Gun at the ready, he held his breath and waited. Waited for the silence to settle down. Waited for his paranoia to pass.

It didn’t.

Far from it.

The noises seemed to come from all directions at once. An explosion from the door; a thumping from the bedroom. And here, the room in which they were standing, the shattering of glass. Dolohov shouted in sudden surprise and fear; there was movement behind the curtains. Sam fell to a crouching position, pointing his gun in the direction of the curtains and waiting for a figure to show itself.

Voices. Muffled. ‘Hit the ground! Hit the fucking ground! NOW!’

An object flying through the air. A sudden bang and a blinding white light. Sam had discharged enough flashbangs in his time, so it was hardly a fresh experience; but they were always a shock when you weren’t expecting them. He cursed and shook his head, trying to reorientate himself after his senses had gone to pot.

But by that time it was too late.

A boot against the side of his face. He fell to the floor and felt another boot pressed heavily against the wrist of his gun hand, grinding it into the rug. He struggled blindly, scrambling to stand, but at that very moment he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against the side of his head. His vision returned. He was being held at gunpoint by a balaclava’d man with an ops waistcoat and an M16.

‘Don’t… make… a… fucking… mistake,’ a low voice growled, pronouncing each word clearly. ‘We know you’re Regiment. We’ve got you covered.’

Sam froze. He counted two other guys with their M16s trained on him. A third was untying Dolohov, and he knew there would be more in other parts of the flat, checking there was nobody else there, securing the entrances and exits. Multi-room entry. Textbook stuff.

‘Drop your weapon.’

Sam released his fingers and allowed the gun to fall from his hand.

‘Flat on the floor,’ he was ordered. ‘Hands behind your back. You know the drill. Do it. Now. Do it fucking now!’

Sam had no option. These guys weren’t trained to fuck around, they were wound up like tightly coiled springs and they’d nail him if he so much as put a fingertip out of place. He did as he was told – slowly, so they wouldn’t think he was making any sudden movements.

‘Flat’s clear,’ another voice announced. ‘Cuff them both.’

His head against the floor, Sam could see nothing but the feet of the unit. A moment later, he felt a set of Plasticuffs being firmly attached around his wrists, tight so that they dug into his skin.

‘Jesus.’ A muffled voice from near where Dolohov was sitting. ‘What the fuck’s this sicko been doing?’

Sam was pulled roughly to his feet. M16s all around pointing at him. Two of the guys were looking at Dolohov’s hands.

Dolohov spoke. Desperation in his voice. ‘He has held me captive for two nights. He has tortured me. He is insane. You have to take me to a hosp-’

‘Shut up, Boris, or we’ll finish the fucking job for him.’

‘Just cuff him and get them both in the van.’ The instruction came from a guy with a Geordie accent, standing in the entrance to the room, clearly the unit leader. He pointed at Sam. ‘Any shit from you, my friend, and we’ll start making holes. Got it?’

Sam jutted his chin out and didn’t reply. A fist in his stomach. He doubled over, winded. ‘Got it?’

‘Got it,’ he gasped. He nodded and glanced over at Dolohov, who was having his own wrists bound behind his back. The Russian gave him an evil look, as though he was enjoying seeing Sam get a dose of his own medicine. He didn’t get much chance to enjoy it: he was pushed by one of the unit towards the hallway. Dolohov almost fell; at the last minute he regained his balance, but he looked a mess as he staggered towards the door.

Sam was nudged by the barrel of a gun in the same direction. He walked.

‘Regiment?’ he asked grimly.

‘You taking the piss?’ a voice hissed. ‘Now shut the fuck up and keep walking.’ He sounded insulted. Sam guessed it was the SBS. Always walking round with a chip on their shoulders about the SAS, always feeling they’re somehow the superior service and angered by the glory the Regiment boys got.

‘Who the fuck sent you?’ No reply. Sam was bundled down the stairs. Every synapse in his brain hunted for a way out; but four men had their guns trained on him and there was nothing he could do. As they stepped out of the mansion block, he saw a woman and recognised the fox fur round her neck. To say she looked shocked was an understatement. ‘What on earth…?’ she started to say; but she was ignored as the unit pushed Sam past her and on to the pavement.

Two plain white Ford Transits awaited them, the stock-in-trade of a special forces pick-up team, double parked against the other residential traffic in the street. Sam was forced into the back of one of them. All the seats had been ripped out to make a big open space in the rear. Two men were already up front and as Sam was pushed onto the hard metal floor of the van, he heard the engine rev.

‘Move up front,’ a voice instructed. Sam shuffled along the metal floor and ended up with his back against the front seats. There were four SBS guys in the back with him now – Dolohov was clearly being transported in the other van. One of them slammed the door shut and the van screeched out into the road.

It had been a neat pick-up, Sam had to give them that. He watched as the guys pulled off their balaclavas. Sam had worked alongside the SBS any number of times, but he didn’t recognise these men with their dishevelled hair and, he couldn’t help thinking, smug faces. It would be the talk of the town at SBS HQ in Poole that they’d been sent in to lift a Regiment guy. Sam did his best not to think about that. He kept his mind calm and, almost by reflex, started to check what assets he had at his disposal. Each of the SBS men wore ops waistcoats with flashbangs and fragmentation grenades. Their weapons were lowered – it would be stupid to discharge them in the back of the vehicle unless absolutely necessary. Rounds could easily ricochet off the metallic sides of the van and mistakes could always happen in a moving vehicle. But all this was academic. With his hands cuffed behind his back he was as good as useless.

The van stopped and started through the streets of London. Behind him, fixed to the back of the chair against which he was pressed, there was something sticking upwards. He didn’t know what it was – a rivet of some kind, perhaps there to stop the front seats from sliding too far back on their runners.

‘Looks like the Firm want you off the street pretty bad,’ one of the guys piped up. ‘You must have been a very naughty boy.’

Sam sniffed. Keep them talking, he told himself. Keep them distracted. ‘I’ve had my moments,’ he said.

‘What did the Russki do? Shag your missus?’

‘Caught her giving him a rusty trombone,’ he said with a forced grin. ‘I told him he was lucky I didn’t cut his dick off.’ He looked around him. ‘So, where are we going? Don’t tell me: curry and a few beers followed by a strip club?’

‘All right, you lot,’ one of the SBS men announced. He had blonde hair and Sam thought he recognised the voice as being that of the unit commander. ‘Let’s all shut the fuck up. You’ll find out where we’re going when we get there.’

Sam smiled at him. It took all his effort. ‘Suppose there’s no chance of stopping for a slash, then.’

By now, Sam had deduced that the rivet behind him was just small enough to slide between his Plasticuffs and his wrists. He did it slowly, so nobody could see what was going on. And then they sat in silence.

The driver was skilled, Sam could tell that. SF trained. He weaved in and out of the traffic, causing plenty of horns to beep as he cut up angry commuters. It still took him a long time, though, to get up any kind of proper speed. Half an hour, maybe? Sam knew he had to bide his time, wait for his moment. He imagined they were on the outskirts of London by now.