Something in Delroy’s voice, right at the edge of his words: hesitation. Fear. It didn’t matter that he had a gun: the trepidation was stamped in at DNA level. No one wants a hidden enemy.

Forsyth said, ‘He’s in … I saw him go in the bathroom. On the right in the hallway. He’s hiding in the bathroom.’

No, he wasn’t—he’d gone left, not right—and he wondered if Forsyth knew that.

Silence for a spell. Three seconds.

Four.

Five.

Then something told him duck, and the next volley of shots cut a line at mid-height through the drywall. Wood chips and gypsum dust through the room, mini pirate cannons of white powder in frantic sequence. He moved in a crouch to the door, Sly Crow Junior saying, ‘Shit, Delroy, you’ll wreck our ears.’

Sharp smell of cordite mixed with blood. Vincent waited, still crouched, breath held and starting to burn, and now he saw him—a slice of Delroy’s head and shoulder past the doorframe—his back to Vincent as he faced the room across the hallway.

He must have sensed his error, because now he was turning—a sudden jerk, as if pulled up by base instinct—and Vincent rose and grabbed the MP5 with his left hand as the gun swung toward him. He was in that red-edged hazard zone where all motion had to count, and he hit Delroy in the throat with his right hand, giving it everything—hip-twist and the full thrust of his torso—trying to send the punch through the man’s spine.

Delroy’s head whipped forward, folding over Vincent’s fist, and with his left hand Vincent tore the gun free of Delroy’s grip. The sudden motion triggered a burst, put more rounds through the ceiling, but Delroy was falling now, tripping backward, and Vincent brought the gun to his shoulder and sighted on Sly Junior. He was taking shelter under a raised arm, maybe caught off-guard by the ceiling shots, which meant he had to raise the shotgun one-handed: a big, heavy weapon, a big, slow swing. Vincent let his breath out, squeezed the trigger, and watched the guy fall.

Delroy had stayed down, gagging and clutching at his throat, and Vincent knew the first punch had shattered his windpipe. Forsyth was on the porch in a half crouch, hands covering his head, and Vincent grabbed him on the way past—dragging him at first on his knees and then hauling him to his feet. He shoved him toward the Range Rover and then ran to Erin, still on the ground.

‘Come on, come on, come on. Please …’