The alphabetical roll-call continued. A to H. The young guy with the bad teeth was Eddie. He had a revolver in his right gloved hand and a stun gun in the left. He pressed the trigger of the stun gun and blue sparks crackled between two metal prongs. The high voltage charge was enough to disable a man without causing permanent injury. The tall, lanky West Indian next to Eddie was Fred. He had a twin-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. A thirty-something Glaswegian, with a shaved head and football tattoos hidden under his overall sleeves, was sitting on his own in the back cradling a pump-action shotgun. He was George and he had an annoying habit of cracking his knuckles.

The West Indian driver was Harry. Verity didn’t know Harry’s real name. Over five years he’d worked with him on a dozen jobs but had only ever known him by his initials, PJ. He was one of the best drivers in London and claimed to have been Elton John’s personal chauffeur. Verity nodded at PJ, who brought the minibus to a halt.

‘Anyone uses any name other than the ones you’ve been given and I’ll personally blow their head off,’ said Verity, turning in his seat.

‘Right, Ted,’ called George, then slapped his forehead theatrically. ‘Shit, I forgot already.’

‘Very funny,’ said Verity. He pulled a sawn-off shotgun out of his bag and flicked off the safety. ‘Remember, we go in hard – hearts and minds. Don’t give them time to think. They sound the alarm and we’ve got less than six minutes before the blues and twos arrive and we’re up to our arses in Hecklers. Everybody set?’

The six men in the back nodded.

‘Masks on,’ said Verity.

They took off their baseball caps and pulled on black ski masks with holes for eyes and mouths. Verity nodded at PJ and the West Indian drove forward. Verity’s heart raced. No matter how many jobs he did, no matter how many times he’d piled in with a gun, the fear and excitement always coursed through him like electricity. Nothing compared with the high of an armed robbery. Not even sex. All his senses were intensified as if his whole body had gone into overdrive. Verity pulled on his mask. He connected an earphone to the scanner, then slipped it on under his mask. Just static.

PJ turned sharply to the right and pulled up in front of the warehouse. Verity swung open the door and jumped down, keeping the sawn-off close to his body. His earpiece buzzed. A suspicious passenger in the arrivals terminal. An IC6 male. An Arab. Good, thought Verity. Anything that drew attention away from the commercial area of the airport was a Godsend.