“I want something a little more imposing, but I’m going to need to modify it. It’s a little long to get into the building without it being seen. Do you have a saw?”

“I have a toolkit in the storeroom. There’s a saw there. What else?”

“Sugar.”

“I have plenty.”

“What about instant cold packs?”

“Yes, in the freezer.”

“What about a salt substitute? Potassium chloride.”

“Yes,” he said. “I think so.”

“Could you get them for me? And a metal tray and aluminium foil.”

Hachirō busied himself assembling the ingredients that Milton had requested while Milton started to work on the shotgun. Hachirō kept a plastic box of tools for general maintenance and Milton took out a hacksaw and attended to the barrels. He worked the blade back and forth, cutting through the metal so that first one barrel and then the other was cut right back. Milton lined up the saw against the buttstock and sliced that in half, too, reducing it so that it was little more than a crude pistol grip.

Hachirō returned with the items that Milton had asked for: an instant cold pack, a plastic tub that was labelled ‘Salt Lite,’ a bag of sugar. Milton needed potassium nitrate for what he had in mind, and set to work producing it. The cold pack contained two pouches: one filled with water and the other with ammonium nitrate. He sliced open the pouch with the nitrate and dissolved it in a jug of water. He strained the solution through a coffee filter, added the salt substitute and then heated the solution until the potassium chloride had dissolved.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a distraction,” Milton said.

He put the glass jug with the solution into the freezer so that it cooled, and then waited for the potassium nitrate to crystallise. While he was waiting, he held up the sawn-off and asked whether Hachirō had a bag that would be big enough to take it.

Hachirō opened a cupboard and pulled out a padded courier bag emblazoned with the logo of the restaurant. “I used to employ a local boy to deliver meals in the neighbourhood.”

Milton unzipped the bag and laid the shotgun inside. He opened the box of shells and stuffed them in his pockets, an even amount to both left and right.

The bag gave him an idea. “Did your delivery driver have a helmet?”

Hachirō went back to the cupboard and took out a crash helmet.

Milton held it up. “Perfect.”

117