Milton lashed out with a right-footed kick, aiming down at Thorsson’s knee. The Icelander swept his hand down and brushed the kick away, then drilled Milton in the side of the head with a right cross that flashed out with a speed that was almost impossible to credit in someone so large. Thorsson’s knuckles crunched into Milton’s cheekbone. Points of light sparked across his vision. He stumbled back, getting his guard up just in time to block the left-handed hook that would have scrambled his brains if it had landed. He fell back again, against the wall, separated from the knife by another four paces.

“You’re out of your depth,” Thorsson said.

“I’ve heard that before,” Milton said. “The men who said that? They’re all dead.”

Thorsson kept his eyes on Milton as he reached down for the knife.

“You should’ve stayed away.”

He straightened up, passing the blade from hand to hand.

They heard the sound of small arms fire from somewhere above them. Milton stayed loose and balanced, ready to react if Thorsson lunged with the knife. Milton opened and closed his fists and put his weight onto the balls of his feet. Blood ran down his forearm; he ignored it.

It happened quickly: a cloud of dust fell down from the ceiling at the same time as a deep bass roar rumbled down to the basement. Milton braced himself, recognising the hollow rumble of explosives. The ceiling shuddered and another cloud of dust fell down onto them.

Thorsson’s face flickered with doubt.

“Sounds like you’ve got something else to worry about,” Milton said.

The Icelander glanced up and then backed away.

“I’ll see you again,” he said.

Thorsson reached the doorway, stepped through it, and then turned and took the stairs two at a time. Milton heard a shout and then a furious fusillade of gunfire.

105

Björn reached the top of the stairs just as the doors to the building were blown off their hinges by a breaching charge. The sudden overpressure washed across the room, deafening him and forcing the air out of his lungs. The assaulters had tossed smoke grenades, and he ducked down low, covering his mouth with his left arm. He saw a man on the floor and recognised one of the locals who worked with the cartel. He had been shot in the chest and was trying to staunch the blood with his hands. Björn knelt down and relieved him of his pistol. He saw a man in dark clothes flit through the newly opened door; Björn aimed and fired, sending two rounds in his direction. It was too dark and murky to know whether his bullets had found their mark, and he didn’t have the time to wait and find out.