14
I finally get around to picking up the keys for the serviced apartment I booked while waiting for my flight from JFK.
It’s a respectable chain in the city centre round the back of Piccadilly train station.
No reception desk means no one talks or asks questions. I enter a code on a mailbox in the reception area and a door springs open.
There’s an envelope inside with a key and a welcome note. We take the lift to the top floor and enter the apartment. It’s modern and compact. A studio with caramel furniture, a small strip kitchen and a flatscreen on the wall.
There’s a double and a sofa bed, a Wi-Fi connection and a view over Manchester through floor-to-ceiling windows.
I dump my bag on the carpet and remove the gun from my jeans. Tucking it away in a safe built into a sliding wardr
