I crept round the side of the house and peered at the driveway. There were two cars there. One was the Range Rover that had transported me to London. The other one was a large black panel van I didn’t recognize that looked like it had been reversed in. The rear doors were open and I could see something wrapped in clear plastic inside.
As I stood there pondering my next move, I heard the front door to the house open and a big red-bearded man came into view dragging something else wrapped in clear plastic. I flinched as I realized it was the body of a woman, and even from this distance, in the glow of the porch light, I knew it was Lane. I might never have seen her face but I recognized the navy trouser suit she had on as the one I’d seen her in two days ago, and I noticed her feet were bare. The man had her by the shoulders, and I watched as he manoeuvred her towards the boot, turning round so he had his back to me as he heaved her inside with a loud grunt of exertion.
That was when I made my move. I covered the ten yards that separated us in the space of a few seconds, moving silently, and I was almost on him when he turned round and saw me.
I pointed the gun at his chest. ‘Hands in the air,’ I told him.
The man smiled. He had a friendly face beneath the beard, with twinkling blue eyes, and a thick head of curly red hair. ‘You scared me, sneaking up like that,’ he said. His accent was South African. He lifted his hands above his head and I saw the telltale bulge under his jacket.
‘Reach down very slowly with your left hand and take out your gun, then lay it on the ground.’ I looked him in the eye as I spoke, my gun hand perfectly steady. ‘I want you to know something. I’ve killed tonight. If you try anything, you’ll be next.’
‘I know you have,’ he said.
He’d stopped smiling but there was still something playful in his expression. He wasn’t scared, and that concerned me. But he did as he was told, taking out a pistol and laying it on the ground at his feet.
‘Step back three paces away from the gun.’
He stepped back and I glanced in the back of the van, seeing Lane’s face for the first time beneath the clear plastic sheeting. She looked about fifty-five, with a strong, almost masculine face that was heavily splattered with blood from a large exit hole on her forehead. Her eyes were closed and her skin was a dead white. She looked grotesque wrapped up like that, with the sleeve of her jacket pulled up to reveal the silver bangle she’d been wearing only two days earlier. Beneath her was the body of a man, doubtless one of those who’d driven me to London and brought me food every day.
It seemed like we’d all been played. But who had she been working for? Because this didn’t feel like anything the security services would have sanctioned.
I stepped away from the van, lowering the gun so it was pointed at the red-bearded man’s knee. ‘It looks like you’ve been busy,’ I told him. ‘Now I’m going to ask you some questions. If you hesitate, or lie, I’m going to put a bullet in your left kneecap, then we’ll keep going until you give me the answers I need. First one. Who are you working for?’
‘He’s working for me,’ said a voice behind me – a voice I recognized from the past.
And that was when I knew I was in real trouble.
16
Two years ago, I lost the only man I’ve ever called a true friend. His name was Chris Leavey and I’d met him when we served together in military intelligence. We’d reunited in the police force and had been working a case together for Counter Terrorism Command which had pitted us against probably the most cunning killer I’ve ever come across. No one knew her real name. She was simply known by her clients and by the various law enforcement agencies trying to catch her as The Wraith. During the course of that investigation, she’d been responsible for killing a total of six police officers, including three of my team, one of whom was Chris Leavey. She’d been contracted to kill me too and, although she hadn’t been successful, I’d always been haunted by the fact that she’d escaped justice from right under my nose.
And now she was right behind me.
Very slowly, I looked back over my shoulder and saw an attractive woman in her early forties with striking dark eyes, dressed in a figure-hugging black spandex top, jeans and running shoes, and holding a pistol very similar to mine with a suppressor attached. There was no effort at disguise but then neither she nor her partner had been expecting to be disturbed.
‘Long time no see, Ray Mason,’ she said, her voice hard, with a trace of her native South African accent. ‘This is a very unexpected surprise. But a pleasant one. What are you doing here?’
It struck me then that The Wraith knew nothing about the execution of Cem Kalaman or my connection to any of the people she’d just killed. ‘I had some unfinished business with the people here,’ I said, glancing over at Lane’s wrapped-up corpse. ‘I guess I’m a bit late.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘I’m happy just to walk away though and leave you to it,’ I said, knowing I was far more useful dead than alive to whoever had hired The Wraith and her friend.
She smiled. ‘I don’t think so. Put the gun on the ground.’
A small part of
