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  One way out. One way in. Snipers across the street. Armed RUC men at both ends of the road.

  Step back. Let them rot inside there. They're going nowhere.

  He gripped the Beretta more tightly, aware now of the unearthly silence that had descended after the barrage of gunshots. The only activity was below in Dalton Road

  itself as plain clothes RUC men did their best to keep the thoroughfare clear of passers-by.

  Doyle backed off slightly and dropped to one knee, steadying himself. He raised the Beretta and squinted along the sight.

  The advantage was his. Finan and Leary had no idea how many men awaited them.

  The counter terrorist wondered how they'd discovered they were under surveillance.

  Finan's fucking sister. Little bitch.

  He nodded as if to confirm his own suspicions. She must have warned them.

  'Finan,' Doyle roared.'Can you hear me?'

  Silence.

  'You and your fucking friend can stay in there as long as you like.You're covered on all sides.You're going nowhere.'

  Still no reply.

  'Personally, I couldn't give a flying fuck whether you come out with your hands up or you come out blasting,'

  Doyle continued. 'Either way you're going down. You either walk out of that flat or they carry you both out in body bags. Got that?'

  He moved a little closer to the door, his eyes never leaving the sight of the Beretta.

  'Pity about your sister,' he called, a slight smile on his face. 'She's an accessory now. I know she was the one who tipped you off.You'll do time and so will she. But before I arrest her there's something I want to give her. And I'm sure I won't be the first.'

  Doyle heard sounds of movement from inside the flat. Muted voices.

  'Pretty little thing,' he continued. 'You should have kept your business to yourself. You made her fair game too. After I've put you and Leary in the fucking ground I'll go back and pay her a visit. She looked like she was gagging for it when I was there this morning.'

  'Fuck you,' roared a voice from inside the flat.

  Bingo.

  There were more sounds of movement. Doyle steadied the automatic.

  'Nice arse,' he called back.'Something for me to grip on to when I'm fucking her.'

  'You fucking bastard,' bellowed the same voice.

  Doyle smiled. 'Now, are you coming out while you still carr?'

  Silence.

  Doyle stepped back slightly.

  Across the street the snipers kept their eyes pressed firmly to their scopes.

  'Come out now and I might only fuck her once,' Doyle shouted.

  A small package, no larger than a man's fist, rolled from inside the flat. It bumped against the parapet then lay still.

  Doyle saw the detonator jammed into it.

  He knew he had just seconds.

  Doyle half ran, half threw himself to one side as he saw the package. It probably weighed less than a pound but he knew the damage a pound of plastic explosive was capable of.

  As he spun away he gritted his teeth and hurled himself down, scraping the elbows of his leather jacket on the concrete.

  The blast was deafening.

  Doyle covered his head, the thunderous explosion tearing away part of the parapet and sending lumps of concrete spiralling into the air. Pieces of debris were flung out into the street and those below ducked or ran for cover as chunks of stone rained down like shrapnel.

  A great cloud of smoke engulfed the walkway and Doyle found his lungs clogged by the noxious fumes. He rolled on to his side and squinted in the direction of number 44.

  Through the smoke he saw two figures.

  The bastards were making a run for it

  Doyle swung the Beretta up and squeezed the trigger. The burst-fire mechanism sent three bullets from the barrel milliseconds after each other. Two sang off

  the stonework, another cut through the fume-filled air.

  The smoke was still thick and Doyle waved a hand angrily in front of his face as if to clear it. He fired again into the choking fumes. Shots were returned.

  He heard a bullet part the air no more than six inches from his left ear.

  Opposite, two of the RUC snipers opened up. Doyle heard the loud crack of the HK81 s. 7.62mm slugs struck the brickwork.

  Finan and Leary were already hurtling along the walkway towards the stairs at the far end. It was their only escape route.

  Doyle scrambled to his feet and squeezed off four more rounds. Empty shell cases spun into the air and the recoil slammed the butt of the 9mm against the heel of his hand. But he remained steady, pumping the trigger.

  One of the bullets caught Finan in the shoulder, blasted through his right scapula and erupted from his chest just above his nipple. Gobbets of flesh, pulverised bone and pieces of clothing spewed into the air, propelled on a gout of blood.

  Finan stumbled.

  Doyle fired again. His next shot caught the Irishman in the thigh. Moving at close to 1,700 feet a second, the bullet fractured the left femur and sent Finan sprawling.

  He dropped his weapon and Doyle saw Leary grab it and swing the Ithaca pump-action shotgun up to his shoulder and work the slide.

  Doyle hurled himself to one side as the discharge dug a crater in the concrete close to his left foot.

  By this time Leary had reached the stairs.

  Doyle paused beside Finan for a moment, pressing two fingers to the jugular vein of the motionless younger man. There was a faint pulse but looking at the amount of blood spouting from the Irishman's leg wound, Doyle wondered if his bullet had cut Finan's femoral artery. If it had, he had about two minutes before his life fluid finished jetting from him.

  There was already a huge puddle of it around him, and Doyle could hear the liquid spurts, like a conduit firing thick crimson from an unattended garden hose.

  Doyle left the man and ran on in pursuit of his other quarry.

  One down. One to go.

  As he reached the top of the stairs another blast from the shotgun shattered the bevelled safety glass in the double doors.

  Doyle saw that the slide on his automatic had shot backwards. He fumbled in his pocket for a fresh clip and slammed it into the butt.

  His breath coming in gasps, he put his shoulder to the door and crashed through.

  Fragments of shattered glass cut Doyle's cheeks and chin but the counter terrorist kept going. He stayed low in case Leary decided to let loose another blast.

  Doyle could hear footsteps pounding down the concrete steps and he chanced a look over the metal banister. There was a deafening blast, amplified by the stairwell and a portion of the handrail simply disintegrated as the buckshot destroyed it.

  He stuck the 9mm over the rail and fired three times. Another wave of sound shredded the eardrums of those on the stairs. Bullets screamed off concrete and the smell of cordite grew more intense.

  Doyle dashed down the next flight, taking the stairs two or three at a time. He hit the landing hard and rolled, hauling himself upright as he charged on after Leary.

  He could now hear his quarry breathing. The man couldn't be more than one flight ahead of him.

  As he ran the counter terrorist holstered the Beretta and dragged the Desert Eagle from beneath his right arm. Even in Doyle's hand the pistol looked huge. Its triangular barrel was as distinctive as its incredible destructive power.

  The breath searing in his lungs, he swung himself round on to the final flight of steps.

  Leary was rushing for the main doors to the flats.

  Doyle swung the Desert Eagle up and squeezed off two shots. The massive recoil was mostly absorbed by the weapon's mechanism but Doyle still needed all his strength to control the pistol.

  One bullet punched a hole in the door, the second powered into a wall, shattering brickwork and sending a fine cloud of reddish powder into the air.

  Leary ran on and out into the street.

  Doyle vaulted the last handrail, dropping the twelve fee
t to the ground. He hit the concrete hard, rolled over and dragged himself up, wincing from a pain in his left ankle.

  Might have sprained it Fuck.

  But the pain was secondary and he ran on, bursting out into the street.

  He looked to the left and right and saw Leary running towards the far end. There were men spilling from the Land Rover parked there.

  Leary raised the shotgun and fired twice at the vehicle. The first blast sent the RUC men scurrying for cover. The second punched several holes in the chassis above the front offside wheel.

  'Stop him,' roared Doyle, swinging the Desert Eagle up once again.

  Leary was already pulling open the driver's door and clambering behind the wheel of the Land Rover.

  Doyle fired. The bullet stove in most of the windscreen and Leary ducked down as fragments of glass showered him.

  The driver of the Transit was attempting to manoeuvre into the path of the Land Rover but Leary jammed it into reverse and slammed into the larger vehicle with such force that he cleared a way through for himself.

  'Shoot him, for fuck's sake,' Doyle bellowed as he charged at the reversing Land Rover.

  'We can't open fire on a street,' one of the armed RUC men shouted back.

  'He'll get away,' snarled Doyle.

  He squeezed off two more shots from the Desert Eagle.The first of the .50 calibre shells drilled into the spare wheel, tore through the chassis and buried itself in the back of the passenger seat. The second ripped off a wing mirror.

  Leary stepped on the accelerator. The back wheels spun madly for a moment then gripped the tarmac and the Land Rover shot forward as if fired from a catapult.

  Doyle pulled open the passenger door of the Transit and climbed in.

  'Get out,' he rasped at the driver.

  'What the fuck are you doing?' asked the startled man.

  Doyle pressed the Desert Eagle to his cheek. 'Get out, now,' he hissed, practically pushing the man out into the street.

  He stuck the Transit in reverse, crashing into two parked cars as he struggled to bring it under control. He spun the wheel and floored the accelerator. The van sped off after the fleeing Land Rover.

  The radio hissed and crackled. 'Panther Two, come in. Over,' said a metallic voice.

  Doyle kept his eyes on his prey. He knew that if Leary made it to an open stretch of road he'd leave him standing. As long as he was in the narrow, busy streets of the city, it was a more even contest.

  Doyle wondered if he could level it even more.

  'Panther Two, come in,' the radio crackled again. 'What is your position and your situation? Over.'

  Doyle grabbed for the two-way. 'Block all the fucking roads within a two-mile radius of Dalton Road,' snarled the counter terrorist. 'Do it now.'

  'Panther Two, identify yourself,' the voice on the radio demanded.

  'I'm the man who's doing your fucking job for you,' snarled Doyle and hurled the radio down.

  Up ahead the Land Rover turned right, narrowly avoiding a Fiat.

  Doyle caught the Fiat on its nearside wing and sent it skidding into a parked car at the roadside. He gripped the wheel more tightly as if urging extra speed from the Transit.

  The traffic up ahead was fairly light.

  If Leary gets a dear stretch of road he'll leave you standing.

  The Land Rover was weaving in and out of the cars, overtaking and undertaking as Leary tried desperately to put distance between himself and his pursuer.

  Doyle had already forced the accelerator to the floor. The needle of the speedo touched sixty-five.

  There was a junction ahead.The Land Rover hurtled across it. Doyle followed, narrowly missing another car that came from his right, and striking the hooter hard.

  Those cars that didn't heed his warning were simply shunted out of his way.

  'Fucking move,' he roared as he drove.

  The Land Rover shot between two cars, paint scraping from both wings. Doyle followed, ramming one vehicle aside. It careened up on to the pavement, the driver stunned by the impact. Broken glass was spread across the road.

  Doyle saw two women preparing to cross the street. The first was pushing a pram.

  If Leary saw them, he made no attempt to slow down, and the Land Rover roared on doing over sixty.

  Doyle gripped the wheel of the Transit with one hand. With the other he fired the Desert Eagle straight at his own windscreen.The noise was deafening.

  The heavy-grain slug blasted a hole in the glass the size of man's fist. Shards of crystal sprayed in all directions.

  Doyle fired again, struggling to control the recoil of the weapon. This shot hit the rear of the fleeing Land Rover.

  Shoot the tyres out

  For fleeting seconds he thought about it.

  And what if the car goes out of control and swerves up on to the pavement?

  He aimed higher.

  The two women preparing to cross leapt back from the kerb, one of them screaming in terror as the two vehicles roared past.

  Traffic lights ahead. They were on amber but Doyle wondered if they'd hold.

  Fifty yards. The traffic seemed to be more dense now.

  Forty yards. Leary guided the Land Rover around a Renault.

  Thirty yards.Traffic further ahead was slowing down.

  Twenty yards. The lights flickered. Leary put his foot down.

  Ten yards. Doyle imitated his action.

  Red light.

  The Land Rover hurtled across the junction. Doyle followed, steadying the Desert Eagle once more.

  A metallic voice was whining from the radio but the counter terrorist had no idea what it was saying.

  On the right there was a garage. Doyle could see several cars filling up.

  And a motorbike.

  Leary suddenly wrenched the wheel of the Land Rover to the right and the car shot across the forecourt of the garage. He slammed on the brakes and clambered from the driver's seat, the Ithaca still gripped in his fist.

  Doyle followed, ducking low behind the wheel as he saw Leary raise the shotgun to his shoulder. He fired twice.

  Both discharges thudded into the radiator grille of the Transit. Doyle saw steam rise from the ruptured bodywork. He struggled with the wheel for a moment then stepped hard on the brake.

  The Transit skidded, kept sliding and slammed into several cars parked outside a glass-fronted showroom. The vehicles were shunted into the huge expanse of crystal and the jangling sound of smashing glass filled the air for long seconds.

  Doyle gritted his teeth and slid from the cab, glass crunching beneath his feet.

  Leary was already running towards the motorbike.

  The rider stared at him then backed away from this madman with a shotgun. He raised the weapon, pointed it at the motorcyclist and squeezed the trigger.

  The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.

  The Irishman hurled the empty shotgun aside then swung his leg over the seat of the Honda 600 and revved the engine.

  Doyle sighted the Desert Eagle.

  If you shoot you'd better hit the bastard.

  He hesitated.

  Even if he did hit Leary, from such close range the bullet would go straight through him.

  Strike a petrol pump?

  Doyle holstered the weapon and ran towards the motorbike. The front wheel left the ground as Leary gunned the throttle.

  Doyle launched himself at his quarry. He slammed into Leary and both of them crashed to the ground. There were several small puddles of petrol on the forecourt and its smell was strong in their nostrils.

  Doyle fixed his hands around Leary's throat and smashed his head down sharply on the concrete.

  The counter terrorist was aware of Leary reaching for something. Seconds later he felt a cold punch in his side, then his thigh and left buttock.

  Doyle grunted in pain as the knife was driven into him. He felt blood burst from the lacerations and released his grip on Leary's throat, trying to grab the man's wrist to prevent hi
m stabbing again.

  Leary brought his head up hard into Doyle's face and managed to roll from beneath him, his clothes spattered with petrol and Doyle's blood.

  Doyle fumbled for the Desert Eagle. Saw Leary clamber on to the motorbike and work the throttle. The bike roared out of the garage into the street.

  Doyle fired once but the bullet tore through the air six feet from its target.

  The counter terrorist tried to rise, aware of the burning pain from his wounds. He put one hand to the deep puncture in his side and saw blood running freely through his fingers.

  'Call the police,' he rasped at several onlookers.

  Someone already had.

  Doyle heard sirens approaching, and hoped one was an ambulance.

  The counter terrorist tried to rise again but his leg buckled beneath him. Leary had driven the blade deep.

  Cunt.

  Doyle sat with his back against a petrol pump, the Desert Eagle still gripped in one fist. With his free hand he pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and applied pressure to each wound in turn. The one in his buttock hurt the most.

  More pain.

  He felt dizzy. A combination of the petrol fumes and the stab wounds, he told himself. He closed his eyes so tightly that white stars danced behind the lids.

  Don't pass out

  He could hear the motorbike receding into the distance. Leary was away.

  For the time being.

  'Bastard,' he hissed under his breath.

  The first of the police cars screeched to a halt on the forecourt.

  EXHAUSTION

  Ward slumped back in his chair, eyes closed. 4.06 p.m. He took out the disk and switched off the computer. That was it for the day.

  Enough was enough.

  As he got to his feet he felt something he had not experienced for a long, long time. It was a sense of pride.

  He set the alarm in the office, locked up then stepped on to the back lawn and stood with his hands on his hips taking deep breaths of the still air. His head was spinning.

  In one of the gardens nearby, a dog was barking. He could hear kids playing noisily.

  Ward waited a moment longer then wandered back to the house. As soon as he stepped inside the phone began to ring. He wondered about answering it then decided to leave the call to be collected by the answer-phone.

  He walked into the sitting room, heading for the drinks cabinet. Holding his glass of Jack Daniel's, he sat down in one of his armchairs.