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Chapters (124)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Acclaim for Frank Gardner’s Luke Carlton thrillers
  4. Also by Frank Gardner
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. 85
  92. 86
  93. 87
  94. 88
  95. 89
  96. 90
  97. 91
  98. 92
  99. 93
  100. 94
  101. 95
  102. 96
  103. 97
  104. 98
  105. 99
  106. 100
  107. 101
  108. 102
  109. 103
  110. 104
  111. 105
  112. 106
  113. 107
  114. 108
  115. 109
  116. 110
  117. 111
  118. 112
  119. 113
  120. 114
  121. 115
  122. Epilogue
  123. Acknowledgements
  124. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

Luke glanced over her shoulder, to where they were carrying out a final comms check on the bug embedded in the jacket. The whole great machine was up and running. The cogs were whirring into place. Svalbard, Vilnius, Moscow: this was what they had worked so hard for. He returned her stare and smiled back at her. ‘Maybe not, but I would, Angela. Look, I committed to this thing right from the start and I’m going to see it through. I do know the risks, I can assure you, and, yes, I accept them … There. Does that work for you?’

Angela reached out and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Good luck, then,’ she said. ‘Let’s finish this thing and close these bastards down.’

Luke put his hand over hers and squeezed it back. He turned away and shrugged himself into the leather flying jacket. Nothing more needed to be said.

95

Great Notley, Essex

Sunday, 20 March, 2024hrs GMT

SIX MINUTES. SIX minutes exactly remaining before he had to open the door of the minicab, walk out into the rain-splashed car park of the Crown and Anchor and take his life into his own hands. Luke sat on the back seat and looked out of the window, scanning the immediate area. The rain had turned to a light drizzle and the whole scene had a dank, dreary feel to it. He was finding the sheer Sunday-evening normality of it completely at odds with the seriousness of the mission. Nothing, even in Luke’s four adrenalin-fuelled years with the Special Boat Service, had resembled anything like this. Back then he would be giving the final once-over to his personal weapons, his kit, his comms. His team would be buddy-buddy checking each other over and they would each know that if it did all go to rat shit they could always call for back-up. But not tonight. Not here. Where Luke was going, he was on his own, unarmed, at reach and at risk. And that both scared and excited him.

‘Good to go, boss? Got everything you need?’ The ‘minicab driver’ was ex-forces, now on semi-permanent contract to the Security Service. In the forty-five-minute drive from Epping Tube station they had exchanged a few brief words and established they had both done ‘Herrick’, operational tours in Afghanistan.

‘See you on the other side, then,’ Luke said, as he closed the door and walked out into the car park. The drizzle felt cool and fresh against his face, except where the plastics team had added extra roundness. There, he couldn’t feel a thing.

‘Comms check,’ he spoke softly into the hidden mike. He had no earpiece: they had decided it was simply too risky, so this was a one-way conversation with the Intel Ops Centre. ‘Centurion,’ he added. ‘I say again, Centurion.’ It was the pre-arranged code word to tell them he was going active.