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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Trade paperback edition first published

in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

The right of Ken McCoy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8633-0 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-738-8 (trade paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-802-5 (e-book)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

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Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

To Erin, Travis and Noah

ONE
1 March

T
he Italian's heart rate quickened when he heard them coming. Many a heart would have ground to a dead halt under such circumstances, but not his heart. He was almost certain that he would be dead within minutes but there was sufficient uncertainty to confirm, in his mind anyway, that it would not be suicide. That would be against his Catholic religion and would guarantee him a one-way ticket to Hell. Taking a life is a mortal sin, even if it's your own life. He looked up to heaven and murmured what he hoped would be a final prayer â the Confiteor. He said it in Latin as he thought that might give him an edge when he arrived at the Pearly Gates. Every man needs an edge, even a dead man.

â
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Ioanni Baptistae â¦
'

His voice was quiet and unheard by the two men approaching him. They were the type of men who had street names â Spud and Sharky. They were both in their forties, medium height and medium build, but they weren't medium men; Sharky was black English, Spud was ginger Irish and they were hitmen of considerable aptitude. Such aptitude was essential in men who worked for Vincent Formosa.

They were to meet the Italian in Adel Woods because the Italian knew the area. He had a cousin who lived nearby and, as boys, they had played together on a disused aqueduct called the Seven Arches. It was at the Seven Arches that he had arranged to hand over the “goods”, as he called them. The “goods” comprised of a velvet bag containing half a million pounds worth of diamonds for which he was being paid one hundred thousand in cash. It was raining and the footpath was a mass of leaf mould clinging to their footwear. Spud wasn't happy.

âJesus, man! This is an arsehole of a place. Couldn't we meet him somewhere a bit more pleasant â like a public shithouse?'

âWe's meetin' here because there is never no people around here,' said Sharky.

âI never knew it'd be rainin' or I wouldn't have come.'

âYes yer would, because Vince told yer ter come.'

âYer tink I'm scared o' Vince?' said Spud.

âAny man who's not scared o' Vince is a dead man.'

Spud didn't argue because Sharky was right. They trudged on until the arches of the stone bridge across the wooded valley came into view through the trees. At one end stood a man they assumed must be the Italian. He was a small, monochrome man; pale-faced, wearing a long dark raincoat and standing initially under a black homburg hat and then a black and white golf umbrella with a Nike logo. All this fitted the description they had been given. They hadn't been given his name, nor he theirs. Just a form of greeting. He saw them and made no sign of recognition, nor did they. As they got closer the man called out without looking their way.

âIs this bridge safe?'

âIt hasn't fallen down in a hundred and seventy four years.'

âThen we must hope it survives for another twelve minutes.'

âWe must definitely hope so.'

The Italian turned to look at the two approaching men. Sharky called out to him.

âSo, you're the fucking Eyetie are you?'

âYes. So you're the fucking nigger are you?'

This last exchange wasn't part of the coded greetings which had already been done to their mutual satisfaction. The Italian's words were more offensive than his manner, which was mild. Sharky was offended, but not Spud, who wasn't here to make friends. The man was carrying a large, leather briefcase. He placed it on the stone bridge which, where they stood, was no more than waist-high from the ground. From the briefcase he took out a black velvet bag. Spud and Sharky joined him, one either side.

âThem the sparklers?' asked Spud.

âDiamonds,' said the Italian who looked as if he hadn't smiled in his life. He looked all around to check no one was about, then, using the bridge as a table, he placed a black velvet square on a stone slab and emptied the contents of the bag on to it. Even in the dull, damp light the diamonds glittered. The Italian sheltered them with the umbrella.

âAll we know is to count them,' said Sharky. âWe ain't got no eye-glass or nuthin'. If they ain't the right diamonds you is a dead man.'

âDo not fucking insult me, the diamonds are good,' said the Italian. Once again his words were harsh but his voice was quiet. âYou count them, I count the money.'

âI ain't waiting around in this pissin' rain fer you ter count out a hundred grand,' grumbled Spud, placing a Samsonite suitcase beside the diamonds and opening it. It was full of what looked like bundles of fifties, all used notes.

âI have machine to count the money.' The Italian took a money-counter from his case and moved the umbrella to shelter the money, the counter and the jewels. He added, âYou will please hold the umbrella for me.' His voice was faint and barely audible.

âWhat?'

âYou will please hold the umbrella.'

Sharky took the umbrella as the Irishman began counting the diamonds. By the time the Italian had organized himself to start counting the money Spud had already finished. âFifty two,' he said to Sharky, âone for every week of the year.'

âAll correct then,' said Sharky, looking around him to check for unwanted witnesses to their dealings.

âThere won't be no one around here in this pissin' rain,' Spud said, pouring the diamonds back into the velvet bag.

The Italian's hand was shaking as he was about to feed the first bundle of notes into the machine. He didn't appear to see Spud take a silenced handgun from his pocket with which he shot the man through the back of his head at point-blank range. The Italian's life ended instantly, before he had the chance to switch on the machine, but not without splattering a few of the notes with blood, brain and bone. What neither of them saw was the acute grimace of anticipation on his face just before he died.

The 9mm bullet made a hole the size of a plum as it exited through his forehead before burying itself in a distant tree. Propelled by the force of the bullet, the Italian's body twisted in a brief danse macabre as it collapsed to the ground.

âThat was a good shot for you,' said Sharky, looking down at the body of the Italian whose hat had fallen off, revealing a completely bald head. Sharky held the umbrella aloft, sheltering only him, the money and the diamonds, leaving the Italian at the mercy of the elements. He had landed face upwards with his dead eyes defiantly open against the pouring rain which was washing the blood away from his wound.

âYe'd have missed at that range,' commented Spud.

Taking the piss was a habit they'd got into after each job. It lightened the mood of the moment for them. Ruthless men as they were, they were only human and they liked a bit of light relief now and again. It was a habit common among psychopaths.

âYou took your time about that,' said Sharky.

âI knew what I was doin'.'

âYou only just managed to get him before he found out most o' them notes aren't made of money. You fuck about too much sometimes. He called me a fuckin' nigger. Did you hear that? The racist bastard. He wants shootin'.'

âYou
are
a fuckin' nigger and we
have
shot him,' Spud pointed out.

âI don't care, it's not fuckin' right, I were born in Barnsley, me. How can I be a nigger if I'm born in Barnsley? Me mother were a Methodist and me dad were a West Yorkshire bus driver. How does that make me a nigger?'

âShurrup, I'm counting.'

The Irishman counted the splattered fifties. He counted nine. âThat's four hundred and fifty. I bet Vince uses some o' these to pay us out. Will this blood clean off?'

âNo idea,' said Sharky. âIf he does they'll all be yours. You made the mess when you shot him. You should have been more careful.'

âJesus, Sharky! If yer not a fuckin' nigger yer an awful fuckin' gobshite!'

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