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Motruk? And I certainly hope you’re not trying to screw the Sicilians. They’ll be less forgiving than I will. And I don’t forgive.’
    Purkiss saw Motruk staring out at the ship, after the crates that might, somehow, not contain guns.
    Motruk said, his voice tinted with fear, ‘I will call you back.’
    Purkiss watched him stride back over to the men in suits and start conferring with them frantically, using lots of arm gestures. He could imagine the story Motruk was spinning: I may have been duped, we need to crack open all those crates , most of all I’ve been double crossed just as much as you have . The two men hefting what must be one of the final crates laid it down and stood, awaiting orders.
    A noise started up, a low thumping from far away that grew in volume and began to take on a different character, a choppier one.
    The men clustered around the lorry and the boats looked up as one, and began to shout.
    A helicopter hovered into view over the ridge, its noise almost deafening now that it was directly above. A spotlight speared downwards, transfixing the group. Purkiss twisted his neck and looked up above him. At the top of the cliff uniformed men were massing in front of a blaze of headlights.
    The first call came over the loudhailer, in what must have been Malti and then Italian: raise your hands in the air and remain where you are .
    It was a cliché, Purkiss thought afterwards, but it was also the most apt description for what happened next. Hell broke loose.
     
    *
     
    The men in suits scrambled for the two boats at the water’s edge, while the ones who had been doing the lifting began to crack open the remaining crates.
    Purkiss half rose, no longer concerned about being seen, and watched the men hefting the guns and slamming magazines home and open fire in a semi-practised way, ripping the air with bullets. The helicopter bucked like a steed and recoiled backwards over the ridge; Purkiss didn’t think it had been hit but the pilot was moving back out of range.
    From above Purkiss, the police on the cliff top began to return fire.
    The two boats took off towards the hulking ship. Not all the men in suits had been able to climb aboard, and the remaining four stood waiting for the other two boats which were approaching at speed.
    Purkiss ran forward a few paces and called: ‘Hey. Motruk.’
    Motruk didn’t hear him at first, but was looking around in apparent panic and spotted Purkiss near the rocks. His face contorted, he reached inside his jacket and drew out a pistol, levelled it.
    Purkiss sprang back, felt the shot whine off the boulder beside him. He risked a quick look and saw Motruk running in his direction.
    It was what Purkiss was relying on: that the Ukrainian’s rage at having been tricked would trump his desire to save his own hide.
    Motruk fired again in mid-sprint, an amateur’s error. Purkiss waited, pressed against a rock. If the man came racing round the side Purkiss would have a chance. If he took his time to walk round slowly, leaving space to aim, it would be a different matter.
    Automatic fire spackled the cliff face and Purkiss ducked as a shower of gravel fell on him. He looked up, half-expecting to see Motruk drawing a bead, but he wasn’t there.
    Purkiss inched around the boulder and looked. Motruk had, after all, chosen self-preservation and changed course, running to the shore. He was aboard one of the boats with two other men, and as Purkiss watched the vessel arced off across the roiling water, peeling away from the direction of the ship and heading out to sea.
     
    *
     
    It was over relatively quickly. Three of the Siclians were shot dead by police marksmen. The rest surrendered soon afterwards, and those who’d made it to the ship would be rounded up once the ship was intercepted. One policeman had been injured by a lucky shot, but would live.
    Purkiss made his way up the cliff path, running the gauntlet of police officers who glared at him even though Cass had