He realised, as he gazed down through the clouds at the Netherlands below, that if he was to be successful, he would be following the supply line that delivered cocaine backwards. He would start with its final destination and trace the chain all the way back to its source. Anthony Jackson was the penultimate stage of that supply line. He took deliveries from the cartel and divided them up, remitting consignments to partners around the country. Those men and women would divide their shares again, providing stock to the dealers who would then be responsible for the retail side of the operation. Milton had had experience of that grubby final transaction before; it didn’t take much to recall the time that he had spent on the streets of East London in the aftermath of his attempted resignation from Group Fifteen. If he achieved nothing else beyond this, at least he would have choked the flow of cocaine on its way into the country. He wasn’t naïve; business would adjust and someone would appear to take advantage of the gap in the market that had been created—but that would take a little time.

The next person up the chain was López, and then, through him, Milton would try to follow the drugs to the source.

“We’ll be on the ground in ten minutes’ time,” the captain announced over the intercom. “Crew to prepare the cabin for landing, please.”

Milton knew that his tactics would have to change now that he had more seasoned operators in his sights. Anthony Jackson didn’t know it now—and never would—but he had been fortunate. Milton had given some thought to the option of simply taking him out. It would have been simple enough to break into his house and put a bullet into his head, and he could have achieved that without needing help from Hicks, Chase or Ziggy. But he had decided against it. He knew that eventually he was going to have to embrace the side of his personality that he had tried to smother for so long, to welcome back the pitiless violence that had been his stock-in-trade for the better part of a decade, but he had decided that that could wait.

There were ways to sideline Jackson without murdering him.

The murdering would come later.

35

Milton took an Uber to the apartment in Houthaven. Hicks and Ziggy were waiting for him. Hicks was cooking an omelette in the kitchen and Ziggy, not surprisingly, was busy at work on his laptops.

“Hey,” Hicks said.

Milton took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of the sofa. “When did you get in?”

“An hour ago,” Hicks said.

Ziggy took off his headphones, music audible from them until he moused over to his Spotify window and pressed pause. “Evening.”

“All okay?”

He nodded that it was. “I’ve got something for you both,” he said. “Here.”