The Operative

Book 0: John Stratton

by Duncan Falconer

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

Another enjoyable Falconer weave of thrill and action takes the reader on a roller-coaster ride across half the globe to a nail-biting climax In war-torn Iraq, Stratton’s closest friend is killed while on operation, leaving behind a grieving wife and child. When the widow moves to Los Angeles she is brutally murdered and her child placed in state custody. Stratton, rocked to his foundations by the killing, uncovers a FBI plot to hide the crime and sets off on a private operation of revenge that eventually pits him against one of the most powerful Eastern European crime syndicates in America. Hunted by the CIA and FBI as well as a brutal army of Albanian mobsters and armed only with his wits and an extraordinary skill with explosives, Stratton relentlessly pursues his private war, a fight he suspects could be his last.

Release date: October 7, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 448

Sample

Stratton climbed from a local taxi outside a row of detached homes just off the Wareham road in Poole, Dorset, paid the driver,
and headed along a gravel track towards the front door of the largest house. His battered old leather jacket was draped over
an arm in the crook of which he held a bottle of inexpensive wine. A large present splendidly finished off with a red-ribbon
bow rested in the other. Stratton owned a car, an eight-year-old Jeep that he’d had for several years, but he had been away
on an assignment for the past three months and when he’d tried to start it that morning for the first time since his return
the engine wouldn’t turn over. He wasted little time with it, refusing to squander his first day home tinkering with his ride,
so he called a mate in the camp’s motor transport department who said he would take a look at it the following day. Then Stratton
spent the morning shopping for a new pair of trousers, a shirt and a pair of shoes, getting a trim for his tussled dark hair,
and generally being self-indulgent.


Spending a day shopping in Bournemouth, or anywhere for that matter, was not normal for Stratton, and devoting that amount
of time to his personal attire and appearance was downright unusual. This man could never be accused of hedonism by anyone
who knew him: in fact, in higher circles, specifically among his bosses in the SBS and Military Intelligence, he was considered
unkempt. That was not a complaint, of course, not from those he worked for directly. It was an unkempt world he operated in and Stratton could often be found in its darkest and most dingy parts.


Stratton could not say for sure why he had woken up that morning feeling entitled to a day of decad ence. But he assumed it
had a lot to do with having spent the last phase of a boring operation holed up in a camouflaged observation position in a
pile of large, unstable boulders on the side of a mountain overlooking the summit of a ski lift a few miles outside the town
of Almaty, Kazakhstan. He’d been waiting for a caravan bringing a supply of heroin over the mountain range from Afghanistan.


Drug smuggling was not Stratton’s usual area of operation but it was true to say that anyone who worked in anti-terrorism
ops was by default connected with the drug-smuggling business. Finally, after three weeks of eating American MREs (meals ready
to eat), getting a hot drink only during daylight hours for tactical reasons and breathing air with a markedly reduced oxygen
content due to the altitude, the caravan had finally arrived and Stratton had carried out his task – which was to do nothing
more than film it. He was glad that the task had not gone on any longer and that he had made it back home, and on this day
in particular. It was Josh Penton’s birthday, a six-year-old boy whom Stratton had known since the day the kid had been born,
son to one of his oldest friends in the SBS – and Stratton’s godson.


There were a number of cars jammed along the usually quiet gravel drive and as Stratton approached the front door he could
see several people in the large kitchen. As he raised the hand with the wine in it to push the front doorbell the door opened.
Jack was standing in the hallway looking somewhat sombre and holding a bottle of beer, which he immediately thrust at Stratton.


‘You’re adrift,’ Jack said accusingly.

‘Car wouldn’t start,’ replied Stratton with equal gravity.

‘We don’t accept excuses in this business. Take the bottle and drink the contents.’

‘You’re a beer behind, laddy,’ a voice barked behind Jack. It was Smiv, a tall, red-headed Scotsman with a bull neck and a
build to match.


Jack pushed the beer closer to Stratton, frowning. ‘Refusing will not help your case,’ he said.

‘It’s not even one o’clock,’ Stratton pleaded.

Jock and Smiv were joined by Bracken, a dark-haired hombre-moustachioed brute whom many called Turk because of his highly suspect ancestry, a heritage which he flatly denied. ‘How’s
it going, Stratton?’ he asked.


‘He’s a beer behind,’ Smiv told Bracken.

‘That right?’ Bracken said as he put a bottle to his lips and took a swig. ‘Who does he think he is?’

Stratton rolled his eyes, took the bottle and put it to his lips.

‘You don’t get in this door until that’s emptied,’ Jack added.

Stratton sighed, tipped back his head, and slowly emptied the glass container, not as adept as most at divesting a bottle
of its contents in one go. He handed it back to Jack who beamed as if all negative issues had been suddenly resolved.


‘Come inside,’ Jack said, stepping back to allow Stratton entry. As he closed the door he gave Stratton a bear-hug, then stepped
back to look him over. ‘Everything in order? No bits missing?’


‘No. The most boring job I think I’ve ever done. I had piles from sitting on cold, damp rocks for a couple of weeks, but other-wise no complaints.’


‘Always take a packet of Anusols with you on ops,’ Smiv advised like an old sage.

‘Might as well shove ’em up your arse, all the good they do,’ Bracken chimed in as he took another swig from his bottle.

‘Sad thing is he’s serious,’ Smiv confided to the others.

‘Go say hello to Sally,’ Jack said, nodding towards the kitchen and taking Stratton’s wine. ‘And then go see Josh. He’s been going on at me all week about when you’re coming home and if
you’ll be in time for his party.’


‘’E ’asn’t gotta beer again,’ Bracken noted and one was immediately held out to Stratton.

‘I haven’t had a drink in a month. I’ll be trashed on another of those.’

The other men remained unmoved by his plea, as did the bottle. Stratton took it, rolled his eyes again and went into the kitchen
where several wives were helping to prepare food.


‘Stratton!’ Sally yelled on seeing him. She quickly put down the tray of sausages that she had just removed from the oven,
tossed her gloves onto the kitchen counter and hurried over with outstretched arms. ‘Come ’ere, you handsome bastard,’ she
said, a northern twang discernible even after more than a decade living in the south of the country. ‘We’ve missed yer.’


She gave him a bear-hug. Stratton wrapped his laden arms around her, and gave her a fat kiss on the lips.

‘Doesn’t greet me like that when I come home,’ Jack said, feigning hurt.

‘’Im or ’er?’ Bracken asked.

‘Oh, shot op, Jack. ’E gets the same,’ she said to Stratton. ‘Except in lace underwear.’

‘Ooooh,’ the men cooed in chorus.

‘I’ll ’ave to try that,’ Bracken said.

‘She wears the lace underwear,’ Smiv explained.

‘Oh.’ Bracken nodded, understanding.

‘Let me take a look at you,’ Sally said, standing back. ‘All in one piece?’

‘We’ve been through that,’ Jack said, stepping forward and taking over. ‘Now get yourself down and see Josh before she starts
checking for herself.’


Sally gave Jack a little smack on the arm. ‘Go on,’ she said to Stratton. ‘Get down to the garden. I’ll talk to you later. And take that rabble with yer.’


Stratton headed through the kitchen to a set of double doors that led out on to a balcony overlooking a large back garden
surrounded by leylandii. A barbecue was smoking away in a corner where some two dozen adults stood chatting, drinks in their
hands, and a dozen children. Stratton picked out Josh. The boy was wearing a set of oversized military-camouflage clothes
and leading several of the children in an attack against an enemy position with his plastic M16 assault rifle.


Stratton made his way down a flight of steps to the bottom where a man turning chicken legs on the barbecue saw him. ‘Stratton,’
he called out.


‘Seaton,’ Stratton replied. ‘Long time no see.’

‘Fallujah,’ Seaton reminded him, his accent south-east-coast American. ‘What happened to you? You left right after.’

‘Our job was only to lift Maqari for you guys. Interrogations bore me,’ Stratton said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well,’ Seaton said, lowering his voice and looking to make sure that no one was within earshot. ‘The job you just came back
off – you were working for us. Great footage, by the way. Sorry it wasn’t more exciting for you.’


‘That’s how it goes sometimes.’

‘I’ll make it up to you soon,’ Seaton said.

‘How soon?’

‘Pretty soon, I think.’ Seaton winked.

Stratton didn’t know Seaton very well. He was aware that the man was in CIA operations in the Middle East but was not a field
operative like Stratton.


‘I have a present to deliver,’ Stratton said, holding up the gift.

‘We’ll catch up later.’

Stratton headed across the garden, wondering what kind of operation it would be that Seaton had hinted would be ‘pretty soon’. But his thoughts were quickly interrupted. Most of the men greeted him as he passed and when Josh saw him he stopped
in mid-battle and sprinted over at full speed.


‘Stratton!’ he shouted as he dived into his god father’s arms. ‘When’d you get back?’

‘This morning.’

‘Where’d you go? Are you allowed to tell?’

‘Only you, Josh.’

Josh looked around at his mates who had come over to join them. ‘Sorry, guys. Stratton can only tell me.’

The others looked downhearted as Josh pulled Stratton away from them. Stratton crouched so that his and Josh’s heads were
close together.


The other kids looked on jealously as Josh nodded while Stratton talked. Then the boy’s eyes lit up and he looked at Stratton
in disbelief. ‘True?’ he asked. ‘Bloody ’ellfire,’ he exclaimed, a bit of his mother’s northern accent sneaking into his despite
the fact that he spent only a few weeks of each year with his grandparents in Manchester.


‘Promise not to tell anyone,’ Stratton asked.

‘On pain of death,’ Josh said with immense sincerity. Stratton gave him the present and stood up as Jack joined them.

‘Thanks, Stratton,’ Josh said as he crouched to open the gift, quickly surrounded by his mates.

‘What crap did you spin him this time?’ Jack said into Stratton’s ear.

‘I took over a battle from a dying Afghan warlord and led a thousand of his men on a cavalry charge against a band of rogue
Taliban insurgents coming over the border from Pakistan.’


‘Christ. He probably thinks his dad’s a complete loser while his godfather goes around winning every war single-handed.’

‘Yup,’ Stratton agreed.

Josh stood up holding the contents of his package. In one hand he held a pakol, a traditional Afghani mujahedin hat, brown and shaped like a large pie, and in the other a Russian Army belt with a black
buckle from the Second Armoured Division, a relic of Russia’s Afghan war.


‘What are they?’ Josh asked.

‘The hat’s from a certain Afghan warlord,’ he said, winking. ‘And the belt’s from a Russian soldier he killed in hand-to-hand
combat.’


‘Wow!’ Josh exclaimed while his father rolled his eyes and shook his head.

‘Right. We’ve got a new game,’ Josh said, facing his troops with great seriousness. ‘I’m an Afghan warlord and you’re all
my men. And we’re going to do a cavalry charge.’ Josh put the hat on, winked at Stratton and then ran away, followed by his
obedient soldiers.


Jack sighed as he watched Josh race off. ‘If I told him you were his real dad he’d just shrug and say, “Okay, see ya, let’s
go home, Stratton.” ’


‘Stratton?’ a voice called out from behind.

Stratton turned to see Bracken, Smiv and Smudge walking towards him. Smudge was a lanky SBS operative with an unusually large
nose not unlike the keel of a yacht, and in his hand was a small green plastic briefcase.


‘I think I’ve got you this time,’ Smudge said.

‘Got me?’

‘Party trick,’ Smudge said, holding up the green briefcase. ‘I brought the fat.’

‘Here?’ Stratton exclaimed. ‘You must be joking.’

‘Joke I do not … Over here,’ Smudge said, heading across the garden.

‘No,’ Stratton said.

‘Just take a look,’ Smudge urged. ‘Come on – I’ve got some money to win back.’

‘Go on, Stratton,’ Bracken said. ‘At least take a look. It’s a good one.’


Stratton looked at Jack who simply shrugged, evidently in on whatever was going on.

Stratton reluctantly followed the group to the far corner of the garden where a small table stood all on its own. In the centre
was a small tower of glass made of an empty champagne bottle and a slender champagne flute balanced upright on top of it.


They all stared at it in silence, the others glancing between Stratton and the table as if he knew what this was all about.

‘I don’t get it,’ Stratton finally said.

‘You’ve got to get the glass inside the bottle,’ Smudge revealed.

‘What?’ Stratton asked, unsure whether he had heard correctly.

‘The champagne glass inside the bottle … May I remind you that you were the one who said that the use of explosives was
not brutality but a delicate science and that with the right formula and chemistry anything could be achieved.’


‘I never said that.’

‘Something like that,’ Smudge insisted.

‘The universe was started with a big bang,’ Bracken commented. The others ignored him.

‘All you have to do is get the glass into the bottle,’ Smudge repeated. ‘And there has to be a recognisable amount of the
bottle left.’


‘The glass inside the bottle,’ Stratton said, unable to stop himself from calculating a solution.

‘One hit only,’ Smudge added, sensing that Stratton might already have a plan.

Stratton looked around at the garden, estimating the dangers. But Smudge was ahead of him.

‘Everyone goes into the house,’ Smudge said. ‘Won’t be more than like a large banger going off.’

Stratton looked at Jack who shrugged his indifference. Then he peered closely at the bottle and flute again. ‘The glass inside the bottle,’ he said.


‘’E ’as a plan, methinks,’ Bracken said, grinning, the comment denting Smudge’s confidence.

‘You can’t touch any of the glass other than with fat,’ Smudge said. ‘One explosion, and the flute has to end up inside the
bottle … You owe me a chance to get my money back.’


‘For what?’ Stratton asked.

‘That Sunni cleric in Mosul – what was ’is name?’

‘Mohamed Sah,’ Jack offered.

‘That’s ’im. You had to blow his car off the street and onto the roof of his house.’

‘He did that,’ Jack said.

‘Yeah, but I should’ve won on a technicality,’ Smudge argued. ‘The guy was supposed to have been in it at the time.’

‘You’re a sore loser, Smudge,’ Smiv chimed in.

‘I accepted it, didn’t I? I’m moving on. Stratton was the one who said he could do anything with explosives and I’m offering
him another chance to prove it. What do you say? Double the Mosul bet? Two hundred quid says you can’t do it.’


Stratton was more interested in the challenge than the money.

‘I’ll match Smudge’s two ’undred,’ Bracken said.

‘I’ll ’ave some of that,’ added Smiv. ‘I can’t see how he can do that.’

‘You in, Jack?’ Smudge asked.

‘If Stratton says it can be done,’ Jack said.

They all looked at Stratton who was still studying the problem.

‘What do you think?’ Smudge asked him.

‘The question is not if, but how,’ Stratton answered.

‘No,’ Smudge said, challenging him. ‘The question is, my friend, can you do it?’


They watched Stratton study the table, the glass, the air above, and even the surrounding area. Finally he stood back, put
his hands on his hips, exhaled deeply and nodded to himself.


‘Is that a yes?’ Smudge asked.

‘Yes,’ Stratton finally said.

Smudge immediately looked concerned. He knew that Stratton was a master when it came to explosives but he was also canny and
Smudge did not trust him. ‘One bang only,’ he reiterated.


Stratton nodded.

‘No touching any of the glass afterwards,’ Smudge added.

Stratton nodded again.

‘No picking the glass up with anything and putting it inside the bottle,’ Smudge added, trying to cover every possible catch
he could think of.


‘No picking the glass up afterwards,’ Stratton said, his eyes never leaving the table as he finalised his solution. ‘Any more
rules?’


Smudge looked around at the others in case they had any to add, hoping that someone had thought of something. But there was
only silence. ‘Okay,’ he said.


‘I’ll match the two hundred, then,’ Jack said. ‘But my money’s on Stratton.’

‘Easy money.’ Smudge smirked.

‘Gotta go with the track record,’ Jack said.

‘Can I get in on this?’ Seaton asked, making his way into the group.

‘Absolutely,’ Smudge said. ‘’Ow much?’

‘What’s the going bet?’ the American asked.

‘Jack has two hundred,’ Smudge said.

‘Two hundred it is, then,’ Seaton said, getting out his money.

‘Right. Two hundred against,’ Smudge said as he reached for the notes.

‘No. I’d never bet against Stratton,’ Seaton said, handing the money over.

Smudge’s confidence was rocked a little once again, but he recovered. ‘Your money … Right, then,’ Smudge said as he picked
a flower from the tree and put it into the flute. ‘That has to stay in the glass that ends up in the bottle.’


‘You can’t add on things after the bet,’ Jack said.

‘The flower doesn’t matter,’ Stratton said. ‘Nice touch, Smudge.’

Smudge frowned as he held out the briefcase, insisting to himself that Stratton was bluffing.

Stratton took the case, placed it on the table and opened it up. Inside was a series of neatly organised compartments, a pristine
surgical pack filled with an assortment of micro-explosives that included: a metre reel of detonator cord or cortex no thicker
than a piece of spaghetti, a two-metre reel of very fine slow-burning fuse, a cartridge of four micro-detonators, a pack of
PE5 (Super-X) plastic explosive packed in thin cellophane sheets like sliced processed cheese, three timers, one electronic,
one mechanical and one chemical, two radio-receiver detonators, a ceramic surgical knife (non-metallic), a heavy-duty multi-tool
‘work man’ that included pliers, scissors and various other utensils, a roll of electrician’s tape, a spool of nylon fishing
line, an assortment of screws and tacks, several paper-thin magnetic strips, and a remote-detonation transmitter and continuity
tester.


Stratton removed the detonating cord, unravelled a short length which he cut off using the ceramic blade, then began pulling
it carefully through his fingers.


‘Why’s he doing that?’ Bracken asked.

‘He’s stretching it to thin it out,’ Jack informed him.

‘I see.’ Bracken nodded. ‘Why?’

‘He’s making it a weaker charge, I suppose.’

Stratton eased the cortex through his fingers, being careful not to break it. When it was half its original thickness he wrapped
it once around the neck of the bottle, just above its widest point, and cut it precisely where the ends met. The men were
joined by several others and they watched with interest as Stratton removed a small piece of electrician’s tape which he stuck
to the face of his wristwatch. Then he cut two lengths of slow-burning fuse, one twelve inches long, the other double that. He attached
the shorter fuse to a micro-detonator and carefully placed its tip where the two ends of the cortex met, securing it in place
with the tape where it sat like a bracelet.


Stratton reached for the glass.

‘Uh-uh,’ Smudge quickly interrupted. ‘You can’t move anything. You gotta leave it in place as is.’

Stratton didn’t appear bothered about the rule revision and went back to the briefcase. He removed the reel of fishing line,
unwound a couple of metres and looked up into the tree that loomed over the table. The men followed his gaze and watched the
end of the line float skywards over a branch and back into his hand. He flicked the line along the branch until it was above
the glass. Then he cut it, tied a slip knot and pulled it to the top of the line where it tightened in place. He released
the line to check that it dangled directly above the glass, which it did nicely, then turned the line several times around
the thickest part of the glass and tied it off with a knot.


‘What’s he doing?’ Smudge asked.

‘Shut up, Smudge,’ Smiv said. ‘He’s not doing anything you said he couldn’t.’

‘Whose side are you on, anyway?’ Smudge asked him.

‘I still don’t think he can do it but I’d like to see him try.’

Smudge frowned.

Josh’s head rose up between the men beside Stratton. ‘What you doing, Stratton?’

‘I’m going to blow some fat.’

‘Wow,’ Josh replied, eyes wide.

‘Would you like to light the fuse?’

Josh’s eyes lit up even more. No other reply was necessary.

The final touch was the long piece of fuse, which Stratton wrapped one end of around the nylon line just above the champagne
glass. He placed the other end beside the end of the smaller fuse-line attached to the detonator.


Several discussions immediately broke out among the men – descriptions of what was meant to happen and estimates of varying
degrees of success. The general consensus seemed to be that it was an interesting idea but a doomed one.


‘You want to get everyone inside?’ Stratton asked Jack.

A moment later the children and wives were being herded into the house. A man with a well-developed gut and a decidedly unspecial-forces-like
bearing who had been talking to several of the wives and not paying attention to the goings-on in the corner of the garden
joined the men heading into the house. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.


‘A party trick,’ Jack said.

‘Oh, great. What is it?’

‘The explosive kind,’ Bracken explained.

‘Explosive. Inside the house?’ The man chuckled, not believing them.

‘No. Outside. That’s why we’re going inside,’ Bracken said.

The man stopped in the doorway, looking as if he’d misheard. ‘Not real explosives, surely?’

‘Yeah. As in boom boom,’ Smiv said.

‘Real explosives?’ the man asked again.

‘Which is why we’re going inside,’ Bracken repeated patiently.

The man looked across the garden to the table where Stratton was crouched with Josh, talking about something. ‘Are you mad?’ he exclaimed. ‘You can’t blow things up. This is a private neighbourhood.’


‘If anyone complains we’ll say it was just a big banger,’ Bracken said.

‘Big banger?’ the man echoed, looking astounded.


‘So who’s gonna know?’ Bracken asked.

‘I’ll know,’ the man said, his voice rising to its highest pitch.


‘May I remind you that I’m a police officer.’ He was from the Dorset Police Firearms Unit which the SBS occasionally instructed.


‘Relax, Bob. It’s all under control,’ Jack assured him.

‘Relax? If anything goes wrong it’ll be me who gets it in the neck.’

‘Bob,’ Smiv said, putting a large hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezing it a little. ‘If you don’t shut up I’m going to
shoot you in the leg tomorrow when we’re on the range. Now get in the poxy house and do as you’re told.’


Bob looked at the hardened faces staring at him, all belonging to men a head taller than him. ‘I’m going to deny all knowledge,’
he said as he went into the house.


‘Is everyone inside?’ Jack asked. ‘Shut the balcony door, please,’ he shouted and someone complied. ‘Stratton? All yours.’

‘Don’t you break any of my windows, Stratton,’ Sally called out from the patio doors.

Jack closed the doors on her, cleared various items off a garden table and tipped it on its side.

Stratton took a small battery-ignited gas lighter from the briefcase and pushed the button on the side a couple of times,
initiating it for Josh to see how it worked. ‘You have a go,’ he said to Josh who took the lighter and pushed the button.
The small portal instantly glowed red and blue without a visible flickering tongue of fire: it looked more like the rear of
a miniature jet engine.


‘That’s perfect. Now, you remember the last time we lit a fuse?’

‘Yes.’ Josh nodded.

‘This is just the same. When you light the ends of the fuses and they start to crackle we’ll walk slowly back to the table
where your dad is. Okay?’


Josh nodded again. ‘What do we count up to?’ he asked.

‘Twelve inches is sixty seconds. You remember how we count?’

‘Thousand and one, thousand and two, thousand and three,’ Josh said, nodding his head at each number.

‘Perfect … You ready?’


Josh held up the lighter.

‘Okay. Light it.’

Josh ignited the lighter and carefully aimed the jet at the ends of both the short and the long fuses lying beside each other.
They immediately crackled to life and began to give off a thin wisp of smoke.


Josh began to count. ‘Thousand and one, thousand and two, thousand and three, thousand and four …’

Stratton took the lighter from him, pocketed it, closed the briefcase, stood up and took Josh’s hand. Josh looked up at him,
still counting, and Stratton winked, emphasising how calm and cool they should be. As Josh got to a thousand and ten, they
strode off together to where Jack was waiting for them behind the table.


‘Thousand and twenty-one,’ Josh counted as he got down beside his dad. He glanced over at the patio doors where his friends
were pressed against the glass, watching him.


‘Is my money safe?’ Jack asked Stratton while his son continued counting.

‘I’m relying more on luck than judgement but I’d say we’re in good shape.’

As Josh got to one thousand and fifty-seven, there was a sharp crack, hardly louder than a normal firework banger, and a moment
later the three of them stood up to see what had happened.


The patio doors opened and Smudge led the others out as a small cloud of smoke dissipated. They walked over and stood around
the table. The champagne bottle was in precisely the same position but its top was missing. Swinging like a pendulum above
it on the nylon line was the champagne flute containing the flower. The longer fuse wire was still burning up towards it.


Everyone gathered around, watching the glass swing less and less as the thin wisp of smoke from the fuse drew closer to it.
Smudge was at the other side of the table, facing Stratton, the swinging glass between them. He looked unsure. But the odds
on the fuse burning through the nylon at the precise moment were surely in his favour.


The seconds ticked away and as the fuse got shorter no one said a word. Even Bob the police officer stared in anticipation.

The fuse reached the nylon and burnt through it. The glass fell, the bottom of the stem hitting the edge of the bottle and
breaking off. But the rest of it dropped inside the bottle.


Jack leaned over the bottle, reached inside it, and lifted the glass out. Apart from its stem it was intact, with the flower
inside. ‘I’d say that was a winner.’


There was instant applause from everyone and Josh hugged Stratton’s legs.

‘Wait a minute,’ Smudge said. ‘The bottom of the glass is broken.’

‘Shut up, Smudge,’ Bracken said. ‘He did exactly what you asked him to. Cough up.’

‘But technically—’ Smudge whined on.

‘Just give ’em the money and stop your whingeing,’ Smiv said as he took out his wallet and duly counted out a hundred pounds
into Jack’s hand. Smudge reluct antly took out his wallet and handed his payment to Jack who beamed as he took his cut before
handing some to Seaton and the rest to Stratton. ‘Never a doubt,’ Jack said. ‘Beer?’ he asked both Seaton and Stratton.


‘Beer,’ they agreed. They broke into laughter as they headed for the house, Jack and Seaton putting an arm around Stratton.

The sound of a beeper going off filtered through the laughter and conversation as people discussed the feat. Every man heard
it but Sally was the first to react, looking up from Josh, her smile fading as her gaze met Jack’s.


Smiv pulled his pager from his pocket. ‘It’s me,’ he said as he read the slender information bar on the top of the device.

Sally sighed, looking relieved. ‘If there’s one sound I hate it’s that one,’ she said to one of the wives beside her.