Andy McNab - Meltdown

With his hands shoved in his pockets to hide the rubber gloves, he headed back to the target house. And for the benefit of the third party, he didn't dawdle; he made sure he looked purposeful.

Walking straight up to number 13, he pulled the plastic circle from his pocket, opened it up and shoved it into the small gap between the door and the frame. As he pushed the plastic in, he also pushed downwards towards the lock, turning the circle at the same time.

Credit cards might well be flexible friends, but they're not flexible enough to open a door. The plastic needs to negotiate two ninety-degree turns round the door frame before it can push back the bolt.

This method worked because the circle of plastic was pliable enough to negotiate the angles yet strong enough to push against the lock and force it back.

He pushed and turned as the circle bent its way round the door frame and down onto the Yale bolt. Two more pushes and turns and the door sprang open.

Piece of piss. But that was the easy bit.

Wasting no time, he stepped inside and gently closed the door, slowly turning the knob of the Yale lock until it slipped back into place, then stuffed the plastic circle into his pocket. He stood still, just looking and listening, tuning in to his surroundings.

The place was a dump. Dozens of letters, leaflets and flyers lay scattered about the hallway, most of them covered with damp, muddy footprints. Cigarette butts and empty foil takeaway cartons lay where they had been dropped on the threadbare carpet.

His eyes, ears and nose were working overtime. He kept his mouth open to limit the noise of his own swallowing so that he could hear as much as possible inside the house. Downstairs there was nothing but silence. The only sound he could hear was coming from upstairs. A TV was on: the muffled sounds of music and applause and then a woman's voice.

All he could smell was the dampness of the building; there were no giveaway aromas of toast or frying or coffee. He turned back to the door and pushed home the bolt at the top. No one else was coming in while he was there, and if Albie was upstairs and tried to make a run for it, he would be delayed as he panicked and wrestled with the bolt.

Walking down the short stretch of hallway to the stairs, he stayed close to the wall to avoid making the floorboards creak. He took the stairs two at a time, slowly and deliberately, still keeping close to the wall.

The woman's voice was getting louder. It was coming from the room on the right-hand side, the one with the condensation on the windowpane.

He reached the door, gripped the Leatherman tightly in his right hand and grabbed the door handle with his left. He pushed the door open and burst into the room. He had the element of surprise and he was going to use it.

Then he stopped. He saw a body on the bed. It was Albie all right, but he was already dead. He was flat on his back in a pool of blood that had burst from his mouth, his eyes and his ears.

At the end of the bed some smiling TV presenter was presiding over the bloody scene; she was recommending diets for keeping the heart healthy.

He couldn't look at the body any more; he had to lean back against the wall and put his hand to his mouth to stop himself from vomiting. But he was glad Albie was dead; even though his own bid for revenge for what Albie had done to Lee had been snatched away. He shoved the Leatherman back in his pocket and then glanced through the net curtains as something on the far side of the street caught his eye.

Shit!

It was Fergus. He was crossing the road, heading towards the house. He was doing a walk pass. Danny had disobeyed his grandfather's orders – his desire for revenge had been overwhelming; he couldn't let Fergus find him here now.

He didn't wait to say a last goodbye to Albie. He jumped down the stairs three at a time and almost missed the last few steps. He grabbed the banisters and steadied himself. As he reached the front door, he heard his grandfather's footsteps passing just a couple of metres away.

Danny counted to thirty, took a deep breath, then pushed back the bolt and opened the Yale. He stepped out onto the street, pulling the door to, not even stopping to see if it was properly shut. Nor did he check to see if his grandfather was looking back; he knew he wouldn't be. SOPs.

He walked quickly away in the opposite direction, wanting to run but knowing he mustn't. A train rumbled along the track behind the houses.

The coaches were ready to go. The passengers were comfortably seated, their luggage stowed, and Teddy and Will were talking to Storm, making last-minute checks.

As soon as Fergus saw Danny pull into the yard, he strode over. Before Danny could open his car door, Fergus had got into the passenger seat.

He didn't say anything; simply reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a rolled-up circle of plastic. Slowly he unravelled it, making sure that Danny knew exactly what it was.

Danny watched as Fergus put it down on the dashboard. He cursed silently – it must have fallen out of his pocket when he'd tripped on the stairs. That was stupid, a basic error.

He was expecting a furious outburst from his grandfather. It didn't come.

Fergus spoke softly. 'I gave you a specific order to go nowhere near Albie.'

Danny nodded slowly. 'Why aren't you…?'

'Angry? Pissed off? Giving you a bollocking for going off SOPs? Well, I've done all that, Danny, and it doesn't seem to work, does it?'

Danny didn't know what to say. Part of him wished his grandfather would start shouting. He was used to that.

But Fergus wasn't going to shout. He'd thought things through. And he knew it was crunch time.

'I am angry, Danny. I thought you were ready for all this, but I was wrong. You're not, and maybe you never will be. You've got guts – you can do it all – but the first rule is, you obey orders, you do as you're told, you stick to… ' He shrugged; they both knew what he'd been going to say. 'And the second rule is, you don't let your emotions get the better of you. I told you that this morning, and you still went hunting for Albie. What exactly were you planning to do?'

Danny turned away. 'Pay him back for Lee, I guess.'

Fergus looked at Danny for a moment before he spoke. 'You're not coming to Barcelona.'

'What?'

'I can't rely on you to follow orders. This operation is too important.'

The enormity of what Fergus was saying hit Danny like a hammer. He looked out of the window: the drivers were starting up the two coaches and the security guys were climbing aboard. He shook his head.

'No, please. I've been working with the team – I've done everything you've asked of me. I just got it wrong this one time; I won't any more.' He looked at Fergus. What he saw in his grandfather's face was not encouraging.

'Look, you need me. You know you do. We're already down one, without Lee. Phil's got to stay here and go after the DMP. And you haven't got anyone else.' Outside, the coach engines revved and one of the drivers gave the horn a short burst to hurry them up.

'Give me one more chance and I promise you, I'll never let you down again. Never.'

Fergus sighed, then looked into his grandson's eyes searchingly. At last he nodded. 'All right. But if you go off SOPs one more time, that's it. First plane out of there. Got it?'

'Got it,' nodded Danny.

Fergus paused for a moment. 'There's something I want you to take care of when we reach Barcelona – you're going to need this.'

He reached into the holdall he was taking on the trip, got out a small black camera bag and handed it to Danny.

'What is it?' asked Danny.

'A handy cam, and there's a miniature PC with a G3 mobile. I'll explain later. Just make sure that you know how the kit works and don't let anyone see you with it.'