He had already fixed a wireless tap to the junction box. Any call or data that left the office would be mirrored on the laptop that was sitting in the passenger seat of the SUV. “Already done,” he said.

“Good. Keep sharp. These are serious players. Eyes out, Twelve.”

“Copy that. Good luck. Out.”

He reached the car and opened the back again. Once more, Duffy struggled. Faulkner reached down behind his body and retrieved the FN F2000. He rested the bullpup on the chassis and took out the extra ammunition.

“I don’t know exactly what you did to piss her off, but I’ll tell you one thing for nothing.” Duffy struggled again, harder this time. “I’m glad it’s you in there and not me.”

Faulkner slammed the door shut.

Beatrix was outside the entrance to the Manage Risk offices. She took the keycard she had taken from Duffy and inserted it into the reader. The lock buzzed and she pushed the door open.

“Do it.”

Faulkner cut the power to the block. The lights flickered, came back on, then died. The keycard reader lost power, and when the door shut, the lock clicked as a failsafe.

Duffy had given her a walkthrough of the office layout. There were administrative offices on the first and second floors, where the business of Manage Risk in Iraq was transacted. The ground floor was a large entertainment space, with a generous reception area and three separate conference rooms. The basement, accessed from the back of the building, was where the detention suite had been built.

He’d said there would be two guards.

She anticipated more.

Beatrix clicked on her flashlight, and holding it against her extended Sig, she made her way quickly through the downstairs area. There was evidence of wealth in the beam of the torch: leather sofas, a marble reception desk, the Manage Risk logo glimmering as the light passed over it. She moved in a low crouch, and as she was opening the interconnecting door that led to the conference suite beyond, she was beset by a blast of pain that was dizzying in its intensity. She stopped, propping herself up against the desk, and waited for her head to clear. It didn’t, at least not at once. A sudden surge of bile burnt up from her stomach, scorching the back of her throat as she retched onto the floor. She felt woozy, beads of sweat pricking out on her brow.

Come on.

Not now.

Come on.

Keep it together.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and then reached into her pocket for the packet of Zomorph. She dry-swallowed two of the pills, took a breath and carried on.

The radio crackled with static, and then she heard Faulkner’s voice again.

“Twelve, One. Copy?”

“What is it?”

“Outgoing call. Automated. There was a dead switch on the alarm. It’s calling out.”

“Where to?”