Donaldson grabbed McClure’s sleeve. ‘Let’s get hidden — and get that fuckin’ gun of yours ready. It is loaded, isn’t it?’

‘ Yes, yes,’ said McClure.

They vaulted over a low garden wall and ducked down into a crouch behind it. Out of sight, but with a direct line of view to Hinksman’s car.

‘ You can’t give him a chance,’ Donaldson whispered urgently into McClure’s ear, prompting him. ‘We take him by surprise and you shoot the bastard. Got it?’

McClure nodded.

He had the two-inch-barrelled Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. His sweaty hand. His shaking hand. His slimy forefinger quivered uncertainly on the trigger.

The seconds ticked by with a slowness that was physically painful.

The radio stayed silent, almost as though it had all been a nightmare. Or maybe he wasn’t coming. Had he gone in another direction? Had they got him? Had he been arrested — or shot?

A figure appeared out of an alleyway about halfway down the street and walked in their direction. Seventy metres away. More of a trot than a walk. But there was no concern in the stride. No sense of urgency. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be in much of a rush. A bag was being carried in the left hand. A holdall. It couldn’t be him, surely.

‘ It’s him,’ said Donaldson.

The heads of the two detectives dipped an inch instinctively.

‘ Let him get to the car,’ Donaldson said between his teeth, his lips not moving. He glanced sideways at his nervous partner.

‘ If he goes to the driver’s door we’ll have the advantage because his back’ll be towards us.’ That was McClure thinking out loud, his mind racing.

Hinksman got to the car, checking his shoulder as he fumbled briefly with the key for the door. He went to the driver’s side, dropped the holdall to the ground and slid the key into the lock. He hadn’t seen the detectives. They rose slowly from their hiding place.

‘ Armed police,’ shouted McClure, pointing his gun at Hinksman’s back and stepping over the garden wall. ‘Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move a fuckin’ muscle or you’re a dead man — understand?’

Hinksman froze. Then nodded.

‘ Shoot him,’ Donaldson encouraged McClure. ‘Do it now.’

McClure motioned to Donaldson to keep quiet with a chopping action of his free hand. ‘Now put both your hands on the roof of the car so I can see them.’

Hinksman’s left hand slid up and he placed it on top of the car, empty, the key in the lock. His right hand was still tucked up at the front of his body. Out of sight.

‘ Don’t give him the chance, Ken. Shoot the bastard,’ said Donaldson, verging on sheer anger.

‘ Both fuckin’ hands,’ yelled McClure at Hinksman.

‘ OK, OK,’ said Hinksman.

McClure was moving forwards, concentrating totally on the killer in front of him, forcing fear and everything else to the back of his mind into a compartment to be unlocked later at leisure.

Donaldson was a wary two steps behind him. His head was shaking.

His eyes kept moving heavenwards. ‘Come on Ken, put him down.’

‘ No, Karl, it’s not the way we do things over here.’

There was one more garden wall to step over. No higher, no broader than the last. But McClure’s concentration was so absolute he misjudged his stride as he stepped across, snagging the top of it with the toe of his left shoe.

He stumbled, lost his balance and crashed down onto one knee with a yelp of pain.

Hinksman, who’d watched the approach in the wing mirror of the car, swung round fast, the gun in his right hand hot from previous firings.

McClure had regained his feet, but for a few seconds he was open and totally vulnerable. These were the few seconds Hinksman needed to loose off two rounds. They slammed into the detective’s chest, blowing him backwards like a candle flame being snuffed out by a gust of wind.

The impact of the bullets propelled him into Donaldson who caught him with a hand under each armpit and, winded himself, staggered sideways with the weight and momentum of McClure’s body. The two detectives crashed to the ground in a macabre embrace. McClure landed half on top of Donaldson, pinning him there, trapping him.

As they’d fallen, McClure’s gun had skittered away out of reach.

Donaldson desperately tried to heave McClure off.

Hinksman sauntered up to them, a smile of victory playing cruelly on his face. His gun hung at his side, literally smoking. He was full of confidence.

He tossed his gun across to his left hand, clicked the magazine out and dropped it onto the ground where it tinkled merrily on the concrete pavement. His right hand delved into his jeans pocket and emerged holding a new magazine. He slotted it in without looking, his eyes holding Donaldson’s in a death-warrant gaze. He transferred the gun back to his right hand.

Donaldson gave up trying to dislodge the wounded McClure, whose shirt-front was a soggy mass of bright red blood.

He lay there under McClure’s dead weight, unable to move. Hinksman stood arrogantly above him.

‘ Well now, Fibbie,’ he said. ‘So you wanted him to shoot me? Naughty, naughty. This is England. They play by the rules here. You should know that. Not like you fuckers… Anyway, can’t stay even though I’d love to chat. Y’know, I ain’t never done an officer of the law before today, but I guess there’s always a first time for everything… and in your case, Fibbie, a fourth time.’

Hinksman pointed the gun at Donaldson’s head as the significance of the words sank in.

The detective swallowed something big and hard and it stuck in his throat. His eyes squinted as he braced himself for the impact. He wondered what it would feel like.

Hinksman eased the hammer back. His forefinger curled onto the trigger. Only the lightest touch was now needed.

Donaldson thought of blackness for ever.

There was a shout. A female voice.

‘ Armed police! Drop your weapon!’

Donaldson and Hinksman looked. Twenty metres away stood two uniformed officers from the firearms team. Both had their revolvers drawn, both were in exactly the same weaver stance: left foot forward, guns held in the right hand, supported by the left, fingers on triggers — aimed at Hinksman.

A tense moment of silence passed when nothing happened.

‘ Drop your weapon and raise your hands,’ the female officer reiterated.

Hinksman’s gun was pointing at Donaldson. He glanced back down at him and smiled briefly. Donaldson thought he was going to pull the trigger.

Without warning the American moved quickly, becoming a blur of speed. He pivoted on his heels, crouched down and cracked three ear splitting shots off at the officers. He threw himself to one side, grabbed his holdall and did a body roll down in front of his car. He leapt to his feet in one flowing motion and sprinted away without a backward glance, keeping low as he went.

The male officer had gone down with a scream, clutching his right bicep, his gun skidding away under a car. The woman dived sideways for cover behind a car after managing to fire one shot in reply.

Donaldson, powerless to do otherwise, simply watched Hinksman run down the street and turn left into an alleyway and disappear. He looked at the female officer who was flattened on the floor, breathing heavily, as white as a sheet.

‘ It’s safe now,’ Donaldson called out. ‘He’s gone. He won’t be back.’

It took a while for her to pluck up enough courage to stick her head out for an instant.

The other officer, the one who’d been shot, struggled up into a sitting position, leaning against a low wall where he remained, sobbing as he held his injured, limp arm. Blood poured through his fingers.

Donaldson gently eased McClure off him and laid him out on the pavement. Thankfully he was

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