The Last 10 Seconds

I took out one of the Remingtons, admiring its finish. It was a black Model 870, a lightweight weapon with a short eighteen-inch barrel, often favoured by American law enforcement officers and criminals because it was compact, easy to use, and deadly. I knew the 870 well enough from my police firearms training, and I flicked on the safety, then pumped the handgrip to check that it was unloaded.

‘All dese guns are completely clean, mon,’ said Mitchell. ‘Never been fired. Never been hired. Fresh to your crew. Now, you got me da money?’

I pulled the envelope from my jeans and handed it to him. ‘Five grand. It’s all there.’

He opened it up, pulled out the wad of cash and started counting.

Which was the moment when the far door opened again, and every undercover cop’s worst nightmare walked in.

Seven

Weyman Grimes was wearing ill-fitting chef’s overalls and carrying a sack of onions as he loped over to one of the worktops, his long, horse-like face wearing its familiar dour expression.

Five years ago he was a mid-range coke dealer working an estate in Dalston when I’d turned up posing as a customer with lots of money to spend and, along with a dozen colleagues, busted him for possession of fifty wraps of ultra low-grade gear cut with worming powder. But it was my face he’d remember because it was me who’d stood in front of him discussing prices and haggling for a bulk buy deal; me who’d told him he was under arrest; me who’d grabbed him as he tried to make a bolt for it and slammed him face first into the stairwell wall where we’d been doing our deal; me who’d been the subject of his (unsuccessful) claim of police brutality; and, finally, me who’d stood in the courtroom smiling at him as he was led away to begin a four-year sentence for intent to supply.

A wave of cold fear, the type that makes your heart lurch, hit me head-on. But I’m a quick thinker by nature and I took a pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket and pulled out a smoke, deciding to break my after-meal-only rule on the basis that it might well save my life. I kept my head down, pretending I couldn’t light it, fighting the urge to turn and run for it.

Mitchell was taking his time counting, going through the notes one by one, and I was conscious that I couldn’t keep standing like this without looking conspicuous, so I lit the tip and took a long drag, turning my head as casually as possible in the direction of the far wall so Grimes couldn’t see my face. Willing Mitchell just to hurry up so I could get the hell out of this airless place.

Finally, he stopped counting and grinned. ‘All there, mon. Good doing business with you.’

I nodded curtly, not wanting to speak in case my voice was recognized. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Grimes turning round and looking at me. Beginning to stare. I couldn’t see whether or not there was recognition in his gaze, but I wasn’t going to wait to find out, so I picked up the holdall and turned for the door, still keeping my face away from him.

Five more seconds and I’d be back on the street and out of danger. But I’d barely taken a step when the words I’d been dreading broke the silence, delivered in Grimes’s peculiarly whiney tones that I suddenly remembered all too well.

‘Hey, I know you. Mitch, man, I know this fucker. He’s a cop.’

Immediately, the young guy standing at the door, the one with the cap and the hand behind his back, tensed.

I hesitated, unsure whether just to keep going or turn and front this out.

The decision was made for me when Mitch barked an order and the guy on the door brought the hand round to reveal a pistol that looked too big for his grip, which he pointed directly at my head, coming forward, so the end of the barrel was only a couple of feet away.

At the same time, the big guy in the apron stopped chopping the lamb and slowly turned round, the bloodstained cleaver still in his hand.

I turned on Grimes. ‘What are you talking about? I’ve never seen you before in my life. Get back to cutting your vegetables, and don’t poke your nose into shit that doesn’t concern you.’ My voice resonated with confidence and anger, just like it had to if I was going to get out of here in one piece, and for a tantalizing half-second Weyman Grimes wavered, taken in by the act. I’m a pretty ordinary guy – medium height, medium build, no stand-out features – and I looked a lot different than I had when I’d nicked Grimes all those years back.

But then his features hardened. ‘No way, man, you’re a fucking cop. You put me away years ago!’ He turned to his boss. ‘He’s undercover, Mitch. He was the one who nicked me for that old coke deal back in Dalston. I never forget a face.’

‘Don’t insult me, you piece of shit, or I’ll take you apart. Understand?’ I took a step forward and he backed away instinctively, looking pleasingly nervous.