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the bone, but he needed to disable him fast. As the man’s head jerked sideways Tom applied an arm lock, slid his right leg behind the front ankle, and struck him just under the throat with his palm, his fingers and thumb split in a V-shape. The man had no option but to fall over Tom’s extended thigh.
    As fellow agents took hold of the secretary and bundled her away, Tom decided to keep the lock on. He grasped the man’s shirt, and lowered the body to the asphalt. Experiencing a hit of hormones, he heard gasps and half-muffled cursing, sensed the crowd moving back. The attackers had targeted him, not the secretary, and that had almost caught him off guard.
    “Stay down!” he snarled.
    Although the man was barely conscious, Tom didn’t have the time or inclination to deal with him again, and he wasn’t carrying cuffs. But the agent shadowing the secretary burst through the line-up, and grabbed the guy in a headlock.
    Straightening up, Tom caught sight of the female slinking away, although people were pointing at her and calling out. Before he could get the police to arrest her, the agitated words of agents flooded his earpiece. The secretary, he thought, grimacing. He pivoted around. Two of his team, Dave Robbins and Becky Sykes, were jogging with her, Becky holding her elbow, Dave shielding her lithe but awkward frame. She was wobbling on her high heels, and Tom barked into his radio, told them to remove the damn things or lift her.
    Seeing that the MSD team had alighted from the SUVs parked on the dusty roadway, he glanced back to see how Sam was faring. The male agents had restrained a couple of the young men, pinning them to the ground with their suited bulks, although their weapons were still holstered. Sam lay face up and looked to be in bad shape. A pool of dull-red blood had formed around his head, the consistency of mucus. The policemen were beating the other two men with their batons. If they kept it up, they’d either kill them or cause brain damage, Tom thought.
    He turned, saw that the secretary had almost reached the nearest SUV. It couldn’t drive up to her due to the fracas on the road. But the MSD agents had surrounded her with their body-armoured chests and backs, their weapons sweeping the crowd and the roofs of the surrounding buildings for any sign of a shooter. Evacuation was the best defence. He knew they’d manoeuvre her swiftly into the rear vehicle and exit at speed.
    He had a gut feeling and decided to stay put. A sixth sense that had developed over the years. He checked the windows opposite, the tattered drapes half drawn. After a three-second scan, he saw what looked like the muzzle of an assault rifle disappear from view, although he couldn’t be sure. He shouted into the radio and drew his SIG, releasing the safety. Two MSD agents raced towards the building’s entrance, shoving people out of the way as they went.
    He aimed his SIG at the window, deciding that if the image re-emerged he’d empty a full clip into the dirt-stained glass, irrespective of the outcome.
    Then his worst nightmare began.

5.
    Smoke and stun grenades hit the ground first, quickly followed by tear gas and bursts of automatic fire. Flashes of white light erupted, the high-pitched blasts blowing people off their feet. Others flailed about, blood leaching from their bodies. The two agents who were sprinting towards the building were dropped at the double doors. Panic-stricken, the crowd began to stampede, desperate to escape the kill zone. The air was swamped by hysterical screams, the police rendered useless, hunkering down as bullets cut chunks from wooden beams and ricocheted off metal posts and concrete overhangs.
    Tom swayed, disorientated, his ears throbbing. Shaking his head in an attempt to revive himself, he glimpsed at least ten armed men rappelling from open windows, their faces obscured by gas masks. They had what looked like HK sub-machine guns strapped to their backs, with scopes, which he guessed