Terms & Conditions

I am standing in the middle of his study with a gun held out in front of me in both hands, and he does not look up.

He is pouring a second glass. He knew I was coming, and he has known long enough to get the good bottle out.

My arms have been out for nine seconds and nobody tells you how long nine seconds is.

Behind the desk, in a coat he has not bothered to take off: Lazar Tsarev. Every bad thing in this city goes through him.

Dark hair with the first grey coming in at the temples, ten years early. Eyes the colour of first ice, the kind you break with your heel on the way to school.

I came here to kill him and the first thing I did was notice his eyes. I would like that on the list of problems.

He looks at the gun with mild interest, as if it were weather outside a window.

Then he looks at me, and that is not the same look at all.

“Don’t call me anything.”

He puts the second glass on the corner of the desk nearest me and turns it so the clean side faces out.