Leather Coat walked over to the ringing phone and stamped on it. It shattered into a dozen pieces. Then he walked behind O’Leary and kicked him in the middle of the back. O’Leary fell forward with a grunt and lay face down, gasping for breath. ‘If it was up to me we’d have a long chat with you, you rat bastard, but the OD wants you dead,’ said Leather Coat.

Two shots rang out in quick succession and Leather Coat staggered back as blood spurted from two chest wounds. His gun fell to the ground and he stared at the man who’d shot him, his forehead creased into a surprised frown.

It was the man in the bomber jacket who’d fired the shots. The man standing next to him started to scream as he swung his Glock around but the shooter fired again, two shots that caught him high in the chest, just above the heart. The man fell back, his mouth working soundlessly, and he slammed into the ground.

The shooter slid his gun back into its holster and stood looking down at O’Leary. ‘See what you’ve done?’ he shouted. ‘See what your stupidity has gone and done?’ He walked over to the second man that he’d shot and pulled out a set of keys from his pocket.

O’Leary twisted around, trying to look up at the shooter. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m the man who just saved your life.’

‘Are you a cop?’

‘Are you?’

O’Leary nodded. ‘Special Branch. Long-term penetration. I’ve been undercover for more than two years.’

‘Yeah, and in all that time did no one tell you about sending text messages to your handler?’

‘That’s the way he wanted it.’

‘Then he’s an idiot. You make calls and you use payphones or throwaway mobiles. You don’t send texts because text messages can come back to bite you in the arse.’

‘OK, I get it,’ said O’Leary. ‘Now will you untie me?’

The shooter bent down and picked up Ryan’s mobile phone. ‘Help’s on the way.’

‘You can’t leave me here like this,’ said O’Leary.

‘It’s your bed, you lie in it,’ said the shooter.

‘Who the hell are you?’

The man walked away without answering. He ripped off his ski mask as he left the warehouse and tossed it to the side. He tapped out a number on the mobile he’d taken from Ryan, putting it to his ear as it rang out.

‘Yeah, it’s me. Spider,’ he said. ‘It’s all gone tits up. You need to get a team to this location now. You can track the GPS.’

‘What went wrong?’ asked Charlotte Button, Spider Shepherd’s MI5 handler.