Mason Nash Collection

Mason Nash Collection

DAVE SINCLAIR

Also by Dave Sinclair

Mason Nash Novels

Past Transgressions

Shadow Hunting

Devil’s End

Atticus Wolfe Novels

Out of Time

It Takes a Spy

The Coldest War

Charles Bishop Novels

Kiss My Assassin

Agent Provocateur

Venetian Blonde

Eva Destruction Novels

The Barista’s Guide to Espionage

The Rookie’s Guide to Espionage (novella)

The Amnesiac’s Guide to Espionage

The Dead Spy’s Guide to Espionage

Contents

Past Transgressions

Shadow Hunting

Devil’s End

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Past Transgressions

Retired spy. Trained killing machine. Pacifist

Retired MI6 spy Mason Nash moved to a sleepy English town so he could leave his former violent life behind.

Nash finds out how hard it is to adhere to non-violent ways when everyone is trying to kill you.

Nash soon becomes embroiled in a globetrotting missions involving old friends, a new clandestine spy agency and a world-wide conspiracy where no one is quite who they seem.

A barn burning series full of action and wit, the Mason Nash novels are definitely not your regular espionage thrillers.

For you, the reader.

Thank you for being on this crazy writer adventure with me.

Chapter

One

Devil’s End was the type of town tourists would call quintessentially English. A Benedictine Abbey overlooked picture-postcard streets lined with stone cottages, surrounded by rolling green countryside. It was a quiet, sleepy Cotswold town. Quiet was exactly what the newest resident of Devil’s End sought.

Late-afternoon grey clouds hung low over the cobblestoned streets, somewhat tarnishing the picturesque scene. Stuffing his hands deep in his pockets to ward off the incoming chill, Mason Nash walked briskly.

Facing the small town square, the Hangman’s Inn was a Tudor building that had been heavily renovated over the centuries, but still somehow retained its quaint charm. It was hard to know if any part of the four-hundred-year-old pub was original. Not that Nash cared as he opened the front door and was enveloped by the warmth of the pub’s open fireplace.

As he strode in, a few of the locals bobbed their head in Nash’s direction. Denise, the publican, gave him a friendly wave. It had taken six months to even achieve this landmark level of acknowledgement. Devil’s End was a place where ten-year residents were still referred to as newcomers.

Taking up his usual position at a table at the rear of the pub, Nash took off his coat, pulled out his book and gave a shiver to shed the last of the outside cold. Settling in for the evening, he began to read.

The small smattering of locals populated tables and booths in the low-ceilinged pub. The bar took up one entire wall. Deep chocolate wood, it was decorated with exotic bottles and knick-knacks accumulated over the pub’s long history. High above the bar, a weathered wooden plaque reminded patrons they were in the Hangman’s Inn. If that wasn’t subtle enough, on one side was a noose, on the other a real-looking shotgun.

Alright, love?

Nash looked up to see a pretty young waitress beaming down at him. Since he’d turned fifty he deemed everyone under thirty-five as young. With a shock of grey hair and matching beard, Nash would never be mistaken for a young man, despite his strict weights and fitness regime.

Pint of Newcastle Brown and today’s special, cheers.

The pub’s kitchen had had the same daily special for the last six months. Nash didn’t mind. The shepherd’s pie was hearty and exactly what he needed to fend off the chill of the evening.

Making a note in her pad, the waitress didn’t immediately leave. Instead, she leaned towards the book in his hands. Bit of light reading?

Turning over the heavy tome, Nash chuckled. Just learning about some local history. I’m up to the witch trials around these parts. I didn’t know the town had such a colourful past.

You don’t name a town Devil’s End after a nice tree. The waitress laughed before her face turned solemn. This place has a dark past, more than most.

Nash smiled. I can relate.

Seemingly in no hurry, the waitress asked, You’re the new history teacher up at the high school?

And I’m not even wearing a jacket with elbow patches. He held out his hand. Edmond Green.

It was a name Nash was still getting used to.

Taking his calloused hand in her soft one, she replied, Lila, Lila Pickford.

Nice to formally meet you, Lila. How did you know who I was?

Small town. She shrugged. Everyone knows everyone. Lila flicked a finger in his direction. I’ve seen you, up on Pertwee hill, just sitting there for hours on end. I’ve always wondered, what are you doing up there?

Meditating. I picked it up when I was bumming around India.

Like, as in thinking about nothing?

Ultimately, I guess. It’s more a tranquil mind exercise. It’s about noticing your thoughts but offering no judgement on them. Getting into a deep state of relaxation and reducing the noise of the world.

Oh, right. That’s cool. Lila appeared genuinely interested, or at least was managing a close approximation of it. I imagine the life of a teacher must be pretty stressful.

It took an effort for Nash not to laugh out loud. They’re not the bad thoughts I’m blocking.

Nash imagined he’d give the poor woman nightmares if he ever shared the memories he so desperately tried to suppress. His past life was not one he wanted to relive. Meditation helped make it seem like another time, long ago, but ultimately he had to learn to live with the man he’d once been. The new Nash really tried to embody the practice of Ahimsa, the ancient Indian principle of nonviolence, which states that all acts of violence have karmic consequences.

In keeping with those principles he would have preferred a more ethical, less meat-oriented option for his dinner, but the pub offered no vegetarian options, so the shepherd’s pie would have to do. He was making a concerted effort to get to know the townsfolk and the pub was the perfect place to present himself as just another resident of the sleepy Devil’s End.

If he were twenty years younger Nash wouldn’t have minded getting to know Lila better. Quick to smile, great skin, dimples and mischievous eyes; she was just his type. Unfortunately, his years of picking up bar staff had long passed. Even though he was still fit, there was more grey hair than brown, he had to hope his salt-and-pepper beard made him look distinguished rather than old. He’d let Lila be a distracting little daydream and leave it as that.

But there was something about her he couldn’t immediately dismiss. She reminded Nash of someone, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember who. Then again, at his age everyone reminded him of someone. This memory was different, though; important and certainly buried. So many buried memories. It’s what happened when you spent half your life performing tasks that would give civilians a lifetime of nightmares. Nash did his best to bury his past deep, but some memories would randomly jump out without warning. Sometimes for days at a time. Those were not good days.

Hey there, you’re a million miles away. Lila waved her notepad before his eyes. You having an out-of-body experience there?

I’ve only had one of those and that was at a Red Hot Chilli Peppers concert.

Smirking, Lila asked, The who?

No, they were before my time.

Laughing out loud, she replied, You’re funny.

I have my moments.

In no apparent hurry to get back to work, she asked, You always take the same seat, why is that?

The question gave Nash pause. He tilted his head. I don’t think I do…

Yeah, every time. Up the back, facing the door. She turned towards the thinly populated establishment. You can see the whole pub from here.

The fighting seat, Nash’s old SAS instructor had called it. It had been ingrained in him for so long he’d forgotten he still did it. Select the most easily defendable position in any situation. Old habits die hard.

He found it amusing that despite his chosen path of pacifism he was still practising the habits established in his more brutal past. The old ways weren’t exactly in keeping with the philosophy of the non-violent yama of Ahimsa. Perhaps the new Nash wasn’t as enlightened as he’d thought.

Seems I’ll have to change things up if I’m getting predictable.

Nothing wrong with predictable. Lila curled the ends of her long dirty blonde hair coquettishly. There’s many a local lady in these parts who’d like a predictable, eligible man such as yourself.

Many? Nash shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was turning into a less staid evening than he’d envisaged.

Oh, for sure. Lila tucked a stray hair behind her ear. You’re quite the topic of discussion in the local spinsters’ network.

I am?

A good-looking man who reads more than the football results, doesn’t smell of manure and has all his teeth? Darlin’, you’re a catch. She laughed, but there was determination in her eyes. And I should know.

And how would the local spinsters’ network know I’m eligible?

She leaned forward—very forward. Her lips lightly brushed his ear as she whispered throatily, Small town. Taking her time to rise to her full height, Lila seemed to enjoy the surprised expression on his face.

Giving him a wink, she said, I’ll put your order in and get you that pint. She spun and gave him a kittenish grin which brought out her dimples. You just let me know if there’s any way I can service you.

As she disappeared behind the bar Nash blinked several times. He wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. He did his best to focus on his book, but the words floated around the page, stubbornly refusing to coalesce into anything legible.

Abandoning the effort, Nash looked up and took in the pub. There were a few regular faces who seemingly never left the confines of the Hangman’s Inn. As he looked around, he saw a couple enter and immediately gravitate towards the far booth. Dressed in black, they picked the darkest part of the tavern. They were dressed far better than the locals—even at this distance, Nash could tell they wore designer outfits. Their haircuts were expensive, as was their sturdy footwear. But that wasn’t what drew Nash’s attention.

The man and the woman were doing their best to appear casual, but their taut muscles betrayed their supposed outward calm. It was their frequent faux-casual glances around the pub that gave away their intent. It seemed their focus was directed at one thing in particular: Nash.

After all these years, picking the fighting seat still had its advantages.

About to dismiss his observations as an overly vigilant relic of a past life, Nash noticed a man pacing outside. Through the front tavern window, he watched the man, dressed similarly to the couple and with an equally expensive haircut, walking up and back in front of the pub. One could call it patrolling. If the man’s earpiece wasn’t enough to dispel Nash’s concerns that he was being overly cautious, the handgun-shaped bulge under the man jacket certainly was. The man walked away from the pub, square-jawed and determined. Where are you going, man?

Newcastle.

Nash stood and walked to the bar where the publican Denise held his pint aloft. He took it with a bob of his head. His pacifist leanings contorted within the depths of his subconscious.

Keeping his voice low, he whispered, Hey Denise, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. That shotgun over the bar, it wouldn’t happen to be real, would it?

That, love? She chortled. In this country? God, no. Barrel was welded shut years ago, why’d you ask?

No reason. Nash did his best to keep his gaze off the newly arrived couple. You mind if I grab my cutlery now?

Lila will bring it over, but feel free to grab some if you want, love.

Nash gave her the thumbs-up and proceeded to the wooden cutlery trays, napkins and condiments at the end of the bar. Picking up a salt and pepper shaker, he used a large paper napkin to conceal the fistful of heavy wooden-handled steak knives. Returning to his table, he placed his stash beside him, away from prying eyes. Under the pretence of reading his book, Nash used the reflective surfaces around the bar to keep an eye on his new friends.

The likeliest explanation was that he was being overly paranoid and the well-dressed couple were nothing more than that. The yogi in him wished it was true. It was entirely possible the man out the front wore a hearing aid, and the bulge in his pocket was nothing more sinister than a pair of sunglasses. But Nash’s years of training and experience told him these simple explanations were wrong. He couldn’t pinpoint the precise reason he was on edge, but every fibre of his being told him these people were here to do him harm.

As much as the new Nash tried to adhere to Gandhi’s principles of non-violence, the old Mason Nash wasn’t about to make it easy for them.

Visualising potential assault scenarios, Nash mentally walked through various counterattack strategies. Flexing and unflexing his hands, he did his best to prepare for the inevitable fight.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the woman issue a subtle nod as the man stood. A non-verbal sign of approval.

Oh, come on guys, that’s sloppy.

Noticing the man stalking towards him, Nash raised his head from his supposed reading and faced the man front-on for the first time. There was no doubt in Nash’s mind now. The man reached into his jacket.

As his fingers encircled the hilt of the steak knife, Nash resumed the persona of the man he’d vowed to never be again. Self-preservation trumped philosophy, it seemed. The swinging doors of the kitchen flung open and Lila emerged with a big plate and an even bigger smile. Nash’s eyes narrowed on the man in the centre of the room as he followed Lila’s progress. He was going to use her approach as cover.

Swinging her hips, Lila beamed at Nash. I asked chef to put extra cheese on top. Trust me, it takes it to a whole new level. Well, as much as Mich’s cooking can.

Nash stood. The unexpected move had an immediate effect. Lila’s cheery demeanour was muted by the sudden and aggressive move. And the man in the centre of the room reeled as he extracted a Glock G20.

The sight of the gun didn’t panic Nash like it would most history teachers. He’d seen plenty in his time. Whatever this is, you don’t have to do it. We can find a peaceful way out of this.

The man tilted his head ever so slightly, as if surprised by the reaction from Nash. The moment of curiosity remained precisely that: a moment. Nash watched the muscles in the man’s neck twitch and the slightest of tightening of his grip on the pistol. There was only one way this was going to end.

Oh hell.

As the man stepped forward, determination etched across his face, Nash yelled, Lila, down!

The waitress was too shocked to heed Nash’s order, so he grasped her shoulder and forcibly pushed her aside, sending his food crashing to the floor. A deafening gunshot rang out, but it was rushed and went wide. Nash ducked low with a knife in each hand and sprinted to the left, forcing the assassin to adjust his aim. That moment was all Nash needed. He darted to the right and threw the steak knife at the man’s exposed chest.

Before the assassin could unleash another shot, the knife found its mark in the man’s shoulder. He screamed as his shot embedded itself into the ceiling. The knife blade wasn’t lodged deep, and thankfully the wound didn’t appear to be fatal, but Nash was impressed that the piece of cutlery had even managed to do that much.

The two patrons closest to the door made the sensible choice and scrambled out of the pub. The assassin’s companion held back, apparently waiting to see how things would play out. Nash was both personally thankful and—as a professional—disgusted with her choice. You always backed your partner. In a fight for your life, fair didn’t enter into it.

The woman pressed her ear and practically yelled, "Under attack by target. Get back here, now!"

Nash figured she was calling back the third member of the group. If it were Nash, he’d have positioned a third shooter at his home in case the first two failed. The woman wasn’t holding off her attack because she wanted a fair fight, she was waiting for backup.

Crying in pain, the first assassin slapped the wooden-handled knife from his shoulder and lifted his weapon once more, though his hand was far more unsteady now.

Rushing towards his foe, Nash breathed out, Sorry, Gandhi.

The knife must have hit an axillary artery, as a deep red seeped above his jacket. Before the assassin could take aim, Nash acted on instinct and thrust the man’s arm upward, sending a round booming through the confines of the pub. With the man’s arm aloft, Nash plunged the other steak knife deep into the man’s firing arm, between the radius and the ulna. He twisted it for good measure, then tugged downward to open the wound even wider.

Filipino martial arts had taught Nash that the opponent’s hand should be his top priority. De-fanging the snake, his intense instructor had called it, and that had been Nash’s intent. However, despite the horrendous injury, the assassin still held the Glock in his trembling hand and was gritting his teeth as he bent the barrel towards Nash.

Groaning as he held the muscular arm at bay, Nash said, Don’t, please. He watched the gun barrel tilt towards him. I don’t want to…

Another shot rang in his ears. It was immediately followed by a scream. Nash’s gaze darted to see Lila cowering under his table with her hands over her head, shaking in fear. A large chunk of the corner of the table above her head was missing.

The assassin noted Nash’s reaction and aimed the pistol in Lila’s direction.

Stop this, please. Nash heard the desperation in his own voice.

Between clenched teeth, the assassin groaned, Fuck you.

The man wouldn’t stop. Nash had no choice. Fuck you for making me do this.

Extracting the knife from the assassin’s arm, Nash repeatedly stabbed the man’s side, sending geysers of blood spurting from the wounds. It was a savage blow but, assuming he sought immediate hospital care, a non-fatal one. Weakened, legs buckling, the big man cried in agony.

The assassin’s pistol clattered to the floor. Nash held the now-crumbling body upright, scanning for the man’s companion. It didn’t take long to find her. She advanced towards him, hand in her jacket, wrath in her eyes. She wasn’t firing; she must have known her partner was still alive. To challenge that notion, Nash pushed the heavy body towards her. As she reeled backwards, Nash flung the knife at her, but it was so slick with blood it didn’t release correctly and instead sailed harmlessly overhead, clanging against the bottles behind the bar.

The moaning man’s gun had fallen near the front entrance, too far away for Nash to reach it before the woman could get off her first shot. Instead, he launched himself at her, slapping the gun from her hand as she raised it. It flew through the air, landing heavily on the big bar near the cutlery trays.

Their gazes followed the clanging pistol and as one, they raced for the weapon. Nash was slightly to the left and he arrived a fraction of a second behind. As his opponent reached for the Glock, Nash brought down a newly acquired steak knife through the back of her hand, halting its advance an inch short of its target.

Screaming in agony, the woman doubled down her cries of pain as Nash bashed the hilt of the blade deeper into the wood of the bar. Grasping her other wrist, Nash contorted his body to grab another steak knife. He slammed her undamaged hand on the bar and drove the knife through the other palm.

The woman’s screams intermingled with the cries of her companion slumped on the floor. Both individuals had chosen violence this day, and Nash had been forced to meet that choice with an equivalent response, but he wanted no more. He could easily have taken both their lives, but that was something Nash had vowed never to do again, and he wasn’t about to break his oath if he could avoid it. He’d incapacitated the assailants, but kept them alive for medical assistance and, almost importantly, questioning. He had many questions.

Picking up the pistol, Nash heard the front door swing open. Without turning, he dove to the ground and rolled as the sound of machine-gun fire erupted in the confined space. Darting behind a table, Nash flipped it to offer some semblance of cover as bullets strafed the tavern.

From his cover, Nash yelled, You people are really messing with my Ahimsa here!

He cast an eye around the room to see the terrified civilians under fire. The madman who had entered didn’t care where his bullets struck. They’d all be dead within seconds unless he was stopped.

Nash let out a defeated sigh and gripped the pistol tight. Waiting for his moment, he feinted left before darting the right and emerging from behind the table. He fired a single bullet into the remaining assassin’s forehead.

All gunfire ceased as the man collapsed backward. Nash dropped his gun to the floor, feeling nauseous to his core. Turning to the bar, his shoulders slumped.

Why did you make me… He scratched the back of his neck. I didn’t want to…

The assassin on the floor was now silent, a bullet in his skull courtesy of his comrade’s erratic gunfire. The assassin Nash had pinned to the bar was now streaked with bullet holes, her body slumped, dangling in a grotesque impromptu crucifixion.

Inhaling unsteadily, Nash drew on the practice he’d learned in India to slow his inhalations in the futile hope he could calm his thoughts. Forcing himself into the moment, he assessed the damage. He found it ironic he was using his eastern training at a time like this. First and foremost, the locals appeared unhurt. Only the three assassins bore fatal wounds, everyone else was unharmed, at least physically. The tavern was shot up but easily repaired; the locals’ nerves, not so much.

The pub’s patrons unsteadily began to emerge from their impromptu hiding spots. Nash leaned down and offered his hand to Lila, who stared at it, uncomprehending. Shock. They would all need blankets and warm drinks. But that would have to wait.

Standing, he addressed the room. Everything is okay now. Nash realised his voice was as steady as his hands. You’re safe. It’s over. He turned towards the permed blonde head emerging from behind the bar. Hi, Denise. He plastered on the friendliest tone he could manage. Uh, would you mind calling the police?

Face white as bleached sheets, Denise stuttered, Who were they?

That, he exhaled, feeling more aches than he had in years, is something I intend to find out.

Chapter

Two

"C utlery?"

That’s what I said. Nash had been over the story so many times he had no emotion left to invest in his timbre. Namely steak knives. He sighed. As I told, he pointed to the contingent of police and emergency services workers huddled together in the dark town square, him, him, her, her and him.

Nash sat on the kerb outside the Hangman’s Inn, a silver thermal blanket draped around his shoulders. Before him stood a squat superintendent, with a notepad and a distinctly sceptical demeanour.

The police officer pushed his peaked cap back with his pencil. Well, I’m the one asking the questions now, sir.

Obviously. I can tell by the copious stream of verbal effluent cascading from you. Nash rubbed his hands down his face. "How many fucking times do I have to tell the same fucking story?"

The superintendent’s pencil snapped as his eyes cast daggers at Nash.

I think we could all do with a bit of a break.

Nash turned from the superintendent’s pasty, reddening face to the newcomer who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Nash smiled. It was the first genuine moment of joy he’d had in the hours since this whole mess began.

The newcomer flashed his ID card and led the still-riled police officer a few paces away to have a quiet word. It took only a few moments before the superintendent capitulated and wandered off to the clutch of police pouring tea under a temporary tent set up in the square.

The new man sat down on the kerb next to Nash with a grunt. He was tall, and had further to travel.

Nash shook the newcomer’s hand. Was I snippy?

In reply, Nash’s new companion slowly shook his head. I think the use of the phrase verbal effluent indicated the train had well and truly departed Reasonable Station and was thoroughly on its way to Snippy Town.

I’ve had a bit of a day. Nash leaned over and shouted towards the departing superintendent, Sorry, I’ve had a bit of a day!

In return, the red-faced superintendent gave a half wave and grunted.

Paul Cavendish chuckled. The head of Spec Ops at MI6 had once been Nash’s boss, and was one of the few people from those days Nash still genuinely called a friend, though it had been years since they’d last spoken. Tall, gangly and caring, Paul was one of the authentic good guys in an industry of bastards. The often morally ambiguous duties of those in espionage meant nice was as rare as platinum, and just as valuable.

Paul also had one the sharpest minds Nash had ever known, not that his lanky facade gave much of an indication. It was a misapprehension Paul had taken advantage of often. People underestimated Paul Cavendish at their peril.

Their friendship had been forged in bullets and blood. They’d bonded over bad fathers and good whiskey. Back in the day they’d traded stories of whose father had inflicted the longest-lasting mental scars. They never had come up with a clear victor. But father's didn't seem on Paul's mind tonight.

Rubbing his hands together for warmth, Paul said, You’ve caused quite the ruckus.

Looking at the volume of emergency services vehicles and flashing lights illuminating the sleepy town, Nash replied, Seems that way.

An ex-member of MI6 killing three assassins will do that.

One.

What’s that?

I only killed one, and that was an absolute last resort.

Ah. Paul reached into his pocket and handed Nash a hip flask. They’ve thrown everyone at this one. The local cops, heads of the LPA, Border Force, GDSC, MI5, the amalgamated traffic wardens union and the local chapter of the Postman Pat Fan Club. Everyone.

As much as he didn’t want to, Nash smiled. Not all of those are real, are they?

No. Paul laughed quietly. MI5 wouldn’t get out of bed for anything less than a terrorist bombing. He grinned. Good to see you, old friend.

Go easy on the old. Nash took a sip from Paul’s flask and was pleasantly surprised by the expensive tasting whiskey. The man always knew good booze.

Paul laughed. I thought you and I were done.

So did I.

It was rare for a senior member of MI6 to attend a domestic disturbance. The organisation had no jurisdiction to operate within the borders of the United Kingdom. Nash wasn’t sure if Paul was present due to the senior role he held within MI6, the fact that a past operative had been attacked by professional assassins or because it was Nash in particular. He knew if he asked Paul directly he wouldn’t get a straight answer. They were friends, but that didn’t mean Paul wasn’t executing his own agenda. Instead, the two men passed the hip flask between them and enjoyed a rare moment of quiet.

Emerging from the police-taped front entrance of the Hangman’s Inn, a distraught woman stalked hesitantly forward. Like Nash, Lila was covered in a thermal blanket and was bookmarked by two female police officers.

As she passed, Nash asked, Are you okay, Lila?

Glaring at him with a mixture of fear and contempt, Lila strode forward mutely. Her legs seemed to move by instinct alone. She ducked into a waiting police car, no doubt there to take the distraught woman home. The vehicle took off without her looking back.

Paul caught the exchange. Friend of yours?

Nash sighed. Seems that’s not to be.

Paul watched him curiously but said nothing. A young constable walked past and Nash waved her down. Distracted, her gaze searched the crowd of emergency workers, indicating she had somewhere else to be.

Excuse me, is the publican about?

I’m not sure, sir. Why’s that?

I didn’t pay for my drink. He thought for a moment. Or dinner, for that matter.

Both the constable and Paul stared at Nash. Paul appeared more amused than the police officer.

What’s that, sir?

At the pub, before, ah, the ruckus, I had a pint. I also ordered dinner, which ended up on the floor, but I guess it was my fault it happened. I didn’t pay for any of it.

Scowling, the constable waved at the police tape-adorned pub. I think they have other things to worry about. She pivoted and darted away.

When she was out of earshot Paul chuckled. I always said you had too many morals for MI6.

They did get in the way sometimes.

Taking a swig from his flask, Paul didn’t turn to Nash as he asked, Ed Green?

What’s wrong with Ed Green?

It’s a bit boring, isn’t it?

Nash leaned back. That was exactly the point. Being unmemorable to the point of a coma.

Accepting the reply, Paul sat quietly for some time. Nash waited, knowing it was a precisely calculated moment before Paul asked what he really wanted to know. When it came to his job, Paul rarely did anything on a whim.

A beat later, it came: Any idea who sent assassins after you?

It took every ounce of Nash’s willpower to keep from laughing. It was surprisingly comforting to know that Paul hadn’t changed. Nash slowly shook his head.

Inhaling, Paul asked, Can you think of anyone who would want to kill you?

They both waited a moment before they broke into laughter. With Nash’s history, he’d have accumulated enemies enough to last multiple lifetimes.

In fact, that was one of the reasons Nash had left MI6, though it was nowhere near the top of the list. Mainly, he’d realised he was changing. He no longer wanted to be part of a world of violence. The scene before him only served as an all-too-real reminder.

But there were other reasons he’d quit, too. He’d realised his reactions were getting slower. And then there was the reason he’d chosen not to give during the exit interview: MI6 wasn’t the same organisation he’d joined. The bureaucrats ran it now. Bloated and slow, MI6 no longer fought the good fight. The only thing it seemed to be fighting for these days was relevance in a world that had moved on from human spies. MI6 just hadn’t realised it yet.

Paul sniffed the night air. I thought you turned your back on violence.

Nash was too tired to smile. I did.

Paul watched the last dead body being loaded into the back of a hearse. He tilted his head towards the scene. There are some who may beg to differ.

Feeling sick to his very core, Nash shook his head slowly. I vowed when I left the service I’d never take another life. I broke that vow today, Paul. It’s unravelled everything I’ve worked towards in the last few years.

The way I hear it, Paul nodded to the knot of police in the square, you saved lives tonight. The only ones who died were those who’d been sent to murder. I can’t say I’d lose sleep over that.

I will. Nash realised how cold his voice sounded. I’m not the man I used to be.

Paul didn’t rush his answer, likely sensing the deep regret Nash felt. You took one life, not all three, and that was an absolute last resort. This isn’t on you, my friend. You did everything you could to ensure no one died. You didn’t start this. They did. A manifestation of the old adage of fuck around and find out.

Tilting his head to concede the point, Nash asked, What can you tell me?

Nothing. Paul’s voice carried no malice, nor was there the friendly tone he’d used earlier. You’re out of the game now, remember?

Tell them that. Nash flicked his thumb towards the body as they closed the rear of the hearse. They did their best to kill me, Paul. This wasn’t some random spur of the moment act. They targeted me, and I have no idea why. You have to give me something.

Paul seemed to be weighing up the request against his oath of professional duty. His sigh told Nash which way the decision fell.

Nothing you wouldn’t expect from professionals. No IDs. No clothing labels. Nothing in their pockets to indicate where they’re from. No cigarettes, no gum, absolutely nothing to denote a nationality. They’re as clean as if they’d been dipped in acid.

Prints?

They’re running them now, but we both know what that will show up.

Nash nodded. Any car?

They haven’t found one yet.

Rotating his shoulder, Nash wondered how many injuries he’d sustained fighting the assassins. He felt every one of his years. Mind ticking over, he realised there was one more question he needed to ask.

Did you send them?

Instead of being offended by the question, Paul took his time answering—in part, Nash suspected, to show it wasn’t a reflex response. Let’s just put it this way: if I had, you wouldn’t be alive to buy me a round as soon as that pub opens up again. He patted Nash on the shoulder and he did his best not to wince. Whoever this team was, they must have been highly paid to try such a brash operation.

Nash finished off the flask. He recalled some of the team’s tactics and how at the time he thought the execution was sloppy. Although with his current aches he wasn’t as convinced.

Broad daylight? Civilians around? Why so public? Why not wait until you’ve had a warm milk and fallen asleep? Far less collateral damage.

Which tells me two things. Nash watched the hearse drive solemnly away. One, they don’t care about civilians getting in the way.

Paul raised an eyebrow. And the second?

They were on a deadline.

A deadline for what?

Nash handed Paul the empty flask and gazed into the night sky. He took in the quietness of the scene. That’s what I intend to find out.

Nash entered his quaint cottage cautiously. The police had already given it a sweep, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t on guard. He was thankful he’d managed to put his washing away earlier in the day. He didn’t want the police finding his unmentionables lying around; it would have been unbecoming.

Taking his time to search every nook and cranny, Nash only relaxed after a thorough search. He hadn’t survived this long by being careless.

The cottage was a little splashier than what a regular high school teacher could afford, but not enough to make it obvious. Modern appliances, fresh paintwork and stylish furnishings that complemented the old-school charm of the place. His intent had always been to blend in with the locals—a pipe dream that had been shot to hell the instant assassins had landed in town.

Making his way to the ensuite, he shut the heavy door behind him. The workmen he’d hired to do the renovation thought he was crazy installing a reinforced steel door between the bedroom and attached bathroom. He’d ignored their jibes; they didn’t know who he’d crossed in his previous life.

Nash reflected on the reason he’d created the panic room in the first place. Perhaps he wasn’t as committed to leaving his old ways behind as he’d thought. Gandhi never had a stash like this.

Pressing the hidden button at the base of his vanity unit, a click sounded as a floor tile popped up. Lifting it out of place, Nash regarded the alcove he’d had built into the floor. It was something he’d hoped he’d never use. It was amazing how wrong one man could be. But he wasn’t about to head out into the night unprepared.

Extracting two Heckler & Koch USP semiautomatics and two spare magazines, he was surprised at how familiar the deadly weapons felt in his now-civilian hands. Closing his secret hatch, Nash went into his den and retrieved a couple of devices from his previous career. Okay, so he hadn’t handed in all his equipment when he’d retired from the service. There had been a few select items which the quartermaster had attempted to follow up on with several emails. Nash had responded with vague and unhelpful replies, and she’d eventually given up.

Stashing them in a small backpack along with the spare mags, Nash headed out. It was now past two am and the streets of the sleepy little town were exactly that. Even after the events of the evening, which would be spoken about for years, Devil’s End had put itself to bed and slept the sleep of the just. The kind of sleep Nash was incapable of.

Paul had promised to let him know if the case was ever solved, but Nash had little faith that would eventuate. This wasn’t a reflection on Paul, more on the lack of priority his former organisation would place on the event. Nash, on the other hand, had taken the encounter exceptionally personal. An assassination attempt will do that to a man. He decided to take matters into his own hands—literally.

The hit squad had been well-trained and well-funded. Whoever sent them wasn’t doing things by halves. This wasn’t a spur of the moment assassination attempt; it had been planned. Now all Nash had to do was find out who’d done the planning.

Walking the streets, Nash realised there was a spring in his step. He had never felt old old. Old people felt old. He certainly wasn’t old. Sometimes his school friends would pop up on social media and his first reaction would be to think, they got old, but that didn’t apply to Nash. Sure, the slight paunch around his mid-section seemed to be a permanent resident rather than a temporary lodger. Sure, there were more grey hairs on his chest (and elsewhere) than he’d care to acknowledge. And sure, he didn’t follow conversations in a crowded room as well as he pretended to, but fifty-five wasn’t old.

Old people were old. His parents’ generation was old. The ones who talked about seeing the Beatles in concert, or claimed to have been at Woodstock. He was young. Or young-ish. He’d seen the Stone Roses in concert, though he didn’t want to think how many years ago that actually was. To Nash, 1996 was, what, ten, fifteen years ago?

He still felt like he did when he was twenty-five. Okay, perhaps that was a stretch. Maybe thirty-five. He definitely didn’t feel fifty-five. If age was a state of mind, then Nash was still in his thirties. Early thirties at that. He just wished someone would tell his back.

He wondered how many years had been shaved off in the last few hours. Nash realised he felt younger than he had in years. It was like he’d grown accustomed to a limb that had atrophied and now it had suddenly become operative once more. He’d done a good job of convincing himself he was happy out of the game, that his new life was replenishing and fulfilling. But with the weight of the Heckler & Kochs and the surge of adrenaline, he knew it was all a lie. He felt like a panther finally let out of its cage, on the hunt once more.

Mason Nash had been living a lie, and it wasn’t his newly assumed name. It had taken three assassins to make him realise it. He wondered what else he didn't know.

It took an hour of walking back streets to find what he sought. Brand new and pristine, the black Land Rover Discovery Sport stood out among the battered local vehicles. Tucked in a laneway, it was nowhere near a house and too far away from the town centre to be anything other than deliberately parked out of the way.

Extracting a black device around the size of a small modem, Nash pressed a few buttons and the little gadget did its thing. Modern car keyless remote systems consisted of a key fob transmitter and a receiver inside the vehicle. They most commonly use a frequency of 433.92 MHz in Europe. The gadget was executing a brute force attack—using a spectrum analyser to cycle through all frequencies until it hit the right one.

It took ten minutes before there was a ping on Nash’s device and the doors unlocked. He checked the boot. There were two unlocked hard cases. Both were empty, although the foam inserts were the exact dimensions of Glock G20s, the same weapon he’d seen up close only hours before. He slammed the boot shut.

Nestling into the plush leather driver’s seat, Nash pulled his rugged laptop from his backpack. Not his day-to-day computer, this one had a very specific function. He plugged it into a USB port under the dash and activated a diagnostic program. It was what mechanics used for servicing and troubleshooting engines, though Nash had a different intent.

Once the program did its thing, he pulled up the trip computer file. It conveniently listed all recent trips, complete with kilometres travelled and time stamps. There were several trips of roughly the same distance. He assumed the team had been holed up locally with a base of operation. Nash typed the distance into the map app on his phone and triangulated possible locations. Unless the assassins set out from the middle of a lake, there was only one possible location. Nash had found the safe house.

Hitting the start button, the engine roared to life. Nash plugged the location into his phone’s GPS and put the car into gear.

It only took a few minutes to arrive. The house was hidden from the main road behind rows of trees, but was close enough to three highways. A solid strategic location.

Killing the engine two hundred metres down the road, Nash slipped the spare magazines into his pockets and tucked one of the semiautomatics in the back of his jeans. Grasping the other, he racked the slide and turned off the safety. He’d nearly been killed once tonight, he wasn’t about to let them complete the job.

Approaching slowly, Nash slunk low in the shadows of the tree line. Reaching the last tree, he observed the house for a good five minutes, biding his time. There were no lights, no sign of movement. Not that he trusted either.

Nash moved swiftly. As natural as this state felt, he had to remind himself he was no longer a lethal killing machine. The gun felt heavy in his hands. He finally made his move.

He covered the knee-high grass quickly, gun at the ready, breathing regulated and senses on full alert. He was amazed how natural it felt rushing into danger, long after he’d thought he was done. Instead of trepidation, he was overcome with a rush of the exhilaration he’d missed more than he’d thought possible. It felt truer to his nature than teaching a class ever did.

Reaching the back door, he cracked the lock in seconds and entered silently. Alert for any signs of life, he went from room to room. His first run through found no one, but he made another sweep to be sure. Nothing.

The third run through was more relaxed. Knowing he wouldn’t be confronted by anyone who meant him permanent harm, he was able to take more in. There were three bedrooms, each with a small suitcase indicating a short stay. Two men, one woman. The belongings were generic, picked up from any high-street shop. They were packed and ready to bug out following the completion of the job.

The kitchen held meagre supplies, enough for around three days. On the bench, three toothbrushes were sitting in a glass of bleach, no doubt to destroy any trace of DNA. Nash was sure if he dusted for prints he’d find the place wiped clean. Again, he was reminded of the group’s competence. Pity they weren’t good enough to complete their assignment.

It struck Nash as odd that none of the assassins had a mobile phone on their person, in the car or in the safe house. Surely there would be some way to communicate to their handlers? Perplexed, he conducted yet another sweep of the house, this time searching for any nook or cranny to hide such a device. Eventually, he found a laptop tucked under a piece of wood on top of a bookshelf.

Given the professionalism already displayed, he doubted opening it would grant him access. He couldn’t be that fortunate. Luckily, he had resources who could help him crack the secrets within. At least, he hoped she could.

Tucking his prize under his arm, Nash headed for the front door. That was when he heard it.

The sound was distant, but grew steadily louder. The rhythmic thrum stood out against the dead quiet countryside: the unmistakable thudding of a helicopter’s rotor blades.

Nash took a moment to run through the situation in his mind. He checked the front door in detail. Then he found it. A thumbnail-sized black device in the doorjamb, virtually undetectable. A tiny red LED flashing.

Nash closed his eyes in frustration. Amateur move, Nash. Amateur.

Running to the car, he lost precious moments using his spectrum analyser to reuse his hacked fob frequency. He shoved the laptop in the glove box and started the Range Rover, flooring it as the helicopter roared over a nearby hill and dipped its nose straight at him.

Tearing around the narrow unlit country roads at ludicrous speeds, Nash kept the sky-borne menace in his rear-view mirror. The Bell AH-1 Cobra was no domestic helicopter. It was a war machine through and through. Nash estimated it must have been a repurposed ex-military chopper. He didn’t have much time to contemplate the chopper’s origins, though; he was too busy trying to keep from veering off the dark rural roadways.

Bullets strafed the road beside him and Nash yanked hard on the wheel. Almost hurtling off-road, he managed to keep the Land Rover on the hard shoulder. Dropping the automatic transmission into a lower gear, the engine screamed in protest. Another stream of bullets peppered the vehicle, shattering the rear window. The Cobra pulled up hard to avoid the roadside trees and was forced to cut off the attack, albeit momentarily.

Nash doused the car’s lights and wound down the windows to get a bearing on his enemy. He wasn’t about to make it easy for them. His night vision was still pretty good, although he felt old every time he put on his reading glasses.

There was no use trying to return fire. A fast-moving, high-altitude target meant Nash would have better chance of shooting the moon.

Sticking his head out the driver’s window, Nash yelled, I'm trying to be enlightened! Lowering his tone to almost a mumble, he added, You big helicopter twat.

Nash had to concede his outburst had likely done little to dissuade his adversary. It had made him feel marginally better, though.

Taking advantage of the straight stretch of road and the break in fire, Nash pressed a button on his phone. Dial Boss Man.

He put the phone on speaker. The call eventually connected.

Do you know what time it is? Paul’s voice was groggy.

Yes, phones have clocks now. Quite the innovation.

Funny.

A faint voice in the background said, Who the feckin’ hell is calling you before dawn’s crack?

Sorry Nance, go back to sleep, my love. Work. There was rustling, which Nash assumed was Paul getting out of bed and changing rooms. What’s up?

Before Nash could answer, the Cobra rose above a hill ahead of him and opened fire. The pilot was damn good. How the hell did he get there so fast?

Front on, Nash could see the camouflaged gun barrels disguised as strut fairings. He was thankful it wasn’t armed with hellfire missiles, though he really shouldn’t exclude the possibility, especially given the day he’d had.

The Cobra’s bullets pockmarked the road and headed straight at him.

Is that… Paul started. Is that gunfire?

Nash yanked the wheel to avoid the strafe of bullets and was only partially successful. Bullets ripped into the passenger side, one obliterating the headrest. Hurtling blindly down an adjacent side road, Nash did his best to keep trees between him and his fast-moving foe.

Nash yelled to be heard over the wind ripping through the pockmarked car. Want to hear a funny story?

Chapter

Three

"I s this going to work?"

Probably. Paul’s voice was less convinced than Nash’s, and that was an extremely low bar to begin with.

Their plan had been created in around twenty seconds and under fire. Nash was in no position to offer a better solution; he was too busy trying to stay on the narrow roads while driving at breakneck speeds and trying to avoid a 20-millimetre cannon round up his arse.

The Cobra held back as he passed through whatever the hell town he was speeding through, but he suspected as soon as