So, will the courier be here soon? If my calculations are correct, he should be along any minute. At some point in my checkered career, I worked in logistics and had to organize all sorts of things. You get used to assessing a huge variety of factors, among them the walking speed of a courier on foot. So I do have some reason to believe my estimates are reasonably accurate.

And there’s the scrape of the door downstairs! Who’ll be the lucky first visitor? Well, I really couldn’t have hoped for better! Standing in the doorway is none other than the original lookout I saw from the balcony on my first visit. I’ve got a bone to pick with you, my friend.

“Waaaaa?” He clearly wasn’t expecting to find anyone here, and voices his confusion.

“Sit down!” I nod towards the floor.

“What the fuck?” shouts the little tit.

And then he notices the shotgun poking pointedly out from under the table.

He really is a little tit, too. Skinny and unkempt. You’d think he’d just be a hanger-on in most groups, but he’s trying to puff out his chest. You can see why, too. A dickhead like that will have spent all his life being kicked around – sent off to buy beer, cigarettes and girls. Then suddenly he gets to be the one shouting orders, and he’s got friends at his back to stop him getting punched in his ugly face. He must have liked the feeling, and decided that he was born to rule after all. Now suddenly he was being knocked back into his customary cringing position. He didn’t like it one bit.

“What do you think?” starts the wanker, still holding out hope.

Well, he should be a little more observant, shouldn’t he? Hasn’t he noticed there’s a chopping board right next to me on the table? It’s a good old-fashioned one, made of thick wood. Very comfortable to cut on. A useful thing in all sorts of ways. Easy to throw, too. So, when the heavy piece of wood hits our dickhead right in the middle of his ugly face, he finally stops talking. All that time playing table tennis turned out to have a use after all – it was a good, powerful throw with a good, powerful effect. The guy choked up, and all the words he was planning to let fly in my direction remained stick in his throat.

“Did anyone give you permission to talk?” I ask sweetly. I borrow the manner from our old HR director, who always kept a calm, pleasant tone. He knew what he was doing. It sounds like you’re being polite, but it’s very difficult to argue with.

The dickhead says nothing, just wipes the blood from his split lip. Sensible of him. Also standing on the table is an iron. It’s old, too, the sort made from actual iron. Get hit with that in the chops and you really won’t be saying anything. Ever again.

“Speak out of line again, and I’ll shoot you in the fucking kneecaps. Then I’ll leave you here, and by the time your friends come running to find you’ll have bled out all over the floor. Nod if you understand!”

I shout the last words at the top of my voice, and see the dickhead shudder before he nods. Even I’m afraid of what I’m saying. Afraid because I really am going to have to do all that. It may be easy to pull a trigger in the movies, but what’s it like in real life? So that’s why I’m shouting, to get my own nerve up.

“Where are your mates?”

“Not far. Number ten on Karpov Street.”

“Flat number?”

“Sixteen.”

I know the building. There used to be a shop on the ground floor. So, the bad guys are up on the fourth floor. Makes sense, there’s a pretty good view from there.

“How many of them?”

“Two.”

“The ones who were with you last time?”

“One of them – Big Misha. Valera stayed at the base.”

Ah, so they have a base. That’s worth knowing.

“Where’s your base and how many people there?”

Gabbling and mixing his words, the dickhead hurries to tell me everything he knows. Why’s he got so much to say, and why so loud?

“Quiet now! Keep your mouth shut. If you even yawn, you’re fucked!”

Something’s not right here. Sure, he’s frightened, and there’s still blood flowing from his split lip, but that’s no reason to make so much noise.

I move further back into the corner and bring my gun to the ready. The front door is slammed open with a crash, hitting the wall so hard that there’s a shower of plaster and dust from above. Two male figures appear in the doorway.

Bam! It’s quite something. I mean, of course I’ve seen people fire shotguns before. I’ve even fired one myself. Out hunting. In the open air. Not in the narrow hallway of somebody’s flat. It’s not the same effect at all.

The pane of the window behind me shatters loudly – presumably from the sound of the charge. There’s a whistling noise as buckshot ricochets off the walls – the first shell was buckshot, just to make sure there was plenty to go round.

There was plenty. Blood’s streaming from the wanker’s face, and it looks like he caught some shot. One of the new arrivals is pressed against the wall, hit in the shoulder. No more fight from him, his right arm’s hanging like a ribbon. The third guy I can’t see, or at least not all of him. Just his legs. The round knocked him back out onto the landing. Or did he drop down himself. Either way, his legs are only twitching slightly. Is he dead? Fuck!

Gradually the sound returns to my ears, and the smoke drifts outside with the breeze. I’m in shock, but you’ve got to assume it was worse for the others. The barrel was pointing their way, after all. Their ears would have got the worst of the sound, too. Shit!

I pull at the wood under the barrel to chamber another round. I’d be a real idiot to let them jump me now. From what I can see, however, they’ve shat themselves. The wanker’s lip is trembling, and then he starts to sob out loud. You can’t blame him. He’s had a wooden board smashed in his face and barrel of buckshot straight past his head. I’d have shut down completely, I guess.

“Get down on the ground!”

Both of them drop so fast the floor shakes.

I stand up and lean sideways to look at the front door. I can’t see shit, just the legs of the guy lying there. The bastard’s still alive – his legs are twitching violently.

“Hey, you! Pull your friend inside.”

The guy with the injured shoulder nods with fear – sure, sure. With his good hand he grabs a boot and drags the guy on his back into the cover of the hallway.

Fucking hell! His whole chest’s been ripped open! His prospects don’t look great.

“Are you armed?”

“I’ve got a knife,” the wounded guy says hoarsely.

“Slit his throat, then throw the knife over here on the floor!”

If someone ordered me to do that, I doubt that I could manage it. Sliding a knife across the throat of a living human being… no, I couldn’t do it. But if you can’t do it yourself, get someone else to! That was our company motto back in the army, as I remember. And if this guy has any reservations, he doesn’t show them. He finishes off his friend with a single cut. Not fun to watch, but the knife came clattering across the floor.

“Right,” I say hoarsely. I’m finding it hard to talk, but I guess for the bad guys my croaking sounds scary enough. At any rate, the two of them flinch when I speak.

“I don’t want to see your faces round here again, ever! Understood? Otherwise…” I look meaningfully towards the door. “Any questions?”

They both shake their heads, almost in tempo.

“Turn out your pockets!”

All sorts of crap falls out onto the floor. Huh, the wanker had another knife stuck in his belt.

“You fucker!” The words came out with some feeling. “I should have shot you straight away! Be grateful for my good nature.”

The two of them vanished into thin air.

Among the junk they left behind was a pretty good knife. I’ll keep that. It’s certainly better than my pocket knife. Some hardtack and a couple of tins of food. Not too bad.