The tiles were slick beneath his feet, but Butler compensated by leaning forward and digging his rubber-soled toes into the surface. His intact eardrums picked up irregular vibrations from the restaurant.

Conversation. Artemis was speaking with someone. Arno Blunt, no doubt.

It was already too late.

Butler came through the service door at a speed that would have shamed an Olympian. His brain began calculating odds the moment pictures arrived from his retinas: Blunt was in the act of firing. Nothing could be done about that now. There was only one option. Without hesitation, Butler took it.

In his right hand, Blunt held a silenced pistol.

‘You first,’ he said. ‘Then the ape.’

Arno Blunt cocked the gun, took aim briefly and fired.

Butler came from nowhere. He seemed to fill the entire room, flinging himself in the bullet’s path. From a greater distance, the Kevlar in his bulletproof vest might have held, but at point-blank range, the Teflon-coated bullet drilled through the waistcoat like a hot poker through snow.

It entered Butler’s chest a centimetre below the heart. It was a fatal wound. And this time Captain Short was not around to save him with her fairy magic.

The bodyguard’s own momentum, combined with the force of the bullet, sent Butler crashing into Artemis, pinning him to the dessert trolley. Nothing of the boy was visible, save one Armani loafer.

Butler’s breathing was shallow and his vision gone, but he was not dead yet. His brain’s electricity was rapidly running out, but the bodyguard held on to a single thought: protect the principal.

Arno Blunt drew a surprised breath, and Butler fired six shots at the sound. He would have been disappointed with the spread had he been able to see it. But one of the bullets found its mark, clipping Blunt’s temple. Unconsciousness was immediate, concussion inevitable. Arno