Copyright © 2025 Peter Gibbons

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
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Whirlwind

By Dan Stone

One

The sun blazed high above Dubai, casting the sprawling desert city in a shimmering haze. Skyscrapers rose like gleaming sentinels from the desert sands, their glass facades reflecting relentless sunlight. Jack Kane enjoyed the cool air-conditioned breeze on his face, in stark contrast to the dry, dusty streets below. Streets strangely almost always devoid of pedestrians. People seemed to go from one air-conditioned building to another in Dubai, avoiding the unbearable heat outside. Monstrous buildings rose in strange places. Vast towers rose from what was barren desert only a decade ago. Skyscrapers surrounded by open spaces or set amongst the apartments, shopping centres and hotels where opulence and wealth were on full display.

Amongst the towering structures stood the Almas Tower, a jewel in the crown of the Jumeirah Lakes Towers district.

“It’s a bloody long way down,” said Frank Craven, peering down through the huge window to the street below.

“Well, it’s a good job we don’t have to jump, then,” Kane replied with a smirk.

“Smart arse.”

Craven yawned, and Kane fought to hold back one of his own. They stood on the sixty-third floor of the Almas Tower, engaged in one of their most mundane assignments to date.

“Tired?”

“I can’t sleep in these bloody hotels. My body thinks it’s the middle of the night.”

“There’s only four hours’ difference between here and the UK, Frank.”

“I know. But I’ve still not adjusted, and we’ve been here for a week.”

“The work isn’t exactly stimulating, either.”

“We agreed to find jobs that didn’t involve gun battles, explosions, death, and hospital visits. Remember?”

“I remember,” Kane sighed.

Kane and Craven were in Dubai to guard a wealthy client from a threat looming more in theory than practice. The job had come through one of Craven’s old police contacts who had worked for Aslan until recently, a call via their secure line. Protection work and bodyguarding meant as good money for a former special forces soldier and a retired British police detective.

Kane wore a black Hugo Boss suit, its light fabric cool and comfortable enough to wear over his Kevlar bulletproof vest and white open-necked dress shirt. He carried a Glock 19 holstered discreetly at the small of his back. Craven wore navy chinos, and a lightly-checked jacket over his own tactical vest and Oxford shirt. Kane wore black derby shoes, and Craven wore brown loafers. Frank Craven towered over Kane, and his bulky frame stretched his jacket’s shoulders. Craven reluctantly carried a Sig Sauer P2226, chosen for its weight and comfort.

Their client, a reclusive tech billionaire named Victor Aslan, had received veiled threats from an unknown business adversary. He had beefed-up his security team, and so Kane and Craven found themselves in Dubai. The nature of Aslan’s business dealings was as shadowy as the threats themselves, but so far, the week had passed without event. Aslan lived in Dubai to enjoy its tax-free benefits. He travelled to work at the Almas tower by Mercedes G- Wagon each day and spent his evenings at his ultra-luxurious villa surrounded by swimming pools and palm trees.

Kane took a drink of water from an iced glass and set it down on a clear table. The suite was a marvel of modern design, all clean lines and expansive windows offering panoramic views of the city. The day had dragged. It was almost lunchtime and already Kane felt like he had stood guard for an entire day. Every fifteen minutes they checked in via earpiece communication equipment with Aslan’s more immediate, full-time bodyguards to make sure Aslan was safe and well.

“We should do another sweep,” suggested Kane.

Craven shrugged. “Why not? Stretch my old legs.”

They walked around the entire floor, checking doors, rooms, lifts, and corridors, but all was in order. Craven had been adamant after their last entanglement with international bad guys, MI5, and a plot to bring down the European banking system, that they should only take safe jobs from now on. They both wanted to work to keep their sanity, and Kane enjoyed Craven’s company. So, whilst this job was spectacularly boring, it was at least safe. Aslan was a private man. He didn’t socialise at bars or throw wild parties. Kane and Craven’s job was to provide an extra layer of security over and above the two bodyguards Aslan always kept with him. As far as Kane could tell, the danger seemed to be more of a threat of legal action than of immediate violence. Jobs came to Kane and Craven through a phone number, passed from client to client and routed through ultra-secure voice-over-internet protocols, to their phone kept for this purpose.

Afternoon gave way to evening and word came through the speaker in Kane’s ear that Aslan’s people had ordered food to be delivered to the suite for a business meeting which looked like it might go on into the night. The suite’s intercom buzzed, and Kane and Craven exchanged glances.

“Food’s here,” Craven said, pressing the microphone hidden in his jacket’s lapel.

“We’ll come and collect it,” replied Jordi, one of Aslan’s bodyguards.

Kane went to the suite door and looked through the eyehole. A bored-looking waiter wearing the hotel’s livery waited there beside a cart laden with silver-domed dishes. Kane opened the door, and the young man pushed the cart inside. His eyes flicked at Kane and then at Craven, glancing down at their waists. A prickle of warning ran down Kane’s neck, but before he could react, the situation erupted into chaos. The waiter reached under the cart and whipped out a suppressed compact submachine-gun. He was nimble, but Kane was quicker. Reactions honed over a lifetime of warfare kicked in. Kane drew the Glock in one fluid motion and fired two shots from his hip. Kane was close to the enemy and, to save time, he fired the moment his weapon came to bear level with his belt. The waiter fell spreadeagled backwards, his machine-gun clattering harmlessly to the floor.

“Gun,” Kane shouted into his microphone, though that would be obvious after the booming thunder of gunfire.

“Bastard,” Craven gasped as he kicked the suite door closed. “So much for a safe job. Is that a bloody machine-gun?”

Kane ignored the obvious question. “You’ve a gun on you, Frank. Draw it.”

Craven shook his head and pushed the food cart to bar the door in case any more enemies tried to break in. He stepped carefully over oily spatters of blood on the plush carpet and frowned at the mess.

The attack had come too easily, too directly. Kane knew there had to be more. He was already moving, scanning the suite for additional threats. Jordi came crashing through the meeting room door. A huge man with a bald head and a too-tight suit, he held a gun in one hand, eyes wide with fear. He glanced down at the dead waiter, the machine-gun, and then at Kane. A sound within the meeting room caught Kane’s attention, a muffled scrape of something beyond the window.

“Secure the balcony!” Kane hissed.

Jordi stood as still as a statue, and Kane burst past him like a wraith. Kane was neither short nor tall, neither stocky nor thin. He was of average height and build, with short brown hair and a nondescript face. A grey man, indistinguishable in a crowd, looking every inch the average Joe. Jordi gaped, huge muscles at his shoulders and neck twitching beneath his suit and shirt.

“Everybody down!” Kane yelled as he burst into the room. He fired a shot through the sliding window door leading to the balcony. The six men inside the meeting room fell screaming beneath its large table, and the second bodyguard jumped on Aslan, covering his body with his bulk. The panoramic patio window exploded inward, shards of glass cascading like deadly rain. A second attack team swung in from the terrace, their descent rapid and practised, black fast-ropes still attached to their harnesses. Four men landed cat-like, weapons drawn, eyes scanning for their target. MP5 machine-guns swept the room, red laser-target dots lighting up the meeting room wall.

Kane dropped to a crouch and squeezed off four shots. The gunfire boomed in the small meeting room space. An intruder fell back, leaving a mist of blood where his head had been. Another grunted and dropped to his knees, clutching his chest where two bullets had slammed into his tactical vest. Kane’s fourth shot sang out into the Dubai night sky and the MP5s came to bear in a crackle of suppressed gunfire. The meeting room table shook under the impact, and bullets tore into the meeting room wall, slashing through the plasterboard and filling the space with dust and a smell like fireworks. Bullets rattled the wall where Kane hunkered and he rolled beneath the table. The men in suits cowered on the carpet with their hands over their heads, one of them sobbing and the rest lying with their eyelids clenched shut. Aslan’s bodyguard still had him smothered, like a great bear sprawled on a kitten.

Kane turned beneath the table, his head involuntarily shrunk into his shoulders as MP5 gunfire hammered into the tabletop, sending splinters flying about the meeting room. All Kane could see was the intruders’ black combat boots as they shuffled slowly into the meeting room, MP5s tearing the place to pieces.

Whatever dispute Aslan had become embroiled in, it was certainly more serious than a threat of legal action. The attackers were highly trained and able to rope down the side of an enormous tower. Kane recognised their skill well enough to understand that if he didn’t act quickly, both he and Aslan were dead men.

A jingling, clinking noise mixed with the spit and rumble of gunfire. Craven came charging through the open meeting room door, pushing the food trolley in front of him. He pushed it towards the attackers and ducked out of the meeting room. The trolley clanked towards the intruders and crashed into their legs. It was the distraction Kane needed. He lay on his side and fired a shot into the closest boot, tearing through rubber into the bone and flesh beyond. The intruder fell, and as he landed heavily on the carpet, clutching his wounded foot, Kane shot him in the face.

The two remaining intruders came around the far side of the table, heading for Aslan. Kane jumped out from the table but not quickly enough to stop the two attackers using their knives to hack into Aslan’s bodyguard’s back. He cried out as they hauled him off and dragged Aslan to his feet. They were too close to Aslan now for Kane to use his gun without putting his client at risk. Without wasting a heartbeat, Kane leapt upon the table, and, in two long strides, he reached the edge. A knife flashed towards his leg and Kane jumped over it to land on top of the knife-wielding man. He yelped as Kane’s weight dragged him down to the carpet and the knife fell with a clang onto the table.

Kane swept the legs from the intruder holding onto Aslan, and the two men fell so that four of them collapsed between the carpet and the table. Arms and legs flailed; men exclaimed in panic. Kane wrenched the knife from the second intruder’s grip, bending his wrist back savagely until there was an audible crack. Kane grabbed the knife, and in one fluid movement he punched the tip of its blade into the intruder’s throat. Aslan gasped as a spurt of hot blood splashed his face and Kane turned to face the final intruder.

The fourth man was on his feet and lashed out with a savage kick, which slammed into the side of Kane’s head. Everything went dark for a moment and Kane braced himself against the table with one hand. A knee drove into his face and the fourth man grabbed a fistful of Kane’s hair. Kane’s vision cleared, and he stabbed upward with the knife, ramming the point savagely into the intruder’s groin. He whimpered, let go of Kane’s hair, and staggered backwards. Kane stood, dropped the knife, drew his Glock, and shot the intruder in the throat.

“Victor, Victor!” bellowed Jordi, his ghost-white face peering around the door, searching for his boss.

Craven sauntered into the room and tutted, staring at the dead intruders littered about the meeting room.

“Nice of you to join us,” said Kane.

“I saved you by pushing that trolley in,” Craven shot back, folding his arms. “You can thank me later.”

“You saved my life,” choked Victor Aslan, peering up at Kane with watery eyes from the carpet. Dust and spots of blood spattered his face.

“Somebody wants to kill you,” Kane replied. “Might be time to find a new place to live.”

Two

Ray Brogan woke early and made himself two rounds of toast using his favourite Pat the Baker’s brand of Irish bread, and lashings of real butter. Ray stared out of the rented cottage window as he ate, watching two silver birch trees shake gently in the morning breeze. Streaks of broken cloud ran across a clear blue sky the colour of a robin’s egg and he could almost feel his worries drifting away on the breeze. He rose from the pinewood table and made himself a ham sandwich to take down to the river for lunch. Every year Ray took a fishing trip to Ireland. He always went alone, rented the same cottage by the same river, and used the three-day break to calm his mind and ease the stress from his body.

He had flown into County Kerry’s Farranfore airport yesterday on a short flight from Newquay airport in Cornwall, England. He needed the break. Working security for a lithium mining company off Cornwall’s coast came with a certain amount of stress, but it was his extra-curricular activities which kept Ray awake at night.

Ray grabbed his gear and strolled from the cottage to the banks of the River Laune. The river, renowned for its clear, rushing waters and bountiful supply of salmon and trout, wound its way through a lush, green landscape. He sucked in a chest full of crisp air. Sunlight cast fleeting glimmers on the water’s surface as it danced gently over glistening rocks. A pattern of green foliage lined the riverbank. Tall grasses swayed in the breeze, mingled with clusters of wildflowers, their delicate petals adding splashes of colour in between the alder and willow trees stretching their limbs over the water. These were the days Ray longed for, the scenes he held tight in his memory to recall on hard days, on the days where he thought he might get caught and his world would come crashing down around him.

The surrounding landscape was a picture postcard of Ireland, the image travel companies used to sell dreams to American tourists longing to visit the lands of their ancestors. It was a far cry from the inner-city Dublin of Ray’s childhood. From the tightly packed houses, winding streets, empty stomachs and rough-house days of the time before he moved to England. Before his recruitment in the shadowy world of espionage and the warm yet perilous embrace of MI6.

Hills stretched out endlessly around him, their slopes draped in a patchwork of fields, hedgerows, and old stone walls. The silhouette of the MacGillycuddy’s Reeks rose majestically in the distance, their peaks shrouded in morning mist. Ray sighed, taking in the calmness of the babbling river, the occasional call of a bird and the distant bleat of a sheep.

He lifted his fly rod, a sleek, graphite affair perfect for the artful cast required to tempt the trout that populated the famous waters. Ray carefully set the handmade fly he had crafted last week in between mining security meetings. Ray had meticulously tied its feathers and threads together to mimic the local insect life. He hoped to catch a brown trout, the prize for any hopeful angler visiting these parts.

Dressed for the unpredictable Irish weather, he wore a weathered olive-green waxed jacket, its fabric resistant to both chill and damp. He wore layers of flannel and wool beneath it to keep the cold at bay. Ray tipped his wide-brimmed hat for luck, its edges slightly tattered from years of use. He rested his rod gently against a tree and pulled on his neoprene waders, which allowed Ray to stand comfortably in the river as the water swirled around his legs.

Ray let all his worries, his fears, the pressure of living a double life wash away with the sound of the river. His senses switching, settling, attuned to every sound and movement. The rhythmic cast and retrieval of his line was almost meditative, a dance between man and nature. Every now and then he paused to take in the serenity of his surroundings, his gaze wandering over a wilderness pulsing with life, even its stillness.
Ray adjusted his footing, the gravel beneath his boots shifting slightly. He cast his line once more, the fly landing deftly on the water’s surface with a delicate plop. Time seemed to stand still for a moment as he waited patiently.

Suddenly, a tug on the line snapped Ray’s mind from his countryside reverie. Instinct took over, and he responded with a swift, practised motion, setting the hook. The fight had begun, the contest of wills between man and fish. The trout leapt from the water, its body a flash of silver against the darkening sky. Ray reeled it in, rod bending under the strain, his hands steady and sure. As the fish tired, he guided it gently towards him. Ray knelt in the shallows, cradling the trout for a moment, admiring its beauty, the iridescent scales shimmering in hues of green and gold, the strength in its thrashing tail. It was a survivor, a fighter. Just like him.

Ray carefully worked the hook free, ensuring that the fish was unharmed. He released it back into the river with a gentle push, watching as it darted away, returning to the depths from which it came. Ray took a moment to enjoy the sense of fulfilment until a twig snapped behind him and he turned, startled by the sudden sound. A figure stood by Ray’s fishing carry-all bag.

“Dmitri?” Ray said, surprise lilting his voice.

“Ray,” Dmitri replied. He was a big man, a bodybuilder with shoulders like footballs and a neck as wide as his head.

Ray swallowed hard. Nobody from work knew about his fishing haven. Especially none of the Russians on the security team. Dmitri was a security guard at the mine, one of a dozen Russian men brought in to guard the lithium mine and its valuable output. The snapping twig surprised him, but Ray wasn’t shocked that his Russian colleagues had come for him. He had always known it was just a matter of time before they discovered his double life. In the old days it was simpler; photocopy or scan sensitive documents and pass them to his handler at MI6. These days everything left a trail, every computer login, every swipe card access to the IT room, meeting room or office.

“Grand weather.” Ray smiled and glanced up at the sky. “Fancy a go at the fishing?”

“Not come for fish, Ray.” Dmitri flexed his shoulders and his pint-pot-sized hands curled into fists.

“The dance is up, then. Your friends in the mother country sent you to kill me?”

Dmitri shrugged. “You are spy, Ray. We know. Balakov knows. He sent me. Time to pay the price.”

Ray had been an MI6 agent for twenty years, long before his paunch grew so large that it flopped over his belt like a wobbly shelf. In his role as director of security for mining and logistics companies owned by Russian oligarchs, he had been in a unique position to feed information to the British Government. To keep them abreast of earnings, wealth, locations, and outputs of mines across the world. Mining of diamonds, tin, tantalum, lithium, and cobalt often occurred in conflict countries. Ray had worked across Africa and Asia, plying his trade, mining conflict minerals for companies with ties to oligarchs and dictator-ruled states. He was not proud of it, but his work with MI6 went some small way to balancing the scales of guilt. Those minerals found their way into the mainstream, part of the phones and tech every person in the West carried about their person.

Ray took a step backwards. “It doesn’t have to be like this. I can walk away. Disappear. You will never see me again.”

“It has to be like this. We know what you did.”

That was the nail in the coffin. Dmitri’s employers, the colossal organisation with interests in logistics, mining, property, and more worryingly its own private army, were part-owners of the Cornish lithium mine of which Ray was security director. He simply knew too much. Too much about how lithium was the new gold, the new crypto, the wealth driver for nations and companies across the world. Lithium mines pumped untold wealth into Russia, funding its ambitions in Ukraine, Africa, and the Middle East. The organisation had put up millions to partner with the mine’s British owner and get the operation off the ground. Millions to produce billions in profit. Ray had seen the numbers, had shared them with his MI6 colleagues. They knew the why, understood how the wealth generated in similar mines across the world funded wars, online subversion, and other unpalatable activities. But they did not know how. How the organisation funnelled the profits into their vast system of war. No phone company or electric vehicle company could reconcile their corporate social responsibility ambitions and have relationships with a company involved in wars in Ukraine, the Middle East and Africa. Shareholders would baulk. Western countries would deny access to markets and services. MI6 wanted to understand how it was done, and Ray had provided as much information as he could uncover.

“Very well. Make it quick then.”

“Won’t be quick. Must be painful.”

Ray wished Dmitri carried a gun. A single shot to the head would do nicely, a quick and painless death. But the Russian had followed him to Ireland, and getting a gun through airport security was all but impossible. Ray wasn’t an assassin, sniper, or former SAS-type, like some MI6 agents he knew. He was the more common type of MI6 operative, a data spy, an office worker, a dealer of secrets and documents, not death. That thought gave Ray an idea, and he reached into his pocket and whipped out his phone. Dmitri closed on him quickly, his bulk blocking out the sun. Ray had time to dial one number before meaty hands closed around his throat like a vice. The number of his handler at MI6. It was too late to save his life, but it might just help MI6 stop Ray’s killers.

Dmitri grunted as his fingers crushed Ray’s windpipe. He dropped the phone and struggled. Ray beat at his attacker with his fists, but the effort was as useless as the trout thrashing on his line. He reached down into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small knife he used for cutting the line or trimming his flies. Ray slashed at Dmitri’s arm, and when his grip loosened, he cut the small blade across Dmitri’s cheek. Blood flowed and Ray swallowed hard. Dmitri released Ray and touched a hand to the wound, bringing it away to examine the blood. He growled and set about Ray like a wild dog.

Ray tried to cut again with his knife, but Dmitri grabbed his wrist and crushed it like a walnut shell. The tiny bones in Ray’s wrists crunched, and he screamed in pain. Dmitri forced him back until the two men plopped into the icy river. Dmitri thrust Ray’s head beneath the churning waters, its glacial chill numbing Ray’s nose and throat as he choked and gulped down too much water. Ray scrambled in the shale and mud, trying to force himself upwards, but Dmitri was too strong. Darkness overcame him, dulling Ray’s senses. Cold water gave way to warmth and silence. As his lungs filled with the river he loved so much, Ray wondered what MI6 would do to avenge his death.

Three

Craven poured a glass of orange juice and dropped in three ice cubes. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing his wife Barb pottering about between the oven and the worktop, baking and cooking. The memory touched his heart with a pang of the deepest sadness, so he took a moment to gather himself before walking out to the pool.

“Thanks, Uncle Frank,” Kim Kane called, waving at him from the water.

Craven smiled and placed her glass down on the outside table. He sat heavily in his patio chair and took a sip from his bottle of cold Madri beer.

“Are you sure you want to sell the place?” asked Kane, sitting beside him wearing a sleek pair of sunglasses. He glanced around at Craven’s villa, admiring its long, folding patio windows and the shimmering pool in front of them.

“I only moved here because of the dry air. It was supposed to be good for Barb’s chest, and it’s close to the cancer hospital. What do I want to live in Spain for?” Until moving to Seville, Craven had lived in England his entire life. He was a born and bred northerner and a former detective in the UK serious and organised crime division.

“The sun? The quiet?”

“I hate the bloody sun. Hence the big, silly hat.” Craven had taken to wearing a wide-brimmed hat in the sun, something that would only earn him ridicule on the streets of Liverpool or Manchester. “It was hot as hell in Dubai, and it’s not much cooler here. It’s probably raining in England. Nothing wrong with a bit of rain every now and again.”

“Every now and again?”

“All right. Maybe it rains a bit more back home. But I miss it, Jack. And I want to be close to Barb.” Barb had wanted to be buried close to her family, and Craven had followed her wishes. She laid at rest in a cemetery twenty minutes outside of Manchester, and Craven desperately wanted to visit her grave. He had notions of walking to her grave each day, of sitting there and talking to her for an hour while the world carried on around him. He wanted to be close to Barb, but not in the ground beside her. Not yet.

“We all miss her.”

“We were together forty years. She was part of me. Every morning, I reach over to touch her hand, and she isn’t there. This place just reminds me of her. It’s time to move on.”

“Back to England, then?”

“Back to England. Is it safe for us?” Craven watched for a reaction on Kane’s face, for any sign of nervousness or reluctance that he might keep back, not wanting to upset his friend.

Kane sighed and raised his arms wide. “Who can be sure? Our line of work is dangerous. I can’t promise that men won’t hunt you, Frank. We did some work for MI5 and MI6 last year. If anything, we are in their good books. But it’s impossible to say for sure. I can make some calls for you, try to see how the land lies. Let me do that before you make any decisions.”

“What will you do? Danny and Kim are both in school here in Seville…”

“Kim is happy here. I don’t want to move her again. Her mother’s death wasn’t so long ago, and she needs stability.”

“What about Danny?”

Kane turned to look over his shoulder to where his fourteen-year-old son tapped away at the keys on his laptop inside the villa.

“In a couple of years, he will have almost finished school. He has his eye on a coding course.”

“Here in Spain?”

“In the US. He picked up so much from Cameron that he’s already as good with computers as most IT professionals. Way beyond my understanding, anyway. I think he’s into hacking, but he won’t share that type of information with his father.”

“No, I doubt he would. Hacking is illegal, as you well know. He’s as white as a ghost. Danny could use a bit of sun. Get him out here. The burgers will be ready in a minute.” Craven stood up with a groan and lifted the lid of his smoking barbecue to check on the burgers, sausages, and kebabs sizzling away on the grill, wincing as the escaping smoke stung his eyes.

“I’ll get him.” Kane rose and strolled inside the villa.

As Craven reached for his bottle of Madri, he felt a buzzing in the pocket of his chinos. Closing the barbecue lid, he fished out the phone handset, peering through the smoke and frowning at the long sequence of numbers flashing on the display.

Craven and Kane had kept busy since Barbara’s death, and the dangers they had faced in London recovering the Prometheus Code device. Both had agreed to work only safe jobs, but that strategy had backfired spectacularly with the gunfight in Dubai. They had left that job with a handsome bonus for saving Mr Aslan’s life, and an extremely lucrative job offer to join his private security team. But Craven had no desire to live amongst the sun-bathed opulence in the desert. He longed for the damp streets of England’s northwest. Craven knew the incoming call could only mean one thing. The number, as he and Kane called it, had been meticulously devised years ago by Cameron in the beginning. Pinging around multiple encrypted online-based phone exchanges across three continents and twelve countries before reaching them, the secret number was only ever used by people who were in dire need of their help. Those who could not turn to the police to solve their problems. Craven’s stomach turned over, and he wasn’t sure if it was the potential thrill of a new job, or fear of what it might involve. If he answered it could be a person in need, or one of his and Kane’s contacts in MI5 or MI6. He could just ignore the call. Place the phone back in his pocket, drink his beer and eat a burger. Sell the villa, move to England, and rest easy. He had enough money to live the rest of his life with comfortable ease.

“Hello?” Craven said as he answered the phone. Excitement was already getting the better of him.

“Mr Craven?” said the nondescript English voice on the end of the line. “It’s Stead here, old boy. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

Stead. MI6. Danger.

Four

Kane took the phone from Craven, who mouthed the word ‘Stead’ as he passed the handset over. Kane nodded reluctantly, took the phone and walked to the far end of Craven’s garden so that Kim could not hear the conversation. She was only eleven years old, and Kane wanted his daughter as far from the world of espionage as possible.

“Stead?” Kane said as he pressed the handset to his ear.

“Well, well. Jack. Still alive?” came a familiar voice.

“Still alive. Are you sipping whiskey in London, or some other far-flung destination?” 

There was a pause. The sounds of a busy city rumbled behind Kieran Stead, a man Kane had once known as Jameson and who probably also went by a dozen other names in his role as an MI6 agent. He could be in London, Cairo, Mexico City, Singapore, or any city across the world.

“Out of the country, more’s the pity. Something has popped up. Something sensitive. I want you to look into it for me.”

Kane laughed mirthlessly. “My days in MI6 are long gone. You’ve agents in the field. Use one of them.”

“You owe me one, Jack. You should have known I would call in the favour. I bailed your friend Craven and your daughter out of MI5 custody last year. Remember?”

“I haven’t forgotten. Just didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

“Needs must. Is this line secure?”

“It’s secure. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have answered.” Kane watched Kim jumping about in the pool. Danny had been successfully lured outside with the promise of a burger, and whilst he waited, he threw a football for his sister to dive for and catch in the water. The two of them attended a boarding school in Seville, and tomorrow they would return to their dormitories for the term. Kane hated not being around for them but knew he was a magnet for trouble. He had once lived for a few years in witness protection, but trouble had found him in the end and plunged his family’s lives into danger. Danny and Kim were better off living at school. These fleeting visits were precious. As much as Kane wanted to spend every waking moment with his children, he hated the thought of them being in danger, which is exactly what had happened last year. Kane owed Stead an immeasurable favour, and if that favour took him away from Seville, all the better for his family.

“What’s the problem?”

“The Russians are causing friction again. Not the government, the private military forces they seem so intent on lying in bed with. Their interests have grown, reaching far beyond mercenary activities in Russia, Asia, the Middle East, and Africa. They have business interests now. Crawling across the world like a spider.”

“There isn’t much I can do about that, Stead.”

“They’ve made considerable investments in mining companies. Specifically, companies mining lithium. We believe that they own a majority share in a company mining lithium off Cornwall’s coast.”

“What are they doing in Cornwall? How did the British Government let that happen?”

“Bureaucrats agreed on the contracts without our knowledge. Lithium is a key component in batteries, especially for electric vehicles and renewable energy storage. It’s the backbone of the modern tech-driven economy. As you know, these private armies are essentially Russia’s way of interacting with the outside world without using its own governmental departments. If they want to help the fight in Syria, they don’t send the Russian army, they send a private one. If they want to destabilise a government in Africa, they send their private army. If they want to invest in a company, they use a non-military sub-division.”

“Why does Russia care about lithium so much?”

“Russia and China are aggressively pursuing lithium because they see it as a strategic asset. Whoever controls the lithium supply chains will hold significant power in the global economy, especially as the world shifts away from fossil fuels. Russia’s involvement is concerning, which is why we’ve been watching them. Our sources suggest their interest is more than just economic, it’s strategic. They want to position themselves as leaders in the green energy revolution, and controlling a lithium source in the UK gives them leverage. Our agents have linked the lithium strategy to the Alliance, the group you are all too familiar with from your last jaunt in London.”

“Jaunt? They nearly brought the European banking system to its knees!”

“I am well aware. As you know, the Alliance is a coalition of secret service agencies from Russia, North Korea, Iran, Al-Qaeda, and China. Russia’s privately-owned military is now performing mercenary deployments for those nations. Making both them and the Alliance stronger than ever.”

“And what about China? Where do they fit into this picture?”

“China has been stockpiling lithium for years. They’re investing heavily in battery technology, AI, and electric vehicles. Both Russia and China are part of BRICS—Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa—a bloc that’s increasingly challenging Western economic dominance.”

“But how does that tie into this lithium power play?”

“BRICS nations are working on developing a global reserve fund to rival the American dollar. By monopolising resources like lithium, they aim to strengthen their economic influence and reduce dependence on the West. It's about reshaping the global financial landscape. If BRICS creates this new reserve fund, the economic implications could be massive. It could undermine the dollar and shift global trade dynamics significantly. Russia and China are playing the long game, and we need to be ready.”

“So, it’s not just about mining a metal; it’s about shifting global power?”

“Precisely. That's why we wanted to keep an eye on this operation. If Russia and the Alliance gain too much control, it could tip the scales in their favour. We can't let that happen.”

“I’ve enjoyed the politics lesson, Stead. But where do I come into all of this?”

“We had a man inside the Cornish mining company. Its director of security. Ray Brogan. Someone killed him yesterday while he was fly-fishing in Ireland. Brogan called us right at the moment of his death. The information he supplied kept us informed of what the owners of the mine were up to. I need you to find out who killed him and follow the trail of breadcrumbs. We must understand how the profits from lithium mining fund the Alliance’s goals. It can’t be a simple financial transaction, as the mine’s tech customers and investors wouldn’t allow it if it were common knowledge. The woke world does not lean well into private armies and military atrocities.”

“Sounds like a standard job for one of your agents. Seems pretty obvious the Russians knocked your man off. Why do you need me for this?”

“I can’t put an MI6 agent on this without agency sign-off. I can’t get sign-off without proving what the Alliance is up to. It’s too vague at the moment. My world has changed, Jack. We used to have our own budgets, agents, licence to do what must be done to protect national security. Now I have to get a committee to sign-off a new fucking pen. I need you to find out who killed Ray Brogan and find a link to the mine’s owners. Off the books. I need evidence. A solid chain I can present to my higher-ups so I can get some proper resources on this. I don’t need to explain to you how replacing the dollar as the world’s reserve currency will affect our American friends and the British people. World power shifting to the Alliance and to BRICS presents a significant risk to the national security of Britain.”

“So you want me to find out who killed Ray Brogan and establish a link to the Alliance?”

“Exactly.”

“If I do it, UK law enforcement will wipe my slate clean? Including MI6 and MI5?”

“Clean as a whistle.”

“You lot have promised it before, but this time I want it documented. Official. I want my kids to go to university in the UK if they wish. I want them to live free, to have lives without the stain of what I’ve done. For Craven as well. I want him to be able to live in the UK in peace, without MI5 or MI6 breathing down his neck.”

“Agreed. Do this for me, Jack, and I’ll even help you get Craven set up with a new identity in whichever location in Britain he chooses.”

“I’ll need a number to contact you on. I’ll go to Ireland first, and then I’ll take a look at the lithium mine. When I get into the UK, I’ll need weapons and gear. Usual stuff for this type of operation. Presumably, if the mining company and its backers are willing to kill Ray Brogan, then there’s likely to be trouble.”

“Done.”

Five

Craven touched his passport to the pad beside the automatic customs gate at Dublin airport. He made sure both feet stood on the yellow foot-shaped marks beneath him and stared into the camera. The machine beeped and a red cross illuminated on the display. Craven removed his passport and placed it down again.

The red cross glowed again, and a man behind Craven sighed. Craven took a deep breath, removed his passport, and tried it again. Kane passed through the passport control machine without issue and waited for him on the other side, dressed in a smart suit as always, and with a brown leather luggage bag over one shoulder. Craven tried his passport again, but the machine beeped and the red cross flashed its warning once more. People swarmed around the machines and queued in dense packs at the kiosks where an actual customs officer waited to check passengers’ documents.

The man behind Craven tutted. Heat travelled up Craven’s neck to turn his face crimson. He closed his eyes for a second to master his temper and tried the passport again. He glanced at Kane and raised his eyebrow. The obvious risk was that the false passport Craven used to enter Ireland had failed to pass the electronic scan. The last thing Craven needed was to be detained by the Irish police for using a false passport. He checked his feet, looked straight into the camera, and waited. The infernal red cross lit up, accompanied by a loud beep.

“For God’s sake,” bleated the impatient man behind him in an English accent.

Craven turned and fixed him with one of his old detective stares. The sort of look he might give a drug dealer intent on answering no comment in an interview room, despite being caught red-handed with enough class A to get the population of Liverpool high for a month. “Calm down, mate,” Craven said. Telling an agitated person to calm down is a surefire way to annoy them even further, to push them over the edge of mild annoyance into outright rage.

“Calm down? Some of us have places to be. Hurry up or get out of the way.” The man wore a crumpled black suit and horn-rimmed glasses. Craven was a head taller than him and broader across the shoulder.

“Your fly is undone.”

The annoyed businessman flushed red and hurriedly checked the zip on his trousers. Craven sniggered when the man realised his fly was fine, and his face turned from annoyed scarlet to furious puce.

“Can I help you, sir?” said an Irish man in a yellow high-vis vest.

“I’m having a few problems with my passport,” said Craven.

“Here, let me try.” The Irish man smiled, took Craven’s passport and placed it carefully in the machine.

The machine shone a green tick, and the barrier clunked open to allow Craven to pass through. “Thanks,” he said.

“No problem,” the Irish man checked Craven’s passport, “Mr Clutterbuck. A grand name, altogether.”

Craven grinned and passed through the barrier, paused and gave the annoyed businessman a wink.

“You took your time,” said Kane as they fell into stride together, marching through the corridor towards Dublin airport’s baggage collection carousels.

“Maybe if you stopped giving me passports with ridiculous names, it might be quicker.”

“What’s wrong with that one?”

“Aubrey Clutterbuck?”

“A fine name. It suits you.”

“Which former Liverpool player are you this time?”

“Neil Ruddock. One hundred and fifteen appearances, eleven goals.”

“Next time, you get the daft name. Why are we using fake IDs when MI6 put us on this job?”

“We are working off the books. If we travel as Jack Kane and Frank Craven, our passports will light up Interpol’s and other agency dashboards like a Christmas tree. Don’t forget how many incidents we’ve been involved in over the last few years.”

“Incidents? Don’t you mean gunfights, explosions, kidnappings, helicopter attacks, and at least half a dozen near-death experiences?”

Kane smiled and shook his head. “Wait for me in the arrivals lobby. I’m going to hire a car.”

Craven gave him a mock salute and headed past the luggage carousels and into the arrivals lobby. Kane would need to queue, fill out the forms, and wait for the hire car they would use to make the four-hour drive from Dublin to County Kerry. Craven grinned as he found a bar twenty paces from the arrivals’ doors.

“A pint of Guinness, please,” he said to the tall, pleasant-faced woman behind the bar.

She poured the pint, let it settle and then topped up its black creaminess with a white head. Craven sat down and took a long gulp, making sure his first drink split the letter G of Guinness embossed on the pint glass. Craven smacked his lips and examined his success. A couple of pints whilst he waited for Kane and the car would do just nicely.

Six

It was dark when Kane and Craven reached Ray Brogan’s rental cottage beside the River Laune. Stead had sent the address GPS co-ordinates to Kane’s burner phone, along with a secure contact number and an address in Cornwall where Kane could pick up some weapons and equipment.

Kane parked the BMW 3 series in the driveway and stepped out onto the shale pathway. Tiny stones crunched beneath his shoes, and he clicked on the torch function on his phone to light up the front door.

“No streetlights in the countryside,” said Craven as he eased himself out of the passenger door. He placed his hands on his hips and groaned, stretched his back, and stared up into the clear night sky. Thousands of stars twinkled about a crescent moon. “Everything seems purer in Ireland. Less damaged by cities and people.”

“Put your phone torch on, too,” Kane replied, resting his phone on the ground, angling the torch beam up at the front door. “Shine it on the lock whilst I pick it.” Craven yawned and pulled his phone from the pocket of his chinos. He had slept for an hour and a half of the journey southwest from Dublin, snoring so loudly that Kane had turned off the radio to save his ears from the trouble of trying to listen over Craven’s honking.

Craven popped the light on his phone and shone it on the green-painted composite door. Ivy sprawled around the doorframe and up the cottage’s stone façade, weathered by time so that it blended in with the trees and traditional Irish country landscape. Modern plastic and composite-type doors came with complex locking devices, where even locksmiths struggled to open them for locked-out homeowners. Kane took a sleek black device from his suit jacket pocket. The device, known as the “KeyWave” resembled a miniature smartphone. Its screen glowed faintly, and Kane knelt in front of the door. He had picked up the device online before their last job in Dubai. It used electromagnetic pulses and advanced algorithms to decode and manipulate the internal mechanics of modern locks. A far cry from the hairpins and knife blades Kane had used to pick locks in the past.

Kane moved the device towards the door and its interface lit up with a digital schematic of the lock’s inner workings. Gently attaching a retractable probe to the lock, the device let out a series of subtle, rhythmic pulses. The device’s algorithms quickly assessed the lock’s configuration, and within moments, it calculated the precise sequence needed to disengage the lock. With a quiet click, the latch released, and the door creaked open. Kane pocketed the device and slipped through the door and into the entrance hall.

He used his torch to stalk carefully around the cottage, making sure the place was safe before beginning his search for any clues Ray Brogan may have left behind. Large windows offered what would be panoramic views of the gentle river during the daytime. A large sitting room with old-fashioned cosy sofas and a selection of multi-coloured cushions arrayed around a large fireplace. Wooden beams stretched from the sitting room into an open-plan kitchen and dining room, where a small patio overlooked the river.

“What are we looking for?” Craven whispered.

“Anything,” Kane replied. “Check his clothes, bags, and pockets. We want anything linking Brogan to his job at the mine, anything we might use. I’ll take the bedroom and lounge. You start in the kitchen.” Craven nodded and padded off, quietly.

Kane turned his attention to the sitting room first. Sweeping windows offered what would be panoramic views of the gentle river during the daytime. Old-fashioned cosy sofas scattered with colourful cushions were grouped around a wide and welcoming fireplace, and wooden beams stretched from the room into the open-plan kitchen and dining room, where a dainty patio overlooked the river.

Kane moved to the bedroom and methodically checked through Brogan’s clothes. Inside a crumpled suit jacket, he found a keycard with a close-up picture of Ray Brogan’s face above the words Merlin Mining Plc.

“Look at this,” said Craven, stepping into the bedroom holding a smartphone in his hand and sporting a wide grin. “Found it hidden in the bottom of a biscuit barrel in the kitchen cupboards.”

“Are you sure you weren’t just hunting for a custard cream?”

“What if I was? I prefer to think of it as using my initiative.”

Kane smiled and stepped forward to examine the smartphone, taking it from Craven. “Good work, Frank. Whoever killed Brogan obviously didn’t bother to check this place, and the Gardai haven’t done a thorough search either.”

“Which means it was a pure kill job,” Craven agreed. “They weren’t looking for any information. The coppers have seen that this place hasn’t been ransacked so they haven’t bothered with a deep search. They probably think it’s an open and shut case, a professional job, meaning they’re unlikely to find the culprit.”

Kane nodded, slipping the phone into his pocket. “The killer, or those who ordered his death, knew Brogan was a spy and just wanted him gone. Whatever information he had extracted from the company obviously wasn’t frightening them too much.”

“Or they didn’t care.”

“With the keycard and the phone, we’ve enough to go on. Time to pay a visit to Merlin Mining in Cornwall.”

“I checked online whilst you were driving. Brogan’s funeral is tomorrow in Dublin.”

“And here was I thinking you snoozed all the way to Kerry.”

“I was thinking. Quiet contemplation. You should try it sometime,” Craven said, heading back into the kitchen for the biscuit barrel. 

Seven

Craven stifled a belch as his full Irish breakfast repeated on him. They had stayed at an Ibis hotel just outside Tralee in Kerry and woke early to make the long drive back to Dublin. The hotel breakfast began at 6.30am which was just enough time for him to eat a fry-up, two croissants, a banana, a bowl of muesli and drink three cups of coffee. Kane had eaten some fruit and drank a cup of tea.

They parked the hired BMW outside St Joseph’s church in Clondalkin village, Dublin and watched as a trickle of people waited for the church to open its doors. Craven had found the funeral details on RIP.ie, a website listing details of Irish funerals.

“They bury people quickly here,” remarked Craven. “In the UK it wouldn’t happen for weeks.”

“Lucky us, then,” said Kane. He was busy connecting a cable to the Apple laptop he had brought over from Spain to the smartphone from Ray Brogan’s holiday cottage.

“Not so lucky for Ray Brogan. He’s dead, remember? What are you doing?”

“I know he’s dead. But he knew the risks when he became a spy for MI6. I’m sending a dump of the phone’s data to Danny. Maybe he can find something useful in Brogan’s emails and texts? Let’s see.”

“It looks like the service is about to start. What are we looking for here, again?” Kane knew this already, but Craven was distracted, still digesting his gargantuan breakfast.

“For anyone suspicious. Anything which doesn’t belong.”

“Do you think Merlin will have sent someone here?”

Kane shrugged. “Maybe. Just to make sure the job’s done.”

They left the BMW and hurried across the car park to the church, its grey stone walls peppered and marked by the wear of countless harsh Irish seasons. It was a simple church with a modest, unassuming steeple reaching up towards an overcast sky. A narrow path lined with gnarled yew trees led to the entrance with dark green foliage offering a sombre welcome to passers-by.

Craven stepped into the dimly lit church, its air filled with the faint scent of incense mingling with the musty aroma of old wood and stone. Flickering candles cast a warm glow over the worn pews and an altar adorned with white lilies. Stained glass windows depicted scenes of saints and angels, their colours muted by the grey light filtering through.

“Not many people here,” Craven whispered, leaning towards Kane.

“Must have been a solitary man,” Kane replied.

A woman with auburn hair sat in the front pew clutching a handkerchief, her eyes reddened from tears. Two men in cheap suits sat quietly behind her, their expressions mournful. An old woman sat alone on the opposite side of the pews, her lined face serious and a scarf gathered close about her neck.

Craven and Kane sat at the back of the church as an ancient priest shuffled out to the altar, welcomed the few people present, and introduced himself as Father O’Malley. He began the service in a gentle but firm voice, his white robes unadorned and clean. He spoke of Ray Brogan’s life growing up in Clondalkin, acknowledging his gift for sports as a younger man and kindly commenting that Ray’s departure for England at a young age reflected the low turnout at his funeral. The priest offered solace to the grieving few and reminded them of the comfort of faith. Craven shifted uncomfortably as he listened, reminded of Barb’s funeral and the deep well of sorrow which still ate away at him every day.

As the final hymn was sung, the church bell tolled gently, and the pallbearers in black suits carried out the coffin. A figure entered the church to watch the coffin’s exit, and Kane nudged Craven in the ribs to make sure he saw the new arrival. The man left, following the coffin out of the church, and Kane sprang to his feet. Outside, rain drizzled in sweeping sheets and Craven hurried to keep up with Kane’s long strides.

Eight

Kane followed the tall man in the navy suit towards the church car park. The man took a phone from his jacket pocket, made a quick call and opened the door to a white Mercedes E-Class.

“Keep up, Frank,” Kane said over his shoulder, hurrying to the BMW.

Kane started the car the moment Craven slumped into the passenger seat.

“Bloody hell!” Craven cursed as the car lurched forward.

“I don’t want to lose him in Dublin traffic.”

“How do you know he isn’t just one of Ray Brogan’s relatives come to pay his respects?”

“I just know. He’s from Merlin Mining, or some other organisation with an interest in the company. He came to make sure Brogan was dead and buried. There’ll be a police investigation into the murder, and those responsible will hang around to make sure the investigation doesn’t turn over too many stones, or that an overzealous detective doesn’t put two and two together.”

“Are you implying that they would bribe the police?”

Kane cocked an eyebrow. “It has been known to happen, Frank.”

“Not to me, it didn’t.”

Kane shook his head and followed the Mercedes through Clondalkin village and right through a crossroads. He had to keep one car behind the Mercedes to avoid losing his target at a red light and just make it through on amber to head towards Dublin city centre on a dual carriageway. The Luas, Dublin’s tram system, rattled alongside the road and Kane drove carefully, keeping close enough not to lose his target through the endless sets of traffic lights, but far enough away to avoid being noticed.

The Mercedes followed the Luas lines along the Dublin canal until it reached the outskirts of the inner city and turned into the car park of the Hilton Hotel on Charlemont Place. Kane turned the BMW to park on the street outside the hotel.

“Wait here, Frank,” he said and opened the driver’s door.

“You might need me inside?”

“Stay. In case we need a quick getaway.”

Kane leapt out of the car before Craven had time to object. He jogged towards the hotel, up the steps, and into the lobby. He took a seat on a deep yellow chair facing the check-in desks and waited, gambling that Mercedes man could not have parked his car and taken the elevator or stairs to the lobby in the time it had taken for Kane to enter the hotel.

Moments later, a door swung open beside the elevators, and Mercedes man entered the lobby. He wore a tailored suit and was taller than Kane. Kane noted his muscular physique and guessed the man was in his early thirties. He had short, blonde hair and blue eyes. The man strolled to reception, asked the receptionist a question, and beamed a broad grin at her response. Kane stood and made sure to walk in front of the man as he made for the elevators. If he followed his target into the elevator, the man would wait for Kane to press the button for his hotel room floor, so Kane had to slip into the elevator first and wait for his target to make the floor selection.

The lift opened and a husband and wife stepped out, a folded map of Dublin city held before them as they argued in Italian about which sight to visit first. Kane stepped inside and the man followed him in. The doors slid closed, and the target pressed the button for the seventh floor. He whistled a cheerful tune as the lift hummed through its shaft without looking back at Kane, who rested nonchalantly against the elevator’s mirrored back. The elevator juddered to a halt at the seventh floor and Mercedes man stepped out. Kane followed and paused, letting the target get five paces ahead of him on the plush corridor carpet.

Kane waited until the elevator doors closed and followed his target at a stroll. The man stopped and fished his room card from his trouser pocket. He pressed the card to the door handle to release its locking mechanism, opened the door and grunted as Kane appeared, driving his shoulder into his target to send him tumbling into his hotel room.

Nine

The target scrambled to his feet, eyes wide and teeth bared in an animal snarl. Kane drove the flat of his hand into the man’s throat. He choked and stumbled. Kane kicked him hard in the groin, and the man roared with rage. He doubled over in pain and charged headfirst towards Kane’s midriff. Kane brought up his knee, but Mercedes man blocked the strike with both hands and drove a punch into Kane’s stomach. Kane staggered, as a punch flew towards his face and he leant away from the blow. His target’s arm flew wide and Kane let the man’s momentum tip him off balance before he grabbed a fistful of short, wiry hair and drove the man’s face into the hotel room wall.

Mercedes man’s nose left a smear of bright blood on the wall as he twisted his head out of Kane’s grip and crashed an elbow into Kane’s chest to push him away.

“Bastard,” the man spat, his teeth caked in his own blood. He spoke in an accent hard to pick up from one word, but it was certainly not English or Irish.

Mercedes man aimed a kick at Kane’s groin and Kane blocked it with his forearm. A flurry of punches followed, which Kane bobbed and feinted away from. The man was a skilled fighter, strong and used to combat. He was no local relative paying his respects at Ray Brogan’s funeral. The man grabbed Kane’s jacket in two hands and tried to use his greater size and strength to drag Kane into a headbutt, but Kane dipped his chin to his chest so that his enemy butted the rock-hard part of his forehead. He staggered and Kane stamped down hard on his foot, drove the knuckle of his middle finger between the man’s arms and into his throat.

Kane’s target twisted away, and Kane thrust his hip into the man and tossed him over his leg. Mercedes man flew over the hotel bed and crashed face first into the TV set on the room’s desk. He slumped to the floor.

“Do you work for Merlin Mining?” Kane demanded, judging that his opponent had taken enough of a beating.

“Fuck you,” he replied, voice thickened by the blood in his mouth.

“What were you doing at Ray Brogan’s funeral?”

Mercedes man twisted suddenly, reaching up to snatch a drinking glass from the desk. He smashed the glass on the desk’s corner and jabbed the jagged shard in his hand at Kane’s legs. Kane leapt backwards as his adversary rose quickly, a look of triumph in his blazing eyes. He brandished the broken glass before him, and by the look on his lean face, Kane knew the man wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. The broken glass lunged forward and Kane darted away. It snaked out towards his throat and Kane deflected the strike with his forearm. He stepped in and crashed a savage headbutt into Mercedes man’s nose, feeling gristle crunch beneath his forehead.

Kane grabbed the hand holding the glass and twisted it until he felt bones break. The man screamed in agony and drove his entire body at Kane, fighting for his life, thrusting Kane off his feet to crash onto the hotel room carpet. The two men fell hard, clawing and punching at one another, but Mercedes man rotated his bulk until he was on top of Kane.

A beefy hand closed around Kane’s throat, squeezing with terrible force until Kane couldn’t breathe and the pain in his Adam’s apple felt like his larynx was being crushed. He shuddered, tried to shake off Mercedes man, but he had his knees hooked into Kane’s body. Kane scrambled about him, unable to breathe, realising he had mere moments before he passed out and died. His hand closed around something small and sharp. A shard of the broken glass. Kane grabbed it and drove the shard into Mercedes man’s ribs in a dozen quick stabs. Hot blood seeped from the wounds and Kane’s enemy released his grip on his throat just long enough for Kane to punch the shard three times into Mercedes man’s throat.

Mercedes man slumped off Kane’s body and writhed on the carpet, hands clutching at his throat, trying to stop his lifeblood from pumping out to stain the carpet black. Kane stood and staggered away from the dying man. He sagged against the desk to catch his breath and cursed. The man was dead. No chance now to ask any questions.

Kane searched the room quickly, aware that the noise of the fight would have attracted attention and complaints from other guests. Kane threw a small suitcase onto the bed and rifled through shirts, underwear, and a spare suit. The man travelled light, probably only in Dublin for one night. He found a passport tucked into the lining. Paul Baines. A UK resident, which surprised Kane. He found the dead man’s phone on the floor and held it to the man’s face. The phone unlocked and Kane went into its settings and removed its locking function. He checked open links and found a plane ticket from Newquay airport flying to Dublin.

Kane checked the dead man’s clothing and pockets but found no business cards or anything to link him to Merlin Mining. He took the phone and swiftly left the room, gaining no intelligence from his target and with another device for his son Danny to examine. Kane walked calmly out of the hotel towards the BMW. Merlin Mining was certainly behind Ray Brogan’s death, but why and what they were hiding was yet to reveal itself.

Ten

The dim glow of the monitor cast eerie shadows across the sparsely furnished room. The air was thick with the scent of gun oil and the soft hum of a ceiling fan. Jesus Alvarez leaned back in his chair, his chestnut eyes scanning the encrypted message on the screen. A single word stood out. England.

Alvarez lived a life alone, tucked away in a remote cabin in the rugged wilderness of Montana. The cabin, nestled amidst towering pines and snow-capped mountains, was a fortress of solitude, a place where he could plan his missions with meticulous detail. This was his sanctuary, a far cry from the chaos of his past.

Born and raised in the rough neighbourhoods of Chicago, Alvarez’s early life was a relentless battle for survival. The streets taught him how to fight, how to adapt, and, most importantly, how to disappear. He carried those hard lessons into adulthood, enlisting in the army straight out of high school. It was either that or gang life. The streets gave up no luck or opportunities for the son of immigrants.

Alvarez had struggled at first in the army, the discipline and regimented life a shock for a boy from a broken home and a father who worked long hours. Alvarez had spent most of his childhood at home, living as a latchkey kid. Making his own food, washing his own clothes, fending for himself. But he had soon adapted and found comfortable solace in the barracks, the chow hall, the clean boots and polished buckles. His exceptional skills, skills Alvarez never knew he possessed, soon caught the attention of the Special Forces. Selection beckoned, and Alvarez realised he had extraordinary levels of physical endurance and mental toughness. He breezed through the impossibly hard selection process and was trained in unconventional warfare, reconnaissance, and survival tactics.

After a decade spent as a Delta operator, including several tours in conflict zones around the world, Alvarez left the military. Men he had served with took lucrative private security contracts in the Middle East, but Alvarez was tired of the heat, the sand, of fighting an enemy who sent women and children into battle, where it was impossible to tell an enemy from a civilian.

The transition to civilian life was anything but smooth. Haunted by the ghosts of past missions, Alvarez drifted, taking jobs at gas stations and late-night convenience stores until a shadowy figure offering a lucrative career as a mercenary assassin approached him. The recruiter knew Alvarez’s background, promised high stakes and huge money. It was a way for Alvarez to find validation, to use his skills and find a place in the world. To be financially comfortable in a world without opportunities for men like him. The lure of action and international intrigue proved impossible to refuse, and Jesus Alvarez entered the world of clandestine contract killing.

The job in England wasn’t his first rodeo. The contract came anonymously, as they always did. Arriving through an encrypted network on the dark web used by contractors and clients alike – a digital bazaar for illicit services, bustling with offers for those with a particular set of skills. The brief was precise. Eliminate the CEO of a mining company. No name, no motive, just a hefty sum wired to his secure account upon completion.

Alvarez knew the logistics of the operation would be complex. Getting weapons into the UK meant circumventing stringent security measures. He had worked in the EU before and could reactivate existing contacts and make the logistics work. Contacts in Eastern Europe would supply him with what he needed once he was on the ground. It was a network built on trust and mutual interests, cultivated over years and bound by the code of their profession.

Preparations began immediately. Alvarez’s passport, one of several identities he maintained, was under the name of a nondescript Uruguayan businessman. He booked a flight to London with a layover in Frankfurt, where he would pick up a new identity from another operative contact. This man, a master of disguise, would ensure that Alvarez’s entry into the UK was seamless, avoiding the scrutiny that often accompanied international travel for someone in his line of work.

His flight to Frankfurt was uneventful, a mundane journey masking the complexity of the mission ahead. Upon landing, Alvarez made his way through the bustling airport, blending in with the sea of travellers. He met his contact in a secluded corner of the airport.

The swift exchange took less than five seconds. Alvarez had already wired the funds to his contact. The man waited, seated on a trio of blue plastic seats beside a tucked away coffee shop. As Alvarez approached, the contact checked his watch, rose and left a folded newspaper upon his seat. Alvarez strolled to the chair, picked up the newspaper, and continued on his way. Inside was a new passport, driving licence, and matching boarding pass for the next leg of his journey.

Alvarez used his clean identity to board a plane to London. He kept a low profile, appearing every bit the weary business traveller on a routine trip. His demeanour was calm, his mind focused on the task ahead. The plane descended into the iron-grey skies over London Heathrow airport, the sprawling urban jungle of England’s capital city appearing from beneath the clouds.

Upon arrival, Alvarez moved through customs with practised ease, his new identity holding up without attracting attention. He left the airport, melting into the throng of people. He was a ghost, unseen and unremarkable, just another face in the crowd. Alvarez followed a meticulously planned route to a safe house on the outskirts of London. He took the Tube to an apartment in a quiet neighbourhood, chosen for its anonymity and strategic advantages. The apartment had minimal furnishings, but it was secure. He could lie low there, gathering intelligence and preparing for the task at hand before making the journey west to Cornwall.

Inside, his unknown employer had left a packet of information. Alvarez placed his suitcase on the bed and flicked through the file, which included pictures of the target and an itinerary of her movements. That afternoon, he checked in with Eastern European contacts, a group known for their discretion and efficiency. The arrangement was simple, a drop-off in a secluded location, the weapons concealed and ready for collection. He waited for darkness, took the Tube to a north London suburb and navigated the labyrinthine alleyways to a secluded lock-up. He moved through the streets of London with the stealth of a predator, eyes sharp and mind alert.

The location was perfect, isolated, and devoid of prying eyes. Inside, a cache awaited him, carefully arranged and meticulously concealed. Each piece of the arsenal was familiar and made to his specifications. Alvarez closed the metal shutter and switched on the lock-up’s only light, a solitary bulb hanging from the ceiling. He found a set of car keys for a Land Rover Discovery jeep parked outside, and a black bag. He opened the holdall and lifted a sniper rifle. A modified Remington 700 equipped with a state-of-the-art Nightforce ATACR scope. The barrel was free-floated to increase accuracy; the trigger had been adjusted for a lighter pull, which gave him quicker and more precise shots.

He checked the loading mechanism and scope and placed the rifle back inside the holdall. He took out a Glock 19 pistol fitted with a suppressor, which he screwed off the barrel and placed both back into the bag. Alvarez preferred subsonic 9mm ammunition. It minimised noise without sacrificing stopping power, ideal for urban engagements where discretion and Alvarez’s ability to avoid detection were paramount. For close-quarters combat, his contact had included a Ka-Bar TDI knife with a tanto blade, razor sharp, designed for quick lethal strikes. He made deft cuts, relaxing into the fighting stance familiar from his Delta training.

Alvarez was ready. Somewhere in Cornwall, where the wild Atlantic crashed against dark crags, the CEO of Merlin Mining lived her last days, oblivious to the hunter set to take her life.

Eleven

Craven stepped out of the Volvo rental car, stretched his back, and sucked in a chestful of sea air.

“Nice and fresh down here, Jack,” he said, and clapped Jack Kane on the back.

He stared around at the quaint coastal town of Korrin Haven, nestled amongst the rugged cliffs of Cornwall.

“It’s like going back in time,” Kane replied.

The vista of narrow streets winding around a sloping hillside, cobblestoned lanes and whitewashed cottages, along with the scent of saltwater and caw of distant seagulls, made Craven suddenly ravenous for a bag of fish and chips. Korrin Haven was a quintessential Cornish village, its charm framed by the surrounding landscape’s wild beauty. The town’s heart was a small, bustling harbour where coloured fishing boats bobbed gently on the tide. Lanes wound their way up from the water’s edge, flanked by the stone facades of old buildings, some of which had stood for over a century.

“Each building tells a story. Look at the weathered old pub there. Low beams, crackling hearth. I’m dying for a pint. That bakery over the road. I can smell the bloody Cornish pasties from here.”

“We aren’t on holiday, Frank.”

“More’s the pity. Come on, the place I’ve booked is up this road.” Craven had booked a bed-and-breakfast room for them to stay in during their visit. It wasn’t the Hilton Hotel or a cosy holiday cottage, but it would have to do.

They had to park the car in a municipal car park on the edge of town, its snarl of paths and lanes too small for any vehicle to park unless it was on a house’s driveway. Craven set off at a slow walk until he reached the bakery.

“Sorry. I can’t resist.” Without asking for permission, Craven ducked inside the bakery to buy a Cornish pasty. “Do you want one?”

“No, thanks.” Kane shook his head. The look on his face told Craven in no uncertain terms that they had more important things to do.

Craven bought his pasty and took a bite of the delicious pastry and the steaming meat and potato filling. “Where’s the mine?” he asked through a piping hot mouthful.

Kane pointed over the lip of the city, past the shop signs swaying in the breeze. “Out to the northeast.” Craven squinted beyond the town to where the distant silhouette of the mine rose alongside the rolling hills. “It’s in the remnants of a much older open-cast clay mine. The offices are just outside the mine itself. Once we get settled, I want to take a look at them.”

“Not another break-in?” groaned Craven, stuffing the last corner of his pasty into his mouth.

“We have Brogan’s keycard. If it still works.”

Craven frowned, in no mood to remind Kane that his plan sounded too good to be true. They made the short walk to the Smuggler’s Rest, a cosy bed-and-breakfast overlooking the bay. Craven stopped outside and put a hand on the door.

“Are you kidding?” asked Kane.

“What? It’s summer. Cornwall is busy. You were driving, and this was the only place I could find within thirty minutes of the mine. It’s got a bed. That will do.”

Kane sighed and followed Craven into a picturesque room with nautical décor and antique furniture. An elderly lady with purple-washed hair led them up to their adjoining single rooms and Craven belly laughed when he saw the pink frilly bedsheets in Kane’s room.

“Hilarious,” Kane mumbled. “Get some rest. Tonight, we go to the offices.”

Twelve

Alvarez drove the black Land Rover from London to Cornwall, enjoying England’s famously green countryside as he cruised along motorways and zipped around country roads. He checked into a holiday lodge twenty minutes from his target location and began his preparations.

Each day was a cycle of observation and analysis, his focus unwavering as he assimilated the routine of the country town and the habits of his target. He spent hours rehearsing the plan. His mind was a fortress of strategies and contingencies, each scenario played out in his head with the clarity of a well-choreographed dance. It was not simply a matter of pulling the trigger. He needed to ensure both the target’s elimination and his own clean escape. Any CCTV, home security cameras or even a nosy passer-by with a smartphone could blow his cover and implicate Alvarez in the murder. He had to get out of England without a photo-fit of his face waiting at every airport terminal.

The CEO of Merlin Mining was a creature of habit. Her movements predictable, her security detail competent but not infallible. His employer’s information packet contained useful insights, detailing potential vulnerabilities and suggesting optimal times for an approach. Their knowledge of surveillance and counter-surveillance tactics proved invaluable, allowing Alvarez to hone his plan to perfection.

As days turned into nights, Alvarez moved with the rhythm of the quiet seaside town where the CEO’s hilltop house looked out upon a surging grey-green sea. He dressed in a raincoat and hat, carried a map and took lots of pictures, every inch the South American tourist. Alvarez went to cafés, drank cups of tea and ate Cornish scones with cream and jam. He was patient, waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect weather, the opportune time to strike. The mission was, as always, a complex puzzle, and each piece was falling into place.

Alvarez spent the evenings alone, no television, no radio, no smartphone. He used the time to run through the various aspects of the mission. As he sat amongst the old-fashioned wallpaper and twenty-year-old sofa, intrusive thoughts spoiled his focus, sneaking in and eating at Alvarez’s brain like a virus. The journey to England had been smooth, each step executed with the precision of a well-oiled machine. His employer’s anonymity nagged at Alvarez’s soldier’s conscience. The shadowy figures that hired him were as elusive as he was, their motives as hidden as their identities.

The CEO seemed like a normal woman, middle-aged, good looking. She lived alone in her vast coastal home. Alvarez had watched her for hours through his scope. She trained ferociously every evening in her well-equipped home gym and then relaxed with a glass of red wine in the sitting room. A six-man security detail patrolled the house’s grounds and followed her to the office each day. That was strange. There weren’t many CEOs in the world requiring that sort of protection, and Alvarez wondered why lithium mining was so dangerous.

As a soldier, Alvarez had never questioned orders, never wondered if the enemy the US Government sent him to kill were wicked men. He went where he was told and shot the men his superiors ordered him to kill. Only in his later days in the army had he questioned if he was, in fact, on the right side of the wars he fought in. The US army withdrawal from Afghanistan haunted Alvarez; he witnessed mothers desperately trying to pass their children over barbed wire, and the children’s screams of horror seared themselves into his memory.

In the darkness of his coastal cottage, Alvarez remembered vividly the day he had decided to leave the army. He had been resting in barracks between operations, watching a black and white World War Two movie. Two Nazi officers talked, dressed in their neat grey uniforms and long black leather coats. Alvarez had wondered if those men had known during the war that they were the bad guys. He wondered if they had known what their government was doing, if they were aware of the concentration camps and mass executions. Had those men just been following orders, had they felt at the time that they were the good guys?

Once that thought had kindled in his mind, it was the end of Alvarez and Delta. But those thoughts still crept in whenever he was alone at night. Was he a bad guy? The obvious answer was yes, but Alvarez’s experience taught him that one man’s bad guy was another man’s freedom fighter and who knew what sort of white-collar crimes this CEO had committed?

Alvarez launched into a routine of press-ups, squats, and sit-ups to break out of his dark thoughts. His focus had to be unwavering, his determination steely. A lucrative mission lay before him, a challenge that required every inch of his skill and cunning.

The days spent in Cornwall became a blur of strategic movements and silent observations. Every detail mattered. The time the CEO left her office, the route she took home, the security measures around her. Where he could take a safe shot from, a shot safe enough to allow for a safe getaway. Fortunately, the small town was surrounded by barren hills and sweeping moors, and with his range, Alvarez formed a plan around a hilltop shot. He scouted locations surrounded by long wild grass and briars, walked potential escape routes through undulating heather. He left no stone unturned, each aspect of the mission dissected and understood. The town became a map of opportunities and risks, each day bringing him closer to the moment of execution.

As the day of action approached, Alvarez considered again the broader nature of his work. The anonymity of his work, whilst advantageous, always left him in the dark about the true motivations behind the contract. Who wanted the CEO gone, and why? These questions lingered on at the back of his mind, a reminder of the murky world he inhabited.

The day before he would kill the CEO of Merlin Mining, Alvarez spent the afternoon carefully taking apart his rifle, cleaning its parts and reassembling it. He wanted no problems on the day. No surprises. The weapon had to be an extension of his own body. He was ready to work. Ready to kill. Ready to do what he did best.

Thirteen

The gleaming chrome clock on the wall of Kate Barrowhall’s office ticked softly, marking the end of another long day at Merlin Mining. A day made longer by the fallout of the murder of her director of security. Officers from An Garda Siochana, the Irish police, had questioned Kate for over an hour via a Zoom call, and she had fielded various pressing calls from investors concerned at the news. As CEO of the lithium mining company, she was accustomed to the relentless demands of her position, but even she appreciated the rare moments of solitude that came after the last employee left. Her office sat atop the company’s two-storey modern glass building.

Kate glanced in the mirror and ran a finger across the crow’s feet at the corner of her right eye. She was in her mid-forties with meticulously-styled long auburn hair framing piercing green eyes. Her angled face held a sharpness more than able to match the bravado of those who tried to challenge her in the male-oriented mining world. She wore a tailored suit and understated jewellery and did her best to maintain an impeccable appearance despite the long hours and immense pressure that came with the job.

Kate sipped at her last coffee of the day and scanned through a long list of emails. She red-flagged any of importance which she would reply to later that evening, and deleted anything into which she was copied than addressed. Nothing yet from Merlin’s major backer and majority shareholder. Which concerned her, because they weren’t exactly renowned for their patience and understanding.

Kate’s journey to the top of Merlin Mining was as impressive as it was unconventional. Born in a tiny village in the Yorkshire Dales, Kate’s early life was far removed from the world of corporate power. Her parents were teachers, instilling in her a love of learning. She excelled academically, earning a scholarship to Cambridge University, where she had studied geology. There, her strange passion for mining and resource management ignited.

After university, Kate had embarked on a career that would take her around the globe. She started in the rough terrains of South America, working her way up the ranks in various mining companies. Her exceptional negotiation skills and strategic vision quickly caught the attention of industry leaders. By her mid-thirties, industry leaders already saw her as a formidable force in mining.

Despite the day’s pressures, Kate stared out her glass window at the crashing ocean beyond Cornwall’s jagged cliffs and was glad she had moved back to the UK. Growing tired of constant travel, and after a messy break-up, she had left her globe-trotting role with an international mining company to take up an executive role with Merlin Mining. Joining a start-up mining company was a risk, especially in England, once a leading force in coal mining but now light years behind the international industry curve.

The opportunity to come home, and to take up a position in a British company mining lithium, was too attractive to refuse. Her ascent to the helm of Merlin Mining came after a series of bold decisions and strategic acquisitions. The board recognised her ability to navigate the complexities of the industry whilst maintaining a focus on sustainable practices and innovation. It was only after her promotion to CEO that Kate realised Merlin’s not-so-silent ownership partner. Even the thought of the shadowy figures who sometimes attended board meetings via video call sent a shiver across her shoulders.

Under her leadership, the company had expanded, winning new electric vehicle manufacturing partners across the globe, becoming a key player in the lithium mining sector. She drained the coffee cup and set it down on the see-through glass desk, the ceramic mug clinking against the tabletop. Her office reflected the duality of her personality. It was a space combining sleek modernity with personal touches. Pictures of Kate hanging off a mountain in Africa, jumping into a waterfall in Peru, diving off the coast of Madagascar. Abstract art adorned the walls, a nod to her appreciation of creativity and balance. To the right of the oceanic view, her window also looked out onto the extensive mining site, a constant reminder of the complex organisation she was responsible for.

A collection of meticulously organised papers and reports lay neatly on her desk. Next to them rested a leather-bound notebook filled with her handwritten notes and ideas. Her laptop hummed quietly, its screen occasionally flickering with notifications, even at this late hour. Kate tidied up her papers and her mind wandered again to Ray Brogan and the horrible way he had died. Kate smiled sadly. The Irish police had spoken of murder, of Ray being strangled in an Irish river.

Kate leaned back in her chair, allowing herself a moment of reflection. The success of Merlin Mining under her leadership was undeniable, yet it came with its share of challenges. As well as the looming presence of the company’s ownership, the industry was fraught with ethical dilemmas and environmental concerns, and decisions often required a delicate balance between profitability and responsibility. Kate prided herself on her ability to navigate these complexities with a firm yet fair hand. She had never had to deal with a murdered employee before. She suddenly felt a pang of deep sadness for Ray. He was unmarried, alone, diligent in his work, and a private man. She had respected him, and now he was dead. Kate knew very little about him, almost nothing about his personal life. That was a pity, and it set her off, building scenarios of his childhood and early life in her imagination. The desk phone buzzed quietly, breaking the silence, and snapped Kate from her thoughts. She sighed. They would call back. 

As she prepared to leave for the night, Kate glanced around her office, taking in the familiar surroundings. The office was a sanctuary, a place where she could strategise and plan without distraction. But it also served as a reminder of the sacrifices she had made along the way. The long hours, missed family gatherings, and the occasional twinge of loneliness that accompanied her climb to the top. 

Locking the office door behind her, Kate made her way down the quiet corridors of Merlin Mining’s headquarters. Her footsteps echoed softly. She left the office, the air outside crisp and refreshing. Kate took a deep breath, feeling the cool breeze brush against her face. She glanced up at the stars, gritted her teeth and prepared herself to come and do it all again. She would work out when she got home, then eat, shower and go through the emails left over after her long day.              

Kate’s security detail followed her to the car. She smiled at them but otherwise tried to ignore their presence. It was awkward having them follow her every movement. Ray had raised concerns about her safety without going into the finer details. All he would say was that the world of lithium mining was beyond competitive, that a lot of the international players were not traditional corporate entities, they were governments, politically-owned organisations with motives and desires beyond mere profit.

She started her car and drove home, followed by two blacked-out jeeps. Kate had given little thought to Ray’s warnings, half thinking he was exaggerating to increase his role and influence in the company. But if someone had murdered Ray, perhaps she should be worried?

Fourteen

“Shouldn’t we wait for the weapons and equipment?” Craven said. “Stead promised to provide whatever we need for the job.”

They waited behind a hedge as a shining Tesla hummed out of Merlin Mining’s gate, closely followed by two black jeeps. Kane watched the building, keeping an eye out for any sign of security personnel waiting at the building to watch it through the night.

“We don’t know what the job is yet,” Kane replied.

“Then why are we here?”

“As much as I am enjoying my stay at the Smuggler’s Rest, we need to find out what the link is between Merlin Mining, Russia, and Ray Brogan’s death.”

“When have we ever done a job where it didn’t turn into a gunfight? Even on the job in Dubai, which was supposed to be nice and safe, we almost ended up getting shredded by machine-guns.”

“We were never in danger. You were carrying a gun, Frank, so I never felt afraid.”

“Bastard.” Craven punched Kane on the arm.

Kane laughed. Craven had baulked at carrying the Sig in Dubai, but as a protection team, a gun gave them more gravitas, lent them an air of lethal danger. Kane had never expected Frank to fire the weapon, even though he could shoot if required. Once he was satisfied that no security guards walked the outside the mine’s perimeter, Kane took out his burner phone.

“Hey Dad,” came Danny’s voice as he answered the phone.

“All right, son,” Kane replied. “It’s time. Are you ready?”

“I’m in the dormitory at school. Just let me open up my laptop.”

“How was your maths test today?” Kane asked and cringed at himself for putting his fourteen-year-old son in a position where he must break the law. But Danny had grown into a tech expert, especially under the tutelage of Kane’s former SAS squad mate Cameron, the tech wizard.

“All right. I think I did enough to pass.”

“Did you study?”

“Yeah, a bit. OK, Dad. I’m inside their systems now. I spent most of the afternoon trying to find a way past their firewall. Had to miss double geography to get it done.”

Kane swallowed down another stab of guilt. “Let me know when it’s safe to go inside.”

“I’ve looped their camera feed with video I recorded thirty minutes ago, just after the last cars left. It will just keep on running that video until you are done. Let me know when you are out of there, and I’ll switch it off.”

“Thanks, Danny.” Kane put the phone back into his suit jacket pocket. “Let’s go.” He beckoned to Craven and strode through the office car park.

Kane took Ray Brogan’s keycard from his pocket and touched it to the pad beside the front door. The card reader beeped, and the lock clicked open.

“I can’t believe that worked,” marvelled Craven.

“Maybe they just haven’t got around to cancelling Ray’s card yet.”

Kane slipped inside, and Craven followed. They hurried along sterile corridors which seemed to stretch endlessly. Every shadow, every creak of the floor twigged Kane’s senses so that he passed along the glass-walled space like a predator. He ripped a plastic map off the wall above a fire extinguisher and studied the office layout. It was a compact facility, with lots of corridors, a few large meeting rooms, a boardroom, and a handful of spacious single offices on the first floor. Kane led Craven upstairs to the executive suite.

Craven took the first office and Kane the next. In the dim light, they worked their way through filing cabinets and digital records, searching for something to give them an insight into Merlin’s owners.

“Got something,” Craven called from the next office.

Kane hurried inside.

“Locked drawer,” Craven frowned. “The only one out of the lot of them.”

Kane wrapped his fingers around the drawer handle, and gave it a swift, unsuccessful pull. Before he could try for the second time, Craven stepped in, viciously twisting the metal lock fixture, opening it with brute strength. Kane stared at him. “So much for stealth, Frank.”

“Here,” Craven muttered, reaching into the drawer and handing over a set of financial documents.

Kane flicked through the hard copies of printed financial statements and emails. They outlined a convoluted network of transactions, shell companies and offshore accounts. Some in Russian, and one stamped with an unmistakable symbol. The sight shocked Kane like a slap across the face. A skull wearing a beret surrounded by a symbol of three interlocked triangles. Valknut. The Russian private military organisation which had tried to kill Kane once before. He had attacked their fortress in Krasnodar Krai and to say there was bad blood between them was an understatement.

“This is it,” breathed Kane. “A trail of money leading back to Valknut, Russia, and therefore the Alliance.”

“Valknut?” Craven’s eyes bulged so wide Kane thought he might keel over. “What the bloody hell are those bastards involved for?”

“Money. Power. Whose office is this?”

“Brogan’s,” said Craven. He pointed to a picture on the desk showing a grinning Ray Brogan clutching a huge green fish. “What does it prove?”

“That the lithium mined by Merlin is a front for Valknut and Russian interests.”

“Sorry, Jack, but I don’t get it. Just because Valknut owns this mine doesn’t give us the reason they killed Brogan or link them to any sort of suspicious activity. Back in my day, we needed hard evidence before we passed a file to prosecutors. We had to be sure they could secure a conviction in court. A few papers here with a logo and some payments don’t prove wrongdoing or explain Brogan’s death.”

“No, but it shows they are involved. And it shows that Brogan suspected something was wrong. Why go to the bother of printing these documents off and locking them in a drawer if he didn’t intend to show them to someone else? Perhaps his intention was to share these papers with his MI6 handlers? We don’t have time to go through them now, but these papers could give MI6 the how they are looking for. The paper trail to help them understand how the income generated from lithium mining finds its way into Valknut’s coffers.”

“Bring the papers, then. There’s his computer. Let’s try that.”

Kane sat on Ray Brogan’s ergonomic office chair and pushed the round button to turn on his desk PC. It whirred for five seconds and then the monitor popped up with a login screen. Kane fished in his trouser pocket and found the USB stick he had brought with him from Spain, a piece of Cameron’s kit he always carried with him, along with his SAS survival tin, and his lock-picking device.

The USB flashed, its decryption tool bypassing the secure login protocols. The monitor blinked black and white for a moment and then opened Ray Brogan’s home screen. Kane opened Brogan’s email and found a series of emails between the executives of Merlin Mining and representatives of the Valknut organisation. Craven bent over Kane’s shoulder, and they read through the messages together. Brogan alluded to Valknut’s involvement in the mining business, even revealing covert purchases of cryptocurrency from Merlin’s financial ledgers, which were subsequently transferred to Valknut.

“Jesus,” said Craven, pointing to an email from Ray Brogan to Kate Barrowhall, the CEO of Merlin Mining. “He was frightened for her safety. Look, he’s set her up with an around-the-clock security detail.”

“But he doesn’t say why. All he says is that she is at risk. He doesn’t clearly state anything. I can’t see anything here in black and white, it’s just smoke and mirrors. He mentions the crypto in another email, but it doesn’t expressly say they are sending it to Valknut. All it says is that the crypto is to be transferred to a shareholder.”

“We’ve already been in here too long. Let’s just take the paperwork we found in Brogan’s drawer and go.”

Kane retraced their steps through the building, the weight of their findings thrashing around his head like a storm. He had leads to follow, threads to pull, but nothing strong enough to prove anything concrete. Stead would need much more to get buy-in from the Mandarins in Whitehall to authorise a fully funded MI6 operation. Craven opened the building’s front door and just as he was about to step outside, a car’s headlights swooped into the car park bathing them in bright light.

“Shit,” growled Craven.

Fifteen

“What do we do?” asked Craven, his head flitting from Kane to the oncoming headlights.

“Wait,” Kane replied. It was too late to run. A jeep’s tyres screeched into the car park and headlights on full beam blinded Kane like an explosion. He was unarmed, and if the jeep’s occupants were, they could easily shoot Kane and Craven in the back as they ran.

“Wait for what? To die?”

Craven had a point. The people behind Merlin had killed Ray Brogan, so they had no qualms about taking a life to protect their interests. Kane remained calm. He passed the papers from Brogan’s locked drawer to Craven and straightened the cuffs of his jacket.

“Just leave it to me.”

The jeep thundered across the car park and skidded to a halt before the office entrance. Kane shielded his eyes from the full-beam lights and was relieved when their glare turned away from him. The vehicle doors opened, and four large men dressed in dark suits stepped out holding torches. Kane took five quick steps forwards to shorten the distance.

“Raise your arms and come no closer,” commanded the man who had sat in the passenger seat. He was thick-chested and big-bellied, with a fuzz of dark hair atop his round head.

Kane took another four steps so that he was within two arm lengths of the jeep.

“I said come no closer and raise your arms!” the fuzzy-haired man barked, and he flicked out an extendable baton as though to frighten Kane into submission.

Craven raised his hands, still holding the paperwork. Kane turned and raised his hands. He was now facing away from the jeep and took another two backwards steps towards it.

“What are you doing here? What papers are those?” demanded another man.

“Stop!” the fuzzy-haired man shouted, and Kane felt the baton prod between his shoulder blades.

Kane had closed the distance, and he had no desire to be detained by security personnel employed by a company owned by Valknut. An organisation he knew all too well. A private army of soldiers, killers, and an extension of the Russian state itself. Kane twisted at the hip, using his foot to drive through his upper body. He spun with lightning speed and knocked the baton away with his left elbow. In the same movement, he drove the flat of his right hand into fuzzy-hair’s throat.

Without pausing, Kane aimed a savage kick at the man stood beside the rear passenger door. He cried out in pain and fell to the tarmac. Kane grabbed the second man’s head and smashed it into the side of the jeep, knocking him unconscious. Fuzzy hair had fallen to his knees clutching at his throat, face turning a shade of purple beneath the car park’s overhead lighting.

The two remaining security men came hurtling around the jeep, shouting in anger. Kane whipped the extended baton across the skull of the first, turned and crashed it against the shins of the second. He cracked his elbow across the side of that guard’s head and sent him tumbling to the ground.

The man he had hit in the head with the baton stumbled and Kane punched him hard in the stomach. The flesh in the man’s midriff was soft, carrying a stone of extra weight, and he vomited onto the tarmac.

“Do you work for Merlin?” Kane asked, putting an arm around the man’s shoulders and helping him to sit with his back against the jeep.

He nodded and wiped vomit from his lips with the back of his sleeve. “Oh God,” he said, one hand on his head and the other on his gut.

“How did you know we were here?”

“Didn’t,” the man groaned, unable to talk properly and still winded. He spoke with a Nigerian accent and his blonde-tinged dreadlocks quivered as he spoke. “Came to check on the place, found you here.”

“Is that a bodycam?” Kane pointed to a small black box strapped to the guard’s chest beneath his jacket.

“Yeah.”

Kane cursed under his breath. “Where does the feed go?”

“Dunno.”

“Where did you drive here from?”

“What?” the guard squinted, still clutching at his wounded head.

“You drove here from somewhere else. Where were you?”

“CEO’s house. We switch between patrolling her house and this place all night.”

“Where is her place?”

The guard pointed to a whitewashed house up the coastal road where it sloped before turning away north.

“Come on,” Kane said to Craven as he jogged around to the jeep’s driver’s side. “Time to pay the CEO a visit.”

Sixteen

In an office across Europe, deep in the Krasnodar hills, a woman with severe bobbed hair stared at the grainy image on her computer screen. She sat at her desk, overlooking a valley which swept away east into the Black Sea. Her fists clenched as she zoomed in on the face staring back at her. A face captured on bodycam footage by a guard in the employ of a security company in the UK, a hacked feed that Valknut had been monitoring.

She reached out a hand which once boasted finely-manicured nails, but now ended in chewed, short fingernails. The fortified complex which had been her home for the last two years did not boast a nail bar amongst its endless cement corridors. The complex, nestled in the foothills near the village of Molkin in Russia’s Krasnodar region, served as a training and intelligence hub for Valknut global operations.

She lifted the receiver and pressed autodial button number one.

“McGovern?” came the Russian voice on the other end.

“General Balakin,” she replied. “I’ve found Jack Kane.”

She heard chair wheels scrape on the other end of the line. “I’m on my way,” he said in Russian.

The phone slammed down, and McGovern gulped. General Yuri Balakin was on his way to her office, without a doubt the most fearsome man she had met in her entire life. Balakin was a Russian military veteran. He was a former lieutenant colonel and brigade commander of a Spetsnaz GRU unit, a decorated veteran of the first and second Chechen wars. Being in his presence was like standing before a furnace.

McGovern stared again at the face on her screen, a face which stirred such consuming hatred inside her she had never thought possible. A nondescript face, neither handsome nor ugly. No beard, or any distinguishing features other than a few scars here and there. It could be the face of an insurance salesman, a store clerk, a plumber, or a former SAS and MI6 operator who had ruined McGovern’s life.

The cold cement walls of her office closed in, as if to remind her of the bleak, soulless fortress which had become her home after Jack Kane had first ruined her career in MI6 and then in the private security world. She hated him so much it made her eyes burn, her heart beat faster and her teeth snarl like a leopard.

The door to her office burst open and a wiry man in army fatigues strode in.

“Where?” said General Yuri Balakin, his blue eyes set deep within the slab of his face. His voice was an implacable growl.

“England. Merlin Mining,” she replied.

The cold eyes turned to slits. “The lithium mine?”

“Yes. An MI6 agent infiltrated the mining operation, feeding information to the British Government. The CEO must be complicit. She is a risk and must go.”

“The MI6 agent is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Our asset is in place?”

“We have an assassin in England ready to take out the mining CEO.”

“It must happen now. Immediately. What is Kane doing there?”

“What he always does.”

“Then kill him too. Have the assassin do it. I want to see a picture of his body when it’s done. Don’t forget, Kane came here to Krasnodar and attacked us in our own home. Here! At the very heart of all we have created. I want him dead. People must know they cannot attack us and live.”

“Yes, sir.”

Balakin went to the door but then paused and spoke without looking back at her. “Don’t fuck it up this time. I grow impatient with your failures.”

McGovern flinched. She had been a prisoner in the Krasnodar hills for too long. She had come up with operations to take out Kane before, but none had succeeded. He was a ghost. A constant thorn in Valknut’s side and the personification of every injustice McGovern had suffered. She had been on the cusp of running her own splinter agency within MI6. Real power. Real influence. Now she wore army fatigues every day and cut her own hair.

This time, Kane really must die.

Seventeen

Jesus Alvarez rose from the floor and wiped the sweat from his body with a towel. His phone had disturbed a vigorous workout, the handset vibrating against the kitchen table.

“Yes?” he said, picking up the phone.

“Mission timeframe has changed,” said the English woman’s voice on the other end of the line. “Terminate target immediately.”

“I’m not ready. Two more days, at least.”

“If you want your money, do it now.”

“I cannot be rushed. It must be clean.” Alvarez frowned. He could feel her anger down the phone, the fury palpable in her breath and the uncomfortable silence.

“Do it now, or we will not pay you and you will also become our enemy.”

Alvarez stiffened at the threat. “Very well.” No man incurred the wrath of the Valknut group willingly. They operated without laws, without limits. A carte blanche licence from the Russian Government to wreak havoc across the world. He had worked for them a dozen times, every job aimed at destabilising Western powers. They fielded armies equipped with helicopters, tanks, missiles, and the latest military equipment. They employed countless mercenaries and filled their ranks with prisoners and killers.

“After eliminating your target, you are to execute a second target at the same location. I will send details to your secure drive. This man is to be taken out with extreme prejudice. Is that clear?”

“Crystal. He is here, in Cornwall?”

“He was at Merlin Mining’s office within the last five minutes. He is to be considered an elite enemy. Former SAS. Do not treat him lightly. We need photographic evidence of his body.”

“Very well.”

Alvarez hung up the phone. A second job in the same location as the first was not only highly irregular, but it was also outright madness. There was no point expressing his concerns to Valknut. They neither understood nor cared for the danger Alvarez was about to put himself in. The whole point of watching Kate Barrowhall so carefully, of observing her routine, of immersing himself in her life, was to make a clean kill and a clean getaway. The moment he fired his shot and took her life, the quiet Cornish village would explode like a kicked hornet’s nest.

England was not the US of Alvarez’s home. There, every second homeowner owned a gun. Here in England, a murder by gunshot in the countryside would be a major news story. The population would be shocked, the police outraged. The police would conduct a nationwide manhunt until they found the gunman. Alvarez had hoped for a slick getaway. One shot and gone. That plan, all his meticulous work, was useless now.

Alvarez patted the Remington rifle lovingly and instead picked up the pistol and tucked the knife into the back of his belt. Two targets in one location required more of a personal touch. He would need to get close, make the first death look like an accident. Like a break-in gone wrong. Something routine for the English police. He could then take out Jack Kane and perhaps use the rifle’s precision. Either way, there was blood ahead and Alvarez went hunting.

Eighteen

Kate Barrowhall blew out her cheeks as her legs thundered around the pedals of her assault bike. The air wheel thrummed, and her thighs burned. The gym was her sanctuary, her way of escaping the pressure and stress of work. Mirrors lined its walls, and the high-tech equipment gleamed under the filtered light.

She hopped off the assault bike and wiped sweat from her face with a workout towel. Dance music pumped in her AirPods, loud and in time with her heartbeat. She moved to the floor mats and powered into a series of high-intensity interval training exercises. Burpees, kettlebell swings, and jump squats flowed seamlessly into her routine, each movement executed with precision. Sweat glistened on Kate’s brow as she pushed herself harder, embracing the burn of her muscles.

After an hour of gruelling effort, she finished with a series of stretches, her body glistening under the soft gym lights. Endorphins surged through her body as she left the gym. Kate moved through her modern home, all sleek lines, minimalist décor, and expansive windows that framed the breathtaking view of the crashing waves below.

As she entered the kitchen, the warm, invigorating space contrasted with the cool colours of the gym. The kitchen featured high-end appliances and a spacious island, where she often entertained guests or savoured quiet moments alone. That evening it was just her, decompressing after a long day. The workout had cleansed her, sweating out her fears about Ray’s death and what it might mean for her company. She took a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the double-doored, American-style fridge and poured a generous glass. The crisp citrus notes danced on her palate, and her shoulders visibly relaxed as the first sip went down.

Kate settled down at the gleaming kitchen table. She gazed out at the tumultuous sea, waves crashing against cruel rocks below as if echoing the pressures building inside her life. Moonlight glinted off water as the heaving ocean thrashed the coastline. She took another sip of wine and felt the pull of her laptop calling her. Emails waiting for replies. Board reports to read. Finance reports to pore over. Mining yield reports to examine and understand.

The relief of her vigorous workout quickly evaporated, and Kate opened her laptop. She flexed her fingers above the MacBook’s keyboard and waited for the screen to flicker to life. Something caught her eye above the glow of the laptop’s screen and, as her gaze shifted to the vast windows, Kate froze. A figure stared back at her from the moonlit darkness. A man in black. Not one of her security detail, another face, grim and serious. Ray had been right. The threat was real, and Kate suddenly feared for her life.

Nineteen

Craven clung onto the jeep’s armrest as Kane drove through the threadlike coastal road leading from Merlin Mining’s office to the CEO’s home.

“The shit has hit the fan now, then,” Craven observed.

“Things escalated the moment that jeep caught us outside the office,” Kane replied. “No use creeping around now. Might as well get the information we need straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Which is what?”

“What’s going on with the lithium mine, why Valknut are involved and why they killed Ray Brogan?”

“We know they’re involved; we have their logo on this paperwork. They killed Brogan because they found out he was sharing information about their involvement with the mine with MI6. Surely that’s enough for Stead?”

“It’s not enough. Stead needs more if he is to build a strong enough case to get his mission against Valknut and Merlin off the ground.”

“I don’t know about this one, Jack. I have a bad feeling. We’ve gone up against Valknut before. It ended up with you going on a full-on mission to Russia with the SAS.” Craven left out the part about him getting beat up by Valknut thugs outside a football stadium and ending up in hospital.

“You always have a bad feeling. We’re here now.”

Craven opened his mouth to say more, to convince Kane to call this an end to the mission. But there was no time. Kane was already out of the jeep, examining the whitewashed building.

“What are you going to do?”

Kane turned and raised an eyebrow. “Ask her a few questions, that’s all. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

“You can stay with the car if you like.”

“We stole it, Jack. We have a rental car on the other side of the village. Let’s just leave the jeep here. Hold on a minute.” Craven squinted into the darkness, peering at the black cast iron gate behind which a curving path led up to the clifftop house. He went forward carefully. Something strange had caught his eye. Something out of place. A streetlight ten paces away cast a wan glow over the gate, but not enough to fully illuminate it. Something dark stood against the pale shale stones of the house’s pathway. Craven peeked through the open gate and his heart sank. A pair of black boots poked from beneath a carefully-shaped line of shrubs. A man’s boots.

“Shit,” Craven whispered. “There’s a dead man here.”

Kane slipped past him, easing inside the open gate.

“Throat cut,” Kane said with professional coldness as he knelt beside the corpse. “Someone’s got here before us. Wait here, Frank.”

As if to prove Kane’s point, a woman’s scream came from the house. It sang on the wind, pure terror peeling out from beyond the sophisticated design and endless glass. Kane set off sprinting up the pathway, unarmed and unaware of what waited for him inside the CEO’s house.

Craven closed his eyes, feeling the chill sea wind against his skin. Trouble had found them again, or had they found trouble? He wasn’t sure any more.

Twenty

Kate Barrowhall shot up from her kitchen chair. The figure outside slunk back into the darkness, becoming one with the shadows. She froze, trembling, unable to react to the shock of seeing a man in black peering in through her window.

A bump outside the kitchen made her jump and Kate involuntarily grabbed a kitchen knife from a wooden sharpening block.

“Mr Khan?” she shouted, calling for the head of security responsible for her safety. She waited. Nothing.

Kate swallowed hard, head spinning from the window to the kitchen door. She backed away from the kitchen island, half expecting the intruder to come smashing through the window to attack her.

“Mr Khan?” she called again. Where was he? Ray Brogan had persuaded Kate to bring on this security team and she had suffered their presence day and night. Feeling watched all the time. No privacy. Self-conscious at every waking moment that the men guarded her were looking at her, watching her, judging her. Now that she needed them, they were nowhere to be found.

Kate edged out into the hallway and couldn’t stifle a scream when she saw Mr Khan’s crumpled body beside the front door. A pool of dark crimson seeped from beneath him and the door was ajar. Kate thrust her back against the wall, breath coming ragged, heart pounding. She clamped one hand over her mouth and, with the other, held the knife out in front of her.

Something crashed upstairs, a heavy object falling against the floor. Kate ran back into the kitchen and turned all the lights on. She backed herself up against the kitchen cabinets, fighting hard not to cry. She had to call the police, call for help. A killer was in her house, her worst fears manifesting before her very eyes. Kate had left her mobile phone on the island. It was only five paces away, but she could not move. Fear had rooted Kate’s feet to the spot.

She looked from her phone back toward the kitchen door, and a man stood there. Just standing in the doorway leading out into the entrance hall. She gasped at how silently he had entered the room, like a ghost. He was average height with dark skin and short, neat hair. He wore all black and held a wicked-looking knife in his hand.

“Kate Barrowhall?” he said in an American accent.

She shook her head, tears coursing down her cheeks. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “I have money. I can pay you.”

He advanced on her, eyes cold and implacable. It hit her then like a slap across the face. There could be no reasoning with this man. There was nothing she could say to deter him from what he came to do. Was he the man who had killed Ray Brogan? Was this how she would die?

The front door smashed against the wall, the sound like a thunderclap from along the entrance hall. Kate whimpered. She couldn’t help it. What could it be? How could her plight get any worse?

A man strode into the kitchen, a man in a smart suit. He glanced at Kate and then at the killer. The killer seemed surprised to see this second man. He adjusted his posture, so he stood side on, facing both Kate and the new man. The killer stared at the man and a smirk spread across his face. That smile sent a shiver down her back; it was a murderer’s smile, ice-cold, pleased at having two people to kill. Kate wondered how a man could be so brutal and so comfortable with death. The suit-wearing man edged his way into the kitchen. He was the enemy of the killer, that much was clear. But what she didn’t know was if this new intruder in her home was her friend or foe.

Twenty-One

Kane had stepped over the dead man in the corridor, a man killed with a deft knife cut across his throat. He advanced into the kitchen and found the killer and a woman facing off, the tension thick in the air like fog. The killer wore black combat trousers and a black tactical jumper. He held a knife in one hand, its blade red with other men’s blood. Kane recognised the woman from her pictures at Merlin Mining. Kate Barrowhall. Her eyes were wide with terror, her face contorted, mouth turned upside down, fingers trembling.

“It’s all right,” Kane said, and edged slowly into the kitchen.

“Is it?” said the knife man in an American accent. He spoke strangely, as though the statement amused him.

Kane stared at him, unsure how to respond, surprised that the killer had spoken so incongruously.

“If you go now, there doesn’t need to be any more trouble.” Kane wanted to give the killer a chance to leave without a fight. A slim chance to avert what Kane knew must happen next.

“Trouble?” The man laughed as if Kane had told a joke. “I would say there had to be trouble, no? You saw the body at the door. You can see that I have come to kill this woman. Trouble is why I am here. Perhaps fate has brought you here, Jack Kane, or luck. Good luck for me.”

The killer knew his name. How was that possible? Kane paused for a second, shocked at the unlikely situation. Not just the bizarre words pouring from the killer’s mouth, but the sound of his name amongst them. He spoke as if they stood in line at a coffee shop, or like acquaintances making small talk at a business convention.

The killer reached behind his back as though to grab another weapon. He paused, mouth twisting into a half grin, shook his head and laughed again. “No. This moment is too perfect. No guns. Pure combat. Are you worthy, Jack Kane? Are you the man come to stop me? Are you the hero and I am the villain? I think you are as much as a killer as me, no? So perhaps I am the hero and you the villain.” He withdrew his hand, leaving the gun or whatever weapon waited there, and laughed again. The bloody knife remained in the killer’s fist and he showed it to Kane, as though there was something more honourable in a fight with blades than in a gunfight. “Such a fascinating twist of fate.”

He was a madman. Kane had grown tired of him within seconds of the American opening his mouth, and now he had had enough. Kane needed to talk to Kate Barrowhall, and the man in front of him had come to kill her. So Kane attacked him.

The knife flashed at Kane in a short, sharp jab. Kane slipped his head away from the blow, feinted left and came underneath the knife hand to drive his fist into the killer’s ribs. He jerked at the blow, kicked Kane hard in the shin, and darted away.

“You have some skill,” said the killer. “Good. A worthy opponent.”

Kane grimaced and fought back the stinging pain in his lower leg. He was unarmed and needed to find a weapon quickly. The killer sprang after him, sweeping the knife in curved arcs, controlled and careful. He kept the blade close to his body, striking from a protective stance. Kane dodged the blows, edging his way towards the kitchen worktop, trying to get himself between the killer and Kate Barrowhall. She slunk backwards, trembling, hands clasped over her mouth.

The killer lashed out with a front kick and followed it up with a sharp stab of the knife. Kane leapt backwards and reached out to the gleaming granite worktop. He grabbed a yellow Smeg-branded kettle and whipped it around. The kettle blocked another knife thrust and drove the blade from the killer’s hand to send it clattering across the tiled floor.

Kane paused, giving his enemy time to straighten. As soon as a smile played at the corner of the killer’s mouth at the moment when he was about to utter another smart comment, Kane swung the kettle again. He whipped it underhand, and its base crashed into the side of the killer’s head. He stumbled and Kane kicked him in the stomach and punched him in the side of the skull. The killer reeled, dropping to his knees, and Kane threw the kettle at him. He picked up the knife and stabbed down hard towards the recovering killer. An arm came up to parry the strike, and the knife passed through cloth, flesh, and muscle to embed itself in the killer’s forearm.

A roar of pain and frustration came from deep within the killer. A primal thing of outrage and suffering. His dark eyes shifted from the knife stuck in his arm and back to Kane. A pause passed between them, the wound terrible, blood dripping to plop on the tiled floor in fat gobbets. The iron stink of another man’s blood was as familiar to Kane as the smell of gunfire. He kept hold of the knife and he twisted it savagely. The killer turned with the movement, grunting as pain wracked his body. He tried to kick out, but Kane was already moving. He grabbed for the gun tucked into the back of the killer’s waistband. The wounded man sensed the move and tried to shuffle away, but Kane kept him close using the knife like a lever.

Kane thumped his knee into the man’s ribs, and he jerked, giving Kane just enough time to wrap his palm around the gun. Its nylon polymer grip slid into his palm and Kane ripped the weapon from its holster. The killer flung himself backwards, and the knife slid from Kane’s grip. The killer rolled. He pulled the knife from his forearm, sending a spray of crimson across the kitchen’s glossy floor.

In the instant he held the gun, Kane recognised the feel of a Glock pistol. It was familiar, a tool he had used countless times. Knew the safety mechanism was in the trigger. He fired the weapon, the sound like a thunderclap. Kate Barrowhall screamed. Kane adjusted his firing position, knowing he had hit the killer, setting himself for a shot to kill the man. The killer was on his feet, sprinting. His tactical vest had absorbed the bullet, and he ran full tilt towards the huge span of glass wrapped around Kate Barrowhall’s kitchen.

Kane squeezed off another shot, but the killer expected it and zigzagged his run. The bullet zipped over the man’s shoulder and shattered a vast plane of triple-glazed glass into a million pieces. Wind whipped into the kitchen like a gale, disturbing Kane’s aim. He swore under his breath, set his feet, two hands on the weapon, ready to shoot to kill. But at that moment, the killer leapt out of the smashed window into the darkness. Kane ran and stared out into the wind-whipped night. The killer was gone, disappeared over the cliff into the bleakness of wind, rain, and the crash of the unseen sea below.

A siren wailed somewhere out across the cliffs and Kane lowered his weapon. He turned to Kate Barrowhall. She gaped at him, face streaked with tears, head shaking from side to side.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Kane said as he moved towards her. “But you must trust me if you want to live.”

Twenty-Two

Kate Barrowhall pushed her hair away from her face. The gusting wind blew her long auburn hair into a mess. Everything had happened too quickly. She had never seen a dead body before, never witnessed such extreme violence. Who were these men who had broken into her house with guns and knives?

“I’m not here to hurt you,” said the man in the suit, holding a black gun in his hand. “But you must trust me if you want to live.”

“The police are coming,” she replied, the howl of a siren growing louder through the broken patio window. The sound indicated that help was coming. That police officers were coming to rescue her from his terrible situation, which had struck her like a bell, leaving Kate numb, unable to think, unable to act. So unlike her usual toughness and calmness in the boardroom.

The man in the suit came towards her. He slipped the gun into the waist of his trousers, but Kate couldn’t take her eyes off it. The sound of it firing so unlike gunfire in the movies, so loud, so fearsome. A small thing, able to fit into a person’s hand, but capable of tearing life away with a pull of its tiny trigger.

“The police can’t help you. The people who have come to kill you will get you anywhere. Even the police can’t protect you.”

“Who are you?”

“Jack Kane.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m trying to understand what links Merlin Mining has to the Valknut organisation?”

“Valknut.” Kate spoke wistfully, almost absent-mindedly, as she stood amongst the spilt blood and her destroyed home. She knew who the Merlin shareholders were, and she was no fool. But Kate had never thought their connections to military activities in Russia, Ukraine, and other faraway places could come to quaint little Cornwall.

“They want you dead, Kate. They sent that man to kill you. Ray Brogan is dead. Your security detail is dead. If you stay here, even in the local police station, you’ll be dead too.”

The man in the suit could have been any of a hundred businessmen she had met in her life. He wasn’t tall or well built; he wasn’t short or thin. But he was confident, and he spoke without threat. Kate blew out her cheeks, recognising the need to shake off the shock and think clearly. She stared at the man in the suit and made a snap judgement. He could have killed her already, should he wish her dead. He could have let the killer kill her. An enemy would seem kinder and feel more wrong, she thought.

“Where can we go?’ She had so many questions but decided to trust Jack Kane. He had saved her life, even if she had no clue who had sent him and what association he had with the mine.

“I have a car waiting outside.”

“I need to grab some clothes.”

“No time. We can pick some up.”

Jack Kane took her by the hand and set off at a run. Kate followed him, jumping over spots of blood left by the killer and her security guard’s corpse in the hallway. Kane led her out of the front door and down to where a jeep waited outside her gate. She sat in the back seat, and met the eyes of an old, large man in the driving seat.

“Bloody hell, Jack,” said the big man. “What happened?” He turned and offered Kate a half-hearted smile. “I take it you're coming with us?”

Kate shrugged, fastened her seatbelt and did her best not to ask any of the dozen questions swirling about her head.

“Police are coming,” said Kane. “Someone killed Kate’s security detail and tried to kill her. He knew my name. Get out, Frank, I’ll drive.”

“Great.” The big man groaned as he eased himself out of the driver’s seat. He hurried around the front bumper and sat heavily in the passenger seat. Kane slid quickly into the driver’s side and gunned the jeep’s ignition before the big man fastened his belt. “I heard the gunshot. In it up to our bloody necks. Again.”

Kane drove the jeep so fast around the bends that Kate had to hold on to the door handle. She slid across the backseat as he drove as though they were in a Formula One race. A police vehicle with blue lights flashing whipped past them on a wide bend and Kate turned to watch them disappear around the corner. Was trusting Kane the right decision? She had gone with her gut, but now the jeep hurried her away from the police, the organisation society told her meant safety and protection.

“Why do they want to kill me?” she asked, shouting to be heard above the engine’s roar.

“We were hoping you might have the answer to that question,” said the big man.

Kate’s heart sank. Her world had turned upside down. Dangerous shareholders had sent a madman to kill her, and everything she knew was over. Kate wished she had listened closer to Ray Brogan and his warnings. She wished she had never taken the job at Merlin Mining, and she wished this nightmare would end.

Twenty-Three

Craven peered at the display on his burner phone. He squinted down at the map, following the jeep’s progress along a sinuous road that snaked through the wild heart of Cornwall. With every mile, the road became increasingly treacherous, a cracked and crumbling path flanked by brambles and ancient trees looming around them. The sky churned above them, a sea of stormy clouds threatening to unleash a downpour that could either hide their flight or betray their presence.

Inside the vehicle, tension coiled like a spring. Kane drove, reliant on Craven for directions. Kate Barrowhall huddled in the back seat, bleary-eyed and pale-faced. She barely spoke a word as Jack sped them away from danger, pushing the jeep to its limits for ninety minutes through the night. Kane slowed only after he was certain they had no pursuers, certain the killer and police were lost behind them.

“Almost there,” Craven said, turning to smile at Kate. “My name’s Frank, by the way.”

“Kate,” she replied, almost as a whisper. “Where are we going?”

“There.” Frank pointed through the windscreen at a huddle of grey, decrepit buildings nestled in the forest like a sore amongst the greenery. Kane had asked him to find somewhere safe for them to hideout for a few hours and Craven had found the perfect place using his phone’s search app. They needed time to understand what had happened, to talk to Kate Barrowhall, to figure out the implications of all they had learned in such a short space of time. Kane had pulled in at an all-night A-road service station where Craven had bought coffee, bottles of water, food and other supplies to keep them going for a day.

As Kane inched the jeep into the abandoned tin mine, the landscape transformed from the lush greenery of trees and shrubs lining the road to a picture of desolation and decay. The irony of Kate Barrowhall hiding out at an old mine wasn’t lost on Craven, but his choice of hiding place was purely coincidental.

The entrance, a gaping maw carved into the earth, invited them into the shadowy depths of its labyrinthine buildings, tunnels, pipes and rusted outhouses. Rusting carcasses of machinery lay strewn about the place like the bones of ancient beasts. Cranes, now nothing more than skeletal arms, reached towards the sky whilst abandoned carts rested on tracks that vanished into the undergrowth. The jeep stopped and Craven stepped out, grabbing the bag of supplies from the footwell.

“This will do,” announced Kane, stretching his back. He took the gun from his trousers, checked the magazine and put it back. “Bring Kate inside. We need to think.”

“Better get Stead on the phone and tell him about the shitstorm he sent us into.”

Kane nodded and strode towards the old foreman’s office. A corrugated box, it stood out with its four walls intact and a sagging roof. Windows smudged with grime would allow Kane to monitor the road for any approaching danger.

“Come on,” Craven said to Kate Barrowhall as she got out of the vehicle. “Some food might make you feel better.”

“Are you two friends?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“Don’t be daft. We are going to help you. We’re here to see what’s been going at your mine.”

“There’s nothing going on at the mine.”

“Really? Just some dead people, shady Russian investors, embezzling the profits of lithium mining into a private army looking to destabilise and ultimately crush our government?”

She gaped at him with an open mouth, failing to see the humour in his words. Realising that it was perhaps the wrong time to crack jokes, Craven stopped talking and led her across the briars and rippling ferns towards the office. He pushed open the rusted door, forcing it against the weeds grown about its frame until he could squeeze inside. The air in the office stank of rust and earth. Dust lay heavy on surfaces, disturbed only by the occasional scurrying of rodents or the flutter of a bird that had made its nest in the iron rafters.

Nearby, the remnants of the workers’ quarters huddled together, their roofs collapsed, and their interiors exposed to the elements. In the distance, the silhouette of the processing plant stood against a horizon cast in a red hue by the rising sun. The plant which had once been the heart of the operation was now little more than a hollow shell, its machinery long stripped for scrap, leaving only the echoes of its former purpose.

Craven fished deep into the plastic bag held in his right hand and pulled out three packaged sandwiches and three bottles of water.

“I’ve got one chicken and stuffing, or two ham and cheese,” Craven said. “They look like they are from yesterday, but they’ll fill our bellies.”

“Any will do,” Kane said, so Craven gave Kate the option and she chose chicken and stuffing.

“How long can we stay here?”

“Not long.” Kane caught the ham and cheese sandwich Craven tossed to him, followed by the bottle of water. “We took the jeep from the Merlin Mining office and even though Danny had disabled the cameras, we have to assume that whoever is chasing us could have hacked into and picked up the feed from the guard’s body-cam. Whoever is watching that feed knows the vehicle their men drove to the mine. At this very moment, they are searching for that car.”

Craven glanced up at the corrugated ceiling. “Satellites and all that jazz?”

“All that jazz. They’ll track us within a couple of hours.”

“We could dump the car and move deeper into the mine?” Craven spoke without thinking, believing for a moment that the network of tunnels stretching deep beneath the earth could offer refuge. That their entrances overgrown by vegetation and debris could provide a place to hide from the law and the deadly assassin. But he should have known better. Jack wouldn’t hide. It wasn’t his style.

“We have to keep moving.” Kane opened his water and took a long drink. “I need to check in with Danny and see what he’s learned from the information we sent to him.”

“And call Stead. We have the files from Ray Brogan’s desk. We know Valknut is a shareholder in the mine. That’s the trail of evidence he was looking for. Our job’s done.”

“Brogan’s files weren’t clear. We need more. Our job is far from complete.”

“Your job?” asked Kate Barrowhall. Craven had almost forgotten about her. He looked at Kane, unsure how much information it was appropriate to share. Kane had promised her safety, but as far as Craven was aware, that wasn’t part of their mission.

“They sent us here to investigate Merlin Mining and its connections to governments that aim to destabilise Western powers. Ray Brogan was an MI6 agent. He was concerned about Merlin and where the profits were going. Ray’s murder sent a jolt up the intelligence ranks, but not enough to warrant full scale MI6 involvement. So, we are here to figure out what’s going on, to give them enough evidence to get involved.”

“Ray?” Kate gasped. “MI6? Like a spy?”

“Looking into your mine. Working for the British Government to protect it from foreign threats. You are the CEO of Merlin. Surely you know Valknut is a major shareholder?”

“Aware? Yes. But we have many investors. They don’t have a board seat or any say in the running of the business. They are a company with an investment in the mine, that’s it. Who are they?”

“How do they get paid?”

“They have shares. So don’t get paid, as such. They have an interest in the mine’s success.”

“As such? Before we came to your house, we paid a visit to Merlin’s offices. Ray Brogan had copies of files. He knew Valknut was involved but couldn’t pin down the details. But he had found payments of cryptocurrency in your accounts, complex and vast payments. Is that how you paid Valknut?”

Kate waved a hand as if to dismiss the question. She wiped her brow with a trembling hand, eyes glassy as though thoughts and worries she had banished to the back of her mind suddenly forced their way into her consciousness, synapses connecting strands and building a chain in her mind.

“The mine is extremely profitable. We made crypto payments quarterly,” she said. “The CFO listed them in the accounts as investments. Investments made from the mine’s profits. As CEO, I didn’t question where they were going. It didn’t interfere with the day to day running of the mine, or our strategy.”

“You ignored it?”

“I just didn’t look into it. It wasn’t within my area of responsibility. It didn’t affect the production of lithium or the growth of the business.”

“Valknut is a Russian private army,” Craven said, interrupting before Kane reduced Kate to tears. “They are involved with the state and foreign wars. To cut to the chase, it is believed that foreign powers like Russia, China, Brazil, India and other countries are trying to replace the dollar as the global reserve currency. They are using lithium, cobalt and other mining interests to build funds from around the world. Vast funds. Lithium is extremely unprofitable.”

“And some forms of crypto are extremely untraceable,” said Kane.

“I understand.” Kate crossed her arms, brow furrowed, shoulders straight. “Maybe I turned a blind eye to a line on our accounts. But I certainly am not involved in any sort of international conspiracy. Why did they send a man to kill me?”

“Perhaps Brogan dug too deep. Valknut noticed him. It isn’t too far a bridge from Brogan to you. If they even suspect Brogan told you about Valknut’s involvement, or that you were complicit in his MI6 investigation, they will kill you without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Jesus.” Kate drank her water. “So, what now?”

“I need to make some calls. We’ll keep you safe. Then, we need to find a solid link between Valknut and the extraction of funds from Merlin Mining. Can you help with that?”

“I can try. We’ll need the accounts. A trail of where the crypto payment is made.”

“Good. Rest now. Eat your sandwich.”

Kane took his phone and left the office to make his calls. Craven found a rusted stool lying beneath a desk. He picked it up, dusted it down as best he could and gave it to Kate to sit on. She smiled sadly and took a small bite of her sandwich.

Craven ate his food and stared out of the dirty window. Storm clouds gathered, wiping out the red hues of the sunrise, turning the sky the grey of old stone. Fat drops of rain began to fall, drumming a relentless song on the corrugated roof. They would come soon. Craven had learned a lot since leaving the police force. A lifetime as a detective had taught him much, lots about people and society. But his time with Kane had taught him about violence and the determination of the dangerous foreign organisations their missions pitted them against. He knew the enemies would come with guns and explosions and the will to kill without hesitation.

Craven was afraid, but this life was all he had. Barb was gone and Craven was alone. As much as he told himself that he yearned for a peaceful life where he could visit her grave every day, Craven knew deep down that he would die quickly when he slowed down. What else did he have to live for but the action, Kane, his family and their life of danger?

Twenty-Four

Alvarez crashed into the sea like a boulder tossed into the storm. The impact drove the air from his lungs and the ice-cold water stung his body like a powerful slap. He scrambled beneath the surface, darkness surrounding him like a shroud. His body screamed at him to suck in a breath of air, but to give in to that reflex was to drown and die. Alvarez clenched his teeth, churning sea water pounding in his ears. He remembered his training, called upon his years of experience in the US special forces.

He forced himself to hold his breath, to just rest there beneath the ocean’s fury and exert control over his body. Alvarez had honed that process through years of gruelling experience and relentless preparation. I am a machine. A warrior. I am unbeatable. Indestructible. He was conditioned to endure and adapt to the harshest environments, both mentally and physically. His grit, his mental conditioning, taught Alvarez to remain calm, to prioritise mission success above all else. He knew how to focus, even when faced with seemingly insurmountable odds.

Alvarez ripped off his tactical vest. The kit that had saved his life when Jack Kane’s bullet crashed into his chest. He could still feel the punch of that blow, like a kick from a stallion. But he had felt it before, just as he had been close to death before. The vest slipped away, sinking into the darkness, and Alvarez pulled at the water with powerful strokes of his arms, kicking his legs, striving for the surface.

He burst through the water and sucked in a huge breath. He was like flotsam, like a tiny piece of timber bobbing in the monstrous swell. Night covered the land and water in darkness and the storm whipped about him, howling like a relentless beast gnashing its teeth in the darkness. Alvarez kicked his legs and swam, fighting against the sea’s fury to forge a path towards shore. He followed the sound of waves crashing against cliffs, each stroke a battle against nature’s wrath. The wind howled about his freezing ears and nose, as waves lashed him like a banshee with icy claws.

The sea’s surface churned, whipped into a frothy, chaotic frenzy. Cornwall’s coast lay ahead, a shadow against the jet-black sky. Lights flickered there, guiding him towards a shore which felt unreachable yet tantalisingly close. Alvarez had faced the abyss before, had crawled wounded from the battlefield, found himself alone in the desert, had fought for his life countless times. But the Atlantic Ocean was a different enemy. The water was bone-chilling. Each plunge of his hand into the inky depths sent shards of frost through his veins. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one a misty puff devoured by the screeching wind. The cold was a living thing, trying to claim him, but Alvarez was driven by a single purpose. A mission which demanded his survival.

He should have shot Kane. Everything in Alvarez’s training had screamed at him to do it. To simply take his pistol and put two shots into the English man’s chest and one in his head. But Alvarez had learned to love the beauty of combat, to savour the clash between men and the heightened senses experienced during a fight to the death. Kane had got the better of him, and Alvarez had failed. It was a new feeling. A dark pit in the depths of his stomach, a thing to be rectified with extreme prejudice. The CEO lived. Jack Kane lived, and they had both been at his mercy. A colder man would have simply shot them both in that gleaming kitchen. In and out in less than minutes.

Alvarez had prepared for the job as efficiently as always. If Kane hadn’t shown up, he would have stabbed the CEO to death, made it look like a robbery, and moved on to hunt for Kane. That his secondary target had arrived in the house was a shock. Perhaps that had clouded his judgement? As Alvarez swam through the peaks and troughs, he knew he would do the same thing again. It was in his nature. He was a warrior. Honour was paramount. If he faced Kane again on the beach, he would fight him again, striving to see which of them was the superior man.

He hauled himself through the sea, besting the wild, heaving monster and its waves that rose like mountains. Each crest became illuminated briefly by the lights ashore, by the shops, restaurants and houses lining Cornwall’s rugged coast. Each gleam of light revealed the tempestuous landscape he fought against, a world of water and wind, indifferent to the solitary swimmer in its midst. Alvarez focused on his training, his mind a steel trap shutting out the cold, the fear, the exhaustion. He swam with powerful, deliberate strokes, his body a machine honed by years of discipline and survival instincts.

Alvarez summoned memories of endless drills, of swimming through the darkness with unseen enemies lurking. The rhythm of his strokes became a mantra. Survive, reach, pull, breathe. The sea water seared at his knife wound, his muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored it all , pushing through the sickening pain with a grim determination. He had been prepared to withstand fear and stress, maintaining the clarity of thought and purpose no matter the circumstances. That mental fortitude enabled him to keep going.

His client would be furious, and they were not to be trifled with. But for Alvarez, the mission was now personal. He must complete it. He must execute Kate Barrowhall and Jack Kane, no matter what. His professionalism, the very fabric of his being as a warrior, demanded it. His arrogance had got the better of him, the lure of glorious combat clouding his professionalism. It would not happen again. He would do it for free if he had to.

Alvarez stopped swimming and trod water. He scanned the coastline. Blue lights pulsated to his left. The CEO’s house where the police had arrived. He glimpsed the jagged outline of rocks, breakers crashing against them in a wild spray of white. A lull in the cliffs and an increase in lights led him to the beach and Alvarez angled his body, using the current to his advantage. The sea was both ally and foe, its currents capable of dragging him under or propelling him forward. He let the waves carry him, conserving energy, riding their powerful surges closer to the elusive shore.

With a last surge of effort, Alvarez powered through the final few yards. His fingertips brushing sand, then rock, then blessedly solid ground. He crawled through the swell, hauled back countless times before he emerged from the surf and collapsed onto the wet sand. It was cold and gritty against his hands and his cheek as he lay there, chest heaving, muscles spasming and contorting in agony. Survival felt like victory, like life. His mind cleared. Alvarez pushed himself to his feet, his legs unsteady but resolute. He edged away from the shoreline, wind tearing at him, rain lashing his face. He scanned the coast, eyes narrowing against the storm as he plotted his next move. The cliffs loomed above, offering both danger and shelter. He needed to find cover, to regroup and assess the situation. His cottage might be safe for a short time, until the police checked all visitors in the area, until they watched CCTV footage from across the village and eventually knocked on his door.

He moved with the precision of a predator, reaching the coast road, shivering but determined. Alvarez found a parked 2011 Ford Fiesta in a beach car park, left there overnight by a holidaymaker. He smashed the window with the elbow of his uninjured arm, popped the door open and sat inside. Alvarez ripped open the panel below the steering wheel and with shivering hands he exposed wires and started the car. With air vents set to their highest temperature, Alvarez drove away from the sea, from the titanic enemy he had mastered. Just as he would master Jack Kane.

Twenty-Five

“Danny?” Kane said into his burner phone as he paced outside the tin mine’s office.

“Hey Dad,” Danny replied, his voice muffled as he walked between rooms. Doors closed in the background, and Danny sighed as he sat down.

“How was school today?”

“Fine. Double maths. Same old stuff.”

“Did you see Kim this week?”

“Yeah, I saw her at lunchtime today. She’s good. She has a soccer match tomorrow.”

“Did you find anything on the phone from the hotel or in Ray Brogan’s files?”

“You should totally pay me for this work, Dad. It distracts me from my studies.”

“You mean it distracts you from playing Fortnite on the PS4 and gaming with your friends all night?”

Danny chuckled. “Something like that, yeah.”

“You do good work, Danny, and you’re right. I’ll start paying you. I’ll put money in a fund you can access when you leave school.”

“Brilliant.” Danny spoke in the most underwhelmed tone possible. “I checked the phone you nicked from the hotel. It was new, obviously, but not really a burner. The guy’s name was Ivan Smirnov. He was, like, a former Russian soldier employed by the Valknut Group for the last six years. That info wasn’t on his phone, btw. I used the data on the phone to work his background out. It was so hard, took me forever. I hope you’re amazed by the effort I put into it.”

Kane grinned. “Well done, Dan.”

Danny laughed. “Cheers, Dad.  You know what, Cameron taught me so much. I actually enjoy this stuff more than trigonometry, for real. I grabbed a list of contacts from the phone, which I’ll send to you. All the names are basically connected to various operations across Europe and the Middle East. Smirnov had a massive DM list. His messages were all like in encrypted apps, discussions about logistics, payments, covert operations, stuff like that. It was nuts.”

“You’re sure he was Valknut?”

“One hundred per cent. He was like spamming them with calls.  Last call this guy made was literally outside a church in the UK. Like, he literally had photos on the phone of a funeral and of some business address in Cornwall.”

“Who was he? Any info on his background?”

“Yeah, loads. Get ready to be impressed again by my sheer brilliance, Dad. I tracked his military record and everything. So, yeah, our mate Smirnov started out quite young in the Russian military. The record I hacked shows he went to Chechnya and Syria with them. Then it looks like he followed his commanding officers into Valknut. I guess they offered him big cash. Probably wanted to be the big man. Saw the rest of them doing it, maybe. Wanted to get rich, basically. Fancied some morally ambiguous engagements.”

“Morally ambiguous. Big words, Dan.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just say my dad taught me all about being morally ambiguous,” Danny quipped, and Kane laughed despite himself.

“Smirnov was in the UK working for Valknut,” Kane mused. “I wonder how many more operatives they have in country? Things are getting serious.”

“Yeah, I looked into Valknut. Proper scary stuff. If they’re moving away from the Middle East and Africa to interfere in the UK, it just shows how powerful they’ve become. Like they’re emboldened or something.”

“Another big word, Dan. Well done. Looks like the private school fees are finally becoming worth it,” Kane teased. There was a beat before Danny spoke again.

“Actually, I got that word from Cameron.”

Kane was silent, momentarily remembering his absent friend. “Sounds like he’s taught you a lot more than just one word. Sometimes I feel like I’m listening to him when you’re talking.” 

Danny was silent, but a tone of pride entered his voice as he resumed speaking. “I retrieved a few voice notes from Smirnov’s phone. Just like snippets of conversations. I got the feeling he was cautious, like he took orders well, and followed them. I had to use Google Translate to understand them, but one message came from his superiors, and he replied. His voice was actually terrifying, like he was a killer bot, some kind of AI assassin. And this is going to sound weird, but it was like he was an AI bot coded to have some kind of massive love for his country like his default factory setting.”

“Valknut’s soldiers believe they fight for a cause. It makes them more than mercenaries.”

“It’s just so weird, like I can’t imagine ever feeling like that about England. But yeah, anyway, back to what I was saying. I checked out his GPS, and it was mad. Looked like he was on some kind of epic European road trip, like, he went to so many places. I’ve got all the addresses where he stayed, and all the places he visited.”

“What type of places?”

“He definitely liked visiting businesses. Mines like the one in Cornwall. He didn’t go to any military buildings.”

“This is the new war. Finance. Wealth. Information.”

“I’ll send all the info to you using the usual secure folders. Remember to access it somewhere secure, Dad. Please don’t forget to mask your IP address, that’s so important.”

“What about Ray Brogan’s files?”

“Oh, yeah, tonnes of stuff on that drive. Loads of really boring stuff, like board papers and meeting notes. But you’re going to love this, Dad.  Brogan had details of an account Merlin used to send crypto payments to an investor. He has the literal account number.”

“But if it’s crypto, is it impossible to trace?”

“Well, most cryptocurrencies operate through blockchain, that’s kind of the point of it. If it was Bitcoin or one of the more prominent coins, it would be easy. But they used Monero for the transfer.”

“What’s Monero?”

“Monero is sort of like a gangster version of Bitcoin on the dark web. So, Bitcoin uses a transparent blockchain, and Monero obscures transaction details like sender, receiver, and transaction amount. So you can imagine the kind of suss characters who want to use Monero on the dark web.

“Criminals?”

“Yeah, and other organisations.”

“Like Valknut?”

“Well, yeah. They can transfer and access Monero through ways designed to elude the police, Interpol, MI6, CIA, all of them. They’re obviously mega clever and use Tor or VPNs to mask their IP addresses. So tracing them is really hard,” Danny said, almost admiringly. “All their transactions sort of blend in with legitimate web traffic, and they use mixers to break down the crypto into smaller units. And the mixers sort of shuffle them, and then put them back together to hide their origin.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is, Dad. They want it to be that way. Actually, Dad, we should use it. Keep our money safe whilst you’re on the run.” Danny sounded worried.

“On the run?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Can you find who collects the crypto Merlin Mining issue in Monero coin?”

“Why? You know it’s Valknut.”

“To prove it. Knowing isn’t enough.”

“Well, getting access to crypto like Monero is usually through secure, encrypted wallets. They’re kind of inaccessible from the internet. They have majorly beefed-up passwords and sometimes they’re even protected by air-gapped devices.”

“Sorry to ask you, son, but can you do it?”

Danny paused before replying, and Kane imagined his son, stretching back in his chair, thinking about it. “I guess I could try and get onto the dark web and figure out how Valknut is using it. I could try to find nodes and patterns in Monero’s network, try to pinpoint clusters of suspicious activity. I kind of like finding patterns. I mean, there are open-source intelligence and analytical tools I can use, they’re designed to detect anomalies within blockchain transactions.” A teasing tone had entered Danny’s voice. “I might need a better laptop, Dad. A much better laptop. Better kit. Maybe I’ll have to charge you a small fee too?”

Kane smiled. “Get whatever you need. I’ll add some money to your card.”

“I don’t mind doing this, but why can’t your contacts at MI6 or MI5 do this work for you?” Danny sounded curious.

“They probably can. But we need to do it to build a case before they will put officers and a budget on the case. At the moment, there isn’t any concrete evidence. If we get the evidence, then MI6 will get involved.”

Danny exhaled. “Give me a few days, Dad. I’ve got a science test tomorrow. After that, I’ll get stuck into it.”

“Thanks, son. Good luck in the test.”

Twenty-Six

Craven finished his water, gathered the empty sandwich packets, and put all the rubbish into the plastic bag from the service station. He yawned, eyes stinging from lack of sleep. Kate Barrowhall sat on the rusty stool, arms folded, shivering and staring into space.

“Here you go,” Craven said, taking off his jacket and draping it about her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she replied.

“I’m sorry this has happened to you.”

“Me too.”

“Did you have any idea it would come to this when you took the job at Merlin?”

“None.” She smiled sadly. She had an angular face, long and beautiful. None of the soft prettiness of Barb’s face as a younger woman. Kate Barrowhall was all hard lines, sharply cut hair, piercing green eyes, manicured fingernails. But she was beautiful.

“Did Brogan ever talk to you about it?”

“Ray,” she said, as though in a dream. She snapped into alertness, cuffing her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can’t believe he’s dead. Did they kill him, Valknut?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus. He tried to warn me. Subtly. It was Ray who put the security detail on my home and office. He knew something was wrong.”

“But he never came outright and said it?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve worked in mining all my life. There are risks. Any line of business generating wealth is subject to exploitation, especially in some countries where lithium and cobalt are produced. They are the new gold.”

“You’ve worked for mines linked to crime and terrorism before?”

“Absolutely not. Who do you think I am?”

“Valknut isn’t messing about. They want you dead. You are the CEO of a business sending money which finances their mission to destabilise our government.”

She dropped her head into her hands. “I didn’t know any of that.”

“Didn’t know or didn’t want to know?”

“Does it matter?”

“It could have got you killed.” Craven stood and walked slowly over to her. He placed a hand on her back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so hard on you. I get how tough all of this is on you.”

“Really?”

“I was just an old copper before my world changed. I had barely seen a gun until Jack came into my life. It’s scary. You are allowed to be frightened.”

“What do I do now? Where do I go?”

“We’ll have to figure that out. First job is to keep you alive.” Craven paused for a second, gathering his thoughts. “Jack is on the phone trying to figure out what to do next. Tell me more about mining?” Craven couldn’t care less about mining, but Kate needed to take her mind off her situation.

She looked up at him and pulled the jacket closer about her shoulders. “The electric car industry is booming, so is the market for electronic devices. Lithium and cobalt are critical components for both. Demand has turned countries rich in them into focal points for economic and geopolitical interest. Unfortunately, in some regions, mining and export have been linked to financing governments and groups with agendas not aligned with our country.”

She had switched into CEO mode, articulate and clear. Craven nodded. “Go on.”

“I’ve worked in Africa and South America. In some parts of Africa, cobalt mining has been linked to human rights abuses and harming the environment. It’s often controlled by factions with scant regard for worker safety or environmental standards. There were and are suggestions that profits from those mines have been used to fund armed groups and corrupt government officials. The mines I worked at used that as a reverse selling point. We were always above board. Always clean. Making us easier to deal with for corporates and countries.”

“What about crime?” said Kane, appearing in the doorway, suit still looking crisp despite the long night.

Kate stiffened at his presence. She shrugged. “In South America, I worked in lithium mines. That’s how I got this job. Experience. Lithium-rich countries like Bolivia have seen some turmoil linked to the control and distribution of mineral wealth. Not terrorism. But revenue generated from some mines bolstered regimes that might have agendas counter to Western interests. Organised crime also tries to get involved. Illegal mining activities often involve smuggling, money laundering, and exploitation, which can provide financial resources. The supply chain can be complex, making it easier to move lithium into mainstream channels. Are they going to try to kill me again?”

“Yes.”

“Jack!”  Craven remonstrated, shaking his head. “Go easy on her. It’s been a tough night.”

“No point sugar-coating it.”

“Where should I go?”

“Stay with me for now. Frank and I will protect you.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because you need it.”

“MI6 might look after you, if you can tell them anything about Valknut,” Craven said, speaking hopefully rather than with any genuine belief that the government would put her into witness protection. She seemed to know little, if anything, about Valknut and the threat they posed to Britain’s national security.

“I don’t know anything. I’ve already told you,” she said. Kate stood and strode to the window, staring through the grime at a brave beam of morning light trying to break through the leaden clouds.

“We need to move,” Kane announced. “Find somewhere more permanent to sleep and rest.”

“Did you call Stead?” Craven asked.

“Not yet. I spoke to Danny. I’ll fill you in whilst we are driving.”

“The job might be over.” Craven already had a bad feeling about the job in Cornwall. Valknut was bad news. The last time Craven tangled with them, he ended up in hospital and didn’t fancy reliving that experience.

“Let’s find a hotel and I’ll call Stead from there.”

Kane left the dilapidated office, but Craven didn’t get any comfort from his dismissive tone. Kane was involved now. He had fought against an assassin and killed a Valknut man. Kane was deep into the mission, and blood had been spilt. No doubt danger lay ahead, but Craven was along for the ride. Ready for what might come next.

Twenty-Seven

Alvarez stepped out of the shower, warm and refreshed. He had already packed and was ready to leave. He cleaned and dressed the stab wound on his forearm, towelled himself dry, pulled on a pair of navy chinos and a button-down shirt. Alvarez slipped on his Suunto watch and a pair of loafers. He bent to pick up the duffel bag containing his rifle and other weapons and winced as the bruise upon his chest throbbed. A purple welt of a bruise given to him by Jack Kane’s bullet.

The laptop on the kitchen table beeped, and Alvarez sat and opened its lid. A message from his client.

Targets still alive. Provide urgent progress update.

Alvarez typed his reply, explaining that Kane had surprised him just as he was about to take out Kate Barrowhall.

Complete the job within 24 hours or we will send another operative.

Alvarez leaned back and cracked his fingers. He typed, explaining the need for calm and assuring them he would get the job done. He also asked for a trace on the vehicle Kane had travelled to Barrowhall’s house in.

Do you have the vehicle details and registration?

No, he replied. You will need to source it from her house CCTV cameras. The cursor blinked whilst Alvarez waited for a reply.

What is the point of you, if we have to run traces?

Do it and I will eliminate your target.

Careful. Or you might find yourself in danger.

Send the details to this number, he replied, ignoring the blunt threat. He sent on a safe burner number and closed his laptop. He left the house and placed his bag in the trunk of his hire vehicle, a Mercedes G-Class jeep. Alvarez left the rental cottage and drove out of Korrin Haven. Soon his client would send on the details of Kane’s vehicle, then Alvarez would begin the hunt. Valknut had unlimited resources, tech analysts, soldiers, spyware, weapons, funding. His usual careful, methodical approach would have to be dispensed with. It was time for a more practical, more urgent approach. Seek and destroy.

Twenty-Eight

Kane drove the jeep taken from the security guards at Merlin Mining’s office. He gripped the leather steering wheel and the vehicle’s engine hummed as he navigated the coast road beneath a morning sky like a watercolour canvas, the grey clouds of dawn chased away. The sun shone on the horizon and cast an amber glow that danced on the rugged Cornish cliffs. The road twisted and turned, a ribbon of asphalt clinging precariously to the edge of the land, with the restless Atlantic Ocean crashing against the rocks below. Each curve in the road seemed to echo the thoughts twisting in Kane’s mind.

Valknut. They were a dark force. A shadow lingering over the world, working outside of international law, building strength and power without consequences. Stead’s instructions were to build a case, to find enough evidence so that MI6 would give Stead the resources he needed to fully investigate and unleash MI6’s force against its enemy.

“Are you sure about Truro?” asked Craven from the passenger seat, where he tucked into another Cornish pasty.

“It’s the largest town in the area,” Kane replied. “Best place to hide is in a crowd. How’s the pasty?”

“Unbelievable.” Craven crunched into the pastry, sending most of it cascading down his shirt. The meat and vegetables inside it steamed to mist the car window.

“Even at this time in the morning?”

“It’s only two hours until lunchtime!” Craven looked at Kane as though he were a madman, as though there was nothing wrong with eating a meat pie at ten o’clock in the morning.

“I know a good hotel in Truro,” Kate said. “The Royal Hotel.”

“Let’s try it. I’ll call Stead from there,” Kane replied. Kate Barrowhall had shaken off the fear and terror of last night’s violence. She had red-rimmed green eyes from lack of sleep and wrinkled clothes. Kane glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. She caught his eye, and he looked away. She had a strong face, and her eyes were striking. Kane reminded himself to keep his eyes on the road.

He cracked the window open an inch to let out the stink of Craven’s pasty. The coastal air was crisp with the scent of salt and seaweed. Truro was the vibrant heart of Cornwall. Kane had visited the town six years ago on holiday with his wife and kids. It would be full of holidaymakers this time of year, its bustle giving the anonymity Kane required if he was to avoid any Valknut operative on his trail. The assassin would come again, but Kane didn’t fear that. He had the Glock and the knife from Kate’s house. A full Glock magazine held seventeen rounds, but there were only thirteen left in his weapon. It was enough, but it was always better to have surplus rounds with a potential gunfight looming.

Truro wasn’t the largest city, but its busy streets and lively markets were easy to disappear into. The landscape softened as he approached the town. Rolling hills flanked the road as they drove alongside fields dotted with grazing sheep and stone cottages with weathered faces. He remembered driving these roads with Danny, Kim, and Sally. Sally had loved the beaches and shopping in the Cornish markets. It had been five years since her death, and Kane still thought about her every day. Sometimes he heard her laugh in his sleep, thought he saw her amongst crowds. Her death had spelt the end of Kane’s time in witness protection, the end of his brief stint as a normal man living a normal life. Since then, Kane did the only thing he did well, the thing he was trained to do, born to do.

The car radio played softly, a local radio station filling the car with the soothing sounds of folk tunes and sea shanties, grounding Kane firmly in the present. He drove into Truro, its streets alive with the ebb and flow of people in a mix of rain jackets and t-shirts, prepared for the unpredictable British weather. He eased the jeep through circuitous lanes and cobblestones and found a parking spot near Victoria Square, the beating heart of Truro around which the energy of the town was palpable.

Kane stepped out of the jeep, the cool morning air a refreshing change from the confines of the vehicle made worse by Craven’s pungent snack. Truro was just as he remembered it, a charming blend of old-world elegance and modern vibrancy. The town was alive with history, its lanes lined with Georgian architecture and picturesque, antiquated shops.

“We left my place quickly,” said Kate Barrowhall, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her cheeks reddened, and she paused, waiting for Kane to fill in the gaps.

“We had no choice,” he replied.

“Which meant I didn’t have time to gather my things. Any things.”

“It was that or wait for the next gunman.”

Kate shook her head and planted her hands firmly on her hips.

“She needs clothes, Jack,” sighed Craven, brushing crumbs from his shirt. “Other things, too. Women’s things.”

“Ah.” Kane offered her an upside-down smile by way of apology.

“She doesn’t have her wallet or phone, either. Here, Kate.” Craven took a wad of notes from his wallet and handed them to her.

“You’re a gent,” she said. “I’ll get what I need and meet you at the Royal Hotel. It’s that way.” She pointed in the hotel’s direction and set off towards the shops.

“It would be better if she just came to the hotel,” Kane said once Kate was out of earshot.

“She’s been through a lot. Letting her get some new clothes, some make-up and something to wash her hair with isn’t the end of the world, is it?”

“It is when the dozens of CCTV cameras in the town pick up her image and beam it into space for any interested party to pick up.”

“Bloody technology. It makes my arse wink.”

“Thanks for that image. She’s fine. Cameras will pick up the jeep anyway, and you and me. We should buy some baseball caps just to be on the safe side.”

The Royal Hotel stood proudly near the square. Its grand façade blended Victorian charm and architectural grace with tall windows framed by ornate stonework. Soft, creamy white paint covered the building’s exterior, contrasting with the deep green ivy clinging to its walls. Kane and Craven walked up the steps leading to an entrance flanked by wrought-iron railings.

“You don’t get craftsmanship like this any more,” said Craven, caressing the intricate iron designs with his hand.

An elegant canopy above the entrance bore the hotel’s name in gold lettering. Kane pushed open rich, dark wood doors polished to a sheen and stepped into a foyer decorated with seasonal flowers.

“Neil Ruddock and Aubrey Clutterbuck,” Kane said as he handed a credit card to the receptionist. The card matched their passports and driving licences. “Aubrey’s wife will also join us.”

“So, a single and double room, then sir?” the receptionist replied with a polite smile.

“What do you think, Aubrey?” Kane turned to Craven and grinned at his friend’s annoyance. Giving Craven annoying cover names was one of the few small pleasures in Kane’s life.

Kane accepted two room keycards with a nod of thanks. The hotel would provide a bed and a shower, somewhere to rest for a day whilst Kane linked in with Stead.

“Fucking Aubrey again?” snapped Craven as they walked up the stairs towards their second-floor rooms.

“I told you before, it’s a fine name. It suits you.”

Craven snatched the keycards out of Kane’s hand. “Well, I get the single room. A double suits you.”

Twenty-Nine

Kane entered his room with a view overlooking the bustling streets of Truro. The décor was classic, with rich fabrics and antique furnishings. Much nicer than the basic hotels Kane and Craven usually stayed in. Jack tossed his small bag onto the bed and placed the Glock on the bedside table. He washed his face in the bathroom sink and went to stand by the window.

He watched the world go by for a moment, the people below unaware of the man watching them from above. Kane saw Kate Barrowhall in the crowd, wearing new a fitted pair of jeans and t-shirt. She stood out in the crowd, her hair shining and her body lithe. The receptionist had allocated back-to-back rooms, and a locked door linked the single and double rooms.

“Craven?” Kane shouted, knocking on the adjoining door.

“What?” Craven snapped, his unreasonable annoyance amusing Kane.

“Kate’s on the way back. Can you meet her in the lobby whilst I call Stead?”

“Bloody hell.” Kane laughed as he overheard Craven grumbling, followed quickly by the sound of his room door slamming.

Kane picked up his burner phone. He would make one more call before changing it for a fresh number and handset.

“Hello, Jack,” said Stead after Kane had dialled his number. “Looks like things are heating up in sunny Cornwall?”

“You could say that.”

“You’d better brief me, then.”

Kane gave Stead the details of Ray Brogan’s discoveries, Valknut’s involvement, the crypto transfers, and the fight at Kate Barrowhall’s home.

“You don’t believe she’s complicit?” asked Stead.

“No. She’s clean. She turned a blind eye to Valknut. They were just another investor to her. I’m fairly sure she did not know who Valknut was and what the implications were of their involvement.”

“And you say you can make a trail of the crypto transfers linking Merlin Mining to Valknut? We need that, Jack. Valknut equals Russia and Russia equals the Alliance. That’s the link we’re after, that’s the real danger threatening global security.”

“We are trying. Do you have enough now to get an operation off the ground?”

“I will do my best. Send me what you have. In the meantime, we have an assassin roaming the streets of Cornwall and Valknut operatives on the loose in our country.”

“My job was to gather intelligence. Which I have done. It’s time for you to follow up your end of the bargain.”

“Already done. You and Frank Craven are clean as whistles as far as the British Government is concerned. We have redacted your records with the police, MI5, and MI6. You can live your lives in peace. If that’s possible, of course.”

“My country isn’t hunting me, but trained killers are.”

“Quite.”

“I suppose you have no problem if I take out the assassin?”

“Be my guest.”

“What about the Valknut presence in the UK?”

“We don’t have a sanctioned operation yet. Plus, you don’t work for MI6, Jack. So I can’t give you a direct order. But let’s just say they are… undesirable.”

“Do you want them neutralised?”

“A quaint way of putting it. We would turn a blind eye if the Valknut operatives in the UK were put out of commission. Why do you want to go after them so badly?”

“The assassin knew my name. I think it’s safe to assume Valknut hired him to kill the CEO. But he knew I was here. That means Valknut instructed him to kill me and Kate Barrowhall.”

“So Valknut wants you dead?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to strike at them first?”

“Yes.”

“Well, God help them.”

“Can you provide weapons and support?”

“I can provide weapons and will ask one of your chums at MI5 to give support where possible. If Valknut is operating in the UK, it’s MI5’s job to keep the country safe using counterintelligence whilst we at MI6 take care of foreign problems.”

“Jones at MI5?” Jones had worked with Kane on the last job involving Valknut.

“I think so. I’ll tell him to expect your call. In the meantime, I will have some useful items left for you to collect. Where are you?”

“Still in Cornwall.”

“Very well. Ditch this phone and send me your new number. I will reply with a safe method of transferring whatever intelligence you have already gathered. I will also let you know when your Christmas presents are ready for collection.”

“Good.”

“Oh, and Jack?”

“What is it?” Kane asked, about to hang up the phone.

“Happy hunting.”

Thirty

Alvarez whistled as he drove along the Cornish roads, despite the throbbing pain in his wounded forearm. He liked the oldness of Britain, the feeling of something more ancient than America. King Arthur came from Cornwall, or so he had read in a local tour guide. Trees and fields flew by, lush greenery and decrepit walls separating one meadow from another.

The countryside opened up into a patchwork of emerald fields and hedgerows, stitched together by narrow lanes that seemed to have existed for centuries. Alvarez could almost imagine an armoured knight riding through the valleys upon his destrier in search of honourable combat. He gripped the steering wheel with a steady hand, eyes scanning the horizon where the land undulated like waves frozen in time.

The sea was a distant whisper. Its salty breath carried on the brisk Atlantic wind, tousling the trees lining the road. Alvarez shivered as he thought of the sea, of swimming through its treacherous waters in the bleak night. But he was alive, invigorated by the hunt.

Alvarez’s client had come up with the goods much quicker than he had expected. The jeep Kane took from Merlin Mining had passed through several roadside cameras which his clients’ tech analysers had picked up. Kane and the Merlin CEO were in Truro, a small town that Alvarez would reach any minute. Valknut had sent a grainy picture of both targets along with a larger, older man stood beside the jeep in a car park.

The hired Mercedes jeep sped over a bump in the road, making the bag in the trunk chink and clink. His bag of weapons. Alvarez had lost the Glock 19 and the Ka-Bar knife at Kate Barrowhall ’s house. Kane had the handgun, and probably the knife as well. England wasn’t America, and there was nowhere he could pick up a replacement sidearm with ease. It was a blow, but Alvarez still had the Remington sniper rifle with its customised scope, and that would have to do.

Alvarez relished the challenge, enjoyed the frustration Kane’s intervention caused. It heightened his senses, honed his predator’s instincts. Alvarez felt alive, like the knight he imagined cantering on his charger with sword and lance poised to strike in a duel to the death. The daydream swelled his chest, and Alvarez laughed at the thought of meeting Kane in a medieval joust.

The Mercedes crested a hill, and the town of Truro appeared below him, like something from a postcard, or a picture from a history book. Truro Cathedral’s spires pierced the sky like a gothic watchtower. The streets below were a maze of Georgian townhouses and modern buildings, their facades reflecting the town’s evolution over the centuries.

The road widened as Alvarez entered the town, flanked by rows of pretty, colourful shops and cafés, each promising warmth and respite. But not for Alvarez. This was to be the place of his joust, of his battle with a noble adversary. The scent of fresh baking bread wafted in through his open window. Alvarez felt like a tourist, like he had to get a bag of fish and chips or try a Cornish pasty.

He glimpsed the River Truro meandering through the town, its waters glinting under the pale sunlight. A faint outline of the coast shimmered in the distance, a jagged line where the land surrendered to the ocean. He drove past a second-hand bookshop with shelves set outside on the pavement. Alvarez pulled over, excitedly jumped out of his car, determined to find something to read. One of his favourites, a historical fiction or fantasy novel. He settled on a Viking fiction book, paid the moustachioed bookseller in cash, and left the shop whistling. It was a good day. A day to fight, a day to honour the gods of war.

Thirty-One

Kate Barrowhall followed Craven from the lobby to the hotel room.

“You found some clothes, then?” said the big man as he lumbered up the carpeted stairs.

“Yes. Thank you for speaking up for me,” she said. A twinge of anger niggled her. “I’m not used to it.”

“To having no clothes?”

“What? No. Needing someone to speak for me. Especially a man.”

“Don’t mention it. Jack isn’t as gruff as he seems. He’s a pussycat, really.”

“I haven’t spent a career clawing my way up the greasy pole in an industry dominated by men to find myself suddenly afraid to speak up. I was just a little, well, shaken after last night.”

“It’s a hard thing to see a man killed. No shame in being shocked by it. You’re in there.” Craven pointed to one door and then at the next one over. “I’m in here.”

“Where’s Kane?”

“In with you, I’m afraid, love.”

“What do you mean, in with me?”

“You and him in the double room. I’ve got the single.”

Kate stopped and fixed Craven with her best executive cold stare. “Two things for you, Mr Craven. One. Do not, ever, call me love. Referring to a woman by that derogatory name went out with Blockbuster Video. So please call me Kate. Two. Why on God’s green earth would you think I would share with your friend when we have two rooms, one of which is a single and one a double, and in our party we have two men and one woman?”

“All right. Keep your hair on.” Craven raised his hands, not wanting to face her anger.

“Another quip from the 1950s.” Her blood was up now. All the frustrations of being so impotent since the killer had entered her house. “Your friend thought he could slip into bed with me, is that it? Save the damsel in distress and bed her hours later? I don’t think so.” She plucked the keycard out of Craven’s hand and opened the single room’s door. Kate marched to the bed, picked up Craven’s travel bag, returned to the corridor and dropped it at his feet. “Thank you very much.”

Kate closed the door behind her and leaned against it. She allowed herself a cheeky grin. She walked to the window and slid it open to let the fresh sea air inside. Kate had perhaps been a little hard on Craven. He had been nothing but lovely to her. He was a bit old-fashioned, like an old uncle at a wedding, but he seemed like a nice man, really. Jack Kane, on the other hand, appeared to be a gung-ho military type. All slick calm, flash suit and confidence.

It felt good to be assertive again. A shower, a dab of make-up and she would be her old self again.

Thirty-Two

Craven burst into the room just as Jack was fastening the buttons on a fresh shirt. He had washed and changed after his call with Stead. A shave and a change were as good as a few hours’ sleep.

“That woman bit my bloody head off,” Craven exclaimed, cheeks red and hands stuffed firmly into his pockets.

“She’s taken your room, then?” Kane asked.

“How did you know?”

“Heard the door slam and assumed she’d want the single.”

“Aye, well. What’s wrong with a man wanting to get a bit of shut-eye in peace? We don’t get much sleep when we’re on the job. You can do just fine without it. You’re like a vampire. I need my eight hours, and I don’t mind admitting it.”

“You can sleep here. I’ll keep the noise down. I just need to think for a while.”

“Did you get hold of Stead?” “I did, and I’ve got good news. The job’s done. We can return to England and live without fear of the police banging our door down or a mob of MI5 agents swinging through the windows in the middle of the night. Stead has agreed to honour his side of the agreement, and our slate is clean. But that’s not the best of it.”

“Go on, enlighten me.” Craven sounded sceptical. He sat down wearily on the bed and took off his jacket.

“We have authority to take out the assassin, and to go after any Valknut agents currently operating on British soil.”

“How is that good news?”

Kane raised his eyebrows as though Craven had just asked him a mastermind question. “We get to go after them for a change, instead of waiting for them to hit at us. It’s time for us to get on the front foot, to flush them out, hurt them, get them out of Britain.”

“Which means lots of shooting, car chases, explosions, brushes with death, injuries and practically no chance of actual success?”

“I don’t know yet. But probably, Frank, yes.”

Craven lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. “You’d best let me get a few hours’ sleep then.”

Thirty-Three

Kane sat at the hotel room table, staring out of the window as the morning passed by on Truro’s busy streets. Craven slept, snoring like a hibernating bear, but the noise didn’t bother Kane. He was too deep in thought. The assassin would come for him and Kate Barrowhall. Kane was sure of that. He was on a mission and wouldn’t quit until it was finished, or he was dead. To win that battle, Kane had to make sure the fight was on his terms, in a place of his choosing.

The Valknut issue was an entirely different problem. Kane did not know how many agents they had on British soil, what their level of competence was, or how heavily armed they were. He needed to flush them out, to bring the bees to the honey. How to do it was the question. Stead would reply soon with a location to collect the equipment Kane needed for the job. That kit would largely dictate what method Kane used to bring the Valknut fighters to him. Ideas swirled around his head like a storm, and he sat quietly, trying to bring some order to them, trying to list them by chance of success and the opportunity to hit as many of the enemy as possible.

To truly hurt Valknut, to really damage their operations in Britain, Kane had to make a statement. Like fighting a bully or a confrontation on a man’s first day in prison, Kane had to hurt them so badly that they could not hurt him or Britain again. Or at least for a while. So, whatever he did, it had to be impressive and bold.

Kane stood and moved to the hotel room kettle. He filled the small white appliance with water from the bathroom and set it to boil. The tea tray held a selection of PG Tips teas and instant coffees. He set an English breakfast teabag into his cup and waited for the kettle to work its magic.

Something thumped loudly next door in the adjoining room Kate Barrowhall had commandeered from Craven. Kane cocked his head to listen. It could have been a dropped bottle, or something else falling against the wall. But it could also be something more sinister. A gasp and a small scream. Kane leapt to his feet, surging from his chair like a pouncing lion. Kane charged into the locked door with his shoulder. He hammered into the pine door with all of his weight, smashing through it in a splintering storm of wood and plaster.

Kate Barrowhall lay sprawled on the hotel room floor with her hands clutched to her head. Blood spattered the far wall in a mist and for a moment Kane thought she was dying. But then Kate rolled towards him, a look of utter terror on her face, dark blood streaming from the side of her head to soak her shirt at the shoulder. A rictus of fear tightened her features; in the instant Kane stared down at her, a mere second after he burst through the connecting door, something struck the top of his shoulder like a hammer blow.

Kane spun, pain stinging his shoulder like a whip. He landed on the bed, rolled to the floor, and realised instantly that someone had shot him. Another bullet thumped into the bed, sending a cloud of nylon and feathers into the air.

“Stay down!” Kane commanded. He crawled to Kate Barrowhall and put his arm around her, protecting her body with his own.

“What’s happening?” she choked through tears.

“A sniper. A gunman shooting from distance.”

Kane crawled and pulled open the wardrobe. He grabbed two shelves and ripped them out. “Get inside. Don’t move until I come back.”

She crawled towards him and grabbed Kane’s hand. “You want me to get in there?”

“Yes. If you want to live.”

Kate didn’t need a better reason. She clambered into the wardrobe.

“Let me see.” Kane eased Kate’s hand away from her head.

“Is it bad?” she whispered.

“No. The bullet clipped your neck and ear. You’ll be fine.” The ear bled freely; the bullet had torn away a fraction of her lower lobe and a ridge of skin on her neck. “Don’t move.”

Kane stood and ran to the bathroom. Another bullet ripped into the wall behind him. Anger flowed through Kane’s veins like a drug, making him faster, stronger, more determined. He grabbed a bright white towel and dashed to Kate.

“Hold this tight.” He pressed the towel to her ear and neck to stem the bleeding.

“What the bloody hell?” came Craven’s booming voice from the connecting door.

“Get down, Frank!” Kane shouted. “Sniper. Across the street. Stay with Kate until I get back.”

“Where the fuck are you going?”

“To kill the bastard.”

Thirty-Four

Kane ran for the door, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder. Sniper fire was unnerving. No sound of gunfire, just the vicious thump of bullets. The shooter had hit his target. Twice. A fraction of an inch to the left and Kate Barrowhall would be dead with a bullet in her skull.

The hotel room wall exploded as three bullets tore into it, buzzing so close to Kane that he felt the air shift about him. He reached the door and flung it open, sprinting through it and taking the stairs two at a time. The sniper had fired through the hotel’s open window, so his location had to be in a position of higher elevation, and Truro’s main square offered limited opportunities to shoot through a second-floor window. There was only one option in Truro with the vantage point a shooter needed to get an angle of fire into the Royal Hotel. St Mary’s church.

Kane ran through the lobby, through holidaymakers blissfully unaware of the bloody carnage erupting upstairs. His shoulder burned, but Kane could still move his arm. The bullet had ripped through the flesh above his collarbone, passing straight through his body like a knife. Blood soaked the shirt beneath his suit jacket, but no bones were broken.

Kane dodged around a woman in a floppy sun hat and huge sunglasses and darted out of the front door. He ran straight across the pavement and onto the road. A car screeched to a halt, the driver beeping his horn. Kane slid across the car bonnet and kept on his feet, reaching the other side of the road in three strides. A metallic thump sounded behind him and Kane angled his run, weaving into the crowd on the other side of the road. The sniper had seen him, had fired and hit the stopped car.

Kane sprinted through a crowd who gasped and leapt out of his way. The church was half a mile from the hotel, and Kane guessed he could reach it in less than eight minutes. That was enough time for the killer to pack up his weapon and gear and climb down from the tower to escape. Kane had to get to him first.

He raced down Truro’s narrow cobblestoned streets. The sound of his shoes clattering against the old stone echoed against the historic buildings. The sun cast long shadows across the path and folk who ambled amongst the lanes and pathways cursed as Kane barged through them. He veered left onto Boscawen Street, a bustling thoroughfare lined with quirky, antiquated shops and cafes. The scent of freshly brewed coffee snatched the stink of blood from Kane’s nose. His focus sharpened as adrenaline swamped him, heart pounding in his chest.

Kane dodged through more pedestrians, his eyes scanning for any sign of the sniper’s escape. He thundered past Truro Cathedral, lanes twisting and turning to lead him through the market area where colourful stalls displayed local crafts and fresh produce.

Kane barged a rotund-bellied man out of the way and skipped past two children who gaped at him with oversized lollipops in their hands. He skidded around a sharp right onto St Mary’s Street; the church rising above buildings in the distance. Each stride brought him closer, but time was running out. The sniper would be on the move. Waiting in his location was too risky now that shots had been fired. Every second counted as Kane forced his legs to keep pumping despite the fatigue in his muscles and his ragged breath.

Kane reached the clock tower and noticed the heavy wooden doors slightly ajar, creaking softly in the sea breeze. Manicured lawns dotted with tombstones surrounded the church like the dark grey teeth of a buried monster. Trees swayed gently in the breeze as visitors wandered beneath them, marvelling at the centuries’ old dates on the gravestones.

He reached the base of the clock tower and reached for the heavy door just as a man barrelled through them, driving into Kane, throwing them both to the floor. Kane groaned at the pain in his shoulder and looked into the familiar chestnut eyes of the man he hunted. The killer from Kate Barrowhall’s house. Those eyes glowered back at him like shark’s eyes, keen and bright but dead to anything but a hunger for violence.

Thirty-Five

The killer stood slowly, slipping his arm from a black holdall. A smile slowly split his face, olive skin gleaming in the sun.

“I missed,” mused the man in an American accent with a Hispanic lilt. “You are a lucky guy.”

Kane rose and set his feet. He cursed under his breath because the Glock had slipped out of his waistband in the fall and skittered ten paces across the pavement.

“You are a bad shot,” jibed Kane, buying himself a few seconds to think.

“Or perhaps it was fate once again. It’s better that we meet face to face. The long shot is less… personal. Less honourable.”

“There’s no honour in shooting an unarmed woman from a church tower. Who sent you?”

“A paying client. Who they are doesn’t matter. What matters is that the gods have brought us together. Two warriors. Our skills forged on the field of battle like champions of old.”

“Valknut paid you. You are a killer for hire. A man without honour. Little better than a thief or a rapist.”

The assassin stiffened, mouth trembling at the insult. “How dare you…”

Kane didn’t wait for his enemy to finish his sentence. He sprang at him, lashing out with his fists in a flurry of blows. Kane’s fist connected with the assassin’s jaw. Surprise knocked the man backwards and Kane punched him hard in the liver and again in the face. The killer blocked that last strike with his forearm and he pushed Kane away from him. He shook his head, clearing away the dizziness of Kane’s attack. The smile slipped from his wide mouth, replaced by a snarl, startlingly white teeth bared.

A kick flashed towards Kane’s groin, and he batted it aside. The foot came straight back, a reverse kick which thumped into Kane’s midriff. Kane caught the leg and twisted it, but the killer jumped like a monkey and wrapped a powerful arm around Kane’s neck. They fell together to the hard stone floor. Kane’s instincts kicked in. The killer was skilled in jiu-jitsu and if Kane wasn’t careful, he would find himself strangled to death.

Kane twisted, lifting his hips and fighting to get an arm in place to block the killer’s second arm from grasping his head. They rolled together on the cobblestones, Kane’s wounded shoulder pulsing but the desire to survive overcoming the pain. He suddenly remembered the knife, the blade he had taken from the assassin at Kate Barrowhall’s house. Kane dropped his hand, allowing the killer to wrap a muscled arm against his skull and press his chin down against the arm around his throat. The pressure came, the airway cut off. In moments, darkness would take him, and he would die strangled like prey in the grip of a mighty python.

He grabbed the knife and pulled it from the waistband of his trousers. Kane stabbed the killer twice in the thigh he had clasped close to Kane’s torso. Two rapid stabs, only an inch of blade punctured the man’s flesh. Enough to hurt him, enough to damage muscle, but not enough to tangle the blade and trap it inside the leg muscle.

The killer gasped and shifted his leg. Kane reversed the knife in his hand and reached behind him to stab the assassin once in the hip. He twisted again, changing grip once more and drove the blade into the forearm about his neck. The killer stifled a grunt and kept a tight hold. Kane choked, sagging, desperately close to losing consciousness. He stabbed again into the forearm, but this time ripped the blade, sawing at the muscle, feeling the steel grind against bone. Kane put all of his strength into that horrible attack, felt the assassin’s blood seep down the knife onto his hand. It was the attack of a desperate man fighting for his life.

The grip fell from Kane’s throat, and he rolled away, scrambling on all fours like a dog.

“Son of a bitch,” the killer spat, standing, cradling his ruined arm.

Kane stood, staggered and readied himself to fight again. A crowd of people had gathered about them, folk who had come to gaze upon the ancient beauty of Truro Cathedral and had instead witnessed a brutal fight. The killer glanced at his bag, which must contain his rifle and whatever other weapons he had brought to complete his murderous task. Blood dripped from his ruined arm to puddle on the cobbles and widening circles of crimson showed at his hip and thigh.

The killer spat, glanced at the crowd, turned and limped away towards the graveyard. Kane rubbed at his throat, tender from being choked, and set off in pursuit.

Thirty-Six

Alvarez limped into the graveyard, moving as fast as he could away from Jack Kane and the crowd of onlookers. Shame swamped him like the Atlantic Ocean the night before. Not only had he missed a clear shot at Kate Barrowhall and Jack Kane, but Kane had bested him man against man. Alvarez never missed. Had never suffered defeat. The pain in his savaged arm and wounded leg mixed with the overwhelming feeling of failure made him vomit. He leaned on a gravestone and wiped his mouth.

The fight could have gone on. Alvarez had come within a whisker of choking the life from his target, and he was sure he could have finished the job. Sure. But too many curious eyes, too many cameras inside shops and cafés, had witnessed the fight. Anonymity was key to Alvarez’s work, to his way of life, to his very existence. How could he easily travel between countries if every law enforcement agency in the world knew his appearance, recognising him as the man who fired a sniper rifle in sleepy Truro and engaged in a brutal fight witnessed by Cornish holidaymakers?

A twig crunched behind him, and Alvarez turned to see Kane striding into the graveyard. Alvarez set off again, dragging his wounded leg behind him like a dead weight. He scrambled through the brambles, using the gravestones to lean upon, lunging from one to the other to stop from falling down amongst the dead bodies to become a corpse himself.

Kane was skilled, but no more so than the men Alvarez had fought alongside during his time as a Delta operator. Certainly no more skilled than men Alvarez had killed in the past. But he was something else, something more vicious, more brutal. All thoughts of honourable combat suddenly felt foolish, arrogant. If he could have the time over again, Alvarez would have killed both targets at Kate Barrowhall’s house. Hubris was the word, he thought, as he tripped over a broken flowerpot.

Alvarez risked another glance over his shoulder. Kane was closing in, striding confidently and calmly towards him. Implacable, without anger or hate, just an average Joe in a nice suit and a bloody knife in his fist. Alvarez clawed his way up a lichen-covered gravestone and continued on. He entered a clutch of trees, and beyond it glimpsed the safety of a busy road. Cars stopped at traffic lights. Kane couldn’t kill him in the middle of a line of cars. He tried to move faster, but the blood leaking from leg, hip, and arm weakened him, leaving him light-headed and slow.

His good foot snagged under a strip of iron hidden beneath overgrown grass. A bar set into the earth to ring the grave of a forgotten soul. He fell and tried to brace himself with his ruined arm, but the arm gave way and Alvarez’s face crumpled into the grass and soil. His good arm pressed him upwards, breath wheezing as exhaustion swamped his senses. A heel slammed into his back and Alvarez’s head cracked into a gravestone. He winced as stars flashed before his eyes.

Alvarez rolled onto his back and tried to rise. Refusing to give in, refusing to surrender. Kane leaned over him, face impassive. Alvarez opened his mouth to speak, searching for something witty or poignant to say. Before he could mutter anything, Kane’s hand came forward, steel flashing in his fist. The knife punched into Alvarez’s throat beneath his chin. It felt like a punch, a dull thud in his throat. Kane ripped the knife free, turned and walked away. Alvarez leaned backwards, unable to breathe, drowning in his own blood.

Kane hadn’t even stayed to watch him die. Hadn’t even cared to savour the triumph of his victory. Didn’t care that he had overcome Alvarez, a highly-trained killing machine. A worthy opponent, a scalp to be savoured and enjoyed, like a hunter mounting a lion’s head upon his wall. The trees and blue sky slipped into darkness. An image of Alvarez’s mother suddenly came to him, her kind face leaning over him, planting a loving kiss on his cheek. A tear seeped from Alvarez's dying eye. He thought of his treasured home in Montana, which he would never see again, and then he died.

Thirty-Seven

Craven helped Kate Barrowhall out of the wardrobe. Blood covered the left of her chest and shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he asked, realising after the words escaped his lips that the question was redundant as she trembled underneath his heavy arm.

“Are they going to kill me?” she asked, staring up at him with large, terrified eyes.

“We need to get out of here. Where are your things?”

She pointed a long finger with a nail painted burgundy but broken in one corner. Craven followed her direction and reached out to grab her shopping bags. He led her through the smashed door into his and Kane’s room. An urgent knock came at the door.

“Hello, sir?” said a worried voice from the corridor. “Is everything OK in there?”

“Fine, thanks,” Craven called. “I just dropped the TV remote.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Craven stopped and sat Kate down carefully on the chair beside the room’s dressing table. He fished in her bag and pulled out a heavy woollen jumper.

“Put this on.”

Kate just stared at him. Craven pulled the towel from where she held it against her head. He tutted at the mess. A small portion of her earlobe was missing and a nasty cut stood out, a lurid red on her neck. Craven dabbed the excess blood away.

“We can treat this properly later. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Craven put the jumper on her just as he would with a child who couldn’t do it for themselves. “Listen,” Craven said, kneeling in front of her. “You’re strong. You know it and I know it. Someone has tried to kill you. Twice. Jack’s gone after them, but you need to fight too. Just as you would if someone came up against you in the boardroom. You can do it. I know you can.”

She nodded, wiped her nose on the back of the jumper. Her eyes cleared, changing from a watery mess to hard, cold, ice blue. “Let’s go,” she said. Kate strode into the bathroom and emerged with a fresh towel pressed to her wounded ear.

“We are going to walk out as if there’s nothing wrong.”

“I can do that. Won’t they trace us from your credit card, or whichever of you paid for the room?”

“We don’t use our real identities. Come on.”

“Wait.” She pulled at Craven’s arm, stared back at the broken door and up into his eyes. “How do we know the gunman won’t shoot again? Or that he isn’t waiting in the corridor, or coming for us in the lobby?”

Craven shrugged. “Jack’s gone after the gunman. You don’t need to worry.” He didn’t need to say any more than that. Craven had known Kane now for a few years, and he had never met a man more capable in desperate situations. He had known smarter men during his time in the police, tougher men he’d arrested on the streets of Liverpool and Manchester, but never a man so able to use his skills to survive and win in the most dangerous circumstances.

He opened the door and led Kate out into the corridor. A hotel worker in shirt and skirt gaped at Kate Barrowhall with the towel clutched to her head and shopping bags in her hand.

“Accident with a wine bottle,” Craven said as he hurried past the woman.

He led Kate down the stairs and into the hotel foyer, ignoring the curious stares from people waiting to check in for their holiday stay in Truro. Craven heaved open the door, and Kate Barrowhall hurried out into the street.

A silver Volkswagen Passat swerved from the main road and pulled up abruptly in front of them. The window slid down, and Kane peered at Craven from the driver’s seat.

“Get in. It’s time to go.”

“What happened?” Kate asked, glancing nervously across Truro’s main square.

“The assassin’s dead.”

Thirty-Eight

McGovern watched the fight unfold on CCTV footage captured from a coffee shop across the street from St Mary’s church in Truro. Three Valknut analysts had tracked the assassin’s movements since the asset came into play, since he arrived in the UK. One of those analysts, a thin young man with an acne-ravaged face, stood over her shoulder, ready to click and type when McGovern struggled with Valknut’s technology systems. McGovern watched Jack Kane stab her asset with a knife, chase him into a graveyard and emerge alone. Unscathed and alive.

She hated him. She replayed the video three times as a sort of masochistic ritual, punishing herself for failing again. Every time the analyst ran the video over, her fists balled against the arms of her functional office chair. Jack Kane made her blood boil. Just the sight of him made her skin itch. McGovern loathed her life in Krasnodar where she lived and worked as an all but prisoner, held by Valknut working as a cog in its global intelligence and counterintelligence service.

McGovern had never actually tried to leave, had never walked out of the compound which had been her home for two years. It was a military base, intelligence headquarters, training facility, everything a private military organisation needed. Though unguarded, Valknut always kept her and every person within the fortress under surveillance via a multitude of CCTV cameras. They weren’t watching her. They were watching everybody and everything. Where would she go even if they could stroll out of the front gate? Out into the wild Krasnodar hills? She had no money, no bank account to access. No life. She ate in the mess three times a day, slept in her room close to the barracks buildings. Circumstances trapped McGovern along with barbed wire and machine-guns.

McGovern closed her eyes and if she tried, she could almost remember the smell of her office in Vauxhall Cross, London. She could remember the pride and thrill of working for MI6 and defending the country she loved. That was a different life. Snatched away from her, whipped away like smoke in a whirlwind. Jack Kane was at the epicentre of that whirlwind. Before stumbling across him, her star had risen like a comet, catapulting her to the upper echelons of MI6, where McGovern had been on the cusp of leading her own splinter group of MI6 with a monumental budget. She had been within touching distance of power and success.

Now she found herself in a bleak metallic office. An uncomfortable chair, a basic desk and walls unadorned with anything but the savage Valknut logo painted on the western wall and a small window allowing her a glimpse of the bleak Krasnodar hills.

The office door swung open, startling McGovern from her thoughts.

“What happened?” barked General Balakin in heavily-Russian accented English. “How did you fail again?”

McGovern swallowed hard and stood up from her chair, feeling his piercing eyes carving into her soul like a knife. Those eyes glowed like Arctic ice within the crags of his gnarled, lined face.

“The asset failed. Kane terminated him.”

Balakin swore in Russian and slammed his fist down on her desk.

“Get out!” he snarled at the analyst, who had shrunk into the corner of McGovern’s office, hoping to evade the general’s volcano-like temper. Balakin waited until the analyst had skulked out of the room and closed the door softly behind him. “You are fast becoming surplus to requirements, McGovern. Do you know what we do with surplus ordnance?”

“No, sir,” she replied, even though she knew full well what he was about to say.

“We destroy it. Dispose of it. Burn it.”

“Yes, General.”

“We have allowed you to use your soft, gentle Western approach to this situation. You added value for a while, giving us an insight into how our enemies think. But now you become stale, inefficient. Underperforming.”

“I will complete the mission, General. I give you my word.” What else could she say? Balakin could put a bullet in her head at the drop of a hat and bury her in the hills. Who would know? Who would care? There was no police here, no law, but what Valknut said was so.

“Your word? What is that worth?”

“I’ll get the job done.”

“This time we dispense with the gentle approach. I want you to protect our interests in the lithium mine at all costs. We have a strategy, a goal. We must win the financial war before we can secure victory on the battlefield. Send The Beast after Kane, pull him out of the Ukraine and set him on Kane’s trail. Let The Beast loose in England. No caution. No holding back.

Your task is to pull apart Kane’s life. I have read his file. He has children. Find them. He must have money somewhere. Find it. He must live somewhere. Find him. I want his life turned to ashes. Flush him out and kill him. I want to know it’s done in three days’ time. Or you become surplus ordnance.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned, opened the door and inflected his head halfway in her direction. “Don’t fail me again.”

McGovern shuddered. She stood and opened her door, beckoning for the young analyst to return.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said. McGovern registered his excellent English, despite the situation she found herself in.

“Bring up The Beast’s file for me.”

He leaned over her and tapped on her keyboard. A file flashed up, and he clicked through a complicated menu-string to translate the words into English. McGovern leaned forward.

The Beast’s real name was Sergei Volkov. Born in the small, rugged town of Norilsk,  Siberia, he grew up in a harsh environment. At eighteen, they conscripted Sergei into the Russian Army. His innate survival instincts and formidable physical prowess quickly caught the attention of his superiors, leading to his recruitment into the Spetsnaz, Russia’s elite special forces.

McGovern's jaw dropped as they pored over the transcript. Over the course of his thirty-two-year career, Sergei fought in many conflicts, including the first and second Chechen wars, the Russo-Georgian war, and operations in Syria and Ukraine. Russia awarded him multiple military honours, such as the Order of Courage and the Medal for Distinction in Combat, for his service.

“Show me how he earned his nickname,” McGovern asked, and the analyst sifted through various files until he found the report.

During the second Chechen war, Sergei was involved in the notorious massacre at the village of Komsomolskoye. Under his command, his Spetsnaz unit was responsible for the brutal annihilation of both combatants and civilians, which earned him the moniker The Beast. Six feet five inches tall, muscular with grizzled features, his face and body bore the scars of countless battles. McGovern flicked through various pictures of Sergei in camouflage fatigues, tactical vests laden with ammunition and gear, and often in a black balaclava.

The analyst opened the last file. Psychological profile. Sergei Volkov is a soldier of few words, driven by a cold, calculating nature. His loyalty to Russia and the Valknut group is unwavering, even fanatical. He possesses an uncanny ability to remain calm under pressure, allowing him to execute operations with ruthless, surgical precision. Despite his outward appearance of stoic brutality, Sergei Volkov harbours a deep-seated rage stemming from his traumatic childhood in Siberia, which he channels into his work. The anger, coupled with a sense of betrayal from his past, drives his relentless pursuit of perfection in warfare, making him both a feared and respected figure among his peers.

Within Valknut, Sergei Volkov is both feared and admired. Known for getting the job done, irrespective of the moral or ethical implications. He is often called upon for the most dangerous and clandestine assignments. He is fifty years old, came through the ranks with Balakin.

If there was a man to send after Jack Kane, it was The Beast. Something deep inside McGovern felt uncomfortable at the prospect of unleashing Volkov in Britain, her home, the land she had once sworn to protect against all enemies, foreign and domestic. But her hatred for Kane, and a desire to stay alive, forced her hand.

She typed the order to pull The Beast out of the Ukraine, where he was engaged in various hunt and kill operations behind enemy lines. McGovern spent the rest of the day organising transport, flights, clothes, false passports, and a credit card loaded with funds. She had her team contact Russian underworld contacts in the UK, and a mafia-type organisation Valknut dealt with across Europe and the USA to transport weapons and other illegal items across borders. They would provide safe houses, weapons and support for The Beast on the ground.

McGovern prepared for The Beast to do what he did best. Cause carnage and slaughter targets. Finally, it would bring an end to her great enemy, her nemesis.
Jack Kane was about to fight his last fight.

Thirty-Nine

Kate Barrowhall sat in the back seat of the stolen Volkswagen Passat as Kane drove around Cornwall’s snaking roads.

“Are you sure about this place?” Kane asked.

“I’m sure,” Kate replied. “My friend Emily owns the surf shop. Emily Carter. She’s been my friend for years. We can trust her.”

“She won’t mind you just dropping in like this?”

“With two strange men?”

“Kane’s strange,” said Craven, turning around to grin at her from the front seat. “There’s nothing wrong with me. Salt of the earth.”

Kate had recommended they drive to St Agnes after leaving Truro. It was only eight miles away and Kate knew it well. It had seemed like a good idea as they sped away from the carnage in Truro. She hadn’t been thinking straight, still reeling from an assassin shooting at her through a hotel window. Her suggestion of St Agnes seemed a way to contribute, to overcome her helplessness in the dire situation. But as they drew closer, it felt like the wrong thing to do. Emily was her friend, and Kane and Craven were dangerous.

“Did you kill the gunman?” she asked, shifting nervously as the words escaped her lips.

“Yes,” Kane replied simply. She waited for him to offer more, to give some sort of excuse or reason for his death. But then she supposed it was obvious. The gunman had shot at Kate and Kane, it was him or them. A world away from her usual life.

“How’s your ear?”

“I’ll live.” The bleeding had stopped, but her ear and neck were a mess. “But we’d better get cleaned up before we get to Emily’s place. I don’t want to frighten her.”

“We’ll pull over.”

“Won’t the police be after you for murder?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You just killed a man on the quiet streets of a Cornish holiday town. Surely there’ll be an uproar? A manhunt? There were gunshots.”

“We are working with MI6,” said Craven. “Sort of, anyway. They wanted the gunman dead. Amongst other things. They’ll talk to the police, quieten things down.”

“Does that stuff really happen?”

“Sometimes. There’s something bigger going on, involving your investor, the Valknut Group. Threats to national security and that sort of thing.”

“So, you two are spies? Like James Bond? Aren’t you a little old?”

“Thanks for that.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“We don’t work for MI6,” said Kane. “But they have tasked us to help with this situation.”

“I’m confused.”

“We’ll pull in here. Frank can explain whilst I fix your up your ear and my shoulder.”

Kane pulled the car in at a lay-by on the country road, little more than a widening point where the road straightened out, with a picnic bench and a bin for motorists. Kane pulled a small tin out from his jacket pocket and laid it on the bench. He gingerly slipped off his jacket and set it down. Blood soaked his shoulder, half-dried and blackened. Kane took off his shirt and Kate winced at the black hole at the top of his shoulder.

“Is that a gunshot wound?” she asked.

“Yes, but it went straight through.”

“Don’t you need a hospital?”

“Yes, so do you. But we don’t have time.”

“What’s that?” She pointed at the tin and Kane opened it.

“Survival tin. A hangover from my days in the army.”

The tin contained a small knife with both a serrated and straight edge to cut and strike a flame, a wire saw with keyrings at each end, alcohol wipes, a tampon to either start fires or use as battle dressing, a fishing line and hooks, a gauze, a condom that could carry a litre of water in an emergency, and a sewing kit for use on both clothing and flesh. He took an alcohol wipe and gently cleaned the dried blood from Kate’s ear and neck, and then his own shoulder. He worked at applying some gauze to her ear whilst Craven explained to her how he and Kane had met, how Kane had once worked for MI6 and the SAS, how they helped people in trouble.

Kate found it all a little hard to believe. She would never have believed them had she not seen them in action. She was part of their far-fetched story now, part of the shadow world she had thought only existed in the movies. Kate turned away as Kane took the needle and thread and sewed up his own shoulder. His body was criss-crossed with scars, a tapestry of the things Jack Kane had endured in his life. He was a cold man, brutal and savage. But he was also gentle, even tender as he dressed her injuries. His touch was warm and soft.

They got back into the car and Kane continued on the B3277 road towards St Agnes. Kate watched the woodland, fields, and streams roll by and wondered what her future had in store. Was her career over? She supposed her most immediate worry was survival, but after that, surely people, her peers, would wonder what had happened at Merlin Mining. Kate’s career was everything to her. She had sacrificed a life with children, with a family home, holidays in Spain, a husband, all at the altar of her career.

Kate would cross that bridge when this was over. When she was safe. As they entered St Agnes, familiar stone cottages appeared, buildings Kate remembered from previous visits. She spotted St Agnes’ beacon, a prominent hill she had walked with Emily in happier times. They entered the cosy village, and Kate hoped she hadn’t brought trouble to her old friend.

Forty

Kane stood outside the surf shop with a burner phone he had bought at a Spar convenience store in St Agnes. He messaged Stead’s secure number, briefing him on the assassin’s death to ensure the police report and activity were suppressed. Kate and Craven had gone inside the surf shop with its worn wooden exterior and brightly-painted sign emblazoned with its name, Wave Haven. The shop window displayed an array of surfboards in various vibrant colours, wetsuits, and other beach gear. Inside, the shop was welcoming, laid back, with the faint smell of sea salt and wax. Through the window he saw walls lined with surf memorabilia, photographs of epic waves and maps of local surf spots.

He called Danny on the burner.

“Hey Dad,” Danny said as he answered the phone.

“How did your test go?” Kane asked.

“All right. I think.”

“Did you study for it?”

“Obvs.”

“How’s your sister?”

“Good. I think.”

“It’s great to talk to you too, son. I always look forward to these deep and meaningful chats.”

“Sorry, Dad. I’m on my way to French class.”

“Will you check in on your sister for me? Her dorm isn’t that far away, right?”

“I’ll check on her.”

“Thanks, son. Shall I call you later when you’ve more time?”

“Yeah, cool. Just one quick thing, Dad, before you go. Something weird is going on.”

“Weird how?”

“I think someone has found our server. Something feels off. I think we need to move off Cameron’s secure network.”

“Can you set another one up?”

“I think so.”

“How can you be sure someone has accessed our information? Cameron had it all well-hidden.”

“I can’t be sure. But I can just tell. Files look like they’ve moved.”

Kane’s stomach turned over. If someone had found his secure files, they could find more about him. “What about the bank accounts?”

“I don’t have access to them, Dad. Remember?”

“I’ll check. Go to your class. Stop looking into the crypto links for now. Stay out of the files. I’ll call you later.”

“Laters, Dad.”

Kane hung up the phone and used the browser on the burner to access his offshore bank account. The accounts where Kane kept the funds he had taken from criminals over the last few years, his only source of income. He knew the access codes by heart and checked the first account. Balance zero. Heat rose up Kane’s neck, sweat sprang out on his back. He checked another account. Balance zero. Someone was onto him. It had to be Valknut. If they had accessed his funds and the massively secure file networks set up by Cameron, they knew everything. Which meant Danny and Kim were in danger.

He stepped inside the surf shop, maintaining an air of calm despite the chill of fear.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Kate Barrowhall said to the surf shop owner. They were mid-conversation and a woman in her mid-forties with sun-kissed skin and wavy blonde hair was pointing at Kate’s ear. “An accident.”

“Gosh, it looks sore,” winced the surf shop owner.

“Emily, this is Jack Kane. Jack, meet Emily,” said Kate, gesturing between Kane and Emily.

“Good to meet you,” said Kane, and Emily smiled in greeting.

“Emily has kindly agreed that we can use her upstairs flat for a few days. It’s empty at the moment.”

“Anything for you Katie,” said Emily.

Kate led the way to a steep staircase at the rear of the shop. She walked upstairs and opened the door to a pretty, bijou flat. Kane followed Craven into the modest but comfortable living area with a worn but inviting sofa, a compact kitchen with essential appliances, and a single bedroom. The décor was eclectic, with seashells and driftwood art adorning the walls. The flat’s windows offered a view of the grey ocean, heaving and surging in the distance.

“This will do nicely,” pronounced Craven, setting his back down on the sofa. “All we need now is a chippy or a pie shop.”

“Be nice to Emily,” warned Kate, wagging a finger at both men. “She’s dear to me.”

“Don’t worry. She won’t even know we’re here. We’ll be gone before she knows it.”

“Frank, I need you to do me a favour,” said Kane, still staring out of the window.

“I don’t like the sound of this,” sighed Craven. “Whenever you ask for a favour, it normally means something shitty is about to happen.”

“I have to stay here with Kate and work on the Valknut issue. But I want you to go to Seville and check on Danny and Kim.”

“Are they OK?” asked Craven. Frank and his wife had looked after Danny and Kim after Sally’s death, and Craven loved them as though they were his own children.

“I think so. Someone is messing around with our files.”

“Valknut?”

“Has to be.”

“You don’t think they’d go after the kids?”

“No. But can you get over there? Just in case?”

“Of course. I’ll go today.”

Kane watched the sea roll onto a golden beach through the flat window. They were his children, and Kane should go himself. But he doubted Valknut would stoop that low. They wanted him out of the picture. That was clear. The assassin not only knew his name, but was actively targeting Kane’s life. He couldn’t leave Kate Barrowhall alone. They would kill her within forty-eight hours. The minute she found a phone and dialled a friend, or accessed her bank accounts, they would swoop on her like hawks. He could bring Kate to Seville with him, but both Kane and Kate were targets and their presence there would definitely put Danny and Kim in danger.

So Frank Craven would go, and Kane hoped his worries were unfounded. Valknut had stolen his money. That was fine. He could find more. They wouldn’t target his children. Or so Kane hoped. He watched the white tips break against the shore and understood in that moment that he had to create a nightmare for Valknut. Kane had to cause such a storm that Valknut had no choice but to send everything after him. He had to turn their operation in the UK upside down, burn it to the ground, focus their attention away from Seville and onto England. Luckily, carnage was Jack Kane’s speciality.

Forty-One

Kane strolled out of the surf shop with Kate Barrowhall at his side. It was early evening, and both had showered and changed in the upstairs flat. Craven had caught a flight from Newquay airport in Cornwall to Spain, leaving Kane and Kate alone. The evening was warm, and Kate Barrowhall wore a light white shirt and jeans with her long auburn hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Kane wore a Brioni tailored suit taken from his bag, with an Egyptian cotton shirt, black belt, and black brogues.

“So, we are looking for a car?” Kate asked, sliding on a pair of sunglasses. An orange sun hung low in the sky, shining bright and fierce despite the lateness of the day.

“A car left by a friend,” he replied.

“A friend? Come on. Haven’t we been through enough now? Be honest!”

Kane smiled at her. “MI6 have left a car for me with some equipment which might come in handy.”

“Handy?”

“For flushing out Valknut and compromising their presence in Britain.”

“Ah. I thought you were going to say for protecting me.”

He turned in surprise and was rewarded with a mocking grin. Stead had provided directions to a secluded car park on the outskirts of St Agnes village, a miniature holiday mecca wedged between towering cliffs and the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Kane scanned the car park, looking for vehicle registration, which Stead had sent on with the location. He saw a few surfers’ camper vans and pick-up trucks and then stopped with his hands on his hips.

“I can’t see an Aston Martin anywhere,” said Kate Barrowhall.

“I’ve never driven an Aston Martin, more’s the pity,” Kane replied.

“I thought spies drove fancy cars with ejector seats and machine-guns behind the headlights?”

“If only that were true. Ah, I think I’ve spotted the car.” Kane peered around a lurid yellow camper can to where a 2012 brown Ford Mondeo waited, with a Manchester United supporters’ sticker on the back window. The car had the correct registration, and Kane found the keys resting on the passenger side front tyre.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a car I would associate less with a spy.”

“I think Stead is having a bit of a laugh with me. And I’m not a spy.”

“How would you describe yourself? If you had to write a CV.”

“Unemployed.”

He unlocked the car with the key fob and opened the boot. It opened with a soft click and Kane moved to the rear, hoping that the cache Stead had provided was more suitable than the vehicle and its niggling sticker. Kane glanced about him to make sure nobody was watching and unzipped the large khaki duffle bag inside. His eyes immediately fell upon the Heckler & Koch MP7. He was familiar with the weapon and its compact design. Its 4.6x30mm ammunition could effortlessly penetrate body armour.

Kane rummaged beneath the MP7 and its four spare magazines of armour-piercing high-velocity rounds and found a Sig Sauer P226 pistol and holster, which Kane had carried during his SAS days.

“Holy shit, Jack,” breathed Kate Barrowhall when she saw what lay within the old Ford Mondeo. “Are you going to start a war?” She glanced about nervously in case anybody saw the arsenal in the car’s boot.

Next to the Sig was a Glock 48. Kane lifted the Glock, and its accompanying holster, and handed it to Kate.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” she demanded.

“Carry it for your own protection. You just point and shoot. Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not carry it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“You will the next time someone shoots at you.”

“Next time? I thought Truro was the last time.”

“Take it just in case. It has a thinner grip than most guns. It only holds ten rounds and should fit well in your hand. Tuck the holster into your jeans.”

“Give it to me, just to get the bloody thing out of sight.” She took the weapon and fumbled at her waistband. Kane helped her, his fingers accidentally brushing the skin at her hip. The touch sent a shudder up his spine, and he noticed yellow flecks in her green eyes for the first time. He delayed there for a moment, tucking the holster inside her jeans, breathing in the smell of her washed hair. She cleared her throat and Kane stepped away and noticed that her cheeks had flushed as scarlet as his own.

Kane rummaged through the bag and found some useful tactical gear. Four body-pack radios with throat microphones and earpiece receivers, two fitted Kevlar vests, tactical gloves, and a set of night vision goggles. A length of coiled rope, carabiners, four burner phones, a pack of cable ties, a slim flashlight, medical kit, tourniquet, and a compact set of binoculars.

In a black rucksack, Stead had included a hi-tech jammer capable of disrupting communications within a one-mile radius, a small drone equipped with infrared cameras. Kane smiled at the last item in the bag. A set of explosive charges discreetly packaged and bearing military-grade specifications.

“This will do,” Kane said as he closed the car boot.

“What are you going to do with all that?”

“Go back to the flat and get some sleep. Then wake up early and blow up your old mine.”

“Are you kidding?” Kate Barrowhall smiled, but her expression quickly changed when she realised Kane was deadly serious. “Shit!”

It was time to light a fire under Valknut, for him to go after them for a change. For the hunted to become the hunter.

Forty-Two

Craven landed in Seville and stepped off the plane into the warm, early summer air. He breathed a faint scent of orange blossoms and heard the distant hum of traffic. The sun was already casting a bright and golden glow over the tarmac as he made his way to the arrivals hall. Returning to Seville felt like a step back into bad memories. Craven had loved the city, had enjoyed living there, but all he could think of was Barb. Craven’s memories of her death were forever bound to Seville, and he missed her every minute of every day.

He marched through the bustling airport, his soft-soled loafers occasionally squeaking on the polished floor. The chatter of multiple languages and the rapid song of Spanish filled the high rafters as Craven searched out the car rental desks. He approached the white Europcar counter on the fringes of the arrivals hall. He carried a leather holdall over one shoulder with clothes enough for two nights. Craven had come to check on Danny and Kim Kane, a task they would doubtless prefer their father had taken on himself. But Craven loved them, and despite his reluctance to step into the heart of his sadness, he looked forward to seeing the children.

The Europcar counter was sleek and modern, with digital displays showcasing various car options and prices. A friendly attendant greeted him with a wide smile and Craven slid his phone onto the desk displaying the details of his reservation details, or rather the reservation Kane had made on his behalf. Craven fished in his jacket pocket and slipped his driving licence, passport and credit card across the desk, which the attendant quickly verified.

“Welcome to Sevilla, Mr Clutterbuck,” said the young man, struggling over the pseudonym. Craven sighed, imagining Kane’s amusement at his friend travelling as Aubrey Clutterbuck yet again.

The attendant offered Craven a choice of vehicles within the class he had reserved, briefly explaining the features and benefits of each in excellent English. It never failed to surprise Craven how well other Europeans spoke English and how badly English people spoke any other language, and the complete disregard they had for those languages. He opted for a manual Seat Leon. Reliable, efficient, sturdy. Just the job.

After confirming his choice, the attendant offered various additional extras, and Craven took the GPS navigation to help find his way from the airport to the kids’ school. Whilst he hated technology, Craven found GPS maps one of the greatest tech advancements of his lifetime. As a younger man, car journeys to unfamiliar destinations meant a folded, vast paper map, and stopping every twenty minutes to ask directions from unsuspecting passers-by.

Craven signed the agreement, and the attendant handed him the keys. He drove out of the airport and merged onto the A-4 highway, struggling to re-familiarise himself with driving on the opposite side of the road to the UK. The car hummed smoothly as he sped up, the landscape transforming from urban sprawl to the more serene vistas of rising fields dotted with olive groves. The Sierra Norte mountains rose in the distance, peaks hazy beneath the sun’s glare.

Kane had not given much of a reason for wanting Craven to check on the children. Something about bank accounts being compromised and secure files cracked. Craven hadn’t asked too many questions, purely because he would not understand the answers. He kept out of the internet stuff. Once he had access to the money he needed to live, that was enough. As the black tarmac whipped by, Craven thought about visiting an estate agent whilst he was in town. He needed to start the process of selling the villa. The job in England had cleared the way for his return, and Frank wanted to live in more familiar surroundings. He wanted to be close to Barb’s grave, close to a proper pub. He wanted to be home.

The weather was quintessentially Andalusian, dry, warm, and slightly breezy, carrying with it the earthy scent of sun-baked soil and the occasional whiff of wildflowers. Craven drove with the window slightly open and the radio off, allowing the balmy wind to warm his face.

Craven followed the arrow on the GPS device mounted on the Seat’s dashboard. He swung a left onto the SE-20 ring road, skirting the edge of the city, before joining the Q-49. Traffic was light, allowing Craven’s mind to wander, wondering what price he would get for the villa and what sort of house he might buy in England. He didn’t need anything fancy. A little house or flat would do fine. The villa was large and should bring a good sale price, more than enough to get him set up back home.

He turned onto a narrower, twisting road leading to the Yago School where Danny and Kim stayed as boarders. The approach was marked by an ornate wrought-iron gate, flanked by tall, proud cypress trees. Gravel covered the long, curving driveway as it meandered through manicured lawns that stretched out towards the stately building of the school itself. Craven wondered how much Kane was forking out to send his son and daughter to the prestigious boarding school, a far cry from the grey, working-class comprehensive school of Craven’s childhood. Craven suddenly remembered a moustachioed teacher throwing a blackboard duster at him from across the classroom. That was back in the days when naughty kids got the slipper or the cane, way beyond the gentle ways of the modern world.

The Yago School was an impressive structure, with traditional Andalusian architecture, whitewashed walls and terracotta roofs. Large arched windows allowed sunlight to flood the interiors, while the sound of playful children echoed faintly from the playgrounds. Climbing bougainvillea adorned the school’s entrance, adding splashes of pink and purple to the stark white walls. He wondered again if there could indeed be any threat to Kane’s children. Who would stoop so low as to attack a man’s kids? After a lifetime as a police detective, Craven knew the answer to that question. Unfortunately. He had seen things that would make a coal miner’s skin crawl. He knew now never to underestimate the depths of depravity a human being was capable of. Even wild animals would not mistreat their own young the way a drug addict would or torture a fellow animal the way one man would inflict sadistic pain on another.

Craven parked the car, and the gravel driveway crunched softly beneath the Seat Leon’s tyres. He stepped out into an afternoon filled with the scent of blooming jasmine, mingling with the distant aroma of freshly baked bread from the school cafeteria. He could hear the faint laughter and chatter of students from beyond the expansive school grounds. Craven had been here before. He or Barb used to collect the children on Friday evening. Danny and Kim would stay with them until Monday morning when they would return to stay at the school for the week. Barb had loved those weekends, playing Barbies with Kim, making Danny his favourite food and playing board games with them both before bed. Happier times. Times Craven would never have again. He sighed. He would give anything to see Barb laugh just once more.

He approached the entrance, striding beneath the intricate tilework framing the doorway, a nod to the region’s Moorish influences. The doors opened into a spacious foyer where sunlight streamed in through large windows, casting patterns of light and shadow that danced across the walls.

Craven cleared his throat as he approached the reception desk and was about to ask for Danny and Kim using their pseudonyms when a scream peeled through the corridor. The scream of a frightened child. A child in danger.

Forty-Three

Kate watched as Kane loaded the kit from the Ford Mondeo into the boot of the Volkswagen Passat. She shifted in the passenger seat, uncomfortable at how her attitudes to violence and weapons had shifted since that night in her storm-lashed home. She was sitting in a stolen car whilst a man she barely knew, a man who killed people and had killed a man who tried to shoot her, loaded a machine-gun, explosives and various other illegal weapons into the back. A week ago, Kate would have laughed had someone told her life would change so drastically.

“Are you sure about all of this?” she asked as Kane settled into the driving seat in his pristine suit.

“About what?” he replied, as though the fact they were about to leave the relative safety of her friend’s surf shop to blow up the mine where she had until recently been CEO had slipped his mind. Like a set of lost keys, or a ten-pound note lost in an old pair of trousers.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t just go to the authorities and tell them what’s going on?”

“The police? What good do you think they can do? The police can’t help you.”

“You say MI6 sent you to investigate Merlin Mining? Why don’t we go to them, ask for back-up or reinforcements or whatever the bloody terminology is?”

“MI6 can’t send a team until the suits in Vauxhall Cross approve it. We aren’t in the old days any more, more’s the pity. There’s so much oversight now I’m surprised the country hasn’t fallen apart whilst the Ruperts argue about this year’s pen and paper budget.”

“Ruperts?”

“Army term for the toffs who run the country.”

“Are you really going to blow the mine up?” She stared at him until Kane turned to return her gaze. Kate wanted to see if he was serious. It all seemed so unbelievable to her. How could someone actually use explosives in Britain and get away with it? This wasn’t Afghanistan or Beirut, it was Cornwall.

“Not blow it up like you are thinking. It won’t be a fireball or slow-motion explosion like in the movies. I’m just going to destroy its capability to mine.”

“And you think these Valknut people will come and investigate?”

“Like a tramp on hot chips.”

“Won’t the police catch you?”

“I hope not.”

“How can you be so blasé about it?”

He shrugged. “It’s happening. We have to bring the Valknut operative to us so I can ID them and take them out of action. No surer way to do that than to hit Valknut in the pocket.”

“When you say take them out of action, you mean kill them?”

“Or hurt them, yes.”

“And you are OK with that?”

“Do you think they were OK with it when they put the assassin on your trail? These people would kill and maim without a second thought. They are brutal and ruthless, and I must protect our people from them. If I don’t stop them, more will come. Valknut will actively try to undermine our government and the US government until our way of life erodes and power shifts to the east.”

“When you put it like that…”

“I can’t leave you here alone. It’s too dangerous. So you must come with me, but I won’t let anything happen to you. All you have to do is wait in the car whilst I do what must be done.” Kane started the car and turned onto the road, leaving St Agnes.

“How long were you in the army?”

“Too long.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“I loved it. It gave me a way out of my young life. The army gave me a home. Trained me. Gave me responsibility.”

“So why too long?”

“I’m just being cynical.”

There was a tinge to his voice, a flicker of sadness at the corner of his eyes, which hinted at something more. Kate wanted to understand, to ask Kane what had happened to him, but he wasn’t that kind of man. He wasn’t the type to fall in love after two dates and buy a woman a puppy for Christmas. Kane was normal. He could have been a carpenter or a plumber in another life. He wasn’t refined, nor was he upper class. But he was well-dressed and was obviously familiar with the finer things in life. The most striking thing about Kane was his hardness and his coldness. Kate didn’t probe him any more, understanding his reluctance to talk. She felt safe beside him, even though they were driving towards danger. Kane would protect her. Had protected her. He was like the police, a boyfriend, and the army all rolled into one.

Forty-Four

Kane crouched low as he approached the sprawling expanse of Merlin Mining’s lithium operation. The plant seemed out of place, as though a spaceship had landed upon Cornwall’s ancient, rugged landscape. A full moon hung bloated and heavy in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the silent machinery and the vast open pit. The Atlantic Ocean roared in the darkness, its waves crashing against jagged cliffs. Kane’s heart drummed in a steady rhythm as he looked out over the mine, its shadowy silhouette black and foreboding like a fortress.

The mine sprawled over several acres, its conveyor belts, processing plants and storage facilities stretching like an octopus’ limbs. At its heart lay the extraction pit, a gaping maw in the earth from which they mined precious lithium ore. The processing buildings surrounded it, where they refined the lithium and prepared it for shipment. The ore processing plant was the most critical structure. A hulking edifice of steel and concrete housing the complex machinery that transformed rock into resource.

Kate Barrowhall had brought Kane through the layout on the drive from St Agnes, so he had a reasonable idea which building performed which function and where to focus his attention. He paused and took out his binoculars, scanning the buildings in search of security guards. He saw one man patrolling the southern perimeter and a guard hut by the western entrance gate.

To cripple the mine, Kane needed to strike at its heart. The processing plant was its nerve centre, the point where all efforts converged. Disabling it would bring Merlin’s operations to a grinding halt, cutting off the flow of lithium and striking a killer blow against Valknut’s ambitions. He moved stealthily, skirting the perimeter, eyes scanning for the security patrolman. Kane slipped through the shadows, a ghost in the night shifting through the hills until he reached the outer fence. It stretched for miles around the facility, a tall chain-link structure topped with razor wire, gleaming menacingly under the moonlight. Strategically positioned security cameras stretched along its length to cover every inch.

For once, Kane didn’t care about being caught on camera. He had nothing to fear from the British authorities, and he wanted Valknut to see that it was him. They had tried to kill him, and now Kane was coming for them. Signs warning of high voltage electricity adorned the fence at regular intervals and Kane came close, coming from the heath and wild grasses like a nocturnal hunter. He stopped at a section of fence partially obscured by the natural outcropping of rocks and shrubs.

Kane crouched and took a set of shortened wire-cutters from his rucksack. He had left the night vision goggles and most of the other equipment in the car, bringing only his bag, the cutters, rope, knife, the Glock, the C4 and bare essentials for the job. Kate had told him that despite the warning signs, Merlin had stopped electrifying the fence after complaints by the locals about the dangers to wildlife and walkers. He used the cutters to clip through the fence until he had cut a section wide enough to step through.

Kane crouched again inside the fence and had one more check for security guards, setting off at a run once he was sure the coast was clear. The workers had long since left, leaving the plant eerily quiet and empty. Towering machines loomed about him and Kane stalked between them like a cat. He moved with purpose, his mind a map of explosives and consequences. He placed the C4 packages at strategic points along the central conveyor system and its main processing units. His hands were steady as he worked, setting the charges with the precision of a surgeon. Kane calculated each placement to maximise damage whilst minimising risk to life.

Kane had received extensive explosives training during his days with the SAS. He had learned of the properties, handling and deployment of C4, how to calculate the explosive force required for specific targets, how to shape charges effectively, and set up safe detonation methods. Kane had conducted countless sabotage missions during his time in the regiment, where the strategic placement of explosives was key to mission success. 

C4, or composition C-4, is a plastic explosive used widely because of its stability and power. It is composed primarily of RDX (research department explosive) iced with plasticisers, which make it malleable and easy to shape. It requires a detonator and is insensitive to shock and friction, making it safer to carry and handle. Upon detonation, the C4 rapidly decomposes and releases gases at high temperatures and pressure, resulting in a powerful blast. 

Kane set the charges using electronic detonators he could trigger from a safe distance. He timed the charges to detonate in sequence, ensuring that the initial blasts would disable the key machinery and create a chain reaction of destruction. He wanted to not only wreck the processing plant but also render the mine inoperative. Kane set the last charge and took a moment to admire his handiwork. He imagined Valknut receiving news of the explosion at their home in Krasnodar, imagined them seeing his face on the CCTV images and the anger at their failed mission to end his life.

He slipped out of the plant as silently as he had entered, making his way to a vantage point on a crag a safe distance away. From his perch, Kane could see the entire mine laid out before him. He took a deep breath and pressed the trigger on the remote detonator, a wireless initiation device. Kane held his breath and pressed the trigger on the detonator. For a second, nothing happened, as if the world held its breath in anticipation. Then a series of explosions shattered the stillness, each one a thunderous roar that shook the ground.

The night lit up with a brilliant flash, the processing plant engulfed in a fireball of destruction. Flames painted the hills in orange and red hues. The sound was deafening as metal twisted and concrete crumbled. Machinery crunched and collapsed into smouldering ruins. Now they would come, and Kane would be ready.

Forty-Five

Craven set off towards the scream with a sick feeling churning in his belly. Children in bright running shoes and yellow polo t-shirts came dashing towards him through the corridor and Craven hurried, doing his best to run through the crowd. He suddenly realised he had no idea where he was going, what classrooms Danny and Kim were in, or where to find them.

“What’s happening?” he asked a teenage boy who just shook his head and sprinted away down the corridor, an oversized backpack bumping with each step.

Craven couldn’t even be sure that Danny and Kim were in danger. But he knew it, could feel it, sense it in the ringing behind his ears. Craven kept going, pushing open hall doors, breath becoming ragged as he tried to keep up the pace.

“Danny and Kim Kane?” Craven shouted to the children who thundered past him, but none answered. He remembered Kane had not used the children’s real names at the school, but in the panic rushing through the halls, he couldn’t remember what they were.

A teacher hurried around a corner, a petite woman with cropped black hair and a pleated skirt.

“Wait, please?” Craven begged.

She stopped and stared at him with a pained expression pointing behind her. “Men, with guns,” she gasped in a Spanish accent and set off again.

Craven hurried, fear burning in his chest like a hot coal. He turned the corner and reached a short corridor with three red classroom doors on either side. Craven opened the first one and peered inside to find a dozen teenagers huddled in the back corner and a male teacher stood before them. He fixed Craven with a hard stare, and Frank raised his hands to show he meant them no harm.

Movement from the rear window caught Craven’s eye and his jaw dropped open. Four people in black army-type clothes, armed with submachine-guns and wearing black ski masks painted with white skulls, marched across a courtyard beyond the classroom. They carried a teenager between them. Danny Kane.

“No!” Craven shouted. He turned and left the classroom, his bulk lumbering along the corridor hoping to find an exit door to go after Danny’s captors. He carried no weapon, though a gun wouldn’t have helped much. Craven barely knew how to shoot, never mind coming up against enemies with machine-guns.

Craven barged through another set of double doors and saw an open glass door leading out to the courtyard. He hurried towards it just as another scream peeled out, echoing around the tiled hallway. It was close. Just behind him.

“Bastard,” Craven whispered to himself, torn by the impossible dilemma. He should go after Danny, but couldn’t leave small children to their fate if men with guns threatened their lives. The teachers and children would assume that it was a terrorist attack, that suicide killers and bombers had attacked their school with the single aim of causing as much destruction and suffering as possible. But Craven knew different. They had Danny, which could only mean one thing. Valknut. Kane had been right. Frustrated by Kane’s activities in England, annoyed by his ability to continually thwart their plans, enraged by his infiltration of their fortress at Krasnodar two years ago, they had decided to strike back at Kane in the most hateful way possible. By capturing his children.

Another scream behind him. Close. Too close to leave the kids to their fate whilst he ran after Danny. Craven used his shoulder to crash through a red classroom door. He stumbled as it swung back on his hinges. Finger paintings in bright colours adorned the walls, pictures of animals and vehicles hung from the ceiling, and the angered shouting of adults filled the small space with terror. A gaggle of small girls cowered behind their desks as their teacher struggled with a massive man holding an MP5 machine gun. Craven recognised the weapon. Kane had used one in the past to devastating effect. It was the weapon of soldiers, of the special forces, a tool of war, murder, and death. A woman garbed in the same black gear and skeleton mask as the enemies outside had hold of the teacher’s arm, trying to rip the teacher’s hands off the man.

“Uncle Frank!” squealed a familiar voice. Kim Kane came running towards Craven and wrapped herself around his leg.

“Stay back, Kim,” he said, placing a reassuring hand on top of her little head. “It’s going to be all right.”

Craven couldn’t simply flee with Kim and leave the rest of the girls at the attackers’ mercy. So, he charged. The female enemy had turned to gape at him in shock, surprised to see the big man in the classroom, quickly realising that the small child wrapped around Craven’s leg was the girl she was looking for. Craven gently pushed Kim Kane aside and in four great strides, he was upon the female soldier. She let go of the teacher’s arm and was half-turned towards Craven when he crashed into her. He thundered into the woman with all the weight of his monstrous frame, slamming his shoulder into her smaller body with the same force with which he had smashed the classroom door open.

The woman flew off her feet, landing roughly amongst the tiny single-seat desks. Chairs and desks scattered under the impact. The woman carried a machine-gun just like the rest of her comrades, and she grabbed for its trigger as she sat up, dazed. Craven didn’t have time to get to her before the woman could open fire, nor could he leave her to spray the classroom with bullets when Kim Kane and her classmates cowered inside the small room.

Craven picked up a chair and hurled it across the room. The wooden seat thumped into the fallen woman’s head with an audible crack, and she slumped backwards, unconscious.

“Get out!” Craven bellowed at the children, but they just stared at him with terrified faces.

Kim’s teacher struggled with the gunman, shrieking in short sharp gasps as she fought with unbelievable courage to keep his hand from his weapon. The man in the skeleton-painted balaclava grunted and threw her off. The teacher slumped, and Craven stepped in, crashing his fist into the gunman’s face. He staggered backwards and Craven cracked his left fist into the man’s head and then used his heel to kick the gunman away from the teacher and towards the back wall. The MP5 sprung from its shoulder strap and clattered loudly onto the tiled floor.

“Get the children out,” Craven bellowed at the teacher, but she had frozen, eyes fixed on the machine-gun. “Now!”

The teacher snapped out of her trance and nodded at Craven. She called to her class in Spanish and repeated the instruction in English. The little girls sprang from cover and dashed from the room like frightened squirrels scampering across the room and out of the door. Kim followed them, leaving Craven alone with two armed enemies.

“Shit,” Craven hissed under his breath. He was no soldier. They had trained Craven to arrest drug dealers and burglars, but not to fight soldiers. They were getting away with Danny and time was speeding by. Craven had to get after his captors, but to turn and run now was to die with a hail of bullets in his back. The female enemy was rising slowly with a gloved hand held to her head, and the male attacker was already on all fours, poised and about to dash to his fallen machine-gun. It did not escape Craven’s attention that the man also carried a gleaming black handgun strapped to his hip.

Craven bent and picked up the MP5. Time slowed. The gunman gave up on his machine-gun and reached for his pistol. The woman shook her head, one hand on her skull and the other reaching for the gun hanging from a strap on her chest. Craven felt a rush of anxiety as he quickly examined the weapon. His fingers fumbled over the unfamiliar controls, hesitating at the safety switch and the magazine release.

The weapon felt heavier than he expected. Craven’s thick thumb struggled with the safety selector, a small lever on the side of the gun. Unsure whether it was on or off, he awkwardly toggled it back and forth, his eyes darting between the gun and the man who now had a hand on his pistol.

Next, Craven grappled with the magazine, unsure if it was seated correctly after the fall. He tugged at it, feeling it click into place. Finally, he found the charging handle and pulled it back with a nervous jerk to chamber a round. He had seen Kane do it before and relief dampened out the fire of panic. The mechanism slid forward with a metallic clack, the weapon now ready to fire.

Craven lifted the MP5 to his shoulder, its stock pressing against his body, the grip fitting snugly into his palm. The enemy gunman drew his pistol, the barrel rising with lethal determination. Craven held his breath, aimed and squeezed the trigger. The sound was a rapid, sharp bark, each round leaving the barrel in quick succession. It was loud, a series of staccato reports echoing around him, punctuated by the acrid smell of gunpowder.

The recoil pushed Craven back, the weapon rising with each discharge. The gunman cried out and slammed back against the classroom wall. Bullets tore into his leg and arm, thumped into his body armour and shoulder. More bullets raked the wall and ceiling above the gunman.

Craven exhaled and steadied himself. He turned the weapon on the woman and fired again. His initial clumsiness gave way to a growing sense of control, each squeeze of the trigger becoming more confident.

Bullets hammered into her body armour, and then one cracked into her head with a puff of blood. Craven turned and fired again at the gunman, bullets hammering into his legs and neck with the sound of a cleaver chopping meat. Craven bent over and vomited at the horror. He had killed two people and had almost died himself. His head swam.

Craven ran from the classroom with the MP5 still in his hand. Kim Kane waited for him in the corridor, and he swept her up in his left arm and carried her close to his chest. She buried her head into his neck and sobbed. He reached the doors leading outside and ran into the warm air just in time to see the soldiers bundle Danny Kane into a black van and slide the door closed.

The van’s tyres screeched as they whisked Danny away. Craven fell to his knees and held Kim tight. They had Danny. Craven had slaughtered two people. He was alone without Kane, and he had no idea what to do next.

Forty-Six

Kate Barrowhall opened the car door and stepped slowly out onto the grass. She stumbled, unable to take her eyes off the orange glow and chimney of smoke staining the horizon. Merlin Mining had once been a source of pride. She had been its CEO. Her position and career defined her. It was a huge part of her being. She had forfeited a normal life, the chance of having a family, of being a mother, for the sake of her voracious ambition.

She had spent so many hours in that office. Rising at half past five each morning to be at her desk before the clock struck seven. Only leaving again at seven or eight in the evening to get home, workout, and then work again until bedtime. Now she watched it burn. Destroyed by Jack Kane like something out of a World War II movie. It was strange to watch the fire dance in the darkness, casting its amber glow over the distant cliffs. Kate rested a hand on the car. She was lightheaded and might have fallen to her knees had the vehicle not been there to brace herself against.

It was as though her career burned with the mine. People would already wonder where she was. This week’s calendar had been blocked out with back-to-back meetings from eight in the morning until six in the evening. Meetings with clients and stakeholders across the world. Her day started with calls to Asia, shifted to Europe by midday and then on North America and Latin America in the late afternoon and evening. Kate had left her house in a hurry, without her phone or laptop. Meetings would go unattended, emails unanswered. She had essentially disappeared off the face of the earth. Her team of directors wouldn’t have a clue where she was, a break-in at the office and her slaughtered security team the only evidence of her disappearance.

In the panic and fear of her rescue, Kate hadn’t even thought to check in with her dad. He lived alone, her mother having died years ago of cancer. Kate pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, tears suddenly pouring from her eyes like an unblocked dam. What had she been thinking? Nothing was the answer. Just trying to survive. Kate had to get a phone from Jack Kane and let her dad know she was OK. He would be out of his mind with worry. But would that put him in danger if the people who wanted Kate dead were watching his phone line?

Kate sobbed into her hands. She was alone. People wanted her dead, dangerous people. Could she ever work again? Who would hire her now that Merlin Mining was a burning wreck? Rumours would get out of murder and shady investors. Would a respectable operation employ her after this? Kate imagined herself reduced to working for mines in war zones, producing conflict minerals to sell to the underworld.

Faces flashed into her mind. Old boyfriends, men she had come close to falling in love with but had always stopped herself, controlling her emotions, conscious of the need to keep progressing, of networking and being alert at all times for the next opportunity for promotion. One had even proposed to her. That had been the end of that relationship. Had she been foolish? Kate hadn’t regretted one single choice until the slaughter at her house, until her life turned upside down. Never once had she become broody or felt a desire to have children. Now she wondered if her life had been a terrible mistake.

A figure came loping over a hill. Long strides powering him through the undergrowth towards the car at the end of a disused country lane. It was Jack Kane. Kate felt something at the sight of him. Was it relief or some other feeling? She wasn’t sure. Kate dried her eyes on the sleeve of the jumper Emily had given her, with the surf shop logo emblazoned on its front.

“That should poke the bear a bit,” said Kane as he reached the car. He slipped off his backpack and turned to peer at the glow of destruction as he caught his breath.

“When will they come?” Kate shivered in the night wind and wrapped her arms about her midriff.

“The police and fire service will come first. The men we seek will come when the fire has died down. They’ll come to assess the damage, to see how badly damaged their investments are. Valknut will want to know who is responsible. It’s those men we want.”

“What do we do until then?”

“Watch and wait. Could be a day or more. We’re safe at the moment. You can sleep in the car or go for coffee. I’ll head up into the hills to watch.”

“Sleep in the car? Lovely.”

“This is how we get Valknut off your back. If Merlin Mining is gone and their income dried up, then their attention will move from you to their other interests.”

“You hope.”

“Yes.” Kane allowed. He turned to look her in the eye. “We have to hope they’ll give up on you. Otherwise, you’ll be on the run for the rest of your life.”

“Jesus.” Kate sagged, a boulder of fear turning in her guts.

“Come on.” Kane stepped around the car and put a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s find somewhere for you to sleep for the night. No need for us both to be out in the cold all night.”

Forty-Seven

Kane dropped Kate Barrowhall back to St Agnes so that she could rest in comfort in the surf shop flat. He had thought of taking her to an all-night café for food and coffee and then returning to the mine where she could sleep whilst he watched events unfold. But the haunted look in her eyes quickly made Kane change his mind.

Events had turned Kate’s life upside down, and it was as though seeing the Merlin mine burning brought that realisation home like a hammer blow. Shock and adrenaline had likely kept her going up to this point, and as much as Kane was reluctant to return to a location where they had already spent time, Kate needed somewhere familiar to sleep and recover.

Kate had smiled as she entered the flat. It was warm and clean. Kane doubted Valknut had operatives to spare, even if they had tracked his movements to St Agnes the day before. They would rally all their manpower to the mine. So he clicked on the kettle and made Kate a cup of tea. She asked for a phone to contact her father. Again, Kane was reluctant. Her father’s line would more than likely have a trace on it, but he handed her a burner phone and asked her to keep call time to a minimum. Kate was tough, but she had been through a lot. Life-changing events that would make any other person crumble. She had smiled as Kane had left, and he had to admit the gesture had warmed him.

Kane left St Agnes and made the twenty-minute return drive. He left the car on the same deserted country road and climbed a rocky outcrop to stand on a precipice overlooking the Merlin mine. He cut a solitary figure against the pre-dawn sky, binoculars in hand and the Glock secure in a holster clipped to his belt. The air was sharp with the tang of salt from the nearby sea, mingling with the acrid stench of smoke billowing from the mine below. It was five o’clock in the morning. The chill of the dawn clung to the earth, and a fire raged across the mine’s processing core.

Kane put his binoculars to his eyes and watched as the first responders descended upon the scene. The fire brigade arrived with a fleet of four bright red fire engines, their lights flashing in the wan light, sirens blaring like wailing banshees. They were Scania P-series trucks, gleaming under the haze of smoke. They would need their high-capacity water tanks to combat the blaze before it devoured the mine entirely.

Four security guards ran out of the front gates, waving towards the fire engines and pointing back at the fire. Two police cars followed close behind the fire brigade. A pair of Ford Kuga SUVs. They skidded to a halt before the mine’s entrance and officers poured from the vehicles, reflective vests catching the firelight as they hurried to set up a tape cordon across the road, ready to redirect any curious onlookers who might venture too close once the sun came up. Their radios crackled and Kane watched them hurry about their business, barking responses into the radios attached to their shoulders.

The fire brigade went to work, bellowing orders at one another, unfurling hoses, water arcing into the dawn sky. They attacked the blaze like warriors, aiming their jets into the heart of the fire where lithium, notoriously volatile when exposed to moisture, burned with a ferocious intensity. The mine structure groaned as if in protest, the sound carrying on the wind to where Kane stood unseen, watching from above.

The sky above the mine seemed to glow a deep indigo, gradually yielding ground to the encroaching, pallid dawn. The horizon blushed with hues of orange and pink, colours bleeding together like a painting. Kane kept his binoculars trained on the blaze as the flames flickered like angry and ancient Cornish spirits. The distinctive smell of burning chemicals filled Kane’s nose, becoming almost suffocating, layered with the earthy undertone of charred wood and the bitter bite of melted metal.

The firefighters battled tirelessly, their shifting bodies stark against the glow of the flames as they fought the blaze. Kane watched intently, concerned that one of the firefighters might come to harm as they worked to put out the destruction he had caused. They were professionals and Kane breathed a sigh of relief as the flames died down after almost two hours to leave skeletons of charred wood and iron poking from the earth like the remains of an apocalypse.

Kane remained, watching intently as steam rose from the cooling ruins. As the sun fully breached the horizon, it cast a golden light over the smouldering embers. The fire brigade packed up their equipment, the engines slowly travelling away from the scene. One police car remained, with two officers manning their tape barrier.

An hour after the fire engines rolled away, a black Mercedes E-Class turned up, parking a hundred paces away from the police cordon. Four men in suits stepped out and stood in front of the car, staring at the blaze and talking amongst themselves.

Kane allowed himself a grin as he strolled down the hillside towards his car. He opened the boot and placed the binoculars in the holdall. He strapped a Kevlar tactical vest over his shirt and pulled his suit jacket on over that. Kane pulled out the Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine-gun.

The lightweight frame came up easily, and the weapon felt cold and reassuringly solid in his hands. Its sleek black finish absorbed the early morning light, giving it a shadowy, almost predatory appearance. It was compact, designed for close-quarters fighting yet also capable of effective fire at range.

Kane checked the weapon, his finger moving instinctively over the controls. He flipped the safety selector to make sure it was safe, then pulled back the cocking handle to check the chamber, ensuring it was clear before loading. He moved through the process as he had done countless times before, each click and shift of the gun part of a trance-like process.

He reached for a magazine packed with armour-piercing rounds. Each bullet penetrated through barriers that would stop traditional ammunition. Whoever had prepared the weapon had done it well and properly. It was oiled and clean, and Stead had excelled himself. Kane examined the magazine, checking each round for any imperfections before loading it into the weapon with a satisfying click. He pulled back the cocking handle once more, chambering the first round with a smooth motion.

Kane attached the shoulder strap, a simple yet sturdy two-point sling made of durable nylon. It felt comfortable against his shoulder, even though he had to adjust it to stop it from rubbing against the still-healing bullet wound. The strap dispersed the weight of the weapon and allowed for quick transitions between carrying and firing positions. He lifted the rifle to his eye and peered through the scope mounted atop the MP7. It was a complex sight, a holographic scope designed for rapid target acquisition. Kane smiled at the modifications. Stead’s people had added a flip-up magnifier for optional enhanced range. The sight’s reticule glowed softly, a precise dot that would guide his aim when the time came.

He set off at a brisk march, covering the heather and wildflowers just as he had done over the Brecon Beacons during his SAS selection many years ago. It was almost time to bring his war to Valknut, and the rats had already begun to sniff around Merlin Mining’s carcass.

Forty-Eight

“Where’s Danny, Uncle Frank?” asked Kim, staring up from within Craven’s arms. 

Craven swallowed a lump in his throat. “They’ve taken him,” he replied, the words battling through the catch in his throat and coming as a broken croak. 

“Who’s taken him?”

“The bad men, Kim.”

“What? Can we help him?” 

“I won’t let them hurt him. Don’t worry. We’ll get him back.” 

Craven jogged across the school grounds until he reached the Seat rental car. He placed Kim carefully in the back passenger seat. Her bottom lip quivered, and she stared at him wide-eyed and full of fear. He fastened her seat belt and ran around to get into the driver’s seat. 

“Did they hurt anyone at the school?” 

“I don’t know, Kimmy.” 

“Did you hurt the man and woman in my classroom?” 

“I did. I had to.” 

“Good.”

“We’ve been through worse before, you and me, Kim. Remember when they held us in prison last year?” 

“I remember.”

“We got out of that, didn’t we?” 

“We did.”

“So, do you trust me?” 

“Yes, Uncle Frank.”

“Then let’s go after your brother.” 

Craven started the car and sped along the driveway, its tiny stones spitting from the tyres like little bullets. The car skidded as he turned at rapid speed out of the gates in pursuit of the van. He had to catch up to them, to see where they took Danny. Craven couldn’t fight them. They were too many and too skilled and he was an old, fat ex-policeman. But he had one skill he could use. Craven had a career’s worth of experience in tailing suspects. He knew how to maintain a delicate balance, close enough to keep the van in sight, yet far enough away to avoid raising suspicion. 

He spotted the van along the road and slowed the Seat, letting a few cars slip between them, using the road’s natural flow as a shield. Craven’s heart thumped in his chest like a drum, his mind racing over the desperate situation. He had to tell Kane, but tell him what? Kane was busy in Cornwall and if all Craven could tell him was that Danny had been kidnapped, it wouldn’t help at all. He would call Jack soon, but with more information, a location, numbers of the enemy, something to help Kane when he came for his son. 

The van made a series of sharp turns, approaching the city and then weaving through Seville’s windy streets. Every time the vehicle turned was a chance Craven might lose them. He focused, sweat beading his brow. He had to help Danny, to give Kane a chance to get his son back. Craven did his best to make a mental note of the streets they took, Calle Betis, then left onto Avenida Republica Argentina. They were heading out of the city again, and Craven licked at dry lips, determined to keep his eyes on Danny’s kidnappers. 

He had killed two people. A man and woman. Craven wasn’t like Kane. Killing was second nature to Jack. It was his trade, the thing God had granted him, the skill to execute with ruthless savagery. Craven was just a man. The sounds of gunfire rattled around his mind, the sound of bullets hitting flesh, of the man and woman dying. Craven had no other choice. It was kill them or lose Kim, and that was no choice at all. Craven knew that following them with Kim in the car was dangerous; if they spotted him, the attackers would capture both Danny and Kim. 

They left the city behind, driving along the long straight road into the undulating hills and olive groves of Andalusia. Craven kept a steady pace. The road stretching out of Seville was not as busy as the city streets, making it harder for Craven to remain unnoticed but ready to close the distance if necessary. He hung one car back, driving the Seat carefully. The van drove at a steady pace within the speed limit. Craven imagined Danny inside, curled up and petrified amongst the soldiers in their skeleton masks and machine-guns clutched in their fists.

The van stuck to the main road, leading onto the A-49 highway, the route leading west towards Huelva. Kim sat quietly in the back passenger seat, listening to the radio and taking sips from a water bottle. She was a good kid, and it tore at Craven’s heart to think how fond Barb had been of the girl, and how she would never get to see Kim grow up and become a young woman. Craven gripped the steering wheel tightly, suddenly hit by a wash of anger. How could Kane expose Danny to danger like this? Since Cameron’s death, Danny had taken over as their tech analyst and their online expert. He was still a teenager but had learned so much from Cameron about computers that he was already a skilled and capable hacker, getting more experienced and competent every week. 

Craven was the first to admit he knew little or less about computers and the world of technology, and wasn’t an expert on the world of politics and international espionage. But he wasn’t a fool. The soldiers who had come for Danny were from Valknut. They had to be. If they had found Danny at the Yago School, it had to be via his work for Jack. Cameron set up secure, ultra-complicated bank accounts that paid Danny and Kim’s tuition at the school, where they were registered under pseudonyms. Valknut must have found Danny through the tech work he did for Kane and Craven. They had put Danny in harm’s way and the more Craven thought about that, the angrier he became at himself and Kane. 

An hour passed and Craven’s patience paid off. The van took an exit towards a more secluded area, a place where the swathes of countryside gave way to patches of forest and isolated farms. His gut told them the Valknut soldiers must be nearing their destination. Craven killed his headlights and slowed the Seat to a crawl. 

The van drove along a dirt road, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it, and disappeared behind a grove of trees. Craven parked the car and stared after the filthy cloud on the road. He glanced at Kim. Craven had to follow them on foot, but he couldn’t take Kim because they might get caught, and he couldn’t leave her alone in the car either. If something happened to her, he could never forgive himself. 

“Kimmy, we need to go for a little walk,” he said. It was an impossible decision, and neither option was the right one. Craven had to take Kim with him. 

“Where are going?”

“We must sneak up and see where the bad men went. It’s like hide and seek. We need to be quiet and not let them see us. Can you do that?” 

“I’m good at hide and seek.” She smiled, and it broke Craven’s heart to put Kim in danger. 

“I bet you are.” 

“We play it in the gardens at school. I won last week.” 

“Good girl. Come on.” 

Craven and Kim left the car and continued on foot, using the cover of roadside trees along the country road for cover. They came to a bend and Craven stepped into a gully full of briars and hard grass. He stepped in first and then lowered Kim in beside him. He peered through the undergrowth, careful not to snap a twig or frighten any wildlife that might alert Valknut to his presence. 

The van door slid open, and boots crunched on rotting undergrowth. Craven leaned around a withered tree trunk and found the van parked outside an old farmhouse. Two Valknut soldiers carrying short machine-guns made a quick circuit of the farmhouse’s perimeter, pausing every so often to bring their guns to firing position and sweep the surrounding hills through their sights. Once the circuit was complete, a stocky man barked an order towards the van and two more soldiers stepped out, and Danny walked between them with his head bowed. He looked like a boy between the imposing men in their body armour and black tactical clothing. Craven bit his lip. His urge to charge across the field and wrestle Danny from his captors was only dampened by the knowledge that they would shoot him down within five paces. 

The building matched its surroundings. Parts of the weather-beaten stone walls and pale red tiled roof crumbled, while others were swamped by crawling green plants. But a ring of barbed wire through the fields and a bright white security camera on the building’s corner looked more modern. Two more Valknut men strolled from the building without masks on, laughing as though they were on a jolly holiday. Craven couldn’t hear them from his hiding place, but he doubted they spoke English, anyway. 

They waved Danny into the building, not dragging him or roughing him up. Danny just followed, and Craven thanked God that Danny complied with their orders. The thoughts of them hurting or torturing the boy were too much to bear. Craven peered closer, trying to get as much detail for Kane as possible. 

He could make out reinforced doors over a faded and chipped wooden front door, windows barred from the inside, and a single gate which appeared to be the only obvious point of entry or exit. It was like a fortress in disguise, and Valknut wasn’t taking Danny’s capture lightly. They had prepared the farmhouse, made it defendable. Craven wasn’t an expert, but it would take a small army to attack that place. Or one man alone, in the dark, slipping through the shadows. A job for a man like Jack Kane. 

“Have they started looking for us, Uncle Frank?” asked Kim, still believing they were playing hide and seek. 

“Yes, we need to stay still and as quiet as mice.” 

Craven noted the guard’s patterns, waiting in the trees for twenty minutes. To get more detailed information, he would need to breach the perimeter, go over the barbed wire, but there was no way Craven would take that risk with Kim beside him. This was no ordinary kidnapping, and these were not ordinary criminals. They were experienced Russian soldiers; veterans of wars Craven had only read about in newspapers. Valknut had the resources and ruthlessness to do what they wanted anywhere in the world. They had power, influence, and daring. 

A buzzing sound caught his attention, and Craven watched a Valknut man holding what looked like a remote control. A tiny helicopter rose from the ground and hovered in front of the farmhouse. 

“Is that a drone?” whispered Kim. “This game is serious.” 

It was a drone, probably beaming video footage from its camera into the farmhouse to enable them to keep a proper eye on the approach to their hideout. 

“Come on, Kimmy. It’s time to go.” 

Craven couldn’t risk the drone spotting their car or their hiding place in the ditch. He lifted Kim onto the bank and clambered up himself. They hurried to the Seat and set off along the country road. Craven had to call Kane and let him know what had happened. He craned over his shoulder, staring behind him as he reversed the car along the dirt track. 

“Bummer,” said Kim.

“What is it, love?” he asked. 

“They’ve found us. Look.” Craven’s stomach sank. He turned around to see the drone hovering above the car like something out of a science fiction film. Car tyres screeched and a black jeep came hurtling from the farmhouse gate. 

Valknut had found him. Craven had brought Kim too close to the lion’s den, and it was time to run for their lives.

Forty-Nine

Kane strode through the heather with the MP7 hanging from its shoulder strap. He watched two policemen calling to the four men beside the Mercedes E-Class. The men held up their hands to show that they meant no trouble, and the two policemen retreated to the car and sat inside. That car sat just inside their taped cordon and there was no danger of anyone entering without them noticing. The two officers had been at the mine as long as Kane. They had arrived with the fire engines hours ago. They would be cold, hungry, and eagerly awaiting a shift change to relieve them from the mind-numbingly boring task of making sure no nosy holidaymakers or villagers came to look too closely at the ruined mine. Unfortunately, Kane was about to make their morning a hell of a lot more interesting. 

Kane adjusted his shirt cuffs beneath his suit sleeves and hopped over a grassy knoll. He came within two hundred metres and could fire the MP7 from there using the scope, but it would take good shots to take the four Valknut men out before they got in the car and raced away. When Kane came within one hundred metres, his heart quickened, and he shifted the submachine-gun behind his back. 

“Valknut?” he called to the four men. 

Their heads snapped around to stare at him in surprise. Each of them muscled, their shaven heads pivoting on tree trunk necks. 

“Are you from Valknut?” Kane repeated. 

“Dar. Valknut?” replied a man with short blonde hair and a tattoo creeping from his collar to cover the back side of his skull. 

That was enough confirmation for Kane that he wasn’t about to open fire on four innocent Merlin Mining executives. He swung the MP7 around on its strap and the four Valknut men immediately dropped into animal-like crouches. Each man would have a handgun secreted about his body somewhere, but by the time they drew their weapons, it would be too late. 

Kane opened fire. At one-hundred-yard range, he was lethal. Even at his age. Bullets slammed into the Mercedes with a metallic clang. The blonde man sprawled backwards against the car as Kane pumped two armour-piercing rounds into his chest. The second man dropped as his knee exploded and the car tyre behind whooshed as air escaped through a bullet hole. Kane fought with the recoil to stop the barrel from rising as he fired and shot the third man through the Mercedes’ window. Three down, and the fourth man crouched behind the car. Kane paused and peered at the car through the MP7’s scope. The man popped up, pistol in hand, and risked a shot. The soil a foot behind Kane whumped as though hit by a shovel and Kane shot the Valknut man in his leg, which poked out from behind the Mercedes. 

Kane jogged towards the car just as the two policemen jumped from their car, pulling Tasers from their vests. 

“Don’t do it,” Kane called. “Get back in your car. I’ll be gone in thirty seconds and then you can call this in. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

The two policemen stared at each other and then at the bullet-riddled Mercedes spattered with blood. They slowly climbed back into their patrol car and closed the doors. Kane found the man with the wounded knee rocking on the dirt road, clutching at his wound. Thick, dark blood seeped from his trouser leg and through his fingers. 

“Do you own this mine?” Kane asked him in English, but the man didn’t reply. He was in too much pain, teeth clenched and head bucking from side to side. “Do you know who I am?” 

The man’s blue eyes opened, and he snarled. “Jack Kane,” he spat. 

“Good. Tell your friends that it was me who did this. Tell them to leave England or I’ll kill you all.” 

Kane left him bleeding in the mud and stalked back up the hill. The two policemen watched him go, gaping from inside their patrol car. Four down. Who knew how many more remained? But now they knew Kane could strike at them. He hoped that somewhere, someone felt a pang of fear.

Fifty

Craven’s pulse raced, and blood thumped around his ears. He rammed his foot on the accelerator and reversed at top speed. His hand wobbled on the wheel as he fought to keep the car straight along the dirt track. The pursuing jeep’s engine roared as it came thundering out of the farmhouse gate. He reached the end of the dirt track, and the car bumped hard over a bump in the road. Kim shook in her seat and gave him a frightened look. Craven cursed himself for not thinking to put her in the back passenger seat like before. She was in much more danger in the front with him.

He yanked on the steering wheel so that the Seat slewed around violently, skidding as the front end came around to face the main road. The jeep hurtled along the road towards him and Craven slammed his foot on the accelerator again and the car lurched forwards. He clamped his eyes closed as the jeep seemed to grow until it blocked out everything but its grille and growling engine. The Seat couldn’t get away fast enough and the jeep clipped Craven’s car with the grinding sound of metal on metal. The Seat shook and Craven instinctively reached out with his right arm to hold Kim across the chest so that the impact wouldn’t throw her tiny body around in the car. 

“Uncle Frank!” Kim shrieked. 

“It’s OK,” Craven lied to keep her calm. The jeep pushed the Seat into the road and turned. The passenger door half opened, and Craven found his senses. He pushed the accelerator again, and the Seat set off at top speed, Craven moving through the manual gearbox as the engine roared. He let it reach its maximum revs in third and pumped the gearbox straight into fifth as he hurtled along the A-49 highway towards Huelva. 

The jeep followed, growing in size in his rear-view mirror as it gained on him. Craven wove in and out of the cars ahead of him, keeping his foot firmly pressed on the pedal. He checked the rear-view mirror frantically, keeping his eye on the road ahead and the looming presence of the jeep chasing him, its headlights cutting through the haze like the eyes of a predator. 

If they caught him, the Valknut soldiers would kill Craven without a moment’s hesitation. They might kill Kim too now they had Danny in their grasp. One child was more than for them to use as a threat against Kane. Craven couldn’t let that happen, not whilst there was strength in his arms and breath in his lungs. He took one hand off the wheel and fumbled in his chinos for the burner phone he had brought to Spain. Kane’s number was the only number in the directory, and he had to tell his friend of the trouble he was in, and where Valknut held Danny.

A Volkswagen Beetle changed lanes in front of him just as Craven pulled the phone from his pocket. He cursed, dropped the phone into the well between driver and passenger seat and clamped his left hand back on the steering wheel. He hit the brakes, swerved around the Beetle and mashed the accelerator. The Seat Leon responded with a strained growl and the speedometer danced precariously towards 150 kilometres per hour. The road and hills blurred past on either side and Kim wept silently, Craven aware of her tears and the rise and her small, trembling hand gripping the door handle for dear life. 

The road was a straight run to Huelva, and Craven had to lose the jeep. His mind churned with possibilities, memories from high-speed chases from his days in the force. He spotted a blue sign on his right and waited until the last possible moment to veer the Seat off the A-49, tyres screeching, as he took a tight exit into a sleepy village. The jeep followed. They missed the turn at first and Craven thought he had outsmarted them, only for his heart to sink and he saw the ominous grille make the turn. He had bought himself some valuable seconds, putting some space between him and his pursuers. Craven’s eyes darted between the villagers who stared at him, their faces a blur of shock as he weaved through the tight, cobbled streets and Seat Leon barely held its grip on the road. 

Craven wished he could go back in time and hire a BMW 5 Series, a Tesla, something faster. Anything but the safest car in Spain. Buzzing with adrenaline, Craven took a sharp left onto a gravel path, the car skidding wildly as he fought to keep it under control. The road twisted through expansive vineyards beyond the villages of stone buildings. After the green vineyard fields, the terrain dipped sharply. A chance perhaps to make a break for it. Craven took the descent with nerve-wracking speed, the Seat’s suspension straining but holding as he made each hairpin turn with white-knuckled desperation. More than once Craven feared the car’s back end would fly out and send him and Kim tumbling off the road and into a farmer’s field. 

Back on a paved road, the N-431 beckoned and Craven was relieved to come out of the bends in one piece. He risked a look in his rear-view mirror and the jeep sped from the bends, getting closer, closing the distance. Craven merged onto the road and pushed the Seat to 160 kilometres per hour. The flatlands of Huelva spread out before him, the city lights and buildings offering the possibility of somewhere to hide, somewhere to lose the jeep. He couldn’t outrun them forever. Soon they would catch him, or one of them would run out of fuel. Either way, the pursuit had to end. 

Craven came to a roundabout, and he saw a slim chance. He darted into it, taking the second exit with inches to spare. The jeep momentarily flew off course and Craven shot down a side street. Weaving through the sparse traffic, his heart leaping into his throat, he narrowly avoided a crash. A red light loomed ahead. Craven floored the pedal and slipped through the light by the skin of his teeth,  the jeep caught on the wrong side of an intersection. 

Kim’s whimpering cut Craven like a knife blade, and he had to escape Valknut at all costs. The imposing silhouette of a shopping mall caught his attention. White walls and lurid signs reaching up from the brown hills like a modern scar on the land. Craven headed for it, the jeep not visible in his mirror. The parking lot was a chaotic labyrinth of cars, like running into a crowd of people, a place to blend in and become lost. Craven swerved, the Seat Leon’s tyres screeching in protest as he zigzagged between rows of parked vehicles. He slid into a space near the entrance, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he killed the engine. 

Craven sagged in the driving seat, panting as though he had just run a race. Kim stared up at him, and Craven needed a moment to gather his thoughts. His hands ached from gripping the steering wheel, palms sweaty. The jeep roared past the shopping mall’s entrance and made Craven jump in his seat, its three occupants searching frantically through open windows for their quarry. Craven spotted a woman with black hair in the back seat, and two burly men in the front. Without the skeleton-painted balaclavas, they looked just as frightening. Broad faces, scarred and snarling as their hungry eyes search for Craven and Kim. 

Craven hunched low in the car, creeping below their line of sight, his entire being focused on not being seen. Minutes felt like hours until the jeep vanished in the distance. They would make a left turn and enter the car park, and it was only a matter of moments before they found the Seat in its parking space. 

“Come on Kim,” Craven, forcing himself to smile at her as though everything was all right. 

“Are they going to hurt us?” 

“No, but we need to get inside quickly. See the shops. Are you ready?” 

She nodded. Craven burst out of the car, keeping low as he scuttled around the bonnet. He opened Kim’s door and gently helped her out. Craven took Kim’s hand and ran between the parked cars, crouched so that anybody looking wouldn’t see his head above the vehicles. A car crawled along the car park lane behind him, and it had to be the jeep. Craven kept moving without looking back. A dozen people strolled before the mall’s entrance, and Craven joined them as they flowed into the mall’s air-conditioned entrance. The hum of voices and clatter of footsteps replaced the growl of engines and Craven welcomed the crowd, sinking into its midst and anonymity. 

He led Kim left towards twin escalators and stood on the shifting steps, shoulders tense, teeth clenched together. Craven resisted the urge to turn around and hoped that the Valknut operators were still crawling the car park in their jeep. He reached the top of the escalator and led Kim away from it and towards the shops. He found a huge Primark store and led Kim inside, weaving in and out of the clothes rails, deeper and deeper into the shop. 

Craven stopped suddenly and patted his chinos. His stomach turned over as he realised he had left the burner phone in the Seat. It was the only phone he had brought to Spain, and worse, it held Kane’s contact number, which he had not committed to memory. Without that phone, he had no way of contacting Kane. Craven cursed his stupidity. He had his wallet in his back pocket, but nothing else. Valknut soldiers hunted him and had Danny Kane held captive. Craven hurried amongst the clothes, mind racing, trying to think about what to do next.

Fifty-One

“Cup of tea, Kate?” said Emily, peeking through the flat door with a smile on her wind-burned face. 

“I’d love one,” Kate Barrowhall replied. She sighed, finally relaxing after so many days of unbelievable carnage. She beamed at Emily, a towel wrapped around her freshly-washed body and clean clothes feeling silken against her skin. 

“A shower makes a world of difference, doesn’t it?” Emily came through the door, dragged Kate into a tight embrace, and then twisted her nose as she pulled away. “When I’ve been out on the board, there’s nothing better than a hot shower. Wash the cold water off, get the salt out of my hair. Lovely.” 

“Thanks, Em.”

“For what?”

“For letting me stay.” 

“Would you shut up? How many times have you bailed me out in the past? What was it, ten years ago? Maybe twelve when you had to lend me the money for my rent? If you hadn’t done that, I’d have been out on the streets.” 

“And look at you now. Business owner, entrepreneur, eligible single lady.” 

“Eligible? I haven’t been on a date for a year. A year! I’m beginning to think I should get some cats and become the cat lady of St Agnes.” 

“Don’t say that. You still look great. The boys used to fall all over you back in the day.” 

“That was then. Before everything moved south. My face is as wrinkly as one of those Shar Pei dogs.” 

Kate laughed. “Any man would be thrilled to date a woman like you. They’re probably intimidated. You’re gorgeous, successful, assertive.”

“Assertive? Isn’t the modern term for that a Karen? Jesus wept. I hope I’m not a bloody Karen.” 

“Come on, Em. You know you’re still a catch. Remember the nights out we used to have in London? They were the good old days.” 

“They were. Great memories. Do you still take sugar?” 

“No, just a drop of milk, please.” 

“If you could go back, would you change anything?” 

“About going out in London? Yeah, lots of things.” 

“No, silly! About your life.”

Kate shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” 

“You buggered off to Africa or wherever it was and left us all in your wake.” 

“It was a long time ago. But look how well you’ve done.” 

Emily grabbed two mugs from the cupboard beside the sink, filled the kettle, and popped two teabags into the cups. “What about your handsome mystery man?” 

“Who’s that then?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. There were two men with you yesterday, and one of them looked like my dad. The other one. What was his name again?” 

“Jack Kane.”

“That’s it. He was a bit dishy?” 

“Dishy? Where do you come up with these words?” Kate laughed again and took the towel from her hair. She gently touched the dressing on her ear, wet now and in need of a change. Kate was scared to look beneath in case there was going to be scarring to her earlobe. Her neck was sore, a lurid red gash running above her collar bone which had stung as the shampoo rinsed out of her hair in the shower. She ran a comb through her hair and watched as Emily made the tea. Kane was handsome, she supposed. Attractive, even. But he was dangerous. She had seen him shooting and fighting, crashing through doors as though it was a perfectly normal way to live life. 

“You need a man. I need a bloody man.”

“I don’t need anything, especially not a man. I’ve spent my life trying to…”

“I know,” Emily said, waving a teaspoon and making a funny face. “You climbed through the glass ceiling, or whatever you call it. You burned your bra, fought for promotion, blah blah blah.” 

Kate laughed so hard her stomach hurt. Emily brought the tea over and set it down on the coffee table. The two friends sat down on the couch and continued to giggle every time they looked at one another. A sound downstairs caught Kate’s attention. 

“What was that?” she asked.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Listen. There it is again.” 

A knocking sound from the shop downstairs. 

“It’s the door. Probably a drunk surfer looking for something. I’d better go down,” Emily sighed and put her tea down. She stood and walked to the flat’s front door. Kate took a sip of her drink and then spilled it as an almighty smashing, crashing sound like a bomb going off tore through the happy evening like a boot to a birthday cake.

Fifty-Two

Kane made the short drive back to St Agnes to check on Kate Barrowhall. Ideally, he would have preferred to remain at the mine and wait for more Valknut operatives to flock to the scene like rats to a filthy takeaway kitchen. But the drive to St Agnes was so short that he could be there and back in just over an hour. Kate had been through a lot over the last few days, life-changing violence and danger which a regular person would never expect to experience. She was flitting in and out of shock. Kane had seen it before during his years in the service. Kate had been shot at, confronted by a trained killer in her own house, lost her job, and been faced with the desperate fact that her life was in danger. An existential crisis, so to speak. He hoped to find her asleep in the surf shop flat. If so, Kane would return immediately to the mine. If Kate couldn’t sleep because of the fear of an enemy coming for her in the night, he would stay with her for a while and comfort her. 

The second reason for making the trip back to St Agnes was a little more concerning. Kane had a nag, a tingle down the back of his neck just like when you can feel a person staring at you in a crowd or across a busy street. Kane’s career had taught him to heed that feeling, to respect it. It usually meant danger. 

Kane arrived in St Agnes and drove slowly through the meandering streets where early bird surfers with boards clutched under their arms joyfully skipped across the road towards the ocean, thrilled to catch waves whilst every other holidaymaker lay sleeping in bed. He made a turn towards the surf shop and hit the brakes. Two black cars had parked directly outside the surf shop. A huge black BMW X7 SUV and a black Mercedes E-Class car. Four men in dark grey cargo trousers, black weather-resistant jackets full of pockets, and sturdy tactical boots. 

Kane gripped onto the steering wheel and stared at them. Valknut operators. They had to be. But not at the mine, here to finish the job on Kate Barrowhall. The four men stood in positions as though guarding the shop, which meant one or more of them were inside and at least one more had gone around the back to secure the building. Kane turned off the engine. He was too far up the street for them to have seen him. He thought about slamming the car into top speed and ramming the four men and taking them out in one fell swoop. But that would alert whoever was inside of danger, and if Kate were still alive, she wouldn’t be for long. 

Kane stepped out of the car with the Glock holster clipped to the inside of his trousers. The MP7 was in the boot, along with its suppressor. With that, he could take out the four Valknut men from this distance, but to open the boot was to risk being seen, alerting the four men and condemning Kate Barrowhall to death. Kane slunk to the closest building wall, keeping to the shadows. A figure stepped out of the BMW SUV and stalked towards the surf shop. He dwarfed the four men, a full head taller than any of them and twice as wide. Even from his distance, the man looked like a monster with an enormous head and neck, shoulders like boulders and legs like two tree trunks. The gargantuan man knocked on the surf shop’s glass door as though he were just a mere delivery driver. 

Kane slipped behind the building and broke into a run. To approach the surf shop front, he must fight the four men and the giant. He assumed they were armed, and a gunfight on the streets of St Agnes was less than ideal. Kane ran along a ginnel, a thin passage between two rows of old terraced houses where occupants kept their bins.
Redbrick walls with wooden gates backed onto the passage, which was a little over four yards wide. Kane ran through puddles and dodged around a child’s bike lying on the ground. 

Reaching the end of the ginnel, Kane paused with his back against the wall and risked a peek around the corner. A stocky woman with one side of her head shaved stood at the surf shop’s rear. She took a packet of cigarettes from one of her many jacket pockets and lit it. Kane could smell the strong Eastern European tobacco from his hiding place. He had no silencer for the Glock, and to fire it at any time would make a loud bang. But to fire it at this time in the morning would be like setting off an air-raid siren. 

Kate Barrowhall’s life hung in the balance. At any moment that hulking behemoth of a man could kick the door in and rip Kate’s life from her. Kane wanted her to live, and he was surprised at the fear gnawing at his guts. Fear of what his life might be without her. He thought of her green eyes and her long, angular face. The world would be duller without her in it. She was driven, successful, and strong. Those intrusive thoughts perturbed Kane, and he set off at a jog across the road.

Fifty-Three

Kane kept to the shadows, keeping his footsteps as light as possible, moving silently through the dawn. He bent to pick up a length of discarded pipe lying next to a green wheelie bin. He swiped up a black bin bag with his left hand and once he came to the corner between the back of the shop and his side of the road, Kane tossed the bin bag as hard as he could across the street. 

The Valknut woman’s head snapped around as the bin bag flopped onto the road, tin cans and bottles inside it clanking. She took a drag on her cigarette, its end glowing orange in the wan light, and took two steps towards the bag. She flicked the cigarette away and one hand dropped to the gun at her waist and another to her jacket lapel, where Kane assumed her communications microphone lay. 

Kane sprinted from his side of the road and the Valknut operator heard his footsteps three seconds too late. She turned away from the bin bag and her blue eyes went wide with surprise as Kane leapt at her, extending his knee so that it cracked into the side of her head with crunching force. He landed in a crouch and the woman crumpled to the road, unconscious. She was a woman, and the assault left a nasty taste in Kane’s mouth. She had chosen this life, put herself in harm’s way, and so Kane had given her an equal opportunities knee to the head.  

She rolled over and tried to sit up, so Kane thumped her across the skull with the length of pipe in his right hand. He left the pipe next to her unconscious form and hurried to the shop’s back door. He fumbled in his pocket for his lock-pick, but a loud crash from the shop front made all thoughts of stealth redundant. Kane kicked the back  door in on its hinges and dashed inside. He dodged around stacked surfboards and wetsuits on coat hangers and ducked through a small entry into the shop itself. 

The surf shop’s glass door lay broken, and shards littered the shop floor. Kane’s heart hammered in his chest. He made for the stairs which led to the flat with gritted teeth, expecting to hear a gunshot at any minute. Kane took the stairs two at a time, hauling himself up by the bannister. Light shone from an open doorway from which angry voices poured within the yellow brightness of the surf shop flat. He reached the top of the stairway to see Kate Barrowhall crouched behind a sofa with her friend Emily. A Valknut man holding a gun walked purposefully towards her, and the biggest man Kane had ever seen stood four paces away from him. 

Every person in the room turned to look at Kane like he was an uninvited guest at a party. Kane focused on the gunman, a black Sig hanging at his side, held in his left hand. Kane grabbed his Glock, whipping the firearm from its holster and shooting from the hip before the gunman’s mind registered Kane’s presence and aimed his open weapon. The Glock thundered as Kane squeezed the trigger. The first round missed the target and hit the wall behind the gunman. Kane fired two more shots in quick succession. One hit the enemy in the thigh and another smacked into his armoured vest and the sternum beyond. Blood misted the air as the Glock’s armour-piercing rounds tore into muscle and bone. 

A boot cannoned into Kane’s side, throwing him from his feet like a ragdoll. He slammed against the wall, air driven from his body with a whoosh. It felt like a horse had kicked him, stunning him with its power. The enormous man loomed over him and Kane tried to breathe, tried to raise the Glock, but he was paralysed and winded. A fist the size of a shovel cracked into the side of Kane’s face with such force that his head smacked against the carpeted floor. Darkness and ringing pain thrummed through his temples. 

Black clouds swamped his vision, and Kane fought to remain conscious. The only noise was the thump of blood in his ears. Strength had fled his body along with every breath of air in his chest, and through the pain-fog he was aware of the colossal Valknut soldier striding across the room. Kate and Emily held each other behind the couch, unable to take their eyes off the hulking man coming in their direction. He bent and picked up the sofa with one hand, grabbing one corner and tossing it aside as though it were an old shoe. Emily cried out, and he slapped her across the head, the blow sudden and brutal. The sound of it was like a clap of thunder, and Emily flew across the room, leaving Kate Barrowhall alone. 

Kate lashed out at the giant, her arms like twigs thrashing at a great oak in a storm. Anger welled in Kane, banishing the darkness, and he sucked in a breath. He rolled onto his side, head throbbing. Kane extended his right hand and fired the Glock at the huge Valknut man. The shot missed the goliath completely and smashed through the flat window behind him. He grunted, glanced back at Kane, grabbed a fistful of Kate Barrowhall’s jumper, and tossed her at Kane. Kate soared across the room and landed on top of Kane in a tangle of hair and flailing limbs. Her fall blinded Kane’s view, and a boot kicked the Glock from his hand. 

Police sirens wailed, close enough to elicit another grunt from the colossus. He barked into his microphone and grabbed a hank of Kate’s hair, hauling her to her feet. She howled in pain, feet kicking out. The giant pulled a knife from a sheath at the small of his back and was about to stab the blade into Kate’s stomach. Kane surged from the floor and punched the massive man in the groin. He stumbled, dropping Kate, reaching to protect his manhood. Kane cracked an elbow into the man’s nose and pushed Kate out of harm’s way. 

Sirens grew louder, police coming closer. The Glock was across the room and so Kane squared off against his hulking opponent. He growled like a bear as Kane threw a jab towards his throat, deflecting the blow with his forearm and leaning in, barging Kane with his shoulder with enough force to send Kane tottering backwards. He stumbled, and then the carpet disappeared from beneath his feet. Kane tumbled, falling down the stairs, head, ribs and hips cracking against stairs and wall to leave him a crumpled mess at the bottom. 

Car engines roared outside the shop, sirens blared, and angry voices shouted. Kate Barrowhall ran down the stairs, her light footsteps followed by the booming thuds of the giant. Kane rose to one knee and Kate wrapped her arm beneath his shoulders, dragging him to his feet. 

“Come on, Jack,” she roared at him. 

Kane rose to his feet just in time as the giant reached the bottom of the stairs and slashed his knife at Kate Barrowhall’s throat. Kane blocked the cut and stepped aside, head-butting the massive man in his cheek and punching him in the liver. It was like hitting a brick wall and Kane grabbed the wrist below the knife hand and twisted, trying to shift the gigantic enemy off balance. An elbow came up and thrust Kane back against the wall. 

“Get out Kate!” Kane shouted. “The back, the back!” 

She glanced back at him and then moved towards the shop’s rear. Kane raked his heel down the hulk’s instep, tried again to twist the impossibly thick wrist, but he couldn’t budge his opponent. The oversize head came towards Kane’s face and he turned to his left just as a forehead like an anvil crashed into the side of his skull. Voices called from outside and the giant swore to himself. He ripped the knife hand from Kane’s grip and tried to stab Kane in the gut, but he twisted away. The knife came up and sliced up Kane’s back like a hot whip. He pushed Kane into the shop and strode towards the front door with balled fists, his scarred face twisted in a rictus of furious rage. 

Hot blood-soaked Kane’s back and his face throbbed from the punch and headbutt. He knelt and watched the Valknut ogre stomp through the broken glass. One of the four men outside the shop front tossed him what looked like an MP5 and without missing a step, he caught the weapon, wrapped his fingers around the grip and foregrip. In a fluid motion, he brought the gun to shoulder level and aligned the sights with his eyes. He pulled the charging handle to ready the weapon with a metallic click. He shifted his feet to get a better angle and pulled the trigger. The MP5 erupted with a sharp staccato burst. The muzzle flashed, and he peppered the police cars with gunfire. 

The four Valknut men in front of the shop pulled their own weapons and joined the giant in his barrage of gunfire. Kane wanted to help the policemen. They were unarmed and completely helpless against the Valknut onslaught. The Glock was upstairs, and he couldn’t leave Kate alone to run to retrieve the pistol. He turned and lumbered after Kate towards the back door. The gunfire stopped just as Kane reached the entry to the storeroom through which he had entered the store. 

“Kane,” came a bear-like rumble in a thick Russian accent. 

Kane ducked as a reflex just as the MP5 fired again and ripped a hail of gunfire across the surrounding wall. He dropped to his knees and crawled towards the storeroom, at this point simply trying to survive and get to Kate. 

“I find you,” called the impossibly deep voice. “I like to hunt.” Something clattered on the shop floor and Kane turned and swore as a grenade bounced towards him. He hurled himself towards the storeroom just as the grenade detonated with a deafening roar, a concussive blast that shattered glass and sent surf merchandise scattering like shrapnel. A violent burst of light and sound enveloped Kane as he hit the ground in a roll. The force of the explosion shook the floor and filled the air with the acrid smell of burning materials and gunpowder, a biting scent that invaded Kane’s nostrils. 

Debris scattered about him and Kane came up in a run, pounding through the back door and out into the St Agnes morning light. Kate Barrowhall waited for him there, and he swept her up with an arm about her shoulder. More police sirens howled in the distance and the female Valknut soldier lay in a daze still in the middle of the road. 

“What about Emily?” panted Kate as they ran through the backstreets. 

“They won’t hurt her now,” Kane said, scanning about them for any sign of danger. “It’s us they’re after, and an armed police response unit will be on the way.” 

Kane reached the car and bundled Kate inside. He jumped into the driver’s seat and gasped as a shot of pain from the knife wound in his back flared up his body. He started the vehicle and spun it around, racing it out of St Agnes and away from an enemy who had almost killed him.

Fifty-Four

Craven stayed in the shopping mall until it closed. He let Kim wander around the clothes shops and took her to the food court for a McDonald’s Happy Meal. He scanned the halls and walkways for any sign of his pursuers but found none. Security guards in blue short-sleeved shirts pointed to their watches and gestured to Craven that he should leave. They spoke to him in Spanish, but in typical English style Craven had learned absolutely nothing of the language during his time living in Seville beyond the words for hello, beer, please and thank you. 

“Time for us to go, Kim,” Craven said. “It’s getting late, and the shops are closing.” 

“Are we safe now?” she asked, looking up at him and yawning. 

“Of course we are, love. No need to worry.” 

“Are we going back to school now?” 

“I don’t think so. We are going to have a few days off. Like a little holiday.” 

“Are we going to your house, Uncle Frank?” 

“Just for tonight, then we have to get in touch with your dad and pick up Danny.” 

“Is Danny still with the bad men?” 

“He’s OK. Danny’s a big boy now and he’ll be back with us before you know it.” 

She slipped her little hand into Craven’s, and he couldn’t help but smile. Her innocence warmed his crusty old heart, but his worry for Danny remained like an empty pit in his stomach. Without his phone, Craven had no way of contacting Kane, and he needed Kane to get to Danny. There were too many Valknut armed soldiers guarding the old farmhouse, professional soldiers armed with machine guns, with drone security, cameras, wire fences and a dozen ways of discovering an overweight old policeman as he blundered into their hideout. 

Craven led Kim past shops as metal shutters noisily slid down and retail workers left after a hard day’s slog. He followed them towards the mall’s exit, mouth dry at the prospect of the black jeep waiting for him outside. Craven’s priority now was to protect Kim and contact Jack. It was preposterous that he didn’t know Jack’s phone number by heart. Foolish. It was a number Cameron had set up, a number Kane could keep which bounced around a score of global VOIP networks. Cameron had set it so that the VOIP terminals shifted every ten days, moving from India to Trinidad, from Angola to Peru, and so on. 

Kane purposefully made himself hard to contact. He had no email, wasn’t a member of any WhatsApp groups, had no employer to contact, not even an address. It wasn’t even as though Craven could call MI6 and ask them to find Kane’s number. Stead’s real name was highly unlikely to even be Stead. How would Craven find him?

Craven stepped outside the mall and paused. He gripped Kim’s hand and stared around the car park. His car was still in the car park, but Craven assumed it was compromised. They were watching it or had its registration plates, and Craven knew enough from his experiences with Kane, Cameron, and Danny about how modern tech experts could use CCTV to track a vehicle by its registration. He half expected the black jeep to be parked next to his car, but it wasn’t, or for it to come screeching around a corner with guns blazing. But it didn’t. 

There was a decision to make. Craven had no money; his accounts set up by Kane were frozen, or disappeared. He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, but it was enough to know that the money he could access with his bank card was gone. And again, he knew now not to use the card, because if someone knew the account numbers, they could find him the moment he used an ATM. Someone knew the account number, because they had stolen money from it, and Craven assumed that someone was Valknut. He needed money and a phone. The only place Craven knew there was money was at his villa. But that was a risk. Valknut could be there waiting for him, but Craven had no choice. He had to find somewhere safe for Kim to sleep, and a hotel would cost money. Craven took out his wallet. He had two hundred euros in notes and seven in change. 

To his right, shop workers strolled to a culvert in the pathway where a line of taxis waited. Craven led Kim over to the queue and waited his turn behind a petite, curly-haired girl who talked in preposterously loud Spanish into her phone. Eventually, Craven got into a yellow Nissan taxi and gave the driver the address.

“How much?” Craven asked. 

“Qué?” replied the driver, turning to look at Craven with a dark eyebrow raised. 

“Cuanto a la direccion?” Kim said confidently. 

“Treinta euros,” the driver replied. 

Craven nodded, and the car set off. 

“Clever clogs,” said Craven and Kim laughed. 

Craven had the driver stop at the top of the lane on which his villa and four others curved around a cul-de-sac. He paid the man and walked slowly along the path, watching carefully for any sign of Valknut at his house. He said a silent prayer to God and hoped Valknut wasn’t hunting him as aggressively as they hunted Kane and his family. With no sign of jeeps or gunmen, Craven picked up the pace and hurried to his villa. He skirted around the back, keeping to the walls and the late evening shadows. He peeked around the corner to where his pool glistened, and the coast seemed clear. 

Inside the villa, all was as Craven had left it. He allowed himself a sigh of relief and sent Kim off to grab some of her clothes from the wardrobe in her room and get an overnight bag ready. 

“Do I need my toothbrush, Uncle Frank?” 

“Yes.”

“What about my schoolbooks?” 

“No.”

“What about a spare pair of shoes?” 

“No.”

“How many pairs of underwear do I need?” 

“Just grab a handful.” 

“Socks?”

“Kim, do you want me to pack it for you?” 

“Chill out. I can do it. Do you think I’m a baby?” 

She flounced off down the hall and Craven shook his head. He went to the sitting room and opened the safe behind the sofa. Inside was the emergency box Kane had encouraged Craven to keep in there. Craven took the box out and lifted the lid. Inside was two thousand euros in cash, a passport and a driving licence in the name of Roger Beavers. Despite the tension he was feeling, Craven laughed quietly at Kane’s joke. He took out a first aid kit and hoped he wouldn’t need it, and a burner phone. Kim and Danny’s passports were also in the safe, and Craven put all the emergency items into a black Nike backpack. The last item in the safe was a gun. A black Sig Sauer pistol Craven knew how to use but hated carrying with him. Given the current situation, he carefully placed it and the spare magazine into his bag.

“I’m done,” said Kim, appearing in the sitting room with her back. “Are we staying here tonight?” 

Craven scratched at the stubble on his jaw. If Valknut hadn’t broken in yet, then it was unlikely they would do so that night. He would take the risk of giving Kim a good night’s rest in her own bed. 

“Yes, love. Go get your pyjamas on. Are you hungry?”

“I just ate a Happy Meal and three chicken nuggets, Uncle Frank.”

“Oh yeah. I almost forgot.”

“How could you? You ate a Big Mac meal and a cheeseburger.” 

“All right. Thanks for reminding me. Go on and brush your teeth and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Is Danny OK?”

“He’s going to be fine.”

“Will Daddy come?”

“I hope so.”

She kissed Craven on the cheek and headed off to bed. Craven took the gun out of his bag and settled into his armchair. He would stay awake all night and keep the gun in his hand. Just in case. There was coffee in the cupboard and milk in the fridge. Tomorrow he would think of a way to find Kane and hopefully get Danny to safety.

Fifty-Five

Craven finished his second cup of coffee and set the mug down on the low glass table next to his armchair. His eyes stung with tiredness, and he was halfway through watching The Outlaw Josey Wales on the TV. Kim slept soundly in her bedroom, and Craven kept one eye on the patio windows and the pool area outside. The Sig rested in his lap and Craven placed his hand on the cool, rough grip. His mind raced with thoughts of Danny and Kane, and what to do next. 

He watched Clint Eastwood face off against three enemies on the widescreen television, but a movement outside snagged his attention. Craven rose slowly and used the remote control to turn off the television. He lifted the Sig and held it in his right hand, moving cautiously towards the folding glass doors which stretched around his entire kitchen to give a wide view of the pool and garden. 

Kane had shown Craven how to fire the Sig and Craven flexed his hand around the textured grip. The gun had no safety switch, so he chambered a round, and the slide snapped forward with a mechanical click. The gun was ready to fire, but Craven desperately hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. He hoped it was a cat moving in the shadows and not his worst fear. Perhaps Valknut had followed him from the mall? Perhaps they had been watching the villa all along? 

A figure moved like a ghost from the shadows, and Craven started with a jump. The figure moved agilely, darting from the darkness. A face covered with a skull-painted balaclava glowed like something from hell, and Craven took three steps backwards, thinking of the danger Kim was in. He turned and stopped in his tracks. Another skeleton-faced enemy stood before him. Inside the house, two paces away. Craven tried to lift the gun, but the skull-faced Valknut soldier drove the butt of his machine- gun into Craven’s stomach and chuckled as Craven dropped to his knees. The rifle butt cracked against Craven’s head, and he fell to the carpet. 

Boots moved away from him and the patio doors slid open with a soft, gliding sound. Craven tried to rise, but his head felt broken. Blood dripped from his head and stained the carpet. Two Valknut soldiers stalked past him. One said something in Russian and the other laughed, and then kicked Craven brutally in the ribs. He gasped and swallowed a mouthful of bile. 

The two soldiers strolled across the sitting room, heading for the corridor and Kim’s bedroom. Craven crawled after them, head swimming, darkness swirling and churning his senses. The Sig lay beneath him, and he rolled onto his back and grabbed it. Craven ground his teeth. He couldn’t move. He lay on his back staring at the whitewashed ceiling and closed his eyes. 

“No!” screamed Kim from down the hall. “Uncle Frank, help! Uncle Frank!” 

The sound of her innocent voice stabbed Craven’s heart like a knife. He had to help her. Craven snarled and summoned up the strength in his huge frame, letting anger flood his arms and legs with strength. 

“No,” Craven whispered. He rolled over and stumbled to his knees with the Sig still in his hand. He had failed to protect Kim once before, in England, when MI5 had captured them. This time to fail was to die, and Craven couldn’t let that happen.

The two soldiers emerged from the hallway, one carrying Kim in his arms as she bucked and kicked at him, screaming like a devil. 

“Uncle Frank, he’s hurting me!” she yelled. 

Fat tears seeped from Craven’s eyes at her terror. He lifted the Sig, pointed the weapon, and fired. A deafening shot rang out, and the gun kicked in Craven’s hand. His first shot missed, so he aimed and fired again. With a spray of blood, a bullet slapped into the knee of the man holding Kim. He shouted in pain and dropped Kim, falling to the carpet and clutching at his ruined leg. 

“Get away, Kim!” Craven screamed, and she scuttled across the floor towards the kitchen. 

Craven closed one eye and fired again. The fallen man’s head rocked backwards, and thick, purple liquid slopped out of his skull onto the cream-coloured carpet. The second man glanced at his fallen comrade in shock, spat something in Russian, and began to lift his stubby machine-gun. Craven roared like an old bear and charged forward. He sprang from his knees and lurched across the distance between him and the gunman. If that machine-gun fired, Kim might get hit in the crossfire. 

The gun came up and a bullet spat from its muzzle. Craven closed his eyes, expecting the shot to pierce his body, but no pain came. He thundered into the enemy, using his frame and body weight to drive the man backwards. Craven grabbed the machine-gun with his left hand and ripped it from the man’s hands, tearing it from his grip and from the strap over his shoulder. He tossed the weapon across the room and slammed the Valknut soldier into the corridor wall. The soldier held the Sig tight, hooked a boot around Craven’s ankle, and an arm whipped around his back. The Valknut bastard was about to apply some of Kane’s jiu-jitsu moves on him. He had seen Kane take down bigger men countless times with his martial arts skills, and the mortal danger sent blood pounding around Craven’s brain. 

Craven was larger than the man he fought, much larger. He let go of the Sig and grabbed the man by his tactical vest with two hands. Craven bellowed with rage and picked the man bodily from the ground and slammed him into the corridor wall. He dragged the man towards him and crashed a savage headbutt into his nose, crushing gristle and bone with a sickening crack, and rammed him into the wall again. The Valknut man scratched at Craven’s face, tried to grab his throat, but Craven shook him like a gorilla holding a lamb and threw the man across the room, where he crashed into the dining room table. 

The man rose slowly as Craven closed in on him. He flashed a knife from inside his body armour and slashed it across Craven’s forearm. Craven cried out in pain and stopped his advance. A boot lashed out and kicked Craven in the shin, and an elbow cracked off his chin. Craven stumbled, and the enemy came at him, kicks and knife cuts driving him backwards. Craven tried to protect himself with his forearms, but the Valknut soldier grew stronger as Craven grew weaker. Death was upon him. The man was too skilled, too young and too deadly. Kim cried out in terror and Craven imagined her tossed into the back of a car and taken to be held like an animal alongside Danny. 

The knife lunged at Craven’s throat and he caught the blade with his left hand. The cold steel ripped into the skin of his palm and fingers, but Craven didn’t care. He was all that stood between Kim and a terrible fate, so he twisted the knife away and, with his right hand, grabbed the Valknut man around the throat. Craven lifted him from the ground again and drove him backwards until he crashed against the kitchen cupboards. Craven squeezed, his spade-like hand closing around his enemy’s throat like a vice. Ligaments and muscle crunched beneath his thick fingers and Craven squeezed harder. The Valknut man tried to wrestle the knife free, but Craven held on tight even though the edges sawed at his skin like it was red hot from the forge. The man opened his mouth and a trickle of fetid breath escaped his dying throat. 

Craven screamed into the man’s face and crushed his windpipe like it was a rotten branch. The man trembled and went still. Craven let him go, lifeless body slumping to the kitchen floor, and stumbled across the room, his hand, forearm and head bleeding freely. He picked up the Sig and moved back to the strangled man and without hesitating he shot the man once in the head to make sure of the kill. 

Craven dropped the gun and ran to Kim Kane, sweeping her up into his arms. Relief washed over him, sheer joy Kim was alive and safe. For now. Then a thought struck him. He could call the number, the number people in trouble called for help, the type of help only Kane and Craven could provide. Craven usually picked up those messages, but perhaps Kane would check the line when he hadn’t heard from Danny or Craven. It was a hope. Kim pressed her head into Craven’s chest, and he held her close so that she could feel safe. They were in the darkest danger, and if Craven didn’t act decisively, they would both surely die. Was it a mistake to come back to the villa? It looked that way now, but how was he to know what Valknut would do next? Craven picked up his burner phone and dialled the only number he could call, and hoped that Kane would worry enough about Craven’s lack of contact that he would check the line.

Fifty-Six

Where is Craven? Kane wondered as he washed his back with some iodine solution Kate Barrowhall had bought from a pharmacy. He sat in the bedroom of a tiny bed-and-breakfast hotel in Gwithian, a beach town twenty-five minutes’ drive from St Agnes. Are Danny and Kim OK? A growing sense of unease irked him, mixed with the anger and frustration of how badly the Valknut monster had beaten him at the surf shop. 

He shifted in the wooden chair and grimaced as the knife wound stung. He poured some of the solution onto a pad and carefully cleaned the blood away from his scalp and the cut on his cheekbone from where the beast of a man had crashed a headbutt into Kane’s face. 

“You should go to hospital,” winced Kate, watching him from where she sat on the edge of the bed biting her nails. “And we should go to the police.” 

“I can’t go to the hospital. I’d be arrested for what happened at the surf shop.”

“I thought you worked for the government?” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“Well, fucking explain it to me. My friend’s shop has just been blown up with a grenade and police officers murdered on the streets of St Agnes. Men are trying to kill me, and you’ve already been shot and stabbed. I’m wounded; you’re wounded. We are losing, Jack. Are we going to die before you can admit we need help?” 

She fixed Kane with her green eyes, and he couldn’t meet her gaze. They were lucky to be alive. Valknut had come to the surf shop with full force, and the giant had beaten Kane. The warrior inside him hated that. It made him sick. 

“You can hand yourself in to the police if you think you’ll be safer. I won’t stop you.” 

“We should both go to the police now. Or have your MI6 people come and get us? It’s gone too far. I’ve just been into a pharmacy to buy supplies so you can patch yourself up. Again. My ear needs proper treatment. And what about Emily? Is she OK? What is she supposed to do now? I brought you into her life and we’ve completely fucked it up.” 

“I didn’t mean for this to happen.” 

“You wanted to blow up the mine, which you did, and attack Valknut secret agents, or whatever the fuck you are calling them. That backfired, didn’t it? We’ve turned St Agnes into Beirut.” 

The room stank of antiseptic and adrenaline. Kane’s body was a map of cuts and bruises. Places where his enemy had landed their blows mixed with the scars of older battles. But Kane was alive, and for now, that had to be enough. Everything Kate said was right, but he couldn’t just hand himself in. Not whilst that Valknut fiend ran amok in England. 

Kane had laid out first aid supplies carefully on the dressing table. He had the items from his survival tin, and the supplies Kate had bought in the pharmacy en route to Gwithian. Along with the iodine solution, Kate had bought sterile gauze pads, a roll of medical tape, antiseptic wipes, a tube of antibiotic ointment, over-the-counter painkillers, plasters and a pack of butterfly stitches. 

Kane’s shirt lay in a bloody mess on the bathroom floor. Kate was smeared with grime from the events at the surf shop. 

“I’ll make sure Emily isn’t out of pocket.” 

“Very noble of you. What will it be, a briefcase full of cash?” 

“Something like that. I need your help to fix this,” Kane gestured to the wound on his back. “After that, I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. You can go to the police if you wish.” 

She tutted and ran her long fingers through her auburn hair, which had become greasy and in need of a wash. 

“What do you want me to do?” 

“Clean the wound again with these wipes and then fasten it together with the butterfly stitches.” 

“I’m not a nurse. But I’ll do my best. Hold still.” 

Kate gently cleaned the wound with a steady hand, using the antiseptic wipes to dab lightly at the dried blood. Kane balled his fists and took the pain. She followed Kane’s instructions and applied a generous layer of antibiotic ointment to the wound. Her fingers felt warm against his skin as she carefully used the butterfly stitches to pull the wound’s lips together. Finally, she positioned a thick gauze over the gash, securing it with medical tape in a crisscross pattern to ensure it stayed in place. 

“That should hold for now,” Kate said, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of relief and worry. “I need a shower.” 

Kate dipped into the bag Kane had brought up from the car and pulled out a change of clothes. She went to the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the shower. Kane checked the cuts on his head and face in the bedroom mirror. He was badly beaten up. A swelling on his jaw, shallow cuts on his neck, cheek and forehead with a deeper gash on his cheekbone which threatened to open with every movement. 

Kane cleaned his face with another wipe, staring at his reflection and wondering how to get back at the Valknut monster. Kane applied some of the antiseptic ointment to the gash on his cheekbone and the one on his scalp hidden by his hair. He placed more butterfly stitches on both wounds and covered his cheek with a plaster to hide the stitches and keep the wound clean. 

When it was done, he leaned back in the chair and wondered why he hadn’t heard from Craven. He checked his phone but there were no messages, not even from Stead complaining about the escalating levels of violence which the conflict with Valknut had brought to Cornwall’s quiet villages. He took a drink from a bottle of water and downed two painkillers. Kane stood and went to his own bag and took a clean shirt and suit. He lay them on the bed as Kate came out of the bathroom, followed by a cloud of steam. She wore a towel wrapped around her chest and her supple skin glistened with water. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, offering Kane a sad smile. “I’m just not used to all this. It’s all too much. I just want to go back to the way things were. To my old life.” 

Kate began to cry silently, and Kane moved towards her as a reaction to the tears. He put his arms around her and Kate rested her head on his shoulder. 

“Things will be back to normal soon,” Kane said. 

She turned up to look at him, and her lips met his. Her mouth was soft and warm, and Kane held her close. At that moment, a thought sprang into his head. The secure line, the number people used to contact Kane and Craven when they needed help. He should check it, just in case Craven was having problems to contact him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling gently away from her. Kate just stared at him as Kane picked up the burner phone and called the number to check messages on the secure line. There was a message and Kane listened to it. When it was over, he placed the phone down with a trembling hand. 

“What is it?” asked Kate, stepping towards him. 

“They’ve taken Danny. Craven and Kim are on the run.” 

The world was on fire, and Kane had to get to Seville.

Fifty-Seven

Craven stumbled through the serpentine alleys of Seville with Kim Kane at his side. He carried his rucksack with the money and emergency items taken from his safe, the gun, and a few other useful pieces of kit looted from the two dead Valknut soldiers. Craven had wrapped his injured hand in a towel and covered the slashes on his forearms with his jumper and a jacket. Last of all, he had used the burner phone to call a taxi to bring him and Kim into Seville’s city centre. 

The city was a maze of narrow streets, which Craven and Kim trawled, looking for somewhere to find medical attention for his injuries. Kim clutched Craven’s good hand, which she had not let go of since the fight at the villa. She glanced up at him with a mixture of fear and trust behind her wide eyes. Craven’s hand and arms throbbed with pain, and he felt lightheaded from blood loss. Craven tried to walk, to keep his back straight and stride confident, but his feet dragged and felt himself slewing from side to side. 

Craven wouldn’t risk a hospital. There were two dead bodies in his living room and the Spanish police wouldn’t be sympathetic to his story of self-defence. There had been an attack at the Yaro School, and now two dead men with machine-guns at Craven’s house. Murder in Seville was a relatively low occurrence, so the police would be on high alert and watching every hospital for suspects. He needed a place where questions would be minimal, where he could get treatment without raising alarm. Craven recalled a clinic he had passed in the city, on a day where he’d been looking for a replacement plug for a toaster. The clinic was small and unassuming, tucked between a bakery and a bookshop. 

With each step Craven’s strength waned, but he trudged on, fuelled by the need to protect Kim. He spotted the clinic’s green cross sign.

“That’s the place,” he said, forcing himself to smile at Kim.

“Good,” she replied. The first word Kim had spoken since the fight at the villa. 

Craven pushed the door open. It was barely nine o’clock, and a bell rang softly from above the door. The smell of antiseptic reassured him. He needed to get his wounds seen to quickly. The knife had cut deep into his palm and fingers, and there were other knife cuts to both forearms.  

The clinic was quiet so early in the morning, the soft hum of fluorescent lights the only sound. A portly woman with short brown hair looked up. She wore a nurse’s uniform, and her expression shifted from boredom to worry as she noticed the bloody towel wrapped around Craven’s hand. 

The nurse shook her head, but Craven cut her off before she could direct him to the hospital. 

“I need help,” he said in a low growl. “Just some stitches, nothing more. I live close by, and you are closer than the hospital.” 

The nurse stared blankly and shook her head.

“¿Qué pasó? ¿Cómo te lastimaste?” she asked. 

Kim translated in rapid Spanish. “She wants to know what happened.” 

“Tell her I cut it on the lawnmower. Tell her I’m looking after you and I need quick help.” 

Kim translated, and there was a moment of silence. The nurse hesitated, eyes darting from Kim to Craven. She held her breath, bit her lip and then exhaled deeply. 

“Follow me,” she said in English. 

Craven and Kim followed her along a snug hallway until they reached a small examination room at the back of the clinic. The nurse gestured for him to sit on the paper-covered table, then disappeared through a side door. Craven tried to steady himself, and Kim squeezed his hand. 

“It’s all right, love,” Craven said. “The nice lady is going to make me better. Then we’ll go get some breakfast. How does that sound?” 

Kim smiled sadly and nodded. She let go of his hand and sat on a leather-covered stool next to the bed. The nurse returned, accompanied by a middle-aged doctor with salt and pepper hair and horn-rimmed glasses. 

“Please,” he said in English, gesturing to the towel.

Craven slowly unravelled the bloody wrapping and then slipped off his jacket to show the wounds on his arms. The doctor assessed Craven’s injuries with brisk, practised movements, his eyes sharp but without judgements. 

“These cuts are deep,” the doctor said. “You are lucky not to have severed anything vital.” 

“Bloody lawnmower,” Craven replied. 

The doctor lifted one eyebrow but said nothing. He cleaned the wounds with a solution that burned like fire. Craven gritted his teeth and Kim watched silently, her face pale but composed. The doctor worked quickly, his hands steady as he stitched Craven’s hands and the deeper cuts on his arms. Each pull of the needle was a fresh wave of agony, but Craven bore it without a sound, not wanting to further distress Kim.

When it was done, the doctor wrapped Craven’s arm in a tight bandage. His eyes met Craven’s with a knowing look. 

“Keep it clean. Change the dressing daily and stay out of trouble.” 

Craven managed a wry smile and nodded his thanks. “I’ll do my best.” 

Craven paid the nurse with cash at the reception desk and led Kim out of the clinic and into the cool morning air. 

“Right,” he said to Kim. “I don’t know about you, Kimmy, but I could eat a scabby horse. Let’s get some food.” 

She giggled and nodded. Craven pointed to the bakery next door, from which the smell of fresh loaves and pastry wafted. Kim needed something calm, nice, and normal to distract her from their dire situation. As they entered the bakery door, Craven checked his phone for the fiftieth time since he had left the message. Still no response from Jack. If he didn’t reply soon, Craven would have to take things into his own hands. He couldn’t leave Danny with Valknut. They wouldn’t hold him forever. Craven had to assume they had taken Danny to bring Kane out into the open, to use him as a bargaining chip. They wanted Kane dead. That much was clear. But if Jack died, what would become of Danny?

Fifty-Eight

Kane helped Kate Barrowhall throw her clothes and toiletries into a bag. He dressed quickly in a fresh shirt and black suit, grimacing as the stitches on his back stretched with every movement. He had taken the spare Glock from the car and now checked the magazine and holstered it inside the waistband of his trousers. 

Kane moved quickly, desperate to get out of the bed-and-breakfast as quickly as possible and start his journey to Spain. He moved to the dresser to pick up the burner phone and return Craven’s call, but it wasn’t there. He checked his pockets, and then his bag, but nothing. The bathroom door opened, and Kate came out holding the burner in her right hand. 

“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said with a sad smile. 

“What have you done?” he replied. 

“It’s gone too far. They have your son. I’ve called the police. I told them it was us at the shop and they’re on the way.” 

“Shit.” Kane ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have time for this, Kate.” 

“It’s for the best. Can’t you see that?” 

The sound of sirens blared in the distance. 

“That was quick. I thought we’d have more…” 

“I have to go, Kate. You can wait for the police if that’s what you want. But this is your last chance. Valknut can still get to you, even under police protection. You can come with me.” He wanted her to agree, to embrace him with another soft kiss, but she shook her head. 

“I can’t.”

“Goodbye, then.” Danny and Kim were in trouble. Nothing else mattered now. 

“I’ll walk out with you.” 

Kane picked up his bag and hurried out of the bedroom door and down the creaking stairs. 

“Jack?” Kate said, just as he reached for the front door handle. Kane turned, and she kissed him. “Thanks.” 

He turned away, opened the door, and stepped out onto the pavement. Kate followed, placing a hand on his lower back. Kane half turned back to her, taking the car keys out of his pocket. He heard something whoosh past his head and flinched involuntarily. Something crunched and hot liquid splashed onto the side of Kane’s face. He turned just as Kate Barrowhall fell into him, the side of her head missing and the rest a mess of blood and bone. Kane caught her and dragged her body back inside the door. He glanced across the street and his eyes locked on the Valknut giant, stood behind a black jeep with a rifle held at his shoulder, a mocking grin splitting his cruel, flat face. 

Kane pulled Kate’s still body to him, cradling her lifeless form in his arms. He didn’t realise for ten heartbeats that he was roaring at the top of his lungs, bellowing like a madman. He was cursed, and so was everyone who loved him or got close to him. Kane had suspected it before, but Kate’s brutal death confirmed it. The curse followed him, haunted him, destroying those around him like a plague. 

Another bullet zipped and pounded into the door. Kane bent and kissed her bloody forehead and laid Kate’s body down. The police were close, but not close enough. Valknut had found him again. The giant had outsmarted and outfought Kane for a second time. He leant back and kicked the door closed. 

“Get down,” Kane growled at the bed-and-breakfast owner who had appeared from a side room and now gaped at Kate’s horrific wound with a hand clasped to her mouth. 

Kane drew the Glock and stalked through the hallway towards the building’s rear. He grabbed a travel guide and map from a stack of tourist leaflets beside the check-in desk. Kane kicked open a ground-floor bedroom door, ignored the occupant’s scream, and moved to the window. A man in black tactical gear stood in the back garden with an MP5 at his shoulder. Kane fired twice through the window and shot the man in the shoulder and leg. He picked up a chair from the bedroom and tossed it through the window to clear the glass and climbed outside. 

He stalked across the lawn and shot the writhing Valknut soldier in the face. Kane picked up the MP5, ripped off the tactical vast and took two spare magazines. The Valknut monster had killed Kate and almost killed Kane. It would not happen again. Kane reached his car, tossed the MP5, the vest, ammunition and the Glock onto the passenger seat and screamed the car away at top speed.

Fifty-Nine

Kane gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white and mind full of rage. Wind howled across the Gwithian dunes and whipped grains of sand against the Volkswagen Passat’s windscreen. His eyes darted between the rear-view mirror and the winding road ahead. Two menacing black Grand Jeep Cherokees with tinted windows and reinforced bumpers raced after him like hunting wolves. Kane could not see the drivers, but imagined the hulking Valknut monster driving one, gloating over Kate Barrowhall’s death, enjoying his mastery of Kane. 

The Passat’s engine growled as Kane floored the accelerator and the car surged forward. Four police cars flew past on the other side of the road in a blur of white and red with blue flashing lights. Cornwall’s country roads were narrow and treacherous, lined with hedgerows and foliage that obscured his view around every bend. The roads were a maze of twists and turns, and Kane simply had to get away. He had to escape and get to Seville to save his son. 

Kane took a sharp left and veered onto a road barely wider than a footpath, the car’s tyres screaming in protest. The two jeeps followed, engines roaring, headlights flickering through the surrounding trees like demons’ eyes. Kane’s heart thumped, ripped with grief for Kate, and shredded with regret that Valknut had taken Danny. It was his fault for involving Danny in his work, for allowing his son’s genius with computers to endanger him. It was a mess. He had it all once, a loving family, a place in witness protection with a mundane factory job. Anonymity. If Kane had kept to that life, Sally would be alive. Kate Barrowhall would be alive. Danny and Kim would be at school today. A normal school in England with normal friends and normal interests. But every day Kane lived that life he had longed for the old one, his soul empty without the thrill and action of his days as an SAS soldier and MI6 agent. 

The road snaked through the Cornish countryside. Kane reached over to the passenger seat and opened the paper map he had swiped from the bed-and-breakfast. He flicked from it to the road, mentally tracing a path towards escape. Kane had to reach the A30, the main artery road where he might shake off his pursuers. 

Kane skidded onto another tapering track, the hedgerows closing in like green walls. The jeeps followed and Kane pushed the Passat harder, feeling its chassis shudder as it skimmed over the uneven surface. The road ahead split, a fork leading to two equally uncertain paths and, with the terrain so haggard, Kane could not risk glancing at the map. He chose the left fork, a gut decision based on nothing but a fleeting glimpse of sunlight through the trees. The Passat responded to his steering, its back end flying out as he roared around a bend, tyres struggling for grip, gravel spitting out behind him like shattered teeth. 

The jeeps followed through a cloud of dust. A flash of colour caught Kane’s eye. A red post-box and behind it an old mill. Kane sped towards it, the engine’s roar echoing off the surrounding forest. A bridge loomed ahead, its ancient stone arching over a babbling brook. Kane hurled the Passat over the bridge and the car skimmed the edge of the crumbling parapet. He glanced into the rear-view mirror to see the first jeep approach, its driver hesitating for a fraction of a second. It was enough. The jeep scraped against the stone, shuddering before it made it through. The second jeep wasn’t so lucky, and it slammed into the bridge’s edge to send a cascade of rock plummeting into the water below. 

Kane took advantage of the delay, speeding along a road which twisted like a serpent across the country. The first jeep kept up the pursuit. Its flanks scraped but not enough to slow the vehicle down. The road opened up and gave way to a stretch of open moorland. Kane pushed the Passat to its limits, wishing he had something faster, the speedometer needle quivering as it approached the maximum. Fields and heather blurred past until Kane spied the A30 ahead. 

The jeep grew closer, and Kane’s mind raced, searching for a plan to get him away. He quickly checked the map and headed for an abandoned quarry, shown as a blotch of grey on the tourist’s map. Kane veered off the road and the Passat plunged down a dirt track towards the quarry. The jeep followed and its driver did not slow down. The rough ground vibrated through the steering wheel, and each bump jarred his bones and tugged at the stitches in his back. 

The quarry opened up before him, a yawning chasm filled with shadow and glistening dark water. Kane drove straight for the edge, and at the last moment, he yanked the steering wheel hard to the left. The Passat skidded, tyres screaming in protest as it hugged the quarry’s rim. The chasing jeep wasn’t so lucky. Its driver could not match Kane’s manoeuvre, and the ground disappeared beneath it. The vehicle was twenty feet into a ravine and came to a slamming stop as its bumper bars thumped into a hawthorn tree. 

Kane slammed on the brakes, stepped on the clutch, and pushed the gearbox into reverse. The Passat zoomed backwards, and Kane broke again at the point where the jeep had flown off the edge. He jumped out of the car with the stolen MP5 in his hand. Kane walked to the edge and opened fire on the jeep. He riddled the vehicle with bullets like a deadly hail, each smashed window and spatter of blood inside the car a strike of revenge for Kate Barrowhall. Kane only stopped shooting when the magazine was empty. He stalked back to the car, opened the boot, and took a grenade from the gear bag. He pulled the pin and tossed it towards the jeep. 

Kane got back into the Passat and guided it back onto the road towards the A30. An explosion cracked behind him accompanied by a plume of smoke and Kane gunned the car onto the main road, its engine still singing with the exertion of the chase. He wove through sparse traffic and pushed the Volkswagen hard away from his enemies. Guilt sagged his shoulders. Guilt for leaving Kate in that doorway, and guilt that he had failed to protect her. 

A black vehicle appeared in his mirror and Kane slammed his hand on the steering wheel. The second jeep had caught up after jarring itself on the bridge. Kane tried to take advantage of the road stretching ahead of him like a runway. He pushed the Passat into top speed, slipping between lanes, trying to keep as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible. He had to call Craven, to find out what exactly had happened in Seville, but that was impossible until he had shaken the jeep. 

An overhead sign whipped past, blue with white lettering, directions to Redruth, Camborne, and Penzance. An exit loomed ahead with an opportunity to race into the heart of Cornwall’s rugged landscape. Kane swung onto the exit ramp and shot down the slip road. 

The road twisted again, becoming more restrictive and lined with old stone walls. Kane zigzagged through the countryside, the Passat hugging the corners with precision. As the bends increased in severity and forced him to slow the pace, Kane watched for an opportunity. With each turn, he disappeared from the jeep’s view. When his enemy fell a full two bends behind, Kane swung into a tapered, thin country lane, barely a lane, more like a muddy gap in the hedges. He slammed on the accelerator, then turned the Passat into a clutch of bushes beside the mud track, hiding the car from the road. 

Kane turned off the engine and waited. An engine roared past on the bend beyond the lane. The jeep. Kane waited, staring at his watch until three minutes had passed, then he turned the car around, a tricky manoeuvre in the tight space which took six truncated turns until he could drive out of the lane and turn back the way he had come. Kane followed the bends back to the A30 and turned to follow it east out of Cornwall. For a full ten minutes Kane wove in and out of traffic, speeding up and slowing down, checking his mirror for any sign of the Valknut jeep. He had lost them. Now it was time to attack, to protect his family, and get to Seville.

Sixty

Craven paced the hotel room as Kim Kane watched Spanish cartoons on the TV, contentedly eating chocolate ice-cream straight from the tub. He had paid for the hotel in cash, not one of the finer establishments in the city, but an older place with worn carpets and wallpaper curling at the corners. Modern hotels wanted payments by credit card and a valid form of ID, but all Craven had was cash and his fake passport and driving licence. Payment in cash suited him fine, and whilst the room might not be a suite at the Hilton, it would give Kim somewhere safe to rest. 

A phone rang with a jumpy electronic ringtone. The burner phone he had taken from the safe. Craven patted jacket and trouser pockets looking for the device, and then remembered it was on the table. Only one other person had that number, and Craven’s heart raced with relief. 

“Hello?” Craven said as he pressed the green answer button and lifted the phone to his ear. 

“Frank? It’s Jack,” said Kane, with the sound of a car humming in the background. 

“Jesus Christ. Thank God.” 

“I got your message. Why didn’t you call me earlier?” 

“I lost my bloody burner, and I don’t have your number written down or committed to memory. It’s a long story. Where are you?” 

“Leaving Cornwall now. What happened, Frank?” 

Craven gave Kane the whole story. He told Kane how Valknut had attacked the Yaro School and taken Danny prisoner and how Craven had got Kim out just in time. He told him about the attack at his house and how they had fled to the shopping mall and then into the city. 

“So, you are in Seville now?” Kane asked when Craven was done. 

“With Kim in a hotel.” 

“And you know where they are keeping Danny?” 

“It’s a farmhouse with beefed-up security. Lots of guns and Valknut bastards all over the place.” 

“I’m on my way over to you. Hold tight, Frank.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Get Danny back.”

“What’s happening your end?” 

Kane sighed down the phone. “Merlin Mining is out of commission, so Valknut can’t exploit it for a while. Kate Barrowhall is dead.” 

“What? How?”

“Valknut.”

“How long will it take you to get here?” 

“Not sure. I’ll look at flights. I need to talk to Stead and debrief him. If there aren’t flights, I’ll drive or catch the train through the tunnel. Hold fast, stay where you are. Are they following you?” 

“I don’t think so. The police will be after me, though. There’re two dead bodies at my villa.” 

“I’ll ask Stead to look after that. Keep this line open.”

“I will.”

“Are you or Kim hurt?” 

“I took a few scratches, and Kim is fine. I mean, she isn’t hurt, but I can’t say for sure what sort of state her mind is in. She’s been through a lot.” Craven slipped into the bathroom and closed the door. “Kim saw her own mother die five years ago. She’s seen more people killed than most soldiers. She needs stability, Jack. When this is over, we need to re-think the life you live. Look at what’s happened to Danny. We should never have got him involved in all this.” 

The line went silent for thirty seconds. “I know,” Kane said eventually.

“Call me when you know how long it will take to get here.” 

“I will. Can I talk to Kim?” 

Craven carried the phone into the bedroom. “Kimmy? Your dad’s on the phone.” 

A nervous smile split her face, and Kim took the phone in two hands. “Daddy?” she said.

Craven stepped away to let them talk alone. When the conversation was over, Kim handed Craven the phone and her focus returned to the television. 

“Well?” Craven said into the phone. 

“I think she’s OK. But she’s in shock.” 

“Which isn’t bloody surprising. It’s like World War Three over here.” 

“Thank you, Frank. For looking after her, and for doing your best for Danny.” 

“I love them like they’re my own. You know that. Me and Barb never had kids. We tried, by God, did we try. She doted on little Kim. I won’t let anything happen to her, not whilst there’s breath in me.” 

“This will be the last one, Frank.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s got to stop. I need to go somewhere quiet with Danny and Kim and let them be kids. Provide somewhere safe for them to grow up.” 

“Get here as quick as you can. Danny must be petrified.” 

“Bastards.”

“Why haven’t they tried to contact you? Used his capture to force you to hand yourself in?” 

“I don’t know. Perhaps that’s coming next. I’ll be in touch.”

Sixty-One

Kane drove for two hours and pulled into a retail outlet shopping centre beside the dual carriageway. He used the bathroom, bought three fresh shirts, some underwear, a takeaway coffee and a sandwich. Once he had returned to the car, he called Stead on the secure line exchanged when Stead had first sent Kane on the Merlin Mining investigation.

“Jack,” said Stead as he answered the phone. “I wondered when you’d call. I was actually about to call you.”

“This whole thing has gone tits up, Stead,” Kane replied.

“That’s an understatement. Explosions? Gunfights in Cornwall? The secretary of state almost choked on his cornflakes this morning.”

“Valknut is all over this thing. You should have more than enough to get an MI6 operation off the ground. Valknut is operating in England. In force. Ray Brogan was right. Merlin Mining was paying Valknut a profit share in untraceable Monero crypto. Valknut has investments in lithium and cobalt across the world and is channelling those funds into the BRICS countries’ ambitions to replace the US dollar as the world’s reserve currency. I have the evidence taken from the Merlin offices and am working on tracking the crypto transfers as we speak.”

“Do you have that evidence to hand?”

“I can send you the data. Can you get a mission sanctioned on the back of it?”

“Possibly.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Kane paced the car park, anger welling within him like a storm.

“Merlin Mining is no more, which I presume is your handiwork? We’ll use government agencies, such as environmental protection or something like that, to make sure any rebuild is prohibited. The lithium mine will die, ending Valknut’s interests here in Britain.”

“But they must be stopped. Valknut runs a private army. They are an extension of the Russian state who can operate without sanctions because they are not actually, or officially, part of the state. There won’t be peace until Valknut is in ruins. The whole BRICS’ ambition is a direct threat not just to our national security, but that of our closest ally. The Americans won’t take too kindly to us ignoring a clear and present danger to their currency, to their very way of life. What do you think will happen to us if the US dollar collapses?”

“I don’t need a lesson in geopolitics, Kane.”

“Kate Barrowhall is dead. The CEO of Merlin Mining and a British citizen executed in broad daylight by Valknut operators. Surely that’s enough for MI5 to sweep them up?”

“Could be. But there’s more. When I said I was about to call you…. well, we’ve had contact from a group calling themselves The Vanir. They say they have taken your son Danny captive and will execute him live online within forty-eight hours unless you hand yourself in, and that we hand over three million pounds in ransom. We, as in the British Government.”

“I know they have Danny. I just found out. You know The Vanir is just a bullshit name for Valknut?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“I’ve given you my debrief. Kate Barrowhall is dead. What are you going to do about Valknut?”

“We’ll take it from here, Jack. You’ve done well. Valknut’s lithium interests in the UK are redundant. Send me over the files, and you and Craven are clear. You can return to the UK with a clear record. Everything on any law enforcement database that relates to you, or Craven, will be expunged. I repeat: you’re clear. Even the whirlwind you started in Cornwall.”

“What about my son?”

“We can help you with that. I presume you are about to make your way to Seville?”

“I am.”

“I’ll send a team to meet you there. They’ll use this number to make the necessaries.”

“Thanks. So, you’ll punish the Valknut operators who killed Kate Barrowhall?”

“We’ll take care of that. Don’t worry.”

Kane hung up the phone and sat in the car. He paused for a moment, taking a few heartbeats to still the hurricane of thoughts pushing at the inside of his skull. Worry for Danny, Craven and Kim, guilt and grief over Kate’s death, anger at Valknut and at himself for allowing his children to get caught up in his lethal affairs. He needed time to think. Valknut wanted his head, and their agents were every bit as skilled as any in MI6 or the CIA. They would find him, either by his car, through CCTV or satellite imagery. He could try to hide himself, but it was unlikely to throw them off now they had the scent.

Valknut wanted a ransom for Danny, but the sum demanded was peanuts in their world. Barely enough to pay for one of their global operations for a week. It was Kane they wanted, and he would get to them within the forty-eight-hour deadline. Kane imagined them watching him, angered at how he had infiltrated their base in Krasnodar and now again destroyed their lithium mining interests in the UK. If he wanted to arrive in Seville unnoticed, he could take the train from London, through the Channel Tunnel and France and across Spain, but that would take at least twenty-four hours. He could drive, taking the same route and changing vehicle. Kane did a rough calculation in his mind and the thirty-hour journey was too long. It would have to be a flight. The least attractive proposition. He would pass through dozens of CCTV cameras and security scanners, each one open to hackers and skimmers, which he assumed Valknut had in spades.

A flight would have Kane in Seville that afternoon. It was worth the risk, especially if he assumed Valknut was tracking him. Kane held the steering wheel and glanced around the car. Valknut had multiple opportunities to put a tracker on the vehicle, either at the bed-and-breakfast or at the surf shop. Even if he changed vehicles now, they would pick it up on any of the shopping centre cameras. Kane started the engine and headed towards London and Heathrow airport. He accepted Valknut was hunting him, embraced it. The hunt went both ways, and an MI6 team, which he hoped were SAS operators, awaited Kane in Seville. He would bring a war to Valknut they had never seen before.

Sixty-Two

McGovern stepped off the private jet and sucked in a huge gulp of warm, fresh air. She slipped on her sunglasses and couldn’t hold back the smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Four burly Valknut special forces soldiers surrounded her. She had absolutely zero chance of making a break for freedom, but just being out of the miserable concrete and plastic of the Krasnodar Krai base felt like a small victory. Feeling the sun on her face and forearms was like a gift, a forgotten pleasure once taken for granted but now rare and precious. 

She wore black cargo trousers tucked into black boots, a black shirt, and wore her short, bobbed hair loose. At one time, she would have happily spent two hundred pounds or more for a haircut during her days working for MI6 in London. Now she cut it herself but would pay everything she had for a cut and blow dry. But she had nothing. She was effectively a prisoner, unpaid and forced to work for Valknut, applying her skills to their missions and objectives instead of in defence of the country she had once loved so much. All she had lost, the career she had sacrificed everything for ripped away, she laid at the feet of Jack Kane. He had ruined McGovern’s life, and now she had a chance to make him suffer. Hopefully to see the bastard dead. 

McGovern glanced around at San Pablo airport and then back at the jet, a Valknut Group plane with its sleek, matte-black fuselage which bore no marking. It had landed in Spain like an anonymous phantom, travelling on Russian diplomatic papers. Her four handlers, or military assistants, as General Balakin preferred to call them, stomped down the stairs and pulled three crates from the plane’s luggage hold. Each one contained gear that it would have been impossible to get into the country, but for their diplomatic immunity. 

The Seville air was warm and crisp, and she ambled down the stairs towards a black Range Rover waiting on the tarmac. The four soldiers loaded the crates and then stalked about the Range Rover, scanning the perimeter with the ease of men who had seen too much combat. McGovern took the laptop handed to her by one soldier and climbed into the passenger seat. She sat back and stared out of the tinted window as they pulled away from the runway and then the airport, heading north towards the Andalusian countryside. 

The journey to the farmhouse was in stark contrast to her surroundings in Krasnodar. Seville’s architecture and bustling plazas gradually gave way to seemingly endless hills and olive groves. The sun rose higher in the sky, casting long shadows from high trees and illuminating the fields in shifting shades of gold and green. McGovern leant back against the headrest and let her mind drift again to her old life, to her dreams of power and influence. A life dismantled by Jack Kane. His relentless pursuit of her cover operations and black hat missions had exposed her, leaving McGovern no choice but to flee into Valknut’s cold, calculating arms. Her stomach churned with resentment. She despised him, the man who had driven her into the shadows and forced her to work for an organisation she loathed. Kane had left McGovern with no family, no loved ones, no relationships, no home, no dreams, and no future. 

The Range Rover turned off the main road onto a dirt track and kicked up a cloud of orange dust. The farmhouse loomed up ahead, a rustic structure of whitewashed stone and washed-out terracotta tiles that nestled amongst haggard-looking olive trees and dry brush. Appearances, however, were deceiving. McGovern had studied the works on the flight from Krasnodar to Spain. The Valknut Group had transformed the rundown farmhouse into a fortress. A high perimeter fence crowned with razor wire encircled the property. Surveillance cameras peered down from the eaves, their lenses sweeping the grounds, whilst reinforced steel doors and bulletproof windows provided further protection inside.

Tyres crunched on small pebbles as the Range Rover came to a halt. McGovern stepped out of the car and grimaced as she swallowed a mouthful of dust. She walked towards the house flanked by the four soldiers. Inside the building the air was cool, and grim-faced operators nodded unfriendly greetings. The house stank of strong cigarettes and bad coffee, and McGovern paused in the hallway. 

“Contact Krasnodar,” she said in Russian. Her voice low and commanding, giving an order not asking a question. A beefy man with a flat nose and cauliflower ears nodded slowly from where he leant in a doorway. “Tell them to get surveillance and databases set up for this mission and a shared drive so I can access results. We need to tap into the facial recognition software deployed by Spanish immigration. I want a detailed search for any sign of Jack Kane entering the country, if he isn’t already here. He’ll be travelling under a pseudonym, and we need to track his movements. He’s left one of our crews for dead in the UK with another on his tail. It’s a needle in a haystack task, but immigration scan passengers who disembark from flights and trains across Spain. Kane is as slippery as they come. A dangerous assassin and we must stay one step  ahead of him. I want to know the second he’s located, and I want an agent on standby. When we know where he is, I want a phone slipped into his pocket. I want to talk to the bastard. I want him to know it’s me and us who have done this to him. We have ruined his life and he must suffer.”

McGovern descended a set of creaking wooden stairs into a basement corridor lit by a single lightbulb. A Valknut woman with a round, serious face opened a heavy door. Inside, a teenager sat on a faded dining-room chair with a grime-streaked face and frightened eyes. There was fear in the look he gave her, but also an air of defiance in how he squared his shoulders. He was a bargaining chip in a dangerous game, one she intended to win. 

“Are you thirsty?” McGovern asked. 

Danny nodded.

“Have they fed you?” 

He shook his head. “You are English?” he said. 

“I am. I used to work for the same people as your father.” 

“Now you work for our enemies.” 

“What I do is no concern of yours.”

“My father will come for me.” 

“He won’t find you.” She spoke coldly, devoid of sympathy. “Even if he does, it will be too late if we don’t get what we want. He might even join you. A little reunion here in the darkness before the end.” 

“The end of what?” 

“Of you and your father.” 

“He’ll come for me.” Danny set his jaw with a flicker of his father’s tenacity shining through, his voice a dry-throated whisper. 

“I have accessed all your files, emptied all of your accounts. There is nothing you know that I don’t.” 

“So, what happens to me now?” 

McGovern shrugged. “We wait for Jack Kane to hand himself in and for your ransom to be paid. Then, we’ll see.” 

McGovern left him there, and as the heavy door scraped shut, she winced. A storm raged beneath her calm exterior. She had once worked for the side of righteousness, and now she stood on the opposite shore, her fate intertwined with those she had once hunted. The irony was not lost on her. 

McGovern climbed the stairs, and her thoughts returned to Jack Kane. He was out there, somewhere, a ghost among the living. She had always admired his ability to disappear, to become a shadow when needed. Admiring the man was one thing, hating him with every fibre of her being was another. She was no stranger to taking assets and holding them against their will. If it was in the interests of national security, then all bets were off. This was no different, not a threat to national security, of course, but a kidnap in the interests of McGovern’s white-hot need for vengeance. If she was to live a husk of a life locked away in the concrete tomb in Krasnodar, then there must be a punishment for the man responsible. Her life was gone. Every breath McGovern took, she did so because General Balakin allowed it to be so. What would happen when he grew tired of her? When he decided to change and bring in a new officer to oversee global intelligence operations, what would become of her? McGovern was under no illusion. All her future promised was a bullet to the back of her head and a shallow grave in the Krasnodar hills. 

McGovern paused and stared out a dirty farmhouse window, peering through a slit between the reinforced steel barrier across it, and out into the trees beyond. Her family was in England and did not know where she was or if she was alive. Her mother. McGovern had neglected them all in her ascent through the ranks of MI6, and if she could go back in time, she would have left university and taken a safe job. Perhaps trained as an accountant, or a lawyer. She could have married, had children, gone to her mum’s every Sunday for a roast dinner. A life lost. Surrendered in the pursuit of ambition and now a pile of ash in the ruins of her career. McGovern channelled all that regret, sadness and hate into Jack Kane, and he would die for what it had cost her. And she would make sure he suffered.

Sixty-Three

The plane touched down at Seville airport with a subtle jolt, wheels bouncing on the tarmac. Kane had flown on the next commercial flight from London Heathrow to Seville and had spent the flight squashed between an obese woman in a too-tight business suit and a young man playing ridiculously loud dance music in headphones. The aircraft taxied from the gate and Kane wished there had been more time. Valknut’s forty-eight-hour deadline for Kane’s surrender and MI6’s ransom payment forced Kane to take the flight. It was impossible to get the guns and ammunition he had used in Cornwall through airport security, so Kane had left everything in the boot of the Passat in a long-term parking space at the airport. It would stay there forever, or at least until someone noticed it was abandoned. 

The plane rumbled beneath him and Kane wondered how quickly he could hook up with the team Stead had promised. They would have the weapons and kit Kane needed to get his son back. He hoped. If there had been more time, Kane would have brought the car through the Channel Tunnel and driven through France and Spain to reach Seville fully armed and prepared for what must be done. As it stood, all he had was a travel bag in the hold containing his first aid tin, and a burner phone. Danny was out there, held at a farmhouse by mercenaries who wanted his father dead. The thought made Kane shudder with rage. Danny would be afraid, terrified even. Kane’s eyes snapped open as a vision of Danny tortured and brutalised by his captors seared into his mind. 

The usual muffled announcements mumbled from overhead speakers, and an air hostess cracked the cabin doors open. Immediately, everybody in an aisle seat sprung up to grab their luggage from the overhead lockers. Kane waited until the crowd began to move and then followed the line from the plane. He nodded his thanks to the flight attendants and strode across the gangway and into Seville airport. 

The air in the airport was heavy with the scent of roasted coffee mixed with the stale smell of travel. Travellers’ chatter echoed off the high ceilings broken by the clatter of luggage conveyer belts and the crash of suitcases onto airport trolleys. Sharp-eyed security personnel patrolled the baggage collection area, and Kane noted each of the high-mounted security cameras sweeping the hall. He sucked his teeth. He could buy a hat and sunglasses and try to hide his face, but airport security was too slick to evade with old-fashioned disguises. Scanners had already snapped his face dozens of times at London Heathrow and again at Seville. Anybody watching would find him in an instant. 

Kane collected his bag from the carousel and grimaced as the stitches on his back stretched. Old habits made him scan the mosaic of travellers in the hall. He assessed every man and woman subconsciously, which were in and out of shape, which might present a threat. He had identified the exits the moment he had entered the hall and listened carefully as families haggled over travel maps and businesspeople talked loudly into mobile phones. 

He maintained a casual demeanour as he approached the customs and security checkpoint. Kane handed over his passport, one of the remaining documents forged by Cameron before his death. He had no fear of the document’s quality and even offered a polite smile to the customer officer. The heavy man with wobbling jowls hanging over his shirt collar met Kane’s eyes for a heartbeat before nodding and waving him through. 

Kane strode into the arrivals lounge, scanning the shops and cafés for the opportunity to buy something that might come in useful. He was unarmed in Spain, where Valknut had shown their will to operate heavily-armed missions with complete disregard for Spanish law and its authorities. Just as they had in Britain. Kane stepped into a small electronics shop, more like a kiosk than an actual store. He bought a compact flashlight, a small multi-tool which might come in handy for picking locks, and a prepaid SIM card for the burner.

With little else to choose from, Kane waited in line at a snack bar and bought a coffee and a sandwich, which he devoured. His mind had clicked into operation mode, reflexes making him think like the SAS soldier he had once been. Take any chance to eat and sleep, no matter the stakes, no matter what was at risk. His goal was to be ready for battle when the opportunity came for him to get to Danny. 

Kane strode past the car hire desks and towards the exit. He passed chauffeurs holding white name-cards and tour operators in brightly-coloured polo t-shirts until the exit doors slid open to reveal a city bathed in golden sunlight. The Giralda tower dominated the skyline and somewhere out there were Danny and Kim. Kane glanced at a line of taxis and was about to wave one over when the sound of a phone ringing caught his attention. Kane glanced around, but there was nobody close enough for it to be someone else’s phone. He checked his burner, but the display was blank. The ring persisted and Kane patted down his pockets and cursed as he felt a small phone in his jacket’s left outer pocket. Kane picked up the small blue phone, which was only as tall as the palm of his hand and clicked the answer button. 

“Kane?” came an English woman’s voice after ten seconds of uncomfortable silence. 

“Who is this?” he replied, turning to peer into the airport, wondering who had slipped the phone into his jacket without him noticing. 

“An old colleague. Mjolnir, Odin, Lothbrok, Thor, all those silly codenames seem like a lifetime ago, don’t they?” 

“You were with Mjolnir?” The woman knew Kane’s old codename, Lothbrok, from his days in an MI6 black-ops, ultra-secret and deniable division. 

“I was until you fucked it all up.” 

“Are you calling to help?” 

The woman laughed as though he had told the slam dunk joke at a stand-up comedy show. “I have your son.” The laughter stopped and her voice became iron-hard. “I took your life apart. I have your accounts, your money, your files. You are mine now, Jack Kane.” 

“You’re with Valknut, then?” Kane suppressed his anger, wrestled with himself to keep the cool, rational mind his training had instilled. 

“Because of you, yes.”

“Because of me?”

“If you’d had stayed in hiding, kept to your witness protection programme like a good little boy, none of this would have happened. They had to go after you the moment you popped your annoyingly unremarkable grey man’s head up. You turned on us, gave evidence, betrayed your country.” 

“I have fought for my country all my life. Still do. You have become a mercenary. Valknut is an enemy of the British Government, and the US Government for that matter.” 

“Do you think I had a choice? Do you think I want to be here? I almost had it all. You took it…” 

Kane hung up the phone and waved to the first taxi driver in line. Whoever the woman was, she was clearly driven by hate. She was angry, and that clouded thought and judgement. Kane wanted her as angry as possible. 

“City centre,” Kane said to the taxi driver. He threw his bag into the back seat and followed it to take his seat on the rear passenger side. The phone rang again. 

“I’m in Seville,” he said as he answered the call. 

“You dare hang up on me when I have your brat? I should send you a piece of him and teach you some respect.” 

“Respect? For a traitor? Just tell me what you want me to do and when you are going to release my son.”

“I want you on your knees. I want to see you beg. Then, maybe we’ll let your son go. Instructions will follow. Know this, though, you must surrender to me unconditionally. No tricks, no ambush, just you on your knees.” 

“Valknut must want me pretty badly.” 

“You’ve messed in things above your station for the last time. You’re nothing but a washed-up vet who grassed on his teammates. Justice is coming.” 

“I want proof of life. I want to talk to my son. Today.” 

“Who do you think you are? I say what happens and when.”

“Do you think I am going to surrender to you, or that Six will pay you three million pounds with no assurance that my son is alive and can be exchanged? If you had any serious involvement in Mjolnir or at Vauxhall, you should know the protocols for dealing with terrorist kidnappings.” 

“Terrorist?”

“Just tell me when and where and demonstrate proof of life. But I want assurances that Danny will be OK. I won’t hand myself in until I know he’s safe. Understand?” 

“You’ll do as I fucking tell you, dog!” She seethed with anger, words hissing from what sounded like gritted teeth. “I am going to…”

Kane hung up the phone again. The woman clearly hated him. She would call back with a location for the exchange, but Kane must be ready with his own plan and counter requests. Hostage negotiation was a delicate business, and if it came down to Kane surrendering himself, which he would do willingly to save Danny’s life, it could only happen if he had prepared a way to be certain that Danny was free and safe. 

The taxi wove through zigzagging streets, and Kane kept the phone in his hand. She would call back with proof of life. That call must come. A chance to speak to Danny and know that he was alive. The taxi pulled over in the heart of Seville and Kane stepped out and paid the man. He took out his burner phone and dialled Craven. It was time to see Kim.

Sixty-Four

“Daddy!” Kim Kane yelled as her hotel bedroom door opened and her father appeared. 

“Kim,” Kane gasped as she leapt on him. He caught her and lifted her high before pulling his daughter into a crushing embrace. 

Craven watched on from the hallway and couldn’t help but smile. “Coffee?” he asked. 

“No tea?” Kane’s voice was muffled from beneath his daughter’s hair. 

“It’s Spain, Jack. The tea tastes like cat piss.” 

“Coffee it is then.” 

Craven clicked the switch on the small hotel room kettle and prepared two small white cups with sachets of instant coffee. He let Kane have time with Kim as they sat on the bed together. Once their conversation was over, Kane came to join Craven by the hotel window. 

“Well?” Craven asked.

“Thanks,” said Kane, taking the coffee and taking a sip. “She seems OK.” 

“Remarkable, given the circumstances.” 

“What happened to your hand?” 

“I cut it at the villa.” 

Kane nodded slowly and his lips turned in on themselves. They exchanged a look, and an understanding passed between them. Kane knew what Craven had done to protect his daughter, but respected that he didn’t want to talk about it. Craven was old school, hard-bitten. He just wasn’t built to talk about his feelings. He and Kane had known one another long enough to understand that. Jack had been there for him when Barb died. Just having someone to sit with, even in companionable silence, had been enough. 

“They slipped a phone into my jacket at the airport,” Kane said, glancing back at Kim, who had settled down on the bed to watch more cartoons. 

“And you didn’t see who it was?” Craven imagined a high-octane martial arts fight in Seville airport between Kane and the Valknut agent who had tried to put the phone in his pocket. 

“No, but they called me. A woman. Former MI6. They want me to surrender. In exchange for Danny. They also want MI6 to pay a ransom.”

“What do we do then? Attack the bastards? Break Danny out?” 

“We could. But I’ve no weapons. Stead has promised to send a team to help, but even with them we might be outgunned. Plus, it’s dangerous for Danny. If we attack, the first thing they’ll do is haul him up and tell us to stop shooting or they’ll kill him.” 

“We can’t just do nothing. You can’t just give yourself up. They’d kill you.” 

“That’s the idea.”

“There has to be another way.” 

“There is. We arrange an exchange on our terms. That I hand myself over to them at the same time as they hand Danny to us in a location of our choosing. That way, we can make sure he’s safe.”

“Why would they agree to that when they hold all the cards?” 

“That woman hates me, Frank. She blames me for everything which has gone wrong in her life. She’s Mjolnir. Remember my old MI6 group and the trouble we had with them when you and I first met?” 

“How can I forget?”

“Well, her life is in the toilet now. She wants my blood so badly it will cloud her judgement. We can use that.” 

“Hang on a second.” Craven drank three big gulps of his coffee and set the cup down. He massaged his forehead with two fingers. “The plan is that they hand over Danny to me, somewhere where we’re sure that we can get away with the lad without them double-crossing us?” 

“Yes.”

“But you’ll still have to hand yourself in, right?” 

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that a bit bloody stupid?” 

“I’ll have Stead’s team with me, and we’ll make a fight of it.” 

“Oh right, that makes it all OK then.” Craven shook his head, making sure Kane clearly understood the sarcasm. “So, I’ll have to take Kim to some as yet unknown location and take Danny from a Valknut man, or multiple Valknut men, whilst you engage in some wild west-type shootout with the rest of their soldiers?” 

“We’ll make sure that we plan it so that Kim isn’t in any danger. Maybe we’ll send Stead’s team to the exchange instead of you.” 

“Which leaves you alone.” 

“I’m a big boy, Frank.” 

“Jesus. This isn’t some sort of Boy’s Own adventure. They could put a bullet in your head the minute you surrender.”

“Well, we’d better get our thinking caps on then. They’ll call back soon, expecting me to surrender. The deadline is almost up.” 

Kane’s phone rang, its jaunty digital tune making Craven jump. 

“Is it them?” Craven asked.

“No. Someone else.” Kane put the phone to his ear. “Yeah, this is Kane… how many of you are there… what did you bring… send your location to me.” He hung up the phone and looked at Craven with a gleam in his eye. “It’s Stead’s team. Four of them, with kit. I’m going to meet them. You stay here with Kim.”

Sixty-Five

Kane left Kim with a kiss on her forehead and in Craven’s safe hands. Walking out of the hotel, it struck him that his daughter was used to being without him. In fact, she was without him more than they were together. Things would be different when this mess was over, Kane told himself. He shot the cuffs of his white shirt in the arms of his black Hugo Boss suit with a vague recollection of making a similar promise before. This time he meant it, he told himself. 

Stead’s contact had asked Kane to meet the team at a club in a secluded part of the city. Kane walked through the narrow cobblestone streets rather than take a taxi. He still expected to receive another call from the British woman, and he needed a clear head. A loose plan had formed in his mind, or at least the bones of what must happen. Craven was right, however. There were too many holes, too many loose ends, which spelled disaster for any operation. They needed to make it watertight, carefully planned, to extract Danny unharmed and make the Valknut operators in Spain pay for Danny’s suffering. 

Ideas and scenarios swirled around Kane’s mind. He considered places where Danny’s exchange could take place where surveillance and extraction were possible, and that a message could reach Kane just as he surrendered himself to his enemies. But even then, there was risk. A risk that something at Kane’s surrender might place Danny’s life in jeopardy. That could not happen. If it came to it, Kane would gladly surrender himself if that were the only way to get Danny away and free without violence. 

Kane reached the old flamenco club, La Casa del Sol, its sunset-yellow painted façade tucked away in a street so slim that two men couldn’t walk along it abreast. In the mid-afternoon, the place was eerily quiet, but Kane could imagine the place hopping with heart-pounding flamenco music and stomping dancing shoes. He scanned the area, noting the side exits, parked cars on the main street, elevated positions on the surrounding buildings. Kane had had enough run-ins with MI6 and government agencies not to trust them. Better to be safe than sorry. 

He pushed open the heavy wooden front door and stepped into a dimly-lit room empty save for a few tables and chairs pushed to the side. The stink of old wood, stale alcohol, and tobacco hung in the air. A group of four men stood together at the end of the room, two leaning against the wall and another two drinking from whiskey glasses. Stead’s team. Kane approached, taking a moment to cast his eye over each man. Each one fit, not hugely muscled, looking like four blokes on a stag holiday in jeans and t-shirts, all wearing the G-Shock watches favoured by men in the regiment. They were SAS operators. Kane could smell the underlying threat of violence from them like perfume, the air of quiet confidence and capability. Kane’s footsteps echoed on the timber dancefloor and a slim man with parted hair and a moustache stepped forward to greet him.

“Jack Kane?” the man said in a Liverpudlian Scouse accent. He extended a hand with a firm grip. “I’m Captain Richard Shaw. This is my team.” He gestured to the others, who nodded in turn. “This place belongs to an old friend of your MI6 contact, or so he said anyway. Who knows if what a spook says is true and what’s bollocks?” 

“Kane,” he replied. “Glad to have you here.”

The next team member was a wiry, short man with a quick, assessing gaze. “Sergeant Tom Harris, our communications and tech specialist,” Shaw introduced. Harris gave a curt nod, eyes already sizing Kane up. 

Next was a taller man with a stereotypical buzz cut and a long blonde beard. “Corporal Sam ‘Bulldog’ Mason. Close combat and heavy weapons expert,” said Shaw. 

Mason grinned, revealing a gold tooth. “Hope there’s some action coming, mate,” he said with a wink, his Newcastle Geordie accent a thick burr. 

The last was a lean, thin-faced, sharp-eyed man. “Corporal Carl Huang, our sniper and reconnaissance specialist,” Shaw said to round off the group. Huang just nodded a greeting, expression unreadable, not a scrap of warmth in his eyes. 

Kane appreciated the brevity. Just like his own time in the regiment. Kane knew the men were professionals who didn’t waste time. 

“Were you briefed?”

“Some basics. Hostage extraction and exchange situation. A farmhouse location with heavy mercenary firepower. We’ve brought some gear.” Shaw led Kane into a side room where their equipment lay upon a long dinner table. “We’ve got encrypted satellite phones, GPS trackers, and a drone for aerial surveillance. The drone’s equipped with night vision and thermal imaging, perfect for recon.” 

Mason hefted a black case onto the table and opened it to reveal a collection of firearms. “Standard issue SA80 rifles, Sigs and five MP5s. No modifications. We had to take what was available in country. We’ve also got breaching charges, in case things get loud.” 

Huang silently unpacked a gleaming sniper rifle, an L115A3. The rest of the group watched as he set it up with meticulous care. “Long-range support, if required,” he said so quietly that it was almost a whisper. 

Shaw pointed to a kit bag resting in the corner. “Medical supplies, radios, climbing gear, and a few other tools for getting in and out quietly. We’ve some nifty trackers disguised as plumbing company business cards, which might come in handy. There’re tactical vests behind the table, standard stuff, nothing fancy. We’ve plenty of ammo.” 

“Good work,” said Kane. Again, Stead had done well. The men all seemed capable, and the kit was high quality. 

“What’s the extraction plan?” asked Shaw. 

“Don’t have one yet. We need more intel. The farmhouse is outside Seville. It’s reinforced, ringed with wire and cameras. As you’d expect. We need full intel before we go in or come up with a proper plan.” 

“Without seeing the place, a basic plan would be to set up a perimeter with Huang providing overwatch. Harris will handle comms and make sure we keep in touch with MI6 in case anything goes tits up. Mason and I will be on the ground with you during exchange or extraction, depending on what we agree. We’ve heard you’re a bit tasty when the shit hits the fan. If anything goes sideways, we extract fast and hard.” 

“We’re up against it timewise. So best get out there and take a look, as quietly as we can. Then we can regroup, go through the intel and figure out what to do.” 

They spent an hour reviewing maps of Seville’s surrounding areas and roads, satellite photographs, analysing what they could.  

“Questions, Jack?” Shaw asked as they wrapped up the meeting. 

“No, but I’m expecting a call from the enemy at any time with details of the surrender and exchange. I’ll keep you briefed. I have one request. Once we have the hostage, we need a clean extraction, no gung-ho bullshit or loose ends.” Kane resisted the urge to look at the man nicknamed Bulldog. 

“Understood,” said Shaw with steely determination. “We’re on the same page.” 

They packed up the gear, each man moving with the ease of someone who had handled guns and high value tech a hundred times before. Kane helped the team secure their equipment in the club’s basement, which was dank and without windows and so perfect for keeping the kit away from inquisitive eyes.

“Time to get out there and recon the farmhouse,” said Shaw. “Bring the drone, the pistols and night vision goggles.” They climbed carpeted stairs and emerged in the club, where a female bartender was busy cleaning glasses as she prepared for opening. 

“Let’s get to work,” Kane said, and Shaw grinned wolfishly. 

They moved out of the club and Shaw led Kane to a grey Toyota jeep parked in an adjacent street. Kane took a deep breath and centred himself. Danny was a prisoner, and it was up to him to bring him home safely. Failure was not an option. The jeep set off through the quieter streets of Seville and then out of the city towards the farmhouse which MI6 intelligence had marked on maps. Shaw’s team had various aerial photographs of the building and now it was time to take a better look and see what they were up against.

Sixty-Six

Kane sat in the back seat of the Toyota jeep with the small blue phone in his hand, willing it to ring. The powerlessness felt like a wolf’s bite in his chest, gnawing at him as his mind endlessly washed over images of Danny tied to a chair in the dark, of possible exchange scenarios and how things could go wrong. Worst of all was the terrible knowledge that he was a bad father. How could he have allowed Danny to be placed in such danger? 

Shaw stopped the jeep two kilometres from the farmhouse and the team hiked the rest of the way on foot. 

“Here’s a radio,” said Tom Harris, handing Kane an earpiece and a small black receiver pack to clip onto his belt. 

“You’d better take one of these as well,” said Shaw, and he passed Kane a Sig Sauer 9mm P226 pistol. 

“And here are some goggles.” Harris tossed Kane a set of night vision goggles. 

“Cheers,” said Kane. He equipped the radio and checked the gun. “Extended magazine?” 

“Yeah. No more Brownings like you had in your day. We use these now, but always with the extended magazine. Sometimes fifteen rounds just aren’t enough.” 

Bulldog laughed at the joke, but Kane hoped he wouldn’t need to fire twenty rounds to get his son back. He didn’t want any shooting at all.

“We just watch tonight,” instructed Shaw, fixing every man, including Kane, with a serious stare. “No bullshit. This is recon only.” 

Kane got the feeling that the message was just for him. “Copy that,” he said, reverting to language familiar in the regiment. 

The Andalusian moon loomed large over the low hills and dry trees. The team split up, each taking a point surrounding the farmhouse close enough to see, but far enough away not to be noticed. Harris loped off, carrying a case under his arm. Inside was a drone he would send up high into the sky. It would send back a heat map of the farmhouse to give the team a better idea of how many targets were inside the building. 

Kane traipsed through brittle grass to the top of a low rise above the farmhouse. He took off his suit jacket and lay down prone in the brush, the sun-dried stalks, twigs, and branches pressing through his shirt. Kane nestled the night vision set onto his head and clicked on the lenses. Everything turned shades of green as he peered down at the farmhouse. Danny was in there. Close, impossible to reach out and help. A memory of bathing Danny when he was a baby flashed into Kane’s mind, but he set his jaw and banished all sentimentality behind a locked door in his brain. It was time for focus and clarity of thought. 

“The drone is in the air,” said Harris over the radio. “I’ll have layout and heat signatures in a few.” 

“Watch the time, Harris,” said Shaw. 

“I know, chief,” he replied. 

Harris had a small window of time to get the information the team needed. Leave the drone hovering over the farmhouse for more than a minute and Valknut’s defences would pick it up. Kane heard the drone hovering in the distance, barely audible over the clicks and croaks of insects in the darkness. He lay flat and examined the farmhouse through his night vision set. Wire fencing, steel reinforcements on the windows and doors. Kane noticed a team of three soldiers with what looked like MP5 submachine- guns strapped to their chests performing sentry circuits of the house and the fence perimeters. They would have heard the drone humming, but it would be a familiar sound. They would have their own drone sweeping the grounds during daylight. 

The flash of security camera LEDs at each corner caught Kane’s eye, and he cursed to himself. They had every angle covered. Valknut had done a professional job in getting the old farmhouse secure, and Kane’s hopes of a stealth assault to rescue Danny withered like a leaf in winter. 

“Thermal images are coming through clearly,” said Harris over the radio. “Eight targets inside, three outside. One figure’s isolated in the lower part of the building. Could be the principal. Withdrawing the drone now.” 

Kane’s heart tightened at the thought of Danny down there alone, maybe beaten, certainly terrified. He took a breath to calm himself. 

“Fuckers are serious, then,” said Bulldog. 

“Clear firing position located,” said Huang in a low, slow voice. “Within range for easy shots if required.” 

“Fences are electrified,” said Kane. “I can see the fuse box to the south. Those cameras are also networked and probably alarmed. If we cut the power, the whole place will go on high alert.” 

“Stay and watch for two hours,” said Harris. “Get a record of their movements. Then regroup at the jeep.” 

Kane watched patiently. The place presented a daunting challenge, but every defence had its flaws. Kane timed the patrols, nothing their predictable patterns. He had done similar work himself in the regiment, taking his turn on watch when out in the field. Men like patterns. It gave a long night on watch structure, something to count and focus on as the time ticked by. The guards’ paths intersected at regular intervals as they crossed over and shifted between fence and house patrols. 

“The patrols meet on the north side every thirty minutes,” Kane said. “That’s our window. Should we need it.” 

“We could simulate a breach on the south side,” said Bulldog. “Use the drone to create a diversion, or one of us start a brush fire. Something like that.” 

“When they meet on the north tip, I can take both guards out with two shots. Dead in an instant,” said Huang. 

“We’d have to be fast,” said Kane. 

“I have a firm picture of the target location,” said Harris. “Beyond the farmhouse is a small outbuilding, like a shed or storage unit. No cameras on it. In the afternoon, it will be in shadow. Worth remembering.” 

The team regrouped at the jeep and, as Shaw drove back towards Seville, they formulated plans, potential operations based on a variety of outcomes. 

“No word from them on the exchange yet?” asked Bulldog as the jeep joined the main road towards the city. 

“Not yet,” Kane replied, and checked the blue phone for the third time in less than a minute. 

“Fuckers will leave it until the last minute.”

“Where do we want the exchange to happen?” asked Shaw in his Scouse lilt. 

“Near Seville’s football stadium is our best bet,” said Kane. “In the car park. It’s wide and open. We can get a sniper on the stadium roof. Perfect vantage point. The car park makes it impossible for them to hide any attackers that might spring a trap.” 

“Unless they are on the roof as well,” said Huang. 

“You’d sweep it before getting into position,” Kane replied. “We get Bulldog set up in a parked car close by to unleash hell if required.”

“I like the sound of that,” said Bulldog, and treated Kane to a grin in which his gold tooth shone. 

“So that’s two of us at the exchange, plus one to actually receive the principal,” said Shaw. “Leaving only one plus Kane at wherever they want him to surrender.” 

“Which rules out any sort of assault on the farmhouse,” said Huang.

“Unless we go in before the exchange,” said Bulldog, and Harris sighed. “Hear me out. We prepare now. When they call and the times and locations are agreed, we go in before they leave. We’ll be in and out of there in ten minutes.” 

“It’s too dangerous for Danny,” said Kane. “Our only leverage here is that woman’s hatred of me. That might just about buy me enough weight to dictate the exchange location. She is going to want to pick the place where I surrender.” 

“Why?”

“She wants me more than she cares about holding on to Danny. He’s a means to an end for her. His only value is for her to get to me. For Valknut to stop me from interfering in their plans.” 

“We were briefed on that. Can’t say I understood much of it. BRICS, mining, private armies.” Bulldog scratched at his shaved head. 

“We’ve come up against Valknut before,” said Shaw. “They’re everywhere. Africa, Syria, Afghanistan, Ukraine. They do what Russia can’t. Valknut isn’t subject to international law because they don’t represent a country. They need putting down.” 

“Danny’s safe extraction is the priority here. Are we clear on that?” Kane stared at Shaw through the rear-view mirror. But Shaw looked away, turning his head back to the road. 

“We are here to support, and extraction of the principal is a primary mission goal.” 

“A primary mission goal?” 

“Secondary goal is to gather intel on the Valknut team and terminate them if possible.” 

“You might need more men.” 

“We’ll be fine.”

“But we get Danny safe before anything else, right?” 

“Right.”

“But how do we get the principal out and keep you from falling into Valknut’s hands?” asked Harris. “You’ll have to surrender before they let your son go.” 

“And it will just be you and one of us at the surrender location,” said Shaw. 

“I’ll surrender myself,” said Kane. “They won’t kill me on the spot. Most likely they’ll bring me to the farmhouse for questioning, or extraction to some other location.” 

“If the woman running their show wants you dead so badly, why do you think she won’t just put a bullet in your head on the spot?” asked Bulldog.

“She wants satisfaction. She wants me to suffer. Plus, the Valknut higher-ups will want to know how much the British know about their plans.” 

“Wait a minute,” said Shaw. “Are you suggesting that we recover the principal and you actually surrender to the enemy?” 

“Yes. All we need to do now is work out how you are going to get me out of that farmhouse once I’m inside.” 

“If you’re inside. I don’t like it, Kane. Too many risks. Too many unknowns. You might not give two shits about your life, but I won’t risk my men in some bullshit hero op. We go in organised or not at all.” 

“Let’s get organised, then.”

Sixty-Seven

Kane sipped at a coffee and listened to Bulldog and Harris bicker over the best way to breach the farmhouse fence and cameras without getting shot to pieces. Shaw had parked the jeep outside a late-night café in Seville’s city centre. Young men and women around them talked and laughed loudly in Spanish, getting one last drink or a snack at the end of their night on the town. The SAS team haggled over variations of a plan to get Kane out of the farmhouse if he was captured, and then what they might do if Valknut took him to a different location. 

“Whoever is with Kane gets to the farm, or whatever location,” said Harris. “I suggest I take that role. I can keep comms open and let you know where to come when you’ve secured the principal. Also, I can use the drone as a sentry and get a picture of what we’re up against at that moment.” 

“My colleague Frank Craven will take Danny once you’ve got him safe.” 

“Who is he, and has he been checked?” asked Shaw. 

“He is my friend, and I trust him. MI6 have not checked him because he isn’t an asset or an agent. But he’ll get Danny safe, and if I don’t come back, Frank will take care of him.” 

“Jesus Christ, Kane. You want us to risk our lives and then deliver your son to a bloke we don’t know, on the basis that he’s your mate? You’re making me nervous. Let’s forget the ifs, buts, and maybes for a minute and figure out how to assault the farmhouse. We need some certainties, at least.” 

“This is the farmhouse,” said Huang, and made a simple model of the layout using salt and pepper shakers, straws and napkins. “These are our most likely entry points. Here are the cameras, and here are the doors.” 

“I can access their radio comms once we get close,” said Harris. “We’ll get a sense then of what their next moves are before they execute them. I can also tap into their security system and trigger a temporary blackout.”

“That disruption gives us a window to enter the perimeter,” said Shaw. 

“No point finessing it at that point,” said Bulldog. “A blackout puts them on high alert. It’s shit or bust then. We cut through the fence and go at them from two sides. Huang provides sniper cover, taking out any guards outside the building whilst we close the distance between the fence and the house.” 

“We should at least consider a covert extraction. Presumably Kane will be in the basement where they are currently holding the principal. We create a diversion at the gate, one of us in local police clothing or some other bullshit. The rest of us slip over the fence, use the outbuilding for cover when the sun is at its highest, and get inside the building. Once inside, we, get to Kane and replace his body with a mannequin fitted with a thermal blanket to mimic a human heat signature. That will fool any checks the guards have via their tech monitors. We get out the same way.” 

“And if that goes tits up?” asked Harris. “Like you encounter an enemy inside the house, or their scanners pick up multiple heat signatures inside the basement whilst you try to free Kane?” 

“Then we fuck them up,” announced Bulldog.

“Wow. Can’t we swap him for someone with a brain?” 

“Love you too, Harris.” 

“He’s right,” said Shaw. “If either plan goes wrong, our secondary goal is to take out the Valknut team. As you know, no plan survives contact with the enemy. So we go in hard. Huang provides sniper fire from an elevated position. We breach the fence and go in hard. Use explosives to breach the reinforced door and clear each room, just like we’ve done before.” 

Huang shrugged. “We can do it. Extraction point is below the olive grove to the southwest. We regroup there once Kane is out. We secure the escape route back to the main road with smoke grenades and electronic countermeasures to cover our tracks and prevent any pursuit.”

“I’ll get onto headquarters and try to get a safe house in case we need to lie low before we’re extracted from Spain,” said Shaw.  

“We have options,” said Harris. “We just need some certainties. Kane, when they call, let us know ASAP.” 

Kane nodded his agreement. They had put together some basic strategies, but Harris was right. They needed locations before deciding on exactly what to do. Kane had been there before. Most operational plans went to pieces once the bullets started flying, and the enemy refused to do what you wanted. The most important thing was getting Danny out safely. Kane believed he could accomplish that, even if it meant giving his own life in return.

Sixty-Eight

Craven came out of the hotel room bathroom to find Jack Kane lying on the bed talking quietly to Kim. She was giggling and staring up into her father’s eyes.

“Long night?” Craven asked. He’d woken at seven to make sure Kim didn’t wake up alone. Kane had been gone all night.

“Long enough,” Kane replied. He looked drawn and dark shadows ringed his eyes.

“Did they call?”

“Not yet. The deadline is today, though.” Kim tickled Kane, and he pretended to fall off the bed.

“What’s going to happen?”

“We’re going to get Danny back.”

Craven looked into Kane’s haunted face and understood what that meant. He walked across the room and flicked the switch of the hotel room kettle to make a drink each for him and Kane.

“Kimmy, why don’t you go and have a shower? When you are ready, we can go down and get breakfast.”

“I don’t need a shower, Uncle Frank.” She crossed her arms and gave him a cross look.

“They might have those pancakes you like, and the Nutella spread?”

“All right then.” Kim stomped off to the bathroom, and Craven switched off the television.

“You met Stead’s team?”

“Yes, solid lads. They know their business,” Kane replied. He stood up from the bed and stretched his back.

“Can we trust them?”

“As much as we can trust anybody. Kim seems on good form this morning.”

“Which is a miracle when you think what she’s been through.”

“I know, Frank. I don’t need constant reminding.”

Craven shrugged and made two cups of coffee. He handed one to Kane and took a sip of his own. A phone rang and Kane hurriedly put his cup on the hotel dresser and took a small blue phone from his pocket.

“Yes?” he said. Kane stared at Craven as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. “Today at 3pm.” Another pause. “No. The exchange has to be at a place of my choosing. I’ll surrender wherever you like, but I want no tricks when you hand over my son.” Kane waited again. “It’s that or nothing… no, I don’t want my son to die, but do you want me to hand myself in to you peacefully or not? What use is a teenage boy to you?”

Craven paced the room, frustrated that he could only hear one part of the conversation.

“The exchange happens at the Ramon Sanchez-Pizjuan Stadium, Seville’s football stadium. In the car park. One man alone.” Kane listened whilst the Valknut agent spoke. “OK, I’ll be there. But I won’t show myself until Danny has been handed over. Any tricks and the whole thing is off… yes, I understand that you’ll kill him if I don’t show. I want proof of life. Put Danny on the line.” Another moment passed and Craven stepped closer, hoping to hear Danny’s voice over the phone pressed to Kane’s ear.

“Dad?” It was Danny. His voice cracked and dry.

“It’s me, son,” Kane replied.

“Help me, Dad.” The fear in Danny’s voice made Craven’s eyes clench tight shut and his fists ball up.

“It’s going to be all right.”

“He’s alive. But not for long unless you do as you’re told. I want you on your knees, Kane,” it was a woman’s voice, coming through the phone as sharp as a whip, each word spat with cruelty and malice.

“I’ll be there.” Kane hung up the phone and stared at Craven. “It’s on. Today.”

“His voice,” choked Craven. “Poor kid. Those bastards…”

“We’ll get him back, Frank. Danny’s alive. That’s the main thing.”

“What do I do?”

“You are going to be the one to meet Danny.”

“What about Kim?”

“She’ll have to go with you.”

“For God’s sake, Jack. Have you lost your mind?”

“What choice do we have?”

“Can’t you send one of your SAS pals to do it? We must keep Kim safe. Haven’t you learned anything through this shitstorm?” Craven realised he was shouting, but couldn’t suppress his anger. “Danny could have been killed, could still be killed. They sent men with guns to the kids’ school, Jack. They are your children; not pawns in whatever game you’re playing.”

“It is no game. I can assure you that if there was another option, I would take it.”

“How can you be so calm, so cold?”

“Does it make the situation any better if I rant and rave? I need a clear head if we are to get through this.”

“Are you seriously telling me you expect me to bring your daughter to a hostage exchange involving mercenaries whom we know have zero compunction about firing machine-guns in a public place and slaughtering innocent people?”

“If you can think of another way to do it, I’d love to hear it.”

“How did we get into this nightmare?” Craven slammed his fist onto the table. Craven did not know what to do. He wasn’t experienced in hostage situations and nor was he the girl’s father. All he knew was that it felt horrifically wrong.

“I’ve asked myself the same question. This is the last one, Frank. After this, we are retired. We can return to England and live in peace. Stead has seen to it.”

“What choice do we have? Just tell me what I’ve got to do.”

“I won’t forget this.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t bloody let you.”

Sixty-Nine

Kane waited beneath the afternoon sun, sweat beading his brow. He carried his burner phone, on which Shaw would call him once Danny had been handed over and was safe with Craven. A tracking device built into a white business card with the logo of a fake plumbing company rested in his jacket pocket. He pulled the phone from his pocket and called Shaw.

“Kane?” came Shaw’s voice as he answered. 

“I’m in position. Harris is with me and out of sight. They won’t see him.” 

“Good. Craven is in play, waiting in the car park. He has the Toyota parked twenty paces away. The girl is inside.” 

“Huang?”

“On the stadium roof and in position. Bulldog and me are close enough to get to Craven and Danny if anything goes wrong. They won’t know we’re here.” 

“Did Huang sweep the stadium roof?” 

“He did, and it’s all clear. This isn’t our first rodeo.” 

“OK. Let me know when Danny’s safe.” 

“I will. Take care, Kane.” 

Kane hung up the phone and slipped it back into his trouser pocket. He swallowed and wished he had some water. Valknut was going to take him. It was inevitable. At least if he knew Danny was safe, it would dull the pain. The former Mjolnir woman and her team would not be gentle. Kane had crossed them too many times. He had raided their base at Krasnodar, killed their soldiers, and blown up their mine. A force with the power and reach of the Valknut Group could not permit that to go unpunished. 

. Kane waited in an industrial district on the city outskirts amidst four empty warehouses, dormant, forgotten, with smashed windows and walls smeared in graffiti. A light breeze blew across the forecourt. It rattled the rusty warehouses’ corrugated rooves and sent old, faded crisp packets and leaflets swirling in abandoned doorways and shadowed corners It was the perfect spot for Valknut to accept his surrender. No snooping eyes, deserted, multiple exits to major roads and lots of vantage points for them to watch him. Bulldog waited somewhere out of sight, just in case things went wrong. If the worst happened and Valknut did not hand Danny over, or the unthinkable happened and they hurt Danny, then Bulldog would come charging like the cavalry and get Kane out of there. 

Kane checked his watch. It was time. The rumble of an approaching vehicle thrummed through the dry air, breaking the silence. Kane stiffened. He was unarmed and alone. A black SUV sped around the corner and screeched to a stop ten paces from him. The doors swung open and three men emerged. They wore all black tactical clothing, and black balaclavas painted with white skulls. Each carried an MP5, and they scanned the warehouse car park and surrounding area. Their car was armoured, new, and expensive. 

Two of the armed men moved away from the vehicle, weapons moving in wide arcs as they secured the area. The third stalked towards Kane, pointing his weapon at Kane’s chest, the skeleton mask chilling, like something from a nightmare. A woman with short, bobbed hair and the same black clothing as her male counterparts stepped lithely from the SUV like a cat. Wearing no skeleton mask, she had a pale white face and glowering eyes, and a wicked smile played on her lips as she regarded Kane.

“You came alone?” she barked in a southern English accent. Perhaps middle-class London, Kane couldn’t place it. 

“I’m alone,” he replied. “Is my son free?” 

The smile faded, and she took a device from one of the many pockets on her cargo trousers and pressed a button. Ten seconds later, the phone in Kane’s pocket vibrated. He checked it and the message simply said, DANNY SAFE. NEED FIVE MINUTES FOR FULLY SECURE EXIT. Kane snapped the phone and tossed it into the gutter. The message was from Shaw. Craven had Danny, but they needed time to get him away before they could be sure that Valknut wouldn’t try to recover him once Kane had handed himself in. So that was it. Bulldog would remain hidden, and Kane would surrender himself. He had the card in his pocket, which would lead the SAS team to wherever Valknut took him. He must hand himself over to his enemies to buy his son some time. It was a simple decision. 

The woman smirked, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Satisfied?” 

Kane raised his hands and nodded. 

“On your fucking knees!” she hissed and strode towards him. 

“I surrender,” Kane said, but remained standing. 

“Get him on his knees,” she snarled at the man with his weapon pointed at Kane. The Valknut soldier approached quickly and kicked Kane hard behind the knees. 

Kane fell to his knees and kept his arms raised. The woman smirked, tongue flickering across her lips like a viper. 

“How I have yearned for this moment.” She spoke in a whisper, like one lover might whisper in another’s ear. She slapped Kane hard across the face. Then did it again. She kicked him in the sternum and then spat in his face. “Bastard. Get him in the car.” 

The butt of a rifle cracked against the back of Kane’s head and rough hands dragged him forward. Kane’s stomach sank, knowing pain was coming, torture too. But Danny was free, and now Craven and Shaw would have time to get Kane’s son safely away from any Valknut pursuers. The men laughed as they bundled Kane into the SUV’s boot. He lay there, bleeding, as the vehicle lurched away from the warehouse. 

Craven would look after Danny and Kim. That thought gave Kane comfort. If his life was forfeit so Danny and Kim could be free, it was worth it. The SUV banged over a speed bump, throwing Kane around the boot like a ragdoll. The Valknut operators laughed again. He lay there, recalling holiday memories of him, Danny, Kim, and Sally on the beach. The kids ran from the tide and he and Sally walked hand in hand towards the setting sun. Kate Barrowhall’s face interrupted that vision, like a hammer smashing glass. Perhaps this suffering was his penance, his just desserts for those who had died around him like scythed wheat. 

Kane prepared himself for what must come next. For the pain and suffering. For death. It must be this way, he realised. His children were better off without him, better off with Craven. The world was better off without him. All Kane had ever been good at was soldiering, spying, killing, and destroying. The stitches in his back throbbed, and old wounds ached, reminding Kane of distant battles, forgotten missions banished in black-ops files. Nobody would remember the things he had done for his country and for his family. He should welcome death, embrace the pain. But then he thought of Kim’s smile and Danny’s laugh. Maybe there was something to cling to, to live for. To fight for…

Seventy

Craven pulled Danny into a bear hug, glanced back at the Valknut soldier in his skull- painted balaclava, and then bundled Danny towards the waiting car. 

“It’s going to be all right now, lad,” Craven whispered into Danny’s ear as he pressed it into his chest. Danny sobbed, and Craven swallowed a lump in his own throat. 

“Where’s Dad?” Danny gasped through his tears. 

“Don’t worry about that now. Let’s get you away.” 

Craven bundled Danny into the passenger seat of his waiting car, left with the engine running. Craven ran around the bonnet and sank into the driver’s seat. He glanced into the back seat, where Kim sat watching her iPad with headphones turned up loud. She was, thankfully, oblivious to the entire situation. He pressed his foot onto the clutch and shifted the gear stick into first, and then stomped on the gas. The car sped away from the Valknut soldier, leaving him standing alone outside Seville’s football stadium. 

“Are you OK, Dan?” 

“Thirsty,” Danny croaked.

Craven whipped the car around the block, outside the stadium to a street flanked by houses on either side. He fished in the arm-rest well and pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to Danny. He took a long drink. His hair was tousled and greasy and his face mired with dirt from his ordeal. 

“Did they hurt you?” 

“No. Just lots of questions and no sleep. They played loud music and shone bright lights non-stop until I told them what they wanted to know.” 

“Bastards.” Craven’s hands clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. A Toyota jeep blocked the road ahead, where three men from the SAS team waited. 

Danny sobbed again, burying his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Uncle Frank.” 

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, lad.” 

“I should have realised they had hacked our server sooner. I should have protected our files. They told me they had taken everything, every penny Dad has.”.” 

“It’s only money and a load of old bollocks anyway, son. Money comes and goes, but at least you are safe now.” 

“Are we safe?”

“These men are here to help us.” 

Craven stopped the car so that it blocked the road, following instructions agreed with the SAS team before the exchange, just in case Valknut followed. He stepped out as the two SAS men helped Danny and Kim out of the car and into the Toyota jeep. Craven followed and sat in the front passenger seat beside Captain Richard Shaw. 

“Principal secure,” Shaw said into his radio. He pumped the accelerator, and the jeep sped off.  

“What happened to Jack?” Craven asked, holding onto the handle above the door to stop himself from being tossed around the car as Shaw threw the Toyota around a complex circuit of streets as though he was a rally driver. 

“Had to surrender himself, mate. No choice.”

“What? How?”

“We had to wait until you and the boy were outside of the stadium, until you reached us and this vehicle. We had eyes on you from the stadium roof but couldn’t risk pulling Kane from the handover until we were sure you were safely away where Valknut couldn’t follow. So, Kane surrendered himself to buy his kid that time.” 

“Shit.” Craven thumped his elbow into the door. Kane was in Valknut’s hands. He would be dead before long. Craven felt so helpless, as though he were a paper plane caught in a hurricane. 

“Where’s your man from the stadium roof?” 

“He’ll meet us at the rendezvous point, so will Bulldog, who was with Kane.” 

“Then what?”

“Then we see about getting Kane back.” 

“Can’t we just follow them now?” 

“No. We need to regroup, gather our equipment, and report to MI6 for further orders.” 

“Further orders? We need to get Jack back before they…” Craven held his tongue, conscious that Danny and Kim were in the back seat. 

“We completed this part of the operation, and the principal is safe.”

“And?”

“And we need approval from Six before we engage in an assault on the farmhouse.”

“I thought taking out the Valknut team here was part of your mission?” 

“Listen, mate.” Shaw turned and fixed Craven with an icy stare. “You and Kane got yourselves mixed up in this shitshow with two kids in tow. I’m a soldier. I follow orders. I need the explicit OK from HQ before I unleash hell in the Spanish countryside. We are here in plain clothes, armed to the teeth. If we’re arrested, we look like terrorists. The best we could hope for then is a political exchange, closely followed by a court martial or full-blown Crown Court prosecution and life in prison. So, we’ll get further orders before any shots are fired.” 

“But what if they say no?” 

“Then we ship out. Simple as that.” 

Craven shook his head. Danny was safe, but now Kane was in enemy hands. Craven reached back and placed his hand on Danny’s knee to reassure him. Danny’s cold, trembling hand wrapped around Craven’s. Valknut had broken Danny easily, but that was to be expected. He was just a teenager and should never have been placed in harm’s way. The whole thing was like a nightmare, and now Jack Kane’s life depended on the whim of Stead and MI6. Without their go-ahead, Shaw and his team would do nothing. It wasn’t so long ago that Craven and Kane were enemies of the British state, hunted because Kane knew too much and broke free of his witness protection programme. That had been back when Craven was a detective, which seemed like a different life as he hurtled around the streets of Seville with armed SAS soldiers. 

It would be so simple for Stead to refuse the order and allow Kane to die. What was he but a problem to be removed from the chessboard of international intelligence? But Kane had done Stead a favour, and Craven’s only hope was that fact must count for something. Stead had asked Kane to investigate Merlin Mining’s investors and Ray Brogan’s death. That was how this had begun. Without that, Craven and Kane would be safe in Dubai or drinking lager beside the pool at Craven’s villa. It had to count for something. Or Jack Kane was a dead man.

Seventy-One

A rough hand ripped the hood from his face and a boot kicked Kane hard in the back, its heel bashing into the knife wound in his back. The stitches tugged at his skin and Kane tumbled from the back of the SUV to land forcefully on dusty Seville soil. With his hands and feet secured with cable ties, there was little he could do to brace his fall.

“Get him inside,” hissed the English woman as she stepped out of the vehicle and strode towards the farmhouse. Kane’s eyes squinted beneath the sun’s glare after travelling with the black hood over his face.

A heavy-set Valknut soldier pulled a knife from his belt and cut the ties at Kane’s ankles. “Get up,” he growled in thick Russian-accented English.

Kane tried to stand, but with his hands tied, he fell twice before managing to push himself upright. The soldier punched Kane in the stomach and as he bent over, the Valknut man kicked Kane’s legs from under him. Four Valknut men and one woman had gathered around him, and they laughed lazily.

“I said get up, hui s’gory,” the heavy-set man jeered, and the others laughed again.

Kane tried to recover quickly, even though he was badly winded. He struggled to his feet and did his best to stand up straight. The soldier made to punch again, but it was a feint, and the others sniggered as Kane flinched.

“You don’t look like a bad guy to me,” said the woman, also in a thick Russian accent. She pulled off her skull-daubed balaclava to reveal a shock of dyed red hair and piercing blue eyes. “Look soft. Kozyol.”

Kane understood the Russian language insults well enough, but kept silent. They bustled him through the farmhouse door, its heavy steel-reinforced frame leaving deep scrape marks on the wooden floor. The heavy-set Valknut soldier pushed Kane down the hallway until they reached the stairs and their faded pine bannisters. The place reeked of cigarette smoke and old shoes. As he walked along the corridor and past the peeling wallpapered walls, Kane glanced into a sitting-room where tables held flickering monitors, keyboards and broadband receivers. Valknut men glowered at him, hard faces and hungry eyes beneath military-style haircuts. Cigarette smoke like fog drifted from the kitchen at the end of the hallway, where a kettle boiled, and Russians talked loudly.

“Down to the basement,” growled the heavy-set man and Kane started down the stairs. There was little point making things hard for himself. He had counted eight Valknut soldiers between those who had travelled in the SUV and men he had seen in the farmhouse sitting-room and kitchen. He was still alive, which meant the English woman wanted to question Kane before they killed him. Otherwise, he would already lie in a ditch with a bullet in his head. Or she wanted to make him suffer before the end. They couldn’t keep him there long, not after the assault on the school. Valknut would need to move to another safe house or withdraw from the area completely. So Kane didn’t have much time. He had to wait and find a window to escape, wait for them to make a mistake, for an opportunity. But not too long, because Kane knew it was only a matter of time before the pain ended in death.

The Valknut soldier shoved Kane hard in the back when he was halfway down the stairs, and Kane tumbled down the rickety wooden steps to land in a heap before an oak door. His head thumped into a skirting board and Kane tasted blood.

The door burst open, and the English woman frowned down at him and then up at the Valknut soldier.

“Just get him in here and secure him,” she said, and then a look of triumph spread across her harsh features. “It’s time for Jack Kane to pay for what he’s done to me.”

Seventy-Two

Craven paced the room inside the safe house apartment. Kim and Danny were in a bedroom where Danny slept, and Kim read with two Barbie dolls she had packed in her travel case. Danny was worn out after his ordeal. A shower and a takeaway burger had helped send him off into a deep slumber and Craven couldn’t help but check on him every five minutes. Guns, night vision goggles, and other bits of equipment lay on towels on the dinner table where the SAS team had busied themselves cleaning the gear whilst they awaited news from their commanding officers. 

“How much longer is it going to be?” Craven pleaded, after he had crossed the apartment for a dozenth time. 

“The word will come when it comes,” said Shaw in his Liverpudlian Scouse accent. “Until then, we sit tight.” 

“Whilst Jack has his fingernails pulled out, or worse?” 

“I’ve already told you. We do nothing unless the order comes through.” 

“Sit down,” said Harris, a short wiry man halfway through a game of cards. 

“Come on, we’ll deal you in,” said Bulldog, grinning with a glint of gold in his teeth. 

“I don’t want to play cards,” Craven snapped. “I’m not waiting for a fucking train. My friend is being held by warmongers, by a woman whose sole purpose in life seems to be to kill Jack Kane. We are sitting in this apartment with enough guns, grenades, goggles and military bollocks to invade France, but doing absolutely bugger all to help him. We know where he is, who has him, how many men they have. You have even been to the place and flown your little remote-controlled helicopter over it. Let’s just go and get him.” 

“It’s a drone,” corrected Harris, and then shrugged a silent apology when he saw the fury in Craven’s eyes. 

“Waiting is part of the job,” said Shaw. “We do more waiting than we do training or fighting. Be patient, word will come.” 

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being held by your enemies.”

Shaw closed the distance between them so quickly that it made Craven jump. “I’ve been where he is now,” he said through gritted teeth, eyes blazing as he stared into Craven’s soul. “Believe me. I know what he’s going through. Sit down and be patient.” 

Craven bit his lip and slumped into the armchair. The SAS had brought Craven, Danny and Kim to an apartment safe house nestled in an alley of Seville’s historical Santa Cruz neighbourhood. Known for its curving streets and traditional Andalusian architecture, the apartment was at least a comfortable place for Danny to rest. The building was an unassuming apartment block, whitewashed with wrought-iron balconies on each of the four floors. The safe house sat on the third floor, offering a vantage point to watch activity on the streets below, whilst also remaining inconspicuous. 

The apartment was sparsely furnished with new beds in each of the three bedrooms, two old sofas in the sitting-room along with the armchair in which Craven sat, and a dining-room table and chairs. Since arriving at the apartment, Harris had busied himself setting up a laptop, essential communication gear and a secure line for the satellite phone to receive orders from headquarters. A breakfast bar cluttered with maps, gloves, various straps and more military equipment led into a kitchen stocked with non-perishable foods. Bulldog had already eaten two cans of peaches. 

Blackout curtains hung from the windows to prevent any visual detection from outside, and the place was located close to key city exit routes. Craven stared at the bulky satellite phone and its finger-wide aerial, willing the thing to ring with the order to go in and get Jack. 

“You know Kane well?” asked Bulldog with a sniff, in an obvious attempt to defuse the tension. 

“Well enough to not leave him in the hands of his enemies.” 

“You were a detective back in the day?” 

“Yeah. Serious and organised crime squad in Manchester and Liverpool.” 

“Did you hear that, Sarge? He might know some of your family.” 

“Leave it out, Bulldog,” said Shaw.

“Kane was in the regiment?” 

“He was,” said Craven. “How did you know?” 

“We had a briefing before the op. Heard all about his years in Afghanistan, Iraq and other places. He’s been about. Then joined an MI6 black hat agency. Must have seen some shit.” 

“No more than you lot, I imagine.” 

“We’ve seen our fair share.” 

“We can’t just leave him there.” Craven leant forward in his chair and stared at Bulldog. “If your top brass doesn’t give the order, if they tell you to pull out. We can’t just leave Jack to die. You know that, right?” 

Bulldog glanced at Shaw and then back to Craven. “We do as we’re told, mate. That’s our life. The life of a soldier. We follow orders, no matter how fucked up they are.” 

“Even if it meant abandoning one of your own? A man from the regiment, just like you?” 

Bulldog threw his cards down and shifted in his seat. “We don’t have to like our orders. We just have to follow them.”

“Just answer the bloody question and stop bullshitting me with the company line. If it came down to it, would you fly away from here, leaving me with the kids and a former SAS man to his fate when you’ve everything you need to rescue him and keep his family safe right here in this room?” 

“Leave the conjecture out of this,” said Shaw. “We only deal in certainties. There’s no point worrying about something that might never happen. You can click the kettle if you want something to do. Get the brews in, take your mind off the situation. Word will come from HQ soon enough. Until then, Kane will just have to sit tight. He’s been trained for it, probably been through it before.” 

“I’ll make the bloody tea and coffee then, and hope to God that my friend hasn’t already got a bullet in his brain.” 

Carl Huang noisily rattled the levers on his sniper rifle as he cleaned it on a sitting-room sofa. 

Craven grabbed the kettle, then turned on the tap. Cold water rushed into the plastic kettle and from the corner of Craven’s eye he caught Bulldog exchange a frustrated glance with Shaw and then Harris.

Seventy-Three

Kane sat on his knees in an uncomfortable stress position. A method of torture used by most governments to break down a prisoner’s energy, strength and will. His captors had already moved him through three positions, and now Kane half-stood with his back against the wall, his legs taking his weight, thighs burning like fire. His body screamed at him to drop to the basement’s wooden floor, but he knew if he moved, the Valknut interrogators would storm in and beat him around the head. The sound of a baby crying at unbearably high volumes pumped from a speaker plugged into the far wall, and a single bright light shone on Kane with the intensity of a desert sun. Sweat soaked his shirt, crusted blood itched his scalp and face where they had beaten him twice for shifting position without permission.

Sensory overload and physical stress would affect his heart rate and blood pressure, and the physiological stress would cause withdrawal from reality. Such interrogation tactics were not new. Kane had seen them before. He had suffered them first during his gruelling SAS selection process years ago, and again in various heinous situations throughout his career. That fact didn’t make the torture any more bearable. 

Valknut knew their business, and Kane imagined them honing such techniques across the various wars they had fought in the Middle East and Africa. The initial shock of capture and brutalisation was supposed to be compounded by his immediate placement in harsh stress positions designed to induce fatigue, pain and mental breakdown. They had to move Kane soon, which limited the techniques Valknut could employ to break him down. There was no time for isolation, to keep him alone for weeks and then try to build a bond between prisoner and captor. But next would come humiliation. They would strip him naked in front of the female members of their team and have those women mock his body and his plight whilst he suffered. Last of all would be a mock execution, a gun to his head, a knife to his throat. 

Kane’s muscles screamed in protest as he held his position, and his ears thrummed as the noise battered his senses. Kane focused on techniques he’d learned in the regiment and practised over and again. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, in through the nose and out through the mouth. Kane tuned himself into that rhythm, expanding his chest and then fully emptying it. Kane compartmentalised the pain and tried to recite passages from his favourite books to distract himself from the agony. 

The blinding light was relentless, searing into Kane’s vision even when his eyes were closed. He rotated his thoughts between family memories and plans of escape, fighting to be the master of his own mind. Danny was free and safe, that made the pain and suffering worthwhile. Kane would gladly give his life ten times over to save the lives of his children. The loud, mentally destroying sound of a baby’s cries pumped around the basement was disorienting, designed to shatter his focus. Kane concentrated on his breathing. In and out. He used that to anchor himself, so that the noise washed over him like waves crashing against rock. 

The lights suddenly switched off, and the crying ceased. The basement door swung open, and the English woman stomped across the floorboards.  “You can relax now,” she said.

Kane opened his eyes and clenched his teeth at the smug look on her sharp face. The stocky Valknut soldier marched in and slammed a metal stool down hard on the floor. He took two steps backwards and stood at ease against the wall, a pistol holstered at his side, body armour on with spare magazines and a punch dagger poking just above the neckline. Without his skeleton mask, the man had a broad face with a long-ago broken nose, and small shark-like eyes.

“Sit on the chair,” the woman ordered.

Kane slumped to the floor and rolled onto his side. He groaned, making his breath ragged. “I can’t,” he whispered. 

“How the mighty have fallen.” She inclined her head to the Valknut man. “Get him on the stool.” 

He took three long steps towards Kane and grabbed him under the arm with one hand. With the other hand, he pushed his thumb into Kane’s eye and grabbed a fistful of his hair. He dragged Kane upwards with brute strength and plonked him onto the stool like a sack of potatoes. 

“Now,” said the woman as she sat on a stool of her own and crossed her legs. “Shall we talk about Merlin Mining?” 

Kane continued to feign weakness, but his resolve remained as strong as iron. He knew the importance of maintaining a façade of compliance whilst offering nothing of value. Valknut knew he had been in Cornwall and knew he had blown up the mine. They had killed Kate Barrowhall and attacked Kane’s family. Kane controlled his anger and gave the woman carefully measured responses, non-committal, giving only what he thought she already knew. He understood the psychological chess game. As they spoke, Kane let his mind look for a way to escape, to get free of his bonds, to hurt them for what they had done to Danny and Kate.

Seventy-Four

Craven looked over both shoulders before he opened the door leading from the street to the safe house stairs. He carried two plastic bags heavy with supplies bought in the Santa Cruz neighbourhood. He hurried up the stairs, eager to see if MI6 had called whilst he had been out. 

“Come on, Kim,” he said as she scuttled up the stairs behind him. The wait had driven Craven to the borders of madness. He had paced the apartment so much he must have walked ten kilometres without leaving the room. Kim had complained of boredom and so Craven had brought her out for some fresh air. 

First, they had visited a busy market, or mercado, as Kim had pointed out. They had bought Spanish cured ham, Manchego cheese and fresh bread. Craven’s stomach groaned like an empty cave as he reached the apartment door. 

“Can I use the key, Uncle Frank?”

“Of course you can. Here.” Craven gave her the key, and she smiled. Kim slowly put the key in the door, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth and one eye closed in concentration. 

Craven had also bought tomatoes, olives, and olive oil because he knew the SAS men would be as careful with their food as Kane. Craven could have killed for a Greggs bakery sausage roll or cheese and onion pasty, but unfortunately such delicacies were only available in the UK, so he’d settled for a local Seville bakery. Kim had picked out some toras de aceite, sweet and crispy olive oil cakes, and a selection of empanadas filled with spicy chorizo and vegetables. They had bought fruit from a small stand on the cobblestones, oranges, figs, pomegranates, and nuts. Last of all Craven had bought some bottled water from a shop, and three packets of crisps for his own delicate palate.

Kim unlocked the door and pushed it open, and the SAS team swarmed over Craven to see what he had bought. 

“Tell me you got some bread?” asked Bulldog.

“There’s bread here. Get stuck in.” Craven gave him the bags and made his way to the bedroom where he had left Danny sleeping. 

“Are you awake?” Craven whispered. Danny lay on his side under the duvet, and Craven didn’t want to wake him if the lad was still asleep. He needed rest to recover from his ordeal. 

“It’s OK, Uncle Frank,” yawned Danny, and he rolled onto his back. 

“I’ve been out and bought some grub. Come out and get some before these bloody soldiers eat it all.” 

“Is Dad here yet?” 

“Not yet.” Craven had to tell Danny about his father, but the words wouldn’t come. “How are you feeling?” 

Danny shrugged and looked away. “I’m good. Where’s Kim?” 

“She’s out there bossing around four of the toughest SAS soldiers on the face of the earth. She’s fine.” 

“Valknut has Dad, don’t they? I heard them talking in the sitting-room.”

“He had to surrender to them. It was the only way to secure your release.”

“It’s all my fault.” Danny rolled away from Craven and buried his head in a pillow. 

“Nothing is your fault.” Craven reached over and rested his hand on Danny’s shoulder. “None of this is your fault, don’t ever say that.” 

“I should have been more careful with the encryptions I learned from Cameron.”

“Never mind that now. Some food might make you feel better.” 

“I’m not hungry. Are they going to kill him?”

“I don’t think so. They want money and information.” 

“That woman, the English one, she hates Dad. Like totally hates him.” 

“I know. There’s a bit of history there. Did they hurt you?” 

“No. I was just scared. I should have been braver.” 

“You’ve the heart of a lion, lad. Now, come on and have some of these pastries before the greedy buggers in there eat them all.” 

Danny shook his head, and so Craven left him to rest. He entered the sitting-room area and closed Danny’s door to give him some peace. The SAS men sat at the dining-room table whilst Kim fussed about them, laying out plates and forks.

The satellite phone rang, and Craven stopped in his tracks. Shaw picked up the phone and locked eyes with Craven. 

“Yes, sir,” Shaw said after listening to the person on the end of the line for thirty seconds. He paused, listening again. “No, sir.” 

Craven edged closer, his inability to hear what was being said causing his fists to bunch. 

“In the safe house,” Shaw continued. “Three civilians need extraction along with my team… yes, sir… tonight? Yes.” 

Shaw glanced at his team and then back to Craven. Shaw’s lips turned in on themselves and Craven’s stomach dropped. It was a no to Kane’s rescue. He could sense it. Craven darted forward and grabbed the phone out of Shaw’s hand. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Shaw shouted, but Craven turned away.

“Stead? Is that you?” Craven shouted down the phone. 

“Ah. Mr Craven, I assume?” 

“Yes, it’s bloody Mr Craven. The idiot who investigated Merlin Mining for you and almost got his head blown off in the process.” 

“Hand it over,” Shaw snarled, his eyebrows knitted together and face like thunder. 

Craven shook his head. “You’re going to abandon Jack, aren’t you?” 

“It’s not as simple as that, I’m afraid…”

“It’s pretty fucking simple from where I’m standing, mate. Jack’s being held by Valknut, the crowd you asked us to investigate after Ray Brogan’s death. We pieced together the link between Merlin, Valknut, BRICS, the crypto, a conspiracy to replace the dollar as the world’s reserve currency. All of it. Now that the shit’s hit the fan, you want to leave Jack in the lurch?” 

“There are sensitive international political relationships at stake. You are in Spain, and their government won’t take too kindly to us engaging in a gun battle on their soil. Best to hand it over to the Spaniards and let them figure out what to do with Valknut and Jack Kane.” 

“So that’s it? After all those years of service he’s given our country? After everything we’ve done this last week? Kate Barrowhall died. Ray Brogan died. Valknut attacked a school and took Kane’s son prisoner. Doesn’t that mean something to you?” 

“These things are never black and white. You must understand…” 

“You’ve got four hard-cases here armed to the teeth. Send them in and it’s all over. Today. Kane will be free and a Valknut team neutralised.”

“The SAS team are pulling out, Mr Craven, and you and the children and going with them. We will fly you back to Britain, where you will be safe.” 

“Jesus Christ. You are really going to abandon him, aren’t you? A headache wiped off your desk. Kane knows too many dirty secrets from his Mjolnir days, and you want him gone? Well, what about the British woman who’s with Valknut? The bitch who has Kane right now in that farmhouse. She’s former Mjolnir. Kane told me. She knows everything that went on with Odin and all those fucked up missions. What if she falls into Spanish hands and sings like a canary?” 

Shaw snatched the phone back from Craven and pushed him away. “Sorry about that, sir,” he said. He paused. “What, put him back on? Yes, sir.” 

Shaw handed the phone to Craven, and Frank pushed the SAS man hard in the chest as he took it. “Now you want to talk, now that British Intelligence’s arse is on the line?” 

“This woman. Have you seen her?” 

“No. Kane told me about her, and Danny Kane confirmed it. She used to work at Vauxhall in London and coordinate everything for Odin and Mjolnir. She was in line to head up her own black-ops division. It was her who sent that mad assassin to kill Jack in Ireland. All funded by the British taxpayer. That will go down like a turd in a swimming pool when the Spanish leak the stories.”

“Are you sure it’s the same woman?”

“I’m sure. You won’t want to pay Valknut to ransom Jack either, so just send these four SAS boys in to get the job done.” 

“Put Captain Shaw back on the line.” 

Craven put his hand over the receiver and smiled at Shaw. “Sorry for pushing you, mate. Stead wants to speak to you.” He winked and gave the phone to Shaw. 

Craven leaned to listen to the conversation, but Shaw walked away. Craven wrung his hands and hope kindled in his chest.

Seventy-Five

“You don’t remember me at all, do you?” asked the woman, leaning in close. Her eyes drank in every inch of Kane’s skin and her lip curled with unconcealed malice. 

“No,” Kane admitted.

“Strange, then, that you are responsible for ruining my life. My man over there wants me to give you to him. He heard you killed some of his comrades in Cornwall. He wanted to use his knife and fillet you like a cow in an abattoir. Perhaps I should let him.”

“Perhaps you should.”

She slapped Kane across the face and yanked his head back with a fistful of his hair. “You were a traitor to everyone who served in Mjolnir, to everyone who served the British Government. You disgust me.” 

“You serve Valknut. Does that make you a patriot?”

“Shut up, scum.”

“You ordered an attack on my children. On my little girl and teenage son. Does that make you honourable? Does it make you feel proud?” 

“I said shut up!” The woman’s stool flew backwards as she shot up to stand over Kane, her face twisted in a rictus of fury. 

“I know it was you who gave that order. Would you kill children just to get to me?” 

She slapped Kane again, harder this time. The woman paced the room and smoothed her short hair with her fingernails. She smiled at him and seemed to win some internal battle inside her head. 

“Somebody else has come to see you. A colleague of mine you met in Cornwall, I believe. He would like some alone time with you.” She turned to the stocky Valknut man. “Vpusti yego.” 

Let him in, she had said in Russian. Learning that language, along with Farsi, had formed part of Kane’s induction from the SAS into MI6. The basement door creaked open, and a man walked in. A man so huge that he had to duck and turn sideways to fit through the opening. The man straightened and he not only dwarfed the woman but also the stocky Valknut guard. The big man moved into the light and Kane recognised the monster by his size and his broad, flat slab of a face. It was the goliath who had killed Kate Barrowhall, the huge Valknut soldier who had almost killed Kane in Cornwall. 

“On teper' moy,” he said, in a voice like a hammer dragged across gravel. He’s mine now. 

“Da, konechno,” she replied. Yes, of course. 

The woman smiled malevolently at Kane and left the room, along with the stocky soldier. The massive man waited until the door was closed and then bent to examine Kane closely. He glanced down at the cable ties around Kane’s wrists and at the various cuts and bruises on his face. Kane stared deep into the man’s flint-like eyes, like cold stone, without feeling or any sense of light. It was as though the man was a demon, a thing from hell looking to drink in Kane’s fear, as though he hoped to taste panic coming off Kane to fuel his thirst for pain. 

Kane just stared at his enemy. He had killed Kate Barrowhall without mercy, and Kane made himself a vow. If he survived this impossible situation, he would kill the giant. For Kate. The ogre saw that determination in Kane’s eyes and his hands shot out, grabbing Kane’s neck like two vices. He lifted Kane from the stool and tossed him against the back wall like a ragdoll. Kane smashed into the plasterboard and fell roughly onto the floorboards. The giant lumbered after him and aimed a vicious kick at Kane’s face. Kane lifted his arms and blocked the blow with his tied forearms. He bent and punched Kane in the back of the head with a fist like a brick, and Kane’s face mushed into the floorboards. 

The giant picked Kane up and threw him across the room again. Kane rolled into the landing and grabbed the stool. He couldn’t do much with it with his wrists tied, so he flung it at his enemy. The beast caught it and hammered it against the floor with rage. He tossed it aside and closed the distance to Kane in two strides. Kane tried to defend himself, but the giant grabbed his tied wrists with one hand, and with the other punched Kane hard in the jaw, knocking him into dark unconsciousness.

Seventy-Six

“Well, then?” asked Craven as Captain Shaw hung up the satellite phone. 

“They’ve approved the rescue mission,” said Shaw, a grin spreading across his face. 

“Get in there!” shouted Bulldog and punched the air. 

Craven nodded and laughed. “Thank God for that.” 

“That’s what we’re paid for, mate,” said Bulldog, jumping up and clapping Craven on the back. “Kicking doors and kicking arses.” 

Shaw laughed and the SAS men congratulated each other, which Craven found strange given that they were about to go into battle against greater numbers in a mission which might cost them their lives. 

“Why are you lot so bloody happy?” he asked. 

“We spend most of our lives waiting for operations,” said Harris, after extricating himself from Bulldog’s headlock. “We train, we prepare, and we wait. Half the time missions aren’t green-lighted, and we go home. Think of how long we’ve been here, and we haven’t traded blows with the enemy.” 

“What did Stead say?” Craven asked, calling to Shaw above the din. 

“Our orders are to eliminate the Valknut team currently operating in Spain and recover Jack Kane. We know they’re at the farmhouse through Kane’s tracking device, and there’s a high-value target in there with him. A woman, a former British Intelligence employee, a suit who went rogue. The Ruperts want her alive, if possible, neutralised if not.” 

“How are we going to do it?” 

“We?” said Shaw and blew out his cheeks. “The only we in this is this team. You are going to stay here with the children.” 

“Bollocks I am, I’m coming with you.” 

“I don’t think so, Frank. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“If it wasn’t for me, you’d be shipping out tonight leaving Jack to his fate. I persuaded Stead to give us the go ahead.” 

“I’m sorry, Frank. We work as a team, we’re highly trained. This is our job.” 

“I know. You are the SAS, bloody superheroes who can shoot the balls off a gnat at fifty paces. Well, Jack Kane is my friend. I won’t just stand here whilst his life is at risk. I can help. I’ve been a few scrapes of my own these last few eyes and I know how to point and shoot a bloody gun.” 

“Just let him come along,” said Bulldog. “His whining is giving me a headache.” He winked at Craven. 

“I must be out of my tiny mind,” said Shaw. “All right. You drive the jeep to the farmhouse but stay with the vehicle. You will be our extraction point. You wait, and the minute we return with Kane you get us the hell out of there. That clear?” 

“Extraction. Crystal clear.”

The SAS team huddled around the table and put together a plan to enter the farmhouse and extract Jack from the basement. They were the experts, so Craven left them to it and went to Danny’s bedroom. Kim stopped in his corridor where she had been waiting in the toilet. 

“Are the nice men going to get Daddy?” she asked. 

“Yes, love. I’m going with them, and we’ll come back with your dad.” 

“Do you promise?”

Craven swallowed hard, not wanting to make a promise to the girl he wasn’t certain that he could keep. “I promise,” he said reluctantly. 

“Pinky promise?” she held out her little finger. 

“Pinky promise,” Craven linked his little finger with hers and she shook it solemnly before trotting back into the sitting-room. 

Craven entered Danny’s bedroom and sat on the end of the bed. 

“You’re going after Dad?” Danny asked. He got out of bed and sat next to Craven. 

“Yes.”

“I heard them in there. There’s going to be a fight?” 

“There has to be.” 

“And people will die.” 

“Bad people. The people who took you.” 

“What if you and Dad die?” Danny turned to Craven, and fat tears dripped down his youthful face. 

“We won’t.”

“You can’t say that, Uncle Frank. I’m not a kid any more. Just give it to me straight.” 

Craven sighed and took Danny’s hand. “Fair enough. I am going with the SAS men inside to get your dad out of that farmhouse, the same place they held you. There will be danger, and we could die. I need you to stay here and look after Kim until we get back. Can you do that?” 

“I can. But what do we do if you don’t come back?” 

“If I’m not back by morning, take Kim and go to the police.” 

Danny nodded and wiped his tears away. “Thanks for being honest. I’ll take care of Kim. I can tell you what I know about the farmhouse, what I remember from the inside. If you think it might help?” 

“I think it will be a great help. Danny, I’m proud of you, lad. Your dad is too. No matter what happens, never forget how much your dad loves you. How much I love you.” Craven couldn’t keep the break from his voice, and Danny gave him a hug. 

“Thanks, Uncle Frank.”

“Right,” said Craven. He stood, sniffed and dusted himself down. “Enough of this. Let’s tell the lads what you know. We need to make a plan to get your dad back.”

Seventy-Seven

Kane woke and rolled onto his back. His head throbbed, feeling twice its normal size, and his body ached from the beating he had suffered. There were no windows in the basement, so he did not know if it was night or day or how long he had remained unconscious. Kane twisted and checked himself for serious injuries, but could feel no broken bones, just a lot of bruising and stiffness. His jaw felt swollen, and he opened his mouth as wide as he could to stretch the joint. 

If I stay here, I’m a dead man. Kane had to move. He had to get away from the farmhouse. The questioning couldn’t last much longer, and Kane expected the Valknut team to move sooner rather than later, before the Spanish authorities caught up with them. He tried to sit up, using his legs to push himself back against the wall. He slithered and wriggled, using his legs to drive himself up the cold concrete, and was out of breath by the time he contorted himself into an upright position. 

Kane stared at the cable ties around his wrists. If he was going to fight his way out of the farmhouse, he would need his hands. Kane lifted the cables to his mouth and bit down on the loose end, pulling the ties as tight as possible until there was no more room between the plastic bonds and his skin. He lifted his hands over his head and brought them down quickly towards his stomach. Kane had used that technique before, the idea being to break the ties at their locking mechanism, which was their weakest point.

He tried the action twice, but the ties held firm. Kane slumped against the wall to rest, letting his hands drop to the floor. His fingers brushed against something sharp, and he picked up a sliver of wood as long as his forefinger. It had chipped from the floorboards when the giant had thrown the stool across the room. Kane took it in his teeth and lifted the cable ties to his mouth. He pushed the sliver of wood into the square mechanism, trying to push the tiny locking bar away from the cable grooves. 

Footsteps thudded from above, stomping on the ceiling like an elephant’s feet. The giant was coming. Kane tried to unlock his bonds again, but couldn’t get enough of the wood into the mechanism to shift the bar. Heavy footsteps descended the stairs, each thud like the grim beat of death coming for Kane in a dank basement. He had mere moments to free his hands, seconds to give himself the best chance to fight for his life. If Valknut was going to kill Jack Kane, then he would die as hard as possible. 

Heavy boots shuffled as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and a set of keys jangled behind the door. The thought of facing that beast of a man again sent a shiver across Kane’s shoulders. The fight in Cornwall had been like battling a monolith, an implacable mass of stone who had swatted Kane away as though he were nothing but an annoying fly. Kane pushed the splinter of wood into the mechanism one last time before the door opened and this time the tiny plastic locking-bar shifted. He pulled his wrists apart and the cable ties fell away. Kane flexed his hands and quickly rubbed his wrists to get his blood flowing. He pushed himself to his feet, shaking the headache away. Now it was time to fight and get out of this hellhole. 

Kane leapt across the room towards the door as it scraped open on old hinges. Light shone in from the stairwell and a boot appeared in the space between door and frame. Kane kicked the door with all his weight behind his leading leg and it hammered into the man behind it. The Valknut soldier grunted and stumbled into the basement, clutching at his head. Kane drove the flat of his hand into the man’s throat, stepped away, and kicked him in the groin. He flailed, trying to beat at Kane with his shovel-sized hands, but too blinded by the pain to land an effective blow. He choked and bent double, so Kane kicked him hard in the head and when the giant pitched over, he stamped down hard on his face. 

Kane bent and pulled a Glock pistol from the man’s belt and chambered a round. The monster was unconscious, and Kane pointed the gun at his scarred face. He wanted to pull the trigger, to kill the Valknut soldier and avenge Kane Barrowhall’s death. It would be so easy. One squeeze and the murderer’s life was over. But firing the Glock would alert every single Valknut operator in the farmhouse. They would come running towards the sound with their MP5s and Kane would die on the stairs before even leaving the basement. 

Images of Kate Barrowhall smiling sped through Kane’s mind. Then of her head half-exploded and her dead eyes looking at him. He paused, gun hovering in front of the giant’s face. Kane took his finger from the trigger and left his enemy where he lay. He had mere moments to make his escape, to get out of the farmhouse before any of the guards noticed he was gone. He sprinted out of the doorway and up the stairs and winced as he noticed a CCTV camera mounted high on the wall. If they were watching, he was a dead man. But Kane had committed to the escape. There was no turning back now. 

He took the stairs two at a time and paused at the top, poised like a leopard ready to strike. Kane listened for any sound of Valknut soldiers in the corridor beyond the stairs. He tried to recall the layout of the place from loose memories of his capture and from the reconnaissance mission with Shaw and his team. Kane wasn’t surprised they hadn’t got him out. He had been involved in enough missions in his time to understand the complexities in the chain of command. Shaw needed a go order from his commanding officer, and in this case, that meant MI6. If they were coming, they would be here by now, Kane told himself. He was on his own. 

Kane moved slowly into the corridor, keeping close to the wall with his gun ready. He took three steps forward, and a floorboard creaked beneath his shoe. Kane paused and a Valknut soldier poked his head around a doorway to check on the noise. The young man with short blonde hair and a long nose stared at Kane. He held a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. It took a moment for his brain to register what his eyes saw. His mouth gaped and Kane’s stomach lurched. Any chance of a quiet escape lost. All that remained was violence. Kane pointed the Glock and shot the blonde-haired man. The bullet connected with his shoulder. He dropped his coffee and fell to the floor, howling in agony. Kane fired again, one shot into the man’s skull to silence him forever. 

Shouts of alarm erupted all around the farmhouse and Kane dived into the nearest room just as a rapid burst of suppressed gunfire tore through the corridor. He landed in a small sitting-room with old, musty furniture and wallpaper sagging from the walls. Kane took up a position behind an armchair and trained his gun on the doorway, ready to kill anybody who came to attack him. He quickly checked the magazine, saw ten rounds remaining, and slotted it back into place. Soon they would come with stun grenades and gunfire, and Kane would find himself outgunned and outnumbered. 

A window on the opposite wall let in sparse light through the steel plate fitted across it. They had padlocked the plate and secured it to two metal plinths on the wall. If Kane could get the plate off, he could make a break for it. Three shots zipped through the doorway and Kane ducked. He had to save his bullets for a clear line of sight, but he couldn’t hide forever. The fight for Kane’s life had begun.

Seventy-Eight

Craven raced the Toyota jeep out of Seville along the highway towards the farmhouse. Shaw and the SAS team clicked and locked weapons, secured straps and readied themselves for the assault upon the Valknut farmhouse. 

“Huang, find high ground and lay down covering fire,” Shaw ordered. 

“Yes, sir,” Huang replied. “There was a rise to the south. I’ll take up position there until I get word to move to extraction.”

“Bulldog and Harris, we go in together. We’ll use the back door and try to approach through the fencing. Harris, can you disable their cameras?” 

“Not before we get there, sir,” Harris replied. “I’d have to connect to their server, hack into it and take over control. I can do it, but it will take time.” 

“We could ask MI6 to do it from HQ?” asked Bulldog. 

“We could, but it’s the same problem. We don’t know how long Kane has got before they execute him. If they haven’t already. Time is our enemy. All the plans we made for a discreet extraction have gone out of the window.” 

“So, let’s just get in there and get after the bastards,” said Craven. “There’s, what? Eight of them? There’s five of us. That’s not so bad.” 

“It’s bad enough when they’re heavily armed and we must approach the house which they have fortified,” said Shaw. “We must cross the wire fence, and then the open killing ground between the fence and the house. Every step we take, they’ll lay down gunfire. If we make it to the house in one piece, we need shape charges to get through a reinforced door or window. Then we must move through the building and reach the basement, retrieve Kane, and get out.”

“You make it sound so easy,” said Bulldog, and the rest of the unit laughed. 

“A walk in the park,” agreed Harris. 

“I don’t know what the parks are like where you come from,” said Craven, “but it sounds like a suicide mission to me. Why don’t I just drive the jeep straight through the wire fence to the house? You lot jump out and do your bit?” 

“What if the jeep doesn’t make it to the fence? What if we can’t get out of the jeep because they are shooting rounds into us like unholy rain?” 

“All right, all right. You know better than me. The place is only five minutes away. Are you sure you want me to wait by the car?” 

“Do not leave the vehicle,” Shaw commanded. He leant across from the passenger side seat and gripped Craven’s shoulder. “This is our only means of escape and we might come in hot, or you might have to come and get us if things get hairy. Do not leave the jeep.” 

“Got it.” Craven turned the jeep off the main road and onto the snaking country roads leading to the house. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was hot. Craven was coming, and he hoped to God that his friend was still alive.

Seventy-Nine

Two flashbang grenades tumbled into the room and bounced across the wooden floorboards. Kane covered his ears, closed his eyes, and curled into a ball behind the armchair. Two explosions shook the room, flashes of blinding light followed by ear-rattling crashes. The purpose of those grenades was to disorient anybody in the room the thrower was about to enter, thus making them easier to subdue, or kill. Kane kept his eyes tight closed until the flashes were over and tried to shield his hearing as best as possible. He rolled away from the armchair and lay on the floor with his gun trained on the doorway. Sure enough, two Valknut soldiers appeared with MP5s held at their chests. Kane shot the first one, aiming for his neck but connecting with his bulletproof vest. 

Both men shrank back from the doorway, amongst much frantic shouting in Russian. Kane scrambled to his feet and changed his angle, firing again at a boot he spied around the doorframe. A mist of blood and a cry of pain. 

“Kill him!” screamed the English woman’s voice, like a banshee. 

Kane expected the first man to start trying to shoot again and closed in on the door. An MP5 muzzle appeared, and Kane grabbed it, hauling the man into the room with him. It was the stocky Valknut soldier, the man who had beaten Kane in the basement before the giant had arrived. Kane brought the Glock up, but the man forced it away with his left hand before Kane could fire. They became locked together, each holding the other’s gun. Kane had been cuffed and defenceless when they had last met. But not any more. 

He dragged the Valknut man deeper into the room, whilst the man with the shot foot howled in agony beyond the doorway. The stocky man snarled and spat as he and Kane wrestled. He was strong and much heavier than Kane. But Kane didn’t plan on a wrestling match. He let go of the MP5 and instead grabbed the handle of the punch dagger protruding from the stocky man’s body armour. The knife slid free as Kane wrapped his fingers around the grip, a thumb’s length of steel pointing from between his knuckles. Kane punched the stocky man three times in the throat. Blood spurted, soaking Kane’s hand. The stocky man jerked in surprise and Kane lowered the knife and severed the artery in his groin. The man fell forward, and Kane lowered him onto the chair, careful to keep his body between himself and the doorway. 

Kane quickly unstrapped the body armour and slipped it over his own head. He secured the side straps and grabbed the MP5. The stocky man stared at Kane with wide eyes as thick crimson oozed from his wounds. His boots kicked in a pool of his own blood, thrashing in his death throes, and Kane stepped aside. He readied the MP5 and fired a burst through the doorway to keep his enemies away. Then he fired at the reinforced steel plate, trying to break open the padlock and reveal the window behind it. 

The padlock held firm. More gunfire from the doorway. Kane returned fire and took cover behind a floral sofa. A deep voice rumbled in the corridor; heavy boots stomped along the wooden floorboards. 

“No!” shouted the English woman. “Not that!” 

Another grenade bounced through the doorway. An explosive grenade. Kane hit the floor, and the explosion rattled the room like thunder. Sparks flew; smoke billowed to fill the small space. Kane coughed, tried to waft the smoke away from his face. The old curtains around the window caught fire, and orange flame licked up the dry fabric, dancing and flickering through the cloying smoke. A barrage of gunfire thrummed into the small room and Kane lay down flat. The air was cleaner at floor level, and nobody would aim their weapon that low. He lifted the MP5 and aimed carefully at the padlock. He fired, and the lock pranged open. The metal plate swung lazily away from the window and Kane stood to make a run for the window, but more gunfire raked the room, and he dropped to the floor again. 

Kane searched the body armour, but there was no spare ammunition or grenades. He returned fire and shuffled towards the window. Boots entered the room, and then another set of heavy footsteps. Kane saw them through the foot of clear air beneath the layer of smoke. He opened fire and stood, shifting across the room, shooting until the MP5 emptied its magazine. He dropped the gun, picked up a small round coffee table and threw it out of the window. Fire raged across the wall, devouring the old dry timber like a starving wolf with a fresh kill. 

Russian voices shouted orders. Kane ran and dived through the broken window. He rolled as he landed and came up, taking the Glock from his waistband in one fluid motion. He was in the farmyard, a hot Seville sun forcing his eyes to squint. Around him were open fields and a small copse of fruit trees. Kane ran for the trees. It was his only chance of finding cover and making a last stand. To run across the fields was to die. They would pick him off within minutes with a well-aimed bullet. So Kane ran. He had a pistol and seven rounds, but he was alive.

Eighty

McGovern shrank back from the fire. It was happening again. She could feel it in her bones. The Beast barged past her with such force that she almost fell over. The Beast. A savage man, a killer who had slaughtered his way across dozens of battlefields. She retched once and then threw up in the farmhouse corridor. Fire blazed out from the room where Kane had made his escape. Soldiers barked orders and readied their weapons to pursue him. She was on the wrong side. She was fighting alongside murderers and mercenaries. Only her hate for Kane had propelled her like a runaway train to this point.

She grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen worktop and took a long drink, hand shaking, water spilling down her chin. Luck. It hit her like a gunshot wound. An ethereal thing people spoke of at card games or about sports people. Luck. She had never been lucky, but Jack Kane had more lives than a cat. What had she done to curse herself so? What had he done to earn so much good fortune? There could be no answer to that question. It just was. McGovern felt lighter in the light of that revelation. She knew in that moment that it was over. She was leaving. She was free. The pursuit of Kane, the fire. She could disappear in that carnage and perhaps Valknut and the dreaded General Balakin would believe she was dead. If she was lucky. She was due her share, after all. 

McGovern reached under the kitchen sink and pulled out a black duffel bag containing two hundred thousand euros in cash. Mission petty cash. She slung it over her shoulder and strode towards the door. A Valknut soldier hurtled past her, clutching his MP5. He crashed through the front door and McGovern followed him outside to where the SUV waited in the farmyard. 

The Valknut soldier veered left and jerked suddenly, falling at an odd angle. Dark blood spilled from his head, and McGovern clasped a hand to her mouth. A sniper had shot him. Not a Valknut sniper. She turned and ran back to the burning farmhouse, smoke billowing from the reinforced windows and leaking through the door like water pouring upside down. 

A gigantic figure loomed in the doorway and then shrank back inside as a sniper’s bullet slammed into the doorframe mere inches from his head. McGovern dived into the doorway and scrambled to her feet, coughing as smoke filled her lungs. Noticing the bag over her shoulder and the direction she had been headed, the Beast snarled at her. His cliff-like brows knitted together, and his gun came up. McGovern heard two loud bangs, and then everything went quiet. The force threw her against the wall, leaving her numb, as if someone had ripped her soul from her body. The Beast turned away from her, running towards the back of the farmhouse. 

McGovern coughed again and wanted to run for the door, but her legs would not respond to her will. Pain flared in her midriff, awful, bone-splitting pain. She clutched her hands to her stomach and felt hot liquid there. She slid down the wall and her eyes became heavy, lids closing and opening slowly. McGovern had never been lucky, and whatever shred of that elusive elixir that had ever existed within her had finally run out.

Eighty-One

Craven drummed his fingers on the Toyota’s steering wheel. He stared out of the windscreen as smoke billowed from the farmhouse to send a chimney of dark cloud into the pale blue sky where a warm Spanish breeze whipped it away across the Andalusian hills. Gunfire crackled and desperate voices, muffled by the carnage, came through the open window.

Shaw had been clear. Stay with the car and be ready for extraction. Another gunshot rang out and part of the farmhouse collapsed under the flames with a groaning crack like a rotten tree falling. Craven got out of the car and paced back and forth, his gaze flitting from the burning house to his shoes and back again. How could he wait by the car when his friend suffered? What if Kane died in there whilst he waited on a hillside doing nothing? Craven had already lost the person most precious to him in all the world. Barb’s death had been unbearable, was still unbearable. There wasn’t a minute in the day when he didn’t think of her. Craven went to sleep talking to her and woke doing the same thing. He couldn’t live what remained of his life bereft of his closest friend, as well as the love of his life. 

“Bugger it,” Craven said and drove his fist into the flat of his other hand. He took the pistol out of the back of the car and strode towards the burning farmhouse. He followed the trail Shaw’s team had made through the dry brush until he reached the wire fence. Craven took a deep breath and flexed his fingers awkwardly around the Glock’s grip. 

“I must be out of my bloody mind,” he said, wondering if he should turn back and wait by the Toyota. 

A crackle of gunfire made Craven jump. He swallowed hard and stepped through a hole Shaw’s team had cut in the wire fence. Craven crouched inside the farmhouse perimeter. He took three deep breaths, stood, and marched towards the fight.

Eighty-Two

Kane reached the copse and knelt among the sun-parched, twisted branches. He turned to check for pursuers and watched Bulldog, Shaw, and Harris scuttling across the open ground, half-bent with weapons raised, moving with predatory grace. Gunfire spat from the muzzles of their submachine-guns and two Valknut soldiers in their skeleton masks dropped dead as they tried to flee the burning building. 

Shaw made a gesture with his left hand, and his two colleagues followed towards the back of the farmhouse. They had come for him. Kane thought he was alone and abandoned, but Shaw and his SAS team had come to rescue him. That tugged at Kane’s chest. He had expected MI6 and the British Government to abandon him, but here they were risking their lives for his. 

Fire devoured the farmhouse, creeping up its timber frame like a crawling dragon, hissing and cracking as it tore from downstairs to the upstairs bedrooms to send smoke billowing into the Spanish afternoon sky. Kane waited. His survival instinct told him to run and to live, but Shaw’s team was going into that inferno to rescue him, so the least he could do was let them know he was alive. The team sniper would be out there at a vantage point. He would see Kane if he exposed himself. The update would reach Shaw over the radio comms, and they could withdraw with no loss of life, but then why hadn’t the sniper done that already when Kane left the farmhouse? Perhaps smoke from the fire had obscured the sniper’s view when Kane jumped from the window. Kane’s mind raced through such thoughts, delaying him. 

A figure lumbered towards the burning farmhouse, a big man carrying a gun clumsily in front of him like it was burning his fingers. The large man dragged a hand down his face, glanced about him and plunged into the front door, where smoke billowed like a power station chimney. It was Craven. The Valknut monster was in there, along with the remaining Valknut soldiers. Craven wouldn’t last thirty seconds inside the inferno where warriors fought. Kane burst from the woods and sprinted across the open ground, returning to the place he had fled so eagerly. Craven had come for him, his friend, more than his friend. His brother. Kane had to protect him.

With seven rounds in his gun, Kane crossed the ground at a sprint. A bullet fizzed past his head, and he ducked but kept up the furious pace. At the farmhouse, a Valknut man clambered out of an upstairs window and died as a sniper’s bullet tore into his head and splashed the farmhouse wall crimson. A wall of heat hit Kane as he reached the building. The fire roared like a lion and Kane coughed as he entered the clouds of filthy, cloying smoke. 

“Craven!” Kane screamed. “Frank!” He blinked as smoke made his eyes water. A Valknut man all in black with a white skull daubed on his black face mask stumbled down the stairs, coughing and leaning against the bannister. He saw Kane a moment too late, and Kane shot him in the throat with one of his seven precious bullets. The Valknut man tumbled down the stairs and Kane was about to snatch up his MP5 when he heard a crash and a shout of men fighting. It was Craven.

Kane left the dead soldier and ran towards the fight. Another shout and another crash. Kane raced into the kitchen just in time to see the Valknut monster looming over Frank Craven like Dr Jekyll. Craven bled from two cuts to his face and edged away from the giant. His gun lay on the floor and the monster dropped his own. He wore body armour and was twice the size of Craven, who was himself larger than most men. The giant laughed and balled his fists. 

“You want to fight?” he shouted, Russian-accented voice impossibly deep and full of gravel. “Come and fight the Beast, English scum!” 

Kane coughed at the smoke billowing around them and the ogre turned with an eyebrow raised above the cliff of his scarred face. The building creaked and groaned and a chunk of burning ceiling crashed down five paces away. 

“I’m your man,” Kane said. He dropped his gun. Kane remembered Kate Barrowhall, a beautiful, intelligent, successful woman slaughtered by this butcher. He thought of Danny alone and frightened in the farmhouse basement, and of his friend Craven, who had come to rescue him, willing to give his own life in the attempt. Kane stood lightly on the balls of his feet and raised his fists. “I’ll fight the Beast.” 

The colossus laughed mirthlessly and turned to face Kane. He would charge, using his vast bulk to smother Kane and beat him to the ground before smashing his skull or throttling him to death. So Kane attacked. He lashed out with his left leg, kicking the giant hard in the knee. He grunted and slewed sideways. Kane jabbed with his fist, the knuckle of his middle finger extended as it cracked into the hulk’s throat. The giant choked, hands around his own throat as he tried desperately to breathe. Kane drove an elbow into his nose and darted away. 

A Valknut soldier burst into the kitchen, saw the confrontation, and raised his weapon. The back of his body armour was alight with flame, but he hadn’t noticed. The gun barrel came up, aimed directly at Kane, and for a moment Kane thought he would die there in a burning Seville farmhouse. Three bullets spat from the kitchen window and the Valknut soldier slumped back, dead. 

“Get Craven out of here,” Kane yelled at Shaw who stood at the window with his weapon trained on the Beast. “This one is mine.” 

The Beast shook his head and rolled his shoulders, recovering from the initial battle. He nodded appreciatively at the opportunity for man-to-man combat and smiled slyly at Kane as Shaw helped Craven out of the burning building. Craven stared at Kane with wide eyes, his face smeared with blood. Kane winked at Craven, and the smile dropped from the Beast’s face like a landslide. 

The giant bellowed and charged like a furious bear. He came at Kane, fists swinging and face twisted by hateful rage. Kane ducked and swerved away from the attack, desperately trying to keep his distance. If the Beast got a hold of him, the fight was over. Another section of the ceiling collapsed, a section of flaming timber clattering into the Beast’s back, pitching him forwards. Kane stepped in and hammered an elbow into his enemy’s face and drove the heel of his left foot into the enormous man’s knee. 

The Beast sprawled on the tiled floor and Kane was about to grab the huge head and snap his neck when more masonry tumbled from the ceiling. Kane dived out of the way, coughing and shielding his eyes from the terrible blaze. The kitchen had become a maelstrom of flame and smoke. Fallen timbers crackled with orange flame, plaster hung from the ceiling in smoking strips and Kane wiped his eyes to clear his smoke-strained vision. 

The Beast rose and bellowed in frustration. He glanced at Kane and then at the blaze. He reached down to his boot and grabbed a knife, flames dancing off its steel blade. Kane remembered the punch dagger and pulled it from his pocket, slipping the weapon between the fingers of his right hand. The Beast came on, stabbing at Kane with vicious jabs of his knife. He was malevolent, murderous and used to dominating his opponents with his vast size. But Kane had spent a lifetime at war, training, fighting, learning different fighting styles. He was older now, out of shape, not the lean animal he had once been. But he was still fast, ruthless and a killer. 

Kane slipped around a knife thrust and punched the dagger twice into the Beast’s armpit. The bigger man gasped at the pain and came on again. Kane ducked beneath a wide sweep and drove the punch dagger three times into the Beast’s thigh. Kane darted away, smoke billowing around him. The Beast stumbled, blood flowing freely from his wounds. He still wore body armour protecting his torso, but Kane was tearing him to pieces. He screamed in frustration and charged. Kane ducked and slipped to his right and as the Beast’s dagger sliced through the smoke, he cut the punch dagger’s blade along the inside of the Beast’s elbow, sawing through tendon and ligament. 

The Beast’s knife clattered to the floor and his blood fell on the tiles in thick gobbets. His once hate-filled eyes became glassy as he saw his doom unfold before him. In one last bid to take Kane down, he lumbered forward, flailing with his left hand, thick fingers outstretched as though to grab Kane’s face and crush his skull. Kane slid forward and punched his dagger three times into the Beast’s throat, sending a river of dark blood cascading down his Kevlar armour. He dropped to his knees and stared at Kane as his lifeblood drained away. 

“For Kate,” Kane panted, and ran from the farmhouse. He leapt over flaming timbers and jumped through the back door just as a ceiling joist collapsed behind him. 

Shaw’s team and Craven waited in the gardens, and Kane ran to join them. 

“It’s done,” he heaved between coughs. 

“You were supposed to wait by the jeep?” Shaw said to Craven, and the older man shrugged guiltily. Shaw laughed. “Come on, let’s get out of here before the Spanish police are all over us like a rash.”

“Thanks for coming for me, Frank,” Kane said. He hooked his arm around Craven’s shoulder and helped him hurry towards the fence. 

“What now?” Craven asked. 

“Get the kids and go home. To England. We don’t need to hide any more. The kids need a normal life.” 

“And you?”

“I need a bit of normality too. Live the quiet life in peace,” he lied.

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About The Author

Dan Stone

Dan Stone is the pen name of award winning author Peter Gibbons.

Born and raised in Warrington in the North West of England, Peter/Dan wanted to be an author from the age of ten when he first began to write stories.

Since then, Peter/Dan has written many books, including the bestselling Viking Blood and Blade Saga, and the Saxon Warrior Series.

Peter now lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife and three children.