And lastly but most importantly, as ever, I am eternally grateful to the chance meeting that teamed me up with one of life's good people, the woman whose firm hand on the tiller of our lives has gifted me with the stability and encouragement needed to combine a day job with a two book a year writing habit. Thank you, Helen Riches. For everything.

Read on for an exclusive preview of the next Mickey Bale thriller Target Zero

Prologue

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Darren Pearce was still playing catch up.

Not in terms of the ground reality. His team had responded to the scramble call like the pros they were. Following the drills they’d had trained into them over several years. Endless preparation for something unlikely ever to become real. Now they were closing in on the appointed point on the map as directed. With not much more than a minute or so to spare, from the sound of the radio chatter.

Sergeant Pearce and his team had been patrolling the airport, ground side. A routine gig for the Essex force’s Field Support Unit. Equivalent to the Met’s SCO19. Two teams of two, one officer facing forwards, one facing backwards. Still working coppers, of course. Looking amenable. Fielding questions. Giving directions. Swapping bantz. While all the time alert for anything out of the ordinary. High focus, energy sapping, but low drama. The sight of a rifle having the tendency of smothering drama at birth, in a country still unused to heavily armed police. Making the job a bit boring, truth be told. Although, as a specialist firearms officer, boring – as the cliche went – was a good thing. True, Pearce occasionally dreamt of getting a chance to do the exciting side of the job. But knew at the same time that dream could become nightmare in the blink of an eye. Be careful what you wish for stuff.

And then, without warning, an urgent radio message had turned it all upside-down. No warning. No ‘this is a drill’. Punters gawping as the sergeant and his three constables legged it from the far end of the busy concourse to their carrier. Driver waiting, engine running, blue lights already flickering. Red-lining it to the M11. With directions to head up the motorway to as far as the unmarked turn off at Wicken Water. Under the carriageways and back on, southbound. Pearce and his team getting their breath back as they were briefed on the move. Their duty inspector on the radio from the other side of the county, filling in the detail. Sounding as jealous as fuck. Suspected Islamic terrorists heading for London from the north. Their route clearly taking them down the motorway past Stansted. And on, presumably, into the target-rich jihadi mecca of London. One vehicle, four suspects. Pearce’s team’s mission being to stop and detain. Standard rules of engagement. Arrest if possible. Use of firearms authorised if necessary to preserve life.