LONDON

A Covert-Ops Suspense Action Novel

ZEB CARTER THRILLERS

BOOK XV

TY PATTERSON

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Copyright ©2025 by Ty Patterson, Three Aces Publishing Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

This book, either wholly or partly, in ebook, paperback, audiobook, hardback, or any other format, cannot be used in any Artificial Intelligence program or model nor be uploaded to any AI model, or be used for text-to-audio, text-to-video, text-to-image, or text-to-more-text generation without the author’s explicit permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

They say it takes a village to produce a book. In my case, many continents have been involved. Sure, an author’s job is a solitary one, but writing is just one part of putting out a book.

My beta readers, who are around the world, are my first responders. I owe a debt of gratitude to them for getting into shape all the words I write.

Donna Rich, my proofreader, and Merwie Garzon, my editor, have been invaluable in polishing the book.

A special thanks to Debbie Gallant, Michelle Rose Dunn, and Cheri Gerhardt, who have supported me since the beginning.

To my wife and son, for their sacrifices in supporting me.

London is built on the bones of history, yet it walks forward unshaken

Unknown

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction and while it is based in real countries, refers to real events and features several landmarks, the characters are entirely imaginary. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

1

‘We don’t need your kind here, mate.’

The small pub in Westminster, London, was packed. A soccer match had just ended on the wall-mounted TVs, and the winning team’s supporters were flushed with victory, their voices loud and boisterous.

The losing side had shrugged off defeat, animatedly chatting with their friends over drinks.

Zeb sat at the bar on one of the green, round stools that lined the wooden counter. Beside him was Bwana, his teammate. Bwana’s size and muscled frame—barely concealed by his tee and jeans—combined with his resting, foreboding expression, tended to discourage casual conversation.

They’d been in the United Kingdom for two weeks—Zeb Carter, Bwana, Broker, Roger, Bear, Chloe, and the Petersen twins, Beth and Meghan.

They were the Agency. An elite U.S. outfit so covert that even in the Pentagon, only a handful knew of their existence. Around the world, even fewer.

Zeb was the lead agent, but there was no hierarchy within their team. They operated as a unit—more than colleagues, they were close friends. Family.

Zeb, Bwana, Roger, and Bear were all former Special Forces operatives. Broker had been a Ranger. Chloe came from the 82nd Airborne. She and Bear were in a relationship that had endured and strengthened over the years.

Beth and Meghan didn’t have a military background. The sisters grew up in a cop family in Wyoming and were running a successful business when Zeb had rescued them from a cartel.

After learning who Zeb was, they’d badgered him relentlessly to join the Agency.

The twins were persistent, determined, and smart. Zeb eventually caved.

They’d adapted to the covert world with surprising ease. Meghan had become one of the team’s best shooters, while both sisters demonstrated a knack for tech. They’d developed Werner, the Agency’s AI software, which analyzed and processed intel.

Werner was the backbone of their operations. The twins were the glue that held the Agency together.

The team was in the UK to train with Britain’s Special Air Service (SAS) at their Hereford headquarters. The British operators knew who they were. Friends, not just allies.

Britain had also invited agents from other nations. A handpicked operative from India’s Research and Analysis Wing (RAW)—the country’s foreign intelligence agency—was part of the training program.

The joint exercises focused on sharing expertise, learning from one another, and strengthening relationships with allied agencies.

Zeb only caught part of the man’s sentence. His ruminations on his team had distracted him along with the pub’s chatter, the hiss of beer taps, and music from the speakers added to the ambient noise.

But Bwana stiffened.

That was enough for Zeb to piece together what had been said.

He glanced at the mirror behind the bar, mounted above shelves stocked with bottles. The speaker sat at a table directly behind them. Clean-shaven head. Red face. A beer bottle in hand. Stocky, wearing a soccer shirt in the winning team’s colors.

He wasn’t alone. Two friends, similarly dressed and equally red-faced, flanked him. Their table was littered with empty bottles.

Don’t judge by appearances, Zeb reminded himself. Some of the kindest, most tolerant people you’ve met look like them.

‘Who are you looking at?’ The man caught Zeb’s gaze in the mirror.

Zeb swiveled on his stool, his movements deliberate. Bwana didn’t turn.

‘You talking to me?’ Zeb asked, his American accent unmistakable. He could mimic a neutral tone or speak like a native in several languages, but he didn’t bother now.

‘No, mate. I’m talking to the man in the mirror behind you.’

The man’s friends roared with laughter.

Zeb scanned the room.

The Westminster Working Men’s Pub was a modest joint with eight small tables and a bar counter. Tucked away on Great Peter Street, it had once been a watering hole for blue-collar workers—construction crews, mechanics, electricians.

Not anymore, Zeb thought. This close to Parliament and Downing Street, it’s more likely to attract journalists, politicians, and office staff.

His gaze narrowed. Bwana’s the only Black man here.

‘Care to repeat what you said?’ Zeb asked.

The man hesitated, caught off guard by the directness. His friends muttered encouragement—‘Go on, Jimmy!’—and he grinned, lifting his beer bottle.

‘It was to him, next to you.’

‘He’s with me. What did you say?’ Zeb’s voice was level, but there was steel beneath it.

‘Tell him, Jimmy,’ one of the friends whispered.

Jimmy’s grin twisted. ‘His kind isn’t wanted here.’

Zeb didn’t move. Around them, no one reacted. No one heard—or they were pretending they didn’t.

Two men at the counter remained focused on the TVs, their expressions carefully blank.

Bwana shifted, just barely, but Zeb noticed. His friend still didn’t turn, calmly nursing his drink.

‘Mate,’ Zeb drawled, his tone insolent, ‘I suggest you and your friends finish your drinks and leave.’

‘WHO ARE YOU TELLING—’ Jimmy shot to his feet, voice raised.

‘HEY!’ the burly bartender barked. ‘Take it outside!’

‘He started it!’ Jimmy yelled, pointing at Zeb. ‘He told me to leave!’

The pub fell silent. Every eye turned to them.

Only the hiss of the beer taps and the drone of a TV presenter filled the air.

‘He told my friend his kind wasn’t welcome⁠—’

‘THAT’S RIGHT! WE DON’T NEED MORE NIG⁠—’

Zeb moved.

He shot off his stool, grabbed Jimmy by the shirt, and slammed his head onto the table.

2

Jimmy’s head hit the table with a nasty thud.

A beer bottle fell to the floor and shattered.

Someone muted the TV.

Jimmy slid to the ground, groaning. One of his friends sucked in a sharp breath, while the other jumped off his stool to help him.

‘GET OUT!’ the bartender roared. ‘Or I’ll call the police!’

No one moved.

Zeb stood, his eyes sweeping the room, instinctively assessing threats. Bwana sat at the bar, his back still turned, seemingly unbothered.

‘He’s bleeding,’ said Jimmy’s friend, crouching to help him up. The fallen man’s lips were split and oozing blood.

‘You should’ve stopped him,’ Zeb said with a shrug. ‘Instead, you egged him on.’

‘You bloody Americans think you can just waltz in here and⁠—’

‘Stand down,’ Bwana interrupted, swiveling on his stool.

The man, burly and broad-shouldered, hesitated. But Bwana was bigger—and his expression was enough to make most people think twice.

It could have ended there.

But Jimmy had other ideas.

‘Get him,’ he spat.

Burly Man lunged, swinging wildly at Zeb.

Zeb sidestepped easily, letting the man stumble past him and crash into the bar near Bwana.

Jimmy’s other friend—a slower, broader man—circled the table and charged at Zeb.

Zeb swayed, landed a punch to the man’s gut, and caught him by the collar. With a sharp shove, he sent the man stumbling backward into Burly Man.

The pub erupted into chaos. The bartender shouted, a woman screamed, and glass shattered as patrons scrambled away from the melee.

Zeb spun on his heel, facing Burly Man and Slow Man.

Bwana was no longer seated.

Two men from another table had rushed him. One swung a barstool; the other aimed to tackle him around the waist.

Bwana ducked under the stool. It crashed against his back without seeming to faze him. He grabbed his tackler by the back of his shirt and shoved him into the retreating crowd.

Another scream pierced the air.

The man with the stool hesitated.

‘Now’s the time to go home,’ Bwana said softly.

The man cursed and swung the stool again.

Bwana caught it mid-air with ease, yanked it from the man’s hands, and tossed it to the floor. He stepped forward menacingly and the man stumbled back, tripping over a chair and landing flat on his back.

Jimmy, still clutching his mouth, grabbed a beer bottle from a nearby table, smashed it against the edge, and lunged at Zeb.

Zeb caught the movement in his peripheral vision. He turned, grabbed Jimmy’s wrist mid-swing, and slammed it against the bar’s edge. The broken bottle clattered to the floor.

Jimmy howled in pain.

The bartender’s voice rose above the din, yelling useless threats.

Burly Man and Stool Man charged at Bwana again, while the rest of the patrons pressed themselves against the walls.

Zeb’s instincts kicked in. Years of training and experience took over.

He twisted Jimmy’s arm behind his back, pinning him face-first against the bar.

‘You’re done. Let it go,’ Zeb said evenly.

Jimmy groaned and lashed out with a kick. Zeb responded with a sharp knuckle punch to his thigh.

The thug slapped the bar in surrender.

Zeb released him and stepped back.

Bwana was now holding both attackers by the neck. The men squirmed and struggled, raining punches on him that seemed to have no effect. With a grunt, Bwana shoved them away. They staggered, crashing into tables and chairs before collapsing in a heap.

‘OUTSIDE!’ the bartender bellowed. ‘I’m calling the police!’

Zeb raised his hands in mock surrender and headed for the door. Bwana followed.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the sidewalk, ready in case the fight spilled outside.

‘You shouldn’t have started that,’ Bwana growled.

‘There’ll never be a time when I—or any of us—don’t respond to that. Aggressively. Not here, not anywhere.’

Bwana’s lips twisted briefly. He bumped fists with Zeb.

The pub door burst open.

Jimmy, Burly Man, and Slow Man charged out, limping but determined.

Zeb and Bwana stepped apart, a tactical move to split the attackers.

Zeb curled his fists. None of them is in any shape to fight. This won’t last long.

The street behind them reflected in the pub’s window. Cars passed. The sidewalk was momentarily empty.

Just two lethal operatives against three thugs.

Not even a contest, Zeb thought.

‘STOP!’

The sharp voice cut through the air.

Jimmy and his friends skidded to a halt.

Zeb saw the new arrivals in the pub window’s reflection—two men, casually dressed in T-shirts and jeans, both clean-shaven with buzz cuts.

‘You had to spoil the fun,’ Bwana muttered, turning to face them.

Captain Jack Thornton grinned. Behind him, Sergeant Mike Harris gave Zeb a mocking salute.

Zeb relaxed. Four against three racist thugs? The odds had just become laughable.

Jack and Mike were part of E Squadron, a British paramilitary unit as shadowy as Zeb’s own organization. They were among the best of the best, drawn from SAS and the Special Boat Service.

‘We heard about the disturbance,’ Jack said, catching Zeb’s raised eyebrows. ‘We were in Westminster. Not far from here.’

Zeb nodded. They must’ve picked up the bartender’s call to the police.

‘Disturbance?’ Mike chuckled. ‘That was a proper brawl, mate.’

‘A proper brawl would’ve leveled the pub,’ Bwana said in a mock British accent.

Before the Brits could respond, a police cruiser pulled up.

A woman officer stepped out, followed by her partner. They surveyed the scene.

‘Sir—’ she began.

‘Officer,’ Jack interrupted, leaning in to whisper something in her ear.

She frowned, glanced at Zeb and Bwana, and spoke into her radio. A moment later, she hung up, her expression unreadable.

‘Sir, I could arrest you for a public order offense,’ she said sharply.

‘We apologize, ma’am,’ Zeb replied respectfully.

‘Arrest them!’ Jimmy shouted, pointing at Zeb. ‘He hit me⁠—’

‘You’ll be arrested too, sir, for a hate crime. Do you want that?’

Jimmy cursed under his breath, muttered to his friends, and limped away.

‘Two more men attacked us,’ Zeb said, recalling Stool Man and the other tackler. ‘They’re inside. Doesn’t look like they’re with Jimmy.’

The officers went into the pub and emerged several minutes later.

‘You’re lucky you have witnesses,’ the woman told Zeb. ‘No one wants to press charges. The bartender doesn’t want to see you again.’

When the officers left, Bwana turned to Jack. ‘What did you tell her?’

‘Gratitude,’ Mike said, rolling his eyes. ‘You Yanks ever heard of that? You could say thank you.’

‘Manners,’ Jack added, shaking his head. ‘Americans never had them.’

Zeb grinned and gave an exaggerated bow. ‘Thank you, guv, for rescuing our sorry asses.’

Jack wasn’t smiling when Zeb straightened. His eyes were on the pub’s TV, visible through the window.

‘We heard it over our comms. Why the brawl started.’

The screen replayed footage of riots in Yorkshire. Masked men hurled flares at a South-Asian-owned grocery store.

RIOTS ESCALATE IN YORKSHIRE, the banner read.

‘That’s not us,’ Jack said quietly. ‘That’s not the country we are.’

‘I know,’ Zeb replied.

3

‘You’re heading back to base?’ Mike asked.

‘Yeah. In a while.’ Zeb glanced through the pub window. It was back in business, the bar crowded with people who seemed unfazed by recent events.

‘Stay safe, mate.’ Jack clapped Zeb on the shoulder. ‘See you there. We’ll be in the bar.’

Zeb nodded. Bwana alongside him as they left the pub and headed toward their parked SUV in Smith Square, just a few minutes away.

Westminster was quiet. The few pubs and restaurants were busy, but the streets weren’t as lively as London’s main tourist hubs.

Zeb zipped his jacket to his chin and shoved his hands into his pockets. Late winter in London. Cold. The morning drizzle had left puddles glinting under the streetlights and damp leaves plastered to the sidewalk.

Bwana moved silently next to him, a shadow in the dim light. The two instinctively stuck to the darker parts of the sidewalk as they walked.

When they reached the SUV, Zeb unlocked it with his key fob. The vehicle was a converted Land Rover, fully electric. Its original engine and interior had been replaced with a state-of-the-art battery pack and custom modifications.

Like every Agency vehicle, it had an impact-resistant steel body, run-flat tires, armored glass, embedded cameras, wireless communication systems, and a host of other features hidden beneath its exterior.

‘Beth and Meg did one heck of a job,’ Bwana said, sighing as he slid into the passenger seat.

Zeb nodded. The twins, who handled the Agency’s logistics and equipment, had taken charge of the electrification of their fleet over the past few years.

The Agency maintained caches of vehicles in major cities worldwide, stored in garages run by trusted veterans. In cities like London, we’ve got multiple garages. Gas-powered options, too, just in case.

Zeb fired up the vehicle.

‘I miss the growl,’ Bwana muttered, pulling a face.

‘There are sounds.’ Zeb nodded toward the dashboard as he navigated them out of the street, following the map on the screen.

‘Fake ones.’

‘This vehicle has speed, range, terrifying acceleration, and every toy we’ve ever built into the older models—plus some new ones. And you’re hung up on sound?’

Bwana threw up his hands in mock protest but said nothing more.

The SUV glided silently through the damp streets. They passed Trafalgar Square and then Piccadilly Circus, where brightly lit billboards illuminated the large crowds gathered around the central statues.

London’s Times Square. Smaller. Cleaner.

Zeb slowed the vehicle as tourists crossed the street without a care for traffic.

‘What’s on your mind? Jimmy?’ Bwana asked, breaking the silence.

‘Why did he pick on us?’ Zeb kept his focus on the road.

Bwana grinned, flashing his teeth. ‘He picked on me. You escalated it. He was drunk. Probably a racist. And like most racists, he’d deny it. People like him are everywhere. We’ve dealt with them before. What’s bothering you?’

Zeb didn’t answer immediately.

They turned onto Regent Street, lined with upscale shops. A red double-decker bus honked impatiently behind them.

Zeb flipped on the hazard lights and eased the SUV to the curb.

‘Now what?’ Bwana asked, glancing back at the bus. ‘You see something?’

‘I’m thinking.’

‘He’s thinking,’ Bwana said, rolling his eyes. ‘About what?’

‘What if Jimmy wasn’t random?’

Bwana frowned, considering it. ‘You mean he specifically targeted us—me? Which would mean he knew who we are and was following us? Nah. Jack, Mike, and their troop know who we are. The rest of the training team thinks we’re regular US Army. Meera’s the only other outsider in our group. No way Jimmy knew.’

Meera Ranganathan. The RAW special agent. A close friend. The Agency team had worked with her on missions in India.

‘Maybe. Maybe not. We need to be sure.’

‘How? Jimmy and his buddies are long gone.’

Zeb didn’t answer. Instead, he punched a speed-dial number on his phone.

The SUV’s speakers picked up the ringing.

‘We’re busy,’ Beth answered.

‘Doing what?’ Zeb asked.

‘Beating Meera, Terry, and Curtis at blackjack.’

Terry Williams and Curtis Broome, E Squadron operators from Jack’s troop.

‘We heard you destroyed a pub,’ Meghan drawled. ‘The cops didn’t lock you up?’

‘They’re called police here,’ Bwana said mockingly. ‘And no, when I smiled and said please, they let us go.’

‘Your smile?’ Roger’s Texan drawl came through, laced with humor. ‘That would’ve made them arrest you faster. Now, if it had been me, they’d have rolled out the red carpet.’

Roger. Texan. Movie-star looks. Women noticed him everywhere.

‘Mate, are you both okay?’ Curtis asked.

‘Yeah,’ Zeb replied. ‘Beth, Meg, can you track Jimmy after the brawl?’

‘Why?’ Meghan asked, suspicion lacing her tone.

‘Zeb thinks it wasn’t random,’ Bwana said, exasperated.

The twins went quiet. Murmurs filled the background before Meghan’s voice came back, louder. ‘Beth and I are in my room. Hold on. Let’s fire up our screens.’

Zeb scanned the street through the rearview mirror. Traffic flowed steadily past. An Apple Store on their left was crowded with customers testing out devices. No one paid attention to the parked Land Rover.

‘How are you going to find them?’ Bwana asked impatiently.

‘You forget we’re in Britain,’ Beth explained as if to a child. ‘You’re in London. The country and the city have cameras everywhere. One of the highest densities in the Western world … there! We’ve got him on a camera⁠—’

‘You’ve got Werner hooked into London’s camera network?’ Bwana asked disbelievingly.

‘Not just London,’ she retorted, ‘and not just street cameras. So, Werner identified Jimmy⁠—’

‘How? He wasn’t wearing a signboard around his neck.’

‘Is that sarcasm?’ Meghan asked.

‘He thinks it was,’ Beth replied.

‘I’m here. Zeb and I can hear you!’ Bwana growled.

‘No, he wasn’t wearing a signboard. Werner’s patched into the pub’s security cameras too. It uses a commercial system that we hooked into light-years ago. Jimmy Fenton, your Jimmy, and his pals, Barry Whelan and Mick Bradshaw … Werner identified them through their driver’s licenses. And before you ask, yeah, we’re patched into Britain’s DVLA as well, their Driving and Vehicle Licensing Authority,’ Meghan rapid-fired.

‘Street cameras caught Jimmy and his buddies leaving the pub. They entered Westminster Tube Station …’ She trailed off.

Zeb smiled when one of the sisters snapped their fingers, the sound loud and clear over the speakers. The speed at which the twins thought and worked never failed to amaze him. It’s like magic. They’re always several steps ahead of the rest of us.

‘And here we go,’ Beth chortled. ‘They exited Seven Sisters Station and walked to Cedar Road. They bought beer on the way from a convenience store. They entered a terraced house. It’s the last one on that street. I’ll send you the address. Jimmy rents that place. He’s been living in it for over a year. Don’t ask me how we found that out.’

‘How did you find which house they went to? There can’t be cameras there too. Not every street in the country has them.’

She sighed theatrically. He grinned. She’s rolling her eyes too!

‘Have you heard of satellites? There are a few overhead that we could tap into. We fed their cameras Jimmy’s silhouette, got Werner to remove noise … stuff that’s beyond your comprehension.’

Standard answer from the sisters when they didn’t want to elaborate on the tech they used.

‘You got all that, but you didn’t find out what they do?’ Zeb asked.

‘Oh ye of so little faith,’ she mocked. ‘All three of them are electricians in a local London company. Their employer takes on residential work. We’ll dig into the firm later.’

‘Now, can we get back to our card game?’ Meghan demanded. ‘We were on a winning streak.’

The drive from Regent Street to Cedar Road took forty-five minutes. It took another ten minutes to find a parking space two streets away.

‘We go loaded?’ Bwana asked as they exited the SUV.

Zeb considered it for a moment, then nodded.

They ducked back into the vehicle and reached beneath their seats, retrieving their Glock 19s. They unzipped their jackets, strapped on shoulder holsters, slid the guns into place, and zipped up again.

Zeb led the way.

Cedar Road was a long stretch of terraced homes, the kind typical of London. Cars were parked on narrow driveways and along the curb, leaving room for only one vehicle to pass through at a time.

Crowded. Cramped. Normal for Britain’s largest and most populous city.

Jimmy’s home was at the end of the street, where the road ended in a cul-de-sac.

They walked down the sidewalk, passing houses with lights on in most windows. The smell of cooking wafted from some homes; the glow of TV screens flickered through curtains in others. The streetlights were intermittent, casting long shadows in the gaps.

‘There’s a wooded park over there,’ Bwana whispered, pointing past the cul-de-sac.

‘I saw.’ Zeb held up his phone, a satellite map displayed on its screen.

The target house stood out. The paint was faded, the walls cracked. The front yard was overgrown. Curtains were drawn over the downstairs windows, which glowed faintly with light from inside.

A white van with the logo of an electrical firm was parked out front.

Work vehicle. Makes sense.

‘If that house is supposed to be intimidating, I’m not impressed,’ Bwana murmured.

Zeb grinned faintly. He motioned for Bwana to circle around to the back of the house.

Bwana nodded and moved silently past him, disappearing into the shadows toward the wooded area.

I’ll stick to the front. My jacket and jeans will stand out against the white walls. Need to stay low.

Zeb scanned the neighboring houses, then crouched and crawled through the overgrown yard until he was pressed against the front wall of Jimmy’s house.

Voices drifted through the curtained window, loud and distinct.

‘Who the hell were they?’

‘Americans. Think they own the world.’

Zeb recognized the second voice. Jimmy.

‘He straightened you up proper, mate,’ a third voice chuckled. ‘Your lips are all swollen⁠—’

‘He caught me by surprise,’ Jimmy snapped indignantly. ‘If I had time⁠—’

‘Both of them straightened us,’ the second voice cut in, calmer, more reasonable. ‘We were three, they were two, and yet we didn’t hurt them.’

‘They got lucky,’ Jimmy whined. ‘Wait till I see them again. That black n⁠—’

‘We aren’t going back to that pub,’ the second man said flatly. ‘We’ll be lucky if Trent doesn’t hear about this brawl. He’ll sack us if he finds out. It’ll be hard to get other jobs in this market.’

Trent must be their employer, Zeb figured.

Jimmy cursed loudly but reluctantly agreed. ‘I want to smash my fist in those American faces.’

‘It might happen,’ the third man said. ‘But Baz is right. Let’s stay low.’

Baz. Barry Whelan. That leaves Mick Bradshaw as the third voice.

The conversation shifted to soccer. Zeb crawled back into the yard, then retreated to the sidewalk and moved a few houses down.

Bwana joined him moments later.

‘They don’t know who we are,’ Zeb said quietly.

Bwana nodded. ‘Their backyard’s full of junk. I couldn’t get close to the door.’

‘They’re all at the front. Must be the living room. I could hear a TV in the background, some game on.’

‘So, random?’

‘Yeah.’

Zeb turned to leave when the front door of Jimmy’s house creaked open.

Jimmy stepped out, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Zeb froze, watching.

Jimmy didn’t look up. He didn’t glance around. He bent his head, lit the cigarette with a flick of his lighter, and took a long drag.

‘I won’t be a moment,’ Zeb murmured, already moving before Bwana could protest.

He sprinted silently down the sidewalk.

Jimmy exhaled a plume of smoke.

He sensed movement and turned his head—just as Zeb lunged into the yard.

The cigarette fell from Jimmy’s lips.

His eyes widened in recognition.

His mouth opened in a silent O of shock.

Zeb reached him, grabbed him by the neck, and slammed his head against the wall.

‘That was necessary?’ Bwana asked when Zeb returned.

‘Yeah.’

‘Was it satisfying?’

‘Very.’

‘He might call the cops.’

‘He won’t. The police would question him about a hate crime. He might lose his job.’ Zeb relayed what he’d overheard.

‘He’ll tell his friends you were here.’

‘Jimmy’s a bully,’ Zeb said flatly. ‘He won’t tell anyone he got his head smashed a second time.’

It was eleven pm by the time they returned to Hereford.

The SAS headquarters was typical of army bases around the world. Brick and timber-frame buildings, security checkpoints, office blocks, classrooms, meeting rooms, a medical unit, and numerous training grounds.

The building where the Agency operatives and Meera were staying was equally spartan. The timber had lost its color over the years but was still sturdy. The windows were newly double-glazed. The small entrance hall led to an open-plan lounge and kitchen, with their individual rooms on the upper floors.

Zeb parked the Land Rover next to another Agency vehicle and followed Bwana inside.

The rest of his team along with Meera, Terry, and Curtis were gathered around the dining table, plates of food and a deck of cards spread out in front of them. Jack and Mike, who had arrived before them, stood with their hands jammed in their pockets.

‘What?’ Zeb asked, sensing tension in the air.

‘Riots,’ Terry said flatly.

‘Yeah, in Yorkshire. Old news.’

‘No,’ Meghan said sharply. ‘In London. In Westminster. Happening right now.’

4

Zeb’s gaze flew to the TV.

Masked figures hurled bottles and Molotov cocktails at riot police, who shielded themselves behind plexiglass shields.

‘Outside Westminster Tube station,’ Beth said flatly. ‘Several groups came out dressed in soccer shirts and then started swearing, cursing the police, anyone who looked like an immigrant. A fight broke out when a woman screamed back at them, and then this …’ She nodded at the TV.

‘Those bottle bombs,’ Bwana rasped. ‘They didn’t manufacture them on the spot. They came prepared.’

‘Scum,’ Jack snarled. ‘They ought to be locked up and the keys thrown away.’

‘We don’t have enough prisons for all of them, mate,’ Mike responded, no humor in his voice.

‘These must have erupted on our way back,’ Zeb said as he took an apple from a fruit basket, polished it against his thigh, and bit into it.

‘Yeah. You were already on the way back,’ Chloe said, huddled next to Bear, a big, silent presence. ‘We didn’t think it was worth warning you.’

Even as they watched, a woman police officer lost her footing, and rioters were instantly on her. Her thin screams were lost in the background noise. The other officers surged forward to rescue her, and the tight human barricade that contained the thugs at the Tube station broke.

‘Isn’t the station closed?’ Zeb asked sharply when more men spilled out of the building to join the vandals.

To the left of the station was Westminster Bridge across the Thames. The street in front of the station led down to the Parliament Building.

Ten Downing Street, the British Prime Minister’s residence, was walking distance from the country’s center of democracy. 

The police will try to contain these rioters before they get to those areas. Zeb crunched into his apple.

‘It should be,’ Curtis said, his brow furrowed. ‘Those men must have been hiding.’

Meera crossed her arms. ‘Which means these people were organized.’

‘Don’t the officers kettle rioters?’ Roger crossed an elegantly shod leg.

Just because they were in the SAS HQ, participating in a grueling training course, didn’t mean Roger had to ignore sartorial style.

The Texan had on a white dress shirt, its sleeves folded neatly to his elbows. It was tucked into his jeans with a belt that sported a Texas longhorn on its buckle. Somehow, it worked with the rest of his attire.

Kettling, Zeb frowned. Police contain protesters in a narrow space. They use vehicles and barricades for perimeters.

The practice had its critics, but it was used globally by law enforcement.

‘They do,’ Terry said. ‘They might not have had time … look, they’ve blocked off the street. These goons can’t get to the critical buildings.’ He pointed to a line of cruisers and tactical vehicles racing up and parking crosswise.

‘What’s behind these protests?’ Broker asked, filling coffee mugs from a bubbling kettle and handing them out.

‘Thugs don’t need a reason,’ Mike burst out. ‘Looting and violence is all they know.’

‘There’s discontent in the country,’ Jack offered a more nuanced answer. ‘Several years of underinvestment have led to poor growth. Wage stagnation. People look at your country and think, Why aren’t we growing as much as you folks?’

‘Whilst forgetting Britain and the U.S. are structurally different,’ Terry agreed.

‘On top of that, right-wing media have amplified the messaging that immigrants are bad …that they’re causing crime, they’re raping white women,’ Jack continued.

‘We have that in our country too,’ Bwana said, his face all edges and angles under the light.

‘Yes, that’s happening in many countries in the Western world. Britain is more vulnerable than the European Union countries. Brexit left us out on a limb …’ Jack laughed. ‘I know, mate,’ he told Broker. ‘I know how you feel about that.’

‘Poor economy.’ Curtis held up a finger. ‘Perception of people.’ Another finger shot up. ‘Right-wing media pumping out stories. Social media sites joining in. All of that has brought us to this.’ He pointed at the TV.

‘The trigger was the rape of a young girl in Yorkshire,’ Mike said. ‘That happened just before you arrived in Britain. A black man kidnapped her when she was returning from school. That was red meat for the right-wingers. They conveniently ignored that the man was British born. The Yorkshire riots were the first. The unrest spread to other parts of the country. You,’—he glanced at Bwana—‘got picked on at that pub. But these riots …’ He shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen such violence before.’

Bottles sailed through the air, flung by the thugs, and crashed against police shields.

Zeb searched the crowd for the woman officer and didn’t spot her. She must have been taken away by the cops. ‘You had elections recently, didn’t you?’

‘Last year.’ Jack muted the TV. He went to the microwave oven and brought out several pizzas. ‘There’s no threat to the government. The Prime Minister got a huge majority.’ He grinned. ‘Is Jimmy alive?’

Zeb smiled briefly. ‘Your network is as good as ours. Don’t you know?’

The captain smiled in return. ‘No one has filed a police complaint from that house. What did you find?’

‘That they’re hooligans. Nothing more. They aren’t part of any elaborate criminal gang.’ Beth licked her fingers and wiped them clean with a paper towel.

‘Their employer is legit,’ Meghan said, biting into a crusty slice. ‘Jimmy, Whelan, and Bradshaw have driving offenses but no other criminal convictions.’

‘Should I ask how you know that?’ Jack chuckled.

‘No.’

They know we have Werner but don’t know how sophisticated it is or the extent of its reach. Zeb leaned back and crossed his legs. Over time, the sisters had increased the number of national and international databases and systems the AI could access. Sometimes through legitimate means, sometimes through hacking. Legalities were a gray area for them.

‘Their social media pages, though.’ Meera rolled her eyes. ‘Neanderthal thinking.’

Zeb took her in. Slim, same height as Chloe, burnished skin that seemed to glow in the room’s light. Dark, expressive eyes. Hair tied back in a ponytail. Flawless English with a barely perceptible accent.

She’s a crack shot, cool under pressure, level-headed. RAW is lucky to have her. We’d take her on in an instant, but she doesn’t want to leave India. The twins had had the conversation with Meera, and her reply had been emphatic.

He hid a smile when Curtis’s eyes followed her. Beth had told him an officer from another troop had hit on her. Meera had shut him down promptly.

Dudes don’t know she’s happy with the single life. She’s like Meghan in that regard.

Zeb was washing his plate when his phone buzzed.

He wiped his hands on his jeans and brought it out. He froze when he saw the message.

Riots close by. Not sure if police can contain them.

He hurried to the TV and raised its volume.

‘More riots have broken out on Albert Embankment. Police are struggling to contain the violence. The thugs appear to be well-armed with flares, tear gas⁠—’

Zeb muted the TV after a moment. Albert Embankment was south of the Thames, a stretch of road that followed the river. Several government buildings were on it. MI6 HQ is there too.

‘What’s up?’ Beth asked, reading his expression.

‘Clare messaged,’ he rapped. ‘Riots are close to their meeting.’

‘She’s here? In the UK? What meeting?’ Jack stood up abruptly.

‘Yeah. It’s a meeting of allied intelligence heads. MI6 Chief Sir Alex Greystone, Anjali Mathur from RAW, Johann Dietrich from BND, Julien Thibault from DGSE—they’re all there,’ Zeb reeled off the names of the British, Indian, German, and French intelligence agency heads. He knew all of them. He and his friends were on first-name terms with them.

Meera raised her head from her phone. ‘My boss, Anjali, messaged me as well about how close the riots are.’

‘Zeb—’ Bear rumbled.

‘Yeah, we’re going,’ Zeb replied.

‘You can’t go just like that,’ Mike protested. ‘Where’s this meeting? If it’s in the MI6 building, that’s one of the most secure ones in the country.’

‘That’s the problem,’ Broker said, picking up all the dirty plates and taking them to the sink. He rinsed them quickly and placed them in the washer. ‘It’s in the one next door. Another government office.’

‘I know that one.’ Jack frowned. ‘Civil services offices. Various departments in there. There’s a shared alley. Why did they pick that? It doesn’t have the kind of security MI6 has.’

‘Deliberately,’ Zeb said. ‘Alex wanted to avoid any publicity.’

Bwana stood up, dominating the room with his size. ‘Do those rioters know about that meeting?’

They all watched the TV scenes for a while.

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Zeb said finally. ‘They’re in front of the MI6 building. Police have contained them there.’

‘We haven’t been notified of this meeting,’ Jack said, checking his phone. He dialed a number, spoke urgently, and then hung up. ‘Nope. No one’s acknowledging C is meeting other heads.’

C. That’s what they call every MI6 chief. Zeb didn’t need Jack to explain. The practice had started after the first agency head, Sir Mansfield George Smith-Cummings, who signed correspondence with the letter.

‘You’re way down the pay grade.’ Zeb smiled to take the sting out of his words.

‘Yeah, mate.’ Jack grinned. His smile faded. ‘The police are good. The Met are the best in the country⁠—’

‘In the world,’ Curtis said proudly. ‘They can handle these thugs.’

The Met. London’s Metropolitan Police. The largest police force in Britain. Many countries modeled their law enforcement organizations after it.

‘I’m sure they can,’ Zeb said. ‘But we’d like to be there.’

‘We can’t risk telling the police about you,’ Jack warned. ‘That will give away who you are. Media might pick up Americans⁠—’

‘With guns,’ Mike interjected.

‘With guns,’ Jack continued, ‘running around London. With our permission. That will blow up.’

‘We’ll be masked,’ Zeb said.

‘Bad idea. The Met will think you’re hooligans.’

‘It’s a risk we’ll have to take.’

‘Did Clare ask for help? Or Anjali?’

‘No,’ Zeb replied.

‘No,’ Meera echoed.

‘You could stay here,’ Jack said, putting his hands on his hips.

‘Not a chance in Hell,’ Bear said, getting up and standing next to Bwana.

‘What he said.’ Zeb smiled faintly. ‘We need transportation. Driving to London will take too long.’

Jack considered them silently for a moment. He checked his phone again, cursed under his breath about not being in the loop regarding the covert meeting, and then his expression firmed.

‘We have the Eurocopter fueled up and ready. The one we use for training. Liam’s on standby. I’ll inform him.’

Zeb snapped his fingers to his friends while the captain made his call.

He and his team retreated to their rooms and returned fifteen minutes later.

Curtis whistled when they entered.

Each of them was dressed in black. Combat trousers, Vibram-soled boots, jackets beneath which they wore vests. Custom-made body armor beneath that layer. Not ceramic plates, which were more common. These were designed by a specialist defense contractor who supplied to presidents and heads of state around the world. They were so expensive that the militaries of the world couldn’t afford them.

The Agency could. It not only had its slush fund but also wildly generous donations from Middle Eastern kings and princes Zeb and his friends had helped over the years.

Jack had looked enviously at the armor when he had first seen it, but hadn’t commented. He knows how our outfit is funded and how we work.

Zeb and his friends carried Glock 19s, either shoulder- or hip-holstered. HK416s were slung across their chests or backs. Spare mags were in their pockets, along with grenades, tear gas, and various other explosives. Knives were strapped to their thighs. Zeb preferred a Benchmade, but his friends had other makes.

Ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene (UHMWPE) helmets hung from their backs by straps. These were designed to higher specs than the military-grade ones used by elite forces, by the same defense contractor.

Each operative had a compact backpack containing more gear. Beth and Meghan carried larger backpacks to accommodate their drones.

Meera was similarly outfitted. On a previous mission, the Agency had gifted several kits to RAW agents they had worked with.

‘No one’s going to mistake you for rioters.’ Curtis whooped.

‘No, mate.’ Jack didn’t smile. ‘But they might think you’re hostiles if you aren’t wearing identification.’

‘Can’t risk that for reasons mentioned.’ Zeb cocked his head at the faint sound of rotors. ‘That’s our ride?’

‘Yes. Stay safe.’

‘And make some rioters unhappy with their life choices,’ Terry growled.

5

It took close to two hours to drive from the SAS base to the MI6 HQ in London.

The Eurocopter ride took fifteen minutes.

It was a silent ride—if a chopper ride could be called that. Liam, the aviator, wasn’t a talker.

He had greeted them with a gloved thumbs-up and lifted off immediately after they had belted in.

Zeb, behind him, leaned over his shoulder, watching his dashboard as well as the night sky while they flew.

‘Ours isn’t the only bird in the sky.’ Chloe’s voice came loud and clear in his earbuds as the city came into view.

Each of them wore bone mics, which detected vibrations when the user spoke and converted those to audio. The devices picked up whispers and minimal lip movements while blocking out ambient noise.

Zeb checked out another chopper in the distance. ‘TV crews and other police helis,’ he guessed.

Liam expertly navigated the Eurocopter in the crowded airspace, speaking tersely into his mic, ignoring their background conversation.

The Thames was brightly lit with boats along its banks. Only police vessels were in the water, their flashing lights reflecting on the surface.

Big Ben, the iconic clock tower near the Houses of Parliament, slid past. That’s where the riots started.

And then Albert Embankment came into view.

Masses of rioters, illuminated by flashlights, seething, heaving, flinging bottles, flares, and missiles at the police who had surrounded them and the buildings.

The MI6 building had the maximum security. Zeb could see armed officers among the law enforcement cordon and thought he spotted snipers in the building’s windows.

‘I can’t take you down.’ Liam pointed to the street. ‘Trees⁠—’

‘We’ll rappel down. It’s just over twenty feet. No trouble.’ Zeb unbuckled himself and went to the sliding door. He uncoiled a nylon rope strapped to the helicopter’s walls and fastened one end to the purpose-built hook. Bwana did the same with the second coil.

Liam swore.

Zeb glanced back as a flaming bottle arced up from the rioters. The missile didn’t reach them.

‘I’m not going to risk getting hit,’ the aviator said tautly. ‘An E Squadron heli going down in the Thames⁠—’

‘A bottle will bring it down?’ Chloe challenged him.

‘It won’t, but our bird is drawing attention.’ Liam gestured at his headphones.

‘We’ll be out in a moment.’ Zeb swung back the sliding door, bracing himself against the rush of inward air.

Liam was good. The Eurocopter stayed steady despite the sudden buffet.

Zeb got thumbs-ups from his friends, all of whom were standing. He gripped the nylon rope in his gloves and swung off and out into the dark.

Air streamed past his face. Sounds and smells hit him. The continuous wail of police sirens. The roar of the rioting mob. The swop of the chopper’s rotors—and then he was on the ground, landing nimbly, stepping back to guide Broker down.

The second nylon swished as the twins slithered down fast and helped Meera.

Five seconds later, Zeb circled his forefinger in the air. Liam, a dark shadow barely visible in the cockpit, winched up the nylons, and the Eurocopter swung away into the night and disappeared.

‘GO!’ Zeb pulled a mask over his head and sprinted down Albert Embankment.

They were three hundred yards behind the police. The MI6 building was ahead of them, to their eleven o’clock. Other buildings to their left. The Thames on the right.

A voice shouted at them. An officer from a police boat. Zeb ignored the command, his boots landing solidly on the pavement, finding purchase, powering him onward, his eyes taking in everything.

The police cordon grew closer.

A pale building next to the SIS one. That’s where the meeting is being held. It was some distance away from the mass of contained rioters. There must be more than two hundred thugs.

But even as he watched, the mob surged, chanting, yelling, cursing, and broke through the human barrier.

The police reacted instantly, using their batons and shields to capture and contain, but they couldn’t control all of them. Several men scaled the gate to the meeting’s building.

‘ZEB!’ Beth yelled.

‘I see it,’ he said tightly, putting on more speed.

A pale-faced officer, a woman, looked around at their pounding and yells. The operatives were less than twenty feet away from the back of the police cordon.

Which doesn’t exist anymore, Zeb thought grimly as more rioters leaped toward the tall gates.

‘NO!’ he shouted when a rioter loomed over her, bottle raised above her head.

She sensed the danger and started spinning around. The bottle swung down.

Zeb dove at the officer.

He turned his head to flatten the side of his face against her shield.

She went down under his weight.

The bottle landed on his back.

It broke against his backpack.

He jammed his left palm on the ground and punched the rioter in the belly. He rolled away from the officer, took a second to confirm that she was rattled but unhurt, scrambled to his feet, helped her up, and shoved her back toward the other officers.

‘STOP!’ one of them roared.

‘WE ARE SAS!’ Zeb yelled back and lunged toward the gate where a burly man was swinging a leg over the fence.

He yanked the man down and knocked him out with a punch. He zip-tied his hands to the metal gate while his team vaulted over it.

‘STOP. IDENTIFY YOURSELF OR WE’LL SHOOT.’ An armed officer, kneeling, his rifle pointed straight at the Agency team. The marksman was surrounded by other officers, creating an oasis from which he could take his shot.

‘We are special forces.’ Zeb got to his feet. He took a second to watch his friends disappear into the building. Bwana clubbed a rioter. Bear threw another one against the wall. ‘There are VIPs inside. We have to get them out⁠—’

‘All these buildings are empty. Stand down. Show some identification⁠—’

‘I can’t. I don’t have time. Call Alex Greystone. Tell him you shot Zeb Carter.’ And with that Zeb vaulted over the gate and raced inside.

A snarling man who had been hiding behind the reception desk threw a chair at him and charged with a broken bottle.

Zeb ducked the chair, slapped the glass weapon away, and knuckle-punched him in the neck.

He left the man heaving and gasping on the floor.

‘Where the heck are you?’ Meghan grated in his earbuds.

‘In the lobby.’

‘Get your ass—’ she broke off. He heard the sounds of smacking and her soft curse.

He grinned and sped down the hallway. Clare had sent them the layout of the floor with the meeting room marked with a cross. He went past several doors, took a turn, and saw his friends.

Meera was standing up after zip-tying a rioter. More thugs lay on the floor, moaning, some of them unconscious, none of them in a position to fight back.

His friends disappeared into a large doorway.

Zeb removed his mask and slipped it in his pocket when he reached the door a moment later.

A long conference desk. Chairs around it. Startled faces looked at them.

Two rioters were standing in the room. 

They must have gotten here before we arrived, Zeb noted.

‘Billy, who are these—’ began one man.

Bwana caught him by the collar and waist and threw him out of the room.

Bear knocked out Billy and shoved his body out.

‘Ma’am,’ Zeb panted at the gray-eyed woman opposite him. She was expressionless, almost bored, as if potentially lethal rioters coming within feet of her was a common occurrence.

‘Zeb, you’re late,’ Clare, the Agency Director, drawled with the slightest smile.

‘No, ma’am.’ Bwana rubbed his gloved hands together. ‘We got here in time for some action.’

6

Clare was flanked by Anjali Mathur and Alex Greystone. Johann Dietrich, Julien Thibault, and the heads of the Belgian and Dutch intelligence services had their backs to the operators.

‘Ma’am, are you okay?’ Meera asked Mathur.

‘Haan.’ Yes, in Hindi. ‘This wasn’t how I thought I would meet you in London.’ The RAW chief smiled.

‘Toujours l’entrée dramatique, mon ami!’ Always the dramatic entry, my friend! Thibault stood up and hugged Zeb.

The Agency operative thumped his back, shook Dietrich’s hand, and nodded at the Belgian and Dutch chiefs.

‘Alex,’ Zeb rapped at Greystone. ‘What happened to the security? There was no one at the front.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out,’ the MI6 head growled and brought out his phone.

‘We have to get you out of here. Where are your vehicles?’

‘In the basement. There’s a connection to the SIS building underground. We’ll go there. My team is waiting for us.’ Greystone spoke up after a brief, hushed call.

‘You trust the drivers?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let’s go.’

The Agency team surrounded the intelligence heads, Zeb and Bwana in the lead.

‘Stairs, not elevators,’ Zeb whispered. That was standard SOP. Elevators were faster, but they were a cage.

Bwana nodded and went to a door next to the elevator bank.

They went down, shoes clattering on concrete steps, Zeb and Bwana clearing the single landing before they reached the door to the parking lot.

It required a keycode.

Bwana kicked it open.

An alarm went off.

Zeb looked out cautiously. Three BMWs, their drivers crouching behind their vehicles, only their heads and guns visible as they looked at the shattered door.

No other vehicles in the parking lot.

‘Did any rioters come here?’ Zeb called out.

‘No. Who are you? Why? What⁠—’

Zeb didn’t reply.

The drivers relaxed when the agency heads appeared, and Greystone made a calming gesture.

Zeb and his team led them to the vehicles and watched them climb inside.

Clare rolled down her window. ‘How many thugs broke into this building?’

‘I counted fifteen bodies, ma’am. Including Billy and his friend.’

‘Sounds right.’ Chloe nodded.

Clare looked past them at Alex, who was still outside, talking to his driver. ‘Alex, was this building targeted?’

‘We have to assume that.’ He slid in next to her.

‘In which case, someone knew about our meeting.’

7

The TV in the lounge was replaying segments of the previous night’s riots when Zeb entered in the morning.

He helped himself to freshly brewed tea, picked up a banana, and wedged himself next to Jack.

The captain was reading a newspaper.

Riots Stun Britain.

Similar headlines were on the newspaper Curtis was reading.

Bear was leafing through a magazine, Chloe by his side, while Bwana and Roger were playing chess. Broker was thumbing his phone.

‘Beth and Meg?’ Zeb asked his friends.

‘In their rooms,’ Bwana replied. ‘They were working on something.’

‘Anything new?’ Zeb asked Jack.

‘That’s going to play the whole day,’ the captain growled at the TV. ‘Analysis, blame from politicians … several thugs have been arrested. Their backstories will be on the front pages for weeks.’

‘Welcome to Britain.’ Terry raised his mug in a mock toast. ‘We promise you riots⁠—’

‘And gray skies and rain.’ Mike chuckled.

‘How did you escape getting shot at?’ Curtis refilled his tea and sipped noisily.

‘Luck.’ Chloe shrugged before Zeb could respond. ‘Zeb said we are SAS … our gear checked out. Did anyone call you?’

‘No.’ Jack folded his newspaper neatly. ‘Maybe the Room got a verification call. No one bothered me.’

The Room was the SAS Command Center in a nearby building. A high-security property from which operations were managed and monitored. It was permanently staffed by senior officers and several analysts, with a vast array of screens connected to various camera feeds, satellite images, and law enforcement agencies across the country. It had satellite comms to just about every country in the world, all powered by supercomputers.

No windows. A permanent electronic shimmer from invisible sensors defeated acoustic surveillance. Drab paint on the outside made visitors think it was just another office. Webbing, camo covers, water tanks, and pump sheds on the roof hid arrays of antennas. Satellites and passing aircraft saw it as a rundown building from above.

Even Beth and Meg were impressed by it when they first saw it, Zeb mused.

He was rising to get a beverage refill when the twins burst into the room, Meera trailing behind them.

Beth’s eyes were sparkling. Her sister looked amused. Meera was smiling.

The younger twin cleared the table of mugs and spread several phones on it.

‘No thanks,’ Roger drawled. ‘I’m not buying. I’m happy with my phone.’

No one laughed.

‘What are we looking at?’ Zeb asked.

‘Phones, dumbass,’ Beth snarked. ‘We gathered these from Billy and his friends⁠—’

‘And then they ran them through your Werner.’ Meera crossed her arms.

‘Werner?’ Terry raised an eyebrow.

‘Our AI software,’ Bwana rumbled.

‘Yeah. I was watching. I didn’t understand what they were doing, but it looked cool.’ Meera grinned.

‘And this phone.’ Beth held up one that was scratched. ‘Guess where its last location was?’

‘Ten Downing Street?’ Jack asked.

She made a rude sound. ‘One more try.’

‘Just tell us,’ Broker groaned.

‘Jimmy’s!’

Zeb put his cup down. He frowned. ‘That thug from the pub?’

‘Yeah!’

‘We checked him out.’ Bwana scowled. ‘He seems to lack the smarts to organize riots.’

Zeb got up.

‘Where are you going?’ Jack asked, surprised.

‘To question Jimmy.’

Bwana broke into a grin. Bear cracked his knuckles, stretched, and rose too.

‘Hold up,’ the captain said sharply. ‘The police are already working this. They’ll interrogate whoever they arrested at Westminster. They’ll follow the trail. You could let them handle it.’

‘We sent them all the phones’ data,’ Beth chimed in.

‘Let them do their job,’ Mike agreed.

‘We aren’t stopping them,’ Zeb said. ‘But we aren’t waiting either. It can’t be a coincidence that the rioters targeted the intelligence summit. How did they know about that building?’

‘Billy didn’t know who the Agency heads were,’ Roger reminded him.

‘He didn’t, but someone might have directed them there.’

‘The Met—’ Terry began.

‘Are good. Very good. I accept that. But they have to follow procedures …’ Zeb trailed off.

‘Can I tag along with them?’ Curtis asked Jack.

‘No, mate,’ the E Squadron leader sighed. ‘We don’t operate the way they do. You know that. Zeb?’

‘Yeah?’ the American responded.

‘Try not to kill anyone.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And let the police know.’

‘We will. After we finish.

Zeb was in the lead Land Rover moments later, Meghan in the shotgun seat, Beth and Broker behind them.

The rest of the operatives and Meera were in the second vehicle.

All of them were casually dressed—jeans, tees, shirts, and tops with their armor beneath. Custom tactical jackets designed to look like informal wear.

Only their boots gave away that they were probably not on a London tour, but everyone in the SAS HQ wore boots, and no one gave them a second look.

It was just over an hour from their base to Cedar Road.

Broker hummed softly, occasionally pointing to the wreckage left by the rioters when they entered London. Broken store windows, discarded placards, police cruisers, shattered bottles that clean-up vehicles were gathering.

‘War zone,’ he said.

Not quite, Zeb thought, but for a city like London, close enough.

He tried to make sense of Jimmy’s connection to the rioters and how they had figured out the intelligence chiefs’ summit but gave up after a while.

Jimmy will tell us. His lips tightened.

The twins were on their screens, murmuring rapidly to each other, with Meera bobbing her head to a tune on her headphones.

‘You can sense the worry.’ The RAW agent pointed to an old couple huddled at a bus stop, reading a newspaper.

No comment was needed.

They parked two streets away and split up in twos and threes.

Zeb and Meghan were in the lead, Meera and Beth several feet behind, while the rest of the team were even farther back.

Beth had launched a drone as soon as they parked.

The UAV was unlike any commercial or military model. Stealth-paint coated. Semiconductors that altered its surface color to match the background, blending it effectively with the surroundings.

The motors and rotors were noiseless, even at very low levels. Ultra HD cameras, thermal imaging, cell phone signal detectors and jammers, infrared sensors … the drones were made exclusively for the Agency by a small defense contractor in California. The design patent was held by the covert outfit.

The UAVs had extra-long-range batteries that gave them several hours of flight, and with Werner in their kernel, they had smarts that even very few military drones possessed.

The younger twin had her phone in her hand, watching its feed, making it look like she was scrolling through social media posts.

‘Looks empty,’ she called out in their comms. ‘The curtains are drawn tight. No way to get the cameras to peek inside. The back is⁠—’

‘A junkyard,’ Bwana growled. ‘I’ve been there.’

Zeb entered Cedar Road. He could see the cul-de-sac far ahead.

‘Morning,’ he greeted a dog walker and made way for the animal and its owner.

This time of the morning, folks have gone to work. Most of the houses seem to be empty. Fewer cars than when we visited the street previously.

‘I’ll go ahead.’ He extracted the fake leaflets the twins had printed at base. They advertised a roof-cleaning service.

He went to the nearest house and thrust one through the letterbox. Then went to the next and did the same.

He approached Jimmy’s house.

It was still.

From his peripheral vision, he could see the twins and Meera debating which takeout they should order for lunch. He couldn’t see the rest of his friends but knew they were down the street.

Jimmy’s lock was old. His lockpick made quick work of it.

He opened the door.

‘GO!’ Meghan told him.

He burst inside, Glock appearing automatically in his hand.

Small landing. Hallway door to the left. He kicked it open and took a quick look, his body covered by the wall.

He froze for a second. ‘Meg! Cover me.’

She and Meera entered.

They sucked in their breath at the sight.

Zeb went through the rest of the house, sure it was empty, but he had to confirm.

Kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms upstairs—all untidy but empty.

He holstered his Glock when he returned to the living room.

‘What’s up?’ Roger, impatient, in their comms.

‘Jimmy and Bradshaw are dead. Shot through their foreheads. Their bodies are in the living room,’ Meera replied.

‘Let’s go,’ Zeb said urgently. ‘This could be a setup.’

Meghan bobbed her head, took several photographs of the scene, and was the first to the door when the bullet struck its frame.

8

‘SHOOTER!’ Zeb roared and yanked Meghan down.

Bwana and Broker yelled in warning in their comms.

Meghan dropped to the floor and crawled back. ‘I’m fine.’ She slammed the door shut with her palm.

Another round slammed into it.

The door was UPVC. Thick. The rounds didn’t penetrate.

Low-caliber ones, Zeb figured.

‘No one’s creeping up on us from behind,’ Beth said, her brow furrowed as she scanned her screen. ‘No visible shooter. No one in any house has—there! Lone gunman. He was in the cul-de-sac. He’s running through the park.’

‘Can we get him?’ Bear asked.

‘No.’ She swore. ‘He’s more than a hundred yards away. By the time you get there, he’ll have reached the line of houses on Brunswick Road.’

Zeb looked over her shoulder to see a figure on the screen, face down, sprinting across the green.

She guessed his thoughts. ‘I’ve run thermals. No other person is near us. The neighboring houses look empty.’

‘He knew we were coming?’ Chloe drawled.

‘More likely he was watching the house to see who entered it,’ Meghan thought aloud. ‘Or else he could have seen us approach and fired at us.’

Makes sense. Zeb straightened and used a paper towel to open the door, wiping off their prints.

‘He could have photographed us,’ Bear suggested.

‘We’re all wearing our shades. Our collars are high. His photographs will be useless,’ Beth pointed out.

Their Ray-Bans and custom jackets were counter-surveillance designed. The shades had LEDs that emitted infrared light to obscure facial features. Their jackets had strong anti-patterns that were visible only to surveillance devices and deceived them.

Standard gear for them when they were out and about, designed to prevent their being captured and tracked by AI devices. Which are everywhere these days, Zeb thought grimly as he led them out of the house, their heads down.

‘No police have arrived. Looks like no one heard the shots,’ Beth announced when they were in their vehicles.

‘Call them,’ Zeb suggested. ‘Anonymous tip. Their forensic team might find something.’

‘Could the shooter have killed the men?’ Chloe queried.

‘Possible,’ he said as he drove out of the neighborhood. ‘But that gunman looked amateurish. The two men seemed to be killed by a professional. No signs of a struggle. Clean shots to the forehead.’

‘Two men?’ Bear echoed.

‘Yeah. Jimmy and Bradshaw’s bodies are in the house. Whelan is missing.’

‘He could be the shooter. He could be cleaning up,’ Meera said tightly.

Zeb’s lips thinned. ‘We won’t know until we find him and ask him.’

9

Back in Hereford by afternoon.

They were gathered in the lounge.

Jack and his team listening to Meghan’s breakdown.

‘I was monitoring the police chatter,’ the captain said. ‘The Met took over the scene. They have sealed Cedar Road. Initial reports.’ He shrugged. ‘No one saw or heard anything.’

Mike smiled briefly. ‘Which is good for you, too. No one knows of your presence there.’

The smell of toast, coffee and tea in the air. A chair creaked under Bwana’s weight while Bear chewed on an apple.

Zeb looked out of the window. More buildings. A military truck passed, armed men jostling in its rear.

He knew the English countryside was outside the HQ complex. Rolling fields and hedgerows, currently under a gray sky and in weak sunlight.

It’ll look postcard-perfect in the summer. He sipped his tea and turned his attention back to the briefing.

The TV caught his attention momentarily. A British South Asian grocer screaming at the camera and pointing at the ruins of his store. The talking head came on and Zeb switched off.

‘The brawl in that pub,’ Beth said.

‘That was random,’ Bwana replied. ‘There’s no way Jimmy, Whelan and Bradshaw knew of us.’

‘Yeah, then the riots at the meeting,’ she continued.

‘You’re sure those goons were directed there?’ Curtis frowned. ‘The police haven’t turned up any sign of that after questioning the arrested men.’

Zeb shrugged. ‘Until I know for sure, I’m going with the rioters knowing of the summit.’

‘That phone’s location at Jimmy’s place, he and Bradshaw turning up dead and Whelan missing,’ Beth concluded. ‘That’s all we know.’

‘That shooter,’ Broker reminded her.

‘Yeah, him too. The cops⁠—’

‘Police. That’s the word we use here.’ Terry smiled.

‘The police,’ she corrected, ‘haven’t found him either.’

‘Give them time,’ Jack said. ‘It’s just been a few hours since you were there.’

‘Could Whelan be behind this?’ Meera tied her hair back with a band.

‘He’s an electrician.’ Meghan shrugged. ‘That could be a cover. He could be a genius mastermind … but the profile Werner made of him doesn’t point to that.’

Their AI could make a personality profiles of anyone based on publicly available details such as employment, criminal records, financial history, social media presence, among others.

‘Lighten up,’ the older sister drawled. ‘Beth and I were busy on the ride back.’

She hooked her screen to a projector and an image came up on a blank wall. A woman.

‘Who’s that?’ Bear scratched his chin.

‘Lorraine Parker. Looks like she’s Whelan’s former girlfriend. Whelan’s social media profiles seemed to be scrubbed clean but there was this.’ She projected another photograph. Whelan at a pub, toasting the camera.

‘Lorraine liked that photograph.’ She brought up a comment beneath the image. ‘And replied to it.’

See you soon, babe.

‘That was from her. We went through her page, dug into archives. She updated her relationship status, not in a relationship, a few months later.’

‘So, ex-girlfriend,’ Broker mused.

‘Yeah, that’s our guess.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘Outskirts of Reading.’

That’s about forty miles south-west of London. Lot of tech companies there. Big professional population, Zeb recalled.

‘She lives in Sonning, a small village fifteen minutes from that town.’ Another click of Meghan’s keypad. A picturesque village came up on the wall.

‘Is that the Thames?’ Roger whistled.

‘Yeah, Sonning’s on its banks. It’s a quiet place. A few Hollywood actors have bought houses there.’

‘Would Whelan have stayed with her?’ Zeb frowned.

‘I know the village,’ Curtis asserted. ‘It’s good for lying low if you are a criminal.’

‘We don’t know that he is one,’ Jack pointed out.

Zeb made to reply when his phone buzzed. He checked the number. Frowned and went upstairs to his room and took the call.

‘Kak dela, drug.’ How are you, friend? A Russian voice boomed with a smile in his voice.

‘I’m good, Grigor.’ Zeb smiled back. ‘This is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting your call.’

Grigor Andropov, a long-time friend, headed a covert Russian outfit, smaller than the SVR but in many ways more effective. He and Zeb often exchanged vital intel, with the Russian defying his country’s stance toward the US.

‘Vyzhivayu, brat.’ Surviving, brother.

‘If you are surviving, I wonder what your enemies must be saying.’ Zeb chuckled.

‘This is a heads-up.’ Andropov became serious. ‘There’s some chatter about you. Looks like some hostiles are enquiring about you in London.’

Zeb looked out of the bedroom window instinctively and saw nothing but the base. ‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. I have an informer in a bratva that does business in London. He messaged me. I gave him a list of names to listen for. I was to meet him yesterday, but he died.’

‘Died? How?’

‘Nothing suspicious. Heart attack. He wasn’t in good shape. I checked with the hospital and got my people to do an autopsy. Natural causes.’

‘Any other chatter on us?’

‘Nyet.’ No. ‘What are you involved in?’

‘I don’t know,’ Zeb confessed. He thought for a moment. Heck, if I can’t trust Grigor, I might as well quit. We go back years. We have saved each other more times than I can count. He caught up the Russian quickly.

‘I’ve been watching those riots,’ Andropov said after a while. ‘They are big, they are spread out … the police must be having a tough time.’

‘Yeah. What are the chances of them being organized by hostile countries?’

‘You know my country well, brat,’ Andropov said sadly. ‘But I am not aware of our involvement. Watch your six.’

Zeb returned downstairs.

‘Who was that?’ Meghan asked him.

He showed her the caller’s name on his phone.

She’ll know I don’t want to mention Andropov in front of Jack’s team.

‘What did he say?’ she murmured.

‘That someone’s interested in us. In London. He didn’t know anything else.’

Bwana, close enough to overhear, smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant one. ‘Now, things are looking up.’

Beth snapped her fingers to draw their attention. ‘You’re done whispering?’

‘Yeah,’ Zeb replied. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘We go to Lorraine Parker.’

Sonning had an old-world charm when they entered it.

Neatly maintained cottages on narrow streets, ivy on many homes, grassy banks on the Thames, and Sonning Bridge, a stone structure that arched over the river.

‘Is there a golf course nearby?’ Broker asked admiringly. ‘I could stay in the village and go golfing.’

Zeb tuned out Beth’s rude retort and parked on Pearson Road. Tall hedges on either side of the street. Sidewalks that were empty of foot traffic in the late afternoon.

‘Lorraine’s house is the third on the left,’ Beth whispered.

Zeb, the sisters and Meera were proceeding to it. The rest of the operatives were in their Land Rover, five houses behind.

Safer that way. If all of us went to her house, we would be noticed.

‘Drone’s up,’ she continued. ‘Her living room window is open. She’s inside.’

Zeb unzipped his jacket for easy access to his Glock.

‘Can’t see any hostiles,’ she commented.

‘The neighboring houses could be full of shooters,’ Broker shot back.

‘Well, we have you to protect us.’

‘He’s looking up golf clubs,’ Chloe chortled.

‘With friends like Broker …’ Meera chuckled.

Zeb made way for the women to go ahead. Lorraine will be less suspicious of them at her doorstep.

Meghan went up the stone walkway in Lorraine’s front garden and knocked on the door.

Zeb stood behind the women and took the home in. Stone construction. Sloping tiled roof. Statues of owls in the garden.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

One of those villages where time stands still.

A moment passed. Then another. The door opened.

Lorraine Parker in its frame. Late thirties. Dark hair with purple steaks. A piercing in her left eyebrow.

‘Yes?’

‘Lorraine Parker?’ Meghan smiled.

‘Who’s asking?’ Her eyes swept over the twins, Meera and Zeb.

‘We’re looking for Barry Whelan, ma’am,’ Meghan said. ‘We’re with the police.’ The older twin flashed an identity card that Jack had arranged for each one of them. ‘Can we talk inside?’

‘Barry? I … I don’t know him well. Has something happened⁠—’

‘INCOMING!’ Bear roared in their comms.

Zeb heard the vehicle’s growl.

He pushed Meera who slammed into the sisters. Meghan stumbled against Lorraine and then recovered.

She got inside the house, shoved their host deeper in it, dragged her sister and Meera inside.

Zeb spun around and dropped.

Drew his Glock.

A black van skidded to a stop in front of the house.

Rifles protruding from its passenger window and sliding door.

The shadows of masked men.

Zeb landed on his left shoulder.

He shot first.

His round went wide, bouncing off the van’s roof.

A fusillade of shots slammed into the door, going over his head and kicking dirt in the garden.

I’ve got to be their target. That would give time for the rest of the team, their backup, to arrive.

The door opened behind him and a barrage of shots flew over his head towards the van.

‘Get inside,’ Meghan said tersely.

‘No time!’ Zeb fired.

A splatter of red on the windshield when the shotgun shooter jerked and slumped.

The sounds of shooting grew. The van’s tires deflated suddenly.

That’s our backup.

Bwana, crouching low, ran alongside the van, shotgun side, and grabbed a rifle.

He yanked it out hard, without exposing himself.

The gunman came out with it.

Zeb shot him.

Another shooter exposed himself briefly and threw something.

‘FLASHBANG!’ Beth screamed.

Zeb rolled away instantly and buried his face in his elbow while the world whitened briefly along with a detonation.

Lorraine screamed.

‘Take her to the rear,’ he shouted when he raised his head, his ears ringing from the explosion.

A shooter jumped out of the van and sprang into the garden.

How did he get away from my team?

Zeb lunged at his legs.

His coordination was slow, still affected by the bang. He fell short.

He saw the man raise his gun and spun away, his Glock coming up, shooting blindly at the man and then the shooter was falling, from his shots as well as Meera’s who was flat on the floor, shooting through the open door.

The van’s wheels spun. Its flat tires got traction, and it wobbled and then gained speed and hurtled down the road.

The shooting stopped instantly.

‘Let it go,’ Zeb said tightly when Bear made to retreat to their Land Rover and give chase. ‘They might have backup. We can’t start a fight in this village. CHECK IN!’

‘I’m good,’ Broker drawled.

‘Me too,’ Roger replied.

‘Same,’ Chloe said breathlessly.

‘We are good, inside,’ Meghan replied calmly.

Zeb got to his feet, blinked and swallowed. The ringing in his ears diminished. He went to the sidewalk.

Broker, Roger and Chloe were sprawled on the street, their Glocks in their hands, pointing towards the van that had disappeared around a turn.

‘STAY INSIDE!’ Zeb bellowed at neighbors who had come out. ‘CALL THE POLICE.’

Bear was on the other side of the street. ‘I came up on the driver’s side. Don’t think I got him.’ The large operative shook his head. ‘You don’t look good.’

‘The banger went off close to me,’ Zeb said.

Beth barged out of the house and punched him in the chest. Hard. ‘Fool. What made you lie there?’

‘I had to be the target or else they could attack the house. We didn’t know how many men were in the van.’

She punched him again and then hugged him hard. ‘Fool.’ It had lesser sting in it.

‘Six, I think,’ Bwana rumbled as he eyed the man on the sidewalk.

Zeb went to the man in the garden and kicked his gun away. He’s dead.

‘Where did the van go?’ He wiped sweat from his forehead.

‘Out of the village. Out of range from our drone’s cameras.’ Beth checked her screen.

‘How’s Lorraine holding up?’

‘Let’s check.’

Zeb followed her inside and gave a thumbs up over his head when Bwana said the rest of them would retreat to their rides.

The inside of the house was cool.

Meera was sweeping glass from the living room’s carpet.

From its shattered window, Zeb noted.

Lorraine Parker was slumped on a couch, shivering, her hands jammed beneath her thighs.

Meghan brought her a glass of water.

It splashed over her chin as she drank.

‘Who …’ she stammered.

‘We don’t know, ma’am,’ Zeb replied.

‘Lorraine, where is Barry Whelan?’ the older twin asked urgently. ‘Those shooters might be connected to him.’

‘I don’t know. I’m not in touch with him. Ever since we broke up, we have no contact.’

10

‘How long did you know him?’ Meera asked.

Lorraine’s shaking had subsided. She dabbed at her eyes repeatedly, her gaze flitting over each of them. ‘You are police?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Zeb replied confidently. We’ve got to get answers out of her before the real cops arrive. They’ll shut us out. They might even arrest us for impersonating police officers. 

He didn’t know if the identities Jack had provided were genuine, and he didn’t want to find out. ‘More officers and the forensic team will be coming soon. How long did you know Barry Whelan? Please tell us everything you know about him. As you can see, he was into something …’ He trailed off at a fresh burst of tears from her.

Keep quiet, Beth mouthed and glowered at him. She hugged the woman and held her close until Lorraine straightened.

‘I dated him for only a year.’ Her voice was firm when she sat back and wiped her face with a paper towel Meera handed her. ‘I met him on one of those dating sites. He was funny. He made me laugh. I was attracted to this mysterious air he had.’

Mysterious air? He was an electrician! Zeb held back his words and let his friends extract information from her.

‘Wasn’t he an electrician?’ Meghan asked.

‘Yes. He worked for some company that handled houses and buildings. It wasn’t his work … he used to talk about a more exciting past.’

‘Such as?’

‘His life in South Africa.’

Zeb stiffened. South Africa? Beth and Meghan hadn’t found anything about that when they dug into his details.

The sisters and Meera remained expressionless, but from their body language, it was clear they were suddenly alert too.

‘He is South African?’ the RAW agent asked.

‘Yes.’ Lorraine sniffed. ‘He came to England about five years ago.’

She went into detail about how they had met, gone on several dates, and remained steady for a year until their breakup.

‘He became cold, distant, didn’t make time for me. Became secretive. Always checking up on me—where I was, who I was with. He used to check his mirrors when we went driving. One time, I asked if he was worried about being followed. I thought he would laugh. He didn’t. He made some comment. It became too much for me.’

‘How did he take it?’

‘Like he was expecting it.’ She burst into tears when sirens sounded. ‘Was he there, outside⁠—’

‘We don’t know. The gunmen were masked.’

‘Were they going to kill me?’

Maybe, Zeb thought. Or they were waiting for us.

‘We doubt that,’ Meghan said reassuringly.

‘Incoming,’ Broker warned in their comms. ‘Friendlies. Police. Jack messaged me. He said they won’t question us, but you’ll have to leave the scene.’

‘Lorraine,’ Beth said as officers raced up the garden and pounded on the door, ‘we’ll be outside. Specialist officers will take your statement.’

‘Do you know where he might be? Where he could have gone?’ Zeb asked. ‘Do you have anything of his with you? His phone number⁠—’

The door pounded insistently.

Zeb broke off and opened it.

‘You are the Americans?’ an officer asked.

‘Yes.’ Jack must have alerted them about us.

‘Please wait outside, sir. We will question you. You’ll have to clear the scene.’

‘Americans?’ Lorraine exclaimed in confusion.

‘They will explain everything,’ Meghan smiled at her.

Zeb cursed softly when they were outside. ‘We didn’t get enough from her.’

‘Jack will share what the police find out,’ Beth said tightly. ‘We’ll have to hang around until they take our statements.’

They went onto the sidewalk and watched as the officers erected screens to block the garden from outside view.

Two officers took their individual statements and interviewed the rest of the team, too.

Zeb could see they were curious about their real identities and glanced several times at the Land Rovers but didn’t comment.

‘We’ll have to take your guns, sir,’ one of them said almost apologetically.

Zeb unloaded the magazine from his Glock and handed both over to the officer. We have enough spare weapons.

‘We have drone footage of what went down.’ Beth unzipped her jacket, gave her weapon, and zipped it up again.

‘Drone?’ the officer looked at the sky.

‘Yeah.’

‘That will help us,’ the other man said. ‘Can you get it to us⁠—’

‘We’ll send it to you through … official channels.’

‘Americans with guns—’ the first officer began.

‘I’m sure those official channels have explained the circumstances,’ Zeb interrupted him and led his team out.

Jack was at the door when they arrived at the SAS base two hours later. ‘Initial police reports. The dead men are unidentifiable. They aren’t in any system. There was a listening device and camera at Lorraine Parker’s door. That’s how they must have known about you.’

‘No, not about us,’ Zeb said. ‘We said we were the police and were looking for Whelan. They must have heard that.’

‘I figured that, mate, but why do you think they didn’t know you?’

‘If they knew who we were—the Agency team—they would have known the rest were around somewhere.’ He had worked it out on the drive back to the SAS base.

Jack thought for a moment, then grinned and stepped aside to let them enter. ‘Smart.’

‘What did you tell the police about us?’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ the Brit drawled. ‘C passed it on that you are some kind of covert FBI team and should not be detained.’

I’ll thank Alex when I meet him next. Zeb went to the kettle, poured tea for his friends, took his mug, and started for his room.

‘Where are you going?’ Meghan asked sharply.

‘To call South Africa,’ he responded, and smiled at the astonished noises from the E Squadron team.

He went to his room and dialed a number.

The call connected.

‘Broer, dit is ‘n terugblik na die verlede.’ Brother, this is a blast from the past. A gruff voice answered delightedly in Afrikaans.

Zeb laughed. ‘Ek het jou gemis, ou pel!’ I miss you, old buddy.

‘I miss you too. When are you coming here?’ Colonel Deon van Rensburg, Director General of South Africa’s State Security Agency, SSA, replied.

SSA was the country’s secret service.

We go back a long way, Zeb thought as they caught up. We met when I was still in Delta, and he was in the South African army.

The friendship had grown stronger when Zeb joined the Agency and Deon rose to head SSA.

‘Tell me,’ Deon said finally. ‘This isn’t a social call, is it?’

‘I wish it was. What do you know about a Barry Whelan? He’s South African and could be a criminal, serving in the military, a vet, a civilian … anything. All I have of him are a few photographs. Check your phone.’ Zeb sent the images the twins had gotten of Whelan. ‘He’s a person of interest in some shootings … as well as the riots in Britain.’

‘That’s some real bad stuff happening there, broer,’ Deon said. He lapsed into silence.

Zeb heard keys clicking.

Deon came back on the phone. His voice was sharper. ‘Person of interest, you said?’

‘Yeah. Why? Is he one of yours?’

Deon sighed. ‘In a way. He was a mercenary. Former Military Intelligence. You know our country’s history during the apartheid years.’

‘Yeah.’

‘He became a mercenary when Mandela came to power. My agency hired him a few times. Before I took charge. I cleaned up my agency when I joined and decided not to use him.’

‘Why?’

‘Unwarranted killings. Cruelty. Don’t ask me anymore, broer.’

‘Beth and Meg couldn’t find anything on him.’

‘That’s because he got everything scrubbed by us. He has a lot of secrets⁠—’

‘On important people. Many of them in power.’

‘Ja.’ Yes.

‘You erased everything in return for his silence.’

‘Not me, broer,’ Deon sighed heavily. ‘My predecessor. But I can’t undo that.’

‘You knew he was in Britain?’

‘We have a network … we have eyes and ears in many countries. Ja. My people knew he was there. But he wasn’t active, or else I would have found a way to alert MI6. It says here he is an electrician?’

‘Yeah. I thought you didn’t have a file on him.’

‘We don’t. That doesn’t exist anymore. My case officer has handwritten notes on him I’m going through. No, before you ask, I can’t send that to you.’

‘Do you have anything at all that you can share? A contact number. An address. Friends. Hangouts?’

‘I can send you some addresses. They might be outdated, but it’s a place to start. Zeb,’ he said after a pause. ‘The work Whelan did … identifying dissidents, organizing them, inciting them to violence, providing weapons training, teaching them to kill … the British riots⁠—’

‘I know where you’re going. We’ll find him.’

‘He’s smart.’

‘Smarter than the twins?’

‘No one is.’ Deon smiled. ‘Tell my daughters I love them.’

The South African had mock-adopted the twins during an earlier mission.

‘And Zeb?’

‘Yeah?’

‘If you kill him, keep his remains there. We don’t want anything to do with him.’

11

Deon sent five addresses.

An apartment in Birmingham, a farmhouse in Yorkshire, a pub in Manchester, a townhouse in Brighton, and an apartment in East London.

Mike brought a large map while Broker cleared the table and helped the captain spread it out.

‘Manchester and Brighton.’ Terry inserted pins in the locations. ‘Mate, Whelan has been busy. Northwest and the south of the country. Britain is small, but it isn’t that small a country.’

Meera leaned over the table and inserted a pin in the Birmingham location, while the twins put pins in the last two locations in Yorkshire and London.

Zeb, hands on his hips, watched Jack finish a call on his phone.

‘That was the Room,’ the captain said when he had finished. ‘They’ll send the addresses to the police. They wanted to know if the information is reliable.’

‘It is,’ Zeb said. He had briefed his team and the E Squadron troop after returning to the living room.

‘That’s what I said.’

‘We’ll get there quicker,’ Bwana growled.

‘Normally, I would disagree.’ Curtis picked up a cricket bat that was on a chair and practiced a swing. ‘But you’re right. The Room would have passed the intel to the Met. The Met will prefer to handle it themselves. Chain of command and all that … it’ll be hours before they can get mobilized. This might not be high priority for them.’

‘Aren’t you from Yorkshire?’ Terry asked him.

‘Yes. That address in Grassington, Yorkshire, isn’t far from my nan’s place in Hawes. Grew up there. Played cricket with the local lads.’ He swung the bat again. ‘Got into trouble shoplifting. Left the village. Joined the army. Here I am.’

‘Cricket.’ Bear sniffed dismissively. ‘That’s the game where twenty players stand around and gossip while two players do the actual work?’

A chorus of oohs from the Brits.

Zeb grinned. It was a long-standing joke. He knew Bear didn’t mean it. The Americans had been to several cricket matches and had enjoyed the games.

‘Much better than your baseball, mate.’ Curtis snorted derisively. ‘A game that never grew up.’

‘Can’t even call it a game,’ Jack joined in.

‘Children.’ Meghan slammed her palm on the table. ‘There’s work to be done. Jack, you folks are joining?’

‘Can’t.’ The captain shook his head. ‘No greenlight for us.’

‘Bear and I will go to Manchester,’ Chloe said. ‘We’ll check out Birmingham on the way.’

‘You’re volunteering that just because Bear wants to check out the pub,’ Meghan snorted.

‘A pint of India Pale Ale will be needed after all the hard work,’ Bear said solemnly.

‘Can I come with you?’ Meera asked.

‘Yeah. You’re better company than he is.’ Chloe, the petite operative, elbowed her partner affectionately.

‘Bwana, Rog, and I’ll go to Yorkshire,’ Broker said.

‘That leaves us,’ Beth declared. ‘We’ll go with Zeb to London.’

Bear drove. Chloe sat beside him, Meera in the rear seat.

‘Birmingham’s got a big British Asian population,’ the RAW agent said. ‘Indians and Pakistanis who came over after the Second World War. Britain needed labor to rebuild. Our countries have a lot of people. They are our biggest export.’ She smiled self-deprecatingly.

‘You have friends or family there?’ Chloe asked her.

‘No. My family didn’t leave India. I’m the first woman in generations to go to college. Only my mom knows I work in RAW. The rest of my relatives think I work in some comfortable government job.’

‘Serve the country, see places … is that RAW’s hiring slogan?’ Bear met her eyes in the rearview mirror.

‘Yeah, and get shot.’ She chuckled.

The apartment was in Druids Heath, a social housing estate. Several high-rise buildings crowded around an open space. Different ethnicities pursuing the British dream.

Ninety minutes after leaving Hereford, after Bear parked in the estate, Meera led the way through a small children’s play area, past kids kicking a soccer ball, and up the elevator to the twelfth floor.

‘Beth said it’s owned by a British Punjabi family,’ Chloe whispered when Meera pressed the buzzer.

The RAW agent nodded. The twins had gotten Werner to investigate the addresses and had circulated the briefing to all the operatives. None of them had any connection to Whelan.

But we still have to investigate, Meera thought as she waited for the occupants to respond.

‘Mrs. Singh.’ She smiled when an elderly woman opened the door.

‘That’s why you came!’ Bwana accused Broker when the older operative removed a golf club and practiced a drive.

They were on the wide plains of Yorkshire, three hours after leaving the SAS base. Rolling land covered in green stretched around them. Stunning vistas that could go on posters and calendars.

‘I knew there was nothing to see here.’ Broker grinned. ‘You heard what that man said. He’s renting that house in Grassington. He doesn’t know Whelan. Didn’t recognize him. You spoke to his landlord. He didn’t know either. None of the neighbors or the local village store have seen or heard of Whelan.’

‘We have to try.’ Roger stretched.

They had spent a couple of hours in the small village, posing as plainclothes police, asking questions and checking out the place, and had turned up nothing.

On their return, Bwana had stopped on the plains to take in the view, which was when Broker had extracted the club from the Land Rover’s trunk.

‘Yeah.’ Bwana snorted. ‘We have to try, but Broker … he’s got to golf!’

‘What?’ Zeb eyed Beth when she hung up and made a face.

‘That was Meera. No luck in Birmingham or Manchester. No Whelan. Not even a trace. But Bear enjoyed his drinks at the pub.’

Zeb honked at a slow-moving van. They were on the edge of East London. The towers of Canary Wharf lit against the darkening evening sky.

Regenerated land that’s been developed and is now a business hub, he recalled. Many banks have their offices there.

They had been the last to leave the SAS base since Jack had roped them into a conference call with his E Squadron commander.

Lieutenant Colonel Brimshaw hadn’t met them and initially insisted on their following protocols and backing off from British police investigations. But he thawed when Meghan had turned on the charm and had obliquely dropped their close connection to Greystone.

‘Sorry, mate,’ Jack had said when the call had ended. ‘He’s new. We too are finding our way with him.’

‘Bwana’s complaining,’ Meghan said when she too ended her call. ‘They found nothing, but Broker took his golf kit along and is … well, you know what he’s doing.’

‘We’re going to find nothing as well, aren’t we?’ Beth said gloomily. ‘Those addresses … Deon said they were old. Whelan will not be hanging out there. The police might have⁠—’

‘They haven’t acted yet.’ Her sister looked up from her phone. ‘Some bureaucratic snarl.’

Zeb didn’t reply. He floored the EV at a light before it turned red. An angry honk when he cut off a cab, and then he was past a junction.

‘All right, hotshot,’ Beth gasped when her seatbelt strained against her. ‘We know this vehicle is fast.’

‘We did good, sis!’ Meghan raised her clenched fist backward for a knuckle bump with her twin.

‘You did good,’ Zeb acknowledged. ‘I wasn’t convinced having EVs in our world would work. But they are made for these urban operations.’

‘Longer-range batteries than what’s available commercially—’ Beth began.

‘All right. I take it back. They are good for all our operations.’

‘Not all,’ Meghan conceded, ‘but we have gas vehicles if we need them.’

Zeb entered Poplar, the site of the East London housing estate. It was dark. All apartments were lit from within.

Smells of cooking as their boots crunched gravel. Cold air biting at their faces.

He flexed his fingers and jammed his hands in his pockets. Scanned the neighborhood automatically, checking the shadows.

‘Drone’s in the air,’ Beth whispered, her eyes glued to her screen. ‘No guns, no one looking like a hostile in any parked car.’

Whelan’s address was on the fifth floor.

They took the stairs.

A Nigerian song on a radio from an apartment.

A child laughing.

Their easy breathing in the stairwell, whose walls were covered with graffiti.

The metal door to the floor creaked when they opened it. Ten apartments spread out in a rectangle, surrounding the central space deep down.

Zeb went to Whelan’s door. It was wood. Scarred. No light beneath its edge that he could see.

‘The place is empty. Its registered owner is a company in the Cayman Islands that pays the council tax.’

That’s like property tax, but not the same. Zeb raised his hand to knock on the door.

‘And bills too,’ Beth interjected.

No one opened the door.

They waited, and he then used his lockpick against the standard commercial lock.

The door opened.

He kicked it wide abruptly and crouch-entered, his Glock sweeping the darkness.

Beth turned on the flashlight on her phone.

They smelled the familiar metallic scent.

Zeb’s lips tightened.

Her flashlight lit on a chair.

Meghan’s phone rang.

‘Yeah?’ she asked sharply.

‘You folks have had any luck?’ Zeb heard Bear’s rumble.

‘If you can call it that. Whelan’s here. A round in his forehead.’

12

Clare watched Greystone brief the room.

They were in a conference room in the MI6 building.

She, Mathur, Dietrich, Thibault, the Belgian and Dutch chiefs, along with representatives from the Metropolitan Police and MI5, the country’s domestic intelligence agency.

The riots were a domestic matter, but Greystone was leading the briefing. Because Whelan’s South African, she mused.

‘We’re hitting dead ends everywhere,’ the MI6 chief said. ‘We’ve arrested several rioters, but all of them seem to be vandals⁠—’

‘Perhaps that’s all they are,’ Dietrich interrupted. ‘Maybe they aren’t coordinated.’

‘Which doesn’t explain Whelan’s death.’

‘It could be a coincidence.’

‘His getting shot, his friends getting shot, the attacks at Lorraine Parker’s home … all those can’t be coincidences,’ Anjali Mathur said sharply.

‘I am on your side.’ Dietrich smiled disarmingly. ‘I am playing Devil’s advocate.’

‘I agree.’ Sir Richard Halstead, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, adjusted his tie. ‘Riots are one thing. Targeted assassinations are another. I have brought in SO15 to take charge of our investigations.’

SO15 is the Met’s counter-terrorism unit, Clare noted.

‘You think there are links to terrorism?’ Sebastian Hartley, Director General of MI5, observed.

‘Nothing is off the table,’ Halstead replied.

‘Any other intel for us?’ Greystone looked at Clare.

She smiled. The room was a circle of trust. She had shared Deon’s intel on Whelan with them. They know Zeb’s team checked out the addresses before the police reached the locations.

‘Not yet. My team is stretched thin.’

‘This attack at Lorraine Parker’s house.’ Thibault tapped his pen against the notepad in front of him. ‘Is it possible someone recognized Zeb? One of his enemies?’

‘We have thought of that and ruled it out. It would mean they knew of Zeb’s movement and most times, even I don’t know where he is. He can be … uncommunicative.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Greystone said feelingly.

It got a laugh.

‘Our team found a camera and mic at her place,’ Halstead said. ‘Our theory is someone was monitoring visitors at her place and listened to keywords. Whelan and police … those activated the kill team.’

‘That’s our guess too,’ Clare agreed.

‘We have a good network within the British Indian and Pakistani community,’ Mathur offered. ‘So far, no chatter about anything unusual.’

‘These unrests are happening in my country too,’ Thibault said. ‘Not on the same scale, but we have seen protests in Paris.’

‘Isn’t rioting a requirement of every French citizen?’ Greystone smiled.

That drew another round of laughter.

‘Yes, mon ami. I too went on some marches when I was younger.’ The DGSE head laughed. His grin faded. ‘These feel different … but we have not found any organized hand behind them.’

‘It’s the same with the few protests in Germany, too,’ Dietrich agreed.

‘Maybe London and Britain are the focal points and if whatever the shot-callers have planned succeeds, European countries are next,’ Mathur said grimly.

A chill descended in the room.

‘Tell Zeb and his team to go into mission mode,’ Greystone said tightly.

‘They already are,’ Clare said. ‘They hope the police won’t shoot them.’

‘They won’t. I’ll take care of that,’ Halstead said. ‘But they should work with us. No lone wolf missions.’

That’s not going to happen. My team works best alone. Clare didn’t articulate her thoughts, however. She nodded. ‘Of course. They will collaborate.’

Greystone glanced at his watch. ‘I have a briefing with the prime minister. I’m not looking forward to telling him we haven’t much.’

‘Tell him we have several promising leads,’ Thibault said encouragingly.

‘We do have one,’ Clare said slowly.

Heads turned at her sharply.

‘A phone on Whelan’s body. My team is investigating it.’

A long silence.

‘You didn’t mention this before,’ Greystone said sharply.

‘Zeb passed on all its contents to the Met. They must not have found anything on it, or else Richard would have been notified,’ she explained.

‘It’s not a lead then,’ the MI6 head said disappointedly.

‘We have got something out of it. We know where the phone has been in the last few days.’

13

‘Why would whoever killed him leave that behind?’ Bear poked at the phone with a forefinger.

‘You can pick it up.’ Beth sighed. ‘We checked it for prints. It’s clean. It’s not a bomb. It doesn’t have a listening device. It’s a phone. Luckily, Werner could crack its lock sequence.’

Zeb was sprawled on a chair, arms crossed, absent-mindedly listening to his friends.

They had discovered the device on Whelan’s body. We thought it was a bomb. He had gotten the twins to leave the apartment instantly, and when they had vacated it, protesting bitterly, he had inspected it and declared the property safe to enter.

‘Why leave it behind, though?’ Bear asked, unconvinced.

‘Maybe the shooter was in a hurry,’ Curtis suggested.

‘Whelan was killed almost two days ago, according to the Met’s forensic pathologist. Before you went to Lorraine Parker’s house.’ Jack shook his head. ‘The flat was empty. The killer had all the time they needed to search Whelan and take the phone away.’

Flat is what Brits call apartments, Zeb translated mentally.

‘There was nothing on the phone, though,’ Meera pointed out. ‘The shooter must have wiped the phone’s contacts, call and message history and thought those were enough.’

Zeb got up, everyone’s eyes following him as he went to the new map Jack had spread on the table with pins on it.

Birmingham, Leeds, Bristol, Pluckley, a village in Kent, and Berlin. 

Apartments in the cities and a house in the village.

‘Those were the only locations we could track on the phone.’ Meghan joined him. ‘We got that because Whelan downloaded the addresses and saved them as files. The shooter mustn’t have seen them.’

‘Could you find when he went to those places?’

‘No.’

‘All those cities had riots,’ Curtis added.

‘Pluckley too?’ Zeb’s forehead creased.

‘No, but there was a riot in Ashford, a town which isn’t far from the village.’

‘We’ll take Leeds.’ Jack smiled faintly. ‘C approved it. He’s passed down the order. “Kick doors, but softly.”’

‘We’ll take Berlin,’ Meghan said. ‘Beth and me. And you, Zeb.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He mock-saluted.

No one smiled. Everyone was looking at the map.

‘Bestie, you come with me.’ Chloe hooked arms with Meera. ‘You, me and Bear. We’ll go to Birmingham.’

‘Rog and I’ll go to Bristol. Broker, you’ll join us? No golfing this time.’ Bwana stretched.

‘Copy,’ the elder operative agreed.

‘Pluckley. Terry and I’ll go there,’ Curtis said. ‘All four of us don’t need to go to Leeds.’ He addressed Jack, who gave a thumbs-up.

The captain looked at Zeb. ‘That works for you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You seem to have something on your mind.’

‘This is too easy.’

‘You’re thinking what I am? That it could be a trap?’

‘We’ve already been attacked once, at Lorraine Parker’s.’

‘Twice. You’ve forgotten about that shooter at Jimmy’s!’

‘Twice,’ Zeb agreed. ‘Did the police find him?’

‘No.’

‘I hope it’s a trap.’ Mike ran a finger over the tattoo of a knife inked on his inside forearm. ‘I’ve had enough of group exercises on this base. We need to hit back hard.’

Bear got up. Started going out of the living room.

‘Wait.’ Jack stopped him. ‘We’ll go tomorrow. If there are hostiles at those locations, let them sweat.’

The smile that lit Bwana’s face was feral.

Jack was on calls while Mike drove to Leeds.

The captain hung up after a final, yes, sir.

‘Brimshaw?’ Mike asked.

‘He wants us to be careful.’

‘Like we wouldn’t be?’

‘Cut him some slack. He’s new⁠—’

‘Does he know how E Squadron works?’

‘He’ll learn. That flat’s in Beeston.’

‘Yes. Two miles south of Leeds town center. I know where it is.’

Jack looked around at the rear seat. Duffle bags on the floor mat in which were their HK416s, spare magazines, plate armor and several Glock 17s. ‘You want to start a war?’

‘You said we should be armed!’

Jack rolled his eyes.

They reached Leeds by midday.

Half an hour to get to the building.

They got out of their Range Rover and sauntered casually. Both of them wearing shades, jackets over their jeans, pulled low to cover the Glocks stuffed in their waists.

‘I don’t see anyone with guns,’ Mike grumbled.

‘You think they’ll be that obvious?’ Jack retorted in his collar mic.

An hour’s surveillance while traffic in Beeston passed them. The apartment building was a red-brick one with limited parking. It was on Dewsbury Road. A line of shops and a local library nearby. A public bus stopped. Tired passengers got out.

Jack checked each of the ones who went into the building. No one looks like a shooter.

‘Go!’ He gave the order.

They returned to their ride and slung the duffel bags over their shoulders. On their chests with their right hands close to the zipper, for easy access to the HKs.

He and Mike walked into the building and took the stairs.

There, they dropped pretense and jogged up to the sixth floor.

Four apartments on each floor. It was quiet.

The target apartment was to their left. Ten feet away from the stairwell.

‘Can’t see any cameras.’ Mike snuck a look.

Jack brought out his HK. ‘Cover me. Keep the civilians away if they come out of the other flats.’

He hustled down the hallway and knocked on the door.

It opened before he could knock again.

A burly man whose annoyed expression turned to fright.

‘DROP TO THE FLOOR!’ Jack roared. ‘HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD. WHO ELSE IS HERE?’

The Bristol flat seemed to be empty.

No one answered when Bwana thumped on the door.

He was alone in the hallway, Broker and Roger around the corner, crouching with their HKs drawn.

Going alone was a risk, but they had considered that and decided it was worth taking.

He made a hand gesture behind his back and kicked the door.

It shattered and swung inwards.

He dropped to the floor instantly with his Glock covering what looked like the living room while Broker lunged out, leaped over him and went inside.

‘Clear!’ his friend called.

Bwana rose and went inside, with Roger at the rear.

It was a single bedroom apartment. Dirty kitchen. Dishes still in the sink. Unmade bed.

‘No weapons,’ Bwana declared after a quick search. He went to the mantelpiece, where letters were stacked. They were addressed to Albert Jones. That name matches the homeowner’s.

The twins had found out who owned and rented the properties that Whelan’s phone had been to.

‘He must have gone to work,’ Broker suggested.

Jones was a low-level clerk in the Leeds courthouse.

‘We wait?’ Roger sprawled on a couch and leafed through a faded auto magazine.

‘Yeah.’ Bwana settled in a chair.

‘No mate, there’s no one in that house,’ the elderly neighbor told Curtis.

‘Didn’t Simon live there?’

Simon Cauldwell was the owner of the modest bungalow on a tree-lined street in Pluckley. He was a retiree, in his sixties, having worked all his life in the local council.

‘He used to. He went to Spain last week, when those riots happened. He told me Britain wasn’t what it used to be. He wanted sun.’

‘When is he returning?’

‘I’ve no idea, mate. Who are you?’

Curtis showed him his police identification.

The neighbor’s eyes sharpened. ‘I knew he would get into trouble. I warned him not to get involved with those thugs.’

‘Which thugs, sir?’ Terry asked sharply.

‘Young ones. They used to come to Simon’s at night, get drunk and curse the immigrants and whoever looked foreign. My daughter is married to a Black man. They harassed him a few times. He stopped coming. I told Simon I would report him to the police. He apologized, but he didn’t stop those men from visiting.’

‘Would you recognize any of them, sir?’

‘They look the same.’ The neighbor threw his hands up. ‘I want a quiet life. I don’t want trouble. I never looked them in the eye.’

‘Did this man come to the house?’ Curtis showed him Whelan’s photograph.

The neighbor squinted. He shook his head. ‘I don’t remember. I didn’t pay attention to every one of them.’

‘Would you be able to identify them from photographs?’

‘I don’t want trouble.’

‘What would your son-in-law say to that, sir?’

The neighbor straightened. ‘Will I get some protection?’

‘That can be arranged, sir.’

‘Show me the photographs.’

‘We’ll have a team come with them.’

‘Aren’t you the police?’

‘We are sir. But we don’t carry all photographs with us.’

The Birmingham apartment was in a building near the Bullring, a shopping mall with a standout design of thousands of aluminum discs dotting its front.

The apartment complex was less modern. A faded brown color, tired-looking, which seemed to house many young people.

‘Renters in that building.’ Meera recalled the twins’ briefing before they had dispersed from the SAS base. ‘They are mostly professionals working in the city. A few students.’

‘Our target, Victor Marks, what does he do?’ Chloe frowned.

They were in a café across the street which had a direct view of the building’s entrance. Three of them huddled at the small table with their steaming drinks in front of them.

‘He works in a car dealership.’ Bear finished his beverage and wiped his lips.

‘Correct,’ Meera said. ‘There’s CCTV footage of him returning home one of the nights there were riots.’

‘That’s not proof he participated,’ Chloe said doubtfully.

‘No, but the timeline works if he was returning after it broke up. He should be home. It’s his day off. We checked with the dealer.’

‘Let’s go.’ Chloe got up.

They crossed the street, each one of them watching for surveillance, vehicles that stopped abruptly, and for anyone taking an interest in them.

They had their Glocks beneath their jackets, their hands loose and close to their body.

No one’s going to shoot us in broad daylight on a busy street, Meera figured.

They were discreetly cautious as Chloe led the climb to the second floor.

She knocked on the door.

It opened.

‘Mr. Marks?’ She held up her police badge.

Marks was lean, in a vest and dark pants, with unkempt dark hair and shadows beneath his eyes.

His mouth dropped open. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he stammered and stepped back.

‘Do what, sir?’

Two more men got up from couches, both of them looking like they had been sleeping.

Bear and Meera stepped inside. The Agency operative sucking up space in the small living room. The RAW agent kicked the door shut with her heel.

‘Don’t move,’ Bear snapped at the other men. ‘Is there anyone else in the flat?’

‘No, no,’ Marks said wildly. ‘We weren’t meaning to do anything.’

‘What did you do, sir?’ Chloe demanded.

‘You are here about the riots, aren’t you?’

‘You were in it?’

‘He paid us.’

‘Who did?’

‘Was it him?’ Meera showed him Whelan’s photograph.

Marks looked at it. ‘No, it was another man.’ His face crumpled and he began to cry.

The Berlin team was the last to reach their destination.

Zeb and the twins had taken their Agency Learjet from Heathrow to Germany’s capital and, once in the city, had taken their electric Land Rover from one of their veteran-managed garages.

It was evening, turning dark and chilly when they reached Neukolln, a neighborhood in the southeastern part of the city.

Zeb had endured the sisters’ snark during the entire trip. He had listened as reports from the other teams had poured in.

‘None of them was ambushed. A rioter in every location,’ Beth summarized. ‘Even the one in Bristol, where Bwana and the others had to wait for Jones to show up. Terry and Curtis’s target has gone to Spain. Jack has informed Brimshaw, who’ll arrange for the Met to contact the Spanish authorities. Meera and Chloe have got the description of the man who paid Marks and his friends. It’s not Whelan. Problem is, the description isn’t of much use. White, middle-aged man, who approached them when they were on the fringe of a protest and paid them to join the next one. That’s not much help,’ she ended, disgustedly.

‘Jones was paid too, wasn’t he?’ Meghan said.

‘Yeah, by a dark-haired man. Similar M.O.’

Zeb looked at Berlin’s skyline as he absorbed the update. ‘They couldn’t identify Whelan?’

‘Nope,’ Meghan replied.

‘Whelan could have recruited others to meet these folks,’ Meghan added. Her fingers flew on her screen. ‘This apartment we’re going to … it belongs to a foreign holding company. It owns several apartments in Berlin and rents them out on an annual basis.’

‘Any record of who’s renting it currently?’ Zeb waited at a red light.

‘Looks like it’s empty. It’s been empty for over a year. No one is registered at that address. The holding company pays all the bills.’

‘A property in Berlin that’s empty for that long? The owners must be loaded.’ Beth snorted.

‘If they are able to buy in Berlin and rent out, they are. The city restricts such businesses.’

Zeb entered Neukolln. An area where artists, students and working-class people once lived, it too had begun to see signs of gentrification. Neat narrow streets, EV charging spaces, parks, lights at every street corner.

He saw the sign to the U-Bahn station, Berlin’s subway system, went past it and got into Selkeweg.

‘It’s the gray building in the middle, on the left.’ Meghan peered through the windshield.

The street was the narrowest they had been on. Cars parked on either side. A bicycle delivery driver whizzed past, barely avoiding their side mirror.

Zeb saw an empty parking space and slid into it smoothly.

A draft of air hit his neck.

Beth, who had opened her window to casually launch a drone. ‘People, people, child…’ she murmured as she followed its rise and saw its feed on her screen as its camera scanned homes. ‘That apartment feels empty,’ she stated after a while.

Zeb peered up at the building. Dark in the night. A revolving glass door to the lobby, which too seemed to be unoccupied. Apartment windows lit on many floors. ‘Seventh floor?’

‘Yeah, those white curtains that you see in the middle, that’s it.’

‘That door has a keycard lock. I can get Werner to⁠—’

‘No.’ He pointed to a thin vertical line that ran up the middle of the building. ‘That looks like a drainpipe right on the front. I can reach one of the apartment’s windows if I lean out from it.’

‘It is.’ Meghan watched the drone feed on her phone. ‘Funny place to locate it there.’

‘I’ll go up it. Any shooters inside will be expecting me to go through the front door.’

He slipped out of the Land Rover before either sister could object, opened the trunk and extracted an HK. He slung it over his chest, stuffed more gear in his pockets and walked swiftly across the street.

‘Yeah, go in the middle of Berlin with a rifle,’ Beth, sarcastic, in his earpiece.

He grinned in the night, checked that there was no foot traffic on the sidewalk, leaped high and caught hold of the drainpipe.

They’ll warn me if any pedestrians appear.

The pipe held. His friction gloves gave him a grip.

He climbed swiftly, barely breaking a sweat in the cold until he came to the curtained window.

‘Still no signs of anyone,’ Beth updated him. ‘The drone’s camera can see through a narrow crack in the curtains.’

Zeb checked for the neighboring windows. ‘What about the opposite building?’

‘Offices. They are empty.’

He clung to the pipe with his left hand, drew his Glock with his right, swung out wide and crashed its butt into the window.

It splintered loudly.

He dropped his Glock to the ground, removed a flash bang from his pocket and threw it through the window.

He swung away from the window while the bang went off with a loud thump and briefly flooded the inside with white light.

He leaned back against the window and, curling tight, hurl-jumped through the window with his back against the glass.

He fell inside.

Felt the curtain tear and flung it away with one hand while he rolled on glass and braced for bullets to rain on him.

No rounds came his way. Only the smell of the bang and the faint sounds from neighboring apartments.

Someone pounded the front door and yelled indistinctly.

This place is supposed to be empty. I can’t answer.

The person pounded again and then stopped.

Zeb got up cautiously and turned on his phone’s flashlight.

‘You can turn on the lights. No one seems to be interested.’ Meghan, on the comms.

He felt the walls for the light switch and turned it on.

A living room. Tidy. Ikea-style furniture. Two chairs, a coffee table, a TV on a stand, a dining table, four chairs around it. Glass from the window sparkled on the carpet.

It was empty.

He went through the hallway. A single bedroom. Made up bed. Empty. Dressers were empty too.

He checked the bathroom and kitchen. All clean.

The leasing company must have some cleaning service.

‘There’s not even a notepad anywhere,’ he said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

He tapped an app on his phone which scanned for cameras or listening devices. It stayed green as he walked through the apartment.

He returned to the living room and sighed.

Planted his hands on his hips. ‘Came all the way to Berlin to find a dead end.’

‘We’ll try the currywurst before we go back,’ Beth said. ‘Berlin is famous for it.’

Zeb saw the dark line on the floor at the bottom of the opposite wall. What’s that?

He removed his glove and bent to feel it.

It felt like dried fluid. He kneeled and smelled it.

The familiar metallic taste hit him.

‘Blood. Dried blood,’ he exclaimed.

‘What?’ Beth asked.

‘You’d better get out of there,’ Meghan said sharply, before he could explain. ‘Hostiles. Six of them. Masked. Armed. Running to the building.’

14

Zeb froze. He touched the dried blood again and then got up swiftly. He put his gloves back on and went to the window.

Can’t turn off the lights. They might know I’ve been alerted.

‘Six?’

‘Yeah,’ Meghan responded. ‘Moving fast. Coming up the sidewalk on your side.’

‘We can take them out,’ Beth replied.

He risked a glance through the window and saw a shadow sprint toward the apartment building. He was tempted to lean out and fire at the hostile and was reaching for his HK when he stopped himself.

They’ll fire up at me. Some of their rounds will go into other windows. Innocents could get hurt.

‘They won’t take the elevator.’ He didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until Beth replied.

‘Correct. If they’re pros, they’ll take the stairs. Two men are at that revolving door. They ... they’ve broken inside!’

‘Where are you two?’

‘Outside, behind our ride,’ Meghan replied. ‘They haven’t seen us. We can see the feet of the remaining four. They’re behind cars.’

‘Pros but not that good, or else they would have checked out the street before going inside,’ Zeb commented as he searched the living room swiftly. I can’t stay here.

‘WER BIST DU?’ Who are you?

He heard a voice shout. Shots sounded instantly.

‘A neighbor. Apartment beneath yours,’ Beth panted. ‘Poked his head out. They shot at him. Don’t think he was hurt.’

He heard the twins open fire. Short, controlled bursts from their HKs.

He imagined them aiming at the men’s feet.

‘Stay down!’ he warned.

‘WORRY ABOUT YOURSELF! GET THE HECK OUT OF THERE,’ Meghan snarled.

He went to the window, leaned out briefly, and sprayed rounds onto the sidewalk. He glimpsed the four men crouching behind cars, rolling away from his burst, and then he was retreating as they fired up at him.

He cursed. So much for not drawing fire at the building. He slung his HK around his chest and raced out of the apartment.

The hallway was chaotic with noise. Six doors for six homes. Three on either side of the elevator.

‘Bleiben Sie in Ihren Wohnungen!’ he yelled. ‘Türen verriegeln!’ Stay inside! Lock your doors!

A door opened. An old man peeked out. Zeb shouted at him. ‘Rein!’ Inside!

The man disappeared.

‘Those two hostiles seem to have gone up the stairs,’ Beth said in his comms.

He took in the hallway quickly. Fading carpet. Cream-colored walls. Dim lighting high in the ceiling. No cameras. A fire-exit labeled door next to the elevator. He opened it a crack.

The stairs.

He heard pounding from far below.

He shut it.

His eyes landed on the two fire extinguishers mounted on the wall on either side of the elevator.

Sight became action.

He ripped one free, went to the stairs, and hurled it down the stairwell. He followed it with the second.

They bounced, their sounds loud, echoing in the confined space.

He raised his HK416 and fired at them.

Rounds pinged against the metal canisters, ricocheting and colliding with the wall, the banister, and the door on the lower level.

The extinguishers ruptured and released their contents in a loud hiss, filling the stairwell.

He heard the men climbing up—two floors away, by the sound of it.

He peered over a banister down the stairs and saw a shadow.

He yanked two flashbangs from his pockets and lobbed them down.

Zeb hustled into the hallway and slammed the door shut just as they went off.

He sprinted back into the apartment.

He crouched at the window. The four hostiles behind the cars were distracted, pinned down by Beth and Meghan’s fire.

Their heads had swung toward the apartment building.

Did they hear the flashbangs? Were they that loud?

He stopped thinking, looped a leg over the windowsill, confident his thick combat pants would protect him from the glass.

He balanced for a moment, working his moves in his head, and then lunged toward the drainpipe.

‘Incoming!’ he warned.

‘You fool!’ Beth swore, and then she and Meghan partially exposed themselves. Their rounds ripped into the cars shielding the hostiles. Windows shattered. Alarms went off.

Zeb got his right palm around the pipe.

His body slammed against it.

His left arm cradled the HK.

He triggered a long sweeping burst from the top.

He couldn’t aim.

He didn’t need to.

His rounds spanged off car roofs and the sidewalk.

One of the men shouted. Two of them turned to shoot up at him, their bullets going wide.

Zeb slowed his descent at the fourth floor, his feet gripping the pipe tightly, his breath rasping, his arms feeling like they would come out of their sockets.

He kept firing.

‘Banger,’ Beth warned.

He turned his head away and closed his eyes, still sliding down.

The flashbang went off.

The men shouted.

‘VAN!’ Meghan yelled.

He opened his eyes, ears ringing, and saw a fast-approaching dark vehicle on Selkeweg.

Saw barrels thrust out of its windows.

The twins shot at it.

Two men burst out of the building.

Zeb emptied the last remaining rounds of his magazine at them and dove away from the pipe, spinning in the air.

He landed on a car’s roof.

His breath escaped in a gasp as his left shoulder took the shock.

He rolled off the vehicle, its alarm going off, and slid to the sidewalk.

He grimaced at the wrenching pain from the fall and bent low when he heard the van race past.

A few rounds sought him, smacking into concrete, and then the vehicle was gone.

‘Zeb?’ Beth’s voice, urgent.

‘I’m fine.’ He stood unsteadily. He was twenty feet to the right of the building. The car he had been hiding behind, a Volvo, was bleeping its alarm.

The sisters came toward him, their faces grim, tight, their HKs ready to unleash death. Warriors.

The younger twin came close, assessed him, and then punched his chest with a closed fist. ‘Dumbass. That’s the stupidest move I’ve seen you do. Coming down the pipe.’

‘I had no choice,’ he protested. ‘I couldn’t stay in the apartment and risk a firefight.’

‘You were exposed on the pipe.’

‘It was a risk I had to take. You had pinned those men down... but they had pinned you as well.’

‘Stop arguing,’ Meghan ordered. ‘Those men are getting away. They escaped in that van.’

‘All six?’ He looked down Selkeweg.

‘Yeah. We can chase it down.’

‘We’re in the middle of Berlin. Our gunfight’s already drawn attention. If we chase them, civilians might get caught in the crossfire. Let the police handle it.’

He heard sirens and saw blue lights flashing down the street.

This could go bad fast. Armed Americans involved in a shootout in Berlin? They won’t ask questions before shooting or, if we are lucky, cuffing us.

He speed-dialed a number on his phone. ‘Johann? I need your help.’ He briefed the BND head swiftly, nodded several times, and then hung up.

He and the sisters went onto the street and stood with their hands well away from their weapons.

Armed officers rushed out of the approaching vehicles and entered the building. People thrust their heads out of windows and shouted at the police. The officers didn’t respond.

An officer approached them.

Lukas Hartmann was inscribed on his nameplate. ‘You’re the Americans?’ he asked in accented English.

‘Yes,’ Zeb replied.

The officer took them in and then looked at his phone.

Probably comparing us to photographs Johann sent.

‘Okay,’ Hartmann said, putting away his phone. ‘This is a lot of work. Paperwork. Explanations. Lot of it. But okay.’ His teeth flashed. ‘How many people are dead?’

‘No one.’

‘No one?’

‘Yeah. They escaped. I don’t think any civilian was shot, but your officers should check.’

‘My superiors … they told me not to ask you questions … only to take your statement and let you go. This is unusual. You understand, ja?’ Yes?

‘Yeah.’

Zeb felt the sisters relax.

Hartmann seemed to have a sense of humor.

Doofus, Zeb told himself, that’s a lazy and wrong stereotype—that Germans aren’t funny.

The officer broke away and shouted instructions. A cop ran up with a Glock in his gloved hand.

‘That’s mine,’ Zeb said. ‘I dropped it from the pipe.’

Hartmann looked at the drainpipe and then at Zeb. ‘You were on that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe you should tell me what happened.’

Hartmann had a buzz cut and stubble that the streetlight caught, making his chin appear silvery. He was in fatigues with an HK strapped to his back, a holstered handgun at his hip, and looked lean and competent.

He’s probably from an elite police unit, Zeb figured as the man absorbed his words and considered them.

‘You are lucky, you know that, ja?’

‘He’s a fool,’ Beth scoffed.

‘Ja, if one of my men did that, I would call him that.’

More police vehicles arrived. Hartmann broke off to give more instructions and then returned to them. ‘Shall we go up? Shall we take the lift instead of climbing up that pipe?’

Zeb grinned and followed him.

He waited for Hartmann to check out the apartment, and when the officer joined them, Zeb pointed to the stain. ‘That looks like blood.’

Hartmann kneeled. He rubbed a gloved finger across the surface and brought it to his nose.

‘Ja, feels like it.’ He shouted an order.

An officer brought a flashlight.

Hartmann ran it along the bottom of the wall and then rose, punching the wall with a gloved fist. ‘There’s another apartment next to this?’

‘Yeah,’ Zeb answered, even though the question seemed to be addressed to the other officers in the room. ‘The blood pooled and dried there, but there’s no source. No sign of a struggle. The apartment is tidy. It looks like the blood appeared and dried after the last clean.’

‘Ja.’ Hartmann issued another order.

A man disappeared and returned several minutes later with a large hammer.

‘Break it,’ Hartmann told the man.

The junior officer swung the hammer against the wall. Plaster cracked and fell to the floor.

He struck it repeatedly, dust filling the room, until the brickwork collapsed suddenly.

‘There’s a room,’ Hartmann said, satisfied, using the flashlight to illuminate the darkness behind the collapsed wall.

The officer broke the remaining brickwork to make room for them to climb inside.

Hartmann, Zeb, the twins, and two other officers went inside.

The flashlight and their phones lit up the small space, which was a few square feet bigger than a bathroom.

The floor was dark. More dried blood.

The familiar stench of a dead body.

The body was in a chair. A man tied to it. His chest and belly were torn open, his sightless eyes staring into the distance.

‘There must be some way to open that wall … maybe a door.’ Hartmann gestured at the broken remains. ‘We will investigate it.’ His voice was loud in the sudden silence.

Zeb watched as Hartmann approached the body carefully and inspected it.

The officer photographed it from several angles and then looked up from his phone.

‘We know who he is,’ Hartmann said, his tone surprised. ‘My phone matched his photograph. Klaus Brenner. His employer filed a missing person report.’

‘Who’s his employer?’

‘Brenner was a cybersecurity engineer. He had security clearances from the police. He worked for SEFE.’

The Americans looked at him blankly.

‘SEFE—Securing Energy for Europe—is a government company. It owns the majority of the gas and energy network in Germany. After the Nord Stream attack … you know what that is?’

‘Yeah, the gas pipeline network that transported gas from Russia to Western Europe. One of the pipelines was sabotaged a few years ago,’ Beth said. ‘No one knows who was behind it even now.’

‘Ja. Nord Stream, Russia’s attack on Ukraine … after all that, SEFE looked at Norway and other countries for gas supplies.’

‘A security-cleared cybersecurity engineer in SEFE would know about the vulnerabilities in the gas supply network,’ Zeb thought aloud, feeling a chill go through him. First the riots in Britain, and now this!

‘Yeah.’ Meghan nodded. ‘You’re forgetting something else.’

‘What?’

‘How did those men know of our presence?’

15

‘It is time for you to leave us,’ Hartmann told them. ‘Let us do our job.’

‘Yeah.’ Zeb led the sisters out. They took the stairs, stopping briefly to roll the fire extinguishers into a corner and kick the spent bangs away.

‘Yeah,’ Beth said.

‘Yeah, what?’ he countered.

‘You couldn’t have come down the stairs.’ She pointed to the bullet marks on the walls.

He grinned. That’s her way of saying I was right.

She and her sister were on their screens the moment they were on the street.

‘We checked the building with our drone,’ Beth said beneath her breath, ‘but we didn’t...’ She trailed off.

He looked over their shoulders at her screen as she navigated the drone around the neighboring buildings.

The UAV’s camera panned, gliding past windows, scanning rooftops. Then she sent it across the street.

‘There!’ She pointed to a small device attached to a lamppost.

Werner analyzed it and declared it was a camera.

Beth zoomed in. The lens was tiny, the casing painted to blend with the post. Cabling shielded it. A casual glance wouldn’t catch it.

Most people don’t look up at poles. No one would notice it. ‘Any way to know when it was planted?’ Zeb studied the device.

‘No,’ Meghan said reluctantly. ‘There aren’t many cameras here. That’s how they knew of our presence.’

‘Someone was monitoring the feed,’ Beth added. ‘Zeb enters the apartment, they move in.’

‘We don’t know if they identified us as Agency operatives,’ he said. ‘Could be they just had the place under surveillance.’

‘Either way, someone was watching.’

Meghan tapped on the tablet, capturing images of the device. ‘We should pass this on to the police.’

They waited for Hartmann to emerge and showed him the camera. He studied the screen and looked up. ‘Where’s your drone?’

‘You won’t be able to see it even in the daylight.’ Meghan smirked.

‘Are you CIA?’

‘No.’

The German officer studied them. ‘Those men underestimated you.’

‘Either that, or they weren’t that good.’

‘Any luck with finding their van?’ Zeb asked.

‘No.’ Hartmann shrugged. ‘I am sure we will find the van somewhere. They will have switched vehicles.’

‘Yeah.’

Hartmann shouted at another officer, pointed to the lamppost, and issued instructions.

‘They will know we have found it,’ Beth cautioned.

‘Does it matter?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Our cyber unit will try to track the feed, but—’ He shrugged again. ‘I am not hopeful.’ He planted his hands on his hips. ‘We will investigate that apartment. We will look into Brenner.’

‘You are telling us to go home,’ Meghan drawled.

‘Ja.’ He smiled back. ‘Americans with guns in Berlin ... that story won’t be good for us, the police.’

‘Can you not mention us?’

‘I have ordered my officers to forget you.’ Hartmann’s grin broadened. ‘My superiors will take care of the rest. How do you know Johann Dietrich?’

‘We know him,’ Zeb said blandly.

‘Ja. I understand.’ He shook their hands firmly and returned to his officers.

The sisters retrieved their drone discreetly and stowed it back in the Land Rover.

Zeb drove it back to the veteran’s garage, and from there, they took a cab to the airport.

The Lear soared through Berlin’s dawn sky.

Beth and Meghan sprawled in its leather seats. Zeb was in the pantry, brewing coffee.

He served it and took a seat opposite them.

‘We all thinking the same thing?’ Beth asked.

‘If you’re thinking that Whelan—or whoever was using his phone—tortured Brenner for information, then yeah.’ Zeb sipped.

‘I’ve got Brenner’s file.’ Meghan pointed to her screen. ‘He had the highest security clearance. He was something of a hotshot cybersecurity expert. He was known in several online forums. He would know the energy system’s vulnerabilities, how it could be hacked ... this isn’t good.’

‘If someone took control of the network or even caused major outages ... chaos. Panic.’ Beth nodded.

Zeb’s phone buzzed. Broker. He accepted the call and put it on speaker. ‘You’re up early.’

‘You seem to have been active in Berlin. Reports of a shootout in the city. We guessed it was you.’

Beth briefed the rest of the team quickly.

‘You’re saying Whelan was targeting Germany’s gas infrastructure?’ Broker asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Zeb said.

‘Someone wanted what he knew,’ Meghan said. ‘We know that for sure. Whelan’s phone was there. We know that too.’

‘Let’s assume Whelan was there,’ Meera drawled. ‘Why? Was he backed by the Russians?’

‘They’ve got the most to gain from destabilizing Europe,’ Chloe interjected. ‘They have been actively influencing social media and trying to manipulate elections in different countries.’

‘And the riots?’ Roger asked. ‘How are they connected? Going from getting Brenner’s information to organizing riots ... that seems a step down.’

‘If we knew, would we be debating this?’ Beth shot back.

‘Why kill Whelan?’ Bwana rumbled. ‘Because we were close? Or because he got what the shot-callers wanted, Brenner’s intel?’

Zeb exhaled. Too many unknowns.

‘We’re reacting to everything,’ he said. ‘First Jimmy’s house. Then Lorraine Parker’s residence. Now this apartment. We’re shadow boxing in the dark.’

‘And we’ve been lucky that we’ve not yet come across elite operators or we would have taken some hits too,’ Broker said grimly.

Zeb’s phone buzzed at ten am.

He was on the couch in the living room. They had caught up on sleep after their return from Berlin and then had assembled to brief Jack’s team.

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He recognized Clare’s number and took the call.

‘Get to London.’

‘For?’

‘A briefing at the Met,’ she said. ‘You should be there.’

‘When?’

‘In an hour.’

‘Location?’

‘Met HQ. Briefing room on the second floor.’

He hung up and glanced at the twins. Meghan sensed his gaze. ‘Want to go to London?’

‘For?’ she echoed him.

‘Metropolitan Police briefing.’

She reached for her jacket and nudged her sister. ‘Anything to get away from Broker’s golfing stories.’

The Metropolitan Police Headquarters were in a building called New Scotland Yard, in Central London.

Stone-fronted, classical design, on Victoria Embankment.

‘Tourists will not know this is the HQ of Britain’s biggest police force,’ Beth commented as Zeb drove up, lowered the window, and showed their fake police IDs.

‘Those who don’t know Scotland Yard won’t,’ her sister said.

That was the name London’s police were known by in the media, Zeb mused. The building was heavily barricaded, with several protesters chanting and waving placards on the other side of the street.

‘I remember when we could enter the building with just our passes,’ Beth recalled.

‘That was before the country had riots on this scale,’ her twin said softly.

Clare nodded at them when they entered the briefing room. She was in a row of chairs alongside the wall.

The sisters sat on either side of her while Zeb occupied the seat to Beth’s right.

The conference room had a large central table around which officers in uniforms and suits were seated, all of them looking at the man at the front.

Halstead, Met Commissioner, eyed the American visitors expressionlessly.

The screen behind him displayed riot footage, red dots marking violence across the city and the country.

‘You all know about the riots, the arrests we’ve made, and the latest intel ... which is that they seem to have been deliberately organized.’

He clicked. Whelan’s image came up.

‘This man seems to have organized several recruiters who paid people to riot. We have proof of that, but we don’t have the recruiters. As you know, Whelan is dead. What you don’t know, and this is information for this room only,’—his eyes flicked toward the Agency team—‘is that Whelan was South African. He was with their State Security Agency. He had a history of organizing dissidents. He was good at it.’

A murmur spread through the room.

‘Why is South Africa⁠—’

Halstead interrupted the officer coldly. ‘South Africa is not involved. We have checked that out through various reliable channels. Whelan became a mercenary after he left SSA. He was hired. We don’t know by whom.’

Another click. Brenner’s photograph came up.

‘This is a developing story. It has not yet reached your inboxes. Klaus Brenner. Cybersecurity expert. German. Employed by SEFE, the country’s energy company.’

He smiled humorlessly at the blank expressions on the officers’ faces.

‘You are thinking, what’s Brenner got to do with us? You might have heard about last night’s shootout in Berlin.’

Heads nodded.

‘Police stormed a building.’

Zeb caught the slightest emphasis on police and the Commissioner’s fleeting glance at them.

Yeah, he knows you were there, Clare lipped at him. I told him.

‘Brenner was found dead. Tortured.’

‘Wasn’t Whelan’s phone in Berlin?’ an officer raised his hand.

‘Correct. You’re joining the dots.’ Halstead nodded. ‘What Brenner knew could cripple Germany’s—and even Western Europe’s—energy network if it landed in the wrong hands. Clearly, it isn’t in the right hands.’

He clicked. A map of Britain appeared, side by side with one of Germany.

‘What’s happening here in our country and what happened in Berlin ... Whelan is the link.’

He leaned forward, face grim, voice sharp.

‘The problem is we have nothing. Sure, we have a few arrests, and we know about Whelan now ... but who were the shooters at Lorraine Parker’s place? Who fired a gun at Jimmy Fenton’s house? We have nothing, ladies and gentlemen. That is not acceptable.’

His words were like a lash.

‘We are the Metropolitan Police. The country’s pride. The envy of other nations. And yet, here we are, acting like bumbling constables in a village. I called this meeting to convey the urgency to you. We need to restore calm in our country. At the same time, we need to find out who’s behind what’s happening.’

No one spoke for a while.

A throat cleared. An officer at the back of the table.

‘Could the Russians be involved?’

‘Nothing in our intercepts has shown that,’ another officer countered.

‘If they are involved,’ Halstead said, ‘why? What do they have to gain? The Russians are occupied with Ukraine. Do they have the resources for this?’ He stabbed his pointer at the maps.

‘Get me answers ... or we might not recognize our country anymore.’

Halstead waited for the room to clear and discreetly motioned for the Americans to stay back.

‘Clare told me about you.’ He nodded at Zeb and the sisters. ‘She warned me not to ask any questions. She said you found out about Brenner.’

‘The German police found out, sir,’ Meghan smiled. ‘We happened to be there.’

‘I can imagine.’ Halstead snorted in disbelief, but he didn’t press. ‘How long will you be in the country?’

‘Richard,’ Clare said, ‘they will be here for as long as needed. They are in mission mode. The only request we have is ... let your people not shoot them by mistake.’

‘I have put the word out. The entire police force is aware there’s an American team assisting us. They think you are some shadowy FBI team. So, the Russians?’

‘We don’t know, sir,’ Zeb said. ‘It could be them ... why, beats me. Or it could be someone making it look like them.’

16

The café in Mayfair was the kind that attracted either the super-rich or those who valued their privacy.

It had large, darkened windows that overlooked the street. Those outside couldn’t see into the café, but the patrons had a great view of the quiet Mayfair street in Central London.

It didn’t have a signboard. It didn’t advertise itself. It was well known among the clientele it served and that gave it sufficient business to continue providing its services in privacy.

No paparazzi stood outside the outfit since the media weren’t aware of its existence. The place didn’t have cameras and relied on its staff to respect customer privacy.

It was Rostov’s favorite joint in London.

He sat by a window in a tailored navy suit, his dark hair neatly combed back, as he read the folded newspaper in front of him. He was clean-shaven and had the air of someone important.

He sipped from the small cup of espresso and turned the page slowly.

He read the reporting about the riots, the statements from the Met and the Prime Minister, and the panicked and angered interviews from civilians.

He checked the stock market and noted in satisfaction at how much the British pound had fallen against the US dollar.

Yes, things were progressing as he expected.

Except for Barry Whelan.

He gazed absentmindedly at the street outside. A Rolls Royce stopped in front of the café and an elegant woman climbed out of it and entered the joint.

I had to kill Whelan. He made too many mistakes. I don’t tolerate mistakes.

Carter. It was the American who was closing in on Whelan. It was a matter of time before he found the South African.

Rostov forked up one of the delicate pastries and ate it, feeling the flavor spread deliciously in his mouth.

Whelan shouldn’t have let Brenner die. We could have gotten the German to finish his software. He didn’t even tell us about its architecture.

It was an inconvenience, but one Rostov could work with. He knew someone who could take Brenner’s algorithm and finish what he wanted.

In my field, one has to adapt. And he, Rostov, was a master at that.

He thought of Carter. He had heard of a secretive American team training with E Squadron. There were very few matters that Rostov’s intelligence network couldn’t find.

He hadn’t given it much thought. There were many such American outfits and training with the Brits was normal for them.

His radar had pinged, however, when Whelan had told him of the skirmish in the Westminster pub. The South African had identified Carter when Rostov had shown him a rare photograph of the American.

Rostov had stilled at that.

Carter was in London. In England.

And he was very much involved in the hunt for the rioters.

From then on, Rostov had set traps for the American. Nothing very obvious, but he had laid the trail to Lorraine Parker and had left Whelan’s phone on his body. His mercenaries hadn’t been successful at either location.

He hadn’t known of the shooter at Fenton’s place. Whelan did that. He planted that man after killing Jimmy and Bradshaw.

The shooter was an amateur. Rostov had gotten Whelan to kill the man and dispose of his body and had told him to focus on his tasks.

You don’t send a single shooter after Carter. You send an entire team. The best team money can buy.

Rostov’s teams had failed at Parker’s place and in Berlin, too. He wasn’t worried about those. He had gotten both sets of shooters killed and disposed of. He had more killers at his command.

He wasn’t worried that Carter would work out that he was being played.

Let him. Let’s see how far he gets. He smiled.

A woman at the opposite table smiled back.

Rostov ignored her. He enjoyed toying with the Americans. It wasn’t in his brief. His paymasters wouldn’t approve of it.

He didn’t care.

He would kill Carter, but if his team got that job done, he wouldn’t mind.

He was confident that even if his shooters got Carter’s team, the man himself would escape.

He’s that good.

And then I’ll be waiting for him.

Rostov checked the stock market index and the exchange rate on his phone again.

Both were heading in the desired direction.

Downwards.

He finished his espresso, paid the bill and went to a nearby garage where he had parked his SUV.

He drove to Hampshire, on countryside roads and past the gated compounds of the rich and the privileged.

The county in southeast England attracted the wealthiest in the country and from overseas for its countryside, proximity to the coast, and excellent transportation links to London.

Saudi, Indian, Chinese, and Russian billionaires had their homes there, along with British multi-millionaires. Many of those privileged few regularly made the annual Sunday Times Rich List.

Rostov was heading to see one of those billionaires.

His SUV crunched on gravel as he approached the security gates of a country home.

He lowered his window and let the guards check him against a roster, inspect his ride, and then he was inside.

He drove up an elegant driveway in an exquisite garden and rolled up to a movie-style porch.

The butler was waiting for him. Uniformed. Dark-haired. Middle-aged. Lean.

‘This way, sir.’ The man bowed.

Rostov followed.

The interior of the house was as opulent as the exterior. Vaulted ceilings, gleaming chandeliers, and walls adorned with priceless art.

The butler led him up a grand staircase, the thick Persian carpet muffling their steps. At the end of a long corridor, he opened a pair of mahogany doors and stepped aside.

The drawing room was warm and richly decorated.

A man at the window, drinking coffee. He turned as Rostov entered.

He was in his sixties, his silver hair neatly combed, his business suit elegant.

‘Nikolai.’ Rostov shook his hand.

‘Rostov.’ The billionaire returned his shake. ‘This is about the delays, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’

‘It’s not that simple. The British government is watching everyone right now. A new administration, new scrutiny—especially on foreign nationals. Every transaction is being dissected.’

‘Why do I get the impression you aren’t interested in what I am offering?’

‘I am not. I thought you would understand that from⁠—’

‘I didn’t expect you to play games with me. If you weren’t interested, you should have told me.’

Nikolai wasn’t used to being talked to in such a manner. It showed in the hardening of his eyes.

Rostov didn’t care. Billionaires were a means to accomplishing his goals. He had the right set of tools to use on them.

‘Do you know how many assets I have to liquidate to raise that kind of money?’

‘There are others who are doing that.’

‘I am not them. I think your plan is foolhardy. The British Government isn’t stupid. There are smart ministers and civil servants who will find out about all this⁠—’

‘Stop.’

‘This is my house! The walls don’t have ears here.’

‘I am not going to discuss this anymore. You have decided?’

‘Yes. I won’t be part of it.’

‘You know how unhappy that will make some people?’

Nikolai’s eyes flashed. ‘That life is behind me.’

‘It never is.’ Rostov shoved the man without warning.

A hard push against his chest that sent the older man flailing, crying out and crashing out of the window.

Rostov leaned out and watched him fall.

The billionaire’s body landed heavily and didn’t move.

Rostov knew how high the floor was. He had known of the cobblestone walkway down below. He had planned meticulously.

He adjusted the coffee cup on the window sill with his gloved hand, went out of the room and down the stairs.

The butler was waiting with an impassive expression.

Rostov nodded at him.

The butler nodded back.

The butler would take care of everything.

Rostov made a call once in his SUV.

‘Wipe the security footage. Every trace of my presence.’

‘Yes,’ the voice replied.

He drove back to London.

His thoughts swung back to Carter.

Where can I draw him out next?

Yorkshire, he decided. Let him tour England while he’s alive.

17

It was raining by the time Zeb and the twins returned to Hereford.

‘Some kind of storm,’ Beth yelled as she covered her head with her poncho, jumped out of the Land Rover before Zeb had even brought it to a full stop, and dashed inside their accommodation.

‘She can go up against the most lethal operatives, but a few drops of rain break her.’ Meghan smirked as she strolled to the building.

Zeb hurried inside, dried himself with a towel and took the tea that Curtis had brewed.

‘Honey in it,’ E Squadron operative said. ‘From my family farm. I’ve got a few jars left.’

Zeb sipped with a grateful sigh and leaned back, only to find everyone staring at him expectantly. ‘What?’

‘What went down in London?’ Bwana growled. ‘Do we need to spell it out?’

‘You can imagine how it went,’ Beth chuckled. She caught them up and finished with, ‘Halstead wasn’t happy. He doesn’t think the Met is doing enough.’

‘No surprises there,’ Meghan said, adding an extra dollop of honey to her tea and stirring it. ‘He tore into the officers, but I have sympathy for them. The Met is working several angles. They’re under-resourced and getting pressure from all sides—the government, the public, the media. I don’t envy them.’

‘Anything new come up?’ Terry asked, crunching a cookie loudly.

‘No, except that Clare asked us to remain in mission mode.’

‘Which we are.’ Beth smirked.

‘There’s more trouble,’ Mike said gloomily. ‘Protests in Yorkshire tonight.’

‘Why?’ Zeb frowned. I missed that. I haven’t followed the news in a while.

‘There’s an ongoing investigation into gangs grooming women.’ Shadows played on Jack’s face as he went to the sink to wash his mug. ‘A few British Pakistanis have been involved. The media thinks the police are dragging their feet because they don’t want to antagonize the local communities⁠—’

‘Yeah, Yorkshire’s got a lot of them.’ Curtis nodded. ‘I mean, British Pakistanis,’ he added hastily.

That drew smiles and laughs.

‘My mom’s favorite butcher was a British Pakistani.’

‘The media played up the slowness of the investigations,’ Jack resumed. ‘Things came to a head tonight. A few shop windows were broken. A taxi driver’s car was set on fire.’

‘Whelan?’ Broker asked sharply.

‘He’s dead.’ Jack shrugged.

‘He or the shot-callers might have recruited others,’ Meera pointed out.

‘Yes. But I’m sure the police will look into that.’

‘Any update on Brenner?’ Roger smoothed a crease in his jeans.

‘He was working on a universal algorithm. We know that now from the German police’s investigation,’ Beth replied. ‘It was a neat piece of software. It could be used in any security operation with just a few changes to assets and databases. He was looking to deploy it at SEFE.’

‘What’s special about it?’ Bear frowned.

‘A lot of these algorithms are proprietary. Each organization writes them to suit their needs. But Brenner’s software didn’t need all that. Any outfit needing security could take his software and customize it by changing a few assets, tweaking the database … you wouldn’t understand the deets. He was a genius,’ Meghan said, waving her screen in the air as if the rest of the Agency and E Squadron teams could see the algorithm.

‘Whelan killed him for that?’ Curtis asked doubtfully.

‘Whelan—or whoever killed him—possibly,’ the elder sister acknowledged. ‘Brenner didn’t intend to open-source it. He wanted to share it with a trusted group who could deploy it in their organizations. It would be very valuable in the right hands—or the wrong ones.’

‘What she isn’t saying,’ Beth drawled, ‘is that the algorithm can override existing security software. If SEFE already has a good setup, this algorithm—coded and deployed properly—could take over and control the security network ... heck, the entire gas network.’

‘So, Whelan could own SEFE’s network,’ Zeb said, sitting up.

‘In theory. Brenner didn’t finish his algorithm. Only parts of it are on his local and cloud drives. The German police are still investigating. We’ve got Werner snooping too. We’ve found a few online forums where Brenner was active, under aliases.’ She patted her screen. ‘Give Werner and the Germans time.’

Jack made to speak when his phone rang. ‘Yeah, mate ... sir!’ he corrected himself hastily.

Brimshaw, Zeb guessed. He watched the captain listen as a frown spread across his face.

‘Us, sir? What about the local police? There will be units closer in other cities.’

More listening. More frowning. ‘Yorkshire’s several hours away from here, sir. By the time we reach ... we could take the helis. Yes, sir.’

Mike stood up before the call ended, gesturing to Curtis and Terry, who rose too.

‘What’s up?’ Bear asked when the call ended.

‘We’ve got to deploy to Yorkshire⁠—’

‘Yeah, mate, we worked that out. What’s there, and why us?’ Mike interrupted.

‘A defense facility outside Ripon. That’s a small town in North Yorkshire. MI5 picked up chatter that it’s going to be attacked.’

‘When did E Squadron become an asset protection unit?’ Terry fumed.

‘Since this country turned to sh—’ Jack caught himself and exhaled heavily. ‘The closest armed-response police units are in Leeds and Sheffield. They’re already tied up with crowd control. There seem to be protests all over the country tonight. Regular officers won’t cut it if this turns into a fight.’

‘These are villagers we’re talking about. They’re going to roll their tractors to the defense site?’

‘The Room doesn’t want to take risks. I can see their point.’

‘What about the military?’

‘RAF Menwith Hill is the nearest base, but they don’t have ground teams ready to deploy,’ Jack said. ‘And the local police don’t have enough numbers. We were the only ones available with the right skill set.’

‘You said something about helis,’ Curtis reminded him.

‘Yes, we’ll take the birds.’

‘Mind if we tag along?’ Zeb asked. He didn’t need to ask the rest of his team. Bwana’s fist pump and the sisters’ shining eyes confirmed he’d made the right offer.

‘We’d love some company,’ Jack drawled. ‘You know the rules of engagement⁠—’

‘No engagement unless we’re in danger ... or civilians are at risk.’

‘Correct. I’ll get it cleared with Brimshaw. He shouldn’t object.’

‘What’s special about this site?’ Zeb asked over comms once Liam, their aviator, lifted off from Hereford. The E Squadron chopper was to their two o’clock.

‘Weapons research,’ Jack replied. ‘Advanced targeting systems. Classified projects. That’s all I know. A Chinese spy was arrested some months ago trying to infiltrate the place.’

Hitting that site now, when the country is drowning in protests and law enforcement is spread thin, makes sense, Zeb mused as he gazed out of the glass canopy. It’s in a remote part of the country.

The rain wasn’t helping.

It blanketed the land, shimmering in silvery streams as it ran off the rotor blades and disappeared into the night.

A few headlights dotted the motorways below—the major highways crisscrossing the country.

Lights twinkled in various towns and cities below. Beth whispered their names into the comms. Birmingham, Derby, Sheffield—places they’d visited, their English names sounding almost musical.

‘How many staff at the site?’ Zeb asked.

‘About a hundred-and-fifty work there. But there’s only the security team and a cleaning crew at night. Maybe twenty,’ Jack replied.

‘How do we get to the site from wherever we touch down?’ Meera asked.

‘Two big SUVs will be waiting for us,’ Jack explained. ‘The site’s security team has arranged the vehicles.’

They touched down fifteen minutes later outside Sharrow, the village closest to the defense site, landing on a dirt track.

‘The A61, the major road to Ripon, is over there.’ Jack pointed to their eleven o’clock.

Zeb peered into the darkness and saw the faint glow in the sky. Must be from that road.

He ignored the rain beating down on them. They were used to worse conditions. He conducted a 360-degree sweep, taking in the surrounding terrain.

‘Welcome to Yorkshire, mate.’ Mike’s teeth flashed in a grin. ‘Rain is guaranteed. Sunshine is the occasional bonus.’

‘It’s one of the best parts of the country,’ Curtis protested.

Jack clapped his hands for silence and pointed to the silhouettes of vehicles on the road.

The helis took off with a clatter, and the teams sprinted to the waiting rides.

Zeb climbed behind the wheel of one. Some kind of modified Land Rover, he guessed.

He fired up the engine and sped down the muddy track once his team was seated.

‘Bird’s in the air,’ Beth announced as she launched her drone.

‘That’s the site.’ Meghan pointed to a cluster of lights and buildings as the tree line opened up.

Less than a mile away, Zeb estimated.

He followed Jack’s taillights, noting the open fields surrounding the facility.

Sharrow lay to their left. The kind of village with one main street, stone houses, and narrow roads snaking off into farmland. It would have a pub and a church—both part of the social fabric in the neighborhood.

As they neared the facility, Zeb lowered his window. A blast of cold air and rain made him grimace.

A high concrete wall topped with barbed wire surrounded the site. Sentry platforms stood tall at regular intervals.

‘Feels like a prison,’ Chloe observed.

‘It was one.’ Jack chuckled. ‘The defense company bought it when the prison moved to another location.’

Shouting grew louder as they approached the front gate.

They rounded a curve in the dirt track and came into view of the facility.

Tall iron doors opening onto a tar road that joined the A61 some distance away. Floodlights. Security personnel in uniforms, wielding plexiglass shields.

Opposite them, separated by portable metal barriers, stood a group of protesters in raincoats and ponchos.

The protesters cursed, banged on drums and pans, and waved placards in the rain.

No Bombs!

Arrest the Groomers!

Police are corrupt!

They must think we’re cops, Zeb thought, sizing up the crowd. About fifty of them. That’s big for a village the size of Sharrow.

He parked next to Jack’s vehicle.

‘I don’t think they’re all from the village,’ Meghan guessed his thoughts.

‘Whelan’s recruiters at work?’

‘Possible.’

Zeb turned his attention to the security personnel, noting their holstered weapons. ‘They’re licensed to be armed?’

‘Yes,’ Jack said, striding toward the guards. ‘Most of them are former military. The private security company is vetted by the Ministry of Defense.’

Zeb watched as Jack introduced himself to one of the security leads.

‘You see that water tank to our left?’ Beth said sharply.

Zeb spun to look. ‘Yeah. The one about two hundred yards away?’

‘Yeah. There’s a barn next to it.’

‘I see it. There’s a tree line⁠—’

‘SNIPER!’ she yelled. ‘ON THE WATER TANK. DRONE’S THERMAL PICKED IT UP⁠—’

The Land Rover’s window shattered.

Zeb felt a round buzz past his head.

He dove to the ground. ‘JACK!’ he roared, rolling to take cover behind the vehicle with the rest of his team.

‘I HEARD!’ the captain yelled back.

Jack unleashed his HK and fired into the air.

Smart, Zeb thought. That’s the quickest way to scatter the protesters.

The villagers screamed and broke ranks. The security personnel dove behind a glass barrier.

The E Squadron team crouch-ran to their Land Rover.

‘Two shooters,’ Beth said rapidly. ‘One on the tank, the other in the farmhouse. We’ve got an open stretch of road to get to them. They can pick us off.’

‘Anyone bring grenade launchers?’ Roger, a grin in his voice despite the circumstances.

‘We left ours back in Hereford,’ Meghan spat.

‘We didn’t bring them either,’ Jack added grimly.

Rounds spanged off their vehicles and the gate.

‘I’ll get the security staff to go inside. They’ll be safer there,’ Jack panted, waving at the crouching men.

The guards retreated as he shouted orders, shutting the gate behind them.

‘Those shooters want us. They’re not firing at the villagers,’ Bwana observed.

‘Yeah.’ Zeb spat dirt from his mouth, a result of a round clipping the vehicle and slamming into the ground. ‘Jack, I’m driving up to the barn.’

‘We’ll provide cover,’ the captain responded.

‘I’ll do my thing,’ Bwana said, rolling out from shelter and firing a long burst at the water tank.

He ran at it, zigging and zagging.

He’s drawing their fire deliberately. It was a good tactical move. But it was risky. Zeb cursed and hustled into the driver’s seat. He started the Land Rover and sped down the track, veering off onto uneven terrain, ducking low as shots shattered the windshield.

He pulled alongside Bwana, who fell in behind the vehicle for cover.

‘ZEB!’ Beth warned over the comms.

Headlights flared from within the barn.

An SUV burst out, speeding toward them and spitting fire.

Zeb clenched the wheel, risking only occasional glances at the hostile vehicle. He jammed the accelerator, driving straight at it.

‘The tank sniper has dropped down,’ Meghan reported. ‘He’s gotten into the SUV.’

Zeb’s Land Rover jolted to a sudden stop, stuck in a furrow. The wheels spun uselessly in the mud.

The hostile SUV was now barely a hundred feet away, bouncing on uneven ground as it spun away from him and sped toward the main road.

Shots rang out from it, slamming into the Land Rover and the surrounding ground.

A round zipped over Zeb’s head, and then he felt a firm grip on his shoulder. He was yanked out of the driver’s seat by Bwana.

‘Anyone ever tell you to get out when it gets hot?’ Bwana’s grin lit up the night. He had come from the side, using the vehicle as cover.

‘I thought I could get the Land Rover to move,’ Zeb snapped.

‘That piece of junk isn’t like our ride. It’s stuck in a water-filled furrow.’

Only then did Zeb notice the wet soil they were mired in.

He risked a glance.

The hostile SUV was speeding down the road, shaking from the return fire.

Jack’s vehicle gave chase briefly, then turned around and returned.

‘No point chasing them,’ the captain said over comms. ‘I’ve alerted the police. Their escape might be a diversion to lure us away.’

They’ll disappear into the night, Zeb thought grimly. That’s what’s happened every other time. The police haven’t been able to track the shooters. Can’t blame them—these hostiles aren’t elite, but they know their tradecraft.

His boots squelched in the mud as he and Bwana trudged back to the tar road.

Broker, Roger, Bear, Chloe, and Meera split into two teams, clearing the barn and the water tank under the twins’ direction.

‘Their ride was covered with this,’ Meera panted when she returned, holding up a piece of fabric.

‘Camo protection,’ Meghan said, examining it. ‘That’s how the drone’s thermal cameras didn’t pick it up.’

‘Anyone hit?’ Zeb asked, scanning the approaching E Squadron team.

A chorus of nos answered him.

‘We don’t know about the villagers,’ Jack snarled. He broke away to speak urgently into his comms, then pounded on the gate, shouting at the security staff and the few police officers inside.

‘They don’t have much to tell us,’ he said tersely when he returned. ‘The protesters showed up around seven pm. They seemed harmless. The guards didn’t see the snipers or the SUV. Brimshaw will contact the local police to check on the villagers.’

‘What about the rest of the complex?’ Zeb gestured toward the high wall. ‘I didn’t see any patrols or guards while we were driving up.’

‘They’ve got cameras all around. They didn’t see the need to patrol it. This is Britain—no one attacks defense companies with guns.’

‘Until tonight.’ Curtis wiped his face.

‘Yeah,’ Zeb said thoughtfully. ‘They could have gotten me or Bwana. My ride was stuck in the mud.’

‘No, they couldn’t.’ Mike wiped his face with his hand. ‘The rest of us were shredding their vehicle. If I was them, I wouldn’t have wanted to risk getting stuck in slush. Turning tail was the right decision.’

Zeb nodded. ‘They wanted us. They didn’t seem to shoot at the villagers. Anyone count how many were in that SUV?’

‘Next time, I’ll hold my palm up to stop them and count,’ Roger promised dryly.

18

Roger’s remark barely raised a smile.

Jack bent his head, touched his earpiece, and stepped away to take a call.

The rain had eased to a drizzle.

They were drenched, their combat clothing sticking to them, their hair plastered to their heads, but none of them—either the Agency operatives or the E Squadron troops—moved for shelter.

Rain dripped off the captain’s chin as he listened intently, his cheeks hollowed.

‘Trouble?’ Zeb asked when he returned.

‘Brimshaw. Police are picking up movement. More villagers are heading this way, even in this weather. They’re angry. There’s chatter about a riot at the site.’

‘The cops have watchers?’ Chloe frowned.

‘Police,’ Mike corrected her absently. ‘Yes. In a way. These are small communities. They have trusted sources in the villages. Besides, with the riots, the police stations will be fully staffed.’

Zeb glanced at his watch. Ten pm.

The dark sky, drizzle, and the floodlights from the defense site made for a surreal scene. The barricades had fallen sideways. Placards and water bottles littered the road, abandoned by the villagers in their desperation to escape.

‘This doesn’t make sense.’ He shook his head. ‘How large are these villages, population-wise?’

‘Sharrock has around five hundred people. Most of the villages nearby are that size. Ripon is a town. About sixteen thousand folks.’ Curtis scratched his cheek. ‘I see where you’re going. This many people at this time of night in this weather …’

‘We know the rioters are being paid,’ Bear growled.

‘I know, mate, but why here, in the middle of nowhere?’

‘Was the site breached?’ Zeb cocked his head at Jack.

‘No.’ The captain shook his head. ‘One of the security staff carried out a physical check when they were inside.’

‘Vehicles!’ Beth called out. ‘Our drone sees several vans and cars coming this way, through Sharrock.’

They glanced at the road.

‘Chatter says the villagers think we fired at them.’ Jack adjusted his HK behind his back.

‘Someone is spreading false information.’ Meera slicked her hair back. ‘The protesters might believe it. They didn’t have a clear picture of what went down.’

Jack swore. ‘That’s all we need. A bunch of raging villagers out to attack us.’

‘Get our rides.’ Zeb sprinted to the mud where his Land Rover was stuck. ‘We’ll use them to form a barricade.’

‘Your ride is stuck,’ Bwana panted.

‘Help me.’

He got behind the wheel.

Bear joined Bwana, and the two of them pushed the vehicle until it finally got traction and lurched out of the soft ground onto the tar road.

Jack had brought his ride and parked it sideways.

Zeb navigated his to face the captain’s.

Two Land Rovers stretched facing each other, but their lengths weren’t enough to block the road.

Can’t do anything more, Zeb thought as he hurried back to join his team.

‘Here they come,’ Chloe murmured.

They spread out, forming a loose perimeter in front of the gate.

Behind them, the site’s security team huddled, shielded by their plexiglass.

Jack rapped out orders to the private force and swung back toward them. ‘No guns. Non-lethal force only if they become violent.’

Zeb couldn’t help grinning at the sight of a tractor rocking onto the road.

His grin faded when he saw it was towing a trailer packed with people.

All of them are young, in their twenties or thirties. All men.

Ten vehicles.

About sixty people.

Doors slammed.

The protesters emerged, shouting.

No placards this time.

The convoy rumbled to a stop just beyond the barriers.

Doors slammed.

They charged forward.

‘Scum!’

‘Filth!’

‘Pigs!’

‘Get out of our village!’

‘Watch out,’ Bwana whispered.

A bottle arced toward them and landed harmlessly behind them, shattering into jagged shards. More flew at their Land Rovers, bouncing off their hoods and shattering against them.

Broker flinched when a Molotov landed near him.

The protesters charged, running around the vehicles, some of them climbing over them.

Many were empty-handed, but some wielded clubs. Zeb thought he saw a few knives and broken bottles.

No, these aren’t peaceful protesters.

‘Hold the line!’ Jack barked.

A man in a soaked jacket lunged at Curtis.

‘Not today, mate.’ The E Squadron trooper ducked underneath his swing and tripped him onto the road.

Zeb took a punch to the chest. He saw the glint of a blade wielded by a wild-eyed man. He jabbed his palm against the thug’s throat—a controlled blow that got the attacker to back off, gasping, his knife dropping.

Zeb kicked it away. Ducked underneath the swing of a club. Punched a man in the groin.

He was caught from behind in a bear hug.

He reared up and kicked out with both feet at an approaching protester.

He was dropped.

He landed on his feet, spun around to take on whoever had tackled him from behind, and saw Bwana, large and resolute, punching away at the attacker.

‘You’re welcome,’ his friend said tersely.

Jack caught a protester by the shirt as he tried to race past them to the gate, got his hands around the man’s waist, and hurled him back at the crowd.

‘Beth!’ Zeb rapped out. ‘Keep an eye on the drone⁠—’

‘Yeah,’ she drawled. ‘I’m not getting involved in that scrap. No other hostiles in sight. No snipers. Only these thugs.’

The rioters were many, the operatives were few, but the latter had training on their side.

Zeb saw the E Squadron operators had brought out batons, swinging them with ruthless efficiency.

He caught a charging man and punched him back. He glimpsed Chloe pinned down by two men, but then Meera was leaping on them, clubbing both, and the two women recovered to take on the protesters.

Bear was a wall.

A rioter swung a club at him—Bear caught it midair, ripped it from the man’s grasp, and threw it aside before driving his shoulder into the attacker’s chest, knocking him flat.

Meghan and Broker stood shoulder-to-shoulder, using their bodies to block the charges, ducking, punching, and jabbing, all the while taking hits as well.

Their line held.

Barely.

‘We can’t last!’ Zeb yelled as he dove at a man who had slipped past them.

He brought the man down, the two of them rolling on the tar road.

Zeb caught his hair and smashed his face on the ground, then caught the ankle of another attacker and yanked savagely, bringing him down as well.

He saw a man thrust a knife at Roger’s back.

Zeb lunged over to slap the jab away and knuckle-punched the attacker in his throat.

‘I know!’ Jack gasped into his comms. ‘Reinforcements—’ He broke off to swear.

Sweat and rain streamed down Zeb’s face.

A Molotov arced through the air and landed near him.

He picked it up without thinking and tossed it back at the bunch of rioters.

One of them screamed.

He charged at them.

Terry joined him.

The E Squadron man wielded his club.

Zeb punched away. No science or technique was needed when the rioters were crowded that close.

Someone howled.

Meera yelled.

He swiveled his head to check on her. She was holding her ground.

He took a punch to the face. Rocked back from its impact.

Kneed the attacker in the groin.

Meghan appeared in his peripheral vision. Hair tucked tight. Face set. Using elbows and raised forearms to block and protect her face and using her knees to jab and her feet to kick.

A man caught her around the waist.

She reared up, twisted, and brought her elbow down on his head.

He howled and let her go.

She landed balletically and tripped another attacker.

Jack was with Mike, both having grabbed a plexiglass shield each, using those to push back the rioters with controlled jabs and shoves.

A rioter lunged at them with a broken bottle.

The captain blocked it with his shield and kicked the man in the groin.

The rain made everything slick, turning the road slippery.

We can’t fall. They’ll be on top of us if we do, Zeb thought when he was shoved.

He turned to see a heavyset man barreling toward him with an iron bar. He barely had time to react before the man swung.

Zeb ducked and slammed his shoulder into the attacker’s belly, driving him backward. The man stumbled.

Zeb shoved him to the ground and stamped hard on his wrist.

The man howled and let go of the bar.

Zeb kicked it beneath a vehicle. ‘Where the heck are the reinforcements?’ he snarled.

‘On the way,’ Jack panted.

A Molotov arced through the air.

It went through the shattered windshield of Zeb’s Land Rover. Its seat lit.

The drizzle will douse it.

Chloe stumbled against him. ‘This wasn’t in your recruiting spiel when you approached Bear and me,’ she panted as she slapped an attacker and shoved him back.

‘This is the bonus,’ he retorted, wincing when a thug punched him in the belly.

He kicked the man in retaliation, and he and Chloe shoved him backward.

Sirens pierced the air.

Flashing blue lights became visible.

The rioters lost their momentum.

The Agency and E Squadron operators regained their line.

Officers swarmed out of vans wielding batons and shields.

They were brutal. They were efficient.

The mob tried to fight back, but they were no match for trained riot control.

They were crowded together in minutes and hustled into larger vans.

‘Injuries?’ Zeb snapped, wiping his face.

‘I hurt all over,’ Bear groaned.

He grinned at Zeb’s sharp look. ‘I’m good.’

‘Me too,’ Bwana rumbled.

‘Same.’ Broker rubbed his knuckles.

‘We’re good, mate,’ Jack replied.

‘That was a fine mess,’ Terry said.

Zeb grinned. Brits and their understatement. ‘Those weren’t ordinary protesters.’

‘No,’ Jack agreed. ‘Those were paid thugs.’

The captain turned as a police officer approached.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ the officer said.

‘Appreciate it.’

Meera came to them.

‘What?’ Zeb read her expression.

‘One of them … I heard him speaking Mandarin.’

19

Mandarin!

Zeb whipped his head around to the police vans, but they had left, leaving a few officers behind who joined the private security team at the gate.

A van drove up. An elderly couple in ponchos climbed out.

‘They don’t look like rioters,’ Bwana whispered, but the Agency operatives spread out, nevertheless.

Jack went to the couple, spoke to them for long moments, and returned with a thermos and several paper cups. ‘They own that barn. They didn’t hear what went down. They were alerted when a neighbor woke them up to check out their barn.’ He held up the thermos. ‘Tea. They are sorry on behalf of the village.’

Zeb took a filled cup and drank gratefully, the beverage spreading warmth through him. He watched the twins, Meera and Chloe, go to the couple, talk animatedly, hug them and return.

‘Peace has returned to Sharrock.’ The RAW agent grinned.

‘A kind of peace,’ Beth agreed. ‘Bert and Trish, that’s them, say most of the rioters were strangers or from other villages. The whole of Sharrock was shocked at the first protest a few weeks ago. They informed the police but feel the cops didn’t act.’

‘Mistrust on both sides.’ Jack drank. ‘Mandarin,’ he reminded them.

Meera nodded. ‘I am sure that’s what I heard.’

Roger crumpled his cup and threw it in a plastic bag for waste collection. ‘I wasn’t stopping to check faces, but there might’ve been a few Chinese-looking guys in the mix. Hard to say.’

Bear shrugged. ‘Same here. I didn’t think much at the time.’

Beth made an irritated sound, finished her drink in a long swallow, tossed the empty cup to Roger and reached for her screen. Her fingers danced on it. ‘Our drone’s still in the air. YES! There were a few Chinese-looking thugs.’

‘MSS?’ Zeb bent down to tie his laces. ‘What do they gain by attacking this site? If they wanted to spy on it, there are better ways.’

China’s Ministry of State Security, MSS, was the country’s primary intelligence, security and counter-intelligence arm. We have gone against it several times. It’s as lethal and powerful as some of the US agencies. He straightened.

The Chinese outfit had big budgets and ambitions and carried out covert missions in several countries around the world.

‘Could be part of something bigger,’ Meghan said. ‘Create unrest, weaken security, then move in for whatever they really want.’

Terry folded his arms. ‘Maybe it was a spy op. A distraction while they did something else.’

Jack shook his head. ‘Then it was the clumsiest op I’ve ever seen. MSS doesn’t do riots. They do precision. They do stealth. Let’s wait for what the police find out from their questioning.’

Zeb looked up at the sky as the drizzle intensified. If those were MSS operatives, the cops will find nothing. Those men will have good identities. They’ll be British Chinese and claim they were protesting rightfully and got carried away.

‘You can summon our birds?’ he asked Jack.

‘You’ve got some place to be?’

‘Hereford.’

‘What’s there?’

‘Dry clothes and a warm bed.’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. He relaxed into a laugh. ‘And hot chocolate. Yes. There’s nothing keeping us here anymore. I’ll get our helis.’

‘What’s on your mind?’ Meghan asked Zeb when they were up in the air half an hour later.

‘Find out what MSS is up to. See if they are involved.’

‘Liang Fong?’ She snapped her fingers.

‘Who’s that?’ Jack, puzzled, on their comms.

‘A high-level MSS asset—’ Beth began.

‘YOU HAVE AN MSS ASSET AND YOU DIDN’T TELL US?’ Jack yelled.

Zeb grinned. Go on, explain, he mouthed at the younger sister.

‘He isn’t your regular double-agent kind of spy.’ She rolled her eyes at the captain’s reaction. ‘He’s high up in the MSS. A political and financial analyst who reports to Beijing directly.’

‘He’s a spy?’

‘No. We checked that out with other MSS assets we have. He used to run agents, but not in Britain.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Yeah. We would have reported him to you a long while ago if we suspected he ran operations.’

‘So, why will he talk to you? What kind of asset is he?’

‘Zeb saved his daughter’s life in New York. A while ago.’

‘Bwana and I were returning from dinner when Jenna Fong was attacked by some muggers,’ Zeb began. ‘They …’

‘They didn’t get to attack her,’ the African American rasped. ‘They won’t attack anyone again. We made sure of that.’

‘We didn’t know who she was at the time. We made sure she returned to her digs. She was studying in SUNY, State University of New York. Fong reached out to us a few weeks later,’ Zeb continued. ‘He was in Germany then. Running operations. He wanted to meet, to express his gratitude. We found out who he really was before our meeting.’

‘He must have been shocked when you told him you were the Agency.’ Curtis chuckled.

‘Yeah. He thought we had set his daughter up. It took some convincing on our part. It finally got through to him that if we wanted to use her as leverage, we could have done that ages ago. We told him we could expose him and get him arrested … or he could cooperate. He said he was getting out of the missions business and was going for a desk job in Britain. An analyst. He doesn’t have a wife. His daughter is his only family. He wanted her safe. We got her a job. We fast-tracked her citizenship⁠—’

‘The condition being he shares intel with you,’ Mike guessed.

‘Yeah. He does, whatever comes across his desk. We share it with you folks and our European allies.’

‘Happiness all around,’ Terry snarked.

Zeb laughed. ‘Fong has become sort of a friend. I think he wants out of MSS. Not yet, but in a few years, and will be looking at us for help. We’ll see. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

‘Why can’t this meeting happen over the phone?’ Jack asked.

‘Safer in person. Fong’s paranoid about electronic surveillance.’

‘He’s in London?’

‘In Manchester.’

Zeb drove out of Hereford the next day by himself.

He took the A49 to Shrewsbury, and then joined the M6, a motorway, which then led to the M60, another motorway that reached into Manchester.

The fourth-largest city in the country, on its northwest coast. A city once known for its textile mills and engineering, it had been devastated after WWII and had regenerated since then. Its skyline was now a mix of red-brick warehouses and sleek towers.

A city of soccer, he thought as he entered the city. Football, he corrected himself. That’s what it’s called in the rest of the world. Two major clubs in the city, dividing its people on their support, and at the same time, uniting them through their love for the sport.

He pulled onto Deansgate, the long stretch of road cutting through the city center. His meeting was at The Jade Lantern, a small Cantonese tea house tucked into Faulkner Street in Chinatown.

He didn’t go in right away.

He parked, drew his jacket collar up, donned his shades, and window-shopped.

He pretended to take photographs as he sauntered in no hurry.

The rain had stopped overnight, but the streets were still slick, shining, reflecting the colorful windows of hospitality joints and stores.

Zeb checked out Faulkner Street for more than half an hour, ignoring Fong’s calls.

He returned to the tea house and lounged against it, making a show of checking his phone.

The joint was small, less than ten tables. It had large windows through which he could look in.

The MSS agent was at the far end, looking impatiently at his phone. He got up and was making for the door when Zeb entered the joint.

‘You took your time.’

‘I was making sure neither of us was being followed.’

‘No one is following me. I am sure.’

Zeb studied the agent. He was in his forties. Silvery-gray short hair. Narrow face. Restless eyes. Veined hands and fingers that tapped the table.

An empty cup of tea in front of him.

He gave his order to the server and slid his phone over, screen up.

Fong studied the photograph.

‘Scroll right. There are more men.’

The sisters had isolated the Chinese-looking men from the drone footage. None of them were in any database.

‘Who are they?’ the MSS agent asked.

‘That’s my question to you.’

Fong studied him. His nervous tics, signs of his impatience, disappeared. He settled in his chair and returned to the photographs.

‘No.’ He shook his head finally. ‘They are not ours. They aren’t any contractors we use.’

‘You never got around to giving us files on your agents.’

‘We agreed. I will pass on information which I can safely⁠—’

‘Relax, Liang,’ Zeb said in Mandarin. ‘You need to develop a sense of humor.’

‘Why are you asking me about them?’ Fong asked, instead.

‘They attacked a defense site yesterday.’

The MSS agent stilled. ‘Was it breached?’

‘No.’

‘Bù, zhè bù shì wǒmen de xíngdòng.’ No, this isn’t our operation, Fong said softly. ‘MSS isn’t targeting any such place.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Yes. Right now, the only active operation is me. Making reports. All our agents have been withdrawn and deputed to America. You have a new president. There’s a lot of uncertainty. We have to focus there.’

‘There might be operations you may not be aware of.’

‘I will find out.’ He wet his lips. ‘If I knew of this, I would have informed you.’

‘I know that.’

Zeb left before Fong. Another round of counter-surveillance before returning to his Land Rover.

Yeah, he thought to himself as he reached the M56. I believe Fong. It’s unlikely MSS would have an operation in the country that he doesn’t know of.

Evening traffic was heavy, and it took an hour for him to reach the M6.

He overtook slow trucks and stayed in the middle lane. Driving with one hand on the wheel, his mind still on the previous night’s violence and the meeting with the MSS agent.

A pair of headlights raced up from the right, the overtaking lane.

He glanced at it and focused on the road.

A large truck to his left, bearing the logo of a supermarket chain.

The usual mix of traffic. Commuters. Delivery vehicles. Families.

The car on his right was a black sedan.

Tinted windows.

That held his attention.

In Britain, it’s unusual to have darkened windows at the front too.

Zeb kept alternating, looking at it and the motorway. Both hands on the wheel.

He wasn’t tense. There was nothing to alarm him. Dark front windows were rare. They weren’t banned.

The shotgun window lowered a crack.

GUN! His inner voice yelled when he spotted the barrel.

He slammed the brake and spun the wheel hard.

TRUCK TO YOUR LEFT!

A round bounced off the Land Rover’s hood, peeling paint, leaving a dent and disappearing somewhere to his left.

Horns behind him blared.

His Land Rover spun and nearly rammed into the truck’s wheels before he controlled it and eased into the left lane, the slower one.

More angry honking.

A car driver lowered his window, yelled something incomprehensible, and disappeared.

Zeb went on the hard shoulder.

He cursed himself. My mind was elsewhere. I should have been paying attention to the road. I didn’t even note the car’s plate.

He checked the mark on the hood.

Yeah, that definitely was a round. He hadn’t imagined it.

He straightened suddenly.

FONG!

He dialed the MSS agent. No response.

He kept trying as he returned to the motorway and accelerated.

Took the next exit and got back on the M6, back to Manchester.

Still no response from Fong.

‘Beth!’ He got the younger sister on the first dial. ‘Can you track down Fong?’

None of the usual snark from her. She sensed the urgency in his voice. Keys clicked. ‘He’s in a Chinese supermarket on Cheetham Hill Road.’

‘Phone’s showing⁠—’

‘That he’s shopping, yeah. I’ve sent you the coordinates.’

He got the message an instant later and punched it in the navigation system.

The Land Rover surged forward, the battery pumping out more power to the wheels.

He turned on the high beam to alert drivers ahead of him, saw an opening and slid into the fast lane.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘I was shot at.’ He briefed her swiftly.

‘Get to Fong.’ Meghan came on the line. ‘We’ll keep trying him as well. We’ll also check if any traffic cameras captured the hostile vehicle.’

Back in Manchester, fighting traffic.

He forced himself to stay calm.

Tore through several red lights.

I’ll get Jack to deal with my traffic tickets.

Reached Cheetham Hill Road. Parked illegally on double-yellow lines and sprang out.

Sprinted down the street, his right hand close to his jacket.

Entered the supermarket.

Aisles of food on shelving on either side of walkways.

The smells of incense and soothing music on speakers.

He rushed past shoppers, checking them swiftly.

Reached the end.

His lips tightened. No Fong.

A toilet flushed.

A discreet door opened.

The MSS agent emerged. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Whom did you inform?’ Zeb hissed

‘Inform about?’

‘Our meeting!’

‘No one! Why’re you asking me that?’

Zeb snatched the phone from his hand and scrolled through it. Only one call on it since his meeting.

That’s his daughter’s number. He recognized it.

‘You were talking to your daughter?’ He handed the phone back.

‘Yes. Is that a problem?’

Zeb wiped sweat from his face. His breathing returned to normal. ‘You didn’t see my calls?’

‘I had my headphones. My phone was in my pocket. I was shopping.’ He jerked his head to a basket on the floor. ‘What’s this about?’

‘I was shot at when returning.’

Fong took a moment to register the words and then he wet his lips, a nervous gesture. ‘I don’t snitch. I don’t play the double or triple agent game.’

Zeb squeezed his shoulder in understanding. ‘I had to be sure.’

‘I know. I know how this game is played. I didn’t betray you.’

‘Someone knew of our meeting.’

20

‘How did it happen?’ Fong asked as he added a loaf of bread to his basket.

Zeb checked the supermarket casually. It wasn’t large—a little bigger than a basketball court.

It offered everything from groceries to imported meats. Couples, families, and single people browsed through the aisles with uniformed staff helping them in Mandarin.

‘One car. Black sedan. It overtook me and shot. I swerved,’ he explained in a low voice as they went up the aisle, making it look like two friends catching up.

‘How did they know it was you?’

‘That’s the million-dollar question.’

‘Could it be mistaken identity?’

‘Possible. But we don’t believe in coincidences in our business.’

‘No one followed me,’ Fong said as he inspected packets of noodles and selected one. It went into his basket. ‘I’m sure of that.’

Zeb nodded absently. He caught snatches of the Chinese language spoken in a Mancunian accent—the way the residents of the city and its surroundings spoke. The U.S. isn’t the only melting pot in the world.

‘Something funny?’ Fong asked sharply when he noticed Zeb’s smile.

‘Stay alert,’ Zeb told the MSS agent. ‘Do you have your burner with you?’

‘Shi.’ Yes. The Chinese man thrust his chest forward to show the outline of a phone in his breast pocket.

‘Call me. Watch your six.’

‘You let me know if you find out anything about those shooters … if they’re connected to me.’

‘I will.’ They are. There’s no way anyone knew I would be on the motorway. He kept silent, however. No point scaring him. He’s jumpy as it is.

He left Fong and went through the supermarket, selecting a few items before paying for them. At the exit, he stood in the doorway, watching the street outside.

No one loitered. Everyone was rushing to get home or wherever their destination was.

He dropped his purchases on a homeless man’s mat on the sidewalk and pulled out his phone.

‘Any way to check cameras—’ he began when Meghan answered.

‘Way ahead of you,’ she chortled. ‘You’re at the Cheetham Hill Road and Queens Road intersection. We’ve placed your phone there. That’s a busy crossroads with lots of street cameras. One of them has a view of the Chinese supermarket. Nothing suspicious that we can make out. How’s Fong?’

‘Worried. He insists he wasn’t followed.’

‘His tradecraft is outdated. He’s a desk jockey now.’

‘That’s what I figured, too. I’m staying back tonight to follow him.’

‘We knew you’d do that. There’s an Uber driver on Queens Road. A Toyota Prius.’ She read out the vehicle’s plate. ‘We’ve made an arrangement with him. He’ll lend you his ride for the night⁠—’

‘How—’

‘Genius-level thinking and moves,’ Beth snarked. ‘Don’t interrupt us when we’re on a roll. His name is Charlie. The Land Rover is where you parked it. No one’s interested in it. You know what to do, or do we have to spell it out for you?’

‘Yes, ma’am, I know what to do.’ He hung up on her laugh, went to the Land Rover, glanced around casually, and opened the trunk. He removed a large box from the hidden compartment below the floor mat.

He got into the rear seat and emerged fifteen minutes later with a different look. Gray hair, glasses, fleshy cheeks, and a wool zippered sweater over his jacket. He returned the disguise kit to the trunk and went in search of Charlie.

The Uber driver was leaning against his ride, vaping contentedly.

‘Off work, mate,’ he said when Zeb approached him. ‘You have to pre-book⁠—’

‘Your Prius has been hired by me.’

Charlie looked him up and down. ‘They said you would sing.’

Zeb blinked.

‘The woman who called me said you could sing a Coldplay song.’

Zeb didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. That’s just like Beth and Meg. They know I can’t sing.

‘Friend,’ he growled. ‘I’ve got a gun⁠—’

‘Yeah, they said you’d say that,’ Charlie grinned. He straightened and took Zeb’s photograph with his phone. ‘Driving license?’

Zeb produced the one from the disguise box.

‘Peter Turnbull, huh?’ Charlie photographed the ID as well. ‘Can’t be too careful. I’ve gotten some weird passengers, but this’—he cocked his head at his car—‘beats them all. The woman paid me well, though. We can’t turn down money, can we, mate?’

He tossed the key at Zeb. ‘No scratches, no dents. I want a full tank when you return it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it for some fun stuff?’ Charlie’s voice dropped. His eyebrows waggled. ‘A pretty friend⁠—’

‘I’ve got a gun,’ Zeb said coldly.

‘Right, mate. Enjoy.’ Charlie whistled as he sauntered away.

Zeb got behind the wheel. He crawled forward until the Chinese supermarket came into view. Fong’s still in there, or else the twins would have warned me.

The MSS agent emerged forty-five minutes later, talking, his headphones wrapped around his ears. He glanced up and down the street, then hurried to a car parked on Cheetham Hill Road.

He stowed his purchases in the trunk and got behind the wheel. He circled the neighborhood several times.

Zeb kept two vehicles behind, checking his mirrors. There must be a multi-vehicle watch on him if he’s being followed.

Fong finally drove to his apartment—a second-floor residence on Palatine Road in West Didsbury, four miles south of Manchester city center. Victorian and Edwardian houses lined the street, their trees stripped bare of leaves for winter.

The MSS agent parked in a resident’s permit space and went inside. Zeb parked in a vacant space well behind and waited.

Zeb spotted the surveillance just past midnight.

It was subtle. Smart. Smooth. A rotating team of cars and pedestrians.

The pedestrians were dressed as homeless men and changed locations on the street every ninety minutes. There were four cars—a Toyota, a Nissan, a Honda, and a Ford. They alternated in and out of a parking space every two hours.

Two men in each vehicle.

All of them have a view of Fong’s apartment building, Zeb noted. The current surveillance car, the Nissan, was at his ten o’clock, on the other side of the street. The pedestrian watcher was at his one o’clock, on Zeb’s sidewalk.

He left his Prius at two am, just as the homeless man stretched out beneath his bedding. No more shift change. He’s out for the night.

Zeb pretended to read on his phone as he walked slowly. When he neared the man, he checked across the street.

The Nissan had no direct view of the pedestrian surveillance.

Zeb kicked the huddled shape savagely, estimating where the man’s head was, and crouched down. He yanked back the duvet and smashed his Glock on the man’s head.

The man jerked and then went still.

Zeb searched him rapidly and pulled out his wallet. A Chinese-looking man. Gerry Brooks on the driver’s license. Zeb photographed the ID and the man’s face before drawing the duvet back over him.

He crouch-ran back and crossed the street well behind the Nissan.

He shoved his left hand into his pocket, Glock hidden beneath his jumper, and sauntered up the street.

Two heads were visible in the Nissan. Neither of them appeared alerted by Zeb’s takedown of their pedestrian lookout.

Zeb rehearsed his moves mentally.

The faint glow of their phones was visible through the windows as he approached the surveillance car.

He was fifteen feet away.

Zeb removed his Glock.

His left hand came out and reached for the rear door.

His gun swung in an arc.

It smashed the rear window.

His gloved left hand fisted through the opening and unlocked the door from the inside.

It returned and yanked the door open for him to slide inside and shut it behind him.

Less than seven seconds.

His Glock covered the men before they could react.

‘Good evening.’ He smiled at them.

Chinese-looking men, he observed.

‘IT’S HIM!’ the passenger yelled in Mandarin and reached down.

Zeb crashed the barrel of his Glock into the man’s forehead.

The man’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.

Zeb immediately trained the Glock on the driver. ‘Who are you?’

The man said nothing, his jaw set.

Zeb grabbed his collar, pulled him forward, and jammed his Glock against the man’s throat.

The man smiled. ‘You won’t kill me. You want me alive.’

‘You’re right,’ Zeb said and shot his ear. The round punched into the car’s dashboard.

The man flinched and howled, the sound deafening in the car.

‘Who are you?’ Zeb repeated.

The man opened his mouth. ‘You … will … never … guess⁠—’

Headlights filled the street.

A car raced down from behind them.

Zeb didn’t wait.

He dove out of the Nissan just as the Toyota came abreast and the shooters inside opened fire.

Zeb landed on the sidewalk and rolled behind another car as rounds tore into the Nissan.

Windows shattered. Car alarms screamed.

The Toyota roared down Palatine Road, turned a corner, and disappeared.

Zeb hurried to the passenger of the Nissan.

He was dead.

The driver was dying.

‘Who are you?’ Zeb asked urgently.

The light in the man’s eyes faded. ‘Never …’ His body stilled.

Lights were coming on in nearby apartments. The car alarms were still blaring.

Zeb sprinted to Fong’s apartment building. He shot the door lock and burst inside.

He raced up the stairs, Glock held out, ready for more shooting.

‘Get your go bag,’ he whisper-yelled at the MSS agent when Fong opened the door to his pounding.

‘Who are you⁠—’

‘It’s me! Zeb Carter. I’m in disguise,’ he snarled. ‘Heard the shooting outside? You were being followed. You need to leave. Our backup plan.’

Fong took one look at Zeb and the Glock, then ducked inside. He returned with a small suitcase. ‘Is my life over?’ he asked as they went down the stairs.

‘This one is.’

Zeb peered cautiously out the door. Several residents were on the street, inspecting their damaged vehicles. A small crowd had gathered around the Nissan.

‘Do you recognize either of them?’ he murmured to Fong.

The MSS man stepped forward like a curious resident and returned after a quick look. He shook his head discreetly.

Zeb hustled him to the Prius and dialed Beth as he drove out of the neighborhood.

‘Fong needs to be evacuated.’

21

Ten am. Clare checked her phone.

Liang Fong is safe in Germany.

She nodded imperceptibly at the message she had received from her team. The MSS agent—now a formal defector—had been extracted from Manchester from a hotel that Zeb had driven to the previous night.

Her EVAC teams were on permanent standby in major countries. She had activated the exfil operation as soon as Meghan had called her.

Resettlement in the U.S., funds for a new life, a new identity—those were part of the extraction program.

Let me know when he’s in the US, she messaged her team, put her phone away, and focused on the briefing.

She was at a COBRA meeting. Cabinet Office Briefing Room A. Briefings held by the British Prime Minister to address security threats and national emergencies.

What’s unfolding in Britain would fit either of those labels. She smiled grimly.

The meetings were in Whitehall, a street running from Trafalgar Square to Parliament Square. Key ministerial offices lined it. The Ministry of Defense—MOD—and many other departments were on it. Downing Street, home to the Prime Minister’s residence and office, branched off Whitehall and ended in a cul-de-sac.

Robert Henshaw, the British Prime Minister, sat at the head of the table. He was one of the youngest leaders to hold office.

He was in his fifties. Slim. Graying hair slicked back stylishly. Dark blue suit, tie, white shirt. He was sharp, witty, and had led the opposition to the largest win in the country’s history. The previous government’s party had ruled for over a decade.

He’s inherited an economic mess. Stagnation. Austerity. The rise of right-wing parties. A lack of foreign investment. Prime conditions for riots. Social unrest. Whelan and his paymasters provided the spark.

Clare sat in a back row along with advisors and specialists. She sat behind Greystone.

‘The public is scared. Riots. Shootings in residential areas. Attacks on a defense site. A conflagration of events that’s never happened before.’ Henshaw addressed the room. Victoria Sloane, the Home Secretary, Marcus Ellis, the Defense Secretary, Halstead, the Met Commissioner, Hartley, the MI5 chief and Richard Taverner, the Mayor of London, were in attendance. ‘We have to give them real answers soon.’

‘There might be a Chinese connection, sir,’ Hartley said quickly.

Clare and Greystone had agreed that the Mandarin lead that Zeb and his team had identified would be credited to MI5.

Henshaw looked shocked. The Home and Defense Secretaries looked angry.

‘Why are we hearing of this for the first time?’ Sloane snapped.

‘We had to be sure, Victoria,’ Hartley said firmly.

‘Those shootings in Manchester last night.’ Greystone stepped in to help his colleague. ‘We believe the shooters were of Chinese origin. Two dead men. Both seem to be from that country. We are working on identifying them.’

‘And the shooters?’ Henshaw fired.

‘They’re missing⁠—’

‘Alex!’ The PM slapped his palm on the table. ‘That’s all I have heard since the first riots broke out. The shooters disappeared. The rioters won’t talk. We have one of the best police and intelligence forces in the world. Why aren’t we getting answers?’

‘Because this is a new war, sir,’ Clare said. ‘The enemy isn’t in the trenches. The hostiles don’t wear their country’s flags. They are in the shadows. Hidden behind elaborate cybersecurity. They use proxies. Deniable operatives.’

‘And you are?’ the PM shot at her.

‘Clare, sir. Advisor to Alex Greystone.’

‘She was with us when I hosted an intelligence chiefs’ meeting,’ the MI6 chief added.

‘The one that was attacked?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You don’t know who was behind that one, either.’

‘Working on it, sir.’

‘Alex, let me remind you. I made a promise when I was elected. That I would restore growth to this country. Improve people’s lives. I DID NOT PROMISE THEM RIOTS AND SHOOTINGS IN THE STREET,’ Henshaw said forcefully.

‘I am aware of that, sir.’

‘Sir, if the Chinese are behind this, we need to summon their ambassador. Demand answers,’ Taverner said.

‘It’s early to say MSS—the Chinese security agency—is involved, Richard,’ Halstead interjected. ‘I wouldn’t rush this diplomatically. Not with the media, either. We need more proof.’

‘What about that German gas cybersecurity man? Alex, didn’t you tell me there was a connection to our riots?’ The PM swiveled and stared at the MI6 head.

‘There is, sir. We have definitive proof. Barry Whelan recruited rioters. He was in Berlin. We believe he tortured Brenner, the German, but⁠—’

‘You don’t have anything conclusive,’ the PM stated.

‘For God’s sake man, the public needs to feel we are making progress. If foreign nations are involved, we need to be decisive,’ Ellis glared at the MI6 head.

‘We need time, sir.’ Greystone ignored the outburst and addressed the PM.

‘Enough time to watch our country disintegrate?’ Henshaw said bitterly. ‘What do I tell the public at my next press conference?’

‘The truth, sir,’ Clare said.

‘What’s that?’ he snapped.

‘That we think this is a much wider operation. Aimed at destabilizing not just Britain but Europe. That you are in close discussions with European leaders. That intelligence and law enforcement agencies are working together.’

Victoria Sloane nodded. ‘That will go down well, sir.’

‘It is a good line,’ Henshaw admitted. His eyes narrowed. ‘But it’s flaky. No substance. Destabilize us for what?’

‘We are working on that too, sir,’ Greystone said. A brief, grim smile.

Clare stayed back when the PM left along with his ministers. She joined Hartley, Greystone and Halstead.

‘I can understand his impatience.’ The MI6 head referred to the Prime Minister’s outburst. ‘I would be hacked off if I was in his position.’

‘You get the feeling we are being played?’ Hartley said.

Clare nodded. Those were Zeb’s words when he briefed me after Manchester. ‘By unknown parties and for unknown reasons,’ she said grimly.

22

Zeb grunted as he listened to Clare debrief after the COBRA meeting.

His friends huddled around him. Jack and his team prepared dinner.

‘The prime minister is properly bothered,’ she laughed, ‘as the Brits would say in their understated way. I spoke to Johann. He hasn’t made any progress other than tightening SEFE’s security. Brenner hadn’t installed any new software recently. They are going through the programs the engineer wrote … but those also seem to be a dead end. Beth, Meghan, any good news?’

‘The rain has stopped, ma’am,’ Beth said.

Clare laughed. ‘Small blessings.’

Zeb went to the window with his coffee mug. He watched the base. Military vehicles moved on slick roads, leaving back-splash behind. A bunch of troops jogged with their gear, their faces set.

They train in the worst weather. It’s one reason SAS and E Squadron are such an elite force.

He heard bickering behind him. He turned. Jack argued with Mike about the oven temperature.

‘They’re takeout pizzas,’ Meghan exclaimed. ‘Not high cuisine. Heat them up before Bwana and Bear get involved. They’ll leave nothing for us.’

‘You’re very quiet.’ Meera sidled up to him. ‘What are you thinking? We already worked out how that Toyota returned. The driver had a panic number on his phone⁠—’

‘Those shooters could have stayed around to shoot me,’ he said, frustrated. ‘Why didn’t they?’

‘They tried! You’re regretting you don’t have holes in you?’ Chloe picked up a slice of warm pizza and bit into it.

‘He’s wondering if we’re being played,’ Meghan mumbled, with her mouth full. ‘News flash, Zeb! We are⁠—’

‘I know that,’ he retorted. ‘But why?’

No one had answers.

He finished his pizza, listened to his friends joke with the Brits, downed a glassful of water, and wiped his hands when his phone buzzed.

He frowned at the number.

‘Who is it?’ Bear rumbled from across the room.

‘Deon.’ He took the call, listened, and grinned. ‘I’ll be there.’

‘What’s up?’ Bwana asked.

‘Deon’s in town. He wants to meet.’

‘He’s got anything more on Whelan for us?’ Beth helped Mike collect the empty pizza boxes and stuff them in the trash bin.

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Admit it.’ Jack pointed his forefinger at him. ‘You want to get away from us.’

‘Who wouldn’t want to get away from you lot?’ Zeb grinned. His eyes sought the twins’. ‘You want to come? He’ll love to see you.’

‘Nah!’ Meghan waved. ‘We’ve got work.’

Zeb reached St. James Square in the evening. He circled the streets, his hands loose on the wheel, his eyes flicking to his side and rear mirrors.

No tails.

Not any that I can spot. If there are rotating teams behind me, I won’t know.

He parked his vehicle and walked to his meeting.

It was around this time of day I first met Deon.

The dry, baking heat of the South African veldt.

He had been in Delta then. A joint operation between American forces and the South African National Defence Force, SANDF.

Their target—an arms-smuggling outfit linked to the Angolan rebel group National Union for the Total Independence of Angola, UNITA.

UNITA had our government’s backing. He smiled faintly, almost feeling the South African heat in cold, wet, gray London. But that arms outfit supplied weapons indiscriminately. Gangs. Many against the South African government.

His Delta team happened to be in the country on a training exercise. They were roped into the operation. Assist the SANDF operators.

They had been deep in the bush. A dozen men moved in silence. Their boots crunched on dry, cracked earth. Zeb and two Delta operatives at the back. A young SANDF officer at the front.

That was Deon.

Intelligence said the gun-running outfit used the Limpopo River to move stock.

Intercept the smugglers. Seize their cache. Capture as many as possible, alive.

That was the plan.

Zeb parked in St James Square and got out, still thinking of that South African operation.

We got ambushed. We never found out who sold us out. Local informants. Corrupt officials. Someone higher up. It hadn’t mattered then.

They shot at us as we approached the river. We scattered. But they had RPGs. We didn’t expect that.

He had dived to the ground at the first shot, shouting orders, getting the Delta and SANDF operators to seek cover.

Then he heard Deon yell.

The officer had been crouch-running to a bigger bush when a round smacked into his thigh.

He lay in the open, clutching his leg, desperately crawling for shelter.

Zeb broke cover. His team provided fire. Rounds spat on the ground. A bullet grazed his shoulder. He dropped to Deon’s side, took one look, and knew the officer couldn’t walk on his own.

‘Get away!’ Deon said fiercely. ‘We are exposed.’

Zeb didn’t respond. He got his arms beneath the South African’s shoulders and dragged him backward.

Bullets buzzed past his head. A grenade sailed over him and exploded far behind. Sweat streamed down his face. He braced for rounds to slam into him.

Then arms caught his shoulder. His Delta team. They yanked him into a gully and helped Deon in, too.

‘You’re insane,’ Deon had growled through clenched teeth, his face pale with pain.

‘You’re welcome,’ Zeb had shot back.

Colonel Deon van Rensburg stood up when he entered the St. James Square café.

The South African was as big as Bear and Bwana. As well-built. A finely waxed mustache adorned his bronzed face.

He gripped Zeb’s hand in a bruising shake, then hugged him hard.

‘I know that look.’ The Colonel’s voice was used to command. ‘You’re thinking of that time we met.’

‘It was an evening like this.’ Zeb pointed to the fading sunlight outside.

‘But hotter. And we had people shooting at us.’

Zeb grinned. His eyes dropped instinctively to Deon’s thigh. The South African had made a swift recovery. He had risen in rank to eventually lead SSA.

‘You didn’t bring my daughters?’

‘I asked them. They were busy.’

‘I can imagine.’ Deon sipped the coffee their server poured. ‘There’s a lot going on in this country.’

Zeb laughed. ‘You could say that. You’re here for work?’

‘On my way to Scotland. Scouting training locations for my troops. Whelan.’

Zeb straightened.

‘I read everything we had on him.’ The Colonel wiped his mustache. ‘Did I say he was an organizer?’

‘You did.’

‘What’s happening here—he would be good at it. But he isn’t the shot-caller. This seems deeper. He’s not capable of big-picture thinking.’

‘Was not.’

Deon frowned. ‘You got him?’

‘He’s dead.’ Zeb caught him up rapidly on all developments.

‘You kept the news away from the media,’ the Colonel stated.

‘Yeah. Not my decision. But it was the right one. Too much panic out there. A South African SSA operative turned mercenary, organizing riots in Britain … that would add to the chaos. Even in the police, very few know he was from your country.’

‘If he was killed at one of those addresses I gave you, then whoever ran him knew those, too.’

‘Yeah. Someone who knew him very well.’

‘Whelan worked with people he trusted.’ Deon glanced around. A few tourists in the café, checking maps and photographs. He lowered his voice. ‘He didn’t trust the Chinese. He wouldn’t work for them.’

Zeb sat back. He curled his palms around his coffee cup as if to draw warmth. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive. I spoke to people who knew him. He was a racist. He only worked with white folks. White South Africans, Brits, Europeans, Americans. Heck, even the Russians. They were all good. No Chinese. No Indians. No Black people.’

‘Would he recruit them?’

‘He would hire anyone useful to him. But he wouldn’t work for them.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out a slip of paper.

Jimmy Chen, and an address in London. Lionel Ward, and another address, this one in Birmingham.

‘Who are they?’ Zeb folded the paper and slipped it in his pocket.

‘Two people he employed when he was a mercenary. As recently as two years ago.’

‘How did you find out about them?’

‘I asked his other mercenary contacts. I leaned on them. One of them gave up these names. He didn’t have anything else … except to say Whelan employed those men often.’

‘Chen sounds like a Chinese name.’

‘I said he will employ them, not work for them.’ Deon leaned back. His eyes flicked around the café. ‘I love this country.’

‘I do too. It is resilient … which many hostile agencies don’t realize.’

‘You are planning to stay until⁠—’

‘Until we find the shot-callers,’ Zeb rasped.

‘Who aren’t Chinese,’ Deon said. ‘Whelan wouldn’t⁠—’

‘Who might not be Chinese. People can change.’

23

Meera was quiet as she listened to Zeb recount his meeting with Deon.

She had made curry for dinner, assisted by Terry and Curtis. Desi style, with spices. She smiled to herself. Naan from the supermarket that she had heated in a pan.

The Americans and the Brits had dug into her food with relish, with Bwana and Bear licking their fingers and complimenting her continually.

She knew it wasn’t false praise. I cook well … when I want to.

‘So, nothing,’ she said when Zeb finished his report. ‘Whelan may or may not have worked with MSS.’

‘Yeah,’ Zeb agreed. ‘Deon is sure he wouldn’t, but we all have seen how folks change over time. Besides, money has a way of changing people’s principles.’

‘Who knows what I might do if someone threw a few mil my way?’ Bwana sighed with a wistful look.

‘Eat more?’ Bear suggested.

‘Besides that,’ the African American grumped.

Meera smiled. The Americans had become family, as close to her as her RAW team was.

I feel comfortable with them. With Jack’s team too.

Which reminded her. ‘I’ve got to go to Bradford tomorrow,’ she told Zeb.

‘You don’t need our permission.’ He smiled.

‘Nor mine.’ Jack burped politely and excused himself.

She went to her room. Felt a presence behind her and turned on the stairs to see Meghan.

‘You’ve got an operation there. I know.’ The older twin smiled.

Meera tried to keep her game face on but couldn’t help chuckling. ‘Can anyone keep secrets from you or Beth?’

‘You can try. I won’t ask you what it is. Stay safe.’

She started early the next day, borrowing one of the Agency’s electric Land Rovers. The sisters had insisted she use it. They had shown her its hidden weapons and drone compartment and had set up her access credentials, which were her biometrics.

‘You won’t need to charge until you return,’ Beth had insisted and then gone into a long explanation of high-density batteries, chemistry, and blade cells until Meera had raised her hands in surrender.

It was cold, gray, and wet when Meera left Hereford, taking the A49.

Typical English weather that close to spring.

Gray, bare, skeletal trees lining the road. Fields dusted with frost. The kind of cold that seeped into the bones. The villages she passed looked deserted, but smoke curled from chimneys.

Dog walkers and runners on the road, because not even the weather stopped them.

She joined the M6 motorway. Past Birmingham, where traffic thickened and became sluggish, a snake of red taillights flaring off and on.

She took the M62. The Pennines, a harsh, windswept mountain range in the winter. They divided the counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire and stretched all the way from Derby to the north.

She stopped at a service station to fuel up with coffee, leaned against her ride, and watched kids play with a football.

Asim Khan. Her fingers tightened on the paper cup.

We have been hunting him for so long.

He was ISI. An operative of Pakistan’s Inter-Services Intelligence, its equivalent of the CIA and MI6.

He’s one of their best. He’s been radicalizing British Pakistanis, getting them to fund Kashmiri separatists, creating unrest among British Sikhs, getting them to support Khalistan fighters.

Kashmir was an Indian state to the north of the country. Pakistan laid claim to it. China occupied a part of it.

My country. Our state. Other countries want it. She blew on her coffee and took another sip.

Khalistan separatism was a movement that wanted a separate Sikh state, Khalistan, in India’s state of Punjab. The movement had grown violent in the eighties and nineties and had simmered since then but had reared up again.

Support from Canada, Britain, and America, she thought, where people like Asim Khan stir up the local Sikh population.

Asim Khan was good at more than inciting unrest, organizing protests, and fundraising. He had also carried out wet work and was believed to be behind the assassination of several RAW agents, both in India and in the United Kingdom.

We want him.

The RAW operatives based in Britain had been hunting Khan for years. We almost got him a few times, but he slipped away.

Intel, credible information from trusted snitches, had come their way finally.

He’s meeting another agent in Bradford.

Meera had called Mathur the moment she had heard of the information. The RAW head, still in Britain, had greenlit the capture.

‘We want him alive,’ Mathur had warned.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Meera had replied.

‘Your E Squadron friends can’t know why you’re going to Bradford. It will create a diplomatic stink if the Brits know we have RAW agents here.’

‘They won’t know, ma’am. It will be a clean grab-and-disappear operation.’

‘Good luck.’

Meera dumped the cup in the nearest trash bin, shivered, and returned to her ride.

A message on her phone. We’re in position. Target confirmed. Tea shop. Five pm.

It was from Raghav, one of the RAW agents.

She fired up the Land Rover and raced out.

It was eleven am.

Bradford had once been the wool capital of the world. Mills, factories, and warehouses dotted the city and its surroundings. Industrialization arrived. The mills and factories got repurposed into distribution centers, office and residential complexes, and museums.

Most of the British Asians who migrated here for jobs, remained. Generations of families, many of whom came from Pakistan, made Bradford their home.

Meera drove down Leeds Road, restaurants, sweet shops, and clothing stores lining the street on either side, colorful signs in both English and Urdu offering everything from bridal lehengas and dresses to freshly made jalebis, a subcontinental sweet.

She lowered the window to take in the sounds and the aromas.

It’s not home, but not far off either.

She took a side street and searched for parking.

She found a space behind a van from which a Sikh man was selling clothing.

‘Main yahan gaadi park karoon, bhaiya?’ May I park my vehicle here, brother? She spoke fluently, in a Hindi-Urdu combination, her Indian accent coming off strong.

‘Laga do, behen. Ticket nahi lagega.’ Park, sister. You won’t get a parking ticket.

Meera had changed into a salwar kameez at the service station. Light pink. The kameez, a long tunic from neck to mid-thigh, had heavy embroidery on it, with the salwar, the trousers, coming to her ankles.

She had custom-made trainers on her feet that accessorized with her clothing.

She adjusted the dupatta, the long scarf, around her head, to cover her hair.

Caught herself in the Land Rover’s mirror and smiled.

She looked like many of the British South Asian women on the streets of Bradford.

None of them will have my satellite encrypted phone or my Glock and spare magazines.

The phone and the weapon were in her bag, hanging off her left shoulder, the zip partly open for easy access.

She casually adjusted her hair and, in doing so, inserted her earpieces firmly.

Her comms were set up.

‘Raghav, kahan ho? Mein Leeds Road pe aa rahi hoon.’ Raghav, where are you? I am approaching Leeds Road.

‘We’re in a white van, Meera,’ he responded. ‘In front of a jalebi stall.’

‘He’s eating jalebis. I’m the one watching,’ Priya, the second RAW agent, said with a smile in her voice.

‘Information pucca hai?’ Information is good?

‘Pucca,’ Raghav confirmed. ‘Our informer has been working with us for a long time. He has never set us up. His intel has always been accurate. We pay him well. We also have kompromat over him.’

‘Please don’t tell me he’s a criminal gang member.’

‘No. We would report him to the police. He’s a landlord in Bradford. He houses immigrants, legal ones. But his homes are illegal. They don’t have the right permissions.’

‘He heard of Asim Khan through his tenants?’

‘Yes. Many of them are British Pakistanis. Khan is meeting another operative at that tea store⁠—’

‘We see you, Meera!’ Priya announced. ‘Nice. You brought that dress from India?’

‘From Delhi. I see your van as well … and the tea shop.’ She placed it at her ten o’clock. Hundred feet away. ‘Leeds Road is busy. How will this go down?’

‘Go past our van.’

She went past it.

Raghav, lean, black hair, sharp eyes, in a loose shirt, was behind the wheel.

His elbow rested on the window.

Meera raised her hand to smooth her dupatta and, when lowering it, took the thumb syringe from beneath his elbow.

‘Jab him in the neck, or anywhere on the body. He’ll turn compliant. We’ll take over from there,’ Raghav whispered.

‘Will he be armed?’

‘Yes. But if you dose him with that syringe, he won’t be violent.’

‘What about whoever he’s meeting?’

‘We’ll play it by ear.’

Meera nodded discreetly. We can’t plan for everything.

She entered the tea shop, which was small and unassuming.

Its windows were fogged up. Bright lights inside. Bollywood songs playing on the speakers.

The smell of tea and samosas.

Ten tables.

She took the one nearest to the counter and ordered a chai.

Half an hour to go.

She pretended to browse her phone, her head bobbing to the beat.

She sipped and made a face. The tea was sweeter than what she was used to.

An Indian complaining about sweet tea? She imagined Beth scoff and smiled absently.

Asim Khan entered at five pm. She recognized him instantly from their file photographs.

‘Nahi, Nusrat, mein tere shaadi main nahi aa sakoongi.’ No, Nusrat, I can’t come to your wedding. Meera spoke audibly.

Khan, in a dark sweater and slacks, his eyes sweeping the room, took a table near the entrance and shook his head when the waiter approached.

The ISI agent was slim, five-seven, looked fit, and the shape at his waist … I bet that’s a gun.

‘Copy,’ Raghav said alertly in her comms at her coded warning.

Meera turned on an app on her phone, which converted it into a medium-range listening device. Embedded software cleaned the ambient noise. Captions ran at the bottom of the app, transcribing overheard conversations in real time.

A younger man joined Khan. He, too, was dark-haired and was in a jacket and jeans.

‘We got the funds from Pakistan,’ the younger man said softly in Urdu.

‘You know where to distribute them?’ Khan asked.

‘Haan.’ Yes. ‘I’m organizing a Free Kashmir demonstration⁠—’

‘Don’t mention the name,’ Khan hissed. ‘What about the police?’

‘We have got clearances for the protest march.’

‘What about these other riots that are happening?’

‘None of our people are involved in those.’

‘Any news of any RAW agents?’

‘No. I don’t think they are operating here.’

‘Don’t underestimate them,’ Khan said tersely.

They discussed the logistics of the march, and then Khan rose while the second man remained seated.

‘ASIM!’ Meera cried.

Heads turned to her.

She had eyes only for Khan.

‘Asim? It’s you, aren’t you? I was trying to place you … we went to school. Bradford Academy. You were in my class all the way to A-levels. You helped me with my chemistry assignments.’ Meera rushed to them, beaming, waving excitedly, her phone in her left hand, the syringe hidden between her fingers, in her right palm.

‘I don’t know⁠—’

‘You haven’t changed!’ She patted Khan’s cheeks. I’m a woman. I can take that liberty. Men can’t.

Her palm slipped to his neck.

Her thumb jammed the syringe and withdrew it.

That other man can’t see what I’m doing. He’s still seated behind Khan.

Asim Khan flinched from the pinprick. ‘I don’t know who you are.’ He felt his neck.

‘I used to carry a lot of weight.’ She laughed and held his hand, speaking rapidly, not letting the ISI man think and realize what had happened.

The second agent had risen too and was frowning.

‘I am Sonam, idiot.’ How long does that nerve serum take to act? Khan isn’t stupid. He’ll work out I syringed him. She felt sweat pop on her forehead. ‘How could you forget me? I was your date⁠—’

‘I never went to Bradford⁠—’

Meera turned him around and hustled him out of the tea store instantly, her hand against his back.

He was docile. It’s working! He moved with her nudge.

‘Farhan!’ She yelled at Raghav, who was crossing the street. ‘Remember Asim? I swear I didn’t recognize him initially. Fatima, you were his classmate as well,’ she addressed Priya.

The oncoming RAW agents broke into smiles and exclamations. They hugged Khan and drew him away.

Meera became aware of the second agent joining her at the door. The man was frowning heavily. He’s wondering who we are. He doesn’t know we are aware of Khan’s file. The ISI agent had been to Bradford Academy.

At least that’s what his file says, she thought drily. This other agent is wondering if we really are his classmates.

Her sweat dried in the cold on the street. ‘Were you with Asim in school, too?’ She smiled at the man. ‘I don’t remember you.’

He mumbled. Glanced at her and then at Khan, Raghav, and Priya.

The ISI agent seemed to be speaking freely to them. That’s the nerve agent’s effect. It’ll make the victim respond to questions.

Priya pointed to the jalebi stall, and they crossed the street.

‘Hey!’ the second ISI agent yelled.

‘Bhai, unhe chod do. Bahut saal ke baad mile hain.’ Brother, leave them alone. We are meeting him after many years.

The agent cursed beneath his breath and made to go after Khan.

He glanced at Meera and seemed to see something in her expression.

He spun around and sprinted down Leeds Road.

She swore and took off after him. He must have worked out who we are. I can’t let him get away. He might have intel.

She wasn’t worried about other ISI agents coming to Khan’s rescue. Raghav and Priya were on this street all day. They would have warned me if there were any hostiles.

‘Take him away,’ she panted in her comms. ‘I’m going after this second agent.’

‘He might not be important,’ Priya said.

‘Let’s see.’

The ISI man dodged between stores, shoved shoppers out of the way, glanced behind desperately, and tried to speed up.

‘Chor!’ Thief! Meera yelled. ‘He took my phone.’

The man snuck into a small alley abruptly.

A dead end. A trash area for a restaurant. It was filled with trash bins and refuse bags. It stank.

Meera blocked off the exit.

The ISI agent was sweating. ‘Who are you? Asim didn’t go to Bradford Academy.’

‘Are you sure?’ She smiled wickedly. ‘That’s what his ISI file says.’

His eyes flared.

His hand darted to his waist and came out with a knife.

He swung at her.

She ducked easily, caught his wrist, and broke a finger.

The knife clattered to the ground.

She jammed a palm against his mouth to stifle his howl and pushed him back to slam him against a bin. He’s not a trained agent. He would have drawn a gun if he was.

‘Who are you?’ she hissed.

She snatched a glance behind her.

A few passersby on the road. No one seemed to be paying them attention.

Can’t linger here.

She broke another finger and kneed him in the groin. ‘I asked you a question. If you want, I can drug you like I did Khan and take you away for interrogation. I am from RAW. Khan was right. You shouldn’t underestimate us.’

The man froze. His eyes were wide. Scared. Sweat on his face. Incoherent noises against her palm.

‘But if you tell me everything you know, I will let you go.’

‘Rehan,’ he mumbled.

‘You work for Asim Khan.’

‘I don’t⁠—’

She twisted his wrist, her body jamming him back against the waste container, leaving him no room to maneuver, her left hand trapping his against his body.

‘Raghav, come and get this man.’ She pretended to speak in her comms. ‘Take him to our black site. Waterboard him⁠—’

‘I organize marches and protests for him!’ Rehan mumbled.

She took her palm away from his mouth. ‘I’ll kill you if you scream,’ she said harshly.

‘I joined him last year. I spread leaflets, distribute the money I receive, and recruit people for the marches and protests. I don’t know anything else. Please. You have to believe me. If the police find me, they will deport me. I have a sister in Pakistan. I need money for her marriage⁠—’

Recruit people. That triggered her memory. ‘Is there anyone else recruiting in Bradford for riots and marches?’

‘I don’t know anything⁠—’

She broke a third finger. His shriek was muffled against her palm. He tried to shove her away, but she was RAW. Highly trained. Lethal. Subduing a civilian was a walk in the park.

‘I heard of a Chinese man. I never met him. The people I recruited said he paid more money. I don’t know anything about him⁠—’

‘You have his name?’

‘Zhang Wei. I don’t know⁠—’

‘Raghav, how close are you?’ Meera pretended to call out in her comms.

‘I have his number!’ Rehan yelled. ‘It’s on my phone. I was going to pass it to Asim. Please take it⁠—’

Meera dug a hand into his jeans and brought out his phone. ‘Zhang Wei?’

‘Yes. I stored it under that name⁠—’

‘HEY! WHAT’S HAPPENING HERE?’ A burly man came into the alley. ‘WHO ARE YOU?’

Meera glanced back.

Rehan shoved against her and sprinted out.

He slammed into the man and raced out.

‘He was harassing me,’ Meera said hotly. ‘I was teaching him a lesson.’

‘Harassing you? I don’t know what to believe.’ The man planted his hands on his hips.

‘You men are all the same,’ she spat and brushed past him. ‘I bet you would have joined in if he was harassing me.’

She went down Leeds Road, tuning out his protests.

Cursed when she didn’t spot Rehan. ‘Raghav.’ She thumbed her earpiece. ‘Give me some good news.’

‘Asim Khan is secure. We are going to our extraction site. We have a flight waiting for him at Bradford Airport. He’ll be out of Britain by evening,’ the RAW agent said cheerfully.

Meera pumped a fist in triumph.

‘What about that other man?’ Priya asked.

‘Rehan. He seemed to be a civilian recruit. He got away, unfortunately. We have Asim. He was our primary target. Congratulations. Mission, well done.’

She checked out the street but didn’t see Rehan. Returned to her Land Rover and slumped behind the wheel until her adrenaline high faded and her pulse returned to normal.

Boss, package is on the way home, she messaged Mathur.

Congratulations! Any collateral damage? The reply came instantly.

No.

Shabash. Very good. Have I told you, you are the best recruit I have made.

You say that to all agents.

I don’t.

Meera nodded to herself. Anjali Mathur didn’t give out praise lightly and always said what she meant.

It’s why we’ll do anything for her.

She was on the M6, on her way back to Hereford, when she dialed Meghan.

‘Were you a track athlete in college?’ the twin demanded.

‘Why?’

‘The way you took off after that dude, in that salwar kameez, is impressive.’

Meera blinked. Of course! She and Beth have access to Bradford’s street cameras. They must have been tracking me.

‘I was a badminton player in college,’ she said. ‘But I’ve been training with these cocky agents from America⁠—’

‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ Beth snarked.

‘Mission went well?’ Meghan asked softly.

‘Yes.’

‘We aren’t supposed to know of it, correct?’

Meera thought about it for a moment. Heck, if I don’t trust them, I might as well not trust my boss, too.

‘We captured Asim Khan. He’s an ISI⁠—’

‘Yeah, he’s been on our radar, but he wasn’t our target. Was he the one you were chasing?’

‘No. That was Khan’s accomplice. A civilian. He said there’s a Chinese man who’s been paying protesters in Bradford. Zhang Wei.’

‘He told you all this voluntarily?’

‘I can be persuasive. Can you break into his phone? I might have a number for a Zhang Wei.’

‘Who’s he? No. tell us when you get back. Can we break into a phone? Those cocky Americans you mentioned … there are a couple of sisters in that bunch. There’s little they can’t do.’

Meera’s laughter carried her back to Hereford.

24

Rostov was in Berlin, in the ZLB, the city’s largest public library.

He was in the City Library branch, in a vast hall half the size of a soccer field.

It was rectangular. Books stacked three floors high on each side. Walkways along the shelves. Sitting and reading areas neatly arranged at intervals. The central part on the ground floor had a large study area with wooden furniture, lamps, and privacy booths.

There were cafés, vending machines, and murmured conversations as students, academics, and other visitors made use of the library.

Rostov was at a computer terminal. He had logged into an online forum where software engineers gathered. Genius-level ones, he reminded himself. The ones who didn’t just write code but invented products. The kind so far ahead in vision and capability that big tech paid seven or eight figures to hire them.

It was in one such forum that he had met Brenner. Rostov was active in many such spaces—particle physics groups, software algorithm communities, gaming forums, even porn discussions. He had different aliases for each virtual community. His team of hackers monitored them for keywords, personas, discussion topics, behaviors, and many other parameters.

A man of his abilities never knew when he might need such forums. He smiled thinly.

Brenner had boasted about what he was working on. The other engineers in the community had been in awe of the scope of the German’s program.

A single algorithm that could be used for controlling and monitoring high-security, critical infrastructure? Not just a defensive program, but one that could be repurposed for entirely different domains. Why hadn’t anyone thought of that?

Brenner had. And he was far along in writing it.

But he hadn’t finished it.

That fool, Whelan. He should have been more careful when torturing the German.

Rostov smoothed the lapel of his jacket. His plans hinged on having a working module of Brenner’s software.

For this mission, I need nothing else. The full algorithm … that’s for future missions.

He glanced at his watch and left the library. It was a short walk to Potsdamer Platz, a public square rebuilt after World War II.

Upscale shopping malls, large offices and Bahntower, the headquarters of Deutsche Bahn, Germany’s railway, surrounded it.

His destination was a serviced office.

He gave his name as Viktor Karelsky to the receptionist.

Karelsky was an Eastern European millionaire, a philanthropist with a deep interest in technology. It was Rostov’s persona in Brenner’s forum.

Karelsky had made his fortune in tech startups and investments, frequently sponsored hacking competitions, and also funded individual research that benefited the community.

It was an airtight story, backed up with media coverage and mentions of his ventures. Rostov used an elderly man disguise for his Karelsky outings. His presence impressed forum members. They were eager to connect with him.

Fools gave up their online aliases so easily. He smirked.

The receptionist pointed him to the elevator.

Rostov took the car to the second floor and knocked on the door of a serviced office.

Ivan Vavra opened immediately.

He was scruffy. Loose, long, graying hair falling to his shoulders. A white shirt with food stains. Jeans.

He smiled and pumped Rostov’s hand. ‘Come.’

He led his visitor to a chair.

The office was a single room.

A desk near the window held several display screens hooked to a computer and a keyboard. Books, files, newspapers, and empty food cartons lay scattered on the floor.

Vavra’s coat was thrown carelessly over the back of his chair.

Rostov sat and forced himself not to grimace at the stale smell in the room.

Ivan Vavra was a member of Brenner’s forum. He was a genius. He had a PhD in Computer Science and was a researcher at the Fraunhofer Institute for Open Communication Systems—Fraunhofer FOKUS.

The organization carried out research on the Internet of Things, artificial intelligence, cybersecurity, robotics, and many other fields.

Rostov had cultivated Vavra. He had brought him Brenner’s incomplete program. He had asked if the researcher could complete the particular module and had mentioned he would pay for the work.

Vavra had jumped at the opportunity.

He pulled up several lines of code on a screen. ‘I had to change these parameters.’ He pointed.

Rostov pretended to be interested and nodded thoughtfully.

‘Is it working?’ he asked.

‘I can run a simulation⁠—’

‘Can’t you demo it on a real flask?’ Rostov allowed his disappointment to show.

‘Ja! I have that as well.’

Vavra scrambled up, dislodged several books, and pulled out a metal flask. He uncapped it from the outside and showed a miniature chip fastened inside. A red light blinked.

‘I made modifications. That semiconductor is battery-powered. Long life.’

He held up the cap and pointed to barely visible holes. ‘I turned this into a nozzle.’

He went to his bag and retrieved a small air pump, the kind used to inflate balloons. He filled the flask with air and quickly tightened the cap.

His eyes gleamed as he rummaged his desk and brought up his smartwatch.

‘It’s running in that?’ Rostov asked.

‘Ja. Hold the flask to your face.’

Rostov held the flask to his face.

Vavra tapped his watch several times. He looked expectantly at Rostov.

A blast of air hit Rostov’s cheek. He nodded.

Vavra chortled in delight. ‘See! I tested it several times. It will work.’

His smile grew wider when Rostov handed him a check.

The researcher dropped it carelessly onto the table.

‘You didn’t need that algorithm for what I did,’ Vavra said. ‘I could have designed a smaller program for that flask.’

‘Ja. But that algorithm already had some code written for the smart watch control module. You had something to start with it. It saved you time.’

‘Ja!’ Vavra agreed. ‘That module, once it is properly written, can control the algorithm, once it is complete, on a watch. LambdaExplorer is a genius!’ He frowned. ‘I haven’t seen him in the forum for a long time. I don’t know how he’s getting along with the program.’

He’s not getting along, Rostov thought drily.

He hadn’t revealed the German’s real identity to Vavra. The two men knew each other only through their forum names.

‘He knows I worked on this?’ Vavra frowned.

‘Ja. I assured you of that.’

‘Why couldn’t he make this tweak himself?’

‘He’s focused on completing the algorithm.’

‘Will you tell me who he is?’

‘No,’ Rostov said regretfully. ‘I have to protect confidentiality. He doesn’t know who you are, either.’

‘His algorithm,’ Vavra said admiringly, ‘has many applications.’ He tugged his hair. ‘But in the wrong hands, it could be dangerous.’

‘I am a philanthropist, Ivan,’ Rostov said disarmingly. ‘I help European countries.’

‘Why do you need this program … and the modification I made?’

Rostov smiled.

He had hoped Vavra would ask.

He explained.

The researcher’s face drained of color when he finished.

He stammered, words tumbling over themselves. ‘You … you can’t … This is⁠—’

‘Unfortunate,’ Rostov said. ‘For you.’

He shot Vavra.

25

Meera was in the training ground the next day with the Agency team and Jack’s operatives.

The captain had secured the area and closed it off to other SAS operatives.

They were training.

Meera Ranganathan ducked low as she sprinted toward a rope ladder dangling from a beam while Mike and Terry shot paintballs at her.

She lunged, grabbed the rope, and began climbing with rapid efficiency.

‘Cover left!’ Zeb Carter yelled from beneath a rusted barrel, where he was providing suppressing fire.

She swayed left.

Mike cursed. ‘I nearly got you.’

And then Meera was holding on to the beam and slithering sideways until she reached a platform, the ‘safety zone’ where Bwana, Bear, and Chloe were waiting.

She high-fived them. ‘This was dead easy.’

‘It’s the start,’ Jack drawled in her comms. ‘It’s only the warmup. Rog, you are next.’

‘Do I have to?’ the Texan protested from the edge of the ground. ‘I ironed my trousers⁠—’

‘They are combat pants! Who irons them?’ Beth snapped.

Meera squinted against the weak sun to take the twins in. They were in a makeshift shed, hacking into a satellite network Jack had arranged.

‘Beth, Meg, you’re giving up?’ She smirked.

‘Ha! Watch that pole,’ the younger sister retorted.

The network’s hub was mounted on a flagpole twenty feet to their left. It exploded with a crack.

Meera grinned at Beth’s whoop.

‘How did you get that to blast?’ Jack wondered. ‘Your drone has weapons?’

‘It has an EMP gun,’ Meghan explained, ‘but instead of frying your hub, we got it to send interference waves that spiked the voltage and made it spark.’

‘Remind me to never invite you to fix my home electricals.’ Curtis filled the ensuing silence.

‘Several Zhang Weis in the country.’ Beth briefed Meera softly over lunch. ‘Unfortunately, the number Rehan gave Meera is a burner phone. We located its last position, and Werner is checking cameras. Jack and his team don’t know you got the lead. They think Werner got it through some cross-referencing.’

Meera fist-bumped her discreetly.

They were in their accommodation’s lounge.

The TV was running. The RAW agent upped the volume a notch when PMQs, Prime Minister’s Questions, began.

It’s held every Wednesday when the British Parliament is in session. She recalled her local knowledge.

It was the opportunity for the opposition leader and other Members of Parliament, MPs, to question the British leader.

‘Prime Minister,’ the opposition leader began derisively, ‘your manifesto said you would restore the public’s confidence in the government. Riots, shootings, murder, and no conclusive arrests are your way of restoring confidence?’

Henshaw smiled briefly when it was his turn to speak.

‘Mr. Speaker, this government will not be lectured by an opposition that has no solutions of its own. Let me remind this House that we have already arrested hundreds of individuals responsible for the violence. Investigations are being actively pursued, collaboratively, with intelligence being shared by our European and American allies, and we shall find every criminal, every shooter, every murderer responsible for the recent unrest. My message to those perpetrators is this. You can run. You can hide. But we will find you, and you will be arrested.’

‘He has a way with words.’ Chloe leaned back in her chair.

He’ll need more than words to fix what’s happening, Meera thought. He’ll need us to come up with something fast.

A card game after lunch.

Meera and Chloe in one team, Bwana and Roger in another.

The sisters were on their screens.

Zeb reclined on a sofa, his eyes half-closed. Meera knew he wasn’t asleep.

‘Well done,’ he had said when she and he were going up to their rooms the previous night. He had said nothing else. He hadn’t asked about her operation. She knew the twins would have told him about her mission, but he hadn’t even hinted at it.

He was a close friend, and yet his praise made her feel appreciated.

‘Still no posts,’ Beth murmured.

‘What posts?’ Meera asked.

‘From LambdaExplorer.’

The RAW agent looked at the twin. Zeb opened his eyes. Everyone in the room focused on Beth.

‘He’s a programmer we’ve been following in a forum,’ Meghan explained.

‘What’s special about him?’ Meera raised an eyebrow.

‘He’s working on an algorithm that has complex security applications and can be controlled by a smartwatch.’

‘I don’t get the connection,’ Roger drawled.

‘There isn’t one,’ Beth said exasperatedly. ‘We had been talking to him about getting a smartwatch to emit an EMP blast, and the smart watch control modules he was working on could be used for that … but he’s gone silent.’

‘He’s—’

‘LambdaExplorer could be a woman.’

The Texan surrendered. ‘They,’ he said elaborately, ‘have anything to do with what’s going on here?’

‘Not that we know of.’

‘Then why do we⁠—’

‘Jeez, I made a comment to myself. PlutoCharlie, from the same forum, has been missing as well. It was an observation. Don’t you have something to do, like ironing your pants or checking out the latest high fashion style?’

Meera grinned and returned to her cards.

‘When are you leaving?’ she asked Chloe.

‘In an hour,’ the petite operator replied.

Bear drove to London, Chloe in the shotgun seat.

‘Nothing much on Jimmy Chen.’ She glanced up from her phone. ‘Beth found he’s a chauffeur and works for a Russian billionaire who has recently settled in the UK.’

‘Why would Whelan employ a chauffeur?’ Bear grunted.

‘Maybe to get close to the billionaires?’

‘How do they fit into the riots?’

‘Doofus.’ She elbowed him. ‘If we knew that, wouldn’t we be going after the billionaire?’

Chen lived in an apartment in Belgravia, an upscale neighborhood in London.

‘No poor people here.’ Bear whistled at the row of cream-colored townhouses and homes on wide streets, many of them behind iron gates. ‘How does a chauffeur afford to live here?’

‘Chen’s living in one of the billionaire’s apartments.’

‘One of them.’ Bear freed his hands momentarily to make air quotes.

They located the building easily. A townhouse with a glass entrance and a keycode.

‘That’s his Merc.’ Chloe discreetly pointed to an E-Class black sedan parked on the road. ‘Beth got its plate from some website.’

‘He parks it on the street?’ Bear frowned.

‘Only when he’s going to a store.’ She jerked her head at Chen, who emerged from a small shop with a paper bag in his hand.

Chen was in a business suit, looked to be in his early forties, trim, and moved purposefully to his ride.

He got behind the wheel and drove off.

‘We follow him?’

‘No.’ Chloe rolled her eyes. ‘Did you forget Meg’s instructions? We can always tail him any time. We know where he works. We need to know what’s special about him.’

They were in Chen’s first-floor apartment in twenty minutes, after dealing with the keycode lock at the main entrance and picking the lock on Chen’s door. No trouble at either entrance.

The apartment was minimalist. No personal touches.

‘It must be for staff,’ Chloe said after she swept her phone around the apartment and didn’t detect any listening devices or cameras.

Bear checked drawers, dressers, the bathroom, and the single bedroom while Chloe went through the papers on the desk in the living room.

‘Clean.’ Bear joined her. ‘We’re grabbing that?’ He pointed at the laptop on the desk.

She sighed. ‘I sometimes wonder why I am with you.’

‘It’s for my looks and humor.’

‘It’s certainly not for your smarts,’ she shot back as she pulled out a cloning device, attached it to the laptop, and turned it on.

We have the hard drive, she messaged Beth when they left as silently as they had entered.

Bwana and Roger were in the Jewellery Quarter in Birmingham, in Ward’s two-bedroom apartment.

‘He was a mercenary?’ Roger felt the surface of the bathroom wall and tapped it to check if it was hollow.

‘Yeah.’ Bwana checked the kitchen’s shelves.

Ward was at work as a bouncer in a casino. He worked the day shift, which meant his apartment would be empty.

He was single. He, too, was in his late forties, had no criminal record, and seemed to have given up the mercenary business.

The apartment was a rental, where he had been living for a couple of years.

Breaking into it hadn’t posed a challenge to the gear the Americans carried with them.

‘This is the hard way to do things,’ Bwana grumbled as he went to the bedroom and searched through the folded clothing in the dresser.

‘What’s the easy way?’

‘Grab him, sweat him, get him to talk.’

‘Sweat him … I bet that involves your fist connecting with his face,’ Roger scoffed.

‘Wrong.’

‘Huh?’

‘Fists. Plural.’

‘Clean,’ Bwana grumbled and inserted the cloner in Ward’s laptop.

They left fifteen minutes later with a copy of the former mercenary’s hard drive.

Zeb was still on the couch when both teams returned at seven pm. He listened to them debrief.

‘Didn’t a billionaire die in Hampshire recently?’ he asked.

Meghan frowned, bit her lip, and then nodded. ‘Yeah. Sergei Perosky. Accidental fall out of the window.’

‘Isn’t that how many enemies of the Russian leader die?’

‘Yeah … but the police have ruled Perosky’s death to be accidental. Why are you asking? He’s got nothing to do with our mission.’

Zeb lay there. A billionaire died. Chen works for another one. Whelan used to employ Chen.

He tried to see the connection, but the dots wouldn’t join.

26

‘He’s in Manchester.’ Beth flew down the stairs and burst into the living room at eight pm.

‘Who?’ Jack hung a dartboard against a wall next to the kitchen counter and brought out a set of polished darts.

‘Zhang Wei. We ran a trace on his phone’s locations⁠—’

‘How did you do that?’ The captain picked up a fallen dart. ‘You don’t have his phone.’

‘We have some friends in the cell phone network companies.’

‘And they shared this information?’ He spun to face them. ‘Privacy⁠—’

‘Do you want to know what we found?’

‘Yes. But⁠—’

‘We correlated his location history to camera feeds in public places. Streets. Pub entrances. Places like that. We cleaned up the footage to focus only on Chinese-looking faces.’ She rapidly hooked her screen to the projector and threw up an image of a man. ‘Zhang Wei! That’s his name in the DVLA records. Real estate agent in Chorlton in Manchester. We got hits in Manchester, Bradford, and Leeds.’

Zeb absently fingered the dart he had picked. Zhang Wei looked young, clean-shaven, short hair, nothing noticeable about him except that he was Chinese.

In one CCTV footage, he was entering a pub in Bradford. The camera had caught him full on. It must have been mounted on its door, he thought.

In another, the camera had captured a side profile of him as he walked down a street in Leeds. The third picture was of him at a parking lot in Manchester.

‘He gets around, doesn’t he, for an estate agent based in Manchester,’ he pointed out.

‘A,’—Beth held a finger up—‘that estate agent business is a great way to meet people. B, both Leeds and Bradford are very drivable from Manchester. If Whelan recruited him, then chances are the South African hired people like Zhang Wei in key areas of the country.’

‘My smarts are rubbing off on you.’ Meghan shoulder-nudged her affectionately.

The younger twin raised her middle finger and brought up Zhang Wei’s DVLA photograph and placed it next to the CCTV ones. ‘Werner confirms more than an eighty percent match.’

‘Real estate agents are evil,’ Terry said.

Everyone glanced at him.

‘We got gazumped when we were buying our first home. The agent was a snake. He didn’t help us at all,’ the E Squadron operative said. ‘I wanted to redesign his face … my wife, who was the most upset, talked me out of it.’

Gazumping. A home seller accepting a higher offer from a buyer even though they had already accepted an offer from a previous buyer.

‘Yes, mate,’ Mike agreed. ‘There should be a law against that.’

‘I already hate Zhang Wei,’ Terry continued.

‘We get it. Strong feelings,’ Chloe drawled. ‘What’s the Manchester connection? Fong was there. The MSS team that tailed him and attacked Zeb⁠—’

‘We haven’t identified those men,’ Meghan reminded them.

‘That beats me.’ Jack wiped his palms on his thighs, removed a cleaning cloth, and polished the darts. ‘The Met, MI6, MI5, you folks … with all the systems we have, we haven’t identified all the shooters who escaped at every incident.’

‘Even those who were killed,’ Curtis reminded him.

‘Those men have had their records wiped. It’s not hard.’ Bwana crunched into an apple.

‘And if they are from other countries, that’s better.’ Meghan nodded.

‘You have sent Zhang Wei’s deets to the police?’ Zeb asked the sisters.

‘Yeah,’ Beth said. ‘I’ve sent the photographs to you too.’

Zeb checked his phone and forwarded the image to Fong. Do you know him? He messaged.

The MSS defector was in New York, united with his daughter.

His response came half an hour later.

Yes. He’s a real estate agent. Very active in the Chinese community in Manchester. A few Chinese officials have bought their homes from him.

Roger leaned over his shoulder and read the message. ‘That could mean something … or nothing.’

‘What?’ Beth took Zeb’s phone and read the message aloud.

‘A Chinese real estate agent selling homes to Chinese folks.’ Jack shrugged. ‘That’s normal.’

‘It’s the possible MSS connection that’s bothering you,’ Bear addressed Zeb.

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Broker decided.

‘Where am I going?’ Zeb smiled.

‘To Manchester. I know how you work. There’s no point in all of us going there.’

‘The police will check him out,’ Terry pointed out.

‘I am sure they will. We’ll do it our way.’ Broker grinned.

Zeb drove the next day. Broker hummed or snoozed most of the journey and straightened only when they entered the outskirts of Britain’s fourth-largest city.

‘Did you know its full name is Chorlton-cum-Hardy?’ The older operative glanced up from his phone. ‘And that at one point, it had the most burglaries in the entire country.’

Broker. Purveyor of obscure information.

Beech Road had trendy bars, hair salons, indie clothing stores, and artisanal food joints.

‘Reminds me of New York’s Greenwich Village.’ Broker lowered his window to take in the tune of a busker on the sidewalk.

Zeb nodded silently, searching for an empty space.

He nosed their ride in behind a woman who was easing out.

They got out. Checked out their surroundings and walked down.

One end of the street had residential homes, while the other had hospitality joints and other commercial outlets.

‘You’ve heard of the Bee Gees?’

‘An old band?’ Zeb searched through his mental database as they walked shoulder to shoulder.

‘Yeah. Three brothers. They spent eight years in Chorlton.’

Zeb rolled his eyes. Followed the directions on his phone.

Chorlton Real Estate was a glass-fronted office nestled between a hair salon and a florist.

Glass-fronted door on which were photographs of current properties the agency was dealing with. Inside were two tables with computers and chairs.

The office was closed.

‘He’s not been in for a couple of days.’ A young woman came out of the florist’s and arranged pots.

Two days ago. That’s when Meera confronted Rehan. Did the ISI agent alert Zhang Wei? ‘Zhang Wei, ma’am?’ Zeb asked.

‘Ma’am?’ She smiled and straightened her reddish hair that was blowing around her face. ‘You aren’t from around here, are you?’

‘From London, ma’am.’

‘Even Londoners don’t use that word.’

‘You got us.’ Broker bowed slightly. ‘We’re from New York. Zhang Wei’s an old friend.’ He frowned. ‘Strange. He didn’t say he was going anywhere. He’s not answering his phone.’

‘I don’t know anything about him,’ she said. ‘We greet each other, that’s all. But his office has been closed for two days.’

‘He works alone, ma’am?’ Zeb asked.

‘As far as I know. You could try his flat. He lives upstairs.’ She pointed to a window above the office.

‘That’s what we were planning to do,’ Broker breathed when she went inside.

The door to the apartments was discreetly to the right side of the estate agent’s office. A keycode panel on the frame.

Zeb sprayed it with a pocket-sized aerosol, and the most used keys glowed green. He tried them.

The door unlocked.

‘Why do Beth and Meg ask us to use their hacking app if your way works?’ Broker grumbled.

‘My way works sometimes. Their way works almost all the time on standard commercial locks.’

A small landing area that led to stairs.

Letters on the floor, thrust through the post slot.

Zeb riffled through them. None of them were for Zhang Wei.

He went up the stairs.

Faded carpet. Creaking wooden steps. Narrow passage.

A landing at the top. A flat to the left and the right.

‘Zhang Wei’s to the right,’ Broker whispered.

Green wooden door. No visible cameras.

Zeb knocked on it.

No response.

He used his lockpick tools and opened it.

The smell of stale air.

He sniffed deeply. Can’t smell blood or a dead body.

A single living room. Clean lines, neutral colors. House flyers on a glass coffee table. Dining mats on the dining table. Four chairs around it.

The kitchen was tidy, the refrigerator nearly empty.

‘Here,’ Broker called from the bedroom. He pointed to the laptop on the dresser on top of clothes when Zeb joined him.

‘He left this behind?’ Zeb inspected it. ‘If he fled?’

‘Might be a decoy.’ Broker powered it on, but the device was locked with an encryption screen. ‘We’ll let the twins have a go at it.’ He cloned its hard drive and powered down.

Zeb went through a notebook on the nightstand. Viewing appointments, but on several pages, a date heavily underlined. Fifteenth of March.

‘That’s just over a week away,’ Broker said. ‘What’s the significance?’

‘Don’t know,’ Zeb said. ‘Could mean anything.’

They searched the rest of the apartment but found nothing else.

Back in Hereford in the evening.

The sisters took the hard drive and went to Meghan’s room.

They returned half an hour later.

‘Lot of junk on it. Movies, music, house transactions, none of which are of any use to us,’ Beth announced.

Zeb hid a smile. She’s almost quivering, which means they found something.

‘There was one encrypted file.’ She fiddled with her phone and projected a spreadsheet. Dates, numbers, and what seemed to be last names.

‘What are we looking at?’ Meera asked.

‘Payments! To rioters. Some of those names match the people the Met arrested. That’s how we worked out what that sheet was.’

She paused.

There’s more, Zeb guessed.

‘We found similar files on Jimmy Chen and Lionel Ward’s hard drives. They too were involved in organizing the riots!’

Meghan brought out a large whiteboard and, with Jack’s help, propped it on a chair against the kitchen counter.

London. Birmingham. Leeds. Bradford. Manchester. She wrote several names.

‘All those have had riots and violent protests.’ She flicked her hair back.

Whelan. Lionel Ward. Jimmy Chen. Zhang Wei. She scribbled next. Shooters at Jimmy’s, Lorraine’s, Yorkshire, Fong’s.

She changed markers and picked a red one. MSS connection? She wrote and circled all the previous names.

‘Now list the unknowns,’ Beth told her.

‘Aren’t they all unknowns?’ Roger grumped.

She shushed him.

Meghan wrote a name under the new category.

Klaus Brenner.

‘Add Sergei Perosky to that list,’ Zeb told her.

‘You are obsessed with him,’ Bwana said irritatedly.

‘Quiet.’ Meghan wrote the billionaire’s name. ‘Zeb gets these hunches. He’s rarely wrong.’

‘Why would MSS kill a billionaire, even if his death wasn’t accidental?’ the African American protested.

‘We don’t know. We don’t even know if MSS is involved. Fong said it wasn’t,’ Beth explained as if to a child. ‘Which is why we’re classifying all those as unknowns.’

‘Do you argue like this often?’ Jack chuckled.

‘This is nothing,’ Meera said drily. ‘In Mumbai and Delhi, there were times I thought they would get physical with one another.’

‘We aren’t like you E Squadron folks.’ Chloe smirked. ‘We don’t blindly follow orders.’

The Brits collectively made rude noises.

Beth went to the whiteboard when the commotion had subsided and added LambdaExplorer and PlutoCharlie to the Unknown list. ‘I have hunches too.’ She shrugged.

‘What about that date in Zhang Wei’s notebook? Fifteenth of March?’ Zeb asked.

‘It’s the day Julius Caesar was assassinated,’ Meghan said.

Broker looked heavenwards and shook his head dolefully. ‘And that helps us how?’

‘It’s also Commonwealth Day.’

Zeb sat up.

‘You folks know what the Commonwealth is?’ Mike taunted.

‘It’s the association of the former British colonies. India, Australia, South Africa, New Zealand … there are over fifty countries in it. The King is the symbolic head. Commonwealth Day is to celebrate shared values, democracy, stuff like that,’ Beth said. ‘Just because we are Americans doesn’t mean we are uneducated.’

‘Commonwealth Day!’ Zeb said sharply.

‘Relax,’ Meghan told him. ‘Nothing has been planned for that day. It’s just a date in the calendar.’

Zeb relaxed.

‘Is it safe to assume Zhang Wei’s gone to ground?’ Terry broke the ensuing silence.

‘That would be our guess,’ she replied.

‘Lionel Ward and Jimmy Chen?’

‘Let the Met deal with them,’ Jack suggested.

‘What about the MSS?’ Broker asked.

‘I have an idea.’ Zeb picked up his dart and played with it.

‘Tell us, genius,’ Roger said impatiently.

‘I’ll ask the Chinese.’

27

Johann Dietrich went through his notes before entering the conference room.

The Federal Chancellery building on Willy-Brandt-Strasse was the German Chancellor’s office and the country’s government headquarters.

Its striking design, soaring concrete and glass with a large semicircle at the front, led to it being called the Washing Machine building.

He smoothed his tie, knocked on the door, and entered the conference room.

Chancellor Isla Kohler was flanked by her Chief of Staff, Markus Vogel, and Lieutenant General Lutz Gerhardt, head of the Bundeswehr Cyber Command.

The military outfit had both a defensive and offensive role. It protected government and military systems from cyberattacks and carried out cyber warfare against threats.

‘Frau Kanzlerin,’ he greeted her. Madam Chancellor. He nodded to Vogel and Gerhardt and took a seat opposite them.

He waited for a server to pour coffee and sipped it when the man left the room.

‘Tell us some good news, Johann.’ Kohler smiled at him.

Her silvery hair was arranged in a neat cut around her homely-looking face. Her black-framed glasses flashed in the light.

Foreign leaders had underestimated her when she had first been elected. She had since then become known as the Steel Woman of Europe, navigating her country through turbulent times. 

Russia, stagnating economy, concerns about immigration, a new American president … and now, this. She has her hands full. ‘We still don’t know who killed Brenner,’ he said, ‘but Gerhardt’s team has increased the security on the energy networks⁠—’

‘Ja,’ the military officer rumbled. ‘We have upgraded the software where required, put electronic eyes …’ He spread his hands defensively with a laugh when Kohler rolled her eyes. ‘Frau Kanzlerin, we are as safe as can be. Whoever killed him hasn’t mounted any attacks on us.’

‘What about the software you found on his computer?’ Vogel asked. ‘You said it was concerning.’

Dietrich nodded. ‘He was working on a super-algorithm, one that can control the security network at such installations. A single piece of software that can be deployed not just at SEFE but also at Deutsche Bahn … anywhere where there is a requirement for complex security. People build their own software at such places. Brenner’s super-program would eliminate the need for this with just a few simple changes.’

‘Your people studied this, Lutz?’ Kohler asked the military man.

‘Ja. Johann is correct. His team and my people have been studying it. It is a fantastic software. But it is incomplete, and how the rest of it could be designed and written was in his head. It’s gone.’

‘Could it be used against us?’

‘Theoretically, the complete software could be installed to override current controls and then …’ Gerhardt trailed with a shrug.

‘The good news, Madam Chancellor.’ Dietrich smiled briefly. ‘Is like Lutz said, it’s as good as gone with his death.’

That isn’t true. Smart programmers can make it complete, but they would have to be genius-level software engineers. He and Gerhardt had discussed that, and both agreed that the completion was possible and that such software engineers existed not just in Germany, but in many countries around the world.

Gerhardt has put together a secret team to finish the software, and then we’ll decide what’s to be done with it. He didn’t tell all of that to the Chancellor or her Chief of Staff.

‘Why haven’t we found who killed him and who attacked his building?’ Kohler asked after a pause.

‘Several leads have gone cold, Frau Kanzlerin,’ he replied. ‘We’re coordinating with the British and other allies, but whoever carried this out knew what they were doing. They were professional.’

‘I don’t like shooting on Berlin’s streets.’

‘No one does, Madam Chancellor, and not in any other part of the country, either.’

‘In our earlier briefings, you said there’s a connection to the British riots and what’s happening there.’

‘Ja. The British believe one of their key suspects could have tortured and killed Brenner.’

‘Why?’ she asked sharply. ‘What have their riots got to do with us?’

‘It is possible that man wanted Brenner’s algorithm. To attack Europe.’

‘Are the British sharing information freely?’

‘Yes, Frau Kanzlerin.’

‘Could it be the Russians?’

He smiled briefly. ‘It could be anyone. Even criminal gangs.’ I can’t tell her of a possible China involvement. Clare is not sure, herself.

Kohler rose, signifying the meeting was over.

The men rose too.

‘Find whoever is responsible. Stop them. Do whatever is necessary,’ the Steel Woman of Europe ordered.

28

‘What?’ Zeb asked when he felt the twins’ gazes on him over breakfast.

Meera was hiding a smile. Chloe’s eyes were sparkling. The rest of his friends and Jack’s team were looking on expectantly.

‘You said you would ask the Chinese.’ Beth spread butter lavishly on her toast and bit crunchingly into it. ‘All we can see is you eat well, sleep well, do some exercise⁠—’

Jack shook his head in sympathy. ‘You get it from all sides, don’t you?’

‘You’re feeling sorry for me?’ Zeb shot at him.

‘Watching the great Zeb Carter squirm? People will pay for that, mate.’ Mike chortled.

‘Are you all done?’ Zeb sighed.

‘We haven’t even started.’ Meghan grinned.

‘Has anyone worked out how these shooters seem to find us?’

‘They were watching our target locations. Jimmy’s house, Lorraine’s, the Berlin one,’ Beth said.

‘What if they were watching us? Outside this base?’

‘That would mean they know of your presence here.’ Terry pointed at the Americans with his fork.

‘MSS and Russia’s SVR are highly capable outfits. It wouldn’t be impossible for them to find out we’re in Britain. Here, in Hereford.’

‘Even though you are covert?’ Terry frowned. ‘My mates in other troops don’t know about you.’

‘Let’s assume they know somehow.’

‘We have security outside the base. Surveillance would have been noticed.’

‘Only if it was overt. We all have run surveillance operations. Multi-vehicle, multi-person surveillance is always hard to detect. Heck, we didn’t find out about Fong’s tails until I shadowed him.’

‘You’re going somewhere with this?’ Bwana broke his silence. ‘How’s this connected to asking the Chinese?’

‘No!’ Beth dropped her cutlery.

‘No!’ Meghan echoed with a glare at Zeb.

‘No, what?’ Jack looked surprised.

Zeb smiled inwardly. Beth and Meg are several steps ahead of everyone else. They’ve worked out what I’m leading to.

‘He’s going to expose himself,’ Beth said heatedly. ‘And get MSS to come after him. That’s what he meant.’

Zeb waited for the protests and angry shouts that followed to subside. ‘Do you still have that safe house in London? The one you use for training?’ he asked Jack.

‘The houses on Frith Lane?’ The captain stopped munching. ‘Yes …’ His eyes widened. ‘You plan to lead them there?’

‘Which safe houses?’ Broker asked.

‘We have almost an entire North London street. Houses on Frith Lane in Mill Hill. Those houses are owned by the MOD. We train there. Not just us, SAS. The Met and several organizations use those for live training.’

‘Proper houses?’ Chloe asked, interested.

‘Yes.’ Jack grinned. ‘Real homes. We even park old cars in their garages and have traffic go up and down. There used to be an army barracks nearby, Inglis Barracks. The MOD owned the entire area at one point, but gave up the land to developers. However, it still retains almost half the street. Can you—’ He addressed the twins.

Beth nodded.

They swiveled collectively to look at the blank wall on which a map came up presently.

Jack rose and used a fork to point to the street. ‘You see this junction where Inglis Way joins Frith Lane?’

A chorus of yeahs from the Americans.

His fork moved to the right of the junction. ‘You see this unnamed lane?’ He tapped a small dirt track. ‘The mini roundabout on it?’

‘Yeah,’ drawled Broker.

‘That’s the stretch we, the MOD, own. From the Inglis Way junction to that mini roundabout.’

Beth projected a street view of the area.

Townhouses on either side of the small street. Cars in driveways and parked on the street.

‘What about those cars?’ Meera asked.

‘Owned by the military,’ Jack replied. ‘The entire area is made to look busy when there are no operations going on. Military personnel actually live in those houses. They are security cleared and know about Frith Lane’s purpose. They are usually temporary visitors … the military saves on spending on hotels for their stays.’

‘What about the rest of the neighborhood? Do they know this is an MOD street?’

Jack smiled. ‘Almost all the houses on the rest of Frith Lane are owned by veterans or their families. Old-school types. Many of them have members who served in the World Wars. When the MOD gave up all that property to developers, it set the condition that the buyers had to be serving military personnel or those who had strong connections to it.’

Beth snapped her fingers. ‘They won’t talk to strangers about who currently owns that stretch of the street.’

‘Exactly.’ Curtis nodded.

‘That’s a genius setup.’

‘Not bad from us, eh?’

Zeb grinned at the typical British understatement.

‘Is that a convenience store near the roundabout and a bakery at the Inglis Way junction?’ Bwana pointed to the banners on the stores.

‘Yes.’ Mike chuckled. ‘We even staff them with soldiers for our drills.’

‘The bakery has cakes?’

Meera rolled her eyes. ‘Someone’s got their priorities right.’

‘These kinds of operations make me hungry⁠—’

Meghan slapped her palm on the dining table. ‘Enough. Focus.’ Her eyes swung to Zeb. ‘Assuming the Chinese have eyes on this base, how do you plan to make this go down?’

He took a knife and pointed to a terraced house in the center of the left row on the street. It had a dark Toyota in its driveway. ‘You, Beth, and I will make a show of going to this place.’ He swung at Jack. ‘Can we have traffic go through the street?’

The captain nodded. ‘Not my pay grade, but it can be done.’

‘The rest of you lie covert,’ Beth rushed in, her eyes sparkling. ‘When the Chinese arrive, we ambush them.’

‘And take them alive.’

‘We go out of this base disguised?’ Bear’s biceps strained against the sleeves of his tee.

‘I, Beth, and Meghan won’t,’ Zeb replied. ‘That’s the whole point. Our tails should be able to identify and track us. But you folks will be. You’ll go out at night and take cover.’

‘When do we move?’ Bwana popped his knuckles.

‘No time like the present.’

Zeb drove to Frith Lane just after noon.

Meghan beside him, Beth in the back. Both sisters lowered their windows occasionally.

So that our shadows identify us, he mused as he hit London traffic.

‘You know the flaw in your plan?’ Beth smirked.

He met her eyes in the rearview mirror. ‘Enlighten me.’

‘You are assuming they have tails on us?’

‘Correct.’

‘And that they will use conventional weapons when coming at us.’

‘You think they might use tanks?’ Bear countered in their comms.

‘No. But we don’t know what they are armed with.’

Meghan cocked her head backward. ‘Our Land Rovers have just about everything we need. Let them come.’

Frith Lane was like a million other suburban streets in Britain. The cars parked on the street narrowed it down, which was very common in the country.

Zeb took in the street approvingly. Jack had made his calls, and Clare had spoken to Greystone. The results of those strings being pulled were obvious. There was traffic on the road.

A delivery van, a bus, several private cars were ahead and behind him.

There were occupants in several homes. He could see movement through windows. A man was vacuuming his car outside one home.

‘Knowing what we know of this street, it feels like a Hollywood set,’ Meghan admired.

‘Every driver and temporary resident is an active SAS operative,’ Jack explained. ‘They have been warned to lie low if shooting starts. These people were in place in less than an hour once the word went down the tree.’

‘What about residents beyond the Inglis Way junction and mini roundabout?’ Chloe asked.

‘They haven’t been warned. We should contain all hostilities on our stretch of Frith Lane.’

Zeb backed the Land Rover into the target house’s driveway.

Red brick construction. Bay windows that had curtains on them. Small front garden with a lawn. Cracked bricks on the driveway.

They carried their large duffle bags inside, which contained their HKs and the rest of the gear they would need.

‘If they have been tracking us, they’ll think we’ve come here for a few days,’ Beth murmured as Zeb held the door open for them.

The house was a standard layout. Entrance hallway. Living room to the left. A bathroom to the right. The hallway opened into an open-plan kitchen and dining room with a door to the back garden.

Carpeted steps from the hallway to a small landing. Doors to a bathroom and two bedrooms.

‘We’ll be in the biggest bedroom.’ Meghan went up the steps. ‘It overlooks the front yard and the street. It’ll have the best firing lines.’

Two pm.

The twins had launched their drone as soon as they had set themselves up in the bedroom.

‘In position,’ Roger whispered.

‘Same,’ Bear confirmed.

The rest of the operatives checked in as well.

‘We’re the maintenance workers at a pipe near the Inglis Way junction,’ Jack said.

Beth and Meghan had dragged the bed to the curtained window and were stretched on it, their screens in front of them, which showed the drone’s feed. Their HKs were to their side.

They had all changed to their tactical outfits.

Zeb peered over their shoulders and made out the pickup truck Roger had climbed into. Bwana’s in the front yard of a house opposite the street.

He made out the positions of the rest of his team. Bear and Chloe’s sedan, Broker and Meera in the convenience store, and Jack’s team.

Three Agency operatives and the RAW agent to their right, on the Inglis Way direction, and the rest, along with the E Squadron troops, to their right.

Three pm.

Beth stifled a yawn. ‘They might not come.’

‘They will,’ Zeb stated. ‘If I were them and was watching my target, I would attack before they moved out of this house.’

An SUV rolled up half an hour later. Black. Tinted windows. Riding low on its shocks.

It stopped two houses away, to their right.

‘Its plate does not match any of the MOD vehicles.’ Meghan stiffened.

Greystone had shared a list of all the military vehicles and cars on the street and in front of houses.

‘It’s them,’ Zeb said.

‘Welcome to action,’ Bwana growled.

29

The shotgun rider stepped out of the SUV.

‘Confirm! He’s Chinese-looking,’ Beth called out.

‘And he’s wearing combat trousers, a jacket and boots. No weapons in sight,’ Meghan added.

‘I can see him through the hedge,’ Bwana whispered. ‘He has the walk of an experienced operator. He’s checking the street and the parked vehicles. He’s sharp. There’s a bulge at his waist. It might be a gun.’

‘He’s going to the bakery,’ Beth warned. ‘Jack, is it operational?’

‘It is! Archie is an amateur baker. He had a batch of cakes and cookies at home. He’s brought them to the shop,’ the captain stated.

‘Broker, Meera, you’d better not finish all of them,’ Bwana warned.

Zeb watched the drone’s feed.

The man entered the bakery. He was in it for several moments and then returned, munching on a cookie.

‘He asked for coffee,’ Meera whispered. ‘Archie said he was out of milk and was expecting a supply in an hour’s time. The man bought cookies instead.’

‘He checked you out?’ Zeb asked sharply.

‘Broker and I are doing a newspaper crossword. We didn’t look up at him. Archie!’ She raised her voice. ‘Did he … yeah, he did,’ she got back to the Agency team.

The man went down the street, past the SUV.

He’s checking out the rest of the street. Zeb watched him through the curtain crack. The man didn’t pause or slow down as he crossed to the safe house, still munching on the cookie.

He skirted Jack’s team, who were in coveralls, went to the Inglis Way junction and returned.

He climbed into the SUV.

He emerged moments later with a device.

‘Can you see what he’s holding?’ Zeb frowned.

‘Hold up.’ Beth navigated the drone to get a clearer view.

‘SIGNAL JAMMER!’

Zeb winced at her yell. Those are hostiles for sure. No civilian carries those around.

‘He doesn’t know our drone has jamming suppression and also signal boosting,’ she said comfortably. The UAV kept broadcasting its feed while their comms network was still up.

‘They don’t know of the drone,’ Meghan pointed out. ‘We launched it from the backyard … hold up! Movement. Three more men have come out. All of them armed.’

Zeb watched as the first hostile, the one who had done the recon, raced down the driveway and slammed a battering ram against the door.

The house shuddered from the impact.

Zeb went to the landing and dropped to the carpet.

He snatched a glance.

Another slam. The door shook. A crack appeared.

Three, two, one, he counted in his head.

The door crashed open.

For a brief moment, the hostile was silhouetted with dust enveloping him.

Zeb’s HK swung to cover the man.

He triggered a long burst.

The man dove out of view.

‘He’s rolled into the garden. Unhurt.’ Beth kept up the commentary. ‘BRACE! SECOND MAN HAS A GRENADE LAUNCHER.’

Zeb crawled back to look into the bedroom.

The twins rolled off the bed, dragging their screens to the floor.

The grenade tore through the living room.

Another burst through the bedroom window and wrecked it.

A ceiling tile fell on his back. He shrugged it away. Blinked rapidly from the dust.

‘We’re good!’ Meghan coughed.

Zeb slithered forward to cover the stairs when the sisters joined him on the landing.

‘Two men are racing at you,’ Bwana alerted them. ‘Grenade Man and Recon Man are where they are, backing them up. Shall we take them?’

‘Not yet!’ Zeb shouted. ‘You are our pincers. They should not know of you yet.’

He snatched a look.

A shadow at the door.

He fired another burst.

Incoming fire came in return, spitting into the steps, blowing up carpet and concrete and wood shrapnel from the walls and the banister.

A voice shouted indistinctly.

‘He’s loading another grenade,’ Bwana warned.

The missile tore through the open door and shredded the stairs. The house trembled. Windows shattered.

‘They’re coming in.’ The African American kept up his commentary.

‘Have you come out on the street?’ Zeb snapped. ‘How are you able to see all this?’

‘Yeah! I’m behind a parked car. WATCH OUT. THREE MEN PREPARING TO BREACH. GRENADE MAN’S AT THE BACK. I’M GOING TO TAKE HIM OUT.’

Zeb risked a look. Saw shadows bunched at the door, indistinct in the smoke and dust.

He emptied his magazine. Meghan got to her knees behind him and shot methodically.

They ducked back when another grenade tore into the house and shredded the bathroom to their right.

We can’t hide out here for long. Zeb slapped in another magazine and kept shooting down the wrecked remains of the stairs. We have the height advantage. We’re on the landing. We can look down. They don’t have eyes inside the house … but those grenades …

‘Bwana’s running on the street,’ Beth whispered. ‘GET BACK!’ she yelled. ‘MORE HOSTILES!’

30

‘PICKUP’S COMING FAST. ANOTHER SUV BEHIND IT. I CAN SEE GUNS!’ she warned.

‘I see them!’ Bwana panted.

They heard a heavy thud.

‘I’m good,’ the African American panted. ‘That was me diving for cover.’

The shooting suddenly intensified.

‘Looks like war has broken out on the street,’ Beth breathed. ‘Yeah,’ she confirmed after a while. ‘Our folks are shooting back.’

Zeb rose and was slammed back when a new grenade tore into the house and wrecked the second bedroom.

‘STAY DOWN!’ Meghan said furiously. ‘Bwana, Bear, we need cover!’

‘You’re getting it.’ Bear lunged out of the sedan and fell onto the street, his HK coming to his shoulder smoothly.

He wasn’t worried about more incoming traffic. Broker, Meera, and Chloe have my back. They won’t let any more vehicles come down the street.

His rounds tore into the incoming SUV. He saw Bwana rise from behind his vehicle and pour shots into the pickup.

And then the rear window of the SUV shattered, and several rifles thrust out.

Bear swore and rolled away just in time as rounds spat into the street, throwing up tar and stone chips.

‘They’ve opened up. Every single hostile in those rides is shooting around them indiscriminately,’ Roger said. No inflection in his voice, which was raised over the rapid shooting of his HK.

‘They’re using grenades as well!’ Jack shouted. ‘Lobbing them everywhere. They’re coming our way.’

Zeb risked another glance. ‘What about the hostiles at the house?’

‘They’ve gone into the pickup. It’s speeding down toward the roundabout,’ Beth said rapidly. ‘The other SUV is behind it.’

‘Jack?’ Zeb called out as he leaped down the stairs and landed on the ground floor. He slammed into the wall, regained his balance, and then held his hand out to steady Meghan, who had followed him, and she helped her sister.

‘Yes, mate. Alive and well here. The pickup’s less than twenty feet away. Do you want to talk about the weather⁠—’

‘Take it down.’

‘That’s more like it.’

Zeb ran to their Land Rover. Fired it up. Sped out even before the sisters had buckled in.

His HK, on the floorboard, hit his shin. He ignored it.

Saw the SUV far ahead.

Saw it swerve and brake hard. Saw smoke beyond it.

‘Pickup’s turned into a wreck,’ Jack said, satisfied. ‘That’s what happens when we use our grenade launchers. I don’t think there are any survivors—COVER!’ he yelled.

The hostile SUV climbed the sidewalk to the left to get around the wrecked pickup and got back onto the street again.

‘The SUV has opened on them,’ Meghan said urgently. ‘They had to dive. Zeb⁠—’

‘I see it. I get it.’ He floored the accelerator. The sudden G-force thrust them back against their seats as the Land Rover shot forward. ‘If it gets past the roundabout, that’s civilian country. We have to stop it before it gets there.’

His hands were steady on the wheel. He was aware of Meghan glancing down at the screen and then reaching back.

Wrecked yards and front doors on either side of them.

Roger waved lazily from behind a car and then was out of sight.

The ruined pickup ahead of him. The speeding SUV beyond it.

‘Brace!’ he warned and swung the wheel hard to climb on the left side sidewalk, past the smoking ruins of the pickup, and rocked back on the street.

The SUV was now a hundred feet away. The roundabout can’t be far ahead. The first civilian house is close to it. If those hostiles lob a grenade at it, we’ll have to stop to check for casualties and they’ll get away.

The sisters seemed to read his thoughts.

Beth passed on their vehicle’s grenade launcher.

Meghan rolled down her window.

‘I NEED AN ANGLE OR ELSE IT WILL GO THROUGH THEIR RIDE AND ONTO THE FIFTH LANE AHEAD⁠—’

And onto civilians. ‘Got it.’ He swerved suddenly, this time to the right.

The Land Rover turned savagely and climbed onto the sidewalk. Two wheels on it, two wheels on the street.

He held the wheel firm and straightened the sudden yaw.

‘Jeez, give us some warning,’ Beth gasped from behind.

He grinned briefly.

The hostile SUV was now at their ten o’clock.

Jack rose from behind a car on the other side of the street, gave a thumbs-up, and went out of sight.

‘Keep it steady,’ Meghan said.

He kept it steady as she leaned out.

The MK13 grenade launcher was mounted on her HK.

She reached behind. Took the grenade that Beth placed in her palm and loaded it.

She took aim.

A round from the SUV slammed into their Land Rover.

She didn’t flinch.

She’s our best shooter, Zeb thought proudly as the older twin took her time and triggered.

‘BULLSEYE!’ Beth yelled triumphantly when the grenade crushed through the SUV, just beneath its roof, shattering windows, buckling its body, making it swerve violently.

But it kept going, even though it was erratic.

‘Get inside,’ Zeb rasped.

Meghan slid back into her seat.

He left the sidewalk and got onto the street, the Land Rover bouncing on its shocks.

Narrowed the gap to the SUV.

Saw a large tree on the left-side sidewalk ahead.

Calculated in his head rapidly and rammed into the SUV from behind, right into the right-side fender.

The vehicle careened wildly, climbed the sidewalk, and crashed into the tree.

Zeb was out of their ride in an instant.

He crouched at the Land Rover’s hood, using it as cover, and shot the driver who was making to emerge.

The man slumped.

Beth dropped to the ground behind him, raked the SUV from beneath their ride.

‘Sis, get the drone down,’ she told Meghan, who was still in the Land Rover since she couldn’t risk opening the shotgun passenger’s door.

‘On it.’

‘No movement from inside,’ the older twin called out. ‘Five bodies. Their thermal signatures are low … fading.’

Zeb took a step forward, exposing his head and chest.

The rear passenger door shot open.

A bloodied man stumbled out.

He had a metal water bottle in his left hand and a Sig Sauer in his right.

‘He must have been beneath one of the bodies,’ Meghan said softly. ‘Drone didn’t pick up his signature.’

‘Drop the gun,’ Zeb called out.

The man shot wildly at him, his bullets splitting the air.

Zeb’s round burst his head.

His body fell.

The water bottle clattered onto the street.

Zeb made to go forward.

Beth yanked him back. ‘Why would he carry a water bottle to a gunfight?’

31

Zeb froze when her implication set in.

His HK was steady on the wrecked SUV. His eyes on the dead man.

The water bottle was twenty feet away, on the street. Dull black in color. A light breeze against his face.

‘Jack,’ he snapped, ‘seal the street from both sides.’

‘Mate, way ahead of you. I’ve already given the order. I’ve asked for specialist help.’

‘We’re the only people here?’

‘Yes … and these shooters.’

‘Anyone alive in the truck?’

‘Not a single one,’ Jack said bitterly.

Feet pounded behind them.

He turned to see Bwana, Roger, Bear, Chloe, and Meera racing up, with Broker behind them.

‘Stand back!’ he ordered.

They read his tone and halted.

‘What’s up?’

‘Possible chemical attack.’

‘That water bottle Beth mentioned?’

‘Yeah.’

Meghan came out of the SUV from the driver’s side.

‘Get away from Beth and me,’ Zeb told her roughly.

‘Pshaw!’ She tossed her head. ‘That’s not going to happen.’

‘Meg—’ Beth began.

‘Stop. I know you’re worried about what’s inside that flask. But if it was some kind of nerve gas or any chemical weapon, you both would have already shown signs.’

‘Or would be dead.’ Bwana, ever cheerful.

The older twin navigated the drone and watched her screen as it hovered over the flask.

She pursed her lips. ‘There’s an electronic circuit inside.’

‘How can you tell?’ Terry asked, surprised.

The E Squadron team was to their eight o’clock. Spread out. Alert.

‘Here it comes.’ Meera broke the tension and got fleeting grins from the Brits.

‘Our drone has a frequency scanner that can pick up radio waves. Since the circuit is inside metal, its detection can be iffy. We have ultrasound and electromagnetic field detectors on it, however, and Werner analyzed their output. There’s a circuit inside that bottle, for sure.’

‘All that in such a small drone?’ Mike said, admiringly.

‘Yeah. We don’t have chemical sensors in it, unfortunately.’

‘We’ll add those in the next model,’ Beth said brightly.

Zeb looked at the younger sister suspiciously. ‘You don’t seem worried about a chemical attack.’

‘Nope.’ She punched his forearm lightly. ‘We wouldn’t be still standing if he had triggered something.’

Meghan got the drone to inspect the inside of the hostiles’ SUV. ‘No one’s alive.’

‘Great.’ Roger threw his hands up dramatically. ‘We offer ourselves up as targets⁠—’

‘Zeb, Meg, and I did,’ Beth corrected him. ‘You were admiring the creases of your pants.’

They laughed. The tension further lowered.

Zeb wiped sweat from his face with his elbow and leaned against his Land Rover.

Sirens in the distance. There was a crowd of people beyond the mini roundabout, held back by the E Squadron’s gestures.

‘You see anything special about Water Bottle Man?’ Meghan asked.

All their eyes were drawn to the body.

Meera got it first. ‘He’s the only one who doesn’t look like a hostile. He’s flabby.’

The cavalry arrived half an hour later. A convoy of police cruisers, ambulances, and command vehicles with flashing lights and sirens.

Jack went to a jacketed man who got out of a cruiser and spoke softly. The man looked at the Americans, took in the wrecked vehicles and houses. He spoke into his radio and got officers to erect barriers at the roundabout.

Masked and gloved EMT specialists came to Zeb and the twins, swabbed them, and took their blood samples.

They returned to their mobile lab while another team of masked staff mounted a barrier around the SUV, the dead hostile, and the water bottle.

‘That’s Detective Chief Superintendent Robert Hayes.’ Jack spoke in their comms, gesturing to the man he had spoken to. ‘SO15.’

That’s the Counter Terrorism Command, CTC of the Met. Zeb wiped more sweat from his face. The sun was fading, but there was still light. They must have gotten into the act when Jack mentioned the water bottle.

A loud slurp from behind them.

Bwana held up his cup of coffee and munched on a cookie. ‘Archie got his milk supply.’

‘Yeah, go on, rub it in. You folks can coffee up while Zeb, Meg, and I have to wait here for the results to come in.’ Beth mock-swore at him.

She stood on her toes and flicked at Zeb’s hair. Her palm came away full of dust. ‘From the ceiling in that safe house. Those grenade attacks … those men could have gotten us if they had kept firing.’

‘No, they wouldn’t have,’ Meera said. ‘We would have shredded them by then.’

The twins exchanged an aerial fist bump with the RAW agent.

The masked EMT specialists returned fifteen minutes later.

‘Clear.’ A woman removed her mask. She was middle-aged. Reddish hair tied in a bun. A flowery tatt on her neck. ‘You haven’t been infected with anything.’

‘We’re good to go?’ Zeb asked.

‘You are good to leave.’ Hayes came to them.

He was in a white shirt over casual trousers. An identification card dangling around his neck. Short hair neatly styled. Gray eyes, an unhurried manner, and an air of command. ‘There are fifteen dead shooters. You started a war.’

‘No, mate.’ Jack came up. ‘We finished one.’

Hayes didn’t smile. ‘Return to your base. This is our scene.’

Zeb saw Jack hesitate. He knew the Brit could override Hayes’s orders with a phone call.

The captain didn’t.

That’s the right decision. We aren’t the police.

The twins were silent when he drove back to Hereford. They didn’t look up from their screens once.

Once back in Hereford, the Americans and the Brits freshened up and gathered in the living room.

The sisters still didn’t speak.

Mike ordered pizza, and when it arrived, arranged them on the table.

Terry brought out beer and soft drink bottles. They clinked, bit into the warm food, and settled back.

Zeb stretched out on the couch. The day had been long. The adrenaline high had faded. ‘We still haven’t figured out how they found us.’

‘We can work that out later.’ Meghan wiped her mouth with a paper towel and balled it. ‘The shooters are more important. One of them in particular. We couldn’t identify the hostiles. The usual. None of them in any database. But Water Bottle Man—’ She got up, retrieved her screen, and brought up a photograph of the dead man. ‘We identified him.’

She brought up another photograph. The same man, but in what looked like a large concourse.

‘Yeah.’ She read the question in Zeb’s eyes. ‘That’s an airport. Heathrow, to be specific. Meet Matthew Wang. Chinese passport holder.’

‘MSS!’ Bear exclaimed. ‘We knew it!’

‘It’s not conclusive,’ Meghan said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because Wang arrived from Minsk, Belarus, two days ago.’

32

Eight am the next day.

They assembled in the room for a videoconference.

Hayes on the screen. He was still wearing the same shirt and pants and didn’t look like he had slept.

‘That water bottle is actually a pressurized aerosol flask.’ He brought up a photograph. ‘It contains a nerve agent that we haven’t come across. Porton Down is analyzing it. Porton Down is⁠—’

‘The MOD’s Defense Science and Technology Lab. We know,’ Beth interjected.

‘You know a lot,’ he said without missing a beat. ‘Yes. They should have something for us later today. But they have confirmed that flask’s contents could kill everyone in a fifty-foot radius.’

Meera rubbed her forearms as if she felt a chill.

Zeb remained impassive.

‘What about Matthew Wang?’ Meghan asked.

Hayes blinked. ‘You identified him?’

‘We know he came to Heathrow from Minsk. We couldn’t track him any further.’

Hayes smiled briefly. ‘In that case, I have some news for you.’ He brought up several images. An industrial-looking complex. Drab, squat buildings and warehouses. Broken concrete roads. ‘That’s west of Druzhny, near the Pukhovichi Forest. Druzhny is …’ He trailed off.

‘An industrial town, twenty-five miles southeast of Minsk. It has a lot of chemical factories. Abandoned Soviet-era military sites.’ Meghan rolled her eyes.

‘Robert,’ Jack said, ‘assume that these Americans are knowledgeable. You already know that they have security clearances.’

‘Knowledgeable Americans might be an oxymoron,’ Hayes said impassively.

Roger grimaced dramatically and held his chest. It lightened the atmosphere.

‘You are correct,’ Hayes resumed crisply. ‘Belarus was part of the USSR and became an independent nation in the nineties. However, it is closely allied with Russia and supports that country’s Ukraine invasion.’

‘TLDR.’ Broker made air quotes. ‘Not a country NATO considers an ally.’

‘Correct,’ Hayes replied. ‘So, this site,’—he pointed to the industrial complex—‘is an abandoned military site. Back in the days of the Cold War, the Soviets stored military equipment in such locations. Once we identified Matthew Wang and where he came from, you can imagine the calls that were made, diplomatic and also at the intelligence agency level. The Belarusians were surprisingly cooperative. Alex Greystone spoke to the State Security Committee’s chief.’

That’s their KGB, Zeb knew. Their equivalent of our CIA and Britain’s MI6.

‘Apparently, the SSC still monitors many of those abandoned sites. They sent us these.’ Photographs of a man entering a vehicle outside a warehouse came on the screen.

‘Wang!’ Chloe breathed.

‘That’s a chemical weapons factory? An illegal one?’ Beth’s voice rose.

‘That’s our best guess. SSC doesn’t know what it is. I said monitor, but that’s not true. They have cameras at those sites, but no one ever looks at their footage. It was only when Greystone called their chief and was forceful in his language that they got some analysts to search for Wang and got those photographs. Bottom line, we don’t know what’s in that site.’

‘I sense a but coming,’ Bear said.

‘They have offered to let us witness their takedown,’ Hayes nodded.

‘Why?’ Zeb asked.

‘Belarus is fully allied with Russia. But that country is also reading which way the wind is blowing. The European Union is growing more powerful. It is more united, especially after the recent US elections⁠—’

‘No politics.’ Jack stopped him.

‘Right.’ Hayes didn’t look repentant. ‘Belarus does not want to be treated the same way Russia is, ostracized by just about every Western nation.’

‘They want to play it both ways. Suck up to Russia but also be nice to Europe,’ Bwana said bitterly.

‘Keeping politics aside,’—Hayes pointed to the photograph—‘the Belarusians are watching that site. There is no activity being reported. They intend to go in today but will wait for the witness team from our side.’

Zeb checked his phone. He had gotten a message from Clare early in the morning. A single word.

Go!

It hadn’t made sense at the time, and he hadn’t had the time to call her.

Now I know what she meant.

Jack swiveled towards him. ‘It has to be you. I know Alex will want that.’

33

They made swift arrangements.

No weapons were needed since they were observers.

‘Yes, mate,’ Jack said irritably when Zeb confirmed with him again. ‘We are fine with your going. An American team will go down better politically than us … even though Wang brought that flask here. Alex said it is a message to Belarus that even the US is watching them.’

‘No weapons,’ Mike said when the Americans changed into their combat suits and returned to the lounge. ‘No drones either.’

‘Yes, governor,’ Bear said.

‘No one talks like that. Only you Americans think we speak like that.’

Zeb sighed, bumped the E Squadron troops’ fists, and went to his Land Rover.

He drove his out with the sisters and Meera in it, while Bear took the second one with the rest of the team.

‘Meera, you are an American for this purpose.’ He met her eyes in the mirror.

She saluted.

They reached Heathrow in one hour.

Their Learjet, fueled and ready, took off instantly as soon as they boarded.

It landed three hours later.

Four pm in Minsk.

An armored truck was waiting for them.

A uniformed officer climbed out. Fit. Young. Clean-shaven. Sharp-eyed.

‘Carter?’ He compared them to photographs on his phone.

Zeb stuck his hand out.

‘Major Ivan Sazonov.’ The man shook it. ‘ALMAZ unit.’

Name checks, Zeb thought. Photograph checks, too.

Clare had sent them the details of whom they would be going along with. ALMAZ was the SSC’s elite counter-terrorism and direct-action unit.

‘My team is in there.’ Sazonov pointed to the truck. ‘You will go in it.’

A statement, not a request.

‘You are carrying any weapons?’

‘No,’ Zeb said.

‘Good. You will observe. You may photograph. No other activity.’

‘Copy.’

They got into the back of the truck.

Twelve uniformed men looked up at them. All of them armed with AK-12s, handguns, and outfitted for combat.

The men were on two benches on either side, with more of their gear on the floorboards.

Zeb sat on one bench, flanked by the sisters and Meera. The rest of his team occupied the other.

Several men eyed Bwana and Bear, but no one spoke.

The truck set off.

‘You are Americans?’ An ALMAZ operative spoke when they were on the M4 highway, heading southeast to Pukhovichi District.

‘Yeah,’ Chloe said.

‘Soldiers?’

‘No.’

‘Reporters?’

‘No.’

‘Then?’

‘Friends.’

The Belarusians looked at one another. They didn’t ask any more questions.

The truck stopped forty minutes later.

The Americans jumped out.

The ALMAZ team climbed out and geared up.

It was dark.

We are in the Pukhovichi Forest. Zeb checked the map on his phone. The lab is about a mile away, to the southeast.

‘We have spare gas masks.’ Sazonov barked an order.

An operative went to the truck and returned with them.

The Americans strapped them to their backs.

‘We will jog,’ the major said. ‘Less than two kilometers. You can keep up with us?’

‘Yes,’ Meera said.

He glanced at her. Made to speak, but restrained himself.

Zeb suppressed a smile. They think we are some kind of inspectors. That’s what Alex conveyed to SSC.

‘No noise, no talking, no phones, nothing,’ Sazonov rapped out.

His men nodded.

They began jogging, the visitors in the middle, the Belarusians at the front and the rear, with the major at the lead.

It was dark, but the ALMAZ team had red-light flashlights to illuminate their way.

They followed a dirt track.

Soldiers passing down whispered warnings at shallows in the ground or overhanging branches.

It was cold.

The visitors had dressed appropriately. A layer of sweat-wicking thermals beneath their clothing.

Ten minutes of fast jogging, after which they came to the clearing. A larger dirt track ahead of them.

Buildings outlined against the sky. Dark. No lights from within.

Zeb made out the dim outline of a road leading from the dirt track and going to a metal gate.

Sazonov whispered. An operative assembled a drone and launched it.

It hovered in the air and disappeared into the night.

‘No one is there,’ the major said in English.

He signaled.

His men raced to the gate.

One of them brought out a metal cutter and wrecked the lock and chains around the gates.

They swung open noiselessly.

Greased. Which meant they were being maintained.

The inside of the complex was vast. Several buildings, one with a chimney in the air.

‘You can sense the Cold War here,’ Broker whispered.

‘Yeah,’ Zeb agreed. ‘Tanks, bombs, fuel, food, all of those must have been stocked here. Maintenance shops for broken-down vehicles … there are places like these all over the former countries of the USSR.’

Sazonov made a hand gesture. His troops wore their gas masks.

The visitors took their cue and donned theirs too.

The ALMAZ operatives fanned out and raced to a warehouse-like building.

‘Building checks out,’ Meghan whispered as they hurried to keep pace. ‘That’s the one in Hayes’s photograph.’

‘Where’s the CCTV camera that captured him?’

‘At the gate.’ Her teeth flashed in a grin as she held her phone up. ‘Our app spotted it.’

An operative crouched at the warehouse’s entrance and held up a device.

Some kind of monitor to detect chemicals in the air, Zeb guessed.

At Sazonov’s nod, he and another operative attached breaching explosives at the door and drew back.

A brief flash and dull explosion.

Six men kicked the shattered door, threw light flares, and burst in, shouting orders loudly.

That’s the right way to breach and enter, even if the drone didn’t detect any people. Zeb stayed outside the warehouse with his team until Sazonov came to the door and beckoned them.

The warehouse was the size of a basketball field.

It was empty.

‘Some chemicals,’ the major said grimly. ‘Very little⁠—’

‘Trace,’ Beth supplied the word.

‘Trace.’ He nodded. ‘Not enough to harm us, but please wear your masks.’

An operative called out.

They went to him, in a corner, where broken glass, broken cartons, and crates had been neatly gathered.

‘Someone has cleaned up,’ Chloe whispered.

Zeb looked around the place while the ALMAZ operatives searched it. The sisters, Bwana and Bear, photographed the warehouse on their phones. This wasn’t a large lab. Maybe, just maybe, there wasn’t a lot of nerve gas manufactured here.

But even a few flasks are too many, he reminded himself grimly.

34

Back in Hereford the next day.

Early morning in the Room.

Hayes, in person this time. He helped himself to coffee and cleared his throat. ‘You can say the threat levels went up overnight,’ he said drily.

‘You have anything new for us?’ Beth asked impatiently.

Instead of stating the obvious, her words were unsaid but hung in the air.

Hayes was unruffled. ‘The Belarusians are investigating the warehouse⁠—’

Meghan held her hand up. One finger shot up. ‘Who owns that place?’

Another digit straightened. ‘Who was renting it?’

A third finger pierced the air. ‘Where’s the camera footage?’

‘Yes, we have asked several more questions as well and are demanding answers.’ His stubble rasped when he scratched his chin. ‘The problem is⁠—’

‘Corruption,’ Zeb guessed.

‘Yes. The current leader has been ruling Belarus for more than three decades by election manipulation, force, bribery … we were lucky they shared Wang’s photograph with us.’

‘Best guess?’ Zeb asked.

‘We have put together a task force. The best analysts from MI6, the Met, MI5, and various other agencies. We have ruled out this being an operation sponsored by the Belarusian government. Which leads to Russia. That’s a possibility. But why would they employ Matthew Wang? We think some entity hired that warehouse. Set up a lab⁠—’

‘And bribed the heck out of just about everyone to keep it secret,’ Chloe finished. ‘They didn’t know of the camera probably, but once they did, they got it scrubbed, and several people have been made wealthy overnight.’

‘That’s our conclusion as well. That was smart. We are still hiring analysts⁠—’

‘Not interested.’

‘Any estimates on how much nerve gas was manufactured?’ Zeb couldn’t help the chuckle escaping him.

‘Going by the broken glass and cartons, we think very small amounts. You saw that flask. A lot of chemicals are needed to manufacture that nerve gas, maintain controlled conditions and all that. But—’ his lips thinned ‘—our assumption is based on what you saw. There could be more waste that was taken away, which means more gas.’

‘You have any good news for us?’ Bear asked bitterly.

‘The flask. There was a semiconductor circuit inside it. It would activate the release mechanism, which would then spray the gas.’

‘How would it get triggered?’ Meghan asked, interested.

‘Through the wearer’s smartwatch. There was an app on it. The tech folks are taking it apart to see how it works.’

Zeb saw the sisters exchange glances. They sat straighter. Beth raised her hand in the air.

‘Yes?’ Hayes asked her.

‘Can you share the circuitry with us? And the smartwatch’s contents, including all the apps … better, can you hook us up with your tech folks?’

‘They are busy.’

‘We could help.’

Hayes paused. ‘These are genius-level programmers⁠—’

‘Robert,’ Jack drawled. ‘Are these programmers security cleared?’

‘Yes. They have the highest clearances.’

‘Give me one of your online aliases, the one you use in an online forum these programmers might be familiar with,’ the captain addressed the sisters.

Beth messaged him on her phone. Jack forwarded it to Hayes.

‘Send that alias to your programmers. Ask them if they would like to talk to the twins.’

‘I don’t think⁠—’

‘Do it,’ Jack said. No change in his voice, but it was obvious he was using his authority.

Zeb silently thumbs-upped Jack. He knows the twins frequent many forums. They are highly respected in the tech community, under their aliases.

Hayes checked his phone, turned away, and made a call. He spoke softly, read out the alias, and then straightened. ‘You want to talk to them? You’re sure? Yes, I can arrange it.’

He looked surprised when he looked at them. ‘They are eager to talk to you. I will arrange introductions. They want you to visit⁠—’

‘Introduce us,’ Beth beamed. ‘We’ll take it from there.’

‘Is there a proximity angle to that watch?’ Meghan asked.

‘Yes. The trigger and dispersal work only if the watch and the flask are within about five feet of each other. The tech folks say this is a safety mechanism. The flask can’t be accidentally activated by someone wearing an unconnected watch.’

The sisters looked at one another again.

They’re onto something, Zeb thought. But they’ll tell us only when they’re ready to share.

‘There’s one more development,’ Hayes said soberly. ‘Good news and bad news. The good news is the Belarusians shared that a small amount was moved about two weeks ago. They are interrogating the driver and don’t have anything else for us. The van delivered the carton to a ship in Minsk. That carton was offloaded in Felixstowe in Suffolk.’

‘There could have been a hundred deliveries from that place,’ Zeb objected.

‘No. They checked the cameras. Only one delivery ever happened.’

‘Where did that carton go after Felixstowe?’ Meera prompted.

Hayes said grimly, ‘We don’t know where it went. Bear in mind, all this happened overnight. We are looking to trace it.’

‘Will the flask fit into that carton?’ Bear asked.

‘Yes, that’s what the driver said.’

‘So, there are more nerve gas flasks in the country.’

‘That’s a safe assumption, yes.’

35

Jack and his team were in East London.

Rain battering the corrugated roof of a warehouse.

For outsiders, the building was just a logistics place that was in between buyers.

It was run-down, paint fading on its walls, trash, paper, and plastic scattered on the concrete around the building.

The building was in a residential area, built at a time when planning permissions were easier to secure for a commercial establishment of that size in a non-commercial neighborhood.

And that made it ideal for E Squadron’s purpose.

It had a six-foot-high barbed-wire fence that was cut in many places and drooped in others but still was erect and kept out vagrants.

The concrete overlay on the ground around the building was well suited for heavy military vehicles.

And, lastly, the neighbors were elderly folks who weren’t into Instagramming the comings and goings of military staff.

The inside of the cavernous space was modified using modular blocks to resemble urban combat zones. Moveable walls created tight corridors and cluttered rooms. Automated cutout figures, powered by software, moved inside homes to give the feel of occupancy.

Jack, in full combat gear, sprinted down a hallway with Mike, Terry, and Curtis on his heels.

The captain spun abruptly when a mock-up of a terrorist jumped out of a door.

He threw himself to the ground, slid on his back, and emptied his HK’s magazine into the figure. His team sought cover too, and a long-drawn gun battle with fake rounds ensued.

‘Cover me!’ Curtis yelled and crawled to a window.

He reared up and lobbed a grenade inside.

Mike and Terry dove inside seconds later.

‘Clear!’ Mike called moments later.

Jack got up and wiped sweat from his face. ‘Let’s take a break,’ he said.

The men went outside and leaned against the building, taking cover under the roof’s overhang. A light breeze and the feel of the rain cooled their faces.

‘Have you heard from Hayes?’ Curtis drank from a water bottle and wiped his mouth.

‘No,’ the captain said.

‘Zeb?’

‘No, he and his team are in Hereford. Beth and Meg are working on something⁠—’

‘But no one tells us anything, do they, mate?’ Curtis grinned.

Jack smiled. The Americans were their close friends, which made them prime targets for British humor or let the Brits play the poor cousin card.

Terry pointed to a torn newspaper that skittered on concrete from the breeze’s force. ‘Imagine what nerve gas will do in such a wind.’

Jack’s grin faded. There had been no mention of the flasks in the news. Media haven’t been told, he thought. There’s no point in informing the public until we have more information.

Brimshaw had ordered them to keep the information to themselves, not even disclose it to SAS operatives with the same security clearances.

He made to reply when he got a call.

Brimshaw. He showed the caller on his phone’s screen to his team and moved away to take it. ‘Sir?’

‘Jack, a man’s on a westbound train on the Central Line. He’s carrying a flask. The kind we have been talking about recently. Intercept him. Take him out of the train.’

Jack snapped his fingers to draw his team’s attention and put the call on speaker. ‘Man with a flask, sir? On a train?’

‘Yes. Central Line Tube. Going west.’

‘Where’s it now, sir?’

‘Currently approaching Stratford. You will board it at Lancaster.’

‘Sir, we’re in East London. That’s not close to that line. Why us?’

‘We’ve got no one else available. Alpha Team is in Camden, raiding a suspected safe house. Bravo’s deep in Croydon, monitoring a gang who’s buying arms⁠—’

‘The Met, sir?’

‘The Met’s SCO19, their armed response unit, is tied up with a bomb threat at Canary Wharf. Even the CTSFOs—the Met’s Counter Terrorist Specialist Firearms Officers—are out handling a coordinated sting operation at Heathrow.’

‘What about the Met’s regular officers?’ Mike asked.

‘Mike, that’s you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jack replied. ‘I’ve put the call on speaker. There’s no one close to us. We are secure.’

‘The Met’s deploying plainclothes officers onto the train at stations before Lancaster Gate,’ Brimshaw explained. ‘They’ll keep eyes on the suspect, but they’re unarmed. They don’t have the training. Yours is the only team who can get onto that train and get the suspect off. I discussed this with the logistics team in the Room. It’s been bounced up and down the tree. C has greenlighted it. Your team is the most capable. You are fully geared up today for your training exercise. You are a go.’

‘It’s not that easy, sir,’ Mike protested. ‘What happens if he gets off before Lancaster Gate?’

‘Unarmed Met vehicles are stationed at every stop between Stratford and Lancaster Gate. They’ll tail him, but they can’t engage.’

‘He might be a civilian, sir,’ Terry objected.

‘He might be. Which is why you need to be on that train, assess him with your eyes, and take appropriate action.’

‘What happened to all the fancy AI software we’ve got, sir? All trains have cameras these days. I’m sure the AI software we have can run body language recognition⁠—’

‘That same software has flagged the man as a risk. He’s carrying the flask in his hand when he’s got a backpack with a visible pocket. The flask is an exact match for the one Wang was carrying. The train’s not warm, but he’s sweating, he’s fidgeting … he’s showing the classic signs of a possible bomber.’

‘A nerve-gasser.’ Curtis’ attempt at droll humor fell flat.

‘Suspect’s profile?’ Jack asked.

‘South Asian, or possibly Middle Eastern,’ Brimshaw replied. ‘We can’t be certain from the CCTV footage. He could be of Mediterranean origin as well.’

‘Sir, what exactly are you asking us to do?’ Jack asked and got approving nods from his team.

‘I want you to board the train. Check the man out. Get him to leave the train peacefully. And if he doesn’t, take whatever action you have to take.’

‘That sounds like a kill order, sir.’

‘It is. Let me be clear,’ Brimshaw said tersely. ‘This is primarily a capture mission … but if he turns out to be uncooperative, subdue him. If he is looking to trigger the flask, shoot him.’

Jack’s face set. ‘Copy that, sir.’

‘We have never been deployed in-country against a possible civilian,’ Mike said harshly.

He was behind the wheel of their SUV as they sped out of the warehouse.

Jack, in the shotgun seat, kept silent. The SUV’s wipers beat a steady rhythm against the rain.

‘We have never been deployed to the Tube with a kill order, either,’ Terry said.

‘There’s always a first time.’ Curtis shrugged, phlegmatic Yorkshireman that he was.

London whizzed past. Residential neighborhoods, office skyscrapers, traffic snarls at red lights, cars, taxis, and vans scattering whenever Mike turned on the flashers and the siren.

‘I’ll be the shooter,’ Jack said after a while.

He raised his forefinger to silence Mike when his deputy made to protest.

‘It might not come to that,’ Curtis said. ‘He could be a jogger or a fitness guy, wanting his water bottle with him at all times.’

Jack checked his phone. ‘It’ll take forty-five minutes to get to Lancaster Gate … and we are the only people C can call on?’

‘You heard what Brimshaw said,’ Terry replied. ‘Everyone else is busy. These riots and all that’s happening …’ He cursed beneath his breath.

‘Is the train still on time?’ Mike asked, honking loudly when a delivery driver tried to overtake him.

‘Yes. Brimshaw’s sending me updates.’

‘How many police on the train?’

‘Six. Two in the suspect’s compartment. They have eyes on.’

They reached Central London.

Jack slapped a new magazine in his HK. ‘Masks when we get out. Our police identifications around our necks.’

A chorus of copy greeted him.

The police identifications had the Met seal on them, announced them as Special Police, and had a phone number in case any civilian wanted to verify their identity.

We don’t give out our names or remove our masks if we get deployed in this manner.

Mike drew to a squealing stop in front of Lancaster Gate Underground Station.

Jack was out in an instant, his boots clattering on the concrete flooring.

‘POLICE,’ he roared from beneath his mask and vaulted over the turnstiles.

A few passengers screamed and exclaimed at the sight of the four heavily armed and masked operators, but most people gave way.

They ran down the escalator two at a time, everyone on it leaning away from them.

Tiled walls, curved ceiling, and then the westbound platform.

Jack used the force of his presence to make way through the waiting crowd. Checking people out, assessing threats automatically, ignoring shouts and questions, ignoring the cell phones that came out to record them.

The Special Police identification bounced on his chest as he held his HK with both hands.

‘Since when did London become America?’ someone called out.

‘One minute,’ he whispered into his throat mic. ‘Fifth compartment from the front.’

‘Copy,’ Mike replied.

Men and women in suits, gym-goers, college students, shoppers, and tourists, the usual mix of people on the platform.

The station speakers announced the incoming train and asked people to stand back from the platform’s edge.

Jack saw the train’s light in the tunnel, felt the oncoming rush of air, and then the train, white and red in the Tube’s signature style, blasted in.

‘Stay back. Don’t board the train,’ he told the travelers who crowded forward. ‘There will be another behind this.’

People protested. Some cursed, but no one came near the four E Squadron operatives.

The train stopped. Doors opened.

Passengers streamed out. Many of them shouted, and a woman screamed at the sight of them.

Jack shoved through the crowd and got inside the compartment.

Mike and Terry blocked the door.

People seated on rows on either side of the compartment. Many leaning against the central columns. Bright illumination … and there, not even ten feet from him, was the suspect.

Bearded, sweating, leaning against a metal column, clutching the flask in his left hand.

‘Sir, you need to come with me.’ Jack met his eyes. ‘Everyone else, stay where you are. This train will be moving soon.’

Two men met his eyes with an insistent gaze. Those are the two Met officers. He recognized them from the descriptions Brimshaw had sent.

Does the suspect have a watch? He scanned the man, who was wearing a jacket.

He has! He saw the popular brand of watch when the man raised the flask, the movement making his sleeve’s cuff ride up from his wrist.

‘Sir, did you hear me? Please get off the train and come with me.’

The man’s eyes looked glazed. His hand shook. The flask wobbled in his grip.

His right hand moved to his left wrist.

‘Sir,’ Jack barked. ‘DO NOT MOVE. LOWER YOUR HANDS. EVERYONE ELSE, BRACE POSITION. LOOK AWAY FROM US.’

His command voice filled the compartment. Police officers crowded the platform. People were recording the goings-on.

Jack had eyes only for the suspect, who still hadn’t spoken.

‘SIR. I HAVE TO WARN YOU FOR THE LAST TIME. DO NOT TOUCH YOUR WATCH.’

He gripped his HK but kept it aimed at the floor.

A woman moaned.

Someone started praying.

The suspect didn’t stop.

His trembling right hand neared his watch.

A foot away from his wrist.

Jack went into the zone. The compartment and its occupants faded except for the suspect.

The passengers behind the man bent low.

Someone started sobbing.

‘SIR, PLEASE STOP,’ Jack thundered.

The man didn’t stop.

His fingers were an inch from his smartwatch.

Jack’s hands twisted the HK up and pointed it at the suspect’s face.

He triggered once.

36

Zeb and the sisters were in the Room.

They had been alerted by Brimshaw as soon as the lieutenant colonel had greenlighted Jack’s team.

‘Yes, I know what you are thinking, but they are the most competent team and the closest,’ Brimshaw said when he had finished briefing the Americans.

The Room had wall-to-wall monitors, each one of which could show a different feed. It had analysts at workstations, headphones over their ears, eyes and hands busy as they scanned their screens and ran commands.

A desk commander in the background.

Brimshaw in the central pen in front of the monitors, all of which were showing the train’s compartment.

‘Our AI says that flask in his hand is a match,’ Brimshaw said.

Zeb didn’t reply. He took in the suspect, whose sweat could be seen even over the feed.

Beth and Meghan were on their handheld screens.

‘Werner confirms he’s a high-probability suspect,’ the younger twin murmured.

Brimshaw overheard her words. ‘You have access to our feeds?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘How? Never mind. We’ve more important things to focus on. Your AI agrees with ours?’

‘Yes. We don’t have human analyst verification, though.’

‘We have.’ He pointed to the men and women at their screens. ‘There are behavioral experts among them. They agree with the AI.’ Brimshaw sounded almost relieved.

It’s the weight of the event. He’s authorized the shooting of a suspect based on very little information. Our confirmation that the civilian might not be an innocent helps him square it with himself.

‘Don’t second-guess yourself,’ Zeb told him.

Brimshaw nodded.

He straightened when half the monitors showed a shaky video. ‘Jack. He has turned on his body cam. He’s on the platform.’

Zeb watched the feed. The civilians’ reaction. Heard the captain’s command. His harsh breathing.

A sheen of sweat on Brimshaw’s forehead. An analyst bit his lip and watched wide-eyed.

A woman mumbled something.

The train pulled into the station.

Jack’s orders to the travelers on the platform, and then the video shook as he boarded the compartment.

The suspect was square in the frame.

Zeb felt Beth grip his forearm tightly as the captain ordered the man to step out of the train.

The suspect didn’t move.

‘Can you see a smartwatch on his wrist?’ Zeb asked.

‘His jacket sleeves are covering his wrists,’ Meghan said tautly.

‘Go, man, do what he says,’ an analyst prayed aloud. ‘Don’t make this worse.’

‘HE’S GOING FOR IT!’ the woman who had mumbled earlier cried.

Jack shot.

Screams and chaos in the compartment.

Zeb heard Mike and Curtis yelling at the passengers to evacuate the compartment.

‘Flask is secure,’ Jack rasped, his voice echoing in the Room. ‘Look away.’

The analysts looked away.

The captain positioned himself to show the dead suspect and then turned off his camera.

Brimshaw cleared his throat and turned to the analysts. ‘Our job is to save lives … sometimes we have to take some. What you saw will linger in the minds of many of you. We have a counseling facility on the base. I urge you to use it if you need it. Those sessions are private, they do not go in your file, and there will be no impact on your ratings. Lastly,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘you might wonder if we did the right thing. We made our decision based on the information available to us. That’s all we can work on. If any of you need to leave, go home early today, I will understand. I have a shift replacement on standby. Thank you.’

Brimshaw went to the analysts, speaking to them individually, reassuring them, hugging a woman who was crying, a shoulder to a man’s hand. He met every person before returning.

We have been here thousands of times, but it never gets easy. Zeb wrapped his arms around the sisters and held them close.

It shouldn’t, he reminded himself fiercely. Killing, even hostiles, should never be easy.

They stood silently, watching Brimshaw spend time with the analysts in the Room.

‘Stop gawking at him.’ Beth stirred finally, snapping the weight of the moment, her voice bringing normality back.

‘He surprised me,’ he whispered. ‘I didn’t think he was leadership material. He’s proven me wrong.’

‘Us too,’ Meghan agreed.

He straightened when the senior officer returned.

‘We did the right thing?’ Brimshaw asked.

‘Yes,’ Zeb stated unequivocally. ‘But you need to put out a statement. Right away.’

‘What statement?’

‘That he was a suspected terrorist you’ve been tracking for some time. You had to take extreme action because you had credible intel that he was going to bomb the Tube. In addition, you have to let a rumor spread within the Met—nothing official, just whispers—that it might have been a case of mistaken identity. But that part doesn’t go public.’

Brimshaw shook his head. ‘I’m not connecting the dots. Simple English. British English would be better.’

‘If the police say they were looking for a man with a flask,’ Zeb explained, ‘the shot-caller will know law enforcement is onto the flasks. He might accelerate his timeline or go underground. We want to avoid either scenario.

‘And then,’ Zeb added, ‘later in the day, issue another statement. Say some of the man’s belongings are missing, maybe lost in the passenger scramble. Ask the public to return any unclaimed items to the nearest police station.’

‘Why that statement?’

‘The second press release will further reassure the shot-caller. If he has police contacts—and I’m betting he does—he’ll think the flask wasn’t discovered. The rumor will further reassure him that you shot the wrong man.’

Brimshaw pursed his lips while he figured it out. ‘That’s smart. Very smart. You want to join Jack’s team? We can fast-track your⁠—’

‘No, sir,’ Meghan said.

‘I don’t have the authority for those statements. I’ll have to go to C.’

‘I’ll call my boss,’ Zeb said. ‘She’ll talk to Alex as well.’

He went to a corner of the room and dialed Clare. ‘You saw what went down, ma’am?’

‘Meera and I are with Alex in the MI6 building. He’s been updating us.’

‘He’s with you?’

‘On calls. You need him? Hang on … here he is. You are on speaker.’

‘Alex, you need to get the Met to put out statements,’ Zeb said rapidly.

Greystone went quiet for a moment. ‘Yes. That will work. Good thinking. I’ll talk to Halstead.’

‘Is Jack okay?’ Clare asked when the MI6 chief had left.

‘We haven’t spoken to him, ma’am. He’s not yet returned.’

They stayed in the Room, the rest of their friends joining them.

An hour later, the Mayor of London and the Met Police Commissioner organized a joint press conference.

‘About an hour ago, armed officers intercepted a suspected terrorist on the Central Line of the London Underground in Lancaster Gate Station.’ Halstead addressed the packed room. ‘The individual posed an immediate threat to public safety and was neutralized. We are conducting a thorough investigation to ensure the safety of all Londoners.’

Zeb couldn’t help smiling at the bureaucratic language. That’s what’s needed in such times. People want to know the system works.

Taverner came to the mic. ‘I want to commend our brave officers for their swift and decisive action. London remains a safe and secure city,’ he said forcefully.

They took questions.

Zeb watched for several moments. I don’t envy them. There will be enormous public pressure on the police, the mayor, and the government to give more detailed answers.

They were in the lounge in the evening when Meghan held her finger up for silence and turned up the TV volume.

Halstead on screen, in his second press conference of the day. He read out a statement.

‘Following today’s incident, our investigations thus far have determined that some belongings of the deceased suspect are unaccounted for. These items may have been misplaced during the evacuation of passengers. We urge anyone who finds unclaimed items to return them to the nearest police station.’

‘That has the right tone. Suitably bland, but the shot-caller will feel encouraged.’ She lowered the volume again.

Brimshaw called moments later. His voice was stronger.

Zeb snapped his fingers for silence and put the senior officer on speaker.

‘The flask’s been analyzed. Same nerve gas as Matthew Wang’s. Same kind of flask, too. And his watch had the same triggering mechanism.’

His friends remained expressionless. There’s no victory in knowing the shooting was good … not when the man was killed in front of civilians.

‘Any idea about who the shooter is?’ He knew the sisters had taken a break from their screens and hadn’t bothered to get Werner to see if the man could be identified.

‘Working on it.’

Ten pm.

Zeb was on their accommodation’s terrace. It was cold, but he was bundled up in a thick jacket. The night sky was clear of clouds, a vast canopy overhead that spanned the planet with millions of pinpricks of light.

He heard a step behind him.

Jack.

‘When did you get back?’ he asked the captain.

‘A couple of hours ago. We went to our rooms directly.’

‘How are you holding up?’

Jack looked up with him at the sky. ‘It’s the first time, mate. I mean, it’s the first time I have shot anyone like that. In a civilian location.’

‘It was a good shooting.’

‘I know now. At the time …’ He shrugged. ‘The frightened look on a woman behind him in the compartment … that will never leave me.’

He straightened. Jammed his hands in his pockets. ‘How do you deal with it? You and the rest of your team … I know you are more active than us.’

‘Compartmentalizing helps.’ Zeb smiled faintly. ‘Therapy helps as well.’

‘Therapy?’

‘Yeah. It works. Believe in it.’

‘We’ve got counselors too. Never really believed in them, though.’

‘Believe.’

‘I’m suspended. Procedure.’

‘How long?’ Zeb asked.

‘Brimshaw says no more than two days. The body cam footage, CCTV, and forensic confirmation all back me up.’

‘Make time for yourself. Be alone if you have to.’

‘No. My team, your presence … Beth and Meghan’s jokes … I need that.’

‘We aren’t going anywhere.’

They stood in silence for long moments while the earth rotated and revolved.

‘Zeb?’ Jack said finally.

‘Yeah?’

‘That was the second flask. How many more are out there?’

37

London Underground Attack. Suspect Killed by Masked Police Shooter

Met Police Take Down Terrorist

Police 1, Terrorist 0

Fear and Panic in London

Zeb skimmed through the headlines of the newspapers as he sipped his tea.

He and Jack had decided to call off their daily training. Meera had agreed.

The sisters had nodded vehemently before disappearing into Meghan’s room.

Zeb watched the news on TV for a while. There was jumpy footage of Jack storming onto the station and then into the train.

Police got all the media and internet companies to block footage of the moment of the actual shooting. He sipped his tea. Nodded at Chloe, who entered the lounge with Bear.

FTSE 100 Drops 3.2% Amid Escalating Unrest and London Shooting | GBP/USD: 1.15

The rolling banner registered on him. Financial markets usually take a beating when a country goes through this much.

He tuned out when another caption rolled in about yet another British company being acquired by foreign investors.

Jack entered the room. ‘Don’t look at me like that, mate. I am fine.’

‘I was just looking,’ Zeb said mildly.

‘Look at me instead.’ Curtis struck a pose.

‘Your best-by date has long gone,’ Mike snarked at his teammate.

Meera entered. A simple white shirt over jeans. Dark hair loose. A glowing smile on her face.

She hugged Jack and helped herself to the tea Zeb had brewed in a kettle. ‘What’s on for today?’

Beth and Meghan burst in.

‘Assemble and settle down.’ The younger twin clapped her hands. ‘Where are Bwana, Bear … the rest? We’re not going to repeat this again.’

‘Present, ma’am.’ The African American saluted as he entered the lounge with the rest of the Agency team.

‘Have you cracked it? You have found out who’s behind all this?’ Broker crossed his legs.

‘No—’

The older operative pretended to rise.

‘Set your butt back in that chair and listen,’ Beth snapped.

He sat.

‘LambdaExplorer—’

Bwana slapped his forehead. ‘Not them again!’

Chloe rolled her eyes as well.

‘I told you,’ Meghan told her sister, ‘this is the reaction we would get.’

‘They exhibit signs of low intelligence.’ Beth nodded. ‘What can we expect from them?’

Roger made a rude sound.

Zeb snapped his fingers. ‘Let them speak.’

‘We told you about this forum member and the software he said he was working on. We found out who he was.’

She paused theatrically.

‘They are not me. I type with one hand,’ Mike said.

They laughed.

Zeb sat up. ‘Was?’

‘Yeah. Meg and I had to hack into the forum’s setup, get Werner to fire commands, overload it basically … I won’t go into the deets.’ Beth smirked. ‘Klaus Brenner. Name sound familiar?’

A moment of stunned silence.

‘What?’ Jack yelled.

‘No way!’ Meera said.

‘Whoa!’

Zeb stood up. I didn’t see that coming. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Confirmed. The site requires proof of identification when you first register.’ She brought up a screen. ‘That’s Brenner. That’s his LambdaExplorer alias and email.’

‘What does this mean?’ Mike asked.

‘Hold up,’ Broker said sharply. ‘You said the site requires real identities for registration. So, yours and Meg’s are on that forum’s database?’

‘No. We both used one of our aliases to register. Our identities are safe.’

Each year the sisters generated several covers for every one of the Agency operatives. Each legend had a complete story, with real Social Security numbers and supporting credentials.

Yeah, they wouldn’t have used their real names, Zeb mused. ‘Back to Mike’s question. What does this mean?’

‘Brenner was killed for his software. We can agree on that,’ Beth replied.

‘But it was incomplete,’ Meera pointed out. ‘What’s the point in killing someone if the product is not ready?’

‘That’s where PlutoCharlie comes in,’ Meghan said. ‘Another forum member⁠—’

‘Yes, we remember,’ Jack said impatiently. ‘How does he, or she, or they figure?’

‘He. Ivan Vavra. Dr. Ivan Vavra. PhD. A researcher at Berlin’s Fraunhofer Institute for Open Communication Systems, also known as FOKUS. A cutting-edge research organization.’ She pointed to the man’s photograph and his forum credentials on the wall. ‘We identified him too.’

‘How does he fit?’ Zeb planted his hands on his hips.

‘What Meera said. Brenner’s software was incomplete. What if Vavra completed it?’

‘Then, someone somewhere has a very powerful algorithm,’ Broker said softly. ‘But Vavra completing the algorithm, that’s quite a reach.’

‘Not really. They were in the same forum. Vavra was highly capable⁠—’

‘Was?’ Zeb asked.

‘Don’t interrupt,’ she snapped. ‘Hear us out. Brenner’s algorithm is vast, complex, and has many modules. He was working on it for over a year. He didn’t leave its design or architecture anywhere. It would take several months to study and complete it.’

‘Even for you two?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, even for us, and you know we aren’t slouches at this programming thing.’

They aren’t. He nodded to himself.

‘All this is fine, but I don’t see where it is going,’ Roger protested.

‘What if only one module of the software was completed?’ Beth’s eyes gleamed. ‘The most important one, in our circumstances.’

‘Which one?’ Jack leaned forward, intrigued.

‘The smartwatch control module.’

Curtis shot up so fast his chair toppled over. ‘THE ONE IN WANG AND THAT TUBE GUY’S WATCHES?’

‘Yeah, we believe so.’ Beth’s grin widened. ‘Brenner had that module in his algorithm. He had done some work on it, but it was nowhere near complete.’

‘How do we know those watches had that very same module?’

‘Hold up!’ Zeb asked before she could reply. ‘Didn’t you say you were talking to Brenner about some smartwatch … something to do with EMP?’

‘Yes.’ Meghan smiled. ‘You remembered! We didn’t know who he was at that time. He had talked of this particular module, the smartwatch one, and it interested us. We reached out. He replied. We were going to schedule a call, but all this’—she waved—‘happened.’

‘Also,’ Beth chimed in, ‘while there’s no way of knowing for sure whether it was Brenner’s software in those watches, we can make a guess.’

She paused for breath. ‘Going by how much code Brenner wrote, the apps on Wang’s watch and the Tube Guy’s watch have the same functionality. Also, get this, no one else has written such a specific, high-security program before. No organization or individual has done that. We are in enough forums and discussion boards and meet several people from the industry. We are sure of that.’

‘So where does Vavra fit in?’

‘He, as PlutoCharlie, had expressed interest and admiration in that module and in Brenner’s algorithm in general. He is missing.’

The reactions were subdued, as if the Brits and the Americans were expecting such a revelation.

‘FOKUS says he has not turned up for work in days. We contacted them officially,’ Meghan said. ‘We have alerted the German police and informed Johann Dietrich as well.’

‘I still don’t see the connection,’ Zeb said doubtfully.

Beth sighed. ‘Are you doubting us?’

‘No! It’s just that⁠—’

‘Beth, don’t make him squirm,’ Meghan said. ‘Get to the meat.’

The younger sister used the clicker to bring up another photograph. An elderly, professorial-looking man in a suit came up on the wall.

‘This man was in contact with both Brenner and Vavra. In the forum. His second most recent message to Vavra was to ask if the researcher had gotten the code. Vavra confirmed he had.’

‘What about his most recent message?’

‘That was to set up a meeting with Vavra in Berlin. On the day Vavra disappeared.’

‘That previous message was sent after Brenner’s death. We have worked out the approximate dates.’ Meghan brought up a timeline. ‘If this man sent the module code to Vavra, then the researcher had enough time to complete the software program.’

‘What about fitting out the flasks?’ Bear asked.

‘Loading the controls on the smartwatches is the hard part. The flasks … modifying them, inserting the semiconductor circuit, anyone can do that, even at home, with the right equipment.’

‘And the nerve gas,’ Meghan added.

Beth nodded. ‘Our guess is the final assembly happened in the Belarusian lab.’

‘Don’t we think Whelan killed Brenner?’ Bear frowned heavily.

‘We still think that. But maybe this man who employed Whelan, sent Vavra Brenner’s code.’

‘Who’s that man?’ Jack went to the wall as if he could see him in the flesh.

‘Viktor Karelsky. East European multimillionaire. Czech national. Made his money through tech investments. He was in the forum as himself⁠—’

‘This is it!’ Jack spun around excitedly. ‘He’s the shot-caller. We have to arrest him.’ Jack brought his phone out. ‘I’ll call Brimshaw.’

‘We have told Alex. Clare knows, too.’

‘What’s the problem?’ Zeb read her expression.

‘Viktor Karelsky does not exist.’

38

‘Say what?’ Chloe yelled.

‘How’s that possible?’ Terry shouted.

‘I can’t believe this!’ Meera shook her head.

Beth grabbed a spoon and banged it on the table for silence. ‘Jeez, you lot are behaving like kids at school. One at a time. Meera, you go first!’

‘You said Viktor Karelsky is a multimillionaire. He is an investor,’ the Indian agent said. ‘How can he not exist?’

‘It’s a cover, like the ones we use in our operations,’ Zeb guessed.

‘Correct—’

‘But he’s a multimillionaire! You said he speaks at events. How can that be faked?’ Meera protested.

‘All those events were fake. You Google search them and they will come up. The organizers have LinkedIn profiles, heck, Karelsky has a profile as well, but those events didn’t happen. The articles about him are fake. His entire persona is a sophisticated cover. Viktor Karelsky, the Czech millionaire, does not exist.’

‘I see him giving a speech at this—’ Jack held his phone up.

‘Deepfake video.’

‘And this newspaper article?’ Mike showed his phone’s screen.

‘The newspaper is genuine. The article isn’t. It is called post-publishing insertion. Once the edition is out there, someone with the right smarts can create a link that will look like the write-up belongs to that edition.’

‘That can be done?’ Terry stared at her.

‘Yeah. We’ve been doing it for years, and AI has come a long way.’

‘Karelsky, let’s go with that name,’ said Zeb, ‘must be our shot-caller. He recruited Whelan. The South African tortured Brenner and got whatever code he had before the German engineer died. Karelsky went with the code, that module, to Vavra and got it completed. Karelsky hotfoots to Druzhny⁠—’

‘He wouldn’t expose himself,’ Beth said. ‘It has to be someone else, a cutout. But yeah, that’s the way we have pieced it together, too.’

‘If he wanted to nerve gas London, or Britain, why the riots?’ Meera asked.

‘A question for which we have no answer, for now,’ Meghan replied.

‘Why was Wang there, at the Frith Lane attack? He wasn’t an experienced operative.’

‘Our theory is that the flask and the nerve gas weren’t tested. Wang is likely to be the brains behind the chemical. Karelsky wanted him to test it on us.’

Zeb nodded thoughtfully. ‘Makes sense at an evil level. And what about Tube Man?’

‘Tariq Hussain,’ Beth said triumphantly. ‘British national, born and raised in Birmingham. A clerk in a law firm. No criminal record. We found out his identity yesterday. The Met knows too.’

Jack’s jaw dropped. ‘You knew who he was when he was on the Tube?’

‘Yeah. A handful of people know. Identifying him wasn’t hard. DVLA records and all that.’

‘Why’s his name not plastered on all the newspapers and on TV?’ Bwana growled.

‘Think.’

Zeb smiled. He had worked it out.

Chloe answered. ‘Because of his name. The police don’t want to stoke tensions, hate, and racist crimes against the Muslim community.’

‘Correct.’ Beth gave her an aerial high-five. ‘Both Alex and Clare asked us to keep the name to ourselves.’

‘You could have told us.’

‘We’ve just told you. The rest of the world doesn’t know.’

Zeb knew there was no malice in Chloe’s remark. We’ve been friends for so long … we know how the sisters work.

‘Does Brimshaw know?’

‘Yes. None of the analysts do, however.’

‘The newspapers would have found a way to get his identity.’

‘I think the Prime Minister’s Office must have called media organizations and used some persuasive language … to sit on Hussain’s identity for some time.’

‘The Met, MI6, MI5, everyone is digging into him. They are digging into his financials, his movements, his social life, everything. We were in the Room earlier,’ Meghan joined in. ‘We plugged Werner in as well. We don’t know if Hussain was on a planned attack or if he happened to be in the Tube with the flask. We have this.’

She played a recording.

A scratchy voice. ‘Flask … underground.’ More indistinct conversation.

‘Is that all?’ Terry asked disappointedly.

‘We, the Met, found that on his phone. It’s the only recording. There’s nothing else on his device.’

‘A burner,’ Zeb guessed.

‘Yeah. That’s our assumption too. He must have tried to record his handler, or Karelsky, whoever it was, but his attempt wasn’t great. The best supercomputers are working on identifying the speaker, but that fragment is too small and there’s too much distortion. We can’t isolate the speaker’s voiceprint. I’m not holding my breath.’

‘What’s the Chinese angle?’

‘We don’t know.’ Beth ran a hand through her hair impatiently. ‘Heck, Zeb, give us and the police time.’

‘The ISI is notorious for using decoys and red herrings,’ Meera said. ‘They carry out covert operations, then plant evidence to implicate someone else.’

‘ISI?’ Mike frowned. ‘You think Pakistan’s involved?’

‘No. I am saying this has all the signs of a classic red herring operation. The Chinese might not be involved⁠—’

‘They can buy out London’s Underground if the government was willing to sell it. Why bomb it?’ Meghan agreed.

‘Yes, they seem to be playing the economic game on the world stage. They buy companies, build infrastructure, and use soft power to influence governments,’ Zeb agreed. ‘MSS has its own agenda, but it hasn’t resorted to terrorism.’

‘Using a Muslim,’ the RAW agent continued, ‘will distract the authorities. They will suspect ISIL is involved.’

‘Are they?’ Chloe asked sharply.

‘ISIL doesn’t have the network anymore,’ Zeb said. ‘They’re fractured. They are good for lone wolf operations, not for something so elaborate … and they wouldn’t hire Chinese shooters.’

‘So, we know Karelsky is a fake, and we know of Hussain. We don’t know anything more, though,’ Roger summed it up.

‘We know it isn’t the Chinese or ISIL,’ Bwana corrected him.

‘No,’ Beth said. ‘We think it might not be the Chinese or Islamic terrorists, but we aren’t sure of that.’

‘Have you got any good news for us?’ Broker said heavily.

‘We gave you two names, Karelsky and Hussain. And we have cracked the phone’s software.’

‘In the meantime, there could be another man with a flask right now in a Tube.’

39

Zeb watched the muted TV.

Protesters had gathered in London again, demanding safer streets and trains. They crowded in front of Parliament and Downing Street and stretched all the way back to Trafalgar Square.

At least they aren’t rioting. The violent protests had subsided in the country, though there were still reports of the occasional skirmish in various British cities and towns.

Have they reduced because Whelan’s dead or because his recruits aren’t effective?

Or—a thought struck him with a chill—because the plan has moved to a new phase with the nerve gas attacks?

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He took the incoming call from Clare. His friends, huddled around the twins and Jack’s team, glanced at him.

Carry on, he motioned at them.

‘You heard of Hussain and Karelsky?’

‘Beth and Meg told us a few minutes ago.’

‘They found out about Karelsky,’ she said proudly. ‘No one else but them could have pieced his identity together.’

We still don’t know who he is. He didn’t offer the comment, however. Clare knows that, too.

‘Alex wants them to join MI6. He’s offered that they can work from New York and don’t need to go on operations.’

‘Not going to happen,’ he replied instantly, then paused. It’s not your decision! ‘But it’s up to them.’

‘He asked them. They declined politely. They said they are as good as helping MI6 currently and that wouldn’t change.’

Zeb grinned. ‘I am sure he was charmed.’

‘As if he needs any more reason to not like them!’

‘Hayes asked them to join his team … Brimshaw too made an offer.’

‘What did they and you say?’

‘You have to ask, ma’am?’

She laughed and then her tone changed. ‘I came out of a COBRA meeting. The Prime Minister is still insisting on summoning the Chinese ambassador for explanations, but Alex and Hartley have convinced him to stay put for now. What’s your take?’

‘I don’t have a view, ma’am. I am not close to British politics.’

She clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘About MSS involvement. I spoke to Beth and Meg, and they aren’t convinced it’s the Chinese.’

‘Neither am I. But which other state player has these kinds of resources and the motives? Russia and Iran. Inciting unrest is Russia’s playbook, but nerve gas attacks?’

‘They have carried out chemical attacks.’

‘Yes, ma’am. But those were targeted assassinations. In any case, what’s the end goal? And they are spread thin. Ukraine is keeping them busy. Iran can carry out an operation of this scale, but I don’t see an end goal there, either.’

‘Me neither. I’ve been called into another meeting. A financial one. The PM wants to discuss why critical British companies—energy, electricity, logistics, defense manufacturers—are being bought by foreign investors. There’s been a rise in acquisitions recently.’

‘The British pound has dropped drastically. They had something similar happen after Brexit, didn’t they? Could that be the goal? Buy out Britain, basically?’

‘Even Russia or China do not have those kinds of resources.’

Zeb stood for a moment when she hung up, thinking over their call. Liang Fong was sure there was no MSS involvement. Other than the Chinese shooters and Wang, we haven’t found anything to connect MSS to these events.

His eyes fell on Meghan’s whiteboard, propped against the wall.

‘You need me?’ He went to the sisters.

‘Rarely,’ Beth said, straight-faced.

Bear chortled.

‘No.’ Meghan read his expression and didn’t join the levity. ‘You’re going somewhere?’

‘Perosky’s residence.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘Perosky? The dead billionaire!’

‘Yeah. I don’t know who’s in his country home now. Can you get me in somehow?’

‘We’ll work out something. You still think there’s a connection?’

‘That’s what I want to find out.’

Zeb set out to Hampshire at midmorning.

Hereford to Hampshire took two and a half hours.

He wasn’t in any hurry. He had a dark raincoat in the shotgun seat with the identification card of Craig Whitely, a building regulations inspector employed by Hampshire County Council.

That was the cover the sisters had made for him. They had ensured that a Whitely did exist and was employed by the council.

His friends had told him he was going on a wild-goose chase.

Curtis had put it more colorfully. ‘You’re tilting at windmills, mate. But while you’re there, any way you can nick a gold sink? It will go well in the small, terraced house I have. The missus will be right pleased with me. I might even get extra bacon in my sarnie.’

Nick was steal. Sarnie was sandwich. Zeb grinned in his ride. They had gotten used to British slang over the years.

He drove through small roads, past villages and rolling countryside.

Hampshire introduced itself with its vast private estates hidden behind high walls. He caught glimpses of big houses through the trees.

County of the rich. He shook his head.

His tires crunched on gravel as he approached the private track to Perosky’s country home. The billionaire’s solicitors had locked it while a dispute among the dead man’s heirs was being resolved.

‘I need to inspect the windows,’ he told the bored-looking guard at the large gates and showed his Hampshire County Council credentials.

The man was from a security company that the solicitors had hired. ‘No one told me of this.’

‘Your choice. I can go back and order this place to be sealed until a full inspection is carried out. The previous owner fell out of a window, didn’t he? We have to check the windows’ foundations.’

‘I have never heard of that before.’

‘Do you have any experience in building construction?’

‘No.’

‘Then, I suggest keep your opinions to yourself.’

‘The police⁠—’

‘Aren’t experts either. We checked our records and found the building hasn’t been inspected in a long while.’

‘My house has never been inspected.’

‘Is your home like this?’

‘No, it is a⁠—’

‘Such constructions have to be regularly inspected for subsidence, for foundation wall cracks …’ Zeb allowed impatience to creep in his voice. ‘You are wasting my time. Are you going to let me in or not?’

The guard hesitated. ‘How long will you take?’

‘An hour. You are busy?’ Zeb asked sarcastically.

The guard muttered something beneath his breath and went to a console to open the gate.

‘What about the front door? Is there anyone inside the house?’

‘I’ll unlock it. I’m the only one here.’

‘You are here throughout the day?’

‘No. My shift ends at five pm. Another guard comes in then.’

‘You were there the day he died?’ I know the answer, but I want to hear from him.

‘No. We were appointed a few days after he died.’

‘What happened to his staff?’

‘Dunno. I heard they went back to Russia.’

Zeb drove slowly behind the guard, who ran over the driveway and opened the enormous door.

‘Who maintains this?’ He cocked his head to the lush garden once he, too, was at the door.

‘The solicitors have appointed some company. They come once a week.’

Zeb entered the house. Admired the high ceiling, the wall art, and the furniture briefly before making a show of inspecting the windows, measuring them with a tape, and making notes.

The guard left after a while.

Zeb went up the grand stairs and eyed the Monet on a wall in the drawing room. This is how Russian oligarchs live.

Ornate couches and sofas around several coffee tables. Thick, soft carpet beneath his boots.

He had read the police report before arriving and knew which window Perosky had fallen out of.

He opened it and leaned out.

Police surmised the billionaire was leaning out as he drank his coffee, lost his balance, and fell.

It was a probable theory. The presumed lack of foul play made it believable.

Zeb found nothing incriminating in the house.

He went out to the cobblestone track where Perosky had fallen.

It had been cleaned up.

‘Done?’ the guard asked when he drove out of the gate.

‘Yes. Who is responsible for the security cameras?’

‘I have a monitor here.’ The man bobbed his head to his hut. ‘It is backed up somewhere. The solicitors will know.’

‘Thanks.’ Zeb drove back down the private track and joined the public road.

He noticed the camera mounted high on a pole and dialed Beth.

‘Found who killed Perosky?’ A grin in her voice.

He smiled. ‘Did you find who Karelsky is?’

‘Working on it. But I have a feeling we’ll find out before you identify Perosky’s killer. If he was assassinated.’

‘Any way you can hack into the camera feeds at that country home?’

‘No. Meg and I looked it up. There are no architecture drawings for that place, nothing is in the public domain. Russian oligarchs take their privacy seriously.’

‘There’s a camera on a public road, at the intersection to the approach to Perosky’s place.’

‘Hang on.’ Keys clicked. ‘Yeah, I see that one. What’s on your mind?’

‘Comings and goings at the country home around the time he died.’

‘You aren’t giving this up, are you?’

‘I want to confirm if falling out of windows is normal for Russian billionaires.’

He reached the SAS base at five pm.

Beth greeted him by bowing elaborately. ‘Remind us to never doubt you again.’

He was bemused until Meghan brought her laptop to the dining table, flicked up the screen, and brought up a video segment.

An SUV turning into the private road to the country home.

Clearly a man, but other than his build, nothing else could be made out due to the glare on the windshield.

‘This entered Perosky’s place about an hour before he died.’

She brought up another video of the same SUV, departing. ‘Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes from his time of death. Werner failed to identify him. Face is too blurred. You can see from those videos, the camera didn’t get the vehicle’s plates. Unfortunately, there’s no other camera nearby.’

‘That vehicle’s arrival and departure … it can’t be a coincidence.’ He replayed the first video.

‘No, Zeb Carter.’ She punched his forearm lightly. ‘It can’t.’

‘He really is a genius,’ Jack said mock-admiringly.

‘No.’ Beth frowned. ‘If he was, he would have gone to that mansion a long time ago.’

Zeb shook his head. There was no winning with the twins. ‘That still isn’t proof Perosky was killed.’

‘No.’ Meghan traded glances with Beth, who nodded and typed rapidly.

The online edition of a Russian newspaper came up. She zoomed in on it and expanded an article. They were all fluent in the language.

‘Oleg Rudinsky found dead in his apartment building in Moscow,’ he read aloud. He skimmed through the article and froze when he came to a section. His voice rose. ‘He fell out of a window?’

‘Yeah. Police think that was accidental too.’

Zeb read it again. He looked at the twins.

Meera beat him to it. ‘Who was Oleg Rudinsky?’

Beth milked the moment, pausing for a long beat. ‘He was Perosky’s butler.’

40

Zeb led his team to an early morning drill with the E Squadron troops. They assembled outside their building while Jack paused to take a call.

‘Yes, sir.’ He hung up. ‘Drill’s off.’

‘Why? What happened?’ Meera asked.

‘That was Brimshaw. He wants us in the Room right away. He says there’s been an overnight development.’

Zeb glanced at the sisters. Beth shook her head. ‘Not that we know of.’

Brimshaw nodded at them when they hurried into a conference room.

Hayes was there. As expressionless as ever. In a crisp white shirt and dark pants. He’s probably got dressers full of them, Zeb thought.

The SO15 officer let them take seats and went to a screen. ‘You all have been busy. I believe we are now looking for a Czech billionaire⁠—’

‘Millionaire. We don’t know who he is,’ Beth said. ‘He could be anyone.’

‘I stand corrected. He could be our shot-caller, though?’

‘Yes.’

‘Congratulations. That was a big breakthrough.’

The twins hadn’t informed the Room, or the Met or anyone else of the Perosky development. Because it might be unrelated, Zeb thought as he took the cup of coffee that Beth passed down the line.

‘This had better be good to pull me away from exercise that makes me wish I died,’ Terry snapped.

Hayes didn’t smile. ‘This is a warehouse in West Tilbury, Essex. That’s⁠—’

‘Northeast of London. We are very familiar with Britain, old boy.’ Roger put on an upper-class accent.

Hayes didn’t smile, nor did he seem to take offense. ‘West Tilbury is a very small village. About four miles east of Grays, which is the largest nearby town. The warehouse is isolated, was a former logistics place, and now, it’s not being used. At least, that’s what we thought. Tariq Hussain was there.’

Everyone sat straight.

‘What?’ Beth exclaimed. ‘His phone didn’t have anything on it. We’ve seen the police report of the raid on his flat⁠—’

‘Old-fashioned police work,’ Hayes said. ‘The Met deployed hundreds of officers, many of them borrowed from other police forces, to interview neighbors, friends, colleagues, Tube passengers. None of that went into online records⁠—’

‘Because Karelsky might have informers,’ Meghan guessed.

‘Correct. We tracked Hussain to that warehouse. A Tilbury taxi driver remembered him.’

‘When was that?’

‘A week ago, but we found out only overnight.’

‘What’s in the warehouse?’

‘We don’t know.’

Jack stood up. ‘What are we doing here, then? We need to⁠—’

‘You are going as observers,’ Brimshaw said. ‘Along with the Americans. No direct action unless your hand is forced.’

‘I would prefer that the Met handle this by itself. But,’—Hayes shrugged—‘powers above me decided that your presence is useful.’

‘Jack, you are still suspended,’ Brimshaw reminded him.

‘But I can still go, sir?’

‘Yes. I negotiated that with C.’

‘What’s the plan?’ Zeb asked Hayes.

‘A team of CTSFOs, Counter Terrorism Specialist Firearms Officers, will be arriving at the warehouse in forty-five minutes. They will take the lead in breaching and entering. We have police surveillance on the warehouse. It seems to be empty.’ Hayes glanced at his watch. ‘I suggest you get moving if you wish to be there. As observers,’ he said dryly.

‘We need rides,’ Jack told Brimshaw.

‘They are waiting on Rectory Road.’ The E Squadron commander brought up a map of the village. ‘The warehouse is on the outskirts of the village, to its south, on Church Road.’

Zeb studied the map. Rectory Road went through the village and turned into Church Road. ‘There’s nothing on Church Road, correct? Only farmland.’

‘Correct,’ Hayes said. ‘The warehouse was rented out by a farmer to a delivery company which has gone bust. The farmer died. His wife is surviving. She didn’t rent it out to anyone. She isn’t aware of anyone using the warehouse, but their farm is huge. She rarely visits the warehouse.’

‘Is anyone with her?’ Chloe asked.

‘Police officers. She is not a suspect, but they will be with her until we secure the warehouse.’

‘Go!’ Brimshaw said.

They took the two Eurocopters after hastily changing into combat outfits.

‘I am suspended,’ Jack said at Zeb’s look. ‘Brimshaw didn’t say I shouldn’t be armed.’

The choppers lifted off and in twenty minutes, touched down in a field on Rectory Road.

Two Land Rovers waiting for them with two officers.

Zeb took the key from one officer and got behind the wheel. The sisters, Broker, Meera, and Chloe got in his vehicle. Jack took the other ride with the rest of the Agency operators joining the E Squadron team.

‘CTSFOs are a mile away, near the village,’ the captain said in their comms.

Zeb followed him on the small country road, bumping and rocking as they sped. ‘Were there riots in this part of the country?’

‘There were, in Grays.’ Meghan consulted her screen. ‘Large, for the size of the town. Several shops were broken into, and stores were vandalized.’

The CTSFOs were in unmarked vehicles. Ten of them, crowded around two more Land Rovers. West Tilbury’s church was in sight from where they had stopped.

Zeb idled while Jack parked and went to the Met’s team. He watched the captain shake hands, pore over a map, nod, and return.

‘They have reminded us that they delayed the entry just for us,’ he said dryly when they resumed driving. ‘I don’t think we are popular.’

‘We would feel the same way in their position,’ Zeb said. ‘Where do we stop?’

‘Well away from the warehouse while they go about their job. On the farm.’

They sped on Rectory Road and through West Tilbury, four dark vehicles carrying lethal force, passing through a sleepy village waking up to its first meal of the day.

Jack swerved onto farmland once the village was behind them.

Zeb followed him.

The CTSFOs proceeded.

The Agency and the British teams stopped when they were three hundred yards away from the warehouse which was silhouetted against the sky. They climbed out.

Rectory Road to their right.

‘They’ll ditch their rides too and proceed on foot. The police officers who are watching the warehouse have again confirmed there’s no movement in the building.’ Jack hitched his HK on his chest.

Meghan launched the drone, and they crowded around Beth’s screen, which she placed on a Land Rover’s hood.

They watched the MET specialist team carry out a classic pincer raid. They split into two teams, both on foot, after hiding their rides in a shallow.

One team looped wide around the warehouse and got closer.

The other team waited for it to be in position and then raced into the building.

They’re wearing gas masks. Good. Better to be prepared, Zeb observed.

The drones captured their warning shouts.

‘It’s empty,’ Beth said disappointedly.

Meera shoulder-nudged her. ‘You were expecting to find Karelsky?’

‘What’s going on?’ Jack said sharply when most of the officers rushed out. He brought out his radio and dialed. ‘Lewis? What’s up?’

He listened. ‘Be careful.’ He hung up and turned to his audience. ‘Nerve gas! They are carrying particle detectors. They picked up the trace chemicals in the air. Not enough concentration to be harmful, but Lewis, the CO, ordered his team to leave the warehouse.’

‘WHO ARE THEY?’

Roger spun on his heels and pointed to a pickup and a sedan racing down Rectory Road, speeding toward the warehouse.

‘They’re filled with men.’ Meghan’s lips tightened as she repositioned the drone swiftly. ‘THEY ARE ARMED!’

Zeb sprinted to his Land Rover even before she had finished.

He got behind the wheel and fired it up.

Bwana climbed into the shotgun seat as he shot out of the farmland and onto Rectory Road.

‘LEWIS! AMBUSH!’ Jack roared in their comms.

‘He’s not on our channel,’ Terry reminded the captain.

Jack cursed, and then his voice was lost.

Zeb got onto Rectory Road, straightened the wheel. Jammed the accelerator. ‘Can you shoot their tires?’

Bwana shook his head. ‘They’re civilians. Let’s not risk it. You know what to do.’

The sedan was less than a hundred feet away.

Zeb pursed his lips. Focused. These are police rides. They have souped-up engines.

They narrowed the distance.

‘I love this bit.’ Bwana braced himself.

Zeb gritted his teeth and slammed into the sedan.

Metal shrieked. Rubber burned.

The impact spun the car off the road, sideways into farmland, where it stalled.

The Land Rover itself veered off in the same direction and ended in a ditch.

Zeb dove out instantly. ‘You’ll deal with them?’

‘Of course, I will,’ Bwana scoffed.

Zeb ran to Rectory Road and flung himself to the ground.

The pickup hadn’t slowed. He could hear faint shouts from its occupants.

His HK came to his shoulder.

Jack’s Land Rover swept past him.

‘Keep to the right,’ he told the captain in his comms. ‘I need a clear firing line.’

‘Copy.’

The pickup was going in a straight line, and then it sank abruptly on its shocks when his first burst shredded its left tire, and his second burst wrecked the right one.

It slowed.

Jack’s Land Rover neared it.

Terry, Curtis, Mike, Bear, and Roger dove off it and spread around the truck.

The pickup stopped.

‘They have surrendered,’ Jack said presently. ‘Lewis and team are safe.’

‘We have an update,’ Beth said.

‘What is it?’ Zeb asked.

‘Come to the warehouse.’

‘You’re there?’

‘We ran at it … after we found our development.’

Zeb rose and checked with Bwana, who thumbed-up that he had zip-tied the car’s occupants.

‘They seem to be thugs. They had cricket bats, knives, and Molotovs,’ his friend panted as the African American joined him on Rectory Road and they ran toward the warehouse.

‘Any of them injured?’

‘I wish,’ Bwana said savagely. ‘A bruise. Nothing more serious.’

They reached the CTSFOs, who were with the rest of the Agency team and the E Squadron troops.

An unkempt man on the ground, his hands cuffed behind him, in a dirty shirt and jeans.

‘Who’s he?’ Zeb asked.

‘He was hiding beneath a thermal blanket in a trench to the side of the warehouse. He wasn’t near it, which is why the Met team didn’t see him,’ Meghan said.

‘What was he doing there?’ Zeb frowned.

‘He ran when the police entered the warehouse. He must have had a ride hidden somewhere.’

‘I don’t get it.’ Zeb shook his head.

‘Our guess is he’s a watcher. Sent out to keep an eye on the warehouse and warn whoever’s paid him. He was making a call⁠—’

‘We’re too late, in that case,’ a CTSFO said sharply.

That’s Lewis, Zeb read his nameplate.

‘No,’ Beth drawled. ‘We signal-jammed him. Meghan and I reached him first. His call hadn’t gone through.’

41

‘We’ll question him,’ Lewis said, ‘but before that, you need to see the warehouse. We have spare gas masks.’

Zeb took one from him and put it on.

The warehouse was the size of a residential garage. A thick film of dust in it on which their boots got imprinted.

There was only one door to it, a sliding one that the CTSFOs had breached. Against the opposite wall were crates.

‘We got out of the warehouse to air the place,’ Lewis said. ‘We didn’t get time to open these crates since you folks rolled up Fast and Furious style.’

I like him already. Zeb watched one of the officers run the particle meter over the crates and then pick up a crowbar.

‘Wait!’ he warned.

He pointed to the outline in the dust next to the stack of crates. ‘There was something there. Boot prints as well.’

‘Good spot, mate.’ Lewis circled cautiously without disturbing the prints, photographed the floor and then crouched. He took a tape measure from one of his officers.

‘A little longer than a shoebox,’ he said after measuring the outline.

‘Can you estimate its size?’ Zeb asked.

‘I am sure the tech team can work something out based on how deep that outline is and compare it to weight of these crates. Ali, open the topmost one.’

Ali, the crowbar officer, jammed the implement in the crate and cracked it open. ‘Cigarettes.’ He dipped his hand in and came out with several packs.

‘Ali, you and the rest open the other crates. Carefully.’ Lewis then turned to the observers. ‘Shall we interrogate our prisoner?’

The man gave his name as David Milligan.

He was sullen, uncooperative initially, and then when Lewis told him about nerve gas attacks, he lost his resistance.

Zeb and the Agency team drew back when Lewis requested privacy. Probably to avoid having witnesses if he’s going aggressive.

The Americans retreated to their Land Rover where Beth typed rapidly on her screen.

‘He’s in the system,’ she said without looking up. ‘Forty-six years old. He’s been arrested for cigarette and alcohol smuggling a few times. He spent a year in prison.’

‘He’s not Karelsky,’ Meera summed up.

‘No, he isn’t.’

Lewis and the E Squadron team joined them an hour later. ‘He was contacted by someone over a month ago to keep an eye on the warehouse. He met this someone in a pub in Graves,’ the CTSFO explained. ‘The man seemed to know who Milligan was and promised him easy money.’

‘Let me guess. Watch the warehouse and alert that bunch of thugs if police arrive,’ Chloe said.

‘Yes. The number he tried to call matches the number on a phone one of those rioters was carrying.’ Lewis looked at the thugs from the pickup and the sedan. ‘Those are paid troublemakers. Their job was to attack the police if they arrived in the warehouse and make it look like a riot.’

‘Who hired them?’ Zeb sized up the arrested men, many of whom were sitting on the ground, cursing in defiance.

‘Same person who hired Milligan. I have reported it in. We’ll check out the pub and see if they have cameras. We might get lucky and identify the man.’

‘What about this warehouse? Whose stash is that?’

Lewis brightened. ‘A local criminal outfit who smuggle contraband from Europe and distribute it all over the country. They have been on our radar. But …’ His smile faded. ‘From what I know of them, they wouldn’t touch nerve gas flasks. Not many British gangs will.’

‘They were paid to store that carton,’ Broker said.

‘Yes, that’s my guess too.’

Karelsky could have even hired them to move his carton from Europe to this place. Zeb wrestled with the information.

‘Can you check with Hayes if any of these cartons were offloaded at Felixstowe as well?’ he asked Jack.

‘I’ve asked, already. He’ll check and get back.’

An officer called out. Lewis and Jack hurried to the CTSFOs, bent over Milligan, and straightened several moments later.

Jack was on his phone when he and Lewis returned. The Met officer was beaming. ‘Milligan confessed to something else. One of my officers might have told him that he was looking at a long prison time unless he had more to offer, and no judge would go lenient where nerve gas was involved.’ He grinned and went through his phone. ‘Milligan wanted something on that man, the one who recruited him, some kind of kompromat. He followed him out but had the brains only to photograph the man’s car.’

He held up a license plate on his phone. ‘I got that off him.’

‘I’ve informed Brimshaw and Hayes.’ Jack hung up.

Beth spun to her screen and punched the plate in. She raised her fist triumphantly, and then her hand fell to her side.

‘What’s up?’ Zeb asked her.

‘It’s a diplomatic car,’ she said quietly. ‘Registered to the Chinese national who works in the Chinese embassy.’

42

Zeb felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

He moved to her side and read the details Werner had spat out.

‘I thought the Chinese presence was a false flag operation,’ he said hollowly.

‘You identified the vehicle?’ Lewis exclaimed. ‘How⁠—’

‘That’s not important, Lewis,’ Jack said tersely.

‘But—’

‘Magic, dude,’ Bwana said softly. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

‘Who’s the car registered to?’ Meera stood on her toes, trying to see past the crowd around Beth and Meghan.

‘Alexander Liu,’ Zeb read out Werner’s information. ‘Political Affairs Advisor at the Chinese Embassy in London. Single. No family in the UK. He’s been here for a few years.’

Meghan reached over Beth and clicked a few keys.

Liu’s photograph came up.

The younger twin ran a command. ‘I’m getting Werner to search for any of Liu’s videos and do a comparison … there!’

Fifty percent match.

‘What does that mean? What’s going on?’ Lewis asked, confused.

‘We have a probable suspect, the shotcaller as we call him. Our AI software has compared Liu’s size and build to what we have of this man and come up with that match. It is not conclusive … but not an outright reject, either.’

‘Let’s grab him.’ Jack raised his phone.

‘Or,’ Zeb said, ‘let’s search his place. Chances are high he’ll be at work.’

‘Let’s see.’ Beth typed furiously. ‘I’m running a search on London’s CCTV cameras … yeah, he went to the embassy. Oxford Circus Tube Station’s camera captured him.’ She pointed to a side profile of Liu with the date and timestamp on it.

‘Good idea, I’ll call Brimshaw,’ Jack said.

‘Put him on speaker,’ Zeb suggested, then grinned at Lewis’ glazed expression. ‘We’ll catch you up when time slows down.’

Jack paused from dialing, drew the Met officer away, and spoke softly.

‘He’s not security-cleared for what happens next,’ he explained to the Americans when Lewis rejoined his team.

Brimshaw came on the line and listened to the captain. ‘I’ll call C. Getting authorizations might take time⁠—’

‘Not for us, sir,’ Zeb said.

E Squadron paused for so long that Zeb had to check if the call was still connected. It was.

‘If you mean what I think you mean, this could backfire, and the fallout would be a pretty mess.’

There’s the British understatement again. Zeb smiled. ‘We’ll do our best to make no mess, sir.’

‘You are really doing this?’ Jack asked when the call ended.

Zeb nodded and called Clare. Updated her swiftly and smiled when she said, Do it. We’ll deal with any fallout later.

‘We’ll need to borrow that Land Rover,’ Zeb told Jack. ‘The one we came in.’

‘Take it,’ the captain said.

‘You need firepower?’ Bear asked.

‘No. This has to be a small team.’

‘You, Beth, and Meg?’ Meera guessed.

‘Yeah.’

He and the sisters fist-bumped the rest of the Agency operators and sprinted to the Land Rover.

‘Don’t start a war without us,’ Bwana called out.

‘Liu has a sixth-floor apartment in a fancy high-rise in Canary Wharf. Pan Peninsula Towers on Marsh Wall. That’s the street’s name.’

Zeb focused on driving. Let her and Meg work out how to enter.

‘No, it’s got tight security.’

‘Can’t hack into their system. That’s an upscale place with a lounge, restaurant and a private gym. Looks like a lot of Arabs and Chinese millionaires have bought there.’

‘He could have cameras at the door.’

‘Oh, he will!’

‘Here’s a floor plan from someone who’s reselling an apartment.’

Their conversation flowed over him as he hit London’s traffic on East India Dock Road.

‘We don’t have civilian clothing,’ he pointed out when the sisters fell silent.

‘We know.’ Meghan shut down her screen and put it away. ‘Trust us.’

He waited for an explanation. When he didn’t get one, he shrugged mentally. He snuck a glance at her.

She had her in the zone face. Beth, too.

They are working out their moves.

He took the exit to the A1206, then got onto Marsh Wall.

A small street with high-rises on either side. Cafés, hair salons, boutiques on their ground floors. Many were offices, but several were residential buildings.

‘Don’t stop,’ Beth told him when Pan Peninsula Towers came into view.

A glass-fronted building with a front courtyard. Several tables and chairs.

‘How many floors is that?’ he asked when they passed it.

‘Twenty. There’s an alley somewhere … there, on the left.’ Meghan pointed. ‘Park behind any of those trash bins.’

‘What’s here?’ He got out of the Land Rover and stretched. The alley was a dead end filled with waste bins.

‘These kinds of alleys are where the rich occupants of such buildings keep their trash for collection. Lucky for us, it’s where the building has its delivery entrance.’

She pointed to an aluminum door.

‘No cameras?’

‘No cameras,’ Beth confirmed, her eyes glued to an app on her phone.

Meghan went to the door.

A biometric lock. A keypad next to it.

She pulled out a signal emulator. ‘Rolling encryption.’ She spoke to herself. ‘The key changes every thirty seconds. Predictable security for such a building.’

‘Can you beat it?’ Zeb asked.

She unlocked the door in reply.

A hallway that opened into a large room. Stank of waste. A bank of washers and dryers.

‘Those are for the security and maintenance staff. Perks of working in such a building,’ Beth mumbled, snapped her fingers to get his attention, turned into another hallway, and unlocked yet another biometric door.

A server bank.

Zeb waited outside while the sisters worked their magic.

‘Where’s the NVR/DVR?’

‘Here. You have the firmware update?’

‘Updating it. That will loop the feed for an hour.’

‘That should be enough?’

‘If that’s not enough, that’s not the only thing we have to worry about.’

‘Network persistence … packet sniffer … here we go.’

‘Wipe script?’

‘Installed. It will scrub our presence.’

No point my trying to make sense of what they mean. He glanced at their hunched heads at a server.

‘There will be cameras—’ he began when they came out and Beth thumbs-upped him.

‘What do you think we’ve been doing? We put them on an auto loop. We have an hour.’

The service elevator was in the large room they had first entered.

‘Why does this building need a service elevator?’ he asked, then instantly regretted his question.

Neither of them gave him a hard time, however. Both were in the zone.

‘It’s for maintenance,’ Meghan said absently.

‘Masks,’ Beth said before they got into the elevator. ‘We’ve taken care of the cameras, but let’s be safe.’

Zeb pulled a balaclava over his head and followed them into the car.

The fourth floor had two apartments. A ceiling camera.

Liu’s was to the left of the elevator.

Meghan brought out her signal emulator. ‘He should have gone with a traditional lock and biometric combo.’ She shook her head in disgust when the door opened. ‘This is too easy.’

She threw a ball inside the room before entering and fired an app.

A rolling EMP device that fired off low-intensity rays and fried nearby electrics.

‘That door is thick,’ she said. ‘It’ll shield us.’

They went in fifteen minutes later.

Large living room. Windows overlooked the South Dock. A view of Canary Wharf’s high-rises.

A kitchen. Two more rooms.

They searched the apartment swiftly and silently.

‘Clean,’ Beth said disappointedly, forty minutes later.

‘Yeah.’ Meghan too joined Zeb in the living room. ‘His clothing is there, nothing else. Funny. His shirts and pants look new.’

‘Maybe he’s one of those people who wear clothes only once,’ Beth said despondently. ‘There’s nothing else here. No connection to his work, either. This apartment feels sterile.’

Zeb didn’t let his disappointment show, but couldn’t help sighing. He idly flicked through the Chinese calendar on the wall with his gloved fingers and then stilled.

‘What’s it?’ Beth went to him.

He pointed to a barely noticeable asterisk drawn with a pen next to a date.

‘That asterisk⁠—’

‘It’s the date, dummy. Fifteenth March.’ Meghan said triumphantly. ‘That’s the same date that was in Zhang Wei’s notebook.’

43

Zeb was silent on the way back.

He was trying to piece the jigsaw together, but the pieces didn’t fit. I first thought it was MSS. Then figured it was a false flag operation to implicate them. Now, turns out it could be them again!

‘Your brain will hurt with all that heavy lifting,’ Meghan drawled.

He smiled despite himself and carded his fingers through his hair. Sighed. ‘None of it makes sense.’

‘You can keep saying that a million times … but what are we going to do about it?’ Beth asked sharply. ‘Shall we grab Liu?’

‘No.’ He dialed Jack and updated him. ‘Can you arrange tails on him? It will have to be multiple teams … yeah, you get the picture.’

He glanced at the clock on the dash. Three pm. New York will be awake.

He punched another number. It rang several times, and then a voice answered. ‘Zeb. I thought you were out of my life,’ Fong yawned.

Zeb could hear the man working in the kitchen. ‘How’s Jenna?’

‘She’s good. I am not sure she’s glad to have her father this close to her, inquiring into her life, but she seems happy. We are doing a lot of catching up.’ He paused. ‘You’re back in New York?’

‘Still in Britain.’

‘This isn’t a social call.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘No. I need to know who’s the seniormost MSS operative in the UK. Someone who will know of every ongoing mission in the country.’

‘I told you. We aren’t running any active missions there.’

‘And while I believe you, I have information that makes me suspect you weren’t cut into everything that was happening.’

A pot clattered. Sounds of liquid pouring. ‘This wasn’t the agreement we had. I would pass you information that I felt was a threat to your country, no more.’

‘We had an informal arrangement,’ Zeb grated and honked loudly at a truck that refused to budge from the middle lane. ‘Only I and my team dealt with you. I didn’t pass on your details to the CIA, MI6, DGSE, or anyone else. If I had, they would have treated you way differently. They would have sweated you for every little piece of intel. They wouldn’t have extradited you to New York and arranged a fancy life⁠—’

‘I had to leave Britain because of you.’

‘No. You were already being followed. Those shooters at your building … we still don’t know who they were. They could have been MSS, they could have been anyone. In any case, what are you griping about? You’re safe. You’re with your daughter. She’s safe as well. You’re out of the game. You no longer have to look over your shoulder. I need a name from you,’ Zeb ended with a hiss.

‘Why are you so invested⁠—’

Zeb’s palms curled on the wheel. ‘What you see on TV, about the recent politics in my country … on the ground, at the intelligence agency and military level, nothing has changed. Europe and Britain remain as close to the US at those levels as ever. And even if the politics had altered the equation, we, my outfit, don’t desert our friends or forget those who helped us. Never. If we did, you wouldn’t be sitting in New York, pouring coffee and talking to me.’

A long silence.

Beth sniffed.

He met her eyes in the mirror.

‘That made me emotional.’ She made a show of wiping her eyes.

He chuckled reluctantly. ‘It’s true. What I said about the relationships⁠—’

‘We know, dummy.’ She squeezed his shoulder.

‘They’ll send a hit team after me,’ Fong said reluctantly. It didn’t look like he had heard the conversation in the car.

‘You have protection. Jenna’s got security as well. She might not see the team, but they are there. These are capable agents. You are safe.’ He knew Clare had deployed round-the-clock teams.

Fong sighed. ‘We are never out of the game, are we?’

Zeb stayed silent.

‘You must know who the MSS agents are in Britain.’

‘We know some. We don’t know the heavy hitters. It’s not as if they broadcast who they really are.’

‘Ma Yifang,’ Fong said finally.

‘Is he the Station Chief in London?’

‘No!’ the MSS defector scoffed. ‘That’s Sun Jianhing. He’s a bureaucrat. He just makes fancy reports to Beijing.’

‘Who’s Alexander Liu?’ Meghan asked.

‘Beth?’ Fong asked. ‘You’re with Zeb?’

‘It’s Meghan. Yeah. I’m here. Beth’s here too. Who’s Liu?’

‘Liu …’ Fong trailed off.

‘Political Affairs Advisor⁠—’

‘HIM! He’s a nobody. His dad is high up in the Party and arranged for him to have this London posting.’

‘You’re sure?’ Zeb asked sharply. ‘He’s not involved in any MSS operation?’

‘No. I heard he goes to parties and lives the high life. He’s got nothing to do with MSS.’

So, who the heck was using his car? And why’s that date on his calendar? Zeb met Meghan’s eyes and knew she was thinking the same.

‘Where’s Ma Yifang in London?’ he asked.

‘Yifang is in Manchester.’

‘Manchester?’ Zeb asked, surprised. ‘Why there?’

‘Because MSS is smart. They know every intelligence agency will be focused on Chinese agents in London. That’s why I too was posted in Manchester.’

‘How senior is Yifang?’

‘He runs every operation. Nothing happens in Britain without his knowledge.’

‘Send me his photograph and address.’

‘I gave you his name.’

Zeb let the silence weigh.

Fong caved in. ‘I got out with some dossiers … I guess I could send you his details.’

Zeb hung up. Heard Meghan speak in her phone.

‘You’re arranging our Land Rover?’ he asked when her call ended.

‘Bwana’s bringing it to a service station on the M1 motorway.’

‘We’re going to Manchester directly?’

‘Isn’t that what you were planning?’

He shook his head ruefully. ‘Always a few steps ahead of us.’

‘Never in doubt.’ Beth smirked from the back.

The M1 was the oldest motorway in the country. It ran from London to Leeds, just short of two hundred miles, and was one of the busiest major road routes in the country.

Zeb eased into the service station near Luton and searched the parking lot.

‘There!’ Beth pointed.

Bwana was at the far end of the lot, big, arms crossed, noticeable, towering over their electric Land Rover.

His shades glinted when he clocked them. He straightened, and when Beth got out, high-fived her. ‘What’s this I hear about yet another operation in Manchester? The West Tilbury and London ones weren’t enough for you today?’

Zeb got out of his ride and swapped keys with the African American. He got behind the EV’s wheel and nodded. Nothing like having our own rides.

‘You’re coming with us?’ he asked, surprised when Bwana joined Beth in the back.

‘Of course. Y’all need to learn from the experts.’

Zeb grinned. ‘What about that other Land Rover?’

‘Jack will arrange for it to be collected.’

‘You have the key.’

‘You’ve heard of a spare key?’

Zeb couldn’t win against his friends. He swung out, enjoying the instant acceleration of the EV. He joined the motorway. Passed his phone to Meghan. ‘Fong’s come through?’

She unlocked it and checked. Nodded. ‘Yeah.’ She showed him a photograph.

Zeb glanced at it briefly. Early forties, trim man, short hair. Fong had sent several photographs of Yifang.

‘He’s got his family in Manchester. His wife and daughter,’ she said.

‘He’s got an office?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Where’s his home?’

‘Young Street in Spinningfields.’

He placed the neighborhood. That’s a fancy place. Not far from Manchester’s city center. ‘I thought it was mostly office buildings.’

‘There are a few residential buildings. Penthouses, high-end apartments … looks like MSS is happy to splurge on their key agents.’

‘We can’t go into his home,’ Beth cautioned.

He nodded. Don’t involve the family. It was an unwritten rule most Western intelligence agencies shared.

‘Fong’s sent his routine as well.’ Meghan held up the phone. ‘Yifang goes to a local gym each evening and returns home at eight pm.’

‘Why would Fong know that?’

‘That schedule seems to be part of some kind of security report to identify every MSS agent’s vulnerabilities.’

‘Routines are bad in our game.’ Bwana nodded.

‘You have a lot of them,’ Beth scoffed.

‘Only fools will act against me,’ the African American said complacently.

Zeb surged to the fast lane. We can make it by eight pm.

Young Street was a short stretch of road linking Quay Street and Gartside Street. It was surrounded by glass-fronted office buildings.

There was a townhouse building complex on the street, the only red-brick construction on it. The complex had a large parking space with waist-high brick walls and an ungated entrance for entry and exit.

‘Entrance to the houses is through the parking lot,’ Meghan whispered, checking the drone’s feed.

They had arrived at seven-thirty pm with Zeb easing into an empty space.

The sisters had confirmed there weren’t security cameras in the parking lot.

There are hardly any cars. Zeb checked.

The complex was L-shaped.

Yifang’s house is at the corner of the two legs.

It was lit from within.

Meghan had run the drone close to it and confirmed the agent’s family was inside, but Yifang wasn’t present.

We know his car’s missing. He must be in the gym.

‘What you outlined,’—Bwana shook his head mournfully—‘doesn’t sound like a plan.’

‘You want shooting and more violence?’ Zeb asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘We are in a residential area⁠—’

‘I got it the first time you explained.’ The African American held his hand up, opened the door, and disappeared into the night with Beth.

Young Street had dim lighting. The parking lot had even fewer light posts.

That townhouse complex is probably saving on maintenance costs by having so few lights. The residents must figure, this close to the city center, there’s hardly any crime.

‘Meera said you and she are planning a road trip in India.’ He glanced at Meghan.

Her teeth flashed, her face glowing from the dim light of her screen. ‘Yeah. As soon as she can arrange some vacay and we are in between operations. Beth and Mark might join too.’

Mark, Beth’s long-time boyfriend, a hotshot NYPD detective.

‘You’re happy?’

She knew instantly what he meant. ‘Very. I know people who don’t know me, and Meera too, will wonder why two women who look like us,’ she said without any arrogance or ego, ‘are single. This is me. I don’t need anyone to complete me. I am happy the way I am. Meera thinks the same way, too. It’s harder for her. Indian society is different. But she has no intention of changing.’

‘I didn’t mean to⁠—’

‘Relax.’ Her teeth flashed. ‘We have spoken of this before. You don’t have to apologize. The real question is—’ her smile widened ‘—are you happy?’

Zeb looked out into the darkness of the parking lot. A stretch of sky overhead between the high-rises. An aircraft made its way high above. The world was big, but maybe it wasn’t, really. People were different, complicated, but often, they weren’t.

‘Happiness is a state of mind. Contentment. That’s more relevant. I am content. You, Beth, the rest of us. You are family to me. You folks complete me.’

She blinked furiously. ‘Over the years …’

‘What?’

‘You have become more eloquent over the years.’

‘You both realize we can hear you over your mics?’ Beth drawled. ‘Bwana’s sobbing in my chest.’

‘I am not,’ the African American said stoutly. ‘I am smirking, looking strong, and feeling superior at all this mush.’

‘Lights!’ Meghan snapped, and they went into action mode.

Zeb waited until Yifang’s ride, a Honda SUV, had turned into the parking lot fully.

It was to their two o’clock, less than a hundred feet away.

He flicked on his headlights. Turned on high beams and accelerated.

He saw Yifang raise an elbow to block the glare.

The Land Rover covered the distance in seconds. The Honda had barely progressed when the heavy, armored EV T-boned it.

Metal crunched.

The Honda slid sideways.

Yifang rocked in his seat. His airbag blew up.

Zeb and Meghan were out in an instant.

He went around the Honda’s hood and yanked the MSS agent’s door, used his Benchmade to deflate the airbag, leaned inside, unsnapped the man’s seat belt, and yanked him out.

All before the MSS man could recover from the shock of the impact and process what was happening.

Meghan crouched, alert, her HK covering them.

‘Incoming,’ she snapped, when another pair of headlights turned into the parking lot.

It squealed to a stop.

Zeb slapped Yifang harshly, put the Benchmade to his neck, and shoved him to his Land Rover.

He saw two figures jump out of the new ride.

They shouted.

He thought he saw the glints of guns in their hands, and then he had shoved Yifang in the rear seat and zip-tied him roughly.

He straightened, smiled coldly at the sight of Bwana and Beth taking down the hostiles—Yifang’s protection team—brutally.

The African American had slapped away one of the gunmen’s weapons and had an armlock around his neck.

Beth had kneed the other man, and even as he watched, swung the stock of her HK into his face.

‘Let’s go,’ Meghan snapped.

Zeb got behind the wheel.

Waited for Bwana and the sisters to jump in and raced out.

He nosed into a construction site Meghan had identified on their way to Manchester.

It was on the outskirts of the city, close to the M62 motorway.

A new residential building project. Foundation work had started. Earth-moving equipment, concrete sacks, bricks, steel girders, and timber arranged on the ground.

No gate but warning signs.

He drove inside and parked behind a stack of concrete.

Yifang, lips bleeding, breathing harshly, glowered.

Bwana hauled him out and rested him against the Land Rover.

‘HOW DARE YOU⁠—’

Beth slapped him.

They had planned it in advance. The twins would interrogate him. Many Asian men didn’t like women in superior positions, in power, who had an advantage.

They didn’t know if Yifang was one of those men, but they would use the gender and power dynamics to infuriate the MSS agent.

Furiously angry men spill their secrets quicker, Zeb thought dispassionately.

‘You are Ma Yifang,’ Beth said coldly. ‘You run all the MSS operations in Britain. We know everything about you. We know which school your daughter goes to, which charity your wife works at. Talk.’

‘MSS? What’s that? Do you know how much trouble you are in?’ Yifang blustered. ‘The police⁠—’

Beth slapped him again.

The MSS man’s nose started bleeding.

The younger twin brought out a paper towel and wiped his face.

Yifang tried to draw away, but she caught his hair and held him fast while she cleaned him up.

She and Meghan then flanked him.

‘Smile,’ she told Yifang while Bwana snapped several photographs.

‘What are you doing?’ the MSS man said hoarsely.

‘Taking photographs. What do you think?’ Beth cut his zip ties. ‘You are free to go.’

Yifang stood uncertainly while he rubbed his wrists, confusion on his face.

‘We will share these photographs with the MSS Station Chief. We will use AI to generate more photographs of you with Alex Greystone. I am sure you know who he is. We will send all those photographs to London and to Beijing.’ She crossed her arms. ‘I am sure you know what will happen next.’

‘We won’t torture you. No more slapping. We won’t kill you. Heck, we will do nothing to your family,’ Meghan drawled.

‘Why should we?’ Bwana growled. ‘His own agency will do all of that. MSS will figure he has betrayed them. Ma Yifang and his family will disappear. Poof.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Never to be seen or heard of again. Beth, what’s the weather in Chishan?’

‘That brutal labor camp in Hunan Province where China sends its dissidents? It isn’t healthy,’ she laughed. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Wait!’ Bwana said. ‘What about the photographs?’

‘I’ll mail them to Beijing and London. By the time Yifang sits down to dinner with his family, MSS will be going through them.’

Zeb hid his smile and went to the Land Rover. Meghan went to the shotgun side.

‘Wait …’ Yifang said desperately. Sweat on his face. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘He seems to be willing to talk,’ Bwana hesitated.

‘Nah!’ Beth said dismissively. ‘He’s not MSS. He said that. What does he have to say to us?’ She got in the rear of the SUV.

‘WAIT!’ Yifang’s voice cracked. ‘What do you want?’

‘Which operations are you running in Britain?’ Zeb got out of his ride and leaned against it.

Yifang licked his lips.

Zeb made to get behind the wheel.

‘No operation. We are in information-gathering mode only. There’s nothing active happening,’ the MSS agent said quickly.

That checks with what Fong said.

‘We don’t believe you. We heard you made Liang Fong, an MSS analyst, disappear. You had shooters⁠—’

‘THAT WAS NOT US! We don’t know where he has gone. Those were not our men.’

‘Tell us about Alexander Liu.’

‘Liu?’ Yifang looked puzzled. ‘In the London Embassy? He’s … he’s no one. He makes some reports. That’s all. He’s not in my team. I am telling you,’—his voice grew stronger—‘we are not running any operations.’

‘Liu is involved with the British riots. He is organizing them. He is involved in terrorist attacks against Britain,’ Beth said harshly.

‘Liu?’ Yifang, sweating, bleeding, laughed. ‘You have the wrong man. Liu is into partying. He is not capable of anything.’

Checks out again with what Fong told us. But it leaves us nowhere, Zeb thought bitterly. ‘His car at his Pan Peninsula Towers⁠—’

‘He doesn’t live there.’

The Americans froze.

Yifang sensed he had their attention. He spoke rapidly. ‘That is an embassy apartment. But he decided he wanted to live in his own place. His father is rich. He rents another place near Canary Wharf Station. I don’t know where it is exactly. The embassy decided to rent that Peninsula place out. I think they gave it to an estate management company. We get the rent. We don’t have our own people staying in it.’

‘What about his car?’ Zeb said, still processing the MSS man’s words.

‘Is it a Mercedes?’

Zeb looked at the sisters. I didn’t ask them the make.

‘Yes,’ Meghan said.

‘That is an embassy vehicle too, registered at the address. It too has been rented out. We don’t need flashy vehicles.’

‘Why is it still in his name?’ Beth prodded.

‘Maybe it is easier for the paperwork. Look,’ Yifang said. ‘Is this all you wanted to know? Let me confirm again. We are not running any operation against Britain. We are only gathering intelligence. You can pass that on to Greystone. Are you MI6?’

Beth slapped him. ‘We ask the questions.’

He gasped and inspected the blood from his lips. ‘I told you everything you asked me. Liu is a nobody. His apartment is no longer occupied by any of our people. His car is not used by us. We have not shot any people.’

‘Who’s renting his apartment?’

Yifang threw his hands up helplessly. ‘I don’t know. I don’t get involved with that.’

‘Who does?’

‘There’s a woman, Sarah Meiyun. She is in the admin department. She’s the one who deals with properties, cars, those kinds of things.’

‘I don’t believe him,’ Meghan said. ‘Let’s go. I’ll send the photographs on the way.’

‘IT IS TRUE. YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME,’ Yifang howled.

Zeb believed him. He’s terrified. He’s not making it up. ‘Go home. Have dinner.’

He got behind the wheel.

‘What about the photographs?’ Yifang ran to their Land Rover.

‘They’ll go to MSS if you have lied to us,’ Beth said coldly.

Zeb drove out of the construction project. Saw Yifang’s beaten face in the side mirror, briefly illuminated by another car’s lights, and then he stamped on the accelerator.

‘Dead end?’ Bwana said moodily.

‘We know MSS is not involved,’ Zeb said.

‘That doesn’t help us. Who was using Liu’s car? Who’s in his apartment?’

‘Good thing Meg and I planted a few cameras while we were searching it.’ Beth grinned.

‘You did?’ Zeb met her eyes.

‘Yeah.’ Her face turned serious. ‘But with the way our luck is running, chances are the perp, or Karelsky or whoever was using that apartment and car, won’t return to it.’

44

Rostov breathed in the cold air as he stood inside the workshop.

He was in the Tame Valley Industrial Estate, in Tamworth, five miles northeast of central Birmingham.

Rostov had rented an abandoned repair shop for the meeting. Metalworking machines behind him—cutters, lathes, overhead cranes. The smell of grease filled the air.

His cover was that of an entrepreneur looking to start a metal fabrication business, carrying out prospective staff interviews that day.

Fifteenth of March. The Ides of March.

He was sure the American didn’t know its significance, nor did he know who the shot-caller was.

He’s probably found out about Karelsky.

Rostov knew, once he had found out about the police raid in the West Tilbury warehouse, that Carter would have somehow worked out that he had met Milligan.

Of course, the Americans or the Brits don’t know who I am.

Did Carter go to Liu’s apartment? Did he see the date?

He had deliberately marked the calendar.

Rostov smiled savagely in the cold.

I’m toying with the Americans.

His shooters had almost gotten them a few times, but Carter had proven wily.

I know he is smart.

Sending Wang to nerve gas his foe had almost succeeded, but had ultimately failed.

He had followed with interest the raid at the Druzhny site.

He didn’t know how the Americans, the Brits, and ALMAZ had worked out where it was, but he wasn’t surprised when he read about it.

Oh sure, the media coverage had been low key, that a criminal gang’s site had been busted by the police, but Rostov had contacts everywhere.

He knew what had gone down.

His lips thinned when he thought of Tariq Hussain.

What was that fool doing in the Tube?

That had been unplanned. Tariq’s target was the London Underground, he was to nerve gas it on the fifteenth. Was he on a recon run?

Rostov knew he was lucky that the police believed they had shot the wrong man.

From his sources, he knew the flask was lost.

He had thought his entire plan had failed when he heard of the shooting initially, but then he had heard the rumor in the Met, which his informers confirmed, and then the Met’s official statement.

Those fools don’t know what they lost. He smirked.

He theorized that the flask had fallen onto the tracks, and no one had retrieved it.

But it was because of Hussain’s shooting that he had called for the meeting.

Hasan Sharif entered the workshop.

A gaunt man in his mid-thirties, hollow eyes, hollow cheeks, nervous disposition.

Rostov had found him in a forum where men with no hope gathered to vent against society.

He nodded at Sharif and gestured for him to wait.

He didn’t shake hands.

It isn’t that kind of meeting.

‘You took the train?’ Rostov asked.

‘Yes, mate, and then a taxi, but I walked a mile. I’m not stupid, mate.’

The man wandered inside the workshop, sniffing, wiping his nose repeatedly.

His target is London Stansted Airport.

Liam Dunne arrived on his motorbike.

Former soldier dishonorably discharged. He, too, bore a grudge against society.

He’ll go after Old Trafford Stadium in Manchester during a football match.

It had a seating capacity of seventy-four thousand people.

Enough of them will die.

Rajiv Patel hesitated at the door.

Seeing Rostov, he entered.

Patel was a former accountant with a history of embezzlement and fraud.

Rostov had found him on the darknet, where Patel had been peddling crypto.

His target is Birmingham’s Bullring.

The last two arrived within minutes of each other.

Colin Harper, a paranoid survivalist.

A conspiracy theorist who believed the government was watching his every move.

It had been easy to recruit him.

He’ll take out Liverpool Lime Street Station.

Victor Nowak entered the workshop softly.

A career criminal with a history of violence in three countries.

Rostov had recruited him through his Eastern European network.

He’ll attack Newcastle Quayside Market, an open-air market frequented by families and tourists.

‘Gentlemen,’ Rostov addressed them, ‘how are you feeling?’

Sharif shrugged.

Dunne smirked. ‘You’ll pay⁠—’

‘I have already paid you an advance. You’ll get the balance once you complete your assignments. You know the date?’

They nodded.

‘You know your targets?’

They nodded.

‘Why are we meeting here?’ Nowak looked at the others. ‘I didn’t want to meet them again.’

‘I didn’t introduce you the first time and I am not doing that now either,’ Rostov said sharply. ‘If you talk among yourselves, that’s on you. We are meeting here because I want to see you one last time.’

He didn’t want to meet them either.

But after Hussain, he didn’t want to take risks.

He had to assess the men and assure himself that no one was going to break.

Like Hussain, he thought coldly.

‘Do any of you have doubts?’

Patel broke the silence.

‘Mate, we’re here for the money. Don’t start a motivational speech. We know what’s involved.’

Perfect, Rostov thought.

They’re my psychopaths.

He was in London in the evening.

In The Ritz, a luxury hotel in Piccadilly.

They were in a private corner in the lounge.

He wasn’t worried about being overheard or recorded on cameras.

He had discreetly paid the servers to ensure no one came close, and he had his team of hackers who would scrub his presence from the security feed.

Opposite him sat Donald Beauchamp and Mikhail Ivanov, two of the richest men in the world.

His hand-picked billionaires.

The two men often invested together and were good friends, which was why he was meeting them jointly.

‘Fifteenth isn’t far,’ he reminded them.

‘We are ready.’ Ivanov bit into a cookie and wiped his mouth. ‘Funds, shell companies for the acquisitions … everything is in place.’

‘Once you give us the signal, or the markets crash—’ Beauchamp stopped when Rostov glared at him.

‘Whichever comes earlier,’ he said in a lower tone, ‘we will act.’

‘You remember your targets?’

‘Come on,’ Ivanov chuckled. ‘You think we don’t know what we’re doing?’

‘Your targets?’ Rostov repeated.

Beauchamp rolled his eyes.

‘Albion Power Systems, Sentinel Technologies, and Northern Freight Logistics for transport.’

‘Timing sequence?’ Rostov demanded.

‘We’ll acquire Albion Power once we get your signal or the market crashes. Sentinel after that. Northern Freight might take longer. Days. Its shareholding structure is complicated.’

Pawns.

Rich pawns who are useful to me.

The men he had met in Tamworth were the ones taking real risks.

These fools are just playing with their banks’ money.

He checked his watch. He had more meetings with other billionaires.

He wasn’t worried about any of them informing on him.

The kompromat he had on them—material that would result in their immediate arrest and long prison sentences or even the death penalty—ensured their loyalty.

And if they betrayed him?

He would bury them.

45

Zeb was on the trail through the woods that were part of the Hereford base.

Running, feeling his lungs strain, his thighs burn, pushing himself hard, drowning his frustration at their lack of progress.

Fifteenth of March isn’t far. Two days away.

He knew the entire security apparatus in the country was on high alert.

A nerve gas attack seemed to be the consensus … but why? These people don’t seem to be terrorists driven by some higher motive.

The Met had compiled Hussain’s profile.

An introvert who had cut off ties with his family.

He didn’t go to mosque.

His coworkers said he kept to himself.

His manager acknowledged that Hussain was a mediocre performer.

His work history was one of being fired by employer after employer.

The Met report said Hussain could have a pathological hatred for society.

A classic example of a nobody who suddenly morphed into a school shooter or a terrorist.

Okay, that’s why he had that flask. But who gave it to him?

Zeb went for one last burst, sprinting at full speed, slowing to a panting, gasping stop.

He doubled over, breathing harshly, trudging to their accommodation.

The intense run had at least cleared his mind of negativity.

He smiled wryly and went to shower.

‘Eat up,’ Meera said when he went into the lounge. ‘Hayes has summoned a meeting. Everyone has gone to the Room.’

He unpeeled a banana, ate it rapidly, polished an apple against his thigh, followed her.

‘Winter’s ending.’ She closed her eyes, enjoying the bright sunlight.

‘Carter,’ Hayes greeted him when they entered. ‘We heard you ran hard enough to generate some electricity. If there was a way to get power off you⁠—’

‘Funny,’ he said, sitting next to the twins.

‘No one ever calls me that.’

That is funny, he smiled involuntarily.

‘I find that hard to believe, mate,’ Jack said seriously.

That cracked up the room.

Hayes waited for the laughter to subside, expressionless, then brought up a photograph of the West Tilbury warehouse.

‘We have made some progress. We have ruled out Milligan and those thugs. They are bit players. That Mercedes, registered to Liu … we have not been able to work out who used it. The driver was good at avoiding cameras. The Red Lion pub where Milligan met his paymaster. Its cameras have been wiped clean. We believe the same man hired those thugs. Lastly, we have confirmation that the outline where that missing carton was is the same as the shipment picked up from Druzhny.’

‘The nerve gas flasks,’ Broker stated.

‘Correct. Now, here’s the interesting part. Our experts compared the weights of those contraband crates with the outline of that missing carton. I believe someone said bigger than shoebox size. They are correct. We know the size of the flasks. We believe that carton contained eight flasks. Don’t ask me how the experts worked that out. Something to do with the depth of the imprints in the dust, the weight of the flask, and then some fancy AI algorithm. Eight flasks.’

He held up one finger.

‘Matthew Wang had one flask. Hussain had another. That means there are still six out there.’

‘Or seven.’ Beth raised her hand.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Hayes said.

‘Do what?’

‘Raise your hand. We are not in school.’

‘Sorry, sir. I feel like you are going to grade us whenever you are addressing us. There could be seven out there if Wang brought his flask with him.’

‘Or there could be more,’ Meghan said soberly.

‘We don’t think there were more than eight flasks. MI6 has tapped the best researchers in the country. Those good people have broken down that nerve gas, worked out what the chemical components are. Our intelligence agency then liaised with the Belarusian one as well as just about everyone in Europe. One key chemical needed for its manufacture is—’ he studied a note, then read slowly, ‘Methylphosphonyl Difluoride. DF is what it’s known as. DF is made in some research and medical laboratories. A batch was stolen from a French lab several months ago. All these batches have RFID trackers and have very strict storage and transport requirements. How they are used is also recorded and audited. The tracker on that batch stopped working shortly after it was stolen. And there was just enough in it to fill eight flasks.’

Zeb sat back. This is progress. ‘Any update on Wang?’

‘China has extensive expertise with DF. We think Wang had some knowledge of manufacturing this particular nerve gas. Karelsky hired him. But as you can imagine, the Chinese aren’t going to admit that one of their nerve gas researchers is missing.’

Zeb glanced at the twins.

They shrugged.

Which meant Hayes’ theory made sense to them.

He knew they hadn’t dug deep into Wang, leaving that to the British authorities.

‘This isn’t an MSS operation,’ he said.

‘Yes, word got to me. Looks like your yesterday was busy.’

Beth stormed in when they were having lunch.

Takeout pizzas, kebabs, chicken curry.

The sisters had stayed back in the morning, and now Beth entered the lounge with Meghan behind her.

‘Do you know how weather satellites work?’ Beth asked.

‘They tell us if it’s going to rain or not … and are usually wrong?’ Jack said with his mouth full.

She rolled her eyes.

‘Thank you for that brilliant insight, Captain Obvious. But I asked how, not what they do.’

Zeb put his fork down. They are onto something. Beth can barely control herself. ‘We are talking about weather satellites because?’

‘Remember how we identified Jimmy’s house?’

He remembered. ‘Some satellite photographs.’

‘Yeah. One of those we used was a low-orbit weather satellite.’

‘Okay,’ he said cautiously, unsure where she was going.

Meghan was looking on with an amused look.

‘Turns out it’s not just any random weather satellite,’ Beth said, grinning. ‘It belongs to India. And it’s got some incredible cameras.’

Meghan stole a fry from Roger’s plate and munched.

‘Clare spoke to Anjali. Anjali spoke to whoever needed speaking to in India. We got access to its data.’

Meera laughed. ‘Let me get this straight. The former colony is now coming to Britain’s rescue? Oh, the irony.’

Beth high-fived the RAW agent.

‘All that’s great,’ Jack said, ‘but what did you find?’

‘We got imagery of the activity at the Tilbury warehouse.’

The room went quiet.

Zeb leaned forward.

‘You got pictures?’

‘Better than pictures,’ Beth chortled.

‘India’s satellite isn’t just for weather. Its cameras are very high resolution. They use it to monitor naval traffic as well.’

‘You found out who the shot-caller is and who has the other flasks?’ Terry shot out of his chair.

‘Not so fast, hotshot,’ Meghan cautioned him. ‘There’s a catch. Most of the imagery is overhead. We’re looking at the tops of people’s heads.’

‘So, you got nothing.’ Terry slumped in his chair.

‘Not so fast with that assumption either, mate.’ Beth mimicked an English accent. ‘All this will fly over your head, but … we used advanced bio-metric motion analysis. That’s gait analysis on steroids. It analyzes micro-movements. Posture, limb angles, and even the way they shift their weight. It’s unique to every person, like a fingerprint.’

‘And that’s enough to identify someone?’ Jack asked skeptically.

‘Not by itself. But we cross-referenced the motion data with CCTV footage, social media videos, whatever is out there in the public domain. That gave us a shortlist of potential matches.’

‘If you don’t tell us what you got …’ Bwana rose menacingly and flexed his biceps.

The sisters weren’t impressed.

‘We narrowed it down further,’ Meghan said. ‘We were looking for a specific profile. Single, male, in his twenties or thirties, no strong family ties, no close-knit social circle, similar profile to Hussain.’

‘Because those are the kinds of people you recruit for something like this,’ Zeb agreed. ‘Loners. They don’t have anyone checking up on them. And if they disappear for a while, no one notices.’

‘Out of all the hits we got—’ Meghan paused for dramatic effect ‘—only one matched the profile perfectly.’

‘Liam Dunne. Former soldier. Dishonorably discharged. Lives in a tiny village called Eddiscombe.’ Beth’s grin eclipsed the sun.

46

‘Where is Eddiscombe?’ Zeb asked. He stood up. Their lunch on the table was getting cold.

That wasn’t important.

‘It’s a small village near Manchester. Closer to Chester, actually.’ Meghan brought up a map of the village.

‘Chester, is that where all the soccer players live?’ Broker stroked his jaw.

‘Football players, yeah.’ Meghan nodded. ‘Manchester has two big football clubs⁠—’

‘You’re talking about soccer? At this time?’ Chloe glowered at Broker.

‘Eddiscombe,’ Meghan resumed. ‘Not more than five hundred villagers. ‘A small church. A pub. A convenience store that’s also the post office. A village square around which are houses. Almost all the residents are elderly folks, pensioners. There’s one Chinese takeout joint.’

The kind of village where strangers are noticed, Zeb guessed. ‘It have any riots?’

‘No. Too small for that. But against the police. The people tend to be right-leaning. We got that from the social media feeds of many of the residents.’

‘What about Dunne?’

Jack got a call before Meghan could answer. ‘It’s Brimshaw. He wants us in the Room, to discuss this.’

‘There’s a lot of food left over,’ Bwana pointed out.

‘Is there anything else you think of?’ Roger snarked.

‘Yeah. Taking down hostiles.’ The African American and Bear gathered the pizza boxes and followed Zeb out.

They laid the food on a central table in the Room.

‘Help yourselves,’ Bwana told the analysts, who did just that.

Hayes watched for a moment.

‘Food, sir?’ Mike offered.

‘No, thanks,’ the SO15 officer declined. ‘Shall we start?’

‘Yeah.’ Zeb took his usual seat, between Beth and Meghan.

‘We told them about what we found,’ the younger sister said helpfully.

‘They know about Dunne?’ Hayes asked.

‘Only his name.’

Hayes clicked his pointer. A photograph came up. ‘Liam Dunne. Thirty-four years old. Former British Army. Served in the Rifles Regiment, an infantry unit, before transferring to a special operations unit. Good with weapons and explosives.’

Zeb studied the lean face on the screen. Blank eyes. Tight lips. Stubble. He shrugged. Analyzing a person from a photograph isn’t my strength.

‘Anti-authority and anti-establishment, going by his military file,’ Hayes continued. ‘The Army tolerated him because he was okay. Not the best soldier, not the worst. But they were more than happy to see him go after he completed his four years.’

‘That’s the minimum term they have to serve after their basic training?’ Meera asked.

‘Yes. He spent four months in Germany, at the Ramstein Air Base, the NATO base. Special operations training. It was there that he had his problem. Went out to a bar one night. Was spotted by other officers. That bar is a known hangout for far-right and Nazi supporters. His captain called him in the next day. They had an altercation. Dunne broke the captain’s jaw.’

‘Likable dude.’ Chloe crossed her hands behind her back.

‘Unfortunately, the captain hadn’t followed procedure, so the British Army took the easiest route. Dishonorable discharge. Never got promoted. Left the army with the rank of private.’

Hayes brought up several more photographs of Dunne in casual settings. One of him on a motorbike.

‘That’s a Triumph?’ Bear squinted at the vehicle, recognizing the British brand of motorcycles.

‘Yes.’ Hayes enlarged the image. ‘Apparently, his pride. He’s in several pictures with that bike.’

‘How did you get those photographs?’ Zeb asked.

‘He was on the police watchlist when he returned from Germany and then they lost interest in him.’

‘Big mistake,’ Jack said darkly.

‘Yes. Hindsight and all that. He worked several jobs after the army. Truck driver. Mechanic and now he’s a bouncer at a nightclub in Manchester. He hasn’t held any jobs for long. He does not have any stable relationship. His previous girlfriend accused him of harassment and abuse. That’s from her social media messages.’

‘The police got involved?’ Beth narrowed her eyes.

‘No. She didn’t report it. Our experts have profiled him. Loner. Anti-social. Grudge against society. He’s like Tariq Hussain.’

‘Except he’s alive and has a flask.’ Zeb got to his feet. ‘Let’s get him.’

‘One problem,’ Roger drawled. ‘He might be a civilian. He might have been at that warehouse to take some cigarette packs.’

‘We won’t know unless we ask him, will we mate?’ Curtis shot back.

Hayes frowned. ‘This will be a police⁠—’

‘No, it won’t,’ Jack said. ‘Zeb’s team and I will go. Call whoever you need to and make it happen.’

Hayes hesitated.

‘We can move quicker,’ Zeb said softly. ‘And get answers faster. If Dunne turns out to be innocent and makes a fuss, you can blame the Americans.’

‘I’ll make the calls.’ Hayes nodded.

They drove out at three pm. Zeb in the lead Land Rover. Meghan, Beth and Meera with him.

‘No recent images of him on public cameras.’ The older twin huffed in frustration.

‘Eddiscombe isn’t the kind of village to have cameras,’ Meera suggested.

‘It isn’t, but if he goes out on his bike, some CCTV camera’s sure to have spotted him.’

‘Which means he’s good at counter-surveillance.’

‘But we have footage of him parking at The Nightingale.’ Meghan tapped her screen. ‘That’s the nightclub he’s bouncer at.’

‘How do you want to play this?’ Jack, in their comms.

Zeb searched his wing mirrors. The E Squadron’s ride was behind Bwana’s, some distance away.

They were on the A49 to Whitchurch, after which they would take the A41 to Chester and then a small lane to Eddiscombe.

‘We wait till he returns from work—’ he began.

‘He works nights. If you hurry, he should be at home,’ Beth told him.

‘I’m going as fast as we can. These are narrow roads.’ We should get there around six pm, he calculated. ‘What time does his shift start?’

‘Eight pm.’

‘We’ll have enough time.’

‘What if he isn’t at home?’ Bear asked, ever the optimist.

‘We’ll lift him when he’s returning from work.’

‘And maybe, one team will break into his house and secure the flask if we find it,’ Meera suggested.

‘Good idea.’ He met her eyes.

They reached Eddiscombe at five-thirty pm.

Still light.

Stone houses, arranged around the square as Zeb had imagined. A family in the square, their kids playing with a ball.

The pub was on the square as well, lit from within.

Houses in concentric circles around the square. The small road they had taken to the village, passed through it and proceeded towards Chester.

‘Dunne’s place is at the end of the village, on Chester way,’ Meghan directed.

Zeb nodded. He drove slowly, to get a feel for the village. Places like this in the Midwest, back home. Folks who have lived there for generations. ‘Dunne inherited his house?’ Hayes said something about it in his briefing.

‘From his mom who died several years ago,’ Beth said. ‘He was the only child. Father deserted them way back in time.’

Dunne’s place was an end-of-terrace property. Overgrown front garden. The bike was parked on the street. Curtained windows. A faint crack of light from within.

We can’t park here, Zeb surmised. We’ll be noticed instantly. He drove back to the village square. Parked in front of a stone bench.

‘How do you want to play this?’ Jack asked as he pretended to take photographs and made to look like a tourist.

Zeb glanced at the twins. They’ll be noticed and remembered. Meera too. I would have taken Bwana, but he’ll stand out.

‘Bear and I will go.’

‘Give us ten,’ Beth said. ‘We’ll run the drone.’

Zeb nodded and joined Mike and Terry, who went to the pub. They studied its menu, which was posted at its entrance.

‘Those fish and chips sound good.’ Mike rubbed his belly.

‘Food.’ Terry rolled his eyes. ‘We are elite soldiers. We can survive for days without nourishment.’

‘But we don’t have to,’ Mike pointed out.

‘He’s at home.’ Meghan, in their comms. ‘We can see him through the back door. It’s glass. It opens into the back yard.’

‘We call it a garden, in this part of the world,’ Curtis said in a superior tone.

‘Yes, mate, garden. No cameras. No surveillance at his place. Hold up. We’ll raise the drone … cars parked on the street belong to the residents.’

Werner’s instantly run DVLA checks from the drone’s feed. That’s how they know. Zeb jammed his hands in his pockets and pretended to argue with Mike about the menu.

‘We’re a go,’ he said softly.

He and Bear strolled to Dunne’s house.

‘Do we look like prospective house buyers?’ the larger operative asked.

‘No, mate. You look like a barn door that’s torn loose and is searching for the rest of the place,’ Mike cracked in their comms.

Zeb grinned. He and Bear were casually dressed. Jeans and shirts with jackets to cover their shoulder-holstered Glocks. That should be enough to deal with Dunne.

They approached the house. Walking side by side, filling the sidewalk.

‘Neighbor’s house is empty,’ Beth said. ‘You won’t have curious eyes on you.’

There were no houses on the other side of the street.

Zeb moved purposefully, glanced at the Triumph and turned inside the house.

A cracked stone path to the door.

He knocked on it.

No response.

Bear reached over his shoulder and pounded it with his fist.

‘Barn door breaking another door,’ Mike commented.

Zeb smiled.

His grin faded when the door swung open.

‘I heard you the first time. I was in the bathroom,’ Dunne said shortly.

He was as tall as Zeb. Unshaven. Gray in the black of his stubble. His eyes irritated.

‘We are from the police.’ Zeb held up his Met identification. ‘Can we come inside, sir? We have a few questions.’

The irritation fled from Dunne’s eyes. They became cautious. They searched the street behind them and then settled on the visitors. ‘What’s this about?’

‘It will be easier to talk inside, sir.’

‘We’ll talk here.’

‘Why were you in West Tilbury, sir? At a warehouse in a farm, in the middle of nowhere?’

Dunne lunged away from the door.

47

Zeb charged in behind him.

The door opened into a landing area.

To the left was the living room. Crowded. Couches, a table, scattered pillows and throws, and a mantelpiece against the wall.

Dunne shot inside the living room.

Zeb tripped over a pillow on the floor.

Stumbled. Regained his balance.

Dunne was at the mantelpiece.

Opening a box on it.

He reached inside.

‘GET BACK!’ Zeb bellowed at Bear, who was behind him. 

Is Dunne wearing a smartwatch?

He couldn’t see. The man’s full sleeves covered his wrists.

Dunne, face twisted in rage, spun around.

A glint of metal in his hand.

The flask!

No, a gun!

Zeb crashed into him. Flicked his left hand up to slap the weapon away. It discharged into the ceiling, the report loud in the small room.

Dunne headbutted him.

Zeb grunted, not able to turn away in time, taking the blow on his cheek. He was yanked back.

Bear, who caught Dunne easily by his collar and waist and flung him against the other wall.

The bouncer crashed against it. Slid down and then charged, cursing, snarling, punching.

Bear met him in the middle of the living room, wrapped a hand around his waist, and elbowed him in the back.

Dunne collapsed to the floor.

‘ZEB!’ Beth screamed in their comms.

‘We’re good,’ he panted. ‘Bear’s taking him down.’

His friend yanked Dunne up by his hair and almost lazily punched his face.

‘Sit,’ he commanded and shoved Dunne onto a couch.

The furniture almost toppled over when the bouncer crashed into it. His mouth was bleeding. His nose seemed broken. He was breathing loudly. His eyes, however, glittered with hate.

‘What were you doing in that warehouse?’ Zeb repeated.

‘You aren’t police⁠—’

Dunne shrieked when Bear thrust his Benchmade deep into the man’s thigh.

‘An inch higher,’ Bear rasped, ‘and that would be the end of the Dunne lineage.’

‘YOU … ARE … NOT … POLICE … I WILL … REPORT⁠—’

Bear slashed his throat. A brutally calculated cut that broke the skin without causing more damage.

A line of blood appeared on the bouncer’s neck.

Dunne howled. He touched his neck and stared at his bloodied hands. He started shaking.

‘You aren’t dying.’ Zeb crouched in front of him.

‘Not yet,’ Bear clarified. ‘Unless you don’t answer our questions.’

‘Mate,’ a voice sounded behind them. ‘You’d better answer them. They aren’t playing nice, and when they get tired, we’ll take over.’

Jack, who had entered the house, along with Mike.

Dunne shrank. ‘Who are you⁠—’

He screamed when Bear yanked the knife out and planted it in his other thigh.

‘Wrong answer,’ the large operative said softly. ‘The only acceptable words that come out of your mouth are answers to our questions. Why were you at that place?’

‘IT’S THERE. IN THE DRAWER. HE GAVE IT TO ME.’

‘Who—’ Zeb began and then stopped when he realized Dunne had answered an unasked question.

Mike went to the box on the mantelpiece and came out with a flask. The E Squadron operative held it delicately and placed it carefully on top of the furniture.

‘Where’s the watch?’ Bear caught Dunne’s throat and squeezed hard.

The bouncer gurgled. His eyes rolled. He flailed and pointed to the same furniture.

Mike searched carefully and came out with a smartwatch. He placed it far from the flask.

‘Talk.’ Bear shook Dunne easily and let him go.

The former army private looked at them and touched his neck. His hands shook when he inspected the blood on them.

He talked. He didn’t stop even when the twins, Meera, and Chloe entered.

He spoke of how he used to frequent right-wing forums online and made internet friends.

One such friend recruited him. ‘He paid me in crypto,’ Dunne said gaspingly. ‘An advance.’

‘What’s your wallet address?’ Meghan asked sharply.

Dunne pointed to the box and nodded when Mike brought out a notebook.

Beth flicked through its pages until she came to one and showed it to their prisoner, who nodded.

The bouncer continued detailing how the man seemed to know everything about him, sympathized with him about Dunne’s rage against society, and introduced the idea of striking back.

‘You didn’t think you were being recruited?’ Zeb challenged him.

Dunne’s eyes flashed. ‘I’m not a fool. I knew he was hiring me for something. I thought he was police initially, but when he paid me in crypto, I knew he was genuine. He knew everything about me.’

‘Fool. That’s how they gain your confidence,’ Jack said contemptuously. ‘What do you gain⁠—’

‘Easy for you to say that,’ Dunne said fiercely. ‘The system works for you⁠—’

‘It does because we work bloody hard at making it work, mate.’ Mike cut him off. ‘If you had made a go at working your behind off, doing good jobs, it would have worked for you as well. But you went down the right-wing, anti-society rabbit hole … and look where it’s gotten you?’

‘Does this man have a name?’ Zeb asked.

‘Ivan Karelsky.’ Dunne licked his lips.

Of course! What was the plan? ‘He promised you crypto in return for what?’

Dunne hesitated and groaned when Bear removed the knife from his thigh and held it in front of his face. ‘To deliver a massive blow⁠—’

‘Spare us that drivel, mate,’ Mike snarled. ‘What was your target? What were you supposed to do?’

‘Old Trafford. Release that,’—Dunne’s eyes flicked to the flask—‘during a football match.’

They froze.

‘When?’ Zeb snapped.

‘Fifteenth of March.’

A moment of silence.

‘You met Karelsky?’ Zeb asked.

‘Twice.’ Dunne nodded. He was broken. He was answering their questions readily. ‘Once at that farm to take the flasks and then, yesterday.’

‘Yesterday?’ Zeb asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Where? Talk, man,’ Jack said savagely, ‘if you want to make this somewhat easier for you.’

‘In Tamworth, in a workshop in Tame Valley.’

‘Did you see anyone else?’

‘There were four other men at the workshop.’

‘Other than Karelsky?’ Zeb asked sharply.

‘Yes.’

‘Did he introduce them to you?’

‘No.’

‘Can you describe them?’ Zeb snarled. He fisted his hands to stop himself from wrapping them around Dunne’s throat and squeezing the words out of the man.

‘Two were Asian-looking. Pakis.’

‘Pakis?’ Meera asked sharply.

That’s a hate word in Britain used against British Indians, Zeb knew.

Jack slapped Dunne brutally.

The bouncer rocked in the couch. Blood sprayed from his mouth.

‘Be nice and tell us exactly what we want to know,’ Zeb told him. ‘Two looked Asian? Indian, Pakistani, Sri Lankan⁠—’

‘British accents, but yes, originally from that region,’ Dunne mumbled. ‘The others were like me.’

White, Zeb guessed. ‘Was this man there?’ He showed Tariq Hussain’s photograph.

Dunne nodded. ‘He was at the first meeting to take the flasks. When his shooting came on the news, Karelsky assured us he was killed by mistake and there was nothing to be worried about.’

‘Why did Karelsky want to meet the second time?’

‘He wanted to check if any of us had second thoughts.’

‘Did you?’

‘No one did.’

‘Do you know what’s in that flask?’

‘Some kind of chemical.’

‘You were okay with killing people?’

‘No one has done anything for me,’ Dunne flared. ‘Karelsky paid me well.’

‘How much was the advance?’

‘Hundred thousand pounds in bitcoin. We were to get four hundred thousand more.’

Bear whistled from behind.

That’s three million pounds of crypto. Zeb did the math, assuming the same for each person and including Hussain.

‘You weren’t worried about dying?’

‘No,’ Dunne said. ‘Karelsky demonstrated the flask on an animal when we met in Tilbury. We had to press the app on our watches and throw it far. Nothing would happen to us.’

Zeb felt Meghan nod beside him.

‘Did you see where Karelsky took the flasks from?’

‘It was a cardboard box.’

Five surviving men. Hussain makes six. Wang is the seventh and the demo flask makes it eight, Zeb figured. The Met correctly estimated the number of flasks.

‘Where is Karelsky?’

‘I don’t know. We have to check in every day to confirm we are fine.’

‘Check in where?’

‘A website. It’s on my phone.’

‘Is it this one?’ Mike picked up a device from the mantelpiece.

‘Yes.’

‘Unlock it.’ Zeb took it and gave it to Dunne. ‘Show us the website.’

The bouncer took the device with shaky hands and unlocked it.

Meghan and Beth went around him to watch.

And to make sure he isn’t alerting Karelsky, Zeb knew.

‘There.’ The prisoner showed his screen to the sisters.

‘It’s a darknet site,’ Beth said disappointedly.

‘Explain that in English,’ Mike asked.

‘Those sites use different kind of suffixes instead of the conventional .com. They do not use traditional IP addresses. They use relay nodes, multiple levels of redirection, proxies … and if the sites are hosted in a hostile country, then it is nearly impossible to know about them or hack into them.’

‘The darknet sites that law enforcement agencies cracked … that was because of human error. Someone’s laptop was stolen which had all the details, or the FBI carried out sting operations. In this case,’—Meghan shrugged helplessly—‘unless Karelsky makes a mistake, it is impossible to know who’s behind that site. Look for yourself. This site has a message box. Nothing else in it. Dunne has to type into it.’

‘Yes.’ The bouncer nodded.

‘He responds to you in the same way?’ Zeb took the phone, inspected the site, shrugged when it gave him no clues, and handed it to Jack.

‘No. He messages us from different numbers to set up a meeting or to give orders. I don’t know anything more than that.’

‘Burners,’ Meera guessed.

Beth took the phone from Jack, went through the message, and nodded. ‘Yes. He seems to change numbers each time. How do you know they’re from him?’ She addressed Dunne.

‘Who else would they be from?’ the prisoner said impudently and got slapped by Curtis.

Dunne groaned. Blinked furiously to keep sweat away from his eyes.

Zeb read his expression. He knows something. ‘What is it?’

The bouncer shook his head.

Zeb snatched the knife from Bear’s hand and thrust it at Dunne’s neck.

‘I RECORDED HIM THE FIRST TIME,’ Dunne shouted. ‘I taped my phone to my chest and pointed its camera through a buttonhole.’

Zeb felt the sudden excitement in his friends, though they remained expressionless. He thumbed through his own phone and brought out Karelsky’s photograph. ‘Is this him?’

‘No.’

Zeb rose, shocked. ‘Look again.’

‘No. That’s not him. He was younger.’

‘Show us the video.’ Beth tossed the phone to Dunne, whose fingers trembled as he worked his phone and turned its screen to show it to them.

Zeb swallowed his disappointment at the video.

It was just a few seconds and showed only the man’s chest and captured a few words. ‘Is that all?’

‘I hadn’t positioned the phone correctly. He warned us that if we had any recording devices, he would shoot us right there. I had to turn off my phone without showing it was on. He didn’t see it.’

Meghan took the phone and searched it. ‘There’s nothing else on it.’

‘Where are the other men?’ Zeb asked.

‘I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW,’ Dunne screamed when Bear moved threateningly. ‘I don’t know their targets either. I only know they too check in this way, have these flasks, and Fifteenth of March is the day.’

Their prisoner didn’t have anything more for them despite their repeated questioning.

Zeb went out of the house after half an hour while Jack and Mike continued interrogating the bouncer.

‘Nothing.’ The E Squadron men joined him several moments later.

Their breaths frosted in the darkening evening as they watched the village, nothing registering on them, Dunne’s revelations still playing in their minds.

Beth raced out with Meghan, Meera, and Bear close behind her.

‘What’s up?’ Zeb asked.

‘We forwarded that video to our phones.’ The younger sister shut the door to prevent Dunne from overhearing them. ‘Werner analyzed it. Got a decent match to a voice we have in one of our databases.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Rostov.’

Zeb’s jaw dropped. He stared at her as his world spun. ‘Impossible. I killed him.’

48

Zeb shivered. He didn’t know if it was from the cold or from Beth’s revelation.

His eyes flicked over the street automatically, as if he expected to see Rostov.

‘Who’s he?’ Jack asked.

‘Let’s go to our rides,’ Beth said.

‘What about Dunne?’ Zeb asked.

‘Secured.’ Bear tested the door. It was locked. He held up its key. ‘He’s not going anywhere. He can’t make any calls. We have his phone. Beth and Meg have planted cameras in his house.’

Zeb went to his ride and got behind the wheel. The brisk walk in the cold had cleared his mind. ‘Rostov is the most dangerous operative the SVR has ever fielded.’

‘SVR?’ Mike asked over the comms.

‘Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service,’ Chloe explained.

‘I know that,’ Mike said. ‘But … start from the beginning!’

Zeb glanced through the windshield at the pub.

A couple exited it, tightened their scarves over their necks, jammed their hands in their pockets, and headed home.

‘Alexei Rostov is the most lethal person I have faced. He was senior. Is,’ Zeb corrected himself. ‘He is the man the Kremlin sends to carry out missions so sensitive, so critical, where failure isn’t an option. Rostov will kill, torture, blackmail, do anything to succeed. He has the smarts for an operation of this scale. It fits. Whelan, the MSS false flags, Wang … Rostov is one of the very few people in the world who can put all of those moving parts together and succeed. Rostov doesn’t handle minor hits or small-time wet work. He’s the Kremlin’s go-to for destabilizing nations. When he moves, it’s because Moscow has a larger agenda in play.’

‘Why do you think you killed him?’ Jack asked.

‘Five years ago,’ Zeb said distantly. ‘We were in Turkey. That country balances its relations with Russia as well as the West. The Kremlin decided that wasn’t enough. SVR sent Rostov to Turkey to shake up the government and replace the administration with one ideologically closer to Moscow.’

He took a breath. ‘Rostov started with assassinations of key officials—ministers, military leaders, even journalists.’

‘I remember those,’ Jack said. ‘No one knew who was behind them.’

‘It was Rostov. He then organized riots, false-flag attacks, and disinformation campaigns. We got wind of what was happening. Clare greenlighted us. We were aware of Rostov’s playbook, and we had our own sources in Moscow. We knew he was behind the destabilization.’

‘We got a tip,’ he continued. ‘We tracked him to Istanbul, to Laleli, a district high in crime, where Russia is known to have its assets. Rostov had met with a bunch of political and dissident leaders. We ambushed his team when the meeting ended. He got away. I pursued him down an alley. There were riots he had instigated. Stores were destroyed, buses were burning.’

‘The rest of us were shooting it out with his thugs.’ Meghan smiled humorlessly. ‘Zeb went down that alley and came out, saying he had shot Rostov.’

‘You didn’t!’ Terry exclaimed.

‘I did.’ Zeb’s hands tightened on the wheel. ‘I shot him in the head. I saw him fall. I needed to get back to my team. We had to exfil. We couldn’t be caught.’

‘You didn’t see him die,’ Mike said.

‘A headshot⁠—’

‘People have survived headshots,’ Curtis countered. ‘A lot depends on the distance, the angle, wind, the velocity … you know this, Zeb.’

‘I do. However, this was five years ago. No trace of Rostov all this time. It was a very safe assumption to make.’

‘That’s why we at E Squadron don’t stop at one shot,’ Jack said. No criticism or superiority in his tone, a mere statement.

‘You ready for a couple more shocks?’ Meghan asked.

Zeb side-glanced at her. Her face was illuminated from her screen. ‘Hit us with it.’

‘You remember the driver of that SUV at Perosky’s place?’

‘Yeah. We didn’t get a confirmation⁠—’

‘Werner says his build matches Rostov’s.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ Zeb smiled thinly. ‘What’s the other shock?’

‘Fifteenth of March is Commonwealth Day. It’s when the king meets leaders and heads of state from Commonwealth countries, those that were part of the Empire.’

‘We know that too,’ Bwana said.

‘What we didn’t know, because it wasn’t advertised and has just been put out by the government only an hour ago, is that the king and the British prime minister will be meeting the prime ministers of India, Australia, and many other leaders that day. They are all coming to Britain. Rostov intends to kill them.’

‘Why did they announce it so late?’ Mike asked after a horrified silence.

‘My guess is security.’

‘Why does he want to kill them? What does he gain by it?’

Zeb recalled the call he had with Clare. We both were wrong. Russia may not have the resources, but it has oligarchs it can control. ‘I know why.’

49

The British Prime Minister was still in his suit when Clare entered Ten Downing Street along with Alex Greystone.

‘Alex.’ Henshaw shook their hands. ‘What’s this about? You were mysterious about it. Couldn’t it wait till tomorrow?’

They were in a conference room, just the three of them at eight pm in the PM’s official residence. Greystone had ensured that the Prime Minister’s aides and chief of staff were absent.

Clare sat next to her friend and faced the British leader. I’m sure some of those lines on his face have developed in the last few weeks.

‘It can’t, sir—’ Greystone started.

‘Can we get to it? I have a call with the Australian Ambassador in half an hour to finalize the Commonwealth⁠—’

‘Sir, a Russian SVR asset plans to attack the Commonwealth events.’

Henshaw’s head shot up. He stared at Greystone and then at Clare. ‘Is this a joke?’

‘No, sir.’

The PM waited for an explanation, and when none came, he pressed the buzzer.

‘Cancel all my appointments,’ he told the aide who entered the room. ‘Get Oliver to have the call with the Australian Ambassador.’ He looked at Clare. ‘I didn’t get your name. You’re Alex’s American advisor?’

She smiled. ‘Clare, sir and, yes, sir.’

‘Just Clare?’

‘Clare will do, sir.’

‘Do you prefer coffee or tea?’

‘Tea, sir.’

‘Get us tea,’ Henshaw told the aide. ‘Lots of it. And please tell my wife to have dinner. I won’t be able to join her.’

The aide nodded and left.

The PM leaned back and rubbed his eyes. ‘One night, Alex. One night for me and Lucy to have dinner together. You have snatched that away from me.’

Oliver’s his chief of staff and Lucy’s his wife, Clare knew.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Greystone said.

The British leader sipped water. He smiled thinly. ‘I allow myself a few moments of self-pity every day. That’s my therapy. Now, tell me everything.’

‘Sir, we have strong reasons to believe your and the king’s reception for the Commonwealth Heads of State on the Thames will be attacked with nerve gas.’

Henshaw took it in without a flicker of emotion. ‘You could sugarcoat that, Alex.’

‘There’s no point, sir.’

‘You are sure?’

‘As sure as anyone can be.’

‘That’s just two days away.’

‘We are aware, sir.’

‘Start from the beginning.’

‘All the riots, the shootings in the country, and these nerve gas flasks have been organized by Alexei Rostov, a very senior and highly capable SVR agent, sir. We have a flask bomber in custody. He has identified Rostov as the man who gave him one of the flasks⁠—’

‘There are seven of them, aren’t there?’

‘Eight, sir. We have found three. We know a fourth was used for trial. There are four still out there.’

‘Why? What’s his purpose?’ There was the faintest shake in Henshaw’s voice.

‘The riots tanked the financial markets, sir. In the media coverage of the protests, not many people noticed that a lot of foreign investors bought British companies. Once the nerve gas attacks happen, the financial markets will reach rock bottom. More investors will buy companies. Defense, transportation, media, utilities ... every domain that gives them maximum influence and control will be targeted,’ Clare said. ‘Once the acquisitions finish, these foreign buyers, whom Russia controls⁠—’

‘Russia will own our country,’ Henshaw finished.

‘Yes, sir. Without firing a single shot. No tanks. No soldiers. No invasions. Same outcome.’

‘I am finding this hard to believe.’

‘Please believe it, sir. We know Rostov very well. He was behind a failed attempt to overthrow Turkey’s government a few years ago. We have tracked all critical acquisitions and in almost all cases, their new owners are Russian billionaires or have connections to that country.’

Their tea arrived. The aide served them and left silently.

Henshaw sipped his. His face seemed to regain lost color. He appraised Clare. ‘Why am I getting the impression you really aren’t Alex’s advisor?’

‘She isn’t, sir. She leads a U.S. covert outfit called The Agency.’ Greystone smiled. ‘She and her team are very close allies to us and to other European Union nations. To many other countries as well. We wouldn’t have identified Rostov if it hadn’t been for Clare’s team, who are in the country.’

She could almost hear his brain working at super-speed.

‘I haven’t heard of The Agency,’ the British leader said finally.

‘That’s because we don’t exist to most people, sir,’ she replied.

‘Alex, shouldn’t we summon a COBRA meeting?’

‘No, sir,’ the MI6 head said. ‘This is just between the three of us for now.’

‘Because?’

‘Because we believe Rostov has informers in the police forces. He might even have informers in the military.’

‘The fewer who know, the better?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘My cabinet and the opposition will not like that.’

‘I am sure you can handle them, sir.’

Henshaw refilled their cups.

Clare was impressed. Most leaders would expect me, a woman, to pour.

He went up in her estimation. He hasn’t panicked. He isn’t yelling. He is working things out calmly.

‘Insanely rich people with the ability to control every aspect of our society ... that isn’t democracy,’ the PM thought aloud.

‘No, sir,’ Greystone said.

‘I should summon the Russian Ambassador.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I thought you would say that. I will cancel the Commonwealth events.’

‘With respect, sir,’ the MI6 chief said, ‘that will either make Rostov get his people to trigger the attacks earlier ... or he will lie low and attack us when we are least expecting it.’

The PM moistened his lips. ‘Alex.’ His voice shook. ‘Do you realize what you are saying? The king, the Indian Prime Minister, the Australian and Canadian leaders, African and Caribbean heads of state... you want us to risk their lives?’

‘Sir, we cannot take any action right now.’

A long silence, and then Henshaw’s gaze sharpened. ‘You mean we can always cancel at the last minute?’

‘Yes, sir, if we haven’t found Rostov and his bombers by then.’

A clock chimed softly somewhere.

Henshaw got to his feet.

Alex and Clare rose too.

‘Find him. Stop him. Make our country safe again.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Greystone said.

‘Meanwhile, I will make preparations.’

‘Preparations for what, sir?’

‘I will write my resignation letter to the king in case the worst tragedy to hit our country happens.’

‘What do you think of him?’ Greystone asked Clare once they left Downing Street.

‘He’s good.’

‘He’s bloody good. He’s the best prime minister I have worked with. He does not get ideological. Oh sure, he has his principles and represents the party he’s from, but in crises like these, he’s cool.’

‘Careful, Alex! Whatever happened to that stiff upper lip of yours?’

He smiled and held the door open to his armored car for her. ‘Do you think Zeb will come through?’

‘I hope so, or else I too will be resigning.’

Zeb got her call late in the night. He listened quietly as she updated him on her meeting with Henshaw.

‘Do you have a plan, Zeb?’

‘Yes, ma’am. We are going to ask Rostov politely.’

50

They spent the night in Eddiscombe, in their rides.

Beth and Meghan had launched the second drone as well, both UAVs patrolling the small village.

Werner ran facial recognition on everyone out and about in the village. It ran checks with DVLA and passport databases and confirmed everyone was local.

‘Your plan,’ Jack said when they gathered around Zeb’s ride for a takeout dinner that Mike, Bwana, and Bear had gotten from the pub. ‘It has a lot of moving parts.’

‘I’m open to suggestions.’ Zeb munched a fry.

‘I would have offered if I had any.’ The captain glanced at the sky. ‘But there’s no saying Rostov will fall for it.’

If he doesn’t … Zeb too glanced upwards and shuddered. The British government will call off the Commonwealth events, but people are going to die. We still don’t know where those other men are and what their targets are.

‘He will fall for it.’ Bwana squeezed his shoulder.

‘You’re very confident.’ Zeb smiled at him.

‘Rostov’s ego will not tolerate failure. He thinks he’s unbeatable.’

‘We beat him in Turkey.’

‘But he survived,’ Chloe pointed out. ‘He’ll take that as a win.’

‘We won’t know until we execute.’ Zeb finished the last of his fries and swigged water. ‘Police?’

‘They will be here.’ Jack took the question. ‘First thing in the morning. Brimshaw confirmed. Lots of vans and armed officers. They will mill around the village⁠—’

‘They shouldn’t answer any questions.’ Zeb interrupted him.

‘They won’t. I conveyed what you asked for. You think Rostov might have informers in the village?’

‘No, but he might have access to satellite cameras.’ Zeb stretched. ‘Rest,’ he said. ‘We have a long day ahead of us.’

Dunne was where they had left him in the night. Trussed, on the couch, mouth gagged. They had taken turns during the night to take their prisoner for comfort breaks.

The bouncer stared at Zeb. ‘You want me to do what?’

Zeb brought his Benchmade out and played with it.

It was eight am.

Eddiscombe was waking up to the sight of armed police arriving in several vehicles, crowding in the square, looking purposeful, speaking into radios, and eyeing every house suspiciously.

Inside Dunne’s residence, Zeb, Bear, Jack, Mike, the sisters, and Meera were alert. Fresh. Ready to take Rostov down.

‘You have holes in your body. Your lips are puffy. You look a sight. You want me to redecorate you some more?’ Zeb tossed his knife high in the air and caught it expertly.

Dunne followed it with his eyes and then dragged his gaze away. ‘He won’t fall for it.’

Zeb pricked his neck and drew blood.

Dunne uttered his first howl of the day and drew back. ‘I’LL DO IT.’

Zeb untied him and shoved him to the dining table.

Dunne settled heavily in a chair, which creaked from his weight. ‘What should I write?’

‘Here.’ Beth gave him his phone. ‘I’ve done the heavy lifting for you. Copy that and paste it in the message box in that site.’

The sisters had gotten Werner to analyze Dunne’s writing from his samples on his phone. Using that as input, the AI had helped them compose a message.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? THERE ARE POLICE IN THE VILLAGE. SEVERAL VANS HAVE COME IN. I CAN SEE THEM THROUGH MY WINDOW. I THINK THEY ARE WATCHING ME. I AM SCARED. YOU SAID THERE WOULD BE NO TROUBLE AT ALL. WHAT SHALL I DO?

The bouncer read the message. His fingers hovered over the screen. He swallowed audibly. ‘He’ll kill me.’

Bear sighed. ‘Zeb. Let me break his neck. We’ll send that message instead. Karelsky won’t know better.’

They had agreed not to mention Rostov’s name in Dunne’s presence.

Zeb pretended to think about it. ‘Yeah. You have a point. At this point, he’s only baggage.’ He got up. ‘Do it. I’ll bring a body bag from our ride.’

‘I’M DOING IT!’ Sweat popped on Dunne’s forehead as he typed furiously and pressed send.

Beth, behind Dunne, held up her crossed fingers above his head.

Yeah, Zeb thought bleakly. Hope Rostov bites.

Rostov was in the Mayfair café. He was reading the newspaper, sipping Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, and nibbling on one of those delicate cookies that crumbled in his mouth.

He chuckled softly when he read about Henshaw’s grilling by journalists the previous day. The media was scathing about the lack of progress by the government in identifying who was behind the shootings in the country.

HENSHAW IS HELPLESS!

The headline made him chortle inwardly.

He read another article about the next day’s Commonwealth celebrations. They don’t know how it’s going to turn out.

He turned to the financial pages. No article that was suspicious about the foreign acquisitions. Why would they notice? This country sells anything to anyone who has money.

London was where oligarchs, criminals, Middle Eastern billionaires, and cryptobros came to whitewash their money.

Rostov settled back and sipped. Life was good. He would go back to Moscow a hero.

I will become SVR’s youngest director.

His phone buzzed. He thumbed it absently, his eyes still on the newspaper.

He read the message.

And then a second time.

He felt sick when Dunne’s words registered on him.

Everything became dark momentarily.

His breathing stuttered.

He looked out of the window involuntarily to check if Carter was outside, on the street.

He wasn’t. Neither were any police.

‘Is everything okay, sir?’

Rostov realized he had been breathing loudly and rubbing the bridge of his nose. ‘Yes, everything is good,’ he told the server.

He waited till she left and then read the message. Dunne’s message, relayed by his darknet site, was stark. It didn’t disappear from his phone.

It’s real. Rostov breathed deeply for several moments until the pounding in his chest subsided.

He messaged his hackers. Do you have satellite images over Eddiscombe?

A bunch of them arrived in moments.

He controlled his urge to be sick when he saw the police presence.

Be calm, he told himself. You have planned for this as well.

He brought out a second phone and sent a message.

Leave right now. Take the flask. Go to the address in the next message. Stay there and then go to Old Trafford tomorrow to execute.

He sent the safe house address.

Acknowledge! he demanded.

Going, Dunne responded on the website.

Rostov thought for a moment and sent messages to the rest of his flask bombers.

Leave for this address right now. Go to your targets tomorrow, from there. Confirm.

He got their confirmation and then sent another message to his Chinese mercenaries.

Leave for the Birmingham safe house immediately. Protect it till the occupants leave.

He got their acknowledgment as well.

He instantly switched SIM cards in his burner and cursed himself for not bringing another device.

Carter! His fists bunched. It had to be the American. No one else could have connected all the dots and gone to Dunne’s place.

He doesn’t know of the rest of my people. He does not know what I have planned. Dunne is still free. I will still kill him.

Rostov left a smaller tip than usual when leaving.

‘Where’s Wishaw?’ Zeb looked over Meghan’s shoulder as she brought up the address on her screen.

‘It’s a village near Sutton Coldfield. Northish of Birmingham. This is a farmhouse. Middle of nowhere. Closest road is the A4091. Between the M6 and the M42 motorways … but it is remote.’ Her words staccato as she zoomed in and out to get the location and direction. ‘We’ve still got access to that Indian satellite. It’s still in the same orbit and can view the farm. Real-time feeds.’

‘Let’s go,’ Zeb snapped.

‘Roger, you’re the same build as Dunne.’

‘I’ll go on his Triumph.’ The Texan got the idea instantly.

‘Your assumption is Rostov will send his flask bombers there?’ Jack surmised.

‘Yeah. And a protection team. An A-team.’

‘Finally!’ Bwana punched his palm.

A minute for Bwana and Broker to bundle Dunne in Jack’s ride and secure him. Another minute for the rest of them to take positions in their vehicles and roll out of Eddiscombe.

The A41 once out of the village and then the M6 motorway to follow the M6 Toll Road, where they broke the speed limit when Jack told them to floor it.

‘It’s a toll road,’ he said. ‘There won’t be much traffic. I’ll get Brimshaw to keep the police off our backs.’

‘I’m not far behind you,’ Roger said in their comms. ‘Dunne’s looked after this bike. It rips.’

‘Plan?’ Mike asked, the E Squadron happy to let the Americans take the lead.

‘We go on Lichfield Road, the A446.’ Zeb studied the map that Meghan held up. ‘There’s farmland next to it. The safe house is a mile from there. We crawl, run, do whatever we need to, to get to the safe house and take it. We want the other bombers alive. Some of them might know where Rostov is.’

‘Sounds good, mate,’ Terry said. ‘I was getting bored in Hereford.’

They reached Lichfield Road when it was nearing ten am.

The sun was out. Spring had started. Birds and insects going about their business as Zeb rolled off the road, went deep into farmland, and turned off his ride.

‘Elephant grass.’ Beth fingered the dense growth that was close to eight feet high. ‘It’s grown for biofuel and for forage. It protects the soil from eroding.’

Zeb watched the second EV roll up and then the E Squadron arrived, flattening the undergrowth.

‘Gear up,’ he said.

They geared up. HKs, Glocks. Body armor. Helmets. Knives. Grenades and flashbangs.

‘We’ll launch the drones once we are closer,’ Meghan said as she shouldered the UAV’s box.

‘Go,’ Zeb whispered and led the way through the elephant grass.

‘Luck’s finally our way,’ Jack whispered in their earpieces.

‘How so?’ he asked.

‘This elephant grass is high enough to provide us cover. It’s all around that safe house, too.’

They had to move carefully to prevent the grass from moving unnaturally.

We have to use the wind’s sway to hide us. Zeb spat grass from his mouth when a stalk swatted his face. ‘Rog, how far back are you?’

‘Twenty minutes out. I’ll follow the tracks you made.’

Zeb stopped when they were fifteen minutes away from the safe house. The approach road from the A4091 is to our left.

It was still. No sound other than the wind and the rustling of the grass, which hid their movements.

‘Another fifty feet and our cover ends,’ Meghan cautioned. ‘I’m launching the drone.’

They stopped for breath and waited for the feed.

‘They are here!’ she said frustratedly. ‘I can see bodies. Hold up. One, two …’

‘Twenty hostiles around the house. A perimeter. They’re out in the open, fully armed. Four men in the house. Four vehicles in the barn. Here.’ She turned the screen to face the operatives. ‘See for yourself.’

The safe house was a long rectangle with a sloping tiled roof and a graveled approach from the dirt track that branched off from the A4091. The barn was to its right. Smaller, the shapes of SUVs visible inside it.

Beth navigated the drone to aim its cameras through the house’s windows.

‘Luck’s again with us. Our bird is high up, but those men are near a window in what looks like the living room.’

Zeb saw two Asians at the window and the blurred outlines of two more men behind them. The men were looking out at the armed guards.

He focused on the shooters. They too were fully geared up and held their AK-19s with easy familiarity. They had balaclavas over their faces and had their backs to the house.

Twenty, he counted for himself. ‘How did they get here so soon?’

‘They must have been closer than us.’ Beth thought about it. ‘The bombers must have arrived by taxis. The shooters had their own rides.’

‘Circle around them.’ Zeb looped the safe house with his finger. ‘It’s flat ground around the house, but there is enough elephant grass to provide us cover.’

‘And then?’ Meera asked.

‘Snipe them. Take them out at close quarters, whatever is possible. Let’s take as many of them alive as possible and we need those bombers⁠—’

‘Copy.’ Jack held up a clenched fist and disappeared in the grass.

‘You and me, bud.’ Beth grinned at him. ‘Let Meghan fly the drone and watch the screen.’

He followed her, full-frontal direction to the house.

‘Cover ends soon,’ he whispered.

‘EMP blast in three, two,’ Meghan warned, ‘ONE.’

Zeb removed a Faraday pouch from his pocket, removed a spare phone, earpieces, and mic, and put them on. ‘Check.’

‘Check.’

‘Check.’

Voices echoed in their channel.

‘Everyone’s back online,’ Meghan said, satisfied. ‘BETH! WATCH OUT!’

The grass parted to reveal a balaclava-ed man raising his AK at the younger sister, barely ten feet away.

His teeth flashing triumphantly.

Zeb dove at her. Felt the round whiz past his face. Felt her grunt.

Is she hit?

There was no time to think.

His HK was trapped against her back. His Glock too.

She didn’t seem to be moving, but there was no way to tell as they landed on the hard ground.

The shooter began moving his rifle downwards.

Zeb spun away.

Beth moved faster.

She rolled onto her back.

Her Glock appeared in both her hands.

She thrust it over her head and shot the man thrice in the face.

‘SIS!’ She snarled. ‘WHY DIDN’T THE DRONE SPOT HIM?’

‘Are you hit?’ Meghan said tautly.

‘NO! Zeb brought me down⁠—’

‘Anti-thermal, camo clothing.’ Meghan’s voice relaxed. ‘Watch out, people. Our drone’s not perfect. We have an unknown number of hostiles. I’m going to trim the numbers down.’

She’s going to snipe. Zeb got up and checked the shooter. He was dead, his face blown away by Beth’s rounds. ‘Has the perimeter been alerted?’

‘Not by the shots.’ An amused tone in the older twin’s voice. ‘We are all using suppressors. The wind didn’t carry the pops. However, they are checking their radios. Looks like they’ve found out their comms are fried.’

A louder report from her. ‘That’s one down. And now they know we have arrived.’

Jack heard his friends. Wiped sweat from his forehead and slowed when he saw a shadow move.

Is that grass in the wind?

No. The movement was unnatural.

He watched his steps. He drew his German-made Eickhorn blade and tried to see which direction the man was facing.

Eight feet away. Thick grass between them, but enough gaps in the stalks for him to see that the dark-clad figure was looking at the house.

He lunged forward.

The man twisted around at the sound.

His AK came up. His mouth opened to yell, and then Jack’s blade punctured his throat.

Meera was less lucky.

The sinuous shape was rising from the ground the moment Meghan’s warning ended.

The RAW agent felt the round flick her shoulder.

She dropped to the ground, raising her HK and firing a burst at his belly and then at his face.

‘That was close,’ she panted.

‘Meera?’ Meghan spoke instantly.

‘I am good.’

Curtis, behind the house, felt the arm wrap around his neck. He kicked back instantly. No luck.

He brought his HK up but knew despairingly he was too late as the killer’s blade flashed in front of his face and yelled in furious rage.

The man’s head exploded.

‘Drinks on you,’ Roger drawled in the comms.

Curtis fell to the ground and wiped his face. ‘Where the heck are you?’

‘In the grass. I arrived moments ago. Just in time for the fun. I’ve got your six, mate.’

‘Go long range,’ Zeb ordered. ‘No point risking ourselves.’

He dropped to the ground, felt Beth wriggle to a shooting stance to his left, and drew his HK’s stock to his shoulder.

The perimeter knew of them.

The men that he could see had dropped to the ground and were firing.

The Americans and the Brits had the advantage of retreating into the grass if they had to.

He felt rounds shred the vegetation above his head.

Took up the slack in his trigger, released his breath slowly, and at the bottom of the exhale, fired.

Broker was on his belly, aiming at the perimeter guards to the right of the house when he heard a twig snap behind him.

He reversed the HK, fired over his back without turning around, and then rolled instantly.

The camo-ed hostile fell, thrashed, and then went still.

He should have shot me when he had the opportunity, he thought grimly as the sounds of shooting around the house intensified.

Zeb and Beth sprinted to the house as soon as they had cleared the front perimeter.

Meg’s got our backs. He leaped over a small gully. Saw a man come around the right corner and fired without breaking step.

The man disappeared.

‘I’ve got him,’ Bear announced laconically in his earpiece.

Beth was the first to the door.

She leaped high and kicked it with both legs.

The door splintered under her momentum.

Zeb caught her as she landed. Steadied her with his left hand, his HK in his right as they stormed the living room.

‘STAY WHERE YOU ARE!’ he roared at the men crouching beneath the dining table.

The four men stayed where they were.

‘Where are your flasks?’

No one replied.

He shot at the floor in front of them.

One of them moaned. Another man screamed.

‘In our bags,’ a third man shouted.

‘Remove your watches and throw them in my direction.’

Four watches slid on the tiled floor.

Beth bent over them and thumbs-upped after a while.

‘Roll back your sleeves and show your wrists.’ He was still at the living room’s entrance, crouching, his HK covering the men, Beth safely out of his firing line.

The men showed their wrists.

‘Come out. One at a time. Carefully. Stand apart, hands high in the air.’

Beth searched them and then zip-tied the men. ‘Secure,’ she called out.

And only then did Zeb rise.

He watched the rest of his team and Jack’s operatives through the windows as they went around the house.

‘Eight survivors,’ Broker panted when he entered the living room. ‘All of them tied up.’

‘Any of us injured?’ Zeb asked.

‘Meera’s got a scratch. Nothing serious. No other injuries.’ Mike entered the house.

The Brit surveyed the flask bombers and the flasks that Beth had laid out on the floor. ‘Shall we shoot them?’

‘No,’ Zeb said.

‘Come on, let me at least cut off a thumb.’

‘No.’

‘Is it over now? Can we go to the best, nearest pub?’

‘No.’

Heads turned to Zeb.

‘It’s not over,’ he explained, ‘until Rostov is dead. He always has a backup plan.’

51

‘You might want to step out,’ Zeb told Jack.

The captain looked at him and nodded. ‘We’ll interrogate the shooters.’ He took his men and went out.

They can now claim they didn’t witness what happened next. Zeb lined up the flask bombers.

He read the fear and hostility in their eyes. Two Asians and two white men, like Dunne had said.

One of the Asians opened his mouth.

Zeb shot him in his right thigh and fired at each one of them in the same limb. The men screamed and fell to the floor, some of them writhing, the others going into shock.

He waited till their moans had subsided to low groans. ‘What are your names?’

‘RAJIV PATEL,’ the first man he had shot screamed. ‘Don’t kill me.’

Zeb went to the second Asian.

‘Hasan Sharif,’ the man sobbed.

The last two men gave their names equally readily. Colin Harper and Victor Nowak.

They confessed to their targets too once he gouged his Glock into Harper’s wound.

Birmingham’s Bullring, Stansted Airport, Liverpool Lime Street Station, and Newcastle’s Quayside Market.

None of them knew where Rostov was, despite Bwana breaking their thumbs.

The sisters checked their phones and saw similar messages on the devices that Dunne’s had.

‘Same M.O.,’ Beth whispered.

‘Any way to locate Rostov’s phones?’ he asked, thinking rapidly.

‘No.’

‘Jack?’ He spoke into his mic. ‘You’re done out there?’

‘Yes, mate,’ the captain replied. ‘These men know nothing. Their only communication is through burners. They’ve been with Rostov for a long while but have never met him ever since they came to the country.’

‘Meg,’ Zeb asked. ‘Is there any way to find out which other satellites are overhead?’

‘Yeah, we know which others are orbiting.’ She dug out her screen, her sister joining her, their heads bent.

Jack and his team returned. The Brits looked on impassively at the wounded flask bombers.

Bear finished dressing the men’s wounds and secured them.

‘No other birds over us other than the Indian satellite,’ Beth announced. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘I know a way to get Rostov to show himself,’ Zeb answered.

Rostov was calmer by evening.

His mercenaries had confirmed all the flask bombers were secure and there was no danger. The four designated killers had also checked in again when he had messaged them.

He went to dinner in the Mayfair café.

It was likely to be his last night in London, and he was determined to make the most of it.

His calm shattered early the next day.

His phone buzzed insistently at six am.

He shook off sleep and sat up when he saw it was Dunne calling his burner.

‘WHY ARE YOU CALLING⁠—’

‘THEY ARE ALL DEAD!’ Dunne yelled. ‘MASKED MEN CAME IN THE MORNING AND KILLED EVERYONE. I ESCAPED SOMEHOW AND GOT AWAY. WHAT DO I DO? THE POLICE⁠—’

Rostov rushed to the windows of his Mayfair apartment. He had a view of the street. It was quiet. He checked the security cameras he had planted outside the building. No movement.

‘Stop. Breathe deeply,’ he said harshly. ‘Talk slowly.’

Dunne took audible breaths. His voice was calmer but still shaky when he resumed.

‘I was sleeping in the living room when I heard shooting. I got up instantly and ran out of the kitchen. I had parked my bike behind the safe house. I wheeled it away as fast as I could and went into the grass. I heard lots of shooting and shouting. I stopped when I was deep inside and crawled to see through the glass. These men were all masked. They had killed all your men⁠—’

‘All?’

‘YES, ALL!’ Dunne shouted. ‘They came out after some time. I don’t think anyone is alive. They were laughing and high-fiving each other, and then the police arrived. What should I do?’

‘The police are there?’

‘Can’t you hear me?’ the bouncer yelled. ‘How many times do you want me to tell you⁠—’

‘How come you are able to shout?’ Rostov said sharply.

‘Because I am far away! They can’t hear me.’

‘Are you still in the grass?’

‘Yes.’

‘Show yourself.’

‘How?’

‘USE YOUR CAMERA, YOU FOOL!’ Rostov roared.

‘Why?’

‘Dunne—’

Dunne’s video appeared. He was in the grass, crouching, sweating, panting loudly. ‘Are you satisfied?’

‘Show what’s behind you.’

Dunne made to speak but held his camera up and showed a selfie view and then turned around three hundred sixty degrees. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Show me the house.’

Dunne switched the camera’s view.

Rostov heard the blood roaring in his ears when he saw the police vehicles outside the safe house. He could see a few masked figures amongst the several officers.

‘Karelsky? KARELSKY?’

He didn’t realize Dunne had uttered his false name until the man shouted.

‘Yes. I am here. Do you have your flask and watch?’

Dunne brought the flask in front of the camera. ‘Yes. I took it when I ran.’

‘Go to London. Go to the Thames. Be there before eleven am. I will tell you what to do.’

‘LONDON? Did you see what happened? The police are here. If they caught any of the other men alive, they would know⁠—’

‘LIAM DUNNE, GO TO LONDON RIGHT NOW. CALL ME WHEN YOU REACH THERE ON THIS SAME NUMBER. IF YOU DON’T DO IT, I WILL SEND YOUR NAME, ADDRESS, AND PHOTOGRAPH TO THE POLICE MYSELF. THEY WILL FIND AND ARREST YOU SOON ENOUGH.’

Dunne swallowed audibly. ‘I want their money,’ he said after a while.

‘Whose money?’

‘The money you were going to pay the others. I want all of it if you want me to release the nerve gas. That’s why you want me to go to London, to the river. If you don’t agree, I will release your details to the police and turn myself in.’

Rostov was using all his iron will to control himself from panicking. Nevertheless, he could not help smiling at Dunne’s audacity. He does not know anything about me … but let him feel better.

‘All right.’

‘No. Transfer one hundred thousand pounds’ worth of bitcoin right now. You have my wallet address.’

‘Dunne, we don’t have time for this. You have to get to London. You have to trust me⁠—’

‘DO IT!’

Rostov cursed. He went to his encrypted laptop and logged on. He brought up Dunne’s wallet address and made the transfer.

‘Check now,’ he said after a few minutes.

Dunne’s breathing changed. It quieted. ‘I got it.’

‘Now, go to London. Call me once you are there on this number. Act normally.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do. I am the one carrying nerve gas. I know what the risks are. I won’t do this alone.’

Rostov’s head shot up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I want you to be there when I release the nerve gas. You have to meet me. Otherwise, I will disappear into the crowd. I already have a lot of money. I can live without the rest of the payment.’

‘Dunne—’

‘No.’ The bouncer managed to smirk. ‘No negotiation. That is the deal. I will call you when I reach London. You will meet me. Then we will release the nerve gas. Together. You go your way, and I’ll go mine after that.’

Rostov’s blood pounded. Say yes. Otherwise, he won’t agree.

He cursed loudly. ‘Okay. Call me when you get there.’

He ended the call. He realized he was shaking.

That had happened just once before.

That time also, Carter was against me.

No, he thought fiercely. I won’t lose this time. Dunne will carry out my plan.

52

‘You did well,’ Zeb said coldly to Dunne, who shivered in the cold.

‘He picked up Beth’s writing quickly,’ Chloe said admiringly.

Zeb nodded. The younger sister had used her screen to write out instant responses to Rostov’s questions, which they could hear through Dunne’s phone.

His friends and the E Squadron troops had listened to his plan the previous evening and, after admiring it, had pointed out several weaknesses.

That helped. I hadn’t thought of Rostov wanting Dunne to show himself.

Roger had come up with the idea of taping a flask to the bouncer’s leg and covering it with his jeans.

‘That will control him,’ the Texan had said. ‘We don’t need to point guns at him.’

Meera had come up with the idea of Dunne wheeling his bike away from the safe house. Mike had suggested Dunne ask for more money.

Zeb grinned briefly. That was great thinking.

‘Rog, you will take Dunne with you to London on the Triumph.’

‘I was born ready.’ The Texan straightened and stretched. ‘Where in London?’

‘The King and the PM will be taking the Commonwealth leaders on a ride on the Thames. The landing near Big Ben will be their departure point. I am sure that’s where Rostov will want Dunne to strike.’

‘There’s a lot that can go wrong.’ Jack frowned.

‘We have the flasks,’ Zeb pointed out. ‘This is the only way we can catch Rostov.’

‘What if he doesn’t show up?’

‘He will. He doesn’t like failure.’

They hurried to their rides once Roger had departed with Dunne, the latter trussed to the pillion, with the flask still taped to his ankle.

Zeb waited for Jack to finish briefing the police and then drove out of the safe house.

‘Ma’am.’ He called Clare when they were on the M6 motorway. ‘Some more developments.’ He looped her in swiftly.

‘Zeb, don’t you think it will be safer to cancel the king’s reception?’

‘No, ma’am. But advance it by an hour.’

‘So that they are already on the Thames by the time Dunne gets there?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Smart thinking. What if Rostov has one more flask with him?’

‘He doesn’t, or else he wouldn’t have asked Dunne to go to London.’

‘Get him this time, Zeb.’

‘That’s the plan, ma’am.’

London was crowded, busier than usual, when they parked near Parliament and hurried to the landing on the river.

Ten am.

They had switched to plain clothing on the way, with only their Glocks. Caps low over their heads, each of them wearing shades as they shoved through the crowd. The sisters had launched both drones and were hurrying while checking their screens regularly.

The Thames banks were packed with spectators. Bunting and posters strung between lampposts. Bands playing, trumpets blowing, horns sounding, and street vendors hawking their wares and food.

It was like a carnival.

In which the deadliest enemy we know is loose. Zeb’s eyes were motionless. Lingering on this dark-haired person here, that tall man over there. Ceaselessly checking out the crowd.

‘Split,’ he told his friends and Jack’s team when they went down the stairs from Westminster Bridge to the landing.

His friends split.

He saw the king’s boat, distinct by its pennant and the uniformed staff onboard, in the middle of the river, surrounded by a flotilla of police vessels.

He sighed in relief. Clare got the schedule changed. They were all out on the water.

‘Jack, the police should not show their hand. They should look alert⁠—’

‘Yes, mate. The Met is good at this. Trust them,’ Jack cut him off.

‘KARELSKY! I AM HERE!’ Dunne’s voice, clear above the background noise, audible through their comms.

The sisters had rigged the bouncer’s phone to hear his every conversation.

‘He’s near the yellow barge,’ Roger drawled. ‘I’m on the bridge.’

The yellow barge was to Zeb’s eleven o’clock. A police barricade kept the crowd away from the river.

He elbowed through the crowd.

Was aware that his friends had dispersed through the spectators.

He winced when a bullhorn went off near him, the speaker castigating Britain’s history of colonization.

I hope there aren’t any riots today.

There won’t be, he told himself. The Met’s everywhere.

He saw Dunne. ‘I have eyes on.’

‘We too,’ Beth said. ‘We are behind you. Lots of people between us.’

‘KARELSKY!’ Dunne yelled desperately. ‘I AM HERE. WHERE ARE YOU?’

Good. He is reading out the script we wrote for him, Zeb thought.

His eyes kept moving. No sign of Rostov.

The drones will do facial recognition, gait analysis. They will throw all the tech they have at the crowd.

It wasn’t just their drones that were looking out for Rostov. The Met’s UAVs too were searching.

‘Maybe he isn’t coming,’ Jack said after a while.

‘Rostov doesn’t give up,’ Zeb said. ‘Maybe he hasn’t heard Dunne⁠—’

He was shoved from behind. Lost his balance and fell against several people ahead of him.

Felt the jab at his neck.

Rostov! He got me.

Darkness swallowed him.

53

The world came back in pieces.

Sound, sensation, and awareness slowly returned to Zeb. His head throbbed. He felt nauseous. His body rocked.

He lay passive, trying to assess where he was.

He was on a hard surface. He could hear the throb of an engine.

I’m on a boat!

He could hear the faint sounds of a crowd.

I’m on a boat on the Thames!

He opened his eyes a slit.

No! He was on the deck of a van.

‘You don’t have to pretend. I know you are awake.’

A pair of boots came into his vision.

Zeb looked up and winced against the bright interior light.

Rostov sat on a bench opposite him.

Zeb was on the floor, manacled to a central pole, two benches on either side of him, with the SVR agent on one of them, smiling triumphantly.

The SVR agent was dressed in a police officer’s uniform with a high-visibility yellow jacket.

Zeb sat up and leaned with his back against the pole, his jaws clamped tight against the sudden nausea.

Who’s driving it?

A wire mesh separated the back of the van from the cockpit. The front seats were empty.

‘Here!’ Rostov held up an elaborate device that looked like a gaming rig’s console. ‘Remote control. I have punched in a destination. The van will drive itself. Cruise control and some fancy software that I myself don’t understand. It will take us through any traffic.’

‘Where are we going?’ Zeb forced the words out.

‘Trafalgar Square.’

He blinked. ‘But the King’s reception …’ He trailed off when he remembered the agenda for the Commonwealth celebrations. ‘The wives of all the leaders! The queen is receiving them there!’

‘Well done, Carter. You finally worked it out,’ Rostov sneered. ‘You thought I would go after the king’s event? Why would I do that when I could achieve the same result by killing all their partners?’

The van jolted. A police siren sounded. A cruiser flashed past them, going in the opposite direction, toward Westminster Bridge.

He craned his head to look out of the windshield and tensed when they approached the set of lights at the intersection with Parliament Street.

To the left is Parliament House. We go past Downing Street if we go right and head toward Trafalgar Square.

He struggled to his feet and hunched when his head hit the van’s roof. His eyes flared wide when the lights turned green, and the van smoothly turned right.

‘There’s no right turn,’ he said hoarsely.

‘That’s Parliament Street, which turns into Whitehall. But you know that. All traffic has been stopped. Only⁠—’

Zeb whispered when he took in Rostov’s outfit. ‘Only police vehicles are allowed … and they can go any way they want.’

‘Correct. This is a police van. I rigged it with this driving software. The windshield is dark from the outside. The windows behind you are one-way. No one can see that there’s no driver.’

Zeb swiveled to look out of the side windows. Buildings slid past. He faced Rostov again. ‘You plan to bomb the event?’

‘Bomb?’ The SVR agent sneered. ‘Nothing so crude.’ He held up a flask that was behind him and smiled wickedly at Zeb’s gasp. ‘Yes, I have one more. You thought you had found all of them? I know you, Carter. I knew the moment Dunne called me. I guessed what had gone down. But I knew you would never work out what I had planned, that my target was the women. I made Dunne go to the Thames. I knew you would be around. I had to keep an eye on him, and I would find you. You are so predictable.’

Why didn’t my team spot him? Where are they?

‘What did you use on me?’

‘A nerve agent,’ Rostov said carelessly. ‘It has no side effects. I want you alive to kill you.’

They reached the first set of lights at Downing Street.

Two more lights, one at Horse Guards Avenue and the other at Whitehall Place, then Trafalgar Square. I have to stop him before we get there.

‘I thought about nerve gassing that place. Downing Street.’ Rostov was comfortable, supremely in control, on the bench. ‘But that iron gate and the security around it … nyet.’ No. ‘It wouldn’t have worked. This is easier.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Zeb’s voice cracked. ‘What will you get by killing so many people?’

‘I am carrying out my orders. To make Russia great again. But,’—Rostov punched him hard—‘my real mission is to kill you.’

Zeb doubled over, gasping. He heaved and retched. ‘Water,’ he said hoarsely.

Rostov looked at him curiously for a moment and then tossed a water bottle at him.

Zeb caught it clumsily, uncapped it, and drank several gulps. He poured the rest of the water over his face and blinked the drops away.

The cold liquid helped.

His head still felt like it was being hammered and pricked with hot irons, but the gray fog, that mist in his mind that rolled in to block out pain and turn him into a lethal killer, was creeping in. He could feel it. He didn’t let it show.

He slumped against the pole, knees bent, his body rocking as the van drove slowly.

There’s no traffic. It’s probably got flashing lights, and the police signs mean no one will stop it.

‘Da.’ Yes. Rostov guessed his thoughts. ‘The van has all the authorizations. I have the correct paperwork. Even Halstead will believe it.’

‘You don’t have to do this⁠—’

‘DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!’ Rostov screamed. He dropped the remote and punched Zeb repeatedly.

The flask rolled to the floor.

‘DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO ME?’

‘I thought I killed you,’ Zeb groaned from the punches.

‘I lived.’ Rostov drew back, panting, and rubbed his knuckles. He picked up the remote and the flask and sat on the bench again. ‘Your bullet was lodged in my skull. It didn’t penetrate my cortex. My team got me to a hospital in the golden hour. We had false papers. The surgeons operated on me immediately and put me in a medical coma. My people flew me to Moscow. TWELVE MONTHS!’ He lunged up and punched and kicked Zeb. ‘TWELVE MONTHS!’ he repeated, spraying spittle. ‘THAT’S HOW LONG I WAS OUT OF THE GAME!’

He regained his breath. ‘I was to be promoted to the Director’s role. My boss was retiring. He was going to recommend me. I was SVR’s best agent.’ His eyes lit. ‘Director of SVR. That was going to be me.’ He slapped Zeb. ‘Because of you, I didn’t get that.’

‘Is that what this is about? A missed promotion?’

Rostov moved instantly and clubbed Zeb’s head brutally. ‘MISSED PROMOTION?’ he shrieked. ‘The Director of the SVR is one of the most powerful people in the world.’

He … has … a … point, Zeb panted, his head still ringing from the blow.

‘I had fogs,’ Rostov continued coldly. ‘I had seizures. I was partly paralyzed. Twelve months,’ he repeated. ‘It took me that long to recover and be who I am. I was out of SVR. The world thought I was dead.’

‘The Turkey operation was five years ago. You were out of the game for one year … you rejoined SVR again?’

‘Da!’ Rostov slapped him several times. ‘I had to start all over again. I had to prove myself again. THAT’S WHAT YOU DID TO ME.’

He drew back, panting. ‘When I heard about the mission, I offered to execute it. My boss knew I was capable of it. It was my redemption. My comeback. Another opportunity to become Director. But even here, you nearly stopped me again. Not now. Now, you owe me your life.’

‘You won’t get away.’ Zeb spat blood from his mouth. ‘The van will be stopped … and even if it isn’t, the nerve gas⁠—’

‘Carter, you aren’t as intelligent as I thought you were. I have a gas mask.’ He pointed to the space beneath the bench. ‘I will release the nerve gas. You will be the first to die. And then I’ll go out through the driver’s door. The van will keep rolling toward Trafalgar Square, and there it will be stopped. The police will open the doors. They will die. The wind will blow the gas at the women. They will die too. It does not matter how many are affected. The financial markets have to sink to their lowest level for mission to work. This attack on the women will tank the markets.’

‘And then your billionaires will start buying.’

Rostov cocked his head. ‘Perosky? You worked that out?’

‘Why did you kill him?’

‘He wasn’t cooperating. He knew about me. He couldn’t be left alive.’

‘You have other Russian billionaires to do your job—’ Zeb began

‘I have Americans as well. Right-wingers.’

Why doesn’t that surprise me? Zeb eyed the remote-control device, which was on the bench. It had a large circular wheel. That must be to override the software and navigate the vehicle. A screen showed the front view.

I won’t be able to reach it even if I stretch out. I’ll have to get him to give it to me.

‘What was the point of the riots?’

‘To make the markets fall. A single attack will make them crash, but they will recover quickly. I wanted a long period of daily lows, both for the stock markets and the exchange rate as well.’

‘Why did you kill Jimmy and his friends?’

‘Jimmy? Fenton! I didn’t. Whelan killed them. They were a liability. Whelan was using Fenton’s house to meet rioters. Fenton didn’t like that.’

Rostov wasn’t holding back.

Why should he, Zeb thought bitterly. He’s in charge. Where did my team and Jack’s troops disappear to?

‘What about all those shooters? At Jimmy’s place, Lorraine’s, Berlin, at the military⁠—’

‘Most of them were mine.’ The Russian smirked. ‘The man at Fenton’s place. He was put there by Whelan to keep an eye on the place. He wasn’t mine. He didn’t have to shoot you. The rest were all Chinese mercenaries. I knew you were in Hereford. I had contacts⁠—’

‘In SAS?’

‘No. In the police. I knew an American outfit was training with SAS. When Whelan told me of your fight in the brawl, I looked up its camera images. I recognized you.’

How did his snitch find out about the training? He discarded the thought. It didn’t matter anymore. ‘How did you know about Fong?’

‘SVR had eyes on his daughter. In case we needed leverage. We knew you saved her. I knew you would work a deal with him. Once you were aware of my Chinese thugs …’ He smiled in a superior manner. ‘I knew you would go to Fong. You are wondering why you didn’t spot my surveillance?’

Zeb didn’t reply.

‘I had six rolling teams at Hereford.’ The SVR agent ignored his silence. ‘They followed you. They swapped so frequently that you wouldn’t have noticed. They lost you several times, though. That’s why you got lucky and survived.’

‘They were B teams,’ Zeb goaded.

Rostov punched his neck.

Zeb’s head rocked back against the pole. He moved too fast, otherwise I would have caught him. I have to needle him, make him lose control.

The Horse Guards Avenue lights passed. One more remaining.

‘Even the ones at Wishaw weren’t that good,’ he taunted through his split lips.

‘They were the best. But you were better than them,’ Rostov acknowledged.

‘Why did you kill Brenner?’

Rostov nodded slowly. ‘You put together a lot of it. I didn’t. Whelan did. We needed the software.’

‘But it wasn’t complete, so you, as Karelsky, went to Vavra.’

The Russian seemed to have admiration in his eyes. ‘Carter, I have never met someone like you. You are my equal … no … close, but not equal. Or else you wouldn’t be my prisoner.’

‘Why did you leave the phone on Whelan’s body?’

‘Haven’t you guessed it?’ Rostov smirked. ‘I wanted to bring you to Berlin. I was playing with you.’

Like I figured, Zeb thought bitterly.

Rostov remained seated. The third light approached.

He isn’t rising from the bench. Zeb grew desperate. ‘Is that some kind of auto-driving software?’

‘We stole it from one of your companies,’ Rostov smiled. He picked up the remote and held it up. Leaned forward several inches.

Which brought him within kicking range.

54

Zeb shot his leg up.

It was perfectly timed. The angle was right. His boot’s toe swung high.

It caught Rostov’s wrist.

The remote flew in the air, hit the roof, and bounced to the floor near Zeb’s feet.

‘NYET!’ Rostov dove at it.

Zeb slid his hands down the pole, bending to get to it. If I reach it with my leg, I can kick it under my butt and wrap my ankles around his neck.

He had worked out his moves.

He hadn’t anticipated the Russian’s lightning reaction.

The SVR agent’s knees were on the floor. His left hand was on the remote. His right hand was flashing in a punch to Zeb’s groin.

Zeb twisted his hips at the last moment, took the blow on his thigh, and was reaching down to stamp on the remote when something crashed into the van like an invisible fist, striking its side behind him.

Metal screeched and tore. The side buckled. The roof caved. The van seemed to slide sideways and mounted the sidewalk.

Zeb was thrown violently, his feet sliding on the floor, his manacles tight against the pole.

He groaned from the sudden wrench of the restraints on his wrists. His limbs felt like they were being torn out.

Rostov was thrown against the bench. His head rapped against it.

He lay dazed on the floor while the van rocked.

And then the metal pole, which had bent deep from the buckling of the side and the roof, snapped. Its upper half lashed Zeb’s face and swung up to the roof, where it quivered.

The lower half was still upright, its jagged edge wickedly gleaming in the light that had survived the crash.

Zeb stood stunned, heaving, panting, staring in disbelief at his manacles. He was free!

Rostov, knees on the floor, grunted as he took him in.

The wire partition at the front had broken, leaving a large hole.

The flask rolled on the floor.

The van creaked but didn’t move.

Sirens and shouting outside.

Those spurred Zeb. He dove at the flask.

Rostov got to it first and elbowed him in the face.

Zeb caught his waist.

The Russian kicked out, wriggled free, and slithered to the front of the van.

Zeb scrambled to his feet unsteadily.

Blood pouring down his face, nearly blinding him.

Can’t let him get away!

He lunged forward.

Caught Rostov’s leg as he was crawling through the hole.

His head snapped back when the Russian’s boot caught his temple, and then the SVR agent was out through the driver’s door, which swung open.

Zeb cursed. Sobbed. Wire strands tore at his face and body as he too slithered through the gap, his manacled hands hindering him.

His head thumped the wheel.

The van honked.

Rostov, on the sidewalk, turned to glance at him.

Zeb forced himself sideways, yanking his leg hard that was caught between the seats, and fell out awkwardly.

‘ROSTOV!’ His voice was weak.

‘STOP!’

Zeb turned his head to see armed officers racing up.

‘SHOOT HIM!’ Rostov screamed. ‘He’s a terrorist.’

‘GET HIM!’ Zeb shouted.

He got to his feet and staggered after the Russian, who was running furiously, arms and legs pumping, the flask in his right hand.

A band playing in Trafalgar Square.

Didn’t anyone hear or see the crash? Zeb’s thoughts were jumbled as he set off after the Russian.

Twenty feet separated them, but the SVR agent was in better shape.

GO! Zeb urged himself, forcing all the pain, the agony, the searing fires in his head and limbs away temporarily to allow the gray fog to blanket him and power him.

It worked when he wasn’t carrying that many injuries.

It still helped to an extent. It allowed him to compartmentalize.

His breath rasped harshly as he picked up speed.

‘STOP OR WE WILL SHOOT,’ an officer yelled.

Zeb ignored him.

Rostov was close to the crossing that separated Trafalgar Square, which was covered with colorful tents and a ring of armed officers.

He … will … probably … show … his … identification … to … them … to … get … inside … and … get … them … to … arrest … or … shoot … me.

His thoughts were fragmented. His lungs burned.

But he was making ground.

‘ROSTOV, DON’T DO THIS,’ he bellowed.

The Russian glanced back, his lips in a snarl.

His boot caught in a metal grating.

He lost his balance and lost the momentum.

Zeb dove with a roar and caught him around the waist, bringing both of them to the ground.

He caught the man’s left hand, the watch wrist, when they fell.

Rostov on his back. He on his right shoulder, manacled hands pinning down the Russian’s limb.

‘NYET!’ the SVR agent screamed.

He swung the flask at Zeb’s head.

Zeb took the blow on his forehead.

It left him dazed.

What’s one more blow? He thought he heard Meghan say amusedly. Focus! I can’t let go of his hand. Can’t give him room to trigger the watch.

‘I WILL RELEASE IT!’ Rostov screamed.

‘STAY BACK!’ Zeb shouted at the approaching footsteps from behind.

Officers broke off from the cordon at Trafalgar Square and spread out.

Two of them took a knee and raised their rifles.

‘DON’T SHOOT,’ someone shouted from far away, a familiar-sounding voice.

Zeb was beyond comprehending. He had pinned Rostov’s wrist to the ground and was taking the Russian’s flask blows to his head, face, and neck.

The SVR agent’s face was twisted with rage.

‘NOT … AGAIN!’ he howled and, with a vicious blow to Zeb’s head, jammed his face to the watch and planted his chin against it.

He’s triggered it! Can’t let him throw the flask.

Zeb let go of his hand, instantly planted his manacles against Rostov’s throat and squeezed and simultaneously got his right knee up to pin the Russian’s right hand, with the flask, to the ground.

The SVR man yelled hoarsely, his eyes widening from the pressure on his throat, and punched up with his left hand.

Zeb took the blow on his face.

Rostov tried to yank his right hand free.

Zeb maintained the inexorable pressure on both his neck and his trapped limb.

The Russian knuckle-punched his throat.

Zeb absorbed it, groaning.

He bore the flurry of punches and jabs, not even trying to avoid them.

His breath stuttered.

His vision started fading.

But he didn’t let up on the pressure on Rostov’s throat and thrust down hard with all the remaining strength in his body, with his sweat and blood dripping down on the Russian, until the light faded from Rostov’s eyes and his limbs twitched and he went still, and then Zeb Carter died on top of him.

55

Zeb’s death didn’t seem to last long.

He heard voices, hands on his shoulder. He slumped sideways.

Beth, or was it Meghan, bending over him.

No, both of them. Meera and Chloe as well, their faces hazy.

‘That flask … stay … back,’ he mumbled.

‘DON’T TALK!’ Beth said fiercely. Something fell off her face, landed on his cheek. A tear.

And then he faded.

He was in the back of an ambulance when he came to.

He was on a stretcher. A nurse finished dressing his injuries. ‘You have a thick skull,’ she said. ‘You took a lot of blows to the face. We CT-scanned you. No internal bleeding or apparent damage to your brain. You might be suffering from concussion.’ She held up two fingers.

‘Two.’ His lips felt thick. ‘Can we skip that? I know two and two is four⁠—’

‘Five.’ Curtis, at the door. ‘No, mate. You are done. You have forgotten your maths⁠—’

‘He wasn’t good at it in the first place.’ Beth, a grin so wide that it seemed to dim the ambulance’s lights.

‘Two and two must be five in Yorkshire.’ Zeb propped himself up.

Bwana appeared. He slapped his thigh, chortled. ‘He got you there!’

‘He needs to rest,’ the nurse said, while leaving. ‘Make sure he gets it.’

‘We’ll try. He’s stubborn,’ Bwana climbed in after Beth.

‘How are you feeling?’ Beth laid a cool palm against Zeb’s face.

‘Like I have been punched, kicked, dragged over hot coals, and set on fire.’

He was wearing a loose shirt, unbuttoned, with a dressing over his ribs.

‘No, you haven’t fractured any,’ Bwana rumbled. ‘That’s a precaution.’

He was wearing jeans and socks; both looked new. My friends must have arranged them.

He felt his head. More dressing on his forehead. His cheeks felt swollen, his neck tender. ‘I’m not feeling any pain.’

‘That’s because you are shot up with painkillers.’

‘Where are we?’ He saw the flashing lights of police vehicles through the open door.

‘Whitehall. Paramedics took you to St Thomas’ Hospital across Westminster Bridge. They scanned you, and when they said there was no brain damage, we brought you back. We knew you would want to be here.’

‘How long have I been out?’

He saw the rest of his friends at the door along with Jack’s team. Relieved expressions on all of them.

‘Three hours. It’s nearly four pm now. But you weren’t unconscious for that long. How much do you remember?’

‘I was on top of Rostov and that’s it. No! I told you to stay back.’

‘Yeah, and then you lost consciousness a second time. You came to in a few minutes but were determined to keep pounding Rostov. Remember that?’

Zeb shook his head slowly. ‘It’s a blur.’

‘It would be. The medics sedated you, checked you out … and here we are.’

Beth hugged him hard. He felt her tears on his chest, wrapped an arm around her to hold her close.

‘Okay, that’s enough,’ she sniffed, straightened, buried her head in Bwana’s chest.

‘How am I not dead?’ Zeb buttoned his shirt, got to his feet with the African American’s help. ‘That flask? Rostov?’

Beth straightened. The spark on her face returned. She smirked. Meghan was smiling.

‘Remember we were corresponding with Brenner about a smartwatch modification?’ the older sister drawled.

‘Something to do with an EMP blast?’ he recalled.

‘Yeah. We finished that program a while ago. When you were chasing Rostov, we flew the drone over you both. We got his smartwatch to connect to our drone. We spoofed it, tricked it into thinking it was a wireless network. The how isn’t relevant. We then got our drone to inject an over-the-air app update. When Rostov triggered the watch, the app EMP-blasted the flask and fried its activation mechanism.’

No point asking her if all that can be done. Obviously, it could. Zeb searched for words. He shrugged helplessly. ‘Thank you,’ he said finally.

‘Dumbass,’ Beth said affectionately, helped him into his boots and off the ambulance.

‘The king and queen’s receptions?’ He breathed deeply, the cold air energizing him. Whitehall was empty except for the heavy police presence and armed military officers.

There was no one near the ambulance except for the Agency and E Squadron teams.

There was enough light in the day, and when he peered around the vehicle, he saw the tents still on Trafalgar Square and heard faint music. The police cordon was still present.

‘Both went well,’ Jack said. ‘They weren’t aware of any disturbance. The security teams whisked away the VIPs without any of them seeing what went down. There was no disturbance on the Thames in any case, and over here, on Whitehall, there were no civilians or reporters.’

‘How … where were you all along?’ Zeb asked helplessly.

‘Rostov had dupes!’ Meghan said angrily. ‘Men who looked like you. Our drones were overhead because of the crowd and the reflections off watches, bottles, and stuff, got fooled too. By the time we worked out the real you was missing, he had taken you. He stripped all comms devices off you. We got lucky. Jack noticed that police van.’

‘I called Brimshaw. He said it had the authorization and was legit,’ the captain said. ‘But it was the only vehicle on the street going the opposite direction. Towards Trafalgar Square. I got Beth and Meghan to get their drones over the van, and we heard you. There was no way for us to reach you. We didn’t know if Rostov had a gun on you. The drones couldn’t look through the windows or windshield⁠—’

‘Which is where I came in.’ Terry raised his hand. ‘There was this military truck on the sidewalk. I got into it and rammed you.’

‘He was too enthusiastic,’ Mike said ruefully. ‘The idea was to stop you, but he crashed so hard⁠—’

‘It saved me.’ Zeb raised his wrists. ‘That pole I was fastened to broke. But why didn’t you come after me?’

‘There were police officers on Whitehall. They didn’t know who to believe, you or Rostov. And then there were the rioters!’

‘Rioters?’ Zeb frowned.

‘Yeah.’ Meera pointed at the street, and only then he took in the debris and destruction scattered on the road and sidewalks.

Broken glass bottles, placards, cricket bats, and wood splinters.

‘It was Rostov’s last card,’ the RAW operative said tightly. ‘He had paid protesters to hide in the buildings on this street. They were to attack the police and stop them from moving to the van at the first sign of trouble.’

‘They stopped us,’ Meghan said.

‘Briefly,’ Bear drawled. ‘But that’s why you didn’t see us, and the police officers closer to you were the nearest to respond.’

‘You didn’t alert the officers at the Queen’s reception?’ Zeb asked Jack.

‘No. We were confident either you or we could stop Rostov before he reached the square. Beth and Meg had already updated his watch by then.’

‘They could have shot me.’

‘What’s a few more holes in you?’ He grinned. His smile faded. ‘They wouldn’t have, mate. I would have moved Heaven or Hell to get them to stand down.’

‘Where’s Dunne?’

‘Enjoying the Met’s hospitality.’ Jack fist-bumped him, and they walked slowly to Parliament House.

It was dark by the time they reached Parliament Square.

The world’s oldest continuous Parliament building was lit up and glowed in the night. Big Ben, the iconic clock tower, beside it.

Broker pointed at the clock. ‘Big Ben is the name of the bell inside that tower, but most folks call that entire structure by that name.’

Broker and his facts.

The fallout continued over the next couple of days. The Agency and E Squadron didn’t get involved anymore, but Clare briefed Zeb regularly.

MI6 cracked Rostov’s phone and identified the billionaires. In addition to Beauchamp and Ivanov, the SVR agent had primed more oligarchs, oil barons, pharma magnates, and tech billionaires to commence buying when the market fell.

Some buying happened even as Zeb was slugging it out with Rostov, Clare mused as she attended another meeting with the Prime Minister along with Greystone and Victoria Sloane, the Home Secretary. But the authorities put a stop to it and are investigating those.

‘We’ve frozen their assets under the Unexplained Wealth Order,’ Sloane said. ‘They might challenge it in court, but for now, their funds are locked down, and they themselves are being interrogated. Their passports have been seized. The media doesn’t know about this. We are keeping it tight.’

‘Halstead and I have started a joint investigation into MI6 and the Met,’ Greystone said. ‘Rostov got his information from somewhere. His rioters even knew of the intelligence summit. We need to identify the snitches.’

‘And put them away for a long time,’ Sloane added grimly.

‘I understand that our country owes your team—’ The prime minister addressed Clare.

‘Those were British officers, sir.’ She stopped him with a smile. ‘No American operative was involved in any of this.’

Henshaw looked at her for a long moment, then smiled. ‘I can see that the special relationship between our countries will endure for a long time.’

‘It will, sir.’

The PM made a show of tearing up a letter. ‘That was my resignation letter.’ He brought out another sheet from his jacket pocket. ‘I will be presenting this to the king instead.’

‘What’s that, sir?’ Sloane asked.

‘It is a suggestion to His Majesty that we restructure the Commonwealth. The British monarch is the head of the body. It is a symbolic role for sure, but I propose that we do away with that role entirely … or have a rotating head of body. We used to rule large parts of the world. That world is no more. We now live with the rest of the world.’

Yes, Clare nodded to herself. Britain is still our ally.

Zeb and his friends, along with Jack and his team, were in the Westminster Working Men’s Pub two evenings later.

‘This is where it started?’ Curtis looked around the pub.

‘Yeah,’ Zeb said. ‘Feels like a lifetime ago.’

They ordered drinks, settled down.

‘You’ll be going home soon?’ Jack asked.

‘Why? You want to see the back of us?’ Bear asked mock-truculently.

‘The amount you folks eat … Britain’s running out of food.’

‘This is what’s wrong with you Brits. You’re continually moaning about something or the other. The weather⁠—’

‘We have lots of it,’ Terry quipped.

‘The food, the driving⁠—’

‘Shame, you Americans drive on the wrong side of the road,’ Mike prodded.

Zeb listened. Eyed his team. They were relaxed. Beth was chuckling as she looked up from her phone. She must be messaging Mark.

Their jokes turned into quiet conversation until the bartender clanged a bell announcing last call.

Zeb paid for the round and raised his glass in a toast. ‘To London.’

‘To London,’ his friends echoed.

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BONUS CHAPTER FROM AX STORM (HAWKE’S CODE IS ITS TITLE ON AMAZON)

‘That’s not safe, sayyidati.’ Ma’am. Reem al-Farhan bent down and spoke through the lowered rear window of the car.

Her Royal Highness Princess Leiyani al-Fayez, of the House of al-Fayez, Jordan, smiled. ‘Reem, you know that’s the surest way to motivate me to go there.’

Reem blew her hair out of her face. ‘I promised your mother I’d keep you safe while you were in New York.’

‘Mama is not here. I am safe. This isn’t my first visit to New York. And you are with me. Please, Reem. I want to walk the Lower East Side and see it for myself. You know how it is with us. We go from one air-conditioned place to another. From home to hotel. We are surrounded by guards. We don’t get to experience real life.’

Reem knew. In a former life, she had been a Saudi Royal Guard, an elite military unit tasked with protecting the Saudi Royal Family.

She had been its seniormost and best woman operative, assigned to Princess Haya of the House of Saud.

That was a long time ago. A lot of life had happened. I live in New York now. She felt sweat trickling down her back.

She was dressed in a casual shirt tucked into jeans, boots on her feet. Her licensed Glock was in her shoulder bag, which was partly open for easy access.

Reem advised Middle Eastern royalty and other celebrities on security when they visited the U.S. The gig to protect Princess Leiyani wasn’t a paid one.

She knew the princess’s mother, Princess Safiya, well, and when the daughter made plans to visit New York, her mother had called Reem.

‘It’s only a few days, Reem. Please be with her. I trust only you. I will pay you.’

‘Sayyidati.’ Reem had smiled. ‘Payment is not necessary.’

‘You are in New York, Reem. You are free of all your obligations. You don’t need to be so formal with me or my daughter.’

‘I call you or other royalty from other families by your titles not out of obligation, but because I want to.’

Princess Safiya had laughed. ‘No wonder your business is doing well, Reem. You know how to say the right words.’

Which was how Reem came to be bending over Leiyani’s car, near Times Square, in the middle of a hot June day.

‘Please, Reem,’ the princess begged.

Reem sighed and took her in. Leiyani was in her late twenties. She had studied at Georgetown University and, after working for a few years in the U.S., had returned to Jordan to take up a role in the family’s extensive business interests.

‘We drive in and drive out. Nothing more,’ she warned.

‘Deal,’ Leiyani exclaimed.

Reem got in the shotgun seat and directed the driver.

‘I want to walk!’ Leiyani said when they drove down Bleecker Street. ‘I want to check out the wall murals.’

‘NO!’ Reem turned in her seat. ‘We had a deal! Sayyidati, you must have come here several times during your previous visits⁠—’

‘Stop with that sayyidati thing,’ Leiyani huffed. ‘You know I don’t like that. And no, I never came this side. Please, Reem. That’s a gorgeous painting over there.’

Reem looked where she was pointing. A full wall mural between a convenience store and vape shop. It’s daytime. Bleecker Street is safe. There’s not a lot of mugging in Manhattan these days. What’s the harm?

‘Stop here,’ she told the driver. She got out when he eased to the sidewalk, held the door open for Leiyani.

They crossed the street, which narrowed due to roadwork. Their armored BMW stood out. A passing delivery cyclist whistled admiringly at the car.

Reem stood behind Leiyani, who admired the wall art and photographed it on her phone.

‘Let’s go,’ she said impatiently.

‘A moment,’ the princess said.

Reem was regretting allowing her to get out.

And when she saw three men enter Bleecker Street and two men come from behind to pincer them, she knew her day was going to get worse.

AUTHOR’S MESSAGE

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BOOKS BY TY PATTERSON:

Zeb Carter Series

Fifteen books in the series and counting

Cutter Grogan Series (Zeb Carter Universe)

Nine books in the series and counting

Hawke and Stryker Thrillers (Zeb Carter Universe)

Three books and counting

Zeb Carter Short Stories

Three books and counting

Warriors Series (Zeb Carter Universe)

Twelve books in the series

Gemini Series (Zeb Carter Universe)

Four thrillers in the series

Warriors Series Shorts (Zeb Carter Universe)

Six novellas in the series

Cade Stryker Series

Two military sci-fi thrillers

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ty has been a trench digger, loose tea vendor, leather goods salesman, marine lubricants salesman, diesel engine mechanic, and is now an action thriller author.

Ty lives with his wife and son, who humor his ridiculous belief that he’s in charge.