Reeve watched him go. Whatever the boss had said, it had rattled his mentor. Some more backlash over events in Poole? Bloody Locke. It was a running joke amongst the others that he was a genuine psychopath. What maniac used a real knife in a training exercise?
It wasn’t his problem, though. He zipped up and headed out into the rain.
CHAPTER 6
Reeve ran through the countryside, alone.
Mordencroft Hall was a grim granite block amidst expansive heathland. During the Second World War, it had been commandeered for commando training. Officially, it was still Ministry of Defence property. Signs around the perimeter warned of arrest and prosecution for trespassers. But the remote, bleak landscape drew few visitors.
The isolation suited Reeve. He had raised his shield to others in his early teens, and never lowered it. Well, that wasn’t quite true. There had been a few people with whom he felt almost comfortable. Tony Maxwell was one. The others at the training facility, though, were merely colleagues. Once assigned real missions, he probably wouldn’t see much more of them.
He was fine with that. Mark Stone, the ex-cop, he actively disliked – as did most of the others, admittedly. John Blake, once a Royal Navy officer, was condescending and smug. Harrison Locke, another former officer – army medical, Reeve suspected – was also patronising, and insane. Reeve was probably closest to Craig Parker, but he could be annoyingly juvenile. And Deirdre Flynn had a chip on her shoulder visible from space.
None of that mattered now. All were professionals. He could work with them if he had to. But if he had to act on his own, it wouldn’t be a problem.
He crested a rise at the edge of the grounds. Loch Ailort, a curving finger of water dotted with desolate islands, opened out before him. The occasional ‘field trip’ aside, he had spent ten months on Scotland’s far west coast. Most would have considered it beautiful, but the open moors prompted only dark memories. Right now, the ongoing miserable spring left it grey, sapped of vibrancy. At least the midges hadn’t started to hatch yet.
But his desire to run outweighed the irritations. Mordencroft’s boundary fences measured six and a half miles. Ten and a half kilometres – almost perfect for a 10K run. Starting beyond the assault course, he could complete the hilly circuit in thirty-four minutes. That was his record, at least. He wasn’t pushing today. His watch’s timer neared that mark with a kilometre to go. His finishing point was half a kilometre short of the start. He could have simply finished the loop, but who ran 10,500 metres? The irregularity would have bugged him more than any midges.
He followed the fence, turning south-east. The house came back into view. It sat in a shallow natural bowl, hiding it from distant onlookers. Not that there would be any. The main road along the loch was over a mile away, and saw little traffic. Random ramblers would also be spotted long before getting close. Reeve passed a fencepost capped by an unobtrusive black box. It housed a video camera and motion sensor. Others ringed the whole training facility. Anyone approaching would be met by a ‘groundskeeper’ – an SC9 instructor. They would point out the warning signs . . . with a shotgun hooked over their arm. Nobody ever hung around.
Company ahead, though. Someone was standing at his finishing point.
He increased his pace, covering the last kilometre in just over three minutes. The loch dropped out of sight. He reached the finish. Maxwell, wearing a waterproof overcoat, awaited him. His expression was faintly perturbed, but a smile replaced it as Reeve arrived. ‘Alex. Good run?’
‘Fair,’ Reeve replied. His heart was racing, but would recover by the time he returned to the house. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘I wanted to meet you. Would have phoned, but, well, trainees aren’t allowed them.’ A small laugh. ‘Although that won’t be an issue from now on.’
A flash of excitement. ‘I’m in?’
‘Let’s talk in my office.’ Maxwell gestured towards the house.
‘After you,’ said Reeve.
Maxwell hesitated, then set off. Reeve walked with him. He expected conversation, but his superior seemed preoccupied. ‘You okay, sir?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Maxwell replied, nodding. ‘A lot going on this morning. You know,’ he added, ‘on days like this, I miss being in the field. You get your mission, and crack on with it. Nice and simple.’
‘That phone call from the boss wasn’t good news?’
‘You could say that. But,’ he sighed, ‘let me worry about it.’
They continued towards the house. On the way they passed the firing range. Targets were set up at intervals up to two hundred metres. The person practising was not using a rifle, however. ‘Wanting some quiet today?’ Maxwell asked, as he approached Flynn. She held a compound bow, an arrow nocked but not drawn. A baseball cap kept the rain off her short hair.
‘Just keeping my eye in,’ she replied, sighting a target fifty metres away. ‘I started out with a bow when I was a kid on the farm. My da taught – my dad, I mean, taught me. I was good, killed a rabbit at over two hundred feet once.’ In a swift, smooth movement, she drew and released the arrow. It hit the bullseye with a solid thwack. ‘More range on a rifle. But there’s something personal about this way.’
‘Good shot,’ said Reeve, meaning it.
She shrugged, not looking at him. ‘When do you want to see me, sir?’
‘Later,’ said Maxwell. ‘Alex is up next. I’ll find you.’ The two men carried on, hearing tyres screech. ‘I guess John feels he needs to keep his eye in as well.’
An Audi A6 powered around the parking area ahead. It doubled as a training area for tactical driving. Blake was at the wheel. He slalomed through a line of cones, performing looping powerslides at each end.
‘Hope he doesn’t crash into the other cars,’ said Maxwell. ‘I don’t want to have to walk to the station.’
‘The other staff aren’t coming back?’ Reeve asked.
‘Not the instructors. Training’s finished. The caretaker’s coming on Thursday. We’re the only ones here. Got to lock up before we leave.’
‘It’s not like there’s much to steal.’
A chuckle. ‘Only a small arsenal and a few thousand rounds of ammo.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Reeve.
Shouts reached them as they neared the assault course north of the house. Reeve spotted Stone amongst the obstacles. He wore a dark blue tracksuit and boxing gloves, and was pounding a hanging punchbag. An obscenity spat from his mouth with each blow. To Reeve’s relief, Maxwell didn’t strike up conversation.
They reached the house’s side entrance. Another resident greeted them. ‘Hello, little cat,’ said Reeve, stroking the mewing tabby as she stretched up to him. ‘Hey, who’ll feed her when we go?’
‘She’ll survive,’ Maxwell replied. ‘The place has enough mice. It’s funny; that cat’s probably the best friend you’ve made here.’
‘Except for my instructor.’ The admission surprised Reeve, and, it seemed, Maxwell too. ‘Well, if you’re allowed to be friends with your instructor. And boss. And superior officer.’
‘None of those things after today,’ said Maxwell as he opened the door.
‘So . . . I did make it in?’
‘Like I said, we’ll talk in my office.’ He went inside.
Reeve followed. The space within had once been a large function room. Now it was a gym, mostly used for combat practice. ‘Oh, Harrison,’ Maxwell said, seeing Locke. ‘We’re just passing through, don’t mind us.’
‘I don’t,’ Locke replied. He didn’t look around. Instead, he regarded a life-sized male dummy standing before him. It had a silicone skin and, Reeve knew, realistic internal organs. It was intended for medical students – but also served well for armed fight training. Several mutilated examples were piled in a corner.
This one’s skin was punctured in numerous places: chest, abdomen, neck. Locke�
�s black combat knife was the cause. He stared at the dummy with surgical intensity – then struck, fast as a snake. The blade stabbed deep into its throat.
‘Good hit,’ Maxwell noted, as he and Reeve passed. ‘Did you get Charlie’s carotid artery?’ The dummies were all nicknamed ‘Charlie Crippen’ for reasons lost in time.
‘Of course,’ Locke replied. He withdrew the knife and peeled back the skin. A red rubber tube represented the blood vessel. It had been split cleanly open. ‘Without someone applying compression, Charlie would be unconscious in thirty seconds from blood loss. And dead in a minute. Either way, he wouldn’t be fighting back.’
‘Nice work.’ Maxwell and Reeve continued through the gym.
Reeve waited until the blond man was out of earshot before speaking. ‘I’m not the only one who thinks he’s creepy, am I?’
‘Christ, no,’ Maxwell whispered back, amused. ‘I wouldn’t leave him alone with the cat, put it that way. He’ll be good at the job, though.’
‘So he’s in?’
‘He will be, after I tell him. But let’s talk about you first.’
Reeve began to feel uncomfortable. Maxwell’s evasiveness was causing pangs of self-doubt. Had he failed to qualify? He couldn’t see how, but the instructors never revealed what they wrote in their reports. Success wasn’t just about circuit times or target accuracy. Attitude also counted. One of the drop-outs had once made cynical comments about the royal family. He was gone two days later. Another had left at the ‘point of no return’ – when SC9’s true function was revealed. An ethical objection, or fear of the potential consequences? Reeve didn’t know, but the result was the same: another empty room.
He forced down his concern. He had given it his all. Now, Maxwell would tell him if that was enough . . .
They walked down a hallway. A door was open to one side. Maxwell peered in. ‘Starting already, Craig?’
Reeve saw Parker at a computer. Several windows were open on the large monitor. He vaguely recognised the woman’s face in one; some young leftie politician? Ten months isolated in Scotland had left him out of touch. ‘Background research, Tony,’ Parker replied. ‘I want to be fully prepared for my first assignment.’
‘Keep it up.’ An approving nod, then Maxwell moved on.
‘He’s got an assignment already?’ Reeve asked. ‘So he’s in?’
‘He is. You just met SC9’s latest member: Operative 65. The boss had a job for him immediately.’
‘Fast work.’ If Parker had qualified, Reeve thought, surely he had as well . . .
They entered Maxwell’s office. Reeve was surprised by what he saw. Most of Maxwell’s personal items had gone, the desk empty. Even his laptop was absent. Shelves that had held box files were now clear. ‘Can’t leave anything classified while the place is deserted,’ Maxwell explained. ‘Most of the stuff went out this morning.’ He removed his coat, revealing a casual jacket beneath, and sat behind the desk. Reeve took off his own cagoule, sitting facing him.
The older man gazed at him in silence. Reeve tried to cover his rising unease. ‘So,’ Maxwell finally said, ‘you want to know if you’re in.’
Reeve could think of nothing to say. He settled for a small nod.
‘Well.’ Maxwell looked down for a moment, then back up – with a smile. ‘You are.’
A moment to process the news. ‘I passed?’
‘Welcome to SC9, Operative 66.’
A flood of emotions: exultation, relief, excitement. Reeve let out a long breath. ‘You really had me going, sir.’
‘Tony,’ Maxwell replied. ‘You can call me Tony now.’
‘Thanks . . . Tony.’ Using Maxwell’s first name did not feel comfortable. ‘So I’m back to being just a number?’ For the first few months of training, he had been called only ‘Recruit Nine’. His former identity had been left behind at Mordencroft’s gate.
Maxwell grinned. ‘You get to keep your name this time, don’t worry.’
Reeve smiled back. ‘Parker’s Operative 65? So I’m one better, eh?’
‘They’re assigned by age within an intake, oldest first. You’re the youngest, and he’s a year older. Harrison’s Operative 61.’
Some rapid mental arithmetic. ‘All six of us passed?’
‘They did. Bumper crop, actually – the most ever in one go. Usually, it’s lucky if four make it through. My intake, only one other guy qualified.’
‘You never did say what your number was.’
‘Well, now you’re a full member of SC9, that’s no longer classified. I’m Operative 41.’
‘Good to meet you, 41.’
‘Likewise, 66.’ They both grinned. ‘I have to say, I knew you’d make it. You were an exemplary recruit. One of the best all-rounders I’ve ever trained.’
Reeve felt his cheeks flush at the praise. ‘Thank you, sir – Tony,’ he corrected. ‘I’m looking forward to getting to work.’
Maxwell smiled again, then stood. ‘So, a drink to celebrate?’
‘I thought booze was banned as well as phones?’
‘Only for trainees. And rank hath its privileges. Whisky?’
Reeve didn’t feel he could refuse. ‘Yeah.’
Maxwell went to a cabinet directly behind him and opened it. ‘Like I said, I thought you were exemplary. Fast learner, quick thinker, highly capable . . .’
Something triggered Reeve’s warning senses as Maxwell spoke. A faint rustle of clothing, a low creak of the floor as his weight shifted. His voice becoming slightly clearer as he turned back towards him.
The whisper of metal sliding over leather . . .
Maxwell was drawing a gun from a concealed holster. The sneaky old bastard! One last test, one more fake ambush to test his reactions. Reeve rolled from the chair as his mentor pulled the trigger—
The noise of the gunshot a foot from his head jarred his senses. Splinters burst from the desk.
It wasn’t a blank. The gun was loaded.
Maxwell had tried to kill him.
CHAPTER 7
Reeve landed in a poised crouch. Shock and disbelief fought for supremacy. This couldn’t be happening, something was wrong—
Surprise replaced grimness on Maxwell’s face as he realised he had missed. Then his eyes met Reeve’s. The gun swept across to follow his gaze.
Reeve threw himself beneath the desk – kicking his chair as he went. It hit Maxwell’s legs. The older man staggered as he fired again. The second round punched through the desktop above Reeve’s head.
He scrambled back. Maxwell was recovering—
Reeve sprang up – taking the desk with him.
It flipped over as he hurled it. Maxwell was knocked to the floor. The desk landed heavily on top of him.
Reeve hesitated as he looked down at his mentor. He desperately wanted to ask him a question: why? But his training overrode the impulse. Maxwell still had his gun. He remained a threat. Options flashed through his mind. Stamp on his head, crush his throat, break his neck. Kill him—
He couldn’t do it. Instead he ran for the door.
He burst out into the hall – as Parker rushed from the nearby room. He was armed. The gun came up—
Reeve was now in full combat mode, adrenalin surging. He dived and rolled. Flame erupted from Parker’s gun, the shot deafening in the narrow hallway. The bullet seared over Reeve’s back. A miss, but the other Operative was already tracking him.
A fire extinguisher was mounted on the wall. Reeve grabbed it as he leapt up and swung it like a bat. It hit Parker’s arm with a metallic thunk. He yelled, reeling. The gun flew from his hand.
He was disarmed, but still a threat. Reeve slammed the extinguisher’s base against the other man’s head. He went down.
The gun was right outside Maxwell’s office. A loud crash from inside as the desk hit the floor. Maxwell was gettin
g up. If Reeve ran to his door, he would be shot.
He sprinted the other way.
The nearest exit was through the gym. Locke was still inside – but he wouldn’t know what had happened. He might be able to bluff him.
Reeve rushed in. Locke stood over the fallen dummy. His combat knife was in his hand. ‘I heard shots,’ he said, concerned. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Parker’s gone fucking crazy!’ Reeve replied, hurrying for the exterior door. Locke moved to meet him. ‘He tried to kill Maxwell.’
Locke reached the door first, gripping the handle – then his cold gaze fixed upon Reeve.
His expression changed. Just the tiniest flicker around his eyes . . . but Reeve knew what it meant. He had seen Reeve’s fear and desperation, the look of the hunted – and betrayed. Locke knew he was not fleeing only from Parker.
The knife lanced at Reeve’s chest. He jumped back. Locke advanced, the blade held ready. Reeve retreated, eyes not leaving the matt-black weapon. Another strike. He jinked sideways. Locke curved after him, trying to back his opponent into a corner.
Reeve glanced back, moving to avoid the trap – but Locke made a sudden lunge. The knife caught Reeve’s right forearm. He gasped. The cut was not deep, but still stung.
Locke took advantage of his momentary distraction and attacked again. This time, Reeve had nowhere to go except backwards. He jumped clear of the thrusting blade—
His foot caught something.
The splayed arm of a lacerated dummy. He stumbled. Only for an instant, quickly recovering – but that was all Locke needed. He charged. The razor-sharp knife rushed at Reeve’s abdomen.
Reeve whipped both hands down to catch Locke’s wrist. Locke raised his arm in response, trying to drive the knife into his chest. His other hand balled into a fist. He sent a jab at Reeve’s unprotected stomach. The younger man grunted, flinching—
Locke brought his trapped arm higher – and jumped at him. Unbalanced, Reeve staggered backwards. Locke’s weight forced him over. He landed on the dead mannequins. Locke pounded down on top of him.
Operative 66 : A Novel Page 4