He was dressed for the job to hand. Black cargo pants, slim fit, bloused into high top combat boots. A tight-fitting black Under Armour training top beneath the webbing patrol harness carrying his equipment. In the shoulder holster, a Beretta 9mm. No suppressor. The weapon of last resort. For when the need to go loud was no longer in doubt. Neighbours three doors down from Number 37 would hear its unmistakable bark. And nobody would be mistaking it for fireworks, not at two in the morning. If he pulled that trigger it’d be 999 time for at least a dozen rudely awakened sleepers. A military fighting knife strapped to the left front harness strap. Hilt downwards. And a set of stainless-steel knuckles on a magnetised pad on the right strap. Mickey was loaded for bear.

None of those his first choice of weapons for this job though. Getting into knife-fighting range would risk getting into a brawl. With the danger of leaving DNA on an opponent. Skin or blood from under a fingernail could identify him in hours, courtesy of the Met’s elimination database. Worse still, a close-in fight risked incurring a wound, in the random violence of a struggle. Better to stay at a distance, even if it meant waking the whole street.

With that in mind, the carry pouch on his left hip contained two cylindrical grenades. One with a thick metal case that was mostly holes. Allowing free rein to seven million candelas of instant sunshine. And 170 decibels of sonic rage. Powerful enough to leave a strong man prone, deaf and blind for crucial seconds. Disorientated for minutes after that. Nobody in the house would be in any fit state to return fire if he threw that little monster at them. But that would quite possibly include Mickey as well. And have everyone in Walcott Road calling 999. Exit strategy only.

The other grenade had solid walls, a red band around its cylindrical green body. Chemical smoke, strong enough to reduce anyone lacking protection to weeping, choking helplessness. Nasty shit, especially inside a dwelling. Also capable of igniting furniture and burning down the house. Pretty much last resort too.

His go-to weapon nestled in a holster on his right hip. A big, boxy pistol. Its carbon-fibre body black and yellow, flaring to a square at the business end. Pure science fiction vibe. He had non-violent equipment too. Ten double-cuff zip ties in a trouser pocket. Five six-inch strips of Gorilla tape stuck to his leg by an inch of adhesive. The rest of each strip still covered with backing paper. The ability to silence and immobilise.