Free Dark Forces by Stephen Leather

hidden from view by the boxing ring.
    Plates were cleared, and after ten minutes, the army of white-shirted, black-trousered waiters returned with stainless-steel trays and the main course: roast beef, which proved to be surprisingly good, with a selection of vegetables. Evans ordered another round of drinks. Gin and tonic was a good drink when he was undercover because no one could tell how much alcohol was in the glass. Whenever Shepherd was sure he wasn’t being watched he’d slosh some water into it.
    Evans was holding court at the table, and as he was paying, his guests were happy enough to eat and listen. He told stories about his boxing days, and the great fighters he’d met over the years. He was a huge fan and spent tens of thousands flying around the world to get ringside seats at all the major bouts. Shepherd kept looking over each time anyone walked by on the far side of the ring, but while plenty of people were heading back and forth to the toilets, Owen’s bladder seemed to be made of sterner stuff.
    As the plates were being cleared away, a black-suited man in his fifties walked purposefully across the room. He had the look of a manager, and a minute or two later he went back to the door, this time accompanied by Owen. Shepherd raised his napkin and dabbed his lips but Owen didn’t look in his direction.
    When the manager opened the door Shepherd saw two uniformed policemen. One spoke to Owen, who threw up his arms angrily but after a few seconds he appeared to calm down and the door was closed. Dessert was served. Some sort of mousse with thawed frozen berries. Shepherd picked at it as he listened to Evans tell the story of how he had met Muhammad Ali in Las Vegas.
    Shepherd’s phone vibrated and he fished it out of his pocket. It was a text message from Razor. Sorted. And a smiley face. Shepherd grinned and put it away.
    ‘Good news?’ asked Evans.
    Shepherd hadn’t realised the man had been watching him. ‘Another job,’ he said.
    ‘Back to the New Forest?’
    Shepherd pointed a warning finger at the man’s face, but he was still smiling. ‘Mum’s the word, mate.’
    Evans held up his pint glass. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
    The two men clinked their glasses together. ‘I hope so,’ said Shepherd.
    Evans narrowed his eyes. ‘You saying I’d grass you up?’
    ‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd. ‘What the fuck, Paul?’
    Evans burst out laughing. ‘I’m busting your balls, Terry, you soft bastard. Now, are you coming to the big match? I’ve got a dozen ringside seats and your name’s on one of them. We’re all going for a steak first and we’ll hit the Mayfair afterwards.’
    The boxing match was due to be one of the biggest of the year, a rematch between the Russian heavyweight champion Konstantin Kuznetsov and British champion Barry ‘Face-Down’ Hughes, who got his nickname after three consecutive opponents fell in that way early in his career. The match was taking place at an East End football stadium where more than twenty-five thousand boxing fans were expected. The cable TV pay-per-view rights were said to be worth tens of millions. Shepherd had heard that ringside seats were selling for five thousand pounds each. He raised his glass to Evans. ‘Try to keep me away,’ he said.
    Evans raised his own. ‘You the man.’
    Shepherd grinned, pretending to be a bit drunker than he actually was. ‘No, you the man.’
    ‘Fuck off!’ shouted Evans. ‘You the man.’
    ‘Okay. I’m the man,’ said Shepherd. They clinked glasses and drank. Evans waved a waiter over and ordered another round.
    A big man in a too-tight tuxedo stepped into the ring. He was holding a microphone and started to introduce the men sitting at the top table. Shepherd jumped as a hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Terry, good man.’ He looked up to see Marty O’Neill grinning down at him. He squeezed, hard enough to hurt. Marty was a big man, a couple of inches taller than Shepherd. He had rock-hard