There was not far to go. Dempsey knew that, even if the guys in the car did not. It gave him little time to anticipate their plan. And so he gave up trying. They might not even have a plan, he realised. It could be as simple as a drive-by shooting.

With his stop coming up – and with it his moment of vulnerability – he would instead concentrate on staying alive.

Dempsey accelerated as he passed East 70th. Just to see what the Lincoln would do. The answer was nothing. Its driver allowed the distance to grow. As far as Dempsey could tell, they now seemed confident enough to lose sight.

Which means they know where I live, he realised. They probably have someone up here already.

Dempsey’s eyes darted everywhere as he moved along the final four blocks. He slowed his speed again, to give him the best chance of spotting a second vehicle, but he saw nothing as he came to his right-hand turn onto East 74th.

He was about to find out why.

As fast as he had covered the distance between First Avenue and York on foot earlier, it was nothing compared to a bike. It took five, perhaps six seconds for him to reach the right-hand turn close to the very end of 74th Street, which led to the gated parking area of The Stratford building.

Bringing his Triumph Daytona to a halt in front of the gates, he searched his leathers for the remote control that opened the interlinking metal barrier. Tapping himself down, he had to open the zipper on his leather jacket to reach it. Once in hand, he clicked the single button and waited as the gate slowly rose.

To anyone passing, he looked like any other resident of any one of Manhattan’s countless high-rise apartment buildings. Just a man, waiting patiently to access the parking facility he was lucky to enjoy. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

In reality, he was no such thing. His eyes were once again fixed to his mirrors, intently watching the two black-suited men who were seated in the near-identical Lincoln Continental that was parked on the corner of 74th, almost directly across from the parking garage.

There was less than twenty yards between them.

Dempsey was waiting for them to make their move. To come and do what it was they were here for. Because when they came, he would be ready. His show at finding the remote had been exactly that: a distraction that had allowed him to open his tight jacket and provide free access to his concealed Glock 19 pistol.

He waited.

And he waited.

And they did not move.

The gate stopped, now fully opened. Dempsey pulled inside, just in time to glance to his right and observe the arrival of the other Lincoln Continental as it turned from First Avenue onto 74th.

They waited, Dempsey thought as he pulled into the parking garage and watched the gate closed behind him. There were two of them right there, and they waited.