The estate agent stared slack jawed at the open briefcase. There was only thirty five thousand pounds in there – a fraction of what was hidden under Omar’s bed back at the hotel. Surely the estate agent had dealt in cash before, considering the population of narcotics dealers around this area? Of course he had – but the site of so much cash always made him nervous. And excited. He licked his lips at the thought of closing a cash deal that day. He would take his wife out for an expensive meal that night, and maybe she would not nag him for a month or so. Maybe. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hands. Stuck to it was a dim Polaroid of a nondescript terrace house. It had taken all of his literary skills to come up with even a single good word to say about this one, considering the area in which it was located was a virtual war zone. And here was a smartly dressed, elegant, obviously well-educated Arab gentleman, offering him five thousand pounds over the asking price. Maybe it was some kind of set-up. Or maybe he was getting soft in his old age. Whatever, he felt that he had to at least try and dissuade Mr Hussein from making a very expensive mistake. If he failed – which he was sure he would, Mr Hussein seemed like a man who knew very much what he wanted - then at least he could sleep soundly that night. Preferably with a full belly of expensive Japanese sushi.

"Mr Hussein, you do realise, of course, that Manchester Metropolitan Police refuse to patrol the area in which you wish to purchase a property?"

Omar smiled and nodded. "Of course. It is partly the reason that I wish to live there. It will be where I am needed the most."

"Ah yes, so you said. You’re some sort of ……. preacher?"

"You could say that. But only those people in most desperate need will listen to what I have to say. That is why I must live amongst them, in order that they might hear The Word."

The agent nodded sagely, assuring Omar that he regularly dealt with Arab preachers buying derelict terraced houses on blighted estates for large sums of cash. Crackpot, he thought.

"I see," he said.

Omar pushed the briefcase across the table. It was not his leather one, but a cheap black office supplies make he had bought especially for today. It amused him how excited the estate agent was becoming. The man was practically drooling.

"My house," said Omar.

"Of course," said the agent. "I will arrange for the keys, you can have them by the end of the week."

"Tomorrow," said Omar.

The agent looked up from the money and met Omar’s eyes.

"Tomorrow," he said.

Omar walked through Manchester’s cold wet streets the next morning, briefcase in one hand, suitcase in the other. He walked through the plazas of office buildings and through the shopping malls as they began to open for the day, and the roads filled with cars, people on their way to work, trams and bicycles. Here and there he saw the signs of a troubled city – sadistic graffiti, smashed windows, burned out cars, heavily armed police. As he headed to the north of the city, these tell tale signs became more common, more extreme – buildings gutted by fire, dark blue armoured personnel carriers parked strategically on road junctions, police in full body armour and visored helmets. Everything cloaked in the oppressive, ever-present grey rain. Omar walked on, taking in his new surroundings, but ignored by the police cordon and the motorists and pedestrians who were trying to get from their fortified homes to their places of work in safety, sticking to the blue lines painted in the road to mark the routes taken by the armed protection patrols. In Omar’s pocket was a worn old key attached to a cheap plastic keyring in the shape of the estate agent’s logo. This was his home now. These would be his people. He walked through the police cordon unnoticed and unchallenged. They were there to stop people coming out, not to stop people going in. Who would want to go inside there anyway?

Omar reached the terraced row several hundred metres inside the police cordon. The street was wide and old fashioned, perhaps 150 years old. The end houses neighbouring his own were burned out and abandoned, half a dozen others along the street had boarded windows and doors, but many were still occupied. Omar stepped on to the stone threshold and placed the key in the lock. Without turning it, the door swung inward, its lock and blots smashed free of their mountings. Omar sighed and stepped inside, pushing to the door shut behind him. He breathed deeply – the house smelt or piss and dog shit, or maybe it was human shit. Yes, it was definitely human shit, there were few worse or distinctive smells. It reminded him of the Israeli jails, the stench of the solitary confinement pits, where the Palestinian prisoners who were deemed to require the most severe punishment – the bus bombers, the Hezbollah snipers, the failed suicide assassins – were kept and dealt with. But there was another smell here too. He placed his cases down gently in the hall, shrugged out of his coat and lay it neatly on the cases. He walked down the narrow hallway to the living room, and paused in the doorway.

On the floor of the living room was a grubby mattress. Lying on the mattress, her head hanging off the edge perilously close to the edge of a tiled fireplace, long hair mingling with the cigarette butts and beer cans dumped there, was a naked girl, legs spread in the air. On top of her, pumping away and grunting rhythmically, was a man in old combat clothing, trousers around his ankles, full head of woolly dreadlocks swinging wildly. A black plastic pump action shotgun, its rifle stock sawn down to a tape-wrapped pistol grip, lay on the floor by his booted feet. Omar hovered in the doorway, watching them, until the girl spotted him over her lover’s shoulder and squealed with fright.

"Uh, yeah," responded the man, thinking he had finally provoked some reaction from her.

"No, no, look!" she protested, pulling his hair and trying to turn his head. He resisted, intent on his thrustings, and ignoring her pleas, but when he did look back over his shoulder, he panicked on seeing Omar and withdrew from the girl, momentarily freezing on the decision whether or not to pull his trousers up or go for his gun. By the time he decided to reach for the gun, Omar’s foot was firmly placed on its grip. The man’s hand rested on the barrel. He remained kneeling, trousers down, vulnerable. The girl cowered on the filthy mattress covering her nakedness with both hands. Omar stared at them both. The man looked up, fear and anger and humiliation in his eyes. He bared his teeth, his hand tightening on the barrel of the shotgun.

"Who the fuck are you?" he grunted. Omar moved his foot and kicked the shotgun back into the hall. He was now positioned squarely between the man and his gun.

"I own this house," said Omar. "I bought it. Who, I might ask, are you?"

The man moved slowly back on his haunches, pulling up his combat trousers, never taking his eyes off Omar. The girl remained still, watching the exchange.

"You own this place? Don’t be fucking daft. No one buys houses ‘round here anymore. We’ve been squatting here for six months."

Omar moved into the room, looking around, oblivious to the naked girl who was sitting on the mattress, trying to keep her back to the wall. He looked down at her, and across at the dreadlocked man. The doorway was clear, he could make a dash for his gun if he wanted to. He was choosing not to.

"What are your names?" Omar asked. He dropped to his knees and touched the naked girl on the side of her foot, an oddly gentle gesture. She recoiled, then instantly relaxed.

"Madeline," she replied, smiling. She let her hands drop from her breasts, her legs relaxed. She was painfully thin and her skin was pale and blotchy. "And this is my boyfriend, Cameron."

Cameron grunted, confused by Omar’s sudden presence and actions. He didn’t like the way Madeline had suddenly seemed at ease, it made him feel twice as nervous.

"Madeline and Cameron," repeated Omar, standing up. "As you will no doubt have noticed, I am new to this area. I have come here to help, to spread The Word. But I require some help too. I have money – I can buy you clothes and food. Alcohol and drugs if you require them." Cameron’s eyes sparkled. Omar looked around the room. "Perhaps we can even make this house a little more habitable. I will not throw you out on to the street. In return, you will assist me. What do you say?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Madeline, looking from Omar to Cameron and back again like an excited child. Cameron narrowed his eyes.

"There has to be a catch," he said. "There’s always a catch. What are you, a bible basher or something?"

Omar smiled. " I bash a different Bible my friend. And there is no catch. I will have some hard work ahead for you, I will not lie about that. But you will be well rewarded. You obviously know this area – that will be of great use to me."

"Twenty five fucking years I’ve lived here, on and off," Cameron said, a vague touch of pride in his voice. "I was here the night the police withdrew for the last time and put the barricades up. I threw petrol bombs after them as they ran away with their curly tails between their legs."

Madeline stifled a giggle. Her clothes were scattered around the room yet she felt no need to retrieve them and cover herself up. She felt completely at ease in the company of this stranger. There was a glow from his touch that left a prickle on the base of her spine, and a warm feeling where Cameron had just been – which was more than clumsy Cameron had ever done. She sighed and looked up at Omar.

Cameron stood up, walked into the hall and picked up the shotgun. He racked the pump and held it out at arm’s length, its black muzzle a few centimetres from Omar’s face. Madeline gasped and rolled herself into a ball. Omar stared down the gun barrel, unblinking. Cameron held the pose for a few moments, then snapped the barrel down and tucked it into the flap pocket of his combat pants.

"Drink, drugs, money and a roof over our heads," repeated Cameron, as if summarising the deal. "I’ll buy that, for a while." He moved the door, and turned before leaving.

"You can fuck her, if you like."

Omar looked down at the naked girl. She stared back, frightened again.

"Thank you, but no. I have work to do. And so do you." He held out a sheet of paper. It was a printed leaflet. In his other hand was a banded wad of money. Cameron eyed the money, licking his lips.

"I need five thousand of these by tomorrow afternoon. Will that be a problem?"

Cameron took the money and the leaflet and did not even bother to see what was printed on it. The money was far, far in excess of the cost of getting these printed at some backstreet joint in the city. Cameron presumed he could keep the change.

"Not at all."

"Then what are you still doing here?"

Cameron moved his mouth as if to reply, but found he had nothing to say. He left the room. Omar heard the front door slam.

Madeline looked up, her body relaxing again, body language surrendering to Omar. Her legs parted, revealing herself totally, offering. He knelt by her again, but the violation he intended would not be physical or sexual, but psychological. She did not resist as he lay his hands on her temples, felt the electric charge pass through her frontal lobes, as Omar delivered The Word pure and personal and complete. Her body flexed and thrashed against his, and she listened. And she understood.

Clevinger came to London, just as Harrison had predicted.

The enquiry board were all suits, fucking suits, Clevinger noted wryly. Not a military uniform amongst them. Then why did he feel it necessary to stand to attention in front of them? Thirty years of military conditioning, that's why. That, and the power that exuded from these men. Not the physical power of an athlete or a soldier, but the psychological power of men who make life-changing decisions with the stroke of a pen, and then go for lunch. Clevinger knew what it was like to order men to their deaths - anyone with a rank who had seen action had experienced this, all that changed as you clambered the ladder of promotion was the amount of people that you were personally responsible for. But there was a difference between Clevinger, who would always see the results of his failures or misjudgements or just plain bad luck first hand. These men, these suits, never would, except maybe on the evening news or in a dry and factual report on their desks. Men like this made his skin crawl. But he was ultimately answerable to them, and so he stood to attention, like a good soldier.

There were five men on the board. He did not know their names, he knew only the title of their appointment - Executive Committee, Special Security Projects. A typically vague moniker, they could have been in charge of the installation of new doors or a closed circuit television system, for all the title gave away. Two of the men were obviously in their early sixties, another was obese and sweating profusely, two looked like thirtysomething car salesmen, the cut of their suits a little too modern, a little too shiny, for what seemed a high office. They looked bored, looking out at the view of London through the tinted windows to either side of where Clevinger stood, ankle deep in rich burgundy carpet. Rain beaded the pristinely polished glass.

The Fat Man leaned forward against the wide mahogany table, which was empty except for five untouched glasses of water. There was not a document or notepad to be seen, which made the 'interrogation' all the more impressive, and intimidating.

"Mister Clevinger, please, can we get you a chair?"

"I'd rather stand, sir, if it's all the same."

"Then please, stand at ease, as you military gentlemen say. This is not a court martial, Mister Clevinger."

Clevinger relaxed a little, placing his hands behind his back. To the men behind the table, he still looked as if was about to leap across it and kill them all.

"Major Joseph Clevinger, 22^nd Special Air Service Regiment," began Salesman Number One. "Retired." He paused theatrically before and after the last word. He seemed as if he was reading from a service report. "Your service record is a fantastic read, Mister Clevinger. Like a Gerald Seymour novel. Commissioned into the Parachute Regiment at 21, service in the Falklands, Northern Ireland, resigned commission to transfer to 22 SAS as a trooper, promoted through the ranks to regain commission and retire as a major. Along the way you took part in special forces operations in Iraq, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Kosovo, Croatia. Ah, Croatia. A black mark, Mister Clevinger. Your ultimate downfall."

Clevinger reddened. The Fat Man had been right. This was no court martial. Court martials had an air of dignity about them. This was shaping up to be the most degrading experience of his life.

Salesman Number Two picked up the verbal whip. "We are aware that you were exonerated of all blame for the failure of the Dubrovnik operation, Mister Clevinger. Rest assured, you would not have been considered for your current post if this was not the case. However, 'mud sticks' as the saying goes. In our field of operations, every angle is covered, Mister Clevinger, every angle. No doubt you are aware of this. We know things about you that you probably aren't even aware of yourself."

"We know you have been suffering from nightmares," said Old Man Number One.

Clevinger's nostrils flared, a slight tremor, a visible sign of his mounting anger. How the fuck did they know that? Who had he told? No one. Newton? Had Newton guessed when he had woken him in the bivvy? Was Newton writing reports on him? No, no, no. This was paranoia. This was playing into their hands. Newton was a trusted friend.

"The loss of a man during training is a regrettable occurrence," said Old Man Number Two, looking out of the window and talking in a distracted manner. "Some would say that it is a inevitable eventuality, given the dangerous business we are in. But this is not the Army, Mister Clevinger."

They refused to address him by his rank, he noticed, even though as a retired officer retained in government service he was more than entitled to expect its use out of respect. The slight was wounding.

"The loss of another trainee has forced us into a difficult position," said the Fat Man. They spoke as one, like some single-minded creature, each dropping and picking up the threads of the conversation. "Certain factions within our organisation were not convinced by the Dubrovnik report, and lobbied for a 'cleaner' appointment to the head of the paramilitary section of the project. Those voices are made much louder by this latest blunder. Do you understand what we are saying, Mister Clevinger?"

"I understand," said Clevinger. If they refused to use his rank, he would not grace them with 'sir'. Fuck them.

"You are to be suspended on full pay pending a further investigation," said Salesman Number One, a slight smile on his thin lips, as if he had lobbied successfully to deliver the coup de grace. "That is far more generous than some of our members would have you receive, let me tell you that much. Be assured, if you are exonerated - once again - you will be reinstated to your present position."

"Is that it?" Clevinger asked.

The suits looked back blankly for several awkward silent moments.

"Do you have something to say, Mister Clevinger?" asked the Fat Man.

"Yes," said Clevinger, taking a step forward. "Fuck you. Fuck you all. Fuck your suits, your Executive, and your fucking secrecy. I was hounded into this job with the promise of a free hand, a remit to create the world's best antiterrorist unit, with no budget, no rules of engagement, no hands tied behind our back. You brought me in because you thought I could deliver. Fuck Dubrovnik. And you have the balls to haul me up in front of your Mickey Mouse panel like a naughty schoolboy, and I'm supposed to beg for my job back? Fuck your job. Don't call me with the news of your enquiry, I'm not fucking interested. You won't be able to find me, anyway."

He turned on his heel and marched smartly to the huge double mahogany doors at the opposite end of the room to the table. He turned the brass handle but the doors were locked. He rattled the handle angrily.

"Mister Clevinger," said the Fat Man. "We will always be able to find you. And if we do require your continuing services, we'll find you, and you'll come back to us. Men like you always do."

There was a faint click and the door came open in his hand. He passed through, slamming it behind him as hard as he could.

Christ, he thought. I need a fucking drink.

It was mid-afternoon. The pubs of Soho were empty except for a few tourists and late-lunchers. He hopped through three or four, alternating between pints of Caffreys and neat whiskeys, until the whiskeys became chasers and the afternoon turned into a cold, drizzly November night. He felt overdressed, old and staid in his suit and overcoat, as the pretty young things came out to play, so he bought a bottle of whisky from a late off-licence and rode the tube to Docklands, where he kept an overpriced flat that had cost him the bulk of his army pay-off. It had impressive twenty four hour security and a nice view of the river and city, especially at night. He had hardly spent a week there since he bought it - the organisation had made many demands on his time since he had left the army. Most of those demands had taken him away from here.

The flat was sparsely furnished. The effect was modern and minimalist but Clevinger's intention was not aesthetics, merely functionality. He had lived for thirty years in a world where he was prepared to drop everything and run at the sound of a few words in a phone call, or a number combination on a pager. There was no room in that world for ornaments, or pets, or even - or maybe, especially - partners. There had been women, of course. He had even been briefly married shortly after he had been commissioned into the Parachute Regiment. Her name was Laura, a pretty young thing who had deserved better than this sullen, serious, introverted young bully, and she had worked this out for herself after too many encounters with his fists, and even more brief, loveless phone calls from Belize or Bessbrook. He often wondered - normally when drunk and staring out over dark cities, as he was now - what had happened to her. Probably a big house in the commuter belt, a rich fat husband, two or three kids, tennis club membership and valium. She deserved better than that, too.

Clevinger descended further into his depression in direct proportion to the emptying of the whiskey bottle. The day's events repeated themselves in an empty loop, the humiliation of the enquiry panel, his frustration and embarrassment at the locked door, his impotence. In an attempt to disrupt the loop, he imagined marching into the room in full assault rig, respirator, body armour, black overalls and MP5, listening to his own breathing rasping in his ears, looking at their faces change from smugness to terror as he cocked the MP5 and eviscerated the lot of them. Then he looked down and each of them had turned to the face of Dragomir, the Serbian who had ruined his career in the castle at Dubrovnik. Dragomir, his nemesis. Dragomir, whose body had never been recovered, whose very existence had been called into question in one of the many after-action reports written by people who had been a long, long way away, safe from harm when the bullets had been flying. Fuck them. Fuck Dragomir. Fuck the organisation. Fuck the SAS. Fuck the Army. Fuck it all. He was finished.

So was the bottle of whiskey. As dawn broke over the Thames and the sun burned away a little of the November rain, Clevinger slept fully clothed across his leather sofa, whiskey stupor chasing away the last of his nightmares.

Sergeant Hughes had assembled his snatch squad in a disused factory unit on the northern edge of the Southside Estate, just outside the police cordon. His men sat on their bergens in slick wet body armour, cradling their weapons, passing a flask of hot coffee back and forth. Their faces were smeared with black camouflage cream, like soldiers. Outside in the darkness, the engine of their armoured personnel carrier ticked over noisily, its fumes creeping into the factory and polluting the air. A thick power lead snaked from the vehicle's generator in through a window to provide harsh light for their preparations, which they had completed hours ago. They had sat here now for over three hours, awaiting word from a covert observation post inside the estate, that their target was home. Then, and only then, would they go in.

Sergeant Hughes walked the line of his men, kneeling and talking to them, on ear cocked for the radio message that would given them the word to go, the other listening to their grievances, worries, problems, jokes. This was a new squad, a young squad. Only two of his ten men had been on a live operation before. Hughes himself was an ex-soldier, a veteran of Ireland and the Balkans, and being shot at was nothing new. When he had returned to his native Manchester after leaving the Army, he had thought that becoming a copper was a good choice of second career for a man of thirty eight. Maybe become a village bobby somewhere out in the suburbs, riding a bike and giving naughty little kids a clip around the ear. But that had all been before the Summer of Hate. Since then, he had gone to work every day with a gun in his hand and body armour on his back, and he had seen some things on these squalid estates that he had never seen on his worst days in Belfast or Sarajevo. And he had killed, too. Three people in the last four months. It made him feel sick to think that his home city had come to this.

He stood up suddenly, blanking the young copper who had been telling him about his girlfriend trouble. He asked for a confirmation of the order through his throat mike, and received it immediately.

"Mount up, people. The cowboy is back on the ranch. We're about to spoil his cosy night in."

The barricades parted for the APC running at full speed down the main access road into the Southside Estate. The cops on duty at the barrier threw victory signs as the vehicle roared through, suddenly switching off its headlights as it passed into the lawless zone. In an instant it was a growling, invisible night beast.

Inside, the APC commander glanced down, away from his infrared periscope, to examine a sketch map taped in a plastic sleeve on his thigh. The map had been drawn and faxed through from the covert OP, using a cellular laptop terminal. These guys are the fucking business, thought the commander, living in coffin-spaces for weeks at a time, eating protein bars and bagging up their own shit, surrounded by hostile maniacs who would rape, lynch and disembowel them if they were discovered. The APC commander gave whispered instructions to his driver over the intercom, following the vehicle's progress through the infrared, as the IR headlights coned the deserted streets. A petrol bomb smashed into the blue armoured hull as they crossed a junction, spilling fire over the turret, but it was quickly doused by the APC's automatic firefighting system. The commander did not consider it enough of a threat to break their progress for. The APC thundered on into the heart of the estate.

"Target address approaching, two hundred metres."

In the back, crammed in with his ten young, nervous, tired and wet men, Sergeant Hughes heard the warning on the intercom.

"Take us door to door, Steve, just as arranged. I'm unplugging." He reached over and disconnected himself from the vehicle intercom. Tightening the chinstrap on his helmet, he turned to his men. The running lights of the APC's interior reflected off the stray patches of exposes flesh and the whites of their eyes. He held up a gloved hand and folded each finger inward to a second count. As he made a fist, the back door of the APC dropped to form an armoured ramp. His team deployed silently, professionally, exiting the APC and taking up fire positions along its flank, to its rear, and in the doorways of the houses surrounding the target address. Hughes joined them, scanning the dark streets with a handheld thermal imager. All was quiet. Curtains twitched along the street. Any one of them could be a sniper. He would have to let the APC crew, his covering team, take care of that.

"Knock, knock," he whispered to the nearest member of his team. The cop nodded and stood up, bringing his weapon to bear on the front door of the terraced house. He discharged it twice at the hinges, and the door crumpled and folded like paper. The team swept in, flashlights blazing from mounts under weapon barrels. Hughes's voice boomed from a miniature loudspeaker clipped to his utility belt.

The team moved from room to room, methodically clearing, finding nothing except old furniture and clothes. The house looked uninhabited. Another fuck up, thought Hughes, trailing his team through the safe lane they created. He was about to call in a sitrep back to control when he heard a startled shout from upstairs. His men froze and consolidated their positions, falling back on standard operating procedures. Hughes shot past them, a 9mm Glock in his hand, thundering up the stairs. At the top, one of the cops was flat against the wall, looking into a room opposite. He held his weapon against his chest like a comfort blanket. Hughes halted on the stairs and caught the man's attention. He appeared incapable of speech, but pointed at the room across the landing. Hughes moved up on to the landing, holding his Glock out in front of him, and swung left toward the room. Another of his men filled the doorway, standing on one leg, his other poised almost comically in the air in a kung-fu pose. The cop had SMITH stencilled in white on the backplate of his body armour.

"Smudge," Hughes whispered. "What is it, Smudge? What have you hit?"

Smudge did not turn around. He whimpered and gripped the door frame, steadying himself.

"Oh God, oh fuck, don't leave me like this, Sarge. Oh shit, look at her, oh shit, we're both going to die, we're both going to die."

Hughes crept forward, trying to see over Smudge's shoulder into the room, but the young cop was broad and it was difficult to see around him.

"Get a grip, Smudge. What's wrong? Why have you got your foot in the air?"

"Trip," sobbed Smudge. "Tripwire."

Hughes knelt slowly and crouched near Smudge's back foot. He pulled his flashlight from its retaining band on his utility belt and shone the beam into the room, along the floor. He looked up at Smudge's right boot, suspended off the floor, and the thin metal strand of wire held taught by his instep. The wire disappeared to the left and right. It could be anything, or nothing. There was no immediate way of telling. Smudge had done well not to blunder straight through it. Hughes shifted position, casting the torch beam left and right, trying to see where the wire terminated. He became aware of an oily reflection on the floor inside the room. In the harsh light it was impossible to tell what it was, but it was wet, and there was lots of it. Hughes shifted position and worked the beam deeper into the room, where it became evident that this reflection on the floor was a huge pool, spreading toward him. Something dripped from above, sending concentric circles through the pool. Hughes cast his beam upwards. His breath caught in his throat.

Her name was Joanna Gordon and she was a detective constable with the Serious Crimes Unit. Hughes knew her well. As was their standard operating procedure for security reasons, he had been unaware that she was the OP operator on this job. The last time he had seen her had been at a force social. She was a marathon runner and had turned heads in a little black dress, although her Tae Kwan Do skills ensured that none of the randy officers had dared chat her up. Now, oh shit, thought Hughes, his hands quivering, look at her now. Naked and crucified to the shit-stained wall of a derelict house, her breasts sliced off and her intestines hanging in wet loops from a slit in her belly, her body hanging at forty five degrees from the wall where her feet and hands were nailed, thin wire wound tightly around her neck holding her head upright, a strangely proud pose. Dignity in her extreme violation. Her eyes were still open. Don't let her be alive, thought Hughes, no one can survive this. Please don't let her be alive.

Blood pumped from her multiple wounds in time to a decaying heartbeat. Her black strangled tongue struggled to form words. She was still alive, but only just. Dare he move into the room, trying to avoid Smudge's tripwire? No. He was sure now that there was a bomb on the other end. It was a set-up, a trap. Gordon had been compromised and her equipment used to lure the team in. And it had worked. Christ, had it worked. Hughes edged slowly back on to the landing.

"Don't leave me, Sarge," whispered Smudge. Hughes tapped him gently on his supporting leg.

"I have to, son, just for a minute. I have to evacuate the building. Just hold that leg in the air. You're doing great."

"I fancied her, Sarge, I fancied her rotten. Look at her, just look at what they've done to her, fucking animals…."

"Close your eyes, Smudge. Don't look at her. We'll soon have you out of there."

Hughes turned to the cop behind him who was still frozen at the top of the stairs. He started to tell him to get everyone out, to get to the APC and withdraw to the end of the street. At that moment Smudge developed cramp in his leg and involuntarily dropped his foot. The click was loud and terrible.

Hughes had seen this once before, a landmine in Ireland tearing apart a Landrover. Time slowed to nothing, he could see the fireball swell from the room, vaporising Smudge who was directly in its path. Hughes saw the bones of Smudge's skeleton stand out against the vivid orange of the explosion. There was no sound, or none that he was aware of. With less than a second to react, he tumbled down the stairs, taking the other man with him, the fireball sweeping down and over them, purging the house of its intruders and bringing the whole structure down around them. Then the roaring grew, and the pain with it, until it reached a point where Hughes could not think or bear it anymore, and he was glad when the darkness claimed him.

I hope not, thought Hughes, I fucking hope not. I hope they talk nicer than this in Heaven. If that's where they've sent me. By mistake.

His head swam. Stars blurred his vision. He blinked rapidly to try and clear them and became aware of an enormous pressure in his head. He was lying on his side, his temple resting against cold concrete. When he tried to lift it, it felt as if it was sticking to the ground. He moved his hands, but they were secured tightly behind his back - probably with his own cuffs, he thought. His weapon! Oh shit, where was his weapon? Well, at least he was still alive. Apparently.

He rolled over and pain assaulted him simultaneously from all points of his body. He felt as if he had been thrown from a tower block. He blinked dust and blood from his eyes and struggled into a sitting position, pushing himself forward on his secured hands. His back hurt most of all. He waited patiently, quietly, until his vision cleared. Then he saw the boy dancing around in front of him, jeering and sniggering. He could have been no more than fourteen. Skinny, scruffy, unwashed, ferrety features. Tucked under his arm was a high-specification rubber-armoured laptop computer, of the type used by covert observation posts. Joanna Gordon's laptop. Oh God, Joanna, he had forgotten. And Smudge. And - how the fuck had he ended up here?

He looked around. He was sat in the middle of a large warehouse, all rusty spars and glass ceiling panes, half-missing, half-frosted with bird shit and pollution. Rain water lay in stagnant pools on the concrete floor. To his right, looking out of place, was a glossy black Terminator, the commercial version of the American HUMVEE military vehicle, shiny as if it had just been waxed, with license plates from an exclusive dealer in Cheshire. Ever the eagle-eyed copper, Hughes, he thought wryly. Sat on the bonnet of the jeep was a dark-skinned young man in ankle-length leather coat. He was gaunt and had unkempt shoulder-length hair. He watched impassively as the boy ran around Hughes, cawing and brandishing the laptop like a prize.

"Led you here, I did," he sneered. "Fucking computer genius, I am. Twenty seconds - cracked the password. Ten minutes - message sent. One hour - houseful of dead coppers!"

The man on the bonnet of the car managed a slight smile at this. He jumped down, tan desert boots crunching broken glass underfoot, and walked over to Hughes. He stood in front of him and looked down. Hughes looked up and mustered some dignity.

"Jason Khan, my name is Sergeant Steve Hughes of the Manchester Metropolitan Police. I am placing you under arrest under Section Two of the Revised Public Order Code, for bail violation, illegal possession of a weapon, illegal sales of weapons, purchase with the intent to supply - "

Khan let out a roaring laugh and walked a complete circle around Hughes, clutching at his sides. Hughes continued to reel of the charges, as if were some form of mantra that would protect him from further harm.

" - you do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used as evidence against you."

Khan knelt by Hughes' knee. He touched the cop's chin with the tip of a leather-gloved finger. Hughes flinched.

"Led you a merry dance, didn't I, copper? Thought you had me cold, Jason nipping back for a bit of nookie with an old girlfriend, is that what you thought? Catch him on the vinegar strokes with his arse in the air? No chance. Came back for a field test. And it worked a treat."

Hughes blood ran cold. "Where are my men?"

Khan smiled. He walked to the back of the jeep, opened the rear door and pulled out a green plastic tube. He tossed it at Hughes, and it rattled emptily across the floor. Hughes didn't need to look twice at it. It was the empty casing of a disposable anti-tank rocket.

"Not so bulletproof any more, heh? I just evened the balance a bit in favour of Neighbourhood Watch."

Hughes hyperventilated, struggling against his handcuffs. He swung around his right leg, attempting to stand up, then cried out and almost vomited with the pain. His right leg stuck out at a weird angle, clearly broken.

"My men," he gasped. "Did any of them survive? Surely you didn't - "

"Ah, I think one or two got away. I don't know, how many of you squealers do you fit in the back of a pig truck? There were certainly lots of bits around."

Hughes closed his eyes and hung his head. The boy had seated himself crosslegged in front of him and flipped up the screen on the laptop, staring intently into it. Khan stood over the boy.

"My pride and joy. My little sunbeam. I found him in an old house on the estate. Mum and Dad long gone, fucked off to who knows where. He was eating his way through the bits and bobs they had left behind, cornflake butties, that sort of thing. Didn't have the nouse to make a run for it himself, or steal stuff, or cook anything, lazy little bastard. All he wants to do is play on his computer, don't you, Pixel?"

The boy glanced up momentarily at his nickname, then returned his attention to the screen.

"Mind you, he is a fucking genius. Had that cop's computer singing in no time. Bit like we did with the cop! Christ, she made some noise. Mind you, I suppose you would if you were having your tits sawn off."

Tears rolled down Hughes' face. This was Hell, this wasn't a place for good coppers like him. All he had wanted was a black bicycle and housewives to chat up. What a shitty way to go.

"Well, it's been nice talking," said Khan, reaching into a pocket on his coat and pulling out a Glock. Hughes' Glock. He racked the slide and placed the muzzle under the cop's ear. "But it really is time for you to go." He pulled the trigger. Hughes gasped, an exploded breath. Khan frowned and pulled the trigger again. Nothing, not even a click. He examined the gun, made sure the safety was off, racked the slide again. A shiny unfired 9mm round leapt out of the ejection port and bounced on the concrete. He put the gun back to the cop's head and pulled the trigger once more. Nothing.

Khan looked up. At the opposite end of the warehouse stood a small man in a tan suit. Behind him were a crusty and a skinny girl. The man in the suit was wagging his finger back and forth in the air like a metronome.

"Not this time," said the man. "We need him." He dropped his hand suddenly. Instantly the gun went off in Khan's hand, sending an unaimed bullet into the rafters, breaking a ceiling pane. Glass and bird shit tumbled down. Pixel shut the lid of his captured laptop and scrambled for cover under the wheels of the jeep.

Khan stood his ground. "I know you. You're that nutter that's been spreading leaflets around the estate, preaching love and happiness and all that shit."

Omar smiled and walked toward Khan. He made a wide circuit, watching Khan and Pixel and Hughes, whimpering on the floor.

"It is called The Word," said Omar, "and already people are starting to listen. Even you, a Disciple of Death, a dealer of arms, have heard of me."

Khan's face twitched. "One of your leaflets was stuck under my wipers. I thought it was for a carpet warehouse or something. What the fuck do you want around here? This is my turf. My business."

Omar stopped suddenly. Madeline and Cameron had trailed dutifully in his wake. Now they prowled around the jeep, trying to tempt Pixel from his hiding place under it. He snapped at them like a little dog.

"This is no one's turf but mine now, Khan. There are no gangs anymore. No gangsters. No players. No movers, no shakers. Only The Word. And the Children. Will you become one of my Children, Khan?" Omar extended his hand, palm upright. Khan didn't know if he was asking for the gun or his handshake. He raised the gun and fired point blank at Omar. Again, the gun failed to fire.

"You can't shoot me," said Omar. "I am armoured by The Word. Wouldn't you like to be protected like that too?"

Khan looked at the gun in bewilderment. What the fuck was the matter with it? He was a gun expert - he bought and sold hundreds of the fucking things every week. Shit, he had even personally blown up the cop's APC with the anti-tank rocket.

"Armoured by The Word," repeated Omar hypnotically. He took a step forward and grabbed the barrel of the pistol. A shock coursed through Khan's body, flexing him rigid. He listened.

Hughes watched all this from his broken huddle on the floor. What the fuck was going on? Guns that fired one minute then didn't the next. That was his gun, he knew it worked. Omar let go of it, and so did Khan. It clattered noisily to the floor.

"I'm listening," Khan said evenly, hands hanging limply and submissively by his side. "I'm listening."

Omar smiled and nodded. He turned his attention to Hughes, and squatted on the floor next to him. He placed an arm gently around his shoulder.

"I'm going to bring you to safety," he said, hugging Hughes to him. The cop felt a surge of something through his body, driving away the pain, filling his head with cotton wool. "And you will tell everybody - everybody - who it was saved you and showed you mercy. And they will listen."

Hughes nodded slowly, understanding. "Yes," he whispered. "I will tell them all. And they will listen."