Knife Edge

9.24 A.M.

Doyle didn't know the names of the two men with him.

He didn't care.

They were both uniformed and in their late twenties. One fresh-faced and slightly built, the other broader across the shoulders. The bulletproof waistcoats which they both wore added to the bulk.

Doyle had seen both of the policemen inspecting him as Calloway had briefed them and then he'd heard names mentioned.

Scott and Wilde? Something like that.

Who cared?

They both carried Sterling 81 rifles.

Doyle held a two-way radio in his hand, the volume turned down as low as possible.

The three men were less than fifty yards from number ten London Road, ducked low as they sprinted towards number six, passing other policemen, some of whom were crouched down behind the many parked cars which clogged the street.

Doyle saw more guns.

The counter terrorist slowed his pace when he reached the short path leading towards the front door of number six. There was a high fence to one side of the house which would shield their approach. It also hid the garden from view should anyone be looking from a rear window of number ten.

Doyle knew that Neville would have ensured he could see in all directions. He would have picked his vantage points carefully.

That's what Doyle himself would have done.

He smiled to himself.

The gate which led to the rear of number six was open and Doyle eased up the latch and beckoned the two policemen to follow him.

The garden was a mess. The lawn was overgrown, the flowerbeds infested with weeds. A child's swing was at the bottom of the garden, the seat swaying gently back and forth in the wind, the rusty chains creaking noisily.

The fence which separated this garden from that of the next house was six feet tall, weather-beaten, rotten in places.

Doyle gripped the top and hauled himself up, glancing swiftly over into the garden of number eight.

Beyond it there was a low privet hedge.

'Fuck it,' hissed Doyle, dropping back down.

'What's wrong?' asked Scott, the larger of the two armed policemen.

'Don't fuck about when you get over this fence,' Doyle said sharply 'There isn't much cover. Just head straight for the back door and keep your heads down, otherwise you're likely to get them blown off.'

Doyle pulled the Beretta from its holster and worked the slide, chambering a round before slipping it back beneath his left arm.

Wilde looked at his companion then at Doyle.

'What if Neville opens fire?' he asked nervously.

'You're wearing body armour, aren't you?' Doyle said. 'Just hope he doesn't aim for your head.'

'Do we return fire?' Scott wanted to know.

Doyle shook his head.

'Then what's the point in us having these?' Wilde blurted, holding up the rifle.

'Just do what you're told,' Doyle snapped, turning towards the fence once again.

He gripped the top, dragged himself up and over it, landing lightly on the other side. As soon as he hit the ground he ducked down and scuttled towards the rear of the house, casting a swift cautionary glance towards one of the back windows of number ten.

No signs of movement.

Had Neville seen them approaching?

Cat and fucking mouse.

Doyle saw Scott heaving himself over the fence, the rifle slung around him.

He jumped down, landed heavily and overbalanced, sprawling on the grass.

'Get up, you prat,' Doyle hissed under his breath as the policeman hurried across to join him.

Wilde followed a moment later, banging the fence hard with one foot as he swung himself over.

Doyle looked up towards the back of number ten.

Are you waiting for us, Neville?

Doyle half expected to hear a shot ring out, to see Wilde fall.

Instead the policeman sprinted over to join the other two men. He was breathing hard and Doyle suspected that it wasn't the exertions which were causing it.

The younger man's face was pale.

'Now what?' said Scott.

'We get inside,' Doyle told him.

'But Neville's in number ten,' Wilde protested.

'Do you want to go and ring his fucking doorbell then?' Doyle snapped.

The younger man lowered his gaze, contenting himself with staring around the garden instead.

There was still washing on the line. Just a solitary blouse and, for some reason, a single white sock.

A plastic tricycle lay overturned on the well-manicured lawn. Close to it a black and white football.

Children's possessions, thought Wilde.

He could feel his heart pounding hard against his ribs and he gripped the rifle tightly.

Doyle was staring at the back door, which was wooden with glass panels in the top half.

Using one elbow he broke the panel above the lock and snaked his hand through, turning the key.

He pushed open the door, took one last look up at the rear of number ten, then ushered the two armed policemen inside ahead of him.

If Neville had seen them arrive he was keeping quiet about it, thought Doyle.

What little surprises have you got in store, you fucker?

Doyle stepped inside number eight and flicked on the two-way.

'Calloway, it's Doyle, come in, over.'

The radio hissed and crackled and Doyle fiddled with the buttons on it.

He heard the DI's voice.

'Doyle, this is Calloway. Over.'

The counter terrorist held the two-way close to his mouth.

'We're inside number eight,' he said.