Dark Market

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Arguments and angry horns greeted Savage when he woke up, the familiar orchestra of commerce outside his window. The man shaking him was the cause of his abrupt departure from the land of nod. Big, bald and badass, he was not. Full head of hair and handsome in a patrician kind of way, he looked like an ageing media guru with a cage fighter's physique.

'Ex-Colonel Henry, sir,' Savage said with one eye open.

'Don't take the piss Savage.' Henry kicked the bunk.

Savage loved to bait him. The ex-Colonel had been the commander of a British special force with a very special remit, the Advance Research Unit. This innocuous group infiltrated opposing Northern Irish factions during the troubles and manipulated them anyway they could to prevent the flow of arms, then set them against each other.

They had to know surveillance and human intelligence skills, breaking and entering, advanced driving, firearms and improvised weapons. They could call in the kind of air support that only generals had the authority for, and they never wore uniforms. They took the best of all the other armed forces, made them better, and then set them loose.

Savage's boss and mentor.

'Still hacking my shit are you?' he said.

Savage opened the other eye. 'What?'

Henry pointed at the screen. 'My shit.'

On screen were two items. His boss's own computer terminal complete with email program open, showing all the contracts and communication Henry currently had going in and out, and the company's server logs.

Savage shook his head to get the blood flowing. 'Guilty as charged.'

'What are you looking for?' Henry said. This was one skill-set Henry hadn't taught Savage, he was always slightly in awe of it.

'Ah, you know...'

'No.'

'Stuff.'

Henry folded his arms. Savage had never seen him lose his cool. Ever. He watched the flicker behind the eyes as Henry calculated the best outcome from this particular scenario.

'So,' Savage said, 'light a fire under my butt and see you downstairs for a debrief?'

Henry's lip curled. 'Five minutes,' he walked out of the room.

Savage's tongue was a landing strip for bad smells, he felt even worse than when he'd woken up in the night.

Henry had expectations, the military bods prided themselves on being parade-ready in five minutes flat.

Savage made an effort. He took one of those chewy toothbrush things he'd picked up at the airport on his last close protection gig and used flat coke as a mouthwash. He pressed send/receive on his email and shoved his head in a basin full of water. When he came back. There were a ton emails, the usual rubbish. He went to delete. But one caught his sleepy eye.

The subject said: Help.

He opened it up. The address was rep2367@maclays.com.uk.

The message simply said:

ARE YOU LISTENING?

Michael's last words. He was, wide awake and listening to his past.

  

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