Wimbledon Greyhound Stadium was a welcome change. Wallace wasn’t made to be on lockdown. Didn’t matter if it was at Her Majesty’s Pleasure or in a garage off Old Kent Road. One day’s solitary confinement in that breeze-block cube and he was going nuts, staring into the darkness, punctuated by slivers of sunlight framing the metal door. Tried to think of reasons he was inside with no vehicle in case the owner came back, but Derek clearly had more important stuff going on. With the sun up it was too hot to sleep properly and there was nothing else to do except lie low until the dogs brought a chance to get more cash. He did push-ups, crunches and squats, two hundred of each. Lay on the bare floor, drifting in and out of consciousness until a skeleton put a gun muzzle to his forehead and pulled the trigger. Awoke hyperventilating, took a second to work out it wasn’t real. Sat up and mopped sweat off his face. Only time he’d ventured out in more than twenty-four hours was to buy a large bottle of water and family-size bucket of fried chicken. He’d been on the alert, vigilant to any signs that the King Rooster staff recognised him off the news, but no one made eye contact. Hat, sunglasses, head down on the Northern Line from Elephant and Castle to Tooting Broadway underground station: same result. Nobody paid attention to him. That was London; everyone in their own little world.

The dog track was sensory overload compared to the lock-up. Chatter, movement, bodies shifting around him. People and noise, cigarettes and alcohol. Money changing hands. Old boys leaning on sticks. Kids chasing each other. A few women with their arse cheeks hanging out of miniskirts. Funny little place. Might be the last time he ever came here. Even if he wasn’t planning to leave this island for good, the Mayor of London was knocking down the stadium to give Wimbledon Football Club a new home. Lot of memories here, some big wins. Racing his own dogs, Blaze and Bambam, till he had to kill them. They’d gone on to a better place, a higher purpose. RIP. Wallace surveyed the grandstand, soaked it all up. Then he blocked out everything except beasts and track. He’d studied the programme, developed his strategy. Built up slowly off a fifty-quid stake with a couple of each-way bets. Picked a winner in the 8.45. Switched between bookies, avoided the guy he took two grand off last time. Now he had seven hundred pounds and counting. All good. Kept half an eye out for the skinhead from Saturday. Without weaponry he had nothing except bare wits if anyone started on him tonight. Not ideal.

Next race was up. Muscular, long-limbed greyhounds stalked in front of him, paraded by trainers in white coats. Wallace unrolled some notes, began calculating.

---

Bunch of mugs. Pissing money away on dogs that didn’t have a clue what was going on, legging it blindly round some sand after a rag. Muppet with a mic jabbering away like it was the most exciting thing he’d ever seen in his life. Probably was.

Spike stood on the grandstand’s top step with arms folded, twenty-twenty vision sweeping the crowd below. Scrutinised each face, dismissed them one by one.

Gaffer had it right: this was a long shot. Even if the target was among this crowd, he didn’t have much control. Couldn’t just follow him home, wherever that was now: too much chance of disappearing again. He’d need to ambush Wallace, get him alone outside, then he could interrogate. But means to do that were limited. Goons on the turnstiles meant he was forced to leave his rucksack under the motorbike seat in the car park, and with it the pistol. Only tool was his three-inch folding knife, squeezed through security between his arse cheeks. Pat-down covered his arms, sides, legs; after that the bloke lost interest and waved him inside. Too shy or lazy to put a hand in his crack. Perhaps it wasn’t the kind of establishment where patrons smuggled in blades.

Spike didn’t gamble – with money on animals at least – but reckoned the odds of a result tonight were slim. Had one crucial advantage though: he knew what Wallace looked like, but the geezer wasn’t even aware Spike was after him. Pull this off through instinct and he’d be back in the colonel’s good books. Old habits proved right. Reliable Spike: he gets the job done. That’d mean decent pay cheques on a regular basis over the foreseeable. Military pension wasn’t enough to cover a mortgage plus BASE jumping and kit like his motorbike. Money for the things to enjoy life while he could. On top of that, he hated failing. Screwing up. That’s what his ex-wife had called him: ‘screwed up’. Always gone, never around, no time for anyone except himself. ‘Cold-hearted’ – she used to like that one too. She blamed their wrecked marriage on him, his ‘failure’. Spike disagreed with her. Depends on your measure of success.

There.

Eight rows down, far side. Lone male. Spike rapidly checked off the observer’s A to H: A, B, C – age, build, colour – were all squared away, fine. D, distinguishing marks, was the problem. Bloke had shades on, couldn’t see the tat under his eye. Had to get closer. Spike manoeuvred through sweaty bodies and clouds of cigarette smoke, watching the guy constantly, even when his hiking shoes slid on discarded programmes and crunched plastic pint glasses. Got within about five metres of the target’s back at forty-five degrees. Waited.

The geezer was sitting still, just staring, like he was on drugs or something. After three minutes without moving a muscle, he quickly stood and approached a bookie. Gave him a wad of cash, exchanged a few words. Took a little square of white paper, pocketed it and turned. Removed his sunglasses. Teardrop below right eye. Wiped the shades on his T-shirt, replaced them and sat down. After the race he collected a bundle of notes from the bookie, must’ve been a grand or more. Lucky bastard. Target read the programme for a few minutes. As the next lot of dogs was brought out for the 9.45 he got up and walked inside. Spike followed through the bar and down a long corridor.

Wallace went into the bogs. Spike paused outside, listened. Hand dryer; more than one person. A yellow ‘Cleaning in Progress’ sign leaned on the wall outside by a mop and bucket. The door swung open and someone left. Spike glanced inside. Target was pissing. Alone. Everyone else watching the 9.45. Checked his watch: 9.43.

At Hereford barracks, his first sergeant in A Squadron used to say SAS stood for ‘Speed, Aggression, Surprise’. He unfolded the knife, held it backhand, the grip concealed against his right wrist. Pulled up the cleaning sign outside the door and entered.

---

Closing his eyes, Wallace exhaled as his urine stream swelled to full flow, spattering off the tin, gurgling into the drain. He heard the door close. Bliss. He’d been desperate for a slash but needed to wait because the 9.30 looked good. Parade had confirmed his algorithm choice. The dog had come in second, eight hundred return plus his three hundred stake. He’d picked up the winnings and could finally relieve himself.

First thought as he felt the tip of a blade press his side was that the skinhead had turned up again, found him. Followed closely by a second: that lumbering clown couldn’t have come up on him silently. Third thought: this was someone serious. All in less than a second. Body frozen, he opened his eyes.

‘Darian Wallace. Hands on the wall. Face forward.’ Voice was calm. Clear, not posh. Southern, not London. Undercover feds? They wouldn’t use a knife to arrest him. This was something else. He raised both arms slowly. The jet of piss dried to a dribble.

‘Do what I say.’

Wallace couldn’t see the man’s face. He was right behind him, but far enough off to be out of reverse headbutt range. ‘OK, you’re the boss.’

‘We’re going for a walk.’

‘Can I put my dick away?’

‘Keep your hands where they are.’ The man reached round and quickly swept Wallace’s arms, legs, torso, belt, arse crack.

‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘Left hand only. Put it away.’

Wallace fumbled, steered his cock inside the fly. ‘Alright, big man, you not interested in that then?’

‘Do yourself up.’

Wallace chuckled, relaxed his body. Then he spun fast as he could right, deflected the blade and swung a haymaker with his left fist. The guy ducked it and Wallace lurched forward off balance before a blunt object snapped his head sideways and he fell. Vision went blurry. A solid, wiry body pinned him, one knee on his chest. He smelled the stink of piss next to him in the trough. Iron grip on his neck was choking, pain seared through his face. Took a second to register the back of the blade on his top lip. It dug into his septum and nose cartilage. Jesus, it was agony. The guy’s breathing had barely changed. Head throbbing, the white sparks in front of his eyes began to clear. Must’ve been an elbow that floored him. Despite the blow, Wallace could think straight enough to realise the way out of this was not force. ‘Alright, fuck’s sake, man. Take it easy.’

‘Get up.’ That grip lifted him to his feet, blade still pushing the septum, forcing his head back. ‘Don’t try that again, do you understand? Out the door and right. To the car park. Walk.’

Initial shock gone, Wallace tried to think as they marched along the dim corridor towards the exit. The guy was in step behind him and lowered the knife to his kidney area before anyone else appeared. A roar came from the track – 9.45 over. Think. Their route out had to pass through the bar. Blade jabbed the hollow of his back as they moved, felt razor sharp. He needed time to plan. ‘What’s this about?’

‘My employer wants something you stole.’ The man’s voice was low. ‘You’re going to tell me where it is. Then we can all go home and have a nice cup of tea.’

Safe deposit job. Wallace mentally scanned through the stolen items. Which ones? Who had they robbed that would employ this nutter? Actually, that was the scary part. He wasn’t mad at all. He was a pro, behaving like this was a normal day. Maybe it was. Soldier? Didn’t matter who was paying him. Work that out later. Just had to use his brain to get out of this right now.

They slowed to enter the crowded bar. Dozens of people milled about, queuing for beer and chips or gazing vacantly up at race results on bright screens. Wallace’s eyes darted around, searching for information, anything. Stools around a pillar. Walking stick. Tray of shots on the bar. Safety notice stuck to the wall with a floor plan. Announcer listing the 9.45 result through speakers. Dogs lying on a rug, unmuzzled and breathing harder than normal. Maybe they’d raced at 9.30. Owners standing over them chatting. Woman shouting odds into a mobile. Fire alarm box. Drunk man with unfocused gaze holding a Guinness and wandering in front of them. Think, dammit. Wallace’s head pounded from the elbow strike. More punters entered the bar from the grandstand.

Then it crystallised. Like a camera lens focusing, pin-sharp. And Wallace knew what to do. One shot, no margin for error. Here we go.

Wallace turned his head left, pretended to look at the new arrivals. Hooked his right foot under a bar stool. Flicked his leg out and tipped it straight onto a dog. Thirty-five kilos of muscle launched itself at them, adrenalin still going from the race. Snapped its jaws mid-air, missed. Man with the knife to his back stepped off just enough. Wallace grabbed the walking stick. Reached out, punched the fire alarm on the wall. Glass tinkled. All hell broke loose.

---

Fucking dog. Should’ve seen it coming. Lost physical contact with the target when the avalanche of punters came through. All panicking like a herd of wildebeest. Alarms hammered, ear-splitting. Stewards bowled into the bar with high-vis jackets, directing everyone out. Dogs barked and strained as the owners got them under control. A drunk man flailed, spilled his pint down Spike’s leg.

Folding and pocketing his knife amid the crush, he saw the white T-shirt move right. Side door. Spike shoved his way through the crowd, more drinks washing to the floor, another bar stool clattering over. Reached the exit Wallace had taken, marked ‘Owner Enclosure’. Shouldered the door open, slipped inside and shut it behind him.

A few bare electric bulbs hung overhead. The space was packed with metal cages, couple of dogs still inside, barking like mad. Spike brought out the blade again in a backhand grip. That way you could slash and stab with the same movement, not just one or the other. Crept between the cages, treading slowly heel to toe for minimal sound.

A door burst open behind him. Spike whipped round, ready to strike. Saw a fat middle-aged bird calling after her dog. He concealed the knife and turned back, kept moving. Heard the clunk of a car boot.

Got you now.

Emerging into the car park, he saw a row of near-identical white vans lined up, some marked with kennel brands or owners’ names. Silently he approached, scanning each for his quarry. Heard the murmur of moving bodies processing out on the other side. Put his ear to the vehicle back doors, listened to each in turn. Passed five or six. Stopped. Thought he heard breathing. Slowly reached for the handle, then flung it open and raised the knife. Leaned in. Empty.

‘Sir, you need to be far side of the car park, please. It’s a full evacuation of the premises.’

Spike wheeled, blade at his back. Three high-vis stewards stood there. ‘I’m sorting out my van,’ he replied. Nodded inside the back.

‘Sorry, mate, got to move now.’ They took a step closer, fanning out. ‘No exceptions.’

A memory surfaced. Bosnia, ’94. Dusk in winter. Three armed guys on a checkpoint stopped his car on the forest road. He was in civvies. They surrounded him and after a few words barked in Serbian, they realised he wasn’t local. Obvious conclusion: spy. Made Spike exit his vehicle at gunpoint, took him into the woods. Three against one. But they forgot to pat him down, didn’t find the gun in his belt. Only one of the four men came back.

Spike calculated the cost-benefit now. Three blokes versus what might be his last chance to find Wallace. But he wasn’t going to kill these men, just incapacitate them. That’d make them witnesses. Three witnesses. What a nause. Thought he could still hear someone breathing. Snatched another glance inside the van. Nothing. Sniffed hard, as if that would help, but all he could smell was dog shit and diesel vapours.

‘Alright,’ he conceded. Dropped the blade into his back pocket, raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’ll find you,’ he called out, and began walking away with the stewards. ‘My dog,’ he added for their benefit.

None of them noticed the figure who began to crawl from under a van towards the perimeter fence, keeping to the shadows.