 
### No Good Deed

### Jay Klements

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014-19 Jay Klements

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The right of Jay Klements to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Front cover adapted from image by Toby Charlton-Taylor (www.tfpc.co.uk) used under Creative Commons CC-BY-ND 2.0, modified with permission.

For more about the author, please visit:

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### 1

Saturday 9th July

19:39

Streatham, London, UK

They say timing is everything.

I was inclined to agree with them, whoever _they_ were. Mainly because, when I ran through it in my head, the timing told me I had two minutes left alive. Maybe three, if I was lucky.

That wasn't ideal. That was the sort of timing which probably needed a little more work. To be honest, that was the sort of timing which usually resulted in a headlong descent into abject, hysterical panic. An understandable reaction, perhaps, for a man whose death was imminent.

I wasn't panicking.

But then, this wasn't the first time I'd found myself facing near-certain death. Not even close. I'd faced far worse odds, in places a lot less conducive to my survival than the grimy, run-down commercial unit in a Streatham backstreet where I was being held.

Herat, for one. That had been tricky. So had Karachi. Kursk was the stuff of legend, but had nearly been a disaster. Nuevo Laredo? Way too close for comfort. Not to mention, that time in Jeddah with the horses. And, of course, Tehran. Who could forget Tehran? Certainly not the Iranians, that was for sure.

Officially, I'd never been to any of those places. As Detective Inspector Bruce Thorne, my work for the Metropolitan Police's Specialist Operations team had rarely taken me outside the borders of London, let alone the country.

But I hadn't always been a Detective Inspector. In truth, I hadn't always been Bruce Thorne. At least not consistently, since birth. There had been a few extended _interludes_.

So instead of panicking, I sat naked and double-cuffed to a sturdy metal-framed chair, counting the seconds in my head to keep track of that timing. An observer might have noted that I appeared comfortable with my nakedness. They'd have been right. It had nothing to do with my naturally-lean masculine build, nor my dark-haired Italianate looks. I'd simply chosen to ignore my captors' attempt at humiliation so I could focus on finding opportunities to exploit. There were always opportunities, as long as you knew where to look for them.

A door had just opened on the floor below, followed by the thump of boots slowly ascending the staircase towards the empty former office space where I was captive. In another thirty seconds, the door in front of me would open. Maybe they'd kick it open, like they had the first time they'd come in. Shock value and all that. Or perhaps it would creak open slowly, threateningly, like it had the second time.

That hadn't ended well for Doughty.

That hadn't ended well, at all.

Either way, two Hispanic men – _El Pito_ and _La Pija_ were the crudely-anatomic nicknames I'd given them – would enter in stained blue overalls, all tattoos and menace. _El Pito_ , a heavy-set bruiser with a busted nose and a web-work of scars across his face, would stride across the room. He'd take maybe thirty seconds to squat down behind me and detach the two pairs of cuffs which secured each of my wrists to the chair frame.

Meanwhile, _La Pija_ – a shifty, pock-marked, wiry little rodent – would skitter across to hold a pistol point-blank to my head. The pistol would have a suppressor. Unsilenced gunfire was, after all, likely to attract rather more attention in South London than it might in, say, Culiacán.

Whilst _La Pija_ covered, the bigger man would use his strength to drag me upright. _La Pija_ would sneer and jab me with a syringe, like he had with Doughty. Some chemical cocktail to prolong consciousness, no doubt. It would take another minute or so for _El Pito_ to manhandle me over to the jury-rigged pulley which hung over one of the office's exposed metal ceiling beams, before he hauled me up with the chain. And then, that would be it.

Two minutes. Maybe three.

Game over.

Of course, I wouldn't _actually_ be dead at that point. Not in a medical sense, anyway. That particular moment would come a little later. Maybe a lot later. But my life would, without question, be irretrievably over the moment they hooked me up like a side of beef and set to work.

The footsteps continued. So did the countdown.

I looked around the room. White-painted breezeblock walls. Grey carpet tiles. A warehouse-style ceiling with exposed beams and ductwork. Three items of furniture: the chair to which I was attached, another which had formerly held Doughty and a small, dirty trolley that might once have played host to a coffee machine but which now held a well-used heavy glass ashtray along with the instruments of Doughty's unpleasant demise. A serrated hunting knife. A propane-powered blowtorch. And a cordless multi-tool with circular saw attachment.

I figured the blood-stained items had been left visible as a reminder of my own intended fate. Not that I needed one. The colourful cascades of bodily fluids on the wall – now redolent of a Jackson Pollock painting – already served as a rather effective _aide memoire_ , as did the indelible dark stains forming Rorschach patterns on the carpet tiles below. Not forgetting the pale-skinned, porcine body shoved against the wall in front of me.

Although technically it wasn't really a body. Not anymore.

Body _parts_ was more accurate.

Looking briefly at the charred eye sockets staring back from a few feet away, I reflected on my own capacity for processing such horror. A fellow human being had literally been taken apart in front of me. Yet the outward terror I'd projected for the benefit of my captors, whilst they'd inflicted one sickening depravation after another on Doughty, had been entirely false. Inwardly, I'd just looked on, impassive.

That wasn't normal. That was way beyond the bell curve.

But then, I'd inflicted my own share of sickening depravations over the years. Somewhere boxed away in my head, were memories of having done so. I just didn't open those boxes, unless I had to.

Although sometimes, they leaked anyway.

I considered the fate of my former companion, searching inside for an emotional response. All I found was ambivalence. Mick Doughty – a fleshy, ginger-haired Irish-Liverpudlian – hadn't been a good man. Quite the reverse, in fact. He'd been a sickeningly violent, deeply amoral piece of shit. As the boss of London operations for the Brunswick Brothers, he'd systematically beaten and raped countless numbers of the girls he bought and sold for the trafficking gang's top man back in Liverpool: Pat O' Connor.

I was certain that I felt no sorrow for Doughty's loss. The world was truly a better place without him. My ambivalence came purely from the manner of his death; a nagging question about whether any man – however vile – really deserved to end his days disfigured beyond recognition, partially dismembered and choking to death on his own severed genitals.

I blinked away the question. The footsteps were continuing up the stairs. It was not the time for moralising or psychoanalysis. I was about to be tortured to death by two members of Mexico's most powerful trafficking cartel.

Seriously, was that really going to happen... in Streatham? Who would believe that? Not many, I suspected. Only those, perhaps, who'd encountered first-hand the horrors which occasionally reached through from the shadowy criminal underworld to carve a path of havoc through innocent lives.

People like me.

Not that I was innocent, of course. That hadn't been a word which I'd been able to use autobiographically for a long time. But my wife and daughter... they were.

They _had been_.

The footsteps reached the lobby at the top of the stairs. The two men shared a laugh; _El Pito_ 's gravelly cackle overlaid by _La Pija_ 's feminine giggle.

A flash of anger flickered briefly, directed at myself. Working deep cover as Doughty's minder had meant I'd lost sight of the ever-evolving overview of the capital's gang scene. Sure, there'd been rumours about operators from across the Atlantic finally moving in properly. Big players, who'd made even the Russians nervous.

But I'd been focused on one goal alone: getting the Brothers close enough to the Albanian _Mafija Shqiptare_ for a meet to take place. A meet which would place the big hitters from both gangs in one room, at the same time. A meet whose time and location I'd already fed back to DCI Jim Clarke – the officer in charge of 'Project Twofer' – so that the mother of all sting operations could take place.

Through subtle manipulation, I'd carved all the branches off Doughty's decision tree until a deal with the Albanians became inevitable. That had required a level of focus which meant I hadn't paid much attention to those rumours.

Hadn't paid _enough_ attention.

Hence my predicament.

The footsteps arrived outside the door, right on time. I slowed my breathing and then – for the first time since Doughty and I had been bundled out of our car at gunpoint – allowed myself to feel the slightest frisson of fear. Fear was good, in small doses. It focused the mind. That was important for what was about to happen next.

_La Pija_ 's weaselly face appeared in the mesh-reinforced window of the white-painted office door before it opened; casually, this time. The two Mexicans probably figured I didn't need much more scaring, given that I'd had to watch every moment of Doughty's destructive interrogation.

I played along, projecting another convincing look of terror as _La Pija_ came in, followed by _El Pito_. I scanned for opportunity, and found none. I hadn't expected to; the timing wasn't right. But it soon would be. I visualised the next thirty seconds in my head and tensed, preparing for action.

Except, as the two men entered, I saw that a third man had joined them. Just from the way he carried himself as he followed the others through the door, I knew he was _El Jefe_ : the man in charge.

That was unexpected. That put a whole different slant on the proceedings.

That brought... uncertainty.

Maybe timing wasn't _everything_ , after all.

### 2

23:11 (GMT +3:30)

Parchin Military Complex, Iran

Deputy Commander Musa Majidi was not impressed.

As the second-in-command of the entire Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, that wasn't unusual. He wasn't easily, or often impressed. A man of his position couldn't afford to be.

He looked around at the technicians industriously rebuilding and restoring equipment which had been destroyed in a massive explosion several months previously: the result of a direct Israeli strike on the facility. They weren't contributing towards some new breakthrough in their quest to create a functioning nuclear weapon. They were merely attempting to restore lost functionality.

Majidi shook his head to himself. He took no pride in regaining past glories. Not that it was a matter of pride any more; the knives were already being drawn in the Ministry of Defence and Armed Forces Logistics.

For him, it was starting to look more like a matter of survival.

"How long?" he asked, brusquely, in Farsi. His question was directed at Mohsen Kazmi, the current Director of the Parchin research facility. Majidi liked the man. Twenty years Majidi's junior, Kazmi was dedicated and trustworthy. Nonetheless, time was running out for both of them.

"Six months, sir. Maybe a little less. It is hard. The explosion was not so much of a problem. We have new equipment already. It is our understanding of that equipment. Even after all this time, we are struggling without..."

Kazmi paused warily, leaving an awkward silence. Majidi knew why. The man had been about to refer to a group of scientists who had been kidnapped four years previously and had not been seen since. The Deputy Commander had a tendency to explode into rage when reminded of that incident.

On this occasion, Majidi knew anger wouldn't get them anywhere. He needed Kazmi on side, so he offered a grim smile, instead.

"You can say it, Mohsen. Without the key people we lost four years ago. But let us not dwell on the past, because the future is of somewhat greater concern. I fear that six months will be too long, for the both of us."

He gave Kazmi a significant look before continuing.

"Arak is playing catch-up after the American dogs sabotaged the cooling. And they're _still_ tying themselves up in knots over at Natanz after another Israeli camel-molester got in there and infected their supposedly uninfectable computers. Again."

"Yes, sir. We have updated our systems again here, to try to..."

"Yes, yes," Majidi interrupted. "I know you have, and I'm sure if they wanted to the Mossad and the NSA could still riddle everything you have with their electronic plagues. The point is, they haven't targeted you. Because nobody really knows what you're doing here."

"But what about the attack? Our control centre was destroyed! They must know what we are doing."

Majidi nodded sympathetically.

"You draw an understandable conclusion. But a wrong one, nonetheless. I have it on good authority that the Israelis hit us because they thought we were doing missile guidance. Not uranium enrichment. They just got lucky that our control room was taken out."

Kazmi looked doubtful, but Majidi knew his sources were good. The Mossad might have been leakproof. However, the CIA, who'd known all about the Israeli raid, certainly wasn't.

He shrugged at Kazmi, as he continued.

"It doesn't matter anyway. Right now, this facility is the only horse left in the race. It might be limping and lame, but it's our best chance."

Kazmi nodded reluctantly.

"Six months isn't going to work, though," Majidi warned. "The Supreme Leader will throw you to the dogs in Evin, long before then."

Kazmi looked horrified at the suggestion of ending up in Iran's most notorious prison.

"But sir... we are trying everything. You know we are!"

Majidi smiled grimly again.

"Try harder, Mohsen. _I_ know you're doing all you can. But if this place isn't functioning soon then my word won't count for a lot. Because I'll be joining you in that hellhole as well."

Kazmi stared at him for a moment, utterly shocked at what Majidi was suggesting. Then he bowed his head.

"I understand, sir."

"Good. May Allah shine his light upon both of us, in our hour of need. _Khodafez._ "

With that, Majidi turned on his heels and left the control room behind, along with any hope that Kazmi might succeed. The expertise lost when the scientists had been kidnapped was too great; it would not be regained for years. At best, he could hold off the circling wolves in the Ministry for a few months. He really should begin looking for an exit strategy.

Outside the building he stepped into his waiting limousine, accompanied by his closest aide. As he lay back in his seat, Majidi found himself returning, yet again, to the night the scientists had been abducted. The familiar frustration rose inside. Even after four years, he had no leads on where they had been taken. Only one attacker had been caught on the security feeds, and even then only briefly: a dark, grainy video of no more than five seconds.

That had been just enough for the Iranian Cyber Army hackers to get a hit with their facial recognition algorithms. They'd matched the face with a Russian SVR report about a legendary assassination in Kursk ten years before, conducted by a ghost known only as Crow. A ghost whose photograph had somehow been acquired by the Russians. And whose face was, according to the ICA, a near-perfect match for the man in the security footage.

Majidi recalled how his satisfaction at identifying the man had been short-lived. Crow was dead. There was some dispute over the details, but the reports were unequivocal. He was no longer operational. Majidi's one fleeting hope of tracking down the missing scientists had slipped away: lying at the bottom of the Red Sea, if the most likely rumours were to be believed.

The trilling of a mobile phone roused Majidi from his dark thoughts. His aide answered the call, and offered him the handset.

"Saeed Asadi, sir. He says it is urgent."

Majidi took the device – a Chinese device built to Iranian specifications, designed to thwart NSA eavesdropping – and brought it to his ear.

"Asadi, you donkey-botherer. What do you want?"

Saeed Asadi was one of the ICA's brightest minds. He kept Majidi updated with new developments, rather more regularly than the Deputy Commander would have liked. In Majidi's eyes, there was no glory in bits and bytes.

"Sir, I have important news!" Asadi's voice was shrill.

Majidi sighed. The man was always getting himself worked up over some new technological marvel.

"Really?" Majidi replied. "The centrifuges are working now?"

There was a pause.

"No... no, sir. It's not that."

"So it's not that important, then"

"I think you will still want to hear it, sir. We have finally managed to access the central London CCTV network."

Majidi sighed again. It was just as he expected. Another idle boast of some technological achievement that was of no help whatsoever to his predicament.

"Oh, marvellous," he replied. "And I should care about this why, exactly?"

"Sir, we managed to penetrate their systems remotely. Their data store is huge. They have so many cameras, recording all the time, they see everything."

"Huh. You are saying we can spy on everyone in central London, now? I supposed that could be... useful," Majidi acknowledged begrudgingly.

"Ah, not exactly sir, no. We could, for a while. But we were detected. We had to withdraw."

Majidi let out a groan. "May Allah help you, then. If they trace it back to you, the Brits will take your foolish head off with a drone. You'd better not be anywhere near me when that happens."

"I don't think that's a concern, sir. We routed through a hijacked computer in France. It just happened to belong to the DGSE. I believe it caused a minor diplomatic incident."

Majidi stifled an unexpected chuckle. Now that _was_ worth hearing about. Not that he'd let Asadi know that.

"Ah, very good then. No drones. But you have still not told me why I should care."

"Because, sir, we pointed our algorithms at their database of footage and located a person of interest to you. The man known as Crow."

Majidi did not hide his incredulity.

"Don't be ridiculous, Asadi. Your algorithms must be mistaken. Crow is dead."

"No, sir. He is not. I am quite certain. I am sending you the proof so you can see for yourself. Ask your man to pass you his other phone. I've just sent it to him."

Right on cue, the device dinged in his aide's jacket.

"Here, Abdallah, give me that," he instructed. Majidi opened the video file which Asadi had sent, which showed CCTV footage of a dark-haired man in sportswear walking alongside a pale-skinned, thuggish-looking character.

"When was this taken?" Majidi queried.

"Yesterday. In London."

"Of course it's London, you idiot. You told me that already. How sure are you that it's him? All that facial recognition stuff can be fooled. This could just be someone who looks like him."

Even as he said the words, Majidi knew he was wrong. Something told him he really was looking at the man behind the scientists' kidnapping.

"Of course, sir. But technology moves on. Now we have algorithms for everything. Height. Body mass. Gait. We ran the security footage you gave us through the algorithm, and it produces a ninety-six point six percent match of how this man moves."

"How he moves? May Allah have mercy on us all! What next? Identifying a man by how he scratches his balls?"

"Actually, sir. We could probably do that already. We just didn't think it was..."

Majidi interrupted. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you can. Anyway. We know he's alive. That doesn't help us find him, though, does it? We all knew he was alive back when he was torturing people to death left right and centre, but nobody managed to track him down then. Allah knows we tried hard enough. Our Russian and Chinese friends did too. But there was never anything to follow."

"Maybe not any more, sir."

"What are you saying?"

"To get into the CCTV network, our team had to penetrate the Metropolitan Police system. And, ah..." he switched to English briefly. "All their database are belong to us..."

Majidi understood what Asadi had said, but failed to get the geeky reference from the deliberately-mangled grammar.

"Stop screwing around speaking English, you fool. I hardly think Crow is going to show up as a wanted criminal, is he?"

"No, sir. But when we scanned their personnel database, he did show up as something else. As an employee."

"What? He's working for the British police? Don't be stupid, the man's an assassin. A torturer. A trained killer."

"Yes, sir. But the facts remain. The man you are looking at has a facial and gait match of over ninety-six percent with the man caught on camera in Tehran four years ago. And this man is, according to the database, one Detective Inspector Bruce Thorne. Currently assigned to something called Operation Twofer. Now, would you like his home address, sir?"

Even the victorious tone in Asadi's voice wasn't enough to truly irritate Majidi. In truth he'd always found it odd that Crow had been careless enough to end up dead. It was conceivable he was now living as this Bruce Thorne character. And if Majidi could get hold of him, then details of where the missing scientists had ended up could certainly be... extracted.

With that information, Majidi could launch a rescue, and then he'd have a fighting chance of getting his country's nuclear programme back on track. Not to mention saving his own skin, too.

"Sir?" Asadi queried. "Are you still there?"

"Of course I'm still here. Send the address to Abdallah, along with everything else you have on the man."

"Sending right now, sir."

"You have... impressed me, Asadi. Good work."

"Thank you, sir."

Majidi disconnected the call. He had a covert Quds Force cell permanently stationed in London. He'd pass on the details Asadi was sending over, and they could take care of the rest. They weren't all top-tier, but the man leading the cell was one of the best: Amir Nazari. He could be relied upon to engineer a situation where he could take this Thorne character alive.

And once Mr Thorne was back in Iran, he'd not be leaving.

Ever.

### 3

19:43

Streatham, London, UK

I watched the three Mexicans stop just inside the office door.

_El Jefe_ sniffed and wrinkled his nose, the sharp animal stench of Doughty's blood and voided bowels clearly not to his taste. Like the other two, he was of indeterminate middle age. His cream linen suit and pencil moustache made him look equal parts Vegas lounge lizard and shady Latino businessman. I figured he'd be the one who posed as a legitimate operator when required, based on the hand-painted sign I'd seen downstairs: _Cosas Bonitas_ _Imported Goods_.

As _El Pito_ and _La Pija_ took up positions either side of their boss, I dropped my head and pretended to mutter some prayers. I was rapidly recalculating the situation. The third man, with an evident bulge in his crumpled jacket concealing another firearm, was an added complication.

I looked up as _El Jefe_ spoke, slowly, in English.

"Greetings, Senor Rourke."

Liam Rourke was the identity I'd adopted when I'd infiltrated the Brunswick Brothers.

"I am Ramon Perez," the Mexican continued.

With those words, any doubts about my future disappeared. The revelation of his name communicated succinctly that the intention was not for me to survive the encounter.

"You have seen, yes, what we do?" Perez continued, waving a hand in the direction of Doughty's remains. "You know how we work here in this shitty stinking city? We come to take your business. We no screw about, yes?"

His accent was thickly Hispanic; with the moustache and the grizzled face it made him almost a comic parody of a Mexican villain. It would have made what he was saying hard to take seriously, were it not for the stomach-churning corroboration piled against the wall beside him.

I had no choice but to play along in character for the moment.

"Please, we can sort something out. I have contacts. We can do business."

Perez chuckled. It wasn't a pleasant sound.

"You no understand. We not here to _do_ business with you. We here to _take_ your business."

"Then I can help you with that. Whatever you need. I can go back, talk to people. Give them a message. You know, smooth the transition."

Perez shook his head slowly.

"No. I think we send our own message to Mister O'Connor when we deliver his men back, in pieces. And your friend already give us everything we need. Miguel did good job, no?"

I looked at _La Pija_ , whose grin in return was one of the bleakest I'd ever seen. The torturer replied in Spanish.

"He was like a pig, boss. All hairy and pink. And he squealed like one, too."

I shuddered. I was fluent in the language and understood every word.

Perez continued. "So, that is business, all done. You tell us nothing we not already know. Which means you... you just for pleasure."

He nodded to his two men, who began to move towards me.

"No! Please! I can give you the Albanians. Doughty... he didn't know them like I do. I can set them up for you. You can take them over as well."

Perez snapped his fingers and commanded his men to halt. The two henchmen dutifully stopped in their tracks.

"Ah, the Albanians," Perez appeared to ponder the idea, stroking the stubble on his chin. "Yes, now that would be interesting."

He laughed, before continuing.

"If we no already have little plan for them. Why you think we took you, eh? You think we not know where you go tonight? I get phone call earlier, from nice lady. She tell me you do deal with Albanians, and where you do it. So my boys, they take your car. Will get them through gates, eh? And then those Albanian dogs, they have nice little surprise I think..."

He clapped his hands, suddenly.

"Boom, boom!"

That wasn't good, I realised. That wasn't good, at all.

I had no idea who the 'nice lady' was, but someone had clearly sold The Brothers out to Perez. Having carjacked us and taken Doughty's very recognisable pimped-out Jag, Perez's men could drive right through the gates at Penge, where the meet had been set up. It wouldn't just be the Albanians getting a surprise when the Mexican goons rolled down the blacked-out windows and let rip; it would be DCI Clarke and his team as well.

They'd already be in place, staking out the derelict office block. Clarke's team would be armed and armoured, ready to take on the Albanians who had access to some fairly serious weapons. But the Mexicans were in a whole different world of crazy when it came to firepower. And I really didn't like the sound of _boom, boom_.

That added a certain element of urgency to proceedings. If I didn't get out fast and get word to Clarke then Penge could get very messy, very quickly.

I looked up at Perez, still pretending to plead for my life.

"No... please..."

_La Pija_ – I was sticking with the nickname in my head because frankly, _Miguel_ just didn't cut it for a psychopathic torturer – retrieved a syringe from the surgical table and then stepped towards me, raising a handgun in his right hand whilst examining the syringe in his left. _El Pito_ moved round to squat behind me. So far, so predictable.

I kept my eyes on Perez, and begged again.

"Please... I have money... you don't need to do this... there must be something..."

What happened next would depend on whether Perez drew his own piece for safety, or was arrogant enough to keep it in his jacket. I'd planned for the former but was hoping for the latter. The Mexican boss shifted slightly on his feet but made no move, other than to lean back against the wall and smile.

Arrogance over caution.

"Sorry, _cabron_. No deal, today," he sneered.

Okay. Game on, then.

_El Pito_ began to remove the cuffs which held each of my wrists to the metal chair. Exactly as he had done with Doughty. Exactly as I'd mapped out in my head. _La Pija_ stood off to the right; the pistol held straight out with the tip of the suppressor six inches from my head. An un-missable shot. Again, precisely where I expected him to be.

_El Pito_ 's hands grasped my wrists; his calloused skin rough to the touch. Then came the click of the first pair of cuffs unlocking my left wrist from the metal chair frame. The second click; my right wrist now freed. And the third click, inaudible to the others because it was in my head.

The countdown reaching zero.

The Mexicans weren't amateurs. Far from it. But they were victims of assumption. To them, I was just one more _pollo_ in an unimaginably long line of dehumanised unfortunates who had crossed their paths. I was no threat. How could I be, as I cowered naked in the chair?

They made the same tactical errors which I'd observed them making with Doughty. Releasing me from both cuffs, instead of using the first set to keep my arms behind me. Holding the pistol so close to my head. Failing to capitalise on their numerical advantage.

Which meant, at long last, the opportunities had arrived.

What followed next was a fast-forward, brutal ballet that I'd already choreographed in my head. At the very instant the second pair of cuffs slipped off, I jerked my head backwards, leaving _La Pija_ 's pistol momentarily pointing at thin air. With one simple movement, the lethal threat the firearm had posed to me was temporarily removed.

I had no intention of allowing that threat to be reinstated.

My newly-released right hand punched upwards with a palm strike into _La Pija_ 's outstretched arm, connecting with the exposed elbow joint. Every muscle in my arm combined to thrust upward with hammer-like force; a strength derived from a finely-honed training regimen which I'd followed for two decades.

It caught my opponent completely off-guard.

With _La Pija_ 's hand weighed down by the heavy pistol, his elbow dislocated with an audible pop as my blow connected.

_La Pija_ shrieked in pain and shock; a child-like, girlish sound. I barely heard it. I was already powering myself up from the chair and throwing my left elbow back; connecting with _El Pito_ as the heavy man struggled to rise from his squat behind the chair. My elbow crunched through cartilage as I smashed nose into face. A jolt of pain raced momentarily through my upper arm from the impact, as the Mexican moaned angrily and staggered back on his haunches.

I blanked it out. There was still work to do.

_La Pija_ squealed again, as he watched his right arm flop uselessly. The pistol fell from his grip and out of the equation. I pressed home my advantage, with an unrestrained hand chop at his exposed throat, feeling the blade of my hand crush the Mexican's windpipe. Reversing direction, I skipped over the chair to take hold of the stunned _El Pito_ from behind, then grabbed his filthy overalls and dragged the heavy man upright in front of me. That put the largest mass in the room between me and the main threat remaining: Perez's gun.

I needn't have bothered.

The Mexican boss was rooted to the spot, an expression of surprise only just forming on his face. He hadn't fully processed the threat. It was, after all, somewhat unexpected. He wasn't a man used to having tables turned on him. Which meant his hand was only just starting to reach inside his jacket.

It was time to finish things.

Using all my strength, I shouldered _El Pito_ hard in the back and hurled him forward. After two paces the big Mexican stumbled into a fall, but the momentum was enough to carry him forward, slamming headfirst into Perez. As they collided, I rapidly scooped up the discarded pistol and brought it to bear.

Ten seconds had passed, and I owned the room.

At least, for the moment.

_El Pito_ had fallen to his knees after colliding with Perez. His smashed nose was bleeding ferociously down his face, forcing him to breathe through his mouth. He was spraying blood each time he exhaled heavily. He tried to push himself back up to his feet, but caught sight of my gun and stopped moving.

_La Pija_ had now collapsed behind me, making horrific death-rattling noises. He wouldn't be getting up. Perez was bent over coughing, winded from the collision and looking up at me balefully. The boss man was not happy.

A darkness shifted inside me. It was a familiar, cold darkness. It wanted to put a bullet in all three of them and get the hell out. But another nagging voice in my head instructed me that I should at least attempt to play by the rules. The darkness might remain, but I wasn't that man any more.

"Hands on your heads. Both of you."

Slowly, the Mexican boss straightened up and raised his hands first in supplication, before placing them on top of his head. I briefly pointed the end of the suppressor towards _El Pito_ , who took the lead from his boss and also followed my instruction.

Perez's near-black eyes showed a mix of fear and respect. He was still breathing heavily from where his underling had winded him but he maintained eye contact. He was dangerous, and I needed the gun in his jacket out of play, but all the options for making that happen were riddled with uncertainty. The weapon would have to stay where it was, until I'd fully established I was in charge.

That was going to be difficult, if I played by the rules. Even after three years, I wasn't used to those rules. Especially not when confronting an enemy who didn't have the same rules of engagement. Or, in the case of the Mexicans, _any_ rules of engagement.

I sighed, knowing I had to at least try to follow procedure.

"Detective Inspector Bruce Thorne, Metropolitan Police. You are both under arrest on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

Perez's face registered genuine surprise, just for a fraction of a second. Then he laughed.

"Oh, very good. You are policeman? What now, you show me badge?"

The Mexican chuckled, evidently pleased with his own joke at my buck-naked expense. I said nothing, but it was clear that playing by the rules had just lost me a big chunk of my advantage. The fear and respect in Perez's eyes had been replaced by contempt.

"And no, I not understand," Perez continued. "Why you point that gun at me and I not dead? That was big mistake, eh? I mean, seriously. You going to arrest me?"

He laughed again. It turned into a cough, which he used to cover another movement of his hand, on his head. The darkness inside me whispered I-told-you-so. Reluctantly, I began plotting trajectories: planning for the next action.

I replied, keeping my voice calm.

"I just have, actually."

"Oh?" queried the Mexican. "And how you take me out of here, eh? The six men downstairs, you think they just let you walk me out?"

The derision in his voice was clear. He was oblivious to the fact that he'd just given away a crucial piece of tactical information. Either that or he was arrogant enough to believe it didn't matter.

"Maybe they will, when I have a gun to your head." I was playing for time, getting prepared.

"You think so? You think when I tell them to shoot you like a dog, they just stand by and watch?"

I kept my aim steady, and my voice calm.

"You open your mouth, and I pull the trigger. It's a simple equation. You can leave here, with me, and take your chances with the British justice system. Or you can face the certainty of a bullet to your head."

"You no shoot me. I am your only way out. Without me, my men, they kill you. No question."

I offered my bleakest smile in return, and nodded at Perez's two subordinates.

"If they're anything like these two, I think I'll take my chances."

Perez shifted slightly on his feet and nodded, as if he was suddenly giving in. But the glance he gave _El Pito_ said otherwise.

"Okay, okay. So maybe we... come to arrangement. The police, they no pay you good, eh? So maybe I let you walk out of here with little gift. I stay. You go. We say no more, yes?"

The boss man was playing for time as well. Time that would allow the big man with the broken nose to recover enough to launch a distracting attack. It was all going to unravel soon. That much was certain; it was just going to be a matter of timing. Again.

I continued to extrapolate all the potential ways the scenario could unfold. The countdown was still running; Clarke and his team were still in danger. The only scenarios which looked viable were the ones where Perez and _El Pito_ were taken out of the equation, permanently.

I reached a decision.

The rules would need to be broken.

"Sorry, _cabron_ ," I said flatly. "No deal, today."

The Mexican frowned, perhaps not used to being mocked in such a way, by his own insulting phrase being repeated back at him. Recognition dawned on his face as we locked gazes. Did he see the eyes of a killer? More than that, even. The eyes of an _executioner_? I suspected, right then, that he did. Not that it mattered either way.

I shot him in the face.

Silenced weapons are still far from silent. The heavy clack of the gun's action and the escaping gases from the suppressed barrel rang out clearly in the empty, high-roofed room. That initial sound ran straight into another sharp crack, as the bullet smashed through Perez's skull and impacted on the breezeblock wall behind.

I switched aim and fired again. Another loud clack-crack. This time the shot punched a neat hole in _El Pito_ 's forehead above his ruined nose. The man hadn't even had time to begin his rush. Both Mexicans collapsed against the wall behind them, leaving two trails of gore decorating the white paint.

Two seconds. Two dead men.

I swivelled on my bare feet and put a third bullet into _La Pija_ , who was already lying motionless on the carpet tiles. The shot hit the side of the torturer's head and blew a considerable amount of its contents out onto the carpet tiles.

Better safe than sorry.

All that was left, was to locate my phone, call Clarke and get the alert out. I knew there were hostile forces downstairs. Contact would inevitably end badly for one side, and I did not intend that side to be me. The only question was whether I was going to them, or whether they were coming to me.

I began considering those options, when a muffled voice called up from below in Spanish and made the decision for me.

"Hey, everything alright, boss? You shooting up there?"

They'd be coming to me, then.

### 4

19:46

The Strand, London, UK

"Oh shit, uh, my bad. Sorry mate!"

The drunk young executive was quick to apologise, as he blundered into the man outside the Etheridge Club. Very quick. In fact, the words had left his mouth almost before conscious thought had caught up, like some kind of prehistoric hind-brain survival instinct kicking in.

Prey bumping into predator.

The man hadn't looked overtly threatening. Middle-aged. Average height and build. Well-groomed dark hair. An expensive-looking tailored suit and hand-made brogues: clearly not a hoodlum. But there had been something about the expression that had momentarily flashed across his face; a brief glimpse of something – or, more accurately, an _absence_ of something – in those unusual pale green eyes which had cut right through the drunken stupor and triggered the flight response.

The inebriated young man stumbled off on his way, soon disappearing into the Friday evening throng.

Michael Williams sniffed contemptuously as he paused to smooth down his suit jacket. He momentarily considered following the drunkard and cutting him up in an alley somewhere. Not because he was angry at having been shoved. Not at all. Williams just thought it would be entertaining, as misfortune so often was. A face – a life – would be irrevocably scarred, purely by chance encounter: by fate alone.

Williams smiled to himself. He'd always liked fate. At least, that was, when he held it in his own hands. But he put such pleasant contemplation from his mind. He had more pressing business at hand.

He resumed his path across the wide pavement and up the short flight of steps which led to the club's entrance. He passed through a small vestibule, designed to shield the interior from curious passers-by, and into an opulent entrance hall. There, he handed over his phone and a vicious-looking serrated hunting knife to the club's duty manager, who placed them in a lockbox.

No questions were asked. It was all part of the Etheridge routine.

"A private room has been reserved for you, sir. I have prepared room Six, if that is acceptable?" the duty manager queried.

Williams nodded curtly in response.

"Six is fine. Thank you."

He passed through the arch of an airport-style security scanner which stood in front of the entrance to the club's lounge. The harsh modernity of the scanner was somewhat incongruous amidst the glittering chandeliers and heavy wood panelling of the hall. But it was tolerated, for the peace of mind it brought. Once inside the club's inner sanctum, members could relax knowing that nobody was going to pull a weapon from their pocket. Or, more importantly, a recording device.

As was typical for a Friday evening, the bar was thronged with patrons: mainly impeccably-dressed older men of various nationalities, with their much younger companions. The whole place reeked of wealth. Serious wealth. These were people who could afford to purchase whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. Apart from those things, of course, which money simply couldn't buy. Or more accurately, Williams thought with a smile, couldn't buy _legally_.

That was where he came in.

Faces turned his way, briefly. There were polite nods of greeting. Drinks were raised. A few individuals smiled. One man looked up from openly snorting a line of cocaine and offered him a seat at the bar.

Behind the veneer of welcome, Williams knew the reality.

Whilst he might technically be a member of the club, he'd never really _belong_. It wasn't about money; his own wealth extended well into eight-figure territory. But it had been accrued partly from the property-management business he'd built from scratch, and partly from the less-legitimate but highly lucrative sidelines he ran alongside. That meant his other credentials – the old-boy _bona fides_ needed to really fit in – were somewhat lacking.

Not that he cared. He was there to make more money, not more friends.

Williams crossed the lounge on his way to an annexe of smaller private rooms. He was not perturbed by the mild, veiled contempt of those around him. He might not have shared their private education, or their gilded trust funds, or their inherited family connections. But there was one thing that he definitely had in common; one notable attribute that was very particular to the Etheridge Club's clientele.

He was, in the truest meaning of the word, a sadist.

Indeed, he couldn't remember a time when he had _not_ continually sought the exquisite, unique pleasure that arose from inflicting suffering – or observing the infliction of suffering – on others. And he knew, as he took a final glance around the lounge before entering room Six, that such pleasure was not his alone.

As he closed the soundproofed door behind him, the hubbub from the bar immediately ceased. Easing himself into one of two soft leather wingback chairs which were arranged around a large fireplace, Williams poured a snifter of _Delamain de Voyage_ from the decanter which had been left for him on a side table. He took a sip of the expensive brandy, closed his eyes and waited for a knock at the door.

In the damped silence of the room, he could hear the voices in his head immediately, chittering away on the periphery of conscious thought. They'd been getting notably louder in recent days. He couldn't yet make out what they were saying, but he knew from past experience that he'd need to do something about them soon. If he didn't, their words would start to become intelligible. Then, the hallucinatory visions would start. And then, it would be _them_ in control and not him.

Just like it had been when he was growing up.

As the polite knock he had been expecting came from the door, he made a mental note to adjust his medication again. A higher dose was clearly in order.

"Come in," he instructed.

A uniformed man – one of the club's doormen – entered and presented Williams with an unmarked, cream envelope. He took it wordlessly, reached inside his jacket pocket and offered an unmarked USB memory stick in return.

The man took the device and nodded, but did not turn to exit the room as Williams had expected. That single, private exchange was to have been the sole reason for his presence in the club that evening. But evidently, someone had different plans; the doorman stood aside for another visitor, to whom he passed the USB stick before slipping discreetly out.

Dressed in a smartly-anonymous dinner suit, the unexpected visitor stood regarding Williams silently. At least, Williams presumed he was being regarded. He couldn't actually be sure, given that the man's face was completely obscured by a theatrical mask on a stick.

"Good evening, Mr Williams."

The voice emanating from behind the mask was confident. Assured. Williams noted the cut-glass elocution. He was looking at one of his clients, for sure.

Williams smiled coldly back.

"Good evening, Mr..."

There was a slight pause, before the anonymous figure replied.

"Green."

Williams snorted at the obviously-fake surname.

"Right. Well, good evening, Mr _Green_. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"I have been sent to... clarify a few matters."

"Matters relating to this?" Williams asked, waving the cream envelope. He knew it would contain a list of names. It always did.

The man nodded behind the mask.

"Some of our friends have asked questions about operational matters. They wish to be sure that nothing has, ah, changed at your end."

Williams frowned. Things _had_ changed, but the man in front of him should have had no way of knowing that. Although, it was perhaps not surprising that he did.

"What do you mean, changed?" Williams inquired cautiously.

"I hear there is some talk of a different supplier in the chain."

"I am still dealing with the same people," Williams replied, before deciding to add a caveat of truth. "For now."

"The Lithuanians?"

Williams nodded. "It's still their catalogue I've downloaded onto that memory stick, for your paranoid friends to peruse offline. But I am exploring other options. Negotiations are not yet complete."

"I see. We will need to know what these other options are. We may not approve."

"Approve? Listen, if you and your friends hadn't started returning the merchandise in such poor condition that it couldn't be rented out again for weeks – or in one rather memorable case, _ever again_ – then I wouldn't need to be making any changes at all."

There was no reply from behind the mask. The tension in the room rose. Williams could just see eyes behind the tiny cut-outs in the mask, regarding him coldly. He stared back, unperturbed.

"I do hope, after all this time, that you haven't developed some kind of... _moral issue_ with our arrangement. That would be most disappointing." The threat was evident in the man's tone.

Williams smiled mildly.

"None at all. I have been known to place an occasional order myself, you know. And I don't always return them in pristine condition, either."

His thoughts turned briefly to the most recent order he'd placed. Delivery was taking longer than usual. Still, he was certain she'd be worth the wait.

"Frankly, I have no interest in how you, or your friends, use the merchandise," Williams continued. "The issue is their desire for _purchases_ instead of rentals."

He opened the cream envelope and pointed to two girls' names on the hand-written sheet inside, which each had a letter 'P' next to them.

"Your friends seem to be getting more keen on procuring merchandise for long-term use." Williams continued. "Or at least, not having to worry about giving them back afterwards. My suppliers have gone along with this until now because of the money involved, but they don't like it. There are too many complications, when product is not returned. They're finding it hard to keep stock levels up as it is, thanks to the Europol crackdown."

Williams had been reminded of this fact when he had placed his own order. Negotiations had been difficult. But with the plans he had in mind for the young woman he'd selected, rental was not an option.

"And these new suppliers... they will not have such an issue?"

Williams shook his head. "Their supply chain doesn't extend into Europe."

"May I ask where it does extend?"

"Central America. And they have rather effective ways of _un-complicating_ any complications which might arise out there."

The man behind the mask sniffed.

"Mexicans?" the voice queried.

Williams nodded.

There was a tense silence for a few seconds, before the man blew out an audible breath.

"You are comfortable dealing with such people?"

"No, not at all," Williams replied. "Being _comfortable_ usually has unfortunate consequences. But it is a natural part of my trade, to be in contact with such people. I have a network of empty properties whilst they have items that need storage. Activities which need to be carried out. There is business to be done there, and none of that is new..."

Williams paused, looking thoughtful, then smiled.

"That is, of course, how we came to do business ourselves, is it not? You and your friends were seeking private locations where you could pursue your interests. Your man approached me, we agreed terms, and then before long it wasn't just property I was leasing to you, was it?"

The tension in the room rose again. "I do hope you are not equating _my_ situation with some kind of gangland operation. I am not sure that I appreciate the implication, Mr Williams."

Williams ignored the implicit threat. "And I am not sure that I care if you do. The point is, you need not be concerned. In fact, I have already been dealing with the Mexicans in certain other areas of business."

"You have?"

Williams nodded to the door. "Where do you think all that nose candy out there comes from? The Mexicans took over my regular supplier a while back. We discussed new terms. They happened to mention that they also dealt in other types of merchandise, and we went from there."

"And if it all goes wrong for you?"

Williams laughed. "Your concern is touching. But don't worry. There will be no comeback on you, even if it does. There is no link at all. I am very careful. That's what you pay me for."

"Indeed. Just make sure you stay careful, Mr Williams."

"Always, Mr Green. Always."

The visitor nodded, apparently satisfied with the conversation, then turned and exited the room swiftly. Williams remained, staring at the spot where the man had stood for a few moments, before closing his eyes. A fuzzy afterimage of the masked man's outline appeared on the back of his eyelids, making him blink a few times. For a moment, the indistinct shape looked like it had horns.

That was definitely not a good sign. He really would need to adjust that medication when he returned home.

As he left Room Six and began to make his way back through the bar, Williams replayed the conversation. The truth was, his faceless visitor had been right to be concerned. The Mexican operation was in a different league from the Lithuanians he'd been dealing with, and considerably more dangerous. Negotiations had gone well, but Williams knew he was walking a fine line between massively inflating his profit margin and ending up dead, in pieces.

Although, if things did go bad then from what he knew of the man running the Mexican operation in London, it was unlikely to be in that order.

He'd be in pieces for a long while before he was dead.

### 5

19:48

Streatham, London, UK

I found myself calculating fast. Again.

Escape, it appeared, was impossible. That left only one option: if you can't be somewhere else, be somewhere unexpected.

Another call came from below, uncertain this time. The man would be reluctant to question whether _El Jefe_ was in need of assistance; there were implications of disrespect in suggesting his boss could not handle one naked, unarmed prisoner.

That had already bought me enough time for a plan.

"Boss? Ah... you are okay, yes?"

They would be coming up, either way. I just needed them to arrive on my terms, not theirs. I cracked open the door and called down, in Mexican-inflected Spanish.

"No, the little bastard tried to run. Had to put him down. Get up here, now!"

My accent was good; one of my former selves had spent a fair chunk of time in Mexico. I didn't have the regional nuances perfect, and my voice lacked the gravelly rasp of Perez. But preconceptions and assumptions would carry me the rest of the way.

Sure enough, the voice called again from below.

"Hey, Rodriguez, Hector! The boss needs a hand upstairs. Come on!"

Three men, then.

A quick check of _La Pija_ 's pistol revealed one bullet remaining. That presented an interesting challenge. With no time to retrieve Perez's weapon, some further improvisation might be required. It would all come down to the timing, again.

Grabbing the chair to which I'd been cuffed, I hurled it at the window. The metal frame smashed easily through the vertical blinds and glass. A metallic clang followed from outside, as the chair landed in the car park below.

A cry came from downstairs.

"Que demonios?" _What the hell?_

Then, the sound of feet thumping up the staircase. Quickly, this time; not like _El Pito_ and _La Pija_ 's leisurely ascent.

Time to move.

In five paces, I covered the length of the small office, darting neatly over _La Pija_ 's body before skirting Doughty's remains and the trolley with the torture implements. From there, I hauled myself up the slick, blood-soaked chain from which Doughty had been hung and onto the steel ceiling beam above. Up in the rafters, I'd be well above the sight line of whoever was about to burst through the door.

Be somewhere unexpected.

I steadied myself, breathed deeply and took aim with the pistol. I felt nothing. No fear. No tension. Just cold, mission-state calm. Three seconds later, the first of the Mexicans burst into the room and took in the sight of _La Pija_ 's body in the middle of the floor. From my elevated position, I watched him glance around the room in panic, as he attempted to process what he was seeing. His dead comrades. The smashed, open window with the broken blinds still swinging in front of it.

There was only one conclusion he could draw.

Sure enough, he ran straight across to the window. The two other men – Hector and Rodriguez, presumably – followed him into the room and rapidly arrived at the same conclusion. They too, rushed to the window.

The first man, having peered out into the car park, turned back to his two colleagues who had gathered beside him.

"Shit! He's go..."

He didn't finish the sentence. Signals travelling from brain to mouth ceased abruptly as his head burst open from the shot I'd just fired. He began to fall, but I wasn't interested in his ultimate demise. I was already dropping down to the floor, discarding the empty pistol as I went. The other two Mexicans hadn't fully processed what was happening around them, but the flash of movement as I dropped meant they were rapidly catching up. Both began to turn, reaching for their weapons.

I landed next to _La Pija_ 's torture trolley and scooped up the ashtray in one hand and the hunting knife in the other. The Mexicans were now facing me, their faces registering shock at the naked figure in front of them. Their guns were out, but not up.

That was all the opportunity I needed.

In one rapid movement, I hurled both the heavy glass ashtray and the serrated knife before either man could take any evasive action.

The knife found its target first. The long blade penetrated the man's left eye socket, embedding itself deeply in his brain. A fraction of a second later, the ashtray smashed into the other man's forehead. Bone cracked and his eyes rolled straight up into their sockets. He dropped like a sack of coal.

The man with the knife in his eye remained upright, making a strange mewling noise. As I stepped towards him, he collapsed to his knees, before falling sideways and twitching on the floor. I reached down and tugged out the blade, as his movement subsided. The serrated edge dragged out a substantial amount of soft matter with it. I flicked off the gore, then squatted down and plunged the knife into his heart before yanking it out once more and embedding it in the chest of the man who had been knocked out by the ashtray.

Better safe than sorry.

I glanced at the door, which had swung shut on its automatic closer, and paused to listen. There were no further sounds, other than the bubbling rasps of Hector and Rodriguez expiring rapidly.

As I watched both men die, I considered my situation. I'd now killed six men in as many minutes. _Executed_ six men. A cursory examination of my conscience yielded little beyond a brief shiver. Perhaps it was my conditioning. Or maybe the fact that there were more pressing concerns: specifically, dealing with the three men remaining downstairs and getting word to DCI Clarke before disaster unfolded in Penge.

I hurried over to retrieve the weapon which still lay inside Perez's jacket. As I bent to free the suppressed pistol from its extended holster, I caught sight of a cut-down wooden stock protruding from the open leather jacket of the other man I'd just shot. I recognised it immediately; it belonged to Doughty's custom-built sawn-off shotgun. Evidently the Mexican had grabbed it from Doughty's car and adopted it for himself.

I pulled the heavy weapon free, recalling Doughty's frequent boasts about the holes it had made in a variety of things. It was a proper homebrew hack. Two barrels. Two triggers. Huge chambers that took specially-made oversized shells packed with heavy shot. Its reliability was far from guaranteed. But its potential for immediate close-quarters devastation was impossible to ignore.

I traversed the body-strewn office to the door. The weighty shotgun went in my left hand. Accuracy wasn't an issue with that. I kept my right hand for Perez's pistol.

As I exited into the lobby, the window in the opposite door briefly drew my attention. A quick glance inside suggested a store room, packed from floor to ceiling with what appeared to be illegal narcotics of just about every description. Not that I had time to be certain. I needed to get down, and out.

I began creeping down the stairs. I was heading into too many unknowns for my liking. But sometimes you just had to work with what you'd got. And that shotgun was a pretty good bet against most eventualities.

As I reached the turning point of the staircase, I peered cautiously around. The stairs led down to a small reception area, where a young female receptionist sat in front of a computer, listening to a portable radio. I figured her real job was simply to project a veneer of legitimacy to any unexpected visitors. Next to her desk, was a door leading to what would be a ground-floor replica of the office I'd just exited. Another door on the opposite side led to a grimy kitchenette and toilet area.

The kitchenette was where Doughty and I had been forced to strip at gunpoint. My clothes would still be there. More importantly, my phone would still be there. I could call Clarke from anywhere, of course, but an unrecognised number would end up being routed through the Met's tortuous call-handling system whereas my mobile would get me straight to him.

I ducked back quickly as the office door opened. A male voice asked a question in Spanish. It sounded bleary, like it belonged to someone who had just woken up. It wasn't a happy voice. I translated the conversation in my head.

"María, what's going on? What was all that noise upstairs? Was someone shooting?"

A nervous, scared-sounding female voice responded. The receptionist.

"Sorry they woke you, Carlos. I think... there was some trouble, and Senor Perez was angry. Someone threw a chair out of the window. But Rodriguez and the others have gone up to help, so I think it is okay. You can go back to sleep."

The male voice grunted, sounding unimpressed with the receptionist's lack of certainty.

"You _think_ it is okay? Senor Ramirez will be here in a few minutes. We can't afford any screw-ups."

I processed that information. At least one more hostile, inbound, arriving shortly. I really needed to step up the pace.

The receptionist was apologising again. "I'm sorry, Carlos. But I didn't want to disturb you, not with all that... horrible screaming earlier, I know that would have woken you up. I think it will be sorted anyway. Rodriguez is there."

There was a sneer. "If I can hear screaming, I am happy. I go to sleep with the sound of screaming. It is the quiet, I worry about."

I was momentarily distracted by the sound of Roxy Music starting up on the radio. _Avalon_. I swayed slightly on my feet as a blast of surreal dissonance washed over me. The song from my childhood briefly managed to close the unimaginably vast gulf between that innocent time and my present situation. I blinked and shook my head, as the strangeness passed.

The male voice was now louder, clearly calling up the stairs. "Hey, boss? Everything alright up there now?"

I couldn't respond; I was just around the corner and it would be obvious where my voice was coming from.

"Boss?"

The only reply came from Bryan Ferry, on the radio.

I needed to move soon. I couldn't get caught where I was on the staircase, or it would be a turkey-shoot. Withdraw upstairs, or launch myself downstairs guns blazing? I began processing the likely outcomes.

The voice called again. Carlos, sounding troubled. A decision was required.

"Boss? What's going on?"

Again, the only answer came from the radio. But this time, the words of the song – something about coming from out of nowhere – jolted fully into my consciousness. I grinned briefly. I was well acquainted with fate's perverse sense of humour. But chaos theory was rarely as potent as that; a split-second whirlwind decision being made for me by the butterfly-flap of a song lyric written decades earlier.

I'd be going down.

I peered cautiously around the corner again and saw the back of a squat, dark-haired man dressed in combat fatigues. Carlos, presumably. The Mexican had turned back to the receptionist, and was shouting at her.

"You stupid bitch! You should have got us all up!"

I began to creep rapidly down the last half of the staircase, pressing myself up against the wall so I remained out of the receptionist's sight line. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, her focus was fully on Carlos, who was still berating her for her apparent lack of interest in the situation upstairs.

"You think that's sorted, huh? Mother of god, they could all be dead up there!"

The Mexican turned to the office door. "Hey, Rico! Gonzalez! Wake up and get out here. We got trouble!"

I leaped forward, silently. Carlos caught the movement in his peripheral vision and spun immediately, already bringing his pistol up. I was momentarily impressed; the man had apparently just woken up but his reactions were quicker than any of his comrades had been so far.

That didn't help him, though. Faced with the sight of a naked man leaping towards him – a naked man with a pistol in his right hand, and a sawn-off shotgun in his left – Carlos froze momentarily. It wasn't an unusual reaction. Even the most battle-hardened veterans sometimes had to deal with those micropauses: the subconscious need to process a visual feed which was no longer making any sense.

That pause was all I needed.

A-va-lon.

The suppressed pistol spat, three times, along with Ferry's laconic drawl. Firing whilst still in motion, I took the safer option and aimed for body mass. The bullets found their targets. Three hits: two lungs, one heart. The Mexican grunted and collapsed wordlessly, landing just in front of the office door.

The receptionist squealed and stood up behind her desk, putting her hand to her mouth. She wasn't an immediate threat. The two men who were about to emerge from the office would be, though.

Be somewhere unexpected.

I dived forward. With a weapon in each hand, that meant a hard landing. I twisted onto my right side, bringing the shotgun up as I did so. The carpet tiles stung my right thigh as I slid to a halt, but I managed to keep my more sensitive parts away from the harsh surface. I came to rest just in front of Carlos's prone body, and balanced the shotgun on the dying man's head, aiming upwards.

The first of the office's remaining occupants burst into the lobby, tripping straight over Carlos's feet. I had to give credit to the man: his instinct was good. He didn't look down as he stumbled. Instead, he kept his eyes focused on where he expected the threat to be, at head height.

Except the threat wasn't there.

As the man lurched forward, I aimed upwards with the sawn-off and pulled the left trigger. I closed my eyes briefly to shield from the muzzle flash, but I couldn't protect my ears. The noise was deafening. The gun kicked violently in my grip, although its immense weight and short barrel reduced the recoil. The scattered heavy shot exiting at huge velocity couldn't fail to find its target, mere feet away. It proceeded to rip through flesh and bone with devastating force. The stumbling man – Rico, presumably – was stopped dead in his tracks.

At least, most of him was. A significant proportion of his chest was, in fact, at that point travelling rapidly in the opposite direction.

The body matter, blown slightly upwards from the angle of my shot, hit the man who was following closely behind – Gonzalez – full in the face. Gonzalez screamed in horror; blinded by the blood and bone shards and lung material which had just been blasted into his eyes.

Rico, now literally dead on his feet, teetered upright in a bizarre sway as the forces of physics slowly decided what to do with his body. His face was strangely calm; his brain perhaps unable to process the signals from the massive trauma to his chest in time to change his expression, before shock had taken over and shut down all further thought. Permanently.

I pulled the other trigger, aiming _through_ the massive hole in Rico's chest. The second blast of shot hit the stricken Gonzalez, shredding what remained of his face and partially decapitating him.

Roxy Music finally disappeared, drowned out by the violent ringing in my ears from two shotgun blasts. The last lyric I heard was about not knowing your destination, which raised another grim smile. I had a pretty good idea where the men I'd just killed were headed. It was a place I expected to follow them to, in time.

But right then, I hoped to find redemption in saving some good men.

I just had to find that phone.

### 6

19:51

MI6 Headquarters, Vauxhall, London, UK

Shelagh O'Brien finished outlining her plans and waited for the predictable questions to begin.

The Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service rotated slowly on her chair and looked out of blastproof plate-glass windows at the panoramic Thames view her office afforded. She was on the phone to Chuck Mason: a high-level official in the US security services. The connection was heavily encrypted, using methods that would render deaf the electronic surveillance on both sides of the Atlantic. What they were discussing was definitely not for Echelon's ears.

O'Brien caught a glimpse of her reflection as she turned, still waiting for Mason's response. As usual she scowled back at the austere, sexless face rendered on the glass in front of her. That was an image she'd cultivated for the best part of forty years. Femininity was at best a distraction and at worst a critical weakness, in her game. She'd discovered that, to her cost, a very long time ago.

When Mason finally blew out a long breath and spoke, his response was as disappointing as O'Brien had expected it to be.

"It's crazy. _You're_ crazy," the American complained. "You really think you can get that... _thing_ in his head back online? You know what happened when his family were killed. The emotional shock broke everything we'd constructed. He's locked it away."

"Exactly," O'Brien agreed, hiding her frustration. She considered it deeply ironic that, as a woman in a man's world, she was often the only one with the _cojones_ to get things done. "And our team here feels the best way to get him to release it again, is to expose him to another major emotional shock. A situation he can't deal with himself, where he has to let it take over. And when that happens, he'll have no choice but to turn to us for help in getting it under control again."

Mason's response was another audible sigh.

"Your _team_ are as insane as you are, then. We got very lucky three years ago, that he didn't go the other way and end up a full-blown schizophrenic. What you've started here... you could end up with a monster. He might not be _able_ to get it under control again."

"Chuck, I had no choice. I need him back in play. _We_ need him back in play. Every day the Russians are getting more confident, pushing boundaries again."

"The Russians?" Mason queried, with a sarcastic laugh. "I'm more worried about Thorne. Maybe you should be, too. If he catches on to what you're doing – to what you've already _done_ – then it won't be your nemesis Comrade Abdrafikov who'll need to be looking over his shoulder. It'll be you. Probably me, too."

O'Brien laughed at the obvious self-interest.

"He won't catch on. I'm too far removed. There are too many convolutions for him to follow, even if he thought to look."

"Yes, and those _convolutions_ happen to involve innocent folks," Mason replied, his anger evidently rising. "Does it not bother you, that people might get hurt whilst you pursue your little Machiavellian scheme? Christ, Shelagh, you have no idea how it could all play out. People could die."

"Yes. Yes, they could," she said calmly. She'd already considered that a likely outcome, and made her peace with it. Mason clearly hadn't, as she heard him turn away from the phone and swear repeatedly. She found his histrionics tiresome. She always had.

"We're supposed to be the good guys, in all this," he said, having exhausted the expletives. "Or have you forgotten that, somewhere on your way to the top?"

"That's why they pay me the big bucks, Chuck. To make those kinds of decisions, for the good of an entire nation. Of _both_ our nations."

Mason snorted derisively.

"Right. Well, you keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night. In the meantime, be careful what you wish for, Shelagh. I'll be praying that your oh-so-clever puppeteering doesn't end up with a few cut strings and a madman on the loose."

Mason hung up abruptly. O'Brien found herself swearing at the empty line, her loss of control allowing the faintest tinge of a Belfast accent to return: a tone she'd spent half a century suppressing. She was annoyed that he'd managed to rattle her with his attempt to take the moral high ground. She returned her attention to the view and breathed deeply, seeking calm.

The glass rotunda of Tate Britain glittered in the late evening sunlight on the opposite bank of the Thames. Looking west, she could see the iconic chimneys of the old Battersea power station. In the opposite direction, past the imposing tower of MI5's Millbank headquarters, she could see the spires of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. Over the course of her long and varied career, she'd done many things she wasn't proud of. All of them had been to protect the country whose capital she was now looking out upon. All of them had been... necessary.

At least, that was what she'd always told herself.

A knock at the door disturbed her reverie. She knew it would be Timothy Ives: one of her most trusted subordinates, who'd earlier reported some interesting intelligence that warranted further discussion. She called him in.

"Is the intel sound?" she queried straight away, not waiting for the crumpled, weary-looking man to reach her desk.

"Yes ma'am. We know it is Majidi's phone. We double-checked and voice recognition confirms it's his voice."

"And it's not some kind of double bluff?"

"With respect, ma'am, why would it be? Majidi has no idea that we own his phone."

"What about the NSA? Have they picked up any chatter on this?"

"No, ma'am. But then they wouldn't have. First, they're not running the algorithm on the same trigger words. Second, we're the only ones to have penetrated the Chinese facility where Iran gets their telecoms equipment. The Yanks are pretty much deaf on this one. The Chinese encryption doesn't use any of the usual elliptic-curve methods that the NSA back-doored, and it's complex enough that even their Bullrun decryptor won't crack it. Whereas our firmware implant in the phone just feeds everything straight to us before it's even encrypted."

O'Brien mentally kicked herself for not remembering that. She managed to keep her face impassive, not wanting Ives to see that she was pleased the Yanks were in the dark. It would be one less thing for Mason to _pray_ about.

"What about Thorne?" she asked. "Has anyone passed this on to him?"

"No, ma'am. The protocol on this one was very clearly specified. It was to come straight to you."

O'Brien smiled. She knew that. She'd written the protocol, after all. When Bruce Thorne had chosen to resign and revert to his original identity three years before, GCHQ's monitoring systems had been programmed to scan for his name. His _real_ name, that was. If it was linked with other pertinent words related to his prior activities, then it would trigger an alert which would come straight to her.

"Okay. Let's keep it that way."

"Ma'am?"

"Thorne's a big boy. With everything that's going on right now, Five are not going to have the resources to neutralise the Iranian team. And the political situation is delicate. We don't want to rock the boat with our new Persian friends."

"Ah, with respect, ma'am. Even if we don't pass this to Five, we could at least give Thorne the heads-up. One phone call."

O'Brien's demeanour changed. She hadn't got to her position by tolerating questions from subordinates.

"Yes, we _could_. But we're not going to."

Ives looked at her, frowning slightly. She knew why. The man in front of her had been there right from the start, when they'd taken the young Bruce Thorne and turned him into someone else. Some _thing_ else. Unlike her, she knew that Ives still carried a sense of responsibility for that.

"You don't think, after everything he did for us – after everything he did for this _country_ – that we at least owe him the courtesy of letting him know there's a hostile grab-team headed his way?" Ives suggested.

O'Brien snorted contemptuously.

"Oh, please. You know how this game works. It chews you up and spits you out, and then you're on your own. Thorne's always known that. We owe him nothing."

Ives stared at her for a moment longer than was respectful then nodded, reluctantly.

"Understood."

"Is it?" O'Brien challenged. "If you go behind me on this then I will be most... displeased."

"Of course, ma'am," Ives nodded.

O'Brien wasn't convinced, but decided not to press the issue.

"Very good. Then that will be all."

Ives turned smartly and exited the office. O'Brien rotated back around to take in the view again. She frowned, as she watched the traffic crawling across Vauxhall Bridge. The people below didn't want to know the details of what happened, behind the scenes, to maintain their way of life. They enjoyed their blissful ignorance. On the rare occasions when an ugly truth was revealed, their response was invariably to turn upon their protectors. If the true nature of Thorne's existence came out, it wouldn't just be him the people would turn upon.

It would be her.

Their shared history led back two decades, to a highly-experimental and completely un-sanctioned joint project between certain maverick elements of the British SIS and the American CIA: Shelagh O'Brien, Chuck Mason, Tim Ives and cold war veteran Derek Sands. There had been no ethics committee with oversight of their work. No safety parameters for human testing. The programme's subjects had been exposed to what had been, at the time, the products of bleeding-edge military neuroscience and pharmaceutics; processes so far beyond contemporary medical research that they'd barely graduated from fruit-fly experiments.

Their greatest success had been Bruce Thorne. In a world where blending in was vital, Thorne had remained believable. Relatable. Human.

At least, that was, until he'd needed to be something else.

The evening sunlight coming in through the expanse of glass was warm, but O'Brien still shivered at that memory. Thorne had been able to switch, seamlessly, from loving husband and father to stone-cold interrogator and assassin. The alter-ego they'd built in his head had been devastatingly capable. It was a criminal waste for it to be lying dormant whilst Thorne chased down crooks and gangsters.

She smiled, thinking about her plan to remedy that situation. The Iranian involvement was an unexpected bonus that would help to answer a crucial question. Thorne was the wrong side of forty years old. She had no idea whether his skillset and reactions would have been dulled by age, or lack of use. If they had, it was far better to know that before she threw him back into operation.

If he couldn't deal with a minor inconvenience like a Quds Force grab team, he was of no further use to her anyway.

### 7

19:52

Streatham, London, UK

My head was pounding and my ears were howling, but Doughty's brutal weapon had done its job. I was alive. The others were dead. A headache and tinnitus seemed like a fair trade, in the circumstances.

I ducked out of the way as Rico's body finally collapsed in a sickening mess on top of Carlos's corpse. The office door swung shut again, hiding Gonzalez's synchronous collapse inside the office. As I got up, my feet squelched in the carpet material and I glanced down, briefly. I was standing in a pool of blood from Carlos; a pool which was now rapidly expanding from Rico's devastating fatal injury.

I glanced at the receptionist, who was frozen with shock. Still no threat, there.

"Don't move," I instructed.

I leaned over the counter and turned off the distraction of the portable radio. As I did so, I caught sight of the receptionist's computer screen. In one corner was a CCTV feed from a camera in the car park outside: a camera that was pointing directly at the building's entrance.

That wasn't ideal. That would need some attention, before I left. Right then, I had other more pressing issues to address.

I discarded the empty sawn-off, checked the pistol I still held, and pushed the office door open again with my foot. Gonzalez's semi-headless body was twitching away on the floor. The office had been converted into a makeshift billet. Three single mattresses, covered with dirty-looking sheets and blankets, lay on the floor. A selection of weapons were scattered next to each bed. The air was heavy with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and malodourous bodies.

The room was empty of threats.

I turned back to the young Hispanic receptionist, who was whimpering quietly: still standing obediently behind her desk. She raised her hands immediately as I pointed the pistol at her.

"Please. I not like them. They have... they have my family. I must work for them."

My instinct was not to trust her. But the resignation which I heard in her voice, and which lurked behind the more obvious fear in her eyes, suggested that she was telling the truth. She wasn't there of her own volition.

Inside me – somewhere beneath the man who'd just slain nine others – my true emotional response flared. The one that wasn't muted by my conditioning.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"María," she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"You need to leave, María. Now," I commanded, indicating to the exit with my gun.

The young woman looked at me – a strange mix of gratitude, confusion and mistrust on her face – then squeezed past the counter and hurried out through the double glass doors. She glanced back once before running awkwardly across the car park towards the main road.

What was she running to? I doubted it was freedom. Not if they had her family. The emotion hardened from sympathy to anger, before the conditioning kicked back in and buried it. I couldn't afford the distraction.

I hurried across the lobby and into the kitchenette. Ignoring the pile of clothes on the floor, which Doughty and I had been forced to discard earlier, I began scanning around for my phone. It was nowhere to be seen, so I pulled open the only other door in the room, which led to a large walk-in store.

I froze for a moment, as I took in the unexpected sight which greeted me. My phone lay right in front of me, dumped on a shelf along with Doughty's watch and jewellery. But that wasn't what had caused me to freeze.

I'd stopped in my tracks because I was looking at an armoury.

Worse, I was looking at a disaster.

Lying on the floor in clear view were two large, empty military-issue cases, left open so that the foam silhouettes of what they had been designed to safely transport was clear: RPG launchers. From the outline, I guessed Russian-made RPG-16s.

Boom, boom.

That peculiar phrase Perez had used earlier finally made sense. The Mexicans had no intention of meeting the Albanians. They never had. Instead, they were just going to obliterate them, in the abandoned office block where the meet was to be held. Along with the teams DCI Clarke would have placed in the building, ready to make the arrests.

I grabbed my phone from the shelf, powered it up and began to tap in the number I'd committed to memory. Clarke answered almost immediately: the Jamaican-inflected rumble of his voice rendered tinny by the phone's speaker, but still indisputably him.

"Thorne, what the hell? You're supposed to be here..."

I interrupted. There was no time for niceties.

"Clarke, listen to me. Abort the operation. Get your teams out of there, and tell them if they see Doughty's car coming then shoot the living hell out of everyone in it."

Still ignoring my clothes, I began making a mental inventory of the rest of the cupboard's contents as I continued talking to Clarke.

"What? Where are you? What the hell are you talking about?" Clarke queried.

"Shut up and listen," I told Clarke as I counted three Chinese QBZ-95 assault rifles lying next to a couple of Russian AK-103s with night sights. Not what I was looking for.

"I'm not coming. But a carload of Mexicans definitely _are_ coming, pretending to be Doughty. And they're going to blow the whole damned place sky high. So get your teams off the roof, and away from that building, right now."

"What? Mexicans? What's going on? Where's Doughty?"

I didn't answer straight away. My eyes had come to rest on a tray of cylindrical devices balanced precariously next to a box of handguns. Grenades. AN-M14 _incendiary_ grenades.

"Clarke, stop talking and start acting. We don't have time. Doughty's dead. The Mexicans took the car. They're coming to the meet instead. At least two of them, with at least two RPG-16s. They're going to take out the Albanians and anyone else in or around that building."

"RPG what?"

I swapped my pistol for two of the grenades and hooked them over the fingers of my right hand, as I jogged out of the kitchenette with the phone still held to my left ear.

"Rocket propelled grenades, Clarke. You know, like the things they use to destroy _tanks_ ..."

Clarke finally started to get the picture.

"Then why the hell didn't you just say that..."

I heard the phone drop and listened briefly to the DCI issuing commands into his radio mic. Relieved, I moved on to the next task: erasing all trace of my presence in the building, including that problematic CCTV footage.

That was where the grenades would come in.

"They're starting to pull out now," Clarke confirmed. "No sign of the car, yet. We'll do a hard stop on it as soon as it arrives. You'd better be right about this, or your career's over Thorne. This was going to be the biggest bust in recent history and..."

I interrupted again as I began ascending the stairs.

"Screw my career, Clarke, and screw _hard stop_ , too. It needs to be _dead_ stop."

"Yes, well, I'll be the judge of that. Some of us still have respect for the rule of law, you know. Speaking of which, what happened with Doughty? He's dead? You'd better not be responsible for that."

"It's a long story. And it's not over, yet," I said as I reached the top of the stairs.

"What do you mean?"

I didn't respond, as I headed back into the office where I'd been held. Clarke interpreted my lack of response, with a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.

"Oh, no. You have got to be kidding me, Thorne. Your friends in high places might have covered your back last time, and with those Jihadi goons before, but I swear to God I will lock you up myself if you've gone trigger-happy again on this one. We uphold the law, Thorne. All of us. You included. The operation's off, so stand down and I'll send a car to pick you up."

"Clarke, I did not kill Doughty," I stated truthfully, as I surveyed the bloody carnage in the office. I didn't have time for a lecture. "I just have a few loose ends to tie up."

"Loose ends? You'd better not be bullshitting me, Thorne. Because thanks to you, we're just about to walk away from arresting some of the top players in two of the most..."

I hung up.

Clarke wouldn't be happy with me, but then he never was.

I didn't blame him; he was a man of principle. He just happened to be a stickler for due process. And due process was always going to be a problem for me.

I pulled the pin on one of the incendiary grenades and rolled it across to where Ramon Perez's body lay, then made a hasty exit. Swiftly arming the second grenade, I lobbed that into the storeroom full of narcotics, then leaped down the stairs two at a time. As I rounded the corner the first grenade exploded with a _whump_ , along with the shattering of glass as windows blew out. The second grenade followed suit.

I emerged into the downstairs lobby, acutely conscious of the conflagration now raging above me, as well as the impending arrival of _Senor Ramirez_. I needed to get out, fast, but even on a Saturday evening in Streatham, a naked man would attract a certain level of unwanted attention. I dashed back into the kitchenette, rummaged through the pile of clothes and retrieved the expensive designer sweatpants that 'Liam Rourke' had worn.

I sent another couple of grenades rolling behind the reception counter to take care of the computer and its CCTV footage, then hurried out through the double doors. Flames were already roaring from the upstairs windows as the grenades in the lobby blew and sent the plate glass doors crashing open. Once the fire reached the kitchenette armoury, there'd be a much bigger bang.

I didn't intend being around to hear that.

As I reached the passage which led through to the main road from the commercial unit's car park, I quickly stepped into the sweatpants, before emerging into public view. Passers-by were startled by a percussive symphony of crackles, pops and booms as the remaining ammunition in the dead Mexicans' weapons went up. I hurried down the road, then glanced back. Phones were already being pulled out, to film the conflagration.

I shrugged. It was the default reaction of the modern age. And it meant those witnesses were distracted enough not to notice the barefoot, bare-chested man moving rapidly away from them towards Streatham Hill station.

It wasn't long before I heard sirens. Almost at the same time, I caught sight of three black Range Rovers passing on the opposite side of the road. The dark tinted rear window of the middle vehicle was rolled down, its Hispanic occupant pressing a phone to his ear whilst peering out at the pall of smoke which could now be seen above the roofs of the shops along the road.

He did not look pleased. He did not look pleased, at all.

I shuddered involuntarily, quickly looking away before the man could notice me. _Ramirez_. When I'd first heard Carlos mention the name, it had sent a brief chill down my spine, dragging up unwanted memories of a distant place and time. But it was a common enough Mexican name. I'd figured there were hundreds of Ramirezes in every cartel, and the chances of it being the same man whom I'd encountered in one of my previous incarnations were miniscule.

Now, thanks to miniscule chance, that chill was back.

The face in the window of the Range Rover was a face I'd never forget. It was bisected by a vicious scar which was obvious even from the distance I was watching. It hadn't been a scar the last time I'd seen the man. It had been a gaping axe wound, for which I – or at least one of the men I used to be – had been directly responsible.

Juan Ramirez Espinoza. _El carnicero loco._ The mad butcher – one of Mexico's most feared, most _unrestrained_ players – was in London.

That told me two things. Firstly, this city – _my_ city – really was going to the dogs. Secondly, I was almost certainly going to have to finish a job I'd failed to complete in Nuevo Laredo all those years before.

Because if I didn't, the chances were that Ramirez would finish me.

### 8

Two Days Later

Monday 11th July

06:49

Walworth, London, UK

Pat O'Connor ran a hand over his bald pate and scowled.

It was still early, but the Brunswick Brothers boss was already having a bad day. Judging by the three ominous-looking blacked-out Range Rovers which had just pulled up outside his makeshift office, it was about to get a whole lot worse.

He'd arrived from Liverpool the previous day, with a couple of vanloads of men. His visit had just one purpose: to find out what in the name of juddering hell had happened to his London operation. He'd temporarily taken over the scrapyard Mick Doughty had used as cover, hoping his presence would lend weight to the questions his men would be asking the locals.

Despite twenty-four hours of threats, interrogation and tactically-applied brutality, O'Connor had still barely established the basic facts. Doughty, clearly, was dead. Doughty's bodyguard, Liam Rourke, was missing. And many of the other key members of the London setup were in police custody, following some kind of tip-off about a meeting with the Albanians.

Someone had, in effect, put them out of business in the capital. The problem was, he still had no idea of who was responsible.

O'Connor looked out of the grimy window cut into the thin wall of the demountable office. He caught sight of his reflection briefly in the glass; the lines and jowls of his grey-stubbled face reminding him that, at fifty-four, he really should be getting out of the game for good. Let his son Eddie take over.

He shook his head to himself, wondering why he hadn't done that already. He had properties in Spain. Hell, he could have been there at that very moment, sipping sangria in the sun with a couple of bikini-clad beauties to keep him company. Instead he was sitting in a shitty, run-down cabin in some godforsaken corner of a filthy city, watching yet another problem arrive.

He scratched his misaligned nose: a legacy of his pugilistic youth growing up in Croxteth. The truth was, he still enjoyed solving problems, especially if they required violence. But maybe once he'd solved this particular problem, he really would retire.

Before someone else finally retired him.

The large SUVs slowly rolled to a halt next to a tall stack of wrecked cars. O'Connor figured the Range Rovers would belong to the _Mafija Shqiptare_. They'd been sold out as well. Their boss, like him, would be wanting answers. Their boss, like him, would be used to getting what he wanted.

Hence the problem.

Because their boss would be leaving disappointed.

O'Connor looked across at the two shaven-headed men, clad in grey flannel tracksuits, who were in the cabin with him. Kevin Rooney and Mickey Thompson were half his age: fit, hard-looking men whom he'd adopted as his personal protection detail. They stood at a second window, peering out at the arrivals in the yard.

"Stay inside. Let the welcoming party greet them," O'Connor instructed.

"Sure, boss," Rooney replied. He reached behind to check the pistol which was tucked into his sweatpants.

O'Connor smiled grimly, as he watched Doughty's men – _his_ men, now – slowly materialise from behind the piles of scrap metal and heavy equipment outside, until they surrounded the convoy. He'd been expecting a visit, and he knew it paid to establish the upper hand early on. Hence, the welcoming party. As O'Connor looked on, each of his men casually revealed an assortment of lethal weaponry pointed in the general direction of the Range Rovers.

There was a pause, which went on just long enough for O'Connor's smile to fade. Each of the windows in the three SUVs opened to leave a two-inch gap. He had just enough time to appreciate that this was not a good sign.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The slightest of flickers came from within the dark interior of the first vehicle; just visible in the cracked-open windows. O'Connor was in the process of working out that he was seeing heavily-suppressed muzzle flashes, when his ears reported a curiously quiet staccato rattle. The nearest of his men jerked rapidly, a red mist of gore exploding out the back of the man's leather jacket before he even had time to bring his shotgun to bear.

O'Connor watched in horror, as each of the other four men who had approached the first vehicle from the side suffered the same, simultaneous fate. Had he been able to see in to the vehicles, and had he possessed sufficient knowledge of weaponry, he would have recognised that his men had just been shredded by a hail of .45 calibre rounds spat at a rate of a thousand per minute from suppressed Ingram M-10 machine pistols. He looked frantically at the other two vehicles, where the same scene was being repeated.

Then, almost as soon as it had started, the muted noise and the flickering stopped. Two seconds was all it took to empty the 32-round magazines fitted to the M-10s, but in those two seconds O'Connor had already lost most of the twelve men who had surrounded the convoy.

"Boss, get down!"

Rooney's belated warning jolted O'Connor briefly back to his own surroundings. His bodyguard's pistol was out, but the younger man seemed uncertain as to where to point it. O'Connor ignored the man. He was too absorbed in the scene unfolding outside.

A boom rang out. One of the Brunswick Brothers men had been approaching the convoy directly from the front, and had been shielded from the angle of fire. He fired his shotgun directly at the first Range Rover's windscreen at point-blank range. O'Connor knew, even before his eyes told him, that the glass wouldn't shatter. All he would see would be a white-rimmed scatter-pattern as the pellets embedded themselves harmlessly in armoured glass.

Outside, the man frowned as he took in the unexpected result of his shot. O'Connor could almost feel the sense of horror himself; the bleak certainty of the immediate future reaching up from deep inside with crushing power. In an exercise of desperate futility, the man fired the second barrel, pointlessly, with the same result. Then, the passenger door of the SUV swung open and one of the black-clad occupants rapidly fired three shots from a suppressed pistol through the gap between door and body.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The man outside – still fumbling to reload his long gun – toppled to the floor. A thick pool of blood rapidly spread into the dried mud, pouring from his ruined skull.

O'Connor jumped in shock, as a loud thumping noise echoed through the thin ceiling of the office followed by another boom, from overhead. One of his men must have climbed up to establish an elevated position, and clearly managed to get another shot off.

"Jesus!" Rooney cried, as an answering staccato burst ripped at an angle through the upper section and ceiling of the cabin.

Another boom exploded in the small space, even louder than the first, and daylight streamed in from a ragged hole in the ceiling which had been blasted through the thin metal and insulation. That clearly hadn't been the intended target, and suggested that the man on the roof no longer had control of his gun.

"What the..." Thompson cried, looking up in time to see a ruined body crash headlong through the hole.

A bullet-riddled upper torso and what remained of the head dropped through into the office, spraying a thick mat of blood and brain matter over Thompson underneath. The body didn't fall all the way through. It caught on the side of the jagged hole, and hung upside-down in a blackly comedic, gruesome parody of the old workman-falls-through-ceiling gag.

Thompson fell onto his rear, desperately pushing himself away from the horror in front of him. He uttered a steady stream of profanity as he tried to wipe the gore from his face and hair.

"Sweet Jesus," O'Connor exclaimed, as he risked another glance out of the window. Nothing was moving. His men hadn't just been killed. He had witnessed an execution.

"What's happening, boss?"

O'Connor shook his head, in disbelief.

"They're dead. All of them."

"Are these the Albanians?"

O'Connor saw the rear door of the middle SUV begin to open, and turned away from the window. The man from the first Range Rover had been dressed all in black, with body armour and helmet. Military. Almost like a SWAT team. That wasn't typical of the Albanians, who tended to favour casual sportswear and gold-plated firearms.

"I... I don't know," he replied honestly. Whoever it was, they clearly meant business. The only question was, whether they wanted him dead or alive.

Rooney and Thompson looked at each other. They were clearly terrified, and O'Connor knew the fact that their boss didn't even seem to know who the enemy was, would only increase their fear.

"Get over the other side, now. Both of you. Behind the door," O'Connor indicated, attempting to take control.

The two men crabbed across, keeping below the window level and avoiding the bloody remains dangling from the roof. They took up a position where the door – opening inwards – would initially hide them from view. What happened after that would be anyone's guess, but O'Connor figured they'd take at least a couple of the bastards down before they got him.

He sat back down at his desk, and raised his hands in readiness. His surrender would be a distraction; attracting the attention of whoever came through the door whilst Rooney and Thompson fired from behind.

The staccato rattle started up again, outside.

O'Connor watched, open-mouthed, as the thin walls of the office were punctured and the heads of his two bodyguards burst open in quick succession. They collapsed backwards – dead before they hit the floor – into a bloody pile.

The door burst open, and two helmeted, black-clad men entered; aiming their weapons directly at O'Connor. An Hispanic man in dark glasses and a cream suit pushed past them, and through into the office. He took in the sight of O'Connor's submissive gesture, then brushed down his jacket and looked around himself contemptuously at the dirty, untidy workspace. The man wrinkled his nose at the sight of the partially-decapitated corpse swinging upside-down, but it didn't hold his attention for long.

The visitor paused momentarily, saying nothing. O'Connor said nothing in return. He was transfixed by the vicious, ugly scar which ran down one side of the man's face, only partially obscured by the gold-rimmed shades.

"Where is he?" the man asked, without preamble.

The question was calm. Confident. The thick accent did not detract from the absolute menace which lay behind the query. O'Connor felt _compelled_ to answer.

The only problem was, he had no idea what the man was talking about. He frowned, shrugged, and gave the only response possible in the circumstances.

"Where is who?"

The visitor did not respond. Instead, he walked swiftly towards the desk. Three guards took up position behind him, keeping O'Connor covered. As he moved, the scarred man said nothing. There were no indication whatsoever as to his intentions. Which meant that the punch he swung as he reached O'Connor came out of nowhere: a vicious blow which cracked O'Connor's cheekbone with heavy rings worn on each finger.

The Brunswick Brothers boss was stunned momentarily. Hands on his collar hauled him forwards over the desk before his face was smashed down onto the hard wooden surface, three times. His nose broke; a crack of pain searing through him before he was yanked upwards again.

"Where is he?" the visitor demanded again, calmly.

O'Connor's vision was blurred, but still he couldn't take his eyes off the man's horrific scar. He had no idea who this man was, but one thing was certain. He wasn't Albanian.

"I don't know! Who? Where is who?" O'Connor queried desperately. The blood from his smashed nose was running down the back of his throat, making it hard for him to speak. He sounded like he had a heavy cold.

"Listen. My name, it is Juan Ramirez Espinoza. I no here to screw about. I come for man who cost me big money. _Your_ man."

O'Connor tried to process what he was hearing. He failed. Not because of the blows he'd received, but simply because it made no sense at all. He had no idea who Juan Ramirez Espinoza was. And he had even less of a clue as to what he was talking about.

"I... have no idea..."

Ramirez cracked O'Connor's head back down on the desk, connecting with his forehead this time. This time, O'Connor was released and there was a flash in front of his eyes. He froze.

The tip of a blade hovered, steadily, a couple of inches from his right eye.

He managed to look up at Ramirez, who was standing stock-still in front of the desk wielding the knife which threatened to penetrate O'Connor's eyeball.

"You no tell me, you look worse than me, eh?"

The scarred man's left hand gestured towards his ruined face. The blade approached slowly, and O'Connor pushed himself back, until he was once again sitting upright in his chair. The pain from his nose and face was searing, but his fear overcame it.

"We understand, yes?" the Mexican confirmed.

O'Connor nodded, and Ramirez withdrew the knife. The Mexican looked around the office scornfully again, before continuing.

"I not know why a... _professional_ like him work for cowboy like you. But I know he did. He work with your man, Doughty, no? So, I ask again. Where is the man from Friday night?"

O'Connor rapidly began to assemble the facts in his head. He knew about the carjacking. He knew that Doughty had ended up in Streatham on Friday. The scarred man in front of him was obviously responsible for kidnapping Doughty and, presumably, how Doughty's body had come to be found in the burned-out commercial unit in several pieces.

Doughty couldn't have been responsible for whatever destruction had ensued. Which left only one person in the frame.

"Are you talking about... Rourke?"

"I not know the name he goes by now. You tell me, eh?"

Ramirez reached inside his jacket and pulled out his phone. He prodded at it angrily a few times, then showed the screen to O'Connor. The image was a black and white still, captured from a CCTV camera and zoomed in digitally for enhancement. It showed a naked man, clutching something under his arm, emerging from what appeared to be a burning building.

"I not supposed to have this. But I have... how you say? Policeman on inside, eh? He say I am lucky he find it on hard disk. Somehow it survive fire."

Ramirez waved the screen in front of O'Connor's face.

"This man. He is Rourke?"

O'Connor looked closely again at the man on the screen, but he knew the question was pointless.

"I... I don't know," he said honestly. "I never met him. Doughty took him on down here a few months ago. Some crazy business, everybody was talking about. Rourke came out of nowhere, put both of Doughty's previous men in hospital, then demanded he take over as his minder. So, yeah, it could be him."

"Who would know? For sure?"

O'Connor laughed, sending spikes of agony through his face, then looked up at Ramirez, momentarily defiant again.

"That would be nobody. You've just killed everyone who might have been able to tell you."

Ramirez stared at O'Connor. Then, he chuckled as well.

"Okay. Then I have problem, I think. And if I have problem, then you have problem as well, eh?"

O'Connor nodded reluctantly.

"I have customers waiting. This man... he burn what I sell them. My reputation... no good after that, eh?"

"You need product?"

Ramirez shook his head.

"No. I get that myself. But I no have time to do that and find this man."

"What do you want?" O'Connor asked.

"You get me this man. You get him for me, alive. Then, perhaps I let you live..."

"But I don't even know him! I don't know anything about him..."

"Then you find out, eh? You know this city, this country, more than me. You have eyes, ears, everywhere yes? You get me this _Rourke_. I give you, what, a week? Maybe less. Maybe five days."

"Five days? I can't... I will need to fix everything here, and that will take time. The bodies..."

Ramirez put his hands on the desk and leaned right forward, until his face was mere inches away from O'Connor. The Brunswick Brothers chief could smell the Mexican's breath: stale tobacco and peppermint.

"Listen, _cabron_. I no care about your _bodies_. The men I lost on Friday, some of them, they like family, no? I know them long time. Ramon Perez, he grow up in same village as me. And your man, he take this family from me. So, you find him for me. Or I take your family from you."

O'Connor didn't have a wife, but he did have several children. The fact that they were hundreds of miles away in the north of England was of little comfort; he knew that the man in front of him would find a way to get them if he so chose.

"Alright, alright... I understand. A week, yes?"

"Five days." Ramirez dropped a business card on the table. _Cosas Bonitas Imported Goods._

"Call me when you have him."

### 9

07:05

Putney, London, UK

I'm running headlong down the deserted street, footsteps echoing off the grand three-storey terraced houses which line the Dulwich Village road. I'm flat-out, but it's no good. The voice in my head is telling me I'm not going to make it.

I never do.

I tear round the corner, feet scrabbling on the pavement, just like I've done a thousand times before. The house – our house – is now just a hundred yards distant, but it might as well be a mile. I hear the car door slam as Jen steps up onto the pavement, briefly illuminated by the street lighting. Ten-year-old Emily follows behind, head down, tapping away on her phone.

I'm trying to call out to them, but my voice fails me. It always does. I feel my movements slowing, feet becoming leaden until I can barely lift my legs. Ahead, dark shadows move, coalescing into two shapes. Faceless, human shapes.

A blade glints in the sodium glare.

Jen screams...

I snapped awake, with a violent shudder. Muscles strained, propelling me bolt-upright in bed. Eyes flicked open, as I instinctively scanned for threats. A couple of tense seconds passed. And then, reality caught up and I collapsed back on the pillow.

Three deep breaths: fast-in, slow-out, to dissipate the panic. On the fourth breath, I was calm again.

I'd got that down to a fine art.

God knows, I'd had enough practice.

I'd been nearly four thousand miles away when it had happened, yet my fertile subconscious found no difficulty in conjuring up staggeringly vivid night-time reconstructions. Most nights I watched, powerless, as the two faceless figures skulked out of the shadows and cut down my family. The wife and child whom I had failed to keep safe, because of my obsession with keeping my country safe.

That was a guilt-trip from which I'd never return.

I sat for a while, blinking in the brightness. Early morning sunlight was streaming into the huge, airy bedroom through floor-to-ceiling windows which offered a stunning view over the Thames towards Fulham. I was still adjusting to being back in the house. As Liam Rourke, I'd rented a small apartment in Bermondsey: the sort of pad that a low-level minder might reasonably be expected to possess. My real home was in a different league.

Not that I owned it. I just got to live, rent-free, courtesy of my former handler Shelagh O'Brien and a few shell companies that may or may not have been ultimately traceable back to Her Majesty's Government.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing my eyes. My attention turned to the framed photo on the bedside table: a family shot taken by Jen's parents. I'd missed that photo. Living as Rourke, I hadn't been able to carry anything linked to Bruce Thorne. To _me_. I hadn't even been able to visit my family's quiet resting place, tucked away in Camberwell Old Cemetery.

That was something I intended to put right, later in the day.

Before I could pursue that thought any further, my phone began buzzing. Seeing DCI Clarke's number on the display, I got up and padded over the polished hardwood floor to the window before answering. I suspected I'd need the distraction of a pleasant view, as the conversation was unlikely to go well.

"You won't get away with this, Thorne!" Clarke growled, predictably. "Just because you've quit. Just because your friends in high places have instructed me, yet again, to overlook my serious concerns about your activities and the subsequent tampering with evidence. One day, this is all going to catch up with you. I just hope I'm around when that happens."

"Tampering with evidence?" I asked, as I looked out over a substantial garden running down to the river bank: perfectly well-kept, thanks to a maintenance team employed under the house's service contract.

"That burnt out computer from Streatham. You know, the one that might just have contained some salvageable CCTV footage showing what you _really_ got up to over there, had it not mysteriously disappeared from the evidence room on Saturday."

"I know nothing about that," I said, truthfully. I figured it must have been my contacts ensuring nothing could come back and bite me – or them – later on.

"Right. Like you'd say anything else. This was always just a game, for you, wasn't it?"

"A _game_? Come on Clarke, you read my file. You know why I joined up. My wife and child were killed for nothing more than a few quid in a purse and a child's mobile phone, then the two shitheads didn't even have the decency to live long enough to face justice, having overdosed on the meagre proceeds of their crime. Trust me, it was _never_ a game."

That was true. Just not the whole truth. In reality, the career change had also been a means of suppressing the darkness: the alter-ego from my former life that had taken on a separate, schizoid presence in my head. I'd feared the consequences of allowing it to be powered by the all-consuming rage my family's loss had ignited, and had sought to lock it down instead.

"Yeah, well, that's the problem," Clarke complained. "I don't trust you. Because I read a lot of other things in that file, which I simply don't believe."

"Believe what you want," I suggested, knowing that much of what he'd read was a fabrication. "But we're both on the same side. Don't forget that."

Clarke snorted with derision.

"Same side, my arse! You've only ever been on your own side, thinking you can bring your own unique brand of justice to clean up the city, or whatever superhero bollocks you believe in. Well, it doesn't work that way. It _can't_ work that way."

"I know. After three years, I've finally realised that. It's why I've quit."

Beyond the garden, a commuter train rattled its way across the rail bridge, carrying workers across the river. It was an apposite reminder of my own future unemployment.

"Bullshit! You've quit because your string pullers are tired of covering up the trails of bodies you leave behind."

That was true enough. The message had been very clear: I'd used up all my favours. Not that I'd admit that to Clarke.

"Look, does it matter, either way? I'm not your problem any more. Just let me walk away, and move on."

"Right. I guess I don't have a choice, anyway, do I?"

"I guess you don't."

There was an extended pause, and Clarke sighed. When he spoke again, he sounded resigned. Defeated.

"Who were you, really?" he asked. "Can you at least tell me that?"

"Seriously, Clarke. You don't want to know."

I hung up, shaking my head. The DCI was a decent man. He'd been sticking it to the Yardies back when I'd been in short trousers. He deserved better than the half-truths and outright lies I'd fed him. But I'd had no choice. He could never know the truth about who I was, and what I'd done.

I frowned as I spotted a notification on my phone: voicemail from _Katherine_ , timed at 6.15am. That was enough to take my mind off Clarke, as I ran through the possible reasons why Katherine Gardiner might have left me a message so early in the morning and found none which were positive.

I turned away from the window and headed into the walk-in dressing room. I had enough problems of my own to be dealing with. The Brunswick Brothers' boss – Pat O'Connor – was sure to be on the hunt for Liam Rourke. Juan Ramirez Espinoza would also be seeking the man responsible for burning down his Streatham operation. At some point, those searches might triangulate on one individual: me.

I really needed a plan to avoid that eventuality.

As I began pulling on my gym kit, ready to head down to the basement fitness room, I considered whether to play back Katherine's message at all. She and I went all the way back to school, when a quirk of fate had brought us together in a friendship that, whilst never truly close, had endured over the years. Of course, she'd never known the truth about who I'd gone on to become. Or _what_ I'd become. But I figured that was no reason for me to turn my back on her, if she needed me.

I picked up the phone and hit play.

As I listened to Katherine's emotional, rambling message punctuated by sobs, my fears were confirmed. It was not good news. Her eldest daughter had gone missing over the weekend. After feigning illness, eighteen-year-old Jess had slipped out of the house leaving no clues other than a sticky note with an address on it and a text message telling her mother not to worry. Katherine had reported it to the police, but the officer assigned to the case had gone on leave, so Katherine was calling me with a case number and a request that I check on progress.

The voicemail ended. I really needed to start making inroads into my own problems, and my access to the Met's systems had been revoked as soon as I'd given notice to quit. Still, I could hardly ignore Katherine.

I headed down the spiral staircase into the open-plan living area which occupied the whole first floor of the house. I exited through sliding glass doors onto the walled balcony which overlooked the garden and river, and was greeted by a warm breeze which carried the smells and sounds of the city beyond. It was hardly fresh air, but I took a deep breath anyway.

Turning to my phone again, I scrolled through my contacts. It didn't take long to find the number I wanted. There were very few contacts in my list.

Desiree Baxter was a junior detective whose diligence and eye for detail had been instrumental in helping to create believable back stories for my undercover operations. She'd also regularly run interference for me when Jim Clarke had been asking awkward questions. I was pretty sure she'd agree to look up Katherine's case, even if it might be a minor breach of protocol.

I knew Desi wasn't a big fan of protocol. That was another reason why I liked her.

I looked up momentarily before making the call. Beyond the garden, sunlight glittered off the wide expanse of water. A River Bus emerged from under Putney Bridge, ferrying its passengers downriver to their places of work. Reflections from the watercraft made me squint momentarily until a different glint of light caught my eye, coming from a window of one of the apartments on the opposite bank.

At a quarter of a mile away, it wasn't possible to resolve the details. I didn't need to. Some reflections carried a signature which, to my trained eye, meant only one thing: a powerful lens. The sort of lens which could easily see every detail of my face from that distance. The sort of lens which, generally speaking, you didn't want to be pointed in your direction.

Mainly because it was the sort of lens which tended to be mounted on top of a very long-barrelled gun.

Synapses fired.

Muscles twitched.

And, with barely any conscious thought, I dropped like a stone behind the cover of the balcony wall.

### 10

07:10

Fulham / Putney, London, UK

"What the hell?" Shayan Mokri grunted, in Farsi.

His radio headset picked up the confused exclamation and relayed it a quarter of a mile south across the river Thames, to where Amir Nazari sat in the empty shell of a second-storey apartment across the road from their target's house.

"What's happening?" Nazari queried, immediately sitting up straighter in the folding canvas chair he occupied in their makeshift base. It had been less than three days since he'd received orders from Deputy Commander Majidi. His superior had made it clear that there could be no _what-the-hell_ moments on such a critical operation.

"Guy just dropped," Mokri explained. "Like he had a heart attack or something."

Nazari's pulse quickened. If his target had been taken ill, that would seriously complicate matters. He glanced at the laptop which sat on a folding table in front of him. The screen showed a camera feed from across the river where Mokri was stationed. The view was centred on the back of a large four-storey house, with a garden running down to the river and a first-floor balcony. The man they had under surveillance was nowhere to be seen.

"What do you mean, dropped? Did he trip? Did he fall?"

Nazari had been peering out of the apartment window at the time and had missed whatever had happened on the screen. He was already clicking the touchpad to review the last thirty seconds of footage.

"No... I don't know," Mokri answered. "He just _dropped_. One second he was standing there, looking out over the river, then the next second he was gone."

Nazari cursed, and checked the window again, which offered a view down the quiet residential street in Putney where his target lived. There was no obvious movement at the front of the house.

"What do you mean, looking out over the river?" Nazari asked, as the recorded footage began to play on the screen.

"He came out, and he was looking down at his phone or something. Then he looked up. And then he just dropped."

Amir Nazari processed that information. He knew his target's background in considerable detail. The man was in his forties: extremely fit, healthy, and highly unlikely to be tripping over his own feet. It didn't take much to work out what had probably just happened. The recorded video feed soon confirmed his suspicions. He watched the target glance across the river, looking straight into the camera before suddenly dropping – quite deliberately – below the half-height balcony wall.

Something had given Mokri away. At that distance, it could only have been a lens reflection.

Nazari knew he had to act quickly. His target could already be assembling a long gun, ready to pop Mokri's head open from across the river. Even if he wasn't, they could not afford for the man to have any suspicion that he was being watched. That would make their ultimate aim – taking him alive – extremely problematic.

"Mokri! Grab your SLR, and get out onto that balcony now. Take some pictures, up and down the river. Do _not_ point it at his house."

Nazari switched back to the live camera view, which was pointing out from inside the Fulham apartment through glass balcony doors. The view was momentarily obscured by Mokri's back, as the operative followed his instruction, long-lensed Nikon in hand. In jeans and an open-necked shirt, the man might just pass for a rich foreign visitor with an expensive camera.

"Uh, what should I take pictures of, sir?" Mokri queried as he exited the glass doors.

"Allah give me strength!" Nazari muttered under his breath, before replying. "It doesn't matter. Just make sure that when he looks back at you, which he undoubtedly will, he sees some dumb foreigner snapping pictures of the Thames. Not pointing a telephoto right at him."

"Ah, yes. Of course, sir."

Mokri complied with the instruction. Nazari doubted it would be enough to convince the man they were watching. A little more misdirection was required.

"Khorsandi, get out there with him," Nazari commanded. "Give him a hug. Make it look like you're lovers."

A soft, feminine voice came on the radio, confirming the instruction. The camera briefly showed a svelte female figure, dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt, moving quickly to join Mokri on the balcony. Nazari, as ever, was impressed. Marjan Khorsandi was the only female member of the team and, in his eyes, she was worth ten of any of the others. There was never any question from her. No hesitation. She just got on and did whatever was demanded, and did it exceedingly well. Especially when whatever was demanded, happened to place her behind the sights of a telescopic lens.

Her rifle was set up next to the live camera inside the apartment. Khorsandi's precision as a shooter meant she would easily be capable of a non-fatal, incapacitating hit on their target, even at that distance. Nazari hoped that wouldn't be necessary. It would certainly be messy. But it was a good last-resort option.

He glanced outside again, checking that there was no movement at the front of the house.

"Hamidi, report. Any movement?"

"Negative," came the response from Yousef Hamidi, positioned on a railway bridge a hundred yards away which afforded an elevated view down the road.

"Soroush?"

"Negative. Nothing moving here." Arman Soroush was secreted in the back of a van parked at the opposite end of the street, offering another view of the target's house.

Nazari returned his attention to the screen. His pulse quickened as he watched Khorsandi wrap her arms around Mokri from behind. She was playing the role of Mokri's lover rather more convincingly than he'd intended. He briefly imagined the softness of those hands; the warmth of her embrace.

It wasn't the first time he'd imagined such things.

"Move to the end of the balcony," Nazari commanded, putting aside his impure thoughts. "You're blocking the camera."

The two operatives dutifully moved out of his field of view and Nazari held his breath, waiting for any reaction from across the river. It took a long time, but eventually the target emerged cautiously from behind the wall. The man straightened up, scanned up and down the Thames for a while longer, then turned and went back inside his house.

Nazari breathed a sigh of relief. Their ruse had apparently worked.

"Okay, that'll do. Go back inside. But break the rifle down for now. I don't want him clocking that scope again."

"Understood," Khorsandi replied.

Nazari turned away from the screen and glanced around the room where he sat. It was empty, other than the chair and table he occupied. It had been a stroke of good fortune to discover the second-storey flat being refurbished, just a few houses away from their target's address. The developer had been persuaded to call a temporary halt to proceedings, in exchange for a substantial amount of cash.

Across the river, one of Majidi's cyber-army geeks had identified an apartment whose owner lived abroad, and Mokri and Khorsandi had taken up temporary residence there.

As a result, they had acquired three-sixty-degree coverage of their target's home. Their surveillance had already allowed Nazari to formulate the basics of how the grab operation would be conducted. He just needed a little more detail on how the target usually entered and left the front of the house, and then they'd be ready.

He sat back in the chair, and reflected on their progress. They'd been lucky so far, and he had to wonder how long their good fortune would last. Not that it mattered. Knowing what he knew of their target – the legendary _Crow_ , whom Majidi had revealed as a man named Bruce Thorne – one thing was certain.

If the operation was to be successful, they'd need a lot more than just luck on their side.

### 11

09:51

Wood Green, London

"Bruce, are you alright?"

Katherine Gardiner's question snapped me back into the present, as she handed me a mug of tea. I was sitting in her cosy, floral-themed front room. In my head, I'd been back in Putney - replaying the flash of light from the apartment across the river and the relief I'd felt, watching the young couple who'd emerged to take snapshots with a long-lensed camera.

Paranoia was a pain in the arse, sometimes. But complacency was worse.

"I'm fine," I lied, making a face that I hoped was reassuring.

I was trying to bite down on the vertiginous dissonance that was threatening to overwhelm me right then: the effect of transitioning so rapidly across the vast gulf which separated my world and Katherine's.

"Have you heard anything more from your contact? Has she called again?" Katherine asked, her voice cracking slightly.

I shook my head.

Having established that I hadn't been about to lose my head to a sniper round, I'd made the call to Desi Baxter. As expected, she'd agreed to look into Jess's case and by the time I'd finished my workout, showered and had breakfast, she'd called back to give me the low-down on what she'd discovered. I'd shared the details with Katherine straight away, then suggested that I head to Wood Green to talk with Katherine and Jess's younger sister, Becky, in person.

There were questions I needed to ask, and I knew I wouldn't be able to focus on my own problems until I had answers. Walking away from unanswered questions had always been a problem for me.

"So, the police are certain Jess went to Shannon's party, at Arnos Grove?" Katherine asked. The address on the sticky note which Jess had left in her room, had led to a young woman named Shannon Macaulay. She'd confirmed to the police that Jess had been at her party on Friday.

"She arrived early in the evening, and left just before midnight," I confirmed.

Katherine shook her head, sadly. "I can't believe she wouldn't have told me where she was going. I don't really know Shannon that well. Is she sure that Jess definitely left on her own?"

"The CCTV at the local tube station shows her on her own. So does the camera at King's Cross, which is where she sent you the text saying she was okay. Then she got on a train to Stevenage."

"None of this makes any sense. We don't know anyone in Stevenage."

We were just going over old ground, but I let the conversation play out. It gave me time to adjust to Katherine's reality. To _normality_. Besides, I'd been taught a valuable lesson many years before by the man who'd trained me in interrogation: a cold-war veteran by the name of Derek Sands. People are mostly _non-Newtonian_ , he'd said. Smack straight into the difficult issues with them head-on and they'll lock up solid. But ease your way in more gently, and they'll often let you through with no resistance at all.

"Well, she was there for something," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "Or some _one_."

Katherine shook her head, again.

"I know my daughter, Bruce. She wouldn't just run away with someone she met online, like the police are saying. Is that what you think, too?"

"All the statistics say it's the most likely scenario," I suggested.

That was the truth, although Jess heading to the party first and leaving alone didn't quite fit with that scenario. There must have been a reason for that, and I was hoping it might offer a lead on where she might have ended up.

That was what I was in Wood Green to find out.

"Katherine, I need to ask you something. You're not going to like it, but it's something that needs to be asked."

I saw her frown slightly, taken aback at the hint of firmness which I'd injected into my voice. That hadn't been for her benefit - it was for her daughter's. Heavily made-up and doing her best to look bored, Becky had done nothing other than prod away at her phone since I'd arrived. I hadn't worked out whether conforming to the stereotype of a sullen, nonchalant teenager stemmed from a genuine lack of concern for her sister, or a desire to hide her real feelings. Or, perhaps, to hide something else entirely.

Sure enough, the girl looked up from her phone, her interest piqued by my tone.

"I don't like any of what's happening, Bruce," Katherine replied. "Fire away. Ask whatever you need."

"Okay. Is it possible that Jess was... using drugs?"

"No!" Katherine responded.

I wasn't looking at her. I focused in Becky, instead. She wasn't easy to read, thanks to the cosmetics. Her eyebrows had been pencilled on in a way which lent her a permanently surprised expression. But as far as I could tell she looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion.

"Are you absolutely certain?" I pushed.

Katherine sighed. "No, of course not. After everything that's happened so far, I'm not certain of anything."

I tried to look sympathetic. Her world really had been turned upside-down.

She carried on. "But no, I really don't think that's Jess. She's got drunk a few times. But not drugs. I don't think she even smokes..."

Becky looked slightly uncomfortable at that. I wasn't sure if it was because she knew Jess did smoke, or because she smoked herself. Either way, it contrasted with her earlier reaction to the drugs question. That told me Jess had probably not gone to the party to obtain some kind of illicit substance.

"Okay," I said slowly, thinking of where to go next.

"Why do you ask?" Katherine prompted.

"Well, it might have explained why she went to the party first, that's all."

Becky laughed at that. "Seriously? My sister's a little do-gooder. She's not a crack whore, if that's what you're worried about."

Katherine gave her a sharp look.

"Becky, that's awful. Don't say things like that!"

"Whatever. Just saying." Becky shrugged, and went back to her phone.

Katherine sighed in exasperation.

"Will you put that damn thing down for a minute. For god's sake, your sister's missing!" she instructed.

Becky rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and this isn't exactly helping find her, is it?"

I interjected with an apology, sensing a chance to push further.

"Becky, I'm sorry. I know it might not feel like we're getting anywhere but I need to ask these questions. Something might give us a clue."

"What are you, like some private eye or something?"

Katherine fielded that one before I could respond. "Mr Thorne is a policeman, Becky. You know who he is. Why are you being so difficult?"

"Right. He doesn't look like a policeman," Becky said. She clearly had no recollection of me but then, she'd only been a little girl the last time I'd seen her.

Katherine smiled a nervous apology at me, then turned to Becky again.

"Don't be so rude. And just answer the questions, please."

"Fine, whatever. Go on, then," she said, whilst making a show of looking back down at her phone again.

"Alright. Did your sister ever talk to you about having a boyfriend?" I asked.

That didn't even get a reaction. Becky just shook her head without looking up. "Uh, uh."

"What about other friends? Anything that she said which might give us a clue as to who she might be with?"

The girl glanced up at me this time. "Why are you asking me? I've gone through all this already with the police. The _real_ police."

Katherine was about to interject again, but I held up my hand to reassure her. It seemed like the girl was deflecting the question. I found her so hard to read that I couldn't work out if that was deliberate; my interrogation skills weren't exactly tuned for teenage girls.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to help, in case there's anything that you might have forgotten last time. What about people she met online?"

Becky shifted uncomfortably. I noted that she didn't look up and meet my eyes.

"Right. Like I'm supposed to know who she's talking to?"

"So she _was_ talking to people online, then?"

That got me a look of undisguised contempt. "Well, duh, obviously. Loads of people, probably. That's, like, the point, you know? But I don't know _who_. It's not like we have the same friends or anything."

"Okay. But you're sure she never, you know, let anything slip accidentally or, I don't know, made you suspicious of what she was up to?"

She was glaring across at me defiantly, but I thought I caught a flash of concern in her eyes. I was increasingly sure about one thing: she was hiding something.

"No!" she exclaimed, more forcefully than seemed necessary. "Why are you asking me all this stuff? She hardly ever talks to me anyway. It's not my fault she's run away."

"Becky!" Katherine admonished.

"Well, it's not!" Becky repeated, and got up from the sofa. "Stop going on about it like it _is_ my fault, like I should have known or something."

"Becky, that's not what anyone meant..." Katherine attempted to reassure her daughter.

"Yes it is!" Becky replied, almost shouting now. " _You_ obviously think that, and _he_ ..." she looked across at me, "...obviously thinks that. It's not fair! She never told me anything! I don't know where she is!"

I watched as the girl stormed out of the front room and slammed the door, before stomping her way upstairs. Any doubts I'd had about whether she knew something evaporated, in the face of her classic diversionary tactics. But I'd just blown my chance of finding out what that something might be.

"I'm so sorry," Katherine apologised. "I can get her back down for you, if you want."

"I don't think that's going to help," I said honestly.

Katherine sighed. "There must be something else we can do, though?"

I did have an idea about that, as it happened. I just wasn't sure I wanted to get any more involved than I already was.

"Maybe..." I began, reluctantly.

I really needed to get back to my own problems. But I found myself facing more questions about Jess's disappearance than I'd had before speaking to Becky. Katherine looked at me, the desperation clear in her eyes.

I gave in. There was no point in fighting my compulsion to get answers.

"Well," I continued, "I could probably get someone to have a look at Jess's laptop. See if there's any clues on there."

"Really? Even though you don't work there anymore?"

I'd explained about my resignation from the Met when we'd spoken earlier. Minus the details about Streatham, obviously.

"Actually, I wasn't thinking about work. I know someone else who... well, let's just say they're an independent expert."

Katherine stood up, straight away. She looked energised by the idea of some practical action, however small. "I'll go get it for you, right now."

As she headed upstairs to get the computer from Jess's room, I considered the situation into which I'd allowed myself to get dragged. I figured I might as well go all-in on the involvement front, if only to get answers more quickly so I could extricate myself without letting Katherine down. That meant getting someone else to speak with Becky: someone more _relatable_ than I, or her mother, or a police officer could ever be. I decided not to share that idea with Katherine right then. Having one daughter missing was bad enough, without having to worry that the other daughter was hiding something.

It didn't take long for her to return with the laptop and charger in a plastic carrier bag. I stood, and got ready to leave.

"I'm sorry again about Becky," she said, as I shrugged on my jacket. "I can't believe she thinks it's okay to strop around like that when Jess is missing."

"It's fine. She's a teenager... that's what they do, isn't it? And it can't be easy for her, right now."

Katherine sniffed, and nodded reluctantly.

"I'll be in touch if I have any news," I said, as reassuringly as I could. Then I turned and let myself out, heading back to where I'd parked my motorcycle outside the house.

I stowed the laptop in one of the bike's panniers, then fired up the engine and waited for it to settle into a lumpy idle. The powerful rumble of the exhaust was at odds with the bike's ordinary appearance. It had been custom-built as a sleeper: a seriously fast motorcycle which, to the average eye, looked like just another well-worn courier bike. That had been a distinct advantage when, as Liam Rourke, I'd had to leave it parked in some of the capital's less salubrious areas. It had also been the most obvious choice to convey me rapidly to Wood Green.

As the engine oil warmed, I scrolled through my phone's contacts for the individual I had in mind for Jess's laptop. I hadn't spoken to him for three years, and I wasn't entirely sure how he'd react to my contacting him again out of the blue. But he was the best chance I had of getting a lead on Jess that I could pass to the police, so that I could fulfil my obligation to Katherine and get back to working out what to do about the Brunswick Brothers and Juan Ramirez Espinoza.

I'd just have to persuade him that it would be in his best interests to help out.

### 12

_10:06_

_Chelmsford, Essex, UK_

Aron Lyle awoke to the sound of his phone buzzing on the hard surface of his bedside table.

He groaned, then looked at the time. Just after ten in the morning. Also known as the middle of the night. He closed his eyes and prepared to go back to sleep. Whoever was calling him at such a ridiculously early hour could go to hell. Or just, you know, _message_ him like any normal person would.

As if hearing his thoughts, the phone went quiet. Lyle relaxed, then shifted position slightly and began to drift back into slumber. Images from the previous night drifted into his mind. He smiled. They were very pleasant images. And they had been accompanied by some very pleasant sensations...

His phone started up, again.

Lyle swore loudly. Someone had just crossed a line, and that meant someone was now going to pay. He'd feed their number into every robo-calling, text-spamming database he'd ever hacked, and see how they liked that. They'd rue the day they called Aron Lyle before mid-day. _Twice_.

He lay for a while, plotting ever-more unpleasant acts of revenge until he realised that no amount of fantasising was actually going to stop the phone from ringing right then. Cursing again, he shuffled across the silk sheets which lined his enormous bed, and stretched to retrieve the offending device.

He froze, as he read the caller display. He hadn't been expecting to see that particular name, for sure. It rather changed things, when it came to thoughts of revenge. Aron Lyle was many things, but he wasn't suicidal.

As he stared at the screen, he felt a frisson of excitement tinged with an element of fear. _Bruce Thorne_. It was a name he'd long since given up on. It must have been three years since they'd last communicated, before Thorne had quit taking out enemies of the state and joined the Met to go after the domestic criminals like those who'd murdered his family.

Lyle had kept track of the former assassin, of course. Hence the Caller ID in his phone. Thorne wasn't really the sort of man you wanted to _lose_ track of, in case he popped up somewhere that you really didn't want him to be. But Lyle had never attempted to make contact. They might have worked together for a long time, but they'd never exactly been friends.

He sat up, intrigued by what the man could possibly want, then swung his legs out of bed and answered the call.

"Hey, dead man. Long time, no hear. How's the afterlife?"

There was a brief pause. Lyle knew that Thorne would be trying – and failing – to work out how he'd known who was calling.

"Shut up Lyle," came the weary response. "You know the rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. Mainly, by me. Now, listen. I have a job for you."

Lyle laughed. Thorne hadn't changed a bit; it was always straight down to business.

"A job?" he queried. That really could be interesting. But he was damned if he was going to let Thorne know that. "Right. Uh, newsflash, bro. I don't work for you anymore. Well, technically I never did but, whatever. You don't get to call the shots, now."

"Shots? That was an unfortunate turn of phrase," Thorne said, coldly. "Do you really want to put that to the test?"

As one of very few living individuals who could connect the man called Bruce Thorne with the brutal assassin once known as Crow, Lyle knew that Thorne wouldn't need much of an excuse to shut him up permanently. But Lyle had always got a perverse thrill from walking the fine line between deliberately aggravating the man and being silenced _in perpetuity_.

"Oh, here we go," Lyle replied, injecting just the right amount of sarcasm into his voice. "That's about right. I don't hear from you in, like, three years and now we've been talking for twenty seconds and you're starting with the threats. Well, screw you, bruv. You're a policeman now. You don't get to go round offing people, anymore."

"I resigned."

"Oh... right. So you're back in play, then?" Lyle queried. He hoped he kept the excitement out of his voice.

"No, I'm not. I'm just helping out a friend. I need something doing, and you're the man to do it for me."

"A friend? You don't have any friends, bro. Unless... it's not Reid, is it?"

Reinhold Reid had supported Thorne on some of his trickier assignments. He'd been captured in Lashkar Gah, and Thorne had risked everything to get him back. Lyle knew the two men were as close to friends as it was possible for anyone to be with Thorne.

"No, it's not Reid. And stop asking questions. This isn't a social call. Like I said, I have a job for you."

"Right. And after all this time, I'm supposed to just drop everything and jump to attention, yeah?"

"That would be the most sensible course of action," Thorne confirmed. The implicit threat wasn't lost on Lyle. "Besides, I'm sure you've got nothing better to do, other than playing your ridiculous records and living down to everyone's low expectations of your morals."

Lyle laughed, as images from the previous night resurfaced in his mind again. His _morals_ were probably even lower than Thorne's expectations, so he'd ignore that particular jibe. Thorne would never appreciate his artistry as a DJ in the field of electronic dance music either, so that was another pointless argument.

"Bruv, you have no idea how I spend my days. I got a full life, innit."

"So, you're too busy for this job, then?"

"Uh, I never said that. I just didn't like your in-sin-u-ation that I got nothing better going on. What is it?"

"I need a forensic doing on a laptop. I do have some friends as it happens, and one of them has a daughter who's gone missing. I need anything you can get off her computer that might give us a lead as to where she might be."

"No way, bruv. Are you for real?" Lyle couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice. "All that, and you're calling me because you want a laptop forensic? Like you haven't got a hundred people at the Met who could do that for you..."

"Like I said, I don't work there anymore. Anyway, they'll take too long. You know how it works."

"Whatevs, man. Why should I be doing their job for them? My taxes shouldn't be paying for them to sit around drinking coffee."

"Lyle, you don't pay any taxes," Thorne pointed out.

That wasn't strictly true. But a significant chunk of Lyle's wealth had indeed been secured from sources that definitely weren't subject to taxation.

"Not the point, bro. Not the point."

"Look. I've got a missing teenager, and a laptop that might just lead us to her. Are you, or are you not, going to help?"

Lyle sighed. "Do I have a choice? Yes, I'll help. I mean, some kid's laptop, that's gonna take me, like, twenty minutes tops. Can you get it up to me this afternoon?"

"You'll need to come down to me. Do the work here, then I can get it back straight away."

"Aww, come on, man. Are you having a laugh, or what? You're right down in Putney, that's gonna take me an age to get down there _and_ I gotta bring all my kit with me."

There was a pause, which Lyle knew would be down to Thorne considering how Lyle could possibly have known where he lived. The silence extended, and Lyle thought he could feel the chill emanating from the handset.

"Okay, okay, fine," Lyle said, giving in. "I'll come down to you. Don't worry. I have the address."

"Right," Thorne said coldly, and disconnected the call.

"Yeah, and thank you, too," Lyle snarked to the empty line.

He yawned and got up to wander into his luxurious en-suite, then stopped and blinked a few times at the sight which greeted him. A pair of hot-pink panties were draped over the extendible magnifying mirror, which had 'text me' written on it neatly in lipstick. The panties had, at least briefly, featured in the pleasant images which he'd been recalling earlier on. He vaguely remembered their owner slipping out of his bed at some ungodly hour, saying she needed to get to work. Lyle laughed to himself, remembering Thorne's comment about morals.

As he began his morning routine, Lyle thought about what the day ahead might bring. A run down the congested A12 in his new Lamborghini wouldn't be the greatest drive, but the adrenaline kick of working with Thorne would make up for that. And whilst a laptop forensic seemed like a disappointingly trivial task, it might well turn out to be something much bigger than he thought.

After all, supposedly-trivial tasks did have a curious habit of becoming very un-trivial, very quickly, where Bruce Thorne was concerned.

### 13

12:02

Putney, London, UK

I'm not a procrastinator.

I never have been, really. When delaying an action has consequences that will significantly reduce your life expectancy, motivation can prove remarkably easy to find.

It wasn't task avoidance that had kept me from returning my attentions to the Liverpudlian gang boss and the Mexican drug lord who were both, undoubtedly, hunting for me right then. I'd simply been too busy, having thrown myself into the task of finding someone else who could speak to Becky Gardiner.

Being _persona non-grata_ at the Met, my former law enforcement colleagues had been off-limits. That had just left personal acquaintances, and there weren't many of them. Lyle's jibe about my lack of friends had been closer to the mark than he'd realised. Although the friends I did have, were definitely worth having.

Friends like Jon Haines, for one. He'd led the hand-picked team of special-forces men who'd been drafted in to support some of my ops. We'd grown close over the years, and that had brought our families closer, too. It was Haines' family who'd come to mind when I was thinking about Becky.

Specifically, his daughter Daisy. I knew she'd just graduated and had moved to London, ready to embark upon a career with MI5 later in the summer. She was twenty-three, which I figured might just be young enough for Becky to see her as relatable. Having persuaded Haines to give me his daughter's number – which had required some understandable assurances about what I was getting her into – I'd given her a call and she'd agreed to help out.

Which left me sitting at home in my living area, waiting for her to arrive.

Outwardly, I was calm. On the inside, I was locked in a desperate struggle with my conditioning – that neural re-wiring which had long ago been programmed to crush emotional responses – as it attempted to suppress a flood of memories that I didn't want suppressed.

I wanted to remember the family get-togethers; the laughter and joy; those rare glimpses of normality for Haines and for me, in lives that were anything but normal. Daisy had fallen into the role of unofficial mentor for my own daughter as Emily had grown up – one who'd known all the tricks of coping with an absent father who led a double-life shrouded in secrecy.

But as ever, those fond recollections had become indelibly tainted. In my head, as I tried to relive those moments, I was perpetually stalked by the crushing, hopeless knowledge of what was to come; of blood on the pavement and a viciously senseless, needless waste of life.

Before that jagged sense of loss could fully harden into anger again, my phone buzzed with a message. Just one word: _Here!_

I stopped fighting and let my conditioning do its painkiller thing. The sadness faded to a dull ache, at first. Then, just a disconnected numbness.

After that, nothing.

I hurried down to the entrance hall, where a wall-mounted monitor relayed an image of a short, blonde-haired young woman outside – a view which, I recalled belatedly, I could have checked on my phone. In fact, the whole security system could be controlled wirelessly, including a remote unlock function that would have saved me the journey downstairs.

That had always seemed a little rude, to me. I unlocked the door manually and swung it open the old-fashioned way.

"Hi, Mr Thorne," Daisy smiled.

I smiled back, amused as ever by her use of the honorific. Haines had always been a stickler for manners, insisting that his children addressed visiting adults formally. Daisy was a long way past childhood, but I figured I'd always be 'Mr Thorne' to her.

"Come on in," I said, stepping aside for her.

As she squeezed past into the hall, I was reminded of how much she took after her father, whose short stature and stocky build had been at least partially responsible for his nickname: _Pitbull_. She'd missed out on her mother's delicate facial features, too, inheriting a little of Jon's heavy-set physiognomy instead. Yet whilst she was far from the embodiment of traditional femininity, she had an allure all of her own, thanks to eyes which constantly sparkled with energy and a megawatt smile that could brighten anyone's day. Jon was intensely proud of her, and rightly so. His daughter had grown into a formidable young woman.

I locked the door again behind us. Daisy came to a halt in the middle of the large entrance hall, mouth open, taking in the huge, spiral staircase which allowed light to flood down from the floors above. All around, open doors offered glimpses of the ground floor facilities; the luxuriously-appointed guest suites; the cinema room; the book-lined study... I'd almost got used to it. But it was, I had to admit, an impressive welcome to the house.

"Oh wow. Seriously, wow. How come you never told us you were _loaded_? I'd have been, like, begging you for stuff years ago. You know how tight Dad is."

"Hey, I don't own it. I just get to live here," I said, truthfully.

"Whatever, it's awesome. You have really good taste. You know, for a man."

We made our way upstairs to the living area, where I put some coffee on. Daisy slowly spun around in the huge space, taking in her surroundings.

"I can't believe you live in a place like this, now. I mean, your old house was nice but this is so... different."

"I kind of needed it to be, you know?"

She nodded silently in acknowledgement. I knew she understood the implication.

The Dulwich Village house I'd shared with my family had been much smaller; crammed with the antique furniture Jen had loved, a riot of mismatched patterns and colours that had felt warm and comforting, if a little claustrophobic at times. I'd barely set foot in the place after what happened. Too many memories. Too many reminders of what I'd lost. When Shelagh O'Brien had offered me permanent residence in the sparsely-furnished, modernist Putney house as part of my 'retirement' deal, I'd taken it immediately.

"Shall we get started?" I asked, suddenly wanting to move on.

"Sure. Jess, the missing girl. You want me to go talk to the sister, right? And then the girl whose party she went to?"

I'd given Daisy a brief rundown of events when I'd called her, but I figured she could do with a little more detail so I ran through what had happened when I spoke to Becky, and how I thought Daisy could help. She nodded along throughout, tapping notes on her phone, whilst I waited for the coffee to brew.

Once I'd outlined the plan for her, I gave her Katherine's address along with Shannon Macauley's details which I'd got from Desi Baxter earlier.

"Do they know I'm coming?" she queried.

"Uh... yeah," I replied.

I'd already called ahead to let them know. However, I hadn't been entirely truthful about who'd be paying them a visit.

"That didn't sound like a straightforward yeah, Mr Thorne."

I smiled at her perceptiveness.

"Well spotted. They _are_ expecting you. But... I did tell them you were one of the Met's specialist plain clothes investigators."

"Hmmkay. Let's hope they don't ask for ID then, right?"

"Just give them one of your winning smiles, and tell them you left your badge at the office."

She laughed. "Then run away quickly before they call the real police, yeah?"

I was about to respond, when my words died in my throat as a very unexpected noise echoed up from the entrance hall below. There aren't many sounds capable of filling me with immediate dread but right then, that one did. It was my supposedly-secure, locked front door being opened and then closed.

That was rapidly followed by another, even more ominous sound.

Heavy footsteps on the hallway floor.

### 14

12:08

The Strand, London, UK

Michael Williams was experiencing an unusual feeling.

That he was feeling anything at all was, in itself, unusual. But the fact that the feeling could, perhaps, be described as _disquietude_ , made it a positively singular event.

Williams didn't like it, at all.

He downed the remainder of his cognac – _Frapin Cuvée 1888_ this time – and placed the crystal snifter back on the silver tray beside him. He didn't usually drink during the day, but he'd thought it might calm his nerves. He'd thought wrong.

In one sense, his edginess was understandable. He was in another private room at the Etheridge Club, awaiting a visitor who might reasonably be expected to induce a certain element of trepidation. But Williams knew that wasn't the real reason for his unease. He'd upped his medication since hearing the voices again the previous Friday. But the horned figure with the blazing red eyes which had temporarily flickered into existence on The Strand earlier on – surrounded by a cloud of flitting, demonic black shapes – suggested that he'd need to make a further, more serious adjustment to his prescription.

The satanic hallucination had set him on edge. Mainly because it had taken him back a quarter of a century, to the last time it had appeared so clearly.

Williams breathed deeply, as the memories rose up again. The sixth-form camping trip to Snowdonia, hiking up the mountainside in the miserable wet mist. The mudslide. The sickening lurch beneath his feet, followed by the panicked, flailing tumble... then fingers gripping slick rock at the very edge of the precipice. That was where – as he'd clung on desperately for his life – he'd last seen the same horned figure, eyes burning red, reaching up for him.

Eventually, two other students had scrambled down and heroically hauled him back up to safety, mere seconds before he'd have slipped into the abyss.

He'd survived unscathed, in the end.

But not unchanged.

At eighteen, he'd been all-too-familiar with voices and visions. Their constant chatter had guided him as he'd blackmailed, extorted and coerced his way into forced liaisons with girls – or, when the whim took him, boys – who would otherwise never have gone near the lank, jittery freak with the ugly nose and the scary green eyes.

But the mountainside accident had left him determined to take control; to shake off the other inhabitants of his head. To rise above his _competitors_. He'd sought help. He'd been prescribed medication. And to his astonishment, within days the skittering, tormenting madness had faded away.

Williams smiled, as someone knocked politely on the door.

Banishing the visions and voices hadn't quelled the sadistic urges. If anything, it had brought them into sharper focus. Because when the medication had kicked in and stripped away the madness, it had been clear that his desire to inflict suffering had nothing to do with any mental disorder. He'd realised it was just... who he was. _What_ he was.

The door opened, and the club's manager entered.

"Mr Ramirez for you, sir."

The past faded rapidly from Williams' consciousness. With the arrival of his visitor, he needed all his attention on the present.

"Good. Show him in."

It took Williams a lot of effort to avoid staring, as the Mexican entered the room. In a cream suit, snakeskin boots and carrying a weight of gold adornments that surely ran into kilograms, Juan Ramirez Espinoza was a walking cliché of tasteless largesse.

But it wasn't his visitor's attire which captured Williams' eye. Instead, it was the thick, ugly vertical scar which indented the Mexican's forehead and ran down the right side his face; disappearing briefly behind gold-framed shades before cutting down his cheek through the rightmost edge of his moustache and on to his chin.

"Senor Williams, we meet at last."

Ramirez' voice was thick and gravelly. The product of years of cigarettes and dry air.

Williams extended his hand.

"My pleasure. Although I must say, I am not sure you needed to take time out of your busy schedule. Mr Perez has been most accommodating up until now."

Ramirez grasped Williams' hand firmly, and frowned slightly. Williams could not make out the man's eyes behind the dark glasses. But he knew he was being studied intently.

"Senor Perez is, ah, no longer with us. But perhaps you already know this, eh?" queried Ramirez.

Williams knew there had been rumours on the grapevine. Some kind of incident in South London, and a setback for the Mexicans. It was understandable that Ramirez might be suspicious.

"I had heard you were experiencing difficulties. But I was not aware that Mr Perez was involved. I am sorry to hear that."

Ramirez was still gripping Williams' hand. His grip intensified slightly, and he sniffed.

"He make big mistake, and pay for it. That is the way it works, in this business."

"Indeed. But surely there were others you could have sent? You did not need to indulge me with the pleasure of your company for us to conclude this transaction."

Ramirez smiled, and finally released Williams' hand.

"Maybe not. But this _face-to-face_ , is very important, no? Trust, it is everything. I need to see you. To, ah, look you in the eye, and see that you are no policeman."

With that, Ramirez reached up and removed the dark glasses. Once again, Williams found his eyes drawn to the scar. He could now see that it had bisected Ramirez' right eye socket and destroyed the eyeball. The man's remaining iris was black in the dimly-lit room. Williams looked into that eye, and thought that he saw something familiar: the same emotionless glaze that he saw in his own pale, green eyes every day.

"Mr Ramirez, I am many things but I am not, and never will be a policeman. The problem for you is that I _am_ a very accomplished liar. If I were a policeman, I'm sure I could convince you otherwise. I fear you may have wasted your time, after all."

Ramirez held Williams' gaze for a moment, then chuckled.

"I think maybe not, Senor Williams. Is not about lies, eh? I no doubt, you great liar. I also. We tell lies, every hour, every day. But, some things we cannot lie about. Things that we carry, deep inside us"

"And what do you think it is that I carry?"

Ramirez chuckled again.

"Heh. Nothing good, I hope. But that is what I am here to discover. I am... how you say? Old school, yes? I like to see the man I do business with. Hear his voice. Shake his hand."

"Fair enough," acknowledged Williams. "Please, have a seat. A drink perhaps?"

Ramirez waved away Williams' offer of the expensive cognac, and eased himself down in the chair.

"So, tell me," Ramirez began. "You are in property business. How you get started? Like me, you were not from rich family, no?"

"Not rich, no. But I... inherited some capital. Enough to get things off the ground."

"Inherited?"

"From my parents. Carbon monoxide poisoning. A terrible business."

Williams looked at Ramirez, and held his gaze. The Mexican nodded, contemplatively, then smiled in understanding.

"And after you start, it go well, yes?" Ramirez inquired.

"I did alright," Williams confirmed.

"Yet you keep low profile. Not public. You are not easy man to know. My men, they only find a few scraps online. Just that one newspaper article."

Williams knew exactly what Ramirez was referring to.

"The Mirror?"

"I not know which paper. Is the one which say, _Psycho Property Developer Ruined My Life_. I enjoy it anyway. Was all true, yes?"

Williams nodded.

"Your style, I like it, eh? Your tenants, they no pay. You say you evict them unless they go to bed with you. But then you add nice touch, I think. You film it then, how you say... ah, _black mail_ them with film to stay quiet, yes?" Ramirez laughed. "And then... then you evict them anyway."

Williams smiled coldly. The Mirror article had cost him a lot of money, to buy his way out of prosecution. He'd learned from that, and been more careful from then on.

"They had something I wanted. I had something they needed. Just business. _Quid pro quo._ "

Ramirez pursed his lips, then sat back in his seat and regarded Williams thoughtfully, as if considering how to proceed. He scratched his chin, fingering the indentation of the scar.

"Maybe we can do little _quid pro quo_ as well," he said, nodding slowly.

Williams frowned slightly.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, your suppliers, they can still get you the product, yes? They just not like what you do with it."

Williams nodded cautiously.

"And their supply, it come from Russia? East Europe?"

"Mainly, yes."

"But sometimes from here as well, no?"

"Sometimes. Although they present certain operational difficulties."

"Si, si," Ramirez agreed. "But nice, clean, pale English product, they fetch _muchos pesos_ in certain places. They are, how you say, ah... status symbol? A man who possess one, he command much respect. We shall trade, yes?"

Williams frowned, and shook his head. What Ramirez was suggesting was not remotely appealing.

"I told you before. That is not how my suppliers work. They much prefer rental, not sales. That is why I am coming to you."

Ramirez laughed unpleasantly again.

"Oh, very good. I like that. Rental, not sales. Well, Senor Williams, you can tell them they are going to have to change their business model. Because rental, it not work for me."

"I am not sure that is going to be possible."

"I don't think you understand, Senor Williams. You will _make_ it possible, for me."

Williams said nothing. The tension in the room clicked up a notch.

Ramirez lowered his voice.

"You not seriously doubt me?"

Williams held his gaze and shrugged, still saying nothing.

"You know, eh, what happened to last man who doubted me?" Ramirez hissed.

Williams kept his gaze on Ramirez. He blinked once, and the horned figure flashed into his vision. It wore Ramirez' face.

Then the Mexican laughed out loud, and clapped his hands in apparent appreciation of Williams' impassive response to his threats.

"Ah, I joke with you Senor Williams. Please forgive me. I have to know I do business with man who cannot be... how you say? Intimidated. But I am serious with offer, yes? You get your suppliers to find me some nice, clean, English _pollo_ and I get you some dirty disposables in return."

Williams looked unconvinced. He _was_ unconvinced.

"I no need many," Ramirez continued, clearly sensing Williams' reluctance. "Is not big market. I take four, five maybe? And for them, I make it worth your while."

"I'm not sure that you _can_ make it worth my while," Williams said, although if Ramirez really did only need a handful then that made a difference. He'd just have to persuade the Lithuanians to accept a few more 'purchase' deals in the short-term, and then Ramirez would offer an endless, long-term supply of disposable unfortunates to sell to his Etheridge Club clients at truly exorbitant rates.

Ramirez watched him for a moment, then shrugged.

"Why not let us find out? Perhaps, now is time to discuss the details, eh?"

"Perhaps it is," Williams agreed.

Ramirez clapped his hands, again. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

"Well, good! They say, ah, the devil, he is in the detail, no? Let us see if we can find him!"

Williams smiled. He didn't think they'd have to look too hard, in this deal.

### 15

12:09

Putney, London, UK

My brain had only just gone into full-threat mode when a male voice called up from the hall.

"Thorne? You seriously shouldn't run all that smart home security shit on wi-fi. I just sat on the drive and cracked it in, like, thirty seconds."

It was a voice I recognised, and my threat-response instinct stood down. I breathed a sigh of relief, and signalled to a confused Daisy that it was okay.

"Come on up, Lyle," I called, wearily.

The sound of footsteps echoed up the open staircase and Aron Lyle emerged into the living area. He was, by all accounts, a highly attractive male specimen. I thought he looked ridiculous, but I was probably just too old to understand. His fake near-orange tan and bleached hair – meticulously coiffed into what was undoubtedly a fashionable style – gave him the look of a reality TV star. The obscenely expensive designer jeans, open-necked shirt and brand-name sneakers did nothing to contradict that image. When combined with the copious quantity of gold he wore, they broadcast his wealth in the most conspicuous way possible.

Somewhat predictably, I noted that his attention was captivated by Daisy straight away.

"Hey _bro_ ," Lyle said, looking briefly at me with a leer which managed to communicate both surprise and respect that I should be found in the presence of a much younger woman. "You didn't say you had _company_."

He turned back to Daisy. "Hello, gorgeous."

My heart sank, as Lyle made an exaggerated theatrical bow. Combined with a shirt unbuttoned one-too-may at the top, the motion revealed what appeared to be an Olympic-sized gold medallion on a neck chain. I could only assume it was worn ironically, but where Lyle was concerned you could never be sure.

"Aron Lyle at your service. Most people just call me Lyle. But babe, _you_ can call me _tonight_ ..."

I had hoped he might hold off on his ridiculous act, but clearly he was now going to embarrass himself. And me, for that matter. Daisy made an incredulous face, and looked at me for guidance. All I could do was shrug back at her.

"Uh, Daisy Haines, meet Aron Lyle," I said. "He's the one who's going to be looking at Jess's laptop."

Daisy looked doubtful as I turned back to Lyle with a warning. "And she's helping us with the investigation, so pack it in and behave. You might also want to take particular note of that surname. Haines. H-a-i-n-e-s," I spelled out.

"Hey, I think I saw that one in the thesaurus... isn't that another word for _beautiful_?" Lyle replied, grinning at Daisy and clearly oblivious to the connection I wanted him to make.

Daisy rolled her eyes. So did I.

"No, Lyle," I interjected. "It's another word for carry-on-like-this-and-her-father-will-tear-off-your-balls-and-shove-them-up-your-arse. It's Haines as in Jon Haines. Jon _Pitbull_ Haines. Remember?"

Lyle's tan suddenly looked a little less golden.

"Uh, right," he stumbled. "Um... nice to meet you anyway..."

Daisy laughed out loud at his discomfiture.

"You too," she said, shaking her head before turning to me. "If we're done here, then I'll be off. It'll take me a while to get up there, so I'll leave you and medallion-man to do what you need to do."

"Call me once you've spoken to Katherine and Becky," I suggested.

"Will do. See you later," Daisy smiled back, and headed for the stairs.

Lyle turned to watch her go. I noted the direction of his eyes as Daisy walked across the living room in jeans that I suspected had taken her a fair amount of effort to get into. I sighed. He really was impossible.

"You seriously need to grow up, Lyle."

He shook his head, looking thoughtful. "Kinda heavy-looking, sort of a rugby player vibe going on, no makeup so defo not even trying, yet still I'm thinkin' _cute as_. How does that even work, bruv?"

"Maybe because you think anything in tight trousers is cute? It's tiresome. Anyway, leave Daisy out of your nonsense. She's worth more than that," I warned.

Lyle gave me a suspicious look, then grinned.

"Ahhh, I get it," he said with an expression that suggested he really didn't. "Nice work, my man. I mean, she must be what? Half your age? Bro, you still a player..."

"You know full well that's not what I meant," I interrupted.

"Really? Well, if you ain't playin' then step aside, bruv."

"Give it up, Lyle. She's not your type," I warned.

Lyle laughed. "Yeah, I'll give you that. I bet she ain't even on Insta, right? But dude, she got a certain something goin' on, you know what I'm sayin'?"

"For the love of God, pack it in! Have you ever actually considered good old-fashioned respect rather than... lechery?"

He just stared back, blankly.

I sighed, in defeat. "Stupid question, right? Anyway, forget Daisy, you've got work to do. The laptop's on the worktop over there. You can get started straight away," I instructed.

"Uh... not happening bro. I can't work here. Not with you watching over my shoulder."

Arguing was only going to waste more time.

"Alright, if it bothers you that much, you can go get set up in the basement office. Do you need a hand carrying anything in from the car?"

"No way, man. You ain't touching my shit. Stressy-head like you prolly got enough static to fry it all just looking at it, innit."

"Fine, do it yourself," I sighed. "You want a coffee?"

"Too right, I do," he confirmed as he started to make his way back down the stairs to fetch his equipment. He couldn't resist one more parting shot as he went.

"Some tosser woke me up at ridiculous-o-clock this morning, don't forget..."

I fought a momentary urge to follow him downstairs and beat him to death with his own sneakers, then put the coffee pot on again. Aron Lyle had always been annoying, vain and juvenile. But the work he'd done over the years had saved countless lives, and in truth he'd probably done as much as I ever had to keep the nation safe. Given his achievements, he could even be considered – to coin a phrase rarely used in a country wrapped up in post-empire guilt – a _patriot_.

That was fortunate. For him, at least. If he hadn't have been, I was pretty sure I'd have killed him years before.

### 16

15:42 (GMT+3:30)

Zafaraniyeh District, Tehran, Iran

Deputy Commander Musa Majidi finished off the last of his _Abgousht Bozbash_. He was having a late lunch with his wife, Farinoush, in an upscale restaurant which had been closed to all other patrons for his exclusive use. As usual, Farinoush had used their time together to complain incessantly about his lack of attention to her and to their daughter. Still, it had been a welcome distraction from the increasing tension and stress that accompanied his job.

As his aide Abdallah approached the table and coughed discreetly, Majidi suspected the distraction was over.

"What is it?" Majidi inquired.

"Telephone, sir."

"I told you, I was not to be disturbed."

"Yes, sir," said Abdallah, unfazed by the reprimand. "It is Amir Nazari."

Majidi tingled with excitement. Surely he hadn't managed to get Thorne already? He reached for the phone, glancing at his wife.

"No, you go ahead," she said wearily. "I mean, I am only your wife. I'm sure you have far more important people requiring your attention."

Majidi suppressed his anger at her defiance in front of Abdallah.

"Yes, you are right," he said. "I have."

With that, he grabbed the phone and got up to walk down to the other end of the deserted restaurant.

"Have you got him yet?"

"Ah... no, sir. I apologise for the intrusion. But I need to run something past you," Nazari replied.

"Go on."

"Thorne has visitors. We think one of them may be his daughter."

"Did you not read his file?" Majidi challenged. "It is not his daughter. She is dead. So is his wife."

"I did read his file, sir. But with respect, up until last week, everybody thought _he_ was dead, too."

"Yes, well, we didn't even know his real name until then, either. And the information is quite clear. Bruce Thorne's wife and daughter were killed three years ago."

"Sir, whoever she is, she may be a valuable asset in persuading him to come quietly. We could use her as leverage."

"What? Absolutely not! I thought I made that clear to you already. If you start involving innocent parties, the authorities will start digging. And if they find out we are running around doing harm to British citizens then everything the President has done to fool them into thinking we are all friends now, will be undone."

"But sir..."

"Listen to me, Nazari. You are going to make Thorne disappear _without trace_ , without attracting any kind of attention through... collateral damage. Understood?"

Majidi waited for confirmation. It took longer than it should have done. But he needed Nazari, so he tolerated the impudence.

"Understood, sir," came the eventual, reluctant, response.

"Was that all?"

"Uh, no, sir. There may be some other interest in Thorne. Someone on a dirt bike, arrived shortly after he got back. They slowed right down as they went past his house, obviously looking at it, then roared off."

Majidi swore.

"What? Why didn't you tell me that before? You cannot allow anyone else to interfere with this operation. I could think of a hundred people around the world who want him dead, but he is of no use to me in a casket. I need the information he holds in his head. You must not allow anyone to get in your way. Anyone!"

"But sir. What if they are British citizens?"

"Who?"

"Well, the rider following him, for starters. He might be British. We are in London, after all."

"Are you trying to be clever with me?"

"No sir. Of course not. But, with respect, sir. You said that no harm was to come to any British citizens."

Majidi sighed. "Yes, you're right. I did. Well, you can make an exception for anyone who is after Thorne. If that's the case, they're hardly likely to be characters whom the Brits will care too much about."

"Sir. Does that exception include... termination?"

"If you have no other choice. Just make sure you don't leave a trail."

"Understood, sir. There is one other thing."

"What?"

"We still cannot track Thorne by his phone. I was hoping you might be able to, ah, expedite that for us."

"Has Asadi not got back to you yet?"

"No, sir."

"Then I will ensure that he gives the matter his full attention."

"Thank you, sir. Once we have that, I believe we will be ready to proceed."

"You have a plan?"

"Yes, sir. Thorne left the house earlier on, and I was able to gain access to his driveway. It is set back from the road, with trees all around, and there is an underground garage. We will wait until he leaves again, disable the automatic door, then take him on the ramp to the garage when he returns. We can get him inside and out of sight rapidly, then prepare him for transport."

"Prepare him?"

"From the information you gave, we will need to... _disable_ him if we are to get him on the plane safely."

"Very good. Just don't go too far with the disabling. Like I said, he's no use to me dead."

"Of course, sir."

Majidi' attention was momentarily diverted, as an executive limousine pulled up outside the restaurant.

"And don't delay. I need him soon, Nazari."

"Yes, sir. There are a number of fortunate circumstances which mean we could potentially act later today."

"Ah, fortunate circumstances. I could do with a few more of them around here," Majidi replied as he watched the occupant of the limousine exit the car and make his way towards the restaurant. It was a man he recognised, from the Ministry of Defence and Armed Forces Logistics.

"Very well," he continued. "Keep me informed."

Majidi hung up and handed the phone back to Abdallah.

His wife was studiously ignoring him as she finished her meal. He'd have to deal with her later. Right then, he knew he was going to have to answer more urgent questions from the man who was just about to enter the restaurant.

He'd have to be careful, and ensure he gave the right answers to those questions. He needed to keep the wolves from his door a while longer, yet.

### 17

13:37

Putney, London, UK

Waiting really isn't one of my strengths.

I'm sure there's an art to it, but it's an art I've never managed to master. Not like some people. My former comrade Reinhold Reid, for one. He could just drop into a state of zen-like calm, his body almost _exuding_ a sense of utter stillness, for hour after hour. It's a very useful trick to possess, especially if you happen to be a sniper behind enemy lines.

But me? I can't do _zen-like_.

Faced with a lack of external stimuli, my brain goes into overdrive. That was why, as I waited for Lyle to finish examining the laptop, I found myself pacing around my living area. The physical motion was an attempt to distract me from conjuring up unhelpful scenarios involving Ramirez and the Brunswick Brothers. I'd already decided that there was no realistic possibility of them tracking me down any time soon. Still, on the way back from Wood Green, passing through Mick Doughty's old territory around Blackfriars Station on my motorcycle, I'd felt an unwelcome shiver of scopaesthesia; of eyes on me.

The letterbox rattled downstairs, momentarily taking my mind off the situation. The post had arrived at an opportune moment. Sifting through what was sure to be a pile of junk would at least give me something productive to do for a minute.

I'd made it half-way down the stairs, when my phone rang. When I saw it was Daisy calling, all thoughts of letter-opening disappeared.

"Hey. Any luck with Becky?" I asked, a little more urgently than I'd intended.

"Yeah, sort of," she replied. "At least, I think I know why she was being evasive with you, anyway."

"Oh?"

"She's... well, let's just say that she's not exactly the innocent sixteen-year old, Mr Thorne."

That wasn't really a surprise, but it didn't make hearing it any easier.

"I'm not sure I want to know the details, but go on..."

"She said that Jess had gone all weird recently. Got really protective, you know, which was unusual because they didn't really get along. Anyway, Jess had apparently told Becky to stick some tape over the webcam on her laptop, and be really careful who she spoke to online. She made Becky promise to do that, and also made her swear not to tell their mother anything about it."

That didn't sound good.

"Did Becky say why?"

"She figured her sister was into something bad, but Jess wouldn't tell her what it was. Just that she was taking care of it herself and that whatever happened, Becky mustn't say anything because that would mess everything up."

I found myself struggling with the idea that Becky would have kept that from the police.

"What, and Becky just thought it was okay to say nothing? Even after her sister disappeared?"

"Uh, not _okay_ exactly," said Daisy. "She did have other reasons. If she told the police, or her mother, then she thought they'd take her laptop and her phone to examine."

Anger spiked briefly at Becky's lack of concern for her sister and her apparent petty selfishness.

"Seriously? Just because she couldn't do without her gadgets..."

"Uh no, that wasn't really it," Daisy explained. "It was more about her not wanting anyone else seeing stuff she had stored on them."

"Stuff?"

"She didn't say exactly, but I kinda worked out it was, you know... private stuff. Messages, photos, videos, that sort of thing."

"Ah, right," I mumbled, awkwardly, realising too late what she meant.

"So how did you get her to tell you, then?" I said, changing the subject. "I mean, she'd never have let on to me about that."

"I think she was ready to tell someone anyway, to be fair. She was pretty mixed up about everything." Daisy paused, before continuing. "I think it helped that I wasn't 'some guy my mum knows with scary eyes' though."

It took me a moment to recognise the description Daisy was relaying.

"Right," I said. "Well, we've got a whole new angle on Jess disappearing, anyway. And it's not an angle I like, at all."

"You mean, Jess might not have actually wanted to go, wherever it is she went?"

"Exactly that," I confirmed reluctantly.

"Has your _friend_ found anything on the laptop yet?"

"Lyle? I don't know. I've left him to it down in the basement. But it sounds like there should definitely be something on there, from what you've said."

"Let's hope so," Daisy said. "I'm on my way up to Arnos Grove next. What should I be asking Shannon Macaulay?"

I considered what she might be able to find out. "We need to know what Jess was doing at that party, and who she was with. Now we know she might not have been running away by choice, there has to be a lead there, somewhere."

"Okay, sure. I'll see what I can do."

I thanked Daisy, then hung up and cursed loudly at my own stupidity. I'd been lured by the easy option. Instead of keeping an open mind, I'd allowed myself to believe that Jess had run away voluntarily, simply because it was the most likely scenario. I really should have known better, given that I'd engineered plenty of _un_ likely scenarios myself in the past. And those scenarios had rarely ended well for the people involved.

Still, the self-recrimination would have to wait. The post downstairs would have to wait, too.

I really needed to find out what the hell was taking Lyle so long with that laptop.

### 18

13:45

Walworth, London, UK

Pat O'Connor sat alone at the breakfast table of what had been Mick Doughty's kitchen, looking around at the expensive fittings and furniture.

He wasn't exactly sure who the legal owner was now, but for the time being the dead man's luxurious house – barely a mile from the scrapyard – was his. The detached two-storey building was an awkwardly-obvious pinprick of opulence amidst the grimy terraces and high-rise blocks which surrounded it. Given the current misfortunes afflicting the Brothers, he suspected it wouldn't be long before the vultures began circling. Word spread fast.

That was why he'd already acted quickly to regain some semblance of control. His men had been recalled from their futile attempts to discover the truth of what had gone down in Streatham. Instead, O'Connor had brought them back to the scrapyard, where they'd worked hard to clean up the considerable mess which Ramirez had left. By the time they'd finished, the signs of the morning's massacre were mostly gone, including the bodies. He suspected that there would be a few unpleasant surprises turning up downstream in the Thames at some point.

After that, he'd put up a six-figure reward to whoever managed to deliver Liam Rourke to him alive. That kind of cash had sent the men scurrying away on the double. All around the country, O'Connor's lieutenants would be doing the same: posting Rourke's image everywhere, subcontracting where necessary to cover towns and areas where the Brunswick Brothers didn't have so much of a presence.

It was still going to be a needle-in-haystack job to find the man. But, as his mother had been fond of saying, sometimes little pricks turned up in the most unexpected bales of straw.

O'Connor poured himself another scotch from the bottle that he'd retrieved from Doughty's living room. The man had lived alone, and whilst O'Connor wasn't keen on the tasteless artwork and pointless gadgets which filled the house, he did appreciate the fully-stocked drinks cabinet. He took a sip, then decided to drain the glass completely. Availing himself of the dead man's hospitality was taking some of the edge off his anxiety, as well as dulling some of the pain from his ruined face.

He looked up as Kevin Flaherty – his driver and, after events at the scrapyard, his new bodyguard – came in to the kitchen with a phone in his hand. The man had been on a petrol run that morning and had missed the action. O'Connor knew the smouldering anger in his expression resulted from the loss of Rooney and Thompson, who'd been lifelong friends.

"Got another one for you, boss."

O'Connor knew that he meant another supposed sighting of Rourke. They'd already been coming in thick and fast, from all around the country. Unfortunately, they'd all proved to be timewasters so far.

"Not another chancer after the reward money?"

His voice was stuffy and bunged-up; the result of his shattered nose, which had been hastily bandaged and was still seeping blood.

"No, boss. It's one of ours," Flaherty clarified. "Well, Doughty's, but you know what I mean. Kid called Langton. Pays us tax on a distraction operation he runs out of Blackfriars Station."

"What's he got?"

"Says he's got Rourke's address. Seems pretty confident."

"How the hell has he got that?" O'Connor asked. He'd had enough of bullshitters already, and word had only been out a few hours.

"Reckons he spotted Rourke's motorbike. Said he'd seen it before when he'd visited Doughty, and it's definitely the same machine. Some custom job dressed up as a courier bike apparently. Anyway, the exhaust note attracted his attention when it went past the station earlier, then he followed it down to a house in Putney."

O'Connor mulled that over. It didn't sound particularly promising.

"So he knows the bike. So what? I don't give a toss about the bike. Does he know it was Rourke riding it?"

"Uh, no, boss. Guy had a full face helmet. But Langton said whoever it was, they knew how to handle the bike. He reckoned anyone else might have struggled with the machine."

"Okay," O'Connor accepted. "And how does he know that house is actually where this guy lives?"

"The biker had a remote for the garage door. Went down the ramp, straight into the basement, without stopping. If it's not his house, then it's someone he knows well enough."

"And Rourke – if it is him – is still in the house?"

"Yeah, so the kid says. He's stayed there, keeping watch just round the corner. No sign of anyone leaving."

"And he wasn't spotted?"

"Dunno, boss. You want to ask him yourself?" O'Connor could tell Flaherty was getting frustrated at all the questions. He didn't appreciate the man letting it show, however.

"No, just get me the address."

"Uh, yeah, that's the thing... he won't talk to me. He's been calling anyone and everyone since this morning, saying he needs to talk to you, and only you. He wants to know about the money."

O'Connor rolled his eyes, but gestured to Flaherty to hand him the phone.

"Listen to me Langton, you little bollix, you've got ten seconds to give me that address before I add your name to the list of people who are going to end up at the bottom of the Thames this week."

There was a slight pause. "Sorry, uh, Mister O'Connor. I just needed to know about my share of the hundred kay... hear it straight from you, like."

O'Connor frowned, but he had to give the kid some credit for sticking to his guns. He'd have done the same himself.

"You'll get your money, when we get our man. If this guy you've tailed really is Liam Rourke and my men bring him in, then you'll get your cut. Split it between all of you, equal, like. Can't say fairer than that. Alright? Now you give my man Mr Flaherty here that address, and I'll send someone down there to check it out."

O'Connor handed the phone back to Flaherty, and watched him make a note of the address before hanging up on Langton.

"Kid's gonna stay and watch until we get there."

"We?" O'Connor questioned. " _We_ are not going anywhere. I can't afford to be running around on every wild goose chase that comes in. Get hold of Riley, tell him to grab one of the others and they can get down there to check this guy out. I want a photo, so I can see for myself. If he's our man, then they can make a plan to grab him. If not, then they can kick the shit out of Langton, and then get back on the search."

"Okay, boss," Flaherty acknowledged, allowing some reluctance to show in his voice.

"What?" O'Connor asked, getting increasingly annoyed with the apparent questioning of his authority.

"Uh, aren't we wasting our time? You don't think Rourke might have, like, left the country or something by now?"

O'Connor glared at Flaherty, but didn't snap. It was, after all, a reasonable question. Instead, he sighed.

"For sure, he _might_. He might be at the bottom of the Thames, too, or on the bloody moon. Can't worry about that, Kev. But if he's somewhere in this green and unpleasant land, then I want him found. I _need_ him found. Is that clear?"

Flaherty nodded, seemingly placated by the response.

"Of course, boss."

O'Connor watched him leave the kitchen. Flaherty had been a loyal, unquestioning underling for years. Yet it had only taken two days to start to unpick some of that ingrained respect. O'Connor knew that wasn't a good sign.

He looked for the thousandth time at the photograph of Liam Rourke which lay on the table in front of him. It had been recovered from the missing man's apartment; a framed memento that had turned up when his men had ransacked Rourke's pad for clues. The eyes in the image seemed to bore into O'Connor, across space and time. He was reminded of the stories Doughty had told him, about the minder's capabilities. Was Rourke really a traitor who'd sold them all out? Or was O'Connor hunting down a man who could still be a useful ally?

He decided it didn't matter either way. What was done was done. All that mattered was getting Rourke to Ramirez, so the filthy Mexican bastard would leave O'Connor's family intact.

He pulled out his phone and checked for messages. He'd got word to all of his children, except his son Eddie. That wasn't unusual. Eddie was a busy man, running the Brunswick Brothers operations in Manchester. He was an established player in his own right, but O'Connor knew he wouldn't have a chance against Ramirez if the Mexican sent a team up there. O'Connor had left two messages and sent several texts already. He stared at the screen, willing it to show something – anything – to indicate that Eddie was safe.

Nothing came.

### 19

13:51

Putney, London, UK

Nobody has ever called me a nerd, or a geek, or a dweeb.

Of all the derogatory remarks which have been directed towards me over the years, that particular subset of epithets has always been notable by its absence. My limited understanding of technology operates on a _need-to-know_ basis. If it isn't something that I absolutely need to know, then I won't waste effort on trying to understand it.

That was why I found myself getting increasingly frustrated, as I paced around my office listening to Lyle telling me what he'd discovered from Jess's laptop.

I had no interest in bit-perfect copies of hard-drives being mounted in virtual machines. I did not need to know about file-recovery tools being used to locate and recompile deleted files. I had no desire to expand my understanding of custom-written data-miners using credentials ripped from a browser's password manager to trawl social media accounts for key words.

Especially as, on this occasion, all of that combined trickery had apparently yielded nothing other than a few tame selfies, a thousand inane online posts about nothing and a mind-numbingly _safe_ list of visited websites.

Before I had chance to interject, Lyle moved on to how he'd given up on the laptop and turned his attention to the government's vast data vaults instead, most of which he'd already back-doored using his own personal library of self-discovered 'zero-day' exploits. Once in, he'd configured a search to scan GCHQ's comprehensive archive of social media accounts for _deleted_ posts, then fed in Jess's profile names.

I still had no idea what any of that really meant. But it had, at least, got results.

The scan had revealed a young male individual who'd sent a range of worrying messages to Jess that he'd since deleted. The messages indicated that he'd used blackmail to coerce her into meeting him. He'd also concealed his IP address – the unique identifier that would reveal his identity – using a series of proxy servers which would take Lyle hours to unpick. I didn't know what a proxy server was, but I wasn't impressed with the timescale.

"Is that it? You don't have any other way of identifying him?" I asked, as Lyle finally stopped talking.

"Come on bruv," he replied, sounding hurt. "Just pausing for breath, innit. Sure, those proxies were gonna take ages to hack, but I took a different route. Facial recognition, baby."

That was at least a term I understood.

"Oh, right," I said.

"Oh right, is right. Privacy's already dead, but that tech is just dancing on its grave, man. I fed in his profile pic to a couple of Her Majesty's search engines and boom! There he was."

"You got a hit on his face?" I queried, somewhat redundantly.

"Yep. PNC, no less. They be looking for him too, bro."

My heart sank. Lyle was suggesting that the face had been matched to records on the Police National Computer. If we were looking at a wanted man, things had just gone from bad to worse to disastrous.

"Oh, that's not good," I said, as my brain started racing through all the implications for Jess. "What's his sheet?"

Lyle held up his hand and smiled.

"Hold on, man. He _is_ wanted by the police, but not in that way. He's a _missing person_ , as well."

I ran that sentence through my head again, and it still didn't make any sense.

"Huh?" was all I could manage in response.

"Yeah, that was kinda what I thought, too," agreed Lyle. "But it's true. Kid's nineteen. Real name, Nathan Jon Fennec. Originally from Dartford but went off to uni at Reading, then just stopped turning up one day four months ago. Nobody knows why. All his stuff had gone from his room, so the cops ruled out abduction. But there's been no contact with family and friends. He just upped and disappeared."

"So what, he's decided to take up a career abducting young girls?" I asked, before being struck by another thought. "What was he studying at uni?"

"Computer science..." Lyle said, with a quizzical look.

I groaned. "Oh, great. Another lunatic loner on the loose."

"Hey, knock it off bro, with your stupid preconceptions." To his credit, Lyle looked genuinely offended. "Have you seen him? He's a good-looking guy, like you and me, man..." he paused. "Well, like you _used_ to be, but whatever. He don't look like abductor material anyway, if you get my drift."

I stared at the image which was displayed on one of the screens. Lyle was right: Fennec didn't look like he'd have too much difficulty attracting female attention. I also realised the image could be put to good use elsewhere.

"Send me that image, now," I instructed Lyle. "I can send it to Daisy, and she can show it to the girl at Arnos Grove. See if he was at the party."

Lyle smirked. "Or you could just give _me_ Miss Haines' number and I could send it myself..."

I stared at Lyle for long enough to make him realise that would not be happening.

He shrugged. "Hey, don't hate me for trying. Sending it to you now."

Within seconds my phone buzzed with a picture message. I tapped a few words of explanation and forwarded it on to Daisy, hoping it would reach her in time.

"Okay," I said. "So we know who he is. What's the next step in finding _where_ he is? The police haven't found him in four months."

"Come on, bruv. I ain't the police. I ain't got their limitations. I'll get some scans running now, and see if his face gets caught on camera somewhere. Then I'll get cracking on those proxies."

That gave me an idea of something else we could do to get a lead on Fennec.

"Listen, you can get into the Met's CCTV system, right?" I asked.

"Sure. First place I'll go for footage to start checking his face against. Not like it's hard to get in, anyway. I mean, no offence like, but coppers ain't exactly the sharpest when it comes to data security." He chuckled. "They can't even keep the French out."

"The French?" I queried, not understanding the reference.

Lyle looked at me curiously. "Yeah, man. Thought _you'd_ have heard about that. There was a right old shitstorm about it last week. DGSE got caught hacking the camera system. Downloaded terabytes of footage, apparently. Prolly just spying on all the cuties sunbathing in Hyde Park..."

I shook my head in despair. Every technological step forward seemed to be accompanied by a depressingly-inevitable two steps back.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Anyway, can you get something from last Friday? We know the cameras caught Jess at various places that evening."

"Sure, man, but what for? You gonna look through it all yourself? Why bother when I'm gonna scan it for Fennec's face anyway?"

"Because you're only looking for Fennec. What if there's someone else involved? Someone we don't know about, yet. I'm sick of playing catch-up on this, Lyle. I want to get ahead of the game."

Lyle offered a fleeting look of respect, then turned to his computer again.

"Okay, on it now. I can do better than just the Met though. Gotta be tons of private cams out there, and half of them don't even need cracking, they're wide open. Bound to have been one pointing out of a window or something, innit. Give me a few minutes, and I'll have some stuff downloading for you."

I went to watch what he was doing, and he glanced over his shoulder.

"No, I said give me a few minutes, bro. As in, not standing behind me and creeping me out. Go make me another coffee, seeing as I'm here for the day, now."

I glared at him, suppressing a familiar urge to wrap my hands around his neck.

Lyle just smirked back, shaking his head. "Bro, seriously. You need my help. So put mister-strangly-face back in his box and go get me some caffeine."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, fingers clenching hard, then gave up and headed back upstairs. As I passed through the entrance hall, I finally got round to collecting what had come through the letterbox earlier on. I flicked through the items as I continued up to the living area to make the coffee. It was mostly junk, but there was one hand-written brown envelope which caught my attention. I recognised the writing, although I couldn't think from where.

I dropped the junk in the kitchen bin, leaving the brown envelope on the worktop whilst I set the coffee machine going. Before I could return to open it, my phone rang.

"Hey, Mr Thorne. I think we might have a problem."

That wasn't the conversation starter I'd been hoping for from Daisy.

"What have you got?" I asked, cautiously.

"So, that Nathan Fennec guy you just texted me? The one Lyle found on Jess's profiles? That was what did it. Shannon was all cagey and difficult until your message came through and I showed her the picture. Then she just kinda broke down."

"She recognised him?"

"Yeah. Said he was definitely at the party. And he was basically blackmailing her to stay quiet about it. She said he had some video of her dad doing something, ah, embarrassing, in front of his computer. Fennec just straight out threatened her with it. Said that if she told anyone that he'd been there, then he'd send that video to everyone she knew."

"Nice," I said. Nathan Fennec was shaping up to be a rather nasty piece of work, I thought. "Does she know him, then?"

"No, not at all. Said he just messaged her before the party out of the blue, saying he was going to be there, and it all went from there. That's not all, though. She said he turned up at the party with a girl."

"Right... so Jess was definitely with him, then?"

"No, that's the thing. It wasn't Jess he turned up with. It was some other girl, who Shannon hadn't even seen before."

"What?" I said, confused.

"Yeah, exactly. Doesn't make sense, does it?"

"No, that makes precisely no sense whatsoever," I confirmed.

"Shannon said that Nathan and this girl arrived and went straight upstairs. She didn't see them all night. Then she went up to check on them when everyone was leaving, and they'd gone. So she just assumed that they wanted somewhere to, you know, get together. Said she thought it was a bit desperate having to threaten her, but Shannon never thought it had anything to do with Jess. Until I showed her the picture."

"Did you get a description of her? This girl, I mean."

"Yeah, not that it was much good. Shannon said she was blonde, pretty and about the same age as her and Jess."

I said nothing, trying instead to make sense of what I'd just heard. I failed.

"What do you want me to do next?" Daisy asked.

The question caught me off guard. I hadn't considered her doing anything other than speaking to the two girls.

"Next? Uh, I think you've given up enough of your time already, thanks. You head back home and I'll let you know how we get on."

"Hey, I'm not quitting now. I know I don't even know her, but I'm actually worried about Jess. I want to help."

"Well... I suppose if you really don't mind, then you could come back here and help me look through some CCTV footage. I don't understand, if Fennec was at the party, why Jess was seen leaving on her own. The police must have missed something."

"Sure. I'll head back to you, then."

I hung up, and finished making Lyle's coffee. Before taking it down to him, I glanced at the envelope on the work surface again, my curiosity prickling. But I resisted the temptation to open it. I really needed to keep my focus on Jess.

The envelope's contents would have to wait until later.

Much later, probably.

### 20

15:20

Chelsea, London, UK

Juan Ramirez Espinoza frowned at the small pile of printouts which had been placed on the antique desk in front of him.

He was back in the luxurious rented mansion which served as his London base of operations. But the beautiful surroundings were doing little to ease his frustration, as he flicked rapidly through the printed text and images.

"Esto es todo?" _Is this everything?_

Jorge Munoz, who'd been responsible for providing the information, nodded calmly in response.

"Senor Williams is exceptionally careful. His online presence is very well curated. I gave you the major discoveries before your meeting, sir. There really wasn't much more to find."

Ramirez sniffed and regarded Munoz, who stood patiently in front of the desk. He trusted the man. They'd worked together for years, since Ramirez had fought his way back from the disaster in Nuevo Laredo.

"Alright. Williams may be careful, but his associates may not be. We know where he lives. Put a tail on him, and see who he meets. They may have interesting stories to tell."

Munoz nodded cautiously.

"I will send Rojas and Sandoval. But if they find someone... I may need to go a little further than an internet search, to get those stories."

"Go as far as you need to, Jorge," Ramirez instructed.

Munoz smiled, understanding the implications.

"They can take a Range Rover?"

"Of course," Ramirez nodded. "Take the chopper, if you need to move fast. Our man across the river at the Heliport has it standing by. Whatever you need."

Munoz headed off and Ramirez returned his attention to the printouts. There really wasn't a lot to go on. A handful of images tagged at social events, some records from Companies House about Williams' legitimate business, and a scanned-in story from a regional newspaper going back a quarter of a century to when Williams had apparently survived a freak accident on a school trip.

The old scan briefly captured his attention. Unlike the nondescript man Ramirez had met earlier that day, the teenaged Williams possessed a very prominent, unattractive nose. Evidently, there'd been some expensive plastic surgery since then. Ramirez frowned briefly, realising that one of the other teens in the picture also looked strangely familiar. He shook his head, unable to say why. Probably just a passing resemblance to some 80s-movie star he couldn't quite place.

He pushed the printouts away, his thoughts already returning to his earlier meeting with Williams. He'd been reassured that the property developer wasn't an undercover policeman. Consequently, Ramirez had already acted on their deal by sweetening an arrangement he was making with Diego Diaz, a Colombian cocaine supplier. The promise of a clean, white, Western 'personal assistant' for Diaz had been enough to halve the price the Colombian was charging, in return for such a status symbol. That was going to help Ramirez make up for the profits lost at Streatham.

Just so long as Williams came through for him.

Ramirez considered that eventuality. He was still not convinced it would come to pass. He couldn't shake the idea that maybe Williams had been connected in some way to the disaster at Streatham. There was an inescapable logic to that theory, given how it had placed Ramirez in an unfavourable position ahead of their negotiations.

It would also tie up another loose end. Ramirez was certain that the Streatham killer hadn't really been working for the Brunswick Brothers. The visit to their pathetic little operation that morning had confirmed the man was way out of their league. It seemed rather more feasible that the murderous bastard was, in fact, an employee of Michael Williams.

Ramirez shook his head and coughed, reaching for his humidor.

He had no evidence to support that theory. Not yet, at least. That was what Munoz had been sent to find out. It could yet prove to be mere coincidence, or blind fortune, that the same man who had grievously scarred Ramirez all those years before in Nuevo Laredo, had turned up again to start laying waste to his London operation. After all, it was blind fortune which had determined the timing of the explosion back then – knocking his assailant off-balance so that his axe-swing fell short; carving through Ramirez's face rather than cleaving his skull.

He withdrew a cigar and lit a match, then ignited the tip.

Whatever the case, he was going to have answers soon.

Even if Munoz and his men drew a blank on Williams, then Pat O'Connor – with his vast array of local eyes and ears – would surely track down the man they knew as Liam Rourke. Ramirez smiled as he puffed on the cigar, recalling the images he'd already been sent of O'Connor's son, bound and bleeding. The young man was on route to Ramirez's mansion, just in case O'Connor needed any further illustration of the urgency of his search.

Ramirez exhaled slowly, allowing the smoke to linger around him. One way or another, he would finally get to talk with the verminous _hijo de puta_ whose life had intersected so painfully with his own, and wrought such damage to his features.

That was likely to be an exceptionally lengthy little confab. First, the man would spill the beans about whoever he was really playing for, and whether that happened to be Michael Williams. After that, Ramirez would direct the conversation onto more personal matters. Specifically, the issue of appropriate recompense for the state of his face.

He wasn't sure exactly what form that recompense might take. But he did know one thing for certain.

An eye for an eye was never going to be enough.

### 21

16:34

Putney, London, UK

My concentration was slipping.

I knew that it was, and I knew that wasn't good. But I've always had trouble watching a screen, and sitting in my basement office scrolling back and forth through endless, low-quality CCTV recordings was rapidly wearing me down. I blinked a few times, screwed up my eyes, then took a deep breath and restarted the clip I'd been playing.

A red-haired girl in a pink hat made her way across the screen in front of me: Jess Gardiner entering Wood Green tube station, captured by a local cinema's CCTV feed that Lyle had somehow managed to filch for us.

That filching process was still going on. Lyle sat next to me using his own rig to hack cameras on Jess's route and retrieve any stored footage from the relevant time period. His facial recognition scans had so far turned up nothing, so we were relying on manual examination. He'd also hit Jess's mobile provider and scanned her call logs. There was one suspicious contact that probably belonged to Nathan Fennec but it turned out to be a pre-paid phone that hadn't pinged a cell tower since Friday. Another dead end.

Daisy sat on my other side, reviewing another piece of footage on her own screen. It showed Jess at King's Cross station later in the evening. Although, at that moment Daisy seemed to be paying more attention to my screen, than hers.

"Stop a minute!" she instructed, suddenly.

"What is it?" I asked, pausing my clip.

"I don't know," Daisy said, looking at her screen and then mine. "Maybe nothing. Can you zoom in on Jess a bit more?"

I did as she asked, then glanced at Lyle. He looked as confused as I felt. We were supposed to be looking at the people around Jess, not directly at the girl herself. But Daisy was studying both paused images intently, her eyes flicking between the two.

"Thought so," she said, nodding.

"What have you seen?" I queried. Given that both images showed Jess, and Jess alone, I had no idea what could have drawn her attention.

"Look at her hair. Here..." Daisy indicated to the grainy, indistinct image of Jess going into Wood Green station, "...it comes down barely to her shoulders." She pointed to the image from King's Cross which was marginally better quality, and recorded some hours later. "But here, it's longer down her back."

"Yeah, okay," I said cautiously, seeing that she was correct. "But so what? She changed her hairstyle in the evening. Isn't that what teenage girls do all the time?"

Daisy shook her head. "That's not a new style. That's just longer. How can that be, if that picture came after this one?"

Lyle was also looking intently at both the screens.

"She got a point, bruv," he acknowledged.

"Could just be the angle of the camera," I suggested.

Lyle laughed. "Nah, man. Trust me, that ain't the same girl."

"And you know this how, exactly?"

He grinned smugly.

"Put it this way, bro. Unless the reason Jess went to Arnos Grove was to get hair extensions and a back-street boob job, it looks like we have two different Jess Gardiners in play."

I looked back at the two images, again. Much as I hated to admit it, his observation was sound.

"Why would that be a different girl, though?" I asked, to nobody in particular. "I mean, how many red-haired young women wearing pink hats are there going to be..."

I didn't finish the sentence, because the answer was obvious. The two girls were dressed identically. There could be no innocent explanation. We were looking at a decoy.

Lyle evidently clocked the realisation in my eyes.

"Finally. Tarzan catch up. Ooh, ooh."

I glared at him, but didn't respond. However frustrating it was, he appeared to be correct. In one sickening lurch, the potential trouble that Jess had fallen into had just grown exponentially.

"Kind puts a different angle on it bruv, innit?"

I nodded, still struggling to come to terms with the implications.

"If that really is a different girl, then that means the text... the one Jess sent Katherine telling her not to worry... that wasn't even her."

Everything was unravelling fast, I thought, as another realisation hit.

"And that means it wasn't Jess at Stevenage, at all, was it? It was this one... whoever the hell she is."

"Actually," Daisy said. "I think that's got to be the same girl who was with Fennec at the party. That would sort of make sense."

"Right, and then what?" I questioned. "He got her to dress up as Jess and sent her out knowing that she'd get picked up on the CCTV to throw the police off the scent whilst he abducted Jess from the party? Is that seriously what we're looking at?"

"Shannon said the girl was blonde, but that could easily be a red wig, under the hat," Daisy pointed out. "Same make-up, too. If Fennec knew what Jess was going to wear, he could have got the other girl to wear the same. Or just taken Jess's clothes. It is... well, it is at least possible."

I thought about how easy it was for the human visual processing system to see what it expected to see, and not what was actually there.

Lyle shook his head. "That's a whole lot of effort just to get laid, man."

I glared at him again.

"Seriously, it is," he said. "Which is why I'm saying, maybe that's not what this is about."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Look, this guy Fennec is nineteen, right? Some college drop-out, blackmailing girls online to do the dirty for him, yeah - I can see that. But erasing all his messages, using a burner phone, running everything through multiple proxies, and now setting up a decoy using another girl? Come on. That's a different league, bro."

The three of us said nothing for a while, as we digested Lyle's thoughts. I glanced at Daisy, whose expression suggested that she'd reached the same conclusion that I had. Lyle was right. Again.

"There's something else which doesn't add up," Lyle added. "It's been bothering me ever since you spoke to the sister."

"Becky?" Daisy queried. I'd filled Lyle in on what Daisy had reported back to me.

"Yeah, her," Lyle confirmed. "She said Jess was trying to protect her, right? Said she told her to cover up the webcam on her laptop?"

Daisy nodded.

"So why, then, didn't I find any evidence on that..." Lyle indicated to where Jess's partially-dissected laptop still lay on the desk, "...at all? Why was it clean? Like, way _too_ clean?"

"Maybe she did everything on her phone," I suggested.

"Okay, but why would she then tell her sister to cover up the webcam on her _laptop_. Kinda specific, innit?"

"Right," I said. "So you're now telling me that you might have missed something on her computer after all. Nice work, Lyle. I thought you were supposed to be good at this stuff?"

"Screw you, Thorne. I haven't _missed_ anything. I just haven't exhausted all the options. You tell me I'm checking out some teen girl's laptop, I ain't gonna go all mil-spec on its ass, am I?"

"So there's more you can do?"

Whilst we were talking, Lyle had already connected up the hard-drive of Jess's laptop to the computer he was using. He'd opened another application and was rapidly clicking and typing away.

"Well, obviously," he said, as a string of indecipherable alphanumerics appeared on the screen. He clicked an option called decompile and, after a few seconds, another screen opened with some marginally less indecipherable code that looked to be some kind of programming language.

"What is that?" Daisy asked.

"That, babe, is what is living in the firmware of this hard drive."

"Firmware?" I queried.

"Yeah. Code which runs straight off a chip. Don't burden your simian brain with the effort of understanding, just know that this is what controls the drive..." he paused, and frowned at the screen. "Which means it's the perfect place to hide something nasty. Strictly for serious players, though. Which is why I never checked before."

He scanned the lines of code rapidly.

"Uh oh," he said. "Gotcha. That explains a lot."

"Which is more than you're doing, right now," I pointed out. "Come on. What does it do?"

"No offence, but it's kinda hard to explain to, you know, a non-expert. Especially one who's prone to strangling people who say things he doesn't want to hear."

I stared at Lyle, saying nothing.

He held up his hands

"Okay, okay. Fine. I'll try to keep it simple for stupid." He returned his gaze to the screen and scrolled up and down the code, smiling. "I gotta say, bruv. This is clever shit. Basically it creates an encrypted partition that's only visible at the firmware level, then diverts everything the OS writes into that space. Computer will work fine, cos the firmware's just lying to the OS about where it's putting all them files. But then, whoever's controlling it activates the party trick. They mark all the files they want to erase, and this code writes everything back to the main partition _except_ those files. Gone without trace. Which is why my file recovery tools found nothing useful."

"Why couldn't they just use one of those secure delete programs? They're supposed to get rid of files permanently, aren't they?" Daisy asked.

"Sure, babe. But if you've got the right forensic tools, you can always tell when someone's used one. That tends to raise suspicion, if you're doing a forensic. But this way... this is undetectable unless you crack open the firmware. Which most forensics will never do, because they just copy the drive's data."

"Okay," I said. "But Fennec would have had to install this code, whatever it is, on the firmware, right? How would he get on to the computer to do that? Has he got into Jess's bedroom or something?"

I was imagining all sorts of possibilities, but Lyle just laughed at my suggestion.

"Come on, bruv. No self-respecting hacker is gonna leave their basement if they don't have to. He'd just have sent her a Trojan file." He laughed again, to himself. "Prolly something Equation Group wrote, knowing them. They always did have a problem with their little exploits getting out into the wild. Anyway, Jess would have opened the Trojan unwittingly and then boom! She's ratted. Sister's laptop's on the same wi-fi, and it's boom, again. Rat's in the kitchen, baby."

I knew Equation Group were one of the NSA's hacking teams. But I had no idea what he meant about rats.

"Ratted?" I queried.

Lyle looked at me contemptuously. "How can you live in such pitiful ignorance, bro? I'm talking about a RAT. Remote Access Trojan. Once that's installed, he has complete control of everything, over the internet. Including the webcam."

I looked at Daisy, who was nodding in confirmation.

"They are a thing, Mr Thorne. My friend at uni had one on her laptop for ages without knowing. Her creep of a boyfriend installed it to spy on her. That would explain how Fennec got the video of Shannon's dad, as well, right?"

Lyle nodded in response.

"But surely you looked for a RAT, already?" I asked.

"Course I did, bruv. But that was before I knew about the firmware hack. The RAT would only ever have been installed in that hidden partition. Which meant Mr Fennec could send in the exterminators when he was finished, and old ratty would have disappeared without trace."

"But now you know this hidden partition thing is there, you can access it, right?"

"Prolly. Kinda depends what encryption was used. If it's one of the usual ones the NSA crippled, we're good. If it's something Chinese then we have no chance. Tell you what, why don't you stop making me waste time explaining things to you, and let me get on with it?"

I didn't really have a lot of choice.

"Alright, fine. I'll leave you to it. I'll get some food sorted for us. Daisy, come on up with me – he doesn't like people watching him work."

"Not true," Lyle said. "I don't like _you_ watching me work." He turned to Daisy. "You, however, are welcome to stay."

"Can I actually help?"

"I'm sure I can find something for you to do..."

Daisy looked at me, as if seeking my approval. I shrugged back at her, indicating it was up to her. She'd already proved resistant to Lyle's nonsense, so I figured it couldn't do any harm.

"Let me know as soon as you have anything," I instructed.

Lyle nodded absent-mindedly, as I turned to leave the office. He was already engrossed in what he was doing, and I was confident that his efforts would unearth something on the hidden partition. But I was far less confident that whatever he'd find would bring us any nearer to Jess.

Not when everything else we'd discovered in the previous hour had just seemed to take us further away.

### 22

17:01

Amir Nazari yawned and glanced at the laptop screen in front of him. It showed three circles, overlaid on a map of the local area.

He smiled at the display. It was a significant technological accomplishment, and it made his mission almost immeasurably easier. Barely twenty minutes after Nazari had spoken to Deputy Commander Majidi, Saeed Asadi had sent through the software that allowed him to track Thorne's phone. In return, Nazari had sent images he'd taken of the girl who'd visited Thorne, as well as the other visitor who'd arrived, noisily, in a green Lamborghini.

It had taken mere minutes for Asadi to come back again with a fully worked-up identity for each of the visitors, as well as a location fix on their phones. The boy was apparently a nobody, but the girl had some interesting family links to the military. He'd have to keep an eye on her. Asadi had also provided him with automatic eavesdropping on any voice and SMS communication passing between the devices, which gave Nazari all the information he'd need to launch his attack at an opportune moment.

Nazari thought again about that attack, and turned his attention to the view outside. Across the road, in front of Thorne's house, a paved area formed the shape of an inverted _h_ : a U-shaped drive with two exits opening onto the road and an off-set spur leading to the ramp which ran down to the house's basement garage. The gap between the exits, as well as the borders with both neighbouring houses, were all screened with thick, mature foliage which would allow Nazari and his team to strike unseen.

All they needed now, was for Thorne to leave, so they could get themselves set up in readiness for his return.

Nazari looked up and down the road. Since he'd seen the motorcyclist who'd appeared to follow Thorne home, there had been no further sign of anyone suspicious. He was beginning to wonder if paranoia had got the better of him, when a blue van appeared at the far end of the quiet street. It was being driven slowly and uncertainly. Nazari figured it was probably another builder; crawling along looking for a client's house. There had been a regular flow of tradesmen coming and going, servicing the many renovation projects taking place on the street.

He frowned when the van pulled into a space directly opposite Thorne's house. That raised his suspicions, and his heart rate increased when nobody got out of the vehicle straight away. Perhaps the driver was calling someone to let them know he'd arrived. Perhaps he was preparing documents, or getting his tools ready, or maybe he'd just pulled in and found a quiet spot for a nap. But something just didn't feel right.

Then there was the sound of a motorcycle, and a rider appeared from the opposite end of the street. Nazari squinted, and tried to assess whether it was the same rider he'd seen earlier. He was no expert on bikes, but it looked the same to him. And when the bike slowed, and pulled up next to the van, it was clear that the rider and the van's occupants were known to each other.

"Mokri! Hamidi! Soroush! Get in here, now. We may have a problem."

Nazari had pulled the three men off their observation duties, to give them a chance to rest and prepare for the attack. With Asadi's tracking tool, visual observation had been rendered unnecessary. Khorsandi remained across the river, ready to cover the rear of Thorne's house, whilst the others had joined Nazari in the empty apartment.

The men hurried into the room. Each had a Russian-made PSS 'Vul' pistol drawn and ready. Despite his team's misgivings about using the low-powered weapons, Nazari had insisted that they were all the men would carry. The small handgun had two essential advantages: it was compact enough to be easily-concealed, and thanks to its use of specially-constructed self-silencing cartridges, it was about as quiet as it could possibly be.

Nazari indicated outside, where the motorcyclist had removed his helmet and was talking animatedly to the passenger in the van.

"Bike's back," Nazari stated. "Rider's talking to someone in a van which has just pulled up. Seems to be glancing over the road a lot. I don't like this, at all."

The three men manoeuvred around the table so they could see out of the window.

Mokri peered out, and confirmed what Nazari could already see. "They're definitely looking across there."

Soroush made a dismissive noise. "Amateurs. What are they doing? The kid is pointing straight at the house, now."

"That is my worry," Nazari confirmed. "I don't know who these idiots are, but if they spook Thorne then that will make our job significantly more difficult."

"Should we take care of them, sir?" Hamidi suggested, sounding rather more enthusiastic than Nazari would have liked.

"No. You three stay here and watch. I'm going to see if I can listen in."

Nazari exited the flat hurriedly, and reached the street in time to see the motorcyclist replace his helmet and roar off. As he approached the van, he saw a large, hard-looking man in the driver's position, conversing with a passenger who was smaller but still unpleasant on the eye. The van's windows were rolled down and Nazari could hear the two men talking as he got nearer.

"Riley, mate. Come on. You reckon it's him? Seriously?" the smaller man asked.

"Dunno. Kid seemed pretty sure, didn't he? Guess we'll find out when we get a photo for the boss."

Nazari paused alongside the van's window. He had not made eye contact with either occupant, but he would attract their attention if it looked like he was deliberately loitering. He started to pat his pockets, as if he was looking for keys or a phone.

The voices in the van were still clearly audible. Secrecy didn't appear to be a major factor in whatever operation they were running.

"We just gonna wait here 'til he comes out, then take his picture?" came the voice of one of the men in the van.

Nazari pretended to swear to himself, as if discovering that he'd forgotten something. The two men seemed oblivious to his presence. He suspected that was less to do with his masterful misdirection and more their complete lack of awareness. They were definitely not a professional team.

"Mr O'Connor needs to see proof that it's him, so yeah. Why? Got a better idea?" the other voice said. Nazari could see that was the larger man again.

"No, mate. For a hundred grand I'll sit here all year..."

The voices faded rapidly as Nazari turned to walk briskly back to the apartment block. He couldn't risk another pass, but he'd heard all he needed to.

The pieces were easy to fit together. Thorne was, at least on the face of it, a policeman. The men in the van were undoubtedly criminals. It didn't take an excessive leap to arrive at the conclusion that they did not have his best interests at heart. And if the person who sent them had put up a hundred thousand pounds, then clearly that person wanted Thorne almost as badly as Majidi.

The questions started as soon as he was back inside the flat.

"Did you hear anything, sir? Are they a problem?"

"Yes, and maybe. Looks like someone else wants our man, and has put a large price on his head."

"Shall we take them out, now?" Hamidi queried, fingering the small gun he held. He was clearly desperate to shoot someone.

Nazari really didn't want to start a war with a criminal gang, nor start attracting the attentions of the local populace if he could avoid it. Not _before_ he'd grabbed Thorne, anyway.

"Calm down, Hamidi. We are not going to _take them out_. Not unless they start attracting too much attention and put our own mission in jeopardy."

"Sir, but what if they move on Thorne?" Mokri inquired.

"They won't. Not yet. They haven't even confirmed his identity – they're waiting in the van, hoping to get a photo to send to their boss. We are well ahead of them, which means they are not yet a direct threat. I'll keep an eye on them. Go back to the other room, but stay alert and be prepared to move."

The three men made noises of assent, then filed back out to their makeshift billet.

Nazari looked out at the men in the van again, and considered his assessment of them. He was confident that they weren't yet ready to do any serious harm to Thorne. But they hadn't looked like the types to spend too long on the planning stage. That meant, they'd be catching up quickly.

Nazari would just have to ensure he stayed ahead.

He glanced at the laptop screen again, willing the circles to move. As soon as Thorne left the house, Nazari would get his team ready.

And when Thorne returned, they'd execute the grab.

### 23

17:49

Nobody would ever call me a chef. But I do make a pretty good pizza.

It's a family thing, I guess. Perhaps the last remnant of my Neapolitan heritage; whittled down over the generations to little more than a few home-made recipes scrawled in a notebook. It's not much of a legacy, but I can't really complain. They're seriously good recipes.

Having left Daisy and Lyle to see what could be discovered from the encrypted hard drive partition, I'd gone up to the kitchen area and knocked up a nice little thin-crust combo with tomato, peppers, bacon and arugula. That took a while, and by the time I'd plated it up and taken it back down to the office, considerable progress had been made. Lyle and Daisy had briefly competed to tell me what they'd found, until Daisy had spotted the bacon on the pizza. At that point, she'd decided to let Lyle do the talking whilst she gave the food her full attention.

That was how my head came to be spinning, several minutes later, as I attempted to follow just what the hell he had actually managed to do.

He was in the middle of explaining something about a BSAFE library using the default Dual EC DRBG, which meant the encryption used on the hidden partition he'd found on Jess's laptop wasn't based on truly random numbers. I'd managed to grasp that this meant the code was predictable if you knew the right algorithm, which Lyle apparently did. And, as far as I could tell, that meant he'd managed to decrypt the partition, and access the files.

What I didn't yet know, despite him having been talking for what felt like a considerable amount of time, was what he'd actually found.

Daisy finished her second slice of pizza, then caught my eye. She could see I was struggling with Lyle.

"Uh, do you just want the short version?"

"Yeah, that would be helpful. Preferably with fewer acronyms and more on what you've actually discovered."

"Hey, I can't help it if you can't keep up, bro," Lyle said.

"Shut up and eat your pizza, Lyle," I said in as amenable tone as I could manage. "Talk sense to me, Daisy. Please."

"Okay, so Lyle managed to decrypt a load of files from the hidden partition. We found, well, lots of stuff – videos, pictures, chat logs – of Jess and of her sister, too. They weren't the sort of things you'd want sharing, if you know what I mean. Lyle found a log file from the RAT and got the IP address that had been used to control it. Because the RAT was well-hidden, they hadn't bothered using a proxy to control it. The IP in the log files was real. And that got us a name and address."

"Nathan Fennec?"

Lyle butted in again, with his mouth full. "Nah, some dude called Dean Hemmings. Didn't know who he was at first, but then you doxed him good, didn't you babe?"

Daisy nodded. "It wasn't exactly hard. He's a well-known character in Dartford apparently. Loads of stuff online about him. Lots of news stories. Bit of a gangster type, set up on one of the estates in the town. His house is on street view here..."

She called up a window on her computer, which showed what looked to be two semi-detached houses which had been converted into a single, large house.

"Tell him about the reporter," Lyle prompted, in between bites.

"Yeah, I found a story on the Dartford Messenger site from last year, which implied that Hemmings had links to police corruption, blackmail and pay-offs. So I called up the reporter, Ian Richards. Made out I was studying journalism, looking at the relationship between criminals and the media, you know. Blew smoke up his arse for a bit, then got him to give me the low-down on Hemmings."

Lyle laughed. "You should have heard her, Thorne. Proper social engineering, bro. All the sexy voice an' shit. I'd have told her anything..."

Daisy looked guilty. "I did ham it up a bit, but it got him talking. He said Hemmings is pretty small-time. Violent, but not into firearms. Did a spell inside a few years back for GBH, and then again for fencing stolen goods. Nothing on his sheet for five years though, which is what made Richards interested."

"Interested, why?" I asked.

"He's convinced that Hemmings owns a few uniforms and a couple of the local CID," Daisy explained. "More than enough to get him off the hook. And, although Richards couldn't prove it, he'd heard that there was some kind of blackmail going on further up. Maybe even at chief constable level. Something similar to what happened with Shannon Macaulay's father, by the sound of it. Enough to make someone lean hard on the paper and close down any further investigation."

I had to admit, I was impressed with that. Finally, it seemed like we were getting somewhere. The problem was, it wasn't somewhere I wanted to be. And it certainly wasn't anywhere I'd want Jess Gardiner to be.

"Alright, but we were looking for Nathan Fennec, and we find this Hemmings character instead. Has he got Jess? More to the point, _why_ has he got Jess? What's the link between him and Fennec?"

Lyle nodded, as he polished off the last triangle of pizza.

"I can answer all that, bro, but you ain't gonna like it. Whilst our girl here was digging the dirt, I had a look-see on Hemmings' ISP logs. Not much interesting coming in, but I found a whole ton of bandwidth heading out. Mainly to dodgy web hosting services in Eastern Europe. And I don't need to tell you what kind of websites he's running, right?"

A sick feeling spread in the pit of my stomach, as I realised where we were heading.

"And Jess?" I asked, although I suspected I already knew the answer.

"Hemmings' main business is, you know, live cam shows. So our best guess right now, is that she's been uh, recruited, as a... performer."

That confirmed my fears. "By Fennec?"

"Yep. He's the lure. Starts off with him getting friendly, all innocent like. Persuades them to send photos, maybe a vid. Then Hemmings puts the files up on his preview site. Kinda like a catalogue, where punters rate who they like the look of. The ones that get enough votes, Fennec RATs them, then reels them in with a little blackmail so Hemmings can run them as live performers."

"Seriously? Is that what happened with Jess?"

"All them deleted messages I found, they told that story for sure. She fell for Fennec hard enough to send him a few vids and pics herself. He's recording her with the RAT as well, capturing even more private moments. But maybe he knows that won't be enough to get her onboard. Maybe she'll refuse. He needs more leverage, to be sure. So he gets the RAT onto her sister's laptop, uses the webcam to film her as well, then threatens to send what he's got on both of them to all their friends and family."

"Jesus. Jess would have felt she had no choice but to meet him."

"Exactly."

"But all the ridiculous decoy stuff, and the lengths Fennec went to cover his tracks. Is that not a bit extreme?"

Lyle frowned. "Not necessarily. I mean, once you're moving _people_ around and not just bits and bytes, that's a whole world of hurt coming down on you if you ain't careful, innit. What I don't really get, though, is why they had to meet at all. Looking at the traffic, most of the other performers this dude is running, they have to, ah, work from home."

The sick feeling in my gut had been overtaken by anger whilst Lyle was speaking. That rapidly turned into straightforward determination. I didn't want to dwell on why Jess had been selected to meet Fennec. Right then, it wasn't relevant. We couldn't help whatever might have happened to her already. But we could make it stop.

"Okay. Let's not speculate on the reasons. Let's just go and get her," I stated, flatly.

Lyle nodded. "I had a feeling you were going to say that."

Daisy frowned.

"Can we just do that? I mean, should the police not be involved?"

Lyle snorted.

"You haven't worked with Thorne before, have you? Anyway, you're forgetting something, babe. From what you found out, this guy owns half the local Kent force. We tell them, they tell him, and everything – every _one_ – will have disappeared before anyone so much as knocks on his door. Right Thorne?"

"Right," I confirmed.

"Whereas if _he_ goes straight in with no warning there's a better chance Jess will still be there. And if she's not, well... he'll just round up whoever's there, lock 'em in a room and get to work on _persuading_ them to tell him where she's gone."

"Isn't that all kind of... illegal, though?" Daisy queried.

"What, you mean forced entry, false imprisonment and assault causing grievous bodily harm? Yeah, pretty much," Lyle replied.

"Fair enough. Just thought I'd ask," she said, clearly unfazed by the idea. "But what if there's a whole house full of people there?"

Lyle shook his head and laughed.

"I wouldn't bet against Thorne, babe. I've seen him in action."

"She's right, Lyle," I said. "I don't want to go in alone. A hostage is a great leveller. There's too much potential for something to go wrong."

"Well, I ain't going in with you, that's for sure. You know I'll give you eyes and ears but I'm strictly hands-off," Lyle said somewhat defensively.

Daisy flashed me a knowing smile. "I know someone who could help. Someone who doesn't have a problem with _hands-on_."

"I'm not sure I want to drag your father into this as well," I said, assuming that was who she meant.

"Dad? God no, I was thinking of Reinhold."

Lyle looked at Daisy, his face a picture of surprise again. It probably reflected mine.

"You... know Reid?" we both asked, in unison.

"Sure. I've just spent four months getting to know him quite well, actually."

Lyle looked horrified. So did I. Reid was eleven years older than her.

"Oh, please tell me you're not... with _Reid_ ..." Lyle asked.

"No!" Daisy said, a little too forcefully. "We're not. Not that it's any of your business, anyway. Dad set me up with Reinhold to do some proper hand-to-hand training, before I start my new job. I've been learning Krav Maga. He's a brilliant teacher."

That made sense. I knew Jon Haines had been looking out for the former sniper, getting him odd jobs here and there. Long-term career opportunities for someone who could take a man's head off with a .338 Lapua Magnum from two-and-a-half kilometres were surprisingly limited outside of the armed forces. At least, they were if you also happened to have a strong sense of moral rectitude, and Reinhold Reid's was second to none.

Lyle shook his head disbelievingly.

"Monk strikes again," he muttered, referring to Reid's callsign.

I ignored Lyle and considered Daisy's suggestion. It actually made sense. There were other people whom I could call upon, of course. But they didn't have Reinhold Reid's attention to detail, and they were highly unlikely to be in the country, let alone ready and available that evening.

"Okay," I said. "I'll give Reid a call and see if he can help, once I've run you back to your flat."

"What? No way! I'm not backing out now," Daisy argued. "I'll come with you. I can be an extra pair of eyes and ears."

"Sorry. Too risky," I said, truthfully.

"Risky? I'm joining Five's covert surveillance wing in a couple of weeks."

"Seriously?" Lyle queried, looking impressed.

"You have a problem with that idea?" Daisy challenged.

"Nah, no problem at all. I mean, good on you, babe. I think you'd be great under the covers... sorry, I mean, under _cover_ ..."

Daisy made a face which adequately communicated that she was not impressed with his attempt at humour, then turned back to me.

"So, I'm coming, right?"

I was acutely aware that time was moving on and we weren't getting any closer to Jess.

"Alright, fine. You win. You can stay in the car with Lyle, well away from the action."

I noted that Lyle looked even more pleased than Daisy did, with that suggestion. I let it slide.

"I'll call Reid and start getting the kit organised. You'd both better get yourselves ready as well."

I left them to make their preparations and headed out of the office, over to the secure basement storage area. I let myself in through the armoured door with a keypad code, and surveyed the array of equipment and weaponry which I'd accumulated over the years. What I chose to take would depend on whether Reinhold Reid was available to join us, so I called up his number and dialled. I had no idea if he'd answer, as with Reid that was never a certainty. But this time I sincerely hoped that he did pick up, or else I'd be running another one-man show.

Given how the last one turned out, in Streatham, that was something I really wanted to avoid.

### 24

18:01

Hadham Cross, Hertfordshire, UK

Reinhold Reid stood alone, motionless, in the middle of a wheatfield.

From a distance, his lean athletic build and thick mop of sandy hair gave him a youthful appearance. Anyone catching sight of him would likely have assumed he was another twenty-something degenerate, off his face on drugs in the middle of the countryside. But had they approached more closely – near enough, perhaps, for the evening light to reveal sun-damaged skin and eyes lined with the beginnings of crows' feet – they'd have realised that he was older than they'd first assumed.

Reid shifted slightly on his feet. He knew that standing on his own in a wheatfield wasn't exactly normal behaviour for a thirty-four-year-old single man on a Monday evening.

But then, he'd known for a long time that he wasn't exactly normal.

Normal people hadn't racked up nearly a hundred confirmed kills with an Accuracy International L115A3. Normal people hadn't spent nine years providing long-distance cover on some of the most secretive operations ever undertaken by the British intelligence services. And normal people definitely didn't hold the record for the world's longest sniper kill, having been kept out of the record books purely because they hadn't officially been there when it had happened.

'Normal' was never a word which would be associated with Reinhold Reid. For a long time, as he was growing up, he'd wished desperately for that to be otherwise. But in the end he'd come to terms with it.

Mostly, anyway.

Reid took in his surroundings. His Ford Transit-based motorhome, parked at the side of a nearby road, was reflecting the early evening sunlight. He'd calculated that it would take twenty-seven and a half Ford Transit-based motorhomes, parked end-to-end, to mark out the northern perimeter of the field. He'd deduced that the irregular outline of the hedgerows marking the field – the southern edge of which was delineated by a small river – would look like Ben Gurion airport if viewed from above. He was aware that fourteen cars, two tractors, three cyclists and four dog-walkers had passed since he'd established his position three hours, four minutes and thirty-five seconds earlier.

Reinhold Reid saw things that most other people didn't.

That discovery had come early in childhood, along with the realisation that most other people saw lots of things which he didn't. Like the signs which told people when it was appropriate to laugh. Or the non-verbal tells which could apparently give words the opposite meaning from their dictionary definition. Or the subtleties of positioning and posture which could, if decoded correctly, reveal a person's emotional state.

As a child, all those cues had been hidden from Reid.

After years of intense observation, he'd begun to make sense of many of them. But even after three decades, he found human interaction to be a minefield of confusion. As a rule, he tended to avoid it wherever possible.

Hence why he was standing in a position which placed him a solid quarter-mile from any potential conversation.

He closed his eyes, and lifted his left leg off the ground whilst extending both arms. The concentration required for balance without visual reference ate up a significant amount of brain power, helping to clear his mind. A clear mind was what he'd been trying to achieve for the past two weeks. He knew he couldn't spend the rest of his days as an itinerant wanderer, drifting around the country. Not because he needed the money: he was a man of remarkably few material needs and his small MoD pension was sufficient to feed him and fuel his motorhome.

But he did need a purpose.

Reid's body adjusted slowly, as he achieved a state of physical equilibrium with his right leg taking his full weight. Three years on from his horrific time as a captive in Lashkar Gah, his scarred body had just about recovered. His equally-scarred mind, however, remained unbalanced. Instead of filling with thoughts of the future, he found it returning to his recent past. Specifically, to the four months he'd just spent with Jon Haines' daughter, training her in the art of no-holds-barred self-defence.

He'd been grateful for the job his former commanding officer had given him. He knew why Haines had chosen him: because he could be trusted not to engage in any extra-curricular activities with Daisy. That trust had not been misplaced. Reid had long ago locked down the difficult, messy feelings associated with physical attraction, which was how he'd earned his reputation as The Monk.

Reid suspected that Daisy had been flirting with him right from the start, although he found such subtleties very hard to spot. But as they'd got to know each other better, she'd gone past subtlety to the point where he'd been certain. That level of attention had been supremely awkward for him to manage. Especially as his loyalty to her father – not to mention the age gap between them – absolutely ruled out any reciprocation on his part.

All in all, he'd been glad when their time together had come to an end. In the subsequent weeks he'd done his best to put the whole experience from his mind.

Mostly, he was succeeding.

Reid was shaken from his reverie by a harsh electronic trill. It was emanating from the ancient Nokia phone in the back pocket of his jeans: his only concession to technology and his only link to the handful of people with whom he remained in contact.

He retrieved the phone and lifted it to his ear, whilst remaining on one leg.

"Hello?"

"Reid? Is that you? It's Thorne."

"Yes," Reid said, unsure if that was the answer he was expected to give.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine," Reid responded. He had no idea why they had to go through this ritual every time.

"Good, good. _Where_ are you?"

Reid looked around him. "In a wheatfield," he said, truthfully.

"Okaaay. Can I ask whereabouts that wheatfield is?"

Reid didn't have a problem with that, so he said, "Sure."

There was an extended pause, before Thorne finally said, "Jeez, Reinhold. You never change, do you?"

Reid didn't know whether that was a question he was actually supposed to answer, so he remained silent. He heard Thorne sigh. He knew that sound signified frustration. That was one he'd learned some time ago. He'd heard it a lot, in his life.

"So, where is it? The wheatfield?" Thorne asked.

Reid had no idea why that was relevant, but he answered anyway.

"Five-point-seven miles from Bishop's Stortford, if you take the B1004." Reid had watched the odometer tick away as he'd driven from the town earlier.

"Okay, that's do-able then. Listen, are you alright to talk right now?"

"Uh huh." Reid considered that an entirely unnecessary question, given that they were clearly already talking.

"Right. Good. I'm sorry I haven't called for a while. I had another undercover assignment – a long one. I've been incommunicado for months."

Reid was aware of that. Thorne had told him about the upcoming assignment the last time they'd spoken. It didn't bother him. He considered Thorne a friend, inasmuch as he considered anyone a friend. But he didn't expect the man to call him every week.

"Uh huh."

There was another pause, which Reid didn't know how to fill. He heard another sigh.

"Alright, look," said Thorne. "I'm calling because I need your help."

"Okay, sure. Whatever you need." Reid replied, genuinely.

"You don't even know what it is, yet."

That was true, but Reid didn't need to know. Their history together was enough. After Lashkar Gah, their history would _always_ be enough. An intelligence leak had led to Reid's capture, and Thorne had launched a suicidal mission to rescue him. At least, it would have been a suicidal for anyone other than _Crow_.

"If you need help, I'll help," Reid confirmed.

"Are you sure?"

Reid didn't understand why his response apparently hadn't been definitive enough, but did realise that further confirmation was needed.

"Yes. I am sure," he said. He pronounced the words slowly and clearly, for the avoidance of further misunderstanding.

"Okay, so as of yesterday, I don't work for the Met any more. It's a long story, involving one too many dead Mexicans... and it isn't entirely over, yet."

Reid frowned. Mexicans didn't sound right. Not in London. But he didn't question Thorne.

"But this is about something else," Thorne continued. "I've been helping a friend who's trying to find her missing daughter. Kid's just turned eighteen, and it looked like a standard teenage runaway at first. But we've been doing some digging and now it looks like it might be some kind of abduction. We think she's being held, and we've got a possible location for her. I need someone to go in with me and get her out."

"Okay. Where?"

"Dartford. A house on the Priory Hill estate. Should be a simple breach-and-extract. Resistance expected, but no firearms."

"Okay. When?"

"Uh, yeah, well that's the thing. I want to hit the place tonight. Every hour passed is another where Jess – that's the girl – could be... well, you know time is always of the essence with these things."

Reid understood, and accepted the urgency without question. "Okay. Rendezvous location?"

"Uh, right, yeah... hang on. Let me look at the map."

There was a pause, before Thorne came back on the line.

"Right, you'll be coming down the M11 I guess, then round the M25 to the Dartford crossing. Take the first exit after the bridge. There's a hotel on the south side – we'll meet in the car park. You can leave that camper van of yours there and we'll drive on together in my car."

"It's a motor home. Not a camper van," Reid pointed out.

"Whatever it is, it's far too conspicuous to take with us. Any more questions?"

Reid did have one, as it happened. Thorne had suggested he wasn't working alone. That probably meant new people. Reid didn't enjoy meeting new people, although he accepted it as a necessary evil. But the more warning he had before any such meeting took place, the better.

"Who are you working with?"

"Well, Lyle's helping out. And there's someone else you know, too."

Reid worked out that he was supposed to ask who that was.

"Who?" he said.

"Daisy Haines. She was about the only person I knew who was young enough to get teenage girls to give up their secrets. I sent her to talk to Jess's sister and another girl, and she got some vital information."

Reid understood that. Daisy was adept at gently coaxing information out of people without them even realising it. She'd even managed it with him.

"Uh huh," he acknowledged.

Thorne laughed. "She's told me all about the two of you, as well."

Reid understood from the tone that there was a hidden implication to what Thorne had just said.

"What do you mean?" he asked, unable to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

Thorne laughed again. "Don't panic, mate. It's okay. She told me how Jon sent you up to Cambridge to train her. I'm just saying, when you talk to her, it's pretty obvious that she enjoyed your company. Not that I expect you'd have noticed."

"Uh huh," was all Reid could find to say on the matter.

"So, are you in?"

"Yes," Reid confirmed. He had already indicated that, but he'd learned that repeated confirmations of the same thing were a regular feature of most conversations.

"Thanks, Reinhold. I really appreciate you helping at short notice."

Thorne hung up and Reid returned the phone to his pocket. Not for the first time, he wondered at the strange quirks of fate which life threw up. Just as he'd finally started to move on from the stress of navigating through their previous time together, Daisy Haines was being thrust back into his life.

Irony? Was that the word? He'd struggled with its meaning for years, but he was pretty sure it described what had just happened.

He didn't really know what to feel about that, other than a vague sense of dread. Taking a deep breath, he began to count the steps back to his vehicle, focusing his mind purely on the ascending numbers. Counting was good. Counting always helped.

It helped him squeeze the messy, complicated, unwanted anxiety out of his head.

### 25

19:57

Priory Hill Estate, Dartford, UK

I'm pretty good at reading people.

No, scratch that. I'm a lot more than pretty good. I'm an expert. Forget false modesty: I'm a grand master of spotting the tell-tale signs which lurk behind the masks thrown up by our conscious minds.

Still, there are some situations where that finely-honed ability comes up short. Situations like I found myself in as I glanced across at Reinhold Reid, sitting calmly beside me in the soft leather passenger seat of my old Lexus, as we made our way towards Dean Hemmings' house.

I had absolutely no idea what he was thinking.

To be fair, that wasn't unusual where Reid was concerned. In fact, when we'd met at our rendezvous location ten minutes previously, I'd been genuinely surprised – and mildly amused – that I'd spotted his visible discomfiture at being reunited with Daisy. But whatever had been going through his mind then, I was pleased to see that there was no longer any obvious sign of it.

"Did you tell Jess's mum what we're doing?" Daisy asked, breaking the silence which had descended as we'd entered the estate where Dean Hemmings lived.

"Not exactly. I just called to say we had some leads to follow and I'd update her again in the morning. If we don't find Jess here, at least we haven't got her hopes up."

"Yeah, but if we don't find her here, you'll make Hemmings or Fennec tell you where she is anyway, right?" Lyle chipped in.

"That's the plan, yes," I confirmed.

I slowed the car as we approached the target address, which sat opposite a three-storey apartment block on a gentle downhill curve in the road.

"Okay, eyes peeled. Let's see what we've got," I instructed.

The sun had dipped low enough for the house to be fully in the shadow of the flats, but we still had a clear view into the downstairs living room. The curtains were wide open and the lights were on. Behind the mesh security coverings on the windows, four men were clearly visible, sitting around a table playing cards.

"That Hemmings on the right?" I asked, indicating to a shaven-headed, heavily-built man in sweatpants and a white vest.

"Looks like it, from those tats," Lyle confirmed. The man's tattooed arms were clearly visible.

At the next junction, I swung the car around and headed back.

"Okay, look for any signs of Jess, this time," I instructed.

I made the second pass at a faster pace, in case the men inside were paying attention. But they still appeared absorbed in their card game. I noted that the windowless front door was reinforced, and that two upstairs windows were lit behind closed curtains.

Either, or neither, might contain Jess.

Either, or neither, might contain five heavily-armed men.

There would be no way of telling, until we got into the house.

I parked around the corner, out of view. If I craned my neck, I could just see the upper floor at the rear of Hemmings' property. All the windows there were dark.

"Lyle, you got that floorplan?"

Lyle had been using his phone's data connection to remotely access one of the computers that he'd left in my office. I'd made the mistake of asking him why he hadn't just brought the laptop with him, which had led to him wittering on for a good minute about brute forcing and CPU cycles and battery drain, until I'd told him to shut up. But his setup evidently worked, as he'd managed to get into the local council's system and filch the details from when planning consent had been granted for Hemmings' conversion of two semi-detached houses into a single larger dwelling.

"Upstairs there's four bedrooms along the front. Two bedrooms at the back, one with en-suite, and two separate bathrooms. Ground floor is just that open plan living area at the front, which is what we were looking into, and then a big ol' kitchen and dining room at the back."

Suddenly, Reid exited the car without saying a word. I watched him walk confidently down the path which ran alongside a neighbouring house, then up three brick stairs which led to a side door. I thought for a moment that he was going to knock on the door, and wondered if he'd finally lost the plot. But as soon as he reached the top of the stairs, he paused, looking around him.

"What the hell is he doing?" Lyle asked.

"He's being Reid," I said. "Explanations are impossible."

He calmly walked back down the stairs, before re-joining us in the car.

"Lights are on, but both rooms are empty downstairs," Reid announced.

"How could you see that from there, with all those trees?" Daisy asked.

Reid shrugged. "There's a gap. Just needed a few degrees of elevation to get the right angle."

I smiled, looking at what appeared to be an impenetrable bank of foliage. Reid had his own set of skills, just like I did.

"Okay," I said. "That means if she's there, Jess is upstairs. Fennec, too. Reid and I will go in and neutralise Hemmings and his cronies first, then head up to the bedrooms and take out anyone else who gets in the way. If we're fast enough, we can secure Jess before they even know what's happening."

"Good plan, bro. Just one point. How you getting in there to start with?" Lyle asked.

I looked over at the trees and fences which lay between us and the back of the house. It was a good question.

"The back looks tricky," I said. It would require going through several neighbours' gardens. I knew Reid could move stealthily, as could I. But in the twilight it was impossible, and I didn't want to wait until full dark.

"Why not, you know, go and ring the doorbell?" Lyle queried. "Then just go ninja on his ass when he opens it up."

"Fine, except that gives him time to prepare," I said. "In his line of business he's not just going to open the door to anyone. And it didn't look like something we can just kick down."

"Then _blow_ it open, bruv. You've brought the charges, right?"

"I have, but you saw how open the front was. We'd never get explosives set up without someone noticing us."

"No big bang? I am _disappoint_."

"Shut up Lyle, and start thinking of a sensible way in."

There was a pause, as we all considered the options.

"What if he knew the person at the door was no threat?" Daisy asked. "He might open the door straight away, then."

I turned round in my seat and looked at her.

"Go on," I encouraged.

"Well, females tend to be a lot less threatening..."

I realised what she was suggesting and shook my head. "Uh uh. No way are you going anywhere near that house."

"Well, duh. I won't need to, will I? Who rings doorbells anyway these days? I'll just call Hemmings and tell him I'm outside. Lyle, you've got his mobile number, right?"

"Yep, got it when we doxed him," Lyle confirmed.

"Okay," Daisy continued. "So I'll speak to him and come up with some reason to get him to come to the door." She turned to me. "You and Reinhold can sneak up outside, and when he opens the door you can... go ninja on his ass," she smiled.

I nodded, and considered the idea. If we could lull Hemmings into a false sense of security that would certainly be good.

"Alright, that might work. But how are you going to get him to the door?"

"Don't worry, I'll think of something," Daisy said, with another smile.

"Reid? You good to go with that?"

Reid nodded.

"Okay, let's get ourselves kitted up then."

Before we'd left Putney I'd filled a large carry-all and a couple of smaller rucksacks with kit that Reid and I could use in Dartford. It was all non-lethal stuff. Stun-guns, tasers, a nice set of brass knuckles and a fine selection of hoods, cuffs and gags to temporarily remove anyone from the equation who got in the way of us finding Jess.

I got out and retrieved the kit from the boot. I pulled on a windcheater jacket with police-style reflective patterns on it. I figured it might just lend us a look of legitimacy, should any passer-by take an interest. I placed a set of brass knuckles in each pocket, then we rolled balaclavas up on top of our heads, ready to pull down on the way in. I grabbed a Taser and a hand-held stun gun, before passing Reid another stun gun for himself.

"You shouldn't need it. I'll be doing all the work. You'll follow me in. I'll drop 'em, and you can do the bag and gag routine. Kit's all in here." I handed him a black rucksack.

He took it and nodded, before shouldering it onto his back. I grabbed my own small rucksack and shrugged it on. It contained a few other items which might come in useful later on.

"And if it does kick off then it's strictly non-lethal. Alright?" I confirmed. "Any one of those goons might have information we end up needing, so they're no good dead."

"Is unconscious acceptable?" he asked.

I laughed, then stopped when I realised that he wasn't joking.

"Yes, if necessary. You get the job of giving them the kiss of life to wake them up, though."

We got back in the car and I passed out the discreet radio earpieces which we'd all use to stay in communication. I moved the car back down the road, to a vantage point which offered an angled view into the house without being right outside.

"All set?" I queried.

Everyone confirmed that they were.

"Daisy, do your thing. Keep an open mic and use speakerphone so we can follow what you're doing. If it doesn't work, we'll abort and rethink."

Reid and I got out and jogged down the road towards the house, staying on the opposite side of the road before looping back across to an area of common ground which lay to the side, out of view from anyone inside.

I heard the call connect, and Daisy's voice in my earpiece.

"Hello?"

"Yeah," came a tinny, gruff-sounding voice. The mic was picking up the other side of the conversation fine.

"Hi, is that Mr Hemmings?"

"Who's asking?" came the reply.

"Uh... my name's Tanesha. I live down near Oakfield Park. I... I heard you were the man to see for money."

I had to admit, I was impressed. She sounded slightly breathless. Nervous. Just the right amount of uncertainty.

"Nah, love. You're thinking of the bank."

"No! I can't go to the bank. I need cash, tonight." She was injecting a touch of what sounded like genuine desperation into her voice.

"Sorry darling," Hemmings responded. "I think you been misinformed. I ain't a fackin' charity."

"Please, Mr Hemmings. I'll do anything. I really need the money."

Hemmings laughed. I cringed, as I realised that I knew where the conversation was heading.

"Oh, you will, will you?" he said harshly.

"I'm desperate. My mum's going to be evicted tomorrow if she doesn't pay tonight." Daisy's voice was breathily intense.

There was a pause. Reid and I crossed the small grassy area next to the side of the house, remaining out of view from the front window.

"How much you need?"

"Three hundred. Just to pay what we owe this week."

Hemmings snorted.

"Three hundred? Sorry, love. Ain't nothing you can do for me that's worth that."

"A loan, then. I'll pay you back."

"Depends what _interest_ you're offering," he sneered.

"Like I said. I'll do anything."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"You're old enough to know what _anything_ means, then."

"Yes," Daisy said. Her voice sounded small and defeated. I actually felt a spike of emotion, she was so believable.

"Then it all depends what you look like, love. 'Cos there's plenty of munters round 'ere I can bang for free. If you ain't no looker then you can get your dough somewhere else. Text us a pic and if I like the look of you, we'll talk."

"I can do better than that, Mr Hemmings. Come to the door and I'll show you for real."

"What?" Hemmings said, clearly surprised.

"Please... I've come all the way up here because I've got no one else who can help. Come to the door. I think you'll like what you see. And I will do... absolutely... anything."

Hemmings laughed again. "Fackin' ell, love! You really are desperate ain't ya? You're seriously at my door now?"

I leaned around the corner and rang the doorbell. I figured it might just add to the credibility of the story Daisy was spinning.

"Looks like he's taken the bait. He's just stood up," Lyle announced.

I heard Hemmings' voice again.

"Alright, then. Hold tight, darling and I'll come check you out. See what you might be worth..." He gave a nasty chuckle.

"He's hung up," Daisy said.

"Nice work, babe. Had me convinced," Lyle said.

I rolled down the balaclava to cover my face, then moved out from the side of the house and squatted down in front of the door. Being out of the direct line of sight would be an advantage. _Be somewhere unexpected_. Reid donned his balaclava then flattened himself against the wall alongside, ready to move in behind me. We were exposed to passers-by, and couldn't afford to maintain the positions for long. Fortunately, it didn't look like we'd need to.

"Target moving into hallway," Lyle informed us.

"Any other movement?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Negative. Other three still at the table."

A lock clicked on the other side. The countdown began in my head, as always.

And _something_ shifted, mentally. It was a familiar sensation, but still impossible to describe even after years of experiencing it. It was my conditioning, again, ensuring I became the person I'd need to be to get the job done. Capacity for violence ramped up. Capacity for empathy damped down. And somewhere else – in an even deeper, darker place in my head – another presence moved. _Crow_.

For a brief moment, all my mental effort went on pushing that presence back down into the darkness. Whatever the threat level, I wasn't letting it out again.

The countdown hit three, and I heard a bolt sliding open. I tensed, getting ready to move. At two, the rattle of a heavy chain being detached was audible. I breathed deeply, certain that Crow was dormant again, and allowed the calm to spread through my body as I visualised the next few seconds in my head.

The countdown reached one. The first crack of light appeared around the door.

And then, zero.

Game on.

### 26

20:06

Walworth, London, UK

Pat O'Connor flicked through the three grainy images which had just been sent to his phone.

Taken with a poor-quality camera in low light, they were unlikely to win any prizes for photography. Each showed an old Lexus saloon emerging from the shadowed driveway of a large house. The first and second images were useless to him, as the car's A-pillar obscured the driver's face. He could just make out a blonde female in the front passenger seat, but he had no interest in her.

The third image was better. It gave an unobscured view of the driver, through the car's side window. Another, younger man was in the back seat, illuminated by the blue glow of a screen in front of him. O'Connor didn't know who that was, and didn't care. All his attention was on the front-seat occupant.

"What do you think? That him?" O'Connor asked Kevin Flaherty, showing him the phone's screen.

His driver shrugged. "Hard to say, boss. Does look like him though."

O'Connor pulled out the photo of Rourke and laid it on the table next to his phone, to compare the two. The poor images he'd been sent made a definitive match impossible. But there was enough similarity for him to have the man brought in. If, by some strange quirk of fate, it turned out not to be Rourke then they'd just have to deal with that when it happened.

"Get me Riley."

Flaherty took the phone and tapped at the screen, before handing it back to O'Connor. It would have been quicker for O'Connor to make the call himself. But he had to make sure that Flaherty still knew who was boss.

"Riley. Where are you?"

"Uh, we're in Putney, boss."

"You didn't follow the car?"

"No, boss. It was just me and Phil at the time. We were worried the van would spook him if we started tailing him."

O'Connor paused, as Riley's words sank in.

"What do you mean, _at the time_? When were these taken?"

"Uh, maybe an hour and a half ago, boss."

"What the hell? You'd better have a good reason why you've just sat on them for the last ninety minutes, or I'm going to come down there and kick your useless arse ninety bloody times."

"We went to get McCarthy. So we could act quick if you gave us the word."

O'Connor paused, trying to think of the logic behind that, before giving up with a sigh. Riley was a giant of a man, but he'd never been the sharpest tool in the box.

"And there's been no sign of Rourke since then?"

"No, boss. He's still out. No lights on in the house or anything."

"Alright, fine. When he does come back, you grab him."

"It's really him?" Riley asked.

"Well, your shitty photos make it hard to tell. But yeah, it's close enough to bring him in. So do whatever you need to, because I want a face to face with whoever's driving that car, without delay."

"You definitely want him tonight, boss?"

"Jesus, yes, Riley! I want him tonight!"

"He had people with him, though. They might still be in the car when he comes back."

"I don't care if he's got the Pope in the back and the Queen riding shotgun up front! You grab him and get him back here. Do whatever you need to with the others."

"Right, boss. Understood."

"Is it? You got a plan, Riley? You've actually thought about how you're going to grab him?" O'Connor knew his men were used to taking orders from him. He didn't often trust them to think for themselves.

"Sure, boss. That's why we got McCarthy. He'll get us past the alarm system and into the house. Then we just wait until Rourke comes back and give him a little homecoming surprise, before we walk him out to the van."

O'Connor relaxed a little. Riley actually appeared to have thought things through.

"And what if Rourke isn't too keen on joining you? Shanley's got his pistol, right?"

There was a muffled question at the other end.

"He hasn't, has he?" O'Connor said, pre-empting Riley's response.

"No, boss."

"Then, I suggest you go get yourselves properly tooled up, before you worry about getting in the house. And you'd best hope you get back before Rourke does, or else you'll have to rethink your plan."

"Uh, I think it'll be fine boss. Don't matter if he gets home, once Phil's got the heater. Rourke ain't gonna argue with that poking in his face. Nobody ever does."

O'Connor chuckled, feeling slightly reassured.

"Right. Well, don't screw it up, and call me when you've got him."

O'Connor hung up and handed the phone to Flaherty.

Finally, there was some light at the end of the tunnel.

### 27

20:07

Priory Hill Estate, Dartford, UK

When the countdown hit zero, it all came down to assumptions and preconceptions. Again.

I've traded on them throughout my professional life. There's an art to directing misdirection, and I'm a master of that art. Call it chaos theory for fabulists: the skill of recognising which lies are the butterfly wings that can whip up a maelstrom of mistruth with no further intervention. Start in the right place, and the human mind's propensity for filling knowledge-gaps with constructs based on expectation – not observation – will do the rest.

You've just got to know where to start.

After years of practice, I had a pretty good idea.

Based on Daisy's little performance, it seemed like she did too. Thanks to her, when Dean Hemmings opened the front door, he fully expected to find a vulnerable, desperate female. A victim, whilst he'd be the aggressor. He never thought for a moment to prepare himself for a situation where those roles might be reversed.

It took less than a second for me to perform that role reversal.

In the time that elapsed between Hemmings pulling open the door and his brain catching up to what his eyes were telling him, I'd leapt up and pummelled the stun-gun into his fleshy stomach. I pulled the trigger and discharged the million-volt charge into his gut, holding it for a count of one, two, three... as he let out a brief, gurgling howl before his muscles locked up completely and silenced him involuntarily.

I kicked his deadweight form backwards onto the carpet.

"Hemmings down," I confirmed, stepping over his twitching body.

Reid entered the house behind me and shut the door. His job was to permanently secure anyone I'd taken down. I trusted him completely. I didn't need to wait and check what he was doing; I could just keep moving.

Time to go, again.

I kicked open the living room door and burst through, scanning for threats straight away. All three of the room's occupants were still gathered around a small square table where the card game was being held, surrounded by a miasma of marijuana smoke. The black leather sofa and armchairs, arrayed in front of a massive wall-mounted television, were empty. I saw no visible knives. No guns. Just a lone baseball bat, leaned up against the wall behind the table.

And three young but careworn faces, still looking up in shock.

If they'd had any tactical awareness, they'd have scattered straight away. It wasn't as if a balaclava-clad man bursting into the room could possibly have had anything other than bad intentions towards them.

They didn't move.

Maybe it was the effects of the weed. Maybe they just weren't very bright. Or maybe, sitting in their boss's living room in the middle of friendly territory, they'd simply considered themselves invulnerable and were incapable of processing what was actually happening.

Assumptions and preconceptions again.

I fired the Taser at the nearest man, hitting him squarely in the back, and discharged the device. The voltage shot down the wires, through the two darts which had penetrated his t-shirt, and straight into his flesh. That was enough to topple him off the chair, shaking, onto the floor.

In three strides, I covered the distance to the next man, who had finally been roused into action and was just starting to get to his feet. I punched the stun-gun into his tattooed neck. He let out a strange mewling noise, collapsing onto the floor, whilst I skipped around the side of him to deal with the final target in the room.

The remaining man managed to get to his feet and ducked around to put the table between him and me. He had just enough time to reach for the baseball bat.

That was a mistake.

Had he chosen to run, he'd have had a chance of making it out of the room. Not that it would have done him much good, given that Reid was in the hallway. But it would, at least, have saved him from _me_.

I grabbed a corner of the card table and spun it into position, then shoved it hard towards my would-be assailant. His legs were apart, as he reached for the bat. That was particularly unfortunate for him.

The opposite corner of the table top punched mercilessly into his groin. I followed through with the shove, continuing to push so that he was pinned against the wall behind him with the sharp edge of the table finding the path of least resistance. The noise he made wasn't pleasant. Fortunately, it ended abruptly as I stepped around the table and pressed the stun gun hard against his chest.

I tried not to look at the dark stain spreading from the crotch of his light grey sweatpants. I suspected something had ruptured.

"Ugh, I felt that..." Lyle said in my earpiece. He'd witnessed it all from his vantage point back in the car.

"Monk, three more to bag and gag in here," I instructed.

Reid had already moved silently into the room. He was calmly closing the curtains, to shield the carnage from any curious eyes outside. I kicked open the door to the kitchen, and checked through to the dining room.

"Downstairs clear," I confirmed, returning to the front room. Reid was moving rapidly, and had already cuffed the man I'd Tasered. I kept moving as well, heading back out to the hall and stairs.

"Movement upstairs," Lyle announced. "Second window. Unidentified male, looking out."

"Roger that. Is it Fennec?" I queried, as I rapidly picked my way past Hemmings who was curled up on the hallway floor, wrists and ankles cuffed and a black hood over his head.

"Negative," came the response from Lyle.

I leaped up the stairs two at a time and arrived on the landing, just in time to see a man coming out of the second bedroom on the left. He looked to be about forty, although in reality he was probably ten years younger. Like the men downstairs, he was one of Hemmings' goons; shaven-headed and with a pallor to his skin which suggested alcohol and tobacco had played a significant role in his life. His bare, pasty chest was covered in a variety of tattoos, mostly featuring bulldogs and union jacks.

I wasn't interested in any of that, though.

What _had_ captured my attention was the fact that he was still trying to fasten his jeans, as he exited the room. I didn't like the implications of that, at all. Not with everything that Lyle had deduced about the operation Hemmings was running.

The man looked straight at me, as I slipped my hands into my jacket pockets. I could see the confusion flash in his eyes: the momentary indecision as fight and flight vied for supremacy. In the end, he had only one option. The narrow landing was barely wide enough for two people to pass, and I was blocking his only exit down the stairs.

He should have known it was only ever going to be fight.

If he'd made that decision earlier, I wouldn't already have been two paces closer to him, my gloved hands still inside the jacket but now wrapped in the heavy brass knuckles.

"Ooda _fack_ are you?" he snarled, predictably.

That worthless bravado cost him another two paces. By the time he'd finally realised that I was rapidly approaching with malicious intent, it was too late. I closed the last two strides and let my hands show. He panicked and made his final mistake: puffing out his chest and drawing his right arm back ready to strike, instead of readying himself to block the blow which, surely, he must have known was coming.

By the time he realised his error, I was already inside his defences. I landed a vicious left-hook liver shot which on its own would almost certainly have been agonising enough to stop him dead in his tracks.

But _almost_ was never enough, of course. I needed absolute certainty. And thinking about whatever he might have been doing in that room, and to whom he might have been doing it... I could feel the dark presence inside me tugging at my thoughts.

It didn't just want to stop him.

It wanted to _damage_ him, as well.

I launched a straight right-hander, punching the brass duster into his chest with enough force for me to hear the ribs crack, followed by an uppercut which smashed into his jaw and toppled him backwards.

Damage, done.

The man crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

"Monk, another one to secure. Coming down to you now."

I hauled the prone man back up and bundled him over the landing rail, down the stairs. He tumbled chaotically, landing with one leg at a decidedly unnatural angle. I didn't care what injuries he sustained. There were enough others left alive downstairs to interrogate.

I froze, as a querulous female voice came from inside the room that the man had exited. It sent a shiver of nervous anticipation down my spine: a roiling, conflicting twist of potential relief at maybe having found Jess, and horror at the ordeal she'd been experiencing.

"What's going on?" the voice asked.

A young woman appeared in the doorway, pulling a pink robe around herself. She saw me, and put her hand over her mouth in shock. I wasn't sure if that shock was horror or relief. Frankly, at that moment, I didn't care. All that mattered, was that it wasn't Jess. It was the girl from the CCTV footage: the decoy.

She started to say something, but I wasn't interested. I needed to know if Jess was with her.

"Stay there," I commanded, then pushed past her into the room from which she'd emerged.

I looked around at what was obviously a pastiche of a teen girl's bedroom, all pink walls, posters of boy bands and fluffy toys. It was a set-up: a backdrop to deceive whoever was on the other end of the webcam which was pointed directly at the bed and connected to a laptop facing the same direction. It was obvious what kind of show had been taking place. Disgust and rage flared, tempered only by relief as I realised that Jess wasn't in the room.

I yanked the webcam out of the laptop and slammed it shut. The last thing I needed was some pervert listening in on any more of the raid. I turned to leave the room, as Reid's voice crackled in my earpiece.

"Ground floor secure. Five detained and restrained," he announced.

That was good. But I still hadn't cleared the upper floor.

"Still clearing upstairs," I responded. "Lyle, any more signs of life up here?"

"Negative," came the response. That figured. Any immediate threats on the top floor would have revealed themselves already.

The girl in the pink robe looked petrified as I moved past her again, and began to work my way down the hallway. She followed my instruction and said nothing, remaining rooted to the spot.

I kicked open the next door along. Inside was a small, dark bedroom. The light from the hallway illuminated a teenage boy's room, with a desktop computer and gaming-related paraphernalia strewn around. But just like the previous room, something about it was off. It was another stage-set, although this one was currently not in use. I saw a body under the covers of the single bed and yanked back the duvet.

A male figure, dark-haired and youthful, stared up at me blearily. Nathan Fennec.

"I did it," he murmured. "I did what she wanted. I promise."

I ignored his incoherent ramblings.

"Where is she? Where's Jess?" I demanded.

He frowned and looked at me like I was the one who wasn't making sense. Then his eyes lost focus, as he collapsed back on the pillow with a beatific smile on his face.

He was clearly completely wasted on something. I wasn't going to get any sense out of him, so I headed back out into the hallway.

The girl had pulled her robe tighter, wrapping her arms in front of herself protectively. She looked desperate enough to trigger a momentary surge of pity. But for all I knew, that was exactly what she was hoping for. I shoved the feeling back down and continued to ignore her.

I barged into another three rooms, working my way down the hallway. Two were grubby-looking bedrooms. One had a large lockbox on the dresser, probably containing cash or illegal weapons. In another, there was a makeshift studio set up with lights, a bed and several cameras linked up to some kind of jury-rigged video mixing desk and a computer. I shuddered to think what might have been recorded in there.

There was one room remaining. One place left which could possibly be hiding Jess Gardiner. As I approached, I noticed that a bolt had been added to the outside of the door. That was promising. I glanced across at the young woman, who was still watching me. She'd started to cry.

I steeled myself for what I might find inside, then slid back the bolt and opened the door.

I blinked, adjusting to the darkness, then reached for the light-switch. A shadeless bulb cast a harsh light into the room, revealing an unmade bed and a mouldy shower room beyond. Nothing else. _Nobody_ else.

Jess Gardiner was not in the house.

I turned, and found the girl in the pink robe standing in the doorway. Tears filled her eyes, and a streak of dark eyeliner ran down her cheek.

"I know who you're looking for. It's Jess, isn't it?" Her voice was hoarse. She sounded genuinely upset.

I stared at her for a long moment, before nodding mutely.

"She's not here. You're too late. They've taken her already."

### 28

20:21

Nr. Honeywood, Kent, UK

Michael Williams finished off the last of his beef wellington and drained the glass of _Chateau Mouton Rothschild_ which had accompanied his meal.

He was dining at home, in the grand hall of his country house, with a meal prepared by his domestic staff. His surroundings served as a very visible reminder of his considerable wealth. Yet the attentive servants; the vast, opulent mansion; the lavish meals - they were all for his own, personal satisfaction. The huge dining hall where he sat, had never once been seated to its full capacity. The myriad bedroom suites had never been fully occupied. The vast array of reception rooms had never hosted the extravagant, hundreds-strong parties for which they had undoubtedly been designed.

That was just the way Michael Williams liked it.

When he did host occasional gatherings, they tended to be small, private affairs where invitees were exclusively Etheridge Club members. And they were often confined to the soundproofed, purpose-built basement suites he'd had installed below the main house.

Williams sighed and reflected on the day's events. He'd taken a double dose of his medication on returning home. There had been no further visions, or reappearances of the horned figure. That was a relief. But there was one last job to do, which he'd been putting off for most of the afternoon. He needed to arrange his end of the little _quid pro quo_ he'd agreed with Juan Ramirez Espinoza.

That meant dealing with Mykolas Vaitkus. The Lithuanian operated from a secluded farm he rented from Williams on the outskirts of the capital. The property acted as an old-fashioned brothel, which supplemented a whole host of web-based services. But the Lithuanian's main trade was in out-call _rentals_ , many of which fulfilled orders placed by Williams' Etheridge Club clients.

Williams knew Vaitkus was volatile, and would not react well to the proposal he was going to make. Difficulties would need to be resolved, not least because Ramirez wanted British merchandise for the status they'd buy him in Central America, whereas most of the products Vaitkus offered were East European. To further complicate matters, the merchandise would be shipped across the Atlantic, from where it would not be returning any time soon.

Rental was not an option.

Williams exhaled deeply, picked up his phone and dialled the number. He was just going to have to convince Vaitkus it would be worth his while.

When the Lithuanian answered, he already sounded angry.

"She is on her way. I told you that last time. You do not need to keep checking!"

"Good," Williams replied calmly, unfazed by the hostile reception. He knew Vaitkus was talking about the girl he had purchased for himself. "But that is not why I am calling. I know she is on her way. I am calling because I need you to get me more."

"More?" came the wary response from Vaitkus.

"Yes. My clients are tired of your reluctance to meet their needs. You have failed to provide a satisfactory service. But I am giving you an opportunity to redeem yourself. One last chance."

"I did not fail, I refused. This is not the same thing. Are you serious? You call me up and demand this, like you own me or something?"

The man's East-European accent was still strong, but Vaitkus had an excellent grasp of English. Williams appreciated that. It meant he could be more subtle with his own use of language.

"I don't own you, Mykolas. But I can still make your life exceptionally difficult, if I don't get what I want."

Williams expected a reaction to that. Sure enough, he got one.

"Do not threaten me!" Vaitkus spat back at him. "You think I care about your threats?"

"I'm not threatening you. I'm just telling you how it is. You couldn't get me what I wanted, so I have been forced to make arrangements elsewhere. I have found a more accommodating business partner. But I am prepared to offer you an opportunity to re-establish our business relationship, if you wish."

Williams knew that would provoke an even stronger reaction. He wasn't disappointed.

"Who?" came the angry response. "Who have you made these arrangements with?"

"Never you mind. It is of no consequence. Just because I have taken on another supplier does not mean that you and I cannot still do business. As long as you can get me what I want."

There was a pause, as Williams heard Vaitkus breathing deeply. It sounded like the man was trying to calm himself.

"And what is that, exactly?" came the eventual, forced response.

"I need five, for purchase. But they must be British. None of your usual trash from back home."

"Five for purchase? Are you insane? Do you know how hard it has been to get you _one_?"

"Of course," Williams said reasonably. "But that was different. I asked for her specifically. I understand that presents certain complications. But this time, they just need to be nice, clean and local."

"You think that makes it easy?" Vaitkus made a contemptuous noise that sounded like he was spitting. "You have any idea of the risk involved?"

"Cut the pretence, Mykolas. You know I will pay you well _and_ you know I will not sell you out. You will get the money on time, in whatever form you want it. That is well worth the risk, and you know it."

There was an extended pause. Williams knew that Vaitkus' greed would overcome his reluctance, in the end.

"Getting product back home, it is easy," Vaitkus finally responded. "But here, there are too many questions."

"I am well aware of that. You simply need to find ways of ensuring those questions are not asked of _you_."

Vaitkus said something in his native tongue, which Williams assumed was not complimentary. But, as he expected, the Lithuanian proved to be unable to resist the lure of cold, hard cash. The inevitable negotiation on price ensued, going back and forth until they finally settled on a mutually acceptable figure.

"And what about the girl? What is the timescale for her arrival?" Williams asked. He tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. The young woman bore a striking resemblance to someone from way back, in his school days. A girl whom he'd been denied the opportunity of knowing as well as he'd desired at the time.

"Do not worry. Your wait is nearly over. I will call when I have her." Vaitkus laughed harshly. "You want this one bad. I can tell."

"Yes, I do. And she had better be unharmed. I want to be... the first." He was very much looking forward to living out the teenage fantasies he could still recall with vivid clarity.

"I never promised you that," the Lithuanian sneered.

"No, you didn't. But if our business relationship is to be maintained, I would advise you to ensure your men keep their hands off her anyway."

Leaving the vague threat hanging, Williams disconnected the call. His thoughts turned to the _more accommodating_ business partner he'd used as leverage. Vaitkus wasn't the only one concerned with risk: Williams knew that dealing with Juan Ramirez Espinoza was the most dangerous gamble he'd ever taken.

He'd researched Ramirez's history. He knew how the Mexican had fought his way to success with unrestrained brutality. He knew that, a decade ago, Ramirez had nearly died in a CIA operation in Nuevo Laredo – one in which, it was rumoured, a British agent had also been involved. And he knew that Ramirez had subsequently bootstrapped himself back up and expanded into new territories, which was how he'd ended up in London doing deals with Williams.

Williams rose from the huge dining table and looked around the wood-panelled hall, with its array of historic weaponry hung alongside classic works of art; all of which depicted battles and war. As his eyes roved over the heroic scenes around him, his confidence slowly returned. The Mexican was dangerous, but no more than he was, in his own way.

After all, his own life had been little more than a series of battles. Like Ramirez, he'd fought his way up from a troubled childhood, to grow his empire. Like Ramirez, he'd taken down those who stood in his way without mercy.

And like Ramirez, what distinguished him from the heroes depicted in the paintings all around, was that his victories had usually been by foul means, not fair.

### 29

20:28

Priory Hill Estate, Dartford, UK

Interrogation is the blackest of black arts.

I discovered a long time ago that bending a resistant human being to your will requires a level of psychological and physical understanding more commonly associated with medical experts. But I also learned that it's not just about knowledge. It's not even about skill in applying that knowledge. More than anything, it's a deeply, intensely _personal_ activity: one where you need to know yourself just as much as you need to know your opponent. Because success is invariably determined by a single question.

Just how far are you prepared to go?

When I'd first faced that question, many years ago, the answer had been 'not that far.' Even after my initial conditioning, which had made me capable of killing without guilt, I was still too _inhibited_. My interrogations often took too long.

The solution had been simple, for Shelagh O'Brien and her brain-rewiring team. They'd tweaked my psychedelic drug regimen, refocused the transcranial magnetic stimulation, rewritten my conditioning programme, and built another person in my head.

Except, in the end, it wasn't really a person. _Person_ , after all, was usually a term used to describe something human.

As I stood in front of Dean Hemmings, preparing to ascertain the whereabouts of Jess Gardiner, the presence of that dark alter-ego pressed uncomfortably inside my skull. I really didn't want to let it out, however useful it might be. I forced my thoughts away from the mental triggers that would fully wake it up.

I'd handle the interrogation myself.

Daisy was upstairs, gently coaxing information from Caitlyn, the decoy girl. Reid had the other men – along with the near-catatonic Fennec – bound, hooded and gagged in the front room. Lyle was busy examining the drives of the computers I'd found upstairs, and cracking the electronic lock on the lockbox.

All of which left me, in the kitchen.

The blinds were closed. The doors were shut. The smell of stale food from a pile of dirty dishes in the sink mingled with the heavy odour of cigarette smoke which hung throughout the house. Neither was strong enough to overcome the most powerful aroma in the room: the smell of fear. That was emanating from Dean Hemmings, bound tightly to a dining chair with his tattooed arms painfully tied behind the high wooden back, and his mouth gagged with a large strip of heavy-duty gaffer tape.

I regarded Hemmings for a few moments, then removed the gagging tape.

"I dunno who you are," he snarled. "But I do know you're a fackin' dead man. You think you're gonna get away with this? I'm gonna rip your fackin' head off and take a shit down your..."

I shoved the tape back over his mouth, then took a couple of steps back and regarded him impassively. I was still wearing the balaclava, so I spoke slowly and clearly, pronouncing each word deliberately to ensure it was intelligible through the muffle of the material obscuring my mouth.

"There will be no decapitation, no defecation, and no more empty threats, Mr Hemmings. You have made a poor decision, and you are going to be punished. All that remains, is for the extent of your punishment to be determined."

Hemmings stopped struggling to speak, momentarily. He looked confused, probably because I didn't sound like any gangster he'd ever encountered. I smiled coldly. He didn't get the full benefit of my facial expression behind the balaclava, but I knew he could read it in my eyes.

"Let me explain," I continued. "You made a poor decision when you chose to arrange the abduction of Jess Gardiner. You will be punished for this transgression regardless. However, if you are able to locate the girl for me, without delay, then your punishment will be mitigated accordingly. Do you understand?"

I could see that he was trying to process what he was hearing, and not getting very far. I was scaring him, but there was still some fight left in his eyes. He was going to need proof of my intent. I leaned forward and yanked the tape back again.

Hemmings glared at me defiantly.

"I ain't sayin' nothing," he spat. Just as I'd expected.

I nodded slowly, and replaced the tape.

"I couldn't agree more, Mr Hemmings. Your double-negative, whilst unintentional, does indeed describe what is going to happen."

He looked at me blankly, clearly not understanding what I'd said. I didn't care. It was already clear that I needed to up the ante. He was scared, but not yet scared enough. He needed to know that I was prepared to hurt him grievously, to get what I needed. The darkness in my head threw a few suggestions my way, as to how I might achieve that.

I ignored it. I had enough ideas of my own.

I turned away from Hemmings and opened my rucksack, which I'd left on the kitchen table. Inside was a mini bolt-cutting tool, which I'd packed for such an eventuality. I held up the tool so it was clearly visible, then stepped behind him to take hold of his right hand. It was bound tightly to the back of the chair, but I was able to ease the index finger away from the others. I placed it within the cutting section of the tool. As soon as he felt the cold metal on his digit, he began to struggle violently on the chair and his muffled cries behind the gag became more intense.

I squeezed the cutters shut.

He jerked and writhed in the chair, as the severed finger dropped onto the glossy tile below. The bleeding was intense, but the way in which he'd been bound to the chair – with the vertical uprights of the back digging painfully into his armpits – helpfully restricted the flow. I had no particular concerns about blood loss. Not in the short term anyway.

I picked up the finger and remained behind him, out of sight.

"Consider that a statement of my intent, Mr Hemmings. I am not here merely to rough you up a little. I will simply remove parts of your anatomy until you tell me what I need to know."

I circled the chair, noting that he was now twisting his head to follow me. His eyes were wide, and he would have been close to hyperventilating had the tape not still been over his mouth.

I placed the bloody bolt cutters down on the table, in clear view of Hemmings. Then I laid the severed finger carefully next to the tool. The fight had left his eyes entirely now, replaced with horror. But I had to be certain - to be sure that he was fully broken before we continued.

"Given that time is of the essence, I'm not going to work through ten fingers and ten toes before we get on to the parts that might have rather more personal value."

I removed a long, serrated knife from the rucksack. I leaned down and pressed it point-first into Hemmings' crotch. It pierced the soft material of his sweatpants and I held it there – the cold steel touching flesh underneath – to indicate my intentions. My face was merely inches from his. His eyes widened further in panic as he tried to shuffle backwards on the chair. I pushed down on his legs, and held him in place.

"Let me make one thing clear," I said. "At some point in the very near future you're going to prison. That is a necessary part of your punishment, and my people will make sure that it happens. The only question for you is..."

I prodded the knife harder. The cold smile returned.

"Whether you end up with the men in the Scrubs..."

I drew the knife down, just enough for a small bloody stain to appear through the thin material of his trousers.

"...or whether you'll be able to join the ladies in Holloway."

He was shaking and desperately trying to say something, but I hadn't quite finished. I leaned in close and whispered in his ear.

"I have to admit something, Mr Hemmings. I'm not a qualified surgeon. My gender reassignment ops aren't always the neatest. But they _do_ get the job done."

I withdrew the knife, and turned away to place it back on the table. My heart was beating faster than it should have been, and my hand was shaking slightly. I'd gone further than I had intended. Much further. In my head, I thought I heard laughter: the darkness, again, playing tricks. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and turned back to regard Hemmings. His desperate, broken expression confirmed what I already knew. I'd gone far enough.

"I am going to remove the tape again," I announced. There was a tremor in my voice, but Hemmings didn't notice. "When I do, you are going to tell me exactly who has Jess Gardiner, and precisely where I will find her. Understood?"

He nodded vehemently in agreement, so I ripped the tape off for a final time and the words came tumbling out.

"Some East European gang have her," he gasped. "Came for her tonight. I don't even know who they are, not really. I just pay 'em for hosting the cam sites and they take a cut of the subs, and... well, sometimes, you know, they take a liking to one of the girls and I have to arrange for a bit of _face time_ , you know..."

"And that's what happened with Jess?"

He nodded vigorously.

"It was real easy, too 'cos Fennec had already brought her over here." He frowned briefly at the recollection. "I dunno why he done that. I never asked him to. Must've liked her himself, I guess, but he never got to do nothing with her in the end, 'cos I got a call sayin' they wanted her. Said nobody was to touch her, too, or else..."

I held up my hand, and he stopped speaking immediately.

"Where is she?"

"I dunno! I swear! They take 'em and they bring 'em back and that's it. They got a place somewhere, where they do their business. I dunno where, though. I don't ask questions. Not with them, I mean they're serious people. Got shooters and everything."

He looked up at me desperately.

"I had no choice," he pleaded. "You gotta believe me..."

It looked like he was telling the truth, which was a problem. He hadn't given me anything which could help me find Jess. I needed some kind of lead.

"I am also a serious person, Mr Hemmings. Rather more serious than these petty little gangsters, I'd wager. If you really can't tell me where she is, then you're of no use to me. But I do need to be absolutely certain that you can't."

I reached for the knife.

"No! Please..."

"Don't worry. I'll make it nice and slow – give you time to think of something that might help."

I moved the blade towards his crotch again.

"Wait! I don't know where the girl is, I swear, but I have a contact for them."

I paused, holding the knife in place, just inches from his most sensitive parts.

"What sort of contact?"

The knife moved closer once more. I was bluffing. At least, I hoped I was. But to Hemmings I was deadly serious.

"I got a phone number. For their main man, like. He's the one what calls the shots an' everything. You can use that, right?"

"A phone number won't tell me where Jess Gardiner is," I pointed out.

"No, but he'll know, won't he? You pay him a visit... go ask him some questions, yeah? I can get you the number now," he said, nodding towards the table where I'd placed the phone Reid had taken from him earlier. "It's on my phone."

I withdrew the knife, and nodded slowly. It was far from ideal, but it was a lead. I could give the number to Lyle and he could trace its whereabouts. It also meant I could end the interrogation, before it had chance to get out of hand again.

"Very well. You've just bought yourself a little longer as a man."

I picked up his phone. Without thinking, I casually used the severed finger to access the biometric unlock function.

"Fackin' hell, you sick bastard..." Hemmings muttered as he looked on in horror.

"Who am I looking for in your contacts, Mr Hemmings?" I enquired, ignoring his comment.

He didn't answer me immediately. Instead, he looked at me with a strange mix of awe, fear and disgust. I recognised the emotions. I was feeling something very similar about myself, right then.

"Who _are_ you?" he asked. "You with the Russians or something?"

"No," I replied, managing to keep the emotion from my voice. "Now, I will not ask again. What name is this number under?"

"Vaitkus," he replied hurriedly. "His name is Vaitkus."

### 30

00:09 (GMT + 3:30)

Elahiyeh District, Tehran, Iran

Deputy Commander Musa Majidi lay awake, in the dim light of his bedroom suite.

His wife was asleep in the next room. He smiled to himself as he listened to the faint rise and fall of her snores. In all the time they'd been married, she'd never had any trouble sleeping. But then, she'd never carried with her the sort of worries that he bore. If she had – if she realised the truth of the situation facing them both – then he was certain she'd have been as wide awake as he was.

The Ministry man who had visited him earlier on at the restaurant had not minced his words. The Supreme Leader was tiring of Majidi's prevarication and excuses, the man had said, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice. Results were required within the month. Majidi, the messenger and the Supreme Leader himself all knew that was a completely unrealistic timeframe.

Unless, of course, Majidi could get his top scientists back on the case.

He shuffled uneasily on the mattress and reflected on his fate. Majidi's life hadn't been easy, but he was a gifted opportunist. He'd been blessed with the cunning and foresight necessary slip his way up through the ranks, plying the clerics with platitudes whilst skilfully navigating the endless internecine power struggles inside Iran's complex military structure. More recently though, it had felt as if he was losing his grip. Younger, hungrier rivals were snapping at his heels. Majidi knew the key to fending them off lay with the man he now knew as Bruce Thorne.

The British man possessed the crucial information Majidi needed to get Iran's nuclear programme back on track: the location of the kidnapped Iranian scientists. Once Thorne had been persuaded to share that information, Majidi would act swiftly to repatriate them. The timeframe, however, was dependent on Amir Nazari also acting swiftly. The operative was a careful planner, and Majidi knew he wouldn't strike until he was assured of success. That was a problem, and it was one which Majidi realised was keeping him awake.

Rising from his bed, Majidi picked up his phone, and scrolled through the contacts to find Nazari's number.

"Deputy Commander, sir?" Nazari answered, almost straight away.

"What is your current timescale for capturing Thorne?"

"Uh, I cannot confirm that, sir. He has left the house, and we are awaiting his return. Plans are in place for his arrival."

"You are ready to go?"

"Yes, sir."

"You still plan to take him on the driveway?"

Majidi listened, as Nazari outlined the plan again, confirming that he would jam the automatic garage door to leave Thorne stranded on the drive.

"This garage door," Majidi said. "It sounds uncertain. If you can't jam it, then the operation will fail."

"There is an element of uncertainty, sir. But I am confident we can disable it for long enough to strike."

"What about Asadi? I am sure he could kill the house's electricity supply remotely. Then your element of uncertainty would be removed, would it not?"

"Are you sure, sir? That would be quite a feat."

Majidi snorted. "Yes, well, he was bragging the other day about how our Chinese friends penetrated every British electricity provider years ago, meaning they could shut off the entire National Grid if they chose. But he also said something about smart meters in the houses over there, which for some reason known only to Allah, are connected to the internet. Asadi suggested that meant a more targeted shutdown was possible. Why not put him to the test?"

"Uh, very well, sir. I will do that. Thank you for the suggestion."

"I need you to understand that the urgency of your task has... well, let's just say that it has increased substantially since we last spoke. I don't want over-cautiousness to hold things up. We can't afford for anything to delay matters further."

"I understand, sir. When he returns tonight, we will act without delay. The plane is on standby at Biggin Hill, ready for the extraction. You will have him by tomorrow."

"I hope you're right, Nazari. For both our sakes. _Khodafez._ "

Majidi ended the call, and sat back down on the bed. At least he knew his operative was now clear about the timescale. If he was honest, he felt better for having actually contributed a little himself to the operation, with his idea about the electricity supply. It would make it easier to take full credit for it later on.

He yawned again, and realised that some of the stress which had been keeping him awake had dissipated. He lay back down, hoping that his confidence in Nazari wasn't misplaced.

Within a day, he'd know for sure one way or the other.

### 31

21:56

South Circular Road, Wandsworth, London, UK

I'm no racing driver, but I do know how to handle a car. Forty minutes after we'd set off, I'd managed to put considerable distance between us and Dartford. That should have been good. That should have meant we were getting closer to Jess.

We weren't.

Instead, we were treading water; forced to re-trace our steps because we'd run up against an entirely unexpected problem. When I'd given Lyle the number for Vaitkus, he'd discovered that he couldn't track it because the remote connection to his computer back in my office had been cut off. Without access to his digital bag of tricks, no further progress could be made. We needed to get back to Putney and fix whatever had apparently broken.

I frowned as another traffic light turned red, and tried to remind myself that the Dartford raid had not been a complete failure. I'd informed my former colleague Desi Baxter about the captives we'd left bagged-and-gagged in Hemmings' house. She'd had no qualms about leaving the Met's official jurisdiction after I'd explained about the local corruption. The whole gang would be in custody within the hour.

That knowledge still wasn't enough to ease the frustration that I'd missed Jess. I suspected the others felt the same: the whole mood in the car was tense.

"Did you get anything from the girl, in the end?" Lyle asked. Back at the house, Daisy had already gone through what Caitlyn – the decoy girl – had told her. But Lyle had missed the explanation - he'd been busy extracting Hemmings' hard drives and cracking the electronic lockbox I'd found in the bedroom.

I sighed, really not wanting to go over it all again.

"She told me how she and Fennec got dragged in," Daisy answered, sensing my reluctance and stepping in. She began explaining to Lyle how Nathan Fennec and Caitlyn had been forced to work for Hemmings. I tried to tune it out. Hearing it again would just make me angry.

The lights changed and I drove on, trying to ignore Daisy describing how Caitlyn had been forced to provide 'services' for Hemmings and his friends after her mother failed to repay a loan. And I really didn't want a repeat telling of how Fennec's disabled brother had been used as leverage in a truly horrific way.

My attempts to avoid listening were futile. If I'd have felt bad about what I'd done to Hemmings, then knowing all that would have helped to ease my conscience. But I didn't feel bad, about what had happened in the kitchen. I didn't feel anything at all.

"How come Fennec was reported missing? If he went back home from uni?" Lyle asked.

I gave up trying to ignore the conversation, and focused instead on keeping my rising anger in check.

"He didn't go home," I explained. "Hemmings got him hooked on ketamine. He was virtually a prisoner in that house."

Lyle was unimpressed. "Right. So when he wasn't being _forced_ ..." he said, making air quotes, "...to charm unsuspecting young ladies into taking their knickers off for him on camera, he was off his face on kitty. Top guy. I mean, it's not like he had a gun to his head. He could have found a way out."

"You can't say that," Reid stated quietly. He had barely spoken throughout the journey and his interjection surprised us all.

"Oh, it speaks! All hail the voice of reason," Lyle said sarcastically. "Well, I _can_ say that and I just did. We all have lines we won't cross. The girl's no better, either. Blackmailing a few idiots who can't keep their trousers on when talking to a pretty girl online is one thing. But agreeing to take part in an abduction? That's something else."

"That's the thing, though. She didn't agree," Daisy said, quietly. "Not at first. But Hemmings had her younger sister beaten up when she refused the first time, and then threatened to do even worse. Her sister was twelve."

Reid tensed visibly in the seat next to me, and flexed his hands. He remained silent. For once, I knew what he was thinking.

"Shit..." Lyle said, blowing out a long breath. "Alright, I get it. It's all on Hemmings. Do we know how many others he's taken, like Jess?"

"A few. Caitlyn said they'd blackmail them into coming to the house, then they'd be taken away. Usually they'd come back after a couple of days, but not always. Sometimes it was longer."

"And did they always go to such lengths to cover their tracks?"

"No. She said Jess was the first one they did all that for."

"Why?" Lyle asked, suspiciously. "What was so special about her?"

"Nothing," Daisy explained. "Caitlyn said Fennec suddenly became paranoid about getting caught. She figured that was from the drugs he was taking. Said he was losing the plot, having visions and all sorts, about some mysterious woman telling him to contact Jess and giving him a whole load of new hacking tricks so the police wouldn't catch him."

_I did what she wanted. I promise._ Fennec's words from the bedroom came back to me. Something bothered me about the whole setup. It just didn't seem to add up. Not that it mattered any more, now that Vaitkus had Jess.

"So did it go down like we guessed, with Caitlyn as the decoy?" Lyle asked.

I left the explanation to Daisy, again. Fennec had found Shannon Macaulay's party on Facebook, then blackmailed Jess into meeting him there. He'd told her to wear a hat, so the wig wouldn't look obvious on Caitlyn, and when she arrived he'd drugged her whilst Caitlyn took her clothes and left. Nathan had then snuck Jess out of the party in Caitlyn's hoodie and driven her back to Dartford.

"And Caitlyn went to King's Cross, right? And sent the message to Jess's mum?" Lyle asked.

"Yeah, to make it look like Jess had just run away. So the police wouldn't bother looking too hard," Daisy explained.

"That worked, too," I said, ruefully.

"What happened at Stevenage?"

"Caitlyn dumped the wig and clothes, then headed back to Dartford. That's why you never got anything more off the CCTV around Stevenage. She wasn't even there."

Lyle swore profusely, and we all fell silent for a while again.

As I finally turned onto the quiet residential street where I lived, I noticed that unlike all the neighbouring houses, my house was completely dark.

"Power's out," Reid observed.

"No shit, Sherlock," Lyle said. "Did you forget to feed the meter, Thorne? At least we know why my connection dropped, anyway."

"All that kit of yours has probably blown a fuse or something."

"Nah, bruv," Lyle replied. "It's only a few hundred watts. And if it was gonna blow anything, it would have been when I was ragging the nuts off the CPUs doing facial recognition, innit."

"Well, something's tripped it out. Or else someone's in there looking for the keys to that," I said, nodding towards Lyle's green Lamborghini which was just visible from the road.

"Oh yeah. Good point, bruv. Should have put it in your garage, really," Lyle said. "Well, you and Reid had better go in and kick some burglar arse, whilst Daisy and me stay here keep watch, right?

"Right..." I said, absent-mindedly, as I cautiously made the final turn into the driveway.

Something was wrong, but I couldn't tell exactly what. The renewed tension in the car suggested the others were feeling the same. I eased the car around the crescent drive, a voice in my head urging me to get the hell out of there. But I couldn't justify any further delays in our search for Jess.

I chose to ignore the voice.

### 32

22:03

Putney, London, UK

Amir Nazari squatted in darkness, hidden amongst the rhododendron bushes in Thorne's front garden.

Shayan Mokri and Yousef Hamidi crouched beside him, as he watched the old Lexus crawling around the drive. His target – now accompanied by three companions – had finally returned. Nazari had eavesdropped Thorne's call to the man called Reid, so his appearance wasn't a surprise.

Saeed Asadi had given Nazari the facility to remotely cut the house's power, just as Deputy Commander Majidi had suggested he'd be able to do. Nazari had followed Asadi's instructions, which meant the garage door would remain shut and, as an added bonus, the front of the house would remain in darkness.

With the revised plan clear to all concerned, as soon as Nazari saw the phone signals moving back towards Putney, they'd emptied the apartment and loaded up the van. Soroush took it up to its observation position up the street, awaiting the signal to return. Nazari had checked Khorsandi was covering the back of the house, from across the river in Fulham, then calmly walked across the road with Hamidi and Mokri. They'd disappeared into the shrubbery in Thorne's front driveway. That was where they remained, ready to strike and completely hidden from view.

Nazari glanced at the two other men. Mokri looked nervous. Hamidi looked excited. Neither expression gave him confidence, but it was too late to back out. He had to work with what he'd got.

"Stick to the plan," Nazari instructed. "Get the others out of the car first, then we use them as leverage to make Thorne comply. I'll use Asadi's trick on my phone to get the power back on again, then we get them all inside through the garage."

The men nodded in affirmation.

"Hamidi, you're with me on the driver's side. Mokri, you take the other side. No shooting unless you have to, and make sure it's non-lethal if you do."

The two men nodded again and drew their weapons. All three watched and waited as the target's car eased to a halt. Nazari swore quietly. Instead of heading down the ramp to the garage entrance, the Lexus had pulled up in front of the green Lamborghini which was already parked on the curved driveway.

Nazari scowled, irritated by his own lack of foresight. He should have considered the possibility that his target would realise the power was out – from the darkness of the house – and not even bother trying the garage door. It meant the grab would have to take place on the driveway, not the ramp. That was still do-able, given that it was late evening and few neighbours were likely to be watching. But it did mean they'd have to act quickly.

Mokri and Hamidi looked at him questioningly. They'd noted the deviation from the plan. Nazari wasn't fully comfortable with the situation, but Deputy Commander Majidi's instruction about avoiding over-caution was still rattling round his head.

"We do it anyway. Let's make it fast."

The men nodded, and got ready to run. Nazari tensed, withdrew his own weapon, and cleared his mind in readiness for what was about to happen. He took a deep breath, then issued the command.

"Go!"

Without hesitation, all three men leaped up from their hiding place, bursting out from the shrubbery and across the darkened drive to where their targets still sat, oblivious, in the car.

### 33

22:04

Assumptions and preconceptions: sometimes I fall for them as well.

With my thoughts focused on Jess Gardiner, I'd certainly assumed we'd be arriving home without having to face the sight of three armed men surrounding the car. For most people, that wouldn't have been an unreasonable assumption. That sort of thing wasn't exactly a common occurrence in the quiet backwaters of Putney. But for me? It was unforgiveable.

Nobody understood more than I did, that living in a safe neighbourhood was no guarantee of safety, given what had happened to my family in the leafy suburbs of Dulwich Village.

Still, it was too late for recrimination. It was too late for a plan, as well. With the kit from Dartford being safely secured in the boot, there was nothing to bring to bear immediately on our attackers. That meant it all came down to looking for an opportunity, again. I glanced out at the two men on my side of the car. Both carried small pistols. One was aimed directly at my head. The other was pointing at the rear side window, where Daisy sat. There were no opportunities there – at least none which ended well.

I had no choice but to play along.

Acting in unison, the two men on my side of the car yanked the doors open and motioned for us to get out of the car. The man on the other side got Lyle out first, then Reid. We were all ushered round to the rear of the car, where our three attackers kept their weapons trained upon us from a safe distance.

I was racking my brain, trying to think of how we'd screwed up badly enough for Hemmings to have got people to my house. In the time it had taken me to walk slowly around the back of the car, I'd reached a conclusion. We hadn't screwed up. These men were nothing to do with Hemmings. There was a measured urgency in their commands: no shouting, no drama. Just clear, unequivocal instruction.

These men were not amateurs, and they hadn't been sent in retribution by some small-time criminal.

The man who had been targeting me lowered his aim to my chest. I'd already pegged him as the group's leader. He looked calmer than the other two, and something in his dark eyes spoke of experiences that his younger companions had yet to share.

"You do what I say, the others don't get hurt. Understand?"

The leader was addressing me directly. The accent was foreign, but it was the phrasing which worried me. _The others don't get hurt._ That implied the men were there for me. It was no random robbery, or forced burglary.

I raised my hands, indicating that I accepted my fate. I also subtly eased myself forwards, closing the distance between us.

"Sure," I said. "What's happening here?"

It was a genuine question. I had no idea who these people were. They weren't Mexican hitters, for sure. They'd have gunned us all down already, or just blown up the car. And they definitely weren't Liverpudlian thugs; the dark complexion and foreign accents gave away that fact straight off. My eyes locked with the man who had spoken. His features were definitely Middle Eastern. Persian, perhaps, although that didn't make any sense at all. The Iranians were a lot of things, but they weren't gang-bangers.

He ignored my question and nodded to the garage ramp, which was behind us.

"We go down to garage. Then inside. You try anything, we shoot everyone but you."

"Seriously, bro?" Lyle muttered, frowning at me. "These dudes are here for you? Thanks, man. I mean, that's all we need, getting dragged into your personal shit..."

"Shut up!" the leader hissed at Lyle.

I shrugged an apology at Lyle and shifted a little again, closing the distance fractionally between me and the leader. Daisy glanced up at Reid, looking for reassurance.

"Just do what they say," he said, quietly.

Daisy looked back at me, and I nodded my confirmation. She looked concerned, but I didn't think she looked scared. Not really. Certainly not as much as Lyle anyway, who had backed himself right up against the Lexus and looked like he was trying to hide behind Reid.

"Move, now," the leader instructed, indicating that we should head for the garage ramp.

I nodded, assessing the distances involved and the potential for me to launch a strike that would disarm him. He was still a couple of feet too far, but on our way to the garage that might change. Before the leader could reiterate his command, the sound of an approaching vehicle attracted his attention.

He frowned, and looked over his shoulder. I followed his gaze, and squinted at the headlights of an old blue Transit van which had just pulled up to a halt, right outside the driveway. For a moment, I assumed that the vehicle was linked to the three men in front of us but then the leader swore, quietly, in Farsi. He clearly recognised the van, but I could see that its arrival was not expected. It was not part of their plan.

The man who was covering Daisy snorted, then switched to his native language.

"I knew we should have taken them out earlier."

Clearly, whoever was in the van had already come to the attention of the men in front of me. I was intrigued, however, as to who exactly its occupants might be.

"Shut up Hamidi, and keep them covered," the leader instructed, turning briefly again towards the driveway entrance which the van had parked across. He slipped his weapon into the pocket of his jacket, so that it was still trained on us but hidden from immediate view. The other two attackers followed suit.

"Don't move. Don't say anything," the leader ordered, speaking to us in English.

Three men appeared in the driveway, from the van. They were backlit from the street lighting; just enough for me to make out a large, hard-looking man wielding a baseball bat and a small, wiry looking individual standing at his side. Next to them was another male, of medium build, who looked to be carrying some kind of handgun.

"Wait," the Iranian leader instructed his men. "Mokri, do nothing until we know what they want. Hamidi, keep covering."

It was apparent that in the darkness of the driveway the visitors could not see us clearly. The large man held up his hand to his eyes, peering uncertainly around until the smaller man flipped on a torch and swept it towards us, catching everyone in the beam.

"Oo de fock ay yous?" he called, apparently addressing our attackers. "Eez os! Gerraway!"

The Irish-Liverpudlian accent was so thick that the Iranians just frowned at each other in confusion, not understanding what had just been said. I had no such problems parsing the dialect, and it told me with crystal clarity who the new arrivals were. However inconceivable it might have been for the Brunswick Brothers to have matched the Liam Rourke identity with my real home address, they had somehow managed to do so.

The men now walking cautiously down the drive towards us had clearly been sent by Pat O'Connor to retrieve their missing man, _a.k.a._ me. That was a concern. The consequences of that were likely to be interesting, for me at least.

None of that mattered, however. It was of no importance that there were now, apparently, two different sets of people who wished to do me some kind of as-yet-unspecified harm. What did matter was that the Iranian team were unexpectedly caught in a very difficult position. They couldn't turn to properly face the new arrivals, without turning away from us.

I glanced across at Reid. He understood the look.

The opportunity had just arrived.

### 34

22:09

From the moment he caught Thorne's eye, Reinhold Reid began calculating trajectories. He wasn't happy with the results.

He wasn't happy about his state of mind, either. The flat calm that usually descended in combat was disrupted. An unfamiliar tension accompanied his calculations. He knew that was down to Daisy Haines. The protective instinct was deeply alien to him, but she was a non-combatant and he wanted her to be safe.

The problem was, she wasn't. And his trajectories told him that he'd have no choice but to deal with the man marking him, before he'd be able to tackle the man targeting Daisy.

Reid had no idea who the new arrivals from the van were. Thanks to his rudimentary understanding of Farsi, he'd deduced that the original attackers were Iranians, and that the man nearest him was called Mokri whilst the one covering Daisy was called Hamidi. He'd spotted that they were carrying Russian-made PSS 'Vul' self-silencing pistols, which marked them out as professionals. Other than that, he knew nothing about them.

He didn't need to. They were the enemy, and that was all that mattered.

Reid looked down the drive. One of the men approaching was waving a handgun in their general direction. It appeared to be an ancient 'broom handle' Mauser C96 – some wartime relic handed down through the generations that was more likely to blow its owner's fingers off than inflict any damage on an opponent.

Reid suspected its present owner was unlikely to get a chance to even pull the trigger.

Sure enough, the Iranian leader issue a brusque command. The man in front of him – Mokri – began to move immediately. The Iranian removed his pistol from the cover of his jacket and let off three shots in quick succession. The weapon barely made a sound. Reid was impressed. He'd never seen a Vul being used up-close before.

The leader – who had been covering Thorne – also turned away, unleashing several shots at the new arrivals. The two larger men from the blue van both staggered as they were hit. The man with the Mauser fell with a cry, before beginning to crawl back down the driveway towards the van.

Reid's eyes flicked between the men in front of him. Hamidi was the only one still facing them, with a pistol trained on Daisy. Reid considered that to be a mistake, given that he and Thorne were the most obvious threats. The Iranian looked young, nervous and uncertain. That made him dangerous, but only if he was given the chance.

Reid was going to have to trust Thorne to make sure that didn't happen.

With two of the three Iranians facing away, the trajectories worked about as well as they were ever going to. As Mokri fired a fourth shot, taking out the third man's torch and throwing the whole scene back into darkness, Reid didn't even need to look at Thorne again.

He knew it was time to go.

In one fluid movement, Reid shoved Lyle sideways with his left arm, sending the hacker tumbling into Daisy and momentarily taking her out of Hamidi's sights. That was as much as Reid could do for her. Thorne would have to do the rest. Without stopping, Reid took three rapid paces towards Mokri, who was still aiming down the driveway.

Out of the corner of his eye, Reid was aware of Thorne leaping forward to disarm Hamidi with a chop to the arm. Lyle was desperately scrabbling around the car for safety, whilst Daisy had fallen over awkwardly onto all fours, which at least dropped her below Hamidi's aim.

Mokri was in range now, only just beginning to turn. Reid took advantage, launching a powerful kick at the side of the man's knee. But the Iranian was no amateur and had enough foresight to pre-empt the strike by shifting forward. Instead of connecting with the knee joint, Reid's boot struck a glancing blow to the back of the man's leg. That sent his opponent off-balance but failed to inflict any serious damage.

Reid didn't pause to consider that further. He'd closed in and was already chopping down with his left arm onto the hand in which Mokri held the small pistol. That strike was successful; it sent the weapon clattering down onto the crazy paving of the driveway.

Primary objective achieved: the odds were evened.

Now it was just a straight fight.

Although, definitely not a straight _forward_ fight.

Reid's attempt to grab his opponent around the neck was foiled, as the Iranian twisted away from his grip in a deft move which earned Reid an elbow in the stomach for his troubles. Momentarily winded, Reid released his grip and the man danced away out of range.

Reid knew his mistake was down to distraction. He was dimly aware that Thorne had moved on to tackle the Iranian leader and was wrestling the man's pistol from his grasp. It looked like Lyle had managed to escape and was getting back into the car. But Daisy hadn't got to her feet in time to escape Hamidi, who might have lost his weapon but was now moving in towards her.

Cold logic took over. Ensuring her safety required Reid to stay alive, first. He shut out the sights and sounds of what was taking place around him, and focused on the man in front of him, who had just pulled out a dull black knife. Reid recognised it as a Kizlyar; Russian made. He was fighting a pro, for sure.

Mokri feinted once, then launched an unexpected sweeping lunge at Reid's middle. Reid danced backwards just in time, feeling the blade graze his stomach, then closed in before his opponent could bring the knife to bear again. That put him within swinging distance, and Reid landed a straight right-handed punch, smashing into the man's cheek and knocking his head backwards. Taking advantage of the ensuing disorientation, Reid spun the Iranian around and twisted his knife arm up viciously until the weapon slipped from the man's grip and fell to the ground.

Over the Iranian's shoulder, Reid saw Thorne struggling with the leader, the two men almost a blur of chopping arms and kicks as they fought. Neither appeared to have seen the small, wiry-looking man from the blue van, who'd somehow managed to escape serious injury from the fusillade of silenced gunfire. He was now heading towards the grappling men, holding a blade in front of him. A few feet away, Daisy was struggling with Hamidi. She was putting up a good fight, but the man's superior strength was evident.

Reid knew he had to end his own battle soon.

Letting go of Mokri's arm, he launched what was intended to be a debilitating kidney strike to the man's back. Instead, he found only empty air, as the Iranian unexpectedly dived forward. Mokri had spotted his lost pistol, which lay several feet away on the paved driveway, and was lunging desperately for it.

Reid leaped after the man and landed heavily on top of him. The Iranian already had hold of the pistol, forcing Reid to roll and grapple with him on the stone driveway. Mokri straddled Reid, and got one shot off just as Reid grabbed the man's wrists and deflected his aim to the side. The bullet impacted the concrete paving, sending shards of sharp stonework into the side of Reid's face.

As he turned his face away, he caught a glint of metal in amongst the bark chips of the border. Thinking it might be the discarded knife, he began to reach out for it when a shadow suddenly loomed overhead: the giant from the blue van. The gangster had been hit twice by the Iranians' gunshots, one in the chest and one in the gut. The blood stains which spread across his white t-shirt looked serious, and Reid could hear the man's other injured companion shouting to him.

"Riley, come 'ead! Leuv it!"

The wounded giant was having none of it, glaring down at Mokri and Reid as they struggled on the ground at his feet.

"Ay want me 'undred grand, youse fockers! Ay am gonna fock'n kill youse orl."

He swung the baseball bat at Mokri, whose arms were still held in Reid's grip. The Iranian twisted in an attempt to escape the blow, but Reid held him firm. The strike was inept, and clearly weakened by the fact that the man – Riley – was already bleeding heavily from his wounds. But it still connected with Mokri's back carrying sufficient force to do damage.

Mokri's grip slackened with the blow, but the Iranian suddenly leaned back and managed to extricate himself from Reid's grasp. Still clutching the pistol in both hands, Mokri twisted around, bringing the weapon to bear on the Liverpudlian lunatic who had the bat raised above his head, ready to strike a killing blow.

Mokri squeezed the trigger. With a barely-audible click, the gun fired its last round, hitting Riley in the neck.

The big man staggered back, blood spraying from the fresh wound as a look of surprise and fury spread across his face. The metal bat clattered to the ground, as Riley clutched his neck. Blood frothed through fingers, as greed finally gave in to survival instinct with the realisation that a hundred grand wasn't worth dying for.

Reid suspected that decision had come too late.

The gangster turned away and began to stumble back towards the van, which the other injured man had somehow managed to get started up again. Riley's feet looked leaden, and although the van was only yards away it was far from certain that he'd make it.

That, however wasn't Reid's immediate concern. A rather more pressing matter was the fact that his arms were free, his opponent's pistol was empty, and he now had an opportunity to reach the glinting metal object which had attracted his attention earlier. His left hand shot out, reaching into the shrubbery. His fingers grasped a rounded wooden handled, and he tugged it free from the bark mulch.

It wasn't the knife he'd been expecting.

It was a three-pronged gardener's hand fork, presumably discarded by Thorne's groundskeepers. Reid wasn't concerned about how it had come to be there. He was more bothered about the fact that it didn't have a blade.

Still, it was better than an empty fist.

Mokri, slowed by the blow from the baseball bat, had failed to appreciate the imminent danger. Reid gripped the fork tightly and thrust upwards towards the Iranian's face. His opponent had just enough time to open his mouth in surprise. Reid considered that particularly unfortunate, as it allowed two prongs of the fork to punch directly into the Iranian's mouth whilst the third pierced the flesh of his cheek. Reid followed the blow through with all his available strength, embedding the fork in the man's soft palate as a spray of blood and tooth fragments spattered down.

Mokri let out a horrific gurgling cry. Reid released the fork and wrestled himself out from beneath the Iranian, leaving the gardening implement lodged, improbably, in Mokri's mouth as he flailed desperately at Reid in a furious rage. Reid rolled away and sprang to his feet, all ready to finish off the Iranian until a female voice made him freeze. The sound cut right through him, sending a shiver of empathic fear down his spine.

It was Daisy, crying for help.

### 35

22:13

I've never been a thrill-seeker. Not really.

The choice to deliberately place yourself in unnecessary danger has always seemed perverse: at odds with my natural survival instinct. These days, that probably makes me a minority in a privileged world so safe that its bored citizens are driven to seek ever-more risk in their endless quest for fulfilment. That kind of headlong, heedless risk has never appealed.

_Calculated_ risk, though? That's something else. That can be a life-saver.

It was calculated risk which had led me to launch myself at our attackers. As Reid had shoved Lyle and taken on the man in front of him, I'd leaped forward to tackle the other two. By that point I'd already decided that the Iranians hadn't wanted to kill us. At least, not right then. They'd had plenty of opportunity to do so, yet we were still alive. If they really were an execution squad, then we'd already have been lying dead on the crazy paving.

I'd easily disarmed the young man who'd been marking Daisy, kicking his pistol underneath the car. He wasn't out of the game, and I knew I'd have to return to him, but I needed to get the other weapon out of play first. Two seconds later, I'd hit the leader and sent his small handgun clattering to the ground as well. After that, my attempts to retire him from action had stalled, as he'd proved to be a worthier adversary than I'd faced in recent times.

For the last couple of minutes we'd been locked in furious hand-to-hand combat. We'd parried and chopped and blocked and ducked until finally, I managed to land two solid blows to his head. His arms dropped, and I kicked him hard in the gut, sending him staggering backwards into the small, wiry man from the van, who didn't appear to have got the message that he was fighting for a lost cause, and had been approaching us stealthily with a knife.

That bought me some time. Probably not much: just enough to return my attentions to the man I'd disarmed first. But before I could even turn, a female voice cried out, plaintively, behind me.

"Oww, you're hurting me! Help!"

Daisy's voice triggered a spike of unusually-intense emotion. She sounded so weak. So vulnerable. Somehow, with the resilience that she'd shown so far, I'd expected her to be...

I took hold of my emotions. Expected her to be what? Stronger? Braver? Just because her father was a hard-arse bastard? I chastised myself mentally for such harsh judgement. It took years of training to lock the fight/flight binary switch permanently into the fight position. Daisy couldn't be expected to have mastered that just from a few weeks of Reinhold Reid's tutelage.

Some people never mastered it at all.

I spun around. Hamidi had one arm around Daisy's neck and was dragging her backwards, away from the car, whilst unleashing a stream of invective in Farsi from which I could only make out the words 'fat' and 'whore.' He was evidently angry that a female was putting up such resistance. Indignant rage rose, as I prepared to launch myself at him. With his back to me, he had absolutely no chance.

Then I stopped dead in my tracks.

I was too late.

The punch had simply come out of nowhere.

It was an absolute steamer; launched without warning, with the sort of unexpected, asymmetric ferocity that characterised so much of the violence seen on British streets and captured on CCTV for the entertainment of the masses. That level of force never failed to shock. It was so unexpected that it meant whoever was on the receiving end had no time to even think about evasion. Whoever got hit with a punch like that – male, female, young, old – was going down, hard.

There was a sickening crack as fist connected with face. I was consigned to the role of spectator, standing uselessly as the events played out mere feet away, but still too far for me to have any influence over the outcome.

There was nothing I could do.

### 36

22:14

Nr. Honeywood, Kent, UK

Michael Williams slowly rose from the depths of sleep, dragged towards consciousness by a peculiar sensation that something was wrong. He opened his eyes and blinked in the near-dark, momentarily disoriented until a sudden awareness of what had triggered that sensation slammed into him without warning.

He couldn't breathe. At all.

That was bad enough. That was sufficient to send waves of panic cascading through his hind-brain. But it was what he saw in the room with him which truly sent him into a paroxysm of fear.

Two glowing red eyes were glaring down at him. Demonic eyes. Fiery, vengeful eyes that seemed to hover in the darkness above him as he lay supine in his king-sized four-poster bed. He was desperately struggling to fill his lungs, but it was as if his chest was being crushed. His arms didn't work. Neither did his legs.

His eyes worked well enough, though. He could see that the red glowing orbs belonged to a familiar dark figure, silhouetted against the night-time glow from the bedroom window, its bestial horns clearly visible as it straddled his chest.

Vision began to fade. Blackness began to engulf him.

Then, without warning, the Satanic creature suddenly snapped out of existence.

The paralysis released and he took a long, gasping breath. The room seemed to grow lighter and he looked around desperately, searching out the shadowy corners until he was certain that the nightmare had ended. Once assured that he was genuinely, properly awake, he lay for a few moments, heart thumping and chest heaving, as his confusion faded.

Williams remembered that he was at home, in his opulent bedroom suite. He recalled that he'd lain down for a nap after his meal, and had apparently drifted off for longer than he'd intended. The horned figure had been stalking his dreams. He must have somehow managed to confuse dream with reality in those early waking moments.

After a few more deep breaths to calm himself, he got up and padded unsteadily over to the luxurious bathroom, where the chill of the marble tiles on his bare feet brought him fully into wakefulness. He pulled on the light cord, and his reflection stared back at him in the gold-framed vanity mirror: his face still strangely unfamiliar even two decades after the rhinoplasty had permanently changed his features.

Was he losing it? At the age of forty-four, was he finally giving in to the madness again? Were the drugs no longer capable of holding back that hubbub of voices and visions which had always skittered around the periphery of his conscious thoughts? He retrieved his medication and necked down a couple more of the pills anyway, then returned to the mirror.

He stared hard at the reflection. The familiar dead eyes of Michael John Williams looked back. He wasn't mad. He wasn't entirely sure what _had_ just happened, but his rational mind was now sufficiently in control for him to realise that it had been some kind of sleep paralysis episode. There had been no demon in the room. And yet... why was it that same face, again? The horned figure, back again from his teenage years?

He had no answer to that question.

Williams switched off the bathroom light, then wandered back into the bedroom, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness again. He picked up his phone from the nightstand. A text had arrived from Vaitkus a short while earlier.

_Girl is here_.

Few things in life had the capacity to excite Michael Williams. But those three words sent an electric shiver of anticipation down his spine. Vaitkus had been right about the girl; Williams did want her badly. Not because she was particularly attractive in her own right, but because she bore an uncanny resemblance to someone he'd once known: Katie Fossett, the girl who'd helped rescue him on the Welsh mountainside all those years ago.

Williams had never got over the spectacular irony of that. After all, Katie had been the one he'd had lined up for his next _liaison_ – the victim whom the voices in his head had selected to be the focus of his unsavoury attentions.

He wasn't superstitious. But some residue of his mother's religious fervour had persuaded him that Katie rescuing him had been too much of an omen to ignore. So the incriminating Polaroids of her father had been burned. The threats of appalling violence to her little sister had been left unmade. She'd remained oblivious to his intent, and he'd tried to put her from his mind.

That hadn't been easy. In fact, it had been impossible. And in the end, he'd never forgotten Katie Fossett as the one who got away.

Occasionally, he'd encountered women who looked a little like her. Call girls. Tenants. Party-goers. The ensuant couplings had tended to be even more intense _,_ as a result. Much more recently, he'd discovered a girl who'd borne a lot more than just a passing resemblance. Her pictures – posted on a website run by one of the Lithuanians' hosting clients – had rekindled those memories with a ferocity he'd not known: a ferocity which had led him to pay Vaitkus an unprecedented sum to have her procured.

He wondered if that was the answer to why the horned figure had re-appeared; if the girl's resemblance to Katie Fossett was responsible for stirring up the associated madness. That kind of superstitious thought made him uncomfortable. Yet, as an explanation for the horned figure's return, it did have a certain, cold logic to it. Not that it mattered. He was way too far into the process to back out now.

Williams tapped his phone to call Vaitkus back immediately.

"You have her?" he asked, straight away.

"Yes," Vaitkus replied. "Why would I lie? She is ready to collect from the usual location."

"Very well. I will come to pick her up shortly."

"Yes, you do that. I do not want her here for long. It is a big risk for me. And she takes up space."

"What... condition is she in?" Williams asked, choosing his words carefully.

Vaitkus laughed. "My men have not touched her, if that is what you mean. Not yet."

"Make sure it stays that way."

"Then you collect her soon. Or she will have to start earning her keep."

"Don't worry. She will not be with you for long."

With that, he ended the call and looked out of the window, down into the courtyard around which the huge country house had been built. The windows in the other wings were dark. His staff had gone home for the night. He had the place to himself.

His eyes roved across to the East wing, where he'd prepared a room for the girl to be kept at first. He'd toy with her for as long as he could, extracting all the exquisite anticipatory pleasure offered by the knowledge of what was to come.

Then, they'd relocate to the soundproofed basement.

Williams smiled. That gradual build-up to the point where he utterly destroyed her will, would make that moment all the more delicious. It always did. Just thinking about the beautiful asymmetry of her fate – that pure, random, coincidental misfortune, driven by nothing more than an improbable internet encounter and her unlucky resemblance to a figure from his past – was arousing enough to convince him that the risks he'd taken were justified.

He checked the time on his phone, then set the device down again on the nightstand whilst he got dressed. Despite his assurances to Vaitkus, he wasn't going to rush. He wanted to savour the anticipation for a while longer, so he'd take the car and slowly wind his way over on a roundabout route. At some point that night, he'd discover whether – in the flesh – the girl really would look like Katie Fossett, or at least the image his time-ravaged memories still held of her innocent, willowy paleness.

He very much hoped that she would.

As he slipped on his boots and made ready to leave, Williams realised that the horned figure had receded from his thoughts again. Only the faintest tickle of fear remained; that superstitious suspicion about why, after all that time, the same figure had returned. He tried to crush that fear back down, seeking to bury it deep in the darkness which lay inside him.

In the end, he found that wasn't too hard to do. It was only a small fear. And there was a lot of darkness to bury it in.

### 37

22:15

Putney, London, UK

My eyes were on Daisy. My body was frozen in shock.

Time slowed briefly to a crawl, then accelerated rapidly back up to speed as my brain caught up with the previous three seconds.

One moment, Daisy had been plaintively crying for assistance. Then, as everything suddenly turned upside-down in a flurry of motion, she was twisting out of her assailant's grip and hitting him with an epic uppercut to the jaw. It was a blow of such magnitude, swung with every muscle in her upper body, that the result was a foregone conclusion. I was stunned. It was such a _masculine_ punch – the sort of socking you might expect to see in a rugby brawl – that I was having difficulty processing what my eyes were reporting.

I wasn't the only one.

Hamidi's expression was one of pure shock, as he collapsed backwards into the open boot of the Lexus. The force of the blow had surely broken his jaw and loosened every tooth in his mouth. He might still have been conscious, but only in a technical sense. His lights had definitely just been switched off.

I unfroze, as Daisy clutched her left hand.

"Owww!" she cried. That was a set of bruised knuckles, I thought.

"Get in the car!" I urged. But she wasn't done.

Hamidi still had two feet on the ground, legs apart, with his upper body prone inside the car's boot. It was a vulnerable position, and Daisy took full advantage, swinging a knee high enough to land a crushing blow to Hamidi's exposed groin. Still not satisfied, she reached up and slammed the boot lid down hard onto her hapless opponent's middle. The vertical edge came down on Hamidi's hips with a horrible cracking noise.

By the time I reached her, Daisy was stretching up to have another go with the boot lid, apparently not satisfied until she'd chopped her assailant in two. I gently restrained her.

"Leave him to me. Get in the car with Lyle."

I expected her to be in shock, or petrified. She was certainly panting hard, the adrenaline coursing through her body. But as she looked up at me, she just gave me a guilty smile, then scooted around to jump in the car and join Lyle.

I dragged Hamidi up and out of the boot. Blood spilled from his mouth as I twisted him around. He wriggled feebly, trying to shrug me off, but I held him firm and looked over his shoulder to check what was happening on the drive.

The Iranian leader was grappling the small Brunswick Brothers man, who had already lost possession of his knife. The other Iranian was up on his feet, still duelling with Reid. An unidentified object was protruding from his face. As I watched, Reid launched a high kick which connected with that object, sending the man tumbling away with a shriek of pain. But incredibly, the injured Iranian staggered back upright, and launched himself at Reid again.

There was a lesson there, I thought, as my attention returned to the man who had begun to struggle more forcefully in my grip.

Sometimes only a permanent solution would suffice.

### 38

22:17

Aron Lyle breathed a sigh of relief, as he hunkered down in the driver's seat of Thorne's Lexus.

Daisy Haines had just flopped heavily into the back seat behind him. She was, for the moment at least, out of harm's way. That gave Lyle some comfort. Although he'd only known her a few hours, he'd already decided that he had a serious liking for her. She might not have been tall or slim or pretty but she was confident, funny and clever. In his eyes, that elevated her desirability way above mere conformity with tired old tropes about beauty and body shape.

Not that he'd ever admit that to Thorne. There was too much fun to be had in letting him think otherwise.

He glanced in the mirror. Daisy was glaring back at him as she reached to tug the door shut behind her. Her expression wasn't a surprise. He knew he'd exhibited a tragically obvious deficit of gallantry as he'd scrambled for cover when it all kicked off.

The truth was, he'd had nothing to offer. The last proper fight he'd been in was in primary school. All his work with Thorne had been remote support. And whilst he'd seen his fair share of aggression and violence in the clubs where he DJ'd, he'd always relied on his wit and charm to talk his way out before the fists started flying.

At least in the relative safety of the car, he'd been able to do something useful. Something which might actually help them all. So he'd kept his head well down whilst tapping away frantically on his phone, trying to do his bit to assist.

"You okay?" he asked, as he continued to prod at the screen.

Daisy was breathless, and clearly unimpressed with his rapid exit from the altercation outside.

"Oh yeah, I'm just fine," she said. "I mean, other than having been nearly strangled by some filthy _terrorist_ , I'm doing great. No thanks to you, of course, just leaving me there whilst you ran off to hide..."

Lyle looked in the mirror as Daisy rubbed her neck and tugged down her t-shirt which had ridden up in the scuffle.

"C'mon babe, it wasn't like that..."

"Oh really? It looked _totally_ like that, when your skinny butt just upped and disappeared, right when it all kicked off."

"I'm sorry," Lyle said genuinely. "It's just, you know, the whole guns and fighting thing... it's not really me."

Daisy snorted again, but Lyle sensed that his admission had placated her a little.

"At least you're man enough to admit that, I suppose," she acknowledged. "Now can we do something to help? Can you get this thing started up and run them all over, or something?"

Thorne had left the keys in the ignition, and Lyle had already considered trying to use the car as a weapon. The problem was, reversing in the dark, he had as much chance of hitting Thorne and Reid as any of their assailants.

"Trust me, I'm working on something better here already."

"What, calling for reinforcements? It's going to be too late. We need to do something now!"

"I _am_ doing something now. I'm trying to get the power back on. If I can do that, we can get that garage door open and get inside. That'll buy us some time, and Thorne can go load up with the serious shit he's got stashed in there. If those tossers aren't dead already, then they will be when he comes back out all guns blazing."

"You can do that, from your phone? The power, I mean?" Daisy asked. She sounded slightly chastened, which gave Lyle some hope for redemption.

"Yep. Nearly there. Gotta love those connected smart meters, as well as Thorne's crappy wi-fi security."

"Is that how they cut the power?"

"Nah, I've checked the logs. Their cutoff command didn't come locally. It came down from the 'leccy supplier. Which means, whoever these guys are, they're well connected. I mean, we all know the Chinese totally own our utilities but that's nation-state level stuff. These guys ain't amateurs."

"How long 'til you get it back on?"

"Any second. Just setting a local passcode to keep 'em locked out first."

Daisy turned round and peered out of the side window, and made a worried noise.

"Make it quick, will you? I can't see anything out there. I think they might be in trouble."

"Chill, babe. I'm on it, now."

Lyle finally reset the passcode, then returned to the meter's master control page. The low-powered hardware in the meter meant it was painfully slow to display each page of its web-based interface. It was a frustrating exercise, but Lyle had no choice but to wait for each individual control applet to appear on the screen.

"Come on... come on... okay. Nearly there," he announced.

He peered out into the darkness, catching movement in the side mirror. He knew that all of Thorne's security lights, which were set to illuminate the whole driveway area at the front of the house, would come on as soon as power was restored. The battle outside would soon be revealed.

He just hoped, when the lights did finally come on, that the right side would be winning.

### 39

22:18

I know all too well, the difference between killing in the heat of the moment and a straight execution.

There are those who would claim, simply, that murder is murder. They're wrong. I can state unequivocally that a lethal blow landed in self-defence is a long way removed from making a cold, conscious decision to end another's life. One is a natural, instinctive reaction. The other is most definitely not. It's far from natural. There are many mental hurdles to overcome, and for most people it remains a decision they are simply unable to make.

Once, a long time ago, I was one of those people.

Then, Shelagh O'Brien's team got to work on me.

I released my grip on Hamidi, allowing his weight to transfer onto his damaged hips. My conditioning kicked in, damping my natural empathic response. The man shrieked in agony, but I didn't feel anything other than, perhaps, an awareness that I felt nothing. His life – his beliefs, his memories, his dreams – held no meaning for me. He was part of a threat, and that threat needed to be countered.

Permanently.

That was as far as the decision-making process went. As he began to fall, I landed a vicious rabbit-punch just below the base of his skull. There was no restraint: the blow was intentionally lethal. It had its intended effect. The man collapsed, his brain stem destroyed by the blunt trauma from my fist.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

I glanced back briefly into the open boot. The stun guns; the knife; my brass knuckles; all were still packed away in the rucksacks. It would take too long to retrieve them. I appreciated Lyle's trick of remotely popping open the boot as soon as he'd got in the car, but it wasn't going to help.

I stepped over Hamidi's body and looked up, just in time to see the Iranian leader slash viciously at the small Brunswick Brothers man's face, missing by inches. The diminutive gangster still wasn't giving up the fight, despite now being unarmed. Some people just didn't know when to quit. He was snarling at the Iranian, goading him for the near miss, but I knew what was coming next. I could see it before it even happened.

The first slash had been a distraction, getting the man to raise his arms, and leaving his belly exposed. The next strike, launched in reverse from left to right, was going to be the killer blow. Sure enough, the backhander connected, and the Liverpudlian found himself being eviscerated with his own knife. The man made a strange animal noise, dropping his arms to hold them across his middle in a futile attempt to keep his guts inside his body. For one almost-comedic moment, it actually looked like he was going to keep fighting despite the blood pouring down his legs from the gaping wound. But then he finally turned and began staggering towards his injured compatriots, already revving their van ready to retreat.

The Iranian leader issued an urgent command, in Farsi. He was speaking into a discreet headset.

"Soroush, where are you? We're aborting!"

He caught my movement, and looked straight at me as I prepared to run towards him. I didn't know who Soroush might be, but if reinforcements were on the way then I needed to take out the man in front of me before they arrived. As I launched myself into a charge, something caught his eye. He began to lean down, and I realised that he was about to scoop up the pistol I'd knocked from his grasp earlier. My brain vaguely registered the sound of the Brunswick Brothers van making an erratic exit, as another engine rapidly approached down the road. The reinforcements, presumably.

I glanced over at Reid, who was still busy with his opponent.

Whatever happened next, would be on me.

I'd taken six paces. That put me fifteen feet away from the Iranian, who was by that point squatting with the weapon in his hand. He was only just beginning to bring it round to bear upon me. I fast-forwarded in my head, and decided that I wasn't going to reach him in time.

I also decided that didn't matter. He wasn't going to shoot, anyway. He wanted me alive, I was certain of that.

I took another two paces, sensing the strange dilation of time as I focused the entirety of my physical and mental power on the next ten seconds of action. It was a curious feeling, my consciousness seeming to accelerate enough to give the impression of everything slowing down around me. I even had time for a moment of bleak humour as the short, stubby barrel raised towards me: a line from an old movie popping into my head with the question of whether he'd fired six shots, or only five.

As it happened, I really had kind of lost track myself, but my calculations told me he wouldn't fire. I continued on towards him, preparing to launch my strike.

As it happened, my calculations were wrong.

When I was six feet away, he pulled the trigger.

### 40

22:19

Chelsea, London, UK

Juan Ramirez Espinoza slipped through the door of one of his rented mansion's many guest bedrooms, and closed it quietly behind him.

He padded across to the enormous bed, where a young Hispanic woman lay naked, face down, on top of sumptuous covers. Her head was buried in the soft pillows, and it was clear from the motions of her body that she was crying. Ramirez stood for a moment, running his eyes over her. The sight prompted no arousal. Instead, he was merely checking the condition she was in.

Like a butcher might inspect the quality of a piece of meat.

He reached down and pinched the girl's foot with his calloused hand. She was initially startled at his touch, then quickly rolled over on the bed, frantically brushing away her tears and trying to smile at him. Ramirez frowned in mild disgust. He _had_ found himself strangely drawn to her, but not for the reason she evidently assumed. Instead, his desire to be with her stemmed from her status as the only survivor from Friday night's disaster. She had come within feet of the man who had destroyed his operation in Streatham. She had seen him, up close.

She had looked into his eyes and lived.

Ramirez needed to know why that was. In her first interrogation, she'd failed to explain her survival. Maybe this time, she would recall some key detail that had previously been forgotten.

"Cubrir a ti mismo!" he instructed. _Cover yourself!_

The girl pulled the sheets up over her body as she sat up. Ramirez sat down beside her.

"Now, tell me about the man again."

The girl blinked, and wiped away the last of her tears.

"I am sorry, Senor. I have told you everything. I only saw him for a few seconds."

"You have not remembered anything more?"

She shook her head. "He escaped from upstairs then came down and shot Carlos, then Rico and Gonzalez. Then, I ran. It took me a long time to find a working phone box. But I called straight away. You know I did, Senor."

Ramirez nodded. With her family held hostage in Culiacán, the girl had done the only thing that she could after being released.

"I am not interested in what you did when you left. I am interested in why he let you leave, at all."

"He asked me my name. Then, he just told me to get out. I had no choice. He had a gun."

"Why, though? Why did he not kill you? You saw his face, no?"

She nodded.

"So, why are you still alive?"

The girl bowed her head. "I... I do not know, Senor."

Ramirez sniffed. "You are sure? He did not spare you, so you could give me a message? He did not tell you to pass anything on?"

She looked up at him again. "No, Senor! I swear. He just killed everyone, without saying anything. It was horrible. There was so much blood."

"I am not interested in the blood," Ramirez said dismissively. He paused, considering his next question. "I need to know, what did you see in his eyes when he let you go?"

"His eyes?" The girl seemed confused by the question.

"Yes. Was he angry?"

The girl shook her head. "No, senor. Not when he looked at me. I think, maybe, he looked sad. Almost like..."

She paused, clearly reluctant to finish what she had been about to say.

"What?" Ramirez prompted.

"Like he felt sorry for me, Senor," the girl said, her voice little more than a whisper.

Ramirez reached over, and took her chin in his hand. He could feel her trembling beneath his touch. He looked directly into her tear-filled eyes. He had to know she was telling the truth.

"María, if I find you are lying to me... your parents will be burned alive and your little sister will take your place whoring for my men, instead. You want that, eh?"

"No, please, Senor! I swear, I am telling the truth. I have told you everything."

Ramirez regarded her closely. There was no deception in her face: just stone-cold terror at the prospect of what could happen to her family. Finally, he nodded, pushed her away roughly and then rose from the bed to leave the room without a further word.

He had what he needed. The girl had not been spared for her to send a message, or to pass anything on at all. However unlikely it seemed, she'd been released simply out of compassion.

Compassion was nothing more than a product of weakness.

Ramirez smiled to himself. That was useful information. Of course, if everything went to plan then he'd never need to use it. O'Connor would locate the man he knew as Liam Rourke and Ramirez would take him. From there, the bastard wouldn't be given the chance to do anything other than spill his guts about Michael Williams before dying a very long, very painful death.

But plans had a nasty habit of not working out. Ramirez knew from bitter personal experience that if he ended up face-to-face with the man in _unplanned_ circumstances then he'd need to exploit every possible weakness he could. He'd keep María around for a while longer, yet.

As he went back into his office and drew out another cigar from the humidor, he could feel the tension still in his body.

Jorge Munoz had reported back ten minutes before. His two men were in position staking out Williams' residence, ready to follow the man wherever he might head. They'd identify any potential locations for Munoz to raid, where he might find individuals from whom further information about Michael Williams could be extracted.

Ramirez should have been pleased with that progress. But it wasn't enough to assuage the burning in his gut.

Just thinking about the man from Streatham had made him angry again. His patience was wearing thin, waiting to hear from O'Connor. He put the cigar back in its box, and brought out his phone, instead. He scrolled through the images on the screen, and selected the photos he'd been sent earlier of Pat O'Connor's son in captivity. His plan had been to hold the photos in reserve, in case the Brunswick Brothers boss needed further encouragement later in the week. Ramirez decided to change that plan.

He sent the images to O'Connor, along with a terse message.

Change of plan. You have until tomorrow night. So does your son.

### 41

22:20

Putney, London, UK

For a fleeting moment, I really did think that it was the end.

I knew I'd been shot. So when I found myself floating – disoriented, confused and surrounded by a blinding white light – I momentarily assumed that I'd left this mortal coil.

It took a further fraction of a second to determine that I wasn't actually bathed in the light of heaven's pearly gates. The intense pain in my left arm told me that the bullet hadn't struck anywhere vital. In any case, I knew that when the end did come, I'd be heading in the other direction.

The floating sensation proved to be short-lived, too. Distracted by the shot, I'd tripped on the paving and fallen headlong towards the Iranian. My brain was processing just enough of my surroundings to hear his weapon rack open, empty, before I came tumbling down in a painful heap on top of him. We grappled, both blinded by what I now realised were the driveway security lights glaring down on us, until he landed a lucky strike which sent me rolling away, stunned.

As I came round, my eyes adjusting to the light, I tensed for the next blow. But the Iranian had left me and was now hauling Hamidi's body towards a white van which had just backed into the driveway with a screech of tyres. Reid's wounded opponent was also limping away towards the open rear doors of the van, as the driver fired at Reid in the opposite border to keep him pinned down. The lack of noise from the weapon was surreal; all I could hear was the ping and crack of bullets exploding into the concrete drive.

They were clearly giving up on me. For the moment, at least.

I was still reeling from being shot, so it took me another moment to realise that my car was moving too, the glow of tail-lights from the bottom of the ramp indicating that Lyle was taking it down into the garage. That would put him and Daisy out of immediate danger. It also revealed a glinting object on the drive: Hamidi's weapon, which I'd kicked underneath the car earlier on. I knew it hadn't been fired.

That gave me six parting gifts to offer the Iranians.

By the time I'd got the small pistol in my hand, their leader was in the back of van, hauling Hamidi's body inside whilst Mokri was still trying to summon the strength to get in himself.

My first shot pinged harmlessly into metal.

I was unfamiliar with the low-powered weapon, which was designed for silent shooting at close-quarters and far from ideal at the range I was firing from. At least, that was my excuse for missing a further four times, peppering the back of the van harmlessly until my last shot hit Mokri in the back of the thigh as he finally flopped forward into the van.

The leader hauled the doors shut and the driver – having emptied his own magazine – revved the engine hard and took off out of the drive at a rapid pace, turning sharply and heading down the road in the same direction as the Brunswick Brothers team had fled.

It appeared that I'd survived both attempts to abduct me.

I looked across to the border, where Reid was emerging from the rhododendrons. He was rubbing his neck, but looked otherwise unhurt. I checked my arm. The bullet had torn through my jacket and gouged a nice groove in the skin over my left bicep. It hurt a lot, but it was the sharp pain of a flesh wound, not the deep gnawing ache of a more fundamental injury.

Reid jogged over to me, trying to see down the road to where the van was heading.

"Are we following?" he asked.

I had to smile, at that. There was no inquiry as to my health, despite the obvious injury I had suffered. I wasn't offended. That was just the way his brain worked.

I shook my head in response. I knew that Jess Gardiner still needed us. Whatever the hell was going on with the Iranians and the Brunswick Brothers would have to wait.

"We need to get inside, grab whatever we need and get out. We haven't seen the last of those bastards," I said.

Reid nodded, and began to head down to the garage.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Uh huh," was the reply. That was about the best response I could have expected.

We both jogged down the ramp to the garage, where Lyle and Daisy were waiting. The relief on their faces was reflected in my own. None of us had been grievously wounded. We'd had an improbably lucky escape.

"Alright," I said, as I triggered the garage door to close behind us. "That's two sets of people out there who seem to have an urgent desire to whisk me away to places unknown. They know I'm here, and they won't stay away for long. I do not want any of us to be here when they get back."

There were nods all round, at that.

"Lyle, get all your kit ready to go. Make sure you have whatever you need to track that phone number and get us a location for Jess Gardiner. Reid, get to the store cupboard and grab the kit you think we'll need. It's the usual code on the door. Don't scrimp on anything."

I turned to Daisy. "I think it's best if you come with us too. It's not safe for you to go home. They may have your ID already."

She shrugged, appearing unconcerned. "I told you, I'm not quitting. I was coming anyway. We're not finished with Jess, yet."

I smiled in acknowledgement.

"Okay, good. Meet back here in five. Then we'll get going."

"Uh... going _where_ , bro?" Lyle asked, as we began to make our way quickly through the subterranean garage space towards the door which led through to the rest of the basement.

"Somewhere safe, where we can work on tracking down Jess without any further rude interruptions. She's in more trouble than we are, right now."

I actually meant that, when I said it.

But as we dispersed into the house, and I headed upstairs to retrieve the address of the safe house I had in mind, I realised that the Iranians could have no possible interest in Detective Inspector Bruce Thorne. There had never been any links to Iran in any of my operations with the Met. They must have found something that linked me to one of my earlier past lives.

What that link might be, I neither knew nor cared. It was enough to know that it existed, because that meant other interested parties could find it as well. Given the sheer number of individuals, organisations and nation states who might be considered _interested parties_ , that could only mean one thing.

I was in even more trouble than Jess Gardiner.

### 42

22:24

Amir Nazari was furious.

His anger was almost physical, spiking out in multiple directions. At himself, for allowing events to spiral out of control. At Mokri and Hamidi, for the ineptitude which had left Hamidi dead, and Mokri as good as. And at the unknowable will of Allah, which had led to the blue van turning up at _precisely_ the most inopportune moment and wrecking the entire operation.

It had been clear that the men who'd arrived had not been expecting them. It wasn't a planned attack. Just pure chance.

Nazari struggled with a medical kit in the back of the van, attempting to stem the bleeding from Mokri's leg. Trying to save the operative's life wasn't his only worry; the men from the blue van were a serious concern as well. They'd been grievously injured but they'd be carrying potential descriptions of the Iranian team in their heads. Deputy Commander Majidi had made it abundantly clear that he expected the operation to be conducted rapidly and stealthily.

So far, Nazari had failed utterly on both counts.

He grimaced, and looked up front at Soroush, who was driving them away from the scene. The man was gripping the wheel and breathing heavily but was otherwise focused. He'd done well, back at the house, positioning the van expertly to facilitate a swift exit. Their current speed, however, was a problem.

"Slow down," Nazari instructed from the back. "The last thing we need is a police stop."

Soroush dutifully eased off the accelerator and the van slowed.

"Where to?"

"Just drive, for the moment. I need to think," Nazari said as he turned his attentions back to Mokri.

The injured operative was sitting on the floor, propped up against the side of the van and moaning quietly. Nazari knew that wasn't a good sign; the man had been crying loudly only a couple of minutes before. He appeared to be weakening rapidly. The fork had been removed, but Nazari could see that Mokri's mouth and cheek were ruined and he was struggling to breathe with the blood filling his airways. That wasn't the problem, however. Nazari knew those injuries were survivable.

The same could not be said for the bullet wound to Mokri's thigh. Thorne had got lucky with his parting gift, and despite Nazari's best efforts with the medical kit, a significant amount of Mokri's blood had already drained away through a severed femoral artery. So much, in fact, that it was sloshing around on the metal floor, a red tide soaking through Nazari's trousers and rippling up against Hamidi's lifeless corpse.

Mokri looked directly at Nazari. The man was trying to say something, but then the realisation of his fate clearly dawned, and he began reciting the shahada. Nazari held the man's hand, offering his own prayer. Mokri needed immediate medical care, and a transfusion. That was something Nazari couldn't afford to get him.

There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger.

After only a couple of repetitions, Mokri's eyes flickered closed. He was still breathing, but Nazari didn't think that would be for long.

"Sir, you might want to see this," Soroush said from the front of the van.

Nazari glanced forward out of the windscreen. A few hundred yards up the road, the blue van which had caused them so many problems was parked askew, half up on the pavement outside a primary school entrance. As they drew closer, Nazari saw that the driver – the man who'd wielded the gun – was doubled up against the side of the van, trying in vain to use his phone whilst bleeding heavily from his wounds.

"Stop," Nazari instructed, and Soroush slowed the van.

Nazari leaped from the rear of the van and ran over to the man with the phone. The injured gangster saw him coming and begged for help. Without pause, Nazari grabbed the man's head in both hands, then in one twisting move broke his neck before he even had time to realise what was going on. Nazari moved to the front and pulled open the door of the van, ready to take care of the others.

He was hit by a sickening smell: the small man's entrails had spilled out of his eviscerated middle and clearly split in the passenger footwell. The stench was horrendous. Nazari ignored it, and reached up to check for signs of life. Both the small man and the giant next to him were already dead, eyes staring glassily ahead.

Keeping his head down, Nazari returned to his van and joined Soroush in the front. They took off again, keeping the speed low this time so as not to attract attention.

"That's one problem taken care of, at least," Nazari said grimly.

"What about..." Soroush asked, indicated to the back of the van.

Nazari shook his head, indicating that Mokri wasn't going to make it.

They drove on for another minute, whilst Nazari started to form the basis of a plan. He checked his phone, which was still set to track Thorne and his companions. The circles were still overlaid on the target's house. He considered the possibilities, of how they might be able to rescue the situation, and reached a decision.

He still had one ace left up his sleeve.

It was time to play it.

### 43

22:28

I like to think I can get the measure of most people, pretty well.

I guess that goes with the territory. The better you can understand a man's beliefs, loves and joys – the greater the depth with which you can define exactly what it is that makes him tick – the better chance you'll have of pre-empting his actions. That kind of instinctive foresight, deduced from careful observation, has saved my skin many times.

Sometimes, however, you don't have the luxury of really getting to know your opponent. Sometimes, you have to make snap judgements. And sometimes, you get those snap judgements wrong.

The bullet wound in my arm was testament to that.

I might have been right about the Iranians not wanting to kill me. But I'd clearly underestimated the extent to which they were prepared to inflict serious injury. It had been pure luck that the leader's bullet had ploughed a shallow furrow through my flesh rather than tearing through muscle and bone.

I didn't intend to rely on luck, for our next encounter.

As I headed up the stairs and arrived in the living area, I glanced out of the window to the front of the house. There was no sign that anyone in the vicinity was remotely aware that at least one man had died and several others had been seriously injured in a gunfight, mere yards from their own houses. Under-occupied properties and a complete lack of community spirit had some benefits, at least.

Satisfied that there was no immediate cause for concern outside, I headed straight for the substantial wine rack which was tucked underneath one of the kitchen work surfaces. I selected the bottle which lay in the precise centre of the rack, and withdrew it gently. Its square label was marked _Domaine de la Romanée-Conti_ , with a date of 1990. I was no wine buff, so that meant nothing to me. I guessed it was a good vintage, given that Shelagh O'Brien had instructed me that I was not to open it under any circumstances.

The wine – along with the multiple works of art, sculptures and original modernist furniture which filled the house – was government property, she'd said. Investments they'd made. Assets which would appreciate over time, to recoup the exorbitant costs of the programme I'd been part of.

I'd always suspected that was horseshit and that I was, in fact, surrounded by the items which would one day make up O'Brien's personal retirement fund.

Either way, I had no intention of opening the bottle. Instead, I placed the vessel carefully on the work surface, then reached into the slot it had vacated in the rack below. I retrieved a small square of paper which had been secreted there, then quickly unfolded it to reveal the address I'd written down.

It was the sort of privileged information that simply couldn't be trusted to digital storage. In truth, it shouldn't have been recorded at all. But my memory had become fickle over the years, thanks to all the sedimentary mental detritus accrued from the multiple identities I'd taken on and discarded.

I committed the address to memory once again, then slipped the note inside my jacket pocket, in case I had a further lapse.

I was about to head down to the others, when I noticed the envelope I'd left on the worktop earlier that afternoon. I looked again at its hand-written address. Perhaps my memory was jogged by seeing Iranian faces, because I finally remembered why I recognised the writing. The last time I'd seen it had been in Tehran, four years previously, on the annotated pre-mission briefing notes prepared for me by Tim Ives, who'd been the brains behind that audacious operation.

The arrival of a letter from a man I'd once worked with in Iran, on the same day that a Quds Force team appeared on my driveway, was surely not chance. I tore open the envelope, cursing myself for not having done so before. A set of photos fell out onto the worktop, along with a hastily-written note.

YOU'RE BURNED.

Iranian QF team already in play. Photos courtesy of Goddard over at 5. As of Friday, she no longer has eyes on the QF team. Assume they are heading to you.

O'Brien says you're on your own. Ordered me not to contact you. Figured you deserved better but this was the best I could do. O'Brien monitoring all other channels.

Hope this reaches you in time. Good luck.

I quickly spread out the photos in front of me. The faces were immediately recognisable as the men who'd just attacked us. The names which had been written neatly on each photo provided confirmation. Shayan Mokri. Yousef Hamidi. The leader, Amir Nazari. Another man, presumably the driver of the van: Arman Soroush.

Seeing them there, in high-definition print, was disturbing. MI5 clearly knew the team were in London, yet based on Ives' note, had somehow managed to lose track of them. O'Brien was declining to provide assistance, which sounded about right for her, although ordering Ives to keep me in the dark seemed a little unnecessary. I wondered what her game was, there. She always had one.

Still, none of those issues were what was really bothering me.

In fact, they were completely minor, inconsequential concerns compared to what was currently facing me on the work surface.

Because there weren't just four photographs in front of me.

There were five.

I stared at the fifth picture, feeling a sense of dread building inside, yet not able to determine exactly why. It showed a dark-haired woman, sensual-looking even in the fatigues she'd been wearing when the camera had captured her image. She'd been snapped sitting at a table, apparently in the process of stripping a long-barrelled rifle. The name underneath her image – Marjan Khorsandi – meant nothing. But something was tickling me again, telling me that I was missing something. Telling me that the woman looked familiar.

I finally realised why.

I'd seen her face before, as well.

Albeit, from a very long way away.

Several things happened at that point, seemingly all at once but actually in rapid succession. First, my brain made the connection with the woman in the photo. In my head I saw again, the flash of light from across the river which I'd caught that morning. I recalled the man I'd seen with the camera on the balcony, being joined by his female companion. A dark-haired beauty, moving with grace as she'd wrapped her arms around him... in what had, I now realised, been a deliberate deception.

I'd been right the first time. That hadn't been a camera I'd seen. It had been a rifle sight after all.

_Her_ rifle sight.

Even as the recognition dawned, I was throwing myself to the floor, twisting away from the exposed plate-glass patio doors at the end of the room, beyond which the lights of the apartments on the opposite bank shone brightly. For the second time that day, I found myself dropping almost involuntarily as instinct overtook rational thought.

This time, however, it was different.

This time, it wasn't a false alarm.

This time, chaos erupted around me as I fell; the sound of shattering glass, a supersonic crack and a blinding flash of agony as something impacted very heavily and very painfully, into my left arm.

### 44

22:33

"Target down."

Adrenaline surged as Amir Nazari heard the words in his earpiece. His ace had just been played. Before Khorsandi had even finished speaking, he was commanding Soroush to start the van and get them straight to Thorne's property.

They were back in the game.

The plan had been simple enough. As Soroush had looped around and brought them back to Thorne's street, Nazari had briefed Khorsandi on what had taken place. Her instructions were clear: to incapacitate the target, hitting an arm or leg. He and Soroush would launch a simultaneous surprise attack on the house, then drag the injured Thorne into the van.

Nazari knew that Thorne's survival was far from certain if Khorsandi hit something vital. He'd just have to use the medical kit in the van to keep the man alive until they reached Biggin Hill airport. There, the waiting plane would have bloods, surgical equipment and everything else that would be required to stabilise Thorne for the flight. He knew it was a risk. But he also knew that if they allowed Thorne to escape that night, their chances of taking him at all would be significantly diminished.

The risk was, in his eyes, worth taking.

"Location?" Nazari queried as Soroush sped down the street.

"First floor. Kitchen area," replied Khorsandi.

"Understood. Keep the back covered."

It took mere seconds for Soroush to skilfully bounce the van back into Thorne's driveway.

"Block the garage," Nazari commanded.

Soroush braked hard, positioning the van next to the Lamborghini which remained on the drive. Together, the vehicles blocked the ramp which led down to the garage, preventing vehicular escape.

Nazari grabbed a water charge which he'd prepared as they'd been waiting, then leaped out of the van and ran straight to the front door. As he ran, he tore off the adhesive backing on the charge, which he stuck firmly to the door. He deftly connected the remote detonator, looping the wires together in a well-practised move, then ran to the corner of the house for cover.

He signalled to Soroush, then blew the charge. Although the water pack muffled it somewhat, the percussive whump of the explosion still set off the Lamborghini's alarm. That didn't bother him. The time for silence was over. The time for hard-fast-and-loud had arrived.

The charge had done its job, completely obliterating the door and much of its frame. Nazari entered the hall, with Soroush close behind, weapons up and ready to engage anyone they found.

A quick scan inside revealed no immediate threats. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Nazari looked up and down the open staircase, trying to envisage what would have happened after Khorsandi's shot. Would Thorne's companions have rushed to his aid on the first floor? Or would they have descended to the basement for cover? He had no way of knowing, so they'd have to do it the hard way.

"Clear this floor," he instructed.

Soroush began moving rapidly between the doors around the ground floor entrance hall, proficiently scanning each room. Nazari left him, and cautiously crept up the stairs. That was where the target had been hit. Even if he was down, Nazari suspected his adversary would be far from out.

As he slowly emerged into the living area, he was greeted by a sight of carnage. Shattered glass lay everywhere; a million crystal shards reflecting the ceiling lights and glittering in his vision. A breeze blew in from the river outside: one of the huge panes in the patio doors was now missing. He tracked the trajectory of the shot, to where it had left a substantial crater in the wall.

The damage to plaster and cement didn't interest him. Of most concern was the quantity of blood on the kitchen floor. There must have been nearly a litre of red liquid pooling on the tiles and his first thought, momentarily, was that Thorne could not possibly have survived the hit. But something about the whole scene was off.

That was when his other senses finally began to catch up.

He'd spent enough time living in the West to recognise that the pungent aroma filling the room smelled decidedly alcoholic. And the fragments of darker-coloured glass covering the kitchen tiles clearly had a different source from those scattered across the wooden floor of the main living area.

Nazari swore, realising his mistake.

It wasn't blood he was looking at. It was wine.

And his target was nowhere to be seen.

### 45

22:35

I don't like running from danger.

Mainly because it rarely helps. It's usually better to get out there and front it up, head on. Choose to run and cower in a corner instead, and danger has a nasty habit of coming to find you anyway.

Sometimes, however, there is no option. Sometimes, you get trapped in a situation you know can't win. Sometimes, you find yourself injured and out of time, with a sniper out the back and a hit team out the front. That's when it might just be time to run.

And that was how I came to be running, heading down a disused sewer tunnel that lay beneath the house, casting a torch over the damp, crumbling brickwork ahead and trying to ignore the pain in my arm.

"Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?" Lyle complained, as he stumbled down the tunnel behind me, lugging his case packed with computer kit. Daisy was following, with Reid bringing up the rear, carrying a holdall full of weaponry he'd been assembling from the cupboard stock.

"Seriously..." Lyle continued, sounding a little out of breath already. "I mean, first there's like, this _mahoosive_ crash and you come staggering down the stairs to the basement, yelling at us to get in the store room. Then you're running up and down, opening the back door and taking your jacket off which is, like, totally soaked in blood and seems to suggest that you should be a lot more dead than you apparently are... then there's _another_ explosion upstairs, and _then_ we're heading through some weird-ass hidden door out the back of the store. Except we ain't in Narnia: we're in this stinking tunnel, ruining my shoes. Explanation overdue, bro."

"They had someone across the river. A shooter. I got lucky. Very lucky. I dived for cover just in time and they missed."

"Who's they? The Iranians?"

"Yeah." I said, as I kept running, looking out for our exit ahead.

"But dude, if they missed then whose blood was on that jacket?"

"It wasn't blood, it was wine. The shot hit a bottle in the kitchen."

"What about your arm though?" Daisy asked. "That looks bad. You're bleeding a lot."

"What? Oh, right, that, yeah... that's just a bit of glass from the bottle."

A large glass shard from the shattered bottle had been impelled into the back of my left arm as I'd fallen. It was a deep wound, mere inches away from the bullet damage I'd sustained earlier. It was going to need attention, soon. But I didn't want to cause alarm.

"Nice try Thorne," Lyle said, seeing through my ploy. "We can all see that ain't good. You don't need to be the big man and pretend it's nothing."

"It's not ideal," I admitted. "In fact, it hurts like hell. But nowhere near as much as that sniper round would have."

"Yeah, you prolly wouldn't _have_ an arm, if that hit you, bro."

"Exactly."

"No second shot?" Reid queried from the back.

"I dived below the kitchen units and crawled to the stairs. They'd have lost visual. Probably thought they'd hit me anyway, I mean, the timing was seriously that close."

I shone the torch up ahead again, illuminating the decaying brickwork. I caught a glint of metal a hundred yards away, which indicated our exit point.

"I can't believe you've got your own escape tunnel," Daisy said. "Where does it go?"

"It's just an old Victorian sewer. When they built the houses in the thirties, they cut off this old spur and ran a new one under the street. When the house was acquired for, ah, government purposes... someone had the bright idea of connecting up the new basement to the old sewer tunnel. Means you can get in and out undetected. There's a ladder up ahead that'll take us out under the bridge."

We ran on for a few seconds longer, when Lyle stopped unexpectedly, nearly sending the other two tumbling into him from behind.

"Woah, wait, wait... Thorne, you got your phone with you?"

I stopped and turned back, annoyed.

"Don't stop, Lyle. Come on. We need to get out of here."

I glanced back down the tunnel, nervously. I'd had just enough time to leave behind a little misdirection, before Nazari had blown in my front door. But if my ploy failed, and the Iranians discovered our escape route, then we'd be caught in the sewer like fish in a barrel.

Lyle, however, wasn't moving.

"Have you got your phone?" he insisted, speaking slowly as if addressing a child.

"Yes," I said, frowning. "But there's no signal down here, is there?" I didn't know who the hell he thought I could call.

Lyle looked at me with undisguised contempt.

"Well, duh. Obviously not. That's a good thing, though."

"What do you mean?" I asked, concerned at his implication as well as the time we were wasting.

"Just thinkin' how the Iranian dudes found you, that's all."

"I got burned, and they got my address, Lyle. Simple as that," I said, turning back to continue onwards. I really did not want to get caught in the tunnel.

"Nah, bruv, hang on! How come they were ready for us when we got back from Dartford. Sure, they had your address but what? Were they just gonna, like, camp out on your front drive until you came home? You could have been on holiday or anything, innit."

I stopped again. I did see where he was coming from, there.

"So what, you think they're tracking my phone?"

"Prolly tracking _all_ of our phones, now. At least they would be if we weren't down here with no signal."

"What? Why would they be tracking all of us? I mean... you and me maybe, if they've discovered that you were the one doing the tech support in Tehran. But Reid wasn't involved in that one, and they can't even know who Daisy is, surely?"

"Come on, use your head. You've phoned all three of us today. If they own your phone, they have our numbers, too."

"What are you saying? We need to switch them all off?"

"No, I'm saying we should leave them all here in this tunnel."

"Seriously?"

Lyle reached into his pocket and waved his own phone directly at me.

"Of all the people in the world who I should need to tell about not trusting your phone to be off, you've gotta be the last, surely? And you know I wouldn't joke about leaving this thing down here. It's, like, my _life_ , dude. But yeah..."

He reached up to where a line of bricks protruded just above our heads, where he placed his phone carefully on the flat surface, just out of sight.

"...it's staying here, for now. At least I might still _have_ a life, that way."

"Why not just remove the battery?" Reid asked.

Lyle shot him an incredulous look.

"Uh, because it's not, like, _removable_ , maybe?"

Reid frowned at that, but said nothing more. I suspected the idea of a phone without a removable battery was new to him.

I had no sensible ideas with which I might refute Lyle's suggestion of being tracked. I looked back again from the direction we'd come. There were no lights or sounds following us. Not yet, at least.

"Alright. We leave them all here. There should be a stock of burners at the safe house anyway, so we can use those instead when we get there. Sorry Daisy..."

I turned, to find she was already fishing hers out of her bag. "It's fine. I can live without it," she said equably.

She handed it to me, and I placed it on the ledge along with my own device. Reid removed an ancient Nokia and followed suit, which prompted a snort of laughter from Lyle.

"Riiight... that figures," he said sarcastically.

With the phones safely secreted away, we hurried the last few yards to the ladder. Reid went up first and removed the manhole at the top. I started to pass the kit up to him, but with my left arm out of action, it was a struggle. In the end Daisy and Lyle had to assist. My shirt was soaked through with blood from the glass wound, as well as the scrape from Nazari's bullet.

Daisy shot me a worried look as she caught sight of it, but I just directed her up the ladder. I could get fixed up at the safe house. Lyle shone the torch up to illuminate her ascent, playing the light over her body as she hauled herself up with some effort.

"Pack it in, Lyle," I warned.

"Hey, I never miss an opportunity to appreciate the female form in all its shapes and sizes. Can't blame me for that, bro..." he whispered back.

I could, and I did. I shoved him hard, over to the ladder.

"Just get up there."

As Lyle climbed up, muttering under his breath about bullying, I cast a final look back down the tunnel. I was relieved to see no sign that anyone was following. Once the ladder was clear, I struggled up myself and just about managed to get out of the opening and slide the manhole cover back into place without assistance.

We had emerged into a small lock-up garage, which lay under one of the arches of the District Line bridge. The musty space was dimly illuminated by dirty windows in the large sliding doors set into the brick arch. A transit van, painted in the livery of the small river boatyard which operated from beneath the bridge, was parked to one side. The bonnet was up and a trickle charger was connected to the battery. I'd set that up a long time before, and was relieved to discover that it had done its job as Reid fired up the clattery diesel engine.

I disconnected the charger and dropped the bonnet back in place whilst Lyle and Daisy got into the back of the van via its sliding side door. I pulled the lock-up door open, and stood for a moment breathing in the night air and listening to the sounds of the city. No shouting. No gunfire. Just a distant siren, possibly heading our way. We'd be long gone by the time it arrived.

I didn't like close calls, and I'd just had one of the closest ever. I shivered a little at the thought of what could have happened had the sniper's shot connected. But there was no time to be dwelling on luck or good fortune. I hurried back to the van, my thoughts returning to Jess Gardiner.

We still had a job to do.

### 46

22:36

Amir Nazari knew he didn't have time to waste on recriminations.

Instead, he leaped back down the stairs to join Soroush, who'd already cleared the ground floor without incident. Together, they continued down to the basement, at a more cautious pace. He could hear movement ahead.

Nazari reached the bottom of the staircase and scanned his surroundings. Several closed doors led off the hallway ahead. At the end of the hall, an external door led out to concrete steps: the source of the noise. It was swinging in the breeze, banging against the doorstop on the wall next to it. Just in front of the exit lay what looked to be a blood-stained jacket.

A jacket which had, perhaps, been discarded in a hurry.

He looked at Soroush as they both took in the scene, then together they ran quickly down the hall towards the open door. Nazari retrieved the jacket on his way, then sprinted up the steps which led to the rear garden.

He looked around, but could see no sign of his quarry.

"Khorsandi, any movement out the back?"

"Negative, until now. I see you. And Soroush."

Soroush joined him at the top of the stairs. They looked out at the well-stocked garden with its thick shrubberies and trees. There was cover, but no way to get from one side to the other or down to the boathouse, without being exposed. Nazari felt a sinking feeling in his gut, as he realised Thorne could not have escaped this way without Khorsandi seeing him.

"You're sure?" he queried. But he knew the answer already.

"Of course," the female operative replied. Nazari detected the slight disappointment in her voice at his question. "I have been watching. There has been no movement."

Nazari swore again.

"Get back inside," he instructed Soroush. "They've tricked us. Get to the front door."

Even as he gave the command, he knew that he'd screwed up. Thorne had played them with the oldest trick in the book: the open door, and the discarded clothing to leave a false trail. In the meantime, the real escape would be happening elsewhere.

He and Soroush sprinted back down the basement hallway and up the stairs to the entrance lobby, although Nazari knew they'd be too late. The smashed remains of the front door littered the floor; his targets could easily have slipped out through the gaping hole whilst he'd been scanning the back garden. He headed outside anyway, checking the driveway. There was no sign of anyone. He jogged down the drive to the street and looked up and down the road.

Nothing.

Grimacing at his error, Nazari pulled out his phone and called up the tracking screen, to find out how far his target had gone. But when he looked at the screen, the circles had disappeared. He swore, repeatedly. They'd just lost their final advantage.

Khorsandi's voice came over the comms system.

"I must leave. I can hear voices next door. They will have heard the shot."

"Alright. Go, and we'll pick you up as agreed. But don't discard the weapon. We may still need it."

"Understood."

Nazari looked at Soroush, who had followed him out onto the drive and was poking around in the shrubbery fruitlessly.

"You won't find them in there. They've gone," Nazari stated.

"Maybe they're still inside?" Soroush suggested, nodding back to the house.

Nazari shook his head. From what he knew of Thorne, the man was not someone who would simply hide and hope for the best.

"No. They will be long gone, by now. Get the van started up, and get ready to go."

As Soroush went back up the drive to the van, Nazari realised he was still holding the jacket he'd picked up from the basement. The familiar smell from the soaked material told him that it was wine, not blood, which stained the material. He knew the jacket belonged to Thorne. His adversary had been wearing it when they'd grappled earlier.

He ran his hands over the material, looking for damage. There was a tear in the left arm, which he knew to be from his own bullet earlier on. Above, there was another ragged hole in the back of the sleeve. He could see that the dark stain around it was a different colour from the wine which had soaked through the jacket's back. That was blood.

Nazari frowned at the hole, before realising what was bothering him. There was no exit hole the other side. If Thorne had taken a hit to the arm from Khorsandi's round, the sleeve of the jacket would have been shredded along with most of the man's arm. He swore again, realising that Khorsandi had somehow missed her target. Without Mokri as her usual spotter to confirm, she'd evidently made the wrong assumptions.

He held the jacket in his hands for a moment, thinking about its owner, then let it slip through his fingers to the drive. The symbolism wasn't lost on him, given that Thorne himself had slipped away. He kicked the jacket into the border, as a siren sounded, a long way off in the city. They were running out of time. But he didn't head for the van. Instead, he began jogging back up to the house.

"Where are you going?" Soroush called.

"Back inside," he replied. "There's something I need to check, before we leave. I won't be long."

Once inside the house, Nazari headed straight up the stairs. When he'd first been in the kitchen area, he'd caught sight of something odd on the worktop: photographs, arranged on the surface, which he'd subsequently forgotten in his rush to locate Thorne. But now, he wanted to take another look. They might relate to the girl whom he knew, from his intercepted calls, that Thorne was trying to find. That meant possible clues as to where his target might be heading.

Nazari's boots crunched on broken glass and liquid. As soon as the first image became visible, he knew he was in trouble. It wasn't a picture of a girl, as he had been expecting.

It was something a lot worse.

It was _his_ photo.

He scanned rapidly across the other images, taking in the neatly-written names beneath each one. Nausea briefly threatened to overwhelm him. He, and his team, had been made. He wasn't sure by whom: MI5, presumably. That didn't matter. What did matter was that Thorne not only knew that he was being hunted, but also knew exactly by whom. Nazari appreciated enough about the man's history to be fully aware that he'd just gone from hunter to hunted, himself.

"Soroush. Are you set?" he asked urgently over comms as he hurried back down the stairs. "We need to collect Khorsandi and get to the fallback hotel."

"Understood. Ready when you are."

"Khorsandi, are you... safe?"

"Affirmative. Heading for the rendezvous point now. Why?"

The female operative's voice was suspicious. Nazari was just relieved she was answering at all.

"We've been made. He knows who we are. All of us. Watch your back."

Nazari joined Soroush in the van. As they drove rapidly away, he considered his position. If he killed Thorne, then Majidi would have him executed. If he didn't kill Thorne, the man would hunt him down and execute him. His only realistic chance of survival – not just his, but Soroush's and Khorsandi's as well – was to complete the mission: take Thorne alive, and render him into captivity.

To do that, he could either actively seek Thorne out, or he could lay a trap and wait to be found himself.

The first option was more palatable. But for that to work, he needed a lead. He retrieved his phone, and selected Saeed Asadi's number. It would be the middle of the night in Iran, but his need was urgent enough for him not to care about disturbing the Iranian Cyber Army man. The hacker had found Thorne before, and would surely have some trickery that could be pressed into action, to ferret the man out again.

If he didn't, Nazari would have to go with setting a trap. But being bait was never an appealing choice. Especially when the predator you were trying to catch had such a lethal bite.

### 47

23:21

Norbiton, Kingston-Upon-Thames, UK

I have a comfortable relationship with pain.

At least, that is, with _physical_ pain. Mental anguish is perhaps another story. But when it comes to the nervous system's exquisitely nuanced mechanisms for communicating bodily disorder, I can cope pretty well. Don't get me wrong - I've not got the masochist gene. My pain and pleasure centres are very well delineated. I don't _enjoy_ pain.

I'm just not afraid of it.

That was fortunate, given that I was sitting in the bathroom of the safehouse, repeatedly punching a needle deep through the tattered flesh of my left arm, routing the thread so it held the skin together until I'd stemmed the bleeding fully.

It wasn't pretty, but it would do the job. I dressed the stitched wounds carefully and bandaged the whole area up tightly. It hurt like hell. Somewhere inside, I accepted that. I understood it at the most basic cause-and-effect level. And as I gave the bandages a final tug and flexed the arm experimentally, I was certain of one thing.

The pain wasn't going to stop me getting Jess Gardiner back.

I looked at my watch. Since Dartford, we'd lost about three hours from the Iranians' diversion. Based on what I'd extracted from Dean Hemmings, that put us around six hours behind Jess and her last known location. That wasn't great, but it was better than the three days behind that we'd originally been.

We were at least back in the game.

I finished cleaning up in the bathroom, then headed down to join the others. As I descended into the large entrance hall, with its parquet floor and double front doors, I had to credit Shelagh O'Brien: the MI6 Chief hadn't scrimped when it came to the properties she'd procured over the years. The Norbiton safe house was situated in a quiet cul-de-sac of very substantial houses built in the 1970s. White cladding, balconies and huge windows were very much in evidence. They weren't to everyone's taste, but there was clearly no shortage of wealthy owners prepared to tolerate their lack of classical charm, judging by the line-up of expensive German cars parked on the driveways.

I wondered how many of O'Brien's safe houses had made it onto official records. There'd be a significant return for whoever had stumped up the cash years before, for sure. I had a feeling that it wouldn't be the Treasury seeing those profits, when the time came to sell up.

I headed through the hall into a huge, expensively equipped kitchen at the back of the house, where Daisy was standing at a central island worktop attempting to make coffee for us all. She held up a jar of instant granules and shook it in my direction.

"Sorry," she said. "It's all I could find."

I shrugged. "As long as it's not decaf, it's fine."

"How's the arm?"

"Still attached, which is always a bonus. How are _you_ doing? That was a close call for all of us, back there."

"I'm fine," she said, starting to hunt around the kitchen, opening cupboards at random. "At least, I will be when I finally get some caffeine in me. Any idea where the kettle is?"

"Uh... instant boil over here," I pointed out, running the special second tap at the sink which I'd recognised would supply boiling, rather than just hot water.

Daisy shook her head and smiled.

"That's just wrong. Waiting for the kettle is half the fun of it."

"Really?"

"No," she admitted. "I just didn't want to let on that I had no idea what that thing was. Give me a break: it's been a long day."

She wasn't wrong there, I thought.

"I know. I'm sorry. I should never have let you come with us."

"Don't be sorry," she said, tentatively using the instant-boil tap to fill the coffee mugs. "I refused to leave, if you remember. And we're safe now, right?"

I nodded cautiously. "There's no link between this address and me. I've never even been here before."

"Well, then," she said, gathering two of the coffee mugs and indicating for me to get the others. "Stop fretting about me, and let's go and get on with finding Jess. Deal?"

I decided I couldn't really argue with her logic.

"Alright. Deal."

We walked through into the large living area adjoining the kitchen, where Lyle had set up one of his laptops on a small table. Reid was standing at the floor-to-ceiling front window, looking out through a gap in the vertical blinds to the quiet road outside.

"Coffee's up," Daisy said, brightly.

Lyle looked up and spun around on his chair, then made a disappointed face as Daisy went across to Reid to pass him a mug. I delivered one to Lyle, looking over his shoulder at the screen as I did so. A progress bar suggested that he was already well underway with the search for the phone number.

Lyle took a long slurp of his coffee, flashed a jealous look across at Reid, then scowled at me.

"So, that's two bullets you've dodged this evening, bro. Third time unlucky?"

I stood behind him, testing the dressings on my arm as I lifted my coffee. The movement hurt, but the stitches seemed to hold.

"Don't sound so hopeful," I said.

"I'm not hopeful. I'm seriously not liking this people shooting you thing at all. I had to ruin my sneakers running through some stinkin' tunnel. You're costin' me money, bro."

"They're shoes, Lyle. Get over it."

"Do you have any idea how much these things cost?" he asked, sticking a foot out from underneath his chair and wiggling a scuffed white trainer at me provocatively.

I shrugged. "Too much?"

He laughed. "No way, bruv. Worth every penny. Gotta get something proper on your feet, for the ladies. Ain't that right, babe?"

Daisy rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, nice shoes is the first thing I look for in a man. Said no woman, ever. How about you stop arsing around and get on with finding Jess?"

"Ouch, babe. Just tryin' to lighten the mood."

"Looks like that's ready for you," I interjected, nodding at Lyle's screen where the progress bar had completed.

Lyle spun around and began tapping away at his keyboard again. He was shaking his head as he worked.

"All this time, I been thinking it's my shoes," he said, pretending to talk to himself. "Guess it must be my good looks after all."

I offered Daisy an apologetic smile, on Lyle's behalf. Her expression suggested that I was probably more bothered about Lyle than she was. In truth, I probably needed to cut him some slack.

After all, I'd forgive him his idiocy soon enough, if he tracked down that phone number.

### 48

23:23

Battersea, London, UK

Shelagh O'Brien sat upright in a leather wingback chair, squinting at the government-issued laptop that was perched on her knees. She rubbed her eyes, briefly looking around the luxuriously appointed living room of her penthouse flat, before focusing back on the screen in front of her.

It had been a long day for the Chief, but she wasn't tired. She'd _been_ tired, until she'd received the alert. Since then she'd been wide awake.

Ten minutes previously, a dormant system had unexpectedly come back to life. She'd received a message generated by the automated monitoring systems of a safe house, alerting her that it was in use. Such alerts never usually made their way to the top of the chain: they were operational matters. But this particular alert had bypassed the chain of command, because the Norbiton safe house it came from didn't officially exist. The message had caused her to sit bolt upright from where she'd been dozing in the chair and get the laptop fired up immediately.

For the last ten minutes, O'Brien had monitored live hidden camera feeds from the house's interior, which had begun streaming as soon as the front door was opened by Bruce Thorne. The devices were standard fit for safe houses. When she'd first called up the video link, she'd felt the same voyeuristic thrill that she always did when she watched and listened from afar.

As she'd pieced together the situation, aided by the conversation between Thorne and his rag-tag band of colleagues, that thrill had only grown. It seemed clear that the wheels she'd set in motion were still turning nicely, and in the direction she'd intended.

O'Brien considered how the Iranian attack had clearly taken Thorne by surprise. She'd half-expected Tim Ives to ignore her instruction and get word to Thorne, but either her underling was more loyal to her than she was prepared to credit or he'd simply not managed it in time. Either way, it didn't really matter. The attack might have been a shock for Thorne but O'Brien knew it wouldn't have carried the emotional weight needed to achieve her end goal: for Thorne to release the dark alter-ego he'd locked down in his head, that had once been known as Crow.

It had, however, told her that his capabilities remained sufficiently lethal for him to be useful once she got him back on side. That was good to know, at least.

O'Brien closed her eyes, recalling the programme which had created Crow. Twenty young recruits from either side of the Atlantic had been selected for their peak physical fitness, good looks and talent for languages. They'd been the brightest and best, yet only four had lasted the course: Kyle Harding, Steve Wheeler, Jonas Johnson and Bruce Thorne. _Jackdaw_ , _Raven_ , _Rook_ and _Crow_. In medical terms, the survivors had been left with severe and enduring mental illnesses. They'd also become devastatingly effective weapons.

For a few short years, the four men had penetrated enemy organisations to gather intelligence by any means necessary. That intelligence had been used mercilessly. Worming their way close to key figures, they'd carried out brutal interrogations and assassinations that spread mistrust, doubt and fear.

O'Brien smiled. For a while, it had almost seemed like they were winning. They had criminal cartels, terrorist groups and hostile nation states in disarray, bogged down in endless circles of in-fighting and recrimination, triggered by the precisely-targeted strikes of just four operatives.

It hadn't lasted, of course. Harding had ended up catatonic in the Broadmoor secure unit. Wheeler had developed an obsessive interest in biological weapons before eventually going AWOL in western Africa. Johnson – the only American survivor of the programme – became a victim of politics and found himself languishing in San Quentin prison after a manufactured conviction for arson. Only Thorne had remained stable as Crow, until tragedy struck and he walked away from it all.

O'Brien's smile faded. She'd had no choice but to let Thorne walk away, at the time. But now, she needed him back. She needed _Crow_ back.

Realising her surreptitious observations of events at the safe house weren't yielding anything that could be deemed useful intelligence, she forced herself to kill the connection and close the laptop. Playing voyeur would just lead to frustration. She needed to sit back and let events run their course.

Allowing herself a moment of self-congratulatory pleasure, O'Brien reflected on how her devious instincts had already mapped out that course for Bruce Thorne. Crow might not yet have been released, but her convoluted plan was far from over.

In fact, it had only just begun.

### 49

23:25

Norbiton, Kingston-Upon-Thames, UK

My mind was wandering, again.

As Lyle worked on tracing the Lithuanian's phone number, I imagined Katherine, lying awake right then, sick with worry. I thought about Jess and whether we were already too late to save her from whatever horrors she was facing. It didn't take long for the anger to build again. I needed a distraction.

I drained the rest of my coffee, then flexed my arm a couple of times to test how well it held. Satisfied with my handiwork, I got up to check on Lyle's progress. Daisy joined us at the table as well.

"What is that?" she asked, looking at a complex table full of numbers which had just appeared on Lyle's screen.

"You really don't want to know the details," Lyle suggested. "GCHQ stuff, innit. Could tell you, but would have to kill you. You know how it is."

"Yeah, right. Good luck with that," Daisy laughed. "They look like co-ordinates anyway. Is that telling us where the phone is? No, wait... there's dates and times there, too. So that's telling us where the phone _was_ , on each of those times. Is that right?"

Lyle turned to me, whilst nodding his head in Daisy's direction.

"How come she gets to be clever as well, bro? Gotta be some law against that, surely?"

"What do you mean, _as well_?" Daisy asked, suspiciously.

Lyle grinned back, triumphantly. "As well as being drop-dead gorgeous, obviously."

Daisy sighed. "I'm surprised you can see that screen, if your eyes need testing that badly. Shame I'm not gorgeous enough to make you _actually_ drop dead."

"Aww babe, that hurts..."

"Just shut up and get on with it, Lyle," I warned. "How long 'til you get the location?"

"Chill, bro. Any second now. Just thought you'd want a bit of history to go with it. You know, where it's been for the last few hours."

Lyle selected a whole section of the table, then flicked through a few other screens too quickly for me to follow. What I saw next, however, was easy enough to understand. It was a satellite map, overlaid with a trace of points connected together. It looked like some kind of farm building, with a single access road, surrounded by fields.

"Bingo," Lyle said. "KML export for the win."

"Okay, talk us through it," I instructed.

"It's easy, bruv. That trail is the phone's most recent recorded locations. It's basically hopped around that building for the last few hours."

"How accurate is that?"

"Not very. It's only triangulation. But it's enough to say that our man Vaitkus hasn't left that general location for a while. Or, at least, his phone hasn't, anyway."

"Okay. Zoom out. Where is this place, exactly?"

Lyle dutifully zoomed the image, showing Epsom, then the M25 and Leatherhead. The building was situated in a tract of farmland that lay inside the orbital motorway. That was a lucky break, for sure. It was barely ten miles away from where we stood.

"Alright," I said, already thinking about what our next steps might be. "That's not far away."

"Yeah, but _what_ is it?" Daisy asked. "It looks like a farm. Is that really where Jess is going to be?"

"I don't know," I said. "But it's probably not what it looks like."

I thought back to what Hemmings had told me, about an 'in-call house.' I knew that was a term used by sex workers to signify the use of their own premises, as opposed to 'out call' where they visited clients. The location of the farm would be ideal. Far enough away from prying eyes, yet still within easy distance of the capital.

Evidently my concern was obvious enough for Daisy to notice.

"What? What is it?" She prompted, again.

Lyle looked at her, and answered for me. "It's prolly a whorehouse, babe."

"Oh, right."

"Yeah, oh right is right. What's the plan then, Thorne?"

"I need everything you can find out about that farm – plans, layouts, whatever. Plus everything you and Daisy can get me on Vaitkus, and all his known associates. You can get his call records, from that number right?"

"Bro, I can do better than that. Give us a few minutes, and I'll have his contact list straight off the phone."

"Really?"

"Hey, total ownage is only ever one malformed text message away. I send him the SMS, he doesn't even need to read it, and boom!"

"How the hell does that work?"

"Best ask the NSA, bro. They insisted on all those vulnerabilities getting hardcoded in, years ago. Still plenty of 'em unpatched and usable."

"Find all the numbers he's in contact with regularly. I want to know who they are, and how many are on that farm as well. Give us an idea of what we might be up against."

"So, you gonna get us these burner phones you were on about? Kinda hard to send him a message without one."

"Sure. Let's sort them out now, before I go."

Lyle looked slightly concerned at that.

"Go? Where are you going?"

"That place is no more than ten miles away. Reid and I will go and get eyes on it whilst you're digging the dirt back here. No point in hanging around."

I looked across at Reid and he nodded in agreement.

"If there are too many guns for us to take on, I'll call it in to DCI Clarke and he can send a team," I added.

"Since when has _any_ number been too many for you to take on?" Lyle asked.

I smiled at that. He did have a point.

"Different rules here, Lyle."

"Right," he said, looking decidedly unconvinced. "Fifty says you and Reid go in anyway."

I smiled, and ignored his offered hand for the wager.

"I'm not a betting man, Lyle. Come on, let's get the phones."

I headed out through the kitchen and into the utility room beyond, in which there was a large walk-in cupboard. A standard keypad code was required to open the door. Similar to the one in my basement, it held a wide array of useful items. I headed in and located the devices we needed, along with a box of pre-paid SIM cards each registered to an untraceable shell account.

"Get them set up now, and we can exchange numbers," I said, handing out the phones and SIMs.

Lyle was laughing at the device I'd given him. The phones would have been placed in the house a couple of years previously, and were far from state-of-the-art.

"Where did you find this, bro? A time capsule?" he laughed.

"Hey, if it works then don't complain. Just get it activated."

As we each fiddled with the devices, inserting SIM cards and prodding at screens, I found myself impatient to get going. But at least some of the anxiety triggered by the Iranian attack was starting to dissipate. We were back in the game and, with the location of the farm confirmed, we had another solid lead on Jess.

I just hoped this would be the one which actually took us to her.

### 50

23:29

Walworth, London, UK

Pat O'Connor's stomach heaved the last remnants of alcoholic bile into the toilet bowl. Groaning quietly, he reached up from where he knelt on the tiled floor to trigger the flush.

He staggered to his feet, and propped himself up against the sink. The cabinet mirror reflected his haggard, damaged face. He didn't look good. But he was at least in better condition than the bathroom's former owner. Unlike Mick Doughty, Pat O'Connor was still in the land of the living. Although, for how much longer that would be the case, he wasn't entirely sure.

Reaching out for the tap, his hand was shaking. It had been shaking for the last hour, ever since he'd received the message from Ramirez. The one with the images of his son, Eddie. The one which had confirmed his worst fears about what the Mexican's intentions might have been. He tried to calm his hand, flexing the muscles in his arm. It had little effect. The tremors were the product of a powerful combination of emotions.

Shock. Rage. Frustration.

And, of course, fear.

O'Connor gingerly washed his face and took a long drink of water. After he'd received the message, it had been inconceivable that his day could get any worse. Yet, somehow, it had. In the last hour, he'd been expecting to get an update from Riley, but the man was no longer answering his phone. Neither was McCarthy. And neither was Phil Shanley. The three men who were supposed to have been breaking into Liam Rourke's house to kidnap him, had gone completely incommunicado.

He knew that their silence signified disaster, not disrespect.

Not that it mattered either way. With nothing from his men, O'Connor had nothing to offer Ramirez. He had to see if he could buy more time, for Eddie's sake. He put the toilet lid down, sat on it heavily, then took out his phone and dialled the number Ramirez had left him.

"You have him?" Ramirez asked, as soon as he answered.

"No..."

"Then why you call?

"My son... he has nothing to do with this. I am asking you, man to man. Do not kill him."

Ramirez laughed. "Ah, I can hear you angry, no? I hear the tightness in your voice."

"I am angry, yes," O'Connor admitted. "This is not the way we do things, here. You didn't need to bring Eddie into this. I would have found you your man anyway."

"Perhaps, but I need you to understand... how you say? The urgency, eh?"

"We had an agreement. Five days. And now you say you want him tomorrow. That's not urgent. That's impossible."

Ramirez sneered at that.

"There was no agreement. You make it sound like we had, what? Contract or something? But I _agree_ to nothing. I _tell_ you, what to do. Is not the same, eh?"

O'Connor bit back his natural response and tried to remain calm.

"Perhaps not. But in our world, a man is only as good as his word."

Ramirez laughed outright at that.

"This is why you and I, we are not the same. Maybe we both grow up on the streets, eh? But what we take from that, I think it very different. As a boy, I learn that rules... they no good. Play by them, fight by them; strongest man always win. But without rules, is not so certain. Strong men can be beaten."

Ramirez paused, and O'Connor could hear the man breathing hard on the other end of the line before continuing.

"You are strong man, Senor O'Connor. But you play by rules. Is why we are different, yes? Is why I will always beat you."

O'Connor sighed. "Alright. Whatever you say. But please, leave my son out of it. I will get you your man."

"You do that, sure, maybe I no kill your son. Easy, eh?"

"What do you mean, _maybe_? If you..." O'Connor managed to stop himself before he made a threat he couldn't deliver.

There was a chuckle from Ramirez. "Heh, like I say, I no play by the rules. Not your rules, not anyone's. Maybe you should try it. Your problem is, to play with no rule, you need to... what is the word? _Accept_ who you must be. Accept _what_ you must be. I think you have not done that, Senor O'Connor. I think you still fight it, in your heart."

O'Connor bit his lip and said nothing.

"I tell you this, for a reason," Ramirez continued. "The man you try to find, he no play by rules either. You do not... how you say? Estimate him under, no? You are no good to me dead. You are no good to your _son_ , dead."

"Don't..." O'Connor attempted to interject, but Ramirez ignored him.

"Take care, Senor O'Connor. We speak again, tomorrow."

The call disconnected, and O'Connor stood up and let out the roar of pure frustration that he'd been bottling up. He caught his reflection again, now riven with the impotent rage of an old, tired man. Flashes of his son's agonised features – burned in his head from the images Ramirez had sent him – briefly overlaid his own reflection until finally, he punched the cabinet, shattering the mirror with a violent crash.

He stood for a moment, surrounded by the shards of broken glass, breathing heavily. He inspected the hand which had struck the mirror. His calloused knuckles had absorbed the shock. There was no blood. But the pain had cleared his mind, and made it clear what he needed to do.

A muffled call came up from the kitchen below.

"Boss? Is that you? You okay?" Kevin Flaherty enquired.

O'Connor didn't answer. He hadn't told Flaherty about the images Ramirez had sent. He hadn't told anybody. His authority was already slipping, and the last thing he needed was for his men to realise the extent of his desperation. Instead of responding, he headed straight down the stairs to give his driver an instruction.

"Get the car. We're going out," O'Connor barked.

"Now, boss? Where? What's going on? Have you heard from Riley?"

O'Connor didn't hide his irritation at Flaherty's questions.

"No. That's the problem. If you want something doing in this godforsaken city, you've got to damn well do it yourself. Get the other two from in there," he said, nodding to the living room, "And tell them to bring their shooters. We're not messing around this time. We're going to find out what the hell happened to that idiot Riley and the two dickheads he had with him, and then go bag Mr Rourke for ourselves."

Flaherty nodded curtly, a renewed sense of respect evident in his eyes, then went to rouse the others.

O'Connor picked up the half-empty bottle of scotch from the kitchen table and lifted it to his lips. Something stopped him from taking a swig. Having thrown up, his head was a little less muzzy already. Slowly, he returned the bottle to where it had stood. Trying to drown his sorrows further was not going to help. He needed a clear head.

Scooping up his own vintage Browning Hi-Power pistol from the kitchen worktop, O'Connor prepared to join his men. Ramirez had been wrong about him. He might be a traditionalist in many respects, but there were rare occasions when those principles had to be put to one side.

He didn't always play by the rules.

As the man he knew as Liam Rourke would be finding out, very shortly.

### 51

Tuesday 12th July

00:21

Nr. Epsom, Surrey

I have very few virtues, and patience isn't one of them.

As usual, I found myself acutely conscious of the seconds and minutes ticking away. My fingers drummed briefly on the stationary van's wheel, before I caught myself and stopped. I looked at my watch, and sighed. I never had been any good at waiting.

I peered past Reid, who was observing our target location through the side window of the van. He was using a pair of high-powered binoculars I'd retrieved from the safe-house's cache of equipment. We were parked in a layby, a couple of hundred yards away from where a long track led away from the main road and up to a collection of barns surrounding a large farmhouse.

I looked through the van's grimy windscreen towards the farm's entrance. It was unremarkable in every way. No fancy gateway or imposing stone pillars, just a few scrappy conifers, some dilapidated fencing and an anonymous, hand-painted sign denoting 'Hill Farm.' Beyond that, the single track bisected open fields, leading past a disused stable block and up to the main farm buildings which lay half a mile distant. Nothing about the entrance, or the farm itself, attracted the attention of the cars which still swished past us at regular intervals despite the late hour. Nothing gave the slightest hint as to the reality of what took place in that anonymous building, surrounded by sagging barns and rusted farmyard machinery.

I resisted the urge to look at my watch again. Instead, I glanced across at Reid. He was displaying his usual coolness under pressure, with no outward signs that he was perturbed by our situation. I smiled. That was a stark contrast to the visible stress he'd displayed back at the house, when circumstances had merely required him to be sociable.

I realised my leg had begun to bounce involuntarily again: a product of the intense tension I was unable to hide.

"One day, I'm going to have to get you to teach me that whole Zen thing you've got going on."

Reid put down the binoculars and frowned at me.

"Huh?"

"The thought of Jess being over there, whilst we're just sitting here..."

"We can't go in," he said calmly. "You said it yourself. We have to sit it out and wait for your man Clarke to get here."

"I know, but that doesn't mean I can sit _still_."

Reid just shrugged, and returned his attention to the binoculars.

As soon as I'd seen the size and layout of the farm, I'd known we had to call it in. That decision had been re-affirmed when Lyle had delivered an update on what he and Daisy had found out about the man whom we now believed to be holding Jess Gardiner.

Hemmings' hard drives had yielded direct links to web hosting services based in Lithuania, which tied in to what we already knew. Digging beneath the veneer of those legitimate – if morally-questionable – businesses, Lyle had tied the name Vaitkus to several shadier operations. A quick dip into the Lithuanian authorities' databases had thrown up a ton of files on the man, which Daisy had scanned through rapidly.

Mykolas Vaitkus was a Lithuanian gun-runner with a nasty little sideline in trafficking, forced prostitution and online sex shows. He'd been operating in the UK with apparent impunity for at least eighteen months. Records showed the farm was owned by a shell company, which Lyle had yet to dig into. That didn't matter: Lyle had successfully taken control of the man's phone, and had already identified at least four other contacts who were present on the farm. It had been safe to assume that they would all be armed, and would pose rather more of a challenge than Dean Hemmings and his amateurs.

At that point, I'd called Jim Clarke. I wasn't worried about Reid, or myself. But the potential for multiple hostages, and innocent parties getting caught in crossfire, had been too much to ignore.

"Anything new?" I asked Reid.

"Still no visible guards. A couple of cars parked up in the yard. Looks like more vehicles in that open framed barn."

"Movement?"

"Only in the windows, occasionally. Should I go take a closer look?"

"No point," I said. "When Clarke gets here, the SCO19 boys will handle it all. They won't take anything you or I tell them as gospel – they'll want to check it out themselves anyway."

Reid nodded.

"They are definitely on their way?"

"They'll be here. You can say a lot of things about Clarke, but he is a man of his word."

It was twenty minutes since I'd hung up with the DCI. It had come as no surprise to find him still at his desk at midnight. It had been equally unsurprising that he'd not been the most receptive of listeners as I'd tried to explain the situation. At first, he had flatly refused to sanction a raid on an unknown location, to rescue a girl and unspecified others whose presence hadn't even been confirmed, all at the behest of a man in whom he had no trust whatsoever.

Of course, I was not without skill in the art of persuasion. Underneath his stubborn propriety, Clarke was a fundamentally decent man. A father, too. A little judicious application of emotional blackmail – dropping in a few carefully-chosen biographical details about the Gardiner family – had finally made him relent. Clarke and the SCO19 armed response team would be with us within the hour.

I was about to take my mind off the wait by attempting to strike up another conversation with Reid, when he shifted and tensed on the passenger seat.

"Uh... this isn't good," Reid stated.

"What? What's going on?" I asked. I leaned around him to peer out of the window myself, and could see that the farmyard area in front of the main building was now lit up.

"Looks like they're packing up and leaving," he said, passing the binoculars to me.

I raised the viewfinders to my eyes and, sure enough, I could make out several men running around frantically. Headlights came on, and a Luton van emerged from beneath the cover of an open barn.

"What the hell? It looks like they're getting everyone out."

A stream of young women – and a couple of boys – were being herded roughly out of the main building, into the yard which lay in front of the main house. Most were in robes, but some were in nothing but underwear, which seemed to confirm our fears about the nature of the operation. Two men were pointing assault rifles in their direction, which also confirmed our fears about the threat level posed on the farm.

Two more men emerged from the farmhouse, pulling on shirts and buttoning trousers. Clients, presumably. The armed men ignored them as they headed for two of the cars parked in the yard.

"Any sign of Jess?" Reid asked.

I was already scanning for red hair and familiar features, but it was impossible to resolve that kind of detail even through the magnified viewfinder.

"They're too far away. I can't tell."

"Huh," he acknowledged.

"I am not liking the timing of this, at all," I said. It was just too much of a coincidence.

"Are we made?" Reid suggested.

"I doubt it. They'd have had to be using optics up there to even see us. And if they had, then you'd think they'd send someone down here to find out, before abandoning the whole place."

"Tip off, then."

A pair of headlights emerged from behind a barn, and began heading rapidly down the farm's drive. The first of the clients, making a hasty getaway.

"Has to be. God only knows from where, though."

A second vehicle emerged: the other client leaving quickly.

"Your man, Clarke. Is he sound?"

The idea of Jim Clarke being crooked was unthinkable. Genuinely, cat-in-hell impossible. I nodded to Reid.

"Absolutely. No way will he have leaked this."

"Someone has, though," Reid pointed out.

He was right, but I didn't have time to worry about who that might have been. It would be at least another twenty minutes before Clarke arrived with the team. The Lithuanians would be long gone by then. I retrieved a Glock 17 pistol – replete with AAC Ti-Rant suppressor – that I'd secreted in the van's door pocket. Reid had a matching weapon; both taken from the safe-house's cache.

"We're going in?" Reid asked.

I began checking the Glock's magazine.

"I don't know. Do we have a choice?" I replied. "If we can hit them hard whilst they're trying to leave, we might have a chance."

Reid nodded, as he retrieved his own weapon. I knew he was thinking the same as I was: that wasn't much of a chance.

"A lot of unknowns," he pointed out.

"You mean, _too many_ unknowns."

"Uh huh."

"I know, Reinhold, but what's the alternative? We just sit here and watch them ship Jess out in front of our eyes?"

"We don't know she's there."

"No, we don't," I admitted, as I took the binoculars and leaned past Reid to scan the yard again. "But can we take that chance?"

Three men, all wearing tracksuits, were carrying boxes and bags from the house and loading them hurriedly into the boot of a BMW 7-series. A fourth sportswear-clad man was pacing around the yard, talking to someone on the phone. It was too far away to be sure, but I presumed I was looking at Mykolas Vaitkus.

The two men with the assault rifles were still directing their victims into the back of the Luton van. I couldn't see their faces, but when the captives moved, they were subdued and submissive. I desperately scanned for Jess. Was that a flash of red hair, I just saw? The harsh glare of the yard's illumination made it impossible to say.

Another girl with bleached-white hair caught my attention. Was she moving like Jess had moved on the CCTV we'd seen? I just couldn't tell. I flicked between the others, looking for signs. What about the dark-haired one, wrapping her arms around herself? Had they forced Jess to dye her hair? What about the girl being shoved along by one of the guards, clearly distressed and walking with a pronounced limp? Could that be her?

The inhumanity of what I was seeing briefly burrowed its way through my conditioning and sent a wave of nausea straight into the pit of my stomach. Predictably, that was followed by a burning surge of anger, and the realisation that it didn't matter whether Jess was there or not.

We were going in anyway.

"That van can't leave," I said, passing the binoculars back to Reid.

"Uh huh."

"We just need to keep them pinned down until Clarke arrives."

"Uh huh."

I looked at the distances involved and the complete lack of cover for much of the drive up to the farm. The stable block was our only option. There would be six men, all heavily armed, in two vehicles. I was calculating the different ways in which we could engineer an opportunity to separate the van from the car, when Reid made an announcement.

"Car's moving out," he said.

I looked out of the window. Another pair of headlights headed rapidly down the farm road. They weren't hanging about.

"What about the van?"

"Still loading," Reid said, passing me the binoculars again.

The Luton van was still parked in the farm yard, with the last of the victims getting into the back. Our opportunity didn't need engineering. It had just arrived.

I started up our van then tensed, as the Lithuanians' car reached the junction a couple of hundred yards away from where we sat in the layby. It pulled out and headed straight for us.

"Get the plate," I instructed.

Reid's memory was borderline eidetic. I knew he'd remember the registration, although I suspected the car would be dumped before long anyway. As it passed, I saw four men inside with Vaitkus in the passenger seat. I wasn't happy about the idea of him getting away, but that was preferable to letting the van escape. We had no choice. Besides, Lyle could always track down his phone again.

I took a final look through the binoculars. The men had finished loading up the van. Both were hefting their heavy weapons into the cab, clearly preparing to leave.

The timing would be tight, but there was a chance we could make something work. I put the van into gear and pulled out onto the road with the lights still off, heading rapidly for the farm's approach road as I began outlining my plan to Reid.

It wasn't a great plan. But right then it was all we had.

### 52

00:25

Putney, London, UK

Pat O'Connor had steeled himself for the worst that he might find in Putney. In the end, that still hadn't been enough.

He and his men had run into trouble before they'd even arrived at the address Ryan Langton had given them. Their route had been cordoned off by police, just outside the entrance to a local school. O'Connor had recognised the blue van that was the apparent cause of the road closure; lit up by portable arc lights and the blue strobes of emergency vehicles. He hadn't recognised the body being carried from the vehicle on a stretcher, being too far away to make out the details. One thing had been certain from the lack of urgency evident in the paramedics' actions. It wasn't an injured man they were carrying.

It was a corpse.

Flaherty had wheeled their big Bentley around, before they'd attracted any unwanted attention themselves. Taking an alternative route, they'd arrived at Rourke's house only to find themselves confronted by more police vehicles, and another apparent crime scene being investigated.

As Flaherty found a space big enough for them to park on the road, O'Connor thought about what the hell had happened to Riley, Shanley and McCarthy. From the body he'd seen, at least one was dead; more likely all three had come to an untimely end. But if that was the case, why were the police also at Rourke's house? None of it made any sense. With Eddie held captive, and his future dependent on Rourke being delivered to Ramirez, O'Connor didn't have time to ponder further. He needed answers.

Leaving the other two men in the car, O'Connor and Flaherty headed for Rourke's address on foot. They hurried down the street, until they reached the first entrance of the house's crescent driveway. O'Connor looked up at the imposing three-storey house. A police van was parked on the road outside, with two further police cars on the drive.

"Nice motor," Flaherty said, nodding to a green Lamborghini which was also parked in front of the house's garage. There appeared to be a bullet hole in the rear quarter panel. "That ain't gonna be cheap to fix."

"Right. This place is worth a fortune, too."

"This his place?"

"If it is, then we have a problem. Because that means he clearly isn't who Doughty, or any of us, thought he was."

O'Connor put that thought from his mind, and headed towards the house's front door, or at least the space where a front door would once have stood. It appeared to be missing: the ragged brickwork around it suggesting some kind of explosion. A young-looking female officer stood guarding the breach.

"Boss, you sure about this? They might not like you poking around." Flaherty asked.

O'Connor most definitely wasn't sure. Voluntarily engaging with law enforcement ran contrary to pretty much every code they lived by. But his hand was being forced.

"Got no choice. I need to know what's going on."

He took a deep breath, and took a big risk.

"Hello? Excuse me?" he called to the officer. "Can you tell me what's happening here?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Who are you?" the policewoman replied, looking him up and down cautiously as he approached.

O'Connor ignored the question, and fired off another of his own.

"Where's Liam? Is he alright?"

The officer stepped forward, coming to head him off.

"Sir, please stop there," she said, holding up her hand. She looked nervous, which was not a good sign.

O'Connor dutifully halted a few feet away from the officer. He held out his hands in a placating gesture, and put on his most reassuring smile.

"Listen, love. I just want to know what's going on. I've come all the way down from Liverpool to see my brother," he lied. "He's not answering calls, and now I find you lot are all in his house. What the hell is happening here?"

"Your brother?"

"Yes, the man who lives here." O'Connor was careful not to mention Rourke's full name. "Now please, let me in. I need to see him."

"I'm sorry, sir. There's been... an incident. The house is off-limits at the moment."

"An incident?" O'Connor feigned shock. "Oh my God! Is he alright?"

The officer gave O'Connor an apologetic smile. He noted how young she looked. Probably got shoved on the night-shift duty that none of her more experienced colleagues had wanted.

"There's an active investigation," she explained. "I'm really sorry... if you want to leave me your details then someone will contact you when we've finished. But for now, I'm going to have to ask you to leave. This whole area is a crime scene."

"A crime scene? Leave? I'm not going anywhere until I know what's happened." O'Connor paused dramatically, as if thinking about the consequences, before continuing.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Is he dead? Oh God, that's it, isn't it? That's why you're not saying anything. He's been killed, hasn't he? I knew he was in trouble, that's why I was coming down..."

"Sir, please," the officer interjected, looking uncomfortable.

O'Connor made a face which communicated anger and hurt.

"What's happened to this country? Have you no compassion? He's my brother for God's sake! If he's dead, don't you think I have a right to know?"

The young officer glanced around her nervously. She was completely out of her depth. O'Connor knew his act was having the desired effect. He lowered his voice.

"Please, love. Come on. Can you at least tell me if he's alive?"

With a final glance behind her, the young officer relented.

"I'm really sorry, I can't. We just don't know. The house was empty when we arrived. I don't know if your brother is alright, but he's not here. Have you any idea where he might be? We really need to talk to him."

O'Connor paused a moment, as if calming himself.

"I have no idea where he's gone," he said, pretending to be pensive. "But if I do find him, I'll let you know. Thank you, officer."

He turned to leave, and quickly made his way back down the drive with Flaherty. As he approached the exit, his eye was drawn by something reflecting in the shrubbery which bordered the driveway. He stopped, and glanced back towards the house. The female officer was nowhere to be seen: O'Connor presumed she'd gone inside to inform her superiors of their encounter. He needed to be gone before they sent her back out to do what she should have done in the first place, which was to hold him for questioning. But he had to get a closer look at what he'd just seen.

Moving swiftly, he reached underneath the rhododendron bush and retrieved what appeared to be a bloodstained man's jacket. It had two reflective stripes running down the front, which were what had caught his eye as they reflected in the driveway's security lighting. He was about to cast the clothing back into the border, but then he caught sight of the holes in the left sleeve, and hurriedly bundled it up to carry.

"What's that, boss?" Flaherty asked

"Could be our man's jacket," O'Connor replied, as he hurried out of the drive and up the road to the car. He popped the boot open, and once hidden behind the raised lid, shook out the jacket and held it in front of him. The reek of stale alcohol told him that it wasn't blood which had soaked the garment. But, from the holes in the sleeve, some kind of injury had definitely been sustained.

"Looks like someone got shot," Flaherty pointed out, nodding at the sleeve.

"Maybe Shanley did some damage after all," O'Connor noted, twisting the jacket around to inspect the damage. "That's a pretty big hole."

"Are you thinking hospitals, boss?"

O'Connor nodded. "What's the nearest?"

"Dunno. Charing Cross, maybe? Or Chelsea and Westminster. Unless he's gone private. In which case, he could be anywhere."

"Can't worry about that. We start with Charing Cross."

Flaherty nodded, and went to get back in the car.

O'Connor was about to join him, but old habits die hard. He couldn't resist checking the jacket's pockets. He seriously doubted Rourke would have left his wallet in there, or indeed anything useful at all. He slipped a hand inside, and his fingers closed around a folded piece of paper. He pulled it out, convinced that it was bound to be a till receipt, or something equally worthless. He squinted in the dim light cast by the street lighting.

Excitement tingled. It definitely wasn't a receipt. And it definitely wasn't worthless.

O'Connor found himself looking at a carefully-written note with an address on it. He had no idea if it was even related to Rourke. But the paper looked fresh; not well-worn and softened like it would have been had it been riding around in the pocket for days. And in these days of mobile phones, tablets and sat-nav, there were precious few reasons to actually write an address down unless you wanted to keep it secret, away from the prying eyes of digital spooks and hackers.

He paused, thinking hard about the decision that he needed to make. Then, with his mind made up, he tossed the jacket into the boot, closed the lid and joined his driver up front.

"Change of plan," he announced, as he pulled the heavy door shut and Flaherty eased the car out of its space. O'Connor leaned forward in the leather passenger seat, so that he could prod at the large navigation screen set into the Bentley's luxurious wooden dash. He looked at the address on the note again.

"Forget the hospital," he instructed. It was about time his luck changed, and he was about to take a serious punt.

"We're going to Norbiton."

### 53

00:27

Nr. Epsom, Surrey

Trust is a curious thing.

It doesn't come naturally to me. Probably because I'm a trained liar - I have, after all, spent most of my life in the business of deceiving others. Still, there are a handful of people in whom I have absolute, unconditional faith. Individuals with whom I would trust a life-or-death judgement call, even if that life were my own.

Reinhold Reid is one of them.

I'd hurriedly positioned our vehicle where it would be hidden from the approaching Lithuanians by the abandoned stable block, halfway up the farm track. I knew their Luton van was heading towards us but the building also completely obscured my view, leaving me effectively blind.

That was where Reid came in. He was outside, peering around the corner of the stables and up towards the farm. He'd signal when I should pull forward to block the path of the Lithuanians. If he did that too late, the Luton would plough straight into the driver's side of our van, with potential lethal consequences for me. Too soon, and the Lithuanians would be out of their vehicle and shooting before we got close enough to take them out ourselves.

That could be lethal for both of us.

Suddenly, Reid banged a fist against the van. I revved the engine hard, dumped the clutch and threw the vehicle forward across the narrow track, so that it blocked the path of the approaching Luton. Within seconds, I had the door open and was leaping out to join Reid.

He'd judged the timing to perfection. He always did.

The Lithuanian driver was struggling to bring his overloaded vehicle to a halt, and had locked up the wheels on the gravelled track. But Reid had accounted for that, and the Luton slithered quickly to a stop five yards from the side of our van. As I dashed towards it, I could see the two men in the van's cab struggling with their unwieldy AK-47s. In the confined space, they had no chance of getting them into play before Reid appeared gun-up at the passenger window and instructed them to freeze.

A couple of seconds later I joined him on the driver's side, pointing the long suppressor of my pistol directly at the man in the driver's seat.

"Out, now!" I barked. Momentum was critical in these situations. The van's occupants complied.

We brought them around to the front of the Luton van, where they were illuminated by the headlights. I guessed both were in their late twenties, having accumulated a couple of decades' worth of scars and tattoos on swarthy complexions. Neither would be a stranger to violence, that was for sure. From their bearing and demeanour, neither was likely to accept their fate quietly.

"Hands on heads," I instructed.

Both men looked at me, frowning. They were clearly feigning confusion. I could see the deception in their faces: they were not good liars. I repeated the command but the men just stood, making incoherent noises of protest barely audible above the raucous clatter of the Luton's still-running diesel engine. Their arms remained resolutely by their sides.

I sighed. Things were about to get complicated. I could tell.

Reid's captive – the passenger from the van – was a large, well-built, mean-looking man. I recognised him straight away. I'd seen him earlier through the binoculars, shoving the girl who'd been limping. He wasn't the sort who was used to being pushed around himself. I could see the look in his dark eyes, resentfully assessing the man in front of him. Checking out Reid's decidedly average-looking frame. Clearly deciding that he fancied his chances.

Before I could reiterate the command a third time, the passenger swung his arm forward, making a grab for Reid's weapon.

That was his first error.

Reid's response was fast, fluid and unforgiving. As his assailant reached forward, Reid stepped backwards a pace, leaving the man's grabbing lunge to fall short. At the same time, Reid pivoted neatly and swung a powerful left-handed blow at the side of his opponent's head. It connected with considerable force and the big man stumbled sideways, before Reid dropped him with a chop to the side of the neck. The Lithuanian fell briefly to his knees in the dusty gravel, before slowly pushing himself back up, groaning and swearing in his native tongue.

Reid had him covered, point blank, with the Glock. But I could see the man was calculating. Reid had not fired. In the man's head, that meant we were not serious about using the guns we held.

That was his second error.

It was also one that I felt obliged to correct, given that the driver in front of me looked like he was rapidly reaching the same conclusion as his partner. I momentarily switched my aim, and shot the large man in his right knee.

Clack. Clack.

The Ti-Rant did its job, dissipating the sound so it was barely audible above the diesel clatter. And the 9mm projectiles did theirs: splitting open skin and bone to tear through cartilage and render the joint incapable of supporting weight. The man screamed, as the pain raced through his nervous system and hit him like a hammer.

I didn't bother to watch him drop again. I knew he wouldn't be getting up a second time.

"Secure him," I told Reid, who nodded in response and began heading back to our van to get what he needed.

My aim was already back on the man in front of me. He looked between his fallen colleague and me, as if not quite understanding what had just taken place. Then, apparently reaching a conclusion, he rapidly put his hands on top of his head. His expression revealed the mutinous thoughts draining away. I figured the agonised howls of his compatriot, writhing around on the dusty gravel, had something to do with that.

I was back in charge. For the moment, at least.

"You not police," he grunted, in English.

It was almost an accusation, accompanied by a look of betrayal. As if my presence in front of him was some kind of injustice.

"No, not anymore," I said, smiling bleakly.

He frowned at that, and looked like he was about to say something else, but he caught my eye properly and the words died in his throat. I gave him the benefit of my coldest stare. Finally, the penny dropped for him.

"You want to live?" I asked.

He nodded, mutely.

"Turn round, and get on your knees."

He obliged, without protest.

Reid was finishing off with the man I'd shot, cuffing his hands behind his back and attaching leg restraints.

"Hood?" he asked me.

I nodded.

"Same for this one, too."

I left Reid to it and headed around the back of the Luton van. I dropped the tail-lift, then climbed up and raised the roller door with my good arm. In the dark interior, I could make out a mass of bodies: the captives squatting, sitting and standing together in the empty compartment. I was struck by how hopeless they looked. They weren't even cowering or attempting to hide; they were simply accepting whatever fate the man with the gun had come to deliver.

I shuddered. What kind of a man would pay to knowingly force himself upon these unfortunates? One look in their eyes would be enough to know they weren't willing participants. The shudder returned again, as that thought was followed rapidly by another. For some men, I knew that knowledge would add to the appeal.

I blinked, and pushed those thoughts from my mind.

"Jess?" I queried.

Nobody answered. That wasn't surprising. It wasn't the sort of situation where anyone would voluntarily reveal their identity.

"Okay, look. I'm not here to hurt anyone. I am looking for a girl called Jess Gardiner – I'm working for her mother. If you're in there, Jess, it's okay. The police are on their way."

The faces in front of me just looked blank.

I turned to a blonde girl, who looked a little older than some of the others and was also wearing rather more than most of them were.

"You speak English?"

She nodded, nervously.

"You understand? It is alright. You are all safe, now."

"But you have gun."

I pushed the long barrel of the pistol awkwardly into the back of my jeans, and raised my hands.

"Better?" I asked, trying to give a reassuring smile.

I stepped back, and down from the tail lift onto the gravel.

"Come on out. All of you. Jess, if you're there, don't be scared."

After a few more encouraging gestures, the girl I'd spoken to stepped out from the back of the van, ducking under the roller door and out onto the tail lift. As she climbed down, the other young people began to follow. I looked intently at each one, scanning them carefully in the dim light. A host of young Slavic-looking faces and a couple of darker-skinned females all shot uncertain glances at me. None looked remotely like Jess.

After two passes I was convinced. There was no sign of her.

The young captives were beginning to mill around uncertainly on the farm track, some huddling together whilst others stood alone, confused. I realised that I didn't want them to be seen from the road in their vulnerable state.

"Alright. She's not here. Get back in the van, everyone," I said, as gently as I could manage. "You'll be safe there. The police will be here, soon."

They dutifully began clambering back up into the vehicle. As they did so, I took the blonde girl aside.

"Was there a new girl here tonight?" I asked. "Red hair? Maybe your age?"

She looked at me uncertainly, as if deciding whether to trust me, then nodded.

"Lina and me, we have to... make her up, earlier."

"When?"

"Maybe... few hours ago?" the girl said, nervously.

"Where is she now?"

She shook her head, then looked down. "I do not know. I am sorry."

I suppressed my anger at having missed Jess, and forced myself to smile at the girl.

"It's okay. You'll be alright, now. Just keep everyone in the van and don't leave until the police get here."

She nodded, and I let her join the others. I was struck by the sickening thought that Jess might have been hidden somewhere in the car with Vaitkus, and that we'd just watched her leave. I pushed that thought away, and looked at the other young people getting back in the van. I needed answers, and it was clear that they wouldn't have any for me. But I knew a man who would.

I checked my watch and smiled grimly. The armed response team would still be some distance away from the farm. Ironically, I now wanted them to be late.

I hurried back round to the front of the Luton van, where Reid had cuffed and bound both Lithuanians, laying them prone on the gravel so that they were hidden from passers-by. The one I'd shot had stopped yelling and was moaning softly under his hood. I stepped over him and hauled up the other man to a seated position, propping him against the front wheel of the Luton. His muffled protests were ignored.

I had a quick check of our surroundings. Another vehicle had pulled into the layby where Reid and I had parked. It looked like a Range Rover. A black one; just like the ones I'd seen in Juan Ramirez Espinoza's convoy. My hand immediately reached for the pistol in my waistband. But before I could indulge in any flights of paranoid fancy, the SUV pulled away smoothly and headed off towards the city. No cause for alarm. And no awkward witnesses for the events which were about to unfold.

I reached down and pulled off the Lithuanian's hood. He glared up at me, apparently having recovered some of his fight since I'd left him.

"Where is she?" I asked, straight away.

"Where is who?"

"The girl who arrived here earlier. Jess. English girl, red hair. She was brought here from Dartford."

The recognition in his eyes was obvious. But instead of answering the question, he shrugged with a nasty-looking smile, as if knowing he'd gained an advantage. I looked back at him coldly, as I pulled out the silenced weapon from my waistband.

I shot him in the arm.

He yelled and swore vociferously in Lithuanian for a while. The bullet hadn't done any serious damage – it had just taken a chunk of flesh out of his right bicep – but it was enough to persuade him to talk. I slipped the pistol back in my waistband as he spat out an answer through gritted teeth.

"She's gone."

That wasn't the answer I needed. I squatted astride his prone legs and punched him in the face.

"I know she's gone, you piece of dirt. I need to know where."

Through the pain, he still managed to find a sneer.

"Where do you think?" he panted.

I punched him harder, cracking a cheekbone this time.

"I ask the questions. Not you. Where is she?"

He finally relented; the fight leaving his eyes as he realised that what he'd thought was an advantage had turned out to be a liability.

"The man who buy her, he come collect."

"The man who..." I repeated, but my voice trailed off as I processed the implications. "What man? Who is he?"

"I do not know. He collect her, he leave. That is all I know."

I looked at him closely, and decided that he wasn't lying. His answer made sense. He wouldn't need to know whoever this buyer was. That information would be held further up the chain of command.

"Who _does_ know? Vaitkus?" I asked.

The man shrugged, but I could see in his eyes that the answer was yes.

"Where is he?"

He shook his head. "He head to city, I don't know where."

I studied his face closely. There was no sign of deception.

"Where were you going, then?"

"We go M25. Park up at services. He meet us there in morning."

Morning was no good to me. We couldn't wait until then.

I replaced the hood and kicked him back down to the ground, then pulled out the phone I'd taken from the safehouse and called up Lyle's new number.

"Lyle? Where is Vaitkus right now?"

There was a pause.

"Uh, what do you mean, where is he?"

"What do you think I mean? I mean where is he _at_? What's his location?"

"Woah, dude. Are you telling me you _lost_ him?"

I sighed, realising that Lyle had no idea of what had just occurred on the farm.

"Let's just say that things got a little complicated. I didn't lose him, as such. I just had to let him leave. Now come on, give me his location please. "

"Right, yeah... slight problem with that, bro. His phone's dead. Went off about ten minutes ago."

"What? Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"Duh, because I kind of thought _you_ might have had something to do with it. I mean, taking him out was part of the plan, right? I just figured you blew him up or something."

"What about the others, where are they?"

"Same, bruv. No signal. So if that wasn't you, what the hell _has_ happened down there?"

I gave Lyle a brief run-down of the events which had unfolded since we'd last communicated.

"Shit, that ain't good. They obviously killed their phones before leaving, innit. But hey, I mean, you did the right thing dude. Not walking away from those other kids."

"Right. I appreciate the sentiment, but what's the next move? Can you find him?"

"Sure I can, eventually. Reid's got the plate off their car, so I can work with that, to start with. See where it leads us. And I took a remote data dump of his phone just in case he lost signal or something. I can work through that, see what other clues there are. It'll take a while though. What are you doing? You coming back here?"

"Yes. Call us as soon as you have something, though."

I hung up and nodded to Reid.

"Get them in the back of our van. We're going for a ride."

Reid looked at me curiously, but followed the instruction to load up our prisoners. I helped as much as I could with my arm, then we both headed around to the front of the vehicle and got in.

"Where to?" he asked, as I hauled myself into the passenger seat.

"Head for Norbiton. We'll... drop these two off on the way."

He held my gaze for a moment then nodded once, before manoeuvring us around and back down the track towards the main road.

As the van bumped its way along the uneven surface, the two injured Lithuanians in the back groaned in pain. I looked around at them, as the darkness shifted inside my head again. The two men had reached into the lives of countless innocent families, and twisted them into a nightmare. All for nothing more than personal gain.

That was why I hadn't left them for Clarke to arrest. The wheels of justice couldn't guarantee they'd be taken out of that game.

Sometimes only a permanent solution would suffice.

### 54

00:58

Nr. Honeywood, Kent, UK

Michael Williams awoke, with a start.

This time, there was no Satanic figure crushing the breath from his lungs. No panic. No sense of his imminent demise. This time, the only discomfort was a slight crick in his neck, the product of falling asleep unintentionally whilst sitting upright in an armchair.

Williams was in the spacious, high-ceilinged bedroom he'd prepared for the girl. He looked at the figure laying on the king-sized bed, dressed in an oversized neon-green t-shirt and skinny jeans. The girl moaned softly and moved her head from side to side on the pillow. He'd placed her there, after carrying her in from the car. Williams had been watching her sleep, when he'd drifted off himself. He realised that her increasingly restless movement was probably what had roused him.

That was good. That meant she would be awake soon.

Technically, of course, he knew the girl wasn't really asleep. She was unconscious. Williams had arrived at the farm earlier, to find the girl catatonic. When he'd pressed the Lithuanian for an explanation, Vaitkus had simply shrugged. They'd had no choice, the gang boss had said. She'd attacked one of his men who had taken her some food earlier in the evening, scratching and biting and kicking with such fury that they'd had no other option but to sedate her. Still, Vaitkus had reminded him, at least they hadn't beaten her unconscious like they usually did.

Williams yawned, then stood up to get a better look at the girl where she lay. There was no temptation to undress her, or even touch her. He knew from experience that unconscious partners were unsatisfactory.

They couldn't cry, or struggle, or tearfully beg him to stop.

Williams looked at the girl's face and smiled. She'd never be considered beautiful, but that didn't matter. She had her own special gift, in her ability to spirit him back twenty-five years to the one who got away. As she lay there – dressed in clothes that, thanks to the circular nature of fashion, wouldn't have been out of place a quarter of a century previously – she was, to all intents and purposes, Katie Fossett's double. The only difference was that unlike the original Katie, this one wasn't going to escape his grasp.

The girl moaned again, and shuffled on the bed. It looked like she was trying to push herself back into consciousness. From what Vaitkus had said, the girl was a fighter. He hoped that was true: it would remind him all the more of the original Katie. The girl he'd known at school had been a shy-looking waif but, on that Welsh mountainside, she'd proved to be much stronger in the face of adversity than most of her peers. Only she and one other had been brave enough to come to his aid, as he'd stared down into the abyss at the terrifying, shape-shifting, horned figure which swirled in the fog below.

He blinked himself back to the present and nodded in satisfaction, as the girl's movements became more pronounced. She'd survived the ordeal of her abduction intact and clearly her spirit had yet to be broken.

That latter fact pleased him immensely.

It meant the process of breaking it was going to be his privilege alone.

Before he could pursue that thought any further, his phone began to buzz. Very few people had his direct number, and all were in his contacts list, but the number displayed was not one he recognised.

"Who is this?" he answered brusquely, preparing to berate whichever hapless caller had stumbled across his number by random chance.

"You think I don't know it is you?" the voice at the other end snarled. "You think you can get away with this?"

Williams jolted in surprise. He recognised the accent immediately; it was Vaitkus, evidently calling on another phone.

"Excuse me?" Williams said as he began to make his way out of the bedroom. He didn't want the girl to wake up and find him mid-conversation with one of her abductors.

"You thought I would be in a police cell right now," Vatkus sneered. "Or dead, maybe. But you should know, your plan failed. I am still here."

Williams frowned. He had absolutely no idea what Vaitkus was so angry about, nor what he meant about a plan.

"Plan? What plan? What are you talking about?" He kept his voice hushed, as he pulled the bedroom door closed behind him.

"Do not pretend you don't know," Vaitkus spat. "Not half an hour after you take the girl, I get a call. It is a woman, says she is a friend. Says she needs to warn me, someone has tipped off the police. They are onto me and on their way."

"Well, I can assure you that someone wasn't me," Williams said, trying to keep his voice calm. He snicked the lock he'd had fitted to the door mechanism, then began to walk away down the hall.

"Really? It is not too convenient, how you get the girl and then they come? So you do not have to pay me?"

"What? I will pay you, just like I always have before."

"Yes, you will," Vaitkus spat. "In cash, tonight. The police, they raided the farm. I have lost everything I had there. All the merchandise, everything!"

The news triggered a fresh tingle of fear.

"You've lost the farm?"

He knew that could be problematic, given that he owned the property. Whilst his lease to the Lithuanians ran through the usual veil of shell corporations, if the police started digging then it was far from impossible that he would be implicated.

"Stop pretending you don't know!" Vaitkus shouted down the line. "I am sick of your lies! Our business, it is over. You will pay me my money, and we will not speak again..."

"Calm down, Mykolas. Listen to me, I have nothing to do with this."

"No! You listen to me. You pay me my money, tonight, or I will kill you myself! I do not care about whether you can _make my life difficult_ ," he sneered. "You try making my life hard, when you are dead! I come to see you, before morning. And you had better be sure you have my money."

The line disconnected before Williams could respond. He took a few deep breaths and looked out of the hallway window, down into the darkness of the courtyard outside. Black shapes flickered there momentarily, forming familiar figures...

He blinked rapidly, and the shapes coalesced back into the shadows of the house. He headed downstairs and flicked on the switches which illuminated the courtyard, then risked another look out of the windows. There were no shapes. No horned figures. But he was left with a lingering thought again, the same nagging doubt about the girl whom he'd brought into his house.

Was she bad luck?

He realised that it didn't matter, either way. What did matter, was how best to extricate himself from the unwelcome situation into which he'd just been plunged. He thought for a few moments, running through the possibilities, then smiled. In every threat there was usually an opportunity. And this was no different.

Williams selected Juan Ramirez Espinoza from his contacts, and dialled.

"Senor Ramirez. I apologise for the lateness of the call. But there have been some developments, that I think will be of interest."

"Developments, eh?" Ramirez chuckled. "I hope they are good ones, Senor Williams."

"You could say that. My suppliers have become... problematic. It would appear that someone informed the police of their activities. They are not happy."

"You think this was me?"

"No, no. Of course, not," Williams lied. He had already considered the possibility that the informer was Ramirez. But there was nothing to gain from revealing this suspicion. "But I think perhaps we can use this to our advantage."

"Heh. There is always a way to do that, I am sure," Ramirez laughed. "But go on, tell me. What is your plan?"

"The man running the operation is Mykolas Vaitkus. He is Lithuanian, and he thinks that I have sold him out. He will be coming to me later tonight, to collect the money I owe him. I am sure he will want to make a big show, to intimidate me."

"And what do I have to do with this?"

"Well, let's just say it would be _interesting_ if some of your men happened to be here as well. Especially if they decided to show Vaitkus just how far the game has moved on, now you are in town."

Ramirez laughed at that.

"I see. You want protection? That is why you call me?"

"Yes," Williams admitted. "I can go elsewhere, of course. But this is a perfect opportunity for you to take out Vaitkus and take over his operation. That is, after all, how you work, is it not?"

There was a pause, as Ramirez considered the situation.

"Is interesting offer, but there is problem. Taking over operation, that take time. Always difficult, at first, eh?"

Williams laughed politely.

"Sure. But are we not in this for the long game?"

"Si, si. Of course. But long game, that no work for me right now. I make deal already, with very important man. He want a girl. Nice, British girl, eh? Just like you promised. I no afford delays, Senor Williams."

"A girl, you say?"

"Yes. Must be British. Very important for him. She will be... how you say... showpiece, yes?"

Williams looked back to the bedroom. After everything he'd done to prepare for the girl, could he really allow her to escape his clutches just like Katie Fossett had? It was inconceivable. And yet, the voice in his head kept chipping away: perhaps it would be for the best. If she was bad luck, maybe he should use her to buy his way out of the situation with Vaitkus.

"Senor Williams? You are still there?"

Williams sighed, having reached his decision.

"Yes, I'm here. I have actually obtained a girl already. Your men can take her. She is... pristine."

A sudden, unfamiliar knot of frustration tightened inside him as he was reminded of what he was about to give away.

Ramirez laughed. "I not know what that word mean, Senor. But it sound good, eh? You have her now?"

"Yes. Your men can take her tonight, but we need to act quickly. Vaitkus knows where I am. It will take him a while to round up his men, but they are sure to be here soon. I will stall them as long as I can, but your team needs to be here before he leaves. If not, Vaitkus might take my money _and_ the girl."

Ramirez grunted in acknowledgement.

"You are at home, right now?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Huh. That is long way from here, and I need to organise first. I have my men there, maybe, one hour from now?"

Williams chose to ignore the slightly disturbing fact that Ramirez apparently knew where he lived. It was to be expected.

"Alright," he agreed. "Make sure they are prepared."

Ramirez laughed again.

"Senor Williams, you forget I take on the police, the Mexican Army, Los Zetas, even the filthy American CIA. My men, they _always_ come prepared."

Ramirez hung up and Williams checked the time. He figured it would take Vaitkus at least another hour to re-group. An hour gave him certain opportunities to explore. He needed to ease some of that burning frustration inside or else it would be an unwelcome distraction when dealing with Vaitkus, or Ramirez for that matter. And he knew there was only one way to do that.

He smiled, as he headed back to the bedroom where the girl lay.

By the time he passed her to Ramirez, she'd not be quite as pristine as he'd suggested.

### 55

01:01

A2043, Norbiton, UK

Doing the right thing.

It's not something I'm well known for. But it does happen from time to time. And having done a very _wrong_ thing, in the form of kicking the two Lithuanian prisoners out the back of our van whilst travelling at high speed, the thought of offsetting that with a bit of rightness had held a certain appeal. That meant I'd called DCI Clarke, to make sure that the captives we'd left on the farm would be properly looked after.

He'd called off the armed response team and sent a victim support unit instead. I knew they'd have counsellors and medical staff to look after the young people in the Luton van. I didn't bother telling him about the Lithuanians. Their tarmac-shredded, broken bodies would be called-in soon enough.

Shortly after I hung up with Clarke, my phone rang again.

"Hey, bro. You ready to rock and roll? I got a lead," was Lyle's opening line. I was surprised. I hadn't been expecting anything that quickly.

"What, on Vaitkus?" I asked.

"Nah, man. On _Jess_."

The satisfaction evident in Lyle's voice sent a jolt of anticipation through me. I'd thought he was focused on finding the Lithuanian. I hadn't expected there to be any other leads on Jess.

"Go on," I said, cautiously.

"So I dumped all the messages off of that phone, right? It's taken a while, but I found one from earlier this evening that looked interesting. Just said, _girl is here_."

"So?" I queried.

Lyle sighed irritably.

" _So_ , we know they took Jess from Hemmings earlier tonight. And you said she's been sold on. The timings work. _Girl_ , is Jess. Gotta be."

"How does that help? We can't be sure that message was sent to her buyer. It could have been to anyone."

"Yeah, it could've... but it wasn't. Whoever it was called back a few minutes later. Then, there was another text message about twenty minutes before you and Reid rocked up down there. _Arriving in five. Girl ready?_ Then Vaitkus texting back. _Yes. Ready for transport._ "

I had to admit, that did sound promising.

"Alright, so who was it? Whose number was that?"

There was a pause.

"Uh, yeah, I'm still working on that one. The number's come back to a shell company. Looks pretty well tied up. Definitely some geezer who don't wanna be found, innit?"

"So it's not really a lead, then. Not yet, anyway." I couldn't hide my disappointment.

"Duh, come on, bruv. I ain't gonna waste your time. I don't know _whose_ phone it is, but I do know _where_ it is."

I really should have worked that out for myself.

"Of course. Sorry. Where is it then?"

"Some proper big house, like. Country estate type of thing, in the middle of nowhere. Well, as near as you can get to that inside the M25. Nearest village is some place called Honeywood. South of Orpington. Daisy's checking it all out right now, as we speak."

"And the phone's definitely there?"

"Yep. Can't say who's with it, but it's there and switched on."

I thought for a moment, considering what needed to happen next. Jess seemed to have fallen into a ridiculous rabbit-hole, with a whole chain of people apparently involved in her disappearance. I didn't know if she'd reached the bottom of that hole yet, but I knew our only chance of getting her out was to act quickly before she potentially got passed on again.

"Alright. We're going in," I said.

"Predictable response. But no bent coppers to give the game away this time, right?"

"Right. Which means we're going to need some other advantages. Like some eyes in the sky, and long-distance comms. Can you get the ball rolling on that?"

"Sure. Lucy's only down the road, in Kingston. He should be able to get something over to us straight away."

Lucius 'Lucy' Laverne was a private arms dealer to the rich and famous, who also ran a profitable sideline in off-the-books military supplies for government agencies. I didn't like the man, but he had an impressive stock list, and could deliver quickly.

"Alright. Just don't mention me when you call him."

"Oh, come on. You know he _likes_ you. That used to be worth a discount, back in the day."

"Yeah, well, these days I'm supposed to be dead, remember? And we don't need a discount, because we're not paying. You can use the cash you took from Hemmings' lockbox."

Lyle grunted. "I had plans for that..."

"I'm sure you did. And I'm sure you'll find another funding opportunity soon enough."

"Fine, I'll get it sorted, then."

"No surprises, Lyle. We can't afford to screw this up."

I hung up, and closed my eyes for the rest of the journey.

Fifteen minutes later, Reid and I were back at the safehouse and selecting our weapons from the large carry-all that Reid had brought with us from my store room in Putney. I chose a well-used but serviceable Diemaco C8 CQB carbine. The short-barrelled variant of the C8 was ideal for close-quarters work, remaining wieldy even with a suppressor fitted. Reid pulled out a H&K G3 SG1 he'd also stashed in the holdall. That offered better accuracy at longer distances, and could be pressed into service for local-area sniping, if required.

I hoped that we wouldn't need anything like that level of firepower. After all, we were heading into semi-rural Kent, not Kandahar. Still, it was better to be prepared.

We carried the weapons into the kitchen, and began to strip and check them over. Daisy came in to join us, carrying a laptop.

"I've got as much as I can on the house. Do you want me to go through it?" she asked.

"Go for it," I said, as she turned the laptop display screen around and held it in front of her so that we could see it.

"Gentlemen, I present to you... Deerhurst Hall. A classic example of 17th Century Palladian architecture... except, well, it isn't. It's actually a knock-off; an Inigo Jones pastiche built in the 1920s by a chap called Freddie Fontaine. He hung around with the Bentley boys, apparently. Fancied himself as a bit of a playboy, at least until the Wall Street crash did for him and he had to sell everything he owned. The house changed hands a few times since then, until the north wing was gutted by a mysterious fire seven years ago. Shortly afterwards, it was bought by a property management company called FRB Holdings, which turned out to be a subsidiary of Pierpoint Enterprises Ltd, which is some Cayman Islands shell company that Lyle's still digging into."

I tried not to let my frustration show. Daisy had done well to find those details in such a short space of time. But the reality was, I didn't need a history lesson. Time was ticking away.

"So we still don't know who lives there, now?" I asked, as I began reassembling my rifle.

"Lyle hasn't got that far yet. But he says Pierpoint Enterprises is the same shell company which owns the farm. So whoever it is has close links with the Lithuanians."

"Alright. Let's have a closer look at the layout," I said.

Daisy came over to the table, placed the laptop on the surface, and sat down next to Reid, who had finished checking his weapon. I suspected she was hoping to impress him with her research.

"So, you can see how it's arranged in a square around this courtyard. That bit there," she pointed at the image, "with the roof terrace is the rebuilt north wing."

I looked at the isometric aerial image, where Daisy was indicating a two-storey wing, with a stone balustrade running around the top and two large chimneys protruding from a flat roof. Chairs and loungers were scattered around the terrace.

"Good spot for sniping, if you can get up there."

"Uh uh," Reid disagreed. "Clock tower would be better," he said, pointing to the opposite side of the courtyard. The south and east wings had peaked roofs with what looked to be attic rooms in them. An ostentatious clock tower was positioned atop the south wing.

"What are those? Vents?" I asked, indicated two angular structures protruding from each of the other two, flat-roofed wings.

"Stairwells," Reid stated. That made sense, I thought. No point in having flat roofs and terraces without being able to access them.

"Is there any other access to the courtyard other than the front?" I asked. I could see a sweeping driveway connected to the front of the house at the south, leading through an archway and into the central courtyard.

"There's a stable block at the back of the north wing," Daisy said. "It looks like there's access from the courtyard through there as well, but it's not clear from this picture."

"Okay. We'll have to check it out when we're there. But for the moment we'll stick to the front if we need an emergency exit."

"What about getting in?" Reid asked.

"We park here," I said, indicating a spot on the approach road to the house which looked to be partially shielded by a hedgerow. "Then head for the west side, using those for cover," I said, pointing to a series of large trees which dotted the open space in front of the house. "We get in through that conservatory, go room-by-room until we find Jess, then sneak her out again. Did Lyle have any joy getting floorplans?"

Daisy smiled. "Yep. He's pretty good at getting hold of anything, from what I can tell." She flicked the screen to a separate image which showed a floorplan for each storey of the house. They were a few years old, dating from when the house had been remodelled after the fire. But they were better than going in completely blind.

"He is pretty good," I agreed. "Just make sure you don't ever tell him that. Can you send those images to my phone? Reid's too, please."

"Of course. But... are you sure you can do this? Just the two of you, I mean. The house is a lot bigger than the farm, and you called in the police on that one."

I sighed. I wasn't sure, at all. But then, being sure was impossible in all but the most one-sided of conflicts, and even then blind luck had a nasty track record of unexpected interference.

"I don't think we have a choice. It'll take too long for us to round up any other 'unofficial' support, and we know we can't trust the Met. But if we can get in quietly, there's a chance we might be able to locate Jess without having to fight our way past anyone. And if we can't, well, we've faced worse before. Right, Reinhold?"

"Uh huh," he nodded.

The doorbell rang and Lyle went to answer. Laverne's courier hadn't had far to travel, but I was still impressed with the speed.

"That should be another little advantage arriving," I said.

Lyle finished at the door and came through into the kitchen, carrying a large, pre-assembled six-rotor flying drone.

"Got the radio kit too?" I asked Lyle.

He nodded, looking pleased with himself.

"Excellent. You ready to go, then?"

The smile disappeared from his face.

"You what, bruv? You never said anything about me coming."

"How else are you going to be in range, to fly that thing?"

Lyle looked relieved at my response, and laughed.

"Dude, I don't need to come with you. I can remote jockey this thing," he said, tapping a small black box affixed to the drone. "Ethernet radio bridge. 900Mhz, which even with all the clogged airwaves should be good for fifty miles. So I can sit here and pilot by camera, instead of being stuck in some stinky van with you two monkeys."

I ignored the insult. I was too busy looking at the flying machine, which had a gimbal-mounted camera slung underneath. Along with another protrusion, which I was definitely not expecting.

"Lyle. Please tell me that's not a gun barrel under there."

"Sure it is. This ain't no commercial toy. Lucy reckoned it came from some Raytheon skunkworks guy. It's a prototype of their next-gen assassination tool or something. This one's only single-shot, 'cos they haven't got the battery tech yet to carry a load of heavy ammo _and_ have a usable flying time. But this type of thing, Lucy reckons it's gonna do all the Yanks' wet-work in the future. Which means no more dealing with terminally unstable dead-eyes like you..."

"So much for 'no surprises'. I'd say that thing definitely has the capacity to surprise me."

"Nah, man. It's got mil-spec GPS, autonomous flight, night vision, automated targeting... and it's a hexa too, which means it can lose a rotor or two and still stay up. It's all cool, bro. Ain't gonna go all un-ex-pec-ted on your arse. Trust me."

"Yes, Lyle. That's the problem. I don't."

Lyle pretended to look hurt, as he placed the hexacopter down carefully on the tiled kitchen floor. It balanced on four thin extended legs, exuding a peculiarly insectile menace.

"Looks kinda scary," Daisy pointed out, as she regarded the drone.

"It _is_ kinda scary. Especially with him flying it," I said.

"Hey, you won't be saying that when I pop a cap in the ass of some dude who's about to close your curtains."

"Frankly, I'm more worried about you 'popping a cap' in _my_ arse. I'd rather not have my curtains closed by mistake."

"Not happening," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two bands of material. "Got these, innit," he said, tossing what I recognised as two IR-reflective armbands onto the table. Wearing them, Reid and I would be clearly marked on his drone's FLIR camera.

"Alright," I conceded, picking up one of the bands and slipping it on, whilst Reid did the same. "I guess now all I have to worry about is you shooting me with that thing deliberately."

Lyle laughed. "Fair point. Tell you what, then. I promise I'll wait until you've got Jess safe before I do. How does that sound?"

I glared at him until his smiled faded, and he held up his hands.

"Joke, dude!"

"Just get that thing loaded in the van, Lyle," I said wearily.

I looked at my watch, as he picked up the drone and carried it back out into the hallway. We were just about as ready as we could be.

The only question was, whether that would prove to be ready enough to save Jess Gardiner.

### 56

01:21

Norbiton, UK

Amir Nazari peered through the windscreen of his stationary BMW 3-series. His gaze was directed across the street, to the quiet cul-de-sac beyond. He focused on a single house: the one with the Putney Boat Services van parked in the drive. It was the only one in the area with the lights still on downstairs.

That suggested Bruce Thorne was still active and awake. Those weren't ideal circumstances, but they were infinitely better than those Nazari had faced barely three hours before.

He took a deep breath, conscious that his heart was beating rapidly from nervous tension. He could barely believe that his involuntarily slimmed-down team had managed to re-establish contact with their target so quickly, after the disastrous events in Putney. But they had, thanks to Saeed Asadi. Whatever Deputy Commander Majidi might think of the Iranian Cyber Army man, he was now officially a genius in Nazari's eyes.

When they'd spoken after Thorne had escaped, Nazari had given Asadi a heavily-redacted version of events. He'd tasked the man with relocating Thorne, and left him to it. By the time Soroush had collected Khorsandi and arrived at the hotel they'd booked as a backup location, Asadi had come through for them.

The ICA had hit the Met's CCTV again. Pulling all the cameras from the Putney area, Asadi had been able to identify all vehicles exiting Thorne's road in a relevant time frame. He'd fed those registrations into the Met's ANPR tracking database which wasn't supposed to exist, then downloaded all the hits for each of the ten vehicles he'd identified as possible contenders. Those hits were plotted on a map, resulting in a spidery record of movements which led in almost every direction.

That was clever. It hadn't been enough, of course. Nobody even knew whether Thorne and his three associates had used a vehicle at all. In fact, the only thing that appeared certain was that they'd all either discarded or disabled the phones which they'd been using. That stopped them from being tracked, but it also left them without any means of communication.

Asadi had made a simple assumption based on the knowledge that Thorne, and those with him, would need replacement phones. He'd also assumed that those phones would be burners, freshly activated with pre-paid SIM cards, rather than existing phones borrowed and repurposed. Slipping in to the databases of each of the UK's mobile companies, he'd written a query to search for four new activation records, all happening at around the same time through the same cell tower.

Asadi's inspired idea had returned a hit within minutes. Just one. In the Norbiton area, near Kingston-upon-Thames. The same place that one of those spidery legs had terminated on the map: a van which had been caught on CCTV near Putney. The same van Nazari was now looking at, parked in the driveway of the house.

Nazari glanced at Khorsandi, who was sitting beside him in the passenger seat. Soroush was in an Audi A4, parked on the opposite side of the road. Just like the ubiquitous white van they'd used before, the vehicles had been chosen to blend in with London traffic.

Thoughts of their abandoned van made Nazari grimace. It had been left in the hotel car park, along with the bodies of their former comrades. At some point in the next few days, the parking attendant there would have an unpleasant surprise. By then, Nazari and the team would be safely back in Iran. Or dead. Either way, the gruesome discovery of Hamidi and Mokri wouldn't matter.

"Ideas on how we hit them?" Nazari queried.

He valued Khorsandi's opinion. He also loved to hear her voice; the soft, husky timbre always proving to be a balm to his stress. Especially when they communicated in their native Farsi, the familiar shapes and sounds of her words seeming to resonate with him more than when they were forced to speak in a foreign tongue.

"This is not a good place," she answered. "There is nowhere to hide. We should wait, until he leaves. He may go to a more suitable location."

Nazari knew she was right, as usual. They'd only been conducting their observation for a few minutes but it was already obvious that the cul-de-sac itself offered no place for them to get into position un-noticed.

"That is true, but we may have no choice but to act here," he said, risking a smile at her. "Keep thinking."

She returned his smile, briefly. That sent a frisson of excitement through him. He knew she was just being polite. But that simple change in her expression wrought a change in perception, rendering her from cold-eyed, trained killer into merely a woman again. A very beautiful woman, in Nazari's eyes.

He forced such thoughts from his mind. He knew he was emotionally unstable. Losing Hamidi and Mokri had been much more of a shock to him he'd acknowledged to the others. His own sense of mortality had been dramatically heightened by the events earlier in the evening. And somewhere in that whirling maelstrom of doubt was a sense of sadness, that he might not live to communicate the true depth of feeling he held for Khorsandi.

He reached forward and dug his fingers into the thick, leather-clad rim of the steering wheel. Get a grip, was the English phrase. There was no direct Farsi translation, so he'd turned to the physical act instead. He couldn't afford to lose the advantage they'd gained in catching up with their target again.

Suddenly, he caught movement at the house. The front door opened and someone came out, moving round to the back of the van and opening one of its doors.

"Soroush, can you see anything? Who is that?" Nazari queried.

"Looks like the kid from earlier on."

"What's he carrying?"

"I don't know. Maybe a drone."

Nazari frowned, considering the possibilities that implied, until his view of the house was momentarily obstructed by a passing car. It was a large vehicle, which he recognised as a new Bentley. Two men were up front, but the tints on the rear windows obscured any rear passengers.

"Vehicle approaching," Soroush announced, unnecessarily.

"Can you see who's in the back?" Nazari asked.

"Negative."

Nazari held his breath as he watched the luxury car crawl up the gentle hill of the cul-de-sac towards the target house. He tensed as the car reached the driveway, before finally breathing out as the Bentley continued on past.

"More movement at the house," Khorsandi said softly.

A moment later, Soroush chimed in on the headset.

"Two men on the drive. Looks like they're getting in the van."

Nazari could still see the Bentley, manoeuvring at the end of the cul-de-sac. Maybe it was just a neighbour returning home late, after all. He returned his attention to the target house, from which Thorne had emerged. Another man – whom Nazari recognised as Mokri's assailant from earlier in the evening – carried a large, heavy-looking holdall which he took to the rear of the van and placed in the load area.

"Looks like they're moving out," Khorsandi noted.

"Agreed. We need to get hidden. No need to tail him straight away, as we can follow the phones. But if he spots us here, we're as good as dead. Soroush, get yourself down as well."

"Understood," Soroush acknowledged. Nazari glanced across the road and saw the operative roll sideways inside the Audi, taking himself out of view. Khorsandi was already dropping the back of her seat next to him, preparing to do the same.

Nazari took one last look across the street, then slid himself down so he was below the level of the BMW's side window. It meant he was lying next to Khorsandi. He was struck by the thought that her beautiful lithe body was merely inches away. As close, he realised, as if they were sharing a bed.

There were no stirrings of arousal at that.

The pumping of his heart was for a quite different reason.

In fact, there was only one thing on his mind, as he lay waiting for the van's headlights to sweep over the car: the knowledge that the line between hunter and hunted had never been thinner.

### 57

01:23

I sat in the driver's seat of the van and glanced back at the safe house. Lyle had gone back inside but Daisy was still framed in the front doorway, backlit by the hall lights. She smiled and gave us a wave, looking uncharacteristically nervous. I knew she was worried for us, and what we might be heading into.

I realised with a shiver, that I was worried for her too, as she stood there so obviously exposed and vulnerable.

I frowned, as that didn't make sense. But I'd just had another little tickle of scopaesthesia: that curious sense of being watched. I must have subconsciously clocked one of the neighbours peering out, or a curtain twitching. There was always a rational explanation, but it still gave me a nagging feeling of unease, as I fired up the van and slotted it into reverse.

Beside me Reid nodded, almost imperceptibly, as Daisy gave us a final wave. He watched, as she turned back and went inside, shutting the door safely behind her. His face was unreadable but I suspected he felt the same concern as I did.

As I backed the van out of the driveway, I noted a possible explanation for that sense of being watched: headlights, up towards the end of the cul-de-sac. They had that recognisable ultra-white tint of expensive – usually German – engineering, with the combination of two large and two small circles suggesting a Bentley of some description.

As I watched, the lights flicked off. Just another neighbour, returning home late.

I pulled away, and took a deep breath. I knew, on a rational level, there was nothing to be concerned about. I could think of no plausible way that anyone could have tracked us to the safe house. Shelagh O'Brien would have been alerted to our presence, of course. But she didn't worry me. She might not have wanted to help, but I doubted she'd suddenly decided to do me harm after all these years.

I took the van slowly down to the junction with the main road. It was lined with parked cars: less expensive models than those in the driveways of the cul-de-sac, but still very respectable. I checked both directions.

Nothing was moving. Nothing looked out of place.

I glanced at the screen of my burner phone, which I'd wedged in front of me on the van's dash. The rudimentary sat-nav app suggested I head west towards Norbiton station, onto the main route down to the motorway. I ignored it and swung left instead, heading east towards Raynes Park. I'd already determined the shortest route before we left, which was half the distance of heading around the supposedly-quicker M25. In the early hours, my route would get us there faster.

After a while, I became aware that Reid was looking across at me. I could detect a certain level of disapproval in his expression, which was mildly surprising, given that he wasn't known for his non-verbal communication.

"You could have just shot them," he stated flatly.

I frowned at the non-sequitur, before realising that he was referring to the Lithuanians I'd thrown from the moving van, earlier. The manner of their deaths had obviously been playing on his mind.

A cursory examination of my own conscience revealed no guilt. No horror. Just a simple understanding that the lives of two bad men had ended badly, with bones shattered and skin abraded by tarmac as they'd skidded and tumbled in a fatal dance across the carriageway. I had no idea who they'd been. I didn't know their names. When I tried to visualise their faces, all I saw instead were the hopeless, broken stares of the young slaves we'd found in their van.

The weight of Reid's judgement was upon me. He might have been a trained killer, but cruelty wasn't in his nature.

"Yes," I replied, eventually. "Yes, I could. But you saw that girl limping. You know what they did to those kids." A hard knot of anger in my gut flared up as I spoke.

"This isn't just about finding Jess, anymore," I continued. "It's about making every last bastard involved pay for whatever they've done to her."

Reid stared out of the windscreen, saying nothing.

"I need to know, Reinhold. Are you good with that?"

He turned again, and gave me another look. This one was utterly inscrutable, but it still made me feel uncomfortable. Guilty, even. The moment extended, but offered no clue as to what was going on behind those cold, clear blue eyes. Then he simply nodded once, and returned his view to the road.

I gave up with any further attempt at conversation. Reid was just being Reid. I didn't hold it against him. We drove on in what I fully expected to be a long-lasting silence.

After a couple of minutes, I caught sight of a pair of headlights in the mirror again. They were some way back, but they looked a lot like the ones I'd seen in the cul-de-sac, with the same circular shape and configuration. I knew that meant absolutely nothing, given that new, expensive cars were hardly an unusual sight in the London area. Even late-model Bentleys were not that uncommon.

But I still eased my foot a little harder on the accelerator.

That nagging sense of unease was still there.

### 58

01:34

Mitcham Common, London, UK

Pat O'Connor smiled grimly, as he was driven through the quiet streets of the capital's southern fringes. It looked like his run of misfortune might just have come to an end. Certainly, his long-shot punt on the hand-written note had paid off, big time.

His gaze was fixed on the tail-lights of the Putney Boat Services van, a hundred yards ahead. They'd been tailing the vehicle since Flaherty had spotted it leaving the address in Norbiton, just as they'd arrived. That had suggested their fortunes were finally changing. A minute later, and they'd have missed it.

O'Connor scratched his chin, and looked across at Flaherty. The man was doing a decent job of tailing the van, hanging back so as not to attract attention. But the roads were quiet in the early hours and in such a conspicuous car, O'Connor knew they wouldn't remain undetected for long.

"We need to take them, soon. Before they clock us."

They'd already decided the heavy car would be used to force the van to a halt. All they needed was the right moment, preferably without witnesses.

"Understood," acknowledged Flaherty. "Get set, boys."

The two men in the back began readying their weapons. O'Connor reached inside his jacket, checking his Hi-Power. If they got the timing right, they could have Rourke out of the van and into the boot of the Bentley in less than a minute. The fate of the van's other occupant would be determined on the fly. O'Connor didn't want to start shooting unless he had to, but he was prepared to do whatever it took to bag his man.

"What about up ahead, boss? Looks nice and quiet after the lights?"

Ahead, the van was approaching a set of traffic lights in the middle of Mitcham Common. It pulled out to pass a car which had stopped by the kerb, then headed through the junction into a deserted, tree-lined stretch of road. With the open expanse of the common screened by foliage flanking the road, that stretch would be as close to secluded as they were likely to get.

"Yes. Do it," O'Connor confirmed.

Flaherty began to accelerate and O'Connor tensed, getting himself ready for action. Suddenly, the car which had been parked at the side of the road pulled out and started to turn across the road before stopping dead, blocking their path. Flaherty swore profusely, braking violently whilst leaning on the horn. O'Connor was certain that they'd collide, but the Bentley's powerful brakes and wide tyres did their job. After a couple of tense seconds, they stopped with a few feet to spare.

The Bentley's headlights illuminated a neatly-bearded, foreign-looking man in an Audi A4. He waved apologetically to them, having apparently stalled his car in the middle of a U-turn, effectively blocking the road. O'Connor was struck by a sudden thought: that the man was somehow working with Rourke, and had deliberately cut them off. Flaherty rolled down the window and launched a tirade of abuse at the motorist in front. The hapless foreigner apologised again, before finally chuntering around to drive off in the opposite direction.

By then, the man's intentions no longer mattered. The lights at the junction had turned red. And Rourke's van was nowhere to be seen.

"We can still catch up, boss," Flaherty said confidently, sticking the Bentley back in drive and setting off briskly. He clearly intended to jump the red light, but a large delivery lorry barrelled through the junction in front of them, causing him to stamp on the brakes again.

"Stop, or you'll get us all killed," O'Connor warned. "Let's just forget the van. We'll go for Plan B."

Flaherty kept his foot on the brake, and looked at O'Connor.

"Uh, okay boss. I didn't know there was a Plan B."

"There's always a Plan B. You've worked for me long enough to know that."

Flaherty nodded, accepting the point.

"Where to, then?"

"Back to Norbiton."

That caused Flaherty to raise his eyebrows briefly, before O'Connor glared at him to remind him who was still in charge.

"Understood. Norbiton, it is," Flaherty acknowledged as he wheeled the car around in the road. "What's the plan when we get there? We gonna wait 'til he gets back?"

O'Connor didn't answer straight away. He was recalling the short, female figure he'd seen in the doorway of the house as Rourke – or whoever he really was – had left in the van. It had been the same young woman in the blurry photo Riley had sent him, riding shotgun in the car with Rourke. He didn't know who she was, and didn't much care. She could be a daughter, a sister, a friend or a lover. What mattered, was that she was close enough to Rourke to be used as leverage.

"We're going to do more than just wait. We're going to grab ourselves an advantage," O'Connor finally announced.

He swallowed hard and screwed his eyes shut, as another wave of nauseous anger rose up from the pit of his stomach. Images of his captive son flickered behind his eyes: a reminder of how desperately he needed that advantage.

When O'Connor spoke again, his voice was uncharacteristically quiet, yet laced with enough menace to draw nervous glances from all three of his men.

"It's time to stop playing by the rules."

### 59

01:36

A236, Croydon, UK

I don't consider myself to be brave.

But then, who does? Bravery is one of those adjectival gifts that can only properly be bestowed upon others, never upon yourself. So, I'm not brave. But I am pretty good at that closely-related, highly-precarious balancing act which is managing fear.

Getting hold of your fear isn't a complex art. Not really. It's just a case of avoiding extremes. Allow the hind-brain to fully dictate the level of fright, and you risk being paralysed with fear at just the wrong moment. At the other end of the scale, try to ride roughshod over the body's natural instincts and you're unlikely to have a happy ending either.

Of course, merely knowing that basic equation – that you need enough fear to prevent reckless endangerment, but not so much that you dare not act at all – is one thing. Putting it into practice is quite another. Fear is a slippery bastard, always ready to skip through your carefully-constructed logic traps and run amok with your limbic system. There aren't many people who can keep it pinned down, consistently. But I'm one of them.

Or, perhaps more accurately, I can _become_ one of them, when I need to.

As I continued to navigate the van towards Deerhurst Hall, I allowed my natural trepidation to show. To fight fear, you need to know your enemy. So I let myself explore the dark, brooding doubts I had about what Reid and I were driving towards.

There were a lot of doubts to explore.

I eased the van to a halt at another red light. I looked around at the empty streets, as the pain in my arm made itself known again. It was a steady dull ache, interspersed with occasional stabs of sharper discomfort each time I changed gear. That was another doubt to chalk up: a distraction I could do without.

As the van idled at the lights, I checked the mirrors again. The distinctive headlights which had troubled me earlier hadn't been seen since we'd passed through Mitcham Common a short while before. I remained watchful, but other than a BMW tucking in behind us for a while before turning off again, nothing had even attracted my attention, let alone appeared as a threat.

The paranoid sense of being watched had dissipated, only to be replaced by a different kind of unease: a sense of somehow having missed something.

Just like I'd missed the men hiding in my front garden.

### 60

01:37

Croydon, UK

"They've gone. Heading back the way they came."

Arman Soroush's voice was tinny in Amir Nazari's headset. The message was clear: mission accomplished.

"Are you sure?" Nazari queried.

The Bentley he'd seen entering the cul-de-sac in Norbiton had followed Thorne's van out. Nazari had given it the benefit of the doubt for a few miles, but it had become clear that the luxury car was tailing the van. At that point, Soroush had been tasked with putting an end to the pursuit.

"Yes," Soroush replied. "I took an alternative route to get ahead, then pulled out on them, so they had to stop. After that, they gave up and turned around."

"Really? Just like that?"

"They weren't happy. There was some shouting. I just played the dumb foreigner until the van had got away. Then there was nothing they could do. I expect they'll have gone back to the house to wait for Thorne to return."

"Alright. Good work," Nazari acknowledged. "Catch us up, but keep your eyes open. They may try to loop back and find him again."

"Understood."

Nazari glanced at the screen of his phone, checking the position of his target. It looked like Thorne was continuing along the A236, which Nazari had turned off a while back to avoid suspicion. He was now guiding the BMW down a quiet residential street which ran parallel to the main road. He wanted to stay out of sight, without letting the van get too much of a lead on them, and his current route was ideal.

He looked across at Khorsandi, who was staring out of the side window at the rows of terraced houses they were passing.

"Well, that's one problem solved," he said.

She sniffed. Nazari could tell she wasn't convinced.

"What?" he queried.

"You know what," she said softly, turning to look at him. "I don't like this. We never planned for this. All these people who are chasing him as well. How many more are we going to have to deal with?"

Nazari saw the worry in her usually calm expression. It was a concern that he shared himself. They hadn't planned for _competition_. There had been no intelligence suggesting any other agencies had revealed the identity of Crow, other than the Russians having his photograph. Yet, in a perverse twist of luck, the man had apparently managed to attract the attention of a whole raft of locals who were keen to make his acquaintance.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "As many as it takes, I guess. Because if anyone else gets him before we do, then we're as good as dead. You know that, Marjan."

Khorsandi sighed, signalling her frustration.

"Yes, I know that. But... what? We are _protecting_ this man, now?"

Nazari smiled to himself. As ever, she was right. And he felt the same conflicting emotions himself. They just had no other choice that he could see.

"That's one way of looking at it," he admitted, looking across at Khorsandi. "But we cannot worry about it. It's just how it has to be."

Her deep brown eyes glinted, reflecting the street lights outside. Nazari swallowed, reminded that his desire to reassure her was driven by something more than professional expediency. She offered him a brief smile of acceptance, indicating that she understood.

"Fine. We must be his guardian angels, for now," she said. "The question is, for how long?"

Nazari smiled back. There was a very simple answer to that question.

"Just until we can grab him ourselves."

### 61

01:46

A232, West Wickham, UK

I checked the van's mirror for what seemed like the millionth time. We were making good progress towards our destination, and I'd spotted no other traffic tailing us. There was no cause for concern behind us.

The same could not be said for what was ahead. I was still trying to work through all those doubts.

I looked across at Reid. He held his phone in front of him, carefully examining the satellite photos and floorplans of the house. I could see he was struggling a little with the zoom function, being unused to modern touch screen technology. That didn't matter. I knew it wouldn't stop him from calculating distances and angles; working out the most likely places where we might encounter resistance, and how best we might neutralise it.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"I don't like it," Reid stated flatly, prodding awkwardly at the screen.

"Me neither. That courtyard's far too open."

"So are the grounds."

There were a few scattered trees dotted around the neatly-cut lawns at the front of the house, but nothing which offered consistent cover from anyone shooting from the house. We didn't know if anyone at the house would even be armed, but it always made sense to plan for the worst.

"We'll have to make sure nobody sees us, then," I said.

Reid shook his head.

"There is too much ground to cover, inside and out. We will be spotted."

His logic was indefatigable, but that didn't make it any the less frustrating at times.

"Not necessarily. We don't know that anyone else will even be there. It could just be this _person_ , whoever the hell he is, with Jess. And if there are others, well, come on... I mean, it's not like we can't do stealth, is it?"

Reid looked across at me, frowning slightly.

"And the girl? Can she?"

With that question, he was simply voicing what I'd been refusing to accept. When we found Jess, she'd be frightened – not just of her situation, but of _us_. She might resist our rescue attempt, and the chances of her doing so quietly were slim. Even if she was compliant, her lack of experience would make her a liability when it came to remaining undetected.

I sighed in resignation, accepting his point.

"Okay, fine. We will be spotted by the enemy. So when that happens, you'll just have to make sure you take them all down before they can do the same to us, won't you?" I said.

"Uh huh," Reid said, clearly interpreting my comment as being entirely serious.

I didn't bother correcting him. My remark might have been facetious, but it was rooted in the truth. I'd need him covering my back, especially once we'd located Jess. The two of us getting in safely and locating her would be hard; that much was certain. But there was another uncomfortably solid fact that I couldn't avoid either.

Getting back out would be even harder.

### 62

01:49

Chelsea, London, UK

Juan Ramirez Espinoza paced steadily, up and down, in his office.

His snakeskin boots clicked harshly on the polished wood floor, then fell briefly silent as he crossed a huge woven rug, before resuming their sound as he stepped off the material and back onto the hard surface. His brain didn't register the noise. He was too busy thinking, just as he had been throughout the fifty-odd minutes since he'd spoken with Michael Williams. As he paced, he continued trying to tease out what parts of the man's story were fact and what might be fiction.

He had to admit, he wasn't getting very far with that.

There had been nothing obvious to give rise to suspicion. Yet Ramirez couldn't help but think back to Williams' earlier boast, of his prowess as a liar. And he couldn't shake the idea that the whole situation was all too convenient. Was the request for protection actually a ruse? Was Williams setting some kind of a trap designed to lure Ramirez into losing even more of his men? If so, then the consequences for the fledgling Mexican operation in London would be catastrophic.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the office door. He looked up to see Jose Rivera, the head of his personal detail.

"Sir, Munoz is here for you."

"Good. Send him in."

Munoz entered, clutching a sheaf of large-format photographs.

"Jorge, what do you have for me?" Ramirez said, his interest piqued.

"Maybe something, maybe nothing," Munoz replied cautiously. "You know Sandoval and Rojas took one of the Range Rovers to follow Williams earlier this evening? They tailed him to a farm, south of the city, then saw him return home. The farm looked like an interesting lead, so I sent them back there to conduct more surveillance. But they had to leave almost as soon as they'd arrived because the whole place was being cleared out."

"Not so interesting, then," Ramirez grunted. "Another dead end."

"Maybe, but Rojas managed to grab a few pictures before they could be spotted. It was very dark. He had to bring the images back here so he could process them on the computer. They are still grainy. But there is something interesting in them. Some _one_ interesting."

Munoz handed over the printouts and Ramirez scanned quickly through those from when they'd first tailed Williams to the farm. They were long-distance shots and it was difficult to make out the details. He could see Williams' Mercedes arriving in the farmyard, then two men carrying what looked like a body out to the car, then Williams driving out again. There was nothing else of interest that he could see.

But when he reached the hurriedly-taken photos from when his men had returned, that changed. They had been taken from a much shorter distance. And there was more than enough detail in them for a sick feeling of disbelief to punch into his gut with the force of a physical blow.

Ramirez blinked and screwed up his eyes, before refocusing on one of the grainy images. Part of him briefly hoped that he'd imagined what he thought he'd just seen. But when he looked again, he knew it was no figment of paranoid invention. His instincts really had been right, after all.

It was the man from Streatham, apparently loading up a Luton van with what looked to be a group of young whores.

It wasn't clear exactly who the man was working for. But that didn't matter. He was clearly aligned with Michael Williams in some way. And that meant the property developer really was trying to play Ramirez for a fool.

That realisation sent a roiling wave of anger surging through his body, cascading around inside him before finally exiting in a roar of pure, unadulterated rage. He pushed himself up from the chair and stood breathing heavily, his whole body shaking, as the implications of what he had just seen slowly constructed themselves in his head.

Munoz stepped back instinctively, but said nothing. He'd been around his boss long enough to know that saying nothing was always the best option.

Jose Rivera appeared in the doorway, looking worried at his boss's unexpected vocal outburst.

"Everything alright, sir?"

Ramirez turned and stared at the security man. He found himself unable to speak, still paralysed by rage. He managed a nod, and a dismissive wave of the hand.

"Ah... sir," Rivera continued uncertainly, looking between Munoz and Ramirez as if trying to work out what was going on. "Hernandez has just arrived back from Manchester. He has the prisoner downstairs in the basement. Do you want to see him straight away?"

Ramirez took a deep breath and considered that information. The prisoner was Eddie O'Connor. After what he'd just seen in the photo, the young man's utility was significantly reduced. Pat O'Connor's search had just been rendered redundant. But there was another, far more visceral purpose which the young man could fulfil.

Munoz and Rivera stood aside quickly, as Ramirez strode past them both, heading down to the basement. He burst into the room where the prisoner had been taken: a subterranean library, with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases packed with showy, leather-bound volumes. He had no interest in their content. But their soundproofing properties could prove useful.

Rivera hurried into the room behind him, but Ramirez ignored his security man. Instead, his eyes settled on the young man, bound and bleeding, who was slumped in an armchair.

Angel Hernandez stood guard, along with two other men who'd assisted in the Manchester kidnapping.

"Your weapon. Give me it," Ramirez instructed.

Hernandez knew his boss well enough to recognise the signs of anger. Without question, he carefully withdrew the suppressed pistol which was tucked into an extended holster on his chest, and handed it to Ramirez.

Ramirez took the weapon and flicked off the safety. He said nothing, because at that moment he had absolutely nothing to say. Instead, he raised the extended barrel and shot Eddie O'Connor twice in his bowed head, blowing chunks of skull and brain over the books arrayed on the shelf behind.

He paused for a moment, feeling strangely unsatisfied with the killing, then emptied the entire magazine into O'Connor's already-lifeless body. Fresh blooms of blood appeared across the young man's stained shirt as each projectile impacted. When the gun ceased firing, Ramirez watched as the body's ruined head lolled further forward, releasing a crimson cascade all over the fabric of the chair.

For a few moments, nobody in the room moved.

Ramirez sniffed, catching the metallic tang of blood in the air, mixed with the faintly sulphurous smell of the discharged weapon. It was a familiar aroma. The memories it carried began to ease the tight knot of rage inside, just a fraction. The prisoner had fulfilled his purpose. Taking a life was reaffirmation of Ramirez's power; a reminder that he could still play _dios_ when he chose to.

"There has been a change of plan," Ramirez finally announced, handing the empty gun back to his subordinate.

"A change of plan, sir?" Rivera queried.

"Get everyone together. I want every man and every weapon ready to go in five minutes. I want the rockets. I want the grenades. I want the fifty-cal. I want every gun and every bullet we own coming with us. Tell Oscar to get his suit on and bring _El Demonio_ , too. We are going to burn anything and anyone that gets in our way."

"Uh, sir. Do you really mean everyone? What about María? Shouldn't we leave someone here with her?"

Ramirez smiled nastily.

"No, fetch her too. She is coming as well."

"She is?" Rivera questioned, unable to keep the confusion from his voice before catching himself and adopting a more respectful tone. "Sir... may I ask what is happening? What should I tell the men?"

Ramirez ran his hand over the knotted scar on his face, still barely able to suppress the rage he felt inside. The tics which constantly tugged at his ravaged features grew more pronounced, as his mind dwelled on Williams' deception. He dug his fingers in to the hard scar tissue, trying to suppress the involuntary movement. He let his eyes rove over the shattered body of Eddie O'Connor in front of him.

Slowly, the tension eased again.

With a sigh, Ramirez accepted the truth as he saw it. The clouds of anger lifted, as the path he needed to take became clear. It was a bloody, murderous path: one which would begin with the deaths of every last one of the Lithuanian dogs whom, he now surmised, would not be coming for Williams at all but would instead be waiting _with_ the property developer to ambush his men.

As for where that path might end, Ramirez didn't much care. As long as somewhere on the way, Michael Williams and the man from Streatham met a very slow and very painful end.

He looked across at Rivera, who was waiting patiently for his boss to answer. Finally, Ramirez spoke.

"Tell them the truth, Jose. Tell them... we are going to war."

### 63

01:55

Orpington, Kent, UK

The sat-nav on my phone told me we were seven minutes away from Deerhurst Hall. I figured it would be closer to ten, but it didn't matter. Either way, the timing worked for me. I was ready for action.

I guided us off the A21 onto a minor road which headed into the countryside south of Orpington. My phone rang on the dashboard: Lyle. I scooped it up, hoping he'd finally uncovered the ID of the man who'd bought Jess.

"Have you got a name?" I asked, straight off.

"Uh, no. Not yet. We're still unpicking those shell companies and tracing transactions. But we will get there."

"I know you will. The question is, when? We're nearly there."

"Soon, bro. But I got other stuff for you right now. You know I hit that phone, right? The one at the house? So, I've been going through the calls and stuff. There's been two numbers that phone has been connected to since you hit the farm."

"And?"

"One's a new registration. SIM's only just activated tonight. It's a straight burner, no details. You know, just the sort of thing that might be used by someone who's lost the use of their usual device."

"You mean, like Vaitkus?"

"That's what I'm thinking. Especially cos that number's also been sending texts in some incomprehensible foreign speak."

"And the other one?"

"That's actually not a burner. That's registered to a company called Cosas Bonitas Imported Goods. I haven't dug any further into that one, yet. I guess it's another shell. Might be another link to follow though."

The chill down my spine was so intense that I couldn't speak.

"Thorne?" Lyle asked. "You there? Does that mean something to you, bro?"

"What's the company address?" I asked. My voice was tight. That state of mental equilibrium had unravelled itself quite spectacularly in a matter of seconds.

"Uh, some place in Streatham. Why? You know them?"

It was the answer I had expected, but that didn't make the shock of hearing it any less intense. I remained silent, as my mind raced through the implications.

"Thorne? Bro, you alright?"

"Cosas Bonitas is a front for a major-league operation. One with which I had a little run-in, quite recently."

"Um... what _kind_ of major-league operation?" Lyle asked. I could hear the nervous tension in his voice.

"A Mexican one."

"A... wait, what? Are you shitting me? Because now is not the time to be screwing about. That ain't funny, Thorne."

"I'm not joking," I said. I wished that I was.

"Man, this can't be happening," Lyle muttered. Now it was anger that I could hear building up in his voice. "And this little, ah, run-in you say you had. Did it end well?" he asked.

"Not for them it didn't, no."

"And, how recent, exactly, is quite recently?"

"Friday," I admitted.

Lyle swore explosively.

"Are you for real? You've been screwing with Mexican drug lords _last week_ and you didn't think to tell me? To tell _us_?"

"It wasn't relevant," I said, weakly. It was a disingenuous answer. Those sorts of threats were always relevant. But, in truth, I genuinely hadn't thought that Juan Ramirez would be able to tie me in to Streatham for a while, yet. The best I thought he'd manage would be the dead end that was Liam Rourke...

That thought was cut off with a stunningly vicious jolt. I nearly dropped the phone, as the realisation dawned that, of course, Rourke was no longer a dead end. The presence of the Brunswick Brothers in Putney had proved that. But with my attentions focused on the unexplained arrival of the Iranians, I'd completely missed the fact that if the Brothers had managed to tie the Rourke identity to me, then so could Ramirez.

Lyle was still swearing at me. Repeatedly.

"Relevant?" he spat, once he'd exhausted his supply of expletives. "Are you kidding me? You're on a Mexican hit list and you didn't think that was _relevant_? You know how they operate, bro. Anyone even remotely connected to you is gonna end up in pieces."

"Calm down. _I'm_ not on their hit list. I was undercover. They don't know it was me. Not the me that you know, anyway." I knew that might no longer be the case, but it wouldn't help anyone to tell Lyle that.

"Yeah, right, and how long do you think it's gonna take them to find out?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "But we can't worry about that now."

Lyle snorted incredulously. "You are unbelievable! Can't worry about that? Well, bully for you, big man. Because I sure as hell can."

I ignored his complaint. I was too busy considering the implications of Ramirez's apparent involvement with the man who'd taken Jess. Whether it was sick coincidence, or my own involvement which had brought Ramirez into the equation, really didn't matter.

The implications for Jess were just as bad, either way.

"Focus, Lyle," I said, as I slowed the van for a small village we were approaching. I was talking as much to myself as to him. "We have a job to do. Do you have a location on these other two phones?"

"Uh, right... yeah, that's why I called. They're on the move."

"On the move? Where to?"

"Both heading in the same direction. Sorta looks like they could be going to the same place you are. Which based on what you've just let slip, might be a bit of a problem I'd say."

"How far away are they?"

"Vaitkus – if it's him – isn't far at all. Your Mexican is still in London but it looks like he's moving seriously fast."

That was definitely not what I wanted to hear. But I bit down on the emotional response, and tried to concentrate on what could be done about it. The answer, it seemed, was precisely nothing.

"Okay, are you all set to take out comms at the house?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm in. Say the word and I'll kill the local cell towers and take out the exchange."

"Do it. It might stop whoever's at the house from alerting the others if we get spotted on the way in. What about power?"

"I can kill the mains, but that ain't gonna help. Did you not see the plans? Backup generator out the back. You're gonna have to do it with the lights on, bruv."

"Alright. We'll just have to live with that. Kill the phones, now."

"Thorne, are you sure about this?" Lyle asked. For once, he sounded serious. "I mean... just the two of you going in? If the Mexicans really do turn up and you're still there, you're pretty much screwed, right?"

"There's nine bodies from Friday night that suggests otherwise. It's never over until it's over. You know that."

Lyle exhaled noisily. "You never change, do you?"

"I guess not."

"Fine, whatevs then. Just try to get Jess safe before you get yourself dead. Oh, and you might want to switch to radio, now, if I'm gonna take out the cell towers."

"Roger that," I said, and hung up the phone. Reid and I were already wearing the radio headsets which would keep us in touch with Lyle after he killed the mobile signal.

"Okay, it's done," Lyle said over the radio. "Mobile and landlines are toast. I've lost Vaitkus, which means he must be right in the area. Get my bird in the air as soon as you get there, and I'll see if I can spot him,"

"Will do," I confirmed.

I checked the sat-nav map. I figured I had another five minutes to rediscover my state of mental equilibrium. That wasn't going to be easy. In fact, with the thought of _El Carnicero Loco_ potentially bearing down on us, that might just prove to be impossible.

"Mexicans?" Reid asked, mildly. "Do we need to review our rules of engagement?"

"No, Reinhold, we don't," I said, firmly, as I accelerated back up to speed again having passed through the village.

"Because if they turn up, there won't _be_ any rules of engagement."

### 64

02:00

Nr. Honeywood, Kent, UK

Michael Williams was close to losing it, completely.

Black shapes flickered in his vision as he ran. An unpleasant sensation was building inside him: anger. It began sparking and crackling through his whole body. He could not believe what had just happened.

The girl had, impossibly, managed to escape his clutches in the bedroom. Whilst he was telling his little story about how she'd come to be there, she'd actually recognised Katie Fossett's name. That had wrong-footed him enough for her to take advantage of his shock, and she'd landed a lucky strike which knocked him right off the bed. After that, she'd run.

Once again, he'd been denied. Once again, fate had intervened.

Williams ran his hand gingerly over his face, as he chased after the girl down the hallway. She'd gouged a nasty scratch down his cheek. He wanted to make her pay for that, but time was running short. Once Vaitkus arrived, fun-time with the girl would have to end. The skittering madness – the source of those black shapes – tugged at his peripheral thoughts; stirring up that irrational but irrepressible fear that the girl was somehow protected.

As he reached the staircase and looked down into the dimly-lit entrance hall below, those fears suddenly receded. The girl was lying prone on the floor, having apparently tripped on one of the animal-skin rugs which lay on the parquet surface.

Fate, it seemed, could screw things up for her, too.

That knowledge calmed the madness. The black shapes disappeared. The voices receded to background noise.

Michael Williams smiled.

He watched the girl's efforts, with some amusement. Using an antique mace that she'd evidently liberated from his wall displays of historic weaponry, she levered herself up unsteadily. Without looking back, she headed for the double doors which led to the courtyard and grabbed hold of the handle. Williams watched as she tugged, presumably hoping that door would magically fly open.

But she wasn't in a fairy tale. The locked doors barely moved in their surround.

She turned around and saw him. That clearly sent her into a fresh panic. Williams could hear her panting heavily as she looked left and right, at the dark hallways leading off from the entrance. She was clearly petrified. He found that almost unbearably arousing. As she looked desperately around her, her expression changed, as she reached the conclusion which he'd already drawn: he could get to either of the escape routes long before she could.

There was nowhere left for her to run.

The girl brought the mace up in front of her; clutching it with both hands. He didn't know what she hoped to do with the thing, as she hardly had the strength to lift it. At best, it would be a symbolic gesture of defiance. Perhaps, he thought, that was important for her in some way. He hoped that it was. It would make it all the more pleasurable for him when the futility of her resistance became clear.

Finally, Williams spoke.

"I'd heard you were a fighter," he said, touching his face again. "Looks like they were right. But that's good. I do love it when a girl _resists_. So much more fun."

"Stay away from me, you sick bastard," the girl spat back. She nearly fell again, clearly still struggling to shake off the effects of being drugged.

Williams laughed. There was still some fight left in her, yet.

"How charming," he replied. "You know, I really don't know why I never considered the possibility that you were actually _related_ to Katie. Or maybe I did, but just didn't allow myself to believe it. I can see it now, it's obvious - you're so much like her, it just has to be genetic. I mean, that _is_ why you reacted to her name upstairs, isn't it? Because you're related? What is she, your mother?"

The girl didn't respond. But Williams knew he was right. He shook his head to himself, laughing quietly at the irony.

"What are the chances? There you were in your little home-made videos, some random girl getting it on for her boyfriend... some random girl who just happened to look like Katie did back in the day... and then it turns out you're her daughter all along..."

The girl froze at his words. But not for the reason he had first assumed.

"My... videos?" she asked, falteringly.

Williams frowned momentarily, before realising that the girl had no idea how she'd come to his attention. In fact, judging by the horrified look on her face, she hadn't even realised her webcam exploits were out there, for all to see.

That was just too much. That was just exquisite.

He tried to imagine the horror she was clearly feeling. For once, he wished he was actually capable of empathy.

"Oh dear. Did your _boyfriend_ go back on his word to keep your little performances private if you did as you were told?" Williams sneered. "Rather a shame, really. I mean, it's never the same unwrapping a present when you already know what's inside..."

The girl looked utterly appalled, as she processed the implications of what he had just told her.

"Anyway, as fun as this little game is, we're on the clock," he continued.

He retrieved his hunting knife from a jacket pocket, and brandished it in her direction.

"Playtime's over," he said. His voice was cold and emotionless. "Your mother got lucky, years ago. I guess you did, upstairs as well. But I won't be denied again."

He took a step towards the girl. Her reaction wasn't entirely what he had been expecting. Far from making her more scared, the appearance of the knife seemed to increase her resolve. She tried to blink away tears, as she straightened up and met his eye.

"I'd rather die than go anywhere near you," she hissed. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it carried a strength with it that he found both impressive and arousing.

Williams shrugged back.

"Be careful what you wish for," he said, mildly.

He'd already figured that the mace would soon by flying his way. She was telegraphing her intent, as she increased her grip on the weapon and began to swing it around. He paused, watching closely, getting ready to step out of its path. He was amused at her persistence. Surely, with the distance between them, she could see that he'd be able to avoid it easily?

But as he continued to watch, he realised that he'd misjudged her intent. Apparently, he wasn't her target after all. Instead, she kept on swinging, pivoting unsteadily on her feet all the way around until the mace connected with one of the large sash windows which flanked the entranceway behind her. She lost her grip on the weapon as it swung against the glass, but she'd already done enough.

The madness clawed at his thoughts again. A faint glimmer of a horned figure flickered in the shattered window frame, blinking out of view suddenly as the girl wasted no time and hauled herself up and out. The broken glass in the frame snagged her baggy t-shirt as she went, tearing a large hole in the side. But it didn't slow her down.

Just like that, she was gone. Again.

He cursed, and reached for his keys. By the time he'd unlocked the door and burst out into the night himself, the girl was already down the wide stone steps which descended to the gravel courtyard. But instead of continuing her escape, she'd stopped dead and was looking around fearfully.

Bright headlights, from two large vans, illuminated the courtyard. Exiting the newly arrived vehicles there must have been twenty or more sportswear-clad men, all carrying automatic weapons, moving to block her path. Williams blinked, sensing the black shapes returning to his vision. Another unpleasant sensation crept over him, making him shiver. He realised it was fear.

One of the men stepped forward, and waved his machine pistol in Williams' direction. He recognised the face immediately. Mykolas Vaitkus had arrived.

"Where is it? Where is my money?" Vaitkus called.

"Don't worry. I have it," Williams replied, trying to recover his composure. Vaitkus was earlier than he'd expected. He needed to play for time, until Ramirez's men arrived.

"There really is no need for all this," he continued. "I can have the money transferred to you in the morning. I told you before, I have nothing to do with whatever happened on the farm. I haven't sold you, or anybody else, out. Let's not burn our bridges, Mr Vaitkus."

He allowed a hint of threat to creep into his voice. But Vaitkus simply shook his head, and moved towards the girl.

"No, not _in the morning_ ," the Lithuanian spat. "You think I am stupid? Our bridges are already burned. I know you have the cash here, so you go get me the money _now_. I give you five minutes. Darijus! Tomas! Go with him. Make sure he is not playing tricks."

Two of the men stepped forward, and headed up the stairs towards Williams. They kept their weapons trained on him. In the courtyard, Vaitkus grabbed the girl from behind, twisting her arm up behind her painfully, then pressed the muzzle of his machine pistol into the side of her head.

"I stay here. You are not back in five minutes, with the money? I shoot her like a dog. Then I come for you, too."

### 65

02:04

Generally speaking, I don't like wasting time. Life's too short for exercises in obvious futility. But I do have one peculiar weakness which seems to draw me in, every time.

I do like to have a plan.

Maybe it's force of habit. Maybe it's a comfort-blanket that I'd feel strangely naked without. Maybe it's irrational superstition that everything will go tits-up if I don't. Whatever the reason, it meant I was arriving at Deerhurst Hall with a plan to get in, get on with it and get out, based on what Reid and I had discussed at the safehouse and on the subsequent journey.

I hadn't expected that plan to last for very long. Plans never did, especially when they were formed from the sort of limited intelligence that we'd had to work with. However, I'd thought it might at least hold until Reid and I actually got into the house itself. I hadn't really thought we'd be throwing it away as soon as we arrived.

As I braked hard and pulled up in the lay-by I'd identified as our staging post, I realised that we'd be doing just that. The reason was blindingly obvious.

We were too late.

Looking across at the house, I could see two white minibus vans – lights still on – through the archway which led into the house's courtyard. I could also see a whole host of sportswear-clad figures, wielding automatic weapons and taking up positions around the vehicles. I swore loudly, as I killed our vehicle's lights to avoid attracting attention.

"That must be Vaitkus," I said to Reid. "Looks like he's brought an army with him."

"Uh huh."

I considered our options. There were only two that came to mind. We either went in, right then, to get close enough to see what was happening. Or we abandoned the raid to withdraw and think of a different plan. Another plan that would, undoubtedly, also prove to be worthless in action. I swiftly reached a conclusion.

If there was a chance that Jess Gardiner was in that house, no way was I leaving.

"Alright. Let's go find out what the hell is going on over there."

Reid and I exited the van, and opened the rear doors.

I looked back down the road behind us. It was clear, but beyond the first bend I could see the tell-tale glow of headlights projecting up into the night. They would be passing us soon. Or stopping. Either way, we needed to be gone and out of sight.

"Get going," I said to Reid, handing him his rifle and spare mags from the holdall. "Forget the conservatory. In fact, forget the whole plan. We need to see what's going on in that courtyard before we do anything. Head to the front wall and we'll go from there."

He nodded, then took off at a fast pace, heading across the manicured lawn towards the nearest tree.

"Lyle, get your... thing in the air," I said over the radio. "We have two vehicles at the house, ahead of us. Looks like Vaitkus with multiple hostiles. Check them out, and report back. Keep it high and out of sight. And don't shoot anyone."

"Understood," Lyle replied. "Uh, you might want to move, too."

A series of small red lights illuminated on the drone which sat in the back of our van. Its camera swivelled towards me as the rotors fired up. Disconcerting, was the word that came to mind. I didn't have time to worry any further, as the device lifted vertically a few inches off the van's loadspace floor. I stood back, away from the door, as Lyle expertly flew the drone out from inside the confined space of the van and up into the night.

The device had only ascended a few feet before it was invisible in the night sky, its acoustically-shielded rotors already fading to inaudible.

I decided against complimenting Lyle on his control. Instead, I retrieved my carbine from the holdall, pocketed the spare magazines I'd brought, then slung the rifle over my shoulder and headed off after Reid. As I ran, I thought again about what the Lithuanians were doing at the house. I could understand Vaitkus on his own turning up. But a whole army of them, made no sense at all.

At least, none that I could think of right then.

I followed Reid across the lawn, darting from tree to tree until we both reached the house and squatted underneath one of the ground floor sash windows. From there, we'd need to make our way along the front of the house, keeping low, until we got to the archway passage leading into the courtyard. I was about to move, when my radio headset came to life.

"Uh, I have eyes on our girl," Lyle said.

That was unexpected. A little worrying, too. Especially as his voice lacked the usual boastful confidence he tended to display when he'd discovered something I wanted.

"Where?" I asked, cautiously. I kept my voice low, being right next to the house.

"You're not gonna believe this. She's in the courtyard, right now. And there's some dude holding on to her, with a gun to her head."

I struggled to process that information. Nothing that was happening was making any sense. The involvement of the Mexicans; the arrival of a host of armed Lithuanians and now, it seemed, Jess Gardiner being threatened at gunpoint. Everything about her disappearance had got progressively more surreal, as we'd followed her down the rabbit hole into the dark depths of the underworld.

"Are you sure that it's her?" I asked.

"Yep. Unless she's got a twin sister. Daisy's had a look as well. It's her, for sure."

"Have you got audio on that thing you're flying?"

"Yeah, got a laser mic. Ain't no use, though. They're all jabbering away in foreign speak."

"That would be Lithuanian," I said. It wasn't a language I spoke. I knew enough about it to be aware that it bore very little resemblance to any of the languages which I did know, so I didn't bother to get Lyle to patch the audio through to me.

"Hang on..." Lyle said. "One of them's shouting in English, now, up at the house. He's telling someone to hurry up. Saying there's three minutes left to get his money before..." Lyle's voice tailed off, briefly, before he continued. "Aw man, you gotta be kidding me."

"Before what?" I asked.

Lyle's voice was quiet, and serious.

"Before he shoots Jess."

### 66

02:08

Amir Nazari frowned, as he handed the magnifying scope he'd been using back to Khorsandi.

"They are in front of the house, crouching down," he said. "I think they are not invited guests."

Khorsandi sighed, as she put the scope to her eye and tracked across the large country house which stood a few hundred yards away.

"There must be twenty armed men in that courtyard. What has this man got himself into now?"

"I do not know," Nazari admitted. "But whatever it is, we need to help him get out of it alive."

He shared Khorsandi's concern, but also recognised that they were lucky to still have sight of their target, after Thorne's phone had disappeared from the tracking map a few minutes before. Nazari's own device had lost its signal moments later. It had been pure good fortune that he and Khorsandi had been close enough to have eyes on the Putney Boat Services van at the time. They'd been able to follow it at a distance, until they'd discovered the vehicle abandoned by the side of the road where they now stood.

Khorsandi handed the scope to Arman Soroush, who had arrived shortly afterwards and parked up in the layby as well.

Soroush grunted as he observed the house.

"What is going on there?" he asked.

"I don't know. But we need to get moving, and find out," Nazari instructed. "Khorsandi, find somewhere elevated and out of sight. Keep eyes on our man. Don't reveal yourself unless he's in danger, but if he is then take out the threat."

The female operative nodded.

"The clock tower will work," she noted. The front elevation of the house was topped off by a four-sided clock tower with a flat top. Nazari could see that it was ideal, if a little hard to access.

"You can get up there?"

She smiled. "Of course."

Taking the scope back from Soroush, she packed it into her rifle case. The long package was slung over her shoulder and she set off immediately across the expanse of lawn. Nazari watched her move off into the darkness. He noted the way she carefully used the minimal cover provided by a handful of trees in the lawn, to keep herself out of view should Thorne look their way. He also noted the way her body moved, allowing his eyes to linger on her momentarily until he became aware that Soroush was aware of the direction of his gaze.

Tracking back to his target, he saw the man and his companion had begun clambering up a drainpipe to get on top of the flat-roofed archway that led to the courtyard.

"Looks like he wants an elevated position, too. Soroush, stay with me. We'll head for the arch as well; that should give us some cover. Keep out of sight unless we have to intervene."

Soroush nodded, then cocked his head.

"Ah, sir... is that a helicopter?"

Nazari paused and listened. In the distance, he could hear something which did sound a lot like approaching rotor blades. He nodded in agreement.

"Sounds like it's heading this way, too. Let's get moving. We don't want to be spotted out on that lawn."

Nazari set off at a sprint across the grass, with Soroush following. As they ran, there was no doubt that the aircraft was getting nearer. Its arrival sparked off a cascade of questions in Nazari's head, none of which he had answers to. He was reduced to simply hoping that it would just be passing overhead.

If it wasn't, then it would be a complication that his small team were ill-equipped to resolve.

### 67

02:09

I had another plan.

It had taken shape rapidly, as I lay prone on the flat rooftop of the single-storey archway that led through to the courtyard of Deerhurst Hall. Using the cover provided by the stone balustrades around the arch's roof, Reid and I were observing the men in the courtyard below. It hadn't taken long to see that we were outnumbered ten-to-one. With a hostage involved, those were odds that needed evening a little.

That was where my plan came in.

Lyle was about to give us a serious advantage, in the form of a live bird's eye view of the courtyard layout, fed to my phone from his hexacopter's camera. Combined with what we could already see, it would give us the precise location of each individual enemy. I intended to use that information mercilessly. I knew I couldn't take Jess out of harm's way. So we'd be taking the harm out of her way instead.

We just needed to wait for Lyle to unblock the cell towers again so he could get the video stream flowing to my phone.

"Lyle, how are we doing with the feed?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"Slower than we would be doing, if you weren't asking me, you know... how we were doing."

I ignored the jibe. "What about the owner of this place? Any joy on getting an ID yet? He must be the one the Lithuanians are waiting for."

"Daisy's still working on it. We've got a lot of accounts to wade through. But there'll be a link in there somewhere."

I was frustrated at still being in the dark. However, the precise identity of the man who had bought Jess was somewhat less important, given that she was currently being held at gunpoint by a Lithuanian gangster. We could deal with whoever was in the house afterwards. But there was, of course, another wildcard whose involvement was still inexplicable: Juan Ramirez.

"What about the Mexicans? Where are they now?" I asked, hoping that their initial trajectory towards us might have changed.

"Bruv, seriously. You want me to get you this feed, or answer your twenty questions first?"

"I want both. I want the feed and I want to know where the Mexicans are. That's two things, Lyle. Not twenty. Stop pretending it's difficult."

"Fine, fine, I've done it now. The cell towers are coming back up. Wait... how the hell? Uh, that ain't good."

"What?"

"Don't ask me how bro, but it looks like the Mexicans are with you already."

"What do you mean, with me?"

"I mean, they're on the same cell tower as you are. They gotta be close, man."

As he was speaking in the headset, I became aware of another noise impinging upon our conversation: a distant, rhythmic, thumping sound. My brain began making unwelcome connections, that offered an explanation for how the Mexican signal had been moving so quickly when Lyle had been tracking it before. That rhythmic thumping, getting progressively louder, had become the distinctly recognisable sound of rotor blades. There was only one conclusion to be drawn from that.

_El Carnicero Loco_ was about to arrive, in style.

That was likely to pose something of a problem, when it came to the plan I'd just mapped out. Because I knew exactly what style Juan Ramirez Espinoza would be arriving in.

After all, he only had one.

All guns blazing.

### 68

02:11

"Volar más bajo!"

Ramirez gave the command to fly lower. He looked out from the fully-loaded helicopter, down into the brightly-lit courtyard below. A large group of armed men were arrayed around two vans. If he'd arrived by car, the men he was now looking at could have made things very difficult for him.

"Take it down low, just above the rooftops. A slow pass, and get that searchlight on. I want to see what is happening down there."

The pilot dutifully complied, slowing the large aircraft and descending towards the large country house below them. A bright white beam of light speared out from the body-mounted searchlight the helicopter carried.

"Mother of God, there is an army down there!" Jose Rivera muttered.

In the courtyard, Ramirez saw men raising their hands to their eyes, squinting to look up at the aircraft. One or two had weapons pointed roughly in the direction of the helicopter. But nobody was firing. With the bright spotlight shining back, they had no chance of seeing who was on board.

As he scanned the scene, Ramirez spotted a female figure, apart from the main group of men. Judging from her struggles with the man holding her, she was not there voluntarily. It had to be the girl that Williams had mentioned. _His_ girl. Ramirez brought up a pair of binoculars and smiled as he took in the girl's ginger hair and pale complexion. She was so very obviously European. She'd make the perfect gift for Diego Diaz in Colombia.

"That girl down there is mine," Ramirez announced. "She belongs to me. You understand? Nobody shoots her. Nobody harms her. She will be coming back with us."

There was a chorus of nervous-sounding acquiescence from the men around him.

Ramirez continued to observe the scene below, considering his next actions. The helicopter passed over the courtyard and swept out across the front lawns, its searchlight still roving. The pilot rotated around, ready to make a second pass. Ramirez caught a brief glimpse of two dark figures, caught in the light running across the lawn towards the house. He brought his binoculars up again, but the figures had disappeared under the cover of an archway.

As he scanned around, curious as to whether the two figures were related to the men in the courtyard, he caught sight of two more men lying prone on top of the archway roof. He zoomed the optics and felt a jolt of recognition: he was looking at the man from Streatham. A man who was, right then, positioned perfectly to fire upon the rear of any vehicles entering the courtyard. If Ramirez and his men had gone through that arch in the Range Rovers, they'd have been sitting ducks.

His anger was tinged with a note of satisfaction at having been proved right. Michael Williams was going to pay for his duplicity.

"Bring us round again. Same angle as before," Ramirez instructed the pilot. "Hernandez, get that door open. Cortez, get that thing ready. When we pass over again, you can start clearing the courtyard. Just watch for the girl."

Cortez nodded, and began manoeuvring the huge Browning M2 machine gun they'd brought along. Sandoval and Rojas helped swing it into position whilst Hernandez slid open the large compartment door.

Ramirez smiled. This wasn't the first time they'd converted a commercial helicopter into a gunship.

The gun's tripod had been hastily secured to the floor so that the long barrel faced out of the doorway. As the helicopter came around, bringing the courtyard into view again, Ramirez nodded at Cortez and the two men who were helping to support the jury-rigged weapon that would unleash hell on those below.

"Alright. It's time to announce our arrival."

### 69

02:13

I am not easily surprised.

But even I was taken aback at the deafeningly distinctive sound of a fifty-cal machine gun opening up from the helicopter.

Even for Ramirez, that was unexpectedly excessive.

From my elevated position, I had a perfect view of the carnage. The two vans in the courtyard were shredded almost instantaneously, as huge bullets tore through steel and reduced the vehicles to scrap. The incoming fire had an even more devastating effect on those Lithuanians who were unfortunate to be on the receiving end of a direct hit. The massive projectiles removed limbs, exploded heads and split bodies in a brutally macabre dance, as the gunner swept across the courtyard.

The fire remained relentless as I finally recovered my senses and looked across to the other side of the courtyard. The man who'd been holding Jess was still there, firing his machine pistol wildly and blindly at the helicopter. At that range, his chances of hitting anyone on the aircraft were negligible. A cascade of explosions raked across the gravel towards him, as the heavy weapon swung its aim round towards his position. He ran and dived for cover underneath the front of one of the destroyed vans, just before it was pummelled again by fire. I figured he might get lucky with the heavy diesel engine block to shield him, but I didn't fancy his chances.

His survival, however, was not my main concern. I was more concerned that he was alone.

"Lyle. I've lost Jess. Where is she?"

I couldn't keep the edge of panic from my voice. I half expected him to report that she'd been hit.

"Chill, dude, she's behind the car," Lyle said over the radio. "I got her on cam, still. As soon as it all kicked off, she got free and ran for it. Seriously, though, what is happening down there? It looks like a war zone."

It took me a moment to spot Jess cowering behind a large Mercedes that was parked in the courtyard. She was curled up in a ball, with her arms over her head. The car offered little protection from the incoming fire, although the Mexicans were fortunately concentrating on the other half of the yard where the Lithuanians had gathered. And at least she wouldn't be witnessing the carnage taking place yards away from where she lay.

"We're under fire, is what's happening. From a helicopter full of angry Mexicans who've brought Ma Deuce to the party."

I caught movement next to one of the vans. Two Lithuanians were attempting to run to the house for cover. They had twenty yards to cover and zero chance of success. The Mexican gunner switched his aim and the men collapsed, in four separate pieces, sending a disgusting cascade of blood and bodily fluids across the gravel. My conditioning tightened around the horror; squeezing the emotion and shock back down to a dull awareness.

"Shit, man. What you want me to do?" Lyle asked.

"Nothing. Just keep tracking Jess. Don't lose her."

"You got it."

The heavy fire from the helicopter momentarily ceased. I figured that was one box of ammunition expended. That meant we might have a few seconds respite whilst they fed in another.

"We've got to get her out of here," I said to Reid.

"Stables?" Reid suggested, indicating across the courtyard to the stable entrance. It would be better than trying to get Jess back out through the archway, navigating pools of blood and body parts all the way.

I nodded. "I'll go, you cover."

Before I could drop down from the archway roof, I saw the front doors of the house fly open. A man was pushed out roughly, carrying a large holdall. Two armed Lithuanians followed him out, and stopped dead in shock at the sight of their decimated comrades.

They immediately began firing up at the helicopter, which looked like it was backing around and preparing for a second pass. That was all the opportunity the first man needed. With his captors' attention on the aircraft, he dropped the holdall and sprinted towards the parked Mercedes. Jess looked up and saw him coming. I saw her groggily try to get to her feet, and away from the man.

Her reaction told me everything I needed to know.

I was looking at the man who had bought Jess. The man who still, as yet, had no name.

He looked nothing like the Lithuanians in their peculiar uniform of sportswear. He also looked strangely familiar, as if I had encountered him before. Whoever he was, I knew that recognition wasn't good. I knew who my friends were. Anyone else who was familiar to me, was unlikely to be familiar for a good reason.

That jolt of recognition cost me my chance to take him out of the game. I'd brought my rifle up, but I was too slow.

So was Jess.

### 70

02:15

Michael Williams caught the girl easily as she made a disappointingly pathetic attempt to get away from him.

She went limp, as the cold metal of his knife touched her neck. Even with all the chaos unfolding around them, her submission prompted a shiver of pleasure and a decision.

He was not going to hand her over to Ramirez.

Especially not as the idiot Mexicans were pummelling his house with machine gun fire that would, no doubt, bring blue lights and sirens to their location in very short order. He had no idea what they were playing at. He couldn't imagine Ramirez would have sanctioned such recklessness himself.

There was only one thing for it. He'd have to find out.

Williams ducked down low behind the car, as more shots rang out across the courtyard. Keeping the girl subdued with the knife in one hand, he dialled Ramirez with the other. As soon as the call connected, Williams realised something was wrong from the background noise, which told him Ramirez was in the helicopter.

That was unexpected. That didn't make any sense, at all.

"What the hell are you doing? Hold your fire! I am in the courtyard, behind the car."

Williams risked another peek over the roof as Ramirez laughed, nastily.

"I know where you are, Senor Williams. And... I know also _what_ you are."

"What? Listen, I have no idea what you think you're doing, but this place is going to be crawling with police very shortly thanks to your excessive show of force. If I were you, I'd get out of here and ditch that helo whilst you still can."

"Heh, you want me gone now? Is too late for that, I think. You invite me here, I solve your problem. And then, I solve problem of my own."

"Solve my problem?" Williams said, as he surveyed the ruined courtyard and the bodies which littered it. "I didn't want... _this_."

"I did not want this either. But, Senor Williams, you try to trick me, you pay price, eh? I know the game now. And I play to win."

Williams felt as if the ground had shifted under his feet. For the second time that evening, he was being accused of trickery. He glanced up at the helicopter, blinking away the black shapes which suddenly flitted around it against the night sky.

"Trick? What are you talking about?" he queried. He kept his voice calm.

"Ah, you want to pretend... well, I no have time for this. I come here for girl, and then to kill you. No stories, eh? No _tonterias_. I think it is time to say _adios_ , Senor."

That sounded very much like a death threat. Williams calculated rapidly in his head, then spoke calmly but urgently into the phone.

"If that was a threat, then you should be aware that I have a knife to the girl's neck, right now. So if you want her _alive_ then I strongly recommend you back off and we discuss whatever problem you have, in a more civilised manner."

Ramirez exploded with anger down the line.

"Civilised?" he snarled. "You think it _civilised_ when you send your man to take out my operation last week? You think it _civilised_ to kill friend I have known since I was a boy? Then you... _play_ with me, offering deal? Well, I show you _my_ civilised, when I kill you and burn this place to ground."

Williams suppressed a shiver. Something, somewhere had gone seriously wrong. Ramirez appeared to be blaming him for whatever mishap had befallen his operation.

"I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about," he stated honestly.

Ramirez screamed down the line, in response.

"Stop your lies! The man you sent, he is here! I can see him now, on top of the arch. Why you think I come myself? I am here to tear him apart as well."

Williams frowned, and looked across at the flat roof above the archway entrance to the courtyard. To his surprise, he could indeed make out some unexpected movement. The calmness began slipping again. Black shapes flickered around the archway's stone balustrade. He blinked, again, and they disappeared. But there was still someone, or something, there.

"I... I have no idea who that is," he stated. He could hear the disquiet in his own voice. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to regain control.

"But I am serious about the girl. I will slit her throat if you so much as come near me. I am sure the man you promised her to will be most displeased at that. Go home, Mr Ramirez. We can work out our differences later, when I have cleaned up the mess you have left here."

The Mexican's heavy breathing was audible, above the noise of the helicopter. Ramirez appeared to be trying to calm himself.

"Senor Williams, you understand this. You are dead man already, whatever. Maybe you not afraid of hell, eh? But you not know _my_ hell... the one I keep you in here on Earth, if you kill _my_ girl."

The line clicked off. Williams watched the helicopter circle back around the courtyard. He could feel his grip on reality slipping away, but he clung on for long enough to determine that if Ramirez wanted the girl, he'd need to land. That would give Williams time to reach the protection of his safe room, in the cellar of the north wing.

The madness receded a little, with that thought. He could hide there until the police arrived, then lock the girl away so he could play the innocent victim. Getting the authorities off his back would be difficult. That, he knew, was going to cost him a lot more money than even that Mirror article had years before. He would almost certainly have to bring in his Etheridge Club clients, to exert some influence on his behalf.

Still, the situation was survivable. Costly, but survivable.

First, however, he had to get across the courtyard. He tensed, and prepared to drag the girl with him across to the north wing. Almost as soon as he began to move, the heavy fire from the helicopter started up, trapping him in place again. He looked back towards the archway where he'd seen his unexpected guest. One of the Lithuanians must have got up there, he presumed, as he saw a man appear, briefly, looking over the balustrade.

In the dark, it was too far for him to make out the details. But for a moment, the figure had horns again.

And it seemed to be looking right at him.

### 71

02:19

I risked another look over the stone balustrade, desperately trying to plot another, alternative rescue for Jess.

My hastily-conceived plan to eradicate the Lithuanian threat was already redundant. That threat had already been largely removed, thanks to the lunatic Mexicans with the Browning. As the heavy gun continued to pound the courtyard, it was obvious that Vaitkus and his amateur army would very soon be non-existent.

That was an unexpected bonus.

Of course, there was always a price to pay for such good fortune. In this case, it was the need to deal with a helicopter full of crazy Mexicans who were undoubtedly armed to the teeth. That was a rather tougher solution to plan for, which would have to wait until after I'd freed Jess from her new captor. I looked out across the courtyard, and concluded that neither Reid nor I would get a clear shot of the man who had a knife to her neck, from where we lay on the roof.

"I need to get closer. Get a better angle."

"Behind the second van," Reid stated. He'd clearly already worked the trajectories.

"Okay," I acknowledged, trusting his judgement. "As soon as the firing stops again, I'll go."

Lyle piped up on the radio.

"I have him in my sights, bro. I can take him."

The idea of Lyle attempting to use his flying toy to shoot a man who was at that moment inches away from Jess, filled me with horror.

"Absolutely not. If you miss, she's dead."

"This thing's got automatic target acquisition. It's like, AI, innit? Predicts movement and everything. I can shoot that knife right out of his hand."

"Lyle, I don't care. You are not firing that thing. Just take the phones down again. Our man has already made one call."

"Fine, whatever. Just go get yourself unnecessarily killed then," he huffed.

Finally, the heavy fire ceased and the helicopter ducked down behind the roofline of the house. I didn't know if it was heading to land, or if they were preparing another box of ammo. I suspected the latter. There wasn't a lot left to shoot, but overkill had never been a word the Mexicans seemed to understand.

I eased myself quickly over the balustrade and dropped down to the courtyard. Without stopping, I ran for the first van, scanning around me as I moved. I saw nothing that was visibly alive. Just bodies, body parts and blood. I paused at the first ruined vehicle and heard the helicopter coming back round. That gave me very little time. But I didn't need a lot.

I sprinted a few yards to the rear of the second van and peered around it. I smiled to myself. Reid, as usual, had been right. I could see the top of the man's head, above the boot of the Mercedes. The angle I had was just enough to make him a distinct target from Jess. It was obvious he was getting ready to move. I brought my rifle up and sighted, getting ready to take the top of his head clean off.

That was when a footstep crunched on the gravel behind.

With no time to take a clear shot and my concentration wrecked, I shifted aim and fired a warning shot that had no risk of hitting Jess. It was enough to persuade the man to duck back down and stay where he was.

Then I spun, as rapidly as I could, knowing I'd already cost myself valuable time in addressing the new threat. That turned out to be a young sportswear-clad man, just a few feet away and creeping towards me with clear malicious intent. As always, time seemed to slow down, and everything around us faded in my vision until it was just him, and me.

I kept moving.

I took in the machine pistol swinging uselessly on his shoulder strap. I knew it was empty. The vicious-looking knife he held in his right hand gave a reasonable clue that the gun's utility had expired.

I kept moving.

I saw the pallor of his face in the artificial light of the courtyard. He was in a state of shock. He'd seen his comrades taken apart in front of his eyes. I saw the tremors in the hand holding the knife. In normal circumstances, his threat level would be negligible.

I kept moving.

These were not normal circumstances. I had zero chance of bringing my carbine to bear on him in time. He was too close, and about to launch his strike. I kept moving, but it was clear my evasive action had begun too late.

I readied myself for the shock of the injury I was about to sustain.

That was when the gunshot rang out.

I continued to throw myself down. The knife continued to move, but it was no longer on a collision course. It had been jerked upwards, away from me. As a result, I realised that the man's threat level had significantly declined. I also realised that he no longer had very much of a head.

Most of it was splattered over the rear of the van beside us.

"Thanks, Reinhold," I said, as I rolled to the floor.

Reid's response was not entirely what I was expecting.

"Not me," he stated flatly.

I looked back towards the arch, and realised that it was obstructed by the first van. Reid wouldn't even have seen the man approaching.

"Christ, Lyle! I told you not to fire that damn thing."

"Dude, chill, man. I ain't shooting nobody. I'm just keeping watch on Jess, like you told me."

I began to do two things at once. I rose, stepped over knife-man's twitching body, and started to reposition myself to take another shot at Jess's captor. As I did so, my brain rewound the scene which had unfolded around me. The Mexicans were out of sight: I could still hear the helicopter looping around the other side of the house, staying below the roofline. The Lithuanians were hardly likely to be shooting each other. There was only one conclusion to draw.

"Uh, looks like we have an unknown shooter," I said, as I brought my rifle up again. "Lyle, can you spot anything?"

"Dunno, man. Where am I looking?"

"High. Rooftops," I said, assessing the angle at which the contents of my attacker's head had been splashed across the back of the van.

"Clock tower," Reid stated.

I caught the slightest hint of movement from behind the car. Not enough to target, but enough to know the man with Jess was preparing to move again.

"Okay, zooming in now..." Lyle said in my earpiece.

The helicopter was getting louder, which meant my window was closing. I fired another warning shot, and the movement behind the car ceased.

"Oh em gee," Lyle said, his voice sounding impressed. "Monk, how do you do this psychic shit? You're right, there's someone up there. Very long gun. Wait... it looks like... a woman!"

That was enough information to get me moving again: up and diving back behind the other van which would shield me from the clock tower.

"The Iranians," I said, slightly breathlessly. "Reid, watch yourself."

"Uh huh," he acknowledged. "Safe here. No line of sight."

"You have got to be shitting me," Lyle said.

"The Iranian shooter was female," I pointed out. "It has to be them."

"Dude, seriously.... how the hell did they find you?"

"I have no idea. But she just saved my life, so it's not all bad."

"Sure she didn't just miss?"

"Maybe. But I have a feeling they want me alive. Injured is fine. Dead, not so much."

"You want me to take her out with this thing?" Lyle asked.

"Give up asking, Lyle. You're not shooting and that's that. Besides, if she's keeping me alive then I have a few more enemies she might want to engage first."

Right on cue, the helicopter reappeared over the top of the roof. My window of opportunity had slammed shut. And I was caught, out in the exposed courtyard, just as another hail of bullets began to rain down again.

### 72

02:23

Amir Nazari pressed himself up against the interior wall of the archway and eased away from the courtyard, retreating into the shadows. He prayed those shadows were deep enough, because Bruce Thorne was looking straight in their direction from behind the meagre cover of one of the ruined vans.

It was obvious the man was assessing his options for escaping the helicopter's renewed assault. A retreat to the cover of the arch, where Nazari and Soroush were hiding, would almost certainly be at the top of that options list.

As he moved, Nazari attempted to piece together a rational reason as to why the helicopter had just opened fire when Thorne was in its field of fire. It didn't take him long to reach a conclusion. There _was_ no rational reason. Because nothing about the man called Bruce Thorne made any rational sense at all.

When the helicopter had arrived, he'd assumed it was linked to Thorne. That theory had held up, when the gun had started laying waste to the Lithuanians whom Thorne appeared to be observing. But his theory had just been rendered invalid, as it had directed its fire towards the British man.

"How many sides are there here, exactly?" Arman Soroush asked, as they continued to slip back into the shadows.

"Too many," Nazari replied, his eyes still on Thorne. "Khorsandi, can you take that bird down? I thought Thorne had brought it in, but it seems to be firing indiscriminately."

"Affirmative. I will have a clear shot as it comes round again," she confirmed over the radio.

"Do it."

"Understood."

Finally, he reached the corner at the front side of the house, and ducked around it. Soroush followed. They were just in time: Nazari caught sight of Thorne beginning to head towards them.

Nazari ran the scene through his head, rapidly.

"Get ready," he instructed Soroush quietly as they slipped further back into the cover of the dark archway passage. He knew Thorne's companion was still on the roof overhead. Whatever he did next, it would need to be swift and silent. "He's heading to us, but he won't come all the way in. He'll want to see what's happening out there in the courtyard."

Soroush nodded as they continued moving away from the courtyard entrance of the archway. "Then what?"

Nazari finished running through his choices. They could hide and observe. Or, they could use this unexpected opportunity to strike. He came to a decision. Thorne would have his back to them, with his attention focused elsewhere. They'd be under cover, in darkness, with the element of surprise. It was an opportunity too good to miss.

He smiled back at Soroush, feeling the first flush of confidence that he'd felt since they'd been waiting in Thorne's front garden hours before.

"Then, we take him."

### 73

02:24

I do like to give credit where it's due.

As I stood under the archway with one pistol pressed to the side of my head and another covering me from six feet away, I had to admit that my attackers had done a decent job.

They'd taken advantage of my desperation to get away from the heavy gunfire that was still raking the courtyard. They were quick: they'd been on me mere seconds after I'd reached what I'd wrongly assumed would be safety. They'd been quiet, too. Professionally quiet. I'd only heard their approach at the very last second, by which time the nearest one had his weapon pressed to my head and was swiftly relieving me of my rifle, pistol and headset, tossing them away to the side of the archway tunnel.

Fair play, I thought. They'd done well. I'd give them that.

Not that it was going to help them.

The man who was six feet away held his finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet. I recognised him immediately as the man who'd shot me in my own front garden. Somewhere, my brain dragged up the name, from Tim Ives' photos, and registered that I was looking at Amir Nazari. That meant the man with the gun to my head was Arman Soroush.

The recollection of their names felt strangely distant. Disconnected, even. Probably because, right then, almost all of my conscious mental processing was being directed at removing myself from the unwanted situation. Names were a secondary consideration to that.

The first moments after capture are crucial. There are often a handful of seconds, before the dust settles, where myriad fleeting opportunities may present themselves. Allow yourself to be shocked into inaction, and those opportunities will slip away rapidly, and permanently. I had no intention of letting that happen. I needed to shock my attackers back, in short order, before that dust settled and they established complete control.

Step one: get out of immediate danger.

Without warning I stepped back, twisted and thrust upwards to grab Soroush's arm, which was still gripping the pistol. My sudden movement meant that it no longer pointed at my head. I yanked hard on his limb, dragging him in front of me so that his body shielded my own from Nazari's aim. I'd banked on the Iranian not being crazy enough to fire through his comrade to get me. Nazari's hesitation told me I'd banked right.

Step two: get back in control.

As Soroush stumbled in front of me, the heavy crack of a rifle echoed around the courtyard behind me, audible even above the now-sporadic fire of the heavy machine gun. The unexpected sound was an unexpected bonus. Unnecessary, but welcome all the same. I ignored it completely. My focus on what was happening in front of me was absolute. Nazari's was not. I saw his eyes leave me, and flick to the courtyard for the briefest of moments.

I was still moving, bringing Soroush's arm up hard, behind his back. The handgun passed from his grip to mine. Somewhere in my head, I was dimly aware that the pitch of the helicopter's noise had taken on a decidedly unhealthy-sounding note and the heavy gunfire had ceased. I wasn't processing that thought. Instead, I was still taking advantage of Nazari's momentary distraction, as I launched his comrade right at him with a hefty shove.

Step three: make sure it can't happen again.

Nazari recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. He managed to sidestep his rapidly-falling comrade and loose off a shot towards me. At least, it would have been towards me, had I not already been diving aside and bringing up Soroush's pistol. As it was, his shot ricocheted harmlessly off the archway wall.

Nazari fired again. Still too slow. Still two feet behind where I actually was. I aimed the unfamiliar weapon and returned the favour. I was faster. Or luckier, perhaps. My first shot grazed Nazari's right forearm and sent his aim wide and high, so his third shot hit the roof of the arch. My second shot connected with his right shoulder, and he dropped the weapon completely.

Threat removed.

I switched aim, and put two shots directly into the back of Soroush's head as he tried to get up from where he'd fallen.

Threat removed, permanently.

That was when it was my turn to be distracted. A deafening sound of rending metal, followed by an almighty crash, came from the courtyard behind me. It sounded dangerous: more dangerous than the two men in front of me, one of whom was dead and the other disarmed and injured.

I turned, briefly, and caught sight of the Mexican helicopter. It was no longer in the air. Instead, it was billowing smoke from the top of the west wing of the house, where it had evidently just crash-landed. As it had come down, the aircraft had smashed into one of the two huge chimneys which protruded from the flat roof. It looked like a hard landing, but survivable for at least some on board. I'd have to assume Ramirez was still in play.

I filed that thought, and returned my attention to Nazari.

In the time it had taken me to determine the source of the noise, he'd taken the only potentially survivable option he had left, and run for it. By the time I had my weapon back on him, he'd nearly made it out of the archway into the darkness at the front of the house.

Nearly.

I fired again, and saw him stumble before finally disappearing around the corner.

I turned with a start at another unexpected noise behind me, and very nearly squeezed the trigger once more as a dark figure dropped down from above. Fortunately for both me and the figure, I didn't pull the trigger.

"Jeez, Reinhold," I said, lowering the gun.

"Heard shooting," he said.

Presumably he thought that constituted sufficient explanation for his surprise arrival. In fairness, it probably was. I didn't have time to argue about it, either way. It was obvious with the helicopter down and the Lithuanians out of the picture that my best chance of getting across the courtyard to Jess had just arrived.

I rapidly scooped up my weapons and headset from where Soroush had thrown them, and prepared to get moving.

"Thorne? Thorne, come in. Can you hear me?" Lyle was asking on the radio.

"I'm here."

"Dude, what happened? Where've you been?"

"I had an unexpected encounter in the dark."

"Right... well, cool story bro and all that, but you need to get out there. Jess is on the move. Our man's got her. They're heading for the north wing."

I didn't have time to consider the implications of that. I knew I just had to move.

"Reid, with me," I instructed, as I set off at a sprint. "Try to keep our clock tower girl busy."

I was already dodging and weaving my way past all that remained of the Lithuanians: ruined vans and ruined bodies.

"Roger that," Reid replied, and set off after me. As soon as he left the cover of the arch, he began firing up at the tower. The angle was awkward, and he had little chance of actually hitting the Iranian sniper, but that didn't matter. He just needed to give her something to think about other than sighting-in on me.

As I ran, I looked across the courtyard and saw the familiar-looking man heading for the entrance to the north wing of the house. Jess was stumbling unsteadily with him, although not by choice. That much was clear, from the way he was pulling her along by her hair. The knife I could see glinting in his other hand was providing additional persuasion.

The angle, the moving target and my own rapid movement all combined to make a clear shot impossible. I'd closed the gap between us dramatically, but that didn't matter. He'd already reached his destination: a single wooden door – a lot less grand than the double doors to the east entrance I was running past at that moment – which led into the north section of the house.

"Get in there quick, Thorne," Lyle urged. "Ain't no way I can track her in there. FLIR don't work through walls and glass."

I was well aware of that.

"Check the crash site, and the tower," I instructed. "I need to know who else is left."

"Alright, bro. You got it."

The man in front of me pulled the door open, shoving Jess through roughly. He glanced behind, and saw me running for him. I was maybe twenty yards away and closing. Our eyes met, briefly, but his expression remained curiously blank. No fear. No surprise. Just... nothing. Whereas I felt the shimmering, frustrating tickle of faulty memory, as true recognition danced just beyond my grasp.

I knew him, for sure. Of that I was now certain. I just couldn't determine what part he'd played in my past. That put me at a disadvantage. I didn't like that, at all. But as I headed across the yard towards the doorway, another unwelcome thought began tugging at me.

Perhaps, when I did remember who he was, I might like that even less.

### 74

02:31

"Ándale!" Juan Ramirez urged. _Hurry!_

He held open the rooftop stairwell door, counting the shocked and battered faces as they passed. Hernandez, lugging an RPG-7 in its case. Rivero, with a box of rockets. Munoz and Pereira, both with assault rifles. Oscar Mendoza in his flame-retardant suit, carrying _El Demonio_ with its fuel tank strapped to his back. And finally, the girl María. Crying but unhurt. Still usable as a lure to flush out his man.

_So few_ , he thought, as they passed. But with the weapons they'd also dragged out of the stricken craft, they'd be enough to get the job done. They'd have to be.

Ramirez coughed violently. The acrid smoke which had filled the helicopter's cabin still stung his eyes. A dull ache at the base of his spine lingered from the compression of the impact. Another, sharper pain in his forearm came from a deep scratch inflicted by a piece of broken plastic trim. But that, he realised, was the full extent of his discomfort.

He'd emerged from the wreck battered, bloody, but relatively unscathed, along with the others who were now staggering down the steep wooden staircase leading inside the house.

A glance back at the crashed helicopter and the ten dead or dying bodies it contained, reminded him of his good fortune. But he offered no silent prayer of thanks. He never had believed in counting his blessings. Right then, as he turned to follow the others down into the house, there was no space in his head for gratitude anyway.

It was too full of rage.

### 75

02:32

I burst through the door by which Jess's captor had entered the house and found myself in a wooden-floored hallway.

Light from the illuminated courtyard behind flooded in through the windows which flanked the entrance. I looked around, taking in the animal-skin rugs and the wood-panelled walls hung with paintings and historical weaponry. To the right, a boot room led through to the stable block. To the left, double-doors opened onto a grand dining hall. Ahead, at the other end of the hallway, lay a staircase.

That was where Mr Familiar was headed with Jess.

He had a choice: up or down. I blinked, recalling that we were in the block which had been remodelled after the fire. I remembered the cellar layout from Lyle's plans. There was a safe room which had been constructed down there. If he got Jess in there, the game would get a whole lot more complicated.

I had my rifle up even as I was still processing that information.

Clack, clack, clack. Three silenced shots, aimed far enough away from Jess not to be a risk. Three explosions of wooden fragments, as the bullets impacted into the wooden floor just ahead of the stairs leading down. Jess squealed, and tried to look behind her, but the man still had hold of her hair. He pulled her hard, to his left, away from where my shots had impacted, and headed upstairs instead.

That wasn't great, but it was better than the cellar.

I ran towards the staircase, knowing that I needed to keep Jess and her captor in sight. The complex layout of the house meant, if I lost him, he could loop back at any point and choose one of several exits. I really needed Reid with me, so we could pincer our man between the two of us.

Lyle came over the radio.

"At least five bad-looking dudes got out of that helicopter. Heading inside, through a stairwell."

At least they weren't in the same wing. But if the man in front of me headed that way, he and Jess could end up face to face with Ramirez. Given that the Mexican was likely to be rather unhappy at the loss of his helicopter, that wasn't an eventuality I wanted.

"And the sniper?" I queried, as I reached the base of the stairs and looked up. I caught movement, and launched myself after them.

"Just climbing back up now," Lyle confirmed. "I guess she dropped down when Reid started shooting."

"There's at least one more with her," I pointed out. "Last seen heading out the front. I need to know if he's still in the fight. He'll be limping."

Lyle laughed. "Your unexpected encounter, right? Fine, I'll go track him down, bruv."

I didn't answer. Something about Lyle's information bothered me. If the Iranian sniper was back on the tower, Reid must have stopped shooting. That meant he should have been coming into the hall behind me at any moment. I glanced back over my shoulder, down the stairs.

He was nowhere to be seen.

"Reid?" I queried on the radio. "I need you in the north wing."

I ran up the stairs past a collection of swords, pikes, halberds, axes and daggers, all mounted for display next to paintings of historic battle scenes. Still there was no reply from Reid. I reached the first-floor landing and saw Jess's captor pulling her along a lengthy internal hallway.

"Reid?" I asked again, feeling a chill of apprehension at his lack of response.

I continued my pursuit. Two steps, silent now on a carpeted floor. Then four. Then six.

No answer was forthcoming.

### 76

02:33

Reinhold Reid found himself sprawling, prostrate, on the gravel courtyard.

At that moment, he wasn't entirely sure how he came to be there. He just knew it wasn't a position he could afford to be in for very much longer.

Even as that thought entered his head, Reid was turning and pushing himself back up to his feet. One second, he'd been running past the two wrecked vans, turning over his shoulder and firing up at the clock tower to suppress the sniper threat. The next, something had hit... or, more accurately, _grabbed_ his shin and he'd found himself tumbling headlong to the ground.

Upright once again, Reid conducted a rapid inventory of his situation. It did not yield positive results.

He'd lost his grip on the rifle as he'd fallen. It had clattered away across the gravel and was now seven and a half yards behind him. His headset had been dislodged and hung around his neck, tinnily broadcasting Thorne's disembodied voice. And, whilst a cursory check of the angles told him that he was hidden from the Iranian sniper by the second van, there were other sources of danger for him to contend with.

Sources like the man who had just clambered out from underneath the wrecked vehicle's engine bay, and was turning towards him.

Reid pushed the headset back into position.

"Busy," he said, in response to Thorne's queries.

Thorne would appreciate his succinct summation of circumstance. He'd know it was a signal that no further conversation would be forthcoming. Sure enough, the radio remained silent.

That left Reid's undivided attention for the man facing him.

Reid recognised that man as the Lithuanian who'd been holding a gun to Jess's head when they'd arrived. Vaitkus. The same man he'd seen on the farm. Reid began to reach inside his jacket for his holstered pistol but Vaitkus had moved quickly and was already running at him, snarling something incomprehensible whilst wielding a knife. He was already too close.

An alternative reaction was required.

Reid did the maths. Faced with such a threat, most untrained individuals would freeze. They'd need time to think. It was a natural, instinctive response; one which his attacker would expect and be prepared for. Vaitkus would time his attack based on the assumption that Reid would be in the same place, by the time they collided.

Reid wasn't untrained. His natural, instinctive reactions were well suppressed. He didn't freeze. Instead, he took two steps towards his attacker instead. That changed everything. Vaitkus found himself preparing to launch a strike at a man who was no longer where he should be. His knife arm, which had been brought back ready to slash across at Reid, became an easy target.

As soon as he was in range, Reid chopped down hard, knocking the knife out of Vaitkus' hand. An elbow to his assailant's face continued the assault as they collided together. As Vaitkus's head snapped back from the elbow, Reid prepared to launch a precision thumb-strike at the Lithuanian's exposed throat.

Such a strike was invariably deadly. It was designed to crush the windpipe and take an opponent out of the game permanently. And that was exactly what it would have done, had Reid not found himself momentarily distracted by a muffled whump – followed by the sound of shattering glass – which came from the west wing on the opposite side of the courtyard.

That grabbed his attention enough to over-ride his training. His instinct to look was just too strong, and his eyes left Vaitkus for a moment. The entire top floor of the west wing was already ablaze. Orange flame flickered behind every window, and a thick pall of smoke rose up into the night sky. Another room had just exploded into flame, this time on the next floor down. He found himself calculating the direction and speed with which the fire was spreading. It didn't follow the pattern of a natural conflagration.

Someone was inside the building, setting it alight. Working their way down from the roof systematically. And using something that was spectacularly effective at getting a blaze started.

That deduction had taken Reid no more than a couple of seconds.

But that was all the time Mykolas Vaitkus needed to get back in the fight.

### 77

02:34

I saw Jess's captor duck into one of the doorways which lined the corridor, pulling her after him. Keeping my eyes focused on where he'd headed, I sprinted up the hall and thumbed my headset to a private channel to Lyle.

"Lyle, what's happening with Reid?"

"Reid? No idea. You sent me off to find your missing Iranian," he replied.

I bit down my frustration at his response, as I approached the door through which Jess had been taken.

"I know. Get back to the courtyard. If Reid needs help, do whatever you need to. I'm tied up in here."

"Woah, did I just hear 'permission to fire' in there somewhere?"

I kicked open the door in front of me and found myself in a huge fitness room, with an array of equipment arrayed in front of windows offering expansive views out across the grounds of the house.

"Yes, Lyle, you did," I confirmed.

My mind wasn't really on Lyle. Or Reid, for that matter.

At that moment I was rather more concerned about the fact that Jess and Mr Familiar were nowhere to be seen.

### 78

02:34

Reinhold Reid had no interest in cricket, but he still understood what being on the back foot was about. And that was definitely where he found himself, after the distraction of the west wing conflagration.

Vaitkus was already lunging forward, going for a head-butt. Reid shifted just enough for the man's forehead to glance off his own, but Vaitkus wasn't finished. Grabbing Reid's jacket, he spun and shoved hard, unbalancing Reid and sending him staggering back into the side of the van.

Pain blossomed in his upper back: unexpectedly sharp and vicious. Vaitkus smiled nastily and reached for him. Reid attempted to move, but the pain from just under his right shoulder blade was excruciating. He realised that he'd been impaled on one of the jagged twists of metal protruding from the side of the van, which had been torn apart as the hail of 50-cal bullets had exited through the vehicle's steel bodywork.

Vaitkus darted forward again. Too late, Reid realised his attacker's intent.

He summoned the strength to tear himself away from the jagged metal, but he was too slow. The Lithuanian already had his hand inside Reid's jacket. Reid attempted to swing a left-handed punch which connected feebly with the side of Vaitkus' head, as the man tugged Reid's pistol out from its holster.

Vaitkus stepped back, and levelled the gun at Reid.

Reid stopped moving, and started calculating. He fought the pain, and focused on staying alive.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" the Lithuanian queried.

Reid found the questions confusing. Not because of what he was being asked, but because logic dictated that the man asking them should instead have shot him dead there and then. The fact that Vaitkus hadn't, opened up possibilities again. Thorne had taught him that, years before. _Opportunities are always there. You've just got to know where to look._

"We are here for the girl," Reid stated flatly. His eyes scanned the scene. The Lithuanian was just out of reach. The trajectories didn't work. Yet.

"You are not police. Who sent you?"

Reid shrugged. He saw no reason to lie.

"Her mother."

"Bullshit," was the response.

Reid saw Vaitkus thumb the side of the Glock, going to flick off the safety. He also saw the man frown, presumably as a result of discovering that there _was_ no safety. Reid was just about to take advantage of the delay, when another sound distracted him. This time, it was the white noise of artificially-disturbed air: a whirring fizz, barely audible above the crackle and hiss of the burning building.

This time, it was close.

As he saw Vaitkus tighten his finger on the trigger, he realised that once again, distraction had just cost him his best opportunity of regaining control.

### 79

02:35

I emerged cautiously from the fitness room back out into the hallway, at the opposite end from which I'd entered. It was the only other exit: the only place Jess's captor could have gone. At that point I didn't know what the diversion had been intended to achieve. For all I knew, Mr Familiar would be waiting outside the door ready to attack.

As it was, my caution proved unfounded.

I stepped into the carpeted corridor unscathed, and looked up and down rapidly. To my left, the hallway ran back towards the stairs I'd ascended. It was empty. To my right, it ran on through the north wing. And there, right at the end, I just caught sight of movement: Jess being dragged around the corner.

I silently nodded my thanks to fate, which had just saved me from a room-by-room clearance against the clock. That would have been problematic. Thankfully, catching sight of Jess was all I'd needed to avoid it. Had I been a fraction of a second later, I'd have missed her.

But I wasn't, and I hadn't.

I set off at a sprint down the hallway again, back in the chase.

Timing, as always, was everything.

### 80

02:36

The gunshot, when it came, was unexpectedly loud for a small pistol. Curiously, there was no pain. Not even a sensation of the bullet impacting his body.

Reinhold Reid was attempting to process those disparities, when his auditory senses fed him another unexpected conundrum to consider. The whip crack of the shot – reverberating around the courtyard – hadn't come from in front of him. His ears were telling him that it had come from somewhere up in the air above him.

Reid joined the dots in his head, and found that they drew an image of Aron Lyle's drone. That was when he realised that Vaitkus was no longer holding the Glock. Probably because the gangster no longer had very much of a hand left to hold it with.

Reid watched as the Lithuanian's face took on an expression of horrified confusion. The man's eyes flicked from his ruined hand, to Reid, and back again. Even Reid could interpret his non-verbal expression. The question was written in every pore of the man's face: _How the hell?_

Grabbing the injured arm, Vaitkus let out an anguished groan that came from deep within. He backed away a few paces, looking around desperately, then turned suddenly and began to run across the courtyard away from Reid.

Lyle's voice crackled in Reid's headset.

"Seriously Monk? I save your arse and you _still_ have nothing to say? Have you gone, like, full Trappist, now?"

"Thanks," Reid said, unsure if that was the correct response.

"Thorne's in the north wing," Lyle informed him. "Chasing the guy who has Jess. You might wanna go lend a hand. I'm strictly observation-only now I've wasted my one and only bullet on you. I still need to track down Thorne's missing Iranian out the front."

"Uh huh."

The drone's motors changed pitch, then became inaudible as Lyle piloted it away. Reid bent to retrieve his pistol from where it had been blown out of Vaitkus' hand. As he stooped closer in the shadows, he realised that the lightweight weapon had been reduced to junk: damaged beyond repair by Lyle's shot. That meant he had no choice but to retrieve his rifle from where it lay on the exposed gravel.

Before he could launch himself out from behind the van, he saw the main doors to the burning west wing burst open. A small group of figures emerged rapidly into the courtyard, silhouetted against the flickering fire. Reid clocked their tactical gear straight away. One hefted the recognisable long tube of an RPG launcher. Three carried assault rifles with torches and laser pointers, shoulder-mounted and scanning the courtyard.

The fourth silhouette looked much larger than the others, wearing some kind of suit and helmet with something strapped to his back. When Reid caught sight of the hose and the hand-held wand, the speed with which the fire had spread was explained.

The man had a flamethrower.

Reid tensed, as another figure appeared, dragging a female silhouette along with him. She evidently wasn't a willing participant.

Vaitkus had stopped dead, caught in the open, half way across the courtyard. The silhouettes moved away from the burning wing, gradually resolving into individuals as the courtyard lights illuminated them. There was a pause, as if both sides were considering their next move. Then, the man who was holding the girl shouted something.

"Enviarle al infernio!"

Reid didn't understand the words. But their meaning became very obvious, very quickly. A roiling hose of liquid flame leaped out from the suited man's wand and speared towards Vaitkus. The Lithuanian had no chance whatsoever of avoiding the thickened fuel from the flamethrower. The burst only lasted a few seconds, but it engulfed him completely, sticking to his clothing and incinerating it in seconds before moving on to the flesh beneath.

His screams filled the courtyard briefly, until they were buried beneath another deafening rifle shot that reverberated around the courtyard.

Reid saw flamethrower-man collapse onto the gravel.

The Mexicans were professionals. There was no panicked shouting. No disarray. Just a realisation that they were under fire, followed by an instinct-instant decision to head for the only cover available, at the fastest possible pace. That presented Reid with a problem, given that he was already crouching behind the only cover available.

The five Mexicans and their hostage began running straight towards him.

Another booming report filled the air. Another man fell as he ran. It was another impressive shot, but the sniper would never pick off all of the men before they reached Reid's position. He scanned urgently for escape opportunities.

"La Torre!" one of the Mexicans shouted, pointing up at the clock tower. Immediately, weapons were raised, firing up towards the sniper's position.

That was the opportunity Reid needed. With the Mexicans' eyes on the tower, Reid took four rapid strides into the open, which put him in reach of his fallen weapon. Despite his injury he reached down with an impressive fluidity of motion, scooping up the rifle with his left arm whilst changing direction back towards the east wing steps.

A glance across at the approaching Mexicans confirmed that he was in visual range. Two of the men, their eyes drawn by his movement, were looking right at him.

He was outnumbered and outgunned. Firing at them would simply divert more attention towards him. Instead, he darted up the steps of the east wing in a syncopated, unpredictable dance that made targeting impossible. That took skill out of the equation and reduced his chances of being hit to luck alone.

He heard the report of two rifles firing. A few shots began to ping off the stonework around him.

Nobody got lucky.

Reid reached the top of the steps unscathed and hurled himself through the east wing doors, rolling on the floor in a move which sent an explosion of pain bursting from his injured shoulder and sent him skidding across the floor towards a large bearskin rug. He sprang to his feet, fully expecting to hear the tell-tale sound of fully-automatic fire following him. But as he took off down the corridor, ducking beneath the window line, it wasn't rifle fire that he heard.

It was the unmistakeable sound of a rocket propelled grenade, followed a fraction of a second later by a deafening explosion.

### 81

02:38

The chase was still on.

I was cat-and-mousing through a maze of interconnected bedroom suites, dressing rooms and storage spaces. The familiar-looking man with Jess was clearly tiring and I was getting closer, despite the toppled furniture and other items he was throwing in my path. But every time he disappeared through a door, I had to slow again and proceed with caution.

It was all too easy for cat to become mouse.

I followed the man through a connecting bedroom door and saw him skirt around a huge four-poster bed, then drag Jess back out into the hallway. I didn't even bother raising my rifle. As long as they kept moving, there was too much of a risk that I'd hit Jess. The door shut behind them, and I was left to play catch-up again.

I emerged from the bedroom and saw Mr Familiar struggling to keep hold of Jess, who was evidently tiring as well. I was about to call after them, to tell him to give it up, when a huge noise rumbled through the house, sending tremors through the floor beneath my boots. It sounded like some kind of explosion. Whatever it was, I doubted it was good news.

"Lyle, what the hell was that?" I queried, as the man disappeared into yet another room and I gave chase.

"Oh, you know. Just some Mexicans horsing around with a flamethrower and an RPG."

Definitely not good news, then.

"Reid, what's your status?" I asked, hoping that he wasn't caught up in whatever had just happened.

"East wing," Reid reported, to my relief. "Heading to you,"

"You okay?"

"Shoulder injury. Right arm impaired."

That wasn't ideal. Reid was trained to shoot using both left- and right-handed grips, but I knew he favoured the right.

"What are the Mexicans doing?" I asked Lyle.

"Well, they've just toasted Mr Vaitkus and blown your Iranian girl clean off the roof," Lyle responded. "Looks like they're heading your way, now."

"What about Nazari? The other Iranian? Did you find him?"

"He's out the front, using a medkit. Down but not out, bruv."

I reached the door through which Jess had been dragged, and tugged it open.

"If the Lithuanians are finished, who else are we still up against?"

"Flamethrower man's out of the picture. Looks like he took a hit from the clock tower. She took another one down as well before they hit her with the RPG, so we got your Iranian and four other Mexican dudes left. Five if you count the girl that one of them's dragging along."

"Girl?" I asked, feeling a chill.

"Yeah. Definitely not here by choice. Maybe they're trading for Jess."

Logical, but not the way Ramirez worked. He didn't trade anything. He just took whatever he wanted.

"Are they in the building?" I asked,

"Two just entered your wing. Two others and the girl outside in the courtyard. The one with the girl looks like he's in charge."

"Ramirez," I said.

"Nasty-looking dude, whoever he is. Looks like someone carved him up good in the past."

"Yeah," I said. "They did."

I followed Mr Familiar into a smaller hallway, which lay perpendicular to the main corridor. A narrow staircase led up to what I assumed must be the roof terrace. I could hear heavy footsteps ascending, as I approached the foot of the stairs carefully.

"Bro, seriously," Lyle continued. "You had better take care of him before all this is over. He does not look happy."

"I have every intention of doing just that. But right now I need to get Jess. Looks like we're heading up to the roof. Get your eyes up there and track her again."

"On it."

"Reid, I'll need cover up here. If you can get up on the east roof you should get a shot."

"Understood," he replied.

I swung my rifle up the stairs as I rounded the bannister. At the top, Jess's captor was dragging her backwards out of the door which led to the roof. He caught my movement and our eyes met again. Recognition tingled at the back of my brain. I knew those eyes. Even in the dim light, they were coldly familiar. I just couldn't remember from where.

The man ducked out onto the terrace, and I began to head up the stairs in pursuit. As I climbed, I realised something else about his eyes: they held a curious wrongness in them. It was hard to describe, other than a lack of expression. Not in the way that Reid could sometimes look blank, but a darker kind of emptiness.

Whoever the man was, and whatever his intentions, I was now pretty sure I knew at least one thing about him.

He was a long way from sane.

### 82

02:40

Michael Williams burst out onto the roof terrace, gasping for breath as he dragged the girl along with him. Everything was going wrong, and it was all her fault.

Her presence in his house had brought a devil to his door.

He took hold of her roughly and began to steer her forward again. It was hard to even move, because of what was happening inside his head. It felt like a dam had burst, and the madness which he'd contained for so long had erupted blackly into his consciousness. Or maybe, he thought, not a dam. Maybe more like a prison, whose long-confined inmates had broken free of the constraints his medication had wrapped around them, and were once again roaming freely inside his head.

The snickering, whispering voices were back, loud enough for their maleficent words to be comprehensible. The flickering, flitting black shapes were a constant presence, wherever he looked.

Williams paused, still breathing heavily. He adjusted his grip on the girl's arm, before poking the knife into her back to get her moving again. There was still an awareness, beneath the surface of his frantic thoughts, that his brain was simply reacting to the immense stress he was under at that moment. The chill of the night air on his face helped him to force the familiar coldness of rationality into his thoughts.

The voices and visions were not real.

He just had to keep telling himself that.

Looking across to the west wing, Williams saw it was engulfed in flames, crackling and spitting and sending a huge cloud of churning black smoke up into the night sky: enough to obscure the stars completely. As he watched, the downed helicopter finally fell through the burning rafters with an enormous crash, taking most of the wing's roof structure with it. The fire was already spreading to the north wing where he stood. It would consume everything.

There was nowhere left to run.

He heard movement from the stairwell: footsteps ascending rapidly. His brain churned. It was slowed by the need to fend off the voices' constant assault, but it still functioned. He used that remaining mental processing capacity to consider the facts.

There was a strangely familiar devil in black, relentlessly pursuing him. He knew he'd seen that face, somewhere in his past, although he couldn't place where. And he knew it had to be the man whom Ramirez had come to kill; the one whom the Mexican inexplicably thought was working with Williams. He had no idea who the man really was, or what he wanted. But it was clear his pursuer held some value for Ramirez.

And that, he realised, gave him another potential way out.

Grabbing the girl tightly, he held the knife to her neck again and backed away from the stairwell door. As he moved, he reached under his jacket. His hands closed around another metal weight, tucked into the back of his trousers. That was an unexpected gift. He'd found it behind the car in the courtyard, still sticky with the fluids of its deceased Lithuanian owner.

He hated guns. Too much trouble, too easy to trace and too _removed_ from the pleasure. Blades were his thing. They always had been. But for the plan that was forming in his head, he'd need the uniquely persuasive power of a gun barrel.

The girl went limp in his arms again. He tugged her closer to him, pressing her body against his.

"Say nothing or I will hurt you," he whispered.

He could feel the desperate fear inside her. Unlike his own terror, he knew hers was rational. After all, he _would_ hurt her. She _should_ be afraid. Somewhere, buried inside his own body, he could feel the familiar sensations of pleasure which that thought triggered. But he pushed those down as well. His eyes locked on the stairwell door, as he brushed the cold metal of the knife against her skin.

She'd brought this on him.

But she would also buy his way out.

### 83

02:41

I kicked open the door at the top of the staircase and emerged onto the roof terrace with my rifle up.

Smoke from the burning west wing caught in the back of my throat, acridly poisonous. I ignored the irritation, and scanned the roof.

"Drop it, or I'll hurt her."

The voice came from the shadows, beside the nearest of two huge rectangular brick chimney stacks which rose from the flat roof terrace. A man emerged, holding Jess in front of him so I couldn't see his face fully. But that wasn't important. I could see clearly enough that he also had the knife pressed to her neck.

I had to make a decision.

I took a calculated risk.

I ignored his instruction, and looked directly at Jess.

Her face was grimy, her t-shirt torn and covered in dirt. As our eyes met, I could see she was petrified from her ordeal. And yet, through her tears, I also sensed something behind that fear: a spark that suggested there was still some fight left in her. I figured that might prove useful at some point. But only if she knew I wasn't there to harm her.

I held her gaze for a moment. I didn't expect her to recognise me, even if I hadn't been behind the sights of a rifle. It had been a long time since I'd seen her with Katherine.

"I said, drop it," the man repeated, tightening his grip on Jess.

I ignored him again. All part of the mind games. Establishing who was in control. Instead, I took two paces towards them.

"I'll get you out of this, Jess," I said, keeping my voice level and calm. "Your mum sent me to find you."

I watched closely for her reaction, and saw her frown. It was an expression of disbelief. That made sense. The idea of an armed man appearing on the roof to save her was rather beyond the realms of likelihood. A little further detail was needed.

"She thought you'd run away," I continued. "Becky did, too. Although she knew something was up after you warned her about the laptop."

I hoped that little detail would reassure Jess that I was legit. She didn't answer, but I could see her expression change slightly. The strength in her eyes grew a little, as I'd hoped it would. If the time came to act, I needed her on my side.

The man peered out from behind Jess and looked at me curiously. Half of his head was exposed, but I couldn't risk a shot. My left arm was tiring, the pain from my earlier injury making itself known. Even at a short distance, accuracy couldn't be guaranteed. I kept the weapon pointed in his direction, but lowered it to a more comfortable position.

"Do I know you?" he queried.

I shrugged at his question.

"Maybe. That doesn't matter. Let her go, and walk away whilst there's still time."

The man shook his head and began to back away rapidly with Jess, pulling her back across the terrace. I began to follow, but he waved the knife at me.

"Stay where you are," he said.

It looked like he was heading towards the other chimney stack, fifteen yards away across the roof. I had no idea what he thought he was doing. I had him cornered. The only question was, how dangerous an animal he was going to prove to be in that situation.

I let my rifle point down, and made a placatory gesture.

"Okay, I'm not moving. But think about it. I don't want you. I just want Jess."

The man stared back at me, but said nothing as he continued to move backwards, picking his way carefully past the lounge chairs and tables which were arranged on the terrace. He reached the tall brick chimney block and held Jess against it. I didn't like the way he was looking at me. He didn't even look human; there was something insectile about his glare. I shivered, remembering past experiences.

I'd negotiated with madmen before.

It had never ended well.

"Reid, where are you?" I said quietly into my headset.

"Nearly there,"

"Good. He's trapped on the roof with Jess, now. Behind the chimney."

"Woah, I see you. Nice work," Lyle said.

"It isn't over yet, Lyle. This is hostage negotiation now. I _need_ to know who this guy is. He looks familiar somehow, but I can't place him. I need more than a name. I need everything about him – anything I can use."

"Alright, bro. Drone's nearly out of juice anyway. I can autopilot it back to the van and then get on the case again here, with Daisy."

"Do it. I've got eyes on Jess now."

I looked at the man lurking in the shadows in front of me, and prepared to commence negotiations. Despite what I'd told Lyle, any information he obtained would really only be needed for Plan B. Plan A was simply to keep the man engaged long enough for Reid to get into position.

After that, I hoped the talking would come to an abrupt end.

### 84

02:43

Amir Nazari blinked through tears, as he cradled Marjan Khorsandi's bloodied head in his lap.

Her eyes were closed, and he could hear a disembodied voice reciting the shahada, barely audible above the ever-increasing roar of fire which came from the buildings behind him. It took a moment for him to realise that voice was his own, reciting the prayer out of habit and tradition. It offered no comfort to him. No antidote to the utter, consuming emptiness he felt inside.

Khorsandi was dying, and there was nothing he could do for her.

He'd known that, since the explosion from the wing above him had sent her broken body tumbling to the lawn in a hail of shattered masonry and wood. Such a fall would not have been survivable even if she hadn't lost most of her left leg in the blast which had propelled her off the roof. The soft grass around them was slickly soaked in her blood, the life draining from her into the uncaring soil.

Her eyes flickered briefly, meeting his. Her lips moved, as if to say something. She shuddered with a finality he recognised, and her ragged breathing ceased.

Bending down close he kissed her forehead, tasting blood and smoke. He sat for what seemed like an eternity, yet in reality was only a handful of seconds. Then, summoning all his remaining strength, he rose to his feet and wiped the tears from his eyes. He felt oddly calm, other than the sense of gnawing emptiness which was beginning to twist in his gut. On a rational level, he knew the shock of Khorsandi's death had yet to sink in.

He knew he needed to move before it did, for when it hit, it would surely destroy him.

As Nazari began to move, the pain from his own injured arm and leg reasserted itself. Despite his best efforts with the medkit, he was still bleeding heavily from where Thorne had shot him. He'd bound and dressed the wounds as best he could one-handed, but he knew he needed proper medical attention if he was going to last the night.

Retreat was his only realistic chance of survival. He could make it back across the lawn to the cars. Maybe even make it to a hospital. But that would only be a temporary reprieve. Majidi would not forgive his failure. The Deputy Commander never did.

Nazari ignored the vehicles. Instead, he headed for where Khorsandi's rifle had fallen. Picking up the long gun from where it had embedded itself in the soft ground, he examined the weapon. The butt-stock ammo pouch was still attached; a quick check revealed five rounds remaining. Looking down the barrel, there was no obvious sign of damage. He doubted it mattered if the sighting was off. He didn't have Khorsandi's skill in the first place.

Whatever he hit, would be down to Allah's will anyway.

Taking one last look at Khorsandi's broken body, he set off for the archway that would return him to whatever fight was still going on. The calmness soon began to fade, replaced by a fervent desire for Khorsandi not to have died in vain, and a burning need to exact justice on the bastards who'd blown her off the roof. He was hardly in a fit state to ensure that. But her rifle at least gave him a fighting chance.

Nazari peered around the corner of the arch. Arman Soroush's body still lay in the shadows, beyond which was the courtyard bloodbath. He crept along the wall, conscious of the heat emanating from the west wing inferno. He struggled to bring the rifle up, so he could scan the scene with the scope.

He paused, as the sheer impossibility of the task hit him: the knowledge that whatever happened, he was unlikely to survive the night. His body was powered by adrenaline and vengeance alone, and whilst that cocktail felt potent enough right then, he knew its effects would be short-lived. He smiled grimly with a surge of renewed vigour, as he processed the implications of that.

It just meant he had nothing to lose.

### 85

02:44

"It's over," I said. "Let her go, and walk away. I'm not here for you. I'm here for her."

The man sneered at me.

"There is no point in telling lies to a liar. We always know. So let's just accept that if I release her, I'm dead."

I shook my head.

"Whatever your interest in her is, I don't care," I said. "But time is running out, for all of us. If you kill her, you're dead anyway. And if you want to get off this roof then you do not have the luxury of deciding whether to trust me or not. You have no choice."

The man laughed. It was a deeply unpleasant, papery sound.

"I think I do," he said. "You are negotiating from a position of weakness."

"This says otherwise," I countered, indicating to my rifle. But I knew I was losing control. I had nothing on him. No leverage. Not until Reid was in position.

He gave me another contemptuous look.

"Please. You are the hero. You are here to save this lovely creature from my unpleasant embrace, and take her back to her delectable mother. And that, right there, is your weakness."

He moved the knife down, holding it to Jess's chest instead, and placed his other hand over her mouth.

"You are right that I will not kill her. But still... you won't be so heroic if you return her back, _damaged_."

I instinctively brought the rifle back up, but I was rattled by his reference to Katherine. Delectable? Did he know her?

"Uh-uh," the man chided. "You have three seconds."

I didn't move.

"One," the man counted.

I looked into those cold, green eyes. Searching for the truth. Trying to determine if, beneath the madness, he was bluffing.

"Two," he said, smiling nastily.

I saw the knife dig further into Jess's side, prompting a muffled squeal. I saw the truth in his eyes; he _wanted_ to hurt her. Maybe he would anyway, even if I dropped the rifle. But keeping the weapon up was a risk. Not a calculated one: just a risk. One that I couldn't take.

"Three," he hissed, just as I lowered the rifle and let it fall to the floor.

"Reid, I need you, now. Things are not going well," I whispered into my headset.

"Two minutes," came the reply. His voice sounded pained. I realised that climbing up onto the roof with his injury was not going to be easy. I silently willed him to hurry anyway.

The man in front of me was still holding the knife to Jess's side. His face was expressionless. The moment extended; my breath held. It was impossible to know what he was going to do, and for a time it looked like he was going to cut her anyway. Then, slowly, he withdrew the knife. I exhaled, relieved. But it was clear that he wasn't finished. In an unexpectedly deft movement, I saw him pass the knife to his left hand, whilst reaching behind with his right.

That definitely wasn't good. That was when I realised I'd miscalculated, badly. I looked at my discarded rifle, but it was too far away to make a difference. I knew what was coming. Sure enough, when I looked back at him, I was looking down the end of a pistol. The wrong end.

The man eyed me coldly.

"You see. A position of weakness. You did not want her blood on your conscience. So now, I have the girl, and I have you also. That would be the two things that Senor Ramirez down there seems to desire most in the world. Thank you. You have just bought me my ticket out of here."

I looked at him again, searching his face for what his real game was. I was struggling to take in what he'd just said, and its implications. I came to the conclusion that it made no sense; he could not possibly be serious.

Because if he truly thought he could negotiate his way out past Juan Ramirez Espinoza, he was even more insane that I'd imagined.

### 86

02:46

Norbiton, Kingston-Upon-Thames, UK

Aron Lyle chewed on a fingernail in frustration as he stared at the screen in front of him.

He was reviewing the video feed recorded from the drone, trying to find a frame of the man with Jess that would be good enough to use for facial recognition. But the top-down angle, combined with the low-light environment, had so far rendered the footage all-but-useless for that purpose.

He knew he needed something. Daisy had made little headway in unravelling anything useful from the shell company data he'd obtained. It was a seemingly-endless series of dead-ends and circular references.

Lyle got up from the table and paced over to the front window, hoping for inspiration as he looked out on the quiet street. The scene was unchanged from the last time he'd looked out, other than a Bentley which had parked a short distance up the road. Lyle smiled at the owner's decision to leave the valuable car on show rather than garaging it. He doubted the next-door neighbour would be happy, but that was probably the whole point. No point in having it, if you didn't flaunt it.

Lyle looked across the room at Daisy Haines. She was sitting at a second laptop, still scanning figures and making notes. She glanced back at Lyle and he smiled, trying to keep his nervous tension hidden.

"Anything new?" Daisy asked.

Lyle hadn't keyed her in to the radio directly, and had kept the drone's video feed hidden from her once the courtyard had started looking like an abattoir. That had shielded her from the worst of the horrors taking place, but had meant a steady stream of questions for Lyle to answer. Since she'd heard that Reid had been injured, her concern had become more intense.

He shook his head.

"No word. Thorne's still trying to negotiate."

"Is Reinhold really okay?"

Lyle smiled. "Yeah, I told you already. He's got a shoulder injury, but he'll live. Thanks to me, obviously."

"Right..." she said, looking unimpressed.

"Hey, don't look at me like that. I saved your boyfriend's arse," he pointed out.

"He's not my boyfriend," Daisy pointed out crossly.

Lyle shrugged.

"You wish he was. That's kinda the same thing, when it comes to worrying about him."

Daisy glared at him, then he saw a flash of guilt darken her face and her expression softened. She sighed, and offered him an apologetic smile

"I'm sorry. I know I keep asking what's happening all the time. I'm just... you know, not used to this. I'm not like you. I know you've worked with them before, but I haven't. It's hard and I'm scared. Scared that they won't get Jess back. Scared that they won't even get back themselves."

That prompted a pang of guilt for Lyle.

"Wanna know something?" he said gently.

"What?"

"I'm scared too, babe. I just try to hide it by joking around making cheap shots about Reid being your boyfriend."

That at least raised a smile.

"And trying to annoy you by calling you babe all the time."

The smile widened.

"Yeah, well that one's working pretty good."

"Hey, if you're busy being annoyed at me then at least you're not worried about them, right?"

Daisy gave him a curious look.

"Can you stop this, please? You're confusing me," she said.

"Confusing you? How?"

"By saying stuff that makes you sound like you might actually be a decent human being after all."

Lyle grinned.

"Steady on, babe. That sounded dangerously like a compliment."

He sat back down and returned his attention to the job at hand. Acquiring Pierpoint Enterprises' records had been a simple case of piggy-backing on a covert GCHQ connection deep into the Swiss bank which managed the shell company's affairs. With such early success, he'd assumed it would only be a matter of time before those records yielded a lead. Unfortunately, the more Daisy had dug into the figures, the more they'd led into an even deeper web of connected fronts and shell companies.

"This is hopeless. We need a different approach," Daisy sighed. "We don't have the expertise to do this properly."

"I know," Lyle admitted. "I'm just out of ideas."

He'd already launched a parallel investigation using the phone which had led them to Deerhurst Hall. Cross-referencing location history with the phone's contacts had yielded a potentially interesting crossover location on The Strand, in central London. But Lyle had run into a dead end on what lay at that location, and had turned to facial recognition instead.

"Maybe we should dig up some more on Deerhurst Hall. There must be a connection," Daisy suggested.

"It's a dead end. We know that. It just came back to that FRB Holdings company, which is what led us to Pierpoint."

She shook her head.

"I don't mean the legalities of who owns it. I mean, a house like Deerhurst Hall, people are going to take an interest. They'll want to know who lives there, right?"

Lyle shrugged.

"I guess. How does that help?"

Daisy was already tapping away on the laptop keyboard, as she replied.

"I don't know. Maybe it won't help at all. But we know there was a fire there, and we know FRB Holdings bought it after that. Maybe there was some local chatter. You know, rumours about who was moving in."

"Where you gonna find that, though? Even Echelon won't have those sorts of records."

Lyle looked across at her screen as a very dated-looking website appeared with some text scrolling jerkily across the screen.

" _Welcome to Honeywood._ _Kent's sweetest spot,_ " Lyle read from the screen. "Welcome to the nineties, more like. Someone's gonna want their marquee tag back, for sure. How's this helping, babe?"

"Village website. It's where I got some of the background on Deerhurst Hall in the first place. I just never explored any further to see what else was on here."

Lyle saw her click on a low-resolution cartoon newspaper image.

"There you go, look," she said, pointing at a list of links. "Quarterly village newsletter. Loads of them, going back years. There's got to be some mention of the fire in one of them. And maybe who bought it afterwards."

Lyle looked doubtful. Mainly because he felt doubtful. It seemed like a very long shot.

"If this guy's gone to such lengths to cover up his business details, I can't see some village newsletter getting the scoop."

"Never underestimate the curtain-twitchers," Daisy said, clicking on one of the links. Thumbnail images of scanned-in pages filled the screen.

Lyle wasn't convinced, but he had to admit there was no reason not to let Daisy try. The newsletter text wouldn't have been indexed by search engines, as they were scanned as image files. There could well be something new lurking there, that wouldn't have shown up on a normal web search.

If she got lucky, they might get an answer for Thorne before he got tired of negotiating and started taking risks.

"Fine, give it a try then. I'll try again with the phone locations. Whatever's there on The Strand must give us some clues."

Daisy looked at him and smiled.

"First one with the name wins," she said, attempting to sound playful and nearly pulling it off.

"Wins what?" he asked, cautiously playing along.

"You'll never know, because you're going to lose."

Lyle held her gaze for a moment. He knew she was putting on a brave face, and that underneath her attempt at levity she was still worried sick. He just appreciated that she was trying. And he realised then, that he was feeling something for her that was a most unusual sensation for Aron Lyle.

It felt dangerously close to _respect_.

"Challenge accepted," he finally grinned back.

### 87

02:49

Nr. Honeywood, Kent, UK

Time really is a weirdly fluid concept.

I don't mean all that relativistic, Einsteinian stuff where the faster you travel the slower time passes. I mean what happens in your head, when you know there's a timer counting down - the way the seconds seem to tick-tock away at an ever-increasing pace as the deadline approaches.

I stood in the shadow of the first chimney on the roof terrace, feeling that peculiar sense of time accelerating. I was stuck in place, unable to move thanks to the man who'd outwitted me by producing a weapon I'd never expected him to possess. At any moment, a deadline for all of us on the roof was going to arrive, courtesy of Juan Ramirez Espinoza.

There were two Mexicans in the building already. At some point, they'd realise that the only place we could have ended up was the terrace. It was only a matter of time before they arrived and put the _dead_ right into that deadline.

I looked across at the other chimney. Mr Familiar was still holding Jess, alternating between pointing his gun at my head and hers. The knife had disappeared: replaced by a phone which he was clearly attempting to use. I figured he'd be calling Ramirez. At least, he would have been if Lyle hadn't taken down the cell towers again.

I could see the man frowning, holding up the non-functional device.

"Phones are out," I called over, keeping my voice neutral.

He looked over at me. The shadows, the flickering illumination of the burning west wing and the drifting black smoke were all conspiring to prevent me from matching his face to any identity I could recall. I mentally backed away from trying to identify him. Sometimes, when you _stopped_ trying to prise some morsel of memory from the perversely unwilling grasp of your brain, that was when it miraculously popped into your head.

"Get them back on," he instructed.

"I'll need my headset then," I noted. He'd made me discard the comms device after he'd produced the gun, and I'd dropped it on the wooden decking a few yards away.

Even from the distance I was at, I could see the conflict in his face. He didn't want me to be able to communicate, but he needed to talk to Ramirez. That conflict was good. That gave me an advantage. I just had a nasty feeling I wouldn't have time to use it.

The man finally nodded to where I had dropped the communicator.

"Do it."

I stepped out briskly across the terrace to retrieve the headset. I glanced at my discarded rifle as well, but with Jess in her present position the risk was too high. As I slipped the comms device back on, I turned away from the man and headed back to my spot by the chimney.

"Reid, you have a shot yet?" I whispered whilst I was still facing the other way.

"Negative. Can't get an angle until he comes out from behind that chimney."

I realised that Mr Familiar had positioned himself in a way which shielded him from the other wings, just as I had. Lyle's information about the Iranian was still rattling around in my head: _down but not out_. The brickwork next to me provided some useful cover from any long-distance shots from the courtyard, just as the other identical chimney was now doing for Jess's captor.

I couldn't decide whether he'd been fortuitous, or whether he was not as mad as I'd assumed.

As it happened, it looked like that wasn't going to matter either way. Because a sudden sound from behind me – the stairwell door being kicked open – told me that time was up for all of us.

### 88

02:51

Reinhold Reid had made it onto the tiled roof of the east wing by means of an attic window.

Having clambered out, he'd adopted an odd sort of squatting lean against the window's dormer roof, which allowed him to support his rifle on the ridge tile, aiming towards the north wing's roof terrace.

The support from the roof helped to make up for his injury, but it was a risky position. If the Mexicans in the courtyard below moved back any further from where they stood, they'd be able to see him. He'd have been much safer inside. He just needed the extra elevation, to get a clearer angle over the stone balustrade of the north wing's terrace.

Even then, his position did not afford him sight of Jess, or the man holding her. Both remained hidden behind one of the two large brick chimneys around which the terrace had been constructed; only an occasional glimpse of an arm or leg offered any clue as to their presence.

Reid was considering the additional risks involved in moving out across the roof to widen his view, when his thoughts were interrupted. Two Mexicans, dressed in full commando kit, appeared from the stairwell on the opposite end of the roof terrace from where Jess was being held.

He realigned his aim immediately, bringing them into his sights.

They were not easy targets. Their body armour and helmets left a tiny error margin when aiming for a sure-fire way to put them out of the game.

He slowed his breathing, easing the tension out of his muscles. This time it was unexpectedly hard. Much harder than usual, thanks to the pain which was still clawing viciously at his shoulder from where the van's twisted metal had penetrated. He could still feel minute tremors shifting the rifle in his hands. Even at the relatively close range he'd be shooting from, those tiny movements could translate into inches of distance between each bullet's destination and its intended target.

He couldn't afford to miss. Jess Gardiner needed him. Bruce Thorne needed him. _They_ couldn't afford him to miss.

Reid began counting rapidly in his head. Almost immediately, the comforting familiarity of the numbers began to sooth his thoughts. He allowed his overactive mind to wander briefly. He mapped familiar topographies onto the billowing clouds of smoke which still poured from the burning west wing. He calculated that it would take fifty-two Mercedes S-Class cars like the one parked below to fill the courtyard completely, then calculated the order and pattern in which the cars would need to be parked in order to achieve such a feat. He noted that flames now licked from twenty-three of the sixty internally-facing windows which looked onto the courtyard, and calculated that at the current rate of spread the entire house would be consumed within seventeen minutes.

Reid knew the calculations themselves were pointless. But somewhere, on a deeper level, he knew that his brain needed to make them. It was his coping strategy. It always had been, ever since those awkward, fumbling, complicated childhood days.

Gradually, as the numbers and shapes blossomed in his head, the pain receded. As he returned his focus to the task at hand, he found the sensation he'd been searching for: the rifle becoming an extension of his own body. A curious trick of the mind made it seem like he could actually sense the rough surface where the grip rested on the ridge tile; that he could actually feel the gentle tug of the breeze against the smooth curve of the barrel.

He sighted in again on the first of the two Mexicans, and the weapon began to settle properly. Reid noted that the men were not moving. In fact, there appeared to be something of a stand-off taking place. If they held their positions, then at the distances involved he'd barely have to shift the barrel a millimetre between shots.

The world around him faded, taking its patterns and rhythms with it. The pain had gone. The rifle was part of him: he was the weapon.

All that existed in that moment was weapon, and target.

### 89

02:52

The act of surrender is not one which I enjoy.

It's worse, even, than running away and I'm certainly no fan of that. But there are times when it's the only viable option. Sometimes conflict is unwinnable, escape is impossible, and anything else is likely just suicide.

I've always figured that would be something I'd enjoy even less.

As soon as I'd heard the noise of the door behind me, my hands had gone straight up in the air. It had been a visible reduction of my threat level, intended to buy me a greater chance of surviving the following five seconds. Given that I was still alive, my strategy had apparently been successful. How much longer that would remain the case, rather depended on the orders given to the men behind me.

I risked another glance back towards the two Mexicans in full tactical gear – laser-sighted assault rifles held up – who had emerged from the stairwell. I saw the brief look which passed between the two men, their slight frowns suggesting that something about the scene they found in front of them was unexpected.

"Los tenemos," one spoke into his headset. _We have them._

The man surveyed the scene, clearly listening to the response in his ear. I figured that response would be from Ramirez. After a short pause, the man replied.

"Todos ellos." _All of them._

I attempted to process the implications of that, and gave up. Whatever the case, it wasn't good.

"You come with us. Now," the leading Mexican commanded. His eyes flicked between me and the man with Jess, clearly uncertain as to our relationship.

"I don't think so. I suggest you back off or I kill them both," came the response from across the roof.

Mr Familiar – still tantalisingly unidentifiable – had somehow managed to pocket the phone and bring the knife back into play. He was holding it directly to Jess's neck, whilst aiming his gun directly at me. My gut twisted at his apparent naivety. He really seemed to believe that the men in tactical gear could be bargained with, and was playing with Jess's life as a result.

The two Mexicans remained where they were, but both swung their rifles towards him. I knew that Jess's fate – and my own for that matter – depended entirely on the extent to which Juan Ramirez Espinoza wanted us all temporarily alive. The leading Mexican was communicating over his radio again, presumably asking for guidance as to how to proceed.

I figured the response was likely to involve shooting. It usually did, where Ramirez was concerned. At that moment, I was a bystander. I could do nothing.

But there was someone else who could.

"Targets acquired," Reid stated softly in my ear.

I considered the likelihood of the two commandos possessing sufficient skill to take out Jess's captor without injuring her. And, even if they did, whether she'd be any better off as a result. It wasn't an easy decision, to leave her in the hands of a delusional madman.

But sometimes there are no good choices.

"Do it," I whispered.

### 90

02:53

Juan Ramirez Espinoza frowned as he stood in the courtyard.

Jorge Munoz's voice had just cut off unexpectedly in his earpiece, mid-sentence. Ramirez had told him to shoot Williams, then bring down the girl and the other man. Munoz had been registering confirmation of the order, when he had ceased communicating.

That had happened at precisely the same time as another sound had briefly registered in Ramirez's consciousness. It was a sound he'd recognised straight away, with no pause for consideration; a deeply familiar noise that required no processing time to determine its source.

It was the noise made by a bullet exiting a suppressed rifle barrel.

Twice.

Instinct kicked in before emotion. Ramirez had already grabbed María and pulled her closer to him, by the time the double-barrelled surge of rage and fear kicked in. He forced her in front, so her body would shield him from the east wing roof where the sounds had seemed to originate. Angel Hernandez, whom Ramirez suspected was at that point his only surviving man, began to swing up the heavy RPG-7 onto his shoulder as he saw his boss react.

"Munoz?" Ramirez queried over the radio, as he backed away, looking for cover. "Pereira?"

Just as he'd feared, there was no reply. Looking up as he moved, he caught sight of a black-clad figure, crouched down on the slates of the peaked east wing roof, propped against a dormer window. The figure held a weapon aimed across at the roof terrace where his men had been about to secure their prisoners.

"Up there! On the roof!" he hissed to Hernandez, pointing up at the figure.

Hernandez dutifully hefted the launcher, already loaded with another thermobaric grenade, and swung it up towards the target. Ramirez began backing away rapidly, holding María in front of him, mindful not just of the risk from above but also from the back scatter from the rocket should Hernandez manage to launch in time. As he moved, time slowed.

He watched the figure on the roof turning, the gun swinging around and down towards them in slow-motion inexorability.

But before the rooftop man had brought his weapon to bear, another gunshot rang out. It was a very different sound to the first: a heavy-calibre boom which echoed around the courtyard as an explosion of blood and gore burst from Angel Hernandez's left thigh. Ramirez – still backing away – saw his man began to fall backwards, unbalanced by the impact of the shot, as well as the heavy weapon resting on his shoulder.

Ramirez continued to drag María backwards, watching with renewed horror as Hernandez's left leg collapsed, sending his bodyguard into a pivoting descent. The twisting action swung the launcher up and around, no longer pointing at the east wing roof but directly at the north wing right next to them.

An angry _phut_ registered in his ears again – the silenced rifle firing from the rooftop – and Hernandez lost most of the top of his head.

By that time, it was too late to stop the chain of signals already racing through Hernandez's body. Ramirez could see what was going to happen, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. All he could do was start to turn, away from the blast he knew was coming. Hernandez – his body still following the instruction which his destroyed brain had yet to revoke – finally pulled the launcher's trigger as he headed for the ground.

The rocket exploded out of the tube, sending the backsplash blasting into the gravel and knocking his body back upright briefly before it landed in a bloody crumple.

The RPG flew too fast for Ramirez to follow its trail. He didn't need to. Its target was merely yards away. The projectile smashed through an upper floor window in the north wing and detonated inside with devastating explosive force.

The pressure waves blew out every window in the wing and knocked Ramirez and María off their feet in the courtyard. Shards of glass embedded themselves into his back as he fell. A thousand stabs of vicious pain registered briefly, before they were eclipsed by a raging wave of agony as the clothes were burnt from his back by a superheated wave of fire which burst into the courtyard from the explosion.

Ramirez blacked out from the pain momentarily, before coming around to find he'd landed heavily on María, who was whimpering underneath him. He twisted around to look at the north wing, and saw that much of the upper storey had collapsed.

It was the section right beneath the roof terrace where Williams, the girl and his men had been. The ruined section was already aflame, the conflagration beginning to move along the wing, as if drawn to meet the fire already spreading in the opposite direction from the west wing.

Steeling himself for the agony that would surely ensue, Ramirez pushed himself up and slowly rose to his feet. He dragged María up again in front of him, realising that his own body had shielded her from the firestorm. His clothes hung off him in rags, and the pain from his seared back was indescribable. At least, it would have been for most individuals. For Ramirez, there were words which came to mind: words which told a story from ten years past, when his face had been cleaved in two.

He'd battled unimaginable pain back then, and won. Against the odds, he'd escaped his assassin and survived, to rebuild his empire and rise again even stronger. He could do the same again. Anger, he had discovered, was a remarkable anaesthetic.

Powered by that same vicious determination, he began to stagger across the courtyard with María in tow, looking for a way out. As he did so, he looked back at the burning ruins, regretting that his opportunity to avenge the terrible events in Nuevo Laredo had been lost. But then, through one of the glassless windows he caught a flicker of movement: a dark figure moving between the flames.

He frowned at the sight. It was improbable that anyone on the roof had survived. But then, his own survival a decade before had been equally unlikely. He grunted, and changed direction, pushing María back towards the north wing entrance whilst reaching for his hunting knife.

Thoughts of escape would have to wait a while longer.

There was unfinished business to attend to first.

### 91

02:54

I staggered through the burning wreckage of the north wing's top floor, desperately trying to find a way out through the flames which seemed to be everywhere. The heat around me was intense. I knew it would soon be lethally so. If I didn't get out of there very quickly, my chances of survival were slim.

Still, I was lucky to even have a chance at all.

The huge weight of the chimney had shielded me from the blast when it had hit. And whilst the solid brick structure hadn't prevented the roof from collapsing around it – dumping me down into what remained of a bedroom suite – I'd managed to escape serious injury as I slid into the inferno below. I was battered and bruised, but still mobile enough to delay the process of being roasted alive.

The ringing in my ears began to subside, as I struggled past an upended, burning wardrobe. I became aware of a scratchy voice in my ear.

"Thorne? Thorne, come in," Reid was repeating carefully.

"Here," I said, gasping for breath as I looked out through a gaping ragged hole which had once been a window, trying to orient myself. I could see the courtyard, which at least gave me a direction to head.

Lyle's voice crackled in my headset as well.

"Thorne? You okay, dude?"

"I'm alive, which is somewhat unexpected in the circumstances. Reid, what the hell _was_ that?" I asked, as I pressed on through the smoke.

Reid calmly gave me a run-down of the events which had led to the explosion, in his uniquely succinct way.

"Jesus. What about Jess? Is she..." I asked, not able to finish the question.

"Still on the roof, with the other guy," Reid said.

I looked up at the tangled mess of beams above me, beyond which was the open night sky.

"What? How the hell? The roof has _collapsed_."

"The other chimney shielded them. There is a small section at the end still holding up. He is shouting and screaming. I... don't think he is of sound mind."

I smiled grimly at Reid's understatement, as I clambered over a pile of plasterboard rubble into what would have been the next room along. Further from the epicentre of the blast, the flames grew less intense, although I knew that wouldn't be for long.

"He's not," I agreed. "Can you take him out?"

"Negative. Lost my rifle in the blast."

I realised I'd forgotten to enquire after Reid's welfare.

"Sorry. Are you hurt?" I asked, still trying to pick my way through the debris in a consistent direction.

"No more than I was before."

"Alright, good. Get over as close as you can, see if you can talk sense into him."

Reid didn't answer straight away. I squeezed between two collapsed beams. They were blackened from the explosion, but not yet burning.

"I am not a negotiator," Reid said carefully.

Lyle, who was still listening in, snorted.

"Yeah, negotiators tend to, you know, actually _talk_ ..."

I ignored Lyle, although he probably did have a point.

"Reinhold, I know that. But Jess needs to see a friendly face, somewhere. Make sure she knows you're with me, and that we'll get her out of this."

"Uh huh," Reid acknowledged.

"El oh el at the idea of Monk as a friendly face," Lyle snarked. "Seriously, bro, that's gotta be, like, last resort right? Can you not get up there yourself?"

I knew that I could scramble back up one of the collapsed beams in front of me and get to the remaining section of roof where Jess was being held. But I was unarmed, and Reid's information told me that Ramirez and the remaining Iranian were still in play. That made three separate problems. All of them needing an urgent solution before I could attempt another rescue.

"I've got a few problems that need sorting, first. And you need to get me that name."

"Yeah, bro, I know. We're still on it. Uh... hang on..."

Lyle swore.

"What?" I asked.

"Looks like the first 999 call has hit. Your big ol' smoke signal must be visible from outside the phone dead zone now."

"ETA?"

"First responders will be from Orpington. You got fifteen, twenty tops."

"Roger that."

Make that four problems, I thought.

I pushed past an upturned bedstead, and was greeted by the sight of a crumpled, blackened body. It was one of the Mexicans Reid had shot, complete with an assault rifle still slung around the body's neck. I tugged the weapon free. Its weight in my hands felt good.

That was Problem One solved, at least.

As masonry had fallen from above, some sections of the internal flooring had collapsed. I peered through the broken boards, past a tangle of pipes and cables. I could just make out a large dining hall below. I could see flames down there as well. I realised that the west wing fire must have spread through already. Pretty soon the whole place would be burning.

Seeing the dining hall, however, gave me my location. Coughing hard, I scrambled through the scattered, smouldering detritus and headed in the direction I now knew I needed to take. After battling through another wrecked room, I finally exited into the remains of the long hallway and reached the staircase which I'd ascended earlier.

I began to head down cautiously, holding the unfamiliar Mexican weapon up and scanning the wood-panelled lobby below. I reached the bottom of the stairs, and was considering my next move when the door to the courtyard suddenly burst open and a figure appeared in the doorway.

Problem Two had arrived a little earlier than I'd been expecting.

### 92

02:56

Amir Nazari leaned heavily against the archway wall, looking out on the scene of devastation he'd unintentionally wrought.

He could feel his strength beginning to ebb as he struggled to reload the rifle one-handed, but he knew he had to continue. His first shot had resulted in disaster, and he'd nearly given up there and then. But after the explosion, he'd seen movement in the north wing and hope had arisen again: Thorne might yet be alive.

He had to get over there to find out.

Nazari staggered out into the courtyard, just in time to see one of the men from the helicopter disappearing into the north wing. He pressed on, bringing the rifle sights up and scanning the building as he moved. Through one of the windows which flanked the doorway, he could see the ragged-looking man holding a girl in front of him, a knife to her neck.

And there, standing beyond them at the bottom of a staircase, was Bruce Thorne. The sight filled Nazari with renewed vigour. It looked like some kind of standoff, with Thorne aiming a rifle at the other man. That would keep the attention of both men away from Nazari as he crossed the courtyard.

He kept moving, one foot in front of the other, each step bringing him closer. The pain from his wounds was excruciating. The rifle wavered in his arms. He could barely keep it raised, let alone steady. But as he closed the distance to an unmissable range, he knew accuracy wouldn't be an issue.

He just had to stay alive long enough to pull the trigger.

### 93

02:57

"I wait many years for this day, to meet you again," Juan Ramirez spat, looking right at me. "Drop the gun, or I kill her."

I recognised the girl he was holding in front of him. It was the receptionist I'd let go from Streatham. Part of me felt a sadness that my act of mercy had come to nothing for her. Another part felt like I'd already known the inevitability of her fate.

I shook my head, minutely.

"Not happening," I said.

The clock was ticking. Another beam cracked and collapsed on the floor above. Off to the side, flames licked around the double doors which led to the dining hall. All around us, the heat was growing ever more intense. And Jess Gardiner was still up on the roof: trapped on top of a burning building with a psychopath holding a knife to her throat.

I could barely imagine what would be going through her head right then. Hope had been unexpectedly thrust upon her, only to be crushed, as her erstwhile rescuer was cast down into the flames.

I had to get back up on that roof.

That meant I had a tough decision to make in the hallway.

One that was truly a matter of life and death.

"You think I joke, eh?" Ramirez said, clearly annoyed by my lack of action. He drew the knife along the girl's neck harshly enough to draw blood.

As she cried out, I remembered her name. _María_. She looked right at me, as I aimed the rifle. In her eyes, I didn't see the desperate pleading I expected to find. She wasn't begging me to spare her.

That meant she knew what I knew.

Whatever I did, she was dead anyway.

My finger gently rested on the trigger, the decision looming ever closer. It would not be the first time I'd had to make such a choice. I summoned all of my strength.

"I say drop it now!" Ramirez snarled.

I knew there was an easy option: to release the darkness inside me, and cede control so that it could pull the trigger, not me. I could hear the flat, emotionless tones of its voice in my head, calmly urging me to release it. But I couldn't take the risk. I feared its capability. I feared being unable to get it back in its box, once its work was done.

"You no want her to die. I see it in your eyes," Ramirez stated.

He was right. But that was of no consequence. Whatever I did, María was dead anyway. I adjusted my aim. The crosshairs settled on María's chest. I was barely twenty yards away. At that distance, the bullets would tear straight through her and right into Ramirez's heart.

I repeated the mantra in my head, as my finger tightened on the trigger.

Whatever I did, she was dead anyway.

My finger squeezed even tighter. I saw the recognition dawn in her eyes.

Whatever I did, she was dead anyway.

Her mouth moved, whispering a prayer. I closed my eyes.

Whatever I did, she was...

The trigger finally pulled closed, with a click.

And then...

Nothing.

### 94

02:58

Juan Ramirez Espinoza peered out from behind María's head. Something unexpected had just occurred. Two things, in fact.

First, the man in front of him had actually pulled the trigger, intending to shoot through the girl. That had been unexpected for Ramirez. Second, the man's weapon had jammed completely. That had been unexpected for both of them.

Ramirez hadn't survived for as long as he had without being able to take advantage of the unexpected.

He calculated fast, preparing to launch himself out from behind María. The man's rifle was useless. Even in his injured state, Ramirez could close the distance and be on him with the knife in a matter of seconds, or he could toss one of the grenades that were still pinned to the remains of his belt and then dive out of the door behind him.

He began to push María away, when there was a third unexpected event: an explosion of blood, brain and bone just inches from his face, which shocked him into rigidity. As he stood, frozen momentarily, he realised that he was left holding a corpse.

His brain slowly began to catch up. The booming report from the courtyard outside. The shattered window cascading down behind him. The shocked look of the man still standing at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the jammed rifle. All of them unexpected.

All of them pointing to a new, deadly threat behind him.

Ramirez had to move quickly.

The new threat needed dealing with first, even if it meant turning his back on the man he'd come to capture. He released María's body, then spun on his feet. His fingers found one of the grenades and tugged it free. Already, he was scanning rapidly out of the window to locate his target, still ignoring the agonising pain from his burned back and legs.

He didn't have to look far.

Another man – also clearly injured – was illuminated by the fire which nearly surrounded the courtyard. He was struggling to reload a long-barreled gun, barely twenty yards away across the gravel. Even with his own injuries, Ramirez knew he could easily land the grenade at the man's feet and end the threat there and then.

Without a further thought, he tossed the explosive device through the glassless window, then spun back to face the man at the bottom of the stairs. The man whom he'd come to capture; to toy with, and torture at his leisure. The man who had wrought such damage on his face, and nearly finished him all those years ago. A fresh burst of anger coursed through him as he realised that there would be no capture, and no torture. Those outcomes were simply unachievable in his present state.

Ramirez looked across the hallway and grunted, as he reached for another grenade.

He'd just have to settle for blowing the man apart.

### 95

02:59

It took me longer than it should have done to catch up with the events unfolding in front of me.

Much longer.

I figured that was down to the complex unravelling of emotions brought on by María's sickeningly violent demise. I hadn't killed her, yet she was still dead. That knowledge had triggered a confusing maelstrom of guilt, shock, relief and sadness which had roiled and rampaged through my head.

After a few seconds, the emotions had been crushed. My conditioning won. It always did. But as those seconds had ticked by, I hadn't moved from my position at the bottom of the stairs. I still hadn't re-calculated the next part of the ever-evolving plan.

I knew, as always, that inaction was going to cost me.

I just didn't yet know how much.

By the time I finally began to react, Ramirez had already tossed one grenade out of the window. He was well on his way to readying a second one from his belt. There was only one direction that was likely to be heading.

I hurled the useless rifle at him, forcing him to duck out of its way. That bought me a little more time, as I desperately ran through the options in my head.

That didn't take long, mainly because there weren't many options. Only two, in fact: attack or defend. Which, for me, meant only one. The only question remaining was what form my attack would take. A rapid scan of my surroundings yielded an interesting answer, mounted on the wood-panelled wall next to a painting of some ancient Nordic battle.

I moved swiftly, to make up for time lost.

Within seconds I was holding what appeared to be a replica Viking battle axe. The irony was not lost on me, given how my last meeting with the Mexican had played out. The blade which had cleaved his face then had been another axe blade; one of _El Carnicero Loco_ 's own tools of dismemberment, misappropriated and turned upon its owner.

Fate could be perversely symmetrical at times.

I glanced again at Ramirez – his arm already drawing back ready to send the grenade flying towards me – and considered something else, as well. Something which had rather more significant implications for my immediate future.

I had moved swiftly.

But I hadn't moved swiftly enough.

### 96

02:59

Time slowed to a crawl for Amir Nazari, as he stared at the grenade which had just slithered to his feet across the gravel.

An initial burst of momentary panic subsided quickly, crushed by the certain knowledge that in his injured state, the chances of escaping the imminent blast were zero. The shock faded rapidly into resignation, triggering a flurry of accelerated thought as his brain made the most of what it now knew would be its final seconds of consciousness.

Random, scattered images from thirty-two years of life flickered in front of his eyes. He pieced them together in a fragmented narrative which, he now understood, would not end in glory. There would be no honour in his death, only failure. He'd failed to secure his mission objective. He'd failed to protect his team. He'd failed to ensure that their deaths had not been in vain. And, to cap it all, his last significant act on this earth would be recorded as the killing of an innocent young girl, after his target had moved at the last second and the shot had gone wide.

Nazari's legs gave way beneath him, and he collapsed forward onto the grenade. The cold metal skin of the device pressed into his chest, sending the cinematic reel of memories flitting away and bringing him back to the harsh reality of his fate.

Detonation was only moments away.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture Marjan Khorsandi for one last time, wanting her face to be the last thing he imagined. But her beauty eluded him and his mind filled instead with visions of the girl he'd just killed.

Another beat passed. Still no explosion came. Nazari began to shudder as he found his lips forming the familiar words of the shahada once again. The words were desperate and fearful, not comforting. But he clung to them anyway.

They were all he had left.

When the blast finally arrived a moment later, it was with cruelly heretical timing. His prayer was left unfinished, and in one final twist of failure, Amir Nazari's last words on this earth were rendered from devotion into blasphemy:

There is no God...

### 97

03:00

Got the time.

From out of nowhere and across the decades, the old Joe Jackson song suddenly filled my head. It raised a grim smile. My memory was screwed up from all the time I'd spent as other people. The darkness also had a weird habit of throwing me random sights and sounds from years gone by at the most inopportune of moments, in some bizarre side-effect of its presence in my head.

Sometimes, however, it got it right. Sometimes, it seemed like it had a sense of humour all of its own.

I was already moving, in time with that up-beat tempo in my head, when I heard the explosion outside. My only reaction was that it was curiously muffled. I'd heard plenty of M67 grenades go off, and the one in the courtyard had clearly been suppressed by something. Or some _one_. But that was the extent of my interest in the blast. I had other, more pressing matters to address. Such as the other grenade which was, at that moment, bouncing over the hallway floor towards me.

The song in my head faded, as all of my attention suddenly focused on the explosive device that was heading in my direction. If I screwed up the equation which lay behind the next three seconds of action, it would be the last mistake I ever made.

I was dimly aware of Ramirez in my peripheral vision, turning and running for the hallway entrance door. I had enough mental processing power left to realise that he passed in front of the shattered courtyard window just as an unidentified object was propelled through the aperture at great speed from the blast outside.

I didn't see exactly what it was. By then I was too busy swinging the axe down like a hockey stick, bringing the heavy metal blade around in an arc that was intended to connect flat-side-on with the still-moving grenade in front of me. The stitches in my injured left arm tore with a bright burst of pain. But I powered on through regardless, solving the first part of my survival equation with a metal-on-metal clang.

My eyes tracked the gourd-like object as it spun erratically on a trajectory which led towards the burning dining hall. That was the second, more difficult part of the equation solved. I saw the grenade disappear through the double doorway into the flames of the hall beyond. A moment later, as momentum carried me past the hall entrance and put a wall safely between me and the blast, the grenade exploded harmlessly in the inferno. Equation complete.

Joe Jackson came back, at full volume in my head. I had another man to see.

Breathing hard, I readied the axe again and prepared to chase down Ramirez. But as I looked across the hall, I realised that he hadn't even reached the door. He was on his knees, groaning in pain and clutching at his head. The whole of his back was horrifically burned, and I wondered at what type of man could sustain such an injury and still function. But it wasn't the burns which had brought him to his knees.

It was Amir Nazari.

I stared, as Nazari's sightless eyes looked on from the disembodied head which lay a few feet away on the floor. The grenade had clearly torn the Iranian's body apart, sending his head – with a large chunk of cervical spine attached – careering in through the window to collide with Ramirez, in one last act of revenge from beyond the grave.

I didn't have time to be shocked, or sickened. I was already moving again, skirting around María's bloody remains, ready to finish what Nazari had started. As I approached, Ramirez pulled a knife from his ruined belt, as he pushed himself back to his feet.

He roared at me wordlessly. It was the sound of pure, inchoate rage.

I suspected he was used to people being frightened by such a noise. It was, after all, rather a disturbing display. For me, it had the opposite effect. Angry opponents are easier targets. Blinded by fury, they make mistakes. They scare me a lot less than those who remain cold, calm and calculating.

In my head, Joe Jackson suggested that Ramirez should shut up and get out of my way. I disagreed. That wouldn't help him. Nothing would. As the Mexican's black eyes locked with my own, I continued my approach in silence.

I had nothing to say.

He roared again, and lunged madly at me with the knife, as soon as I came within range. His movements were slow and cumbersome, his horrific burns clearly restricting his attack. I sidestepped the thrust easily, swinging the axe down on his outstretched arm before dancing away neatly.

The blade was not sharp. His forearm was not severed. But the force of the blow was enough to snap the bones completely and send the knife clattering to the floor. He spun around, howling like an injured dog. But the look he gave me wasn't that of an animal. It was pure, human hate.

His emotions did not interest me.

I was already stepping in towards him, swinging the axe directly at his head. He raised his other arm in a futile gesture of defence and the blade smashed into it, sending him staggering across the hall flailing what were now two broken arms. A small part of me was impressed that he had managed to stay up on his feet. A larger part of me didn't care. I knew he wouldn't be upright for much longer.

Got the time...

I closed the distance between us again and swung what I knew would be the final blow. The darkness in my head would have toyed with him for longer; I had to make a conscious effort to aim for the kill. But even as the axe blade headed towards Ramirez on its horizontal termination trajectory, the darkness reached out from its box, tugging my aim downward, away from his forehead.

It would still be a guaranteed kill. Just not quite as instant as the skull-splitting blow I'd originally lined up.

The blade hit the Mexican's neck with a sickening, fleshy snap. Had it been sharpened, the blow would have decapitated him. As it was, the blunt edge smashed into his larynx, destroying the cartilage behind and crushing his airway into oblivion. The force of the blow finally knocked him off his feet, onto his back.

I stepped across and stood over him, watching coldly. His eyes widened, as his brain registered the certainty of his imminent demise. Breathing, for him, was no longer possible.

There were no death-rattles. No noise at all. I recalled _La Pija_ the torturer and his noisy, laboured end. This time was different. This time, the damage I'd wrought was so complete that Juan Ramirez Espinoza would pass silently to hell. But then, as if reading my thoughts, his body began to shake and jerk in its final throes, setting his boots noisily tapping out a funereal fandango on the wooden floor.

I lost interest then, certain that – at last – the job was finished. I turned away, my attention already elsewhere.

Joe Jackson faded out in my head with a final reminder that I had to go. The Iranians were finished. The Lithuanians extinct. The Mexicans all out. But the clock was still ticking. The authorities were on their way. I had one last problem to solve: how to get back up through the inferno onto the roof before it collapsed, so I could finally pull Jess Gardiner out of her nightmare. I looked up at the staircase, where the fire had now spread to the top.

It was impassable. Impossible.

I glanced outside at the courtyard, considering other options. A route up from the stable block seemed to be the only choice, until I caught sight of a slumped body on the gravel and an alternative answer presented itself.

I hurried out of the door, heading across the courtyard.

"Reid, what's happening up there? Have you made contact?" I asked.

"Affirmative. He says they're going to burn together."

I shuddered slightly, recalling the madness in the man's eyes. His threat was believable.

"Alright. Just keep him talking. I need five minutes."

"What's the plan?" Reid asked.

For once, I didn't have one.

"I don't know. But I'm getting back up there, to start with. After that, I'll have to play it by ear."

### 98

03:05

Norbiton, Kingston-Upon-Thames, UK

"Aaannd... You lose."

Aron Lyle blinked in surprise and looked across at Daisy Haines, who was grinning at him triumphantly.

"You got a name? No way," Lyle said, shaking his head.

His only progress had been to identify the location on The Strand as something called The Etheridge Club, about which he'd found the grand sum of zero further information. Even so, he couldn't believe Daisy had beaten him to the punch with her village website.

"Yes way," Daisy answered, still smiling. "Listen to this from the archive," she said, and began reading from her screen.

"Deerhurst Hall's reclusive new occupant is rumoured to be controversial property tycoon Michael John Williams. Local resident Muriel Waters caught sight of her new neighbour several times whilst walking her dogs on the estate, and recognised him from a newspaper article..."

"Questionable witness is questionable," Lyle interjected, shaking his head.

"Hold on," she said, impatiently and carried on reading. "Parish Councillor Raymond Cox contacted the property developer, who confirmed only that he was the new owner and declined to answer further questions, including Councillor Cox's queries about the ongoing remodelling of the Hall's north wing."

"Alright, nice work. What do you win?"

Daisy smiled. "I'll decide later. Probably something that involves you not calling me _babe_ , ever again."

"Seems fair," Lyle admitted. "But a name won't be enough for Thorne. He'll need to know who exactly Michael John Williams is, what he does and anything else that could be used as leverage. Let's get doxing. You Google him and I'll... use my own sources."

Lyle turned back to his screen and cancelled his facial recognition search. He fed the name into some of his other databases and began scanning the results. It didn't take him long to put together enough detail to show that Williams was a very unpleasant character.

The wind gusted outside momentarily, followed by a dull thud from somewhere at the rear of the house.

"Was that a tile coming off the roof?" he asked.

Daisy ignored him completely. She was completely rapt by something on the screen in front of her.

"Babe?" he queried.

"Oh. My. God," she murmured, still not looking away from the screen. "You are not going to believe this. Williams nearly died, years ago. Some school trip accident in Wales. There's a scan of an old newspaper here with his picture."

"Babe, seriously. Thorne ain't gonna care about..."

Daisy shushed him.

"Listen to who else is in the picture, though."

She began reading the caption underneath the image.

"Lucky sixth-former Michael Williams, pictured here with his two rescuers. Katie Fossett and..."

Daisy paused, shaking her head.

"This is just... unreal."

"What? And who?" Lyle prompted, getting up and going to look at her screen to see for himself.

"And _Bruce Thorne_ ," Daisy said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Lyle stared uncomprehendingly at the image Daisy had found. It took several seconds to realise he was looking at a very young Thorne. The boy was almost unrecognisable from the man Lyle knew. It was the eyes, he thought. The teenage Thorne almost looked _normal_ , as he stood next to a very familiar-looking girl.

"What the _hell_? Is that Jess?" Lyle asked, knowing that it couldn't possibly be. The photo dated back twenty-five years.

"Obviously not," Daisy pointed out. "It's her mother, Katherine. I saw her this morning. She does look just like her, doesn't she?"

Lyle blinked, and nodded mutely. He stared at the picture for a moment longer, struggling to process what else he was seeing. Something wasn't adding up. Thorne wasn't the only one who was barely recognisable. Williams looked completely different, too. Lyle flicked back to the images from the drone feed on his screen, and realised what it was.

"Right. I knew something was off. Looks like Williams has had a serious nose job since his younger days."

Daisy looked over at the image and nodded.

"That explains why Mr Thorne hasn't recognised him already, I guess."

"Yeah, prolly. He did say the guy looked familiar. Not surprised he didn't clock though, without that honking great thing on his face."

Daisy nodded, then glanced behind her as another noise came from the back of the house. Lyle didn't look up. He was too busy scanning through the text of the article.

"He actually _saved_ this Williams dude back then? Man, that's gonna burn hard when Thorne finds out it's him."

Daisy looked down, shaking her head again, clearly still in shock.

"This is all too weird. You need to tell him, Lyle. Like, now."

Lyle nodded, and reached for the call button on his radio headset. He was glad he didn't have to tell Thorne face to face. Although the former assassin didn't usually kill the messenger, there was always a first time for everything.

Still, he thought, however bad it might be for him when he shared their discovery with Thorne, one thing was certain.

It would be a whole lot worse for Michael Williams.

### 99

03:09

Nr. Honeywood, Kent, UK

If you were to ask me about my least favourite way to leave this mortal coil, there's a pretty good chance my answer would involve fire.

There's something uniquely horrific about the idea of being burned to death. Maybe it's the way that fire slowly strips away the non-essential elements first and leaves you fully conscious. Perhaps it's because your brain – protected in its thick, flameproof skull – remains able to process the full horror of your situation until the very end. Or maybe it's more personal for me. Maybe it's because some of the unwanted memories which bubble up from the times when I invoked the darkness in my head, are of the charred and blackened bodies it left behind.

That knowledge hadn't been enough to stop me from heading back into the burning north wing. This time, I wasn't trying to escape; I was pushing deeper into the inferno, seeking out the collapsed beam I'd seen on my way down. That would be my route back up to what remained of the roof, where I was intending to make an unexpected entrance.

I coughed heavily as I lumbered on through the wreckage. The smoke would have killed me already had the roof not collapsed. As it was, the noxious fumes billowed freely up into the night sky. The flames and heat were being held off, too, by the flameproof suit which I'd dragged off one of the dead Mexicans in the courtyard. That had seemed like a genius idea, until I'd discovered that the sniper round which had killed the man had also utterly destroyed the helmet and ripped a huge tear in the back of the suit.

Some jury-rigged improvisation had ensued, in the form of a thick goatskin rug – with the unfortunate animal's glass-eyed head still attached – draped over my back. I'd found it in the north wing's hallway. As a floor-covering, it was a horrific-looking thing. But as a makeshift shawl with its head perched on top of my own, it did at least cover the worst of the suit's damage.

My eyes were streaming and my lungs burning, but I battled on with single-minded vigour until I found what I was looking for. A thick joist had been snapped by the explosion: one end dropping to form a narrow ramp up to the last remnant of the roof. I clambered up the unsteady wooden beam, using the splintered remains of its cross-members to pull myself up.

Gradually, as I rose into the night air, the heat around me became less intense. Finally, my head rose above the level of the roof and I could make out the stone balustrade ten yards away, marking the perimeter. That was where Jess and her captor were still standing, with their backs to me.

The man had his arm around her neck. I could hear him shouting at Reid, who was on the opposite roof. With the gaping inferno behind the man and the edge of the roof in front, he had nowhere to go.

He didn't seem to care.

I glanced around, considering my next move. Sticking out from the tattered edge of the roof was the broken stump of another joist. A foot-long steel bolt protruded from it vertically, forming a perfect hand-hold. I reached up and used it to haul myself onto the rooftop surface.

I crouched down on the asphalt, knowing that every time the smoke billowed in a different direction I was exposed. I was relying on Reid to keep the man's attention until I had a plan. As I considered how to tackle an armed madman with a hostage, whilst wearing an unwieldy flame-retardant suit and a large goat-skin rug, Lyle's voice crackled over the radio.

"Thorne? Uh, we got the name..." he said, before pausing.

I could tell from the delay that he was reluctant to tell me who I was looking at right then. I didn't like the implications of that. It sent my brain spinning off on a wild tangent, starting to make connections that had somehow eluded me up until that point. Connections which, perhaps, some subconscious part of me had been trying to suppress because they were so abhorrent.

I stared at the man in front of me, catching a glimpse of his face in profile. I stood up, getting ready to move. I could feel the recognition building. When Lyle spoke again, I could barely hear him.

"Uh... it's some dude you went to school with, bro,"

The connections finally slipped into place.

It was one of those bizarre deja-vu moments, when I knew exactly what Lyle was going to say just a fraction of a second before he did. The voice in my head said the name, in unison.

Michael John Williams.

"Thorne? You get that? Dude's had plastic surgery. Got himself a new nose, so you may not recognise him."

My brain registered that fact as the reason why I'd had trouble matching his face but I said nothing. Lyle began to fill in the details of Michael Williams' life. It was not a pleasant tale, but I remained silent. Faced with information that was just so impossibly unexpected, I simply froze.

I briefly recalled Carlos, the Mexican guard in Streatham, and his reaction to being confronted with a naked gun-toting man in the reception area. I was similarly unable to move. The only difference was, in my case it wasn't what I was seeing in front of me that had locked me into immobility.

It was what I was remembering.

Michael Williams _. Psycho Miko_. The freak with the beak. Williams the conk-eror. The boy who had, throughout my time at school, been almost universally loathed, reviled and – as we'd got older – feared. Especially by the girls. But those recollections only scratched the surface. I knew, beneath them, lay something much worse. Much more personal.

Because the man whom I was planning to kill was a man whose life I'd once saved.

It was unthinkable that Williams could be there, in front of me, holding Katherine's daughter hostage. Just inconceivable. So much so, that the paralysis moved past momentary shock and became something altogether more dangerous. I still couldn't move, even as the flames behind intensified, licking again at the goatskin draped over my back. My body had fallen back to its most basic, unconscious actions, and no more.

I could breathe, and stay upright, but that was about it.

The man I now recognised as Williams yelled back at something Reid said, and lifted Jess off her feet. She twisted around as he did so and caught sight of me. She squealed in shock, and I saw Williams frown. He'd caught the direction of her gaze.

Still, I couldn't move.

I was reduced to the role of spectator, as Michael Williams – once again holding the blade to Jess Gardiner's throat – began to turn towards me.

### 100

03:13

Williams had already seen the look in the girl's eyes, even before she squealed in surprise.

Someone was behind him. Or some _thing_.

A tiny voice cut through the cacophony of madness in his head, telling him that was impossible. The entire roof had collapsed, leaving nothing but a blazing inferno behind. There could be nobody there. He knew he shouldn't take his eyes off the man on the other roof, but the compunction to look was too strong. Other voices in his head were urging him on, painting pictures of all the horrors which could be lurking behind him at that very moment.

He began to turn. He had to see.

That was when the pain came, from out of nowhere.

It momentarily eclipsed conscious thought, spasms of agony spreading out from his groin as a wave of nausea nearly felled him. He groaned, frozen in place, as his mental processes came crashing back online to tell him the source of the pain. The girl had taken advantage of his distraction, wriggled free and kneed him hard, between the legs. Through his blurred vision, he watched her dash away towards the edge of the roof. The other man called to her: something about using the drainpipe.

Then, she hooked her leg over the stone balustrade and disappeared from view. Just like that, she was gone. This time, he was sure it would be for good.

Williams doubled over and let out a guttural howl of anguish. The harsh physicality of the pain between his legs had temporarily silenced the voices in his head, allowing rational thought to prevail. His plan to use the girl to keep his pursuers at bay until the police arrived was ruined. It wouldn't matter that his Etheridge Club connections could buy his freedom after he was arrested. Without his hostage, he'd be dead before anyone could even read him his rights.

He found himself shaking with rage and fear. Experiencing such intense emotions was a deeply unpleasant sensation. His cold, calculating mind seemed to be unravelling; beset by screeching demons and snickering, mocking voices which stirred up... _feelings_ , that he'd long been able to suppress. But underneath the cacophony, what remained of his sanity was telling him he needed to get off the roof.

He looked around desperately, seeking another way down. As he did so, he turned back to face the massive hole which was spewing smoke and flame. That was when the deepest, darkest chill took hold of him. Because, impossibly, a figure really was standing on the edge of the inferno.

Blinking again, and again, Williams tried to rid his mind of what was surely an abomination. The figure was nothing more than a dark silhouette, emerging from the roiling smoke and backlit by the flickering flames. His eyes traced the outline of the silhouette. Its head seemed horribly misshapen, but one thing was clear.

It had devilish, caprine horns.

No matter how hard he tried to banish it, the inhuman shape remained in his vision. It had to be a product of his madness. Had to be. But somehow, the figure looked different from his previous demonic apparitions: it looked _real_. No matter how many times he blinked or looked away, it remained standing, facing him.

Clutching the knife, a furious anger began to build. It was a strangely rational fury. He was raging at his own madness, at the viciously duplicitous psychosis which was threatening to destroy every last thing that he had built.

It was time to end it.

Time to show that he was still in control.

Time to gather up those voices and lock them back up in their prison, by proving their trickery was false. And with the cold metal in his hand, Williams had the perfect way to find that proof.

He drew back his arm, and prepared to hurl the knife.

He'd send it flying straight _through_ the vision his broken brain had conjured up in front of him.

### 101

03:15

Still frozen, I watched events unfold in slow motion.

The imminent threat to my life barely registered. In my head, I wasn't even there on the roof at all. I was twenty-five years and hundreds of miles away on a mud-strewn cliff edge, gripping the bony arms of a boy whose life I held, literally, in my hands.

Had I even known, back then, what he was? Had I asked myself whether it might just be better to let him slip through Katherine's grasp? Part of me thought that I had. Everyone had heard the stories about _Psycho Miko_. There had been a wrongness about him, even as a child, that had been obvious to all who'd known him.

In my earpiece, Lyle had finished reeling off the details he'd uncovered about Williams' subsequent life. The suspected involvement in the deaths of his parents. The allegations of assault, blackmail and rape. The connections he'd bought to escape justice.

Unchecked for a quarter of a century, Williams had inflicted pain, misery and suffering on an untold number of individuals. All thanks to my actions, aged eighteen, on that Welsh mountainside. That knowledge was intense enough to keep me paralysed, as I saw the man whose life I had once saved, preparing to take my own.

The voice in my head seemed to be saying something about that symmetry of fate again. Or maybe it was just the darkness laughing at me.

I watched as Williams adjusted the knife in his hand, taking aim. I saw his arm flick forward, and caught the glint of metal leaving his grip to fly towards me. Some part of me recognised that, for a desperate throw, it looked like it could prove to be remarkably accurate.

Even so, all I had to do was move. Duck. Dive. Sidestep. Any or all of the above. But it wasn't until the very last moment that instinct finally overpowered my immotile consciousness, allowing my body to react. I began to lean forward, lowering my head to take it beneath the path of the knife.

I was too late.

Timing was everything, and I'd been too slow. A searing pain burst across my forehead, and my legs gave way.

After that, the blackness came.

### 102

03:16

Reinhold Reid watched Jess Gardiner inching herself down from the roof, gripping onto the drainpipe with grim determination.

He'd been impressed with how quickly she'd reacted, and how unquestioningly she'd followed his instruction to climb down the pipe. Thanks to her quick thinking, in just a few seconds an apparently hopeless situation had been reversed. Not that he allowed any further thought on that matter. He knew how easy it was for the same thing to happen, the other way around.

Still, as Jess performed a final hang-and-drop onto the flat stable roof below, he did allow himself to experience a moment of relief. For the time being, she was safe.

"Stay there," he called down. "We'll come and get you."

Jess looked up and nodded. She folded her arms around herself, shivering. Reid figured she'd be going into shock very soon, if she wasn't already. He hoped Thorne would dispatch her assailant quickly so they could get her away.

He looked across to the other roof, to see what progress was being made on that front. With his focus on guiding the girl down safely, Reid hadn't been paying much attention to what Thorne was doing. He'd assumed that with Jess out of the way, her captor would be dispatched in short order. But what he saw instead was the man whom Lyle had named as Michael Williams, laughing maniacally.

That wasn't a good sign. He scanned the rooftop, trying to find Thorne. That was when he realised there was a serious problem, because his friend and mentor was lying prone on his back, right at the edge of the collapsed section.

"Thorne?" he queried on the radio.

There was no response.

"Thorne, come in."

Reid didn't do panic. It wasn't in his nature, and never had been. There _was_ an emotional response to Thorne's predicament, but it was buried deeply enough to be suppressed without effort.

Instead, he simply reviewed the facts, rapidly.

His friend was in big trouble, whilst he was unarmed, thirty yards away on a separate rooftop. The approaching blue glow in the distance told him the authorities were nearly on the scene, but they'd still be too late to help. There was no obvious way for him to intervene from his position.

There was only one conclusion to draw from that.

A less-obvious intervention was required.

Reid looked around, and settled on one in a matter of seconds. Reaching down to the pitched roof where he was balanced, he tugged one of the slate roof tiles free. It would be a long shot, but it was all he had.

Hefting the flat stone in his hand, Reid hurled it with his uninjured left arm. He sent it flying like a Frisbee, spinning across the gap between the roofs. He knew the horizontal launch would make it less prone to drift from crosswinds, but he had no idea of how far the tile would fly. He counted down, tracking the slate's arc, sensing almost immediately that it was too high and would miss Williams by a foot or so. That didn't matter. He was already reaching for a second tile. The first one had been a test, just to get a feel for the weight of the stone.

He saw that Williams didn't even flinch as the first tile flew past his head, unseen in the darkness. The man's mind was on other things, as he stood astride Thorne's body.

Reid swung the tile hard and launched again, counting down the seconds as it sped towards its target.

### 103

03:17

I knew I was dead.

I had to be.

This time there was no bright light. No curious floating sensation. No sense that I'd somehow ended up in the wrong place. This time, I was where I fully expected to be: surrounded by searing heat, the crackle of flames and horrific, pained wailing.

Hell, it seemed, was everything it was meant to be.

And it hurt. A lot.

Those thoughts disappeared as I opened my eyes. I wasn't in hell. I wasn't dead, either: I was still on the roof, flat on my back, my head throbbing violently. I knew that, because I could still see the outline of the chimney and the night sky above. And, of course, the fact that standing astride me and howling in apparent agony, was Michael Williams.

The memories came rushing back.

The glinting knife, heading straight for me.

The impact. The blackness.

I frowned, reaching up to feel my forehead. My hands found the rough, bristled surface of the goat's head instead. In that final moment when I'd begun to duck, the thick animal skull must have dropped down in front of my own. It had shielded me from the sharp blade of knife, which was instead embedded in bone designed to withstand the immense force of butting heads. The underside of that bone had still been driven into my forehead with sufficient force to temporarily stun me.

It just hadn't been the killing blow that I'd assumed.

Still dazed, I struggled to work out what Williams was doing, reaching behind himself to feel around his left kidney which had evidently sustained some kind of injury. I had no idea what had happened. My headset had fallen off as I'd hit the roof. Reid must have had something to do with it.

Another impact made Williams howl again, as a heavy-sounding object bounced away across what remained of the roof terrace. Something which Reid had, it seemed, hurled across from the other roof. Whatever it was, it had prevented Williams from finishing me off. I'd have to thank Reid later.

Right then, there was one last job to complete.

I just didn't have the strength to complete it myself.

I closed my eyes and recalled the training I'd been given: the thought exercises that would induce what I'd been told was a kind of self-hypnosis. I suspected the reality was closer to a schizophrenic episode. Either way, whatever O'Brien's shrinks had installed in my head was still there. Their neural reprogramming had been permanent. If I performed the mental contortions I'd been taught, someone else would slither up from the depths, to take over.

Some _thing_ else.

The darkness didn't have a real name; I'd never given it one. Others had, though. The chilling rumours and bloody stories and half-remembered, blackened truths had given rise to a legend, a faceless killer that would stop at nothing to rain down retribution on its enemies. Someone, somewhere had called it Crow. The name had stuck.

My strength might be lacking. But Crow's, I knew, would not be.

My head was still pounding. My body was drained, barely able to move. I knew I had no choice; I needed help. The risk of ceding control to my alter-ego hadn't disappeared. But it was, right then, a calculated risk. A choice on which my survival depended.

At least, it would have been, had it been my choice to make.

As I tried to perform the technique that would finally summon Crow to take over, I heard its voice and realised with a shocking chill that it was already awake. Perhaps it had been roused by the blow I'd sustained. Maybe it was just driven by a raging fury that felt like it was very much my own.

Either way, it was already in control.

I saw that Williams had noticed my movements, and was looking down on me aghast. Clearly I wasn't the only one surprised at my reanimation. Crow's single-minded purpose powered through my body, bringing renewed life and energy to exhausted muscles and cutting through the confusion in my head.

It wanted to take full advantage of its host being unexpectedly alive.

I felt my fingers clasp around the knife handle, tugging it free from the animal skull on my head. Before Williams could react, I plunged the blade deep into the side of his right thigh, gripping hard and tearing sinew as I used the leverage to drag myself underneath and through his open legs. The goatskin rug slipped off and remained on the roof, its job done.

I forced myself up awkwardly to my feet behind Williams. The fireproof suit made movement difficult, but Crow crushed down the bout of dizziness which threatened to overwhelm my body. I still had the advantage. Williams was immobile, staring down at the knife embedded in his leg. I reached forward and tore out the blade. That elicited another squeal of pain, as he began turning to face me. His leg was already bleeding heavily, a large dark stain visible on his jeans. Given enough time, he'd bleed out from the wound.

Crow had no intention of letting that happen.

As Williams looked at me, finally seeing my face up close and unobscured, I saw the recognition dawn in his eyes. His face was a picture of utter confusion.

"You?" he said, frowning incredulously.

I considered his question, and decided I wasn't in the mood for talking. Neither was Crow. I stabbed out again with the knife, puncturing Williams' left arm and eliciting another cry of pain.

Crow twisted the blade as I yanked it out, sending a spray of blood directly into Williams' face. Without pausing, I lashed out again, further down, the blade plunging into his stomach. His wails became a constant background to my attacks. But there was more than just the sharp pain of the blade behind his agonised noises. I could hear anger and confusion in there, too. As if he couldn't bring himself to accept what was happening.

I had no such problems of acceptance.

Neither did Crow.

I punched forward with the knife, again and again, choosing a different part of his body each time. Each impact rewarded Crow with another red bloom on Williams' shirt or jeans.

"No..." Williams protested in an agonised whine, trying and failing to duck away from each blow. "Wait... I didn't... I wasn't..."

Each blow began to send him further backwards, towards the edge of the collapsed roof. His shirt was covered in blood, and his jeans were soaked through. But Crow knew he wouldn't bleed out.

He was going to burn, instead.

One pace.

Two.

I swung a final, vicious blow across his face that opened up his left cheek from ear to lips. And then, discarding the knife, Crow squeezed the last remnants of energy out of exhausted muscles. Just enough power for me to take hold of Williams under each lacerated arm and lift him off his feet into the air.

He kicked out feebly, but my grip remained firm. I propelled him backwards, towards the inferno, feeling Crow reaching into my own recent memories to determine the precise point at which we'd reach the edge. I held Williams over the flames, as he squirmed and kicked out, his legs dangling over the searing heat.

Crow released my grip.

Williams dropped straight down into the flames with a final shriek of horror that was cut off abruptly. A thick gout of black smoke billowed up from below, obscuring my view. I stepped forward, peering through the blackness, searching for where he had ended up. Crow seemed to know already. I could hear laughter in my head.

Williams' fall had been halted prematurely, by one of the broken cross members jutting out from the edge of the roof. He'd landed astride it, and his legs were dangling uselessly into the inferno either side. I could see his shoes and jeans were already smouldering. Yet he seemed to be making no effort to free himself.

The reason for that became clear, when I remembered the metal bolt I'd used to haul myself up onto the roof. Crow had remembered it, too: how the steel had been sticking up vertically from the cross-member. I couldn't see the bolt, because it was hidden from view. But from Williams' shocked rigidity, I knew exactly where it was.

Crow continued to laugh, mercilessly. No longer just in my head: the sound was issuing from my own lips.

Williams reached up to me with his bleeding, mutilated arms, howling in horrified agony as the fire began to consume his legs. Perhaps he expected me to rescue him again, to drag him up to safety just as I had done all those years before. Crow regarded him impassively, making no effort to assist. After a few seconds, I realised that the keening, shrieking noise Williams was making was no longer human. It was the sound of pure suffering.

I turned and began to walk away.

I'd taken no more than three paces when something whistled past my head. A moment later there was a wet-sounding impact, and Williams' inhuman screams cut off abruptly. I turned, and saw him slumped forward, unconscious, blood pouring from his head. A roof tile clattered down into the burning wreckage.

I glanced across at the east wing and saw Reid looking across at me. Fresh anger blossomed at the thought of Williams' suffering being curtailed. It was Crow's anger. At least, I hoped it was. But when I focused on taking control – using the usual techniques to reassert myself – I found Crow was already gone, having somehow slipped back into the shadowy depths of my screwed-up, broken mind.

That brought with it a sobering realisation, as I began to shrug off the unwieldy fireproof suit in readiness for my descent to the stable roof below.

Perhaps the man who had chosen to inflict such a horrific, agonising death on Williams hadn't been Crow at all.

Maybe, it had been me all along.

### 104

03:22

Norbiton, Kingston-Upon-Thames, UK

"We did it, babe. She's safe. They've got her," Aron Lyle announced quietly, with a grin.

"Seriously?" Daisy queried.

Lyle saw the disbelieving look on her face. He knew how she felt. He could barely believe it was over, himself. The extended periods of radio silence over the previous few minutes had been excruciating to wait through, and based on Reid's intermittent, terse summaries the outcome had been far from certain.

But, at long last, it appeared that Reid and Thorne had prevailed.

"Yep. Reid's just confirmed. They're heading down to the stables with Jess, now. And it's safe to say there's nobody else left alive to stop them."

Lyle noted that Daisy didn't seem fazed by the implications that information carried. Her thoughts were clearly already elsewhere.

"Is she okay?"

"Seems so. Given the circumstances, anyway."

"What about Reinhold and Mr Thorne? Are they... alright?" she asked, nervously.

Lyle laughed. Her concern was touching, if a little misplaced in his view.

"Depends on how you define alright, I guess," he replied, as he took off his headset and closed the laptop in front of him. "I'm not sure either of them have been alright for a long time. But they're both gonna live, if that's what you mean."

Daisy's face brightened, as the news finally began to sink in.

"I was really worried. I didn't think they'd get her back. I wasn't even sure they'd get back themselves."

Lyle nodded, stood up and stretched languidly.

"I did say they'd be okay, didn't I?" He looked at his watch. "Anyway, it'll be a while before they get back here. Maybe we could, like, celebrate their success. _Our_ success. You know, maybe starting with a triumphant hug or something..."

He opened his arms and beckoned to Daisy, but she just laughed, shaking her head.

"You never give up, do you?"

"Nope," he grinned. "Persistence is my middle name."

"Really? I thought it was annoyance. Although in your case, they're the same thing."

"Hey, I can't help..."

Lyle didn't get to finish. He was cut off mid-sentence by a huge crash from the kitchen area behind them, followed rapidly by the disturbing sound of heavy footsteps approaching across the tiled floor. He and Daisy had just enough time to share a _what-the-hell-was-that_ look, before the living room door burst open violently.

A bald, hard-looking man in his fifties – sporting a recently busted nose – appeared in the doorway, waving a pistol in their direction. Lyle could see three other men gathered behind him – younger but equally menacing – who had evidently just smashed their way in through the kitchen door at the rear.

Nobody moved, or said anything, or even breathed for a few long moments. All Lyle could hear was his heart racing in his chest. Then the man smiled nastily, breaking the silence with a gravelly Irish-Liverpudlian accent.

"Alright, kids. Do as I say, and everyone gets to live. I've got some questions to ask while we wait for your friends to come home, then we're all gonna have a nice friendly little chat together. Understand?"

Lyle nodded instinctively, noting that Daisy took a fraction longer to comply. He thought she looked more angry than scared.

The other men filed into the living area and surrounded the two of them. As he looked at the hard faces around him – and the array of weapons pointed his direction –frustration burned at having ignored the sounds he'd previously put down to the wind. He really should have known better. Especially as he'd always possessed what he considered to be an admirably strong sense of self-preservation: one which had served him well, in the past.

This time, however, it had let him down badly.

### 105

03:29

Nr. Honeywood, Kent, UK

I'm not the equestrian type. I never have been, really.

After Jeddah, I'd have been happy to never set eyes on a horse again. But that's another story. However much I might harbour an irrational dislike for them, they do have their uses. As a means of rapid, clandestine escape from Deerhurst Hall, I had to admit that the four-legged occupants of the stable block were our best option.

With the fire yards away from the stables, the horses had been panicked when we arrived. Reid had done his usual St Francis routine and got two of them sufficiently under control to be saddled up. We'd released the others, then mounted up ourselves. With Reid's injury and my own, that hadn't been the easiest of tasks. Fortunately, Jess had no such trouble. She'd clambered on, saying nothing, like she was on some kind of autopilot, perhaps not daring to accept that her ordeal might actually be nearly over.

She wasn't the only one on autopilot. I was still reeling from events on the rooftop, not daring to probe too deeply into what had happened with Crow, for fear of the conclusions I might reach about my sanity.

Or about myself.

Hooves thudded into soft grass, the burning house receded behind us and we headed away into the darkness. I gripped the reins tightly, not trusting the savage beast beneath me. It made an unhappy-sounding noise. I suspected the feeling was mutual. But at least it gave me something to focus on, in the here-and-now.

Up ahead, Jess was clinging onto Reid as he skilfully plotted a route past dark hedgerows and shadowy copses, keeping us well away from the police and fire service vehicles which were arriving at the house. After a couple of minutes, which felt a lot longer, we made it back to our vehicle unseen.

Reid insisted on tethering the horses safely, then loaded up the drone which Lyle had landed behind the van. He got in the back, whilst I got in the front. Jess paused before taking the passenger seat beside me. I could see her looking across at the flashing blue lights in front of the house and guessed what was going through her mind. But then her autopilot kicked in again, and she got in, still saying nothing.

I fired up the engine and headed back the way we'd arrived, leaving the blue lights behind us. I didn't envy whoever ended up in charge of that scene. Leave would be cancelled. There'd be weeks of unpaid overtime, trying to pick apart what had happened. Jim Clarke would get involved, once the gang connection was discovered. And, at some point, someone might come knocking on my door wanting to ask some difficult questions about my whereabouts.

I could add that to the long list of things to worry about, later. Right then, I just needed to get Jess Gardiner back to her mother.

She was still silent: rigid and staring ahead out of the windscreen. I reached awkwardly for my phone – conscious once again of my injured arm and its burst stitches – and offered the device to her.

"Want to call your mum? Tell her you're safe?"

She looked at me for a long moment, but didn't take the phone. Mistrust was written all over her face. If she accepted it, she'd be giving in to that idea that she really was safe. I knew she'd already had that hope crushed at least once before. I knew well enough myself how that felt.

It wasn't something she'd want to repeat.

"It's okay," I continued. "You're right not to trust me. So call mum. Ask her about me, if you want. Check I'm legit. There's just one thing you need to promise me, first."

She frowned, and I could see her withdrawing back inside herself at my demand. Expecting the worst.

"What?" she said, in a small voice.

"Nothing bad," I said, attempting to reassure her. "I just need you to... well, I think it's best if you don't tell your mother everything. About what happened here tonight, about the man who took you. That could make things really difficult for me."

"I don't even know who you are, anyway."

"I'm a friend of your mother's. Bruce Thorne. We... went to school together."

"You're not with the police," she said. It wasn't a question.

I shook my head.

She still didn't take the phone. She just looked at me, chewing her lip nervously.

"Did you kill him?" she asked, eventually. I could barely hear her voice over the road noise.

"He fell," I lied.

I attempted to smile reassuringly. That had never been a face I was very good at making. Still, it appeared to have the desired effect, as Jess finally snatched the phone and tapped in the number. She looked across at me suspiciously once last time. Then she hit dial.

### 106

03:34

Norbiton, Kingston-Upon-Thames, UK

Pat O'Connor listened to the ringing tone for what seemed like an eternity, then put down his phone and swore.

He was slumped in a lounge chair, alone, in the smartly-furnished living room of the house they'd broken into. He was tired, stressed and angry. Worried, too, that Juan Ramirez was not taking his calls. He just couldn't shake a brooding sense of foreboding.

By rights, he should have been feeling pleased with himself. After they'd returned to Norbiton, it had taken him well over an hour to scope the location and plan everything out carefully with Flaherty and the other two. But all the effort had been worthwhile in the end. It had allowed them to break in unseen, without the potential for any neighbouring insomniacs to raise the alarm. With the two hostages secured, he was all-but-guaranteed to capture the man he needed to trade for his son.

He just feared that it would be – or, perhaps, already was – too late for his son, Eddie.

Of course, there was a straightforward, logical reason for Ramirez not to be answering the phone: it was the middle of the night. But O'Connor's intuition told him that Ramirez was not the sleeping type. He called again, but the number just rang out once more.

O'Connor got up and ran a hand gingerly over his ruined face. He needed something to take his mind off his fears, to quell that irrational, superstitious dread that Eddie was already _gone_. He didn't want anyone else in the house – not his men, and certainly not the two hostages – to sense any weakness on his part.

It was important that they knew he was still in charge.

Striding through to the kitchen area, he found the two hostages sitting quietly at the kitchen table. He hadn't bothered tying them up as they presented little threat to four armed men. The young man was all fake tan and coiffed hair – O'Connor doubted he'd ever thrown a punch in his life. His pudgy female companion had been feistier to start with, until O'Connor had dug his Hi-Power hard into her fleshy middle and suggested she did as she was told.

His subsequent interrogation of them had yielded several interesting facts, the most interesting of which was that Liam Rourke did not exist. The man he was waiting for was, in fact, an undercover policeman called Bruce Thorne. That explained a lot about the events of the previous Friday night and why half of Doughty's London operation had ended up in the cells. It also meant an extra-special reception for Thorne when he arrived. O'Connor despised policemen of any kind, but the slimy undercover bastards were the worst by far.

Ramirez might want the man alive, but there had been no requirements as to his condition.

Kevin Flaherty coughed; a phlegmy, unpleasant sound which drew O'Connor's attention away from the hostages. He saw Flaherty dragging hard on a cigarette, whilst shifting nervously on his feet. The other two men – Kavanagh and Connell – appeared outwardly confident, but it was clear that they were on edge as well. O'Connor knew that would be a problem, when their target returned.

"You do know he'll kill you all, don't you?" the male hostage announced, suddenly, to the room. O'Connor scowled: the kid had evidently picked up on the nervous tension, and was seeking to make it worse.

"What?" Kavanagh grunted, tossing another cigarette butt carelessly to the tiled floor and grinding it out with his foot.

"Thorne. When he arrives, he's gonna kill all of you. Prolly not in a nice way either, innit? I just thought you should know that. You know, in case you, like, wanna re-consider your situation."

"Shut up," Connell said, sounding bored and yawning for good measure. But O'Connor knew his men well enough to know it was an act. The kid might not have been a physical threat, but he was still capable of rattling them.

"I'm serious," Lyle insisted, turning to O'Connor. "Whatever happened to your face, ain't nothing compared to what he's gonna do to you. He don't screw about. And even if you get lucky tonight and somehow get away... that ain't gonna help. He'll hunt you down like a dog. It's what he does."

Flaherty snorted, blowing out a cloud of smoke from his nostrils.

"Gerraway. Yer man's a copper. They don't do killin' people. Anyway, he ain't gonna be hunting nothin' once we've finished with him."

Flaherty cast a look at his boss for confirmation. O'Connor nodded back. His man was right about that.

"Lyle, leave it," the young woman warned. O'Connor noted the confidence had returned to her voice. Her companion might be all mouth and no trousers, but there was something about her which suggested more substance.

"Babe, these dickheads are gonna get themselves dead, innit? They don't know Thorne. We didn't tell them about, you know, what he _used_ to be. Only fair to let them know what they're into, you know?"

"Shut up," O'Connor responded, sensing a need to intervene. "Your friend Mr Thorne won't be doing anything once he sees all our guns pointing at you."

Lyle laughed contemptuously.

"Yeah, good luck with that, mate. You ain't seen how fast he moves."

O'Connor tried to bite down on his rapidly rising anger but the fey-looking, smug young man was really rattling his cage. He pointed the barrel of his pistol directly at the source of his annoyance.

"Listen, you little bollix, if you know what's good for you then you'll shut it, now. All I need is a hostage. You hear that? _A_ hostage. Just the one, will do. And seeing as she's..." he said, nodding to the girl, "...got the sense to keep her mouth shut, she'll be the one I keep. Got that?"

The young man shrugged.

"Whatever, bruv. Just sayin'"

"Well, don't," O'Connor snarled. He found he was breathing hard, and could actually feel his finger tightening on the trigger. "One more word, and I'll scatter your brains all over that table."

An uneasy silence descended. The girl seemed to be sitting up a little straighter. She clearly knew the kid had unsettled them all with his little tirade. It wasn't exactly hard to spot. Connell was looking uncertainly at Flaherty, appearing even more on edge than ever.

O'Connor began pacing slowly around the kitchen, trying to calm his anger. He needed to get his men back on side. He needed to show everyone in the room that he was still in control. He fingered the old pistol in his hands. It had been some time since O'Connor had taken a life in cold blood. Maybe that was what was required, here. His threat to kill the annoying little shit a few moments before hadn't really been serious.

Perhaps it should have been.

"How long 'til he gets back?" O'Connor asked, turning back towards the table and regaining some of his composure.

The young man looked at the kitchen clock smugly.

"I told you before. Gonna be a while. I'd say you got about an hour to live."

O'Connor ignored the jibe. He simply nodded thoughtfully, having come to a decision. The next time the kid opened his mouth with some wisecrack, O'Connor would shut him up permanently.

That would keep the girl in line. His men, too.

They needed to know he really was done with playing by the rules.

### 107

03:36

Orpington, Kent, UK

Pride comes before a fall.

I know that, as well as anyone. Arrogance is a killer with a definite penchant for irony. I suspect that many of Crow's former targets would agree, if only they were still alive to share their hard-learned epiphanies.

That's why I was still scanning our surroundings as I drove, still on full alert as I put us on a route that would take us across the city to Jess's home in Wood Green.

I glanced behind me, where Reid had just finished cleaning the nasty-looking wound on his right shoulder. It hadn't been an easy task for him, propped awkwardly against the side of the van's load bay with nothing to hold onto, as we thumped and bumped over the poor road surface of the A21.

"Does that need proper attention?" I asked.

"Not yet," he replied, through gritted teeth.

"Alright, get on the radio and let Lyle know we're heading for Wood Green first, then straight on to McMasters' clinic to get you fixed up. It'll be a while before we get back to the house. He and Daisy just need to sit tight until we get there."

"Uh huh," Reid acknowledged.

I glanced across at the passenger seat, where Jess was still talking to Katherine on my phone. She hadn't actually said a lot herself; she was just responding to her mother's endless questions. I eased my foot down on the accelerator. The sooner I could reunite mother and daughter, the better. Not least because Reid and I could then get to the private medical facility in Pimlico, where I knew former army medic Ian McMasters would patch us both up without asking awkward questions.

I drove on for a while, as Reid continued his unsuccessful attempts to raise Lyle on the radio. I guessed Lyle must have switched off his comms, knowing we'd got Jess. His lack of professionalism annoyed me: he surely knew better than to sign off early. Too many missions went bad right at the point when you thought you were home and dry. Lyle knew that pride-to-fall ratio as well as I did.

I sighed, forcing myself to ignore the disquiet that was prickling me about the lack of response. Professionalism had never been at the top of Aron Lyle's agenda.

"Try his phone," I suggested. "Number's in yours already."

Reid struggled with his one good hand, to retrieve his phone and dial. I returned my attention to the road again, but I could tell by the protracted silence that he wasn't having any joy that way, either. The prickle of disquiet morphed rapidly into gnawing anxiety. What the hell was Lyle playing at?

"Alright. Call Daisy instead," I instructed.

Reid dutifully complied. Again, there was no answer.

Something clearly wasn't right, at Norbiton. But the Brunswick Brothers were the only opposition team still left in play, and they'd done well to find me even in Putney. The safe house was a different ball game; no way did they have the resources to track me to an off-the-books facility with zero link whatsoever to any of my identities. And I was certain that Reid and I would have tagged anyone who'd tried to follow us from the boatyard, given that we'd been on maximum alert for the Iranians...

A sick emptiness rose up inside so rapidly that it threatened to engulf me entirely as I realised how badly I'd screwed up.

Sometimes the fall comes, even without the pride.

Jess looked across at me nervously as my momentary inattention took the van across the white lines. I gripped the wheel tightly and got us safely back on course, but my heart was pounding, and I was struggling to keep my breathing under control. Because there _was_ a direct link to the safe house, in the form of the hand-written note I'd retrieved from the wine rack. The same note which, I now recalled, would have been in the jacket I'd discarded when we'd escaped the Iranians. Which anyone could since have discovered, thanks to the gaping hole that had replaced my front door.

I looked back at Reid.

"We've got a problem," I said quietly, hoping that Jess's attention was with her mother on the other end of the phone.

"I've messed up," I continued, forcing down the rising panic. "The safe house might not be secure. We need to get back to Norbiton, right now."

"Uh huh," he nodded.

For once, I was glad of his taciturnity.

I slowed for a turning that would put us on a heading for Norbiton, then accelerated hard. The best case was that the police had arrived in Putney, discovered the jacket and followed the lead offered by the note. If Lyle and Daisy had been arrested, that would explain them going incommunicado. That was a hell of a stretch, though. As for the worst case... that didn't really bear thinking about, at all.

I looked at my watch. If I could get back to the safehouse, there was a chance I could intervene in whatever was happening there. As usual, it would all be about the timing.

The problem was, the timing just didn't work. Because whatever was happening in Norbiton was happening right then, at that moment.

And I was half an hour away, at least.

### 108

03:46

Norbiton, Kingston-Upon-Thames, UK

Aron Lyle wasn't ready to die.

There was too much fun still to be had, and far too much female company still to enjoy. Unfortunately, there was a strong probability that Lyle's future prospects on both counts were about to be seriously, and permanently curtailed.

On reflection, suggesting that Pat O'Connor might want to start writing his last will and testament had been an error of judgement. The gangster's lack of appreciation for Lyle's humour had been so strong, that he was at that moment pointing a handgun directly at Lyle's head.

Lyle glanced across at Daisy Haines, and swallowed hard. Once again, she was rising to the occasion and he was not. Whilst he just sat there staring down the barrel, she was the one pleading for his life, begging O'Connor not to do anything stupid.

"Sorry, love," O'Connor interjected, cutting her off as he flicked the safety catch on the gun. "I've had enough of his..."

O'Connor stopped mid-sentence, as one of the other men hurried in from the living room: Kavanagh. He was carrying two phones, which Lyle recognised as the ones he and Daisy had been using until they'd been taken hostage.

"What?" O'Connor queried angrily, without lowering his aim.

"Uh, sorry boss. Phones have been going off. Same number calling both. I thought you should know..."

Lyle nearly laughed out loud in relief. Thorne's timing always had been perfect.

O'Connor glared at his man, saying nothing. One second passed. Then two. Then three. Nobody moved, until O'Connor finally tucked his gun away and spoke.

"Show him the number," O'Connor instructed.

Kavanagh dutifully displayed one of the phones to Lyle.

"Is that yer man?"

"Nah. That ain't his number." The words were confident, but he could hear the shakiness in his own voice: a residue of the shock from what had been about to take place. He was, however, telling the truth. It was Reid's number on the display.

O'Connor's glare intensified, but he said nothing.

"So, who is it, then?" Kavanagh chipped in aggressively, apparently attempting to impress his boss.

"Do I look psychic?" Lyle snarked back, sensing the balance of power had shifted a little in his favour. "Tell you what. Why don't you call them back and ask them?"

"Do I look like a retard?" Kavanagh sneered.

"Yeah, pretty much. Gonna be a dead retard pretty soon, too."

"Shut up, the pair of you!" O'Connor snarled, as he reached over to Lyle and dragged him up off the kitchen chair.

"Hey, get off me," Lyle protested.

"Quit complaining. You're still alive, which is more than you were going to be thirty seconds ago."

Lyle grunted as he found himself being dragged over to the cooking area of the kitchen.

"Whoever was calling, chubby cheeks over there can call them back, and tell them everything's fine," O'Connor continued. "Any funny business and I'll blow your brains out like I was just about to do anyway. If she pulls it off, you get to live a little longer."

O'Connor released him with a shove. Lyle backed up against the wall of cupboards and drawers which ran along the rear of the cooking area. Daisy remained sitting at the kitchen table, where Kavanagh had discarded the phones. Flaherty stood beside her, his pistol aimed roughly in her direction.

Daisy looked across at Lyle. He caught the look in her eye: a sparkle, like she was planning something. Instinctively, Lyle began thinking frantically about how he could get out of the room before it all kicked off, then stopped himself.

He wasn't going to leave, this time. For once, he wasn't going to run away from a physical confrontation. He might not be able to do much, but he was going to stick around and help out if he could.

O'Connor was addressing Daisy, telling her to return the call and ensure that they believed she and Lyle were okay. Whilst the gangster's focus was elsewhere, Lyle began feeling blindly along the kitchen units behind him until he found a drawer handle. He cracked open the drawer and slipped in a hand, without attracting attention. His questing fingers grasped a wooden handle, which he slowly eased out of the drawer behind his back. He ran his fingers tentatively over the item he'd found, hoping for a knife.

It wasn't a knife. It was a corkscrew.

That would have to do.

"Make it convincing," O'Connor told Daisy, swinging his pistol back around to point at Lyle. "Or I put a bullet in your boyfriend's head."

Lyle tore his eyes away from the weapon and surveyed the rest of the room.

Flaherty had his pistol languidly trained on Daisy. He was edging closer to her, but the man's relaxed posture suggested he didn't really think he'd have to pull the trigger.

Connell was standing a few paces away, alongside Kavanagh. Both had their weapons tucked into the back of their jeans. Clearly they believed their boss had everything under control.

O'Connor was close enough for Lyle to smell his breath: a rank odour of alcohol and vomit. The man was sweating, too. Underneath a veneer of sickly aftershave and cigarette smoke, Lyle detected a sharper tang. Fear, perhaps. Definitely the reek of a body under stress. That was good, Lyle thought. It might reduce the accuracy of O'Connor's aim, when it all kicked off.

"But what shall I say?" Daisy asked. "They might be suspicious about why we didn't answer."

Lyle saw her eyes darting between the men. She looked scared, but Lyle wasn't convinced. He figured she was playing for time, asking unnecessary questions.

"Tell 'em you were busy stuffing your face. That should be believable enough," Kavanagh sneered.

Daisy shrugged off the insult, but made no move to pick up either phone. She was definitely planning something. Lyle just hoped Reid had taught her enough hot-shit _krav maga_ to back it up.

"Look, love, I won't tell you again. Pick up the phone and do it, now." O'Connor growled, switching his aim away from Lyle to point at Daisy.

"Okay, okay, fine," Daisy protested, raising her hands in supplication.

That movement brought her right hand within inches of Flaherty's weapon, which was still casually aimed at her head in a one-handed grip. Flaherty wasn't even looking at Daisy – his eyes were on his boss, perhaps wondering if he was in the line of fire. Lyle's heart was already beating frantically, sensing what was coming next. He swallowed hard. Pain stabbed in his lower back, as his adrenal glands went into overdrive. The fear was almost enough to paralyse him.

Almost.

Daisy made eye contact, signalling her intent.

Together, they moved.

Lyle lashed out desperately with the corkscrew, stabbing it into O'Connor's outstretched arm to throw his aim away from Daisy. The gang boss yelled in surprise, as his finger squeezed the trigger involuntarily and the Browning went off with a devastating noise in the confined space of the kitchen.

Lyle looked across just in time to see the back of Kavanagh's head exploding in a sickening red mist, from where O'Connor's stray bullet had exited. He didn't have time to watch the man drop to the kitchen floor like a discarded marionette. There was too much happening elsewhere.

Across the room, Daisy was already disarming Flaherty in what appeared to be a stunningly well-practised move. Moving faster than seemed possible, she brought both hands together and spun Flaherty's handgun out of his grasp in a blur of movement.

Lyle had just enough time to see her screw her eyes shut and shoot the stunned Flaherty, point blank, in the face. Then, an agonising blow to the side of his head sent Lyle tumbling to the kitchen floor. For a moment he thought he'd been shot, then realised O'Connor had recovered and just pistol-whipped him to the ground.

"Stay down, you little bollix! I've not finished with you, yet."

Lyle's ears were ringing and his skull felt like it had been fractured, but he found at least one positive in the situation. O'Connor apparently still wanted him alive.

As he struggled to get up, Lyle watched as another two shots from Daisy sent Connell stumbling backwards, as the man struggled to free his pistol from the back of his jeans. The hapless gangster tripped over Kavanagh's prone body and fell. The red blooms rapidly spreading on the front of Connell's shirt suggested he wouldn't be getting up again.

O'Connor ducked down, as Daisy loosed off a wild shot in his direction. She swore as Flaherty's weapon racked open empty, then dropped behind the kitchen table as O'Connor took aim himself.

"Alright, that's enough. Game's over, love."

Lyle could hear the man's voice shaking, although it wasn't clear whether that was from fear or rage. Either way, as Lyle stood upright again and tried to shake off the dizziness, he suspected O'Connor was right. If the gang boss had decided to spare Lyle's life, that suggested Daisy had become the expendable one. Game over, could only mean one thing for her.

A familiar sense of panic rose. Every fibre of his body was telling him to scramble away and save his own skin. But that wasn't going to happen. In the few short hours he'd known her, Daisy Haines had already established herself as someone he wanted to know better. A lot better.

He'd failed her before, in Thorne's front garden.

He wasn't going to fail her again.

O'Connor approached the table cautiously, weapon held two-handed in front of him. It would be a matter of seconds before he had an angle on Daisy.

Still reeling from the blow to his head, Lyle took a couple of faltering steps, then hurled himself unsteadily across the kitchen towards O'Connor.

"Run!" he shouted at Daisy.

Then, he was slamming into O'Connor, punching out again with the corkscrew as the gangster turned to face him. Gripping the handle tightly, he put everything he had into the blow. He knew that wasn't very much. But it turned out, when combined with momentum, it was more than enough to stab the twisted metal through O'Connor's shirt and deep into his gut.

O'Connor yelled in pained surprise and Lyle caught an elbow full to the face which sent him staggering away. He somehow kept his grip on the corkscrew, which ripped its way out of O'Connor's middle with a puckering, fleshy snap.

Lyle glanced away from O'Connor. Daisy was moving, too. He hoped she'd be able to get through the living room door before O'Connor recovered. But she was heading in an unexpected direction instead: towards them.

O'Connor roared and spun back towards Lyle, gun up, in what felt like a fraction of a second. Lyle didn't even have time to process the danger he was in. He simply saw the short barrel pointing towards him, heard the gun go off, and felt the impact in the middle of his chest. He didn't even register the fact that he'd been shot.

That was just... impossible.

It simply could not have happened.

"No!" Daisy cried, as she flew towards O'Connor.

Lyle expected to see grim determination, or righteous fury in her expression. Instead, as she glanced across at him, her face was a picture of horror.

Slumping back against the kitchen units, Lyle was dimly aware that the bloody corkscrew had dropped from his fingers to clatter onto the tiles. He watched as Daisy slammed heavily into O'Connor, knocking the weapon from the gang leader's grasp and sending the man crashing against the kitchen island worktop.

They were mere feet away. Lyle tried to step in and help, but his body was no longer obeying his commands. He was immotile.

Daisy wasn't.

She was swinging ferocious blows at O'Connor, who looked to be winded from the initial impact. She pummelled the bloody stain on his shirt and the gang boss doubled over, retching into the kitchen sink on the island worktop. Daisy punched him again from behind, mercilessly, in both kidneys before violently slamming O'Connor's head down into the sink.

"You bastard!" she yelled, her voice fraught with anguish. "You've killed Lyle!"

Lyle watched as she used her weight to hold O'Connor down in the sink bowl so she could run water on his head. As the liquid cascaded down, the man let out a horrific, agonised scream. His reaction seemed grossly disproportionate, until steam billowed up and Lyle realised the tap supplied pre-boiled water.

His mind wasn't really on O'Connor getting his face scalded off, though. It was on what Daisy had just shouted.

Specifically, her use of the word, _killed_.

Until then, he'd been frozen on his feet, propped against the wall of kitchen units and temporarily managing to support his brain's refusal to believe what was happening to him. But Daisy's horrified expression, along with her suggestion that he was no longer in the land of the living, told Lyle that something very bad had just happened.

To him.

The pain came then, punching into his chest like nothing he'd ever known before. He clutched at the centre of his ribcage – from where the sharp, stabbing agony was exploding – and found warm wetness. Steeling himself, he looked down.

His fingers were covered in blood. _His_ blood.

Aron Lyle had time for just one more conscious thought, as O'Connor's wails began to fade and the room began to darken. A tiny spark of satisfied pleasure tingled beneath the tsunami of pain, at the realisation that Daisy Haines appeared to be genuinely upset at his fate.

Then, his eyes closed and he slid down the kitchen units into blackness.

### 109

06:47

Camberwell Old Cemetery, London, UK

Dappled early-morning sunlight filtered through the foliage above my head. I stood alone, unseen. The graveyard was deserted in the early morning, although the spot I'd reached would have been quiet at any hour. I eased myself down, ignoring the pain in my arm, and sat cross-legged in the uncut dewy grass.

In front of me was the reason I'd come.

A single tree, tucked away at the edge of a wooded area and surrounded by others far older and taller. A small _amelanchier lamarckii_ , its bright green leaves verdant in their early-summer glory. We'd had one in our Dulwich Village garden; it had been Emily's favourite, on account of its beautiful autumn colours. Jen's too; she'd adored its delicate white spring flowers. And there, in front of me, the three-year-old specimen stood as the solitary physical marker of their time on this earth.

It was what Jen would have wanted. No headstone. No memorial. Just a sapling, planted at the edge of a cemetery less than a mile from the garden she and Emily had loved. Shielded by the larger trees, the graves formed a tiny, shady oasis of peace amidst the throbbing city's maelstrom of filth. That somehow seemed to honour their memory more fittingly than a cold, lifeless hunk of marble ever could.

I closed my eyes, pushing back the memories. There were more recent events I needed to deal with first. I retrieved my phone and dialled.

"Hey dead man. How's the afterlife?" I enquired, recalling the greeting he'd offered me the previous day. It was too obvious to resist.

"Bro, seriously... don't try to be funny. It don't suit you."

I smiled, sadly. He was right. My attempt at levity had been more for my own benefit than his: an attempt to lift my darkening mood.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"How do you think I'm feeling? I got shot in the chest, man."

His voice sounded pained, above the background buzz of activity in the private medical facility where Daisy had taken him earlier. I suspected he was putting it on.

"Oh, come on, Lyle. Daisy called me earlier. She's already told me what happened. The bullet deflected off that ridiculous medallion you had around your neck, cut a gash in your chest and then you fainted from the sight of the blood."

"Yeah, well it still hurt. And it was still your fault, too," he added.

That, I had to admit, was a fair point.

"I know. That's why I'm calling - to say I'm sorry. I... let you down."

"Right. If you cared that much, you'd have been here to apologise earlier when they were stitching me up, instead of swanning off with Reid."

"We were taking Jess back to her mother, actually," I pointed out.

The subsequent pause suggested that it was Lyle's turn to feel guilty.

"Uh... alright. I guess I'll forgive you that one, then. How is she?"

"Traumatised and in shock, like you'd expect. She'll need a lot of time."

"Yeah, that figures. What about the great silent one? Is he okay?"

"He's getting fixed up. He'll need physio on that shoulder, but no lasting damage. He'll be back on the road later, heading to Norfolk, he said."

"And what about you?"

"What do you mean?" I knew Lyle well enough to doubt that he was simply enquiring after my health.

"I mean, how are _you_ , bro? Can't be easy, knowing the whole thing wasn't really about Jess and was really all about you, right?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

That was an instinctive response. But even as I said it, I realised that somewhere, subconsciously, I'd already been drawing the same conclusions.

"Come on, bruv. Right from the start, almost every time we uncovered someone linked to Jess, they ended up being linked to you too. You don't find that suspicious?"

"I... I don't know. Maybe."

"Ain't no maybe about it, bro. No way was it all just improbable coincidence, that Jess happened to get sucked into a nightmare populated almost entirely by characters from _your_ past."

"That makes no sense at all, Lyle."

The problem was, I knew that didn't necessarily stop it from being true.

"Maybe not," he agreed. "But it's got all the signs of someone pulling strings somewhere, messing with people you care about, trying to get you to dance. And there's only one puppeteer I know of, who's got the chops to do that."

He didn't have to say the name. I knew he was talking about Shelagh O'Brien. I felt suddenly dizzy, as I found myself recalling Nathan Fennec's disjointed, drug-addled rambling, back in the bedroom at Dean Hemmings' house: _I did what_ she _wanted, I promise._ Maybe he hadn't been as incoherent as I'd assumed.

"You think O'Brien set it up for Jess to be abducted?"

"Not just by anyone either, innit? I mean, abducted by a man _whose life you once saved_. If that ain't trying to get you triggered, I dunno what is."

I found the suggestion outrageous, yet oddly compelling.

"But why? What could she possibly gain?"

"Who knows? She moves in mysterious ways, bro. If I was going to take a wild stab in the dark, I'd say she's never been too happy about your retirement, and this was some kind of play, to bring you back in the fold. Maybe you should ask her yourself, bruv."

I shivered, realising that I'd already decided to seek O'Brien's help in dealing with Crow after what had happened on the rooftop of Deerhurst Hall. Had that been what she'd wanted? To drive me back to her, knowing I'd need her help if I released the darkness in my head? Something hardened, deep inside my chest. If what Lyle was suggesting were true – that she'd somehow set up the whole series of events and dragged in an innocent girl along the way – then it would be O'Brien who'd need help, once I'd finished with her.

A voice in my head corrected that thought: after _Crow_ had finished with her.

Another voice corrected the correction: _perhaps, that distinction could no longer be made._

"I might just do that," I said, trying to get a grip on my spiralling thoughts and not entirely succeeding. "I've got a few loose ends to tie up first, though."

Lyle laughed. "I bet you have. But listen, bro... can I ask you something serious?"

"I suppose," I said. I was still thinking about what he'd said about O'Brien.

"Uh... so... what did it feel like, you know... the first time you killed a man?"

I thought for a moment, and decided not to answer. I'd never been entirely sure how much Lyle had discovered about O'Brien's programme and what it had done to me. I suspected the less he knew, the better it would be for the both of us.

"Lyle, you didn't kill anyone," I offered as a diversion. "Daisy told me. It was O'Connor who pulled the trigger. You don't have to feel anything about that."

"Nah bro, not me. It's Daisy I'm talking about. I owe her my life, innit. She shot one of 'em in the face, another in the chest, then O'Connor suffered heart failure whilst she was boiling his head. I'm just... you know, worried about how all that's gonna be affecting her."

"I doubt she'll be feeling anything, yet. She'll still be in shock."

"Yeah, but that's the thing, bruv. It didn't seem like that, earlier. It was more like... I dunno, man. Like she enjoyed it all."

"She was probably just putting on a brave face for you. It'll hit her, later."

"Well... if it does, then..." Lyle paused. He sounded uncertain. I'd never heard him like that, before. "Tell her I'll be there for her. Seriously, like. If she needs someone... you know?"

"Why don't you tell her yourself?" I said gently, realising that he was genuinely concerned for her.

"Yeah, well, I would, but she's gone now and some tosser wouldn't give me her number last night, remember?"

"Like you couldn't hack your way into a database to find it anyway," I suggested.

"Not the point, bro. Not the point."

"Alright. I'll pass the message on."

"And if you need any help with those loose ends, you know where I am."

"Thanks, Lyle. I'll bear that in mind. Take care."

"You too, bruv. You too."

I hung up, head spinning with the fractal multiplicity of what-if equations triggered by Lyle's suggestion that all the events in Jess's disappearance had one improbably common variable: me. I wasn't sure what I should feel about that.

Right then, it seemed like I felt nothing at all.

I blinked in the light. The leaves still fluttered obliviously on the young tree. The sounds of the waking city still rumbled on in the distance. The world still turned. And my family still lay dead, beneath my feet. That, at least, was something I could feel.

The anger came, as usual: bilious and raw and physical. I screwed up my eyes and fought it, hard. That wasn't the emotion I was seeking. That wasn't why I had come to the grave. I needed to remember what I _used to_ feel, when Jen and Emily were still a part of my life and not just a rage-inducing memory. I wanted to be close, again, to those who'd done the most to remind me that I was human, even if what I carried inside me was not.

I tried to recall them, as they were. As they had been. Their faces played amongst the flickering patterns on the backs of my eyelids, details frustratingly unresolved as they were pulled from the muddied synaptic morass in my head.

I blinked again and found the tree in front of me had lost its focus. That was unexpected. I felt Crow's darkness moving within, some part of it unsettled, perhaps, at the wetness occluding my vision. It didn't seem to care that I knew it didn't really exist. It never had. But the sheer weight of my own emotion – human emotion – was enough to smother the monster's disquiet.

Perhaps spurred on by that realisation, the ill-defined visual memories flitting around inside my head coalesced temporarily into high-definition. And at that moment, I missed my beautiful wife and daughter more than ever.

I knelt for a while longer, tears evaporating gently in the warm breeze. My sadness gradually became entangled with relief that I was still capable of feeling the pain that those memories brought. Perspective, slowly, was regained. Hope was rekindled, that the part of me which was still human had not been indelibly contaminated by the part which was not.

Eventually I became conscious of the damp from the ground below, seeping through the fabric of my jeans and sucking the heat out from my legs. Slowly, I eased myself back up to my feet. Even my well-honed muscles protested after their extended sojourn, folded beneath my weight.

I wiped away the last smears of wetness and stretched, looking up through the leaves to the blue sky of a new day. I thought of Jess Gardiner, safely back with her mother. A tiny voice in my head grabbed onto the paternal guilt I felt at that; reminding me that I'd been there for Jess and Katherine in a way that I hadn't been for Emily and Jen.

I told that voice to shut up.

A little guilt is fine. Even healthy, in its own way. But let it go too far and it edges dangerously close to self-pity.

I reached out and gently touched the soft leaves of the tree, running the young foliage through my fingers. Then I turned, and began to re-trace my steps. There were answers to find. Loose ends to tie up. Debts to repay. I was acutely aware that there were wrongs, still, to put right. Many wrongs.

But as I found my thoughts returning to improbable coincidence, I was increasingly certain of one thing.

Not all of those wrongs were my own.

### 110

One Week Later

Tuesday 19th July

07:17 (GMT + 3:30)

Elahiyeh District, Tehran, Iran

Deputy Commander Musa Majidi reclined on an upholstered chaise, in the bedroom suite of a large property he'd commandeered as his new base of operations. He hadn't left the suite for several days, since he'd taken up residence in the luxurious abode.

After everything had gone wrong in London, certain precautions were necessary.

Wooden shutters obscured the windows, hiding him from snipers. Guards surrounded the building, stationed on every level. His wife and daughter had been safely packed off to Paris, and the similarly grand house they'd originally shared a few blocks away was under constant surveillance as an early warning of trouble.

Majidi knew that if Crow arrived in Tehran, he'd need all the early warning he could get. Saeed Asadi had lost track of the assassin since the fateful events which had wiped out Amir Nazari's team, but Majidi suspected Crow would be reappearing sooner rather than later. Hence the precautions.

Majidi's aide, Abdallah, was giving his usual morning briefing; summarising key news headlines from around the world. The Deputy Commander's ears pricked up as the briefing turned to news from the UK. Events at Deerhurst Hall had briefly made the national papers earlier in the week, adding unwelcome colour to the sketchy details his remaining London operatives had uncovered about the fate of Nazari and his team.

"All the major outlets are running the same story this morning, sir," Abdallah recounted, reading from his notes. "Police are investigating the suspected murder of several men at a central London club last night. The five wealthy patrons, all believed to be high-profile society figures, were found dead in a private function room at the Etheridge Club, on the Strand."

"Anyone we know?"

"Two are believed to be foreign nationals. But they haven't confirmed any names yet, sir. Just that they all died in a particularly grisly manner."

"Grisly?" Majidi queried.

"Doused in expensive cognac and burned horrifically before being executed with a single shot to the head."

Majidi shivered involuntarily, and wondered who the powerful men must have wronged. Almost immediately after that thought, came the realisation that the killer's modus operandi was disturbingly familiar, followed by the recollection of why.

Burning before death had been Crow's trademark.

"Get me those names, Abdallah," Majidi announced suddenly. "I need to know if there were any Iranian connections. Do it now."

Abdallah looked momentarily surprised, then nodded curtly. He headed out of the room, leaving Majidi alone.

The Deputy Commander shifted uneasily on the chaise. After making sure his family had arrived safely in France, he'd begun discreetly exploring options for his own relocation. With no hope of finding the missing scientists to boost Mohsen Kazmi's work in Parchin, his days in Iran were numbered. Soon, he hoped to be taking up residence in Moscow. His fear was, that it might not be soon enough.

He'd already established contact with Yuri Abdrafikov, a high-ranking official in the Russian secret service. Given that it had been Abdrafikov's father who'd been brutally assassinated in Kursk a decade before, Majidi had also hoped that the Russian would be sufficiently keen to establish the assassin's whereabouts for that information to buy Majidi asylum in Moscow. Yet when he'd hinted that he could reveal Crow's current identity, Abdrafikov had just laughed and demanded Majidi tell him something he didn't already know.

Since that conversation, Majidi had been calling in favours, attempting to build a portfolio of knowledge that would be of sufficient value to the Russians for them to slip him out of Tehran. But it was taking time, and time was the very thing that he didn't have.

Suddenly, the lights in the suite went out unexpectedly. With the shutters closed, the room was plunged into darkness.

Majidi groaned in annoyance. Power cuts in the city were relatively rare, but they'd had a spate of them recently.

"Abdallah? What's going on?" he called.

There was no reply. Majidi felt a spike of anxiety.

"Tell Kamali he's got thirty seconds to get that backup generator running, before I go down there myself..." Majidi called, louder again.

His threat went unanswered. The spike of anxiety amplified into a shudder. His guards should have been in the room by then, responding as a precaution. But they weren't.

Somebody else was, though.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Majidi could just make out the dark shape of a man silhouetted against the faint light seeping through the shutters.

"Guards!" Majidi yelled, at the top of his voice. A last-ditch attempt to raise the alarm. But also a distraction, as he reached underneath the cushions to find his pesh-kabz – the traditional Persian knife which he'd secreted as his weapon of last resort.

"They are all asleep," the figure in front of him said.

Majidi snorted, as his fingers closed on the knife's ivory handle.

"Asleep. Right, just like I'll be asleep very shortly."

"No, Deputy Commander. Very shortly, you'll be dead."

Majidi frowned, then shook his head to himself. Crow was not known for his mercy. But if the man really had disabled Abdallah and the guards using non-lethal methods then so be it. It had no bearing on his own fate.

There was a pause, then a flicker of light which briefly revealed the dark shape standing in front of him. The light flicked a couple more times, then flared into a harsh blue illumination.

"Before we get to that, I'd like to know why you sent a team to take me alive," the black figure said. "Be aware that the plenitude of your response to that question will determine the manner of your passing."

Majidi ignored the words. Mainly because his attention was fixated on the light source: a blowtorch flame, moving closer.

He'd always wondered how long he'd last under torture. Part of him – the part which dealt with pride, and honour – hoped that he'd have the strength to resist for as long as he could. But there was another, coldly rational part of him that found the senseless futility of such resistance to be an affront to his intelligence. The only question was whether pride or rationality would prove stronger when the time came.

Majidi gritted his teeth and steeled himself. It looked like he was about to find out.

The flame approached until it was merely inches away from his face. He felt the heat on his cheek, but kept his eyes open, staring beyond the flickering blue light. He would break, eventually. Everyone did. But he summoned every last reserve of determination to show this man that his end would be one of honour. The decision was made: he would not talk straight away. First, they would fight.

His fingers tightened on the pesh-kabz as he surreptitiously slipped the weapon free in the dim light. His whole body tensed as the flame reached close enough to scorch his skin. It was now or never.

Just as he prepared to strike, the flame went out.

Majidi blinked, confused, into the blackness.

"Your courage is commendable, Deputy Commander," the voice spoke from the dark. "But breaking you with pain would take time I simply do not have. Fortunately, I took the liberty of preparing a little... shortcut."

The bright screen of a smartphone appeared suddenly in front of Majidi's eyes. He peered at the photograph it displayed: an image of a young Persian woman, hair dyed blonde in a Western style and free of the traditional roosari headscarf.

She was posing in front of the Eiffel tower.

He stared at the screen for a long while, saying nothing, just contemplating the sheer reach and power of the assassin standing before him.

"Aysa's a credit to you," the man whispered, switching to Farsi. The accent was impeccable. "Very friendly. Very interested in Western culture. Refreshingly trusting, too: none of that tiresome old Persian suspicion of foreigners."

Majidi felt a chill that seemed to crawl its way deep inside his bones. He screwed his eyes shut, fighting the images that the man in front of him had placed in his mind. Aysa was his only child. Memories of her childhood flooded into his head. The headstrong girl had grown into a rebellious young woman, increasingly distant from her father. And now, he realised with sadness, that distance would never be closed.

"Is she dead?" His voice was expressionless. Flat. Resigned.

"Not yet."

Majidi stared hard at the man's face, illuminated by the sickly glow of the display, trying to gauge the truth of what had just been said. Then he nodded slowly in understanding: he couldn't save himself, but he might yet save his child. As he let the pesh-kabz clatter to the floor he realised he was shaking, although he wasn't sure whether it was from fear or fury. It didn't matter, either way. There was only one thing left to do.

He looked up into dark eyes that seemed devoid of all humanity, and began to talk.

### Epilogue

Three Days Later

Friday 22nd July

22:42

Battersea, London, UK

"I guess your plan worked then?"

Chuck Mason's familiar drawl oozed from the phone Shelagh O'Brien had just brought to her ear. Unusually, the American had offered no warm greeting; no slick preamble. Just something that sounded vaguely like an accusation.

"What makes you say that?" O'Brien responded cautiously, as she muted the television and eased herself up from the sofa where she'd been dozing.

"Oh, you know, just a hunch. One of my sources in Tehran tells me that Deputy Commander Majidi hasn't been seen for three days, now."

O'Brien smiled to herself, and padded across the spacious living area of her penthouse flat to the sliding glass doors which led to the private roof terrace.

"And you think that was Thorne?" she asked, letting herself out into the cool night air. Ten storeys up, the air was marginally fresher than at street level.

"Are you saying it wasn't?"

"I'm not saying anything at all," O'Brien replied equably, as she leaned on the glass-panelled rail and looked out over Battersea Park.

"Right. And the murders at that club in central London? You're not saying anything about those, either, I take it?"

"I couldn't possibly comment on domestic matters."

"One of the paparazzi somehow managed to get a shot of the crime scene. I've seen the un-redacted image. It wasn't pretty."

"Your point being?"

"Well, you know, just that the photo looked a lot like one I saw years ago of an Al-Qaeda cell who got taken out in Karachi. Cheaper liquor, same result. We both know who was responsible, back then."

"The police have already identified the killer. Another club member, found hanged in the Etheridge men's room. Suicide. All the forensics match."

"How convenient. All neatly tied up, just like the good old days."

O'Brien watched a gaggle of late-night runners pounding around a track in the park below, expending a lot of effort just to go around in circles. They reminded her of Mason.

"You're making it sound like you have a problem with all this, Chuck. I do hope that isn't the case."

Mason sighed. "I have a problem with you not telling me that you'd pulled it off. It's really quite a feat."

"I guess I've just been busy," O'Brien lied. In truth, she hadn't want the Americans muscling in straight away on how Thorne was going to be used. She had a few jobs lined up for him first, herself.

"I have to hand it to you anyway, Shelagh. You always seem to know where the pieces will be on the chessboard, ten moves in advance."

"Yes, well, I had some good fortune along the way," O'Brien admitted. "Like I told you before, I just happened to catch sight of that report on Ramirez and his drug deal with Williams, and that gave me the idea."

"Just happened to catch sigh of. Yeah, right."

"Think what you like. I had no clue Williams was connected to Thorne until then. But when I found out Thorne had saved Williams' life, that was just too serendipitous to ignore."

"Yeah, I get that. I mean, discovering he'd saved the life of a future people-trafficker who went on to sell hundreds of unfortunates to some bunch of super-rich perverts... then finding out that trafficker was supplied by a man who Thorne had failed to kill back in Nuevo Laredo... that was just the kind of emotional shock that might get _Crow_ back in play, right?"

"Indeed," O'Brien agreed, her attention wandering as she stared out into the distance at the distinctive illuminations of the Montevetro towers. With his Putney residence blown, she'd offered Thorne an apartment in the luxurious 'glass mountain' to lie low. But it turned out lying low hadn't really been on his agenda.

"Which is why I don't understand the need to involve the girl, as well," Mason challenged.

"Because I needed to be sure," she explained. "With Thorne's family dead, I needed leverage. I needed more than just some random victim of Williams' operation. There had to be a personal connection that would ensure he was drawn in. I needed to know he'd feel it, or at least that the thing in his head would, anyway. Jess Gardiner was the key to making that happen."

Mason gave a derisive snort.

"Right... and you thought throwing an innocent girl into the arms of a sadistic psychopath was a price worth paying? I can see why you left that little detail out when you shared your plans with me before. You told me you were just dealing with some kid at the bottom of the supply chain."

"Yes, and that was the truth. I cut a deal with Nathan Fennec, promising to get Dean Hemmings off his back if he lured Jess in. I just wanted her in their system. Once she was there I knew Thorne would eventually follow the chain all the way up to the Etheridge Club, Williams and Ramirez. That would have been enough of a shock on its own to trigger Thorne's guilt and wake up Crow."

"You still put her life at risk."

"Yes I did, as you were so keen to point out before. But I had no idea Williams would take a personal interest in her. That was just a bonus, that speeded things up."

Mason swore profusely. O'Brien considered his inability to manage his emotions contemptuous at best.

"A bonus?" Mason queried, incredulously. "And what would you have said if she'd been raped, or tortured, or killed? Would that have been the jackpot, the one thing that would guarantee Thorne got triggered?"

O'Brien sighed in annoyance. Mainly because Mason was very close to the truth. She'd long since reconciled herself to the idea that the girl could have come to serious harm.

"Stop asking pointless questions, Chuck. The kid's not dead. She got off lightly in the end. She'll have a few bad dreams, and she might be less keen to talk to strangers on the internet, but no lasting damage was done."

"No lasting..." Mason's words tailed off in disbelief. "Jesus, Shelagh. You really are a piece of work."

"I always was a cold-hearted bitch, you know that. And you were always a lily-livered liberal." She paused, smiling to herself before continuing. "That's why we make such a great team."

Mason apparently had no response to that. O'Brien looked away from the skyline and peered down to the street below. She could just make out the two men sitting in the Jaguar parked opposite: her external security detail.

"Listen, Chuck," O'Brien continued, taking a more conciliatory tone. "Let's not argue over the rights and wrongs of it all. The fact is, we both have problems Crow can solve. You might want to start thinking about what that means. About what we can achieve together again, especially as your latest bosses are a lot more enamoured with extra-judicial remedies than the previous administration. Maybe they'll even let Jonas Johnson join the party as well."

"Hell, no. That psycho needs to stay locked up in San Quentin."

"Don't forget he's your psycho, Chuck. You made him, just like I made Thorne. Do you really want all that effort to go to waste?"

Mason muttered something inaudible under his breath. O'Brien assumed it wasn't complimentary, but her attention was momentarily distracted by the realisation that the men in the car below hadn't moved at all, since she'd been watching them. The incompetent idiots were probably taking a nap. She'd have to deal with them, later.

"Give it all some thought, anyway" she suggested, taking a more conciliatory tone. "But don't take too long. Some problems need solving sooner, rather than later."

"Abdrafikov, right?"

"You may think that, but I couldn't possibly comment."

Mason finally laughed, and when he spoke the tension had disappeared from his voice.

"Alright. I'll be in touch. In the meantime, just make sure your psycho doesn't start digging too hard into why all those people from his past suddenly re-appeared in his life."

The line clicked off. O'Brien stepped back from the glass-panelled railing of the terrace as a flock of pigeons wheeled up into the night sky, startled by the sound of a motorcycle approaching nearby. She frowned at the disturbance. Neither she nor the birds were usually bothered by traffic noise, but the bike's exhaust note did seem particularly deep and loud.

O'Brien stood and watched the city lights for a few minutes longer, forcing herself to relax before she turned to go back inside. As she headed for the sliding doors, she found Chuck Mason's words from the previous week echoing in her head again.

Be careful what you wish for, Shelagh.

She wasn't sure why that phrase had popped into her head right then. Shivering a little, she was suddenly aware of her vulnerability, alone on the rooftop, out in the open. The last few paces towards the safety of her apartment seemed to take longer than they should.

As she finally slipped back through the doors and turned to slide them shut, she shook her head and told herself to get a grip. Mason really did verge on being spineless sometimes. She'd been right to pay no attention to his over-cautious counsel. In the end, she'd got exactly what she'd wished for, and thanks to her _Crow_ was back.

A reflection in the glass caught her eye. Movement, behind her.

She froze, realising too late that her apartment wasn't so safe, after all. Turning slowly, O'Brien found herself facing a black-clad figure lurking in the shadows. It took a moment for her to recognise the man and when he spoke, his voice sounded strangely unfamiliar with its flat, precise intonation. But there was no doubt as to whom she was looking at.

"Hello, Shelagh. We need to talk."

