Mickey waited until the young guy’s hand was on the weapon’s butt. Allowed him enough time to straighten up halfway before firing. Resisted the urge to close his eyes, maintaining awareness even as he pulled the trigger. Saw every minute detail as his bullets smacked the teenager contemptuously back into the concrete wall. Put the dot on the younger boy and repeated the instruction. Almost pleading with him.

‘Run.’

The kid stared back, sudden irrational anger in his eyes. The discomfort of his incontinence forgotten. And why wouldn’t he be angry, Mickey wondered, as the knife came out of the boy’s waistband. He stamped forward, the decision not to shoot both unconscious and unwise. Just shooting the idiot would have been quicker and less risky. Reversed the machine pistol in a close-quarters combat drill. Drove the weapon’s butt into the kid’s midriff. Hard enough to double him over, puking.

‘You even get up before I’m gone, I’ll shoot you dead.’

He left the boy there, struggling just to breathe. All four of the gang members were dead. Or so close as to make no difference. Searched the man he’d shot last, finding the car keys in his pocket. Left his fallen pistol beside him. Turned back to the bags, opening all four to reveal their tightly packed contents. Then looked up to see the kid glaring at him, breathing easier now.

‘See this money?’ Mickey pushed the bags together, far enough from the Beemer for safety. ‘Looks good, doesn’t it? Buys nice trainers and clothes, like you’re wearing. Except it’s blood money. Made from suffering and death.’

Knowing he ought to shut up and get on with it. He picked up the pistol that had been the death of the older boy. Dropped the mag and racked the slide, a bullet tinkling on the dirty concrete floor. Threw it away across the car park. Did the same with the boy’s knife. Wasting time, safeguarding himself against a threat he could have removed with a single bullet. Knowing it was the right thing to do, even as he took the risk.

He collected up his spent ammunition casings. Walked quickly to the Astra and opened the boot. Picked up the MP5’s carry bag and the petrol can. Went back to the money. Soaked the bags, pouring it carefully to avoid splashes onto his feet. Stepped back and took a box of matches from his pocket. Snapped one to life against the striking surface. Dropped it into the first bag and stepped back as the petrol ignited. Then repeated the act with the other bags. Walked back to the Astra, pouring more petrol into the car’s thinly carpeted boot and throwing a match in after it. Nodding in satisfaction. Have that, Joe Castagna. And know that you’re under threat.