next in line. Seeing his friend run after the other suspect, Chalky took the initiative and moved into the living room, his MP5 up, as the man with the shotgun racked the pump. The weapon gave a loud double-crunch, as another shell was slotted into the firing chamber.
‘Drop the weapon!’ Chalky bellowed as he moved forward, the sight of his MP5 aimed on the guy’s chest.
Suddenly he stumbled, tripping on an overturned chair-leg in the dim light, and fell, momentarily losing his grip on his weapon. He clattered onto the floor, landing just in front of the guy.
From the ground, he looked up.
And the wrong end of the shotgun met his gaze, an inch from his face.
It was so close, he found himself staring inside the barrel.
Behind it, he could see the man’s face, eyes wide, hopped up from cocaine.
And the guy pulled the trigger.
Click .
The gun misfired.
A split-second later, the man holding the shotgun was thrown back, two rounds from Mac’s MP5 slamming into his chest. His finger twitched on the trigger as he fell and the shotgun erupted once more, white plaster exploding from the ceiling as it took the round. He was dead before his back hit the floor.
The other man, seeing his friend’s demise, threw his Beretta to the floor in panic, holding his hands high above him and screaming in some foreign language. Mac moved forward to arrest him, never taking the front-sight of his weapon off the guy’s chest. If he tried something cute, he’d be dead in an instant.
Across the room, Chalky leaned back against the wall, his eyes wide with shock. Porter dropped to one knee beside him, grabbing his shoulders, looking into his eyes.
Chalky stared back at him, confused. Porter’s voice was muffled.
He was up close, holding him by the shoulders, looking into his eyes.
He was shouting, asking him something, but Chalky couldn’t hear what he was saying. He stared back at him, his chest heaving as he sucked in air, looking at Porter’s mouth as it moved as if he was watching a silent film.
On the upper floor, Archer was just finishing hand-cuffing the third man’s hands behind his back. The guy was shouting and swearing, but the young officer ignored him, keeping his knee on the guy’s back and pinning him to the ground as he used a set of plasti-cuffs from his tac vest.
Zipping them tight, Archer rose, lifting his MP5 back to his shoulder. Behind him, the man writhed and jerked around as he tried to free his hands, but it was hopeless; Archer had cuffed his ankles too, trussing the guy up like a Christmas turkey. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Looking around him, Archer saw that there were only two doors on the second floor but both of them were shut.
He crept forward to the first, just as a shout came from downstairs.
‘Clear!’
Arriving outside the first door, Archer took a deep breath. Closed rooms were a nightmare to breach. Someone could be standing just the other side with a shotgun aimed at the wood, waiting for the moment they heard movement in the corridor or when they sensed someone touch the handle.
There could even be a group of them in there for all he knew, each one pointing a gun at the door.
Taking a deep breath, he kicked it open and ducked swiftly inside.
It was a spare bedroom, and thankfully, it was empty. No one was there. The room contained just a solitary bed, no sheets or duvet.
But there were a number of things resting on the mattress.
Archer looked closer, and felt his breath catch.
Four large transparent bags had been dumped on the bed. Each one was about the size of a black rubbish bag, and each contained different items.
He looked closer and saw ball bearings and marbles.
Nails.
White powder.
And some kind of clear liquid that looked like bleach.
Beside the bags, three backpacks lay on the bed, along with a spool of wire.
Archer’s mouth went dry as two words came into his mind.
Suicide bomb.
Staring at the bags on the bed for a moment longer, he then raced
‘Drop the weapon!’ Chalky bellowed as he moved forward, the sight of his MP5 aimed on the guy’s chest.
Suddenly he stumbled, tripping on an overturned chair-leg in the dim light, and fell, momentarily losing his grip on his weapon. He clattered onto the floor, landing just in front of the guy.
From the ground, he looked up.
And the wrong end of the shotgun met his gaze, an inch from his face.
It was so close, he found himself staring inside the barrel.
Behind it, he could see the man’s face, eyes wide, hopped up from cocaine.
And the guy pulled the trigger.
Click .
The gun misfired.
A split-second later, the man holding the shotgun was thrown back, two rounds from Mac’s MP5 slamming into his chest. His finger twitched on the trigger as he fell and the shotgun erupted once more, white plaster exploding from the ceiling as it took the round. He was dead before his back hit the floor.
The other man, seeing his friend’s demise, threw his Beretta to the floor in panic, holding his hands high above him and screaming in some foreign language. Mac moved forward to arrest him, never taking the front-sight of his weapon off the guy’s chest. If he tried something cute, he’d be dead in an instant.
Across the room, Chalky leaned back against the wall, his eyes wide with shock. Porter dropped to one knee beside him, grabbing his shoulders, looking into his eyes.
Chalky stared back at him, confused. Porter’s voice was muffled.
He was up close, holding him by the shoulders, looking into his eyes.
He was shouting, asking him something, but Chalky couldn’t hear what he was saying. He stared back at him, his chest heaving as he sucked in air, looking at Porter’s mouth as it moved as if he was watching a silent film.
On the upper floor, Archer was just finishing hand-cuffing the third man’s hands behind his back. The guy was shouting and swearing, but the young officer ignored him, keeping his knee on the guy’s back and pinning him to the ground as he used a set of plasti-cuffs from his tac vest.
Zipping them tight, Archer rose, lifting his MP5 back to his shoulder. Behind him, the man writhed and jerked around as he tried to free his hands, but it was hopeless; Archer had cuffed his ankles too, trussing the guy up like a Christmas turkey. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Looking around him, Archer saw that there were only two doors on the second floor but both of them were shut.
He crept forward to the first, just as a shout came from downstairs.
‘Clear!’
Arriving outside the first door, Archer took a deep breath. Closed rooms were a nightmare to breach. Someone could be standing just the other side with a shotgun aimed at the wood, waiting for the moment they heard movement in the corridor or when they sensed someone touch the handle.
There could even be a group of them in there for all he knew, each one pointing a gun at the door.
Taking a deep breath, he kicked it open and ducked swiftly inside.
It was a spare bedroom, and thankfully, it was empty. No one was there. The room contained just a solitary bed, no sheets or duvet.
But there were a number of things resting on the mattress.
Archer looked closer, and felt his breath catch.
Four large transparent bags had been dumped on the bed. Each one was about the size of a black rubbish bag, and each contained different items.
He looked closer and saw ball bearings and marbles.
Nails.
White powder.
And some kind of clear liquid that looked like bleach.
Beside the bags, three backpacks lay on the bed, along with a spool of wire.
Archer’s mouth went dry as two words came into his mind.
Suicide bomb.
Staring at the bags on the bed for a moment longer, he then raced
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