The concrete wet with oil, dank under his hands, and blood pounding in his twisted ankle. Laboriously, he crawls into the unlit workshop. There’s no sign of the partners, and a deepening sky cuts abstract shadows from the workshop fittings. As he’s brushing grit from his hands, Roy hears movement behind him. He kneels and waits there a moment, swiping blindly towards the darker corners. The noise abates. “What a shambles,” he says to himself, then counts down from ten before he tries to get up. Wobbling but relieved, he stands on his decent foot. The Lexus’ driver-side door is open and close to hand. Roy hops towards it, almost laughing at the scenario, at the fruits of his perseverance. But as he stoops to get in, the roller doors start to rattle open. Roy swings. He waits for Sol’s surprised voice – prepares himself for the confrontation by reaching for his revolver. It’s not there, and its absence throws him.
