As he descended the staircase into the gloom Evans glanced at his PDA to
check the time again, noting that there were exactly two minutes to wait
before his train would arrive. He reached the bottom of the stairs and navigated as best as he could around the piles of rubbish and muddy puddles
that littered the bare concrete floors, the dim florescent lights above him
making his task more difficult as they cast ominous-looking shadows on the
chipped white-tile walls. He quickly scanned the platform and the staircase
behind him, looking for any signs of danger or a tail, both of which would be
easy to spot as the entire station was two thirds deserted. Satisfied he was
still safe, he moved toward the monitor displaying the train timetables,
confirmed his was on time and smiled, amused that although the station and
the city that contained it had been falling to pieces for years, the trains still
always ran on time. He had been in his mid-twenties when the remotely
controlled track switching and train operation had begun to be introduced so
he remembered the days when the country’s rail network was a joke, and he
found it somewhat ironic that not long after the government had fixed the
trains, the rise in terrorist activity had meant that no-one actually wanted to
go anywhere.

Leaning against the wall he checked the time again, feeling a little more

 

nervous and tightly strung than he would have anticipated, although he understood that it was the kind of nervousness to be expected, welcomed even, as it kept him

 

alert and on his toes. The approaching train interrupted his thoughts, its distinctive

 

electronic whir echoing softly around the station walls as it glided to a stop. The

 

doors promptly whooshed open and he boarded the carriage directly behind the

 

driverless cab, easily finding an empty seat at the rear end which gave him a good

 

view of the entire interior. Settling down he glanced around the carriage, noting the

 

location of emergency exits and escape routes and visually interrogating the other

 

occupants. There was an old man at the far end, wrapped in a filthy blanket and

 

snoring gently, three almost identical looking suits sitting in a group about halfway

 

down, and a mother and a pair of young children, one boy and one girl, were sat

 

across the aisle from the businessmen. There were a total of twenty-eight seats

 

available in the carriage and only eight of them were taken, not a good sign for the

 

rail companies.

 

‘This is the non-stop service to London Euston. Enjoy your journey and

 

have a pleasant day,’ announced the train’s soothing female voice over the intercom

 

system, her happy and confident tone out of place in the dismal surroundings. As

 

the train started to accelerate he stared out of the window to watch the city

 

disappear, the tall concrete buildings, wire security fences and ever-present graffiti visible but blurring rapidly as they picked up speed. As they began to cruise he

 

activated the touchscreen TV in the headrest in front of him, selecting a world news

 

channel with subtitles and no sound so that he could keep his ears open for any

 

sudden threats. He watched the headlines with a kind of bored numbness, unmoved

 

despite the grim subject matter; another AIDS epidemic in Africa, poorer than

 

expected economic growth in Japan, a shootout in Russia between the Mafia and

 

the police which left thirty dead including fourteen civilians, unemployment in the

 

USA on the rise for the third straight month. To him it was all old news being

 

recycled, just with slightly different faces and numbers; the whole world had been

 

tearing itself apart for years now and he, like many others, had grown wearily

 

accustomed to the mire. He thumbed the screen again, changing the channel to

 

BBC News 24, UK edition. The main story was about the British government

 

considering granting the military increased powers in domestic affairs. As support

 

for this viewpoint, the interviewee stated that recently increased terror threats and

 

rising crime levels meant that it would help bring much-needed stability to the

 

country. As he spoke there was footage of Prime Minister Stephen Cross leaving

 

Number 10 Downing Street in a heavily guarded motorcade, followed by shots of

 

armed soldiers on the street around Westminster and other areas of London. Evans watched the news on a regular basis and was getting fairly bored of

 

this story, which had been running for nearly a month as Parliament debated the

 

pros and cons. In his opinion the military and the government were just as likely to

 

screw it all up as each other, although he conceded that at least the government had

 

a lot more practice. Parliament had been operating under state of emergency powers

 

since terrorist attacks on London became an almost fortnightly occurrence in 2009.

 

Since then there had been no elections, police powers had been increased and

 

ministers were not accountable to anyone, allowing them to do as they pleased

 

without consequence. The military on the other hand were suspicious of everyone,

 

bored without a traditional land war to fight and desperate to get involved even

 

more with matters concerning domestic and European terrorism. As far as Evans

 

could see, if it came down to the people having to choose between giving more

 

power to the twitchy and forceful military or keeping the status quo with the overly

 

powerful government, it would be a pointless decision as the average person would

 

still be screwed either way. What did bother him was the impact military control

 

could have on his livelihood; he had some pretty powerful enemies in the military

 

and plenty of lesser ones who still held a grudge over past events. If they were allowed to run rule over the UK he would be discovered in time and if captured, the

 

best he could hope for was a quick death.

 

‘This country is buggered,’ he muttered softly to himself. All he wanted to

 

do was make enough money to get out for good, something hopefully that this

 

potential job could help him with. That was of course if they didn’t try to kill him,

 

and it wasn’t another pathetic activist group hoping to hire someone to destroy

 

some symbolic statue no-one had heard of. He’d had enough low-key and poor

 

paying jobs this year already and without a good enough income he’d be screwed.

 

He shifted in his seat, anxious to get the meet over and done with; he was always

 

more relaxed when he had an objective. At the moment he was focusing too much

 

on the maybes of tomorrow, neglecting the present and what should be on his mind,

 

the two ever presents on his so-called life’s checklist; money and survival, survival

 

and money, his not-so-wonderful circle of life. He gazed out of the window again,

 

ignoring the news in front of him, wondering what was waiting for him in London,

 

lost in his thoughts. When he had been growing up and had first joined the military,

 

Evans had never been the type of person to over-analyse his existence, but for the

 

past few years, his last few in the military and now as a mercenary, he had found

 

that he had so much time to himself that it was all he could do to stop thinking about his past and, consequently, his future. With no family, no friends and no

 

definite plans, he often considered the point of his entire life; what exactly was he

 

living for? In his most self-critical heart of hearts he knew that if leaving the UK

 

was what he really wanted that he could do it right now, and that he was using

 

money as an excuse to hide behind. He had come close to leaving before but he

 

didn’t know how to do anything but missions; without objectives he was nothing.

 

The quiet life, a retirement; he was terrified it would be too much for him to bear.

 

Sighing again he looked out of the window and watched the scenery whipping by,

 

trying to forget his troubles. Before he knew it an hour had passed and the

 

announcer was talking to him once more.

 

‘Arriving at London Euston in ten minutes. I would like to take this

 

opportunity to thank you for travelling with Great Western Railways, have a

 

pleasant evening and please remember to check your surrounding area for any

 

personal items before departing.’

 

Rubbing his face with his rough hands he tried to re-focus, mentally moving

 

up the gears in preparation for what lay ahead; he had to be sharp, had to be alert,

 

had to be ready. This was after all the seat of power for his enemies; it wouldn’t be

 

wise to be sloppy. He checked the time on his PDA and waited, anxious for the train to stop so he could start moving once more. Departing quickly he was on high

 

alert immediately, scanning every face he saw; in comparison to Manchester, the

 

platform was heavily populated with around twenty people milling around and he

 

instantly spotted a group of armed policemen to his right, bunched around a small

 

kiosk selling hot tea and snacks. Turning away quickly he darted up a staircase to

 

his left, taking the worn steps two at a time, trying to find the balance of appearing

 

rushed but not moving so quickly as to draw attention. He emerged into the main

 

station foyer, which was busy with the last commuter stragglers heading home for

 

the night. There were another five armed policemen dotted around amongst the

 

crowd milling around and making a nuisance of themselves, but he knew he could

 

evade them fairly easily. Keeping his head down and ploughing into the crowd, he

 

headed left until he hit the pedestrian exit, moving through the automatic doors and

 

into the cold of the night, locating the street he wanted to head down before striding

 

off in its direction.

 

Walking for a number of minutes he turned down several side streets and

 

alleys, putting some distance and a number of turns between him and the station to

 

be sure no one was on his tail. Feeling better now he was away from the

 

surveillance systems and armed guards, he began to think about his next goal; transportation. Taking another series of turns, he arrived on a residential street

 

reminiscent of where his flat was located in Manchester; this one had the same

 

broken-down houses, the same dirt, the same flickering street lights. His eyes were

 

well adjusted to the gloom by now and it only took him a few minutes of searching

 

to spot gold; a rusty old Ford Focus, its blue paint peeling and a large crack running

 

across the passenger side window. He approached slowly, staying in the shadows

 

on the opposite side of the road, crossing only when he had passed it and was

 

convinced no one was watching him.

 

Reaching the drivers side door he quickly flipped his backpack from his

 

shoulder to the ground and delved inside a front pocket, pulling out what looked to

 

be a standard car key with a button to activate the central locking and alarm.

 

Moving within inches of the car Evans hit the button and waited, listening carefully

 

for the quiet but distinctive ping indicating the lock had been defeated. After about

 

thirty seconds the ping arrived and was followed by a click as the car lock was

 

released. He had paid top dollar for the electronic pick but it was worth it; it was

 

able to open about eighty-five per cent of central car locks, a real blessing when

 

appropriating vehicles. Opening the door he put his backpack on the passenger seat

 

before hotwiring the ignition with ease. Conjuring the engine into life he sped off into the night, eager to put distance between himself and the scene of his latest

 

crime.

 

He drove for thirty minutes, taking turns and switching directions on a

 

whim, trying to get a feel for the car and how it would handle under slightly

 

different conditions such as being chased by the police, the military and whoever

 

else he may have offended that day. Despite the run down appearance the car was

 

in pretty good condition; its wipers were not fully functional but the engine was

 

running well and he couldn’t complain about the handling. Best of all, it blended

 

perfectly with the run-down surroundings; he hadn’t seen a half-decent street or

 

house in the area yet so a newer car would have stood out badly. Happy that it was

 

sufficient for his purpose, he headed in the direction of the meeting place, asking

 

himself the same questions he always did at this point of a mission; what if it’s a

 

set-up? What if they ambush me on the road? What if they separate me from my

 

vehicle? What direction do I run? There were a million such questions, some of

 

which had answers which were not too favourable for him, but he ran them all

 

through his mind as he drove, knowing that what little preparation he could do now

 

may well help him move faster, smarter and give him that edge that would save his life. Snaking through the streets he kept to the speed limit to avoid detection but his

 

mind was moving at a blistering pace, doing what it did best.

 

Using his PDA’s satellite navigation system, he drove for an hour through

 

mainly residential areas until he turned onto a dark street close to the rendezvous

 

address. Dipping his headlights to a low beam, he slowed to forty miles per hour.

 

He was travelling along a street lined each side with large semi-detached houses

 

shrouded in darkness, the decor of grime and poverty pretty much identical to

 

everything else he had seen today. According to the map on his PDA his target was

 

about half way up the road on his right but it was going to be difficult to spot as all

 

the houses looked the same. He drove past front gardens overflowing with rubbish

 

and weeds, straining his eyes to spot any likely areas where a police or military

 

presence could be hidden. Despite his grim surroundings he was relatively pleased

 

with the choice of meet site; he hadn’t seen another person or vehicle on the road

 

for over ten minutes, and this wouldn’t be the type of place the police would

 

perform some of their random raids.

 

Counting the houses as he drove, he calculated that the one he wanted

 

should be coming up soon, and, as he passed two more junkyards of gardens, he

 

spotted it. Without slowing he glanced secretively out of the corner of his eye, attempting to gain as much information as possible without revealing his interest to

 

anyone watching the road. At this first glance it looked much the same as every

 

other house here; it was painted an off-white colour, looked to be about to fall

 

down and there were no signs of life anywhere. Carrying on past the house he

 

drove for about a mile until he found a small cluster of cars and, pulling up

 

alongside them, he clambered into the back seat to change into his operational gear;

 

black cargo trousers, black thermal jumper, a thin black gore-tex jacket, all-black

 

trainers, a black balaclava and black gloves.

 

He pulled everything on and checked his appearance in the rear-view

 

mirror, rolling his balaclava up so he was wearing it as a hat; nothing brought the

 

police faster these days then some guy running around at night with a ski mask on,

 

at least as he was he could bluff that he was just taking a stroll. Satisfied, he pulled

 

from his backpack a thin belt holster and his personal weapon, a light weight,

 

polymer-frame Bul Cherokee pistol; Israeli made, the gun was small but powerful

 

and accurate enough for close-combat work. He strapped the holster to his belt on

 

his right side, gently easing a fresh seventeen round magazine into the gun with a

 

click and engaging the safety, instantly ready to fire if it all went to hell. Holstering the pistol he pulled his jacket on and shouldered the backpack before heading out

 

into the rain, ready to perform his reconnaissance of the house.

 

Chapter 5

 

Thursday 27^thOctober 2014 – London, England

 

GMT 21:34

 

Dulay opened the door and took in his sparse new surroundings, checking

 

the view of the famous city’s skyline through the dirty window. He had arrived in

 

London just a few hours ago on a chopper from Digby, having spent the majority of

 

the morning discussing the target group and possible tactics with General Haven.

 

He tossed his bags on the small bed, noting the spray of dust startled into the air by

 

the impact. Although the TTF was an elite unit, its funding was not spent on such

 

trivial things as accommodation and he was not accustomed to luxury, which was

 

just as well given his present location. The hotel had been booked by the TTF’s

 

civilian representatives in advance of his arrival; he had already spent the best part

 

of an hour walking around both the hotel itself and the surrounding area to

 

familiarise himself with potential escape routes, choke points and areas he could

 

potentially use to his advantage. He was impressed with the agency’s decision; the

 

hotel was located within easy driving distance of the London TTF headquarters and the registered home addresses of his suspects, and had major access roads to

 

motorways, the airport and a train station. Additionally, the hotel building itself was

 

solid and secure with few access areas and decent but inconspicuous security.

 

Making a cup of black coffee he readied himself for his nights work;

 

reaching into one of his backpacks and pulling free his laptop he powered it on and

 

prepared to go back over the history of United for Freedom. As Dulay settled down

 

and began to read over the file, he couldn’t help but wonder about the relevancy of

 

assigning a TTF agent to this particular organisation, a thought which had

 

originally occurred to him when being briefed earlier that day. The intelligence he

 

had been given was sketchy but what was known about the group suggested it was

 

small, under funded and relatively low-key. It had been founded in 2008 with the

 

primary aim of campaigning for more transparency in the government’s dealings

 

with terrorist subjects outside of the UK, but its members had seemingly become

 

more and more upset with the politicians and, as they did so, the range of issues the

 

group lobbied against widened. The first arrest of a member was in 2009 when the

 

founder, a retired soldier, was arrested at a street protest for disturbing the peace

 

and assaulting a police officer. After his incarceration the UFF had floundered,

 

stumbling from one temporary figurehead to another, existing primarily on the Internet as a loose collection of supporters who would post conspiracy theories and

 

anti-government rhetoric from time to time. A couple of years ago the group had

 

kicked back up a gear, attracting new members who were able to exert some

 

pressure in their communitie