Piece of piss. Not that he hadn’t sweat blood, heart slamming round in his chest like a caged animal – but still. No noise getting in, old guy didn’t even have time to stagger to his feet. Grabbing his hair, what’s left of it, shooter to the temple, bang. Out fast, jump-suit, gloves, balaclava in the bin-liner, shooter too. Drop it behind the Shezan. Home, shower. Time to collect.
His mobile went off before he could dial.
Lo?
Glad I caught yer. Have to make it tomorrow.
S’ done.
Eh?
It’s done.
Give over, you wanker, he’s at the bar now.
Can’t be.
I know my old man, mate.
Something slithered in his bowels. Then who?
But I…
You losing it or what? Nutter. Tomorrow, right, twenty-one Crosby Drive.
Drive not Road.
And now? No shooter, no gear, no frigging payment. Aw, shit. His heart imploded.