Mikhail Popov closed his eyes and enjoyed the silence. Everything had gone perfectly; his pincer movement had proceeded without a hitch and his two sons had conducted themselves admirably. He could not have been prouder of them both. There was something uniquely satisfying about seeing a battle plan put into action successfully. It was one of the many reasons he loved chess; not merely the strategy, but the fact that a single move could shift the balance entirely. Everything could change in a matter of moments. It gave him a rush. It made him feel young again.

Rob Linley had been poisoned by his ambition. He had been heading for a fall, and the Popovs had simply given him a little push. But the stroke of genius – the part of the whole scheme which filled Mikhail with joy – was the fact that the shipment had been destroyed. If they had seized it, the Carter organisation might simply seize it back again. It would become a tedious game of pass-the-parcel, with five million pounds’ worth of cocaine as the grand prize. But with the drugs up in smoke, it was simply a question of power. There would always be more merchandise but power, once lost, was seldom regained.

Mikhail was indulging in these philosophical ruminations when he heard a hammering sound out in the hall. A loud, insistent thump. One of his men came to the door of his study and informed him that there was someone to see him, a man who seemed quite upset.

“Show him in,” said Mikhail with a smile.

Wayne Carter swept into Mikhail’s study like a hurricane. “What the fuck have you done?” he demanded.

“Nice to see you too, Wayne,” said Mikhail. “What can I do for you?”

“You killed Rob Linley. And Chloe. And the kids.”

“And the au pair,” Mikhail supplied. “What of it?”

“I didn’t tell you to do that. I didn’t want you to do that. So why the fuck did you do it?”

“Forgive me if I am under a misapprehension, but I did not realise that you were in charge of my organisation.”

“But it doesn’t make sense…”

“It makes perfect sense. Rob Linley had designs on your father’s job. He was planning to seize control immediately, install himself as the head of the organisation and recruit his father Max as the ‘power behind the throne.’ I put a stop to that. A more reasonable man might be thanking me.”

“But what about Chloe? What about the kids?”

Mikhail shrugged. He had not got up from his seat, so Wayne was towering over him. All the same, there could be little doubt as to which of them was in control of the situation. “A necessary sacrifice,” said Mikhail. “They were loose ends. And besides, a definitive action like this one sends a stronger message.”

Wayne was blinded by the image of Chloe as she had been just the other day, when she had come out to meet him in the hallway of her home. He had briefly entertained the idea that he might be able to reignite their relationship. Even steal her back from Rob one day. What a fool he had been. All along, she and her kids were just a bargaining tool in a grand game. And now they were collateral damage. “You’re fucking insane,” he said softly.

“I disagree. In many ways, my actions were the only sane option. Now your father has lost his shipment and his five million pounds. He does not even have a new player to show for it. I presume that he is desperately attempting to bargain his way out of even deeper debt as we speak. He has become a liability. His position within the club is untenable. Soon he will be out of the game permanently. A new CEO will need to be found, and the pool of potential successors has depleted by one. Really, you should be thanking me. Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?”

“No,” Wayne said slowly and dangerously, “it’s not what I wanted. It’s not what I wanted.” He marched up and down in front of Mikhail’s desk like a caged animal. He was trying to puzzle the whole mess out. It had all gone so far out of control.

Mikhail fixed him with a glare. “It is what you wanted,” he told him. “You just didn’t know it yourself. Take a seat. Let’s discuss this.”

“I’m not going to discuss anything with you.”

“No? Then what are you going to do? Go back to your father? I doubt he will take kindly to the revelation of your treachery. And besides, there is nothing you can do to save him now.”

Wayne stopped. He stared off into space. He felt as if all his wrongdoings were unfurling in front of him on a wretched film reel. He could see them all. He was responsible for them all. Every single one. Rob’s death. Chloe’s death. Soon, his father’s death.

“Wayne,” Mikhail said severely. “Sit down. I will not tell you again.”

Sheepishly, Wayne sat in a leather chair.

“I know what’s going through your mind,” Mikhail told him. “You are feeling trapped. You are wondering if there is a way out. I’m here to tell you that there is not. You are in this just as deep as I am. But I hope that you will soon realise that this might not be such a bad thing after all. I look after my own, Wayne. You know that.”

Wayne nodded slowly, as if he had slipped into a trance.

“You have done me a number of favours,” Mikhail continued, “for which I am grateful. You’ve earned your reward.” With that, he opened the top drawer of his desk and produced a manila envelope, which he slid across the surface of the desk in Wayne’s direction.

Wayne picked it up. “What is it?”

“A token of my gratitude.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Wayne wrenched open the envelope and removed a few sheets of paper and some photographs. The photographs showed a middle-aged woman going about her daily life – buying shopping, driving her car, sitting in a small suburban garden taking in the sun. The papers consisted of a lengthy written report, culminating in an address.

“How did you get this?” said Wayne.

“I have my ways. And I told you I would help you, didn’t I? That is the way the business works. I am a man of my word.”

Wayne’s eyes welled up with tears as he stared down at the photographs of his mother which lay in his lap. She hadn’t changed much. She was still his mum, in spite of having aged over the last decade.

“You know, your father treated her very badly. He drove her to a mental breakdown that necessitated many years of psychiatric treatment. She remains on antidepressants to this day. She has never remarried. It’s fair to say she lives a quiet life these days.”

“But… why didn’t she come back? Why didn’t we hear from her?”

“She tried. But your father managed to subvert any attempt she made to re-establish contact. He blocked her out at every turn. He threatened to hurt you and your sister. He did whatever it took to stay in control.”

Wayne let the tears flow freely. All these years he had listened to his father demonise his mother, blaming her for everything. The bastard.

“But there is still a chance,” said Mikhail. “Here is your opportunity to make things right. You have her telephone number. You know where she lives. Perhaps you can still regain some of what has been lost.”

Wayne looked at Mikhail, who grinned like the benevolent dictator he perceived himself to be. “Thank you,” he said.

“You are welcome. But that’s not all. You wanted revenge, didn’t you? Revenge on the ones responsible for your… fall from grace. I can tell you now that this revenge of yours is just about to be enacted. Within the next twenty-four hours.”

It took Wayne a moment to realise what Mikhail was referring to. “You mean Ronnie Vincent?”

“Precisely.”

Wayne hadn’t thought about Ronnie Vincent in a while. As far as he knew, the man who busted his leg so spectacularly was still overseas shooting one of his shitty action films. “What are you going to do with him?”

Mikhail smiled knowingly and did not answer.

*

The Fucker was not answering his phone. David had been trying to reach him for over an hour. It was now two days since the horrific dual-attack which had wiped out the Linley family, and David Carter was only too aware that his empire was crumbling around him.

Things had run out of control so fast. Already, the press was painting him as the villain. There was even speculation that he was the one responsible for the attack that killed Enrico Brigante. The reason? Insurance. The popular interpretation was that he killed both Rob Linley and Brigante so he could claim the insurance dividend. Complete bullshit, but the sort of bullshit that sticks. Nobody knew about the merchandise which had gone up in flames – or at least, if they did they had not made their knowledge public.

Truth be told, David didn’t really care who it was that was responsible for the attack. His main suspect was the Popovs, of course, but he wasn’t too sure about The Fucker either. It was just the sort of thing George McMinn might do to try and reassert himself in the business. Maybe he had grown bored with his retirement and decided to take back control.

Feeling somewhat desperate, David had been trying to reach the other silent partners whose debt he had incurred in the Silvertown fiasco. He needed to buy some time. His last great gamble had failed to pay off. He sat at his desk, listening to the chorus of protests and jeers from outside the stadium. The twats who had come to throw eggs at him before were back again in full force.

But he was not a man to accept defeat lightly. He had to turn this around somehow. He needed to think.

The door to his office opened and a man in a suit came in. It took David a moment to recognise Max Linley – after all, he was so used to seeing him in a tracksuit. In fact, he could not remember the last time he had seen Max not wearing a tracksuit. It was such an indelible part of his public persona, he even wore it to business meetings, galas and other events.

But here he was in an immaculate Savile Row creation, complete with a handkerchief protruding artfully from his top pocket. He looked like a different man.

“Max, I’m sorry,” David began, “but I really don’t have time…”

“I came to say something to you, David.” Max’s expression was steely. He had evidently come striding through the foyer and the outer office like a man on a mission, attracting all manner of attention. David only hoped the protestors had not seen him dressed like that.

“Max, seriously, I’m sorry but I have to make another phone call. Rochelle should have told you…”

“Rochelle’s gone to fetch me a coffee.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you drank coffee. Thought all you drank was single malt. Anyway, listen, I know we’ve both got a lot to say to each other about what’s happened. And believe me when I say I’m so sorry, alright? So fucking sorry. Rob was a fucking great guy, and Chloe and the kids, well… it just breaks my heart. But I’m trying to do something about it. Alright? I’m trying to find out who’s responsible, so we can put an end to this whole mess once and for all. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand,” said Max. “I know you’ve always done your best, David. And we were riding high for a few years there. But I think it’s best if you listen to me now.” He had been approaching slowly, and now he was facing David from across the desk.

“All I need is a bit more time,” David was saying, half to Max and half to himself. He leaned over and grabbed the phone.

With a deft flick of his foot, Max unhooked the phone cable from the wall.

“What the hell did you do that for?” said David, getting to his feet.

“We’ve been watching things get worse and worse,” Max said. “We thought you might finally manage to turn things around. But you haven’t. So I’m afraid the party’s over. You leave us no choice but to step in.”

David narrowed his eyes. “Who’s ‘we’?” he wanted to know.

Max gave an expansive gesture with his arm. “Mile End. The club. I’ve come here to tell you that it’s not good enough any more. I can see now I should have done something sooner. Then maybe Rob and Chloe and the little ones would still be here today…”

“Oh, so you’re saying it’s my fault?” David exploded. “Listen, Max – you don’t know the first thing about my job. About what I do. You wouldn’t know how to run this fucking club. You’re too much of a coward. It takes balls, you see. Balls which you don’t have.”

This was the kind of withering riposte that would have sent a lesser man scuttling for cover. But Max Linley had nothing to lose.

“I’m sorry, David. But it’s all over.”

“No! No, it’s not. They’re all out to get me, Max. You’re not gonna throw me to the wolves, are you? McMinn’s been waiting for me to fuck up ever since I took over. And the Popovs are circling like vultures. The fans are throwing stuff at me whenever I put my head outside the door. Even my own son won’t return my calls.”

Max shrugged. “Not my problem. I just came here to tell you that it’s over. You’re finished. You can’t possibly survive this.”

“But I’ve survived everything else.”

“True,” said Max. “But this is different.” The death of his son and his grandchildren had obviously done something to him. He was now ruthless and uncompromising in a way that he had never been before. He gave David a chilling, joyless smile. “Must make you wonder if it was all worth it.”