‘I’ll just stay up a little longer.’

  ‘It’s that damn car, isn’t it? Men,’ she shook her head. ‘Always worrying about their cars.’

  They agreed to disagree. Alicia went back to bed. Drake stayed in the lounge, watching. He saw shadows flickering on the walls, but nothing sinister. He saw the sun rise and only then let his eyelids droop. When Alicia woke him at 8 a.m. he started awake.

  ‘Some guard dog you are,’ she muttered.

  They popped out for something to eat. Drake fancied a full breakfast after the long night. The morning was composed of drizzle and gloom and grey people hurrying along in their suits with their heads down. Drake ordered and ate and drank black coffee and told himself that he was feeling human again.

  ‘You happier now?’ Alicia was twirling some shredded hash browns around with a fork.

  ‘Because nobody broke in last night and tried to move my model car?’ Drake sighed. ‘I know how it sounds. I really do. But... I feel unsettled.’

  Alicia sighed. ‘We all feel unsettled, Matt. This isn’t what we do. We’re all going stir crazy, twiddling our thumbs here. But it could be worse. We could still be on that bloody base.’

  ‘Unless,’ Drake said. ‘The reason we don’t have a job is because we’re not on the base. Out of sight, out of mind...’

  Alicia glared at him. ‘Don’t say that.’

  Drake shrugged. ‘I don’t really believe it. Mai’s pushing Bryant as hard as she can, too.’

  Alicia made a sickened face. ‘Don’t. With those two being an item now, your words evoke a terrifying image.’

  Drake shook his head at her. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’

  They finished up, paid for their meal, and wandered back outside into the drizzle. Drake had his black leather jacket on, as did Alicia. They didn’t get wet, but they felt the cold. Drake reflected it wasn’t like this on a battlefield.

  They reached their apartment block. They climbed the stairs rather than take the elevator, as was their custom, exited on the top floor and headed towards their door. Drake felt a little anxiety as he wondered if they might find anything awry with the room. It was odd how these things ate at you.

  But the room turned out to be fine.

  It was what was outside the room that started his heart pounding.

  As they approached the door, Drake saw a small shape out of the corner of his eye, nestled down in the dark corner where the wall met the floor. It was a tiny oblong shape. When Drake spotted it, his eyes narrowed, and he surveyed the whole area before returning to it. Alicia watched the stairs.

  Drake knelt down.

  ‘What is it?’ Alicia asked.

  ‘It’s a dead squirrel,’ Drake said. ‘It’s really out of place.’

  Alicia looked over at him. ‘Not necessarily. It could happen. Are you gonna move it?’

  Drake glanced up. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, you can’t just leave it there,’ Alicia sounded surprisingly like a nagging wife, even though her reasoning was perfectly sound.

  Drake took out his phone, turned on the torch function, and shone it on the dead squirrel. Alicia came over when she saw something attached to the body by a nail.

  ‘Is that... a note?’

  Drake nodded. He read it out aloud. ‘Always watching. The Paymaster,’ he said. ‘I wonder what that’s all about.’

  Alicia narrowed her eyes. ‘Is it meant for us?’

  ‘It’s practically outside our door.’

  ‘And they used a nail? That’s horrifying.’

  Drake nodded. He folded up the note and put it in his pocket before taking the squirrel to the bins outside. He then re-joined Alicia in their room and took a good look around, but everything seemed fine. Drake washed his hands and then took another look at the strange note.

  ‘Always watching. The Paymaster.’

  He crossed to the window. Was it true? Were they always watching? If that was the case, they’d be watching him now. Drake gave them the finger. Alicia came up behind him.

  ‘Tell the others,’ she said.

  He did. He rang them all and explained what had happened. They would be on their guard. The strange thing was, this new feeling of uneasy peace felt more real than their period of domestication. It almost felt like they were back on a battle footing.

  But nothing happened. The day passed uneventfully. Drake grabbed some sleep in the early evening as Alicia stood watch. They still weren’t sure what was going on, if anything, but they weren’t about to take any chances. When the night settled in again, Drake was back on sentry duty.

  That night passed slowly, the darkness full of noise and strange whisperings. They were directly above the street below, so could hear the passing of many people. Even at 3 and 4 a.m. Drake heard people outside. On the street. He couldn’t do anything about them, but he once more accustomed himself to the noises of the apartment, the creaks and sighs in the corridor outside, the sound the stairs would make if an errant foot fell upon them, the soft woosh that the elevator might make. Drake had noticed that it no longer dinged on opening. He wasn’t entirely sure when that had changed.

  Had domestication dulled their battle senses?

  Drake firmly believed that it had. It took a certain mindset to do what they did every day, every week. You needed an unyielding and strong mentality. Once that attitude changed, it would be easy to let complacency sneak in. Too easy. You became accustomed to the lack of danger.

  The night passed at a steady pace. He was wired, waiting for something to happen. At 2 a.m., Dahl rang him, also sitting up. At 3 a.m., Hayden called. Later, even Mai made contact. They were all sitting up, all wondering if something was going to happen. It was the strangest of nights. Fraught with tension, and yet flowing steadily by.

  Nothing happened.

  The next morning, they again went out. They wanted to see what would happen. How serious was this? They weren’t even one hundred per cent certain the note was meant for them. It could be aimed at anyone in their apartment block. They didn’t want to jump to conclusions, appear paranoid. If this was what normal life did for them, they wanted no part of it.

  They met up that morning, all of them. It was a subdued hour. Nobody reported hearing or seeing anything untoward during the long hours of the night. Mai told them that Bryant was hopeful he’d have a job for them soon, maybe even in the next few days. That cheered them all up immensely, though Drake worried aloud what might happen if indeed they were being watched.

  Stalked.

  ‘I just want to get hold of the bastard and ring his neck,’ Alicia said. ‘Or hers,’ she added, shrugging.

  The conversation turned for a few more minutes, but then, with little else to do, the team drifted apart and went back to their apartments. Drake followed Alicia through the outer door, eyes open and head on a swivel, but they saw nothing untoward until they approached their apartment.

  There, in the same place, sat another shape.

  Drake couldn’t believe it. This time, it was totally surreal, a pack of his favourite bacon. They had nailed it through, and a note left on the nail. When he unfurled it he read it aloud.

  ‘Matt Drake, I see you. The Paymaster.’

  ‘So it’s you who’s the target,’ Alicia said. ‘I guess that could have been worse. It could have been me.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Drake said, knowing she was trying to make light of the matter but not really feeling in the mood.

  ‘Well, at least we know.’ Alicia prodded the bacon. ‘How the hell did they know this is your favourite brand?’

  ‘How do you think?’

  ‘I guess they are following us.’

  ‘I’m assuming the name paymaster means nothing to you?’ Alicia went on. ‘Could you have come across this guy in the past?’

  Drake racked his brain. Sometimes, the years blurred into scenes of action, into memorable moments on the field. Looking back, he recalled no mention of anyone called the paymaster, not in the shadowy days of his youth nor in the recent years of his past. He shook his head at Alicia.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Well, whoever he or she is, they sure want a piece of you. They want you to worry, to feel anxiety, but surely that’s only the beginning. This will escalate.’

  Drake stared at his girlfriend, briefly wondering why she had to be so bloody blunt all the time. But she was right. She was spot on. Someone out there was engineering all this. They would intensify their efforts, he was sure of it.

  But where was it ultimately going? And why?

  Drake had no idea.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mawle grinned at the new victim. He had no clue what was happening.

  It had taken a lot of juice to make this one happen. The guy standing before him went by the name of Jeff Needham. Mawle barely remembered him, and Needham sure as hell didn’t remember Mawle.

  Why would he?

  Mawle had been one of the pack, not a leader, not even a standout recruit. Sometimes it wasn’t enough to be a part of the SAS, and then not even the coveted Ninth Division – an offshoot of the special air service that went into international territories with minor oversight and carried out off-the-books missions. Mawle had been solid, but he’d never been one to stand out from the crowd.

  He and Jeff Needham had worked together under the Ninth Division guise maybe four times. They were quick in-and-out missions, led by a certain man who they both knew well.

  Matt Drake.

  Now though, Jeff Needham, recently abducted from his home in New York State, flown here by mercenaries who only needed dollar signs planted before their eyes to make a move, good or bad, locked in a room for a full day, not fed, not watered, just left to wonder what the hell was happening to him, simply stood there and looked confused.

  Mawle was careful, always careful. If Needham didn’t recognise him, that was good. No need to stoke that fire. You always had to work on the worst-case scenario – and the worst case here was that Needham would escape.

  Unlikely, but not beyond the realm of possibility.

  Mawle confronted him as he did every man or woman that they hunted. Explained the game, told him the rules, offered him the five-minute head start. It was cold tonight out in the wilderness, but it was clear and the skies were bright. A great night for hunting. Mawle wondered if Needham had looked after himself since leaving the army. He didn’t look too bad. There was no sign of a slouch, no sign of the dreaded middle-age-spread. Maybe he would present an excellent target.

  The only difference tonight was that Jeff Needham had a family.

  Granted, they didn’t live with him in the United States. Granted, he didn’t communicate with them more than once a month. But Mawle – and for that matter, Villiers – didn’t like it. This was far from the usual modus operandi. So far removed that it was unnerving.

  But tonight, it was all about the hunt.

  It was blood and glory.

  Mawle threw the knife at Needham’s feet. The guy wasn’t entirely sure what to do at first. He was a stringy man with a long body and short legs, an oddity. Mawle remembered he could shoot a fly off a ten pence piece, that he excelled in close quarter combat. He hoped Needham would present them with a challenge.

  It began. Needham took the knife and ran. He crashed through the forest, striking trees and snapping branches. Mawle breathed deeply of the night air. All around him, the men and women made ready. They revved their bikes, checked their guns, got into position. One of them counted the minutes down on his phone.

  Mawle looked at Villiers.

  ‘It is a good night for a hunt.’ He repeated the old mantra.

  Villiers nodded. His mind was elsewhere, probably focused on what he would do to Needham when he caught up to him. The minutes counted down quickly. Mawle waited for the right time and then set off with the bikes. They roared ahead, seeking the nearest trail. They started off in the same direction as the last hunt, towards the clearing where the woman had set up her tent. That woman’s body would now be rotting six feet under, with no one the wiser. Her friend had also met with an untimely and deadly accident, this one engineered by Villiers.

  Mawle ran through the undergrowth, slipping between trees that plucked at him with their spindly branches. He stuck to the trail, as there was very little space between trees. Needham might try the unexpected, but it wouldn’t help him any. Five minutes’ head start wasn’t that great.

  When the first of the bikes reached Needham, Bryant got a report that the ex-SAS man had jumped the rider. He had knifed the man in the ribs and then tried to take the bike. A clever move. The rider had had the sense to remove the keys and throw them into the woods. When the second bike arrived, Needham jumped that one too, ending up in a fistfight with the rider. The men had punched themselves bloody before Needham had moved off. First, though, he had removed his knife from the first rider.

  So... old Needham still had some moves.

  Mawle liked that. He thumbed the safety off his gun, aware that Needham had the skills to double back and might think of taking the leader out. Again, it would be a good move. But that didn’t happen. Needham was more bothered about getting the hell out of the wilderness.

  Mawle ran between undergrowth and trees. The branches snapped and the leaves rustled. The air was chilly on his skin, though he was sheathed in sweat, and the hard gun felt good in his hands. He pounded along, following in what he hoped was Needham’s footsteps. His crew ranged around him, some ahead, some behind, all wary and ready to open fire. Villiers had disappeared as usual, heading off to track Needham in his own way. Villiers loved to get close to his opponent, within killing distance, and then let him go, loved to repeat that move several times if he could, so that the quarry never knew. It was as if it was enough for Villiers to know he held his opponent’s life in his hands – that he could snuff it out whenever he wanted to.

  That Villiers, Mawle thought with a grin. He’s warped.

  Another tree and then another stretch of underbrush. The trail wound in deep ruts, making it hard to stay upright. There was a lot of noise. They didn’t want any bears disturbing their hunt. They didn’t expect to find any more campers and weren’t disappointed. Slowly, gradually, they encircled their prey.

  The remaining bike rider got ahead, reported back. The team put on a spurt of speed, moving towards Needham’s flanks in order to hem him in. They would make noise so that he knew they were there, closing in, herding him to where they wanted him to go. It was what hunting was all about – herding the animal. That this was live prey made no difference, not to Mawle and his team.

  An hour later, Villiers returned. Mawle nodded at him, panting slightly. ‘Did you see our man?’

  ‘He’s better than expected.’

  ‘Better than expected?’ Mawle echoed. ‘He’s ex-SAS.’

  ‘Not for a long time. And he hasn’t kept in shape, not really. The years haven’t been kind to Jeff Needham.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I was hoping for more of a challenge.’

  ‘Me too, boss. Me too.’

  ‘He took out Clarke, the bike rider.’

  ‘Clarke was sloppy.’

  ‘I guess that’s what a dozen or so easy kills get you,’ Mawle said. ‘A knife to the guts when you become careless. But now you, Jay?’

  ‘I came right up beside him, could have slit his throat. I was in the brush next to the tree where he was taking a breather, could hear him muttering to himself. I let him slip away.’

  ‘You held his life in your hands.’

  ‘I drank his soul, and it tasted bitter.’

  Mawle kept going. They were losing ground on their own team. After a surge, he caught up as the lead person, a woman he knew by the name Harriet, confronted Needham in a little clearing. The area was ringed by trees; there was nowhere to go. Needham turned red faced and lathered in sweat, the knife held out in one hand. Harriet was pacing around him carefully, with eight others at her back.

  ‘Is this it?’ Mawle asked loudly. ‘Is this all you can give us?’

  Needham lunged, swiping with the knife. Harriet ducked under the swing, grabbed an arm, and flung him over her shoulder. Needham hit the ground hard, grunting, but held onto the knife. Mawle walked forward with his gun held out.

  ‘Why?’ Needham met his eyes upside down. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Do you remember Matt Drake?’ Mawle levelled the gun.

  Needham’s eyes went faraway. ‘Sure I do. The army days. What of it?’

  ‘I just want Matt Drake to remember you.’ Mawle shot him in the chest, twice, and then a third time. He wouldn’t go near the face. Needham jerked and then started leaking blood. Mawle ordered his team to scoop up the body and transport it back to the house.

  They had work to do.

  ‘And this time,’ he told them all. ‘Make sure that the body’s found.’

  *

  Later, Mawle went into research mode. He used a powerful computer to find everything he could on the man, Matt Drake. In truth, there wasn’t a lot to find. A few news articles that might actually mean nothing. What had Drake been up to during the last decade and a half? When the internet search dried up, Mawle realised he needed help. He started calling old colleagues and men who owed him favours, leaned on them, asked them to check their secret archives and their redacted reports. He went as high up the food chain as he dared, knowing that he still had to maintain anonymity. He survived in this game because he was a shadow, because he didn’t draw the attention of those do-gooders in authority. Mawle was strictly a below radar man and aimed to keep it that way.

  But people still owed him favours, and they didn’t need to know his real name or what he did for a living. They merely needed to do what he said. Mawle called in almost every favour they owed him; so much so that he wondered if he was becoming a little obsessed. But the thought of Matt Drake could do that to him. It was a memory he’d strove to keep buried for a long time now.

  Basically, he wanted to make Drake’s life a living hell and then chop his head off. But not that quickly. He wanted Drake to suffer in life and in death. Wanted the worst to happen. There was nothing good in Matt Drake’s future.

 

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