Michael Devlin had learned that lesson over thirty years ago. And he had learned it well.

The distraction of O’Driscoll had lasted no longer than a heartbeat. Nothing more. Yet as that heartbeat passed and his attention returned to Michael, the attacker could do nothing about the blonde head that was now just inches from his face and moving fast. The impact came nanoseconds later, with every ounce of Michael’s weight once again brought to bear. This time through his forehead instead of his fist.

Not that it mattered. The result was the same.

Michael heard the sickening crunch as the bone and cartilage in the man’s nose crumbled into his face. But the damage did not stop there. Michael’s momentum sent his head further forward. The speed and with which Michael’s head had connected also shattered the bigger man’s cheekbone, with the momentum from the blow sending them both crashing to the floor.

Michael was back on his feet in an instant, fuelled by the massive adrenaline rush that had started just seconds ago. The other man stayed down, as motionless as the guy who had gone first. It had been a while since Michael had last fought. Almost two years. And although he wasn’t supposed to admit it – although he was supposed to be civilised – Michael could not deny the truth.

This feels bloody good.

O’Driscoll was not having the same experience. Slightly dazed from the impact with Guy Three’s knee, he did not regain his footing as cleanly nor as quickly as Michael. Halfway between horizontal and upright, his head was just beginning to clear when it was impacted by another, much more deliberate knee-strike.

The momentum Michael had built up in just four steps smashed O’Driscoll’s front teeth. The impact threw him backwards, into a doorway where he missed Draper by inches. His head landed heavily on the concrete step inside. The thud was sickening.

Michael approached slowly, his heart racing. Something inside – something primal – was hoping that O’Driscoll had some fight left in him. That Michael could be justified in punishing him further. But one glance told him otherwise.

Like his two friends, O’Driscoll was finished.

And Michael’s fight was done.

*

For all of Smithfield Market’s exclusive bars and restaurants, many butcheries remain. And where there are butcheries there are vans. Parked. Driving. Loading. Unloading.

Karl Hirst’s van was parked less than one hundred yards from where Michael Devlin had just dispatched his three attackers in seconds. And, for the first time in a long time, Hirst was impressed.

He had not realised that Michael Devlin was quite so capable. Certainly more of a handful than the others; it might even require him rethinking a few minor details of what would happen between them. Luckily, he knew exactly how to deal with that problem: the woman with whom Michael had been walking hand in hand. The woman who was not Sarah Truman.

You dirty bastard, Devlin, Hirst had thought. You dirty, unlucky bastard.