Lessons In Blood

Quentin Black

Copyright © 2018 Quentin Black.

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1999600606

ISBN-13: 978-1-9996006-0-0

For a FREE download of the novella An Outlaw’s Reprieve click below on the following link.

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CONTENTS

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

EPILOGUE

GLOSSARY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AUTHOR’S NOTE

IN THE CONNOR REED SERIES

DEDICATION

To Paige, Connor and Daisy.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to Aquaflow Plumbing and Heating in Carnoustie for the investment of time, effort and finance.

To Holly Mew, Dean Robertson, Jon Knowles , Jay Gardiner, Lee Barret and Joe Nakavulevu for your encouragement and support.

Andy Screen for the cover design.

Special thanks to fellow Royal Marine Jake Olafsen, author of Wearing the Green Beret.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Any specific terms and phrases have been highlighted in italics and can be found in the glossary.

PROLOGUE

And he answered them, “To you, it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them, it has not been given. For to him who has, more will be given, and he will have abundance; but from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away.”

— Matthew 13:11–12. The passage from which the ‘The Matthew effect of accumulated advantage’ derives. Sometimes summarised as “the rich get richer, and the poor get poorer”.

1

She spent a few minutes in that state between unconsciousness and being awake. Finally, her eyelids fought against the light before relaxing open. First, she recognised the sterile clean smell of a hospital. The white interior and the thin, plastic cannula tube emerging from the back of her hand confirmed it.

Searching her memory for how she came to be here, she found nothing. Her brain had often not co-operated in the past hazes of alcohol and drugs. In those instances, the recollections used to taunt her from the recesses of her mind. This was different—there was nothing at all, and uneasiness coursed through her.

Pain throbbed in her lower abdomen. Her shaking hands gingerly lifted away the white sheeting. The twelve-inch blood-concealed scar circled her navel like black insulated wire. The searching of her recollection became a frantic racking—Jesus, what did I do to myself this time?

Her breath began to come in exasperated spurts. After a few moments, the curtains to her left were drawn back to reveal a white surgeon’s uniform wrapped around a smiling middle-aged gentleman. His hair, seemingly confused as to be either grey or white, highlighted his artificially orange-tinted skin; which in turn emphasised pearly white teeth.

“Easy, Miss. How are you feeling?”

“Where am I?”

“You are in Braeson Private Medical Centre. You were found by social workers unconscious in a derelict house in Hackney three days ago. They brought you here, fortunately.” The smile seemed painted on.

This information calmed her a little; it sounded depressingly likely, and she thought herself fortuitous for where she now lay.

“Have I been stabbed?” she asked. The likelihood seemed small, but a dark possibility nonetheless.

“No,” replied the white coat as he picked out a file from an acrylic holder at the end of her bed. “After initial tests were performed, an emergency nephrectomy was performed due to your kidney being irreparably damaged.”

“A nephrectomy?” Her eyebrows squashed vertical lines between themselves. “That’s impossible. I had a full physical examination by the London Bridge Hospital less than two weeks ago. All the tests came back clear.”

The coat’s expression now matched her own.

“London Bridge Hospital?” he said, repeating the name of London’s largest and award-winning private hospital.

“Yes, my father insisted after I came out of rehab.”

The man eyed her warily. “Who is your father?”

“Darren O’Reilly.”

“Darren O’Reilly? Where have I heard that name before?”

“He owns Verbatim Cyber Securities.”

“I see,” the man replied, looking at the floor with a frown. “Excuse me.”

He left her alone. During his absence, the question began to turn over in her head—Could I have really damaged a kidney that bad in twelve days?

Could she have been struck in one of her heroin-induced comas? Her boyfriend was many things but he had never been violent towards her. Besides, he was high more often than not, and it was she, with money syphoned off her credit cards and cash allowances from her father, that had kept the pair of them in a drug-induced state throughout their dalliance.

The perma-tan returned. She felt threatened without understanding why. His smile had gone. He reached up behind her, and she saw him turn on a valve.

“Excuse me, what is this? What you doing?”

In response, she felt his palm press down on her chest. No sooner had she begun to thrash in panic, it seemed like she was laying in an invisible vat of honey. Her eyes felt like they were sinking into their sockets before her vision blurred into black.

The tall, broad-shouldered Bruce McQuillan sat relaxed but straight-backed in the mahogany tufted chair. His striped shirt ran flat down his still trim physique with the dark trousers finishing with subtly-patterned brown lace-up shoes. He had recently let his grey-flecked black hair grow a little longer.

The soft yellow of various lighting dotted around the room illuminated the dark reds and browns of the interior.

This was one of London’s most exclusive private men’s clubs. Bruce expected the other patrons’ surreptitious glances; he was an outsider, and glad to be so. However, his companion’s presence assuaged any hostility towards him; MP Henry Costner was fully enmeshed within the establishment.

The Glasgow-born Bruce and the Eton-educated Henry had forged an unlikely alliance in harsh times over a year ago.

The politician dressed with rebellion to his role in the upper echelons of Parliament, and more out of the pages of GQ. His shirt, intricately chequered white and blue, contrasted with his light blue suit. The fifty-two-year-old’s silvery-brown hair verged on foppish atop his youthful face.

“How are you, Bruce? How are you dealing with the bureaucracy of your new official role?” asked the younger man.

“A necessary evil. An evil nonetheless.”

“You miss being under the radar?”

Bruce’s past involvement in UK security would never be formally acknowledged. The activities of the clandestine unit known to a select few as ‘The Chameleon Project’ were far too sensitive. However, to provide his unit more top cover, the two men had agreed that a more official role within the British security services had been appropriate. Through various petitioning and leveraging, the Scot received the role and title of ‘Chief Liaison Officer between MI5 and MI6’.

“It had its advantages,” said Bruce, taking a sip of his black coffee. “What do you need, Henry?”

Henry inclined his head as he regarded Bruce. “I am a little offended by your assumption—correct though it is—that this is not merely a social meeting.”

“If it were a social meeting you’d have invited me to an establishment that permits the presence of women.”

Henry flushed a little. “Ah, I see.”

“Then tell me.”

“Do you know of a Darren O’Reilly?”

“Owner of Verbatim Cyber Securities Darren O’Reilly?”

“What do you know about him?”

“Created cybersecurity systems seemingly years ahead of their time. They have been taken up by government contractors and commercial businesses alike. Personal wealth well past the half a billion-pound mark. Gives generously to charity.”

Bruce saw Henry resist the urge to look around furtively; the Scot had told him off for doing so in past meetings.

The politician began. “Darren O’Reilly is also a substantial donor to various players in government. It was his financial contributions to the last election campaign that kept the Prime Minister in power. The man has many powerful friends.”

“Go on.”

“His daughter Jessie was found dead in a drugs den in south-east London. Overdosed on a drug named Fentanyl.”

Bruce had been aware of the girl’s death and of how O’Reilly had used his influence to keep the circumstances out of the press.

He also knew that in recent months there had been a significant rise in the consumption of Fentanyl. The synthetic opioid analgesic gave off an effect similar to morphine, only it had fifty to a hundred times the potency.

“Then Mr O’Reilly has my condolences.”

“He had a private autopsy done, Bruce,” replied Henry, sipping his Scotch. “She was a day removed from having an apparently perfectly healthy kidney subtracted.”

“So we’re not talking about some kind of macabre tearing out of the kidney. You’re talking about a nephrectomy?”

“Yes.”

Bruce nodded. “What did the police say?”

“They determined Ubaid Almasi, an Egyptian national, with a proclivity for raping, killing and then mutilating young girls, to be responsible. An addict, he was found dead in his flat in Luton. Heroin overdose—laying in the bath for a week. He had detailed the murders, including Jessie O’Reilly’s, in a diary.”

Bruce rubbed his chin. “This apparent savage kept a detailed diary?”

“Yes.”

“Where was it found?”

“Under his mattress.”

Bruce paused for a second. “Police ruled out any foul play?”

“Yes.”

“How did the police come to track Almasi to the murders? DNA, witnesses, CCTV?”

“I am not sure.”

“OK, and Mr O’Reilly doesn’t accept that Almasi was her killer.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve brought me here to ask me to look into it on his behalf.”

Henry sighed. “She was a young girl, Bruce, and he’s a grieving father.”

Bruce liked Henry on the whole but still—he is forever the politician.

“A grieving father who is also one of the richest men on the Isles, is he not?”

The political advisor looked at the black-operations chief for a few moments before shrugging. “Well, yes. O’Reilly came to me with his concerns. He’d prefer to continue with a ‘less traditional’ route of justice.”

“I see.” Bruce stared. “Meaning he wanted the real culprits to pay with their lives and not a lengthy custodial sentence, and you told him you knew just who to come to?”

Henry gave him a rueful look. “Bruce, I haven’t mentioned you by name.”

The Scotsman finished his coffee. “Where does he want to meet me?”

“How do you know he wants to meet you?”

“He’s a businessman.”

The Etonian blinked a couple of times. “He says he’s happy to meet you at his home. You know it doesn’t have to be you who meets him, given your new ‘legitimate’ status, so to speak.”

Bruce thought of the men and women within The Project who could handle this. And then he thought of his quasi-protégé before dismissing him; despite his promise, Connor Reed still had rough edges—a ferociously smashing hammer not yet fashioned into a razor-sharp, efficiently wielded blade. No, he had to look into this personally. Besides, his favoured agent had enough on his plate for now, especially tonight.

“I’ll meet him. Midday tomorrow.”

2

Waseem Khan sat in the back of his Jaguar XJ, his ring-adorned fingers tapping on his knee. The stillness of the night amplified his growing impatience. He shifted his bulk amid the leather interior, the fabric of his grey shalwar kemeez crinkling. Waseem, now forty-three, had possessed a physique of a fine cricketer almost a decade ago.

However, the influx of money and notoriety had stripped away the desire for hard physical exertion and temperance of diet. Women, respect and fear were bought now.

He watched his two hulking bodyguards with approval—they advertised his status. Standing on a white carpet of snow, they cut menacing silhouettes in the dim glow of the deserted industrial estate. Rashid Kumar and Varun Singh were feared within the Asian community in Birmingham and the city’s underworld.

Both stood a few inches over six feet with their black leather jackets straining to accommodate their steroid-ramped physiques. Rashid, in particular, induced dread; an eighteen-stone, black-bearded, dark-eyed gangster with a fondness for machetes. His victims were walking testaments of his handiwork.

Waseem felt safe despite awaiting the arrival of two business associates he had yet to meet in the flesh. His abhorrence for direct interactions with outsiders in his illegal businesses had meant that the two men had previously dealt with his son Imran.

The partnership had been a successful one with a steady supply of quality Ecstasy, MDMA and weed coming his way for eleven months now.

Imran had gotten himself locked up after being caught in a drug deal that he had no business being directly involved in.

Nevertheless, the two men—one white and one black—had made it known to Waseem that not only did they wish for the relationship to continue, but they wanted to increase the trade.

The lights of a midnight-blue, latest model Audi TT Quattro, illuminated the area. The beams dimmed before hitting the Jaguar. The two guards stiffened.

The Audi came into the bowling alley’s car park closing the distance. It slowed to a glide before halting. After a few moments two men alighted. Waseem’s eyes snapped to the one who had been driving; around the same height and build as his men; this black man’s physicality seemed to have an effect on the bodybuilders’ postures.

The crime lord sensed their unease even from within his car.

Waseem knew the driver’s name to be Louis Allen—the leader of the Southwark Union Gang. The SUG stood as an amalgamation of several Peckham gangs under Allen’s leadership. The UK underground had been suitably impressed with the feat. Although Waseem knew some to be disconcerted at the gang’s power.

Allen wore a dark blue Puffa jacket with black pants stretching over a pair of bulky legs before concertinaing at the trainers. Two or three days of bristle covered his strong jaw, with his hair not being much longer.

Waseem turned his attention to his companion, a northerner by the name of Connor Reed with short sandy hair and a face of symmetrical features. The thin dark green leather jacket revealed a broad chest encased in a black T-shirt.

He observed Rashid and Varun speaking to the pair. Then they began to gesticulate while the newcomers remained still and staring. When his curiosity overcame him, Waseem got out of the Jaguar and walked over.

“What’s the problem, gentlemen?” he asked, directing his question towards Rashid.

“They are refusing to be searched.”

“Gentlemen?”

Louis answered with a voice riveted with south-east London street. “I’ll open my jacket, so you can check for burners an’ blades, but you buzzin’ if you think anyone is putting their hands on me.”

“But ya see why a man in my position would prefer it if you were searched given what we are here to discuss?”

The faintly coarse but well-clipped voice of Connor answered. “Of course we do. If you insist, then you insist, but then we’ll have to insist on searching all three of you in turn. It’s entirely up to you?”

Waseem allowed his Birmingham accent to become stronger; he found it disarmed people. “I fink we can dispense with that. There’s naaa need ter get upset.”

“This white man would be nothing without this gorilla,” sneered Rashid in Punjabi while looking at Connor, who stared back, his blue eyes seemingly full of wry amusement.

“Calm yourself,” replied Waseem in the same tongue, before addressing his prospective business partners. “Ter business, gentlemen.”

“We gotta case. In it is some Malcoms, white lady and broccoli,” said Louis.

“All right?”

“You’re going to take it and sell it.”

The gang boss glanced at his henchmen before answering. “I didn’t bring any testing equipment. I am not paying for a product before I know its value.”

Louis answered. “We didn’t ask for money, Mr Khan—at least not yet. After the feedback you’ll receive from your fiends, astro-travellers and psychonauts, you’ll ask for more. That’s when we’ll discuss payment for this and further packages.”

There was silence before Waseem answered. “What’s ter stop me from taken this an’ never dealing with you again?”

Connor raised his jaw a little. “Then you will have lost a supply of the best product you’ll ever come across. You are too shrewd a businessman to let that happen. That’s why we have given you first refusal and not your friends down at the snooker club.”

Waseem pursed his lips at the Yorkshireman’s reference to his main rivals for the city’s drug trade. One of Birmingham’s biggest snooker clubs formed their base of operations.

“OK, it is a deal—where is the case?”

Connor walked back to the Audi before opening the boot and returning with the case. He set it beside his foot.

“Now, Mr Khan. We were going to give you this case for free,” said Connor, “but that was before your man there said something along the lines of, ‘that white bastard wouldn’t be anything without that gorilla here’—there or thereabouts—and I am sure a man of honour such as yourself can see that I can’t allow that to pass. So he and I are going to fight. If he wins, then you’ll never have to pay for this case. Understand?”

Tension laced the silence.

Waseem’s mind whirled, trying to look for any deception—any downside. He had never known a white to understand Punjabi to that extent. Rashid dwarfed this man by four stone easily; no way he would lose.

Still, there was not a hint of fear in the northerner’s voice.

“What if you win?” Waseem asked.

“Then I’ll have had the pleasure of correcting his abrasive manner,” he replied. “Just one condition, the fight is over when the winner says it is.”

There were a few moments of silence before Waseem nodded his head. “Seems reasonable,” he replied, before looking towards Rashid.

He found his enforcer’s eyes wide and burrowing into the smaller man’s, before saying, “You’re fookin’ dead, gora.”

Bruce had turned his phone off and sat looking into the illuminated night. He had just finished a late-night call with a contact in the NCA (National Crime Agency). The answers received were limited due to the hour and left him with more questions. He often took himself out onto the balcony of his Knightsbridge penthouse when meditating on a problem.

Ordinarily, despite Costner’s influence in Westminster and thus his usefulness as an ally, Bruce would have passed on the O’Reilly case. It first came across to him as a father looking for a target to displace his anger, grief and perhaps guilt.

Two things did not compute in Bruce’s mind—the kidney removal and the diary. In his role as leader of a black operations unit whose purpose was to lessen the impact of organised crime, Bruce had taken it upon himself to study the criminal psyche to a master’s degree.

Serial killers were known to keep diaries due to their social awkwardness of communicating in person, as well as their desire to re-live certain experiences. Nonetheless, even the most unhinged knew better than to keep them under the mattress. If you want to hide it—presumably from a police raid—you hide it with more care; in an air vent, in a secret compartment, in a rabbit hutch—not under a mattress. If you wanted it found after your suicide, you don’t bother hiding it at all.

Trophy-taking was also a known practice. However, it was more often than not things like a lock of hair, a piece of underwear or jewellery—not a kidney unless it was torn out in some twisted ritual. The performance of a nephrectomy ran in stark contrast to Ubaid Almasi’s usual apparent MO of mutilation and him being a poor, ill-educated immigrant.

Bruce knew this was something he’d have to run with himself, at least initially. He had people working for him on various levels, with some not even realising it. And some that were more trusted than others.

There were two ‘assets’ with whom his reliance may have perfectly reflected Pareto’s ‘80/20’ rule. One was Jaime, pronounced ‘Hai-me’, his information systems guy. There were not many databases that the computer genius couldn’t hack into. He was perhaps the only person that Bruce would really struggle to replace. The South American’s lifestyle had changed drastically in the past year and he currently worked from a superyacht in the Mediterranean.

The other was a former Marine named Connor Reed. He had a myriad of attributes contrasted with some stark flaws. He seemed to have both an instinct for making correct decisions in dangerous situations combined with an ability for ‘bigger picture’ thinking. He was a superb combatant; after being a high-level amateur boxer and competitive Judoka before Bruce had brought him into the fold. Since then, his fighting prowess had soared under the tutelage of George Follet and training in various MMA gyms. However, his real value lay in being born into a criminal dynasty, meaning that he could move within that sphere in a way that no other operative in The Project could.

For this reason, Bruce had encouraged the Yorkshireman to immerse himself further into the criminal underworld. McQuillan knew that Reed had involved himself in crime for years before becoming an operative, even while serving in the Royal Marines. That said, it had been armed robberies, debt collecting and the taxation of drug dealers. Indeed, it turned out that he had an aversion to the dealing of drugs. The black-operations chief had to explain to him that the more enmeshed he was in that world, the greater an asset he would be, and so Connor began forging contacts both in the UK and Europe.

Despite all this, some of Reed’s characteristics concerned Bruce.

Firstly, it was the pleasure his agent derived from carrying out sadistic acts against people he deemed “bad or evil, and too much of a risk to others to be allowed a second chance.” The more experienced man knew enough about karmic law to know that this could be his protégé’s downfall. Not only that, a bullet to an enemy’s head resolved the issue of their danger in a much quicker and cleaner way than torturing them for days, which he knew would be Reed’s preference.

The Glaswegian knew enough about psychology to know that a draconian approach would not work. He reminded himself of a study done by Madeline Heilman. People had been gently asked to sign a petition. In the midst of having the issue explained to them, another person would accost the person, pressuring them not to sign. The study showed that a person would be more likely to sign in that instance—humans liked to protect their sense of freedom.

Another trait that bothered him was Reed’s recklessness. In their profession, he could be called upon at any given moment to take part in whatever Bruce required of him.

Despite this, Bruce knew that—although not often—Connor could be partial to going out, drinking, taking recreational drugs, and casual sex. It fit into his cover, but if he was drunk, high or susceptible to a strange woman’s bed, he could be vulnerable.

Still, he remained the operative Bruce trusted most of all to survive dangerous situations and get a result.

3

Waseem stood with Varun and Louis a few feet away as the combatants squared off. The northerner had removed his jacket while Rashid still wore his.

Connor’s voice pierced the air. “What’s the local hospital called? So I can WhatsApp your mum where to come visit you.”

At this, Rashid bolted like an enraged bull towards him. His left hook resembled a discus throw.

Connor simultaneously squatted and pivoted, avoiding the wild swing, positioning himself at an angle to his adversary.

He unleashed a crescendo of fast and powerful punches. They struck the hulking Rashid in the head, ear, solar plexus and ribs. He crashed to the ground before rolling onto his front.

“Too much weights, not enough speedwork,” Connor shouted over to Allen, who merely shook his head.

At this, Rashid, from a kneeling position, made a dive for the Yorkshireman’s thighs.

The legs kicked back, denying Rashid a grip onto them.

The gangster fell forward onto his hands and knees as a result, and his opponent span onto his back. To Waseem’s mind, it was like watching a Siberian tiger savaging a grizzly bear in the snow.

Connor punched his right forearm around the Asian’s tree trunk-like neck and clamped his right hand onto his left bicep. The back of his left hand pushed on the back of the bodybuilder’s head. The blade of his forearm garrotted the throat.

The gora said something to his victim, but Waseem could not make out what it was.

Rashid exploded with bulging eyes to a standing position. The hands scrabbled for purchase on the arms that were throttling him, then searched for an ear or a handful of hair that was too short for a grip.

Connor’s legs locked Rashid’s torso in a brutal corset before hooking his feet inside the larger man’s thighs.

Within seconds, Rashid’s bull-like bucking ceased, and he slumped in his unconsciousness facing Waseem, Varun and Louis.

Connor stood up behind his victim, holding him up in a kneeling position before releasing the choke. He caught the slumping Rashid’s jaw from underneath and tilted the head up.

Waseem watched in horror as the victor’s teeth clamped into his chief enforcer’s face. The scene of the pit bull-like ragging, the bloodied and exposed cheekbone and then the blood-smeared, chewing mouth seared into the drug lord’s psyche.

The Peruvian enjoyed the sounds of the calm ocean and its gentle rocking aboard his superyacht. The white of the moon and stars glinted off the waves. Despite the hour the air still held a little warmth to it. Jaime had lived in London for many years now but would never be a fan of that city’s weather; the cold, the wet, and he missed the South American ‘cielo de brujas’—when the sky turned shades of orange, pink and red in the afternoons.

His life had changed in the past eighteen months. Back then, the security measures he had undertaken to protect himself were so stringent they had made him ill over time.

Jaime, one of the world’s premier computer hackers, had a single employer in Bruce McQuillan, and thus the people and organisations he worked against were often powerful and almost always ruthless.

Still, one of Bruce’s agents had shown Jaime that restrictive paranoia would kill him anyway—over a more extended period.

Jaime had decided to travel. As long as he had access to his customised laptop, he could work.

He had designed and built the laptop himself, after ordering the components from various sources—mainly from the ‘dark web’—so as not to arouse attention. The painstaking planning and assembling had produced a one-off masterpiece. The clock and BUS speed could rival any CPU and motherboard he knew of. The cache and hard drive being more than efficient enough to keep up. He did not know of any mainframe, even within Silicon Valley, that could match it.

It stood to reason, he thought, that the movement from location to location would aid his security.

His newfound attitude towards socialising, expensive clothes and fast cars had attracted a drove of women over the previous months. After years of being a near recluse, he could be socially awkward and had not taken to this with great enthusiasm. However, his logic decided that to fully ascertain whether this would be a positive change in his life, he should throw himself full bore into it and the result would be plain. This hedonistic experiment had led to his attempting a polyamorous relationship with three beautiful girls. That lasted a month before ending in disaster a few weeks ago. He remembered a saying told to him by an African tribesman at the beginnings of his world travels, “One woman, one trouble. Two woman, two troubles.”

However, Jaime had done his research before embarking on the alternative lifestyle. He learnt that a polyamorous with three women was six relationships in total, not merely his three. He had understood that he should not be the centre point—the ‘fulcrum’—and that communication between the three was paramount. Despite impressing this upon the girls, it had still ended in a whirlwind of backbiting, screams and tears.

That is why he was here—for some peace and quiet, for which he was grateful; unlike one of Bruce’s employees he thought, who seemed to love being in the epicentre of this constantly shifting and deadly game.

“What the fuck. Was that necessary?” said Louis with a hint of exasperation as he sped the Audi away from the industrial site.

Connor replied, “Hey, did you like that Once were Warriors quote back there?”

“Shut up, man, you still have blood around your mouth. You look like you’ve been motting out your Aunt Mavis on her period.”

“I would never eat out my Aunt Mavis…while she was on her period,” the Yorkshireman smirked.

Connor and Louis had known one another for seven years. They had met at the Commando Training Centre in Lympstone, at the start of their Royal Marines basic training.

They seemingly had little in common on the surface; Louis being a black south Londoner and Connor a Caucasian from West Yorkshire.

They did share two things. One was a love and talent for boxing. After they had ‘passed out’ of basic training, they had both boxed for the Corps and then the Navy team.

The other common denominator had been a criminal background. Louis being a part of the Peckham gang culture from an early age, and Connor’s father the patriarch of—at the time—one of the North of England’s most powerful crime families.

Now they found themselves here.

An act of vengeance had led Connor to be recruited by McQuillan’s Chameleon Project. The former Marine had saved Bruce’s life with the aid of Louis, not long after.

“This isn’t a joke, fam; it was meant to be a business transaction, you get me? Now Waseem is gonna think—no—he’s gonna know that you are a fuckin’ hair-trigger wasteman lunatic,” said Louis, his voice rising an octave. “And for fuck’s sake, wipe ya mouth.”

Connor removed a pair of baby wipes from the glove compartment and wiped. A few moments of silence passed before he spoke,

“You know what he’ll never think I am, Murtaugh?”

“What’s that?” replied the Londoner, calmer now. “And stop calling me Murtaugh”

“He, and no one who gets to hear this story, will ever think of me as anything other than a criminal,” he said, throwing the wipes out of the window before spitting out blood-laced saliva. “They’ll never think I work for an agency which, in its own way, enforces the law. Besides, lessons not learnt in blood are easily forgotten.”

“Who said that? Julius Cesar?”

“Clyde from Law Abiding Citizen.”

At this Louis let out a sigh, before looking at Connor and smiling.

4

Darren O’Reilly, dressed in a tweed jacket and low ankle boots, walked through the patches of sun fighting through the tree canopy of Horsell Common.

He threw a tennis ball distractedly for his Czechoslovakian Vlcak named Maslow. Vlcaks were a cross between the German shepherd and the Carpathian wolf.

O’Reilly had bought Maslow in Naples at an extortionate price. The dog had been sequestered by the Environmental Protection Unit of the Carabinieri following a nationwide investigation. Italian breeders were crossing the Czechoslovakian Vlcaks with wild wolves from the Carpathian Mountains, Scandinavia and North America. Due to his striking resemblance to the wolf that formed the majority of his DNA, Maslow always attracted stares.

O’Reilly had noticed that his pet’s mood reflected his own—maybe he could sense the grief.

Jessie had been the youngest of two girls he had fathered with his ex-wife Joanne. Brought up with her sister Lisa, who had been three years older, Jessie had always had a rebellious streak in her. During her formative years through to her early adolescence, O’Reilly had gotten a kick out of his daughter’s vivacity—it had reminded him of his own. Lisa had her mother’s temperament, and though he loved her dearly, he felt more of an affinity with Jessie.

He knew the point where Jessie’s teenage rebellion had morphed into something darker. The catalyst had been the disintegration of his marriage to Joanne. He shook his head at the cliché he had been; a middle-aged man with new money, indulging himself in several affairs that had taken its toll on his loyal wife.

Jo had forgiven him the first; a midlife crisis after nearly fifteen years of faithfulness had been excused. Of course, O’Reilly could see now that her clemency had only encouraged him. His spouse’s resentment had grown, and the bad atmosphere in the family home had spiralled into a vicious circle. Lisa had been away from it all at university whereas Jessie had been right there in the thick of it. She had taken to staying out late and verbally lashing out whenever challenged about it.

O’Reilly left the family home when it became evident that marital reconciliation was out of reach. He had hoped it would calm the situation and improve Jessie’s behaviour.

It did not.

She would go missing for days. After one nearly week-long absence, O’Reilly had her followed and discovered her drug use.

That had been over two years ago. Two years of rehabilitation admissions and phases of sobriety before relapsing again.

Her body had been found in a squalid flat in Croydon.

He knew that the Egyptian had not killed his daughter. The knowledge that her real killers were out there burned like an ember in his mind. He had been offered an olive branch by one Henry Costner, an aristocrat with significant influence in Westminster and beyond. O’Reilly knew it to be a forlorn hope; what would be the likelihood that Costner knew of a person or organisation that could and would do what O’Reilly required? Did a person or organisation like that even exist? It was more than likely that the politician was in the least placating him, and at worse attempting to exhort future financial backing.

Again, his walk had been ruined.

Tears of frustration, anger and loss threatened to spill down his face. He needed help, someone who could reach this evil and make it pay. Who could cut through the bureaucracy, unrestrained by the law of the land, decrees that could be manipulated by those with power and fiscal clout.

And he needed that person to be willing to kill.

He had reached a high point and stopped to look over the vast fields—sixty-five million people in this country; is there no one?

A voice snapped him out of his melancholy. “Mr O’Reilly.”

He turned to look at a tall man in a thin brown quilted jacket with a black wool jumper underneath, black hiking trousers and brown walking boots. The sharp cheekbones were chiselled away from the strong jawline. The hawkish-like nose and eyes completing the memorable face.

“Yes,” said O’Reilly guardedly.

“We have a mutual friend in Mr Costner,” the man said in a light Scottish accent. “Let’s walk and talk.”

After a few moments, O’Reilly nodded numbly and fell in step beside the man.

Waseem was in one of his offices, in the back of one of his chicken shops when he took the call.

“Why has one of your minions got a hole in his face?” said the voice over the phone.

Waseem could not fail to be shocked at how quickly news reached his superior’s ears.

“One of them took offence ter what Rashid had said about them.”

“What did he say?”

“Ter was a bit of aggro at them not wanting to be searched, and Rashid said that ‘the white ’un wouldn’t be so cocky if he didn’t have the black one there’. Something like that.”

“Did they get searched?”

Waseem considered lying. Then he remembered witnessing an incident where another man, a respected villain, had been dishonest to the man who was now on the other end of the line.

He reconsidered. “No. I went against my instincts to push it.”

“Disappointing, Waseem. Prisons are full of people who trusted their ‘instincts’ and not simple instructions.”

“It will not happen again.”

The voice continued as if he had never heard him. “Surely you realise that a man who thinks it’s kosher to make remarks like that should not be brought along to those meetings?”

“That’s the thing. Rashid said it in Punjabi.”

There were a few moments of silence. “Interesting.” The voice paused before continuing. “How did this gentleman look after the fight? Did he sustain any injuries?”

“Well, that’s another thing. It wasn’t much of a fight. The guy destroyed him.”

Again a pause. “What about the deal?”

“Had one of my guys wash some of the mandy powder with cold anhydrous acetone and over ninety per cent came out, so it’s legit. The dust had some contaminants in it but no dilutants. An’ the herb was twenty per cent for THC. Boutique.”

He had been impressed when he had found out and hoped his boss was too. Getting quality drugs imported had been getting harder in recent years. The SOCA (Serious Organised Crime Agency), given more powers along with its renaming to the NCA, had been making its presence felt.

“Getting one of these products of that quality into the country is impressive,” said the voice. “Getting all three seems remarkable, don’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“How quickly can a deal be arranged?”

“Quick. The white guy—Reed—said he’d be coming back to Brum in a couple of days and staying for a bit.”

“Staying in the city?”

“Yeah.”

“OK, sell the product and we’ll see how much demand there is.”

The phone went dead, and Waseem felt happier—the boss knew there was money to be made, and so did Waseem.

“Tell me why you don’t accept that Ubaid Almasi killed your daughter,” said the Scotsman as they walked deeper into the woods. With no preamble before the question, O’Reilly tried to take stock of the situation.

“There were a few reasons.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it’s no secret that Jessie had a long-standing drug problem. At first, I did what any father in my position would do—I got her into rehab, and cut her off from her credit cards. All she did was get her stuff from street dealers—going ‘council’, as they say. Who knows what’s in the shit they sell. She’d sell her clothes, steal, the lot. So I had to make a decision before she inevitably sold herself, to turn back on her credit. I gave her a certain amount a week so she could buy the best stuff. I know it’s ‘enabling’, but it was the lesser of the two evils. The point is, it didn’t sit right with me that she had been found in some drugs den in Croydon. She could have gotten her drugs from one of these ‘oohrah Henry’ dealers.”

“Almasi’s vehicle was spotted in the area by CCTV around about the time. And he refers to all the murders, including your daughter’s, in his diary. The accounts are all in great detail.”

“After the case had been closed, I managed to borrow the said diary and have Professor Robert Speckin, an inventor of a method of ink dating. He deemed all the entries to be made on the same day—the day of Almasi’s suicide.”

“You’re aware that some dispute the accuracy of ‘Inkage’?” said the Scotsman.

The man’s knowledge of the company surprised O’Reilly but he countered, “Inkage will be officially implemented in all UK forensic laboratories by next year.”

“OK. Maybe the entries were confessions before he took his own life?”

“Ubaid Almasi was a known heroin addict. As you say, the accounts were very detailed: what the victims were wearing, how they styled their hair. Quite an impressive recall for a suicidal drug addict.”

“I’ll need to see this diary.”

“By borrow, I meant borrow. It cost me a small fortune to have Speckin come to the evidence room to carry out his tests.”

They walked on a few more paces, and the man spoke. “OK, this is now no longer your problem. It’s my problem. I cannot give you a timeline, but whatever transpires I will make you aware of it.”

O’Reilly exhaled and fought the urge to cry.

“What will happen if and when you catch whoever is responsible?”

“They will die, Mr O’Reilly,” answered the man, his words hanging in the air. “You are never to speak of this again. Not your meeting with Mr Costner, not this meeting. You will appear to have finally accepted Ubaid Almasi’s culpability for your daughter’s death. You will not ask Mr Costner for any updates. I will inform you at periodical intervals if my investigation drags on. Understand?”

O’Reilly nodded numbly. “I understand. I told Mr Costner I would foot the bill, and—”

“When a man has to pay for justice then something is amiss,” said the man, before holding out his hand. “Now I will bid you good day.”

O’Reilly shook his hand and clamped his jaws together to hide the trembling. The Scotsman began to walk away and O’Reilly shouted after him, “I apologise but I didn’t catch your name.”

“No apology necessary,” the man shouted back. “I didn’t give it to you.”

5

Andrew Watson was pissed off. He was waiting for a man he did not know, for a reason undisclosed with no way to contact him—“he is tall and has a light Scottish accent” was all his friend would tell him. Watson did not even think his friend knew why this man wanted to see him. Not that the man was late, but Watson had things to be getting on with. As an investigations officer for National Crime Agency, he always had things to be getting on with. At thirty-seven years old, his life had been getting more stressful just at the age his natural energy had begun to wane.

The Beefeater pub he was in had that gentle hum he liked, of it having people in, without being too busy. He was weighing up whether or not to have an alcoholic drink when a strong hand clapped him on the shoulder, startling him.

“Would you like a drink, Andrew?” said the tall man with a Scottish accent.

“Ahem, sure, I’ll have what you’re having,” he replied.

“I am having a black coffee. You sure?”

“Yes, coffee is fine but can I have it white with one sugar?”

A few minutes later they sat across from one another with their coffees.

“I apologise for the intrusion, I understand you must be very busy,” began the Scotsman. “My name is Bruce.”

“It’s OK, I had a slow day anyway,” replied Andrew.

“It’s regarding the murder of Jessica O’Reilly.”

Andrew Watson momentarily stiffened, and Bruce continued, “Just before we begin, this isn’t an inquisition. As far as I can tell, the investigation was carried out impeccably.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

The Scot sipped his coffee. “It’s to placate a grieving and angry father that everything that could have been done has been done.”

“Can I ask who you are? This is all very cloak and dagger.”

“I apologise, it’s not my intention to be ‘cloak and dagger’, but I couldn’t go into detail. Let’s say I do what you do—protect the people of the United Kingdom—but I am a little more free of the constraints of politics and judicial review.”

“I see,” said Watson, hiding his intrigue. “What would you like to know?”

“I have an overview and a few details of the case, but no more than that. The nephrectomy struck me as odd. Almasi had a history of mutilation but not performing surgery?”

Watson nodded. “The diary detailed his fascination with it—that he had been practising his surgical skills on rabbits and such like.”

“Did it state where he had kept or disposed of the kidney?” asked Bruce.

Watson thought for a moment. “No, it didn’t.”

“All his previous victims—and his latest victim Catherine Wilks—were within the Luton area, with only Jessie found outside that area, way down in south-east London? An anomaly from the geographic profiling.”

Watson shrugged. “His car was shown by CCTV to be in that area around the time.”

“That’s another thing: heroin addicts don’t drive. Not that type of addict. Do we have any idea when he bought that car or if it was registered to him?”

Watson felt a shunt of annoyance—this wasn’t just a simple review of the case. “Look, Bruce, is this off the record?” When the man nodded, he continued, “The NCA is the same as any organisation. It has a limited amount of manpower—workforce, I mean—finance and resources. There are literally hundreds of cases on our docket. So when you’re given a bird in the hand like this, then you take it. Almasi was a serial killer, and now he’s dead. Of course, I questioned certain things, but there’s a diary of confessions and a car registered in his name picked up on CCTV in the area where she was found dead. I learnt long ago to let some things go or else go mad. I might have spent weeks and months—time that could have been spent solving other cases—only to come to the same conclusion anyway.”

The Scotsman replied, “Then I can help you. The official result will always stand. But if this Egyptian wasn’t the person responsible for Jessica O’Reilly’s death, then I will find whoever is and bring them to justice.”

Watson took a few breaths, his mind weighing the pros and cons of what he was considering saying. Finally, he said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

When Bruce remained silent, he continued. “About a year and a half ago, we broke up this brothel in Hackney. Pimp was nowhere to be found. Anyway, one of the girls starts babbling on that she had been kidnapped. At first, I thought she meant by the pimp, but then she said she’d been taken to a hospital. Lifted her blouse to show me a scar that went around her right side and lower back. Ordinarily, I’d have put her ramblings down to her being an addict, but the scar caught my attention. I know what a slashing looks like and this looked more of an incision. Anyway, the pimp appeared, and the arrest was made. The social services came in for the girls, and I never heard from her again.”

Watson took a mouthful of coffee before topping his cup back up. He carried on. “Over six months ago, I had a similar incident happen. Young girl was muling drugs for one of the kingpins we were after. We caught hold of her to shake her for information, and she obliged. She spewed out the same story, except she was a little more with it than the first girl. Said she had been homeless. The police came to move her on, then she woke up in a hospital. She had the same scar.”

“What then?” Bruce asked.

“The thing is, these two girls were English. Now, we’ve seen cases where Eastern European girls sell one of their organs or even bone marrow for access into the country. But that didn’t seem to be the case here. So I began some enquires on the side. Then after a time, I was told to stop from one of my superiors.”

Bruce sipped his coffee. “Who?”

“That I won’t tell you. But what I will tell you is this O’Reilly case was cut, bagged and zipped with unusual speed.”

“So I gather that if I had made my request to see you to your superiors, instead of on the QT to Kathryn, we wouldn’t be having this conversation?”

He was referring to Kathryn Bainbridge, the Deputy Head of Scotland Yard.

“I would think you’d have surmised correctly.”

Bruce said, “Let’s keep this conversation between ourselves. No sense in poking what seems to be a hornet’s nest. I appreciate the risk you’ve taken telling me your concerns. Whatever I discover, and however far it goes, I will one day tell you—if you want to know. Also, there may come a time when you need help, and no one else is able or willing to come to your aid. If that time comes, I want you to reach out to me via Kathryn.”

The Scotsman stood and extended his hand. As the hand enclosed his, Watson looked at this man that he had just met. There was something about him that made Watson trust the stranger.

Connor watched the strikingly attractive Grace smooth and readjust her green summer dress as he pulled up his hiking trousers. He took a moment to appreciate the shapely redhead’s allure before looking around the desolate expanse of moorland as the morning sun began to illuminate it. His attention turned back to the only woman he had been seeing with any regularity for the last few years—must be her green eyes. He smiled—the last roll around I had before this was two nights ago with an Asian bodybuilder.

“That was a present for qualifying as a surgeon.” He winked as he fastened his belt. When they had first met years ago, she had been a trainee surgeon at the Leeds General Infirmary and he a serving Royal Marine. He had been seconded to the hospital on a short-lived MOD scheme for team medics to gain practical experience.

Her laugh, sweet and loud, caught in the air. “You really do love yourself, Mr Reed.”

“That patch doesn’t lie,” he replied, nodding to the picnic blanket.

“I think that was more you than me, lover.”

“Yeah…but it was some of you.” He grinned.

They had risen early to begin a walk to Haworth and Wadsworth Moor. After four hours they had reached the Top Withens ruins by mid-morning. No one else was around.

The blanket had been laid out, and Connor had set down his backpack. Deep kissing had soon led to hard sex.

“Come on then, chop-chop with the food,” said Grace.

“You lay it out. I did all of the work.”

She sighed and began placing out the contents of the backpack: turkey and cranberry sandwiches with seeded bread, bananas, nuts, water and a flask of black coffee.

“So, how’s work?” he asked.

She frowned. “Don’t be one of those guys.”

“One of what guys?”

“A small-talker guy.”

“I just thought I’d feign interest in you as a person since I have gotten what I wanted.”

“You didn’t have to take me on a thirteen-mile walk just to shag me, Connor.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I was talking about the sandwiches.”

Grace chortled. “Come on.”

“OK,” replied Connor, thinking. “Homosexuality, are you born like it or can you learn to like it?”

“OK, not bad. We talking just male homosexuality?”

“Just male. We both know women can learn to like it.” He smirked.

She sighed and said, “Well, Alfred Kinsey suggested that we are all on a spectrum of sexuality.”

“Yeah, the Kinsey scale of Sexuality. I’ve seen the film.”

“Well, there have been studies that show that the hypothalamus in homosexual males is different. Which would suggest it is biological.”

“Who’s taught you a big word like hypothalamus?”

She smiled. “What do you think?”

“Apparently the ancient Greeks used to fuck one another. The older males used to fuck young boys. Some tribes in New Guinea still do that. You know, the young warriors fuck the young lads, and by young, I am talking from about eight to fifteen. I don’t think that you could ever convince me that would be my cup of tea but they consider that normal.”

“But that’s a forced ritual. It’s not a natural expression.”

“It’s an interesting point but—” he was interrupted by the vibrating of his phone, and upon looking at it said, “I’ll have to take this one.”

He walked away a few paces and answered the phone. “Yeah.”

“There’s been developments. We need to meet,” said Bruce McQuillan.

“When?”

“You can meet me. Is it a pub off the M6 at Knutsford this afternoon? It’s called The Windmill.”

“I am walking in Haworth with a bird at the moment. I’ll have to drop her off before I start down.”

“Fine, make it by six tonight, and we’ll have a pub lunch.”

“OK, see you then,” Connor replied before clicking off the phone.

He walked back to Grace and said, “Come on, eat up.”

“You can fuck off, Reed. You’re not traipsing me around a moor at this ungodly hour and fucking me before rushing my brunch. Sit down.”

He looked into her beautiful, flashing eyes before resignedly sitting, muttering, “It was your idea to go for a hike.”

“Be a good boy and eat your sandwiches,” she said.

He just smiled and did so.

6

Connor pulled into the well-lit car park, spotted McQuillan’s BMW and parked next to it. He was on time thankfully—he did not want to irk his boss. The sky had begun to simmer into the dark blue of the evening, and the cosy-looking pub named The Windmill was lit well against it.

Connor strolled into the hum of the bar and found Bruce alone at a table in an alcove. There were two pints of Guinness on it.

“We drinking before driving?”

“Government guidelines state that you’re allowed 35 micrograms of alcohol per one hundred millilitres of breath. You’ll be fine—you’re eating.”

The waitress came over and took their orders.

Bruce ordered salmon with vegetables, and Connor a mixed grill without the chips.

“How’s the diet going?” asked Bruce.

“I don’t call it a diet, it’s a way of eating. Fell off it this morning as the girl I was with made sandwiches.”

“What’s wrong with using Grace’s name?”

“OK, Grace made sandwiches, and you’re meant to keep the carbs to a minimum.”

“Why?”

“To prevent insulin spikes—you feel loads better on it. Your body uses ketones instead of sugars. You should give it a try.”

Bruce’s eyebrows raised. “From what I have read, it seems to me that I would have to live on butter and whatever products they are punting—Keto biscuits and what not. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy a beer.”

The waitress brought their orders, and they talked as they ate.

“Have you been watching the Six Nations?” asked Bruce.

“Not really. Only reminds me that I am not watching Rugby League.”

“You can’t appreciate both?”

“This is not about me being a bigoted northerner who loves Rugby League just because I was brought up with it. It’s a superior game—it’s faster, more creative, harder and more skilful than that ‘kick and I’ll get a clap’ shit.”

Bruce smiled. “Some might disagree with you. They might say that Union is more freely played in that the defending team is given the opportunity to recover the ball, whereas League you have to wait for a mistake or wait through a set of six.”

“Is that what ‘they’ might say, or are you saying it?”

Bruce said, “Just playing devil’s advocate.”

“The amount of people who watch Rugby League on the telly is four times the amount than Union. That’s because the Super League is mega. It’s only because the people in high positions of media played it when they went to Eton or whatever southern university they went to, and so make out it’s better. But ‘the people’ know.”

“What is your definition of ‘the people’?”

“The working and middle class, I suppose.”

“So men and women who went to Eton, Cambridge or Oxford cannot be considered ‘the people’?”

Connor hesitated from answering immediately. The old man had chided him before regarding voicing his opinions unless he had thoroughly thought them through. He remembered the Scot telling him once—with regards to their profession—“I am not here to tell you what to think, I am here to teach you how to think.”

“I am not saying that if you’ve gone to a posh school you’re a bad person. There are good and bad rich people just as there are good and bad poor people. But there’s ‘The Establishment’, and there’s ‘The People’.”

“And who do you think our organisation looks after? The working and middle class?”

“Not necessarily. I’ve been under the impression it was to protect good people who can’t fight for themselves.”

“I’d say that was accurate. Regardless of their social class,” replied Bruce. “Why do you think humans are trafficked?”

“Sex trade and slave labour.”

“Yes, those are the main two. Trafficked for their organs is another,” said Bruce as he took a swallow of his pint. “And it’s on the rise. In this day and age of eating processed food, sedentary lifestyles, drugs and smoking, more and more people are in need of organ donations. Many more than legitimate donations can supply. Unofficial records say that one in twenty of all organ transplants conducted in the UK alone are from organs received on the black market.”

“One in twenty?” said Connor with a hint of disbelief.

“I believe it to be a lot higher than that.”

“OK. Is this our bag though?” asked Connor, referring to The Chameleon Project’s purpose of protecting the citizens of the UK.

“Until recently no. The traffickers would, and still do, take advantage of illegal immigrants’ desperation for asylum, and arrange for an organ to be taken in exchange for safe passage into the UK. The procedure is usually carried out in Europe before their entry into Britain. However, something else has emerged.”

The waitress came over. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you,” they both said in near unison. When she was out of earshot, Bruce continued, “I believe there are people in this country who realised just how lucrative organ trafficking is. People who have anticipated that this blood money will be strangled post-Brexit. People who have started snatching the homeless—the drug- or alcohol-addicted homeless—for their blood and organs.”

Connor looked at Bruce with his mouth slightly ajar before saying, “I can’t wait to murder them.”

“You don’t cut a lizard’s tail off only to see it grow one back. The head needs to come off. I need you to remember that before I tell you what I am going to tell you.”

“I know—the long game—the big picture.”

“Waseem Khan has been involved in the trade of those types of asylum seekers. I have no definitive leads as to who he passes the immigrants onto, nor how they get the victims out of the country. And that’s who and what you need to identify.”

“OK. How?”

“Well, I realise you’ll need to have a reason for staying in the city,” said Bruce, “so you’re going to be working with another agent who will pose as your girlfriend and assist you professionally. You’re staying because you’re in love, so to speak.”

Connor frowned. “She rats?”

“Rats?”

“Is she ugly?”

“You mean, is she highly professional and trustworthy?”

“No, I meant is she good-looking? I presume that she is highly professional or else you wouldn’t have selected her.”

“What have I told ye about trusting folk blindly?”

Connor was wary when Bruce changed standard words into their Glaswegian variants.

“OK. What are her credentials?”

“Her name is Ciara Robson, and yes, she is a bonnie lass,” said Bruce as he put his cutlery down on his empty plate. “She’s a little younger than you at twenty-five.”

They both thanked the waitress collecting their plates then Bruce continued, “She was an Army brat as a child, with her father reaching company Sergeant-major in the Royal Engineers. Bounced around from Germany, Cyprus and Falklands but primarily resided in Liverpool. Her father died in Iraq in 2004 when she was eleven years of age. He’d been seconded to mentor Iraqi Security Forces. A British tabloid newspaper had published photographs of British soldiers abusing an Iraqi prisoner. These photographs later turned out to be faked, unbeknownst to the paper at the time. Later that day Des Robson’s patrol was attacked, and he was killed. Ciara blames the publication of the photographs for the attacks.”

“The pictures that got its now celebrity editor the sack?”

“Those are the ones. The pictures were printed within forty-eight hours of the breaking story of abuses by US soldiers in Abu Gharib prison. Iraq wasn’t exactly peaceful back then.”

“But she is adamant these pictures caused her dad’s death?”

Bruce shrugged rhetorically, before continuing, “Her mother eventually becomes involved with a man. A depressingly typical story; first he’s all sweetness and light before he turns abusive—to the pair of them. That said, Ciara does well at school and obtains a place at City University London to begin a degree in journalism. Her mother eventually separates from her abuser. And then it gets interesting.”

“OK,” said Connor, raising an eyebrow.

“Ciara comes home after the completion of her second year. Opens the door and finds the ex-boyfriend attempting to rape her mother on the kitchen floor. She removes a John Lewis paring knife from the block, and plunges it into his throat and heart, before almost disembowelling him.”

“Nice,” said Connor, with a smile. “How did this not reach the papers?”

“It was discovered that Paul McGrath had raped before, a few times, after being given a suspended sentence. Certain people did not want this to be brought to light. And that’s when I became involved.”

“You forged her murderous intent into a weapon against the enemies of our people—that sort of sketch?”

“Something like that.”

Ciara Robson sensed the quietening of the gym around her—not many girls could perform weighted pull-ups—though only a few others frequented the gym at six in the morning.

She fought to maintain proper form against the ten-kilogram barbell plate hanging beneath her. This being her eighth repetition on her final set of ten, she hung for a few seconds before cranking out the last two.

She took a few moments to catch her breath before unclipping the weight. She caught sight of the other gym patrons fighting not to stare. Her hair, artificial silver combined with her natural blonde, sat longer on the top and short around the back and sides.

Her green eyes, perched upon high cheekbones, were often complimented. Full lips could part to reveal a flashing smile.

Her floral-patterned gym top and grey leggings wrapped tightly around a physique that juxtaposed an uncommon female muscularity with feminine curves.

She stood taller than average.

Ciara’s turbulent life had led to Bruce McQuillan recruiting her into the ‘Chameleon Project’ three years ago.

The unit had evolved even within the short time she had been in it. It had grown and now worked in a cell system. However, she did not belong to a permanent cell; she was ‘sheep-dipped’ for assignments.

Every once in a while, she would receive an encrypted email requesting her to pick up a ‘clean’ phone from a location or, occasionally, a face to face with Bruce would be arranged. From there she would be given her orders.

Yesterday, she had returned from one such meeting with McQuillan.

7

Connor stepped out of the cold shower and dried himself. It had been a couple of days since his meeting with Bruce, and he had returned to Birmingham.

He had just attended a ‘Grappling with Striking’ session in one of the city’s more respected MMA clubs and enjoyed it. He agreed with the concept and was reminded of a quote by Grandmaster Carlson Gracie—“Punch a black belt in the face, he becomes a brown belt. Punch him again, he becomes a purple…”

It had been a large class, and so he easily blended in, but he knew his skill had been noticed by the lads he had rolled with.

He took his sports holdall out of the locker and changed into a beige polo shirt, black trousers and street trainers. Squeezing the side compartment of the holdall, he felt the Glock 26 still in place.

The 26 was smaller than its cousins in the Glock family and so was more easily hidden on a person. After spending many hours on the range with it, the pistol felt like an extension of the former Marine’s anatomy. Glocks did not have a safety catch as such; instead, the initial squeeze of the trigger was significantly heavier due to it both cocking the pistol and firing the round—unless the firer had it pre-cocked which Connor had not wished to risk. He felt not having a safety catch helped with snap engagements.

He returned some of the nods from the lads as he left the changing rooms and made his way down the stairs.

After a cursory glance, he stepped out into the evening air. He had not parked in the gym’s car park as a counter-ambush measure. If recognised in the gym and his details passed on, any would-be assailant would likely wait for him in the car park. Bruce had told him to employ counter surveillance at all times—last year Connor had gone head to head with elements of the deadly Russian Bratva. He heeded the vastly more experienced man’s advice but only to a point. He didn’t want to fall into paranoia or employ methods that suffocated his freedom.

His new partner Ciara had ‘WhatsApped’ him—preferred over text due to its end-to-end encryption—and he had told her where to meet him. After a quarter of a mile, he rounded the corner into the car park where he had parked his Audi and after a brief scan, unlocked the vehicle with his keys. He had chosen a car park behind a derelict warehouse which was absent of CCTV. The more you could avoid surveillance of any kind the better.

He spotted them in the car’s reflection as the voice boomed out, “Stop where you are, gora, and turn around.”

He did so. Rashid stood sneering before him, the side of his face knotted with stitching. There were five others—too close for Connor to draw the pistol out before they would beat him to the floor. He had no illusions; this was not a Jason Statham or Bruce Lee film. They would attack simultaneously like piranhas, and they would—unless they were utterly inept—win. Perhaps kill him too—where the fuck was Jack Reacher when you needed him?

He knew why they had not attacked him already. Rashid wanted to see him scared. However, Connor had years of practice at controlling and hiding the fear that surged through him now. He was also angry with himself—you fucking amateur. Russian Bratva? A Brummie ’roid-head goon, whose face you bit a hole in only four days ago, has found you without a drama.

He saw Rashid smile as the gangster pulled back the bottom of his leather jacket to reveal the handle of a machete. Adrenaline bolted through his system like wild horses. Bruce had warned him this day would come; the day all the violence he precipitated would come back to him. Connor hid his fear behind a smile and dropped his holdall—fuck it, Valhalla and all that.

McQuillan sat on the terrace of London’s Sushisamba behind the glass balcony on a finely varnished wooden seat. The sound of the collective conversation of the other diners and drinkers was at a pleasant level. He soaked in the city’s scenery that went right out to the horizon with the air on his face. The magnificent view was one of the appeals of the restaurant, the sushi being the other.

Sushisamba had a dress code, which Bruce liked as people were less inclined to start fights in tailored shirts.

In the few days since his meeting with Andrew Watson, he had been quietly investigating and had directed Jaime to do the same. One name that had come up as a person who could help him had been that of Janet Quigley, a surgeon and also a shareholder in Hainemann Private Health Care. HPHC owned five private hospitals, two of which were in London. It had been Jaime’s computer skills that had uncovered her financial involvement with HPHC. Neither he nor Jaime could find evidence of it ever being publicly noted or stated. He considered that the commercial nature of the company would run counterpoint to her being an activist. A spokeswoman in highlighting the issue of illegal organ harvesting, Bruce had enjoyed watching the attractive statuesque blonde’s TED talk regarding it.

The business suit had not been able to hide her curves and the glasses that highlighted the blue eyes. Her Nordic appearance contrasted with the educated English accent.

Her singledom surprised him; she had divorced her second husband four years ago.

Fortunately, Henry Costner had a tenuous connection to Quigley, and he had managed to arrange a meeting.

The shapely forty-three-year-old appeared. She wore a dark green plaid blazer over a white top, dark blue well-fitting stretch jeans and beige block-heeled shoes.

Bruce held a hand up to identify himself and stood as she approached.

“Miss Quigley,” he said, holding out his hand. He could smell her subtle perfume.

“Janet, please,” she said, taking his hand firmly. They sat down.

“Thank you for seeing me.”

“What accent is that specifically?” she asked. Her hair glossed over her shoulders in gentle curls.

“Originally Glaswegian, watered down over many years.”

“You know, they say that you only lose your accent if you want to,” she said, with a hint of a teasing smile. “Did you know they say the Edinburgh brogue is officially the most trustworthy and pleasant accent in our United Kingdom.”

“It’s a pity that Sean Connery doesn’t do adverts then.”

“Quite.” She nodded. “So, can I call you Bruce?”

“No, I prefer Mr McQuillan,” he said, letting the surprise rest on her face for a few moments before continuing. “Of course you can call me Bruce.”

She smiled. “So, Bruce, why have you requested to meet me?”

“Shall we order a drink first?”

“Oooh, yes, please. Are we drinking alcohol?”

Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Yes, if you like.”

“Well, I do like,” she replied, looking him in the eye.

Bruce hid the jolt he felt, her cultured voice contrasted with her playfulness. The waiter came over, and Bruce ordered a ‘Moscow Mule’.

“That sounds interesting, tell me more,” she said as the waiter stood.

“Vodka with ginger beer and lime juice, traditionally served in a copper mug,” answered Bruce.

“Sold. I’ll have one too,” requested Janet. When the waiter disappeared she asked, “So, are you going to end the suspense?”

Bruce gave her a tight smile. “Janet, I am investigating human trafficking for organs. This is simply research. Apologies this isn’t quite cocktail conversation.”

She swept one side of her hair behind her ear. “No apologies necessary. This is a subject close to my heart, as no doubt you are aware.”

“I am.”

“What would you like to know?”

“What is the process of a legal organ donation?”

“If a terminally ill person is on the organ donation database, the family are informed. At this point, around forty per cent of families will choose not to go ahead with the donations. If they decide they wish to go ahead, then calls are made with the conjunction of the said database for possible recipients.”

The waiter arrived and Bruce smiled as he saw the copper mugs.

When the waiter left, he asked, “What are the reasons for families not wanting to donate if that was the donor’s wish?”

Janet sipped her drink, nodding her approval before answering. “The heart has to be artificially kept beating after the moment of death. It is traumatic and seems very unfeeling seeing your deceased loved one whisked away at the precise moment of death. It has to be that way unfortunately to prevent any deterioration of the organs. It really is a race against time.”

“And then?”

“And then the organs are checked for health before they are transported to the hospital—or hospitals depending on how many organs have been removed—by ambulance, courier or helicopter.”

Bruce said, “All right, illegal harvesting of organs in this country. So far I have only been able to identify a handful of cases. What concerns me is that these are cases in which the victims have escaped before the operation has been conducted. It stands to reason that others haven’t been so lucky.”

“Seems a reasonable assumption.”

“So we agree that there must be at least one surgery that accepts organ donations that are not from the NHS database?”

Janet took a sip of her drink and appeared in thought for a moment. “It would not be worthwhile for an NHS clinic to accept unsolicited organs. A private hospital maybe, but even then, they are inspected every two years by the Care Quality Commission or a similar regulatory body in Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland. I imagine a makeshift surgery, maybe with a struck-off surgeon and assisting team.”

“So, a powerful and wealthy owner? For what purpose?”

“Imagine that money was no object to you. How much would you pay for a heart that if you didn’t receive it now, you’d die? With that sort of desperation, how discerning would you be with regards to where it came from?”

“And finding out that you had such a short time and were in such ill health that you could not travel to receive a donation in another country?”

“Exactly. Three people die in this country every day due to a lack of organ donations which is heartbreaking.”

Bruce could hear the sincerity in her voice.

“Thank you, Janet, for your help.”

“You’re more than welcome,” she said, flashing him a beautiful smile. “Are we indulging in another?”

After a brief mental conflict, Bruce replied, “I’ll be switching to coffee, Janet.”

She pouted. “I am not drinking alone, Bruce.”

“I am sure you can coerce any of the fine gentlemen here to drink with you—if you play your cards right.”

She gave a surprised laugh before saying, “My word, are we at least eating?”

“Of course.”

8

Connor felt the crispness of the cold night acutely now, regretting parking where there were no people around—although he doubted that this lot would care about witnesses. He stood staring at Rashid. The Asian gang revealed their ‘tools’; a couple of hammers, a cosh and a baton.

“What’s this, Rashid? You need your cronies with weapons for backup? Too much of a pussy for another straightener?”

Rashid had opened his mouth to speak when the sound of a handgun hammer clicked loudly in the air.

A voice resounded—authoritative, confident and female. “If anyone moves I will shoot you all. If you remain stood still, you will live. If you don’t believe me, by all means, take a chance and be the first to run.”

No one moved, and clicking steps sounded. The owner of the voice moved out of the shadows around to Connor’s side a few paces away.

He noticed her hair first; only a few inches longer than a ‘butch lesbian cut’, it had reminded him of the model Linda Evangelista in style but seemed a silvery-blonde. The second thing that struck him was the predatory way she moved—he had never seen that in a girl before.

He thought her even prettier than in the pictures Bruce had sent to him.

She spoke again—a mild Liverpudlian inflection. “This is what’s going to happen. You,” pointing what looked to Connor to be a Bersa Thunder .380 at Rashid, “are going to fight my boyfriend here, one on one.”

An inner smile lit in Connor when Rashid’s face dropped—he knew the gangster did not want to fight him one on one again. Connor did not want to either; he had just finished training and Rashid would not be so full of hubris this time.

“Nah, you wouldn’t let me beat your man.”

She gave a small laugh. “If he lost to you then he wouldn’t deserve to be my man.”

There were a few moments of silence before Rashid said, “I don’t believe ya.”

He knew Rashid was searching for an escape now. Connor tried telepathy with Ciara—for fuck’s sake, just let him go, I am shattered.

She said, flashing a smile at Rashid, “Put it this way, if you don’t fight him then I will shoot you, you little bitch.”

Connor began to draw in oxygen—he knew he would be fighting now.

He stepped forward a couple of paces, and then Rashid mirrored him, adopting a high boxing guard—too high.

Connor threw an aggressive head feint, and Rashid tightened his hulking arms around his head.

Connor’s right fist smashed into the solar plexus, then blasted a left hook into the ribs.

Rashid made a sound like a girl watching a horror film and backed away in a standing foetal position.

Connor held off going for the kill—be patient, and crucify him in front of his friends.

Rapier-like left jabs seared through the gaps in Rashid’s guard. The hulking Asian flailed away, reaching out for purchase on his opponent.

Connor skated around him, hammering him with punches head and body.

The brute surged forward in wild desperation, and a cuffing palm caught Connor on the top of his head. The bodybuilder’s other hand caught his T-shirt, allowing him to stuff any more punches. Now gripping the fabric with both hands, he ran the smaller man towards the car.

Before the ten-metre gap fully closed, Connor, with his centre of gravity low, torqued his body around while knifing his hand around Rashid. The gangster was whipped into an O-goshi—hip throw—and landed heavily on the concrete.

A knee crashed into Rashid’s right eye socket and the ‘crack’ skimmed through the air.

Connor got up and took a few paces back, gathering his breath with his hands on his hips.

“Stand up, Rashid!” Connor barked. His would-be attacker did not seem to even try hiding his fear now.

Connor sneered, “I wonder what all those people you’ve disfigured and killed with your machete would think watching you now? I wonder how much their faces mirrored yours at this moment?”

Rashid was on his hands and knees, but not rising.

In Punjabi, Connor shouted, “Stand up, coward!”

At that, Rashid did so shakily, his eye resembling a plum. A bombardment of hard, swift punches scythed through Rashid’s raised and crossed arms collapsing him back on to the tarmac. A jackhammer stamp took his consciousness.

Connor took a minute to collect his breathing. The men around the scene remained silent and still. He gripped Rashid by his leather jacket, heaving him onto his front.

“You,” Connor said, throwing the word like a rock at one of the group, “kick his machete and your hammer to me.”

The man hesitated for a moment before doing so.

Connor knelt on Rashid’s back before placing the tip of the machete onto the lower spine. The hammer slammed down onto the handle. The blade drove down, severing the final pair of lumbar vertebrae.

Bruce sat with representatives from MI5, MI6 and Scotland Yard. This was in his official capacity as liaison officer between the three. For meetings such as this, one of the cabinet office briefing rooms were used, although the audio and display links were switched off.

These rooms were the rooms used to coordinate a multi-agency response to a crisis. They were named COBRA meetings by the media—Cabinet Office Briefing Room A. In other times, they were used for upper echelon intelligence and police meetings such as this one.

It had taken a lot of himself to become comfortable in this type of setting. Until recently, for around a decade and a half, Bruce rarely met with anyone from another agency, and seldom met with more than one person at a time. Until a year ago, he was a near myth to those in the upper echelons of the intelligence and security services. He had moved like a ghost, neutralising threats to the British people that the judicial system could not reach—or in some cases protected. A bullet to the kneecap had put paid to his participating in fieldwork and at now fifty years-of-age he was glad—he had been forced out, he did not quit. A niche had been carved out for him, and now he was here—present, visible, respected, scrutinised and relied upon.

Kathryn Bainbridge, the Deputy Head of Scotland Yard, sat to his left. A year his senior, her black bob streaked with grey, she was dressed in a burgundy turtleneck and a black blazer and skirt, looking every inch the school teacher.

Ironically, given that Bruce led a unit that operated out of judicial review, they had a strong respect for one another.

Her command of Operation Trident, a Met service unit targeting gang crime in various London boroughs, had been considered a success. Bruce anticipated her ascension to be the Head of Scotland in the next few years.

To his right, Georgine Hamilton, an Elite Security Officer within MI5. Remarkably fresh-faced at thirty-seven years, with shoulder-length brown hair. She had worked for T-branch, investigating Irish terrorism, and G-branch, which investigated international terrorism.

Kevin O’Hara, one of MI6’s operation chiefs, sat across from him. A few years younger than Bruce, he ran some of the more secretive operations in the Middle East before moving onto pastures not yet known to the liaison officer. He suspected that Miles Parker, the Head of MI6, had briefed O’Hara on Bruce. There was something about the younger man’s demeanour towards him—a quiet deference.

The topic of the morning had been the possibility of the power-sharing situation in Northern Ireland fragmenting. The shaky joint leadership of the political parties Sinn Fein and the Democratic Unionist Party was threatening to collapse in Northern Ireland.

Bruce had remained quiet during the exchanges as had Kathryn Bainbridge.

“Can I summarise, so I am sure of my grasp of the situation?” asked Bruce. Hamilton and O’Hara consented, and he continued. “The DUP leader and First Minister are accused of skulduggery with regards to the overseeing of the renewable heat source scheme for local businesses. Sinn Fein asks for her to stand down while an investigation begins and she refuses. So Sinn Fein’s Deputy Minister is going to stand down resulting in her losing her position under the power-sharing agreement. And the volatility in Northern Ireland has increased as a result?”

Both nodded, before O’Hara added, “The Northern Irish Assembly will have seven days to replace them.”

“That’s a generic overview. We have specific concerns regarding a splinter group seeing this as a time to strike,” said Georgine.

“That a feeling, or do you have something more concrete?”

“Nathan Callaghan and Carl Brogan have been heard on the parabolics planning a strike in six days’ time.”

“Why can’t you have the PSNI pick them up?” asked Bruce, referring to the Police Service of Northern Ireland.

“Because the ambiguity of the language used coupled with poor audio quality would result in a solicitor tearing it up, the PSNI wouldn’t be able to hold them and it would be a propaganda coup for them,” said Georgine.

Kathryn Bainbridge said, “As I understand it, they would only risk something of this nature within this seven-day window in which the Assembly is essentially rudderless?”

“That’s correct, Ma’am,” said O’Hara. “It’s my view that Nathan Callaghan should be our target. I do not believe Brogan would act on his own.”

“I don’t know how you have come to that conclusion? Carl Brogan is every bit as dangerous.” Hamilton said, frowning.

“I’d have to disagree.”

“On what grounds? Northern Ireland isn’t the domain of MI6?” Hamilton retorted, raising her voice.

Bruce understood immediately—Brogan was an MI6 plant.

“Cool down,” he said. “I will look into this.”

Hamilton opened her mouth to speak but closed it again.

“Is there anything else?” asked Bruce.

When the trio shook their heads, he said, “Kevin, can I speak to you alone?”

“Of course.”

Bruce shook Hamilton’s hand, and she departed. Bainbridge gave him a peck on the cheek and asked, “I take it the meeting with our friend went ahead?”

“It did, thank you, Kathryn,” he said. She smiled and left.

O’Hara had taken a seat, and Bruce sat in front of him.

“Why can’t you have Brogan kill Callaghan?”

The MI6 officer’s eyes widened for a second and after a few moments said, “Carl Brogan is one of the few fully trusted agents we have among the separatist groups, and I can’t afford to lose him. You know the score: for the murdering of one of their own there has to be the OK given from their ‘Godfathers’. If he were to die now, however it happens, it would look incredibly suspicious.”

Bruce thought for a few moments. “OK, Callaghan at this moment in time lives alone, does he not? And Brogan has a key to the house?”

“How do you know all this?”

“You know I am not going to tell you.”

“Yes, he has a key.”

“He’s going to create a fault in the showerhead. Callaghan will call out a trusted plumber to repair the fault.”

Bruce knew that to men loyal to the cause, the word ‘trusted’ meant any tradesmen entering their homes were also loyal to the cause. And he knew that Callaghan would use a plumbing and heating firm owned by Barry Holligan—a former IRA bomber.

“OK. Then what?”

“Brogan will kill Callaghan with a Taser, while he’s in the shower. You see, electric showers need to be fitted with a fully functioning residual current device, which when the police arrive will be malfunctioning, won’t it.”

O’Hara rubbed his jaw. “You think that will work?”

“It’s been done before,” said Bruce, as he checked his watch. “I can send you how-to details to pass onto your man, as well as supplying him with the Taser.”

“The plumber will deny it.”

“Of course. He’d do that whether he was guilty or not.”

O’Hara exhaled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

9

Connor’s blue Audi cut through the streets of Birmingham with Ciara in the passenger seat. They had left Rashid with his crew.

She had understood the reasons why Connor had paralysed his already defeated victim—to stop him from coming back and as a warning to the rest. It had been witnessing his face after he had hammered the blade into the gangster’s back that surprised her—the satisfaction plastered on it.

“Who was he?” she asked.

“A bad person is what he was,” he replied. “Thank you for…for preventing me from being beaten to death.”

“Who taught you Punjabi?” she asked.

“I picked it up from my dad at first and then I practised it with some of my Asian mates at the boxing club.”

“What did you say to him to make him stand up?”

Connor shrugged. “Stand up. I think I added ‘you coward’ at the end.”

“Did it feel good crippling him?”

“Yeah,” he replied laconically. “Rashid Afzal has spent years terrorising his community and extorting local businesses. Left a scar like a Mars bar on the face of a sixty-three-year-old Indian shop owner named Kumar Premiji three years ago—he committed suicide not long back. So yeah, if he dies, it won’t bother me. If he lives, then I will take a great deal of satisfaction knowing he’s committed to a wheelchair for life. And if I see him in it, I’ll take pleasure in tipping him over.”

She hid a smile at the image, and attempted to play devil’s advocate. “Have you thought about the people who will have to look after him, the other lives it will affect?”

He briefly looked at her. “Yes. I thought about all the people who he has hurt, scarred and stolen from. How much pleasure they will take from seeing that karma has caught hold of him. The people who won’t have to fear him any more. The reprieve that all his future victims and their families will have had. The disability benefits and allowances his family will now receive. And extra work that will keep two care nurses in employment.”

She wanted to ask more, but they had just met. She felt confused, she had expected him to be still pumped up—it had been less than fifteen minutes since the incident—yet he was calm. Also, it was a complete lack of being conflicted about what he had just done. Moreover, Ciara found his thought process surprising. She presumed the paralysing of his victim to be an act of anger, of retribution, for the gangster attempting to ambush him with friends and weapons. But he hadn’t mentioned that once.

Connor slid the Audi into a car park outside a block of flats. They got out, and he opened the car boot.

“Will you be offended if I offer to carry your bag, as the flat is around three hundred metres from here?”

Ciara smiled. “No, I wouldn’t be offended, but I’d decline.”

She followed him through back streets to the entrance of another block of flats and began to climb the stairs behind him. The thin, green and clean carpet on the steps and floor gave it a more warm, communal feel than had it all been left bare.

An elderly lady appeared before them once they reached the second floor. A flowery biscuit tin at her feet.

“Oh, Connor dear, how are you?”

“I am OK, Mrs Smyth. How are you?”

The lady looked at Ciara. “Oohh, she’s a pretty one. You didn’t tell me she was so beautiful. And you know better than to call me Mrs Smyth.”

“I apologise, Jan. Listen, I know what you’re going to ask, but I wanted Ciara to see you first before asking her if she wants that threesome you keep banging on about. Just be patient, eh.”

Ciara pulled a face that could not decide if it wanted to be a frown or a smile. Jan Smyth playfully hit Connor on the arm. “Oohh, he was a nightmare! How do you put up with him, love!”

“Sometimes I wonder,” replied Ciara, falling into character, allowing the old lady to grasp her hand and lay her other hand on top of hers.

“Connor, love, I’ve baked you this,” she said as she bent down before he could aid her picking up the tin. “It’s just a little thank you.”

He opened the container, and the gorgeous smell of chocolate hazelnut torte escaped.

“No, no, no. I can’t accept this, Jan.”

“Nonsense!” the elderly lady exclaimed before turning to Ciara. “He fixed my shower and refused to take any money for it. Ran out of the door he did. Well, I wasn’t having that, was I? So take the cake, you rascal.”

“No. You don’t understand. I can’t accept it because I ate some of your homemade cookies and had to fight the urge to throw up.”

Ciara saw him smiling as he said it and Jan laughed. Ciara could see already that he had a unique charisma, and also how this charm went against what he should have been taught regarding being forgettable in an operational environment. She made a mental note to ask him about this later. Then again, she had a distinctive look herself.

“I am joking, Jan, it looks great,” he said, as he gave the old woman a kiss. “Anything you need don’t hesitate to ask me. And get a shave, eh.”

Jan laughed and said to Ciara, “Nice to meet you, love—what’s your name?”

“Ciara.”

“Great to meet you, Ciara,” Jan said, before tottering inside her flat.

Connor and Ciara climbed another set of stairs, before entering the flat.

“Your bedroom is in there if you want to whack your things in.”

“Where’s your room?”

“The sofa is a pull-out.”

She dumped her things in the surprisingly spacious bedroom.

As she came back out, he asked her, “Do you want a coffee, tea, or anything?”

“Yes, I’ll have coffee, please. Black, no sugar.”

She looked around the room. The countertop separating the kitchen from the main living room reminded her of a bar. A large television sat in front of the charcoal sofa, and a huge oatmeal beanbag lay in the corner.

“You play?” asked Ciara, noticing the chessboard.

“A little bit. Picked it up last year. Here,” he said, handing over the coffee.

“You not having one?”

“Not at this time of night.”

Ciara sipped the coffee and hummed approvingly. “Nice. What is this?”

“It’s a French Roast by Equal Exchange. They work with small farmers. Besides, there are two things you should never go cheap on—coffee and sausages.”

“Indeed.” Ciara then asked, “Who taught you to play chess?”

“A roofer from Bedford. Taught me while I was in Colchester.”

“What were you doing in Colchester?”

Connor ignored the question, asking, “Do you play?”

“A little bit. You fancy it?”

“Suppose so. Be better having the awkward silences over a game of chess than over Coronation Street.”

“I’ll have you know that I don’t watch soaps.”

“Well, I do,” he said, and then indicating to the board. “Shall we?”

“What happened?” asked the voice over the phone. A voice edged with menace.

Waseem answered, “My man was vexed. He went after our friend with a few of his boys.”

“Where I get confused is the part where he ends up with his own machete stuck in his back!” the voice barked.

“There was a girl who stuck a gun in his face. Then my man and our friend ’ad a fight. After the northerner won, he paralysed ’im.”

“A blade through the spine would do that,” said the voice. “I told you that I didn’t want this apple cart to be rocked.”

This was the part of the conversation that Waseem was dreading. He had to play this right. Too meek and he would be seen as too weak. Too aggressive and it could be perceived as disrespect.

“I wasn’t to know that Rashid would seek revenge this quickly. Nor did I think he’d be able to locate the geezer in Brum.”

The silence echoed over the line before the voice broke it. “Be that as it may, your man put his vendetta above your, and my, business interests. An example will have to be made.”

“He won’t walk again?”

“I do not care if it’s him or one of his friends. A situation has come about where one of your underlings has gone over your head. Now you’ll address it, or I’ll address it for you.”

“All right, what about our friend?”

“I’ll deal with that.”

10

The doctor stood in his theatre scrubs next to a towering man in a black leather jacket. He had seen how the man with blonde hair had to angle himself a little to pass through doorways, such were the width of his shoulders. They were behind a pane of glass watching an unconscious man being sprayed by a hose.

“Where did this one come from?” asked the doctor.

“Off the streets in Brighton and Hove,” replied the South African. “Been watching him for a few weeks.”

“Drug user? The last one had HIV. Complete waste,” said the doctor with an edge of derision in his voice.

“Haven’t seen any evidence of that with this one, just an alcoholic. Not sure what state his liver or kidneys will be in, but I guess that’s what they pay you for.”

“And they pay you to ensure that any investigation in their disappearance leads nowhere. We had a lucky escape with the O’Reilly girl.”

The man snorted. “A lucky escape? You mean I handled it so her death led to a corpse of an immigrant. You just worry that these bodies won’t go to waste.”

“I do worry about that, and other things. We’re barely two years into this thing, and it’s not exactly watertight, and —"

“Why don’t you relax? There are too many powerful people benefitting from this enterprise. Not only the people whose lives are saved by this, but the government must be happy that there are less homeless people littering the streets, yah? Homeless charities’ reports of people attending their shelters have dropped in the last two years. Believe me, there’ll be blind eyes turned if an accident happens.”

“But if the police or—”

“I think you need to take that big brain of yours and maybe do some research on how the world works. The government, media and police are all intrinsically linked at the very top. So unless there’s some group of guardian angels with resources outside the government, then we are safe. So stop panicking and do your job, yah.”

Connor walked through the local woods around half a mile from the apartment. He was enjoying the eerie quiet. It was just after six o’clock in the morning. The rising sun had lit the darkness a lighter shade of blue. He usually rose early to train either by running or strength training—“to get after it” as a motivational Navy Seal would say.

Last night’s training session and the subsequent fight with Rashid had taken a lot out of him, so he opted for a walk instead. After that, he had taken his breakfast in a nearby café and given Ciara some space—he had stocked the fridge and cupboards before her arrival.

He had come dangerously close to being torn apart in that car park. Providence had sent Ciara, and for that he was grateful. And he was especially thankful that now he knew he could rely on her in a tight situation.

Last night playing chess, he had somehow managed to stalemate her after she had surged to a lead. He had let himself become distracted by her gorgeous face and the outline of her tits through the white collared shirt. After her bishop took his queen, he kept his attention firmly on the board. He thought of last night’s game as a shot across the bows from the gods. The inference being to keep one’s focus on the objective. He knew that luck was not a superpower.

The objective here was to identify the human trafficking network in its entirety. To protect vulnerable people from these ogres. Fiends were still fiends, even the ones with white collars and medical degrees.

Bruce did not like him gratuitously hurting these beasts. The old man—who could be plenty ruthless himself—constantly warned Connor that he was running up a “karmic debt” by unnecessarily hurting people, even bad ones.

Connor had attributed his mentor’s attitude to Bruce being captured and tortured for days by the London Bratva eighteen months ago. Before that had happened, Bruce had facilitated Connor’s setting fire to a paedophile. And when they had discovered that the MI5 chief betrayed them, he had allowed Connor to cut off the traitor’s legs with a chainsaw. Tourniquets had been applied beforehand, but Roger Stanton had died from an acute stress reaction anyway.

He thought that Bruce’s words of wisdom regarding not causing unnecessary pain to their adversaries stemmed from his processing what had happened to him. The old man’s knee had been shot out, and he’d had to retire from active field duties.

Connor knew that his pleasure in making bad people suffer physically was not normal. That did not mean he was not justified though. What was the point in merely killing a person who had taken pieces of a vulnerable person’s body for money? People die every day; he had scanned the news that morning and discovered a suspected member of a Republican separatist group had been killed from a faulty shower head. He had allegedly been involved at the sharp end of IRA operations for two decades when it was active, and this was how he died. Not in prison, not in a shootout with the RUC, British military or loyalist paramilitaries—no—electrocuted from the faulty plumbing of his own shower.

Connor had been questioned by more than one person regarding this need to hurt or humiliate malevolent people. The only time he had felt conflicted about it was when, as a ten-year-old, he had fought a lad on the estate who had been protecting his upper teeth with his tongue in a way that appeared gumshield-like. Connor deliberately hit him with an uppercut causing his childhood opponent to be taken wailing to the hospital in a barely successful bid to save his tongue. Even then, the guilt did not arrive until adulthood. Other than that, he had never felt guilty about the people he hurt. He knew that it was not normal to feel the hilarity he did when doing so and also that retribution was for God alone—what if I am the manifestation of that will? Fuck’s sake—you sound like Kevin Spacey in Seven.

Connor respected Bruce more than any man since his own father; but if the opportunity arose, he was going to try his hand at a little surgery on these evil people himself.

Ciara had clicked off her pre-paid phone after speaking to Bruce. He had told her that when using any transmission to communicate it was always best policy to keep the conversation vague, ambiguous and in code rather than scrambling the signals. Scrambled digital signals, he told her, would attract the attention of GCHQ and the NSA like “a Fijian to a bar fight.”

She had been amazed that last night’s events had reached his ears so soon. It was not yet seven in the morning.

She had never known the Scot to show any flash of anger. However, when she got to the part where Connor had hammered the machete into the back of the already defeated gangster, she thought she detected ire in his voice. She had felt vaguely guilty then for telling Bruce, but he was not a man to lie to.

She found a note on the counter—‘Gone for a walk, having breakfast out. The fridge and cupboards are stocked. Back before eight.’

They had played chess last night, and it irked her that he had managed to force a stalemate. She also admired that he had been able to do so. She had sacrificed a knight to take his queen with a bishop. Instead of taking the wind out of his sails, it seemed to focus him for the rest of the game.

She found eggs and some Ezekiel bread with a Post-it note on it saying ‘tastes less like cardboard when toasted.’ She smiled—he is quite thoughtful for a person who likes to paralyse his victims.

She wore a silk, black Japanese Kimono with a floral pattern, and grey fur slippers on her feet. She thought about her remit within this mission—to assist Connor professionally. The vagueness of it bothered her. They had yet to thoroughly discuss their cover story. Was she to act as his girlfriend or partner in crime, or both?

Despite all the male attention she received, Ciara remained single. Her professions—this and her being a journalist—did not lend well to a relationship. She had been a member of The Chameleon Project for over three years now.

Her taskings had been sparse over the last eighteen months. Her four-year degree in Investigative Journalism drew to a close, and she had graduated after falling just short of a first. This had rankled her, knowing a first would have been comfortably achievable if not for the extra-curricular training and assignments she’d had to carry out for The Chameleon Project. She soothed her seared ego with the knowledge that if it had not been for McQuillan, she would not have had the opportunity to pursue the degree in the first place—she would have been in prison.

She had secured work with one of the UK’s premier newspapers, waltzing into a position with such ease that she naïvely thought it on account of her looks. Only after the editor had said, “If you are called away for any reason and not in a position to complete an assignment then let me know in good time. There’ll always be a position for you here,” that Ciara understood McQuillan had engineered her employment there. Although appreciative, she wanted to prove herself in journalism on her own merit.

Exposing the evils of the world was the first step towards extinguishing them.

Connor sat in the café making his way through a plate of scrambled eggs and Lorne sausage with a splotch of mustard on the side. Kathy, the café owner, seemed a little perplexed when he first brought in the square sausage himself. After he had frequented the café a few times, she had begun to buy the Scottish breakfast staple and thanked him as they proved popular.

He put down his phone. He had spent twenty minutes on a foreign language app learning Dutch before switching to a selected ten ‘high-frequency’ words. Connor had been taught that the fastest way to fluency was to master two thousand of the most commonly used words within the foreign dialect. These two thousand words would contribute to eighty per cent of the writing and conversation—the Pareto Principle in action. He knew the very best way to learn was from conversing with native speakers, which was how he improved his Punjabi.

Holland was a country he had spent a lot of his time in over the past twelve months. He had been forming links with the underworld there. The Dutch Penose were the organised crime element formed by outlaws with Dutch descent. In working with them, he found the hierarchal system to be a lot looser than their British counterparts. The focus was more on making money for the collective than any one person.

He preferred this way of business.

When the remnants of his coffee washed down his throat, a gentleman walked in resembling a bank manager.

Connor knew that he was not.

11

“May I take a seat?” asked the man, keeping his deep voice low. Connor could not quite place the slight accent except that it was from around London way.

The stranger was a touch under six feet tall with a medium frame. He sported a turquoise and white striped shirt under a blue suit.

Connor replied, “By all means, after I have given you a cuddle.”

“Why would you want to do that?” asked the man, who Connor guessed to be around his mid-forties, the short, dark hair beginning to crown above a lean face.

“You know why.”

The man smiled, opening his arms. They embraced, and Connor patted the man’s back and sides as if he were a missed friend, aware of Kathy behind the counter. Finally, he reached the man’s collar as if adjusting it before sitting down.

The man turned to Kathy and asked, “Can I get a pot of tea, please?”

She nodded and scurried.

“What can I help you with?” asked Connor.

“We have a mutual acquaintance.”

“Waseem isn’t an acquaintance, he was a potential business partner.”

“Interesting that you immediately knew to whom I was referring.”

“There are only two types of strangers who would bother to track me for a chat in a café. One would be a plain-clothes copper in an attempt to put the frighteners on me. The other would be a gangster camouflaging himself in what he reckons to be a cloak of respectability. The striped shirt is a touch flamboyant for a policeman.”

The man’s eyebrows rose.

“You describe Waseem as a potential partner, does that mean—”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

The two men stared at one another for a few moments. The tension was broken when Kathy laid down the pot, cups, milk and sugar. The man exchanged smiles with her before she left. Both poured themselves a cup, the man had milk and sugar. Connor had his tea black.

“My name is Tris Dixon, and I am an associate of Mr Khan,” said the man.

Connor allowed his surprise to show. “Mr Dixon. I wouldn’t have expected for you to come down here to see little old me. And I am curious to know why you’d be an associate of a gentleman with such poor judgement in hired help.”

Tris laughed. “You have a point, Mr Reed. That said, you and I know that referring to him as an ‘associate’ is my way of being polite.”

“So Mr Khan has told you the quality of the product I can provide.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if you wanted to make an example out of me, then we wouldn’t be in conversation. You thought that only a personal appearance by yourself might salvage this business deal that your local ‘associates’ may have scuppered.”

“Very analytical.”

“I have been in this business a while, as well you know.”

“Indeed,” replied Tris. “Why is it that you have broken away from your family’s operation? Disagreements?”

“I’d rather start as a poor master than a rich slave. Greater autonomy and all that,” replied Connor, taking a sip of his tea. “Apologies, the word ‘autonomy’ means freedom from external control.”

Connor thought he saw a hint of annoyance before Tris smiled. “Thanks…thank you for that lesson in English.”

“You can forget about me supplying Waseem. The man’s own minions don’t respect him enough. And I don’t want to deal with insecure cunts who are in this business to be a face. This is about money.”

“My sentiments exactly,” said Dixon, sipping his tea. “However, business is all about relationships.”

“Look, Mr Dixon. I am inclined to agree, but the answer is no. Now you and I know that getting your hands on real MDMA is getting harder now the EU has tightened up on regulation. The manufacturer can supply a product with the MDMA content being a consistent ninety per cent. But he has strict guidelines about how much it is cut up. He’s all about the experience, you see—he’s like a hippy with fashion sense. Now there’s no way you can guarantee that the pakis in Birmingham aren’t going to do that.”

Tris bobbed his head. “Drug dealers are drug dealers, they’ll try and squeeze a profit no matter the colour of their skin.”

“Agreed, Mr Dixon, but I am not going to use the phrase ‘those of Pakistani origin’ just so I can remain politically correct. It’s too much of a mouthful.”

Dixon chortled and said, “Would you supply me directly?”

Connor looked as if he was in thought.

“Maybe we could work something out.”

“You know, this international drug and gun running will be a dying industry in the future. Everyone has to diversify to survive, especially men like us.”

“Well, until they can grow quality cocaine in Wakefield or manufacture class MDMA in Pontefract then you’ll need men like me.”

“Well, there’s other products that men like us could, let’s say, distribute. But that’s for another time,” said Tris.

Connor thought about pushing for clarification but decided against it.

“What is it, bruv?” Louis asked Jay Nelson—his number two man within the SUG.

In the past year or so, Louis’s operation had grown exponentially from a large crew selling weed around London to several crews amalgamated underneath him selling cocaine, weed and Ecstasy not only around Greater London but several small, rural and coastal towns where the police methods of combating drug dealing were not as sophisticated.

The merger of the south London gangs had come after many months of high-level violence and the murder of a few leaders unwilling to accept they were no longer top dog. Louis had held a few advantages over his then rivals.

One had been access to drugs of a vastly higher quality through a Dutch manufacturer named Raymond Van Der Saar. He and Connor had facilitated a meeting with the tsar and came to an agreement—as long as the product was not overly cut then the Continental crime lord would make them his UK distributors. This had allowed him to undercut the competition and attract new members. Some would break away from their previous gangs for spurious reasons and set up on their own. After a short time, they would then barter an affiliation with Louis’s crew. He knew they did this to hide their disloyalty in defecting to him for the extra money, and although he allowed it, he made a point to remember.

Another advantage had been the intelligence that Connor could provide through the group he worked for—The Chameleon Project—meant that Louis had a handle on his enemies’ movements and locations. Indeed, Connor had murdered a particularly elusive thorn in Louis’s side for him.

Eventually he named the conglomerate of crews the Southwark Union Gang—the SUG—and became one of the most powerful gang leaders in London.

Now, he and Nelson stood inside a vehicle-spraying and wrapping shop that Louis was a silent partner in. Nelson had brought in his Range Rover. As they watched the two sprayers in their protective suits and masks set about the vehicle, they talked business.

Nelson was shorter and slimmer than Louis, but his reputation backed up his confident manner.

“We’ve had that Henley-on-Thames slot for a while, in’it. The day has come now—Reece said there’s been a drop-off in the market recently ’n’ he couldn’t understand why.”

“What was the crack then?”

“Turns out that these two white lads were punting gear at one of those hippy festivals they have. Am talking large volume, fam, not just local wideboys making a bit extra. Turns out they are from north of the smoke.”

“What’s happened then?”

“Reece says he had a word but they bare blanked him. I’ve done some digging, there are rumours they have heavy connections. Thought you should know. Might not want to start a war. I know you say war costs money.”

Louis looked at him. “Letting people encroach on ya territory costs money too. Get Reece an’ the lads to grab the pair of ’em. Get them to spoof off for who gets cuts.”

“What’s spoof off?” asked Jay, bemused.

“Nuttin’, get ’em to flip a coin or do rock, paper scissors.”

“Am surprised. I thought you’d let ’em twos up on the OT areas to save agg?”

Louis shrugged. “Things like this needs to be nipped in the bud, or it’ll come on top. Besides, if we allow them to be an alternative, then these upper-class white kids are gonna get their ice cream from a white person instead of us.”

“We got the best product though?”

“Won’t matter to some of them. Believe me.”

They didn’t speak for a few moments. Louis let himself become momentarily transfixed by the spraying technique of the guy on his side.

Jay spoke. “What was the crack in Birmingham? Smooth?”

Louis replied, “Kinda. But one of the main man’s tonks got hurt, didn’t he.”

“What the fuck, man? What happened?”

“They didn’t realise that my rudeboy can speak Punjabi. Said something out of bounds and my man understood it and switched. Offered him a straighter and the geez had to take it. My man ended up smashing him up and chunking out a piece of his cheek.”

Jay shook his head. “Man, I know you’re tight with him like, but that attitude is gonna bring it all on top.”

“We wouldn’t be where we are now if he hadn’t put us in touch with our connex over the drink.”

“I know, fam. But what good is it giving with one hand just to take with the other? I think you ought to distance yourself.”

“That’s never going to happen. Let me worry about him. There’s baggamanz of fair-weather friends. Loyalty in this game is precious. We don’t just ditch our friends because they are a touch militant, ya get me?”

His second-in-command nodded. “I get ya.”

12

Well, it was inevitable it was going to happen. Unavoidable that certain people would suspect eventually. Who exactly is this Scotsman? You will find out soon enough. Luckily you have influential friends. Friends who understand. Understand that you are providing a service. A service that takes from the people who do not contribute to society and gives to the ones who do—or at least can. What were the homeless and drug addicts going to contribute? Nothing. Worse than nothing, they were a drain—government-funded rehabilitation schemes and programmes costing millions. The people whose lives you help save run the world. Yes, you enjoy the money—why shouldn’t you? You have worked hard. Who is going to touch you really? You are too protected by the right people.

Connor sat in the car listening to Keith Richards’s autobiography through the system. He lamented that if he could be a member of any band, it would be the Rolling Stones—great music, great fun, and great longevity.

He was parked outside a gym waiting for Ciara. She had left the flat before he got back and had walked the mile to the fitness centre.

Earlier, he had been in touch with McQuillan. One of the ways they would sometimes communicate was to set up a random email address to which they would both have access. They would type out emails, kept as vague as possible and in code, but never send them. The unsent emails were read as drafts before the reader deleted them. Jaime, The Chameleon Project’s wizard in all things technological, had approved of it as a means of communication as long as the email address was deactivated after each conversation.

Connor would never know the extent to which all these countermeasures had protected him, the person he was communicating with or The Project as a whole. Like he would never know how much the ECM—Electronic Counter Measures—he carried in Afghanistan when back in the Marines had protected him and his patrol—it had better had, it had weighed enough.

Bruce had read him the riot act as much as he could through that form of communication, and Connor had been glad it had not been a face-to-face meeting. When the old man chastised him in person, Connor had to resist feeling like a scolded child. Even with the old man being around fifty with an artificial knee, Connor was not sure a fight with the tall, broad, rangy Scotsman would be a pleasant experience at all. Not that he envisioned that a fight between them being at all likely—McQuillan being too professional, and Connor being too respectful of him—but high-pressure, high-stakes situations combined with the fact that they both came from backgrounds where physical violence was always a possible recourse, then anything could happen.

However, McQuillan had calmed down when Connor informed him of his meeting with Tris Dixon. This Londoner had been, and perhaps still was, a big fish that had evaded the law with his activities that had been surrounded in secrecy, and it had been he who had come to Connor.

The Yorkshireman spotted Ciara exit and walk towards the car. Her silvery-blonde, layered hair was still damp from the shower she must have had. The logoed grey sweater and black pants outlined her athletic figure. He was debating whether or not he could see the green of her eyes when she flashed him a smile—fuck me, she is essence.

That said, with the width of her shoulders, the muscularity that riveted her entire physique and her hairstyle, she could have easily been mistaken as a man from behind—a closet gay’s dream, he mused before dismissing the idea.

She threw her gym bag in the back, got in and gave him a peck on the cheek that he had not been expecting.

“Keeping up appearances,” she said simply.

Connor said, “Are you hungry? There are things to discuss.”

“I could eat.”

“Good, we’ll talk as we drive. There’s a decent pub out of town. I swept the car this morning,” said Connor, meaning that he had used a scanner to check for electronic bugs.

He started the car and pulled away.

“What did you do? At the gym, I mean,” he asked, attempting small talk.

“Some front squats then Olympic lifting. I’ve only just started though, so it’s mainly technique work.”

“I could work on your sna—technique. Been doing it for a few years now,” he said.

Fuck’s sake—he had almost said ‘snatch’ and did not want her misconstruing his intentions.

“Really? You going to make me sweat?”

Connor blinked a few times, not knowing what to say. Not trusting himself not to splutter, he gave her a restrained smile. “Anyway. I have some big news.”

“Do tell,” Ciara said, smiling again.

“A gentleman came to see me today. A gentleman by the name of Tris Dixon.”

“Should I be embarrassed that I don’t know who you’re talking about?”

“Not really. He’s one of those Godfathers of crime that has ‘made it’, in that his criminal proceeds are so high within the stratosphere of the white-collar business that it’s too difficult to prove he’s a dyed-in-the-wool gangster. Some even say it was all his brother, the now-imprisoned Adam Lloyd. Back in the early 2000s Dixon won claims off a number of newspapers—this was before Facebook—and had some editors sacked. I think the likes of Rupert Murdoch decided he wasn’t worth the drama. Nothing has been said about him since. He’s taken two major search engines to court before, and they had settled with him.”

“What was that for?”

“Not taking off certain articles about him fast enough. That’s why you haven’t heard of him.”

“OK. Who is he?”

“His birth name is Terry Lloyd. He and his two brothers formed a criminal enterprise that began in the mid-eighties out of Finsbury. Usual criminal enterprise—drugs, extortion, armed robbery, protection rackets and murder. Except, Terry’s money laundering is on point, he realises that a continuing criminal enterprise like that has a shelf life. So he does the usual and begins to form profitable companies. The difference is that these companies genuinely become profitable, and not just fronts.”

“How does he manage that?”

Connor manoeuvred the Audi onto the dual carriageway, before answering. “The businesses are more unique than the usual ‘restaurant, bar, nightclub’ route. He formed a legal services company in Marbella that looked after ex-pats in the country. This turned into a winner, so he built another, a few years later in Tenerife. Then, just as the time was right to do so, he forms a sports agency. His brothers go to prison. He changes his name and now he looks after several Premier League players. Owns a professional hockey team out of Newcastle.”

“Can’t imagine he’ll be short of money then?”

“He’s a millionaire many times over.”

“Then why on earth is he still involved in the drugs trade?”

Connor palm opened. “Because he can. Because it’s exciting. Because he’s a criminal.”

He thought of himself in that moment.

“Seems extremely reckless.”

“I agree, but he wants me to supply him directly now.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because he knows he’ll struggle to get product of that quality through. Even if he could, people prefer to deal with people they can relate to. He doesn’t want to be relying on some Eastern European whose name he can’t pronounce and whose background is unknown to him. With me, he knows of me, and my family.”

Ciara nodded. “What was the outcome?”

“I told him I didn’t want to deal with Waseem’s outfit, and it was Dixon himself suggested supplying to him directly.”

The Audi turned off the dual carriageway onto a side road.

Ciara asked, “What does that mean for us?”

“It means we’re going to Amsterdam.”

“Why?”

“To meet with the guy who supplies me. That’s why we need to get our cover straight. What relationship we have, how we met, your background story will need more development than mine.”

“As close to the truth as we can get.”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Bruce told me that we were to discover if there was a person or organisation that was kidnapping vulnerable, homeless people and if so, neutralising them. Why are we pretending to facilitate drug importation?”

Connor decided to leave out the fact that they would not be ‘pretending’, and said, “If that is what’s happening, then it’s a form of organised crime, and organised crime is always linked. The further you go in, the more you’re trusted, the more contacts you make, and the more information comes to you.”

The car slowed and snaked into a pub car park.

13

Sitting beside the Basingstoke canal at this time relaxed him. The clean night air had cut through the smogginess of the day. Distant bars and restaurants emitted a pleasant hum.

Ryan Matthews had not frequented bars like that for over a year. Today he sipped from a flask of vodka. His plan was to drink leisurely from now, midday, through to deep evening. He used his left hand which had gained considerable dexterity ever since he lost his right. He raised the stump, imagining how the artificial one would look and feel.

In the past, he had drunk to maintain that steady level just above the depression line of sobriety, without plunging himself into the vulnerability of a stupor.

It took a discipline that most who walked past him would never understand or have themselves. To them, he was a homeless drunk. Little did they know that he was one of the best free solo climbers in the world.

Or at least he had been.

People who walked by him either pretended he did not exist or did so with veiled contempt. The same people who would never achieve a feat as remotely challenging, dangerous or exhilarating as scaling the Yosemite Valley’s 7,573 ft El Capitan with no assistance or safety equipment.

He smiled, recalling an article written about him by an English publication after a European football tournament:

‘…the players who step up in these moments have the admiration of many. Understandably, a saved or missed penalty can result in the crushing of the hopes of millions of their countrymen. However, a skewered attempt will not result in death. That is not the case for Ryan Matthews during the numerous terrifying free solo ascents he has made throughout his storied career…’

His days of climbing ended three years ago. Not through climbing—he would have found that easier to accept.

Ryan had been funded for an extreme climbing documentary in Oman. The money they paid him had been ten times what he would have accepted. He had a passion for free soloing. Nothing in his mind could replicate the combined physical, mental and emotional challenge of it.

One of the stipulations was that he capture the majority of the footage himself. As a result, they sent him on a short but intensive course in filming and provided him with heavy television equipment.

After scaling the harrowing limestone cliffs of Oman the previous day, he was struggling to pack the cart waiting to take him to the airport, and one of the heavy suitcases fell onto his right arm. The impact left a bruise, and he chose not to seek medical attention in Oman, believing the injury would clear up of its own accord.

After two days back in the UK, he had sought medical attention as the nagging pain had refused to dissipate. The doctor admitted him to the local hospital for acute compartment syndrome. The surgeon had explained that they needed to relieve the pressure and that amputation could be a possibility while he was under anaesthesia. Ryan had signed the consent forms reckoning it to be highly unlikely.

His hand had moved under his command upon awakening, and he felt relief flood his veins. When he had looked at it, the paradox of horror and disbelief had punched him in the chest.

The arm was missing from the elbow down.

In the whirl that followed, he remembered the Head of the Care Team explaining to him the five stages of grief he would more than likely go through: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. He had gone through it all. He had at first felt like a freak—awkward and lopsided. Yet that was nothing to the realisation that he would not climb again. It had been his lifelong passion and his profession.

Anger arrived. Anger that a freak accident had led to this; not all the death-defying climbs he had done. Anger that he had no one else to blame but himself. Anger that people did not understand just what he had lost.

Thus began a gradual and pitiful slide into alcoholism and then homelessness. He had been single and childless after a lifetime of immersion in climbing. Without a steadying force, he found that gambling provided a hint of the excitement that climbing had once done. The same basic narrative developed as with all gambling addicts—chasing losses, using up savings, borrowing from friends, not paying them back in a timely fashion, lying to and losing them.

The alcohol abuse provided him with its blissful dullness, numbing him to the unfairness of life. He finally lost his house, and without the support of his friends ended up on the streets. He had remained there for months.

Out of the darkness had come a lifeline.

Patrick Jaegar was a French climber with whom Ryan had often been compared. They had in the past taken various snipes at one another through multiple climbing publications and online over the years. Despite this, Jaegar had settled in London and sought out Ryan. He had a proposition for him.

‘Connect Bionics’ was one of the world’s most advanced prosthetic limb companies. They wanted Ryan to be the face of their new trans-radial climbing arm and to promote it all over the world. When Ryan explained that he was homeless, Jaegar had provided him with a key to his flat until the Connect Bionics came through.

Ryan had wept at the lifeline offered to him by his one-time rival.

Although still in the dark forest of depression, the trees were sparser now and he could see a clearing in the distance. They would pay him to climb again. He was not sure why he was sitting by the canal now? As a goodbye maybe. He knew he would never return to the gambling or alcoholism again. The universe had thrown him a lifeline that he would never squander.

Bruce sat across from the formidable-looking MI6 head Miles Parker.

Parker towered over Bruce, himself a tall man, and even the rimless glasses did not prevent the bald, still physically solid intelligence chief being intimidating to some, especially with a manner that could be frequently abrupt. The Scotsman knew that Parker’s bearing towards him was significantly more mellow, and had been for a couple of years now. Their relationship had not always been cordial, after an explosive meeting years before between the two men.

They were meeting in the fortification that was Vauxhall Cross. The SIS Headquarters had always reminded Bruce of the modern-day incarnation of a castle. The Thames bathed the front and left side of it like a moat.

Parker’s office contrasted with most of the other offices in the HQ, in its traditionalism. Over Parker’s oak desk hung a portrait of Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius with a quote inscribed in Latin. Bruce knew the translation to be, ‘The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing.’

Indeed Bruce, in his new advisory role, had visited Vauxhall Cross many more times in the past year than in the previous fifteen as head of The Chameleon Project.

“I wanted to thank you,” Parker began. “Nathan Callaghan has been found dead in his shower, and disaster has been averted.”

“Any suspicion of foul play?”

“I don’t think so. The PSNI are blaming it on ill-fitted electrics in the shower unit. Besides, the new Northern Irish Assembly convenes tonight so essentially the window is closed for now.”

There were a few moments of silence before Parker spoke again. “You know, I am not sure how much time I have left in this position, and I wonder if a man like you with your background and dedication would be willing to take up this position in the future.”

Bruce’s lips barely parted for a split second. This was one of the few times Parker had surprised him.

“Being in the position I am in now allows me to accomplish my goals in a way that being in your position wouldn’t.”

Parker squinted. “And what goals are they?”

“Protecting good people who cannot protect themselves.”

“I am puzzled. This is MI6, our existence revolves around protecting national security?”

“Miles, the security services’ allegiance is to the crown not necessarily the people. And I value the freedom of movement I have.”

“I understand,” said Parker, “but the thought must have occurred to you that my replacement might not be as accommodating to your overseeing a black operations unit almost entirely off the books. Leaders like control.”

Bruce had thought of this. He knew Kevin O’Hara would be in line for the post, and the Scotsman had already begun the process of both making that a certainty and securing the younger man’s allegiance.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“Well, I am surprised. There are many men for whom this position would be the ultimate, and here you are expressing no interest. Have you always been a crusader?”

Bruce smiled at the man’s probing. “I know what it’s like to be helpless as a good person is taken away. If I can prevent that happening to others, I will.”

The two men stared at one another before Parker rose and held out a gorilla-like palm. As Bruce shook it, the Englishman said, “Godspeed, Bruce.”

A lot of thoughts jockeyed for position in Ryan Matthews’s mind as he watched the gentle flow of the canal. The ones that came to the forefront were the ones centred on how he would pay everyone that he had hurt and let down over these past few years. Friends and family; his poor sister Catherine had always been there for him. Eventually he had resented her attempts to aid him, and he now felt a cringing shame when recalling the screaming fits he would throw inside her own house. He eventually left and completely withdrew from her. He would make the drive in the morning to see her and apologise.

Then there were his friends—mostly through the climbing world—some of whom had loved him and some of whom had looked up to him. He had lost all that through his borrowing and subsequent inability to pay them back. The thing that really shamed him, was that most had not even wanted their money back; it was the pity in their eyes that he could not stand. He would make amends both financially and personally to those people. Connect Bionics were to give him an advance and Ryan would gladly use it to pay everyone back at least a substantial part of what he owed them.

He then stared in bewilderment as to why he thought coming back to the canal to drink would be a good idea—you say goodbye to lost relatives, not a damn canal.

He emptied the bottle on the grass beside him and began to prepare himself to leave when he heard the clicking footsteps before looking at the black shoes and trousers coming his way. Three tall, faceless policemen stopped in front of him.

The shadows cast a darkness over him.

“Sir, you have been suspected of violating the 1824 Vagrancy Act, and of theft under the section seven act. 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.”

Ryan’s brain lost traction for a few moments.

“Come on, sir,” said one of the officers, reaching down for him.

“Is this a joke? This is outrageous.” And when the policeman attempted to grasp him as he began to stand, he snapped, “I am perfectly capable of getting up.”

“Please come with us, sir.”

“What am I meant to have stolen?”

“Food from Magee’s restaurant.”

“I have never set foot in a restaurant named Magee’s, and even if I had, I have never stolen in my life.”

“In that case, you have nothing to worry about then. This way please, sir.”

He felt a surrealism but began to follow one of the officers. The others followed behind.

Ryan felt a twin dose of confusion and outrage as the officers shadowed him.

“It takes three police officers to investigate a vagrant stealing food, if that’s what you believe I am and have done?”

“You can tell us your story down at the station, Mr Matthews.”

“I will. I can’t wait to see what apparent ‘evidence’ you have and for my solicitor to tear it to pieces. I haven’t stolen anything in my life.”

“A man who spends his days drinking beside a canal is unlikely to have a solicitor. Be that as it may, we will provide one for you down at the station.”

Ryan fought the urge to educate them on his climbing achievements—he would not lower himself.

“I was homeless for a while, but I am not any more.”

“Yes,” replied one of the officers in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “I prefer a cheap vodka by the canal on a Friday night.”

Ryan found himself at a loss for words.

“I have not stolen any food,” said Ryan now exasperated, “and how far are we fucking walking?”

The question went unanswered as the officers rounded the corner into a dimly lit car park. A large, tall, blonde man in jeans and a jacket moved away from the white van he was leaning against and walked over. The van was the only vehicle parked.

The man spoke. “Welcome, Mr Matthews.”

Matthews shook his head in confusion. The man’s accent sounded Australian—no, South African. Then it dawned on him.

“Wait, you’re not the poli—”

The heavy truncheon to the back of the head took Ryan Matthews’s consciousness mid-sentence.

The cavernous applause of three hundred students doused Janet Quigley.

She stood on the podium with a painted-on smile. This was her twenty-first university guest lecture—her smile had been genuine in her first handful of speeches. There was only so many variations she could put on the same theme, in this case, that of organ donation. She had greater admiration for stand-up comedians now. Knowing what lines would elicit what responses had caused her interest to wane. She admonished herself—the objective is to raise awareness, not to be tickled by the approval of strangers.

However, she knew most of the people that listened to her lecture would not even give it a second thought by the end of the day, let alone donate or volunteer.

She inwardly groaned as the ruddy-faced, tweed-jacketed Professor Morby bounded onto the stage. He turned and addressed her and the audience. He stood next to her placing his hand on her lower back.

“Doctor Quigley—Ms Quigley rather, we are not American,” he paused as the students chortled, “I would like to thank you on behalf of the university for gracing us with your presence, and your lecture was as rousing as it was enlightening.”

“Thank you all for having me,” she said, her smile still holding up. She stood a couple of inches taller than him.

His hand gave her back a subtle window cleaning rub before removing it and setting off another applause. After a polite period, the students began to file out.

“Truly marvellous, Ms Quigley, splendid.”

“Thank you again for inviting me,” she replied.

“Nonsense, no need to thank me. Dinner tonight will suffice.” His smile stretched his face. She winced inwardly.

“I am afraid I can’t, I have—”

“Nonsense,” he interrupted. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

Her smile dropped and she looked into his eyes, “Oh yes you will, Mr Morby.”

The disappearance of his smile mirrored hers. His reply came out spluttering. “Well, it was merely a friendly invite. I am a happily—”

“Good day to you, sir,” she said as she brushed past his reddening face.

14

Bruce made the long drive to his apartment back from the latest meeting with Miles Parker.

Parker had been the only person in MI6 history to hold the position of chief twice. The Scotsman’s relationship with the MI6 head had a chequered history, to say the least.

Bruce first met Parker in 2003, when he was a year into his first stint as chief. Bruce had reported to Parker, Walter Morris—the then MI5 chief—and Henry Costner. At first, he needed them for funding, intelligence and to provide him with some semblance of an umbrella, given The Chameleon Project’s deniability.

He knew the writing was on the wall since the unit’s inception. Despite all the care and attention to the way it went about its business, The Project would eventually turn itself into a political liability for one, two or all three men he answered to. It would not have been long until E-Squadron, (the UKSF hand-picked operatives that worked for MI6)—back then known as ‘The Increment’—would have come knocking.

A similar type of unit to The Chameleon Project would eventually be generated, and so the cycle would continue. However, the next group would have to begin from scratch which was inefficient at best.

To pre-empt this from happening, Bruce began to collate information on a few people who had the power to threaten his unit, not least the trio that he had reported to.

No one gets to be Chief of SIS without being involved in events that would at least cause embarrassment and perhaps even imprisonment if they became public.

Jaime managed to uncover evidence of some dirty secrets. Miles Parker had been heavily involved in ensuring Dr Hastings Banda remained the president-for-life of British-friendly Malawi. Some of the acts he committed in order to make the President’s tenure certain would ensure his vilification if reported to certain media outlets—especially with social media.

Bruce had presented Parker with his findings during a highly charged meeting at Vauxhall Cross. In the same forum, he had also presented Henry Costner’s evidence against him of shenanigans that, although more embarrassing than criminal, would have still led to him losing his lofty position within the English political elite.

It had been the first time Bruce had met Roger Stanton, Walter Morris’s replacement as head of MI5.

After an extended stand-off period, Miles Parker became Bruce’s most powerful ally. Although they may never be friends, Bruce felt they respected one another.

Today, Parker had thanked him for guiding O’Hara towards the best course of action.

Bruce lamented how well he had taken to his new advisory role. In truth, it had been long overdue, and the bullet to the kneecap had possibly been a blessing.

Now that Bruce was in a more hands-off role, he could think about a more settled life; travelling for leisure, hobbies, visiting his nieces more. Maybe a settled relationship that lasted more than a few dates.

His phone rang. It caused a kick of surprise and pleasure when he saw Janet Quigley’s name flash over the display.

Ciara sat across from Connor in the warm atmosphere. She felt herself looking at him differently. Watching the visceral ruthlessness mixed with a clinical efficiency of his fighting had sparked something within her.

At the time, she saw the paralysing of his victim as an act of gratuitous spite—until he explained his reasoning. She saw the affection that Jan had shown him, and his warmth towards the old lady.

He had an unvarnished way of speaking, which could have been mistaken for uncouth, temporarily hiding the sharpness of mind.

She would have never given him a second look in a bar. His height fell an inch or so short of her minimum requirement of six feet, and his hair being a light brown near blonde rather than her preferred black.

There was something about him though.

“So, our cover story?” asked Ciara.

“OK. You can’t play the ‘kept in the dark’ girlfriend. It would be a waste of your talents.”

“What are my talents?”

“You handled the only dangerous situation we have been in together well. Although, that could have gone horribly wrong.”

“In what way?”

“I’d just left a session where I’d been rolling around with a load of able-bodied men.”

“I am not above criticism, but choosing a perfect place for your own ambush wasn’t smart.”

“I’ll take that. Still.”

“You were worried you’d lose?”

He shrugged. “Then what would you have done?”

“I’d have shot them all. Can’t be having live witnesses to a murder, can we?”

She knew she would have had to.

When his enquiring eyes met hers, he said, “I believe you. I know you’re not shy about killing baddies.”

“How do you know that?”

“The gaffer told me.”

“He told you what exactly?”

“He told me that you were attempting to come on to your mum’s boyfriend. The boyfriend calmly explained that he loved your mother, you were being hormonal and he saw you as a daughter. That’s when you killed him in a fit of rage for spurning your advances—a woman scorned, eh?”

She felt a jolt of incomprehension before realising he was teasing.

“Possibly not something to joke about with a woman you barely know.”

“I took a risk,” he said. “Note to self: attack on mother and the subsequent slaying of her attempted rapist is not a source of humour.”

“Wow, just wow,” she said, unsure how to feel about his flippancy towards it. She was surprised that a smile was threatening to break out on her lips.

“I jest of course,” he said. “You prevented a bad person doing a bad thing.”

“And I’d do it again.”

“I know you would. All jokes aside, the day I heard the story of your mother’s potential rape and the subsequent bloodletting, I thought about it that very same night. And to be honest, even I found it difficult to masturbate to,” he said, his face impassive.

Ciara was stunned for a moment. She had not encountered such a ‘sense of humour’ before, not even in the Thai boxing gyms she had frequented. The university graduate guessed it could only really thrive in an all-male environment like the Marines. She was almost as surprised by her not being offended at the comment—must be the way he delivered it.

“What sort of reaction do you normally get when you say things like that?”

“It can be mixed,” he said, tilting his head for a second.

“I hear the Marines have opened their doors to women joining?”

Connor simply shrugged. “Nothing to do with me. I left a while ago.”

“Do you think it’s a good thing or bad?”

“Depends.”

“Come on then, it’s like pulling teeth here.”

“In theory, I don’t have a problem with it. If a bird—a girl, rather—can pass the eight-month course then good on her, but there won’t be many that can. And when there’s so few being passed out, then some politician is going to make it an issue, and then the officers are going to put pressure on the training teams to lower the standards, or at least have the Corps accused of sexism and risk having its funding cut as a result. It might not matter, we might never fight a conventional war again, but our special forces will always be busy, and they rely heavily on the Corps for its recruitment. You have me ranting now.”

She creased her eyes, her journalistic instincts and interest piqued. “Why don’t you think we’ll go to war again?”

“A plethora of reasons. There’s social media now. Back in the early 2000s the public could be swayed because the government had influence—not total—but influence over television, radio and tabloid papers. They don’t have influence over social media, that’s why they can’t convince the electorate the same—there’s always a counter-meme to their narrative floating around. Plus, all the young lads who are full of testosterone looking for camaraderie and adventure aren’t joining the military when there are no wars on, or if they are you might get prosecuted years later. They are in MMA clubs and that. It’s not the seventies where you had to join the services to see a bit of the world. You could train a shaved monkey to book an Easy Jet now.”

Ciara smiled in spite of herself. She didn’t want to try and counter him just yet. She would leave that until another time.

“What is the other reason?”

“It’s not like the old days when a King conquered a new land, and the land would be pillaged, or a monopoly of trade established as like the East India Company. Now you’ll be hit by sanctions, and the British people won’t respect a Prime Minister who’s seen as blindly following a US President. How people feel about Blair now compared to when he was first elected is night and day because of that Iraq debacle.”

“I’ll come back to you on this. I feel we should save our mental energy for the task at hand.”

He nodded his agreement. “I would like our cover to be one of being business associates. That way I can have you with me in potentially dangerous situations.”

“Like Whitney had Kevin Costner?”

“I was thinking more of Batman and Robin.”

“Batman and Catwoman maybe. I already have that outfit at home,” she said—calm down.

“You seem to have the jaw for it,” he said, his face expressionless.

“Quite the charmer, Mr Reed,” she replied.

“Not at all. Note to self: refrain from playful teasing.”

She opened her mouth to defend her defensiveness but closed it again—how is he doing this? Get a handle on him.

“What are we doing in Amsterdam?”

“The bloke who supplies me in Amsterdam is a Raymond Van Der Saar. His laboratories produce Ecstasy tablets with very high MDMA content. He’s a very personable gentleman.”

“What’s the purpose of meeting him?”

“Negotiations. I’ll tell him that I’ve found him a reliable distributor and I’ll haggle the mark-up for transportation.”

“Aren’t you concerned that they’ll eventually decide to cut you out?”

“No. Either Tris Dixon is still a sports agent still dabbling in just drugs for the thrill, in which case I’ll step out—”

“He won’t be arrested?” she interrupted.

“Depends on what the boss wants.”

“Why wouldn’t he want him arrested, or stopped another way?”

“Because there will always be a drugs trade—has been since time immemorial—maybe that’s an exaggeration, but you get the point. With Van Der Saar, he’ll stop supplying anyone who cuts his drugs with other agents. If Tris Dixon understands this, and I think he will, then that’s fewer people who could die from amphetamine or… paramethoxy-methamphetamine.”

“I’m impressed.”

“It took a few attempts.”

She smiled. “Just so I am clear: our boss allows drugs into the country—in fact, he introduces people who can make that happen, on the proviso that the drugs do not get cut?”

“Right,” said Connor, sipping his water. “Tracking a whale is less hassle than a multitude of small fish. Unless you have a better idea?”

She detected a hint of irritation in his voice.

“I didn’t say I disagreed, did I? I was just making sure.”

His face softened at her assertiveness, and she continued, “Wait, you said ‘if’ he was a sports agent still dabbling in just drugs. What else might he be?”

“If he’s involved in what I think he may be, then I’ll have to find Van Der Saar a different distributor.”

She nodded her understanding.

“So—to clarify our cover—are we partners in crime solely.”

She was pleased to see him appear taken back.

“Can always say ‘it’s complicated’. That’s a viable label in this Facebook era, isn’t it?”

“Why would it be complicated?”

He seemed uncomfortable for a moment, and she liked it.

“Because we work together.”

“So?”

“Well, it didn’t turn out well for Bonnie and Clyde, did it?”

“Yeah, well, they were ‘baddies’, as you say,” she said, flashing him an unashamed smile.

15

Emily Kellet stood back with her palms at shoulder level facing her—the precautionary ‘raised idle hand position’. She was in theatre assisting the surgeon in his performing of a nephrectomy on a patient who only appeared today.

In her role as a surgical technologist, she was to anticipate his next move in order to assist him or pass him an instrument.

The two other women in addition to herself—the nurse and the anaesthesiologist—had an easy but professional rapport with one another and the surgeon, as the three had been a team for a while. Emily had only come on board less than three weeks ago.

The money she had been offered dwarfed her NHS salary, and she had jumped at the chance. She had kept quiet and absorbed everything she could learn.

Something had been bothering her—well, more than one thing. At first, it had been the surgeon Michael Taylor’s manner towards her. It was nothing too overt but he made her uncomfortable; a hand left on a little too long, his gaze a bit too appraising. His smile of unnaturally white veneers and the tint of orange in his tan added to the creepiness.

However, that was not the barb in the back of her mind. It was that in the three weeks she had worked here, this was the third organ removal she had helped perform. That was strange in itself but not impossible. The thing that was most perturbing was that she had not seen any of the patients around the hospital previously. She began to think of the possibilities—what if they were—

“Emily!” shouted Taylor, breaking through her thoughts, “I have asked you twice now for the laparoscope. Fucking wake up.”

She snapped alert and handed him the small telescope-like instrument. Her face burned with embarrassment—fucking arsehole.

Connor was back in the apartment reading a book when his phone sounded. He answered the unknown number. “Hello.”

“Now then, lad, how are tha?”

Connor smiled at his uncle’s strong Yorkshire voice.

“Yeah, I am all right. How is everyone?”

“That’s not what I have been hearing.”

“Oh yeah? What have you heard then?”

“I’ve been hearing you’ve been upsetting some of our Asian cousins down there.”

Connor and his Uncle Derek had previously had this type of conversation. Derek Ryder had taken over as head of the Ryder family in the wake of Connor’s father’s passing. His uncle asserted that because Connor was a member of the family, any trouble he got himself into in his criminal endeavours also had the potential to blow back on them all.

“Who told you this?”

“When do you think I would tell you something like that?”

“Fair enough. I don’t see how it’s got anything to do with you. I don’t advertise who my father was to anyone. I operate well outside of Leeds, and my surname is Reed.”

“Don’t be naïve, lad, the right people will know who you are.”

“Look Uncle Derek. I love you, but this isn’t any of your business.”

“It’ll become my business if you got kidnapped.”

“I am not worried about becoming a hostage—I reckon I could do it with my hands tied behind my back.”

Derek laughed like a drain. Connor did love his uncle, but the issue of him continuing criminal activities away from the family caused tension between them. He guessed his uncle saw it as a slap in the face that Connor refused to come into the fold.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, lad,” said his uncle. “Anyway, when you coming to see us?”

“Not for a few weeks.”

“OK, how’s Rayella?”

Connor appreciated his uncle’s remembrance of her name. The sister of his deceased best friend. He also felt a pang of guilt—he had not called her for at least a couple of weeks. She was nearing thirteen now and only eighteen months removed from a trauma which would have affected any girl, let alone an eleven-year-old.

“She’s fine, as far as I am aware.”

“I’d make sure if I was you, lad.”

“Why? What have you heard?”

“Just give her a call, eh? I’ve got to go now. Take care.”

The call ended. After a few moments, Connor dialled Rayella’s number.

“Hi, Ann, it’s Connor. Apologies for not keeping in touch. How are you?” he said into his phone. He was sat on his bed in the apartment.

“Oh, Connor, am glad you called. Rayella was sent home from school the other day. Fighting.”

He did not like the sad exasperation in her voice. She was the mother of his childhood friend Liam Scott. He and Liam had been inseparable since meeting at the local boxing gym at the age of twelve. They eventually ended up in 45 Commando, a Royal Marine unit based in Scotland. Liam had died while on tour in Afghanistan. Since then, or maybe even before then, Connor had seen the Scotts as his own quasi-family. His ‘sister’ Rayella had been through some trauma in addition to her brother’s death, which would have affected anyone. When he thought of the paedophile politician who had abused her, he wished he could set him on fire again.

“Go on,” said Connor.

“Well, she and this boy had words. I don’t know what exactly was said but they started fighting—”

“Wait, she didn’t attack him? They both voluntarily fought?”

“Yeah, that’s what the school said. He’s in the year above too.”

“Eh? What you worried for then? Why she even been sent home?”

Ann Scott sighed. “Because after they split them up…wait…they had to drag her off him, Rayella wrenched her’sen free and broke this young boy’s nose with a headbutt.”

Connor stifled a laugh but could not stop grinning.

Then he realised the potential consequences of what she had done.

“What’s happening about it?”

“Well, the lad’s parents are threatening all sorts. Saying that if the school doesn’t handle it, then they’ll go to the papers and that. She worked so hard to get into that school, and after all she’s been through, now this. She must be at the end of her tether.”

Connor could hear Ann getting upset—typical, always thinking of others, she must be at the end of her tether too.

“Take it you have to go into the school to sort it?” he asked.

“Yeah. They haven’t said when. I haven’t spoken to Rayella about it in case she flies off the handle.”

“I’ll speak to her, Ann. Is she there?”

“Yes. RAYELLA, CONNOR IS ON THE PHONE!”

He heard steps down the stairs and a terse exchange ending with Rayella telling her mum she was taking the call in her room.

“Hello?”

“You better be nice to your mum, Rayella. No one will ever love you like that woman loves you.”

“I know,” she replied, sounding sheepish.

“What happened?”

“This lad. Saying things and that.”

“What things? Stop being coy and tell me exactly what happened.”

“That I was a slag. What am I even doing at this school? Then he said I had a yeast infection. So I put on his accent and said, ‘My name is Ross, I like to help the children in Africa by organising sponsored runs around my mother.’ Everyone fell about laughing cos she’s lardy and he got angry an’ pushed me. So I hit him a few times.”

Connor had stifled another laugh when she recounted her retort. He also knew she was telling the truth—too specific to be a lie.

“Come on, that’s not the end of the story.”

“OK…I headbutted him after the teachers broke us up.”

“For fu—goodness sake, Rayella, you’d already embarrassed him by winning. Why did you stick the head on him?”

“Because, I don’t know—it was just his face, you know, I wanted to hurt him.”

Connor did not respond for a moment. He knew exactly how she had felt. He also knew that if Rayella got into the habit of displacing her anger, then it could have dire consequences.

“Yeah, but don’t you see, you might have hurt yourself more. If you get thrown out of school you…” He stopped—he did not even believe his own words. “You know what, I am proud of you. What were your friends saying?”

“Are you? Well, I got taken away to the headmaster’s office. They were calling me Harley Quinn and that.”

“Try and get a grip of your temper, Rayella. That lad will have already been humiliated enough by being beaten by a girl a year younger, even if you do look like a bit of a man.”

“Maybe you will too one day.”

Connor just laughed, then said, “I’ll talk to your mam, whichever way it goes. If they keep you then great. If not, then don’t worry about it—if they expel a girl for scrapping with a boy in the year above after he started it, then it’s not the sort of school you need to be in anyway. I am going to tell your mum to get you into some sort of martial art too. A proper one like Thai boxing or judo.”

“Why? Won’t that make me more, you know, a good fighter?”

“Yes, but it’ll get you an outlet for your rage…your energy, I mean. You’ll make some pals, like proper friends—people with a bit about them. Anyway, I’ll tell your mum all this. And, Rayella, you’re going, end of story.”

“Fine. Can you hit people in judo?”

“No. It’s throws, arm locks and chokes. Thai boxing you hit people. Knees, elbows, kicks and punches.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Can I do both?”

“Steady on, Rayella.”

“So you’re not mad at me?”

“No. Life is about making mistakes. And death is about wishing you made more.”

16

Ciara sat across from a middle-aged man, who wore a cream shirt and had a personable face. His dark hair crept down to his collar, and black hair matted his forearms.

David Wright was the CEO of Inspire Dramatic Arts. His company helped to highlight the plight of modern slavery across the world.

Her interview had the dual purpose of obtaining intelligence and for an article for the newspaper.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr Wright,” Ciara began, dressed conservatively in a dark charcoal pencil skirt and matching jacket.

“No, thank you,” he replied. “Call me David.”

“OK, David, the purpose of the article is essentially to keep this issue in the public eye, as well as highlighting any truths and dispelling any myths.”

“Sounds almost too good to be true,” said Wright with a smile.

Ciara paused for a moment. “I take it you’ve had a less than great experience with the media.”

“I wouldn’t say bad—any publicity is good publicity, as the saying goes. Just a little bit too sensationalistic and inaccurate. That said, some things change too rapidly for even us to keep up with.”

“How so? Let’s start with the sensationalism.”

“Well, the media like to highlight the Vietnamese gangs that lock people in their cannabis-making farm to become a ‘gardener’—that or a nail bar. Or they’ll highlight Eastern European sex workers naturally. And I agree, you do have to have the spotlight on them. But other instances get nary a look in.”

“Such as?”

“Such as car washes run by British nationals who exploit their workers with low wages, squalid living conditions and terribly long hours. People might say that no one forces them to work there, but without a visa where else are they going to go?”

Ciara said, “I understand that your concern is the slavery of others. I have been speaking with several sources, and one thing that’s caught my eye—or ear—is the practice of people being trafficked for their organs.”

Wright sighed. “Yes, it’s an effort to remain positive in the knowledge that humans are capable of doing such things to one another.”

“I was wondering if you have come across any particular patterns with regards to methods of transport and their routes in?”

“Well,” said Wright, considering her for a moment, “the impoverished from developing nations will be lured by the promise—sometimes adhered to and sometimes not—of ‘transportation’, shall we say, into a wealthier nation such as ours. Now, normally they came from Asia or Eastern Europe. Just recently, in the last year or so, there’s been reports of Moroccan crime gangs out of the Netherlands who are getting in on the act. There was also a Romanian girl who used to come here, who said she had been forced to give blood in a hospital over here, although I dismissed that one.”

Ciara thought for a second—The Netherlands? Did Connor know more than he was letting on?

“Why did you dismiss it?”

“Well, one of her claims was that the police themselves kidnapped her. I had to explain to her that the police over here don’t do that, bless her.”

Ciara felt her heartbeat rise. “Do you have any contact details for her?”

Wright shook his head. “I am afraid I don’t. She went missing not long after that. Was doing really well too, then wooft, left me a letter saying she was going back to Romania. Strange really. You learn fast that you can’t save them all, or even most. You just do what you can do. Each act of kindness has to be a step towards a less evil place, surely.”

Ciara hid the coldness spreading within her and nodded. She agreed but with the caveat—sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.

Raymond Van Der Saar walked with his chief chemist through one of his MDMA factories.

His lanky frame hung a grey, woollen jumper over a white collar, dark jeans finished with black, polished shoes. The grey in his hair and lined face contrasted with the fifty-nine-year-old’s spritely movement.

He made these random, unannounced trips to his factories to ensure the smooth running of his operation. When it came to MDMA production, he was the King.

Van Der Saar, although one of the most powerful drug lords in Europe, never saw himself as a ‘boss’. The Dutch criminal underworld—the ‘Penose’—were more about working together towards a common objective. He had noticed a long time ago that the British criminals differed in that most wanted to climb the ladder and would ruthlessly exploit any opportunity to do so.

Production of high-quality Ecstasy was something Van Der Saar was very passionate about. He and his brother Hans had visited their father in New York City for a summer in his early twenties. His father, Denis, had been an architect doing work out there.

Their tours of the city’s nightlife had led them to The Paradise Garage. It was his first experience of pure dancing in a nightclub. The thumping sound system had resonated through Van Der Saar and the hot, sweaty, happy, weird and wonderful collective.

It had also been his first experience with MDMA. It had been subtle at first, a gentle relaxation throughout his person. He felt more of an affinity for the music, for the other people in the club. A sense of togetherness for perfect strangers, and Van Der Saar had just floated on a cloud for the rest of the night.

Now, of course, he knew the dangers of abusing Ecstasy. He had seen first-hand how people irreparably damage their serotonin receptors. They fell into depression and their memories were compromised.

Van Der Saar’s thoughts were that anything can harm you if you abuse it—water could kill a person if they drink too much of it. Ecstasy opened his young mind and had given him experiences and friends that he would not have had otherwise.

It saddened him that the market was now saturated with Es laced with PMA, Penalone and ketamine, amongst other things. His UK contact had told him that street dealers could now synthesise their own versions or buy it over the ‘dark web’. Then they would cut it with all kinds of substances.

All this, at best, cheapened the experience for the user, and at worst, killed them.

Still, the discerning taker knew quality, and that’s why he was a millionaire many times over.

The chief chemist walked him through the rows of masked chemists. They were mostly hunched over the Petri dishes with microscopes. It all seemed to be running smoothly.

In a couple of days, he was due to meet one of his British contacts. Van Der Saar liked the young Englishman; he seemed intelligent, respectful and had a sharp sense of humour. He could fight too, as some of Van Der Saar’s contacts in the Amsterdam kickboxing and MMA world attested; Reed always visited their gyms on his travels over here.

Connor had formed a link with a respected potential distributor in the UK. He was set to meet Van Der Saar in Amsterdam to discuss the details.

Ciara stood with the rest of the class in a semi-circle around the instructor. Connor had told her he was going to go down to an MMA class, and she had tagged along. It was the same club he had attended the first night she had met him.

In a few hours, they would be boarding a plane to Amsterdam. She would tell him her findings from the David Wright interview later.

Earlier, she had heard him in the other room talking to what sounded like a younger female relation. She thought the way he spoke to whoever Rayella was had been cute.

He seemed distracted throughout the class but he stayed on for the last twenty minutes of sparring. She watched him, as she stretched, climb into the cage with a larger, bearded guy in a vest.

Even though the instructor reiterated to take ‘the power out’ Connor’s opponent attacked him furiously from the start. At first, Connor seemed to control him without too much effort. After a few of the zealous antagonist’s strikes came close, Ciara could see Connor’s face change.

A quick spinning back kick thumped into the vest’s solar plexus, and he fell to his knees. She saw Connor say something to him.

The man got up with a cross between a grimace and a sneer splashed on his face. He ran towards Connor punching. Her partner swayed from the waist to avoid the onslaught. The vest’s kick was checked, and his features scrunched up with pain.

A fusillade of Connor’s punches crashed through the defences. The bearded man fell back into the cage.

The instructor’s voice echoed in the training hall, “Here, calm it down the pair of ya.”

As Connor backed off at the words, the larger man launched himself at him.

A whipping left hook span the vest around before Connor’s right shin smashed off into the man’s temple. The vest’s limp body crashed to the floor. The instructor and another member scrambled into the cage as Connor left it.

He walked to her and said, “Let’s hope he’s not dead or brain-damaged.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice. There was no concern either. Ciara observed that they managed to revive him.

Connor looked over and said, “He seems to be all right,” before looking back at her. “He shouldn’t have been playing with adults.”

“The adult thing to do is to go over and apologise.”

“Why?”

“A gesture.”

He shook his head, frowning.

“Connor, I realise he started it. But he has been humiliated now,” she said, echoing what he had said over the phone.

Connor opened his mouth but shut it again. He went over.

Bruce walked with Janet Quigley.

Her red setters were bounding off the leash through the evening’s low mist. The air was fresh and crisp. The trees were preparing to bloom their leaves, and dew covered the grass.

Janet had invited him to meet her in Richmond Park. She had said on the phone that she had some information for him.

“So, Janet. Are you handing me the information now so we can enjoy our walk or are you going to keep me in suspense?”

“Oh, I am sorry, were we supposed to drop our suitcases and then pick the other one up?”

“I wouldn’t know. I am a civil servant.”

“Of course you are, Mr McQuillan,” she said, smiling. “I have a list of all the surgeons who have been struck off for malpractice in the last fifteen years.”

“As much as I appreciate that, Janet, I already have that information.”

“But do you have a list of all the struck-off surgeons from all the Commonwealth nations?”

Bruce smiled. Jaime had been working on obtaining that very information. He was struggling as some of the records in some of these less developed countries were not placed on the computer systems as they ought to have been.

“That’s one way of getting into my good books,” he said.

“Oh, really? And what are the perks of being in your good books?”

“That I pretend to like dogs and come on walks with you.”

Bruce flinched at his own words—this was flirting. He then realised this reaction was an old cognition rearing its head; he was no longer as deeply enmeshed in that dangerous world—he had an official role now. Maybe a statuesque blonde surgeon was what he needed at this time in his life. Still, he barely knew her.

She gave him a playful elbow. “What’s not to like about a pair of red-headed bitches?”

Bruce replied straight-faced, “I have a preference for brunettes.”

“Well, that is a shame.”

“You’re very forward for a lady with a voice so cultured,’” he said.

“Why? Does one find one crass?” she said, exaggerating her accent.

“Not at all.” He smiled.

He threw a stick and the dogs hared off after it.

Ryan was trying to fight for mental clarity through the haziness. He could make out he was in some type of hospital. He began to stir.

A pleasant female voice sounded, “Mr Matthews, relax. You’ve been brought in because you sustained a nasty head injury.”

He turned his head and focused on the nurse. She had red hair cut into a bob, slim figure, around her early thirties. He thought her especially pretty.

Ryan nodded numbly. His mind licked at the memory fragments—the canal, then police.

“Where…where are they?”

“Who?”

“The police? They arrested me?”

“You were found in a car park next to a canal by a member of the public. An ambulance was called.”

The haze cloaked the nagging in the back of his head. “Oh, OK.”

“We carried out some tests, Mr Matthews. It seems you’ve irreparably damaged a kidney. Were you aware of this?”

“Errr. No, I mean. Someone kicked me?”

“There’s no evidence of that, Mr Matthews. Are you a heavy drinker?”

Ryan mumbled, “Yes, I have been.”

“Well, not to worry, Mr Matthews. You’re in good hands. You need your rest now.”

With that, she reached down and began turning a valve.

He wanted to say more but unconsciousness snatched him away.

Within a minute his heart stopped beating.

17

Connor and Ciara walked between the four-storey buildings and canals of Amsterdam. He had been here several times and always liked it.

It was a city for adults; it had a certain freedom to it that the UK hadn’t. A cultural melting pot. He also liked that half the city rode around on bicycles.

Ciara did not turn heads so much here. Her unusual but confident dress sense that stood out in Birmingham was less uncommon in Amsterdam.

Today she wore a beige jacket lined at the neck with fur, a grey knitted beanie hat, blue jeans and brown knee-high boots.

He wore a blue and white patterned cardigan over an oatmeal T-shirt, stone jeans and brown boots. He was bringing Ciara up to date on his time in the city and the contacts he had made.

“Van Der Saar isn’t your stereotypical crime lord. He’s very gentlemanly. The best way to describe him is like…do you know anything about football?” asked Connor.

“Enough to get by.”

“So he’s like the Dutch version of Arsene Wenger in his manner and a bit of his appearance. He’s all about the customer’s experience on the drugs he supplies. That said, he’s utterly pitiless when pushed. Had the eyes taken out of a distributor who continually took the piss by cutting Van Der Saar’s product.”

“Blind Marcus Bakker?”

“That’s him, bless him. Funny thing is, Van Der Saar set up a long-term money transfer to his mum for €1,500 a month. I only know about that through Bruce’s tech guy.”

“Jaime?”

It surprised Connor that she knew him by name.

“Yeah, you know him? The Latin Spock.”

She laughed. “I haven’t met him personally. Why do you call him ‘Spock’?”

“Because he’s so intelligent and logical it’s like his brain can’t process banter.”

“I see. So Van Der Saar; we’re meeting him tonight?”

“Yeah. That’s why our ‘relationship’, yours and mine, is one of business partners who may or may not fuck. If you were simply my girlfriend, I’d have had to attend the meeting alone.”

“OK. So we’re going to negotiate a deal as we have a new distributor lined up?”

“That’s one of the aims. The other is to feel him out about human trafficking for organs.”

“Because you know the Moroccans here may have had a hand in it?”

Connor smiled. “How do you know that?”

“Because I have my sources as well,” she said. “More to the point, why didn’t you tell me? We are supposed to be a team, are we not?”

He felt the accusatory edge to her voice. “The information was tenuous at best, so I didn’t want to be making a fool of myself.”

“All right. Do you think Van Der Saar might be involved in that?”

“No, well, nothing is impossible but I highly doubt it. But he has eyes and ears throughout Europe, not just here. We’ll have to be quite delicate in how we approach it. Don’t want him thinking we want to be part of it, or worse, to grass on those who do.”

They walked for a while with Connor leading. He enjoyed taking in the ambience. He also enjoyed Ciara’s company. He felt the same warmth as any man who looked at a pretty girl.

He had the suspicion that she was not far off being as physically capable as him, and this attracted him too—women will be the death of me.

They reached a coffeeshop. The smell of good coffee and pot hit Connor’s nostrils.

“Are there any coffee shops in Amsterdam that don’t allow marijuana to be smoked?”

“We’re in a coffeeshop—one word—some of the coffee shops—two words—might. Why? You not having a joint?”

“Err, why, are you?” said Ciara, looking surprised.

“Of course! I am in Amsterdam, aren’t I? That’s like going to Mecca and not facing east before prostrating yourself on the ground. Although all the old Bingo biddies were looking at me funny last time I did that.”

“How many times have you done that joke?”

“About as many times as you have masturbated over thoughts of being in the middle of a Bruce Forsyth and Jeremy Clarkson sandwich.”

“Surely not that many times.”

It was his turn to laugh. She could be sharp with her wit, not like Grace, but Ciara had surprised him once or twice.

“Here, we’ll sit with Keith Richards,” he said, indicating to the table with the mural of the rock star above it. There were similar murals of various musicians including Jimi Hendrix.

“Seriously, aren’t we meant to be working?” she said as he ordered the coffees and asked for a herb menu.

“It’ll be out of our systems in a couple of hours, and it’s a walk back to the hotel. There are different strains, so you’re not monged out of your tits.”

“Quite a way with words you have.”

“Why pardon me. So doth one sharn’t become too inebriated.”

The waiter placed the menu in front of them, and they ordered black coffees.

“Do you want a joint or a spliff?”

“What’s the difference?”

“I thought you went to uni?”

“I stayed away from all that in university. But I am here in Amsterdam. I don’t do cocaine either but I would in Colombia.”

He smiled approvingly. “A joint is made of tobacco and cannabis, hence term ‘joint’. A spliff is pure cannabis, or a pure joint as they call it here. But back in the UK, the names are reversed. A spliff is a mix, and a joint is pure cannabis—don’t ask me why. So, do you want it with tobacco or pure cannabis?”

“Who’d have thought getting high was so much effort. No tobacco, please, unless it’ll help stop me getting ‘monged out of my tits’.”

Connor smiled. “We’ll go for this here,” he said, pointing at the menu. “It’s a Sativa that’ll get you high but you’ll be clear-headed—kind of.”

They ordered, and he began rolling a pair of taut joints.

“Is this where you laugh at the effect it’s going to have on me?”

“Well, we’ll see what exactly happens but to be honest, I am glad to be here for your first experience.”

“So do you do this often?” she asked, taking a drag.

“Not since I was a teenager, but I share your philosophy of ‘when in Rome, get high like the Romans do’.”

“How come you don’t do it in the UK? No good stuff out there?”

“Because I don’t want to be doing it with any degree of regularity. I don’t like anything having a hold on me. If I do it here, I can leave it here. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense,” she said. “I can feel it starting to take effect.”

Over the next couple of hours, they had a great time.

Tom Ryder was sat across from his Uncle Derek.

They were sat in the Mongolian Grill in Leeds City centre. His Uncle Derek had been a silent partner for years. Not even the staff knew.

And Derek did not know that Tom knew.

Of all eight of the Ryder cousins, Tom was the eldest. His dad, Ryan, though the second youngest of the uncles, fathered him at a mere sixteen years of age.

Tom, a talented mechanic, owned several garages from Yeadon, Horsforth and Headingly. He genuinely enjoyed fixing cars and getting people back on the road.

However, he was also the primary enforcer for the family.

A compact man standing five feet eight inches, Tom had overheard himself being compared to Tommy from the film Goodfellas.

Although a superb fighter, at twelve stone he knew he couldn’t beat every man in Leeds in a fist fight. There were some eighteen-stone animals roaming about. However, he also knew what everyone else in the upper echelons of street crime knew—that it was how far one was willing to go that ultimately counted. His Uncle Greg—his cousin Connor’s father—had proved that. Although his uncle apparently could defeat huge men with just his fists.

Tom Ryder had maimed, tortured and killed enough people in his late teens and early twenties, that he had not had to raise his fists in anger for a good few years.

“You heard from our Connor lately?”

“Nah, not for a while.”

“It seems he’s been making waves down south. You know anything about that?”

Tom had heard but decided to downplay it. “Just bits and bats. Rumours.”

“Did you hear that he’s made one of Waseem Khan’s enforcers a paraplegic?”

Tom replied, “Yeah, I heard. I am sure he had his reasons.”

“Well, I’d like to know what they are. Why is he distancing himself away from us? He’s running wild down there and I don’t like it.”

Tom wouldn’t describe his cousin as ever ‘running wild’—just an unusual mindset.

“Uncle Derek, Connor might be a bit crazy but my cousin never does something without thinking it through. Besides, he loves you, loves the family. That’s why he’s kept his mum’s name—to insulate us from whatever he may be doing down there.”

“I am not sure. Maybe he has kept his mam’s name because he resents us.”

18

The raised voices awoke Emily. She had fallen asleep in one of the back rooms after a particularly long shift. It had only meant to be for twenty minutes or so before the half-hour drive back to her flat. Wiping off the saliva from her cheek, she checked her watch—she had been asleep for over an hour.

The two voices were in the midst of a heated discussion. Did she go out now, or stay until they left? She decided to wait; if she went out now, she would be questioned as to why she was still here.

She had an idea. She switched the kettle on, which was half full of water. Hopefully, the sound of it boiling and its eventual click would be enough for them to get the hint and leave without any embarrassment.

She recognised Michael’s raised voice. “This is the fucking second time in the last two weeks. How many fucking times do these people need telling that these donors are not supposed to be people who are missed!”

“You’re preaching to the converted. One of the world’s most famous climbers, for Christ’s sake.”

Emily realised the other party was Shelia Williams, the attractive, red-headed anaesthesiologist.

“It’s typical of those people—the fucking short-sightedness of it. It’s greed. They think of more donors being more money for them. Don’t they realise that if we’re caught, then there’s no revenue any more? Not that they would need money in prison anyway.”

“Have you spoken to the South African?”

“Yes. He should be here shortly to take away the body.”

“But it’s not just their end. I get nervous of the new girl. What’s her name?”

“Emily.”

She went rigid at the sound of her name.

“Yes, Emily. What if she puts two and two together? You should not have hired outside. You took her on because she’s a dolly bird.”

“What was I meant to do? Michelle left and I needed a technologist. She’s qualified.”

“Now who’s being short-sighted? If she runs to the police or tells anyone, we are in scalding water. She asked me the other day why she hasn’t seen the last patient before.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That he died on arrival at the NHS hospital, was a donor and they needed us to perform the surgery. What else could I say?”

“No. You said the right thing. You’re right. I’ll deal with her. No—I’ll get our friends to deal with her, they have this sort of experience.”

Emily’s heartbeat skyrocketed through the surrealism. Did they mean what it sounded like?

Shelia said, “Right, I am going home. A bottle of red awaits.”

Emily’s heart jumped into her throat as the kettle whistled and then clicked.

A few seconds later the door to the room Emily was in opened to reveal Shelia’s silhouette. For a few moments, no one spoke. Michael appeared behind Shelia.

A few moments of eerie stillness.

He said, “Looks like we’ll have to do it ourselves after all.”

Ciara could feel the surreptitious glances in her direction as the melodic music swept through her. It had been over seven hours since the coffeeshop, and the effect of the joint had long worn off.

She wore an emerald green cut-out sheath dress that revealed her cleavage and hips. Connor stood beside her with a dark blue V-neck pulled over a cream collared shirt, dark jeans and heeled shoes.

Very handsome, she thought. She had been noticing his looks more too—the eyes, they looked into her but with a hint of fun never far away.

Ciara’s type—despite herself—was the tall, dark and built. She knew where she stood on the ladder of looks and that she could pretty much get any man she wanted.

Connor, while definitely strong, fit and athletic, was not huge or ripped, and with her wearing her heels tonight they were around the same height.

He touched her lightly on her bare hip to get her attention. “He’s on the top floor, but I wouldn’t mind having a drink before we go up.”

She put her lips next to his ear. “Sounds good to me. A watermelon vodka, the bar staff will know what you want—I googled that they had it before coming. Leave me here, and I’ll see whose eyes are on you when they should be on me.”

Connor smirked and made his way to the bar. She looked around and saw a shaven-headed suit looking down at him over a glass balcony. She avoided eye contact with the patrons looking at her.

She looked over at the bar and saw the pretty barmaid laughing at something Connor had said. It perturbed her when she felt a jolt of jealousy—the prick.

He came back with the two watermelon vodkas.

“I see. I get to introduce you to something now.”

“I’ll try anything once—apart from incest or country dancing.”

“Well, definitely not country dancing.”

Connor smiled. “Take it you saw baldy eyeing me?”

“Yes.”

“He’s one of Van Der Saar’s. Let’s make our way up or else he’ll be insulted.”

They began to climb the stairs and the glass door opened for them. The bald man greeted Connor politely. “Mr Reed, welcome. I apologise, I must search you.”

“No apologies necessary,” Connor said, as he formed a human crucifix. The man put Connor’s hand on his shoulder before beginning to pat him down. When he finished Connor leant forward and said something quietly to him.

The man nodded what appeared to Ciara to be his thanks. He then indicated for Ciara to open her large, cream handbag, and after a quick but thorough search, gestured for her to close it again. Using a retractable baton, he traced the inside of her thighs before nodding his satisfaction that she was ‘clean’.

A voice cut across the room, “Connor—come, why did you make me wait?”

The willowy, middle-aged man came across and embraced him before he could answer. He still had the younger man’s shoulders clasped as Connor replied, “Wanted to take in the ambience of your establishment first. Very nice it is too.”

The man chortled. “Now, who is this beautiful lady?”

“This is Ciara, my friend and business partner.”

“I very much doubt that a lady like this is merely your friend that it is out of choice.”

“I know—she’s desperate to make it official.”

The man turned to her and clasped her hand. “Our friend is the antithesis of the saying ‘it is not how others see you, it’s how you see yourself’.”

“That is a fitting description, Mr Van Der Saar.”

“Please, you call me Raymond,” he said, pronouncing the ‘mond’ like pond.

“A pleasure, Raymond.”

Ciara caught Connor’s cross between a frown and a smile at her flirtatious manner—good.

Van Der Saar led them to a booth. Ciara was surprised that it was just the three of them. She noticed the watchful minders keeping an unobtrusive distance.

“How is Amsterdam treating you both?” asked Van Der Saar, aiming the question at Ciara.

“Great, thank you. Connor showed me the benefits of a coffeeshop—one word.”

“He did, did he? Do not enjoy it too much. Chemical alterations should remain pleasurable enhancements, not destructive dependencies.”

“A businessman with a moral code, are you?”

“I am not above making a profit.”

“I do not doubt the purity of your motives, Raymond. Though I suppose distributing a dependable and quality product also makes business sense, especially given the nature of our business.”

Van Der Saar looked at Connor. “I can see now why she is your business partner, my friend.”

Connor smiled. “Quite. I have another business partner I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Yes, of course. A powerful man, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve had certain people gather information on this individual. I think we could do business. Let us now discuss the details and we can get on with enjoying ourselves, my friends.”

“Of course,” said Connor.

“As you have no doubt heard, I am in a conflict with certain elements of the ‘Moroccan Mafia’, as they like to call themselves.”

“I heard some rumours. Aren’t they in the human trafficking business now?”

“So I have heard. Horrible business—using humans like commodities. Feeding off the desperation of people.”

“The value of human existence is lower from that part of the world.”

“And you still accept responsibility for transportation of my product knowing I have bad blood with them?”

“People like us are always going to have enemies. Although, I do not underestimate them. I’ll keep vigilant.”

“Good. So what do you think of your new business partner?”

“Very shrewd, very…shall we say, business reliable? You say that you’ve looked into him.”

“Yes?”

“I have dealt with a common associate of his and I. And I believe this mutual acquaintance is involved in the trafficking of humans. It’s not something I wanted to be involved in. What I am asking, is have you discovered if our friend is involved in that sort of enterprise?”

Raymond regarded Connor for a moment. “A cruel way to make a living, to be sure. Not something I condone naturally. However, very few people in our world are innocent, Connor, and you’ll brush against these people.”

“I realise that, but this isn’t the standard sex trade or slave labour. It’s trafficking for their organs.”

“Oh. I understand. A more profitable enterprise if one knows the right people.”

“More profitable?”

“Of course. An average sex worker could generate around fifty thousand of your pound sterling over the course of her ‘career’. A single kidney could cover that. And a heart much more.”

“Could he have links to it, you think?”

Van Der Saar replied, “Trafficking humans into the UK is not an easy thing to do. They come from an array of different countries having to pass through a range of transit countries. Documentation has to stand up to scrutiny. From my knowledge, trafficked humans arrive in some of your smaller airports, especially in Scotland. Flights to and from Dundee and Amsterdam were cancelled as a result of your National Crime Agency. The media never had knowledge of this.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Listen, my friend, I do not know. I could investigate maybe. However, the deal is that if I find anything out, you get me an equally reliable distributor, and you waive your fee.”

“Deal.”

Emily froze for a second, before the implication of “We’ll have to do it ourselves after all” hit the prehistoric part of her brain.

The Kettle. She grabbed it, ripped the lid off and slung it in the direction of the pair.

It caught Shelia in the face. She bolted back screaming, firing into Michael. This created the gap Emily needed to escape, and she plunged out of it.

She flew down the corridor not daring to look back. She heard the galloping footsteps behind her and Michael’s voice shouting, “Stop!”

She glanced back—relief—he looked ungainly and was breathing hard. She was increasing the gap. Around this corner through the door and she would be free into the outside.

It dawned on her before she reached the door like a punch to the stomach—her key-card was back in her handbag. And she had left her handbag in her room.

She got to the door—locked.

She whirled around and screamed in panic. He was bearing down on her, and instinct took over.

She attacked him, kicking, punching and clawing. He seemed taken back. She was winning.

She made a move around him, wrenching her ankle away from his grasp. She ran.

There was a man without a hospital uniform—huge in height and width with blonde hair. She ran to him wailing, “Help! I am trying to escape, there’s a man around the corner—”

The punch knocked her out.

19

Her trembling acted as a battery sending zaps of pleasure through Ethan Steyn. It signified her surrender to his power that he had first taken with the punch.

It pleased him to know that it had been his restraint in throwing the punch half-force that allowed her to cling to life, for that was true power—the control of life and death over others.

Steyn, though he knew that she would not be waking up anytime soon, allowed the slug of man from whom she had escaped to administer a sedative. Steyn had instructed him to inject on the web between a pair of toes.

Now, four hours later, he and the girl—Emily—were in her kitchen facing one another. He found her face intriguing—one half uncommonly pretty, and the other swollen, distorted and already blackening.

He looked around and sneered. Pictures of her and presumably her partner, as well as other relations, adorned the walls. Placards espousing the importance of living for the moment, and family were hung over the door and stuck to the refrigerator. He smirked at the voice in his mind—where is your family now? Enjoy living in this moment, Emily.

Her croaking voice broke his thoughts, “What do you want?”

He looked at her wincing face and laughed. “I want you to be a good girl.”

She took a moment to reply. “How?”

He smiled. “I want you to dance for me.”

Her breath hitched in her throat. “H-h-here?”

“Yes, that right.”

“Why?”

Her questions threw spikes of annoyance through him. “Because I like to Jol—to have fun—now, stop with your questions or you won’t be having much fun at all.”

His heart soared as he saw the tear break over her swollen cheek as she shakily stood—I have broken her.

She began her awkward gyrations in the serene silence. Steyn grinned, looking at a picture of her and her boyfriend, faces pressed together and beaming, with the backdrop of a beach—let him watch you dance for me.

His interest began to ebb after a few minutes. “Bend over the chair and show me your cunt.”

Her sob choked her, and a strangulated beg came out, “Please, no—don’t make me do this, please.”

Her tears soaked her face, as her fingers worked in erratic spasms on the buttons. Eventually, the trousers slid down as she bowed over the chair. Steyn knew this was the limit of tonight’s pleasure.

Her shoulders shook with her sobs, and he stood up. His fingers caressed her hair. “Shhhh, there’s a good girl.”

He gripped her jaw and forced her upright. His hand still on her face, he stepped her back in line with the refrigerator.

It would be full force this time. His massive palm careered her head off the corner of the white, hardened plastic. Her skull broke like a grapefruit, collapsing her to the floor.

Connor and Ciara sat in the De Zotte bar. The orange glow bounced off the wooden interior giving it a cosy atmosphere. The low hum of the guests made it easy to talk, which is why Connor had brought Ciara here. Van Der Saar had called Connor back when they were just about to leave his club, and they had a brief discussion.

“What did he want earlier when he called you back?” asked Ciara.

“Said he liked you, and I should keep hold of you.”

It was 00.36, and they were both sipping coffee after polishing off a rib-eye steak.

“So, what do you think? Think he was holding back anything?” asked Ciara.

“I didn’t see any indications that he was lying. But who knows—no one can consistently tell if someone is lying or not just by observation alone despite what Don Vincenzo says.”

“Don Vincenzo?”

“He’s a character played by Christopher Walken in True Romance. Best scene in the film.”

“I see,” she replied. “What are the indications then? Of lying, I mean.”

“Why? Did you miss that part in training?”

“Just confirming my knowledge. You know that revision helps solidify the information. Or did you miss that in training?”

He laughed and said, “Sometimes liars use less hand or finger movements, maintain unnatural eye contact—all to make them appear less shifty. Lying involves more cognitive processes so they may hesitate or stutter—but then that could be because they are nervous. Spontaneously correcting themselves could indicate they are telling the truth as a liar already has the lie formed before telling it to you. It’s a dark art, but I don’t think it’s a science. You’re best looking for any motivation they have to lie, and I can’t see why Van Der Saar would.”

“He seems to like you.”

“I think he does. I think his whole friendly demeanour is genuine—he’s a people person. But it has also caused him to be underestimated by literally hundreds of people. It’s a bit like that ‘It’ clown v Ronald McDonald meme—no one is scared of jovial Ronald, but he’s probably killed thousands of people.”

Ciara smirked. “So Van Der Saar is like a deadly clown?”

“Maybe that wasn’t the best analogy.”

“Then we might not be any closer to discovering who these people are.”

“All we can do is what we can do. Keep making plays, and something will come up. Another thing to be aware of is these Moroccans. Their value of life is a lot lower, believe me,” he said, thinking of an incident when on holiday in Tenerife as a nineteen-year-old. It had led to the stabbing of a British barman over four euros of change.

“You know, you have never told me how you get Van Der Saar’s product into the UK.”

Connor laughed. “What do you call a black man that flies a helicopter?”

Ciara frowned and shrugged.

“A pilot, you racist.”

“What the fuck is going on? That could have been a disaster. You’re lucky my guy was there to clean up your mess. One of your own staff too,” said the man venomously down the phone.

“It was an oversight, and I am dealing with it. What did your guy do?”

“He dumped her at her flat—it’ll look like a burglary gone wrong. Her boyfriend works offshore and isn’t back for another six days, fortunately for you. Had to thoroughly clean underneath her fingernails as she had pieces of that fuckin’ Tangoman’s face underneath them. I suggest you send him on holiday, somewhere far away and I mean today.”

“You’ve made a mistake,” said the medical professional. “One of the latest—the one picked up by the canal—was some famous climber. He will be missed, and his name may make the media.”

“Your side have been the ones increasing the demand. If you want an omelette, then a few eggs will be broken.”

“I was not notified of his stature until his organs were removed.”

“You can have a higher supply, or you can have a stringently checked supply—you can’t have both. If I were you, I’d choose the latter.”

“I am surprised. I thought you’d be on the side of the former since money is your master?”

“And it isn’t yours?”

“My goal is to give the gift of health and life to those who won’t squander it.”

“Funny that those people happen to be very wealthy. Not that I am complaining.”

“Funny how those who work hard in life acquire money, isn’t it?”

“Frankly, I do not care about what your motives are. What I do care about is you calling me to complain about a couple of bad apples in around thirty. Thirty bodies; that’s generated millions of pounds so you can continue giving the gift of health and life,” said the crime boss, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“I am just asking you to be more careful. Until there are certain people in line, shall we say, we will have to be very careful,” replied the surgeon.

“I agree. But you’ll have to accept a smaller supply in the meantime.”

“If that is a necessity then, of course, I will accept it,” said the medical practitioner. “The footballer you sent to see me has an ACL injury. He’s in with my orthopaedic consultant now.”

“I appreciate it.”

Ciara hung by the door waiting for Connor to come out of the bathroom. He joined her a couple of minutes later, and they spilt out on the street and began the walk back to the hotel.

They had paid for two rooms. One in their names and another directly across under aliases, which was the one they occupied.

“Good to go?” Ciara asked, as she took off her heels and exchanged them with the flats, taken out of her handbag. He nodded.

She threaded her arm through Connor’s and gripped his bicep. When he flexed it, they looked at one another and smirked.

They maintained their counter-surveillance duties as they walked. The air had a delicate coolness, and the amber-lit streets were sparse barring a few other night-time revellers making their way back to their homes or hotels.

Ciara felt a warmth from the alcohol within her. She enjoyed his company too. He was funny without being overbearing. He had a confidence about himself, both intellectual and physical, that she liked.

He seemed a little tense—a little expectant.

“I like this city,” she said.

“I like it too.”

“You might find it more difficult to come here as freely post-Brexit.”

“Because of the ETIAS.”

He surprised her with how fast he processed things. ETIAS was an acronym for the European Travel Information and Authorisation System which was being developed, and that British nationals entering the EU would be subject to post-Brexit.

“A headache,” he replied, “but only the dead have seen the end of problems. A bit of Plato for you there.”

“I am pretty sure that’s not quite the quote.”

“I was paraphrasing.”

“So you consider Brexit to be an omelette? You agree with it?”

“A bit heavy after an evening’s drinks, isn’t it?”

“I don’t do small talk that well.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I think it’s dangerous to be a part of something where its leaders aren’t made accountable to ‘the people’. Plus, there are around three of the fuckers—European Commission president, European Council president, European Parliament president—and the man on the street doesn’t know who the fuck they are because they don’t have a say in their appointment. In the seventies, a trade agreement with Europe, especially with the old Soviet Union rattling its sabres, would have seemed reasonable but now it’s grown arms and legs.”

“So you’re not the typical ‘they’re coming here and taking all our jobs’ sort of person?”

“Nah. If you’re a Romanian who’s got himself a job and his wage has been deducted for tax then, in my opinion, you’re more British than Tracey, twenty-three, from a council estate of Manchester who’s never worked in her life, but instead she’s shat out around six multi-coloured kids expecting everyone else to pay. More British than Rupert, who works in the City, makes millions from insider trading and evades tax by funnelling his gains through offshore accounts. That’s my opinion on immigration. People are too precious about it just because they happen to be born here—something that they had no influence over.”

She shook her head. “Quite a way with words you have—‘shat out multi-coloured kids’—that’s something you’d hear out of the mouth of a far-right group member.”

“All I meant was a woman—or man—who has loads of kids without much thought to who the other parent is, and only intent on making the government pay for them.”

“Don’t you think that the EU has given us a lot?”

“Like what?”

“Like a convention on Human Rights?”

“Sir David Maxwell-Fyfe guided the drafting of that in 1949, and he was a British lawyer, so it’s kind of a moot point.”

She looked at him in surprise, and he said, “I am not just a pretty face.”

“You know that three million British jobs are linked to the EU? And we won’t have the influence we once had?”

“Fair enough, there will be an upheaval, but if we all pull together, then the UK will be fine. And as for the influence bit—I think we’ve got ourselves in a lot of trouble still thinking we’re an empire. Look at Switzerland, not part of the EU, never bother any fucker, and they are—man for man—a happy people. Do you know that if fifty thousand of them sign a petition on a particular subject, then a referendum must be held? It’s called direct democracy—they banned the burqa recently with it.”

“Well, I am sure all the Swiss Muslim population was pleased about that,” she said, with the derision she felt.

“It wasn’t just Muslim women it offended.”

She looked at him puzzled. “Who else?”

“Ninjas.”

She chuckled, welcoming the break talking politics. It had threatened to ruin a perfectly good night despite their being there for professional purposes.

They took a short set of stairs and began walking along a canal.

After a time he slowed them at an embankment. “We’ll peel off here, it’s a shortcut.”

They climbed the bank and came to an empty industrial park. The few overhead lights threw ominous shadows across its floor.

“You sure about this? Anyone could ambush us here.”

“Anyone could ambush us along the canal, but you didn’t say anything then?”

She replied, “You only have to look behind or ahead with a canal.”

“It’ll be fine.”

They stopped talking as they cut through the darkness. She felt an awareness about her, like a part of her brain was trying to tell her something but could not quite express it.

A noise from behind made them both spin around. Six dark-skinned men appeared like apparitions in the dim light.

“You were saying?” she barked at Connor.

He did not even have the decency to look contrite. The thugs compressed the distance menacingly.

Ciara, her adrenal glands slamming her with epinephrine, blocked the punch incoming from the side and fired a headbutt into the face. With other men crowding in on her, Ciara reached into her handbag, popped her switchblade—disguised as a lipstick applicator—and went berserk.

Furiously slashing and stabbing, blood from arterial cuts sprayed over her in the frenzied attack. It took a third ‘crack’ of a sonic boom to pierce her fight-induced deafness letting her know that shots were being fired. The men began falling like they were being flicked over by a giant’s finger.

She saw three tall, Caucasian men walking towards them with their pistols raised.

“Looks like we were not needed after all,” said the man in the centre. All four of the men stood regarding her. Only Connor smiled, which set her off,

“Why the fuck are you laughing? I told you we shouldn’t have come down here. All you did was fucking ‘Yes’ me.”

His voice remained calm. “Van Der Saar told me that we were going to be ambushed. That was the real reason he called me back just before we left his gaff. Hence why he sent his men.”

Connor pulled out a small beeper.

“So that was the plan? We were bait?”

“Yes.”

“You bastard. Not to mention unprofessional. Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, catching the flick of his eyes to her blood-spattered blade.

“I wanted to see how you’d react when faced with death.” He began to laugh while surveying the bodies. “I think it was a good idea we didn’t sample any of Van Der Saar’s Es.”

Her voice cut through the men’s nervous chortles. “Well, I think you better take me back to the hotel. Right now.”

He stopped laughing as his eyes met hers—she was not angry.

20

Andrew Morrison sat hopefully in a waiting room that seemed simultaneously sterile and comfortable. As the owner of ‘Mercados’—a chain of discount stores throughout the south-east—he had recently become a billionaire.

It had come at a price.

The long hours and constant demands had sapped his willpower in other areas. A nicotine habit had resurfaced. Enjoying the respite that having to go outside to smoke afforded him, he refused patches or vaping. Also a liking for quick and easy snacks translated into food full of sugar and high in trans-fats. Gym sessions and swims were replaced with shifting through accounts and replying to emails.

The sixty pounds had insidiously crept onto his short frame over a period of just two years.

All this had led to a heart attack and a diagnosis of coronary heart disease at the age of forty-eight. The breathlessness and heart palpitations were affecting his work ethic and scaring him a little.

He had been to several private hospitals. They had all told him that they could not say for sure how long he’d have to wait for a suitable donor.

However, Braeson Hospital had found him a donor immediately through their international connections. The heart they found had belonged to Brazilian man dying of a disease that Morrison had not bothered to remember the name of. All he knew was that it did not affect the man’s heart.

There were expenses, however; the heart itself, the cost of bringing the man to the UK safely, the cost of transporting the man’s family, the man’s funeral expenses and all the bureaucracy involved would amount to around two million pound sterling.

Morrison gladly paid it.

Now he was waiting for the consultant to give him a specific date, but he had been told it would be in the next two weeks.

He would have to reorganise his life after the operation—can’t keep forking out a couple of mil’ every time I get sick. He would need a personal trainer and a chef. He kicked himself for not doing that as soon as it became financially viable.

The pretty nurse appeared, and Morrison surreptitiously smoothed over his red hair. She sauntered over to him, not unlike an exotic dancer in a strip club. The top layer of the skin on her face had peeled—one of those ‘lay in the sun and bake on holiday’ types. There was an abundance of pretty women working here—the perks of being a private hospital.

“Hello, Mr Morrison?”

“Yes.”

“The consultant is available to see you now.”

With that, he followed the copper-haired beauty.

“I may have one for you,” said Jaime’s digitally distorted voice through the monitor. “I am sending you the information now.”

Bruce speed-read through the file, highlighting the main points aloud for his and Jaime’s benefit. “Ryan Matthews. Climber extraordinaire. Loss of a hand in some kind of freak accident. Life spirals. Now missing. OK, got the gist—what details do I need to be aware of?”

“I am sending you the last known picture of him. It was captured by a bystander who posted it on social media.”

The screenshot of the picture came through. It had the caption—‘Three police officers move on a homeless drunk. Where were they when my mum’s house was robbed?’

“Let me guess, they weren’t police officers?”

“Nope. I checked and cross-referenced records. There were no units in and around that area at that time.”

“Anything come up on anyone’s facial recognition systems?”

“No. I think they’re either too low level, or the angle isn’t conductive to a complete analysis.”

“Conducive,” said Bruce correcting him.

“Thank you. Conducive. That’s all I have got, I am afraid.”

“Send the picture out to my guys and see what they come back with.”

“Of course. That may be con-du-cive to us getting to the bottom of this.”

Bruce smiled.

Ciara marched through the door and set her handbag on the desktop. She took out the baby wipes and began cleaning the remaining remnants of blood off her face and neck.

Connor stood watching her. She took her dress off and used a fresh wipe to remove the spots on the top of her chest.

She looked at him. “You put off by a little bit of blood?”

Connor smiled, then walked towards her. He gripped her by the arms and shunted her onto the wall. She gasped a smile, and they began kissing passionately. His hands gripped her from behind as her leg wrapped around one of his. His fingers gripped her knickers and tore a hole in them.

“You better make me cum, or you’re paying for them.”

She gasped as two of his fingers entered her. They continued to kiss. He gripped her by the throat, and his finger fucking got harder with her moans.

He flung her down onto the bed and removed her torn panties. His hands gripped the back of her legs, locking her in place.

Her hands gripped the duvet with the pleasure his mouth gave her.

As he took his mouth off her, she gripped his face and wildly kissed and licked her wetness off his face.

She cried out as he rammed himself into her. He gripped her throat again, straightened his arms to break her grip on the back of his neck.

Then he began to fuck her hard.

21

Connor had been driving the ambulance for just over an hour to the Holland coastal town of Petten. Ciara was riding shotgun.

In the back lay just shy of a quarter of a tonne of Ecstasy tablets.

As much as Connor tried to live his life by the mantra ‘Do not worry about things you cannot control’, he still prayed that it went off without a hitch.

He doubted that even Bruce’s influence would help him escape a lengthy prison sentence if caught with this amount. He had already had his liberty taken away from him twice now, albeit for relatively short periods of time.

The first time had been Borstal when he was sixteen years of age. The memory was still vivid. He had, the previous night to the incident that led to him being first incarcerated, boxed in the European qualifiers, winning and thus booking his place in the tournament. After weeks of dieting to get himself down to the seventy-five-kilogram limit, he had decided to treat himself to fish, chips and gravy. He had stood in the queue behind two nattering women when two youths swaggered through the door and pushed to the front. They were a couple of years his elder and full of bravado.

“Lads, come on,” he had said, already knowing that words would be redundant.

The larger had sneered, “Who the fuck are you? What do you think you’re going to do about it?”

When Connor saw the fear the women and the old man who owned the establishment had of the pair, his indignation exploded in a fusillade of punching, headbutting and stamping. The two youths lay decimated on the floor just as a police car pulled up.

He ended up doing eleven months in Wetherby Youth Custody Centre as it was known back then.

After the first week in the induction wing, he had been moved to the ‘Drake’ wing. The next morning, they had been unlocked at eight o’clock. By nine o’clock he had already knocked out another prisoner.

After a week or two of adjustment, he had settled in and made the most of his time there. It took a couple of ‘nickings’—a recording of an offence leading to a punishment of some sort—before he had begun toeing the line.

He threw himself into the vocational training there, including electrics and motor mechanics. With the motor mechanics qualification, at least if the worst came to the worst then he could find work in a local garage.

And he practised his Punjabi with some of the Asian lads doing time there.

He had been released on licence for good behaviour after eleven months. He never wanted to go back again.

After going to Wetherby as a teenager, going to the Military Correctional and Training Centre—MCTC—in Colchester had been relatively tame.

He had had to go there for ninety days on the charge of AWOL. It had been the only way to ward off future suspicions of why he left the Corps so suddenly. The true reason was that he had joined ‘The Chameleon Project’.

If a soldier, sailor or airman were given a sentence exceeding two years then he or she would go to civilian prison—‘civvy nick’—not Colchester, or ‘Colly’ as it was known. As a result, there were barely any fights—the end of one’s sentence was always in sight and therefore hardly anyone wanted to risk the requisite extra ninety days for fighting.

Connor had been shocked with how politically correct it had been in there. He had had a run-in with one of the other detainees whom he reckoned on being a wannabe gangster. An argument spilt out over at the education wing, and Connor had verbally savaged the sex offender. Expecting a physical altercation, upon returning to the accommodation block, he had been stunned to learn that the bloke had made an official complaint of bullying which resulted in Connor being bust down the stages. Not that it bothered him too much; he only had a week or two left.

The loss of liberty both times had not been pleasant, but what he was doing now could result in decades in prison.

Ciara would be protected in that they could claim she was going undercover as her role as an investigative journalist which her editor would sign off on.

He thought about her reaction to the Moroccan ambush. She had switched to an almost demonic rage. Connor now believed that they may have overcome the six men by themselves, such was the lethal fury with which she had employed the knife.

With the adrenaline hangover and the relief that they had survived running in his veins, he could not have even made an effort to resist her. In truth, he may have subconsciously known it would be a matter of time. It had been hard and furious. Unlike Grace, who loved him taking the lead, Ciara positively gave it back—at one point, gripping him hard around the throat as she rode him. His chest was covered in bite marks to the point he almost felt sorry for her future boyfriends.

He had been thankful she had not been overly tactile or alternatively distant the next morning. They cracked a few jokes and got on with the task at hand.

They had met Van Der Saar’s men at one of his lorry depots in the south of Amsterdam. There had been by design a high number of pickups and drop-offs, making any potential police surveillance difficult.

He had felt a frustration. He knew that what he was doing now—further integrating himself within the criminal underworld—would perversely make him more of an asset to The Chameleon Project, more of an asset for good. Still, he had been a criminal way before he had become an agent. He knew he had to remind himself of his true purpose regularly or else the lines would become blurred, and he’d lose himself—remember the film ID.

What separates me from being someone doing good and being a ‘grass’? —had been a question that had troubled him in the past but he clarified the difference to himself. For one, he wasn’t ‘grassing’ to a higher authority—he was collating information so he could deal with the malicious himself. The Project did not build legal cases; they identified evil people and killed them and/or subverted their malevolent networks. Connor knew that no one was innocent in this game of crime, not Van Der Saar or his own family. However, they weren’t ‘evil’, so their karma was for God to deal with, not him. A ‘grass’, in his mind, was someone who either sold out his friends or business associates to get himself out of trouble or someone who went to a higher authority to sort out his problems because he was too much of a pussy to deal with it himself.

Earlier, he and Ciara had watched their van being loaded. He could see a few of the men looking at Ciara, as he had done often. Except this time curiosity was mixed in with the appreciation of her looks—he reckoned word of her actions in the ambush had spread.

They had driven the van to a warehouse east of Amsterdam. There they had transferred the load to an ambulance that Jaime had somehow arranged for them. This was the second time Connor had used an ambulance for cover; the first time had been to capture one of Russia’s most powerful criminals.

Connor had not told Van Der Saar that he would be switching vehicles. In the business of crime and black operations, he would only trust people if he had to.

They had now reached Petten. Although a popular tourist resort, the town had stayed true to itself and had not descended in to gaudiness. The beaches were clean and white, and the town itself had a warmth to it. He drove through the village then picked up a dirt track surrounded by trees a few miles to the north-east.

They came to an opening filled with three wooden huts, and a helipad with a Ka-62 helicopter parked on it.

Louis appeared at the door of one of the huts. He was dressed in all black with the jacket heavily lined with fur. He had a light grey beanie cap on.

“Is that him?” asked Ciara

“Well, it would be some fucking coincidence if it wasn’t,” replied Connor with mock derision.

Ciara tutted. “Shut up.”

They both got out of the ambulance.

“Fuck’s sake, couldn’t you at least have dressed the part of helicopter instructor?”

Louis kissed his teeth. “Well, she—I mean, Ciara—doesn’t look like no ambulance lady I’ve ever seen, or I’d be faking seizures and like all the time.”

Louis held out his hand, and she laughed as she shook it. “Smooth.”

“Isn’t that a Russian military helicopter?” asked Connor.

“Yeah, but it’s been properly converted and registered.”

“What’s the crack then?” asked Connor.

“We’ll load this up, and you’ll park this ambulance in the hanger. We’ll have to wait until just after ten tomorrow morning to make the flight. The shift change over at Portreath happens at half ten, so the staff usually can’t be fucked flagging anything up because they want to get home. Besides, I have scheduled the flight on with the CAA.”

“What’s Portreath and the CAA?” asked Ciara.

Connor answered, “Portreath is a remote radar head manned by the RAF that covers the south coast—well, most of it. The CAA is the Civil Aviation Authority, they tell you when, where and if you can fly or not.”

“And how and when did you learn to fly?” she asked Louis.

“Qualified last year. It takes a minimum of 155 hours to qualify. Took me just under three years with everything going on.” Louis nodded over to Connor. “Take it he’s done that ‘what do you call a black man who flies a helicopter’ joke again?”

“He certainly has.”

“I’ve heard that about twenty times since I’ve got my licence.”

Connor interrupted, “Just because you have heard it, doesn’t mean I should deny others.”

Louis chuckled. “Let’s go an’ ‘get the keckle on’ as you northerners say, and have a wet.”

They walked into the sparse hut. Sofa seats were placed in a semi-circle around a coffee table with a large screen TV, DVD player and DVDs in the opposite corner. Along the side was a kettle, cooking hob, sink, cupboards and kitchen side.

“Tea or coffee?” Louis asked them.

“Coffee for me, thanks. Black.” She looked at Connor and said, “Don’t” as he was opening his mouth.

Louis chortled. “Sugar?”

“No, thank you. Sweet enough and all that.”

“What you having, oppo.”

“Julie Andrews please, Royal.”

As Louis busied himself making the drinks, Ciara leant over to Connor. “Wets, Julie Andrews and Royal. You’ll have to explain.”

“Wets are drinks—either hot or alcoholic. Julie Andrews is a white nun, as in white no sugar. Royal is what Royal Marines call one another. As in—”

“I think I can work that one out.”

Louis laid down the drinks on the table and rested back on the sofa.

“So, Ciara, Connor tells me you’re a journalist as well as this.”

“Yep.”

“So, do you know anything about football?”

“I am fond of football.”

Connor and Louis both said in unison, “Really.”

“Really. I played attacking midfield for my university.”

“So, who do you rate the better player between Ronaldo and Messi?”

“Well, Ronaldo is proven in the world’s two best leagues. Three if you include the Portuguese League. He has achieved more internationally too.”

Louis gave a triumphant laugh. “I like her already.”

Connor shook his head. “Messi is the better team player, he’s got the better strike rate, he’s won more Ballon d’Odrs, and he’s not a cheating cunt—excuse me,” looking at Ciara, “a cheating blighter.”

“I think we’re past you having to be a gentleman around me,” she said.

“I don’t. But a man should be able to express himself without swearing.”

Connor turned to Louis who said, “After we’ve had these, I think we should load the helicopter. There’s your change of clothes in the other room. Then rehearsals and I’ll whack the PS4 on after that.”

Connor and Ciara nodded.

22

Tris Dixon sat back enjoying the performance of his new Rolls-Royce Ghost. He had been tempted to go for the red and silver, but he did not want the vehicle drawing more attention than necessary.

One of the footballers he looked after had one, and had criticised it for being “just like my BMW 7 Series”. Tris couldn’t see how that was a bad thing given the quality of the German car. The Ghost was a surprisingly high-performance drive given its comfort. Cars like this made the businesses he was in worthwhile.

There were different types of men in the criminal underworld. A few were all about the money; any intimidation, violence or murder was a means to that end. That was the sort of criminal he preferred to deal with—they could be reasoned with and their behaviour anticipated.

Dixon did enjoy aspects of villainy. He was at the point where he could still earn millions from his legitimate businesses alone. But taking more, especially more from under the government’s nose, gave him a thrill—and sometimes he wished it did not.

However, some gangsters had their priorities mixed up. For some, it was the notoriety—the fear they held amongst other hard men in the underworld or civilians.

For some, it was the pussy. There would always be girls who found that sort of man—or the perception of that sort of man—and lifestyle appealing.

Dixon did not necessarily care what his associates in crime were in it for, as long as it did not conflict with his priorities.

He left the M40 for the M5 a while back and was now a little west of Birmingham City Centre. He pulled up outside the abandoned Sandwell College.

Two men were there to greet him.

“Dom’s got ’em held in there. Want me to take your car away?”

Dixon smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Driving with no insurance? Can’t have that now, Gary.”

The ex-Wigan prop forward had been one of his enforcers for over a decade—long enough to be able to chance his arm at driving the luxury vehicle.

The other man stood next to Gary was younger. He had been vouched for by Gary, but Dixon had already known who the twenty-nine-year-old was. Tom Ryder, one of the most feared men in the north of England crime circles.

“Mr Ryder, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thanks, Mr Dixon, the feeling is mutual. I’d like to tell ya again, how I appreciate your…reasonableness in this matter,” he replied with his Yorkshire accent clipped but evident.

“You and I both know it was the sensible business choice in this scenario.”

“I think some forget that all this does come down to money. My family and I don’t, despite the personal nature of this situation.”

Dixon smiled broadly. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Shall we?”

With that, the men began to walk towards the building.

“Have you seen him yet?”

“No. I wouldn’t have trusted myself.”

“I see.”

Their footsteps echoed as they made their way through the empty, debris-littered corridors. Voices, both clear and muffled, could be heard.

A barrel of a man with a tapered beard, stood to one side as they entered the large lecture hall.

Six of Dixon’s men surrounded the three Asian men. Waseem Khan and Varun Singh were bound by ankles and wrists to their chairs. The paralysed Rashid Kumar lay in an untidy heap on the floor.

Dixon’s voice cut through the air, “One thing I need from a business associate is to be able to trust him. To trust when he says he won’t or will do a thing, that he’s true to his word, Waseem.”

Dixon nodded to one of the men who removed the masking tape from Waseem.

“What are ya doing?” he cried.

Dixon gestured to the man behind him again. The can of petrol splashed over Waseem.

“Wha’ da fuck, man,” he shrieked.

“I told you to leave Connor Reed alone. That he made money. I’d have had more respect for you, Waseem, if you told me ‘no’ at the time. Instead, you made a promise and then went behind my back. I can’t allow that.”

“I ’ad to! Rashid has well powerful relatives in Pakistan. An’ everyone back ’ere was asking me what was I goin’ to does about it? I couldn’t lose face.”

“Then that’s a problem, isn’t it. You feared others instead of me. Look at Rashid now,” said Dixon, and he gestured to one of his enforcers.

The paralysed man was dragged into the far corner and wriggled as the petrol splashed over him. Dixon walked over, and one of the men handed him a blowtorch. Rashid’s screams were piercing and bounced everywhere as he was set alight.

Waseem and Varun watched with horror frozen on their faces. Rashid stopped thrashing after a while. Dixon covered his nose with his hand against the stench. He had known beforehand that he was going to have to bin his suit.

“Please don’t burn me. Please,” Waseem begged.

“Well, that’s not up to me. It’s up to your man here. He’s Connor Reed’s cousin.”

Waseem looked at Tom Ryder pleadingly. “Please, I thought I had—”

“I get it, mate. Respect is everything in this game. If your men lose that for you, then you might as well be a manager of Tesco’s.”

“Exactly, man, I—”

“That’s why I am not going to burn you. Wouldn’t be right torture a man over something like that.”

Relief washed over Waseem’s face, and Dixon hid the surprise he felt at Ryder’s words. Ryder continued as he walked over to Waseem. “But like Mr Dixon here says, you can’t be trusted now. And what sort of a man would I be if I took your word that you’d leave my cousin alone after—”

“I swear—”

In a flash, Ryder had stuck the curved blade of an Emerson Karambit deep into Waseem’s throat while gripping the back of his head. The sound of Waseem’s choking and blood coughing filled the room. Dixon watched as Ryder drew the blade slowly across the throat, all the while looking into Waseem’s eyes.

The Yorkshireman allowed the head to drop onto the blood-matted chest and wiped the excess blood from his blade and hand using Waseem’s sleeve.

He turned to Dixon and said, “Thank you.”

Dixon looked at Varun and said, “Just what are we going to do with you?”

The shaking Varun said, “I don’t do begging.”

As Dixon was regarding him, Tom Ryder’s Americanized voice sounded, “You wanna job, Eddie?”

Dixon smiled at the Scarface inference.

“Could you take over Waseem’s firm, Varun?”

Varun looked at him with what looked like a mixture of caution and bemusement. “Maybe. But how am’ma going to explain this?”

“Waseem set Rashid on fire. You thought it was out of order, so you stabbed him?”

Varun answered, “I am sure that will go down well. Waseem was those guys’ meal ticket.”

Tom spoke. “This is what you say. Waseem brought Rashid here—you didn’t know why. He met Mr Dixon and tried to say that Rashid had organised the hit on my cousin. Waseem set Rashid on fire to curry favour. You, out of a sense of honour, stabbed Waseem in the throat. Mr Dixon, being impressed with your ruthlessness and sense of honour, said that he could deal with you directly.”

Dixon nodded after a few moments, digesting the narrative.

Varun cocked his head. “Maybe I could sell it.”

Darren O’Reilly admired the rare mountain avens on his land. He thought the flower’s seed heads resembled straw stuffed inside their beautiful, delicate white leaves.

He had dedicated much of these five acres to plants and flowers, after going into business with famous floriculturist Diane Bostick, although this was purely a side venture to O’Reilly.

Nevertheless, he was just as proud of it as he was of his main business.

He enjoyed walking through greenhouses and open woodland. He would leave his phone back in the house when he did.

He came to the area he had planned on making a mural to his deceased daughter. He would not commence with it until her death had been avenged. The Scotsman had yet to update him although it had only been a matter of weeks since they spoke.

Despite the Scotsman’s assertion that he was to project the image that he had accepted that his daughter’s murderer was Almasi, O’Reilly had made it known to a few colleagues, in fits of drunken frustration, that he was having the matter of the real killers ‘handled’. Now, in the cold sobriety of day, he realised how stupid he had been. The investigation into his daughter’s murder should have superseded his need to vent even in drink, and now he felt even more guilty.

O’Reilly sighed and fought back a tear before returning to the house.

He walked a little faster as he heard the shrill of the private phone line. The public line sounded more delicate.

He answered with, “Hello, Darren here.”

The digitally distorted voice hit him with, “Mr O’Reilly, I suggest you call off this investigation.”

“Who is this?”

“You still have loved ones. Just remember that.”

The call clicked off, and O’Reilly stood looking at the handset.

First, he felt fear, then anger and finally relief—so I was right after all.

23

Ciara enjoyed the thrum of the helicopter, as it travelled low over a sun-glinted sea.

It had been an eventful couple of days. In the immediate aftermath of the ambush, a whole mix of emotions had flooded her. She could not deny the thrill of killing those men who were trying to harm her. She knew that that joy was not normal and rooted in her childhood—but she did not care.

She had theorised a long time ago that mentally damaged people could feel exhilaration at a higher pitch than ‘normal’ people. That said, she thought they were more prone to mental illness too.

She had been angry at Connor too; angry at his recklessness which could have easily seen them both killed.

The anger had blended with the closeness she felt in that moment towards him, leading to the best ‘angry’ sex she had had.

She had caught herself looking at him a few times as he and Louis played a Call of Duty game together. That the two men were close was obvious, as they shouted military commands amid the banter.

He had a warmth with people, she had noticed. People responded to him, like Jan his neighbour, Van Der Saar, Louis—and herself.

Despite liking the attention, she was always a little standoffish with men. Her father had died just before she had begun secondary school. Her mother, Kathy, perhaps vulnerable, brought home a ‘friend’ a few months later. He seemed nice at first, buying her presents and taking her swimming. Her guilt at allowing this man to fill her father’s role slowly dissipated with time.

It soured after a while, beginning with little put-downs of her mother and after a time, herself. Then she heard the shouting matches with her mum. Those died down when the slaps and finally the beatings came. One day, Ciara had forgotten to take off her shoes at the door and traipsed some mud in on the way to the fridge. As she straightened herself out of it clutching a carton of orange juice, it came—a slap cracked off her face, and she had fallen to the floor with her cheek burning. “What have I told you about taking your fucking shoes off?” he had shrieked. It was the shock she remembered more than the pain.

Slaps had eventually turned into the occasional beating. Not many but enough so that Ciara lived in fear for the next two years. On the occasions that he did beat her, he always took care not to mark her face.

Eventually, he ran off with another woman, and although the murky clouds had lifted, the scars remained. It had been an unspoken thing between her and her mother.

She began to escape into books and eventually came across books on how your thoughts made your reality. With this in mind, she commenced training. Her father’s weight training equipment remained in the garage, and she read a few books from the library on Olympic lifting, powerlifting and bodybuilding. She felt a kind of affinity with him as she worked out with his equipment.

She had quit gymnastics a year before, but the strength remained. Her body filled out with a muscularity that bordered on masculine, but Ciara didn’t care. It was her armour against the anxiety she felt around men.

To her astonishment, her mum announced that she was taking up Thai boxing and that Ciara was to come with her. It had hooked Ciara immediately. The disciplined intensity, technique, tradition and the respect she found for herself and others had ensnared her.

Nobody cared where you were from, what your race or religion was. White-collar city types, muscular black and mixed-race men, ripped to the bone Eastern Europeans, women of different shapes and kids all frequented the gym. Some were doing it for fitness, and some were professional fighters.

Her mother continued to go when she could, and it had brought them closer again.

Ciara went on to win thirteen matches, losing three before giving it up when she went to university. While her relationship with her mother still bore scars, it had improved much in the years gone by.

She began to understand through her study of domestic abuse how an abusive partner could control a person, and she forgave her mother.

Then, one day on a visit back home, terror visited. She found ‘him’ attempting to rape her mother on the kitchen floor. The red mist descended, and it was the first time she had felt that kind of primal exhilaration as she plunged the knife into him.

Afterwards, she was shocked that she was not horrified at her actions. Blood covered her, her mother, the corpse and much of the kitchen floor. However, she calmly took out her phone and informed the operator that she had stabbed her mother’s attempted rapist to death.

Throughout the lengthy process from that call to her meeting with a solicitor at the station she had been on autopilot—not a blur, just devoid of emotion.

Her solicitor explained that she was being charged with excessive force; that a jury might be persuaded that her act exceeded the realm of what was deemed reasonable.

She had been bailed, and she still did not fall to pieces like she would have expected. She calmed her mother every evening with a half-hour phone call. Went to her lessons, trained and studied.

Around a week later, her solicitor had told her that she was to come down to his offices on the Saturday morning. In addition to her solicitor, there had been a lofty, lean man there. Her solicitor made the introductions before excusing himself. Bruce McQuillan explained to her that the charges would be dropped if she agreed to a contract of training and subsequent employment. After a long conversation, she had agreed.

She took a gap year, but instead of backpacking, she had spent a year of harsh training and tutelage under various special forces and intelligence service types. Her brain had often felt raw with the amount of information she had to absorb during this period; organisations, characters, locations and codes, but most of all the skills and cognitive techniques that needed assimilating.

Now, she was in the back of a helicopter staring at an amount of Ecstasy nearly 100 kilos more than her maximum deadlift weight. Enough Class A drugs to see all three of them receive the maximum tariff of sixteen years behind bars—serve eight with her life and career in ruins.

The two men in the front had shown no outward sign of any tension. They were professional and spent two and half hours earlier discussing and rehearsing the actions on for all the occurrences they could conceive.

But they were laughing and joking even now. Their confidence was infectious, and she began to feel more at ease.

Bruce walked with Janet Quigley down the street of St Margaret’s, central London. Pedestrians peppered the pave-ment with the air relatively clean due to the early hour.

It had been two days since his conversation with Jaime, and all he could do was wait until the tide brought something. In the meantime, he’d decided to take a morning coffee with Janet on the outdoor chairs of the café.

They were discussing his switching position so that she walked on the inside of the pavement.

“Well, I think it’s gentlemanly,” she said as she linked arms with him.

“I’d like to think so too. But the truth is that it’s merely a mental shortcut, a simple cognitive bias that you don’t think about—a judgemental heuristic, as they say.”

“Ooohh, fancypants words now?”

“I try my best.”

They reached the small car park where her dark red Rover and his Blue BMW were.

“When you going to let me cook for you?”

“Well, I am guessing you’re not free now? I have an ‘admin’ afternoon.”

“Admin afternoon?”

“An afternoon which you schedule to organise yourself but in fact, you do very little.”

“Oh. I am afraid not. I am due in at the hospital. I could send you my schedule?”

Bruce laughed. “Dating now is very different from when I was a lad.”

“So we’re dating now?” she teased.

“I beg your pardon, I meant courting.”

“Dating is fine.” She reached up and gave him a full kiss. “I have to go. Let me know when you can fit around my schedule.”

She turned and got into her vehicle. Bruce waited until she had left the car park before getting into his. No sooner had he done so than he received a call. He recognised the number.

“Yes,” he answered.

“I need to speak with you.”

Bruce weighed his options. “You free now?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there by two. Let’s meet the same place as we met last time.”

“You can’t come to my house?”

“No,” Bruce said, “and remember to bring Maslow,” before terminating the call.

The Redcliffe View Barns lay nestled across from the River Orwell, in Shotley, Suffolk. Solar panels adorned the roof of the converted barns. Connor had Googled the advertisement for Redcliffe online; they offered fully equipped and tastefully decorated open-plan living, dining and kitchen areas.

And he knew the conversions also shielded the helipad from view.

Tris Dixon owned these holiday homes, and Connor had guessed why. Shotley was a small, sleepy parish that lay a half-hour’s drive from the UK’s largest container port of Felixstowe. As long as tourists frequented Redcliffe throughout the summer, and the transportation loads were kept sporadic, then it made an excellent place for large drug or gun loads to be received and checked before being moved on.

It had been less than an hour since they took off from Petten.

Three compact men dressed in shirts, trousers and polished shoes greeted them as they alighted the helicopter. One looked around ten years older than the other pair—perhaps around his mid-forties with his short, black hair gently receding. He spoke first, shaking the trio’s hands in turn.

“Mr Reed, Mr Louis, Miss Robson. Welcome to Redcliffe. My name is Ben Millar, and this is Colin White and Michael Holt.”

Gangsters did not usually give their full names from the get-go, thought Connor.

“Thank you. What happens now?” Connor asked.

“First, we’ll check the weight and purity. After which, my men and I will load it onto the transport which will leave immediately.”

“I am afraid I am going to have to insist on staying throughout your purity test. I am guessing that it won’t cause you offence.”

Millar smiled. “Your estimation is correct, Mr Reed. Ours is a crooked business after all.”

He returned the smile. “Aren’t most businesses?”

“So they say,” answered Millar. “Mr Dixon is on his way and will arrive in less than three hours. He requested you stay as he wished to discuss some arrangements with yourself.”

Connor did not say anything; instead he looked at Louis whose expression said—I am curious.

“He’ll be discussing it with the three of us in that case.”

“I never like to predict Mr Dixon’s reactions to things. I’ll call him now, Mr Reed. In the meantime, we shall carry on with the aforementioned test.”

“By all means.”

Connor noted the professionalism of the men and considered whether it was a good thing or not.

24

Bruce noted the consternation on O’Reilly’s face from thirty yards away. His dog, Maslow, bounded after the distractedly tossed sticks.

“What’s this about, Mr O’Reilly?”

Relief fleetingly appeared on the magnate’s face.

“I received a threatening phone call. Voice digitally distorted.”

“What was said specifically?”

O’Reilly removed a memory stick from his pocket and handed it to him.

“It’s all on there. I have two lines coming through to my house. The private one isn’t screened the same, as I have only given it to a select few people. They are all recorded though. The voice told me to ‘call off my investigation’ and warned that I ‘have other relatives’.”

Bruce felt a coolness around the back of his neck and fought the urge to look around.

“Who were the few you gave the private line to?”

“Just close family members.”

“Your daughter being one of them.”

Concern splashed itself on O’Reilly’s face, and he said, “Was she tortured?”

McQuillan decided to assuage his fear of this. “I don’t think so. There were no physical signs.”

O’Reilly looked relieved. “The phone lines, even the private one, is fitted with both a GPS and IMEI trackers—I mean, high-level. But they were slowed somehow, and due to the brevity of the call, all they could ascertain was that the calls were made within a hundred mile radius of the house.”

“OK,” Bruce said. “I’ll take it from here. And, Darren.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you ever get drunk and start spouting ye fucking mouth off again about investigations and the like. Do you understand me?”

O’Reilly’s face became a portrait of contriteness and fear. Satisfied, Bruce walked away.

Connor Reed had stuck around waiting for the results of the purity test while Louis and Ciara went to their respective cabins.

He had not been concerned about the results as he had carried out his own test at Van Der Saar’s depot. He had stuck around to ensure it had been carried out properly. He first made idle conversation with White and Holt, as Millar busied himself with the purity test and a phone call. They stood awkwardly beside him at first. Connor made small talk and discovered common ground in MMA with the two men. Both turned to him and became more animated.

“Who do you think is the best grappler in MMA then?” asked White.

He seemed the most junior of the three in terms of age and experience, although he looked a good few years older than Reed.

“Personally, for all-around grappling, I think it’s Khabib Nurmagmedov,” answered Reed.

“You reckon?” White answered, as if not agreeing.

“Yeah. That fucking animal can take a person down a number of ways—throws, trips and the double leg. Then he can control a bloke on the floor, almost surfs on the fuckers. He’s got submissions too.”

“You saying he’s a better wrestler than Yoel Romero?” said White, tilting his head.

Connor turned his palm up. “I think he can control a bloke better when he has them on the deck. When he gets them down he keeps them down—do you know what I mean?”

Michael Holt, now relaxed with his hands on his hips, chimed in, “That’s true, but surely Damian Maia is the best all-around grappler in MMA?”

“Oh yeah. I completely forgot about him,” said Connor. “You might be right. Take it you saw his fight with Gunnar Nelson?”

Holt was about to answer him when Millar interrupted. “Mr Reed. I have spoken to Mr Dixon, and he’s happy for your colleagues to attend the meeting.”

White and Holt stiffened, all business again.

“Thank you, and call me Connor.”

Miller said, “Connor, the purity test came back above ninety per cent. I have informed Mr Dixon, and he has placed the amount agreed into the relevant account, if you would like to check?”

“Again, without wishing to offend anyone, I am going to check.”

“And again, no offence taken.”

With that Connor took out his phone and after a series of finger tappings, he found that the account had received a deposit of £220,000. Connor knew that with its high MDMA content the total load had a street value of pushing two million. He had a good grasp of the economics; Van Der Saar’s percentage would be much higher than what a cocaine farmer’s in Colombia would be, and Dixon would have the lion’s share as traditionally that cut would have to look after the mid-level distributors and street dealers. Connor suspected, given Van Der Saar’s stipulation of the drugs not being cut too much, that Dixon would punt it to a more bourgeois crowd—despite their preference for coke.

Still, £220,000 for transportation and a brokerage fee was very healthy.

“I am satisfied. Is there a gym around here?”

“Of course. It’s in the corner lodging.”

Connor walked back. Inside he found Louis and Ciara chatting on sofas.

“There’s a gym in one of the barns. I’m going to check it out.”

“I’ll join you,” said Ciara.

“You coming, big man?”

“Nah, mate. Youse go and enjoy yourself.”

“There are Marines, and there are Bootnecks I suppose,” said Connor, smiling.

“And there’s civvies. You should let it go before you turn into one of those ‘back in ma day’ sorts darn tha Legion,” answered Louis, exaggerating the Yorkshireman’s accent.

Ten minutes later, Connor and Ciara were in the gym.

“What do you want to do?” Ciara asked

He thought she would be doing her own thing.

“Well, I am going to be doing deadlifts. I’ll throw in some farmer’s walks if I have energy at the end.”

“OK, I’ll join you.”

“Will you now?”

Ciara put her hands on her hips and hula-hooped her upper body. “Afraid of being shown up by a girl?”

“No. You already know I am weaker by my failed attempts at fighting you off the other night.”

“Fighting me off indeed. You loved it.”

“You’re right. I didn’t fight you off. When I saw what you did to our ambushers, I was too scared to…”

“Bless you. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said. “The sight of a girl crying espousing her love for me will just demotivate me to train.”

Jim Blake’s painstaking reconnaissance of Darren O’Reilly had finally been rewarded. Gathering the information even to approach the bugging of O’Reilly’s domestic communications had been difficult and time-consuming enough.

Blake had been a private surveillance contractor for over eight years since leaving the Army, but it had only been recently since his business went through a rapid growth due to his boss’s deep pockets. That expansion had meant taking on people and forming a team—a professional unit.

Jim’s team had found a weak link in one of Verbatim Securities chief technicians, a Paul Fisher. They had managed to ensnare his interest by posing as financial backers of a rival company. When Fisher began asking for half up front, Jim negotiated an agreement whereby he would be paid for each separate piece of information. The deposit of £75,000 had been made for details on Verbatim’s IMEI tracker.

He remembered the aghast face of Fisher as he informed him that if he did not produce all the information Blake required—without charge—from then on in, he would send the details of Fisher’s corporate betrayal to O’Reilly and his powerful legal team.

After Fisher had gotten over his shock and indignation, he seemed to accept his position and had fed Blake gold.

Now Blake lay with a Nikon Coolpix P610 taking photographs of Darren O’Reilly who seemed to be deep in conversation with a tall, broad and sinewy man.

Blake had been around enough dangerous and professional men to know this was one of them. The man exuded the paradox of effortless alertness.

Blake had not been able to set up any parabolic equipment due to O’Reilly’s walking.

The conversation between the two men had been brief. Blake would hand over the pictures and his findings to his superior.

He surmised that if this was the gentlemen heading the investigation into his client, then the next time he would be observing him would be through the lens of a weapon’s sight. That would only be after he had gleaned the necessary information from shadowing him.

Ciara had enjoyed the gym session right up until the end. They had traded sets of five, starting at 110 kilos and adding ten aside until they reached 160 kilos.

She managed four on 160 kilos but was sure he would not do any better. They were not using a belt, straps or chalk.

He had slapped on a ten-kilo plate either side of the barbell and cranked out five on the new weight of 180 kilos.

He had used a ‘hook’ grip as opposed to an alternative grip that she had adopted.

Then he had smiled a smug grin which had infuriated her.

Now, she sat showered and dressed, with Connor and Louis outside on the swing sofas. They were nursing coffees and talking.

Holt and White had driven away the drug load leaving only Millar behind.

“What do you think Dixon wants? To renegotiate?” asked Ciara.

“Nah, no one renegotiates until a few cycles have been completed,” answered Connor.

“I think your man might have heard about that ambush attempt,” said Louis.

“I guess we’ll know soon enough.”

A few moments of silence passed, and Connor asked, “Would you rather be responsible for the death of three adults or one child?”

“What sort of question is that?” exclaimed Ciara.

“Fine. Let’s talk about the weather.”

“One child obviously,” said Louis.

“Why an innocent child?” asked Ciara.

“Because it’s simple maths, in’it?” replied Louis.

“Agreed,” said Connor. “Save three lives for one. You’re sick, Ciara.”

Ciara opened her mouth to retort when a Range Rover pulled into the enclave. Louis and Connor did not show much interest at first. The doors opened, two men got out and Connor’s demeanour changed.

25

“What the fuck?” Connor said aloud but to himself.

“What’s up, my mate?” asked Louis.

Connor looked at him. “That’s my cousin.”

Tris Dixon and Thomas Ryder walked over after a brief discussion with Millar. Connor stood and met them.

The two cousins looked at one another and fell into a brief embrace.

“What’s all this?” Connor asked.

“The Ryder family are going to handle a percentage of the distribution of Van Der Saar’s product,” announced Dixon.

Connor felt a chill up his spine.

“What’s wrong? You don’t look happy,” asked Dixon.

“Well, it’s a surprise. How did this come about?” asked Connor. He felt his cousin staring at him.

He did not want his family anywhere near his activities with The Chameleon Project. He never had. He cursed himself for letting his concern show on his face.

“Your uncle got in touch after he learnt that Waseem Khan had announced that he was going to have you killed. That’s why we are here.”

“You’ll have heard by now that Ciara and I were ambushed back in the ’dam. Are you saying that Waseem had a hand in that?”

“Yes. Waseem and Fassih Himmich have had business links for almost five years now.”

Connor held his tongue. He did not know how his uncle knew about Dixon. Did not know how he found out about Waseem wanting to kill him.

Everyone else had stood around them with awkward scrutiny as these exchanges were going on.

“Where’s Waseem now?” asked Connor.

Dixon and Tom shared a brief glance before his cousin said, “Waseem is enjoying his seventy virgins now.”

“Seventy-two.”

“What was that?”

“It’s seventy-two virgins, or Houri, as they are called. A Muslim man has to martyr himself to receive them. A bit of knowledge there for you, Tom.”

Connor was attempting banter, but it was absent-hearted—he was fighting to make sense of this turn of events.

His cousin smiled. “I prefer girls who have been about a bit.”

“Let’s take a walk,” Connor said to him.

The party was a welcome distraction to Van Der Saar. He hated these periods of his career—going to the mattresses was the parlance in The Godfather film. The periods of hyper-alertness and the stringent care taken towards security zapped the fun out of life—and money out of the offshore bank accounts.

Van Der Saar mused that some would suspect that the life of an international drug dealer was one of being in a constant state of alertness. He had made the decision only to devote a certain amount of energy to it.

Tonight, he had no such worries. Ralph Nolet was one of only a handful of Holland billionaires. His party was a reflection of such. Even Van Der Saar, one of Holland’s wealthiest men himself, had been impressed by the event.

The leggy waitresses dressed in men’s suits in a way that enhanced their femininity. The soft music of a pianist blended beautifully with the female solo star that Van Der Saar had seen in various publications and on television.

Van Der Saar knew that the plush, soft, blue velvet sofas, so regally sat upon now, would be lounged and fucked upon later after the consumption of high-quality drugs and alcohol.

“Mr Van Der Saar, how is life treating you?” said the man who appeared at his side. He spoke in Dutch.

“I cannot complain, Erik,” answered Van Der Saar in the same tongue. “Will you miss this?”

Erik Bos was the shadowy Deputy of the National Crime Squad—Dienst Nationale Recherche. Van Der Saar knew through his contacts that Erik would soon ascend to the position of Chief of Police in the Netherlands—Hoofdcommissaris. Then his profile would be far too high to attend functions such as this. Erik was one of the few policemen Van Der Saar had met who could shake off their law enforcement demeanour in this type of setting. He was of medium height and build, his blonde hair long disguising the thinning on the crown. He had blue eyes and a strong jawline. He wore a sky-blue shirt with a maroon tie and a dark beige waistcoat.

“Life is full of sacrifice, Raymond,” he replied, sipping his Scotch. “I hear you’re making inroads into your turf war.”

“There’s been progress.”

“Well, the sooner you can conclude this, the better.”

“If you’re nervous, my friend, then perhaps law enforcement could step up their efforts?”

“An overt increase in pressure on Moroccan criminal organisations without a simultaneous one on the Penose would raise the anger of certain high-up individuals, Raymond. Even the speaker of the House of Representatives is Moroccan-Dutch. You know this.”

“So that is what allows those animals to traffic human beings? Politics—and I thought my game was dirty.”

“We haven’t enough evidence to bring to bear.”

“If you turned one of them over to me, I could extract a confession from them.”

“You mean as a favour to you, as you know full well it could not be used in court? I cannot. I am afraid, the risks a person takes is proportionate to the amount he stands to lose. I know too much about human nature not to know this.”

“As do I, my friend. But if your side is not willing to help me, then any complaints regarding the speed at which I operate can only be taken with ‘a pinch of salt’ as our English cousins like to say.”

“I am not familiar with the term?”

“It means I cannot make your concerns a priority.”

“I think you should take them seriously, Raymond. Because if this isn’t cleared up soon, then maybe a crackdown will be necessitated on all organised crime in Holland.”

Raymond Van Der Saar nodded his head; he had made up his mind.

“There is something you can do for me, if you would.”

“Tell me what it is.”

“I want you to look into a Tris Dixon. He’s a UK national, and football agent.”

“All right. Going to give me anything else to go on?”

“No. I do not wish to influence your search.”

“I see. Very good. Anyone else you want checking out?”

For some reason, Ciara Robson came to his mind.

“No. Not for now.”

Tom walked with his cousin outside Redcliffe.

He knew Connor would not be happy that his business was connected with the families. Still, his disconcertion seemed stronger than he anticipated. The others back at Redcliffe would not have noticed it, but he had been close to his favourite uncle’s son since they were kids and could tell.

“Come on then, what’s up with you?”

“What do you mean ‘What’s with you’? I specifically told you that I wanted to keep our family out of anything I am involved in down here.”

“That would be understandable if we all weren’t in the same business. It’s not as if you’re protecting a family of Mormons from the horrors of crime. You scared your legend will be affected by association or summat?”

“Eeyaare, Tom. You’ve known me long enough to know I aren’t—am not—in this for the fame, so stop trying to bait me. Besides, you shouldn’t have gone over my head.”

“It seemed to Uncle Derek that you needed our help, that’s all.”

“I am still alive, aren’t I? And let’s not pretend that Derek’s cash flow isn’t going to be significantly pumped up by this.”

Tom felt a shot of anger. “You prefer Brummie Pakis—who’ve attacked you twice now—to profit from it all. We love you; I don’t know what your fuckin’ problem is sometimes. Of all the people I know, I thought you’d hate them more than anyone.”

Connor ignored the outburst. “How is Derek?”

“He’s good. He’s been on the growth and steds, and put on a lot of weight.”

“Yeah, I noticed the size of him last time. He looks like a sinister and hench-looking Moomin.”

Tom laughed. “He’s changed too—mentally, I mean. It’s like he thinks the world is out to get ’im.”

“Heavy lays the crown?”

“I am not sure what it is. You’d think he’d be laughing.”

“He wants to be careful with that shit—the steroids, I mean. I can’t think of anyone who takes it regularly that cycles off it the way you’re meant to—beware the power of positive reinforcement.”

“You always did like reading books, didn’t you?” Tom smiled.

“You should try it; knowledge is power.”

“It’s called podcasts, mate. You can drive or bang out weights at the same time.”

They walked on, and Tom said, “So are we cool?”

“Have to be, don’t we. Blood is thicker than water, and all that.”

“Yeah, my old man says that in relation to our Derek.”

Connor smiled. “How’s your old man?”

“He’s all right, mate. He lives in the past a lot. Missing your dad, like.” Tom thought for a moment. “I miss your dad.”

“Yeah,” said Connor, looking out into the distance. “Me too.”

26

Erik Bos walked with his wife, Patricia, down through the Eastern docklands towards their neighbourhood of Transvaalbuurt. It was late in the evening, and they had decided to walk back from a social occasion with Patricia’s work colleagues.

The area was ethnically diverse, colourful, and they had a great view from his top-floor apartment.

He could have upscaled long ago but decided not to. He and Patricia did not have kids, so he put a lot of his cash into buying and renovating the property, like the two apartments below his. Besides, being in the area helped keep his finger on the pulse in a way that wouldn’t be possible living in the suburbs.

Patricia wrapped her arm tighter in his and snuggled into him. The petite, slim, glossy dark-haired beauty could pass as being ten years younger. They had been married as nineteen-year-olds and were now approaching their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Erik was a rarity with the crime squad and the larger police force in that he had never even considered an affair or even a dalliance with another woman. He put this down in part to the fact that he had fallen in love with her at the age of thirteen and had never had a reason to fall out of love with her. She was such a calm and gentle woman. Even when they were told that the chance of them conceiving children naturally was remote, his love for her never wavered and in the end, they decided they were happy as they were.

They reached the bottom floor of their apartment block and entered, before making their way up the spiral staircase into their home.

“Didn’t I set the alarm?” Erik asked.

“I thought you did?” she said, cocking her head to one side before saying, “Never mind, let’s get to bed, husband.”

She smiled, leading him by the hand into the bedroom.

A firework of shock exploded in him at his wife’s screams.

Four men with balaclavas and dark eyes burst into a frenzy of Arabic, Berber and Dutch shouts and rapid movement.

Erik stepped forward punching. One of the assailants threw Patricia to the floor and knelt on her chest. No sooner had Erik connected on one of the reeling attackers, a blow to the temple stunned him, and he too found himself pushed and dragged to the floor.

A gun pressed against his head. “Ssshhhh, Mr Bos. We want the code to the safe.”

It seemed strange that upon hearing that, Erik felt a sense of hope—maybe it is just a robbery. He nodded his consent, and they roughly pulled him to his feet. They marched him over to the open wardrobe which housed the safe behind ordinarily hanging but now strewn clothes. They helped themselves to €25,000 worth of jewellery including an eighteen-carat gold boulder and diamond pendant, and a platinum, tanzanite and diamond ring. The €10,000 in cash was taken too.

“Bossman Himmich was right about you police. Biggest gangsters in the world.”

A bolt of anger went through Erik. “Fassih Himmich sent you?”

“Bossman said everything in the safe is ours. Just to let you know your place.”

The butt of the pistol cut off Erik’s retort and his consciousness.

Bruce walked through the woods similar to the one he had left O’Reilly in a few days previous. The morning light had almost fully illuminated the sky, and the fresh air remained silent.

He had a fishing rod in his right hand, tackle box in his left and a daysack on his back.

For the past week he had been building the case, exhausting leads and hypotheses, meeting contacts and studying files.

He knew the importance of forcing himself to take time out. There was always something to do, someone to meet, some organisation to research, some matter to study in this profession. He had seen others in pursuit of promotion, achievement or the wish to get the job done completely, neglect to rest and recuperate. It always caught up with them. He had noticed a correlation in that the longer a person worked without rest, then the longer it generally took for them to recover when they did finally implode.

A Joe Waldron owned this stretch of land and the two large fishing lakes in it. He and Bruce had been friends since 1986; ever since they were paired to face one another in a minute’s bout of ‘milling’. Milling was one of the tests of ‘P’ Company, the requisite course to become a member of the fearsome Parachute Regiment. Boxing gloves were donned, and the two combatants had one minute in which to display as much ‘controlled aggression’ as possible—no ducking, slipping, dodging or fancy footwork was permitted. Bruce reckoned that given this time of the media punting ideas like gender fluidity and extreme liberalism, that milling would go the way of the Page Three model.

Their bout had been declared a draw although both claimed victory on the rare occasions the subject came up.

Waldron, a couple of inches shorter than Bruce, was a big, barrel-chested man originally from Shropshire. He had reached the heights of Regimental Sergeant-Major before leaving the military to form his own private security company over a decade ago. He was away on a job now but had always allowed Bruce free range of his land.

The Scotsman had walked around a mile through the undulating terrain and then woods. He remembered how he felt tabbing as a young Para seeing elderly dog walkers enjoying a stroll through the same landscape.

It would not be long now until the woods ended and he would be in the immense openness. The hills would encapsulate him and the vast lake.

Jim Blake felt a concoction of fear and excitement as he eyed the Scotsman from the foliage. He pondered whether or not a lion felt something similar while stalking a buffalo. He had once heard it said that a James Bond-type of character could not exist, because the skill sets of surveillance and assassination were carried out by two separate parties. Well, that is bullshit—he thought—I do both.

Bruce McQuillan had evidently chosen this place for its solitude, not understanding that he had inadvertently chosen the place of his own death. Jim Blake had felt disappointed. It had been easier than expected. The Scotsman had not performed any counter surveillance since setting foot on one Joseph Paul Waldron’s land.

Now, Blake lay in the undergrowth a few yards ahead of the break in the wood where Bruce would appear. He could see him meander towards him, looking like he was looking forward to a day’s fishing in warm weather. Except Blake would be the only one catching anything today.

His heart began to beat harder as his prey walked past him. He levelled his pistol at the man’s back and stood slowly.

He took a few steps to join the man’s path to his rear.

“Mr McQuillan,” he said, which stopped the Scot in his tracks. “I have a gun pointed at you, so please follow my commands and make sure any movements are slow. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“Place your hands behind your head and interlock your fingers.”

McQuillan set down his gear and did so.

“Turn around slowly.”

The Scotsman did so. There was no trace of fear in his face as he spoke. “You know, I thought you were going to wait for me to set up my fishing rod and get settled before making your appearance.”

Blake frowned. “What was that?”

An invisible steel mallet struck his knee at impossible speed. The ground came up and hit his face and shoulder.

That his leg had been separated from his knee only registered intellectually through the shock. The blood in his ears pounded a crescendo as his heartbeat echoed in the cavity of his chest. He found himself focusing on the bloody entrails from where his leg used to be.

The Scot had already seized his weapon and rooted in the daysack he had worn. He pulled out a tourniquet from it and knelt beside him. It was applied a few inches above where the leg had been severed. Blake grimaced, clutching at the ground as the final turns of the contraption bit into the flesh, turning off the blood flow.

The eyes of the man regarded him. “I always get bored fishing anyway,” and Blake felt a pat on his cheek. That was when another emotion seared through the shock—it was fear.

The sun felt pleasant on Connor’s face. He made his way through the wood seeing Bruce ahead. The former Marine sniper had shot Blake from the other side of the lake, and it had taken ten minutes from shooting to converging on Bruce’s position.

As he had walked, he thought about the adage of—you cannot buy experience. He admired how Bruce had planned this ambush, how he had lured Blake into a false sense of security of believing he had not spotted him. And how he had taken a calculated risk in estimating that Blake would want to interrogate him; not outright kill him. It was an instinct borne of many years in this game.

He smiled as he saw Bruce stood over the stricken captive with a gun in hand—he is still a mean bastard when he has to be.

The Scotsman had pulled Blake into an enclosure of trees set fifteen metres away from the lake.

“Your kneecap sniping seems to have improved. You took this one’s leg off,” Bruce said to him as he approached, referring to another one of Connor’s sniping efforts before they had met.

Blake, his voice hoarse, said, “You fucking bastards. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You’ll both die a slow death.”

Bruce’s avuncular laughter combined with Connor’s uproarious cackles to cut across the water. Connor then picked up Blake’s detached lower leg and studied it like he was admiring it.

“Of course we don’t know. That’s why we brought you here,” said Bruce.

“And, not for nothing,” said Connor, “but you were going to torture him for information and then kill him anyway, so your threat is redundant, you stupid cunt,” before smearing Blake’s face with the severed end of his leg.

Connor could not help laughing again as Blake moved his face and batted the limb away like it was an overzealous Beagle licking his face.

Bruce took out a black, metallic box from his daysack and opened it to reveal eight phials.

“What are they?” asked Connor with genuine curiosity.

“Psillyl-dibaflox. A Chinese invention.”

“Always sounds more evil when it’s a ‘Chinese’ or ‘Russian’ invention,” said Connor to Blake with a wink.

“I’ll never talk,” said Blake defiantly.

Bruce answered him, “Let me tell you, friend, if you can withstand eight phials of this, I’ll let you walk away.”

“Well, he won’t exactly be walking anywhere now,” Connor said with a smile. He looked at Bruce. “Is that gen about letting him go if he can withstand it?”

“Apparently it makes every nerve ending burn,” said Bruce, “and I have told you to eradicate any military vernacular from your speech.”

“It’s not going to matter with this ‘I’ll never talk’ chad bastard, is it?”

Bruce gave Connor ‘the stare’ and the younger man remained quiet knowing he had pushed him a little too far.

“Cover his mouth and pin him,” Bruce ordered.

Connor knelt on Blake’s chest, pinning the arms under his shins and clamping his hand over his mouth. Bruce knelt beside them and flicked the needle. Connor increased the pressure by squeezing his knees immobilising Blake’s head.

The needle entered his neck and the fluid pumped through. His eyes went wide and his body rigid.

“You can get off him now. That’ll be his state for the next five or ten minutes.”

Connor stared at Blake with the same curiosity he had as a child watching the burning of empty crisp packets in his nan’s coal fire. Blake’s body seemed to vibrate. His mouth opened and shut like a goldfish on a carpet while emanating choking gurgles. It was the eyes that intrigued Connor the most; they conveyed immense pain as the blood branches appeared.

After seven minutes, Jim Blake was willing to talk.

27

Fassih Himmich sat in an office within a vast warehouse. Over fifty of his minions were prowling around locked and loaded, ready to do battle for the cause.

He was ready now. Ready to strike back at Van Der Saar, to make him pay and claim his place as the Emperor of Dutch crime.

He had received intelligence on the whereabouts of three of the Dutchman’s drug factories. Himmich knew the security around these plants would be highly professional. However, his source had also provided him with the schematics of the factories, the number of guards, the weapons they used, the rotation they were on, everything he needed.

Fassih knew that even with all that, his foot soldiers—man for man—would not be a match for the battle-hardened European mercenaries that protected one of the largest drug operations on the continent. He had chosen one factory and decided to overwhelm them with numbers instead.

He was pleased with his foresight that had led him to stockpile an arsenal of AKs years ago. His arms dealer, in the beginning, had been a Frenchman named Pierre Gaultier, who had always delivered. When Gaultier had been gunned down in a hail of machine-gun fire in Brussels, Himmich had to rely on various sources with mixed success.

He knew he had vision. Ever since he came to Holland, he had become an avid watcher of films. He especially enjoyed watching the warrior heroes of the films rousing their men to do battle. He was about to do the same, imbue his troops to potential martyrdom for the cause—for the Moroccan Mafia.

He stood up and made his way through the door into the cavernous hallway. All his soldiers turned in unison to face him. He climbed upon a container acting as a platform, and addressed them in Arabic, “Brothers, you stand here now on the precipice of a new—”

The doors burst open and metallic cans sailed into the room. The flashes were as blinding as the explosions deafening. Gunfire ripped through the air, but members of the Moroccan Mafia were too disorientated to respond effectively.

The sinister figures dressed all in black systematically shot anyone not of their ranks holding a weapon.

Fassih felt a pair of rough hands grab him by the scruff of the neck and chin forcing him to look up.

“It’s him,” the man said in Dutch.

“Drag him to his knees,” said a replying voice.

Fassih felt straightened up. He focused his eyes. The man standing before him was not dressed in black operational garb but a grey suit. He pointed to Fassih’s right-hand man, Abbad, who was then positioned next to Fassih, again on his knees.

“You’re going to tell me everything I need to know about your human trafficking operation here,” said the suit.

Fassih grinned. “You’ll never find out. We will never talk.”

“Well, you’ll never talk, Fassih. No one touches my wife.”

The suit shot him twice in the chest, and once in the face.

Van Der Saar stood with his hands on the railing overlooking the canal. To his back was his lorry depot, deserted except for a handful of his men, due to the late hour.

“Boss, they are here,” called the voice behind him.

Van Der Saar followed his burly employee across the vehicle park into his first-storey office room.

The three Moroccans were stood expectantly. The leader spoke in English. “Thank you for the warning. The rest were shot up by the cops.“

“No need to thank me. You’re a valuable asset now, and as with all assets, you need protecting.”

All three grinned.

“Tell me,” Van Der Saar continued, “did Fassih or anyone ever suspect you were working for me?”

“No. We were careful too, like you said, we never flashed the money you gave us.”

Van Der Saar smiled to himself. The leader was referring to the €20,000 in addition to the cash and jewellery in Erik’s safe. They were here for the second half.

“Erik Bos is a ruthless and powerful man. This money is your money. But I reiterate that you need to flee from Holland.”

“Yes. We will return to Morocco to be with our families.”

There were a few moments of silence.

“As long as I can trust you.” Van Der Saar smiled, removing a box from under the desk.

“Of course you can.” The leader smiled back, eyeing the box greedily.

“Like Fassih trusted you?”

Van Der Saar whipped out the supressed pistol and shot the three of them dead.

Tris Dixon sat trying not to fidget. He was in an office meeting negotiating a contract for a seventeen-year-old Colombian football prodigy to join La Liga. Dixon smiled at the thought that it was not that long ago, a seventeen-year-old’s contract—certainly in the UK—could be negotiated between the manager and the parents over a cup of tea. Usually, Dixon had a laser-like focus when it came to meetings like this, but he had been distracted throughout it.

Jim Blake had not checked in. He fought the urge to call him. If he had been taken then calling him would not do anything except give him away. Dixon only hoped that the Scotsman had simply killed Blake, and not interrogated him.

“You knew it’d be him,” said Connor as he patted down the soil with the spade, “knew it was Tris Dixon behind this.”

The hole had already been dug and lay three yards from where Connor had killed Jim Blake. He had buried his Commando dagger into Blake’s throat after they had bled him dry of information.

“I suspected. There were some indicators, but it was mainly a process of elimination.”

“How come you didn’t tell me?”

“You suspecting Tris Dixon of your own accord would be more of a confirmation for me.”

“How long have you suspected? Because it seems a hell of a coincidence.”

“I’ve known for a while that Waseem Khan has been involved in human trafficking. But his ‘products’ have always gone missing upon arrival, which is unusual as slaves, both sexual or otherwise, are easier for us to track. That’s one of the reasons I inserted you in with him. Then this organ harvesting saga came up. I knew that Waseem must have been reporting to someone higher; he wouldn’t have the contacts within the medical world. That’s when he presented himself to you because of your savaging of Waseem’s henchman.”

“Well, the waters have been muddied as my family are involved now.”

“They aren’t involved in human trafficking. They are involved in Van Der Saar’s operation. There’s no real convergence there, so we won’t worry until we have to.”

Connor rubbed his jaw. “Tris Dixon, eh. Who’d have thought that a football agent would need to involve himself in that? When I first met him, he hinted that my skills in transportation could be used domestically and not having to go abroad. At first, I thought he meant moving around drugs and guns within the country. But then I thought ‘why would he use me?’ He’d have at least a handful of trustworthy lackeys to do that sort of thing. Not when I have a track record and a strong business relationship with our friend in Holland.”

“Maybe he’ll bring up the subject again. And if he does, you’ll have to agree to it, of course after feigning some reluctance.”

“I know,” said Connor, tipping the soil. “How come I am the only one who has had to fill in this hole? You forget a second spade?”

Bruce smiled. “Because I am the boss.”

Connor smirked. “What are we going to do? Visit Mr Dixon and give him the same treatment as this one?”

“No, we can’t do that yet. Unless Tris Dixon has obtained a Bachelor of Medicine and has a surgical qualification, then he’s working for someone. I think this goes deeper than he imagined.”

“Another one of your hunches?”

“Something like that.”

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Well, the day after tomorrow, I am going to meet with Jaime to discuss a strategy.”

“Can’t you Skype him?”

“Not for something like this. Besides, I want to check in on him.”

“Do you have a plot in mind?”

“We have an advantage in that Dixon doesn’t know that you’re working for me. He’ll be vigilant, but your family’s name upholds your cover story of being a criminal.”

“I see,” said Connor. “He’s going to be Para as fuck as to what you know and who to trust—he’s going to come to me.”

“That’s the plan.”

“This was the plan all along, wasn’t it?”

“You understand. You can play chess.”

A number of men had been struck off Connor’s ‘real-life’ heroes list throughout his life; only two had remained with one being Bruce and the other one being dead.

“We have an issue. There’s a chance our Scotsman knows more than he should,” said Tris Dixon over the phone.

“That’s strange. I thought dead men didn’t know anything?” said the South African on the other end of the phone.

Dixon fought to steady his breathing. He felt the pores on his forehead open up. He took a risk.

“Things can be imperfect.”

“Well, what do you think he knows?”

“I’ll keep that to myself.”

“The mistrust in this relationship—”

“—if you want to call it that, then that’s your prerogative. I prefer calling it ‘need to know’.”

There was silence for a short while before the voice broke it. “There may be a play I can make. But regardless, maybe you should think about taking a holiday.”

“I can’t do that. All my business interests are here.”

“Then you’ll have to hold on tight.”

The line clicked off, and Tris hoped he was more use alive than dead.

28

Bruce stood on the port side of the superyacht admiring how the lights bathed the Flivos Marina against the dark blue night.

He rarely visited his chief information systems technician in person; purely as a security measure. Still, he endeavoured to check in on him once in a while to be sure of his well-being. He had been glad he did. He found the Peruvian frayed around the edges as the indulgences of his new lifestyle had begun to take hold.

Jaime, he knew, had attempted to sanitise the yacht of any prior female presence. However, Bruce could smell the trace of perfume and found two different sets of hair clips in one of the bathrooms.

Jaime joined him wearing a towelling robe despite the mildness of the night. They did not speak for a few moments until the South American started shifting a little bit.

“I know. I know I have let myself slide un poco. I went deep into a hedon-is-tic lifestyle,” Jaime said.

“Your laptop. Has anyone manag—”

“No. It’s locked away and on a level four setting anytime I am not using it.”

Bruce looked up at the stars before saying, “It’s understandable you’ve indulged yourself after all those years. And I don’t want you to go back to those days of being hunkered down and isolated. But you’ve got to get a grip of yourself. Like a radiator, you only bleed off the excess air once the pressure has built, not beforehand. Remind yourself of your first love—undermining bad people and organisations with your superpower.”

Jaime frowned at the word ‘superpower’. Then he nodded before breaking into a huge smile.

“You are right. It is a superpower.”

“Of course I’m right. You have a real-life superpower, and with it comes great responsibility. Remember that.”

“No more fucking around, I make a promise to you.”

Bruce smiled. He knew that computers were not Jaime’s first love—it was comic books.

“Good. With regards to the task at hand. Are we in agreement that this organ harvesting ring is international?”

“The algorithms I have compiled seem to suggest that.”

“I think it’s one person at the top. If it were more, then they would live with a constant paranoia of the other or others mouthing off about it. Given that it’s happening in developed countries now, I reckon on the person being a billionaire. Given that there are around 1,500 billionaires in the world, we can start sifting through them. I want you to start looking into their families, who close to them has died of an ailment that could have been prevented with a timely organ donation. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Remember, our organisation’s sole purpose is to protect people who cannot protect themselves. We are free from a political hierarchy or pressure by multinational corporations. Other people and other professions can afford to take their eye off the ball. Not us, do you understand?”

Jaime nodded with what looked to Bruce to be a sense of shame and determination.

Tom Ryder sat in The Huntsman pub in a village named Drax. It was on the outskirts of Selby, around three-quarters of an hour away from Leeds. His eyes flicked between the gas fire and the painting of a seaside town.

He liked to do this every so often—look for a place

outside of Leeds where no one knew him, book a B & B and drink with the locals. His Uncle Greg, once the most commanding underworld figure in Yorkshire, told the young Tom that he would have to do this to keep his feet on the ground.

Tom had loved his uncle fiercely and Connor too. It had upset him when he learnt his cousin had set up his own thing down south. Tom had always thought Connor and he would run the family business together in the future. In this business, family were the only people you could trust—well, you could trust them more.

He thought of the stories he had been told of how his family had got into it in the first place.

When young, his grandfather, Frank, had, despite himself, become a face around the local areas and beyond. He had been a veteran of the Suez crisis and an excellent boxer. He had sorted out some unruly types in his local pub and was soon sought after by other drinking establishments.

Tom always remembered him as a kind and loving man. Frank had been adored by his family, and the local community had a lot of affection for him. He and Tom’s gran, Paulette, were always laughing and joking together. Paulette gave Frank five sons in all: Uncle Derek, Uncle Michael, his Uncle Greg who was Connor’s father, Uncle Lee and his dad Ryan.

Tom also remembered the scars on the patriarch’s face. Nearly a couple of years after Tom had been born, Frank had attempted to calm down a set of lads who were harassing the local girls and intimidating the bar staff. He had been over fifty years old then and less inclined to use violence as an immediate recourse. The lads jumped him, eventually overpowering him before sticking the boot in while he was on the floor.

What happened next would go down in the underworld folklore.

Frank’s sons, who until then were as law-abiding as the next man, began to hunt down the culprits. His Uncle Greg caught leader Paul Farron outside a gym he trained at. Tom had heard that Farron had been a ‘roidhead’ and around sixteen-stone. He had been no match for his much smaller uncle who did not stop until both Farron’s ankles were broken and his ear torn off.

Over the next few weeks, the lads who attacked Frank Ryder were similarly dealt with, as well as anyone who tried to intervene.

After a few weeks had passed, his Uncle Derek had been shot inside a petrol station by a man in a motorcycle helmet. It had luckily only resulted in a flesh wound and fractured clavicle. However, it had been the tipping point that sent his Uncle Greg over the edge.

Joe Mason had been ‘The Man’ in Leeds at the time. Tom had seen on the internet some old newspaper photos of the man. He looked what he was—a scary fucker. He had been a huge, black-bearded mountain of a man who looked like ‘he ate babies on toast’. He had a handle on the drugs trade in Leeds. He had intimidated most, maimed many, shot a few and killed at least one.

Tom was unsure to this day how his Uncle Greg had linked Joe Mason to what had happened to his Uncle Derek, but he had.

The brothers had also found out the identity of the shooter—a Billy Summers from the Seacroft area of Leeds.

One November evening, his Uncle Greg and his dad Ryan ambushed Joe Mason and three of his cronies along a canal with Katana samurai swords. Joe Mason, knocked unconscious by a knuckle duster-clad fist, had been relieved of his right hand and left foot.

On the same night, his Uncles Michael and Lee had ballied up and wielded baseball bats to smash Billy Summers outside a takeaway shop near the city centre. His four acquaintances had not made any attempt to intervene even as a horizontal Summers had been doused in petrol and set alight. As Michael and Lee had disappeared, the shop owner managed to put the flames out. However, Summers had suffered a horrific mixture of second- and third-degree burns to both head and body.

Overnight, the Ryder family became arguably the most feared family in Yorkshire and beyond. The rumours that turned into legend were backed up by a walking victim showing the hideous white, leathery patches all over his face, scalp and neck. That and a shadow of a once tyrant now with a missing hand and an awkward walk. They served as a constant advertisement of the Ryder family’s ruthlessness. If any further reminders were needed, his Uncle Greg had sauntered into a pub where Joe Mason’s associates drank. The legend was that he had walked up to the crew of seven recoiling men and from a small holdall tipped out Joe Mason’s severed foot and hand onto the table.

‘‘This ends now, or next time it’ll be your poor families looking at your severed heads, or maybe you’ll be looking at theirs. Do you understand?” he had reputably asked.

All seven had nodded in muted horror, and the war was over.

This was the kind of family history that he and all his cousins had inherited. Although now the stakes were a lot higher.

29

Henry Costner sank into one of the cream sofas in his Kensington flat with a Scotch, exhausted. A red pattern carpet covered the mahogany floor on which the couches and coffee table rested. The gas fire simmered away beside him.

He flicked on the television, quickly changing the channel from the news to mindless romantic comedy.

It had been a strange day at Westminster. The Brexit negotiations were proving to be even more challenging than was once thought. The issue had been what kind of border would separate Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. The Sinn Fein party were putting pressure on the UK and Irish Taoiseach for an ‘all island’ solution. To keep the entire island in the single market and customs as the rest of the UK left it. That was just one of a myriad of issues facing the government regarding it.

Costner knew he should not have sunk into the sofa; it was going to be an effort to get out of it now. The landline rang, and he wearily answered it.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Mr Costner,” said the female voice.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I am a representative of a group of people that would prefer the ongoing investigations into the death of the O’Reilly girl to cease.”

Costner’s mind whirred before saying, “What in heavens is this?”

“Mr Costner, open your MacBook that’s currently sitting on the coffee table in front of you.”

Costner stared at the laptop for a moment before complying.

“Now what?”

“Go into your documents and click the unnamed folder on the top left.”

Costner did so, and hundreds of indecent images of children assaulted his senses. He clicked out almost in an instant, but sickening pictures whirled around in his head.

“Who the fuck is this?” he demanded.

“Call off that attack dog, Bruce McQuillan. Or your liberty could be stripped from you, along with your reputation.”

The caller hung up.

Parker’s hand clasped Bruce’s firmly. They were in Parker’s office again.

“Take a seat, Bruce.”

When the Scotsman did so, he continued. “I received an email this morning. Though it was to my personal and not work account, it was still disturbing how it managed to breach the various security programmes I have in place on it.”

“Who was it from?”

“It’s been secured by a DAM cryptosystem—explained to me as the email version of the Mission Impossible self-destructing tapes. My personal email doesn’t come through the same server as my work email, which suggests they—whoever ‘they’ are—knew and which is why they used it.”

“OK.”

“Here, take a look,” said Parker, spinning the laptop to face Bruce. On it were the pictures, complete with biographies, of six men who worked for ‘The Chameleon Project’. Bruce had fifteen operatives in all. The uncovering of the identities of six shocked and concerned him in equal measure. Then he looked at Parker.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking, but you’re barking up the wrong tree,” said Parker.

“What am I thinking?”

“You think that I had a hand in this.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Well, you’re wrong. What reason would I have?”

“What else did it say?” said Bruce, ignoring his question.

“Scroll up.”

Bruce read the message—“Bruce McQuillan is to immediately cease his ‘investigation’ into already resolved murder cases, or the activities of these men will be brought to light.”

Bruce looked up, and Parker asked, “What investigation?”

“I am not telling you.”

“I think I have a right to know when I am being emailed regarding it.”

“But it’s me they are threatening, it’s—”

“I am being threatened too, albeit through a veil. The significance of it being sent to my email isn’t lost on me as it shouldn’t be on you.”

Bruce realised that Parker had controlled an instinct to shout and threaten when Bruce had replied “I am not telling you”, and decided to extend him some courtesy.

“Look, I am not being difficult, nor is it my aim to disrespect you. But I’ve always held to the maxim, ‘If you would keep your secret from an enemy, tell it not to a friend’.”

Parker frowned. “Benjamin Franklin.”

“He also said, ‘Three may keep a secret if two of them are dead’.”

Parker regarded him for a moment or two. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to hold tight and trust me. All that email says to me is whoever these people are—however powerful—they are nervous. And they have every right to be. Because I will find out who ‘they’ are, and end their lives.”

Parker looked at him for a moment. “I believe you.”

“Then the least you can do is to stay out of my way.”

Parker simply nodded.

Connor and Ciara lay in bed. They were back in the Birmingham apartment.

“We’re going to have to stop doing this,” Connor said.

“Because I’ll get attached, and you’re in too dangerous a world to let another share your soul—your loneliness makes you cold—makes you sharp,” Ciara teased in a mock film narrator’s voice. Connor smiled—he could not help but like her.

“No, because one day you’re going to choke me out. How have you got such a death grip?” he replied stroking his neck.

“It’s called ‘gripping the bar’. Maybe if you did the same, you wouldn’t be deadlifting a weight that some thirteen-year-old Chinese girl warms up with.”

Ciara got out of bed, and Connor admired her stunning figure. Her back was taut with muscle running down to an almost impossibly high ass and shapely legs. Her short blonde tousled hair strangely added to her femininity.

She turned around. “Stop looking at me with that look in your eye.”

“Look in my eye? Oh yeah, you mentioned a thirteen-year-old Chinese girl.”

She shook her head. “Sick.”

“Well, I am sick of laying here without a coffee, now get to it.”

Ciara sighed a smirk. She had told him beforehand that if he made her cum, she would make him a coffee. He watched her walk out of the room still naked.

He briefly looked at the Noam Chomsky paperback, Who rules the World?, but decided against reading it now; the author’s analysis of American imperialism was too weighty to merely skim over.

He remembered a conversation with Bruce. Connor had told him that he thought if people put as much effort into improving themselves and their position as they did complaining about the actions of the Government then they would have better lives. Bruce had replied, “that sentiment is easier to hold as a white, male Briton than a woman of the ‘Rohingya’ in Burma”. He had encouraged Connor to broaden his horizons, hence the reason the Yorkshireman had Who rules the world? and 1984 on his bedside cabinet.

Ciara came back and put his coffee on top of the book, and lay beside him on top of the covers.

Ciara looked at him. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Well, you can ask me,” he replied.

“What’s the deal with you and your cousin?”

Connor knew this had been coming. He would not lie and could not palm her off—they were partners for the duration, and she had saved his life.

“My family is the most powerful crime family in Yorkshire. My father was Greg Ryder. That was my cousin, Tom Ryder.”

“You’re Greg Ryder’s son?” The surprise was evident in her voice.

“Yep. He and my mother were never married, and my dad encouraged me to keep her surname so as not to tarnish me, so to speak.”

“So you got your cousin to take over Dixon’s distribution.”

“No, I didn’t. I never wanted my family to be involved with what I do with The Project. I think coming from my background is one of the reasons the boss uses me for penetrating the underworld—my ‘cover’ was ninety-nine per cent pre-made. But I wanted to keep this and them apart.”

“Have you got any brothers or sisters?”

“No. Well, not that I know of. Tom and the rest of my cousins were very close though. I think more so being a part of a ‘crime’ family.”

They lay in silence for a few moments. Then she asked him, “Do you ever get scared? It doesn’t ever seem like you do.”

“Yeah, sort of…not really. I don’t think I feel it as acutely as most people. I know what adrenaline feels like but I think I use it better than most,” he said. Then he thought of a fight he had last year and remembered that he had indeed been scared. “I get scared more of different things. Of certain consequences. More angry, I suppose, but scared too.”

“What do you mean?”

Connor took a breath and said, “Like this evil that we haven’t got to the bottom of yet. Some cunt has decided it would be a good idea to snatch some of the most vulnerable people and turn them into commodities. Everyone recoils at horror films, but what some humans are capable of is chilling enough. I don’t even class some of them as humans. I don’t care how this sounds, how unprofessional it is, how reckless it can be, I get a thrill in hearing the pain-ridden screams of these monsters if I catch hold of them.”

She looked at him for a moment. Then to his surprise, she cuddled into him.

30

Dixon walked around his Guilford, Surrey estate with his white Doberman pinscher running circles around him. He was deep in thought. There were only a few people in this world that need not answer to anyone for anything. Two years ago he had been one of those people. One of the biggest sports agents in the world, with his fingers lightly brushing the UK underworld. Then his eyes became bigger than his mouth.

An American billionaire entrepreneur had expressed an interest in one of the Premiership football clubs and had engaged Dixon as an advisory for an exorbitant sum. The deal did not go ahead in the end, and Dixon felt deflated.

However, an emissary of the billionaire had stopped behind to discuss another proposal with Dixon. The man was massive—around six feet four inches—and broad with it. The blonde, South African giant had introduced himself as Ethan Steyn. He had then explained that there was a mutual benefit to be had with people who could afford it, paying over the odds for organs they needed provided they were received as quickly as possible. The excess money received by the said hospital could go towards further medical research—“a win, win” said the emissary.

When Dixon had asked what his role in this was, the answer was “recruitment”. Dixon had smiled inwardly at the emissary’s bare-faced insinuations that the victims’—involuntary—sacrifices were for the greater good; that these people were a drain on society, that the organs and medical research would help “advance us as a species”—Dixon had nearly burst into laughter at the justification.

He had inquired as to why the super-rich did not just have surgery done in whatever country that could produce a suitable donor immediately. The answer was that “nobody wants a gook doctor opening them up if they can help it”. The emissary did not know that Dixon was ‘in’ as soon as the numbers were discussed; £200,000 per ‘clean’ person—clean being someone who would not be missed too much.

So it began, and Dixon had made millions off it. Then the debacle with the O’Reilly girl had happened. The South African had cleaned up the mess, and police had blamed the Egyptian immigrant. Now this ex-special forces turned intelligence guru Bruce McQuillan was getting too warm.

Dixon made his decision. He would send an email—in code—to his American contact stating the arrangement was now over. With his mind made up, he marched back to the house.

Bruce reclined into the sofa with a cup of coffee. He looked around Janet Quigley’s luxury apartment. Much of the furniture was a mahogany red which contrasted with the cream of the walls. There were ornaments of meerkats dressed in different uniforms. The gas fire flickered within its grey marble frame.

He had not long finished a delicious meal of black cod marinated with miso.

He was calming himself and organising his thoughts. He had already contacted the six agents and informed them to “go to ground”. Every agent who worked for The Project had been ordered upon completion of their initial training to begin to cultivate an identity, including a bank account and to choose a country for the sole purpose of escaping to in the event of the exposure of their cover. No one, not even the members of The Project or indeed Bruce himself, were to know of their chosen country and identity. Indeed, to aid in this, each new member was given £250,000 of ‘survival’ funds for this potential instance, which they were encouraged to add to throughout their careers. He would recall them when the coast was clear.

Bruce had thought about this unknown entity which threatened to expose his leadership of The Chameleon Project to the world. He concluded that whoever it was would correctly assume he would go ‘dark’ and that would be bad for them as then he could potentially strike back from nowhere. Still, he had a sense of satisfaction—if he was not a threat, this mysterious antagonist would not have reached out to Parker. However, this would have to be the last time he would see Janet for a while. He thought he owed it to her to tell her in person.

He heard the footsteps behind him and said, “Beautiful apartment, Janet.”

He looked around at her. Even in casual clothing, her sense of style was seemingly effortless. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail leaving a flick of blonde over her eyebrow. She wore a charcoal top with dark red stripes and a plain skirt.

“Thank you, although the interior designer gave me the benefit of his advice. In my experience, the camper they are the better their interior designing, and this one was very gay.”

“A lot of your fellow liberals would class that comment as casually homophobic, would they not?”

“An observation isn’t homophobic. And I would class mine being a liberal comment as rather presumptive.”

“Perhaps you’re right. And the interior looks great.”

“Maybe I’ll send him around your way.”

“He’d be wasted on me, I am afraid. I am a man of simple tastes.”

“You abscond from material possessions? Like the great Buddha?” she teased.

Bruce smiled. “I like nice things but don’t get attached to them. A man once told me, ‘You remember your first holiday, not your first sofa.’”

“A nice sentiment. But you sit on a sofa daily. I can’t see a person like you taking many holidays.”

“It’s an interesting point. I’ll mull it over and get back to you?”

“So what do you do for fun?”

“I enjoy the theatre, opera and ballet.”

“You do not!” she exclaimed.

“Now who’s being presumptuous?”

“Well, you are a surprise. How did that come about?”

This was not going as planned. Still, she was good conversation. He knew he could not bed her only to tell her he couldn’t see her again for a while in a post-coital glow.

“Do you drink whisky?”

“On occasion.”

She left to return a few moments later with two glasses and a bottle. It was an Aronson by Lass and Wright and aged sixty-four years. Bruce knew that there had only been three bottles of it ever produced. He also knew the price of it. She poured them a glass and sat beside him. Something clicked into place, and he decided that he wouldn’t be having the conversation about not sleeping with her after all.

“You a whisky connoisseur?” he asked.

“I like a tipple on occasion.”

“Well, here’s to an occasion,” he said and clinked his glass with hers. They smiled at one another.

She lounged back a little and asked, “Any further into your investigations?”

“I have hit a few snags, unfortunately.”

“How so?”

“It’s a political situation. I can’t really go into it.”

“I see. Surely you’ll continue though?”

“It depends, Janet. I haven’t the resources to pursue something like this without support. And my superiors are denying me that.”

“Is there anything I can do? Go public, put pressure on them?”

“You can’t go public without hard evidence.” He finished off his whisky, and she did the same.

“I apologise,” she said. “I shouldn’t be taking either of our work into our evening time. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Bruce looked at her as she stood. He took her outstretched hand and followed her to her bedroom.

O’Reilly knew that the more he stayed in the house, the stronger the temptation to hit the bottle would grow. So he turned up at the office.

Everyone was very sympathetic towards him, and he projected an air of gratefulness for it. He did not welcome it as he wanted work to be an escape. It was to be expected though.

Verbatim Securities chief technician, Paul Fisher, came into the office. O’Reilly had always operated an open-door policy.

“How are you, Darren?”

“I am OK. What’s up?”

The gawky-looking Fisher had a shiftiness about him, and O’Reilly could not warm to him. That said, this was a business and Fisher was superb at what he did.

“Well, I wasn’t going to ask so soon after Jessie. But I wanted to talk to you about maybe getting involved in other parts of the business.”

O’Reilly looked at him. “Why? Your talent lies in being a technician.”

Fisher replied, “Just wanted to get a better handle on how the company works as a whole. Be a better asset to you.”

O’Reilly knew better than to give a valued employee an outright ‘no’. “What were you thinking?”

“How the financial, internal and external communications function, and the running of other technical aspects.”

“All right. Report to Marcy. I’ll send her an email.”

When he left, the urge for alcohol came back with a vengeance.

He left the office shortly afterwards. There was a pub not far.

31

“You are fackin’ joking!” screamed Dixon down the phone.

“I must ask you not to swear, Mr Dixon. The matter is out of my hands, I am afraid. It was authorised by you using all the relevant security protocols,” replied the Swiss banker in a clipped tone.

“But I haven’t taken money out. I think I’d have remembered three million knicker going out.”

“Two million, eight hundred thousand, sir.”

“Fuck—sorry—where did it go?”

“It dispersed amongst twenty-seven different account numbers, I will forward them to—”

“—twenty-seven different accounts? I barely know twenty-seven people. Surely your ‘protocols’ know that isn’t normal.”

“Of course. But you—my apologies—the sender, answered every single question of your memorable data correctly—six in total.”

“They’ll belong to a single company, I am telling you. Can you check?”

“I will check now. It may take a few minutes.”

“Fuck. Call me back when you do.”

Dixon slammed his traditional office phone down.

He took a breath to gather his thoughts—so this was the Yank’s response. Dixon had sent the email terminating his involvement with the organ harvesting the day before. Now, the deduction to his Swiss account of the exact amount of money that he had thus far made from the venture. No more, no less.

His fury and despair had been compounded by the fact that the young Colombian football star had pulled out of his contract; not with the club but with Dixon’s agency. A reason had not been forthcoming.

The phone rang, and Dixon answered with, “This better be good news.”

“Well, that depends on what you do now,” answered Ethan Steyn.

Dixon flinched upon hearing the South African’s voice. “What do you want?”

“Don’t play naïve, or I’ll have to escalate this ‘gentle persuasion’ up a level. Two general scenarios could occur based on your actions. Your money may reappear in your account. Other young talents may not be dissuaded from joining you. Certain accountancy details need not end up in the hands of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs service. And you need not lose your ability to walk. Get the picture?”

Dixon breathed deeply, his pride scolded, angry but in his place. “I get the picture. I’ll continue.”

Henry Costner had recounted the story of the phone call which resulted in the images appearing on his laptop to Bruce. It had been four days ago, and when Henry had not replied to Bruce’s attempts to contact him, the Scot went to see him.

Anticipating that there was a reason behind Costner’s unresponsiveness Bruce had slipped into the politician’s home past midnight. He had placed a half cylinder MSC bug scanner on the bedside table and turned it on. It was one of Jaime’s inventions. After thirty seconds he checked the underside—‘Negative’. He woke the startled Costner who started babbling about hidden cameras and devices.

“We’re OK, I have already scanned for bugs,” Bruce said. “Now speak. Why have you not been answering my messages?”

When Henry had finished explaining, Bruce smiled. “They are scared now.”

“Well, I am scared. If they plant anything like that again, even if I did prove my innocence, something like that would stick,” said Costner.

Bruce knew he was right. Besides liking the albeit at times annoyingly aristocratic Costner, if he were to lose his prodigious standing within the Halls of Westminster, then he could not inform or protect Bruce.

“This isn’t your concern any longer. I’ll be in touch when this is all over.”

“What you going to do?”

Bruce’s accent became more pronounced. “Ah canne be having these people living.”

He left.

Soft reds and ambers lit the club. The sofas held the occupants in comfort towards a raised cylindrical stage. The waitresses sauntered around with an elegance that contrasted with the underwear and suspenders they wore. The R & B music floated through the background, without the patrons having to raise their voices to make themselves heard.

“Mr Dixon, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon?”

Tris Dixon looked at Connor Reed. The Yorkshireman’s lilac shirt contoured his well-built physique and displayed his grooved forearms with a tan-strapped watch matching the tan leather brogues that jutted out of smart, dark jeans.

“Mr Reed, please take a seat.”

Reed did so and raised his handled glass of beer, “Thanks very much, surprised you had this brand in.”

Dixon nodded approvingly—he has good taste.

They were in the Soho ‘Vixen’ erotic dancing club that he owned. His other Vixen club was in Manchester.

Reed had come in at the start of one of Dixon’s favourite performances. The two beautiful and lithe girls, one a redhead and one a blonde, were dancing together in the style of ballroom, with the skill of two professionals. Exquisitely styled gowns clung to them—the redhead in black and the blonde in white. Dixon had sent eight of his girls for training with classical instructors before unveiling this act.

Among the patrons tonight were a Hollywood actress, a prominent film producer, a supermodel and a famous British comedian. Dixon was impressed that Connor was not gawking at them. His eyes remained fixed on the movements of the two women.

The music of the act began slowly before getting harder as the women stripped one another. It rose to another level as the kissing, licking and biting commenced before simmering into soft tones as the staged sex climbed to a peak. It finished to a standing ovation as it always had.

“Now in the words of Seth, ‘That’s what I call a fucking show!’” said Connor over the din as he stood, banging his hands together.

“Glad you approve, Mr Reed.”

“You have to suspend your common sense to enjoy it fully, but I thought it was great.”

Dixon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, that pair must be bored to fuck of doing that now. I bet the blonde one that gets finger blasted at the end has gone through tubs of lube.”

Dixon grimaced—the image ran counterpoint to the elegant eroticism he was aiming for.

“Shall we discuss business upstairs?”

Connor nodded and followed him. The VIP area remained closed to others, and the two men took a seat across from one another.

“And so,” said Connor.

“I have a few legitimate businesses. And one or two that aren’t. It is one of these that I wish to discuss.”

“OK.”

“This one may offend your sensibilities.”

“It might, or it might not. All I can say is ‘no’, so stop pussyfooting around and tell me.”

Dixon felt a jolt of indignation. It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him like this. Still, he liked it on a certain level.

“Human trafficking.”

“You mean like driving a lorry through Calais with Eastern Europeans or Syrians packed like sardines in the back? Surely you can get one of your minions for that.”

“Maybe trafficking isn’t the correct term,” began Dixon, “as you’ll be picking up people here in the UK.”

“Go on.”

“You’re to identify people who will not have anyone missing them, who are under the age of fifty and ideally don’t use needles.”

“Quite specific.” Reed squinted. “Why?”

Dixon shifted in his seat. He had been hoping that Reed would simply agree and not ask questions. He knew it was a forlorn hope, and that the man would seek to understand everything he could regarding the operation.

“They are to be used for their organs.”

Reed stared at him for a moment. “What’s wrong with smuggling in European immigrants who exchange a kidney for residence here?”

It heartened Dixon that the Yorkshireman’s first statement was not a disgusted rejection of the proposal.

“That used to be the remit but times are changing now. Brexit is nearing, and the borders will be tightly girded so the profit margins will reduce. However, domestic resource is abundant.”

Reed asked, “Why would anyone be willing to give one of their organs if they lived here?”

This was the ‘make or break’ question, Dixon knew. “They wouldn’t.”

Reed rubbed his chin and said, “You want me to kidnap people for their organs and hope no one notices?”

Dixon almost smiled—the man’s hesitation was based on the probability of being caught, not on the morality of it.

“That’s the thing. These are people no one will miss—the homeless. You do a few weeks’ ‘recon’ on them to do a risk assessment, and then take them.”

“You have done this before.”

“I’ve been doing this for months.”

“Then why do you need me?”

“An internal issue that has meant that I prefer a new face in there.”

“Anything I have to worry about?”

“No.”

“So there’s a moody hospital that these people get dropped off at?”

“It’s not a ‘moody’ hospital.”

“A private hospital, I take it?”

“Mr Reed, I’d prefer not to get into the details before you have agreed in principle.”

“OK. Let’s talk money.”

“I’ll give you eighty grand per person.”

Connor smiled. “A hundred thousand. I am the one taking all the risk. If it comes to light, then I am the one in the newspapers before having to fight off sexual enslavement and hidings in prison.”

Dixon did not need to mull it over long. “Deal. Is there anything else I can do for you? A woman perhaps?”

“Nah. I always feel guilty when afterwards they say things like ‘Oh my God, I cannot possibly take your money. In fact, have all of my earnings for tonight if you promise to come back’, that sort of thing. Because I know they need the money more than I do.”

“You’re a funny man, Mr Reed.”

“It’s a strength.”

“How so?”

“People often underestimate what you’re capable of.”

32

“It is him. He asked me to run it for him. I was dying to kill him right there,” said Connor, the memory of last night’s conversation with Dixon making him angry. He had already given Bruce a vague and brief rundown on the phone before he requested a meet.

Now they sat in a quiet corner of The Anchor Pub along the river Wey. The half-hour walk from West Byfleet to the pub allowed for tighter counter surveillance, in addition to the vehicle change they had carried out before arriving.

“What did you say to him?” asked Bruce.

“Played it coy but not disinterested. I made out I had to wrestle with my conscience before the money offered dissolved my plastic morals.”

“Good,” said Bruce. “How does she feel about it?”

He flicked his head back a touch to indicate Ciara. She stood at the bar ordering the drinks.

“To tell you the truth, she’s nervous. Nervous about how far we have to go with this.”

“She’s never struck me as the type who couldn’t get her hands dirty.”

“I am not talking about what we might have to do to the ‘baddies’. It’s how far we might have to let these ‘donors’ go into the process. To be truthful, so am I.”

“You know as well as I that if the crunch came to the crunch, then sometimes a few need to be sacrificed for the many—but we do everything we can to make sure that bridge isn’t crossed. Where Ciara is concerned—”

“—backblast,” interrupted Connor, indicating Ciara was about to come into hearing range and the subject be changed.

“Who is your favourite Bond then?” Bruce continued as Ciara came from behind him and set the drinks on the table.

“Daniel Craig,” answered Connor.

“You know, I always liked Pierce Brosnan and Roger Moore,” said Ciara as she sat down.

“They were good for their time,” said Connor, “but I couldn’t take them seriously now. Losing a fight to them would be like losing a fight to a Tory politician.”

Ciara turned to Bruce. “Let me guess, yours is Connery?”

“Aye, that sort of Bond wouldn’t be acceptable on screen now, mind,” he replied. “Anyway, we need to discuss how we’re going to proceed with our task.”

“What does this mean? We have him now. We can take him out?” asked Ciara.

“I don’t think he’s the architect of this, and we still need to identify the hospital or hospitals that are taking these people in.”

“Why don’t you think he’s the mastermind of it?”

“Miles Parker received an email to his personal account that circumvented the security protocols on it. On it were the identities of some of the ex-members of ‘The Project’, who, as a precaution, I have told to go to ground. The sender seemed to think they were current members. That said, whoever gleaned that information and surpassed Parker’s IT protection measures has the means above Tris Dixon.”

“Any ideas?” Connor asked.

“I don’t think he or she has their origins in the UK. It would be too risky to outsource to anyone, even Tris Dixon, if you had the option to run it yourself. But if you were from another country and you had other interests, then Dixon would be ideal. He has the appearance of legitimacy but enough dirt on him that you could trust him with this. I am guessing the man at the top is an American or Australian businessman—the billionaire kind.”

“Wait, we’re actually going to facilitate the kidnap of innocent people for their organs?” exclaimed Ciara.

Bruce looked her in the eyes. “Ciara, we need to find this person because I have a suspicion that ours isn’t the only country they are doing this in.”

“What happens if we can’t identify the people or person in time, and those people end up corpses?”

“Then you’ll have to ensure that doesn’t happen. By any measure necessary,” said Bruce as he looked at Connor.

“We’re not going to pick up people off the street, Ciara,” said Connor. She looked at him quizzically, and he continued, “The people we pick up will be our people. That’s the point. The irony is that he’s asked me to do this because he trusts me. We’ll give it a few weeks of photos and fake reports. Then we’ll be delivering Project operatives to whatever hospital these sick freaks like cutting up innocent people in.”

“Am impressed,” murmured Bruce, looking at him—a rare compliment, thought Connor.

Ciara said, “Why couldn’t Connery’s Bond exist now? I mean, as he was then.”

“It was just a different time back then,” replied Bruce.

“What he means is that back then men were men. Footballers prided themselves on not going down, before ‘benefits’ was a lifestyle, when kids weren’t zombified by their phones, before health and safety and bureaucracy strangled our military and before everyone’s initial attitude to any bully of any kind was to seek protection from a higher authority instead of developing a backbone.”

“Quite a speech,” said Ciara, “for someone whose birthday is around the late eighties or early nineties.”

Connor smiled. “Well, let’s ask someone who spent his teenage years in the sixties.”

Bruce afforded him a smirk. “Cheeky wee bastard.”

There was a quietening of the voices of the other mechanics. Even from underneath the Fiesta, Tom could tell who had walked into the garage.

Tom came out from underneath to greet his Uncle Derek. His uncle was dressed in a suit and did not acknowledge the other mechanics. Tom wiped his hands on a rag and then extended his hand.

“What brings you to the shire?” said Tom.

“All right, son,” answered Derek despite Tom being his nephew. “The Jag needs a service, and then we could have a chat.”

“Anything wrong with it?”

“Nah, don’t want the coppers pinching me for lack of a service.”

Tom did not want to point out to his uncle that a service was not a legal requirement—an MOT was.

“Joe, can you take a look at it?” said Tom, nodding to the ginger mechanic. “Let’s bob into the office.”

His uncle followed him up the stairs into the soundproof room.

“Safe to talk?” asked his uncle as he sat down.

“It’s swept every Wednesday,” replied Tom, meaning it was swept for electronic surveillance and audio devices.

“How come the cost is low on the product? I was expecting a lot higher given the quality,” asked Derek, referring to Dixon’s rate for the drugs they were going to be distributing.

“Because the producer is adamant that the product isn’t cut, and that if they are, then he’ll stop supplying them. I said we could guarantee that they won’t be.”

“How can you guarantee that? There are always people who buy to sell on, even to friends.”

“Because we’ll only be punting it to the ‘oh, darling, this really is the best stuff’ crowd around Leeds, Harrogate and York, and it’ll only be at exclusive parties and that.”

“And you think you can shift the weight required doing that rather than hitting the street?”

“Not as much, sure, but the coppers won’t be as mardy if it’s kept to those sorts of places. I told Dixon that. Plus, some can be set aside for the narcs an’ that.”

Tom was referring to the practice of leaving a large part of drug shipments in random caches before tipping off a contact in the local Homicide and Major Enquiry Team (HMET), who would in turn inform National Crime Agency to its whereabouts. The contact’s career would benefit from the ‘seizure’. In exchange, he provided Tom with intelligence both generic and specific to local CID and national NCA investigations into the Ryder family. This way Tom was not ‘grassing’ but still staying a step ahead. Back in the nineties, Liverpool gangster John Haase had used a technique to obtain a Royal pardon and get released from an eighteen-year prison sentence just eleven months in. Tom remembered what his contact had told him the last time they spoke, “‘stay away from guns if you can. Nothing pisses us off more than little kids waving guns around. If innocent people get shot with weapons you’ve provided, then I can’t help you.”

“How is my ghost of a nephew?” asked Derek.

Where was this going? thought Tom. “He’s fine, in good spirits, considering.”

“Considering what?” asked his uncle.

“Considering we involved ourselves in his thing without asking.”

“That how thee see it?”

Tom shrugged but stayed silent.

“What’s he fretting about? Can’t bide to be helped by his own family?”

“I don’t know, me’sen, but he’s all right now.”

“If it wasn’t for us,” Derek said as if he had not heard Tom, “he’d be dead by now.”

Tom regarded him for a moment or two.

“What’s bothering you?”

Derek looked at him. “I don’t know. Ah want him closer to us, you know. Sometimes, I wonder if he blames us all for his dad’s death.”

“I don’t know. I think he wants his own thing. He’s coming up Saturday for the boxing anyway.”

“Ahh, the boxing. Dalmers Nightclub, isn’t it? How much tha looking to pull in?”

This was something that pissed Tom off about his uncle—his questions about his finances.

“Why? You worried about not getting your cut?”

“Just making conversation.”

“It’ll make money. There’s twenty-five bouts on, fifty sets of supporters. Tables of twelve are going for nearly a grand. But there’s the ref, judges, doctor, paramedics, ring card girls—boxers take their money from the tickets they sell themselves—and other bits and bats. It should be a good night though. You, Connor, my dad, Luke, Dan, Curtis and Charlie will be at a table at the front.”

Tom did not tell him that he had shifted well over one and a half thousand tickets himself at £30 per ticket. The fighters sold over two thousand as a collective for the same price, kicking up £10 per ticket to Tom.

“Good, look forward to it.”

Something was perturbing Tom. Derek was all about the acquisition of money. It formed the majority of their conversations. Tom expected that his uncle would insist on cutting the product for higher profit. Either he was respectful of Van Der Saar and Dixon, or he had another large stream of revenue on the side.

33

The distorted sound of over three thousand people and background pop music filled the cavernous Leeds Dalmers nightclub. The boxing ring was in the centre bathed in lights, framed by VIP tables all covered with red velvet sheetings, with a bucket of champagne on top.

As she entered the nightclub, Ciara put on the act of being oblivious to the attention—both male and female—she was attracting. She wore a white crop top exposing the lines of definition on her stomach, blue jeans and tan, strappy, block heels taking her height to five-feet-ten-inches.

Connor held her hand as he guided her through the throng of the crowd. He wore an olive-green ribbed jumper, white collar underneath, dark trousers, and the brogue-style lace-ups took his height just over an inch above hers.

It was early in the evening, and the boxing had yet to commence. Ciara expected it would get rowdier as the night went on. They came to the barrier for the VIP area, and the security stamped the inside of their arms in exchange for tickets.

They made their way towards the ring, and Ciara saw a hand shoot up from one of the tables. She recognised it as belonging to Connor’s cousin Tom. He sat at a table with several other men and women. They all snapped their attention to their direction, but their focus was on Connor, not her.

The men at the table stood as Connor and Tom embraced. The man behind looked in his early twenties and his smile spread across his face,

“Cousin, how’s it diddling, mate? Haven’t seen you in like forever?” he said as he hugged Connor.

“‘Eeyup Luke, been busy, haven’t I. You OK? Congratulations on your win the other night.”

She knew he was referring to a bare-knuckle match his cousin had won a few nights previous. His almost feminine face still bore a few marks from the encounter.

“Yeah mate, sweet. Cheers, Connor, it’s really good to see you in the manor.”

The others embraced him similarly. Then a bald, thickset, smartly dressed man stood and the others almost subconsciously parted.

“Nephew, how are ya, cock?” he said, spreading his arms wide. Connor and the man embraced.

“Uncle Derek, can’t complain.”

“Come on, I’ve got the champagne coming.”

“I am not drinking tonight. Driving.”

“What? We have drivers who can take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Not tonight.”

The two men stared at one another for a moment, and Ciara thought she could feel an undercurrent of tension.

“Never mind then, can’t blame ya, to be honest. Thinking of knocking it on the head meself,” said Derek, and he extended his hand to Ciara. “And who’s this gorgeous lass?”

“I am Ciara. Lovely to finally meet you,” she said, taking his hand.

“Are you on this no drinking rule?”

“When there’s champagne coming? Certainly not.”

“Tha’s the spirit.” Derek smiled.

Ciara was aware that the other girls might feel uncomfortable. None of the men had attempted to introduce them to her. Connor had told her that the men in his family had a subconscious, mildly sexist attitude when it came to women in public—“they are gentlemanly towards them, but they don’t see them as equals. Behind closed doors, the women are listened to though.”

Ciara reached her hand out to the attractive, forty-odd-year-old brunette. “Hi love, what you have done with your hair? I am Ciara.”

“Bless you, duck.” The woman smiled. “These men, eh, I am sure they would ‘av gotten round to making the introductions eventually. Am Jenny.”

“I was just about to, Aunt Jenny,” Connor said.

“Come over here, ya scamp,” she said as she gave him a hug, and she looked over at Ciara. “He always was a fool for the blondes, this one.”

“Yeah,” said Luke, another one of Connor’s cousins. “Dolph Lundgren, Owen Wilson, Macaulay Culkin, he had posters of them all.”

Everyone laughed including Connor. He introduced Ciara to the rest of his cousins and their girlfriends.

Luke seemed the slightest of all the men at the table, and had a cheeky grin, on a face worthy of a boyband—albeit without the minor grazes. Ciara could tell instantly that he thought a lot of Connor.

“Please tell me you have something?” said Bruce into the computer screen. He was in his London flat.

“I am afraid not, but I am getting closer. There’s been an interesting development,” answered Jaime. “Eleven days ago, £2,800,000 was taken out of Dixon’s Swiss account and simultaneously dispersed between twenty-seven obscure accounts in different countries. Then the funds were further dispersed to multiple accounts from each of those accounts. Follow me?”

“And I am guessing that pattern went on and on.”

“Yes. I still have to work through the multiple loopholes. Anyway, this happened at 23.59 on that night. This is where it gets interesting. The money—the exact amount—returned to Dixon’s account at 09.46 the next morning.”

Bruce turned his palms over. “Some money laundering procedure?”

“I don’t think so. If that was the aim, then the money coming back from a single or a few accounts would make more sense. Except this time, the money was returned simultaneously from thirty-two equally obscure accounts. There was a phone call made to the bank from Dixon’s phone. Almost immediately after a call was made to it from a number I haven’t been able to trace. Thirty seconds after the end of the call, the money was back in Dixon’s account.”

Bruce understood immediately. “He tried to pull out, and his boss took the money to make a point. That he was to continue.”

“I thought maybe the same thing,” said Jaime.

“Think you can trace these accounts?”

“I am not sure. The level of encryption has few equals, the phone call also.”

“I thought you were the best?”

“Attacks on my ego won’t make me work any better…maybe.”

Bruce decided to change tact. “Be careful, Jaime, whoever it is, is very powerful.”

“I am the best, remember.”

Connor briefly imagined another life as he sat watching the bouts unfold. A life where he lived in Leeds while in the family business with Ciara as his girlfriend. He had introduced her to all of his cousins, and two of his four uncles. His Uncles Michael and Lee were absent as they were doing prison stretches.

Ciara had charmed everyone, including the girls which had been no mean feat. His twin cousins, Curtis and Charlie both seemed enraptured by her.

His Uncle Ryan, smartly dressed and cherub-faced even in his mid-forties, gave Connor a wink and thumbs up, indicating that he approved of Ciara.

She had turned to him earlier in the evening and asked, “I’ve heard twice now, your uncles calling other men ‘Love’ when they’ve come up to the table to greet them?”

“It’s a just a Leeds term of endearment.”

She had nodded and focused on the action.

The bouts were three rounds of two minutes each except for the final two which were to be four rounds. The participants boxed in fourteen-ounce gloves as opposed to the ten-ounce gloves worn in professional contests.

He and Ciara had a friendly bet on the outcome of the current match between an athletic man in what looked to be his twenties, and one who appeared around fifty years old. She had bet on the younger man who was now taking a hammering.

“How did you know?”

“Because of their demeanours,” he replied. “And the way they were shadow boxing before the start, the older one was moving his head, the younger one wasn’t—like he isn’t now.”

The younger man caught yet another fusillade of punches to the face.

“That’s why that judo girl got beat in the UFC, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, one of the reasons, that and—oohh, he’s going to stop him,” said Connor as the older man pinned his victim in the corner and crashed punches through and around his opponent’s porous guard. “Look how he’s keeping a pace back so the other lad can’t clinch him—there, see,” said Connor as the referee waved the fight off.

The crowd clapped and cheered uproariously. Connor noticed the look on Tom’s face as he cut through the crowd towards the table. “Fuck’s sake, mate, one of the lads says he’s broken down on the motorway up. He was meant to be the co-main event.”

“He bottle it?” asked Connor.

“Don’t think so, he sent me a Snapchat of the breakdown service bloke hunched over his car. Fucking nightmare.”

Connor thought for a moment. “What weight was it?”

“Eighty-one kay.”

“Four twos with fourteen-ounce gloves?”

“Yeah, mate, lots looking forward to it to this one too.”

“I have my gumshield in my training kit in the car. I’ll stand in for him.”

“Eh?”

“I’ll box the bloke. You’ll still get your co-main event.”

“Mate, this lad’s good, mate. He’s been training for months and is ripped to fuck like.”

“Tom…it’s four twos with fourteen ounces, I can survive that with anyone other than Tyson, and I am sober. Now do you want your fight or not?”

34

Michael Crowder sat, feverishly tapping away at the laptop in his Sydney apartment. Crowder, a rotund man in his early forties with a full head of thick black hair, was a respected journalist for The Australian.

He had returned from the Philippines three weeks ago covering ‘the black market of human organs’ there. The sale of organs used to be legal in the South-East Asian archipelago. Then in March 2008, the government banned it, driving the trade underground. That would have been a story itself, but Crowder had been following a lead of something more sinister. That street urchins were being lifted off the streets and killed for their organs.

Crowder had met with a Professor Lee Vargas who had told him of two potential victims escaping kidnap and reporting the matter to the police. The allegations fell on deaf ears. This caused a chill to go through Crowder, as he had remembered a similar story of an Ann Walker from back home.

She had been living rough in Mawson, a suburb of Canberra. She had claimed to have been picked up by local charity workers who took her to a hospital. She had overheard a conversation between one of the workers and hospital staff regarding the removal of her organs and whether or not she would be missed. Walker said she had escaped through a window when permitted to use the lavatory. She had reported the incident to the police and then to a journalist for The Canberra Times. Six days later, Ann Walker had been found dead of a drugs overdose in her addict boyfriend’s apartment.

Since his return, he had begun digging and had come up with a name. Asherson Group Incorporated—AGI—was a conglomerate of wealthy American investors funding technological study into medical and physiological research. The company had more staff with H-1B visas than the next three largest research companies combined.

He understood that the H-1B visa is a non-immigrant visa that allows US companies to employ graduate level workers with theoretical and/or technical expertise in specialised fields. There were powerful lobbyists in Washington calling for a review of the visa policy arguing it stifled American innovation. The number of accepted applicants into AGI had reached way into the five figures. Crowder had wondered why AGI’s company name had been kept out of the political storm regarding the issue. As he dug deeper, tales of financial kickbacks and corruption began to emerge.

Now he was busy writing to his editor, outlining his findings and suspicions, to request the time and funds to pursue the story further. His inbox chimed, and he saw that it was from Professor Vargas’s address.

It had three attachments at the bottom, a picture, a file and a video. It read: ‘This is what happened to Professor Lee Vargas for running his mouth. And if you persist in any investigation, it will happen to your daughter Marie Crowder.’

Crowder’s heart pounded as he opened the picture. He gasped in horror. A torso with the limbs and head severed lay in a pool of blood on a rubber sheet. The legs and arms had somehow been forced into the opening where the head once was. The head beside the macabre arrangement belonged to Professor Vargas. Below the picture was the caption ‘This is known as a Colombian vase’.

In a state of shock, Crowder opened the next file revealing an in-depth report on his daughter: her age, school, address, place and date of birth, her horse-riding achievements, and medical reports dating back seven years.

Crowder remained rooted in his seat as his finger shakily clicked the video. After thirty seconds he had thrown up on the floor, unable to watch any more of Professor Vargas’s transformation into a ‘Colombian vase’. In his fit of retching, he missed the entire email deleting itself upon completion.

Connor ignored his opponent’s eyeballing of him. He never saw the point in engaging in a ‘stare down’ with someone who he was soon going to be punching anyway.

Tom had not been lying in his assessment that the shaven-headed opponent—a Jake ‘The Ghost’ Shaw—was “ripped to fuck”. He stood around six feet and was just as broad as Connor. However, Connor was comforted looking at Shaw’s nose—it resembled a piece of putty, presumably due to the amount of breaks it had received—and the scar tissue around the eyes. To the average person, these facial badges of battle hinted at the owner’s fighting prowess. To Connor, they said not difficult to hit. Not that he did not take heed of other visual signs; cauliflower ears told of hours on the mat grappling—that or they had been punched or kicked—scarred knuckles hinted at a man not scared of throwing the first punch into the jaw but catching the teeth, and a sharp jawline indicated a lack of surplus body fat.

The ring announcer had already informed the crowd of Brad Jackson’s pull-out, and that a replacement had been found. Luckily for his cousin Tom, the majority of the bout’s fans had been on Shaw’s side, and there were no disturbances.

Tom’s reticence in him taking the match had surprised Connor. Then he realised that Tom didn’t know that it was only three years ago that Connor had been the Combined Services Open class champion at light-middleweight. As Shaw banged his gloves together loudly in a show of aggression, Connor smiled to himself—I am going to fucking splatter this cunt.

The announcer’s voice reverberated, and Shaw walked up to the curtain giving Connor one last look before making the slashing gesture across his throat. Connor laughed, and anger splashed across the larger man’s face.

“Ladies and Gentleman, welcome Jake ‘The Ghost’ Shaw!” sang out the announcer, and the cheers rained down.

“Why is he called ‘The Ghost’? He doesn’t look the elusive type in the ring.”

“Nah, he isn’t,” replied Tom. “It’s because he’s left his opponents as white as a sheet.”

“You could have lied to me.”

Tom smiled. He would be Connor’s cornerman, along with Luke. He was two years younger than Connor with bright blonde hair. Despite murmurings in the family that Luke was not his Uncle Lee’s biological son, Connor loved him just as fiercely as the rest of his cousins, perhaps even more so. Luke had followed Connor into the same boxing club when they were lads and—unlike Tom—knew just how good his cousin was.

The announcer’s voice reverberated through the nightclub, alerting Connor to make his ring walk. “Ladies and Gentlemen, coming in on short notice, Connor Ryder!”

Connor shook his head at his cousin—Tom must have told the announcer to use the ‘family’ name. The two torches spewed fire into the air as he walked between them, and then the sound of Ghostbusters theme tune began to a chorus of laughter from the crowd.

“Nice touch,” said Tom.

“Always time for a funny,” replied Connor.

They set off towards the ring. Connor caught his concerned-looking Aunt Jenny’s eye and winked. He climbed into the ring to cheers, and the announcer went through the usual introductions. Connor felt a nervous energy throughout his body and reminded himself—if he rushes you then cover up and ride it out, if he backs away then do not rush in. As they came together, Connor knew the snarling Shaw was going to rush him.

Connor sprinted to the centre of the ring, then simultaneously rolled and pivoted to his right avoiding Shaw’s full force right fist. Connor unleashed a straight left-right-left catching Shaw on the head and neck before he could right himself. Shaw rushed him a jab, partially stuffing the countering right. He corralled Connor into the ropes and threw a barrage of hard and wild punches.

Connor covered up and kept ducking and rolling. He avoided some, rode others and caught the rest on his gloves—they were fast and hard. As he expected, after around a minute, Shaw’s pace slowed, and Connor took his chance. He fired a scudding left hook to the body, a left to head as Shaw dropped a protecting elbow to his ribs. A short right caught Shaw to the head as Connor slid away.

Shaw followed after him taking a deep breath before pouncing again as Connor lay on the ropes. Connor rode out another frenetic storm of punches before firing back. This time, the hook to the pit of Shaw’s stomach made him visibly wince and back off. A left, right, left hook combination slammed into the larger man’s face before the bell went.

Connor returned to the corner, sucking in as much oxygen as possible.

“Fuck me, mate, you almost had him,” said Tom.

“He doesn’t like those body shots, cuz,” said Luke.

“I am going to let him go into the last before stopping him, the cheeky staring cunt,” said Connor, still irked.

In the second, Shaw’s forward momentum had not been quite so forceful. Towards the end of the third, Connor had backed him up against the ropes before firing a succession of left hooks—head, body and head. Shaw span to the floor. He got to his hands and knees, looked up and resignedly got to his feet. The bell went.

As he walked past Connor said, “Don’t you even think of not coming out for the next round, you bullying prick.”

Shaw slunk away to his corner.

“Mate, you stop him and you’re PRB boxing champion of Yorkshire,” said Tom.

“What the fuck is that when it’s at home?” asked Connor, between mouthfuls of water.

“Doesn’t matter, mate, you get a belt to wear for your Instagram posing.”

“I don’t have Instagram.”

The bell sounded, and his opponent made a rush forward swinging. Connor knew this was Shaw’s last hurrah even if he did not. Connor’s piston-like jab began knocking back the head as if it was on an elastic band. The body shots started scything in before a blockbusting right hand tipped Shaw onto his back.

He got onto his hands and knees, but as he pushed off to stand he listed sideways into the ropes. The referee waved his hands above his head to declare the fight over. Jenny’s screams rose above the general din. He looked over and saw Ciara shaking her head as Tom and Luke hoisted him aloft.

She had a smile on her face though, as did his entire family. Everyone, except his Uncle Derek.

35

Tris never enjoyed visiting his brother in prison. It was not guilt; his brother Adam was three years older and had been trouble since childhood. At nineteen, his elder brother had permanently disabled his supplier of the cocaine he sold on, by bludgeoning his head with a rolling pin, after the gangster caught Adam having sex with his wife in the kitchen. The wife would, in time, become Adam’s wife, and his legend began from there.

It was because it could easily have been Tris himself in the J wing of Frankland prison, with the things he had done, albeit on the ‘white-collar’ side of crime. He lamented on that as he sat in a room separate to the general visiting area. His brother had something worked out with the staff there.

Adam Lloyd was two years into a seven-year stretch for his attempt at money laundering. He would be out on a tag after another year or so. Their sibling rivalry had intensified over the years before morphing into something more insidious with Adam’s incarceration. Tris was here to keep him sweet—his brother still had a lot of friends.

The door opened, and his brother walked in, a little stockier and a bit greyer than the last time Tris had seen him.

“How are things, Bossman?” said Adam in his thick London accent.

“Not too bad, brother. Thanks,” he replied.

“See ya toned down ya accent more. That for helping with chirpsing to the girls?”

“No, brother. It’s just with moving out of London. You’re looking thickset now—in a good way,” said Tris in an attempt to steer the conversation—he was already getting riled.

“Hitting the weights is all you can do in here, in’it.”

“That’s not all you can do in here,” said Tris.

“What else? Mr Expert.”

“You could read some books.”

His brother sat back and sneered. “Look at you. In your posh clothes, looking down on me for where I am, how I talk. You wouldn’t know a thing about it; you’ve never even—”

Tris’s temper hijacked him. “I’ve never been because I am not careless and greedy, I don’t spout off on the phone about how I have the authorities fooled—I heard the transcriptions. And as for the way I talk? You talk like a lil nigger from Croydon in a way that screams, ‘I am a Gangster’.”

Adam Lloyd’s eyebrows rose. “Well, well, well. My little brother Terry has it all figured out, eh. Not mentioning how you wouldn’t be still drawing breath if it wasn’t for me.”

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” said Tris, “and I have more than looked after you and your family, Adam.”

“So they’re ‘my’ family now? Not ‘your’ family?” said Adam disdainfully. “And I’ll tell you, one person I need you to ‘look after’ is a Louis Allen down our way. Well, what used to be our way.”

Tris’s heart skipped. He studied his brother’s features—does he know my dealings with him?

“Why’s that?”

“Cos he’s upset some friends of mine down there.”

“Why do you need me? Why can’t they handle it themselves?”

“Because we want to avoid an all-out war, don’t we? We wouldn’t win a street war with the SUG—there are too many of those ‘lickle niggers’, as you say. But you have contacts in the police and you have money. I just want him to catch a little beating, don’t I, a little lesson an’ a scare, a slice on the face. Nothing more than that.”

Dixon could sense already that this was not something on which his elder brother would relent.

“I doubt he’s on his own for any length of time.”

“Everyone is on their own eventually. That’s what a surveillance team is for. Even if he does spot ’em, he’ll think it’s the rozzers, won’t he? Not that he’ll spot ’em, you can afford the best now, little brother.”

“After this, we’re finished. No more favours. Our professional lives remain separate.”

“Please. Half of those goons on your payroll belonged to me in the beginning, and I get told things.”

“What kind of things? Enlighten me.”

“How you have a little project of lifting the homeless and providing them free medical care. Well, that’s what we’ll say it is,” said Adam, with a grin and a wink. “Not sure what other people would think though.”

Tris felt his blood begin to freeze. As much as he tried to keep his face neutral, he knew his elder brother could see through it. Adam continued, “Don’t you worry, brother. Your secret is safe with me. But remember, I won’t be in here forever. You can change ya name and speak a little more posh. But family is family, end of story.”

Now showered and back in his civilian dress, Connor greeted his family back at the VIP table.

“You fuckin’ mad bastard,” exclaimed Derek giving him a bear hug. “I forgot you could box like that.”

Connor knew he had not forgotten—he just had not known.

“I have my moments,” said Connor.

“I knew you’d stop him,” said Luke excitedly.

“Well, we’re celebrating now,” announced Derek.

Connor knew he had to celebrate with his family now. “Could do with something to eat,” said Connor.

“Say no more, lad. I have a new place in town, a Mongolian restaurant,” said Derek.

As the group began to file out, his Uncle Ryan sidled up beside him. Connor gave his favourite uncle a great smile, who whispered to him, “Your dad would have been well proud, it was like watching him up there.”

“Proud?” said his Aunt Jenny loudly. “I bloody thought it was yer dad then. You boxed just like ’im.”

As she said this, Derek turned around with a look on his face that Connor registered as anger—jealous of a dead brother?

Nevertheless, Connor felt a punt of melancholy hit his chest at his uncle’s and auntie’s words—his dad would have been proud. His Uncle Ryan and Aunt Jenny walked ahead as Ciara linked her arm inside his. “It’s going to be hard having to wait now,” she said.

“Wait for what?”

“To fuck you.”

Louis’s white shirt had the top two buttons undone revealing a little of the etched line between his thickly developed pectorals. The sleeves were rolled up to show the silver strapped Omega Speedmaster. His olive-green suit jacket lay over the back of his chair.

Pristine white cloths covered the restaurant tables. Huge French renaissance paintings in golden frames embedded themselves into the walls between the pillars. A glass roof revealed the mixture of the blue and white sky.

He revelled in the glances of the stiffly dressed patrons. He remembered his cousin Elliot—who made big money in engineering—complaining to him about the stares he got when frequenting upper-class establishments. “‘I feel like screaming ‘I am a chartered engineer, not a drug dealer’,” he had said.

Louis did not care about the looks—he was a criminal and liked it. Connor had told him about something he had read about the media coverage of Hurricane Katrina. Pictures were taken of some of the victims, both white and black who had been left to fend for themselves without access to food, water and other necessities. There were photos of the victims finding supplies in the abandoned stores in the aftermath. The caption under the pictures of the white people had been: ‘Survivors manage to find vital supplies’. The caption under the black people: ‘Looting’.

Louis stood as the woman he was meeting arrived.

Mixed-race, with her glossy black hair flecked with grey, cascading over her shoulders; Shola Aysha exuded the class and confidence expected of a partner of one of London’s most respected law firms. She wore a white suit with black lapels, and her shoes tipped her height over five-feet-nine-inches. At fifty-one years old, she was nearly twenty-five years Louis’s senior.

“White suit? You sure while we’re eating?”

She smiled, revealing perfectly white and aligned teeth. “I’ll be careful. I wore it on purpose as a reminder not to drink.”

They sat down after the perfunctory handshake and London air kiss. Louis ordered water with limes when the waiter came over.

“Why the limes? To improve the taste?”

“They’re an anti-inflammatory, in’it.”

“I keep forgetting your personal training background,” she said.

“How could you forget with a physique like this?”

She laughed, and he said, “I wasn’t sure you’d take me up on my offer of a thank-you dinner.”

“Lunching with clients isn’t an irregular occurrence—ya feel me,” she said, gently mimicking his accent, “but you didn’t have to thank me, although it gives Saul a day off cooking.”

Saul was her husband and fellow partner in the law firm. She had told Louis that he was on a year’s sabbatical from the firm.

“Well, that’s good to know. If it hadn’t been for you and the firm he and you built, then it would have been a long time before I could eat out like this.”

“Very kind of you, and I shall tell him. Although I know you knew about the loophole.”

In the year previous, Louis had been caught in possession of a Mauser Model 1930. Aysha had taken the case and managed to take advantage of the UK’s antique-gun exemption laws, arguing that it was bought as ‘an ornament’. Louis was found not guilty. She was right—Louis had been fully aware of the exemption when he purchased the weapon from a European gun fair.

“Why do you think that?” he asked.

“Because your name is getting bandied around my manor. They say you’re the leader of the Southwark Union Gang.”

“We still covered by legal professional privilege?”

“If you like.”

“Then what if I am?”

“Then I’d ask why? You have assets and a legitimate business. Every charge you evade is just another charge closer to you being convicted. Why don’t you quit while you’re ahead?”

“You sound like someone I know,” he replied.

“Your mum?”

“Nah, he’s a friend of mine.”

“Why don’t you listen to him?”

“Because he’s not good at following his own advice either,” said Louis. “I know what you’re saying, but what am I going to do? Knock around with high society here and pretend I am one of youse?”

“I don’t think that’s the reason. I think you love it. I also think you might be fatalistic. That you think this is all there is for you.”

“What do you suggest?” said Louis. “I can’t rap.”

“Royal Marine turned solicitor has a ring to it,” she said.

Louis laughed. “Maybe you’re right. Getting shot or incarcerated doesn’t sound like fun.”

“The quicker you’re out, the quicker you can start doing some good.”

“How do you know that I am not already?”

36

Crowder walked down the street, deep in thought. It had been five days since that horrific email. He had just left his apartment having sent a re-written article, much to his editor’s chagrin. He left out any mention of the AGI corporation or the Ann Walker story. His mind had been in turmoil since; a psychologist he’d once interviewed had described it as mental dissonance. The psychologist said a human brain would rationalise a decision made in a way that would keep that person’s self-image intact. Still conflicted that his journalistic integrity had collapsed, he was waiting for that to happen.

He headed to Baxter’s bar. He knew daytime drinking in a crisis could exacerbate the situation; however, he needed a drink.

He sat down and briefly considered a pint of XXXX Gold before thinking better of the alcohol content and opting for a Tooheys Extra Dry instead. He took a sip, savouring the cool, crisp liquid for a moment before a tall gentleman took a seat next to him,

“I’ll have the same,” he said with a trace of an accent Crowder knew to be Scottish. The man then turned to him and said, “Michael Crowder, I believe.”

Crowder’s heart began beating hard, but he still took the outstretched hand and shook it in reflex. The man smiled. “Relax, Mr Crowder, I am not someone seeking to harm you in any way. We may have some mutual enemies in common.”

“Like who? Who are you?”

The man sat down and sipped his beer before answering. “I am a man tasked with the protection of British citizens, in an official and unofficial capacity. A while ago it was brought to my attention that an unknown group had taken to kidnapping homeless people off the street—for their organs. Something that you seemed to have touched upon on journalistic investigations.”

Crowder blinked a few times, before asking, “How can I trust you are who you say you are? And how would I know you’re telling me the truth, mate?”

“To answer the first question—you don’t. Although, after a twenty-two-hour flight, I hope you will. To answer the second, I have a very talented computer technician who can pick up certain algorithms over the internet concerning keywords and phrases. It’s a little above my expertise, but some of the traffic coming to and from your system caught his eye, including the ominous email you received five days ago.”

Crowder breathed deeply before replying, “This begs the question, mate, that you could be one of the sick bastards that sent me the fackin’ heinous thing in the first place.”

“Why would I need to show myself to you? I already know you’ve edited the article you handed in to your editor. If I were ‘one of them’, then you wouldn’t see my face.”

“What do you want?”

“I want information. Because I want these people even more than you do. Except it won’t be through the medium of the law—or a newspaper article.”

Crowder sipped his beer and nodded to himself. “Strewth, mate, then looks like you’re buying.”

Connor and his Uncle Ryan sat in the Wapentake Café in Leeds City centre. Connor sat facing the entrance as was his habit, and his uncle sat at a ninety-degree angle to him, with full view of the exit. They had finished their breakfast; his uncle a fry-up and he some scrambled eggs and bacon. They had a full pot of coffee in front of them.

“Do you have to be anywhere anytime soon?” asked his uncle.

“Not for the next few hours. I have made an appointment to visit Uncle Michael this afternoon. It’s out of visitation hours, but I am now his ‘solicitor’s assistant’ so will be allowed to see him.”

“I see,” said Ryan. “You know your dad was in Armley for a stretch, don’t ya?”

“Yeah, I heard, possession of a firearm.”

Connor could sense his uncle had brought him to the café for more than breakfast. He hadn’t invited anyone else.

“Yeah,” said Ryan. “Do you know whose it were?”

“His, wasn’t it? I thought he carried it in the aftermath of taking vengeance on those who hospitalised Grandad and shot Derek?”

“Nah, that was over as soon as your old man walked into The Crown and tipped out Joe Mason’s hand and foot in front of his scallies.” Ryan took a deep breath. “It was my gun. The coppers pulled me over when I ’ad your dad in the car with me. Without a second’s thought ’e took the rap for it on account of me having young children and a wife.”

Connor just stared at him for a moment. “He did that?”

“Yeah, he did,” said Ryan, before dabbing the corner of his eye with his thumb. “He never wanted to get into this life in the first place. I know how it sounds, but it’s true. None of us were in major trouble with the police before my dad got attacked. Not really.”

“What happened then?”

“Your dad went away for two years, didn’t he. In the meantime, certain characters came to the rest of my brothers and me, offering us work. Big money for very little graft. Things like show at this meeting, could you look after this club, that club. Then drugs—then guns. All of a sudden we’re driving around in expensive cars, eating for free, taking holidays to exotic places. I guess we all got a little high on it. Dad knew there was no stopping it and went to see Greg inside. I think your dad still had ambitions of going pro when he got out, but I don’t think he’d have got a boxing licence back then with a record for that.” Ryan took a sip of his coffee, and Connor did not ask any questions—he knew his uncle wanted to offload. Ryan continued, “To be honest, Connor, your dad was always the leader amongst us brothers even though he was the middle kid. I think that stuck in Derek’s craw sometimes, especially as Derek got shot, an’ it was Greg who sorted that out. He was dead smart, wasn’t he, an’ he was a good-looking bastard, hard as fuck but he had something that Dad—your granddad—had, a sort of way of making you feel at ease. You remind me a lot of ’im.”

Connor felt a pride in his chest and asked, “What happened then?”

“Well, Greg was Dad’s favourite like, Dad would never say it, but you could tell. Anyway, he went to see ’im in Armley jail. Told him he wanted Greg to take over ‘the family’, if you know what I mean. Don’t think Greg was that keen but what else was he going to do? He fucked off getting a trade when he was a kid when he won the ABAs an’ ’ad promoters hanging off ’im. So he comes out and starts getting us all in line, disciplined. We all had to get day jobs, fronts. I became a binman! Loved it. He had been rubbing shoulders with all these convicts in the nick, so he knows more of the dos and don’ts. Proper codes when speaking—this was in the mid-nineties, so we even used codes on pagers then we’d fuck off to a payphone. He ’ad met Zain Aziz inside too, you know of ’im?”

“Who was he?” Connor had heard the name but had not known that his dad knew him. He wanted to hear his uncle’s description of him.

“Aziz was this big-time gangster from Bradford—huge cunt. Half Jamaican, half Paki so I don’t know how that happened—”

“It happens when someone of Jamaican ethnicity has sex with someone of Pakistani ethnicity.”

“Shut it, you cheeky get,” replied Ryan, smiling. “Anyway, apparently Aziz is the one who taught your dad Punjabi in the jail. So Greg ’ad links with the lads in Bradford and he could always settle down trouble there. They reckon that’s why, when there was all that bovver in Manchester, Liverpool, Glasgow and even Newcastle a bit, no one thought of Leeds as a crime capital or anything like that. There weren’t a heavy amount of guns knocking around for one thing, apart from maybe in places like Chapletown, an’ some in Seacroft. Another thing he did was to take advantage of the Hawala banking system they have in Bradford.”

“Go on,” said Connor, wanting to hear his uncle’s take on this monetary system.

“It’s like a side thing some local Asian businesses have. Think one lad he used was a jeweller. Now there’re loads of these Hawaladars dotted everywhere across the globe. It’s a system built on trust and it’s been around for donkey’s years, before western banking like. The Hawaladars charge som’mat like two per cent and delivery is free—nothing official is written down. Say you want to transfer a hundred grand to someone in the US, your Hawaladar tells the Hawaladar over there, and that one gives your man the hundred grand. He—the Hawladar who made the call for you—now owes that US Hawladar the hundred grand, but that’ll get sorted out in the future when the US one has a customer who wants to transfer knicker to someone over here. And so on. That’s how Greg handled a lot of transactions for overseas. There was a big clampdown on it after nine-eleven an’ that, as the government was saying that’s how terrorists moved their money. I reckon it was more that the bankers—the proper ones—knew they were losing money to it, and the government with tax too. Anyway, that’s why it was sound between our lot and the Bradford lot for years.”

“So there wasn’t any kicking off during that time?”

“Not that much, a few skirmishes like but nothing major. You got to remember, that as reasonable as your dad could be, he could also be a ruthless cunt. People knew how far he’d go like, I mean, Joe Mason still limps around with the sleeve of his jacket flapping, doesn’t he? In the late nineties, the Triads tried to take over Leeds, and us and the Bradford lot managed to get ’em out.”

“The Triads? How did you manage that?”

Connor had heard rumours but never fully believed it.

“It’s like your old man said, they can’t have the entire organisation in the one place, plus we’d lived here all our lives and had the coppers on side—they didn’t want naughty Chinks setting up sticks here any more than we did. We were like those Mujahedeen against Russia. Our police contacts would tip us off. Another thing was that the leader was stepping out of his bounds really, so after a few months guess what happened?”

“What?”

“The Triad leader of London, the Dragon Head as they call ’im, requests a meeting with your dad. We’re all there like, proper itchy trigger fingers. This Godfather Chink gets out a box, opens it, and there’s the head of Huang Lee, the little bastard who kicked it all off in the first place against his boss’s orders. It was weird because when it first kicked off everyone was running around shitting ’emselves, and Greg was just like Churchill—“do this, do that, this is what we’re going to do”, it just calmed everyone down. Check the internet, you’ll see that there’s Triads in almost every major city in the UK—keeping a low profile but they are there—but not West Yorkshire.”

“How did Dad get the police onside then?” asked Connor. He braced himself for the answer.

Ryan laughed. “You think your dad might have stitched people up, don’t ya? Nah, he wouldn’t grass on anyone, it was more like, he’d let them seize drugs in an empty warehouse to let ’em have a win. Our Tom does that now, he learnt it off him. This is another thing he used to do—he’d skim a lot of money off the profit margins and somehow he’d make arrangements for the money to go to drug addiction clinics, homeless shelters and police awareness schemes. He’d say to us, “we can make good money over a long time, or obscene money in the short time”, som’mat like that, or maybe the other way round. What he meant was that if we’re living in massive houses and supercars, then it’s going to piss off the locals and the police. When your dad ran the family, we had hardly any bother off the coppers, and everyone respected us. Ya old man used to clamp down on cutting the drugs too much like and—oh, get this like—when anyone said, “look, I want to kick drugs now” Greg’d pay for their rehab and maybe get ’em a job. That’s why everyone loved ’im; your mam loved ’im too, that’s why she never really settled with anyone else. Now it’s—fuck’s sake,” he said, stopping the narrative.

“What is it, Uncle Ryan?”

“Nah, nothing. It’s just not like that anymore. Michael and Lee are in the jail now. We have trouble with the Bradford lot more now. Our relations with the police are going downhill—”

“Why don’t you take over the family then, Ryan? If things are as bad as you say? Tom will be behind you—”

“I won’t make a move against my own brother. He is what he is, but he’ll always see me as the youngest. Besides, me, Tom and everyone else knows who should be running this family. You are the heir apparent.”

“Crime families aren’t like a royal family. There is no succession based on bloodline.”

“You haven’t worked with the family for years and already you’re respected down south. You have links with the SUG down there in London, and everyone knows about your dealings with the big man in Holland. And Tris Dixon—you’ve done all that on your tod. And you’ve been a Royal Marine, been to war and that. You need to be here where ya belong, cos it won’t be that much longer until there are fiends and anarchy everywhere here.”

Connor looked at his uncle. “Uncle Ryan, I am not what you think I am, the things I am involved in, I can’t take up here and—”

“I know exactly who you are. You’re ya father’s son, and all your cousins look up to you like me and my brothers looked up to Greg. Now, am not saying you hav’ to come back right away. But you gotta come back—this is where ya belong, not down there with those southerners, ya missus excluded obviously.”

Connor sipped his coffee. “Maybe one day.”

37

Frank Schwimmer enjoyed the views of the Serengeti plains from the hot air balloon. At 2,000 feet he could see for miles.

The hot air balloon trip with the requisite champagne was fine, but he was here for the big game hunting. The arguments against hunting were amusing to him. It had been Roosevelt who said, “In a civilised and cultivated country, wild animals only continue to exist at all, when preserved by sportsmen”. Besides, all the money paid for the privilege more than compensated.

He understood the notion that death can advance the species. Of course, not everyone agreed. Some of his pals on the hill in Washington might agree if it were not political suicide to do so.

Schwimmer stroked his black designer goatee which contrasted with the grey of his head hair. The plastic surgery had knocked around ten off his forty-eight years, although he’d acquired a faintly oriental appearance from it. He wore cargo shorts, a linen shirt and a straw hat.

As he absorbed the vastness of the plains, he pondered what had led him down this road—this so very precarious philanthropic business. His mother loved life, she loved people and parties, and people and parties loved her. She adored eating, drinking, smoking and dabbling in drugs. One day her diseased liver began to develop cirrhosis and fail her at the age of sixty-five. The doctors said a transplant would take a maximum of five months to locate, and in the meantime, he should keep his mother as healthy as possible. He had known that the likelihood of his mother abstaining from drink and adhering to a healthy diet would be slim. He had offered to pay for a complete refurbishment of the hospital, only to be told that it was not possible to accelerate the process.

His mother died in her fourth month of waiting.

Schwimmer had been angry—a burning frustration that he had all the money and influence that he thought he would need, but he had been powerless to save his own mother.

At first, he began reaching out to experts in the field to get a better handle on the solution. In the course of this research, he met many frustrated medical professionals throughout the US and Europe.

The bureaucracy exasperated him, but he persevered with his lobbying. Weeks and months went by, and as he spent more and more time in the hospitals, listening to the anguish of the patients, and the relatives of the patients, in need of organs only to watch them die, his determination grew into desperation.

One day he witnessed an incident that infuriated him and made him sad in equal measure. He had been in a private hospital in London discussing potential improvements to the efficiency of organ donation, of which he would be funding at considerable cost. The benefactor then took him on a tour of the hospital. It had been then that he had met a teenage girl lying withered on the hospital bed. It had been explained to him that she had been a talented ballerina; indeed a Google search of her name had confirmed as much. She had been suffering an extremely rare and aggressive form of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD). A suitable donor had been found weeks ago, as a card-carrying donor patient had died on the surgery table in an NHS hospital.

Schwimmer had been aghast to learn that the donor’s family had vetoed the donation. He asked for what possible reason they could have done this, and none of the answers he received could justify allowing this young, talented girl to die.

That was the day that set him on this course. Why should the stupid and inconsiderate deny the gift of life to the talented and innocent?

He had considered some kind of money for organs scheme before quickly realising that projects like this could not even be mooted in public—the liberals would have a field day in Congress. But Schwimmer knew that some lives were worth more than others, and he was prepared to do whatever it took to preserve those lives. He employed thousands of people, and the type of tax he paid supported thousands more—supported some that were a drain on society and this could be their way of doing good.

Men like him and other entrepreneurs helped shape the world. They provided the infrastructure, advanced and helped make breakthroughs in technology, including medical technology. The proletariat complained about how they never had a fair chance but eighty per cent of America’s millionaires were first-generation, and the best rose to the top and rightly deserved the rewards, as did their loved ones who supported them. He refused to feel guilty about helping to extend the lives of those who mattered in exchange for those who had wasted theirs.

One day—he thought—my sacrifices will be recognised and revered.

“There’s Rocky!” exclaimed Michael Ryder, as he threw his arms around his nephew, before turning to the solicitor. “Can you wait outside, Mr Malone?”

“Of course,” replied the middle-aged solicitor, closing the door behind him.

“Now then, cock, how’s things? Heard about your exploits and that,” said Michael, clapping his nephew’s upper arms. Michael was naturally the largest of all his brothers at six feet. He had a full head of grey-flecked black hair and a just noticeable paunch on an otherwise muscular physique.

“I am guessing it’s been blown out of proportion. It was only four twos with fourteen-ounce gloves—Aunt Jenny could have done it,” answered Connor.

Michael laughed; Connor was his dad all over, he would have batted the attention off too. “But Aunt Jenny would not have stopped a good kid training for months in fourteen ouncers, would she? —wait—maybe she could.”

They both laughed, and Connor said, “It’s good to see you, Uncle Michael.”

“Good to see you too. Heard you been making waves daawwnn sarrrfff and on the continent,” Michael said as they both sat down.

“I am doing all right,” Connor said.

“Heard you have a new lass, word is she has a face like fire damaged Lego,” he said.

Connor smiled. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Course, mate, what’s up?”

“How are things here? I don’t mean in here but in Leeds, with everything?”

“What you heard?”

“Ryan told me things were different now.”

“Aye, lad, it is different. I wouldn’t be here when ya dad was running things.”

“You’re being looked after here though?“

“Yeah, we’re still Ryders at the end of the day, there’s still that respect—well, it’s more fear now. The thing is with fear is that it’s all well and good while you’re on top, while you’re still powerful. But as soon as you’re down, people can’t wait to stick the boot in. Respect is a different thing—people will protect you if they can. Your dad had that, to be honest.”

“I see.”

“It’s not all our Derek’s fault. Things are different nowadays. Back before the internet got big, you needed structured organisations like ours if you wanted whatever. Now, you can order stuff in an’ make a passable product at home, so now you have gangs of heathens who don’t give a fuck and need constant watching. It’s more Manchester and Liverpool, mind, but it’s creeping up here too.”

“Things different in here now? I mean, in the nick.”

“In here, whoever has access to the most ‘jailies’ is King.”

“What are ‘jailies’?”

Michael laughed. “Little wraps of heroin. You need a little army of fiends in here to get things done. A fiend will slap Mike Tyson if he knows he’s getting a hit afterwards.”

“If you survived Tyson’s return hit, eh.”

Michael smiled. “Take it Ryan has been on at ya to come back up?”

Connor nodded. “He’s mentioned it. But it’s like I told him, I have interests down south.”

“Well, funny you should mention that. Don’t ya have a connection with the SUG down there? Friends with the leader Louis Allen?”

“Yeah, we were in the Marines together.”

Michael felt a sting of disappointment that his nephew did not trust him enough to verbally confirm his business dealings with the gang leader. He mentally countered it—he hasn’t been up here in a while, he is just being careful.

“Well, the word is that he’s pissed off a person in Frankland, an Adz Lloyd, the eldest of the Lloyd family. He’s put out a big-time contract on the black fella down there. To get a bit of a hammering like, not to take ’im out.”

Michael could see a shift in his nephew’s posture.

“Why?”

“Adz had business interests down there that your friend swallowed up.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“Don’t be silly. That is what family is for.”

The sight of Janet as she opened her door gladdened Bruce. She looked great even in her casual clothes, some baking powder down the apron she was wearing and her blonde hair tied in a ponytail.

Bruce was well versed in long-haul flights, and countering the effects of jet lag; still, he was a little out of sorts having just got back from Australia the previous day. He cross-referenced what Crowder had told him with Jaime’s information and there was no doubt in his mind that this criminal enterprise had become multinational. Maybe fifteen years or so ago, the prospect of taking on such evil would have overawed him. He smiled—Let them be nervous.

“Well, Mr McQuillan, I’d thought you’d mark your territory with a toothbrush left over, not getting your post sent.”

Bruce’s heart rate raised a little, but he hid his concern. “Let’s see it then?”

“I think we need to discuss this, don’t you?” she said, attempting a seriousness that he could see was false.

“Where is it?” He smiled. “It might be of grave national importance.”

“Thought you were a lowly civil servant?” she asked rhetorically, handing him an envelope. She kissed him before he could answer and ushered him inside. He pocketed it and struck it from his mind—whatever it was, he wouldn’t open it in front of Janet.

“Where are the dogs?” he asked.

“A lovely lady came around a few days ago. She owns a dog walking business. Helps ease the pressure, so to speak.”

Bruce shook his head. “That’s how it begins. Next, you’ll be trying to foist them off onto family members.”

“Shush you, it’s only a few walks a week, I still take them the rest of the time. They didn’t seem themselves today though—maybe they didn’t want to go,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

He sat down and called out, “Smells lovely, by the way.”

“I hope you have an appetite, been cooking and baking for the best part of an hour.”

“You know, it surprises me you’re so domesticated. I’d have thought you’d have grown up with a butler, maid and cook in tow.”

“Well, that is your prejudices coming through, Bruce. Just because I speak well doesn’t mean I grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth.”

“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself then?”

“I am sure you’ve done a background check on moi already. I know I would have if I was you.”

“Janet, I am not going to lie to you…” he said.

“Go on.” She frowned.

“Nothing, I am just not going to lie to you.” He smiled. “Tell me your story.”

“Why? Are you going to tell me yours?”

“I like to keep the mystery in a relationship.”

“Nothing really to tell. One of three girls, eldest. Mother and father struggled before he made it big in the oil and gas industry. Shipped us off to boarding school, learnt to speak ‘proper like’. Studied hard, and here we are.”

“Where you from originally?”

“Pompey Mush,” she said in an accent regional to Portsmouth. He knew ‘Mush’—pronounced ‘Moosh’—was the way some of them said ‘Mate’ there.

“Plenty of matelots and Marines around there,” said Bruce.

“Yes, quite, although when I was of—shall we say—drinking age, I was studying at the prodigious London Imperial College, darling. No rough sailors or Marines for me,” she said, exaggerating her upper-class lilt.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course you may ask,” she replied.

“How come you’ve never had children?”

Her eyebrows bowed and she sighed. “Work, circumstances. I was in a relationship very much like a marriage for eight years. It had been almost a year in when he told me he’d had a vasectomy. By then I’d already fallen in love with him. He died of liver disease around four years ago,” she said, plating out the chilli con carne. “Why haven’t you?”

Bruce was about to ask her, “Were you still with him at the time?” but she had interjected with her question. He thought—How did that get missed on the background check?

“Same reason—the circumstances and work, not the vasectomy.”

“Good. Well, there’s still time. I haven’t gone through the ‘change’ yet.” She winked putting the plate in front of him.

“So you want children?”

“Why doth one believe I am cooking for you, peasant?” she said.

They both smiled at one another.

38

“What ’appening, my gee?”

“Mate, you’ve upset a big fish up in Frankland. He’s put up some big money for someone to fill you in,” said Connor down the pre-paid phone.

“Who’s that then, man’dem?” answered Louis.

“Elder brother of a notorious family down your way. Think of a famous bank,” said Connor. He didn’t have time for elaborate codes but still didn’t want to be mentioning names over the phone. There was a pause on the other end of the line before, “Then let’s get the little brother to smooth it over,” said Louis. “Besides, I’ve never met him before in my life.”

“Is there anyone you’ve pissed off lately?”

“Well, a few of the lads have been shottin’ OT. It’s caused some friction.”

Connor knew that ‘shottin’ OT’ meant dealing drugs ‘out of town’. Louis was the first to identify coastal and rural towns as an alternative market to London. At first, the appeal was that they were untapped markets without rival gang presence and police forces unfamiliar with the methods of south-east London gangsters. Eventually, rival dealers got in on the act, and the SUG had resorted to high-level violence to deter them.

“Well, it turns out one of those people must have been a somebody. The thing is that his little brother went up to see him the other day. And he hasn’t got in touch with me or you to warn us.”

“How do ya know?”

“What? That he went up?”

“Yeah.”

“Have my ways.”

“Cool, I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Am seeing him soon, I’ll feel him out about it.”

Bruce had made his excuses to leave Janet’s house early. Now back in his flat, he opened the envelope that had arrived at Janet Quigley’s addressed to him.

A USB stick fell into his hand. He went over to a drawer and pulled out a laptop. This was a separate laptop he used for situations like these—a new ‘clean’ laptop that had not yet been connected to WIFI and so it would not be a disaster if a virus or spy programme were to infect it.

He plugged in the stick and opened the file. It was a video clip, and he immediately recognised it to be Janet’s home. Recorded seemingly off a phone, the picture floated through the apartment showing the kitchen and living room. The dogs were laying on the living room floor, one prostrate and the other on its side with its tongue hanging out. The focus of the camera panned down to the dogs, and a trainer covered in a disposable coverall appeared. It tapped each dog in turn enough to prove they were unconscious. The picture wheeled over to Janet’s bedroom and made its way there. The door opened to reveal a sleeping Janet. A black gloved hand appeared in view and slapped an unresponsive Janet. It disappeared and then reappeared holding a hypodermic syringe. The bottom of the duvet was pulled up revealing her feet. The needle hovered between the big toe and index toe; Bruce guessed the inference being that an autopsy would be hard pressed to find the injection mark. The needle moved away without puncturing the skin. A deep, digitally distorted voice cracked the quietness of the video clip:

“Be warned.”

Bruce smiled—I am getting to them.

Connor knocked on the door of the end terrace in Guiseley, Leeds. The door opened to reveal an ample—Connor liked to say ‘extra medium’—brunette in her forties. She wore jeans and a blue T-shirt with the logo ‘Motor Race’ across a large bust. Ann Scott was the mother of his deceased best friend and comrade Liam Scott, and Rayella Scott, who Connor considered his quasi-sister.

“Oh my gawd, Connor, why didn’t you call ahead?” she exclaimed, flinging her arms around him.

“Why, do you have Leroy in there?”

“He’s handcuffed upstairs at the moment,” she answered before laughing ecstatically at her own joke, playfully punching him in the arm. “Come in then.”

Connor did so, and upon stepping into the room asked, “Where’s the rest of the gang?”

“Paul’s away at Elland Road to watch the Middlesbrough game, and Rayella is at training as we speak, pet. You want a cuppa?”

“Black coffee, please, Ann.”

“Just on its own? No milk or sugar?”

“No, Ann, or that would be a white coffee with sugar, wouldn’t it,” he said, with a wink. Ann smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Oh right, where does she train?” Connor called out as he sat on the sofa.

“Erm, a place in Morley. Avon Tee or something like that,” she called back. Connor smiled as he knew she meant the superb ‘AVT’—Asylum Vale Tudo.

A moment or two later Ann came back in with his coffee, a cup of tea for herself and sat on the sofa opposite facing the television.

“How you doing then, love? You OK?”

“I am well, Ann. Still working down south.”

“You ever planning on coming back?”

“Eventually maybe.”

“You know there’s always a place for you here. You’re the only person I’d let sleep in that room,” she said, talking about her son’s old room.

“What? In the same house as a bickering middle-aged married couple and a hormonal teenage girl?” he smiled. “I’ll be OK.”

“She bloody is hormonal, the mardy get,” she said, sipping her tea. “No, actually she seems a lot better now she’s going down there.”

“What happened about the incident at school? The lad she brayed?”

“Well, Paul couldn’t get off work, so muggins here ’ad to go by myself to the school. I think ’cos it was just Rayella and me, and it was the lad and his dad, helped. She said sorry, and the dad, dead kind he was in the end, said he didn’t want anything to come of it. He insisted. She’s a jammy get is Rayella, because I think the school was angling for her suspension.”

What Connor had not told her was that when he had heard the news, he had explained the situation to his cousin Tom. His cousin’s words had been, “This is now no longer your problem. It’s my problem, and I’ll handle it”. He knew his cousin to be reasonable, but Connor hadn’t made a request for restraint to be exercised—what kind of people threaten a school with the press just because their bullying son gets filled in by a girl a year younger? had been his thought.

The front door opened, followed by the living room door. Rayella came in, dropped her bag. “What’s happening, geek?”

She wrapped her arms around his waist as he stood up. He held her for a moment before twisting his hips and throwing her on the floor. They began to play fight as Ann Scott exclaimed, “Goodness sake, your coffee is still half full, Connor.”

“OK, OK, OK,” he said, standing up.

“You have to take me by surprise, you pussy,” said Rayella.

“Rayella, I think you can refrain from using that word in that way, in front of me, can’t you?” said Ann, as she collected the cups and made her way to the kitchen.

“Yes, Mum,” Rayella called before whispering to Connor, “Pussaayyy.”

“How was training?”

“Good, thanks.”

“Heard you had a touch at school. Heard the dad stuck up for you?”

“Yeah, it was dead weird. Good it happened though.”

“Well, just take it as a gypsies warning, eh.”

“I will.”

Frank Schwimmer, by his standards, was ‘slumming it’ with this Serengeti lodge. He usually paid around ten times the amount to stay in some of the ‘developed’ countries’ hotels. Still, as he watched from his lounger, the elephants against the backdrop of the desert scrub and far away mountains, he knew that those places would never have this type of charm.

With experiences like this, he reminded himself of why he deserved them. He had had to take enormous risks and go to incredible lengths to help the world with his organ harvesting scheme.

In the beginning, slowly—quietly—he began to cultivate people who shared his vision. He knew some did not share his dream, but in the face of the money offered, they would rationalise their part in it.

A theory he had studied was the ‘escalation of obedience’; it began by convincing a person to do something small and innocuous. Then ask them for just a little more, and then a little more after that. It was one of the techniques used by Jim Jones en route to initiating the mass murder and suicide of his followers. Schwimmer had employed the practice of escalating obedience superbly, and by the time some were wanting to pull away, they were trapped by their culpability.

If not, then he had other ways of persuasion, as Tris Dixon found out. Frank Schwimmer’s chain of private hospitals were worldwide now, and the super-rich trusted other wealthy people. Despite his now having nearly a hundred hospitals across several continents, it was his ‘Western’ hospitals he took the most interest in, especially those in the US, UK and Australia. The truth was that if a Westerner needed an organ transfer, then he or she would prefer the donor to be white, the medical team operating on him or her to be white, and English to be their first language. That was just the way it was.

When Dixon attempted to back out, Schwimmer could not allow the setting of a dangerous precedent. The upstart had then told him of the problems he had been experiencing with a few busybodies.

One had been a politician, an easy enough matter to resolve—a threat of career ruin had laced that dilemma up with a neat bow.

That had been one thorn in his side removed. Another had been an irritatingly persistent Australian journalist. He had got a sniff at some of the inner workings of the AGI, and had been planning to tell tales. Frank had no time for these people—they had no concept of the greater good.

Initially, he considered just having the Australian killed. He decided against it after deliberation—questions would be asked, and what he had been working on might be raked up. However, there was no such downfall in killing that Filipino rat Professor Vargas—a man trying to prevent Darwin’s beautiful evolution. Schwimmer hit upon the idea of having Vargas made into a ‘Colombian vase’ before sending that to Crowder. That would ‘kill two birds with one stone’, an expression he was fond of.

The final one was proving more problematic. It had taken an extortionate amount of money and time even to get a name and establish a link to Miles Parker. It took a lot of money to develop a contact who identified the man as a Bruce McQuillan, a liaison officer between MI5 and MI6. He had his guy send Parker a veiled threat, and he had been confident that that would put paid to McQuillan’s efforts.

If only these people would stop living in their liberal fairyland to see the truth of the world. That the smartest had to survive for the species to advance, and if it had to be at the expense of people feeding off the system, then so be it.

39

Connor had said his goodbyes to his family the night before. In the morning, he made the two-hour drive down to the Shropshire safe house.

Now he stood in front of five members of The Chameleon Project. It had been over a year since the Russian Bratva had kidnapped Bruce. And it had been over a year ago that Connor, with the help of Jaime, Louis and Carl Wright—an American contract killer—had brought about his return.

In the immediate aftermath, Bruce had told Connor that he wanted the Yorkshireman to assume his role in charge of The Project’s field operations. After a time, he had come back to Connor and told him that he was going to restructure The Project into a cell system.

The cell system, which had its origins in the French Resistance of World War Two, had been used successfully by the Viet Cong and Irish Republican Army. The premise being that although part of the same organisation, these cells would operate independently from one another, so if one cell was compromised, it did not affect the security of the others.

In The Project’s case, a cell consisted of four people and usually included a female. Because the organisation had been split into cells only a year previous, most of the members still knew one another, except for Connor. He did not even know the surnames of the members he was addressing.

Connor had not even completed his agent training when he had witnessed Bruce McQuillan’s capture. He had not been part of The Project and thus had to rely on his own initiative to get McQuillan back. While in the process he’d prevented the Russian Bratva’s conquest of the UK underworld, who were being aided by the former Director of MI5. It had only been by guile, daring and a tonne of luck that he had been able to succeed.

He could sense an odd mixture of admiration and distrust towards him as he addressed the four men and one woman.

“Lady, Gentlemen. This is a brief to uncover the identity of an organisation that has been lifting homeless and drug addict UK nationals to harvest their organs.”

There was silence in the room. There was a man that Connor recognised to be Kevin, from when Connor had been initially apprehended by The Project, who spoke with a Welsh lilt. “How many have they taken, bud?”

“We’re not sure as yet,” replied Connor.

“Then how do we know that’s what’s happening?” His tone seemed abrupt to Connor. He could only surmise that Kevin was pissed off that he had been given the lead on this, despite serving with the unit the least amount of time.

“Because one of the key members of the operation—a Tris Dixon—has asked me to take over the identifying and kidnap of the individuals.”

Dave Prand, broad, with strawberry blonde hair and a light West Country dialogue, spoke. “Where’s Dixon to? We could make him talk and take him out of the equation.” His tone seemed softer than Kevin’s.

“We could, but as soon as he’s taken then it’s likely the other individuals who make up the operations will go to ground. We think this is part of a much larger, trans-national operation,” Connor said.

“What’s the plan then, big shag?” asked Kevin Anderson, using the Welsh colloquialism for ‘mate’. Connor had first heard it in Colchester by a member of staff from the Welsh Guards.

“He’s had a security issue, and ironically feels that I am the only person he trusts to identify and kidnap these vulnerable people—”

“Except it’s going to be us who are these ‘vulnerable’ people,” said Kate, the hard-faced brunette, who seemed to Connor to be around her early thirties. Her tone matched Kevin’s.

“Exactly,” said Connor.

“What then?” asked Ted Yates, the stocky, well-muscled Nottinghamshire man.

“We’ll identify the hospital. We’ll put an end to this operation on UK soil.”

“What about the people involved?”

“We’ll get what we can from them,” said Connor. “Then we’ll put an end to them too.”

“What we are doing then, Big Boss?” repeated Kevin. ‘Big Boss’ definitely had an edge to it.

“I think the title ‘Big Boss’ is up for debate. So why don’t you stand up, follow me outside and we can discuss it like men,” Connor said while subtly—but not too subtly—loosening off his watch strap. Nip it in the bud early.

The room went silent, and the thickset Kevin’s expression changed. Then he said, “I am quite comfortable here. Thanks, bud.”

“You carry on with your smarmy fucking tone and you won’t be comfortable anywhere for a while,” said Connor and locked eyes on the Welshman. He knew it was dangerous to push a man into a metaphoric corner, but he knew that if he did not extinguish this undercurrent of resentment early, it would fester. Besides, theirs was not a profession for ‘safe-spaces’ thought Connor—I am the alpha male, and I will demonstrate it by punching the fuck out of you if I have to.

The furtive glances of the others made the silence deafening.

“I apologise for the tone. I just wanted to know what we were doing. Didn’t want to be diddling my thumbs, that’s all.”

“I apologise too,” said Connor. “Dixon wants to know immediately of any ‘possibles’ regarding homeless people suitable for organ harvesting so he can run a background check on them to save me wasting time. He’s obviously in the dark to my already being able to do that. As far as he’s aware, I am just a criminal with some military experience. To that end, Jaime has created a watertight avatar for each of you. He’s sent all you an email draft with them in. So, for the next few weeks, you will be homeless—you’ll live on the streets and you’ll take food at shelters. When he approves you as organ donors, I will take you in. That’s when we can get to the roots of this thing.”

There was silence for a few moments then Kevin spoke. “Luckily this has come after the Six Nations, bud.”

The laughter broke the tension.

“Who have we got?” asked Bruce over the encrypted phone.

“You’ll be happy,” came back Jaime’s voice.

“Go on.”

“A Philip Norton. A medical specialist for the Asherson Group Incorporated—AGI for short. They funded his research into organ transplants. In exchange, he oversees that the medical procedures are carried out correctly. It is ironic, no, that they pay this man astronomical amounts of money to guard against malpractices. All the while they are taking organs illegally.”

Bruce smiled. Jaime would periodically add a word like ‘astronomical’ to his vocabulary then use it every chance he got, sometimes even when out of context.

“What is an astronomical amount?”

“I have you his last six-month monies. It varies, as you can see.”

Bruce pulled his ear away from his phone and took a look at the figures on his phone and said, “Seems we’re in the wrong game.”

“Speak for yourself.”

In truth, Bruce was very comfortable, perhaps even rich by most people’s estimations. In addition to his aversion to surplus spending left over from his Glaswegian roots, he had researched and kept abreast of the stock market since the mid-nineties. He spread most of his shares across well-established, large companies which had given him a reliable if slow growth in his money over the two decades. He had also placed funds with a few highly rated fund managers, and after some trial and error, gave more to the highest performing ones. Then came his personal ventures. Bruce hadn’t had the time or mental energy to pursue his financial ventures aggressively, yet he could have comfortably retired years ago.

However, Jaime’s money and assets cast him in the stratosphere of wealthy. Jaime had also learnt to play the stock market, and McQuillan was not naïve enough to think that the Peruvian had not used his computer skills to gain an advantage. It had been these skills that had allowed The Chameleon Project the funds to run the majority of its missions independent of UK intelligence services. To pay for the best people. To enable them to bribe others.

“How did you find him?”

“He wrote what seems to be a confessional email detailing his suspicions about the organ donation practices of AGI. You see, I do not think they have told him where the organs are coming from. I think they pay him that money so he keeps quiet should he find out—and he has discovered it. He never sent the email though, he simply saved it to his cloud. It is too vague to confront him with this alone.”

“Any ideas then?”

“Married man, a wife and three children. He’s from Ireland, but’a now stays in San Francisco. He likes’a whores when he is away. And his computer is full of fetish porn—Dominatrix and humiliation. He’s in London this weekend. Maybe a honeytrap? Or as the Russians use—they used female agents named ‘swallows’. Then threats of pictures on the internet or to the wife?” said Jaime.

“I think I have just the lady,” replied Bruce.

40

Philip Norton nursed a pint of Guinness with guilt, amongst the hum of the London wine bar. The black stuff did not travel well, not even the short distance to here in London. However, it did remind him of home—a place he missed a great deal. He drank alone now after a business lunch, and his associate had left him to it. He had not brought his family so saw little point in returning to his hotel anytime soon. He liked London with its history and an eclectic mix of people.

He had a love/hate relationship with the States. Admittedly, his temporary home of San Francisco was one of the more charming cities. Vegas, he thought, was one of the gaudiest places he had ever been. He travelled a lot, and although London was great, it was not the Emerald Isle. It had irked him hearing the American twang in his children’s voices.

However, moving back to Ireland was not an option for the foreseeable future, not while he was on his current contract. The money was too good, and as a family man, it would be irresponsible to turn it down. That had been the justification for everything he had done since going down this rabbit hole.

They had snared him by giving him the very thing he wanted upon first embarking on a career of medical research—unlimited funding to pursue clinical and pre-clinical research on a range of medical fields.

When complimented on the excellent work he was doing in helping people get better he just smiled—it was not the helping of people, although that was nice, it was more the intricate processes of helping fix the most complex machine on earth.

Before long they had asked him to concentrate exclusively on the transplantation of an array of different organs with a significant bump in pay. Not long after that, he was offered a position of consultancy agent for the company, with yet more money.

A few months in, Philip Norton discovered some anomalies in the donors’ medical records. It had not just been in the one country but several.

It took a while for the pieces to fall into place that the donors were exchanging their organs for asylum. At least, that is what he thought originally.

He had been left on his own with one patient—an oversight on the part of that medical centre, he could see that now—who awoke in his presence. After a few minutes of her returning to full consciousness and another few minutes of conversation, he came to understand that she was a homeless Canadian national. The staff nurse came and began to usher Norton away gently.

That had been months ago, and other pieces of evidence had emerged. And Norton had rationalised it all, and when he could not, he lost himself in drink and prostitutes—alcohol to take away the guilt and the paid sex to take away the loneliness, if only for an hour or so.

And around this time, he began to develop a sexual desire for being hurt, for being humiliated; like it was a catharsis. He would lose himself in seemingly endless videos relating to pegging.

He began, within the burr of this unfamiliar pub, to fall into melancholy. Then a stunning woman with short blonde-silvery hair came up next to him.

“Erm, hi,” he stammered.

“May I sit here?” she said. “I’ve had to tell the gentleman over there I am with someone.”

“Sure.”

“To be sure?” she said teasingly, mimicking his accent.

He smiled. “Can I get ye a drink?”

“I’ll get my own—you’re being very kind just to allow me to sit down.”

“Nonsense, let me buy ye a drink,” he insisted, eager for some companionship for a while.

“Erm, OK, a red gin and tonic, please?” she answered in a cultured voice—a brush of Liverpudlian.

“What do I call ye?” he asked. He thought of holding out his hand before he remembered that they were pretending to know one another already.

“Cytheria,” she answered.

Norton paused as a flashing image of a pornstar of the same name with a penchant for squirting came to his mind—Jesus, stop it.

“My name is Philip.”

“Nice to meet you.”

He got up and went to the bar. He could see a few furtive glances aimed at Cytheria and then back to him. She truly was a sight; blue jeans pulled over shapely legs and arse, she oozed femininity despite the deep grooves of muscle in the visible forearms. He fought the urge to gawk.

He thanked his lucky stars that he seemed to be the only male that had been drinking alone. Otherwise, this beauty would never have given him a second look.

Dixon sat in what he liked to call his Scarface office. An oak chair with dark red mahogany leather seemed almost too big for him. The vast desk was empty but for a crystal ashtray and custom-made cigarettes. This packet of twenty had lasted him nearly a year. He only smoked in here, only with a holder and only when pondering a dilemma.

His brother wanted him to facilitate the meting out of a beating to a man who helped him make lots of money. Not only that, but the leader of the Southwark Union Gang was now very powerful himself, both physically and metaphorically, and if the attack failed and Dixon’s hand in it was discovered, then that would be one hell of a headache.

Telling Adam to go fuck himself was not an option. He knew too much, too many secrets, too many dates, too many money launderers and accounts. Besides, he was still his big brother, and as Adam loved to remind him, Tris would have died without his protection. Dixon had asked to make his own moves back in his early twenties. Within six months, he had got himself in trouble with a rival gang that his brother had been forced to sort out for him. As a result, Dixon been relegated to the ‘back office’ of handling the finances. It had only been with Adam’s incarceration that he had risked striking out on his own again.

He had contracted a team of three for the job who had proved useful in the past; ex-British Army who had gone into private security. Three big men who knew how to handle themselves. That would be it; they would teach Louis Allen a lesson and give him a little mark.

Meanwhile, he had been in contact with Connor Reed who had told him he had identified four promising candidates for organ transfer. At least that was developing; his employer had begun to get impatient.

Louis exited the gym after taking a session with a client. He no longer donned a ‘Louis Allen PT’ shirt, simply arrived and coached her on her deadlifting technique. Louis had become a personal trainer after obtaining his qualifications in his last year in the Marines—‘his resettlement’. He had enjoyed the lifestyle, the excitement, the banter and the camaraderie of the Corps. However, he knew upon entering he was not going to a full stint—‘the full twenty-two’ as it was known due to the twenty-two years of service for a full pension. He could not ever see himself hanging around in the Sergeant’s mess, berating some Marine for having a grill in their accommodation block or no trouser twists. No, he wanted to get out after the minimum of four years to begin his empire.

Except, when he left, it initially looked like his ‘empire’ was going to be in the fitness industry. Due to his physique, looks and charm, he gathered a client base almost immediately. It grew, and he began to obtain some of the B-list celebrities from the reality TV shows that were popping up.

This changed when Louis met with Raymond Van Der Saar. The Dutchman schooled him on what he needed to produce high-quality sativas cannabis yields, as opposed to the indica and kush that he had been punting on the side. When he smoked the sativas that Van Der Saar gave him, he immediately felt the difference; the high was different—energetic and made him feel giddy, rather than robbing him of all motivation. He built a ‘greenhouse’ as per Van Der Saar’s specifications way out into the countryside by buying the rights to a disused farm under a dummy corporation. After a time, he had the most profitable cannabis enterprise in London. Things had then grown and morphed until he was one of the most powerful gangland figures in London. The personal training of a few celebrity clients was now for show and tax purposes.

He took out his phone. The recipient of his call answered after two rings.

Louis said, “Hi, I am going to walk to the place now. It’s an abandoned warehouse where there’s no one around. I haven’t got any burners or nuttin’ on me. Just a straight transaction. I should be there in ten minutes.”

“I won’t be bringing anything either. One of the guys the other day got nicked for carrying. The earliest I make it is half an hour mate, around half past. It’ll just be me,” said Connor.

“Cool. I’ll play on my phone for a bit.”

The call ended, and Louis began to walk.

For Philip Norton, this was turning out already to be the best night of his life. In addition to being outrageously sexy, Cytheria was smart and funny. It had been almost three hours since she had sat down, but time had flown. She had seemed impressed by his medical consultancy, and so he played on it—as he had his Irish accent when she made a mention of liking it.

He felt a warmth in his stomach and face at her laughs. His heartbeat rose every time she touched him playfully on the arm or leg. Not only that but the gentleman, from whose attention she had been trying to escape from, had long gone. Norton had not mentioned it initially for fear of losing her company. Eventually she noticed but to his delight had not made any move to leave.

He had asked her earlier in the evening what she did for a living, but she coyly replied, “We’ll see how the evening unfolds. Maybe I’ll tell you after a few drinks and if I like you.”

She is flirting! Surely this had to be a trick? Why would it be? Was she a hooker? Of course not, she would have an agency. To rob me? Surely not.

“It’s a good thing this pub takes cards. Some don’t. I never carry money with me,” he said nonchalantly.

“Oh, that’s a shame. I was going to wrestle you to the floor and steal all your cash.” She squealed with laughter, and he felt a flush of gladness.

They had a few more drinks, and judging by her behaviour he guessed she did like him—I must be on form tonight. In any case, he felt confident enough to ask her, “So what do you do for a living?”

She flashed him a beautiful smile. “Before I tell you, I want you to promise not to judge.”

“Believe me, I don’t judge anyone any more,” he answered, meaning it.

“And I want you to know that I did not sit here because I see you as a potential client.”

“OK,” he said.

She took a deep breath. “I get paid to dominate and humiliate men—paid by the men themselves of course,” she said, laughing.

Norton felt a rush of blood to his face, and his cock harden. No way—he thought. His mind began to buzz of how this could be a trick or con. How and why would it be? Then he remembered his dad’s words—“Never look a gift horse in the mouth”.

He filled his chest with air and controlled his voice. “Do you like your work?”

She smiled again. “I love it. I’d do it for free, to be honest. There’s something incredibly sexy about a man who’s so confident in himself that he’s willing to surrender complete control to the woman.”

“What’s your favourite thing to do?” he said, his voice a little hoarse.

She brought her face close to his. Her perfume was intoxicating. Her voice was just short of a whisper. “What I like to do, is tie a man down. Blindfold him. Gag him. Ease a strap-on deep into his tight arsehole, and fuck him until he cums while calling him names. Then I make him suck it.”

Norton became almost painfully hard. He felt his hand tremble before saying, “It’s a pity you don’t have your, errr, work gear with you. I have my hotel room to myself.”

She smiled wide. “Honey, I always have my work gear with me.” She tapped her bag. “And I wouldn’t take a penny.”

41

Gavin Rose stalked his target from fifty yards away among the throng of the London bustle. He knew that he would have to increase the distance to remain covert when the crowd petered out nearer whatever industrial park this ‘darkie’ was heading. The only affinity he had with his prey was that he had been an ex-military man himself.

Rose had left the Army six years previous. He had been very proud to be part of ‘The Rifles’. Nevertheless, when he was offered big money in Iraq, he figured he’d rather be treated as more of an adult for three times the money. One day had encapsulated everything he had disliked about Army life, and he had snapped and resigned. ‘Seven clicks to heaven’ was the term used in the British military. It referred to how many onscreen buttons you had to click on the military’s computer system to begin your release from service.

Before then it had been great. He had done a tour of Afghanistan and upon his return the six-feet-three-inch, fifteen-stone Oldham man spent much of his time in a rugby kit playing both for the Regiment and Army. After a while, he began to notice his contemporaries being promoted ahead of him, and with a young son to provide for, he decided to return to the ‘green’ role.

He recalled the day; first, the troop were due to be on the ranges and told to turn to at 06.00, but no one had told the unit’s armourer who did not arrive until 06.45. That was when their crow of a boss, who looked about twelve years old, decided to fill the time with an inspection clearly with thoughts of his SJAR as the OC happened to be lurking around. Rose had been picked up for his trouser twists despite the fact they would be on the range. Then they had received their bag rats, and he found that his baguette had no filling. When they eventually did get on the range, he had been assigned to the box—the compartment with the computer systems that controlled the targets’ movements and registered the scores. When the boss—the troop officer—kept continually failing, the Sergeant passed him anyway with the words, “officers don’t fire their weapons on Ops anyway”. Rose would have accepted it if it had not been for the boss then jacking up the background activity of judging distance and fire control orders. Upon returning to camp, they were given half an hour to clean their weapons. When the subsequent inspection found their cleanliness not up to standard, it was decided that the re-inspection would happen the next morning, cutting into the lads’ weekend. Rose had seethed as he knew both the Sergeant and boss lived on the camp, so it made no odds to them. He went straight on the computer down at the lines and put his resignation in there and then.

He had got work as a contractor in Iraq almost immediately, and the money had been great. From there he eventually found himself looking after one of the seemingly numerous Saudi princes, and his pay reached obscene levels. But finally, he pined for home, and the opportunity came through Tris Dixon—a sports agent. Rose found himself in charge of security teams looking after Premiership footballers for around the same money as working in the Middle East.

It had begun to change a little. This person needed leaning on, that person needed a warning. Before long it was this person needed a slap, or that person needed a beating. And Rose enjoyed it.

He teamed up with two other lads, Brian Bevis—ex-Grenadier Guards—and Mick Platt—ex-Mercian Regiment—both big, strong lads who were not afraid to get their hands dirty. And Dixon would invest in their team professionally, sending them on courses and looking after them. They got to use those skills too, like they were doing now. Using a live listening device the boss had kitted them out with—high-level technology—they now knew the black gang leader was heading to an industrial park all on his lonesome. He would be unarmed and alone for about twenty minutes, more than enough time to give the swaggering nigger a beating he’d never forget, as well as a Glasgow grin—I have never seen a black with one yet.

He began to follow him, with Mick and Brian not far behind.

Philip Norton dare not move. To do so might cause him to ejaculate into the bed against which his hard cock was pressed tight. His hands were tightly bound behind his back, with the rest of the rope’s length wrapped around his throat.

Cytheria had stripped for him. Her gorgeous tits had offset the rippling muscularity of her physique. It was as if she was born for this profession.

He watched awestruck as she donned the black, six-inch strap-on. She swaggered over to him.

“I suggest you get it wet, cunt,” she commanded.

This was better than he had hoped. No sooner had he opened his mouth than the silicone filled it. She roughly gripped his hair and began to fuck his face.

“Good boy,” she said, removing the dildo. She then knelt down before removing a ball and gag from her handbag. The ball stuffed his mouth, and the straps cut into the back and sides of his head. Then darkness fell as the blindfold squeezed around his eyes.

Her hands spread his cheeks, and he felt the wetness of her spit nestle into the crevice of his arsehole—this was it. He felt the round tip prod against him. He bit down as it forced its entry bit by bit. His whole body tensed until the strap-on was fully inserted. She stilled, and he relaxed. She made tiny circular motions which loosened him up a little.

Then it began.

She gripped his hair and began to fuck him in earnest. He cried and moaned into the ball. After a minute or two, the straps of his gag were loosened, and the ball fell from his mouth.

“Do you like that, bitch?” she shouted.

“Yes, Jesuusss, yes.”

The dildo pulled from his bereft arse, and she said, “Then fucking suck it.”

He opened his mouth desperately, and he could taste himself.

“You love that, don’t you,” she said.

He could only moan his approval. The light pierced his eyes with the whipping away of the blindfold. The dildo tore away from his mouth.

“Wonder if your wife and kids will love it if this video makes it onto the internet,” Cytheria said. Her words and the white light of the phone froze him with incomprehension for a few moments. Then he began to struggle. “You fucking bitch. Untie me now,” he cried.

She smiled and reached into her handbag. “Hush now, Philip, because if you don’t the next thing that will be fired up your hairy arse will be this,” she said, pressing the silenced pistol against his temple.

Rose’s heartbeat quickened as his adrenal glands opened a little. This industrial park would be where the target was meeting his contact. He waited for a moment to allow Brian and Mick to catch up. Rose’s already high confidence elevated as his two, bruising comrades joined him.

“What’s the plan, Boss?” asked the sandy-haired Mick.

“We’ll go around the corner, initially pretending to be security. Then we do ’im,” said Rose.

“Sounds good,” said the dark-haired Brian.

They rounded the corner in unison, before walking into the yard and seeing the target sat on the steps of one of the buildings. He didn’t make a move to stand up—he thinks we are security and he is going to give me some of his ghetto lip.

Rose did not immediately understand why his knee inverted inwards. The ground came rushing up to smack him in the face. Icy fingers of shock began to grip him as the pain came. Chortling sounded, and he turned his head in the direction of the laughter. Rose’s focus zeroed in on the silenced pistol.

“I can’t believe you fell for that. I thought you’d been to Afghan?” said the man holding the pistol at him. “The Taliban knew we had ’terps monitoring the I-com chatter, an’ used to say all sorts over the net.”

The target laughed too, using his thumb and little finger on his right hand to mimic a phone. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, am gonna be going to an industrial park by myself. I won’t have a weapon. Oh, you’re going to be twenty minutes late, it’s OK, I’ll wait—you fuckin’ mong.”

The pair’s laughter stabbed at his pride. He craned his head to see Mick and Brian stood stock still. The man holding the pistol was stocky and an inch or two off six-feet. He wore a navy blue bomber jacket with jeans and brown boots. He sounded northern.

“You pair, spread out, interlock your fingers and lie face down on the floor,” said the northerner. He pointed the pistol at them which acted as an incentive.

They complied. The target came over and began to frisk Brian.

“Your fucking wallet? You kidding me, Mr,” the target paused as he rooted through the wallet, “Brian Holloway. Fucking poor form that, Man’dem.”

He frisked Mick in the same way. “Looks like this one isn’t the shit bloke that Brian is. Still, you’re not meant to have anything in your pockets, not even McDonalds receipts.”

Rose seethed when the northerner chuckled. “I bet that fucking endomorph with the hole in his leg has something.”

Rose felt the target’s hands roughly frisk him, before pulling out his wallet and phone. He saw him hold them up to the northerner.

“What’s the daft cunt’s name?” asked the northerner.

“Errr, Gavin Lee Rose,” answered the target.

“Hey, Rose,” said the northerner in an American accent when Rose looked at him, “bet when you woke this morning, you didn’t think that by twenty-three-forty-seven, you’d have a hole in your leg.”

The target laughed. “Good film.”

The northerner walked to Brian and shot him in the back of the knee, making him wail.

“Let’s break the other one’s fingers and call it a day. I don’t want to be caught out here with this,” said the northerner, holding up the pistol, “and Gavin and Brian, you better convince this one not to grass, because judging from what we’ve seen, I am guessing that paying a tenner to 192.com will tell us your families addresses.”

The fear Rose felt almost masked the pain.

42

Dixon sat in the Cheshire hotel bar alone, and seethed. He contained his rage, keeping it off his face in front of the respectful patrons of the place.

Dixon could not, at that moment, appreciate the beautiful view of the lake and the hills, bathed in the violet light of the setting sun.

He had just completed negotiations for a boot deal for one of the Premiership footballers under his agency’s banner. He should have been celebrating, but instead, he sat chafing with anger. Anger at his brother, but mostly at himself. He had to send a two-man team to collect the three-man team that he had sent to slap Louis Allen. Two had their kneecaps shot, and the other had his fingers snapped. Dixon understood the aim. One was to take the three out of the game, the length of time it would take for them to recover would probably dissolve their desire for revenge. The other was to serve notice of Louis Allen’s and his accomplice’s ruthlessness.

Now several thoughts were screaming for attention in Dixon’s mind. He already knew who Allen’s accomplice was—how many northerners like that would a gangster from Peckham know? How did they know that Allen was to be targeted? What happened to their business relationship now? Did they know he was behind it? Do I pretend it has not happened?

The fact the team had been humiliated did not just affect his criminal empire but his official businesses. As much as he wanted to keep his legitimate dealings separate from his illicit enterprises, the two inevitably blended. The world of a football agency could be a murky place. The general rate for a football agent was between four and ten per cent of the playing contract, and between ten and twenty per cent of the athlete’s endorsement contract. With the average weekly wage for a Premiership footballer now in excess of £50,000 and endorsement contracts worth millions, having the intimidation factor to ward off rival agents paid dividends. Losing face could be very expensive.

But business was business—how far did he take this? Connor Reed was—by a strange twist of fate—the man he relied on to keep the Yank off his back. Reed arranged the transportation, for the best quality drugs, for Dixon to distribute, and was taking care of his ‘human resource’ issue. He knew he should tell his brother to go fuck himself. However, his brother knew things about both his legitimate and criminal business empire that could see Dixon in Frankland prison himself. The laundering, the intimidation, the beatings and the murders. Dixon knew that however much his brother liked to extol the virtues of family and honour amongst thieves, that if he felt slighted then in his mind he would twist the leaking information to the authorities as being a noble endeavour. He should have said no in the first place. One of the reasons he did not, he mused, was that Adam would outsource the job, and the someone who took it may have looked to make a name for himself. They may have crippled or even killed the SUG leader. As he finished his whisky, he had decided what to do.

Bruce and Connor sat across from one another in a conference room of a multi-business office block in Slough. McQuillan had booked this under a false name with a ‘burner’ card the previous day. ‘Avoid setting patterns’ was a mantra within the British military that carried over to intelligence work. That is why an impromptu booking of a business room under an alias for short meetings could be preferable to Bruce than using a safehouse.

“What happened?” asked Bruce, referring to the attempted ambush of Louis Allen.

“Prevented it. How did Jaime know they had managed to tap into his phone?”

“He’s a genius, isn’t he—well, in that area he is,” answered Bruce. “What did you do to them?”

“Kneecapped two of them and broke the fingers of the other,” replied Connor.

Bruce decided against remonstrating with him as he knew that it was tame in comparison to what the Yorkshireman had done in the past. Instead, he said, “If Dixon was behind it on behalf of his brother it won’t be difficult for him to work out that it was you. But he won’t know, or at least be sure, that you know that he was behind it. Play it carefully with him.”

Connor nodded and said nothing.

Bruce continued, “Looks like Ciara came through for us.” With that Bruce opened the laptop that was positioned between them and powered it up. After a few clicks, a video began playing. It showed a visibly fearful Philip Norton in the bed under the duvet. Bruce knew that under the covers his hands were tied.

Ciara’s voice could be heard assertively asking questions with Norton responding.

(Ciara) “When did you realise what they were truly doing?”

(Norton) “Not for a long time. My job was to check and consult on the procedures for organ transplantation. I naturally presumed that everything was above board. That the donors were voluntarily registered with the approval from the families.”

“And?”

“And, I was left alone—accidentally—with this one ‘donor’. I asked her about herself, you know, that she had done a wonderful thing in donating. It was apparent that she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. She said she was homeless, and people came for her. After that, I did some digging.”

“And?”

“It’s called the Asherson Group—no—Asherson Group Incorporated.”

“We already know about them. You’ll have to give me more than that.”

“I…I was told that I’d be meeting the man behind The Project in a few days’ time for discussions. That they were expanding and needed my help. I think they know I know. I think they trust me not to say anything. I…I think they think I agree with it all, but I don’t…I have not been sleeping,…more than that, it’s only for my wife and kids that I don’t swallow pills and have done with it.”

Bruce paused the video and Connor asked, “How did she pull that off?”

“That’s a whole other video. The point is that we have a name—The Asherson Group—a huge conglomerate that turns over ‘wrath of God’ money.”

“All right.”

“And now we have an ‘agent’, a mole. We are not sure if it’s a single man inside the company or if the whole company is complicit—there are five directors—and we need to be sure before we start raising our hands to people.”

“They must all be complicit, surely? Surely one man, or even two, couldn’t hide something like this from the rest?”

“Not necessarily. Within a lot of these huge multinationals, the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing. Besides, would you dare float that idea to others?”

“Why the fuck would wealthy white-collar men do this? I can understand some cut-throat Moroccan or Eastern European doing this, but a multinational?”

“You’ll learn in time. It’s not just about money—it’s about power. And what says ‘omnipotent’ more than deciding who lives and who dies?”

Adam Lloyd paced around the holding room. He had tried his brother several times for an update. Lloyd never had the mobile in his cell; he did not want it being discovered on a random inspection then have to deal with the disciplinary officer talking to him like a cunt before reprimanding him. The turnover of prison staff was too high to keep track of everybody’s motives. Lloyd had one of the correctional officers he had bribed bring one to his cell and stand watch.

He knew that the newly recruited officers earned £17,000 per year as a starting wage before increasing to £22,000 over a five-year period. Overworked, stuck inside the prison, having to deal with all sorts of abuse, it was easy to put them in his pocket. To give them £17,000 for arranging private visits, bringing in phones and other contraband was a minor inconvenience to him. A young guard would be stupid to turn down a year’s wages in exchange for a few favours.

His younger brother answered with a terse “Yes.”

“Where the fack have you been, ya cunt? Been trying for ages.”

“Watch how you’re talking to me. I have businesses to run, the same businesses that keep you in solicitors and your family in clothes.”

“You ungrateful little cant, you forget all the things I have done for ya.”

“I haven’t forgotten. But I’ve paid you back and then some.”

“Last time you saw me, you said all debts would be paid after you sorted that thing for me. Unless you’ve lost your honour as well as your balls.”

“I have business interests with that thing. It’s a no go.”

“I don’t fackin’ Adam and Eve it. You have business interests with those fackin’ monkeys down the south-east while I’ve been in ’ere doin’ my bird? What the fack is going on in ya, Swede?”

“Don’t speak to me like that, Adam.”

“Fack off,” said Adam before ending the call. He stood breathing deeply for a moment or two.

“Come in ’ere,” he barked. The guard came rushing in. Lloyd handed him the phone. “Go on, piss off.”

He stalked around his cell for a few moments working out what to do—that little cunt thinks I have to rely on him. We will see about that.

43

“I have a problem, and I was told you’re the man to come to,” Bruce said.

He stood in what looked to be a combination of a workshop and an IT suite. There was a long workbench skirting the entire outside wall of the fifteen-by-nine-foot room. On it was an array of tools both large and intricate, vices and a Perspex box with holes covered in dissected rubber on either side. Towards the back of the room were two large screens and a computer system. The kettle and assortment of biscuits in the corner prevented the place from feeling sterile.

It would be less than two days before Philip Norton would have his meeting with his masters. They needed to be ready.

The appearance of the man stood before Bruce contrasted to what he would have expected from a postgraduate with a plethora of degrees in various sectors of electronic and mechanical engineering.

Ben Shaw’s height almost matched Bruce’s own. The slabs of muscle stretched the sleeves and back of the T-shirt, with his gut gently pushing against the bottom of it. Tattoos and hair covered the gargantuan arms, and the rough black beard ran counter to the neatly side-parted hair.

The rough and deep voice sounded, “And I suppose our Filipino friend recommended me?”

Bruce could not place the accent, other than it had a north-western English tinge to it.

“Our Peruvian friend,” said Bruce.

Shaw stuck out his hand. “Ah, just checking. You must be the one. Heard some frankly legendary tales. Thought you’d be bigger.”

Bruce smiled. “Aye, I was thinking the same about you. You must be the smallest electronics engineer I know.”

Shaw laughed. “Yep, I get that a lot. A tech who competes in strongman. Provides a balance, so to speak.”

“I can’t place your accent,” said Bruce.

“Army brat. My dad was in the KINGS, so we moved around a lot,” replied Shaw. The KINGS being an abbreviation of The King’s Regiment.

“Did’nae fancy the military life yourself?” asked Bruce.

“Nah, not for me, I’d rather pick my own battles,” said Shaw. “What can I do for you?”

“A gentleman—a civilian—will be meeting with a person or persons that I have as of yet to identify but need to.”

“If you want this civilian wired for sight and sound then a meeting between you and I wasn’t necessary.”

“Ordinarily I’d agree. But the people we’re going against are—or at least are part of—a billion dollar multinational corporation, and they have an enterprise that they would do anything to keep secret, to say the least.”

“I see. So you need the best.”

“Exactly. They seem to trust this guy—they have no reason not to as yet, but I am expecting his phone, watch and wallet to be confiscated, and for him to be frisked. Other than that, I can’t predict what kind of anti-bugging they may have in place.”

Shaw remained silent for a few moments. “There was something I was working on. Is the guy you’re sending in married?”

“Yes, he is.”

Shaw opened one of the drawers, and after a few moments of rooting around he pulled out a ring.

“From what you’re telling me, I can’t give you visual. The amount of components needed would be too many. This, however, will give you audio,” said Shaw, as he held up the ring for Bruce’s inspection. The inside of the ring was grooved out and in its place was a tiny wire. There was a micro hole punched into the lip of it where one end of the wire fitted. Shaw continued, “I have worked in a dampening parameter to catch the electromagnetic waves before the retardation parameter changes the phase velocities of the waves.”

“Was I meant to understand all that?”

“No. I meant that it should defeat any anti-bugging measures they have.”

“This been tested?”

“In preliminary trials. I haven’t pushed it out for field testing yet. Maybe your man will be our guinea pig?”

“Doesn’t look like we’ll have a choice,” said Bruce. “Is it possible for us to listen in, in real-time?”

“I am afraid not. For the signal to remain undetectable, it has to have a very low signature, meaning it has to be ‘wrapped’. And the unwrapping after I’ve received it will take hours.”

Bruce nodded; there was little point in a standby team if there was no way to ascertain if Norton was immediately compromised or not.

“Can you alter the size of the ring? I need it to look like it’s welded to his finger, so they aren’t tempted to remove it.”

“I have rings of a range of sizes. You can take them all and see which is suitable. Fitting the wire is easy, as you can see,” said Shaw, demonstrating.

“Well, thank you, Mr Shaw. I can see why Jaime refers to you as the ‘Jaime’ of the electronic and mechanical engineering game.”

“The man’s talent is as large as his narcissism.” Shaw smiled. “And please, call me Ben.”

The two men shook hands.

The SSE Arena sat serenely on the water of the Clarendon docks. Inside the Belfast stadium sat Tris Dixon amongst the 9,000 screaming ice hockey fans.

The Elite Ice Hockey League was now on the rise, and that was without the future changes that Dixon knew were about to come into fruition. He had pitched the planned modifications to a confederation of super-rich American and Canadian businessmen who had moved their areas of operations to the UK. The two top teams of the EIHL season were now to play in the Champions Hockey League, the biggest tournament in Europe. The confederation now planned to inject a tremendous amount of cash into the advertising, stadium building and the poaching of National Hockey League players from over ‘the pond’. Dixon knew a worthy investment when he saw one.

A few years after the Newcastle Vipers had folded, Dixon had petitioned several businessmen for the funds. This was not only to build ‘Newcastle Ice’, a facility purely for ice skating near the city centre, but also the city’s new ice hockey team, the Newcastle Blades. Dixon, in the beginning, had maintained a fifty-one per cent controlling share in both the team and the stadium. Also, he began buying back more of his stake with the revenue made from the public use of the rink. He drafted in experienced NHL players who were coming to the tail end of their careers, as well as a few of the ex-Vipers players. He also began to implement youth training.

After an aggressive advertising campaign and with the team doing well, the city got behind the team, and the ticket revenues began to increase allowing him to increase his stake to eighty-five per cent.

For the first time in a long time, Dixon felt something akin to pure pride. He’d built this legitimately from the ground up. He watched the rabid Newcastle fans who had made the journey to Northern Ireland, as their team took a grip on the hard-fought game with the Giants.

Dixon flinched at the voice behind him. “Bet there’s been no cheap shots while that Jones has been on the ice.”

He looked up at Connor Reed. He refrained from asking why he was here and how he had found him. “No, there hasn’t. Other teams seem to behave themselves when he’s around.”

They were referring to the Blades’ 250lb enforcer Sean Jones. Enforcers were there to ensure no one on the opposing side cheap-shotted the team’s star scorers. Reputably, Wayne Gretzky, considered by many to be the best hockey player ever, refused to be traded to the Kings from the Oilers, without his ‘bodyguard’ Marty McSorley. Dixon had approached the ex-professional heavyweight boxer Jones with a proposition: apply himself 100 per cent to ice hockey training, become the team’s enforcer, and Dixon would pay him above and beyond his hockey talent. He knew that Jones had pulled in thousands of screaming Geordies to his fights as a boxer—and would do so again in his hockey career.

Connor said, “It’s a pity they’re behaving. The excitement in the crowd feels different when there’s a scrap to when there’s a goal.”

“Agreed,” answered Dixon. “So what can I do for you?”

Dixon flinched again when Connor reached inside his jacket.

Connor paused momentarily. “What did you think I was going to do?” he said as he pulled out a folder.

Dixon didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out for it.

“Some possibles. Let me know what you think,” said Connor.

Dixon flicked through the folder. “All these are in Westminster?”

“Yeah, it’s a hotspot for the homeless.”

“As well as being riddled with CCTV.”

“Homeless people gravitate towards cities. And there’s no city in the UK doesn’t have CCTV. Besides, I haven’t got the means to surveil and then kidnap four people from four areas without giving up my control of the situation.”

Dixon nodded. “I’ll give you an answer in a few days.”

“Of course, take your time. I doubt those lot are going anywhere for a while.”

“How’s our other area of operations?”

“Good,” said Connor. “Just awaiting another shipment shortly. Our helicopter man escaped what could have been a nasty experience though.”

Dixon’s heart skipped a beat. “How so?”

“Three two-bit hit men attempted to ambush him. Luckily, he discovered the surveillance and we, what’s the word—thwarted—their efforts.”

Is he fucking with me? —thought Dixon, looking at him—Then again, I brought it up.

“Why did they attack him?” asked Dixon.

“Fuck knows. He’s made a lot of enemies down his neck of the woods. Now he’s brought the gangs under one banner he has a sort of monopoly down there, and I am guessing it’s put a lot of the old and bolds’ noses out of joint.”

“They might come back for round two,” said Dixon, taking a risk.

“That’ll be difficult. Two have missing kneecaps, and the other doesn’t have the use of his fingers. Should be enough of a warning, you think?” said Connor, looking at Dixon.

Dixon averted his gaze—is he threatening me?

“I think whoever was behind it had his reasons but will have sensed it’s not worth their while,” said Dixon.

“Well, fingers crossed, eh. It just gets in the way of business.”

“You staying?” asked Dixon, changing the subject.

The crowd noise ramped up as the Giants pulled ahead.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be heading back. I might be bad luck for you.”

Dixon expected the Yorkshireman to elude to the fact that his team was now losing—but he did not.

Ciara showed no outward sign of acknowledgement of the car’s slowing as it passed by. Twenty minutes into her run it had been the ninth vehicle to do so. If she had been less self-assured, she might have felt intimidated. However, she knew that the sight of an ass like hers accentuated in these leggings was a rare sight in these Birmingham outskirts.

She cut away onto the woodland and ran harder. She hadn’t kept to her running as much as she should have. Although she extolled the virtues of strength training and realised that the fight sessions might save her life one day, she also knew that a weekly run was important too. She loved the air in her lungs, the scenery, how it cleared her head and made her feel mentally lifted afterwards. She had been feeling a little strange lately.

When Connor had told her that he was going to Northern Ireland alone to see Dixon, she had felt a worm of unease. He said that the visit had a dual purpose. One being the handover of the folder of mock-up photos and fabricated background reports of the seemingly destitute and homeless ‘candidates’ who were members of The Project. The second was to give Dixon a veiled warning regarding Adam Lloyd’s targeting of Louis. These were ruthless criminals, and Adam was known for his love of a vendetta. Ciara had read that in the early 2000s Adam Lloyd had been an advocate of having his enemies kidnapped before filming their gang rape. The rumour was that the last two rapists carried the HIV virus. Indeed, Nottingham gangsters Tony Whalley and Brian Kelly were allegedly victims and had contracted the disease.

Tris was a more shadowy figure, but she reasoned he would have been at the very least privy to those heinous acts. That said, Connor had a sadistic ruthlessness himself, and she had seen that from their very first meeting. She could not have guessed that she would have these sort of feelings towards him after witnessing the satisfaction in his face when he had made his attacker a paraplegic.

She kicked on, angry at herself—angry because her feelings for him were far beyond just enjoying a fuck and banter.

They’d had sex only three times, and she already felt more from him than any relationship based around casual sex she had ever had.

He was good-looking enough and superb in bed, but it had been more than that. It was an underlying warmth he had for people combined with a confidence seemingly unshakeable by whatever got thrown at him. His sense of humour was also refreshing despite how close to the bone it was—maybe, in part, because it was.

And as much as she did not like to admit it, she saw a lot of her dad in him—although the memory of her father had faded, despite herself.

She did not know if he felt the same way but guessed he didn’t have a long-term girlfriend. She had not heard or seen anything to the contrary. She smiled to herself—Who could he have better than me anyway? She knew she was not imbued with the insecurities of most women. That said, he did not fawn over her nor was he cold. He was just himself.

She ran harder for the last quarter of a mile.

44

Connor drove towards George Follet’s dojo, and with an ETA of five minutes, began mentally preparing to apply the ‘find the burn quick and stay in it long for maximum results’ theory to his fight training

It had been almost a week since he had dropped the intel folder on Dixon’s lap. Another shipment of Van Der Saar’s product was not due for two weeks yet. The contact Ciara had ‘developed’ had not got back to her yet, and she would be the one dealing with that anyway. In the meantime, all Connor could do was to keep his skills sharp.

Keeping sharp included many things. He would wake at a quarter to six in the morning to either run, strength train or walk. This morning he had practised his clean and press. He had based much of his strength training recently around this movement. To his mind it hit almost everything in the one lift; the initial pull for the hamstrings and glutes, the second pull for the traps and calves, the front squat for the legs and the press for the shoulders and triceps. This way he wasn’t spending hours in the gym—hack away at the unessential—as Bruce Lee would say.

Then he would study the files that Jaime would send him pertaining to organisations and characters, either criminal or terrorist. Any trends or significant changes in that world would be noted. When in his agent training, it had been impressed upon him that for information to be logged into his long-term memory it had to be recalled at intervals until it stuck there. He was taught to recall it after ten minutes of first learning it, then after twenty-four hours, a week, and finally upon the three-month recall it would be logged into the long-term memory forever. Connor remembered a time when in Afghanistan he had won a bet with Sticky, his mate in one of the other sections in the troop, that he could memorise all the capital cities of the world in a week. Using a technique learnt through personal study, he had managed the feat, only to forget the vast majority when returning from R&R.

Around midday, Connor would visit the gun ranges or killing houses that were on the MI6 remit throughout the country. Connor remembered the first time he called in at one had made him feel a bit ‘Bond-like’. Just turn up, have your security card scanned and the range controller would ask, “Personal weapon or one from the armoury, sir?” There were no names, no droning safety briefs, just rounds down the range and feedback from the guy in the computer console. Connor had put down thousands of rounds in these killing houses, firing a multitude of weapons from every reasonable position he could think of. Bruce had told him to emphasise the initial snapshot upon drawing his pistol—that if he had to punch out the pistol with two hands, while rolling his shoulders forward, to get an accurate shot off, then he’d be increasing his chances of being shot dead. Sniping skills acquired when he was in the Marines were kept sharp too. Connor would practise with assault rifles, but Bruce had told him to keep his main effort on improving his pistol use, given his plain-clothes role.

That had been a general theme of Bruce’s advice; that a man only had so much time and energy stores per day. He had told him that a man had a maximum of four hours’ concentrated effort in him between full periods of sleep. With that in mind, he told Connor he would be wise adhering to Pareto’s principle. It stated that twenty per cent of the investment is responsible for eighty per cent of the results obtained. Connor had seen this early on in his boxing; keeping his chin tucked, not telegraphing his punching and keeping one hand stuck to his face as the other punched probably contributed eighty per cent of the reason why he had never been knocked down in seventy-one amateur boxing matches. The slipping, ducking, shoulder rolls, footwork and physical preparation taking care of the remaining twenty per cent.

He pulled in and parked outside the gym. George Follet had been a legend back at the beginning of the millennium in the Japanese fight promotions of Pancrase and Pride, being one of very few Brits to do so. He had been beating up Connor for nearly eighteen months now, ever since the younger man began his training to become an agent for The Project.

Bruce had all The Project agents doing MMA training as opposed to Krav Maga because—“if you resemble Jason Bourne in a fight an onlooker might suspect you’ve had specialist training with a government agency. This fits the cover better.”

Now in his early forties, George’s squat frame was still laden with a dense muscularity that was even stronger than it looked. He was a technical magician too with seemingly balletic athleticism. Although Connor had lately been faring better in their sparring matches, it was always brutal. With George being one of the ‘old school’, Connor had once asked him, “So, don’t you believe in flow sparring, to preserve a fighter’s body?”

George had answered, “Yes, I think it’s a good thing. Back in my day, we’d always go at it hard, and I think a lot of us left the best of ourselves in the dojo. I used to tone it down in the last two weeks of a fight. That said, you need some ‘hard’ sparring to prepare you, give you confidence and to let you know what works and what doesn’t. Now, you can save your flow sparring for the other gyms, but when you train with me, we go at it, understand?”

Connor began to climb the stairs to the top-floor dojo with George’s words in his ears and thought to himself—it is an hour and a half of pain, then you can have a coffee and a brownie.

Jaime was glad to see Ben Shaw’s face on the large screen.

“How you doing, Paddington?” said Ben. ‘Paddington’ was a nickname Ben had given Jaime in college in reference to the fictional bear from Peru.

“I am OK, gracias.”

“So, my old friend. What did you want to speak to me about? To rub it in that I need a workshop and you merely need a laptop with which to do your work?”

“You should have picked your area of expertise better.”

“Maybe there’s no picking. Maybe I had a calling?”

“Maybe you got good at it, and then it became your calling.”

Shaw just laughed. “Seriously. Are you OK?”

“I am, I…ahem…just want you to be sure before helping us like this. It is a dangerous game, Ben.”

Jaime thought about past events revolving around the Russian Bratva.

“I know, my old friend,” said Ben, with no hint of bravado, “but if these people you’re after are who you say they are, then I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t help you.”

Jaime’s smile was tinged with worry. “Just be careful, OK.”

“Trying to look out for me, amigo?”

“I am simply trying to return the favour,” said Jaime, thinking of their college days.

“I’ll take the necessary precautions.”

The conversation wound up ten minutes after they had shared some anecdotes and engaged in more playful ribbing.

The window illuminated the dojo mats with patches of light. There were framed pictures bolted on the walls of MMA Legends, fight posters and quotes. Connor looked up at a picture of Follet with Pride legend Fedor Emelianenko, as he went into his warm-up routine of shrimping and bridging.

“Think he was the greatest ever, George?”

“It’s hard to say. Things move on.”

“How good was he though?”

“Amazing. He was so gifted and analytical—far ahead of his time. I was there at the Yokohama arena when he sat in Nogueira’s guard and punished him for the whole fight, and,” George’s voice sounded about as animated as Connor had heard it, “then he gets in with Mirko—Mirko ‘Cro Cop’—at the, I think it was, yes, it was the Osaka-jo Hall. Mirko was a K1 star, and I thought Fedor would be shooting from the changing rooms for the takedown. Although his takedowns were more throws and trips—he was a Sambo champion. Anyway, that was an awesome fight, and Fedor holds his own standing up. When Cro Cop went with his high left—” George then executed his version, with Connor being envious of his flexibility—“the kick that knocked out so many, Fedor would scythe his right leg underneath. Ernesto Hoost had taught him that. Being able to hammer a Brazilian ju-jitsu wizard while in his guard, and deal with the most feared kickboxer in MMA was quite a thing.”

“But you’re not sure if he’s the best?” asked Connor, curious but already regretting stoking George’s fight passions up.

“Well, you have Jon Jones chucking about Olympic wrestlers and tearing up Shogun Rua, and the little one—Mighty Mouse—suplexing guys into armbars,” said George. “Anyway, less talking, let’s get this done. We’ll use the cage.”

The usual remit was that they sparred for a while then—at a time of George’s choosing—he would stop and instruct Connor on where he went wrong.

The overhead lights flickered as Connor climbed into the cage. Both he and George wore white MMA sparring gloves. Connor wore green shorts while George sported grey Vale Tudo style shorts.

The younger man bit into his gumshield while obeying his rule of giving himself no more than two reminders—watch his takedowns whenever you stop moving laterally, and watch his faking takedowns to strike.

When George signalled to begin, they moved around one another like a cobra and a mongoose.

Connor started off with jabs, being wary of a counter right over the top or leg kick. George avoided them with shifts of his head. He made what Connor thought was a dive for his legs but instead sprang forward with an upwards elbow.

Connor ducked, avoiding it, while simultaneously firing a jab. It caught the more experienced man in the face. This was the first time Connor had drawn first blood in any of their matches. He fought not to get overexcited, then thought—now he is going to be fucked off.

George moved closer to him, feinting aggressively before firing the leg kicks Connor hated. He abhorred them because despite the adrenaline they were still painful to check. He disciplined himself to do it anyway, knowing that to take them to the thighs would be worse. He whipped in his own kicks, surprised to catch George with a couple of them. This encouraged him to throw more until reality struck.

George shot in as Connor was retracting his leg, pulverising through his lower body. He attempted to sprawl while cross-facing George, but the older man had timed it too well. Connor realised that he had allowed him to land those leg kicks so he would commit himself—fucking old fox.

The former Marine landed within a foot of the cage and immediately scooted back. He raked his forearm across George’s face and grasped the older man’s wrist. Placing his feet flush against the cage, Connor forced himself upright before bolting forward to escape being pinned against it.

The martial arts veteran executed a jumping, spinning kick, and his shin smashed Connor’s forearms into his head, staggering him off balance against the cage. The older man shot in, picked him up and slammed him back onto the canvas.

George squatted over him, raining punches down. Connor accepted a couple of them, darting one of his arms around a thickly muscled thigh, before using it as leverage to escape under and behind George. He drove his shoulder into the back of the leg with all his might, rewarding him with George toppling forward.

Connor scrambled onto George’s back. He punched his arm around the neck, and his predatory instincts soared—I am going to choke the fuck out of him.

Just then, George reared up before whipping forward gripping the noose-like arm—Connor had not managed to get his hooks in in time and was thrown forward onto his back. The former Pride standout spun his body around, trapping the arm between his legs.

Connor turned his wrist against George’s gripping hands, pushed his arse off the floor and manoeuvred his body away. His elbow slipped past George’s groin. He turned onto his knees despite his instructor still having a grip of his wrist. He already knew he had made a mistake.

George rose with him, lassoing the arm with his vice-like leg before turning over onto his knees. Knowing what was about to happen, Connor attempted to roll forward only to find that his Senpai had anticipated this by grasping his hip and dragging him sideways off his knees. Now he was trapped face down onto the mat by the taut Omoplata. He was powerless, but could not tap as George had not applied any pressure yet. An image from the film Kill Bill flashed in his mind; Beatrix Kiddo’s first meeting with her master Pai Mei had ended with her trapped in a wrist lock, with him threatening to snap her arm off.

George said, “You’re getting better, I’ll give you that. You’re still rushing between positions, and I am catching you in the transitions.”

He applied the pressure, and Connor tapped.

Connor was already thinking about the next training session he was to have with him, tomorrow evening.

45

Philip Norton sat shaking. “What if they know, or suspect, or—”

The voice of the girl he once knew as ‘Cytheria’ cut across him. “The only way they will suspect is if you tell them. We are not asking you to ask any specific questions. We’re asking you to attend the meeting just as you would have before our, errrm, liaison. The ring will do the rest.”

This had been the first time he had seen her since that night in the hotel room. And while the memory of it was still vivid, it had seemed like a long time ago. He had remembered her last words: “If you talk to anyone about this, we will know. And then everyone will know what you like to do in your spare time”. He had believed her and not breathed a word.

Norton reached down to touch the ring, and she said sharply, “Stop playing with it.”

Again they were in a London hotel room. She sat on the leather chair opposite and again he was on the bed. And again she was dominating him, although figuratively this time. And again, he took pleasure in it, although it was being overridden by his fear.

His travel clock sounded louder than usual. Each tick ratcheting the time of his meeting closer—click, click, click.

“Why isn’t your boss here?”

“Why would he be?”

“To reassure me that this is a government thing and not some woman playing games.”

“Now, Philip. It’s not very nice referring to me as ‘some woman’, is it—not after what we shared.”

“What can I call you then? Because your name isn’t Cytheria now, is it?”

When she did not answer, he continued, “And what we shared? You have ruined my fucking life.”

Her eyes flashed with anger, and he felt a bolt of adrenaline. He had never seen eyes like that before. Her voice cut through him.

“Your life was already ruined. Your self-loathing was eating you alive—we’ve seen the medical reports, Philip. What I am offering is redemption. So stop playing the fucking victim. It’s the biggest turn-off ever. Tomorrow, you’re going to do this, not for your wife, children or reputation. You’re going to do this to save yourself. You understand?”

Philip nodded after a moment—he did, completely.

The next evening, Sarah sat with her Uncle Bruce within the vast, grandiose space of the Royal Opera house. From the outside, it had been dazzling as the yellow light shining out of the pure white structure through its monolithic pillars. Against the dark blue of the night sky, it was highlighted majestically. The red, white and gold inside of the cavernous hall was no less enchanting. People began to trickle in now. She had done a little research on the play, Tosca, that they were about to watch, aware that it would be performed in Italian. The internet had said it was a tale of love, betrayal and murderous passion. It seemed surreal to be in a place like this. Just six months ago she had been chuckling along with her flatmates the night before her final exams while watching Still Game.

She had left University of Stirling with a degree in social work back in September then moved down to London after being offered a well-paying position with Westminster City council. Both she and Bruce had been busy, so this was only the fourth time they had met since she had moved down.

She had been a little taken back when he had suggested the opera. Her former SAS, all-around man’s man of an uncle taking her to the opera seemed strange. It was a million miles away from their native Glasgow.

Her mum had told her stories about her brother. She said that although his accent had simmered down and his wardrobe and mode of transport had upgraded, he was still the same person underneath—that warm-hearted but fearsome protector.

In fact, she had meant to ask him something.

“Bruce.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t happen to remember Richard, Millie’s ex-boyfriend?”

Millie was her younger sister.

“Yes, I remember.”

“Mind the time he said to Millie he was married an’ that’s why they broke up.”

Bruce shrugged.

“Aye, well, he was in the paper recently. In the jail fer dealing.”

“Sounds like Millie had a lucky escape then.”

“Well, aye, but I was talking to my friend Lorna the nurse, who knows him well. Last time she sees him was when he was wheeled into the infirmary with a snapped ankle, a fractured jaw and bruising to his kidney.”

“Sounds like his wife is a firey one,” he said, looking away. “Did you know this play is over a hundred years old?”

Sarah ignored him. “Funny that. Like I say, Lorna knows him very well and knows he’s not, and never has been, married.”

Bruce stayed silent.

“It was right around the time you took him to go game shooting or beating, whatever they called it.”

Her uncle turned to her and smiled. “Look, aside from the fact that you, your mother and your sister mean more to me than anything in this world, you’re all women—people—who make this world a better place. Your da’ is no longer with us, but you’ve got me. I might not always be around, but you only need a hand out of the water when you’re struggling to swim. That fud, for want of a better word, would have been the ruination of her. And I won’t let that happen to any of my girls. Understand?”

She slowly nodded, and then he looked down at the event’s card. She stroked the corner of her eye with her finger.

Stop it—she thought—you were meant to wait until after the performance to cry.

Connor limped down the stairs of George’s dojo. It had been his second consecutive day training there, and he was feeling the effects. He smiled despite feeling like he had been in a car accident. The older man hadn’t come out of this session unscathed either. George was fifteen years his senior—he would not have the upper hand forever.

He opened the main door and spotted Louis’s Blue Audi TT. He failed to disguise the limp entirely and saw his friend laughing. Connor threw his training bag into the Audi’s boot and got in the passenger seat.

“Maaate, you want to get on the tren-train and stop letting that old man bully ya.”

“Tren? Is that what you do?”

Louis kissed his teeth, then flexed a bicep that resembled a baseball trapped underneath the skin, “I don’t need to, I have ‘blackness’, fam, you should try some—like your mum did.”

Connor smiled. “Why don’t you climb the stairs and challenge the ‘old man’ with your blackness?”

“Nah,” said Louis, merging the Audi with the flow of the traffic. “Don’t want to bruise mah knuckles for nuttin’.”

“You bag-off that solicitor?”

Bruce had continually impressed upon them to eradicate Royal Marine terminology from their speech. There was no way of knowing where they might get sent or who they might be inserted with, and they might have to hide that part of their background. But Bruce was not here, and the Marines was where they had met. Connor smiled in the recollection that Louis was one of the few who had never toned down the way he spoke. Most lads in the military with strong regional accents did, if only to prevent being asked to repeat themselves constantly or to avoid being characterised by their dialect. Connor remembered that he was never made to feel self-conscious about his Yorkshire brogue until he reached his unit of 45 Commando. One of the lads would parody him—‘goin’ teeerrrr tha gym, goin’ feeerrr ah cuppa tea’. Connor knew he had simmered down the way he spoke—his cousin Tom would often mention it. Louis never did, he punctuated his talk with words like ‘in’it’, ‘safe’, ‘fam’, ‘ya get me’, ‘an that,’ ‘bruv’.

He knew they looked an odd pair—he was white from Leeds, and Louis black from south-east London. They had many shared interests; they were both criminals before and during their time in the Corps, they had met on the Navy boxing team and both loved women.

“Bag her off? Nah, it’s not like that.” Then Louis asked, “But you’ve fucked Ciara, haven’t ya.”

Connor said nothing.

“How was she?” Louis asked.

“Mate, she’s easily in the top three shags I have ever had.”

“Gen?”

“Gen. Choking me from on top, covering my mouth, biting my chest, all sorts. Didn’t think I’d like it, but it was something different.”

“She looks a bit of a beast—in a good way, in’it,” said Louis. “Ah had this nineteen-year-old over last week. White girl. Fuck me, she looked like butter wouldn’t melt, but she was a straight-up freak. Coming out with moves ah didn’t even know.”

Connor chuckled. “You know what I think it is? I think it’s because of the easy access to porn. I bet half of ’em have a porn app tucked away on their phones. No girl fifteen years ago was rooting through their dad’s sock drawer for Escort magazine or splinter celling it down the stairs to watch the Television X ten-minute preview. But now they don’t have to. Anyone with a phone can download a porn app.”

“Must be why your mom has got dirtier then.”

“You ever gonna get bored of these Mum jokes?”

“What do ya mean, jokes?” Louis smiled.

Connor’s phone vibrated, and he read the message:

‘Candidates suitable. Be ready to transport on Saturday. Exact location given on Saturday morning. Around the Surrey area.’

The performance transfixed Bruce. Ten years ago, he would never have thought he would have appreciated the opera. He’d been persuaded to accompany a woman he had briefly dated and enjoyed it despite himself. It still amazed him that a hundred years on, Tosca was still entertaining the crowds. That said, he mused, the first of Shakespeare’s plays had been performed around 1590.

The great hall echoed with rapturous applause, and Bruce smiled as he saw his niece dabbing the corners of her eyes. He was very proud of how she had turned out. She had got her glossy, dark curls, flashing brown eyes and pragmatism all from her mother, Sandra. Her calm temperament had come from her father, Mick, who had died from liver disease when she was a teenager. Mick’s death, and Sandra’s continuing battle with bipolar depression, had been hard for both daughters. Sarah, the eldest, had dealt with it a little more stoically than Millie, but they had both turned out to be great girls.

He enjoyed spoiling his nieces, and tonight was no exception. However, as good as he was at compartmentalising, he was aware that Philip Norton would be having his meeting with his superiors tomorrow. There was nothing Bruce could do to affect the outcome. He had to snatch respite whenever he could because if he did not, he would eventually implode.

As Ben Shaw had explained to him, for the audio recording to escape any anti-bug detectors, it would have to be ‘tight wrapped’, and the process of unwrapping it afterwards could take hours.

All he could do was wait.

46

Philip Norton was being escorted seamlessly through the London traffic, surrounded by the mahogany and cream leather of the Bentley Continental.

The driver wore a suit and gave off the air of warm professionalism.

Norton imagined that he would have thoroughly enjoyed the experience under normal circumstances. As the Bentley stopped at the lights, he watched a group of teenagers stare intently at the vehicle, no doubt wishing to be him at that moment, having no idea that all he wanted was to be in their shoes. In fact, wishing he could rewind the clock to a time when he was that age—there were so many things he would do differently.

As the purring engine pulled away from the lights, Norton was reminded of something that the girl had said—that he was doing this for redemption, to save himself. Indeed, he was almost glad he was being forced to do this.

The Bentley slowed and turned into a private car park of a towering office block. It was held back by a barrier. The attendant approached the driver’s side, and the window slid down.

“Mr Norton here to attend his meeting.”

“Of course,” said the attendant before angling his face at Norton. “Mr Norton, I’ll need you to wear these.”

He passed him a wristband and an ID clip. Norton put them on, and the barrier lifted after a moment.

After the driver had opened his door for him, he negotiated the medical consultant through a quagmire of office workers. They seemed to Norton to have an almost frenzied look about them. They came to an elevator. As he entered it, he remembered the girl’s words to him, “If you think your nerves are getting the best of you, then force yourself to breathe slowly, and deeply. And swill saliva over your gums. When danger is present, the body will divert water to higher priority places like your head for sweating, and attempt to draw in extra oxygen, so these are biological hacks to trick your system that there is no danger.”

It seemed to work a little. Still, when the steel curtains drew back, and the final door to the meeting room presented itself, he could not stop his heart rate from shooting up.

Frank Schwimmer took in the view from his office at the top of the high-rise. He loved London. It remained the world’s leading financial centre for international business and commerce. That meant it was the centre of the world for power. Or at least it once was. In this age of globalisation, there did not need to be a ‘centre’ any more.

He smiled when he thought of the conspiracy theories that the masses liked to indulge in. The idea that only a handful of men controlled everybody and everything was absurd. There were almost two hundred nations and over seven and a half billion people in the world. Besides, a group of individuals wielding that sort of power would never agree all of the time.

However, there were secretive groups that could and did engineer seismic influence in the world. Schwimmer’s healthy donations to the Republican party had been noticed a few years previous, and he had been invited to be a member of Bohemian Grove. As he had been driven to the gates of the ‘Ancient Redwood Forest’, he had felt he had arrived as a power player. The feeling faded over time, and he deliberated that it was down to his alpha personality—always striving for more.

Bohemian Grove was a social club, and a resort for the wealthy and powerful to relax. But to regard it as a place purely for recreation, where nothing ever got decided, was naïve at best. It was not even a secret that the ‘Manhattan Project’—the research and development of nuclear weapons—had been first mooted there. It was the types of people that were members of Bohemian Grove whom Schwimmer wanted to benefit from his global organ transplantation venture.

That was what today’s meeting was all about, the progression of that goal. Philip Norton had been one of his chief consultants. Norton had been working for the company for so long and visited so many of the hospitals that it had to be near impossible that he did not at least suspect where the donors had come from. Schwimmer was looking to expand, and he needed a consultant to oversee the initial health screens of the donors brought in, one who understood why their previous medicals could not be accessed. A highly qualified family man with a secret proclivity for prostitutes and fetish porn seemed an ideal candidate. Schwimmer needed to get a feel for the Irishman personally.

As a precaution, he had had the parking attendant issue Norton with an admission wristband and an ID card. The ID card contained a chip that monitored fluctuations in heart rate, and the wristband contained a technology that detected perspiration. AGI patented both.

The billionaire knew that to expose himself and his vision of the future was dangerous. Norton, from this meeting on, would know Schwimmer to be directly responsible for the drive of scraping up the underbelly of different nations and using their involuntary sacrifice for the greater good. Not everyone shared his dream, and perhaps Norton would be one of them. If money or a threat to his reputation could not persuade him, then at least his organs could be used.

The doors opened.

Philip Norton walked into the room. There was a long polished table with grand seats either side. They were all empty.

At the helm stood a man with hair that matched his grey flannel suit. He turned around, revealing a black goatee underneath a pair of enquiring eyes.

“Mr Norton,” the man said in New York saturated English, “a pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Frank Schwimmer.”

“A pleasure to meet you too, Mr Schwimmer.”

“Please take a seat.”

Both men sat.

“I trust we are treating you well enough.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Wonderful.” Schwimmer smiled wide. “And you’re wondering why you’re here with me?”

“I was, sir, yes.”

“You see, Mr Norton, I, and the rest of the board members of course, am particularly interested in not only expanding, but progressing the quality of medical care for the people who can make a difference in this world. Those people who can make a difference to millions of people.”

“OK,” Norton said cautiously.

Schwimmer looked at him a moment or two, and Norton forced himself not to look away.

“Are you familiar with the siege of Leningrad?”

“Err, I am aware—”

“The siege of Leningrad cost more lives than any other siege in history. It lasted over two years. Most starved—around a million and a half. There were twelve men, however, who were surrounded by food. Know who they were?”

Norton shook his head. He began to feel a little more relaxed. Frank Schwimmer seemed to be revealing a personal passion to him.

“They were eleven scientists under one Nikolai Vavilov, a botanist who devoted his life to the study of crops that could sustain an entire population. They took shifts guarding the world’s largest seed bank that contained 250,000 samples of seeds, roots and fruits. This seed bank would be a cornerstone to Russian survival. Do you know what happened, son?”

Norton shook his head.

“Nine of them died of starvation. Not one would eat the contents of this Bodega—excuse the New York in me—this grocery store. They sacrificed for the greater good. You understand this?”

“Of course I do, Mr Schwimmer,” the Irishman answered.

Frank Schwimmer was wearing an earpiece in which his assistant Ian relayed Norton’s heart rate and perspiration fluctuations. The voice whispered in his ear, “Heart rate spiked on the word ‘sacrificed’. He’s nervous about something.”

His assistant, Terry, watched Norton from a variety of angles through the secret cameras dotted around the room.

“So, Philip, do you agree that there are people in this world that contribute more than others?”

“Of course, Mr Schwimmer.”

“And that there’s those who drain it of its vitality?”

“Perspiring has begun.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you eat meat?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“You eat meat? You’re not a vegetarian or a vegan?”

“Oh. No, I eat meat.”

“So you understand the concept that a lesser being should be sacrificed to sustain a greater one?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Norton answered, “Yes.”

“What we do at AGI is we take those people who have squandered their precious lives for self-indulgence and we use their organs so that the people who strive in this world can endure. Darwin’s theory of evolution.”

“Heart rate spiked. He’s perspiring. I don’t like this, Boss.” Ian’s voice said.

Schwimmer could see a faint sheen on Norton’s brow. Still, Norton was not going to snitch—he had too much to lose. He would go through with this until the end. Schwimmer knew the type—Norton would need time to process what had been said, but ultimately he would stay on the train.

“Like the…like the Russian scientist, Valuev,” stuttered Norton.

Schwimmer smiled to himself. “Vavilov, you mean. Yes, like Vavilov and his scientists.”

“So,” said Norton, “we take homeless people and drug addicts and give their organs to people more worthy of them?”

Schwimmer felt his heart rate spike, and it was reinforced by Ian’s voice. “This motherfucker is a Fed.”

Then Terry’s, “It’s the ring, that ring; he touched it. Boss, scratch your nose, and I’ll knock on the door. We have to talk about this.”

Schwimmer scratched his nose and said, “How are you finding your work so far?”

He watched Norton flinch at the knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said.

The bearded, neatly groomed Terry appeared. “Mr Schwimmer, apologies to interrupt but I need a moment of your time.”

Schwimmer nodded. “Excuse me, Mr Norton, I won’t be a moment.”

And he stood, leaving the Irishman fidgeting in his chair.

47

Ciara sat in the ‘London Grind’ bar, waiting for Norton to debrief him.

She had felt a pinch of guilt ensnaring his co-operation the way she had. Bruce had told her that the memory of his entrapment would recede. In time, Philip Norton’s mind would tell him that he wanted to help, and he’d throw himself into his role of ‘double agent’ with more abandon. When a person did not have a choice, the mind found equilibrium through rationalisation.

Her phone rang. She answered it, and Bruce’s voice came down the line. “How is he?”

“He’s not here yet.”

There was a pause and then, “You’re not in the actual café where you said you’d meet him?”

“Of course not,” she answered a little prickly. “In the café across the road. Fifty metres or so. I can see all the lead-ups to that and this one.”

“Just checking—fuck.”

“What?” she asked. She could not remember a time she had heard him swear.

“Nothing. Keep me updated,” he answered before terminating the call.

She felt a stab of adrenaline—why the change of tone followed by the abrupt finish?

Norton was now eight minutes late. Not a massive deal—the meeting might have run over—but there was a man propped against the bar who she knew was preparing to come on to her. His black, skinny jeans were ripped at the knees, and a loose scarf lay haughtily over a tight white T-shirt. The blonde hair, shaved at the back and sides, was painstakingly tousled on top. He was not her type at all.

She knew she should not be judging a book by its cover, but she felt the ensemble gave a definitive window into the guy’s personality. He slid off his chair and sauntered over to her in a manner that reminded her of a catwalk model.

He sat down without asking. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she answered—be polite, do not be that girl.

“Can I buy you another coffee?”

“I am OK, thank you. My boyfriend will buy me one when he gets here.”

“Oh, I’ll keep you company until he gets here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Thank you anyway, it was nice that you came over.”

He frowned. “You controlled by your boyfriend. Not allowed to talk to other men?”

Ciara clenched her teeth. “Listen, I am flattered that you came over instead of staring. But I am not interested. I want to enjoy my coffee and wait. Don’t take it personally—there isn’t a man on earth who’s everyone’s cup of tea, not even Brad Pitt. Now, will you please leave me alone.”

His expression slowly turned into a sneer. He got up and spat, “Fucking dyke.”

Ciara’s mind dived into turmoil. She knew she should have just let him off with the insult, let it be water off a duck’s back. Besides, she was waiting for Norton. She checked her watch; he was not here now so it would be better to text him and arrange another place. She was taught in her training never to remain more than ten minutes after the scheduled time. She began to seethe—that fucking Made in Chelsea reject will go on abusing women at will, and you have the power to make him pause for thought. She thought of her mother’s ex-boyfriend.

She stood up and checked around—no cameras. There were a few patrons in the corner and the bar owner. She walked over to where the man who had insulted her sat and kept her voice deliberately meek. “Excuse me, that wasn’t very nice. I spoke to you with respect and you—”

“Fuck off outta my face, you fucking stuck-up butch twat,” he shrieked.

Ciara flashed him her sweetest smile, and a mask of confusion descended on his face. “Can’t we be friends?”

As he opened his mouth to speak, her right elbow rifled onto his nose in a cruel Sawk Tong—smashing down elbow. He skidded off the stool with the blood gushing out of his now fractured nose. He was on his knees. His hands hovered over his nose, and he unleashed an effeminate cry. He looked up at her with his face cycling through despair and submission, before settling on anger. The expression disappeared after her knee shot into his face, pulverising the teeth from the gums and covering her jeans in blood. He slumped unconscious.

She looked at the slack-jawed bar owner, who seemed to recover his bearings. “I was in the back. I didn’t see anything.”

“I appreciate it, though you can’t speak for everyone else, unfortunately. I’ll take my medicine when the police get here.”

“No, you will not, girl,” a handsome, middle-aged woman trumpeted. “You’ll get yourself gone. No one seen anything now, you hear?”

The rest of the customers nodded in silent agreement.

Ciara left as the feeling of gratefulness coursed through her.

The BMW’s acceleration pressed Bruce’s head back into the headrest. He briefly berated himself for his oversight. He dialled Connor’s number, but the line went immediately to voicemail—fuck.

He hoped that he got there in time, or better, that there was nothing to be in time for. As he peeled off the motorway and sped towards the destination, he could see that he was out of luck—at least with the latter.

Ben Shaw sipped his tea in his workroom. He had been up since five o’clock.

The software he had developed to isolate, enhance and clean the dialogue had completed ninety-seven per cent of its task. As soon as it hit a hundred per cent, it would automatically upload itself to Jaime, who would then digitally ‘polish’ it.

Shaw smiled as he thought of his Latin friend. The Peruvian had been a prototypical awkward computer nerd when Shaw had first met him. They had both been students at London Imperial College and had bonded over a shared interest in Information Technology. Shaw had been savvy enough in computer programming to understand that Jaime was a genius in this field, perhaps too much of one—the South American had been doing all sorts of crazy shit and when he disappeared Shaw had feared the worst.

He popped up a few years later, and they had met for a coffee. He seemed a different person. He had a confidence about him, and Shaw had been impressed. It helped that Jaime had better clothes and professionally styled hair and beard. But it was the sense of purpose that shone through.

Now, despite the darkness outside giving credence to the early hour, Shaw felt the same sense of purpose. When Bruce had explained to him that there was an organisation taking the homeless and vulnerable, and killing them for their organs, Shaw knew he would give anything he could to defeat it.

He flicked on the kettle he had designed—nine seconds to boil a litre of water. He poured the liquid onto a tea bag in his ‘I am the Boss’ mug. His phone went off.

“Yeah?”

“You expecting company at this time in the morning?” said Bruce when he answered.

“No.”

“There are three not so gentle-looking characters about to enter the building. Get out of there.”

Shaw’s heart rate spiked. He wanted to leave, but they were so close to achieving the objective.

“I can’t. The audio file is several minutes off being ready to upload.”

“Look, we can always—”

“—no. I’ll stall them,” said Shaw. He hung up amid the beginnings of Bruce’s protest.

Bruce awkwardly ran towards the warehouse with his CZ 75 SP 01 pistol in hand—his knee reminding him that it was artificial. He positioned himself next to the entrance. He was careful to keep his finger off the trigger. Bruce had spent hundreds of hours clearing buildings both for real and in training. Techniques would continuously evolve, but some basic principles remained the same. Checking the corners, keeping a foot away from the walls to avoid ricochets, slicing the pie and moving immediately away from the fatal funnel would always be mainstays. Although he had skill and experience, he now faced three threats on his own, without body armour or flash-bangs. ‘Slow is smooth and smooth is fast’ was one of the mantras used. Shaw would have to take a few extra skelps—Bruce could not help him if he himself was incapacitated or dead.

He made his entry and heard the sounds: crashing, exertions, and shouts ahead. Still, he checked every potential firing point while he ghost-walked up to Shaw’s workroom. He steadied his breathing.

He spotted the man with the pistol before the man spotted Bruce, as his focus was on the beating his two colleagues were administering on the far side of the room. Usually, Bruce would employ the failure drill—two to the centre of mass, one to the head—when shooting people, but given that he was on his own, with limited ammunition, he opted for single shots to the head.

The man’s cheek hollowed inwards as the bone fragments splintered outwards. The body collapsed, revealing the blood splash against the wall.

The Scotsman dropped into a spinning crouch and shot the second in the throat. Arterial blood spurted out, and the third guy levelled his pistol. Bruce was already diving for the cover of the gap between the workbenches.

Three shots rang out before the sound of skidding feet echoed down the corridor. Bruce sprang out with his pistol raised only to find his enemy had fled. He rushed to Ben Shaw. Bruce knew he was going to die as he looked at the two entry wounds in Shaw’s chest.

The strangulated voice choked out, “Check the computer upload. And…and…make sure you…kill all of them.”

Bruce checked the computer. He returned to Ben just as the engineer’s eyes began to flicker.

“Din’nae worry, lad. They’ll all die soon enough, and none of them will see heaven.”

Shaw’s eyes closed with the small smile on his face as his heart stopped beating.

48

Ciara attempted to calm her feverish internal dialogue as she walked down the street. What she had just done was not smart in either her profession as a journalist or an agent. All it would have taken was for someone to have pointed an Android phone, a quick Facebook upload and she would have been sacked from both professions. That said, she could not deny the feeling of satisfaction she got as she replayed and freeze-framed the image of the shock and pain plastered on his face after the elbow strike.

She texted Norton as she walked. ‘Original meeting point no longer a go. Drive to King’s Cross then call me. I’ll direct you from there.’

King’s Cross was the location of one of the safe houses. She began to feel a sliver of concern that Norton hadn’t replied. She quelled these fears—he could be held up for a number of different reasons and would not be able to tell me.

She headed towards a taxi rank. In the immediate aftermath of the incident in the café, Ciara had neglected her counter-surveillance duties.

She was unaware she was being followed.

Connor walked back from Whole Foods in Camden Town to the safe house in King’s Cross.

Hours of listening to podcasts and reading into the subject of diet had led him to realise that no one person had the definitive answer. He had listened to one doctor talk with authority about the myriad of benefits that the Ketogenic Diet had, and he had been convinced. That was before he listened to another doctor on the same podcast who had refuted it. The only thing that Connor could discern that the vast majority of the experts could agree on was that the food you eat should be as natural as possible—to stay away from processed food with a high content of trans-fats and sugars.

That is why he shopped at Whole Foods even though his working-class soul resented it.

The walk from Camden Town to King’s Cross would have taken a ‘civilian’ around ten minutes. But with the counter surveillance measures of looping back and pausing at corners, it took him just shy of twenty.

He did not know whether Ciara would be in or not. She had texted him earlier to let him know she had arrived in London. It had a more personal undertone to it.

He was beginning to feel a little conflicted. He understood now that perhaps he was a little naïve in thinking he would be able to resist sleeping with a girl that attractive if she put it on him. But now he was beginning to develop strong feelings for her. He found himself making a list in his head of profs and dips—the pros and cons—of both Ciara and Grace. Grace profs—funny, warm, redhead, dirty and submissive in bed, high-powered career, from Leeds. Grace dips—civilian and refused to work out. Ciara profs—interesting, fiery, stunning-looking, works out, can back him up in a fight, same profession, can tell her almost everything with regards to his work. Ciara dips—chokes me in bed, bites me in bed, nails draw blood in bed. Funny, but not like Grace. Would physically attack me if pushed—and that would be a nightmare.

Yes—he decided—I will cool it down with Ciara.

He reached the flat and entered. Ciara would still be debriefing her contact. An image flashed in his head of her ‘pegging’ her contact, and Connor smiled. He remembered how she had offered to do it to him and how he had turned her down. He had read how massaging the prostate gland during sex could produce an orgasm described as a ‘white fire of pleasure’. This was exactly why he had turned her down—he would be asking for it all the time. Before long it would be one small step to taking an actual cock in his arse—perhaps a gorgeous Thai she-male at first; that would not be gay, it would be Royally, royally he would tell himself. But there was a dearth of convincing-looking she-males in the UK, which might lead him to trying a man. Perhaps you are looking too far into it—he mused.

As was his habit, he had a cursory glance around before fully entering the apartment. Ciara was not there. The apartment was two floors. Upstairs were the two bedrooms, bathroom and spare room. The entrance door opened into the downstairs living room and the kitchen beyond. The living room had a storage alcove next to it which was pretty sparse except for a mop and bucket and a few cleaning products.

Connor packed the food shopping away and put the kettle on.

He checked his phone, and noticed that it had been up-dating. It came back online as he was looking at it. He had two missed calls from Bruce. He called him back but it just rang out. Then the phone vibrated and he read the message from Ciara—‘Back in approximately five minutes. Put the kettle on’.

He jogged upstairs to the toilet and afterwards noticed through the ajar door Ciara’s travel kit on the bed.

He smiled to himself. In anticipation of the initial meeting with her contact, she had bought something in addition to her strap-on. She had not had to use it in the end, but he knew it must be still in her kit. He smirked—he would hide in the living room storage cupboard with it on, before bursting out and surprising her. He knew she would not be armed; The Project’s MO on UK soil was to only have firearms inside their houses or in the safe houses, unless for specific offensive actions. The only reason she had had a pistol on the night Rashid had attempted to ambush him was because she had picked it up from an armourer that very day. That is a point—he thought—I will point the suppressed pistol at her so she doesn’t immediately begin to fill me in.

Bruce lifted Shaw’s phone to his ear. Jaime’s digitalised voice sounded as clear as day.

“What’s happened? The upload cut off—”

“Jaime, it’s Bruce.”

“Why? Where’s Ben?”

“I have some bad news.”

There was a silence for a beat.

“What is it?”

“It’s Ben. He’s dead.”

Another short silence, and then, “How? Can you say?”

“They came for him. Three men. He died stalling them so they wouldn’t cut the upload. But I guess they managed it. They have erased the file too. I got there and neutralised two of them. The third shot Ben while making his escape. I am sorry, Jaime.”

“Did they have anything in their possession to identify them?”

Bruce knew it was typical of Jaime to want to ‘solve’ the problem.

“No. I shot one in the head, so you can’t use your facial recognition on him. The second was caught in the throat. I am uploading now.”

“How did they know?”

“They must have made the mole and somehow tracked the transmission. I am going to call Ciara now. She’s in danger.”

“What about Connor?”

“He’s sharing the same safehouse to maintain their cover of being a couple. If she’s in danger then he is too.”

Connor began to feel faintly ridiculous—I am just a few years off being thirty, hiding in a cupboard, preparing to scare a colleague with a loaded pistol. He began to recall the words of one of his Sergeants: “you’re the most solid smart person I know, what is the point of having a brain when you insist on not using it!”

The sound of the door unlocking jerked him out of his daydream. He heard Ciara talking on the phone. “He didn’t show. But I received a text literally as you called saying he was on his way to the area—yes, I’ll be vigilant.”

She would be on the phone to Bruce and went into the kitchen. Connor did not think it wise to bomb out now. In fact, he decided to abort. At that moment, a group of men burst in through the door and streamed into the kitchen.

“He didn’t show. But I received a text literally as you called saying he was on his way to the area,” said Ciara down the phone as she walked through the door and into the kitchen.

“I think there’s a better than average chance he has been compromised,” said Bruce.

“Yes, I’ll be vigilant,” she said, flicking on the kettle.

“Don’t go and meet him without Connor providing over watch. I think they have made your contact, whether he knows it or not. We are now without a lead as to the specific individual or people behind this. You’ll have to meet him, I am afraid, and you’ll be bait.”

“I understand.”

The phone clicked off, and she was surprised the kettle heated so quickly. Connor could not have been here or he would have shouted down the stairs when she got in. She poured the boiling water into her mug.

She spun around at the sound of footsteps—they have found me. The scalding coffee splashed into the first man’s face. He screamed in agony before being thrown out the way by the second man.

He avoided her uppercut, and his forehead crashed into her cheek sending her sideways along the edge of the kitchen top. She straightened up and unleashed a barrage of blows but he kept his chin down and arms up protecting his head. She kneed him in the stomach, but a third assailant joined the affray, his whipping knuckles colliding against her cheekbone. She again fell back into the counter. As she tightened her fists against her face and elbows against her ribs, her brain screaming—do not go down, do not go down, or that is it.

She heard three ‘clacks’ bounce around the room. Warm liquid splashed all over her face and arms. And the fists and boots stopped pounding into her. She looked up and the surrealism of the scene stopped her for a moment. The man who had headbutted her now stood with his back to her. The man who had punched her in the cheek now lay at her feet—the entry wound gaping from the back of his head. She then realised that the warm liquid on her face was his blood.

The man she had scalded lay in the corner with his forehead resembling smashed pomegranate.

And in the door was a figure wearing a familiar, black leather mask, pointing a suppressed pistol at the man who had headbutted her. A firearm was impossible to ‘silence’; exploding gunpowder was still exploding gunpowder. The suppressor had taken the decibel level of the shots down to the ‘clacks’ she had heard.

The weird mask spoke. “Get on your knees and interlock your fingers before your knee caps go missing.”

She recognised Connor’s voice.

“What the fuck?” she exclaimed.

“Don’t ask,” he said. “Besides, you’ll need one for being seen in public with.”

It was then she became aware of the swelling on both her cheeks.

“You,” said Connor to the kneeling man. “Lay face down on the floor.”

The man complied. Connor beckoned her over to him. He gave her the pistol and took the gimp mask off.

“Who sent you?” Connor asked him.

“You won’t make me talk.”

Connor looked at Ciara and smiled. “I was praying he’d say something like that.”

49

Frank Schwimmer could not remember feeling an excitement on this level before. He was familiar with the type of sensation but not like it was filling his being now.

For Schwimmer, it had begun with a business meeting with an Angel investor named Andrew Thomas. This had been nearly ten years ago, before Schwimmer was a billionaire like the native of Kentucky was.

It seemed to him that Thomas just wanted to take him hunting. Schwimmer had accepted, and found that Thomas had a full camouflage suit in his exact size waiting for him. The next day, after seemingly hours of hiking and then concentrated stalking, they were finally in proximity to their prey, and Thomas insisted that Schwimmer take the shot. Nerves and excitement had filled Schwimmer’s body as he lined up the sights on the doe—his first potential kill. He squeezed the trigger, and the arrow zinged through the air in a flash of red. The doe bolted away, and initially, Schwimmer thought he had missed. That was until Thomas’s large hand swatted him on the shoulder while roaring, “Y’all see that! Ya shoot like you lived in the Bluegrass all ya damn life, boy.”

Schwimmer had felt a surge of pride, but that had been secondary to the feeling he had when after walking fifty yards they came across the dead doe. It awakened something primal within him, and he recalled thinking, I killed this.

Now here he was, holding his customised crossbow within his soundproof office, aiming it at a shackled and terrified Philip Norton.

Schwimmer did not shoot right away; he wanted to savour this moment, the moment of ultimate power—to extinguish the life of another. Schwimmer watched with a dizzying fascination as Norton fought the handcuff securing him to the chair with a fury, his screaming sobs bouncing off the walls.

Norton felt plugged into a generator of fear. It was so overwhelming that he thought he might die from that rather than the arrow that held his focus. Then, after a few moments, he stopped screaming. This was it, his final moments. There was the only thing he had left under his control—he could die screaming, or he could die like a man. He took his focus off the arrow and locked eyes with this evil man.

Schwimmer tucked the butt of the crossbow in his shoulder and aimed. He waited for the natural pause at the end of his breath.

The arrow pierced Norton’s heart.

The exhilaration was tainted as Schwimmer watched the blood waterfall from his victim’s pain-stricken mouth, the wet patch around the groin and finally the eyes still as the life slipped from him.

He wanted him to die begging.

Bruce answered Jaime’s call with a, “Good news?”

He was back in his car just about to start the engine, after briefing and leaving one of the ‘clean up’ teams to attend to the Ben Shaw murder scene.

“Potentially. A Liam Jackson, a former Army engineer. Passed P Coy. But—”

“P coy?”

“Yes, it’s a course—”

“Oh, P company.”

“OK. P company. He tried for the SAS. He failed in the jungle for a reason that might prove very interesting to you.”

“I am all ears.”

“It reminds me of what Rachel Dawes says to Bruce Wayne before she knows he’s Batman—‘It’s what you do that defines you’. And what you do is attack women three on one,” said Connor to his captive. The man had a layer of fat that covered the otherwise solid physique. His hair and moustache were a chestnut brown.

They were in a warehouse in King’s Cross not far from the safehouse. Connor wondered how Bruce had procured this since warehouse space was at a premium around the area. The hostage broke his thoughts.

“And what you do is beat up men when they have their hands tied.”

“Well—”

“Connor, no,” said Ciara sternly. “Let’s keep working on him. He’s a pussy anyway—he couldn’t even knock me over.”

The captive ignored her, looking straight at Connor. “You couldn’t beat me on your best day, you prick.”

Ciara took her vibrating phone out of her pocket and answered it. “Hello. Yes, give me a minute.” She rested the phone against her shoulder and gave Connor a look. “It’s the boss. Please behave.”

When she left, Connor walked up to the captive and released his hands from the handcuffs. He stepped away from him, and his feet assumed a fighting stance. “Hurry up before she comes back.”

The man stood rubbing his wrists. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“If you were anything to be worried about, I’d have heard of you.”

The man walked up to him with his arms forming a boxing guard. When he was around three feet away, he dived in for an explosive rugby tackle. Connor sprawled his legs backwards and caught his opponent in a guillotine choke.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Connor said as his ulna buried itself into the thrashing man’s throat. “Trying that playground trick after all your mouth.”

The man slumped, and Connor dropped the dead weight before dragging him to his original position. He secured the man’s wrists with the handcuffs.

The man began to regain consciousness just as Ciara came back in.

“Been playing nice?” asked Ciara.

Connor said nothing. Ciara took a few steps towards the nonplussed man and said, “So Liam Jackson. A man should be here shortly with some guys to help loosen your tongue.”

Jaime pinched his nose as he stared at his computer screen. He was running out of the mental energy to do something productive, and that was bad news. When focused on work, he was not thinking about how he had encouraged his friend Ben Shaw into this life; a venture which had led to his death.

That Jaime had been in the middle of the Mediterranean on his superyacht when his friend had been beaten to death had thrown him into a bath of guilt.

He knew that his years at university would have been decidedly more difficult socially if it had not been for the friendship he had struck up with the burly Shaw. Jaime’s English had been more disjointed then, and he had been—as he still was—a geek. Jaime remembered a group of students mocking his accent and clothes at a campus party. Ben had asked Jaime to go to the bar for the beers. When Jaime returned, the group of students were decidedly nicer towards him.

Bruce had told Jaime that Shaw had been fully aware of what he was getting himself into, but Jaime could not help feel responsible. It was not just the feeling that he was to blame that was assailing him, it was mild despair—Ben Shaw had produced some of the more inventive gadgets that the members of The Project used. Jaime did not know if he was replaceable in a professional sense.

What had really hurt was that his friend’s death was for nought—they had managed to cut the upload and delete the audio.

Jaime had spent the last half-hour aiding Bruce in the break-in of a Pets Store. Relatively simple for someone of Bruce’s skills, but Jaime had disabled the alarms anyway. The store owners would never find any evidence that it had been broken into anyway.

Bruce arrived at the warehouse and Ciara greeted him.

“Nasty-looking bruises,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “Could have been worse.”

“Aye, learning the hard way is often the best way.”

“I know I messed up. It won’t happen again,” she said contritely.

Bruce nodded. He then tilted the box that was under the crook of his arm. “Let’s get on with it.”

Ciara opened the door. Connor was sat against the wall, and Liam Jackson was on his side looking docile.

“You’ve done something to him, haven’t you?” said Bruce.

“What makes you say that? He hasn’t got any marks on him.”

Bruce noticed that Connor did not say ‘No, I haven’t’ and decided not to pursue it. Instead, he walked up to Jackson with the box still under his arm. “Mr Jackson.”

The captive looked up at him, and Bruce continued. “I am a reasonable man, and I take very little personally. All I want is the name of your employer. You won’t face any judicial measures, and you’ll live. You will have to be detained until this entire matter reaches its conclusion, but nothing else will happen to you. All I need is a name and information.”

Bruce watched Jackson eyeing the black box. Within the black casing was a transparent cube with a handle on top.

“I won’t talk.”

“Because you’re scared?”

Jackson did not say anything.

“The thing you have got to decide is whether fear of something that might happen in the future—although it probably won’t as we can fake your death—supersedes a fear of something real and immediate.”

With that, Bruce gripped the handle of the Perspex box and let the black casing fall away. Liam Jackson immediately scuttled away into the corner, like he was trying to escape through the wall. He began hyperventilating but could not take his eyes off the pair of ten-inch, salmon pink Brazilian spiders. The tarantulas had pink hairs on their legs.

“You see, Liam, I found out the reason you failed selection was that you screamed the place down upon finding a spider in your clothing. Now, it could have only been a black widow or a brown recluse spider in Belize, and since these bad boys,” said Bruce, as he reached into the box and picked out one of the spiders, “are around ten times the size of either of them and eat birds, you have to ask yourself if the fear of releasing your employer’s name supersedes the fear of me putting this on your face and having it bite you.”

With that, Bruce began walking towards Jackson, only to make it two steps before Jackson screamed, “Frank Schwimmer, fucking Frank Schwimmer, for fuck’s sake.”

50

Frank Schwimmer felt a tightness in his chest and butterflies in his stomach. He had sent six men out, two teams of three, and only one man had returned.

The good news was that the audio link to whoever had been attempting to ‘unwrap’ it had been severed and deleted. The bad news was that the men in these teams worked directly for him—there were no middlemen, thus they could point the finger at him under interrogation.

Philip Norton was dead and, although a professional loss, he was replaceable.

Schwimmer tightened his fists. He had all the money and resources he could ever need, so why couldn’t he stop a tiny black operations unit meddling in his affairs? The teams he had sent to provide surveillance on Bruce McQuillan had lost him at one point or another throughout the day.

The teams could not get into McQuillan’s apartment to plant ‘evidence’ as the position of the cameras covered all entrances, and they had spotted a Stap 32D antenna, which meant the feed went somewhere else.

And how one of his teams were prevented in their attempt to pick up the girl, he may never know. Sending people to deal with this problem felt like sending planes over the Bermuda Triangle.

Schwimmer rubbed his temples.

Parker had implied to him that even though he wouldn’t make a move against McQuillan, he would not be aggressive in pursuing any investigation should anything happen to Bruce McQuillan.

Schwimmer decided he had had enough of the subtle approach. He would put out a kill order and have done with it. And he’d go to the best.

“Who is he?” Ciara asked Bruce.

“I haven’t heard of him. I know someone might have. Let’s step outside for a minute. Connor, can you stay here and watch him?”

“Of course,” Connor answered. Bruce looked at him and at Jackson. Schwimmer’s employee looked like he was going to say something but did not. Bruce exited with Ciara.

Connor knew Bruce would ask Jaime for an information dump on Schwimmer. He also knew that out of the three he was the only one not known to this apparent monster. If he had been, then the team that came for Ciara would have made a sweep of the apartment looking for him.

Working out people’s motivations had been a skill he had developed as a young criminal. He remembered watching Carlito’s Way and Al Pacino’s character referring to it as ‘angling’—seeing the different angles.

“Hey,” he called over to Jackson, who looked at him, “do they know about me?”

“Piss off,” said Jackson.

Connor stifled his giggles—he was hoping Jackson would say something like that. He did not fancy handling a ten-inch tarantula himself, but the image in his head of what was about to happen proved irresistible.

He leapt forward, scooping up the Perspex box before jumping on top of Jackson, clamping his head between his vice-like knees. Connor’s palm clasped tightly over his victim’s mouth muffling the terror screams. The former Marine struggled to control the bucking and thrashing Jackson, so moved lower down onto his chest and tucked his knees under the armpits. The struggling, kicking and bridging intensified as Connor reached into the box to grip the spider. He almost exploded with laughter as he felt a wetness on the fingers pressing down on his victim’s mouth—Jackson was now shedding tears.

“What was that? Piss off? Telling me to piss off when the spiders are still in the room, you fucking turbo mong. Now, Little Miss Muffet she sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider who sat down beside her. And frightened Miss Muffet away…”

Connor kept yo-yo-ing the tarantula within an inch of Jackson’s face in time with the lines of the song. He knew the pleasure he was taking from this was not normal. He’d made peace with this side of himself long ago—the side that took unadulterated joy in making bad people suffer. Just as he hated seeing good or innocent people suffer. He had a code—like Dexter—he thought.

He put the spider back into the box and stood with it. He couldn’t help smiling as Jackson took in huge intakes of air.

“Now, Mr Jackson, do they know about me?”

“No,” he croaked.

Tris Dixon felt a small relief as he put the phone down to Connor. He’d be getting his donors, and Schwimmer would be off his back.

Dixon was watching The Adjustment Bureau on the 110” Ultra High Definition television. He resisted the urge to go any larger as it would subtract from the intimacy of the room—if he wanted to go to the cinema he would. It was the second time he had seen this film, but he could not get into it the same. It was the anticipation—hope—of Schwimmer not looming over his professional and business life.

Schwimmer had let him know by coded email that this would be the last ‘delivery’ for a while. He also implied it would be safer if all loose ends were tied up. Dixon was still weighing his options.

To kill Connor Reed, and the gorgeous blonde he was shacked up with, would be to invite the wrath of the Yorkshireman’s family and friends. The Ryder family, though not once what they were, still had teeth, and Louis Allen with his SUG definitely did. Frank Schwimmer did not know who he was using for the prospecting of donors anyway. Dixon could lie and tell him he had taken care of it. Reed and Louis made him a considerable amount of money too. That was another factor, though, if he took care of Louis, his brother would be in his debt and off his headache list.

He had been forced to admit to himself that without his brother he had become a pawn in this game. He had never got this dirty in his life, and he was as white-collar as they come. He remembered the sense of empowerment he had felt putting his brother in his place. But the truth was that outside of that environment, his brother would have beaten him to a pulp. Adam Lloyd had always been the one who the family’s reputation was built around. Tris just used to balance the books and funnel investments.

Dixon kicked himself—I could have just gone legitimate.

This all whirled in his head, and he had not yet thought about what he was going to do. He remembered a saying of his father’s, “Stick it in your think box and see if it floats”. What he had meant was that sometimes the solution to a problem came to you when you stopped obsessing about it. Maybe it would come to him in the morning. Dixon switched off the giant television and got up.

Connor and Bruce stood outside the warehouse door. Ciara kept watch over Jackson. Bruce had heard muffled screams earlier when speaking to Jaime on the phone.

Bruce studied Connor. He knew he had been having his ‘fun’ with Jackson. Sometimes—all the time—you just had to take the rough with the smooth with people, he thought. Like how possessive, neurotic girlfriends tended to be the most passionate and loyal. Connor was intelligent, audacious, streetwise, charismatic—which always helped in this business—adept with all types of weaponry including his bare fists, ruthless and never flapped. On top of all that, the real gem was that he had the inbuilt cover of being Greg Ryder’s only known son.

“He’s asked me for the ‘donors’, on Wednesday, for some reason, he said. Wonder if you still want me to go through with it now we have the main gadgie of the operation?” said Connor.

“Haven’t heard that term for a while. Didn’t think gadgie was a Yorkshire term.”

“Not sure where I got it from, to be honest.”

Bruce thought for a moment. “He’ll want it on Wednesday because I reckon there’s a gap in the shift change of whatever hospital or hospitals he supplies. This will be the window where they can get the victims in and falsify reports. I still want you to go through with it. I want to know if it’s one hospital or more that’s been taking these people in. But when we do, I want you to restrain yourself—don’t think I don’t know you were tormenting the captive in there—we’ll have to play it cagey.”

“We’re not letting these scum off with this. I don’t care how posh—”

“Wheesht—don’t talk to me like I am a cunt who’s buttoned up the back. You have never seen me ‘let people off’, have you?” Bruce said, his Glaswegian dialect fighting to the fore in anger.

Connor straightened himself. “No, I haven’t, and I apologise. It’s just when I think about what they have done it almost makes me sick with fury.”

The apology calmed Bruce. “You and me both. Take the team to wherever Dixon wants you. It’s a bird in the hand. I’ll work out a way to skin the billionaire fat cat.”

“You pronounced ‘cunt’ wrong.”

51

Darren O’Reilly slumped in his sofa in his dressing gown trying to summon the will to at least make a cup of coffee. It was a little after half past ten in the morning.

It had been weeks since he last heard anything. Of course, the Scotsman had told him that this would be the case, in light of the threatening phone call. He had also told him that Henry Costner could not have any more contact with him. O’Reilly agreed, but now he wished he hadn’t—the not knowing was driving him crazy.

Senior members of his company covered for him the best they could, all the while extolling him that they needed him back at the helm. What surprised O’Reilly was that he did not care. He did not care about anything, his business, his health, his reputation or his relationships. Only the news of the avenging of his daughter’s death would bring him out of this abyss.

His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. His apathy almost allowed it to ring out. He slid it from the gown’s pocket not recognising the number.

He answered it. “Hello.”

His mood soared when he heard the Scotsman’s words down the line. “You ready to help me to destroy these bastards?”

Connor’s Audi cut down the A3 road. Ciara was in the passenger seat. They were on their way to one of The Project’s killing houses that was located in the forestry between Alton and Lasham in the south-east of England.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

“It’s touch an’ go. The reason Dixon asked me in the first place to do this was that he didn’t trust his original team. He might want us to take them to the hospital or hospitals ourselves. If that’s the case, then happy days, it’ll be a bird in the hand, as the boss would say. But if he asks me to take them anywhere else, it’s because he wants another team to transport them to the hospital or hospitals. That’s when it gets tricky, and we’ll have to rely more on IBT.”

“What’s the worst-case scenario?”

“The worst-case scenario is that he somehow already knows and we walk into an ambush. Next one down is that the team get a thorough frisk and the concealed pistols are discovered. We’d have to be quick on the draw then, hence today’s shooting practice. If either happens, then we’d have to try and take one of them alive—preferably Dixon himself—to get the hospital information.”

“What we doing in the meantime?”

“Not much we can do. We’ll train and wait out. The rest of the team have to remain in place in case Dixon sends out scouts to check the information is gen. I’ve booked us a twin bed at the Upper Neatham Mill Farm Guesthouse.”

“A twin bed?”

“Yeah, we’re not married, it goes against my morals.”

“What’s the real reason? You getting tired of the rough stuff?” she asked.

Connor clasped the back of his neck and sighed. “You’ll only think I am being arrogant if I tell you.”

“I already know you’re arrogant. I didn’t think you were a pussy though—go on, I can take it, as well you know.”

Connor could already hear in her voice that she did not take his new stance seriously—in fact, he reckoned that she would now view it as a challenge—and she would probably win.

“Look, you and I both know that when a bird—sorry, girl—has sex regularly with a man she makes an emotional attachment to the man, and then she has to make him attached to her. It’s an evolutionary thing—something about her being knocked up for nine months and him needing to feed her. I am just not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Wow, another woman might have found your lesson in anthropology incredibly patronising,” said Ciara.

“You know as well as I do that a woman could have PhDs coming out of her arse and still be a fuckhead when it comes to men. I know loads and—”

“Shut up, Connor. This thing is going to be over and done with soon. And we might die. Without inflating your ego further, it’s great. After this is all over, I will either be dead, or we’ll have time apart so I can ‘get over you’. But what’s not going to happen is that we spend the nights in this hotel not touching one another. End of story.”

Connor opened his mouth to speak but then closed it. He was kidding himself thinking he was going to be able to resist her anyway. After a few moments he spoke. “OK, can you please stop scratching and throttling me, please? It’s getting on my nerves.”

Ciara smiled. “Aww, of course.”

“I told you the rules,” Parker told Bruce from his office chair. “I’ll turn a blind eye to whatever you have to do, but I can’t overtly help you.”

Bruce had gone to Vauxhall Cross unannounced for information that only the MI6 chief could provide. He had already considered how to play this.

“Aye, well, luckily SIS is a covert agency, is it not? The purpose of which is to look after British interests.”

“British interests overseas.”

“Really? You’re going with that?”

“Don’t question my patriotism, Bruce, that’s the one thing you can’t query.”

Bruce nodded as if in agreement before saying, “Well, that’s dependent on your definition of patriotism. You see, mine is a responsibility to the citizens of this country, even the jakies. Yours, being more, as they say, ‘definitively correct’, is to the crown.”

“How dare you. The things I have done have saved countless lives,” Parker spat.

“Aye, earlier in your career, so stop yer growlin’. I am talking about the here and now. You’re the man who can affect the most change by his actions to the security of the British people.”

Parker seemed to calm a little. “It’s not just that he’s a billionaire and a founder of one of the world’s most powerful conglomerates in the world. I am also privy to the fact that the CIA has been trialling some of the security systems produced by the AGI. They have an allegiance to him, in fact, I know they do. Some of his ‘muscle’, when he’s stateside, are CIA freelancers. Bruce, even to reach out to them would be dangerous, especially for you.”

“I see,” said Bruce. “Can you get me a list of the CIA principles who deal with him?”

“Don’t—do not even think such a thing—”

“I am not that silly. I promise, I won’t be hurting any of them. And your name will never come into the equation.”

“This is not about self-preservation,” answered Parker, who began tapping away on his keyboard.

Bruce did not say anything; he did not want to antagonise the proud Miles Parker. The SIS Chief had indeed made sacrifices that had saved lives. In the end, Bruce accepted that most had probably been made in the name of career advancement. He doubted if anyone was purely altruistic. Bruce did what he did because long ago he had made himself responsible for the people of these Isles. And he would be lying if he said the responsibility did not make him feel good. And more, it gave him what every person needed for a life well-lived—a sense of purpose. He had observed that some of the most powerful, professional, charitable women he knew could not have children; that they used that unfulfilled maternal need as fuel to accomplish great things. The sense of purpose was the reason why last year he had refused to fold under days and days of torture at the hands of the Russian Bratva. The pain in the long-term of having failed at his lifelong purpose would dwarf the immediate agony. And it was why Miles Parker did not want to be making waves for his CIA counterparts. Because he was old school, a Tory who still believed in James Bond, MI6 and Britain’s global footprint. That was his purpose, and rocking the Americans’ boat over what he saw as drug and alcohol addled street scum would run counter to his agenda. Bruce sometimes wondered if Parker, and perhaps even Costner, did not secretly sympathise with Schwimmer’s aims.

Bruce had seen, all the way back to an upbringing in Glasgow and right the way through to the present, how an honourable purpose could save a person. True, some people were too dangerous to take the risk. But most, even the lowest of the low, could make something of themselves in time. This is what most of ‘the Establishment’ did not understand. Or perhaps they did.

Parker pulled the memory stick out of his computer system, wiped it thoroughly with his sleeve and held it out to Bruce.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said.

Bruce took it. “Don’t worry. I know you’re fond of the fact that Rolls-Royce is a British company. You’ve just helped build another one.”

With that Bruce left Parker with a bemused expression on his face.

52

In one conversation Darren O’Reilly was back, curtailing his slide from frustration and self-pity into apathy.

After the Scotsman had terminated the call, Darren had jumped up and had his first shower in days. He then dressed sharply and made himself an espresso.

He would surprise them in the office; he would tell them that the past few weeks were a test of how they got on without him.

He calmed himself. There were a plethora of ideas now racing in his head regarding his company. He looked back at the mess that was the kitchen and the living room—do not let this happen again.

Ciara and Connor were four days into their ‘training’. The routine had been to wake up at 06.00 AM and go for a run or strength training in the gym. They would return, shower and breakfast. From 10.00 AM into the afternoon they would make use of the shooting range and killing house. They ran through a multitude of the combat scenarios on the system, repeatedly. McQuillan had told both Connor and Ciara during their respective agent training phases that, “practice doesn’t make perfect. Perfect practice makes perfect—take regular breaks; shorter periods of concentrated practice are superior to practising fatigued”.

Ciara felt a surge of admiration and a little envy at Connor’s shooting. She could only describe it as rapid precision. All headshots with the majority of the hammer pair holes touching. Everything appeared so quick and fluid.

On one of the breaks, she asked him, “Did the Marines teach you how to shoot like that?”

“They…ahem…gave me the basics like how to stand, draw the pistol correctly, rolling the shoulders, sights, trigger pressure, grip—all that carry-on. But we didn’t do all that much shooting, to be honest. I mean, we did it, but it was usually in the run-up to an ACMT or a live firing exercise and—”

“What is an ACMT?” she asked.

“Annual Combat Marksmanship Test. It’s a ‘tick in the box’ pass to say you’re competent with whatever weapons system you’re being tested on. It was a bit of a conveyor belt, to be honest, because the whole troop, and sometimes company, had to be rolled through it. I always thought it made you good at passing the test, not shooting per se,” he said.

“How did you get this good then?”

“Well, the agent training, like you. But I saw the old man—Bruce—take an impressive shot once with his non-dominant hand,” said Connor, thinking of the time McQuillan saved his life, “and he told me that I should look upon shooting as a martial art, that it takes hours and hours to develop an instinctive mastery of it. So, most days for the last eighteen months or so, I’ve spent a few hours in the various killing houses and ranges. I treat it like something that has to be done.”

“What else do you treat like it has to be done?”

“This the journalist in you coming out?”

Ciara shrugged and said nothing.

“What else do I treat like a task that has to be done?” he said, as if to himself. “Apart from eating you out?”

Ciara laughed. “Let’s be honest, you don’t really get a choice in the matter. And why do you have to be so crude—‘eating you out’.”

“I am not toning down the way I speak—to sound childish or like a biology professor—just so as not to offend your sensibilities. They should have disappeared after you had your tongue in my arse.”

She gave him a backhand on his arm. “Please, ‘a lady in the street and a harlot in the bedroom’. And could you answer the question?”

“Of course. Ahem, sometimes I love MMA, but sometimes I have to drag myself there—same with anything, the studying. I am not too bad at those. It’s small stuff like dealing with my car insurance’s customer service, or just menial stuff.”

“But when four men storm into the house, you instantly know what to do.”

“Yep.” He raised his eyebrows. “Gimp mask on. Safety catch off.”

Schwimmer smiled. His stars were now aligning.

He relaxed in his suite in the Hotel Adlon Kempinski Berlin. The capital’s most distinguished hotel; in its history had sheltered Michael Jackson, Albert Einstein and the Queen of England. He liked some of the dramatic touches because—being German—they lacked any gaudiness. Like the piano and the elephant fountain in the lobby.

He liked most things about Germany. The nation had taken on the world and risen from the ashes of defeat in reaching for supremacy to become one of the strongest global economies once again. And how did they do it? How did they become a ‘Wirtschaftswunder’ —economic miracle? They stripped all industry of government regulation so that only the strongest survived. Higher education might be free here—he thought—but losers will always be losers, and winners will still be winners.

Schwimmer also saw abundant opportunity in Germany, but not in the way he had before. The country, out of some perverse sense of post-war guilt, had allowed so many migrants into it that it now hosted twelve million immigrants—the second highest of any nation. He already had a hospital taking ‘orders’ in Hamburg and wanted to expand to take advantage of the influx of potential donors.

Tris Dixon had informed him his UK medical contact would be receiving another four bodies. The beginning of a small but steady supply. Now the chastened boy had been put in his place, Schwimmer could focus on larger, more pressing matters.

A contact—one of his most powerful contacts—had informed him that his prey might do something very foolish and assassinate Schwimmer’s CIA handlers. If the man succeeded, Schwimmer could then point the investigating team in the right direction. The neutral stance of his British connection would tilt to one of proactive help and support for the ‘arrest’ of the elusive thorn. And his vision becoming globalised would continue unimpeded.

The money he accumulated from this venture was a mere supplement to his extraordinary wealth. The restoration or saving of some of these ‘masters of the universe’ lives would allow him to wield untold influence. His standing had already risen and would continue to do so until the likes of Bruce McQuillan would be mere blips on his radar. That time had not quite arrived, so one foot would have to remain on Dixon’s throat, with the other stamping out McQuillan’s existence.

Kate, Darren, Ted and Kevin were all suitably dishevelled, hungry and smelling like homeless people who had not washed for a few days.

Connor had received the message the previous day from Dixon that the four were a ‘go’, and he was to pick them up the next day. He had been given an address of a mansion in Guilford in Surrey for the ‘products’ to be dropped off the following evening. He and Ciara had driven over to Westminster the previous night and booked the nearest Travelodge. They had gotten up early that morning, put on their jackets with a charity logo on, and made a show of subduing the struggles of the four before separately taking them in the van. This had been all on the chance that Dixon may have put the four under his own surveillance after Connor had given him the report.

Now dusk was threatening to settle, and the six were within a small opening on the outskirts of the village of Mickleham in Surrey.

The four Trojan Horses now all carried the 2.5”x 6” Kahr Arms P380 pistol, strapped to the front of their thighs. The P380 could hold six rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber.

Studies collated by the Israeli Defence Force (IDF) showed that the front of the legs often could be missed during rough frisks. The pockets of the team’s loose-fitting jogging pants or jeans had a small hole cut through. Too large, and a searcher’s hand delving into the pocket would only stop at the concealed pistol. The tear was to aid The Project member in punching a larger hole through the pocket to withdraw the small gun. Their hands were plasticuffed to their front. There were a few ways that the members could covertly escape them. If all else failed, bringing the arms forward and banging the wrists against one’s torso snapped the plastic anyway.

“Fuck me, you all hum. How was it?” asked Connor. A huge flask of black coffee being passed around, filling plastic cups. They were still waiting for the final go-ahead to come through. Their training taught that unless there was something practical to do, then casual conversation took the edge off the nerves which could be draining if not bled.

“Put it this way, bud,” said Kevin. “I won’t be walking past a homeless person without buying him or her a hot drink and snack again.”

The other three nodded in agreement.

“It’ll be worth it when we put an end to these sick and twisted people,” said Kate.

“That’s if they don’t put an end to us first,” said Ted. “Still, this is the most welcome coffee I’ve ever had. At least I’ll have experienced that before meeting my maker.”

The team smiled at his levity, but they all knew this was going to be dangerous. Tris Dixon would have his people there, and they would have their weapons already to hand. He and the rest of the team had studied the satellite pictures and the architectural schematics that Jaime had supplied—we would be fucked without him, Connor thought.

“Hope you’ve been practising,” said Kevin.

“I—we—have,” said Connor.

“I trust you, bud. Not gonna lie but I hate having my hands tied,” said Kevin.

Connor smiled. “You have to trust your partner before allowing them to do that.”

The rest laughed, as did Kevin after a moment.

Connor continued, “We are all Trojan Horses. Take comfort in knowing that if they initiate the shooting, they’ll shoot me first. I am the black ball over the pocket. You lot will be perceived as reds.”

Just then Connor’s phone vibrated. He glanced at it and said, “It’s time.”

Dixon stood in front of his contingent of twelve armed men.

“It’s just the two of them and the four…donors. We’ll lead them into here. Reed has thoroughly searched them already. You three,” said Dixon, pointing, “will meet them around the front. And you three offload the packages around the back. The rest remain in your positions in case there’s anyone or anything unexpected.”

Ethan Steyn laughed. “Good, you remembered my plan well.”

The enormous South African always made him nervous, but Dixon tried to hide it. “Remember, no one is to harm Reed or his girlfriend. I don’t need the grief from that lot up north.”

“However, as this is the last assignment for a while, he could be seen as a loose end. I will decide what is to happen to him.”

Dixon was about to open his mouth to protest but caught Steyn’s stare and thought better of it.

53

Jaime had felt an excitement at the prospect of seeing Bruce that he hadn’t before. He realised he had to get away from the isolation of this yacht as soon as possible. He would put it up for sale, and accept the first reasonable offer.

Bruce had sent the signal, and Jaime began nearing the port of Barcelona after a half-hour sail. He had let the relevant authorities know he was coming into port. Having to allow an outside agency know of the ship’s movements had always set his nerves alight. Not even Spain’s new legislation regarding superyachts and tax loopholes had made him feel any happier about the fact that if another entity knew of his yacht’s movements, then the enemy could access it.

He saw Bruce ahead at one of the berths and felt calmer. The Scot was wearing sandals, cargo shorts, a cream shirt and sunglasses. He had a paper bag in his hand.

After Jaime moored, Bruce climbed on board, shook his hand and then gave him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. It was too subtle to an onlooker, but Jaime knew it was Bruce’s way of showing sympathy.

“I think you should sell this boat, Jaime,” said Bruce.

“Yes, I had been thinking the same thing.”

“Let’s go below, and you can make me a café sin leche. I brought some sushi,” said Bruce, holding the paper bag.

Jaime trundled down the stairs with him and put the space age-looking kettle on boil, which it did within seconds. He made the coffees—black for Bruce and a creamy, white with sugar for himself. Bruce had laid out sushi on plates, surprising Jaime with picking the correct cabinet they were in the first time. They sat across from one another.

“What was the outcome of your meeting with the head man?” asked Jaime.

“He told me that Schwimmer is affiliated with the CIA. Asherson Group Incorporated supplied them some of their security equipment, including cyber.”

“I told you about this.”

“He relented and gave me some of the principle names,” said Bruce.

“Why would be we be in need of this?” asked Jaime. “Surely we are not going to kill members of the CIA? They are our distant cousins.”

“The Kauravas and Pandavas were cousins.”

“Who were they?”

“If you ever manage to tear yourself away from the cyber world then a read of the Mahabharata will do you good.”

The passing lamp posts threw shadows across Connor’s and Ciara’s faces. He drove the transit van, always being aware of the team in the back. He remembered taking a scolding as a Marine from the instructor at the military driving school in Leconsfield, “I bet you wouldn’t rag this lorry around quite as much if your Marine pals were in the back, would ya? They’d fill you in”.

“You OK?” Connor asked Ciara, as she seemed pensive to him. They were not far away now.

“Yes—well—it’s the unknown, but it’ll be over soon, one way or another.”

“What people do to others for money,” Connor said, almost to himself.

“What people do to others for all sorts of reasons,” she said, before looking at him. “You like this, don’t you?”

“Like what?”

“This part. The chance to even the score, the chance to hurt people.”

He rubbed his cheek. “I am too focused to notice my feelings in the run-up. I do like it if I manage to subdue them alive, then I can provide a bit of justice, so to speak.”

“Does it ever spill over? That feeling? I mean, what if someone is merely annoying you, or do they have to be ‘evil’?”

“No one is a hundred per cent ‘evil’ in my eyes—even Hitler had a missus—but I do think some are beyond hope. I never do things out of pure spite. Remember the lad who went for me in sparring? He just thought I was someone he could have his way with, and if I had let him off, he’d have done that to the next person and the next. He won’t now, will he?”

“Do you think we’ll make it through this?”

“We’re as well prepared as we can be. The rest is in the lap of the gods.”

He caught sight of her clasping her hands together. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it.

They drove on in silence until they reached the gates of the mansion. Only the thrum of the engine disturbed the night’s silence.

The monitor crackled. “Yes?”

“Four packages that need signing for,” said Connor.

The gates concertinaed back revealing a gravel path leading to the mansion around fifty yards away.

Immaculately trimmed hedges surrounded the area like giant voyeurs. A ring of flowers circled a marble fountain with a pathway to the far right, lit softly with Victorian lamps.

“Posh, eh,” said Connor softly.

“I can’t admire it knowing how it was paid for.”

A cage the size of four bus shelters lay in the far corner of the lawn with a white Doberman pinscher prowling inside it.

By the front entrance to the grand manor were three suited men. They were stocky, between fifteen and seventeen stone carrying little body fat—like high-level back-row rugby players not long retired. Two had dark hair; one man’s was short, the other’s long, and the third was bald. The bulges at their hips indicated they were armed with handguns. Connor fleetingly imagined running them over.

Instead, he slowed the van and stopped with his window level before winding it down.

“All right, lads,” Connor said.

The short-haired one stepped forward and barked, “They in there?”

Connor’s eyes narrowed a little. “Why wouldn’t they be, you stupid fucking cunt?”

The surprise appeared on the burly henchman’s face. “You what?”

“You heard what I said, you fucking troglodyte—unless you’re deaf as well as fat. You start forgetting your manners again, and I’ll remind you of ’em by knocking the fuck out of you in front of your girlfriends.”

“Ahem, I don’t—what do you mean?”

“I said, ‘All right, lads’, and you ignored the greeting. Now ask me if I am all right back or you can explain to Mr Dixon why he hasn’t received his packages.”

The man shifted uneasily, began to turn to the other two before stopping himself. Eventually, he said, “Errr, are you all right?”

Connor’s tone changed to one of friendliness. “Not too bad, mate, thank you for asking. What do you want to happen with the packages in the back?”

The man looked at him for a second before answering. “Mr Dixon would like you to offload them around the back. There will be another team of three waiting for you, err…Mr Reed.”

“No problem.”

As Connor wound up the window, Ciara asked inquiringly, “Was that necessary?”

Connor frowned as he answered. “Of course it was. If he’s going to be that rude with me, then he’ll be that rude with everyone. He’s a classic ‘I take kindness for weakness’ type. See how meek he was after being told off? Fuckin’ bully.”

He made a conscious effort not to grip the steering wheel as tightly as he was. He had been genuinely riled at the henchman’s initial attitude but also the fact that with the three men around the back, he and Ciara were now outnumbered by at least seven to two.

He curved the van around to the rear which opened to reveal acres of meadow land, with various buildings stapled down the right-hand side.

Three men were stood on the porch, of similar build to the ones in front with one being distinctively huge with a shock of blonde hair. Connor could tell by his and the body language of the other men that he was the leader. He took his hand away from his ear and approached the vehicle.

“The first bloke will have radioed this lot. Watch the difference in attitude now,” Connor said to Ciara, as he wound down the window. “All right, lads?”

“I am lekker, Mr Reed, how are you?” in a robust South African accent.

“Not too bad. What happens now? I’ll take my instruction off you, Mr—”

“Mr Steyn. You can call me Ethan. Without disrespecting your professionalism, how well have they being searched?”

“Strip-searched, and the clothes they have are ones we gave them. I haven’t done a rectal search, as Mr Dixon told me that wasn’t necessary.”

“Yes, that’s correct. That’ll be done when they are sedated.”

“Where do they get sedated?”

“Once inside. They need to ‘wake up’ in the hospital, and a story told to them. And they won’t be able to tell the rough distance from here to the hospital.”

Connor nodded. “OK, let’s get this show on the road.” He wound up the window and cut off the engine. As he went to open the door, Ciara softly said, “Hey.”

After a moment he said, “What is it?”

She looked at him. “Nothing. Let’s do this.”

Frank Schwimmer sat in his Berlin office. He leaned back in his Newsaka S10 chair—the tech gel moulded to anyone’s frame, and Schwimmer could not remember ever having to shift in it. He settled himself and pressed the intercom button. “Send him in.”

A few seconds later, a smartly dressed man walked in. He extended his hand and Schwimmer noted the alert green eyes as he shook it.

“How can I help you, Mr…” asked Schwimmer. The CIA had not told him the name of the agent who was to be meeting with him.

“Mr Corbane. But please, call me Michael.”

“OK, Michael, how can I help?”

“It’s more how we can help one another, Mr Schwimmer. The mutual thorn in our sides will be on a superyacht out in the middle of the Mediterranean tomorrow afternoon.”

“That is good news.”

“Now the vessel does not belong to our British friend; it belongs to an as yet unidentified associate of his who will be on board with him. Tomorrow he will sign the vessel to your name.”

“And why would he do that?”

“He’ll be persuaded.”

Corbane’s words hung in the air.

“Then what.”

“Then, you’ll get to explain to our British—Scottish—friend the futility of interfering in the interests of Uncle Sam, before taking ownership of the vessel. This is simply because the current owner won’t be in a position to take responsibility for it any longer.”

“How much am I expected to pay for it?” asked Schwimmer. The Chinese had a saying, “Making money is like digging in the sand with a pin, losing it is like pouring water on the sand”.

“We’ll foot the bill. It’ll be in your name, but the CIA would like to acquire it for operational purposes.”

Schwimmer thought for a moment before answering, “Sounds reasonable.”

“You will take a complement of four of our guys, Mr Schwimmer. Not only is this man dangerous, but we intend to extract certain information from him. You won’t be present for that as it might take an awfully long time.”

“Can I stay for the initial part?”

Corbane looked at him closely. “Stay as long as you wish, Mr Schwimmer.”

54

Connor’s pistol seemed to burn on his hip as he watched Dixon’s men take a grip of the hooded team, who made a show of struggling. His prayers that the team would be spared a searching seemed to be answered as Dixon’s men set them moving, along with he and Ciara following.

“They could probably do with some water once we’ve got them more secure.”

The blonde simply nodded.

Dixon had insisted on hooding the victims so as not to be able to see his property and Connor had agreed. But he had to get him to agree to unhood them because if the shooting did start, then they would have some semblance of a chance.

The team were led away from the mansion down a path for a hundred metres to a building that looked like a warehouse.

“Mr Dixon will see you inside now,” said the blonde.

“The packages remain with me until the completion of the financial transaction.”

“Forgive me for asking, but what’s to stop us from simply taking them? We outnumber you?”

“Because it wouldn’t be worth it. You’d have to factor in a loss of two men. Whereas if I become separated from them, then you can take them away and tell me to go fuck myself.”

“You’re Connor Ryder. We wouldn’t tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“My name is Connor Reed. And the packages stay with me.”

The blonde nodded. “I will go inside and inform Mr Dixon of your stance.”

With that, he slipped through the door. He reappeared in less than a minute. “Mr Dixon understands and agrees that the packages will remain within your sight. They will be placed at the far end so Mr Dixon can speak to you without being overheard by them. We need to do a few checks before sedating them, you see.”

“Sounds reasonable enough. My colleague here can stand with them.”

The blonde considered this for a brief moment before nodding his agreement.

They stepped inside to find a cavernous space covered in wood chippings. Dixon stood in the centre wearing a country jacket, trousers and boots. As the group approached, Dixon indicated to the corner of the space. Connor checked to see if there was a door at that end—there was not. After a couple of glances—Connor to Ciara and Dixon to his three men—he was left with Dixon while Ciara and the men led the hooded team to the far end.

“How are you?” Dixon asked.

“Fine, you?”

“Not so good, as it stands.”

Connor felt a cold splash around his insides. “Go on.”

“She works for the government.”

Connor steadied his breathing. “Come again?”

“She works for the security services. Here,” said Dixon, reaching into his pocket. Connor stiffened but then saw it was a phone. Dixon opened the phone and began swiping through pictures of Ciara and Bruce. Connor recognised that they had been taken from outside the warehouse where they had held Peter Jackson.

“Who is he?”

“He’s high up in the UK security services. He’s a dark horse; we were lucky even to get these. I don’t think any less of you, but she’s played you. She’s some sort of agent.”

Does he know about me? No, he would have had me shot immediately. I was inside with Jackson when these were taken, thank fuck, thought Connor.

He did not want to have to sacrifice Ciara, but he knew that was his male preconditions kicking in. The Israelis had done a study that concluded that men would rush to an injured female soldier’s aid—to the detriment of the overall mission—more readily than a male soldier’s. He snapped himself out of it—she is a soldier, one person, she is not higher than the mission. Still…

“We can’t let her leave here,” said Connor.

“I agree, but she’ll have told her handlers about me and this place.”

“You, of course. But not this place. I didn’t tell her exactly where we were going—”

“She could have a tracker on her phone or anything. That is why I have left three of my team guarding the front of the house—buy us some time if anyone arrives.”

“What you thinking?”

“Well, so far, the only crime that has been committed has been by yourself. I hate to do this, but you owe me financial recompense for this. I can’t use these people now.”

Connor looked him in his eyes, then said, “I am not giving you money, but I can make good.”

“How?” asked Dixon archly.

“Have you told the people who were due to receive them of the dilemma?”

Dixon took a moment to answer. “Not as yet.”

“I’ll deliver these packages myself. No way does she know where the hospitals are as I don’t even know, and I am her source of information. And I’ll deal with her, either on the way—or if you’re nervous—I can shoot her now?”

“This goes above even me. The South African doesn’t work for me, he works for the man who hired me. He’s a fucking psychopath of the like I haven’t seen.”

“That’s saying something considering some of the people you’ve rubbed shoulders with.”

“Yes. A scary fucker.”

“And so?”

“And so, I’ll have to ask him first.”

“OK.”

On the short walk over Connor was confirming the angles in his head. If the South African agreed to the proposal and Connor took Ciara and the team to the hospital and interrogated whoever came to collect them, then Dixon would be alerted. Then the entire UK criminal underworld would be told he worked for the government, and he would not be able to operate. The original plan was for Ciara to accompany Dixon’s men down to the hospital, or hospitals, while he stayed at Dixon’s. They had practised the conversation enough times. Once Ciara had identified the hospital or hospitals, she would kill Dixon’s men accompanying her and then message Connor. He would then execute any remaining members of Dixon’s team within the house.

Now that was out the window, he had to remind himself of that chad military saying, ‘survive, adapt and overcome’.

The negatives—or challenges, he told himself—was that he and Ciara were outnumbered within the building by four to two if Dixon was carrying, although Connor had not spotted any of the tell-tale bulges of a holstered pistol. The fact that his weapon fitted with a silencer was a double-edged sword; any shots from his pistol—providing they were from his pistol only—would not attract the attention of the men at the front of the property. The disadvantage was that it would take a few milliseconds longer to draw and bring up on aim—ideally, he wanted to shoot them all before they got a shot off. These men would not be amateurs, and they would be alert to anything being pointed at them. Still—he thought—there is always a way.

Ciara watched Connor and Dixon walk back. Something was amiss. The huge blonde’s eyes fixed her with a stare. At first, she assumed it was a sexually predatory leering. But his eyes never wandered away from her face, never took in the contours of her body, just remained locked on her eyes.

She wondered what Connor might say or do if the South African continued with his blatant fixation on her.

Connor came up beside her, clicked with his right fingers in front of her face. He did something with his left hand so fast that her brain did not register it before she lost consciousness.

Connor resisted the instinct to catch Ciara as she fell in a heap. He had smashed the butt of his pistol into her temple after distracting her with the finger clicking.

Then he took a risk—he angled his pistol towards her.

“No!” shouted Dixon. “Deal with her off the premises. The police cadaver dogs will go wild in here, and that’ll be enough to drag me through court.”

“But it’s not up to you, is it?” said Connor flatly, looking at the South African.

Steyn chuckled. “You’re quite right, Mr Reed. It’s not. However, I share Mr Dixon’s concerns. No deaths in this place if we can help it. Especially as we do not yet know if she is bugged.”

With that, Steyn jutted his chin at the minders. One of the henchmen thoroughly frisked her, removing her Glock and burner phone, while the other ran what looked like a handheld scanner, over her and then the phone.

The man with the scanner looked up at Steyn. “It’s clean.”

Steyn lifted his wrist to his mouth and pressed his ear. “Is the van clean?”

Connor, not being able to hear the response, calmed himself with the knowledge that there were not any trackers on the vehicle.

Steyn and Connor stared at one another, and the colossus said, “It seems like she and the van are clean. You wish to make amends, ya?”

“I wish to make money, and deal with this bitch. If she’s clean, why can’t I kill her here?”

“Because there will be zero risk of her DNA being left here if she’s dealt with off the premises. No sense in making potential problems for ourselves.”

“All right.” Connor shrugged.

Steyn grinned. “Which do you believe in for, shall we say, ‘behavioural reform’, the carrot or the stick?”

“A blend of both.”

“As do I, Mr Ryder—excuse me—Mr Reed. Now, your reward for cleaning your own mess is the continued work with my organisation and the riches it will bring you and your family.”

“That sounds great. Now, I can see you’re dying to tell me what the stick is.”

Steyn grinned wolfishly. “The simple way—I introduce you to a little physical pain. After all, some lessons have to be learnt—”

“In blood.”

“Well, I was going to say ‘the hard way’. But that’s just as good.”

Connor fought to hide his nerves. He breathed deeply and slowly but tried not to expand his diaphragm. He swilled saliva around his gums to trick his nervous system into thinking he was not in danger of being severely beaten up by this Saffa ‘Ivan Drago’.

Connor controlled his voice. “So this is the part when you remind me that I am outnumbered by four to one, and I’ll be shot if I don’t take my punishment like a man? Because the day I let another man touch me without retaliation is the day I stop living.”

Steyn briefly looked bemused. “I have given these men no such order. It is not necessary.”

Connor smiled. “So this is a fight?”

“It won’t be for me.”

“Well, I am presuming we are still on a schedule, so let us get to it.”

55

Connor had a flashback to a match fight he had the previous year. One in which he was on course to being beaten and killed, had Bruce McQuillan not shown up.

He dismissed the negativity—that Russian was an anomaly in being big, strong and also a superb technical fighter—a Sambo master—this guy would not be anything like that. Besides, you are better now than back then.

Both had removed their weapons and placed them on opposite ends of the cavernous barn. Connor had removed his watch also. Then he said, “Let’s let the detainees watch. It’ll be the last bit of entertainment they’ll see.”

Steyn looked at him quizzically before nodding to the henchmen. They pulled the hoodies off the four, who took in draughts of breath while they were unrestricted to do so. They watched on.

Steyn rolled his bowling ball-like shoulders as he walked to the centre. Connor’s adrenaline bolted to his nerve endings. This was the worst part.

Angles, feints and do not overreach.

Connor prepared himself for a bull-like rush. It did not come. As Steyn closed the distance, his stance mirrored Connor’s own—hands up, chin down, shoulders rounded.

Connor felt the pocket of rushing air as he ducked the left hook. He rolled to his right and rifled in a left hook to the body, and stepped out again.

He knew then that blocking the big man’s strikes would be a last resort—making him miss with body and foot movement would be preferred.

Steyn righted himself, still smiling, and fired a jab. Connor slipped to the right and shot his jab to the stomach. Steyn did not react.

Steyn jabbed again, and Connor countered with a right hand that cracked off the giant’s upper jaw and cheek.

Steyn smiled again, but there was blood between the teeth. Do not get cavalier, thought Connor, as a warning to himself.

Steyn feinted a jab and then cannoned a sledgehammer right hook into Connor’s protecting bicep and forearm. Despite being on balance, the blow knocked him two paces to the right. The man-mountain careered after him, but Connor smashed a one-two followed by a left hook into the postbox-like head. He scythed his shin into Steyn’s thigh who again, showed no reaction.

Connor briefly thought about taking the colossus to the ground as he knew the longer they stayed standing, the more chance he had of catching one of the South African’s huge haymakers clean—he guessed himself to be around twenty kilograms lighter than Steyn. But taking the man down meant making full body contact with him either by a double leg takedown, a trip or an unlikely throw. If he was unsuccessful then he would be forced into a vertical grapple, in which the bigger, stronger man would have the advantage; there was a reason they did not have open weight tournaments in wrestling. No—he thought—crucify this cunt on his feet. Attack his body, attack his legs.

Steyn flung himself at Connor with a stamp which would have caved the former Marine’s chest in. Connor pivoted and whipped his shin into the back of the calves.

Two of Connor’s jabs rammed into Steyn’s face before he sunk a hard right hand into his stomach. The South African grimaced.

See, he is not a machine.

Connor went to hurt Steyn more when a mallet of fist collided against his jaw. A metallic clank reverberated through his head with a white flash of electric stars. His legs felt hollow.

Head moving, head moving, head moving, he screamed to himself. His legs were still unsteady, and he felt bricks impacting his arms, hips and upper back.

His legs found some strength, and he stepped around the oak with his head clearing. He stepped away.

The massive Steyn was taking huge inhalations of air.

They locked eyes and Connor smiled.

He walked up and began to hammer Steyn with punches—fast, hard and well placed.

Steyn stumbled, pawing his hands out in a token defence. Punches thudded into his cheek, neck and jaw. Wicked low kicks whipped into his thighs.

He turned away, and Connor smashed his foot down on the inside of Steyn’s right knee. He collapsed to the floor like a high-rise under a controlled demolition, and Connor stepped around in front of him.

He whipped the front of his foot into Steyn’s temple like he was taking a penalty kick. The impact spread-eagled the South African as his consciousness short-circuited.

No one spoke for a moment or two. Connor retrieved his watch, put it on and collected his silenced Glock.

Then Dixon said, “Bravo. Although, I think you’ve signed your death warrant. Maybe mine too—he’ll ask why I didn’t stop it.”

Connor smiled. “Well, why don’t you go over and shoot him then?”

Dixon sighed. “They’d send another one. Besides, I don’t have a weapon.”

With that, Connor raised the silenced Glock and shot the two henchmen in the head.

“What the fuck are you doing!” shouted Dixon.

Connor levelled the pistol at him. “I am getting rid of my competition and your headache.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your boss, whoever he is, is going to need an enforcer because the Saffa there isn’t going to be capable of anything after I have finished with him.”

“This man. He’s a—”

“—he’s a businessman.”

Dixon slowly nodded. “That he is.”

“What’s the name of the hospitals?”

Dixon looked at Connor, then at his Glock and back at Connor.

“There’s only one. Braeson Private Medical Centre.”

“What’s the sketch? Who’s your contact? Do you have to call ahead to let them know there’s a change of delivery driver?”

“Steyn dealt with the hospital’s contacts. They called him from time to time to deal with problems. He killed and buried a nurse for them who got wind of what the hospital was doing,” said Dixon, as if confessing. “They have a storage unit around the back. You key in the code 281164. You leave the packages hooded and with their hands secure in there and leave, keying in the code again. They’ll be sedated here.”

“You ever had any accidents with sedating them? Pardon me, but none of your men look like anaesthetists to me.”

“The vials have been pre-made, according to the reports you sent through. If an accident happens with one then it’ll be considered wastage—they are dead anyway. Here,” said Dixon, showing Connor the phone again. “This is a picture of the storage unit and its position in relation to the rest of the hospital. I won’t send it to you on your phone in light of the fact that our friend over there may have had access to it—she may have had it cloned, for all I know.”

Connor’s team just watched on at the exchange.

“OK. What about the three men around the front? Can you call them in?”

“They only took orders from Steyn. And it’s not just them—there’s six more in the house checking the cameras for the front of the house—nine all tooled up. Steyn looks fucking dead to me, which means we are too.”

Connor did not turn around. “I doubt it, not yet at least. Any cameras in or on here? This barn, I mean.”

“Nah. I didn’t trust them to delete all the evidence off in time if something did happen in ’ere and the rozzers burst in team-handed.”

“All right, we’re going to have to do this the hard way, aren’t we?”

In the moment Dixon’s brain was engaged with the question, Connor’s punch cracked into his jaw with sickening force.

The team had broken their plasticuffs and now stood with pistols in hand.

“There’s nine more, according to him,” said Connor, as he knelt over and tended to Ciara. A huge bruise had already appeared on her temple and she appeared disorientated.

Connor checked her pupils, thankful to see no dilation.

“Hey,” he said, “you OK?”

She focused her eyes on him. “What, what happened?”

Again, he was thankful he did not have to explain himself just yet. “There’s no time. There are nine others out there. Can you stand?”

Ciara nodded and began to struggle to her feet with his assistance.

“Someone grab them and hold a gun on them for leverage, for when they burst in,” he said, pointing to Steyn and Dixon. Kevin and Ted put their knees into the gangsters’ backs and their pistols into their necks.

Kate and Darren had their pistols trained on the entrance.

A crackle from Steyn’s fallen earpiece sounded faintly, followed by the whisper, “Boss, are you bringing her out or are we coming in?”

Kevin said, “What the fuck is that, bud?”

Connor thought for a moment. “Steyn—the one you’ve got a pistol to—or Dixon, found out Ciara’s connection with Bruce. They were always going to kill her, or at least the possibility had been considered. The guys on the perimeter expected to hear a gunshot.”

Connor put the earpiece in and unfastened the microphone from around the South African’s wrist. He held the receiver to his mouth, and in his best South African accented English said, “Send a three-man team in to extract the body in two minutes.”

His earpiece crackled. “Copy that.”

Ted looked at him. “What are you doing?”

“Cutting down our odds,” Connor replied. “Come off them two.”

Kevin and Ted stepped back. Connor walked up and fired a round in Steyn’s and Dixon’s elbows.

“Kevin, take Ciara’s pistol and join me at the door. Ted, Darren, break their ankles. Ciara and Kate, gag them.”

Connor and Kevin positioned themselves to the left of the door, ten feet away from it and six feet away from one another. Kevin now had Ciara’s silenced pistol. She seemed lucid enough, but Connor had not wanted to take the risk.

After a few seconds passed, the door swung open and three of Dixon’s henchmen ambled through. It only took them mere milliseconds to compute the scene. It was enough. Four shots clacked through the air, and three face-smashed corpses fell, leaving the walls behind them splashed in blood.

Kevin looked at Connor. “What now, bud?”

Connor thought for a second, walked over to the rest of the group and addressed them. “We can’t do a simple repeat of it—that would be trusting their incompetence too much. Let’s set up outside—Dixon told me there are no cameras trained on this place. I’ll call the rest of them in. They’ll stack up on the entrance door, and we’ll ambush them. I am aware it goes against the three-to-one rule, but we’ll have cover and the element of surprise.”

After a couple of glances, they nodded in unison.

“What about yer men here?” said Ted, indicating to Dixon and Steyn. “Why we leaving them alive? You need to question them?”

“Something like that,” said Connor simply.

They tactically exited the building—one at a time at irregular intervals, with their pistols mirroring the direction of their scanning eyes. Connor left last and lifted his wrist mike to his mouth. The urgency in his South African accented voice only a few decibels below shouting. “All units, converge on my location. I say again, all units converge on my location.”

He slipped into the dark trees, and the team waited.

Out of the darkness, six men congregated to the side of the entrance to the building. Connor paused for a moment in anticipation of some of the men, rolling around to the other side of the door—a standard military tactic to allow a team greater speed of entry. When it became evident that they were about to enter in one line, Connor fired at the first man, milliseconds before the reports of four P380s roared in unison.

All six slumped against the side of the building, their faces smashed and mangled, their torsos matted with blood.

Connor walked to them and put a round into the head of one that appeared to be breathing. The rest of the team joined him.

“What now?” asked Kevin.

“Our priority right now is going to this hospital and taking a grip of whoever is there to offload the ‘donors’, for want of a better word, and to find out just who had a hand in this.”

“What then?” asked Kate.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we can’t just go around shooting people in a hospital.”

Connor tilted his chin up. “We’ll take whoever is there to meet us and gain information from him or her. Load the van and take Ciara with you. The target is Braeson Medical Centre. They have a storage unit around the back. You key in the code 281164. We were meant to leave the packages—you—hooded and with your hands secure in there and leave, keying in the code again. You’ll have to improvise.”

Kate looked at him in confusion. “You not coming?”

He shook his head. “Nah, I want a word with these two first.”

56

Schwimmer felt self-conscious when he realised his mouth was hanging open. He shut it and breathed deeply through his nose to control the excitement coursing through him.

He had taken his private jet out of Berlin to southern Spain the previous day. The CIA team accompanying him told him that for the next twenty-four hours he was to have no communication with the outside world. Schwimmer complied—he knew about operational security. Steyn could update him when Schwimmer had taken care of this significant bit of business.

He was now on a Sea Ray speedboat cutting through the waves at a rate of thirty-five knots, and Schwimmer had been impressed with its ‘quiet ride’ technology. He had been expecting to board some military boat and had felt foolish when one of the CIA operatives explained to him how conspicuous that would look.

Still, all three of the men were armed with Heckler and Koch MP5-N submachine guns. Schwimmer knew that the ‘N’ stood for Navy variant, and was the weapon of choice for SEALS when engaging in close-quarter combat; though this team never identified themselves as SEALS or ex-SEALS.

Schwimmer had been made aware that they were a mere few minutes out from the superyacht on which their prey was aboard. He had asked for a gun, but the leader had given him a firm ‘no’. After smarting for a few moments, Schwimmer could see why it had been ridiculous even to ask. These were trained operators, and he was not even a novice in this world.

In the aftermath of his murder of Philip Norton, Frank Schwimmer felt a sadness wash over him. It was born of the anti-climax of knowing he would not feel quite that level of exhilaration for a long time—if ever. He had not imagined the next time would be a mere few days later.

However, exhilaration was now coursing through his veins. He was about to come face to face with the most dangerous predator he had ever known.

The CIA team had told him that they would conduct a hostile takeover of the vessel. He could not wait to look into the cockroach’s eyes as it dawned on him that it was now over. Then watching him in agonising physical pain would heighten the pleasure.

He wanted to see the look in the Scotsman’s eyes when he realised his fate. It would be like an animal who had thought itself a wolf before understanding it was a mere fox.

“On the approach now. Check your weapons,” sounded one of the men.

Schwimmer saw a black dot on the horizon and felt the anticipation course through him.

The speedboat screamed up to the yacht and Schwimmer could not help to be impressed with the operatives’ rapid efficiency. Within seconds of the boat pulling up the team had boarded the yacht.

Schwimmer then heard the commanding shouts of the operatives and found himself anticipating gunfire. The anticipation began to ebb with the rocking of the speedboat—if there was going to be gunfire, it would have happened by now.

As if to prove him correct, the leader popped over the side. “The objective is secure. Use the yacht’s ladder and join us, Mr Schwimmer.”

Schwimmer could hardly contain his excitement. He gripped the chrome ladder and made his way up as elegantly as he could. He smiled. Bruce McQuillan and—to his surprise—Darren O’Reilly stood on the right side. The CIA team, facing them with weapons drawn, to his left.

Schwimmer laughed. “Mr McQuillan and Mr O’Reilly, it seems like the stars are aligning.”

“It seems that they are,” replied Bruce.

Schwimmer felt a small thorn in his gut—he wanted to see McQuillan scared or at least ruffled and surprised. But he saw nothing. Not only that, O’Reilly did not seem fazed either, and he was a ‘civilian’. Not to worry—he thought—their expressions will soon change as the interrogation begins.

The voice of the CIA team leader cut through. “What would you like to happen now, sir?”

Schwimmer smiled with pleasure. His power even extended to the CIA—the leader had just referred to him as ‘sir’, and the team was to do his bidding.

“I don’t want you to do anything,” he answered, injecting authority in his voice, “except, after we have the information we need, you hand over one of your weapons so that I can shoot these two myself.”

There was silence for a few moments before Schwimmer turned with a mild frustration to look at the team leader. His, and the rest of his men had their gazes fixed on McQuillan.

That was when the yacht seemed to rock more violently.

“Just leave him with me, boys,” said McQuillan, removing a pistol from the waistband of his cargo shorts, “and thank you.”

“Roger that. Disembark,” commanded the leader, and his men moved to the edge.

Schwimmer felt a hot flush and rushed at the leader.

“Hey, asshole! What the fuck do ya think—”

The butt of the operator’s Heckler and Koch smashed into Schwimmer’s face.

Schwimmer woke to find himself lying on the deck at a different part of the yacht. He shook the fog and felt the pain across his face and top teeth.

His hands were in the jaws of handcuffs and his ankles in a steel bracelet with a red light flitting on every so often. The bracelet was attached to a taut chain, of which his eyes travelled the length. It finished at a steel beam overhanging the side of the yacht, attached to what looked like a small wrecking ball.

Then he looked up at the Scotsman stood over him and felt it, cold and alive—fear. O’Reilly and an olive-skinned man stood behind him. The CIA team were nowhere to be seen.

McQuillan spoke. “They say a good deal is a good deal when all the parties involved are neither satisfied nor dissatisfied with the outcome. I am sure a man of your business acumen knows this, but then they also say that there’s an exception to every rule, and this may be it. You see, the CIA gets a substantially cheaper but no less innovative security system through Mr O’Reilly’s Verbatim Cyber Securities. The Asherson Group gets to wash its hands of a maniacal director and shareholder, without getting any blood on them. I get to rest easy knowing your sick and twisted plot of stealing the organs of society’s most vulnerable people has now come to an end.”

Schwimmer felt like the yacht itself, but instead of sea water, he felt immersed in disbelief, confusion, despair and finally anger.

“You’re pathetic. It’s people like you that’ll try and stop the evolution of our species. Keeping people alive to leech off the rest of the world while the people who can make a difference die. All you did was delay progress, not stop it,” Schwimmer spat.

McQuillan spoke as if the tirade hadn’t occurred. “It’s said that vengeance never makes a person feel better, but I can tell you from experience it does. So perhaps the person who has done the best out of this deal is Mr O’Reilly himself, as he gets to end your repulsive existence. And my friend Jaime, who will explain to you the intricacies of your death.”

Schwimmer’s face froze—his entire being froze as Jaime stepped forward. “When the remote device that Mr O’Reilly possesses is pressed, this ball will be released into the water taking you with it, with a little help from ourselves. It will not take you to the bottom immediately. Instead, it will exhaust you after a fight against it. Eventually, you will slip under the waves and your respiratory system will initiate an involuntary breath holding with the epiglottis to close over the airway. You will continue to fight, and the drag will be slow. At a certain depth, the sensors will release the wrist and ankle bracelets. You might have already lost wakefulness at this point. If not, it will be a hard swim back to the surface unless you lose wakefulness on the way. We estimate that you will suffer brain death before surfacing, but it is not clear. You see, you had my friend killed while he was in the final stages of its development. You will have to be our guinea pig.”

Icy cold fingers gripped at Schwimmer’s heart as three pairs of pitiless eyes stared at him. Before he could speak, McQuillan stepped over and seized him by the arms, and Jaime by the legs. He bucked and twisted under their grasp in terrified, spastic exertions.

“Wait!” shouted O’Reilly, and McQuillan and Jaime stopped and held him. He stopped struggling too. “My daughter would have made a difference.”

With that, O’Reilly pressed the button on the remote device. The two pairs of hands slung him overboard as the wrecking ball fell. It jerked him down while he was still mid-air.

The shock of the cold impact hit him. He floated for a few seconds before feeling the ball once again pull at him in an invite of death.

He fought like the man said he would. Like a seal on land desperately trying to make its way back to sea.

He began to cry out before merely crying. The splashes of the sea water lapped his salty tears like parents claiming their young.

After a time his head began to bob under the waterline as his lungs felt like they were about the explode. He took frantic gulps of air before taking one final huge draught as the pull torturously took him under.

He could hear his heart hammering as the watery surface got farther and farther away.

Spasms bolted around his body desperate for release out of his mouth. Eventually, they succeeded, and water filled his mouth and lungs.

The bracelets released. The fight for the surface lasted barely ten seconds before a dark angel began to choke him harder. There was no euphoria as he was shaken violently into unconsciousness.

Death swam away with him shortly afterwards.

57

Janet Quigley barraged her way past her front door on the way to the kitchen, slinging her handbag on the sofa. Her target was a Château Latour 2009 red wine sent to her as a present. The clock on the wall showed a time of twenty-three minutes past ten. It had possibly been the most stressful couple of days she had ever had. She knew with being this wired, alcohol would be needed to help her sleep. She poured the wine into a crystal glass and gulped it down. She re-poured, took a breath and then a thought stopped her—why couldn’t she hear her dogs? She made her way into her living room en route to the dining room.

The shock slipped the glass from her fingers, shattering it into glinting shards. A stranger in her living room—sandy hair, stocky, with a strong face and blue eyes. She stood transfixed for a moment, her heart pumped harder and faster as it began to rise into her throat.

She pulled on a mask of resolve—do not let whoever this heathen is see that you are scared.

“Who on earth are you?” she exclaimed.

“I am a friend of Bruce McQuillan,” the man said in a working-class northern voice.

She had not heard from Bruce despite trying to contact him many times. A snake began stirring in her stomach, and her breathing became more rapid.

“Where is he?”

The man looked her with a disdain mixed with amusement. “He’s been busy bringing the people behind this abhorrent franchise, of snatching the homeless and vulnerable so that their organs can be harvested, to justice. Not through the courts, mind, that’s why the fish are feeding on your backer, and the handover man at the hospital—fellow surgeon Michael Taylor—has a bleak-looking future.”

Janet absorbed the words and fought to control her shaking.

“This is absurd. You don’t know Bruce. He knows I would never—”

“He has known ever since you offered him an Aronson whisky. Frank Schwimmer has been a silent partner in the Lass and Wright Whisky company for a while now.”

She took a few moments to answer. “That proves nothing.”

“I know. But a Mac’s hard drive can be a window into many things, if you know how to look—which, unfortunately for you, our technician does. Still, my boss—Bruce to you—had to wait until you were asleep—I am guessing after he fucked you—before using a special thingamajig to lift the information off your Mac. Very professional man, you see.”

She opened her mouth to speak but could not find the words. After a few moments, the man continued, “Now I know it’s counter-intuitive to leave the laptop you’ve been using to help commit these atrocities at your place of work, but you might have had a chance of claiming someone else had hacked it.”

She fought against her voice cracking, “Then why are you here instead of him?”

“Because I don’t think hurting women is his thing. As you know, he’s an old-school gent. We managed to relocate your downstairs neighbours by telling them that the apartments were crime scenes. Amazing what blue and white police tape and a thousand pounds to fuck off for the night can do. They’ll be told tomorrow by the real police what’s actually occurred. But tonight no one’s gonna hear any noise you make, you sick fucking bitch.”

Her shaking intensified, and he stepped closer. “Where was I? Yep, smashing up ladies isn’t his thing. But I don’t suffer from that sort of—if you think about it—sexism. Because I believe evil is evil, whether you’re a man, woman, young, old or disabled. What’re your thoughts on it?”

She did not have time to open her mouth as the toe cap of his boot rocketed into her groin, collapsing her to the floor.

Parker and Bruce were stood on a viewpoint looking down on the lights of London.

Parker’s two bodyguards resembled shadows in the background in their black, knee-length tweed jackets. Bruce lamented that this was the first time he had met with Parker in a setting other than Vauxhall Cross.

“All’s well that ends well,” said the towering Parker.

“Is that the lesson of the day?”

Parker shrugged and, it seemed for the first time since Bruce had met him, looked contrite.

“I take it Mr Schwimmer won’t be bothering us anytime soon?”

“He’ll wash up somewhere, I am sure. But he won’t be in a fit state to bother anyone, I can assure you.”

“Anyone willing to take the reins? Anyone likely to continue in his absence?”

“No.”

“For what it’s worth, Bruce, I am sorry to hear about what happened to Miss Quigley. I was led to believe you were quite close.”

“Yes, we were getting that way.”

Parker nodded. “This Michael Taylor, a surgeon at the hospital, disappears mid-shift on the Wednesday. On the Friday, withdraws a thousand pounds from his account using it, while impersonating a policeman, to get rid of her neighbours that afternoon, before killing her that night. Very strange.”

“There was a suicide note. His handwriting confirmed.”

“Yes, quite, full of declarations of love. That was the thorn in my mind. If he killed her out of a sense of rejection, then why get rid of her neighbours beforehand?”

“Maybe out of anticipation of it? I mean, no woman would take to their dogs being sedated, would they?”

“No, I shouldn’t imagine they would,” said Parker, regarding him.

“He was a coward anyway, and that’s why he’s dead,” said Bruce.

They did not speak for a few moments as the wind whistled around them.

Parker broke the stalemate with, “Well, it’s a matter for the police, not that they will pursue it further now. Not on the firm’s list of concerns.”

“Speaking of to-do lists, how are your operatives getting on with the names I gave you?”

Bruce had given Parker and Paul Jackson of the CIA’s SAD, a list of hospitals and characters to look into.

“We’re making progress,” Parker said.

“Good. I understand these things take time. But by this time next year, I do not want any homeless person to be waking up in hospitals minus perfectly functioning organs.”

“Trying to protect the world, Bruce?”

“Just trying to leave the world in a better state, Miles.”

“You think being virtuous is an option for men like us?” asked Parker.

“Anything I have ever done in this profession has been with the greater good in mind. Maybe I am, or have been, delusional as to what that greater good is. Maybe one day I’ll realise that that greater good doesn’t exist. Only people who sit on the side-lines, then look on with retrospect, have the luxury of certainty.”

The wind slowed to a breeze and Parker spoke. “I know what you think of me, Bruce. An antiquated, embittered former field agent, now more a politician than a servant of this country.”

“No. I know you’re a servant to this country. But the word ‘country’ and ‘people’ are rarely the same thing. I learnt that many years ago.”

“Perhaps you’re right. And from here on in, you will have my full support—regardless of the consequences.”

Bruce looked down at the outstretched hand in surprise—it was the first time either of them offered it. Bruce shook it firmly, and they parted into the night.

Epilogue

Three weeks later

“So, is this the start of the three amigos?” asked Louis.

He, Connor and Tom sat in a booth looking down onto the nightclub floor. ‘Camerons’ lay just outside Manchester city centre, and was one of its more popular clubs. The shimmering blue of the lights mixed with a kind of music which allowed for both dancing and conversation. There were an assortment of attractive women and well-dressed men throughout.

“We just need a fourth member and we’d have an A-Team,” said Connor. He wore a light blue, button-down sleeveless shirt, jeans and brown Oxford shoes.

“You always have to take it there, don’t cha,” said Louis, whose dress stood out from his northern companions. He wore a white and black chequered shirt, red tie and a bold blue suit, that just seemed to work to Connor. His friend’s dress sense for social occasions was always flamboyant.

Tom Ryder smiled at the exchange. “Are we going to talk business before we pop these pills and have a good time?”

“I am not taking anything tonight. I was smashing them two weeks ago,” said Connor.

Tom and Louis looked at one another. “Fuck me, mate,” exclaimed Tom. “I think they will have worn off now, they aren’t that good.”

Louis and Tom laughed. Connor shook his head, “Think what you like. But I have a strict rule of leaving a three-month gap between binges. I don’t want to fuck my serotonin levels and be feeling like a dog in a Korean restaurant.”

Louis looked at Tom while nodding at Connor. “Who’s yer mate?”

Connor smiled. His cousin and friend seemed to have hit it off, for which he was glad. He felt a pang of guilt—he hadn’t told his cousin of his involvement in ‘The Chameleon Project.’ Bruce had told him to fight the urge to tell people closest to him—if nothing else, than for their safety.

He thought about Bruce and wondered if he did feel anything for the Janet Quigley woman. Not that he would ever tell Connor—it was not that sort of relationship. He had always respected the Scotsman and never crossed the line into over-familiarity. The debriefing had been an awkward one. Bruce had highlighted his quick thinking under pressure when dealing with Dixon’s knowledge of Ciara. Connor had not seen Ciara since that night.

However, he lambasted him over torturing Steyn and Dixon. That had gone on for an hour—he smiled, thinking back to the weird leopard-crawling race for their lives he had made them do—‘It pays to be a winner,’ he had said. Steyn had won, but Connor had killed them both anyway.

At the end of the debrief, Bruce had told him to take time off to process what had happened and to ‘decompress’.

At first, Connor had contemplated going somewhere remote—maybe a trip to Peru for an Ayahuasca ceremony.

At the last moment, he changed his mind and headed to Amsterdam. Van Der Saar had looked after him, and Connor had ten days of contemplation, high-quality drugs and sexual debauchery. Interspersed with this had been visits to Mike’s Gym—the revered Dutch kickboxing gym. Connor had caught a few too many shots in one of the sparring sessions after a particularly heavy night out with Van Der Saar’s people. It was then he had decided to come home and wind down the drink and drugs.

Louis broke through his thought process. “Hey, you drinking at least right?”

Connor nodded.

“Get the wets in then,” Louis said.

Connor smiled and made his way downstairs to the bar. He passed a group of young girls who were stealing glances up towards Louis and Tom. Connor did not kid himself that they were interested in his average-looking cousin. Louis stood out from the crowd even in cities like Manchester.

He smiled at the lithe barmaid. “Can I get a Tom Collins, rum and Coke, and Budweiser, please?”

She busied herself making the drinks. When she looked at him, he said, “Do I come here often?”

She laughed. “Well, that’s a new one.”

“For you maybe. The other barmaid is going to hear it next time.”

“I don’t think she’d get it,” she replied, tilting her head.

“Already attempting to put me off her so you can have me to yourself.”

She smirked. “Well, I’ll see which of these drinks are for you first.” She put the Tom Collins on the bar.

“Why? So you can spike it? Then I’ll end up naked on your sofa covered in Marmite?”

She smiled and frowned simultaneously. “How did you know I love Marmite?”

He was about to reply when he caught a movement in his peripheral vision. He turned to see seven well-built, smartly dressed men walking briskly towards the stairs leading to the balcony where Louis and his cousin sat. When three of them broke off to take the stairs on the farther side, Connor knew what they were there for—they were going to pincer the pair.

He screamed for the former Marine’s ears, “Contact left and right!”

Louis bolted out of his seat immediately mirrored by Tom. Connor snatched the cocktail off the bar and ran to the stairs. As he did so, he thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out his Kubotan disguised as a lighter—a present from Jaime.

One of the heavies stood at the top of the stairs barring his way. He hunched like a gorilla preparing to attack. Connor threw the now almost empty glass at his face. A pair of hulking arms barricaded its path. It was enough.

Connor’s Kubotan-assisted fist smashed into the ape’s temple, collapsing him before he tumbled down the stairs.

Connor surveyed the scene of Louis and Tom fighting the six men. He knew that this was going to hurt—body and head. Stick your chin on your chest.

He threw himself into the affray. He ducked a wild punch then smashed a left hook to the body, right to the body and a left uppercut to the point of the jaw. His target fell backwards just as Connor caught a punch on the top of the forehead which sent a ringing into his ears. He tightened his guard, ducked and weaved through the storm of blows.

He saw his opening and took it by cannoning his forehead into his attacker’s face. His right-hand-left-hook combination spun the attacker into a heap on the floor.

Connor turned in search of other targets only to find bodies strewn all over the balcony floor. Tom and Louis remained upright.

Louis looked barely dishevelled. Blood splattering decorated Tom’s cream shirt, some of it from the laceration under his eye. He was tucking a bloodied knuckleduster back into his pocket.

They turned as a team of five doormen came and stopped six feet from them. The one in the centre said, “You’ll have to leave, lads.”

Connor realised that they had been paid off to allow the attempted beating to happen. None could keep the nerves off their faces. Thank fuck for SIA licensing—thought Connor—or they might have been here to finish the job.

“We’ll go. But none of you are laying a hand on us,” Connor said.

The doorman seemed relieved, then answered, “All right. Can we at least walk behind you, so that—”

“No. You walk in front of us.”

Connor saw the conflict in his eyes before they settled on resignation. “All right.”

“Have you called it in yet?” said Connor, thinking of his cousin’s knuckleduster.

“Not yet.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Connor looked over the balcony and caught sight of a few phones pointing in their direction. He briefly thought of setting off the marble-like EMP device that Jaime had sent him, for occasions such as this. Then he thought against it—I am meant to be a gangster. That’s the cover. Let everyone know.

As Louis, Connor and Tom made their way down and through the throng of staring customers, Connor made the connections in his head. The gang had gone straight for either Louis or Tom—they had ignored him. He didn’t think his cousin had the type of enemies who could or would pay off the door team of one of Manchester’s most popular nightclubs and send in a seven-man team.

However, Louis did have an enemy like that. And as they broke onto the street into the crisp night air, Connor was already thinking of how to deal with Adam Lloyd.

The End

GLOSSARY

Actions on—Pre-determined procedures that are to be carried out if certain events were to occur during the mission.

Backblast—A cone-shaped danger area behind a claymore, rocket launcher, rocket-assisted take-off unit or recoilless rifle, where hot gases are expelled upon the discharging of the rocket or rifle.

Members of the Royal Marines and British Infantry also use the phrase to warn one another to either cease or switch the conversation, as a person(s) who they do not wish to hear comes within earshot.

Baggamanz—London street slang for ‘a lot’.

Bag-off—Royal Marine term for sex.

Bag rat—Food (ration) in a brown paper bag given to military personnel for days on the ranges or long coach trips amongst other scenarios. They usually consist of a packet of crisps, chocolate bar, soft drink, water and a buttered baguette which may or may not have a filling.

Ballied up—Wearing balaclavas.

Bluegrass—What Kentucky natives refer to their State as.

Bray—Northern England slang for ‘beat up’.

Bridging—A move used in wrestling and other grappling and ground fighting sports, often combined with a twisting motion, to dislodge or flip an opponent who has established a position on top. The bridge is also a common exercise position.

Buttoned up the back—A fool, i.e. “Am no’ buttoned up the back” is Scottish slang for “I am not a fool.”

Chad—Royal Marine slang for corny. Can be divided into good chad or bad chad.

Check—to block with the shin.

Cock—Northern England form of address for a person. Another Northern England usage of the term is for the boy (or person) considered the best fighter in the school, i.e. “Joe Bloggs is the ‘cock’ of our school.”

Crow—British Army term for an inexperienced soldier.

Cross-facing—In wrestling, driving one’s forearm across the opponent’s face to disturb their grip on you or to control position. In Brazilian ju-jitsu, the cross-face refers to the use of shoulder pressure against the opponent’s face to inhibit their movement.

Dexter—A television series revolving around the fictional Dexter Morgan, a forensic technician specialising in blood spatter pattern analysis for the fictional Miami Metro Police Department, who leads a secret parallel life as a vigilante serial killer, hunting murderers who have slipped through the cracks of the justice system.

EMP—Electromagnetic pulse capable of disrupting electronic equipment.

Essence—Royal Marine term for ‘gorgeous’.

Escort magazine—British adult men’s magazine.

Fatal Funnel—The cone-shaped path leading from the entry where the assaulter is most vulnerable to defenders inside the room. Also referred to as the ‘murder hole’.

(to) Flap—to panic in the face of adversity.

Flow sparring—A method of mixed martial arts sparring that combines hard wrestling and grappling with strikes to the head being purposefully light. Developed due to the widely held belief that hard blows to the head can shorten an athlete’s fighting career.

Fud—Scottish insult meaning vagina, e.g. “Away with ya, ya wee fud.”

Gen?—British military term for, “Are you being genuine?”

Gora—A derisive term British Asians use to refer to white males.

(A) Gypsies warning (or gypsies)—A warning to proceed with caution in respect of their current conduct or attitude.

Hammer pair—Two shots fired with rapid succession using only one sight picture. A controlled pair uses one sight picture per shot.

Hench—slang for muscular.

Hooks In—is a term in grappling martial arts that generally refers to the use of careful positioning of a practitioner’s feet and legs to control and manipulate the movement or position of their opponent.

IBT—Initiative Based Tactics.

I-com chatter—The enemy’s talk over radio communication.

Judoka—Judo practitioner.

Kubotan—is a genericised trademark for a self-defence weapon developed by Sōke Takayuki Kubota in the late 1960s. It is typically no more than 5.5 inches (14 centimetres) long and about half an inch (1.25 centimetres) in diameter, slightly thicker or the same size as a marker pen. The material is usually made of hard high-impact plastic.

K1—is a kickboxing platform and martial arts brand well known worldwide mainly for its heavyweight division fights. The letter K in K-1 is officially designated as a representation of words karate, kickboxing and kung fu.

Lekker—(Pronounced lek-uh) widely used South African English term indicating that something is ‘great’ or ‘nice’.

Mandy powder—MDMA (methylenedioxymethamphetamine)—a synthetic drug—in powder form.

Malcoms—Street slang for Ecstasy tablets, as in ‘Malcolm Xs’.

Mahabharata—an epic of ancient India which narrates the struggle between two groups of cousins in the Kurukshetra War.

Matelot—A term for ‘sailor’.

Moomins—Central characters in a series of books and a comic strip by Swedish-speaking Finnish illustrator Tove Jansson. They are a family of white, round fairy tale characters with large snouts that make them resemble hippopotamuses.

Murtaugh—Character played by Danny Glover in the Lethal Weapon film series.

Muggins—Someone who is lumbered with thankless tasks, usually used about oneself and followed by ‘here’.

(The) Net—Radio communication network.

Omoplata—A shoulder joint lock technique which utilises the attacker’s legs and hips to manipulate the opponent’s shoulder joint to the extent that the joint reaches its maximal degree of motion. This can lead to a submission or force a reversal (sweep).

Para—Slang for ‘paranoid’ or a member of the Parachute Regiment.

Pareto (Vilfredo)—An Italian economist most famous for noting that eighty per cent of the effects came from twenty per cent of the causes—known as Pareto’s principle, or the 80/20 rule.

Pegging—A sexual practice in which a woman penetrates a man’s anus with a strap-on dildo.

Picked up—Reprimanded, e.g. “The Sergeant-Major picked me up for my haircut.”

R&R—Rest and recuperation. The British military splice standard six-month tours with a period of around two weeks in which service personnel are sent home.

Royally, royally—Before the advent of mass social media, all manner of socially unacceptable shenanigans that went on within the social fabric of Royal Marines would be excused amongst the ranks as just being ‘Royally, royally’.

Rozzers—A slang term for police.

SAD—An acronym for the CIA’s Special Activities Division, responsible for the Agency’s more sensitive covert operations.

Saffa—A person born and raised in South Africa.

Selection—The process to become a member of UK special forces is called ‘selection’.

Senpai—Japanese word broadly meaning ‘teacher’ or ‘master’.

Skelp—Scottish slang for ‘strike.’

Slicing the pie—A military and law enforcement tactic prior to room entry. Stepping around the apex corner of the room in segments to identify threats while minimalizing one’s exposure.

Shrimping (hip escaping)—The act of moving the pelvis away from an opponent attempting to control the position from above.

SIA—Security Industry Authority is the statutory organisation responsible for regulating the private security industry in the UK. Certain criminal offences can prohibit the obtaining or keeping an SIA licence needed to work in the industry legally. As a result, doormen now restrain antagonists rather than subdue them with fists. This has led—generically—to a different ‘type’ of man ‘working the doors.’

Six Nations—An annual international rugby union competition between the teams of England, France, Ireland, Italy, Scotland and Wales.

Splinter Cell—Award-winning stealth video game.

Spoof—A guessing game involving coins. Each player draws some number of coins between zero and three from their pocket and holds them concealed within a clenched hand.

Sprawl—A defensive technique to single or double leg takedown attempts. Performed by scooting the legs backwards.

Still Game—A long-running Scottish sitcom, set in the fictional area of Craiglang in Glasgow.

Television X—A series of adult pornography channels.

’terps—Interpreters.

Three-to-one rule—British military doctrine dictates that the ideal ambusher to enemy ratio is three to one.

Top cover—Combat aeroplanes flying at high altitude to protect from air attack a military force especially from other planes flying at a lower altitude. The term is also, more commonly, used to describe a protective hierarchy which breeds a confidence in the ranks beneath it.

Tren(-train)—Trenbolone is considered the most potent anabolic steroid by many performance enhancing athletes, along with the most adverse side effects. To go on the ‘tren-train’ is to start a course of Trenbolone.

Trouser twists—Made out of elastic fray-resistant material, and used to tuck in the bottoms of military service trousers.

Turbo Mong—A name for one severely lacking in intelligence.

Turn to—British military term meaning ‘to present oneself at a location’ e.g. “Turn to at company lines for inspection at 06.30.”

Wheesht—Scottish term for ‘be quiet’.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Quentin Black is a former Royal Marine corporal with a decade of service in the Corps. This includes an operational tour of Afghanistan and an advisory mission in Iraq.

The following is the first chapter of Quentin Black’s follow-up novel—Ares’ Thirst

1

As Grace Templeton walked the hospital corridor of chipped plaster and damp patches, she felt a sense of purpose within herself she hadn’t felt for a long time. She had finally qualified as a paediatric surgeon—five years for her medical degree, two years of a post-graduate foundation course, and three years of specialist training in paediatrics.

No sooner had she qualified than she had taken on aid work in Ukraine with the UK-based charity ‘Britikrane Aid’. The country, already in poverty, lay suffering from internal conflict, not helped by the Russian military excursion. The subsequent displacement of people had resulted in around three million people in need of aid, over half a million of which were children.

Grace had been thorough in her research prior to arrival in Ukraine and knew it to be one of the poorest countries in Europe—indeed one of the articles she had read stated at its current growth rate it would take fifty years to catch up with present-day Poland. And yet she had been pleasantly surprised upon her arrival in Kiev, seeing people drinking, dining and shopping.

The Ukrainian liaison officer for Britikrane Aid had been pleasant and attentive to her questions and requests. Within a week she had been sent to her post, and saw how stark economic disparity within a country could be.

The town of Mariupol had borne much of the brunt of the conflict between the Donetsk People’s Republic (DPR) separatists and government forces. The hospital’s conditions had shocked her—the dearth of proper medical equipment and supplies would have shamed 1920s Britain—water dripped, and the lighting from the shades, with blue stencilled birds, flickered on the basement hospital beds. Still, she never once thought of turning back and made the best of what was available.

She dealt with a plethora of medical ailments, from resetting bones, stitching wounds and dressing burns, to removing shrapnel from a seven-year-old girl’s stomach due to an artillery blast. Despite all this, her satisfaction in her work soared knowing she was making a difference. Notwithstanding the comfort of western life, she had not missed much about her native Durham or her adopted home of Leeds, apart from a man—a fly by night she hardly saw.

She had known Connor Reed for a while, without really knowing him. She met him when he had been in the Royal Marines on a secondment to the hospital she had worked at for hands-on medical training. He was funny, confident, and had a fascinating combination of rough masculinity combined with a sharp and evolved intellect.

And on one night he had protected her and a petrified staff nurse from three aggressive thugs, reeking of alcohol by savaging all of them with his bare hands.

However she did not know what he did now—he was always cagey about it, and she didn’t press him. He would call or message when he was back in Leeds, or vice-versa, and they would go on a date and fuck. And despite the violence he had displayed that night there was never any ‘hard man’ posturing of any kind.

Then he would be gone—no messages, no calls, and he had no discernible social media. She had thought maybe he had a girlfriend or even a wife, and had confronted him about it; Grace would never allow herself to be ‘the other woman’, and hated hearing moral justifications for seeing a taken man.

However, he laughed and had told her, “I have too much respect for women to make one my girlfriend.” And despite the randomness of their meetings and long periods of non-contact, she really enjoyed their ‘relationship’ for what it was—small adventures, stimulating conversation and banter, great sex, and a warmth in spending time with a decent man. She had, despite herself, occasionally envisioned them in a more conventional relationship.

She found the mystery of him both intriguing and disconcerting.

Then a YouTube video of Connor and two other men overcoming an attack by seven men in a Manchester nightclub surfaced. In the aftermath, which had included a court case, it had come out that Connor was the son of former criminal underworld ‘Godfather’ Greg Ryder—Reed was his mother’s name. The other two victors in the video had been his cousin Tom Ryder and a Louis Allen, a gang leader from south-London. At first, Grace had found the notion of Connor being this ruthless gangster hard to correlate with the man she knew.

But it made sense—the coming and going, the lack of social media, and the violent streak. Maybe it had been a good thing not getting attached to him.

She had finished for the day and met her assigned bodyguard and driver Dimitry to take her back to the hotel. She had felt self-conscious among her co-workers for having a driver. They were lovely to her, but there was an undercurrent of her being an outsider; she could leave whenever she wanted. She wore no makeup and tied her red hair up without any attempt at style; still, her attractiveness had made all the men thus far take a second look. The tall and compact Dimitry had kept his eyes and words to himself. Grace had been told jobs like this had been a godsend to some Ukrainian soldiers; better money, shorter hours and more comfortable work. Losing it for being inappropriate was not an option.

“Hi Dimitry,” she said.

“Hello, Miss Templeton,” he answered in thickly accented English as he held the door open for her.

They began the fifty-mile journey to the port city of Berdiansk. Grace settled into the boxy Nissan’s seat, using the handle to wind down the window a half inch, glad it was the end of the day. Fifteen minutes in, she was enjoying the meditative experience of watching the world go by while listening to low-volume Ukrainian music with indecipherable lyrics.

The brakes slammed, shunting Grace forward onto the collarbone-digging seatbelt. The front window of her car shattered with blood. Grace’s brain quickly registered the shooting of Dimitry.

The cold air of her door being wrenched open hit her, and a pair of rough hands gripped her, freeing her from her shock. She attacked with a primal vigour despite the gun being aimed at her. The butt of the pistol snatched her consciousness away.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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IN THE CONNOR REED SERIES

The Bootneck

How far would you go for a man who gave you a second chance in life?

Bruce McQuillan leads a black operations unit only known to a handful of men.

A sinister plot involving the Russian Bratva and one of the most powerful men within the British security services threatens to engulf the Isles.

Could a criminal with an impulse for sadism be the only man McQuillan can trust?

https://mybook.to/TheBootneck

Lessons In Blood

When the ruling class commoditise the organs of the desperate, who will stop them?

When Darren O’Reilly’s daughter is found murdered with her kidney extracted, he refuses to believe the police’s explanation. His quest for the truth reaches the ears of Bruce McQuillan, the leader of the shadowy Chameleon Project.

As a conspiracy of seismic proportions begins to reveal itself, Bruce realizes he needs a man of exceptional skill and ruthlessness.

He needs Connor Reed.

https://mybook.to/LessonsInBlood

Ares’ Thirst

Can one man stop World War Three?

When a British aid worker disappears in the Crimea, the UK Government wants her back—quickly and quietly.

And Machiavellian figures are fuelling the flames of Islamic hatred towards Russia. With ‘the dark edge of the world’ controlled by some of the most cunning, ruthless and powerful criminals on earth, McQuillan knows he needs to send a wolf amongst the wolves before the match of global war is struck across the rough land of Ukraine.

https://mybook.to/AresThirst

Northern Wars

The Ryder crime family are now at war...on three fronts.

After ruthlessly dethroning his Uncle, Connor Reed must now defend the family against the circling sharks of rival criminal enterprises.

Meanwhile, Bruce McQuillan, leader of a black operations unit named The Chameleon Project, has learnt that one of the world’s most brutal and influential Mafias are targeting the UK pre-BREXIT.

https://mybook.to/NorthernWars

Counterpart

Can Connor Reed survive his deadliest mission yet?

Bruce McQuillan’s plan to light the torch of war between two of the world’s most powerful and ruthless Mafias has been ignited.

Can his favoured agent, Connor Reed, fan the flames without being engulfed by them?

Especially as a man every bit his equal stands on the other side.

https://mybook.to/Counterpart

An Outlaw’s Reprieve

“When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.”

Reed, a leader within his own outlaw family, delights in an opportunity to punish a thug preying on the vulnerable.

However, with his target high within a rival criminal organisation, can Reed exact retribution without dragging his relatives into a bloody war.

https://mybook.to/AnOutlawsReprieve

The Puppet Master

For the first time in history, humanity has the capacity to destroy the world.

When a British scientist leads a highly proficient Japanese engineering team in unlocking the secrets to the biosphere’s survival, some will stop at nothing to see the fledging technology disappear.

In the Land of the Rising Sun, can Bruce McQuillan protect the new scientific applications from the most powerful entities on earth?

And can his favoured agent Connor Reed defeat the deadliest adversary he has ever faced?

https://mybook.to/ThePuppetMaster

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

Epilogue

GLOSSARY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AUTHOR’S NOTE

IN THE CONNOR REED SERIES