Ghost Target

Book 0: Alex Reeve

by Andy McDermott

Genres: Thrillers; Spy Thrillers

Synopsis

A gripping, action-packed thriller about a deadly government assassin framed as a traitor - with the explosive action that fans of Lee Child, Gregg Hurwitz, Vince Flynn and James Swallow will love.

EVERY OPERATIVE KNOWS THE RULES.
The mission comes first. You are a deniable asset. Betrayal is punished by death.

Alex Reeve - known as OPERATIVE 66 - is a former special-ops soldier and one of the UK's most lethal weapons. Previously a member of SC9, an elite covert unit with a remit to assassinate the country's enemies, Reeve was framed for treason and now lives a nomadic existence - as the merciless killers he once trained alongside hunt him down.

For a chance of a normal life, Reeve must expose and dismantle the sinister SC9. So when a series of brutal killings in Germany have all the hallmarks of an SC9 tactic - the murder of 'ghost targets', decoys to camouflage the true intended victim - Reeve finally sees opportunity for revenge.

Sucked into shadowy conspiracy involving dark global powers, Reeve will risk his life to save others - and to secure his freedom. But if there's one man with the skills to do so... it is Operative 66.

From the internationally bestselling author of the Wilde & Chase series comes an explosive new thriller - the perfect pulse-racing listen for fans of LEE CHILD, VINCE FLYNN and GREGG HURWITZ.

(P)2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: July 6, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Muscles aching, Reeve clambered from the minibus. Snow was falling, but more lightly than during the day. His housemates followed him out, stretching and grumbling. They headed for their front door as the bus drove away.

Reeve waited on the road, though, checking his surroundings. Force of habit. The last time he’d become sloppy, in Italy, SC9 found him. And also because . . . faint alarm bells were ringing in his mind.

It wasn’t that something had changed. More that something hadn’t.

He’d been in Bled for over a month. In that time, he’d explored every possible escape route from the house. His military training had also taught him to note vehicles, spot anything out of place. There were no streetlamps, only spill from nearby buildings. But one car stood out as if pinned by a searchlight.

In itself, it was nothing unusual. A silver Opel Insignia saloon, a couple of years old, about thirty metres downhill. An anonymous vehicle. But compared to the smaller, older hatchbacks common in the area, it stood out. He hadn’t seen it before today.

Then there was the plate. Bled was in the Gorenjska region of Slovenia. The regional capital of Kranj provided the KR prefix to locally registered cars. The Insignia’s prefix, however, was LJ – the national capital, Ljubljana. The car had been in the same place this morning . . . except facing the other way. It had left after the loggers departed, then returned before they came back. Why?

‘Leo?’ Reeve glanced around to see Pinsker at the house. ‘You coming in?’

‘I’m . . . going into town,’ Reeve replied. ‘Can’t be bothered to cook tonight. Might get a pizza.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ The Belarusian hesitated, clearly wanting to join him, before deciding to save money. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Reeve nodded noncommittally, then tugged up his coat’s hood and set off downhill. He already suspected the car had an occupant, and was right. As he drew closer, he saw it was tilted towards the driver’s side, windows misted. But part of the windscreen had been wiped clear from within.

Tension rose. Had SC9 tracked him down? He had minimised his electronic footprint to evade GCHQ’s eyes. No laptop of his own, no smartphone, using only cash. But old-fashioned detective work still had its place. All it took was one pointer to his location, then doggedness.

The road had been ploughed. Piled snow forced him closer to the parked Opel than he liked. He had no gun, only a small folding knife used for cutting wood. If the person in the car was armed, he could be dead within seconds. But he had to know. His hand closed around the knife, thumb ready to flick open the blade . . .

He reached the Insignia. Its occupant was visible through the clear patch of windscreen. Male, older, thick-rimmed spectacles. The man stared straight ahead, as if deliberately not looking at him. Then Reeve’s view was obscured by condensation as he passed.

No movement, no clunk of the door unlatching. Reeve cleared the boot, and kept walking. Five metres, ten. Nothing. At twenty metres, he glanced back. The man inside hadn’t reacted to him.

But he was watching for him, if only indirectly. The car faced Reeve’s house. The other homes nearby were widely spaced, fields and woodland beyond. There was nothing else he might be observing.

Probably not SC9, then – but a different kind of threat. Police? Immigration? The man had the pinch-faced look of officialdom. If he was gathering evidence on illegal workers, a raid could follow. Time to think about moving on.

But to where? Despite his work, he still had very little money. A good chunk of his wages went straight back to his paymasters as rent. And deeper into Slovenia, the language barrier would become more of a problem. Could he risk returning to Italy? The police there might still be actively searching for him . . .

For now, though, he was hungry after a hard day. He trudged on through the snow towards the centre of Bled.

Carrying a pizza box and soft-drink cup, Reeve returned the way he had come. The Insignia was still there, an hour and a half later.

He walked past it. A glow inside the cabin; the man was reading something on his phone. Reeve checked him as he passed. His flabby physique confirmed he was not an Operative. On the passenger seat were a clipboard, notebook – and a small pair of binoculars.

That settled it. He was an official of some kind. Reeve’s freedom was definitely under threat. Could a raid come tomorrow morning? Should he leave right now?

If he did, he would be at a major disadvantage. Tomorrow, Tuesday, was payday. He would need as much money as he could get. But could he risk staying in Bled for one more day?

The result of his mental threat assessment was probably. Not the most helpful answer. But the observer was still here, late in the evening. He would need to return home, file his report, await a decision. A few illegal workers were unlikely to be a high priority for an urgent dawn raid.

Probably.

He would have to take the chance. But if there was a raid tomorrow morning, he needed to be prepared for it.

He reached the house. Behind, a car’s engine started. A glance back. Headlights came on, and the Insignia pulled out. The snoop had waited for him to return home before leaving. A bad sign, that he’d waited until everyone was corralled, or just coincidence?

Either way, he took it as further proof that he needed to be ready to leave.

Antal peered from the lounge as he entered, relaxing when he saw who it was. He relayed Reeve’s assumed name to someone in the front room. Probably Daxner. The Slovenian generally took residence in there of an evening, monopolising the television. Reeve headed upstairs. The house originally had three bedrooms. The two largest had been crudely divided by drywall panels to create extra rooms. The spaces created were barely wide enough for a bed, but he appreciated the privacy.

Pinsker’s room was opposite his, at the house’s rear. The door opened as he reached it. ‘You’re back,’ said Pinsker, in Russian. A hopeful look at the pizza box. ‘Any left over?’

Reeve flipped the box open. It was empty. ‘Sorry. Didn’t want to drop any litter.’

The other man was disappointed. ‘Oh. Okay. But why did you bring it up here? The bin’s downstairs.’

Reeve waggled his cup. ‘Haven’t finished yet.’ He opened his door – then paused. ‘By the way . . . can you move out fast if you need to?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is all your stuff in a bag that you can grab in a hurry?’

Owlish bewilderment – then nervousness. ‘No, but – I can pack, I suppose. Why?’

‘Just some helpful advice. You might need it.’ Was that enough to assuage Connie’s voice in his head? He didn’t know, but there were more pressing matters. He entered his room and closed the door.

Like the pizza box, his cup was actually empty. He had brought them home as cover to appear innocuous to the observer. In reality, he only needed the plastic straw. The EU had banned single-use plastics, but the pizza place seemingly had a stockpile. That observation, made weeks before, had determined his evening’s meal choice. He extracted the straw, then opened his backpack. His scissors were in a pocket with other tools. He retrieved them and set to work.



Tony Maxwell was not looking forward to the meeting.

He had been summoned – there was no other word for it – to MI6’s headquarters. SC9’s infinitely less conspicuous HQ was only three miles away. But the drive through the morning traffic took almost forty minutes. By the time he arrived at Vauxhall Cross, Maxwell was frustrated and tense.

He doubted he would feel any better when he left.

SC9 had been founded by Sir Simon Scott, then a senior officer at MI6. Its entire purpose was to be deniable; to do what other intelligence agencies couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. They were ultimately accountable to politicians. And no politician was completely immune to the pressure of public outrage, whatever they maintained. They were also subject, however loosely, to the rule of law. Even in the post-truth era, scandals could still end a career. So SC9 was created to operate in the shadows cast by its larger cousins. They, in turn, pretended it did not exist.

Until it suited them.

Maxwell passed through several security checks, then was escorted to a meeting room. Waiting for him were the men whom Scott had regarded as little more than quartermasters. MI6, MI5 and GCHQ had previously given SC9 almost free rein to do its job.

With its founder gone, the balance of power had shifted.

The three men sat on one side of an oval table, facing him as he entered. His own chair was isolated opposite them. Basic, blunt intimidation tactics: We are in charge, you are a supplicant. He tried not to show his annoyance. Instead, he remembered Scott’s own advice for dealing with the intelligence chiefs. Be firm. Be resolute. Be ruthless.

It was an approach he had ended up using against Scott himself.

Such blunt-force methods of dealing with opposition wouldn’t work here, he thought wryly. He couldn’t have brought a weapon into the MI6 building undetected. He would need to get his way using words rather than bullets. What that way was, he didn’t yet know. The meeting’s subject had not been revealed; only that it was of national importance. Most likely, they wanted SC9 to eliminate someone to keep their own hands clean. A mental shrug. That was SC9’s purpose, after all. But why did the request need the Big Three of British Intelligence to ask it?

‘Good morning, Tony,’ said one of the trio. Aubrey Ryford-Croft was the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service: MI6. Maxwell had dealt with him before. Scott hadn’t liked him, and nor did his replacement. He was a bureaucrat by nature, not a former field officer. Protecting his own turf was prioritised over larger issues. ‘Glad you could join us.’ A hint of sarcasm? His visitor was perhaps two minutes late. He gestured at the empty chair.

Maxwell sat down. ‘Aubrey,’ he said with a nod. ‘Justin, Michael. What can I do for you?’

‘It concerns one of your current operations.’ The speaker was Michael Barwell, Director of GCHQ. Government Communications Headquarters: Britain’s electronic spy agency.

Maxwell gave Barwell a look of studious implacability. ‘Well, as you know, I have no comment to make regarding any of SC9’s operations.’ Scott’s standard reply to questions from the intelligence heads.

It may have worked for Scott. For Maxwell, it did not. ‘Cut the crap, Tony,’ said the third man. Justin Stockley, Director General of MI5, was the youngest in the room by some margin. His relative youth did not translate to deference. ‘You requested that GCHQ monitor someone in Germany. That kind of surveillance from SC9 is invariably the precursor to a hit. Is it one of Simon’s leftovers, or someone you’ve taken it upon yourself to target?’

Any air of geniality in the room had already evaporated. ‘I have no comment,’ Maxwell replied tersely.

‘Well, you’ll need to make some comment,’ said Ryford-Croft. ‘Because your target is also one of our targets. There is, shall we say, a jurisdictional dispute. That’s why we asked you here: to ensure we’re all working towards the same goal.’

‘My goal is the protection of Britain and its interests.’

‘So is ours,’ said Barwell. ‘We just want to be sure we’re in agreement on those interests.’

Maxwell leaned back in his seat, regarding the three men coldly. ‘Then tell me what they are, and we’ll see how they intersect SC9’s.’

‘Very well,’ Ryford-Croft said. ‘Your target is a figure of importance in the German arms industry. Correct?’ Maxwell said nothing, but gave the smallest nod. ‘The driving force of a proposed merger between several smaller European arms manufacturers. Such a merger would create, I believe, the fourth-largest in Western Europe. I’m sure we all agree that represents a challenge to our own arms industry. Yes?’

Stockley and Barwell both replied in the affirmative. ‘Yes,’ Maxwell added reluctantly.

‘Excellent. So we are all on the same page, at least.’

Stockley took over the discussion. ‘Now, if this individual suffered some . . . mishap, the merger would probably collapse. The worth and share prices of the separate companies would suffer as a result. Which would leave them open to takeover by, hypothetically, one of our own arms giants.’

That was exactly Maxwell’s thinking, and Scott’s before him. But he was still unwilling to give anything away. ‘A logical chain of events,’ was all he would offer.

‘And therein lies the problem,’ said Ryford-Croft. ‘You see, we know something that you don’t.’

Maxwell stiffened. ‘I was under the impression SC9’s charter required sharing of all pooled intelligence. Not just a cherry-picked selection.’

‘This is a new development,’ said Barwell, without apology. ‘Have you heard of Roger Glennmore?’

‘Yes. The head of Xeneon.’ It was a recent corporate agglomeration of several UK arms manufacturers. The name had doubtless been focus-grouped to be as meaningless as possible.

Ryford-Croft nodded. ‘Xeneon would be in a prime position to buy controlling interests in these European companies. Unfortunately . . .’ He exchanged faintly aggrieved looks with his companions. ‘Mr Glennmore has been somewhat indiscreet. In a way that would jeopardise any such deals – and thus harm British interests.’

Maxwell was intrigued despite himself. ‘What’s he done?’

‘He had a meeting with our mutual target,’ said Stockley. ‘It was meant to be private and secure – no recording devices of any kind. The room was swept for bugs, phones were left outside. They were even checked for wires by a third-party security firm. Everything they said should have remained utterly confidential.’

‘Except it didn’t,’ said Maxwell, drawing the obvious conclusion.

‘No,’ said Barwell, shaking his head as if to say: That idiot. ‘Mr Glennmore was rather too open about his future plans. He implied – no, that’s far too weak a word. He stated that, should the merger go ahead, he would sabotage it. Evidence of sanction violations by the target’s company would be planted. That such evidence doesn’t exist was not, for him, an issue.’

‘He was going to fake it?’

‘Admitted, loud and proud,’ Stockley said, turning up his hands in disdain. ‘Presumably he thought such a blatant blackmail threat would scare the opposition into backing down. But that doesn’t really work when someone records you making it!’

‘How did they manage to record the meeting?’ Maxwell asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Barwell told him. ‘But the target emailed Glennmore a clip from it. The most incriminating part, of course, but the whole discussion was presumably captured.’ GCHQ would have discovered the recording. All electronic communications within the UK were routinely intercepted and analysed by the agency’s supercomputers. Such an intrusive policy was officially denied by the government, of course. ‘The implication that it would be publicly released was clear.’

‘And that would kill any takeover attempts by Xeneon stone dead,’ said Stockley. ‘The EU would never allow it, and nor would the individual national governments. Arms manufacturers are companies of national security importance. The buyouts would be blocked on that basis. Xeneon is run by a liar and a blackmailer – hardly a suitable new owner. Now, if Glennmore were to resign, that would get Xeneon as a whole off the hook. But it would also damage its share value – making it harder to carry out the takeovers.’

‘So you see the problem, Tony,’ said Ryford-Croft. ‘If the target suffered some mishap, as Justin put it, the recording might be released. We need to make sure all copies of it are found and erased.’

Maxwell glanced towards Barwell. ‘Can’t you just hack their computer to find it?’

‘We did,’ came the glum response. ‘And their phone. And every other gadget we could access. It’s not on any of them.’

‘They must have had it there to email it, though.’

‘It was copied from some other device. One we haven’t identified yet.’

‘Which brings us to your operation.’ Ryford-Croft’s tone hardened. Here it comes, Maxwell knew. The demand. ‘We know SC9 is targeting this individual. Their removal is in the national interest, to scupper this merger. However,’ his tone hardened, ‘we must have the recording. All copies. They need to be recovered, or destroyed. Before the target is eliminated, your Operative needs to ascertain their locations. If they’re on a physical device, obtain it. If they’re stored electronically, find out where.’

‘GCHQ can do the rest to delete them,’ added Barwell.

Maxwell said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘By “ascertain their locations”, you mean, “extract that information from the target”. Yes?’

Stockley gave him a somewhat mocking nod. ‘Got it in one.’

‘SC9 aren’t torturers. I believe that’s more MI6’s department.’

Ryford-Croft frowned. ‘It’s a simple request, Tony. I’m sure your Operative is up to the task. Simon did enjoy lecturing us about how his people were the best of the best.’

‘They are,’ Maxwell replied, ‘at what they do. But what they do is not espionage.’

‘They’ve been trained with all the necessary skills,’ said Stockley. ‘And many of them probably had those skills already. You recruit from both MI5 and MI6. Is your Operative in Germany originally one of our people?’

‘I have no comment,’ said Maxwell curtly. ‘But what you’re requesting,’ his tone suggested demanding, ‘isn’t SC9’s job.’

Ryford-Croft leaned forward, steepling his fingers. ‘The fact of the matter is, Tony,’ he said, ‘you have someone in place already. I know how thorough your Operatives are. They will have performed surveillance, identified routines, familiarised themselves with the target. So they are in the best position to act, quickly and effectively. This will merely be a slight extension of their objective.’

‘I’m not going to go into operational details,’ said Maxwell, annoyed. ‘But we’re following a plan that ensures the job cannot be connected to Britain. Interfering with that could do more than just jeopardise my Operative. It could blow back to damage the country as a whole.’

‘A plan that can’t adapt to changing circumstances is more of an epitaph,’ Stockley announced. He seemed smugly proud of the aphorism. ‘And the circumstances have changed, Tony. Failing to act will also damage Britain. If the recording goes public, Xeneon will take a big hit. In the time it takes to recover, our competitors will take advantage. We can’t let that happen. You can’t let that happen. For the good of the country, Tony.’

Maxwell shook his head. ‘It’s still not SC9’s job.’

‘It is now.’ Ryford-Croft’s voice abruptly hardened. ‘This is a matter we touched upon with Simon, before his . . . departure. SC9 has had several high-profile failures in the past few years. The business in Italy. Craig Parker’s attempted assassination of an MP.’

‘There’s no evidence that Craig Parker was ever a member of SC9,’ said Maxwell sharply.

The head of SIS raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed. But there are also matters like SC9’s reprisals against Russian assets. The Russians retaliated – against our assets. And before you deny any knowledge or involvement, spare us. Simon said the same, but his actions were painfully transparent. Which brings me to our point. SC9’s activities have begun to affect our own, in a negative way. Too often, you’ve made a mess that we’ve had to clean up. Like the body of an Italian civilian left in one of our cars in Florence. This situation is, frankly, becoming untenable. SC9 needs to work with us – or find its own way.’

Maxwell felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach at the unmistakeable threat. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

‘Meaning,’ said Stockley, ‘the other intelligence agencies will withdraw support. No more computer hacks or wiretapping. No more cars full of guns waiting for your Operatives at foreign airports. And,’ he added pointedly, ‘no more covering for SC9’s actions on home soil. You want fake IDs, or to get someone out of police custody? You’ll have to arrange that on your own.’

‘SC9’s charter guarantees all those things,’ Maxwell protested, voice rising. ‘Do you really want to risk getting your hands dirty doing our job yourselves?’

‘We did it before SC9 was founded,’ said Ryford-Croft. ‘We can do it again. Times are changing. There is far greater tolerance of the state taking any actions necessary to protect itself. Call it patriotism, populism, nationalism, what you will. The fact remains that it is happening. The Covert Human Intelligence Sources Act now gives us greater leeway. Any minister can grant immunity to undercover officers or assets for crimes they commit. And for all practical purposes, you could replace most ministers with a rubber-stamp machine.’ He chuckled at his own joke.

Maxwell was anything but amused. ‘So you’re no longer willing to accept SC9’s existence as an independent agency?’

‘Oh, you’ll still have your independence,’ Stockley told him airily. ‘In the same way that the former Crown Colonies have theirs. You do your own thing. But just remember who shields you from the rest of the world. Sometimes, that shielding will come with strings attached.’

‘This is one of those times,’ said Ryford-Croft. ‘Xeneon, and Roger Glennmore, need to be protected. That means obtaining the recording. Your Operative will need to do so. It’s as simple as that.’

Maxwell sat in silence under the three men’s stares, anger rising inside him.

The feeling of fury had only grown by the time he left the MI6 building. Everything he’d worked towards for several years was under threat. He’d removed Scott, gained control of SC9 . . . but that control was about to be stolen. He needed to fight the attempt – and quickly. The nature of power in a bureaucracy meant that once it was lost, it was never regained. If he failed, SC9 would be reduced to a mere adjunct of the other services. No, worse than that. A disposable contractor, the Deliveroo of assassinations.

His personal plans depended upon SC9 maintaining its independence. If he had someone watching over his shoulder, he would be restricted – trapped.

But Ryford-Croft and the others were right. SC9 couldn’t operate without the support of the other agencies. A share of their black-book assets was funnelled into an even blacker book. Money was the lifeblood of every country’s intelligence operations. Without it, SC9 would wither and die in short order. Even withdrawal of something as basic as MI5’s ability to forge credentials would be crippling.

There had to be a way to prevent it. What that might be, though, he didn’t know.

He needed time to think. The answer would come to him. It had to. If he couldn’t carry out SC9’s operations with impunity . . .

His secret backers would no longer have any use for him.



Tuesday’s work in the depths of the forest had been tough. Reeve’s paymasters plundered different areas each day, making it harder for authorities to catch them. The terrain today had been more difficult than usual. It was too steep to drive up, necessitating a long walk in thick snow. The cut logs then had to be dragged back to where they could be loaded. A slow, time-wasting process; not good when you were paid by quota. On top of that, a near-blizzard sprang up in the afternoon. The minibus became stuck in a snowdrift on the return journey. There were no shovels; Reeve and the others had to dig it free by hand.

At least he’d been paid. His bosses might be criminals, but so were some of their employees. Daxner, for one. His reaction to any mention of the police suggested he was a wanted man. The casual, factual way he discussed violence implied he was happy to use it. Their employers doubtless reasoned that withholding promised payments could see such violence turned against them. That even Daxner was wary of Reeve was something they wouldn’t have missed either.

A modest wad of euros in his pocket, Reeve exited the minibus. He looked around, wind-driven snowflakes spiking into his face. No sign of the Opel Insignia. Was that a good or bad sign? The house was no longer under observation. But did that mean the snoop had everything he needed?

He had already decided to move on. His plan had been to eat, gather his belongings, then slip out. But the weather showed no sign of improving. Leaving in a blizzard at night wouldn’t be smart.

Instead, he made plans for the next morning while he cooked his dinner. Pinsker was in the kitchen with him, on the laptop. The machine was his, but he’d been browbeaten into letting it become the house’s computer. The text on screen was Cyrillic. Checking what was happening in his homeland? The young man had fled Belarus for the European Union. Reeve had never asked why, though escaping Europe’s last dictatorship seemed an understandable decision. However, the EU had since sanctioned Belarus for aiding Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Pinsker had no rights of residency in the EU, or even a visa. Lacking the necessary paperwork, he’d found himself a criminal by default.

He had that much in common with Reeve, then. But it was not a life he was suited to. Timid, shy, struggling with the language barrier, he was a natural target for predators. Men like Daxner.

Or his entourage. Mangano entered, swaggering to the table. ‘Hey, hey,’ he said in Italian, rapping his knuckles against the back of the screen. ‘I need to use that. Get off it.’

Pinsker looked up at him in nervous confusion. He replied in Belarusian. Mangano was unimpressed. ‘I don’t speak your retarded language. Go on, fuck off.’

‘He says he wants to use the laptop,’ Reeve told Pinsker in Russian.

‘But – I’m in the middle of something,’ Pinsker protested. ‘I’m talking to somebody.’

Reeve relayed the message back to Mangano in Italian. ‘So?’ Mangano exclaimed. ‘He can do that later.’

Daxner lumbered in from the other room. ‘Something wrong?’

‘I need to use the laptop,’ Mangano told him.

The big man gave Reeve a cautious glance. Seeing no sign that he was taking sides, he jabbed a finger at Pinsker. ‘Go on. Go.’ The finger indicated the door.

Pinsker got the message. A helpless look at Reeve, but the Englishman turned back to his cooking. With a despairing sigh, Pinsker closed the window, then reluctantly pushed the laptop to Mangano. He left the room without looking back.

‘Ha. Thanks, Marko.’ Mangano sat at the machine and started typing.

‘What’s so important?’ Daxner asked him.

‘Weren’t you listening to the news? The Bondage Killer’s murdered another transvestite.’

‘Oh.’ The Slovene’s response radiated disinterest.

Mangano, though, was unsettlingly enthusiastic. ‘That’s four victims now. One every two weeks.’

‘The who?’ Reeve had only been half listening.

‘The Bondage Killer. He’s a serial killer, in Munich. In Germany.’

‘Yeah, I know where Munich is.’

The Italian ignored his sarcasm. ‘There’s a website, gets leaks from inside the police about the case.’ He regarded the screen. ‘It’s in German, so let me just translate it . . . there.’

Daxner shrugged and started back towards the living room. ‘Some guy goes around killing trannies? Sounds more like a public service.’ He paused at the door, giving Mangano a mocking look. ‘Why are you so keen? You into them? Like girls with something extra, do you?’

‘No!’ said Mangano with urgent vehemence. ‘I’m just interested in serial killers.’

The Slovene shook his head. ‘Prekleti čudak,’ he muttered, leaving the kitchen.

‘I’m not into trannies,’ the Italian told the empty air behind him. He turned back to the laptop. ‘You know why he’s called the Bondage Killer?’

As the only other person present, Reeve presumed he was being addressed. ‘I can take a wild guess,’ he said, sarcasm deepening.

‘He waits for these girls to come home – well, not girls, but anyway. Has all this bondage gear set up on their beds. Chains, handcuffs, ropes, all that kind of stuff.’ Mangano’s speech became faster, more excitable. Reeve doubted he even realised. ‘Knocks them out with some sort of karate chop and ties them up. Then he slices off their dick and balls before cutting them open. Takes out all their organs and uses them in a satanic ritual.’

Reeve was unimpressed. ‘You know I’m about to eat, right?’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ was the non-apology. ‘But there’s some new stuff here, about the latest killing.’ He read in silence until the information became too much to contain. ‘Yeah, it’s definitely the same guy! Four victims now, plus some random dude who came home with one of them. Not his lucky night.’ He sniggered. ‘Got part of the coroner’s report on the newest one here.’ Another pause as he read on. ‘Yeah, same routine,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘This is new, though. Normally the organs he takes out are a bit hacked up. But the coroner says the liver was removed with surgical precision. Like the hacking was done to cover it. Everything else was the same, though. All th. . .