Bowman gripped the document wallet tightly as he walked up to the door with Webb. He felt the Ruger grip beneath his thick jacket, pressing against his torso as they halted in front of the door. Webb rapped the brass knocker twice and took half a step back. He slid his right hand down to his side. Ready to draw his weapon. Bowman did the same.

The door snicked open. A figure stood in the doorway, hard-edged and thin-lipped, with a massive gold chain draped like a garland around his neck and eyes so cold they could freeze a lake.

David Lang stared impatiently at the two men in the corridor. He was dressed in a fine shirt the colour of champagne and a pair of slim-fit jeans. The spider-faced watch on his wrist gleamed under the soft glow of the ceiling lights. He had no scars on his face, but in every other way he was identical to his twin brother Freddie.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ Lang said, looking from Bowman to Webb with narrowed eyes.

Webb reverted to his Brummie accent.

‘Papers for you to sign, sir. We were told it’s urgent.’

He indicated the plastic wallet Bowman was holding. Lang’s eyebrows came together in suspicion. ‘First I’ve heard about it. Who are they from?’

‘That’s none of our business, sir. We were just asked to make the delivery.’

Lang sighed. ‘Well, don’t just fucking stand there. What have I got to sign?’

‘The documents are just here, sir,’ Bowman said.

He fumbled with the tamperproof zip, distracting Lang. As Bowman reached inside for the documents, Webb tore his Ruger free from his holster and brought it up to shoulder height, shoving the barrel close to the mobster’s face.

‘What the f—’

‘Step away from the door,’ Webb said coolly. ‘Now.’

Lang glowered at the soldiers but didn’t argue. Sound logic. He couldn’t hold a debate with a nine-milli pistol two inches from his face. He held up his hands and retreated two slow steps from the doorway, his nostrils flared with rage. Bowman deholstered his pistol and crept into the hallway behind Webb, the semi-automatic unsteady in his clammy grip. He closed the door, dumped the wallet on the side table, next to a leather bifold wallet and a Range Rover key fob, and took up a position at Webb’s right shoulder.

‘You’re making a big fucking mistake,’ Lang said. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

‘Shut up,’ Webb snapped. ‘Make a move and I’ll blow your brains out.’