The engine roared in protest and scenery was just a blur in the windows. I kicked the passenger door open, cursing when the wind resistance tried to slam it back on me. As my head poked above the hinges and the very air tried to give me a haircut, I saw the looming wall and knew we were dead.

I turned my face into the car, panic rifling through my heart. "Weasel?"

"Just fucking jump, Hubris!" he shouted at the looming barrier, refusing to look at me, a traitorous glistening giving away his frustrated tears. "You're more important."

'No time for thought,' my dad used to say of his time in the army, 'just reaction.' I braced a foot against the seat and ejected myself sideways from the car. My preparatory wince didn't help at all when the ground yanked me violently around, blooming hotspots of pain all across my body.

I skidded across the tarmac, hoping like hell my coat wouldn't give way to skin. Then an impact - my breath knocked out of me, dimming of vision, a dulling of sound, and wracking pain bursting through my skeleton as I came up against an immovable barrier. I regained enough wits to look back at my car, and wished I hadn't.

My faithful Beetle slammed into the wall with terrible percussion. Weasel's body wrapped round the steering wheel and his face dissolved in a spray of crimson windscreen fragments. He slumped back into the driver's seat like a bag of loose sticks, blood pouring in rivulets across his chest and lap.

As shock gave way to agony and I began to black out, the insanity of the last few hours ran through my mind; a nightmare on fast forward.

*****

Weasel looked at me like I'd just ordered turd-flavour ice cream.

"Are you really sure about this, Hubris?"

I looked at his expression - not outraged, not incredulous, but sincere - and sighed. "Give me another way, Weasel. If you can show me a method that stops Freeman, avoids whatever stupid game it is they're playing, and keeps everyone the right side of prison, then please do so now. Does it exist?"

The ghost of a smile turned his lips. "Not safely or quickly, no."

"Then I have no choice."

"You always have a choice, Nick." He'd exorcised the ghosts from his smile, and yet he looked haunted. "You have your story, your freedom, and enough ammunition to milk this experience for cash until you retire. It's not fashionable to be noble these days, you know. The sensible thing is to leave this alone and let things resolve themselves the way they will. You don't have any obligation to risk your life; and that's what you're doing, make no mistake."

I looked at the armoury in my car's boot. It reminded me of those Arnold Schwartzenegger movies form the eighties, when he always had military-grade weaponry in his shed, or conveniently hidden behind the tools in the garage. One phone call to a dodgy source combined with a wad of cash from Ray Winstone was all it took to fill my car with the instruments of death. A sense of unreality washed over me. "A guy can spend his whole life playing computer games and watching action flicks, and never catch sight of a real M16 or AK47." I pointed to a corner of the boot. "Are those grenades? I assume so. This is an experience, Weasel. It's a fucking awful one, but with all the mad shit that's happened over the last few days, I feel like I owe it to myself to take this as far as it can go." I looked him in the face again. "Why are you trying to stop me?"

He shrugged in submission. "When the whole world goes tits up, Nick, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so'. As for all this hardware, whatever Ray needs it for, we aren't going to like it. That's a certainty. A man doesn't always have to step up. Sometimes things are best left to somebody better prepared."

With that he got into the car, a brief slice of bickering escaping while the door was opened as Bastard once again refused to scratch Ballsack's nether regions.

I looked over the guns again, wondering if I was trapped in some deranged hallucination. Weasel's doubts did laps in my brain but they weren't going to win the race. I had the directions Ray had scribbled for me; the location to meet him and his team of volunteers. It made about as much sense as the rest of this nutty business, and like everything else about this story, I knew I had to know. "I need to finish this," I muttered, and slammed shut the boot.

*****

"Welcome to Millbank Prison," said Ray Winstone, holding his arms out like a ringmaster in a dank, underground circus. "'Fore the river Thames rose, when convicts came 'n' went by barge, when his Majesty's pleasure was no pleasure at all, this was London's meat locker. It may be buried beneath the streets of the modern city, it may be gone, but it ain't forgotten."

The hallway we were standing in was accessed through the basement of a pub near the Tate gallery, and it was as close to horror-film creepy as I'd ever been. The only light came from our torches and a ground-mounted floodlight Ray had brought. They only illuminated what was directly in their glare. The shadows owned this place, and we were the intruders. Drips sounded all around as the Thames did its best to invade, surfaces were cold and slimy with wet mould, and London's general hubbub was utterly expelled.

I handed an HK MP5K sub-machine gun to one of Ray's goons. He took it with a nod and a thumbs-up, passing me a kevlar bullet-proof vest in return. With black-out paint across his face and all the bulky combat equipment he was wearing, he looked like the most evil clown imaginable.

Bastard approached me, looking hopeful. After a nod from Ray, I handed the huge cockney an AK47 and some spare clips.

"Nice," he said. "I'll be givin' it fuckin' large with this, mate."

Divested of all the guns I'd collected from my contact and brought along, I set about dressing in the all-black stealth uniforms someone else had provided. Weasel was helping Ballsack into his outfit, feeding the poor guy's dangling arms into sleeves and shaking his head in flat refusal at whatever else he was being asked to do. Ray had asked me to 'dump the gimps' but I'd insisted they all come along. Screwing me over would have been easy. The four of us were another matter altogether. Besides, I thought each - in their own way - needed this, even if they weren't all prepared to admit it.

"The game," said Ray loudly, commanding instant attention, "is simple. Somewhere in this semi-flooded, decayin' place is a man. He'll be wearin' a red suit, he's an evil bastard, and he certainly has a mission of his own which we ain't privy to. We got to kill him. The catch is, Morgan Freeman will be tryin' to do the same thing, as well as anyone else that got clear o' the pigs 'n' MI5. We need that red suit. If one o' you bags him, or helps me bag him, you'll be livin' large off my tab the rest o' your useful life."

He put hands to hips. "The game starts in two minutes, so the time for pansies is past. If you're thinkin' o' runnin' at this point, think about gettin' a pastin' from me instead. We can't take the big light 'n' torches get in they way of shootin', so make sure you all got barrel-mounted lights. Freeman prob'ly bankrolled infra-red headgear for his blokes, but shine your torch on any numpty wearin' that kit, he'll be fucked. Team up however you want but Hubris, you're with me. You're my wanderin' bard, mate, here to write my song."

Bastard wandered over and winked at me. "You packin'?"

"Yep," I responded, holding up my Walther PPK pistol. "I figure if it's good enough for James Bond, it'll suit me."

He nodded. "A big bloke don't need no big gun." He stroked the stock of his AK47. "Course, there ain't nothin' wrong with havin' one anyway."

"Tread softly," muttered Weasel from behind me.

"Ready?" said Ray Winstone, wandering over to us.

Bastard yanked the clip from his gun, looked at it as though he knew what he was doing, and slapped it back in with a metallic crack. "Fuckin' eh, sir."

Weasel laughed and strolled away. "I'm with Ballsack."

I looked Ray in the eyes, hefted the gun in my sweaty hand, and nodded.

*****

There was a crack like lightning cutting air and something tugged at my hair. My hearing went numb for a moment and I'd almost certainly have died if Bastard hadn't shoved me from behind. As I crashed to my face, more cracks sounded, accompanied by the whumming noises of bullets tearing the atmosphere. I shuffled up next to Ray, crouching behind an ancient piece of wall, with Bastard behind me.

"They go faster than sound," rumbled the actor. "By the time you hear the bang, you're dead. Remember that, Hubris."

"Hoo-yar," I muttered, trying to ignore the trembling in my hands. "Is that him - the target?"

Bastard let out a soft fart.

"Nah," said Ray. "That sounded like a Beretta; preferred sidearm of Morgan Freeman. This is one of his goons."

"Stay down," said Bastard, rearing up with his AK47. I was deafened by a chugging cackle of noise as he squeezed off several bursts. Vaguely, I heard a grunt of pain from along the dark corridor.

Ray was moving, up and out of cover, leading with his MP5, his gun torch showing us a pair of feet dragging themselves into one of the old prison cells. As we neared the injured guy, he popped out from the cell at ground level, firing his pistol. Bastard span from his feet, roaring in pain, and Ray put a three-round burst through the assailant's face.

"'Ave it!" he spat, and something in the vigour of his tone ignited excitement in my stomach. If you'd asked me, I'd have said I couldn't kill someone, that I couldn't even cover a war as a journalist because the death would bother me. I was a sensation writer, never having seen more blood than a nosebleed or a paper cut. I'd have told you a moment like this would turn me green or make me faint.

Now I realised that wasn't true. The visceral, intense beast had awakened in me, and I knew I was going to see this through.

While Ray covered the prison wing corridor ahead, I crouched next to Bastard, who was wheezing in pain.

"Went right through," he said between gasps. "I'm good."

"Not good enough," I said, heaving him to his feet. There was blood running from his shoulder but he was clinging grimly to his assault rifle with his good right arm.

"I can still kick it," he said, and his expression left little doubt.

As we moved through the ancient, buried prison, we exchanged fire with several opponents. Some were armed and attired like the first one, others sported a mustard-yellow bandana that presumably labelled them as belonging to another player, but none of us knew who. We worked our way through corridors, wings, cells, and rooms until we found our way to the old laundry. It was there that everything went to hell in a bullet-riddled handcart.

As we reached the door, a cloud of bullets zipped past our faces and bashed chunks from the wall outside. Ray threw himself across the doorway and peeped into the laundry from the other side, Bastard took up position our side of the door with me behind him. A cacophony of voices and gunshots resounded from inside, and a quick peek over Bastard's bleeding shoulder showed me why.

In the centre of the room was a guy in a red suit, sprawled face down in a sea of his own blood. He'd been shot so many times it was hard to tell where the suit ended and his injuries began. Crouched behind metal laundry bins, near the body, were the unmistakable forms of Bigman and Tiny Tim, each clutching a seriously huge weapon. Behind them lurked a third figure - perhaps Morgan Freeman himself. At the opposite side of the room, grouped around another entrance, were some more guys in yellow bandanas wielding pistols.

"FREEMAN!" roared Ray, scaring me half out of my wits.

A surprised yell came back from behind the metal bins. "Winstone - that you, motherfucker? That must have been your bunch of pussies I massacred just now."

Ray hawked and spat. "I'll have your bollocks on a necklace, Freeman!"

A succession of shots tore chunks from our doorway and we edged back from the opening. Ray chuckled, adding, "I reckon I pissed him off."

I wondered; were Weasel and Ballsack dead? The thought filled me with anger, that they may have been so casually brushed aside. These famous arseholes played with lives for nothing more than stupid games. That took me to an even less welcome thought. I'd pushed for this, determined to uncover the whole story, seemingly no matter what the cost. Was I responsible for their deaths?

More pistol shots sounded from the opposite doorway, followed by the frantic clicks and clacks of reloading. As one, Bastard and Ray leaned through the doorway and deafened me with gunfire, tearing down at least three of the yellow bandanas in a cloud of shrapnel, blood and carnage. Ray turned back to safety but Bastard was too slow. A burst of fire from the metal bins tore his right knee to jelly and it folded under him. I dragged the roaring cockney to safety, wincing at the mess his leg was in.

More shots rang out, followed by screams that soon petered to nothing.

"That's the yellows with the pistols all gone," said Ray. "Fuckin' idiots. You gotta be one double-hard bastard to bring a butter knife to a sword fight, 'n' they ain't it." He nodded towards Bastard. "He dyin', or what?"

I looked down into the injured guy's pale face. "I'm fucked, Hubris," he coughed. "Can't barely breathe, it hurts so much."

I was no expert, but I didn't think he had much time left - the blood loss from his shoulder was combining with the shock of his destroyed knee to leech his life away. I was stumped. What did a guy like this want to hear on his deathbed?

"You fought well, Bastard," was all I could think to say.

"Barry," he replied. "Name's Barry."

I nodded. "May you find peace with the angels."

"Fuck that! I want a warm, fat bird who cooks good curries 'n' a lifetime supply of lager."

Our moment of bonding was broken by a cry of, "Incoming!" from Ray.

A grenade clanked to the ground and rolled from the doorway, coming to rest between us. I didn't know much about grenades, but it looked like death to me. That was when something magic happened.

Bastard grabbed my shoulder with his bad hand and heaved himself upright, screaming in pain as his shoulder wound ripped and pissed blood across his chest. He scooped up the grenade and threw himself, staggering, into the laundry, firing with his good arm as he went. I peeked round the doorframe to see the diminutive form of Bigman leaning out from one of the metal bins, apparently intent on watching the effects of his grenade. A big grin was plastered across his face. His expression got half way to horrified before his forehead crumpled around one of Bastard's bullets and a second ripped his cheek off. He went down in a squealing, writhing heap.

"'Ave it, you wankers!" roared Bastard, then he exploded. His last expletive bounced from the walls along with bone fragments and soggy handfuls of viscera.

I watched, rapt, my heartbeat firing ten to the dozen and my breath stuck in my throat. My world dropped into slow motion as Morgan Freeman burst from cover, squeezing alternate shots from two huge handguns in one of the most bizarre visuals of all the crazy things I'd seen recently. At the same time, Ray Winstone reared into the room, his machine gun sending three-bullet bursts at his hated foe. Before any bullets landed, I knew what was going to happen and my heart sank. Ray got lucky, a shot tearing into Morgan's hip and sending him staggering, but the man kept shooting back. As I observed, helpless, Ray's neck parted half way across from the impact of two bullets and arterial spray gushed in pulsing fountains from the wounds as he slid to his knees and toppled onto his face.

Against the background silence in the wake of extreme noise, the sounds of Bigman gurgling and choking filled the air. Morgan, on his knees next to the red-suited corpse and clutching his hip with one hand, glanced my way, apparently decided I was no threat, and proceeded to put a bullet into his injured colleague; an ear-splitting report, a grunt, and then quiet.

"Blessed is the silence, Mr Hubris," he said, rifling through the pockets of the target's corpse. He held up a bloodied scrap of paper and chuckled. "That is you, cowering by the door over there, isn't it?" He laughed again, soft and genuine. "After all this time, I win. I guess I have you to thank for my competition showing up. You couldn't just take my generosity and leave well alone, could you?"

He pushed himself upright with a groan. "Now, you stay there, son. You didn't manage stop me, but you didn't get dead either. I'm leaving now, and if Tiny Tim ever stops sobbing over Bigman, he'll be making sure you don't follow me."

My Walther PPK felt damp and heavy in my hand. The action hero in my gut wanted to burst into the laundry and take down the man who'd caused such pain to so many. The realist was a journalist, already mentally composing his article.

"If you're considering heroics," continued the actor, "consider also that you're outnumbered and ill experienced. If you come at me, you will die. Then who will write the article? The lumbering fool with the itchy scrotum? Your friend Weasel?"

A spark of hope ignited in my stomach. He hadn't killed them! Perhaps all was not lost. A fierce rebellious urge bolted through my system.

"Fuck you, Freeman, you murdering bastard! What's the prize? What was worth all this violence and death?"

He laughed. "Damned if I know, Son, but thanks to this clue, I know where to find it. I know something else, too; you'll never find out. All this carnage you've caused is for nothing. Think on that when you're scribbling the words for your rag of a newspaper. I wish you a good life, Mr Hubris. Tiny Tim, he's all yours."

I hid behind the doorway, wishing I had the guts to give chase, cursing my cowardly self and my shaking hands.

"Bigman's dead," wailed Tiny Tim. "Bigman's dead!"

His shuffling steps approached across the laundry floor. Bigman was dead, indeed. Along with everyone else. What the fuck was I going to do now?