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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 lowered his arm and dropped the stone, exhaustion washing over him. God, he felt tired. Lifting his head, he called back, ‘It’s Luke Carlton. I’ve got him, and the last canister.’ And then he put his face up close to Squires’s. The man’s eyes were squeezed tight shut in pain. Luke grasped his adversary’s chin in a vice-like grip to get his attention. ‘You useless piece of shit, Squires,’ he hissed. ‘Your insane plan is finished and so are you.’

Epilogue

Monday, 21 March, 0914hrs GMT

IN A REMOTE and secluded farmhouse some way off the A6 dual carriageway between Stockport and Derby, a transistor radio stood on the slatted wooden kitchen table. It was tuned to Radio 4 and the only sound in the room came from Start the Week. News of what had happened at King’s Cross had played big that morning, dominating the Today programme and every news bulletin on the hour. By 8 a.m. a collective decision had been taken at Abbot’s Farm: there were to be no exceptions, no exemptions. It had to be a collective action by everyone.

The bodies were slumped everywhere: over chairs, on the rough-tiled floor, out in the yard, in the armoury and on top of the industrial freezers. No exceptions. Everyone at Abbot’s Farm had played their part: at the appointed time they had all swallowed the death pill.

*

It was just after midday in Vilnius when the line of armoured vehicles drew up outside the offices of Matulis ChemExport. They didn’t press the bell or wait for an invitation to come in. Instead the lead vehicle revved its engine and accelerated towards the gates, smashing them down in a screech of metal on metal. Once inside the inner courtyard, the men of Lithuania’s elite ARAS counter-terrorism police spilled out of the vehicles and filtered into the corridors and offices of the Soviet-era building. Minutes later, a heavily built, middle-aged man was escorted out in handcuffs, bewildered and protesting. Sergei Kadunov, sales director at Matulis ChemExport, had just been charged with assisting an international terrorist organization. He was facing up to thirty years in the notorious Pravieniškės House of Correction.