‘Don’t say much, do you?’
Webb made no reply. He stared at Lang with barely concealed contempt. Lang stepped closer to him.
‘You should watch yourself, sunshine. I might start to think you don’t like me. I knew another feller once who didn’t like me. Know what happened to him?’
Webb still said nothing. Lang took a forefinger and slowly traced a line across his neck, as if slashing it open with an imaginary knife. Then he took a step back and smiled. ‘I’m just joking, you daft prick.’
Mallet said, ‘Step outside with me for a moment, Davey.’
‘Why?’ Lang asked.
‘Our friends at Six are sending a team to pick you up. They want to discuss your return to London. They’ve got a few questions.’
Lang swaggered confidently outside, a renewed spring to his step. Mallet beckoned him over and rested against the stainless-steel railing as he dialled a number. Lang waited while Mallet uttered a few words to the person on the other end of the line. Then Mallet said to the caller, ‘OK.’
He hung up. Tucked his phone into his back jeans pocket. Lang frowned.
‘What the—’
Then Mallet pushed him over the edge.
Lang screamed and fell backwards. He seemed frozen in mid-air for a split second, arms flailing, mouth open in horror, before he plummeted from view.
From below came the dull thump of a human body pancaking against metal.
A car alarm shrieked.
Bowman raced over to the balcony. He leaned over the edge and peered down at the side street below. Lang had crash-landed on top of a Porsche Cayenne parked at the roadside. His twisted body was slumped across the bonnet, arms and legs bent at unnatural angles.
‘Jesus.’ Bowman stared disbelievingly at Mallet. ‘Jesus Christ.’
Mallet grinned wickedly. ‘You didn’t think Six would let that bastard get away with it, did you?’
A sudden chill ran through Bowman. Did Six plan to kill Lang all along?
Did Mallet lie to us?
He glanced briefly down at the street. Figures appeared on the balconies of the surrounding apartment blocks, rubbernecking the scene. A cyclist leaped off his bike and raced over to Lang, shouting at a middle-aged guy in a suit to call an ambulance. Several metres further away, an old man with a shopping bag stared up at the apartment block. And pointed.
‘Move,’ Mallet snapped. ‘We’re getting the fuck out of Dodge.’
Bowman pushed away from the railing and hurried inside. Casey and Webb both stared at the Cell leader with blank, neutral expressions. Neither of them seemed particularly surprised by the killing. Seguma stared out at the terrace, his face stamped with shock and fear.
‘Sir, we’re leaving,’ Mallet said. ‘Now.’
The president quickly cleared his expression. ‘Yes, OK.’ He spread his lips into a pitiless smile. ‘I never really trusted that worthless dog anyway.’
‘Grab the heavy,’ Mallet said to Bowman. ‘Let’s go.’
Bowman took hold of Roidhead and shoved him roughly towards the front door. The team hastened down the hallway and squeezed into the private lift. Roidhead started bricking it as they rode the car down to the underground car park. Which was unsurprising. He had just seen his boss nosedive to his death. He was in the presence of stone-cold killers. People who spoke his own language, but with far more skill and ruthlessness. He pleaded in a small, panicked voice as Bowman marched the guy over to the Range Rover and sprang the boot. The rest of the team piled inside the vehicle as Bowman pressed the Ruger against the heavy’s stomach.
‘Get in,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Don’t kill me. Please. I’ll talk.’
‘You’re definitely gonna talk,’ Bowman said. ‘There’s some people in London who are very interested in finding out what you know. Now get in.’
He rammed the gun harder against Roidhead, the metal tip digging into his ribs. Roidhead climbed awkwardly inside the void, rolling onto his side and bringing his legs up, his knees tucked against his chest. Bowman slammed the boot shut then jogged round to the driver’s side door and scooched behind the wheel. Seguma sat hunch-shouldered in the back seat between Casey and Webb.
‘Dump the guns in the bag,’ Mallet said.
Bowman and Webb slid the clips out of their Rugers and then pulled back the sliders, checking the chambers. They dropped the pistols, holsters and magazines into the Herschel. Mallet stashed the bag in the footwell.
‘Get us out of here,’ he said.
They climbed the exit ramp and swung right. Loader had parked the Mercedes E-Class forty metres further along, in a loading bay in front of a post office. Bowman pulled up in front of the estate, kept the engine ticking over. Casey and Webb jumped out, ran over to the E-Class and hopped inside. Then both vehicles took off again. The Range Rover in the lead, Loader immediately to the rear, a two-vehicle convoy. A swift manoeuvre, taking no more than three or four seconds. And also necessary. Five guys crammed together in a single car would look suspicious. They might catch the eye of an overenthusiastic police officer. Too risky, especially with a thug in the boot and guns in a bag. Safer to spread the team out between the two motors.
Beyond the central reservation, on the other side of the road, an ambulance screamed past the late-morning traffic, sirens flashing. Two police cars raced after the ambo. Bowman caught sight of them in the rear-view as they hit the gap in the central reservation. They crossed over into the opposite lane, screeched to a halt in front of the apartment block. A small crowd had formed in the street outside.
‘Stick to the limit,’ Mallet said. ‘And for fuck’s sake don’t run any lights.’
Bowman kept the speed below thirty miles per hour as he made for the border. For the entire journey he was the world’s most diligent driver. He stopped at every set of lights, obeyed every line of the local highway code. Seguma sat silently in the back, his cane resting on his lap. Mallet punched a set of coordinates into the satnav. The RV point
