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suppressor. The detachable box magazine had a fifteen-shot capacity. Ibrahim had thirteen rounds left in the mag after having shot Simon earlier that morning . He had broken in to the man’s disgusting flat and found him still sleeping in bed. He had held a pillow over the silencer for adde d supp ression and put two rounds into his head. Ibrahim knew that Simon lived alone. The body wouldn’t be discovered for hours. Not until it was much too late.
    Dave was stepping down from the back of the van, and there was nowhere for him to go when Ibrahim aimed the gun and fired. The gun barked twice, the suppressor muffling the reports a little but certainly not eliminating them. The man was only five feet away and Ibrahim couldn’t miss. The first shot blew a hole in his coveralls to the right of his sternum, and the second punctured his throat. He slumped back into the van, a look of the most exquisite confusion on his face.
    Ibrahim turned and walked to the bathroom. It was small, with a handbasin, two urinals and a cubicle. The door was shut, and Ibrahim could hear Bill inside.
    ‘Wait up! I told you, I’m going to be a while.’
    Ibrahim fired three shots through the flimsy door. He gave it a kick, shattering the lock, the door jamming up against Bill’s spasming body as it slumped forward on the toilet. He fired again, to be sure.
    Ibrahim went back into the warehouse.
    He made sure that Dave’s body was safely inside the back of the first van. He went to the button that opened the main doors and pressed it. The engine whirred and the metal door rolled up, sliding back on well-oiled casters.
    Abdul was waiting outside in the beat-up Vauxhall Astra he had bought from an eBay seller two weeks ago. The man had asked for cash, and Abdul had been happy to oblige him. Cash would be much harder to trace. At Ibrahim’s signal, he reversed the van into the warehouse, sliding it tight up against the right-hand wall with th e Mercedes to the left. Abdul switched off the engine and Ibrahim pressed the button to lower the door again. The door rolled down and gave out a metallic clang as it contacted the concrete floor.
    Abdul stepped down. ‘Any problems?’
    ‘None,’ Ibrahim reported. ‘It was easy.’
    ‘Praise Allah.’
    ‘Praise Allah. We must move quickly.’
    ‘The others?’
    Ibrahim nodded. ‘It is all in hand.’
    ‘You spoke to Mohammed?’
    ‘Yes. As I was walking here. He is confident.’
    ‘The three boys?’
    ‘He said that he met them and that they are on their way.’
    ‘And they will do what needs to be done?’
    ‘Allah willing. It is in his hands.’
    The warehouse was brightly lit from the fluorescent lights overhead. Abdul opened the back of the Astra and brought down a selection of large plastic containers. They were branded with the logos of catering supply companies and advertised as holding various ingredients: carrots, broccoli, potatoes and other vegetables . The contents had been poured away and then sharp craft knives had been used to slice from the sides around to the backs. Now the tops of the containers could be pulled forward enough to allow access to the interiors.
    ‘Is everything there?’ Ibrahim asked.
    ‘It is. But you should check.’
    He did. He carefully split one container so that he could reach inside. His fingers fastened around a metal cylinder. He brought it out: it was the barrel of a Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm. The other containers held a small arsenal of weapons: MP-5 submachine guns that had been broken down so that they could fit into the containers, semi-automatic pistols, magazines, fragmentation grenades.
    He clambered into the back of the Sprinter. Racking had been fitted on both sides, and each shelf held two rows of similar containers. He had taken pictures of the cans, and Abdul had matched them at the cash and carry. He cleared the shelf nearest to the front of the compartment, stacked Abdul’s containers against the side of the truck and then obscured them