He bagged the machine pistol, then made his way back to the Beemer. Watched all the way by the younger kid. A brooding look on the boy’s face. Fired up the engine and put the gear selector into drive. Cranking the wheel hard over, a U-turn back to face the ramp up to ground level. Shot a last glance over at the kid. Who was no longer there. Twisted his neck to look back at the stairwell door. Which was just closing. Shit. His careful plan was about to go right off the rails.

‘Little bastard!’

He floored the throttle. Instinctively knowing what the boy had gone looking for. Darted a glance in the mirror as the car rocketed forward. Seeing the diminutive figure coming back through the door, the last gunman’s pistol in his hand. Knowing that the kid didn’t have to be any good to put a round through his spine. Just lucky. A spark of light flickered in the mirror, distant bang of the gun firing an instant later. A thud from the rear bodywork. Beginner’s luck? Flash, bang, thud. Not just luck then. The car hit the ramp already doing fifty, springs bottoming out. Another bang. Mickey tensed. Waiting for the rear window to craze. For that final shot to be the one. No thud. A miss.

He powered the car up the ramp and into the daylight. Slowed to make the turn onto the estate’s perimeter road. Looked up to see heads craning over balconies and walkways. The kid’s shooting all too audible then. There’d be fingers hitting keypads. Calling Joe’s boys. Calling the police. And him driving a car with two bullet holes in the back.

He pulled out onto the road. Ripped off the balaclava and donned a baseball cap. Busy with traffic but mercifully between school run and rush hour. Drove quickly but carefully. Cringed as the first police car screamed past in the other direction. Area car, uniformed cops, likely not armed. They’d wait for SCO19 firearms officers before going onto the estate. SOP with shots fired and the perpetrator quite possibly still on scene. Every minute ramped up the risk of the car’s description and index being reported. And Mickey in possession of a machine pistol that had just been used to kill five men.

He reached the turn off into his planned rat run just as a silver and dayglo yellow X5 blue-lighted past. Trojan. An SCO19 armed response vehicle. Proof the Met was taking the 999 calls seriously. Looked down again to avoid being caught by the on-board cameras. And took to the back roads with an inward sigh of relief. Telling himself not to fall into the classic trap of relaxing too soon. Two more minutes of driving took him to the Beemer’s final resting place. A featureless space between two brick-built warehouses. Off a back street, with no cameras, or housing.