Actor David McCallum has embarked on a new career as a writer of thrillers. In this extract from his debut, his hero Harry Murphy, also an actor based in New York, is on the trail of three gang bosses intent on murder, and finds himself in the company of Villiers, an ex-army Colonel, a veteran of Northern Ireland special services, loyal to Queen and country, whose wife has certain useful connections…

THE Colonel was not one to be caught with his back to the wall. The garage had ways in and out at either end and he bounced up a second ramp. As soon as they emerged into the light he turned hard right and was zigzagging through traffic half a mile away before his pursuers could determine which way he and Harry had gone.

“Thanks for the warning,” the Colonel said. “You cut it a bit close though, don’t you think?”

Harry’s brain was working frantically with zero results. “It all happened so fast,” he said lamely.

“Usually does, old boy.”

A big grin spread across Villiers’s face. He put a finger through a bullet hole in the doorframe. “Bastard came pretty close. That’s the damn trouble with MAC-10s; they’re apt to be a bit wild. Fortunate for us though. Look, I usually don’t ask questions. Always seems to me that in our business, the less you know, the longer you live. But I am very curious to know how you became privy to the fact that I was about to be eliminated?”

A disquieting thought struck Harry. Villiers could be one of the bad guys. When he found out that Harry wasn’t who he thought he was, he could take it unfavourably. For the moment it might be wiser to continue avoiding the truth.

“Well, it was like this,” Harry said. “I overheard a conversation. Put two and two together. Can’t say more than that, I’m afraid, without getting myself in too deep.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to give me a hint.”

“If I could, I would. But I can’t.”

“You’re not one of Rocco’s regulars, are you?”

Rocco? Where had he heard that before? Of course! He had written the word “Rocky” on his cell-phone app. Apparently, Rocco had billing above the title. Villiers was waiting for an answer.

“Sorry, Colonel, that’s classified,” he bluffed, as if he were under orders not to talk. The ruse worked.

“Understood,” said the Colonel. “So. What’s the next step?”

Harry’s mouth dried up in just the same way it did on those rare occasions when he forgot his lines on a stage.

He had received his cue. It was his turn to speak and his brain had no idea what was next. Milliseconds felt like minutes.

Panic flowed through his veins and beads of sweat ran down his spine. As he did on stage, he improvised.

“I suggest... well... it would be best... if just we proceed as arranged.”

“Fine,” Villiers said brusquely. “I’ll give Max a call. Let him know we’ve made the transfer.”

The last thing Harry wanted was for Villiers to call New York to tell them all about the nice man who’d just saved his life. “No!” he replied a little too loudly. “You don’t have to do that; I’ll take care of it. Rocco will be expecting me to... eh... report... in.”

Villiers accepted this without further comment and turned off the highway and up another incline leading to yet another garage. By now the rain had stopped. Leaning out of his window, he pulled a ticket from the machine and the orange barrier rose up and let them through. They wound their way up the scarred concrete spiral and stopped in the far corner of the fourth level beside a battered old grey Ford Escort. The number plates were very dirty and the radio aerial a twisted wire coat hanger.

“This is where we change vehicles, old boy,” said Villiers as he switched off the ignition. “Excuse me.” Stretching across, he flicked a catch on the dashboard and a panel flipped down revealing a Browning 9mm complete with silencer and two spare clips. When he pressed a second catch the whole apparatus dropped into his hands. Cradling the mechanism under his arm he climbed out and walked over to the Escort. Harry joined him as he opened up the trunk. Inside were the spare tyre, a tool kit, a brown leather suitcase and a battered cardboard box. Villiers handed Harry the keys and told him to unlock the doors. Once they were open the Colonel handed him the suitcase.

“Here you are,” he said. “Put it on the back seat for now.”

The case was heavy. Harry opened the rear door and heaved it in. Villiers rummaged about in the cardboard box and pulled out a black broad-brimmed hat and a furry object.

“Put those on!” he barked, throwing them over.

With a large rag he gave the Jaguar a thorough wipe, both inside and out. “Just a precaution,” he observed. “You never can tell.” He threw the cloth back into the trunk of the Escort and banged it shut.

A billowing cloud of blue smoke followed them down to the exit booth. Villiers produced a second ticket from his pocket and paid the required fee. The attendant would remember little of the elderly suburban couple who motored sedately away.

Extracted from Once a Crooked Man by David McCallum, published by Sandstone, £8.99