Page 2 of Thief

He tuned into the low hum of distant conversation. Hig and Eagle moved in tight behind him, and although he couldn’t hear them, he knew they were following. Adrenaline raced through his veins and his heart rate sped. His senses were sharp, acute, alive.

The voices were clearer now, men laughing and talking in Arabic, high pitched and jabbering. He reached the end of the passageway and came to a splintered door, which was open a convenient crack. He flicked his head and eyeballed the candle-lit room to see what they were dealing with. Two hostages, bound and gagged, sat in the far left corner, five armed insurgents hung around, weapons relaxed.

He braced for the contact, gathering his energy ready to burst into the room. His nerves were on fire, his survival instincts in control.

Suddenly gunshots burst from the street outside. Ear splitting cracks. His men out the front must have been spotted.

His forward momentum switched to a hasty retreat down the corridor with Eagle and Hig.

Treacherous light filled the passageway as the door was flung open. Frantic Arabic shouts punctuated the air, and John knew their shadowy figures had been seen.

Eagle and Hig ducked out into the night. But spinning just past the dead guard, John was greeted with the unblinking eye of a gun. He raised his weapon and fired a double tap, watched two small black holes appear on a forehead. They oozed as the body crumpled.

He ducked outside and slammed his back against the wall. “Shit. We gotta get the hostages out now!”

Eagle swung his arm and rolled a flash bang into the house. It rattled like a tin can before exploding into a burst of lightning and slamming out a clap of thunder.

He charged back in, saw hazy, glowing movements in the swirling smoke and fired—the ground absorbed the solid thud of a body. Hig’s mass moved with him. More hysterical shouts and screams, terrified English accents mixed in with panicked Arabic.

“Hostages down on the floor!” The shouted words tore at the flesh of John’s throat.

He connected the sole of his boot with the door. He lined a standing man in his sights and pulled the trigger, twice. Hig and Eagle flanked him, mimicked him. Three satisfyingly heavy thumps.

Five down.

Mission complete.

Four more thunderous shots rang out.

A force like a charging bull flung John on top of the terrified hostages. Pain in his back circled and squeezed his body armour, pushing every scrap of air from his lungs. He gasped for breath like a fish out of water, suffocating on empty lung cavities. There was a shocking tearing sensation in his left leg. The agony was sickening, every nerve in his body screamed for attention. He caught his breath, cried out—a primitive, guttural scream. He dropped his gun, grabbed for his leg, sure it would be gone, sure he would feel nothing but a soggy stump.

His mind was a white blank of panic. Death smiled at him.

“Shit, boss there were six of them.” Eagle swung his gun away from a now slumped body in a concealed nook behind the door.

Hig bent double, taut blue tourniquet in his hand. There was sorrow in his eyes, a look of sympathy, and in that unguarded second, before Hig’s professionalism intercepted, John knew it was all over for him.

Another bang on the office door brought John back to the present day.

“We’re off now. It’s five-thirty.”

“Okay.” His voice was hoarse. He reached for the last drop of whisky. “I’ll be right out to lock up.” He flicked on the light, pushed up and headed out of the office with only a hint of a limp. At the front door, he said a final goodbye to his colleagues. They didn’t know it was the last goodbye, but he did.

He performed the elaborate locking ritual for the last time, set the high tech alarm then pinched up the gems he’d been working on that morning—the three diamonds he’d expertly removed from Miss Worthington-Hurley’s engagement ring and replaced with cheap cubic zirconia.

He dropped them into a small, well-used fold in the lining of his trousers and smoothed down his shirt. After switching off the light, he grabbed his jacket and headed into the early evening sunshine humming an old tune. Life was finally on the up. Soon, he’d be readdressing the balance, equalling out all of the shit inflicted on him since that fateful night. Soon, he’d be living it up in the sun, away from endless physiotherapy, which caused nothing but more pain, away from London, away from all the reminders of what he used to have and of the man he used to be. It had taken a long time to squirrel away what the British tax payers owed him, what the British government had denied him, but now he had enough, enough to live in luxury for the foreseeable future and he couldn’t wait to get on his way.

He walked slowly round the block to a secure car park, the pain in his knee nipping like piranhas now the whisky was beginning to wear off. For the millionth time, he wondered what those dumb ass do-gooders had been doing in Afghanistan. If they hadn’t gone and got themselves taken hostage, he’d still have two functioning legs and a job he loved. He hated them. He knew it wasn’t how a military man was supposed to think but he couldn’t help it. They were as much to blame as the insurgents.

He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a key fob. He clicked it once and a silver Porsche blinked to life, greeting him with a sharp, echoing beep.

Chapter One

Kat sat alone at the bar in The Fox and Goose. She was weary, but that was plain old laziness. She’d hardly done anything all week, and last night’s client, Kevin Milford, had been easy prey. He’d fallen instantly for her charms and almost as quickly into unconsciousness. He’d been pig ugly to look at all evening and more than a little dribbley to kiss, but at least, thank goodness, she hadn’t had to have sex with him to take off with the goods. She was still thanking her lucky stars for that stroke of good fortune.

Tonight, once again, she’d spotted her hit soon after she’d entered the pub, partly because he looked exactly like he did on his photograph, but also because he was easily the biggest guy there, making him impossible to miss.

Brooding and alone, he sat hunched on his elbows nursing a tumbler of iced amber liquid. Kat took up a strategic position in his direct line of sight and, within minutes, trapped his gaze through the milling crowd.

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