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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’s alive!’ she exclaimed, as she snatched the torch and rushed across the cabin to investigate. She stopped just short of the sofa, nearly dropping the torch, as she clamped her hand over her mouth in horror. Lit by the stark white beam, a human figure lay propped against the back of the couch. The man’s face was hideously disfigured by livid pustules, some oozing yellow matter that trickled down his cheeks. Twin rivulets of dried blood ran from his nostrils past his lips and over his chin, smeared sideways where he had tried to wipe them away. He was wearing a thick woollen chequered shirt beneath a half-open down jacket. The shirt was caked with what looked like black bile, flecked crimson with splashes of half-dried blood. But her attention was focused on something else: the hideously swollen lymph glands just beneath his earlobes. On both sides of his head she could see them clearly in the torch beam and her medical training told her exactly what they were: buboes, a sign of severe infection.

And now this man’s lips were moving – he was trying to say something. Against her better judgement, Dr Mackenzie moved closer to catch his words. His voice was faint and weak, his eyes were closed, but she heard the word clearly. ‘Pamageetye.’ She turned to the others behind her for an explanation. ‘Pamageetye …’ she repeated slowly, for their benefit. ‘What does that mean? Anyone know? It doesn’t sound Norwegian.’

It happened so quickly after that, no one had time to react. As Dr Mackenzie turned back to face the sick man, without warning he arched his body forward off the back of the couch with surprising speed. His whole torso shook with involuntary convulsions. In that same moment, he coughed violently. His mouth wide open in a rictus gape, he emitted a spray of bile, blood and mucus into the air, his face less than two feet from hers, before collapsing, quivering, on to the wooden floor.

2

Herefordshire, England

Monday, 7 March, 1530hrs GMT

LUKE CARLTON HELD the slim cylindrical suppressor in his left hand and screwed it quickly and expertly on to the SIG Sauer P226 Mk25 pistol held in his right. Fifteen rounds in the magazine. That should cover him. His breathing measured and under control, he rose from a crouch and moved forward slowly, testing each footfall before he placed his full weight. Any noise, any sudden movement, could give away his position.