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situation. Besides, if it gets hot, the DC brass will want to handle it themselves. They always do.”
    Vasquez nodded his agreement. “You got it.”
    “Okay then.” Viggiano slapped the table. “Let’s move out. There’s a shitload to do, and I
    want
    to
    hit
    this
    place
    after
    lunch.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    BOROUGH MARKET, SOUTHWARK, LONDON
    January 5—12:47 p.m.
    Followed? You sure?” Archie asked. “Tracksuit, bomber jacket, and white sneakers. Noticed him glancing over at us five minutes ago. Just saw his reflection in that van’s rear window about thirty yards back.”
    “We’re nearly at the motor. We could make a run for it.”
    Tom followed Archie’s gaze to his DB9 about thirty yards down the road. It was a recent purchase, and for Ar-chie—who had always said that the cardinal rule of being a criminal was not to attract undue attention by living beyond your means—an uncharacteristic indulgence. When he had handed over the check, twenty years of pent-up spending frustration had been released with one cathartic swish of his pen.
    “Oh shit!” Archie swore. A wheel clamp glowed bright yellow against the gunmetal gray bodywork. “They’ve only gone and bloody clamped me.”
    He quickened his pace, but Tom laid a restraining hand on his arm. Something felt wrong. Behind them a man who had followed them from the market; ahead, a street sweeper
    40 james twining
    whose shoes looked a little too new; parked next to Archie’s car, a van with its windows blacked out; and the car itself conveniently immobilized. It was textbook.
    “This isn’t right,” he breathed.
    “I see them too,” hissed Archie. “What do you want to do?”
    “Get out of here. Now!”
    As Tom shouted, the rear doors of the van flew open and three men jumped to the ground. At the same time the street sweeper threw his broom away and swung a semiautomatic out from under his coat. Tom heard the heavy thud of fast-approaching feet from behind.
    Before the sweeper could get a shot off, Archie peeled away to the left, while Tom darted right, down a small alleyway that emerged onto a narrow lane bordered by a wire fence. Grabbing the galvanized mesh, he hauled himself up its shuddering face, the metal clanging noisily. He was on the point of vaulting over to the other side when he felt a hand close around his left ankle.
    The man who had followed them from the market had somehow managed to catch up with him and was now hanging off his leg, to drag him to the ground. Instead of trying to shake him off, Tom lowered himself slightly until his feet were level with the man’s head and then kicked out, freeing his foot from the man’s grasp and striking him across the chin. With a strangled gasp, the man fell to the ground.
    Tom swung himself over the fence into a strip of wasteland that had been turned into a temporary parking lot for the market. He heard the clang of metal behind him and saw that two of the men from the van had arrived at the fence and were clambering up it. At least they hadn’t shot him, Tom thought as he sprinted out of the lot, narrowly avoiding a car that was turning in, and headed back toward the market. If they’d wanted him dead, whoever they were, they could have taken him right there, through the fence. Clearly they had other plans.
    At that moment a forklift loaded with market produce swung out of a hidden turning ahead
    of
    him.
    Tom
    jinked
    41 the black sun
    around it, the driver slamming on his brakes just in time to avoid hitting him.
    “Watch it, moron!” the driver yelled, leaning on the horn to emphasize his point. Tom ignored him, leaping over the spilled vegetable crates and then plunging back into the market. As soon as he was inside, he slowed to a walk, snaking in and out of the lines of shoppers. He knew that he would be safer in a busy place and hoped that Archie had had the good sense to come to the same conclusion. When he judged he was far enough inside, he stopped next to a wine stall and