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The door gave and six snipers rushed in followed by Commander Tap, g*n drawn. Three men lay on the floor. One with a knife in his neck, one out cold, the third gasping for air with his throat caved in. But no Tom.
At top pace Tom could cover two hundred metres in less than twenty-five seconds. He sprinted down the tunnel, his recovered g*n ready, and his mobile’s torch lighting the way. The tunnel sloped up and curved twice and he estimated he would come out eventually through some abandoned shop front.
A slit of daylight shone from beneath a door. A broken padlock hung from a vertical steel handle. Tom pressed on the handle, pushed forward, and went out.
Ahead, in a lot, were sixty or so identical black Mercedes. The cars were moving steadily, all driven by male drivers of various
