He holstered the pistol. Retrieved the Taser and turned to face the door. Ready for anyone who might have heard any of the brief struggle. And waited.

Ten seconds convinced him that the brief, one-sided fight had gone unheard. Perfect. He opened the door to find himself face-to-face with the biggest man he thought he’d ever seen. Timing, the secret of comedy. The door opposite was open, player two in the act of coming through it. Almost having to duck under the frame. An empty glass in his hand, he was bare-chested, wearing pyjama bottoms. Eyes half open, stinking of alcohol. The two men so close they could have reached out and touched each other. Mickey reflexively shot him in the chest.

The effect was instant. Instant, but not ideal. Big Man too close for the darts to get the right separation. He staggered backwards with a loud grunt and pissed himself. A dark stain flooded down his pyjamas. Momentary loss of all bodily control from the massive jolt of current running through his body. His eyes clenched against the pain, and he groaned loudly as the current flailed his body. And, just for a moment, Mickey thought that was that. Until the stun gun stopped discharging.

The other man’s eyes snapped open, and he fixed them on his assailant. Put a hand to his chest and tore out the barbed darts. Fuck. One shot left in the Taser. After which he would have to choose whether to go loud or hand to hand. Big Man drew breath, getting ready to shout a warning, Mickey guessed. Time to go Lafone on his ass.

A decade before, Mickey had been a serious fighter. And not just of a Friday night. Talent-spotted on the High Street, by a sergeant with an eye for a well-thrown punch. Impressed by his application of swift footwork, a quick left jab and a jackhammer right hook. And Mickey, who’d been boxing since he was twelve, had initially been flattered by his praise.

Pride that had only lasted until the suggestion that he enter the Lafone Cup. The Lafone, the Met’s boxing trophy, coveted by uniformed psychopaths across the Greater London area. Mickey’s choice in the matter being a Hobson’s. And besides, the winners at all weights would score an all-expenses-paid trip to the United States. To represent the Met in competition with the NY Fire Department. No choice at all, really.

And so Mickey had trained. Lost weight and gained muscle. Boxed clever in the heats and actually reached the finals evening. Come home from the O2 looking like he’d gone twelve with Floyd. Although, as he still liked to tell it, the other guy had been some punchbag. Soaked up a pasting and then decked Mickey in the third.