‘Oh fuck,’ Malcolm whimpers. ‘Please don’t do this . . .’

‘Killing us makes no difference,’ Konrad gasps as the blade sinks further in. Strong hands grip him in place. The pistol pushing in his back prevents him going back.

‘Answer the question and you both live. We will pay you. You’ll be millionaires within an hour. Your employers will never find you. We will protect you. Go anywhere you want. Have anything you want . . .’ Alpha speaks earnestly in a tone honed to perfection, the ultimate expression of believability and sincerity. He moves closer. His voice softens again. ‘Please . . . just tell me. Is the blue light the device?’ He sounds almost worried, afraid even.

‘He’s stabbing me, Malc.’ Konrad swallows and stares down at the blade.

‘Yep,’ Malcolm grunts. ‘We’ll be alright, mate.’

‘Really fucking hurts, Malc,’ Konrad whispers.

‘Malcolm, Konrad. We know who you are. We know who you have inside. Ben, Harry, Safa. Roland. Doctor Watson. We know already. You can be wealthy. Go anywhere. New identities. Don’t sacrifice yourselves . . .’ Alpha implores them, his face a mask of worry and pity.

Konrad snorts a dry laugh. ‘He thinks it’s about money, Malc . . . argh, fuck, that hurts.’

‘Yeah, millionaires,’ Malcolm replies, looking down at the blade sticking in Konrad’s leg.

‘You want to die?’ Alpha asks, puzzled and worried for them. ‘Here? In this street? For what? No one will know what you died for . . .’

‘Died before,’ Konrad whispers.

‘Do it again,’ Malcolm adds.

‘Ben went back for ’em, Malc.’

‘I know.’ Malcolm nods.

‘He got ’em too . . .’

‘He did . . .’

‘Malcolm, Konrad. See sense. There is no honour dying here. They won’t come back for you. We are taking the device before any damage is caused. Help us. Be rich. Save yourselves . . .’

‘Malc?’

‘Yep,’ Malcolm grunts.

‘I’ll slit you open and stuff your fucking cocks down each other’s throats . . .’ Alpha switches tone, seeing the resilience within the men.

‘Fuck.’ Konrad blasts air as the blade digs further, sliding deeper.

‘Life or death? Your choice . . .’ Alpha says. His tone hard then soft. ‘Choose life. Choose living. Be rich . . .’ he urges, begs, pleads. ‘See sense. Do the right thing.’

‘They’ll come for you,’ Konrad says through gritted teeth.

A soft sound. Like air forced at speed through a small tube. Malcolm sags back, a sudden warmth in his gut. Strong hands hold him steady and he looks down to the crimson blush spreading across his T-shirt. ‘They shot me . . .’ he whimpers. ‘Kon . . . they bloody shot me . . .’

‘You’re all dead,’ Konrad says, grunting again as the knife goes deeper.

Another soft sound of air. Malcolm staggers again. The hands hold him. The blood drains from his face. ‘Please stop shooting me,’ he whispers.