Rebus got on to his knees, then his feet, staying at a crouch. He felt moderately safe. After all, his luck had held today, too.

‘You okay, Siobhan?’

Voice low, eyes on the gunmen. The two getaway cars added up to seven men. Two still left. Where was number ten? ‘Fine,’ Clarke said. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m okay.’

Rebus left her, worked his way round to the front of the truck. The driver was unconscious behind his wheel, head bleeding where it had connected after the collision. There was some kind of grenade launcher on the seat beside him. It had left a bloody great hole in the wall of Maclean’s. Rebus checked the driver for firearms, found none. Then checked the pulse: steady. Recognised the face: one of the arcade regulars; looked about nineteen, twenty. Rebus took out his handcuffs, hooked the driver to the steeringwheel, threw the grenade launcher on to the road.

Then headed for the gatehouse. Jack Morton, in uniform but missing his cap, prone on the floor, covered by a glass shroud. The bullet had pierced his right breast-pocket. Pulse was weak.

‘Christ, Jack ...’

There was a telephone in the booth. Rebus punched 999 and asked for ambulances.

‘Police officers down at the Maclean’s factory on Slateford Road!’ Staring down at his friend.

‘Whereabouts on Slateford Road?’

‘Believe me, they won’t be able to miss it.’

Five marksmen, dressed in black, aimed rifles at Rebus from outside. Saw him on the phone, saw him shake his head, moved on. Saw their targets out on the road, getting into a patrol car. Yelled the order to stop, warning that they would fire.

Response: muzzle-flash. Rebus ducked again. Fire was returned, the noise deafening but momentary.

Shouts from the road: ‘Got them!’ A plaintive wail: one of the gunmen wounded. Rebus looked. The other was lying quite still on the road. Marksmen yelling to the wounded man: ‘Drop the weapon, turn on to your front, hands behind your back.’

Response: ‘I’m shot!’ Rebus to himself. ‘Bastard’s only wounded. Finish him off.’

Jack Morton unconscious. Rebus knew better than to move him. He could staunch the bleeding, that was all. Removed his jacket, folded it and pressed it to his friend’s chest. Must’ve hurt, but Jack was out of it. Rebus dug the fuel rod out of his own pocket, the tiny canister still warm. Pressed it into Jack’s right hand, curled the fingers around it.

‘Stick around, pal. Just keep sticking around.’

Siobhan Clarke art the doorway, tears welling in her eyes.

Rebus pushed past her, slid his way across the road to where the Armed Response Team were cuffing the wounded man. Nobody much bothering with his dead partner. A little group of onlookers, keeping their distance. Rebus walked right up to the corpse, prised the handgun from its fingers, walked back around the front of the car. Heard someone call out: ‘He’s got a gun!’ Rebus bending down until the barrel of the gun touched the back of the wounded man’s neck. Declan from the shop: breath coming in short gasps, hair matted with sweat, burrowing his face into the tarmac.