pack his anti-venom, apparently. Oh, and his heart pills too. Very convenient.’
Adam took a few seconds to digest all this, staring into his coffee. He couldn’t drink any more.
‘How come you know so much, Lenny? How come I haven’t heard anything?’
‘I’m not the one who cut himself away,’ Salt replied. ‘I didn’t turn my back on my friends, man. I stayed in touch with the rest of the Krew.’
‘Never mind the damn Kammler Krew. That was never a serious thing, and you know it.’
‘It was for Julia, Michio and me.’
Adam didn’t want to get into old arguments. ‘How did you find out about Michio?’
‘His brother emailed me a couple of weeks ago.’
‘And you didn’t call me about this? Two old friends die, and you don’t think to tell me about it?’
‘I didn’t have your number.’
‘I gave it to you.’
Salt shrugged. ‘I didn’t write it down. I don’t like to use the phone. You never know who might be listening in.’ He leaned across the table with a conspiratorial look. ‘Listen to me, man. Something’s up. Something bad.’
‘You’re not suggesting that Julia’s and Michio’s deaths are connected?’
‘Of course that’s what I’m suggesting. It’s obvious. Someone murdered them, and now they’re coming after us. We’re all that’s left of the old Kammler Krew. Now it’s just you and me.’
At that moment, deep within the acres of dense forest that surrounded the training facility at Le Val, Brooke was sitting reading a paperback in the specially adapted cottage that Ben Hope referred to as his killing house.
It was the place where the bulk of the tactical raid and assault exercises were carried out, the many bullet holes and ragged splinters in the plywood walls silent witnesses to the amount of live-fire practice that went on there. The two-seater sofa Brooke was reclining on, deep in her novel, had looked better in the days before it had become riddled with 9mm rounds; one end was resting on bricks, and the stuffing was hanging out all over the place.
Today, though, there was to be no live shooting. Brooke was playing the role of a VIP, albeit the kind of VIP that would be hanging out in a semi-derelict cottage wearing faded jeans and an old rugby top. Shannon’s guys – Neville, Woodcock, Morgan, Burton, Powell and Jackson – were stationed at strategic points inside and outside the building, assigned to protect their charge from Ben’s squad of ‘kidnappers’. The imminent raid was a test designed to expose any weaknesses in Shannon’s team and form the basis of the training sessions to come. They’d been waiting for what seemed like an eternity, and so far no sign.
As team leader, Shannon had insisted on remaining closest to his principal. He was padding up and down the room in his black tactical clothes, glancing at her occasionally, trying not to look edgy, the empty 9mm Glock slapping on his thigh in its holster. The only sounds outside were the singing of the birds and the whisper of the breeze in the trees.
‘I don’t like this place,’ he muttered. ‘Too quiet.’
Brooke flipped a page and went on reading.
‘You’ve always got your face in a book,’ he said irritably. ‘You read too much. I don’t know how anyone can read all the time.’
‘Shut up,’ she said. ‘You’re the bodyguard, remember? You’re supposed to be protecting me, not chatting to me.’
He snorted and walked over to the window, stared out at the rustling greenery. ‘What’s keeping the bastard?’
Brooke glanced up at him. ‘You mean the guy you came here to learn from?’
He ignored her. ‘Come on, Hope,’ he murmured to himself.
‘He’ll come.’
‘He’ll never get to you, you know. No way he and his guys are going to get past my boys. There’s a reason why Steiner picked us, out of all the thousands of close protection outfits out there. It’s simple. We’re the best there is. Yeah.’ Shannon made a fist.
‘Nothing to do with your uncle the brigadier’s connections, then,’ Brooke said quietly, without looking up from her novel.
But Shannon didn’t hear. He gazed out of the window for a while longer, breathing noisily.
‘Maybe we didn’t even need to come here. Maybe I’m wasting time and money here. I mean, we’re ready. We’re fucking ready. You can’t improve on perfection.’ He turned away from the window, grinning to himself.
Then his grin froze.
And so did he.
‘Morning, Rupert,’ Ben said. He was sitting on the sofa beside Brooke, a pistol dangling lazily in his hand. The worn cushions were sagging in the middle, pressing them together so that their thighs were touching.
The door swung open, and Jeff Dekker walked in with Paul Bonnard and Raoul de la Vega, the two ex-military fitness trainers Ben employed as assistants. The shapes of Shannon’s men were visible through the doorway, face down on the bare floorboards, tape across their mouths, struggling against the plastic ties that bound their wrists and ankles. Trussed up like turkeys.
Shannon stared for a long moment. Next to Ben on the sofa, Brooke was trying to suppress a smile.
Ben stood up, slipping his pistol in its holster. ‘You need to pay more attention, Rupert. A gang of clog dancers could have come hopping and skipping in here, and you wouldn’t have noticed them. Maybe you should spend less time chatting to your principal, and more time focused on your job.’
‘You set me up,’ Shannon protested. ‘It was your idea to make her the principal.’
‘Good training,’ Ben said. ‘Teaches you to remain objective. That’s something we can work on a bit more over the next couple of days.’ He reached out a hand to Brooke and pulled her gently to her feet. ‘Break for coffee?’ he said to her.
She smiled. ‘Love to.’
‘Like fuck we will.’ Shannon ripped his Glock from its holster and pointed it at Ben. ‘Stand down. This isn’t over. Give her back.’
Ben wasn’t worried about having an empty pistol waved at him. But he was annoyed at the pointless gesture, and he didn’t like the way Shannon was shoving it in his face.
‘Drop it, Rupert. You’re out of the game. Your principal is taken. We’re having a break, and then we’re going to do this again, and keep doing it until your team’s providing effective protection. You do want to be worth that million, don’t you? You don’t want to be sent home from Switzerland in disgrace.’
But Shannon
