He made sure that the mask was all the way down his throat. No white skin to reflect light. Walked slowly, carefully, down the alley. Stepping carefully, silently, over the inevitable detritus of the urban landscape. Fifty yards. He could see Warren now, lit by the lights behind him. His back to the alley, half-hidden in the shadows. Surveying his domain. His little kingdom.

Other dealers wanted the pitch, but none of them would stand against him. Warren carried a knife, and his face told you he’d use it happily enough. The same hard face he’d turned on the police investigating Katie’s death. Nothing to do with me, Officer. Find Warren in possession of either blade or merch? Not likely.

Thirty yards. Warren turned, made a cursory scan of the alley, seeing nothing. Eyes accustomed to the streetlight. Head to foot black, Mickey could have been within arm’s reach and probably still been invisible. But the quick turn and look told him it was time. In thirty or so seconds the dealer would do it again. Warren worked instinctively, to some rhythm only he could hear.

He paced silently toward the other man’s back, raising the Ruger. Ready to take the shot, if needed. Twenty yards. Not impossible at that range. He knew that from long practice. But the bullet, slowed by the weapon’s fat little suppressor, would be inaccurate. Not like a 9mm. He could have put a 9-mil round into Warren’s head from thirty yards away. But where would the subtlety have been in that?

Fifteen. Better. The chance of a kill shot doubled.

Ten. Properly inside killing range. Common sense said to do it now. One round, back of the head. Put his target down, never even knowing what hit him. One second alive, vital. The next, dead. Already on the other side. Discovering whether there was more. Or just eternal darkness. The common-sense option. But not the one Mickey intended taking. Not the safest way. Not the most fitting either. Five paces. He leaned forward, putting the gun’s barrel a foot from the back of Warren’s head.

Pitched his voice softly. Words for one man’s ears only. The last words he would ever hear.

‘All right, Warren?’

‘Jesus, you scared the fucking—’

And as his sister’s killer turned, eyes widening, body starting to react…

Thup.

Louder than a discreet cough, quieter than a sneeze. Warren’s eyes suddenly shot through with blood, as the bullet went in through his forehead. Twin bloody orbs staring sightlessly at his killer. He swayed for an instant, like a puppet with loose strings. Mickey leaned forward. Grabbed Warren’s coat and pulled hard. Stepped back smartly to let the falling body crumple into the alley’s shadows.