Cold Black. Alex Shaw
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The man from Andrews & Son opened the front door and stepped back to let Fox inside. As Fox passed, he swiped the keys from the door.
‘Thanks. I’ll take it.’
Edgar was confused but smiled nevertheless until the door closed and he was locked out. Fox winked at himself in the hall mirror as he made for the kitchen, ignoring the doorbell, which the bemused estate agent now rang. Reaching under the sink he turned the water back on then opened the understairs cupboard and did the same with the electricity supply. The doorbell had stopped ringing. Fox filled the kettle with water. Edgar’s face appeared at the back window; Fox held up the kettle and gave a ‘thumbs up’ before lowering the roller blind.
Tracey had really done a number on him. The house was bare except for the odd items that had been left strategically to ‘sell it’. The kettle in the kitchen, expensive cooking utensils hanging on their pegs, and magazines, of the type they never read, on the coffee table in the lounge. Luckily, both the TV and three-piece suite had also been used for staging.
A thought suddenly occurred to Fox. He moved quickly to the internal garage door and opened it. There she was, his beloved Porsche, stubbornly standing stock-still and refusing to move until she had been fully restored. She was where he had left her but was now surrounded by boxes. Fox opened the nearest one to find it full of clothes – his. He was relieved; at least she hadn’t thrown them away. Picking up the box he made his way upstairs and took a shower, again ignoring the front door, and now his mobile.
Riyadh, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia
Khalid stared at the desert. Was there no greater example of Allah’s greatness? He was doing His work on earth, carrying out His divine will. It was time to start the new jihad against the infidels, who, in league with the corrupt royals, would defile the house of Islam.
Khalid had received a target list from ‘the Chechen’ and some suggestions. He had found them most acceptable. His men had been instructed and soon, Insha’Allah, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia would be cleansed of the infidel plague and become the true house of Islam.
Wellness Fitness Club, Brighton Marina, UK
The three ‘meats’ were in again, pumping themselves up to ridiculous proportions. Fox shook his head. What a trio of tits! Each in their early twenties, one was well over six foot, the second just under, while the third – who Fox had nicknamed ‘mini-meat’ – was scraping five. As they passed, Fox kept his eyes on the monitor in front of his treadmill and the main report on Sky News, some sort of demonstration in Ukraine. Looking down again he saw that the two larger meats were now loading up the leg press machine for ‘mini-meat’, who as usual was making grunting noises as he pushed the plates away from his body under the ever-increasing pressure.
The guy really was comical, thought Fox. He was square. His shoulders were broader than Fox’s and his chest fuller; the sad thing was that this actually made him look shorter. Meat One and Meat Two egged him on and threw him a bottle of water when he had finished his set.
Fox had seen all sorts in his time, from the wiry types who were happy to run all day to the meatheads who thought they were invincible. These were usually Paras, huge, hulking men who ran into bullets like they were rain but died none the less. Strength was a great thing to have but flexibility and speed were just as important. Fox reached the five-mile mark and slowed down the machine before stepping off.
At forty-five he was in as fine a shape as he had been at twenty-five, or so he claimed. Not for him the beer belly and saggy skin. True, his joints ached more now, but he took a perverse pleasure in confronting the pain and battling through it. He drank greedily at the water fountain before heading for the pull-up bar directly in front of the leg press station and ‘the meats’. Resting between sets, they gave the older man sideways glances. Fox knew they were watching so decided to show off. He jumped up for the bar and, pausing only for a second to get his grip, snapped off ten very fast pull-ups. Dropping back to the floor he noticed their stunned expressions.
‘Bit tired today,’ he said in their general direction as he made for the bench press.
Snow showed a member’s pass and was let in. He followed the signs for the gym. Mid-afternoon and the place was busy with young mums and those who, he supposed, worked shifts. He looked around before spotting the man he wanted to talk to, pumping his arms into the air.
‘Is that a warm-up set?’ Snow looked down at Fox.
It took a second for the old soldier to register the face, then his own creased into a broad smile. ‘Wouldn’t be for you, you English poof!’ Fox rested the weight on the stand and rose to his feet, extending his hand. It had been more than fourteen years since he’d seen the young trooper he’d shared a cold ditch with.
‘It’s good to see you, Paddy.’ Snow shook the large hand.
‘You too, mate.’ Fox jerked his head and implied they should move.
Snow followed him to the personal trainer area in the corner, away from the other gym users. They both sat on different pieces of exercise equipment.
‘So, what are you doing here?’
‘I came to see you.’
‘Well, you see me.’ Fox took a gulp of water.
Snow gave a quick look over his shoulder to see that no one was within earshot. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
Fox wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘You still Regiment?’
‘Not quite.’
Fox raised his eyebrows; he knew better than to question any further here at the gym. ‘Listen, let me get a shower and meet me outside. You got a car?’
Snow nodded.
Snow brought his Audi round to the entrance. Five minutes later, he and Fox were leaving Brighton Marina and heading back to Shoreham.
‘You’re a celebrity.’ Snow cast Fox a wry look as they pulled out into the seafront traffic.
‘Apparently I’m very popular on Al-Jazeera.’
‘So what happened?’ Snow wanted to hear it firsthand.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Just me, Paddy.’
Fox folded his arms and leant back in the seat. It was a relief to recount the story to someone without fear of either prosecution or publication. He trusted Snow. As they headed towards Shoreham, Fox gave a full account of his actions on that eventful afternoon.
‘Did you see it was Sawyer before you pulled the trigger?’
Fox kept his eyes on the road. ‘He was in my line of sight.’
‘But did you see it was him?’
‘Yes, I saw him.’ Fox gripped the leather armrest. ‘He was shagging my wife.’
Snow slowed as they reached the outskirts of Shoreham. ‘You didn’t get the job then?’
‘What?’ Fox chuckled. ‘No, I did not.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Take the next on the right; you should be able to park at the Co-op.’
Snow turned and within a minute eased the car into a space.
‘So, who are you working for?’ Fox was blunt.
‘Six.’ Snow had no need to hide the fact.
Fox nodded knowingly. ‘I could tell.’ He tapped his hand on the dashboard. ‘Has this got machineguns and rotating number plates?’
‘No, but it’s got an ejector seat especially for passengers of the Scottish persuasion.’
Fox held up his middle finger in reply as they exited the car.
Snow followed Fox out of the car park and onto the narrow high street. Both men stayed quiet until they’d reached the pub and were