He’d paced out the timings several times after setting the lights up. Before hurrying down the road to the gym. Twenty seconds from the Mazda’s parking spot to the open side door that was the building’s only easy entrance. Left deliberately ajar. Lewis would recognise a potential trap, of course. But he was Lewis. Armed, very dangerous and quite psychotic with it. He’d note the danger and bull on into it. Ready for anything. Almost.

Another minute of cautious progress across a floor littered with debris would bring him to the spot Mickey had chosen. Walking into the trap that Mickey had prepared, when Nemesis had nominated his next target. And told him just how dangerous Lewis could be. What he was capable of. What he’d done, over the years he’d served Joe. Why he needed to die. And how.

After a minute or so he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Confident. Steady-paced. Without any attempt at concealment, other than a soft, careful footfall. Unsuspecting. Lewis still believing he was hunting a woman. A soft target. The steps paused. Making Mickey wonder if he sensed the ambush in the same instinctive way the tiger might have caught the caveman’s scent. Not sure what was wrong, exactly. But knowing there was something not quite right. Then he saw the faint blue light of a phone screen. Smiled knowingly. That ain’t going to help you much, buddy. And you just blew whatever degree of darkness adoption you might have gained in the last minute or so.

‘Fuck!’

The light faded. Lewis’s vehement whisper speaking volumes as to the enforcer’s frustration at the lack of signal. His footsteps resumed, getting closer to Mickey’s hiding place behind the wall. Mickey braced himself for action. The unseen figure stopped walking at the entrance to the section of the warehouse where Mickey’s equipment was set up. The bath’s chipped white enamel a pale, almost ghostly presence in the gloom. He knew that the other man would be able to see it. Question was, would he investigate?

The footsteps started up again, progressing more slowly from right to left. The rustle of a weapon being drawn. The hiss of oiled screw threads. A suppressor? Then the click-clack of a slide being racked. His victim suspected that all was not quite as expected, perhaps. Or just a sensible precaution. Either way, it made no difference. Because his quarry had just walked right into the middle of Mickey’s trap.