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While Koenig was busting Margaret, Cora Pearl was backing up the truck and boat trailer through the open door of an empty warehouse in San Diego. Tas was pleased. The journey from Maine to California had been incident free. The Australian had been sullen, but Tas didn’t care. His role was over.

Almost.

When Pearl had parked the truck, Konstantin pushed the button that closed the roller door. As soon as it had clunked its way down the oiled chain and touched the crumbling concrete floor, Tas climbed out of the cab. Pearl and the Australian followed him.

Tas checked the warehouse to make sure everything was how he’d left it. It was. No one had been in since he’d taken on the short-term lease. The warehouse had once belonged to a paint wholesaler. The kind of place that sold to the trade. The business had gone bust two years ago. Another victim of the pandemic.

It was a shell of a building now. The owner had stripped out everything of value. The only things left were towering metal shelves that looked like an out-of-hand Meccano project and a bunch of vintage paint posters: ‘Well done! with Walpamur Paints’ and ‘Carter White Lead’, which apparently lasted longer than ‘Old Dutch’ white lead. The warehouse floor had so many paint spills, in so many colours, it looked like it had been set up for a communal game of Twister.

The Lincoln Navigator was where he’d left it. It was parked in the warehouse’s other vehicle bay. It was white and brand new. Four-wheel drive with a twin turbocharged V6 engine. Tas had opted for the long-wheelbase configuration. He figured it looked the part. The Lincoln Navigator was able to tow 8,700 pounds. The combined weight of the NorseBoat and trailer was less than 2,000. The Australian unhitched the boat trailer from the truck, and he and Konstantin manhandled it to the rear of the Lincoln. When the trailer hitch was secured to the tow ball, the Australian connected the electrics.

‘Good?’ Tas asked.

‘We’re good, mate,’ the Australian replied.

Tas walked to the back of the truck. He aimed a reverse nod Konstantin’s way. The big Russian followed him.

‘How long have we known each other, Kostya?’ Tas said.

‘Long time,’ Konstantin grunted back.

Tas nodded. ‘And how long have I known Cora?’

Konstantin shrugged. ‘I think maybe five years.’

‘So why do you think she’s doing that?’ Tas asked, pointing towards the Lincoln.

Konstantin’s head turned to follow Tas’s finger. As soon as it did, Tas pulled a PSS silent pistol from his pocket, pressed it against the base of Konstantin’s skull, and pulled the trigger. The PSS was a compact pistol. Easily concealable. It used noiseless ammunition instead of a suppressor, and the inside of Konstantin’s skull absorbed what little sound there was. Some of his brain hit the wall like a splat of chopped liver. Tas grabbed Konstantin under the arms and controlled his fall. He pushed his finger into the side of his neck. There was no pulse.

‘Sorry, my friend,’ he whispered. He then stood, removed the concealed punch-dagger from his belt buckle, and called for Pearl.

The ex-bounty hunter came immediately. Her eyes widened when she saw Konstantin lying in an expanding pool of blood. They widened even further when Tas slashed her across the throat. Three times. Forehand, backhand, forehand. Like he was Zorro. He controlled her fall too. Rested her head against Konstantin’s shoulder. He waited for her to die. It didn’t take long.

The Australian must have seen something in the wing mirror; he was already sprinting for the door. Tas’s bullet entered the back of his knee. Punched out his kneecap like it was a champagne cork. The Australian fell and skidded into the metal roller door. Tas shot at him again. Went for the headshot, but the fall saved the Australian’s life. Instead of turning his brain to mush, the bullet removed his remaining ear. He shook himself. Sprayed blood. He attempted to stand, realised he couldn’t. He grabbed the chain that controlled the door. Tried to haul himself upright. By the time he was on his feet, Tas was standing next to him with the PSS raised.

‘I’m not even sorry about this,’ Tas said.

He then shot him in the eye.

Tas breathed a sigh of relief. He had been mentally rehearsing the last thirty seconds for two years. In his wildest dreams it hadn’t gone as smoothly. He was almost disappointed. He pressed the button and opened the roller door. It went up at the same speed it had gone down. Annoyingly slow. He checked he had everything he needed, then climbed into the Lincoln. It started immediately. A throaty purr, like a well-fed dog. He pulled out of the bay and left the paint warehouse. When he was clear, he jumped out of the Lincoln. Put a key into the control pad next to the door. Turned it ninety degrees, then pressed the button that lowered the door. When it was eighteen inches from the concrete, he stopped it. Turned the key and locked it in position. He figured eighteen inches was about right. A normal-sized person could crawl under a gap like that. And they would. They’d want to know why the door wasn’t closed. They would investigate.

They would find the bodies.

Which was good.

It was part of the plan.