‘Eddie must have been the one selling us out to Bale! I’m going to get somewhere I can’t be extradited and then turn the dogs loose on that cunt. You look after my wife and kids until I can get them out too, right? You do that for me, I’ll set you up for life.’

He cursed, pulling his leg away from a thorny tangle of branches as he emerged from the bushes.

‘Here, give me that—’

Rocco, momentarily framed in the copse’s exit, staggered backwards and collapsed onto the hard-packed earth. His upper body torn apart by a dozen high-velocity rounds. The shotgun fell from his nerveless fingers. Joe, who had been reaching out to take the weapon from him, spun to face the hidden gunman.

Mickey. Dressed in black. Looking at him over the Rhino’s bonnet. Down the thick snout of a silenced machine pistol.

‘It’s a good thing my informant told me you had this nice little escape route. You’d have been clean away, wouldn’t you?’

He advanced around the car. Putting another three-round burst into the twitching Rocco. The shots no louder than clapping hands.

‘It’s a lesson I learned from you, Joe. If a man goes down, keep him there. Put the briefcase on the ground.’

Joe obeyed, his mind working fast.

‘Mickey Bale, I presume. The Filth’s killing machine. I suppose I should be honoured.’ Mickey kept his mouth shut. Happy to let Joe play out his paranoid fantasy. ‘You realise what happens if you shoot me? Your missus gets to spend the next few days on a crash course in drug addiction and being buttfucked. Your choice.’

Mickey shook his head. Stepping forward and levelling the weapon’s barrel at Joe’s face.

‘Yeah, but you’ll be dead. And not the easy way.’

Joe went quiet. Calculating whether Mickey had that much psycho in him. Mickey stepped a little closer, making the gun’s suppressor-clad muzzle even more menacing.

‘But I’m missing a trick here. What’s in the briefcase?’

‘Mind your own fuck—’

Having switched the machine pistol to single shot, Mickey put a round through the top of Joe’s ear. Surprising himself by taking the shot despite the risk of blowing his brains out instead. The whipcrack of the bullet and sudden stinging pain making Joe piss in his jeans. Blood running down the side of his neck.

Mickey nodded at him. ‘Must be your lucky day. Because I doubt I could make that shot again. So the next time I won’t even try aiming to miss. Your choice. What’s in the case?’

Joe snarled at him, one hand exploring the bleeding wound. ‘What do you fucking think? Money. Tickets. Passport.’

‘The holy trinity of the modern gangster, eh? Open it.’ Something in his eye convinced Joe to play along, at least temporarily. ‘Now step back five paces.’