And the blood. Always he would see the blood.
In the years since their horrific murders, Bowman had tried to move on. He had sought to escape in booze, sleeping pills, other drugs. Nothing had worked. Only the opioids gave him some semblance of peace. They didn’t block the memories – no drug in the world could do that – but they did numb the pain. They turned him into a kind of zombie. Helped him make it through the day.
But lately, the images had been getting stronger.
He had started popping a few extra pills each day, upping his dosage. Anything to dial down the grief. Put the lid on it. Bowman knew he was playing a dangerous game. The more pills he took, the more he needed to stay on the level. And the bigger the risk of getting caught. Bowman had gone to greater lengths to conceal his addiction, but if he kept this up, sooner or later someone in the Regiment was going to find out the truth . . .
He watched TV and waited, growing more restless with each passing minute. At ten minutes to two he grabbed his coat, wallet, phone and left his room.
The dealer was waiting for him in the car park at the end of the block, in a red Audi A4 saloon, the engine low-rumbling. Bowman halted in front of the takeaway and looked up and down to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Then he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, lowered his head and walked across the road. As he approached, the window on the driver’s side of the Audi cracked open. Bowman took out the four twenties from his coat pocket. A hand poked out of the window and snatched the cash. It reappeared a moment later gripping a plastic baggie filled with pink-coloured pills. Bowman jammed the bag into his coat pocket and walked on.
He took a roundabout route back to the hotel. He looped round Marble Arch, doubling back on himself and occasionally pausing to glance in the reflection of shop windows. The usual anti-surveillance measures.
Bowman returned to his hotel room and flicked on the bathroom lights. He set the plastic baggie down, took out one pill and emptied the rest into the storage compartment in the pill crusher. He mashed the other tablet into a fine powder using the crusher, tipped it onto the counter. Prepared to inhale.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Bowman froze.
His first thought was: I’ve been followed. The police have seen me buying drugs. I’m about to get arrested. But no. He had been vigilant. The chances of someone tailing him back from the drop were vanishingly small.
So who the fuck is outside?
The knuckles rapped on the door again.
He left the opiate powder on the counter, slipped out of the bathroom and padded over to the door. Slid off the deadbolt and eased the door open.
Two figures stood in the corridor.
They had the attitude of security service heavies and the wardrobes to match. Off-the-rack suits, cheap haircuts. Next to each other, they were like the before and after photographs for a dietary supplement commercial. The guy on the left was grey-haired and running to fat, with a heavily lined brow and a wonky nose. His partner was leaner and square-jawed, with the glowing skin of someone in peak physical condition.
They showed him their security badges. Bowman glanced at them both. The guy with the wonky nose was called Henderson. The guy with the perfect skin was called Williams. They were UKNs. Bowman had seen their type before. Freelancers used by Five and Six to carry out surveillance work and other duties. They did the jobs out of some deep loyalty to Queen and country, Bowman presumed. It certainly wasn’t because of the piss-poor pay.
‘Josh Bowman?’ the latter asked.
‘Yeah?’
‘You need to come with us,’ Williams said. His voice was as nondescript as his clothes, his face. ‘Now, if you don’t mind.’
‘We’ve been told to tell you to bring your ghost ID from the Wing,’ Henderson added.
‘Why?’ Bowman demanded. ‘What’s going on?’
‘John Mallet says hello. He wants a word.’
Eight
They gave him three minutes to pack his bags and insisted on waiting inside. Which meant there was no time to snort the crushed-up pill. Bowman left them watching TV while he hurriedly scraped the dust-like powder off the countertop and emptied it into the toilet bowl. He flushed, disposing of the evidence, then shoved his washbag into his black leather holdall, along with his spare kit and Glock. He grabbed the passport issued to him by the Wing under his cover story name. Checked the room one last time, then followed Henderson and Williams down the corridor. They took the lift down to the lobby and led Bowman outside towards a meteor-grey BMW 7 Series. He dumped his bag in the boot, then slid into the back seat. Henderson and Williams squeezed in either side of him, man-spreading their legs, their huge hands planted on their knees. A third guy with a buzzcut sat behind the wheel. He glanced at Bowman in the rear-view, nodded at his partners and pulled out into traffic.
Bowman sat quietly in the back as they took a circuitous route north and then east away from Marble Arch. There was no point asking where they were going, or why. Bowman had served with the Wing long enough to know how they operated. Henderson, Williams and Buzzcut were foot soldiers. Guys who could be trusted to do a job and keep their mouths shut. They wouldn’t have been told anything except the bare minimum.
But that didn’t stop him from fearing the worst. Questions pinballed inside his head. Why does Mallet want to see me at this hour? Why had the UKNs told me to bring my ghost ID? He decided it couldn’t be good news. Most likely Six had found out about his drug habit. Now they were shutting him down. They had
