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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 turned right, doubling back along the edge of the field, running in the same direction he’d just come from, but with the hedge now separating him from the people intent on killing him. He ran on, his breath coming in short rasps, his boots sticking to the cloying mud. He was reaching the end of the field and he could hear shouts not far behind him. It hadn’t taken them long to work out where he’d gone. He could see torch beams reaching towards him as they searched him out. Luke dropped to the ground and tried to control his breathing, keeping his face away from the light as the pain from the pellet wounds in his shoulder grew worse. He reached up with his right hand and touched the wound. It stung and his jacket was wet with blood. But there was nothing else for it: he had to keep going. Luke got up and ran. A torch beam found him and suddenly there was a sharp crack as a high-velocity bullet snapped past his shoulder. Shit. Someone back there had a hunting rifle, and they might even be using night-vision goggles. He had to get out of sight or he was going to die out here, alone in a cold, muddy field in Essex at midnight.

He could see the distant orange glow of a village on the horizon. Too far. He’d never make it. But to his right lay the velvet blackness of an expanse of water. A lake. Water was good, water was his friend. He’d spent half his adult life in it. He flexed the fingers of his left hand and pain lanced up his arm. But he could still swim, and he knew he could hold his breath under water for much longer than most. Pushing his way through a low thicket of brambles, he reached the water’s edge and waded straight in, silently gasping as the cold clutched at him. He was in up to his thighs, then his groin and now his chest. He glanced behind him as the sound of his pursuers reached him. Turning to face the other side, he took a long, deep breath and sank beneath the surface. It was numbingly cold and he couldn’t see a thing, but he could do this, he told himself. It wasn’t the first time water had saved him: he had done it before in Armenia on an earlier mission. He was going to give these bastards the slip and he was going to see this thing through to the end.

107

Near Braintree, Essex

Monday, 21 March, 0039hrs GMT

LUKE WAS SHIVERING uncontrollably as he hauled himself out of the lake. His pursuers had gone. He’d watched the beams of their torches recede into the night. They had come close, but not close enough to get him. Now the race was on and he needed to move. And fast.