He shrugged. Printed off a firearms requisition and signed it. Logged out, got up, pin-coded into the armoury. Took arming booth four, as he always did when it was free. Slid his requisition and warrant card under the bulletproof glass. Vic, the slightly less morose of the two civilian armourers on duty, placed the firearm into the metal box beneath the screen. Grimacing at him through the glass.

‘Your weapon, Sergeant Bale.’

The usual Glock 17 automatic pistol. Louder bangs and higher velocity were available, if needed. A full-on 5.56mm assault rifle, or a 9mm machine pistol. Not today though. The Glock was plenty enough punch where he was going. Plus he knew and trusted the Glock. Knew he could hit a target with it under any and all circumstances. That the hollow-point round wouldn’t go straight through whatever he hit. Or, having done so, fly another half mile to kill an innocent.

Mickey waited until the spare mags and plastic ammunition tray were added to the box. Examined the pistol for any obvious damage. Then loaded the magazines with practised speed and a calloused thumb. Racked the slide and put the weapon into condition one. Round in the breech, ready to use. Standard Met firearms safety. Holstered the Glock on one hip, two spare mags on the other. Ready to go.

‘The early bird gets the worm, eh, Michael?’

Once on duty he was Michael, never Mickey. There was no use of nicknames or abbreviations in Prot. He knew the voice and turned with a smile. Part genuine pleasure, part camouflage for sudden doubt. Wondering if Jason Felgate had been busy overnight. Wondering if he was about to be pulled from duty and sat at a desk for the day. Under suspicion.

Found himself face to face with Philip Green. Duty inspector, and, as far as Mickey was concerned, all right bloke. Some inspectors were addressed by their rank, others less formally, depending on their ego needs. Philip, as it happened, very much dwelling in the latter camp. He reflexively glanced at his watch. The Tudor Black Bay with the official Royal Household crest on its face. A limited run of seventy-five for Prot a few years before, and the object of much jealousy for those outside the magic circle who had one. Mickey might not have been on the royal side of Prot at the time, but he’d been cute enough to know a good investment when he saw one.

‘You know me, Guv. Creature of habit.’

Got a knowing grin for that.

‘Plus if you get here early, you might get someone different, right?’

He shrugged.

‘We all live in hope, sir. But a principal is a principal. I come to work, I do my job, I go home. Simple as that.’