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  Nathan looked around. Where the hell was Manuel?

  He searched some more, then sat on a tree trunk to gather his thoughts. Manuel must have fled. Which meant Nathan needed to find his own way out of here, through miles of hostile jungle, while avoiding narcotraffickers, paramilitaries and mercenaries. His GPS system had stopped working a few days ago when it had fallen into a river. Maybe he could find a sympathetic coca farmer to guide him.

  He adjusted the straps for his backpack.

  Bam.

  A small explosion to his right.

  ‘Nathan, aquí. Nathan!’

  Nathan pushed his way through the jungle. He found Manuel lying on the ground, his leg covered in blood.

  ‘Quiebrapatas,’ Manuel gasped.

  Quiebrapatas meant ‘leg breakers’, because victims often lost a leg. They were homemade pressure-activated landmines: empty food cans filled with shrapnel and explosives, with a syringe inserted into the top. The device was buried in the ground, with only the syringe’s plunger exposed. The victim stepped on the plunger, injecting sulphuric acid into the detonator. The mine would then explode.

  Nathan examined Manuel’s leg. There were small scraps of metal and glass stuck in it, but somehow Manuel had escaped the worst. Still, he needed medical attention, or gangrene could set in. Nathan ripped out his first aid kit. He poured alcohol onto gauze sponges and cleaned the wound. Manuel squirmed. Nathan jabbed a syringe of antibiotics into the leg. He applied a field dressing to halt the bleeding. He lifted Manuel gently to his feet.

  ‘Can you walk if I help you?’

  Manuel grunted.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Which way?’

  Manuel pointed to the right.

  Even if they weren’t captured, there was little more than a 50 per cent chance that Manuel would survive. Nathan knew what his former special forces colleagues would have said. Save yourself.

  That wasn’t his style.

  He tucked his shoulder under Manuel’s armpits. ‘You ready?’

  Manuel grunted again.

  ‘I’ll take that as another yes.’ They staggered forward. ‘Let’s go.’

  Chapter 5

  East London, UK

  4 April 2011

  At 4pm on a rainy Monday, an unmarked private Falcon Jet descended on City Airport. Amonite Victor sat alone on a leather seat in the back. She stared blankly out of the window, unmoved by Big Ben, the expansive white dome of the O2 arena, or the glitter of the soaring glass buildings of the City that spread out majestically below her.

  The trip to Colombia had gone well. The attacks on Putumayo had been a resounding success. Many of the local cartels were destroyed, the villages—what was left of them—beaten into submission. Black Coke production was climbing again, after the initial teething problems. The Front’s power and influence were surging, and her place in the organisation was now confirmed.

  Yet she still had that desperate, sinking feeling inside her, like a black hole was opening up underneath and pulling her in. Why did she always feel so bad when things were looking so good? Maybe it was the jetlag. She hadn’t managed to sleep on the plane. And the mission to Colombia had exhausted her. She fiddled with the Glock pistol in her shoulder holster. Last thing she wanted was to come to London to sort out the problems here. It was too risky and her cover too thin. She couldn’t afford another shoot-up like the other week with the Jamaicans from Brixton. If the cops found out about her, there would be no mercy.

  The plane landed on City Airport’s single runway and taxied towards a secluded empty hangar. Once it had glided to a halt, Amonite rose from her seat and straightened out her black silk shirt and black trousers. She put on her long black coat. She pulled on her black gloves and bent down to rub a speck of dust off her gleaming black shoes.

  Satisfied, she walked down the metal steps to the tarmac. She ignored the three men in neat grey suits and hands behind their backs waiting for her at the bottom. Rain was pelting the ground as she exited the hangar. She marched towards the terminal building, the three men jogging behind her like puppies.

  ‘Ms Victor, we’re here to—’ one of them said.

  She brushed him aside. He stumbled into his colleague.

  ‘The boss asked us to greet you,’ the colleague called after her.

  She pressed on, heading for a side gate. She thrust her passport at a young customs officer, who waved her through.

  A hand clutched her arm. It was the third man.

  ‘The boss gave us strict instructions to—’

  She spun round. ‘To what?’

  ‘To…to assist you.’

  ‘Doesn’t he trust me?’

  ‘I don’t think this is about—’

  She stormed off to the taxi rank. She jumped into a black cab.

  ‘Bethnal Green. Quick.’

  The taxi pulled away. She twisted round. The three men were huddled in a circle on the pavement, scratching their heads. They were probably wondering how they’d explain this to Sir George. Amonite settled into her seat. George should have known better than to send a welcome party.

  Derelict warehouses and sprawling blocks of low-rise council flats streamed past. Gangs of youths hung around street corners. Drunks staggered outside public parks, clutching cans of super strong lager.

  She checked himself in the rear-view mirror. She knew she was ugly. Her eyes were too close, her nose too blunt, her lips too thin. Her face and neck were puffy and riven with patches of acne like a battleground after a carpet bombing. The short hair on her head was thinning way too fast for her 38 years of age. A sea of bristles was spreading on her chin with maddening determination.

  She rubbed tanning cream into her face and combed her tangled strands of hair, slicking them back. She tapped three pills of Dianabol from a vial into the small of her hand. She stared at them. Then she downed them in one gulp.

  Who gave a damn about looking good. It was strength and power that counted.

  ‘You American, sir?’ The driver gave her a curious look. ‘You going out anywhere special?’

  Amonite put the vial away in her pocket. What the hell did this guy want?

  ‘Fancy dress night?’ the driver said.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Only joking, sir.’

  Amonite felt her face flush.

  ‘Stop the car,’ she said.

  ‘Look, mate, I was only kidding.’

  Amonite punched the see-through plastic screen separating the driver from the passenger area. It cracked.

  ‘Oi!’ the driver shouted, glancing over his shoulder.

  ‘I said stop the damn car.’

  ‘Look, mate, it was just a joke.’

  Amonite whipped out her gun and shoved it through the crack into the back of the driver’s neck. ‘You try one more wisecrack and I’ll drill a brand new arsehole into the back of your head. Got it?’

  The man nodded rapidly, beads of sweat on his nape.

  ‘And I’m not your mate.’ She put the gun away. ‘Now keep your dumb eyes on the road and shut the fuck up.’

  The driver continued in silence. His heavy breathing came through on the intercom.

  Amonite retreated into an even more sullen mood. Usually, she didn’t give a damn what people thought of her. But today was different, for some reason. Her hand slipped into her coat, toyed with the safety catch on her gun. She could force the driver to pull over into a deserted side street, beat the crap out of him, even execute him. She pulled her hand out and shook her head. No, she had a mission to carry out here in London. She couldn’t let herself get distracted by this pathetic cab driver.

  She got him to stop a few roads from her destination: a pub called the White Lion, just east of Bethnal Green tube station. She walked past rows of brick houses and entered. Old men with droopy cheeks and puffy eyes were slumped on stools around rickety wooden tables. They were sipping pints of lager and gaping at the TV screen that was churning out a soap opera in a top corner of the room. The
walls had large cracks where the yellowish wallpaper was peeling off. A stench of stale sweat hung in the air.

  The pub manager was perched on a stool behind the bar. He was a short, skinny man with a piggish nose, a grey beard and wisps of greasy hair, like one of those ageing pigmies she’d once seen on a covert mission years ago to some forgotten jungle in central Africa.

  ‘He’s in the back.’ The manager jabbed a thumb at a greenish door. ‘Through there.’

  Amonite kicked it open. Three faces jerked up from lines of white powder on a battered table: Tony and two strangers. One with a winding scar down his right forearm, a mashed-up nose and a thick silver chain round his stick-thin neck. The other in combats, a spider tattoo on his cheek and a red cap back to front in a poor attempt at looking like a hip-hop star. Strands of smoke from an overflowing ashtray curled to the ceiling.

  ‘Amonite, good to see you,’ Tony said, wiping the coke from his pudgy nose with the back of his sleeve. His shaven head gleamed in the sickly light from the single bulb dangling from the ceiling. The folds of fat around his neck wobbled like jelly.

  Amonite felt a smile curl on her lips. It was good to see someone who was even uglier than her. She kicked the door shut behind her. The wall shook. She whipped out her gun.

  ‘I thought you’d gone into hiding,’ Tony said, looking Amonite up and down as though examining a skyscraper.

  ‘Shut your fat face, Tony. Where’s my cash?’

  ‘It’s…it’s…’

  ‘What d’you want me to do with the gear if you don’t have the cash?’

  Tony’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his neck.

  ‘Should I stuff it up your slimy arse?’

  ‘Amonite, please, I can explain.’

  The desperation in Tony’s voice made Amonite tremble with delight. She waved her gun at the other two men. ‘Who the hell are these two faggots?’

  ‘Fellas, this is Amonite Victor.’ Tony pointed a quivering figure at her. ‘I’m guessing you’ve all heard of her.’ The two men had gone pale. Tony nodded at the guy with the scar. ‘This is Nazzer. Deals for me.’ He nodded at the guy with the tattoo. ‘This is Frankie. My taxman.’

  ‘So, fellas, where’s my hard earned dough?’

  Both men shrugged, their dilated pupils fixed on Amonite’s gun.

  ‘Amonite, you’ve gotta listen to me.’ Tony stood up and steadied himself on the table with his chubby hands. ‘We’ve had a, erm, a small problem.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘The gear went missing and—’

  ‘Hey, Nazzer.’ Amonite swung her gun. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

  Nazzer raised his hands from below the table. Amonite bared her teeth. Nazzer probably had a gun tucked away. If he tried to go for it again, he’d regret it. She turned back to Tony, voice cool.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll get you the cash tomorrow.’

  A flash of movement from Nazzer. His hand was under the table again. Amonite blasted him in the neck. A fountain of blood spurted. Nazzer collapsed sideways, gripping his throat and gurgling. Amonite stepped over and finished him off with a bullet to the forehead. The gunshots echoed against the bare walls.

  She turned to Tony, whose mouth was opening and closing without making a sound.

  ‘Where d’you recruit these dimwits?’

  He clutched his chest and gasped for breath.

  Amonite smirked. ‘Quit the blow, you fat piece of crap. You’ll end up in a coma.’

  She circled round the table, clucking like a hen. To hell with being discreet. Nobody messed with Amonite Victor.

  She stopped behind Frankie. He was hyperventilating and staring straight ahead.

  ‘As for this fella.’ She put away her gun and unrolled a thin wire from her pocket. She hooked it round Frankie’s throat in one quick motion. She tugged. He squirmed, clawing at her face. She leant back, out of reach, tightening her grip.

  Frankie twisted round. He grabbed Amonite’s waist with surprising strength and hurled her to the floor. Amonite was winded. This wasn’t meant to happen. She lost her grip on the wire. Frankie was on top of her, pummelling her chest. She kicked him away and rolled sideways. She staggered to her feet, ripping the gun from her holster.

  Frankie hurled himself at her.

  Amonite pulled the trigger. Frankie jerked backward and spun sideways as the bullets tore through him. He collapsed in an unnatural heap.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’ Amonite shouted at Tony as she stood up.

  Tony froze, halfway to the door.

  ‘Here’s more for your junkies.’ Amonite chucked three small bricks of black powder wrapped in cellophane onto the table. ‘How did the first sample go down?’

  ‘They loved it.’

  ‘Good. There’s more on its way. Just get me the cash.’

  Tony stumbled back to the table. He slid the bricks towards him, scattering the lines of coke. He collapsed back into his chair, wheezing.

  Amonite left the room. The pub was empty. Half drunk pints of beer stood on tables like left-overs at the end of a party. She walked out into the street. The cool rain felt good on her face. She took a deep breath, feeling the remains of her anger seep away. She headed for the market place, which was bustling with shoppers. She picked up a bright red apple from a fruit stall. The seller was facing the other way, speaking to a customer. Amonite strolled off, tossing the apple up and down in her hand.

  She didn’t like cock-ups, and Tony had cocked up badly. People had to face the consequences of their mistakes. If he didn’t have the cash tomorrow, she’d have to kill him too. It was business. Nothing personal.

  She sank her teeth into the apple. It was crunchy and juicy. A siren wailed behind her. Shouting erupted. The bodies must have been found. Word would soon spread like a virus throughout gangland that Amonite Victor, who everyone thought had vanished, was now back.

  Chapter 6

  North London, UK

  5 April 2011

  ‘Hey sis, big day today.’ Nathan sat down at the kitchen table and reached for the toast. ‘Got my presentation to the board.’

  Caitlin was hovering over the crosswords page of The Guardian, the end of the pencil in her mouth. She was wearing a loose, purple dressing gown that emphasised her plump figure. Her long brown hair was dishevelled and hung like a mop to either side of her face. She had dark bags under her eyes and looked as exhausted as Nathan felt.

  Nathan poured himself a large mug of coffee. He needed a burst of caffeine or he’d keel over from the jetlag and the post-mission fatigue.

  Caitlin scratched her forehead with her pencil. ‘This one’s tough.’

  ‘Need help?’

  ‘Nah.’ She scrunched her eyebrows. ‘Although, wait a sec, yeah, why not. You should know this. Make secret for security reasons.’

  ‘How many letters?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Let me think.’ Nathan rubbed his beard. ‘Classify.’

  ‘Genius.’ Caitlin scribbled onto the crossword. The window behind her rattled as a truck rumbled past their apartment block towards King’s Cross station.

  ‘You sure they’ll listen?’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The board.’

  ‘Oh.’ So she had heard him. ‘They’d be mad to ignore it.’

  ‘You’re always so optimistic.’ Caitlin flipped through the newspaper. ‘Here, read this. Soca under fire for failing to catch key crime bosses.’

  Nathan skim read the article. It told how Tony Blair had launched the Serious Organised Crime Agency in a fanfare of publicity in April 2006 as Britain’s answer to the FBI. Soca created a list of 130 crime barons believed to be controlling the drugs trade, human trafficking and racketeering in Britain. But Soca became mired in controversy. Too much money wasted. Too little intelligence collected. Too few crime barons behind bars.

  Nathan pushed the paper away. ‘Nothing new there.’
r />   ‘The coalition wants to close it down. They say it’s excessively secretive and lacks transparency.’