squeezed the airwave handset attached to the shoulder of his black, bullet-proof jacket. 'Team Three, we are good to go.' A click. 'Roger that, Team Three ... Sir, are you sure I can't--' 'Yes, I'm sure.' He peered round the side of the huge car. 'Any movement?' 'Negative. Target is still in the building. ' Logan adjusted the strap on his borrowed helmet, pulling it tight under his chin, then wrapped the black scarf around the lower half of his face, like the bad guy in a cowboy film. It smelt of stale cigarette smoke and onions. Faulds did the same. 'You nervous?' 'Bricking it. You?' 'Stay behind me; you'll be fine.' He patted Logan on the back. 'Flesher's got a knife and a bolt gun, neither's going to go through your vest. OK?' 'All teams - positions for entry. ' 'Here we go ...' They ran for the front door, staying low through the gate and up the concrete driveway. Team One got there first, standing flat against the wooden wall to one side of the red door, waiting. Logan and Faulds stopped directly opposite. And then a burly figure dressed all in black lumbered her way up the path, carrying a one-woman battering ram. She placed the striking end against the lock and nodded at Faulds. The Chief Constable clicked on his Airwave again. 'Team two?' 'Back garden is secure, we're ready to go in. ' 'OK, everybody on three, two, one--' The constable swung her battering ram - BANG - the lock tore free of the doorframe and they were in. Team one took the lounge, team two burst through the back door and into the kitchen, Logan and Faulds hammered upstairs. Landing:'Clear.' Faulds kicked the bathroom door off its hinges:'Clear.' Bedroom one got the same treatment:'Clear' Bedroom two: the door banged back off the wall. 'Hands on your head! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD NOW!' Logan charged into the room after Faulds, the machine pistol heavy and cold, even through his gloves. A naked middle-aged woman was tied to the bed, covered in blood, screaming behind a makeshift gag. The Flesher stood over her, knife in one hand and a slippery chunk of offal in the other, face unreadable behind that rubber Margaret Thatcher mask. 'I SAID, PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!' The Flesher dropped the knife. He was naked from the waist down, his trademarked butcher's apron draped over an exercise bike in the corner, allowing his erection to swing free.
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