'Can I have my gun back?' I ask him.
He looks uncertain for a moment, then he reaches into the waistband of his jeans and hands it over.
This could have been a mistake. I could have turned it on him, shoved the barrel against his temple and explained in cold, quiet tones that if he didn't tell me the name of his client in the next five seconds his brains would be all over the grimy kitchen work surface. But I know he won't talk, and he knows I know it too. More importantly, he knows I can't pull the trigger. We served together. We may not have known each other that well, but we were still brothers in arms, and we were trained never to kill in cold blood.
The problem is, I'm convinced his client is the person who murdered Leah and set me up for it. And I need to know who he is. At the moment, nothing else matters.
'Do me one favour,' I say to him as he starts towards the kitchen door.
'What?' he asks, without turning round.
'Phone me after two thirty and give me your client's name. That way it won't affect you. You'll be gone. But it'll help me one hell of a lot.'
Still, he doesn't turn round. 'What's your number?'
I give him the name and location of the showroom. He makes no move to write it down. Instead, he simply answers, 'OK.'
'Thanks,' I say, knowing I have no choice but to trust him to do it.
He doesn't speak as he leads the way out of the kitchen, at least not until he opens the door. Then he curses, and stops dead.
The lamp has been switched off, as have all the fans, and the room is once again in hot, stifling semi-darkness. Near the apartment's front entrance, Sellman lies on his side in the fetal position, not moving. To the right, Miami Vice sits against the wall, arms by his side, his head slumped forward, while to the left, Shaven Head lies face down on one of the sofas, only his legs visible as they jut over the edge.
The silence is ringing in my ears. My grip on the Glock tightens. The apartment's front door is a few inches ajar.
'Oh, Christ,' the captain repeats, his voice cracking. 'He's come for me. He's here, Tyler.' He reaches into his jacket, scrabbling round for his gun.
I can hear my heart thumping away in my chest and I have to will myself to remain calm. One of the most important things I learned in the army was how to channel my fear and turn it into pure concentration. The world of the combat soldier is a wildly unpredictable place where you have to react coolly to whatever is thrown at you. Although I'm now thinking it's a lesson that was lost on the captain, who's looking close to panic.
I raise the Glock, my eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom as they slowly circle the room. Searching for an unseen enemy.
And then I notice it.
There's no blood.
'It's a trap!' I yell.
But Sellman's too fast. He swivels round on the floor, revealing the sawn-off shotgun tucked in close to his belly, and without a moment's hesitation pulls the trigger.
The noise in the room is deafening as the captain takes the full force of the blast. It lifts him off his feet and sends him crashing into the sofa. The case of money flies from his hand and lands on the floor. I don't think he even managed to get hold of his gun, because I don't hear or see it fall. Sellman pulls the trigger a second time and the captain's head snaps back as he clatters to the floor.
Miami Vice is fast too, but not fast enough. I am already swinging the gun in his direction, guessing that he will be the one to target me, and as he lifts his head and his gun, his eyes wide with the adrenalin of battle, I shoot him twice in the face.
I turn and aim at Sellman. At the same time I see Shaven Head out of the corner of my eye as he rises up on the sofa, the pistol from his shoulder holster clutched firmly in both hands. Sellman is smiling triumphantly, knowing he has the half-second advantage. He doesn't look under pressure at all. Even in the semi-darkness I can see the calmness in his leathery features, the absolute knowledge that this is a confrontation he's going to win. He's right too. In the tiny gap of time before he pulls the trigger, I know I'm too late.
The noise reverberates off the walls as he fires, and I feel a tremendous pain somewhere in my solar plexus as the force of the shot drives me backwards into the kitchen. The case I'm holding flies off and hits one of the cupboards and my legs go from under me. I go down with all the agility of a lead weight and slam into the cracked linoleum, shoulder blades first, before rolling onto my side, the Glock falling uselessly from my hand. I gasp for breath but can't seem to get any, and my vision blurs and swims. I'm thinking of Leah, alive and laughing, as my eyes close and my body slumps in defeat.
7
'Right, let's move it,' hisses Sellman, limping over to the case containing the money. 'Before someone calls the cops.'
'How much is in there?' asks Shaven Head, getting up from behind the sofa and replacing the pistol in his shoulder holster.
'A hundred and fifty K. Not bad for a couple of days' work.'
'Seventy-five apiece. That'll do. What are we going to do about Ivanov?'
'Not much we can do, my boy. He's a goner.' Sellman picks up the case. 'Check whether he's carrying any ID on him. If he is, take it. We don't want anyone linking him to us.'
Shaven Head nods and crouches down beside his fallen comrade, searching through the pockets of his cheap purple suit. 'Strange plan, lying down like that,' he says, concentrating on his task.
'It worked though, didn't it?' answers Sellman, leaning over and blowing Shaven Head's brains out of the front of his skull. 'Sucker,' he cackles, putting the sawn-off away. 'All fucking suckers. Even you, chief. Didn't your mother ever tell you, there's no such thing as vampires?'
He limps over to the corpse of the man he's addressing. Except he isn't quite a corpse yet. The captain's still breathing shallowly, and his eyes are open. Blood leaks slowly from the corner of his lip.
'Ah, I see you're not quite dead. Were you pretending so that I wouldn't see you? Oh, you're a naughty boy, chief. Very crafty indeed. But I'm afraid I'm an extremely thorough man, and the last person I want to leave alive is you.'
'Fuck you,' gasps his victim.
'Now, now, no need to be rude.' Sellman chuckles, enjoying the power he's wielding as he reloads the shotgun. 'Now, this might hurt a little,' he says. He slams the stock shut and takes aim.
'Not as much as this,' I announce, sitting up with the Glock in both hands.
He whirls round to face me, a hunted expression on his wizened features as he realizes the tables have been turned. In the darkness, his eyes flicker with an animal cunning, and I know that he'll react quickly, so I open fire, shooting him twice in the forehead.
For a long second, he stands absolutely still, staring right into my eyes, before crumpling onto the threadbare carpet and lying there in an ungainly heap.
Slowly, I get to my feet. The flak jacket I'm wearing might have taken the impact of the shot, but it hasn't been a painless process and my chest feels like someone has been hammering nails into it. I walk over to the captain, giving Sellman a kick en route, just to check he is actually dead, and crouch down beside him. He's been hit twice – once in the gut, once in the chest – and his shirt's already drenched in blood. His face is as white as a sheet and his breathing is becoming progressively more laboured. His eyes, though, remain alert.
He looks up at me. 'Oh God, Tyler, I fucked up.'
'It's OK. I'm going to get you an ambulance.'
'It's too late,' he gasps, his words echoing my thoughts.
He coughs, and more blood pours out of his mouth. Then his body jack-knifes and he rolls over onto his front, still coughing. I can see two melon-sized exit wounds, exposing organs and bone, in his back. It's clear he's beyond help.
But I'm not. 'The client,' I say, leaning closer. 'What's the name of the client?'