The first burst of 5.56 shredded the Bentley's windscreen into a thousand glittering spiders. Gareth was already moving, shoulder-checking Mira into the Aston's passenger footwell as he dropped behind the rear wheel. The suppressor on his Glock made polite coughing sounds: phut-phut-phut. One Range Rover fishtailed, driver's head snapping back, red mist painting the inside of the glass.
Mira didn't scream. She simply kicked off her Louboutins, vaulted over the centre console, and slid into the driver's seat like she was born to it. The DB12 roared awake, twelve cylinders snarling.
"Keys!" Gareth barked.
"Biometric, darling. My heartbeat starts her." She slammed the car into reverse. "Get in or get left."
He dove through the open roof as the second Range Rover rammed the concrete pillar where his head had been a second earlier. The Aston shot backward up the ramp, tyres screaming blue smoke. Mira shifted to Drive without stopping, the gearbox howling in protest, and they exploded onto Upper Bank Street doing ninety before the speedometer knew what century it was.
Gareth righted himself in the passenger seat, ejected the half-empty mag, slapped in a fresh seventeen-rounder. "Left on West India Avenue, then hard right into the service tunnel," he said, voice calm, the same tone he once used calling in airstrikes.
"You always this romantic on first dates?" Mira flicked the wheel; the Aston drifted sideways through a red light, scattering black cabs like pigeons.
"Only when people try to kill me."
They plunged into the service tunnel beneath the Jubilee Line. Fluorescent tubes strobed overhead. Behind them, both surviving Range Rovers followed, one limping on a blown tyre, the other gaining.
Mira killed the headlights. Total darkness except the green glow of the dashboard.
"Night vision?" he asked.
"2025, Gareth. Even the cup-holders have thermal." She flicked a switch on the rear-view mirror. The windscreen became a ghostly HUD, painting the tunnel in shades of predator green. The lead Range Rover appeared as a bright orange blob, two more blobs inside (heartbeats).
"Hold tight."
She braked hard. The Aston's carbon brakes bit like a shark. The first Range Rover overshot, tried to correct, clipped the wall. Sparks showered. Mira floored it again, T-boned the second Rover dead centre. Metal screamed. Airbags exploded. The Aston spun 180, facing the wreckage.
Gareth was out before it stopped moving, Glock raised two-handed. The driver of the crashed Rover crawled out, MP5 dangling. Gareth put two rounds through the visor. The man dropped like a sack of cement.
Silence, except for the ticking of cooling engines and distant sirens.
Mira stepped out barefoot, dress torn at the thigh, blood on her cheek that wasn't hers. She lit a cigarette off the Aston's still-glowing brake disc.
"Four down," she said, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. "Sixteen left on the list."
Gareth crouched by the dead driver, pulled the balaclava off. Early thirties, ex-military, ink on the neck: a small crown over the number 22. 22 SAS. Hereford's finest, now moonlighting as private murder.
"Albion Security Solutions," he read from the dog tag. "PMCs. Someone's paying top tier to clean us tonight."
Mira crouched beside him, tapped ash onto the corpse. "Not someone. Albion is wholly owned by a Cayman trust called ORPHEUS-9. Same trust that's about to receive three hundred and eighty billion pounds in your name tomorrow morning at 09:00."
Gareth stood. "Then we have nine hours to kill a ghost company and everyone who believes in it."
Sirens growing louder. Met Armed Response would be here in ninety seconds.
He looked at Mira. "You still have that flat in Barbican?"
"Forty-second floor. Bullet-proof glass and a very understanding concierge."
"Your car or mine?"
She glanced at the smoking Aston, then at the Bentley now burning merrily back in Canary Wharf.
"Neither. We're taking the Tube."
She kicked open a maintenance door marked STAFF ONLY. A narrow staircase led down to the platform of Canary Wharf Jubilee station, deserted at this hour. A westbound train was pulling in, silver and driverless.
They stepped aboard just as the doors closed. The carriage was empty except for one drunk asleep under a Tottenham scarf.
Mira leaned against the pole, barefoot, dress ruined, lipstick somehow still perfect.
"Next stop, Westminster," she said softly. "Then we start cutting throats in three-piece suits instead of balaclavas."
Gareth reloaded again, the metallic click loud in the quiet carriage.
"After tonight," he said, "the City will learn a new definition of hostile takeover."
The train accelerated into the tunnel. Above them, London slept, unaware that its oldest, hungriest wolf was already inside the walls.