A delicious rush of coldness flowed through Jia as she reached for the door. Her mind was clear, calm and focused. The events that had led her to this point aligned and everything made sense. The sound of the riot rose, punctuated by the crack of fireworks, and she gestured to her men: it was time. They moved stealthily into the room. Bang, bang, bang! went the fireworks, coming closer and closer together. The Brotherhood didn’t have time to react. Idris was the first to pull the trigger, the dull thud of the bullet leaving the pistol through the silencer masked by the noise outside. He hit the target square in the back of his head, the man collapsing into a heap, his blood seeping through his blond hair and on to the oak floor.

Akram cowered in a corner of the room. ‘Please, I have small children!’ he begged Malik, who was towering over him. ‘I ask you for mercy.’ Malik froze, the reality of what he was about to do taking hold of him. He stepped back. Seeing him flinch, Jia moved her gun swiftly from Nowak’s head to Akram’s. The sound of a crack followed and his face crumpled like a concertina. Jia’s senses were heightened, the air around her cooler; it was like nothing she had felt before. She soaked it in.

Nadeem’s mark lay dead, his blood running along the grain of the floorboards and dripping through the cracks.

Nowak was the only man left standing. He faced his attackers, his hands in the air, blood spattered across his shirt and in his hair. He looked afraid, until Jia removed her mask, and then he smiled. For a man staring death in the face, he seemed very relaxed. ‘It’s you! How lovely to see you here. For a moment I thought I was about to die. But now I know it’s you, well…that changes things. After all, I already broke one Khan,’ he said.

Idris stepped forward, his arm outstretched, but Jia stopped him.

‘Let him finish,’ she said.

‘Yes, listen to the little Pakistani woman. You know this is a game for men, don’t you? But then again your brother, he couldn’t take it either. He begged me to stop. He cried like a child. Like a little boy. Benyamin Khan, son of the great Khan, begged me to let him die. See? Look, you’re angry, your judgement is clouded. Women think with their hearts and not their heads and that is why you’ll never be any good at this. You know, for me it was only business. It was never personal,’ he said. He waited for her to respond.