With his hands still bound behind his back, he looked to the front of the Range Rover, where two of his captors were sitting. The driver, a plump man with tattooed forearms, stared straight ahead, his eyes focused on the road. The one in the passenger seat was an enforcer, there to make sure everything went to plan. The car hit a pothole, and everyone shook, and Sam rocked backwards onto his cast, the pain as fresh as the moment it had been snapped. Sam knew that from the moment he’d begun his fight back against the world of crime, he’d actively looked for trouble. Now, with his arm shattered by the Riders and being driven to his execution by Vasquez’s men, he began to wonder if perhaps he was simply a magnet for it.

‘He wakes.’

The heavy Mexican accent belonged to Raul, who sat a few feet from him against the other window in the back of the vehicle. Built in the mould of Vasquez, Raul wore a nice three-piece suit with an open collar, and his jet-black hair was heavy with product. He flashed Sam a pearly white grin, then mockingly waved the Glock 17 in his hand, a clear signal for Sam to stay still.

‘Where’s Alex?’ Sam asked, looking back out of the window.

‘She is safe.’

‘Where’re we going?’

‘You, my friend, are going to the afterlife.’ Raul chuckled. Sam nodded, trying to keep his body as still as possible. Unbeknownst to his captors, the cable tie binding his hand together had cut into the top layer of his cast. As Sam carefully lifted his left shoulder, he could feel it sliding through the material, slicing its way up the cast.

‘What was Sykes doing at the drop?’ Sam asked, locking his eyes on Raul and doing his best to conceal his shoulder movement.

‘It is of no concern to you now.’ Raul offered little, the gun resting casually on his lap. Sam flashed a glance at it. Raul’s finger was not on the trigger.

Confidence or arrogance, Sam didn’t care.

As he felt the cable tie slide over his fingers, he knew he would have one chance of escape. Ever since he had felt the cable begin to slice into the cast, Sam had been systematically grating the cast against the sharp plastic. In the few hours since, he had whittled enough of it away to feel the cable sliding down towards his fingers. With the cast removing the dip of his wrist, he found, with considerable discomfort, he had been able to manoeuvre his arm to the verge of freedom.

Now, he had to wait.

Pick the perfect moment.

Or he’d be killed.

‘And Vasquez? Did he know?’

‘You ask a lot of questions for a dead man.’