'You've put on weight,' I whisper as I struggle to pull him level.
'No,' he whispers back, 'you're just getting old.'
We slide down the other side, using a rose bush as cover, and land on a brick path that runs along the edge of the lawn. I draw my gun, and Lucas puts on his balaclava and draws his. He looks sinister in the darkness, like an executioner, and it's disconcerting no longer to be able to see his face.
We make our way along the path, with me leading, until we come to the edge of a paved patio bordered on three sides by sweet-smelling lavender plants. There's a wrought-iron table and six matching chairs in the centre of it. Two of the chairs are at an angle, and on the table there are two half-full wine glasses and an open bottle of white in a cooler, as well as a jug of water with lemon slices bobbing in it. Clearly, Cosick is not expecting visitors, but then why would he be? He's got his briefcase back. He may have had a brothel burned down in the process, but I don't suppose he cares too much about that. It doesn't look like he's short of a few bob. And as for losing a couple of men… I'm sure they're not going to be too difficult to replace.
A pair of French windows leads into the house. They are slightly ajar, and the room beyond them is dark. We creep across the flagstones and I open them further, stepping inside. I'm in a spacious drawing room with polished teak flooring and what look in the gloom like expensive paintings on the walls. The door at the end of the room is open, and I can hear music. It's not loud, but I recognize it as the classic 1980s anthem 'The Power of Love' by Huey Lewis and the News. I've always liked this song. It reminds me of when I was a kid in the summer of 1985 when Live Aid and bad haircuts ruled the day. When the song ends, it is followed by 'Heart and Soul', another Huey Lewis number from later on that year, which I always thought was underrated. Eddie Cosick is obviously a fan. He's listening to their greatest hits.
I turn round, and Lucas nods to let me know that everything's OK. Then I start forward again, the gun raised in front of me.
We slip into a windowless entrance hall with a high vaulted ceiling dominated by a crystal chandelier. The hall is empty and dark. To my left, a wide, richly carpeted staircase with banisters on either side runs up to the next floor. Huey's deep, macho warbling is coming from up there, and it's where the only light in the house is on. Directly ahead of me the front door is closed, as are all the doors off the entrance hall. There is no sound nor sign of activity coming from beyond them.
'Looks like whoever was here might have left in a hurry,' Lucas whispers, his eyes shining like sapphires behind the mask.
'Why would they leave?'
'Shit, Tyler, I don't know.' He hisses these last words, but his voice sounds artificially loud in the stillness of the hallway.
Slowly, I start up the staircase, my legs feeling heavy. The Browning's stretched out in front of me, but if this is a trap and someone appears from nowhere, gun blazing, it's going to be next to useless. Feeling increasingly tense, I glance round at Lucas. He's following three steps behind, but like me, he's looking backwards to check that the ground floor remains clear – acting point, like he used to do in Belfast and Crossmaglen when we were out on patrol.
Above me, a long balcony stretches the length of the floor. There are three doors visible, and unlike the ones downstairs, they are all open. It's from the middle one that the light and music are emanating, the light casting an all too faint glow. My grip on the gun tightens, and I put a little more pressure on the trigger. It's an utterly reflexive move, based on years of experience as a combat soldier. I shift the barrel in a low arc, watching for any movement.
A stair creaks; a long, low whine.
I keep going, my attention drawn to something on the carpet at the top of the staircase, partially obscured by the angle I'm viewing it from.
It's an unfashionable cream-and-tan brogue, the toe end sticking through a gap in the balcony's banister, and it's attached to a leg.
I clench my teeth. There can't be two people known to Eddie Cosick with this kind of bad taste, so it has to be the shoe that nearly kicked my face in earlier this evening, the one that belongs to Marco.
My heart is beating loud in my chest. I remember Sellman and his friends feigning death this morning to catch Ferrie and me off guard.
If this is an ambush, I'm dead. No question.
As the staircase swings round ninety degrees, I see more of Marco, still wearing that same dark suit, sprawled out on the carpet directly in front of me. He's lying on his front, one arm dangling over the top stair, his head and shoulders hidden by the retaining wall at the end of the balcony. Behind me, I hear Lucas curse as he too catches sight of the body.
I reach the final step and stop only inches from Marco. I count to three in my head, listening for a sound that may indicate that someone is just out of sight, waiting to put a bullet in me.
This is the problem with house clearances. There are always so many ambush points.
As I wait, my eyes move in the opposite direction, which is when I catch sight of the guy who was with Marco in the cafe in King's Cross this afternoon – the shifty little bastard with the MAC-10. He's lying on his back, his head and shoulders propped up against the doorframe of one of the unlit rooms. He's got the very same MAC-10 in his left hand now, and he's staring at me.
At least it looks like he's staring; in reality, he isn't actually seeing anything. A deep, curved gash like a grinning mouth crosses his throat from ear to ear, from which a curtain of blood has cascaded down onto his suit, drenching it. There are even flecks on the pale hand that still clutches the weapon he never got a chance to use.
'Heart and Soul' finishes playing on the stereo, and I know I will never be able to listen to that song again because I will always associate it with the ice-cold cloud of fear that's creeping up my spine.
The CD ends, and silence envelops everything.
As I step over Marco's body and his head and shoulders become visible, I see that he also managed to pull his gun and that it lies a few inches clear of one of his outstretched arms. It doesn't take a detective to work out that he died the same way as his friend. Although his face is pushed into the carpet, a large pool of blood has formed round his neck, and I can see each ragged edge of the wound he's suffered.
I swing my gun round, looking up and down the empty hall. I'm reminded again of Ferrie's grim story this morning concerning the deaths of my two former comrades, Maxwell and Spann. Two rigorously trained soldiers who'd been taken out without a chance to fire their weapons, their throats cut, just like this.
'It's the same guy who killed Snowy,' says Lucas, who has now reached the top of the stairs.
He's right. So, the killer Ferrie described as the Vampire isn't dead, after all.
I don't say anything. The room with the light on is beckoning me like a beacon, and I walk towards the half-open door, moving with slow, silent steps.
'Careful, Tyler,' Lucas whispers, and I turn and face him. He hasn't moved, and in his dark clothing and balaclava, he's almost invisible in the gloom. 'These guys haven't been dead long. Someone could still be here.'
It's a fact I'm brutally aware of. I listen for anything out of place before pushing the door fully open with one hand and lifting my unloaded gun with the other.