Ivana blew out long and slow, mightily relieved that their father tended to have the paper delivered out of habit these days, rather than because he was always in a rush to read it. The story she’d noticed was contained in a box and inset into the bottom left-hand corner of the front page, which explained why he probably hadn’t seen it yet.

Whatever happened now, he couldn’t be allowed to. Ever.

‘Vana, I said, what’s—’

Ivana offered the paper, one finger indicating the story in question. ‘We have to go out tonight, Lyssa, whatever the circs. Even if we only scope out the target and do nothing else there, we must take care of this.’

Alyssa read the inset story and shrugged. ‘We can look. But it’s probably nothing.’

‘Probably. But we don’t take chances, do we?’

‘Suppose not.’

Ivana turned back to the kettle. ‘Make sure you drink all that coffee, while I make us another one. It’s going to be a long night.’

Alyssa grinned. ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’

Chapter 30

‘So … what’s the prognosis?’ Shallicker asked, taking random turns down empty Crowley streets. They’d been driving this way for what seemed like several minutes now, crazily, haphazardly, and this was the first time he’d spoken.

‘Why are you asking me?’ Lucy said. ‘I’m not a doctor.’

‘Don’t bullshit me, Lucy! I just saw you and Cora coming out. I was waiting for you.’

Her eyes remained locked on the residential roads spooling out in front of them. ‘I’ve been delivering an assault victim to A&E. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Look …’ He’d been chomping a huge wad of peppermint-scented gum, and now bared it, along with several teeth, his massive neck muscles standing out, his sweaty, shovel-like hands gripped on the wheel so tightly that his tendons showed like white bands. ‘Look …’ Apparently, it required an immense, nut-busting effort just to put voice to whatever it was he was trying to say. ‘Look … I might be a scumbag criminal to you, but Frank’s my mate, okay? I’m not just his lackey. We’ve been together for the last twenty-five years. We’ve been through thick and thin … we’ve had each other’s backs in every kind of scrape. Even if you hate me because of my profession, at least fucking respect me as a human being. I’ll ask you one more time … how is he?’

Ultimately, Lucy didn’t see any value in saying nothing. It was nice to see a bastard like Mick Shallicker squirming, but he was the kind of huge fish, who, when he squirmed could do some serious damage – she knew because she’d seen it for herself.

‘He’ll be okay,’ she said. ‘Looks like the bullet bounced off his collar-bone. That’s broken, obviously. But otherwise he’s unhurt.’