JACK MORGAN DROVE slowly into the suburban estate in the borough of Wandsworth, south of the Thames. Unlike parts of central London, the homes here were detached, sat back behind manicured lawns, and nestled amongst trees that were heavy and lush with summer rain. Morgan smiled as he saw the surroundings, but not out of any sense of romance—it would make his job of getting close to the buildings easier. He would need to move quickly, as there were three addresses listed to Flex on the paper. Morgan had chosen the closest to the Tower to begin his search, but he was aware that the cover of night was in short supply in summer. Estimating time to travel between each, he had less than an hour for each location.

He was a hundred yards away from his target now, so he pulled his car to the curbside and got out next to a narrow alley that led between two patches of greenery. Checking Google Earth, Morgan saw that the alley led to a pathway that ran behind the houses, before emerging onto a park and sports field. He turned the bright screen of the phone off, put it into his pocket and followed the path used by dog walkers and football-mad children during the day. Tonight, it would serve a darker purpose, and Morgan took the semi-automatic pistol in his right hand before pushing it into his jacket pocket. If need be, he could fire through the material and off the hip.

Counting off his paces, as taught to him in Marine training, Morgan measured the distance, the practice accurate enough for him to know that he had come to a stop behind the correct building, a two-story brick home that showed no light and emitted no sound. The house was separated from the footpath by a thin fence and a few trees, and it was no effort for Morgan to raise himself over the fence and drop quietly into the back garden. There he waited. There was nothing. Deep in suburbia as it was, Morgan did not expect Flex to have the garden defended as if it were Fort Knox—nothing drew suspicion like a big musclehead with sirens in his garden—but even so, he inched slowly across the open space to the back wall, his hand twisting the pistol’s grip so that the barrel was aimed through the material at the back door.

Morgan was halfway across the small garden when the sensor light flicked to life. He had expected it, and now covered the remaining distance in a split second, pressing himself against the back wall. He was cloaked from view from the windows, but he would be looming proudly on any CCTV screens that were inside the building—Morgan was willing to take a chance on that, having seen no flicker of lights inside to indicate that anyone was awake. He could only hope that the house wasn’t empty.

It wasn’t. Morgan saw him as he peered through the corner of the window, nothing but a pair of feet raised up at the end of a sofa. Confident that the man was sleeping and not watching TV, Morgan moved to the door and considered the lock—it was garden variety, the same as almost any suburban home. He reached into his left pocket and pulled out one of the items he had instructed to be placed in the old Ford’s glove box—it was a lock-picking kit, and Morgan made short work of the old Chubb. Then, pressing delicately, he depressed the handle and pushed open the door.

The house alarm sounded shrill and violent in the calm night. Morgan had been prepared for it, and as the first note pierced his eardrums he ditched his plan A of quiet calm and resorted to plan B, keeping in mind the three principles of close-quarter battle.

Surprise: Morgan had taken the sleeping man unaware, and he had a few seconds to act before the man regained full function of mind and body.

Speed: Morgan raced across the threshold and into the living room like a charging bull, pulling the pistol free of his jacket.

Violence of action: before the man could even raise himself off the sofa, Morgan had gripped him by the throat and pressed the cold steel of the pistol’s muzzle into the man’s ear.

“Alarm,” Morgan hissed. “Turn it off. Now.”

Gripping the man by his trachea, he lifted him to his feet. The man saw that his situation was hopeless, and he used his wide white eyes to guide Morgan to the alarm box, jabbing his finger awkwardly at the digits. Within ten seconds of the door opening, all had returned to silence but for the man’s gasped breaths. Morgan shoved him to the floor and trained the pistol onto the back of his head. Only then did he notice the man’s left arm and shoulder were bandaged.

“You got shot in the forest,” he guessed.

The man said nothing, but when Morgan delivered a blow onto the recent gunshot wound, he groaned like an animal.

“I’ll open up another one in the back of your head if you don’t start talking,” Morgan promised. “You know who I am, and you know I’m working outside the law, so talk. Are you Rider?”

“I’m not,” the man spat through clenched teeth.

“Then who the hell are you?” Morgan demanded, pressing the gun into the back of the man’s skull.

“Herbert. Chris Herbert.”

“You work for Flex?”

“I work for myself.”

A finger into the recently sutured gunshot wound convinced the man to change his answer. “Yes! Flex! Yes!”

“You’re a mercenary? Well, I have a proposition for you. You help me get Flex, and I pay you back by not blowing your brains out over the carpet.”

“Ram it, you Yank tart.”

Morgan pressed his thumb into torn flesh and broken bone. Then he let Herbert tell him everything.