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worries,’ said Knight. ‘Your jobs always as sweet as this?’
    ‘Always,’ said Edwards. ‘Once you’ve got the manager on side, the rest is easy.’
    McMullen and Marker walked quickly to the second BMW, Parkinson following. The van was now engulfed in flames and thick black smoke was billowing up to the rafters.
    The two BMWs drove out of the factory and Roger Barrett slammed on the brakes. Knight leaped out of the car, ran to the gates and pulled them open. He froze, then swore and slammed them shut again. ‘Cops!’ he yelled. ‘There’s cops everywhere!’
    He raced back to the cars. A split second later the gates burst open and a police Land Rover with a reinforced wire cage over its bonnet roared through, then two Range Rovers and two armed-response vehicles. The Range Rovers and ARVs fanned out across the yard, tyres squealing.
    Roger Barrett cursed as the Land Rover pulled up just inches from the front bumper. He glanced into his rearview mirror. His son’s car was jammed up behind him. ‘I’m sorry, boss,’ he said, his professionalism dented. He slowly took his hands off the steering-wheel and turned off the engine.
    Men in bullet-proof vests piled out of the ARVs and Range Rovers, their MP5 assault rifles at the ready. ‘Armed police, drop your weapons!’ one screamed.
    Edwards smiled thinly. They didn’t have any weapons. All the guns were in the boot of the BMW. But even if they hadn’t been, his team wouldn’t be looking for a shoot-out against professionals. There were a dozen armed police and every one of them had been trained to kill.
    ‘Not your fault, Roger,’ he said. In the wing mirror he glimpsed Knight’s fast-retreating figure. ‘Where the hell does that dopey bastard think he’s going?’ He raised his hands. ‘Oh, well, some you win, some you lose.’
    Knight’s feet pounded on the cement and his arms powered back and forth like pistons. He glanced over his shoulder. Only one man was giving chase, an officer in his forties, MP5 cradled in his arms. The rest of the CO19 unit were standing around the BMWs, their weapons pointed at Edwards and his team.
    Knight’s chest was burning but he ignored the pain and ran faster. He hurtled into the factory, eyes watering from the smoke billowing around the burning van. He gave it a wide berth, bent double to keep his head low and ran towards the offices. ‘Armed police, stay where you are!’ shouted the officer behind him.
    Knight ran to the nearest office and hit the door with his shoulder. The wood around the lock splintered and he barrelled into the room. There was a window overlooking a rear yard but there were bars on it. There was a connecting door to the left and he grabbed the handle and pulled. It opened and he ran through into what had probably been a meeting room. There was a large whiteboard on one wall and a worn carpet with the impressions made by a table and a dozen or so chairs, but no window, just a glass door leading to a corridor. He heard the armed cop run into the office behind him and pulled open the door. He looked up and down the corridor. To the left was the factory floor, to the right were more offices, and at the end, a fire exit, some thirty paces from where he was standing. He headed for it but had only taken a few steps before the police officer was behind him. ‘Armed police! Stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them!’
    Knight stopped and leaned against the wall, his chest on fire, panting like a horse that had been raced too hard. ‘You got me,’ he said.
    The officer grinned. ‘Thought you were a runner,’ he said.
    ‘I’m a runner, not a sprinter,’ Knight gasped. ‘There’s a difference.’
    ‘You okay?’ The officer’s concern was genuine.
    Knight put his hands on his hips and took deep breaths. ‘I’m all right,’ he said.
    ‘Let’s get this over with, then,’ said the officer. He raised his MP5 and fired a short burst over Knight’s head. Three bullets