‘You should watch yourself, sunshine. I might start to think you don’t like me. I knew another feller once who didn’t like me. Know what happened to him?’

Webb still said nothing. Lang took a forefinger and slowly traced a line across his neck, as if slashing it open with an imaginary knife. Then he took a step back and smiled. ‘I’m just joking, you daft prick.’

Mallet said, ‘Step outside with me for a moment, Davey.’

‘Why?’ Lang asked.

‘Our friends at Six are sending a team to pick you up. They want to discuss your return to London. They’ve got a few questions.’

Lang swaggered confidently outside, a renewed spring to his step. Mallet beckoned him over and rested against the stainless-steel railing as he dialled a number. Lang waited while Mallet uttered a few words to the person on the other end of the line. Then Mallet said to the caller, ‘OK.’

He hung up. Tucked his phone into his back jeans pocket. Lang frowned.

‘What the—’

Then Mallet pushed him over the edge.

Lang screamed and fell backwards. He seemed frozen in mid-air for a split second, arms flailing, mouth open in horror, before he plummeted from view.

From below came the dull thump of a human body pancaking against metal.

A car alarm shrieked.

Bowman raced over to the balcony. He leaned over the edge and peered down at the side street below. Lang had crash-landed on top of a Porsche Cayenne parked at the roadside. His twisted body was slumped across the bonnet, arms and legs bent at unnatural angles.

‘Jesus.’ Bowman stared disbelievingly at Mallet. ‘Jesus Christ.’

Mallet grinned wickedly. ‘You didn’t think Six would let that bastard get away with it, did you?’

A sudden chill ran through Bowman. Did Six plan to kill Lang all along?

Did Mallet lie to us?

He glanced briefly down at the street. Figures appeared on the balconies of the surrounding apartment blocks, rubbernecking the scene. A cyclist leaped off his bike and raced over to Lang, shouting at a middle-aged guy in a suit to call an ambulance. Several metres further away, an old man with a shopping bag stared up at the apartment block. And pointed.

‘Move,’ Mallet snapped. ‘We’re getting the fuck out of Dodge.’

Bowman pushed away from the railing and hurried inside. Casey and Webb both stared at the Cell leader with blank, neutral expressions. Neither of them seemed particularly surprised by the killing. Seguma stared out at the terrace, his face stamped with shock and fear.

‘Sir, we’re leaving,’ Mallet said. ‘Now.’

The president quickly cleared his expression. ‘Yes, OK.’ He spread his lips into a pitiless smile. ‘I never really trusted that worthless dog anyway.’

‘Grab the heavy,’ Mallet said to Bowman. ‘Let’s go.’