Murphy’s law, Zach thought. If it could go wrong, it would. The turn he had made, based on the map, had led him into a jam caused by roadworks. Maybe five minutes stationary, in a cascade of horns and shouts, and five more crawling. No one walked if they could ride. She was Foxtrot. She was in the back of the van with Wally, Ralph and the guns. Last thing before she’d got in, she’d shrugged on the chador and fixed the veil. There’d been a shunt. A scooter had clipped the wing of a black car, government type, and a bawling match filled two lanes. Might have been amusing if she hadn’t been in the back. Police were running forward. If a motorbike had nicked the wing of a town-hall vehicle, and an argument had raged on the ring road in Coventry, then Zach and his mates on the site would have enjoyed it. But she was on board, and Mikey was beside him. The traffic moved. Two taxis were in front of him now, shared ones, packed seats. The protests were at a crescendo, arms snaking out of windows, demands for action from the police.
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