He had no time for this shit. ‘What do you want?’ he said impatiently.

Stanley grinned again. He yanked Halo sideways to remind him of who was in charge and his gun hand disappeared, reappearing seconds later with the bolt. ‘What the fuck is this?’

‘Um, is it … a bolt?’

‘The wrong fucking bolt.’

‘A bolt is a bolt is a bolt. Surely.’

Stanley slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of Halo’s head. Tom flinched.

‘You think this is funny?

‘No.’

‘You switch the bolt and you think we wouldn’t know? We wouldn’t come back and fuck you up?’

Tom didn’t answer. He’d kinda hoped none of those three things would happen.

But now they had, of course.

He’d thought he was being so clever, giving Halo Lemon’s bolt, letting Stanley and the Weasel think the slightly battered replacement was the real thing when they took it from him. Now it turned out he hadn’t been clever at all, that all he’d done was put Halo in more danger than anyone deserved to be in. He had to put an end to this, fast, before Stanley got any angrier.

‘Where is it, Halo?’

Halo coughed as Stanley choked him again. Then Stanley laughed. ‘You mean this little shit has it? Man! I didn’t even need to use him to get you down here!’

Tom ignored him, looking Halo straight in the eyes. ‘Come on, Halo,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve done your bit.’

‘Yeah, Halo.’ Stanley grinned. ‘Don’t make me shoot you in the head. This is a new shirt.’

Halo struggled to speak. ‘Fuck you and your new shirt. You’re not getting it.’

Tom’s world was whirling. He was desperate to tell Halo that maybe – if Ness had been telling the truth – they didn’t need the bolt now. That they had other evidence, other options; that they no longer had to cling to one solitary lump of metal. Tom was ready to take that chance if it would save Halo. Lenny Munro getting shot was bad enough. But he had to admit that he liked Halo Jackson. The thought of watching as Stanley shot him in the head made the Pride of Maine seem insignificant. But the thought that Ness had put herself in serious danger to get the file to him made him keep it to himself.

‘Chris wouldn’t want you to die for it, Halo. Neither would Vee. Or Katy.’

Tears started to run from Halo’s eyes.

‘Are you fucking crying?’ Stanley laughed again, and Tom wanted to smash his face in.

The anger he felt at Stanley manifested itself in his words to Halo. ‘Fuck the bolt, Halo! Give it up!’

Halo shook his head stubbornly and Stanley jabbed the barrel of the pistol into his kidneys, making him yelp, then shoved him to his knees, holding him up by the scruff of his coveralls, and pressing the gun against his head again.

‘If you shoot him you’ll never find it!’ yelled Tom.

‘But if I shoot you both, who cares?’ smiled Stanley, and – with complete clarity and calm – Tom knew then that they were both dead, whether Stanley got the bolt from them or not.

But he also knew that going along with the quest for the bolt would buy them more time. More life.

And more life seemed a good goal to aim for.

‘Halo, please,’ he said. ‘Just tell him where the bolt is.’

There was a long moment when all Tom could hear was the sound of the police-car sirens winding down somewhere close by. They wouldn’t get here in time: he’d gone through Hangars One and Two first – that was where they’d start.

Halo held up one hand weakly.

Stanley shook him. ‘What does that mean?’

‘In my toolbox.’

Stanley jerked his head at it, looking at Tom, his meaning clear. He pointed the gun as Tom moved to the toolbox.

‘Where?’

Halo’s head hung in shame. His voice was muffled. ‘Bottom drawer. Under the foam.’

Tom slid it open. Each of Halo’s Snap-on wrenches was neatly bedded in its designated foam template. He slid his hand into the narrow drawer, right to the back. The back corner of the foam bedding was slightly raised. Tom peeled it back and felt the lump of metal he’d once cut out of the flank of an ostrich.

Slowly he picked it up.

‘Bring it here.’

His mind racing for an escape route, Tom did. Stanley dropped Halo and took the bolt from him, keeping the gun trained on Tom’s chest. Halo fell to his hands and knees.

Tom swallowed a lump in his throat. Now was the moment. They’d given up the bolt; they’d run out of leverage. And – unlike Bruce Willis or Brad Pitt or some other better-scripted sonofabitch – he was fresh out of clever ideas.

He looked Stanley straight in the eyes. ‘Stanley, I don’t know how many other fan discs were in batch 501, but you’d better find them.’

‘I don’t think you’re in any position to give orders right now, do you?’

Tom strove for sincerity, for humbleness, to keep the hatred out of his voice. ‘I’m not. I’m just telling you. Even by your shitty fake standards, those fan discs are made in Hong Kong. Whoever you work for needs to know that something’s gone badly wrong. People have died. A lot more people will die if you don’t get those parts out of the planes they’re in.’

Stanley sneered, and levelled the gun at his face. ‘I’ll be sure to tell my priest.’

Tom sighed. ‘You prick.’ Dully, he wished he had the energy to think of better last words.

‘Freeze!’

Stanley swung round, dropped his stance and fired all in the same movement, the bullet singing off the corrugated-metal wall beside the surprised face of the airport cop, who – with admirable devotion to duty, Tom thought, as he hurled himself to one side – squeezed off two rounds before ducking out of the doorway.

Stanley never hesitated. He charged straight at the door, his gun held out in front of him, like a sabre, and when the cop chanced another look inside, Stanley was just four feet away and shot him right in the face without ever breaking stride.

There was a short silence, then the sound of an engine, a squeal of tyres and a flash of black-and-white as the cop car sped past the open door.

Tom found his motor skills and ran to the side door. Behind him another voice yelled, ‘Freeze!’