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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

It was the photograph they showed her that did it. It was taken in Alabama the previous year, they explained. And, yes, it was unmistakably Hugo Squires, no question about that, but it was so shocking she’d had to look away. Gone were the clubbable blazer and chinos: in their place he wore a tight white T-shirt emblazoned with just two words in large capitals. One was ‘KILL’ and the other – well, she had to look at it again to believe it. It was the N-word. On either side of him stood two tall figures draped in white and wearing pointed white hoods with sinister slits for the eyes. Elise recognized the uniform immediately. It was the Ku Klux Klan.

Elise leaned forward and dry-retched into her cushion. She felt like vomiting, but nothing came up. This man’s baby was growing inside her, right at this moment. Mentally she kicked herself. How could she have missed this? She looked up at the pair ‘from the government’ who were still standing in her front room, the pair who had just brought this horrible news into her home. All tiredness was gone now, replaced by a burning anger.

‘All right,’ she told them, ‘I believe you. How can I help?’

‘The car’s downstairs, ma’am. We need you to come with us right away.’

113

York Way, King’s Cross, London

Monday, 21 March, 0328hrs GMT

IN THE DEAD of night York Way was deserted. Just a cold, damp expanse of empty road stretching from the junction with Euston Road north to Regent’s Canal. To the west lay the silent railway tracks of King’s Cross and the cavernous steel awning of the station.

But parked up in a side street at right angles were four very specialized vehicles, in dark blue and black livery. The Counter-Terrorism specialist firearms team was in position. Luke Carlton sat in the lead vehicle, now wearing a borrowed Kevlar jacket and helmet, still squeezed up next to Inspector Newbold as she listened intently on the command net through her earpiece. The pain from the shotgun pellets in his shoulder was coming in pulsing waves and he was fighting periodic bouts of nausea from the explosion in the warehouse. He touched his temples with his fingertips – he might even have concussion. But Luke was not going to show any of this, not when they were so close. He hadn’t survived Svalbard, Lithuania, Moscow and his brush with Waffenkrieg90 just to sit this one out on the sidelines. Luke wanted closure and he was damn well going to get it.