Kev, who’d been listening, acknowledged and started talking to his Working Bikes. Switching their route from the favoured Westway option to Mickey’s second choice. Route One was urban clearway all the way to the turn south. And the A3220 wide enough to give plenty of room for manoeuvre. The Secondary routing? Not so much.

Off the Westway at the Hammersmith Flyover. South through the complex junction, the Working Bikes in box formation to warn off the unwary. Onto Fulham Palace Road, their blue lights and whistles clearing a path through the light traffic. Mickey ignored the minister’s muttered comments as the convoy bulled its way down the road, blue lights strobing. Hardly low profile anymore.

They passed Charing Cross Hospital on the left. Mickey’s dark sense of humour muttered in his ear that that might come in handy. Passed Fulham Cemetery. Mickey told his dark sense of humour to fuck right off. Kev was unflappable out front. The detour to the secondary routing all in a day’s work, Mickey supposed. They were still doing an average thirty and already closing in on Putney Bridge. The goal in sight, pretty much. Mickey was starting to think through the route south of the river when the tone of Maisie’s unmistakable voice got his attention.

‘Easy Rider, Working Two, carriageway blockage left.’

He looked up, seeing a parked van blocking the bus lane two hundred yards ahead. A Working Bike, presumably Maisie, slowing to check it out. Anticipating Kev’s instruction.

‘Working Two, check blockage.’

Double click from Maisie. Wade braked gently without needing to be told. Increasing the amount of time available for a visual inspection from the saddle before the Sentinel arrived. The lead Jag allowed the gap back to the principal to open up. Its occupants probably readying themselves for an emergency debus. The bike almost stopped at the van’s driver’s window. Maisie standing up on her foot-pegs to look into the cab. Her words made slightly comical by the whistle gripped in her teeth.

‘All clear.’

She sat down again and eased the bike back up to a brisk walking speed, waiting for the convoy. Working One, Sean, had already blocked the roundabout’s first exit, a hundred yards further south. The lead Jag slowed to repeat the inspection, cruising slowly past the parked vehicle. Nothing much to see, the cab nondescript, its black paint scuffed and matted by age. Much like the vehicles Mickey had bought for his attacks on Joe’s operation, he mused.