He looked up, close enough to see the suspects’ faces as they lowered themselves onto the motorway’s tarmac. One just scared. Not really realising the depth of the shit he’d stepped into until this minute. Another frankly terrified. And looking like he’d already pissed himself, or worse. One with the beatific smile of a true believer. Which was heart stopping enough in itself. Bespeaking the expectation of imminent martyrdom. And the fourth... Pearce felt the adrenaline surge. His animal brain making the decision to kill the fourth man before his conscious thought processes caught up.

The fourth man was grinning hard enough that his face was almost a rictus. Teeth bared. The grin turning into a snarl even as Pearce put his hand back on the carbine and lined up the shot. Putting the death dot on his forehead and his finger onto the trigger. He fired, the gentlest squeeze of his index finger unleashing the terrible power of the 5.56mm round chambered and waiting.

Just a tenth of a second too late.

1

Monken Park Boxing Studio. Fashionably bare brick walls, tiered rows of punch bags and speedballs.

Outside, cold rain on the streets, leaves whipped by the wind. Commuters scurrying home with their hoods up. Eager for central heating and oven ready. How was your day, or just telly’s solitary embrace.

Inside, warm and aromatic with sweat, liniment and grim determination. Half a dozen paying punters pounding bags, a couple more skipping with their personal trainers. And in the ring, two men. One past his prime in fight terms, one yet to reach it. But Mickey knew the kid had him in deep trouble the moment the fight started.

Grizzler gestured for the two men to get to it. And the shit promptly hit the fan. To be fair, it wasn’t like Mickey hadn’t been warned. The kid had strolled across the ring towards him nonchalantly enough. Gloved hands down by his hips and a knowing smile that set his instincts jangling. Leaned in, as if to say hi and thanks for offering to spar. And delivered the good news through his Irish flag gum-shield. Flat stare, flat monotone.

‘My Da says you’re filth. Says you smacked him, good and hard, one Saturday night. On the High Street back in the 90’s. Says you knocked him spark out. So I’m gunna make you my bitch, right? When I’m done with you, they’ll be doing the ten-bell salute.’