Extended Epilogue
THE DIPLOMAT
The plane lands in London, the sky the kind of grey that makes your bones ache. Waylynn is pacing like she wants to punch the weather, and Gabriel just scans the streets like he’s calculating how many bodies it would take to make the city behave.
‘Sal,’ he murmurs, ‘take Waylynn. Two blocks down you’ll find Mickey. He’ll take it from there.’
I nod, already moving, leaving Gabriel lingering in the doorway with eyes on Tarran.
Our footsteps sound louder than they should, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked concrete.
The street lights cast a jaundiced glow, a kebab wrapper dances across the pavement, and a taxi glides past, it’s driver half-asleep, half-listening to late-night radio.
The street is quiet, in that eerie, post-midnight way, that is until Waylynn pipes up.
‘I hate it here,’ she mutters, yanking her coat tighter round herself as the drizzle turns to sideways sleet.
‘The uneven pavement and the permanently hung-over sky just make it unbearable,’ she continues.
‘And what’s with the beans on toast?’ she groans.
Waylynn’s voice is a rasp of disdain. I don’t look at her.
‘You do realise you are British!’
She shoots me a glare. ‘I’m a lot of things.’ There’s a pause, then she adds, ‘but that’s culinary sabotage. The toast gets soggy-’
‘You’ve killed three men this week and shoved them into a wood chipper, and that’s what haunts you?’
She huffs as we turn a corner, and the street narrows. Ahead, a neon light flickers above a boarded-up betting shop. Mickey is supposed to be waiting for us there.
‘Now, please be quiet,’ I suggest, low and clipped. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for Mickey.’
She scoffs. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Tall...’ My voice falters. How do I describe Mickey, an enforcer with fists like cinder blocks? ‘Doesn’t matter. Just point if you see someone.’
She falls silent, finally, and the street breathes around us. Then, he’s there. He steps out from a side street. He doesn’t greet us, just nods, and then crouches beside the pavement.
‘You see this?’ he points, brushing aside the debris to reveal the faint insignia.
I kneel beside him. ‘It’s still fresh,’ I say, rubbing my finger over the carving.
The mark is too clean. No signs of time settling over it.
The lines of the carving are crisp, not worn or rounded.
Older carvings tend to erode from foot traffic, rain and grit.
The exposed stone beneath the surface is lighter than the surrounding pavement.
Over time, it would have darkened to match.
‘Interesting,’ I whisper, crouching closer.
‘What?’ Mickey asks, his voice wary.
‘It’s an Ouroboros.’
He crinkles his nose. ‘What’s that?’
I trace the serpent’s curve with my fingertip, expecting the tail to disappear into its own mouth. ‘The Ouroboros is an ancient symbol of eternity. Life devouring itself. Death feeding rebirth. A serpent eating its own tail represents the cycle that never ends.’
Mickey watches me. ‘Sounds poetic. Or cultish.’
‘Both,’ I glance up. ‘It means whoever carved this isn’t just sending a message.’
He crouches again beside me, his breath steaming from his mouth against the chill. ‘If it’s meant to eat its own tail, why is the tail severed?’
‘I don’t know. The Ouroboros is meant to be whole. It’s saying someone isn’t just rejecting the cycle – they’re trying to rewrite it.’
I withdraw my phone; thumb already hovering over the shutter. I crouch low, my knees groaning in protest as I angle for every shot – wide, close, each photo capturing the serpent’s broken loop.
Mickey exhales. ‘I know a guy, he’s not a historian, but he’s seen ritual symbols, coded messages – stuff most people wouldn’t pay attention to even if they tripped over it.’
I nod. ‘Tell him it’s urgent.’
Mickey’s eyes narrow. ‘If anyone’s got ears in the underground, it’s Mateo, he’ll know something.’
Twelve calls. Five drop-ins, and two bribes later there’s no whisper of rebellion against the Sanchez family from anyone.
Mickey leans back against the van, the metal groaning as the panels push outwards. ‘Either everyone’s scared, or the Sanchez family’s grip is tighter than we thought. Families here don’t move unless there’s profit or panic. Which one is it?’
I glance out the window, looking down the dark street – it’s empty, silent. ‘If Mateo’s out and Rosa’s got nothing, it’s hard to say. There’s chatter about the Albanian networks clashing with the Costellos in Birmingham, but that’s it.’
Mickey sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘Rosa doesn’t do “nothing”. If she’s quiet, it’s because she’s holding her cards close to her chest.’
I nod in agreement. She wouldn’t be down here anyway.
‘Manchester is her chessboard. She’s got half the docks, a third of the cops, and every nightclub north of London paying protection.
If she’s not moving, she’s either not involved or she’s waiting for someone else to move and make the first mistake. ’
I glance at my watch, and Mickey sighs.
I lean against the far wall of the van, arms folded. The air smells of sweat. Mickey’s fingers tap his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. ‘Only one person left who might know what’s going on.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Who?’
He hesitates, and then dials. ‘Her name is Delilah. Used to run intel for the Perez family before they imploded. Now she freelances – ghost-level stuff. If someone’s making moves against the boss, then Delilah’s probably on their tail.’
‘Will she pick up for you?’
Mickey shrugs. ‘She’s owes me a favour, or a bullet, I can’t remember. Let’s find out.’
‘Mickey…I was wondering when the rats would start scurrying,’ the voice on the other end answers.
‘Yeah, look Delilah, I need a name. Someone’s been movin’ weight against the Sanchez’s.’
‘Calling me at this hour? Either you’re desperate or lonely.’
Mickey smirks, his eyes flickering between me and Waylynn, before he answers. ‘Bit of both. Thought I’d hear your voice before the town wakes.’
‘Flattery won’t save you. What do you want?’
‘If you help me out, Delilah, I’ll owe you something…’ his voice drops.
‘Intimate?’ she interjects.
‘Yes,’ he sighs.
‘Oh, Mickey, you already do, I just haven’t decided how to collect.
’ The line crackles, and Delilah’s voice begins to soften.
She says something else, but the words thin into static and interruption.
Mickey leans in, his brow furrowing, catching fragments, and his jaw tightens.
Then he chuckles, but there’s no humour in it.
‘You’re tellin’ me Fat Tony, Anthony Salerno? Thought that fossil died years ago!’
He hangs up, the phone landing on the prop-up table with a thud, the sound echoing through the cramped surveillance van like a gunshot.
Rain drums against the roof, and Waylynn still hasn’t spoken.
She just stares at Mickey, eyes locked like a Doberman scenting blood.
Her posture is still, and her gaze pure predator.
Her jaw clenched, fingers twitching near the holster she never admits to carrying.
The tension in the van thickens as I watch her for a beat, then – snap – I click my fingers sharply in front of her face.
‘Oi,’ I clip. She flinches, just slightly, like a wolf yanked back moments before the pounce.
Mickey returns the look with a furrowed brow. ‘What’s her problem?’
I don’t answer right away. I shake my head slowly. ‘It’s best you don’t ask.’
Mickey scoffs, but doesn’t push. He knows that tone. The kind that says there’s a story buried here, and whatever it is, it’s not his to dig up.
‘So Fat Tony is still alive...’ I comment. Anthony Salerno was into everything – numbers, loans, building sites. He even had his fingers in boxing matches. Real old-school muscle, but he “died” of a heart attack in ’92.
‘He’s not just alive – he’s slicin’ meat down Bethnal Green. He’s got a Butcher’s shop, plain as day. Goes by the name The Meat King.’
‘How original.’
Fat Tony was thickset, with shoulders like a slap of beef and hands that look like they’ve never held anything gentler than a meat cleaver.
The shop’s facade is modest. Frosted windows. A chalkboard sign that reads: “Today’s Special: Lamb Shank ￡11.99/800g”.
The van idles at the curb, coughing diesel into the damp air. Mickey drums his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the side mirrors and the butcher shop’s fogged windows.
‘Stay in the van,’ I say, as I pull the side door open. Mickey doesn’t argue. He knows better. I step onto the pavement, Waylynn following close behind, heels clicking like gunshots on the wet concrete.
We push through the door just as a customer shuffles out, clutching a brown paper parcel.
She takes a quick glance at me, smiles, and then looks away fast. The bell above the door gives a half-hearted jingle as she steps out, and we step inside.
The air hits us; it’s coppery and primal, with a sharp undertone of bleach to mask the truth.
It mingles with the blood, creating a scent that is both clean and corrupted.
It coats the back of my throat like old grease.
A swinging door creaks open, and Fat Tony emerges from the back room cradling a coil of fresh sausages.
His apron is smeared, stiff with dried blood and slick in places where today’s gore hasn’t yet dried.
The fabric, once white, is now a patchwork of crimson, yellow fat stains, and blackened streaks of rot.
It’s just a canvas of carnage. I remember in the early days, when every crimson splash on his clothing meant questions, every smear on his boots meant trouble.
He’d scrub his knuckles until they bled.
But now? Cops don’t ask questions anymore.
They nod, maybe crack a joke about a “rough cut” and move on.
He’s legitimate now. A licenced butcher.
He’s not hiding anymore. And the blood? That’s just part of the uniform.