Target and Destroy

TARGETANDDESTROY TOMMARCUS Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 Acknowledgements This book is dedicated to my wife. My one true constant. 1 Logan glanced at the clock on the top-of-the-range brushed-steel cooker and decided it was time for the evening performance. He got up from his stool at the black marble kitchen island, put his phone in his pocket and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the river. He stood there for a full minute, paying no attention at all to the stunning view. ‘Here I am,’ he said under his breath, ‘if anyone’s interested.’ Was there someone actually out there, checking to see if this luxurious penthouse flat was occupied? Logan’s heart rate quickened fractionally as he imagined being in the cross hairs of a sniper’s rifle. It was a peculiar feeling, trying to make himself as conspicuous as possible, when for all of his professional life he’d worked hard to be invisible, to go unnoticed: first as a surveillance officer for MI5, and then for Blindeye, the clandestine team of ex-intelligence operatives secretly tasked with doing the dirty jobs the official security services couldn’t. Still feeling uncomfortable at being so exposed, Logan decided that was enough staring out of the window for one evening. Now it was time to move through the rest of the penthouse, opening and closing blinds, turning lights on and off, putting the integrated sound system through its paces or selecting a movie to play on the giant TV, all to make it clear to the watchers – if there were any – that someone was home. It was a shame that operating the cooker was beyond his competence, all that high-tech wizardry going to waste, but Logan wasn’t going to risk pressing the wrong button and sending it all into meltdown for the sake of a fried-egg sandwich. The clothes were another thing he didn’t feel comfortable in. If anyone was having a proper look, not just content with clocking a silhouette, he had to look the part, which meant regular visits to the cavernous walk-in closet in the master bedroom, taking off his usual T-shirt, jeans and trainers and dressing up in something more suitable for a hedge-fund billionaire – or whatever the real owner of the penthouse was. It wasn’t lost on Logan that some days that meant putting on another pair of jeans, another T-shirt and another pair of trainers, the only difference being that the new ensemble had cost several grand more than the one he’d just taken off. But maybe there was someone out there on the other end of a high-powered telescope who could spot the difference. As he knew from experience, it was all in the detail. And that was just as true whether you were trying to blend in with the wallpaper or make an exhibition of yourself. All in all, though, despite the nightly game of charades, it wasn’t a bad gig. The sleek minimalism of the place – no annoying clutter and every surface black, grey or some sort of muted off-white – made it feel more like a private hospital ward than someone’s home, so Logan really never felt like an intruder – more like a nightwatchman in a cutting-edge tech company. Which was good. Logan wasn’t ready to be somewhere that felt like a home yet – his own or anyone else’s. It was more than a year since Sarah and Joseph had died, and the house they’d shared on the edge of the estate with the hills sloping up behind was the only place he ever wanted to think of as home. He’d never really had one as a kid himself, growing up mostly on the streets, and when Sarah and Joseph were taken from him, the idea of home went with them. Playing the part of someone who had a life and a place they called their own was as much as he could manage. He went back to his stool at the kitchen island and picked up the scrap of paper lying next to his coffee cup, reading the numbers and letters of the licence plate over to himself again, even though he’d long ago memorized them. For the hundredth time, he thought about making the call, and for the hundredth time the same thing stopped him. If he opened this door, there’d be no shutting it again, no matter what lay on the other side. Instinctively he looked round, hoping to see Sarah perched on the stool next to him, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face with a warm smile. Now, more than ever, he needed her to tell him what to do. But the stool remained unoccupied, as he half-knew it would be. The truth was, she hadn’t appeared to him since he’d moved into the penthouse. Could it be something to do with the place itself? Was there something about it – too cold, too clinical? Did she just not like the decor? Was she afraid Joseph would get his muddy feet and sticky fingers all over the pristine surfaces? He shook his head. Don’t be so fucking stupid. She’s dead. She’s not worried about the fucking furniture. So why hadn’t she appeared to him? For a moment he felt panic start to grip him. Had something happened to her? But what more could happen to dead people? Nothing worse than dying, surely. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he said aloud, his voice echoing off the bare walls. Well, if Sarah wasn’t going to come to the penthouse, he’d just have to go to her, to the one place he knew her spirit was always present. The place where they’d buried her. He looked at his watch. Not yet ten. He was supposed to stay in