“Yes, but an exceptional body,” his boss had assured him, “and worthy of your combined talents. Take no half measures with this cove, lads, or you will find yourself looking down Old Nick’s throat. When he returns from his own bloody work, just wait for him to bed down, then do the business. You wait as long as it takes. Got it?”

The men nodded with feigned sincerity and pocketed their advance guineas; but once the big man was gone, they congratulated each other for landing such a soft job.

“We are the luckiest of beggars,” Percival had confided in his confederates. “This Garrick mug will have his entrails on the boards by dusk, and we will be scoffing mutton stew for supper.”

So now Percival and his two mates roused themselves from behind Row F of the Orient stalls and walked crabwise to the aisles. One took the left, the second went right, and Percival himself advanced straight down the center. Apart from the delay, events could hardly have turned out peachier for the intruders. This cove Garrick, far from being a specter of death, as advertised, had actually plonked himself center stage for a wee nod. The brave trio intended to flank their mark, then close in with diverse blades.

Percival hefted a short-handled chopping ax that he’d purchased in a supply store in California and later used to punish a teenage boy for pointing a finger at him. The second man, known simply as Turk, wielded a curved scimitar that had been in someone’s family for generations until Turk nicked it. And the third man, a Scot with unusually short legs, had a baling hook slotted between his fingers that had seen more eyeballs dangling off its tip than hay bales. The Scot, Pound, also carried a pistol, but bullets were costly and a wide shot could startle their mark into action, so best to do the job quietly with blades.

These men had worked together before and had developed a system of nods, whistles, and signals that precluded any chatter on the job. Chatty assassins did not last long in London. Percival was the captain, so the others looked to him for their lead. With two jabs of his ax, he directed them to the wings. Garrick would undoubtedly fly to one side or another should he somehow detect Percival’s approach. This was unlikely in any case, as Percival made about as much noise as a leaf floating across Hyde Park. Turk and Pound resigned themselves to the fact that the kill itself would be Percival’s, as it generally was.

Percival mounted the stage bridge and crept across the orchestra pit, enjoying the weight of the ax in his hand, relishing the thunk it would make chopping a wedge out of the mark’s skull.

Four more steps, then it’s mutton stew for me and the lads. Three more steps.