I rub my forehead. “Wait one.” I call up the police CCTV operations room again. They’ve got a constable monitoring the cameras around the warehouse in real time. “No change notified. One car arrived ninety minutes ago; a woman got out and went inside. Hasn’t left. Then our decoys arrived nine minutes ago and went inside. Monitoring commenced three hours ago; nothing before then, although presumably the security guard showed up for work this morning. So we’re looking at four souls inside: security chap, unidentified female, our two.” I pause.

“My working assumption is the female is hostile until proven otherwise. She may be a PHANG, or she may be a lamplighter for the adversary. We’re all warded but you should not assume that your wards will work normally around the adversary. Treat with extreme caution; put her down if she presents a threat.”

I pause again. “Scary, do you prefer to go in through the front door, or use the loading dock and the fire exits? You have tactical control.”

My ward vibrates briefly, then stops. I glance down at my smartphone, and see the particular app it’s running. (Burning goat’s skull—don’t ask: it’s part of our special occult countermeasures suite.) “Alex’s ward just overloaded and fried. We have contact.”

“Team alpha, plan two,” announces Scary. (That’s the fire exit.) “Team bravo, plan three.” (That’s the loading bay.) I feel the truck lean forward on its suspension and sway as it takes a bend, then bounce twice, very hard, on speed pillows. “We’re going to park in front of the office door, on top of the bike and the car: stand by for a bumpy landing. Action in thirty seconds.”

There’s a click in my headphones. “Mr. Howard, if you’d please stay behind us this time—”

“Thank you, Sergeant, your advice is noted.” I grit my teeth and close my eyes, forcing my inner eye to open. I can see surprisingly well this way, although what I see is nothing very nice: I have nightmares about using this talent. “You’ll need me to handle the adversary. Once you’ve cleared the way.”

“Yes, sir.” A hand pats me on the shoulder. Then there’s a violent crunching sound and I’m hurled against my seat belt. Poor bloody Pete, if he gets out of this alive, is going to have one hell of an insurance claim form to fill out. I’ll have to see if I can get the SA to sign off on buying him a replacement scooter, citing necessity . . .