Page 136 of Lethal Torture

“Ha.” Mak pauses. “What’s up?”

“I’ve found the leak.” I say it without preamble.

“Copy. Go on.”

“I’m sending you a summary now, with everything I know at this stage.” I pause, grimacing as I hit the send button.

This is going to be fucking awkward.

“With the ball tomorrow night, Zinaida’s schedule is extremely hectic,” I say carefully. “I’ve sent her the same summary I’m sending you. I’d hoped to debrief her fully today, but she’s been unreachable over the past few hours. Unfortunately, I’ve got a private commitment this evening. She may find it difficult to reach me later tonight, so if you’re in London, would you mind being named as the contact for any questions she might have?”

“Ah.” Mak’s somber tone, followed by an uncharacteristically long silence, is confirmation, if I needed it, that he’s well aware something is badly off. “I take it you and Miss Melikov are not quite as... close as when we met in Spain?”

“No.” My answer is harsher than intended. “No, we definitely are not.”

“I see,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry to hear that, Luke.”

The worst thing is, I can hear the sincerity in his voice.

“She’ll likely call,” I say curtly. “Make sure you answer when she does. She needs to know what is going on, sooner rather than later.”

“Of course.”

I hang up without a formal goodbye, call the security team to make sure everything is covered for the night, and confirm Zinaida’s whereabouts and that she is safe.

Then I pull my helmet on, kick the Ninja into life, and turn my fucking phone off.

I can’t brief someone who is determined to ignore me.

For tonight, at least, I plan to get good and drunk, talk bullshit war stories, and do my best to drive Zinaida fucking Melikov out of my mind.

Even if I am horribly aware that, so far, I’ve been unable to forget her for even five minutes.

Let alone for the rest of my life.

“I thoughtwe were gone for sure that day.” Major Ian Welch, our former instructor, better known to us all as the Sandman, grins at me across the table. “Until Macarthur came over that ridge and started blowing everything hell west and crooked.” He raises his beer to me, then downs the entire pint in a long draft and refills it from one of the jugs on the table. He’s been telling stories all evening, most of which seem, for some reason I can’t yet work out, to feature me.

It’s starting to get uncomfortable.

“You still doing private contract work, Luke?” one of the other men asks.

“Yep,” I say shortly without elaborating.

“Not me,” says another. “Had enough of sandboxes to last me a lifetime.”

Paddy, shooting me a sideways look, raises his glass to the table. “Here’s to that,o chara.Happy is the man on fields of green, no?”

“Aye,” says Bryan, one of the Scottish lads from our troop. “I’ll drink to that.”

We drink. We’re sitting in a pub in Knightsbridge where phones are banned and SAS veterans are encouraged. It’s a well-enough-kept secret that military fanboys haven’t yet discovered it. The private back room, where we’re currently drinking, isby reservation only. Photos of various troops are pinned to the walls. It’s tradition that when the last man in a troop has left the forces, a photo goes up on the wall here. Tonight our troop photo has just been pinned into place, the youngest member, the stocky Scotsman who just drank to Paddy’s toast, being the final one of us to have handed in his cap. Paddy, in his inimitable fashion, has thrown darts with terrifying precision to make a frame around the photo.

I generally enjoy these nights. Sometimes they even make me a little nostalgic for all I’ve left behind. And there’s no denying I’d still lay my life down for any man at this table. More than once, lately, especially on nights like Avonmouth, I’ve wished I still had them with me.

But I don’t miss taking orders from politicians. And at this particular moment, watching the Sandman work the room like an Amway salesman, I definitely don’t miss my old fucking instructor.

I don’t remember him being so tedious,I think, watching him lavish effusive praise on one of the younger lads. Anyone would think he was trying to recruit them, not catching up after retirement.

“So we’re all on the wall now, boys.” He grins around the table. “But if any of you want work, there’s still plenty to be had.” He cuts his eyes sideways to me. “Real work,” he says in an oddly pointed way. “For the king and country you were trained to protect.”