He took out his cap and put it on his head and paused at the door, looking left and right. He was satisfied that it was safe to proceed. With another glance at the burning car, Björn Thorsson dropped the SIM into an open drain and tossed the phone into a garbage can.

He walked away from the crowd that was gathering near the flaming wreck, and disappeared.

I. Tuesday

Part I

Tuesday

1

John Milton took the garment carrier from the wardrobe and unzipped it, removing the suit that he had selected for the evening’s festivities: a plain navy two-button with a notch lapel, in mid-weight eleven-ounce textured hopsack fabric. The tailor who had served him in the boutique in Gelderlandplein had described it as the equivalent of the little black dress, a versatile choice that was still stylish. Milton had ignored his blandishments and had also ignored his advice on the measurement for the jacket, choosing one that was not quite perfect around his chest on the basis that he might want to pair it with a shoulder rig and a nine-millimetre at some point in the not-too-distant future.

He took off his jeans and T-shirt, taking a look at the scars that discoloured his skin from the top of his shoulders all the way down to his ankles. There was ink from the tattooist’s gun, too: the angel wings on his back, the Roman numeral IX over his breast, and more besides. He could have read his history there, if he was so minded. He was not. He had business to attend to, and it would not wait.

It had been a frantic last few weeks. Milton had been about to realise a long-cherished dream to drive an American muscle car from Oakland to the East Coast, but he had only made it as far as Las Vegas before fate had intervened. He had found himself helping a young woman who—or so he had thought—was in need of his assistance. Jessica Russo’s father had been working an elaborate financial sting for a Mexican cartel and had made the foolish decision to rip them off. They had kidnapped the old man, and Jessica had tricked Milton into helping her to get him back. The cartel sent a sicario to locate their missing money, and the man had murdered Beau Baxter, one of Milton’s only friends, a policewoman and three civilians. Milton had tracked the hitman to Tuscany and eliminated him, but that was not enough to satisfy his need for vengeance.

He wanted whoever it was who had given the orders to the sicario, and then the person who had given those orders, too.

Coming to Amsterdam was the first step on the ladder.