‘Do you see any cuffs?’ Sinclair smiled again, reaching into his jacket pocket and removing a small metal tin. He placed it on the side and opened it, revealing a number of pre-rolled cigarettes. ‘Do you smoke?’

‘Nope.’

‘Fair enough.’ Sinclair placed one in his lips. ‘Joe, crack the door will you?’

As the furious Alan slid open the door slightly, Sinclair patted down his pockets, looking for a light. After a few moments, he began to search the pile of papers on the bench, turning a few over before locating a box of matches. He sparked one to life, lit his cigarette, and then shook the flame to extinction.

‘Am I in trouble?’ Sam finally asked.

‘Define trouble?’ Sinclair replied, taking another puff on his cigarette. ‘Have a look at this, Jonathan. It is Jonathan, right?’

Sam’s eyes raised in surprise and at the back of the van, Alan chuckled.

‘You got an ID?’ Alan spat, reaching out his hand. Without taking his eyes off Sinclair, Sam slid the fake identification from his pocket and handed it to the burly agent. As it was taken, a twinge of discomfort echoed through his body.

‘You have the place bugged?’ Sam asked.

‘We have people on the inside.’ Sinclair smiled, before turning the laptop to Sam and pressing play. The same security video that Wyatt presented to him was on the screen, showing Sam handily taking apart the three Riders in the Bronx. Sam sighed as the video concluded with him pocketing the gun, and he then turned back to Sinclair, his face askew in a triumphant grin.

‘So, I am in trouble?’

‘That depends.’ Sinclair extinguished his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. ‘See, that right there, looks like aggravated assault. And if my eyesight is correct, and it always is, you’re now in possession of a firearm. Do you have a licence for that?’

Sam looked over Sinclair’s shoulder to Alan, who was scrupulously checking his ID on a computer. Despite Etheridge’s unparalleled skill, there was nothing but suspicion in his eyes. Sam turned back to Sinclair, the veteran agent’s smugness beginning to wane.

‘What do you want?’ Sam sighed.

‘Why are you looking for Alex Stone?’ Sinclair asked, his smugness evaporating into a steely gaze that Sam knew would break a number of suspects.

‘She’s a friend.’

‘A friend?’

‘Yup. A friend. In fact, she saved my life last year, and I made her a promise to come back and help her. So here I am.’

‘Help her how?’

‘You’re the super detective, you tell me?’

Behind Sinclair, Alan typed furiously away on his keyboard. Then he rose from the uncomfortable looking chair and approached them, tossing the fake passport at Sam, who caught it instinctively. Outside the van, the street shook with the roar of a number of motorcycles as they shot past, their engines growling angrily into the night sky.