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Arsehole.
He laughed and tried to make it appear genuine. If Hartington had told him to go boil his head in oil, he’d have reacted in a similar manner. Sucking up to the old man had worked in his favour so far, but he wouldn’t have to suck up for much longer. Not if Enderby had his way.
“See that you do,” Hartington said, “and while I think of it, we need to reconsider GGCS’s status on the list of strategic contractors. They haven’t exactly covered themselves in glory so far.”
“Yes, sir. That sounds like a good idea, sir.”
“Why I ever allowed you to talk me into hiring those people, I will never know.”
“They came highly recommended, sir. And they did manage to secure the services of Will Stacy. One of the best agents MI6 ever employed, according to their personnel records.”
“This Stacy fellow’s one of the people who vanished into the ether, isn’t he?”
“It would appear that way, sir.”
“And we’re assuming Ryan Kaine is responsible for the vanishing act?”
“Indeed we are, sir.”
“Stacy can’t have been all that good at his job then, can he?”
“It would appear not, Sir Ernest. Either that, or Ryan Kaine is even more highly skilled than we gave him credit for.”
Hartington snorted. “The fact that Kaine has managed to remain free all this time demonstrates his proficiency rather well. Does it not?”
“I can’t argue with that, Sir Ernest.”
As usual, Hartington rang off without issuing a salutation, the ignorant arsehole. Manners cost nothing but meant everything, as Enderby’s father continually reminded him.
Enderby replaced the handset, leaned back in his chair, and stared through the only window in his office.

What a fucking cockup.
Enderby shook his head. He’d set things up perfectly. Anyone with a modicum of smarts should have been able to act on it and damn well end the story. By now, Ryan Kaine should have been pushing up the bloody daisies. He should be stiff and cold, lying in an unmarked grave, never to be seen or heard of again. It should have been an inauspicious end to a thorn in the government’s side. A thorn in Enderby’s side. But GG Cleaning Systems Limited and Will-fucking-Stacy had ballsed it all up.

Bloody moron.
That was the trouble with private contractors. Fucking people talked a good game with their slick, promo literature, their slogans, and their “lightning speed of response”. As it turned out, they were no more efficient than the in-house operations used to be back in the days before privatisation. The prime difference between the two was the cost. Far from saving money, the private firms proved to be hideously more expensive than their in-house counterparts. Outsourcing was supposed to make things more cost effective, but it simply added another layer of bureaucracy to the process. Another cost to factor in.
Over the years, budget cuts had left the NCTA completely toothless, without the personnel to act independently. Hence the need to draft in the private sector to carry out work they would once have been able to perform themselves for a fraction of the cost.
Useless politicians. More interested in protecting their arses than defending the country from legitimate threats.
On the other hand, the arrival of the so-called strategic contractors had created opportunities for enterprising entrepreneurs to make a few pounds in backhanders. Enterprising entrepreneurs the likes of Greg Enderby.
Enderby sighed as he stared through the office window at the ugly view—nothing but the red-brick wall of the building across the street and a postage-stamp-sized rectangle of sky. Pug ugly. He hated it with a passion he tried never to exhibit. In general, Enderby preferred to provide a show of unruffled calm and competence to the world. The outwards face of a man in control of everything within his sphere of influence. So far in his life, the ploy had worked pretty well.
The sun shone brightly, raising a warm glow on the red bricks of the building opposite. Good weather rarely failed to lift his mood. Good news had a similar effect, but he’d had precious little good news recently. He looked forward to hitting the gym that evening. All he needed was to clear the decks.
“And now, to work,” he said to the ugly view through the window that never listened, never replied, and never took offence. If only the same could be said of everything in his life.
He locked the office door behind him and hurried towards the lifts and the staircase. No way could his next phone call take place inside Sandbrook Tower, whose telephony had ears. Ears attached to automatic listening bots who never slept, not even when the building was empty and secured for the night.

Big Brother is watching.
Enderby avoided the lifts, even though one stood open and ready to accept him, and pushed his way through the fire doors. He jogged down the fourteen flights and reached the ground floor without breaking into a sweat, which demonstrated the benefits of his lifelong, high-intensity, exercise programme. Enderby prided himself on his physical conditioning. Few people outside of the special forces or professional sportsmen could match him for fitness, speed, and strength. He’d proven it often enough when sparring in the gym’s ring—sparring with much bigger men and holding his own.
Enderby only used lifts when he absolutely had to—usually when accompanying the lard-arsed, senior civil servants and self-important politicians who required liberal amounts of his schmoozing.
On the ground floor, he tapped his identity card against the reader on the wall. The doors unlocked and he barged into the impressive foyer. Italian marble floor tiles in grey, and shot through with veins of white and pink, graced the floors and more marble covered the walls, these tiles a few shades lighter. The reception desk—more polished marble, imposing and solid—faced the entrance with its revolving doors, all buffed glass and ornamented with brass furniture. The stainless-steel box bolted to the ceiling stood out as highly incongruous, but it contained the blast screen that would drop down in three tenths of a second when activated by any member of the security team. Despite its incongruity, no one would argue with its necessity in such dangerous times. Government buildings were constantly under threat, and Enderby appreciated all the security on offer. If he needed protection, why not let the UK taxpayer foot the bill? He was worth it.
Behind the front desk stood a security guard, a large and powerful man in a modest suit. A man Enderby didn’t recognise.
“Who are you?” he asked, keeping it blunt. Enderby didn’t like change, especially when it related to his personal safety. Nor did he see the need to talk nicely to the hired hands.
“My name’s Douglas, Commander Enderby,” the man answered, his voice deep, the accent indeterminable. “Douglas Fuller.”
“Fuller?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“We’ve never met, have we?”
“No, Commander. Not to my knowledge.”
“So, how do you know who I am?”
Fuller pointed to the computer screen on the desk to his side. “Your ID showed up on my screen when you deactivated the lock, Commander.” He spoke quietly. A serious man with a serious, clean-shaven face, and a serious bulge under his armpit, barely concealed by the jacket of his cheap suit. As a member of the Metropolitan Police’s Protection Command, Fuller would be one of the few people in the UK licenced to carry a concealed weapon. Enderby happened to be another—hence the need for a jacket when going outside. If not, he’d have had to leave his shoulder holster and gun in the office, and there wasn’t any chance of that ever happening. Not in this lifetime.
“I’ve also received a thorough, departmental briefing, sir,” Fuller added.
Enderby nodded. “Understood. When does your shift end?”
“I’ve just come on duty, sir. I’ll stay until everyone’s left the building. Between seven and eight o’clock, I’m told.”
“And what will you do then?”
“Lock up and head for home, Commander. After running a walk-through of the entire building and setting the alarm.”
“And what would happen if I wanted to return after you’ve left so I can carry on with my work?” Enderby asked as a test. The last thing he wanted was to be exposed by the man’s inept training.
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to, sir. Once I’ve gone, this building is sealed by a time lock until oh-six-hundred-hours tomorrow morning when the cleaners arrive.”
Enderby arched an eyebrow. “So, the cleaners have greater access to the building than the agency’s director?”
The thin flicker of a smile broke into Fuller’s stern expression. “So it would appear, Commander.”
“Very good, Fuller. Very good,” Enderby said. “Where’s my shadow?”
Fuller pressed a hidden button on his desk. The door behind him opened and a security officer emerged. Even for such a short trip outside, Enderby couldn’t be without his armed company—his shadow. He might not survive the loneliness.

Loneliness, ha!
The very idea had him in stitches.
Once outside, Enderby paced the pavement, keeping to the bright patches of the street, allowing the sun to warm his stiff neck and his back. His shadow, Upton, a stone-faced, stocky man who chewed gum constantly, stood twenty paces away, skulking in the shadows. Enderby had considered heading for the local postage stamp of a park but decided against it. The call wouldn’t take long. One shouldn’t drag out a termination conversation, even if it meant little.
His reflection in the coffee shop window across the street showed a trim, straight-backed man in a nicely cut suit, smiling in anticipation.

Behave yourself, Greg. This is business, not pleasure.
He stopped pacing and stepped closer to the polished-marble walls of Sandbrook Tower, but made sure to keep the sun on his back. Sitting at his desk most of the day had played havoc with the muscles in his neck and shoulders. And as for the stiffness in his lower back … he couldn’t wait to hit the heavy bag that night and blow away the cobwebs. Building up a sweat would do wonders for his mood.
He withdrew the ancillary phone from his jacket pocket, a phone that happened to be the same make and model as his official mobile. Although it looked identical, it had been registered to a friend of a friend, and could not be traced back to him. It acted as a burner phone without looking like one. He entered the passcode and dialled the number of the company slated for removal from the agency’s list of certified contractors. He didn’t have to wait long for Guy Gordon to accept the call.
“GG Cleaning Systems.”
“Gordon?”
“Yes, Commander. It’s me.”
With those four simple words, Enderby had his answer. Gordon had never sounded so glum. Defeated. As he anticipated, they both had bad news to relay.
Enderby took the lead. “I gave you until three o’clock to report and it’s now three twenty. What do you have for me, Gordon?”
“I’m afraid it’s bad news, Commander.”

Quelle surprise.
“Still no sign of the cripple, I take it?”
“None. I sent Paul McKenna and Jess Barker to Wales yesterday, but they haven’t been able to find Bairstow. Not yet.”
“And there’s still been no contact from Stacy or Reilly?”
“Again, I’m afraid not. It’s not like Stacy to break protocol in this manner.”
“Which means?”
“I have no idea what—”
“Come now, Gordon. We both know it means that the er … target has liquidated your overrated and overpriced assets.”
Enderby lowered his voice and hunched closer to the marble to avoid being jostled by the ignorant pedestrians who insisted on going through rather than around an obstacle. Ignorant pricks who paid more attention to their phone screens than to their direction of travel.

Arseholes.
“We can’t be certain of that, Commander. Can you give me a little more time? Perhaps another two or three—”
“Not a chance. You’ve let me down, Gordon. Badly. I really can’t tell you how disappointed that makes me feel. I trusted you. Stuck my neck out when I recommended your company to Sir Ernest for approved contractor status.”
Enderby straightened, stepped away from the wall, and received a thump in the back for his pains. The blow shunted him forwards, jarring his elbow against the marble. He pushed himself away with his hand and spun to face the street.
“Watch where you’re going, moron!” he bellowed, checking the elbow of his rather expensive jacket for damage. Finding none, he dusted it off and smoothed out the creases.
He looked up to find himself face to face with an extremely large individual—an individual with ebony skin and a deep scowl. A curtain of three-foot-long dreadlocks threaded with multi-coloured beads hung from his head. The man’s heavy arms and shoulders bulged through a weightlifter’s purple, skin-tight vest. Huge thighs and tree-trunk legs poked out below equally purple and skin-tight shorts. Colour-matched boxing boots completed the unsubtle ensemble. A heavy, gold chain hanging around the man’s thick neck glittered in the sunlight. Less than two metres separated him from Enderby.
“What?” Gordon asked down the phone.
“Nothing. A bloody idiot just barged into me without apologising. Hang on a moment, would you. The idiot’s looking rather darkly at me.”

Naughty, Gregory. Very naughty. Some might call you a racist.
Beaded Dreads’ scowl deepened at the “rather darkly” jibe and he took a step closer.
Enderby raised his hand to his shadow, indicating he should stand down.

I’ve got this, Upton.
“What you say, bro?” Beaded Dreads asked, his deep voice booming above the traffic noise.
Some passers-by gave them a wide berth and increased their pace. Others slowed to watch the unfolding spectacle of a slim, white man in an expensive suit mixing it with a heavily muscled Rasta dressed like a circus clown. What could be more enjoyable on a sunny, spring afternoon in the nation’s capital?
Enderby pulled the mobile away from his ear, hit mute, and dropped it into his pocket. He smiled at the black man and raised his hands, palms open, facing forwards.
“Didn’t you hear me clearly?” Enderby asked, still smiling, still staring the man in the eye.
“I heard you, bro,” Beaded Dreads said. He bunched and popped his huge biceps and bounced his pecs. If he’d had a hip hop beat to ripple the muscles to, it would have been even more hysterical.
Anyone else would have been impressed, or terrified. Enderby simply wanted to laugh at the performance, and maybe offer a sarcastic round of applause.
“Good, good,” Enderby said. “I shall repeat it to make sure you heard. I’ll also speak a little more slowly for the hard of understanding. What I said was, ‘Watch where you’re going, moron.’” Again, Enderby smiled.
“Who you callin’ a moron, bro?”
Beaded Dreads twisted at the waist and flicked a hand away from his side. A fractionally smaller man appeared from behind him, shorter, but just as built. Apart from the height, the only other differences between the two were the colour of his workout gear—lime green rather than purple—and the troy ounce weight of his slightly less impressive gold chain.
Enderby dropped his smile.
Beaded Dreads sucked air through his teeth. “Y’aren’t smilin’ now. Are you, boy?” he said.
“No,” Enderby answered, cool and calm, speaking only loud enough for the two colourfully dressed men to hear. “I’m thinking.”
“You thinkin’?”
“Yep. I’m actually trying to decide how much damage I’ll be able to inflict on you two clowns before my security officer arrives and pulls me off you.”
Beaded Dreads peeled back his upper lip into a snarl, exposed a gold left canine, and turned to his slightly shorter companion. “Y’hear that, Spike? He gonna damage us, bro!”
“I hear him, bro. He a funny, little, white man, innit.”
Spike differed in a third way. His voice, way too high-pitched for a man of his bulk, could have enabled him to sing falsetto.
In unison, they closed on Enderby, corralling him into the marble wall, fists clenched. Sovereign rings and other gold trinkets caught the bright sunlight.

What is it with young, black men and their ostentatious displays of gold? So tacky.
Slowly, Enderby lifted his arm, index finger extended, pointing to the sky.
“Gentlemen,” he said, still not raising his voice. “Before we start to rumble, let me draw your attention to the surveillance camera looking down on us.”
As one, Beaded Dreads and Spike glanced up. Curiosity gave them no alternative. While the men looked up in search of the non-existent camera, Enderby opened his jacket, drew his Beretta M9 from its pancake holster, and held it close to his chest, muzzle pointing upwards. That way, only Beaded Dreads and Spike would be able to see it.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, speaking loud enough to attract their attention. “You can look at me now.”
Beaded Dreads and Spike lowered their heads, paled, and their walnut-sized brains found something new to focus on. Enderby would have loved to film their bug-eyed, slack-jawed, hands-raised-in-the-air reaction, but in the absence of actual, obvious, surveillance cameras, he’d have to rely on memory.
“Lower your hands, fools. This isn’t a Hollywood gangsta movie.”
They exchanged a fleeting glance and complied.
“Excellent, well done,” Enderby said, smiling again. “Now that I have your undivided attention, let me make something crystal clear. Had I been of a mind to inflict serious damage, I would have driven a stiff-fingered jab to each of your exposed throats when you were looking up just then. However, the difference in force required to incapacitate two solid men such as yourselves, rather than inflict terminal damage, is rather difficult to determine. To be quite frank, I haven’t practised that particular drill for ages. Do you feel me, brothers?” He paused but neither man responded. “I said, ‘Do you feel me, brothers?’”
Enderby patted the Beretta against his chest. It elicited a response. Both men nodded.
“Okay, Spike. You can piss off. And don’t even think of calling the po-po. I have a permit for this Beretta, and I am the police. Get me?”
Spike nodded.
“Right then,” Enderby said. “Go on, off you toddle.” He waggled his fingers at Spike.
Both men made to turn and run.
“Not you, big man. I haven’t finished with you yet.”
Spike raced away without a backwards glance at his mate. Enderby waited until the man in the lime-green clothing had ducked around the nearest corner before turning his full attention to Beaded Dreads.
“What’s your name, bro,” Enderby asked, hiding the M9 beneath the side panel of his Brioni jacket.
All but one onlooker had dispersed, but the remaining one seemed to be taking an inordinate interest in Enderby and his new friend. Middle-aged and slim, with shaggy, fair hair, he wore a slightly crumpled, grey jacket and black chinos, and held a phone up in his outstretched arm, the camera lens pointing straight at Enderby and the man in the tight, purple clothing.
“Merlin,” Beaded Dreads answered, his voice subdued, high pitched, less brooding.
“Marlon?”
“No, Merlin.”
“Merlin what?”
“Merlin Handy,” he answered, lowering his eyes.
“Are you playing with me, Merlin?”
Merlin dragged his eyes up from his feet to look at Enderby. He shook his head. The beads clattered around his ears. It had to be so irritating. The clacking would have annoyed the crap out of Enderby if he’d had to suffer it all day long.
“Do you have any ID on you, Merlin Handy?”
Merlin folded his lips into a thin line. He dropped his gaze to take in the gun arm part-hidden by Enderby’s expensive jacket.
“Driving licence. In my wallet.”
“Where would you hide a wallet in those clothes?”
For the first time, Enderby noticed the black strap around the muscleman’s slim waist. A strap that would likely hold a belt bag.
“Take out your wallet and show me your licence. And if you pull anything out of that belt bag that isn’t a wallet, say goodbye to your testicles, big man.”
Enderby withdrew the gun hand from its hiding place and pointed the Beretta at Merlin’s groin. Involuntarily, Merlin pulled his legs together and bent at the waist. Although, what protection closing his legs would offer against the impact of a 9mm bullet was anybody’s guess.
Merlin tugged at the belt and dragged a black, leather belt bag around from behind his back. Slowly, fingers trembling, he opened the zip and dug inside.
In one smooth operation, Enderby racked the Beretta’s slide and carefully rode it back into position.
“Easy now, Merlin. Take it nice and slow.”
“Don’t shoot, man.”
“I won’t have to shoot if you do as you’re told. The licence, show it.”
The big man in purple removed a leather wallet from the belt bag, fumbled with the popper, and opened the flap. The licence, held in place behind a clear, plastic sleeve, confirmed the man’s name.”
“Okay, Merlin Handy. I think you’ve learned your lesson in manners.”
“Huh?” Confusion spread over Merlin’s face.
“It’s simple enough, bro. The next time you jostle someone in the street and cause them discomfort, apologise. It might just save you from pissing your pants. Now bugger off before I lose my temper.”
Merlin stuffed his wallet into his belt bag and tried to pull the zip closed but it caught halfway along the leather.
“Oh, and before you go,” Enderby said.
Merlin stopped trying to release the zip and looked up.
“Remember this. Now that I know your name, I can find out where you live. One day, when I’m bored, I might come pay you a visit and give you another lesson in etiquette. Think about that for the next few weeks. Go on now, Merlin. Off you trot, bro.”
Merlin Handy spun and raced off as though the Hounds of Hell were hungry and he smelled like dinner. Enderby chuckled to himself as Merlin retraced Spike’s trail and disappeared around the same corner. He half-turned towards the black, marble wall and decocked the Beretta. He returned the gun to its holster and smoothed out the line of his jacket. A quick review of his reflection in the shiny marble showed him a return to its streamlined perfection. This time, he judged his smile as justified.
“Oh dear, such japes,” he said, turning to face the long-haired man in the grey jacket and chinos. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, mate. I thought you were in trouble there. I was thinking about calling the police.”
Enderby allowed his smile to drop. “No need for that, my friend. Things are fine.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Just shooting the breeze,” Enderby answered, grinning again.

Shooting the breeze? Oh dear. Stop it, Greg. That really is too much.
“Thanks for your interest,” Enderby said, “but don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Oh yeah. Right.”
The man shrugged and wandered off, eyes locked on his phone, no doubt reviewing his footage of the incident and wondering whether he’d captured enough to upload it to his social media platform of choice. Not a problem. Enderby could survive any flak he faced from drawing his firearm. If questioned about it, he could easily claim to have been frightened for his life. After all, Merlin Handy and Spike looked the sort to be walking around the streets with bladed articles—a crime that carried a minimum sentence of six months’ jail time. For the briefest of moments, Enderby considered the proactive approach. Maybe he should call the police himself and make the accusation? In the end he decided against it. He’d already had more than enough fun at Merlin Handy’s expense. Besides, he had other fish to fry.
He glanced towards Upton, the shadow who stood primed and ready. Enderby nodded to him. Upton nodded back and resumed his watch, head rotating slowly, eyes alive for the next point of danger.
The life of the bodyguard, whose job required him to throw himself in front of a bullet to protect his client.

Another idiot.
Now, what was he doing before being so rudely interrupted?

Ah yes. Talking about frying fish.
He reached into his pocket for the mobile and checked the status, surprised to find the line still open and active. He released the mute.
“Hello, Guy? Are you still there?” he asked, still smiling from the buzz of terrorising a pair of hapless musclemen.
“Yes, I’m still here. What happened?”
“Nothing much. So,” he said, emphasising the word, “what were we saying?”
“We were discussing the situation vis-à-vis my company’s relationship with your agency.”
“And so we were. As to that, I have some rather bad news, I’m afraid.”
Enderby stopped talking and left the nugget dangling. He gazed around him. Fewer people lined the pavement, and space spread out wide. Even the traffic noise had quietened to a distant rumble in the slight calm before the rush-hour storm.
Gordon broke the stalemate.
“Well, Greg. What is it?”
“Sir Ernest has instructed me to remove GG Cleaning Systems from the list of strategic contractors … with immediate effect.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
“Can you do anything to change his mind?”
“I’ll hold off for now and try to bring him back onside, but … that’s going to take some doing.” Enderby crowded closer to the dark, marble wall. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice. “But you might be able to help your cause, if you have a mind to.”
“What? What do you mean by that?”
“Think about it in your own time, Guy. We’ll discuss it face-to-face. Maybe next week. I have other things on my plate right now.”
Enderby ended the call in the middle of Gordon’s last strident question and allowed him to stew on it. The wait would crank up the pressure. Make him more malleable. More amenable.
He gathered Upton to his side and returned to his office. Work waited for no one.

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Don’t look back.
Despite the words and the intention, Micah glanced over his shoulder. Couldn’t help himself. The pull was too strong. Dozens, no, hundreds of people thronged the station’s concourse. Any one of them could be watching him drag his wheeled suitcase over the shiny tiles and into the station. Any one of them.

Oh God.
The elderly Frenchman leaning against the support column, sucking on the roll-up cigarette. Did he just sneer at Micah through half-closed lids? No. The smoke had stung his eyes. The stinging, blue smoke. Nothing more. Smokers. Why did they bother? What was the point? Poisoning themselves.

Don’t look. Don’t look back.
The station announcer’s garbled message boomed through the station, the echo and language making it unintelligible.
The woman in the headscarf. Did they call it a hijab? A burqa? Was she looking at him through those dark eyes? With most of her face hidden by the headgear, he couldn’t tell what she saw, what she thought, what she looked like. Couldn’t tell her intentions. Which was the whole point of the hijab-burqa. The woman bent, picked up a small child from a bench, and balanced him on her hip. Pulling her own wheeled case behind her like a small animal on a lead, she manoeuvred her way through the crowd, heading for the platforms.
Micah swallowed. Definitely not. Not one of them.
What about the middle-aged couple in the loud clothes surrounded by suitcases? Were they paying him undue attention?

Stop it, Micah.
That’s what paranoia led to. Everyone became the enemy even if they were innocent.
Another passenger—an elderly man in a flowery shirt and blue, knee-length shorts—glanced away as Micah caught his eye. Suspicious or shy?

You’ll never know. You’ll never see them watching.
A family—father, mother, and two blonde-haired girls—bustled past on their way from the platforms towards the taxi rank he’d left behind him. The smaller of the girls dropped her doll and bawled as the family continued on their way, oblivious to the impending disaster. Mother turned, stopped the troop, picked up doll and daughter, and they continued on their way, catastrophe averted.
Micah gritted his teeth. Molly needed him to follow the instructions to the letter.

Keep going. Don’t look back.
The handle of his case slipped in his sweaty fist. Could he go through with it? What had they slipped into the bloody thing? The sealed tin of talcum powder tucked in the toiletry bag amongst his T-shirts and his underwear looked innocuous enough, inconspicuous even, but Micah knew better. Why go to all the trouble of coercing him into taking it for a simple tin of talc? No, it had to be more sinister. In his fist, it seemed to weigh far more than the 500 grams the label claimed. Far more.
Drugs probably. Not that Micah would ever open it to find out. That much curiosity would lead to disaster. He had to act natural. Calm. Innocent.

Shit.
How calm and innocent could he look when he was sweating so much? Micah caught sight of his reflection in the station’s greyed-out windows. God, he looked rough. Creased shirt, hooded top with the zip at half mast, baggy, knee-length shorts, trainers—no socks. Sunken, haunted eyes stared out from an unshaved face. His hair, dank and lifeless, screamed, “Look at me, I’m a drug smuggler!”

Pity’s sake, Micah! Pack it in.
He looked no worse than any of the hundreds of hot and weary travellers wandering through the concourse. Who could remain cool on such a scorching, steaming day? No. He didn’t stand out. He looked no more suspicious than anyone else.
Did he?
Micah swallowed the rancid, viscous spit and breathed deep. He could do this. Molly needed him to be strong. She was depending on him.

You can do this, Micah.
He pulled back his shoulders, straightened his back, and marched through the main entrance. There. He’d made it. Out of the burning sun and into the cool, shaded confines of the massive stone-and-tinted-glass building. Blinking against the gloom, he stood and shivered in his damp shirt and hoodie. The shivering had little to do with the sudden drop in temperature.

Don’t look back.
Another distorted announcement rumbled through the cool air. With little understanding of French, he had no idea what the woman had said. Hopeless.
The electronic arrivals and departures board stretched out overhead, displaying hundreds of names and a dozen platforms. So bloody confusing. Despite the vaulted roof, lack of litter, and missing graffiti, the place reminded him of every UK railway station he’d ever been through. It smelled of decades-old dust, concrete, and decay.

Where to?
Micah reread the note the man with the scar over his eye had stuffed into his sweaty fist before dropping him off at the station. The note, half an A4 sheet printed on an inkjet, contained nothing but an address in London. How in the hell was he going to find his way to London from the depths of Toulouse?
Eurostar or the cross-channel ferry?
Which route would get him to London faster?
He searched the concourse area for a queue and found one leading to a row of ticket machines. No signs of a ticket office or an information desk.

Bloody hell!
He’d have to wing it. How difficult could it be to buy a train ticket to England from France? He had no idea. Never done it before. He and Molly usually drove everywhere. And Molly usually organised the foreign trips. Micah was clueless.
He joined the back of the fast-moving line and, after a wait where he did nothing but study his shuffling, dirt-encrusted trainers, eventually found himself in front of a modern, electronic, ticket machine. Mercifully, the welcome screen allowed him to select his preferred language, and he tapped the area of the touch screen displaying the Union Flag in huge relief.
The process turned out to be far easier than he believed possible. Toulouse to London via Paris with a change at Paris Montparnasse to Gare du Nord, and then straight through to London’s St Pancras International. All being well, the eleven-hour journey—including transfers—meant he’d reach London by early evening, UK time. Remembering the time zone differences.
A sliver of hope ran through him. Maybe he could do this.
Micah slid his bank card into the slot and punched in his PIN. He didn’t even look at the cost of the one-way ticket. He’d have paid anything. He’d have paid the earth to save them. What good would all the money in the world do him if he lost Molly and … and … his whole world.

God. Don’t go there, Micah. Don’t go there. Be positive.
The machine disgorged his ticket, a long, grey card with a detailed itinerary which included station names, platform numbers, and a QR code at the bottom.
Simplicity itself.
He stepped away from the machine, read the ticket, and found the designated platform on the departures board. He had thirty minutes to kill.

No. Stop that.
Don’t use that word. He had thirty minutes to wait.

Wait, not kill.
The mobile phone vibrated in his jeans pocket. He fumbled it free and read the caller ID—“Molly”. The evil bastards were using her phone. Micah hit the green icon and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Y-Yes?” he answered, his voice weak, terrified. He cleared his throat and repeated, “Yes?” This time he sounded stronger, more in control.
Control he didn’t feel.
“Well done, Micah,” Luc growled, his German accent thick, his voice a throaty rumble. “You now have your ticket and your travel itinerary. Your train awaits. Have a safe journey.”
He knew.
The evil bastard did have people watching him.
Micah searched the concourse for anyone with a mobile phone clamped to their ear. Couldn’t help himself. Hundreds of passengers filled the station, many walked head down, concentrating on their phones rather than looking where they were going. Travellers sitting on benches or seated outside concession stalls also worked their mobile phones. None of them seemed to be looking in Micah’s direction.
“Do not bother looking, Micah,” Luc growled. “You will not find us. What time do you reach London?”
Luc didn’t know. He hadn’t been close enough to read the ticket machine. It meant he could be watching from anywhere in the station. Or someone else could be watching and relaying Micah’s movements to him. It was hopeless.
“What time!” Luc repeated, increasing his volume to a near-shout.
Micah consulted the ticket and gave Luc his answer.
“Very good. My people will be waiting for you at the address in London,” Luc said, reverting to his usual, deep, quiet growl. “Do not keep them waiting. You know the consequences.”
Micah took a breath. He had to take the risk.
“Will you let me speak to my wife?” Micah begged.
A deep rumble coughed down the phone line. Luc’s version of a laugh. A heavy smoker’s laugh.
“Say please,” the evil bastard demanded.
“Please,” Micah snapped. “I need to know she’s okay.”
“Very well, Micah. Since you asked so nicely. Wait.”
The ensuing, drawn-out silence cut thin slices through Micah’s heart. All around him, the station bustled with normal life. A train’s horn tooted its arrival, brakes screeched, and metal wheels squealed and clanked.
“Micah?” Molly asked, her voice timid, tearful.
Micah fought back his tears of fear and rage. He had to stay strong. Strong for Molly. Strong for them both.
“Yes, love. Are you okay?”
“I-I am.” She didn’t sound it.
“Have they hurt you?”
“No, no,” she said, rushing the words. “They haven’t touched me, but …” Her words trailed into silence.
“But? What is it, love? What are they doing?”
“They’re saying things. Horrible things. Threatening me. Threatening us.” She broke down, her cries shredding Micah’s innards.
“Stay strong, Molly. I can do this.”
“Do as they say, Micah,” Molly cried. “Please do what they say. And you must trust in the Lord. Remember that. We need to place our trust in God. He will see us through this. Pray to him. It’s what Dad would have done.”

Trust in God? Where’s God in this?
“I will, love. I will. Be strong. I love you so much.”
“Love you—”
Her words cut off mid-sentence and she yelped.
“Molly!”
“That is enough,” Luc said, seething menace. “You have your instructions. Carry them out and we will reunite you with your wife. Fail us and she dies. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, yes,” Micah said, desperately trying not to scream the words. “I’ll do everything you say, but please don’t hurt her.”
The phone clicked and an ominous silence boomed through Micah’s head.
“Hello?” he shouted. “Hello!”
Micah pulled the mobile from his ear and stared at the blank screen. He wanted nothing more than to redial the number and talk to Molly again, to hear her voice, to comfort her. But he couldn’t risk it. No telling what Luc would do to her if he did call. While Luc held Molly, Micah was powerless. He could do nothing but follow their instructions and pray for a miracle.
A miracle.
Fat bloody chance.
Trust in God? Where the hell had that come from? Molly didn’t even go to church, not since her dad’s funeral.
Micah raised his head to the vaulted roof, desperate to hold back the tears that threatened to roll down his cheeks.

Bastards. Bloody evil bastards.
They’d probably kill Molly the moment he’d completed his task—assuming he made it through customs without being searched and caught. They’d probably kill him, too. Once he’d delivered the package he’d be of no further use to them, and neither would Molly. What would stop them? Nothing.
He and Molly would die, but what choice did Micah have?
He couldn’t go to the police. Not a chance. Luc said they had the local police in their pockets. A lie, probably, but Micah couldn’t take the risk. He knew nothing about the French police, except that they were routinely armed. The gendarmes he’d seen swaggered around the country, confident and superior. Nothing like the good, old, British Bobby.
Something tapped his shoulder. He jumped and jerked around, heart in his throat. A short, sixty-something woman looked up at him, concern written over her deeply tanned and heavily wrinkled face. She said something he couldn’t understand.
“Excuse me?” he gasped.
“Ah,” she said, smiling. “You are English?”
He nodded, swiping the tears from his eyes.
“Are you okay, monsieur?”
Micah nodded. “It’s just that I hate saying goodbye.”
The old dear smiled. “Ah oui, je suis d’accord. I understand, monsieur. But do as you are told, and all will be well. Molly will be returned to you.” She dropped the smile and stared pointedly at him. Then she turned and strolled away before he could respond.

One of them.
Micah nearly collapsed.

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Bloody idiot, Kaine.
Lara would come around. She had to. Damn it, he needed her to.
Retired Chief Petty Officer Michael Procter shifted in his special chair and tried to stifle a groan.
Kaine tore his gaze from the dark liquid and looked up at his host.
“Think about it from her point of view, son,” Mike said, looking at him through pained, light brown eyes.
Mike rarely adopted his fatherly persona and almost never called Kaine “son”. The shock struck him again. In the nine months since Kaine’s fall from grace, Mike had aged considerably. Where once had been a healthy, lean, straight-backed, and robust septuagenarian, now sat a stoop-shouldered, baggy-eyed, and sallow-skinned, elderly man. Advanced and inoperable prostate cancer would do that to the human body. When Mike had finally owned up to his condition, the words “end stage” had sliced through Kaine’s heart as easily as a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife.
A crying bloody shame.
Kaine hated the sense of hopelessness that had sluiced over him. It put into sharp perspective the minimal discomfort associated with his hands—which were healing nicely enough—and his heart. Mike would never heal. Never improve. A rapid decline to the end of his final tour of duty.

Shit.
Mike’s follow-up request, “Promise me, you won’t tell Lara,” had hit just as hard, and he’d blurted out the reason Lara hadn’t been with him and Will when they arrived at the farm that morning to plan their next moves.
Enderby and Hartington. Puppeteers pulling on the strings of government. They were due a visit. A full-on, hard-time visit.
“I’m trying, Mike,” he said in response to the older man’s statement. “But it’s not easy …” Kaine let the thought trail off, took a sip of coffee, and tried not to grimace. He’d been staring at the mug for so long, the drink had grown cold. Delicately to avoid hurting his hands, he lowered the mug to the coffee table and pushed it away.
“Still feels like a betrayal?” Mike asked, his voice ragged, his breathing shallow and rapid. He was in a bad way and the pills clearly weren’t doing much to help.
“A little.” Kaine sighed.
Could he have done or said anything to change her mind?
He’d replayed the parting scene in his head over and over, but still couldn’t believe it. Lara had stayed in Wales. She’d left him. It felt as though he’d lost an arm. She’d been with him since the day his nightmare began. At his side through … everything. Without Lara, he’d have died that first day. She’d saved his life. Sewn him back together. In more ways than one.
“She needs time, son.”

Again with the “son”. What’s that about?
The illness had taken its toll. Mike had grown soft.
No, not soft. Sentimental. Open to his emotional side. Kaine nodded to himself.
“As soon as I heard there were horses on Cadwallader farm, I sort of knew,” Kaine said, looking up. “I knew she’d stay.” He met Mike’s watery gaze once more and shook his head. “What is it about horses, Mike? I just don’t see the attraction.”
“Magnificent beasts,” Mike snapped, pulling back his shoulders and trying to hide the wince behind the raised coffee mug. “Loyal and trusting. Treat them right and they’ll never let you down.”
“Are you trying to say I mistreated Lara?”
Mike waved a hand in the air between them. “Not for me to say. But the thing in Paris …” This time, he let the wince show. “Bad move, son.”
“She told you about Paris?”
The former chief petty officer nodded and scratched at his long, white, sailor’s beard. “She phones me occasionally. On a secure line, of course. I haven’t told her about … well, you know.” He waved a hand over his midriff. “We chat, mainly about horses. She’s always taken a particular interest in Dynamite.”
“The same big, black monster Will’s making friends with right now?”
“Aye, lad. The very same.”
Mike pressed a hand to his belly and leaned back into his comfy chair. Apparently, he spent his waking hours in the chair, looking through the window, taking in the calming view of Northamptonshire’s green and rolling hills. Waiting for the tolling of the final bell.
Life could be so damn shitty.
Kaine turned his head and waited for the mist to clear from his eyes. A moment later, he puffed out his cheeks. “Like I said. Horses. I really don’t see the attraction.”
“You have no soul,” Mike said, shooting him a thin smile as he did so.
“As a non-believer, I can’t argue with you on that score.”
“If my Ellie ever heard you say that, she’d have prayed a novena for you.” He slowly lowered his cup to his side table. “Still, I’ll soon find out if she was right all those years with all her praying and all her visits to church on Sunday. If she was right, we’ll be together again soon. Always assuming I make it through the Pearly Gates, and always assuming she’s put in a good word for me.”
“Stop it, Mike. You’ve got years left in you, old man. Years.”
“Bollocks,” Mike swore—yet another break from his long-held tradition. “You know and I know how long I have left. I’ll be gone soon enough. And don’t you fret. I’ve had a decent enough life. Forty years at sea and another seventeen on the farm—Ellie’s farm—since I retired.”

Kaine eased closer and dropped a hand onto Mike’s knee.
“I hate to ask, but do you have your … affairs in order?”
Mike and Ellie had never been blessed—or cursed, depending on the point of view—with kids. Kaine would have hated to see the farm fall into disrepair.
“Aye, son. I do. I’ve plenty of money put aside to pay for the horses’ upkeep and give them a good life. As for the farm, I’ll be leaving it to Lara.”
“Excellent,” Kaine said, smiling, “but how will you manage that? She doesn’t exist anymore. Not as Lara Orchard, anyway.”
Mike’s grin bunched up his sallow cheeks and rippled through his beard. Working on automatic, he leaned forwards, reached out a hand, but found the area at his feet empty. No longer able to take care of his dogs personally, he’d found them good homes locally, but clearly missed their comforting presence. He snatched his hand back and placed it on his lap.
Kaine looked away, pretending not to have noticed his old friend’s discomfort.
“Corky,” Mike said after clearing his throat, “your techie wizard, created a special new identity for her. It turns out that Ellie and I have a ‘long-lost’ niece, Loren. Lovely lass, she is. As it happens, she’s a fully trained vet, too. As soon as I shuffle off this mortal … whatever, the farm’s hers to do with as she pleases.”
“Wow.” Kaine could think of nothing else to say.
“Of course,” Mike continued, “I’m hoping she’ll keep the farm running. Maybe she’ll set it up as an animal sanctuary. But that’s entirely up to her. She could sell the place if she likes. I hope you don’t mind.”
Kaine frowned. “Why would I mind?”
Mike lifted a shoulder in a tight shrug. “I don’t know …”
“You don’t think I expected to inherit, do you?”
“Don’t be daft. What would you do with a farm? It’s just that with a farm to run, Lara’s less likely to change her mind about working with horses.”
Kaine snorted. “You never know, I might fall for the rustic charms of the farming life. One day, I might be able to settle down and become a gentleman farmer. Join the huntin’ and fishin’ brigade.”
“Here?” Mike coughed out a short, pained laugh. “So far away from the sea? Fat chance.”
Kaine smiled in return. How well Mike knew him. His long-standing dream had been to retire to a place on the coast—any coast—where he could swim every day for fun, not as part of a dedicated fitness routine. A place like the villa in Aquitaine.

One day, perhaps.
The back door crashed open and slammed closed. Will rushed in from the boot room, Glock 17 in hand. Worry lines etched into his rounded face.
Kaine jumped to his feet. Grimacing against the pain shooting through his hands, he reached inside his jacket and tugged out his SIG. He worked the slide and chambered a round.
“Visitors,” Will said, breathing hard from what would have been a mad dash across the courtyard from the stable block. He headed straight for the nearest window and stood close to the wall.
“Friendlies?” Kaine asked.
Will shrugged. “No idea.” His breathing had already started to settle, showing excellent levels of recovery.
Kaine turned to Mike. “Expecting anyone?”
“My nurse. But not for a couple of hours.” Jaw clenched, face pale, he sat up straighter.
“What car does she drive?” Will asked, peering through the gap between the stone recess and the bunched curtain. Keeping himself hidden.
“White Nissan Micra.” Mike rattled off the licence number from memory.
Will shook his head. “This one’s a Mercedes G-Class. Black. It’s parked in the lane up by the main gate. Part-hidden by the bushes.”
Kaine pictured the view through Will’s window. A quarter mile away, the main gate blocked the lane which ran in a straight line downhill to the farm. Will would have a perfect view of any new arrivals.
Kaine headed to another window—one with a good view over the rear of the farm.
“Did they follow you here?” Mike asked.
“Don’t see how they could have,” Will answered. “We were careful.”
“Occupants?” Kaine asked Will.
“I can only see the driver. The rear windows are blacked out.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Talking into his mobile.”
“I wonder who he’s talking to.”
“Your guess …”
Kaine peered through his window and saw nothing but the barn, outbuildings, stables, a paddock, fields, and an empty, rear-access road.

Good, so far.
“Which way’s the driver looking?”
“Can’t tell. He’s wearing aviator shades, but he is facing this way.”
Kaine considered joining Will at the front window but moving position would leave their rear exposed. Will had the front aspect covered and would call him forwards if necessary.
“Wait,” Will said. “Movement.”
“What’s happening?”
“The nearside, rear passenger door’s just opened. A big bloke’s getting out. Dressed in black. Tactical jacket, cargo pants. Unarmed as far as I can see, but …” He grimaced and shook his head.
Mike reached for his walking stick and used it to help climb out of his chair, groaning when he reached his feet.
Kaine patted a hand in the air, gesturing him to stay put.
“Mike—”
“Whisht now. I might be on my way out, but I’m not dead yet.”
“Suit yourself, but keep away from the windows.”
“Gonna try teaching me to suck eggs next, sonny?”
Kaine smiled. Even staring over death’s precipice, Mike’s spirit hadn’t dimmed. He limped towards the boot room while Will continued his commentary.
“Passenger’s opening the gates. … The Benz is pulling through. … Oh dear, that’s not good.”
“What’s wrong?” Kaine asked, desperate to move and see for himself, but maintaining his position.
“The driver’s collected the passenger, and they’ve left the gate open. Haven’t they ever heard of the Countryside Code?”
In the boot room, a metallic clanking followed by the hollow rattle of a cardboard box of shotgun cartridges—a distinctive sound—signified Mike’s intention. Seconds later, he returned carrying an over-and-under shotgun, broken at the breech. He’d lost the walking stick and leaned against the door jamb for support. After popping a cartridge into each barrel and snapping the breech closed, he rested the shotgun on the kitchen table, un-cocked.
“What’s happening?” he asked, gasping, and still standing in the open doorway.
“The Merc’s crawling along the driveway. Driver’s taking his time. Anything out back, Ryan?”
“Nothing that shouldn’t be.”
“Not a pincer movement, then. No concerted attack,” Mike grunted.
“Could it be a neighbour coming to pass the time of day?” Will suggested.
Mike shook his head.
“None of my neighbours drives a black, G-Class Benz,” Mike said. He slid onto a kitchen chair and braced his arms on the tabletop, face pale, breathing deep. As deeply as he could.
Will confirmed the load on his Glock and held it pointed at the ceiling. “How do you want to play this?”
“Let’s wait and see what they do. You never know, we might be overreacting. These guys could be Jehovah’s Witnesses wanting to save Mike’s immortal soul.”
“Are you banging on about souls again?” Mike asked, smiling through a grimace.
“No getting away from it, Mike.”
“The Benz’s stopped. Doors opening. Driver and two rear passengers exiting. Better come this side,” Will said, rushing his words. “Don’t like the look of this. They’re fanning out.”
“Weapons?”
“Can’t see any. But their jackets are bulky.”
Kaine left his post and joined Will. He took a position on the other side of the window, making sure he didn’t twitch the curtains when peering through the gap.
“Which one’s the driver?” he whispered.
“Guy in the middle.”
Kaine focused his attention on the large man in the centre of the trio. At least two metres tall and not far off the same width, he wore his dark hair short, but not quite in a military buzzcut. He sauntered along as though he didn’t have a care in the world, his eyes hidden behind a pair of mirrored lenses. The mirrors made it impossible to see where he was looking and difficult to read his expression. Off-putting and designed that way.
“Big beggar, eh?” Kaine said.
“Aren’t they all?”
Kaine grinned. “So it would seem.”
Will shifted his position a little and aimed his Glock at the man on the right. Dark skinned and as tall and wide as the driver but with longer hair and without the mirrored shades, the man stopped at the gate let into the stone wall surrounding the front garden. He stood with his arms crossed and his right hand hidden inside the flap of his black gilet. The gilet allowed anyone a clear view of the gym-built muscles rippling on his bare arms. Nothing but a poser. The third man—blond hair pulled up into a ridiculous, little top knot—copied his mate’s actions, and stood on the other side of the gate, arms crossed. They covered the driver’s advance.
“Driver’s coming in alone,” Kaine said to Mike. “Stay right where you are.”
“I’m going nowhere, son.” He patted the stock of the shotgun.
“If he knocks,” Kaine said, “why not invite him in nicely?” He added a wink.
Mike nodded his understanding, and a grim smile stretched his beard.
“Why not indeed,” he said, gasping for breath.
Kaine backed away from the window, turned, and hurried out to the hall. He reached the half-glazed front door well ahead of the driver.
Keeping low, making sure the driver couldn’t see him through the door’s frosted glass, Kaine turned the key in the lock and hid behind the heavily laden coat stand.
With the SIG P226 raised in a two-handed grip and aimed at where the driver’s head would appear behind the opened door, Kaine waited, his breathing slow and steady.

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