Torres and the two detectives with him heard the message and left the car in unison. Luciano Herrera was sitting in the front of the black transit parked directly opposite the front of the apartment block. He was listening to some American eighties pop on the radio when he caught sight of the police approaching the building in his wing mirror. He snarled into his wrist mic to warn his two men inside the flat.

“Jesus Christ, there are three cops coming your way. Get the hell out of there right now. Use the fire exit.”

Herrera’s men wasted no time in making their escape and, within seconds, they had clambered out of the back-bedroom window onto the iron platform, only to discover Vargas and his team waiting down below.

“Hold your positions and raise your hands slowly above your heads.”

Vargas and his men trained their weapons on Herrera’s two henchmen. They were both professional killers; hardened mercenaries who had served in Africa alongside Paz. They had no interest in surrendering to City Police.

Without appearing to flinch, they gave a subtle nod to each other and then, acting perfectly in sync, dived onto the floor, while at the same time reaching for their Glocks. Gunfire rained down on Vargas and his men, who instantly returned fire. One of the detectives was taken out in the opening exchange, catching a bullet clean through the neck. The entry wound sat just above the top of his Kevlar vest.

Vargas reeled around in horror as he saw his colleague fall and signalled to his other two men to take cover behind some giant metal rubbish bins positioned near the base of the fire exit. One of the officers held his crouched position for a few more seconds as he had a clear line of sight of one of the escaping gunmen. He let off two shots, both of which hit their target. The bullets ripped almost simultaneously into the right lung and heart of Benjamín Benítez. The mercenary was dead before his body tumbled down the steps of the fire escape.

His colleague, Ángel López, was now kneeling behind a narrow concrete pillar located on the iron platform just outside the first floor of the building. He only had two rounds left and, as there were three cops below him, he figured he was screwed. At that moment, Torres, along with his two men, climbed through García’s back window onto the fire exit platform, one floor above, and yelled down to López to drop his weapon, as he was now an open target. He was trapped at both ends and knew there was no way out.

“Okay, don’t shoot.” He stood up warily and held his pistol high in the air, with the barrel clenched between his thumb and forefinger.