Corben reassembled the two weapons as fast as he’d stripped them down.
‘I’ll throw in a box of each,’ said May. ‘If you need more they’ll be fifty apiece.’
‘Two boxes of each.’
May smiled. ‘Deal,’ he said. He opened a second metal case to reveal four Glock pistols. ‘Automatics?’
Corben shook his head. ‘They spit casings all over the place. And they jam.’
‘Guns don’t jam,’ said May. ‘Crap ammunition jams. Used properly, a Glock’s as reliable as any revolver.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘We’re happy with the revolvers.’
May closed the lid of the case. He opened a third. There was only one weapon inside, a compact shotgun with a pistol grip at the trigger and a second pistol grip under the front of the barrel. ‘You wanted a sawn-off, but I thought you might appreciate this.’
O’Sullivan picked up the shotgun. ‘Nice.’
‘It’s a Franchi PA3,’ said May. ‘The forward pistol grip helps with the pump-action. Special forces use it to blow the hinges off doors for rapid entry. It’s a twelve gauge, overall length 470mm so it’s easy to conceal. It’s only got a three-round capacity but in my experience you only have to fire it once.’
O’Sullivan sighted down the barrel, then gave the weapon to Corben. ‘Ammunition?’
‘As much as you want.’
‘A couple of dozen will see me right,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘Price?’
‘Twelve for the gun. I’ll throw in the shells.’
‘Twelve hundred quid?’ said Corben. ‘Do me a favour.’
‘Who am I talking to here?’ May asked O’Sullivan. ‘The organ-grinder or the monkey?’
O’Sullivan’s smile hardened. ‘He’s my partner,’ he said, ‘and he knows about guns.’
‘It’s brand new,’ said May. ‘Return it unfired and I’ll pay you nine. So twelve is cheap.’
Corben shook his head. ‘It’s a shotgun, fancy pistol grips or not. A grand. Give us eight if we don’t make it go bang.’
May nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But unfired means unfired. Shots in the air count.’
O’Sullivan flashed May a tight smile. ‘We got it the first time,’ he said. ‘What about the heavy artillery?’
May pulled up the lids of the final two cases. Each contained two submachine-pistols.
Corben whistled softly. ‘Lovely jubbly,’ he said.
May pulled one out and gave it to O’Sullivan. ‘The gang-banger’s favourite,’ he said. ‘The MAC-10. Thirty rounds in the magazine and you can let the lot go faster than you can say “drive-by”.’
‘Sweet,’ said O’Sullivan. He passed it to Corben. ‘Have you got a silencer?’
‘What do you need one for?’
‘To keep the sodding noise down – what do you think I need it for?’
‘I can get you one.’
‘Two,’ said O’Sullivan, picking up the second Ingram.
‘Fifteen hundred apiece,’ said May. He tapped the sub machine-guns in the second case. ‘The Stars are a bit cheaper. Same calibre, same size magazine, a little bit heavier, rate of fire is slower but you can still let rip faster than you can blink.’
‘You keep pushing the Spanish gear, don’t you?’ said Corben. ‘You pick up a job lot?’
‘Spanish armed forces have been using them since 1985,’ said May. ‘Gang-bangers and Hollywood movie producers are the only ones who use the Ingram.’
‘We’ll take the Ingrams,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘And two silencers.’
‘You planning on going to war?’ asked May.
O’Sullivan ignored the question. He ran his eyes over the guns he’d selected. ‘Four thousand nine hundred, right?’
‘Let’s call it a round five grand,’ said May. ‘I’ll give you fifty per cent on the Ingrams if you bring them back unfired.’
O’Sullivan grinned. ‘They’ll be fired,’ he said.
‘I don’t get you, Conor,’ said May. ‘You fret about the Glocks because they eject their rounds, but the Ingrams spit them all over the place.’
‘Horses for courses,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘The shorts are for our next job, the Ingrams are for payback that’s been brewing for some time. Anyway, what do you care?’
‘Just curious,’ said May.
‘Yeah, well, you know what curiosity did to the cat,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘And it’s four thousand nine hundred.’
‘If you want the cases, it’s five grand,’ said May.
O’Sullivan shook his head sadly. ‘You’re a cheap bastard.’
‘It’s a business. I’ve got overheads and expenses. Do you want the cases or not?’
‘Yeah, I want the cases.’
‘Good choice,’ said May. He packed the weapons O’Sullivan had chosen and clicked the cases shut. ‘Now, if we could get the cash sorted…’
O’Sullivan nodded at Corben. Corben retrieved the Manchester United holdall, hefted it on to one of the tables and unzipped it. He took out five bundles of fifty-pound notes. Lomas picked up one and flicked through the notes slowly. He nodded at May.
May grinned and held out his hand. ‘Nice doing business with you, Conor,’ he said.
‘Mutual,’ said O’Sullivan. The two men shook hands.
Lomas and Corben looked at each other with undisguised dislike.
‘Guess they’re not going to kiss and make up,’ said May.
‘Guess not,’ said O’Sullivan. He picked up the case containing the shotgun with his right hand and the holdall with the left, then motioned for Corben to carry the rest. The two men walked towards the door.
‘If you need anything else, you’ve got my number,’ May called after them.
‘Yeah, we’ve got your number,’ muttered Corben.
‘Be nice, Ian,’ said O’Sullivan.
They walked out into the open air. Corben put down his cases and used the remote to open the boot. They loaded the cases, then climbed into the car. O’Sullivan grinned. ‘That went well,’ he said.
The two men watched the Jaguar drive away. ‘That went well,’ said the Scotsman.
‘Until you pulled a gun on them,’ said his companion. ‘What the hell was that about?’
‘He was talking about using the metal detector on us. Shit would well and truly have hit the fan if he had done. Anyway, it worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?’
The Jaguar pulled out of the industrial estate and accelerated towards the nearby motorway. The two men walked back into the warehouse. They took off their jackets and tossed them on to the tables.
They heard footsteps at the door and turned to see Charlotte Button walking confidently towards them, brushing a lock of dark chestnut hair behind her ear to reveal a moulded plastic earpiece. ‘Well done, guys,’ she said. She was wearing a belted fawn raincoat and her high heels clicked on the concrete floor.
An Asian man in his late twenties had followed her. Amar Singh was Button’s technical specialist. He was carrying a briefcase.
‘Sorry about Razor’s improvisation, but there was method in his madness,’ said Dan Shepherd. He unbuttoned his denim shirt to reveal a microphone taped to his shaved chest.
‘I heard,’ said Button. ‘If anything, it added to the scenario. There’s nothing like a loose cannon to ratchet up the authen ticity.’
Singh helped Shepherd to remove the microphone and the transmitter that was taped to the small of his back.
‘You wouldn’t have shot him, would you, Razor?’ teased Button. ‘Please tell me you wouldn’t have blown a two-month operation by putting a bullet in Mr Corben’s chest.’
‘I knew exactly what I was doing.’ Sharpe scowled.
‘You went off menu,’ said Shepherd, rebuttoning his shirt. ‘I always hate it when you do that.’ He grinned to show there was no ill-feeling. He had worked with Sharpe on countless occasions and had total faith in him. It had to be that way when you were under cover.
Four men in black overalls appeared at the doorway, members of the Metropolitan Police’s firearms unit, and
