Their eyes went to the lounge entranceway, where in walked a man mountain. A man who was as wide as the door and almost as tall. His hair was cut short in the military style. His face was square and so was his jaw, the none-more-Russian image only offset by the fact that he wore a light-coloured linen suit with an open-necked shirt underneath.

Lance made the introductions. ‘Sergei, this is Montana Norton. Montana, meet Sergei. Sergei is Spetsnaz, isn’t that correct?’

Sergei nodded.

‘And what is Spetsnaz?’ asked Montana.

‘Russian special forces. Wherever Russia have fought in the world, you can bet Sergei’s been there as well.’

Montana rolled her eyes. ‘Like I know where the fuck Russia fight their battles. The information I need is . . .’ She turned her attention to Sergei. ‘How many kills?’

‘Confirmed kills forty,’ said Sergei as though programmed.

To Lance, Montana side-mouthed, ‘Is that a lot?’

‘Is forty a lot?’ he said.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Then yes. Forty is a lot.’

Montana had stood up. She walked around Sergei, looking him up and down. ‘Can I?’ she said, reaching to him, asking the question not of Sergei but of Lance.

‘Sergei, is it OK if m’lady has a feel of your biceps?’ asked Lance.

Sergei nodded.

Montana tried his muscles. Next, she patted his stomach, after which, she stood in front of him nodding.

‘You happy?’ grinned Lance, who knew she was happy.

‘I’m happy,’ said Montana.

Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Abbott took a seat at the bar and cast his eyes around at what was an average, down-at-heel, just-out-of-town boozer in Derby, the kind that served the housing estate around it but not much else. Outside it was the colour of wet, grey cardboard. Inside was a tribute to the colour brown.

It was not the first such pub he’d visited during the two days he’d so far spent in Derby. He was getting used to them by now. Pubs like this had no such thing as passing trade or, God forbid, tourists, but those inside knew the area. They knew their clientele. And that suited Abbott fine.