He reached the junction with Calle 32B and skidded into it, pumped the gas again and then turned the wheel hard left, accelerating along Carrera 81A. He raced over the junction with the westbound lane of Calle 32 and drove into the short connecting road that linked it with the eastbound lane. Chase saw a white Renault van and the blocked-in Chevrolet. He hit the brakes and rolled to a stop.

He saw a big man wearing a balaclava standing between the Renault and the Chevrolet. He had a pistol in one hand and was shoving a prisoner toward the open doors of the van.

The prisoner had his hands secured behind his back.

Chase recognised him.

Milton.

* * *

“They’ve got Milton,” Chase said over the open line. “What do we do?”

“Hold your position,” Hicks replied.

His attention snapped back to the two vehicles that were blocking his way. Hicks reached over to the passenger seat and slid his hand under the blanket that he had spread out there. He felt the hard edges of the pistol that Chase had procured, stretching his fingers out until he had the grip against his palm and his finger inside the trigger guard.

The man covering the left-hand side of the Duster shouted something to his partner on the right and then, without any warning, both men fired their weapons. The SMGs flashed as they were fired, automatic rounds puncturing the Duster’s glass and riddling those inside.

It would have been a massacre. The car’s occupants stood no chance.

And Hicks was a witness to their murders.

He knew that he would be next.

He let go of the pistol, crunched the gearbox into reverse and stamped on the gas.

He saw the flash of the submachine guns and lowered himself so that he was shielded by the dashboard. Bullets chinged against the hood and flank of his car, and then one—followed by a second, third and fourth—cracked into the windshield. The safety glass holed, but did not shatter.

The phone fell off the dash and disappeared into the footwell.

“I’m under fire,” Hicks shouted into it, unsure whether Ziggy and Chase could hear him.

He was reversing blind now. The car crashed into something and stopped. Hicks grabbed the pistol, opened the door and slid out, staying low, using the door for cover.

Another barrage thudded into the car, the door juddering as a bullet clipped the frame. Hicks took a breath, counted to three, and then popped up. The two men were both facing him, one on either side of the wrecked Duster. Hicks aimed at the man to the right, nearest to him, and pulled the trigger three times. The return fire was instantaneous, another volley that peppered the car and forced him back down behind the door.