He checked their postcode on Google Maps, noting grimly that it was a ten-hour drive to the property in Scotland.

Branko had no qualms about using murder to resolve the situation. He’d killed countless times during the Balkan conflict and couldn’t deny the big thrill he gained from exercising the ultimate power over other people. He felt no pity for his victims, feeling no more than when he used to kill the vermin that ate his father’s chickens.

He turned to Aleks and Luka. ‘My boys, you need to get yourselves to Scotland as soon as possible. I will get an associate to secure the packages, and you can take over when you arrive. I want to keep it within the family as much as we can. It’s just a babysitting job until we have Novak.’

‘How far is it?’ asked Aleks through a mouthful of egg.

‘Over five hundred miles. Take the BMW and buy a new phone on the way. Leave yours here. The police must not be able to trace you to the scene, as I’m sure there will be a big investigation.’

Both men stood and made ready to go without questioning his orders. Aleks caught the car key tossed by his father.

‘Items are in the boot under the carpet,’ he said, referring to the two Glock 17 automatic pistols secreted in the spare wheel space. ‘There are false plates as well; put them on so ANPR doesn’t catch you. Also, collect Boris on the way. I will tell him to expect you.’ Boris was a proven operator and another ex-paramilitary who he knew would have no hesitation putting a bullet in any head. His boys had no kills to their name, and so he couldn’t completely trust their ruthlessness. He had no such doubts about Boris.

‘Do me proud, my boys. This is a big responsibility. Call me with the new phone and we will talk on the way. Stay off all CCTV; there must be no trace of you in Scotland.’ He fixed them with his pale blue eyes.

Both men nodded and turned, leaving the café.

He picked up his phone once more and selected a number from the contacts list. Danilo Arken was another paramilitary associate from the old days. He was a vicious bastard who headed up the Serb mafia in Glasgow and beyond. He also had no scruples or empathy and could be trusted to do a good job for a price.

‘Danilo, it’s Zjelko,’ he boomed, a huge grin etched across his craggy features. ‘How are you, my friend? Good, good. How is your family?’ He paused, pretending to be interested in the reply given.

‘Anyway, old friend, to business. I may have some work for you in Bonnie Scotland, if you could do an old Chetnik comrade an urgent favour. I assure you it will pay very well.’

26