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  Vetrov could see the Giant’s muscles twitching. He knew military men, he knew soldiers and he could read his mind. He was nearing the point of no return, when he had nothing to lose except his life and everything to gain. Bravo could spring up, take his master off his feet and toss him around like a rag doll. Angel was pumped on a heady cocktail of anger, remorse and tequila and it could prove fatal.

  The other cartel men around the room, and there were four of them, were looking down, not wanting to make eye contact with Angel, not wanting to incur his wrath.

  Vetrov contemplated the best course of action. Mendez had the money he needed and the street-smart intelligence that had built the cartel, but he was as unstable as a three-legged mule. Bravo was an intimidating physical force but he lacked a business mind. In the end there was no real contest.

  Vetrov stepped between the two, sensed Bravo relax a fraction, but saw Angel rise up on the balls of his feet. ‘This is exactly what Akulov wants! Don’t you see? He wants your cartel to implode, to eat itself from within. You have lost your brother’ – Vetrov crossed his chest – a meaningless movement but one he knew the Catholic Mexican respected – ‘God rest his eternal soul, and he can never be replaced, but there is no reason to lose your Giant. Akulov made a grave error when he let Luis live. He did not know that he had superhuman strength, and an iron will. I have seen this Akulov in action and I can tell you that the blow he delivered would have killed a lesser man. It would have shattered his skull and broken his neck. So while we all mourn your brother, we should rejoice that the Giant Bravo has not and cannot be defeated!’

  Angel had become stock-still as he contemplated Vetrov’s words, grasping how this was indeed snatching glory, and pride from the jaws of defeat.

  Vetrov knew he had to press on. ‘Don Caesar was too a remarkable man. One on one, hand to hand, he would have wrung the skinny neck of this Russian asshole, but Akulov used a gun – the mark of a coward. And now it is up to you, patron, to avenge your brother like a man and to do it with your unbeatable giant by your side.’

  Angel paced the room, every eye on him. He eventually fell back into the huge, maroon leather settee with a sigh. He looked skywards and Vetrov saw his eyes were moist, and then tears erupted and flowed down his face. ‘Oh, brother, I will avenge you! You have my word, hombre.’

  Vetrov turned to look at Bravo who was sitting in shock. He addressed him, voice low but firm, ‘Get up and get out.’

  The big man stood, the chair splintering as he did so but bits of it still affixed to him with tape. He half waddled out of the room, and on seeing a nod from Vetrov so did the rest of the cartel men.

  Angel fixed his reddened, watery eyes on Vetrov. ‘What are you, Kirill? Some type of wizard, who can control the minds of men? I was ready to kill Luis, there and then. I was going to slit his throat, like a pig, and let him bleed out on his expensive puta carpet but you stopped me, man. You showed me I was wrong. What you said is right: we have to be strong, we have to fight together, we will continue the legacy of the Mendez Cartel in my brother’s memory.’

  ‘Then that is what we shall do.’

  ‘So tell me, how are we going to prepare for this pendejo?’

  ‘I know how he thinks, and I know how he will attack. He will not stand a chance.’ Vetrov moved to the TV set and switched it off. The image of Wolf 6 faded and went black.

  Vauxhall Cross, London, UK

  The only item in Neill Plato’s office not state of the art was his teapot, which stood in the corner of the room covered in a stripy knitted cosy – a sentimental present from his aunt. The cosy was also practical in that it prevented the heat from the pot escaping into the air-conditioned room, which had to be kept at a constant and specific temperature to ensure his systems worked at their optimum levels. Plato really couldn’t really think of a better job than this. He remembered going to a networking event for programmers and being the only one without a business card, because he wasn’t allowed to say what he did. The room had been divided between the mega-money flashy types either working for “big tech”, or others who worked for start-ups and then a few in mundane government departments.

  Plato had looked around, sipped his orange juice – these events never had absinthe – with a knowing smile. Whilst he listened to boasts about new algorithms or contracts won he remained quiet, proud that what he did effected real change, and protected everyone in the room. In his little office he was very much left to his own devices. The fact that not many of his fellow SIS officers understood exactly what he did and how he did it also helped.

  He leant back in his chair and munched on a fig roll as he calculated how long it would take him to hack into the Qatari airport security network and view the footage he required. Yes the country was classified as friendly, and yes he should in theory ask for access, but he knew it would be treated with scepticism and if anything at all out of the ordinary was found, the Qataris would consider it an insult. People were funny, both in the “ha-ha” and the peculiar sense of the word. He much preferred computers, numbers and algorithms, which was why he was at his happiest when he was alone with his systems. Most people dreamt of escaping to a desert island, and whilst that would be nice he would only really enjoy it if he had a computer room to poke around in, oh and of course a reliable supply of Earl Grey. Perhaps, if he ever got bored with the SIS, he should get a job designing and upgrading IT and security systems for Caribbean hotels?

  There was a ping. He swivelled his chair back around and peered at his central screen. He was in.

  Plato’s fingers tapped in commands and accessed files and several times had to avoid electronic tripwires but five hours later, which in Plato time had felt like five minutes, he had downloaded the files he needed, and left the system with no one any the wiser.

  Plato took the footage, dropped the facial recognition program over it and let it run. There was a hundred and twenty hours of footage to search per camera. In data terms this was a huge volume. He had, however, only chosen to include footage from cameras that captured passengers as they first left their aircraft and arrived in the terminal, and a pair of cameras placed at the entrance to the terminal. This cut the total number of cameras he had to look at by two-thirds. It was still, however, a lot of footage.

  Plato looked at his watch. To his dismay he realised that it was already a quarter to ten at night. He lived a forty-minute tube ride away, which meant that by the time he arrived in his street his usual fish and chip shop would be closed. Plato sighed. Oh well toast and Marmite it was for supper again. He locked his office, leaving the recognition program crunching the voluminous amount of data. If it found anything, he’d get a text alert on his encrypted iPhone. He yawned now that he was out of his realm and heading home for the night.

  The Four Seasons Hotel, Houston, USA

  Whoever had compiled the intel on the Mendez Cartel had performed an admirable job. The cartel owned, albeit via shell companies, three mansions on River Oaks’ Del Monte Drive. These were the residences of Don Caesar, Don Angel and Luis Bravo. To augment his intel package, Akulov now also used Google Earth and Street View to carry out an initial close-quarter recce of the three properties. They were set back from the road within their plots yet clearly visible, as were all the houses on the Drive. Many of them had attempted to provide some respite from potentially prying eyes by planting mature evergreens dotted around their plots.

  Angel Mendez’s place, at 3000 Del Monte Drive, was on the north side of the street. It was a long, double-fronted, two-storey, Mediterranean-style chateau and was painted in what a real-estate agent would describe as being “a tasteful mid-butter colour”. A pool-table flat, wide front lawn that had been raised two feet higher than the sidewalk sat in front of it and a two-foot hedge marked the boundary. Two steps led up a dead straight path to the recessed front door adorned with a pair of columns. Around the sides and the back of the house, towering mature trees screened the rest of the property but with the magic of Google
Earth, Akulov was able to fly overhead and see the long, narrow outdoor pool on one side and the summerhouse on the other. The thick tree cover prevented him from getting much of a view of the rear garden.

  It was an impressive property but the front was highly exposed, which was good for security purposes as any unwanted visitor would be on display but not so good for him or anyone else attempting to gain access.

  Immediately across the street, Caesar Mendez’s mock-Georgian period property was on a similar-sized plot. It had a path that meandered in wide curves through large trees. This house had more tree coverage at the front. The left side and the rear were completely hidden by lush, thick trees.

  The third property of interest to him was Luis Bravo’s house. It was several plots away on the same side of the street at Caesar’s residence. It was smaller than the other two, perhaps less desirable, which befitted someone of lower status even if he was of a much higher stature.

  Akulov knew that neither Mendez brother had children, but both had women who lived in the houses, “unofficial” wives the briefing pack had said, concubines Akulov had surmised. Now that Caesar was no more, he imagined that his woman had cleared off or been paid to leave, or perhaps been “offed”. But that still made him ask the question: would Caesar’s house be empty? It was the perfect observation post from which to prepare for and indeed launch an attack on Angel, with a clear line of sight, and Akulov was pretty sure that where Angel went Vetrov would follow. Wolf 1 would not leave his new principal unprotected, especially when he believed he was about to be attacked.

  Akulov had stopped off for supplies at a specialist electronics store and felt prepared for what he knew would come as he lay back on the five-star hotel bed. It was the same place Sofia and Juana had stayed at. One of the bellboys had been overly attentive after hearing his name upon check-in. He had insisted on walking him to his “Pool View” room and explaining the full functions of the TV remote and air-conditioning system. Akulov had given him a tip as he left, making sure to let him know that he’d be in all night.

  It wouldn’t take long for the cartel to spread his name around Houston among its web of informers. Akulov had no illusions: in order to find the name he was using and to keep the shootings quiet, the cartel had to have some serious influence with the local police department. Of course if they knew his name, they had matched video footage of him with his driving licence, both of which resulted in him no longer being a faceless assassin.

  As the last of the Advil made the throbbing in his head recede to a mild ache, he closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to visualise his plan of attack. The events of the previous night had pushed things forward rapidly. Vetrov would look at it the same way he had.

  Vetrov would assume Akulov would launch the attack from Caesar’s house. Of course to counter Akulov’s skill as a sniper, Angel would be kept indoors, away from the windows. Therefore, even if he could gain access to Caesar’s house, undetected, and set up he would be prevented from getting a shot. Stalemate, or a waiting game, waiting to see which side made a move first. And in that type of game with an entire cartel behind him, Akulov knew he would lose. The cartel could flood the street with its soldiers and Akulov could calmly shoot each and every one, until either his rifle failed or he ran out of ammo and then the cartel would send in a second wave. And then he would go down fighting.

  So Vetrov too would come to the same conclusion as Akulov that to snipe from Caesar’s house was not tactically acceptable. So where then? Akulov imagined Vetrov poring over the same intel pack, trying to pinpoint exactly where Akulov would attack from.

  So, whichever way Akulov looked at the intel he had, the only way to get to Vetrov was to undertake the hit on Angel. He had never broken a contract and had no intention of doing so. Would Angel Mendez really stay in Houston waiting to be targeted by his brother’s killer? Would Angel’s desire for revenge override his sense of self-preservation? From his existing interaction with the man and the intel he had, the answer was a resounding yes.

  Using a new burner phone, Akulov checked the email account he shared with his broker. He logged in, went to the draft folder and saw a message. It was from her but the content was not what he expected to see:

  ‘Message received from AM via Wolf 1: Stop the contract. Do not target Angel Mendez or the cartel will come for you, your wife, your children and your parents!’

  Akulov deleted the message. There was no need to write his own. Angel Mendez obviously had no idea how the contract circuit worked and how those who ran it, namely the brokers, were considered untouchable. But it was natural for the man to want revenge on those responsible for Caesar’s death – Tishina and himself. Tishina was inaccessible, unobtainable, but he was not. He checked his watch. It was time to taunt the man.

  From memory he tapped into his burner the number Angel had used when he’d called Caesar’s phone, in the hope that he hadn’t changed it.

  The number rang out without being answered. Akulov closed his eyes … and then the handset rang as the number called him back. He let it trill twice before he answered it. ‘Hola!’

  ‘Who is this?’ Angel Mendez’s voice was slurred and slow-sounding as though he was drunk, or drugged or both.

  ‘You know who this is.’

  There was a pause before Angel replied, incredulity in his voice. ‘You’re a crazy son of a bitch!’

  ‘Correct, Angel. I’m so crazy I am standing right outside your front door.’

  ‘You think I’m falling for that horseshit? You’d like me to come to the window, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘So you can use your little gun on me?’

  ‘It’s a little gun for a little man. It’s Caesar’s gun.’

  ‘Oh you gonna die, puto, and I’m gonna be the one to pull the trigger.’

  ‘Come and get me.’

  There were more muffled voices at the other end of the call and what sounded like the start of an argument. Akulov continued to listen until the line went dead.

  He lay back, satisfied. Psychological warfare at its most simplistic, and it had confirmed that at least as of a minute ago Angel Mendez was at his address on Del Monte Drive. Akulov opened the app on his burner, which showed the feed from the miniature surveillance cameras he’d stuck to the wall in the hotel landing. They were working and showed no movement. He looked at the timer on his phone. Within the next hour he was sure to have visitors.

  Chapter 12

  Sugar Land, Texas

  Chen Yan rented a house in Sugar Land, one of the fastest growing and most affluent of cities in Texas. As with the Mendez Cartel, she had chosen a modest property in order to fit in with the local community but unlike the cartel this was not because she did not wish to flaunt her wealth, rather that her billions were currently frozen and unavailable to her. For a billionairess to be down to her last three million, mere pocket change, was a catastrophic state of events, and she put the blame for this squarely on the now deceased shoulders of Maksim Oleniuk. If he was still alive she would have liquidated him herself, demanding she deliver the killing blow, but that opportunity had to been stolen from her.

  The success of the EMP but the utter failure of Oleniuk’s side of their operation the previous year had cost her everything. Chen Yan had gone from being revered as “the Electronic Princess”, owner and founder of one of China’s largest and most respected electronics manufacturers, CY Holdings, to being wanted by the US authorities as much as bin Laden had himself. But the difference between her and bin Laden was that her involvement in the EMP attack and the hunt for her was classified. It was specialised agencies with three-letter acronyms that sought her out.

  The result of all this for Chen was that she had not been able to leave the US for a year and had had to use immediately accessible funds squirrelled away to purchase a new identity and continue her work. The second phase of Blackline would go ahead, and this time she would not be beholden to any feeble male mind or ego. />
  She lay, under the silk sheet, sated and relaxed as the Russian former soldier, who had fulfilled her needs, stood looking out of the window. He was the only staffing element of Blackline she had maintained and it was he who, following her specific instructions, would allow both her finances and power to be rebuilt.

  She did not make small talk; she never had. It was a waste of mental processing and time, and time was always money.

  ‘Losing Caesar Mendez was unfortunate.’ Her English was flawless, the accent gained whilst studying her MBA at the New York Institute of Technology. ‘You must not allow Angel Mendez to be killed.’

  Vetrov’s English had an instantly recognisable Russian intonation. ‘I am aware of that, Chen.’

  ‘Being aware of something and being able to act on it are two different things. If we lose the ability to influence the Mendez Cartel we must start again.’

  ‘I will find and stop Akulov. I know how he works and I know his capabilities.’

  ‘His appearance is troubling but not wholly unexpected. The SIS were not as efficient as we had hoped. Take care too of the situation in Matamoros.’

  ‘I will. But—’

  ‘But what?’ She cut Vetrov off.

  ‘I have left Angel unguarded. I have broken the basic rule of a bodyguard.’

  Chen kept her tone flat but in the darkness her eyes narrowed with anger. ‘You are not a bodyguard to anyone but me. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t Angel Mendez secure in his own home, sleeping off his overindulgence behind ballistic glass and protected by competent men you have trained?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Have you not trained the Mendez men in Mexico to fight?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘You will use them to liquidate the entire Arellano family. Without the family to lead them the Arellano Cartel will crumble and the Mendez Cartel will expand to take control of trade.’