He followed the limo’s path of destruction out through the remains of another broken fence and on to the road, closing the distance as he powered up an on-ramp leading to the main highway.

  Rain streamed off his face, soaking his beard and hair. The downpour coming right at him made it hard to see, and there hadn’t been time to search around for a helmet.

  But soon, across four lanes of sparse traffic, he spotted the low shape of the limousine. Glovkonin was unaccustomed to driving something as big as the armoured Audi, and the car had to steer like a boat in full sail. The twitchy motions it made told Marc that at least some of the rounds that had hit the vehicle had done real damage, but it was still a long way from being stopped.

  He risked taking a hand off the steering to shift his AK on its strap, so that the assault rifle aimed forward across the handlebars. As he moved, Marc felt the weight of the metal disc in his pocket. He tapped his radio headset to voice-active mode.

  ‘Kara?’ He had to yell to be heard over the wind. ‘You hear me?’

  ‘Marc?’ The hacker sounded faint and far away. ‘What’s your location?’

  He ignored the question. ‘How’s Malte?’

  ‘Says he broke something, so you know he’s not happy,’ she replied breathlessly. ‘Do you have the target?’

  ‘I see the fucker, yeah.’

  ‘Listen carefully!’ Kara spoke over him. ‘Get that disc on the car! As close to the engine as you can, understand?’

  ‘What is it – a limpet mine?’

  ‘Close enough! Just do it quick, before you get out of range, I have to trigger it from here!’

  *

  Glovkonin’s heart hammered in his chest. A potent cocktail of adrenaline and emotion surged through him. There was rage and fear and strange elation, and he found himself cackling with laughter as he urged the Audi on into the rain.

  Once more, fate and his enemies had tried to destroy him, and once again they had failed. He had to give the African his due – the ruse had almost worked.

  It was obvious what had happened: the ALEPH team Andre sent to Istanbul had walked into a trap set by Solomon and his people, and once dispatched, they were impersonated to sell the lie that Glovkonin’s quarry had been captured.

  ‘You were too eager to believe it, Pytor!’ Glovkonin said the words aloud, over the hiss of the rain coming in through the limo’s shattered windscreen. ‘You wanted it too badly!’ He shook his head. This was a salient lesson. He had allowed himself to become overconfident after the dispatch of Bremmens and the others. ‘A good attempt, Solomon,’ he muttered, pulling his jacket tighter against the chill. ‘But not good enough.’

  Soaked through and stained with the blood of his luckless driver, he was still alive. He had survived far worse. He would endure.

  Glovkonin reached for the encrypted smartphone in his pocket, already planning the next moves to get himself to safety. As he did, he caught sight of movement in the limo’s wing mirror. A single headlight – a motorcycle – came up fast behind him.

  ‘I see you.’

  He knew who it would be. The Britisher, Dane. No one else was such a bane to his life.

  Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, the Russian grabbed the Udav pistol he had taken from Misha’s corpse and shoved the driver’s-side door with his shoulder. It creaked open, letting in the foul weather and the spray from the road.

  Twisting in the seat, he aimed the pistol over his shoulder and leaned out. Firing towards the motorcycle, he paced three rounds at his pursuer, rewarded by a sudden flicker as the rider tried to evade.

  A split second later, yellow flame flashed and Glovkonin recoiled back into the driver’s seat as a burst of return fire hammered into the open door. Bullets chewed into the frame, and a ricochet flicked around the interior, causing the Russian to cry out in surprise. But the deflected bullet missed him and he grinned wolfishly.

  ‘It will take more than that,’ he growled.

  The open door struck the back of a slow-moving truck in the neighbouring lane as the limo sped past, the impact tearing off the wing mirror and slamming it closed. Glovkonin cursed and cast around, trying to catch sight of the motorcycle. Pushing the accelerator to the floor, he changed lanes, hoping to draw Dane out.

  It worked. Another flash of reflected light told him that the Britisher had cut across the limo’s slipstream to race up the inside, between the limo and the concrete barrier of the highway’s median strip. The motorcycle came on fast, level with the driver.

  Glovkonin granted him a second to believe he was in the clear, and then with a violent jerk of the wheel, he veered towards the median, intent on crushing the bike between the vehicle and the barrier. Sparks bloomed as metal kissed concrete and Dane skidded, braking hard – but not before slamming something on the flank of the limousine. The motorcycle fell away, vanishing again, but Glovkonin’s attention was drawn to a line of flashing yellow lights warning of roadworks just ahead.

  *

  ‘Green for go!’ Marc shouted, hoping that Kara would be able to hear him.

  ‘Fire in the hole,’ said the voice in his ear. ‘Well, EMP, but you know what I mean.’

  A moment later, the silver saucer that had magnetised itself to the limo gave off a flash of actinic blue, like a jag of lightning from a distant storm. Instantly, the vehicle’s crimson tail lights faded and it began to veer to the right, dragged by the damage to its steering. The electronic systems in the limousine failed at the same time, knocked out by a tiny version of the same device that the Combine had set off on Wall Street.

  The limo crashed through safety barriers, one after another, bouncing over unfinished sections of roadbed as Marc kept up the chase. Up ahead, the highway ended, becoming a section of deep cutting into the earth where huge plastic water pipes waited to be buried.

  The vehicle rode over a line of flashing warning lamps and fell off the edge of the road, flipping on to its side as it went down into the steep-sided ditch.

  Marc applied the brakes too late and the scrambler skidded. He felt the bike folding away under him, then he hit the roadbed and tumbled away.

  For a second or two, he wavered on the edge of dizziness, but the driving rain refused to let him lie there. Scowling at jolts of pain from his joints, Marc levered himself up off the ground and recovered the AK-12 from where it had fallen.

  He risked a look down into the cutting, and saw the black shape of the limo. It was dark down there, and the deep shadows concealed any movement. Marc took a shaky breath and tasted the faint, acrid odour of stopped-up drains. The ditch had to lead into a watercourse or a sewer – and if Glovkonin was still alive, if he found his way to it, he could still get away.

  ‘Marc.’ Lucy’s voice cut in over the radio network, fuzzy with static. ‘Status check?’

  ‘Limo’s out of action,’ he reported, shifting his grip on the assault rifle. ‘I’m going after him.’

  ‘Stay put, we’ll be there soon!’

  ‘No time.’

  Marc gathered up one of the flashing warning beacons and started the climb down into the cutting, using the pulses of yellow illumination to light his way.

  *

  The inside of the limousine was empty. He’d half-expected Glovkonin to come bursting out from the back seat, screaming like a horror movie slasher, but the interior of the vehicle was a mess of debris from the passenger compartment. Bottles of posh vodka and crystal glasses were scattered around, but no fugitive oligarch hid among them.

  Marc adjusted the AK-12’s strap to hang it at his hip, muzzle aimed forward, his finger on the trigger guard. He advanced past the beached limo and deeper into the earthworks, searching the shadows.

  The regular half-second blinks of light from the beacon turned the scene into a strange, alien sight. Thick mud sucked at his shoes as he advanced, and the going underfoot was uneven. He panned the AK’s barrel left and right, aiming into the gloom cast by sections of pipe and earth-moving equipment.

  A voice carried out of the dark towards him.

  ‘You are a persistent man, Mr Dane.’ Glovkonin’s words were dull and flattened by the rush of the rain, making it hard to pinpoint their source. ‘That’s a dangerous trait to possess.’

  ‘It’s been said,’ admitted Marc. ‘But here we are. Me coming after you, you running away into a sewer. Best place for you, I reckon.’

  The Russian’s harsh laughter echoed around him. ‘This is not the worst I have ever known. I think we both know the cold, yes? We both come from humble roots—’

  ‘Fuck off, mate,’ Marc broke in. ‘Don’t give me that shit!’

  ‘Quite.’

  In the darkness between the flashes of light, a shadow detached itself and Marc heard the squelch of mud. Glovkonin dashed from his cover, brandishing the Udav, and opened fire.

  Marc dropped the lamp and dodged towards a section of pipe as shots chewed lumps out of the plastic. He fired back, more to cover his move than to hit anything, squeezing off a burst in the Russian’s direction.

  He heard a metallic snap close by and recognised the sound. The Udav’s slide had locked back and Glovkonin’s gun was empty.

  Marc veered back the way he had come, ready to bring his weapon to bear on the Russian – but Glovkonin was gone, and the light over the slick mud made it impossible to follow his footprints.

  Marc hesitated a moment too long. The yellow light moved behind him, the shadow he cast turning of its own accord. He spun, firing another wild burst, but the warning beacon came up and around in Glovkonin’s hand as the Russian flanked him. The lamp smashed across Marc’s chin, the plastic casing splintering and cutting his cheek, the heavy battery pack inside acting like a cudgel.

  He lost his footing and fell face-down into the mud, falling atop the AK. Marc rolled over, pulling the trigger, but the rifle refused to fire. He tried to work the slide clear of the sludge jamming the mechanism, but Glovkonin struck him again with the lamp and he fell back, losing his grip on the weapon.

  Snarling like an animal, the Russian charged at him, raining down blows on Marc as he struggled to get his guard up. Glovkonin was spare and lean, but he had muscle hidden beneath his tailored shirt and expensive suit. Marc blocked a series of punches to his abdomen and head, finding the briefest of instants to hit back with a strike drilled into him a lifetime ago in a Krav Maga dojo.

  Following the move, Marc swung an off-hand right and it failed to connect as Glovkonin recoiled, trying to get beyond his reach. The Russian didn’t realise it was a feint until his opponent’s left shot out and grabbed a handful of his grime-spattered silk tie.

  Marc yanked back on the tie and pitched forward at the same moment, bringing his forehead down to crack Glovkonin’s chiselled nose across its brow. Fire exploded behind his eyes, but the pain Marc felt wasn’t half of the agony that coursed through the other man.

  He fired two punches into the Russian’s solar plexus, winding him. Marc fought the urge to keep it up, to carry on punching and punching until his hands were raw, but at the last second he shoved his wheezing opponent away.

  Marching to where the mud-clogged AK-12 lay, Marc picked it up, methodically cleaning out the rifle’s slide and mechanism. Carefully, he dislodged the spent cartridge that had caused the stoppage.

  Glovkonin slumped down against a pile of earth, hugging himself. He had trouble catching his breath, but he could still speak.

  ‘Enough,’ he managed. ‘What will you . . . achieve . . .?’

  The AK’s sickle magazine came away with a flick of the release, and Marc saw a single bullet remaining. He replaced it and worked the charging handle.

  Even in the weak light of the broken beacon, the Russian could see the grim expression on Marc’s face. He raised his hands.

  ‘I surrender.’

  Marc gave a slow shake of the head. ‘We’re not doing that.’

  Glovkonin jerked back against the pile of muddy earth, but Marc had the rifle aimed at him before he could move.

  ‘You fool!’ The Russian snarled the words, fuelled by rage and rising panic. His eyes darted around as he searched for a way out and found nothing. ‘Can’t you see, Dane? What I have done? I destroyed the Combine!’ His mask of stony poise fractured and disintegrated. ‘I did what Ekko Solomon never could!’

  ‘No,’ said Marc. ‘You took it for yourself.’ A bleak understanding of the reality of his enemy settled on him. ‘That’s all you’re capable of. All you know is one thing – how to fuck over everyone else to make yourself richer.’ The words spilled out of him. ‘And you don’t feel it. The pain from the deaths you cause, the lives you ruin. It doesn’t matter to you.’

  His fingers tightened around the rifle’s grip, whitening around the cold metal.

  Glovkonin’s hands dropped. ‘What do you think happens if you kill me, Dane? Do you believe the Combine’s network will instantly evaporate? Will the terror cells and criminals we armed give up their plans? We keep thousands of threats in line, under control! Without the Combine, without me, that is lost!’

  ‘We’ll deal with them like we dealt with you.’

  Marc raised the rifle and aimed down the iron sights.

  ‘Is this your code? Solomon crows about ethics and integrity, but now at the end, you show the truth . . . You are a common killer like him!’

  ‘The only thing you know about my code is how to exploit it,’ retorted Marc. ‘You used it against us. You think it makes us weak. But what you don’t understand is . . . it’s flexible.’

  He pulled the AK’s trigger, and the last round in the rifle tore a bloody gouge through Glovkonin’s thigh, shredding flesh and shattering bone.

  The Russian screamed, long and low, the sound reverberating along the cutting. Glovkonin trembled as he ripped off his tie. Shuddering with aftershock, he desperately tried to fashion it into a tourniquet.

  ‘That’s for Assim Kader and Ari Silber,’ said Marc, invoking the memory of his Rubicon colleagues murdered by Combine machinations. ‘Gavin Rix. Rob Bell. Bill Marshall. Owen Davis. Leon Taub. Samantha Green!’ He spat the last name with venom, ending the roll call of those lost from his MI6 team years earlier. ‘Them, and every other soul on the butcher’s bill.’ He took a breath to steady himself, before tossing away the spent rifle. ‘By the look of that hit, you’ve got no more than three minutes before you bleed out. I’d tell you to make peace with whatever you believe in . . . but I know the only thing you venerate is this.’

  Marc dug a crumpled banknote from his pocket, and threw it into the blood-streaked mud at Glovkonin’s feet.

  Then he turned away and started back up the cutting.

  ‘Dane!’ The Russian bellowed his name, lurching forward. He collapsed in the muddy trench, inching forward as he tried to drag himself up. ‘You can’t leave me here! I have what you want . . . Help me! I can clear your names, you and Keyes!’ He gasped as pain washed over him. ‘The real video from Nicosia – I can give it to you!’

  Marc halted, but he didn’t look back. He had no doubt that the Russian would have kept the original recordings of the attack in Cyprus – the incident the Combine had used to frame the Rubicon team. Somewhere out there was the footage that would exonerate them. It was exactly the ploy he’d expected from this man. Glovkonin always had a way to turn his defeats into victories. He just needed Marc to be willing to pay the price.

  ‘You can prove your innocence,’ he shouted, ‘if you help me!’

  ‘We’ll manage without it,’ said Marc.

  He walked on, into the rush of the rain, leaving the other man to die in the darkness and the freezing cold.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  An orange-red sun descended over the island of Draccios as Marc guided the speedboat towards the shore. He cut the power to the outboard and let inertia drift it up to the mooring pier.

  On the wooden quay, Benjamin Harun waited for him, clad in cut-off jeans, flip-flops and a gaudy Aloha shirt. The man gave a stiff wave, the movement revealing the dressing wrapped around his chest. The shots that had hit him back in Russia hadn’t penetrated his body armour, but the close-range impacts had been enough to fracture several ribs and he was still healing.

  Benjamin tossed Marc a rope and they tied up the boat.

  ‘You made it in time,’ he told him. ‘We’re having a barbecue on the beach. You like fried fish?’

  ‘If you’re cooking, yeah.’

  Marc tossed his bag on to the pier, then climbed out after it.

  ‘You know, not all Frenchmen are expert chefs,’ warned the other man. ‘That’s a stereotype.’

  ‘I trust you,’ said Marc, patting him on the shoulder.

  He looked away and found another familiar figure waiting on the white sand. He smiled at the sight of Lucy Keyes, in a bright parrot-green shift dress. She had her hair down and she looked perfect.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, as he approached.

  ‘Hey,’ she replied, falling in step with him. ‘Glad you made it. You want the ten-cent tour?’

  ‘I do.’

  They followed an overgrown path littered with palm leaves, winding through the trees into the island’s interior, to emerge before the low shell of a derelict hotel complex. Marc saw a drained pool filled with dirt and a collapsed gazebo, but the building itself was in fairly good order. Inside, a generator chattered and he spotted recently installed solar cells and a high-spec satellite antenna on the roof.

  ‘Needs some work,’ he offered.

  She laughed. ‘This place was a big deal when they opened it, back in the Oughts. But it took a hit one hurricane season and never bounced back. The owners cut their losses and abandoned it, which is how Rubicon ended up acquiring the land.’