Free The Last 10 Seconds by Simon Kernick

always the chance that they were seriously wounded, or that they wouldn’t get help in time, and then I’d have one, maybe even two deaths on my conscience. And if they did get help, it was also possible that one of them might talk to the cops. I was pretty sure that the big guy I’d taken in the legs wasn’t the sort to blab, but Weyman Grimes was a small-time scrote, and he could get me into a whole shedload of trouble. And not the slap-on-the-wrist kind either. A shooting meant I was looking at an attempted murder charge, regardless of the circumstances. Even if I got off, I’d lose my job and my pension and end up on the scrapheap at the age of only thirty-three. And if I was found guilty I was looking at the next ten years of my life at least inside, cooped up with the paedophiles and rapists for my own safety.
    I don’t usually worry about things. You can’t in my job, otherwise you’d end up with a coronary. But it was difficult to get over the enormity of what I’d just done, and on the journey over I’d been contemplating the idea of coming clean. Getting Tommy to stop the car, making my excuses and walking free, then calling Captain Bob to let him know what I’d done.
    But in the end, I decided not to. I’d worked for too long now to infiltrate Tyrone Wolfe’s crew simply to walk away as soon as the going got tough. I wanted to bring these guys down – Wolfe, Haddock, even Tommy – and I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of that.
    I still had the gun. Unloaded now and pushed down the back of my jeans. I’d break it up and get rid of it later, so it wouldn’t be found. In the meantime, pressed against my coccyx, it was just serving as a constant and uncomfortable reminder of my recklessness. The device in my watch had also recorded the whole thing, as well as my conversation with Tommy on the way over there, and now I was going to have to bin the recording in the name of self-preservation.
    Tommy picked up the holdall containing the guns from the back seat, gave a couple of dog treats to Tommy Junior, telling him we’d be back soon, and we got out of the car. I followed him along a dirt path to the anaemic trees then down an alleyway until we came to the back entrance of a shabby-looking 1930s townhouse. A flight of birdcrap-infested steps led down to a derelict-looking basement flat with filthy windows and a set of ancient net curtains that made seeing inside impossible. I crowded in behind Tommy, ducking my head as he knocked hard three times on the door, which rattled under the force of his blows.
    It opened almost immediately, and Clarence Haddock’s huge dreadlocked head appeared looking none too happy, as seemed to be the usual case with him.
    I followed Tommy inside, still feeling pumped up and not in the mood for shit. Although I’d just put my job and my liberty on the line that day, it was still amazing what shooting your way out of a life-threatening situation could do for your confidence. Haddock slipped into place behind me, but I ignored him.
    The room we entered was dark, dusty and devoid of furniture, and smelled strongly of damp. Tyrone Wolfe stood off in one corner squinting at us angrily.
    ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ I told him, feeling bizarrely relaxed. ‘I was hoping your line of work paid better than this.’
    ‘Don’t take the piss, Sean,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t like it when people take the piss out of me. Understand?’
    I shrugged, unfazed. ‘Sure.’
    He came off the wall and took the holdall from Tommy, briefly looking inside before setting it down. ‘Now, what the fuck happened?’ he snapped. ‘You said there was a problem.’
    He looked at Tommy when he said this but it was me who answered. ‘Yeah, there was a problem. One of Mitchell’s little runts accused me of being an undercover cop, and they all went for me. I had to take evasive action.’
    ‘What kind of evasive action?’
    ‘One of them had a gun. I got it off him, there was