‘This is special physics, Mickey my son. And, I should add, physics with a proven track record. This pistol’s already done three jobs and never yet been identified. Because when you put one of these…’ holding up the tiny bullet ‘…into a bloke’s head from a foot away, it doesn’t have the power to break out the other side. Not enough energy. But it will keep moving, and so it goes round, and round, and round. Turning his brain into soup. Until it stops. Battered out of all recognition, just a lump of metal that can be sussed for a .22 all right, but without barrel striations.’

He’d known what those were, of course, but allowed his friend to keep talking.

‘No barrel fingerprint, in simple terms. So no-one will ever link the hit to the pistol. Or the pistol to the bloke I got it from. Or him to me. Which is a good thing. Because he’d give me up in a heartbeat to get a TIC, and a few years off his sentence, right? And I’d be talking on the way to the nick, if they were to pick me up for it. And then where would you be?’

He checked that the suppressor’s short tube was firmly attached. Pulled the slide back against the spring, feeling the tension inside the weapon. Released it, to snap forward and chamber the first round in the stubby magazine. And then stopped for a moment, to think. Remembering his school friend’s last question.

‘But are you sure you want to do this? Really sure. Because this is major league shit, Mickey. Not like anything you ever did. Ever. You sure you got the stones?’

‘He supplied the stuff that—’

‘Killed Katie. Yeah. We all hate the bastard for that. Fuck, I’d kill him, given the chance. And he knows it, right? Lives in fear of exactly what you want this for.’ Raising both the weapon and an eyebrow. ‘But are you really… really… fucking… sure?’

And that had been choice point number one. He could have said no. Knew he should have. Just walked away, nothing lost. The nasty little Ruger returned to its owner, and no questions asked. Some hard-faced gun dealer would have shrugged. Probably had a laugh with Martin about lost bottle. And no-one would ever have known. But this was the last chance to back out. Unscrew the suppressor. Slip the pistol back into the bag in his pocket. Peel off the gloves. And the balaclava. And forget the idea of revenge. Tell Nemesis he was out.