Gun in hand, he swept the rear garden for any other guards, but there were none. A high wire fence separated this property from the dealer’s house, but there was a gate in one corner where the guards could come and go. The gate was locked, but it was no taller than Rickard. He sprang up, caught the top with his left hand and then swung over it. He landed on both feet facing the back wall of Alisha’s hiding place. Junk lay all over the yard, some of it so old it was partially embedded in the earth. There was an engine block from some ancient vehicle, an oil drum on its side, a stack of building blocks from an abandoned project. There was also a dog. It was a Rottweiler mix, a huge, bulky monstrosity that launched itself at him with slavering ferocity. Before it reached him the dog came to a sudden halt, checked by the heavy chain around its neck. It strained at the length of its tether, jaws snapping as it barked with a madness close to insanity. Rickard shot the dog in the head.

Then he was moving again.

One of the tattooed thugs who had first met Alisha came around the side of the house. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, undecided whether to run or to fight. He was expecting a cop, and Rickard’s appearance threw him long enough for Rickard to snap his gun up and shoot at the man. His round struck high in the man’s right shoulder and knocked him down. The man screamed curses: he knew now that Rickard was no cop. Rickard leaned over him and with his ceramic knife slit his throat, shutting him up.

The most obvious play would be to take out the remaining guard, but Rickard could not see him. Maybe he’d fled inside at the first sound of gunfire. Maybe he’d hightailed it to avoid arrest. Whatever, he wasn’t apparent. Rickard turned his attention to getting inside the house. This, without doubt, would be the most difficult and dangerous part of his attack plan. He could hear alarmed voices—three distinct ones—sounding from within the house.