Blacklip got to his feet. 'Thank you very much,' he said with genuine appreciation. 'Now let's find this money, shall we?'

He stepped over to the bed, pulled open his suitcase and rummaged inside.

Then he turned round.

And looked straight at the black pistol pointed directly at his chest.

Fear stretched Blacklip's pudgy features into a grotesque parody of an astonished circus clown. His legs went weak and the wallet he was holding fell uselessly to the floor. The banknotes he'd already removed fluttered down after it.

His first thought was 'Police.'

But no one else was coming into the room. There was no other noise. And jutting out from the pistol's barrel was a fat cigar-shaped silencer that couldn't have been police issue.

The man who'd introduced himself as Kane wasn't moving, or telling him he was under arrest. He said nothing and his expression remained impassive.

'No, please, please,' Blacklip begged, his voice high-pitched. 'Mr Kane, what are you doing? I've got money. Don't kill me. For God's sake.'

The gunman pointed the revolver purposefully in the direction of Blacklip's groin, his finger tensing on the trigger.

'Why are you doing this? There's been a misunderstanding. Please.' He felt a wetness travelling down his trouser legs. Ignored it. Desperation rose up in him like bile. He wanted to do something – anything. Scream, run, charge down his tormentor. But nothing moved. He was rooted firmly to the spot.

Pissing himself in fear.

The gunman looked him in the eye. In that moment, Blacklip knew there was no hope.

But he had to try. 'Whatever they're paying you,' he whispered, 'I'll double it.'

'I'm choosy who I work for,' said the gunman, and pulled the trigger.

Blacklip felt a sudden burning sensation like an electric shock. He gasped and fell back onto the bed, his hands grabbing at the wound.