English looked out of the broad window to the 747 outside. Control had never been on an operation with Beatrix Rose before. He just selected the targets and sent his agents out to do his bidding.

But English had worked with her.

Just the once, a job in Shibuya, Tokyo, that had led to the elimination of six Yakuza gangsters. He remembered it vividly, in living colour. He remembered the hostess bar and the six tattooed men and Beatrix Rose, her knives and her bullets, and the damage she had wrought.

A storm of blood.

Connor English knew, better than most, what she was capable of doing.

He was a soldier, an assassin, but Beatrix was of another magnitude.

He wasn’t afraid to admit it: the thought of going after her kept him up at nights.

But that was what he was going to have to do.

Preview: BLOOD AND ROSES

An extract from the concluding novel in the Beatrix Rose trilogy, BLOOD AND ROSES

Beatrix Rose’s story concludes with Blood and Roses. For launch information (plus a FREE novel and John Milton bonus material), sign up for Mark’s mailing list. You’ll find details at the end of this exclusive extract.

Here’s an exclusive extract from the first chapter:

Connor English sat in the open doorway of Falcon One, his legs hanging outside the cabin. He was wearing night vision goggles, and the arid and desolate desert below was washed with a ghostly green, the scrubby trees and lonely hamlets passing beneath the hull as the chopper maintained a steady pace of a hundred knots. The pilot hugged the contours of the landscape, the chopper’s altitude never rising above fifty feet, keeping it beneath the line of the hills.

The pilot came over the troop net. “Falcon One to Zero. We just crossed the border. Now entering Morocco. Morocco comms, no chatter.”

“Zero to Falcon One,” responded mission control at the Lodge in North Carolina. “Copy that. Green to proceed.”

Everything was unfolding as they had planned: they had evaded Moroccan radar coming in, and now they had a clear run to the target. English leaned forward a little, the hot wind tugging greedily at the desert scarf he wore around his neck, and looked aft. He had a good visual of the trailing helicopter, Falcon Two. It was a hundred yards to starboard, maintaining the same careful altitude, head down and tail up, racing though the night.