Roidhead began squeezing the trigger.
A sudden blur appeared behind the man.
There was a dense metallic thunk, and then Roidhead spasmed and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The Ruger tumbled from his grip as he pitched forward and dropped to the floor. Like a puppet with the strings cut. Bowman looked up from the slumped figure. He saw Webb standing in the bathroom doorway, gripping a nude statue of a cherub. Fresh blood glistened on the cherub’s bronze face.
Webb nodded at him.
‘You all right?’
Bowman shook his groggy head clear. ‘Thanks, mate.’
‘I heard shouts. Figured you were in trouble.’
‘Bloke had the jump on me. Came out of nowhere. Must have been hiding in one of the guest rooms up the corridor.’
‘Why didn’t you check them rooms first?’
Bowman didn’t answer. Webb looked from the pill bottle to the floored heavy and back at Bowman. A question formed on his lips.
‘Get back to Lang,’ Bowman said as he picked himself off the floor. ‘I’ll plasticuff this fucker.’
‘What’s with the pills?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Lang must have left them out.’
Webb gave him a curious look. Then he turned and left the bedroom, tossing the statue aside on his way out. Bowman dropped to a knee beside Roidhead. The guy was barely conscious. Blood oozed out of a shallow wound on the back of his head, matting his hair. Bowman pinned the heavy’s arms behind his back, slipped the plastic restraints around his wrists and pulled them tight. He patted the guy down, found a creased leather wallet in his back pocket. There was a thin sheath of twenty-pound notes, credit cards, receipts. A driver’s licence gave his name as Tony Hutton.
Bowman picked up the Ruger and pushed the tip against the guy’s cheek.
‘Christ, don’t shoot!’ Hutton begged. ‘I’m just the driver!’
‘Any more of your mates in the apartment?’ Bowman growled.
‘No. It’s just me, the boss and his guest.’
Bowman’s finger tensed around the trigger. He shoved the barrel harder against the heavy’s cheek. ‘You sure about that?’
‘It’s the truth, I swear! There ain’t no one else.’
Bowman stood up and stuffed the bottle of pills into his pocket. He left Roidhead on the floor moaning in pain, skulked out of the master bedroom and quickly cleared the three guest bedrooms down the other side of the corridor. Once he was sure no one else was lurking inside the apartment, he moved back into the master bathroom and heaved Roidhead to his feet. He pressed the cold tip of the Ruger barrel against the nape of the heavy’s neck.
‘Get moving,’ Bowman snarled, ‘or I’ll paint your boss’s bathroom red.’
Roidhead staggered out of the master bathroom, cursing and moaning as Bowman forced him down the hallway and into the living room. Webb stood guard over Seguma and Lang, the Ruger at his side. Lang stared at the two soldiers, a look of sheer hatred etched across his face. Bowman frogmarched Roidhead across the room, and dumped him in one of the empty armchairs.
‘Rooms are clear,’ he said.
‘You bastards,’ Lang hissed as he caught sight of Roidhead’s bruised and bloodied face. ‘What have you done to Tony?’
‘We had an argument,’ Bowman said. ‘Your man lost.’
‘Sorry, boss,’ Roidhead, aka Tony Hutton, mumbled. ‘One of ’em clobbered me from behind. Couldn’t do nothing.’
‘Keep your mouth shut, son. Not a fucking word.’
Bowman nodded at the tyrant. ‘Where are your bodyguards?’
‘At the hotel,’ Seguma said, his voice shaking. ‘I left them there.’ He glanced at Lang. ‘David advised me not to bring them.’
‘They’re not downstairs? Outside? In the car park?’
‘I came here alone.’
‘Who drove you?’
‘The chauffeur. From the hotel.’
‘No one else knows you’re here?’
‘No one.’ Seguma stared anxiously at Bowman. ‘What’s going on here? Who are you people working for?’
Bowman didn’t reply. Instead, he turned to Webb and said, ‘I’ll get the wagon. You keep an eye on this lot.’
‘I’d watch your mate, if I were you, son,’ Lang said to Webb. ‘He doesn’t look too good from where I’m sitting.’
Webb’s gaze skimmed across the room, looking from the mobster to his colleague. ‘What’s he talking about?’
‘Nothing,’ Bowman said. ‘Just a touch of the flu, like I said.’
An ugly laugh escaped from Lang’s throat. ‘Yeah, that must be it.’
‘Shut up,’ Bowman said.
He bolted out of the living room, detoured into Lang’s master bedroom and paced over to the walk-in wardrobe. Bowman ditched his courier-branded jacket, polo shirt and cap, grabbed a designer shirt and striped blazer from the rack. He found a pair of Gucci shades in a mirrored cabinet, completed the look with a baseball cap emblazoned with the crest of the yacht club. Then checked himself out in the mirror. The disguise wouldn’t fool anyone up close. But from a distance, through a tinted car windscreen, he could pass for David Lang.
The pills were starting to kick in as Bowman returned to the hallway, the sweet warm buzz of the opiates spreading through his body. He extracted the magnetic key card from Lang’s wallet, took the Range Rover fob from the side table, checked that his Ruger was concealed under his jacket. Then he left through the front door. He checked his phone signal on the landing, got two bars, and tapped open the encrypted messaging app on his phone. Dialled Mallet’s number.
Mallet answered immediately.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘We’re in,’ Bowman said tersely.
‘Any problems?’
Bowman told him about the heavy.
‘Is he under control?’ asked Mallet.
‘He’s tied up, with the others. Patrick’s keeping an eye on them.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Heading down to the car park. I’ll be out in two minutes.’
‘We’re in the same spot,’ said Mallet. ‘We’ll be waiting.’
The private lift plunged straight down to the underground car park. Bowman stepped out into what looked like the world’s most expensive car showroom. Rows of Lamborghinis and Ferraris were parked side-by-side with Maybachs and Bentaygas. He located Lang’s Range Rover and hit the
