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  ‘He sees us,’ said the Spotter.

  The Sniper ignored him. The American soldiers had M16s and they were too far away to reach him. The turrets of the Bradleys were pointed in the wrong direction and the men operating the machine-guns on the roofs of the Humvees had ducked inside their vehicles. He had plenty of time to make the kill and escape. All the time in the world. He smiled and started to pull the trigger.

  He never heard the Hellfire missile because it was flying at thirty per cent faster than the speed of sound. He never felt the heat of the blast or any pain as the impact fuse detonated the eight kilograms of high explosive and blasted him and his spotter into fragments no bigger than a fingernail in a fraction of a second. One moment he was alive, about to squeeze the trigger and whisper, ‘Allahu Akbar,’ the next he was dead.

  Shepherd flinched at the explosion. Out of the corner of his eye he’d seen the missile streak through the azure sky, leaving behind a thin white trail, but hadn’t realised what it was until the top of the building had exploded in a ball of flame. The noise was deafening and his ears were ringing as the thick plume of smoke spiralled up into the sky.

  The Major and O’Brien came out from behind the Humvee. ‘What the hell was that?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘A Hellfire missile,’ said Yokely. ‘Courtesy of my guardian angels.’

  Shepherd gazed at Geordie. The Sniper was dead. There was no question of that. But so was Geordie Mitchell, and he had been worth a hundred Iraqi snipers.

  Three days later

  Shepherd checked himself in the hall mirror. Black suit, white shirt, black tie. His funeral outfit. ‘You look very smart, Daniel,’ said Moira, behind him. ‘You should wear a suit more often.’

  ‘The job doesn’t always call for it, Moira.’

  She adjusted his tie. ‘Maybe you should look for a job where a suit is the usual attire.’ She took a step back and flicked a speck off his shoulder. ‘The last time you wore it …’

  ‘I know,’ he said quickly. Sue’s funeral.

  Liam came out of the sitting room. ‘Why can’t I come?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a memorial service, not a party,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you didn’t know him. He was someone I knew at work.’

  ‘How did he die?’ asked Liam.

  ‘Liam!’ said Moira, shocked. ‘That’s not a polite question to ask.’

  ‘That’s okay, Moira,’ said Shepherd, and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘He was killed in Iraq.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was shot.’

  ‘It’s a terrible place,’ said Moira. ‘I don’t understand why our troops are there. That Mr Blair has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘Was he a soldier, Dad,’ asked Liam, ‘like you?’

  ‘Yeah. He was in the SAS with me. He helped me when I was shot in Afghanistan.’

  ‘So that’s why you’re going to his funeral?’

  ‘It’s not a funeral, Liam. He was cremated in Iraq. This is a memorial service where we all get together and say goodbye to him.’

  ‘Just be thankful your father isn’t a soldier any more,’ said Moira. ‘He doesn’t have to go to terrible places like Iraq.’

  Shepherd’s mobile rang and he took it out of his jacket pocket.

  ‘I hope that’s not work,’ said Moira, disapprovingly.

  ‘So do I,’ said Shepherd, and looked at the screen. It was Jimmy Sharpe. He took the call and walked into the sitting room.

  ‘Have you seen the news?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘About you threatening the guy who bought my house?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what, Razor. You threatened the guy who bought my house. Threatened to have his company turned over.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Sharpe. ‘We just had a chat.’

  ‘Razor, aren’t you in enough trouble already? If Charlie finds out, she’ll hit the roof.’

  ‘Charlotte Button is going to have a hell of a lot more to worry about than me,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s on Sky News now but it’ll be all over the media within the next few hours.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘The Birmingham cops have just shot the wannabe terrorists.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Yeah, I called you up to make you laugh. The armed cops went in on the back of local intelligence, something about anthrax or a chemical bomb. The guys had the Ingrams we sold them and it all went tits up. Three dead, one’s in intensive care.’

  ‘And did they find the bomb?’

  ‘My guy says no they didn’t. Just the guns.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah, deep, deep shit. But I guess we’re in the clear. It was an Anti-Terrorist Branch case, so it’s their fault for not liaising with the local cops. Just thought you’d like to know. Button said you were taking some time off. When are you back in harness?’

  ‘Next week.’ A car horn blared outside. ‘Razor, I’ve got to go.’ He put his phone away as he went back into the hallway. He pointed at Liam. ‘Is your bedroom tidy? It was a pit this morning.’

  ‘I tidied it already.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be back before it gets dark so we can play football.’ He smiled at Moira. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and kissed her cheek.

  She looked at him, surprised. ‘Thank you for what?’ she asked.

  ‘For everything,’ he said. He had a sudden urge to hug her, but instead he smiled and left the house. He walked over to the Major’s black Range Rover – Armstrong was standing by the front passenger door, finishing a cigarette. He flicked away the butt and climbed into the front. The rear door opened and Shepherd got into the back next to O’Brien and Shortt.

  The Major twisted around in the driving seat. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘Anyone else going?’

  ‘John Muller’s over with some of his people.’ He grinned. ‘I gather Carol Bosch has come too.’

  O’Brien nudged Shepherd in the ribs.

  ‘A fair few lads from the Regiment have promised to be there, so we should have a good turnout,’ said the Major. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Yokely’s not going, then?’ said O’Brien.

  ‘He’s not big on funerals,’ said the Major.

  ‘Neither am I,’ said Shepherd.

  It was a fifteen-minute drive to St Martin’s, the grey stone church where the SAS honoured its dead. As Shepherd climbed out of the Range Rover he saw a woman in a long black coat standing at the gate to the churchyard. It was Charlotte Button.

  ‘She’s not after giving you another bollocking, I hope,’ muttered the Major.

  ‘She’s dressed for a funeral,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah, well, I hope it’s not yours,’ said the Major.

  Shepherd walked over to her. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he said.

  ‘He was a friend of yours so I thought I’d pay my respects,’ she said. She was holding a small black leather Prada bag.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And I needed a chat,’ she said. ‘Did you hear the news?’

  ‘Razor phoned me. What’s the story?’

  ‘It’s a bloody mess. The local cops went in without talking to the Anti-Terrorist Branch. They’d received a tip-off from a well-meaning mullah in one of the local mosques. He’d overheard Asim and Salman talking about anthrax. They went in with armed support and someone grabbed a gun. Details are still a bit sketchy as to who fired first but three of the Asians died and another’s only just hanging on.’

  ‘What about the informant?’

  ‘You were right. It was Ali. He’s the one in intensive care. The brothers died, and so did Asim. Fazal was in the bathroom when the cops went in and threw himself into the bath. He’s okay and singing like the proverbial canary. But it looks as if they were enthusiastic amateurs rather than an al-Qaeda cell.’

  ‘And no anthrax?’

  Button sh
ook her head. ‘But there were downloads from the Internet about chemical and biological warfare and homemade explosives.’

  ‘Any schoolkid has access to that sort of information, these days,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It shows intent,’ said Button.

  ‘They were shot because they had guns, and they had guns because we sold them guns.’

  ‘Well, like I said, it’s a bloody mess.’

  ‘Any of that mess heading our way?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘It’ll stop at my desk, whatever happens,’ said Button. ‘I don’t think there’s anything we have to worry about, though. It was an SO13 operation, through and through.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I’ve got some good news for you.’

  ‘That’ll make a nice change,’ said Shepherd. She flashed him an icy look, and he grinned. ‘Sorry.’

  She wagged a gloved finger at him. ‘I’ve a good mind to cancel your promotion, except that it’s out of my hands.’

  ‘Promotion?’

  ‘Detective sergeant, as of today. Nothing to do with me. Sam Hargrove put it through before he left. You were due, I gather. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah, well, like I said, it’s nothing do with what’s happened over the past week. If you ever lie to me again, Spider, we’re through. You, more than anyone, know how important it is that we trust each other.’

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It had better not,’ she said. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Right. I suppose I’d better go and say hello to the galloping Major. I just hope he doesn’t give me one of his famous bone-crushing handshakes. You men do like to prove yourselves, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s the hormones,’ said Shepherd.

  Button smiled. ‘Isn’t it just,’ she said, and went to the black Range Rover, her high heels clicking on the pavement.

  At about the same time as Shepherd and his colleagues were standing in the pews in St Martin’s Church in Hereford, a Gulfstream jet with an American registration was landing at a military airfield in the north of Ukraine, some eight miles from the nearest population centre.

  It was a cold day and flecks of snow were falling when the door opened. A single Russian Jeep, with two soldiers wrapped up in thick green overcoats, was waiting to meet it.

  Only two people got off the plane. One was an Arab, blindfolded, shackled and wearing an orange jumpsuit. He moved unsteadily, as if he’d been drugged or badly beaten. His right arm was in a sling. The other man was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and brown loafers with tassels.

  CONTENTS

  Hot Blood

  Praise for Stephen Leather

  Also by Stephen Leather

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Book

  Special Offer