Flyte led McGregor through to the lounge, where a large TV was flecked with blood and the cream walls were splattered with it, too. A coffee table listed, two of its legs broken from some kind of impact. A box set of Fast & Furious movies lay on the floor, a tin of lager.

And the bodies.

‘Christ,’ grunted McGregor, employing commendable understatement as his gaze travelled the devastation. He indicated Flyte’s Glock. ‘And I guess from the lack of police sirens we can assume that your silencer works.’

‘We call it a suppressor.’

McGregor pulled a face. ‘Potato. Poh-tar-toe. If you’re trying to convince me that you’re a pro, then . . .’ he indicated the carnage around them. ‘Job fuckin’ done, pal.’ He approached the sofa and pointed to the guy in the Finchley Sportsman T-shirt. ‘This guy?’

‘Out cold.’

‘I can see that, Doctor Zhivago. This is Alex Abbott, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how do you know that?’

‘It’s him. He matches the description.’

‘Well, you better finish the job.’ McGregor indicated the state of Flyte’s face. ‘Better do it quick, too. Looks like he almost killed you.’

‘Sure. He was tough.’

Flyte raised the weapon.

He pulled the trigger.

Part One

PART ONE

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

As an elite member of the special forces and then in private security, Alex Abbott had fought all over the world. He’d gone up against the IRA in Northern Ireland, against drug dealers in the Indo-Pacific, child traffickers in Thailand and the usual suspects in the Middle East. He’d fought in bomb-scarred streets, in jungles, in deserts, and on storm-lashed seas.

But right now, he was fighting at the back of The Sportsman pub in North Finchley, in that shitty bit of the pub where they kept the empty barrels and the sticky wheelie bins; where the landlord sent customers who required physical resolution to disputes that had started indoors. As a regular, Abbott had seen it a dozen times. Right, you two. Out! Now he found himself with a starring role.

And the funny thing was that he couldn’t even remember exactly how the argument had begun.

Something to do with . . .

No, it was gone.

Standing opposite him, two men brandished knives, both shouting something at him.

No. Wait.

Abbott slapped a hand over his left eye. One of the knifemen disappeared. That was better.

‘Now come on, mate,’ he heard himself say, without much conviction.

‘You ain’t the only one who’s got it bad,’ the knifeman wailed, slurring the words.