HRE. High Risk Environment. A euphemistic acronym for Prot officers trained to accompany UK VIPs to certain countries. Those nations where the potential threat to the principal was deemed too significant for Prot’s usual modus operandi. Partly because of the threat level. Partly the result of deficient protection infrastructure on the part of the host government. It was a qualification that had to be earned, and one with a significant failure rate. HRE teams often contained former Counter Terrorist Specialist Firearms Officers, already partially trained in their previous roles. And up to the physical demands of the job.

Every HRE certified officer had been trained by real special forces instructors. They were expected to be fitter than the average Prot bodyguard. And qualified in a myriad of skills. Advanced marksmanship, navigation, counter-kidnap, interrogation, secure comms, use of specialised munitions and more. Accompanied on their travels by Peli cases full of mil-spec weaponry and equipment. Leading some to consider themselves as akin to special forces. Indulging themselves in expensive kit: North Face, Molle, Buffalo Systems and the like. Everything in khaki and with plenty of straps. Whereas Mickey harboured no such illusions.

Mickey had been certified for HRE ops for several years. And endured a series of annual refreshers at Credenhill Lines in Hereford. Short, intense courses intended partially to revisit and sharpen skills. And partially to remind the victims just how unfit they were. And he’d come back from each one more motivated than ever to stay fit and honed. Pushed himself with the weights and roadwork. Hit the canvas at his local boxing club two or three times a month. Knowing he’d never match the fitness or attitude of the average special forces soldier. But determined to try. Having had it hammered into him that the most Gucci equipment going would be wasted if it wasn’t in the right place at the right time.

He made it across town to LX in under an hour. Reported to Inspector Philip for formal tasking. To be told nothing more than that the destination country was in Central America. Detailed briefing en route. And that the flight would be leaving from RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire late that afternoon. He changed and drew his radio and car keys, having beaten Wade in for once. Collected a pair of Peli cases containing his weapon and equipment. Then killed an hour over coffee with a shooting magazine, waiting for Wade.

‘All right, Skip?’ Wade, eventually. Looking a little the worse for wear. Properly dressed, of course. Clean-shaven and tidy enough to the casual inspection. Just very, very hungover.

‘Good night, was it?’

‘Is it that obvious?’

Mickey raised an eyebrow. Otherwise not replying. A copper didn’t have to be CID to know that silence was the best interrogator.

‘Fuck. Yeah, I got to bed about four this morning, and I wasn’t alone.’

‘Sounds good to me. The only problem now is that you look like shit. Here…’