About a hundred metres off, the hooded figure walked to the jetty, carrying two large holdalls, which he placed at his feet. He faced away, watching the river, but Boateng knew instinctively who it was.

Darian Wallace.

It had been only a few hours since they found his latest victim in the garage. Three days tracking him for Parker’s murder, eleven for Harris’s. And 1,803 for his daughter’s. Not to mention the shopkeeper and his intended victim that day, Draymond King. Five years. Boateng just hadn’t known who he was looking for until a week ago. Now all his searching came down to this moment.

He stayed in shadow alongside a warehouse, crept closer. Drew the pistol from his jacket with trembling hands. Needed to breathe and be calm, even if he was past the point of no return. Pictured Amelia’s bright eyes. Her grin, the little gap in her teeth. Felt the rage swell. How close would he have to get – twenty metres, fifteen maybe – before he could start firing straight into Wallace’s back? Same as he’d done in the newsagent that day. Justice. An untraceable gun, no witnesses; he could just melt into the night and never be caught…

He was about fifty metres away now, treading silently, heel to toe in trainers, watching his footing for anything he might step on that could make a sound. The figure remained motionless. Boateng clenched his teeth, continued. Thoughts chased around his brain: about his team, backup, Etta and Kofi. Was Wallace armed? Could he bring him in alone? Then a darker scheme: what if, during arrest, Wallace struggled and happened to produce a Glock which—

No, he told himself.

You’re not a killer. You’re not like him. You’re better than that.

Still, he placed a finger on the trigger.

Forty metres.

Wallace had taken Amelia’s life, denied her a future. Robbed their family of a daughter. Surely only his death could atone? Boateng wouldn’t have agreed with such a principle until the day she died. He’d have argued that the law was there to deal with anything, its measures proportionate to the crime. Until she was murdered in cold blood. Only then did an eye for an eye begin to seem reasonable.

Thirty metres.

He had to make a conscious effort to move slow, quiet. Nice and easy. Soon he’d be in the open, with no cover from buildings. Much as the cauldron of fury stoked since Amelia’s death demanded he empty an entire clip into Wallace with no further debate, he had to know. Had to confront him, hear it from his mouth. Only then could he decide what punishment was required. In the shelter of a final doorway, Boateng activated the voice recorder on his mobile, tucked it into the breast pocket of his coat. Took one slow breath. Then moved out quickly.

‘Freeze!’

The figure turned, saw the pistol, recognised Boateng. Cracked a smile. ‘Wondered when you’d find me.’

‘Take your hood down slowly. Hands where I can see them.’

Wallace did so as Boateng approached. He was close enough now to look into those eyes, the teardrop inked below one. Close enough to smell his body odour. Close enough to fire and hit the target.

‘Six murders,’ he growled. ‘At least. People who had families, friends. Lives destroyed by you. They all mattered. One more than the rest to me. Amelia Boateng.’

‘I know,’ Wallace said quietly. His jaw set.

Boateng’s heart pounded against ribs. ‘Did you do it?’

No reply.

Raised his voice. ‘Did you do it?’ One more step. ‘Did you kill her?’

They were five metres apart now.

Wallace closed his eyes. ‘Yes.’ Neither gloating nor dismissive, just fact. He even sounded relieved.

Boateng squinted through his pistol sights, the rear-side luminous green dots lined up over Wallace’s chest. ‘Why?’

‘That prick King had it coming. But I didn’t mean to hurt your daughter.’

Boateng took up slack on the trigger’s safety. The anger was growing, spreading through him. Three metres.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Wallace. Seemed like he meant it.

Tears pricked at Boateng’s eyes, his top lip quivered. Keep it together. ‘Why wasn’t it investigated properly?’

‘Have to ask your mates about that.’

‘Bullshit.’ Boateng took another step forward. ‘There must’ve been forensics, shell casings, something. A ballistics match. Why was nothing done?’

Wallace held eye contact, sighed. ‘If I tell you, d’you promise to let me go? I’ve got a new life here.’ He gestured to the holdalls. ‘Boat coming any minute. Yeah, I was the one who pulled the trigger that day, but your daughter’s death was an accident, you get me?’

‘One you caused.’

‘OK.’ Wallace spread his hands. ‘I accept that. And I’m sorry, for real. Never meant for that to happen.’ Gestured vaguely to his face. ‘It’s why I got this teardrop. I suffer for what I did, believe me. Madness, nightmares and shit.’

‘You suffer?’

‘Alright, alright. Look, all I’m saying’s the man you want is the one who sold me the nine. One of your lot. Same guy that made sure I never got caught. Not for that, anyway.’

Boateng blinked rapidly. ‘You’re saying a copper sold you the gun that killed my daughter, then protected you afterwards?’

‘To protect himself.’

‘What was his name?’

Silence.

‘Name.’

Wallace tilted his head, let his arms drop. ‘Promise?’

Boateng bit his lip, hesitated. ‘OK. Tell me his name.’

‘Called himself Kaiser.’

‘Kaiser?’

‘You know, like an emperor or some shit. I don’t know his real name. Swear down.’

The pistol grip slackened slightly as Boateng tried to process the information, any significance of the nickname.

Didn’t see the angle grinder until it screamed at him like a giant hornet. Boateng snatched at the trigger but only got a dry click. Nothing in the chamber. The whining blade came at him again and he blocked it with the pistol. Glock and angle grinder both clattered to the concrete and Wallace was first to dive on the gun.

Boateng piled on top of him, limbs flailing, connected with two punches. Wallace held firm, Glock in one hand so he couldn’t rack it to load a bullet. Boateng tried to get him in an armbar but Wallace writhed underneath. Managed to hook one elbow round Wallace’s neck, squeezed hard, but it wasn’t enough. Had to keep his other hand on Wallace’s left wrist and the Glock. The younger man’s right elbow was pounding his ribs. As Boateng shifted to get more body weight on the pistol, Wallace swung a hammer fist straight into his balls. Boateng’s body crumpled, he felt sick. Then came the blow to his temple and he rolled over, stunned, his vision a blur of light. Heard the slide rack above him.

Wallace had the gun.

---

Spike watched the whole thing. Bloody shambles. How the copper got closer and closer, talking too much, till Wallace whipped out some bit of kit, smacked the pistol from his hands. Cake and arse party they’d call that in the regiment. He couldn’t risk firing while the pair of them were rolling around on the floor, too much chance of hitting the wrong guy. So he let it run, thought Boateng would come out on top, cuff Wallace. Then Spike goes in, bosh, nabs the holdalls, thank you very much. But after a scrap on the deck the young bloke was stood over him, aiming with one hand. Round up the spout. No messing around now. Spike reckoned he had a single shot to change the outcome of this situation.

Crosshairs alighted over Wallace’s chest. Aim for the torso at this range, bigger target. Steady breaths. Hit the exhaling point they call natural respiratory pause, where movement is minimised.

Smoothly pulled the trigger.

The flash from Wallace’s muzzle half-blinded Spike. What the hell? When he looked through the night scope again Wallace was on his back, still holding the pistol. No question though, he’d fired it before getting brassed up. Were they both dead? Couldn’t tell.

Spike collected his shell case, slung the rifle in his bag, climbed down.

Time to finish the job.

---

Wallace didn’t know what happened.

One second he was in control of the situation; next he was hit by a freight train. Back slammed into concrete, chest started burning. Touched the top of his left pec, felt warm liquid. Held it in front of his eyes: dark. Had to be blood. His own. Jesus. He gasped, tried to make sense of it. Did the nine backfire? Could someone else have shot him right as he pulled the trigger?

Lifting his eyes, he saw Boateng a few metres away. Motionless. Like with the old guy in the garage, Wallace’s survival instinct had just kicked in, and he’d fired the nine at Boateng before even thinking about it. Now he could make out dull footsteps through the tinnitus, but didn’t know from which direction. Forget the backfiring theory. A third person was here. Probably whoever took him down. Shit.

Turned his head, saw the Glock just out of reach. Glanced at Boateng again. The fed didn’t move. Footsteps were louder now. Wallace twisted onto his side, howling at the chest pain. Scrabbled towards the gun, fingers outstretched.

A boot came into view, kicked away the pistol. Wallace looked up at the figure, head to toe in black, ski mask and everything. Like a goddamn ninja. Then the boot crashed into his face. Felt like his jaw exploded. Wallace spat blood and a tooth, agony screwing up his eyes.

‘Remember me, sunshine? You’re a slippery little bastard.’ His voice was muffled by the balaclava but Wallace recognised it: soldier guy from the greyhound track. No way. How’d he found him? ‘Still got that thing you stole, ain’t ya?’

Rhetorical question. Wallace said nothing. Try to think. Ringing in his ears was starting to fade. He hawked up more blood, pressing just below his collarbone with both hands now.

‘In those nice bags, is it?’ The man dragged them across and knelt, began searching through with gloved hands. ‘Stay where you are, Darian, unless you wanna end up in the river. Won’t float too well with that hole in you.’

Wallace registered the low hum of a boat engine in the distance. Getting nearer. Think. Seconds ticked past. Come on.

‘This the one?’ Soldier-boy brandished the emerald pendant, gave it a little shake like a Christmas present. Prised off the back, swiped around carefully. ‘Where’s the memory stick?’

‘Uh?’ So that’s why a pro had been after him.

‘The memory stick.’ Ninja cocked his head. ‘Don’t play silly buggers this time.’

‘What you talking about?’ It was still in his trouser pocket from the lock-up. Wallace pressed harder on the gunshot wound. Felt like something was trapped in his chest. Engine was close now.

Got it.

‘That boat’s coming for me,’ he gasped.

‘You taking the piss?’ The guy pulled some scope thing out of his shoulder bag, looked through it across the Thames. ‘The RIB?’

‘Yeah.’ He coughed, spat. ‘Let me get on and I’ll tell you where it is. Deal?’

Ninja-man sniffed. ‘OK.’

Wallace began hauling himself up, dimly aware the guy was fiddling with a shoulder bag. Eventually he stood, legs unsteady but working. Lungs felt tight. But he wasn’t dead. Couldn’t believe it. He could actually walk. Lucky escape, bullet must’ve—

The jab and crackle felt like his ribs were being clamped in a vice then shaken by a pneumatic drill. Wallace sucked in air as his legs were swiped from under him. Ninja was leaning over, holding a small black box. It sparked between two prongs. Stun gun.

‘Where is it?’

Silence.

Another stab and the rattle surged through him again like a wild animal. When it stopped, Wallace realised a damp patch was growing at his crotch.

The guy tutted. ‘You’ve pissed yourself. Want some more?’

Wallace shook his head, wheezed.

‘So where is it?’

‘Pocket.’ The reply was instant, involuntary.

‘Good lad.’ Hands patted his jeans with swift, controlled movements and alighted on the tiny stick, removed it. Scrutinised the item. ‘That’s the one, mate. Only two places it could’ve been since you’re gonna take that boat. In them bags, or on you.’ The ninja wrapped the memory stick and pendant together in cloth, put the package in his bag and walked off into the shadows alongside the warehouse. In a few seconds he’d vanished like a nightmare.

Wallace gripped his wound again, felt it still oozing blood. Could smell the reek of his own piss. Humiliated, outsmarted, injured. He’d need medical treatment soon. But he still had the stash. And a means of escape. Maybe he could pull this off. Strained his neck to see. The vessel drew in alongside the jetty, its engine loud and rasping before being cut as it moored.

Snatching a final glance back at Boateng’s lifeless body, Wallace rolled over and began dragging himself to his feet. Towards the holdalls discarded by ninja-man. Towards the boat that would take him to France.

Towards his new life.