When Jermaine O’Shay saw the Barker brothers enter, he felt his heart sink like a stone in his chest. There were four Barker brothers, they were each born within a five-year period, and looked like clones. They were all over six foot, heavily built, with a natural penchant for extreme violence. Born from a Jamaican father, and a second-generation Dutch mother, they were handsome fucks, with coffee-coloured skin and dark blue eyes. They were Michael Flynn’s private army, and he paid them well. He had their loyalty but, more importantly, he had their friendship. They only worked for the people they wanted to; they were known throughout England as men of courage, men of good character who couldn’t be owned. They had always stood alone, and that was why they were so sought after. Now they were standing there with machetes in their hands, and smiles on their faces, eager to get down to business.

‘I think this is what is called in France, a fait accompli. Basically, mate, you’re fucked.’

Jermaine looked at his men then, still expecting them to back him up. But they were both standing by the doorway, staring straight ahead.

Michael shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I asked you to swallow, Jermaine, but you refused. Months of aggro you’ve given me.’

Jermaine O’Shay was still not going to be intimidated. ‘You know I deserve better than this, Michael. Remember who I work for.’

Michael laughed again. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, Jermaine. I don’t shit without planning it out first.’ He put his hand on Jeffrey Palmer’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘I never wanted this, remember that.’

He went to his desk and opened up one of the drawers, taking out a small axe. ‘But I always do my own dirty work.’

He split open Jeffrey Palmer’s skull with one massive blow. ‘I think that is what the Jamaican Yardies call a permanent parting.’

No one moved, or batted an eyelid.

Jermaine O’Shay felt the spray of blood hit his face. It was outrageous. He watched in disbelief as Michael chopped the man’s head off. Declan was looking at Jermaine with resignation and sorrow. He had tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen.

Michael Flynn was drenched in blood now, it was like a scene from a cheap horror film. Jermaine tried to stand up, tried to defend himself, but his own men forced him back on to the chair, and held him in place.

Michael laughed once more. ‘I hope you realise, Jermaine, that this is nothing personal. I liked you. I liked Jeffrey. But I will not be crossed. I will not be treated like a cunt by anyone. I gave you every chance I could. But you insisted on throwing it all back into my face. So fuck you.’