Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
Also by Andy McNab
Sneak Preview
Copyright
Bravo Two Zero
Immediate Action
Seven Troop
Spoken from the Front (edited)
The Good Psychopath’s Guide to Success (with Dr Kevin Dutton)
Sorted! The Good Psychopath’s Guide to Bossing Your Life (with Dr Kevin Dutton)
War Torn (with Kym Jordan)
Battle Lines (with Kym Jordan)
The Grey Man
Last Night, Another Soldier
Today Everything Changes
Remote Control
Crisis Four
Firewall
Last Light
Liberation Day
Dark Winter
Deep Black
Aggressor
Recoil
Crossfire
Brute Force
Exit Wound
Zero Hour
Dead Centre
Silencer
For Valour
Detonator
Red Notice
Fortress
State of Emergency
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Corgi Books
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Andy McNab 2016
Andy McNab has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473540835
ISBN 9780552172912
9780552172981 (export edition)
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London: Friday, 4 March 2016, 11.36 a.m.
If you are called to a meeting at Vauxhall Cross, you know it means trouble. Vauxhall Cross is the home of what the press calls MI6 but is in fact the Secret Intelligence Service. People like me call it the Firm.
To the Firm I was a K. I had no idea what K stood for, but government departments like to make things more difficult than they really are.
I had to do the shit jobs that the government needed to be done, but was not allowed to do. If it was killing someone, stealing something, or just plain blackmail, the Ks did it. If the job went well then everyone was happy, apart from the bad guys. If it went wrong or the likes of me ended up in prison, the Firm said, ‘Nothing to do with us, Guv.’
It was dangerous and no one would be coming to help me if I ever found myself deep in the shit. But I liked it. I liked having a letter instead of a name. I liked having no National Insurance number. I liked being paid in cash and paying no tax. I liked being in control of my own life. I did it because I was good at it and it was an easy way to pay for the things I wanted to do. I hadn’t worked out what they were, though. I was a man with a lot on his mind but not too much in it.
I had not been called in by the Firm for nearly two years. Since then I had been getting up to stuff that could have got me into a lot of bother. And that was like gold dust to the Firm because they could use it to make you do what they wanted.
As I walked towards the offices from the tube station, the omens were not good. The March sky was dull, the River Thames seemed moody, and my path was blocked by roadworks. A burst from a drill sounded like the crack of a firing squad.
Vauxhall Cross is an odd-looking building on a miserable day. It looks like a beige and black pyramid that has had the top cut off, with large towers on each side and a bar looking over the river. If it had a few swirls of neon, it would look just like a casino. I missed the old building near Waterloo station. It might have been ugly, with loads of glass and lino tiles on the floor, but it was homely.
Opposite Vauxhall Cross, there was a raised section of railway line, and beneath it grimy brick arches had been turned into shops. Two had been made into a massive motorbike shop. I was early for my meeting, so I popped in. Which bike was I going to buy to replace the one I had smashed up six months ago?
Okay, I admit it. I had been riding just a bit too fast on the M4 motorway. But it was two in the morning and I had had nothing better to do. Besides, I liked riding fast when I could get away with it.
It had started to rain and a big truck had been hammering along in the centre lane, throwing up a wet mist. I had moved out to overtake just as the driver had fallen asleep. The truck had swerved out of its lane and banged my left shoulder. The bike bounced across the road and smashed into the central barrier. I was thrown onto the other side of the motorway. Three sets of headlights were heading my way. I got up, closed my eyes and ran. I couldn’t believe my luck as I scrambled onto the grass bank. I was so happy to be alive.
But my joy was short-lived. A few days later I got a bill for £1,228. I had to pay for the oil that had spilled on the road to be cleaned up and for my bike to be taken away.
I had decided not to get another bike.
Now, with the way my luck was going, I’d probably get killed some other way soon. Why not have a bit of fun while I could? I just couldn’t decide between the red and the black Ducati. Not that it mattered much – it wasn’t as if I was going to buy one.
I went into Vauxhall Cross through a metal door. Inside, it was like any office block in any city: very clean and sleek. People who worked there swiped a card through an electronic reader to get in but I had to go to the desk. Two women sat behind bomb-proof glass. I said to one, ‘I’m here to see Mr Simmons.’