Last Light by Andy McNab

turn-of-the-century terrace. They stopped and let us through, then immediately got back to trying to demolish the wall.
    We drove about forty metres further, then stopped. Sundance hit his key fob and a graffiti-covered double garage shutter started to roll up. Left and right of it was a pitted brown brick wall; above was a rusty metal frame that had probably once held a neon sign. Empty drinks cans littered the ground. Inside was completely empty. As we drove in, I saw that all around the old brick walls were tool boards with faded, red-painted shapes of what was supposed to be hanging there. Years ago it had probably been a one-man garage set-up. A faded Chelsea FC team poster was pinned to a door. Judging by the long haircuts, sideburns and very tight shorts, it was seventies vintage.
    The shutter door rattled and squeaked its way down behind me, gradually cutting off the noise of the kids kicking the ball. The engine was cut and the three of them started to get out.
    Sundance disappeared through the football poster door, leaving it open behind him, with luck for me to get dragged through. Anything to be out of the car and have the pressure off my wrists. Maybe I'd even get given a brew. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since the night before: there'd been too much to do and I'd simply forgotten. Just placing the bomb on the hotel roof had taken the best part of four hours, and an Egg McMuffin had been the last thing on my mind.
    While I was watching the door swing back slowly to reveal the Chelsea mop heads again, Trainers leant down and undid the cuffs pinning me to the seat. Then he and the driver got hold of me and dragged me out. We headed towards the door; I was beginning to feel that maybe I'd get away with this after all. Then I gave myself a good mental slapping: every time I had this feeling I came unstuck.
    What was happening here meant nothing until I saw the Yes Man and told him my piece. I decided to do my best not to annoy these boys while we waited. They were doing their best to intimidate me; things are always more worrying when there is no verbal contact and no information, and it was working a little, that was for sure. Not a lot, but enough.
    They dragged me through the door and into a windowless, rectangular space with pitted, dirty whitewashed brick walls. The room was airless, hot and humid, and to add to the mix somebody had been smoking roll-ups. A harsh, double fluorescent unit in the ceiling gave the impression there was nowhere to hide.
    On the floor in the left-hand corner was a steam-powered TV with a shiny new swordfish aerial hanging from a nail on the wall. It was the only thing in the room that looked as if it hadn't been purchased from a junk shop. Facing it was a worn-out brown velour three-piece suite. The arms were threadbare, and the seats sagged and were dotted with cigarette burns. Plugged into adaptors in the same socket as the TV were a green upright plastic kettle, a toaster, and battery chargers for three mobiles. The place reminded me of a minicab office, with old newspapers and Burger King drinks cups providing the finishing touches.
    Sundance was standing by the TV, finishing another call on his mobile. He looked at me and gestured towards the corner.
    "Keep it shut, boy."
    The other two gave me a shove to help me on my way. As I slid down the wall I tried my hardest not to push against the cuffs and ratchet them up even tighter than they already were. I finally slumped on to the floor and ended up facing the TV.
    SIX
    I guessed this place had been just a temporary set-up for the duration of the job and the job, of course, was planning and preparing to kill me. No doubt there was a similar set-up somewhere else in London where a whole lot of the boys and girls had prepared themselves for the hit on the snipers.
    Trainers went over to the TV as the other two headed back into the garage. I watched as he crouched down by the brew kit, opening the kettle to check for water. His