Parmenter fixed him with an expression of woebegone helplessness. ‘You have to let me go,’ he pleaded, directing his words at Jules. ‘It’s nothing personal, ma’am. Weren’t nothing personal when you killed my guys today. Same thing for me. I just took a job, and believe me, I’m happy to walk away from it. Your friend, Ross, the big guy, I’m sorry about that. I –’

She took one step forward and swung the base of her pistol grip into his face with as much force as she could, connecting with his cheekbone and shattering it. The dull, wet crack sounded like a tree branch breaking and Parmenter went over with the inevitability of a rotten oak falling to the woodsman’s axe. As he crashed to the ground, Jules drove a kick into his face, smashing his nose flat. None of the men moved to stop her.

‘Who else?’ she shouted. ‘Was there anyone else besides the Rhino and me? Did you have any other contracts from Rubin?’

She didn’t see much point in asking him about Cesky. It would only confuse him.

‘Julianne?’ said Pappas, but she ignored him.

The SIG Sauer was still warm from the rounds she had fired downstairs. It was in her hand, pointing at the man on the floor before even she knew what she was doing. Jules fired one shot and Parmenter’s kneecap exploded in red ruin. He screamed and she stamped down on the joint she had just destroyed.

‘Who else, you manky little cunt? Who else have you killed?’

‘Just the Lebanese guy,’ he wailed. ‘Zood. His stupid fucking name was Zood.’

She almost relaxed at that. Her body, which had tightened itself into a giant fist, almost unclenched.

‘And a Mexican,’ Parmenter hurried on to add, in case she thought he was trying to hide something from her. ‘Just a Mexican. After I did Zood, they said I did good,’ he blabbed, snorkelling air in through a thick soup of mucus and blood. ‘So they sent me to Kansas City. It was just a few days ago, and . . .’

Julianne felt her blood running cold down to the core. Her entire universe narrowed in on this bloody-nosed, half-scalped bag of pus.

Baran ducked left. It was his only option.

The gun fired three times in quick succession. Every shot into Norman Parmenter’s guts before she pumped a fourth into his sternum. Before she could regret it. And before the others could stop her. Each time the SIG Sauer kicked in her hand, she pulled the trigger again, the report drowning out her own shrieks of rage. Each spent brass casing sailed over her head, tracing a trail of smoke in a lazy arc through the air.

Miguel. Oh, Miguel . . .