A Rover TC-3500 slowly turned the corner and came to a smooth stop at the top of the street. Four more men entered the scene. The new arrivals opened up.

Schwarz flattened as rounds chipped at the brickwork around his position. One chip grazed his right cheek below the eye. He inched forward, extending the muzzle of the Colt just past the edge of the wall, and a stroke of the trigger sent a three-round burst to the Rover. He jerked quickly back. He heard a dying man moaning as his life drained away into the London gutter.

Lyons directed another quick burst of persuaders toward the Rover. Targets died hurriedly.

The sweep began to fall apart. Colts dispatched 230-grain messages and brooked no reply. A string of crimson holes sprouted down the side of two enemy gunners as Ingram slugs stitched them from collar to crotch.

But Gadgets was still pinned down with a hail of 7.62mm lead. From fifty yards away, Ripper saw the American's predicament. The ex-mafioso gripped his weapon in two hands and sent three 9mm slugs to provide an edge in the confrontation. The slugs slammed into the shoulder and chest of the last visible gunner. Wounds gurgled as air leaked into the chest cavity.

Lyons looked around him. Residents remained cowering in their homes in the damp late afternoon. It was a scene that reminded him of Northern Ireland firefight footage he had studied back in the States. The air hung with palpable horror on all sides. Who knew where the next shot would come from?

Lyons took the risk. He ran to the nearest dying man. The guy looked up at him with fear and helplessness in his eyes. Lyons kicked him in the side.

The mortally wounded man groaned. "This ain't personal — I was just sent on a job…"