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Koenig struck with the Fairbairn–Sykes.

Overhand, like he was karate-chopping a brick. Came up from Steeleye’s blind side. His ball-bearing side. Meant that by the time he saw Koenig’s shoulder move, it was too late.

Much too late.

By then the Fairbairn–Sykes had already staked his wrist to the bar. The handle vibrated like a twanged ruler. Koenig had aimed the acutely tapered, sharply pointed blade at the gap between the radius and ulna, the long bones that made up Steeleye’s forearm. It had sliced through skin, tendons, muscles and blood vessels like they were made of water. Stan instinctively tried to pull away. The knife held him at the bar as if he were anchored. He screamed in pain, then went very still.

Another shockingly violent event in Koenig’s increasingly violent life.

Spax, the pockmarked thug, lurched to his feet. His two friends paused, then did the same. The bartender reached under the middle pallet stack. Came out with a claw hammer. Probably figured it was safe enough. Koenig wasn’t a big guy, and his knife was stuck in Steeleye’s wrist. If he pulled it out, Steeleye and the Glock would be back in play. If he left Steeleye pinned to the bar, like a moth in a natural history collection, he was unarmed. And it was four against one. Koenig reckoned they liked odds like that. And although these asshats didn’t worry Koenig, beating on some hapless thugs wasn’t why he was there.

‘Sit down,’ Koenig said. ‘All of you. Let’s not make this worse than it needs to be.’

Spax advanced a step.

‘If they don’t get back in their seats, Stan, I’ll twist this knife like a screwdriver,’ Koenig said. ‘Up to you.’

He turned the Fairbairn–Sykes. Maybe two or three degrees. Not enough to cause damage, but enough for fresh waves of pain to course through Steeleye’s arm.

‘Sit the fuck down!’ he hollered.

‘The bartender too, please,’ Koenig said.

The bartender put down his hammer and joined the card-playing fools. He perched on the yard-sale table. It wobbled.

Blood had pooled under Steeleye’s wrist. It was dark red, not frothy and pink. Koenig had severed veins, not arteries. Meant they had time. There was no need to rush.

Sweat dotted Steeleye’s brow. He paled. His eye began to water. He didn’t yell out, though. Didn’t scream empty threats. Instead, his breathing sped up. Became a fast snort. In and out, like a bull getting ready to charge. He frowned. Looked at the gun and concentrated.

Nothing happened.

‘You can’t pull the trigger because your flexor tendons have been severed, Stan,’ Koenig said. ‘You’ll need complicated surgery if you ever want to bend your fingers again.’

Koenig put one hand on Steeleye’s forearm, the other on the Glock 46. He said, ‘This is going to nip a bit, I’m afraid.’

He put his finger on the Glock’s muzzle and started to push. Steeleye gritted his teeth and hissed. The Glock and Steeleye’s trigger finger had formed a simple machine. The Glock was a wheel, the trigger guard was the hub, Steeleye’s trigger finger was the axle. When Koenig pushed the end of the muzzle, it rotated. As if he were changing the time on an old clock. He pushed until the muzzle had moved 180 degrees. It was now pointing at Steeleye’s sternum. Underneath the tenth rib but above the stomach. Lots of important stuff in that part of the torso. The liver. The pancreas. The coeliac artery.

‘Who supplied you with this, Stan?’ Koenig said.

‘I told you, we move the guns around here.’

‘You’re bottom-feeders, Stan. The people who import Glock 46s don’t go near people like you. They sell in bulk and they sell to people who know how to keep a low profile.’ Koenig looked around Big City Nights. ‘This is not keeping a low profile, Stan. Ergo, you don’t supply weapons like these. You’re the end user. The customer. Nothing more.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘Let me explain what’s about to happen. The human body responds to trauma with an inflammatory response. The injured area goes red, and it gets hot, and it hurts. This is caused by increased blood flow. As you can see, this is already happening. Your wrist is red. We’ve already established that it hurts like a bitch. It’s how the body protects itself from further injuries. It’s a warning not to use the injured area. The same way a flashing red sign on your dashboard tells you to get your car fixed up. Maybe put some oil in the engine. Or some gas in the tank.’

Steeleye said nothing.

‘Now, I imagine a big old bruiser like you has taken a punch or two,’ Koenig continued. ‘Which means you know exactly what happens next.’

Steeleye grunted, ‘Swells.’

‘That’s right, doc,’ Koenig said. ‘The injured area begins to swell. This is because the body sends white blood cells and proteins to the tissue damage.’

Koenig took a break. He picked up the can of beer the barman had passed him. It was a brand he didn’t recognise. It had Germanic-style lettering on the side but had way too many chemicals in it to be German. Germany had a purity law. Only four ingredients were permitted in German beer: barley, hops, yeast and water. He popped the tab anyway. Took a sip. He grimaced and put the can down on the bar. It was like he’d put toilet cleaner in his mouth.

‘The other thing that’s no doubt dawning on you is that the Glock 46 doesn’t have a safety catch. It has a small tab on the trigger that must be pressed before the trigger can be pulled. It’s part of the Glock’s Safe Action System.’

Koenig leaned over and examined Steeleye’s injury. The swelling had already spread to his hand.

‘You ever been in a hospital when someone has broken their wrist, Stan? The first thing they do in the emergency room is cut off the rings on the patient’s fingers. Wedding bands, engagement rings. Doesn’t matter, they’re coming off. It’s such a common occurrence they have a specific tool for it. Unsurprisingly, it’s called a ring cutter. Looks a bit like a tin opener. If they don’t remove the ring, it acts like a torniquet. The finger swells until the ring stops it. The ring would be like a butcher’s knot in a link of sausages. You see, there are no weak points on a ring. External force is distributed equally across the entire surface. When it comes to a swelling finger and the strength of a ring, the ring wins every time. If you don’t get the ring off, the finger bursts like an overcooked hotdog. I’ve seen it happen, and it isn’t pretty.’

Koenig paused a beat. Let what he’d said sink in.

‘Now, I don’t want to be the wasp at the picnic, but the trigger guard is kinda like a ring,’ he said. ‘And your finger is swelling rapidly. The trigger pull on a Glock is five pounds. When the pressure caused by your swelling finger gets to five pounds and one ounce, the trigger will be pressed and the Glock will discharge. This is not open to interpretation. The Glock is going to fire.’

Steeleye looked at his swelling finger. He looked at Koenig.

‘What do you want to know?’ he said.