, barely audible, and fell to the pavement. His head and face were bare. Helmet and mask discarded for better use of his senses, perhaps. A nondescript face, vaguely Slavic in appearance. His rifle skittered away across the slabs. He lay facing Mickey, his face a hate-filled snarl as he reached for the pistol strapped under his left armpit. Tiredly, without any conscious effort, Mickey fired again, putting a bullet into the fallen assassin’s chest. Centre mass. Lights out. Too much damage done for anything more than one last, autonomic spasm.

After a moment Mickey rolled onto his front. Considering whether to try getting to his feet. Body and mind taking a quick vote and deciding by a majority of two not to bother. His hearing was starting to return. The screams and pleas for help of the bombs’ civilian victims audible over the approaching sirens. Emergency services perhaps only thirty seconds away. Leaving him feeling disposable. Used up and ready to stop doing anything whatsoever. Job done, thank you and goodnight.

He slumped down onto the road’s wet surface, as consciousness deserted him.

64

Mickey woke up in discomfort. With an ache in his head that carried the promise of greater pain to come. And a soreness in his right side that was already worse than discomfort. Combined with a mouth dry enough that even the thought of swallowing felt like a bad idea. He opened his eyes experimentally. Blinked at the soft light from above his head. Looked around for a way to summon assistance. Found it after a moment inventorying the room. Bed. Chair. Drawers. Various machines with lights and diagnostic screens. Metal stand holding the blood bag that was emptying its contents into his right arm through an intravenous line. A clock, telling him it was 05.18. An armed SCO19 officer standing in the corridor beside the open door. And a call button lying by his right leg. He pressed it and waited.