He breathed deeply, rhythmically. Waited patiently. Watched the scouts. When they straightened up he knew the cash was close. Dumped the shades and put one hand on the car door’s release. Ready to go. Instinctively glancing down to check that the weapon was in battery. Ejection port filled with bolt carrier, tight on the chambered round. His lips twitched in a momentary smile at the force of habit from hundreds of range sessions.

The first man came through the doors. Shoulders tensed against the weight of the bags he was carrying. Then the second. Sub-optimal. Preferable to have had the gunmen out front as priority targets. Nothing he could do anything about though, except adapt.

He popped the car door open and stepped out. Brought the weapon up to his shoulder as the third man came through the doors. The guard unsuspecting, turning to look at the scouts with a lordly smirk. Evidently confused as the younger of the two kids reacted to Mickey’s unexpected appearance.

Mickey leaned into the weapon. Put the red dot on the gunman’s chest and took a swift, shallow breath in. Then squeezed the last tenth of an inch of trigger. A three-round burst, the first impacting in the middle of his chest. The second a few inches higher. The third blowing a gout of blood out through the back of his neck. Hopefully into the eyes of the man behind him.

The bag carriers froze. Helpless under the gun’s basilisk one-eyed stare. Mickey dropped them both with two more swift bursts. Both men going down before they had time to realise what was happening. He went down on one knee as a precaution against return fire, given one gun unaccounted for. He needn’t have bothered. The last of the four came through the door with his pistol raised. Blinking furiously, face covered in blood. The wrong choice. Turning and running back up the stairs would have saved his life.

Mickey put three rounds into him, centre mass. Their impact smashing him back through the door and onto the stairs behind it. He let the breath out and started walking forwards. Keeping the weapon’s barrel pointed at the scouts.

‘Run.’

They goggled at him. Ignoring the instruction, or simply paralysed by the speed of his ambush. The younger of the two had pissed himself. The older kid was looking down at a pistol lying at his feet. Mickey knew to make the Authorised Firearms Officer’s three assumptions. Assume the weapon is loaded. Assume the weapon is cocked. Assume the safety is off. And added one of his own. Assumed that the man-child staring back at him would pull the trigger.

‘Run!’

He saw it in the adolescent’s eyes before he moved. The chance to be a hero, like in the drill tracks. Splash man down. Be instantly feted among his peers.

‘Don’t make me—’