by Ryan, Chris
Strickland shook her head. ‘That doesn’t justify murder.’
‘It’s a small price to pay, for helping to reassert the West’s strength on the world stage. You should be thanking me, in fact.’
‘Load of bollocks,’ Bald said with a snarl. ‘You were doing it for the cash. The Americans were getting a share of the oil profits. Don’t tell me you weren’t getting the same.’
‘We were going to be handsomely rewarded for our efforts. I won’t deny that. But it was never just about the money.’
‘What was the plan for the other leaders?’ asked Strickland. ‘More blackouts?’
‘Not always. In some instances, we’d shut down the grid. In other cases, we’d cause dams to flood. We would crash trains, cause explosions. Whatever the mission required.’
He was bragging now. Demonstrating his genius.
Bald said, ‘You can do all that, from this old building?’
‘You’d be amazed what you can do with a few talented young hackers and an Internet connection.’ Cantwell paused. He winked at Bald. ‘You can even bring down planes.’
Bald looked at him. His hard, lean face was burning with indescribable hatred. ‘The downed Herc. That was you?’
‘Let’s just say that I’d be very careful the next time you get on a plane.’
‘There were twelve Regiment lads on that plane. You fucking killed them, you sick bastard.’
‘I’ll remember to wear a poppy.’
Bald’s neck muscles tensed. He looked as if he might spring out of his chair and strangle Cantwell. ‘You’ll pay for this.’
‘I doubt it. Not with the friends I’ve got.’
‘They’re not your friends anymore,’ Strickland said. ‘Not after today. Once the Company realises the operation is blown, they’ll go into damage-limitation mode. They’ll be covering their tracks.’
‘I don’t need them. I have people higher up.’
‘Drummond?’ Strickland laughed bitterly. ‘I wouldn’t count on his loyalty, Julian. What do you think he’ll do once we threaten to leak this stuff? He’ll sell you out in a heartbeat.’
She was right, Cantwell knew. But he was thinking something else, too. He was thinking about the president, and what he was prepared to do to his enemies. If he was willing to sanction the killing of foreign leaders, he wouldn’t hesitate to silence Cantwell.
Time to take a chance.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Cooperation?’
‘We’re not here to a cut a deal with you,’ Strickland said.
‘What, then?’
‘Obviously, we’d prefer to stop this conspiracy from becoming public knowledge. Six is tainted by association. Although we had no inkling about your devious scheme, the operation involved British assets working illegally on Venezuelan soil and resulted in the rescue of a British spy. If this became public, it would cause deep embarrassment. So we’re going to give you a choice. Disappear – go quietly, leave the country and live under a new identity, and we’ll promise to leave you alone.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Then John will put a bullet in your head.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
Bald pointed to his face. ‘Do we look like we’re joking, mate?’
Cantwell shook his head in protest. ‘I can’t just leave. My whole life is here. I’ve got my company. My wife . . .’
‘We’ll arrange for her to join you, once you’ve settled in to your new life.’
‘But where would I go?’
‘Somewhere far away, well off the grid, where the Americans won’t think to look for you. Laos, perhaps. Or Paraguay. We’ll help you with the details, supply you with clean documents.’
‘You’re asking me to give up my life, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Should have thought about that when you were sending those fucking SAS lads to their deaths,’ Bald growled.
Strickland said, ‘It won’t be that bad. We know you’ve got money stashed away in various places. Wherever you go, it will be more than enough to live in relative comfort. But you need to decide now.’
Cantwell took in a deep breath. He was being offered a life sentence in exile. Living on reduced means, in some impoverished backwater, far away from the political connections and spheres of influence that he thrived on. An anonymous, sad little existence. He couldn’t think of anything worse.
Except he could: death.
He saw Bald glowering at him with a look of pure hatred in his eyes. No question that he would put a bullet in Cantwell’s head, if Strickland gave him the order.
‘Well?’ Strickland asked.
‘Okay,’ he said after a long pause. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Good man.’
‘What happens now?’
‘There’s a car waiting outside. You’ll leave the country immediately. But first, we’ll have to make your disappearance look like a suicide.’
‘What for?’
‘To make sure none of your old friends decide to come looking for you, of course.’
Strickland reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small white card with a few handwritten lines on it.
‘This is a suicide note. You’ll write this out on a piece of paper, in your own handwriting, and sign it. It will be left next to the body.’
‘What body?’
‘Five will send a team to the morgue. Get a John Doe to take your place.’
‘But they’ll know it’s not me, surely?’
‘There’s a level crossing three miles up the road. The body is going to be found there. Or what’s left of it, after a high-speed train has smashed through it. He’ll be carrying your wallet and keys, wearing your watch and ring and clothes. We’ll cut off the fingertips before dumping it there, to prevent fingerprint identification.’
Cantwell eyed the card she was holding. ‘What does the note say?’
‘Just a generic suicide letter. You’re very sorry, you can’t go on, that sort of thing. Nothing to implicate you in this affair.’ Strickland glanced impatiently at her watch. ‘We really do need to hurry up, Julian. Write the note.’
Cantwell dithered for a few moments longer, but he could understand the logic of her position. A body would make his death far more plausible than simply vanishing into thin air. And the death certificate would provide his wife with a generous insurance payout, he reasoned.
He sat down at the desk next to Strickland and copied out the card on a blank sheet of paper, hand trembling as he wrote. Signed his name at the bottom in his characteristically flamboyant flourish, handed the note and pen and card back to Strickland. She pocketed them and stood up.
‘Excellent. Now, let’s go. Your car is waiting.’
He started towards the door.
Which is when he saw Bald pull his hand out of his jacket pocket and move towards him.
Armed with an electric cattle prod.
Bald lunged at Cantwell before he could react, bumping him in the arm.
He let out a scream as a sharp stabbing pain spread through his arms and legs. His legs folded, and he dropped to the floor. Bald gave him another whack with the prod, shocking his torso. The pain was unbearable. Worse than anything Cantwell had ever known. He couldn’t breathe.
He was dimly aware of someone dragging his enormous mass across the floor, towards the small kitchen at the rear of the building. A chair in the middle of the room. Noose hanging from the ceiling beam above it.
He tried to resist. Bald bumped him again. Shockwaves of pain ripped through his skull. His world went black, briefly.
When he came to a few moments later, he realised he was standing upright on the chair. Meaty hands grabbed the rope tied to the beam.
Secured it around Cantwell’s neck.
Cantwell saw the look in the Scot’s eyes. Through the pain fogging inside his head, he grasped what was happening.
‘Don’t,’ he mumbled. Snot streamed out of his nostrils. A warm, moist patch spread across his groin as
he pissed himself. ‘Don’t do this.’
Bald ignored him. Turned to Strickland and said, ‘Get the clean-up team ready. Tell them to start dusting everything down.’
Strickland left the room.
Cantwell froze.
Bald looked round at him.
‘Time to take your last flight, mate.’
‘No,’ Cantwell cried. ‘No!’
‘This is for all the lads you killed,’ said Bald.
Then he kicked the chair away.
Table of Contents
About the Author
Also by Chris Ryan
Title Page
Imprint Page
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE