They both rode in Nick's car. He was the one with all the equipment. And no-one would benefit from taking Marcel's old, messy, lived-in car anyway.

The pair had come out of the restaurant at twelve past three, meaning that they were thirty-eight minutes out from starting the job, seeing as Nick wanted to get there early.

Nick had parked in a private lot, in a corner, not down the street like Marcel, which suited their needs perfectly. They would have to stay low-key.

He led Marcel to a decent-looking Lexus, polished and straight out of the car wash. Marcel couldn't help feeling a tinge of jealousy. But he suppressed the feeling. He couldn't afford to get distracted, and especially not about whose car was better. Even if, in reality, there was no competition: Nick won, fair and square.

Nick took out his car keys and unlocked the car trunk.

Inside, there lay all the paraphernalia normally found in trunks: a few shopping bags, a pack of bottled water, and emergency equipment in case of a breakdown. It was underneath the carpeted board that you could hide some very interesting things. Nick moved the bags aside and opened it to show Marcel.

He had hidden, in a sealed paper package, fifteen-hundred grams of pure cocaine. Next to it, two pistols: one Sig-Sauer P226, the other a Walther P99.

"Which one?" he asked.

"I don't have a preference."

So Nick handed his partner the Walther, and he took the Sig. Marcel turned the gun in his hand, checking that everything worked smoothly. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it, but protection was important. Better safe than sorry.

Marcel checked the magazine: full. All 16 bullets lay nestled in the metal compartment. He tucked the gun in the waistband of his jeans. He did his best to hide the tell-tale bulge of the concealed weapon, but with just a T-shirt to go on top, it proved a little difficult. He wished he had brought a jacket, but in this weather, it would have cooked him alive.

Nick had put his gun in the glove compartment, not wanting to have it while he drove.

When both were settled down in their seats, Nick pulled out of the lot. They were off.

The twenty-minute car ride was uneventful, neither one of them uttering a word. They sat in silence, Nick pensive, Marcel brooding.

The destination, as it turned out, was nothing spectacular. Just a rundown, backstreet intersection away from curious New Yorkers who might happen to want a piece of the action. Nobody ventured down here because there was nothing to see here, except ugly, squat, brick buildings. Which was exactly why this intersection was perfect for the transaction they wanted to pull off. There weren't even that many cars parked, which was a good sign.

Nick parallel-parked between a grey Honda and a grey Skoda, which provided a little cover.

He turned to Marcel.

"The deal is meant to happen at that street corner right there," he pointed. It was on the right intersection. "Give me a green light on your cell."

Marcel nodded. He knew the drill. Whenever they were both doing a job, Nick and himself always attributed roles: he was the scout, and Nick the guard. Marcel's job was to be the lookout before any kind of a handshake took place. Once he had done a thorough search of the environment, he would give his partner the all-clear sign, and together they would await their client. This was why Nick liked to arrive slightly early.

He got out of the car and walked, with a steady gait, down the street — although it was very small for a street, and the sidewalks were quite narrow, so calling it an alley wouldn't be wrong either — all the while keeping his eyes sharp, moving his head at regular intervals, methodically and ruthlessly scanning every nook and cranny of the first branch. Nearing the corner, he stopped. Looking to his left, he saw nobody. Marcel turned the corner.

There were six people down the street.

Although this shouldn't have been too shocking, it managed to relatively startle Marcel, who hadn't really been expecting to see anybody. To make matters worse, all heads were turned toward him. Not knowing what to do, Marcel stopped in his tracks.

Straight ahead, on his side of the pavement, stood two middle-aged men in suits, both tailor-made, one of them holding a Louis-Vuitton leather briefcase. The only perceptible difference in their clothing was that only one of them wore a tie, a red one.

On the opposite side, directly to Marcel's left, there was another duo, leaning on the brick facade of the building behind them, both of them smoking a cigarette. From their olive-skinned complexion, Marcel guessed that they were Hispanic. They were dressed much more casually in black hoodies and jeans. A keen eye would notice that one hoodie said ACDC, and the other Metallica. One of them, in the ACDC hoodie was in his late forties. The other, however, looked much younger; Marcel's guess would be somewhere around thirty or so.

Finally, even further down the left side of the street, Marcel spotted two young women — they both couldn't be older than twenty-five — one a blonde, the other a brunette, dressed in matching white blouses and knee-high boots with stylish, grey trench coats on top. They both held purses.

If somebody possessed superpowers and could read Marcel's thoughts at that very moment, they would have heard his first reaction, which would have been something along the lines of "What in the living hell?", as his mind reeled at this very unexpected sight before him. The next thought, a few moments later, would have been "What do I do?".

The strangers were still staring at Marcel. He decided to just act natural. Slowly, he took out his cell. Selecting Nick's number, he put the phone to his ear while the ring tone dialled. Nick picked up almost immediately.

"Can I go?"

"No," said Marcel, quickly cupping his hands over his mouth, even though he was absolutely sure that from this distance no one could hear him. "Nick, listen. I'm not sure if this is a problem, but... there are people here."

"What?"

"There are people here. Four dudes, two gals. They all seem to be waiting for something... or... someone."

Silence on the other end. The gazes were still on Marcel.

"Nick, you there?"

"Hold on, I'm coming."

And with that, the line went dead. Marcel pocketed the phone.

At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one of the shorter of the two men in suits, the one with the red tie, walk towards him. Marcel panicked. His hand instinctively went towards the back of his belt, where his fingers came into contact with the smooth metal of his gun.

Then he snatched his hand away.

What was he doing? These could all just be ordinary people, probably waiting for a taxi or something in the wrong part of town. This man, approaching him, would probably ask him for directions. Marcel, reassured, walked forward as well to meet the man, sticking an artificial smile to his face.

But what the man said completely paralyzed him.

"Are you also waiting for Mr Carter?" asked the man with a thick cockney accent.

Marcel could swear at that instant that his heart stopped on the beat. He couldn't reply. His mouth just stood open, working slightly up and down, trying to speak, trying to say "Yes, we are. Who are you?", but no matter how hard Marcel tried to utter a word, not a sound came out.

Because Mr Carter was their client.

Marcel doubted that this Londoner meant another Mr Carter. All of a sudden, what had started out as a roiling sense of unease transformed into a lurching, sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

Who were these people?

"Why so shocked, chap? Don't worry, everyone else here is waiting for him. We just wondered who else would show up. Welcome to the party, my friend."

As Marcel and the other man stood there, he heard footsteps behind him. Marcel whipped around—

To find Nick walking up to him.

"Hello!" said Nick cheerfully, waving. He was holding an Adidas shopping bag in his left hand, the package well concealed within the sports clothes he had bought this morning. He slid his other arm around his partner. "My friend and I were taking an afternoon stroll." Then he added: "Can we help you?"

The man in the red tie just smiled.

Marcel slipped out of his partner's amical half-embrace.

"He knows. You can stop the act."

Nick frowned.

"What are you talking about?"

"He knows," sighed Marcel. "He knows we're waiting here for Mr Carter."

Nick just stared in disbelief, taking an involuntary step backwards, his hand snaking toward his Sig Sauer in the process. But Marcel took two steps forward.

"Who are you? Huh? Who are you people? Do you know who the fuck we are?"

Red Tie matched Marcel's two steps, until he was so close that Marcel could feel his hot breath on his face.

"I could ask you those same exact questions," he said slowly.

"Yeah, well I asked you first." Marcel turned slightly and tapped the small of his back, to indicate he had a gun.

Red Tie wasn't in the least bit rattled. He just flashed that smile of his again and lifted the right side of his suit, to show Marcel a shoulder holster. But Marcel was more interested in the weapon that hung there, an Uzi. A Micro Uzi, to be precise. Which meant that in the case of a firefight, right there and then, he was dead. Because a Walther couldn't win against a submachine gun pistol. Period. For a sub, it looked small, but it could do some serious damage. The Micro Uzi could throw up one thousand two hundred rounds per minute, and each mag held twenty bullets, so you could use those up quite fast. Red Tie here would only need one to completely obliterate him and Nick.

The guy wasn't a cop. Marcel knew this almost immediately. Everything was off about him. Not just the fact that he was carrying an Uzi, which wasn't NYPD grade, but also the way he dressed. No cop would ever dress like that. They might choose a suit, but it would never be tailor-made. No one would authorise the expense, and a policeman didn't make enough pay to get such clothing. The accent was another giveaway. Police authorities would have chosen an American, to make him blend in, not an Englishman, which would have the opposite effect. But just because he wasn't a copper didn't put Red Tie in the clear. He was still working on their turf, interrupting their business transaction, which meant trouble.

Therefore, it would be safe to assume that these two gents were from London's upper districts, or represented them, but where, and who had sent them here, still remained unknown.

Marcel nodded, non-verbally stating that he accepted the fact that his opponent visibly boasted superior firepower.

Satisfied, Red Tie hid the holster from view again, smoothing his jacket down.

"So," said Marcel, still holding the man's gaze. "We'll just wait and see then, I guess."

"My thoughts exactly."

And with that, Red Tie walked away, back towards his partner, leaving Nick and Marcel to contemplate what they had just gotten into.

Because their current predicament, whether they liked it or not, had just gotten a whole lot more difficult.