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  The two were silent for the next half-hour, save for Rashid guiding King into two-thousand and three-thousand metres. At three thousand, King was not concerned with the bullseye or the second ring in from the centre known as the V-bull. He settled for every shot making it into the black. This area was the size of a soccer ball. There were no impressive bullseyes past fifteen-hundred metres.

  “Good shooting,” Ramsay said from behind them.

  King had no idea how long he’d been watching. He left the bolt all the way back and the breech open and got to his feet. The barrel was steaming. If he touched the metal it would singe his skin. He looked at both Ramsay and Caroline and smiled. “So, how did our man get on?” he asked.

  “Excellent,” Caroline said. “But he had a good teacher,” she smiled.

  “Bloody brilliant fun!” Ramsay beamed.

  “Happier now?” Rashid asked.

  “Much.”

  “But I’ve lost my bagman and sidekick…”

  “Oh, fuck off,” Ramsay chuckled. “I can’t say I ever want to use one for real, but I feel happier than I did on the job in Finland…”

  “Are you done?” Caroline asked.

  King was about to answer when Rashid cut in. “He is for today, but he will be down here for the next two-weeks until he can close his grouping down by at least half.”

  “What he said,” King shrugged.

  They made their way back to Rashid’s Audi RS4 where King stowed the rifle in a soft carrycase – this time keeping it assembled and the sight covered by dust-caps at either end.

  “Don’t lose it,” Rashid said, handing it to him. “Lock it in the boot of your car.” He looked at Ramsay and said, “Going to show me what you can do?”

  “Oh, okay,” Ramsay replied, a little too excitedly.

  King smiled and rubbed his shoulder. He’d fired enough for one day, but he quite liked the idea of seeing how much Ramsay had picked up in his hour one-to-one with Caroline. As they approached the army range officer and his table of assorted small arms and ammunition, King couldn’t help thinking what a fun break from the norm and monotony it had been. A drive into the country, the blue sky and warm sun of early summer. The promise of a decent pub lunch on the drive back to London. So reassuring amongst the anguish of formulating the plans for the impending operation, and the nagging doubt that he could even pull it off.

  Chapter Four

  Seventeen days ago

  Congressman Standing had taken to the podium. King had studied the man intently for four-months. He had chosen him, not least because of the previous assassinations by an extremist group and that the man fitted their MO, but because of the question mark hanging over him. He had a secret. And while he was setting up his patsy, he couldn’t help thinking that the question mark over him would soon be addressed. And the chance and unfortunate killing of an investigative journalist in an unsolved murder case, might well be taken more seriously.

  The Secret Service cordon had kept the crowds back some fifty-metres. The veteran’s band was playing to the man’s right, and the press occupied the ground directly in front of him. The World’s press was assembled, more so than they would have been on another occasion, but this memorial was tipped to be special. Not for the veterans or memory of the dead, but because Congressman Standing was expected to announce his run for President. He was starting his Presidential campaign today. What better way for a war veteran to throw his cap into the leadership ring, than to piggy-back a celebration of war heroes? It came as no surprise to King – politicians were the same the world over.

  King had the rifle ready, steadied on the bipod and resting on the dresser. He had positioned the firing point six-feet back inside the room and worked out the distance first by using dead-reckoning and experience, then by measuring with the laser distance finder. He had two-thousand-six-hundred metres. He had previously zeroed the rifle to that exact distance at a rifle range in Ohio. He had taken bets from other shooters whether he could hit the target at that range. The bets got bigger as the targets got smaller and King had made a good deal of money and enemies in a single afternoon. They certainly wouldn’t forget him in a hurry. Which had been part of his plan.

  Standing was well into his speech, the cameras flashing and the film rolling. Flags were waving and sentiment flowing. King opened the window, eased the curtains back and returned to the dresser. He leaned over, shouldered the weapon and flicked off the safety. Unlike the British army version that Rashid had acquired for him, this US civilian version was semi-automatic. King had loaded it with just five rounds of .50 calibre Hornady A-Max, 750 grain match-grade ammunition at ten-dollars a bang. He settled in behind the stock, rested his chin on the adjustable cheek-piece and centred the crosshairs of the scope on the centre of Standing’s head.

  He breathed in, exhaled steadily and held for a second. There was a critical point where the lungs were not starved of oxygen and the pause in breathing created a moment of stillness needed to take a shot like this. King didn’t quite have it. His heart was hammering against his chest. He took a deep breath, willed himself to calm. He focused on the centre of Standing’s forehead, imagined the bullet finding its mark. He took another breath, felt calmer now, and as he reached the point that his lungs did not crave the air, but every part of him was still, he slowly, steadily, squeezed the trigger.

  At this range, King had time to resettle the rifle and watch the bullet strike the plexiglass ten-feet in front of Standing’s face. He squeezed off the second shot before Standing even flinched. He thought back to one of the many briefings, the report from the French manufacturer of the ballistic glass. King fired twice more, his finger hovering on the trigger as he watched Standing fall backwards from the podium and the Secret Service bullet-catchers burst onto the stage as if they were going to pick up a ball and go for a touchdown.

  King had fired four rounds, his finger still hovering over the trigger. The target was down.

  He was done.

  Chapter Five

  King unloaded the weapon and slipped it into the carry bag. He breathed deeply as he poured water into a glass. He took a sip, topped up the glass and readied himself. There was no going back now, and he stepped up to the dresser, slipped off the latex gloves and pressed all the digits of his left hand onto the hotplate. He flinched away but steadied his hand with his right and pressed down harder. He screamed, but used the energy to roar, as his skin smoked, and his nostrils were filled with the acrid aroma like that of burnt hair. He plunged his hand into the glass of water, then pressed the fingers and thumb of his right hand onto the hotplate, avoiding the five smouldering patches of skin. He did not scream this time but panted through the pain. He had known what to expect, and as he had been briefed, the burn was so deep that the nerve endings were destroyed. He dipped his fingers into the water, grit his teeth and wiped the tears in his eyes with the sleeve of his left arm. He had never felt an initial pain like it, but he knew there would be more to come. He had tossed the snowball down the hill. There was no stopping the momentum now.

  He shouldered the rifle case and tucked the latex gloves into his pocket. The door handle was difficult to grasp, his fingers sore and throbbing. They felt hot. If he’d done it at home on the stove, then he would have held them in iced water for half an hour. But he did not have that luxury.

  Outside his room, the corridor was empty, but he could hear screams and noises downstairs. The Secret Service had reacted quickly. Either that, or the Washington DC police department were on the scene. He doubted that, but there were no hard and fast rules, no clue just how this would play out. The rifle would have woken the dead from where he had fired, and he was in no doubt that somebody would have phoned it in before he had put the rifle away. Events were set now, but King needed to do two things before it was too late. The first was ditch the gloves, which he did in a housekeeper’s trolley bin on the next floor down. His finger prints would be on the inside of the latex. His DNA also. The second thing was to avoid
getting shot. King figured the lift would be his best bet and he rested the rifle against the control panel as he selected the lobby. He watched the floors count down from eight to G. The doors parted, and King could already see his opportunity. A uniformed female police officer was checking with the desk. There were Secret Service agents gathering in the entrance, and police officers were heading for the stairwell. King made eye contact with her as she looked towards the lift. The other officers and agents were looking now, but King did not look at them as he raised his hands and slowly eased himself down onto his knees. He focused on the female officer, her weapon now drawn and aiming at him.

  “I am unarmed!” he shouted. He eased himself onto his stomach, his hands stretched out in front of him. “Unarmed!”

  The doors of the lift closed behind him, although he could not hear them above the screams, shouts and roars of the other officers and agents, each scrabbling to draw their weapons and aim, some taking cover, some forgetting their training altogether. He kept eye contact with the woman, not daring to look at any other law enforcement officer. He could not give them an excuse to open fire, and he knew the woman would be more level headed than the testosterone-fuelled men looking to get their guns off at some domestic terrorist.

  King braced himself and felt the metal of multiple pistol barrels dig into him, handcuffs grip his wrists – unimaginably tight – and his limbs wrenched backwards. He felt his shoulder pop and grimaced as he realised it had been dislocated. He howled in pain, over emphasising it, but not by much. It was an agonising ache that made him feel nauseous and close to vomiting.

  His face was pushed hard into the marble floor and he could no longer see the female police officer. Someone had the lift doors open, had announced they had the weapon. A police officer started to Mirandize him and read him his rights, but the officer faltered and trailed off. What looked to be a senior Secret Service agent was shouting for people to leave the area and sited jurisdiction and Pentagon powers of secrecy.

  So, this was it, King thought. There were two ways this was going to play out. He would be uncuffed, pulled to his feet and shot ‘while trying to escape’. Or he would feel a hood over his head and the game would begin.

  The lobby was becoming more and more quiet. King was aware of footsteps and hushed tones. He could hear his own breathing, but at least the pain of his dislocated shoulder had taken his mind off his burned fingertips.

  Silence.

  An uncomfortable silence interrupted only by the thudding of his own heartbeat.

  Two men, tentative. Hushed tones. A muffled phone call.

  King felt someone at the handcuffs. His heart sank, but he always told himself there was a chance. His shoulder was out of action, but if they got the cuffs off him, he would be ready. He wouldn’t die like a dog. He thought of Caroline, their last moments together, he couldn’t leave her like this…

  He felt himself pulled harshly to his knees, his shoulder exploding in pain. He caught sight of a man in a dark suit. Seasoned, professional and tough. Receded hair, close cropped. Dark sunglasses. And then darkness, as the hood was put over him, and he knew, that here at least, he would remain alive for a little while longer.

  Chapter Six

  King did not know how many hours had passed. He guessed at eight but knew from experience – both on his escape and evasion courses with the SAS, or for real in some of the world’s less likely tourist destinations – that time was immeasurable. After three hours, it all merged into one long period of hell.

  They had worked him well. A few punches and kicks, but he could cope with that. He had once made his living as a boxer and prize fighter and he hadn’t fought in the best venues with the kindest opponents. In many of his fights there hadn’t even been a doctor on call. But what these people lacked in harshness and viciousness, they made up with technical skill. The hood had remained, and he had been put into various stress positions. He was fit and supple and could cope with most, but he was tiring now, and his burned fingertips were causing him huge discomfort. But it had worked. They had not been able to take a set of fingerprints from him, and that kept them out of the international databases the CIA had unlimited access to. It had bought him precious time.

  “Your name…”

  She was back in the room. King hadn’t spoken yet, but he knew for survival he would have to change that soon. He was weakening, needed the pause that information would give him. Time to rest while they went and checked.

  “What is your name?” she repeated.

  “Get somebody to pop my shoulder back in and I’ll tell you…”

  Naturally, he did not see the blow coming from behind, and it was a shock to his system, but he told himself he had taken worse. He had sprawled to the ground. Hard concrete, unfinished, cold. A warehouse perhaps? Certainly not a federal or law enforcement building. There was concrete dust as well, indicating it wasn’t a room that had ever received more than a perfunctory sweep after construction. It was prevalent enough to smell through the hood.

  “Mike,” he said. “My name is Mike!” He eased himself up and settled onto his backside. “We’ll get along a whole lot better if I don’t have to think about my shoulder.” He braced himself for another punch, but it didn’t come.

  Conference. Hushed tones. The door opened and closed. A moment later, maybe a minute, perhaps ten, and he was lifted by two pairs of rough hands. His right cuff was released and almost instantly locked onto something firm and metallic. Fingers pressed into his shoulder while another pair of rough hands pulled one way, then pushed another. It took a great deal of force, but the relief when it found its place back in the socket was euphoric. Agony to ecstasy, then comfort. King knew it would be greatly weakened, could even find a way of popping back out until the ligaments contracted back, but for now, he felt back to normal.

  The cuffs went back on, but the hood came off and he blinked at the light. The room was much as he’d expected. No windows, plain block walls and a steel door. A single low wattage light bulb hung from the ceiling, but it was high enough to be out of reach even standing on a chair. Of which, there were three. Two for his hosts and one for the guest. But this place wasn’t getting a great score on TripAdvisor.

  “So, Mike,” she paused. “Mike what?” The woman was thirty, dark-skinned. Perhaps part Hispanic. She wore her hair in a thick ponytail. She was attractive, and that was probably her strength for interrogation.

  “Hunt.”

  “Michael?”

  “Just Mike.”

  “Mike Hunt.”

  King smiled. Behind him, one of the pairs of rough hands sniggered. She looked at him, and the glare said it all. She turned her stare back at King. “Cute.”

  “I’m sure it is…”

  “Hit him,” she said.

  King ducked his head and the punch skimmed his scalp. The second punch didn’t miss, and nor did the third. The man had hurt his own knuckles. She nodded for him to continue, but the next punch was far softer than what had gone before it. King was making more of it than he needed to. It had hurt, but he’d had worse over the years. He’d have a thick ear, but the thing about those was you never really felt the next blow. Otherwise boxers would never get into the ring.

  “So, it’s not Mike?” she looked at him coldly.

  “Philip,” King said.

  “Philip what?”

  “McCavity…”

  “Philip McCavity?”

  “Sure, why not. Doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere…” King grinned, but he knew he’d overdone it. The punches rained down on him, and the other pair of hands joined in.

  The woman watched him throughout. Impassive. King lost interest in her, tried his best to take the blows. They were tough men, or at least vicious. King suspected if he were not shackled then he could show them what tough really was. But for now, he took the beating. He had decided he wouldn’t talk after this. He’d close his eyes and play unconscious. He just needed a sufficient enough blow to take him to the cusp
, then he’d allow his body and mind to do the rest.

  The blow never came. The door opened and the man in the dark suit with the receded hairline and the tough face came in. He’d ditched the sunglasses.

  “What the fuck is this? Amateur hour?” he dropped a file and photos on the table. The woman glowered but checked herself. The man was clearly senior to her.

  “Casey M. Grant,” he said. “We’ve got your credit card records, CCTV footage of you using that same rifle on a range in Ohio. Not so smart, are you? Bought your ammunition there using the same credit card. But you left a trail, dumbass. That’s how I know your fucking name…”

  King stared at him but said nothing. His heart was beating. Pounding against his chest. He could feel his blood pressure rising.

  Make or break.

  “We’ve now linked that card to the locations of the assassinations of three Congressmen, and the attempted hit on Congressman Standing. Gas stations, motels, In and Out Burger, Denny’s, Seven Eleven, Dunkin’ Donuts,” he paused. “And the shining star? A Cabela’s. A God-damned firearms and outdoor sportsman’s store. You even bought your ammunition with that same damned card! Right there in Louisiana and again in New Jersey. The day before a congressman was killed in both those states using a point-fifty. And now, we have a fifth link. Only you’re not as good as you think you are…” The man pulled out the spare chair and sat down heavily. “Congressman Standing was unharmed. You fired four shots at him through that plexiglass and it almost gave way. Another bullet and it would have shattered the glass and the death toll would have been five congressmen. You had that bullet, could’ve used it if you were more professional. So, you failed. And now your ass belongs to me…”

  Chapter Seven

  Four months earlier

  “I don’t see how the death of a US congressman is anything to do with MI5,” said Ramsay. “Not when the assassination occurred on US soil.”