His duty bag, as ever packed with everything he might need was waiting by the door. More than enough suit and boot in there. He told reception that he’d be back the next day and paid for another day up front. Then went out to his BMW, threw the bag in the back and jumped in. Belted up, rolled his shoulders and stabbed a finger at the start button. Three litres of Munich muscle coming to life under his right foot. Crawled the car carefully out onto the road. Then put the gearbox into sport and stabbed at the accelerator. Went off up the road like a stabbed rat. Blue lights the only thing missing. And for sure Mickey planned to warrant card a collector’s item traffic car. Challenge accepted.

62

He reached the Hall just before seven. Mainly thanks to some epic right-foot action. Wringing the Bimmer’s neck when the road opened up or a gap beckoned. Leaving a trail of outraged civilians behind him. Getting out of the car, he realised that there was something rare lurking in the evening’s shadows. Rare, but not exactly unexpected.

He strolled over and tapped at the Range Rover’s windscreen. Inch-thick solid bulletproof glass. The bodywork making a dull thud when hit with a knuckle. A Range Rover of a different and rare breed. The Sentinel. Four and a half tonnes of bomb- and bulletproof armour. Thick enough to stop a 5.56mm rifle bullet at close range. Propelled by a 550-horsepower supercharged engine to make all that weight at least moderately spritely. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned. Wade, walking across the small parking area and holding out his hand. Mickey took it with a fierce grin, hefting his bag out of the car’s back seat.

‘Evening, Wade. So what the fuck’s going on that needs a skipper to supervise a big boy like you?’

Wade gave him that look.

‘You don’t know? Christ.’

‘That bad?’

Wade spread his hands with the look of a man at the end of his patience.

‘Bad enough that nobody’s telling me anything. Seriously, it’s like I’ve got the word cunt tattooed across my forehead.’

And Mickey, with more than enough reason to be at the end of his own rope, nodded his understanding.

‘Right. First things first. Which one of the miserable bastards from LX is here with my firearm?’

Wade grinned. Frustration temporarily forgotten. ‘Vic. And he’s not happy. But wait ’til you see what he’s got for you.’

Mickey opened the delivered gun case to discover a SIG MCX Rattler. A baby assault rifle. Chambered for .300 Blackout. A proper man-stopping bullet. Noting approvingly that the armourer had equipped it with simple flip-up iron sights. Mickey having no truck with the fancier holographic scope beloved of the coffee-drinking theorists.

‘Nice choice, Vic. Thanks, mate.’

‘Yeah, well the inspector told me to bring you out something special.’