Harlan got back in the car and drove away, back to the apartment.

By the time he got there, the phone was ringing again.

Another fire. Another crack production line at another fake office, up in smoke.

Then another.

Then half an hour later, another.

What the fuck was happening?

144

Harlan spent a ragged, sleepless night sitting on the couch, drinking coffee and intermittently picking up calls. His biggest fear was that one of the other gang bosses had cut a deal with the Colombians and planned to off him after they had destroyed his business. It wasn’t unheard of. But why would they trash the crack production lines? He wouldn’t, in their position. He would keep them, and off the man in charge and all his backers. That made better sense, didn’t it?

The night went on and the calls kept coming. One, then another, then another, until dawn broke.

Then the outcome was clear: all six of the bases where his imported cocaine was transformed into high-quality crack were gone. He phoned Javier, his contact with the cartel. Javier was in and out of England all the time, liaising between his Colombian associates and the Stone crew.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ was Javier’s first comment, his accent as thick as maple syrup.

‘You heard then?’ Instantly Harlan was on his guard, thinking that maybe Javier knew all about the fires. That maybe he’d lit the bastards – or had them lit, anyway. Unlikely he’d get involved in any direct action. The only reason that slick pussy Javier ever used his hands was to get his dick out.

‘You’re in disarray, my friend,’ said Javier, sounding almost pleased about it.

Yeah, did you do this? If you did, you are dead, my Colombian friend, I promise you that.

‘Nothing that can’t be put right. We’ll set up again. It’s bad, but it’s solvable,’ he said, very bullish. He didn’t feel bullish, not in the least.

Someone was taking the manor, his manor, apart, piece by piece.

There was a pause at the other end of the phone. ‘And what about this week’s shipments? No problems there, I trust?’