He got out of the car and closed the door quietly. Walked, medium pace, along the street and round the corner into Walcott Road. A street lined with big, century-old houses. Long since converted into multiple apartments. All except for number 37, which was owned in its entirety by Joe Castagna. The house put to a different use. No indication that Number 37 was anything out of the ordinary, of course. Not unless you knew the purpose to which the house had been put. And what was delivered, and collected, always at the dead of night. Product, to be worked on. Made ready for consumption.

Mickey walked silently towards the target, in the dark post-midnight gloom. Looked up and down the street. Nothing moving. And from the outside, Number 37 appeared equally lifeless. He climbed over the low garden wall, giving the front door’s video bell a wide berth. Stopped in the house’s deeper shadow, fishing patrol gloves and overshoes out of a pocket. Adding the usual balaclava. Then eased up the hasp of the side gate, ghosting into the back garden. Ducked beneath the darkened side window.

He flitted past the French windows at the rear of the house. Stopped to listen at the kitchen door. Nothing. Still as quiet as the grave. Drew a long, slow breath. It would probably have been easier on his nerves to shoot his way in. Indeed Martin had exactly that comment, when he’d told him what he’d need for this one. Especially one piece of kit.

‘What do you want that for? I mean, shooter, yeah, obviously. The knife, the knuckles, yeah, I would too. The grenades…’ He’d shaken his head in some kind of admiration. ‘I mean, fucking hell, Mickey, but yeah. A good idea, if you need to blast your way out. But that? I thought the whole idea was to kill as many of them as possible? Your mate Nemesis going soft?’

He opened a pouch, taking out his lock pick and setting to work on the door. The mechanism clicked, and he froze again, listening. Still nothing. He put the lock pick away, then drew the boxy weapon from his waist holster. Opened the door and stepped inside, listening intently for any sign of movement. Nothing. Took another slow, deep breath and paced forward into the hallway, looking at the doors on either side intently. Both secured by locks, the keys inserted. He turned the key in the lock on the left, feeling it click over. Unlocked. And therefore empty. Probably. He turned the key back and opened the door carefully. Slipped into the room with the black and yellow gun ready. Empty. He closed the door behind him. Holstered the weapon and pulled a Mini Maglite from his pocket.