A flurry of rustling said panic and flight. His first thought was rats. Then, in the pencil beam of the Maglite, he saw them: what little of the woman that was still dressed suggested she was either a waitress or a cleaner, the man harder to tell in just the wife-beater that clung to his heaving chest. There was no choice. The woman was about to scream, but the sound never made it. All that came out of her throat was a gush of blood. The guy got his in the forehead. The suppressed coughs of the pistol seemed to hang in the air as they dropped, still entwined, on to the heap of clothes beneath them.

He sighed, holstered the weapon, dropped the back-pack, unzipped and stepped out of the dry-suit.

2

03.30

The hotel had a network of service passages so cleaners and maintenance staff could move throughout the building unnoticed: perfect. The suit, white shirt and black tie had the right anonymous security-operative look about it. He had a fake ID if anyone queried him. And if that didn’t work there was always the Glock in its polymer belt holster. The bag was more of a giveaway.

Six months ago, he would have been on the guest list, a valued comrade, a loyal brother. But he had burned those boats. Two waiters came past bearing silver trays of glasses. They didn’t give him a second look. Good. He moved on closer to the room where the reception was.

‘All right, Fez?’

He wheeled round. How he hated that name. He’d been stuck with it since Helmand. Something to do with the shape of his hair. Protesting had only made it stick.

He nodded at Ballard, reached for the Glock. ‘You lost?’

Ballard swayed a little on his feet. His blazer was flapping open, his tie loose. ‘Story of my life.’ He raised his hand, too late to stifle the belch that erupted from him. ‘G’night?’

He had nothing against Ballard. They’d both done two tours in Afghanistan, both seen the same shit, had been discharged the same year and joined Invicta a year later, among the first to sign up. Both of them had been through the rehab programme, only Ballard had clearly lapsed. Perhaps Fez could talk his way past.

‘Yeah.’ He nodded, a hand reaching round the grip of his weapon. ‘Good night.’

He tried not to infuse the words with deep irony. It was good that Ballard was too shitfaced to register any surprise at seeing him, as if it was quite natural that he would be there to join in the celebrations. Maybe Ballard had forgotten Fez’s sudden exit from the organization. Maybe he could be spared.

Ballard leaned closer. ‘So where’sa Gents?’

‘You’ve taken a wrong turning. Back into the main hall and left.’