The one thing with Jamie Brewer was that he had extraordinary luck where saving his own skin was concerned. It was almost fucking demonic. He had been stabbed years before in a fight and, though the knife had pierced his heart, he had fucking recovered. As he had lain in the ambulance, the Old Bill had asked him who the culprit was and Jamie had told them in no uncertain terms to go fuck themselves. He had to be given creds for that. But he had defied everyone, the doctors included, by surviving and coming out of hospital as strong as he ever was.

Jamie had then knifed the boy responsible fifteen times.

Oh, he had the luck of the Irish all right, but tonight that luck was going to finally run out. Because he, David Bannerman, was going to see to it personally.

Chapter One Hundred and Three

Ray Donovan was raring to go. He was absolutely fuming over the night’s events and he would not rest until that little fucker was in the ground. The sheer recklessness was his main concern. What kind of fucking Face put the public in danger like that? Men and women who were simply going about their daily business. This was London, not fucking Belfast. It showed just what kind of an imbecile they were dealing with. Ray didn’t care how connected this ponce was. It was all over for Jamie now – no one would countenance such stupidity, no one of any worth anyway. Jack Johnson seemed to think that the lad’s father was even willing to wipe his mouth. There was a maniac brother-in-law out for his hide as well. Jamie Brewer certainly seemed to have the knack for making enemies.

Ray got out of the car with Reggie and the two heavies and they made their way into the public house. This was Rastaland, and Reggie had taken the liberty of informing an old friend of his that they were coming.

Barton King was a huge Jamaican with thick dreads and an easy smile; he was the undisputed main man in Brixton and Tulse Hill. He had already had a couple of run-ins with Jamie Brewer so he was only too happy to help take him down. He had agreed to make sure the fucker didn’t leave the pub – by force if necessary.

Jamie was with his crew; they were drunk and stoned, and celebrating his big shoot-up of a widow woman’s business. Barton watched him warily as did Barton’s own crew. He had crossed the line when he had gone after Lenny Scott’s widow – she had two young sons and a dead husband. People like her were entitled to be left in relative peace.