From the door, Mensa had moved like lightning, and while his aim searched the room for any new threats, he was already by the skinny man’s side, and had retrieved the Sig Sauer P226 from the sofa.

‘On the floor with your hands behind your back, now,’ Carrillo ordered.

The skinny man didn’t move.

Carrillo moved closer. They had no time to waste by arguing, or repeating orders. He brought the muzzle of his gun inches away from the man’s face, grabbed him by the hair, and dragged him to the floor.

With his knee locked onto the suspect’s neck, forcing his face to the ground, Carrillo used a special linked zip-tie cuff to tie the skinny man’s wrists and ankles together behind his back. The whole process took less than five seconds.

‘Qij ju, ju ndyrë derr!’ the man screamed, as Carrillo released the pressure from his neck. He started struggling on the ground like a fish out of water. No matter how strong he was, he was going nowhere.

Carrillo took one last look at the man’s face.

It wasn’t Ken Sands.

One Hundred and Eleven

Hunter didn’t drive to Pomona. He made a last-second decision to follow his hunch. Since he had come off the phone with Garcia he’d been following it for almost two hours. It had first taken him to Woodland Hills, in the southwestern part of the San Fernando Valley, and then to the grounds of a derelict building on the outskirts of Canoga Park.

The weather had changed again, and Hunter could smell rain in the air. He parked his car way out of sight, and carefully proceeded on foot. Under the darkness of night, it took him four minutes to cover the distance.

He passed a dilapidated iron gate that led him to the weed-strewn concrete forecourt of a dingy industrial building. It looked like an abandoned medium-sized warehouse or depot, but its walls still looked solid from the outside. The few windows Hunter could see were all smashed, but they were high up, by the building’s gable roof – too high for anyone to get to without a ladder.

Hunter hid himself behind a rusty dumpster and observed the structure for a few minutes – no movement. He carried on circumnavigating the building from a safe distance. When he reached the back of the building he saw the black pickup truck. The same pickup truck he’d been following all day.

Everything looked absolutely still.

Being as quiet as he could and using the shadows for cover, Hunter moved closer.

When he got to the pickup truck he was able to see the outline of a dark doorway about eight feet wide in the building’s back wall. The large, sliding metal doors were open, and the gap was large enough for Hunter to get through without having to push them any further, which was an advantage – he doubted the rusty sliding mechanism would be silent.

He stepped inside and stood still for a moment, listening. The only light came from the smashed windows by the ceiling, but on a moonless night like this it gave Hunter no guidance. The place smelled of urine and decay. The air was stale and heavy, scratching at his throat and nostrils every time he breathed in.

He heard no sound, and decided to switch on his flashlight. As he did, he found himself in a room around seventy-five feet square, with a single steel door set in the middle of the wall ahead of him. The door had a dappled gunmetal look to its surface. The concrete floor was littered with empty bottles, used condoms, broken glass, discarded syringes and other debris left behind by itinerant homeless people and drug users. Taking great care not to step on any of it, Hunter slowly crossed to the metal door. This door was also open, but he would have to push it further to create a gap big enough for him to slide through. Now he saw that a pale white light came from somewhere beyond it.

He switched off his flashlight, gave his eyes a moment to get used to the low light, readied his Heckler & Koch USP .45 Tactical pistol, and steadied himself, ready to push the door open. That was when he heard the ear-piercing mechanical hum of something that sounded like a small chainsaw or an electric kitchen carving knife, followed by a terrified male scream coming from the next room.

The game was up. No more stealth.

Hunter pushed the door open and stepped through, gun first. This room was larger than the previous one, about a hundred feet square. The pale light that lit the room came from two battery-powered pedestal lights positioned about three feet from the back wall, and five apart. Between them, a hospital-style metal chair. Its naked occupant had been tied to it by his ankles and wrists. A man in his early fifties. He had chubby cheeks, a pointy chin and a full head of hair that had already gone gray. He looked up and his sad, pleading eyes met Hunter’s.

It took Hunter a second to recognize him. They’d met before at least once. Hunter was sure it was in a function somewhere, probably at last year’s LAPD’s Purple Heart award ceremony. His name was Scott Bradley, the youngest brother of Dwayne Bradley, the Los Angeles District Attorney. But worse, Hunter also recognized the person standing behind the chair, holding an electric kitchen carving knife.

Despite all his suspicions, Hunter could barely believe his eyes.

One Hundred and Twelve

Captain Fallon and new recruit, Neil Grimshaw, were SWAT-team Gamma. Their task was to enter the house through the large French doors on the veranda that led into the house’s main bedroom. With the curtains shut, they had no way of knowing if the room was empty or not, and, if it was occupied, how many were in there, or if they were carrying any weapons. Surprise and speed were their trump cards.

Grimshaw blasted the doors’ lock with a single shotgun shot, sending a shower of broken glass up into the air, and splintering the wood. Before the glass hit the ground, Fallon had kicked the doors open and entered the house, his trained eyes taking in the entire room at once. There was a built-in wardrobe on the left, a double-bed mattress on the floor, pushed up against the wall directly in front of him, a small portable TV on top of a sideboard to the right, and a large mirror on the floor with tens of already cut lines of what could only be cocaine. A naked man with a bushy ponytail was on the mattress. His back was towards Fallon. The moans of pleasure from the petite, short-haired blonde girl who had her legs around him quickly became frightened screams. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

The man didn’t even turn. Still with the girl’s legs wrapped around his hips, he rolled to the left and reached for the Uzi submachine gun that was resting against the wall.

He didn’t get there.

Fallon squeezed the trigger on his MP5, and the gun coughed silently once. The shot hit the back of the man’s hand as his fingers were just a couple of inches away from the Uzi. The blast shattered bone and ruptured tendons, sending a red mist of blood into the air and spraying the girl’s face.

The man let out a pained cry that sounded like an injured animal’s roar. His arm recoiled back towards his chest, spraying more blood onto the girl’s body and the mattress.

‘Moving isn’t such a good idea,’ Fallon said, his red laser target beam now locked onto the back of the man’s head.

Grimshaw was also in the room by now, his laser target coloring the girl’s chest with a red dot. He was concentrating so hard he didn’t notice the door to the en-suite bathroom opening behind him.

The blast from the shotgun was deafening, and it was aimed directly at Grimshaw’s back. He took the full force of the impact, sending his MP5 flying from his hands, and propelling him forward before he collapsed to the ground.