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‘Tell you what, Henry,' Flynn said, rising from his seat. ‘I'm going to have my moment with that bastard now. Know why? Because I counted four out and only two have come back and that tells me something.'

‘What?'

‘They've found what they're looking for and they've killed any witnesses.'

He pushed away the table. Henry shot up. ‘That's a hell of a conclusion … let's get the Spanish cops here, then go in,' he said.

Flynn had a think about it, then shook his head. ‘Nah.' He turned to go just as a long limousine drew up across the road and the back door opened. A short, very dark-skinned man dressed in a silk shirt, black silk trousers and Gucci loafers climbed out, said something to the driver of the limousine, then started to walk along the jetty.

Henry took hold of Flynn's arm and pulled him back behind the bougainvillea, then spun quickly around himself when a big hand clamped down on his shoulder. Karl Donaldson and another man were standing behind him.

‘Siddown, guys,' Donaldson said to Henry and Flynn. Both men complied, Flynn doing so without hesitation. He knew Donaldson, had met him on a few occasions and knew his match when he saw it. All the men and Karen sat back at the table.

‘What're you doing here, Karl?' Henry said. He hadn't seen or heard from his friend for a couple of days but knew he'd been working on the American connections from his office in London.

‘That,' he said, pointing to the man walking confidently along the jetty towards Hoyle, ‘is Ronnie Brinscoe, and he is the man who we believe owns Jack Hoyle, the one financing the parallel deal to bring up the diamonds, hence
Destiny
and the divers.'

‘Diamonds!' Flynn blurted, and shot an accusatory look at Henry. ‘They're after diamonds? What diamonds?' His eyes narrowed. ‘Did you know this?' he demanded. Henry just opened the palms of his hands in a gesture that said,
yep
.

‘How did you find this out?' Henry asked Donaldson, not caring too much about Flynn's feelings.

‘By field agents talking to people, being detectives … it happens, y'know?' Donaldson explained. ‘
And
we have a guy in Brinscoe's organization, which helps. Brinscoe and Fioretti are at loggerheads over every single piece of turf from Fort Lauderdale to Key West. Seems Hoyle is Brinscoe's man in Fioretti's set-up. He overheard Costain and Fioretti talking while out fishing and pitched the whole thing to Brinscoe, who let Hoyle run with it, hoping to find the diamonds first.'

‘Why is Brinscoe here?' asked Henry.

‘To oversee things? We're not sure, but we couldn't get an agent to follow him from the US, so I hopped on a plane this morning from Gatwick, teamed up with this guy here –' he jerked a thumb at his companion – ‘Jamie, down from the FBI Madrid office.' Henry nodded at him. ‘Heard you'd headed south and I guessed our paths might just cross.' He raised his eyebrows, smiled, then turned to Karen and said, ‘Ma'am,' very courteously. She just stared back at the very good looking man with her eyes all a-goggle.

‘We think something may have happened today,' Henry started, seeing Flynn roll his eyes in disgust and mouth the word ‘
we
?' Henry ignored him and continued, telling Donaldson about the divers – or lack of them – concluding, ‘It looks odd, according to Flynn. Their car is still here.'

Donaldson took it all in, said, ‘It would be very nice to pay these guys a visit while they're on board.' He looked at his colleague. ‘What are the chances of getting a Spanish team together qui—'

His words were interrupted by the sound of six gunshots from the far end of the jetty. Three double taps.

Sometimes, Hawke thought, you had to take the chances that were presented to you. Especially when served up on a plate.

He knew all about the diamonds and their possible value if they were ever found at the bottom of the ocean (which he doubted), and that his boss Fioretti would love to get his hands on them and let them sprinkle through his fingers. His boss would absolutely love that … but he knew something else he would love even more: the brutal death of his main rival, Ronnie Brinscoe, a guy Fioretti hated with a vengeance. And if he could get the diamonds as well, even better, but getting diamonds from the sea bed was not his job. His job was to kill people on his boss's orders – which is why he had come to Gran Canaria after leaving the UK on a false passport.

His job here was to hunt down the people who had killed Scott Costain and his girlfriend, and also the people employed by Brinscoe who had already started searching for the diamonds. Hawke knew they were one and the same and were using a motor cruiser called
Destiny
– information that had come from Scott Costain before he was killed – so it was simple for Hawke: find
Destiny
and then everything else would slot into place.

It hadn't taken him long, using the internet, a few phone calls, a chat with a few people, including an old salt in the marina in Puerto Rico who, for a few drinks and a handful of euros, had happily told him that
Destiny
was moored in Puerto de Mogán. The only downside to that particular conversation was that the old man admitted someone else had asked him the same thing, but then claimed he didn't know who that guy was and that he hadn't told him anyway. Hawke didn't have the time to follow that up.

Hawke had been in Mogán for two days now, having booked into a hotel some way back from the waterfront, but he had seen
Destiny
arrive back on that first evening whilst eating a nice meal at a restaurant that looked directly down the jetty where she moored.

He'd watched the divers leave
Destiny
and then, later, two other men – one of whom Hawke instantly recognized as Jack Hoyle, the English guy who basically ran Fioretti's sportfishing boat out of Key West.

Hawke kept his face down over his food as Hoyle and the other man walked past within feet, and up into the resort. Hawke followed them and watched them walk into a restaurant to eat. He later followed them back to the boat, where they bedded down for the night.

Next morning he watched the divers arrive and climb aboard
Destiny
and sail out of harbour. He killed the day by driving up to Las Palmas where, in the back streets, he easily sourced a 9mm handgun and twelve rounds of ammunition, which would have to be his weapon for this particular job. He'd had to leave his kit back in the UK, where, he'd learned, things had really gone badly for old man Costain and his girlfriend when the cops busted them. Hawke only hoped there wouldn't be a backfire into his boss's operation in Florida, as the two were closely linked.

Not his problem.

That evening he chose a different restaurant to eat at on the waterfront, which had a slightly different view of
Destiny
's mooring. But the boat did not arrive until late, and without the divers, a fact that put a cynical grin on Hawke's face. Instinctively he knew they were dead divers.

He waited for Hoyle and the other man to leave the boat, because he'd decided that he would take them both out just as they waited for their table at whatever restaurant they decided to eat at. His car was only a dash away and he would be gone. Just keep it simple and fast.

The arrival of the limo threw that plan into disarray, especially when he saw who stepped out of it. None other than Ronnie Brinscoe. Hawke had to make himself breathe normally at the sight of the guy in his silks and slippers. A new plan – if it could be called a plan – formulated instantly in his brain and he was up, walking towards the jetty, shouldering his way through the strolling tourists who, unwittingly, would be his cover.

He was working it through as he stepped on to the jetty.

He needed to time it so that he was right behind Brinscoe at the moment he was alongside
Destiny
. The time when his back would be visible to Hawke. Hopefully the other two, Hoyle and the other guy, would be facing him. Like a little trio. Hawke was working it out – Brinscoe first, two to the back of the head. Double tap. Bang, bang. Then even before he fell, instantly taking out the others, head shots, still from a close distance. And that would be it, over in two, maybe three seconds. Turn, then walk – not run – through the tourists, head low, toss the gun sideways into the water, use the cover of the shock and chaos. Kill and go.

He should never have raised his eyes, even once. But he did, and as Henry scrambled through the tourists, following Donaldson, Flynn and the other FBI guy towards the sound of the gunshots, some rushing towards him to escape whatever had happened, others rushing towards it, he saw the one man walking away who didn't quite fit, the one with his head down, the one not panicking or excited and, maybe because there was some almost spiritual connection between the two of them, this man and Henry looked into each other's eyes across the jetty and neither one of them could disguise the instant recognition.

Hawke hadn't disposed of the gun. It was still tucked down the waistband of his pants at his lower back, his hand still gripping it as he walked away from the scene of death. He drew it and pivoted towards Henry, dropping into a combat stance, but was buffeted by a female tourist who saw the gun and screamed. Hawke smashed the gun across her face, knocking her brutally out of the way, brought the weapon back to aim again at Henry – but all he saw was a blur of speed, Henry charging low across the jetty, moving faster than he had ever done since he had played rugby for the county.

Hawke couldn't re-aim in time and Henry powered low into him, his bad shoulder connecting with Hawke's gut, sending the air out of his lungs, then driving the both of them, locked together, over the side of the jetty into the icy embrace of the water below, hitting the surface hard, grappling as they went under. The gun flew from Hawke's grip.

They fought violently in what was immediately pitch blackness beneath the surface, each scratching the other, each trying to grip the other, and then they shot up, wheezing for breath. Henry knew then that he was going to struggle badly here. They broke apart for a moment, but then Hawke went for him and took him under, managing to get his right forearm around Henry's neck and pull him down, at the same time crashing his forehead into Henry's temple, curling his legs around Henry's hips and clinging to him like a monkey, using the strokes of his left arm to take them both under again.

And of course he didn't have to strangle Henry – that would have been counter-productive, actually to constrict his throat. He wanted to drown him, so he gripped on just tight enough so that Henry's mouth was open and the cold Atlantic water, tinged with diesel from the boats, went down his gullet.

Henry fought, squirming manically, unable to get free, feeling his strength sapping from him, trying to prise Hawke's arm from around his throat, but it wasn't happening, his lungs involuntarily sucking in sea water, which started to saturate them.

He knew he was going to die here and had almost accepted that fact when, for the second time, he shot up to the surface, free from Hawke's grasp, splashing madly with his arms, coughing and choking horribly as he retched and breathed at the same time.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around a stanchion under the jetty, then looked around and saw Steve Flynn's head bob to the surface about a dozen feet from him. Alongside him was Hawke. Flynn was holding Hawke's shirt by the collar, but Hawke wasn't moving. His face was still in the water, his body lifeless.

Using the lifesaving stroke, Flynn paddled across to Henry dragging Hawke in his wake.

‘You OK, mate?' Flynn asked Henry, who still had water cascading up his throat and down his nostrils.

Henry made a snotty gurgling noise that meant
yes
.
Thank you.

Henry looked up as Flynn sat down at the restaurant table and the two men eyed each other warily for a few seconds.

It was one hour later. In front of them, the jetty had been cordoned off and beyond the barriers there was a lot of intensive police activity, but not much to see now, as several screens had also been erected to hide the horror that had taken place from prying eyes.

None of the bodies had been moved, even Hawke's, which lay where it had been dragged on to the jetty like a huge fish. Further down there were three more bodies, all killed by gunshots to the head. Somewhere in amongst the police activity were Donaldson and his FBI colleague, and a Spanish detective called Romero, who was in charge of proceedings.

‘Thanks again,' Henry said.

Flynn held up his hand. ‘Enough. I just leapt in and dragged him off you and then he went for me, so I just held on tight.' He shrugged and smiled. Henry nodded. ‘So, Henry, you going to tell me what all this has been about?'

Henry was about to speak when they saw Karl Donaldson duck under the cordon tape and walk towards them, accompanied by a Spanish cop and carrying a box of some sort.

He came up to them and placed the box on the table. Henry looked at it. It reminded him of an old-fashioned biscuit tin, but instead of jolly Victorian street scenes on it, the metal was rusted and discoloured.

Donaldson said nothing, but prised the lid off to reveal its contents.

‘These,' Henry said, ‘are what this is all about, and they have cost far too many lives … may I?' he asked Donaldson, who nodded. Henry dipped his hand into the tin and picked up a handful of raw, uncut diamonds which he then allowed to dribble through his fingers.